A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 693

Chapter 693

The following day arrived.

Enkrid, having intentionally permitted himself a late morning, began to methodically loosen his muscles. The lingering exhaustion had almost entirely evaporated. He didn’t require a looking glass to confirm that the discoloration from Ragna’s strike had vanished; the conditioned physique of a knight possessed a restorative power that dwarfed that of any commoner.

“Legendary.”

That was the descriptor inevitably tied to the name Zaun. It was a title spoken only by those of a particular caliber, a name too heavy even for the lyrics of traveling minstrels. “Legend” was the only word that truly fit.

“Specifically, the patriarch.”

A sharp thrill traveled from his heels to the crown of his head, causing the fine hair on his arms to stand upright.

“This is going to be magnificent.”

He felt a swell of anticipation.

“The weather is perfect,” Enkrid remarked, gazing upward. Beside him, Anne rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked up as well.

“Perfect?” she asked skeptically. The sky was dominated by heavy, obsidian clouds. She couldn’t fathom his definition of “nice.”

“Yes, truly,” Enkrid insisted. From behind Anne, Ragna interjected.

“Don’t expect an explanation. He gets like this occasionally.”

It was a version of Enkrid that Anne hadn’t encountered, yet it didn’t shock her. She simply concluded that this temperament was the source of his reputation as a madman.

“I imagine I’ll be quite occupied today as well,” Anne noted. She wasn’t at Ragna’s ancestral home for a holiday; she was there to identify the origin of the plague.

Shortly thereafter, a young attendant carrying a blade arrived to announce that the head of the house requested Enkrid’s presence. Though it was barely past daybreak, Enkrid was fully prepared. He immediately followed the summons.

At the heart of an expansive courtyard used for drills, the patriarch and his spouse stood waiting for Enkrid. There were no hollow pleasantries or inquiries about his rest. As Enkrid closed the distance to within ten paces, the identity of his first opponent became clear.

“The patriarch.”

The man who stood as the symbol of Zaun, Ragna’s sire.

The weight of the atmosphere was unprecedented. It wasn’t merely a physical burden; the pressure possessed a tangible shape. A massive broadsword seemed to tower before him. It was a phantom, yet it felt concrete because the source of that presence was vibrantly alive.

“It feels as though it has physical mass.”

This was the essence of true presence.

The invisible force manifested as a colossal blade, so immense it made a human frame look diminutive. The edges of this spectral sword were three times the width of the patriarch himself. However, it lacked a murderous edge.

Enkrid’s intuition, honed by insight and past battles, provided the reason.

“This weight isn’t aimed at me.”

It was a signal of readiness. He surmised that the bare minimum requirement to face the patriarch was the ability to remain standing under this psychic weight. His instinct was dead on.

Ragna watched the manifested aura of his father, a sight he hadn’t witnessed in years.

“It has expanded.”

His father possessed the unique talent of crushing an adversary’s spirit before a single blow was struck. Compared to that aura, Enkrid looked like a fragile reed in a gale or a twig on the verge of snapping. The disparity in their spiritual weight was jarring. Most would feel their significance dwindling to nothing before such power. It was a psychological defeat—a surrender of the soul before the body even moved. The dread of being flattened should that spectral blade fall was enough to stop a heart.

Then, Enkrid’s own aura underwent a radical shift.

Ragna, standing at his back, couldn’t see the man’s expression, but he didn’t need to.

“He’s definitely grinning.”

He knew Enkrid’s nature. And he was correct.

Enkrid was shivering with a mixture of terror and delight, his mouth curling involuntarily. This aura was unlike anything he’d met, and that novelty was intoxicating. A memory of Anu, the King of the East, flickered through his mind. Anu was likely of a similar tier.

“When he visited the Border Guard, he was merely toying with me.”

Back then, Enkrid lacked the skill to force the Mercenary King to be serious. But things had changed.

His lips peeled back in a bared-teeth smile that caused Alexandra’s brow to twitch in surprise.

“Is he actually smiling?” her expression seemed to ask. Enkrid didn’t notice. His entire world was narrowed down to the patriarch.

—

Teresa, deep in her own drills, suddenly broke the silence.

“Brother Audin, Sister Shinar.”

The two companions assisting her paused. Shinar recalled the levitating blades she held aloft with her mental energy. Audin was in the process of unbuckling a dented metal gauntlet.

“What do you find most difficult about clashing with Captain Enkrid?”

It was a casual thought, a bit of small talk for their rest period.

Audin and Shinar spoke simultaneously.

