Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 411 - I Will Hunt You Down
Jaxen, who had been relentlessly throwing daggers, hurled a Whistle Dagger at the count's brow.
The dagger flew soundlessly, only to explode with a bang right in front of the count's face.
A black veil shimmered before the count with the loud blast—it was the protective barrier, still intact. It was evident that a dagger imbued with a scroll wouldn't penetrate it.
"Don't expect mercy!"
Dean Molsan, who had always taken the world lightly, now felt the weight of true danger as he was pushed to the edge of a cliff. Sweat streamed down his back. He had never encountered such opponents. It was his first time, and the unfamiliarity stripped him of his composure.
The count had already resorted to magic beyond what an ordinary mage could conjure. Now, he was tapping into his very lifespan.
He reversed the summon further, his eyes rolling back as they turned pitch-black.
The void-like gaze fixed on Jaxen, who felt an icy chill surge from the wound in his abdomen.
"Hmm?"
Jaxen nearly collapsed as strength left his legs but managed to hold himself upright. After all, there were two bastards nearby who seemed to be waiting for him to fall.
"Die, die, die, die, die!"
The count, gripping his staff, chanted incessantly, his focus unwavering on Jaxen. Jaxen met his gaze, staring back into the blackness of those eyes, which, despite their lack of discernible pupils or sclera, exuded a relentless tenacity.
The more the count chanted, the colder Jaxen's abdomen grew. Standing became increasingly unbearable. Jaxen dropped to one knee, his palm slamming to the ground as he closed his eyes.
He had to resist the frost. Concentrating, he faintly heard Rem murmuring beside him.
"That's right, just like that."
'Mad barbarian,' Jaxen thought, focusing harder. The enemy's attack was a form of magic—something had been planted in his wound. All he needed to do was identify and extract it. Jaxen began to observe his own body.
Endurance to withstand pain.
Composure to analyze his condition.
Sensitivity to detect the source.
And finally, an unyielding spirit.
'There's no giving up.'
Jaxen had learned this from watching Enkrid.
It was the first time he'd encountered such a spell, but there had to be a solution.
Drawing from knowledge, experience, and inference, he would piece together a conclusion.
Jaxen endured on one knee, trusting that his commander would shatter every obstacle in their path.
Enkrid took three steps forward, advancing toward the count. He was now within the range of his sword.
This was thanks to his subordinates, who had endured the count's relentless spellcasting and schemes, allowing Enkrid to close the distance.
Now, having reached this proximity, Enkrid placed his hand on the grip of his sword and declared, "You're already within my domain."
The three seated individuals and the one standing all turned their eyes to Enkrid. Even the count's gaze fell on him.
A domain? He was referring to his sword's range. The count smirked, confident in his protective magic.
Enkrid regulated his breathing. Breaking through ten thousand summoned wraiths had been taxing.
Fatigue had built to the point where his muscles trembled uncontrollably. Yet, he remained unbothered.
This wasn't the first time.
Wielding a sword often brought such challenges.
Especially in the days when he had nothing, when he had to swing his sword until his muscles tore.
It was the only way he could even reach for his dream.
When one cannot see what lies ahead, what must one do to press forward?
Repeat, and repeat again.
That experience was what allowed him to endure.
His gaze fixed on the black veil shimmering in front of the count.
Enkrid had already seen Jaxen strike at the barrier once and could roughly estimate its strength.
'A thrown dagger might not pierce it.'
But it could be cut. Not with ordinary slashes, of course. A successful cut required absolute conviction.
Thus— "Ragna, let me borrow this for a moment."
Ragna had no time to respond.
Enkrid attempted once more to mimic a technique he had tried countless times before, always unsuccessfully.
Raising his sword as though to pierce the heavens, he gripped the hilt with both hands, relaxing his shoulders.
It was the high stance of the Northern-style swordsmanship, a variation of the inherited family art from the Yohan family, which Ragna had adapted to his liking.
Though Enkrid didn't know the details, he had prepared to swing the sword.
Ragna looked at him with a slight hint of surprise.
'Not bad.'
The stance, the momentum, the will—it was difficult to find fault with anything.
