A Knight Who Eternally Regresses
Chapter 792
"You're here," said Enkrid.
"You blocked it, Brother."
Their words overlapped.
The moment he saw Beelrog's kick, Enkrid had crossed his arms in an X and blocked it.
In other words, he hadn't just taken the hit; he had actively defended himself, rejecting Beelrog's overwhelming force in real time.
And of course, the one who had caught the airborne Enkrid was Audin.
A warmth radiated from the hand supporting his back—it was thanks to Audin channeling Divine Power.
"I'm not hurt," Enkrid said again.
"So it appears. What kind of fun have you been having behind our backs?"
Audin replied.
From behind Audin, Rem's voice chimed in as well.
Enkrid caught a strange choice of words from Rem.
"Our backs?"
Could he always use words like that?
He probably didn't even realize he'd said it.
It would've felt awkward to hear that back during the Troublemaker Squad days, but now, it didn't anymore.
The word "we" actually fit now, after all the time I'd spent with them.
Next to Rem stood Ragna, wearing his usual expression, and Jaxen, arms dangling, eyes narrowed.
He was sizing up the opponent.
He wasn't taking immediate action, likely because he realized this wasn't an opponent to be underestimated.
That was their battle stance—those two.
Everyone, including Rem—and especially Audin—kept their eyes fixed ahead, even as a soft glow flowed from Audin's hands.
Even from Jaxen's perspective, or by anyone's standards really, the presence they felt was chilling.
The flames of the campfire seemed to come alive, stretching out to touch Oara's shadow.
The fire traced around the outline of the shadow, and from within, hands, horns, a head, and a chest studded with black crystals emerged as the figure stood up.
It looked like a bear uncoiling from a crouch.
Beelrog might not remember this from a moment ago, but for Enkrid, something unusual had happened, and as he straightened up with Audin's hand still supporting his back, he asked,
"So you're using your aura to pressure and attack all at once?"
Normally, Beelrog only used his presence to test his opponents, but this time, he went straight for an attack.
That was unexpected.
—You go right to questioning, mortal.
Beelrog's sense for these things was sharp.
He picked up on the underlying meaning of my abrupt question right away.
Of course, Enkrid knew his opponent would understand.
After all, it was a face he'd seen often enough to grow almost attached to.
At this point, he could read the demon's mood just by looking at his expression.
Then again, Beelrog's expressions were rather simple and straightforward, so it wasn't particularly difficult.
"That's just how I am when I'm curious."
Their conversation felt odd.
On one side, a human spoke as though he knew his opponent well, while on the other, the so-called Demon of Strife maintained an impassive, unfamiliar attitude.
But neither of them seemed to care about the contrast.
"You two seem pretty friendly."
Jaxen's speech always grew curt when he was irritated—just like now.
"Do we?"
Enkrid replied without a hint of concern.
Audin kept his cheerful face and let out a soft laugh.
Although Jaxen added to the conversation, none of those who had joined seemed particularly bothered by the exchange between Enkrid and Beelrog.
The moment they saw the one who'd risen from the shadows, everyone shifted straight into battle mode.
Let your guard down, and you'd die.
Their skin prickled with tension.
If you couldn't read the mood in the room right now, you hardly deserved to be called a knight.
If an ordinary person walked in here, their heart would stop or their lungs would collapse.
That's how much pressure weighed down on the surroundings.
Even though the place had changed into a labyrinth, resembling a Demonic Domain, the quality of the air probably wouldn't be any different if they met outside.
The sheer presence released by those gathered here was a weapon in itself.
And, as if completely unfazed by all this pressure, Beelrog conveyed his thoughts.
—I came because I was summoned, but I had no expectations.
However.
He didn't use his vocal cords; instead, he transmitted his intent by vibrating the air itself.
Enkrid was used to it, but to the others, it probably seemed like some bizarre trick.
Still, just by watching, one could guess how it worked, more or less.
Even if they didn't know, no one would care enough to ask.
As Balrog spoke, the corners of his mouth curled upward and the flame inside his eyeball spun around rapidly.
Enkrid had seen it countless times before.
