Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 693: Chapter 692 - Blind Spots, Errors, and Contradictions
Even after hearing the emperor’s name, the head of the household outright refused.
It wasn’t even for a valid reason—just a simple "I don’t want to."
Yet, rather than arguing, the recruiter only let out a groan.
"You stubborn old man."
That was all he muttered.
The head of the household heard it, of course, but he ignored it completely and looked away.
Judging by the tone of their conversation, the two of them weren’t strangers.
"If you’ve made it this far, you must have your own reasons. Ragna has already stated his."
At the end of his redirected gaze was Anne, who had already finished her meal.
’Is this consideration?’
The head of the household had waited until Anne had eaten enough.
His words carried no warmth or kindness, but the timing suggested some level of consideration.
’Is he just the type to express himself through actions instead of words?’
Instead of displaying emotions?
That thought crossed Enkrid’s mind.
The others seemed used to it, saying nothing.
Alexandra Yohan merely offered a quiet smile.
Her eyes seemed to observe Anne’s face, her gestures, and her demeanor, yet there was no malice in her gaze.
Anne swallowed her saliva and spoke.
"I heard you’ve been suffering from a long illness. I might be able to cure it."
It wasn’t a definitive statement, but her tone carried a firm resolve.
She fully intended to see it through.
Her determination was not to be underestimated.
’She knew her life was in danger, yet she willingly took the medicine and fell asleep, entrusting her life to Ragna. That’s not something just anyone could do.’
That was Enkrid’s assessment.
"You’re referring to the punishment that has been placed upon us."
Grida, who had remained silent, added an explanation.
The Yohan family had long suffered from an inherited disease.
In recent years, it had only worsened.
Yet, despite Anne’s words, the head of the household remained indifferent.
His expression didn’t waver in the slightest.
’Does his face ever change?’
Even if he lost an arm, he would probably just stand there and watch.
’No... he wouldn’t just watch.’
If the battle was over, he would stop the bleeding.
If the battle was still ongoing, he would take his enemy’s head in exchange for his arm.
His quiet yet overwhelming presence was still astonishing.
At any moment, it felt like he might draw his sword.
At the same time, if someone suddenly attacked him, it seemed just as likely that he would stand there and watch.
In other words, he was unpredictable.
"A son who longs for the sunrise..."
The head of the household spoke, his gaze sweeping across those gathered.
"And a reckless young lady who claims she can cure an incurable disease."
"And there’s also Schmidt," his wife added, gesturing toward the recruiter.
It seemed that the recruiter’s name was Schmidt.
He was clearly someone who had known the head of the household and his wife for a long time.
"Tempest, this is an offer for both you and your family," Schmidt said, shifting his tone.
Earlier, he had spoken as an imperial recruiter, but now, his voice carried a familiar warmth.
"Still not interested."
The head of the household answered firmly.
There was no emotion in his voice, but the certainty in his words was unmistakable.
Schmidt groaned again.
"What’s your name?"
Alexandra set down her fork and knife, stacking her plates neatly, then turned to Anne with the question.
Anne, mirroring her actions, replied.
"I’m Anne. I’m an alchemist, but I specialize in healing. There must be someone here who treats the sick, right? I do similar work."
Any community that lived together would have someone tending to the ill.
"When we fall ill or show symptoms of the disease I mentioned earlier, we turn to Mileschia. She is also the godmother of these children."
Alexandra gestured toward Ragna and Grida before looking back at Anne with a steady gaze.
Was she assessing her?
Or doubting her?
Grida had called it a "punishment from the heavens."
’A divine curse.’
It was the same as calling it a curse.
And yet, despite Anne insisting that it was an illness rather than a curse, and that she could cure it, Magrun showed no reaction.
He neither entrusted himself to her nor displayed any hope.
It wasn’t just that he refrained from asking her to try.
He hadn’t even considered the possibility.
’He has no expectations.’
He must have already met other healers and tried various treatments.
’Or perhaps this Mileschia woman is an exceptional healer, and since even she couldn’t cure it, he knows no one else would be able to either.’
The first place Magrun visited upon arrival was likely wherever Mileschia resided.
After all, his health had been abnormal the entire journey.
Alchemy is a field where age reflects skill.
No matter how talented or capable one is, without time and experience, it’s difficult to achieve results.
At a glance, Anne looked barely twenty.
That alone was enough to make it hard for anyone to place their hopes in her.
In short—
’The head of the household will refuse.’
