A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid immediately turned toward the black warrior.
The giants were writhing, their bodies twisting as if they were awakening—
But still,
‘It might be fine.’
Rem was there, and so was Dunbakel.
And more than anything, the female Rem was fighting well.

So this came first. That was what his instinct told him.

“He’s coming!”

One of the cannibals shouted, eyes locked on Enkrid.
The voice was filled with fear—and rightly so.
The one who had led them till now was lying on the ground, head and body separated.

Enkrid caught sight of the cannibal’s dark teeth—but he let it go.
The state of the battle, the flow of events—everything seeped into his mind, and the priorities became crystal clear.
He determined them within the realm of his senses.
It was the battlefield awareness he’d awakened while facing Azpen.
Beyond strategy and tactics—he could simply feel what needed to be done.

Fear continued to grow in the eyes of the cannibals watching Enkrid charge.
One’s pupils shook. Another’s hands trembled violently.

How are we supposed to survive against something like that?
In truth, they didn’t even have time to think.
Dying rendered all such worries meaningless.

Lua Gharne’s breastplate had a few shallow scratches, but no serious wounds.
Instead, a long shard of iron was stuck in her stomach—a broken spear thrown by a cannibal, the head and a handspan of shaft remaining.

On the other hand, the black warrior standing opposite her was missing a leg below the knee.
It was burnt and blunt—likely scorched by her flame whip.

The fight was fairly matched.
But behind the black warrior stood the cannibals who had joined the cult.
And behind Lua Gharne stood the Westerners.

Was it dangerous? It had been.
Not anymore.

A hazy shadow formed behind the black warrior.
Naturally, it was Enkrid.
He swung his sword in time with his movement.
The silver blade sliced through the dead warrior’s neck.

Spurt.

Though soot scattered, the head reattached immediately.
It was a body that couldn’t be harmed without magic.

That was fine.
Acker was a magic sword.

It could harm the black warrior.
Just ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) not enough to kill it in one blow.

If that wasn’t it… then maybe…
Lately, Enkrid had been feeling something—like the sword’s power was gradually waning.

Even so, it didn’t matter.
It was still usable.

With a single strike, the warrior’s soot thinned—but it didn’t die.

‘Still alive.’

So cutting off the head doesn’t matter?

Then what?

If the soot seemed to be thinning… then maybe if I keep slicing—

The thought was short, the action fast.
Enkrid swung Acker like a tree branch.
The high-speed blade split the warrior’s body again and again.

The black warrior tried to resist, thrusting its spear—but it was pointless.
Enkrid shifted his position with quick footwork, causing the spear to stab only empty air.
He struck three more times.

After nineteen slashes in total, the soot-clad death knight began to disperse.

Normally, you’d need magical tools or sorcery to defeat such a thing.
That was why Gennarae had been preparing to summon her wolf again, even at great cost.

But there was no need anymore.

Gennarae looked at the dissolving summoned beast and thought again:
‘Do we really have to spar later?’

The death knight scattered into the air like cigarette smoke blown from Hira’s lips—
black mist vanishing through the sunlight.

The one who had nearly killed Lua Gharne vanished without even putting up proper resistance.
The difference in power was clear.

“Run!”
“Spirits of the Sand!”

The cannibals, seeing it, scattered in all directions.
They used their feet and their sorcery.

Lua Gharne shouted and took off running.
“Not a single one will escape!”

Enkrid didn’t bother chasing.

The cannibals pulled out talismans, weapons, and other strange tools as they fled—
but they didn’t seem like they could handle Lua Gharne.

One threw a charm, and sand exploded upward in the shape of a humanoid figure—
but when Lua Gharne’s flame whip wrapped around it, it burned black and collapsed.

She wasn’t the only one moving.
More than five Western warriors threw obsidian spears with spear-throwers or intercepted the fleeing enemies with slings.
Gennarae hurled a hand axe with all her strength—

FWOOOOSH!

The flying axe struck a cannibal’s back.
With a dull thud, he collapsed forward—
only for his skull to be crushed by Frokk’s foot.

CRACK.

The skull shattered, one eye popping free and rolling along the ground.
Death.

Lua Gharne continued chasing the others.
Sorcery was a wild card, yes—
but after that “spirit of the sand” attempt, Gennarae blocked the next one.
She prevented the sorcery from activating in the first place.

Naturally, Enkrid didn’t know how she did it.
He just had a feeling that everything was going fine.

The threat was gone.
Their enemies were either weaklings or running away—
there was no reason to feel threatened anymore.

“Enki, not here.”

Gennarae spoke, looking at Enkrid.
He nodded and turned away.

Not until the apostle’s last convulsions were dealt with would this battlefield be truly finished.

“You wanna die again? Fine. Go ahead and die.”

