A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 676

Chapter 676

The Zaun were a lineage both distorted and meticulously reshaped.
They possessed immense power but chose to neglect its typical uses. To them, any action was justifiable if it contributed to the refinement of their martial path.
Grida had once remarked on something that remained vivid in memory.
“If you follow the lineage back through the ages, you will find our source. I was told it began with an individual who lacked a fundamental piece of themselves and grasped a blade to bridge that emptiness.”
There was no point in inquiring what that deficiency was. For them, every answer was found in the edge of a sword.
For instance, how does a man handle the agony of a love that is never returned?
If you were of the Zaun bloodline, the solution was simple: perform a thousand swings.
What of a youth who has been orphaned? How do they process that deep-seated longing and heartache?
The answer remained the same: swing the sword.
There was once a boy who was perpetually disoriented. That boy yearned for a straight and true path.
His innate gift propelled him forward so that, in the realm of combat at least, he never strayed from his course.
His fixation on finding the correct way manifested entirely through his swordsmanship.
A child who struggled to recall the features of a face grew into an adult with a supernatural capacity for memorizing forms.
Grida possessed an almost flawless recollection—but only when it pertained to the art of the blade.
Consequently—
“Ah, Roni? What brings you by?”
The fact that she addressed Kraiss by the wrong name was not out of the ordinary. If one grasped her nature—if one understood the essence of the Zaun family—it was entirely expected.
“Why do you constantly mess up my name? Are you trying to start something?”
Kraiss grumbled his annoyance, to which Grida would merely offer a faint smile and respond,
“My apologies. I have never traded blows with you.”
Had they engaged in a duel, she would have recognized him through the rhythm of his steel. Without that connection, she could not hold a face in her mind.
Could one truly argue that filling a spiritual void through martial prowess made sense? To an outsider, it appeared as lunacy. Yet to them, it was the only natural state.
This was because of the final component that made such a life possible:
Talent.
Those born with such gifts converged and twisted themselves into a singular obsession, sacrificing everything else to achieve mastery over the sword.
That was the reality of the Zaun family.
Anyone capable of interpreting the flow of a duel immediately grasped the deception Grida had employed.
Even Enkrid, who had just been the target of it, understood.
It was a counterattack designed with surgical precision.
The logic wasn’t far removed from the tactics Shinar had utilized.
Shinar had discovered a method to neutralize the Wavebreaker Sword.
Grida, however, had introduced an element that completely bypassed “calculation.”
It was a specific counter-form intended to dismantle just one technique.
“I am presenting the fruit of two months of labor.”
This was the very thing Magrun had alluded to previously.
An Anomaly.
A sequence of pointless gestures designed to scramble the logic of an opponent’s calculations.
She appeared ready to plant her feet and surge forward, yet her motions failed to connect.
She exposed her back, tucked her blade beneath her arm, struck her own leg for no discernible reason, and jerked her head side to side—some movements carried weight, while others were mere noise.
Because the rhythm of her body failed to align with any standard logic, the predictive calculations of her opponent inevitably fell into disarray.
It’s quite amusing, really.
This wasn’t an attempt at a conventional victory. Its sole purpose was to shatter a specific technique.
They distorted the very nature of calculation and then wielded those distortions as a weapon.
Are they not remarkably entertaining?
But had they accounted for the Wavebreaker Sword as well? Ultimately, it too was a construct born of focused thought.
What occurs if someone maintains this level of relentless pressure?
Even then, it would not suffice against the Wavebreaker Sword.
It would merely result in two parallel paths advancing in tandem.
Wavebreaker was an absolute defensive art. In terms of endurance, it was without rival.
Though it was forged through mental discipline, its core remained anchored in defense.
Magrun and Grida were both aware of this reality.
Therefore, if the Wavebreaker Sword was drawn, they would choose not to engage it directly.
They took pleasure in dismantling techniques and found the intricacies of combat mesmerizing.
Odinckar, observing the exchange, began to chuckle silently, his shoulders shaking with amusement.
Enkrid shifted his weight and reset his posture.
Grida was an expert at identifying and exploiting flaws. That was her particular genius.
“Once more.”
Enkrid spoke while maintaining his gaze on Grida. He hoisted his blade high above his head, raising both arms and leaving his torso, flanks, and vitals completely open.
Grida immediately identified several points of vulnerability.
Her physical form reacted on pure instinct.
She only needed to drop the point of her sword and drive it home.
Yet, despite recognizing the opening, Grida found herself unable to commit.
Why?
Because of the blade Enkrid held poised above him.
If I step inside, I will be struck down.
Grida retracted her weapon. It was a choice made in a heartbeat. Her steel caught the light of the sun, flashing brilliant white as she shifted it to a vertical guard, pointing toward the earth.
Enkrid altered the structure of his calculation—moving from a sustained state to an instantaneous one.
If defense is the act of halting waves, then offense is the flash of a single moment.
That was his personal definition of the sword.
Zzzzt.
He glided forward, his feet never leaving the surface of the ground. Puffs of dry soil rose around his boots. As his left foot advanced, the right followed with mechanical precision. He seized the exact distance he required.
