A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 724

Chapter 724

“A single snip is all that’s required to part a string under tension.”
They claim that a lone, precisely placed pebble is enough to unbalance a steady scale.
Enkrid questioned whether Drmul had anticipated this outcome before he had. Perhaps Heskal had provided counsel. Or maybe it was merely a premonition. Regardless…
‘Only a pair of blades and a young girl.’
Why utter such things and resort to such frantic measures to end Anne?
‘Without some prior knowledge, he wouldn’t have instigated this conflict.’
That was the logic he settled on.
Had Heskal committed his full strength, rescuing Anne would have been virtually impossible.
Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, the truth was evident. Even with Ragna providing constant protection, Heskal would have eventually discovered a vulnerability. Yet, he never did.
Tiny stones had accumulated on one side of the balance, and those very pebbles—two swordsmen and a girl—had been sufficient to tip the weight.

—

The vibration that followed the display of the family head’s blade rippled through his entire frame.
Enkrid didn’t possess a natural gift for predicting how a duel would conclude, but analyzing the results after the fact was simple enough.
Alexandra had pushed her Will to the limit, sharpening her power, reflexes, and sight far beyond their natural boundaries. This was the catalyst for the Explosion of the Line.
To put it in plainer terms, it was akin to igniting a candle and gripping it until the wick vanished. Tempest, however, altered the fundamental form—he triggered a detonation of his Will.
It was the Explosion of the Dot. A singular, devastating strike that gambled everything.
This was no slow-burning candle; it was the sudden flash of flint. A violent eruption occurring only at the point of contact. However, its destructive force was many times greater than a candle’s glow. It was as if all the energy intended for a long burn was released in one savage instant.
‘That isn’t a technique a dying man should be performing.’
The harsh reality, momentarily lost in the adrenaline, returned to Enkrid’s thoughts.
Drmul still projected the stench of rot, even with his torso nearly severed. Dark, viscous fluid leaked from his ruined midsection, and the falling rain pooled into his split chest.
Yet, he remained among the living. As if to verify his persistence—
“Perish.”
Drmul’s left hand, still connected to the side of his body that remained relatively intact, rose. As he did, the syllables he croaked transformed into a ritual, saturated with malice and arcane energy.
Shadowy vapors coalesced at his palm, hardening into a long, obsidian spear before darting forward. It was identical to the projectiles utilized by the Scalers.
No explanation was needed—its venomous nature was certain.
*Whoosh.*
As the manifested spear took solid form, the atmosphere was pierced by a screeching sound.
Could a mere rod slay the family head? Under normal circumstances, it was unlikely.
But Tempest had just executed a strike so intense it had ruptured the capillaries in his eyes. Crimson fluid leaked from his lids.
It wasn’t limited to his eyes; blood began to flow from his nostrils, his mouth, and his ears—every orifice on his face was weeping red.
Then the magical projectile arrived.
Ragna witnessed the attack but was powerless to intercept it. To be honest, it was a feat in itself that he remained conscious. Attempting to move was suicide, yet his reflexes took over—he managed to partially push himself up. However, someone else had already intervened.
Enkrid.
He had shaken off the combat high quickly enough to take action. He was well aware that creatures like Drmul always harbored a final, desperate gambit. He had slain the One-Killer and still nearly lost Shinar. That final, frantic thrust, where the beast tried to shove its very essence into her—that hideous act—was something he would never forget.
No, it was burned into his mind.
Even as his skeletal structure groaned in protest, Enkrid stepped in front of the family head.
His movements were basic and rhythmic. He forced his legs to carry him, drained the last of his energy, and reached Tempest just as the spell was unleashed.
Having reached his mark, he snapped his wrist, flicked Three Iron, and parried the obsidian rod in mid-air.
*Clang.*
The spear disintegrated into fragments, littering the muddy earth.
He lacked the strength for a full-bodied swing; he had relied entirely on the rotation of his wrist, utilizing the blade’s mass and the force of the spin. It worked, though only by a hair’s breadth.
Had he failed to strike the spell’s center, the rod would have pierced his lungs instead of shattering.
‘This frame of mine…’
His physical state was a disaster. There was no sugarcoating it.
Even evading the previous storm of magic had pushed him to his absolute brink.
Truthfully, if he hadn’t taken the reckless gamble of letting some spells graze him, he would be full of holes by now.
