A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 678

Chapter 678

## The Journey to the Shield of the East

“Zaun lies toward the north. Face the Pen-Hanil peaks and track northeast until you spot a narrow cavern. Passing through leads you to the ‘Hill That Watches the Stars.’ A sweeping curve to the east from that point will bring you to your destination. It sits right on the edge of the Imperial border.”

Magrun delivered these directions with a steady composure, betraying none of the physical trauma from his recent bout of coughing up blood. Enkrid, who had spent years traversing the lands as a professional guide, possessed a sense of direction that surpassed ordinary travelers. Compared to a man like Ragna, his navigational instincts were elite; compared to the best scouts on the continent, they were at least sufficient to keep him from getting lost.

With those specific landmarks, Enkrid could already trace the map in his mind’s eye. The trek wasn’t nearly as convoluted as he had imagined. This realization brought a sharper truth to light: Zaun hadn’t remained a mystery because it was tucked away in an unreachable corner of the world. In fact, the tiny hamlet where Enkrid had been raised was far better concealed than this legendary city.

They didn’t hide behind illusions or labyrinthine paths; they simply chose not to advertise. Zaun didn’t seek the spotlight or fly its banners for the world to see. They didn’t believe in the vanity of a famous name. Or perhaps, someone within their ranks had once desired fame, only to be restrained by a more cautious hand.

Enkrid’s mind began to weave together the possibilities. From a single thread of information, he could often reconstruct the entire tapestry of a situation—a trait Kraiss had once identified as his most potent talent. It was the gift of seeing the hidden side of a coin just by looking at the face.

A new question surfaced: why would they choose obscurity? If he were to consult Kraiss or Abnaier, they would likely have a theory ready. Even without the full picture, they probably understood the long-term game Zaun was playing. Now, Enkrid felt he was beginning to grasp it too.

“Imperial territory?” he asked, popping a piece of roasted sweet potato from the Azpen ovens into his mouth. It offered a gentle crunch before melting away, filling his senses with a rich, sugary warmth. He followed it with a bite of pickled radish, the sharp tang perfectly balancing the sweetness. It was a simple, harmonious delight.

“I said near it,” Magrun clarified, peeling his own potato and blowing away the steam. Looking at him now, one would never guess he had been on the verge of collapse just days prior. He had even participated in the dawn sparring sessions. Despite the lingering worry, Anne had given him a clean bill of health, and her word was law in such matters.

An independent city-state… with that kind of martial reputation, sitting right on the doorstep of a superpower. If Enkrid were a monarch, how would he view such a neighbor? He’d see them as a blade held near his throat—a threat to be neutralized or a tool to be claimed. Yet the Empire had chosen neither path. They allowed Zaun to exist in its own pocket of sovereignty.

Zaun wasn’t a ghost city; those with the right connections knew exactly where it stood. And yet, the Empire stayed its hand. They were left alone because they gave the Great Powers no reason to strike, while simultaneously ensuring that any provocation would come at a staggering cost. It was a masterclass in strategic positioning: don’t be a target, but make sure that if you are hit, you take the enemy’s arm with you.

Enkrid suddenly remembered a comment Crang had made once.

“The Empire is unique for having several natural bulwarks. To the center, there is the Pen-Hanil range. To the west, the endless woods guarded by the Beast King. And there is a final shield to the east…”

He hadn’t bothered to listen to the end of the thought back then. Now, the missing piece clicked into place. The eastern shield was Zaun.

—

Grida slid her chair closer, the wood scraping against the floor. “People claim we have no dealings with the Empire, but that isn’t entirely true. When certain kin find they don’t fit into the family structure, they often seek commission as Imperial knights. We maintain a bridge. It’s a peaceful, mutual understanding—it has to be.”

If two neighbors can’t find common ground, the result is the tragedy currently playing out between Naurillia and Azpen: a cycle of endless bloodshed.

“You’ll be able to use horses for the bulk of the trip, but the final stretch requires going on foot,” Magrun added.

