A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 677

Chapter 677

“You’ve transformed quite a bit. Are you aware of that?”
Grida’s voice drifted over as Ragna shifted his gaze. She had been observing her younger brother as he practiced in solitude under the glow of the moon.
She didn’t inquire as to why he was resting on the dirt instead of utilizing the nearby seat. It was likely because she simply lacked the interest to press him for details.
“I have?”
“Indeed.”
Ragna offered a noncommittal motion of his head in response to her observation. Perspiration traced paths down his skin and fell from his jawline.
“The public would be startled to witness you in this state.”
Ragna merely offered another nod. It was of no consequence to him whether others were surprised or not.
The apathy in his gesture made his lack of concern undeniable—he was completely indifferent.
“Ultimately, you are returning to your roots after all,” Grida remarked.
“I am not returning for good.”
“Then what is your plan?”
“A brief visit.”
“For what purpose?”
“To reclaim something.”
Was he being truthful? Grida studied him for a lengthy moment before dusting off her clothes and rising to her feet. A small cloud of grit kicked up from where she had been resting.
“Well, your affairs belong to you alone.”
She found herself unable to reconcile this version of Ragna with the one she knew. Even after Grida departed, Ragna persisted in his sword drills.
He had resolved to revisit the family lands, but if he intended to recover what was required, he needed to progress further than his current level.
Because—
Time was running out.
That was the reason he was dedicating even this fleeting window to his preparation.
Whenever he moved his blade, the trajectory would manifest itself. It had functioned that way since his youth.
He could perceive exactly how far he could advance, and where his journey would terminate if he maintained this regimen—the entire picture was visible to him.
Even without conscious effort, it was simply present.
He had no requirement to struggle or fight against the current. The track was already paved in front of him.
In that case, was there any significance in actually traversing it?
Reams of history surged like a rising tide, pooling within his consciousness.
“Enter the knighthood.”
That was the instruction his father had issued.
“What is the point?”
Ragna had questioned in return.
His father had glared at him as if he were observing a foreign species for the very first time.
“Do you require a justification?”
The Zaun were a lineage captivated by the blade itself. Ragna was incapable of mirroring that passion. Maneuvering a sword provided him no sense of fulfillment.
“You find no pleasure in this? For what reason?”
Everyone posed the question, yet his retort remained unchanged.
“What is there to find pleasurable about it?”
“Like the desire to conquer an opponent, or the drive to exceed your own boundaries—does that not ignite a fire within you? I mean, it is simply enjoyable, is it not?”
That was the perspective of others.
Ragna could not find common ground with them.
Conquering someone? Certainly, perhaps not on this day, but within a month? He would succeed. The conclusion was already transparent. It was an unalterable reality.
“What are you claiming? Are you some type of seer?”
To those who ridiculed him, he provided undeniable proof. Even the act of progression was agonizingly tedious.
Inherent capability was the deciding factor for everything. Ragna was well aware of that.
Even among those blessed with natural talent, Ragna was an anomaly.
Which only served to make existence more monotonous. A repetitive life. He would wield a blade until his end—and he already envisioned what that passing would entail.
Is my entire existence to be spent swinging steel down a path that has already been decided, only to perish at the end of it?
A novel martial style? A fresh direction? He perceived none of it. Only that which was already carved in stone.
What ought to have been a miracle—his divine natural talent—had transformed into a heavy burden for Ragna.
The heavens had granted him skill but had not provided a single spark of ambition to accompany it.
Then he departed from his home—and encountered Enkrid.
“Why do you push yourself to such extremes?”
He had once voiced that question.
“I wield my blade to survive this moment. But I do not wish to live merely for the sake of survival.”
That was during the period when Ragna believed Enkrid’s basic techniques were fundamentally broken.
Even then, Enkrid’s spirit never faltered. His trajectory stretched out in a straight line—resolute and steady.
Steered by recollections that felt like ripples on a calm pond, the Ragna of the present moved his weapon.
Ping.
His edge cut a line perfectly level with the earth, disappearing seamlessly into the flow of motion.
The lunar light pursued the path his greatsword carved through the atmosphere. As he moved without hesitation, the moonbeams hunted the steel, and the steel toyed with the light in turn.
Multitudes of silver crescents materialized and faded incessantly in the air.
And within Ragna’s thoughts, the declarations of Enkrid resonated and took hold—always appearing when they were most required.
“I desire to live in a manner I deem honorable. To draw my weapon for the impoverished and the ailing, for the sake of integrity, and for those I cherish.”
