In moments of crisis, humans sometimes exhibit strength beyond their limits.
Harnessing that strength in everyday situations—that is the essence of the Heart of Might.
The name reflects the concept of drawing out the "beast's heart" within oneself.
In Rem’s tribe, this technique was often attributed to divine blessings or mystical forces dwelling within the body.
Sure, there was a touch of mysticism involved.
Divine power? That’s just nonsense for slaughterhouse mutts, Rem thought.
Having personally experienced and refined the technique, Rem had his own theory.
“It’s the body’s own mechanisms. Something is released internally, triggering the muscles to engage fully.”
The human body was a mystery, and this phenomenon was one of its enigmas. When certain internal processes began to stir, the muscles would tense, enabling the activation of the Heart of Might.
It wasn’t divine intervention. Nor was it possession.
Rem first discovered this in the heat of a battle, surrounded by axe blades, standing at the brink of death. Something surged from within his body, reached his muscles, and allowed him to unleash strength several times greater than usual.
How had it happened?
After much study and reflection, Rem realized that when blood circulated wildly throughout the body, the heart beat several times faster than normal.
Sure, mystical rituals could serve as a trigger, but at its core, it boiled down to focus and sensory control.
“Focus. Again.”
Continuing his thoughts aloud, Rem instructed Enkrid.
Enkrid stood before him, placing his hand on Rem’s chest as Rem did the same to his.
With the maddeningly intense focus-enhancement technique taught by that lazy oaf, it might just work.
Or it might not.
Rem had already half-given up. What else could he do?
Even in his tribe, those who truly mastered this were rare, and they had bodies of iron forged by surviving countless near-death encounters.
“I heard someone say they came back from dipping their feet in a river of death once,” Rem muttered, recalling tales from his tribe.
The Heart of Might required the right vessel.
Even when properly activated, it could destroy the body first.
Could the platoon leader handle it?
His body wasn’t bad.
Every morning, the hulking "religious zealot" of their group subjected him to grueling physical exercises, effectively forging his body into a capable vessel.
If the zealot hadn’t done it, Rem had considered stepping in to refine Enkrid’s body himself.
But the zealot’s methods had been efficient, so Rem let it be.
In short, Enkrid’s vessel was ready—more or less.
That didn’t mean Rem would force him. If it wasn’t feasible, he’d abandon the attempt altogether.
“Feel it,” Rem said.
Enkrid listened, as he always did, with calm concentration.
But Enkrid already had a realization.
It had come to him when learning the Point of Focus technique from Ragna.
Ragna was a genius, naturally adept at such things. He must have grasped it easily, just as he did everything else.
What had Ragna said back then?
"The fear of death heightens focus," was it?
That statement was only half true.
What was truly necessary was an opponent who could push you to exhaust every ounce of your ability.
Now was no different.
Or perhaps, it’s the opposite this time, Enkrid mused, arriving at a small revelation.
What was the Heart of Might, really?
In situations of intense pressure or life-threatening peril, humans sometimes exhibited extraordinary strength.
The Heart of Might drew on that principle.
It required the sensation of death's approach.
Through countless battles and near-death experiences, Enkrid had built up a wealth of knowledge.
Repeating this process day by day, layer upon layer, led him to his conclusion.
“More,” Enkrid said.
Rem's hand pressed lightly against Enkrid’s chest, applying subtle pressure to stimulate his heart.
Previously, this was as far as Rem would go, using mystical techniques to give Enkrid a sense of how it felt for the heart to accelerate.
“More,” Enkrid repeated, eyes half-closed, fully focused.
“I’ve told you before—you’ve got to be careful with this,” Rem said.
Hearing the word careful from someone often called reckless or outright insane might have seemed strange.
But in this case, careful meant you could die.
Danger, pressure, risk—these were the things Enkrid needed.
Like standing at the edge of a cliff with a fierce wind at your back, bracing against the possibility of falling.
It wasn’t about intentionally dying or attempting suicide. That wasn’t nearly enough pressure.
What he needed was a moment of absolute desperation, one where survival itself was on the line.
“More,” Enkrid said again, his voice unwavering.
Rem frowned deeply.
Was this guy truly insane?
He thought he was the mad one, yet Enkrid seemed even crazier.
“Let’s stop.”
Rem tried to withdraw his hand.
But with a sharp motion, Enkrid grabbed Rem’s wrist.
