A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The task was simple—deflect what flew toward him.

As soon as he recognized and perceived it, Enkrid's body moved instinctively. No calculations were necessary. He wasn't thinking about what came after the opponent's sword, but rather placing everything on this one strike. His accelerated thoughts stretched out the flow of time around him.

Enkrid saw the thing aimed at him. A long skewer—a thrusting sword. The stabbing technique reeked of Jaxon.

Seeing that, he pressed down with his right big toe and drew Penna, swinging it.

The transmission of force from ankle to waist to hand was twice as fast as before.

He bounced his knee, delivered strength, and locked his shoulder, elbow, and wrist to keep them from shaking.

It was a mid-sword style thrust—less about speed, more about power. Poorly blocked, it would pierce through most things, often called a siege ram thrust.

Just like its name, the sword flew like a siege weapon crashing through a castle gate.

A technique merged with a legendary sword possessing absurd cutting power—it forged a miracle.

Chik! Skrrt!

The iron skewer was severed midair, and the attacker's head was sliced clean off as he burst from the soil.

A sudden wind rose from beneath Enkrid's feet, and sparks sprang from the severed blade, swirling upward like a dragon column before fading.

To the unknowing eye, it would look as if he had summoned a whirlwind of sparks with a sudden burst.

Not only had he blocked the attack, but he cleaved through the skewer and killed its master in a single blow.

A harmony of strength and technique so perfect it could be mistaken for magic.

Enkrid sliced the attacker and shook his sword. The blood clinging to Penna splattered to the ground.

And when he looked at the blade, not a single drop remained. Was it true the blade retained its edge even without oiling?

Even so, it was said that once every half year, it was good to clean it with a special oil—mixed in exact proportions using Woodguard's sap and Camellia flower oil.

When he agreed to do that, the fairy Lephratio herself had given him a personally blended oil.

A sword beyond mere excellence—it was worthy of being called a treasure.

"A fine weapon, indeed."

That came from the man with the polearm who had spoken first. Enkrid shook the blood from his sword and looked ahead.

Though the surprise attack hadn't targeted him alone, Lua Gharne and Pell weren't ones to die to something like this.

As he expected, both had blocked the ambush. Lua Gharne used her forearm as a shield, taking a hole in it, but she was a Frokk—so it was a decent block.

Pell bent sharply backward, drawing his sword and striking back.

Enkrid heard a deep thung reverberate faintly through the earth. Pell's blade had deflected the strike.

Zero leapt backward in shock, saved by his quick fairy steps. His golden hair fluttered in the air. A scratch marked his forehead, but had he been a moment slower, that sword would have replaced his eyes, nose, and ears with a new hole.

Of course, if Zero had truly been in danger of death, Enkrid would have blocked the strike instead of killing the attacker. But he had judged Zero could mostly fend it off.

"Ma—"

The cultist holding the polearm began to speak again, but Enkrid moved first.

You could say everyone was hesitating, waiting for an opening—it was a moment where the mind could be split.

Enkrid's left hand swept past his own chest and extended forward.

A strange sound echoed in time with the gesture.

Fwooooo!

What he threw was a modified Whistle Dagger. The original Silent Dagger had never felt right in his hand, so he had completely remodeled it for personal use.

He'd added a blade to increase its lethality, and was now considering renaming it.

It no longer sounded like a whistle—it sounded more like a horned trumpet dagger.

Bwa-bwak!

The sound matched its force.

Enkrid was no slouch. Beyond swordsmanship, he trained constantly, refining everything he had learned.

Using the throwing style he had learned from Jaxon, the dagger struck down three ambushers erupting from the ground.

It didn't just stab into their heads—it exploded them.

Three of the six daggers Aitri had crafted for him were now used.

'Only Penna remains.'

He had lost True Blade and the spark-infused sword. Penna was a bit short to serve as his main weapon.

'Still, it's not a disadvantage.'

Enkrid calmly assessed the situation. There was no need to panic.

He slowly widened his stance and raised his sword. When he held Penna vertically, the moonlight—now blood red—split around the blade.

Two moons illuminated the land.

In front of the party, with the hill behind them, the polearm-wielding man struck the ground once more with a solid tak.