Enkrid gave a short nod, his gaze drifting across the room. The doors to the knight order’s dining hall were massive—wide enough for five Audins to pass through abreast. Kraiss had insisted on the scale to facilitate the movement of heavy supplies. It was a necessity; though the knights were few, their caloric intake rivaled that of an entire company. It was the reason “war rations” had been specifically tailored for their metabolism.

Through the open doorway, Enkrid spotted Ragna standing with Rophod. Finishing his meal, Enkrid picked up bits of their conversation. Their voices carried easily in the morning air.

“Rophod, you’re focusing too much on the economy of motion,” Ragna said.

Both men held practice weapons made of wood. Ragna spoke while continuing his drills. In the hands of a true knight, even a blunt branch became a weapon of execution. They possessed the strength to crush timber with their fingers; a sword, even a wooden one, was merely an extension of that power.

Ragna transitioned into a high guard, the sword pointing toward the clouds. He brought the blade down in a heavy vertical strike, only to shift his entire weight and stance mid-motion, turning the momentum into a lunging thrust as his legs crossed. It looked fluid, but it demanded a terrifying level of physical coordination.

Enkrid recognized the underlying philosophy: it was Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship. The core of that style was misdirection—creating an opening through calculated deception. Ragna was the living embodiment of that principle.

Rophod scrambled to adjust to the shifting line of attack. He was no novice, and he managed to catch the thrust on his own blade. The clatter of wood on wood filled the air as the weapons locked.

A bind.

Ragna pressed the advantage, his feet crossing again as he drove forward. To an opponent, the sheer aggression would have been overwhelming. While maintaining the pressure on the locked swords, Ragna used his free hand to lightly cuff Rophod’s cheek.

It was a gentle tap, devoid of physical pain, but the psychological impact was visible. Rophod looked stunned. It hadn’t been a victory of speed or raw power. It was something else entirely.

“Don’t put fences around your movements,” Ragna advised.

It was the perfect correction. Rophod’s expression shifted as he began to dismantle a mental barrier he hadn’t even known was there. You could see the growth happening in real-time—a steady, daily evolution. Ragna was providing exactly what the younger man needed to advance.

But it didn’t stop there. The man who had once been defined by his apathy now stood with a clear, driven purpose.

“Next, I’ll show you the technique for engaging every muscle group for a singular strike—the medium sword spin slash.”

The pace was relentless, almost too much for Rophod to absorb. This wasn’t the behavior of a lazy man.

“He’s unrecognizable,” Grida whispered from the table. She looked at Enkrid, knowing he was the catalyst. This man had a strange gravity; he pulled those around him toward change just by being present. Even Grida had found herself looking forward to her daily training lately.

“Didn’t he claim he abandoned the path of the sword out of sheer boredom?” Magrun asked, looking at Enkrid with curiosity.

The man who had transformed a jaded prodigy sat right there. Magrun suspected it was Enkrid’s utter lack of pretense—his raw sincerity in both life and combat—that had forced Ragna to wake up.

As they watched, Enkrid finally spoke, looking genuinely disturbed. “What is actually wrong with him?”

Grida and Magrun stared at him. Their expressions clearly asked: *Why are you the one acting surprised?*

“I’m serious,” Enkrid insisted. “Seeing him act like this is actually terrifying.”

—

Ragna finished the session, wiped his brow with a cloth, and walked into the mess hall. The image was jarring. The sight of him dripping with the sweat of honest labor, acting as a dedicated mentor… it didn’t fit.

As he entered, he crossed paths with Squire Clemen, who had tripped on the threshold.

“Pick up your blade,” Ragna said.

“…Excuse me?”

Clemen was well aware of who he was; his reputation preceded him throughout the barracks. Yet she looked like she’d seen a ghost. They had never shared a word before; Ragna usually treated the rest of the world as if it were background noise.

Trembling slightly, Clemen unsheathed her sword.

