A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 670-671

Chapter 670

“It was a narrow defeat.”
When the warrior offered that excuse, Rem let out a mocking snort.
“You want me to take that head off your shoulders next time? ‘Narrow defeat,’ my foot.”
The man fell silent. Regardless of his words, he had clearly endured a brutal thrashing. Even as he stood there, his sense of balance seemed compromised, his stance was shaky, and the clotted blood matting his hair made further diagnosis unnecessary.
Nevertheless, the man’s combative drive remained unextinguished. He shot a piercing look at Rem.
“You want me to pluck those eyes out for you?”
Rem continued to provoke him—though it was mostly posturing.
A slight murderous tension crackled between the two, but compared to the lethality of Rem versus Jaxon or Rem versus Ragna, this exchange was almost endearing.
Enkrid paid no mind to their bickering and instead focused on two figures moving in the background behind Rem.
One was Audin.
The other was a stranger he had never encountered. With short blond hair fluttering as he danced with his blade, the man’s prowess was clearly exceptional.
He used his sword to exert constant pressure, manipulating the distance to lure his opponent into traps repeatedly.
His style was a sophisticated blend of heavy strikes and standard techniques.
He drew upon precisely what was required at the perfect moment. By Enkrid’s own standards of grading, the man was bordering on an advanced level. Enkrid became lost in the swordsman’s rhythm, deciphering the intent behind every motion.
He is leaving gaps on purpose.
He wants Audin to step into his space. Why? Because he is certain he can land a counter-strike. What exactly is he setting up? That part remained a mystery.
However, it was surely a hidden art. The kind of technique a warrior keeps veiled from the public unless the situation is dire.
Enkrid had crossed paths with many wanderers in his life.
Some possessed genuine mastery. Others were nothing but inflated egos and hollow tales.
Yet, a select few shared a specific habit—they rarely unveiled their ultimate techniques without a life-or-death reason.
But if you keep your true abilities hidden, aren’t you merely squandering chances to grow?
That was how Enkrid viewed it.
If you do not test your boundaries—if you don’t shatter them—there is no path forward. This was a conviction etched into his very soul.
And this swordsman was clearly carved from that same stone. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be inviting his opponent in so brazenly.
Audin fell for the lure. He closed the distance, entering a range where hands could reach. It was an awkward space for long swings, but ideal for close-quarters grappling.
It happened in a heartbeat. The man swung downward with his right hand while sweeping his left upward.
He wasn’t unarmed. At first, it looked like a simple crossing motion—but he held a concealed edge.
A secondary blade.
A hidden weapon. His protective gear was split vertically, and as his left hand slipped through the internal seam, a wavy, short dagger emerged.
A kris blade.
His left hand drove upward, the weapon ascending in a lethal vertical jab.
Audin reacted as if he had anticipated the move. He stacked his palms, then spread them just enough to catch the blade between his fingers—and shoved down. Simultaneously, he lunged his body inward.
Consequently, the man’s right-handed sword missed its mark, merely thudding against Audin’s shoulder. Capitalizing on the force, Audin pivoted on his left foot and drove his shoulder and back squarely into the man’s chest.
A point-blank kinetic strike. Far too close to intercept. It must have been agonizing.
Thud!
A dull, heavy impact resonated between them. The man was sent staggering backward.
Blood began to trickle from between Audin’s middle and ring fingers, while the man’s chest plate showed a clear indentation.
“That failed, then.”
