"Here."
Rem didn't care who was watching. He began right in front of the camp—not at a discreet corner, but in the very middle. Taking Enkrid's wrist, he placed his hand over his own heart, lips curling into a mischievous smirk.
How should one describe that smile? It carried a playful malice that seemed unique to Rem.
Then, he began whispering to Enkrid. It was so quiet that before Jaxon had trained his hearing, he wouldn’t have caught a word. This whispering itself seemed like an art—a deliberate way of conveying only what was necessary.
Disregarding the gazes around them, Rem leaned in.
"What you need is trust. After that, explode your heart. If the Beast’s Heart has ripened, push it to its limit—just before it shatters."
He left out any mention of the ritualistic or supernatural effects, offering only the essential instructions.
Enkrid did as he was told. He had trusted Rem enough to accept the Beast’s Heart in the first place.
Th𝗲 most uptodate novels are published on ƒгeewёbnovel.com.
Rem liked that about him.
Enkrid’s attitude, his responses, and his actions were always sincere—unwaveringly so.
However, sincerity wasn’t enough this time. If Enkrid approached this as he had with everything else, he would ruin it all.
"Take it slow," Rem warned, his tone as sharp as a drawn blade. It was a seriousness Enkrid had rarely seen in him. The mischievousness was gone, replaced by an intensity that made Enkrid pause.
So, it’s that dangerous, huh?
Enkrid began to focus, deliberately slowing his heartbeat. But could a person truly control their own heart?
At that moment, he felt it—the rhythmic pounding of Rem's heart beneath his palm.
Thump, thump!
The pulse was explosive. The energy coursing through it seemed to leap into Enkrid’s hand.
"Now do the same. But only a quarter of the intensity," Rem instructed.
Enkrid waited for the sensation. He needed to replicate that feeling—the deliberate beating of the heart.
It couldn’t be explained in words or demonstrated in actions. It was something Rem had shown him through his own body—a sensation transmitted directly.
This was entirely in the realm of intuition.
"I think I might’ve underestimated you," Rem muttered.
Perhaps this wasn’t surprising after all.
"One more time," Enkrid said.
The two stood there, palms pressed to each other’s hearts, as time passed. The sun moved from its zenith to a low tilt.
"I really have to ask—are you doing this on purpose?"
"Hm."
Enkrid’s response was a vague hum.
"I feel the same," Ragna agreed from the sidelines.
"I can’t deny it either, Brother Madman," Audin added, nodding.
"Agreed," Jaxon chimed in.
Was he doing it on purpose? Enkrid couldn’t say for sure.
"It’s not that I’m choosing not to do it—I just can’t," Enkrid clarified.
"Alright, fine. Let’s try again tomorrow," Rem grumbled.
It was already evening. Thanks to the battalion commander’s orders, they weren’t on meal duty or other assignments. This left them free to train endlessly.
Yet Enkrid had made little to no progress. Not even half a step forward. At least, that’s how it felt to Rem.
"What are you even doing?"
"I’m doing what I’m supposed to. I’m not messing with you."
"Then show me. Do it now," Rem said, his tone tinged with irritation.
But the results were always the same.
Enkrid lacked any sense of what he was supposed to feel. Not even a flicker. Was this a problem?
No, it wasn’t.
After all, when had he ever mastered a skill on the first try?
During his repeated days of training his left hand, there had been a fleeting moment when he felt like he possessed true talent.
For a brief time, it was as if something divine had descended upon him, allowing him to master techniques as though they were second nature.
Did he miss that sensation?
Not at all.
All Enkrid ever did was repeat, again and again, experimenting and refining.
He didn’t have the luxury to lament over fleeting moments of genius.
"The commander’s calling you," Kraiss informed him.
This was just another ordinary day—a day spent agonizing over the Beast’s Heart that refused to ripen.
It was three days after the camp had been established that the battalion commander finally summoned Enkrid.
For someone who had loudly celebrated Enkrid as a hero, the delay in calling him was surprising.
According to Kraiss, it made perfect sense.
"The commander likely had his hands full with logistics. Moving the camp and setting up a new base must’ve been nerve-wracking."
When Enkrid asked why, Kraiss began another lengthy explanation.
In short:
"If the enemy realizes you’re just posturing, they’ll ignore you. So you have to at least look like you’re doing something. I could explain further, but..."
