A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 264: What Does the Black Blade Aim For?

“Well, how did it go?”

The question came from Edin Molsen’s father.

Seated at his desk, head bowed as he scribbled with a quill, he spoke without so much as glancing up, leaving Edin’s escort to address the top of his head.

Standing stiffly at attention, the escort opened his mouth.

“He’s opened Will. At least at the level of a junior knight.”

Rise, open, touch, awaken, achieve.

There were many ways to describe someone who had unlocked their Will, but only one thing truly mattered here:

He had unlocked it.

The man with the black hair and blue eyes—a tempting prize but not someone worth bringing in immediately—was now of considerable interest.

“He’s unlocked Will?”

The quill that had been scratching against parchment froze. The count lifted his head, and the change in his expression was unmistakable.

The escort thought it a rare occurrence to see such a shift and watched as the count repeated the phrase, lost in thought.

‘I knew the rumors weren’t ordinary, but Will?’

It meant the man had truly reached the level of a junior knight.

The difference between someone “at the level of a junior knight” and an actual junior knight was like night and day.

Comparing a clumsy swordsman to someone who wielded Will wasn’t even a discussion.

And yet, the world often tossed around terms like “junior knight-level” carelessly.

It simply meant someone who, without possessing Will, could fight on par with a junior knight.

The count knew better than anyone how meaningless such terms were.

The count put his quill down entirely and leaned back in his chair.

“He’s unlocked Will?”

The words he had just spoken echoed in his mind, unbidden.

This wasn’t something to dismiss lightly.

He had suspected the man was far beyond the level of a squire.

On the continent, someone “at the level of a junior knight” was usually just a squire.

These were individuals who trained their bodies and minds rigorously without ever unlocking Will.

Among them, some led debauched lives but still stumbled upon Will, while others lived austere, monk-like lives of pure discipline to reach the same level.

What they shared in common was that they were all holders of tremendous power, recognized across entire domains.

A squire was already considered an incredibly skilled swordsman.

And when viewed in this context, the term “junior knight-level” became utterly meaningless.

But now, it wasn’t just a matter of being on par with a junior knight—he was a junior knight.

The escort observed the count’s face. Aside from the change in his eyes, his expression remained as composed as ever. His facial muscles adjusted only in a calculated, detached manner.

The count offered a faint smile and said, “This just got interesting.”

He abandoned most of the plans he had been mulling over in his mind.

“What do you think of him?” he asked again, this time probing the escort’s insight.

The escort hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to reveal.

This man’s true intentions were impossible to discern. He was someone who could not be trusted.

‘A madman.’

Although a noble of Naurillia, the count had formed an alliance—or something close to it—with Azpen’s Hurrier family.

The escort himself was proof of that, stationed here under the guise of a bodyguard and guest of the count’s household but in reality a member of the Hurrier family.

As a junior knight of Azpen, he was a political pawn, tangled in schemes far beyond his understanding.

But one thing he was crystal clear on:

This man was plotting something, and Azpen had accepted his plans.

‘Does this man even have the capacity for fatherly love?’

There was no evidence of it.

The orange glow of sunset spilled through the window, filling the office with its warm hues.

Choosing his words carefully, the escort finally spoke.

“He is incredibly difficult to deal with, a challenging opponent who exerts a strange influence over those around him.”

“So, he’s the type to gather people under his command?”

“That’s not it. It’s... different.”

The escort paused. How could he explain this?

“Even without meaning to, everyone around him seems drawn to him, as if they enjoy simply being near him.”

The escort thought of the half-giant.

She called herself Teresa the Wanderer, but anyone who failed to recognize her true nature had to be blind.

She had once been an enemy—someone from a completely different faction who had caused trouble. Yet now, where was she? By whose side did she remain?

It defied logic.

And then there were the others around him.

Lastly, the escort couldn’t help but notice a change in Edin Molsen as well.

He had been about to mention the count’s son when the count spoke first.