The man remarked. His voice carried a note of thrill and longing. One might expect frustration when a secret move is neutralized—but he showed only fascination.
Even with his trump card exposed, he didn’t seem to care. His entire mind was consumed by the engagement itself.
Enkrid found himself admiring the man, despite their lack of conversation.
“Odinkar, that is enough.”
Grida stepped forward to halt the duel. The man, Odinkar, turned his head. He was still brimming with martial energy, but he trusted that Audin would not strike while his guard was down.
In essence, it was merely a training session.
“A pity.”
The man muttered.
He shared a certain quality with Grida. They weren’t here to spill blood or lose their lives—they were driven by a different motive.
As expected, Grida went on.
“I suppose a proper introduction is in order. I am Grida Zaun. This is Odinkar Zaun, and this is Magrun Zaun. We hail from the House of Zaun.”
All eyes shifted toward the trio.
Zaun—the birthplace of Ragna.
And now Grida, having spotted her objective, pointed directly at him.
“Ragna, we have come to bring you back. Has your hair changed color?”
She gestured toward him.
The crowd’s eyes followed her outstretched finger.
“What?”
Lua Gharne tilted her head in confusion. The man with brown hair whom Grida was pointing at didn’t even bother to turn around.
He didn’t need to look—he could sense there was no one else in that direction.
So when Jaxon stared at the finger pointing at him, looking baffled, it was perfectly logical.
Jaxon knit his brows together.
“…?”
If a look could speak, his was screaming, What kind of nonsense is this?
Despite this, Grida maintained her calm, serene smile. Her tone was absolute.
“Are you going to act like you don’t know me? It’s me, Grida—I never forget a face.”
The members of the Border Guard fell into a stunned silence.
“…Is that him? Doesn’t look right.”
Odinkar questioned. He was acquainted with Ragna. And that man wasn’t him. Even as he spoke, Odinkar’s mind was elsewhere. Could I get another crack at that Audin fellow? His desire was transparent. Even after putting his sword away, he kept his eyes locked on Audin.
“I believe I just clashed with the most formidable knight in your ranks. I’ll need time—just some time.”
Magrun, meanwhile, was indifferent. Whether it was Ragna or not didn’t matter to him. He was simply stunned that such individuals existed outside the walls of their family estate.
He was impressed by the warrior who had flattened him and now only wished to analyze that combat style in isolation.
I was beaten.
And to rectify that defeat, his only solution was study and research.
That was Magrun’s philosophy.
“Yes, that’s him. Ragna Zaun. The patriarch wants him home.”
Grida declared once more.
Enkrid didn’t experience a sudden epiphany, but things began to fall into place.
Some people simply lacked the ability to recognize faces, and Grida was clearly one of them.
Jaxon was completely at a loss for words. He had never found himself in such a bizarre predicament.
“What is happening? Ragna went to see Aitri to get his sword sharpened.”
Kraiss stepped in to clarify the situation.
“Pardon?”
Grida tilted her head.
To Enkrid, she seemed incapable of deception or hidden agendas.
How could someone get faces so mixed up after correctly noting that Ragna had blond hair and crimson eyes?
He couldn’t fathom what went on in her mind—nor did he particularly care.
But one fact was undeniable.
Just as Ragna was perpetually lost in the world, Grida was perpetually lost in people’s features.
She had even failed to recognize him.
This was the first time in Enkrid’s memory that a woman had totally forgotten him after a previous encounter.
It didn’t wound his pride—it was just a strange reality.
“That isn’t Ragna.”
Enkrid spoke up to set the record straight.
Grida doubled down a few more times before finally conceding the point.
“I suppose even I can be mistaken occasionally.”
In that moment, Enkrid felt certain she was indeed Ragna’s sister.

