A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Even after hearing the name of the Emperor, the family head rejected the offer outright—with no reasoning, just a blunt “I refuse.” Yet the recruiter made no protest, only letting out a weary groan.

“You stubborn old mule.”

That was all he muttered.

Everyone heard it, but the family head ignored even that, turning his gaze aside and speaking again. Judging from his tone, it was clear the two were more than casual acquaintances.

“Everyone must have their reasons for coming here. Ragna has spoken of what he desires.”

His gaze, redirected after the firm refusal, landed on Anne, who had already finished her meal.

Is this... consideration?

The family head had waited until she’d eaten enough. Though no emotion was conveyed in his words, the timing suggested a degree of thoughtfulness.

Is he the type who expresses everything through action?

Instead of showing feelings?

Enkrid found himself wondering that.

No one else seemed fazed. Alexandra Zaun merely offered a gentle smile. Her gaze lingered on Anne’s face, her gestures, and demeanor, though without any malice.

Anne swallowed and spoke clearly.

“I heard this place suffers from a long-standing illness. I may be able to cure it.”

She didn’t promise anything, but her tone was steeped in unwavering determination.

She clearly had more steel than her appearance suggested.

To willingly drink a potion that might end her life, fall asleep, and entrust her life to Ragna—that’s not something one can do with ordinary resolve.

That was Enkrid’s assessment.

“She’s referring to the curse our family bears,” Grida added. The Zaun lineage had long suffered from inherited illness. In recent years, its effects had worsened.

Yet the family head remained unfazed by Anne’s words. Not even the corners of his eyes moved.

Can that face even change expression?

Even if his arm were cut off, he’d likely just sit there, staring.

No—he wouldn’t just watch.

If the fight were over, he’d stop the bleeding. If not, he’d offer his severed arm in trade for the enemy’s head. The subtle pressure he emanated was still overwhelming.

He seemed capable of drawing his blade at any moment, yet at the same time, seemed like someone who might calmly watch an ambush unfold without lifting a finger.

In other words—completely unreadable.

“A son who desires the Sunrise,” he said, beginning his next statement. He paused briefly, then glanced around the room before continuing.

“A young woman spouting bold claims of curing disease.”

“And Schmidt,” his wife added, motioning subtly toward the recruiter.

So the man’s name was Schmidt. It was now clear the couple had known him for a long time.

“Tempe, this offer is for you and your house,” Schmidt said, softening his tone. He now spoke as an old acquaintance, not an imperial official.

“Still no.”

The family head repeated himself with calm finality. Though his voice carried no emotion, his will was evident.

Schmidt groaned again.

“What’s your name?” Alexandra asked, setting down her fork and knife and stacking her dishes neatly. She looked toward Anne.

Anne did the same and replied, “Anne. I’m an alchemist, but I specialize in healing. You must have someone here people go to when they’re sick. I do the same kind of work.”

Any close-knit community would have a healer of sorts.

“When illness strikes, especially the one we spoke of, we turn to Millestia. She’s also the godmother of these children,” Alexandra said, gesturing toward Ragna and Grida. She held Anne’s gaze—was it scrutiny? Or skepticism?

Grida had called it a curse from heaven.

A divine punishment.

It was no different than calling it a curse.

Magrun hadn’t said a word when Anne called it an illness and claimed she might cure it. He hadn’t even suggested letting her examine him—not even a flicker of interest.

He doesn’t expect anything.

He’d probably already seen countless healers and tried every method.

Or maybe Millestia is such a skilled healer that he believes if she couldn’t fix it, no one else can.

The place Magrun went to upon arriving was probably where Millestia lived. He hadn’t looked well on the journey here.

In alchemy, skill is often measured by age. No matter how gifted someone is, without time and experience, results are rare.

Anne looked to be barely twenty. That alone would make it hard for anyone to expect much.

In short—

The family head will reject her.

That was Enkrid’s rational prediction.

But after a short silence, the family head spoke.

“If you need anything, just say so, Anne. And though you’ve only just returned, it would be good if a familiar face lent a hand. Grida.”

“Yes, I will,” Grida replied.

Prediction failed.

“Ragna, are you ready?” the family head asked, eyes settling on the torn hair and bruised forehead.

“Not today,” Ragna replied.

The family head began tidying up, signaling that dinner was over and it was time to rest.

That’s when Enkrid spoke up.

“Why haven’t you asked why I came?”

Alexandra answered for him.

“Because it’s obvious.”

Obvious? Enkrid knew he wasn’t that simple.

Being stubborn doesn’t mean being shallow.

He was here to protect Anne. He also intended to share the truth of what had happened on their way here, and to support Ragna as a friend.

On top of that, the situation in Zaun wasn’t exactly simple.

If things went awry, Enkrid was willing to intervene. His business couldn’t be wrapped up in a single sentence.

That claim of obviousness had a blind spot. One might call it an error.

Or even a contradiction.

That was Enkrid’s internal conclusion. Whatever they said, he would point it out.

As he settled his thoughts, the family head said,

“Tomorrow morning, spar with me and my wife—one match each.”

Enkrid answered without hesitation.

“Yes, let’s.”

A duel. Then the rest could wait.

Odinkar’s disappearance? He’d left of his own volition. More of a retreat than a disappearance.

Ragna had once done the same—gone off as a boy and returned only now.

If Ragna could do it, why not Odinkar?

Even if not, didn’t people sometimes need a cave to hide in alone?

Perhaps that was all it was.

And the ambush on the way here?

Telling the family head now wouldn’t change anything.

Someone had tried to kill Anne and block their path. That was all. Grida or Magrun would explain it all eventually.

I’m not the one who needs to speak up.

So, a duel was enough.

Nothing complicated.

Even in a tangled situation, Enkrid could see things simply.

