A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 319

Enkrid’s nightmare had taken form.

Death itself had appeared before him.

His eyes instinctively scanned the man’s body.

A relaxed stance, feet spread just enough for balance. Arms hanging loose, entirely at ease.

A tangle of unkempt brown hair, lifeless brown eyes.

A worn-out outfit—neither enemy armor nor friendly uniform.

Several questions hit him at once.

The first: How did this man get here?

The second: How strong is he?

The third: What the hell is he apologizing for?

"I have my reasons," the man said. "So let's finish this quietly."

Shing.

A sword left its sheath.

A cheap shortsword.

The scraping sound against the scabbard told Enkrid everything he needed to know.

The blade was chipped.

The leather wrapping on the hilt had unraveled, hanging in loose strands.

Its color was dull—rusted.

And yet, the truly terrifying thing was this:

Until the very moment the man drew his sword, Enkrid hadn’t even registered its presence.

The way he unsheathed it sent a chill down his spine.

It wasn’t like the crushing pressure of the Nol leader.

It wasn’t like the overwhelming force of Knight Aisia.

Those had been indirect threats, imposing their will over their opponents.

But this?

This was something else.

It felt like no matter what he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop that blade.

Like an unshakable fate.

Why?

Through countless battles, Enkrid’s senses had sharpened beyond human limits.

His instinct for evasion had transcended into something closer to foresight.

A gift.

One he had never expected to receive.

But right now, that very gift was useless.

Because it was telling him something he didn’t want to hear.

It locked his body in place.

A chain of foreboding, freezing his limbs.

"Hmm. Fiancé."

Shinar broke the silence.

Her elven senses must have perceived more than even Enkrid had.

"We should dodge."

The moment she spoke—

The man disappeared.

A long afterimage stretched through Enkrid’s vision.

Reflexively, his gaze whipped to the side.

A streaking blur—an elongated line of movement—had already reached Shinar.

Even with his trained eyesight, the man's form seemed to break apart as he moved.

That was how fast he was.

His motions were beyond perception.

Clang!

Spk!

First came the sounds.

Then, the image caught up.

Shinar had already taken a defensive stance.

Enkrid saw it—the jagged, chipped shortsword scraping over her knives.

But the blade didn’t stop there.

The force shoved her weapons aside.

And then it carved through her.

A perfect slash, tracing from her chest to her abdomen.

Elf blood sprayed into the air.

Strength, speed, precision.

A perfect harmony of all three.

In that instant, Enkrid understood.

This was a perfected technique.

"With luck, you might survive this," the man murmured, lowering his blade.

"But even if you do... I won’t strike twice."

He sighed, as if tired.

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"I know this isn’t honorable. I’ll ask for your understanding."

Enkrid didn’t understand a damn thing.

What was 'one strike'?

What was 'luck'?

What honor?

None of it made sense.

But one thing was certain.

Shinar was down.

She clutched her chest and staggered.

She tried to brace herself, stabbing her knives into the ground.

But the moment they touched dirt, her arms gave out.

Her knives scraped uselessly against the floor as she collapsed.

Thud.

"This feels awful," the man said.

"I mean that."

He turned.

Enkrid’s eyes locked onto him.

It didn’t matter if the sword in his hand was rusted scrap metal.

The same thing would happen again.

Because the answer to all his questions had become clear.

This man was beyond a knight-cadet.

This man was a knight.

A man who could cut down a thousand soldiers alone.

The Nightmare of the Battlefield.

A calamity in human form.

A weapon that shifted the course of war.

Enkrid’s nightmare had stepped into reality.

"Shit, what the hell?"

Kraiss muttered behind him, stunned.

"Move," Ragna said.

Without hesitation, he yanked Kraiss back.

He didn’t even bother drawing his sword.

A spoon was clutched in his hand instead.

"What the hell is that?"

Dunbakel growled.

Her beast transformation had already begun.

The man let his shortsword hang loosely at his side.

Then he moved toward his next target.

There was no noise.

No footstep.

No rush of air.

He simply moved.

And cut.

It was simple.

But even tracking his movements was almost impossible.

Next was Dunbakel.

She had already drawn her scimitar.

If the man hadn’t moved first, she would have lunged first.

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Shing.

Thud!

Crack!

Three sounds overlapped.

That was how Enkrid heard it.

Then, he saw the results.

He hadn’t been able to read the shortsword’s trajectory.

It had been even faster than before.

And his view had been blocked.

But he did see what came after.

Dunbakel’s scimitar—

Split in half.

The broken blade spun through the air, slicing through the tent’s fabric as it flew.

And the man’s sword?

It had already plunged into her chest.

"Shit... should’ve used a better sword," she muttered.

One knee hit the ground.

She clutched the gaping wound in her chest.

But blood surged between her fingers, spilling uncontrollably.

There was no surviving this.

"Come on."

Ragna was next.

He charged.

No sword.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he had one.

His arm wasn’t fully healed.

His opponent didn’t hesitate.

The blade swung.

There was no sound.

The strike aimed for Ragna’s head.

But Ragna wasn’t stupid.

At the last moment, he twisted his body.

His uninjured arm shot forward.

Thunk!

The man caught his wrist.

Ragna had been holding something.

A spoon.

The man grabbed him with one hand.

With the other, he raised his blade.

"You were the best of them."

And then—

He swung.

Ragna resisted to the end.

He twisted, trying to shove his shoulder into the man's body.

But the sword was faster.

Swish!

Blood erupted.

His arm.

The man had only taken his arm.

Ragna tumbled sideways.

Blood splattered everywhere.

If left alone, he would die from blood loss.

"Yeah," the man said. "No second strikes."

Enkrid understood.

That was what he meant.

A single attack.

Only once.

