Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 607: Chapter 607 - The Art of Breaking Momentum
Despite the dark night, sleep wouldn’t come easily.
Understandable, given the circumstances.
Few could sleep soundly in such a situation, and Noah was no exception.
Unable to sleep, Noah wandered the monastery alone, letting the cold night air brush against him.
The ornamental trees in the monastery’s courtyard had been broken down to erect wooden barriers.
The process of drying, cutting, and setting up the green timber had left the once-beautiful garden in ruins.
It now looked like a wasteland, a harbinger of the monastery’s grim future.
Tonight, the moonlight seemed uncharacteristically bright.
"Is God calling for me? Or is He condemning me for my sins?"
Was this the price of ignoring what had once transpired in the monastery?
Were those still here paying for the past’s unresolved burdens?
It was a night of deep reflection and turmoil.
The emergence of the Gray God and the commotion it caused had led to this—a small monastery, home to only a few dozen people, becoming the target of their wrath.
Who could have predicted this outcome?
Noah was coming to terms with the inevitable: the monastery would not hold.
They were surrounded, and the enemy refused any form of negotiation.
When Noah had pleaded for mercy with his life on the line, the response had been dismissive:
"Every single thing in that monastery, down to the last chicken, is heretical."
When he begged for the children to be spared, the reply was equally cruel:
"Did I not just say so? Whether saints or sinners, that place is a pit of evil."
There was no compromise, only threats.
Even the monk sent as an envoy had returned beaten, his face bruised and his steps unsteady.
"Send another envoy, and next time, only the head will return."
The message was clear, and it left Noah in despair.
The child once deemed a saint and chosen by divine revelation would soon be labeled the devil’s child, for their enemies would ensure it.
"Are we going to die?"
Even the children could sense the impending doom and asked timidly.
Noah forced a gentle smile.
"God will protect us."
He lied.
But the child smiled back, and Noah felt no regret.
Even if he were to burn in the underworld’s prisons for this falsehood, he would not take back that moment of solace.
He didn’t want the children to spend their remaining time consumed by fear.
Above all, he truly wished to believe that God would protect the innocent.
Noah himself had no escape.
But he didn’t just pray; he reached out for help wherever he could.
Yet even slipping past the siege to deliver messages was no small feat.
Would help even come?
Would anyone care about a single monastery?
The lives within?
Strangers to most.
What reason would anyone have to save them?
What gain could there be?
There was none.
Noah was painfully aware of this reality.
He could see the situation clearly: the wider continent would view this as an internal civil war within the Holy Kingdom.
No aid would come.
Even if those rallying against the Gray God managed to reach the monastery, it would likely be too late—after the fires had consumed it.
"Once the monastery burns, it’ll serve both sides’ purposes,"
Noah thought bitterly.
For the followers of the Gray God, their justification for existence hinged on the need to purge such a place.
Leaving it intact would undermine their narrative.
For the Holy Kingdom’s army, a burned monastery and its dead inhabitants would be evidence of heresy to justify their own holy war.
"Who else could be heretical but those who dared to burn a monastery?"
Such a massacre would suit both factions.
In truth, it was more than just a tragedy—it was political sacrifice.
The growing number of followers under the Gray God’s banner demanded a pretext, a symbol to validate their faith.
What better than a razed monastery?
So, a massacre loomed as the monastery’s future.
In the middle of all this, Noah noticed an odd sight.
"What’s going on here?"
Despite the chains wound tightly around the monastery gates, their iron links reinforced with cloth to muffle any sound, some individuals were working to undo them.
Five or more figures, relying only on moonlight, moved in the cold early-winter night, sweat dripping as they labored silently.
"We’re opening the gates," one of them whispered.
Noah wasn’t even flustered.
It felt more like a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation.
Of course, he knew better.
His clear and cold logic told him as much, as evident as the moonlight shining down on them.
The one who had spoken straightened from his crouched position.
He was a head taller than Noah, and the short sword in his hand was clearly visible.
