A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 697

Chapter 697

“Gorgons and Scale-skins.”
There were likely owl-bears and winged-beasts in the mix as well. He had spotted them during his trek to this location.
Was a horde of monsters really congregating with their sights set on Zaun?
“Or is there a different catalyst?”
A profound shadow—far too calculated to be a coincidence—was lurking behind the scenes. It was a weightless yet suffocating presence. Creatures of that ilk didn’t just organize themselves unless a conductor was waving the baton.
The adversary concealed behind the mist felt more imposing by the second. Like ink-stained clouds, the barrier shielding them was dense, obsidian, and unreachable.
“Life would be simpler if Rem were here…”
Enkrid couldn’t help but let the thought surface.
It seemed like every obstacle he faced lately was reinforced by some form of sorcery.
Based on their history, he knew the routine: the moment some amateur attempted a spell in Rem’s vicinity, that lunatic’s instinctive reaction was to bury an axe in them.
Enkrid had once asked, out of pure bewilderment, why Rem seemed to lose his grip on reality whenever magic was involved.
“Lose my grip? You’ve got it wrong. Think of it as righteous indignation.”
“And what’s the source of this indignation?”
“The fact that they’re pathetic.”
That was the end of it. Typical Rem—blunt enough to be considered a physical assault.
However, after mulling it over, Enkrid had eventually pressed for more:
“So, you just can’t stomach people flaunting mediocre tricks in your presence?”
“Exactly. You nailed it.”
The most irritating part was that Enkrid actually understood the sentiment.
“Am I falling victim to this barbarian delirium too…?”
He had pondered that possibility.
If you were a master culinary artist with a strict set of principles, and someone presented you with a piece of charcoal and called it a delicacy, wouldn’t you be tempted to strike them?
Anyone who took their vocation seriously would feel that spark of resentment.
It was a matter of professional integrity.
That was the message Rem sent with every blow: “That’s not how you weave a spell!”
“What are you contemplating?”
A voice sliced through his reverie.
Enkrid was stretched out in a secluded patch of the training grounds, his lids heavy. The earth was slightly waterlogged, but he’d laid his mantle down to provide a bit of cushioning.
Ideally, he would have preferred a sun-baked patch of grass, but given the current climate, that was a fantasy.
He cracked open a single eye. It was Grida.
She had reappeared the previous night after a three-day absence, exchanged a few words with him, and then vanished into her quarters to clean up and collapse.
Her sleep had been shallow. She half-expected the patriarch of the family to come crashing through her door at any moment.
“Where have you been for three days? What intelligence did you gather, my daughter?”
And it wouldn’t have been spoken with a gentle, fatherly lilt. In his dual role as her sire and the leader of the family, he was about as warm as a stone statue.
At times, he appeared utterly hollow of sentiment.
The terror that her father had evolved into someone she didn’t recognize continued to plague her.
Even if it wasn’t the master of the house, she had braced for some kind of confrontation.
In truth, she had almost craved it.
She desperately wanted to identify the culprit: Who was the one sabotaging her kin?
She had been intentionally indiscreet during her three-day excursion—leaving clear prints and making zero effort to mask her path.
And yet—
“Not a single thing happened.”
No interrogations. No challenges.
When she rose that morning, she found Enkrid sprawled on the lawn as if he were soaking up the sun.
Except there was no sun to be found. What was he doing? Bathe-ing in the shadows? She felt a sudden urge to snap at him just for the sight of it.
As Grida finished her question, her body pivoted slightly—she sensed someone closing in from the rear.
“Is this a scheduled break?”
The voice originated from behind them. Grida offered a silent nod. Alexandra acknowledged their presence with a brief, meaningful look.
“It is.”
Enkrid spoke from his position on the ground.
He had come to realize that downtime was just as vital as the grind.
Even the people of Zaun adhered to this philosophy.
At least once every ten-day cycle, they set aside a day for recuperation. That equated to three full days of stillness per month.
Their forebears must have recognized that a sword isn’t the only thing that needs sharpening; the mind does as well.