"This is my final offer. Will you not turn back? To die here is a waste of your talent."

"And who might you be?"

Enkrid asked without a flicker of emotion.

He showed not a hint of fear or hesitation.

The most surprised of all was Lua Gharne. Seeing the man's polearm and outfit, she didn't even puff her cheeks in irritation but simply glared at him.

"Could it be...?"

Lua Gharne asked. Pell furrowed his brow, hand resting on the hilt of the Idol Slayer. Zero breathed slowly and quietly, just barely holding on.

From earlier, the knight in black armor had been exuding a presence that weighed on all three of them. It felt like re-entering the labyrinth of the Demon Realm.

An oppressive force—an aura worthy of a knight.

"You are correct."

The man with the polearm nodded at Lua Gharne's question. As Enkrid looked on blankly, the man continued.

"I am the Apostle of the Second Coming."

In the Church of the Demon Realm, "Apostle" referred to those with exceptional talent—

Or those who had awakened their abilities after encountering one of the six demons.

This man was the latter.

In short, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that this man had been behind all the cultists until now.

He was the one who had sent the Apostle of Curses, and the magician who wielded Walking Fire had also followed his words.

"Even cultists are enthralled by that demonic charm."

Pell, who had been working on his provocations lately, reflexively let out nonsense.

"You think that's true?"

Enkrid replied, and Pell smirked. He felt threatened—but that didn't mean he had to cower.

If today was the day he'd die, so be it. If he feared death, he would never have taken up a sword in the first place.

A shepherd of the wilds chats with ghosts and plays tag with monsters.

That's what it means to be a wandering shepherd of the wilderness. If fear of death stops you from doing your job, you never start.

"So, you're saying it's not?"

Pell answered boldly, cool as ever.

To Enkrid, Pell's greatest talent was that boldness.

It suited his temperament well. Enkrid wasn't exactly jealous, but he recognized the strength in it.

The Apostle's comment that it was a waste of talent now just seemed laughable.

"Why don't you go call a ghoul 'mom' and beg for more milk. What kind of turning back is that?"

Enkrid said, addressing the Apostle. It was unexpected—and absurdly crude.

The Apostle furrowed his brow at this insult, the first of its kind in his life. His face twisted before he realized it.

What did he just say?

Pell, hearing those words, felt something explode in his mind.

What is provocation? It's stimulation. You need to shake your opponent emotionally.

'What you need «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» is to read the room and throw something they'd never expect.'

Enkrid knew how to twist his words to mock people, but this time he'd gone direct—brutally so.

Yes, now it was clear. The goal is to unsettle the opponent and break their composure. It's not about cursing—it's about wounding.

Pell was delighted. He opened his mouth, eager to follow suit.

"Let's see that face. You've long since weaned. And that face begging for milk? Gross."

He didn't manage a fake gag, only opened his mouth—but the direction was spot-on.

"...Madmen, they said."

The Apostle murmured.

Naturally, the core of the Church of the Demon Realm was in the Demon Realm itself. This man was effectively the regional overseer, sent to this area.

And yet, to rattle someone taught directly by a demon with a few words—wasn't this a triumph?

Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks. Frokk laughed loudly with a wet gurgling sound.

"Still, I will give you a chance. Elе."

The Apostle spoke, and the black-armored knight moved.

No—by the time they felt him move, a black line had already slashed above Enkrid's head.

A rift in time—a streak that tore through accelerated thought.

Enkrid raised the fairy-forged blade Penna and struck upward.

Clang!

Earlier, he had cleaved through a skewer with a single chik, but this time he was blocked.

The black blade shook before him, splitting into three.

'A phantom created by flicking the wrist from the ankle.'

The technique became instantly clear to him, and so did the counter.

The enemy used deceptive swordplay.

Enkrid instinctively split his thoughts and employed the Wave-Blocking Sword Technique.

Tatatang!

Steel clashed, ringing out sharply. Wind surged between the two fighters.

In the flying sparks, Enkrid's blue eyes gleamed.

The black-armored knight was no pushover. With his visor lowered, only a flash of blue light escaped his eyes.

