A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 695

Chapter 695

Ragna was taken aback, though he harbored no bitterness or envy. Having observed Enkrid from the very start and remained by his side throughout this journey, he knew that jealousy would be pointless.
“He gave a physical manifestation to an intangible force.”
Ragna offered a brief summary of what he had witnessed. Enkrid understood the sentiment, yet if he were pressured to repeat the feat at this very moment, he would be at a loss.
“I can’t quite grasp the sensation.”
Truthfully, he remained uncertain about the mechanics of his actions in that moment. It felt as surreal as a vision. Was it merely a stroke of fortune?
A momentary flicker of luck after performing tens of thousands of sword swings?
There was a common proverb across the lands stating that the lady of luck travels with the breeze—impossible to seize. “Fortune merely brushes past; it never lingers,” as the saying went.
It carried the weight of luck—but Enkrid dismissed that notion instantly.
“That wasn’t mere chance. Not in the least.”
The mountain of hours he had built—the endless days dedicated to the arc of his blade—were now speaking to him in a whisper.
What he needed to do now was summon that memory and recreate it. As he had previously remarked—today was not the final opportunity.
While he mentally dissected the duel, he noted that Alexandra had shifted her momentum once during the fight.
“She surged forward mid-strike, altering the rhythm.”
It was a motion that defied his expectations. The Wavebreaker Sword Style relied on interpreting the rival’s intent and calculating a response based on those observations.
However, even within her already breathtaking velocity, she had found another gear—making that particular lunge truly startling.
“I never conceived that a blade could achieve such speed.”
Had there been a single wasted tremor in her form…
Had the tilt of her steel been slightly off…
Had his mental processing lagged by even a heartbeat…
Had his physical form been just a fraction less sharp…
“I would have perished.”
The specter of death had grazed him.
He further grasped that every action Alexandra took was deliberate—a profound blend of mentorship and provocation.
“It felt as though she was compelling me to respond.”
Her expertise lay in overwhelming her foe with pure acceleration. Reflecting on it, even her verbal taunts prior to the clash served that same end.
She had forced his focus to peak by drawing him into a dialogue. When Enkrid met her with a desperate resolve, she countered with a lethal intent that tightened the atmosphere.
With a few choice phrases, she had gauged the depth of his concentration.
“Oh? Giving me the silent treatment now?” she had prodded.
Even that first strike that grazed his skin had been a probe. She was gauging his behavior under the shadow of the grave.
She had demonstrated—without a hint of doubt—that lackluster efforts would result in his end.
She was instructing him not to rely on half-hearted tricks simply because he lacked her speed.
It was all designed so he could distill his desperation into a single, pure movement.
She had steered him toward that peak. Of course, within that guidance, his survival had remained precarious.
“If I hadn’t matched her, I would be a corpse.”
That reality was undeniable.
“How many opponents has she accidentally killed during practice?”
“You mean my mother?”
Ragna replied, shaking his head slowly.
“None that I am aware of.”
Ragna had departed from his home during his youth. Enkrid looked around for Grida. If someone possessed that knowledge, it would be her.
Yet she was missing from the crowd—only the retinue accompanying the leader of the house remained.
Enkrid’s attention rested briefly on Anne’s retreating form before turning away. He watched the family head and Anne disappear behind the stone masonry of the training hall as they moved inside.
Alexandra cast a look over her shoulder but remained silent.
“Ragna, go keep an eye on Anne.”
“Understood.”
Enkrid spoke without ceremony, and Ragna complied without argument. This was unfamiliar territory. Whatever Anne’s goals were, it was prudent to have a trusted ally nearby.
Naturally, there were other considerations—but only when weighing every potential outcome.
Just as those thoughts surfaced, a figure approached with a measured, rhythmic gait.
“Greetings, visitor.”
The newcomer carried six different blades and appeared visibly thrilled. His palms were bound in weathered cloth, and a thick strap of fabric covered his brow.
A similar shade of crimson—aged but well-maintained—was tied around his midsection and legs. Despite the ruggedness of his attire, he did not appear unkempt.
His posture was perfectly vertical, and any of his six weapons looked ready to be drawn in an instant. His presence exuded a quiet, refined discipline.
“He values precision and clean lines.”
That was the thought that struck Enkrid as the warrior drew near to inspect him.
“You’ve nailed it. I can see the realization on your face.”
The man announced abruptly.