Why?
Why bother with the door when it would change nothing?
Was it ignorance?
They didn’t understand that their actions would be fruitless, that no matter what they tried, they wouldn’t be forgiven.
Nor did they know the grim reality of the monastery being forced into becoming a scapegoat.
They were oblivious to the fact that those watching this unfold already branded the monastery as a den of devils.
Are they that foolish?
Was it the terror of death that compelled them?
It was likely both.
"If we open that door and surrender, will they accept us?"
"...Repentance is required."
This was why Luagarne had insisted on breaking the heads of anyone who wouldn’t listen.
But this situation was an anomaly.
If Noah’s approach had worked and the monastery had thrived, forming stronger bonds over time, they likely wouldn’t have done this.
At least, that’s what Noah wanted to believe.
The future was always uncertain, though.
Even if circumstances had improved, perhaps they would have done the same thing years later.
Are humans inherently evil?
Or good?
That was an eternal enigma.
Noah simply wanted to believe in humanity’s goodness.
"Why are you out here at this hour?"
Another man, attempting to open the door, pulled out a dagger from his coat.
It seemed he’d been concealing it in his sleeve, as it lacked a sheath.
"Killing me won’t change anything," Noah said.
"That’s what you think."
It was clear they had stopped reasoning altogether.
It was fortunate there were only five of them.
I didn’t think I’d die like this.
Hiding his true feelings, Noah looked at the five men.
None of them met his eyes.
Then it happened—a black figure leapt over the palisade.
It landed on the ground, rolled a few times, and then stood upright.
"Are you the head priest, Noah?"
The shadow asked as it stood.
"...Who are you?"
"An anonymous crusader of the Heretic Annihilation Order."
No matter what the world said, there were still those who moved according to their convictions.
One of the crusaders from the Heretic Annihilation Order had come for Noah.
The crusader quickly joined Noah, incapacitating the men halfway through opening the door.
A few more incidents followed.
They barricaded the door with thorny brambles.
Another attempt to send someone outside was abandoned.
By then, the monastery was so well-defended that not even an ant could leave.
"You should at least escape."
Noah tried to send the crusader away.
He was too determined to die here.
"No, I’ll stay."
The crusader refused.
Until Enkrid’s party arrived, Noah endured another six days in the monastery.
All he could do during that time was pray.
Oh, God, grant us aid.
Watch over your lambs.
Gather the fallen fruit into your basket.
Surely someone would help them.
Someone would come to save the poor children.
It was noon on the second day of their hunger. They hadn’t eaten in two days.
That was also the day they began to wonder if the enemy’s intent was to starve them to death.
Sunlight illuminated the surroundings, and across the thicket of brambles blocking the monastery gates, a small group could be seen weaving through the thousands of soldiers stationed there.
Clarity was essential in battlefield commands, and Enkrid understood this well.
"Break through."
The mission was simple: penetrate the enemy camp blocking the monastery and ensure the safety of Noah and the others inside.
There was no other reason for their journey here.
Just because the exterior seemed intact didn’t mean the interior was safe.
Rem was the first to move.
He stepped lightly to the left, swinging his axe in a swift motion.
With that one effortless swing, four soldiers of the so-called "Gray Holy Army" fell.
Rem’s axe carved erratic lines through the air, and within those lines, enemy necks always fell.
"I’ll take the front," Ragna declared.
Despite his words, Ragna darted to the right flank rather than the center.
His black-gold longsword stabbed, slashed, and hacked relentlessly through the enemy ranks.
Snap! Crunch! Scream!
Enemy soldiers crumbled like leaves.
The entire group fought skillfully from horseback.
Rem, in particular, swapped his axe for a stolen spear mid-battle and began thrusting it with deadly precision.
Not a single strike was blocked.
"Their training is abysmal."
Ropord spurred his horse into a turn, slashing with his sword and adding his own comment.
Compared to the Border Guard, this group couldn’t even be considered a proper army.