“The Black Blade aims for him, you said?”

The sunset illuminated half of the count’s face. To the escort’s eyes, it looked as though the count had two faces, split by the light.

One side held no hint of concern, worry, or even interest regarding his son.

For a brief moment, the escort considered that the phrase aims for him might be inaccurate, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Well, this just keeps getting more interesting,” the count said, smiling faintly.

“Yes, I’ll take my leave now.”

As the escort exited, he was suddenly overcome with nausea.

Dealing with this man always left him feeling this way.

How far could human malice go?

What was he willing to sacrifice for ambition?

If someone offered him a path to knighthood, what would he give up?

Would he sacrifice family? His child?

Would he offer everything as a mere tribute for his ambition? Or would he stop short, preserving some shred of humanity?

The count before him seemed like someone who would never stop. Family, children, affection—none of it seemed to exist in his mind.

As the escort stepped out of the office and into the corridor, he noticed a man standing guard.

Clad in a black helmet with silver hair spilling out, the man tilted his helmet in acknowledgment.

The escort returned the gesture with a nod before stepping into the shadowed hallway, out of the sunset’s reach.

The black-helmeted bodyguard closed the door behind him with a thud.

The count leaned his chin on his hand, staring at the closed door.

His mouth felt dry. He pulled out a pipe, placed it between his lips, and snapped his fingers.

With a small burst of flame, the glow of the sunset was pushed back.

The count lit the pipe with the fire at his fingertips, a smile tugging at his lips.

He took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling it through his throat.

The wisps of smoke curled out of his mouth, mingling with the sunset light to form an orange haze.

“The Black Blade...”

They wouldn’t find this amusing.

If he was truly a junior knight and surrounded by equally formidable individuals, they’d have a hard time getting what they wanted.

‘Whether they succeed or not...’

If the Black Blade inflicted harm on Enkrid and his group, he could weigh the scales and act accordingly.

But he doubted that would happen.

It was just a hunch, but such hunches rarely proved wrong.

“This is going to be entertaining.”

The count fell deep into thought, and nowhere in his mind did Edin Molsen exist.

***

The moment Enkrid grabbed the assassin’s wrist, his opponent yanked back with all his strength.

Naturally, the wrist didn’t budge an inch.

It was as if time had stopped for the arm, veins bulging on the back of the hand under Enkrid’s crushing grip.

Even among the monstrous individuals surrounding him, Enkrid’s sheer physical strength wasn’t lacking.

Crunch.

With a sharp pull, Enkrid twisted the wrist backward at an unnatural angle, breaking it. The sound of the bone snapping was clear, yet no cry of pain escaped his opponent’s lips.

The marketplace was a chaotic crush of people and goods.

Few among the throng paid attention to what was happening.

“Hey, you idiot! Watch where you’re stepping!”

A merchant with a street stall barked angrily.

“There’s no room to walk here!” someone else complained.

It looked like the roads needed widening—something that probably required pouring krona into construction. Evidence of such work was visible here and there; even major roads were under renovation.

This territory was undoubtedly expanding.

As the hunchbacked assassin reached out with his other hand, Enkrid acted faster.

Before the arm could fully extend, Enkrid’s right fist shot forward, the motion too quick for even Kraiss, standing nearby, to follow.

There was only the faint whoosh of the strike, followed by a sickening crack.

Even Esther, nestled in Enkrid’s arms, was slightly startled by the impact that barely made her shift.

‘He’s gotten even sharper,’ she thought.

As a witch, Esther couldn’t fully comprehend what had changed about Enkrid, but her instincts told her this was the case.

The blow shattered the assassin’s jaw.

Enkrid grabbed the hood of the thick robe his opponent wore and yanked it off, revealing a disheveled man with a hunchback and unkempt hair.

The entire sequence—breaking the wrist, striking the jaw, and removing the hood—was over in mere breaths.

But as soon as it ended, a projectile whizzed through the air toward Enkrid.