It was the expression of thrill, joy, and satisfaction.
Enkrid had watched Beelrog break into that same grin over and over.
So he already knew what Beelrog was about to say.
If you could predict your opponent's actions, there was no reason to hold back from striking first.
Enkrid spoke before Beelrog could.
"Should be fun, right?"
Before he knew it, Enkrid was grinning back the same way.
This wasn't intentional.
It truly was a spontaneous expression, born from a mix of anticipation and excitement.
Enkrid had stolen the words right out of Beelrog's mouth.
Honestly, it was something Enkrid often said himself anyway, so it didn't exactly count as theft.
—Yeah, that's exactly what I was going to say.
Beelrog conveyed his will as well.
Not even this could shake him in the slightest.
That's just the kind of person Beelrog was.
In any case, since he'd managed to get the words out a step ahead, Enkrid was content with that small victory.
Gnash.
And then, before he realized it, the Fairy standing right beside Enkrid ground her teeth and stepped forward.
Enkrid had been at the very front, but now she had moved ahead of him.
From Enkrid's vantage point, he could see the Fairy's back.
Her frame was small, but the presence radiating from her Imaginary Realm loomed large.
Considering what she was capable of in that body, it only made sense.
There was a determination visible in Shinar as she stepped forward.
This was not the kind of energy Fairies usually displayed; as a rule, they tended to hide their emotions and maintained a quiet, observant attitude.
It was exceedingly rare for a Fairy to step out like this.
They said that Fairy pressure manifested not in form, but in aura.
Originally, Fairies didn't use Will—they used vitality instead.
That was what people said.
A strong scent of the forest filled the air.
Enveloped in that fragrance, the Fairy opened her mouth.
"Who hit you, Fiancé? Was it that one? Tell me. I promise you Blood Vengeance."
Blood and vengeance weren't words you'd usually hear from a Fairy.
Even Jaxen seemed surprised, chiming in with a comment.
"A Fairy talking about Blood Vengeance?"
"I just wanted to say it once."
With that, the Fairy dispelled the tension she'd shown while grinding her teeth, tossing out her words lightly.
For the first time in a long while, it wasn't a joke about engagements or Enkrid—a bona fide Fairy-style joke.
If someone asked why she'd crack a joke at a time like this, there was a good reason.
More accurately, Enkrid understood it right away.
Fire and Demons—those two things triggered Shinar's psychological trauma.
She probably needed to ease her own nerves, too.
"But I am serious about the revenge."
Shinar spoke again.
Although she had relaxed a bit, right now Shinar was glaring at the person who had struck Enkrid—her old wounds all but forgotten.
'Who do you think you are, hitting someone like that?'
That was the look in her eyes.
The stage was set.
Enkrid had deliberately stalled for time, hoping these people would arrive.
If he was ever in danger, they would shout from far away and come running, even risking injury to save him.
Preserving both his own strength and theirs for this meeting was the beginning of their operation.
So, you could say things had started off well.
Rem, Jaxen, Ragna, Audin, Shinar, and Enkrid himself—six in total—now stood facing Beelrog.
Off to the side, Oara, having rolled away, managed to lift her head.
Enkrid, having experienced this "today" a few times, knew already: if a fight started this way, instead of turning into Beelrog herself, Oara would just end up tossed aside as a mere spectator.
Seeing Oara looking over at them, Enkrid addressed her in the same calm manner as always.
He spoke to her the way he did both when teasing her and now—in tone and attitude, nothing had changed.
"This is the last time."
Determination, will, conviction, oath—these things all made his Will stronger.
Enkrid had forgotten today would start again if he died.
He'd forgotten the Ferryman, too.
Only one thing remained in his mind.
He gathered his tangled thoughts and boiled them down to a single outcome.
'Kill Beelrog'
This was a battlefield shaped by the concepts he'd broadened through repeating this day.
Did he really have to endure all of this alone?
Where did the boundary of "alone" truly lie?
Weren't the help and efforts of these people also something he'd built up over time?
If you could look inside Enkrid's mind, you'd see he wasn't bogged down by such complicated questions.
