A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 725

Chapter 725

Freezing rain drenched the soil, as thunder boomed above the obsidian clouds.
Rrrrrrrrumble.
A pale streak of lightning fractured the distant horizon with a thunderous crack. Even the storm seemed to hesitate, as if the world recognized that this particular moment required no interruption.
The rumbling stayed far off, refusing to approach. Amidst the downpour, a heavy silence took hold.
After a brief lull, the leader of the house spoke.
“I will take the burden of every curse.”
“Don’t make me laugh. Why would I spend such a gift on a man already at death’s door?”
Drmul was far from ignorant. Tempest Zaun had reached far beyond his physical constraints to deliver that final sword strike. Had Drmul simply spared one of the assassins Heskal had dispatched to eliminate the patriarch, the situation would never have deteriorated to this point.
Shrewd Heskal, deceptive Heskal.
Was this pathetic concluding gambit part of his design as well?
‘Was this his final wish?’
There was no reply. Silence is the only language of the deceased, and assigning blame to a corpse was a futile endeavor.
Drmul’s edge remained lethal.
Was it truly necessary to annihilate his entire lineage just to preserve a foreigner like Enkrid?
His spouse, his offspring, his companions, his brothers-in-arms—every last one?
‘The path was decided long ago.’
Drmul’s warnings were not mere bluster.
If the patriarch attempted to seize Enkrid, the blight would be funneled into him.
Yet, would Enkrid surrender without a struggle?
If they attempted to force his submission, several members of Zaun would surely meet their end at his hands.
‘Ultimately, you will all destroy one another.’
Should Enkrid perish, performers and elegies would be dispatched to Zaun for his final rites.
In time, Zaun would crumble.
Drmul had engineered this specific outcome to slay that arrogant man and pull Zaun into the abyss with him.
To coordinate such a plot in so short a window—Drmul was truly a formidable adversary.
“Choose now. Will you permit his departure?”
Drmul demanded.
Though his voice had lost its supernatural resonance, it struck the swordsmen of Zaun with the force of a thunderbolt.
Their resolve wavered. The gale had softened, yet the air remained thick with hostility.
Anahera and Riley fanned out, creating a loose ring. They acted with instinctual precision.
Regardless of the decision, they had to avert the absolute worst outcome.
If Enkrid fled, there would be no choice to make—only a finality.
Even Lynox grew quiet and retreated.
At the very least, he possessed the integrity not to assault a man whose back was turned.
Enkrid had bled for the sake of Zaun. His honor earned him that much.
There appeared to be no alternative. Everything was unfolding according to Drmul’s design—
—until a figure trudged forward to obstruct Enkrid’s way.
A massive sword, its surface marred by a central fracture and on the verge of shattering, was slammed into the mud. The rain fell in sheets, soaking everything in sight.
From beneath locks of damp golden hair, crimson eyes flared with an intense, burning certainty.
“Depart.”
It was Ragna.
The patriarch’s stoic gaze locked onto Ragna’s.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“I must facilitate the Captain’s exit.”
The reply was devoid of doubt.
Naturally, Ragna harbored uncertainties. But when forced to select a side—this was his verdict.
“I shall dedicate whatever time I have left to the survivors of Zaun.”
He would preserve his leader and accept the consequences himself. That was the road Ragna intended to walk.
Not every soul had been tainted. There were those who remained—in the sanctuary for the retired and among the common folk of Zaun.
He would see to it that they carried the legacy of Zaun’s blade.
This required a victim—and it wasn’t the Captain’s fault.
However, the world frequently exacted a price regardless of where the guilt lay.
The patriarch understood that reality well.
“I wonder how many will actually live through this?”
Drmul let out a dark laugh. To those standing there, he no longer appeared as a warped beast—he looked like a demon made flesh.
Could Ragna truly offer Enkrid protection?
Aside from the patriarch and Alexandra, they were the ones most broken by battle.
