WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS
Translator: Ryuu
Editor: Abstract
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES
Chapter 137: A New Day
In moments of crisis, humans sometimes unleash strength beyond their limits.
The harness and use of such power at will formed the essence of the Heart of the Beast. A name derived from the concept of invoking the raw essence of a beast’s heart.
In Rem’s tribe, this technique was believed to channel the spirits of their gods or some mystical force within the body.
Sure, there might be a shamanistic element to it. But gods? That’s just the kind of nonsense feral dogs would howl about.
“But it’s far from actual sorcery.”
Having experienced and developed the technique himself, Rem had his own theory.
“Making the heart race isn’t due to some external force. It’s an ability the body itself produces.”
The human body was a marvel, and this was one of its mysteries. Once triggered, something activated within, tightening the muscles and unleashing immense power.
This was how the Heart of the Beast manifested. It wasn’t sorcery, nor was it divine intervention.
He remembered when he first realized this.
Amid countless axe blades, at the brink of death, something surged through his body. When it reached his muscles, he gained strength several times beyond his normal capacity.
How had that been possible?
Through exploration and research, he discovered the answer. When blood surged violently throughout the body, the heart beat several times faster than usual.
Yes, a shamanistic catalyst might be involved, but fundamentally, it came down to focus and sensation.
“Focus. Again.”
Deep in thought, Rem gave his instructions aloud. Enkrid stood before him. The two men placed their hands on each other’s chests.
There was an absurd technique a lazy bastard had once taught Rem to improve concentration, and it might just work.
If it didn’t, oh well.
Rem was already half-resigned. After all, even in his tribe, those who mastered this technique were few and far between.
And those who did master it? They were always beyond physically formidable, survivors of countless brushes with death.
“Feels like I just dipped my foot into the river of hell,” they’d say.
In short, mastering the Heart of the Beast required a suitable vessel. Even when activated successfully, the body often couldn’t withstand it.
Could Enkrid handle it?
His vessel wasn’t bad.
Every morning, that hulking religious nut drilled him in brutal physical exercises. Those exercises were effectively a form of body tempering.
If the religious nut hadn’t been doing it, Rem would’ve stepped in to help Enkrid condition himself another way.
But the nut’s methods seemed more efficient, so Rem let it be. Thus, the vessel was adequately prepared.
Even so, he had no intention of forcing the technique on Enkrid. He’d push him to try, but if it didn’t work, he’d abandon the attempt.
“Feel it.”
Enkrid listened to Rem’s words. He always did, taking them in with a calm and attentive demeanor.
But this time, he already had some understanding. It reminded him of when he learned Focus Point from Ragna.
Ragna was a genius. Naturally, he could grasp things easily and quickly. What had Ragna said at the time?
“The fear of death sharpens focus.”
That was only half true.
What was truly needed was a trigger—a worthy adversary to push one’s abilities to their absolute limit.
This time was similar.
No, maybe it’s the opposite of that time.
It was a small realization, leading to an inevitable conclusion.
What exactly was the Heart of the Beast?
When faced with intense pressure or near-death experiences, humans could tap into strength beyond their usual limits.
It was possible.
From this realization came the belief that achieving the Heart of the Beast required experiencing the pressure of imminent death.
Enkrid, through countless battles and his life to date, had accumulated varied experiences.
Layer upon layer, day by day. And from these, he reached his conclusion.
“More.”
Something from Rem’s hand reached Enkrid’s heart, conveying the sensation of what the Heart of the Beast was supposed to feel like—just a faint impression, lightly pressing against his heart.
This was how it had been until now.
Rem had been using shamanistic techniques, almost like passing on the sensation that quickened the heart.
“More.”
Enkrid spoke again, his eyes half-closed, utterly focused.
“How many times do I have to tell you? This is dangerous,” Rem said.
For someone whose recklessness earned him the title “madman,” hearing him talk about caution was almost absurd.
It sounded like he was warning Enkrid he might die.
Danger, crisis, pressure.
These were the very things Enkrid needed.BStanding at the edge of a cliff, bracing himself against a gale-force wind, knowing that one slip could mean death.
He didn’t need self-destructive recklessness but a moment of desperation that forced his utmost effort.
A moment of crisis that made his heart race and his body react.
“More.”
Still half-lidded, Enkrid spoke again. Rem’s brows knitted tightly. Was this man truly insane?
Though Rem had earned the nickname "madman," Enkrid seemed to outmatch him in sheer lunacy.
“Forget it.”
Rem began to withdraw his hand.
Thwack. Enkrid grabbed his wrist.
His left hand rested on Rem’s chest, while his right gripped the hand on his own chest. Enkrid spoke again.
“Do it.”
Because Enkrid’s gaze was angled downward, Rem couldn’t see his eyes.
