A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 698

Chapter 698

While Enkrid spent the previous few days immersed in training and combat drills, and while Grida went through her cycle of disappearing and returning, Anne had been far from idle herself.
“I need to scout the area a bit,” she had remarked casually.
But it wasn’t mere talk. She had ventured out, paced the grounds, memorized the shortcuts, and engaged the locals in conversation.
“Cough-cough—pardon?”
“How long has that cough been bothering you?”
“Hard to say… since last summer, maybe?”
Half a year. That was the duration of the persistent hacking.
The primary indicator: hemoptysis.
Blood streaking the phlegm. According to the man, it only flared up occasionally when his constitution felt particularly drained.
She identified three individuals presenting identical symptoms.
“I feel exhausted at times, but there’s no real pain. Ah, Ragna, welcome home. Care for a bout?”
One of the afflicted had called out this invitation—and immediately lunged into a duel with Ragna. Anne couldn’t determine their relative skill levels just by sight, but she could deduce plenty from their interaction.
“You’ve made incredible strides,” noted the warrior with the messy, chestnut hair.
Ragna sheathed his blade in acknowledgement. Clink—the massive sword settled into its harness on his back.
“Constant practice. That is the only secret.”
“…And you’ve returned completely possessed.”
Zaun was a realm where only the gifted endured. Even more than raw talent—ruthless discipline and a fanatical obsession with growth were the requirements for entry.
Those unable to keep pace were relegated to the hunters’ village.
And once their physical prime withered, they were relocated once more—to the village of retirees.
That was the final destination for those without sufficient merit.
Blacksmiths and traders occupied their own middle-ground village, managing relations with the Empire and visiting merchant fleets.
Such was the social pyramid of House Zaun.
A society where only validated prowess secured one’s position. Consequently, every inhabitant lived with a weapon close at hand.
To such people, being told to “just keep trying” was essentially a polite way of saying:
“You lack the gift. Surrender your ambitions.”
The warrior had tensed up—but the disparity in their abilities was undeniable.
Anne had observed him intently and later questioned Ragna:
“What was your impression?”
“He wasn’t incompetent, but… at that level, I doubt he will leave much of a mark on history.”
“No, I mean his health. Did you sense anything unusual? A sudden loss of strength or a strange rhythm?”
“Nothing. He appeared to be in top form.”
Sparring wasn’t a duel to the death—but at Ragna’s tier, the collision of steel served as a profound dialogue.
He could often read the internal state of a foe through the vibration of the blades.
“Intermittent onset,” Anne whispered to herself.
Ragna sensed that this girl was pursuing a specific goal—and that he was an accomplice in her investigation.
“Just another legacy I’ll leave behind, I suppose.”
Enkrid was a protector of people. Ragna had witnessed this repeatedly.
Initially, it had only sparked confusion in him.
Why?
Why would a person wield a blade for the sake of others rather than for personal glory?
He grasped the logic of it intellectually—but it hadn’t resonated with his spirit.
The warrior’s path was narrow. He had never truly felt the agony of failing to protect someone precious.
That had always been his reality.
Children born without titles or gold gripped iron from the moment they could walk. At first, it was chains and shovels—then blades, once they realized they outmatched their peers.
Setting the high nobility aside, the quickest route to social elevation was through violence.
If you could fight with the skill of a squire, merchant guilds would pay a premium for your services. In the world of mercenaries, you would be honored.
If you fought like a junior knight?
You could live comfortably on the dividends of a trade caravan. You might command your own unit of sellswords. You could even marry into a noble house that lacked its own military teeth.
With enough fortune, a noble patriarch might even adopt you.
Of course, there was a catch—you had to be younger than the man adopting you. No nobleman wanted a legal heir who looked older than himself.
It had happened before, but for those concerned with social standing, it was a scandal.
Attaining the rank of junior knight meant a total transformation of status.
Becoming a full knight meant entering a different reality altogether.
Even minor lords bowed their heads to true knights.
That was the hierarchy of their world.
If you held power in your grip—there was very little you couldn’t obtain.
The strength Ragna possessed had rarely encountered an immovable wall. Thus, he had never tasted true loss. He had never once failed to safeguard what he held dear.
“Why are you pushing yourself so hard?”
The moment the thought surfaced, Ragna voiced it. Seconds were vital. Mortal lives were short. Ragna felt that truth deeply now.
Anne was quietly contemplating the intermittent symptoms and related patterns, scribbling in a notebook with a charcoal stick when she looked up and met his gaze.
She saw his crimson eyes gleaming through his golden fringe—eyes that mirrored a man starving for understanding. And that is where all discovery begins, isn’t it? A hunger for truth.
