A Knight who Eternally Regresses - Chapter 779

WeTried Translations

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Chapter 779: Relatively Easy

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Was it thanks to Ruagarne, who had repeated it like a mantra for days on end?

Or perhaps because of the song they had been humming for so long.

The scenery inside the village changed without warning. Sounds of fighting came from here and there. Yet not one of the villagers looked for the demon god.

"O Knight of the End. Grant us salvation."

An old woman murmured the words, and a child corrected her.

"It's the Knight of Fatal Charm."

A shadow hung over the entire village, both physically and psychologically. The ground suddenly rose here and there, becoming walls, and before anyone knew it, a ceiling had formed overhead to block out the sun.

Then those who fed on their fear appeared.

There were two swordsmen. One carried a thin blade that bent and flexed. The other held a deformed sword, rectangular from the Ricasso to the tip.

"Wonder if there'll be any decent cutting here."

The man with the deformed sword muttered.

"I'm sick of this work. I just want to get out of the Cursed Ground."

The owner of the thin sword responded. The two looked accustomed to this sort of thing.

"You know you won't be able to play this Labyrinth game once you go to the continent, right?"

Balrok's Labyrinthing could only be used in places heavily influenced by the Cursed Ground. That much could be inferred from their conversation.

Of course, none of that mattered much to anyone here besides those two. When death was staring them in the face, why would any of it matter?

"Grant us an end."

The old woman bowed her head. Seeing that, the man who had been talking about decent cutting raised his rectangular short blade.

Hollow cheeks, dark circles beneath his eyes, skin so pale it had turned gray, and oily hair grown to his shoulders. If you met him on a dark road, you could call him a murderer without hesitation. On top of that, he wore a jacket sewn from leather. His trousers, vest, and coat were all far from ordinary.

They were all made from tanned human skin. They were also his distinctive defensive gear, the clothing that symbolized him.

He had spent his whole life using murder as a tool for pleasure, so calling him a murderer based on his appearance would not be entirely mistaken.

His right hand rose. If he brought it down, the old woman's head would split vertically.

Her skin might have turned purple, but her brain would not have changed, and her blood would still be red. The sensation traveling through his hand as he cut would be the same as well.

He could hardly wait.

Normally, he had to be satisfied with cutting Demon Creatures, Magic Beasts, or the man standing beside him. But dealing with the man beside him was no easy task, while Demon Creatures and Magic Beasts offered no satisfaction in cutting.

Part of his ugly desire surfaced on his face. Heat flickered in his eyes as he brought down the rectangular blade.

Clang.

His sword failed to accomplish its purpose.

Even so, the heat in the murderer's eyes remained. His gaze shifted to the one who had blocked his sword. He had known from the start that someone would approach and stop him, but he had allowed it.

A longsword stood in the way of his blade. It had been crafted by a dwarf, and its owner was named Ropord.

"And who are you?"

Ropord asked, staring directly at his opponent. Compared to the murderer, he had a neat appearance and steady eyes.

Only moments earlier, he had been immersed in training, exchanging ideas with Fell, though not in pleasant terms. Then the terrain around him suddenly changed, and someone who looked as though cutting people was his profession appeared.

So he blocked him.

Ropord's eyes were already examining his opponent as though dissecting him piece by piece.

His stance, attitude, and eyes. The heat in those eyes alone made Ropord's stomach turn.

It was like the desire of a decrepit old man leering at a young woman.

The opponent withdrew his blocked sword and swung his other hand without a word. That hand held another short rectangular blade.

'A cleaver?'

Ropord drew back his sword to block and thought his opponent's weapons unusual.

A Shortsword shaped like a cleaver.

Something like a smile appeared on the lips of a man who looked as though he had never shown any expression in his life.

"Huu. You look like you might be worth cutting."

Hearing the words breathed out like that sent a strange chill down Ropord's spine.

Whoosh.

The opponent moved his feet and closed the distance. The old woman was still crouched between them with her head bowed. She could not even lift her head, only trembling in fear.

The opponent's weapons were shorter. Ropord's longsword was twice as long.

That meant widening the distance would be advantageous. The problem was that the cleaver in the man's right hand was aimed at the old woman. He had deliberately tried to chop her to death.

