A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 718-719

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.

---

Chapter 719

Up to this point, Enkrid had used pure mental fortitude to forcibly hold back and preserve his Will—but that restraint had weighed heavily on his mind. His thoughts felt thick and clouded, as if filled with sediment.

Freely releasing an abundance of Will is far less exhausting than the constant effort of suppressing and managing it. It is the literal difference between pushing a massive boulder and trying to carry it; the latter inherently demands more of the soul.

Enkrid was now paying the price for that exertion. His physical form, mirroring his psyche, felt heavy with residue. He had been locked in a relentless struggle amidst the downpour while simultaneously strangling his own power. It was undeniable that he was far from his peak condition.

However, that was irrelevant.

Kyak!

A few stray creatures attempted to intercept them, but he crushed their skulls using Penna. At his side, Ragna swung his massive blade with total conviction.

The strike, executed without any unnecessary flair or wasted movement, buried itself deep in the chest of an owlbear—a perfectly timed thrust.

Setting aside his heavy style, Ragna possessed a raw, innate ability that would leave even a master of traditional forms in awe.

‘He is truly a marvel.’

Enkrid kept his eyes on Ragna. The man fought through pure perception and gut feeling—yet those gut feelings consistently shifted the momentum in his favor.

This was genuine genius.

The owlbear, for example, had been acutely aware of the incoming strike. Its posture confirmed as much. It was one of those exceptional beasts whose combat intuition was so refined that it made up for a lack of magical ability.

‘Just as certain humans stand above the rest, so do certain monsters.’

The owlbear didn’t try to mask its presence; instead, it braced itself fully to meet Ragna’s blow.

When time is a luxury and a choice must be made in a heartbeat, most act out of ingrained habit. Ragna was expected to strike. The beast, relying on its instincts, had prepared for a slash—but Ragna thrust instead. There wasn’t a moment of doubt.

This hadn’t been a sudden adjustment. He had intended to thrust from the very beginning.

That single decision had likely cornered the creature into a hopeless position. Normally, even if its body was mangled, the beast would have attempted to retaliate—perhaps clawing for an eye if the opportunity arose.

Its extended talons were sharp with the energy of desperation. Had Ragna chosen to slash rather than thrust, those claws might have actually found their mark.

‘Not that it would have mattered; he wouldn’t have been hit.’

But this result was simply more efficient.

The skewered owlbear was shoved backward and collapsed. Its vitals were pierced, and a quick follow-up pulverized its head.

“Why a thrust?”

“It just felt right.”

The response was absurd.

‘It makes sense that Heskal was defeated.’

Heskal had always projected the image that his power came from trickery, but that was a misconception. His true strength lay in the way he built intricate webs of feints—complex strategies hidden behind layers of distraction.

He utilized multifaceted deception, turning even the most obvious fakes into functional tools. If you entered his mental arena, you were like an insect caught in a web—struggling until the end.

But what if the predator was Ragna?

Ragna consistently forced his foes into a corner. His greatsword followed. That was the essence of his combat.

In hindsight, the core principles of the Wavebreaker Sword Style were derived from Ragna’s own methods.

The process differed, but the outcome was identical. One used logic to trap the enemy; Ragna used sheer brilliance.

He felt where the blade needed to be. It was as if he were discovering a path that no one else could see.

A gift from the heavens. A true prodigy.

Unlike the spontaneous reflexes Rem possessed, Ragna’s talent was an entirely different phenomenon.

“You’re a freak,” Enkrid whispered, though his pace never faltered.

Ragna kept his gaze partially averted. While their Will was being conserved, looking directly at Medusa was a risk.

Yet, hearing the remark, Ragna raised his eyes.

It was a slight waste of energy, but he couldn’t let it slide.

“I’m sending that right back at you. Being compared to Rem is an insult, Captain.”

He spoke with deliberate clarity before looking down once more.

“Are you picking a fight?”

“I’m being honest.”

Enkrid gave a small smirk while keeping his senses sharp.

A few cowards from the hunter-village loosed a pair of arrows from the flank before scurrying away. Enkrid snatched them out of the air as they flew.

They lacked power. Without being reinforced by Will, standard projectiles were no threat to him.