“Do not attempt to parry!”
Just before the impact, Odinckar bellowed a warning. A sense of impending danger moved his lips.
Magrun watched the scene with wide, unblinking eyes.
Rem, Audin, Ragna, and Jaxon all lurched forward simultaneously.
Even so, they were too slow.
Zzzzt—!
Enkrid dragged his right foot across the dirt in a diagonal forward motion, spun his blade, and applied pressure to the flat of the metal with his finger. A “thumb grip.”
Then he unleashed the strike.
In that solitary instant, he calculated every possible defensive reaction Grida could muster.
His tri-iron sword collided with Grida’s vertical white blade and swept right through.
BOOM!
The sound of the impact was like a clap of thunder. Grida released a choked sound of pain.
Enkrid had pulled off a rising horizontal blow.
Its true power? Even if intercepted, it was designed to transition instantly from a high posture into a lethal thrust.
And that was precisely what he executed.
He whirled the blade over his head, knocking Grida’s white sword toward the left, then slid his own edge down. Using the cross-guard to trap her weapon, he lunged.
The momentum caused Grida’s legs to buckle. To the onlookers, it looked as though a massive puncture was about to open in her skull.
But the strike never landed.
Enkrid had arrested the blade just in time.
“…I think I’m going to lose my bladder.”
Grida whispered.
Enkrid glanced back at the long shadow stretching out behind him.
“If my goal had been your life, I wouldn’t have used a horizontal swing—it would have been a diagonal slash followed by a rising cut.”
“I didn’t interfere for a reason.”
Rem threw in an unnecessary observation.
Odinckar had already risen to his feet, his own blade held ready.
The outcome was undeniable: Enkrid was the victor. Grida had been defeated.
She let out a long breath, releasing her stored tension, and sank to the dirt.
A bit of laughter colored her words.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to rely on your insight until the very end?”
“We never made such an agreement.”
“Fair point.”
Grida gave a nod. Enkrid offered a small smile and returned his sword to its sheath.
“It was interesting to watch, but perhaps not the best for a friendly spar, right?”
Ragna, who had been watching closely, chimed in.
“Is that all you have to say?” Rem barked at him.
Meanwhile, Rophod, who had barely managed to process the mechanics of Enkrid’s move, was oblivious to the surrounding chatter.
A moment of clarity had struck him and taken root in his mind.
If your logic is anticipated, how do you respond?
Enkrid had provided the solution.
Alter the very nature of your logic.
What if you maintained several distinct modes of calculation?
Not every predictive model has to follow the same rules. That was the breakthrough.
It wasn’t something he had planned… or perhaps it was. Maybe every lesson he had received up to this point had been leading toward this specific realization.
He simply hadn’t anticipated such a profound shift occurring in the middle of a single duel.
Rophod, gripped by his new understanding, began to slice through the air with the edge of his palm.
Pell, observing him, started to speak but held his tongue.
This was not the time for an interruption.
Especially not for someone who possessed less natural aptitude than himself.
Pell’s pride, as the guardian of the frontier, was not so easily bruised.
He remained silent.
Enkrid, in the meantime, turned his gaze to the side.
“Tch. I am the loser here.”
It was Magrun speaking.
But it wasn’t just because of the words he had uttered.
Though he had been sharp-tongued over the last two months, his demeanor had softened.
At times, he treated Enkrid almost like a longtime comrade.
“Magrun.”
Enkrid called out to him.
Magrun started to smile and began to speak, but his expression suddenly twisted into a grimace before he erupted into a violent cough—it was blood.
His tunic was quickly stained deep crimson.
Odinckar silently put away his sword and hurried to his side. Grida picked up her weapon and moved back.
“Hmph. What a time for the affliction to flare up.”
Grida murmured under her breath.
Enkrid looked around for Esther, then glanced at Rem, then back to the fallen man.
Esther had been away for two days on some quest for starlight. Rem merely twitched his brow in response.
“Hurk!”
Magrun coughed again, bringing up dark, thick clots. Then his eyes drifted upward and he collapsed.
Odinckar caught him before he hit the ground.
“What affliction are you talking about?”
Enkrid asked, his eyes fixed on Magrun.
Grida rubbed her lip thoughtfully.
There was no hint of panic in her voice.
Had this been her first encounter with someone vomiting blood, she would not have remained so composed.
“It is a sort of curse that strikes a few souls if their luck is poor. Some survive it, others do not. Most of the time, they just slowly lose their breath… and fade away.”
She spoke with a flat tone. Ragna seemed to be familiar with the situation.
“That is exactly what it is.”
He didn’t possess any further details, however.
Odinckar assessed Magrun’s condition in silence, holding him steady.
“Jaxon.”
“Present.”
“Go find Anne. Audin—”
“I am on it, brother. I will check him.”
Audin was aware that curses had no power over Enkrid.
And he himself felt no fear toward such things.
He conjured a soft golden radiance in his palm and pressed it against Magrun’s chest.
“Ugh.”
Magrun let out a low groan.
