A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“Right upper arm, left abdomen.”

Enkrid read the intentions of the woman presumed to be Ragna’s mother.

The sword in her right hand slashed downward, and the one in her left hand thrust forward. The two blades moved in the same rhythm.

It was fast, but the rhythm was too regular.

Therefore—

“It’s easy.”

Easy to block, easy to dodge.

Ragna chose to evade rather than draw his sword.

It didn’t even look like he moved his feet, yet his body shifted sideways.

A knight’s reaction time easily surpassed human norms.

The average person would be stunned by Frok’s brute strength, surprised at the movements of beastmen, or frightened by a giant’s raw power.

But for a knight, none of that was shocking anymore—nor necessary to be.

They could now utilize similar strength and perform similar movements.

Just like Ragna was doing now.

Ragna’s mother twisted her blades to follow his motion at a right angle.

Still easy.

One blade stabbed, the other slashed. It felt almost monotonous.

“No, not easy after all.”

Whether it was because Enkrid was analyzing from the sidelines, or because his own discernment had improved, he now caught glimpses of the intent hidden in the swordplay.

The twin blades moved at fixed angles, forcing certain reactions from the opponent.

For example, the sword in her right hand stabbed downward toward the clavicle, while the sword in her left hand slashed outward at a diagonal. It was a motion that would slice through both the abdomen and arm.

If one tried to sidestep it, they would end up getting stabbed instead.

It was fast, nimble dual-wielding. In terms of speed alone, it was comparable to the best.

That was why there was no time to make other moves.

“And there are no wasted movements.”

Ragna had only two options now: draw his sword to block or retreat and widen the distance.

“If it were me, I’d grab both wrists.”

In terms of brute strength, Ragna had the upper hand, so he would make use of that advantage.

According to Lua Gharne-style tactical thinking, that would be the correct call.

After grabbing both wrists, he would headbutt her nose with his forehead.

Why make that choice?

“Because if he retreats, it’ll be harder to predict what she’ll do next.”

Simply blocking would let her continue attacking.

So he made the decision—and also understood what his mother was doing.

“Forcing a movement.”

If Acker’s Spiderweb Sword was about binding the opponent’s actions and limiting their choices...

This woman’s swordplay predetermined the path and drove the opponent into it.

Similar, but subtly different—this was a form of directional swordplay.

Ragna mixed three tactics, including Enkrid’s own.

“If possible, take multiple actions at once.”

If one could do that.

Ragna did.

He drew the short sword he’d brought and used it to block one of the incoming blades.

With his left hand, he grabbed for her right wrist, and with his right knee raised, he aimed a kick with his toes at her chin.

Clink.

As soon as Ragna’s short sword met hers, she pulled back.

Her body snapped backward, and his kick and grab caught nothing but air.

The golden braid down her back swayed from side to side.

With such a sharp motion, even her clothes and hair were thrown into disarray.

“Hmm, son—you’ve changed a little.”

Because of her rapid forward-and-back movements, the fluttering apron had returned to cover her abdomen and thighs. In that moment, Enkrid saw the scabbards strapped to the outer sides of her thighs.

“So they carry swords even when they cook here.”

No matter how he looked at them, those weren’t kitchen knives.

They were slightly longer than a short sword, and though the blade was thicker, it still seemed narrow.

A customized weapon somewhere between a gladius and a shortsword.

“No—it’s an inscribed weapon.”

He corrected himself.

They cooked here while armed with inscribed weapons.

“It’s only natural I’ve changed after being away so long, isn’t it?”

Ragna replied, showing a level of assertiveness he hadn’t displayed before.

And it was clear he didn’t mind if she came at him again.

This was a side of him that hadn’t been visible before leaving home.

Ragna’s mother seemed a little moved.

“Yes, I knew you’d return someday.”

“I haven’t come back—I’ve come to claim the sunrise.”

“Sunrise? Was it promised to you?”

She turned her head slightly, glancing toward the man presumed to be Ragna’s father.

