A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“You’ve changed a lot. You know that?”

Grida’s voice came as Ragna turned his head. She had been watching her younger brother train alone under the moonlight.

She didn’t ask why he was sitting on the ground instead of the chair nearby. Probably because she just didn’t care enough to ask.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

Ragna gave a vague nod in response to her affirmation. Sweat ran down his face and dripped from his chin.

“People will be shocked seeing you like this.”

Ragna simply nodded again. It didn’t matter to him whether others were shocked or not.

The way he nodded so disinterestedly made it clear—he didn’t care.

“In the end, you’re going back home after all.”

Grida said.

“I’m not going back.”

“Then?”

“Just stopping by.”

“Why?”

“To pick something up.”

Was he serious? Grida stared at him for a long time before brushing off her backside and standing up. A puff of dust rose where she had sat.

“Well, your business is your own.”

She couldn’t help but find this version of Ragna unfamiliar.  ven after Grida left, Ragna continued swinging his sword.

He’d decided to return to the family estate, but if he was to retrieve what he needed, he had to advance further than he was now.

Because—

There’s no time.

That’s why he was pouring even this brief moment into training.

Whenever he swung his sword, the path would reveal itself. It had always been that way since childhood.

He could see how far he could go, where he would end up if he kept training like this—he saw it all.

Even without trying, it was just there.

He didn’t need to struggle or thrash. The path was already laid before him.

So then, was there meaning in walking it?

Memories from the past surged like a tide and pooled in his mind.

“Become a knight.”

That’s what his father had said.

“Why should I?”

Ragna had replied.

His father had looked at him like he was staring at some unknown creature for the first time.

“Do you need a reason?”

The Zaun were people enthralled by the sword itself. Ragna couldn’t be like that. Swinging a sword brought him no joy.

“You don’t enjoy this? Why not?”

Everyone asked him, but his answer was always the same.

“What’s so enjoyable about it?”

“Like, wanting to beat someone, or push past your limits—doesn’t that get you fired up? I mean, it’s just fun, right?”

That’s what others said.

Ragna couldn’t agree.

Beating someone? Sure, maybe not today, but in a month? He would. The outcome was already obvious. It was an immutable fact.

“What are you saying? Are you some kind of prophet?”

To those who mocked him, he simply proved it. Even the process itself was painfully boring.

Talent was what determined everything. Ragna knew that.

Even among those chosen for their talent, Ragna stood out.

Which made it all the more dull. A tedious life. He would swing a sword until he died—and he already knew what that death would look like.

Am I just going to spend my life swinging a sword down this predetermined road, and die like that?

A new sword style? A new path? He saw none. Only what was already set in stone.

What should have been a blessing—his God-given talent—had become a curse for Ragna.

God had given him talent but not a shred of will to go with it.

Then he left home—and met Enkrid.

“Why do you go that far?”

He had once asked.

“I swing my sword to survive right now. But I don’t want to live just to survive.”

That was back when Ragna thought Enkrid’s fundamentals were flawed.

Even back then, Enkrid’s will never wavered. His path extended straight ahead—steadfast and unwavering.

Guided by memories like ripples in still water, the present-day Ragna swung his sword.

Ping.

His blade sliced perfectly parallel to the ground, vanishing cleanly into the motion.

Moonlight chased after the trail his greatsword left in the air. As he swung without pause, the moonlight chased the blade and the blade teased the moonlight in return.

Dozens of silver arcs formed and vanished again and again in midair.

And in Ragna’s mind, Enkrid’s words echoed and took root—always resurfacing when needed.

“I want to live in a way I believe is right. To lift my sword for the poor and sick, for honor, and for the people I love.”

Talent should have drowned him, washed him away. Limitations should have caught him from behind like a predator and dragged him to his knees.

That was the future Ragna saw for Enkrid.

But Enkrid had broken through every future Ragna had imagined. Even burdened by everything like a curse, he walked forward and shook off his pursuers—never wearing despair or defeat.

Seeing someone like that advancing right beside him... Ragna trembled.

Was it really so important to walk the path set for you?

Had he even walked that path to begin with?

Enkrid had asked through action, through his life, through his will.

Ragna had no answer.

So he had to walk it—just like the man before him—to see if the path was truly his.

At that moment, he began to enjoy swordsmanship.

You could call it a string of astonishing experiences.

Guided by those collected memories, Ragna continued.

“You went to Juri’s house, didn’t you?”

Anne, the healer and alchemist, asked.

“Yeah.”

He answered honestly. He had nothing to hide.

Anne hesitated for a moment, then suddenly met his eyes and asked,

“Are you interested in Juri? Or do you... maybe like kids?”

“What the hell do you think I am?”

That was a little offensive.

Seeing his reaction, Anne tucked her neatly braided hair behind her shoulder and said,

“Then never mind. Why’d you go, then?”

“To take a look.”

“At what?”

“Do you think people always need a reason to want to do something?”

Ragna shot the question back.

Anne pondered it before answering,

“I don’t know.”

She was too busy managing her own path to care what others did. Her concern was limited.

“Yeah. That’s all.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“Let’s talk about you instead.”

Ragna had changed. Not just from the time Grida Zaun knew him, but even from when Enkrid first met him.

“...About what?”

“You were shaken by what happened to Magrun.”

So she wasn’t oblivious—just directionally challenged. Anne muttered something, then spoke again, still meeting his eyes.

“That’s not a curse. It’s a disease. Technically, it’s an airborne illness, spread by dust-like particles. And it killed over a hundred people in the city I used to live in.”

Anne had lost her parents, relatives, and friends to it. She had only survived thanks to sheer luck—or more accurately, her talent.

She had learned the basics of alchemy from Raban as a child.

That’s what saved her.

But now she knew. Raban was her enemy.

