A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 699

Chapter 699

The sky grew heavy once more. The soft glow of the sun that had managed to pierce through was gone, leaving no hint it had ever been there.

The borders of Zaun were defined by jagged drops. Behind them, the stone surface of the cliff rose up like a monolithic barrier. Under a bright sky, the vista would have been stunning, but beneath this suffocating gray ceiling, the landscape felt like a piece of a nightmare brought to life.

Enkrid tightened his grip on his blade, his eyes locked on Heskal, who stood framed by that dark scenery. Heskal adopted an unconventional stance, holding a gauntlet-mounted buckler out in front. His right hand kept his sword tucked behind the shield, masking its path.

*He leaves nothing to fate.*

Enkrid wondered why that specific thought surfaced. It had started with the questions raised by the words of the Ferryman. That man was always discussing things yet to come.

*Does the Ferryman actually perceive the future?*

Some of his visions manifested in reality; others simply withered away. The truth is that the future is elusive. To speak of it is to alter the present—the classic trap of the seer. If they remain silent, there is no validation. If they record a vision that happens, it isn’t a prediction; it is merely a chronicle of events. Is a prophecy only valid when spoken? Yet, those who listen will inevitably pivot their actions based on that knowledge. The timeline shifts, and the vision fails.

That was the paradox the Ferryman couldn’t outrun. He didn’t truly know what was coming, yet he carried himself as if he did. How?

When one dons a mask, the self is buried, and a persona takes its place. A masquerade thrives because the mystery is the point. People dress in the most extreme, unimaginable garbs. The Ferryman didn’t see the future; he manufactured the facade of it. He switched masks to fit the occasion, tailoring his rhetoric to the immediate moment.

*He doesn’t leave coincidence to chance.*

That was the conclusion Enkrid reached. But achieving such a feat required a panoramic view of the world. One had to grasp the underlying rhythm of events to transform a random occurrence into a deliberate act.

His reflections expanded, weaving together like fine silk, focusing on the combat style he was currently refining. A chaotic rush of logic surged toward a single point. Why had he solidified his reactive instincts into a series of counterattacks? Because it was the only path that felt right. But he needed to understand the “why.” He needed to map out the mechanics of the process.

A prodigy might perform without a second thought, but Enkrid wasn’t one. He had to dissect every movement. For him, there was a vast gulf between blind action and conscious execution. The solution had been right in front of him for days.

To use this style, one must first fully embrace the incoming reality before answering it. That is why it functioned only as a counter. It was a blade that harvested coincidence. This was the Third Technique, following the lineage of Wavebreaker and Flash.

If the philosophy, the movement, and the regimen were codified, it would be a true form. Was it easier now, having birthed two others? Not at all. Conceptualizing a new style was like forced entry into a new reality. Yet, today, the favor of luck returned—or was it luck? No, it was intent.

*Even fortune must be bent to my will.*

That was the soul of the technique: to make every stray occurrence appear as though it were destined to serve him. Its use required exploiting every random variable; its mastery required thousands of skirmishes to see every possible permutation of battle.

Was experience the only way? A small doubt remained—a seed for future evolution—but he pushed it aside for now. Enduring through experience was all Enkrid knew. He just needed to finalize the definitions. And so, using the “coincidence” of this duel with Heskal, Enkrid began to cement the form.

Suddenly, Heskal shoved his shield forward, cutting off Enkrid’s line of sight while feigning a lunge to the left. Enkrid reacted instantly. The steel of Three Iron carved an arc, slamming into the shield. Moving that shield was like trying to push a mountain; Heskal possessed the raw power of a giant combined with terrifying precision.

*Clang!*

The impact didn’t move the shield; instead, Enkrid felt his own momentum redirected. Heskal had parried the air out of the strike. The feint to the left vanished, and Heskal lunged from the right. It was a simple trick, but the way he manipulated the environment and Enkrid’s own perceptions made it lethal. Three Iron was stuck on the far side of the shield. The distance to swing it back was too great. An opening had been forced.

The steel point whistled in.

As if he had written the script himself, Enkrid yanked his sword back and slammed the pommel against the tip of Heskal’s incoming blade. If the edge couldn’t reach, another part of the weapon would have to do.

*Clang!*

The collision was sharp and violent.

“You’re trying to snap my blade?” Heskal asked, breaking the tension and stepping back.

Enkrid flexed his numbing fingers. “A sword with those engravings won’t break from a tap.”

“You did that on purpose?”

Enkrid gave a firm nod. *All coincidence—within intent.*

In reality, it had been a desperate reflex. He had been tricked. That was the “fang” of Heskal—a deceptive, predatory style. He used pressure to bottle up an opponent, then finished them with a lie. In their world, the victor survived and the loser stayed on the ground. Heskal was undeniably formidable.

