A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 422: Though the Apostle of Curses Arrived

Redit had sensed an ominous presence, though he could not determine its exact source.

Ominous forces were not always people.

But this time, they were.

In the Sacred Church of the Abyss, a bishop oversaw a single parish.

Above them, an archbishop governed multiple parishes.

And beyond them stood the apostles—few in number but absolute in power.

Now, one of these apostles had personally taken action.

His name was Redit.

"I will make him food for the worms."

He envisioned the man called Enkrid and steadied his resolve.

By simply willing it, his authority could manifest.

But Redit did not release it yet.

He hoarded his power for a single purpose—to kill one man.

Redit had been born in a village near the Abyss.

Before reaching the age of ten, he had exterminated every villager.

Even the livestock.

His innate power was curses.

With a mere gaze, he could burst a heart.

With just intent, he could make insects fester beneath his victim's skin.

Yet, he had not been an apostle from birth.

He became one at fifteen, after an encounter that changed everything.

For years, he had wandered the continent, feared as the incarnation of the devil.

Then, he met someone his powers did not work on.

"Amusing."

A man whose heart refused to burst.

A man whose flesh wriggled with burrowing insects—yet he did not even frown.

A man who smiled as flies gnawed at his skin.

"Try again."

An untouchable being.

"Follow me, and I shall teach you to call your pitiful gift an authority."

The man had radiated light.

To Redit, he was salvation.

"Who are you?"

Redit had asked.

The man had only smiled.

"I am the voice of those betrayed by false gods. I walk the thorned path for my master."

Redit had wept.

He knew—he had lived his life for this moment.

"Follow the Father. I shall open the gates to a new world for you."

Thus, Redit had been reborn.

He trained under his Father, refining his power until his curses became authority.

He became the Apostle of Curses.

"Father, I take my leave."

The Wolf Bishop was dead.

The Church’s plans had been foiled.

And the cause?

A single name now whispered among the Church’s highest ranks.

Enkrid.

His name was now known to every cardinal, bishop, and apostle.

The Father nodded.

"Go and show them that no one may stand in our way."

The conversation had taken place beneath the bright sun along the royal road.

By the time the war in Naurilia ended, the apostle had already infiltrated the kingdom.

Redit could not ride a horse.

Nor could he keep people near him for long.

Anyone who remained in his presence for more than a week would meet misfortune.

His direct curses—the ones that burst hearts and bred insects—were controlled.

But the passive ones?

A simple scratch from a branch would fester and kill.

A misplaced step would lead to a fatal fall.

A soldier patrolling near him might be struck by lightning.

His presence itself was a walking calamity.

He had never learned a single incantation, yet no sorcerer wielded curses as he did.

Thus, he had learned to amplify his power.

If he isolated himself, the curses he inflicted upon others grew stronger.

But if he gathered power for too long, the misfortune would strike him instead.

For this mission, Redit had gathered his authority to its limit.

If things went wrong, the backlash could kill him.

His skin had already softened, leaking pus.

His face had grown cratered with lesions.

At a glance, he looked no different from a ghoul.

But his opponent was a swordsman skilled enough to stand among knights.

Such preparation was necessary.

For a single curse, Redit had wandered uninhabited roads, collecting his power.

Like a fasting monk, he had embraced pain in the name of faith.

Now, the process was complete.

Pitted flesh.

Creaking bones.

Brittle joints.

A body so frail it might shatter with a single blow.

Yet, the moment he unleashed his power, he would be free.

For a short while, his body would feel no pain.

His very survival depended on wielding his authority.

Had it not been so, he would never have slaughtered entire villages or earned the title of the demon of curses.

But now, he was no demon—only an apostle.

He concealed his body beneath a heavy cloak, pulling the hood over his face as he arrived at the border guard’s domain.

"State your name and origin."

"Just a traveler. Cough, cough."

Even speaking felt like fire in his throat.

"I overdid it this time."

Redit knew he had gathered too much power.

But this pain would soon end.

Soon, he would be free of it.

For a time.

A cursed body could only find relief by casting its curse.

That was why he had spent his life wandering, leaving trails of corpses behind.

For now, he was just an apostle of curses.

"You look sick."

"There’s a clinic inside. Go check in."

The guards at the gate observed him without suspicion.

Recently, the border guard had transformed into a thriving trade hub.

Corrupt soldiers might have asked for bribes, but these ones were diligent.

Redit gave a slight nod and walked past.

A guard furrowed his brow as he noticed the pus trickling from Redit’s nose.

"Make sure you get treated."

Redit dipped his head once before stepping into the city.

He had no ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) need for an inn.

He was heading straight for the barracks.

Enkrid was said to be obsessed with training.

"Enkrid, sir!"

At that moment, a voice reached his ears.

Redit turned his head.

A man with black hair and blue eyes stood in front of a forge, securing metal gauntlets onto his hands.

A sign of divine providence.

"The god of the abyss watches over me."

A true god did not abandon his believers.

Redit whispered the creed of his faith as he gathered his power. ƒreewebɳovel.com

The unseen ripple of a curse surged toward Enkrid.

No.

A ripple would not be enough.

Redit stepped forward.

His cursed body screamed in protest.

But it didn’t matter.

He reached out his hand.

Enkrid looked at him.

"It is an honor."

Feigning the tone of a simple citizen, Redit reached for him.

Enkrid did not flinch.

And so, Redit’s hand touched him.

***

"Does the Apostle of the God of War truly claim to have spared a heretic without punishment? You must be aware that such an act is no different from declaring yourself a heretic as well."

Audin dreamed.

A fragment of the past unfolded before him.

The face of the one speaking to him twisted and warped.

Then, the distorted face transformed into a creature molded from clay.

