A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Normally, there was no reason for members of Zaun to obey the words of someone who wasn’t the family head.

“What’s he saying now?”

That would’ve been the expected response, brushing it off without even listening.

But not this time.

Because the timing was right for orders to be given—and because it was Enkrid, it worked. More precisely, it didn’t feel wrong to follow his command.

Enkrid had eaten, slept, and swung swords with them all this time. Especially the time spent swinging swords—those moments were truly dense.

Even though he was an outsider, someone from beyond Zaun, Enkrid was a man who fit the backdrop of Zaun better than anyone.

In any case, Enkrid had now drawn the sword named Zaun from its scabbard, prepared to wield it.

Just as Anahera began her assault, and the monsters facing the Family Head, Alexandra, and Lynox began to move, they advanced.

The group of monsters closing in on the wall created by the Family Head were forming ranks around the Scalers. They weren’t just charging—they were constructing a siege formation.

Had Enkrid seen it, he might’ve sincerely applauded whoever trained the monsters to maneuver like this.

Ragna hadn’t heard Enkrid’s orders. He stood in the same ambiguous position behind the Family Head as before.

“Father.”

Ragna called out to his father’s back. His gaze stayed forward, and he’d already drawn his greatsword, letting it hang down loosely.

Outwardly, it seemed like a meaningless stance. But in reality, it was the stance of someone ready to fight at any moment.

That posture was very similar to his father’s. Naturally so—Ragna had learned the sword by watching him.

He had aimed for his father. Picked up the sword while getting beaten by his mother. That was Ragna’s beginning.

“Speak.”

His father replied, still with his back turned.

The monsters were closing in. They posed no threat of death—but this could still be Zaun’s final moment. Which would also mean the end of his father.

“What do you want to leave behind? What have you already left behind?”

Perhaps he’d caught it from Enkrid—that strange curiosity about someone else’s dream. Especially his father’s—what did he want? What had he been chasing?

“My body can no longer recover. I know my body better than anyone.”

The answer came without hesitation. It felt almost as if he’d been waiting for the right moment to say it.

At first glance, it sounded like a useless remark. But if his father had judged that it needed to be said now—then Ragna needed to listen.

“Take Ilchul. But give up the family.”

Tempest knew well that his body was not what it used to be. So when the opportunity came to personally repeat what he’d told Enkrid before—he didn’t want to miss it.

Still facing forward, he continued:

“I will entrust the family to Odinkar.”

Was this to ease Ragna’s heart? From the tone alone, it sounded almost dismissive.

Like offering someone candy offhandedly.

Even though neither the family seat nor Ilchul were things to be discussed so lightly, it still came out that way.

But that wasn’t because he lacked sincerity. Tempest simply couldn’t put emotion into his words.

That was an old habit. A secret known only to a few—his wife, Grida, and maybe a handful of others.

But it wasn’t a big secret. Just something that people who knew him understood.

Ragna had always known it logically. But now... now he felt it.

His father’s determination pierced deeper than before—like a blade scraping past skin and muscle to scratch bone.

His father always spoke with sincerity. If he opened his mouth, it was only ever to speak the truth of his heart.

He couldn’t express emotion, but he loved his wife, his family, his clan. And so he chose this method: to put his full sincerity into every word.

Even if he told a child “I love you” a hundred times, the child might still look at him coldly. So the father did all he could—by ensuring that every word carried his genuine intent.

That was the will—and vow—of Tempest Zaun.

And that method reached his son’s heart.

Ragna understood now. He was the child who had once wandered outside and gotten lost—but had grown, and returned.

Now he could understand his father’s heart. Now he could finally listen.

He could not inherit the family. His home was no longer Zaun.

The reason Odinkar had been left behind to fight for Zaun, even at the cost of his life, was probably this:

He would lead the family in Ragna’s place.

And to Ragna, his son, Tempest would give Ilchul—and freedom.

“Then this battle will be my last duty... Father.”