—

“Well… he insisted on coming back from the market by himself, and now we’ve lost him.”
The soldier tasked with following Ragna had cautioned him against walking alone—but if anyone had the talent to evade a tail, it was Ragna. So, somewhere between the stalls and the camp, he had drifted off course, and his current location was a mystery.
Kraiss, realizing these visitors were here for Ragna, provided the blunt truth. Since their mission was to fetch him, the guard had looked into it and reported the findings.
“Ragna was always terrible with directions, even as a small boy.”
Grida nodded as she replied. Her voice was so nonchalant it was hard to believe she was on a mission to bring her brother home. The other two seemed completely disengaged.
One—Odinkar—was now scouting for targets other than Audin. He was even subtly testing Enkrid with a sharp presence.
The other—Magrun—spoke up immediately after Kraiss finished his explanation.
“Is there a quiet, isolated spot around here where I could stay for a while?”
The other two made no effort to correct him. Each of them followed their own whims.
“What is wrong with these people?”
Rem gave voice to the group’s collective bewilderment.
Kraiss nearly agreed out loud but held his tongue.
Meanwhile, Jaxon crossed his arms, keeping the trio firmly in his sights. His posture made his intent clear—if they stepped out of line, he would draw steel instantly. The three surely felt his hostility. Yet, they remained entirely unperturbed.
This only added to their aura of strangeness.
Zaun—the name carried weight for those in the know.
The house had sired a lineage of knights in the North for many generations. Those warriors were frequently referred to as seekers of the blade.
Even among traveling sellswords and adventurers, there were those who had sought instruction under the House of Zaun.
Barunas—the beastkin commander of Azpen who once spearheaded a campaign—had identified Ragna on sight. Perhaps for a similar reason.
He had witnessed an impossible talent and filled in the blanks. Maybe it was a lucky guess, but it had been correct.
Enkrid had traversed the lands during his time as a mercenary and guide—but in those days, his own skills had been meager.
After that, his life was defined by the Border Guard. Consequently, the name Zaun only signified the home Ragna had left behind.
To now see that these three—all masters of the sword—came from the same family felt surreal.
If they were members of the same knightly order, it would be expected. If they were the elite of the Empire, he wouldn’t blink. Even if they hailed from a southern powerhouse, it would make sense.
But the same bloodline? That was different. It meant they shared a common ancestry.
How could such a thing be? Is it the blood? The strength of a lineage?
There were legends of ancient royal lines possessing inherent, supernatural gifts.
Moving objects with a thought, peering into minds—powers that felt like the touch of gods.
He had heard that the earliest forms of magic were tied to specific bloodlines. Most of those tales came from Esther.
Could there be a lineage that inherently produced great swordsmen? A bloodline specifically for knights? Is one’s potential truly fixed at birth? Is destiny everything, and hard work nothing?
Was that the truth? Secret, ancient bloodlines carrying a hidden flame through history?
No. That wasn’t it.
Even if such a thing existed, Enkrid would prove it false through his own journey. That was one of his aspirations—independent of becoming a knight: to demonstrate that innate talent isn’t the final word.
But he wasn’t the proof of that yet.
I live this day over and over.
It is a burden—but also a gift. He didn’t undervalue what he had achieved through this cycle.
But that didn’t mean this was the only way to surpass a lack of natural gift.
Do not limit your perspective.
Both fighting and core beliefs shift when you change how you look at them.
“Enki, you view the field of battle too narrowly.”
He could almost hear Lua Gharne’s voice in his head. Applying her wisdom, he attempted to broaden the foundation of his thoughts.
And one truth surfaced in his mind like a ripple on a pond:
Shallow training—looking for the easy path—only produces a hollow shell.
Molsen’s artificial knights, the warriors of Azpen, those molded in the Holy City Legion—were they any different?
Altering one’s biology to mimic a knight, or becoming intoxicated by a feeling of power—none of that constituted being a true knight.
Using Will doesn’t automatically make one a knight.
You must crawl forward, bit by bit. That struggle is what provides the meaning.
You can be guided by others when shaping your resolve—but if you live entirely by a script written by someone else, your will can never truly flourish into something authentic.
So why were these three capable of such mastery?
Because they had shattered their own limits. Talent alone wasn’t the answer. Something else was required. What was it?
“We represent House Zaun. Some here might be unfamiliar, but we are a family dedicated to the way of the sword.”
Grida offered a polite explanation. Kraiss, standing near Enkrid, whispered the details he knew.
It aligned perfectly with the common lore.
A tradition handed down through the ages?
What exactly is tradition?
It is a legacy of philosophy and technique. A house like Zaun undoubtedly preserved a specific methodology.
Rem grumbled about the three being freaks, and Odinkar’s constant taunting was clearly grating on Jaxon’s patience.
Then—
“A formal system.”
Enkrid whispered.
His voice carried, causing everyone to look toward him.
That was the secret behind why the House of Zaun had consistently produced knights.
Essentially, they had already walked the very path Enkrid was trying to find.
Lua Gharne was the first to grasp his meaning.
“I see. That makes perfect sense.”
This was her initial encounter with the Zaun family as well.
They had always been obscured by the fog of myth.
But seeing them now made it undeniable.
Three individuals. One family. All of them knights.
There is no possible way to achieve that without a disciplined, structured system.
So what?
Rem spoke his mind.
“Are we throwing these intruders out or not?”
His tone suggested he was ready for either option. Odinkar bared his teeth with a grin. It was an open invitation—his presence practically demanded a fight.
Rem’s hand moved toward his axe. Jaxon, too, surreptitiously reached for a concealed blade.
Kraiss felt the shift in the air deep in his gut. His stress levels soared.
That damn boy with no sense of direction.
He cursed Ragna under his breath and looked at Enkrid, pleading with his eyes for some intervention.
But Enkrid remained still.
If only Audin would intervene—but today, Audin still resembled a feral bear ready to rend someone apart.
Kraiss took a moment to reflect.
If we cut these three down here, what do we gain?
Nothing.
But letting them act without restraint? That was unacceptable.
After a brief deliberation, he reached a conclusion.
“I am leaving.”
That was his way of washing his hands of the mess. Let the others handle the chaos. After all, the Mad Knights were never a group he could truly command.
For the sake of his own sanity, he turned his back and walked away.