The patriarch’s frigid eyes shifted toward Enkrid, his mouth twitching slightly.
Though he remained outwardly impassive, there was a visible drag in his movements.
But was it just to impose such a heavy burden on a man who had dedicated his entire existence to Zaun?
Enkrid seemed to have already anticipated the conclusion.
He brushed his wet hair back and pivoted his frame.
“Do not flee. Even if you harbor an eternal grudge and return as a ghost to torment me—let it be so. But, oh…”
Riley, stopping mid-sentence, began to sob, his voice failing him. No one moved to silence him.
The soft rainfall served to mask his weeping.
How could they treat the man who had fought in their stead this way?
Yet, what of those who would remain?
If one inquired what Zaun represented to Riley, the response would be effortless:
Family. Existence. Everything.
“I am staying right here.”
Enkrid spoke directly to Riley.
Then, turning toward the source of the sickening smell of decay, he spoke once more.
“That power—is it a hex or a contagion?”
If it were a hex, it would find no purchase. He possessed a Guide.
His tone was collected. His gaze was unwavering.
Those steady blue eyes confronted the rotting pits of the enemy like a pillar of light.
He hadn’t even tapped into his Will, yet his aura was stifling.
Even without projecting force, a human could command reverence through their sheer presence—just as Enkrid was doing.
Before the patriarch could utter a word, before any blade of Zaun was leveled at their former ally—
“…I referred to it as a curse, but it is a plague.”
Drmul replied, diminished by that overwhelming presence.
The mythic horror who boasted of godhood was once again made small by the posture of a lone man.
The dark, foul, lethal infection spread by a devil was suppressed—solely by the conviction of one individual.
Enkrid didn’t miss a beat.
“Unfortunate. Very well.”
He was referring to the plague—not the hex. He didn’t care if they understood his meaning. That was irrelevant.
“What are you implying?”
Drmul asked, the words escaping him in sheer confusion.
“Transfer the sickness to me. Instead of letting it devastate everyone in Zaun—let it converge on me. Provided you aren’t spinning lies.”
“I will collect my final moments of life and trade them. Not through sorcery, but through intent. I will bind my spirit.”
That was the functional logic of the Commandment Book.
There was no room for deception.
Drmul, once a legendary practitioner of alchemy and magic, spoke with absolute clarity.
Enkrid was aware that treachery was always a possibility. Yet Drmul hadn’t constructed such a complex ruse for this moment—and his conduct suggested he was being truthful.
‘Did Drmul anticipate his own defeat?’
Likely not.
He had concerns about Enkrid, Ragna, and Anne—but he had still gambled on his own triumph.
Otherwise, he would not have appeared in person.
‘No matter what path led him to this spot—Drmul arrived because he was certain of his win.’
Things simply hadn’t gone according to his plan.
Even so, what if this was merely a trap?
“Could you endure the same day once more?”
The Guide’s voice echoed in his mind.
Enkrid gave a silent response: As many times as it takes to succeed.
“Is this real? You would choose the safety of the group over your own life?”
Enkrid could almost see the Guide’s reflection in Drmul now—though this man was a mere shadow of the real thing.
The Guide wouldn’t resort to such shallow psychological games.
Furthermore, Enkrid had reached this crossroads many times before.
In the days when he lacked strength, he made these choices in the dark.
He stumbled frequently, recovered, and faced rejection.
But now, he held the power to see his choices through.
He gripped Three Iron. He possessed a Will that was inexhaustible.
Therefore, he would act.
As he had always believed. As he had always intended.
“I will defend those who stand behind me. That is my code.”
Knights forge their Will through sacred oaths. Enkrid didn’t have to gamble his life on them—because his Will was infinite.
Yet, he still risked everything to uphold the words he spoke aloud.
“Do it.”
His voice held no trace of doubt.
No one had expected the person meant to be sacrificed to offer himself up.
Not Drmul. Not even the patriarch.
“You are truly out of your mind.”
Drmul was too stunned to formulate a better response.