It was not an action driven by whim. It was calculation.

You're going to protect this old woman, aren't you? Then don't you have to stay there?

That was what he seemed to be asking.

Ropord extended his sword and blocked the cleaver the man swung with his right hand.

Clang!

Sparks flew as the blades met. The changing terrain had darkened the surroundings, making the sparks stand out even more.

While he blocked the right-hand cleaver, the cleaver in the left hand aimed for his throat. From his extended position, Ropord stepped sideways, bent his knee, and lowered his stance.

Supporting himself on one leg as he shifted his stance, he lifted the other from the ground and swept it at his opponent's ankle.

The man swinging the cleaver spun around the old woman and avoided the kick.

He knew it was advantageous to fight with the old woman between them.

'You'll keep protecting her, won't you?'

It was the same question as before. And above all, he was not alone.

Ropord frowned. Was this troublesome? Not quite.

A memory had simply come to mind.

Even if something heard only in stories appeared before you, it was difficult to recognize it immediately.

All the more so if there was a gap between the image you had imagined and reality.

Ropord's opponent was the protagonist of a very old story. More precisely, its villain.

In other words, he was one of the scary stories parents told children who would not listen.

That was why a single sentence, not even Pressure, had sent a chill down Ropord's spine. It was because of a memory etched into him in childhood.

"Murderer Dahmer?"

Murderer Dahmer, or Tanner Dahmer.

A notorious murderer who carried two cleavers and made clothes from human skin.

He had grown up suffering countless abuses, and his father had been a leather craftsman.

One day, Dahmer happened to hold a knife while being beaten with a leather belt. His First Murder, committed in something like defiance, was the killing of his parents. On the day he first held a blade, he killed them and later wrapped the handle of his knife with his father's skin.

He continued killing people afterward, tanning and selling their skin, which was why he was also called Tanner Dahmer.

"Does this make any sense?"

The old woman remained crouched between them, trembling. Even so, Ropord asked calmly.

Dahmer found it quite strange. Was this bastard fearless? Or was he simply a good actor?

Either way, he would be worth cutting.

Ropord stared at him.

'Hasn't he been dead for decades?'

That was why the distinctive appearance and the patchwork clothing made of skin had not occurred to him right away, despite being so far from ordinary.

"Yes, I'm that Dahmer."

Three thick wrinkles lay across his forehead like earthworms.

They had always been one of the features that made Dahmer an object of fear.

'So they really were real.'

When Ropord was young, Dahmer had only been the protagonist of a frightening story.

Few children raised in cities would not know Murderer Dahmer. That made this all the more remarkable.

"Really?"

Dahmer nodded and moved to kick the old woman.

Ropord reacted. Dahmer planted the foot he had intended to kick with, then swung his weapons in a crossing motion at the man who had stepped into the range of his cleavers.

Clang!

Ropord barely stopped his advancing body and raised his longsword at an angle to block.

The instant his breath and movement came to an abrupt stop, a curved blade shot out from behind him and stabbed toward the back of his head.

Clang!

Another sword, not Ropord's, blocked it. Naturally, it was Fell.

"Two against one?"

Fell spoke while glaring at his opponent.

"Tch, what a shame."

The man with the flexible sword clicked his tongue and stepped back. He landed lightly, narrowed his eyes, and glared at Fell.

'He blocked that.'

He had judged that his sword would swing a little faster, so he had let Fell intervene. By his calculations, his blade should already have pierced one man's skull, while the man in front of him should have been too late to block.

That meant this one was no pushover either. Then this fight would last quite a while.

He was a Master of the Correct Sword, capable of calculating dozens of exchanges in an instant.

Dahmer enjoyed tormenting his opponents little by little, mentally or physically, before deciding the fight with a single blow. The two were swordsmen with completely different temperaments.

Ropord assessed both their general temperaments from their stances, weapons, attitudes, and speech.

What if his assessment was wrong? What if they were beings capable of deceiving all his senses and insight?

"Then I should die."

The words Frog, Ruagarne, had spoken came back to Ropord. She had said one should not expect to survive after encountering someone skilled to that degree.