Back when Leona Lockfried first entered the city, he had to focus intensely just to avoid a thrown knife. Now, catching arrows was a casual gesture.

His vision, coordination, strength, and reaction speed had all transcended their former limits.

They pressed onward, closing the gap with Medusa. The aura of dread grew heavier with every yard.

The Abyss was home to a multitude of horrors. Among them, only the most devastating were granted names.

Like the Balrog. Like Medusa.

Sssaaaaarrrgh!

Above them, the serpent-hair of Medusa emitted a piercing cry, identical to the Scalers.

‘This is getting dangerous.’

They had held their ground so far, but if the confrontation stretched on, Zaun would fall. It was a simple calculation.

No matter their individual power, if the remaining horde surged toward the heart of Zaun, they couldn’t protect everyone.

‘Even if the leaders and those here survive, if the people of Zaun perish—does the faction even exist?’

A realm without its people is no realm at all.

Consequently, any threat that exerted influence over the entire theater of war had to be eliminated immediately.

Even without a strategist’s mind, anyone looking at the field would arrive at the same conclusion.

Enkrid estimated the distance to Medusa and thought back to the demon he had already felled.

‘The One-Killer could end a life with a single graze.’

But Medusa operated on a different plane.

Even with two elite warriors closing in, this named entity of the Abyss did nothing but project her stone-turning curse.

‘A war of attrition.’

That was Medusa’s specialty. The plating covering her skin looked impenetrable, and her jagged, moss-stained lips were surely hiding a lethal poison.

She also had a tail lurking out of sight behind her.

‘A monster designed for endurance.’

A knight’s worst nightmare.

Her presence smothered the battlefield. Her vitality seemed bottomless. Those who tried to rush the kill would likely be broken instead.

It was a horrific pairing for knights who excelled in explosive, short-duration bouts.

Of course, Enkrid was capable of a different approach. He could play her game.

‘If I make this a long fight, I win.’

After a few days of methodical wearing down, he could kill her.

She could grow back her hair and certain limbs, but not forever.

He could withstand the petrification and evade her strikes.

Eventually, when the gap appeared—a cut here, a stab there—he would bleed her dry.

He didn’t even need to engage her to be sure. His insight showed him that specific future.

Three days, at the most.

But no one else had that luxury. A fight like that demanded an infinite well of Will, stamina, and mental grit.

Furthermore, fighting that way meant losing the war.

In that time, Riley’s power would fail. Anahera and Kato would fall.

The gates of Zaun would be shattered. Even if the front lines held, a breach in the rear would render it all hollow.

A victory that failed to save Zaun was no victory at all.

“Ragna.”

“I’m listening.”

“We finish this with one strike.”

There was no need for a detailed briefing. They would find the rhythm as they moved.

But the roles were set.

“You pave the way.”

He couldn’t ask Ragna to deliver the final blow—not with the injury to his shoulder.

Ragna offered no verbal reply. He simply lifted his greatsword, pointing the steel toward the heavens.

BOOOM!

A bolt of lightning tore through the sky. A flash of white illuminated the horizon.

Zaun was situated in a basin—a dangerous spot for lightning, but a perfect backdrop for a surge in morale.

Enkrid watched the light and regulated his breathing, sliding the Tri-Iron Sword into its sheath. He could no longer contain it.

“Moving out: just two swordsmen.”

Ragna repeated the declaration.

“Moving out: just two swordsmen.”

They would fell the named monster of the Abyss in a single motion. Unlike the battle with the One-Killer, there would be no second chances; failure meant the end.

Was it a reckless play? Perhaps.

But the alternative was a much higher body count.

This was no game. It was lethal. A true roll of the dice.

And that was exactly why…

‘This is exhilarating.’

A wave of pure joy radiated from Enkrid’s core.

It scorched away the grime that had been slowing his body and fogging his mind.

An internal blaze took hold—a heat so intense it seemed to dry the falling rain before it touched him.

The fire consumed the exhaustion, replacing it with a searing, vibrant power.

He was ready.

Ragna moved to the front, shielding Enkrid as they began their sprint.

*** With every stride, Ragna felt the crushing weight of the Abyssal monster. It felt like wading through a marsh. And Medusa wasn’t standing alone.