“If this is indeed a curse, it isn’t the variety that responds to my abilities, brother.”
Audin reported.
Is holy power not the remedy for curses?
Not exactly. Divine energy can replenish the blood lost to such a malady, but the curse itself is more akin to dark sorcery than a standard ailment.
That was why Enkrid turned toward Rem.
But even Rem did not move to help.
“There is no stench of decay.”
Rem noted, then directed a question to his axe.
“You don’t catch a scent either, do you?”
For a man often called insane for speaking to his steel, he was remarkably articulate.
Grida couldn’t resist a comment.
“Does your weapon ever mention wanting to break into song?”
“Listen, my axe has a very clear will of its own.”
Perhaps, but to any observer, it still looked like a man talking to a piece of metal.
Grida thought this but kept it to herself. This wasn’t the moment for a debate.
Enkrid had been wondering if Magrun’s health had been declining over the past two months, but it hadn’t—this was a sudden collapse.
Before long, Jaxon came back with Anne in tow.
“If we were dealing with a severed limb, we’d need Seiki as well.”
Anne remarked as she walked up.
“It isn’t a fresh wound. Just an old hex showing its teeth.”
Grida answered casually.
Anne said nothing more and dropped to her knees by Magrun, pulling back his eyelids to inspect his eyes.
“Open his jaw.”
Anne commanded.
Odinckar did as he was told.
From their previous training sessions, they all knew—Anne was a master of the healing arts.
In truth, even Enkrid’s own household had never employed anyone of her caliber.
She didn’t bother checking his tongue. Instead, she peered closely at the lining of his cheeks.
Then she produced a small metal spoon from her garment, took a sample from the inner cheek, and carefully folded the residue into a piece of paper.
“You claim this is a curse?”
Anne asked.
“Correct.”
Grida confirmed with a nod.
“It is no curse.”
Anne let out a heavy sigh, stood up, and turned away.
She walked off with a slight stagger—not because her legs were weak, but like someone who had just received a staggering mental shock.
“Hold on.”
Ragna caught up to her and placed a steadying hand on her arm.
“What is it?”
“You looked like you were struggling to walk.”
“…Yes. It is difficult. I’ve been up for nights on end doing research.”
As the two walked away, Grida remarked,
“He’ll be fine after some rest. Even our head of house has lived with that affliction for over a decade. He’s still going, isn’t he?”
“The symptoms are accelerating now, but yes, he still fights like a demon.”
Odinckar answered.
Enkrid felt a surge of curiosity regarding this “head of house.” But he chose not to probe. It wasn’t as if he expected to encounter them.
The following day, Magrun regained consciousness.
“I am perfectly fine.”
He stated dismissively and got to his feet.
That afternoon, Anne sought out Enkrid. Ragna was standing at her side.
Together, they appeared to be a well-matched pair.
“I need to depart for a short while.”
Anne was the first to speak.
“To where?”
“The Zaun estate, I assume? There. Ragna offered to show me the way, so we are going together.”
Enkrid responded instinctively,
“Was your ambition always to be a traveling healer rather than a priestess?”
“What?”
Anne blinked in confusion. Ragna spoke up from beside her.
“I have matters to attend to at my family home as well. I will see her there safely.”
They spoke as if they were planning a casual walk across the street.
But they obviously couldn’t make the journey alone.
Unless Anne possessed some hidden genius for navigating the wilds, which she certainly did not.
She loathed travel. When she had first sought out the border patrol, she had nearly perished multiple times. She had even joked that she’d exhausted her lifetime supply of luck on that trip.
“It is nearly time for us to head back as well.”
Grida remarked from nearby.
“Yes, you really should.”
Anne added offhandedly, then shot a look at Grida, Odinckar, and Magrun in particular.
“It is a literal miracle any of you are still breathing. You people.”
That was all she said.
Enkrid didn’t entirely grasp her meaning, but he knew exactly what he had to do.
“Then I am coming along. I cannot simply look away when your family is facing a crisis. It is Ragna’s home, after all.”
He announced his intention.
Ragna had provided him with so much support. There was no way Enkrid would fail to stand by him in protecting his place of birth.
With Jaxon, Rem, and Audin all occupied elsewhere, only Shinar remained at their side.
She listened to Enkrid’s declaration and translated his true motive.
“He is dying to test himself against this ‘head of house’ of yours, so he’s tagging along.”
Grida nodded. A fanatic saying fanatical things—it was business as usual.
And though Anne had called their survival a miracle, she didn’t seem truly shocked.
If they were destined to die from that affliction, it would have claimed them a long time ago.
However—
“Do you actually know what this is?”
Grida felt compelled to ask.
Countless people had perished from this “curse.” No one had ever made it their life’s work to combat it—but if there was a way to purge it, anyone would jump at the chance.
“I do. And I suspect I will have a better grasp of it once we arrive.”
Anne replied.
And Enkrid chimed in:
“I have full confidence in Anne’s diagnosis.”
“That is his way of saying he is definitely coming on the trip, specifically to meet the head of house.”
Shinar translated once more, standing right there.