A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 717

Chapter 717

“I am not going to let a little toxin slow me down. Do you understand? If you have something to say, quit stalling and just say it.”

Just as Ragna prepared to lunge, Anne reached out from his rear, passing him several medicinal containers. He considered informing her that the venom had already begun to circulate through his system, but he held his tongue. This wasn’t the moment for such admissions.

Ragna was acutely aware of his own requirements. It was the same as it always was: the moment his fingers wrapped around a hilt, his objective became crystal clear.

The poison.

Lynox had warned that the inscribed blade held by Heskal was coated in a toxic substance. Yet, Will had shown no reaction to it. The only physical evidence on his body was the impact site on his shoulder where the unexpected strike had landed. The heavy rainfall quickly rinsed away the crimson droplets leaking from the puncture, leaving the skin clean.

The weather certainly helped, but Ragna had also instinctively contracted his musculature the instant the steel pierced him, sealing the tear from within. It was a physical fortification method. Not a bad trick, Fanatic.

He had picked up the basics of that skill simply by observing Enkrid’s drills, though the Fanatic had personally guided him through a few specific variations.

“Haha, little brother, that’s it! Put your weight into it! Give me more, more, more!”

The memory made him shudder; it was practically a nightmare experienced while wide awake. It was no mystery why people labeled that man a madman. He never offered a formal challenge; he just stood there, grinning like an idiot while hoisting massive iron weights, shouting encouragements. When Ragna had eventually tried to drive him off with a blade, it had devolved into a training session. In truth, that encounter had been a genuine skirmish. Both had allowed a fraction of their true lethality to bleed through, resulting in a violent collision.

Audin was a terrifying zealot—a man you couldn’t hope to fell with a solitary strike. That had been Ragna’s takeaway from that day.

Now, he hoisted his own weapon. He had learned the meaning of true ferocity from Enkrid, even if he couldn’t always summon that intensity at will. However, standing here against these sycophants surrounding the commander, with his very survival on the line, his spirit and biology had no choice but to ignite. Danger was his greatest catalyst for motivation. It was the same feeling he got when that cursed wildcat crept up on him in the shadows, or when that primitive brute started a brawl.

If nothing pushed him to that edge, Ragna would go looking for the edge himself. He preferred a violent, raw atmosphere when it was time for blood. One slip of the wrist and the reaper would be breathing down his neck; one lapse in concentration and his throat would be open. He had survived a thousand such moments—times when he had to leap beyond the precipice, dance through a furnace, or sprint across the edge of a razor.

If he failed to do so… he would remain the subordinate, the youngest, the weakest. And that was an outcome he refused to accept.

Lowering the tip of his greatsword, Ragna fixed his gaze forward. *I will never be the bottom of the hierarchy.*

His determination crystallized into a tangible force, beginning to radiate. Just as Enkrid’s resolve had once blazed in the heat of conflict, a similar light now erupted from Ragna. If survival and status demanded he embrace the risk, he would. If he needed to be a monster, he would pull that savagery from his gut and wield it. His drive hit a fever pitch. Ragna was no longer playing around.

—

Heskal disengaged Camouflage—his shifting, telescopic blade—and reset his footing. He stood perpendicular to Ragna, keeping his torso angled and his left hand tucked out of sight. He offered a blank, indifferent stare.

This level of nonchalance was meant to weigh heavily on an opponent’s mind. It served to keep Ragna fixated on the weapon’s deceptive reach, a psychological pressure designed to muddy his thoughts. Combined with the injury, it should have been draining Ragna’s stamina and breaking his spirit. It was a calculated play.

Granted, Heskal would have finished the boy with the initial strike if possible, but the opportunity had vanished. He had retreated on raw instinct after drawing blood. His strategy remained the same: threaten with the physical steel, kill with the shifting illusion. The first blow had landed, yet…

Those eyes.

There was no sign of distress. No nervous gulping, no twitching of the hands. On the surface, Heskal remained the picture of serenity. Even with a significant gash in his shoulder, Ragna’s stance was identical to his previous one. He hadn’t shifted from the spot he’d occupied after his initial dodge. Aside from the reflexive flinch when the blade bit in, he was a statue.

The rain beat down relentlessly. Because Medusa’s curse had no effect on Heskal, he could keep his vision unobstructed. Ragna, however, kept his head dipped slightly, his eyes veiled by the brim of his brow. Usually, when one fighter’s vision is compromised, the other holds a massive edge.

So why was Heskal’s blood running cold?

He felt his fibers tensing, his frame tightening like a viper coiled to strike. His instincts were screaming before his logic could catch up. Ragna hadn’t moved, yet Heskal’s history of violence was whispering a lethal warning. The boy was a predator. Heskal’s skin crawled; his body was sensing a looming catastrophe.

He couldn’t recall the last time he had felt this specific brand of dread. He pressed his lips together and took a long, controlled breath, forcing his internal organs and abdominal muscles to loosen. He manually restored calm to his system through respiration.

