A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 286: The Madman Who Chased Immortality

Before the words even finished leaving his mouth, a sharp spear tip descended from above.

A vertical thrust.

Rem kicked off the ground, launching himself sideways.

Yet the spear followed him, almost as if it had eyes.

It adjusted midair, changing direction unnaturally.

"A falling weapon?"

The thought barely formed before Rem swung his axes.

With his right-hand axe, he struck the spear shaft.

With his left-hand axe, he rotated it to block the blade’s impact with its flat side.

Clang! Crack!

Half success. Half failure.

He had managed to block the blade.

But his already fractured rib snapped completely.

Still, he had broken the spear shaft, so it wasn’t a total loss.

"I was tricked."

It hadn’t been a falling weapon.

That was a relic of the Western tribes, a type of weapon bound to its wielder, capable of independent movement.

But true falling weapons didn’t break this easily.

This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.

He had assumed it was one and struck accordingly, intending to sever the link between the weapon and its owner.

After all, such weapons required a connection to their wielder.

"You’re tough."

The stranger’s words trailed off, as if the phrase "to have withstood that" was simply implied.

Rem’s eyes focused on the Westerner.

"Who the hell are you?"

He asked.

The answer was already obvious.

He could tell just from that last attack.

Strong.

Power, speed, precision—all refined to the level of an elite warrior.

This wasn’t some random mercenary.

"You stand on a battlefield where men kill or die. What kind of question is that?"

The stranger responded casually, tapping his shoulder with the butt of his spear.

Completely at ease.

His appearance was peculiar.

A leather cuirass covered his chest.

Greaves wrapped his shins and thighs.

The same protective leather armor extended from his hands to his shoulders.

His entire body was clad in tanned hides.

His hair was a mix of gray and white, yet his face was bizarre—one side lined with deep wrinkles, the other smooth and youthful.

An unnatural blend of age and youth.

He released his grip on the spear.

But instead of dropping, the weapon floated at knee height, hovering midair.

"What kind of bullshit is this?"

Rem’s eyes narrowed.

"A technique?"

It wasn’t magic.

No incantation, no surge of sorcery.

It felt like witchcraft, but the spear itself carried no mystical aura.

Yet, despite not being a relic, it still hovered on its own.

Not wanting to reveal weakness, Rem subtly lifted his left arm to cover his injured side.

Pain followed, but pain was nothing.

If he couldn't endure this much, he would have died long ago.

"Let’s make this easy."

"Easy where? Back home? You giving me something?"

Rem kept his mouth running, as usual, while searching for an opening.

Every time he prepared to hurl an axe, the stranger subtly shifted his footing.

More than anything, that floating spear was a nuisance.

It hovered within a fixed radius around him, never straying too far, poised to strike at any moment.

"Where the hell did this guy even come from?"

Moments ago, he had taken down three monstrous wolf beasts, breaking his ribs in the process.

Even though the fight had seemed quick, it had been a brutal struggle.

The so-called Wolf Bishop of the cult had lost his prized beasts and was furious over it.

But now, the real threat wasn’t the monsters.

"I’ll rip your tongue out."

Whoosh!

The spear shot toward him.

Not from where it had been hovering—but from the stranger’s left hand.

Rem visualized the spear’s trajectory.

He swung.

A familiar motion—the light-speed cleave Enkrid always described.

Boom!

The spear rebounded, knocked aside by the axe’s edge.

But the impact sent a numbing shock through Rem’s arm.

Then, without pause, the floating spear struck.

"So it’s not a relic, but he can still use it like this?"

There was no time to figure out how.

Rem kept swinging.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Axe and spear met in rapid succession, sparks flying as steel kissed steel.

The cold air itself seemed to burn from the friction.

He had already forgotten the chill of winter—his entire body was drenched in sweat.

Even the warmth of the heated stone he carried in his pocket became irritating.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

The spear never relented.

It withdrew and struck again.

Over and over.

No matter how many times he deflected it, it always came back.

By the time he had blocked the eightieth thrust, Rem stomped his left foot into the ground, shattering a rock.

The fragments scattered forward.

