A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The man with six swords at his waist had been watching Enkrid laugh throughout the duel. Inwardly, he nodded.

“A rare temperament.”

The way Enkrid charged while smiling was unlike even what one might see from Odinkar or the other children of the Zaun family—it was clear he was enjoying the pressure of facing the family head.

Rare, peculiar, captivating. Yet not entirely absent even within the Zaun family. So, he initially concluded it was merely that—a noteworthy trait, but not extraordinary.

But then Enkrid, right after his defeat, said:

“Another round?”

Those words struck like a dagger to the heart.

Though the six-sworded man didn’t know exactly who Enkrid was, he found himself hoping the family head would grant the man’s request.

Just look at the desperation in those blue eyes beneath that black hair.

“Isn’t this what you always preached, Lord Zaun?”

Even moments ago, hadn’t the head himself said so?

That desperation always comes a step too late. That only the effort accumulated beforehand can ever respond to the urgency of now.

Yet this black-haired man, even while being praised as exceptional, poured out emotions as if he was still yearning for more.

He shouted his desperation: that he would swing his sword again, that it wasn’t over, that he wanted to keep going just a little longer.

“It’s admirable to acknowledge defeat, and it’s admirable to enjoy the sword...”

But possessing that kind of desperation is something more admirable still.

It was one of the Zaun family’s teachings. A creed of the family head himself.

A genius who loses their desperation is no longer a genius. That was why Ragna had been sent away from the house. But now, the man who came with him stirred the heart—with burning intensity.

“...A rare temperament,” someone muttered.

Zaun valued temperament. That comment came from a blond middle-aged man standing to the side.

The man with six swords didn’t even turn to look as he snapped,

“Rare? It’s precious. You need to sharpen your eyes, Heskal.”

The instinct of someone who had held a sword for decades told him this man was special. Maybe it was because waveforms were his specialty—but that was how it felt.

The blond man, Heskal, didn’t seem to share the sentiment. His gaze showed surprise, but his tone remained subdued.

“As I always say, hearing about insight from you is offensive.”

Heskal countered, but the six-sworded man offered no reply.

Was that even important right now? Not at all.

They weren’t the only ones watching. Among them was Anne. She, too, had been pierced by the sincerity in Enkrid’s voice and found herself unable to look away. The man who had killed her teacher was now standing again—and she couldn’t help but hope for his survival.

Her eyes naturally turned toward the person expected to respond to Enkrid’s request.

Then, she thought she saw a wisp of dark smoke escape from the family head’s lips. It could’ve been a trick of the eye—it vanished almost immediately.

And then she noticed something she had forgotten in her shock: a faint smell, one only an alchemist trained for years in herbs and reagents could detect.

Anne snapped out of the emotional aftershock Enkrid had sent her way. Her instincts as an alchemist, combined with her convictions, roused her to clarity.

Ah.

Anne realized something and was about to speak—but the family head’s wife beat her to it.

“I’ll take over.”

She stepped forward without waiting for her husband’s permission, and no one objected.

Everyone knew Alexandra’s skill was comparable to the family head’s.

Even Enkrid, now kneeling on one knee, could feel it from the sheer force of her presence.

Some among the onlookers knew this, some did not: the man known as Schmidt, a scout for the Empire, had learned swordsmanship under Alexandra.

Schmidt’s style emphasized speed. That was to be expected. Even before she bore the Zaun name, Alexandra’s sword was fast.

Back when the title “Knight of the Tempest” roamed the continent, she too had a similar nickname:

Blitzklinge—the Lightning Blade, in continental tongue.

Her two signature weapons were slightly longer than short swords. Even on this oddly dark day, a chill light seemed to cling around her blades.

The family head is heavy.

His wife is swift.

It was no wonder that Ragna, having grown up watching both parents, developed a sword style both heavy and fast.

As if giving time to catch breath after her words, one of Alexandra’s twin blades suddenly darted forward—becoming a point aimed directly between Enkrid’s brows.

