A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 241: The End of Swiftblade

“...What the hell? How is that even possible?”

Swiftblade muttered, his eyes wide in disbelief, his voice a whisper of stunned incredulity.

Enkrid didn’t respond. He simply stood there, replaying what had just happened in his mind.

A voice from behind answered for him.

“You saw it happen right in front of you, and you still don’t believe it?”

It was Rem. When had she returned? Had she seen the Half-Giant surrender?

The others, including Marcus and the soldiers, had also arrived, their breathing labored as if they’d been sprinting at full speed.

A few archers had nocked arrows on their longbows, ready to fire at any moment.

Even though they weren’t master marksmen, their aim was sure enough to hit the Half-Giant if necessary.

Some of the more skilled archers even had their sights set on Enkrid, their strings taut and ready to loose.

“Don’t go decorating the commander’s head with arrows. Hold your fire,” Rem snapped at them.

“And leave the warrior alone,” Enkrid added, referring to the Half-Giant.

At his words, the archers reluctantly relaxed their bowstrings, though the proximity of the hostages still made them hesitant to fire in the first place.

The woman Enkrid had rescued was proof of his sincerity.

“Did you really cut it?”

Kraiss murmured to himself. Even at a distance, it was clear that Enkrid had sliced through the fireball. It was impossible to miss.

Kraiss had expected Enkrid to shrug in response, but he didn’t. The enemy still stood before him.

“Hah... What is this, really?”

Swiftblade let out a dry, hollow laugh. His whip blade, combined with his other tricks, had claimed countless lives until now.

Even his precious scrolls, akin to an extra life, had been carefully saved for the right moment.

He’d seen swordsmen evade fireballs before—some had to. Avoidance was natural.

But to cut through a magical fireball? To defy its very nature?

“He cut it? He actually cut it? A fireball spell, sliced in half?”

Swiftblade’s thoughts spiraled into stunned disbelief, his mind momentarily lost.

“Well done.”

The lazy voice came from someone who had approached without anyone noticing. The golden-haired figure spoke with an indifferent expression.

“Oh, you’re here?”

Enkrid asked, his tone casual.

“I’m here.”

It was Ragna.

None of them were here to spectate idly. Enkrid remained still, his gaze fixed on Swiftblade, silently questioning what his next move would be.

“Alright, I surrender,” Swiftblade admitted, his voice tinged with resignation as he reached into his coat.

Ragna, uncharacteristically, muttered, “Didn’t I tell you we’d meet again?”

“Yeah, let’s meet again,” Swiftblade replied, pulling out another scroll.

Another fireball?

Enkrid tensed, and a few of the archers debated firing before it was too late.

But there was no need.

Bang!

Ragna surged forward, the ground exploding under his feet as he darted toward Swiftblade. His speed blurred his form, making him seem like a streak of motion.

Swiftblade tore the scroll in panic, activating its magic.

Rip!

As the scroll’s energy surged, Ragna’s blade slashed diagonally through the air.

Shhhhiiiiing!

A strange sound resonated, followed by a dull thud.

“Didn’t I tell you we’d meet again?”

Ragna’s voice was calm, even as his slash completed its purpose.

Enkrid watched silently as the results unfolded.

Half of Swiftblade’s body lay on the ground.

His lower half, a grotesque mess of spilling entrails and pooling blood, remained.

The upper half of his body, caught in the magic of the scroll, was enveloped in a bright light before vanishing completely.

The scroll had been for spatial transportation—some kind of escape tool.

But it had been too slow.

Swiftblade’s life ended there, his body reduced to fragments of its former self.

Ragna, without a hint of triumph or emotion, turned back toward Enkrid.

The lazy swordsman had once again proven his lethality.

***

“Arrghhh!”

The spatial escape scroll had just over a fifty percent success rate.

Even the slightest mistake could result in landing somewhere disastrous. This time, however, it worked—or at least, it seemed to.

But before the spell fully activated, Ragna’s blade had sliced through the very heart of the magic as it unfolded.

“Damn it!”

Swiftblade’s eyes rolled wildly from the excruciating pain.

Was it the result of the magic’s instability, or the impact of the slash itself? He couldn’t even tell.

The magical backlash left his vision a swirling chaos of light and shadow.

When the aftermath cleared, and the searing agony reached his mind, he looked down at his body.

Below his waist, there was nothing.

“Ugh...”

No one could survive losing half their body.

Blood and entrails spilled out onto the barren ground, pooling beneath him. Not even the highest-ranking priest could heal such a wound.

