A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 708

Chapter 708

The art of the blade commenced with physical forms optimized for the flawless delivery of internal energy.
It was the science of the stance’s breadth to anchor power, the specific grip upon the hilt, and the fluid transition of momentum from the soles of the feet through the core, climbing to the shoulders and terminating at the wrists.
To study the frames that projected force and to polish the execution of the swing from those exact frames—that was the essence of swordsmanship.
The Patriarch of the house unleashed his weapon as if offering a masterclass in these core principles.
Lurching forward with his left leg, he carved the air with a strike traveling from his right to his left.
Although it appeared to be a standard swing rooted in basic drill, the reality of the environment warped around it.
Atmospheric noise vanished.
The howling gusts and the heavy downpour were caught in the vacuum of the blade’s trajectory and extinguished.
Enkrid tracked the movement of the Patriarch’s sword and felt a sharp, high-pitched ringing in his ears.
It was a piercing sound.
This was a blow that consumed the world around it—the storms, the flashes of light, everything.
A forced state of hyper-focus gripped Enkrid’s mind, and the flow of time slowed to a crawl.
The Patriarch’s motion and the onslaught of the beasts separated into distinct, isolated frames.
Enkrid’s perception pulled a sliver of the immediate future into the present.
The Patriarch’s blade traced a solitary path.
A dense, powerful streak of energy was etched into the air from high right to low left.
It resembled the heavy stroke of a brush dripping with thick pigment against the sky.
The pair of abominations caught within that arc were destined to be torn asunder.
Yet, in their final moments, their talons would rake across the Patriarch’s shoulder and his side.
The murderous intent of the creatures, striking from both high and low angles, was undeniable.
Crash!
The ringing silence shattered into a violent roar.
Enkrid let out a soft grunt and gave a small nod.
The timeline he had glimpsed through his foresight had shifted.
However, it wasn’t a shock.
It contradicted his vision—but then, shouldn’t one expect the Lord of Zaun to defy the predictable?
The Patriarch’s steel moved with a velocity that eclipsed the charging monsters.
The two beasts were bisected and hurled into the atmosphere.
With heavy, wet impacts, the carcasses slammed into the saturated earth like butchered meat, leaking dark, corrupted ichor.
The Patriarch brought his sword back, letting the point dip toward the ground, and spoke.
“Step forward, Heskal. I am here to pass sentence on your betrayals.”
The rain continued its relentless fall.
Through the gray haze, the road held sacred by those who live by the sword—the holy walk dedicated to the God of Swords—became visible.
Down that stretch of road, rows of monsters stood in plain sight.
They weren’t a chaotic mob; they were standing in disciplined ranks.
The Lord surely noticed this as well.
No witness to such a sight would believe the coming conflict would be simple.
The individual who understood the true depth of Zaun’s power stood there—as their adversary.
He had arrived with the calculations necessary for a total victory.
Yet, with a single motion of the Lord’s blade, the entire gravity of the situation had pivoted.
Plots? Ambushes? What did they matter?
Could any strategy serve as a bulwark against a blade of this caliber?
That was the silent declaration of the Patriarch’s steel.
“Then proceed with your inquiries.”
From his position among the ranks of monsters, Heskal gave his response.
He was unmoved by the crushing aura the Patriarch projected or the heavy tension filling the air.
His individual presence was unmistakable to all present.
Standing tall against the Patriarch, he made his identity clear—he was the architect of this entire catastrophe.
Their gazes locked through the thin veil of the storm.
the falling droplets felt increasingly frigid.
A bolt of lightning fractured the dark heavens, as if trying to sever the space between the two men.
It was neither the Patriarch nor Heskal who eventually fractured the quiet.
“Heskal.”
Out of the tense standoff, a figure stumbled forward.
His eyes were shaking uncontrollably, though likely not as much as his spirit.
“Ah, Riley. I assumed the Patriarch would have placed you under guard. But he is a pragmatic man.
To drag you here despite his suspicions—it must have been a tactic to unnerve me.”
The rain fell steadily.
It held neither hatred nor mercy.
It was devoid of feeling.
The same was true for Heskal’s tone and his posture.
There was no visible malice. But there was no kindness, either.
