A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 674: The Three Irons

“Why are you opening your eyes like that?”

Grida tilted her head and spoke casually. Ragna’s mouth opened reflexively.

“What about my eyes?”

Come to think of it, this little brother had always been like this since they were kids. Though this was the first time she'd seen him open his eyes like that.

“I asked why you're opening your damn eyes like that.”

There was a faint glint of hostility in Grida’s tone. The two had quite a bit of an age gap, but they'd started wielding swords at the same time.

Wasn’t Ragna’s original reason for picking up the sword because he didn’t want to lose to her?

That had been the case once. A memory from when he was still toddling, just beginning to understand the world.

Of course, just because it was a memory for Grida didn’t mean it had to be one for Ragna too.

“It’s my face. I’ll do what I want with it.”

Ragna replied without even blinking. He was a brother who, within less than a month of picking up the sword, no longer had any reason to get beaten.

Still, it was annoying. The eyes, the way he talked—everything was irritating.

Grida’s right hand dropped and then rose in a flash. She loosened her grip, then clenched her hand—and within it was the hilt of a sword.

Ping.

A blade shot out of its sheath and raced toward its target. It gleamed unnaturally white, the sunlight reflecting sharply off the surface, disrupting Ragna’s line of sight.

The trajectory was bold—one where you'd have to shed some blood if you failed to dodge. It shot upward, then dropped vertically, gliding like a swallow toward his forearm.

Clang!

Ragna twisted his left foot and drew his greatsword halfway to block Grida’s blade. Then he drew it fully, slashing upward.

They were siblings who had grown up clashing swords since childhood. This was their greeting. Grida, despite herself, was slightly surprised by the exchange, even if it had only been a light one.

And there were two reasons for her surprise.

The first:

“He dodged?”

The Ragna of her childhood never dodged.

“Dodge? Why? Just parry it.”

That was Ragna’s attitude. Back then, people had said he might become the greatest pioneer in the family due to his talent—but he had clear flaws.

“Too bullheaded.”

Stubborn. Unbelievably so.

Sometimes you needed to know when to take a step back, but Ragna always charged forward.

They taught that true swordsmanship came from flowing like water—moving, extending, slashing with fluidity.

That was the ancestral teaching passed down through their family.

But Ragna had always just repeated what he thought was easier.

That was exactly how Enkrid had described Ragna when he first met him. The version of her brother Grida knew never flowed.

And now—he did.

His sword was the opposite of a heavy blade. It flowed like water. An unexpected movement, something Grida never thought she’d see from Ragna.

There was something else surprising.

Grida quickly grabbed her sword with both hands.

It was to block and hold out against the force Ragna was applying.

Ka-ga-ga-ga-kak, dr-dr-dr-drk...

She didn’t even dare try blocking it with one hand.

“How strong did he get?”

Her damn dumb little brother.

From the outside, Ragna’s upward swing with his greatsword looked effortless, but blocking it made cold sweat drip down Grida’s back.

Thud!

In the end, Grida broke off contact and jumped back.

Whoosh.

Ragna’s greatsword passed through where she had been, arcing upward and stopping mid-air. The tip pointed to the sky, his hand holding the blade with ease as he stared at her.

A moment ago, his eyes had the ferocity of that barbarian Rem. But now, they were something else entirely.

“You keep surprising me...”

The third surprise.

There was a spark of will in Ragna’s gaze.

This was the younger brother who had abandoned his family out of boredom with the predetermined path. Back then, his eyes were like those of a rotting ghoul.

Someone who said everything was boring, tedious, joyless.

Someone who viewed wielding a sword as nothing more than labor.

And yet now, in the depths of his eyes, Grida could see a flame—something she had only seen in that madman Enkrid.

Grida, with her eye for detail, saw it clearly.

“What the hell happened to you...?”

She asked silently, tightening her grip on her sword. Instead of words, she would ask the rest through steel.

***

Enkrid stood alone in the training yard, swinging his sword deep in thought.

Would a path open if he devoted himself entirely to sword training? If he filled his mind only with thoughts of swordsmanship, would it be enough?

No. That wasn’t it.

He needed to free his thoughts. Thinking only of the sword would trap him. Letting his mind drift and thoughts come and go naturally often revealed new paths—and so Enkrid had always done that.

