A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 412: The Civil War Was Over

Audin, too, was finally regaining movement now that the paralysis from the Holy Restriction was lifting.

“You’ve done well, brother.”

“So have you.”

Their exchange was brief and unembellished.

Audin walked forward, his boots sinking slightly into the wet earth, and knelt beside the count’s body.

Bringing his hands together, he began a prayer.

It was the duty of a priest to pray for the dead.

Even if his life had been filled with nothing but sin, he would be given a chance to reflect before the Lord.

"May he remain by Your side and receive Your teachings."

The god Audin followed delighted in punishing sinners. His teachings were not kind—they were closer to a personal beating.

A sinner’s repentance would be assisted by the Lord’s fists and feet. That was how it was understood.

“May you find peace there.”

Peace?

Enkrid wondered if that was possible.

Ragna stood up, his movements unsteady. Though he didn’t let out a groan, his body was far from unharmed.

Even he had overexerted himself.

His sword was damaged, the armor wrapped around his body was torn, most of it in ruins.

Fortunately, no one had the energy to mock him for it.

Jaxon, too, was still standing with a hole in his stomach. Yet his expression remained impassive as he slowly pushed himself off the ground.

“It’s over.”

His voice carried an odd sense of relief, mixed with a faint tinge of regret.

Did he want to be the one to land the final blow?

Perhaps.

The rain continued falling.

Enkrid turned his gaze toward Rem, who had yet to rise on his own.

Rem stared right back at him.

What are you waiting for?

Enkrid asked with his eyes.

Rem, after a long moment of contemplation, finally spoke.

“Captain.”

“What?”

“I’ll grant you the honor of carrying me.”

In other words, I can’t walk.

“You can’t walk from that alone?”

Ragna, unable to hold back, commented.

“Weak constitution?”

Jaxon added.

“Perhaps you’ve been neglecting your training,” Audin said with genuine concern.

“I’m merely offering you a chance to be grateful to me, Captain,” Rem declared.

Of course, none of their words fazed his thick-skinned pride.

Enkrid didn’t know the full extent of the situation, but he did know one thing—Rem had pushed himself the hardest.

It was a fact.

Even before the battle formation was set, Rem had used sorcery. And not his own—it had been borrowed magic.

Using someone else’s sorcery was one of the most dangerous acts a sorcerer could commit.

It was the equivalent of stealing another person’s offering of faith.

What Rem had done was forcibly modify and wield a totem crafted by the Madman of Immortality himself.

Forcing such magic would naturally cause recoil.

On top of that, he had played the role of midway coordinator within the battle formation.

Even Audin, the foundation of the formation, had not endured as much.

His body screaming in agony was inevitable.

He could have endured the damage and walked if he forced himself, but he had no desire to.

I’ve done enough. I should at least get carried.

Besides,

It’ll be fun.

He also wanted to recover as quickly as possible.

He had seen Enkrid’s final slash—the moment the count was cut down.

If I heal quickly, we can spar sooner.

At some point, Rem had become infected by Enkrid’s way of thinking.

He, too, wanted to cross swords with him.

Properly. With a sound body.

So he would get carried.

His voice was casual, but his eyes burned.

His determination to be carried burned so intensely it seemed to evaporate the rain around him.

“Does my body look fine to you?”

Enkrid asked dryly.

“Compared to mine, yes.”

Rem’s response was confident.

Truly a mad bastard.

And yet, Enkrid still intended to carry him.

He had done enough to earn it.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

“I’ll do it.”

When had they arrived?

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Dunbakel and Teresa had appeared, both catching their breath after running to them.

Dunbakel stepped forward.

“I’ll carry him.”

Rem didn’t argue.

It didn’t matter who carried him, after all.

Dunbakel hoisted him onto her back, and Enkrid roughly collected what he could from the battlefield.

The rain continued to pour.

Enkrid and his company began their walk back toward their camp.

The path through the wraiths had not been as long as it had seemed.

When they fought their way in, it had felt endless.

But now, as they walked back, it was a short road.

The enemy was silent.

Their allies were even quieter.

They were returning along the very road they had carved with their own hands.

Everyone was watching them.

Yet Enkrid and his companions did not care for their gazes.

Ahead of them, Crang approached.

He was drenched, but he did not look like a soaked rat.

He neither smiled nor carried the air of victory.

His expression betrayed nothing.

Yet his pupils wavered.

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Though his posture and expression were calm, the emotions in his eyes were completely exposed.

***

Just before the count's death, the soldiers had fought not only against the wraith soldiers but also against the wraiths attempting to seize their own bodies.

They fought and fought again, endured and endured again.

When will this end?

Their stamina was reaching its limit.

Maybe dying would be easier.

Their mental strength was fraying.

Their bodies and minds had nearly collapsed, and the wraith soldiers, knowing no fear, continued to swarm them endlessly.

The wraiths made no distinction between kingdom soldiers and the count’s forces.

Amid the undifferentiated waves of wraiths, the two divided armies had merged into one chaotic battle.

Even those who had fought bravely could only endure for so long.

Meanwhile, the soldiers witnessed terrifying nightmares and illusions.

“Die, die, die, die, die.”

But it was neither nightmare nor illusion.

It was the sight of those fighting against Count Molsen.

Esther’s spell had interfered with the count’s incantations, creating a bizarre phenomenon.

Most of the soldiers in that place saw Enkrid’s battle with their own eyes.

Marcus saw it as well.

Win.

He silently cheered.

