A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 692

Chapter 692

Despite hearing the monarch’s title, the patriarch dismissed the proposal without hesitation—no explanation provided, just a cold “I decline.” The envoy didn’t argue, simply exhaling a frustrated sigh.
“You’re an obstinate old fool.”
He grumbled the words under his breath.
Everyone present caught the remark, yet the patriarch disregarded it, shifting his focus. From the way he spoke, it was evident the two shared a history that went beyond professional ties.
“Everyone has a motivation for arriving here. Ragna has already expressed his aim.”
His attention, moving on from the firm rejection, settled on Anne, who had finished her plate.
Is he being… considerate?
The leader had waited for her to eat her fill. Though his voice remained hollow of feeling, the choice of timing hinted at a hidden kindness.
Is he the sort who communicates through deeds?
Rather than emotions?
Enkrid contemplated this silently.
The rest of the table seemed unfazed. Alexandra Zaun maintained a soft expression. She observed Anne’s features and movements with curiosity, though it lacked any hint of spite.
Anne took a breath and spoke with clarity.
“I was informed that a persistent sickness plagues this land. I believe I can provide a remedy.”
She made no grand guarantees, but her voice was thick with a quiet, solid confidence.
She possessed more grit than her delicate frame suggested.
To purposefully consume a lethal concoction, drift into a deep slumber, and place her very existence in Ragna’s hands—that required a soul of uncommon strength.
That was how Enkrid viewed her.
“She is talking about the affliction of our bloodline,” Grida chimed in. The Zaun family had long been haunted by a genetic malady. Lately, its symptoms had turned severe.
Still, the patriarch showed no reaction to Anne’s claim. His expression didn’t even flicker.
Is that face capable of movement?
If he lost a limb, he’d likely just sit there, staring blankly.
No—he wouldn’t just watch.
If the clash were finished, he’d stem the flow of blood. If the fight continued, he would trade the lost limb for the skull of his foe. The invisible weight he radiated was still suffocating.
He looked as though he could strike in a heartbeat, yet also like a man who would watch a sneak attack play out with total indifference.
In short—he was a mystery.
“A son yearning for the Sunrise,” he noted, starting his next thought. He took a brief beat, scanning the faces in the room before finishing.
“A girl making grand claims of ending a plague.”
“And Schmidt,” his spouse added, nodding toward the envoy.
So the man was named Schmidt. It was undeniable now that the couple had a long-standing bond with him.
“Tempe, this proposal is for the benefit of your entire house,” Schmidt pleaded, his voice losing its official edge. He was speaking as a friend now, not a servant of the crown.
“The answer remains no.”
The patriarch reiterated his stance with chilling permanence. No emotion colored his tone, but his resolve was absolute.
Schmidt sighed once more.
“What do they call you?” Alexandra inquired, placing her utensils down and tidying her station. She looked toward Anne.
Anne followed suit and answered, “Anne. I am an alchemist focused on restoration. You surely have a local healer for the sick. I perform that same role.”
Every isolated society had someone to mend the broken.
“When the shadows of health fall, specifically the one we discussed, we consult Millestia. She is the godmother to these two,” Alexandra explained, indicating Ragna and Grida. She studied Anne—was it judgment? Or perhaps doubt?
Grida had described it as a celestial curse.
A punishment from the heavens.
Calling it a sickness or a curse amounted to the same thing.
Magrun had remained silent when Anne labeled it a disease and offered a cure. He hadn’t even requested an evaluation—not a single spark of hope showed.
He expects nothing.
He had likely exhausted every doctor and every ritual already.
Or perhaps Millestia’s reputation was so great that he assumed if she failed, there was no hope left.
The destination Magrun sought upon arrival was likely Millestia’s home. He had looked drained during the trek.
In the world of alchemy, prestige is usually tied to years. Regardless of talent, without the seasoning of age, success is rare.
Anne appeared to be barely twenty. That fact alone made it difficult for anyone to take her seriously.
The conclusion was obvious—
The patriarch will turn her away.
