A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 687-688

Chapter 687

Darkness descended rapidly across the mountain range. The fleeting dusk vanished, and the celestial glow of the moon and stars soon claimed the territory vacated by the sun.

The group traveled at a brisk, rhythmic pace rather than a desperate sprint. Whenever they reached a stretch of level ground, their momentum surged. Their strides quickened until the astral lights above seemed to blur into luminous trails.

*Screeeech!*

A beast resembling a feral boar recoiled in alarm as they blurred past. It attempted a half-hearted pursuit before abandoning the chase. Had the creature been more dogged, it likely would have suffered the grisly fate of having its vitals strewn across the dirt—but fortune favored the animal that night.

Grida’s hand hovered over the pommel of her blade before she let it drop. She concluded in that split second that butchering a monster and allowing the stench of gore to permeate the air would only draw more predators. It was better to pass in silence.

The rare flat stretches offered a momentary reprieve. However, as Magrun had warned, the trail eventually twisted into more treacherous territory. Sharp rocks pierced the earth, and gnarled tree roots lay scattered like organic snares designed to trip the unwary.

Such obstacles might have brought down a common traveler, but these were knights. Not a single person in the party was slowed by the uneven terrain. Anne, who lacked the stamina to sustain such a forced march, had consumed two sedative pellets and slipped into a death-like slumber, secured firmly to Ragna’s back.

*Swish! Crack! Thwack!*

Positioned at the vanguard, Magrun wielded his blade to clear the path, lopping off intrusive branches that tumbled away behind them. He navigated through the roots with precision, seeking stable earth. When they encountered a waist-high boulder, they didn’t break their rhythm—they vaulted over it effortlessly. From the valley floor, the steepness of the climb might have looked daunting, but they ascended without a pause.

As they moved, Enkrid retreated into his own mind. He had long ago mastered the art of mental multitasking; navigating difficult terrain while deep in thought was as natural to him as breathing. His vision, honed for the dark, utilized the meager starlight to guide his steps. Unless he was pushing his absolute physical limits, he could adjust his footing with ease.

This was the ideal moment to contemplate the essence of the blade. Or so it seemed to him. It was about making movement instinctive—like reaching out to catch a falling object or a street vendor flipping meat skewers over a flame without a second thought. If he could manifest his Will with that same level of subconscious ease, his reactions to any ambush would be devastatingly powerful.

He had touched upon this truth before, but he knew that without relentless repetition, it would never truly become part of his nature. Enkrid understood his own limitations; a mere realization wasn’t enough—it had to be etched into his muscle memory. This was why he almost looked forward to the chaos of a sudden engagement.

In the midst of his meditation, his survival instincts sparked.

*Something is approaching.*

The moment the sensation hit him, Ragna—even while burdened by Anne—pivoted mid-stride, driving his foot into the earth to pivot.

*Thud!* The ground beneath Ragna’s boot buckled, leaving a shallow crater. His footwear, custom-crafted by Kraiss with steel reinforcements and durable troll-hide leather, held firm against the immense pressure. Enkrid watched as the boots kicked up a spray of dirt in what felt like slow motion.

Then, a dark, elongated shape lunged through the opening.

“Ambush!”

Ragna had reacted first, and Grida’s warning followed an instant later. Enkrid, trailing Ragna, drew Penna and lashed out the very second Grida spoke.

*Slice!*

The blade, a masterpiece of fairy craftsmanship known for its peerless edge, carved a diagonal path through the gloom.

An arm.

Enkrid felt the connection. His eyes, adjusted to the nocturnal light, caught the detail in the moon’s reflection. It was a forearm shielded by thick, obsidian scales. He felt the resistance through the hilt.

*It is resilient.*

A lesser weapon would have struggled, but Penna severed it cleanly. Scales and bone offered little defense against the fairy blade.

There was no cry of pain. Instead, the creature flicked its severed stump, deliberately spraying jet-black blood toward Enkrid’s eyes. His heightened perception caught the malice behind the move immediately. It was using its own mutilation as a weapon. This wasn’t the behavior of a common beast; usually, an injured animal would recoil or lash out blindly.

“Black!”

