A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The lieutenant who had held the javelin hesitated before finally retreating. His opponent did not pursue. It was as if he was silently saying, Only those who dare should step forward.

Enkrid merely shook the blood from his sword and returned to where he had first stood.

The horse that had carried him neighed softly beside him.

It was not an ordinary steed—its size and eyes spoke of something greater.

The lieutenant, having witnessed everything, backed away cautiously, returning to his side.

Rearvart, standing beside his horse, swung his sword down.

"You should have fought to the end and died properly."

Crunch!

The skull split in two. Rearvart wrenched his sword free.

A thick stream of blood trailed from the blade as he pulled it out.

"That idiot Jalban."

A clear, indifferent voice spat insult at the dead man.

It was Banat, the fairy warrior. She had golden hair cut as short as a man’s, and her voice was devoid of emotion—so much so that it went beyond mere coldness.

That was simply the way she spoke. A frigid, unreadable scorn.

"He was the weakest among us. I'll handle it."

Banat stepped forward, but Rearvart shook his head.

"I will go."

Did they truly believe sending in someone like that would boost morale? Then he would be the one to crush it.

Excluding Count Molsen, Rearvart was the highest-ranking warrior here—the second-in-command.

He did not need anyone’s permission.

Banat gave a small nod, her expression unreadable as ever.

Malten, being mute, remained silent, and Bennukt simply looked indifferent.

"Let me fight," Bennukt said.

The blood of giants ran in his veins, and he never bothered restraining his thirst for slaughter.

"When I kill him, charge all at once."

That was how it would be. Rearvart said no more and moved his horse forward. He took the reins and set his steed into a brisk trot.

He dismounted at the site where two corpses now lay, barely sparing Jalban a glance. Then, he secured his weapons.

He adjusted his sword belt, took a shortsword as a backup, and strapped a heavy machete to the back of his waist. It was a magical weapon.

He also fastened a plain kite shield to his left arm—not by a handle, but by a clamp onto his gauntlet, reducing its size slightly.

Even so, it was heavy. A weapon few would use unless they were confident in their strength.

With each step he took, his armor clanked—the sound of plate worn over gambeson.

Fully armed, he stepped forward.

Yet even then, his opponent merely stared at him.

Rearvart found those eyes irritating.

"Your name?"

"Enkrid."

"Rearvart."

It was the first time Enkrid had heard that name.

The Count’s Five Blades were known within his domain, but they were not warriors who operated beyond it.

Their names were not widely known.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Enkrid was far more famous than any of them.