A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 701

Chapter 701

Enkrid witnessed, for the first time, a brief tremor of feeling in the eyes of the family head. It appeared to be anxiety—or perhaps a flicker of dread—but that ghost of an emotion vanished the moment it arrived. It happened so quickly that Enkrid doubted his own perception.

“You are to stay behind.”

The family head spoke once more, his tone as cold and mechanical as a clockwork engine. Ragna bristled instantly. Enkrid could feel a thick, boiling rage radiating from his companion—and his assessment was correct. Ragna was livid.

“Are you suggesting I should just accept this mockery?”

As he challenged the man, Ragna lunged his left foot forward, crossing the door’s frame. That single movement possessed the lethal gravity of a blade being drawn, prepared to kill. His temper was even more volatile than the time Rem had pilfered his private food stash.

Pure emotion transformed into physical weight, and that weight became a crushing pressure that saturated the hallway outside.

The family head offered no retort to Ragna. He maintained the composure of a sage, merely casting a silent gaze toward Enkrid, pleading with him through gesture alone.

And yet, there was something about it that felt like a suppressed cry for help.

*Something isn’t right.*

Enkrid reached that conclusion and gave a subtle, internal nod.

*When the path is unclear, take action first—analyze the pieces later.*

If Grida’s doubts held weight and the family head was indeed playing a hidden hand, this was his opportunity to uncover the truth.

“Ragna, remain here. I won’t be long.”

Enkrid gave the command. Ragna, after shooting a silent, piercing look at the family head, finally gave a sharp nod.

Only then did the leader of the house begin to move, the wet squelching of his stride echoing against the stone floor. This time, he made no effort to be stealthy. His rain-drenched boots scraped and thudded against the corridor, creating a heavy, rhythmic cadence.

Naturally, in the world outside, the chaos of thunder and the crashing storm played like a violent symphony. One would need the refined senses of a veteran to distinguish the sound of a footfall over the deafening roar of the elements.

Only a true knight could have tracked them.

Enkrid picked up on a faint sense of relief in the man’s pace.

It wasn’t a blatant display—it was something delicate, reminiscent of the subtle warmth Alexandra had once channeled through her blade as a sign of gratitude.

Perhaps it was only half as warm. It might have been a genuine sign—or nothing more than a trick of the mind.

As Enkrid trailed him into the heart of the storm, the family head spoke up without warning.

The rain cascaded like a falling wall of water, but his voice managed to pierce through to Enkrid.

“Ragna has become quite obedient.”

“He has no reason to be otherwise.”

“He has been defiant since his youth. Even after his return, he seemed just as stubborn as ever.”

“Maybe he simply came to terms with things. It isn’t necessarily because of me.”

“Or perhaps he only listens when the words come from you. Tell me, how did you manage to tame my son?”

Tame him? Enkrid had no answer for that. He hesitated for a beat, then responded as they walked:

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I was simply fighting to stay alive, and eventually, Ragna was right there beside me, swinging his blade.”

The family head lapsed into silence at this, as if carefully weighing his next thought. Against the backdrop of the howling wind, the only sound was the uneven, wet slap of their boots.

Then, the family head spoke again.

“You speak the truth. You cannot force a man’s spirit to bend. I sometimes wonder if I should have used my power to crush him instead. But the time for such things has long since passed.”

Standing outside the quarters was Alexandra, draped in a black cloak. Her expression was a mask of stone. Millestia had been her companion for years. Now she was gone—sacrificed for the sake of Zaun.

That reality was a blade to her chest. Consequently, her face became all the more devoid of life.

Enkrid had been in Zaun for twelve days now. The tempests had moved in, blurring the line between midday and midnight.

His objectives and mindset remained identical to the day he arrived. Nothing had shifted. He maintained the belief that there was no point in playing the hero or hunting for ghosts.

The culprit would eventually step into the light. Until that moment, Enkrid’s mission remained straightforward.

Keep Anne safe.

Wait with patience, keeping his skills sharp and his body ready.

“My Lord!”

A voice tore through the rain and the crashing thunder.

The quiet had evaporated; the storm had truly arrived.

A jagged streak of white lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the world. On the far side of the grounds, two factions stood locked in a stalemate.

It was as if a line of death had been drawn between them, both sides poised on the razor’s edge of combat.

Enkrid realized in that moment that the family head was positioned in front of him, while Alexandra held the ground behind him.

He also understood that these two were among the most formidable warriors in all of Zaun—and if they were to strike in unison, there were few living things that could withstand them.