Kraiss trailed off, as though there was more he wanted to say but chose not to.
Enkrid didn’t press him. Kraiss would speak when he felt like it.
Instead, Enkrid followed the battalion commander’s adjutant, joined midway by the elven company commander.
Without a sound, the elf matched his stride beside Enkrid.
"When’s our engagement ceremony?" she asked lightly.
Here we go again. Enkrid couldn’t begin to understand elven humor.
"Let’s aim for ten years from now," he replied dryly.
"Not a bad timeline. But I prefer younger humans to older ones."
Elves were stunningly beautiful, yes, but Enkrid had never been drawn to them.
Her emerald eyes gleamed like gemstones between long lashes, her golden hair shone like sunlight, and her fair skin seemed almost luminous.
Yet, that inhuman beauty left him unmoved.
"Shall we?"
Enkrid conceded, deciding not to waste energy on pointless banter. The elf seemed to enjoy teasing him, but he couldn’t say he found it unpleasant.
Maybe this was just who she was—a slightly off-kilter elf among her kind.
Following the adjutant’s lead, Enkrid entered the commander’s tent, the elf trailing beside him.
"You’re here."
Marcus, the battalion commander, greeted him. His beard was scruffy from days on the battlefield.
Noticing it, Enkrid remembered how rough his own jaw must look. He made a mental note to shave later.
Offering a soldier’s salute, he pressed his hand to the hilt of his sword and bowed.
"Have a seat," Marcus said, gesturing.
When three cups of tea were placed before them, it felt like an unexpected luxury.
"You don’t often get to enjoy decent tea on the battlefield. This is a rare treat," Marcus remarked, sipping his cup.
As he spoke, he suddenly made his proposal.
"How about officially joining my battalion?"
Enkrid paused mid-sip.
The elven commander remained silent.
Considering his response, Enkrid eventually spoke with his usual directness:
"I refuse."
"Why? I'd think I'm offering you a solid deal."
Marcus wasn't wrong. When Kraiss had learned of the summons, he had laid out the situation almost verbatim.
From why the commander hadn’t called earlier to what he would likely say during the meeting—it had all gone exactly as Kraiss predicted.
It almost felt uncanny, like Kraiss was some kind of fortune-teller.
“How does everything go exactly the way you said it would?” Enkrid had asked, baffled.
“He’ll propose that you join under his command, and probably invite our company commander as well. Why? To make it official, of course. He wants to mentor you, claim you as one of his own. And why does he want you? Are you really asking because you don’t know the answer?”
Kraiss had stared at him with an incredulous look, as if questioning whether Enkrid was truly that dense.
When Enkrid had continued to stare blankly, Kraiss had finally relented with a sigh and an almost exasperated tone:
“What did you do at Cross Guard?”
“I fought. Snuck around, set a few fires, gathered intel on my way back.”
“And in the rear of the enemy’s camp?”
“I fought. Took out the commander of a detached force that hit our rear.”
“And when you reached the frontlines?”
“I fought. You were there, Kraiss. Why are you even asking?”
Kraiss, who had stuck by Enkrid’s side through most of those events, had seen it all firsthand.
“The commander knows, too.”
“Knows what?”
“He knows everything you’ve done. Now imagine—how would that knowledge affect him? Wouldn’t it spark a little greed?”
If the commander was so eager to recruit someone, shouldn’t he be more focused on Rem or one of the others? Enkrid had thought that was more logical, but Kraiss’s explanation made sense in hindsight.
Rem and the rest of the squad were uncontrollable.
Enkrid, on the other hand, was the perfect middle ground—competent and relatively manageable.
The reason he hadn’t realized this sooner was obvious:
His mind had been completely preoccupied with training the Beast’s Heart, leaving no room to consider anything else.
Kraiss’s timely insight saved him from being caught off guard.
“It seems you anticipated this,” Marcus said now, snapping Enkrid out of his thoughts.
“I had an idea, yes,” Enkrid admitted.
“And if I asked why you’re refusing?”
If he answered outright, Marcus might cut the meeting short, robbing him of the chance to enjoy his tea.
The warm cup in his hands felt like a rare comfort after days of relentless focus.
‘Come to think of it, I’ve only just managed to ease the tension in my shoulders,’ Enkrid realized.
Was he putting too much pressure on himself? Had his determination to learn shackled him, preventing him from moving forward?