Doing so naturally made him think of the comrade who’d gone missing.

It had already been a month since Ragna had last been seen. But no one worried. Everyone assumed he’d return on his own.

“Just like how Grida memorizes faces she sees often, Ragna’s probably memorized the area around the barracks by now.”

To be exact, he didn’t so much know the paths as he did the topography of the entire area.

If needed, he’d climb a tree or jump over rooftops to return.

He might have left the city, but that was unlikely.

Just as Jaxon would regularly leave the city for errands, Ragna sometimes went down to the market and spent his time however he pleased.

Everyone predicted the same thing: he’d fill his belly, find a warm spot to lie down, doze off, and lazily come back when it suited him.

Not a bad assumption.

Enkrid thought so too, and thus didn’t bother worrying about Ragna.

Then the past month flashed through his mind.

The usual training, drills, and the intrusion of the three Zauns.

Zaun.

He had seen, heard, and learned from what they brought. And in that process, Enkrid felt a spark.

Though, to be fair, the very existence of the knight order he dreamed of was already a constant source of that fire. His passion was always simmering, so it wasn’t new.

If Kraiss knew what Enkrid was thinking, he’d probably scoff.

“Even the marmalade-seller Juri knows our captain is like that.”

He’d probably say something like that.

Anyway, whether it was Jaxon or Rem, none of them were content just sitting idle. And Enkrid loved that.

The three from House Zaun were like a slice of butter on a piece of perfectly baked white bread—they made everything more satisfying.

“Recognition. Calculation. Counteraction.”

As Enkrid reflected, he recalled something Jaxon had said. A line that surfaced abruptly and began swirling through his thoughts, then settled into place.

“First, identify your opponent and assess the environment.”

Recognition.

“Then draw out potential lines of attack.”

Calculation.

“Finally, predict the aftermath of your own actions.”

That was counteraction.

Jaxon had spoken of the fundamentals of assassination, which were still at the [N O V E L I G H T] core of how he operated.

What did Enkrid learn from that?

The basics. Doing what he already did—but better. That’s what he needed now.

Recognition, calculation, counteraction. That had been his recent path, harsh as it was. But it had clear flaws.

“Overusing your brain for calculations shortens how long you can maintain it.”

That wasn’t the direction the Wavebreaker Sword sought. But was Wavebreaker the only path?

No—it wasn’t.

“Conclude the calculations in an instant.”

He remembered dueling with Rem, sparring with Audin, and training with Jaxon where they disrupted each other’s senses like a serpent chasing its tail.

He trained tirelessly, always thinking, always reflecting.

What once required death to understand now became lamps lighting the path as experience piled high like a mountain.

And now, was one such moment.

From that inspiration, Enkrid compressed everything he knew.

Rem focused on the moment.

Jaxon considered the entire environment.

Audin secured his preferred distance even if he had to deceive.

Everything converged, forming Enkrid’s internal vision.

When he blocked arrows, when he sensed the stone Rem slung—it all happened in the world of moments. Within stretched time, he had to capture those instants.

“An attack only matters if it lands.”

Flash. A flare.

It wasn’t just speed—it was calculated speed. The true meaning of a flash.

The definition: a light bursting in an instant.

Implementation: lethal swiftness born from calculation.

Training method:

“Swing in the moment using tactical reflexes.”

Also, never forget speed.

It was a hard path—anyone could see that. But Enkrid, having found it, trembled with euphoria.

“What’s he doing now?”

Magrun, researching sword techniques in a corner of the training yard, asked as he looked at Enkrid.

He was trembling all over, drooling with bliss. He looked positively insane.

He had swung a sword once, thought deeply, trained alone—then started acting like this. No one would call it normal.

Even among House Zaun, full of eccentrics, none were this odd.

To Magrun, this was beyond comprehension.

“Just leave him. He’s enjoying himself.”

Rem had seen this before and answered calmly.

“Does this kind of thing happen often in the West?”

“What the hell are you talking about? The West is full of people too, you idiot.”

Rem barked, annoyed, and walked off.

“Then what—are you saying that guy isn’t human?”

Magrun’s doubts only deepened.

