A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

As his body sought recovery, Enkrid continued to push through, grinding himself against the cycle of today, repeating it over and over.

Dunbakel and Shinar moved swiftly, dealing with the enemy cavalry attacking from the rear, clashing in a brutal fight against the enemy forces.

Ragna, having found an opportunity, excitedly babbled about brown excrement again, while Jaxon remained busy.

‘Hmm.’

For the first time in a long while, he caught a familiar scent of his kind.

Not an actual smell—his heightened senses had blurred and merged, stimulating his sixth sense, allowing him to feel the scent rather than detect it.

Silent footsteps. A blade closing in.

What he sensed materialized in his vision.

Jaxon slipped away from the formation, weaving between soldiers.

The approaching group had recognized him as well.

They were the ones known as the Assassin Clan.

Founders of Montaire's Swamp, Azpen’s assassin guild—and the true masters of the guild itself.

Unlike the nominal guild leader, these three assassins were the real ones in control.

Each of them was supremely confident in their abilities.

The moment they identified Jaxon, they moved.

‘That one's sloppy. Let’s kill him and move on.’

With a single glance, their intent was exchanged.

Jaxon deliberately leaked his presence, let out faint sounds, and lured them in.

Yes.

This was bait.

A silent invitation to strike, as if he were a warrior adept at such fights but ultimately weaker than them.

‘Three.’

Jaxon gauged their numbers by the faint traces of bloodlust pursuing him.

Dancing with the grace of a temptress, he led them away from the friendly forces, each movement deliberate.

The three assassins, fully ensnared by the act, followed.

Just then, a soldier from the allied ranks staggered out of formation.@@novelbin@@

An older man, helmet awkwardly jammed onto his head, clutching a spear to his chest as he fell forward.

An oddly attention-grabbing soldier.

His fall was theatrical, crashing onto his knees with a thud, followed by an exaggerated yelp.

The surrounding soldiers—friend and foe alike—instinctively turned to look.

Ridiculously enough, he was somehow wearing a Border Guard uniform.

Without looking, Jaxon already knew.

The old soldier hadn’t actually fallen onto his knees.

He had clapped his gloved hands against the ground to create the sound.

At the same time, Jaxon felt the blade flying toward him from behind.

A needle-thin sword.

Jaxon mimicked the old soldier’s movements.

“Ah!”

Feigning shock, he pitched forward.

His stumble was just clumsy enough to pass as that of an incompetent recruit.

“You idiot!”

The allied commander behind him roared.

From his perspective, Jaxon had broken formation, and the enemy had struck at him.

Since he had barely dodged in time, it looked as if he had simply been careless.

Naturally, the commander was furious.

But Jaxon didn’t drag the fight out.

He had fought far too many battles of this kind to bother.