A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 673

Chapter 673

Grida had been fond of this place from the moment she set foot in it—but as the days turned into weeks, her affection only deepened. Had she felt otherwise, she would have departed the second her tasks were finished, regardless of any arbitrary “two-month” agreement. She had wandered across the entire continent and witnessed a vast array of sights, yet few locations resonated with her quite like this one.

And she wasn’t the only one feeling that way.

“This is absolutely incredible.”

Odinkar, for his part, was completely won over. He took a massive bite of the day’s specialty—a mixture of minced meat, onions, and flour, seared on the grill and tucked into fresh bread—and offered an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Juices from the meat rolled down his chin. It was the sort of meal that commanded your full attention from the very first taste. The memory of the meat sizzling on the heat stayed with you, while the rich flavors swirled over the palate and went down easy.

It was undeniable. The food was fantastic.

Grida gave a firm nod and mirrored his gesture. The culinary offerings here were truly top-tier. The cured jerky was seasoned to perfection, and the bread was baked exactly right. Then there was the slow-roasted pork barbecue, cooked all day until it could be shredded and tossed in sauce, then piled high on long rolls. A pulled pork sandwich, if she recalled correctly.

Even that wasn’t the peak of the menu. The fresh juices and pumpkin soup were stellar; the warm broth provided a comfort that reached deep into one’s bones. While the Zaun family certainly knew their way around a kitchen, the meals here possessed a distinct personality. Even when the dishes seemed familiar, the execution was novel and vibrant. That variety made every meal an event.

Odinkar, never one to shy away from indulgence, eventually voiced a thought:

“What if I just stayed here forever?”

“Do you honestly think that’s an option?” Grida replied, shutting the idea down with a dry look. She reminded him of the four wives and the brood of children he had waiting for him back home.

“I’m only playing, I’m only playing,” Odinkar boomed with a thick laugh.

“Hey, if you’ve finished stuffing your face, get out here and fight!”

Enkrid’s voice drifted in from beyond the dining quarters.

“What’s the plan for today?” Odinkar asked as he finished his swallow. “Two against one? Or a straight duel?”

Enkrid shouted his reply from the courtyard.

Odinkar lacked even a shred of self-restraint, which meant every training session with him turned into a genuine struggle for survival. After several such close calls, Anne had stepped in to deliver a biting critique. She’d asked if he was some tattered doll looking for glory, wondering if he intended to end up covered in stitches from head to toe.

Even after a strike nearly snapped his collarbone in two, they had gone at it twice more. Odinkar had actually taken one of those rounds—and Enkrid had nearly lost his life in the process. Only Jaxon’s quick intervention with a dagger had stopped a blade from sliding into Enkrid’s throat. Simultaneously, Audin had lunged forward to pin Odinkar’s arm.

In the aftermath, it became clear to everyone that they couldn’t continue in that fashion. It was only a matter of time before someone ended up dead.

That was when Rem offered a peculiar tactic. Within her old military unit, they practiced a drill where one soldier had to hold their own against three others of equal capability.

“Wasn’t that just a way to bully the troops?” Kraiss had grumbled from the sidelines, though the utility of the drill was obvious to everyone else. Still, no one doubted that such a brutal method suited Rem’s temperament perfectly. Compelling someone to face three foes without guidance or explanation—forcing them to learn through the sheer agony of the experience while laughing at their struggle—that was classic Rem behavior.

“It’s a solid concept, brother,” Jaxon noted. “If three talented warriors push one person to their absolute limit, that person will grow. Meanwhile, the three learn how to work as a team.” Jaxon was being uncharacteristically vocal, likely because he was desperate to see the end of those suicidal duels.

The logic held: if Rem’s common soldiers could manage it, the knights certainly could.

Consequently, the structure of their practice changed. Enkrid began taking on two or three opponents at once. Odinkar did the same. Depending on the schedule, Rem and Audin would also take turns in the solo role.

The most startling development for Grida was watching Odinkar actually learn to hold back. Rem simply let out a cackle at the sight. She noted that after taking enough hits, even a man like him eventually figures things out. Jaxon attributed it to a systematic retraining of his physical habits, while Audin insisted it was a touch of divine intervention—claiming he’d simply hammered the word of God into him with his fists.