So she provided an honest answer.
“I despise this sort of thing.”
“This sort of thing?”
“It isn’t perfected yet, but someone is conducting experiments here. And I’m certain it’s a despicable individual. I hate that alchemy is being twisted for this purpose. I hate it more than I can express.”
Her tone was heavy with conviction. Had Enkrid been there, he would have remarked that she possessed Will.
Because those who are entirely devoted to their vocation—those who offer up their whole being—inevitably manifest Will.
Anne was among that number.
She never gave anything less than her maximum effort.
And what she spoke next was no exception.
“This is your home, Ragna.”
Was that meant to be a justification?
Ragna gave her a skeptical look—Does that actually explain anything?
Anne felt an urge to shout You dense ox, and plant a boot on his shin.
Instead, she kept her composure.
He has always been this way. I knew that going in.
Trying to rationalize why one person cared for another always ended up sounding clumsy and strange.
It was simply that her heart had been stirred.
Perhaps his appearance had been the spark—but looks alone wouldn’t have kept her anchored here.
Yet now, Anne’s heart was firmly moored.
“I want to protect your father, your mother, your comrades, your brothers and sisters.”
It was a more concrete sentiment than Enkrid’s abstract vow to “watch over him.”
“Because perhaps one day… they will be the grandparents of my children.”
Anne stated it without hesitation. Perhaps it was because she had nearly perished on the journey to this place. That brush with death had acted as a lever, prying her secrets loose.
If your life could end at any second—you shouldn’t squander a single moment.
It wasn’t that she was currently dying. She wasn’t panicking.
It was just—
“I want to live for today.”
Exactly like Enkrid.
Anne was perceptive. She had keen eyes—and a sharp intellect. She had gathered much wisdom.
Specifically, how to exist in the present.
That philosophy—that was what prompted her to speak.
But there was more to it.
Navigating the thin boundary between alchemy and medicine, she frequently recalled the people she had lost—people who were as dear as family. Every time, she had the same thought. Or rather, a wish:
“I want to have a child.”
One day, she would bequeath her medical legacy to that child.
She would take on the role of a mother. She would laugh, weep, reprimand, and worry—experiencing all of it.
And through that journey—
“I will distribute Remede Omnia across the entire world.”
It was an aspiration. A grand dream.
And dreams weren’t restricted to a single goal.
Anne desired to be a mother. She wanted to transform the art of healing into something permanent and evolving.
And she wanted to be the wife of Ragna.
That was the vision she cherished.
Her eyes glittered as she spoke. Light danced between her freckles, catching the gaze of a man who had once been aimless.
Ragna was a man, after all. He wasn’t blind. And he held onto the memory of everything Anne had done for him.
The freckled girl who remained by his side, voicing her dreams into the air.
Now, finding himself in agreement with that dream, Ragna finally gave his reply.
“If I survive what’s coming—let us speak of this again.”
Anne scowled.
Was that a confirmation or a rejection?
It was vague. Ragna believed it was the most honorable answer he could offer.
“Are you intending to die here?”
Anne questioned him sharply.
“No. But a man of the sword can never be certain of his tomorrow.”
“If that’s the best excuse you have, you’d better find a more convincing one.”
Having voiced her mind, Anne filed that dream away in a mental compartment.
“Right now, I have a plague to manage.”
Her attention shifted back to the task at hand.
Ragna continued to accompany her in the following days, and Anne pieced together several crucial details.
“The sickness… it has been tampered with.”
It wasn’t the natural ailment she had previously encountered.
“The symptoms have become varied.”
Why?
Because it wasn’t being developed using only rodents or common beasts anymore.
“The number of seed strains has increased.”
“Seed” was the term for the foundational source of the contagion. Some were taken from rats. Others from monsters or mythological creatures. Even the rot of corpses had been utilized.
The use of toxic flora or venomous insects was a given.
The process involved blending these elements and choosing a delivery system. Once contracted, a victim would be racked with fever, endure muscle spasms, and perish.
Anne had investigated all of this in the past. She had categorized specific “seeds” like the heatblossom strain, the pain strain, and others.
Coughing was supposed to be a secondary effect.
Now, it was often the primary warning sign.
Lethargy, too.
These foreign symptoms suggested that someone was still actively iterating and improving the plague.
“But who?”
Her instructor, Raban, was dead. Raban’s own teacher would be far too old.
Then who remained?
“The world is vast… and brilliance is found everywhere.”
Anne whispered, a self-deprecating smirk on her lips.
She hadn’t grasped it before. But now she was certain.