That was Enkrid’s logical assumption.
However, after a heavy pause, the patriarch spoke.
“If you require resources, simply ask, Anne. And since you’ve just returned, it would be wise for a known face to assist. Grida.”
“I’ll see to it,” Grida responded.
The prediction was wrong.
“Ragna, are you prepared?” the patriarch asked, his eyes falling on the youth’s messy hair and bruised skin.
“Not today,” Ragna replied.
The patriarch began clearing the table, a signal that the meal was over and the time for rest had come.
That was when Enkrid spoke up.
“Why haven’t you asked my purpose for being here?”
Alexandra provided the answer for her husband.
“Because it is self-evident.”
Self-evident? Enkrid knew he wasn’t that transparent.
Stubbornness didn’t equate to simplicity.
He was present to ensure Anne’s safety. He also intended to recount the details of their journey and stand by Ragna as an ally.
Furthermore, the politics of Zaun were far from straightforward.
If chaos erupted, Enkrid was prepared to step in. His mission couldn’t be summed up in a pithy phrase.
The claim that it was “obvious” had a flaw. It was a mistake of perception.
Perhaps even a paradox.
That was Enkrid’s private thought. No matter what they claimed, he would find the contradiction.
As he organized his mind, the patriarch spoke,
“At dawn, you will test your steel against me and my wife—one bout each.”
Enkrid didn’t hesitate.
“I accept.”
A contest. The other matters could wait.
Odinkar’s disappearance? He had departed of his own accord. It was a tactical retreat, not a vanishing act.
Ragna had done the same—wandering off as a child and returning only now.
If Ragna could manage it, why not Odinkar?
Even if that wasn’t the case, don’t men sometimes need a dark place to hide alone?
Maybe it was as simple as that.
And the ambush during their travels?
Reporting it to the patriarch now wouldn’t alter the past.
Someone had attempted to assassinate Anne and obstruct their path. That was the reality. Grida or Magrun would provide the details eventually.
It wasn’t my place to be the messenger.
So, a duel was sufficient.
Nothing messy.
Even in a convoluted world, Enkrid could find the simple path.
That was his nature.
He found comfort in that logic and closed the thought.
“Then we shall meet in the morning. You are dismissed. Escort them to their quarters.”
The group departed in silence—save for Schmidt, who stayed in his chair.
As Enkrid left the hall that served as a salon, his eyes met Schmidt’s for a fleeting moment.
“Follow me, sir,” a polished servant said, guiding Enkrid forward.
The heavy wooden door groaned as it began to close.
Through the shrinking opening, Schmidt’s voice drifted out.
“Is this truly the conclusion?”
It wasn’t a bitter sound, but one heavy with criticism.
The closing doors carved a line between two different realities.
The patriarch’s eyes locked onto Enkrid’s through the final sliver of light.
Were they amber?
The flicker of the lamps turned them into glowing orange orbs.
Thud.
The massive door shut tight, drowning out Schmidt’s persistent tone.
“Give me an answer, anything. You aren’t doing this for my sake, are you?”
It wasn’t a cold remark—it was clearly born of deep worry.
If not for himself…
Then for who?
The question hung in the air, but it wasn’t for Enkrid to solve. The only thing that mattered was the morning’s challenge.
He turned away from the sealed room and walked on.
Being a knight didn’t change the mundane realities of life.
Swinging a blade wouldn’t wash the sweat from his traveling clothes.
It wouldn’t shake the grime from his heavy cloak or dig the mud and stones out of the treads of his footwear.
The sword was useless against those things.
He thought back to a piece of advice from a veteran mercenary—a man who had survived fifty years in the mud to be called a king of his trade.
“You want to win? Preparation is seventy percent of the battle. The man who hones his edge and cleans his gear starts with the advantage. That’s just common sense.”
Enkrid viewed those words as a foundational truth.
I can use the small blade to clean the soles.
Standing outside his room, Enkrid used his shortsword to scrape his boots—troll hide reinforced with steel from Mount Pen-Hanil. They were battered but reliable.
