A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Heskal—he was, without a doubt, an intelligent man. Upon leaving, he harmed several people and, in doing so, sowed seeds of discord.

“One side saw Heskal kill their friend.”

It would be natural for their eyes to burn red with fury, trembling in betrayal.

“I saw it with my own eyes, Riley.”

He looked as if he could draw his sword and strike at any moment.

“If it weren’t for your father, you’d have died last year, you bastard!”

The other side hadn’t witnessed Heskal’s hand directly. And until now, Heskal had lived a devoted life in Zaun.

He had saved people, cared for them, loved them, and even raised a child.

That child had become a core member of one of the two factions. Though he limped on one leg, his swordsmanship rivaled that of the giants, like Anahera. His name was Riley Zaun.

Was it not said that Heskal personally created the one-legged sword style?

Enkrid had sparred with him a few times. The strange rhythm of Riley’s strikes had made him an enjoyable opponent.

If you had to define it—his technique leaned toward a fatal strike form.

“He was never ordinary.”

And that wasn’t because of his limp.

Most in Zaun possessed the potential to become knights—provided they were lucky. Anyone within the walls of Zaun lived under that same standard.

It was a system made for geniuses. Those with talent received instruction, never lost their drive for improvement, and pressed forward relentlessly.

That was the bare minimum to remain in Zaun.

“But what if you don’t have talent?”

Enkrid found himself naturally inserting his own experience into the thought—but no answer came. This place offered nothing to the mediocre.

To sustain one’s motivation, someone had to be there to guide them. But begging for training didn’t guarantee a master would offer it.

Teaching styles varied, but no mentor could remain passionate when their student couldn’t keep up.

“It’s not like they’re asking for krona.”

These people simply enjoyed watching brilliance shine.

Thus, those who were average—or worse—would never even get the chance to learn.

It was a harsh reality, but perhaps that was why Zaun remained as it was.

But were all people truly the same? Could it be that everyone in Zaun only cared about swordsmanship?

Among the Frokk, some made accessories. One dwarf, despite being born a craftsman, had the pride of a barkeep. In the Border Guard, there was even a giant who declared he wanted to become a merchant.

“People aren’t the same.”

That’s what life had taught him.

And in that regard, Heskal’s son was special. No one had ever thought him particularly gifted.

It was only because someone had patiently trained and cared for him that Riley had become who he was.

To take a limping cripple and turn him into a swordsman—it was enough to say the name of the one who raised him only once: Heskal.

Kwaaaaaa—!

The rain, sensitive to a knight’s trained senses, had lessened slightly. Understandable. Had it continued like before, the entire continent might’ve drowned.

The soil of Zaun, perched on the basin’s upper edge, was beyond saturated—it was soggy and slippery. The muddy water splashed high, dirtying boots and pants alike.

Family head Tempest Zaun had said their priority was reconnaissance and combat.

“At this point, the enemy will reveal themselves.”

They would appear when they chose, where they chose. The right to begin the battle had fallen to the other side.

They remained hidden, while Zaun stood exposed. It was only natural.

The fighting would come later.

From Enkrid’s perspective, the real urgency was in quelling the internal conflict that had erupted.

He was watching to see how the family head would respond.

Ragna approached and, after hearing a rough explanation from Lynox, spoke.

“There was someone with Odinkar’s face.”

Someone had voluntarily altered their face. The implication of those words was clear: even Ragna was unsure whether Heskal had really done this.

Though he’d only seen him a few times in childhood and again here, Ragna couldn’t believe Heskal was capable of something like this.

Heskal had earned that kind of trust.

“It was Heskal.”

The family head cut through all further questioning. He understood everything Ragna had implied—and thus, his answer had no hesitation.

Enkrid didn’t know it, but the family head had already learned of the attack on Ragna’s group and retraced the events in reverse.

It hadn’t happened right at his doorstep, but it was close.

Could someone really have deceived all the patrols in the area?

Not even he could manage that. Thus, he’d concluded: an accomplice had to be involved.

But where did that assistance begin and end? And why was it happening?

He had no answer.

