A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 690

Chapter 690

“Targeting the right biceps and left midsection.”
Enkrid deciphered the lethal intent of the woman who appeared to be Ragna’s mother.
The blade in her right grip swung down vertically, while the one in her left lunged straight out. Both steel edges operated in perfect synchronization.
The speed was impressive, yet the cadence was far too predictable.
Consequently—
“This is simple.”
Simple to parry, simple to avoid.
Ragna opted for evasion instead of unsheathing his weapon.
Though his feet barely seemed to leave the ground, his torso glided to the flank.
The reflexes of a knight functioned far beyond the limits of common men.
An ordinary person would be paralyzed by the raw bulk of Frok, stunned by the agility of beastfolk, or intimidated by the sheer scale of a giant.
However, to a knight, such things had lost their capacity to shock—nor did they need to be feared.
They were capable of manifesting equivalent power and executing similar feats of mobility.
Exactly as Ragna was demonstrating at this moment.
Ragna’s mother pivoted her twin edges at a sharp angle to track his shift.
Still simple.
One sword pierced, the other cut. It felt almost repetitive.
“No, perhaps not simple.”
Whether it was because Enkrid was observing from the periphery, or because his own perception had sharpened, he began to detect the hidden purpose buried within her forms.
The dual blades traveled along fixed trajectories, demanding specific reactions from the target.
For instance, the right-hand sword plunged toward the collarbone, while the left-hand blade swept outward on a diagonal line. It was a pattern designed to simultaneously gut the stomach and sever the arm.
Attempting to dodge would only lead to being impaled.
It was high-speed, agile dual-wielding. In pure velocity, it rivaled the very best.
That was precisely why there was no window to attempt alternative maneuvers.
“And she wastes no energy.”
Ragna was left with only two paths: draw his blade to intercept or retreat to create a gap.
“If I were in his position, I would seize both her wrists.”
In terms of raw physical force, Ragna held the advantage, and he should leverage that strength.
Following the tactical logic of the Lua Gharne-style, that would be the optimal response.
After pinning her wrists, he would drive his forehead into the bridge of her nose.
Why take that route?
“Because retreating makes her next sequence harder to anticipate.”
A passive block would merely allow her to maintain her offensive flow.
So he reached a conclusion—and simultaneously grasped his mother’s methodology.
“She is dictating the movement.”
If the Spiderweb Sword of Acker functioned by entangling an enemy’s actions and stripping away their options…
This woman’s martial style paved a specific road and herded the opponent down it.
Comparable, yet distinct—this was a discipline of directional combat.
Ragna combined three different approaches, including one of Enkrid’s own.
“Act on multiple fronts simultaneously, if possible.”
Assuming one possessed the capability.
Ragna did.
He pulled the short blade he carried and used it to intercept one of the diving swords.
With his left palm, he reached for her right wrist, while his right leg snapped upward, driving his toes toward her jawline.
*Clink.*
The moment Ragna’s short sword made contact, she recoiled.
Her frame arched backward instantly, leaving his kick and his grab to whistle through empty space.
The gold-colored braid falling down her back whipped from side to side.
Such was the violence of her movement that even her attire and hair were tossed into chaos.
“My, my, son—you’ve evolved a bit.”
Due to her rapid oscillation between advance and retreat, her fluttering apron had settled back to shield her midriff and legs. In that fleeting window, Enkrid noticed the sheaths fastened to the outer planes of her thighs.
“It seems they remain armed even while preparing food here.”
By no metric were those mere kitchen implements.
They were slightly longer than a standard short sword, and while the steel was thicker, the profile remained slim.
A bespoke weapon falling somewhere between a shortsword and a gladius.
“No—it is an inscribed weapon.”
He amended his thought.
They engaged in cooking while carrying enchanted armaments.
“It’s only natural for me to change after such a long absence, isn’t it?”
Ragna countered, projecting a level of confidence he hadn’t shown previously.
It was evident he had no qualms if she decided to strike again.
This was a facet of his personality that hadn’t been apparent before he left his ancestral home.
Ragna’s mother looked momentarily touched.
“Indeed, I was certain you would come home one day.”
“I haven’t returned home—I’ve come to take the sunrise.”