Aisia also watched, her fist clenched.

I should be there!

But she couldn’t pull herself away.

Even though some shepherd-turned-warrior had miraculously stepped # Nоvеlight # up, her absence could still put the prince at risk.

Unlike her, Dunbakel and Teresa had rushed toward the battle the moment they understood the situation.

Whether as a human shield or as opportunists aiming for a killing blow, they needed to be there.

Andrew, on the other hand, could not move.

Esther had yet to wake, and he had determined that his role was to guard this place.

So he could only watch.

The soldiers were too exhausted to even cry out in victory.

“Huuhhk.”

Most of them collapsed, gasping for air. Even those who managed to remain upright soon slumped to the ground.

They didn’t have the strength to cheer.

The rain continued to soak them.

At the very least, the rain was a blessing.

It felt as if it was washing away the wraiths’ taint clinging to them.

And in truth, it was.

That was what Esther had done.

By the time Esther opened her eyes in the real world, she had already understood what had happened.

The count had tried to manifest a spell-world onto this land, but was that even possible?

No, it wasn’t.

Demonic power had interfered, but in the end, it had been a foolish endeavor.

Even if he had succeeded, the idiotic sorcerer would have lost control of his own body and continued his foolishness in a possessed stupor.

Like when he created the chimeras—he would have turned the entire kingdom into test subjects.

Or perhaps something even worse.

That was the nature of a demon’s whispers.

Since she couldn’t dismantle each of the demon’s spells one by one, Esther had poured the majority of her magic into summoning the rain.

That was why the soldiers had seen glimpses of the count’s final moments.

Esther had seen it, too.

The madman who had cut down the count and had nearly cut down the demon as well.

She felt the need to explain just how dangerous a demon truly was.

Crang had watched Enkrid’s fight and murmured to himself.

His hands were not clammy with sweat.

He simply waited.

There was nothing he could do here.

Was that a feeling of helplessness?

No.

He had his own stage.

Right now, this was a stage meant for his friend.

All he could do was trust.

And so, he trusted. Again and again.

I believe in you.

And belief was not betrayed.

Trust was rewarded.

The rain poured down, and the wraiths crumbled.

As the surviving soldiers came to their senses, Crang took a step forward.

He walked in silence.

“Lord?”

Marcus called out to him, but he didn’t stop.

Only when he reached Enkrid did he halt, lingering in silence before speaking.

“Praise him. The hero who saved us.”

His voice was quiet.

Marcus, who had followed him, agreed.

And he was not alone.

Aisia limped forward and instinctively nodded at the words.

Crang inhaled, his core tightening.

His voice had been too soft.

“Praise him! The hero who saved us!”

His voice exploded outward.

It was one of his talents—pressurizing his diaphragm and unleashing a bursting shout.

“Uhh...”

One soldier raised his head, tears in his eyes.

Rain dripped down his face.

“Uwoooohhhh!”

“We survived!”

“For the hero!”

“For the Mad Platoon!”

Their cries mixed together, becoming an indistinguishable roar.

For a moment, the storm of voices seemed to push the rain away.

The heat of their fervor was that intense.

At the center of that fervor, an old commander scowled.

He did not like the disorder of their cheers.

But had he not witnessed it himself?

The count had transformed into a demon, and our hero had cut him down.

The commander called out, his voice firm.

“All of you, repeat after me!”

Many soldiers followed his command.

After all, he was the one who had led them in enduring the wraiths.

He was their hero as well.

“Demon Slayer!”

The one who slew a demon.

Let the world know the name of the man who cut it down!

The soldiers around him took up the chant.

“Demon Slayer!”

And the cry spread.

“Demon Slayer!”

“The one who killed a demon!”

The rain continued to fall.

At first, it had been summoned by Esther’s magic, but now, it was merely the rain that was meant to fall.

The sky was still overcast, with no sunlight piercing through.

Yet everyone saw something shine.

For if he, who had slain a demon, banished the wraiths, and ended the war, did not shine—then what could?

“Demon Slayer!”

Had the demon survived to hear this, it would have gnashed its fangs in indignant fury.

Enkrid, listening blankly, finally spoke.

“I didn’t kill the demon.”

“To be precise, Noble Slayer would be more accurate,” Rem commented matter-of-factly.

“Demon’s Minion Slayer would be more precise,” Audin added.

From a religious perspective, the nature of their enemy had been clear.

“Does it matter?”

Ragna dismissed their reasoning with dry indifference.

Jaxon, as usual, remained silent.

Dunbakel briefly considered hurling Rem off her back but decided against it, estimating the level of retaliation she’d suffer later.

Teresa quietly agreed with Audin’s assessment.

At last, Crang let out a gentle smile.

Enkrid and his group were more than deserving of being called heroes.

And he had also realized something else—

They’re all completely insane.

He chuckled.

Enkrid, oblivious to Crang’s thoughts, nodded.

Not because he agreed, but because he was certain he was the most normal one here.

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Most insane bastard.”

For the first time since the battle ended, Enkrid nearly faltered in surprise.

He had immediately tried to fight again after the demon appeared, but this—this caught him off guard.

Who’s the most insane one?

With Rem right here?

Crang burst into laughter.

“Hahaha! Let’s go! Eat, drink, and rest! The royal palace can be drained dry for all I care!”

Between the echoes of Demon Slayer and the victorious cries of We survived! and We won!,

The count’s soldiers, now prisoners, silently laid down their weapons.

The civil war was over.