A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

There was nothing more to be done in the royal palace, and Crang was bound to get busier.

Which meant it was time for Enkrid to leave as well.

Just before parting ways, he saw Matthew limping along behind Crang, dragging his injured leg. Crang, naturally, berated him mercilessly before sending him off for treatment.

"Wouldn’t it be better to get treated in the royal palace?"

The Marquis of Octo asked Enkrid as he watched Matthew struggle.

He was a man who knew how to take care of people—meticulous, attentive.

And perceptive.

If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have chosen to stand on Crang’s side.

"I’m fine."

Enkrid declined. His right wrist would heal soon enough.

As long as he ate well and got some rest, it would be fine.

There was no need to stay in the palace just for that.

He could set his own dislocated joints, and for minor emergency treatment, Rem or Ragna could handle it. And more than anything, there was Esther.

"If my hands touch you, you’ll be healed in no time."

Hadn’t she said that with such confidence?

The moment Molsen’s doppelgänger died, Esther had checked on him and made that statement.

"If you were weak enough to die from this, you’d have been dead a long time ago."

That was what she added afterward, looking strangely satisfied.

Enkrid didn’t know what she meant, but he didn’t bother to ask.

She probably wouldn’t have answered anyway, and he was far too exhausted to care.

He wasn’t on the verge of collapsing, but still—

Fighting today’s battles, beating up Aisia, surviving against the half-knight executioner, and then watching Molsen and Crang bicker…

It was too much to recount.

To put it simply:
He had fought. He had killed. He had run.

His legs weren’t shaking, but he wanted to eat, bathe, and sleep.

A foul stench clung to him—the thick odor of blood and sweat.

As he stepped outside, he saw Rem chasing after some fool.

Right in front of the royal palace, standing beside One-Eyed, Rem was completely drenched in blood, looking as if he had bathed in it.

Enkrid’s gaze swept over Rem’s body.

Rem noticed and muttered:

"What? Just had to beat some bastard senseless and chase him down."

There was a trace of dissatisfaction in his tone.

Looking closer, his posture was slightly off—he had hurt his ankle.

He wasn’t limping, but he was definitely injured.

"Bastard had one last trick up his sleeve."

Rem answered the unasked question on his own.

Even as he said it, he wasn’t smiling.

Not at all.

It didn’t seem like a satisfying fight.

More like a grudge he hadn’t fully settled.

His opponent had looked Western, after all.

"Were you getting beaten because you’re weak?"

Ragna’s voice came from behind—calm and serious.

Which meant it was mockery.

Only then did Rem finally grin—but it was far from a joyful or happy smile.

"You're going to die one of these days."

"Huh? Can’t hear you over the guy who just got his ass kicked."

"Want me to split your ears open with an axe?"

"Can’t hear you over the guy with a busted ankle."

"Oh, I see. I should use this on you then."

Rem reached into his coat to pull something out.

Enkrid stepped in between them.

"Enough."

This was just another day for them.

Although, he realized something—

"When did you two get so talkative?"

Back then, both of them used their fists before their words.

He recalled Ragna—biting into an apple and getting lost.

And Rem, grinding his axe blade on a whetstone instead of speaking.

"You two have really learned to talk a lot."

The moment he said it—

"…Says the last person who should be talking."

Rem fired back immediately.

And Ragna blinked a few times before responding.

"What are you even saying?"

They moved on.

Enkrid casually mentioned that Ragna really had taken the shortest route to the palace.

Rem was genuinely shocked when he heard that.

It was a brilliant twist in thinking—

Declaring that a place without roads was a road and simply charging straight for the palace.

Which, technically, was the shortest path.

"Damn. You really have improved."

Rem muttered in admiration.

Ragna lifted his chin slightly, smug.

"Finding shortcuts is my specialty. It’s better than my swordsmanship."

"You insane bastard."

And they went right back to bickering.

After half-heartedly breaking up the fight, they arrived at Andrew’s house, where Dunbakel, Andrew, and several trainees were gathered.

No one had died.

"What the hell? You ran off so suddenly."

Dunbakel directed the question at Ragna.

Which meant, once again, they had to listen to the entire shortcut story.

Finding a shortcut seemed to have been more satisfying for Ragna than even killing a half-knight.

At least, that’s how it looked to Enkrid.

And even Dunbakel seemed more surprised by the shortcut than the battle itself.

