Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 601 - Are you really not going to be cut?
"Is your head just for decoration?"
This was a phrase often said when someone's lack of thought became frustrating.
In this case, it meant the ferryman was frustrated with him.
Enkrid clasped his hands together, assuming a posture of attentive listening.
While providing feedback was part of being a good listener, one's demeanor toward the speaker was equally important.
Tilting his head slightly toward the speaker and nodding to indicate he was paying attention was part of it.
When Enkrid adopted this manner, the boatman asked,
"What are you doing?"
"Getting ready to listen."
"To what?"
What else could it be?
Surely, it was some hint the frustrated man was about to give.
Enkrid answered silently, his gaze speaking for him.
"You're truly insane," the boatman muttered, almost in admiration, before asking,
"Do you think you can stop it?"
And with that, the world around him blurred.
The boatman began dissolving like grains of sand, signaling the end of the dream.
Enkrid did not awaken with a sudden flash of inspiration from the boatman's words.
Rather, a sense of unease lingered in his chest—like something was slightly off, a vague discomfort tugging at his heart.
"What kind of gibberish was that?" he muttered.
In response, the boatman chuckled lightly and said,
"Live eternally—that is your path."
To Enkrid, the words felt hollow, as though spoken out of duty rather than conviction.
"I refuse."
With that, Enkrid opened his eyes, waking from his nap into the present day.
"Can it truly be stopped?"
Wasn't that precisely what he had been struggling to do?
Even as the question weighed on his mind, his body moved instinctively, cutting through the flames.
To "cut the flames" might sound poetic in words, but Enkrid was doing it quite literally. Armed with nothing but his trusty black-gold longsword, he abandoned his armor, cutting its straps loose, and set out running into the thick of it all.
"Where are you going?" Luagarne asked from behind, her voice trailing after him.
Delma, holding a cup of water, blinked in confusion.
Enkrid allowed himself a brief moment of sentimentality as he replied,
"I'm making sure you kids can't follow."
As he passed by, he heard Delma's faint response, delayed due to the speed at which his thoughts and body raced forward.
"What?"
It was a simple question, barely audible, but it was clear he hadn't understood him.
"I won't let you follow after me. I will stop it."
As he spoke those words, Enkrid hardened his resolve, readying himself for yet another round of today.
There was no time to deliberate, so he accelerated his thoughts, charging into the day headfirst.
And then, there was the boatman.
Always there in moments of death.
"I'll teach you the way," the boatman said one day, his tone unusually kind compared to before.
From then on, the boatman's demeanor shifted.
Gone was the frustration; in its place came unsolicited advice delivered without malice.
"If you can't save everything, save part of it. Abandon the area around the slums. Prepare and face the flames when they come. You might survive that way."
The advice was clear—use the time it took for the flames to consume people, children, mothers, buildings, horses, and stable hands to prepare.
"Are you feeling unwell?" Enkrid asked, responding earnestly to the boatman's sudden helpfulness.
The boatman shrugged off the question and continued.
"Sacrifice is inevitable."
"Some will die; it's unavoidable."
"No one will bless what you achieve."
"What are you even fighting so desperately for?"
"At least try holding them off at the village square entrance. That might work. Hah!"
The boatman's words wavered between help and mockery, his tone consistently irritating.
Even so, Enkrid couldn't forget one of his earlier statements:
"Do you think you can stop it?"
Enkrid found himself answering the void, "That's exactly why I'm trying so damn hard."
Yet the cycle continued.
He repeated today, dying in flames over and over again. Though his swordsmanship grew more refined and he became skilled at cutting through the intangible form of flames, the ultimate outcome remained unchanged. He persisted, learning and improving, but still met the same fiery end each day.
It felt like exploring an endless cave, every step forward accompanied by the searing pain of burning alive.
Even so, Enkrid never felt his approach was wrong.
His belief was simple: cut and endure.
That was the only path toward the light.
But perhaps the light wasn't the only path forward.
Sometimes, a road lay hidden in the shadows, just as valid and true as one illuminated by sunlight.
Ultimately, there was no absolute right or wrong path—only choices.
And for Enkrid, two options presented themselves:
One, continue as he had, struggling until the flames consumed neither the people nor the city.
Some lives and parts of the city would inevitably be lost, but the alternative...
The alternative was to heed the boatman's advice and sacrifice some to save the rest.
