A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 612: A Light That Does Not Dazzle

Rophod had expected that Jaxon’s assassination of several priests would make the enemy hesitate—but the opposing commander simply blamed it on evil spirits.

‘Quick on his feet.’

Or perhaps... he had planned that exact response all along.

Rophod quietly assessed the enemy and ally positions, the terrain, and the battlefield layout.

Just as he finished factoring in the enemy army’s slow advance, he reached a conclusion.

‘If we fight inside the monastery, the damage will be too great. People will die before they can even resist. The monastery’s martial monks shouldn’t be counted as part of our main force.’

So, what now?

Sword in hand, Rophod stepped to the front of the monastery and began clearing away the palisade and brambles blocking the entrance.

In truth, he had already started doing this earlier—back when Esther blocked the holy spells.

Pell had helped. That was why Enkrid had given the signal for them to move.

It wasn’t some deep tactical calculation.

Nothing that complicated was visible anyway.

Behind Rophod, who had nearly finished clearing the path, Pell spoke.

“I’m going out first.”

“...You bastard. I was the one opening the gate—why are you first?”

“If you want to fight, go out and fight. Little brothers.”

Teresa’s voice cast a shadow over their heads as she offered a wise answer to their clumsy squabble.

Seeing Audin arrive in the distance, her gaze turned to her master.

Audin gave a slight nod.

There would be plenty ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ of time later to catch up on what had happened in his absence.

For now, they had work to do.

“We won’t fight inside. We’ll fix the battlefield outside. That way, people won’t die.”

Rophod said this as he stepped forward.

Of course, that meant he, Pell, and Teresa would be wagering half their lives in the process—but that wasn’t a big deal.

After all, sparring with Ragna or Enkrid often meant being pushed to the brink of death.

Wagering half a life? That was manageable.

Rophod genuinely believed that.

Back in Naurill, he could never have imagined doing something like this.

Acting first, instead of waiting for others’ decisions.

And with Enkrid’s subtle go-ahead, it was as if he had received permission.

So he stepped forward, walked slowly ahead, and drew a line in the dirt.

“Anyone who wants to die, cross this line.”

He wanted to mimic something Enkrid had done once.

Right then, Pell casually stepped over the line.

“I crossed it.”

“You idiot shepherd, that was for the enemies.”

“Yeah, I know. But before anyone even gets close to this line, my sword will find them first. Come on—if they’re carrying steel without talent, they should be ready to lose their lives.”

The first part was for Rophod. The second, aimed at the enemy.

Pell seemed relaxed.

He saw few among the enemy who looked worth worrying about.

The approaching enemy troops grew fiercer.

Those who bore Gray Light had clearly dipped deeply into the secular world for personal gain.

For such people, authority was the highest value.

And seeing two warriors completely disregard that authority enraged the paladins.

The heat that rose in their bodies had a name—fury.

“I’ll rip your mouth apart!”

The first paladin charged. He wasn’t mounted—he trusted his legs.

CLANG!

The ground rang out as he became a straight line cleaving the battlefield.

Pell met him head-on and drew a different line across the man’s body.

Click, slice.

Only Pell heard the sound.

Those watching from a step back didn’t hear it—but they saw it.

The massive paladin’s side split open, spilling long ropes of intestines as he collapsed.

“Grrrghk.”

He tried to clutch at his spilling guts.

Rophod followed up and slammed his sword’s flat side into the man’s head.

WHACK! THUMP!

The helmet tilted, and the man’s head slammed into the dirt.

Blood from his wound soaked the dry, cold earth with a wet, warm pool.

“One down,” Pell said.

“I finished him,” Rophod snorted, stepping up beside him.

The rest of the charging paladins hesitated.

They hadn’t broken through the enemy by luck.

If they charged recklessly now, they’d only add to the casualties.

Among every ten paladins, there was one who led the rest—senior paladins.

“Form ranks.”

Veteran units always polished their formation tactics.

This one was no different.

The twenty Paladins of Plenty split into two groups.

Six more confident paladins from the Scales faction approached Teresa, who had stepped aside.

“A giant? Looks worth fighting. Skin that thick should give a good slicing feel.”

One of them licked his curving blade as he spoke.

As if Teresa hadn’t learned a thing or two from Enkrid? Of course she had.

“Your tongue’s going to get a metal infection.”

A barbed insult—one she’d learned from Enkrid.

It twisted the paladin’s smirk.

“You bitch.”

Hardly priest-like language. But Teresa’s heart remained calm.

Not that it was time to celebrate serenity.

She raised her shield at a slant toward her left diagonal.

The six paladins spread out, preparing to surround her.

None of them entertained the possibility of defeat.

They drew their weapons in a practiced formation.

Teresa took a moment to recall all her past training.

It made her stomach churn.

The Mad Knight Order’s training was brutal enough to make even a giant hybrid dizzy and nauseous.

What had she gained from it all?

She stepped forward with her left foot, grounded herself with her right, and lowered her stance.

She was ready to slam her shield down at an angle the moment someone approached.

“Hmph!”

One paladin rushed in and swung his flail.

A downward strike aimed to bypass her shield and crush her wrist.

Teresa raised her shield just enough to block it with the edge.

CLANG!

Metal struck metal.

A heavy roar rippled out.

It was a reckless attack that ignored defense.

Teresa immediately countered with a downward slash of her sword—powered by raw strength.

Two paladins flanking the attacker blocked it with thick iron rods.

CLANG!

Another deafening impact.