Behind him, a man roughly a decade older than Enkrid gave a dismissive shake of his head.
“Don’t take him too seriously. His ‘feelings’ are usually off the mark.”
The voice was resonant and deep. Enkrid’s first observation was the intricately carved scabbard on the man’s hip. Following that, he noted the heavy skin on his palms, his poised stance, and his rhythmic breathing—all the hallmarks of a powerful warrior.
“Neither of these men will be a simple task.”
That was his immediate assessment. Naturally, in a true life-or-death struggle, the dynamics could shift.
Even against figures like Alexandra or the family head, the reality could change once the steel met.
That was the nature of a true duel.
For that very reason, Enkrid couldn’t guarantee his own success either.
“I am Heskal. And this fellow—”
“I’ll handle my own introduction, you block of ice. I’m Lynox. Searching for the top blade in the Zaun family? That’s not me. But I’ll claim the title of the most romantic one.”
The warrior with the six blades spoke up. Calling himself “romantic” seemed eccentric—but Enkrid wasn’t bothered.
He had spent too many years as the solitary voice of reason in a unit populated by lunatics.
“Enkrid of the Border Guard.”
Upon hearing this, Heskal reached out a hand. Enkrid accepted the gesture.
“My apologies for the delayed greeting. Welcome to Zaun.”
Lynox flashed a grin and interjected,
“Forget the formalities—stay sharp. You’re still looking for more, right? Alex tends to go full throttle from the start, but that’s not my style.”
“It will be an educational encounter.”
Listening to them, Enkrid suspected these two held a status within the clan comparable to the family head.
They hadn’t sought anyone’s consent to speak, nor did they filter their words.
The assembly had grown once more. However, Grida and Magrun were still nowhere to be found.
Instead—
“Would you mind if I took a turn as well?”
A young woman with an inscrutable expression stood behind the pair.
“I would offer my blade now if I could,” she remarked, “but I have to delay—there’s business I must attend to.”
Heskal glanced toward the darkening horizon, retrieved a timepiece from his garment, and noted the hour.
Details like that kept a person grounded in the present. Enkrid recognized that.
Knights possessed an extraordinary capacity to analyze a battlefield—pairing known facts with the unfolding moment to reach a verdict.
Essentially, they mapped out cause and effect—much like sensing the movement of internal energy.
To put it simply, their intuition became incredibly keen.
A portion of that was raw gift.
And Enkrid possessed that specific gift. Even if his swordplay was still developing, his perception was sharp.
He could interpret reality clearly, without the need for over-analysis.
“This is no struggling household.”
Zaun didn’t flaunt its treasures—but it was far from impoverished.
The pocket watches bore the marks of master craftsmen and cost as much as enchanted items.
“They won’t even function without a magical charge.”
Yet no one seemed shocked when Heskal pulled one out so casually.
It was merely a part of their daily existence.
Of course, their most significant traditions were found elsewhere.
“Are you exhausted?” Lynox inquired.
His voice held a hint of concern, but Enkrid didn’t interpret it as pity.
“I am always at my peak.”
It was his truth. In his mind, the current version of himself was the most capable one. That was his personal philosophy.
As he spoke those words, he realized—he was genuinely fond of this place. He truly was.
“I’m next!”
“Save a spot for me!”
None of the dozen or so individuals who had gathered seemed prepared to yield.
It wasn’t just confidence—it was that they couldn’t ignore the temptation to test themselves against such an intriguing opponent.
These were the people who had remained in the shadows while the family head was active—only emerging once the primary duel concluded.
Before Lynox could interject, Enkrid took the lead.
“As many as wish to try.”
At that, Lynox noted,
“You’ll be completely spent after a bout with me.”
“I don’t believe so.”
“…Is your Will just bottomless or something?”
It was common knowledge—no matter how well you managed your breath, your Will would always fail first.
“I have more than enough.”
Since the other man spoke with such candor, Enkrid matched his tone.
Lynox opened his mouth, paused, and finally remarked,
“You’re quite skilled at getting under people’s skin, aren’t you?”
It wasn’t intended as a slight—but if it was taken as one, Enkrid didn’t mind.
“Very well—let’s see what you’ve got.”
Lynox didn’t look a day over fifty, but his true age was likely higher. Those who tapped into their Will tended to age more slowly. And this was Zaun, after all.
“If they call him a legend…”
Then his power must be substantial.
The family head and his spouse possessed that level of strength—and this man likely did as well.
The thought made Enkrid feel a genuine sense of joy.
“Are you actually smiling?”
Lynox asked, his own face breaking into a smirk. Both of them looked as though they were having the time of their lives.
As did those watching.

