The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound
chapter-371

Chapter 371: Solitary Confinement (1)

Punishment of solitary confinement.

Generally, having a cell to oneself in prison is considered a severe punishment. You might wonder why having another cell that’s alone constitutes punishment, but if the size of the cell is so small that it defies common sense, then it becomes understandable. The typical concept of solitary confinement is a narrow space barely half the size of a room, a perfect sealed chamber with no one to see or talk to. However, the solitary cells in Nouvellebag are far more brutal.

‘…I’ve heard of it.’

Three months in solitary confinement, punishment for refusing labor and confronting a guard.

Now Vikir will directly experience what “solitary row” means, a punishment that is even more severe than execution within Nouvellebag.

Creak… Creak… Clank…

Vikir, covered in blood from being beaten by D’Ordume, was dragged by a guard.

Pulling a cart, the guard spoke in a low voice.

“From now on, you’ll be confined to solitary. You can get out after 100 days.”

Vikir lifted his head, wiped off the blood, and opened his eyes.

Then he saw the familiar face of the guard.

[Garam Nord]

The name on the badge was quite familiar.

“Got into trouble again?”

Vikir asked, and Garam gave a bitter smile.

“No, this time I volunteered.”

“Why?”

“To safely escort you to solitary.”

Garam mentioned that there are ruthless guards who, for their amusement, occasionally kill prisoners who have become nuisances.

So, he volunteered to ensure Vikir wouldn’t suffer any additional harm besides the punishment imposed by the law.

Vikir smirked.

“What does it matter to you whether I live or die?”

“Just… grateful.”

“For what?”

“For not killing me.”

Vikir momentarily closed his mouth at Garam’s words.

It wasn’t necessary to escalate things more than they already were due to the riot he had caused.

So, Vikir had deliberately exerted caution to ensure no deaths occurred, but it seemed Garam misunderstood something.

Just as Vikir was about to speak the truth, Garam continued.

“And… above all, thank you for not harming Kirko.”

‘Kirko?’ Vikir smirked for a moment.

And then, Vikir recalled the face of the brave girl guard he had briefly encountered before his fight with D’Ordume.

‘She showed quite some potential. It would be a waste for her to rot away in a place like this.’

After a brief reminiscence, Vikir glanced around again.

Garam, who was pulling the cart, had slightly reddened ears.

“While other guards all have broken noses, broken teeth, and limbs shattered… Kirko barely had any injuries. So, I’m grateful.”

“Why would you be grateful that the woman wasn’t injured?”

“That, well…”

Garam stammered, trying to come up with an answer but eventually sealed his lips shut.

Seeing this, Vikir thought he understood why Garam was scorned by both fellow guards and prisoners.

‘Too ordinary. In this hellhole, a personality like that can only invite contempt.’

Garam was a typical late teenager.

So naturally, in an extraordinary place like this, he faced disadvantages.

As a result, Garam was ostracized by fellow guards in the dormitory and became a target for abuse by prisoners in the workshop.

He even seemed to be looked down upon by the girl he had a crush on.

‘In many ways, Nouvellebag isn’t suited for him.’

Vikir made his assessment of Garam.

His nature seemed kind, but in Nouvellebag, such traits were of no use.

Then, Garam spoke up.

“…From now on, the journey to solitary begins.”

“…”

“Before that, I’d recommend biting your tongue and ending it. Solitary… is truly dreadful.”

The advice came from the supposedly kind-hearted Garam, sincere in his warning.

But naturally, Vikir disregarded the advice.

“If I’d listened to such advice, I’d have done it back when I was first escorted to Nouvellebag.”

“But, but solitary is different! It’s horrifying beyond comparison to escort, now imagine staying there for 100 days!”

However, Garam couldn’t finish his sentence.

Suddenly, a long shadow began to loom ahead of the cart.

“Ahaha! Oh my, who do we have here? A visitor after so long?”

A woman’s voice echoed within the crimson cave.

The moment Garam heard it, his body stiffened.

“W-well then, this is where I leave you. Best of luck.”

Garam left Vikir with a final remark.