Words Fell had added from beside her also came to mind.

"If you want to live, train. You talentless Ropord bastard."

Fell was the sort to make up nicknames as he pleased.

Still, it was probably thanks to him.

Ropord found it easy to read Dahmer's intent. Compared with the unexpected strikes Fell displayed, Dahmer was completely straightforward.

Dahmer himself never thought so, but Ropord naturally awakened one of his own talents at that moment.

The eye that let him view himself objectively as though looking down from above allowed him to understand his opponent's perspective, as if viewing himself through the opponent's eyes.

In a situation like this, reading his opponent's intentions was all too easy.

Dahmer thought he was gradually wearing his opponent down. Ropord played along.

He pretended to misstep, pretended his breathing had become tangled, and pretended to despair that he would not be able to save the old woman if this continued.

It was Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship, deceptive swordsmanship designed to fool an opponent.

Dahmer believed he had seized an opportunity and swung with all his might. He had been alternating left and right, changing his rhythm, but now he raised both cleavers overhead, gathered his strength, and brought them down. It was a heavy strike that changed the pattern on an offbeat rhythm.

Ropord met the moment he had waited for. He gripped the sword hilt with his right hand and the area near the Ricasso with his left, receiving both cleavers and holding firm.

Bang!

It was a strike infused with Will. His opponent was a murderer who had reached the level of a Knight through killing.

Or rather, he had been one a very long time ago.

Using the principles of Bind, Ropord locked the blades together. As he received the force his opponent sent, he dissipated the impact through his knees and waist to keep the blades locked.

Then, while blocking, he extended his foot past the old woman and stomped on the man's instep.

The block and stomp were simultaneous.

Dahmer could not avoid it. Ropord's foot crushed his instep. It was such a heavy stomp that a thud rang out.

Crack. Crunch.

As Dahmer's broken instep bones made his face twist, Ropord had already released his sword. He reached out, seized the man's jaw and neck, and twisted Dahmer's neck in the opposite direction.

Crrrck.

The cervical vertebrae turned a full rotation, twisting as the skin of his neck spiraled.

It was part of the Martial Arts he had learned by watching Audin and Enkrid, along with some instruction directly from them.

Without even a final cry, Dahmer dropped to his knees with a thud. Ropord had killed a fear from his childhood. Not that he considered it anything special.

In the meantime, Fell had finished his own fight.

The man who acted like a master of calculation began turning things over in his head, so Fell simply charged straight at him and cut diagonally with the principles of Vortex Enkrid had shown him.

The man with the flexible sword had not anticipated Fell's strike. He collapsed, spilling his entrails through his split body. Black mist poured out in place of blood alongside his entrails.

"You were all going to die by your master's hand anyway."

That was what he said.

"Master?"

Fell asked, and the man cackled as he replied.

"All of you are in the Labyrinth now!"

After shouting, he vomited a rush of black mist and died. His body turned into black mist and disappeared.

"Labyrinth?"

Ropord, who had approached, asked, but Fell only shrugged. Only then did the old woman cautiously lift her head.

"It's all right now."

Being killed by their master and the Labyrinth were matters for later.

For now, Ropord had achieved what he wanted. Like Enkrid, he had protected someone. The person was purple-skinned, someone called a Demon Lord or one of the Infiltrated ones, but he still felt proud.

"This isn't the end, is it?"

"Well, then we'd better keep moving."

The two walked on, searching for the presences and ominous feelings they sensed here and there. Before long, they found Frog, Ruagarne, supporting herself with her Loop Sword. One of her legs and one of her arms had been severed. She had apparently already killed her opponent, for only black powder lay before her.

"What happened?"

Ropord approached and asked. As he supported Frog, she tensed her muscles to stop the bleeding and spoke.

"Something suddenly jumped out. It was at the level of a Knight."

"And then?"

"Jaxon went slash, slash, then promptly left."

Ah. Understood.

The group, now three strong, continued walking and soon encountered Audin, Teresa, and Romen.

Then they saw Audin fighting in earnest.

'He was frightening even when he smashed through walls, but...'

He was even more terrifying now.

"To keep those who should go to the Lord trapped here!"

He looked angry, too.