"If you block, I leave.

That’s the condition I’ll give you.

It’s the least I can offer.

A small—very small—gesture of honor."

And then his sword moved again.

This time—

It aimed for Esther.

The blade fell like lightning.

Or like a rainstorm breaking upon the earth.

Slash!

Her paw flew.

Not just her paw.

Her chest split open.

SCREEEEEEE!

A panther’s agonized scream tore through the tent.

It punched through Enkrid’s skull.

"Get—"

"Run," Ragna wheezed.

He tried to stand.

His blood made the ground slick.

He slipped.

His face slammed into the dirt.

A wet, sickening splat.

He lay in a pool of his own blood.

Face down.

Drenched in red.

"Fuck."

A small, trembling back stood in front of Enkrid.

Even as his entire body was bound by the chains of foreboding, unable to move, unable to resist, Enkrid could only watch.

Fate itself seemed to whisper.

This is it. You cannot escape. It ends here.

"I always had a feeling it’d come to this," Kraiss muttered.

"But still, Captain—what I owe, I’ll repay."

He stepped forward.

Enkrid’s arms refused to move.

His lips would not part.

All he could do was recall that moment.

The moment he had stood before Kraiss, shielding him.

"Run, King Eyeball."

Why had he done that?

It wasn’t a calculated decision.

"Go," Kraiss whispered.

"I’ll grab hold of him."

Even he knew his words were meaningless.

The enemy knew too.

The man did not react.

No sigh. No hesitation.

He simply raised his sword.

Flicker.

The firelight wavered.

Multiple shadows stretched out from the blade.

And then—one of those shadows became real.

Pierced through Kraiss's heart.

Kuk.

A death rattle.

Kraiss collapsed.

Blood pooled.

Blood trickled from his open eyes.

And Enkrid watched it all.

His face betrayed nothing.

The brown-haired knight turned toward him.

Against his otherwise impassive expression, the two flames in his eyes stood out more than anything.

Burning.

Blazing.

Not even the firelight could compare.

The knight saw it.

"One strike," he muttered.

A displeased sigh followed.

This entire situation disgusted him.

A knight existed for honor.

For such a man to strike from the shadows—

It was unacceptable.

But it no longer mattered.

The moment had come.

Everyone was dead.

And at last, Enkrid found his voice.

"I never thought I'd say this."

Shinar, collapsed on the ground.

Ragna, writhing with one arm missing.

Dunbakel, her heart split in two.

Esther, growling despite her lost paw and torn chest.

Kraiss, shielding Enkrid with a hole in his chest.

Only two were still clinging to life.

Ragna and Esther.

Shinar was dead.

Dunbakel was dead.

Kraiss was dead.

And Ragna—

"Get out."

He gasped the words.

He had told him to run.

To run.

Even if all that waited was an empty end—he had told him to run.

But even if the knight did not finish him off, he would still die.

From blood loss.

And if he survived?

Would he be fine?

He had lost an arm.

And yet, like a broken record, all he could do was repeat the same thing.

"Go."

Enkrid wanted to laugh.

It was absurd.

Utterly absurd.

He turned to the knight.

And at last, he spoke.

"I should die."

If he died, today would repeat.

That was what he needed.

The knight raised his sword.

"Apologies," he said.

Flat. Devoid of emotion.

Enkrid gauged his strength.

He could not see it.

It was dark.

Like walking an unlit path without a torch.

Thud.

The blade pierced his heart.

He did not dodge.

He accepted it.

Because he needed today to begin again.

For the first time—

For the first time—

He had given up.

There had been no choice.

And now, he understood.

Shinar, always joking.

Dunbakel, always spouting nonsense.

Ragna, ever the lazy bastard.

Kraiss, insufferably obsessed with krona.

The leopard cub with a terrible sleeping habit.

"I won’t let them die."

Watching their deaths unfold before his eyes—

There was nothing satisfying about it.

Enkrid let death take him.

The knight’s blade carved through his heart.

Then withdrew.

"You—I'll kill you."

Ragna's voice.

Still clinging on.

Growing distant.

Enkrid endured.

Fought back the pain.

Did not even groan.

The knight exhaled.

"Survive," he said simply.

"You’ve earned that much. Now stop the bleeding."

True to his word, he turned and left.

Enkrid collapsed.

Closed his eyes.

Death consumed him.

Splaaaash.

As expected.

The black river stretched before him.

A boat drifted over its endless waters.

A ferryman stood at the helm.

A violet lamp in his hands.

"Despair."

The ferryman’s voice rang out.

Silence settled over the river.

Enkrid did not accept it.

Instead, he asked:

"What about anguish? What about ignorance?"

It was impossible to read the ferryman’s expression.

What was he thinking today?

Thankfully, today was one of those days when he answered.

His mouth—barely visible—moved.

His words reached Enkrid.

"First, anguish—"

"Must one do what should not be done?"

Was this a test?

Or fate’s design?

He did not know.

But he had not saved the child out of necessity.

He had simply done what his heart had told him to do.

There was no reason to hesitate.

No reason to suffer over it.

Thus, it wasn't anguish.

Not to him.

"Second, ignorance."

Enkrid had not recognized the wall in front of him.

That was ignorance.

In the world of Ignorance, the ferryman had lent him his aid.

Why?

He did not know.

But even without that help, he would have realized.

He would have pushed past.

Eventually.

Which meant that ignorance, too, had no meaning.

"And third—despair."

This was different.

This—

This was something he could not surpass.

The ferryman’s intent was clear.

"Face a knight’s blade."

This was the cruelest today he had ever known.

And before that blade, he had watched his companions fall.

It would be a lie to say it left no impact.

"Drown in despair."

The ferryman, as always, spoke without a single trace of amusement.