A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Ragna had assumed that Enkrid would tell him where he needed to be. It was a kind of trust—yet Enkrid said nothing to him.

Why?

If you looked at the battlefield in broad strokes, his father, mother, and Lynox were holding the front line, while he was slightly behind, in the rear. So far, he had done his part cutting down monsters, but he had never stepped to the front.

Should he go stand by his father? Looking ahead, he could see a threatening enemy closing in. As for his mother, a Death Knight was emerging from the ground, ramming its head toward her.

Where should he be?

Why wasn’t the commander telling him?

From that uncertain position, simply observing the battlefield, he began to faintly understand. Why hadn’t the commander said anything?

Was this Enkrid’s fight? No. He was a supporter.

The reason I’m angry is because this is my home.

He would live as part of the Mad Knights after leaving the Border Guard. That was a decision made long ago. It wouldn’t change.

But Zaun... Zaun was where he was born and raised.

What I leave behind...He now knew the answer.  He would leave behind Anne. Leave behind Enkrid. In broader terms, he would leave behind people. And it’d be nice if that included his father and mother too.

Ragna took a step. He now knew where he had to go. The one who had stirred this rage inside him wasn’t here—it was somewhere beyond the battlefield.

The crisis facing his father and mother—they would overcome it themselves.

A violent windstorm shook his sense of direction.

Shhhhhh.

The howls of the Scalers dulled his senses. The cursed snake overhead pressed down on his body, twisting his perception. And in the distance, the monster that could become a true Lord of the Demon Realm—Medusa—kept him from even opening his eyes properly to look forward.

In such a state, Ragna could feel the brilliance of his talent.

I see the path. No amount of sensory interference could block the road guided by innate genius.

Ragna began to walk.

This wasn’t something Enkrid had anticipated.  If Enkrid were honest, he’d hoped Ragna would stay in the rear and jump in only when necessary.

But not everything goes according to plan. That’s war. That’s life.

Uncertainty itself was what made people laugh at times—and cry at others. This time, fortunately, it was something to smile about.

“Where the hell have you been wandering around?”

After walking for some time using the monsters as waypoints, someone spoke to him. It was a familiar voice.

Shhhhhhh.

Soaked by pouring rain, a middle-aged man stood there with hair stuck to his forehead and face. He brushed the wet strands away and waited for Ragna’s answer.

“I was on my way to find the bastard who started all this,” Ragna replied.

“Lost your way?”

“No. I think I’m on the right track. Finding paths is kinda my specialty.”

Heskal was a calm man—so calm he might not get visibly worked up even once a year. Even when bickering with Lynox, he never raised his voice or flushed with anger. Even when confronting the family head, he had spoken calmly to the end.

Very few people had ever seen Heskal truly angry. And yet, even he sounded a little irritated now, his tone edged.

“Why did you step out instead of staying put?”

“I saw the path, so I walked.”

Ragna’s flat tone carried the quiet confidence of someone who believed in himself. That was what twisted Heskal’s temper. If Ragna had stayed still, he could’ve been found quickly. But this brat just had to wander far off from the battlefield.

Heskal had circled wide to track him down. Why the hell would someone walk alone right into the midst of monsters being held in reserve?

The bastard had no sense. And yet he insisted this was the right path.

If I hadn’t found you, you’d have lost your way and only returned when everything was already over.

From Zaun’s perspective, this stroke of luck was just that—luck. If Heskal hadn’t come looking, Ragna would still be wandering.

If Enkrid had been here and seen the path Ragna had taken, he might’ve understood Ragna’s intent. But to Heskal, it was just nonsense.

Everyone else was locked in deadly combat—so why the hell was this one just walking alone?

Tactically, it was a mess. Even on a human level, it was just plain terrible. Нis father and mother were under threat—so why was he here instead?

“If I were Tempest, I wouldn’t have let you go.”

“You’re smaller-minded than my father.”

Ragna replied without concern. When you’d seen Enkrid, talk of someone’s ‘capacity’ felt laughable.

As he spoke, Ragna reflected on the path he had walked.

I’ve learned a lot.

Truly, he had. When holding a sword, the path always became clear. But unless you actually walked it, you didn’t understand its shape.

The road he had walked had slopes. Some parts were uphill. Others, downhill. Some treacherous. Some well-paved.

By walking it himself, the nature of the road had changed.

There was no such thing as a predetermined path. Everything changed as the process changed.

Who defines limits?

Unless you’re a fool letting others’ words trap you, your limits are defined by yourself.

If you say, “this is as far as I go,” then that is the end.

Enkrid had faced his limits and refused to accept them. Ragna had learned to do the same.

To go beyond one’s limits—

It’s fun.

That thrill he felt when first grasping a sword surged through his entire body.

Was there anything that could compare to the joy of advancing into a new world?

Heskal’s eyes landed on Ragna’s greatsword. Its blade was caked in mud and filth.

“No Dawnblade, huh.”

Dawnblade was a longsword. Ragna didn’t seem to have space on his body to conceal it.

“I’ll bring it later.”

“Not because you’re afraid of losing to the family head?”

To wield Dawnblade, you needed the family head’s recognition. Tempest Zaun wasn’t someone who would hand the family heirloom to a man he deemed unworthy—son or not.

