A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 672

Chapter 672

## A Scene of Madness

“Have you lost your mind?!”

Anne, who had been tending to Magrun while tracking the duel, turned deathly pale. This wasn’t just a flicker of concern; her face had gone completely white. To her, the entire exchange had been a display of sheer insanity. While she couldn’t grasp the intricate mechanics or the high-level swordplay of the clash, the outcome was impossible to miss.

Enkrid’s blade had halted only after biting halfway into the blond man’s shoulder. Had the edge traveled just a fraction deeper, neither divine intervention nor the most potent elixirs could have mended that shattered collarbone.

“I managed to intercept it, Sister Freckles.”

Audin spoke up, his hand still positioned against the spot where Enkrid’s steel had landed. Despite lacking any mail or leather protection, a shimmering flow of golden sand had bled from his pores, reinforcing his skin and preventing a total rupture. Nevertheless, the sight of crimson trickling from his fingers confirmed a terrifying reality—Enkrid had struck without a shadow of hesitation.

“…I see. I very nearly ended him.”

Enkrid’s tone remained chillingly level—hollow and almost bored.

“A man doesn’t die from losing a limb.”

The victim of the strike seemed just as unbothered.

*What is wrong with these maniacs?*

Anne was a practitioner of the healing arts. Her vocation wasn’t born of a desire for violence; she had dedicated herself to the preservation of life. She had followed this calling to ensure people didn’t perish from avoidable ailments. So, this casual dismissal of death felt like an insult. If a limb is severed, the blood doesn’t just trickle; it erupts.

She mentally cataloged the grim reality of massive hemorrhaging: it triggers hypothermia. As she visualized the progression, the details grew more haunting—initial panic, followed by a ghostly pallor as the body’s warmth fled. The heart begins to race. Breathing turns into a desperate, shallow struggle. As the core temperature plummets, the pulse grows erratic or fades entirely. The skin takes on a sickly, mottled blue tint. Then comes the vertigo, the mental fog, and the final slide into darkness.

Even a decorated warrior couldn’t ignore biology forever. Being a knight wasn’t a shortcut to immortality. Arrogance was a death sentence; if you grew too confident in your internal reserves, you would eventually bleed out like any commoner.

Anne had gained significant insight by surreptitiously reading through her mentor’s private journals. Those records made one thing certain: unless you shared the physiology of a Frokk, you weren’t growing back a lost arm.

That was the logical end of the thought. But then, a flicker of doubt emerged.

*Wait… could it be done?*

What if one possessed the monumental holy energy of an archbishop? Could the impossible be achieved then? Even then, mending such trauma wasn’t just about flooding a wound with light. Over the previous few days, the Ragged Saint had been instructing Seiki, and Anne had caught a few stray lessons. Those insights had led her to experiment with infusing potions with divine essence.

Through that grueling work, she had realized a vital truth: Holy power wasn’t just raw force; it was a craft. Using divinity was akin to suturing living tissue with a needle made of heat—it required immense finesse. How many souls possessed that level of control? And how many lifetimes did it take to reach that peak? One would need to treat a sea of casualties to master the nuances—knowing exactly how much power to expend and the precise moment to apply it.

“The Saint once posed a question—‘How would you handle suddenly having a third leg? Or a tail?’”

That was the Ragged Saint’s perspective. Wielding that power was like gaining a new body part. It required familiarity and rigorous exercise. It wasn’t just an asset; it was a skill that had to be practiced. To learn it, one needed instructors who understood both the raw energy and the delicate application.

Miraculously, they had both. They had the Ragged Saint to teach the method and Seiki—whose reservoir of power was truly saintly—to provide the fuel.

*And then, there’s me.*

While Anne couldn’t manifest healing light herself, she was the one who could diagnose the damage and decide the course of action—whether the patient needed a regenerative brew or the precision of her scalpel. She had been stitching up cadavers since her childhood. Her needlework was so precise it would put a master tailor to shame.

“…As long as the breath remains in him.”