In essence, Enkrid was now caught between the two most lethal blades in the city.

—

*I will find the cure for this.*

Anne steeled her heart.

A plague disguised as a hex had claimed her kin.

As the days turned into years, the sickness spread, and panicked citizens put the slums to the torch. Her family and her neighbors were incinerated in fires lit by their own kind.

That was the moment Anne made her choice—

Retribution.

Her enemy was a shapeless mist.

To strike it, she first had to comprehend it. So she dedicated herself. She researched, she toiled, and she immersed herself in the craft of alchemy.

Her initial targets for revenge were the concepts of disease and ignorance. While she had executed certain alchemists who toyed with children or fashioned horrors from human remains, that wasn’t true vengeance—that was merely a necessary purging.

Still, even if she claimed her devotion to alchemy was born of spite, it would be a deception to say she didn’t find joy in the work. She adored it.

Whether by the grace of luck or the fruit of her labor, unraveling complex mysteries with her own unique perspective brought a sense of triumph she had never known.

*There. I have it.*

Anne felt that familiar spark of joy again.

She had isolated the strain of the seed infecting Zaun—and she had found the remedy. It wouldn’t fix everything, but—

She grasped the core mechanic.

To convey this to a layman, she would need to deliver a massive dissertation on the fundamental properties of “essence.” It was far too complex to summarize. However, she had something vital to share with Ragna.

The hour had come to cleanse the curse from this bloodline.

Though she would also have to admit there were elements that even she could not reach.

She looked up to deliver the news—but someone else’s voice preempted her.

“I still don’t quite grasp it.”

Anne’s quarters were far too cramped for an intruder to enter comfortably—but the window was wide enough to admit a face, a hand, or a weapon.

The voice originated from just outside that window.

“Why on earth should you be the catalyst that makes me move?”

Amidst the crashing thunder and the relentless hammering of the rain, the voice resonated with terrifying clarity.

The window frame splintered and the entire casing was torn away. The intruder ripped it out with his bare hands and went on.

“Not that it matters much to me.”

A man with sodden blond hair plastered to his brow leveled an object at her. It resembled a short javelin, tipped with a lethal point—shorter than a standard polearm.

Even through the chaos of the storm, Anne recognized the features. She had seen this face throughout their journey.

The strong jaw, the azure eyes, the cropped blond hair—it was unmistakable. She knew him.

It was Odinkar.

*What?*

Anne’s eyes went wide with disbelief—but the man, devoid of any warmth, simply launched the weapon in his hand. She didn’t even see his arm blur.

She only sensed the motion—

A heavy greatsword whistled through the air from behind her and batted the projectile away.

The javelin deflected and buried itself deep into the stone wall.

Anne felt a hand grip her arm and haul her back.

Naturally, it was Ragna. He positioned himself in front of her and demanded:

“And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Anne realized she had been paralyzed, forgetting to breathe.

*Inhale, exhale.*

She forced herself to find her rhythm.

The figure at the window watched Ragna with hollow, vacant eyes.

Anne’s focus shifted to the man’s fingers as they gripped the window ledge.

They were stained a deep, bruised black.

That was the telltale sign of a life spent manipulating toxins.

“That isn’t Odinkar.”

Anne was sharp. Her intellect remained intact despite the terror.

She hadn’t caught the scent of any alchemical concoctions on Odinkar during their trek. This man was a fraud.

The double’s mouth quirked into a smirk.

“Is that so?”

He gave a sharp exhale of surprise, then queried:

“How could you possibly tell?”

“The stench is a bit hard to ignore.”

Ragna replied for her. He had sensed the deception the moment the man appeared.

The aura was entirely different from Will’s. And then there was the physical odor.

Ragna maintained a calm stare, refusing to flinch—but he didn’t leap into the fray. More accurately, he was pinned.

*He has backup.*

The intruder wasn’t working alone. Others were lurking in the shadows, circling for a weakness.

How had they bypassed the defenses?

Someone on the inside must have unbolted the gate.

He discarded the thought; it was useless for the current moment.

A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the room and the gap where the window had been. Behind the assassin stood several winged abominations—at least five, at a glance.

*Didn’t the captain mention a strange beast in Oara?*

The memory surfaced. These creatures appeared to be exactly what Enkrid had described.

Specialized monsters—creatures that utilized Will.

Ragna, gripping his massive blade, realized the cramped room was a disadvantage. Even as he calculated the risks, he lunged.

Rotating on his lead foot, he put his weight into a thrust aimed directly through the window.

