A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“People often say that to become a knight, overwhelming talent is needed. But how would you explain that?”

Rearvart struck the ground with his shield as he propped himself up. His face contorted as he grimaced from the pain, clearly struggling to hold himself together.

Red blood dripped from the end of his shield, falling to the ground.

Enkrid didn’t charge immediately.

Why? His instinct told him the fight wasn’t over yet.

Someone with that kind of wound shouldn’t be standing, right?

It was his gut feeling, and also the intrigue sparked by the words Rearvart was speaking, that made Enkrid stop for a moment. Rearvart continued speaking.

“A semi-knight learns techniques based on their will. So, what about knights? Are they different?”

There was a certain calm in his voice, but beneath it, Enkrid could feel a kind of desperate energy.

Blood kept flowing from Rearvart’s side, and despite the groans of pain, he managed to straighten his back. His words continued.

“They are different, yes. They are faster, stronger. For example, the power you displayed when you struck down with your sword earlier—that force that’s hard to contain in a moment.”

Enkrid thought about rubbing his eyes. The blood flowing from Rearvart was beginning to look more clouded.

But that wasn’t all.

The man who had been grimacing in pain was now showing a more relaxed expression.

It wasn’t a lie or trickery—he genuinely seemed to be feeling better.

The process was beyond Enkrid’s understanding, even as he kept watching for any signs of deception.

“Did you know? Maltan had better techniques than me. Bennukt was stronger than me. And Banat’s agility… It’s a level beyond what a human can keep up with.”

Rearvart mentioned the names of his comrades, names Enkrid didn’t recognize. Instead of responding, Enkrid swung his sword. He stepped forward and made a diagonal cut, retracting the flame from his blade and gripping Silver with both hands.

Thud!

Rearvart, showing just as much power, blocked the strike with his sword.

The sound of metal clashing rang out, and sparks flew fiercely from the contact.

‘What is this?’

The shock from the impact sent a tingle through Enkrid’s hands.

After exchanging that single blow, they both retreated. Rearvart seemed to recreate the same motion in the air, swinging his sword with one hand. He had blocked Enkrid’s two-handed strike with a single hand.

He seemed to be getting comfortable with his new sword, repeating the motions.

Diagonal cuts, overhead slashes, horizontal sweeps, thrusts.

Simple techniques, but the strength behind them was anything but ordinary.

Whoosh.

The sword fell vertically, the wind from its movement brushing Enkrid’s cheek.

“This is what I mean.”

As Rearvart spoke, blood flowed from his side, mixing with the blackness that had taken over him, turning his blood a dark red. The blood soon stopped flowing, but the changes were undeniable.

The beard on Rearvart’s face grew sharper like thorns, and the fine hairs on his face began to lengthen, covering it.

However, his eyes remained unchanged. The coldness that had once been there was gone.

Instead, they were now filled with a fiery intensity. A blazing, murderous heat that looked almost like lust for violence.

It was not pure passion. It was a distorted, ugly emotion.