Just then, Rem’s shout rang out.
Whether the slain ones had risen again or the awakened giants numbered over ten—none of it mattered.

Enkrid looked toward the rampaging Rem.
He struck a giant’s club with his left-hand axe and split its wrist with the right.

The raw power sent the hand gripping the club flying.

Next was the neck.

Using the giant’s foot as a springboard, the axe rose up—
and with a slick shhhk, it sliced beneath the giant’s chin, through the cartilage.

CRACK—

A new mouth opened on the giant’s neck, blood pouring out in a torrent.

Rem’s bracers were soaked.
Blood sprayed in every direction—
and beside the flying droplets was Owl.

“I’ll kill them all!”

She shouted as she swung her axe.
It was easy to tell what technique she’d used.

It was the same one the twins had shown before.
A bluish energy enveloped her entire body,
and thanks to that, her axe strikes were faster and more precise than anything seen before.

Not male or female—
just a powerful physique that matched the weight of her massive axe.

Two facts blended together in harmony.
When her axe struck a giant’s shin with a thwack,
black blood oozed from the split instead of the usual purple.

A single swing had broken bone and caved it in—
causing the giant to stumble under its own weight.

Another giant nearby threw a punch—
Owl caught it with one hand.

WHAM!

She didn’t dodge it—she caught it.
Incredible strength. The kind of power that would make her a great arm-wrestling match for Audin.

“The spirit of the bear is with me,”

Owl muttered as she struck the giant’s fist aside and swung her axe.
The heavy weapon, with a blade twice the size of a normal axe, came down vertically on the giant’s foot.

CRACK.

The bone broke. Blood sprayed.
Black blood splattered across her face,
and Owl’s lips curled upward.
She was smiling.
She looked… delighted.

No doubt—she was the female Rem.

The pair, husband and wife, fought in perfect sync.
And beside them, Dunbakel was raging too.

“Why the hell do they keep coming back to life?!”

She bought time with hit-and-run attacks.
A Western warrior behind her hurled a spear.

Dunbakel didn’t seem to have any trouble pulling herself free from the chaos—
though there were still quite a few giants.

Then something unexpected happened.

Pshhbbbbbt!

From one side, several smaller-than-average Westerners fired wind guns and swung what looked like hooked weapons.

The giants who got hit screamed, blood pouring from their eyes and noses.
Even if they didn’t collapse right away, their combat ability was halved.

It was curse-poison.
The handiwork of a minor tribe Rem had summoned.

Enkrid noticed they were allies and adjusted his movements to avoid hitting them as he rejoined the battle.

GRWAARR!

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

A giant suddenly came charging, swinging hands and feet like a windmill.

Enkrid parried the club and limbs with Acker, then drove the blade into its head with an upward thrust.

Squelch.

As he pulled the blade free, blood gushed out with it.

The dead giant twitched for a moment—but didn’t rise again.

So they don’t revive every time, then.

At first, many Westerners had been startled by the giants’ so-called awakening—
but now, even they weren’t surprised anymore.

And that was fine.

Once Enkrid engaged the giants himself, he could tell they weren’t on the same level as the two he’d fought before.
Originally, these giants were meant to become complete death warriors—only after being equipped with summoned ghost armor, bone blades, and other gear by the apostle and necromancer.
But the necromancer was dead.
So what remained was a half-formed version.

The chieftain, who had been watching the battle, was openly weeping now.
At one point, he thought something might go wrong—but it hadn’t.

Among those who had set out with the Great Narae for the vanguard, most were prepared to die.
They had stood here with the belief that it would be fine to die.

Even so, they fought. For what?
For the West. For freedom. For survival.

And yet—no one had died.

Even the apostle’s final outburst had been stopped—by Enkrid, by Rem, and by the blade of the beastkin.
The poison curses had crept in, and now the giants’ feet were rooted.
The hands of the tribal throwers, who had only hurled spears from afar, came to a stop.
All the giants were dead.
There was nothing left to throw at.

The minor tribes disappeared even faster than they had joined the battle.
They retreated to the canyon’s edge, raised their palms in farewell, and vanished without a word.
They were people who believed that even speaking could be a form of offense.
The Westerners respected their culture—so they let them go.

The battle that began at sunrise ended before noon.
And yet, no one felt a sense of emptiness.
Nor did anyone believe this had been easy, just because it ended more quickly than expected.
They simply felt… that they could go on living.
That the threat had been eliminated.

They hadn’t fully processed it yet.
But one fact remained clear.

They had won.

Under the peaceful sunlight, Enkrid thought—the Western wind felt refreshing.
Purple blood flowed like a river.
The stench was foul.
Corpses littered the ground.

But none of that registered in the eyes of the Westerners.
Not even to the chieftain.

All they saw was the sight of two people talking quietly, the ones who had started and ended this battle.

