A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 675

Chapter 675

## A Duel of Philosophies

“Are you prepared, Samcheol?”

Enkrid’s voice was the only sound in the quiet morning as he addressed his blade. Grida, standing across from him, narrowed her eyes and chose her response with a hint of exasperation.

“I’ve asked you to stop that. It makes you sound like you’ve lost your mind.”

She was being completely literal. It was a hunk of metal, not a living creature; why did he insist on treating it like a partner? Enkrid didn’t bother to defend himself. He spoke to the weapon because, to him, it possessed a presence that demanded acknowledgment.

The blade was named Samcheol—a masterpiece of craftsmanship featuring a core of black iron, with edges painstakingly layered in true silver and dusk-gold. Had it possessed its own sentient Will, it would have been classified as an engraved weapon. While Aitri was a legendary smith, Samcheol was a rarity even among his works. If his other sword, Penna, was a perfect tool, Samcheol felt like a natural part of Enkrid’s own anatomy.

In Enkrid’s mind, the steel sang. It whispered of its desire to whirl, to clash, and to find its rhythm against other steel. It yearned for the heat of conflict—a phantom voice that resonated only with him. Or, perhaps, he just imagined it.

“Samcheol mentioned he’s in the mood for a duet,” Enkrid remarked.

“…I usually try to stay out of your business, but you’re looking more unhinged by the day. Surely you realize that?”

The comment came from Rem, who had wandered over to observe. She had been awake since before the first light, her skin still glistening from her dawn drills. The sharp, biting cold of winter was finally surrendering to the gentle warmth of the coming spring. Though the sun climbed the horizon earlier now, the intensity of their morning rituals remained a constant.

Grida had eventually come to terms with it. Enkrid was a fanatic. Even within the walls of House Zaun, where everyone was obsessed with the way of the sword, his dedication was an anomaly. She hadn’t expected to find such a person on this continent. He was one of those rare, erratic geniuses that occasionally emerged from obscurity.

Yet, there was a paradox to him. Despite his obvious natural gifts, he appeared—on the surface—to be at a complete standstill. After sixty days of constant sparring, Grida hadn’t witnessed a single tangible leap in his ability.

*There has to be more to it,* she thought. There had to be a hidden depth she wasn’t seeing; otherwise, he wouldn’t have achieved knighthood or earned the unwavering loyalty of his peers.

As a spring gust brushed past, a sudden chill tightened her chest. Grida felt her fibers coil with readiness. Her pulse accelerated—a welcome sensation. That specific spark of adrenaline would only make her sharper.

*I’ve been too relaxed,* she admitted to herself. Even while trekking across the land under the guise of searching for Ragna, she had maintained her forms. But solo practice was a pale shadow compared to the pressure of training alongside those who lived and breathed combat. She had slipped slightly, and she knew it.

Still, she didn’t regret her choices. It wasn’t a matter of being lazy or uninformed. She had simply prioritized the tasks at hand. The leader of her clan hadn’t imposed a time limit on her search for Ragna, which was a message in itself. Besides, the freedom of the road—the food, the drink—had its own charm.

She remembered a particular nobleman who had tried to claim her as a concubine after one glance. The memory of his face after she detached the hands of his three bodyguards still brought a smirk to her lips. Then there was the lover she had briefly taken, who had eventually departed to follow his own star. All of it was part of her journey.

Pushing the nostalgia aside, Grida asked, “So, did you manage to uncover the secret of the Zaun family?”

Enkrid gave a slight nod, his sword held in a relaxed, low guard. In truth, there wasn’t much of a mystery to solve. Grida and her companions hadn’t exactly been secretive.

“Is it really a secret if you never bothered to hide it?” he countered.

“Calling it a secret makes the whole thing sound much more prestigious,” Grida replied, her teeth flashing in a bright grin. Despite her travels, she took meticulous care of her health. Since knights were rarely touched by common illnesses, their physical condition—down to their teeth—remained pristine.

They began to circle, measuring the gap between them. It wasn’t just Rem watching now; Audin had arrived, and Rophod and Pell were currently binding their own limbs with cords, preparing for their own specialized training. They had recently taken to sparring with restricted movement to heighten their adaptability. Both of them looked at the impending duel with a sense of restless anxiety.

