A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid did not reject Valphir’s proposal. No one—including the family head—could stop him.

How could they, when his eyes sparkled with excitement at the very idea?

So all they could do was what they were able to.

“Ragna went to seize the Sunrise. It’ll take a few more days. At the longest, maybe two weeks.”

Tempest realized Enkrid wasn’t all that interested in what he’d said. His gaze was already locked on what came next.

‘Ambition and challenge.’

If one were to name the light in those eyes, each would require a different name.

A smoldering forge of desire to learn and to grow.

The preparations to depart were already long complete. That was the feeling Enkrid gave off.

“You’re really leaving first?”

Anne, one of his benefactors, stepped up. It didn’t seem she meant to stop him—just to confirm it.

“Yeah. Bring Ragna with you. If you tell him to come on his own, you’ll never get to live together in this life.”

“I know that already.”

The fact that she said it without a smile meant she was truly concerned.

Here and there, people handed over jerky, dried fruit, and even Milezcia’s special potions, all of which went into his pack.

“Here. You take it.”

The miser Lynox spat out one of his relics. It was a rod slightly longer than a short sword, but when swung through the air, it extended with a chachajak and revealed a spear tip at the end.

“It’s a compact throwing spear. It contains a piercing spell, so it’ll pierce through most things. And also—”

Lynox whispered, explaining further. It was a rare item.

“Use it well.”

Enkrid simply accepted it with a casual air. He slotted it into his belt, shouldered his pack, equipped his two swords, and turned around.

The deep navy cloak draped over his coat caught the eye with its asymmetrical embroidered crest.

“Are you sure the two of you can handle this? If you need anything, just say it. I’ll come meet you.”

Grida muttered the words as Enkrid passed by.

“With a hole in your stomach?”

“What, like there’s no one else in Zaun? And who hasn’t had a few holes in them?”

Enkrid waved off the concern as if to say he was fine. From afar, the image of him joking with friends might have seemed ordinary.

‘But that can’t be.’

He was too striking to be ordinary.

Black hair, eyes the color of a clear lake, and that navy cloak—he looked like a painting. He was tall with long limbs, his well-trained body and balanced stride gave off a sense of calm stability.

‘Most noble ladies would fall for him the moment they saw him.’

But there was something even more curious.

Tempest, who neither demanded anything nor said a word, tried to hold onto Enkrid with his voice alone.

“Why don’t you ask for anything?”

He had saved Zaun from tragedy.

He had eliminated its danger.

‘Just two swordsmen and one girl?’

Those three didn’t do everything.

But what would’ve happened if this man hadn’t been there?

You didn’t need great insight to answer.

Things would’ve gone as Heskal planned—or worse, the Empire would have come slithering in late, all smiles, just as they hoped.

The alliance with the Empire was more ‘implicit’ than ‘alliance.’

‘The Empire is always waiting to swallow Zaun.’

But Zaun doesn’t want that.

Individuals may seek personal gain and leave, but the collective that is Zaun does not want it.

The position originally meant for the Imperial hunting dog had been taken by a man named Enkrid.

So he had every right to ask for something.

He could’ve claimed the sword called Zaun for himself. Even if it didn’t work out, he had the standing to try.

But Enkrid of the Border Guard, Ragna’s comrade and commander, asked for nothing.

Yes, from time to time, one encountered such unusual sorts.

Those who looked not at the present, but the far future—those of a different caliber.

But to the family head, Enkrid seemed different even from them. He didn’t even think of collecting that future debt.

That was the strangest thing.

“What more would I ask for?”

Enkrid tilted his head in all sincerity.

Though his legs ached and he leaned on his cane, Tempest straightened his back and puffed out his chest.

“Because you saved Zaun.”

No need to speak in circles. He wasn’t skilled in insinuation.

This man understood the value of what he did. He was quick-witted and brilliant.

And yet—

“I’ve already received much.”

That was all he said.

