A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 230: Oh, This Will Be Fun

‘Can knowing alone overcome it?’

The Ferryman's question lingered in Enkrid's mind.

He remembered his own response clearly.

‘It doesn’t matter if I don’t know.’

It was the truth. Not a single lie.

More than anything, he found joy in facing the Shepherd.

How to describe it?

The half-blood giant, Swiftblade, Count Molsen's guard, the duelist with the rapier—

And all those who had once fought by his side:

Rem and Ragna, Jaxon and Audin.

Even compared to facing all of them, this battle ignited something deeper within him.

Their skills were almost equal. Their attitudes, age—everything played a part.

Above all, it felt as though he was advancing.

Of course, Enkrid’s skills didn’t leap forward dramatically with a single duel or a single death.

Even with heightened senses, a courageous heart, and a body that now moved as he desired.

Even if he possessed superhuman focus that allowed him to dodge arrows mid-flight.

Still, the feeling of progress couldn’t be dismissed. That sensation brought him pure exhilaration.

“Stars are out.”

Enkrid stepped outside before Bell arrived.

Stars glittered in the sky, and two moons hung above. The dual moons.

It was an unusually bright night.

The autumn air was cool, a sharp contrast to summer’s heat.

A refreshing breeze brushed past his ears. Soon enough, this would turn into a biting chill.

Short-lived autumn—Enkrid liked the temperature.

Rem, poking his head out from the barracks, looked at him as if wondering what he was up to.

“Still mosquitoes around. What’re you doing?”

Bzzz.

Before the words were fully spoken, a mosquito buzzed past Enkrid’s ear.

With a swift motion, his left hand shot out, catching the mosquito mid-flight and crushing it.

Clenching his fist tightly, Enkrid turned and spoke.

“Going for a walk.”

“Suddenly?”

“I feel like it.”

“Real poetic tonight, huh? What, losing too much getting to you?”

Enkrid took a step forward and asked.

“If you had an opponent you couldn’t even graze, how would you handle it?”

“I’d bash their head in before they could move.”

Rem answered without hesitation. Enkrid had a habit of throwing out random questions.

After responding, Rem scratched his ear and added.

“You know, your questions always come out of nowhere.”

“Do they?”

Enkrid didn’t deny it.

Why would he?

There were moments he walked alone.

Days he experienced by himself.

And fleeting instants he alone relished.

His questions came from living those moments, walking that singular timeline.

“They are random.”

Enkrid gave a half-hearted reply and resumed walking.

“You should visit a temple sometime. I think there’s something seriously wrong with that head of yours.”

That damn mouth.

Seriously, it was because of people like Rem that even the Ferryman said strange things.

Regardless.

Enkrid mused that walls, too, always appeared unexpectedly before him.

Was it the Ferryman’s mischief?

Or was this simply life?

Unpredictable moments. Deaths one could never foresee. If this too was a wall, one could not overcome it merely by understanding it through a single death.

And yet.

‘Oh, this will be fun.’

Enkrid couldn’t suppress his excitement.

As he walked, he encountered Bell coming toward him—just as expected. He’d deliberately walked the path Bell would take, heading toward the castle gate.

“Oh? Where are you going?” Bell asked.

“Where are you heading?”

“Uh, to fetch you, actually.”

They exchanged words similar to those they had before.

Enkrid recalled what he knew.

From the moment he faced the priest and Bay, to the screams rattling his mind, to the howls rising from hell’s abyss—sounds that seemed to drag him down by the ankles.

Of course, none of that was the issue. Whatever had seeped into his body wasn’t a curse or poison.

If he had to describe it, it was the scream of someone consumed by despair.

‘For now.’

He discarded the thoughts. First came the fight. The duel. His opponent’s skill, even without a blade, was excellent.

Let’s see. Should he start like Rem?

Enkrid couldn’t hide the delight spreading through him, a smile playing across his lips.

Bell tilted his head at the sight.

No matter how you looked at it, this man didn’t seem normal.