And while Enkrid’s Sword of Coincidence hadn’t been fully conscious yet, it was the natural predator of Heskal’s deception. Heskal looked for gaps created by lies; the Sword of Coincidence turned those gaps into a planned destination. But such a feat required a lifetime of scars and survival.

“A rare talent indeed…” Heskal whispered.

Enkrid lowered his weapon, breathing deeply. As he pondered the duel, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. His theories on swordsmanship began to explain his recent life events. He looked at the chaos of the last few days from a distance.

If it was intent disguised as a fluke…

A theory formed. What if the strike against Anne wasn’t a grand conspiracy? Why her? Was she a threat? No. What if the people stalling for time and the people who went after her weren’t even coordinated?

He found his answer. They had spotted Anne by pure chance. They recognized her, saw her as a potential problem, and tried to remove her. They failed. Their malice was real, but it wasn’t a deep-seated obsession. It was an opportunistic strike.

“Were you observing?” Heskal asked, but his gaze wasn’t on Enkrid.

“It has been quite some time since I’ve seen such focus behind a blade,” the clan head remarked, standing near Anahera.

“Is that so? I found it quite stimulating,” Heskal replied, before giving Enkrid a respectful nod. Enkrid returned the gesture, grateful for the lesson.

“How is your condition?” Heskal asked the leader.

“I am aware of my own boundaries. Do not fret,” the clan head replied coldly.

With that, the leader departed, and Anahera stepped forward. Though she wasn’t a full knight, her raw power was easily on that level. Giants were biological engines of war, capable of routing human armies single-handedly. She was known as the Beast of Red Blood, and by all rights, she should have been a whirlwind of violence. Instead, she had found a home in Zaun.

When asked why, she simply said, “Because it’s enjoyable.”

Individuals vary, regardless of race. What checked the innate bloodlust of her kind was a profound curiosity.

“I will reach knighthood,” Anahera vowed.

“It won’t be a simple path,” Enkrid said, before delivering a light smack to her head with the side of his sword. Had he used the edge, Zaun would be short one giantess.

“The difficulty is the point. I want to face greater challenges.”

Her desire for growth had merged with her instinct for battle. Enkrid realized that training here in Zaun had offered him insights he never found with Grida, Magrun, or Odinkar in the Border Guard. In Zaun, they were open. More importantly, Enkrid’s own horizon was expanding.

Zaun’s philosophy was clear: You cannot paint everyone with the same brush. They honored the individual and shared knowledge freely. It was a perfect system for the gifted.

But Enkrid was building a path for those without gifts.

*Our roads diverge here.*

He had taken what he needed from Zaun. Their methods were rooted in natural ability. Once you understand the core of a thing, you can work out the details, but he knew this wasn’t his way. The talented had their path; he wanted to build a ladder for those trapped at the bottom.

After he bested Anahera, the respect from the onlookers was palpable.

Heskal walked over. “How do you find Zaun?”

“It’s a fine place.”

Heskal was deep into his years, a veteran whose Will likely permeated his entire being, even if he hid it well. He was at an age where a warrior’s body begins to fail. Magic and knighthood only slow the clock; they don’t stop it. Heskal was older than his appearance suggested, yet he remained the heart of the surrounding villages.

“It is a fine place. But does the clan head’s passivity bother you?”

“Because he doesn’t fight often?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

Enkrid was surprised by the sudden shift to political talk.

“Zaun is excellent at teaching the sword, but it has no shell to protect itself from the world. That should be the leader’s job, but he refuses the mantle.”

“Is protection necessary?” Enkrid asked.

“You’re Border Guard—you know the truth. Can a pond stay still if the river wants to flood it? Zaun has power, and that’s why Schmidt and the Empire keep trying to swallow us.”

Heskal’s concerns reminded Enkrid of the early days of the Mad Squad in the Kingdom of Naurillia. The kingdom feared their strength and tried to dismantle them or turn them into royal lapdogs. Crang had silenced the critics by asking the nobles if they had ever helped the men train before they demanded their blood.

“Zaun needs a transformation,” Heskal continued. “Before the tide comes, we need a roof over our heads.”

Not everyone in Zaun agreed. Lynox believed in a more aggressive, autonomous defense—recruiting outsiders and building a private army, much like the Empire. The clan head simply listened to these conflicting views and said nothing.

Even Alexandra had noted the shared love these men had for the city.

Enkrid looked at the sky. The clouds were bruised and heavy, a perfect mirror for the tension in the air.

“A storm is coming.”

Just as Alexandra had predicted, Zaun was now held in the heavy, expectant silence that precedes a gale.