Enkrid’s left hand pressed against Rem’s chest, while his right hand gripped the wrist that was against his own chest.
“Do it,” Enkrid said again, his gaze low enough that his eyes were hidden from Rem.
Had this man’s mind completely snapped?
“Are you insane?”
Rem’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Was Enkrid seriously asking him to kill him?
There were some things passion and desire couldn’t solve.
Sometimes, stepping back and acknowledging your limits was the only option—
Rem’s thoughts were cut off.
A voice pierced through his logic and emotions, commanding his very being:
“Just do it.”
It wasn’t a plea. It was an order.
If words carried power, Rem felt it now.
No enchantments, no spells, not even the knights' famed Aura of Command.
But deep within his soul, Enkrid was something to him.
Enkrid lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Rem. Their fiery stares collided.
Blue flames clashed with gray.
The intensity of their gaze seemed enough to consume them both.
This wasn’t a battle where victory brought rewards.
At best, it would leave one of them broken—half-dead, if not worse.
So why?
Why did Rem want to comply?
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He couldn’t resist. Something primal, or perhaps something drawn to Enkrid’s sheer will, compelled him.
“Do it.”
Once more, Enkrid spoke.
“Damn it all,” Rem cursed, gripping Enkrid’s heart with mystical force.
It was as if blood itself roared, surging violently through Enkrid’s veins, pressing against his muscles, and igniting his strength.
Thump-thump-thump-thump!
The pounding of his heart resonated through his entire body, empowering his muscles to surpass their limits.
Thump.
The pain was excruciating.
Enkrid felt like he’d been stabbed, pierced, and shot—again and again.
And yet, this pain was something new.
He thought of death—the ferryman of the dark river.
Thump. Thump. Thu-thump.
Enkrid’s eyes snapped open, bloodshot and wild.
“Damn it,” Rem muttered, regret flooding him. Why did I listen to him?
But Enkrid was satisfied. He smiled.
Even a small revelation could serve as a marker on the path he was forging.
Thump.
With one final beat, his heart stopped.
The strain, far beyond his body’s limits, had forced his heart to cease.
That was death.
Darkness began to creep into his vision.
“Stop,” came Jaxon’s voice, cutting through the encroaching void.
“You madman,” Ragna said bitterly.
“Brother, what have you done?”
Rough hands grabbed at him, but it was too late.
Not even divine blessings or sacred elixirs could revive a stopped heart.
Enkrid was dead.
It was a strange experience. In a way, it might even be called suicide.
But for Enkrid, it was the only way forward.
To abandon the Heart of Might would mean settling for mediocrity.
And mediocrity wasn’t an option.
“I would have stagnated.”
But he refused to stagnate. He moved forward.
Even if it was by half a step, even if he had to crawl.
A powerful surge rippled through his body.
And after enduring the waves of agony—
A pulse.
As the darkness faded and Enkrid opened his eyes, he saw the ferryman of the black river.
The ferryman said nothing. Words or laughter could only be heard if the ferryman chose to express his will, and right now, he offered neither.
All Enkrid could perceive was the ferryman’s gaze, filled with curiosity and a faint question:
“What exactly is this one?”
When Enkrid opened his eyes again, it was early morning—the start of yet another day.
Sitting up in his bed, he exhaled deeply and spoke:
“I really think it’s just damn ridiculous, Rem.”
“...I’m awake, you know. I heard all that,” Rem replied from nearby.
“I know.”
“And you’re complaining about how ridiculous something is this early? Did you dream of me naked or something?”
“No, I just think it’s ridiculous.”
The fact that a skill requiring one to gamble their life was the only way to even get close to mastering it—that was absurd.
And yet—
As Enkrid thought about the day he almost died, a day that Rem wouldn’t even remember, a grin spread across his face.
Moments of clarity, when the path forward became visible, always brought him joy.
“Good morning,” he said simply before stepping outside to begin his day.
“...You just said it was ridiculous,” Rem muttered from behind, pouting slightly.
He couldn’t help but think that his platoon leader was far from normal.
And he wasn’t entirely wrong.
Enkrid greeted the new day.
A spring morning—a season often described as imbued with magic.
The world was still in spring, and for now, Enkrid had to embrace it.
Replacing his heart, after all, wouldn’t be an easy task.
“It’s truly a beautiful day,” he said with a light smile.
