A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

At first, the number of arrows flying toward him did not exceed five. Then they gradually increased. From five to seven, from seven to ten, from ten to twenty.

Thung–

“The bowstring snapped! Damn it—throw a spear instead!”

The soldiers who had retreated timidly now raised their spirits. That knight kept the word he had spoken. In that case, were they supposed to just stand here and watch? Of course not. The Rihinstetten forces went wild.

“One, two—throw!”

They threw their javelins in unison. Still, not a single person crossed the line. Naurillia’s mad knight swung the sword with the black blade. Drawing two arcs at once from below upward.

Five incoming javelins caught on that blade and were cut apart. The cut ends were jagged.

It was a fierce slash. A few southern soldiers swallowed hard. If he changed his mind and charged, that slash would surely aim for their necks. Anyone who said they weren’t afraid would be lying.

“Where do you think you’re going!”

The knight, however, showed no intention of taking the heads of those who threw spears or fired arrows as long as they didn’t cross the line. Then—could they throw more?

“Throw as much as you want.”

Conveniently, that’s exactly what he said.

“...Bring the spears.”

Several strong soldiers stepped into a horizontal line and approached a few steps closer. Five steps short of the line the knight had drawn.

“Throw!”

There was no shout this time. They simply threw at the same time, and with a single slash all the javelins clattered down. This time they each chose their own timing and hurled them separately.

Arrows were fired in between. A mobile anti-personnel weapon—the southern army called it the Trias Bow.

Its name mixed ancient tongue and Imperial language, meaning “the bow shot by three men.” Its advantage was power; its disadvantage, durability.

Thung–! Crack!

After a series of shots, the bowstrings failed to endure the strain and snapped, or the supports fixed into the ground broke. The number of arrows flying in dropped to half the first volley. Sweat ran down Pell’s forehead. Still, he did not seem likely to be hit by either spear or arrow.

“You—move.”

One of the enemy soldiers shoved his comrade aside and stepped even farther forward. He approached right up to the line Pell had drawn.

“I said I’d cut you if you crossed.”

Pell said that as he avoided arrows and deflected them without even a single strained breath. That was why it was terrifying. The soldier froze at his words, then calmly calculated the distance—and abruptly hurled his shield.

Whoosh!

Clang!

It was meant to block his vision. Pell punched the shield aside with a swing of his fist. Through that gap came javelins, crossbow bolts, and the thick arrows of the Trias Bow.

Pell’s pupils narrowed. In an instant, he caught every projectile flying toward him and moved.

Bang!

His body drew an afterimage as he slipped to the side. Four arrows caught on his blade and broke. One of the broken arrows, half its shaft remaining, spun in the air before sticking into the ground.

“I said no.”

Even if he were hit—could it even pierce his flesh?

Pell had rolled and rolled again within the Mad Order of Knights. Rolled? He had clenched his molars for the first time in his life and thrashed to keep from falling behind. In that process he had learned and mastered the skill of the knight known as Iron Armor. Even these absurd arrows would leave no more than scratches on his body.

Even if he didn’t evade and took them directly, he could endure. And yet Pell avoided and deflected everything. Not even a scratch marked him.

Enemy soldiers swarmed together and threw arrows, javelins, and shields. One commander even pulled the sword from his belt and threw it.

Pell caught it and immediately hurled it back, planting it right before the line he had drawn.

As long as they didn’t cross, he wouldn’t kill them. He honored that completely. From the perspective of the Rihinstetten commander, it was terror. A visualization of fear.

‘He can kill us—and he chooses not to.’

Three knights had already died, and morale had plummeted, but the soldiers’ spirits had broken even before that.

It was because of the resolve that madman Pell had shown. Words he didn’t even need to keep. It wasn’t an oath nor a vow. And yet Pell kept it. He honored the words he, himself, had spoken.

“Do not cross.”

He even gave warnings in between.

‘A knight is a calamity.’

The enemy commander’s legs lost strength. Though he barely remained standing, his knees had already buckled in spirit. The rain of weapons ceased.

