A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 674

Chapter 674

“Why are you staring like that?”
Grida tilted her head, her voice casual. Ragna’s jaw dropped slightly in response.
“What’s wrong with my eyes?”
Reflecting on it, her younger brother had possessed that look since their youth, though she had never seen him widen them quite like that before.
“I asked why you’re making that damn face.”
A sharp edge of aggression cut through Grida’s words. Despite their age difference, they had taken up the blade during the same period.
Hadn’t Ragna’s original motivation for training been his refusal to be surpassed by her?
That was a memory from his toddler years, back when he was first grasping the reality of the world. Of course, just because Grida held onto that memory didn’t mean Ragna bothered to remember it himself.
“This is my face. I’ll look how I want,” Ragna countered, his gaze steady.
He was the kind of brother who, within a month of starting his training, no longer gave anyone a reason to strike him. Still, he was grating. His expression, his tone—every detail was provocative.
Grida’s right arm dropped before snapping upward. She adjusted her hold, then tightened her fist around a hilt.
Ping.
The steel leaped from its housing, darting toward him. The blade shimmered with an artificial brilliance, catching the sun’s rays and flinging them into Ragna’s eyes to blind him.
The path of the strike was aggressive—the kind that demanded a price in blood if ignored. It surged high, then plunged downward, slicing toward his arm with the grace of a bird.
Clang!
Ragna pivoted on his left heel, pulling his massive sword out just enough to catch Grida’s strike. Then, he drew the weapon fully, driving it upward in a counter-slash.
As siblings who had been fighting since they were small, this was simply how they said hello. Yet, Grida felt a spark of genuine shock at the exchange, even if it was just a preliminary bout.
Two specific things unsettled her.
The first:
“He actually moved?”
The Ragna she remembered never bothered with evasion.
“Why move? Just stop it,” had always been his philosophy. In those days, people whispered he might be the family’s most gifted prodigy, yet he possessed a glaring weakness.
“Too stubborn.”
He was headstrong to a fault. Sometimes a warrior needs to retreat, but Ragna only knew how to press on. Their family’s legacy taught that the sword should be like a river—constant, flowing, and adaptable. That was the ancestral wisdom.
But Ragna had always stuck to what he found simplest. That was exactly how Enkrid had summarized him upon their first meeting. The brother Grida knew was rigid.
And yet, now he was fluid.
His blade didn’t feel heavy; it moved with the current. It was a rhythmic, unexpected motion she never thought he could master.
Then came the second shock.
Grida grabbed her weapon with both hands, bracing herself against the sheer momentum Ragna was generating.
The metal screeched and groaned as they ground against one another. She didn’t even consider trying to hold him back with a single hand.
“How did he get this powerful?”
Her annoying, thick-headed brother.
From an observer’s perspective, Ragna’s upward swing looked casual, but the effort of stopping it sent a shiver of cold sweat down Grida’s spine.
Thud!
Finally, Grida broke the stalemate and leapt backward to create space.
Whoosh.
Ragna’s greatsword cut through the air she had just occupied, coming to a rest pointing toward the clouds. He held the heavy metal effortlessly, watching her.
Earlier, his eyes had mirrored the wildness of the barbarian Rem. Now, they were transformed.
“You just keep giving me reasons to be stunned…”
The third realization hit her.
There was a flicker of genuine purpose in Ragna’s eyes.
This was the boy who had walked away from his noble lineage because he found his future boring. Back then, his gaze was as lifeless as a corpse. He claimed everything was tedious and hollow, treating the sword as nothing more than a chore.
But now, deep within his pupils, Grida recognized a spark—the same madness she had seen in Enkrid. With her sharp intuition, she saw the change clearly.
“What happened to change you…?” she wondered silently, her hand tightening on her grip. She wouldn’t ask with words; she would find her answers through their duel.

