A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 384: Lived

"Half a day. From the beginning, my plan was only to buy half a day."

Сrang had said that just before the fight. It was the first time Matthew had heard it.

The moment he did, Matthew looked outside. The sun had not yet set. It wasn’t even twilight.

'We have to hold out until evening.'

He expected it to be difficult.

But.

Whoosh.

By twisting his wrist slightly, the tip of the whip moved forward as if it were alive, dancing through the air.

The opponent didn’t even look at it, merely striking near the leather section with an elbow rather than the tip.

A simple flick, yet all the force in the whip vanished, leaving it slack and disrupted. The precise severing of the force transmission rendered it useless.

Matthew felt his momentum completely cut off but clenched his teeth and gathered his strength.

He swung his arm wide, launching the weighted tip of the whip forward again.

Whoosh.

The whip sliced through the air.

In that moment, Enkrid swung his sword.

From above, a vertical strike descended like a bolt of lightning.

Even Matthew could feel the weight of the force behind it.

'If he blocks it, an opening will appear.'

Even a knight-in-training wouldn’t be able to avoid that.

The opponent struck just above the ricasso of Enkrid’s sword, pushing it aside.

Rather than matching strength with strength, he used technique to deflect Enkrid’s force laterally.

Enkrid's body was momentarily thrown off balance. Having gone all out, he momentarily lost his footing.

Yet, instead of regaining his stance, he spun in place, drawing sparks as he thrust forward.

An unconventional move—one he had honed after defeating Aisia.

It was called the Moment’s Will thrust.

Whoosh.

The opponent dodged it as if evading a child’s thrown pebble, merely twisting his waist.

His ease was so effortless that it seemed natural.

Afterward, Enkrid sheathed the embers and gripped Silver with both hands, slashing, stabbing, and stepping in and out of range repeatedly.

Matthew, despite feeling his momentum cut off again and again, kept swinging his whip.

Their ally, wielding a trident, also struck whenever an opportunity arose.

Even if injured, she should have still been formidable.

Yet their opponent didn’t even bother properly dodging her trident.

As if swatting away a bothersome fly, he deflected it with slight twists of his body when it came close or knocked it off course with his sword before it could even reach him.

The same applied to Matthew’s whip—it posed little threat.

The only one holding out was Enkrid.

Which was why Matthew felt despair.

'Hold out against this until evening?'

It was impossible.

Enkrid could collapse at any moment.

A blade grazed his cheek.

A shallow cut left droplets of blood scattering through the air. But Enkrid paid it no mind, throwing his body sideways and swinging his sword horizontally.

Whoosh.

A slash that seemed capable of splitting the air itself—yet the opponent merely took a single step back.

Enkrid’s sword passed through where he had just been.

There wasn’t even the sound of a footstep as he evaded.

Watching it, Matthew felt his chest tighten with helplessness.

A wall. A different existence.

A gap in talent. A difference in birth itself.

And they were expected to endure against that?

'This is impossible.'

Despair and anguish filled his heart.

The strength in his hand holding the whip began to fade.

He couldn’t stop his spirit from breaking.

Striking with the whip felt like smacking it against a sheer cliff face. Even if he struck for a hundred years, the cliff wouldn’t fall.

Wasn’t that obvious?

How could he ever tear down the wall blocking his path with a mere whip?

In that moment, their trident-wielding ally took a fatal wound.

Even with Enkrid there—rushing, slashing, and charging like a storm—it had still happened.

Their opponent had casually flicked a dagger backward.

It weaved through the gaps in their breathing and tore through the ally’s neck.

The sheer skill in throwing the dagger sent chills down Matthew’s spine.

Blood gushed out, thick and heavy. The ally clutched her neck with both hands as Сrang approached, wrapping it tightly in cloth.

Matthew barely registered his words.

"Hold on."

There was no time to turn back.

Only one thought had been gnawing at his mind from the start.

'Does this even matter?'

If saving Сrang had meaning, then enduring had meaning.

And if that was the case, then he would keep going.

But even that wasn’t possible anymore.

They wouldn’t be able to hold the line. Сrang would die.

Should they have let him escape to the very end?

No.

If they did, then the first person to die would be in their hearts.

Сrang—his liege—had said as much.

Just as his heart was about to be consumed by black despair—

"Hah!"

Boom!

A cry burst out, followed by a deafening impact.

The sheer force of it rang in his ears.

The war cry alone was powerful, but the impact that followed was enough to shake the air itself.

Matthew turned his gaze.

There, pressing their swords together, was someone bleeding from the side.

A black-haired back. A broad frame.

Someone who, unlike him, hadn’t lost an ounce of momentum.

