A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The herbs from Milezcia’s infirmary were brought in.

They had belonged to someone now dead. To some, they might’ve carried sentimental value, relics of the departed—but sentiment had no place right now.

Honoring the dead could wait until after all this was over.

Hoarding resources in the face of a crisis was the act of a fool’s fool.

Some herbs were soaked, ruined by the rain. Others had been carefully wrapped in oil-treated cloaks to keep them dry.

Enkrid could only recognize three types, at best.

And that was despite having picked up a fair share of emergency treatment skills during his time on the road. But that was expected—many of the so-called “remedies” used by soldiers and mercenaries had been handed down through folklore and lacked any real proof.

Things like “spit on a cut so it won’t rot” came to mind—superstitions passed off as medical knowledge.

There were herbs that looked familiar but had unknown names, and some were so drenched they were unrecognizable.

“Give me everything.”

Anne climbed the stairs and laid the herbs out across the corridor. Her bag was placed beside her as she began sorting and organizing the herbs.

Her hands moved with zero hesitation. She identified the herbs at a glance and worked quickly.

Behind her stood Ragna, silent.

Everyone, including the family head, watched Anne’s hands in silence.

Some may have shown a flicker of anxiety, but overall, the atmosphere was stoic.

It was partly because those affiliated with Zaun all had nerves of steel—and perhaps even more so because of the calmness exuded by the one at their center: the family head.

Without a care, he pulled over a chair, sat down, thumped the mud from his boots with a hand, flipped them over, and stared out the window.

Swoooooosh! CRACK!

Between the roaring of the storm and thunder, sharp sounds of tap, thunk, grind, crush, and snap began to mix in.

Anne was crushing herbs in a small mortar, blending them, and mixing in medicinal liquids.

Before anyone realized it, she had finished sorting and begun her work.

Then Anahera came in, carrying Grida, and laid her down gently in one corner. She hadn’t been dragged in like a lifeless body—Grida was pale from blood loss, but her eyes still glimmered with strength.

Even as she lay down, not a single groan escaped her lips. She endured the pain in silence.

“Please.”

The giant spoke, and Anne, without even looking up, opened her mouth halfheartedly.

“Yeah, okay.”

It sounded indifferent, but no one questioned it.

Anne immediately took a knife and slipped it under the bandage wrapped around Grida’s abdomen. She tugged, slicing it cleanly. Her hand moved without hesitation—on par with Ragna’s blade work.

Anne examined the wound, then poured a potion over it. The liquid, housed in a metal flask, splashed across Grida’s exposed stomach.

Bubblblblbl—

Foam bubbled up from the wound, and Grida’s body trembled violently. Several people watched closely.

Is that even safe?

Doubt likely lingered in some of those gazes.

Anne didn’t notice. Once the foam dissipated, she took another bottle and handed it to Ragna. “Pour this on my hands,” she said.

Ragna obeyed, pouring the liquid over her hands. Anne, now soaked in the solution, grabbed a needle and thread.

The liquid dried quickly—dispersing into the air as though evaporating on contact.

She threaded the needle and began stitching the wound.

It was the first time Enkrid had seen this kind of medical treatment—and the first time he’d seen Anne’s hands move with such precision.

The needle pierced flesh. Was this less painful than being stabbed with a sword?

They said Heskal had stabbed her in the stomach. That must’ve been a sudden, unexpected blow. Now, however, she could see the needle approaching her skin.

A sword strike ended in an instant—but this was slow, sustained.

Logically, this had to hurt more. And yet Grida endured. Her brows twitched with each stitch, but she didn’t scream.

When she finally spoke, her anger seemed directed more at the situation than the pain itself.

“So... it wasn’t Father. I should be relieved, right? Damn it... but I still feel like I got screwed.”

She said it while lying down. Some listened closely; others let the words slide past them.

“You never suspected Heskal?”

The family head, who had been staring out the window, turned to glance at her before looking back outside.

Enkrid had grown used to the family head’s behavior by now. He could even guess why the man wouldn’t take his eyes off the window.

Nearby, Alexandra was explaining something to Schmidt, and the more he heard, the grimmer his expression became.

“I did suspect him. I took precautions. Still got hit.”

Grida was honest. She wasn’t without pride, but to her, the more pressing concern wasn’t the loss—it was what came next.

Zaun’s Guardians always prepared for tomorrow, for the future.

Enkrid now understood the concept of a Guardian.

Which is why Heskal’s actions made no sense to him.

Grida was acting exactly how a Guardian should. But Heskal? The man had spent decades as one. Why would he suddenly act like this?

“Not my job to figure out.”

Enkrid was a knight, not a solver of mysteries. His ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) role was simple.

If you want to know someone’s motives, wait until your sword is at their throat.

“Is there a faster way?”

No.

And if they still didn’t talk? Then nothing else would’ve worked either.

Sure, with some mental trickery—feints, pressure, and manipulation—you might get something. But really, was it worth the effort?

The deed was already done. The motive behind it wasn’t the priority anymore.

Enkrid’s gaze turned to the limping swordsman—the son of Heskal.

Skill-wise, Riley Zaun was at the level of a junior knight. His greatest wish was to someday run on both legs.

Footwork was crucial in swordsmanship. Without it, you were at a disadvantage. So Riley had honed a form that relied on a decisive strike.

