319 - A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid's nightmare materialized in the form of a grim reaper. Instinctively, Enkrid scanned the figure before him. The man stood with legs slightly apart, arms relaxed at his sides. His disheveled brown hair and eyes lacked any distinctiveness, and his attire seemed unkempt. He did not appear to be a soldier of the enemy nor an ally. Several questions simultaneously raced through Enkrid's mind. The first: How did this person manage to reach this place? The second: What level of skill does he possess? The third: What is he apologizing for? “There are circumstances. So let's end this quietly,” the man said as he drew his sword. Ching. It was a cheap shortsword. The sound it made emerging from its sheath revealed its condition; the blade was chipped, the leather of the grip was unwound, hanging in strips, and the color of the blade was dull, marred by rust. What was amusing—and concerning—was that Enkrid had not sensed this weapon until it was unsheathed. From the way the man drew his sword, an ominous feeling crept over Enkrid. It wasn't the kind of pressure he felt from Noll's leader or semi-knight Aicia, which was indirect. This was something else, a fate so overwhelming that it felt as though no act could stop the impending doom from that blade. Why? Through constant training, Enkrid's senses had become keener than ever, granting him an uncanny intuition to sense danger—a blessing and curse. Frozen with dread, his body was bound in chains of foreboding. “Don't get in the way, fiancée,” Sinar said, sensing something Enkrid couldn't. “We need to dodge.” And then, the man vanished. The long afterimage of the man lingered in Enkrid's vision. Reflexively, his gaze followed. The figure, now a streak, appeared suddenly before Sinar. Even while watching, the man seemed to blink out of existence—so swift was his movement. Then came the sound. A sharp, piercing zap accompanied the sight. Sinar had already assumed a defensive stance. Enkrid watched as the chipped shortsword arced from her chest down to her abdomen. Just as the blade drew its path, fairy blood sprayed into the air. Time, speed, and technique fused in perfect harmony. In that moment, Enkrid realized this was the essence of a masterful sword strike. "If you're lucky enough to survive, I won’t strike twice. I acknowledge the dishonor. Hence, I request your understanding," the man muttered. His voice, though a murmur, resonated clearly in Enkrid's ears. Yet, the meaning of “once” and “luck” remained elusive. The talk of honor baffled him further. One thing, however, was crystal clear: Sinar had fallen. She grasped her chest and slid to the ground, trying in vain to steady herself with her halberd. But the spear's tip merely scratched the earth as Sinar collapsed headfirst into the dirt with a dull thud. "I feel uneasy too. I mean it," said the man with brown hair, turning his body away. Enkrid met his gaze. Even if the man wielded a rusted knife, the same outcome would have replayed. It was inevitable. The answer to Enkrid's myriad questions led to one conclusion: The man before him was beyond a semi-knight. A being that evoked an unavoidable fate with a mere glance. In other words, a knight—a paragon who could cut down a thousand foes alone. The battlefield's nightmare. A calamity spawned from human hands. A strategic weapon that could shift the tide of war. Enkrid’s dream had transformed into a reaper standing before him. The perplexed cry of Crise came from behind, "Damn it, what is this?" “Step back,” Ragna said, pulling Crise by the scruff of the neck. Ragna held not a sword, but a spoon as if it were a weapon. "What?" Dunbachel growled, her transformation into a beast form complete. The man lowered his shortsword and advanced toward his next target. There was no sound of feet pushing off the ground or the rip of the air. Just motion and cuts, executed so swiftly that even tracking with the eyes felt overwhelming. Next was Dunbachel. Before the man moved, she had already unsheathed her scimitar. If he hadn't advanced, Dunbachel might have struck first. Ching. Thunk! Thud! Three overlapping sounds reached Enkrid's ears. And then the result was clear. Enkrid couldn’t follow the trajectory of the shortsword. It was faster than before and obscured by the man's back. Instead, Dunbachel came into view. Her scimitar had been split in two, the broken blade half flinging sideways through the tent. Meanwhile, the shortsword continued its relentless path to Dunbachel’s heart. "Damn, should have used a better sword," Dunbachel murmured, down on one knee. She clutched her bloodied chest desperately, rouge seeping between her fingers—a fatal wound. "Bring it," Ragna declared next, charging forward without a sword. Even armed, he would have struggled, as his arm hadn’t fully healed. His opponent didn't hesitate. Instantly, he swung his blade. Silent was the strike that fell upon Ragna's head. Yet Ragna wasn’t inept. With quick reflexes, he twisted his body, thrusting out his good arm—only to find it caught by the opponent, the hand gripping a spoon. “You were the most challenging,” said the brown-haired man, raising his sword above him. Ragna resisted until the end. He twisted his body, attempting to shoulder his opponent away, but the blade was swifter. Splat! The enemy's sword severed one of Ragna's arms. Ragna rolled to the side, blood spraying wildly. An arm lost, he would bleed out if left as he was. "Indeed, there won't be a second time," the man said, addressing Ragna. Enkrid understood the man's words clearly. There wouldn't be a second chance. He intended to strike only once, just once with his blade. "If you withstand my strike, I'll withdraw. That's the minimum assurance I'll grant you. It's my conscience, and it could be seen as somewhat honorable," he said as his sword moved once more. The strike was aimed at Esther, who had covertly maneuvered to catch him off guard. The