A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 733: You Can’t Scoop Up Yesterday’s Spilled Water

If one has trained long enough, they’ll sense disturbances even in sleep—so there was no danger.

And just because he was alone didn’t mean he was overcome with melancholy.

There was no time for loneliness.

The sword.

In fact, it was precisely because it was quiet and still that this time could be considered perfect for refining swordsmanship or organizing his thoughts.

Had he not learned an immense amount by now?

Lately, it was Imperial swordsmanship, and even the sheer presence of Valphir Valmung as an Imperial Knight—all of it had been a kind of instruction.

"Imperial knight."

Enkrid had observed Valmung like dissecting a specimen.

With his eyes, he traced the structure of Valmung’s developed muscles.

With his ears, he listened to the sounds of movement interwoven with breath.

Of course, he engaged his other senses as well.

What kind of experiences had Valmung accumulated?

What sort of attacks would he unleash in real combat?

If Tempest Zaun was a greatsword, and Alexandra like a sharp thorn...

"Valmung feels like a mix of sword, spear, and club."

The image rising in Enkrid’s mind was of a spearhead poking through a shield, combined with an axe, a sword, and a spiked club.

It felt like only a single eyeball peered faintly from the shadowed gap between shields.

"He’s skilled at hiding himself and striking with the blade."

He may outwardly appear to wield just a club, but it was likely he carried many concealed weapons.

Was it devious?

Rather than calling it that, it was more accurate to say he matched the way he introduced himself.

"He’ll use any means necessary to win."

Should Enkrid counter him with tactical swordsmanship? Only that?

There was no chance of victory with self-imposed limitations.

A sword is wielded by a person.

Restricting oneself to a single technique would be foolish.

One shouldn’t discriminate between methods in a fight.

Just like when he mixed Flash with the Blade of Coincidence to cut down that bastard Gelt or whoever he was.

To face Valmung, he’d have to use everything at his disposal.

And even then, the outcome wouldn’t be guaranteed.

Enkrid found a suitable cave and settled down.

He didn’t light a fire.

Instead, he crushed some pungent berries he found nearby and rubbed the juice on his body.

A common method among lone travelers or mercenaries.

This masked his scent, making it easier to avoid detection by beasts or monsters with strong senses of smell.

Even better if there were traces of animal dung nearby.

Where monsters or beasts roamed freely, ordinary animals would stay away.

So if droppings were found, it meant the area was relatively safe.

The Pen-Hanil mountain range was overflowing with monsters and beasts, so territorial boundaries would be clear.

Otherwise, animals would be wiped out, and only monsters would thrive—turning the place into a true demonic domain.

The center of Pen-Hanil was said to resemble such a demonic realm, but most areas were not.

Monsters, beasts, and animals all coexisted.

Which meant the territorial lines were well-defined.

Still, if unlucky, one could end up as a monster’s meal.

But that wouldn’t happen to Enkrid.

Only the unlucky monsters or beasts would die instead.

There was no urgent business that required a dash straight to the border guard.

Not that he was intentionally dawdling either.

Enkrid simply moved according to his instincts.

He judged that he still had time.

So, inside the cave, he reflected on what he’d learned and contemplated various things.

He sliced the air with a knife-hand and twisted his body in different poses, analyzing his stance.

Recalling the techniques Valmung had shown him also served as study.

Experience, after all, accumulates into strength.

"Of course, I have to be cautious not to develop bad habits."

A knight, after all, had superior bodily control, so the chances of picking up strange habits were slim.

When he grew drowsy, he slept in short spurts.

There was no sense of accumulating fatigue.

Sure, the weariness from traveling was real, but not unbearable.

"Even if I had to fight right now, I’d be fine."

It was the night after parting with Valmung.

A night when two moons rose full in the sky, and the stars twinkled as if trying not to be outshone.

As he closed his eyes to try and get some proper sleep, using the sounds of insects, rustling grass, and summer night noise as lullabies...

