A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 683

Chapter 683

“I always believed that scouting and stalking were never my forte. I didn’t care for them much, either. To be blunt, it was simply because I found them tedious. So, what was my alternative to tracking or hunting?”
Odinkar spoke further, finishing his thought with a query. It was the sort of sudden remark that left one puzzled as to why it was being raised—certainly, Enkrid and Ragna were at a loss.
Grida provided the reply.
“You bolted.”
“Like a madman.”
Magrun chimed in naturally.
The two of them were well-acquainted with Odinkar’s conversational habits. He gave a nod of agreement to their descriptions.
“True. Very few can outrun me when I decide to move. Even if a snare were laid in my path, I could bypass it because I don’t confine myself to established trails, and if I noticed it ahead of time, I could settle the matter and keep going.”
Odinkar wasn’t foolish—he wasn’t merely sprinting toward certain doom. Rather than sticking to the route they had traversed on their mounts, he intended to sprint across the dark earth toward the faraway peaks on the left.
“I’m not here to debate your techniques or what can be achieved. I just want to know why you wish to go on ahead?”
Grida inquired. They remained ignorant of their adversary’s identity or goals—was it truly prudent to fragment the party?
Her gut feeling as a scout was advising her against such a move.
From the perspective of a knight, however, the suggestion carried logic. Odinkar had made light of staying back with the frontier guards, but even before their arrival, he had spoken of a lingering dread. Even after crossing paths with Enkrid, he had confessed that this region didn’t feel like the place where he belonged.
“That is reasonable. It is highly unlikely anything has befallen Zaun. No chance. But that doesn’t imply that the world is standing still. On my way, I could swing by the hunter village and request that they rendezvous with you.”
Magrun pitched in.
The hunter village served as one of the satellite communities encircling Zaun. Those who traveled to Zaun but failed to earn the house name occasionally moved back. Others, possessing no other refuge, established themselves nearby. The hunter village was born of such people.
“So you are arguing for the sake of efficiency.”
Grida signaled her understanding. That was the core of Odinkar’s justification.
“If there is an ambush ahead, I will likely trip it first. Or, as Magrun mentioned, I could reach Zaun and give a report on the situation here. I’m not entirely certain about pausing at the hunter village—if I travel alone, I can make a straight shot for Zaun.”
Odinkar went on. He appeared so restless to depart that Enkrid suspected if someone simply barked “Go!”, he would vanish in a heartbeat.
In any case, it was a rational conclusion.
Knights were not all-powerful. They were referred to as calamities because they could perform feats far beyond the reach of ordinary men, but the knights themselves were aware of their own boundaries. Neglecting to recognize those limits would result in ruin born of arrogance.
The crucial detail was that Odinkar could contribute very little here besides keeping pace with the group.
Trailing and scouting were not his talents.
Magrun, conversely, was superb at interpreting the environment and the flow of events. Grida, guiding the party, was analyzing the enemy’s goals like a seasoned scout.
Either Magrun or Grida could have departed while the other remained, but both still held vital functions in this spot.
To put it another way, they lacked a reason to leave. But Odinkar—unless he was actively swinging a blade—was like a sword kept in its sheath.
And a weapon that remains tucked away is of no benefit.
Odinkar grasped the fundamentals of scouting and tracking, certainly, but he didn’t stand out in either field. He was a blade confined to a scabbard.
Thus, perhaps his most effective role was to forge ahead.
Enkrid wasn’t sure if the ferryman had offered him a glimpse of tomorrow, or if today was merely being distorted to torment him with hopelessness once again.
He didn’t know if this path was the correct one either.
But he recognized one fact: what they required at this moment was a strategy where everyone performed to their strengths.
In other words, Odinkar was free to go.
“You are quite perceptive,” Grida remarked, as if wrapping up the assessment, directing her words at Enkrid.
He gave a nod and answered,
“Most ladies say as much after just three sentences with me. It is one of my seventeen magnetic qualities.”
“…Did you actually just crack a joke? You are as deranged as ever.”
Magrun gave his head a shake, delivering his typical sharp-tongued retort. Like a man under a hex to leak poison once a day or suffer a rotting tongue.
Enkrid observed him with a blend of sympathy and amusement. Why could he not just embrace the reality instead of snapping?
That grim outlook on life had its uses—it permitted Magrun to analyze swordplay with freezing precision—but it also left him in a state of perpetual disdain.
That was his shortcoming.
Enkrid had gained much wisdom from Shinar, and one particular lesson was that if you intend to joke, do it with confidence. And whatever you speak—say it with conviction.
So he did.
“I was being entirely honest.”
“Oh, you really are something else, aren’t you?”
Grida chimed in. Her eyes shifted momentarily toward Anne.
Anyone with a shred of sense would have grasped that the beast had been hunting her. That realization must have made the whole situation feel more knotted.
Enkrid’s jest, in reality, had been a minor act of kindness directed at Anne. The others were knights—they could maintain their composure. But the freckled practitioner could not.
“That was painful to listen to.”
Anne joined the conversation—whether she grasped the humor or simply spoke from reflex, it eased the tension.
While they swapped their quips, a lengthy shadow fell across the fire.
“I’ll be on my way then.”
It was Odinkar, who had risen after stowing only the barest necessities.
A heavy pack would only hinder his speed and become an obstacle. He carried only a small pouch draped across his torso, just enough to hold dry crackers and military rations that could be mixed with water.
To a commoner, such food was nearly impossible to process—but knights possessed iron guts, and they would burn through it just by the act of running.
Odinkar gave Enkrid one final look.
“I’ll see you in Zaun.”
Enkrid nodded in return. Odinkar stroked his mount’s mane in a gesture of thanks, then stepped out into the darkness.
The night sky was devoid of a moon, obscured by heavy clouds. As he moved beyond the glow of the lantern, it appeared as though he were walking into the open throat of a predator.
But if a creature of that magnitude were nearby, its odor and aura would have been blatant—so it was improbable.
And even if one existed, he would likely cut his way out.
Enkrid watched as Odinkar’s silhouette faded into the gloom. The man was among the elite of Zaun. That was why they could permit him to go solo without anxiety.
Who could say how this would play out eventually, but for the moment, this was a logical strategy.
If the others had resisted the plan, Enkrid would not have pushed it.
But everyone fell in line with his guidance.
Magrun, reflecting on the sequence of events, glanced at Enkrid.
He was hunched by the flames, pulling out his equipment.
*Why did I simply go along with him so readily? Was it because his logic was sound?*
After months in Enkrid’s company, he had learned that the man’s perspective was anything but common.
*Or perhaps I have just become accustomed to following his lead?*
Enkrid possessed a natural magnetism that commanded attention.
It was little wonder they described him as devilish.
Word was the entire company had turned into training zealots just by witnessing how ruthlessly Enkrid drove himself.
Magrun had seen the reorganized standing forces of the border guard. He hadn’t seen their previous state, but he was certain no other battalion on the mainland could rival them.
Only the forces of the Empire might stand a chance.
He didn’t know how they would perform in the heat of war, but in terms of pure caliber—they were a match.