Above her, dark storm clouds choked out the sky.
Ragna stood like a statue at her side.
He didn’t understand the pathology.
However—
“It can be cured.”
With the extensive resources provided by the Border Guard, her studies had progressed significantly.
“I simply need to create an antidote for every individual strain.”
She didn’t possess it yet.
But given time, she would.
There was more to uncover, but Anne was convinced—absolutely.
Her eyes now burned with a light even more intense than during her confession.
She exuded Will—forged from an unwavering faith in her own capability.

—

When too many threads become tangled, it can begin to look as though everything was choreographed by a master hand.
In truth, it was often just a series of coincidences piled one on top of the other.
And perhaps—someone was clever enough to exploit those coincidences.
“From a strategic view… it’s plausible.”
Refusing to let a coincidence remain just a random event—that was the trademark of a sharp mind.
In his dream the previous night, the ferryman had returned, murmuring about the need to protect Anne.
Enkrid had questioned him,
“To what end?”
“It is an act of mercy,” the ferryman had replied.
But his gaze was calculating. No visible emotion, no movement—yet it felt predatory.
Now awake, exercising his limbs and organizing his thoughts, Enkrid mused—
“The person sabotaging Zaun—and the one collecting monsters to spread the plague… are they the same person?”
Perhaps not.
Or maybe one discovered the other—and turned them into a tool.
“Standing there lost in thought—is that meant as an insult? Or a dare?”
Heskal was positioned before him.
Coincidences aren’t just accidents.
He hadn’t intended to antagonize Heskal—but now that the challenge was issued…
“Let’s assume it’s both.”
Enkrid decided to lean into the confrontation.
Heskal was poised. Unflappable. His martial style reflected that.
Lynox had once mentioned he was hiding his true fangs—but Enkrid had yet to see them.
“Oh, I’m liking this,” interjected Anaheira—the solitary giantess of House Zaun, widely regarded as the most stunning of the giant-blooded.
She smirked, revealing her own sharp teeth.
“Don’t go dying out of arrogance. I’m the next one in line.”
She had already claimed her spot as the succeeding sparring partner.
Enkrid pushed aside his distractions and centered himself.
Heskal was no amateur. Whether his fangs were hidden or not, he was a lethal opponent.
Facing him, Enkrid declared:
“If you refuse to show your fangs, a molar will suffice.”
Heskal offered a thin smile. His sandy hair tossed in the breeze.
The sky remained overcast, but the sun had finally found a rift in the black shroud—allowing a pale light to bleed through.
Silhouetted against that dreary day, Heskal said,
“It is far more difficult to reveal a molar than a fang.”
With that, he lunged. A precise, linear thrust.
But Enkrid was prepared.
A strike like that wasn’t a simple movement.
If you met it with pure logic, it turned into a war of attrition.
He had won such battles before—but they never felt right.
“I yield.”
Heskal had uttered those words once.
He had also recognized the essence of Will at a mere glance.
What constitutes instinct?
It was combat guided by subconscious reflex.
But how does one cultivate instinct?
Wavebreaker and Flash were built on mental geometry.
Even reactive combat required a foundation of training.
And Enkrid, who had once attempted to categorize the entire world, had found the solution:
“Vacate the mind.”
Do not analyze—simply respond.
Actions burned into the muscles would manifest on their own.
React.
Thanks to the training with Alexandra, he had already touched that state once. He understood the immense worth of that moment.
There is a profound gap between a road you’ve never traveled—and one you’ve stumbled across once by accident.
“Leave nothing to chance.”
That mantra echoed in his mind.
Was it a natural progression? He couldn’t say. But for now—he would not fight the current.
Enkrid shifted, demonstrating the technique he now called the Reactive Blade.
Wavebreaker was the shield. Flash was the spear.
This—was the reversal.
Thud!
Three Iron diverted the incoming lunge and surged forward, skipping through the air like a stone across a pond. The parry and the counter-strike happened in a single heartbeat.
Was it a feint? A disruption of logic?
To a standard knight, perhaps.
But not to Heskal.
He didn’t falter against blades slower than those of Alexandra.
His left bracer flared out like a wing, shifting into a compact buckler.
Clang!
He intercepted the blow with effortless precision.
If one can conceal daggers on their person, why not a shield?
“Incredible!”
Anaheira let out a breath.
The attack. The defense. Both were masterclasses.
“It’s something else, isn’t it?” she asked.
Standing beside her now, the patriarch of the house answered:
“It is.”
It was a rare occurrence.
He couldn’t recall the last time Heskal had engaged in a duel with such genuine passion.