A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 386: Being Lazy Even While Fighting

"The Dagger of Geor turned out to be nothing more than a fool who relied on the power of relics to run wild."

The long-armed assassin spoke as he spun a dagger in his hand. One of his eyes glowed.

A mystic eye—an enchanted prosthetic.

It was no surprise the relic hadn’t worked on him. That eye had looked strange from the start. He remained unfazed.

Jaxon also noticed the hole in his cloak—a mark left by the passing dagger.

His opponent’s arm had extended unnaturally, slashing through his cloak before retracting.

Yet, there was no disturbance in his expression. Inside or out, he remained indifferent.

But his opponent didn’t see it that way.

"You seem shaken. You should have stabbed when you had the chance."

The white-haired man with a monocle spoke in a chastising tone.

"Is there really any reason to stay under him? Change your mind now."

It was a woman’s voice, deliberately altered. She spoke from within the group of assassins, but not openly—she whispered from the shadows, cautious and deceitful.

Even if he switched sides here, he would gain nothing. It was a ploy to make him hesitate.

"What? A stab? Aren’t you embarrassed to bring that up?"

The monocled man bristled at the taunt, clearly provoked.

"So, what now? You’ve lost your relic. What’s your plan?"

The voice came from behind.

Jaxon turned his head.

Even in broad daylight, the area where the voice emerged felt unnaturally darkened.

A figure lingered between the alley’s shadows, half-submerged in darkness—his specialty was hiding.

The method was obvious.

Shadow Walking.

A technique that allowed movement only through patches of darkness—an entry-level skill in the Dagger of Geor.

Jaxon had learned it but never used it. Against an opponent with sharp senses or heightened awareness, it was a liability.

'That wouldn't work on the captain, either.'

It wouldn’t work on Enkrid, either.

Jaxon quietly removed his tattered cloak and unbuckled his belt.

"Giving up?"

The altered voice inquired from the assassins.

"Hoho. What do you say? It's not too late. The privilege of the young is having the chance to reconsider their choices."

The monocled man smiled.

"Hmph."

The long-armed assassin, who resembled a monkey, snorted.

The man in the shadows subtly shifted backward, blending into the alley’s darkness once more.

Despite their words, the oppressive aura pressing against his skin was unmistakable.

They were ready to fight.

Jaxon kept his gaze lowered and spoke.

"So it was Viscount Mernes, after all?"

It had to be a noble—only someone of that stature could gather multiple assassin guilds under the banner of "alliance."

It had to be someone with enough power to turn an assassination request into a matter of the guilds’ survival.

Someone with enough influence to sway the power balance within the royal court.

Otherwise, these assassins would have been acting independently.

Piecing everything together, he could see the intent behind this plot.

The person who orchestrated this wanted him gone.

Badly.

They had ignored Enkrid’s path to the palace.

They had let Marcus live.

They hadn’t stopped the soldiers at the gate.

Instead, every single assassin in the so-called alliance had been sent after him.

Eliminating him was their top priority.

Why?

Because he was a problem.

There were only two types of people who sold information about the Black Lily.

Some had stumbled upon it by chance.

Others were directly involved.

This time, it was the latter.

Otherwise, there would have been no reason to be this thorough about removing him.

If the situation hadn’t escalated, it might have been harder to guess.

But at this point, the answer was obvious.

And upon realizing it, Jaxon felt something he hadn’t expected—

Satisfaction.

Maybe it was Enkrid’s influence, but for the first time in a while, he expressed emotion.

He laughed.

He smiled.

The monocled assassin frowned at the sight.

"Are you going to claim you stabbed me again? Or come up with some other nonsense?"

It seemed he was still bitter about his exchange with Enkrid.

Understandable.

Just before parting ways, Enkrid had been utterly possessed by the joy of talking circles around people.

"You said you’d tell me if I stabbed you. Now you’re going back on your word?"

"That wasn't a real stab—"

"Where’s your honor? I thought the assassins of the capital were known for their credibility!"

"No, I mean, that wasn’t—"

"Silence! You dare prattle after breaking your word? The scar on my arm is proof of this betrayal!"

"That’s not what I—"

"Hah, what a disgrace."

"You crazy bastard, just listen for once—"

"Aww, did it hurt?"

No matter what his opponent tried to say, Jaxon kept talking.

And at the last moment—

He made a slight motion as if presenting his forearm—

Then flicked a Whistle Dagger straight into the head of one of the watching assassins.