—

In the training grounds, Enkrid stood in solitude, his sword moving in rhythm with his deep reflections.
Would he find his way simply by obsessing over the blade? Was pure devotion enough?
No. He realized that wasn’t the answer.
He had to clear his mind. Tunnel vision would only limit him. By letting his thoughts wander, new insights often emerged—a method Enkrid had long relied on.
Naturally, his mind drifted to his missing ally.
A month had passed since Ragna vanished, yet the group remained unbothered. The consensus was that he’d show up eventually.
“Grida remembers every face she sees, and Ragna has likely memorized every inch of the land around these tents,” they figured. To be precise, he didn’t just know the roads; he understood the entire landscape. He was the type to scale a tree or leap across roofs to find his way home.
Leaving the city entirely seemed unlikely. Just as Jaxon often went out on business, Ragna would occasionally wander the markets as he pleased.
The prediction was unanimous: he’d eat his fill, find a sunny spot to nap, and drift back whenever the mood struck him.
It was a logical assumption. Enkrid agreed and chose not to fret over him.
His mind then reviewed the past month.
The routine training, the drills, and the arrival of the three from the Zaun family.
Zaun.
He had absorbed the lessons they brought with them. In that exchange, Enkrid felt a new fire. To be fair, his dream of forming a knightly order was a permanent flame; his passion was always there, just waiting for fuel.
If Kraiss knew Enkrid’s current state of mind, he’d probably laugh.
“Even Juri the jam-seller knows the captain is obsessed,” he’d likely remark.
Regardless, whether it was Jaxon or Rem, none of them were the type to sit still, which Enkrid appreciated. The Zaun trio were like the perfect addition to a meal—they made everything better.
“Identification. Calculation. Reaction.”
As Enkrid practiced, Jaxon’s words returned to him, settling into a clear structure.
“First, recognize the foe and the surroundings.”
Identification.
“Then, map out every possible line of strike.”
Calculation.
“Finally, anticipate the result of your own move.”
Reaction.
Jaxon was describing the core of assassination, the very foundation of his style.
What was the takeaway for Enkrid? The basics. He needed to take what he already did and refine it to perfection. Identification, calculation, reaction—it was a grueling path, and it had its dangers.
“Thinking too much during a fight burns you out quickly.”
That didn’t fit the philosophy of the Wavebreaker Sword. But was that the only way?
No.
“Complete the math in a heartbeat.”
He recalled his bouts with Rem, his sessions with Audin, and the training with Jaxon where they played with each other’s perceptions. He trained without end, always analyzing.
Lessons that used to require a near-death experience now became clear signposts as his experience grew.
This was one of those moments of clarity.
Enkrid took everything he had learned and tightened it.
Rem lived for the instant.
Jaxon analyzed the whole field.
Audin manipulated distance through trickery.
It all merged into a single vision. When he deflected projectiles or felt the weight of a thrown stone, it happened in a world of slowed time. He had to seize those micro-seconds.
“A strike only exists if it hits.”
Flash. A sudden burst.
It wasn’t just raw speed—it was speed born of intent. The true essence of a flash.
The concept: A sudden explosion of light.
The execution: Deadly velocity fueled by instinctual calculation.
The method:
“Strike within the moment using honed reflexes.”
And above all, never lose that speed.
It was a punishing path, but Enkrid felt a surge of joy having found it.
“What is he doing now?”
Magrun, who was busy studying techniques nearby, asked while watching Enkrid.
The man was shaking, a look of pure ecstasy on his face. He looked unhinged. He had swung his sword once, stood still in thought, and then began acting like a madman. It wasn’t a normal sight.
Even for the eccentric Zaun family, this was bizarre. Magrun couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“Just ignore him. He’s in his happy place,” Rem said, having seen this before.
“Is this a common thing in the West?”
“What are you talking about? The West is full of regular people, you moron,” Rem snapped before walking away.
“So you’re saying he’s not human?” Magrun’s confusion only grew.
Eventually, Enkrid snapped out of his trance. Now that he had his goal, he just needed to work. Then, Jaxon’s final piece of advice echoed in his mind—a warning against arrogance.
“Getting ready isn’t the finish line. The final move is the retreat. If there’s no opening, don’t force it. If there’s no gap, back off. But know how far to go, when to halt, and how to pay the price of the move.”
Never let your own talent blind you to the exit. Jaxon meant it as a way to stay alive, but Enkrid interpreted it his own way.
“Don’t let the technique make you forget the recovery.”
That was the lesson from his first “reset” day. He had been so focused on the lunge that he forgot what happened next. He had vowed never to repeat that mistake.
It was during this solo practice of his “Flash” technique that Ragna returned, with Grida following.
A month had passed since his departure.
“Why were you shaking and drooling earlier? Are you sick?”
Magrun spoke to Enkrid without looking up. Rem was busy with his axe, and Audin only spared a glance before focusing on training Pell and Rophod.
Audin’s voice broke the air.
“You said the first one to yell loses, right? Then let me help you build some character. The Lord is with you, brothers.”
Rophod and Pell, clutching wooden bits between their teeth, turned pale. They knew the routine.
Whoosh.
Audin swung a thick metal bar designed specifically for this “training.”
Whack!
The sound echoed off Rophod’s leg.
“I didn’t make a sound,” Teresa noted. She was watching the “judgment match” with an intense, serious expression.
“Excellent,” Audin smiled, moving to his next “student.”
Pell considered quitting, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Before he could decide, Audin struck.
Whack!
One strike each—perfectly fair.
In the distance, Lua Gharne wiped sweat from her brow during her own drills and whispered,
“You’re back.”
That was all.
Ragna walked in as if he’d never left.
Odinkar, who was training on his own, simply lifted his blade.
“Hey.”
“Odinkar,” Ragna replied with a small wave.
That was it. Odinkar, now fully part of the group, greeted him like an old friend. His ability to blend in was almost supernatural.
Then Shinar followed Ragna in and called out to Enkrid.
“My love. We need to pick a name for the baby today.”
It was just another typical afternoon.
“Honestly, you people are incredibly strange,” Grida remarked, taking it all in.
Ragna headed to the kitchen, then the baths, before finally approaching Enkrid.
“You’re just in time. I need a partner,” Enkrid said warmly.
He had just finished the theory for his Flash technique and wanted to test it.
Shing.
Ragna drew his greatsword. Even though Aitri had fixed it, the edge was battered from his fights with Penna and Grida.
Enkrid drew his own weapon.
Srrrrr-ring.
The sound of the Three-Iron Sword leaving its scabbard was crisp. They began to spar, just like always.
“What about the child’s name?”
“It’s done.”
Grida had been eavesdropping when Shinar brought up the baby. When Enkrid didn’t answer and just drew his sword, she realized the truth—this man was truly insane.
“Three Iron.”
Enkrid had named his sword Samcheol—Three Iron.
“I’m surprised Odd-Eye didn’t have a meltdown. Seriously,” Rem noted.
Enkrid nodded. “Right? It’s a solid name. Odd-Eye was actually thrilled the first time he heard it.”
“You have a very convenient way of remembering things. I’m surprised you can function,” Rem offered as a blunt compliment.
Days turned into weeks. Even with Ragna back, life remained the same. The time passed in a way that others might find boring or repetitive.
On a bright spring morning two months later, Grida finally approached Enkrid.
“Let’s have a real duel.”
Grida had spent those two months doing nothing but the basics. Watching her, Enkrid realized she was starting to remind him of Aitri.
“Like tempering steel in the coals…”
That was how Grida had chosen to rebuild herself.