Clop, clop, clop, clop—

A fine maned, deep-brown horse approached slowly. The rider wore a cream-colored cloak, marked in red with the emblem of the Sun Hand, and carried three swords and a shield.

“Hoo... what’s this? Giving up?”

Pell drew a breath and spoke. He sensed a presence behind him, but didn’t think much of it. Most of the soldiers’ faces were pale with fear.

Monstrous bastards.

A knight was either a calamity or a monster. To the soldiers now, the man standing before that line was both calamity and monster.

The commander who had gathered the courage to create the current situation felt his vision darken.

‘Should I have let them charge instead?’

Even a knight only had two hands. Even if they rampaged, the soldiers might have at least inflicted minor damage. Or perhaps it was better to say—he never imagined it would come to this.

Because of what one knight with light-brown hair had done, cold dread spread through every heart. He did such absurd feats as if they were nothing.

The highest-ranking officer of the unit gauged how many here might survive.

‘Surrender? Defection?’

But this wasn’t the core of the southern army. If they surrendered here, they would die later anyway.

The High Pontiff—their king—would not forgive those who betrayed even once.

The High Pontiff was not lenient. That was what their king was.

‘Then do we have to charge, knowing we’ll die here?’

The commander searched for his god. Naturally, gods did not appear every time humans needed them.

“Geo...”

He was about to shout that they would fight even in hell, fight even if all of them died here. It was late, but he had no other road left. He had no choices.

“If you do not cross the line, you will not be killed!”

The commander did not finish his sentence. His voice did not even rise. The owner of the cream-colored cloak shouted first.

Crang endorsed the actions Pell had taken. He seemed to turn into words the momentum the knight had displayed until now.

Everyone’s gaze gathered toward the declaration spoken from horseback. The deep-brown horse raised its forelegs and set them down—hiiiiing!—as if the cry of the horse lent weight to its master’s words. He seized the exact moment when the Rihinstetten commander was about to speak.

They said a great orator knew the moment to open his mouth.

That was Crang. He seized not only the gaze of allies but of enemies too. Outwardly he did not even take a deep breath. With calm composure he glanced at the enemy commander and then seemed to admire the aftermath of what the allied knight had done. Then he said:

“Splendid.”

Indeed—there were even some among the enemy soldiers who felt that way. Was it common for knights to keep the words they spoke?

Even aside from knighthood, such people were rare. Even if one was confident he could do it, few would take such risks and discomfort upon themselves for it. That was why “splendid” suited it so well.

“Knight Pell.”

Crang called the madman.

“Speak, Your Majesty.”

Pell wondered why he had come all the way here doing this when Enkrid had told him to protect the king.

As he spoke, he prepared himself to block another arrow should the enemy fire. Four members of the Royal Guard stood neatly behind the king.

Even while approaching this far, the king’s gestures and words held ease. No urgency. He did not look like someone about to order a near-massacre, a slaughter that would leave fewer than ten enemy soldiers alive.

He was one who stood in a position capable of deciding the life and death of all those men.

“Have any died by your hand?”

The king asked.

“None.”

Pell answered.

“Why?”

“They didn’t cross the line.”

Because that was what he had said—and he would keep it.

He spoke it without hesitation. It was what a knight was supposed to be.

Even light words, once they came out of a knight’s mouth, were kept. It was textbook conduct. Though Pell had come from the wilds as a shepherd, at this moment he was more knightly than anyone present. Enkrid’s knight order resembled him. Crang held back a laugh. He could not laugh here.

“I see.”

Crang spoke and dismounted. He stepped forward toward Pell. Pell wondered whether he should stop him.

‘Should I let him?’

If the king went forward like that, it became inconvenient to block arrows. There was always a one-in-a-thousand chance.

Shouldn’t the king be kept from even accidental harm?

“Your Majesty.”

The captain of the Royal Guard followed. The king dismissed him with a single gesture. A gentle refusal.

“This is my stage. Do not interfere.”

He murmured as he stepped forward.

Flap.

Behind him, the winged horse descended. Enkrid dismounted from Odd-Eye and stood at the king’s right rear. Cypress had also followed the king and stood at his left rear.

