A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 718

Chapter 718

Heskal’s attention pivoted to meet Ragna’s gaze. Her eyes, which had been lowered moments before, rose like a dawning sun on the horizon to lock onto his. The brilliance radiating from her deep red pupils seemed to scatter the surrounding gloom.

With her golden hair and crimson eyes, she was the living image of a woman from the Zaun family line who had once reached the absolute peak of martial prowess.

“You…”

Heskal faltered, unable to find his voice, but Ragna spoke with a serene composure that sliced through the tension.

“When the sword is in my hand, a path reveals itself. And you were the one who told me—once the path is visible, walking it is simple.”

These were words Ragna had uttered as a young girl. Heskal remembered them vividly now—sentences she had spoken when he first attempted to instill the fundamentals of formal bladework in her. She had studied under him for a single day before deciding she no longer required his instruction.

Back then, Heskal had assumed Ragna was missing a vital spark. He believed that anyone devoid of raw ambition was destined to perish within the Zaun family. Ragna Zaun had seemed the perfect embodiment of that failure. Eventually, she abandoned the family. To him, she was merely a flower that had blossomed briefly among the unremarkable, destined to wilt before ever reaching full maturity.

But what if that flower was now fighting for survival with a fierce, desperate intensity?

The proof stood directly before him.

Ragna identified a route every time she gripped her weapon. Funneling an adversary into a dead end was second nature to her. Now, it was Heskal who found himself backed into a corner.

The distance between them, their physical orientation, their stances—every element had converged into a solid wall, and that wall had dictated a specific path. Heskal had followed it without a second thought, believing he was the one dictating the flow, only to realize he had wandered into a trap of his own making.

The power of choice had shifted. It no longer belonged to Heskal; it was Ragna’s. He was effectively ensnared in a web, rendered incapable of making a reckless move.

It wasn’t a lack of physical prowess or a psychological breakdown. He wasn’t a novice, either—he was a man who understood the stakes of gambling with his own life. Yet, Ragna’s blade was already positioned to deliver a killing blow.

*‘Was my assessment of her entirely flawed?’*

She had him completely pinned. At this stage, his only recourse was a direct, downward strike. Subtlety and deception were no longer options.

*‘No matter where I turn, I will be struck.’*

Attempting to evade would be the most disastrous path. Not that his current standing offered much hope. If he tried a direct counter, the concealed edge of Camouflage would likely shred the air around him. But there was no time left for such maneuvers.

The only thing left for Heskal was to attempt to overwhelm her with raw power. Abandoning illusions, he focused every ounce of his strength into a fundamental strike.

Ragna adjusted the angle of her feet by a mere fraction. In that moment, the window for breath or dialogue slammed shut.

The flurry of thoughts that followed her remark about his clumsiness might have felt lengthy, but in reality, it transpired in a heartbeat. By the time the word “clumsy” left her lips and Heskal offered his brief retort, her stance had shifted. Her massive blade scraped the earth, launching along her intended arc. The sodden ground split apart silently.

A broad, unobstructed road. Firm ground, free of debris—the perfect theater for battle. That was the path Ragna perceived.

*Zzzzzkk—*

As the atmosphere seemed to tear, Ragna’s steel was already inches from Heskal’s face.

Heskal moved. He poured his entire being into a desperate downward swing. In his final act, he chose his most potent option: flooding his Will into Camouflage to attempt a strike intended to shatter her weapon.

His blade was a masterwork of engraving. Ragna’s was not. He intended to use that superior edge to snap her sword and split her from jaw to forehead. It was the most logical move available.

And then—Heskal saw it. A faint, milky radiance shimmered along Ragna’s edge. In that same heartbeat, he sensed the end.

*‘Ah.’*

A knight possesses an intuition that signals the arrival of death. More accurately, his heightened cognitive speed allowed him to witness his own destruction. In that fragment of time, only the final choice remained. Occasionally, that ultimate decision serves to define a knight’s entire existence.

Those who value survival above all will struggle to flee. Those locked in a blood feud will aim for a mutual kill. And rarely, some make a choice born of personal conviction.