“My weapon is an engraved blade,” Heskal said.

Yours isn’t.

The meaning was obvious. Ragna ignored it and gripped his greatsword with both hands. The tip was still touching the ground. He didn’t raise it to the sky but let it trail behind his waist.

“Afraid of lightning, so you keep your sword down?”

Heskal was trying to read him with just a few words. Trying to understand him.

He avoids risk.

Old habits die hard. Ragna had always had a tendency to stick to predetermined paths. Heskal remembered.

If it’s someone he can beat with time, he won’t rush to win today.

Ragna lacked desperation. Thanks to his talent, he learned everything easily—so he never felt the need to take risks.

A few battles across the continent wouldn’t erase that habit. To shake it, someone would have to instill a sense of urgency in this genius.

But how many could match his talent?

Even in Zaun, no one came to mind immediately.

Has he ever met someone worth risking everything against?

Probably not. One of Zaun’s strengths was raising geniuses alongside each other—but Ragna hadn’t experienced that.

Jealousy of his talent had made him isolated.

“Have you learned what it means to give your all?”

Heskal asked. Ragna didn’t answer.

His red eyes glowed in the dark. A sign his body was surging with Will.

I’ll rank his strength higher than expected, Heskal thought.

He always overestimated his opponent, just in case. That’s why he never went all-out from the start—he always waited for the opening. Trying to brute-force his way through with strength or sheer Will wasn’t his style.

Trap with a real sword. Strike with an illusion blade. That was his method.

It sounded simple—but from the receiving end, it was anything but.

One Point Focus. A technique passed down in the Zaun family. Which meant both of them knew it.

As they spoke, both began rapid cognitive acceleration.

I’ll kill you and throw your head at the family head, Heskal thought.

Ragna thought nothing. Only the sensation of the greatsword in his hands.

And then he forgot even that.

Heskal moved first.

He kicked off the ground—at a speed unbelievably slow for a knight. He thrust his sword with his body turned sideways, left hand behind his back.

His body formed a line. His sword became a dot aimed at Ragna’s forehead.

Ragna sidestepped, still holding his greatsword.

Drkkk. Ting.

The blade scraped against a stone embedded in the ground, scattering chips.

They avoided the strike and repositioned.

Heskal still kept his left hand behind his back. Whatever he was hiding—it wasn’t trivial.

His engraved sword moved again. Everyone who knew him, even his foster son Riley, knew the blade’s name:

Routine.

So consistent and precise in its motion that it was still hard to block.

“Even now, while we talk, your father is dying, Ragna.”

Heskal’s voice was gentle as always. As if he were suggesting Ragna go help him. But it was bait, designed to rattle ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) him psychologically.

“Do you really believe that?”

“Your father’s been sick for years. His body is withered. You’ve seen it.”

Ragna had. But that was only half the story.

“I’m sure Alex is fighting the Death Knight right now.”

No plea for help. Just more irritating talk—but Ragna didn’t care.

In the past—before Enkrid, that barbarian bastard, that sneaky cat, and that fanatical zealot—he might’ve wavered.

But not now.

Enkrid’s words were sharper. The barbarian filth was more underhanded.

“Heskal.”

“Speak.”

“You’re balding. Rain makes it obvious.”

Ragna provoked him without a care.

Heskal wasn’t the type to get shaken easily—but he was mildly surprised.

“Your tongue’s gotten sharp.”

“So has my sword.”

“We’ll see. But really, are you going to face me without an engraved weapon? I’ll give you a chance. Run away. Abandon Zaun again like before. No one will blame you.”

So smooth. When it came to cutting words, he might as well be Enkrid-level.

A bald joke didn’t work on this one.

“I never abandoned it.”

“Oh? Then was it us who abandoned you?”

Trying to win with words was pointless. Ragna really didn’t want to go there—but he borrowed Rem’s tone for just a moment.

“Shut the hell up, you bald bastard. You flapping your gums for nothing? Your breath stinks.”

He immediately regretted it. But it seemed to hit a little.

Heskal’s brow briefly furrowed, then relaxed.

“Your tone’s laughably cheap. Not even heard in a hunter’s village.”

“You’ve been in a well too long. Get out into the world. Out west, there’s guys whose breath could kill.”

Especially that bastard Rem.

Heskal looked like he wanted to say more, then abruptly lunged again.

This time he was twice as fast. Ragna dodged—but the blade grazed his shoulder, cutting part of his leather pauldron.

Blades clashed between openings, and Ragna finally swung his greatsword. An upward arc.

BOOM!

With a blast of air, Heskal retreated.

Once, Heskal had been one of Zaun’s top three prodigies.

The slash even drove back the rain.

Heskal steadied his stance, then thrust again. Ragna sidestepped—

And the blade extended.

Completely unexpected.

Heskal had never told anyone his sword’s true name.

It wasn’t Routine.

It was Camouflage.

A deceit hidden within the real blade—perfect for his fighting style.

The sword revealed its true form—its fangs sank into Ragna’s shoulder.

Thwuck!

A meaty stab.

The sound of the blade piercing leather and puncturing flesh.