Chapter 671

Despite the anxieties Kraiss felt, the night did not descend into a violent struggle. Both factions had already tested one another once and recognized a hard truth: without putting their lives on the line, a true determination of strength was impossible.

“A single moment of dominance doesn’t guarantee a permanent lead,” remarked the individual who had nearly perished during the encounter with Rem. While his features were plain, his gaze possessed a piercing quality. Enkrid recalled the name—Magrun Zaun.

Though his hair was a different shade, his bone structure favored Odinkar. Yet, where Odinkar seemed relaxed and almost sluggish, Magrun projected a tireless, stubborn energy. It was a visceral impression—perhaps not a perfect map of his soul, but accurate enough.

These individuals lacked the art of pretense. Enkrid’s time among the fairies had taught him that in a society devoid of falsehoods, the skill of masking one’s true nature never develops.

“The house of Zaun evolves through relentless rivalry. We are nothing like you, who lazily sacrifice the weak to preserve yourselves,” Magrun declared, his eyes traveling over the assembled group. His rigid posture and sharp stare were an open challenge. He was making it clear: his defeat at Rem’s hands was a temporary setback, not a final verdict.

He wasn’t entirely wrong in his assessment. He was critiquing the traditional continental philosophy regarding knights—treating them as precious heirlooms too fragile to be used. In many kingdoms, knights were far too costly to risk in internal disputes. They were revered and protected, their wills respected to such a degree that pitting them against one another was viewed as a strategic waste.

Magrun’s words were a direct assault on that culture of safety. He spoke with a burning passion, condemning those who reached a rank and then ceased to grow.

Rem, however, remained entirely unmoved. She looked as though she was wondering why this man was still talking.

To be fair, Magrun’s lecture didn’t fit the “Madman of the Border Guard.” The warriors gathered here were forged in the fire of the front lines. They were the sort who found their rhythm in the center of a bloodbath, communicating through the ring of steel rather than words, always aware that death was a constant shadow.

Enkrid in particular was a living anomaly—a man who, by all rights, should have been a corpse long ago. Rem, Audin, and Jaxon all understood this implicitly.

Suddenly, Magrun let out a sharp laugh and jabbed a finger toward Enkrid.

“So, this is the one you’ve all gathered to groom? His talent must be something remarkable for you to coddle him like this. Did he enjoy the easy road? Is this position just something handed to him on a silver platter?”

His voice dripped with conviction. He truly believed his own accusations. Enkrid pulled himself from his internal monologue and focused on the finger pointed at his chest. The gesture felt like a physical blow, as if Magrun were projecting his very Will through the movement.

