A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 695: Enkrid Let a Woman Into His Room
Ragna was surprised, but he didn’t feel jealousy or resentment. He had seen Enkrid from the beginning and had been with him this whole time—jealousy was meaningless.
“He manifested a formless power into something tangible.”
Ragna concisely explained what he had seen. Enkrid understood, but if someone asked him to do it again right now, he wouldn’t be able to.
“I can’t grasp it.”
To be honest, he wasn’t even sure what he had done back then. It felt like a dream. Should he call it luck?
A fleeting stroke of fortune after swinging his sword tens of thousands of times?
They say the goddess of fortune is always riding the wind—impossible to hold onto. “Luck only brushes past; it never stays,” went a famous saying on the continent.
It felt like luck—but Enkrid immediately rejected that thought.
“That wasn’t luck. Not at all.”
The countless hours he had accumulated—the days he had spent swinging his sword—were now whispering to him.
So what he had to do now was recall and replay it. Just like he had said before—today wasn’t the only day.
As he retraced the exchange in his mind, he realized that Alexandra had accelerated once midway through.
“She accelerated in the middle, varying the tempo.”
A movement outside of calculations. The Wavebreaker Sword Style worked by perceiving the opponent’s movements and calculating from there.
But even in her already supremely fast swordplay, she had increased her speed—making that strike truly unexpected.
“I hadn’t even imagined a sword could move that fast.”
If there had been even a bit more waste in her motion...
If the angle of her blade had been slightly different...
If his judgment had been a split second slower...
If his body had reacted even slightly duller...
“I’d be dead.”
Death had brushed past him.
And he also realized that there had been intention behind «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» everything Alexandra had done—a deep mix of consideration and challenge.
“It was like she forced me to act.”
She specialized in pushing her opponent with sheer speed. Now that he thought about it, even when she spoke before attacking—it had served the same purpose.
She had pulled his concentration up by engaging him in words. And when Enkrid responded with desperation, she fired back with killing intent, heightening the tension.
With just a few words, she’d measured the state of his focus.
“Oh? Ignoring me now?” she had said.
Even the initial strike that cut his cheek had served the same purpose. She was testing how he would react under extreme pressure.
She had shown him—without hesitation—that sloppy moves would get him killed.
She was telling him not to pull some half-baked stunt just because he was slower.
All of it, so he could channel his desperation into one single, clean stroke.
She had led and guided him to that moment. Of course, within that care, his life had still hung by a thread.
“If I hadn’t kept up, I’d have died.”
That part was unchangeable truth.
“How many people has she killed in a spar?”
“You mean Mother?”
Ragna asked and shook his head.
“None that I know of.”
Ragna had left home at a young age. Enkrid’s eyes searched for Grida. If anyone knew, it would be her.
But she wasn’t among the spectators—only the group walking with the family head remained.
Enkrid’s gaze lingered briefly on Anne’s back before shifting away. He saw the family head and Anne passing behind the brick wall of the training hall and heading inside.
Alexandra glanced over her shoulder, but said nothing.
“Ragna, go follow Anne.”
“Sure.”
Enkrid said it casually, and Ragna followed without resistance. This was foreign territory. Whatever Anne was after, it was better to have a familiar face nearby.
Well, there were other reasons too—but only when considering all possibilities.
Just as he was thinking this, someone approached with steady, deliberate steps.
“Hey, guest.”
The man wore six swords and looked visibly excited. His hands were wrapped in worn cloth, and his forehead too was covered with a thick band.
Crimson fabric—of the same worn but clean kind—wrapped his waist and shins. Though his outfit seemed ragged, he didn’t look shabby.
His back was straight, and any one of those six swords seemed ready to strike at any moment. The way he carried himself radiated a quiet sense of discipline.
“He must favor clean techniques.”
That was the impression Enkrid got as the man approached and observed him.
“You’ve got it. I can see it.”
The man suddenly declared.
Behind him, a man at least ten years older than Enkrid shook his head.