blow fell with the force of a lightning bolt, yet it appeared fluid, like rain pouring down a distant stream. Thud! Esther's foreleg was severed, along with a deep gash that ran across her chest. A horrific screech echoed through the air. It was the anguished cry of the rakepanther, ripping through the silence and striking at the heart. "Get away. Leave," Ragna murmured as he lay on the ground, attempting to rise only to slip on his own blood, his face landing hard on the ground. His face was smeared with the blood that soaked the earth beneath him. "Damn it." Trembling, a small figure stood in front of Enkrid, blocking his view. Despite being ensnared by chains of dread, Enkrid could not move, trapped and witnessing fate's harsh decree—a decree that felt as though fortune herself wore a different face, one that said escape was impossible. "I always suspected it might come to this, but Captain, I'll repay my debt before I go," Crise stood his ground before Enkrid. Enkrid couldn't raise his hand. He couldn't utter a word. Instead, he recalled the moment he had stood between Crise and danger. "Big-eyed one, run." Why had he done it? It wasn't a calculated decision. "Go. I'll hold him off," whispered the big-eyed one. Even they knew their words were meaningless. The adversary understood this as well. He displayed no emotion, not even sighing, as he simply raised his sword. The sword caught the light from a flickering campfire, casting multiple shadows. One of those shadows solidified, transfixing the heart of the big-eyed Crise. Crise collapsed with a final cry, blood pooling beneath him and tears of blood streaming from his eyes. Enkrid watched it all—outwardly stoic. The man with brown hair turned his gaze to Enkrid, unfazed, with two intense flames glowing in his eyes that seemed to outshine the fire itself. In those eyes, a knight could see the reflection of an indomitable spirit. "Sigh, just once,” the man let out an unpleasant sigh. He seemed dissatisfied with the entire situation. A knight lives by honor. For such a knight to resort to an ambush was unfathomable. Yet, it wasn't truly the crux of the matter. What happened had happened. They were all dead. Only then did Enkrid find his voice. “I never thought I’d say this myself," he began, recalling their fallen companions: Sinar, Ragna, Dunbachel, Esther, and Crise. Sinar lay lifeless on the ground. Ragna writhed with one arm lost. Dunbachel’s heart lay cleaved asunder. Esther, missing her foreleg, growled fiercely. And Crise, who shielded him, bore a gaping hole in his chest. Only Ragna and Esther barely clung to life. Sinar, Dunbachel, Crise—all dead. Struggling on the ground, what about Ragna? "Get out." Ragna had implored him—to flee, suggesting that a fruitless fate awaited if he stayed. Despite possibly surviving without the knight striking again, blood loss was inevitable. Even if he survived, could he endure? He had lost an arm. Yet, he could only echo the pointless directive to run. It was almost comical. Pathetically so. Enkrid set his gaze upon the knight. And as if resolving himself, he spoke once more. "I must die." It would be the same day replayed again, and that repeated day was necessary. The man pointed the sword with indifference. "I'm sorry it has come to this." His voice carried no emotion as Enkrid attempted to gauge his skill. He couldn't see anything. It was as if walking in darkness, bereft of a guiding torch. Thock. The blade pierced his heart, a strike he chose to accept rather than evade, knowing full well it would repeat today as it had before. Once more, he would begin anew. ‘Again.’ Releasing his grip for the first time was unavoidable. Enkrid had a revelation—that witnessing the death of Sinar, the joker; Dunbachel, prone to nonsense; lazy Ragna; Crise, obsessed with Krona; and the leopard mage with peculiar sleeping habits—none of it was a pleasant feeling. Accepting the inevitability of death, Enkrid let the knight's sword cleave his heart. "I will kill you," came the unwavering voice of Ragna, still fighting to hold on. The voice grew distant, but Enkrid endured the pain, refusing even a groan. "Yes, live on. You're worth it. Stop the bleeding well," the man upheld his promise, turning away. Enkrid closed his eyes, letting death engulf him. As expected, the black river appeared before him. The ferryman holding a violet lamp spoke as he navigated the flowing waters. "It was despair," he said. On the river, silence settled. Instead of conceding, Enkrid asked, "And what of anguish and ignorance?" The ferryman’s demeanor, from which one can usually gauge his state, remained unclear today. Was it fortunate, after all, that the ferryman offered an answer? When the barely visible lips moved, the ferryman's conveyed message reached Enkrid. "The first is anguish: Must I do what need not be done?" Was this the ferryman’s trial, or destiny forged by circumstances? Enkrid wasn’t sure. He hadn’t sought the child out of necessity. Why worry about doing what the heart dictates? It held no worth in brooding. Hence, it wasn't anguish. At least, not to him. "The second is ignorance." Enkrid hadn't perceived the barriers. Unknowing, thus acknowledging ignorance. Today, defined by the ferryman’s assistance. Why he helped remained unknown. Even lacking his aid, understanding would dawn eventually. Thus ignorance, too, would eventually be overcome, and during that time, Enkrid would have continued to quietly traverse the path. The wall of ignorance, too, bears no real significance. "The third is despair." This statement implied that it was something insurmountable. The ferryman's intention was clear as day. "Face the knight's blade." This day was shaping up to be the harshest of all the days that had come before it. Moreover, he had witnessed the deaths of those he once called comrades. To say it had no effect on him would be a lie. "Savor the despair." As always, the ferryman spoke without a trace of a smile.