A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 710

Chapter 710

Under normal circumstances, there was zero incentive for the kin of Zaun to heed the directives of anyone other than the patriarch.
“What is this nonsense?”
That was the reaction one would typically expect—a total dismissal without a second thought.
Yet, this moment was different.
The timing demanded leadership, and because it was Enkrid issuing the call, it took hold. More to the point, obeying him didn’t feel like a transgression.
Enkrid had shared their meals, their sleep, and their training. Above all, the countless hours spent swinging steel alongside them had forged a profound, dense bond.
Despite his status as an interloper from the world beyond Zaun, Enkrid was a man who seemed to belong in their rugged landscape more naturally than anyone else.
Regardless of his origins, Enkrid had now unsheathed the blade that was Zaun and stood ready to strike.
As Anahera launched her charge and the horrors surrounding the Family Head, Alexandra, and Lynox began their advance, the rest moved in unison.
The swarm of creatures closing in on the defensive perimeter established by the Family Head began to organize themselves around the Scalers. They weren’t merely a mindless horde; they were executing a sophisticated siege maneuver.
If Enkrid had the leisure to notice, he might have offered genuine praise to whoever had coached such monsters to move with such tactical precision.
Ragna, however, had not heard Enkrid’s commands. He remained in that uncertain space behind the Family Head, just as he had before.
“Father.”
Ragna addressed his father’s silhouette. His eyes were fixed forward, his heavy greatsword already out and resting low in a relaxed grip.
From the outside, it looked like a lazy posture. In truth, it was the stance of a predator coiled to spring at any second.
That specific form was a mirror of his father’s. It was only natural—Ragna had refined his own style by shadowing the man.
He had always chased his father’s shadow. He had taken up the sword even while enduring his mother’s discipline. That was the spark of Ragna’s journey.
“Go on,” his father replied, never turning his head.
The monstrosities were nearing. They didn’t represent a fatal threat to him, yet this could very well be the twilight of Zaun. And if Zaun fell, it would be the end of his father as well.
“What is it you hope to leave as a legacy? And what have you already passed on?”
Perhaps Enkrid’s influence had rubbed off on him—that peculiar fascination with the inner dreams of others. He specifically wondered about his father: What was his true ambition? What had he been pursuing all these years?
“My physical form is beyond mending. I am more aware of my own decline than anyone,” the answer came instantly. It seemed as though the patriarch had been holding onto these words for the perfect moment.
To a casual observer, it might have sounded like a trivial admission. But if his father deemed it necessary to speak these words now, Ragna knew they carried weight.
“Claim Ilchul for yourself. But let go of the family.”
Tempest was acutely aware that his strength was fading. Having an opportunity to reiterate to his son what he had previously told Enkrid, he refused to let it slip away.
Still staring into the distance, he added:
“I intend to leave the leadership of the family to Odinkar.”
Was this an attempt to soothe Ragna’s conscience? The delivery was so blunt it almost sounded dismissive.
It was like someone casually offering a piece of candy.
Even though the lordship and the blade Ilchul were far too significant to be handled so lightly, that was the way the words landed.
This wasn’t due to a lack of care. Tempest simply lacked the capacity to infuse his speech with sentiment.
It was a long-standing trait, a secret shared only by a small circle—his wife, Grida, and a few close associates.
Ragna had always understood this intellectually. But in this moment, he felt it in his soul.
His father’s resolve cut through him more sharply than ever—like a shard of steel scraping against bone rather than just skin.
His father’s words were always rooted in absolute sincerity. He only spoke when he had a truth to share.
He couldn’t project warmth, yet he harbored a deep love for his spouse, his kin, and his people. His solution was to imbue every syllable with his total conviction.
A father might tell a child “I love you” countless times, only to be met with a cold stare. This father did the only thing he could: he ensured that every word he spoke was backed by his entire being.
That was the oath and the legacy of Tempest Zaun.
And that conviction finally found its mark in his son’s heart.
Ragna saw clearly now. He was the boy who had wandered off and lost his way, only to return as a man.
He finally grasped his father’s intentions. He was finally ready to truly listen.
The family mantle was not his to wear. Zaun was no longer the place he called home.
The reason Odinkar had stayed to defend the clan, even at the risk of his life, was clear:
He would be the one to guide the family in Ragna’s stead.