Dozens of strikes passed between them in an instant. In that time, the Apostle spoke—not fast, not slow.

"Do you believe you live by your own will? Do you believe this world is fair? All humans are equal before the Demon Realm. If you understood our ideology, you would agree."

While he spoke, Elе's sword split into three again—but this time, it suddenly elongated.

Ting! The blades scattered, stretching out, revealing a cord-like link between them.

A planned move from the start. Enkrid would not be able to dodge. Hadn't he just leapt back?

On top of that, the opponent had wrapped a strange cord around Enkrid's wrist with his left hand.

It seemed like a moment of ruin. The fabric binding his wrist prevented movement. The segmented blade would tear through his chest.

But that didn't happen.

Enkrid ignored the cord around his wrist and pulled Penna, striking the middle of the elongated blade.

Bang!

A huge spark burst, and the sword aiming for his chest veered off course.

Lengthening a weapon inherently adds drawbacks.

Apply force at the midpoint, and the trajectory warps.

"My name is the Black Snake!"

Elе shouted. He seemed excited now. He swung his sword while yelling—this appeared to be his engraved weapon and signature style.

Chwarararak!

The sword broke into segments again, elongating. A whip made of blades.

It could freely switch between sword and whip. Its irregularity made it difficult to counter—but still—

Tadang! Clang!

Enkrid held his ground.

It looked precarious, but not dangerous. A battle whose true nature wasn't clear on the surface.

Lua Gharne saw it. So did the Apostle.

'Didn't he barely manage against Hatun?'

The Apostle thought. But even if Enkrid had won cleanly, this was absurd.

In raw power, the Black Snake Elе was the strongest in his diocese.

If it were to the death, the Apostle doubted he could win himself.

And yet Enkrid endured. Not barely—he held up just fine.

'Good thing I came prepared.'

If he had to compare personalities, the Second Apostle was like Ermen or Kraiss. He had prepared for the possibility that even Elе might fail to subdue Enkrid.

The Apostle opened his mouth.

"Levantine."

A man in a loose robe stepped forward. His sleeves didn't look suitable for battle.

"May I drink a little?"

"As you please."

An inscrutable exchange.

Levantine's mouth curled unnaturally. Between his lips—torn wide—protruded a fang. It was grotesque.

Saliva dripped between fangs. His gums were exposed. Black veins popped in his eyes.

"I am Levantine, Noble of the Night."

As he said this, he lunged forward.

Enkrid casually swung his sword toward the path the man was charging along. Penna sliced through his clothing.

Pic!

His clothes split in two, but Levantine turned to mist and rose into the air.

In the Demon Realm live the vampires—a race that survives on human blood.

Levantine was one of them. Not a knight—but even Elе couldn't guarantee victory against him.

A force the Apostle had gathered with great effort—naturally, they were strong.

Levantine returned to his human form midair and extended a hand.

His palm split open. Black blood oozed, coalesced into the shape of an arrow, and shot forth.

Thunk!

Enkrid pivoted on his left foot, spinning like a top, and swung his sword.

The black blood arrow burst on impact. Bang! Elе's sword was also blocked.

It looked like he had just barely managed to block both at once.

"Damn it."

Pell muttered.

He had been looking for a chance to intervene, but couldn't muster the nerve.

Watching quietly, he thought the one in the back might be just as dangerous as the two in front.

At this rate, wouldn't Enkrid eventually fall?

So he gripped his sword, prepared to act—but found no opening. Lua Gharne, too, focused intensely. Zero didn't even dare consider intervening.

Amidst it all, the Apostle spoke again.

"Become one of those equal before the Demon Realm. Become a pillar in creating a more meaningful world. That is your destiny."

Was he preaching now? The Apostle didn't stop talking.

"I shall give you the chance to restart your tragic fate!"

The cultist's voice boomed, as if imbued with power.

Bang! Steel clashed.

Boom! The vampire's blood burst.

And through it all, Enkrid spoke.

"What was that?"

Thump! Tadang!

"Didn't catch that. Say it again."

"Ah."

Pell let out a sigh of admiration.

Sometimes, it wasn't cursing that flipped someone's world—just plain words could do the job.

He had found a new world of enlightenment.