The fight had begun.

And from that moment, his opponent had no opportunity to defend himself.

Was it infuriating?

Probably.

No matter how much one tried to stay composed, the captain always knew how to get under people’s skin.

Even Jaxon sometimes found himself boiling with frustration—so for these guys, it was inevitable.

"Well, I did stab you."

Jaxon said.

"Kill him!"

At the white-haired assassin’s shout, they charged from all directions.

Jaxon already knew their numbers—twenty-eight.

He had counted them.

It was a habit.

And then—

He vanished.

"What?!"

The long-armed assassin, scanning the area with his enchanted eye, let out a startled cry.

Splurt.

A sickening, wet sound.

Jaxon reappeared within the shadows of an alleyway.

One of the assassin leaders, who had been hiding in the darkness, coughed up blood and collapsed to his knees.

"How?"

His mystic eye should have caught him—Jaxon didn’t have his relic anymore.

For some reason, Enkrid’s face flashed through his mind.

Jaxon opened his mouth.

"Hard work. Training."

It was the perfect answer to "how?"

Then, he disappeared again.

And reappeared.

Again and again.

The second to die was the woman with the altered voice.

She had tried to slip away into the group, but Jaxon had already disguised himself as one of her subordinates.

The moment he got close—

He drove a stiletto into her stomach.

Thwup, thwup, thwup.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Three precise stabs, as clean as a fork piercing meat.

Lungs and heart punctured.

Not even a high priest could save her.

"Ghk."

Her last breath wasn’t even a scream—just a dry, choked sound.

Jaxon kept moving.

The relic?

He had used it when he had it.

But he never relied on it.

He didn’t need it.

Today, his body felt especially light.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

And he knew exactly where he was headed.

Mernes.

He had always suspected a noble was behind the Black Lily.

Even if Viscount Mernes wasn’t the mastermind, he was at least connected.

And so, once Jaxon finished dealing with these assassins—his next stop was clear.

The royal palace.

Where Viscount Mernes resided.

He continued until there were no enemies left to fight.

And then, he moved toward the palace.

By the time the sun had passed overhead, casting long shadows, he saw something unusual.

A man running—

Smashing through rooftops.

He knew who it was.

But he didn’t bother acknowledging him.

***

The battle began with Dunbakel.

At the very least, she was more eager than Ragna, so it was only fitting.

She dropped back, slipping through the open gate.

Outside, Rophod was already deploying some of his troops beyond the fortress walls.

If the enemy takes control of the gate, it’s over.

The difference in numbers was obvious.

That meant they had to hold their ground.

With archers lacking, arrows in short supply, and siege defenses incomplete, the only way to make up for their lack of troops was with their own bodies and strength.

But all of this relied on one assumption:

That the ten enemies standing in their way would hold.

As long as they can hold out.

He didn’t even hope for them to kill all of the enemies.

Rophod watched as Dunbakel stepped forward.

She scanned the ten men blocking her path—then smiled.

It was an innocent-looking grin, the kind you might see on a country girl who had just arrived in the city for the first time.

But Dunbakel was neither a naive girl fresh from the countryside, nor was that smile filled with innocence.

She was merely applying what she had learned from Enkrid.

The Valen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship—The Smiling Face.

She had taken the technique Enkrid had used on her countless times and adapted it to her own style.

That was the beauty of talent.

No hesitation in absorbing a technique and making it her own.

Rem had beaten her half to death to strengthen her physical abilities. But when it came to actual technique, Dunbakel had trained herself.

And now, it was paying off.

"What the hell?"

One of the mercenaries blurted out.

Before he could even process it, Dunbakel launched herself forward.

With the speed of a panther, she dashed straight into the formation.

The soldier in front of her froze, unable to react.

A curved sword came crashing down on his head.

Crack!

A clean, brutal strike.

His skull shattered.

Beside him, another soldier instinctively thrust his spear forward.

But there was no force behind the movement—just a knee-jerk reaction.

Dunbakel tilted her head slightly, dodging it, pressing her shoulder against his face as she reached between his neck and shoulder—

And with a quick twist of her body, she ripped the spear from his hands.

"...Ah."

The soldier barely managed to let out a stupid sound.

She didn’t even bother finishing him off.

Instead, she dropped the stolen spear and sprinted forward.

"Stop her!"