“Then what can I do?”

He asked and answered himself. When one lost their way while training swordsmanship, what did they do?

“You wait until the path appears.”

Be it the sword or life—it was the same for him.

Though the illness worsened year by year, he endured.

Tempest had emotions more muted than the average man. He didn’t empathize easily with others. That’s why “moody” was the least fitting word to describe him. Across the continent, his patience was legendary. A unique trait, born from emotional absence.

And when he spoke of emotions, it was only through crossing swords.

He overcame his deficiency through the blade. A swordsman who embodied the very teaching of Zaun.

He waited. Though the supposed family curse was merely a disease, even as the number of afflicted rose and the symptoms remained unknown, he endured.

But then, something changed.

The disease progressed faster than expected, placing great strain on his body.

For more than half the day, he had no strength at all. His lungs shrank—his breathing grew short. He convulsed like he was seizing.

A knight wasn’t something other than human. Most common ailments could be overcome—but this wasn’t common. It was a disease spread and worsened over years by someone’s deliberate hand. It ate away at him.

Even so, he endured. And during that time, he did what he could.

“Odinkar. Go and bring back Grida and Ragna.”

By sending Odinkar, he protected him and removed him from the circle of suspicion. Though unwilling, Odinkar obeyed.

“There’s a monster in the Border Guard.”

Covered in dust, Odinkar’s report proved that his journey had been anything but dull.

The family ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) head cast aside his thoughts and walked into the midst of the arguing crowd.

“I can’t believe it,” said Riley Zaun—the very boy raised by Heskal. Though not of his blood, everyone said they were father and son.

Which was precisely why Heskal not taking Riley with him complicated things further.

Anyone would suspect Riley.

If it were truly Heskal, of course, he should’ve taken Riley. That was how people saw it.

The family head looked toward the group across from Riley—those with bloodshot eyes.

“I just came from wrapping a bandage around Grida’s stomach. She barely survived,” one said. Clearly, they had seen the stabbing up close.

“It was Heskal himself. If not him, who could it be? The swordplay, the habits—it was all identical.”

His voice was calm, but there was fire beneath. A flame not so easily quenched by rain.

The family head looked around.

No one was dry.

Riley’s pupils trembled violently. Watching the silent family head, he looked on the verge of collapse.

“Was I... abandoned?” That thought—like a dagger—must have been stabbing his heart on repeat.

He had always suffered from loneliness, always craved recognition. That was who Riley was.

And now, he too bore the name “Zaun.”

“Riley.”

“...Yes.”

“Go ask him. When Heskal appears, ask him the question that’s tearing at your chest. Until then—endure.”

He didn’t ask for a reply. Riley had already stopped making excuses for Heskal. The family head didn’t tell him to draw his sword and charge. He told him to ask. That meant the time had not yet come.

The group had split into two, but Riley’s side was clearly at a disadvantage. Had it come to blows, and lightning not descended to strike the other side, Riley’s faction would’ve lost.

“We will fight. Until then, conserve your strength. That’s an order.”

Orders from the family head were absolute. Unless it involved the safety of Zaun itself, he rarely gave commands. Everyone knew that.

They weren’t a proper military, so no one raised their voice.

Swoooooooosh.

A bolt of lightning cast its white light through the thinning rain.

KWA-BOOOOM!

A god had stretched out a finger to strike down a mortal—but missed. The lightning slammed into the earth just beyond the basin.

Had it struck here, it would’ve taken one or two with it.

Even avoiding the lightning rod standing tall on one side of the basin, it had still missed.

“We can trust only the swords in our hands. Act accordingly.”

The family head turned and left.

Enkrid watched it all and nodded.

“There’s no need to resolve discord.”

There was no need to trust everyone behind him either.

The only thing worth trusting was the sword in his own hand.

Well—Lynox had six of them, but still.

Instead of a speech, the family head had offered truth. As he did, Ragna came over and told Enkrid what had happened inside. Once he had heard everything, Enkrid spoke.

“Got it.”

“They’re targeting Anne.”

“Then let’s make sure they never get the chance.”