He intended to crush the man’s skull—but the target slipped aside, and the blade only clipped his shoulder. To make matters worse, the man rolled with the impact, so the bone didn’t shatter and the limb stayed attached.

It was partly his evasion—and partly the fact that his flesh was unnaturally dense.

Ragna felt the resistance through the hilt.

“That actually stung, you prick.”

The man growled, then flicked a vial of amber liquid from his palm.

Ragna had already retreated, scooping Anne up and diving into the corridor.

The liquid sizzled where it struck, melting the wood of the desk and the stone of the floor.

“You think you can just walk away?”

The man’s voice trailed them into the hall.

As Ragna pulled the door open, he felt a presence descending from the rafters.

Both the monsters and the man were focused entirely on Anne, showing a total disregard for their own safety.

Without looking, Ragna sensed the trajectory of the beasts.

Tying his senses together, he projected a mental grid around himself to anticipate their strike.

Two owlbears, wings tucked and talons extended.

They shot toward him like bolts from a heavy siege engine.

Ragna held Anne tightly with his left arm and brought the greatsword around with his right.

He held his breath and forced a surge of Will into the strike.

The blade, propelled by unnatural speed and raw force, tore through the leaping predators.

One beast was hammered into the wall, collapsing into a heap.

The other had its skull split wide; it was sliced from gullet to groin, a massive fissure opening in its torso. Dark, oily blood sprayed everywhere, coating the floor.

The rain blew in, mixing with the black sludge.

Though he had sidestepped by pure reflex, Ragna caught a whiff of a suffocating odor.

*This is a problem.*

His gut screamed a warning.

Anne, unable to cope with the G-force of the movement, leaned over and retched.

Yellow bile splattered across Ragna’s footwear.

The sudden acceleration was more than a normal body could endure.

Anne clenched her jaw and forced out a single word through the blinding vertigo.

“Poison!”

That was all she could manage.

Ragna had just reached the same conclusion.

Those two creatures had been saturated in something.

It was as if they had been marinated in toxin.

He had breathed it in—and he could feel the strength draining from his muscles.

His Will immediately began to combat the foreign substance. That was the natural response.

But Will wasn’t a universal cure—it only bought a knight more time.

Yet, this specific toxin felt engineered for knights. It raced through his veins with terrifying efficiency.

His legs buckled. He hadn’t even taken another step, yet his power was spent.

“Did you really believe knights were immune to chemistry?”

They were trying to flee down the hall. The man wearing Odinkar’s skin emerged from Anne’s room behind them.

The face was Odinkar’s—but the soul was a stranger’s.

“Not even close. Don’t let your status go to your head. You arrogant, self-important fools.”

Ragna watched him in silence.

The man’s limbs were thickening. His chest was expanding.

This wasn’t some trick of the light or the rain.

He had altered his own biology.

Lifting his blackened fingers, he pointed toward Ragna.

“You’re going to crawl through your own blood, begging for a quick end.”

He spoke with the absolute certainty of a victor.

He didn’t laugh—but the finality in his voice was chilling.

Ragna wasn’t the type to over-analyze—he wasn’t like Rem or Enkrid.

He didn’t waste time wondering about the ‘how’ or ‘why’ of the betrayal.

He only focused on the objective. That was his gift.

“The moment I engage—find the captain and run.”

Ragna whispered.

If this was to be the final flare of his life, and that light ensured this woman’s safety—he was content with that.

If Anne was the legacy he left behind, he would be at peace.

A short life or a long one—it didn’t matter. He had no regrets.

He was prepared to die.

“What are you babbling about? You idiot. Eat this.”

Anne wiped her face with the back of her hand, fished a small pellet from her bag, and jammed it into Ragna’s mouth.

As Ragna instinctively swallowed the pill, Anne challenged him:

“If I neutralize this bastard’s parlor tricks, can you protect me and finish them off?”

Ragna, impressed by her sheer grit, gave a nod.

“That’s the simple part.”

The imposter scowled.

“What are you two whispering about?”

Should he prolong their agony for the insult?

He began to speak—but Ragna felt the vitality returning to his frame. The turbulent Will inside him settled.

The cure worked with miraculous speed.

Typically, creating an antidote is far more complex than brewing a poison—but this one was perfect.

Any master alchemist would have seen the truth:

Anne’s talent was leagues beyond the man standing before them.

It was the difference between a master and an amateur.

A child prodigy versus a common soldier.

Ragna didn’t care about the logistics. He simply raised his sword.

It was time to perform the one task he excelled at.

Even without a complex plan—Ragna always knew exactly what needed to be done. By pure instinct.