“No.”

His father shook his head.

“You’ve got fire in you, son. It looks good on you.”

His mother smiled as she turned back.

What a strangely optimistic family, Enkrid thought, reviewing what had just happened.

A brief exchange, but full of interesting things.

He even learned something new.

Not all swordsmanship could be divided into fatal strikes, maintenance, or omnipotence.

In other words, instinct and calculation couldn’t be used to understand everything.

That swordplay Ragna’s mother had shown—

“Transition.”

She moved back and forth across the line between instinct and calculation.

It wasn’t omnipotence.

Rather than keeping perfect balance, she tilted like a seesaw and came back.

“And on top of that—extreme speed.”

Enkrid had called his own sword style “Flash,” but in truth, what made it powerful was the optimization of thought.

It was about reducing the number of variables in a single moment.

He was reminded of the swordplay Grida had once shown him.

More accurately, the method Grida used to disrupt calculations.

Which, in practice, was completely unusable in real combat.

To use it in actual battle, one would have to assume a perfect defense and make only minimal movements—like Enkrid did when facing a one-killer.

But Grida’s moves had been far too exaggerated for that.

So it wasn’t practical for real combat.

During their spar, Enkrid had acted with thoroughly rational combat thinking, while Grida had taken the role of breaking that thought apart.

So he had decided then not to give her the chance to do so.

“Leave only limited options, and make the best possible choice.”

That was the principle of Flash.

Defined that way, it wasn’t slow by any means, but purely in terms of blade speed, what Ragna’s mother had shown just now was even more astonishing.

“A high-speed cognitive transition using fast blades?”

There must be more techniques hidden behind what he’d seen.

He was genuinely excited.

So without realizing it, he found himself gripping and releasing the hilt of Tri-Iron repeatedly.

“A rather combative guest, I see.”

Ragna’s mother said.

Enkrid was about to speak, but Grida cut him off.

“Don’t. Not that.”

It was a warning.

“...I came with Ragna.”

Enkrid wanted to challenge her immediately—but he took Grida’s warning.

Magrun stepped in and added:

“He’s Enkrid from the Border Guard. You’ve heard of the Mad Knight Order, right? The message was passed through the Intermediaries’ Village.”

Ragna’s mother blinked a few times, then replied:

“Oh, that one? The heartbreaker?”

Enkrid wavered for a moment—but he endured.

“How did that nickname get all the way here?”

He wondered briefly, then responded calmly and flatly.

“Who passed the message?”

If he found that bastard, he’d learn the origin.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred—it would be Shinar.

Enkrid now understood just how far she had spread the absurd rumor.

She had told everyone that the Mad Knight Order’s captain in the Border Guard was best known for breaking hearts.

At this rate, even passing children would say the nickname, and some bard might turn it into a song.

Maybe even a hermit wizard hidden deep in the forest would know the name.

“No, that’s going too far.”

This wasn’t the time to lose focus.

As he met her steady gaze, Enkrid continued.

“Rumors are exaggerated.”

“There’s no smoke without fire. And judging by your face, it’s not all untrue. But hey, I’ve heard stories that the clan head has eight arms—so not everything people say is real. I’m Alexandra Zaun. Welcome to Zaun.”

She appeared ordinary at first glance, but her skill had been confirmed just moments ago.

“I’d say you’re the one with eight arms.”

The clan head said beside her, and his wife laughed with a puff.

Despite being middle-aged, she had few wrinkles and looked strikingly youthful.

Knights aged more slowly.

“She must’ve reached the level of a knight at a young age.”

Unusual indeed.

The clan head couldn’t be read emotionally, and his wife seemed normal—but she was just as unreadable.

“If your level’s high, hiding your intent is natural.”

Didn’t Jaxon say the same thing?

Enkrid knew what it meant.

Exceptional observation bordered on insight.

Exceptional insight bordered on mind reading.

And those with that level of insight naturally learned to conceal their thoughts.