Grida’s voice rang out again, but Enkrid had already evaded the crimson spray by darting to the left, while Ragna veered right. Utilizing the explosive “frog-step” technique he’d acquired from Lua Gharne, Enkrid launched himself off the ground, bringing Penna around in a horizontal sweep.

An attack is a flash in time.

Every motion was saturated with Will, executed with a clinical efficiency that bordered on the mechanical. The sword, shimmering like a sliver of the moon, sliced through the air in a radiant arc, clearing everything in its trajectory. It cut through the midnight air and the black-scaled Scaler lurking within it.

*Splatter!*

The creature, nearly cloven in two, slumped to the ground as its lifeblood and innards spilled out. Enkrid held his finishing posture for a beat as the party halted.

“Look at these wretches,” Grida hissed, peering into the shadows ahead.

They left no scent and projected no presence, yet the darkness was suddenly filled with vertical, predatory pupils. Dozens of obsidian eyes stared back at them, glowing with a faint, eerie light.

*Ssssssshhh…*

Hissing sounds emerged from the brush and from beneath the ancient roots of the trees. It was another hunting party of Scalers. Enkrid glanced back at their path and then at the wall of monsters blocking their forward progress.

These weren’t magical constructs or cursed spirits—just Scalers. Their numbers were fewer than their previous encounter.

“Be wary of the ones with black scales,” Grida cautioned. “Some possess unique traits.”

Perhaps those traits were their version of sorcery. The one Enkrid had just cut down was noticeably sturdier than its kin. Was that its only gift? Unlikely.

*Did they deploy these quickly because we changed our course?* Enkrid wondered. *If so, how are they tracking us?*

The answer was basic military logic. To track an enemy, you use scouts. The opposition had clearly done the same. They hadn’t used obvious scouts that would be easily spotted; they must have used something more discreet.

Pieces of the puzzle began to fit together in his mind. The bat-like creature from their first day of travel. Bats used sound to navigate. If the goal was simply to monitor their location, sound would suffice. To a trained observer, the sound of a snapping twig or a heavy footfall in the mountains was as good as a visual sighting. Intercepting them in real-time was a simple matter of logistics.

They sent the Scalers here to obstruct them. This time, the goal wasn’t just to snatch Anne; it was to bleed their time and momentum. In a strategic sense, every delay was a defeat.

“Keep moving,” Enkrid stated firmly.

Grida looked at him. “What about you?”

“I’ll catch up shortly. Just leave a trail for me to follow.”

There was no need to ask if he would survive. If the enemy had specialized monsters, this group had a specialized knight of their own. Grida nodded to Magrun, who resumed the lead. Ragna followed without a backward glance, showing his absolute confidence in Enkrid’s capability.

The Scaler pack didn’t bother splitting their forces. When Enkrid remained behind, they focused entirely on him. Whether the enemy commander had planned for this separation was a question for another time. For now, there was only the immediate threat.

Enkrid faced the wall of monsters with a cold, almost predatory smile. “Let’s play.”

If these creatures possessed any spark of intellect, they would have felt the weight of their impending doom.

*Shing, chiiing!*

He returned Penna to its sheath and drew the Three-Iron Sword. The spirits of True Silver and Black Gold seemed to vibrate with anticipation, each eager to be the one to draw blood.

“Relax, both of you.”

As Enkrid spoke to his blades, the monsters took it for a moment of distraction and lunged from both sides. Enkrid met them with a whirlwind of steel. He drove True Silver upward in a celestial arc on his right and brought Black Gold down in a crushing blow on his left.

*Shnk, slice!*

The Scalers were split as if they had grown wings of gore, their bodies falling away in pieces. Beneath the moonlight, Enkrid’s expression remained calm and detached.

“Let us continue.”

He felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough, a realization that remained just out of reach. As he raised his sword high, two of the black-scaled variants gestured toward him. He felt a sudden, invisible pressure—spectral threads attempting to bind his arms and legs.

*Are they stronger than the manticore?* he mused. *No, roughly the same.*

It wasn’t enough to stop him. He exerted himself, and the air seemed to crackle as he snapped the psychic bonds through raw physical power. He didn’t even bother rushing the casters. Instead, he systematically dismantled the front liners.