TZZZZZTT—!

A sound like lightning surging followed the blade’s trajectory. Enkrid tilted his head at the last moment with utter focus.

Snick!

The blade grazed his cheek, drawing a bead of blood that flew into the air. And in the time before that single droplet hit the ground, at least fifteen sword strikes exchanged between them.

Tatatatatatang!

Enkrid was suddenly back on his feet, holding his sword slanted in a posture that hid his body behind the blade.

Alexandra had retreated four and a half steps, both swords in hand, stance solid.

Rrrrmmmmble...

Thunder rolled in the distance as dark clouds gathered. Rain threatened.

Drip.

The wound on his cheek must’ve been deep. Blood slid down his face and clung to his jaw.

“I’ll finish before the rain starts,” Alexandra said.

“Is that so?” Enkrid replied, breathing heavily.

How did I block that just now? He asked himself—but found no answer.

Maybe it had just been luck?

Alexandra, seemingly giving him time to breathe, spoke again.

“Unusual weather. Storms don’t normally gather this time of year—and never on this scale. I don’t know which god is playing tricks, but it’s not the god of swords. He only cares for blades.”

“Is that so?”

Alexandra’s lips curled into a grin.

“Oh? Ignoring what I say now?”

No one’s perfect. Ragna knew his mother’s flaws. She was normally gentle, but once you crossed a line, her formal speech vanished. That was a warning sign.

***

What... is this?

Enkrid focused on the sensation, like something within his grasp—but just barely.

Like a mirage in the desert. If he focused, he might catch it. So, without realizing it, he bled his desperation.

A yearning normally buried deep surged to the surface. Past joy—now boiling desire.

He wanted to swing his sword. Wildly. He didn’t know how. Didn’t know the path. He just wanted to move.

Then, he added one more wish to it:

“As long as possible.”

He wanted to keep this going. Swing after swing. To hold onto this state.

But how?

“Endure.”

He had Will. He drew Three Iron and shielded his body behind it.

Pushing his right foot forward, he drew an upward line from his big toe and blocked it with the sword—ensuring the enemy saw only his blade.

What next?

From their recent clash, he noticed something about her technique—it shared traits with the One-Killer.

It oscillated between instinct and calculation, but always held reason at its core. What if he twisted that?

He had faced that demon before. He’d tried to out-calculate him and failed.

“No meaningless movements. Only disruption.”

Wavebreaker Sword Style activated. Tactical cognition told him what to do.

Enkrid moved near Penna, dangling his left hand. He didn’t draw it. Didn’t even grab it.

But that alone would disrupt her calculations—

Snap!

He suddenly saw two crescent moons falling before him. Literally—two blades, shaped like new moons, falling down.

He pushed up with Three Iron and slid his left foot back, muscles tightening all at once.

Time slowed. Without it, he wouldn’t have stopped those blades.

A mistimed defense might make him slice himself with his own sword.

CLANG! KAAAANG!

Two crescent slashes crashed into Three Iron. Knowing he couldn’t deflect them in time, Enkrid used Balraf-style hand-to-hand to absorb the impact with his body.

Scrrrch.

His feet slid sideways.

Alexandra retreated again, having delivered those twin crescents.

“You screwing with me? I’m faster than you, and you pull crap like that? What kind of idiot does that?”

Your daughter does.

Enkrid swallowed the retort. It wasn’t the time. Alexandra was clearly holding back.

His body had just been wrecked by the family head. He was far from peak condition.

Was she going easy on him?

Not quite. Ragna recognized her bad habit had surfaced.

When cornered, a rat may bite the cat. But what if the enemy was a tiger?

Alexandra Zaun enjoyed cornering her sparring partners.

Her twisted smile showed how much she was enjoying this.

“Oi, you’ll die if you keep this up.”

Enkrid believed it. The killing intent she radiated wasn’t a joke.

The pressure she exuded now was different than before.

Earlier, it was a greatsword’s weight.