Had this guy really lost his mind?
“Are you insane?”
Rem’s eyes sharpened. Wasn’t this essentially asking to be killed? There are things passion and willpower alone can’t overcome.
Sometimes, you have to accept your limits and step back. Rem’s thoughts were interrupted. A voice tore through his rationality and feelings alike.
“Just do it.”
It was a command—an order that demanded to be obeyed.
If words carried power, Rem felt it then. No magic, no enchantment, no knightly force.
But something in the depths of Rem’s being responded to Enkrid’s presence.
Enkrid raised his head, their eyes meeting. Flame met flame. Though different in color, both burned fiercely, consuming everything in their path.
Blue fire. Gray fire. They clashed, their intensity threatening to destroy them both. What could anyone possibly gain from winning this contest?
Nothing.
At best, one of them would be left half-dead, and not Rem. Yet, despite this, Rem found himself wanting to comply.
Wanting to obey.
Was it instinct? Or had this platoon leader bewitched him somehow?
“Do it.”
Once more, Enkrid spoke.
“Damn it all.”
Rem swore as he tightened his grip on Enkrid’s heart. Perhaps, in some corner of his mind, he believed in this madness, believed that if Enkrid was asking for it, there was reason behind it.
Rationalizing his actions, Rem gave it his all.
Thump, thump, thump, thump!
The rhythm of a frenzied heartbeat surged, sending blood coursing wildly through Enkrid’s body. The torrent of pressure aligned with his heart, setting his entire system ablaze.
It triggered an overwhelming strength, pushing his muscles beyond their limits.
Thud.
Agonizing pain coursed through Enkrid’s body.
He had been stabbed, pierced by arrows, run through by swords, and yet, this pain was somehow different.
With every death he had experienced, he thought he’d grown numb to suffering.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
It reminded him of death itself, the ferryman on the black river flashed through his mind.
Thump, thump, THUD.
Enkrid’s eyes flew open, bloodshot and wild. Rem stared at him, alarmed.
“Damn it.”
Why did I do this? Why did I listen to this lunatic?
Rem regretted everything. And yet, Enkrid was satisfied. He smiled. Even a small revelation became a signpost guiding him along his path.
Thump.
The final beat echoed through his chest as his heart ceased. Whatever had pushed him beyond his limits had also struck him down.
It stopped his heart—signaling death. The world around him began to darken.
“Enough.”
Jaxon’s voice cut through the descending gloom.
“You madman.”
Ragna’s voice followed, tinged with disbelief.
“What did you do, brother?”
Rem heard heavy hands gripping his wrist, but it was too late. No divine power, no miraculous elixir, could save someone whose heart had stopped, whose body had crossed the threshold of death’s embrace.
Enkrid was dead.
The experience was novel, in a way. One might even call it a form of suicide. In his relentless pursuit of the Heart of the Beast, Enkrid had exhausted every other avenue.
This had seemed like the only option left, today’s desperate gamble.
Couldn’t he have just given up?
If giving up had been an option, Enkrid might have settled into complacency.
But he wasn’t the type to grow complacent. He pushed forward, even if it meant inching along on hands and knees.
His body convulsed with rippling agony. After enduring wave after wave of pain, everything went still.
Splish.
The darkness receded, and when Enkrid opened his eyes, he saw the ferryman on the black river.
The ferryman said nothing. Enkrid knew that unless the ferryman chose to express himself, there would be no laughter or words. At this moment, all he felt was the weight of the ferryman’s gaze.
That gaze seemed to hold a question.
“What kind of person is this man?”
When Enkrid awoke again, it was early morning, the start of another day just like any other.
Sitting up on his bed, he exhaled deeply and spoke.
“What a damned mess, Rem.”
“…You know I’m awake, right? I can hear everything.”
“I know.”
“So, why the hell are you cursing me out first thing in the morning? Did I show up naked in your dreams or something?”
“No, I just think you’re a damned mess.”
A technique that required wagering one’s life to even attempt it. Was there anything more absurd?
And yet.
The day before, right before he had died, Rem couldn’t recall a thing—but Enkrid had smiled. He was satisfied.
The moment he glimpsed his path, he felt nothing but exhilaration.
“Good morning.”
Throwing out those words, Enkrid rose and stepped outside to begin his day.
“…You called me a damned mess, didn’t you?”
Behind him, Rem pouted, muttering under his breath. He figured his platoon leader wasn’t all there.
He wasn’t wrong.
Enkrid welcomed a new day.
A sprinf day, in what some called a season imbued with magic. The world was still in the midst of spring, and for now, Enkrid would savor it.
After all, remaking one’s heart wouldn’t be an easy task.
“It’s a truly fine day.”
A day when the path ahead became clear. He couldn’t complain. From then on, Enkrid died many more times.