A step forward with the left foot, a heavy strike from a middle guard. A deep thrust following through with the right.

*Thunk, stab!*

Sensing three points of lethal intent from his blind spot, he spun on his heel, his blade shattering three wooden spears in a single motion. His movements fluctuated between a blur of speed and a slow, agonizing precision. He moved only as much as the situation demanded.

His defense was fluid like the tide; his offense was sudden like a bolt of lightning. Yet, he questioned why they had to be distinct at all. Why separate the shield from the sword? At the pinnacle of knighthood, combat became a singular, unified existence.

Even as he contemplated this, a psychokinetic tried to pin his weapon while a spearman lunged with a poisoned tip.

*It isn’t about the technique or the hours spent.*

Enkrid adjusted his internal philosophy. He had once categorized swordsmanship by style and training. Now, he saw it differently. It was a balance of Sensation and Calculation. One informed the other. If a master like Pell couldn’t calculate, a strategist like Rophod would eventually find a gap. But if Rophod lacked instinct, he wouldn’t survive the first exchange.

With his mind sharpening, his twin swords moved in perfect harmony. Every strike was an improvement on the one before it.

*What I am doing right now is calculation.*

He was processing every variable, choosing the path of highest success, and executing it. It was becoming as instinctual as his heartbeat.

*I was too confident.*

It was often said that high knights used their Will without thinking. It looked effortless to an outsider, but it was built upon layers of endless repetition. Natural Will, refined swordsmanship, and more repetition—that was the formula. Even now, he could spot the flaws in his own form.

This was the Swordsmanship of Calculation. He had grasped it—but could he reach the level of pure, instinctive mastery?

The Mad Platoon had advised him to keep his true talents hidden. Enkrid decided he would simply develop a new talent to show the world instead. To an observer, his internal dialogue amidst a life-or-death struggle would seem like insanity. Perhaps even Rem would think so.

Yet, despite his wandering thoughts, his blades were unerring. The old continental proverb held that a knight was a walking catastrophe, capable of cutting through a hundred foes alone. Enkrid turned that myth into a bloody reality, carving a path through the Scalers.

When the last of them fell, he didn’t have a single mark on him. He didn’t look back at the carnage. The moment he decided the task was complete, he turned and vanished into the trees to find his friends. The Scalers had failed to stop them; they had merely provided Enkrid with a productive training session.

Chapter 688

Enkrid was no stranger to the life of a scout or a mercenary. There was a period in his past when he took on any task available just to scrape together a few coins. However, that history didn’t imply he was sloppy in his work. Analyzing the environment—spotting footprints in the dirt or identifying snapped twigs to find a trail—was an instinctive process for him.

This was particularly true now, as branches had been forced upward to indicate a path, a clear signal left by Grida. Normally, a person pushing through brush causes branches to dip or lean forward; an upward bend was a deliberate signpost. At consistent intervals—roughly thirty paces for a grown man—these markers appeared. It was a quiet gesture of consideration from an expert scout for those trailing behind.

Following them was simple work. The group ahead was bound to move slower than Enkrid, especially with Ragna carrying Anne, which naturally hindered his agility. Despite the ease of the trail, Enkrid couldn’t help but worry about the status of his companions. Had they run into further trouble?

He turned the possibilities over in his mind as he ran. Had the rival spellcaster anticipated their detour? If that were the case, there might be another massive hex waiting for them, perhaps something else designed to warp their sense of direction. Was there a second layer to the barrier? He wouldn’t know until he reached it, so he kept his legs moving while his thoughts raced.

Deep down, he found himself dwelling on a different subject for his own amusement: the art of the blade. He couldn’t shake it. He had recently grasped the idea of “calculated swordsmanship,” which naturally suggested its counterpart—instinctive swordsmanship. The realization sent a pulse of pure excitement through him. This was a fresh frontier, and it felt within his reach. The joy of the discovery was so intense he felt he could burst with it.

*If I died of pure happiness right now and had to restart the loop, what would the Ferryman think?* Enkrid wondered. He could almost hear the entity’s dry, mocking response in his head, asking if he was serious. Perhaps one day he would actually see the Ferryman truly lose his composure.

