A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Ferdinand of the Red Cloak Order of Knights recalled a fight he had seen not long ago.

‘Was that a battle where victory was guaranteed? Was winning a sure thing?’

He turned it over in his head several times, and the conclusion he came to was no. They hadn’t moved on the assumption it was decided. They hadn’t acted after calculating it out, either.

‘They were like wild horses gone berserk.’

He wasn’t referring to just one person. The entire Mad Order of Knights had looked that way.

‘Using their own bodies as holy relics to hold the line.’

Riding flying horses and rampaging above gryphons. It wasn’t as simple as killing a few gryphons. They had literally fought while bounding across the tops of gryphons. It was enough to bring to mind the figure of the master Ferdinand served.

He hadn’t cried out in admiration when he saw it, but there was no way not to be astonished. That was how striking a sight it had been.

Junior knight Ferdinand had once been a subordinate unit commander under the knight order, and at some point had awakened a “sense” for weighing battles.

‘We’ll lose this.’

He gauged victory and defeat before the fighting even started. You could call it an awakening, but it was just as fair to call it an old habit. If you wanted to get even one fewer soldier under your command killed, you had to be good at calculating. That was what he considered a fine quality in a commander.

Even after becoming a junior knight, the habit had continued. It had become his speciality outright.

The good thing about this was that in battles he would win and battles he would lose, he never became complacent.

Rather than freewheeling fights where spirit carried you forward, his training, his tempering, and his battles had been about studying and pursuing ways to win in realistic terms. Because of that, he avoided battles that would be lost.

If it was for his master or for his comrades, he would fight even knowing he would lose, but could he enjoy it while doing so? Could he be like those ones called madmen?

‘I can’t.’

Ferdinand knew himself well. He stared his own limits in the face.

‘Then should I stop here?’

The question dug deep. The rising sun stabbed at his eyes. The southern side in the distance came into his view.

Ferdinand had volunteered for a recon mission and was walking the surroundings. Partway through his walk, he stopped and lifted his head. Up ahead, a tiny black speck had appeared. It was the moment when yesterday’s sun had set and a new morning had come.

A junior knight’s eyesight far outstripped that of ordinary people, and the Red Cloak Order was, generation after generation, accustomed to techniques that momentarily enhanced sight and hearing. It was one of the order’s training methods.

Ferdinand’s pupils dilated, changing to a state suited to looking far away. The instant he saw it, he turned his body.

If he could see them from here, they could see him from there.

Abandoning stealth, he sprinted back toward the main camp. Wherever his feet struck, dirt and stones burst up with a thump-thump.

***

‘Venom.’

It was the first time Jaxon had heard that name, but the previous nickname of that figure, Jaxon felt he knew.

‘Miasma.’

A word that worked for polluted air, for noxious vapors. Having eaten a poisonous herb by mistake right after birth and becoming a dwarf for life, the one called Venom had originally been a mixed-blood fairy.

‘Isn’t that one easily over a hundred years old?’

Jaxon had once heard that Venom had even crossed blades with Jaxon’s own master.

“That dwarf bastard is still bouncing around. Did I lose? Does your master—no, your master, teacher, and foster father—look that easy to you?”

Jaxon had never once called the man father, and yet for some reason the word foster father was coming out of the master’s mouth. It was a day Jaxon wouldn’t understand.

“Of course I won.”

The master had said it with a grin, one eye turned a bright, sickly blue. It wasn’t swollen from a beating; a blade had grazed it and poison had seeped in. One misstep and that eye would have gone blind. In fact, the vision in that eye had been badly damaged thereafter.

“Maybe keep the bragging and drain some of that poison out first, Master.”

“It’ll drain itself just fine. Anyway, that damned dwarf will be out there doing rotten things wherever Venom goes. Next time I see that one, I’ll kill them.”

Master, you really should have followed through on that resolve.

Jaxon cursed inwardly and shifted his weight onto his left foot, lowering his stance. Once he dropped his posture, he brought both daggers up to guard above his head and in front of his left thigh.

It wasn’t a simple guard. He let the principles of flowing sword-forms permeate his entire body. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t take long before chunks of flesh started getting ripped off.