He had also developed the ability to maneuver with a single leg.

All of it—thanks to Heskal.

If anyone was desperate to know what Heskal was thinking, it was Riley Zaun.

Yet even he didn’t know. The faint unease on his face, the tightly sealed lips, and the occasional flicker in his gaze revealed everything.

“Can he even fight properly like that?”

If your heart was unsettled, your sword would be too.

Had the family head already assigned Riley a role?

“Like bait—to shake Heskal’s focus?”

A child raised over ten years calls out:

“Father! Why did you do it!?”

Would Heskal flinch? Who knew.

Would it even be worth the risk if Riley turned out to be a traitor himself? Probably not.

Enkrid approached the family head, who remained staring silently out the window.

“It wasn’t me getting weaker. Heskal was hiding his true strength. He was powerful, Father.”

The family head slightly dipped his chin in acknowledgment. No emotion showed on his face.

“See anything?”

Enkrid asked, standing beside him.

The family head was watching the window because he knew Heskal wasn’t the only one behind all this. He suspected someone outside was pulling strings and kept vigil.

Some others—those quick to pick up on things—mimicked the family head’s demeanor.

Some had their eyes closed entirely, like a blacksmith sharpening a blade—silently drawing in focus.

Alexandra was doing just that. After finishing her conversation with Schmidt, she leaned against the wall, eyes closed, calmly breathing.

She looked like a blade wrapped only in thin cloth—too refined for a scabbard—ready to be drawn at any moment.

“Nothing.”

The family head’s reply was terse. Enkrid was now truly growing familiar with him.

“Don’t read his emotions. Just observe his actions as they are.”

With that lens, the man’s behavior seemed straightforward.

Not that he never used his unreadable face to his advantage—he hid his thoughts behind it, allowing others to misread him.

A bit of a schemer, you could say.

And really, for someone of his rank, scheming was almost expected.

Viewed this way, Zaun wasn’t just a household—it was a kingdom. And the family head? Its king.

Heskal was the rebel.

Many—Lynox included—were listening closely to their exchange, but Enkrid no longer saw any reason to conceal the truth.

Zaun’s people weren’t the type to run just because they were at a disadvantage. They needed to know to fight. The family head likely understood this. It was just a matter of timing.

Maybe Enkrid could help with that.

“Where’s Odinkar?”

“I gave him an excuse to stay hidden.”

The quick reply showed the family head had considered the same.

He was beginning the process of informing everyone, cutting off unnecessary confusion. For real battle, you needed a clear head. Some might figure things out on their own, but others were still lost in chaos.

Heskal’s betrayal warranted it.

“What about Magrun?”

“He’s genuinely in danger. I left him with Milezcia. Even I don’t know where.”

Swooooosh.

The rain had let up a bit. The wind, which had seemed strong enough to rip weeds from the earth, also eased.

Rattle-rattle.

Still, the wind rattled the window frames.

Enkrid circled back to what Lynox had mentioned earlier.

“Why were Jerry, Even, Royst, and Pail attacked?”

The answer came as expected.

“All four had combat experience.”

Heskal was extremely intelligent. He wouldn’t stab just anyone. If he acted despite the risk of getting caught, there had to be a reason.

They had all served in the military.

Enkrid glanced around.

From the family head and Lynox to Alexandra—the room was filled with highly capable individuals.

Any one of them could make a name for themselves out on the continent.

Even Riley Zaun—despite the mental turmoil from his father’s betrayal—possessed skill few could match in open battle.

But none of them knew how to fight together.

“Are demons involved?”

Despite all this, they were strong. There were more than five full-fledged knights present. Anyone targeting a group like this would need equal strength.

That was the point of his question.

“Don’t know.”

“How can you not?”

“There are traces of the one who spread the disease—but I’ve never met them. I’ve been chasing this potential, persistent threat for over twenty years.”

“They say the Hunters’ Village turned. What’s the greatest risk from that?”

“We’re trapped. They’ve laid traps all around us.”

The family head answered calmly, and everyone heard.

So—they were trapped. The disease had been spreading for years. And somewhere above, a twisted magician watched and waited.

And all the ones with command experience had been taken out.

Anne continued grinding herbs and administering medicine. But the truth was—they were all sick.

Motive? Again—it didn’t matter.

The sword-wielders of Zaun could feel the danger. That’s why the words came:

“Yeah, whatever—if they come at us, we just kill them all, right?”

Lynox the Destroyer said it with ease, showing no signs of worry. He was a man who switched allegiances based on mood, but this time—his homeland was under threat. There would be no hesitation.

Most of those who remained shared his sentiment. That was the point of this conversation—to spark that kind of fire.

“If they charge, we slice ’em down.”

“Is this real combat? My sword’s been whining for blood every night—finally, peace.”

“They stabbed Grida? You’re all dead.”

No one lost their fighting spirit. In crisis, their determination only intensified.

Sure, one or two lunatics claimed their sword could speak—but at least their hearts hadn’t broken.

“Information is power.”

Lua Gharne had repeated those words many times. Her tactical insight outclassed even the wildest of the Mad Platoon.

Enkrid had learned that lesson from her.

In any battle, there was nothing more important than gathering information. That was what Enkrid had just done.

What the enemy wanted. What risks their side faced.

Now that he understood all of it—

“Well,”

—It didn’t feel like that big of a crisis anymore.