And to Ragna, his own flesh and blood, Tempest would bequeath Ilchul—and his freedom.
“Then I shall treat this conflict as my final obligation… Father.”
Ragna spoke in harmony with his father’s tone. His meaning was clear: I accept your decision.
“My only desire,” Tempest noted once more, “is a sturdy boundary. A place untainted by blight or corruption, if it can be helped.”
“No one shall be permitted to infringe upon your vision,” Ragna vowed.
Their individual declarations braided together, culminating in a shared understanding between father and son.
Then, like a breaking levee, the monsters hit.
Ragna moved instinctively to cover his father’s flank, waiting for the signal from Enkrid.
He had faith that Enkrid would point him exactly where he was required.
For the time being, he simply stood ready.
‘Awaiting the word.’
Ragna breathed the thought to himself and shifted his stance.

—

How does one proceed when a personal dream clashes with an opponent’s ambition?
The answer is simple—you settle it by the fundamental law of the land.
In short, the one with the greater power dictates the outcome.
That was the reality in the Empire, and it had been the reality of every world Enkrid had walked.
Ultimately, only the victor’s dream remains standing.
This theater of war followed the same rules.
One side craved transformation. The other fought to preserve the status quo.
“You are chasing a delusion.”
The voice of the one seeking change echoed in spirit.
“Heskal. You have never bested me.”
The one protecting his legacy countered.
Though no words were physically exchanged, the dialogue was undeniable.
They spoke through the language of violence.
Shhhhhh.
The rhythmic drone of the rain persisted.
BOOM!
A sudden crack of lightning punctuated the cacophony of the struggle.
They were about to pit their wits, their lore, and their might against one another.
Such is the nature of war.
Enkrid had already deployed Anahera and Kato—the most agile among them.
And now, he turned to another man who, despite his physical limitations, possessed a sword skill that rivaled theirs.
“Riley, take the center! Aivan, Lennon, Lontis—shift left and form a rank! To everyone assigned with them, fall into line! On the right—Betty, Ludens, and Kal, hold firm. You are our support! Consider yourselves the final line—if you buckle, we all fall!”
Intuition is the faculty that draws conclusions from the well of experience and instinct.
That was Enkrid’s primary weapon now.
His days in Zaun, the endless duels and drills—none of it was wasted. The strategy ahead was vivid in his mind.
He understood the people of Zaun.
Perhaps not every nuance, but enough to lead them.
‘I still have a sickening feeling, though.’
His gut was screaming at him, a persistent itch in the back of his mind.
Sssssshhhhhhh—!
The Scalers let out their haunting cries, designed to scramble the focus of their enemies.
That was their hallmark.
Under the cover of those shrieks, ghostly apparitions—the Plague Maidens—began to materialize in the air.
‘They aren’t bothering the Family Head.’
It made sense.
Tempest and Alexandra were the types who could vaporize spirits in a heartbeat through sheer Will or other techniques.
Heskal was a master of the battlefield.
He directed his resources exactly where they would be most disruptive.
The phantoms drifted forward, trailing pestilence in their wake.
“Break it out and coat your steel!”
Enkrid barked, his eyes fixed on the ghosts.
Anne was far from dull—and Enkrid even less so.
They had anticipated this move.
While Enkrid had focused on combat training, Anne had spent her time processing vegetation and brewing antidotes.
Before they set out, she had distributed small clumps of amber-colored powder to everyone.
At Enkrid’s signal, those near Riley produced the powder and smeared it along their blades.
“Now that we’ve prepared the stage—let the performance begin!”
Despite the dread gnawing at his mind—and the unfavorable odds—
“This is going to be exhilarating.”
Recalling the words of Lua Gharne, Enkrid felt a rush of adrenaline as he orchestrated the units.
A war is a theater, and the warriors are the tools you use to carve out a victory.
‘We are not losing this.’
As the excitement swelled, a cold determination took root in his chest.
“What kind of madness are you spouting!?”
Riley still found the breath to snap back at Enkrid’s bravado. He pulled a throwing blade, cocking his arm back.
He had dedicated himself to this projectile art, as his leg injury made traditional footwork impossible.
It wasn’t the style Jaxon used, but it was effective in its own right.
He planted himself on his good leg, treated his entire torso like a catapult, and snapped his arm forward with explosive force.
PANG!