As soon as he surged forward, two Scalers closed in from the sides like a gale.

Ragna swung in a wide arc—bisecting both of them through their midsections.

Splatter!

Dark ichor sprayed as he gained speed.

TONK!

He propelled himself forward. Enkrid was right behind him.

It still amused him that the captain had the nerve to call him a monster.

Who was he to judge?

‘Neither my mother nor my father ever truly saw him for what he is.’

He recalled the time Enkrid had accidentally trimmed his hair during a sparring session in the baths. That match had a very clear victor.

It had been somewhat lighthearted. But no one else in Zaun had ever challenged Enkrid with such raw intensity.

There was a massive gap between the Enkrid who sparred and the Enkrid who stood on a battlefield.

Ragna knew this better than anyone.

‘When he gets serious…’

He would go beyond him. In the Fairy Forest, he had strained himself to appear as his equal, but in a true life-or-death struggle, he would lose now.

And he thrived on that.

The thunder? The storm? Medusa? None of it mattered. The rush of blood was all that existed.

Ambition woke up. Will exploded. He wanted to witness it.

What would he reveal?

The man who used to be a complaining squad leader had now transcended him.

Genius? Natural talent? Those words meant nothing here.

This was a man who had pushed past the boundaries of talent.

And he never stopped searching for more.

“Have you reached the next level?”

He posed the question in his mind. No verbal confirmation was required. If it was Enkrid, the answer was always yes.

He was a craftsman—shaping the clay of the past, hardening it in the fire of the present, and building a vessel for the future.

What kind of vessel would emerge?

He was desperate to see.

Ragna’s sword was steady. It carved through anything in its way, as if the path were already decided.

WHUANG!

Once they reached a certain point, Medusa’s tail whipped across the terrain and struck.

CRACKKKK!

The very ground trembled. Her armored tail, as lethal as any blade, came flying at him.

I can’t avoid this.

It wasn’t a thought born of logic; it was pure instinct.

If he jumped, the tail would just adjust its trajectory. He couldn’t dodge—he had to intercept it.

If he merely blocked, he’d be trapped in a defensive cycle. But there was no time for contemplation.

His gut told him to hold his ground.

He slammed his blade into the soil.

BAM!

It felt as though a massive marble pillar had fallen on him. And the assault didn’t stop there.

The razor-edged scales sliced his hand through the metal of his gauntlet.

Rrrip—

Leather gave way. Blood flowed—but his bones held firm.

Medusa’s tail pulled back and rose high. At its very end, a sharp, venomous stinger appeared—like a hidden weapon finally being drawn.

If he pulled his sword now, the tail would strike and send him flying backward. He would burn through more Will and strength just trying to get back to where he was.

That was exactly what Medusa intended.

But if he stayed, he would be skewered.

The stinger was aimed directly at his head.

Dodge, and he dies. Stay, and he dies.

Where was the third option?

What was the right move?

Ragna’s instincts provided the answer once again.

He reached back. His fingers gripped the captain’s backup weapon—Penna.

He grabbed it and swung.

It was a basic movement—but one packed with a massive concentration of Will.

Just like when he had cut down Heskal.

Will Conversion.

He achieved it again. Despite only succeeding sixty percent of the time in practice.

Now, Penna erupted with a brilliant, blue-white radiance.

CRRRAKKKK!

With a single slash, the tip of Medusa’s tail was lopped off—sent spinning into the air, still twitching as it fell.

The hidden weapon had been broken.

And then—

Now.

Medusa’s head loomed far above—so high that it would take three men stacked together to meet her eyes.

But with her tail pulled back and the ground cleared, a path had been laid out.

Ragna saw the opening. He knew the captain saw it too.

Words weren’t needed—just as they hadn’t been needed when he passed Penna back.

He dropped his center and braced his legs.

Enkrid planted a foot on his shoulder and launched himself.

It was a delicate step—no jarring weight.

And yet, he shot forward faster than any projectile, running straight up Medusa’s massive frame.

BOOOOM!

An indifferent bolt of lightning crashed down nearby.

The roar of the heavens swallowed the sound of the entire war.