A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The fairy city wasn't small.

What Enkrid had seen and stayed in was merely the outskirts.

"It's pretty vast."

In terms of size, it might even be bigger than Border Guard.

The fairy city was divided into several large sections, all connected by winding paths and magical elements.

If Ragna ever came here, he might've called it a labyrinth.

"Ragna would wander this place forever."

Even climbing up the trees to look for a path was often futile—dense leaves formed a ceiling that blocked the way.

There were many such places.

So, Ragna would never find his way here.

Actually, it would be difficult for most people to navigate.

But for the fairies, it was familiar—so no problem.

"So that's why stories exist about woodcutters getting trapped in fairy cities for decades?"

There was a tale. A fairy tale, to be exact—about a man who stumbled upon a spring where a fairy was bathing.

He stole her clothes and ran, only to wander the forest for twenty years before finally escaping.

That story had many spin-offs: in some, the man and the fairy had a child; in another, he dropped his axe in the spring, and it was returned as one made of silver.

"Well, they're fairy tales."

But he could guess why such stories persisted.

The city had that much mystery in it.

It was wrapped in trees and constructed from within—Enkrid could roughly envision the architecture in his head.

Any fairy he asked along the way answered kindly, naturally revealing more than he asked.

"It's practically a natural fortress."

That's why the fairy city didn't need walls.

Even if someone thought fire would work and tried to douse the exterior in oil and ignite it...

Even if they burned the outer trees to start a massive fire, hoping to flush out the fairies...

Would it really be that easy?

"The demon attacked from within. If it had tried from the outside, it would've never worked."

These were beings capable of manifesting essence and utilizing spirits.

The fairy clans—including the Dryads and Woodguards—were far from weak.

Not to mention, the "walls" of the fairy city were essentially the corpses of dead Woodguards.

You couldn't just burn them easily.

Enkrid had seen Bran light a cigarette on his own body and leave not a single scorch mark.

Granted, a Woodguard who used fire was definitely an oddity.

While pondering, Enkrid slipped into the spring.

Calling it a "spring" didn't do it justice—it was more like a lake.

"Was this part of the relocation, too?"

It was called the Fairy Spring or the Healing Spring.

A hot, soothing body of water that melted the fatigue right out of him.

After a long day of training, sinking into it was pure paradise.

And if he took a sip of the chilled leaf tea the fairy clan had prepared...

Gulp, gulp, gulp.

Enkrid felt a moment of bliss.

The hot water purged impurities from his pores, cool wind blew over his head, and the chilled tea gave a euphoric rush—like drinking water after ten days in the desert.

"This is perfect."

After long training sessions, soaking here for a couple hours had become routine.

He had been surprised when the relocation plan included bringing a lake-sized spring.

Now, he couldn't imagine leaving it behind.

As he was enjoying his break, someone splashed toward him from the other side of the steaming pool.

It was wide enough to be called a lake, after all.

The steam made it hard to see anyone too far away, so it wasn't necessary to care who was there—unless they got closer.

Once they did, you could sense them.

His instincts told him who it was.

"What is it?" Enkrid asked.

"Today's a soaking day," came the reply.

"Is that some kind of fairy clan holiday?"

"No, I decided it this morning."

Crazy fairy.

"You look insolent. I am the queen of this city."

Of course, it was Shinar.

"And I'm the city's savior."

"Did you just shamelessly call yourself that?"

She was joking—knowing Enkrid's personality.

"Is it wrong?"

"No, not inaccurate."

Enkrid let out a quiet laugh.

Shinar parted the steam and came closer—close enough to see her with the naked eye.

She was submerged to her neck, so only her face was visible.

"Does that disappoint me?"

No, not really.

"You proposed a relocation site, didn't you?"

Shinar splashed as she spoke.

The fragrant water—scented with flowers and herbs—splashed onto Enkrid's forehead.

Her swing sent a part of her body briefly above the water.

A pale, round bit—maybe her arm or shoulder—flashed into view.

Enkrid nodded plainly.

"There just happened to be a good spot."

"Thanks."

Shinar seemed to be saying "thank you" more often lately.

"Didn't you once say you couldn't leave the city?"

"I spoke the truth."

"Distorted truth. A fairy specialty—I've heard and experienced it."

"What do you mean? We have no lies in our society."

Watching Shinar blink innocently, it was hard to even call her insincere.

With that face, it felt like a con.

Any ordinary man would've handed over his soul the moment she looked at him.

"Sure. I guess you erased that lie from your memory—the one about becoming queen of the monsters?"

She couldn't have forgotten all the lies she told in the labyrinth.

"Your tone is insolent."

"Yes, ma'am."

After another round of dumb jokes, another "thank you" was exchanged.

"Well then."

Shinar got out of the spring.

Enkrid, still looking, caught a glimpse of her bare body.

It wasn't intentional.

"When did you get that scar?"

He'd seen a glimpse of the burn running from her forearm across her back.

A cruel, disfiguring burn.

Shinar knew her body had been horribly twisted.