*Two months already…* They were still nowhere near the level of a true knight. But that was the reality of the path. No matter how perfect the training regimen, mastery wasn’t a sprint. If it were easy, every kingdom would be overflowing with knight orders. Nevertheless, their progress was undeniable.

Magrun, who had also joined the onlookers, saw it clearly. He had recently shared his thoughts with Grida. He sensed a spark in them.

*They’ll reach it,* he thought. The Zaun method of forging knights was distinct, and Magrun’s intuition told him these two were on the right trajectory. Even their current frustration was merely fuel for the fire. That was the essence of Zaun: growth through friction.

Zaun was built on the foundation of rivalry. Competition birthed ambition. But here, in this group, the atmosphere was even more volatile. The Border Guard pushed their subordinates with a brutality that bordered on lethal—a sharp contrast to the self-motivated, internal drive of the Zaun culture.

Enkrid’s focus remained locked on Grida. She was a formidable opponent, even if she sat a tier below the likes of Magrun or Odinkar. That reality hadn’t shifted.

“Tell me then, what did you see?” Grida asked, shifting her weight. She positioned herself so the morning sun was at her back, the glare directed toward Enkrid’s face.

He adjusted his stance by a fraction to compensate for the light. “A system of perpetual rivalry to ensure no one becomes complacent.”

He had spent these months watching the Zaun trio, absorbing their words and dissecting their habits. His inherent curiosity had been his guide. He found that understanding their philosophy was far more valuable than simply copying their movements.

He realized that at the heart of Zaun’s competition was pure, unadulterated desire. If Enkrid were asked how one develops Will, his answer would be simple:

“You need the fervor to chase what you crave.”

Zaun operated on that exact principle. To grow one’s Will, one needed a fire that never went out. Enkrid had peered into the soul of their creed. Because he possessed talent, he could recognize it in the founders of their house. Zaun didn’t expect the talentless to survive on passion alone; that wasn’t their way. It wasn’t a path Enkrid chose for himself, but he respected the lesson.

“You encourage people to double down on their natural strengths,” Enkrid added, finally bringing his sword tip up. He was speaking, but his mind was already performing a high-speed scan of Grida’s posture, mapping out every possible opening.

Grida’s smile widened. “Precisely.”

“Those who can’t keep up are simply left behind.”

Only those who found joy in the struggle remained. That was the engine of their evolution.

“Right again,” she agreed.

They had spoken of Ragna’s youth after his return.

“Ragna? Back then, you might have called him deficient in some ways. But he was different—he was an outlier. His talent was frighteningly real.”

What required years of agony for others, Ragna performed without effort. But he lacked the hunger. His immense gift was a double-edged sword that cut away his motivation.

“Great talent can kill ambition just as easily as it can fuel it.”

That was the verdict. The clan elders had eventually looked away, and Ragna hadn’t minded. That was the origin of his legendary lethality and his legendary laziness.

“He found almost everything tedious. But he loved the road. He used to say that finding a path he didn’t know was the only thing that felt real.”

Enkrid had never heard the full depth of Ragna’s thoughts, but the sentiment rang true. Ragna had no interest in a journey where the end was already visible. To him, getting lost wasn’t a failure—it was the only way to feel alive.

The inversion of talent.

Was Ragna a prisoner of his family’s legacy, or was he the only one who was truly free? What happens when your natural aptitude and your heart’s desire are at odds? Enkrid knew the answer, and he held it in high regard.

“Zaun isn’t interested in the grand struggle against demons or saving the world. We live for the sword—nothing else. And we find our joy in that pursuit,” Grida concluded.

That was the Zaun identity. They weren’t afraid to share knowledge because the competition only made them stronger. They didn’t squander their potential; they simply existed within it.

“You can call us a stagnant pond if you like, but to keep the water moving, many of us wander the world. Others stay and build something that lasts.”