He re-evaluated Ragna’s posture. Both hands were on the grip, arms hanging low, the left arm shielding the torso. Ragna had only swung the massive blade once, but now Heskal saw the truth: the boy hadn’t actually started his real offensive yet. That greatsword was the primary threat. It was a weapon meant for singular, devastating impacts.

It reminded Heskal of the lessons he had passed down to Riley. And those lessons had originated with the head of the house. Ragna would have been raised on a similar foundation. It was natural that he would mirror the techniques of Tempest Zaun.

*Should I be pleased to feel this threatened?* Heskal wondered. *Of course.* Now that his mind was clear, he could anticipate the trajectories Ragna might take, which improved his odds. He finally understood the source of his shiver.

“You’ve been taught well, Ragna,” he thought. The coming strike would be a nightmare to parry.

A stray drop of water hit Heskal’s eye, causing him to wince slightly. He had spent his life as a duelist, skirting the border of the afterlife. Those experiences were the only reason he was still standing. He knew that honor had no place in a real execution. If Ragna hadn’t learned that yet, this would be his grave.

A massive crack of lightning fractured the sky, momentarily illuminating the area with a blinding white flash. Heskal waited for the spots in his vision to clear before speaking. Ragna remained a silent silhouette.

“That wound has to be agonizing.”

It was another jab at his psyche. To win, one had to use every available tool. The “prodigies” trapped in the sheltered world of Zaun rarely understood that. They believed in the sanctity of raw talent and fair play. In a real struggle, there is no such thing as “fair.”

Did Ragna Zaun understand that? Likely not. To grasp that truth, one has to be broken by a superior foe and forced to climb back up. Growth comes from desperation, not just gift. That anchor in the storm is what keeps a warrior grounded when things fall apart.

Yet, despite his lack of experience, Ragna’s focus was uncanny. He didn’t even blink. He reminded Heskal of Enkrid from the Border Guard. That man was far from ordinary; his history of suffering was etched into his very movements and the way he processed a fight.

With a final thought, Heskal spoke.

“Watch yourself.”

He lunged with the same opening as before, but this time, Ragna’s reaction time had sharpened. He knew he couldn’t afford to be slow against that shifting steel. Heskal aborted the thrust, snapping his wrist to change the angle. The blade elongated silently, a curving arc aimed to disembowel.

Even a basic swing became a death trap when the length could double mid-motion. Heskal timed it for the exact moment Ragna would lift his greatsword to block. He planned to use the collision to trigger a hidden edge that would dart out and take the boy’s head.

The math was perfect. The steel nicked Ragna’s cheek—a tiny red line. But instead of committing to the parry, Ragna pivoted and threw himself backward, clearing the danger zone. Then, he exploded forward.

The ground erupted as he launched himself. Closing the gap instantly, Ragna snapped a kick toward Heskal’s knee. However, Heskal’s defensive capabilities were the gold standard of Zaun. He dropped his weight, lowered his center of gravity, and brought his left arm down. His gauntlet shifted into a reinforced buckler, catching the impact of the boot.

Heskal skittered back, letting the force of the blow travel through his limbs and dissipate into the air. Ragna pulled his leg back and slammed his foot into the mud with shattering force, burying it to the ankle. It looked like a precursor to a massive swing, but the greatsword stayed still. It was a trap.

Heskal didn’t bite. He read the tension in Ragna’s muscles and the grip on the hilt. If he swung now, it would be an easy avoid. Ragna was smarter than that; he wasn’t going to blow his load on a prayer.

“You’re getting careless,” Heskal taunted.

Ragna offered no retort.

The dance continued. Heskal maintained the pressure. Ragna dodged by margins of millimeters, occasionally taking minor cuts on his limbs or throat. If Alexandra’s battle had been a lightning strike, this was a slow-burn war of attrition. Heskal was thinking three steps ahead, tightening the noose. Ragna was barely surviving on the periphery.

How long did they trade? In the world of high-level swordsmanship, it was an eternity. To a spectator, it was a blur.

Suddenly, Heskal raised his weapon and froze.

A dead end.

His refined instincts, the culmination of decades of slaughter, were showing him the path. But the path was blocked. He could see a sequence that would trap Ragna in three moves, but it required him to take a hit he couldn’t afford. Even the best knights have limits.

*If you want a marathon, fine.*

He moved to strike again, intending to bypass Ragna’s feints, but he hit another mental wall. Another dead end. Even the most perfect style has a gap, but Heskal was supposed to be the one finding them, not hitting them.

*Why won’t the lines connect?*

His strategy of dominating the space was falling apart before it could even begin. Every intended strike felt like it would lead to disaster—a snapped blade, a compromised stance. He considered a full retreat, but Ragna’s explosive speed from earlier told him he wouldn’t make it. His mind was already simulating his own defeat.

Finally, Ragna’s voice cut through the rain.

“You’re the one being sloppy, Heskal.”