It was a legacy maintained through the ages.
There was much to glean simply by observing their ways.
Swinging a blade daily conditions the physique and cleanses the mind of static.
On days of rest, they utilized the silence to contemplate, plan, and analyze. Perhaps it was the appropriate time to let the mind wander.
It was a venerable custom.
Because Enkrid recognized the utility of recovery, he had integrated their rest day traditions into his own routine.
Which meant: no dueling today.
That didn’t imply he was being entirely idle. He had still gotten up at dawn to practice the movements Audin had shown him and refine his stances.
By the time the sun should have been at its peak, he was here, unknotting the tangled thoughts in his head.
The frantic urgency that used to compel him to train until he collapsed had subsided. Thus—this stillness was possible.
To an outsider, it might look like he was still working. But for a standard grunt, even one from the Border Guard, this was considered a light day.
For a member of the Mad Knight Platoon? This was practically a vacation.
In Enkrid’s estimation, he was being as shiftless as Ragna.
“Those clouds look particularly grim.”
Enkrid gestured toward the distant, obsidian mass gathering in the firmament.
“They’re known as blackstorm clouds,” Alexandra commented, her gaze following his lead. “They look quite ominous this time.”
Vast shadows stretched across the horizon. Densely packed and heavy.
It wasn’t merely blocking out the light; it felt as though a secondary ceiling of coal-toned rock had been constructed above them.
That colossal weather system was creeping forward, like an entire continent drifting through the air.
“If the skies break, it’s going to turn into a massive gale.”
There was a note of anxiety in Alexandra’s voice. Enkrid propped himself up on his elbows, looking past her toward the surrounding masonry.
“Are these stone dwellings built to withstand that kind of force?”
The robust architecture provided the answer—a testament to how long Zaun had been anchored to this soil.
Zaun possesses strength. So why don’t they just relocate?
For instance, Heskal was constantly moving between the three neighboring hamlets, overseeing the clan’s business. The landscape was so jagged that merchant wagons couldn’t reach them without immense struggle.
Granted, unique flora and fruit flourished in these isolated peaks—but you could easily commission gatherers for such things.
The central village was essentially a nexus for blacksmiths and traders.
“Even so, I have an affection for this place,”
Heskal had once remarked. He was consistently the one fretting over the longevity of Zaun.
And what of Lynox?
He preferred to view himself as a man driven by idealism and romance.
“No supplies? Then you learn to go without. If you lack something, you acquire it when the need arises.”
He and Heskal were fundamentally at odds. Heskal dreamed of a grander Zaun; Lynox saw no reason to strive for more than they had.
In his youth, Lynox had been a fanatic for the blade—a man possessed.
Now? His obsession was centered on instruction.
However, his ability to judge potential was notoriously flawed. Word was he would designate at least five individuals a year as “the most gifted pupil I’ve ever encountered.”
Every couple of months, he would proclaim a new genius.
“Just like that sellsword back in my hometown.”
That was the exact trap that had lured Enkrid into picking up a weapon in the first place.
Nevertheless, Lynox wasn’t entirely off base. Most of those who managed to endure the trials of Zaun were indeed exceptional.
There were at least five high-caliber knights within the walls of Zaun.
“They say the Mad Knights provide the extra weight. The same is true for Zaun.”
People often overlooked it, but Zaun possessed its own formidable power.
A few youngsters still fell for Lynox’s sugary praise—but by this point, the majority knew to take his endorsements with a grain of salt.
He was a man of passion.
But he possessed zero interest in the mundane reality of things.
His ultimate ambition was to roam the lands with nothing but a single blade.
“Don’t you currently carry six?”
“I’ll simply discard five of them,” he’d retort, chuckling.
What was the common ground between him and Heskal?
They both lived to ensure the survival of Zaun.
Their paths were different, but their destination was identical.
Lynox remained because he sought a protégé who would eventually eclipse him. He claimed he couldn’t depart until he had emptied his cup of knowledge into another.
He felt his purpose here was unfinished.