No—her true enemy was the one who trained Raban. The one who had created this disease.

Anne knew the truth.

“The one who spread it where I lived was still in the testing phase. That’s why it disappeared without a trace. Once people started calling it a plague, even those who weren’t infected ended up burned alive.”

Those born with the illness were supposed to die then.

That’s what Anne had seen.

People born with defects—like her parents. She had watched her lame father and mute mother burn to death.

And in that moment, she realized she had two choices:

Dream of revenge, or walk a completely different path.

Anne chose the latter.

Because her target was too pathetic to even take revenge on.

Some terrified beggar had secretly lit the straw tent on fire in the middle of the night. It wasn’t just one person.

Part of the slums had seen it happen and looked the other way. Some even encouraged it.

They ignored it, incited it, participated in it, or let it happen.

Who was to blame?  The world? The nobility? The well-off commoners who just watched? The guards who patrolled the area?

Some guards, even when people were burning, fetched water to help put out the fire.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I’m sorry.”

One of those guards had cried.

Anne didn’t even know his face. But she didn’t think he had anything to apologize for.

That moment, she found her path.

A path she would walk for the rest of her life.

I won’t lose to disease.

She swore it. Built a tower of resolve in her heart. She also vowed to erase the fear that illness brought.

Recently, with the Fairy City relocating, she had acquired rare ingredients.

It gave her the chance to advance research she’d only dreamed of before.

So she did it. When she told Ragna she had stayed up for days, it wasn’t an exaggeration.

Is there a medicine that cures all disease?

Anne asked herself.

It was a difficult question, but she already knew the answer.

No, there isn’t.

Actually—there is.

There isn’t. But there is.

There’s no medicine. But there can be someone who can cure all disease.

Become that healer.

That’s what I want.

She had a clear goal and a place she needed to reach. She had no room to look elsewhere.

That’s why she couldn’t concern herself with others.

“We need to go to where the disease is spreading. It probably started from a mushroom or a flower. We have to find it and confirm it. That’s the only way to create a cure.”

“If you catch it, do you die?”

“Long or short, yes. You’ll die.”

Anne answered firmly, then continued.

“When you die is a matter of luck. Magrun coughed up blood. You said the head of house is infected too? Some people will look fine. Others will groan in pain and lose all strength. That’s because the disease works differently on everyone. It’s not a curse.”

Ragna nodded.

“Sometimes when I stop by Juri’s house, the kids are happy to see me.”

It was a random comment—spoken as it came to him.

Anne accepted it nonetheless.

“So?”

“So I go.”

Juri’s house was a place for taking care of children. She had asked earlier why he went there. Now she had her answer.

“Took you long enough to say it.”

Anne murmured, somewhat relieved. She had been worried Ragna might’ve become Juri’s lover.

As long as it wasn’t that—nothing else mattered.

Anne muttered to herself and left.

Ragna resumed his forms, thrusting and slashing as he shifted his stance.

He followed an upper horizontal slash with a spinning cut, a diagonal cleave, then a sideways feint into a heavy downward chop aimed at the crown of a pressured opponent.

Every motion led to a counter.

A phantom opponent changed footwork. Ragna dragged his foot and slashed downward.

He tracked the trajectory of the enemy’s blade.

The imaginary foe attempted an overhead horizontal slash from a high guard.

Ragna imagined his sword getting caught by the opponent’s—then pulled back and stepped in close, punching toward where the face would be.

Whoosh.

Of course, he hit empty air. It was all imaginary.

“That looked like my flash strike getting countered.”

A voice spoke. It was the presence that had been nearby all along—the one he called “Captain.”

“You know it’d go differently in a real fight.”

Ragna replied, letting his sword drop.

“Sometimes it’s best to end it before the bind happens.”

It was Enkrid, now standing beside him. He must have come out after washing up post-training. He wasn’t sweating.

A cool spring breeze blew by, tinged faintly with floral scent.

“The saint said someone in the city is already doing what she wants. Juri’s house.”

Enkrid added.

Juri, the marmalade seller, took in war orphans, abandoned children, and those who’d lost their parents.

There had only been a few at first, but their numbers grew, as did the staff.

They always lacked krona. Someone had been donating to them regularly.

“You.”

“You gave all the gold coins you extorted from Kraiss, didn’t you?”

“Raising kids costs a lot of krona.”

“Raising people always does.”

That was what Ragna had done.

“Why?”

Enkrid asked sincerely.

Ragna stayed silent.

“The kids there don’t necessarily have dreams or goals. But I figured, maybe they should be allowed to live like everyone else.”

Is a dream necessary? Must one live with purpose?

Ragna was saying—not everyone does. Just like his younger self.

“Sounds like common sense.”

Enkrid accepted the answer.

Some people just want peace in their old age. Some wish today repeats tomorrow. Others wish tomorrow never resembles today.

“I just ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) wanted to help.”

Ragna added.

“In the West, they say when a man changes, it means he’s close to death.”

“Are you cursing me?”

“No, just saying.”

“I’ll come back once I retrieve one item.”

His meaning was clear—he wasn’t going “home.” This was home now.

“I wasn’t worried. See you tomorrow.”

Enkrid said and turned away.

Ragna nodded casually.

When he was alone again, he sheathed his sword, then coughed quietly into his hand.

“Luck,” huh...

Red blood stained his palm.

His insides ached—like something was wrong. His gut felt heavy.

It was the sign of disease.

As if fate was asking:

How long do you think you’ll live?

He had thought he was walking a set path. This was not a path he expected.

And strangely—that made it enjoyable.

If my life ends like this... what will I leave behind? What can I leave behind?

Ragna had started helping Juri’s house after those questions took root in him.

What will remain of me?

He didn’t know yet.

That’s what he thought.