A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"Aren't you going too far?"

The Ferryman spoke.

"It’s just a whim."

The Ferryman answered himself.

"It was madness. What was so admirable? Because it was amusing? It was only for a moment."

Again, the Ferryman spoke.

"Was that not the ‘event’ to come?"

The Ferryman questioned.

"Humans are creatures of potential and possibility."

"That is why they are arrogant."

"He will be the same."

"You don’t know that, do you? Just as he provided amusement, the future may change as well."

"But if he ends up trapped, then that’s as far as he goes."

The Ferryman questioned and answered himself in a dialogue meant for no one else to hear.

***

Crang held his first war council in the palace’s training grounds.

A small platform was set up, surrounded by Royal Guards.

First, the nobles gathered.

And where people gather, rumors spread.

Among those with keen ears, the whispers began to surface.

"I heard fifty Lycanthropes appeared in front of Border Guard. They say Count Molsen is a sorcerer. Who knows what else is lurking in his territory?"

"Hah."

"Dangerous indeed. It’s a miracle they held them back."

"Not just the Lycanthropes. Rumor has it the monster that shook the capital before was also his doing."

"And that’s not all. It’s said that Count Molsen was behind Viscount Mernes and the chaos within the palace as well."

Crang never suppressed information.

Instead, ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) he spread it further.

That was why everyone here already knew the full extent of the situation.

"And we have to fight without summoning a single knight from outside?"

"How does that make sense? At least one of the Crimson Mantle Knights should be called."

"… This isn’t going to become a battle we can’t win, is it?"

One of the young hereditary nobles, unable to contain his anxiety, crossed a line.

Even though they had sided with Crang, not all of them were united in mind.

Fear could erode trust.

And that was happening now.

Here stood barons, viscounts, hereditary nobles, heads of trading guilds, and guild masters—a gathering of influential figures.

"Insolent."

"Do you not even trust the lord you have chosen?"

Two senior nobles, who had been observing silently, rebuked the young noble.

But the first speaker did not back down.

"Reproach alone won’t solve anything. We must assess the situation rationally. If blind faith were enough, we might as well go pray at the temple."

"What exactly are you suggesting, Baron Zeppel?"

At that, the so-called Baron Zeppel immediately answered.

"We must face reality and act accordingly."

"Are you suggesting betrayal?"

A noble on the opposing side spoke, his grip tightening on his sword.

Because the council was held in the training grounds, everyone present was armed.

A few non-noble attendees frowned.

Was this really okay?

No one knew how long this civil war would last.

Was it wise to be aligned with such people?

"Are you so eager for blood, Baron Ludin?"

They addressed each other formally, their words laced with tension.

They were neighbors, separated by a single mining vein, locked in constant territorial disputes.

They had never gotten along.

Yet, beyond their personal quarrel, the fear continued to spread.

The nobles closest to Count Molsen’s domain were the most afraid.

What if hordes of monsters attacked their lands next?

Losing even one city could be devastating.

Even in a civil war, was it worth risking everything?

What if they lost?

Or worse—even if they won, what would be left?

If territorial disputes arose afterward, who would the King support?

The strongest side?

Or the most useful one at the time?

This wasn’t just a noble’s concern.

It was also on the minds of the guild masters and trade leaders.

Everyone here was entangled in political considerations.

Yet, they had chosen to stand against Count Molsen.

Still, not all of them had burned their bridges.

Some had personal grievances against the Count.

Merchants whose businesses were crushed when Molsen took control of trade routes.

Lords who lost half their lands because of outrageous ‘protection fees’ imposed under the guise of defending against monster raids.

These people ground their teeth whenever Molsen’s name was mentioned.

"Humans turning into monsters? No, he was harboring monsters from the beginning. How can we still call him one of us?"

A guild master scoffed.

For the weaponsmith guilds, their pride was in forging weapons to defend humans.

Their resentment was deep-seated.

There were over twenty people present.

The Marquess of Baisar and the Marquess of Octo had not yet arrived.

Instead, they remained at Crang’s side, observing the nobles from the barracks behind the training grounds.

"Not all of them are fully committed."

"But we can’t call them enemies either."

The two marquesses spoke in turn.

Some were opportunists.

Others had joined Crang, but weren’t willing to stake everything on it.

Everyone had their own priorities.

But they were still necessary.

Count Molsen’s hidden strength was unknown.

Even a Ghoul fighting alongside them would have to be tolerated for now.

After all, Molsen had done the same.

"A sorcerer, huh?"

Marquess Baisar furrowed his brows.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Count Molsen had gathered an army of half-human, half-monsters.

It was incomprehensible.

But understanding it wasn’t important.

Winning was.

"You must think long-term."

The Marquess of Octo added.

His power was in the land itself.

That was why he bore the title of 'Octo.'

If the war dragged on, he would suffer the most.

Fields would be destroyed.

Even so, he insisted that the war must not end too quickly.

Molsen’s strength had to be drained.

Perhaps he was waiting for the knights to intervene.

"You rejected the knights’ intervention? That was a mistake."

He spoke bluntly.

To win, one could not afford to choose between methods.

It was a valid point.

Through it all, Crang only smiled.

The weather was pleasant.

The sun was warm.

Soon, summer would come.

The buzzing of insects filled the air.

"Good weather."

Crang remarked.

Just then, Marcus entered, glancing between the grim-faced marquesses.

"Did you two just have a fight?"

Marcus was a true loyalist.

The marquesses had joined for their own reasons.

But Marcus had bet everything on Crang.

"You lack refinement, Marcus."