That’s who I am.

He found a sense of logic in that and completed his thought.

“Then we’ll see you in the morning. You may go. Show them to {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} their rooms.”

Everyone left without a word—except for Schmidt, who remained seated.

As Enkrid exited the dining hall-turned-salon, his eyes briefly met Schmidt’s.

“This way, sir,” said a well-dressed attendant, leading Enkrid onward.

The dining room door creaked shut.

Through the narrowing gap came Schmidt’s voice.

“Is this really how it ends?”

Not bitter, but tinged with reproach.

The closing double doors drew a long line between two worlds.

The family head’s eyes met Enkrid’s through that thin sliver of space.

Amber?

Reflected lamplight made them glow orange.

Thud.

The heavy door closed with finality, muffling Schmidt’s insistent voice.

“Say something, anything. You’re not doing this for me, are you?”

It wasn’t a cold statement—anyone could tell it was laced with concern.

If not for himself...

Then for whom?

The question lingered, but it wasn’t Enkrid’s to ask. What mattered now was preparing for tomorrow.

He turned his back on the closed door and walked away.

Being a knight didn’t change what needed doing.

Swinging a sword wouldn’t remove the sweat-stained smell from dusty fae-made underclothes.

Nor would it clear the layers of dust on his wind-breaking cloak, or the gravel and black dirt embedded in the soles of his boots.

Those things didn’t yield to the sword.

He recalled something an old mercenary once told him—a man who’d survived long enough to be called a king among mercenaries, respected well into his fifties.

“You want to win fights? Seventy percent of it is prep. Anyone who sharpens their blade and maintains their gear has the upper hand. That’s just common sense.”

Enkrid had considered those words to be pearls of wisdom.

I could probably scrape the soles with my shortsword.

Outside his assigned quarters, Enkrid used the tip of his short sword to clean his boots—troll leather reinforced with steel plates from Mount Pen-Hanil. Worn, but still sturdy.

He sniffed them—no foul stench.

Grida passed by and tossed him a small leather pouch.

“Put that inside. Cuts the smell a bit.”

He caught it with a slap. Inside were white stones—actually, dried soap. Perfect for overnight use to absorb odor.

“Where you off to?”

“First time back in a while. Thought I’d take a look around.”

The setting sun cast a long shadow that shrank and vanished as Grida stepped into it.

Her pace was the same as earlier—just fast enough.

She had many places to visit, or many things to check. Maybe both.

I need to do laundry...

Enkrid headed to the well inside the keep, drew water, and washed his undershirt and cloak.

Swinging a sword wouldn’t clean his clothes—but a knight’s strength did help wring them out.

Crack-crack-crunch.

The heavy cloak twisted in his grip, squeezing out a stream of murky water.

Soon, Ragna and Anne appeared, doing the same.

A few maids approached and handed them short wooden paddles—for beating the laundry.

Their faces looked sickly, eyes darkened with fatigue.

“Are you unwell?” Anne asked.

“I’m fine,” one maid replied.

Enkrid glanced down at her waist—she carried a sword.

Even maids bore weapons here.

Good.

He checked his gear, laundered his clothes, wiped his short sword and horn-handled dagger.

By the time it was done, night had fallen.

They’d arrived at dawn, but between washing, eating, and settling in, the day had slipped by.

He collapsed onto a bed stuffed with feathers and wool. Sleep came quickly.

Knights don’t have infinite stamina—just like you can’t wash a cloak with a sword.

Rest when you must. Enkrid knew it was that time.

Ragna’s room was to the left. Anne’s next to his.

He barely had time to think before sleep claimed him.

Then he opened his eyes.

And in passing—he saw the Ferryman.

The lamp-carrying master of macabre hobbies said,

“Protect.”

No object. Just a single word.

Its meaning, impossible to pin down.

***

“Schmidt, it’s over,” Alexandra said, shaking her head.

While the maids and attendants cleared the table, the three of them moved to a side salon.

Schmidt sipped tea steeped from dried flower petals. His throat was dry—he just couldn’t understand these people’s stubbornness.

“Alex... you people need help.”

He was desperate, but he knew nothing could proceed without their consent.

“And yet we cannot wear the name of ‘Shield’ and become the Empire’s dukes.”

Tempe Zaun, the family head, rested his chin on his interlaced fingers.

“Tempe—”

“Enough, Schmidt. I won’t accept a title from the Empire.”

The Empire had long sought to bring Zaun under its dominion.

Become the Shield of the East, they’d said. They would grant him a duke’s title—the Shield Duke.

Tempe, short for Tempest Zaun, had always refused.

“You need the Empire’s strength to cure the illness,” Schmidt insisted.

The Empire didn’t act out of philanthropy. They were pragmatists to the core.

Schmidt wanted to help—but to do so, Zaun had to reach out first.

“No need.”

The family head shook his head.

“That’s not a curse.”

Schmidt pressed again, but the man sealed his lips like a clam. Once shut, those lips rarely opened again. Schmidt knew this well.

He turned to Alex—once his stepsister—who also shook her head.

“Let it go, Schmidt.”

“Why?”

“I’ve told you many times. The family head wouldn’t wield his sword to save a single life—not for someone else. Here in Zaun, each person wields their sword for what they want.”

They filled their voids with the sword. They pursued freedom with it.

Zaun was such a place. Becoming the Empire’s shield meant they’d no longer be Zaun.

They’d become part of the Empire. Just another sword the Emperor aimed at his enemies.

Zaun did not pursue that kind of life. So it was impossible.

“If you die, what’s the point of all this?”

Schmidt was frustrated—but again, he understood he wouldn’t get his way.

There are things more precious than life. Some call it a dream. Others call it pride. Or stubbornness.

The family head... had something like that too.