Natural talent should have overwhelmed him, swept him away. Personal hurdles should have lunged from the shadows like a hunter and forced him to his knees.
That was the destiny Ragna had envisioned for Enkrid.
Yet Enkrid had shattered every projection Ragna had conceived. Even while carrying everything like a heavy weight, he moved forward and outpaced his demons—never cloaking himself in hopelessness or surrender.
Observing someone like that progressing right beside him… Ragna felt a tremor.
Was it truly so vital to follow the route mapped out for you?
Had he ever truly been walking that route to begin with?
Enkrid had posed the question through his deeds, through his survival, and through his resolve.
Ragna possessed no retort.
Therefore, he had to traverse it—just like the man ahead of him—to determine if the route truly belonged to him.
At that point, he started to find joy in the art of the sword.
It could be described as a sequence of startling revelations.
Guided by those gathered recollections, Ragna persisted.
“You paid a visit to the residence of Juri, did you not?”
Anne, the practitioner of healing and alchemy, inquired.
“I did.”
He responded with transparency. He had nothing to conceal.
Anne paused for a second, then abruptly locked eyes with him and asked,
“Do you have a fascination with Juri? Or do you… perhaps have an interest in children?”
“What kind of person do you take me for?”
That was somewhat insulting.
Observing his irritation, Anne brushed her tidily braided locks over her shoulder and remarked,
“Then pay it no mind. Why were you there, then?”
“To observe.”
“Observe what?”
“Do you believe individuals always require a motive to want to perform an action?”
Ragna tossed the inquiry back at her.
Anne contemplated the thought before replying,
“I am unsure.”
She was far too preoccupied with navigating her own journey to concern herself with the choices of others. Her interest was narrow.
“Exactly. That is the extent of it.”
“What sort of vague reply is that?”
“Let us discuss your situation instead.”
Ragna had evolved. Not merely from the era when Grida Zaun was familiar with him, but even from the moment Enkrid first crossed his path.
“…Regarding what?”
“You were unsettled by the fate of Magrun.”
So she wasn’t completely oblivious—just focused on a specific goal. Anne whispered something to herself, then spoke once more, her gaze steady.
“That is no supernatural affliction. It is a malady. Scientifically, it is a respiratory infection, transmitted by particles resembling dust. And it claimed the lives of over a hundred citizens in the metropolis where I once resided.”
Anne had been deprived of her parents, kin, and companions by its hand. She had only endured through pure fortune—or more precisely, her innate capability.
She had acquired the foundations of alchemy from Raban during her youth.
That was her salvation.
But now the truth was clear. Raban was her adversary.
No—her genuine foe was the individual who had instructed Raban. The one who had engineered this sickness.
Anne was aware of the reality.
“The person who unleashed it in my home was still in the experimental phase. That is why it vanished without a trace. Once people began labeling it a plague, even the uninfected found themselves consumed by fire.”
Those born with the sickness were intended to perish then.
That was the sight Anne had witnessed.
People born with imperfections—like her own family. She had watched her disabled father and her silent mother burn to their deaths.
And in that instant, she understood she possessed two paths:
To fantasize about vengeance, or to embark on an entirely separate journey.
Anne opted for the latter.
Because her quarry was too miserable to even warrant revenge.
Some petrified pauper had clandestinely set the straw shelter ablaze in the dead of night. It wasn’t merely a single individual.
A portion of the destitute quarter had witnessed the act and turned their heads. Some had even cheered it on.
They dismissed it, provoked it, joined in, or allowed it to transpire.
Who carried the guilt? The world? The ruling class? The comfortable commoners who merely spectated? The sentries who watched the district?
Some sentries, even as the flames rose, brought water to assist in dousing the fire.
“I am sorry. Truly, I am so sorry.”
One of those sentries had wept.
Anne did not even recognize his features. But she did not believe he had any reason to seek forgiveness.
In that moment, she discovered her purpose.
A path she would traverse for the duration of her life.
I will not be defeated by illness.
She made that oath. She constructed a monument of determination within her spirit. She also pledged to extinguish the terror that sickness produced.
Lately, with the relocation of the Fairy City, she had come into possession of exotic components.
It provided her the opportunity to move forward with investigations she had previously only envisioned.
And so she pursued it. When she informed Ragna she had remained awake for days, it was no exaggeration.
Is there a panacea that mends every sickness?
Anne questioned herself.
It was a complex riddle, but she already held the solution.
No, such a thing does not exist.
Actually—it does.
It does not exist. And yet, it does.
There is no physical drug. But there can be a person capable of mending every sickness.
Become that healer.