Clang-clang!

The ends of Pustis’s flail moved as if each of the three lumps of iron were alive. It felt exactly like blocking three blades at once.

Naturally, it was an engraved weapon wielded by a knight. This much was only normal.

Next, a blade that came targeting the right side of his head showed movements similar to a whip. Pustis swung with his arm bending and flexing loosely, adding speed to the blade—a technique that completed a slash as fast as a barbarian’s axe. You could say he had applied the principles of a whip to a blade. It was an original form of attack. In between, Miasma—the dwarf called Venom—slipped in.

“Not just poison, that dwarf is a born assassin. An ugly little dwarf.”

The master had said that too. The nickname Miasma had once belonged to a legendary assassin’s name spread across the continent—a master of poison and stealth.

The dwarf sent a Silence Knife flying. Even in the Dagger of Geor, aside from Jaxon himself, there were only two others who could use that knife.

Venom handled even a throwing knife reduced to nothing but a bare blade with ease. On top of that, the dwarf picked angles and timing that were hard to react to even if you knew they were coming, and sent the blade.

Jaxon twisted in motion, whipping his torso around and straightening the knees he had bent, then suddenly stopped.

The Silence Knife flew past the spot he should have dodged toward. It was a movement as if made with foreknowledge.

The moment he stopped, the flail flew in again, and the whip-like sword suddenly turned into a harpoon-like thrust. The arm flexing like a whip abruptly transformed into a deep stab. At the same time, Jaxon caught four darts coming at his back. There was no time to breathe. Even so, he repeated blocking and dodging.

“Why aren’t you dying?”

The question came from the mixed-blood fairy who had undergone convergent evolution into a dwarf. Poisoned, taking one-sided attacks from three at once—how was Jaxon enduring? The voice was filled with absurdity and puzzlement, but even that was a feint.

The voice came from the left, but the darts flew from the right.

That was the situation. A moment that felt as if death were right at the tip of his nose, and yet in between, a smile flickered across Jaxon’s face.

‘This is doable.’

The time he had spent with the barbarian, the lazy scatterbrained navigator, the bear beastman, and the captain was now paying off.

Even when they lost their tempers and fought, they swung their axes and thrust their fists and stabbed with their swords half in earnest.

Finding a gap, Jaxon threw one Silence Knife. Without showing the movement of turning his body to throw, he simply reached his hand up toward the sky.

The knife flew without a sound, aiming for the space between Pustis’s brows. Its trajectory traced a curve from above down. Throwing-knife forms were not simply techniques for sending a blade flying in a straight line.

The movements of the wrist and where you gripped the blade—all of it acted together organically to send the blade on an impossible trajectory.

‘The swift gliding of a knife-bird.’

Swift Gliding—a technique where the blade seemed to ride the air, sliding as it flew in and struck. Of course, he had poured Will into it. It had enough power to punch through a knight’s iron shell and kill.

On top of that, he erased all killing intent. To erase killing intent, you needed the knack of focusing not on the opponent, but on the technique. You could also say you focused on the perfection of the technique, not on killing.

For Jaxon, it was a familiar thing. The knife he threw slipped even out of Venom’s field of vision. Judged purely by assassination skill, Jaxon was far superior.

Venom’s vaunted composite poison had infected him, but thanks to the special training for poison resistance given by his master, Jaxon’s body was holding up well. Dizziness and nausea could be endured with sheer will.

It was right before the technique Jaxon could never use on an ally embedded itself in Pustis’s forehead.

The Silence Knife Jaxon used was a specially made blade only about as long as his index and middle fingers put together. Small, but if it lodged in someone’s skull, it was more than enough to kill, and its strength was excellent.

The moment he threw the dagger, Jaxon leapt back, dodging the flail and the blade. He opened up a wide gap in distance and somersaulted. His evasive movement strayed far off prediction, and even Venom couldn’t charge in, hovering in the moment between throwing the dagger in hand or not.

Just before the blade, stripped of sound and killing intent, reached its target, a shield slid in.

Thud—!