"I’ve caught you."

He spoke.

"You let yourself be caught."

His opponent replied.

Curly brown hair tangled in strands over his forehead as he spoke.

For the first time, Matthew saw the enemy’s face clearly.

"Let’s keep going."

Enkrid’s voice carried something within it.

At some point, their positions had shifted.

Because Enkrid kept pressing forward.

Thanks to that, Matthew could see his face clearly—and the sight made his chest ache.

From the tips of his toes, his entire body bristled.

Matthew understood.

They could never hold out until evening.

Enkrid had no chance of winning.

As proof, blood ran freely from his side.

His cheek was scratched. His left arm guard was tattered, slashed at some unknown point.

And yet—

'He’s smiling.'

Enkrid smiled.

Even as their blades clashed and his movements were repeatedly interrupted, he smiled.

The despair that had painted Matthew’s heart black suddenly thinned.

A light shone somewhere in the darkness, streaking through the ink.

Strength returned to his arms.

He raised his whip and swung.

A few more exchanges followed.

During that «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» time, Matthew dodged three thrown daggers.

If luck hadn’t been on his side, he wouldn’t have avoided any of them.

And those three daggers—only had that much force because Enkrid had disrupted them.

If he had been alone, stopping them would have been impossible.

The fourth dagger found his thigh.

'I thought he would go for the throat immediately.'

Against a significantly weaker opponent, the best move was to take out their mobility first.

'No. That, too, is because of Enkrid.'

Because Enkrid was there, the dagger had struck his leg and not his throat.

Matthew retreated. He was only getting in the way now.

Сrang slid an arm under his and supported him.

"Don’t get too close."

"I know that much. He’s going to lose, right?"

"He’s holding on."

"Then why is he smiling?"

"...I don’t know."

Yet Сrang’s own eyes gleamed as he spoke.

Matthew had barely held on because of something Enkrid had shown them.

Even so, the sun was still too high in the sky.

Updat𝓮d from freewēbnoveℓ.com.

"When is reinforcements arriving?"

Matthew asked.

Protecting Сrang was his duty.

But beyond that, another, more personal wish had taken root.

'We can’t let him die here.'

He had to save Enkrid.

If needed, he would throw himself into the fire.

Why?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that his entire body was electrified.

That man wasn’t meant to die here.

"If he has any sense, he’ll come a little faster."

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Сrang replied, pulling a chair over and sitting Matthew down before tending to his wound.

Сrang, too, was no ordinary man.

Even in a situation like this, he was treating injuries.

Matthew’s gaze naturally shifted—to the ally who had been slashed at the neck.

"He won’t die."

Сrang said.

If they could hold on just a little longer, that would be the case.

Both of them turned their attention back to the battle.

A clash too fierce to intervene in.

One side struck with the precision of a machine, severing rhythm and momentum.

The other charged like a wild stallion, exploding forward with reckless force.

***

The flow was severed. No matter what he did, he couldn’t maintain the rhythm.

This wasn’t just a level above Aisia—this opponent was clearly on Rem’s level.

Or maybe weaker? He didn’t know. Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts.

He slashed vertically, then horizontally, thrusting and twisting his strikes, mixing in Valen-style mercenary swordplay.

It was deception. He feigned exhaustion, gasping as if out of breath, luring his opponent in. The moment they closed the distance without hesitation, he drove Embers forward.

Moment’s Will—the ultimate refinement of a technique honed through his battles with Aisia.

The thrust was like lightning. In an instant, it reached its target.

He had combined everything he had learned about speed—from the first lesson he received from a soldier in his earliest cycle, to every refinement since.

And yet, it was blocked.

Blocked so simply it was almost laughable.

Ping. Tidididing.

The opponent lifted a short sword with an almost playful motion, twisting the blade so Embers slid harmlessly along its surface.

It was a type of flowing swordsmanship, executed with breathtaking precision.

Enkrid let go of Embers midair, gripping Silver and lunging forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

He surged forward just as quickly as his opponent closed the space between them.

The gap narrowed. He had abandoned his sword and entered the range for close combat.

But the opponent had already vanished.

With a whoosh, they leapt back, disappearing as if into thin air.

The flow was severed.

Enkrid ignored it.

He kicked back with his foot, catching Embers mid-fall, flicking it up into the air.

With a thunk, the sword spun above his head. Before it could land, he reached out, seizing Silver mid-air.

The opponent had already closed in, thrusting their sword forward.

They specialized in exploiting gaps, breaking momentum, and dictating the timing of the battle.

Even so, he endured.

Most would find this kind of fight unbearable. They would call it unfair. They would despair.

Enkrid did not.