“Regret stepping forward,” one of them sneered, brows furrowed.

Their tactic was simple: one attacked boldly while the others blocked.

Six fighters meant symmetrical attacks from both sides.

Teresa blocked one side with her shield, the other with her sword—or countered it outright.

From the outside, she looked at a disadvantage.

Her opponents rotated positions while she couldn’t.

But Teresa didn’t see it as a crisis.

Defending against these three was easier than fending off Pell and Rophod sparring together.

The lack of openings didn’t bother her.

“If pushing and pulling won’t open the door, question whether you lack strength.”

So said the scriptures of the God of War.

Teresa loved that line.

When Enkrid had demonstrated a Will-infused strike, she had already learned to do something similar.

She fused her innate giant strength with Will—to open the door that wouldn’t yield.

CLANG!

She blocked with her shield and deflected a flail from the right using her pommel.

In the opening she created, she swung her sword in the same vertical arc.

The blade slammed into the crossed iron rods.

BOOM!

A different kind of impact.

CRACK.

The sound of something breaking.

“...You brute.”

Even if both defenders split the force, what if the strike exceeded that?

And Teresa hadn’t relied on brute strength alone.

If she had, her teacher Audin would have sighed in disappointment.

No—the angle and technique had changed, too.

At the moment of impact, she twisted the blade, focusing the force on the left defender.

A modified version of the paladins’ signature “Piercing” technique.

By concentrating force to one side, the sound changed—and one defender’s wrist broke.

“Heal him!”

Another paladin shouted.

But if you left your comrade exposed to do that, your strategy had a different kind of problem—one in the brain.

Teresa’s sword and shield shifted to a new rhythm.

Faster. More aggressive.

She used the shield as a weapon—gripping only the handle and swinging the edge like a blade.

When the shield edge sliced through one paladin’s armor, he cried out:

“You crazy bitch!”

Teresa smiled.

“You know our order’s name?”

With that comeback, she declared her allegiance.

“Mad!”

Another paladin shouted—right as her sword stabbed forward.

Not just a poke—a full-bodied thrust.

If it landed, broken ribs would be the least of it.

The blow drove through a paladin’s thigh.

THUMP! CRACK!

The bone shattered.

He screamed.

“Aaaagh!”

A bone shard tore through skin and burst out of his leg.

She had struck with an inward force to maximize the internal damage.

“Defend! The God of Scales watches over us!”

In a panic, they called down divine light.

Clad in gray under the sun, their light held no brilliance.

Teresa noted that as she swung her weapons again.

While she was mowing through six paladins—beating, breaking, and downing them—Rophod and Pell faced their own battle.

“Why are you right behind me?”

“Go herd sheep somewhere else. Don’t hang around here.”

They snarled at each other, but neither left the other’s back exposed.

Not every paladin was of knight-tier strength—those were rare.

But one in ten? That ratio felt accurate.

They rotated—attack, defend, retreat, switch.

No gaps to exploit.

And the ten weren’t uniform. Habits varied.

Since they weren’t winded, they put full strength into each strike.

Turning the tide in such a fight wouldn’t be easy.

This was the classic battle: a few strong versus many lesser foes, bleeding them dry.

Among the paladins, two had knight-tier skill—and both were patient.

They didn’t rush in but moved seamlessly with their allies.

That made them even harder to deal with.

And their mouths were just as quick.

“Idiots.”

“Don’t even know where you are.”

“Two morons.”

“I’ll cut out whichever of you talks the most.”

“Didn’t I say not to cross the line, dumbass?”

“Go cry to your mommy.”

All sharp-tongued.

Had they been trained for this?

Paladins under Myl often dealt with merchants and bandits—that explained their wit.

One of them, a weasel-faced guy with a goatee, even pronounced “dumbass” with perfect venom: “bbyung-shin.”

It was hard not to get mad.

Not all twenty talked, but with over half throwing jabs, Pell and Rophod couldn’t win the verbal battle.

They had no choice but to endure insults and attacks in turn.

Flick.

One spear nicked Pell’s cheek. A drop of blood flew.

He retreated and kicked a stone with calculated precision.

It zipped through the air—

THWACK!

—only to be blocked by a shield.

The stone shattered, but no opening was made.

On the other side, Rophod was deflecting spears and morning stars.

If this kept up... what would happen?

Pell already knew the answer.

And if he knew, Rophod definitely did.

That guy was made for analysis.

“Hey.”

Pell called him.

“What.”

Rophod responded while stepping.

They moved in sync.

“You see it too, right?”

They didn’t get along. Not even a little.

But because they constantly fought each other, their coordination was the best in the Order.

At knight-tier, solo combat was usually more efficient.

But not for these two.

Pell knew Rophod’s style.

Rophod knew Pell’s.

Rophod lacked Pell’s explosiveness.

His swordplay was slow and deliberate, building layer by layer—opposite of power swings.

He knew his weakness, so he mixed in heavy sword techniques—learned from Ragna.

Ragna wasn’t the best teacher, but he never refused a duel.

Pell, on the other hand, was all aggression.

He didn’t plan—he reacted. Animal instinct.

So, his mind games were weak.

Rophod usually wanted nothing to do with him.

But then—

“What, your mom slept with a ghoul?”

One of the paladins twisted his goat-beard and sneered.

Pell decided a temporary truce was fine.

“Guy’s got a captain-tier tongue.”

“Go ahead. You can be the one to cut it out.”

Pell agreed.

That paladin’s quick wit had just united their blades.