The phrasing differed, but the sentiment was identical: the lesson had been beaten into him.

Yet, their approach was unexpectedly calculated. From the techniques used to the way the matches were framed, everything followed a deliberate logic. Could someone really be fundamentally changed through pain so easily? Odinkar had spent his entire life dancing on the edge of a blade. Such deeply ingrained instincts aren’t discarded overnight.

What was the real turning point? What was the true catalyst for this shift?

Observation alone didn’t provide the answer; it required deeper study. Perhaps Magrun had parsed it out, given that such analysis was his forte.

At the heart of all this movement was Enkrid. Once the sparring became more structured and less lethal, the group leaned into it with terrifying intensity. Enkrid, in particular, lived with a focus that left even Odinkar in awe. It wasn’t just his prowess in a fight; it was the way he conducted every waking hour.

He rose before the sun to condition his body. In the mornings, he would go for walks—sometimes accompanied by the leopard, other times by the dark-haired witch in her light robes. But even these excursions were training in another form. He dueled with a sorceress at least twice a week. Following that, he had individual sessions with the barbarian, the assassin, and the fairy, with each workout customized to the partner.

Then came the instruction. Whether dealing with the local guards or his own unit, he provided the framework for their growth, mostly by defining their long-term objectives.

“I won’t be knocked down this time!”

One particularly zealous squire named Clemens was hard to miss. Regardless of his actual skill level, his internal fire was impossible to ignore. Seiki would stop by occasionally; she was clearly gifted, though she seemed largely indifferent to the whole affair.

While the actual management of the unit’s training fell to others, one fact remained constant: every spare second Enkrid had was dedicated to the art of the fight. It was a cycle of constant sparring, repetition, and zero downtime.

Grida wondered how his mind hadn’t simply snapped. The body was one thing, but if the spirit broke, the physical form would surely follow. Mental endurance was the foundation. Yet, Enkrid took it all in with a strange, quiet grace. That alone was a feat.

Lost in these reflections, Grida called out to a man walking past—she had most of the Mad Platoon’s names committed to memory by now.

“Hey, Rophod. You up for a round?”

The man stopped, scowled, and shot back a sharp correction.

“The name is Pell. Pell the Shepherd. Why do you keep mistaking me for that idiot?”

“My mistake,” Grida said with a shrug. “You two just have a similar look.”

Pell didn’t hesitate; he drew his blade immediately. “Let’s duel.”

Grida couldn’t help but smile. These people were an interesting bunch. She happily engaged in a match with Pell, enjoying the exchange.

Later, Lua Gharne approached her, diving into complex Frokk-style theoretical questions that brought a rare smirk to Magrun’s face. Magrun noted that the level of sophistication was far beyond what one would expect from someone who learned their craft in the wilderness. Grida was stunned to hear such a thing; Magrun, a man whose words were usually laced with venom, was actually offering a compliment.

“Is this your doing, Frokk?” Magrun inquired.

“No, it was him,” Lua Gharne replied, gesturing toward Enkrid.

Magrun looked perplexed. “Truly? How fascinating.”

Even Magrun found nothing to criticize. There were very few people he treated with such neutrality, even within the circles of the Zaun family. Enkrid had somehow made it onto that very short list.

It wasn’t as if Enkrid had used some magic on him. To an outsider, it looked quite mundane. He would simply approach, offer a few observations, and enter into a dialogue. Neither man ever raised his voice; they remained composed and systematic. Enkrid and Magrun met for these private discussions once or twice a week.

It was peculiar, but Grida understood the draw. Initially, she had considered the possibility of a romantic spark, but she had moved past that. Breakups made men difficult to be around, and she valued the current dynamic too much to risk it. She preferred things exactly as they were.

“I’m not waiting in that line,” she remarked to a fairy one afternoon. The golden-haired creature looked delighted by the comment.

“Shall I bring you some fresh spring water?” the fairy offered, noting a bruise Grida had earned during practice.

“That would be great. The queue is getting long.”