Then, with a vigorous salute towards the opposite direction, he turned and hurried away.

“…”

Vikir lifted his head.

Then, like a spear, a jagged peak emerged. Its appearance reminiscent of Morg clan’s ‘Red Castle’.’

Amidst the backdrop of a picturesque scene, there was a woman walking forward. Tall and slender, with a voluptuous figure exuding vitality, topped off with a vibrant mustache.

Beneath her sunglasses, the woman, with her lush mustache, looked down at Vikir.

At a glance, Vikir guessed her identity.

‘…Major Souaré.’

Known for her mixed heritage of dwarf and elf, she was one of the five majors representing Nouvellebag and was considered a prominent candidate for the next warden alongside Commander D’Ordume.

Despite being a woman with dwarven blood, she grew a beard and had a natural talent for handling minerals.

“Hmm~ Let’s see. You’re the new prisoner who fought with D’Ordume, aren’t you? Quite lively.”

Souaré chuckled as she looked down at Vikir.

Crack-

Souaré stomped on the cart with the heel of her high-heeled boot, crushing it, and grabbed Vikir’s neck with her hand.

“Let’s see… which cell should I put you in?”

Souaré said in a seductive voice, shaking Vikir.

Vikir furrowed his brow.

There wasn’t a single thing around that looked like a cell. What was she going to do?

…But Vikir’s question was soon answered.

“Alright. How about we shape one using asphalt, concrete, and a bit of bismuth powder?”

Before long, Souaré rolled her foot on the ground.

Then something incredible happened.

Squelch-

The ground where Souaré’s foot landed began to melt and ooze, emitting a red glow like lava.

Soon, the liquefied metal-like substance began to transform its appearance according to Souaré’s will.

“I’ll make a cell that fits you perfectly.”

Souaré grinned and stood Vikir upright on the ground, then handed him a large straw.

“This is your airhole. Don’t lose it.”

Before Souaré finished speaking, concrete and asphalt flowed down from above, covering Vikir’s body.

Vikir’s body soon turned into a mixture of concrete and asphalt, swallowed like a caterpillar.

Hot lava streamed down above.

Sizzling-

The cocoon was hardening firmly.

Vikir had to tightly shut his eyes against the rising internal temperature and suffocation.

“…So, this is Nouvellebag’s solitary confinement.”

Even the renowned Night Hound felt the dreadfulness of the solitary confinement. He began to understand why prisoners feared it as much as death itself. Typically, solitary confinement lasted for a day or two, maybe even a week, but Vikir had been sentenced to a staggering 100 days.

“Lock him up in solitary. Let him rot there for 100 days.”

“Yes, sir! If it’s a hundred days in solitary, it’s practically ‘execution.'”

Now, Bastille’s decision to treat Vikir like a dead prisoner made sense.

‘At least I have a straw for breathing. Water and food will come in here, and somehow, I’ll manage to breathe. But being unable to move… it’s a waste of time for an active person like me.’

‘…Maybe I should take this opportunity to rest my body a bit and strengthen my mind.’

Having rushed forward relentlessly for so long, it was important for Vikir to take a moment to pause and reflect. However, the place was undoubtedly unpleasant.

Vikir resolved to avoid confinement in solitary, no matter what happened in the future.

Three months and ten days.

Vikir planned to meditate, train his mind, and consolidate the information from his past experiences to strategize his future actions.

…

If it weren’t for the sudden voice from an unexpected place, that’s what he would’ve done.

“Pssst… Looks like we’ve got a young one this time?”

The voice belonged to a considerably older man.

“It’s good to have a cellmate in your final days. Young man, stay alive for long. That way, you can be my companion.”

The voice, like scraping glass with nails, was quite uncomfortable to listen to.

“Who are you?”

Vikir pushed the hardening concrete with his chin and spoke briefly.

He had to be careful not to let the straw fall out of his mouth.

Silence followed for a while.

As silence slowly solidified like concrete.

“Pssst…”

An unpleasant laughter followed after a considerable pause.

Then, the person trapped in the adjacent cell revealed their identity.

“Just call me ‘Angagoumang’.”