—

“It’s quite grave, isn’t it? How long has this been occurring?”
Inside the structure, where alternating grey and brown stones formed a patterned wall, a pair of blades hung on one side, while a pelt from an unknown predator adorned the other.
When Anne asked her question, the family head turned his attention to her.
The hearth showed remnants of a recent fire, yet the chamber felt chilly.
The family head was double Anne’s physical size. Such a presence could have been overwhelming at close range—but she didn’t let it affect her.
He seemed to be making an effort to minimize his intimidation, as he only turned to face her after ensuring there was a significant gap between them.
“Is that the intuition of a healer?”
“No. It is a certainty.”
Alexandra had trailed them into the room and posed the question, to which Anne replied immediately—her eyes fixed firmly on the family head.
Alexandra wasn’t the type for levity. But had Enkrid been present, Anne might have joked, “You’re staring at him like a woman in love.”
“Please, tell me. Are you aware of the origin?”
Her voice caught slightly on the word origin, but her resolve remained firm.
The family head was brief in his response.
Anne understood that this specific malady could manifest in numerous ways.
“I must identify the source.”
That was the only way to facilitate healing. It was the essential first step.
The family head was not known for being a soft-spoken man—but he answered her without a trace of hostility.
“Not at this time.”
Regardless of the lack of hostility, it wasn’t the response Anne required.
“…Pardon me?”
“My spouse has said everything that needs to be said,” Alexandra spoke on his behalf.
Ragna, who had taken a position behind Anne, chimed in,
“It’s time to leave.”
He could read the expression on his father’s face—no further details would be forthcoming.
If the family head intended to speak, he would be direct. Otherwise, he chose silence.
No amount of prodding would alter that fact.
Anne felt a wave of unease.
“He is fully aware of how critical this is.”
If she had to discuss dark magic or curses, she had nearly ninety prepared responses. If he asked if a cure was possible, she could say yes with absolute confidence and provide fifty different proofs.
But none of the dialogue she expected took place.
Only that single phrase: “Not now.”
Anne was at a loss for understanding.

—

In the wake of his duel with the family head, Enkrid stayed for three additional days.
The sky remained a heavy grey, perpetually threatening a downpour—yet the storm never broke.
However, those who sought him out always carried a look of excitement. The radiance missing from the heavens was reflected in their expressions.
“Can I have a go?”
Even a young delivery boy made the request.
In this place, every soul carried a blade and lived through the sword. That simple fact brought them contentment.
“Certainly.”
Enkrid gave his assent—and then landed a heavy punch on the boy’s jaw, followed by a swift kick that sent him tumbling.
Thump! Crack!
An outsider might have feared for the boy’s life—but the youth fought back using his sword, his fists, and his feet.
That was the only method to keep him at bay.
“Ail Caraz?”
Enkrid recognized a familiar pattern in the boy’s style and whispered the name.
Enkrid might lose track of a person’s name, but he never forgot the signature of a martial or sword style.
Ail Caraz—frequently called the King of the Dirt Floor. It was a vicious style of unarmed combat birthed by a jailer in one of the most brutal dungeons on the continent.
The boy had integrated that brutality into his blade work—attacking while simultaneously targeting the joints.
It seemed no one had coached him—he had forged his own path.
It was another thing to admire about this place.
Through these constant skirmishes, Enkrid began to grasp the essence of what made Zaun so distinct, just as Odinkar, Magrun, and Grida had described.
“They challenge one another, they instruct, they push, and they learn without ego.”
Even if some displayed a certain level of obstinacy—
“That sort of dignity and determination—”
—it was a far better trait to possess than to lack.
That was why everyone here seemed so vibrant.
As another day faded and the urge to sleep took hold, the rain finally began to patter against the exterior—tap-tap.
Even as he drifted, Enkrid detected a sound within the rain. By the time his eyes snapped open and he gripped Three Iron, the window was sliding open.
Creak.
The room was on the first floor—and the latch was undone—meaning anyone could enter.
Past the frame, a familiar face came into view.
She had spent the last three days wearing a bright, sun-like grin. But now, in private, her face was as somber as the weather.
“I need to tell you something, Enki.”
That grave face began to speak.
“Grida?”
The world outside was swallowed in shadows. Even with his vision adjusted to the dark, he could only see the faint outlines of her face.
Enkrid acknowledged her and spoke again.
“What’s on your mind?”
Grida bit her lip before she found the words.
“The family head… there is something terribly wrong with him.”
It was a blunt admission—but it was one that Enkrid found himself agreeing with.
If there was anyone truly exceptional and strange within the walls of Zaun, it was the leader of the family.
“Step inside first.”
Enkrid beckoned the woman into the safety of his room.