Who were they?
The prodigal son returned, and the outsider he had brought.

While Enkrid stood with Acker hanging from his hand, enjoying the breeze, Rem approached.
Understanding what was on Rem’s mind, Enkrid spoke first.

“You don’t need to bow your head and say thank you.”

“…Did I say anything?”

Rem tilted his head.

Fortunately, they were far enough away that no one could hear their exchange.
Thanks to that, the awe of the onlookers wasn’t shattered.

Only Owl approached, staring at Enkrid as if wondering whether he was a little insane.
But she held her tongue—because he was their savior.

If she criticized him now, she’d just look like an ungrateful fool.
It would’ve been no different than being treated like a stray cat.

“So if you’re grateful, just do better from now on.”

Enkrid added.

“Are you okay? You sound like you’re hearing voices. Might need treatment.”

Rem responded instantly.

To Owl, it just sounded like two lunatics babbling nonsense—but it wasn’t unpleasant.
She felt like she was seeing a glimpse of how the two usually lived.
What had her husband been doing during their time apart?

What she saw now—Enkrid and Rem—was a piece of Rem’s life she’d never known.

Seeing it made her… simply feel good.

The two of them had fought, won, and now exchanged stupid jokes.

“Alright, let’s drink the finest booze in the West!”

Rem expressed his gratitude in his own way.

Enkrid nodded nonchalantly.

It was nothing special.

Compared to all that Rem had done for him, this truly wasn’t a big deal.

The battle was over.
So was the crisis in the West.

***

They gathered the corpses, buried them, and cleaned up.
A visit to the sacred site would have to wait.
The eldest shaman had yet to awaken—apparently, that was a problem.
So they said. Enkrid didn’t question it.

In the meantime, various things happened.

“I will carve your name into the cliff.”

Someone came forward with a kind of praise.
Said they were of the Maru clan, or something like that.

The mourning for the dead was brief.
To these people, death was not the end.
Their culture was different.

As they cleaned up, many people approached.

“Drink.”

An old man offered him liquor.

“Hoo… Mother’s against me going to the continent. I need a place to hide until I leave, dear husband.”

Ziba was still dreaming.

Dunbakel had been lost in thought ever since the battle—either gazing at the sky or dozing off.

Lua Gharne blended in well with the Westerners.
As she asked questions and indulged in their culture and ecology, she naturally became part of them.

“I can’t call you a true warrior—not in our land. The word means something different here.
But I would like to call you an honorary one.”

Firelight.
Campfire.
Gathered Westerners.

Those who had been talking loudly fell silent.

The chieftain, with the great bonfire at his back, spoke.
And with those words, all eyes turned to Enkrid.

He simply stood there, calm and composed.

It was the night after the battle.
The excitement and emotion had not yet faded.

“Outsider. On behalf of all Westerners, I speak.
From this day forward, you are our friend.”

With that, the chieftain bowed, placing his forehead to the ground.

Rem later explained what that gesture meant.
If the old man called you to his room, naked, that night—you’d be expected to go without protest.

That old man?
Just imagining it was horrific.

“It’s really nothing,”

So Enkrid politely declined.

Behind the chieftain, Owl and the others did the same—pressing their foreheads to the ground.

What Enkrid had done was nothing compared to what Rem had done for him.
But to these people, it was more valuable than anything.

It had let them continue living.
It had preserved the soul of the West.

“It means they’re saying thanks.”

Rem chuckled as if he’d read Enkrid’s mind, seated at his side.

Enkrid said it once more.

“It really wasn’t anything.”

He meant it.

Compared to what Rem had done for him, it truly wasn’t much.
The Heart of the Beast had been the beginning.
If not for that, he wouldn’t be who he was now.

So was this all luck?
A gift of coincidence?
A whim of the goddess of fortune?

Of course not.

Luck only favors those who are prepared.

Enkrid wasn’t denying his own effort.
But gratitude is still gratitude.

So to him, it wasn’t a big deal.
But he understood well—
that to them, it meant everything.

The chieftain rose and spoke, not even bothering to brush the dust from his knees.

“Eat and drink.”

And with that permission, everyone did just that.
Something like a festival began.

“For the soul of the West!”
“For the bear and the thunder!”
“Grime, come forth! Thank you for granting my wish!”
“Dawn Bird, raise the sun!”

People raised their cups and tore into meat, shouting all kinds of things.

They celebrated for two days.
Enkrid joined in.

He drank goat’s milk liquor, sheep’s milk liquor, and cow’s milk liquor—
but didn’t get drunk.

After sweating it all out the next day during a workout,
it felt like every trace of the alcohol was gone.

It was a clear, dry morning.

And then the eldest shaman finally awoke.
What was it Rem had said?
That this shaman was the one who could help him find his lost magic.