A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Grida had liked it here from the moment she arrived—but the longer she stayed, the more she liked it. If she hadn’t, she would’ve left right after finishing her business, regardless of this “two-month” nonsense.

She’d traveled all over the continent and seen plenty, but few places sat this well with her.

And it wasn’t just her.

“This stuff is insane.”

Odinkar, for one, was thoroughly impressed.

He took a bite of today’s special—minced meat mixed with onions and flour, grilled and stuffed into bread—and gave a hearty thumbs-up without hesitation.

Meat juice streaked down the corners of his mouth.

It was the kind of food that made you take a bite without thinking.

The sizzle of the grilled meat lingered in the memory, with the juices dancing across the tongue and sliding down the throat.

Yeah. No argument. It was good.

Grida nodded and raised her own thumb. The food here was truly excellent.

The seasoned jerky and perfectly baked bread were fantastic. Then there was the pork barbecue, slow-roasted all day and shredded with sauce, stuffed into long rolls.

Pulled pork sandwich, wasn’t it?

And that wasn’t even the best part.

The pumpkin soup and fresh juice were amazing too.

The hot broth warmed the insides like nothing else.

The Zaun family didn’t fall behind when it came to food, but the dishes here had their own unique charm.

Some were similar, but the flavors were fresh and distinct. That alone made it enjoyable.

Odinkar had always been one to indulge in food, so it was no surprise when he said:

“Can I just not go back?”

“You think that’s possible?”

Grida gently shut him down. What about the four wives and kids he left back home?

“I’m joking, I’m joking.”

Odinkar laughed heartily.

“Hey, if you’re done eating, come out and fight.”

From beyond the dining hall, Enkrid’s voice rang out.

“How do you want to do it today?”

Odinkar swallowed and asked.

“Two-on-one? Or just solo?”

Enkrid asked again from outside.

Odinkar had no self-restraint, which meant every sparring match with him became a matter of life and death. After a few such duels, Anne had taken it upon herself to issue a warning.

“What are you, an old ragdoll dreaming of glory? You trying to get stitched from head to toe?”

Even after almost getting his collarbone sliced in two, they’d sparred twice more. Odinkar had won one of those matches—Enkrid had nearly died.

A split second before the blade could pierce his throat, Jaxon had pulled a dagger and deflected it.

At the same time, Odinkar’s arm had been grabbed by Audin.

After that, they both realized they couldn’t keep sparring like that.

Eventually, someone was going to die.

Then Rem offered a curious suggestion. In her unit, they had a practice of making one soldier spar against three others of similar skill.

“Wasn’t that just to torture them?”

Kraiss had muttered from the side, but everyone knew it wasn’t just that.

Though no one doubted it aligned perfectly with Rem’s tastes.

Forcing someone to fight three opponents without explaining the reason, without offering solutions—making them figure it out through pain—and laughing at the one getting pummeled... yeah, that was very Rem.

“That’s a good idea, brother.”

“Not bad. If three skilled fighters push one to their limits, that one will learn something. And the three will learn coordination.”

Jaxon, unusually talkative, had spoken up—probably because he wanted to end the reckless duels.

Still, if Rem’s soldiers could do it, so could the knights.

And so the sparring format changed.

Enkrid started fighting two, sometimes three, at a time. So did Odinkar.

Rem and Audin would take the solo role too, depending on the day.

What surprised Grida most was that Odinkar began to control himself.

Rem had just cackled.

“You get smacked enough, you figure it out.”

Jaxon said it was just a matter of retraining habits.

Audin claimed it was divine grace—and that he’d simply passed on the word of God with his fist.

Different words, same meaning.

So... beat it into them?

But their methods were surprisingly precise. Their techniques, their approach, even their sparring format—it was all calculated.

He changed through pain?

Could it really be that easy?

Odinkar had walked the razor’s edge between life and death since childhood. That kind of habit doesn’t break in a day.

Then what was the catalyst? What drove that change?

You couldn’t know just by watching. It needed research.

Maybe Magrun had figured it out. That was his specialty, after all.

At the center of it all stood Enkrid.

Once the sparring format changed and things became relatively safe, these maniacs went full tilt.

Especially Enkrid—he was enough to leave even Odinkar speechless.

It wasn’t just his attitude in battle. It was how he spent his entire day that stunned people.

He woke before dawn and trained his body.

In the mornings, he took walks—sometimes with the leopard, sometimes with the scantily robed witch with long black hair. But even those walks were just disguised training.

Dueling with a mage.

He did that at least twice a week.

And then he’d train with the barbarian, the assassin, the fairy—separate sessions, each tailored.

And then he taught the others.

Whether it was a guard or a personal unit, he gave direction. Mostly he just outlined their training goals.

“I’m not falling again!”

One particularly passionate squire named Clemens caught the eye. Talent aside, his burning spirit stood out.

Seiki, who dropped by now and then, was clearly gifted—but didn’t seem especially interested.

The actual training of the unit was handled by other members.

But what mattered was this:

Every moment of Enkrid’s remaining time was spent fighting.

Sparring. Constantly. No breaks. No rest. Just repetition.

How’s his mind not breaking down?

The body wasn’t the problem. If the mind cracked, the body would follow. Mental fortitude came first.

And yet Enkrid absorbed everything calmly.

That, in itself, was extraordinary.

With that thought, Grida called out to a passing man—by now, she’d memorized most of the names in the Mad Platoon.