Only simple, clear resolve filled his thoughts.
'If I can do it, I'll do it.'
With the strength of others, with his comrades by his side, he didn't need to beg for power—he could seize victory.
This was a stage shaped not by calculation but by faith.
Enkrid's lips curled into an even bigger smile.
His heart pounded wildly.
His Will surged on its own.
Anyone would be lying if they claimed not to feel excitement about what was to come.
In this sense, the word "madman" fit Enkrid perfectly.
Despite dying over and over, he'd never become afraid.
It was as if he was someone who existed solely for the fight itself.
So then, who's the real War God now?
That's what his gaze seemed to ask.
Of course, as with everything on the Continent, the one who wins is always the answer.
Winner and loser.
In the end, the living and the dead will be set apart.
Standing on the brink between life and death—there was no real difference.
In a scene perfectly balanced in symmetry, the only person grinning was like a jagged line disrupting the composition.
That was Enkrid.
Fwoosh.
As if preparing for battle, the line of flame that traced the outline of Beelrog began to snake sideways like a serpent, then transformed into something between a whip and a fire serpent that rose straight up as if lifting its head.
In his right hand, a sword blazing with black flame suddenly appeared.
The black fire ignited on his skin, traced along his hand, and solidified into a sword.
It was a fascinating technique every time he saw it.
Beelrog possessed a skill to store weapons within his body.
There wasn't much else to envy, but anyone might feel a bit of envy for that.
Beelrog assumed a fighting stance.
Watching this, Enkrid quickly laid out his tactics.
There was no time for lengthy deliberation.
There was certainly no time to gather everyone's thoughts and discuss strategies.
All the more reason for his words to come out short and to the point, in the form of commands.
"I'll hold him back, Rem throws, and Ragna strikes."
Of course, things were never that neatly aligned in reality.
It's not as if Beelrog would just stand around and watch.
"Are you planning to memorize all his patterns?"
It was a day from the recent past.
The Ferryman suddenly asked this.
Watching Enkrid stall for time between three teachers, it probably looked like he was observing Beelrog's fighting style.
But even if you memorize all the patterns, can you win?
That was the Ferryman's question.
Even when Enkrid isolated his thoughts, increased his mental speed, and got ahead in Combat Calculation, Beelrog would casually shatter the foundation of those calculations.
'All it took was a single kick.'
It felt as if something entirely new had intervened from outside the battlefield—a kick that changed everything.
Why did it turn out that way?
The answer was simple.
'Beelrog has more fighting experience than I do—both on the battlefield and in dueling combat.'
Without needing to run Combat Calculation or meticulously plan, he could fill those gaps with sheer experience.
He had accumulated that much.
What did that mean?
Enkrid realized he couldn't block all of Beelrog's sword, whip, fist, and kick trajectories using just pure Combat Calculation.
The Ferryman, who had talked about patterns, delivered his will like an undeniable truth, as certain as saying the Morning Sun would rise tomorrow.
"Whatever you do, you'll be broken eventually. Even if you endure and endure, the end is the same. At that moment, you won't have a choice."
It was impossible to tell whether he meant to help or to hinder.
To the Ferryman, the future of this man Enkrid looked pitch black.
That's true in both senses of the phrase: one meaning was that his path ahead would be extraordinarily difficult, but the other was that now, even the Ferryman couldn't predict what kind of "today" would come.
Why couldn't he see Enkrid's future?
Because the "Record" had already been broken, and so he was no longer eligible as the subject of a wager.
Just the fact that the record was shattered was enough to sway the hearts of quite a few weaker souls.
"So you push through without borrowing anyone's strength—then what? What if something even worse comes next? One day, you'll be broken. And when that day comes, even if you regret it, nothing will change."
Enkrid, who had been quietly pondering how to fight, looked into the Ferryman's empty pupils.
He didn't know what answer the Ferryman was hoping for, but Enkrid already knew his own.
It was the unyielding resolve he'd carried since the very first time he picked up a sword.
"I'll just think about it when I get there."
It was a simple and clear answer.
The Ferryman couldn't continue speaking.

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