A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 705

Chapter 705

The medicinal supplies from the infirmary of Milezcia were delivered.
These items had belonged to a person who had passed away. To some, they might have seemed like sacred mementos of the deceased—but there was no room for such sentimentality at this moment.
Paying respects to the fallen could be postponed until the danger had passed.
To hoard vital supplies during a catastrophe was the height of stupidity.
A portion of the flora was waterlogged, ruined by the downpour. Other bundles had been meticulously protected within oil-skinned wraps to ensure they stayed dry.
Enkrid was only able to identify three varieties at most.
This was true even though he had picked up a decent amount of field medicine knowledge during his travels. However, that was to be expected—much of the “medicine” utilized by grunts and sellswords was rooted in old wives’ tales and lacked scientific backing.
Ideas like “saliva prevents a wound from festering” came to mind—superstitious nonsense masquerading as healing lore.
There were plants that seemed familiar but lacked a name, and others were so saturated by the rain that they were unrecognizable.
“Hand it all over.”
Anne ascended the steps and spread the collection across the hallway floor. She set her kit down beside her and began the process of categorizing the haul.
There was no doubt in her movements. She recognized each stalk instantly and worked with high efficiency.
Ragna stood behind her, remaining silent.
Everyone present, the family head included, observed Anne’s progress in total silence.
While a few might have betrayed a hint of nervousness, the general mood was one of grim resolve.
This was partly due to the fact that those connected to Zaun possessed iron wills—and perhaps even more so because of the composure shown by the man at the center of it all: the family head.
Unfazed, he pulled a seat over, sat down, knocked the filth from his footwear with one hand, and turned his attention to the window.
Swoooooosh! CRACK!
Amidst the howling gale and the roar of thunder, the sharp sounds of grinding, crushing, and snapping began to harmonize.
Anne was pulverizing plants in a small bowl, blending the pastes and incorporating liquid extracts.
Before anyone could blink, she had transitioned from sorting to preparing the treatment.
Then Anahera entered, cradling Grida, and set her down with care in a corner. She hadn’t been hauled in like a corpse—Grida was deathly pale from hemorrhaging, but her gaze remained sharp and defiant.
Even as she was positioned on the floor, not a single whimper left her throat. She bore the agony in quiet.
“If you would.”
The massive man spoke, and Anne, without diverting her eyes from her work, replied with a dry tone.
“Right, I’ve got it.”
She sounded detached, but no one took offense.
Anne immediately gripped a blade and slid it beneath the cloth wrapped around Grida’s midsection. She pulled, shearing through the fabric. Her precision was remarkable—easily matching the swordplay of Ragna.
Anne inspected the injury, then doused it with a solution. The fluid, kept in a metal container, coated Grida’s exposed belly.
Bubblblblbl—
Froth erupted from the laceration, and Grida’s frame shook with a violent tremor. Several onlookers leaned in.
Is that supposed to happen?
Skepticism likely filled the minds of those watching.
Anne paid them no mind. Once the reaction died down, she grabbed a different vial and passed it to Ragna. “Saturate my hands with this,” she directed.
Ragna complied, wetting her hands with the liquid. Anne, now coated in the substance, picked up a surgical needle and thread.
The fluid evaporated almost instantly—vanishing into the air the moment it touched her skin.
She threaded the eye and began closing the gash.
This was the first time Enkrid had witnessed this specific type of surgical care—and the first time he had seen Anne’s fingers move with such surgical exactness.
The needle bit into the skin. Was this better or worse than the bite of a blade?
The word was that Heskal had run her through the stomach. That must have been a jarring, sudden strike. Now, however, she was forced to watch the needle enter her flesh over and over.
A blade’s impact was over in a heartbeat—but this was a slow, rhythmic torment.
By all logic, this should have been more excruciating. Yet Grida did not break. Her brow furrowed with every pass of the needle, but she refused to cry out.
When she eventually spoke, her fury was aimed at the circumstances rather than the physical pain.
“So… it wasn’t Father. I guess that’s good news, right? Dammit… I still feel like I’ve been played for a fool.”
She muttered this while grounded. Some weighed her words; others ignored them.
“Did you never suspect Heskal?”
The family head, who had been focused on the storm outside, turned his head slightly to look at her before returning his gaze to the window.
Enkrid was becoming accustomed to the man’s stoicism. He could even intuit why the family head wouldn’t stop watching the world outside.
Nearby, Alexandra was relaying details to Schmidt, and as the explanation continued, his face grew increasingly dark.
“I had my suspicions. I took measures. I still got caught off guard.”
Grida was blunt. She had her ego, but to her, the primary issue wasn’t the injury—it was the fallout.
The Guardians of Zaun were always focused on what came after, on the preservation of the future.
Enkrid was starting to grasp the essence of what a Guardian was.
Which was precisely why Heskal’s betrayal was so baffling.
Grida was acting exactly as a Guardian was meant to. But Heskal? He had held that title for decades. Why would he turn his back on it now?
“Not my business to solve the ‘why’.”
Enkrid was a warrior, not an investigator. His purpose was straightforward.
If you want to understand a man’s heart, wait until your steel is at his neck.
“Is there a quicker path?”
No.
And if they remained silent even then? Then nothing else would have worked regardless.
Certainly, through psychological games—bluffs, intimidation, and steering—one might extract a truth. But was it truly worth the time?
The betrayal was done. The reasoning behind it was no longer the priority.
Enkrid shifted his focus to the limping combatant—the offspring of Heskal.
In terms of raw ability, Riley Zaun was comparable to a burgeoning knight. His greatest ambition was to one day move on two healthy legs.
Mobility was the lifeblood of swordcraft. Without it, one was crippled. Thus, Riley had perfected a style that prioritized a single, lethal strike.