A chunk of stone, large enough to act as a shield, blocked the space between them.

Crack!

The spear impaled the rock, halting its attack for a moment.

Just enough time.

Rem batted aside the remaining spear with his right-hand axe—

Then hurled his left-hand axe straight at the enemy’s skull.

The axe reached him in an instant.

It should have split his head open—

But it stopped.

Midair.

Trembling.

The blade and handle quivered, suspended in place.

"I was wondering what trick you were using."

Rem muttered, finally catching on.

The stranger tilted his head.

"So you’re only half-trained?"

Gray hair.

Unnaturally youthful skin.

Rem recognized him now.

In truth, he had suspected from the beginning.

"The madman who chases immortality."

"Knowing won’t save you."

The stranger smiled.

A perfectly wrong smile.

His features made it unsettling.

Rem recalled the stories he had heard back in his tribe—

But he pushed them aside.

"Didn’t finish your training, huh? And that left side... How many ribs? Two? Three?"

The man’s guess was right.

Two ribs.

Had it not been for his sheer muscle control, they could have punctured his organs.

And as for the half-trained comment?

That, too, was true.

Rem had refined the techniques he had learned into his own unique style.

But there were things he had abandoned along the way.

And so, he was only half-complete.

"Didn’t even properly learn the arts. No inherited soul, either."

Bzzzzzt.

The man produced a small metal orb from his pocket.

A spectral blue beast flickered over his left arm.

"Ah, witchcraft."

Rem recognized it immediately.

Not just any sorcery—

A possession rite.

The man’s left arm was now imbued with the strength of a beast.

Even a simple rock in his grasp had become a deadly weapon.

Rem hesitated for the briefest moment.

The magic, the injuries, the relentless attacks—

Should he just kill him outright?

If he truly went all out, he could do it.

But was there a need?

He looked like some mindless brute, but Rem lived life on his own terms.

So—

"Hey."

He spoke first.

The madman who had slaughtered an entire Western tribe and stolen their secrets responded.

"What?"

"See you later."

"...What?"

Rem pulled out two fist-sized orbs wrapped in paper.

Bang!

The moment the stranger saw them, he hurled a spear.

But the orbs had already exploded.

Gray smoke billowed out, clouding the air.

Whoosh!

The spear cut through the fog—

Crash!

Only to shatter a tree in the distance.

"That bastard—?"

The Madman Who Chased Immortality sharpened his senses.

A hunter knew how to track.

And a good hunter also knew how to hide.

But giving up was not an option.

The madman closed his eyes for a moment.

When he reopened them, they gleamed with an unnatural blue light.

A spell.

A witch’s sight.

His vision pierced the fog, locking onto a single moving figure.

"Run all you want."

The madman moved.

And his steps were just as fast as Rem’s.

***

"Back from playing around?"

Enkrid muttered to himself, his voice barely louder than a passing thought.

Yet every member of the Mad Platoon instinctively nodded in agreement.

"He’ll come back eventually."

Enkrid wasn’t worried about Rem.

Not because he didn’t have the time to be.

But because it was Rem.

The mad barbarian. The reason the Mad Platoon had its reputation.

"He might’ve just gone back to his homeland."

Jaxon threw out a comment that sounded more like wishful thinking.

The two had always been so fond of each other.

Now that Rem was missing, it was oh so concerning.

"Right. Nothing to worry about."

Enkrid said, polishing his sword.

"...Me? Worried?"

Jaxon’s voice went cold.

A single wrong word here, and he’d stab someone.

"Haha, our dear barbarian brother must be taking a nap somewhere."

Audin smoothly redirected the tension.

Worry?

No one here worried about Rem.

Enkrid thought of him for a moment.

He’ll show up when he shows up.

That’s just the kind of person he was.

He’d play and come back.

Upon returning to the main camp, it was clear—Kraiss’s plan had worked perfectly.

Shinar had severed the heads of four enemy commanders.

The cultists had lost part of their supplies.

"Rem? Ah, must be waiting for the weather to change."

Kraiss said dismissively.

For someone who was always pessimistic about him, he certainly sounded unbothered now.

