The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound
chapter-425

Chapter 425: The Night Walkers (1)

Tochka.

A fortress located on the high plateau of the Rokpos Mountains in the northern continent.

The high and solidly built walls, deep moat, and surrounding layers of sheer cliffs made this fortress a natural stronghold.

However.

This fortress now lay abandoned and ownerless.

The reason being, this impregnable fortress Tochka was also known by another name: “The Fortress of Weeping Execution.”

This name meant “crying while beheading,” It originated from an old story during the Warring States era. A young and capable general held a siege here but was eventually defeated by enemy forces.

This once-promising general believed solely in his skills and tactics, defending Tochka, but the outcome was a devastating defeat.

Despite Tochka’s reputation for impenetrable defenses, it had one critical flaw: its location on a rocky highland in the northern mountainous region meant there was no water source nearby.

The general, suffering from thirst and unable to find water, opened the gates and fled, leading to the downfall of his country.

As a result, the king had no choice but to execute the general he had cherished, giving the fortress its grim nickname “The Fortress of Weeping Execution,” as the king wept while wielding the sword.

In this harsh environment, almost devoid of water, and haunted by a tragic legend, the grand and solid fortress gradually fell into obscurity over time.

However.

Some used this abandoned fortress as their base of operations.

The Night Walkers.

The once desolate highland fortress Tochka was now bustling with activity and filled with people.

Construction and repair work was happening everywhere.

Walls and watchtowers were being raised high, and holes in the walls were being patched.

Numerous goats pulled carts loaded with food and water.

Refugees from all over the continent, displaced by famine, drought, wildfires, and monster attacks, gathered under makeshift tents.

These refugees had followed the Night Walkers to this “Ark.”

The sick received treatment, and the hungry were given food.

Though not abundant, it was enough to ensure that their children no longer had to clutch their empty stomachs in hunger.

The refugees settled here looked weary and worn, but there was a glimmer of hope in their eyes.

They had left behind those who did not believe, enduring ridicule, scorn, and contempt, to embark on this long journey in pursuit of a fragile hope, and the outcome was positive.

At least here, they could receive blessings from priests and be provided with food and water.

Compared to their old homes, where they had to worry daily about food shortages, bandits, or monster attacks, this place was a paradise.

Meanwhile.

In the tents where the injured and sick lay, dozens of priests were busily moving about.

One priestess was seen treating a refugee who had been severely injured by a falling rock while helping to repair the fortress walls.

She took a deep breath and murmured to herself.

“Calm down, Lolita. This is just a simple healing sacrament. There’s nothing to be afraid of. So don’t be nervous.”

“Sister, my name is not Lolita… I’m Andrew…”

“I know. Lolita is my name.”

“…?”

An inexperienced young nun, with trembling hands, prayed for divine blessing.

Swoosh—

A gentle hand reached out from behind to hold hers.

“To the lamb suffering in pain before your eyes, our Lord Rune will gladly extend His hand.”

Startled by the experienced and compassionate voice, Sister Lolita turned her head.

Standing there with a warm smile was Dolores, the “Saint of the Night,” leader of the Night Walkers.

‘…So dazzling!’

Overwhelmed by Dolores’ solemn, compassionate, devout, and beautiful presence, the novice nun Lolita stammered nervously.

Dolores’s expression suddenly turned mischievous.

In a whisper only Lolita could hear, she said, “Don’t worry about it. Use as much divine power as you need. Our Lord will replenish it all. In moments of crisis like this, the interest is low.”

Hearing this mischievous tone, Lolita widened her eyes.

“Even you can say such things, Saint?”

“Of course.”

Dolores raised her fists in encouragement, bringing a bright smile to Sister Lolita’s face.

With newfound courage, Lolita began to pray, and she managed to heal the patient wonderfully.

Dolores smiled contentedly, watching the young nuns who had followed her from Quovadis grow into capable nuns.

Indeed, the flower of faith blooms most beautifully on the fiercest front lines.

At that moment, a voice called out to Dolores.

“Saint of the Night! It’s been a while!”

A man stood below the highland, beyond the grazing goats.

Tall, with a handsome, rugged face, clad in black armor and golden hair blowing in the wind, he embodied the ideal image of a wandering knight.

Though he looked like a picture-perfect knight, his missing left arm was a stark reminder of harsh reality.

“Knight of the Night!”

