A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 703

Chapter 703

## The Nature of the Zaunites

Alexandra possessed a cruel streak, often finding joy in psychologically breaking her training partners.
Odinkar, when he pushed his limits, frequently lost the ability to distinguish a friendly bout from a life-or-death struggle.
Grida, famously, was plagued by an inability to recognize faces.
And then there was Lynox—whose particular flaw was a total lack of loyalty and an utter incapacity to pick a side.

If he wasn’t following some sudden, internal impulse, he became restless, shifting uncomfortably as if his very seat were made of thorns.
A perfect story to explain this habit dated back to his years as a traveling soldier of fortune.
“What in the world are you doing over there?”
A comrade he had just been fighting alongside once shouted at him.
Lynox had simply replied with an air of self-importance:
“Oh, I just decided I’d rather be on this side today.”
“Are you insane? Even for a mercenary sold to Krona, have you no pride?”
“Ah, be quiet.”
With those words, Lynox had tried to strike the man down, fueled by the irritation of being questioned. He didn’t succeed, but the bridge was burned.

He had flipped from friend to foe in a single night, all over a few drinks.
The reality was simpler: he had encountered someone on the opposing line he actually liked.
During a clash of steel, he had thought, “Wow, this guy is impressive. I don’t want to kill him.”
So, he switched.
The conflict involved two petty lords fighting over a small patch of dirt. Following Lynox’s betrayal, one lord, blinded by rage, hired a legendary team of elite killers.
In response, the other lord did exactly the same. What began as a minor scrap between ten men escalated into a total war.
The conclusion? It was a disaster.
Both noble families were decimated. One was left penniless and unable to pay his debts; the other faced a bloody peasant uprising.
If Lynox and the other hired blades had actually stayed to fight, it might have ended differently.
But by then, the momentum had died. Why bother seeing it through?

It was no mystery why they called him the “Ruin-Bringer.”
Part of it was his expertise in dismantling combat techniques—but mostly, it was because he tended to dismantle the entire situation.
He was also known as the “mercenary who is always an enemy in waiting.” It wasn’t exactly a term of endearment.
Regardless, Lynox never steered his own life. That was why he wasn’t a pioneer. He didn’t forge a path; he trailed behind others.
He was aware that whenever he led, chaos followed. Thus, he could never lead a family.
His recent inquiry had been a reflection of his soul. He laid out the facts and let the patriarch decide. That was the Lynox way.
And the head of the house had given his word: “We fight.”

Just then, a gravelly voice sliced through the murmuring crowd.
“Are you claiming my father is responsible for this?”
The heavy storm muffled the words, but the weight behind them remained clear.
Why was Zaun split into two warring camps?
It was simple, yet deeply convoluted.
One group was comprised of those who had lost loved ones to Heskal’s hand.
The other consisted of those who remained certain Heskal would never commit such atrocities.
Despite the mountain of proof, they refused to believe it—purely because of the loyalty Heskal had shown them in the past.

As the tension between the two groups reached a breaking point, a shape began to manifest in the heavens. A heavy, distorted mass coalesced into the likeness of a colossal human face.
*What is that thing?* Enkrid peered upward, squinting as the rain pelted his eyes.
From high above, the massive visage spoke:
“Wretched children, I shall take you into my care. Come forward and find the radiance. You shall survive—and receive everything your hearts desire.”

It was an incantation.
A warning.
A presence so heavy it felt like drowning.
It made sense—a giant face was hovering over them like a deity descending upon the mud of the training grounds.
The malice woven into those words made Enkrid’s skin prickle.
It was greasy.
And then, a distraction.
While every eye was fixed on the sky, a dark silhouette emerged behind the patriarch.
The four of them moved as one.

Enkrid pivoted.
The patriarch whirled, driving his elbow backward.
Lynox lunged with a piercing palm strike.
Alexandra’s steel hissed—a draw and a cut so fast the eye couldn’t track it.
It was an assassin—a Scaler covered in black scales marbled with deep red.
Not a known beast, but a mutation—something that had been unnaturally evolved or warped.
*CRACK!* Alexandra’s strike tore through the creature’s throat.
The patriarch’s elbow connected with its skull, sending it tumbling like a broken toy.
*THUD, THOK!* The monster hit the ground, rolled, and began to push itself back up.
A stubborn wretch.
Even after that?

Lynox finished it. He pulled back his initial strike, stepped toward the creature, and drew a thin blade.
“And what exactly are you supposed to be?”
With a fluid motion, he took the head from the ruined neck.
*Ssssshk.* The head bounced in the mud. The blade was back in its sheath before the rain could wash it.
“Tch.”
Lynox clicked his tongue, shaking his hand. To those who knew his movements, it was obvious he wasn’t at full strength.
The wound where Heskal had landed a blow had turned a sickly black—a toxin.
It was taking a toll.
“The bastard claimed the effects would peak in two days. I caught a scratch from his venomous edge too.”

An enchanted weapon—one that carried the Will of a knight. To dip such a thing in poison?
That was madness. Poison would erode the Will itself.
Yet Heskal had done it anyway.
One had to wonder what was happening in that man’s mind. Enkrid certainly did.
But it wasn’t a mystery for much longer.
The events of the past few days began to click together in Enkrid’s thoughts. He started to organize the puzzle.