“Did Ragna guide your every step? Was it merely fortune that brought you to this point? Just watch. I’ll overtake you before you know it. It won’t even take me sixty days.”

Pell, who had been by Enkrid’s side through the fairy city, the demonic encounters, and the cultist uprisings, stared in disbelief.

“…What is this fool even talking about?” Pell hissed.

“You have no standing to speak to me,” Magrun snapped, not even bothering to look Pell’s way.

Pell started forward, but Rophod caught his shoulder. Rophod’s face was a mask of indifference, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his annoyance.

“…He’s not entirely off the mark, though,” Rophod said. It sounded like a provocation, but Pell knew there was no ill intent behind it. Instead, they both silently resolved to double the intensity of their drills under Audin starting at dawn.

Was Enkrid’s strategy the most efficient? Perhaps not. But it was the only path they had, so they would walk it. They had learned that much from him: don’t overthink, just move. If you have to fall, fall forward.

In that moment, Pell and Rophod shared a private thought. *This idiot thinks he can bridge the gap in two months? These people caught up to their commander in two weeks, and they haven’t stopped moving since.*

Magrun stood his ground, radiating a confidence born of genuine struggle. “Raised on a leash without ever knowing a real fight…”

His words were intentionally inflammatory. Every person present turned to look at Enkrid, waiting for the explosion. They expected him to either strike the man down or dismantle his ego with a cold retort.

“Two months, you say?” Enkrid asked. He didn’t sound angry or insulted. If anything, he sounded… pleased.

Rem tilted her head in confusion. Jaxon’s brow furrowed.

“Brother?” Audin asked tentatively. Enkrid simply raised a hand to silence him.

While Pell, Rophod, and Teresa watched in bewilderment, Lua Gharne was the first to realize the truth. *He’s thrilled.*

The reason was simple: these newcomers were capable fighters. That was all that mattered to Enkrid.

“I will give you those two months. Show me what you’re worth, and then you can go,” Enkrid stated.

Magrun was a different breed than Grida. He was aware of his own abrasive nature; he had a knack for antagonizing anyone within earshot. While Grida wouldn’t admit to her inability to recognize faces, Magrun made no excuses for his personality.

Consequently, Enkrid’s reaction caught him off guard. Why wasn’t he furious? Usually, men of his status would boast of their lineage and demand satisfaction for the perceived insult.

“…Fine. Two months is all I need,” Magrun replied, his voice losing some of its heat.

“Anyway—where did Kraiss go? The one with the wide eyes?” Enkrid asked, shifting gears abruptly.

“He vanished a few moments ago,” Lua Gharne replied.

“Rophod.”

“Sir.”

“See that these three are given quarters.”

“Understood.”

Rophod bowed and led the way. Magrun kept his gaze fixed on Enkrid as they moved, while Grida and Odinkar looked on in surprise.

“Now then. Odinkar, was it? Let’s see what you can do,” Enkrid said, completely ignoring the tension of the previous moment.

Odinkar shared some of that eccentric Zaun temperament, but he possessed a shred more social awareness. “Right now?” he asked. His heart was racing; his combat instincts were screaming for a release. But he was still baffled—shouldn’t this man be livid? Instead, Enkrid was holding his weapon like a child eager for a game.

“I haven’t fully adjusted to this blade yet. I’ll be ready for a proper bout tomorrow. For this moment, I’ll make do,” Enkrid said, his focus narrowing entirely on his opponent.

Grida Zaun had a gift for spotting vulnerabilities through simple observation, a trait Enkrid had already noted. He suspected she had more to offer, but that was her most prominent skill. He was curious about Magrun’s abilities as well, but the man was currently wounded.

“Pell, find Anne. Have his injuries seen to,” Enkrid commanded, his eyes never leaving Odinkar.

Knights possessed a resilience far beyond ordinary men. With the right treatment, such wounds would close in no time. Some could even set and heal bone in a day by channeling Will as a form of pure vitality. To achieve that without being a knight required the kind of agonizing regenerative training Enkrid and Audin had endured in their youth.

“Are you happy because you found a new toy, or do you just want an excuse to hit someone?” Rem asked, seeing right through him.