A simple exchange—but both were firm in their resolve. If they ever saw the bastard who did this, they wouldn’t let him go.

The rain had let up slightly, but there was still no sign of it stopping. A fierce wind blew strong enough to lift a person off their feet if they weren’t careful.

“Not good. Not good at all. Damn it, my illness is flaring up too.”

Lynox had approached, frowning.

“What kind of illness?”

“It’s my hands. Sometimes I can’t grip anything. I’ve been holding on thanks to the medicine Milezcia gave me.”

“That’s not an illness!”

That was Anne’s voice.

A wind strong enough to rip radishes from the ground pushed her straight into Ragna’s arms, and she shouted, filled with fury.

“That’s not an illness—it’s a disease someone spread!”

Lynox understood just how bleak things had become. That’s why he wasn’t even surprised by Heskal’s betrayal.

He wasn’t the only one whose condition was deteriorating.

If the enemy attacked now? Yeah... that would not be easy. Not at all.

Thinking that, Lynox asked, “What do you mean?”

“Everyone—get inside! I can’t talk about this out here!”

The weather was horrific. Another few minutes in this rain, and Anne felt like her skin might peel.

Ragna covered her head with his cloak and picked her up.

They went inside. The sturdiest structure left was the family head’s residence.

“Family Head!”

Lynox tried to signal but quickly realized there was no way it would be seen. So he relayed Anne’s message directly.

“Do as the girl says.”

The family head decided, and everyone followed Anne inside.

Anne, who had entered first, grabbed a towel and began drying her hair and body. Then she stood on the steps leading upward.

The first floor was flooded—no one could stay there.

“What about Grida?” she asked, shaking water from her hair.

“Bring her.”

The family head replied at once, and Anahera, among others, moved immediately. Anahera had claimed Grida was her dearest friend.

Even giants spoke of friendship and loyalty.

Yet a man who swore his life to Zaun, who claimed to love it, who took the knight’s vow—had stabbed it in the back.

And not with a gentle touch either. It was a heavy, brutal betrayal that had left Zaun in chaos.

Anne stood above the crowd like a judge upon her platform.

She had traveled throughout Zaun, gathering information about the symptoms of the sick.

In her mind were hundreds of herbal combinations, some learned from a teacher filled with malice, some discovered on her own, others wrested from Kraiss and the Border Guard in exchange for hard-won krona.

“Everyone, tell me your symptoms again and fetch the herbs I name. Can you do that?”

“I can.”

The family head answered first.

Enkrid knew the man lacked emotion—and so, ironically, could feel what he must be experiencing now.

“Impatience.”

The family head couldn’t express it with words, so he showed it in action.

“And maybe... a little excitement?”

Though outwardly, nothing showed.

“Then please do it.”

Ragna stepped forward and shouted so all could hear.

“Line up!”

Order would certainly help. No sooner had Ragna spoken than the family head placed himself at the front of the line.

“Now,” he said.

Likely meaning to revise his earlier statement: “Not now.”

Anne looked at him in disbelief.

“Your illness won’t be cured in an instant. I can’t help you right now.”

“...Then just give me something to slow the symptoms. Something I can drink in battle that takes effect immediately.”

“Very specific demands.”

“Is that a problem?”

Anne wasn’t nervous. She didn’t even pause to gather her thoughts.

She answered immediately.

“It’s doable.”

There was much to do. Talk of an invading enemy swirled outside—but her job was to make sure everyone inside could fight at their best.

So she had to work—and before her hands even moved, her mind was already racing.

There was no time to be nervous.

“Do you have centella?”

“...What’s that?”

Lynox, standing directly behind the family head, turned to look at the man behind him. Anne had addressed him—and he had repeated her question.

“Green, looks like this. Go find it.”

She gestured with her hands to describe the shape, but it wasn’t easy to understand.

“Go to Milezcia’s lab. Bring everything that looks like a herb. Keep it dry.”

The family head gave the order at once. He was just as busy.

Fetching herbs in a storm without getting them wet was a tall order—but those who were still well enough began to move.