The knife sliced through the rain—nearly instantaneous—drilling through the heads of two Plague Maidens and pinning them into the distance.
It was a high-intensity move that used every fiber of his being, not something meant for rapid fire.
His throwing arm nearly brushed the mud—he had put every ounce of strength into that one strike.
It was a throw that embodied his entire spirit.
‘Not bad.’
Enkrid noted with detached approval.
Riley was also a quintessential weapon of Zaun.
Even after the defeat handed to him by Heskal, he hadn’t crumbled. He stood tall, looking toward the future.
He, too, was ready to step out from the patriarch’s shadow.
‘The stagnant have no place in what’s coming.’
Riley would survive to see the dawn. He had earned that much.
DUDUDUDUDU!
The Scalers, mounted on their lizard beasts, crashed into the fray.
One charged with a blackened staff—held in a reverse grip like a bludgeon. It was obvious those weapons were smeared with toxins.
They slammed into the line led by Riley.
“If you fall before this fool does, you’re an even bigger embarrassment!”
Riley bellowed.
It was a shout that sliced through the unsettling noise of the Scalers. It cut through the rain—a cry for blood and glory.
Riley lacked formal military experience, but he had been molded by Heskal. Being down a limb, he was accustomed to fighting in tandem, coordinating his strikes.
Right here, right now—he was the only one capable of maintaining order in a small unit.
See how he rallied their spirits just as the steel met?
Naturally, that was only possible because Enkrid had set the foundation.
“Hahaha!”
Anahera’s booming laughter echoed from the distance.
The adopted champion of Zaun, a woman of massive stature, swung a sword so heavy most men couldn’t even lift it—and she did so with fluid grace.
CRACK! CRUNCH! SHATTER!
Her blade carved a path through the lizard riders, bisecting both beasts and their masters.
“Den! Gather nine others and punch through that gap!”
Enkrid unsheathed his weapon and signaled.
Den was among those who had been paralyzed by shock. Enkrid had noticed him stirring at Riley’s shout—muttering “damn idiot” while drawing his sword—and put him to work.
Den wasn’t a legend in the making, but he commanded respect. Two of the men Heskal had murdered were his comrades.
That was why he had looked at Riley with such vitriol. But perhaps… seeing Riley lead the charge had pricked his pride.
If even the cast-off son is standing his ground—what am I doing?
That thought had surely crossed his mind.
Whatever the motivation, he was ready for blood—and Enkrid utilized him.
Ten warriors followed Den—each holding a single blade.
They were the heart of Zaun.
If you overlooked those who hadn’t yet reached their potential due to the rush of events, these men were nightmares for any continental army the moment they drew steel.
Even while directing the chaos, Enkrid’s eyes never stopped moving, scanning every corner of the field.
BOOM! CRACK!
The Family Head was a whirlwind of destruction, his greatsword strikes far surpassing the power Anahera displayed.
He hadn’t yielded an inch of ground.
Beside him, Alexandra was equally fierce. She moved with lethal economy, staying within a tight circle. Severed parts of monsters littered the ground in her wake.
Lynox was engaged with two of his six blades. In his left hand, the slender Esterc; in his right, a heavy, single-edged falchion.
With Esterc, he parried.
With the falchion, he butchered.
It was a simple method, but devastatingly precise.
The pile of carcasses at his feet was the largest of the three.
Enkrid had studied this before. There was a wealth of knowledge to be found in that style.
‘Redirect with the light, destroy with the heavy.’
He understood that “blocking” was actually “redirection,” and every offensive move was calculated for maximum impact with minimum travel.
Lynox was the kind of master who could dismantle a hundred different styles and then create a hundred more of his own.
SHHHHHHHH!
Abruptly, the deluge grew heavier.
Was it because the Plague Maidens had pulled back?
Despite the pervasive odor of blood and filth on the field, Enkrid detected a new sensation—
A cloying, sweet fragrance began to hang in the air.
No magic had fallen from the sky yet, and the storm raged on, but Enkrid’s keen senses picked it up.
Zaun possessed knights.
And Heskal was no fool.
If he had initiated this conflict knowing knights were present, he would have prepared a countermeasure.
This was that countermeasure.
Drmul might be the fountainhead of the plague, a creature masquerading as a god.
But the architect of this specific battlefield was Heskal.
And his ultimate move?
It hadn’t been defeated yet.
That was Enkrid’s final assessment.