Ragna answered to the rhythm his father had set. The underlying message: I respect your will.

“And my wish,” Tempest said again, “is a stable fence. One free of curses or disease, if possible.”

“No one will be able to disturb your dream,” Ragna replied.

Their separate words wove together perfectly, ending as a conversation spoken for each other.

And then, like a crashing wave, the monsters surged forward.

Ragna instinctively moved to protect his father’s back—and waited for Enkrid’s orders.

He believed Enkrid would tell him what was needed.

So for now, he simply waited.

‘For the command.’

Ragna whispered silently—and stepped back.

***

What do you do when your dream and your opponent’s desire intersect?

It’s obvious—you resolve it by the law of the continent.

Meaning, whoever is stronger decides.

That’s how it was in the Empire. That’s how it had always been in the world Enkrid had known.

In the end, only the dream of the victor remains.

This battlefield was no different.

Some wished for change. Some wished to protect what they already had.

“You’re being foolish.”

The one who longed for change spoke.

“Heskal. You’ve never beaten me.”

So said the one trying to protect.

Though they hadn’t spoken directly, it was the same as a conversation.

They talked with their actions.

Shhhhhh.

The rain chorus didn’t stop singing.

BOOM!

A sudden bolt of lightning added its power to the orchestra of war.

They would test their cunning, their knowledge, and their strength.

That is war.

Enkrid had sent out Anahera and Kato—both the fastest on their feet.

And now, on this side, stood another man who couldn’t use his feet well, but whose swordsmanship was no less than theirs.

“Riley takes center! Aivan, Lennon, Lontis—move to the left and line up! Whoever was working with them, sort yourselves in! Right side—Betty, Ludens, and Kal hold the line. You’re the supports! Think of yourselves as the rear guard—if you break, we lose!”

Intuition is a tool that pulls answers from the unconscious, based on experience and knowledge.

And that was what Enkrid used now.

His time in Zaun, all the sparring and training—it hadn’t been in vain. The path forward was clear.

He knew Zaun.

Maybe not perfectly—but enough to command.

‘Still, I’ve got a bad feeling.’

His intuition buzzed in his skull like an itch behind the eyes.

Sssssshhhhhhh—!

The Scalers emitted their eerie voices—disturbing and confusing the senses.

That was their specialty.

With their calls, spectral figures—Plague Maidens—began to drift in the air.

‘They didn’t send any toward the Family Head.’

Of course not.

Tempest, Alexandra—those like them could cut down ghosts in a blink with Will or some other means.

Heskal really knew how to command a battlefield.

He sent each force exactly where it was needed.

The summoned specters drifted forward, spreading sickness.

“Get it out and spread it!”

Enkrid ordered while watching the ghosts.

Anne wasn’t stupid—and Enkrid even less so.

They had prepared for this.

Enkrid had spent his time training and sparring. Anne had spent hers gathering herbs and crafting medicine.

And before departure, she’d given everyone amber-colored powder clumps.

Following Enkrid’s order, those around Riley pulled out the powder and coated their blades.

“Now that we’re dressed—let’s dance!”

Even with that ominous feeling burrowing into his skull—even though this wasn’t a favorable situation—

“It’s going to be fun.”

Just as Lua Gharne once said, Enkrid felt a thrill as he set the field in motion.

A battlefield is a stage—and soldiers are the swords you wield.

‘We won’t lose.’

Even as elation rose in his chest, resolve surged up from his gut.

“What kind of crazy talk is that!?”

Riley still had time to react to Enkrid’s nonsense. He drew a throwing dagger, stretched his right hand back.

He had trained hard in this throwing technique, since his feet made other forms of movement difficult.

It wasn’t Jaxon’s method, but there was still something to learn from it.

He anchored himself on one foot, used his whole body as a launcher, and whipped his arm forward like a coiled spring.

PANG!

The blade tore through the air—like teleportation—piercing the heads of two Plague Maidens, sending them flying off into the storm.