“His obstinacy.”

“His denial.”

The words differed, but the sentiment was identical. Audin elaborated:

“When he’s a student, he takes in everything. But the moment the blades cross, no amount of pressure can bow him. It’s a Will of Refusal. That is his core—a power that simply pushes forward, regardless of the opposition.”

Shinar added her perspective.

“He refuses to quit. Even when it’s logical to stop. That kind of pigheadedness makes him impossible to predict.”

Without Enkrid there to overhear, Shinar’s teasing was tempered. Had he been present, she might have joked that even a fairy of her standing couldn’t crack his stubborn pride or his density.

“I feel it too,” Teresa said, nodding as she forced herself to stand, favoring a broken leg. Her injury wasn’t a white flag.

Enkrid had ignited a fire in all of them. Because of that spark, everyone—with the exception of Ragna—had committed to the Border Guard. They wanted to remain near that source of inspiration.

“Let’s continue!” Teresa barked, determined to shatter her own ceilings.

—

A smile?

Alexandra was intimately familiar with the crushing weight her husband projected. How a person reacted to that pressure revealed the truth of their character.

The least impressive opponents were those who walked into the ring already convinced of their failure. Such individuals were incapable of leading or carving new paths.

“In fact, they would struggle even to reach the rank of knight.”

Within Zaun, knights were categorized into three paths: Trailblazers, Researchers, and Observers. Trailblazers were the seekers; Researchers were the masters of form; Observers were the protectors. This hierarchy mirrored the very structure of Zaun’s martial philosophy.

“Regardless…”

If a person started a fight expecting to lose, they could at most become a researcher.

Slightly worse were the arrogant—those who were blind to their own limitations. They were destined for defeat but refused to acknowledge why, lacking the self-awareness to grow. Some with raw talent might stumble into the role of a trailblazer, but Alexandra had never seen one truly flourish.

“And research is beyond them as well.”

One cannot refine a technique without the ability to analyze one’s own faults.

The third group comprised those who recognized their own shortcomings. This was the mark of those poised for growth. They accepted their flaws and focused on the immediate actions they could take. Her husband found this mindset tedious, but Alexandra saw it as a path to greatness. These people fought desperately, using every tool at their disposal to narrow the gap.

“They have the makings of brilliant researchers or steadfast observers.”

But the final category was the patriarch’s preference.

“The ones who thrive under pressure.”

They didn’t just tolerate the combat; they were invigorated by the weight of it. They became consumed by the thrill of the struggle. These were the true trailblazers, the ones who cleared the way for others.

Yet, among all those she had seen who enjoyed the heat of battle, she had never seen a reaction quite like this.

A broad, genuine grin.

Enkrid looked as though he was on the verge of a blissful death as he lunged forward. He moved through the crushing pressure as if it were a light breeze. Even if the stars fell, he would advance with his blade.

“His spirit is written across his entire being.”

Her husband, Tempest, unsheathed his weapon. Alexandra watched with unwavering focus. Although this was a practice match, the intensity of their combined auras made it indistinguishable from a duel to the death.

*Boom!*

The patriarch’s massive blade descended in a vertical arc. It was the “Mountain-Crushing Blade,” a strike defined by its sheer mass. While it appeared deliberate, the wielder’s Will would paralyze the opponent just before impact.

As expected, Enkrid felt the force trying to pin his feet to the earth—and he instantly rejected it.

“Remarkable.”

Odinkar had been formidable, but the patriarch was another level entirely. He was a mountain when stationary and a hurricane when in motion. That overwhelming presence fanned the flames of the Will coursing through Enkrid.

Enkrid moved to intercept the blow with Samcheol. To an onlooker, it appeared he was trying to stop a falling hammer with a needle. However, the dark gold edge of Samcheol angled slightly, sliding against the weight to bleed off the momentum.

*Boom!*

The impact still generated a violent shockwave. Ragna stepped in front of Anne to shield her, while Alexandra remained motionless, arms crossed.

“What just happened?” Anne asked, unable to track the speed of the exchange.

“We should move back,” Ragna advised, keeping himself between her and the duelists. A stray shard of stone could easily be lethal at this range.

The instant the metal shrieked, Enkrid released his grip on Samcheol and lunged inward. It was a suicidal maneuver, the last thing a master swordsman would expect. It was a move from the Valen-style mercenary handbook—a gambit born of cold, rapid calculation.

He was committing everything to the opening move.