Was it impulse? Or a move looking ahead to preserve Zaun’s future?

Tempest didn’t know. Rather than schemes or calculations, he followed the flame rising in his chest.

As the family head, these were words he had never once spoken before.

“If you ever call, Zaun will stand at your side. Odinkar, fulfill my pledge.”

“Of course.”

Odinkar, standing by, nodded without hesitation.

Maybe it was because he had recognized Enkrid even before Tempest did. There was no hesitation in him either.

The words were light, the lack of emotion due to the family head’s own shortcomings.

But the meaning was not light. And Enkrid wasn’t surprised.

Really?

He glanced over once with a look of mild curiosity and nodded before turning.

“Then.”

At that, the family head spoke again.

“To the hero who saved our house.”

No cheers, no tears.

They simply drew their weapons.

Chachachachachak.

Dozens of swords pointed to the sky, saluting their hero.

It was summer—clear sunlight, lush green leaves.

***

Ragna only realized after blinking a few times that this wasn’t reality.

‘Sunrise.’

He had come to grasp the sword—Sunrise, the heirloom and artifact passed down through Zaun’s generations.

The sword’s form wasn’t fixed, and even the name ‘Sunrise’ changed at times.

That was all Ragna had known.

The rest was what his father had told him.

“It’s simple. Defeat the residual will within the sword, and it becomes yours. If you’re unworthy, you’ll end up a drooling fool.”

“I see.”

Ragna showed no fear. No doubt.

He didn’t even ask what ‘worthiness’ meant.

The sword was kept in an ordinary wooden box, rusted and chipped, unworthy of being called a treasure blade. That was perhaps the best security.

What thief would ever guess it was a valuable blade?

And a sword that could drive you mad just by being gripped couldn’t really be called a treasure either.

Frankly, the handle-forged silver sword Lynox had once brought looked twice as valuable.

“I swung it twice. Back then, the sword’s name was Sunset.”

Reflecting on his father’s words, Ragna looked ahead. Three figures, male and female, stood before him.

One woman, her hair so vividly red it looked like fire sprouted from her head, smiled brightly and spoke.

“If you underestimate us just because we’re residual thoughts, you’ll die.”

“We don’t have time, so let’s hurry this up.”

Ragna shot back without delay.

Later, while fighting, he learned they’d been helped by a friend named Acker long ago—but he let it go in one ear and out the other.

Even their warning that his real body would shrivel and die if he took too long didn’t register.

“Bold brat.”

Only the woman among them spoke. Apparently Acker hadn’t taught him the proper techniques, but that wasn’t Ragna’s concern.

All he wanted was the engraved weapon passed down through his family, the sword that changed form to match its master’s Will.

“You brat, don’t you know how to respect your ancestors?”

So even when he heard that, he ignored it and swung his greatsword.

Watching someone break through limits and move forward.

‘I can do it too.’

He had to face all three at once.

But this—this was nothing.

Those who want to give up look for excuses.

Those who believe they can—find a way.

That was Ragna. He fought tenaciously, with conviction.

Everyone thought it would take at least two weeks—but Ragna woke in just three days.

“He left first?”

When told ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) that Enkrid had departed ahead of him, he wasn’t surprised.

On the surface, Enkrid seemed like a man who calculated every move. But Ragna, having been by his side, knew a part of his essence.

He moved however he felt like it.

So it wasn’t all that surprising.

The only ones surprised were those other than Ragna.

He emerged with a massive greatsword in hand—and not a trace of madness.

“Wasn’t Sunrise supposed to be a longsword?”

Odinkar tilted his head. Most knew it that way.

“If it recognizes its master, it can change form.”

The family head answered. He was so surprised that, if you looked closely, his eyes were slightly wider than usual.

Only Alexandra, who shared his bed, would notice such a subtle change.

***

“In the end, it’s all about cycles. Cycles.”

Everyone had looked displeased when they heard Enkrid was leaving with Valphir Valmung, the Imperial knight.