The enemy commander finally snapped out of it and roared.

Two warriors moved immediately—men known for their speed, the best runners among their troops.

Yet, they were barely able to keep up with her.

"Out of my ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) way!"

Dunbakel transformed mid-sprint, her beastfolk form surging forward.

The soldiers hesitated.

They weren’t disorganized, but they weren’t elite either.

Viscount Mernes' forces were a patchwork army—various mercenaries and drafted men thrown together, barely held together by a loose command structure.

Dunbakel tore through their formation, leaping off shoulders, dashing across heads, her curved sword cutting through the air.

She didn’t slash—

She flipped the weapon and struck with the dull side.

Thud! Crack!

Their siege weapons consisted of three mangonels.

One of them groaned under the impact, its central frame splitting with a crack.

Dunbakel knew their advantage lay in the fortress walls.

She had spent years wandering as a mercenary—

She had fought countless battles.

And she knew the best way to fight was to eliminate the biggest threat first.

So she had charged in with a smile, feigning innocence—

And then she struck.

Simple, but brutally effective.

"Are you insane?"

A voice spoke up beside her.

One of the ten elites who had blocked her path earlier.

He was fast.

His short spear lashed out.

Fast hands, fast feet.

Dunbakel deflected the spearhead with her curved blade—

Then stomped hard on the ground, twisting her body as if preparing to charge.

The mercenary instinctively backed off.

Another warrior following close behind adjusted his stance, trying to seize the opportunity to flank her.

"Let’s end this."

Dunbakel grinned.

Then—

She leaped in the opposite direction.

Completely unpredictable.

A move straight from Enkrid’s playbook.

The Valen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship—Move in Reverse.

A sudden shift.

Breaking expectations.

A feint designed to shatter an opponent’s rhythm.

And what did she gain from it?

A perfect opening to achieve her real goal.

She wasn’t here to fight these two.

She was here to destroy the mangonels.

The two mercenaries hesitated.

What the hell is she doing?

A beastfolk warrior, already a force to be reckoned with, was suddenly using deceptive techniques.

Compared to Enkrid or Rem, tricking these two was child’s play.

And honestly, Dunbakel was having fun.

It had been a long time since she fought someone weaker than her.

As she wreaked havoc, the enemy finally retaliated.

"Kill her!"

A warrior in a horned helmet roared.

His name was Yon—

A first-class warrior from the East.

And as he stepped forward—

A blond man approached.

Slowly.

With heavy, unhurried steps.

Despite the enemy soldiers surging forward—

Despite the arrows whistling overhead—

He didn’t seem to care.

Ragna rested his massive sword over his shoulder and spoke.

"Come all at once. I’m feeling lazy."

"You..."

Yon didn’t lose his temper.

He didn’t charge recklessly.

Instead, he raised his weapon—a glaive.

The blade shimmered blue.

Valerian steel.

Ragna eyed it.

Should I take it and melt it down?

"Together."

Yon ordered.

Some of the mercenaries frowned, but they didn’t argue.

It was obvious—this man wasn’t ordinary.

"Time is on our side. Take it slow."

Yon commanded.

And they listened.

A mercenary spun a chain weapon above his head before launching it forward.

The heavy spiked weight flew straight for Ragna’s head.

Clang.

Ragna casually deflected it with his sword, knocking the spiked weight aside.

It was heavy enough to crush a human skull.

"Go!"

Yon charged.

He lived for battle, for struggle, for the clash of steel and blood.

And so, he rushed in—his glaive swinging down in a vertical arc.

Whoosh.

Fast and strong.

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Boom!

Ragna knocked it aside.

Immediately, a spear stabbed toward him.

A flexible, whiplike weapon, moving in unpredictable motions.

Ragna batted it away.

Another spear thrust.

This time, it wasn’t flexible—it was a straight, forceful lunge.

A warrior who trusted in his brute strength.

Ragna swung.

Clang!

Steel rang.

The exchange ended.

Yon had gauged his opponent’s strength.

A monster.

And Ragna—

He was holding his ground.

But he didn’t care.

He fought half-heartedly.

Why?

He didn’t even bother thinking about it.

It was just how he was.

If he wanted to kill them all, he could.

But that would require effort.

He might even get a few minor injuries.

Was it worth it?

No.

A prodigy without a purpose—

Even in battle, he lazed around.

He had been too active lately.

So now?

He was taking it easy.