Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 319 - 319 - This is Despair
Enkrid's nightmare had manifested into reality, taking the form of the man before him.
Instinctively, Enkrid's eyes scanned the stranger. His stance was balanced yet unassuming, legs slightly apart, hands relaxed at his sides. His tousled brown hair and dull eyes lacked any distinctive features. His shabby attire suggested he belonged neither to the enemy nor to his own forces.
Several questions arose simultaneously.
First, how had this man made it here?
Second, how skilled was he?
Third, what exactly was he apologizing for?
"I have my reasons," the man said calmly. "So, let's keep this clean."
With that, he drew his sword.
Clang.
It was a cheap shortsword, and Enkrid didn't need a closer look to notice its flaws. The blade was nicked, the leather wrapping on the hilt hung loose in a single strip, and the blade itself was dull and rusted.
What struck Enkrid wasn't the sword's appearance but his inability to sense it until the man had drawn it.
From the mere act of unsheathing, a sense of foreboding washed over him. It was a feeling unlike the oppressive presence of the ogre leader or the knight-apprentice Aisha. If their aura was indirect, this was pure inevitability—an overwhelming certainty that the blade would strike and could not be stopped.
Why?
Enkrid's finely honed senses, sharpened through relentless training, had reached a new threshold. His Sense of Evasion had transcended into something more—an instinct that delivered a dire warning.
It was an unexpected gift, yet entirely useless in this moment. The sheer weight of dread bound his limbs like chains, leaving him frozen.
"Betrothed," Shinar murmured, breaking the silence.
What had her faery-like intuition discerned?
"We need to dodge," she said.
Then, the man disappeared.
Enkrid's eyes caught only an elongated afterimage as his gaze instinctively tracked the blur. The figure, now a streak of motion, had closed the distance to Shinar in an instant.
Even with Enkrid's finely tuned vision, the man's movements appeared fragmented, almost incomprehensibly fast.
Clang!
Sparks flew.
The sound came first, followed by the image of what had happened.
Shinar had shifted into a defensive stance, but it wasn't enough. Enkrid saw the jagged shortsword trace a line from her chest to her abdomen, slicing through as her knives deflected only part of the blow.
Fae blood sprayed into the air.
The force and precision of the attack combined with sheer speed overwhelmed her defenses, driving the blade forward.
In that moment, Enkrid understood. This was what a perfect strike looked like—a masterful blend of strength, speed, and technique.
"If luck's on your side, this might not happen again," the man said, his voice calm yet piercingly clear, as if etching itself into the air. "But even if it does, I won't strike twice. I know this isn't honorable, so I ask for your understanding."
His words were a riddle, incomprehensible to Enkrid. What was once, and what was luck? His talk of honor was equally baffling.
Yet one thing was certain—Shinar had fallen.
Clutching her chest, she slid to the ground. Her knives clattered as she tried to brace herself, but her strength failed. Her blade merely scraped the floor as her body crumpled.
Thud.
"I hate this too," the man muttered, his voice sincere.
As he turned, Enkrid locked eyes with him. Even if the weapon in the man's hand had been nothing more than a rusty dagger, the result would have been the same.
This man's presence alone brought Enkrid's questions to a single conclusion.
The figure before him was no mere knight-apprentice. He was something far greater—a knight.
A reaper who could cut down a thousand men alone.
A nightmare of the battlefield.
A calamity born of human hands.
A weapon capable of changing the tides of war.
Enkrid's dream had taken form, standing before him as a harbinger of death.
"What the hell is this?" Krais muttered in shock from behind.
"Step aside," Ragna ordered, yanking Krais back by the collar and stepping forward.
His hands were empty, save for the spoon he still gripped.
"What's going on?" Dunbakel growled, her voice a low rumble.
She had already completed her transformation into beast form.
The man lowered his shortsword and moved toward his next target.
There was no sound of his feet striking the ground, no rush of air to betray his motion.
He simply moved and slashed.
It was a straightforward act, yet following it with the eye was nearly impossible.
