The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound
chapter-453

Chapter 453: Declaration of War (4)

…Crunch!

A battlefield shrouded in thick smoke.

The Night Hound coldly observed the prey he had just killed.

Except for its broken neck, it appeared human. However, its blood-red eyes and spotted skin indicated otherwise. It was a Poison Human—a mindless, vicious creature that attacks humans on sight.

Poison Humans are monsters that lose their intelligence and become ferociously hostile, attacking any human they see. Prolonged exposure to their bite or the red energy emanating from their skin can also turn normal humans into Poison Humans. They are similar to lower-level undead zombies but are significantly more dangerous due to their physical capabilities and the potency of their toxins.

‘This one’s far more dangerous than him,’ Vikir mused, recalling “Sakkuth de Reviadon,” a fellow prisoner from his time in Nouvellebag.

Once notorious as the black sheep of the Reviadon Clan, Sakkuth had taken the fall for the “First Red Death Incident” and was permanently expelled from his Clan.

However, Sakkuth, whom Vikir had met in Nouvellebag, was strong and fierce yet retained some sanity and did not spread disease.

Until he was devoured by Flubber, no one had been infected. In contrast, these Poison Humans were not only strong and vicious but also seemed to follow specific commands and spread an enhanced version of the “Red Death,” making them far more dangerous.

‘It’s puzzling how they managed to create so many of these Poison Humans. There should be a limit to the amount of toxin they can produce,’ Vikir pondered.

These Poison Humans had appeared before his regression. Yet, even then, the method by which the Reviadon Clan mass-produced them remained a mystery.

“Having Dolores with us is a great relief,” he thought. Even if bitten or exposed to the toxins for a long time, receiving the priest’s blessing at the right moment could prevent infection. Moreover, as long as the saintess emitted divine power, the Red Death couldn’t penetrate her space, which was fortunate. Vikir was grateful for recruiting Dolores early and aiding in her skill improvement.

…Thud! …Thud! …Thud! …Thud! …Thud!

After confirming the kills of the Poison Humans covering the ground, Vikir turned away.

The ground, littered with their bodies, bore deep craters marked by vicious claw marks. These marks were from eight distinct fangs.

Vikir reflected, ‘Since Nouvellebag, my mastery of the Eight style has improved significantly.’

Despite thinking he had perfected the 8th Style, Vikir realized there was still room for growth. With renewed humility, he reassessed his swordsmanship.

“The 9th Style’s barrier is insurmountable in life,” he remembered Cane Corso’s words.

“You will not reach the 9th Style in your lifetime. The realm of the 9th Style lies beyond the threshold of death.”

“And to achieve the tenth form, you must die and be reborn. I never understood this and remained in the 9th Style. How can one be reborn after death? Perhaps I will never reach the tenth form.”

The 9th Style is like something that can be seen but never touched, something that undeniably exists yet remains out of reach.

“Can one truly only cross the threshold of death?”

Even in the highest realms like SwordMaster, there are levels of distinction. Within these deeper layers, there certainly exists something known as the “Ultimate Essence.”

Vikir had been contemplating this very mystery ever since he was imprisoned in Nouvellebag.

Just then…

[Aaaagh-]

A piercing scream interrupted Vikir’s thoughts. Emerging from a pile of corpses was a young girl, no older than ten, with a face that looked painfully innocent.

Nearby, a Poison Human covered in red spots was exhaling a plague mist from its entire body.

“……”

Vikir watched the girl, who charged at him with teeth and nails bared, and remained silent for a moment. She had a face that reminded him of someone from his memories.

‘Nymphet.’ Vikir remembered a small connection from long ago when he volunteered at an orphanage. He reached out and grasped the girl’s neck.

…Snap!

Her limbs, which had thrashed wildly like those of a demon, went limp. The girl, who had been tormented even in death, finally found peace.

Thus, Vikir continued moving across battlefields, eliminating numerous Poison Humans. The girl from a moment ago was his last target for this assassination mission.

Vikir nodded as he looked at the tracks, half-destroyed carriages, and broken water bottles near the Poison Humans.