Enkrid balled his fist and drove it toward the patriarch’s jaw. A clean hit there would rattle the brain and destroy a fighter’s equilibrium. The patriarch simply tucked his chin and allowed the punch to land against his sturdy forehead.

*Boom!*

Simultaneously, the patriarch launched a counter-punch with the hand still gripping his sword. Enkrid dipped low, the fist whistling over him, and brought his forearms together. He transitioned into the Wavebreaker Sword, a defensive form chosen in a split second.

*Whack!*

The patriarch’s knee drove into the center of Enkrid’s guard. Enkrid surrendered to the force, making his body light and allowing himself to be thrown backward. As he retreated, he reached out with his left hand, snatching Samcheol. The blade, which had been embedded in the dirt, slid free as if jumping into his hand.

The patriarch used the momentum of his lowering leg to transition into a powerful thrust with the greatsword.

“Expertly done.”

The man was a master of both the art of war and the art of the duel.

Enkrid’s right arm was numb from the knee strike; the patriarch had targeted the nerves precisely. He had neutralized Enkrid’s punch with his brow and then disabled a limb. He wasn’t just a swordsman; he was a primal brawler.

Fortunately, Enkrid was ambidextrous. Switching his grip to his left hand didn’t diminish his lethality. Using his deadened right hand as a secondary guide, he performed a fluid hand-off. It was the Valen-style switch, now a part of his muscle memory.

With his left hand leading and his right providing leverage, he aimed a thrust meant to shatter the rhythm of the patriarch’s weapon.

“Aitri.”

The sword had been crafted by Enkrid himself; it was not a fragile tool. The patriarch didn’t flinch from his own thrust.

*Clang!*

The point of Samcheol drew a glittering arc and bit into the side of the lunging greatsword. The patriarch’s aim was forced wide. Enkrid had redirected the massive weapon through sheer leverage.

His Will was simmering now. Joy and ferocity bubbled up like molten rock.

“Hah!”

With a guttural shout, Enkrid planted his foot, coiled his torso, and lashed out with a kick. He struck the flat of the patriarch’s blade.

*Boom!*

He had forced the sword off-target with his own steel, then followed up with a physical strike to the weapon itself to nullify the patriarch’s follow-through.

In response, the patriarch let go of his own hilt and launched a punch. The fire in his amber eyes left a burning trail in the air as he bridged the gap.

“Did I assume he would be slow because of the size of his sword?”

He had. The patriarch’s weapon was deliberate, but the man’s movement was lightning.

The logic of Wavebreaker and the speed of Flash collided in Enkrid’s mind, producing a single realization:

“I cannot evade this.”

With a grin still etched on his face, Enkrid gritted his teeth, discarded Samcheol, and thrust two fingers of his left hand toward the patriarch’s eyes. It was an instinctive reaction. If he couldn’t move out of the way, he would force a trade. That was the ultimate logic of the Wavebreaker.

The patriarch shut his eyes and drove a fist into Enkrid’s solar plexus.

*Boom!*

The sound was like a drum bursting. Enkrid felt a strange sensation of weightlessness as he was launched into the air. He soared backward until his spine met the earth with a dull thud. He rolled and regained his feet with the agility of a predator, but the contact was undeniable.

Had the patriarch followed up with his sword, Enkrid would have been crippled. Instead, the older man stood still, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his eye. His vision was intact; Enkrid’s fingers had only grazed and torn the skin of the eyelid.

Despite the wind being knocked out of him, Enkrid had already unsheathed his horn-handled dagger. Even from his crouch, he was poised to throw the blade and resume the slaughter.

“Remarkable,” the patriarch announced. The engagement was over.

A collective breath was released by the spectators. The patriarch continued.

“Desperation in the moment is always a step too slow.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Only the labor of your past can answer the crisis of your present. Thus—you are truly excellent.”

The man was notoriously taciturn following a bout. Enkrid was unaware, but the observers knew that the patriarch was genuinely impressed. Normally, he would offer nothing but a nod. To start with “excellent” was unheard of.

The surrounding crowd was stunned into silence.

“A guest of great value,” noted a man with a thick mane of gold hair.

“He doesn’t look like a prodigy,” remarked another man, who carried a staggering array of six blades across his person.

As the onlookers processed the scene, Enkrid spoke up.

“Again?”

It was a typical Enkrid request, yet his eyes told a different story. The smile remained, but it was underpinned by something profound. It was as if his entire soul was poured into that single question. An aura of raw emotion filled the air, thick enough for even a layman to feel.

It was the unmistakable scent of total desperation.