Enkrid, too, simply focused on what needed to be done.

"What’s the enemy’s status?"

"Exactly as we expected."

Back in Graham’s command tent, the discussion continued.

If both armies clashed head-on, who would win?

"Who else? Azpen."

They’d sit back and clean up whatever was left.

That meant the troops stationed in Green Pearl couldn’t be pulled back.

In fact, they were asking for reinforcements.

A sign that Azpen’s forces were pressing hard.

If things escalated, they’d join the battle.

So, the only solution was this—

Kraiss needed to break the Black Blades and the cultists before it became an all-out war.

"We don’t need to kill them all."

Demoralize them. Force them to retreat.

Buy time.

That was all they needed.

The strategy?

Hit them before they could fully commit.

Force them into a decisive one-time battle.

And in that battle, break them completely.

They had to collapse on their own.

The Three Conditions for Victory:

1. Break the enemy’s secret weapon.

That was Enkrid’s job.

Kraiss had spent days thinking—if he were in command of the Black Blades or the cultists, what would he have prepared?

The Mad Platoon was a known wild card.

They would have something planned for them.

And if they faced it unprepared, it could be disastrous.

So, the goal was to force it into the open.

Make them use it.

2. Kill Viscount Tarnin.

Cut off their political reason to keep fighting.

3. Move to Green Pearl the moment the battle ends.

Because if they didn’t finish things fast, Azpen would.

"If this goes wrong, we all die here."

Graham muttered.

Kraiss, of course, had no intention of dying.

But he did nod.

A lot of people were going to die either way.

Just as planned, the cultists—having lost supplies—were forced to merge with the Black Blades instead of raiding local villages.

The two armies combined and began advancing toward the plains.

The Border Guard’s standing army moved forward to meet them.

Sitting behind fortifications was an invitation for Azpen to strike from behind.

So they had to meet the enemy head-on.

The winter wind howled, kicking up dust between the two armies.

Under a dim, gray sky, across frozen ground, they faced each other.

"We have to win."

In the center of it all, the Mad Platoon.

Kraiss stood with them.

If the battle fell apart, he’d run.

Better to stay close to Enkrid when that happened.

Enkrid knew his reasoning but let it be.

It was a logical choice.

"We have to win."

He mulled over Kraiss’s words.

But it didn’t necessarily have to be him who won.

As long as they showed the path to victory, that was enough.

He had several thoughts—but he said nothing.

This was no longer the time for words.

Now, it was the time for swords.

He stepped forward.

Da-da-da-da-da!

A horse galloped from the enemy’s side.

A rider tossed something between the two armies.

It landed just outside of bow range.

"What now?"

Venzance frowned.

"Pick it up."

A scout rode forward, retrieved it, and brought it to Enkrid.

It was a weapon.

Enkrid recognized it immediately.

A battle-worn axe.

Lagna’s eyes narrowed.

"A barbarian’s relic."

"Mm. Shall we bury it? You can go with it."

Lagna and Jaxon both muttered casually.

How coordinated they were in times like these.

A few soldiers recognized the weapon.

Some realized Rem was missing.

The ranks stirred.

"What? Rem’s dead?"

"No way—he was last seen burning down the cultists’ camp."

"And he never returned."

"What mission could be more important than this?"

Enkrid let their voices drift past him as he inspected the axe.

The blade was chipped.

Deep gouges marred the surface.

It had clearly been through a brutal fight.

"Looks like he’s playing around a little longer."

Enkrid murmured.

"We could just consider him dead."

Dunbakel commented dryly.

Such heartfelt concern from his comrades.

All of them sounded so sincere.

Enkrid half-listened as he refocused on the enemy.

One side—monsters.

The other—men.

The Black Blades and the cultists.

And among them, Viscount Tarnin.

Wearing ill-fitting chainmail, the man shouted.

"I will personally sever the heads of these traitors and offer them to the King! Cut them down, all of you!"

He raised his sword high.

His voice was loud.

Had to be enchanted, the way it echoed.

But no one moved.

"That idiot."

Kraiss spat, disgusted.

A useless noble.

Nothing but a talking pig.