Dragging himself across the dirt, Swiftblade clawed at the earth, his breaths ragged and shallow.

Alone in the desolate wilderness, he succumbed to his fate.

Foaming blood bubbled from his lips as his body, cut in half, finally went still.

Above the corpse, vultures with bald heads began to circle, descending to claim their feast. Soon after, crows gathered, their black forms blending into the horizon as they swarmed the remains of Swiftblade’s once notorious existence.

***

“What do we do with her?”

Venzance asked, directing the question toward the imposing Half-Giant.

Her voice, rough yet oddly pleasing, came as a calm reply.

“I have no intention to fight anymore. Kill me.”

Enkrid exhaled deeply, stepping forward.

“Even with your circumstances, don’t you think your actions were disgraceful?”

At his blunt remark, the Half-Giant knelt on the ground and raised her head to meet his gaze.

“I was sent by the bishop of the Demon Sanctuary Sect.”

With that, her true identity was revealed—a follower of the sect, an enemy that should be killed.

And yet, Enkrid didn’t swing his sword.

Marcus watched him silently, trying to understand.

Why? Does he plan to imprison and torture her instead?

Killing her seemed like the simplest option.

“The sect kills all traitors. Every last one of them. That is their way. So, I’ll die here.”

The Half-Giant’s voice remained steady as she spoke.

Enkrid’s eyes stayed locked on hers.

A member of the sect...

It didn’t seem like she had chosen that path willingly. And her final actions lingered in his mind.

When she had stepped back, unable to strike.

When the scroll had unleashed a fireball, she had shielded the hostage with her body.

Had she not done so, the hostage might have died.

Even now, her singed hair and blistered arms bore the marks of that act.

Would a sect member truly risk their life to save someone?

“Does she really need to die?”

Juri, still shaken but finally able to speak, asked hesitantly.

“She must,” the Half-Giant replied firmly.

Marcus deferred the decision to Enkrid. After all, his role in this was minimal.

“The sect will come for me if I live. Be cautious,” the Half-Giant warned.

Enkrid offered no response.

“Want me to do it instead?”

Rem’s voice broke in, her axe slung over her shoulder, her tone as brash as ever.

“If she doesn’t die, the sect will hunt her down?” Enkrid asked.

“Without a doubt. A defector is the greatest threat to them.”

The Half-Giant’s answer carried the weight of bitter certainty.

The sect was relentless, making escape nearly impossible. Even so, this woman seemed like she wanted nothing more than to abandon them.

“Are you seeking redemption, sister?”

Audin’s calm voice cut through the tension.

“My name is Teresa,” she replied.

Her name carried an almost ironic sanctity, given her affiliation.

“I have no family name. Born and raised within the sect, my life was bound to its duties.”

Her tone and expression betrayed no faith, only anguish and regret.

“With death, I’ll finally find peace.”

Her quiet words weren’t a prayer to the sect’s supposed divinity but a resignation to her fate.

Enkrid lifted his sword.

“What would you want to do if you were reborn?”

The blade glinted, sharp and resolute. It could sever even the Half-Giant’s massive neck with ease.

Teresa smiled, her expression unexpectedly serene.

“I’d fight and fight again, to prove myself and to live my life.”

Her smile was bright, refreshing.

Enkrid found himself liking her in that moment.

And then, he swung his sword.

Whoosh.

The cut was so swift, no trace remained.

With that single, decisive motion, Teresa, the sect member, was dead.

***

“Is this really okay? Isn’t this just pretending not to see?”

Kraiss questioned hesitantly, his tone laced with doubt.

“Seems so,” Enkrid replied with a nod, signaling vague reassurance.

In truth, even Enkrid didn’t know.

This was an impulsive choice, not a calculated one. It reminded him of when he spared Dunbakel.

“Seriously, is this really fine?”

“No idea.”

“Don’t you think you’re too unconcerned?”

“Maybe.”

Their terse exchange was interrupted when Rem wedged herself between them, throwing her arms around their shoulders.

“Who’s complaining? Someone got a problem? Say the word, and I’ll stab-stab them for you,” she said, her tone as sharp as her words.

Stab-stab? Kraiss couldn’t help but sigh internally.

No one in the regiment would dare complain.

The so-called "Mad Platoon" was a gathering of the camp’s strongest, their reputation a mix of fear and respect.

And now, they had a new addition:

A masked woman.

“I want to keep my name,” she said.

It was Teresa.

Formerly a member of the Demon Sanctuary Sect, she now stood as... well, something else entirely.