It was the best posture Enkrid had ever shown, and the fact that it mirrored his own technique made Ragna feel even more approving.
He wasn't the only one surprised.
Rem had been astonished since the beginning of the battle against the wraith soldiers.
'He hasn't faltered once.'
Enkrid had matched Ragna's pace effortlessly. It was becoming hard to recall their former leader.
'This is getting interesting.'
Rem tightened his grip on his axe, ready to throw it if things went awry.
Audin prayed silently, unable to clasp his hands. The pain felt like his skull was splitting, but he endured, reciting his prayers.
"As the lamb sheds its wool, the shepherd becomes its guide."
The shepherd corrects and punishes what is wrong.
Forbidden arts were no trivial matter. A lack of discipline could drive one mad from pain, and countless had succumbed to such fate.
But Audin focused on his duty, another lesson learned from Enkrid.
Jaxen slowly drove Carmen's stiletto into his abdomen, avoiding his vital organs as he aimed for the source of the cold.
Stab!
The act quelled the frost. Though the blade pierced his body, it wasn't a fatal wound. Avoiding his organs and with proper treatment, he would recover.
Still, he reflected. 'I was careless.'
He had failed to fully utilize his assassination skills, and memories of his mentor's teachings resurfaced.
"Do you want to give it your all? First, find a place you belong."
Why had the mentor said that?
He had already committed to inheriting the assassin's blade. Didn't he already have a place to stay?
Enjoying battle to the fullest would only lead to indulgence in the act of killing.
That was his mentor's warning.
Jaxen had felt such intoxication before.
How does one avoid it?
These thoughts crowded his mind but were dismissed as he refocused on the present.
Before him stood his commander, no longer in need of his assistance.
The sight of Enkrid's back filled his vision.
He was poised to strike, his sword raised.
"Haah, damn fools," the count muttered, steadying his breath. He had been pushed back repeatedly, but watching his enemies crumble one by one helped him recover some semblance of composure.
His eyes turned to Enkrid. The count also knew how to wield a sword himself.
The Count, observing Enkrid preparing his stance, realized he could not afford to yield the first strike.
The flickering black veil around Enkrid rendered most attacks futile.
The Count, after weighing his options, initiated the assault.
He lunged forward, thrusting his blade with precision. His sword point, sharp and narrow as a pinpoint, hurtled toward Enkrid.
It was an impeccable thrust—direct, swift, and powerful.
Enkrid calmly countered, striking down on the Count's blade.
Clang!
The Count quickly recovered his weapon, attempting a follow-up slash.
Meanwhile, Enkrid borrowed from Ragna's severing technique, his movements echoing what he had recently witnessed.
Pushing off the ground, Enkrid advanced. His shoulders rotated fluidly, his waist pivoting as his blade's trajectory shifted.
The sword that had just parried the thrust now glided like a fish swimming upstream, redirecting toward the Count with devastating precision.
The Heart of the Beast surged, enhancing his strength, as his Will focused the blow.
"Sever."
It was the Will of Severance.
Enkrid's sword cut horizontally, slicing through the Count's protective barrier and grazing the ridge of his nose.
Crash!
The barrier shattered. The Will—a manifestation of one's resolve—carved through the shield and split the skull beneath.
Fragments of the Count's silver helm scattered as his skull was cleaved.
Enkrid exhaled the breath he had held, halting mid-swing. His glowing blue eyes stood out starkly in the darkness conjured by the Count. They seemed otherworldly, as if Enkrid alone occupied a different plane.
"Huuh."
Enkrid lowered his broken sword, feeling the ache in his arms. He turned away.
Behind him, the Count had lost the top of his head.
To an onlooker, it might have seemed like a straightforward exchange of sword strikes.
Enkrid had deflected a thrust, then smoothly transitioned into a horizontal slash without resetting his stance.
The Count hadn't even had time to defend himself.
The move was partially borrowed from Ragna and imbued with the Will of Severance.
That was why Enkrid had called it borrowed.
"Gghhk..."
The Count coughed up blood.
He had been a cunning force who upended Naurilia, yet death, impartial and universal, visited all.
Even a stray arrow could end a life; how could someone survive a cleaved head?