This unyielding inferno wasn't targeting Enkrid alone; its goal was the city itself.
If it had only reacted to provocations, perhaps things wouldn't have escalated so direly.
When the flames consumed him, the pain was so excruciating that even Enkrid wavered in his resolve at times.
The agony was overwhelming, a moment of torment that seemed endless.
Still, his sword swings never faltered.
On one of these repetitive days, Enkrid pulled out a mirror mid-sprint and asked,
"Why not simply overwhelm the mana?"
Enkrid had no intention of changing the way he obtained information from Esther.
The words "You think you can stop me?" echoed in his mind, and his retort was a reflexive, almost taunting response.
Even as he ran, he could see Esther's expression shift in the reflection of the mirror.
A cold, sardonic smile settled on her face, and at the same time, the treasure trove of knowledge within her began to unfold. Indeed, her mind was a repository of treasures, akin to a witch's wealth of knowledge—a priceless treasure in itself.
"Is it truly possible? In theory, yes," she said.
Enkrid's ears twitched at her words.
It wasn't just that he was intrigued; his ears, like a fairy's, involuntarily reacted to the stimulus.
"A spell represents a phenomenon, and that phenomenon reflects power.
Since all spells are fundamentally expressions of mana, what does that imply? If power far surpassing the spell 'Walking Ffire' were concentrated, what then?
If one's 'Will' could dominate the mana borrowed from the vast forces of nature, then, sure, it's possible.
Hmph."
The faint 'hmph' at the end was barely audible, though Enkrid, stunned, hardly registered it anyway.
"To surpass the mana of nature?"
Enkrid recalled a time when he had sliced through a blazing projectile from a spell.
When was that?
It had been so long that the memory was hazy, but he vaguely recalled that it involved someone using a scroll.
How had he managed to cut it back then?
There hadn't been much thought—he simply swung his sword with unwavering resolve.
"Why can't I do that now?"
Was it because the fire moved?
If he borrowed Esther's reasoning, it was because the mana of nature repelled his Will.
Thus, even when he cut the spell, it wasn't severed; instead, it exploded.
His thoughts spiraled further.
Following ingrained habits, he imagined fighting 'Walking Fire,' dying to it, saving a child and a mother, only to die in agony as the burning flames consumed his body and mind.
And then, the day would start all over again.
"Mana can be seen as a concept of supply and demand.
What lies between the supplier and the demander?
Hmm?
If that connection can be severed—yes, as you said—it can be cut."
The link between spell and caster was mana.
The provocative questions drew more treasures from Esther's mental trove, and Enkrid eagerly indulged in them.
He hadn't unraveled the complex world of spells or constructed a new theoretical framework.
Rather, he had stumbled upon a cruder, less sophisticated approach.
Even as he betrayed his own determination not to burn to death again, Enkrid spoke:
"Walking Fire."
His words, though spoken into the air, drew a sharp response from Luagarne, who suddenly popped up from behind.
"Are you talking about the Forbidden Spell?"
Instead of activating the mirror, Enkrid began moving his feet and said, "I shouldn't have tried to block it in the first place."
"What?"
"Instead of blocking, I should have cut it down."
"...What are you talking about?"
To Luagarne, it sounded like the ramblings of someone who had woken up from a deep sleep and lost their mind.
"Do you think it can be stopped?"
That had been the words of the boatman.
What a lunatic of a boatman.
As he ran, Enkrid found himself thinking that.
If he was going to explain, he could have done so clearly instead of laughing at his desperate attempts to block.
Yet all his words boiled down to one conclusion.
"Do not block."
It wasn't about stopping—it was about cutting down and eradicating.
But how?
Simply enduring the flames by parrying and slicing had been an act of desperation, a last-ditch struggle borne of sheer resolve.
Back then, it had seemed like the only path illuminated.
But now, another way forward revealed itself.
"Did she say you must be superior?"
Esther had said as much.
The key was to crush the 'Walking Fire' spell with overwhelming power.
But did one always need to maintain superiority?
Surely not.
His thoughts didn't accelerate to the point of genius, nor did they need to.
Everything boiled down to one simple action.
"Will you really not be cut?"
Standing before the 'Walking Fire,' Enkrid asked aloud.
The spell, lacking consciousness, couldn't respond.
Yet Apostle Anella, watching Enkrid through the spell, heard his question.
