A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 697: False Strike

“Medusa and Scalers.”

And probably owlbears and bat-beasts too. He’d seen them on the way here.

Monsters gathering and setting their sights on Zaun?

“Or maybe something else?”

There was a deep shadow—too deliberate to ignore—lurking behind all of it. Invisible, but heavy with presence. There was no way monsters could assemble like this unless someone had orchestrated it.

The enemy hidden beneath the veil now loomed larger than ever. Like black clouds in the sky, the curtain hiding them was thick, pitch-dark, and out of reach.

“Would’ve been easier if Rem were here...”

That thought crossed Enkrid’s mind.

Every damn time, it was some sorcery blocking the path.

From past encounters, he knew: whenever someone tried weak sorcery in front of Rem, the bastard’s first response was to swing an axe.

He’d once asked out of curiosity why Rem lost his mind whenever sorcery was involved.

“Lose my mind? That’s not what it is. Call it righteous fury.”

“And why do you get righteously furious?”

“Because they suck.”

That was it. Classic Rem—blunt to the point of offense.

But after some thought, Enkrid had gone back to ask again:

“So you just can’t stand people showing off half-baked tricks in front of you?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

The frustrating part? Enkrid kind of got it.

“Am I starting to catch the barbarian madness...?”

He’d wondered about that.

If you were a master chef with your own philosophies and standards, and someone shoved a charred piece of meat in your face and called it cuisine, wouldn’t you want to bash their head in?

Anyone serious about their craft would feel that way.

It’s a matter of pride.

That was essentially what Rem was shouting with every swing: “That’s not how you do sorcery!”

“What are you doing?”

A voice broke through his thoughts.

Enkrid was lying down in a corner of the training yard, eyes closed. The ground was damp, but laying his cloak down made it decently soft.

Sure, a sun-dried surface would’ve been better—but in this weather, that wasn’t happening.

He lazily cracked one eye open. It was Grida.

She’d returned last night after three days away, spoken to him, then gone to her room to wash up and sleep.

She hadn’t slept deeply. It felt like the family head might burst through the door any moment.

“What were you doing for three days? What did you find out, daughter?”

And it wouldn’t be a warm fatherly tone either. /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ As both her father and the family head, he was about as expressive as a fairy.

Sometimes, he seemed completely devoid of emotion.

What if her father had changed into someone she no longer recognized? That fear gnawed at her.

Even if it wasn’t the head of the house—she’d expected someone to confront her.

If she was being honest, she’d even hoped they would.

Because she wanted to know: Who the hell messed with her family?

She had intentionally made her presence known these last three days—left obvious tracks, took no effort to hide her movement.

But—

“Nothing happened.”

No one asked. No one challenged her.

When she got up that morning, she saw Enkrid lying on the grass like he was sunbathing.

There was no sun, so it wasn’t sunbathing. What would you even call it? Shadow-bathing? Honestly, she just wanted to curse at the sight.

Grida asked her question, then instinctively turned her body slightly—someone was approaching from behind.

“Is today a rest day?”

A voice came from behind. Grida gave a nod. Alexandra acknowledged them with just her eyes.

“Yes.”

Enkrid answered from where he lay.

He’d learned over time: rest was just as important as training.

Even Zaun practiced this.

Once every ten days, at minimum, they designated a rest day. That made three full days of rest per month.

Their ancestors must’ve realized that swinging swords every day wasn’t the only path to strength.

A tradition passed down for generations.

There were countless things to learn just by watching.

Swinging a sword daily trains the body—and purges distractions.

On rest days, they used that time to reflect, to think, to strategize. Maybe it was the right time to indulge in distractions.

It was an old tradition.

Enkrid understood the importance of rest, so he adopted their rest day custom too.

Meaning: no sparring today.

That didn’t mean skipping basic drills. He had still risen early to review what Audin had taught him and go through his forms.

By afternoon, he lay here, collecting and untangling the threads in his mind.

He no longer felt the same impatience that used to drive him to train obsessively. And so—this was possible now.

To the untrained eye, it probably still looked like training. But for a regular soldier, even from the Border Guard, this counted as half a rest day.

For someone in the Mad Knight Platoon? This was definitely a break.

From Enkrid’s point of view, this was laziness on Ragna’s level.

“Those clouds are really dark.”

Enkrid pointed at the far-off pitch-black mass in the sky.

“They’re called blackstorm clouds,” Alexandra replied, following the direction of his finger. “This time they look serious.”

Dark clouds loomed across the sky. Thick and heavy.

It was more than just shadowing the sun—it was like a second sky made of coal-black stone had formed overhead.

That massive storm system was approaching slowly, like a whole world drifting this way.

“If it starts pouring, it’s going to turn into a full-blown tempest.”

Alexandra’s tone held concern. Enkrid sat up halfway, glancing past her to the nearby buildings.

“Are these stone houses built for weather like that?”

The sturdy construction said it all—proof of how long Zaun had been rooted here.

Zaun has power. So why don’t they just move?

