A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 694

Chapter 694

The warrior bearing six blades at his belt had observed Enkrid’s laughter throughout the entirety of the skirmish. Internally, he gave a nod of approval.
“An uncommon spirit.”
The sight of Enkrid rushing forward with a grin was a departure from what one might expect even from Odinkar or the other progeny of the Zaun family—it was evident he relished the weight of standing against the patriarch.
Rare, strange, and magnetic. Yet, it wasn’t a quality entirely foreign to the Zaun family line. Consequently, he initially dismissed it as a notable but not necessarily earth-shattering trait.
However, immediately following his loss, Enkrid spoke:
“Shall we go once more?”
Those simple words pierced like a blade to the chest.
While the six-sworded warrior did not know Enkrid’s history, he found himself internally rooting for the family head to agree to the man’s plea.
One only had to look at the sheer yearning in those azure eyes framed by raven hair.
“Is this not the very thing you preached, Lord Zaun?”
Had the patriarch himself not uttered those words just moments prior?
That desperation is a flame that usually flickers to life far too late. That only the discipline gathered in the quiet moments can answer the frantic call of the present.
And yet, this dark-haired man, even while receiving accolades for his skill, radiated a hunger as if he were still starving for more.
He cried out his resolve: that his blade was not yet still, that the fight remained unfinished, that he wished to endure in this moment just a breath longer.
“Acknowledging one’s loss is respectable, and finding joy in the blade is commendable…”
But to harbor that level of desperation is a feat far more worthy of respect.
It was a pillar of the Zaun family philosophy. A personal tenet of the head of the house.
A prodigy who loses their hunger is a prodigy no longer. That was the reason Ragna had been cast out from the manor. Yet now, the companion who arrived with him ignited the spirit—with a searing fervor.
“…A peculiar temperament,” a voice whispered.
The Zaun lineage placed great stock in temperament. The remark originated from a fair-haired, middle-aged man standing nearby.
The six-sworded warrior didn’t bother to turn his head as he retorted,
“Peculiar? It is magnificent. You truly lack perception, Heskal.”
The intuition of a man who had gripped a hilt for decades signaled that this individual was unique. Perhaps it was because his own expertise lay in waveforms—but the sensation was undeniable.
The blond man, Heskal, didn’t appear to resonate with that view. His expression betrayed a hint of shock, yet his voice remained measured.
“As per usual, receiving lectures on perception from you is an insult.”
Heskal fired back, but the master of six swords gave no retort.
Did such bickering matter in this instant? Not in the slightest.
They were far from the only spectators. Among the crowd stood Anne. She, too, felt the raw honesty in Enkrid’s plea strike her, leaving her mesmerized. The warrior responsible for her mentor’s death was rising once more—and she found herself involuntarily wishing for his continued breath.
Her gaze shifted instinctively toward the man who held the power to answer Enkrid’s petition.
In that moment, she thought she glimpsed a trail of dark vapor curling from the patriarch’s mouth. It might have been a visual fluke—it dissipated nearly as soon as it appeared.
Then, she caught a detail she had overlooked in her earlier distress: a subtle scent, the kind only a practitioner of alchemy, seasoned by years of handling flora and chemical agents, could identify.
Anne shook off the emotional resonance Enkrid had cast over her. Her professional instincts, paired with her personal morals, snapped her back to a sharp alertness.
Ah.
Just as Anne realized the truth and prepared to speak, the patriarch’s spouse moved first.
“I shall take the next turn.”
She moved into the fray without seeking her husband’s nod, and no voice rose in protest.
It was common knowledge that Alexandra’s prowess rivaled that of the family head.
Even Enkrid, currently resting on a single knee, could sense the overwhelming gravity of her aura.
A few in the circle of observers knew a specific detail: the man known as Schmidt, a talent scout for the Empire, had been a disciple of Alexandra’s swordsmanship.
Schmidt’s technique was defined by its velocity. This was logical. Long before she took the Zaun surname, Alexandra’s steel was synonymous with speed.
In the era when the moniker “Knight of the Tempest” was whispered across the lands, she possessed a title of her own:
Blitzklinge—the Lightning Blade, in the common tongue of the continent.
Her primary tools were a pair of blades slightly exceeding the length of daggers. Even under the unnatural gloom of the day, a freezing radiance seemed to dance along her steel.
The patriarch represents the heavy.
His spouse represents the swift.
It was little wonder that Ragna, raised under the tutelage of both parents, forged a combat style that merged crushing weight with blinding speed.