“The sunrise? Was that a gift promised to you?”
She tilted her chin slightly, looking toward the man who seemed to be Ragna’s father.
“No.”
The father gave a slow shake of his head.
“You’ve found your spark, boy. It suits you.”
His mother beamed as she turned back around.
*What a bizarrely upbeat family,* Enkrid mused, mentally replaying the encounter.
It was a brief clash, yet it was dense with revelations.
He had even gained a new perspective.
Not every school of swordsmanship could be categorized as a killing blow, a defensive measure, or a state of omnipotence.
Put differently, intuition and logic weren’t enough to decipher everything.
That style Ragna’s mother had displayed—
“The Transition.”
She shifted back and forth across the boundary of instinct and calculation.
It wasn’t a state of all-knowing balance.
Instead, she tilted like a pendulum and swung back.
“And beyond that—immense speed.”
Enkrid had labeled his own technique “Flash,” but in reality, its power was rooted in the streamlining of thought.
It centered on minimizing the variables within a single heartbeat.
He was reminded of the martial art Grida had once demonstrated.
Specifically, the technique Grida employed to sabotage logical deduction.
In truth, it was entirely impractical for a real fight.
To apply it in earnest, one would need to maintain a flawless guard and use only the most efficient movements—similar to how Enkrid behaved when facing a one-killer.
But Grida’s actions had been far too flamboyant for such utility.
Thus, it wasn’t viable for a true battlefield.
During their training, Enkrid had functioned with a strictly rational combat mindset, while Grida had played the role of the disruptor.
He had resolved then not to provide her the opportunity to do so.
“Restrict the options and select the finest one.”
That was the core of Flash.
Under that definition, it was by no means sluggish, but in terms of sheer blade velocity, what Ragna’s mother had just performed was even more startling.
“A high-velocity cognitive shift powered by rapid blades?”
There were surely deeper layers to the techniques he had witnessed.
He felt a genuine surge of anticipation.
Without thinking, he found his fingers tightening and loosening around the grip of Tri-Iron.
“A rather aggressive visitor we have,” Ragna’s mother observed.
Enkrid opened his mouth to reply, but Grida intervened.
“Don’t. Not that.”
It was a firm caution.
“…I am traveling with Ragna.”
Enkrid felt the urge to issue a challenge right then—but he heeded Grida’s advice.
Magrun stepped forward to clarify:
“He is Enkrid of the Border Guard. You’re familiar with the Mad Knight Order, surely? The word was sent via the Intermediaries’ Village.”
Ragna’s mother blinked in surprise before answering:
“Ah, that one? The heartbreaker?”
Enkrid flinched for a second—but he held his tongue.
“How did that title manage to reach this far?”
He wondered for a moment, then gave a flat, composed reply.
“Who was the messenger?”
When he caught that fool, he would find out where this started.
In nearly every scenario—it was Shinar.
Enkrid now realized just how extensively she had propagated that ridiculous fiction.
She had informed everyone that the captain of the Mad Knight Order at the border was famous for shattering hearts.
At this rate, even toddlers would be chanting the name, and some traveling musician would turn it into a ballad.
Perhaps even a recluse mage in the deep woods would recognize the moniker.
“No, that’s an exaggeration.”
Now wasn’t the time to lose his train of thought.
Meeting her unwavering eyes, Enkrid went on.
“Tales are often inflated.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s usually a flame. And looking at your face, it’s not entirely unbelievable. Though I’ve heard rumors the clan leader has eight limbs—so not every word is gospel. I am Alexandra Zaun. You are welcome in Zaun.”
She looked like a common woman at first glance, but her prowess had been proven only moments ago.
“I’d argue you’re the one with eight limbs.”
The clan head remarked from her side, and his wife gave a small laugh.
Despite being in her middle years, she possessed very few lines and appeared remarkably youthbound.
Knights tended to age at a slower pace.
“She must have attained the rank of knight while very young.”
Quite extraordinary.
The clan head was emotionally impenetrable, and while his wife seemed friendly—she was just as impossible to read.
“At a high level, concealing one’s essence is instinctual.”
Hadn’t Jaxon mentioned that very thing?
Enkrid understood the implication.
Masterful observation was akin to insight.