Blood poured from the severed wound, pooling thick and red even in the shadows.
Then, something inexplicable occurred.
"This cannot end here."
The Count spoke, his voice echoing eerily, layered as if two voices overlapped.
With blood trickling down his face, his severed head seemed... intact enough to speak?
Audin finally began to suspect the Count's true nature.
'What is this?'
The air felt oppressive, a sinister presence reminiscent of the deepest reaches of a demonic abyss.
"A demon?"
Audin muttered to himself as black smoke began emanating from the Count's body.
"Not a hundred thousand, but even ten thousand... To fell such a number deserves recognition. For that, you've earned my deepest curse... Hmm? A witch?"
Before the smoke could fully take shape, a thunderclap resounded through the darkened sky.
Rumble!
The black smoke wavered, its formation halting.
Enkrid stood, gripping his broken sword, silently observing.
Drip.
Raindrops began to fall.
"...I've been blocked by that mage!?."
The Count and the entity within him spoke simultaneously, their voices overlapping.
Enkrid now understood why the Count's voice had occasionally seemed doubled.
He had harbored a demon within.
But that revelation changed nothing.
Enkrid discarded his shattered blade and unsheathed his gladius.
Using the gladius to draw attention, he prepared for a decisive strike.
"Spark."
He mapped out his next move in an instant.
While everyone else stood frozen in shock, Enkrid alone readied himself to continue the fight.
The demon's gaze fixed on him again.
"This insolent creature..."
Its tone was devoid of emotion, but that hardly mattered.
Enkrid intended to end the battle, no matter what.
His entire unit was either injured or drained, leaving him as their sole remaining line of defense.
Anyone else might have questioned whether this opponent was an insurmountable wall, but Enkrid did not.
He simply did his utmost, moment by moment.
Because that was how he had always lived.
From somewhere beyond this world of perceptions, a wondering ferryman chuckled.
"Indeed."
Truly, this man was utterly mad.
The Count had extraordinary talent, but his ambition surpassed human limitations.
That was how he came to claim a demon's heart.
The demon ignored the relentless swordsman and instead addressed the witch's interference.
"If you even manage block my final curse, won't that be disappointing?"
Its tone was light, but the weight of its name—demon—was undeniable.
A fiend of the highest danger level, seen only in the demonic abyss.
A being of intelligence, exceptional in tormenting and killing humans.
"A demon," Enkrid murmured. The demon's eyes turned toward him.
"You... Yes, impressive, human. But it seems I cannot fight you now."
Though the demon didn't know Enkrid's full history, it understood his recent feats.
One by one, everything had converged around this man.
Even the witch who had intervened was, after all, part of his group.
"Harm them, and I'll hunt you down wherever you flee," a voice rang out, transcending space.
The demon grimaced slightly, irked by the witch's audacious threat.
"What an impudent witch."
Eyes formed within the black mist, surveying the surroundings with a murky glare.
The moment Enkrid recognized the entity, a peculiar thought struck him.
This was no human. But could he not cut it down? Truly?
Though the demon claimed it would not fight, Enkrid felt tempted to test that claim.
Just as he gathered his remaining strength to charge, the demon's gaze bore down on him.
For the first time, its tone shifted.
"We shall meet again."
The hazy form within the mist began to fade, becoming imperceptible.
"I am the master of a hundred thousand wraiths."
With those words, the demon vanished. Rain, now heavier, erased its lingering presence.
The witch had called upon her magic, turning the downpour into a natural phenomenon that cleansed the area of any unnatural traces.
The rain was warm, infused with her magic.
The Count's last moments revealed its lingering attachment to this world.
"All was within my grasp..."
Those were Dehan Molsen's final resentful words.
"Life is rarely so accommodating," came a reply.
The Count's death brought an end to his grudges, though they were ultimately meaningless.
The demon, its trace remnants fading, licked its lips in disappointment. It had lost its chance to leave a significant mark on the human world.
Before fully dissipating, it fixed its gaze on the man who had defeated it.
The black-haired, blue-eyed warrior.
"Enkrid."
It had heard the name spoken by others. The demon etched it into memory, thinking that if they met again, it would ensure he begged for death.

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