As if providing a brief window to recover, one of Alexandra’s twin swords suddenly lunged—a silver point aimed precisely between Enkrid’s eyes.
TZZZZZTT—!
The air crackled like a lightning strike following the path of the metal. Enkrid jerked his head aside at the final millisecond with absolute concentration.
Snick!
The edge nicked his skin, sending a crimson bead spinning into the air. Before that single drop of blood could even grace the soil, no fewer than fifteen strikes had been traded between them.
Tatatatatatang!
Enkrid was back on his feet in an instant, his sword angled in a defensive slope that obscured his form behind the steel.
Alexandra had glided back four and a half paces, dual blades at the ready, her foundation unshakable.
Rrrrmmmmble…
The sky growled in the distance as heavy clouds massed together. A downpour was imminent.
Drip.
The gash on his cheek was significant. Blood trailed down his skin and gathered at his chin.
“I shall conclude this before the first drop of rain,” Alexandra declared.
“Is that your intent?” Enkrid asked, his chest heaving.
How did I manage to parry that? He questioned himself—but no logic presented itself.
Was it a mere stroke of fortune?
Alexandra, seemingly permitting him a moment to find his breath, spoke further.
“The weather is strange. Tempests rarely form in this season—and never with such fury. I am unaware of which deity is playing games, but it is certainly not the god of blades. He cares only for the steel.”
“Indeed?”
Alexandra’s mouth twitched into a smirk.
“Oh? Are you disregarding my words now?”
Perfection is a myth. Ragna was well aware of his mother’s temperament. She was typically gracious, but once a boundary was crossed, her polite veneer dissolved. It was an omen of danger.

—

What… is this sensation?
Enkrid locked onto a feeling, something just at the edge of his reach—yet frustratingly distant.
It was like a desert phantom. If he committed his focus, he might actually grasp it. Thus, without conscious thought, he let his desperation bleed out.
A longing usually kept in the shadows surged to the light. Former happiness was now a searing craving.
He wished to wield his blade. With abandonment. He lacked the method. He lacked the path. He simply wished to move.
Then, he added a final prayer to his desire:
“For as long as I can hold on.”
He wanted to sustain this. Blow after blow. To remain suspended in this state.
But by what means?
“Withstand.”
He possessed Will. He hoisted Three Iron and tucked his frame behind its protection.
Lungeing his right foot forward, he traced an upward line from his toe and met the threat with his steel—ensuring his opponent saw nothing but the blade.
What followed?
From their brief exchange, he caught a glimpse of her methodology—it mirrored elements of the One-Killer.
It fluctuated between raw instinct and cold calculation, yet it was always anchored in logic. What if he threw a wrench into that logic?
He had stood before that demon previously. He had attempted to out-think him and met with failure.
“No wasted motion. Only disruption.”
The Wavebreaker Sword Style was initiated. Tactical awareness dictated his next move.
Enkrid shifted toward Penna, letting his left hand hang loose. He didn’t draw the weapon. He didn’t even reach for it.
Yet that simple uncertainty would fracture her calculations—
Snap!
Suddenly, two silver crescents seemed to fall from the sky. In reality—two curved blades, shaped like new moons, were descending upon him.
He thrust Three Iron upward and slid his left foot back, every fiber of his being tensing at once.
The world slowed. Had it not, those blades would have found their mark.
A single error in timing and he might have been driven onto his own steel.
CLANG! KAAAANG!
The twin crescent strikes slammed into Three Iron. Realizing a standard parry would be too slow, Enkrid utilized the Balraf-style hand-to-hand principles to diffuse the force through his entire body.
Scrrrch.
His boots ground against the earth as he was pushed sideways.
Alexandra glided back once more, having finished her twin lunar assault.
“Are you mocking me? I possess the advantage of speed, yet you attempt such a reckless ploy? What sort of fool does that?”
Your own daughter does.
Enkrid choked back the response. Now was not the moment for words. It was obvious Alexandra was restraining her full power.
His physical form had just been battered by the patriarch. He was far from his prime.
Was she showing him mercy?
Not exactly. Ragna saw that her peculiar habit had taken hold.
A cornered rat might snap at a cat. But what if the hunter was a tiger?
Alexandra Zaun found a specific thrill in boxing her opponents in.
Her sharp grin revealed the depth of her amusement.
“Careful, you’ll lose your life if you persist in this manner.”
Enkrid didn’t doubt it. The murderous intent she projected was no theater.