She had no interest in what had happened inside the royal palace.

She just nodded wearily, eyes filled with exhaustion.

By then, Jaxon had returned.

He merely gave a brief nod, his usual silent acknowledgment.

"How’d it go?"

"It’s done."

At least, he answered when Enkrid asked.

"Interested in the shortest route to the palace?"

Ragna tried to drag him into the conversation, but Jaxon ignored him completely.

Enkrid bathed, assisted by a servant and a maid, then reset the bone in his right wrist and wrapped it in a splint.

As soon as he stepped out, Esther, in her human form, grabbed his wrist.

Her touch was surprisingly hot.

"Endure it."

She instructed.

And he did.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

As the heat seeped into his body, fatigue washed over him.

Proper rest was just as important as combat.

Eating well and sleeping well was the true key to recovery.

Enkrid shared a room with Rem.

Without much conversation, they both fell asleep.

He instinctively knew—his sleep would be deep, dreamless.

Which is why—

He was shocked when he found himself dreaming.

The ferryman.

The black river.

The boat.

Everything was exactly as before.

"Sit."

The ferryman spoke.

The boat was much larger than before.

"Can this thing really change that much?"

The table and chairs looked like they had been carved from solid wood, seamlessly connected to the boat's floor.

As if they had grown from it.

It was fascinating, but that was all.

He was slightly surprised—a brief moment of admiration—but nothing more.

The boat still swayed, the black river remained, and the ferryman sat °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° before him.

What had changed was the ferryman’s attitude.

No tea, but a table—

A setting for conversation.

The ferryman sat first.

Enkrid took a few steps, then sat as well.

The chair was hard, uncomfortable.

"Giants are born with strength. Frokk possess the power of regeneration. Beastfolk have supreme bodily control. Dwarves have stamina and craftsmanship. Dragonians inherit the power of language and will."

A normal person wouldn’t understand half of that.

But Enkrid did.

There had been a time he had studied all of this.

It had ultimately been useless, but still—

He knew.

"So, what do humans have?"

The ferryman asked.

Enkrid already knew the answer.

"Potential and possibility."

"Correct."

The ferryman’s black eyes glowed purple, casting a soft light over the table.

Or rather—

At some point, a lamp had appeared on the table.

"Humans can go anywhere."

"And that is why they don’t know their place."

Their eyes met.

The ferryman acknowledged Enkrid’s growth.

"This is my gift, my advice, and a whim of mine."

Enkrid remained silent.

The ferryman raised his right hand, placing his palm before Enkrid's eyes.

It felt like a massive wall had appeared in front of him.

Then—

The ferryman's voice layered upon itself, a multitude of words stabbing into Enkrid’s mind.

"It’s impossible."

"You cannot escape."

"Where do you think you can go from here?"

"Believing you can always move forward like this is arrogance."

"That is the arrogance of potential and possibility."

"Humans are arrogant. Give up. This is my mercy. Greater suffering will come."

"The walls will only grow taller."

"You can stop here."

With the ferryman’s words, Enkrid saw a vision.

In it, he was writhing in agony.

He had lost his way, wandering alone, unable to find a path.

For eternity, he remained trapped within that suffering.

Today had no end.

There were no people, no changes—only the same today, repeating infinitely.

A human could not endure that kind of despair.

The moment he saw it, chills ran down his spine.

Fear surged, filling his chest, threatening to consume him whole.

Then, he saw another vision.

In it, he lost everyone, every time.

Everyone around him died.

He couldn’t stop it.

His hands couldn’t reach them.

Something beyond human power killed them all.

And he could do nothing.

His arms and legs were gone.

All he could do was watch.

Another vision followed.

A massive fireball descended from above.

It devoured everything—his body, his will, the ground, the air.

And yet, he did not burn away instantly.

He suffocated within the flames, dying slowly.

Even just watching, he knew—this was a pain that could not be endured.

It was something a sword could not cut through.

"Stop here. Live in satisfaction, no matter what today brings."

Was this a warning?

Or, as the ferryman claimed, was this advice, a whim, a gift?

He didn’t know.

But even if it was a gift, it made no difference.

Because Enkrid was someone who knew how to reject a gift he did not want.

"If I lose my way, I will search until I find it."

At last, he spoke.

One sentence, then another.

"If I lose my limbs, I will hold my sword in my teeth."