Recovering his breath, Enkrid peered ahead—only to find Drmul, half-destroyed, staring at him with eyes full of slaughter.
He could almost perceive the creature’s thoughts even without the movement of a tongue.
Yet, Drmul did find his voice.
“I despise you. I despise you.”
“What is the source of this hatred?”
Enkrid questioned him gently, as if prepared to fulfill a dying monster’s final request.
The others present likely assumed the same.
But Enkrid continued, his tone remains deceptively soft—
“Is it because I appear so youthful?”
No, that wasn’t the reason. Enkrid was intentionally clawing at Drmul’s ego.
It wasn’t purely for his own entertainment. Not entirely.
There was a cold logic behind the taunt. It was a blend of the tactical swordplay of Lua Gharne and the underhanded tactics of Kraiss.
‘Drmul still possesses the spark for one last move.’
To execute it effectively, the monster needed concentration. Therefore, it was vital to keep him enraged.
Prevent him from finding his center.
Every minor advantage counted.
Enkrid felt no remorse for the tactic. If this wasn’t the Lua Gharne approach, there would be no point in provocation. This was a direct result of the lessons Frokk had instilled in him.
Furthermore, Drmul hadn’t approached them with a sense of chivalry—he had hidden in the darkness and plotted to assassinate Anne.
Thus, goading him felt entirely appropriate.
Drmul was at a loss for words.
“You… y-you…”
Had he achieved some form of spiritual clarity at that moment, he might have transcended his mortal coil.
With that level of detachment, even godhood wouldn’t have been out of reach.
But he did not become a deity.
As the realization dawned that his schemes were crumbling, a tide of fury rose within him. His logic and his rage merged into a single, sharp focus.
He no longer cared about the family head; he simply wanted Enkrid obliterated.
At any cost. He would take his life.
And Drmul was no simpleton.
‘No, simply killing him is insufficient.’
He wouldn’t leave Zaun unscathed either. Was Enkrid the sole irritant?
No. The entire Zaun lineage, the warriors—all were responsible.
And then a revelation struck him.
‘Heskal, you deceptive dog…’
He had been played. In retrospect, the puzzle pieces fit.
Heskal hadn’t sought to claim divinity—his objective was the life he would lead after seizing it.
He intended to survive. He had unfinished business.
Drmul would not allow events to conclude as that deceased traitor had intended.
‘I am fading.’
Perhaps because he had clung to life for so long…
Drmul recognized his end was near—and he understood the scope of his remaining power.
His demise was a certainty.
‘Zaun shall fall with me.’
When his heartbeat stopped, the pathogens he had sowed would germinate instantly.
The majority of Zaun would perish.
The settlements of trackers, diplomats, and the elderly—eighty percent would die.
Even Heskal had been oblivious to this contingency. If he had known, he would be screaming in the afterlife.
Drmul had established himself here decades ago. Much of that interval was spent in hibernation, but not the recent years.
He had planned for this eventuality.
And that would be the conclusion.
‘Then it is finished.’
That arrogant whelp shouting at him—he would live. and that would be the end of it.
‘Will they celebrate him for my death?’
Drmul had been labeled a serpent throughout his existence. He was consumed by jealousy. Some whispered he was a snake that had taken human form.
The thought of Enkrid receiving accolades—it was intolerable. The fact that he would draw another breath—it stoked his malice.
As he stood at the threshold of death, Drmul placed his entire existence on the scale.
How could he execute Enkrid and annihilate Zaun simultaneously?
Plans had shifted, but his intellect remained sharp.
And now, he devised a method to eliminate that loathsome bastard—quickly.
“I shall pass away,” Drmul declared.
“Even a stray, mangy ghoul could see that,” Enkrid snapped back.
But Drmul didn’t rise to the bait.
“Leader of the Zaun, attend to me.”
His voice carried a dual resonance. Enkrid sensed this was the final gambit.
Whatever magic was coming, he believed he could intercept it one more time.
His muscles were failing, but his proficiency at slicing through spells had sharpened thanks to the drills with Esther—and the recent life-or-death struggle.
He had even gained insight from parrying the previous attack.
‘Even if he launched fifty of those spears, I could handle it.’
He might end up scarred, but as long as the wounds weren’t vital, he wouldn’t be broken.
“You will not face this task alone.”