The swing of the blade split the enemy soldier’s helmet in two, spilling blood and brain matter onto the ground.
The struck soldier collapsed to his knees before falling forward.
As Ropord had remarked, the so-called Gray Holy Army had no time for proper drills.
The unit had only recently assembled, and there was no opportunity to train.
This outcome was inevitable.
How could such a disorderly mob hope to withstand the martial prowess of a knightly order?
Fighting against a flock of crows might yield similar results.
Enkrid, mounted on his steed with uneven eyes, wielded his sword with precision.
His legs wrapped tightly around the horse’s belly for balance.
In his right hand, he held the newly received
Jinen Sword
, while his left hand grasped
Spark
, his fairy sword.
He had prepared himself thoroughly.
Just as he was about to strike, Enkrid’s instincts sharpened.
His perception expanded, and he assessed the level of the enemy soldiers.
"Do I need to kill them all?"
No, that wouldn’t be necessary.
Armies relied on morale.
If their morale was shattered, the soldiers would scatter naturally.
But how?
Should he construct an iron wall again as he had done before?
He had practiced the technique repeatedly since that battle, and it was possible to recreate the iron wall.
However, the same crushing pressure that had overwhelmed the enemy back then was unlikely to manifest again.
"Everything is influenced by the situation and the environment,"
Luagarne had taught him.
Even if he recreated the wall, it wouldn’t feel as imposing as it had before.
Moreover, he needed to break through this time, not fortify.
Enkrid honed his senses to razor-sharp precision, letting them expand like a web. In the realm of intuition, he dissected the enemy force into its components.
Together, they formed an army.
Apart, they were individuals.
An army was built on morale.
As the web of his senses spread, it enveloped the surroundings.
He analyzed their eyes, postures, center of gravity, and the directions of their weapons.
He identified who would attack, who would flee, and who would stand their ground. Enkrid swung his sword.
The soldiers with high morale were cut down.
"Keugh!"
A soldier whose neck was severed spewed blood as he collapsed to the ground.
Jinen Sword
had lightly grazed his nape, ending him.
Next, the trembling soldier overcome by fear was bypassed. Another who stood awkwardly, attempting to hold his ground, was struck down with ease.
Clack!
The flat of the sword struck a soldier’s helmet, sending him toppling sideways.
Enkrid distinguished when to exert force and when to withhold it, meticulously distributing his
Will
He guided his blade with precision, cutting, bypassing, and striking repeatedly.
The result was a silent carnage.
In the midst of the battle, where the sounds of combat rang loudly, the area surrounding Enkrid was marked by an eerie quietness as bodies fell one after another.
Rem turned his gaze toward him.
"Oh?"
Rem could cut down everything in the path of his axe.
At the moment, he wasn’t fighting seriously, but his methods were straightforward—hack and kill.
What Enkrid demonstrated, however, was something entirely different.
Cutting and slashing were things anyone with strength could do.
But this... this wasn’t just about strength.
"You’ve learned a few tricks, haven’t you?"
Rem felt a mixture of surprise and pride, recognizing his own teachings in Enkrid’s movements.
By advancing boldly and minimizing hesitation, Enkrid used his time to analyze and act.
It was a skill that effectively extended the perception of time.
Among the onlookers, Jaxen was the most astonished.
"What is he doing?"
As the number of enemies falling to Enkrid grew, the cohesive structure of the enemy army began to unravel.
Jaxen sensed it instinctively.
While others might vaguely perceive it, he could feel it clearly.
"Is it just from observing?"
If asked to replicate it, Jaxen could imitate the motions but never with the same precision.
The finesse was unmatched.
The sword strokes painted intricate patterns that were uniquely Enkrid’s.
What Enkrid was displaying now was something only he could achieve.
It was the result of years of experience climbing from the very bottom.
It was a testament to what someone without innate talent could accomplish through sheer effort and dedication.
Enkrid was demonstrating to the enemy soldiers the true meaning of "unstoppable."

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