With his heightened senses fully active, Enkrid turned to intercept it, swinging his open palm in an arc.

The projectile was deflected and slammed into the ground at a perfect right angle.

It was a dart.

“Not bad,” Enkrid muttered, nudging the dart with the tip of his boot.

“‘Not bad’?” Kraiss exclaimed, his voice laced with disbelief. “You break a man in two and that’s what you say?”

Esther leapt from Enkrid’s arms, landing gracefully on the ground. Her sudden movement startled a few onlookers.

Some had already noticed the fallen hunchback, the blade in his hand, and the confrontation involving Enkrid and Kraiss.

While travelers unfamiliar with the local figures might not recognize them, the natives of the Border Guard territory certainly did.

“A knife!”

“An attack!”

“An assassin!”

The shouts quickly escalated the chaos.

People screamed, merchants yelled as they tried to protect their wares, and the scene devolved into pandemonium.

Enkrid expanded his senses, scanning the surroundings.

Nothing stood out.

That was precisely why he had called his opponents formidable.

‘I didn’t sense him until the dagger was about to strike.’

The one who threw the dart had likely vanished into the crowd immediately after. Tracking them was near impossible.

Their ability to blend into the masses was evidence of highly refined stealth.

If there had been fewer people, perhaps Enkrid could have pinpointed them, but now he could only focus.

Where are you?

He asked the question in his mind, sharpening his vision, hearing, smell, and touch.

Adding his sixth sense to the mix, he finally picked up a faint killing intent.

The moment he focused on it, something whizzed toward him from behind—a heavier projectile, slower than a dart.

A sling stone?

Turning, Enkrid caught sight of the incoming object. His trained eyes, honed through relentless practice, clearly made out what it was.

A leather pouch.

Trusting his instincts, Enkrid unsheathed his gladius, angling the blade so the flat side faced upward. He struck the pouch as it approached, slicing it apart.

Thwack! Boom!

The pouch burst mid-air, scattering metal spikes in all directions.

‘Well, that’s new.’

“Ahhh!”

A few spikes hit the ground. Thankfully, it was winter, and most people were dressed in thick clothing, so injuries were minimal.

Still, the market descended further into chaos.

“Everyone, inside! If you’re out here, we’ll treat you as enemies!”

The shouted order came from a patrolling soldier.

It was the right call. In situations like this, brute force and strict measures were often the best solutions.

Enkrid remained still, quietly surveying his surroundings.

Kraiss, after looking around, decided this spot was safer than moving and stayed put.

Ping!

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Two more darts shot through the air, one aimed at Kraiss.

To Enkrid’s enhanced senses, the trajectory of the darts became clear—lines extending toward their intended targets.

His focus reached its peak. A single, explosive moment of concentration.

Heightened awareness, precision, and daring all came together.

In a seamless motion, Enkrid dodged the dart aimed at him with a slight tilt of his head and snatched the other one from mid-air.

It all happened in a single breath.

If the assassin had seen this, their hair would have stood on end, their bladder trembling with the urge to flee.

And they had likely seen it.

Enkrid twirled the dart he’d caught between his fingers, letting it dangle mockingly.

‘So you’re aiming for Kraiss now?’

A third dart came flying, this time aimed at Esther.

But the leopard had already dodged, her swift movements leaving the dart to embed itself harmlessly in the spot where she had stood.

Her speed was unmatched by any human.

A low growl rumbled from her throat, and Enkrid, his senses still fully attuned, remained on high alert.

This was no ordinary assassin but a group of highly skilled professionals.

‘They’re leaking killing intent on purpose, throwing those spike pouches...’

And the darts—were they poisoned? They likely were.

Killing intent flickered and disappeared throughout the market.

“Stop pushing!”

“Don’t trample me!”

“Do you know who I am? How dare you shove me!”

“Help me!”

“Ahhh, get out of the way!”

The market descended further into chaos, a cacophony of screams, shouts, and panic.