Heart
Shouts of battle shook the sky as two armies clashed in brutal combat.
Amidst the chaos, one soldier stood out. His skills were raw, unpolished, yet his courage and ferocity made him shine like a crane among chickens compared to the panicked ranks around him.
His bravery did not go unnoticed. After meritorious service, he was promoted to squad leader, then again after another battle, his valor earning him further recognition.
But even as his rank rose, he felt the weight of inadequacy pressing against his shoulders. He trained relentlessly in his spare moments, strengthening both body and mind. His life became an endless cycle of battle and training.
That effort bore fruit. He climbed rank upon rank until he became a General.
And then, as he always had, he died—on the battlefield, amidst blood and steel.
The vision shifted. Again a battlefield, though the weapons, armor, and banners were different. Again, one soldier stood apart.
But this one's luck failed him early. He fell quickly, sacrificing himself to shield a comrade.
The scene shifted once more.
Now, a young general in silver robes commanded from the rear. Though not wielding a sword or spear, his sharp insight into warfare earned him praise. He was no spoiled noble seeking glory, but a strategist whose plans turned the tide.
Still, his heart yearned for the frontlines. He wanted to clash blades, not sit behind maps.
At last, a crisis struck, and reinforcements were needed. He volunteered eagerly. Granted his wish, he led three hundred carefully chosen elites. Years of training paid off—the enemy was repelled, victory secured.
His troops swelled with each triumph—five hundred, then a thousand. Eventually, he commanded two thousand men.
But power breeds enemies. His accomplishments provoked rivals and drew hatred from foes. Through treachery and collusion, he and his soldiers were surrounded. None survived.
Again and again, the visions unfolded: warriors, generals, heroes. Few met peaceful ends. Death claimed them all, whether by blade, betrayal, or fate.
Finally, the image focused on one man—a king of Wallachia. His subordinates called him Vlad III. For years, he defended his homeland with ruthless methods, impaling enemies as warnings. But his cruelty offended nobles and foreign powers alike. Betrayed, he was assassinated by his own men.
The vision lingered on his corpse—and the forest of twenty thousand bodies impaled like grotesque banners.
"Ah!"
Shirō jolted awake, gasping, drenched in cold sweat.
The crash of his sudden movement carried downstairs, and his teammates rushed up.
"Shirō, what happened?!" Taichi burst in, eyes wide with worry.
Toyota frowned, flustered. "He was stable during the examination… what's going on now?"
"Didn't you say he was fine?" Taichi demanded.
Toyota grimaced. "I… I'm not sure. My Medical Ninjutsu isn't advanced enough for something like this." He clenched his fists. "I can treat wounds, stabilize injuries, but this—this is beyond me. My Perception techniques already push me to my limit."
Shirō steadied his breathing, forcing the tremors from his hands. His chaotic thoughts slowly settled.
"I'm fine," he rasped, shaking his head. "Don't blame Toyota. This isn't his fault. It's a side effect of the Secret Skill… bigger than I expected. Haha… really, it's not his fault. By the way, how did the mission go?"
"We completed it," Taichi replied, but his eyes stayed fixed on Shirō with concern. "But what about you?"
"I'll live. Just exhausted. Tell me—how long was I out?"
"Three days," Shikamaru answered. "Don't worry, Nakamura-sensei already sent the mission report back to the village."
"Good… that's good." Shirō let out a long breath. "Then we should leave soon. We've already made enemies of the Hidden Hot Water Village. Staying longer will only cause problems."
"Our plan was to move once you were better," Taichi said.
"No," Shirō interrupted, voice firm. "This isn't an injury—it's mental. It won't heal quickly. The longer we delay, the more risk there is."
Shikamaru nodded. "It's noon. We'll depart tonight. We've prepared supplies already. But… are you sure your body can handle it?"
"No problem. I can still use Summoning Jutsu if necessary. I'll manage."
"Then rest for now," Shikamaru ordered. "The rest of us will prepare quietly. We will move tonight."
"Yes, Captain."
They filed out, leaving Shirō alone in the dim room.
He lay back against the bedding, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I really asked for trouble this time… and now I've paid the price."
If not for the System's protection, those visions would have shattered his mind. Reliving the countless deaths of Heroic Spirits was more than enough to break him.
Not everyone could endure that. He wasn't Subaru Natsuki, with the stubbornness to withstand endless cycles of death and rebirth. Subaru had Emilia's support. Shirō only had his teammates—brothers in arms, not a guiding light.
Even so, the System had saved him.
But the warning was clear: unless he strengthened his mental discipline, he'd never wield Broken Phantasms safely.
Luckily, he had the Meditation Method.
Mental cultivation could follow two paths. One was sheer resilience—unyielding will, the kind of iron mindset forged by great generals. The other was composure—tranquil, steady, unmoved even if Mount Tai itself collapsed before one's eyes.
Shirō knew himself well. He didn't possess the unbreakable will of a conqueror; he had been a loser in his past life, after all. That path wasn't for him.
But the second path—cultivating calm through meditation—was within reach. With the aid of the Meditation Method, he could advance quickly.
And if any Heroic Spirit understood that… It was Zhuge Liang, Kongming himself.