“Learn to alternate your grip fluidly without losing the tension in your palm,” he offered. It was a brief, high-level piece of advice. Clemen offered a confused salute as he passed.

Ragna sat down to eat, ignoring the three pairs of eyes burning into him. “When a man departs… what does he leave behind? It’s a question worth reflecting on.”

He sounded like a man who had spent the night reading ancient philosophy, and it was incredibly grating. It felt as wrong as Rem trying to be a diplomat or Jaxon claiming the world was a garden of peace.

Enkrid instinctively flicked his water cup, sending a spray of droplets directly onto Ragna’s head. He felt the need to perform an immediate exorcism. Rem had once joked that these spontaneous rituals could ward off madness.

“Begone, you strange spirit!” Enkrid muttered with total conviction.

The hall went silent. A trainee nearby quickly turned around, deciding that ignoring the situation was the safest course of action.

“What is the purpose of that?” Ragna asked. He didn’t get angry or even look annoyed. He simply looked at Enkrid with a gaze that made Enkrid want to scream. It was the look of a patient adult dealing with a particularly slow toddler. It was the “Rem look,” but amplified.

“When people change this much overnight…” Enkrid snapped, feeling defensive.

“…They’re usually at death’s door,” Ragna finished with a calm smile.

The short exchange left Enkrid feeling like he’d lost a fight he hadn’t even realized he was in. Was Ragna actually maturing? He wasn’t playing his usual games; he was simply existing with a newfound, quiet dignity. Enkrid felt like he could hear a spectral voice in the background tsk-tsking at his immaturity.

“Captain, there are moments… when even a man like me must take things seriously,” Magrun said, suddenly siding with Ragna.

Enkrid felt betrayed. “You traitor.”

Grida jumped in before he could recover. “You can’t banish a spirit with tap water, Enkrid. You’d need a consecrated relic or at least a magic blade. You’re just making a mess.”

Enkrid bit his tongue. Defending his logic now would only lead to further humiliation.

“Stop bullying my fiancé, you haunting ghost,” Shinar said, entering the room. Her keen elven hearing had captured the entire scene from the hallway.

Ragna gave a solemn nod, his eyes as deep and unreadable as a mountain lake. Enkrid gave up. He had no idea what had gotten into the man, but he couldn’t fight this version of him. He simply accepted the universal truth: given a powerful enough reason, any man can reinvent himself.

“Fine… I suppose it beats him being a lazy bum,” Enkrid muttered, standing up to find Kraiss. He spotted the commander giving him a sharp, triangular-eyed glare—the look Kraiss reserved for when Enkrid was about to vanish on another errand. He needed to settle his affairs quickly. He definitely wasn’t running away from the table.

“A strategic withdrawal is wise. I will hold the line. Go, my fiancé,” Shinar declared, standing in the doorway like a guardian of the gate.

—

Two days later, after the paperwork for the territory was settled—

“May the road be kind to you.”

Kraiss was generous with the provisions, providing horses bred in Greenperl. Their coats were lustrous and their spirits high.

“Let’s move out,” Anne said. She had managed to learn the basics of riding in just a few days. She set off alongside the three from Zaun, Enkrid, and Ragna.

“Do us all a favor and lose that creep in the woods,” Rem shouted as a farewell.

Ragna looked back at him, those same deep, placid eyes fixed on the barbarian.

“You got a problem?” Rem barked.

Ragna didn’t reach for a weapon. He didn’t even sneer. “Rem, I have come to appreciate your perspective. Your life has been one of constant trial. Without that inner fire, you wouldn’t be the man you are today.”

He turned his horse away. The rhythmic sound of hooves marked his departure from the courtyard.

“…Did a horse kick him in the skull?” Rem asked, genuinely baffled.

“You’re heading the wrong way!” Anne called out, spurring her horse to catch up with Ragna. Despite his horse being a perfectly trained animal, it seemed to be wandering off in whatever direction it felt like.