For example, Heskal often traveled between the three surrounding villages, managing Zaun’s affairs. The terrain was so rough, merchant caravans couldn’t reach them easily.

True, rare herbs and fruits grew in these remote hills—but you could just hire gatherers for that.

The intermediary village was basically a hub of smiths and merchants.

“Still, I like it here,”

Heskal once said. He was always the one worried about Zaun’s future.

And Lynox?

He liked to call himself a man of romance.

“No food? Then you live without it. If you need something, just get it when you need it.”

He and Heskal disagreed. Heskal believed Zaun could grow stronger; Lynox didn’t see a reason to push it.

Lynox had spent his youth obsessed with swordsmanship—like a madman.

Now? He’s obsessed with teaching.

But his eye for talent was awful. They said he’d call at least five people a year “the greatest talent I’ve ever seen.”

Once every two months, he declared someone a genius.

“Just like that mercenary from my village.”

That’s how Enkrid had been tricked into picking up a sword.

Still, Lynox wasn’t exactly wrong. Most of the ones who survived in Zaun were worthy of being called geniuses.

There were at least five proper knights within Zaun.

“They say the Mad Knights are extra firepower. So is Zaun.”

People might not realize it, but Zaun had its own overwhelming force.

Some kids still fell for Lynox’s honeyed words—but by now, most knew to take his compliments with a grain of salt.

He understood romance.

But he had no interest in reality.

His dream was to travel the continent with just one sword.

“Don’t you already have six?”

“I’ll just leave five behind,” he’d say, laughing.

What did he and Heskal have in common?

They live to protect Zaun.

Their methods differed, but the goal was the same.

Lynox stayed to find a genius who would surpass him. He said he couldn’t leave until he passed on everything he knew.

He believed his job here wasn’t done.

And he was an exceptional warrior—and a fantastic teacher.

He wielded six swords, each with a different style. As a sparring partner, he was the most entertaining by far.

His swordplay was beyond rigid classifications—free-flowing, dynamic, unbound.

In Enkrid’s system, it would be called:

“Swordsmanship focused on extreme sensory refinement.”

Two words defined his style: immediacy and restraint.

Reach out—there’s your path. Step forward—that’s your stance.

He’d created over a hundred sword forms. Broken just as many.

He crafted new techniques daily and dismantled others just as quickly.

That’s how he earned the nickname:

“The Six-Armed Destroyer.”

Direct, isn’t it?

From Grida’s categorization, Lynox was an analyst—a researcher of swordsmanship.

Skill and category are separate.

Another lesson learned.

Just listening to their stories, you’d think trailblazer types made the best warriors.

But—whatever your goals, whatever your methods, constant effort leads to mastery.

Heskal was the same. Like Grida, he was a guardian—someone tasked with protecting the family’s legacy and ensuring its future.

He was no less skilled than Lynox.

His style was calm, disciplined, refined.

No gaps. No flaws. A style that sought neither victory nor defeat.

“He hides his fangs in every fight. Sneaky bastard.”

That was Lynox’s take.

They were friends. Rivals.

Now they worked separately but still shared wine now and then. That alone said enough.

After exchanging swords with them, Enkrid felt the truth in those bonds.

What about the family head?

Solid. Heavy.

A man of immense patience—someone who would walk into a dragon’s maw if it served his purpose.

Unless Enkrid was wrong, that was the impression so far.

And Alexandra?

She welcomed and embraced everyone.

Not with knitting or warm words—but with her sword.

And Andante? Been gone for a month on “external duties,” supposedly on the family head’s orders.

Too many unanswered questions.

Enkrid responded simply: if he didn’t know—he’d just ask.

“Alex... Grida’s been gone for a few days. Why haven’t you asked what she was doing?”

BOOM— Another false strike of lightning lit the sky.

Thanks to those black clouds, midday looked like night. For a moment, the world brightened.

The lightning observed their little gathering—then moved on.

This bastard serious? Grida thought. But she only shot him a look that said what nonsense are you spouting now?

Barely kept her expression in check.

“That’s an interesting question,” Alexandra answered smoothly, smiling.

“Is it?”

Enkrid replied just as calmly. His expression didn’t change.

“We respect the children’s freedom. They’re grown. There’s no point dragging them in and interrogating them over every little thing.”

It was true. That was Zaun’s nature.

If nothing strange had happened—then yes, that was the right way.

While they talked, a few younger Zaun knights peeked around. Mostly younger ones.

It was a rest day. But at that age, your body itches to move.

“I thought of a new technique.”

One of them crept up and said.

Enkrid answered flatly,

“Isn’t it a rest day?”

“You tell them, and they still won’t listen,” Alexandra said, tousling the kid’s hair.

“I said it’s a rest day, didn’t I?”

“But everyone else is making progress. If I rust while standing still... what if I collapse before I can even try?”

A curse—or a sickness.

Everyone in Zaun knew it wasn’t really a curse.

They all worked to overcome it. Even Millesthia, the old healer.

For Enkrid, nothing had changed. Rest, train—same rhythm. Same days, over and over.

But for everyone else?

While he acted, they hadn’t been idle.

Especially Anne.