“Take that with a grain of salt. His instincts are rarely right.”
A deep voice. The first thing that caught Enkrid’s eye was the finely engraved sheath on his sword. Then, the thick calluses on his hands, the readiness in his stance, and the steady breath—all indicators of a formidable presence.
“Neither of them looks easy to deal with.”
That was his immediate judgment. Of course, in real combat, things could change.
Even against someone like Alexandra or the family head, things might shift once the blades were drawn.
That’s what life-and-death fights are like.
And for the same reason, Enkrid couldn’t say his own odds were high either.
“I’m Heskal. And this one—”
“I introduce myself, you block of ice. Name’s Lynox. Looking for the best fighter in the Zaun family? Not me. But I am the most romantic one.”
The man with six swords continued. Declaring himself “romantic” didn’t sound very normal—but Enkrid wasn’t fazed.
He’d spent too many years as the only sane one in a squad full of madmen.
“Enkrid of the Border Guard.”
At that, Heskal offered his hand. Enkrid took it.
“Apologies for the late welcome. Welcome to Zaun.”
Lynox grinned and added,
“Never mind the welcome—pull yourself together. You still want more, right? Alex likes to go hard right from the start, but I’m not like that.”
“It’ll be a worthwhile experience.”
As he listened, Enkrid got the sense that these two held positions of authority equal to the family head.
Neither had asked for permission, nor did they seem to be watching their words.
The crowd had grown again. But Grida and Magrun still weren’t present.
Instead—
“Mind if I join too?”
A young woman with a face too hard to gauge stood behind the two.
“I’d help too if I could,” she added, “but I’ll have to postpone—got something to take care of.”
Heskal glanced at the darkening sky, pulled a pocket watch from his coat, and checked the time.
Information like this anchored one in the present. Enkrid understood that.
Knights had an exceptional ability to read battle situations—comparing known variables to the current moment to draw conclusions.
In other words, they assessed cause and effect—like reading the flow of energy.
Put simply, their instincts became razor sharp.
Some of it was talent.
And Enkrid had that kind of talent. Even if not with the sword, he had sharp perception.
He could read things clearly, even without overthinking.
“Not a poor house.”
Zaun didn’t show off its wealth—but it wasn’t lacking.
Pocket watches carried artisan names and were as expensive as magical artifacts.
“Without magic, they don’t even work.”
Yet no one was surprised when Heskal casually pulled one out.
It was part of their everyday life.
Of course, their more important customs lay elsewhere.
“You tired?” Lynox asked.
His tone carried some concern, but Enkrid didn’t take it that way.
“I’m always at my best.”
It was true. To him, the present version of himself was always the best. That was his creed.
And as he said it, he realized—he really liked this place. He truly did.
“Next up—me!”
“Mind if I join too?”
None of the dozen or so people who had gathered seemed inclined to back off.
Not because they were confident—but because they couldn’t resist the urge to challenge such a fun opponent.
These were people who had hung back while the family head fought—only stepping forward afterward.
Before Lynox could say anything, Enkrid spoke first.
“As much as you’d like.”
At that, Lynox added,
“After a match with me, you’ll be drained.”
“Don’t think so.”
“...Are you overflowing with Will or something?”
Everyone knew—no matter how much stamina you conserved, Will ran out first.
“I’ve got plenty.”
Since the other had spoken so freely, Enkrid responded in kind.
Lynox opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally said,
“You’re good at provoking people, huh?”
It wasn’t a provocation—but if it came off that way, so be it.
“All right then—let’s have some fun.”
Lynox didn’t look over fifty, but he was probably older. Those who had awakened Will aged slower. And this was Zaun.
“If he’s called a legend...”
Then he must have the strength to match.
The family head and his wife had that strength—and this man likely did too.
And that made Enkrid genuinely happy.
“You’re smiling?”
Lynox said it while grinning himself. Both their faces screamed this is fun.
So did the spectators'.
***
“It’s serious, isn’t it? How long has it been?”