“As expected, they were targeting the supply route to the stronghold.”

Poison Humans were stationed along the routes taken by water-carrying carriages.

It seemed the Reviadon Clan had begun to put serious pressure on this stronghold.

Recently, the fact that Poison Humans had been disappearing from various civil war zones indicated something suspicious.

“A full-scale war might be imminent.”

The battle to take place at the stronghold might seem small compared to the massive wars across the vast empire. However, while this may be the general perception, the demons were likely realizing that this stronghold was becoming a gathering place for dangerous elements.

A remote borderland that no one cared about or supported. But who could guess that the final battle, determining humanity’s fate, would start here?

Vikir closed his eyes and recalled events before his regression.

The Reviadon Clan had once surrounded the stronghold with an army of countless Poison Humans. They claimed it was their duty and right to manage the territory, as the Clan previously in charge had lost their ability to do so.

What followed was a territorial war. Though called a territorial war, it was on a scale that resembled a war between nations.

In the early stages, the allied forces clearly had the upper hand. This was because the Baskerville swordsmen and Morg’s wizards, leading the charge, had crushed the Poison Humans with overwhelming might.

The seven Knight Orders of the Baskerville Clan, who had devoted their lives solely to combat, along with the seven counts, and the old and experienced warriors of the Elder Council, whom everyone thought were just old men, had joined the fray. The Poison Humans fell like candles in the wind before their ferocity.

When the main forces of Morg’s Light wizards joined hands with the hidden strength of the dark wizards, the synergy was immense. Even the Reviadon Clan, who had completely absorbed the Donquixote and Usher families, seemed to falter under their relentless assault.

Victory was tilting in their favor.

“…And then it happened.”

The Storm of Dreadful Calamity: The Monsoon of fire.

A torrent of fire that poured down without stopping for 150 days, a great flood of flames that wiped out 98% of humanity. This long rainy season of catastrophe was the demons’ ultimate weapon, causing the greatest and most horrific damage to the human alliance.

As Vikir recalled the day when countless charred bodies stretched across the blackened horizon and the sky burned in fiery red, sweat formed on his forehead.

…Boom!

The distant sky was darkening. There were ominous red-tinged clouds, and even the thunder and lightning felt somber.

This was the place where the Reviadon Clan’s main house was located, under those sinister storm clouds.

“……”

Vikir circled around the perimeter of the Reviadon Clan’s main house but could not find a way to penetrate the tight security, so he had to turn back. He had tried to uncover the secret of how they mass-produced so many Poison Humans, but ultimately failed.

“At least I discovered that Poison Humans are converging in one place.”

He needed to return to the base and prepare for the upcoming major assault. While Dolores’s presence alleviated some concern about the Red Death itself, the issue was the sheer number of combat forces.

He had no choice but to trust in the defensive capabilities of the stronghold, where one soldier could fend off a hundred.

Outside the sturdy fortress walls of the stronghold, the malevolent spirits of the Red Death would be performing their mad masquerade. The land was now a breeding ground for plague, creating a stark contrast between the world inside and outside the fortress.

Everyone must now stay inside, centered around Saint Dolores, and never venture out.

Vikir planned to return to the stronghold after this stealth mission, shut the gates tightly, and prepare for a siege.

“……”

Before moving, Vikir looked down at the cold, lifeless body of the girl who had just stopped moving for a long time.

How many more innocent lives would be lost?

In an age of destruction, counting the dead would become quicker than counting the survivors. Far more innocent, clueless, and blameless people would die.

No, rather, the vast majority of moderately self-interested, moderately evil, moderately good, and moderately hard working common folk would perish.

Whoosh—

Vikir tossed a lit match onto the bodies of the girl and the Poison Humans.

Soon, a pungent smell spread as the small flame, born from a land scarred by drought and famine, grew with fierce rage, as if it would burn the whole world.

Confirming the bodies of many Poison Humans were burning, Vikir finally turned away completely.

The Night Hound was returning to prepare for war.

To the natural fortress specialized in defense and siege.

To Tochka, where his comrades are waiting.

And to the place that will become the final battlefield.