Meanwhile, Enkrid emerged from his bliss.

Now that he had direction, only training remained. And then, Jaxon’s final lesson surfaced in his mind.

A teaching about never getting complacent or arrogant.

“Preparation isn’t the end. The last step is retreat. If there’s no opening, why rush in? If there’s no opening—step back. But even then, know how far to retreat, when to stop, and how to absorb the cost.”

Never be so intoxicated by your own skill that you forget to look back.

Jaxon had meant it as a reminder not to throw your life away in vain. But really, it was up to the listener to hear it properly.

“Don’t get so caught up in technique that you forget what comes after.”

That’s what Enkrid had learned during his first repeated day.

He had become obsessed with thrusting, and didn’t think about what came next. He had already reflected on that and vowed never to do it again.

It was during his solo training of the sword technique Flash that Ragna entered the training yard—with Grida in tow.

It had been a month since he disappeared.

“Why were you trembling and drooling earlier? Are you ill?”

Magrun didn’t even look at him as he spoke to Enkrid. Rem was muttering to himself while sharpening his axe, and Audin had merely glanced over before returning to training Pell and Rophod.

Audin’s voice filled the momentary silence.

“You said the one who shouts first loses, right? Then allow me to assist with what little strength I have. The Lord will watch over you, brothers.”

Rophod and Pell, with wooden sticks in their mouths, turned pale. Understandably so.

They knew what came next.

Whoosh.

Audin swung a smooth metal rod—thick as a grown man’s forearm—crafted for this purpose.

Whack!

That was the sound from Rophod’s bare thigh, clad only in thin trousers.

“I endured.”

Said Teresa. She was observing the judgment match, eyes sharp and attitude serious.

“Very good.”

Audin smiled and turned to his next target.

Pell hesitated. Should he surrender?

No. He couldn’t.

While he debated, Audin struck.

Whack!

One hit each—fair and square.

From afar, Lua Gharne was sweating from her drills with her whip and sword when she paused and muttered,

“You’re back.”

That was it.

Ragna walked in like it was nothing.

Odinkar had been training alone on the side, but upon seeing Ragna, he raised his sword.

“Yo.”

A greeting.

“Odinkar.”

Ragna raised his hand slightly. That was all. Odinkar, who now seemed completely integrated into this place, greeted him like it was nothing.

It was almost enough to put the fairy technique of Assimilation to shame.

Then, Shinar entered behind Ragna and called out to Enkrid.

“My fiancé. I’d like us to name our child today.”

Yes, it was just another afternoon like any other.

“Seriously. You people are weird as hell.”

Grida muttered, watching it all.

Ragna casually made his way to the dining hall, then the bath, before heading over to Enkrid.

“Perfect timing. I needed you.”

Enkrid welcomed him warmly.

He had just finished conceptualizing Flash. He was eager to test it.

Shing.

Ragna lifted his greatsword. Though Aitri had worked on it, its edge was chipped.

It had taken damage fighting Penna and Grida.

Enkrid drew the Three-Iron Sword.

Srrrrr-ring.

The sound of the blade sliding from its sheath was sharp and clean. Then they sparred. Just another day.

“And the child’s name?”

“Already named.”

Grida had been quietly listening when Shinar spoke to Enkrid about the child. Hearing no response but the sound of steel being drawn, she concluded—

Yes, this guy really is a madman.

“Three Iron.”

Enkrid, after much thought, named his sword Samcheol—Three Iron.

“Lucky Odd-Eye didn’t freak out again. Seriously.”

Rem commented, watching him.

Enkrid nodded and replied,

“Right? It’s a good name. Odd-Eye went nuts with excitement the first time too.”

“What a conveniently tuned brain. Can’t imagine why you’re still walking around with it.”

Rem left it at that—an unfiltered compliment.

Days passed—one, two, then three. Even after Ragna’s return, nothing particularly changed.

The same days flowed by, ones others might call dull or monotonous.

It was on one such morning in a crystal-clear spring, two full months later, that Grida spoke to Enkrid.

“Let’s have a proper match.”

Grida had spent the past two months on nothing but foundational training. Watching her, Enkrid thought—she was starting to resemble Aitri.

“Like heating iron in the fire...”

That’s how Grida had forged herself.