This time, his target was Dunbakel.
Before he reached her, Dunbakel drew her scimitar, her instincts finely tuned. If the man hadn't moved first, she would have struck first instead.
Thud!
Whack!
Three distinct sounds overlapped, blurring into a single moment. That's how Enkrid heard it.
The aftermath revealed itself.
Enkrid couldn't follow the shortsword's trajectory. It was faster than before, and the man's back obstructed his view. Instead, his eyes landed on Dunbakel.
Her scimitar had been sliced cleanly in half. One shattered piece ricocheted off to the side, tearing through the tent canvas. The man's shortsword, unimpeded, drove directly into Dunbakel's heart.
"Damn it... should've used a better blade," she muttered, dropping to one knee.
She clutched at her split chest, but blood gushed between her fingers in thick, pulsing streams. It was a fatal wound—there was no saving her.
"Come at me."
The next to step forward was Ragna.
He charged unarmed, even though he had no chance of victory, blade or no blade. His arm was still far from healed.
The enemy wasted no words. His blade swung silently, aimed straight for Ragna's head.
Ragna didn't falter. In an instant, he twisted his body, thrusting his uninjured hand forward.
Thunk!
The man's hand intercepted it with ease.
Ragna's hand held... a spoon.
With one hand gripping Ragna's wrist, the man raised his blade with the other.
"You were the most capable," the man said flatly, as he brought the sword down in one fluid motion.
Ragna resisted until the very end. Twisting his body sideways, he aimed to ram his shoulder into the man, but the blade was faster.
Slash!
The sword took Ragna's arm, and only his arm.
Ragna tumbled to the side, blood spraying in arcs around him.
The loss of his arm meant certain death if left unchecked.
"See? No second chances," the man said, turning his gaze to Ragna.
Enkrid understood the meaning behind those words now.
No second chances.
He had declared he would strike only once.
"If I'm blocked, I withdraw. That's the minimum I'll grant you—my terms. It's my conscience, perhaps even a sliver of honor," he added, swinging his sword again.
This time, his blade aimed for Esther, who had crept behind him unnoticed.
The strike was thunderous, a lightning bolt crashing down, yet fluid like raindrops trailing along a surface.
Thwack!
Esther lost her front paw—and more. The blow cleaved through her chest.
Rrrraaaaaagh!
The Lakepanther's anguished roar echoed, shaking the very air.
It pierced straight to the heart.
"Get out... leave," rasped Ragna, his voice weak.
He tried to rise but slipped on the blood pooling beneath him, his face slamming into the ground with a sickening squelch.
The earth beneath him was soaked in his own blood, and his face came up drenched in red.
"Damn it..."
And then, a trembling figure stepped between Enkrid and the man.
It was Krais, his small frame visibly shaking.
Enkrid still couldn't move. The chains of dread immobilized him completely, a cruel reminder of the inescapable grip of fate. It felt as though the goddess of fortune herself had turned her face, revealing the cold visage of destiny.
You cannot escape. This is the end.
"I always figured it'd come to this... but still, Captain, I'll repay the debt," Krais said, stepping forward to shield Enkrid.
Enkrid couldn't lift his hand. His mouth refused to open. All he could do was recall the moment he had shielded Krais in the past.
"Big Eyes, run," Enkrid urged.
Why had he done it back then?
It wasn't a conscious decision—it was instinct.
"Go. I'll hold him off," Krais whispered, knowing as well as Enkrid that his words were meaningless.
The man knew, too.
He showed no emotion, no sign of exasperation or pity. He didn't even sigh.
He simply raised his blade.
In the flickering light of the brazier, the blade cast multiple shadows. One shadow became real, piercing Krais's heart.
Crunch.
Krais collapsed with a final gasp, blood pooling beneath him. Tears of blood spilled from his eyes.
Enkrid bore witness to it all.
Outwardly, he appeared calm, his face emotionless.
The man with brown hair turned toward Enkrid, his expression indifferent. But the twin embers burning in his eyes were striking.