Rem’s voice drifted in from behind.

“Even so, this is reckless,” Anne grumbled, her hands already a blur of movement.

She deployed a white styptic powder to check the flow and began her assessment. Should she use thread? Or would a salve suffice? She had recently developed a new ointment using water from a fairy spring and gathered morning dew—a balm specifically for skin contact. Perhaps a sedative first? No, she decided to proceed with the stitches and the ointment immediately. He was a knight; he could endure it.

“I came up half a point short this round. It won’t happen twice.”

Odinkar grunted. He had sustained a wound that bordered on fatal, yet he remained defiant. Enkrid had already formed an opinion of him: The man was dangerously impulsive. It was obvious how he had survived this long; he possessed a raw, natural brilliance that allowed him to turn sheer recklessness into a functional combat style.

“Correct. Next time, you’ll just be a corpse.”

Enkrid offered the statement as if he were reciting the weather.

“…That psychological pressure you applied at the start—that was a calculated move, wasn’t it? You’re more cunning than you let on. There’s a fox’s heart in there. And that constant ‘measuring’ you did during the clash…”

Enkrid used his knuckles to wipe a trail of blood from his nose. It was an accurate observation—he had employed the same analytical mindset he’d used against Grida. He treated the chaos of battle like a mathematical problem, viewing every variable through the lens of probability. He had inherited this approach from Jaxon, though it still felt unpolished. He wondered if he could refine it into a formalized school of swordsmanship.

“And despite all that thinking, you still swing like a beast. It’s a strange contradiction.”

“A beast, is it?”

“I find it entertaining.”

Odinkar flashed a bloody grin. The styptic powder had successfully stemmed the flow. Looking down at the damage, he remarked, “Your healer is quite skilled.”

“If you’ve realized that, then hold your tongue. He needs to recover.”

“I’m a knight. I’ll be back on my feet by dawn.”

“A Frokk wouldn’t even be closed up by tomorrow,” Anne muttered, squinting as she determined the number of stitches required.

Enkrid turned his attention back to Odinkar. “Welcome to the Border Guard.”

“A bit hasty with the greeting, aren’t you?”

“No, that duel was your true initiation.”

He gave Penna a casual spin—the very steel that had just tasted Odinkar’s flesh. The sunlight glinted off the red smear on the blade. Just as Lua Gharne had hinted, Enkrid was desperate to dissect the techniques of the Zaun Family. Could he simply ask for their secrets? Unlikely. If they wouldn’t give them, he would have to observe and steal them.

For the moment, it was all about the craft. His victory over Odinkar had been heavily influenced by fortune. Had the dice rolled differently, he would be the one on the ground. But that uncertainty was what made it exhilarating. Everything else was secondary.

—

The three members of the Zaun lineage settled in. Enkrid was forced to spend the following day in recovery.

“You aren’t going anywhere until the treatment is finished,” Anne warned with chilling sincerity. “Unless you want to die and become my next autopsy subject.”

She wasn’t being hyperbolic. Enkrid’s state was precarious. Even with the heightened recovery of a knight, the mental strain of his ‘calculations’ had left him with a blinding migraine. It took forty-eight hours for his mind to clear.

During his convalescence, he observed the others. He watched Audin spar with Grida, and later, Rem took her turn against the woman. Grida was unique among the Zaun trio; she seemed entirely indifferent to the concept of victory.

“Isn’t it a bit unsporting to wrap yourself in divinity like that, Jaxon?”

“If my name escapes you, I would prefer you didn’t address me at all.”

Despite Audin’s frosty retort, Grida remained unfazed. She proved to be a frustratingly difficult opponent to pin down. From Enkrid’s perspective, Audin’s movements were broad and sweeping—a style befitting a holy knight. His power was fundamentally protective. That shimmering golden grit that coated his frame acted as a divine barrier that common steel couldn’t hope to dent.

“He’s cheating! Help me out, Rem!”

“That is indeed my name.”