Jaxon’s heart-and-soul strike was blocked. A shield affixed to a forearm caught the dagger. The figure adjusted the angle and deflected it away.

Jaxon couldn’t infer the entire process, but looking at the result, he understood part of it. The one who had stepped in now had been standing off, watching the fight, then had intervened.

The swift gliding of a knife-bird was hard to perceive at close range. Even Venom, the legendary assassin once called a master of poison and stealth, had missed it.

One knight waiting in reserve had stepped in and wrecked the play. Of course, from the Mud Order’s point of view, it was the right outcome.

“Impressive.”

The newcomer said, stepping forward. Oval shields were strapped to both hands. No other weapons were visible. That was the knight’s engraved weapon.

“The commander says to hurry it up. The swamp’s widened so much that the number of soldiers who’ve drowned has gone into the hundreds. Leave it alone and the whole unit will be wiped out.”

The newcomer spoke. That made four knight-level combatants. Jaxon alone was pinning down four.

The funny thing was, just a moment ago Jaxon had looked as if he were being pushed back—yet he had nearly beaten the three of them.

If that blade had lodged in the head of the one called Pustis and become a pretty little ornament, that was exactly what would have happened.

“I told you, that one’s a monster.”

Pustis wasn’t surprised by what the opponent had done. From the start, this had been someone too much to handle alone.

“Did you throw it outside my line of sight on purpose?”

Venom spoke, stung in pride. The dwarf also had deep knowledge of assassination techniques. From just the one move Jaxon had shown, Venom had realized the opponent’s skill exceeded Venom’s own. That fact scratched at Venom’s insides. And that wasn’t the only thing scratching.

From all the violent motion, Jaxon’s mask had long since come off. His face was exposed. It was that face which, even just passing by in Border Guard City, drew the gazes of countless ladies.

Venom’s face twisted. From youth, the dwarf had been eaten up with an inferiority complex about appearance. After being hit by poison and the outer form turning grotesque, that had only grown.

“I’ll peel the skin off that face.”

And the opponent was even more skilled?

Wasn’t this just like that insufferable master of the Dagger of Geor from before?

Whatever Venom said, Jaxon kept his eyes forward. The fourth to appear looked to specialize in close combat, judging by the weapon carried.

“I’ll hold this one. Hit from behind while I do. Venom, don’t spread poison in the air. Use your blades instead.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that to know.”

The one who had arrived naturally began to guide the mood of those gathered. Jaxon still wore a faint smile.

‘This too.’

Is fun.

No wonder the captain talked about enjoyment for no good reason. Was it because this wasn’t killing people, but protecting them?

Or was it because Jaxon’s own mindset had changed?

Whatever the reason, it was fun.

That thrill and joy. Even though this might be the end, even though it seemed natural he wouldn’t win, it would still be a joyful death.

All of that together opened Jaxon’s mouth.

“Are four all you’ve got?”

“No, five.”

The answer came from behind the latest newcomer. This one had grown hair long enough to cover the eyes. The build was large, the muscles all over looking solid. Not quite at the level of a giant, but enough to make anyone who saw that bulk widen their eyes.

It would make quite the amusing picture to have that one stand next to the bear beastman.

‘And if even one of those lunatics were here, it would be even more fun.’

He didn’t even dare hope for the captain. If even one among the barbarian, the scatterbrained navigator, and the bear beastman were here, the course of the fight would have changed.

He couldn’t hope for help. Esther was behind him. She had wrought a miracle that changed the terrain of an entire region.

Alone, she had dropped three thousand soldiers into the swamp and held their feet. If a knight was called one versus a thousand, then she was currently facing three thousand soldiers.

In the middle of doing that, how could he ask her to come here and handle a couple of knights for him?

Above all, she was a witch. Even if she was used to fights like this, her speciality was different from taking on multiple knights.

‘That part’s the same for me.’

Still, what could he do, when this was all he had.

He spun the two daggers in his grip. His hands were still fine, and the dagger blades were unblemished. His willingness to fight was fuller than ever.

‘I’ll protect.’

Jaxon’s eyes did not waver.

“Barik of the Mud Order.”