Enkrid's own eyes burned brighter than the brazier.
The knight noticed.
"One strike," the man muttered, exhaling a displeased sigh.
He loathed the situation.
Knights lived by honor, and this was far from honorable. An ambush—what knight would resort to such tactics?
Yet such musings were meaningless now.
What mattered was what had happened.
Everyone had fallen.
Only then did Enkrid's lips part.
"Never thought I'd have to say this..."
His eyes fell upon his fallen comrades:
Shinar, lying motionless on the ground.
Ragna, writhing with one arm missing.
Dunbakel, her heart split in two.
Esther, growling fiercely despite her torn chest.
Krais, shielding him with a gaping wound in his chest.
The only ones barely clinging to life were Ragna and Esther.
Shinar was dead. Dunbakel, dead. Krais, dead.
How must Ragna feel, struggling on the ground?
"Leave," Ragna muttered.
He told them to run, to escape—even if all that awaited was a hollow end.
Even if the blade wasn't swung again, he would die from the bleeding.
And even if he survived... would that be any better?
He had lost an arm, yet all he did was repeat the words run away like a broken record.
It was absurd. Laughably absurd.
Enkrid turned his gaze to the knight.
Then, he spoke.
"I guess I'll have to die."
If he died, today would repeat.
And he needed that repetition.
The man casually leveled his sword.
"My apologies," he said, devoid of emotion.
Enkrid tried to gauge the man's skill.
He couldn't see it.
It was as if he were walking down a pitch-dark road without a torch.
The blade pierced his heart.
Enkrid chose not to dodge. He chose to accept it.
So today would repeat, for the first time.
Again.
For the first time, he let go.
He had no other choice.
Enkrid realized something anew.
Shinar with his constant jokes.
Dunbakel with her frequent nonsense.
Lazy Ragna.
Krais, obsessed with Korona.
The temperamental panther wizard with her troublesome sleeping habits.
They must not die.
'I won't allow them to die'
Seeing their deaths unfold before his eyes—it wasn't something he could bear.
Enkrid embraced his death.
The knight's sword, like that of a grim reaper, cleaved through his heart and withdrew.
"You... I'll kill you."
Ragna's voice, faint but persistent, echoed behind him.
The voice grew distant.
Enkrid endured the pain without a sound.
"Yeah, live. You've earned it. Stop the bleeding properly," the man said.
True to his word, he turned and walked away.
Enkrid collapsed, closing his eyes. Death slowly enveloped him.
A ripple.
Of course, he saw the black river.
On the flowing waters, a ferryman holding a violet lamp opened his mouth to speak.
"This was despair," the ferryman said.
Silence fell over the river.
Instead of agreeing, Enkrid asked, "What about agony and ignorance?"
It was impossible to read the ferryman's expression. What state would he be in today?
Perhaps fortunately, the ferryman chose to answer this time.
As the faint movement of his lips became words, Enkrid understood.
"First is agony—should you do what you need not do?"
Was it a test from the ferryman, or simply fate shaped by circumstances?
He didn't know.
But saving that child hadn't been because it was necessary.
Why should he agonize over doing what his heart had compelled him to?
Such things weren't worth the pain of deliberation.
Thus, it wasn't agony.
At least, not to him.
"Second is ignorance."
Enkrid hadn't perceived the wall.
Not knowing is ignorance.
defined by ignorance, the ferryman had helped him.
Why he had helped, Enkrid didn't know.
But even if he hadn't, Enkrid would have understood eventually, would have overcome it.
Ignorance, too, would someday be revealed, and in the meantime, Enkrid would keep moving forward.
The wall of ignorance, therefore, held no real meaning.
"Third is despair."
Within those words lay the meaning:
You cannot overcome it.
The ferryman's intent was plain.
Face the knight's blade.
It was the most wretched
Enkrid had encountered.
And before even that, he had to watch his comrades—those he called friends—fall before his eyes.
To say it left no mark would be a lie.
"Savor despair."
The ferryman spoke without a trace of humor, just as he always did on these
todays.

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