A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 685

Chapter 685

Hsssssss.
Mist and Scalers were a natural pairing. It was undoubtedly the reason they had deployed the Massacre Mist.
However, four knights stood on this ground.
No common predator could stall them here. Ragna was the first to demonstrate that reality.
His massive blade cleaved through a Scaler that had served as the focal point for the magic.
Under normal circumstances, such a feat should have been impossible. How had he managed to track and slay a beast that maintained its distance, watching from the shadows with shifting eyes?
Ragna had simply bolted forward, plunging directly into the heart of the foe’s formation.
Had the creatures possessed human intellect, they would have dismissed it as lunacy—a reckless, suicidal lunge.
But if you are surrounded, every direction is the front. You simply strike out at everything in your path.
Ragna’s logic was that straightforward.
The demise of the sorcerous medium during that unexpected charge was the Scalers’ primary blunder.
The fog would not have saved them.
Enkrid held similar thoughts as he moved with the hand of a Lady in an amber gown, engaged in a deadly dance. His feet never ceased their motion, and with every graceful turn, his sword sang. The neck of a Scaler met his edge.
Thwack!
The head was severed with effortless precision. The density of the black-gold metal provided the necessary force for his speed, while the core of meteoric iron kept the weapon perfectly balanced.
Beyond the simple joy of the kill, the weapon sent a thrill through his palm.
Incredible. This blade is magnificent.
He wondered if it was the result of Aitri’s refined smithing or the superior quality of the ore.
Likely a combination of both.
Compared to the black-gold or silver armaments he had wielded in the past, this one felt like a natural extension of his arm. Even the grip felt like Lady Tri-Iron herself was whispering soft praises.
As if she were expressing her joy at finally finding the right hand to hold her.
The feeling is mutual.
Enkrid breathed the words silently—sentiments that would have branded him a madman if voiced—while he continued to spin and pivot in time with the Lady’s steps.
His movements were far from erratic; he carved a defensive circle with Anne at the very center.
With his perception accelerated and his senses sharpened, he mapped every incoming threat. Relying on the Wavebreaker style, he delivered thrusts and slashes into every available gap.
Within the radius of his whirling amber storm, neither the Scalers nor the Plague Bride could find a way to breach his perimeter.
To Anne, it felt as though she were sheltered in the calm eye of a hurricane of amber light.
“The breath of the Plague Bride is tainted,” Anne warned.
No reply came. From the beginning, the remaining brides were being torn apart by steel before they could even draw near.
Anne’s vision was clouded, yet she fulfilled her role by providing what information she could.
It didn’t even take half a day to eradicate the entire Scaler pack.
A few survivors attempted to feign death at the end, pressing their bellies to the dirt and sliding toward Anne in a desperate ruse, but their efforts were futile.
Magrun moved across the field, driving his sword deep into the earth.
Thud! Snap!
He dispatched several in that fashion, but the work was nearly done. Not even five of the reptilian beasts remained. Ragna had already slaughtered almost every one of them.
In terms of pure lethality, the beasts were likely the greater threat.
That was Enkrid’s internal critique. Scalers were formidable because they could sabotage the senses of even the most seasoned knight.
Their Sssssshhh sounds warped the air, fracturing a warrior’s perception.
Born without a natural scent, they were ghosts to the nose. Indeed, smell was the most difficult sense to rely on against them.
They were the innate predators of beastkin.
They subtly interfered with touch, sound, and smell.
The only recourse was to trust one’s eyes and strike.
You confirmed each target, and that prickling intuition at the base of the skull signaled their proximity.
A knight was not meant to fall to such low-level threats.
They were merely irritating distractions. No further enchantments or sorceries interfered as the battle progressed.
Enkrid had been dancing with his ideal Lady, swinging his blade with a dark joy, and only truly took stock of the situation once the silence returned.
What was the purpose of the strike? Why commit such numbers?
The realization surfaced only after the dust settled.
Crack! Snap!
Ragna drove his greatsword through the skull of the final beast and snapped his wrist. Fragments of bone flew, and dark ichor mixed with grey matter sprayed from the ruptured head.
Grida, who had been maintaining a lookout, scowled.
“Those filth…”
Her eyes were fixed on a point far behind the area they had claimed for the fight.
They had pressed forward to ensure the mounts wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire—but an ugly sight awaited them in the rear.