When Ragna’s greatsword collided with Heskal’s, his guard was forced back. Her blade tore onward, carving through his left leg and into his vital organs. In the instant of his demise, Heskal used his remaining vitality to wrench his body aside.

His reaction was perfectly timed with the impact. He took the energy he had hoarded for a final suicidal counter and diverted it into a desperate, evasive twist. He moved just a fraction of a second before his body was completely bifurcated.

*‘Avoid the heart…’*

*CRUNCH—*
*BOOOOOM.*

He struck with such velocity that the sonic boom trailed behind, hitting the empty space where her sword had just passed. Flesh ripped; blood geysered. Though his grip on his sword remained, Heskal’s arm was thrown upward as he tumbled backward. His final posture almost suggested he was still holding his ground with his blade.

Ragna let out a soft, confused question.

“Why?”

She had opened him up from the thigh to the shoulder. The wound was fatal. Her query wasn’t about the inevitability of his death—it was about his final maneuver. There had been a fleeting window where he could have taken her with him. Instead, he had chosen to turn away.

“Khuk!”

He spat out a mouthful of blood, though it was a mere trickle compared to the torrent escaping his torso. The crimson flow was so heavy the rain couldn’t even dilute it. His internal organs were exposed to the air for the first time.

“Stay away from me.”

Using his final reserves of Will, he forced the command out. Ragna instinctively recoiled. They were positioned right next to the backup swarm of magical beasts. Hundreds of them had gathered, either watching the duel or waiting for a moment to pounce. Ragna pulled her blade back and leaped into the air.

She cleared over twenty paces, creating a significant gap. Moments later, she looked back just as Heskal’s form erupted.

*Pop—*

The sound was surprisingly muffled. But the impact was catastrophic. The monsters in the immediate vicinity were hit instantly.

*SKREEEEEEE!*

A chorus of agonized shrieks rose from the Scalers. As Heskal expired, his blood sprayed outward in a lethal radius—every beast touched by the mist collapsed with their eyes rolling back. He had been carrying a potent toxin within his system, designed to trigger upon his death.

Why he had granted Ragna the opportunity to escape it remained an enigma. But that was a question for a later time. Ragna turned her back on the scene. Heskal was gone.

Was the mission a success? No. She had never been off course. It was Heskal who had been mistaken. With her objective clearly marked from the start, she could never have been lost. Her target remained the monstrous woman with the hair of serpents. Heskal’s interference had been a mere delay. Ragna continued forward.

—

*Shhhh—*

The gale began to subside, though the rain showed no signs of stopping. The deluge washed the remains of slaughtered beasts from Enkrid’s blade, mixing the dark ichor with the mud of the earth.

In the wake of Panito’s death, several Scalers possessing mental powers attempted a coordinated strike—projecting telekinetic energy to fire their talons like projectiles. These nails, dark as ink, were clearly saturated with lethal poison. Each creature discharged four to six of them. Guided by invisible force, the nails snaked through the rain, banking and curving toward Enkrid.

He didn’t need to see them; he could hear their trajectory. That was sufficient. He slipped past them at the last moment and shattered the following projectiles with his Tri-Iron Sword.

One lingering nail looped back toward his skull. Enkrid lunged forward during its turn, cleaving the heads of three monsters in a single vertical motion. The projectile lost its momentum and fell.

More bizarre entities emerged—each seemingly bred for a specific role. One fired nails; another ruptured its own hide to spray caustic blood. He decapitated them all.

Bolts could be evaded or intercepted. Blood could be dodged before it landed. His powerful legs and conditioned joints provided the necessary burst, allowing his body to pivot in any direction. If he moved at a speed that overwhelmed a Scaler’s perception, their telekinesis became useless.

As he continued the slaughter, his mind drifted.

*‘Are they annoying? Certainly. But they aren’t a true threat.’*

He recalled the ghoul, Jericks—or was it Jeris? The creature from Oara had been a unique, named entity of exceptional caliber. Compared to that, these things were far simpler to handle.