That was why, even though she had opportunities to bathe with Enkrid, she never did.

She could've insisted and soaked with him—but she skillfully avoided it.

The water streamed down her scarred back, ran along her thigh, and dripped away.

The burn marks stretched from her back to her calves—clear, brutal scars, like someone had seared her with a branding iron.

Just looking hurt.

"The Healing Spring works well in many ways."

Instead of answering, Shinar replied with that.

She had kept the scars until now to remember.

Enkrid tilted his head, and she continued with a smile.

"These burn scars—except for a few—could ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) all be removed. Then you'd see smooth skin."

"And?"

"You could even touch it."

"..."

"It would be... very enjoyable."

Why am I seriously having this conversation with a fairy?

Enkrid turned his head with a look full of regret.

"Let's stay together, child of dreams and possibility."

The fairy spoke.

"Is that a curse?"

"A blessing."

Shinar smiled—like the one she wore in her dream.

Seeing it, Enkrid couldn't help but smile too.

Whatever the case, she seemed free of her worries now.

Shinar left.

Enkrid wanted to soak a little longer.

He closed his eyes and let the warmth envelop him.

Within that heat, he sank into deep thought.

Sometimes, inspiration struck unexpectedly—and this was one of those moments.

"Shinar didn't erase her scars."

She kept them to remember her sins.

Now, she had decided to face and overcome them.

Not to measure right and wrong, but to walk toward tomorrow.

Just as Enkrid's nature affected those around him, sometimes the positive changes he gave came back in unexpected ways.

Shinar's transformation stirred something in Enkrid's heart.

He didn't know why, but inspiration filled his mind.

Scattered pieces aligned, swirled, and formed a structure—order in chaos.

Beyond the steamy spring, a hallucination appeared.

"It's all thanks to me. So don't you dare forget me."

A remnant of the demon?

Or just an intrusive thought in the middle of a mental storm?

It didn't matter.

Once Enkrid entered his focused state, he forgot the world.

The vision faded, and he didn't bother to remember it.

He dug into the idea—forgot himself, forgot his sword, forgot the world—only the inspiration mattered.

He was lucky. Nothing interfered.

The large spring that healed the body gently cradled him above the surface—no danger of drowning.

He didn't grow cold, and there was no need to worry about food.

The spring even nourished him.

Apparently, that's what made it a healing spring.

Some Dryads even starved themselves and soaked for two days straight, knowing it boosted recovery.

The hot water also improved circulation, sharpening the mind.

In fact, the old fairy council used to hold meetings while submerged in this very spring.

Inspiration swirled. Theory solidified.

The first thing that came up—self-reflection.

"I was arrogant."

When he completed the Wave-Blocking Sword, he'd told himself the inspiration was enough.

It wasn't.

"There is no end."

Back then, it felt like the end. But no.

The mind kept reaching.

Another new world was opening within him—one different from swordsmanship.

It was happening now.

He brought in everything he needed to accept that newness.

He traced back memories.

The moment he recalled was when he entered the fairy city and faced the incoming arrows.

He sensed them and shattered them.

He'd heard the wind—used the sensory techniques taught by Jaxon.

Back then, Enkrid called it intuition.

Jaxon didn't argue but later lumped all of it under "sensory skills."

No need to divide them by name, he must've thought.

Take "Endure," for example—focusing Will to harden skin and muscle.

If that came naturally, there was no need to call it a skill.

"But can everyone do that?"

Use Will naturally? Use techniques instinctively?

That wasn't easy.

If he hadn't named his techniques and trained deliberately from the start...

He wouldn't have quit—but getting here would've been impossibly hard.

Could he have even reached knighthood?

Just imagining it made his stomach churn—like being flung off a cliff with hands and feet bound.

He was lucky.

The goddess of luck must've looked favorably upon him.

Anyway—

"Step-by-step growth is necessary."

Especially for someone like him.

He'd built his base of theory and knowledge by traveling the continent and learning from countless instructors.

Some said the same things, some said different things, and others tried to construct systematic theories.

"Something that works for others might not work for you. My method wasn't made to teach less talented folks, so just go. Please."

He remembered one instructor saying that—practically begging him to leave.

Not a bad person.

Even though he could've used force, he chose words.

Not that Enkrid would've listened anyway.

He'd stayed three more months, pestering the man for just a little more knowledge.

Then there was the old swordsman settled in a coastal town—someone who left a deep impression.

"You've got to find your own way. How? Review and reflect. Walk the same path others walked, but find what you can use, and toss the rest."

Some of that was right. Some wrong.

"There's nothing to toss."

He had to use everything he had just to crawl forward.

So that's what he did.

"Even if it's desperation."

He would crawl, if needed.

Resolve became Will. Will became light. Light illuminated dreams.

Everything stored in the library of experience surged forth, scrambling his mind.

Days passed like that.

And then, Enkrid saw a signpost in the long wander.

"Yes... a signpost."

Techniques were signposts.

You named them. You trained them.

"Beginner knights must develop techniques to control Will."