‘I’ve never seen this before.’

It was new. Different.

And to him, that was exhilaration.

“I need to kill you first, then Aisia.”

The man spoke as if announcing he’d be eating mashed potatoes and roast duck for dinner.

His tone was flat. A simple statement of fact.

If he killed Enkrid, the day would repeat. But if he only killed Aisia—

Would today still reset?

“I won’t leave while losing more.”

No. Even in Crang’s words, there was determination.

Would his concerns about repeating today make him throw this moment away?

‘I don’t know.’

He didn’t care to know.

Right now, all that mattered was swinging his sword.

That alone was enough.

“Hooah!”

With a cry mixed with joy and exhilaration, he moved.

Enjoying, savoring, reveling in the clash of sword against sword, attack against defense, technique against technique—until the sheer elation of it all overflowed.

Enkrid felt the condensed experience of all his repeated days fusing into one.

Before thought, his body moved first.

As if some divine force had seized his limbs and guided them.

And beyond that, he saw it—the opponent’s movement before it even began.

They would raise their sword to the upper right, preparing to thrust.

They had just begun gripping their sword with both hands, lifting it into position.

Seeing that, Enkrid stepped half a pace forward, occupying the space.

He twisted his torso, driving his sword forward.

He didn’t aim for the head—he aimed for the forearm.

At a glance, it seemed no different from his previous strikes.

But for the first time, he had stolen the timing.

It was half a beat faster than before.

Compared to his previous attacks, it looked ordinary in speed and trajectory.

And yet, the sword struck true.

Pak!

The blade split the opponent’s forearm guard. Blood splattered.

They instinctively raised their left arm to block, then withdrew.

“...Hmm.”

The opponent was surprised, but didn’t make a fuss.

Ah, I got cut, their reaction seemed to say.

Then, they resumed fighting.

Enkrid had no time to bask in the thrill.

The opponent was the pinnacle of apathy—plain, flavorless, like unseasoned chicken breast.

They wielded indifference itself as a weapon.

No excitement. No arrogance.

So what?

All that mattered was swinging the sword.

And so, he did.

If it worked once, it could work twice.

But not immediately.

The half-beat faster strike had only succeeded once.

Rhythm in battle was ultimately relative.

He had only slipped into the opponent’s rhythm because his body had moved before his mind.

If he couldn’t do that again?

That was fine too.

Enkrid feinted a forward charge, then pushed off the wall instead of the ground.

He mimicked Aisia’s light-footed movements.

The opponent had been waiting for that.

They swung their sword in a diagonal arc, vanishing into the motion.

This time, it was exactly half a step faster than before.

He had anticipated it.

And yet, it was still hard to block.

The blade closed in on his head.

Enkrid yanked his own sword back to intercept.

If he didn’t, he’d die.

Thud!

He blocked it.

But now his right wrist was completely twisted.

He had tried to deflect, but failed.

The force in the blade sent his body flying backward.

With a heavy thud, he crashed onto his back, rolling as he got up.

“Ugh.”

Then, he coughed up blood.

The impact had damaged his internal organs.

It had been a strike infused with Will.

Enkrid didn’t realize it, but it was a technique designed to transmit shock through the body when blocked with Will.

His legs trembled. His vision blurred for a moment.

His body, pushed past its limits, refused to obey.

Enkrid blinked several times.

And then, someone stepped between him and his opponent.

“If you’re going to kill someone, kill me first. But you’ll let the others go, right? I’d say my life is worth at least that much.”

It was Crang.

Enkrid tried to rise—only to realize his ribs were broken.

“Lord!”

Matthew shouted.

Enkrid forced himself upright and spoke.

“Who said you could decide that?”

The opponent had come here to kill Crang.

“You and I aren’t done yet.”

Enkrid steeled himself for death once more.

For today to repeat once more.

Was this another wall?

If so, he would simply climb over it.

But—this wasn’t just a wall.

Something had shifted.

Something had twisted.

This was no longer the same day as before.

The opponent raised their sword, indifferent.

Crang, Enkrid, Matthew—whoever stood in the way, they would cut down, over and over.

At that moment—

A chill ran down Enkrid’s spine.

Behind him.

Something was coming.

Boom!

A thunderous impact.

A massive figure burst through a shattered window, breaking through the very frame itself.

In an instant, they closed the distance, leaping in front of Enkrid.

Then, they struck at the knight who severed momentum.

Through his dimming vision, Enkrid caught sight of what they held.

A blade—longer and thicker than an ordinary sword.

The setting sun cast an orange glow through the broken window, illuminating the back of the one who had stormed in.

Enkrid recognized them.

And spoke.

“We’re alive.”