It was a prediction based on logic.
But after a brief pause, the head of the household spoke.
"If you need anything, just say so, Anne. And since you don’t know anyone, it’s best to have a familiar face assisting you. Grida."
"Yes, I will."
The prediction was wrong.
"Ragna, are you ready?"
The clan leader’s gaze landed on Ragna’s forehead.
His torn hair and the marks from the blows were evident.
"Not today."
Ragna replied, and the clan leader prepared to leave.
He intended to clear the table and bid everyone to rest.
Enkrid seized the moment to ask,
"Why don’t you ask about my business?"
Alexandra answered in his stead.
"It’s too obvious, so I didn’t ask."
Obvious?
Enkrid knew he wasn’t such a simple person.
Being steadfast didn’t mean being simplistic.
He was here to protect Anne, to report what had happened on the way, and to support Ragna as his friend.
Moreover, what was happening in Yohan was anything but simple.
If things went awry, Enkrid was prepared to intervene in the complexities, and his concerns could never be summed up in just a few words.
Thus, the claim that his intentions were "obvious" was flawed—an oversight, even.
’You could even call it a contradiction.’
Enkrid concluded inwardly.
No matter what was said, he intended to point out that contradiction.
As he finalized his thoughts, the clan leader spoke.
"Tomorrow morning, take turns sparring with my wife and me."
Enkrid answered without hesitation,
"Yes, let’s do that."
A duel.
That meant other matters could wait, right?
Odincar’s disappearance?
He left of his own will.
It wasn’t a disappearance—it was either running away or merely going out.
Ragna had left as a child, saying he’d be back soon, and only returned as an adult.
If Ragna could do it, so could Odincar.
Even if that wasn’t the case, hadn’t it been said that sometimes, a man just needed a cave to be alone in?
Perhaps Odincar simply needed such a place right now.
As for the attack on the way here?
Would telling the clan leader now change anything?
Someone had tried to kill Anne and hinder their journey here.
That was all.
And surely, Grida and Magrun would explain everything in due time.
’No need for me to step in.’
So, all he had to do was duel.
There was nothing complicated about it. Even if a situation was complex, Enkrid knew how to view it simply.
’That’s just the kind of person I am.’
With that, he rationalized his approach.
"Then see you tomorrow. You may go. Show them to their quarters."
Everyone left without protest, except for one— Schmidt Empire’s recruitment officer remained seated.
As Enkrid stepped outside the dining hall, his gaze briefly met Schmidt’s.
"This way, please."
A neatly dressed attendant guided Enkrid.
The door creaked shut behind him, and Schmidt’s voice slipped through the narrowing gap.
"Are you really going to do this?"
It wasn’t an accusation full of resentment, but there was an unmistakable tone of blame.
The doors, once wide open, now closed completely, forming a thin line that seemed to divide the two worlds.
Through that gap, the clan leader’s and Enkrid’s eyes met briefly.
’Amber, perhaps.’
The clan leader’s eyes gleamed orange, reflecting the lamplight.
Thud.
The heavy door shut with a deep sound, and Schmidt’s voice followed, urging,
"Say something. You’re not doing this for me."
There was no indifference in his words.
Anyone could hear the concern layered beneath them.
’If not for himself...’
Then for whom was he speaking?
The question crossed Enkrid’s mind, but it wasn’t his place to interfere.
For now, he had to prepare for tomorrow.
Enkrid turned his back on the closed door and walked away.
A knight’s duties didn’t change simply because of his title.
Just like how swinging a sword wouldn’t remove the sweat-stained stench from a dusty elf’s undershirt, cleaning the dust off his cloak and scraping away the dirt and pebbles stuck to his boots had to be done by hand.
Swinging a sword wouldn’t solve everything.
A memory surfaced—words from a mercenary veteran.
A man who, despite approaching fifty, still lived by the blade and earned respect—worthy of being called a "mercenary king."
Most mercenaries either retired early or died before reaching that point.
To survive that long was proof of one’s nature.
Some might even say it meant being chosen by the goddess of fortune.
That man had once said,
"Fights are seventy percent preparation. A guy who sharpens his blade well and takes care of his gear has the advantage—simple as that."
Enkrid agreed.
He had taken those words to heart like they were jewels of wisdom.
’I could probably use my short sword for the soles of my boots.’
Outside his assigned quarters, Enkrid scraped the bottom of his boots with the tip of his short sword, tidying them up.