Applying this new logic of calculation versus instinct, the abilities of his teammates fell into place. Audin and Jaxon were calculators; they weighed every factor and looked several steps ahead. Ragna and Rem, conversely, moved on pure feeling. They didn’t overthink; they just reacted, yet they always came out on top. Then there was Shinar, the outlier. Her style was built on harmony, redirecting a foe’s momentum against them. She was the middle ground, a balanced fighter who used an opponent’s own power to shore up any weaknesses. Her movements were like a cold mountain wind—a perfect fusion of logic and reflex.

Enkrid vividly recalled the way Shinar fought after her village was restored. Back then, he hadn’t fully grasped her technique, but now it was clear: she read a portion of his intent and filled the gaps with pure instinct. She might very well be the most talented among them. Jaxon’s old saying about how perfection doesn’t exist—only sharpness—seemed more relevant than ever. In the end, the sharper blade wins.

Enkrid’s path was set. He had to conquer instinctive swordsmanship next. It wasn’t just about masking his primary skills anymore; it was about forging a whole new weapon. This inward realization provided the answer to the question he had asked himself during his sparring match with Audin before their departure.

—

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Magrun asked, adjusting his stride. He was thinking of Enkrid, who had stayed behind to hold the line. The darkness was far from over, and Magrun was certain this wasn’t the final confrontation. Whether it was a hex or a physical beast, something would inevitably try to stop them. While he didn’t fear for Enkrid’s life, the mystery of who was orchestrating these strikes weighed heavily on him.

Ragna was the one to respond. “He’s better off back there than I would be. He looked like he was having the time of his life.” Enkrid was the type of warrior who thrived in the heat of a challenge, yet never let his focus on the mission waver. Having spent two months at his side, Magrun had to admit that assessment sounded right. Enkrid had earned that level of confidence in a very short window of time. Still, a shadow of worry remained, though common sense dictated that even the most savage Scalers couldn’t truly threaten a knight of Enkrid’s caliber. Even Magrun could see Enkrid was exceptional.

“It was the smartest move for the situation,” Grida added, her voice carrying a hint of genuine respect. She was continually struck by Enkrid’s ability to make the right call instantly, even when the clock was ticking. It was as if he had navigated these exact dangers a thousand times before.

She wasn’t far from the truth. Through his repeated “todays,” Enkrid had lived these moments over and over, refining his judgment under the most brutal pressure. Grida simply viewed it as incredible natural talent. She realized that if the whole party had stayed to fight, they would have just wasted precious time. By staying alone, Enkrid dictated the terms of the fight. Since the Scalers lacked a leader to coordinate them, they couldn’t pursue both groups effectively.

*I still don’t understand why a mutated specimen appeared,* Grida thought. But she pushed the thought aside. Once they reached Zaun, they would find the answers. Surely the village knew what was happening in the surrounding lands, especially since Odinkar had ridden ahead to alert them.

As Magrun was lost in thought, Enkrid suddenly caught up with the group. He didn’t look tired; he looked energized.

“I need to master instinct now,” Enkrid announced.

“…What?” Grida asked, blinking. She had been ready to praise him for catching up, but his statement caught her off guard.

“I have the basics of the path down. It’s not an impossible hurdle,” Enkrid continued, moving alongside Ragna. Ragna didn’t even flinch at the comment.

“What the hell are you talking about, you crazy bastard?” Grida hissed. She was so distracted she nearly tripped over a thick root, but she simply crushed it under her boot and kept going with the raw strength of a knight. The wood splintered loudly under her weight.

“Is he suffering from some kind of toxin?” Magrun asked, slowing down to check on him.

“No, he’s always like this,” Ragna replied. Even after two months together, this particular brand of intensity was a lot to handle.

“I’m moving to instinctive strikes now. No more processing, just reacting,” Enkrid muttered. He wasn’t ignoring his friends, but he was clearly deep in his own world. Then, he shifted back to reality. “By the way, I took care of all the Scalers.”

“Now you tell us?” Grida sighed.

“There were four of the black variety. Is that common here?”