Whether by calculation, instinct, or reflex—they learned not to show their hand.

“Otherwise, Rophod and Pell’s duel wouldn’t make sense.”

If one knew the other’s intent and the other didn’t, the fight would end easily.

Of course, there were attacks you couldn’t block even if you did know.

But still—he got the point.

“We were preparing a meal for guests anyway, so you’ve come at the right time. Didn’t expect it, but we made enough. Come join us. Wash up first, though.”

Zaun was a small fortress, and there were a few attendants.

Enkrid spotted some maids and pages standing at a distance.

They were remarkably composed—unfazed by the swordplay they’d just witnessed.

“I’ll show you the way.”

Grida stepped forward, and Alexandra, the clan head’s wife, nodded.

“Sure. It’s where it’s always been.”

At some point, she had already sheathed her swords.

And so naturally, Enkrid had missed it again.

Putting the blades away mid-conversation—perhaps this was what they called seasoned skill.

Not every small gesture could be called extraordinary, but—

“Definitely unusual.”

The clan head glanced between Enkrid, Ragna, and Ann and said:

“I’ll see you in a bit. Looks like dinner will be fun tonight. It’s been a while since we’ve had a full table.”

His tone carried none of the joy he spoke of.

“This way.”

Grida nodded, gave her respects to the clan head and his wife, and led the party onward.

“I’ve got a quick stop to make.”

Magrun dropped out halfway.

Once they had put some distance between themselves and the clan head and his wife, Ann finally spoke.

“I was going to say we came to treat a patient, but he looked terrifying. Ragna’s father, I mean.”

“Did he?”

“He doesn’t resemble Ragna at all.”

Ragna nodded at Enkrid’s comment.

“They’re my adoptive parents. Would be strange if I did resemble them.”

“Huh?”

First time hearing that.

Enkrid turned his head at the unexpected comment, and Grida turned around and added:

“I’m adopted too. Didn’t know that, did you? Well, not like that bastard’s the type to talk about this stuff.”

Ragna didn’t respond.

He was just looking around.

It was his home, after all.

Some buried memories were probably stirring in the back of his mind.

“That hallway leads to what used to be my room. Wonder if it’s still there?”

It was a fortress in name, but the layout was more like a large manor.

A few pillars marked the division between outside and inside.

The place wasn’t large.

Ragna pointed with a finger toward the corridor to the right—that led inside.

To the left was an external garden.

“There’s nothing there but the clan head’s bedroom. It’s been that way since two generations ago.”

At Grida’s words, Ragna tilted his head.

“Guess I was confused.”

“You call that a little confused?”

Grida was exasperated, but this much was to be expected.

No matter how deeply a place was etched into one’s childhood, it had been a long time.

Getting lost was normal for Ragna.

“The bath is this way. No attendants. In Zaun, the rule is you do things yourself. If you don’t perform your duties, you get nothing in return. Ah, they’ll bring clothes, though.”

You couldn’t just swing a sword and expect bread to fall from the sky.

The clan likely operated on a sustainable structure.

They only kept the minimum number of staff—everything else was done by hand.

“First time I’ll get to wash properly in a while.”

Ann said.

“You’re washing with me.”

Grida led her into another bath chamber, separated by a wall.

Enkrid entered his bath and saw a large wooden tub already full of water.

There was also a hearth nearby to boil more if needed.

Steam rose from the cauldron atop the fire, and a large tub stood ready.

Ragna, despite his poor sense of direction, had no issues with memory.

He retrieved a wooden bucket and began mixing hot and cold water.

He wasn’t only preparing his own—he was making one for Enkrid as well.

It made it clear this was indeed Ragna’s home.

The bathwater preparation had a mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity to it.

“What’s the ‘sunrise’?”

Enkrid asked, watching Ragna.

He stank—clearly hadn’t bathed properly in some time.

That must’ve been why they told them to wash before the ★ ★ meal.

Ragna answered while dipping the bucket into the bathwater.

His voice mixed with the splashing sound.