But there were also days when he couldn’t die—days when he pushed his body to the brink without crossing over.
Intentional death.
Would he just skip to the next day after that? Such thoughts crossed his mind.
Yet, it seemed the first death served as a reference point, a reset for everything that followed.
His curiosity about this phenomenon was second only to the frustration of convincing Rem. On the days he couldn’t die, he pushed his body through grueling efforts, ending each one in exhaustion.
Whenever he woke up, the day would reset, reverting to its original state.
Could his death be the pivotal moment? The point of divergence?
He didn’t know why or how it worked. But pondering over it was pointless. All he could do was carry on, grinding through today.
On days when he failed to die, there was no avoiding it. He had no choice but to endure.
Even when he poured his heart into convincing Rem, the results often varied.
“Just trust me. Do it.”
“No, goddamn it! Do you think this makes sense? Are you insane?”
The days he succeeded in persuading Rem, he witnessed an expression he’d never seen before—a mix of shock, confusion, disbelief, and strange exhilaration.
“No, I’m telling you, it’s impossible.”
On the days he failed, he saw nothing but firm resolve in Rem’s expression. What was the difference between those two days?
There didn’t seem to be any significant distinction.
He spoke with the same sincerity each time.
But there was one key factor. By the sixty-sixth repeat, he thought he’d figured it out.
Beyond sincerity and passion, what he lacked was authority.
“Do it.”
He had to command it. Why? Why did someone like Rem, of all people, follow his orders so thoroughly?
The curiosity lingered, but he set it aside. In time, he figured, the answer would reveal itself.
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
“Do it.”
And so, today repeated. Again and again, today.
“Do it.”
The endless string of commands persisted through countless repetitions of the same day.
Then, at some point, he no longer needed Rem’s touch. By the time he surpassed eighty attempts, things began to change.
After that, it started to feel as though he were raging against himself, alone.
Even without Rem’s direct intervention, he had internalized the sensation. He could now grasp the feeling independently.
Through this endless repetition, through countless attempts, he finally achieved it. And one day, the ferryman of the black river appeared in his dream again.
“That wasn’t a wall.”
The ferryman spoke, and Enkrid listened. He still couldn’t respond.
The ferryman’s voice held no trace of emotion.
The black river, its gentle waves, the small boat, the silent ferryman—all of it was unchanged.
Enkrid found himself aboard the boat once more.
“Go.”
At the ferryman’s command, Enkrid opened his eyes.
He didn’t question the words, didn’t let curiosity cloud his thoughts.
Even when he saw Rem comply with his orders, he hadn’t sought an explanation.
Why bother trying to unravel the ferryman’s cryptic words? The ferryman seemed to row for sport, after all.
But the words lingered.
That wasn’t a wall. What did the ferryman mean by "wall"?
Enkrid interpreted it as the barrier that had locked him into this cycle of repeating days.
Perhaps the ferryman’s words implied that his struggle was unrelated to his will.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
But it didn’t really matter to Enkrid. Whether the words left a deep impression or barely grazed him, he cast them aside.
There was too much to do. Dwelling on trivialities was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
“Good morning, Rem.”
Enkrid greeted him, rising to begin yet another day.
“Huh? How’d you know I was awake?”
“I just did.”
How? Repeating the same day hundreds of times would teach anyone a thing or two.
It was the beginning of another new day. This time, Enkrid activated the Heart of the Beast.
Thump!
His heart pounded, invigorating his muscles with strength. Blood coursed through his veins like a wild storm. His circulatory system became a well-oiled highway, carrying energy throughout his body.
Thump.
But this time, his heart didn’t fail.
“…I have two questions.”
Right after, Rem spoke up. He had come outside, no doubt because Enkrid had intentionally timed this demonstration to coincide with his appearance.
Enkrid needed to show him.
To prove that he had mastered the technique.
“To start with, are you sure you’re not from the western regions? And secondly…”
Rem hesitated, carefully choosing his words before continuing.
“Were you secretly a genius this whole time?”
Enkrid chuckled softly.
He hadn’t expected that.
“Neither.”
His straightforward response left Rem staring in disbelief.
“But how the hell did you manage that in just one day?”
For Enkrid, it hadn’t been a single day. But to Rem, it seemed as if he had mastered an impossibly difficult technique overnight.
With his skin still flushed red from activating the Heart of the Beast, Enkrid answered while setting the energy aside.
“You can ponder, be amazed, or get confused all you like, but…”
He grinned.
“How about a spar?”
Right now, he was in the mood to put his body to work.
“Ah, hell, why not,” Rem replied with a grin of his own. He wasn’t the type to dwell on things either.
Thud.
Sword met axe as they exchanged their first blows.
And so, another spar began—a moment to gauge progress, to measure growth.
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