The monster dragged itself forward, pulling along two misshapen stumps that barely passed for feet.

It was clear just from looking at it—the creature had crawled an unimaginable distance.

The writhing thing slithered closer, then clung to a man, melting and crushing him.

Looking closer, Audin realized who it was.

It was his commander, his brother-in-arms.

"Lord?"

Audin instinctively recognized the dream as a premonition.

He did not know what the mud-like creature represented, but the threat it signified was undeniable.

When he awoke, he realized he had dozed off in broad daylight.

It was clear—his god had arranged this moment to deliver a revelation through dreams.

Audin’s eyes immediately sought out the mad barbarian.

"Where is the General, brother?"

"He went into town to meet the blacksmith."

Rem was swinging his new axe, getting accustomed to the feel of it.

It was different from his previous weapon, though not entirely unfamiliar.

Adapting would not take long.

Rem was simply repeating a familiar process.

Audin exhaled a heavy sigh.

"If I'm late, it is my Father's laziness to blame."

It was an unthinkable statement—blaming his god.

Then Audin moved.

Rem wondered what had gotten into him.

***

What exactly was foreboding?

Enkrid had been waiting—not with dread, but with anticipation—ever since the boatman had spoken of impending misfortune.

Yet nothing had happened.

But he was not impatient.

He simply went about his routine.

"Once I’m used to it, let’s have a go."

Rem walked in, holding his new axe.

The Lewissian steel shimmered faintly under the sunlight.

No one would mistake it for an ordinary weapon.

"How long do you need to get used to it?"

"A day should be enough, so give me some time. Why are you so desperate to get beaten up?"

The usual back-and-forth.

"Ah, by the way, the blacksmith said he has something to give you."

"You could have just brought it."

"He insisted on handing it over personally."

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Rem recalled the blacksmith, who had tried to name his axe something ridiculous.

For a moment, he considered taking the weapon by force.

But the axe was too perfect.

Even against Enkrid’s newly acquired blade, Aker, it would not break easily.

Enkrid nodded.

The blacksmith sent by the royal palace wanted to personally present his work.

That was the difference between him and Rem.

He understood the smith’s intention.

"Fine, why not."

It was hardly a chore to drop by.

Becoming a general had not changed his daily life.

The only difference was how other officers treated him.

Especially Lieutenant Colonel Graham.

Then there were figures like Captain Vengeance and Squad Leader Bell.

And, of course, the growing number of eyes looking at him with something beyond respect—reverence.

But not everyone was like that.

His subordinates, for one.

Sinar as well.

They remained the same.

Lost in thought, Enkrid noticed Audin sitting off to the side, sleeping.

Even in sleep, his posture was flawless.

A curious thing.

With that in mind, Enkrid made his way to the marketplace and found the forge.

The heat was relentless.

It was the season of salamanders.

Among flame-breathing creatures, the salamander was both a fire spirit and a monster of fire.

The hottest season was often named after it.

The summer sunlight pierced through the trees, dappling the ground below.

As he walked, Enkrid considered new techniques, how to refine them, and how to put them to use.

If he picked up his item and returned to spar with Rem, today would be no different from any other productive day.

By the time he arrived, the blacksmith was drenched in sweat.

"The steel from your previous sword was quite exceptional. The core was too damaged to reforge into another blade, but instead..."

The man prided himself on his work.

He presented a pair of gauntlets.

They had been reforged from Silver, Enkrid’s old sword.

Metal gauntlets lined with leather, further padded on the inside with layers of fabric.

Pure metal would absorb no impact, after all.

The surface was smoothed into gentle curves, ideal for deflecting or catching weapons.

"Impressive craftsmanship."

Enkrid did not hold back his praise.

It was a fine gift.

As he turned to leave with the gauntlets—

"Sir Enkrid!"

Someone called out to him.

Enkrid glanced over.

It was a cobbler he had met once before.

A magician had once hidden in his shop’s basement.

It was the day Enkrid had first opened the Gate of Intuition.

It was not a memory he could forget.

"Ah, well, I was just so excited to see you again."

The cobbler’s voice was more formal than before.

Back then, Enkrid had been just another swordsman.

Now, he stood as a noble’s equal.

The man had called out in joy, but now worried—what if a noble scolded him for being too familiar?

"How is your daughter?"

"Do you have your eye on her, sir?"

"Not in that way."

As they exchanged casual pleasantries, someone approached Enkrid.

"It is... an honor."

The stranger extended a trembling hand.

Enkrid thought little of it.

Many recognized him now.

Some came to spectate his spars.

Others, like this man, simply wanted to shake his hand.

There was no way to suspect him.

No one would.

His appearance aside, he was clearly no fighter.

His posture, his presence—

Even a fifteen-year-old squire could beat him down.

The man’s hand touched Enkrid’s arm.

"How dare you lay a hand on him?"

The cobbler snapped in anger.

Enkrid waved it off.

The moment their hands met, he had felt something.

But as quickly as the sensation arose, it vanished.

Nothing tangible remained.

"Wh-what... what is this?"

The man’s voice trembled.

He was utterly shaken.

Enkrid blinked.

"He must be very sick."

He took the man’s hand in his own.

Would it be right to shun a man for his wretched appearance?

Surely not.

***

"What a fucking idiot."

Even the boatman could not see everything.

If the day repeated itself, he could observe most of what unfolded.

But he could not always discern the details.

So he had not known the idiot would try using a curse.

For once, the boatman felt shame.

He had warned of impending misfortune for days.

And it turned out to be a curse?

No force in this world could lay a curse upon that lunatic.

The boatman knew all too well why the stranger’s curse would mean nothing.

"Fucking moron."

He cursed the fools who had sent him.

Whoever they were, they were idiots.

"Stupid bastards."