“If you’re unwell, I can call it off.”

Bell’s concern was genuine.

“No.”

Enkrid’s reply was firm. He straightened his posture, his eyes sharp.

“Huh?”

“I said no.”

Enkrid’s resolute tone carried an unmistakable weight as he continued walking, his steps light.

If the company knew his circumstances, they’d shake their heads in disbelief.

Could these truly be the steps of a man marching toward death?

They looked more like the carefree strides of a child heading out for a picnic.

Enkrid’s gait remained light and lively as he exited through the castle gate.

After a brief, familiar exchange of words, it was time.

“Then.”

Enkrid assumed his stance, and his opponent drew a dagger.

Excitement, thrill, anticipation—they pounded in Enkrid’s chest, sending chills across his skin.

Following Rem’s advice, Enkrid acted.

Boom.

In an instant, he unleashed the full power of the Heart of Might, swinging his blade.

Wham.

A lion’s slash.

A downward strike with overwhelming force, the kind that could cleave a moving target in one brutal motion.

His opponent reacted. Perhaps they realized that such a strike couldn’t be blocked with a mere dagger.

Clang! Thud!

From a sheath resembling a black rod, the opponent partially drew their sword, gripping both the hilt and sheath to block the strike.

Ka-ang!

The lion’s slash was stopped. As Enkrid pushed, the opponent matched his strength.

Screeeech.

The two blades met, greeting each other like rivals.

Steel began its symphony.

With their blades crossed, Enkrid and the Shepherd locked eyes.

For a moment, they silently gauged each other's skills.

Enkrid considered that perhaps this opponent's skill was even greater than what he’d seen in the repeated days leading up to now.

‘What if someone trained in swordsmanship is wielding a dagger?’

That could certainly explain it.

But it didn’t matter. Whether the opponent drew their sword or not, that was their choice.

Enkrid had already resolved to stick to his own path.

From a distance, Bell swallowed hard, watching intently.

At that signal, their blades separated.

What followed was a clash similar to the days before—a fierce battle.

Enkrid pressed his opponent relentlessly. The minor wounds inflicted by the dagger were ignored. As long as he avoided vital points, he focused on staying within striking range to land a decisive blow.

He trusted his body’s instincts and natural reflexes, aiming to end the fight with a single strike.

Eventually, the Shepherd drew their sword again.

This time, it was different from when Enkrid had grazed their forehead.

Ping! Tang! Clang!

The Shepherd deflected Enkrid’s swift, one-handed thrust with their dagger, then used their other hand to toss the sheathed sword upward. In one fluid motion, they drew the blade and flung the sheath aside.

Fully immersed in the fight, Enkrid reacted to every move.

His blade, which struck the dagger, was pulled back by force, transforming a downward slash into a heavy, cleaving strike. The flying sheath? He blocked it with his forehead.

The sheath smacked against his forehead with a dull thud, but Enkrid didn’t close his eyes.

As long as he kept track of the opponent’s sword, he could evade.

He had the sense to dodge. It wasn’t impossible.

Hwaaang!

When the Shepherd caught the airborne sword, its blade twisted like a snake, grazing Enkrid’s cheek.

He dodged, but by just half a finger’s width too little.

A fierce duel carried on in a state of immersion.

‘I saw it, but...’

His opponent’s skill was formidable. In Enkrid’s judgment, they were a level above Swiftblade.

Avoiding their blade entirely? It was an absurdly difficult task.

But difficulty didn’t mean he’d give up.

Instead, he reflected on what he’d learned in today’s skirmish.

SCREEEAAAM.

Once more, a scream echoed in his ears.

“Ah, damn, I didn’t mean to cut you. It just... happened.”

The Shepherd muttered, their voice carrying over.

A guttural roar—like something crawling up from the abyss—seized Enkrid’s ankles.

His body grew heavy.

Enkrid, through experience, already understood what was happening.

And the pain he knew—while it could kill him—could never stop him.

