A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Jaxon, who had been repeatedly throwing daggers, hurled a Silence Knife straight at the count’s forehead.

The dagger flew soundlessly through the air, but just before it could reach its target, it detonated with a loud bang.

A black veil rippled in front of the count amidst the explosion. The barrier remained intact. A dagger wrapped in a spell scroll wouldn’t be enough to pierce through it.

“Do not expect mercy!”

Dehan Molsen, who had always viewed the world as easy to conquer, felt true fear for the first time. His back was drenched in sweat. He had never faced a situation like this before. This was his first experience with real danger. That unfamiliarity shook his composure.

The count had already gone beyond the spells of an ordinary mage. Now, he was drawing upon his very lifespan to fuel his magic.

His eyes rolled back as he channeled even more wraiths.

His pitch-black eyes locked onto Jaxon. Jaxon felt an unbearable chill surging from the wound in his abdomen.

‘Hm?’

His legs nearly gave out, but he endured. He couldn’t afford to collapse, especially when two people beside him were waiting for him to fall.

“Die, die, die, die, die.”

The count raised his staff, repeatedly muttering his curse while glaring at Jaxon. Jaxon met his gaze. Those pitch-black eyes, completely devoid of whites or pupils, radiated a terrifying persistence.

The more the count spoke, the colder Jaxon’s wound became. The numbing frost spread through his body, making it almost impossible to stand. He finally dropped to one knee, catching himself with his palm against the ground.

He had to resist.

As he focused, he could hear Rem murmuring beside him.

“That’s it. That’s the way.”

‘Mad savage.’

Jaxon scoffed inwardly but forced himself to concentrate. This was a form of magic. The bastard had implanted something into his wound. He just had to locate it and dig it out.

Endurance to withstand the pain.

Cold rationality to observe his own body.

And lastly, heightened sensitivity.

And if he were to add one more thing—an unyielding will.

‘There is no surrender.’

Jaxon, too, had learned from watching Enkrid.

This was the first time he had encountered such a spell, but there had to be a way to break it.

He pieced together everything he knew, had experienced, and could deduce, searching for a conclusion.

And so, as Jaxon knelt and endured, his commander stepped forward.

Enkrid advanced three steps.

Toward the count.

Now, he was within striking range.

It was thanks to his subordinates, who had occupied the count with relentless magic and distractions.

Now that the distance was closed, Enkrid placed his hand on his sword’s grip and spoke.

“You are already within my domain.”

Three kneeling, one standing—everyone’s eyes turned to Enkrid. Even the count.

Domain?

He meant striking range.

The count scoffed.

He trusted in the defensive spells wrapped around his body.

Enkrid controlled his breathing. Breaking through ten thousand wraiths had taken its toll.

His body was fatigued to the point that his muscles trembled.

But it was fine.

This was nothing new.

Wielding a sword often led to exhaustion.