“Quite the luxurious escort.”

Crang murmured. This time his words were heard by all. Curiously, even though he did not speak loudly, his voice carried widely.

A different kind of projection, perhaps.

“To the southern army, hear me.”

Enkrid and Cypress did not release any aura and simply stood there, yet a naturally overwhelming presence flowed out.

Even so, in the eyes of all enemy soldiers, only the owner of the cream-colored cloak truly stood out.

He lifted his hand and pointed downward. Following his fingertip, one saw the line drawn long in the dirt. The line Pell had roughly carved out.

Even amidst battle, as no one had touched it, it still remained clear.

“If this knight’s will is that any who do not cross the line will not be killed—then I too shall respect this knight’s will. My name is Cradianat Randios Nauril, and I pledge my name to these words.”

A shout rang out. Silence fell so deep not even a swallow of spit could be heard, and then murmurs spread. Among the Rihinstetten soldiers, voices leaked out.

“...He’ll spare us?”

“As long as we don’t cross?”

“...Why?”

A reasonable question. But among the enemy soldiers, there was no one who could understand Crang’s intent.

That was how Enkrid saw it. In practical terms, even though they had seized a perfect advantage, what madman would make the decision to peacefully spare all the enemy soldiers?

And besides, the two nations were in all-out war.

“If you wish to end this battlefield instantly, then cross the line and strike off my head. It’s an easy method.”

Crang continued. It was boldness beyond expectation. The enemy commander’s pupils did not even shake. There was nothing to consider.

‘Nonsense.’

On one side stood the Gryphon Butcher in his dark-green cloak; on the other stood ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) Cypress of the Red Cloaks, the guardian of southern Naurillia.

“You mean—we may withdraw?”

The commander asked. He didn’t even understand why the king of Naurillia was here. Everything was cause for shock.

Naturally, suspicion also arose. Was he giving hope only to turn it into despair? Saying this much made it hard to back out later.

Every knight was watching.

Upholding honor and chivalry was natural to them. Mocking an enemy army in such a manner was un-knightly. Even if the king did it, it would earn resentment. Knights were like that. The commander’s mind raced.

“You may go. However—”

Crang opened his mouth again. He did not finish the sentence but met the commander’s gaze.

The commander of Rihinstetten looked at the enemy king. Eyes like blue jewels. The youthful resolve within them shone truly bright.

‘This is not the gaze of a liar.’

The commander thought as he waited for the king’s next words.

“Tell the High Pontiff that I am here. And tell him I am disappointed—I expected he might show his face if he came here.”

It was a refined provocation. A taunt containing the question: I came in person to the battlefield—where are you?

Moreover, the south had a deeply rooted culture of revering the strong. The High Pontiff was one such person.

“Go. Tell him. Tell him I am waiting here.”

Crang spoke as he turned. His cream-colored cloak fluttered in the wind.

“You’ve planned something amusing, Your Majesty.”

Cypress spoke beside him.

Enkrid had already read his friend’s intent. So he had no reason to be surprised. Instead he met the enemy commander’s eyes.

The commander—holding the doubt of Is it truly allowed for us to retreat like this?—felt Enkrid’s gaze and turned away.

“If this is all the knights you brought—”

What was that bastard planning to say now?

“Tell him I am disappointed.”

“...What?”

“They were so pathetically weak I couldn’t even warm up.”

Enkrid spoke sincerely. If this truly was all, he had no intention of hiding his disappointment. For that reason, he showed that emotion plainly on his face.

“Pfft.”

Crang laughed. His dignified image cracked, but he didn’t care.

“Hahahaha!”

He laughed loudly. Cypress also burst into laughter.

“I didn’t say that to make you laugh—but in any case, tell him to bring more knights next time.”

Enkrid spoke calmly and turned away.

That day, when the commander retreated and carried the report to the main army, he had to choose his words carefully.

The High Pontiff did not fly into a frenzy over the message—but the armrest of his chair bore the imprint of his fingers. The armrest had cracked from being gripped too hard.