A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 706

Chapter 706

Heskal stood beneath a pitch-black canopy that held back the cascading downpour. He wondered if this construct was also a product of sorcery. It was an impressive feat, yet Heskal offered no praise. The tempest was so fierce it erased the horizon; knight or commoner, no one could see through such a deluge. Despite the chaos of the storm, not a drop touched his coat. A marvelous magical display, perhaps worthy of acclaim, but Heskal remained stoic.

“Was the strategy executed?”

A voice drifted from behind the dark shroud. Heskal questioned if the speaker could even be classified as a person. By his standards, the entity was far from human—a sentiment the creature itself seemed to share, as it never claimed such a title.

“It was,” Heskal answered.

“Excellent. I shall pave the way for the resurrection of Zaun. I will ascend as a deity and dictate a fresh decree for these lands.”

Heskal shifted his gaze toward the figure. The being’s skin was brittle, resembling ancient parchment, and his face appeared sunken as though the underlying tissue had decayed. Where cheeks should have been, there were only voids. His eyes protruded unnervingly, as if they might spill from their sockets, and sharp cheekbones poked through the skin like shards of bone. It was obvious to any observer: the man was a living corpse.

This was Dremule, the legendary alchemist. At his peak, it was said that half the practitioners on the continent were his pupils, having built their careers on the foundations of his research. He was a specter of an era long gone, a man who had cheated the grave. Watching him, Heskal recalled a personal mantra: survival belongs to those on the winning side. How one lived was a secondary concern; the priority was staying alive long enough to have a future.

Currently, Zaun lacked leadership with combat experience, and its ranks were riddled with illness. To Heskal, the outcome of a war was determined before the first blow. As he pondered this, a pungent, acidic odor hit him—the unmistakable stench of a decomposing body emanating from Dremule. The alchemist drew closer. Had he come any nearer, Heskal would have been forced to step out into the rain. Proximity to such an entity felt inherently perilous; Dremule was a monument to twisted power, a being arrogant enough to chase godhood.

“Your comrade shall lead the vanguard.”

Heskal, Lynox, and Andante: the three primary blades of Zaun. Among them, Andante had perished and been pulled back from the void. What becomes of a knight granted a second life? Through the combined efforts of an alchemist and a renegade sorcerer, he had been raised as a death knight.

As the downpour transitioned into a lighter rain, the legion waiting in the storm became visible beyond the veil. It was a monstrous assembly nearly a thousand strong—Scalers, medusas, and owlbears. Behind the beasts, a figure bowed its head, snakes for hair swaying in the wind. A mage capable of conjuring plagues stood nearby, accompanied by a shaman bound by spiritual chains.

Furthermore, the residents of Zaun were crippled by the “seed” Dremule had planted. Heskal had secured the cure for himself, but the others had not. The conclusion was foregone. Right now, his former allies were likely retching blood or consumed by fever. Some would be lost in delusions; others would simply have their minds scorched away by the heat of the infection. It was the same fate that had claimed Heskal’s own son. The plague Dremule crafted was designed to wither them from within, shattering their spirit before they could even draw steel.

“Why expend such effort just to eliminate that girl?” Heskal inquired.

It struck him as odd that a self-proclaimed god would go to such lengths for a single child. Dremule had manipulated the local hunters, laid intricate hexes, and set cursed pitfalls. While Dremule provided the raw power, it was Heskal’s expertise that had ensured the traps were placed with lethal precision.

“She was an obstacle,” Dremule replied.

Heskal opened his mouth to press for details, but Dremule turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. In his stead, two of his apprentices moved forward. A third disciple had been dispatched to Zaun previously but had failed to return. Since Ragna was guarding the girl, Heskal wondered if the knight had killed the intruder. If so, Ragna was likely infected and dying as well. Dremule’s students were formidable; even if Ragna survived the encounter, he wouldn’t be in any condition to fight. This meant one less knight to worry about. Pushing aside his curiosity regarding the girl, Heskal began to mentally rehearse the coming massacre. Success was inevitable.

—

A violent coughing fit seized a man of House Zaun, ending with him spitting blood into a cloth. He stared at the red stain, his face pale.

“Is this the end for me?” he asked.

He looked ready to accept his fate. If he had to fall, he just wanted to swing his sword one last time. It was a grim, steady resolve. Then, Anne delivered a sharp smack to his back.

“Stop being so dramatic. You aren’t dying; it’s just a bit of blood.”

Her voice was sharp and entirely at odds with the tension in the room. Even as she spoke, her fingers never stopped moving—sorting herbs, grinding powders, and prepping tonics. The man had vomited right after taking her concoction. For days, his throat had felt obstructed and his breath had turned rancid. He had lost his drive, privately deciding to retire to the village for those who could no longer serve Zaun.

“You’re a sensitive one,” a comrade teased from behind.

The man realized that after spitting up the blood, the tightness in his chest had vanished. “Am I better?”