"If I cannot escape, I will cut my way through."

Disaster could not be avoided.

Then, he would become the disaster himself.

That was how Enkrid would move forward.

The unknown was not important.

What mattered was now.

He wouldn’t kneel in fear before something that hadn’t come yet.

He never had.

And he never would.

The ferryman said nothing more.

He only stared.

Then—

Suddenly, the chair beneath Enkrid vanished.

THUD.

He landed hard on his back.

In reality, he would have braced his legs instinctively, but here—

That didn’t happen.

The table and chairs disappeared.

The ferryman had pulled his hood back over his face.

His expression could no longer be seen.

He lifted a lamp in one hand and spoke.

"To think you would sit at the same table as me. You overstep."

"I never asked to sit there in the first place..."

Enkrid muttered.

It felt unfair.

"Leave."

With that, the ferryman’s voice echoed—

And Enkrid awoke.

Reality.

If only he could forget dreams so easily.

But he couldn’t.

The visions were seared into his mind, like a brand on his soul.

A today beyond his control.

Which meant now was all that mattered.

If today must repeat, then the best way to ensure his own safety was to remain in control of it.

"...Did you have a nice dream?"

Rem’s voice came suddenly.

Honestly, sometimes it seemed like that bastard had some kind of innate instinct for these things.

A barbarian’s instinct, perhaps.

"Yeah."

Enkrid answered as he sat up.

He lowered his head and steadied his breathing.

Then, Rem spoke again.

"You were sweating buckets. And talking in your sleep."

"What did I say?"

"Something about how, if that were the case, you wouldn’t have picked up a sword in the first place."

That was...

His own thoughts, slipping out without him realizing.

A safe, protected life?

"If that were the case, I wouldn’t have picked up a sword."

Enkrid muttered.

A drop of sweat dripped from his forehead, landing on his thigh.

That was a message to the ferryman—

And a reminder to himself.

"No, Commander. No matter what, you would have picked up a sword."

Rem said.

And...

He was right.

Enkrid stood up.

It was still dawn.

The sky had not yet begun to lighten.

"In our lands, we call this time 'Utukiora'."

A Western word.

"What does it mean?"

"It means 'the moment before a newborn chick takes flight'."

"What?"

"Or, you could call it the 'dark dawn'."

The time before sunrise, when the sky was still dark.

"After the dark dawn passes, the sun will rise. It is the way of things."

Rem murmured as if reciting a poem.

Enkrid liked that word.

Dark dawn.

The darkness before sunrise.

A perfect term for the time of training.

It was time to move.

Crang would handle his own affairs.

And Enkrid had his own work to do.

Training.

Discipline.

As always.

As he was going through his usual training routine, word began to spread.

Count Molsen had declared himself king.

And a battle had been set.

"One month from now. The Naurill Plains."

Morning light had just begun to break when Aisia delivered the news.

A bruise still marked the bridge of her nose.

Seeing it, Rem paused mid-yawn and remarked—

"Where’d you get beat up like that? Who did it? Tell me. I’ll split their face in half."

Of course, he was joking.

Half teasing, half mockery.

Then—

"Him."

Aisia pointed directly at Enkrid.

He had never told Rem about how she had tried to stop him.

"The commander?"

Rem’s gaze shifted to Enkrid.

"Can he even hit you that hard? That doesn’t sound right."

Then, Enkrid spoke.

"Pick up an axe. I’ll give you a chance to avenge your lady."

"Who the hell is a lady?!"

Aisia cut in immediately, but Rem was already playing along.

"Sounds good. Beating up a guy with a busted wrist isn’t even a challenge. You healed up yet?"

He hadn’t.

Enkrid thought back to the previous day—

And realized, once again, how much Rem had improved at banter.

It was truly a miracle of growth.

And then, after a brief sparring match, Rem was left staring at him.

"Again?"

He had seen it before—

That sudden, drastic improvement.

That way the sword changed overnight.

It wasn’t just talent.

It was as if he was living a different timeline than the rest of them.

A sword carved with precision, refined through countless days of labor.

A tower, built stone by stone.

"Are you living a different day than the rest of us?"

There it was again.

Rem’s instincts.

Ever since that dream, ever since this morning, he had felt it too.

"Correct."

Enkrid answered.

Nothing more.

Because Rem wouldn’t believe it anyway.