Even when Rem, watching from the sidelines, confirmed her identity, Grida continued to use names as if they were interchangeable. The only person she never misidentified was Enkrid.

Audin eventually claimed the win. It wasn’t a brutal victory, more of a technical exercise. Grida took the loss with a shrug. Her subsequent bout with Rem, however, was far more vicious.

To the untrained eye, Rem appeared to be riddled with defensive flaws—but those gaps were her greatest weapon. She dangled her vulnerabilities like lures. Grida was more than happy to bite, lunging for the perceived openings.

And that was where she failed.

Rem manipulated her axe with nothing more than a subtle wrist movement—the same deceptive flick she had once used to irritate Ragna. The heavy axe seemed to lose its weight, darting through the air in a jagged path that knocked Grida’s weapon aside.

*Clang!*

In the heartbeat that their steel met, Grida looked into the face of her own demise.

*Witchcraft.*

If divine power served as a holy knight’s plate armor, then witchcraft was the jagged edge of a barbarian’s blade. That power—wrapped in tattered cloth—was a volatile thing that could easily consume its user. Yet Rem wielded it with terrifying precision.

“…That was a solid strike.”

Grida offered a smile despite the defeat. Setting aside her inability to recognize faces, she was easily the most approachable and relaxed of the three visitors.

“You’re Lua Gharne, right? Our family has a Frokk much like you. I believe one of his kin played a role in drafting some of our fundamental styles.”

As she attempted to build rapport, Rophod and Pell were off pushing their limits—biting down on wooden pegs to muffle their grunts as they endured brutal training sessions. Meanwhile, Magrun remained a silent spectator, constantly documenting observations. The Zaun family didn’t just churn out warriors.

They operated on a clear internal structure. First, there were the Pioneers—the talented vanguards who pushed into the unknown, like Odinkar. Second were the Researchers, or the Delvers. These individuals were obsessed with the theory of the blade—refining old techniques and inventing counters. They often spiraled into niche obsessions, but they provided the intellectual foundation of the Zaun legacy. Magrun was one of them.

Finally, there were the Observers, the Guardians—like Grida. They cared little for personal glory. Their purpose was to document everything and ensure the family’s traditions were passed down intact. To maintain a lasting system, you required a structured hierarchy. That was the essence of the Zaun family.

“Are you certain you should be disclosing this to me?” Enkrid asked.

Grida’s only response was a smile. The seasonal storms had arrived at last, bringing a deafening deluge. The sound of the rain was a constant roar.

*ShwaaAAAA.*

Her voice, however, cut through the downpour with clarity. “Anyone who seeks out the Zaun family eventually learns these truths. Besides—you’re curious, aren’t you?”

They were standing under the shelter of the overhanging roof. Through the veil of falling water, Grida’s hazel eyes sparkled with genuine interest. Enkrid gave a slow nod.

“I have no trade or secrets to give you in exchange,” he stated bluntly. He was a man without collateral. And if her interest was of a romantic nature, he had more pressing concerns—namely, the Golden Witch.

“You’ve brought *another* girl home?!”

That had been Shinar’s greeting at daybreak after the spar. The confusion had been smoothed over eventually, but Shinar had made sure to corner Grida later. “There’s already a line for him. You’ll have to wait your turn at the back.”

“…If you say so. You must be the Black Flower, correct?” Grida answered, trying to pin a label on her.

It was an odd moniker for someone with hair like spun gold. Grida had a knack for reading a person’s essence, even if their facial features slipped from her mind like water. How she managed to relay any useful information with such a condition was a mystery… but it wasn’t Enkrid’s concern.

The spring weather was fickle. Two days of downpour were followed by two days of scorching sun that baked the earth dry. It was the time of year for blossoms and the first signs of fruit. The heavy rains had moved on.

Yet, Ragna was still absent—even after more than a fortnight. In the interim, Enkrid remained embedded with the Zaun trio, watching, learning, and mimicking. It was a brief window of time, but a monumental one for his growth.

The sun set on another day. And then the next. The river of time continued its relentless push forward.