A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 706: Righteousness

Heskal stood beneath a black curtain that blocked the pouring rain.

Was that thing conjured by magic too?

It could’ve been awe-inspiring, but Heskal voiced no such sentiment.

A storm raged so violently that nothing ahead could be seen clearly.

Knight or not, this was weather that blinded everyone.

Yet not a single drop of rain touched his shoulders.

Oh, great magic. Should he praise it?

But Heskal remained indifferent.

"Did you follow the plan?"

A voice came from within the black veil—

But was the one speaking truly a person?

By Heskal’s standards, the creature wasn’t human.

In fact, even it never called itself one.

"I did," Heskal replied.

"Good. Then I will create a place for Zaun to rise again. And I shall become a god and establish a new order in this land."

Heskal looked toward the speaker.

Skin brittle like old paper, the face gaunt as if the muscles had rotted away.

Hollows where cheeks should be.

Eyeballs bulging, ready to fall.

Protruding cheekbones exposed fragments of bone.

You didn’t need anyone to explain—his body was rotting.

Dremule, the genius alchemist.

Once, they said half the continent's alchemists learned from him.

They had read his books, built their foundations on what he left behind.

A ghost of a long-dead past.

A man who should’ve died long ago, and yet still lived.

Seeing him stirred a thought in Heskal’s mind:

“You survive by being on the winning side, Tempest.”

How to live could be dealt with later.

First, you had to live—only then could you speak of what came next.

Currently, no one in Zaun had command experience, and every member was sick.

Victory or defeat was decided before the battle began.

That was Heskal’s philosophy.

In the midst of his thoughts, a foul, sour stench pierced his nose.

The smell of decay from a rotting corpse—Dremule’s scent.

He stepped closer.

Any closer, and Heskal would have to leap outside the curtain.

That thing was dangerous by proximity alone.

A symbol of abnormal power—one who dared claim godhood.

"Your friend will command them."

Heskal.

Lynox.

And Andante.

The three swords of Zaun.

Of them, Andante had long since died and been reborn.

What does a knight become when reborn after death?

An alchemist and rogue magician had brought him back from death as a death knight.

As the rain lightened, the army enduring the storm came into view beyond the curtain.

Scalers, medusas, owlbears—nearly a thousand strong.

A monster army.

Behind them, a figure hung its head, serpent hair dangling.

A wizard capable of spreading plague with a gesture stood beside it.

Bound to that wizard was a shaman shackled by soul magic.

Even worse, the people of Zaun were weakened by Dremule’s "seed."

Heskal had taken the antidote.

They had not.

This was a battle won before it began.

By now, they were surely vomiting blood or burning with fever.

Some, perhaps, were seeing hallucinations.

They would go mad, or their brains would burn from the fever and kill them outright.

Just like my son did.

The disease Dremule unleashed would slowly dry them out and kill them.

Break their will before they ever raised a sword.

"Why did you go so far just to kill that girl?"

Heskal asked.

Dremule fancied himself a god.

And yet, he’d gone to great lengths to kill a mere girl.

He’d used the persuaded hunters in the village, cast spells, deployed cursed traps.

Of course, most of the power came from Dremule himself.

But placing it well, hiding it cleverly—those were Heskal’s contributions.

"She got in the way."

Heskal wanted to ask what that meant, but Dremule had already turned away.

That meant no answer would be given.

Instead, two of his disciples stepped forward.

One of the three had already been sent into Zaun—but failed.

Not from direct observation, but from the fact that too much time had passed without their return.

Ragna had been guarding the girl.

Did Ragna kill them?

Then Ragna might’ve been infected and died too.

Dremule’s disciples were powerful enough for that.

Even if they didn’t kill him, there’s no way he’s moving around unharmed.

Which meant they were down one knight.

Heskal set aside the mystery of why Dremule was obsessed with the girl, and began building a simulation of the battle in his mind.

Victory was the obvious outcome.

***

Cough, cough—gag!

A man of House Zaun vomited blood.

The towel pressed to his mouth turned red.

When the coughing stopped, he pulled it away and inspected it.

"Am I dying?"

A grim question, made more serious by who said it.

He was ready to nod at whatever answer came.

Die if you must, but swing the sword one more time before you do—wasn’t that enough?

His resolve steadied.

It stirred his will.

Then Anne slapped him on the back.

Smack!

"Come on, you’re not dying. It’s just a little blood."

Her tone grated—completely out of sync with the frantic pace around them.

Even after the slap, her hands kept moving.

She was checking things, grinding herbs, mixing medicine.

The man had vomited blood after taking the medicine Anne had given him.

Lately, phlegm had been building in his throat, and his breath had grown foul.

Soon, he lost the will to do anything.

He’d secretly made up his mind to leave for the retirees’ village—a place for those who couldn’t cut it in Zaun.

It seemed like a good fit.

But then they told him it was a disease.

"Drama queen," muttered his friend behind him.

After vomiting, the man realized the foreign feeling in his throat had faded.

"Am I cured?" he asked again.

"You’ll need to take medicine for a month. {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} I can’t make it yet. Once the rain stops, I’ll gather what I need and brew it. Now move."

Anne rattled off her words as she pushed him back.