Truthfully, aside from the Black Flower and the Golden Witch, Grida hadn’t seen many others actually vying for Enkrid’s attention. However, the correspondence was a different story. Letters arrived in droves: gala invites, introductions from high-society women, messages from monarchs, the Eastern Pioneer King, and even a religious order.

His renown was undeniable. Even when walking through the city streets, he was constantly recognized. Aside from the Golden Witch, other fairies often tried their hand at subtle flirtation.

“Captain Shinar might be getting on in years, but I’m still in my prime,” a bow instructor from the militia whispered as she leaned toward Enkrid.

Grida, standing close enough to catch the exchange, watched with interest to see how he’d play it.

“Being slightly over four hundred isn’t exactly ancient,” Enkrid replied, easily matching the fairy’s sense of humor.

“I haven’t even reached half that age,” she countered.

“To a human, two hundred and four hundred are both just ‘old’.”

“But it’s not the same thing…” The fairy blinked with feigned innocence, though her eyes were sharp with playfulness. Grida knew that while fairies didn’t technically tell lies, they were masters of misdirection.

The fairy continued to flutter her lashes, trying to emphasize the age difference. “You know what I was getting at.”

“I did,” Enkrid said, cutting the conversation short with blunt honesty.

So that was his tactic.

It seemed everyone was fond of him—from the local innkeeper to a prominent merchant. Even a Frokk artisan would corner him, her cheeks puffed out as she rambled on about the materials she’d found and the items she planned to forge. Through it all, Enkrid remained a captive audience. He listened with a genuine, focused intensity.

Watching him, Grida came to a realization: she really had grown to love him. It wasn’t the love of a woman for a man, but a deep, human respect.

“You have a real talent for listening,” she told him.

“I just enjoy the passion people put into their words,” he answered. The casual way he said it was surprisingly charming.

On a whim, she asked, “Have you ever thought about joining the Zaun family?”

She already knew the answer. She’d spent enough time observing him to know he would decline.

And yet, he replied, “Would it be alright if I visited?”

“What?”

“I mean, can I just drop by for a visit sometime?”

“Oh. Well, yes. Certainly.”

She understood then. He wasn’t going to join them. He couldn’t be claimed or kept in one place. He was too radiant for that. Zaun was like a tranquil, unmoving lake. But Enkrid—he was the wind. The wind can brush against the water’s surface, but it can never be held by it.

“Wind Blade. Have you heard of that legendary sword?”

“Isn’t that just a story bards tell?”

“It belonged to one of the founders of Zaun,” she explained.

“That’s news to me,” he admitted.

Grida began to fill him in on the details.

“If you stay this close, people are going to start talking,” Shinar joked as she joined them. The three of them fell into a long conversation. Eventually, Esther would arrive, and the group would sit together, drinking tea in comfortable silence.

The quiet was just as good as the talk. These were decent people. She began to understand why Ragna might not have wanted to return.

Then, a newcomer walked into the unit’s grounds. Grida, who was positioned near the entrance, looked at the visitor—a man with golden hair and crimson eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The man blinked slowly, running a hand through his tangled hair. He looked as though he had been wandering lost for quite some time, and he smelled the part. Still, he carried a massive greatsword with a certain level of poise.

“Grida?”

“You know me? You look familiar… who are you?” She squinted at him. The features were recognizable, but…

“It’s Ragna. Why are you here? Did you lose your way again?”

“Oh. Ragna.”

Right—the whole point of this trip had been a search-and-rescue mission for him. She had been focused at the start, but she’d gotten distracted by how much fun she was having.

“I was sent to find you.”

“Me?”

“People back home want to see the one who ran away.”

“If they miss me so much, they can come here themselves.”

“They can’t make the trip. So I did.”

To be honest, if the family hadn’t reached out, Grida might have stayed on the road indefinitely. It had been a long time since she’d traveled, and despite the hardships, she had found much to appreciate. But now that Ragna was in front of her, she had to deliver the message.

“Father is looking for you,” she said.

Ragna just looked at her, his expression making it clear he didn’t care. His eyes suggested he was perfectly happy where he was, and that he’d picked up some questionable traits from Enkrid.

Her brother hadn’t used to have that look in his eyes. Now, they were hard and sharp—just like the barbarian Rem’s.