“I’ve wandered the continent long enough. I’ll settle here. Nice to meet you,” she introduced herself.

She claimed to be reborn. Her past, she insisted, had died with her supposed "execution."

Her willingness to follow so readily was strange, almost unsettling. What was she thinking?

“Who cares,” Kraiss muttered, shaking off his unease.

After all, what was the point of worrying?

Enkrid always did as he pleased anyway.

He had decided to spare Teresa, even going so far as to persuade her after declaring her fate.

“If you want to die, do it on the battlefield,” Enkrid had told her bluntly.

Teresa had hesitated but eventually agreed.

“Will you take responsibility for me?”

“Take responsibility for yourself.”

“The sect will come for you, endlessly.”

“...Did you come here to share a meal, or what?”

Teresa had been sent to kill him. The sect had already marked Enkrid as an enemy.

It was a mutual hostility, leaving no room for concern or fear.

Perhaps it was the calm indifference in Enkrid’s expression that swayed her.

“Regret it, and you’ll die,” she had warned.

“I won’t,” he had replied.

With that exchange, Teresa accepted her new life.

“As of today, Teresa of the Demon Sanctuary Sect is dead,” Enkrid declared.

That was the end of it.

Marcus, the battalion commander, didn’t ask questions or raise objections. Whether they should take her in or worry about the sect didn’t matter to him.

“Not my problem.”

Kraiss watched it all unfold and couldn’t help but think, The commander is truly magnetic.

Rebirth Through Training

“Let’s move,” Enkrid ordered.

Today was another day of relentless training.

The memory of the rapier duelist’s infiltration still lingered.

Perhaps the regiment had grown complacent, their discipline slack.

Even among the soldiers, one had been captured as a hostage—an embarrassing event that still haunted them.

“That was the last time!”

Bell, the soldier who had been captured, declared with newfound determination.

Enkrid addressed the soldiers gathered on the training grounds.

“I’ll make sure you’re all reborn.”

The announcement brought a collective shiver.

The previous training had been grueling, but now he was promising something far worse.

“Rem.”

“I’m here, boss!”

“Ragna.”

“Yes.”

“Audin.”

“Yes, brother.”

The three instructors stepped forward.

“And Dunbakel.”

“Yeah.”

“Beat anyone who slacks.”

The Half-Beast warrior stood as the unofficial enforcer.

“And Teresa.”

“Yes.”

Her calm, powerful response sent another wave of unease through the soldiers.

The power in her voice was palpable.

“You can beat them half to death if needed,” Enkrid added.

Was this a training regimen or a death sentence?

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Bell could feel his enthusiasm waning, his earlier resolve slipping away.

“Maybe I should retire...”

He wasn’t alone. The entire regiment seemed to share the same unspoken thought: they all wanted to run away.

But escape was impossible.

Instead of mere running, they now had to carry heavier packs. From dawn until dusk, there were no breaks.

Combat training was interspersed throughout.

“Today, it’s your turn. You’ve got a good face for taking a beating!”

Rem grabbed random soldiers to spar with, her blows landing heavily.

The other instructors were no different.

“Your legs are giving out? Allow me to help you up, brother.”

Helping meant pulling them to their feet—or, in Teresa’s case, striking them so hard they shot back upright.

For the soldiers, guard duty became the only reprieve.

It was the one time they could rest, as long as they stayed alert.

Slacking off or desertion wasn’t an option.

The memory of past failures—like the hostage incident—had solidified discipline.

A Noble Stays Behind

“Once more!”

Count’s son Edin Molsen hadn’t returned home. He remained in the regiment, refusing to leave.

His brother and guards were still with him.

“Aren’t you going back to your territory?” Enkrid asked after knocking Edin flat yet again.

“None of your business,” Edin retorted.

Enkrid didn’t press further.

As winter approached, the harshest season in Pen-Hanil loomed.

“Do you drink?”

One frigid evening, as Edin lay sprawled on the ground, he asked the question.

“No time for that,” Enkrid replied honestly.

A man more obsessed with training than anything else—that was Enkrid.

“You’re insane,” Edin muttered, revealing Enkrid’s true nature.

It wasn’t an insult.

Still bruised and battered, Edin shared a quiet exchange with his brother.

“Is this the best we can do?”

“I believe it’s one of the best options,” his brother replied.

“Is that so?”

Edin’s swollen, discolored face formed a faint smile, though it lacked any charm.

When their guard approached, the brothers fell silent.

Some conversations weren’t meant for an audience.