*‘Neutralize the mental interference, and the fight is over.’*

Even if he was caught in their grip, he could simply overpower it with physical strength. He only needed to be wary of the poisoned nails. He was starting to grasp the logic behind this horde. It wasn’t about who they were, but what they were meant to do.

*‘Chimeras. Built to drain my endurance.’*

They weren’t natural monsters; they were artificial products of research. After surveying the pile of carcasses, Enkrid rolled his shoulders. It is said a knight can hold off a thousand foes. But that feat requires specific circumstances—time and equipment that minimizes the loss of stamina and Will. Victory doesn’t come for free with every swing.

A knight’s supernatural capacity has a limit. While someone skilled at managing their resources can endure longer—

*‘Every knight possesses a distinct methodology.’*

Some clear the field in a burst and then recover. Others engage in a steady war of attrition. Enkrid wasn’t in peak condition. His muscles felt heavy, and he was drenched to the bone. But the conflict persisted. He had already achieved a great deal. Feeling worn down was only natural.

Detecting a presence behind him, Enkrid opened his eyes. The rain slackened momentarily. Alexandra had referred to this specific storm cloud as the Black Egg. Since it remained stationary, this was likely just a temporary lull in the center.

Opening his eyes invited the drain of the Medusa’s curse, but the newcomer deserved a proper greeting. He recognized the figure and spoke.

“You’re behind schedule, Ragna.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“I was hoping you’d show up.”

Truthfully, he had assumed he would either have to find her after dealing with the clan leader, or she would eventually make her way to him. There were still too many adversaries left to feel satisfied with just whoever happened to be nearby. Besides, Ragna was the type to wander off simply to find a target for her frustrations.

She spoke again.

“Heskal tried to stop me.”

“And?”

“I cut him down.”

“Is that so?”

The clan head, Alexandra, Lynox, and Heskal—none of them had truly grasped the extent of Ragna’s capabilities. But Enkrid had a fair idea. Neither Heskal nor a few experimental monsters were going to keep her at bay.

“Heskal wasn’t exactly a pushover, was he?”

“He managed to nick my shoulder.”

“Did you use the medicine Anne provided?”

“There wasn’t any poison involved.”

Despite the grim subject matter, their conversation was as nonchalant as two people discussing the weather. Around them, a few beasts began to circle tentatively, organizing themselves. Enkrid sensed more arrivals—individuals who were adept at masking their presence.

He had heard the Hunter’s Village was populated by such types. That settlement had been built by those clinging to the remnants of Zaun’s glory—stragglers who couldn’t let go. Bounty hunters, soldiers of fortune—men who lived by the blade. They were outsiders who never truly integrated into Zaun. Consequently, loyalty was always flexible.

*Ching.*

Enkrid returned the Tri-Iron Sword to its scabbard.

*‘Let’s keep moving, Samcheol.’*

He had a feeling Aitri might have been deceptive when he claimed the sword wasn’t engraved. Its True Silver edge seemed capable of cutting through anything, and its Black Gold core could crush any defense. The sensation of the sword speaking to him wasn’t just a symptom of his mental state.

“Let’s go.”

Enkrid’s tone remained casual. It would have been pleasant if the clouds broke and the sun appeared, but he knew better. This storm was slated to last at least three more days. There would be pauses and quiet moments, but the tempest was far from finished.

Ragna understood what her captain was sensing. She felt a need to comment.

“You saw the same thing I did? You truly have the instincts of a guide, Captain. I’m certain of it.”

“…Being told that is almost as insulting as being compared to Rem.”

“…What?”

Ragna tilted her head in confusion.

“Quiet down and follow my lead. It’s time to demonstrate what a pair of simple swordsmen can accomplish.”

An observer might have found his phrasing petty.

*“What impact can two mere swordsmen and one little girl have?”*

Those were the words of Drmul, the prophet of the false god—and they were clearly still weighing on Enkrid’s mind. But Ragna didn’t see it as pettiness. To her, this response was only right. She hadn’t forgotten those insults either.

“Let’s do it.”

Ragna and Enkrid began to walk in unison. Their focus was locked on the breathtaking beauty from the Demon Realm, her hair a mass of writhing snakes, standing defiantly in the distance.