*Schmidt arrived from the Empire. He was a genuine envoy with no hidden plot.* But Heskal had manipulated him. He made it appear as though Schmidt was a spy, attempting to pull Zaun into the Empire’s orbit.
Looking at Schmidt now—his expression was that of a man who had discovered his dinner was spoiled.
He was furious.
*He used Schmidt’s own rhetoric to sow discord.* A basic maneuver. But it worked. Looking back, it was obvious. At the time, even Enkrid suspected the Empire was pulling the strings.

*Heskal oversees the paths between the three villages. He would have known exactly when Odinkar and Magrun were returning—and that we were with them.* *Why go after Anne?* That wasn’t Heskal’s design. He assisted—cleared the path—but he didn’t call the shots.
The strike had the hallmarks of someone well-versed in the arcane. A sorcerer or a witch doctor.
*He has a partner—or an overlord.* He didn’t leave things to chance.
That was Heskal’s way.
Even Enkrid had been a pawn without knowing it.

*He made the patriarch doubt me.* Ragna had come back after years away and immediately demanded Ilchul. The patriarch and his wife, wary of the shadows around them, couldn’t just hand it over.
Naturally, doubt grew.
“Could Enkrid of the Border Guard be a sleeper agent for a rival faction?”
It was a fair question. The Border Guard was an enigma. To an outsider, it looked like a secret weapon of Naurillia—much like how Azpen kept hidden knights.
“So, Naurillia finally grew some teeth.”
That’s how the world would see it.

Zaun held significant power. Power enough to draw men like Schmidt to their doorstep.
They had always said no to such offers. And those constant rejections bred fear in the eyes of their neighbors.
Heskal exploited that fear. He fanned the embers.
*He intentionally showed Grida the signs of the monsters.* He was creating friction. Buying time. Enkrid had struggled to reach Zaun—only to find the same struggle waiting behind the walls.
*Damn… we were played like instruments.* Would men like Kraiss or Abnaier have seen through it?
Hard to say.
Now, Enkrid saw Heskal’s pattern. Obstruction. The ultimate motive was still hidden—but the tactics were clear.

*And what about the patriarch?* According to Anne, he had refused help—saying “not yet.” He had only shared that with Anne and Ragna.
Anne had spent her time searching for a remedy, not a curse, and her constant prying had annoyed the locals.
People had become defensive. A newcomer asking about everyone’s illness—their coughs—was bound to cause friction.
*It made it look like she was undermining Millestia.* The patriarch’s “not yet” wasn’t a dismissal for Anne. It was a message to be carried. A secret delay.
“Not yet” meant: don’t take the sword yet. Or perhaps: hold on, and the reason for your presence will become clear.
It took time, but that phrase had haunted Enkrid.
And now the realization hit.
*The patriarch was waiting for this exact moment.* During the journey, Odinkar had been fuming—unable to pin down the invisible foe.
*The patriarch felt the same. He wanted the enemy to step into the light.* Because if you let an infection sit, it eventually ruptures.
He wanted to look the traitor in the eye before the end.
*Ah.* The patriarch had used Enkrid, too.
He recognized the reputation of the Border Guard and the prowess of Ragna.
He had also ensured Anne had the freedom to move.
Even if it wasn’t obvious—he had been facilitating them.
*And he allowed Alexandra to train me.* That was a signal: you are one of us.
If Enkrid was an enemy, so be it. But if not—he was a godsend.
*The patriarch didn’t leave it to luck, either.* He moved the wild card as close to his chest as possible.
He forced Heskal to break cover. And Heskal waited for the perfect opening to kill.
The two men had been playing a silent game of chess for years.

“These people, seriously…”
Enkrid whispered.
The hovering face in the sky was still droning on, even as it sent killers into their midst.
“So what, a pair of sellswords and a young girl arrive and you think the tides have turned, Tempest Zaun?”

Enkrid let out a short laugh as the patriarch raised a closed hand toward the heavens… and extended his middle finger.
Yes—that specific finger.
Customs changed depending on where you were on the continent, but here? It was a universal language:
Go to hell.
Or more accurately:
Choke on your own arrogance and die.
It was a vulgar display—completely at odds with the patriarch’s usually calm, stoic mask.
But now Enkrid saw it—he wasn’t devoid of feeling.

“Grida can’t tell one face from another. Alexandra breaks bones for sport in the ring.”
“It’s not that frequent,” Alexandra hissed next to him.
But sometimes, those on the outside see the truth most clearly.
“Magrun has a tongue like a razor. And you—you’re incapable of showing what you feel, aren’t you?”

The patriarch nodded slightly. The warmth he had shown Ragna earlier—that had been genuine. His worry. His joy.
*KRAKOOM.* A bolt of lightning, more powerful than any before, ripped through the firmament. Dozens of white veins of energy branched out and slammed into the ethereal face in the clouds—shattering it into nothingness.
The heavy, dark mist once again claimed the sky.
Finally, Ragna stepped out from the interior and said:
“There was a madman stalking Anne. I took care of him. What did I miss out here?”

Enkrid gave a blunt response.
“War.”
Ragna gave a small nod. There was a faint hint of anticipation in that movement. If not joy, then at least a sense of closure.
He had seemed coiled—tense, like a man who had been holding back a storm of anger.
He might not wear it on his face—but the pressure had been building.
*I’m not as bad as they are,* Enkrid thought to himself.
Then he thought back to the voice in the sky.
“Just two swordsmen,” it had sneered.
*Just?* Enkrid grinned.
That was a word that would prove very costly. But first—there was the urgent task of stopping the two factions from slaughtering each other in the mud.