A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 671

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.