"Since when have you cared about my refinement?"

Marcus grinned as he took his place beside Crang.

"You plan to end this in one battle, don’t you?"

It was a casual question.

"I must. My liver isn’t big enough for two."

Crang answered.

"Hah! A small liver, yet you toy with men of even smaller livers!"

Marcus laughed.

The Marquess of Baisar’s voice turned sharp.

"One battle? Are you serious?"

A civil war where everything was at stake.

If Crang lost, he would lose everything.

"If a civil war drags on, what will be left of this land?"

Crang smiled.

"A civil war not won quickly means losing everything in the end."

That was the truth.

"Then we must win."

And so, the first battle was set.

Because Molsen was thinking the same thing.

A throne is only a throne as long as it remains a king’s seat.

A beast that survives the battle only to be torn apart by scavengers is no king.

The southern kingdom of Rihinstetten.
The eastern power of Azpen.
Enemies still remained.
And beyond them, the Abysslands' growing threat loomed.

That was why this war had to be decided in a single battle.

“Bigger. Wider. Stronger.”

"Every year, the Abysslands expand, swallowing more territory. I don’t intend to sit by and watch it happen."

Crang skipped the preamble and spoke of the future.

The two marquesses were no fools. They understood.

This wasn’t just about a civil war.

Crang was drawing the map for what came after.

The marquesses fell silent.

"My heart is too small to grasp such ambition,"

Marcus jested.

It was an old saying.

Half mockery, half truth—it meant that if Crang’s vision was beyond comprehension, then the only option was to follow and believe.

The marquesses understood the implication.

That didn’t mean they let it slide.

"That tongue of yours will bring disaster one day."

"We’ve told you time and time again, yet you never change."

The two marquesses rebuked Marcus in their usual refined manner.

Marcus only laughed and followed behind his lord.

Crang stepped outside.

It was time to face the nobles, merchants, and guild leaders.

He needed their strength.

They lacked soldiers, resources, and a clear mandate.

More than anything, unity was essential.

It would be ideal if everyone shared the same conviction, but if not—
Then a common purpose would suffice.

And if even that failed?
Then conditions could be negotiated.

Crang had a fleeting thought.

"Is this an impossible battle?"

He immediately dismissed the self-mocking question.

Since when had he ever fought on favorable terms?

Being at a disadvantage didn’t mean losing.

There was a man beside him who had turned impossibilities into victories.

If he could do half of what Enkrid had done,
If he could claim just a fraction of the luck Enkrid always called fate,
Then that would be enough.

This moment was the first step.

Crang stepped onto the platform, basking in the warm sunlight as he faced the gathered crowd.

The murmuring nobles and merchants gradually fell silent.

"Did you all sleep well?"

That was his opening remark.

A few exchanged glances. Murmurs of concern, speculation, and unease rippled through the crowd.

Crang listened, allowing them to speak.

Then, he raised a hand and made a simple downward motion.

The room fell silent again.

"I believe we will win. Do you not?"

It was a simple statement.

A certainty.

"Baron Zeppel, your light-armored infantry moves faster than anyone in the forests, does it not?"

Zeppel was known for his ranger battalion, raised from childhood to hunt and survive in the wilds.

Even in his sleep, he would wake up at the scent of prey.

"…Yes."

"And Baron Ludin, I hear you are an exceptional spearman."

"I am merely competent."

"Yet I was told you once dreamed of joining the knightly orders. Am I mistaken?"

"That was a childhood ambition."

His skill surpassed a squire’s level.

Crang smiled.

"One battle is all it will take. Just one."

His voice carried across the training grounds—
not as a shout, but as something that lingered.

His words seemed to hang in the air, etching themselves into the minds of those present.

He did not look like a king.
Nor did he seem like a peerless strategist.

Yet, he was someone worth believing in.

If it was a scam, then he was on his way to becoming the greatest conman in history.

But Crang was no fraud.

He was the next king,
And at this moment—
He was their leader.

"How will you fight?"

"They called for battle on the Nauril Plains. So, we will meet them there."

As if it was nothing more than a friend’s invitation to a gathering.

His calm and unwavering confidence instilled faith.

It felt obvious that they would win.

Some had already trusted him from the beginning.

"I have fifty well-trained spearmen at your command. It isn’t much, but use them well!"

One noble stepped forward.

"My skill is modest, but I will stand at the vanguard."

"I have stockpiled grain. I will send wheat and beans to the army."

One after another, they pledged their support.

If fear could not be erased, then it could be drowned in conviction.

"Trust me. We will win."

Crang did not give a grand speech.

Yet, in a few words, he unified them under a single purpose.

One battle.
That was all it would take.

"And if Count Molsen has other plans?"

The Marquess of Octo muttered.

He was a genius of internal affairs,
But war was not his expertise.

As Crang stepped down from the platform, he answered.

"Molsen is an ambitious man. And he is too intelligent to do anything else."

***

One Month Later

"Not a single knight?"

Count Molsen’s adjutant grumbled.

Molsen adjusted his armor before answering.

"Disappointed?"

"Yes."

"So am I."

They had anticipated the knight orders would intervene.

And yet, here they were, without them.

"Arrogance."

"That bastard thinks too highly of himself."

Clank.

Molsen fastened the final piece of his plate armor,
And in his hand, he gripped the enchanted blade of his house.

His eyes were set on the battlefield.

"I will end the royal bloodline on the fields of Nauril."

BWWOOOOOOOHHHH!

His warhorns echoed across the plains.

A challenge.

A call to battle.