“You’re asking that *now*?” Grida retorted. If those creatures were local, it meant a monster den was dangerously close to the Border Guard and Martai—barely a ten-day ride away. These weren’t normal beasts either; they used psychokinesis and had reinforced, iron-like scales. After their encounter with Jericks the Ghoul in Oara, they knew monsters were capable of evolving and training, which made this a major threat.

“No, I’ve never encountered anything like them,” Magrun said, his expression turning grim. He was clearly anxious about what they would find at Zaun and worried about his own health.

“It’s strange. I expect more ambushes,” Enkrid noted. To most, “strange” would be an understatement, but Enkrid had seen too much to be rattled. If they couldn’t change the situation, they just had to deal with it. The others agreed, and they pressed on. The only thing that mattered was preparing for the next strike.

“We’re ready for it,” Grida said firmly.

“At this pace, we still have ten days to go,” Magrun calculated.

“We’ll get the full story at Zaun. Odinkar is already there,” Grida reminded them.

Magrun increased his speed. They kept their senses dialed to the maximum, though they didn’t run at a full sprint to avoid missing a trap. Conversation died down as they focused on the terrain. They ran through the entire night, but to their surprise, no one attacked.

At daybreak, Magrun paused, and Grida suggested, “Should we push until this evening? The little one will probably sleep better if we keep moving.”

Enkrid agreed. They continued their trek, sweating as they crested one ridge after another. There was no time for hygiene or comfort. They stopped only briefly at streams to refill their canteens and hunt for food. The Pen-Hanil Mountains were home to both normal wildlife and the beast-creatures—animals warped by monster influence. Deeper in the woods lay the true monsters, but they were staying clear of those heartlands for now. They caught a few animals, charred them over a fire, and ate the unseasoned meat just to keep their strength up.

Even Anne managed to eat when she was conscious. “I can’t take any more sedatives; it’ll wreck my system,” she told them. She spent her waking hours gripping Ragna’s back as they moved. “This is literal torture,” she groaned. Moving through rugged mountain terrain on someone’s back was a jarring, exhausting experience.

Enkrid found himself impressed by their progress. This wasn’t a flat road; they were leaping over boulders and navigating steep slopes, covered in a constant layer of trail dust. Everything they touched was coated in black grime.

Three days passed. Enkrid, Ragna, and Anne were all braced for a fight, but the forest remained silent. No smells, no sounds, no movement. They waded through a waist-deep river, stripping down to their trousers to keep their heavy gear dry, fully expecting an ambush while they were vulnerable in the water. Still, nothing happened.

Finally, they reached a landmark. “This is Lapata Gorge. I’d tell you the history, but we don’t have the time,” Magrun said, pointing toward the narrow path between high dirt walls. His voice was blunt, but Enkrid could tell he was actually disappointed he couldn’t play the host properly. It was as if Magrun wanted to show off the beauty of his home region, but the circumstances had robbed him of the chance.

The gorge felt ominous, but the detour would take too long. They moved through quickly.

“Why has it been so quiet?” Grida whispered.

“No idea,” Ragna replied.

It was bizarre. Even as they neared the outskirts of Zaun, there was no sign of the enemy. Enkrid’s confusion only grew until they finally arrived. Zaun was tucked into a high mountain basin, looking like a quiet, sturdy village. Aside from a few prominent buildings and the fact that every resident was armed, it looked peaceful.

Standing at the entrance was a man Enkrid recognized immediately—not from life, but from his own intuition. The man stood by a gate of massive sharpened logs. Just looking at him, Enkrid felt like he was staring at an unbreakable shield or a blade that could never be blunted. The man had a staggering presence; he was as immovable as a mountain, yet Enkrid knew that if he moved, he would be as destructive as a gale.

In his mind’s eye, Enkrid had pictured the thick brows and the lean, powerful frame before, but the sheer weight of the man’s aura was something else entirely.

“That’s the master of the house,” Magrun whispered. Enkrid didn’t need to be told. This was the head of Zaun, the patriarch of the warrior clan.

“You’ve brought visitors,” the master said.

As the man’s gaze fell upon them, Enkrid instinctively flared his own Will to counter the pressure. At the same time, a cold realization struck him. The master’s tone was neutral—as if he didn’t know who they were. If Odinkar had truly made it here first, how was that possible?