“Likely both,” Jaxon added.

“Good grief, is my brother actually a disciple of the war god?” Audin muttered.

Enkrid heard them, but as was his habit, he let the comments slide, offering only a slight tilt of his blade in greeting. Odinkar drew his sword, the silver metal singing as it cleared the scabbard. He wasn’t one for holding back; in fact, he was famously poor at it.

Odinkar took a steadying breath and centered himself. “I should warn you, I have an edge here. This blade is a family heirloom, and I’ve trained with it for a lifetime. Also—once I start, I find it very difficult to stop. My patience is thin. If things get ugly, try to stay in one piece.”

If Grida couldn’t remember a face and Magrun couldn’t keep his mouth shut, Odinkar simply lacked a metaphorical brake. He was generally easygoing because he knew that once his obsession took hold, it consumed him. If he liked a certain food, he’d eat nothing else for a year. In a duel, that trait was terrifying.

In a life-or-death struggle, that recklessness was a stroke of genius. In a training session, it was a liability. Enkrid, however, didn’t care. He found the quirks manageable.

Blind to faces? Not a problem—certainly better than someone who constantly got lost.

A foul mouth? Almost endearing. Rem’s insults were becoming so creative that Enkrid felt a pang of sympathy for her targets.

No self-control? Why would he need it? He was surrounded by people who could weather his storms and push him to be better.

“Come on then. Show me your ‘two months’,” Enkrid said, not even bothering to use the man’s name.

“*I* am the one who said two months,” Magrun muttered, sounding offended and confused. Grida let out a quiet snort. Everyone finally understood what the “madman” was after.

“People tell you you’re a bit strange quite often, don’t they?” Odinkar asked, settling into a stance. The Zaun family was known for being “unusual” across the continent—a polite euphemism for “insane.” But the man standing before him was on another level entirely.

“No. Never,” Enkrid replied without a hint of irony.

“You’re definitely a freak,” Odinkar laughed, abandoning any attempt at formal politeness. *So, I really don’t have to hold back?*

The crowd retreated, carving out a wide circle for the combatants. As Lua Gharne stepped back, she realized Enkrid wasn’t just excited for a fight. There was a deeper hunger in him.

Curiosity.

Enkrid was a man of dreams and intensity, and that intensity now had a target. Frokk’s most defining characteristic was the need to know, to understand. And what Enkrid wanted to understand was the Zaun family’s methodology—their structured, legitimate system of knightly training.

Ragna’s absence was a convenient pretext. Magrun’s boast about “two months” was just another excuse. Even without those reasons, Enkrid would have found a way to keep them here.

Meanwhile, a satisfied grin touched Enkrid’s lips. He had already identified Odinkar’s primary flaw: the lack of patience.

“Do you have a lady in your life?” Enkrid asked suddenly.

“…What?”

“If you do, she has my deepest sympathies.”

“Why? You think you’re going to kill me?” Odinkar smirked. But Enkrid wasn’t joking.

“No. You mentioned your lack of patience. I merely pity any woman who shares your bed. Her nights must feel like an eternity of waiting for a satisfaction that never arrives.”

The comment was just veiled enough that it took a moment to register. When it finally clicked, Odinkar’s face turned a brilliant shade of crimson.

“I am perfectly fine at night!” he roared, lunging forward with lethal speed.

Breaking an opponent’s mental focus was half the battle. Enkrid brought his blade, Penna, up to meet the strike. He employed a technique from the Balafian school—Body Flow. With a precise flick of the wrist and a subtle shift in weight, he redirected the incoming force. To him, the sword was merely a part of his arm.

He had dubbed this specific maneuver “Feather Drift.” It was a foundational technique, something he considered mid-tier at best. But in a duel, technical complexity wasn’t the only path to victory. The Wavebreaker Style was designed for exactly this kind of one-on-one engagement.

*Clang!*

The steel collided. The blades found their own voices, singing a sharp, metallic song.

*Clang! Boom! Shing!*

The rhythmic symphony of the duel began.