That is my ambition.
She possessed a transparent objective and a destination she was required to reach. She had no capacity to look elsewhere.
That was why she could not bother herself with the lives of others.
“We must travel to the origin of the spreading sickness. It likely originated from a fungus or a blossom. We have to locate it and verify it. That is the sole method to develop a remedy.”
“If you contract it, is it fatal?”
“In time, yes. You will perish.”
Anne replied with certainty, then went on.
“The timing of your end is a gamble. Magrun was spitting blood. You mentioned the patriarch is plagued as well? Some individuals will appear healthy. Others will cry out in agony and find themselves without strength. That is because the sickness manifests uniquely in everyone. It is not a magical hex.”
Ragna gave a nod.
“Occasionally, when I visit Juri’s residence, the youngsters are pleased to see me.”
It was a stray observation—uttered exactly as it surfaced in his mind.
Anne acknowledged it regardless.
“And?”
“And so I go.”
Juri’s residence was a sanctuary for the care of youths. She had asked earlier why he frequented the place. Now she possessed her explanation.
“You certainly took your time saying it,” Anne whispered, feeling a sense of ease. She had been concerned that Ragna might have become Juri’s partner.
As long as that wasn’t the case—nothing else was of concern.
Anne spoke to herself and moved on.
Ragna went back to his routines, stabbing and cutting as he adjusted his footing.
He followed a high level strike with a rotating slash, a slanted blow, and then a lateral trick leading into a massive vertical strike intended for the skull of a cornered foe.
Every gesture transitioned into a retaliation.
A ghostly adversary shifted their stance. Ragna shifted his weight and struck downward.
He traced the path of the enemy’s steel.
The phantom opponent tried an overhead horizontal blow from a high guard.
Ragna visualized his weapon being trapped by the enemy’s—then retracted and closed the distance, throwing a punch toward where a face would be.
Whoosh.
Naturally, he struck only the void. It was entirely internal.
“That appeared to be a counter for my flash strike.”
A voice rang out. It was the presence that had been near all along—the person he addressed as “Captain.”
“You are aware that it would unfold differently in a true engagement,” Ragna answered, lowering his steel.
“Sometimes it is wiser to conclude it before the blades lock.”
It was Enkrid, now standing at his side. He must have emerged after cleaning up following his own drills. He showed no signs of exertion.
A chilly spring wind drifted past, carrying a subtle hint of flowers.
“The holy one mentioned that someone in the settlement is already performing the work she desires. Juri’s residence.”
Enkrid noted.
Juri, the vendor of marmalade, provided for orphans of conflict, discarded youths, and those who had been bereaved.
There had been only a handful initially, but their collective grew, as did the helpers.
They were always in need of krona. An anonymous person had been providing regular contributions.
“You.”
“You donated all the wealth you seized from Kraiss, did you not?”
“Supporting children requires a significant amount of krona.”
“Supporting people always does.”
That was the action Ragna had taken.
“For what reason?” Enkrid asked with sincerity.
Ragna remained mute.
“The youths there do not necessarily possess aspirations or targets. But I concluded that perhaps they should be permitted to exist like everyone else.”
Is an aspiration mandatory? Must a person live with a designated function?
Ragna was suggesting—not everyone does. Just like the version of himself from years ago.
“That sounds like a logical perspective.”
Enkrid acknowledged the sentiment.
Certain people merely desire tranquility in their final years. Some hope for today to be mirrored tomorrow. Others hope tomorrow bears no resemblance to today.
“I simply wished to assist.”
Ragna added.
“In the Western lands, they say that when a man undergoes a change, it signifies his end is near.”
“Are you wishing a curse upon me?”
“No, merely making an observation.”
“I shall return once I have recovered a single object.”
His intent was transparent—he wasn’t going to his “home.” This location was home now.
“I held no doubt. I will see you on the morrow.”
Enkrid spoke and turned to leave.
Ragna offered a casual nod.
When he was once again in solitude, he returned his blade to its sheath, then let out a soft cough into his palm.
“A gamble,” he thought…
Crimson fluid marked his hand.
His internal organs throbbed—as if something was failing. His core felt heavy.
It was the hallmark of the illness.
As if the universe was demanding:
How much longer do you believe you will persist?
He had assumed he was traveling a fixed track. This was not a destination he had foreseen.
And oddly—that made it stimulating.
If my journey terminates in this way… what will I leave behind? What can I contribute?
Ragna had begun supporting Juri’s sanctuary after those inquiries took root within him.
What will endure of me?
He did not have the answer yet.
That was his final thought.