314 - A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Chapter 314. An image resembling brown excrement splattered with a resounding thud! "You!" Esther swiftly grabbed her opponent’s arm, snapping it with ease. Galaf was alarmed to see his defensive barrier shattered. The searing pain that lashed through his brain came next. "Guhk." That was the end. Though battles between wizards often revolve around the realm of spells, physical reality holds sway, where bodily harm directly affects concentration. Simply put, it's hard to focus when you're in pain. Despite there being an absolute difference in the amount of mana drawn from the spell world, Esther and Galaf were fighting on seemingly equal footing. This disparity only meant one thing: his foe knew how to use spells much more efficiently. Galaf sweated coldly as he bore the agony. The attack style he'd just witnessed was utterly baffling. He had cast a defensive spell, but that wily witch Esther conjured flames in her hands and then tore straight through his shield. The brute force of that motion was staggering. Suddenly, steam clouded his vision. It was the result of the collision between the blue lake spell and Esther’s heated hands. Though flustered, Galaf hastily attempted another spell, only to have his arm seized and broken. Why had this witch grown so powerful? His mind was awash with questions. Was she always this formidable in combat? Did her moniker, "the Fighting Witch," stem from actual prowess and not merely her temperament? Mages with as many epithets as Esther were rare indeed. Galaf presumed it to be some kind of trick—spreading multiple aliases to obscure her true identity. Regardless of whether it was trickery, one thing was crystal clear. Amidst all those names, "the Fighting Witch" standing before him was no misnomer. “It won't end pretty for you.” The witch, her black silk-like hair unmoving, spoke with an expressionless face. Her two disciples were caught by her summoned creatures, creatures that stood motionless off to the side. They seemed to be golems, crafted with impeccable workmanship from patched flesh. The stitches on one side of its face and its unfocused eyes hinted at its golem identity, likely a lifelong creation of someone devoted. "You insolent...!" Galaf protested. Fleeing was an option considered, but the widening gap in skill was undeniable. Esther's epithet, the Fighting Witch, was not something she had purposefully earned. It was a rumor born from her ferocious fighting prowess. Galaf, on the other hand, focused on establishing a base and mentoring disciples. The difference was significant. Esther discerned the disparity from the start. It was a futile fight for him. The density and solidity of the spell realm? Those were Galaf's advantages. But all spells are only effective when employed at the right place, at the right time, especially in battle. Esther did exactly that; Galaf did not. This was the outcome. “Farewell.” The farewell was delivered with almost a refreshing sense of finality. Thud. Esther didn’t use a spell but instead drew a knife, thrusting it into the heart of the mage and pulling it out. Galaf, stabbed through the heart, coughed up blood before collapsing to his knees. “You... damn... wretch.” Turning his head to the side, Galaf's lips tried to form words. Esther gently pressed his mouth with her foot. A mage’s mouth must not be left unattended. Then, kneeling down, she stabbed a knife into the back of his hand. Thud! The knife pinned Galaf’s hand to the ground. Just as a mage's mouth, his hands must not be left unchecked. “Urp!” Galaf's body twitched. That was it. Another formidable mage met his end. In other words, one of Abenair’s trusted pieces perished unexpectedly. Esther checked the corpse for any suspicious enchantment. There were no movements of mana. Running her fingers through her long hair, she wished she had a hair tie. Blood splattered across her hair, her black velvet coat, and the white skin it concealed. The rivulets of crimson trickled down from her chest. The desire to cleanse herself lingered, but another thought preoccupied her. “What’s happening with my nest?” She murmured to herself. She wondered what Encreed was up to—perhaps getting batted around somewhere. Galaf—someone who had seized control of vital channels of power. She’d heard his name in passing. If there was a mage of this caliber here, surely there were others of note elsewhere. Esther rummaged through Galaf’s belongings, taking anything worth keeping. She de-summoned her summoned creatures, returning them to her spell world, and moved on. Though the flesh golem, Bone Head, could operate, she was far from her normal state. Her mana pathways were in disrepair, which limited operating time. Though it appeared as an easy fight, maintaining human form had severely depleted her mana stores reserved for the spell world. ‘I guess I’ll be living as a leopard for a while.’ Esther transformed into a leopard without hesitation. * * * The Azpen battalion was taken aback, beholding a lone figure brazenly charging through like a madman. ‘Who is that?’ ‘Is he a lunatic?’ ‘Should we stab him?’ The figure had bypassed the front lines, positioning himself among the rear ranks. A few of Azpen’s soldiers discreetly angled their spears backward. Regardless of formation, the intruder was a potential threat. Three soldiers exchanged glances. Let’s eliminate him quickly and return, nodded their squad leader, signifying his tacit approval. Just as they were about to engage— “Hold.” A nearby platoon leader, recognizing the newcomer’s face, halted them. The striking features were unmistakable. ‘Blonde hair, white skin, red eyes.’ These were descriptions personally relayed by Abenair to all commanders. “Leave him be.” The soldiers’ silent agreement followed orders from above. They halted. The platoon leader’s gaze rested on the enemy. The bold figure, sans helmet, advanced inside with resolute steps, as if with no need for haste. With his sword in hand, he pushed forward with seeming ease, each step covering twice the distance of others. Before him stood an Azpen soldier. Or rather, someone in hardened leather armor—a stark contrast to the soldier's usual attire—who was, in fact, an ally. With a casual flick of his fingers across his helmet, this ally scratched his head and said, “You’re persistent.” Ragna, instead of answering, merely took another step forward. Ping! At that instant, the leather-armored Azpen soldier launched a dagger towards him. Ragna tilted his head to avoid it. The flying dagger embedded itself into the ground. Without a backward glance, Ragna continued his march. Not a single thrown dagger would halt his stride. ‘If you greet someone, you must bid them farewell,’ he thought, pursuing the figure's retreating form. Whether intentionally or accidentally, Ragna never lost track of his quarry. Disregarding his plunge into enemy ranks, memories of Encreed's words echoed in his mind—how the lunatic company would occasionally outdo the Rhem in chaos. He had previously returned from mowing through hundreds of enemy soldiers only to realize he had been lost. Such feats were nothing for him. After all, no one expected Ragna to strategize or plan. Advertisements "Kreis put it plainly: ‘Just fight.’" And Encreed had echoed, "Fight as you see fit." And so Ragna did just that. For a long while, he fought adequately. But this time felt different. More than just 'adequate,' there was something else: determination. “Hey, you still following me?” The enemy scratched his head again while maintaining his pace. He was no ordinary soldier; Ragna recognized that right away. ‘I’ll catch him’ was the only thought in his mind. Why chase him? There was an ambiguous allure, as though following this person would unveil something Ragna anticipated. That prospect alone filled him with eagerness. A pair of red eyes, singularly focused on one purpose. The enemy moved farther from both Naurelia's and Azpen's lines of sight, sprinting until breath came in labored gulps. ‘He's really keeping up.’ The enemy thought, pondering his own prowess in comparison. He prided himself on his legwork, yet Ragna matched his pace. Although his chest rose and fell, his breathing remained steady. ‘This is bruising to the ego.’ He originally belonged to the King’s Knight Order as a squire and prided himself on his leg agility. Among his peers, no one outmatched him. Regardless of his foe being possibly semi-knight level, it stung his pride to see Ragna less winded and seemingly less fatigued. “Who are you, really?” The squire asked, bewildered. Ragna scrutinized him, then replied, “You’re not alone, are you?” The squire didn’t nod in confirmation or denial. Faced with this question, Ragna felt a surge of drive—an elusive will to fight, sparked not solely by the man before him. He drew his sword. The enemy, recognized now as a squire of the King's Knight Order, took a step back. Barely containing his eagerness, Ragna inhaled deeply for calmness, as another presence emerged from the tall grass. “You’re genuinely unflappable, aren’t you?” The newcomer directed this to the squire. Dark-skinned with a tall stature, her lengthy hair was tied back, and she wore a custom-fit helmet. It was a peculiar design without a faceguard, allowing her hair to cascade like a mane beneath. Horn-like protrusions jutted out to either side, resembling predator ears. Her tonality betrayed her foreign origins outside this continent; her complexion and features confirmed it—likely from the east, and clearly a woman. "You've got guts, I’ll give you that." She said, her long arm reaching out. It was nearly the same length as Ragna's, who