Enkrid suddenly realized he was standing at the prow of a boat.

He had been summoned—invited—by the ferryman.

The ferryman stood on the black river, holding a violet lamp and staring at him.

Was this like all the previous nights?

There were a few differences.

The ferryman’s face was clearer than before.

His skin was cracked like the surface of a grey wasteland.

His face seemed a little longer than before.

His black eyes revealed nothing, and his mouth was the same.

His tongue was purple.

Inside his mouth was a deep, pitch-black abyss.

If one enters the wrong pond, they can lose all sense of direction and drown—his mouth looked just like that.

It was a form that stirred a primal fear in humans.

He had always been unsettling, but tonight was worse.

The ferryman spoke in a tone feigning kindness and gentleness.

"Welcome."

The kindness was an act.

Enkrid’s sharp intuition picked it up instantly.

But he couldn’t figure out why.

Before, hadn’t the ferryman urged him to protect Anne, to hold onto the blessing of today?

Enkrid had never felt goodwill, but tonight was unmistakably different.

"What’s different?"

A black shadow stretched far behind the ferryman.

A shadow Enkrid had never noticed before—large and wide.

What if that shadow had a name?

"Malice" would fit perfectly.

Yes.

Tonight’s ferryman was brimming with malice.

When the corners of his mouth curled upward, no gums showed—only blackness.

Even the black river, usually calm, seemed intimidated by his malice.

"Your welcome is a bit... excessive."

"If I don’t welcome you, who should I welcome? There’s only one joy in this abyssal darkness."

He said this with a smiling face.

"And what joy is that?"

"Ecstasy, euphoria, pleasure, bliss, joy, rapture—the endless repetition of this joyous day."

Enkrid didn’t detect vulgarity in his tone.

What he saw instead was obsession.

Where did that obsession come from?

Desire. Longing.

The ferryman was no human, but his mindset was similar.

"If you want to understand someone, you must know what they want."

He recalled # Nоvеlight # the lesson learned from watching Heskal.

Today’s ferryman was full of malice.

And that malice had revealed itself.

"He’s shown his true colors."

He was an honest ferryman, in his own way.

What he once hinted at vaguely, he now declared plainly.

That was likely his idea of sincerity.

Repeating the day steeped in pleasure and delight.

That’s what the ferryman longed for.

"What if I had failed to protect Anne?"

The ferryman’s cracked smile twisted upward, scattering dust from his dried skin.

"Then you would have repeated this day in pain and sickness. Not the worst thing, really. But... was that the end you truly wanted?"

He asked again.

Enkrid said nothing and simply stared at him.

"One day, that time will come. A misstep at a crossroads, and an irreversible moment will arrive."

The ferryman wasn’t a prophet.

Enkrid already knew that.

Yet somehow, every word he spoke felt like destiny.

"Look."

The ferryman showed him a today that had not yet come.

There, Enkrid was dying of disease.

"If you said you enjoyed every battle, then act like it."

Ragna’s eyes dimmed as he looked at dying Enkrid.

Beside him lay Anne’s corpse.

The surroundings were blurry, but one thing was clear.

In that scenario, Enkrid was making pain his companion—repeating a deathless today.

With no one to save him, only endless dying remained.

The ferryman’s voice pried into him like fingers digging into flesh.

"I helped you."

Each word was like a dagger to Enkrid’s heart.

At every moment of decision, the ferryman had intervened.

Before the monster targeted Anne, he had warned him.

Before battle, he had offered helpful whispers.

Was that the truth? It didn’t matter.

The ferryman had awakened Enkrid’s primal fears.

One mistake, and you’d be trapped in a horrific today.

The past cannot return.

You can’t scoop up yesterday’s spilled water.

Enkrid lowered his gaze, speechless.

To the ferryman, that was expected.

Those who confront their fears freeze.

That’s when he inserts his own desire.

"Sit at the table. I’ll make sure you win."

"Embrace a woman. Lose yourself in pleasures unknown to this world."