“You’ll need a month of treatment. I don’t have the ingredients for the full cure yet. When the rain clears, I’ll go foraging. Now, out of the way.”

Anne barked orders as she moved to the next patient. She moved through the ranks, administering doses or making small incisions to extract parasitic, leech-like entities from beneath their skin. The soldiers watched in horror. What kind of sickness was this?

“It’s a hybrid,” Anne explained casually. “They wove a curse into a biological pathogen.”

It was a fascinating revelation. A veteran who had just seen one of the creatures removed from his arm looked on in wonder. He had always believed a curse required a high-level dispelling ritual or the death of the sorcerer.

“A medic heals what can be perceived. If it manifests physically, I can treat it. Curse or virus, it still impacts the anatomy.”

Such a statement could only come from a prodigy. No ordinary alchemist would be so bold. Even Schmidt looked on with a mix of awe and skepticism.

“Incredible. Her methodology is entirely unconventional.”

Judging by the look in Schmidt’s eyes, he was already mentally drafting an invitation for her to join the Empire. Even in the shadow of war, the recruiter in him couldn’t ignore talent. He was professional enough, however, to keep his mouth shut for the moment.

Anne’s intervention was swift. Within twenty-four hours, the epidemic was halted. The internal hemorrhaging stopped, and the lethal fevers broke.

“Eat, sleep, and stay still. I’d tell you not to fight, but I know you won’t listen,” Anne said to the room at large.

“We can’t,” Ragna confirmed.

“Then take what rest you can get now,” she urged.

She was being honest; a body doesn’t bounce back instantly from such a strain. The warriors took her words to heart. They stoked the great hearth of the manor and built fires outside to dry their gear and stay warm. They ate their field rations where they sat, skipping the formality of the dining hall. The house was packed to capacity; men slept in corners or spent their downtime maintaining their kit. For a knight of Zaun, sharpening a blade was a form of meditation.

Enkrid checked his sword and changed into the dry undergarments provided by the fairies. They were effective but felt like wearing sandpaper or rough foliage. He didn’t complain, though he noted the discomfort; expecting luxury in a war zone was foolish.

“I’m finished for now,” Anne announced, her arms dropping to her sides. She was drenched in sweat, with heavy bags under her eyes. She looked ready to snap. “I’m the one dying now,” she wheezed, falling toward the floor.

Anahera caught her with a pillow before she landed. Lynox appeared moments later with a blanket. Other soldiers stepped up, offering to run errands or fight in her stead. Without Anne, House Zaun would have been a graveyard. They didn’t know exactly what Heskal had done, but even Lynox had felt the sickness taking root. The enemy had tried to remove their only hope by targeting Millescia, but they hadn’t accounted for Anne. Saho’s obsessive protection of her had paid off, and Enkrid made a mental note to thank him eventually.

The heavy, rhythmic thumping of the rain slowed to a dull patter. The gale died down, but the clouds remained, keeping the world in a grey twilight.

“They have arrived,” the Master of House Zaun declared.

It was the early hours of the morning. Enkrid stood up, gauging the time. The Lord’s voice rang out again.

“All who can hold a blade, assemble.”

The Lord wasn’t a man for grand oratory. He led through presence. He shouldered his massive sword and stepped into the mist. Enkrid stood beside Ragna, observing. Unlike his father, the Lord’s fury was palpable. He was stoic, but his eyes were twin pyres.

“Anger is an appropriate response,” Enkrid remarked.

The survivors of Zaun filed out. Grida attempted to join them despite the wound in her torso. Anne watched her, muttering that she was tempted to knock the woman unconscious for her own good. Enkrid and Ragna stayed back for a moment, watching the silhouettes disappear into the fog.

“Why should I be angry?” Ragna questioned.

Enkrid felt a spark of irritation. “You should try being honest with yourself.”

He kept his tone soft, hoping Ragna would finally see what was right in front of him. It was painfully obvious. Why hadn’t Ragna seized his destiny? Why claim a goal and then remain passive?

“What is your point?”

Enkrid rarely lost his cool, but Ragna’s detachment was stifling. “No one would blame you if you walked away from this.”

“I am fine,” Ragna insisted.

“I don’t believe you’ve failed your oath. But I also don’t believe a single act of violence will resolve your internal conflict,” Enkrid said. “When you left this place, did you find peace? Or were you just wandering in circles? Choosing to ignore what is happening right in front of you isn’t being ‘lost.’ It’s cowardice.”

Enkrid knew that regret is a ghost that only appears once everything is gone. It is a cruel companion that punishes those who wait too long to act. Because he had tasted that bitterness before, he spoke with a sharp edge.

“You have every right to be livid,” Enkrid concluded.

Ragna paused, the words sinking in. He looked inward. Was he angry?

He was. Enkrid’s calm, piercing words had stripped away the layers of denial. Someone had attacked his kin. Someone had defiled his home. Finally, Ragna allowed himself to feel it.