The horses that had brought them from the Border Guard were slumped on the ground, their throats gored.
Vivid scarlet blood pooled beneath them, soaking into the dark soil.
“They’ve made off with the food and the water,” Magrun reported after inspecting the carcasses.
Because they had been mounted, the group hadn’t carried their own supplies. Everything they owned had been packed into the saddlebags and gear secured to the horses.
It was all gone.
Was I too focused on the slaughter?
Enkrid was not one to indulge in useless guilt, but he was a man of reflection.
He began to play the encounter back in his mind, treating it as a tactical post-mortem.
He started with the primary concern: Had his bloodlust blinded him?
No.
The opposition had intended this from the start. That was the reason for the Scalers and the Plague Bride.
One to confuse the senses, the other to mask the air.
And to top it off—
They had used blatant spells that could have given away their own coordinates.
Had he been luckier when he deflected the fireball, they might have located the caster.
If I had been more aggressive… perhaps.
But that aggression would have meant leaving Anne exposed—a gamble he refused to take.
What if he had tasked Ragna with the guard and moved out himself?
Enkrid was likely the superior tracker.
Still, it might have ended the same way. The event was in the past; there was no use in “what-ifs.” Even if the scenario repeated, he wouldn’t easily leave his post.
The enemy had revealed a sorcerer’s presence just to achieve this.
To slaughter a few beasts of burden and steal their rations.
“Their intent is to force our retreat.”
That was Enkrid’s verdict. Otherwise—
What if the caster is similar to Kraiss, using repetitive magic to steer us toward a specific failure?
“With the path ahead becoming impassable for horses anyway, they are striking at our endurance,” Grida noted, stepping into her role as guide.
The situation was grim, but not paralyzing.
The peaks lay ahead. For a commoner, that would be a death sentence. But for her, it was home.
The mountains were a larder. As the season turned warmer, there would be edible greens, wild berries, and game to hunt. Springs could be found if one knew where to look.
“We continue,” Enkrid decided. He turned his gaze to Anne.
His look was a silent question: did she want to turn back?
Anne gritted her teeth. The knowledge that someone harbored such specific malice toward her was unsettling.
But she was not a woman who fled. Not now.
“I am a physician. My life’s work is the eradication of every plague in existence.”
And the secrets waiting in Zaun were part of the reason her kin had been snatched away.
“Very well,” Enkrid said, and Anne set her jaw in determination.
The effect of the amber fluid must have reached its limit; the coating on the blade began to slide off, dripping into the dirt.
“The Lady has left the ball, has she? We’ll have to fight without the finery from now on,” Anne remarked, her voice a bit shaky as she tried to lighten the mood.
Enkrid offered a soft, reassuring look.
“Then for the next dance, I shall request a black tailcoat.”
Anne’s response was the highest of compliments.
“…The name of your band will never be inaccurate, will it.”
The party began to move once more. Because they were accustomed to keeping their weapons on their persons, they had only lost their bedding, cooking gear, and stored food.
A sturdy cloak could serve as a blanket. Ragna unfastened the cloak from his belt and held it out to Anne.
He rarely wore it, finding it a hindrance in a fray. It was a stroke of luck he had kept it on him; otherwise, it would have been looted with the rest.
“Oh, my thanks,” Anne said, doubling the fabric and draping it over her shoulders. Enveloped in the dark navy cloth, she began to walk.
“Let us move.”
“Indeed,” Grida agreed, and Magrun gave a sharp nod.
Both warriors sensed that something had gone fundamentally wrong within Zaun. Why else would these events be unfolding?
It was a dark omen—trouble finding them even before they had crossed into Imperial lands.
As they trekked, Enkrid fell into step beside Anne and asked:
“What are Panax and Remede Omnia?”
“…What?” Anne looked at him, blinking in surprise.
The open plains were falling away behind them, and after navigating several rises, they were met by lush, grassy hills.
The terrain began to incline as they started to follow a mountain spine.
The thickening treeline confirmed their ascent.
“Where did you hear those terms? They are synonyms for the elixir. ‘Panax’ is what the fae call it. Some academics believe that a liquified Philosopher’s Stone is the same substance.”
Enkrid recognized the term “elixir.” The fountain of youth—a panacea for all ailments.
It was a staple of minstrel songs.
It didn’t exist in the ledgers of history, only in the colorful tales of myth.