"Take the drug. Feel it race through your entire body."

"You love the sword? Swing it. Want to cut something? Then do it. Do whatever you desire. I’ll help you."

The ferryman’s curled mouth engraved his will into the silence left by fear.

"Live this today, soaked in rapture."

The ferryman desired it—rapture, joy, ecstasy.

Pleasure that fills in an instant.

That was how human fear crushed Enkrid’s body.

"Protect Anne."

Every word the ferryman had said now turned into fear.

He had crafted all of this for one moment.

Telling Enkrid to save Anne, helping him—it was all part of his plan.

One mistake, and everyone around him dies.

That kind of today cannot be undone.

Yes. It was fatal.

Fear gnawed at every part of him.

It would be easy to collapse.

The human mind is not infinite.

It wears down.

And fear traps people—forces them into a single path.

Even Enkrid felt fear.

He was human, after all.

But fear and terror are worst the first time.

They grow bearable with repetition.

Fear is one of the strongest emotions to drive a person.

Even more so if pleasure lies just beyond it.

Now, Enkrid could tell what the ferryman could and couldn’t do.

"The ferryman can observe the present and guess the future. But he cannot know the past."

If he knew Enkrid’s past, he wouldn’t resort to psychological tricks.

That odd hobbyist with the violet lamp didn’t know the man Enkrid had been before the loop began.

Enkrid recalled the past.

The ones he’d lost because he was too weak.

Those he couldn’t protect with his own hands.

Time twisted by a single decision.

Things he’d experienced more than once.

"If I stop here, then everything I’ve done so far is meaningless."

That’s why he said it.

And the ferryman’s expression twisted.

It was no longer a smile—just pure irritation.

His lamp shook.

The river rippled.

"...You will regret this."

"I already do. Every day."

After a short silence, the ferryman’s face remained still, yet it seemed distorted with frustration.

Then came the feeling of floating.

And though it felt like part of a dream, he heard strange voices.

"Well done."

"You little bastard."

"That’s the right call."

"That’s why you bet your gold on high-multiplier odds."

"Look at that fucker’s face."

And then—snickers and giggles.

In total, it was chaotic.

So damn noisy.

Enkrid opened his eyes, thinking.

Whether it had been a dream or hallucination, he was now awake.

The night was still pitch black.

There was no sound of beasts or monsters.

He hadn’t woken from any threat or instinct.

Enkrid wiped his eyes.

"Thank God."

He must have shed a tear in his sleep.

If this had happened at the barracks, Rem and the others would’ve nicknamed him “the weepy squad leader.”

And Kraiss would’ve spread the rumor everywhere.

Fucking lunatics.

Enkrid closed his eyes a little longer, then rose at sunrise.

He checked the sun’s direction, gauged his route, and began walking.

Not in a straight line toward the border guard—but along a more passable detour.

That’s when he stumbled upon something unexpected.

Signs that someone had passed through.

The flattened direction of the grass, faint lingering scents—it all pointed to human traces.

This area bordered the empire and the continent.

No place for people to live.

So what was this?

A hunter’s trail?

But this was too deep.

Hunters came to hunt, not to die—none would venture this far.

If curiosity didn’t stir, you weren’t human.

Enkrid followed the trail—one only someone like him could have found, thanks to chance and instinct.

And found a village.

He knew immediately what kind it was.

"A hermit’s village."

The continent wasn’t built for small villages.

With monsters and beasts rampant, humans clustered in cities.

But sometimes, people couldn’t adapt to city life.

Some were exploited by lords.

Others falsely accused.

Some had committed actual crimes.

So where could such people live?

They survived by hiding.

Avoiding both monsters and beasts—living by every means necessary.

What he saw now was a village like that.

The terrain itself was a natural fortress.

They’d dug traps and used geography to block monsters’ approach.

"And that’s not all—they must’ve used monster territorial lines too."

It felt familiar.

After all, Enkrid had grown up in a place just like this.