“Madness. Utter madness.”
He whispered.
Just as Enkrid was about to command him to finish the task—
“You idiot—!”
A voice cried out from the rear.
Anne had arrived, having slipped away from the estate undetected.
Her sodden hair was plastered to her skin, making her look even smaller. The leather satchel was still fastened at her hip.
Beside her, Grida stood with a hand on her waist, offering a shrug.
“It seems our medic doesn’t care much for instructions.”
“Well, she claimed that treating patients from the rear can save the dying—so she chased after us.”
Anne snapped at Grida, but her gaze was fixed solely on Drmul.
“That’s him, isn’t it? Drmul?”
There was no sense in asking why she had come.
She was here. she grasped the gravity of the situation. She had overheard it all.
“Still breathing after all that? What a freak.”
To Anne, he represented a personal demon more than anyone else.
Drmul returned her stare with a glare.
“Useless little girl.”
Enkrid thought about mocking him, saying he couldn’t even move a muscle, or that the plague was nothing but empty words—
—but he held back.
He could see it. Drmul was spent.
He didn’t even have the vitality left to twitch. Only fragments of intent remained, only enough air for speech.
Insulting him was a waste of breath. There was no spirit left to break.
“Zaun… I…”
The patriarch started to speak, but Enkrid recalled a premonition the Guide had once shared.
Ah—so this was that moment.
The Guide had revealed this scene before their arrival. Anne perishing. Ragna consumed by rage.
However, not every vision the Guide provided had manifested.
Even before intervening, Enkrid had known what the patriarch would choose.
“Neither the sickness nor the curse shall be handed down.”
That is what he would have declared.
In the vision, had the leader made a different choice? Perhaps. Maybe he had wavered, prioritizing his house over his principles.
It was always a possibility.
That was the reason Ragna had contested it. The patriarch would have claimed it was the only viable path.
“Lies.”
That was what the Ragna in the vision had spat back.
But the Ragna standing here remained mute, simply holding his ground.
“Is this truly the path you wish to take?”
He asked Enkrid.
“Do you honestly believe a mere sickness can end me?”
Enkrid answered with a light tone.
Ragna offered no reply.
So—what was different this time?
“You bastards…”
The dynamic between Anne and Drmul had flipped entirely.
Drmul blinked heavily and commenced the final incantation.
“You will know agony without end before you expire. I am the progenitor of all pestilence! I am the deity who shall forge a new world on this soil!”
The Commandment Book flared with light and سپس disintegrated into particles.
Enkrid felt an invisible weight settle into his very being.
And that was the end of it.
He breathed out—and a searing heat escaped with his breath.
It felt as though his internal organs were being consumed by fire.
“Mm…”
He let out a pained sound. His strength failed him. He dropped to his knees, forcing Three Iron into the dirt to stay upright.
The blade seemed to shimmer and triple in his vision.
“Blergh—!”
He choked. Crimson liquid sprayed from his lips.
“You piece of filth!”
Anne shrieked.
Simultaneously, Ragna brushed blood from his own mouth and spoke:
“You claimed you would never retreat from a struggle. So do not retreat from this. Do not succumb to a mere disease, Captain.”
Ah, that part remained the same.
Even in the Guide’s vision, Ragna had uttered those exact words.
Enkrid clung to the sound of their voices, fighting to remain conscious.
It felt as if a branding iron was being applied to his throat and his chest.
“Perish, all of you…”
Drmul wheezed out his final bit of life.
But Anne had already closed the distance, shouting with every ounce of her will:
“You think I’ll allow that? I am the elixir! The universal cure! The remedium omnia!”
The spark vanished from Drmul’s eyes.
Did he catch her words?
Perhaps.
Maybe it was that specific dread—that single moment—that had driven him to target Anne from the start.
Enkrid followed that thought until his eyes finally slid shut.
So, when he next opened them—would he be reliving the same day?
Or would it be something entirely new?
There was no way to tell… until he woke.