In one legend, it was a fruit of gold. In another, a draught that pulsed with its own life inside a vial.
But as for its physical reality—no master of alchemy on the continent had ever managed to brew it. It was a ghost.
“Remede Omnia is a concept from alchemy. It refers to a singular cure for every possible sickness.”
“Does such a thing truly exist?”
Enkrid’s question was interrupted by Grida.
“Every time some traveling charlatan claims to possess it, it turns out to be venom. The line between a cure and a toxin is thinner than a hair.”
Anne glanced at Grida.
“You understand the basics of alchemy? You’re correct. Even a toxin can heal if applied with precision. And the opposite is true. Useful medicines become lethal if misused, and certain poisons are life-saving in tiny doses.”
“Then the real issue is whether a total cure is even possible,” Grida said flatly.
Enkrid remained a silent observer.
Anne didn’t respond immediately. She navigated a path of gnarled roots and fixed her eyes on a solitary tree in the distance.
Sweat began to bead on her brow. She wasn’t frail, and the group was mindful of her stride, but the climb was taking its toll.
I should have Ragna carry her before long, Enkrid noted to himself.
Anne took several more paces before finding her voice.
“Every healer who delves into alchemy fantasizes about the elixir. I used to think those pursuits were the height of idiocy.”
So it was a fantasy—just as he had suspected.
Anne had been a standout even among the gifted. The alchemist Raban had both craved and loathed her natural ability.
Despite Raban only sharing fragments of his craft, Anne had eclipsed his healing skills in short order.
Just as there are geniuses of the sword, there are geniuses of the flask.
Anne viewed it as mere luck—she claimed the answers simply appeared to her.
To everyone else, that was pure talent.
Because of that talent, she was certain: the elixir could not be manufactured. It was a fable for children.
“But what if we shifted our perspective? Most believe Elixir, Panax, and Remede Omnia are the names of substances, right?”
“A shift?” Grida asked. Enkrid narrowed his eyes, listening intently.
“What if it isn’t a draught—but a title?”
Anne went on.
A spark of realization flickered in Enkrid’s mind.
A change in the way one looks at the world.
If it isn’t a medicine, then there is no magic potion. However—
“My aspiration is to become Remede Omnia. I intend to be the individual who mends every wound and cures every plague.”
A person. That was something tangible. That was Anne’s ambition.
Hearing those words, Enkrid felt a sudden clarity regarding the enemy’s goals. Applying his tactical mind, their reasoning became visible.
“I can smell a spring,” Grida announced, leading them forward.
After summiting a small rise, they came upon a modest pool of water.
The water looked transparent, set against a rising steep path. It was a hollow filled by the earth—likely fed by deep springs, as a chill radiated from it.
Their flasks weren’t empty yet, so thirst wasn’t the immediate problem.
But—
“Wait,” Enkrid halted Grida and turned to Anne.
“Can you inspect that water for impurities?”
“Oh? Yes, I can do that.”
The study of alchemy required the ability to judge water quality. It was why many who were obsessed with tea were often patrons of alchemists.
Hadn’t Marcus always mentioned—
“With an alchemist in the party, you’ll never thirst. Though they say nothing beats the morning dew gathered by fairies.”
Anne knelt by the pool, filled her flask, and added a few drops of a testing agent.
She always kept a small satchel of reactive chemicals that she handled with extreme care.
“We shouldn’t drink this. It will cause a buildup of impurities in the gut. It won’t kill you instantly, but it will cause significant illness.”
The enemy’s strategy was now undeniable.
“They stole our supplies knowing the local water was tainted?”
Magrun growled.
“Or they poisoned the source ahead of us,”
Grida suggested, though Enkrid couldn’t be sure of that.
Whether the pool was naturally toxic or intentionally fouled, one thing was certain.
The journey ahead was going to be a trial.
A small sip wouldn’t break a person of high Will, but the enemy’s malice was written in the water.
Anne.
He still didn’t know the ‘why.’ He didn’t even know the ‘who.’
But something was starting to simmer within him.
What was it?
A cold, unbreakable vow that they would never achieve their aim.
And Enkrid wasn’t the only one reaching a boiling point.
“Those absolute bastards,”
Anne muttered through her small lips—a combination of fury, swearing, and bitter irony.
It was almost a backhanded compliment to the enemy’s thoroughness.
Though she was far from being flattered.