But the journey turned out to be surprisingly pleasant.

“Cycle. A squire infuses their Will with intent and refines it into technique. Once a knight reaches a certain level, they wield Will naturally. And to wield it truly well, you must once again infuse it with intent.”

It sounded vague and abstract—but Enkrid understood instantly, having already experienced it with his own body.

The explosion of Will, the restraint—it was all about instinctively letting intent flow into Will.

‘The change in Will’s nature.’

That had been Enkrid’s next challenge—and it was already complete.

That’s why he told Tempest he had received enough.

Zaun had given generously, and he was satisfied.

‘I learned a lot.’

That was still how he felt.

Saving them didn’t mean he would make demands.

And if Zaun lost its unique place in the world, it would no longer be Zaun.

‘Zaun can devote itself to cultivation because it is isolated.’

That’s what allowed it to exist as it did.

Endless training. A group that lived only to swing swords, day and night.

Their isolation kept them from entanglements. In that sense, the three villages were like Zaun’s armor.

They handled the outside world. Zaun trained.

Simple.

‘They’re likely the strongest small-force faction on the continent.’

On a battlefield where elite small units dominate, Zaun’s strength was not to be underestimated.

Valphir knew much, and he went on sharing such stories.

They had been walking swiftly for a long time, working up a decent sweat. They had agreed to keep going without rest while the sun was up.

They walked narrow paths between trees, climbed up and down hills, and leapt over streams.

The two of them, both well beyond human athleticism, crossed creeks wide enough for three men to lie across without issue.

After one such jump, on a gentle downward slope, Valphir tossed out a question.

“Do you know why Tempest Zaun and Lynox hate me?”

“No.”

“Simple. I’ll do anything to win.”

Means and methods differ for each person.

For example, Enkrid using the environment or provoking the enemy—that’s also using whatever means necessary.

But Zaun wouldn’t scold someone over that.

They studied tactics and enjoyed combat too.

So what Valphir referred to must have been something dirtier.

“I don’t see anything wrong with exploiting weaknesses.”

And Enkrid’s capacity was broad. He had no reason to criticize Valphir.

Even if his methods were rough and off-putting—they could still be accepted.

They passed through thick foliage, then across landslides where mud stuck to their boots, and finally reached flatter ground.

They’d seen a few monsters along the way, but nothing dumb enough to challenge the two of them could slow their stride.

Every time, Enkrid watched Valphir’s techniques closely.

He didn’t even draw a weapon—just smashed monsters with the iron bracers on his arms.

A boar beast larger than a giant, walking on all fours, charged—but he easily spun and crushed its skull with the back of his hand.

The boar beast stumbled a few more steps before collapsing.

Later, they killed a swarm of drowned corpses swept out by recent storms—again, without drawing weapons.

Not to compete, but Enkrid, who had recently been obsessed with crafting new swordsmanship, had also beaten some to death with bare hands.

“The monsters fought in formation, I heard?”

Valphir said, after slaying a few.

“It made you wonder who trained them.”

“That’s not so rare. Near the Demon Realm, it happens often. It’s been showing up a lot in recent years.”

The Demon Realm.

When Enkrid showed interest, Valphir continued.

“Just like humans steal monster techniques, monsters are learning human systems now. About time, don’t you think?”

There were several reasons Enkrid found this so enjoyable. One was the subtle tension that came with traveling as just the two of them.

The second was the kind of stories Valphir told—ones you rarely heard.

Enkrid was the type who would buy a bard’s tale even when low on krona.

He had a soft spot for stories.

“Learning what, exactly?”

“You didn’t know? Pressure—Intimidation—it was originally a monster trait. Actually, the whole concept of Will? We learned that from monsters.”

To Enkrid, Valphir Valmung, knight of the Empire, was also a fascinating storyteller.

Even now, he was spinning tales that made Enkrid’s ears perk on their own.