A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The bandits had recently fattened their bellies by raiding merchant caravans passing through the region.

They didn’t even have a name for their group. At the center of it all was a swordsman named Jack.

He was a mercenary-turned-bandit, known for swinging a wide-bladed sword with zero recoil as his trademark.

Technically, he was a deserter—but there was no need to go telling tales of his past while robbing people.

Jack stepped forward, brushing past the man who had just spoken.

‘So the guy panicked just because someone swung a sword? Or is he relying on Frokk?’

At times like this, you only had to break the nose of the one who stood at the front. After that, the rest would fall in line.

That was the idea.

Clang.

Without a word, Jack drew his sword and brought it down.

It carved out a near-perfect arc, the kind he’d rarely experienced in his life.

He could feel it as he swung—one of those rare moments where luck aligned, and a strike landed sharper than his skill alone could explain.

A slit in time.

He targeted the black-haired man standing in front. Anyone could see he was the center of the group.

If he killed the leader, everything else would be easier.

Frokk was annoying, sure—but Jack had confidence.

With a bit more effort, he could easily reach knight-candidate level.

‘Fucking knights.’

The thought of them irritated him.

But why did time feel so slow all of a sudden?

It was like everything around him had slowed down. And in that stretched-out moment, something whooshed past.

Faster than the raccoon he’d seen in the mountains as a kid.

Back then, he’d only seen the shadow—his friend said it was a rabbit, but Jack had insisted it was a raccoon.

Turned out he was right.

While those memories flashed through his mind, the sky and earth suddenly flipped upside down.

Huh?

He didn’t even have time to think, I feel dizzy, before he saw a body standing on the ground.

A man, sword still mid-swing, but now missing his head.

He was dressed an awful lot like Jack.

That was the last thought that crossed his mind.

Enkrid, who had severed Jack’s head in a single stroke, flicked his blade from the horizontal position.

The blood of the bandit splattered from Acker and pattered onto the ground.

Swordsman Jack had recently made a name for himself as a mercenary. He was also a deserter who had survived near the Demon Realm border.

He knew the layout of this region well and had planned to make a quick score before disappearing.

Barely a month into his new life as a bandit, and he met Enkrid.