The weight of her presence was different than before.
Earlier, it felt like the crushing mass of a greatsword.
Now, it was like a focused arrow drawn to its limit, pointed directly at his heart.
A single lapse of focus, and the end would come.
The sheer pressure honed his consciousness, setting his mind ablaze.
“To keep her off-balance, I must present more targets.”
Which implied—
It was a death wish against an opponent of her velocity.
“That was a foolish thought.”
He embraced the risk.
His mental rehearsal concluded in a heartbeat—just as Alexandra launched from her position.
Thump!
She became a blur of motion.
Counter.
Enkrid gave the order to his limbs.
A focused lunge followed by a storm of strikes—reminiscent of the previous exchange.
He didn’t rely on logic to block. His frame acted on its own.
Thwack!
Three Iron deflected her diagonal cut—but she carried a second blade.
The other edge flicked toward his right hip joint—a spot where his plating was absent.
Harnessing the force of his initial block, Enkrid pivoted, transforming a lethal stab into a mere scratch. A shallow wound—only blood on shredded fabric.
“Drive with your entire frame, you moron! It starts in the core—harden those muscles!”
He summoned the voice of a mercenary captain from his days of fighting for coin.
“Do not swing with just your limbs. Engage your whole self.”
And so he had labored—every single day, without exception.
Then Audin had instructed him on how to further fortify his musculature—making it denser, more resilient, more reactive.
He had followed that path, carving his physique into that ideal.
“My body answers well enough.”
He had also been taught not to falter when the path diverged. Ragna had imparted that lesson.
Now, primal instinct and deep-seated intuition rose to the surface.
Alexandra’s strikes arrived from a place beyond his capacity to track or analyze.
Therefore, his raw senses had to bridge the gap.
A cold draft brushed his ears. Every nerve ending was on high alert, interpreting the most minuscule shift in the air.
Alexandra’s form now emitted a faint luminescence, her steel gleaming.
Left hand concealed. Right hand cutting downward.
“React.”
Enkrid commanded his body once more.
A nebulous shape took form in his grasp.
His frame moved before his mind could process the intent. Will surged.
It was a motion he had repeated thousands of times in practice—but now it felt as if invisible threads were pulling him from the heavens.
BOOM!
An explosive impact shook the air.
Enkrid was hurled backward like a marionette with severed cords.
But this time, a hand caught his back.
Instead of a messy tumble, he landed firmly on one knee—mirroring his state after the duel with the family head.
The same posture. The same conclusion.
“…How did you manage that?”
It was Ragna. His eyes were wide with shock—a rare expression for him.
“I cannot say,” Enkrid admitted.
“Alex, was your goal to end him?!”
The warrior with six blades bellowed toward Enkrid’s rival.
“Ah, it was a close thing. Are you unharmed?” Alexandra had regained her composure.
“Actually, you seemed quite capable. You parried it successfully, did you not?”
She gave a light laugh.
Enkrid gave a nod.
“I did. I met the blade. And I enjoyed it.”
He was entirely sincere.
Ragna gazed at him, replaying what he had just witnessed.
Stunning.
“He channeled Will into his steel.”
It was only for a fleeting second—but it was there.
Will was a phantom. Ragna believed the subsequent level was to provide it with a physical anchor.
To give it manifestation.
He had drawn from his father’s technique to achieve this. That was the essence of the greatsword style.
Now, it required condensation—purification.
“The captain has already achieved it.”
In that moment, by intercepting his mother’s strike, Enkrid had stepped beyond where Ragna currently stood.
“Shall we continue?” Ragna inquired.
“…No. I think I have reached my limit,” Enkrid answered, shaking his head.
“But tomorrow is another chance.”
Giftedness is a heartless master. Some find it in a single moment of chance. Others require a lifetime of effort.
Yet despite that grim reality—
“This is delightful,” Enkrid said.
Few would find laughter in such a moment. Truly, very few.
Ragna had just supported his captain’s descent with the flat of his hand.
“When did this begin?” Anne questioned, moving toward the family head.
He looked at her in silence.
Her expression was one of absolute gravity.
“Give me an answer.”
She spoke with the weight of an order—but for Anne, this was her nature.
To her, status was irrelevant. If a person was ailing or fading, she would move mountains to assist.
That was the code of a healer.
“…Step inside. We shall converse there.”
The patriarch finally broke his silence. Alexandra signaled for the onlookers to disperse.
“The performance is over. If you learned something of value, go to the training grounds.”