The opponent spoke. The name didn’t seem to match, but the eyes were large and gentle-looking. Barik held a single knife in the right hand.

Instead, armor bristling with spikes covered the entire body. Forearms, shins, chest—all were thick with sharp protrusions.

‘Another close-combat specialist.’

Both of the last two to appear looked like ones who enjoyed fights where you bit and grappled up close. For Jaxon, that was not good.

In a situation like this, it was harder to deal with ones who charged in determinedly than with ones who kept their distance and measured things, taking time to calculate.

“The mage’s trick is no ordinary thing. On the way here, hands came out of the swamp and grabbed my ankles.”

Leave it alone, and the entire unit would be dragged into a dire situation. The Mud Order’s commander’s choice was clear.

Break through what blocked the way and cut down the source of it all. It was a conclusion drawn from deep experience fighting mages many times over. And the one standing before them now was just as dangerous.

So all five of them would face this one here. In the meantime, every junior knight would be sent on ahead to keep the mage in check.

The Mud Order always chose the method most advantageous for survival, and this was the most proper and rational choice.

If all five knights moved together, at the very least no one would die here—that was the foundation of Barik’s judgment.

“Hey, just quietly back off. There’s no need for you to die here, is there?”

Pustis spoke. He truly felt it would be a waste for the opponent to die. Rather than die here, wouldn’t it be enough to promise himself a next time? A fighter of that caliber was rare.

Jaxon answered with action. He crossed the daggers in both hands diagonally in front of his chest and took his stance. His legs spread to a moderate width, and he released tension from his body. If tension turned his body rigid, he would die in an instant. Jaxon knew that.

“Clear him away.”

Barik, the commander, spoke. Orders were absolute. All of them moved.

Blades, fists, daggers, and the flail flew in.

Out of dozens of possible choices, only one path led to life. Again and again, Jaxon broke through odds that made no sense.

If you counted attacks and defenses as numbers, he had gotten past more than eight. Was it a miracle? Was it skill? Some would call it a miracle.

Measured in time, only enough seconds had passed to draw five breaths.

Pustis, and even Barik, were impressed.

If he lost, he died. That was a truth that never changed. And the opponent still had two feet healthy enough to run. Meaning: even though a way to live existed, Jaxon did not step aside. If there was something that had to be done and something to be protected, he simply protected it.

Didn’t this show what kind of people knights were?

“Jaxon of the Mad Order of Knights—I’ll remember that.”

Pustis spoke at last, having gotten behind the opponent. Jaxon dragged his left arm into motion by sheer will.

He had sacrificed one arm to put a hole in the thigh of the one who wielded two swords like whips, but in the end, five had been too much to block alone.

Death approached. A death he met knowing it, and one filled with joy.

His lover came to mind, and he felt the urge to leave words like: from the mad days to now, it had really been fun.

The captain would be angry. Very angry. The barbarian would just laugh and try to stop the others? With a smiling face, that one would carve them all to pieces. The lazy one and the bear beastman would be much the same.

It was a span of time too short to blink once. Had it been even a little later, Jaxon would have died and been forced to swim across the Black River.

Kwoooom!

Lightning struck. A bolt falling from a clear sky ripped up the ground and sent soil shooting up.

Next, from overhead, a deafening Kwooooo came as something flew in.

Boom!

Bursts of sound went off in succession, and in front of Jaxon, a dark green wall appeared.

Flutter-flap-flap. A wall formed of a cloak billowed into place.

In the instant the opening appeared, the voice of the one who had grabbed Jaxon by the scruff and yanked him out of the Black River he was about to enter rang in his ears.

“You didn’t spend all your strength, did you?”

Jaxon spat out the poison he had been holding in his mouth. It was the result of slowly gathering the poison that had seeped into his body when Venom’s attack hit him for the first time. Jaxon hadn’t known how things would turn out, but because he hadn’t truly given up, he had gathered the poison that had spread through his body.

Spitting this out meant he would need a little time to rest. Only now had an opening appeared that let him spit it out.

“I still have plenty left.”

Jaxon, having spat out the poison, answered.