—

“Traveling in a pack like this feels strange. We are all accustomed to moving solo. Even Ragna used to strike out on his own back in the day.”
That was a comment Grida made during a light conversation.
“Just navigate by the light of the stars. It’s a direct route.”
Ragna countered.
“…How on earth is that man still breathing? He ought to have tumbled off a precipice or into an enchanted hole by this point.”
His sister gave voice to her worries, and her brother responded in his own brand of endearment.
“Are your eyes even functional? You can’t recall a face, and now you can’t track a path? You looked at a drop-off and thought, ‘That seems like a good place to walk’?”
As long as they didn’t unsheathe their steel and attempt to murder one another, this passed for sibling care. Enkrid decided to view it in that light.
The siblings continued their “warm” exchange of words.
“You could just leap off the ridge and roll, honestly. Oh wait—you lack the skill?”
“You bastard… Your attitude is exactly like Rem’s, you know that?”
Grida exhibited her grasp of local profanity, even sprinkling in some insults she had picked up recently.
Rem would have reached for her axe at that comparison.
Listening to them made Enkrid feel like he needed to scrub his ears. Even hardened sellswords didn’t speak with such brutality.
“What is even happening over there?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
Nearby, Magrun and Anne shared a quiet remark, payed no mind to the shouting siblings.
The crimson light of the fire flickered across Anne’s features. Even now, she didn’t express a desire to turn back.
Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact.
“I wish to observe that malady.”
She didn’t specify personally or with her own sight, but the intent was obvious.
“Proceed as you wish.”
Enkrid honored her choice. She had made a powerful impact since their first meeting.
She regarded even the art of alchemy as nothing more than another instrument for mending. So what she practiced—was it alchemy or the healing arts?
It didn’t matter. She could name it whatever she pleased.
Enkrid retrieved his weaponry and set them down by the flames. It was time for upkeep.
Jaxon had once remarked that Enkrid lacked any sense of beauty—ten daggers tipped with horn, each one built for utility over appearance.
In addition to those, he had the Tri-Iron Sword and Penna. He also carried a short blade crafted from Valerian steel, as a backup.
He kept most of his gear on his person. Nothing was left dangling from the horse. It was a practice from his years as a mercenary—not something he was formally taught, but something he adopted from watching veterans.
Sellswords referred to it as “wearing your life.”
“You’ve spent time in the mercenary trade, haven’t you?”
Grida remarked. Her keen eyes had picked up on it. She had roamed the mainland herself and naturally had run-ins with the mercenary world.
She drew her own gear and began checking it as well—applying oil, tightening buckles, the whole routine.
Ragna and Magrun followed suit. The only noise was the rhythmic clinking of metal.
Following that, a period of quiet repose arrived.
They all understood the importance of sleeping when the opportunity arose.
Anne eventually let her guard down and fell asleep. Enkrid stayed in a state of half-alertness as he rested, but the night passed without incident. Sunrise arrived.
They stretched their limbs, ate their fill, and tended to their needs.
Then they pressed onward.
Dark soil, rolling meadows, and the occasional rise.
Some mounds were so shallow Anne could hop over them, while others were tall enough to obscure the horizon even from the saddle. A landscape like frozen waves.
As they rode under the mild spring sun glowing to their right—something shifted.
Up ahead, a cluster of trees stood. Around them, a fog began to drift.
It was fabricated. Artificial. Plainly obvious to anyone watching.
And Enkrid had encountered this sort of phenomenon once before.