Masterful insight was akin to telepathy.
And those possessing that depth of insight naturally learned to shroud their intentions.
Whether through logic, gut feeling, or habit—they practiced not showing their cards.
“Otherwise, the duel between Rophod and Pell would be nonsensical.”
If one participant knew the other’s goal while the other was blind, the contest would end instantly.
Granted, there were strikes that couldn’t be stopped even if they were seen coming.
Regardless—he understood the concept.
“We were already preparing a feast for guests, so your timing is perfect. A surprise, but we cooked plenty. Join us. Though, you should clean up first.”
Zaun was a modest stronghold, staffed by a handful of servants.
Enkrid noticed several maids and pages watching from a distance.
They were incredibly poised—completely unbothered by the blade-work they had just seen.
“I will guide them.”
Grida stepped out, and Alexandra, the wife of the clan head, gave a nod.
“Of course. It’s in the same spot as always.”
At some point, she had already returned her swords to their sheaths.
Once again, Enkrid had missed the motion entirely.
Sheathing weapons in the middle of a chat—perhaps that was what people meant by veteran expertise.
Not every minor movement could be called divine, but—
“Truly out of the ordinary.”
The clan head looked between Enkrid, Ragna, and Ann and said:
“I’ll see you shortly. Dinner should be entertaining tonight. It’s been a long time since we’ve filled the table.”
His voice held none of the warmth his words suggested.
“Follow me.”
Grida bowed to the clan head and his wife and led the group away.
“I have a quick errand to run.”
Magrun peeled off halfway through the hall.
Once they were well away from the clan head and his wife, Ann finally spoke up.
“I was going to mention we came to see a patient, but he was terrifying. Ragna’s father, I mean.”
“Was he?”
“He looks nothing like Ragna.”
Ragna nodded at Enkrid’s observation.
“They are my foster parents. It would be odd if I resembled them.”
“What?”
That was news to him.
Enkrid snapped his head toward the surprising revelation, and Grida looked back to add:
“I’m also adopted. You didn’t know? Well, it’s not like this idiot is the type to share personal details.”
Ragna didn’t say a word.
He was just scanning the surroundings.
This was his childhood home, after all.
Forgotten fragments of memory were likely resurfacing in the back of his mind.
“That corridor leads to my old quarters. I wonder if it’s still there?”
It was called a fortress, but the design felt more like an expansive estate.
Pillars demarcated the transition between the inner and outer areas.
The scale wasn’t massive.
Ragna gestured with a hand toward the hall on the right—the one leading deeper inside.
To the left lay an outdoor courtyard.
“There’s nothing that way but the clan head’s suite. It’s been that way for two generations.”
At Grida’s correction, Ragna tilted his head in confusion.
“I must have been mistaken.”
“You call that a simple mistake?”
Grida sounded annoyed, but this was to be expected.
No matter how clearly a place was burned into one’s childhood, a long time had passed.
Losing one’s way was standard for Ragna.
“The baths are this way. No servants. In Zaun, the policy is self-reliance. If you don’t do the work, you don’t get the reward. Though, they will provide clean clothes.”
One couldn’t simply wave a sword and expect food to appear.
The clan likely ran on a self-sustaining system.
They maintained only a skeleton crew—the rest was done by their own hands.
“It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper wash.”
Ann remarked.
“You’re coming with me.”
Grida steered her into a separate bathing room, divided by a stone wall.
Enkrid stepped into his bath and found a massive wooden tub already brimming with water.
There was a fire pit nearby to heat more if necessary.
Steam drifted from a pot over the flames, and a large basin was ready.
Ragna, despite his navigational issues, had no trouble with the chore.
He took a wooden pail and began balancing the hot and cold water.
He wasn’t just doing it for himself—he was preparing a tub for Enkrid as well.
It highlighted the fact that this was truly Ragna’s territory.
The way he handled the bathwater felt like a blend of habit and long-lost memory.
“What is the ‘sunrise’?”
Enkrid asked, observing Ragna.
He smelled—he clearly hadn’t scrubbed down in a long time.
That was likely why they were told to bathe before dinner.
Ragna answered while plunging the bucket into the water.
His voice was underscored by the rhythmic sound of splashing.