He checked for a scent—nothing offensive.
Grida walked past and tossed a small pouch his way.
“Drop that inside. It helps with the odor.”
He caught it with a sharp smack. It contained white blocks—dried soap. Ideal for refreshing gear overnight.
“Where are you headed?”
“It’s been a long time. I wanted to walk the grounds.”
The setting sun stretched her shadow long until she stepped into the darkness and it vanished.
Her stride was consistent—purposeful.
She had many people to see, or many duties to perform. Likely both.
I have washing to do…
Enkrid walked to the courtyard well, hauled up water, and began cleaning his base layers and cloak.
A sword couldn’t clean fabric—but a knight’s grip could certainly wring it dry.
Crr-crack-wring.
The thick material groaned in his hands as a stream of dirty water poured out.
Before long, Ragna and Anne arrived to do the same.
A few household staff approached, offering wooden paddles for beating the cloth.
Their complexions were pale, their eyes heavy with exhaustion.
“Are you feeling ill?” Anne inquired.
“I am quite fine,” a maid answered.
Enkrid noticed the woman’s belt—she wore a blade.
Even the servants were armed here.
Good.
He inspected his equipment, finished his laundry, and polished his shortsword and his horn-handled dagger.
By the time he finished, the world was dark.
They had arrived at the break of day, but between maintenance and food, the hours had evaporated.
He fell onto a mattress of feathers and wool. Sleep took him instantly.
Knights aren’t tireless machines—any more than you can scrub a cloak with a blade.
Rest is a requirement. Enkrid accepted that it was time.
Ragna was in the room to his left. Anne was to his right.
He barely had a moment of reflection before he drifted off.
Then his eyes opened.
In the haze of sleep—he witnessed the Ferryman.
The lamp-bearing figure of dark curiosities spoke,
“Protect.”
No target. Just a solitary command.
Its intent was impossible to grasp.

—

“Schmidt, it is over,” Alexandra said, gesturing dismissively.
While the staff cleared the remnants of the meal, the three of them relocated to a private room.
Schmidt sipped a tea of dried petals. His throat felt parched—he simply couldn’t fathom the rigidity of these people.
“Alex… your house requires assistance.”
He was desperate, yet he knew no progress could be made without their agreement.
“And yet we cannot accept the title of ‘Shield’ and become vassals of the throne.”
Tempe Zaun, the patriarch, leaned his head against his folded hands.
“Tempe—”
“Enough, Schmidt. I will not take a title from the Empire.”
The Empire had spent years trying to absorb Zaun.
They wanted them to be the Shield of the East. They offered the rank of Duke—the Shield Duke.
Tempe, known as Tempest Zaun, had never wavered in his refusal.
“You need their resources to fix the sickness,” Schmidt argued.
The Empire didn’t move out of the goodness of its heart. They were cold calculators.
Schmidt wanted to save them—but for that to happen, Zaun had to open the door.
“There is no need.”
The patriarch shook his head.
“That is not a curse.”
Schmidt tried to push further, but the man’s mouth stayed shut like a heavy tomb. Once he went silent, he rarely spoke again. Schmidt knew the pattern.
He looked to Alex—his former stepsister—and she mirrored her husband’s refusal.
“Drop it, Schmidt.”
“But why?”
“I have explained this. The family head does not draw his steel to preserve a single soul—not for another’s sake. In Zaun, everyone carries a blade for their own desire.”
They filled their internal voids with combat. They sought their own path with the sword.
Zaun was built on that foundation. To be the Empire’s shield meant they would cease to be Zaun.
They would be an extension of the state. Just another tool for the Emperor to point at his rivals.
Zaun did not live for that. It was an impossibility.
“If you all perish, what was the point of any of it?”
Schmidt was livid—but he knew he was defeated.
There are concepts more vital than breathing. Some call it a vision. Others call it dignity. Or pig-headedness.
The patriarch… possessed something of that nature as well.