Then she gave everyone their medicine or used a knife to lance their skin.

Some even saw something leech-like crawl out from beneath their flesh.

What kind of disease is this?

The look in their eyes asked the question.

"It’s more of a curse than a disease," Anne said calmly.

"They blended a curse into the illness."

It was oddly fascinating.

Especially for the middle-aged man who had just had that thing yanked out of his arm.

A curse, huh?

Wasn’t a curse something you had to dispel or kill the caster to break?

"A healer fixes what’s visible. If I can see it, I can fix it. Whether it’s a curse or a disease, it still alters the body."

Only a genius could speak like that.

No alchemist would dare say the same.

Even Schmidt clicked his tongue in disbelief.

"Amazing. Her thinking is different."

From the look in his eyes, he was probably planning to invite her to the Empire when this was over.

Even in a crisis, an imperial recruiter still lit up when he saw talent.

Call it professionalism—or maybe responsibility.

At least he had enough sense not to make a move right now.

Anne didn’t take long to identify and treat the illness.

Within a single day, no one collapsed from coughing blood.

No one suffered hallucinations from a high fever.

"You need to eat well and rest. I want to say don’t move your body, but I doubt that’s possible, is it?"

Anne didn’t address anyone in particular, but she made her point.

"It’s not," Ragna replied.

"At least rest while you still can," she said.

That was sincere.

A sick body doesn’t recover overnight.

So they took her advice.

They tossed firewood into the mansion's central fireplace until it roared, and even set up a bonfire out front.

To dry their clothes. To warm up.

Then they brought out rations and ate on the spot.

No time to go cook in the dining hall.

Most of House Zaun had gathered here—there weren’t even enough seats to go around.

Some napped in corners. Others cleaned their weapons.

For them, checking weapons was a form of rest.

Enkrid inspected his blade and changed into dry underclothes.

The ones gifted by the fairies.

They were great in many ways, except how they felt.

Like wearing rough leaves.

At first it seemed snug, then it changed over time.

Expecting silk here is just greedy, he thought.

He didn’t complain—just acknowledged it was uncomfortable.

"That’s it for now," Anne said, raising both hands.

Her forehead beaded with sweat, and the skin under her eyes was dark.

She looked utterly spent.

"I’m dying," she muttered, collapsing onto the floor.

Anahera slipped a pillow under her head before it hit the ground.

When did she get that?

Lynox appeared with a blanket.

Someone else told Anne to call if she ever needed anything.

Offered to swing a blade in her place.

If not for Anne, few of them would even be standing.

They didn’t know what trick Heskal had pulled before he left, but everyone—Lynox included—had felt something wrong in their bodies.

The illness had accelerated.

And an outsider named Anne had stopped it.

Killing Millescia had been a move to eliminate the only healer.

A mistake on the enemy’s part.

Anne didn’t die.

Maybe Saho’s constant insistence on protecting her had helped.

Credit where it’s due.

Enkrid resolved to tell him someday.

The deafening rain that had pounded the earth like a hammer softened into a steady pour.

The storm subsided.

But the sun didn’t rise.

Wind still howled.

Fine rain still fell.

"They’re coming," said the head of House Zaun.

It must’ve been early morning.

Enkrid rose and estimated the time.

The lord repeated his call.

"Everyone who can fight, come out."

He wasn’t the type to stir hearts with speeches.

So he never spoke—he acted.

He picked up his greatsword and walked outside.

Enkrid stood by Ragna and watched.

Unlike his father, the lord wore his emotions openly.

He was furious.

Expressionless, yes—but his eyes burned.

"It’s okay to be angry," Enkrid said.

One by one, the people of Zaun emerged.

Grida tried to fight with a hole in her gut.

Anne watched her and said, "I’d be okay with knocking that woman out right now."

She meant Grida should stay behind.

Enkrid and Ragna stood still, watching backs fade into the mist.

"Why would I be angry?" Ragna asked.

Enkrid felt a brief frustration.

"It’s okay to be honest with yourself."

He still spoke gently.

Surely Ragna understood by now.

From the side, it was obvious.

Why hadn’t he taken the dawn? Why say that was his goal, then do nothing?

Wasn’t it obvious?

"What are you trying to say?"

Sometimes Enkrid felt stifled around lunatics.

He didn’t usually get angry, but this was too much.

"Even if you walked away, no one would blame you."

"I’m fine," Ragna replied.

"I don’t think you abandoned your duty.

But I also don’t believe a single sword swing will fix everything."

Ragna said nothing.

"When you left this place, was it really to rest?

Was time truly lighter? Blurred? Wasted?

Did you actually rest—or were you just lost?

Because choosing not to see what’s right in front of you—that’s not being lost.

That’s looking away."

Regret after loss is always too late.

Regret always arrives late to the promise, torturing the one who waits.

Enkrid had known loss.

He’d learned to act before it came.

Old memories made him speak a bit too harshly.

"Your anger is justified," Enkrid said.

Ragna blinked.

Then thought—

Am I angry?

He was.

Enkrid’s heated but calm words had brought what Ragna had ignored into sharp relief.

Someone had harmed his family.

His home.

And now Ragna knew.