Anella might have thought it was madness, but Enkrid was entirely sincere.
The world is full of things that defy quantification, and Enkrid was one of them.
Anella studied him, observing and analyzing.
If she burned the city, she believed he wouldn't back down so easily.
But would he risk his life?
That was a fifty-fifty chance.
No matter the path he chose, it was a win for Anella.
Each option led to outcomes she desired.
If he persisted and was injured, she'd trigger her prepared traps to kill him.
If he withdrew after saving a select few, that wouldn't be so bad either.
This situation wasn't just about targeting Enkrid.
It also served to show the continent the might of the Holy Demonic Sect by burning a city as a warning.
"Foolishness," Anella muttered.
Her words were a response to the question, "Will you really not be cut?"
Naturally, Enkrid didn't hear her.
Her gaze, through the 'Walking Fire' spell, remained fixed on him.
Enkrid's face remained indifferent, though there was a certain joy and excitement visible beneath his expression.
The searing heat singed his hair, and beneath the singed strands, his blue eyes burned with a light as intense as the flames themselves.
The silent sword was raised and struck down.
The sword imbued with will cleaved through the Walking Fire.
It exploded and shattered.
From the center of the blast, skin was torn, and the flames scorched his eyes and tongue.
The damned pain returned, though it seemed less intense than before.
Why?
"Is that your madness?"
The voice of the ferryman echoes in his dream.
Enkrid didn't respond but instead gripped his sword.
Even in the dream world, his sword was as real as the material world.
The overflowing will affected the mental realm as well.
When he awoke to the present, he realized it—just five repetitions of today was all he needed.
Enkrid visualized the castle walls and set them behind him. With those walls embodied by his will, all he needed was to channel it into a single swing of his sword.
He had found the method and advanced.
In the fraction of a moment, the slash that burned away life became a concentration of experiences unlike any other. Enkrid had repeated this process countless times—dozens, hundreds, thousands—each time refining his skills.
Now, he brought together the lessons learned from countless repetitions, merging them into a single purpose.
The way to expel his will?
He had realized long ago that it was a natural release.
This realization had come from his earlier conversations with Seiki and even earlier, through the path shown by Overdier.
'Expel naturally.'
There was more to it.
Will is formless; it must be felt to be used.
Hadn't Jaxen said so?
Once he felt it, he could use it.
And so, he did.
Ragna had told him to focus when swinging, and Rem had advised him to apply force in the moment.
Both were true.
Enkrid followed both instructions.
Before he could fully understand it, the words had been abstract to him.
But after the realization, everything became painfully clear.
The will flowed and poured into the sword without any trick or familiarity.
He poured all of his will into it.
Zzzing.
The sword cried out.
If it had not been a blade forged with utmost care by Aeitri, it would not have held up under the strain.
Crack.
The blade cracked as the will was poured into it.
By the time Enkrid faced the Walking Fire again, everything was ready.
With the will contained within the sword, everything else was the same as before.
He was running, armor discarded, holding only the silent sword, heading for the stables where two horses were set aflame by the Walking Fire.
There, he faced the spell.
"Are you really not going to be cut?"
He asked again.
The stablemaster, who had been about to strike with a pitchfork, froze in place.
It was perfect timing.
The Walking Fire could not devour anyone now.
Enkrid raised his silent sword above his head.
A proper sword strike aimed at the crown of the head.
Contained within the blade was all of his will—at least, all of the formless power he was currently feeling.
If he had to name it, it would be a sword that cleaved through iron walls.
The will that had once formed the iron wall was now translated into the slash.
Whoosh.
The Walking Fire, burning and consuming countless times in this endless repetition of today, finally met its match.
Every experience Enkrid had accumulated in those countless days of burning and surviving infused this one final slash.
The blue light in his eyes disappeared behind the blade, and the will that once held the armies back now fell as a blade.
Whoosh.
There was no thunderous crash, no booming sound.
The Walking Fire simply scattered where the blade passed.
The silent sword left its mark, as though it had cleaved through the world itself.
The immense, condensed will instantly overwhelmed the magic power contained in the spell.
This was a feat that could not have been attempted by anyone lacking an inexhaustible will.
The Walking Fire had been cut.
Whoosh.
With a sound that seemed as hollow as air escaping from a punctured tire, the flames diminished and faded away.

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