“What is that sword?”

“...Do you want to know?”

“I’m dying anyway. Might as well answer.”

“Talking even while cut? Fascinating. It’s a sword imbued with the soul of a demon. I swore never to use it on people. So... sorry about that.”

Their words were disjointed and chaotic. A brainless fool, through and through.

“Got it. Thanks, Pell.”

“...I didn’t tell you my name.”

They hadn’t. He’d heard it during the first day.

That was the end.

He died.

“You’re insane.”

The Ferryman appeared for the second time in a row.

Seeing them, Enkrid unwittingly spoke his thoughts aloud.

It wasn’t intentional. In this dreamlike state, there was no hiding his inner voice.

“Bored lately, are you?”

The Ferryman’s body swayed atop the boat. The violet lantern beside them swayed as well.

A heavy silence followed. The black river made no sound as it flowed.

At the end of the silence—

“You son of a—”

The Ferryman began to curse, but Enkrid woke up before they could finish.

Opening his eyes, Enkrid immediately sought out Ragna.

“Is there a sword technique that can block every strike?”

“Where’d you hear about that? That’s the pinnacle of Flowing Blade swordsmanship.”

Flowing Blade—the art of a blade that flows and glides.

A sword style combining offense and defense in perfect harmony.

“Do you know it?”

“The basics.”

If a speed and timing existed that couldn’t be evaded with a sense for avoidance—

‘Then I’ll block it.’

That was his decision. After learning the fundamentals of Flowing Blade from Ragna, Enkrid set out again that evening.

Still, he thought to himself:

‘Today’s going to be even more fun.’

Thanks to his two prior experiences, he had picked up on several of his opponent’s habits.

Today, he would put that knowledge to use.

The Third Day

“Do you know me?”

“No.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that? Is pretending to be friendly a habit of yours?”

The Shepherd tilted their head.

Enkrid ignored them.

They clashed again. What he’d assumed were habits turned out to be traps, a realization that came only after falling for them.

Barely managing to prevail, they crossed swords once more.

Slice.

This time, his thigh was nicked.

Without armor, the blade tore through his trousers, leaving a wound.

Again, the screams. Again, the abyssal roar.

When Enkrid spoke, he received a similar question in return.

“Do you have it?”

What was it they kept asking about?

“What?”

The Shepherd answered as though it should’ve been obvious.

“Will.”

“No.”

Enkrid barely managed a few more words before dying again.

This death felt strange. His throat wasn’t slit. His heart hadn’t burst.

What would the cause of death be?

Heart failure?

Feeling his heart stop was a rare experience, even for someone like Enkrid, who had died countless times.

Something crept from the wound, burrowing into his body, scrambling his mind.

That was it. If he had to describe it—

It’s like a worm crawling inside me.

That worm was relentless, tearing through his body without hesitation.

It crushed his heart and strangled it.

On the fourth day, the fifth day, Enkrid honed his Flowing Blade technique.

As Enkrid repeated the same day twenty-eight times:

“Nice to meet you,” the Shepherd greeted.

By now, Enkrid had become familiar with the opponent's swordsmanship.

“I should warn you: even if you die, I won’t care.”

Shing.

With just a few swings of his blade, Enkrid forced the Shepherd to draw their sword.

He tried dodging and blocking, repeating his attempts.

The unexpected wall that had appeared delivered death to him time and time again.

By the forty-seventh attempt, as soon as Enkrid opened his eyes, he muttered:

“If dodging doesn’t work, and blocking doesn’t work...?”

It was an unusually early morning, and even Rem was already awake. He chimed in:

“...Alright, tell me. What sort of dream did you have this time? I used to dabble in dream interpretation back in the day. Come on, let’s hear it.”

“A dream where a mere scratch means death,” Enkrid replied honestly.

“Hey, you’ve gotta give me more detail than that. Your attitude sucks.”

Enkrid brushed off Rem’s comment, rising and going about his usual routine.