“Hey, Rophod. Wanna spar a bit?”

She greeted the passing member.

But the man scowled and replied sharply.

“My name’s Pell. Shepherd Pell. Why the hell do you keep confusing me with that bastard?”

“Oh? My bad. You two look alike.”

Pell immediately drew his sword.

“Duel.”

Yep. These people were fun. Grida happily sparred with Pell. It was enjoyable.

Lua Gharne came by and started probing her with Frokk-style theory questions, which made Magrun smile.

“A level of refinement I’d never expect from someone trained in the wild.”

Grida didn’t expect such words to come out of Magrun’s mouth. The man with a tongue full of thorns... complimenting someone?

“Frokk, this your handiwork?”

Magrun asked.

“No, his.”

Lua Gharne pointed her thick finger at Enkrid.

Magrun tilted his head in confusion.

“Really? Huh. Interesting.”

Even Magrun had no biting remarks.

There were only a handful of people he treated like this—even within Zaun.

And Enkrid had joined that shortlist.

But it wasn’t like he’d cast some spell. From the side, it looked simple.

He’d walk over, toss out a few ideas, engage in debate. Neither he nor Magrun ever raised their voices. They were calm. Methodical.

Enkrid talked privately with Magrun once or twice a week.

Strange.

But Grida felt the same.

At first, she’d thought about romance. Now, she didn’t want that.

Men get awkward when you break up.

And she didn’t want things to be awkward. She liked it the way it was now.

“I’m not in line.”

She said that to a fairy. The golden-haired fairy seemed very pleased.

“Want me to fetch some spring water for you?”

She even offered that just because Grida had a bruise from sparring.

“Good thinking. The line’s long.”

Though honestly, apart from the Black Flower and the Golden Witch, Grida hadn’t heard of any others in the “line.”

Oh, but the letters. They poured in.

Party invitations, introductions from ladies with “connections,” letters from kings, even from the Eastern Pioneer King, and one from some holy sect.

He really is popular.

Even walking °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° outside the city, people recognized him.

Besides the Golden Witch, other fairies tried to flirt with him quietly.

“Captain Shinar may be old, but I’m young.”

A bow instructor from the militia whispered this, sidling up to Enkrid.

Grida happened to be nearby and watched the whole thing unfold.

How would he respond?

“Being a little over four hundred isn’t that old.”

He casually played along with fairy humor.

“I’m not even half that.”

“To humans, two hundred and four hundred are both ‘old.’”

“...But they’re not the same.”

The fairy blinked innocently, but her eyes hid mischief.

Fairies didn’t lie—but they did twist the truth. Grida knew that.

The fairy batted her eyes and emphasized the age gap.

“You knew what I meant.”

Enkrid shut her down bluntly.

Hmm. So that’s how he handles it.

Even the innkeeper liked him. A giant merchant had shown favor too.

Then a Frokk artisan puffed her cheeks and talked nonstop about the materials she’d gathered and what she was going to craft.

Even then, Enkrid listened to everything.

He always listened. Earnestly. With full attention.

Watching that, Grida realized—

She’d truly fallen for him.

Not as a woman for a man. But as one person to another.

“You’re a good listener.”

“I like the passion that comes from their words.”

The way he said it—so casually—was captivating.

So she asked.

“Ever think of joining the Zaun family?”

She knew the answer. She’d watched him for a month.

This man would turn her down.

And yet, he said:

“Can I visit?”

“...Huh?”

“I mean, is it okay if I just come visit sometime?”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

Yes. He wasn’t coming to stay. He couldn’t be possessed.

This man shone too brightly to be contained.

Zaun was a still lake.

But this man—he was the wind. A wind could pass by the lake’s surface, but never rest within it.

“Wind Blade. You ever heard of that sword?”

“Isn’t that a bard’s song?”

“One of Zaun’s founders.”

“...First I’ve heard of it.”

Grida told him more.

“If you stay too close, people might get the wrong idea.”

Shinar joked as she wandered over. That led to another long chat between the three.

Eventually, Esther would come by and they’d sip tea in silence.

Silence was good. So was conversation. These were good people.

Maybe this is why Ragna didn’t want to come back?

And then, a stranger entered the unit.

Grida, who was standing out front, asked the visitor—blonde hair, red eyes—

“Who are you?”

The visitor blinked slowly, shook out his messy hair, and responded. He looked like he’d gotten lost somewhere. Smelled like it too.

But he carried a greatsword with some dignity.

“Grida?”

“...You know me? You look familiar. Who are you?”

She frowned. The face was familiar, but...

“It’s Ragna. Why are you here? Did you get lost again?”

“Oh. Ragna.”

Right—this whole journey had started as a mission to find him.

She’d been serious at first. Then it got fun, and she started slacking.

“I came to find you.”

“Me?”

“Someone back home wants to see the runaway.”

“If they miss me, they should come themselves.”

“They can’t. So I did.”

Honestly, if the family hadn’t sent a message, Grida would’ve traveled even longer.

It had been a while since she ventured out, and there was so much to enjoy—even with all the shitty bits.

Still, now that Ragna was back, she had to say it.

“Father’s looking for you.”

She told him.

Ragna looked back, eyes saying:

So what? And?

I like it here. And I think I’ve picked up some bad habits from him...

Her brother hadn’t used to look like that.

Now, his eyes were just like that barbarian Rem’s.