“So, I was just a tool to you?”
Riley ground his teeth as he spoke.
He bit down with such force that crimson stained his lips, only to be thinned and swept away by the rainwater.
Unless someone was standing immediately beside him, the detail would have been missed—
But Enkrid was already there, positioned next to him, and observed it all.
He hadn’t made a conscious choice to stand with Riley.
It was a matter of tactical coincidence.
‘This is the optimal vantage point.’
Riley was standing at the heart of the Zaun formation.
It was a perfect spot to monitor the entire theater and react to the flow of battle.
“Was it a mental manipulation? Were you being blackmailed? Did you require some kind of cure for a toxin?”
Riley whispered, trying to find a version of reality he could accept.
But his theories lacked logic.
For a lesser man, a threat to his life might have served as an excuse.
But Heskal was not that sort of individual.
He would have chosen the grave over turning his back on Zaun.
That was the significance of the reputation he had forged over decades of service to Zaun.
Heskal showed not a hint of doubt.
With a straight spine and level shoulders—he projected an aura of honor and authority.
“Do you truly believe such things are possible?”
Heskal dismissed the ideas with the same mild, polite voice he had always used.
“Then explain why!”
Riley’s cry tore through the sound of the rain.
He seemed composed on the surface, but his soul was screaming.
Heskal did not show irritation or offer a rebuke.
He turned his gaze calmly toward the Patriarch:
“Do you honestly think I would falter because of this?”
“You use every available advantage.”
The Patriarch did not bother to deny it.
He confessed that part of the reason for Riley’s presence was to test Heskal’s resolve.
“Abandon this. It has reached its conclusion.”
Heskal repeated.
Enkrid, in the meantime, kept his eyes fixed on the stationary horde of monsters.
He estimated their numbers and analyzed their spacing.
Slightly over a thousand?
As a scout, the ability to calculate enemy strength was mandatory.
Enkrid possessed at least that fundamental skill.
What truly unsettled him was the absolute stillness of those creatures.
‘Is this the result of training? Or is it psychic domination?’
Regardless of the method, they were a dangerous foe.
Monsters that are disciplined and organized function as a true military force.
A unit that repeats its training is defined as elite.
Not merely due to the power of the individuals—but because they follow orders exactly as intended by their leader.
Raw or green troops in the heat of a slaughter lose their bearings.
Some break and run. Some cower. Some launch suicidal charges.
But those who hold their lines and fight as one—they are the elites.
‘They resemble the professional soldiers of the Border Guard.’
The monsters behaved as if they had been put through rigorous maneuvers.
A formidable opponent.
“Why, dammit, why?”
Riley’s spirit was shattered.
That was proof of the massive influence Heskal had held over his life.
Riley’s frame was shivering.
When the internal pillar snaps, the body follows.
It could be described as an emotional decapitation.
If so, Heskal was a terrifyingly skilled combatant.
Without even unsheathing a blade, he had effectively executed a man’s will.
Enkrid could feel the mounting pressure coming from those around him.
Lua Gharne used to say—
“What sort of incompetent leader remains ignorant of the condition of their own soldiers?”
Studying the enemy is vital, but it is useless if you don’t understand your own side.
That was the core of Lua Gharne’s tactical philosophy.
Enkrid had heard those words countless times from her—and he applied them now.
‘The ones fueled by rage.’
The ones consumed by grief.
The ones who managed to stay stoic.
Each person emitted a unique emotional frequency.
If there was an outlier among them—it was the massive woman, Anahera.
She was vibrating with anticipation.
Her breathing was a series of violent snorts.
She looked ready to spring at any moment.
Her digits twitched against the grip of her weapon.
If her restraint slipped, she would fully manifest the primal traits of her giant heritage—becoming a Beast of Red Blood.
‘In a real life-or-death struggle, she is easily the equal of a knight or better.’
Enkrid placed Anahera on the periphery of his mental tactical map, then began categorizing the others.
Those mourning would still be effective in the fray.
Those in the grip of panic would only serve to inflate the death toll if pushed into the front lines.
Those prepared for the immediate clash.
Those who required a moment to steady themselves.
Those best suited for defensive positions in the rear.