Inside, where grey and brown stones created a checkered wall, two swords hung side by side on one side, and an unidentifiable beast’s hide on the other.
At Anne’s question, the family head turned.
The fireplace showed signs of having been used recently, but the room was cold.
The family head was twice Anne’s size. That might have been intimidating up close—but it didn’t register to her.
Perhaps he was also trying not to be intimidating, for he turned only after placing a noticeable distance between them.
“Is that healer’s intuition?”
“No. It’s certainty.”
Alexandra had followed them inside and asked, and Anne immediately replied—her gaze never leaving the family head.
Alexandra wasn’t one for jokes. But if Enkrid had been here, Anne might’ve teased, “Look at you staring like you’re in love.”
“Tell me. Do you know the cause?”
Her words faltered momentarily at cause, but her tone remained unwavering.
The family head didn’t say much.
Anne knew this illness could take many forms.
“I need to find the cause.”
Only then could she heal. That was step one.
The family head wasn’t exactly what anyone would call gentle—but he responded without any pressure.
“Not now.”
Pressure aside, it wasn’t the answer Anne had hoped for.
“...What?”
“My husband said all that needs saying,” Alexandra answered for him.
Ragna, now standing behind Anne, added,
“Let’s go.”
He could tell from his father’s face—there would be no explanation.
If the family head had something to say, he would say it clearly. Otherwise, he remained silent.
No amount of questioning would change that.
Anne was shaken.
“He knows how serious it is.”
If she mentioned curses, she had eighty-nine responses prepared. If he asked whether it could be treated, she could confidently say yes and prove it fifty different ways.
But not a single word she expected came.
Just one phrase: “Not now.”
Anne couldn’t understand it.
***
After the duel with the family head, Enkrid remained three more days.
The sky, always threatening rain, grew heavier with clouds—but no storm came.
Yet those who came looking for him always wore joy on their faces. Sunlight missing from the sky gleamed in their smiles.
“Can I join too?”
Even an errand boy asked.
Here, everyone wore a sword and spoke of swords. And just that made them happy.
“Of course.”
Enkrid responded—and punched the errand boy square in the face, then kicked him aside.
Thud! Thwack!
Anyone watching might have thought he’d killed the poor kid—but the boy struck back with sword, hand, and foot.
The only way to stop him was that.
“Ail Caraz?”
Enkrid caught something familiar in the boy’s movements and muttered.
Enkrid might forget people’s names, but never sword or martial art styles.
Ail Caraz—also known as King of the Dirt Floor. A brutal hand-to-hand style developed by a warden in one of the continent’s most notorious prisons.
The boy had blended that into his swordplay—swinging while locking joints.
Apparently no one had taught him—he’d found his own way.
Another thing to appreciate.
Through such exchanges, Enkrid began to sense what made Zaun unique, just as Odinkar, Magrun, and Grida had described.
“They compete, teach, push each other, and learn without hesitation.”
Even if some of them showed stubbornness—
“That kind of pride and resolve—”
—it was better to have than to lack.
That’s why everyone here seemed happy.
As another day wrapped up and sleep approached, the rain finally began to fall outside—tap-tap.
Even in a half-sleeping state, Enkrid heard something in the rain. By the time he opened his eyes and grabbed Three Iron, the window creaked open.
Creak.
It was a ground-floor room—and unlocked—so anyone could open it.
Beyond the window, a familiar face appeared.
She had worn a sunshine-like smile for three days. But now, alone, her expression matched the gloomy weather.
“I have something to say, Enki.”
That somber face spoke.
“Grida?”
It was too dark outside. Even with dark-adapted eyes, he could barely make out her features.
Enkrid confirmed and spoke again.
“What is it?”
Grida bit her lip before answering.
“The family head... something’s wrong.”
A sudden declaration—but one Enkrid agreed with.
If there was anyone most unusual in Zaun, it was the family head.
“Come in first.”
Enkrid let the woman into his room.