Enkrid had no desire to judge them. Power didn’t carry an inherent obligation to be used for the greater good. He knew that if he offered them a worthy challenge or a trade, they would help him. But he hesitated. Didn’t they deserve to live as they saw fit? This was his own form of respect for the individual.

A brotherhood obsessed with the blade. A life of passion maintained through rivalry. It was why they were so open with their techniques.

Would you trade your soul for the perfect strike?

A Zaun knight might consider it, but they wouldn’t go through with it. Odinkar had given him the reason:

“If I give up my soul, there’s no ‘me’ left to hold the sword. And that’s no fun at all.”

It was a selfish philosophy, but a compelling one.

“Magrun has been observing you for two months,” Grida said, her sword rising into a live guard. Enkrid mirrored her. The atmosphere turned electric.

“Be ready, Enki.”

As they settled into their stances, Enkrid’s allies stood behind him: Rem, Audin, Jaxon, Esther, Shinar, Teresa, Rophod, Pell, and Lua Gharne. Behind Grida stood Odinkar with his arms crossed, while Magrun sat nearby in a chair he’d brought for the occasion.

Their gazes locked. Was this the same woman he had met in a common market? Enkrid knew the answer immediately.

No. She had transformed. Two months of focused training had tempered her like steel.

She moved. Her lead foot slid forward. Enkrid’s instincts screamed before she even finished the motion, visualizing the trajectory of the strike. It was a lunging thrust off the left foot. By the time his brain processed the image, her blade was already screaming through the air—faster and more lethal than it had ever been.

*Clang!*

The silver of her blade hit Samcheol and was deflected. There was no pause. Enkrid stepped into the gap, surging forward with a burst of speed. He closed the distance instantly, swinging the heavy pommel of Samcheol toward her temple. It was a dirty, unexpected transition.

She caught the impact on her forearm.

*Thud!*

The sheer difference in physical power was undeniable. Grida was sent reeling. Rather than trying to fight the momentum and breaking her arm, she used the force to roll backward.

Enkrid’s mind went into overdrive, calculating thirty different ways she might counter-attack from that position. But Grida did none of them.

*Tap-tap.*

She performed two quick, rhythmic stomps. To a bystander, it looked like a nervous tic. To Enkrid, it sent his mental projections into a frenzy of possibilities.

Why the stomps? Was it a feint? A trigger for a hidden technique? A way to shift her center of gravity?

A hundred theories flashed through his mind in a millisecond. *If the intent is unclear, just watch the execution,* he decided.

He spun Samcheol in his grip. The blade was asymmetrical: dusk-gold on one side, true silver on the other. While a lesser smith would have created a clumsy, unbalanced tool, Aitri had perfected the black iron core to ensure the weight was manageable. However, the slight difference in the edges allowed for specialized momentum.

He brought the heavier, dusk-gold edge forward to maximize his striking power. He stepped out with his right foot, torqued his hips, and let the energy flow from his shoulder to his wrist in a devastating arc.

*Boom!*

The sword tore through the air, the sound like a physical blow, as it sliced through the space Grida had occupied a second before. She rolled clear, dodging the lethality by a hair’s breadth.

She didn’t stop there. Coming out of the roll, she slapped the earth with her left hand to gain leverage and then slammed her own fist into her chest.

*Thwack!*

The sound was jarring. She had hit herself with significant force.

*Why?* Enkrid’s mind raced. Was it a physical reset? A distraction? Had she miscalculated her own movement?

She repeated the strange, jarring motion as she circled. Suddenly, Enkrid felt his own coordination falter; he tripped over his own stride, his balance momentarily vanishing. In that split second of confusion, Grida exploded forward, her sword driving toward his heart.

*Clang!*

He managed to parry the strike at the last possible moment, but the effort—or perhaps the disorientation—caused blood to spray from his nose.

“Having a good time?” Grida asked, her eyes bright with the thrill of the fight.

Even as his vision swam and his internal compass spun, Enkrid managed a bloody grin.

“…Yeah.”

Looking back at the exchange, the logic began to click. She wasn’t just fighting him with steel; she was using a sequence of nonsensical, unpredictable movements designed to overload his analytical mind and break his rhythm.

It was a beautiful, chaotic answer to his calculations.