‘And the opposition has practitioners of the occult.’
Even if one ignored the wizards, the curses of shamans thrived on emotional instability.
Malice finds a home in fractured hearts—that was what Rem had taught.
And Enkrid knew he was right, having lived through it himself.
Unclouded thoughts.
Resolute judgment.
Enkrid sketched a map of the battlefield in his mind.
“Ah, Enkrid of the Border Guard. You were so eager to leave, were you not? Why do you remain? What could you possibly hope to achieve by staying now?”
Heskal directed his voice toward him.
He didn’t move closer—he projected his voice from a distance.
It might appear timid, but it was actually a brilliant tactical position.
If the Patriarch and his wife both made him their target, he would be dead.
He wasn’t going to give them that opening.
“What was your ambition? You promised you would tell me. I couldn’t depart without knowing the truth.”
Enkrid bellowed back.
Even through the wall of rain, their words were exchanged with clarity.
“You are truly that inquisitive?”
“Since my youth, I couldn’t find rest if I didn’t solve a puzzle.”
That was no falsehood.
At least, not when it involved the path of the sword.
He tended to disregard almost everything else.
“You truly are a fascinating individual.”
For the first time, Heskal displayed a glimmer of genuine feeling—curiosity.
“Behind me stands one who intends to ascend to godhood.
There are few who do not recognize the name of the alchemist Dremule.”
It was a legendary name woven into the history of the land.
If Anne were present, she would be debating the impossibility of that statement.
Dremule was the mentor of Raban—a psychotic alchemist who had engineered the plague seeds, a mass-murdering madman.
He should have been a corpse in the annals of history—a specter from the past.
Heskal spoke of his ambition with total composure.
“Just as he creates the divine, I shall do the same.
I will forge divinity in that very manner.”
He was being completely honest.
The premise was madness.
But isn’t a certain degree of madness expected in grand dreams?
The things that seem out of reach.
The goals that are nearly impossible to grasp.
The things one wants with every fiber of their being—that is what we define as a dream.
Except—
‘He hasn’t revealed the whole truth.’
Forging divinity might just be the tool for a greater objective.
Toward what end?
If his fear was mortality, he would have spoken of eternal life.
If he wished to bring back a lost child, he would have mentioned rebirth.
But Heskal offered nothing more.
He simply confessed that the dream he had promised to share was the theft of godhood.
That was the extent of his revelation.
A few brief sentences had bought him time.
And during that window, several people reacted exactly as Enkrid had predicted.
“You’re out of your mind.”
Riley Zaun solidified his loyalty with that single insult.
He was a blade belonging to Zaun.
The instability in his gaze had quieted.
Even if the sea remains violent, a focused mariner won’t be easily thrown overboard.
That was the shift Riley Zaun had achieved.
‘Impressive.’
Enkrid viewed the transformation favorably.
Several others were quietly readying themselves for the slaughter.
But not everyone.
Even setting Riley aside, many had once found a form of redemption through Heskal.
Many were still caught in the emotional tide.
They weren’t ready to be committed to the front.
‘The Patriarch, his wife, Lynox, myself, and Ragna.’
Those were the five core knights.
There were two more who occupied the space between a true knight and a high-level warrior.
The giant Anahera, and the man who had stood across from Riley—
He had once been praised by Lynox, but had drifted, lost in the shadow of the geniuses around him.
He hadn’t been gone for a decade like some.
But that didn’t make his period of wandering any less grueling.
Everyone inhabits their own personal nightmare.
And everyone treads their own road.
His journey had taken him through the village of those who had retired for months—
And also through the settlements of hunters and the dens of fixers.
Following that aimless time, he had come back and found his center again.
He was on par with Anahera—perhaps even more reliable in the chaos of battle.
‘Anahera is a giant. That explains her power.’
The man standing against Riley, the one who had wandered—Kato Zaun.
He was a master of diverse combat styles.
He even possessed knowledge of the secret arts of Ail Caraz.
His body was a weapon, adorned with bladeless grips and concealed daggers.
He was known as Kato of the Bladed Armor.
Five plus two.
Zaun had roughly seventy capable combatants.
The rest were staying behind.
This was the total sum of Zaun’s genuine military strength.