It was a technique using every muscle in the body. Not suited for repeat use.

His swinging arm almost touched the ground—he’d thrown with everything he had.

A throw that could be said to contain his whole spirit.

‘Impressive.’

Enkrid acknowledged him without emotion.

Riley, too, was one of Zaun’s blades.

Even after being struck down by Heskal, he hadn’t broken. He stood—facing forward.

He, too, was ready to leave his father’s shadow.

‘Those who do not move forward have no future.’

Riley would see tomorrow. He had earned that right.

DUDUDUDUDU!

The lizard-mounted Scalers charged into sword range.

One of them came swinging a black stick—reversed grip, like a club. It didn’t take a genius to know those sticks were laced with poison.

They clashed with the squad centered around Riley.

“If you die before the idiot, you’re a bigger idiot!”

Riley shouted.

A battle cry that cut through the Scalers’ eerie noise. It pierced the downpour—a rallying cheer.

Riley had no experience as a soldier, but he had trained under Heskal. He also lacked one leg, so he was used to fighting in pairs, coordinating.

Here and now—he was the only one who could command even a small squad.

See how, just before battle, he lifted their morale?

Of course, that was only possible because Enkrid had prepared the stage.

“Hahaha!”

Anahera’s laughter rang from afar.

The warrior adopted into Zaun, a giant, wielded a sword so thick that ordinary men couldn’t even grasp the hilt—and swung it with ease.

CRACK! CRUNCH! SHATTER!

Her greatsword tore through a section of the lizard cavalry—splitting mounts and riders.

“Den! Take nine others and skewer that spot!”

Enkrid drew his sword and pointed.

Den was one of the ones who’d been stunned still. Enkrid had seen him react to Riley’s shout—muttering “shit, idiot” and drawing his blade—and called him.

Den wasn’t especially skilled, but he was respected. Two of the four people Heskal had killed were his friends.

That’s why he’d glared at Riley with hatred. But maybe... seeing Riley charge forward had made him ashamed.

Even the idiot abandoned by his father is fighting—what the hell am I doing?

Something like that had surely gone through his mind.

Whatever the reason, he was ready to fight—and so Enkrid used him.

Ten swordsmen charged with Den—each carrying a single blade.

They were Zaun.

If you ignored the ones who hadn’t yet awakened to their talent due to time constraints, these men were monsters the moment they stepped onto the continent.

Even while commanding them, Enkrid’s eyes scanned side to side, always watching.

BOOM! CRACK!

The Family Head cut through monsters with his greatsword—one swing stronger than anything Anahera had shown.

And he hadn’t taken a single step back.

Beside him, Alexandra fought the same. She darted and leapt within five paces of where she stood. Limbs, torsos, heads of monsters scattered in her wake.

Lynox ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) fought with two of his six swords. In his left hand—a light rapier: Esterc. In his right—a thick, single-edged falchion.

With Esterc, he blocked.

With the falchion, he cut.

Simple strategy—but brutally effective.

And the number of monsters dead at his feet was the highest of the three.

Enkrid had seen it before. There was much to learn from his swordsmanship.

‘Use the light blade to redirect. Use the heavy blade to strike.’

He replaced the idea of blocking with redirection, and every attack was minimal movement with maximal force.

Exactly the kind of man who breaks a hundred techniques—and then makes a hundred more.

SHHHHHHHH!

Suddenly, the rain thickened.

Maybe because the Plague Maidens had retreated again?

Despite the scent and stench of the battlefield, Enkrid felt something new—

A sweet, thick aroma in the air.

No spells had rained down yet—and the downpour continued—but Enkrid’s sharpened senses still caught it.

Zaun had knights.

And Heskal was clever.

If he started this war knowing there’d be knights here—he wouldn’t have failed to prepare.

This was one of those preparations.

Drmul might be the source of disease, a monster claiming godhood.

But the one who drew this battlefield—was Heskal.

And his masterpiece?

It wasn’t broken yet.

So judged Enkrid.