Lynox moved forward as he spoke.
Behind him stood the blades of Zaun—Anahera, Riley, and others.
Their determination matched his own.
This conflict was the burden of Zaun. They had unsealed their weapons to protect their own.
The family head, his sight failing, could only see the silhouette of Enkrid’s back as the dark closed in.
Was his vision departing? Most likely.
The blow he had delivered moments ago was superior even to those of his youth.
He had poured his entire essence into it. Truthfully, he had accepted his own death the moment he committed to the strike.
Wielding his Will so violently had left his body an empty shell. He desired nothing more than to collapse and be still. Yet the man he had cleaved still refused to remain silent.
Crimson flowed from his ears. Sounds were muffled and distant, but he still heard.
“I am listening,” the family head answered, and Drmul began his malediction, his voice as steady as ever.
“I offer you a choice. There are only two paths.”
What was this rotting wretch babbling about now?
The monster’s treacherous tongue continued to move.
“If I congregate my remaining essence and release it, every person tainted in Zaun will perish. The plague’s seed was intended for a slow harvest, but if I die, it will bloom and consume their souls in a heartbeat. That is the architecture of my curse. However!”
He paused, his volume increasing.
Ragna felt a pulsing pain in his temples.
Drmul’s voice was now echoing in layers, as if a creature striving for godhood was channeling his final strength into one last incantation.
“In trade, I will anchor every curse remaining in my soul onto that man. If I do, the pestilence I sowed within Zaun shall vanish.”
He raised a skeletal finger and aimed it at Enkrid.
Did he loathe him so deeply—did he believe that killing Enkrid alone would satisfy him?
No. Drmul understood the human heart. More than that—he knew how to break it.
He had used that very insight to turn Heskal into his instrument.
Reflecting on it, he had certainly exploited human ambition to trap him.
‘I grasp the nature of people.’
Drmul felt certain.
Enkrid would decline the proposal. No one desires to die—that is a universal law.
‘Least of all dying for the sake of others.’
Certainly, a parent might sacrifice themselves for a child. But for a crowd of strangers? Who would do such a thing?
His words would place the family head on a balance—the survival of Zaun or the life of an outsider. And that scale would inevitably tilt.
Enkrid would fight back. And the family head would be forced to restrain him.
‘Even if I perish, you will be forced to slaughter one another.’
That was the primary snare.
But there was a secondary, concealed trap.
What if the leaders of Zaun successfully captured Enkrid?
He claimed the seed wouldn’t bloom—but he never promised it would disappear.
Even if his primary plan failed, the status of the plague would only change upon their deaths—not if they remained alive.
“You truly think we would trust your word?” Lynox intervened.
“Then behold.”
Drmul gestured with his hand. A shimmering golden plane appeared in the air behind him, glowing characters manifesting upon it.
“You recognize this, surely. The Book of Binding Oaths. I shall scribe my final testament within its pages.”
A legendary relic was revealed.
Decrees written in that volume always manifested as reality. The cost? The eternal soul of the scribe.
Fables claimed the book was the property of a Demon Lord presiding over the Abyss.
It was known as the Commandment Book of Gold.
Lynox was familiar with the tales. This wasn’t just a physical death—it was the forfeiture of one’s spirit.
“It is genuine. That is the true Commandment Book.”
A different voice spoke up. Schmidt—battered and bloodied but standing—approached.
He was a practitioner of both sorcery and the blade. His arcane training confirmed that Drmul was speaking the truth.
His features showed the toll of the night—a dark, jagged wound on his cheek.
Schmidt continued, speaking with cold logic.
“This is not a ruse designed to trick us. There is no one in Zaun with the magical expertise to fabricate this, and I was never meant to be a part of this confrontation.”
If Tempest or the others chose to ignore this… the consequences would be catastrophic.
Schmidt could not allow that.
He couldn’t stand to lose his half-sister and his closest companion in a single stroke.
“There is no falsehood in my testimony. Whether you believe or not is irrelevant. But every word I have uttered is the absolute truth.”
Drmul’s voice was heavy with confidence.
It was a bold display for a man on the verge of death.
The warriors behind them began to whisper—questioning the nature of the Book, its authenticity, and whether they could afford to trust a monster.
But slowly, the murmurs died away.
Because everything—the very weight of the air—confirmed that the choice was real.