He practiced the Isolation Technique, trained, and further refined his Flowing Blade skills.

“Is this something you already knew? Or did you learn it somewhere?” Ragna asked, watching Enkrid’s swordsmanship. His rapid improvement was clear.

Enkrid himself hadn’t realized it.

His mind was occupied.

‘Is this wall simply about killing one skilled opponent? Is that all it is?’

He pondered the nature of the wall, questioning its premise.

Looking back, none of the walls the Ferryman spoke of were ever ordinary foes.

From the very start:

‘The thrusting maniac.’

To the traps exploding out of nowhere:

‘Magical traps.’

And even having to fight while only using one hand.

None of the walls were simple. When he stormed the enemy’s standard, he even had to face curses.

So, what about this time?

By the seventieth repetition, Enkrid inflicted a serious wound on the Shepherd.

Thunk!

His blade slashed under the opponent’s chest, causing the Shepherd to cough up blood.

It wasn’t just a cut—more like a brutal shock that seemed to damage their internal organs.

“You idiot, you didn’t even dodge and charged straight in?” the Shepherd exclaimed, their face filled with disbelief.

Enkrid swung his blade again, using it as a bludgeon despite being cut by the opponent’s sword.

“There was an opening,” he replied.

“I told you—if my sword pierces you, you’ll die.”

The Shepherd had indeed warned him before the fight began.

If you’re cut, you’ll die. Even a scratch is lethal. I’d prefer to keep this as a friendly duel to gauge your skills.

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

But why should that matter?

Enkrid genuinely, sincerely didn’t want that.

This was a battle that pushed him to his limits, the first such fight since Michi Hurrier that made him pour everything he had into the fight.

‘If you’re the wall,’ he thought.

Then what happens if we both die?

By the eighty-ninth repetition, Enkrid found his answer.

Thwack!

Taking a direct hit from the opponent’s sword, Enkrid drove his own blade deep into the Shepherd’s abdomen.

The sword pierced through flesh and bone, tearing through the stomach, cutting intestines, and shattering ribs. Twisting his wrist, Enkrid yanked the blade free.

Blood poured from the wound, leaving a gash so severe that, in sunlight, it might have revealed pink intestines.

The Shepherd clutched their stomach, muttering:

“This... isn’t supposed to happen. I have so much left to do.”

Their complexion turned pale as their eyes glazed over.

Death loomed over their face.

Their gaze, which had first been fixed on Enkrid, shifted to somewhere distant, to the empty air.

Finally, they looked back at Enkrid and spoke.

“This wasn’t necessary.”

“Is that so?” Enkrid replied, his voice hoarse, as he pressed a hand to the wound on his neck. The Shepherd’s sword had grazed him there. The cut wasn’t deep, but blood flowed freely.

Normally, it wouldn’t be a mortal wound.

But the problem wasn’t the injury—it was the nature of the Shepherd’s blade.

And yet, something had changed.

‘I can endure this.’

Having repeated this day over eighty times, Enkrid had unknowingly developed resistance to the mysterious force imbued in the opponent’s blade.

That didn’t mean the outcome changed.

Death loomed over him again. Amidst the screams, something roamed through his body like it owned it, tearing through his heart and brain.

“Damn it! Commander!” Bell’s voice rang out from behind him. The delay in death let Enkrid hear the shout as Bell rushed forward.

The next morning began anew as Enkrid opened his eyes.

Lost in thought for a moment, he sat up halfway, then returned to his routine. By dawn, he had finished practicing the Isolation Technique and returned to his quarters.

In front of the entire company, he asked:

“Who here can use Will?”

At last, he felt it was necessary—absolutely necessary—for at least some of them to grasp it.

He resolved to overcome this wall when the time came.

He believed that moment had arrived.

It wouldn’t be conquered all at once.

He didn’t believe he’d become a knight overnight. But the glimmer of possibility—he felt it was now within reach.

Enkrid thought so.

The time to walk forward and reach out his hand had come.