They were boots reinforced with troll leather from the Pen-Hanil Mountains and iron plates.
Worn with use, but still sturdy.
Lifting them up, he gave them a sniff—no foul stench.
A voice called out as Grida passed by, tossing him a small leather pouch.
"Put that in, it’ll help with the smell."
Catching it with a thud, he found white stones inside—no, not stones.
On closer inspection, they were dried-out bars of soap.
If left in his boots overnight, they’d absorb any lingering odors.
"Where are you off to?"
"Since I just got back, I thought I’d take a look around."
As Grida stepped away, the setting sun cast long shadows.
Those shadows quickly shrank before vanishing altogether.
Her pace was just as brisk as when they arrived.
Either she had many places to visit, or there was much to investigate.
It had to be one or the other.
’I should probably do some laundry.’
With that thought, Enkrid went to the well inside the castle, drew water, and washed his undershirt and cloak.
No amount of sword swinging would clean a cloak,
but a knight’s superior strength certainly made wringing out laundry an efficient task.
Squeeeze.
The sturdy cloak twisted as it released the moisture it had absorbed, dripping back onto the ground.
Before long, Ragna and Anne stepped forward and did the same.
A few maids approached, handing them small wooden sticks meant for beating laundry.
Their faces, marked by dark circles under their eyes, looked sickly.
"Are you feeling unwell?"
Anne asked as she observed them.
"I’m fine," one of the maids replied.
Enkrid’s gaze swept over the maid’s waist as she answered.
Even the maids here carried swords.
"Alright then."
After checking their equipment, including overdue laundry, short swords, and horn-trumpet daggers, night had already fallen.
They had arrived at sunrise, but between washing, eating, and organizing, time had slipped away.
As Enkrid lay down on a bed stuffed with feathers and wool, drowsiness quickly overtook him.
A knight couldn’t wield his sword for laundry, nor did he have limitless stamina.
Rest was necessary when needed, and Enkrid deemed this one of those times.
Ragna occupied the room to the left, and beside him was Anne’s room.
His thoughts were fleeting.
Soon, he fell asleep.
Then, as Enkrid opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of a boatman passing by.
The owner of a lamp—one with a particularly dark sense of humor—spoke.
"Protect."
A statement without an object.
Which made it difficult to determine its exact meaning.
"Schmidt, the conversation is over."
Alexandra shook her head.
As the maids and attendants cleared the table, the three of them moved to a small adjoining reception room.
Schmidt took a sip of tea brewed from dried flower petals.
His throat was parched.
The stubbornness of these people was incomprehensible to him.
"Alex, you need help."
Schmidt was anxious, but he knew nothing could proceed without their approval.
"That doesn’t mean we have to bear the name of a shield and become a duke of the Empire."
Tempest Jaune, the head of the house, rested his chin on his interlocked fingers and answered.
"Tempe."
"Enough. Schmidt, I will not accept an imperial title."
For a long time, the Empire had sought to bring Yohan under its domain.
They promised the title of duke in exchange for becoming the shield of the East—hence, the Shield Duke.
But Tempest Yohan, often called Tempe, had refused time and again.
"You need the Empire’s power to cure the illness."
Schmidt insisted.
The Empire was not a benevolent entity.
It calculated benefits with cold precision.
Schmidt wanted to help them, but for that to happen, Yohan had to reach out first.
"We don’t need it."
The head of the house shook his head.
"This isn’t a curse."
Schmidt repeated.
The head remained silent.
Once his mouth shut like a clam, it rarely opened again.
Schmidt knew this well.
Turning his gaze, he met Alexandra’s eyes.
Once, she had been his stepsister.
Now, she simply shook her head.
"Let it go, Schmidt."
"Why?"
"We’ve told you countless times. The head of the house won’t swing his sword for another’s sake just to save my life. In Yohan, we each wield our swords for our own desires."
They filled their voids with the blade.
They also pursued freedom with the blade.
That was what Yohan was—why they would not become the Empire’s shield.
If the head of the house decided to become the Empire’s shield, then they would no longer be Yohan.
They would become just another part of the Empire, wielding swords against the enemies the Emperor pointed at.
Yohan did not seek such a life, and so, it was impossible.
"If you die, what does any of this matter?"
Schmidt was frustrated, but he knew he would not get his way this time either.
There were things in the world more precious than life itself.
Some called them dreams.
Others called them stubbornness or pride.
The head of the house had something similar.

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