A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The Count of Molsen was not a master of strategy and tactics, but he had a broad perspective.

He moved outside the expectations of his opponent.

At the very start of the battle, a portion of the count’s forces broke formation.

While the fight was ongoing, they seemed to be retreating.

The commanders of the kingdom’s army deemed them unworthy of pursuit. It was only natural for deserters to appear when the tide of battle shifted, and they were already outnumbered.

Let them run—if anything, it was a favor.

Thus, these soldiers became a force that no one paid attention to.

They grouped together in twos and threes, then scattered, only to regroup again under the command ringing in their minds.

"Find the source of the magic."

It was inevitable that their movement would lead them to Andrew. A sudden attack unit had formed, and as they approached, Andrew spoke calmly.

"Are we taking them down? It looks like I should be getting up."

Despite Andrew’s words, Esther remained motionless.

A single trickle of blood ran down her lips instead.

It was proof that she, too, was fighting.

Andrew let out a sigh.

The situation was like dealing with a rabid dog.

Beyond the battlefield, the fighting had suddenly halted, and then, out of nowhere, a swarm of crazed bastards surged forward.

"Where the hell did these freaks come from?"

A completely unexpected ambush.

"Why here, of all places?"

It wasn’t where the supplies were stored. It wasn’t even where Crang was.

From a tactical standpoint, this location had no significance at all.

It had to be because of Esther. Andrew realized that much.

Over fifty foot soldiers. Each one of them looked formidable.

Fifty ghouls would have been preferable.

"Leader, look at their damn eyes."

One of the freckled trainees stepped back a little as he spoke. Andrew had already noticed.

Blood vessels had burst in their eyes, causing crimson tears to stream down their faces. For the relatively ‘normal’ ones, it was difficult to even make out the whites of their eyes.

Blood-red sclera. Pitch-black pupils.

Just one change in their eyes, and they no longer looked human.

Even their appearance alone was overwhelming. Andrew gritted his teeth.

"Should we fall back?"

He and the five trainees had formed a formation around Esther, but if they fought here, it would be a slaughter.

But what if he carried Esther and ran?

The blood-eyed soldiers all let their swords hang at their sides, their massive thigh muscles straining as if on the verge of bursting.

What kind of training had they undergone to make their thighs that thick?

"Running away on foot would be impossible."

Even if he fled alone, it would be a close call. Carrying someone was out of the question.

It was broad daylight, yet the sky seemed to be darkening. The battlefield was right in front of them, so they should have felt the heat, but instead, an eerie chill filled the air.

No—it had been warm just a moment ago. The sudden coldness felt unnatural.

The soldiers were advancing without any proper formation.

There was an old legend about angels who wept blood as they fought. They were called upon by the gods but shed tears of sorrow, unwilling to kill.