Clink.
Something within his mind seemed to shatter—a chain breaking, its remnants scattering away.
Though it lasted only a moment, Enkrid felt immeasurably lighter.
Slurp.
Enkrid took another sip of tea and lifted his head.
Just because his heart felt lighter didn’t mean the words he was about to speak would carry less weight.
Marcus’s offer was tempting—an unmissable opportunity for anyone aiming to climb the ranks, especially someone who had started at the bottom, as Enkrid had.
Yet, Enkrid chose to decline.
"I have a dream," he said.
It was something he had carried with him, even when others laughed, mocked, or tore it apart. It was a dream that had survived through scorn and ridicule, fed by the burning desire within him.
No matter how many times he’d spoken of it before, it had never held the weight it did now.
What was once battered and fragmented now stood firm, proving itself as real as the man who bore it.
"I aim to become a knight," he declared.
The words carried a power that even Marcus could feel.
For a moment, Marcus saw something beyond the tent—visions of the battlefield, a sword, and something radiant.
What is this?
It wasn’t just a refusal; it was the proclamation of a man forging his path forward.
The words struck a chord deep within Marcus’s chest, bringing forth memories of something he had long abandoned—a dream he’d left behind in his youth.
At one time, he too had wanted to be a blade for the royal family.
But now? What was his life?
Marcus’s jaw tightened involuntarily, his teeth grinding as the muscles in his face tensed.
Looking at Enkrid, who carried a dream so pure it seemed to shine, Marcus found himself questioning his own actions.
Do I even deserve to lead someone like him?
Had his proposal been nothing more than a selfish ploy to climb higher, to gain power without purpose?
There was no genuine loyalty in his offer, no vision for a brighter future—just hollow ambition.
A sharp realization hit Marcus, and before he knew it, a sigh escaped his lips.
"Hah."
The sigh carried a weight of emotions that even the elven captain, standing silently nearby, could sense.
Just a few words...
Humans were unpredictable, like storms on the open sea—ever-changing, never constant like the elves.
And right now, Marcus’s heart was caught in that storm, tossed about like a ship without direction.
“I will pursue the path of becoming a knight,” Enkrid repeated, saluting as he spoke.
Marcus nodded instinctively, watching as Enkrid turned and left the tent.
The elven captain, lingering behind, observed Marcus closely, wary of what his reaction might be. Humans, after all, were capable of letting envy and spite guide their actions.
“Phew,” Marcus exhaled, a deep sigh that seemed to empty his chest.
By the time the tea in his cup had gone cold, he had barely moved.
Then, with another sigh, this one tinged with something like relief, Marcus broke into a smile.
"How remarkable," he murmured.
The elven captain could sense the shift in Marcus’s mood—his laughter wasn’t bitter but rather cathartic, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.
“Do you think he’ll truly become a knight?” Marcus asked.
“That is for him to decide,” the elf replied.
"They say elves are always honest," Marcus mused with a smirk.
“It’s said we use truth as our blade,” the elf responded, expression unwavering.
"Hah... It’s been a while since my blood felt this alive," Marcus muttered.
What did it mean for Marcus’s blood to stir?
He was, after all, a noble loyalist—a product of a fractured kingdom where aristocrats had stolen power from the central government.
This fragmentation had left them struggling in the war against the Grand Duchy of Azpen.
“Aren’t you leaving?” the elf asked.
"I am," the captain replied before departing.
Once alone, Marcus walked over to a chair and sank into it.
He realized his back was damp with sweat—a mixture of tension and excitement.
It was an odd sensation: infuriating yet invigorating.
And with it came a decision.
So, he wants to become a knight?
Marcus couldn’t laugh at such a pure, earnest dream. It was far too sincere for that.
All he felt was a sense of challenge, a spark of inspiration.
Fine. If that’s the case...
Marcus’s thoughts turned toward the future—a future without the constraints of noble politics, a future worth fighting for.
For years, he had hesitated, standing at the crossroads of two paths.
Now, however, his choice seemed clear.
Reaching into his coat, Marcus pulled out an old, weathered letter.
It was something he had received long ago but had never acted upon—a remnant of a past he couldn’t bring himself to discard.
"Alright," he muttered.
As his eyes gleamed with a youthful fire, Marcus unfolded the letter.
At the bottom of the parchment, the royal seal shimmered faintly in the dim light.