Dolores smiled at her comrade in the distance.

Tudor had returned.

As seniors and juniors from the Colosseo Academy, they had remained close within the Night Walkers.

“I brought many new people.”

“We’ve graduated, so just speak informally.”

“Once a senior, always a senior.”

Both Dolores and Tudor had graduated early from the academy.

Though their time together in school was short, Dolores vividly remembered Tudor’s student days.

After Vikir was imprisoned in Nouvellebag, Tudor had noticeably become more reserved.

The once cheerful, charismatic, and romantic Tudor turned into a quiet, diligent student focused solely on training and study.

After enduring terrible events within his family, Tudor had become who he was today.

Among the academy alumni—such as Sancho, the “Warrior of the Night”; Figgy, the “Gatekeeper of the Night”; and Bianca, the “Sniper of the Night”—Tudor’s cheerful smile hinted at unimaginable sorrow and grief.

‘Perhaps, if I hadn’t met Lord Vikir early on, I might have ended up like Tudor.’

Dolores deeply empathized with Tudor’s pain and sorrow, while also feeling immense gratitude towards Vikir.

If Quilt and Humbert had survived, the civil war would have been far more chaotic.

‘No, the civil war might not have even happened.’

Seth Le Baskerville, also known as Andromalius, hidden within the Iron-Blooded Sword Clan Baskerville.

Sere, hidden within the Morg, the Magical Clan.

Bartolomeo, or rather Belial, hidden within the wealthy Bourgeois family.

Had these individuals taken control of their respective families and participated in the civil war, the human world would have turned into a horrific hell by now.

Dolores felt a profound and tender reverence for the weight and the thorny path that Vikir had borne all this time.

‘In times like these, we must uphold his will more resolutely.’

Before helping him escape from Nouvellebag, this was the priority. Making a rash move might hinder Vikir instead, so they must first complete the tasks assigned to them.

At that moment.

“Hey, Knight of the Night!”

Two more men appeared from beyond the carts filled with water supplies.

It was Sancho and Figgy.

“It’s been a while, guys!”

Tudor, Sancho, and Figgy embraced each other, celebrating their reunion after several months.

The Night Walkers traveled across the continent, spreading the myth of the “Ark” to refugees and bringing them to Tochka.

‘Only here will the fire and water avoid; only here will true salvation be achieved.’

All of this was according to the message left by the “Hound of the Night.” aka Night Hound.

Sancho, standing next to Tudor, looked around the now bustling Tochka fortress and said, “This place has become quite lively. It used to be so eerie, like a ghost town when we first made it our base.”

“Yeah, it was a harsh and barren place, but it’s a relief that everyone followed us so well.”

Figgy nodded in agreement.

However, Tudor, Sancho, and Figgy, who had led the refugees here, were still uncertain about the fundamental question.

“But why did Vikir tell us to gather people here?”

This was a mystery even Dolores, the leader of the Night Walkers, hadn’t yet solved.

But given the urgent circumstances, they couldn’t afford to ask Vikir for many explanations.

Also, Vikir was known never to speak in vain.

“There must be a reason. We’ve never regretted following Vikir’s advice.”

“Yeah. There’s a reason why he told us to gather as many people as possible in this desolate and remote fortress.”

“Exactly. So let’s keep pushing forward! Until we find a way to rescue Vikir, this is all we can do!”

Tudor, Sancho, and Figgy once again steeled their resolve with determined expressions.

Dolores watched her comrades with a gaze full of trust.

At that moment.

“Hey, guys. I need you to gather. We have something to discuss.”

The curtain of the tent in the distance parted, and a person stepped out.

“……!”

“……!”

“……!”

“……!”

Dolores, Tudor, Sancho, and Figgy all turned their heads simultaneously.

She was the “Financier of the Night,” the sponsor funding the Night Walkers.

Known to a select few as the “wealthy friend.”

A tycoon who had transformed Tochka, once a mere abandoned fortress on the frontier, into an impregnable stronghold, simultaneously stockpiling enough food and water to sustain countless refugees.

A financial prodigy whose mobilized funds rivaled that of the bourgeois clan, a rising star in the financial world.

And an advisor to the investment club “Oracle” at Colosseo Academy.

‘Cindiwendy.’

Or, as she was now known, ‘Countess Cindewendy Baskerville,’ stood looking down at them.

“……This is an emergency.”

She wore a rare, serious expression.