The sight of a clear milestone made the day feel promising, even pleasant.
From that point onward, Enkrid died countless times.
Of course, there were days when he failed to die and simply pushed his body to the limit.
Intentional deaths—were they the answer? Could he simply move on to the next day after dying?
It seemed that each death became a checkpoint, marking the start of another iteration.
On days he failed to die, exhausted from pushing himself too far, he would fall asleep only to wake up back in the original today.
Was death truly the defining turning point?
He wondered briefly about the mechanics but quickly brushed the thought aside.
What’s the point of thinking about it? On days he couldn’t die, he simply needed to make the most of his efforts.
Even when he spoke with all the sincerity and resolve he could muster, the results often varied.
“Trust me. Just do it,” he’d say.
“This is madness! Do you seriously think this makes any sense? Damn it, I’m losing it,” Rem would respond, visibly conflicted.
On the rare days he succeeded in convincing Rem, he’d see an expression on the man’s face that he’d never seen before—a strange mixture of disbelief, confusion, and a dazed acceptance.
And when the opposite occurred, Rem’s face would harden with resolute refusal.
What was the difference between these two todays?
There didn’t seem to be much.
The sincerity behind his words was the same.
After about sixty-six iterations, Enkrid began to understand.
Beyond sincerity and determination, something else was missing.
“Do it,” he’d command.
For reasons unknown, Rem, of all people, would follow his orders with absolute loyalty.
The curiosity as to why lingered in Enkrid’s mind but was shelved for another time.
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it now.”
“Just do it.”
“Do it already.”
He endured countless versions of today.
And then, one day, something shifted.
By the eightieth iteration, Enkrid no longer needed Rem’s hand to guide him.
From that point on, he practiced and refined the technique on his own, albeit with some frustration.
Eventually, after many attempts, the ferryman of the black river returned in his dreams.
“That was not a wall,” the ferryman said.
Enkrid listened, though he still couldn’t respond.
The ferryman’s voice carried no hint of emotion.
The black river flowed gently beneath the boat, its rippling surface reflecting the void.
Enkrid stood aboard the vessel.
“Go,” the ferryman commanded.
When Enkrid opened his eyes, he found himself back in the waking world.
He didn’t question the ferryman’s words, nor did he try to probe deeper.
If he couldn’t even figure out why Rem followed his orders so diligently, why bother trying to unravel the motivations of a ferryman with a penchant for rowing?
Still, the words “That was not a wall” lingered in his chest.
What was the wall, then?
Perhaps it was the obstacle forcing him to repeat the same day endlessly.
The ferryman’s statement seemed to suggest that what Enkrid was facing wasn’t entirely within his control.
“So what?” Enkrid thought.
Whether the words struck deep or not, he dismissed them.
He had too much to do to dwell on trivialities.
“Good morning, Rem,” he said, rising from his bed.
“Huh? How’d you know I was awake?” Rem asked, groggily.
“Just knew,” Enkrid replied casually.
How wouldn’t he? He’d repeated this hundreds of times.
The start of another new day.
Enkrid activated the Heart of Might.
Thump!
His heart pounded, pumping strength through every muscle in his body. Blood surged wildly through his veins, racing like horses down a well-paved road.
Thump.
But his heart didn’t burst.
“...I’ve got two questions,” Rem said, appearing just behind him.
Enkrid had waited for this, deliberately choosing a moment when Rem would notice.
He needed Rem to see that he had mastered the technique.
“That’s good. Ask.”
“First, are you sure you’re not from the west? And second...”
Rem paused, carefully considering his next words.
“Were you always a genius?”
Enkrid couldn’t help but chuckle.
Hearing such words from Rem was entirely unexpected.
“No, to both,” he replied simply.
Rem’s eyes filled with disbelief.
“But how can you manage that in just one day?”
For Enkrid, it hadn’t been a single day. But to Rem, it seemed as though he had mastered the technique overnight.
With his skin flushed red from the activation of the Heart of Might, Enkrid looked at Rem and offered a grin.
Confusion, awe, disbelief—it was all fine.
“So, how about a spar?” he asked.
“Pfft, fine by me,” Rem replied with a smirk.
Rem wasn’t the type to dwell on things either.
Thunk.
Their sword and axe met with a resounding clash.
Another sparring session began, a moment to measure their progress and strength.