stood his ground, breath now even. Witnessing this, the squire furrowed his brow. What is this guy made of? How could he possess such stamina? It was elemental, of course. Ragna frequently got lost, wandering became second nature. What might be a month's journey for another could stretch into a year for him. More meticulous with maps or employing a guide might have eased things, but Ragna’s wanderings weren't leisurely. Maps weren’t cheap, nor did he feel the need for a guide. For a man without a set destination, wandering was simply living another day. There was no concept of being lost. Therefore, in his mind, Ragna had never been lost. Sometimes, it meant months without visiting a village, merely trekking indefinitely. Running skills naturally honed to an extreme. The squire, toying nervously with the grip of his sword, queried, “You’re supposed to be semi-knight level?” “You’re looking at your superior.” The brown-skinned woman replied instantly, never glancing away from Ragna. "Do you think so?" “Questioning my eyes shows doubt, or is it sheer stubbornness? Neither is favorable.” “... My mistake. It’s just that it’s irksome to encounter a rival where I'd never expect.” “She’s not merely semi-knight; she’s worthy of being called a full knight.” While Ragna listened to their exchange, his tactical mind searched for openings, a natural reflex devoid of malice. In his thoughts, he foresaw four attacks: - A broad slash from left to right. - A heavy downward strike, cleaving towards the neck. - A thrust forward, oppressive yet straightforward. - And a sweeping half-circle slash from below, rightward. In Ragna’s simulated scenario, the female knight deftly parried all four. Then, her riposte touched either his shoulder or abdomen. ‘Could I evade her strike?’ Footwork could dodge it, but that would put him on defense. Being defensive made changing the flow afterward difficult. Victory was out of reach. The discerning eyes and inherent skills of a prodigy sketched the battle’s trajectory. Of course, it could all be a groundless delusion. After all, one never truly knows the outcome before a fight begins. Without a change in expression, Ragna rubbed his sweaty palm across his thigh. “But you're not a true knight, are you? I see you know a bit of will too. Well, I was instructed to eliminate you.” The female knight said, taking a few steps forward before continuing. “I am Ayada, of the Azpen King's Knight Order. Have you ever considered switching allegiance?” A junior knight of the King's Knight Order, with a squire by her side—Ayada brimmed with confidence. She was in her fourth year as a junior knight within the Order. Ayada understood better than anyone that not all junior knights were equal. The knight order congregated those with similar talents and skills. The difference between a junior knight trained within the Order and those of similar ranks wandering the continent was stark. The depth of their duels and sparring was worlds apart. Confident of her triumph, Ayada extended an offer. Ragna wiped the sweat from his right hand twice, doing the same with his left. Then, he raised his sword with both hands, positioning it upright before his face. The honed blade split the frigid winter breeze, along with beams of sunlight. It was a beautiful day. His heart raced. Watching Encreed had often filled him with a similar, unmistakable drive. Why? Why was he so filled with zeal? To cut down his opponent? Was it a murderous impulse? Advertisements No, that wasn’t it. It was because his opponent was formidable. Even at a glance, it was clear the adversary possessed extraordinary skills—not even mentioning her affiliations. The Azpen King's Knight Order—a formidable force and one of the reasons Azpen dared to wage war against Naurelia, despite the presence of the Red Cloak Knight Order. She was not the sole reason, though. Ragna’s zeal had been simmering under the surface. The impetus he'd gained through Encreed left him yearning, occasionally driving him to focus on training. However, that thirst could not be quenched so easily. Even when following a predetermined path, the events occurring along it remain unpredictable. Ragna had his realization. ‘Ah.’ A singular small epiphany resonated within. He needed a catalyst. Something to advance further than he currently was—something mere zeal could not accomplish. He couldn't go all out against Encreed or the half-rate warriors around him. But what about this female knight? Here was an opponent worthy of his best effort. An equal on the edge of mortality; she was the catalyst he sought. Her offer of defection was lost on him. All he desired now was combat. Instigating the opponent would undoubtedly help. Ragna had learned a thing or two from Encreed; he decided to apply that learning. “What nonsense are you spouting, you brown-turd wannabe?”