And he was a singular combatant—and an incredible mentor.
He manipulated six different blades, each paired with a unique style. As a training partner, he was easily the most engaging.
His bladework defied rigid structures—it was fluid, kinetic, and entirely unrestricted.
In the framework of Enkrid’s mind, he categorized it as:
“A style of combat centered on the absolute refinement of the senses.”
Two concepts defined his approach: spontaneity and discipline.
Extend your arm—there lies your trajectory. Move your foot—there is your foundation.
He had birthed over a hundred distinct forms and discarded just as many.
He forged fresh techniques on a daily basis and dismantled them with equal speed.
That was the origin of his moniker:
“The Six-Armed Destroyer.”
Rather blunt, wasn’t it?
In Grida’s view of things, Lynox was a scholar—a researcher of the martial arts.
Proficiency and classification are distinct entities.
Another insight gained.
Listening to their histories, one might assume that the trailblazing spirits made the finest warriors.
But—regardless of your motives or your techniques, unrelenting dedication leads to the same peak.
Heskal followed the same rule. Like Grida, he was a sentinel—someone burdened with guarding the family’s heritage and ensuring its longevity.
He was no less capable than Lynox.
His method was serene, disciplined, and polished to a mirror finish.
No openings. No errors. A style that pursued neither the glory of victory nor the sting of defeat.
“He keeps his teeth hidden in every scrap. A deceptive bastard.”
That was Lynox’s assessment.
They were comrades. Competitors.
Now they occupied different roles but still found time to share a drink on occasion. That fact alone spoke volumes.
After clashing blades with them, Enkrid could sense the reality of those connections.
What of the family head?
Unyielding. Substantial.
A man of staggering fortitude—one who would step into a dragon’s throat if it served his endgame.
Unless Enkrid’s intuition was failing him, that was the portrait he had painted so far.
And Alexandra?
She was the one who welcomed and sheltered everyone.
Not through domestic comforts or soft platitudes—but through the steel of her sword.
And what of Andante? He had been gone for a month on “external assignments,” purportedly acting on the patriarch’s commands.
The list of mysteries continued to grow.
Enkrid’s philosophy was straightforward: if he lacked an answer, he would simply go to the source.
“Alex… Grida was missing for several days. Why hasn’t anyone questioned her whereabouts or her actions?”
CRACK— Another deceptive flare of lightning ignited the heavens.
Due to the suffocating black clouds, noon had been transformed into midnight. For a brief heartbeat, the world was bathed in brilliance.
The lightning bore witness to their small circle—then faded away.
Is this guy for real? Grida thought. But she only gave him a look that asked what kind of idiocy he was spouting.
She fought to keep her face neutral.
“That’s a thought-provoking question,” Alexandra replied with a fluid ease, a smile playing on her lips.
“Is it?”
Enkrid countered with equal composure. His face remained a mask of indifference.
“We value the autonomy of our kin. They have reached maturity. There is no benefit in hauling them in to cross-examine them over every minor detail.”
It held weight. That was the core of Zaun’s identity.
If the situation were normal—then yes, that was the proper protocol.
While they spoke, a handful of the younger Zaun knights were loitering nearby. Mostly the adolescents.
It was a day of rest, but at that age, the body craves movement.
“I’ve conceptualized a new maneuver.”
One of the youths sidled up and announced.
Enkrid responded without emotion,
“Is it not a day of rest?”
“You can preach it to them, but they won’t heed it,” Alexandra noted, playfully messing with the boy’s hair.
“I distinctly remember saying it was a rest day, didn’t I?”
“But everyone else is making strides. If I lose my edge while sitting still… what if the end comes before I even get a chance?”
A malady—or perhaps a curse.
Everyone within Zaun was aware that it wasn’t truly a supernatural blight.
They all labored to transcend it. Even Millesthia, the veteran medic.
For Enkrid, the status quo remained. Rest, train—the same cadence. The same cycles, repeating indefinitely.
But for the rest of them?
While he had been making his moves, they hadn’t been stagnant.
Especially Anne.