Now, it was like an arrow nocked and drawn, aimed point-blank.

A slip of the fingers, and it would be over.

The pressure sharpened his mind, setting his brain aflame.

“To keep disrupting her, I’ll have to expose more openings.”

Which meant—

It was suicidal against someone this fast.

“That was stupid.”

He accepted it.

His mental replay ended in a flash—just as Alexandra kicked off the ground.

Thump!

She blurred.

React.

Enkrid commanded his body.

A pinpoint thrust followed by rapid flurries—like earlier.

He didn’t block with thought. His body moved on its own.

Thwack!

Three Iron parried her diagonal slash—but she had two swords.

The second blade flicked toward the joint of Enkrid’s right thigh—where armor didn’t cover.

Using the momentum from his block, Enkrid spun, turning the direct stab into a graze. A shallow cut—just blood on torn cloth.

“Swing with your whole body, idiot! Start with your abs—make ‘em tougher!”

He recalled the words of a mercenary instructor from back when he used to fight for coin.

“Don’t swing with just your arms. Use your whole body.”

So he trained—every day, without fail.

Then Audin taught him to strengthen his muscles further—thicker, tougher, more elastic.

So he followed, sculpting his body like that.

“My body reacts well enough.”

He had also learned not to hesitate when facing forks in the road. Ragna taught him that.

Now instinct and intuition surfaced.

Alexandra’s attacks came from beyond his ability to perceive or calculate.

So his senses broke through first.

A chill wind brushed his ears. Every nerve stood on edge, reading even the faintest motion.

Alexandra’s body now radiated a subtle glow, her blades shimmering.

Left hand hidden. Right hand slashing down.

“React.”

Enkrid ordered [N O V E L I G H T] his body again.

A vague form solidified in his hands.

His body moved before he could even comprehend it. Will flowed.

A motion he had practiced hundreds, maybe thousands of times—but now it felt like strings guiding him from above.

BOOM!

A deafening crash.

Enkrid flew back like a puppet whose strings were cut.

But this time, someone caught his back.

So instead of rolling in disgrace, he landed on one knee—just as he had against the family head.

Same position. Same end.

“...What did you just do?”

It was Ragna. His eyes wide—a rare sight.

“I don’t know,” Enkrid replied.

“Alex, were you trying to kill him?!”

The man with six swords shouted toward Enkrid’s opponent.

“Ah, I almost did. You okay?” Alexandra had returned to normal.

“Actually, you looked fine. Blocked it pretty well, right?”

She laughed.

Enkrid nodded.

“Yes. I blocked it. And it was fun.”

He meant it.

Ragna looked at him and recalled what he just saw.

Unbelievable.

“He imbued his sword with Will.”

Only for a moment—but he saw it.

Will was intangible. Ragna believed the next stage was to give it form.

To manifest it.

He’d taken inspiration from his father’s sword to do so. That’s why it was a greatsword.

Now, it needed to be compressed—refined.

“The captain just did it.”

In that instant, Enkrid, by catching his mother’s blade, stepped ahead of Ragna’s path.

“Shall we go again?” Ragna asked.

“...No. I don’t think I can,” Enkrid replied, shaking his head.

“But there’s always tomorrow.”

Talent is cruel. Some manifest it in a single stroke of luck. Others need dozens.

Yet despite that harsh truth—

“This is fun,” Enkrid said.

Few would laugh like that. Truly, very few.

Ragna had just caught his captain’s fall with the palm of his hand.

“When did it start?” Anne asked, stepping close to the family head.

He stared quietly at her.

Her face showed how serious she was.

“Answer me.”

She even spoke like it was a command—but for Anne, it was natural.

To her, it didn’t matter who stood before her. If the person was sick and dying, she would do anything to save them.

That was her healer’s conviction.

“...Inside. Let’s talk there.”

The family head finally spoke. Alexandra motioned for the others to leave.

“Show’s over. If you saw something good, go train.”