He had also mastered the art of repositioning using only one limb.
All of that—he owed to Heskal.
If anyone was desperate to understand Heskal’s mind, it was Riley Zaun.
Yet even he was in the dark. The faint tremor of anxiety on his face, his clenched jaw, and the way his eyes darted around betrayed his inner turmoil.
“Can he even perform in that state?”
If the spirit was unstable, the blade would be too.
Had the family head already given Riley a task?
“Perhaps as a distraction—to break Heskal’s concentration?”
A son raised for ten years cries out:
“Father! Why did you betray us!?”
Would Heskal hesitate? It was hard to say.
Would it even be a viable plan if Riley himself proved to be a turncoat? Likely not.
Enkrid walked over to the family head, who remained a silent sentry at the window.
“It wasn’t a matter of me failing. Heskal was masking his true capability. He was formidable, Father.”
The family head gave a small, barely perceptible nod. His expression remained a blank slate.
“Do you see anything?”
Enkrid questioned, taking a spot next to him.
The family head was watching the horizon because he knew Heskal wasn’t working in a vacuum. He suspected an outside force was pulling the strings and kept a sharp lookout.
A few others—those with keen instincts—began to follow the family head’s lead.
Some shut their eyes entirely, like a smith tempering steel—gathering their focus in the silence.
Alexandra was doing exactly that. Having finished her briefing with Schmidt, she rested against the masonry, eyes shut, her breathing rhythmic and calm.
She looked like a naked blade—too sharp for any sheath—poised to be swung at a moment’s notice.
“Nothing yet.”
The family head’s response was brief. Enkrid was truly starting to understand the man’s rhythm.
“Don’t try to read his heart. Just watch his movements.”
Through that perspective, the man’s intent was clear.
It wasn’t that he never used his stoicism as a weapon—he masked his thoughts, letting others stumble over their own assumptions.
A strategist, in a sense.
And honestly, for a man of his standing, such calculation was mandatory.
Seen in this light, Zaun wasn’t just a house—it was a sovereign state. And the family head? Its sovereign.
Heskal was the insurgent.
Many people—Lynox included—were eavesdropping on their talk, but Enkrid saw no point in hiding the reality of the situation anymore.
The people of Zaun weren’t the sort to flee just because the odds were stacked against them. They needed the facts to fight effectively. The family head likely knew this. It was all a matter of choosing the right moment.
Perhaps Enkrid could facilitate that.
“Where is Odinkar?”
“I gave him a pretext to remain in the shadows.”
The instant reply confirmed the family head was thinking the same thing.
He was starting the process of updating everyone, stripping away the clutter of confusion. For a real fight, one needed a focused mind. Some might have deduced the truth, but others were still swimming in the dark.
A betrayal by someone like Heskal required such clarity.
“And Magrun?”
“He is in genuine peril. I placed him with Milezcia. Even I am unaware of their location.”
Swooooosh.
The storm had calmed slightly. The gusts, which had felt powerful enough to uproot the earth, had also lost some of their bite.
Rattle-rattle.
Even so, the wind continued to shake the window casings.
Enkrid returned to the point Lynox had brought up earlier.
“Why were Jerry, Even, Royst, and Pail targeted?”
The response was exactly what he expected.
“All four possessed significant battlefield history.”
Heskal was incredibly calculating. He wouldn’t strike a target without a reason. If he risked exposure, there had to be a strategic gain.
They were all veterans.
Enkrid surveyed the room.
From the family head and Lynox to Alexandra—the area was packed with elite warriors.
Any one of them could have achieved fame across the continent.
Even Riley Zaun—despite the mental stress of his father’s treason—held a level of skill that few could match in a real fray.
But none of them had experience fighting as a cohesive unit.
“Are the hell-spawn involved?”
Regardless, they were powerful. There were more than five full knights in the room. Anyone aiming to take down a group like this would need a comparable force.
That was the essence of his inquiry.
“Uncertain.”
“How is that possible?”
“There are signs of the individual who propagated the plague—but I have never encountered them. I have been tracking this potential, shadowing threat for more than two decades.”
“They say the Hunters’ Village has turned. What is the primary threat there?”
“We are pinned down. They have surrounded us with traps.”
The family head spoke without emotion, and his voice carried to everyone.
So—they were cornered. The sickness had been gestating for years. And somewhere above, a malevolent caster was orchestrating the endgame.
And every person with leadership experience had been neutralized.
Anne stayed busy grinding her herbs and tending to the wounded. But the harsh reality was—they were all compromised.
The motive? Once again—it didn’t matter.
The warriors of Zaun could sense the encroaching shadow. That was why the words finally came:
“Fine—if they want a fight, we’ll just slaughter them all, won’t we?”
Lynox the Destroyer spoke with a grin, showing no fear. He was a man who followed his own whims, but this time—his home was the target. There would be no holding back.
Most of the survivors echoed his resolve. That was the intent of this entire dialogue—to light that specific fire.
“If they attack, we cut them down.”
“Is this actual war? My blade has been thirsting for blood every night—at last, some excitement.”
“They dared to strike Grida? They’re as good as dead.”
No one’s spirit faltered. In the face of disaster, their grit only hardened.
Granted, one or two of the lunatics claimed their weapons were talking to them—but at least their resolve remained intact.
“Knowledge is the ultimate weapon.”
Lua Gharne had drummed those words into him. Her strategic mind surpassed even the most erratic members of the Mad Platoon.
Enkrid had inherited that wisdom from her.
In any engagement, there was nothing more vital than intelligence. That was what Enkrid had just secured.
What the opposition desired. What dangers his side faced.
Now that he had the full picture—
“Well,”
—It didn’t seem like such a hopeless situation after all.