The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound
chapter-479

Chapter 479: The Naval Battle (1)

Whoossshhhhh—

The rain poured down in torrents.

The world, transformed into a sea, continued to grow more turbulent.

The people gathered in the bunker began to show signs of unease.

"Are we going to starve to death here?"

"What? We have a ton of food stockpiled. There's still plenty, isn't there?"

"Yeah, but what if this flood doesn't stop?"

"It'll only last for 150 days. There's enough food and even more water, so we're fine."

"But the outside world is already an ocean. And honestly, how can we be sure the flood will stop exactly after 150 days?"

"They say the eldest son of the Donquixote clan has gone to bring the fleet. That's why everyone is waiting."

The rumors among the refugees weren't baseless.

The highland bunker was both the safest fortress in the world and, at the same time, as isolated as a deserted island.

Perhaps that's why today, once again, Vikir was staring endlessly out at the distant sea.

Splash!

Waves crashed against the sturdy walls of the highlands, high enough to reach even the fortress.

The foam, blooming white as the water broke, resembled a field of flowers.

"......"

Vikir sat atop the fortress wall, letting the pouring rain soak him.

It was as though his body was being pounded by the cold rain, much like how hot iron is quenched in water.

At that moment—

"You're getting drenched again today, huh? So pitiful."

A voice called out from behind him.

It was Camus.

She too, walked over and sat beside Vikir, also getting drenched in the rain.

"It's really coming down hard," she remarked, watching the water cascade down the wall like a waterfall.

"If the demons hadn't turned the world into a fiery hell, this flood would have been a disaster in its own right. Two calamities offset each other, reducing the damage. This, too, went just as you calculated back in Nouvellebag, right? Before the volcano erupted."

"Mostly."

Vikir quietly nodded.

The calculations hadn't been perfect, but they were close enough.

Had the margin of error been any wider, it would have been disastrous.

"......"

"......"

Vikir and Camus stared in the same direction, saying nothing for a while.

In the end, it was Camus who broke the silence.

"......I'm sorry about your father."

At those words, Vikir, who had been standing completely still, finally showed a reaction.

Though it was barely noticeable, his shoulders trembled slightly.

The memory of that day still rang clearly in his ears.

".....Why did it have to come to this?"

"I don't know either."

His memory crumbled like white ash.

Hugo, who had died a heroic death, was a legend to everyone in the stronghold that day.

But to Vikir, Hugo was someone he had complicated feelings about.

"......He."

After a long silence, Vikir spoke.

"I don't understand how he crossed the threshold of the 9th Style."

The outcome was vastly different from his previous life.

Camus hesitated at Vikir's words.

"Actually…"

"?"

"A long time ago, he came to me."

What Camus said was surprising to Vikir.

"It was shortly after your trial. He wanted to discuss how to free you from prison. Oh, and it seems like he teamed up with Sadi, back then as well."

The fact that Sadi and Hugo had joined forces was a surprise to Vikir.

Hugo seemed to have prepared far more for Vikir than expected.

From tracking down Sadi, who had vanished with Cindiwendy, to ensuring Aiyen avoided execution and reached Nouvellebag, even the false identity that allowed Sadi to pass through its gates—all of this was made possible through unseen, hidden hands of assistance.

Vikir recalled the image of Hugo that he had seen during the trial.

“The claim of the Baskerville Clan is as follows: Although the charges of treason, parricide, and poisoning of the Clan head are serious and heinous, the defendant is still of Baskerville blood and thus deserves to be treated as a noble. Therefore, we request leniency in the sentencing, considering this point.”

Hugo, sitting in a wheelchair with his back turned, did not object to this.

“......”

Vikir remained silent.

Camus continued her story.

“When we were discussing ways to help you escape, the topic of the 'Ghost Tree' came up. Inevitably, we had to mention the Sword Tomb.”

Camus raised her hand.

Ssssss...

The long, bare branches of the Ghost tree swayed delicately.

“I was surprised too, the Ghost tree responded to Hugo. It seemed he was able to read ‘some memory’ from it.”

Vikir nodded quietly at her words, as certain things clicked into place for him.

[Even after stepping into the Realm of Masters, only those who continue to run tirelessly, with the same spirit as when they first held a sword, can attain something.]

[This realm defies common human understanding, empathy, reason, logic, and causality. Only those who have experienced death can ever set foot here.]

[You likely won’t reach this realm while you're alive.]

[The domain of the Ninth Style lies beyond the threshold of death.]

[A true Baskerville will come here at the end of their life.]

[We’ll meet again someday.]

What Hugo had likely seen was the form of Cane Corso.

‘What had Hugo feel?’

Vikir pondered again.

The Sixth Form, a state reached only by transcending all emotions.

The Seventh Form, a state reached by reclaiming abandoned emotions.

The Eighth Form, a state reached by surviving countless battles as bloody and brutal as the very first time one held a sword.

And the Ninth Form, a state beyond the realm of death, a space that can only be accessed by those who have experienced death itself—an unfathomable domain.

“......”

What was going through Hugo's mind as he crossed that threshold?

Standing at the edge between life and death, Vikir thought and thought again.

At that moment—

Pat

Camus placed a hand on Vikir’s shoulder.

“Stop trying to bear everything alone. You’ve come this far. Maybe think about the people who care for you.”

“......She’s right.”

Another voice agreed with Camus’ words.

Dolores had quietly appeared at the foot of the fortress wall. She held an umbrella over Vikir and spoke softly.

“Everyone here follows you, Vikir. No matter where you go, we’re ready to follow.”

“......That’s true, but don’t I get an umbrella too?”

“It’s for two people.”

Ignoring Camus’ grumbling, Dolores continued speaking to Vikir.

“Don’t worry about Tudor. He’s strong. He’ll definitely return with the fleet.”

At her words, Vikir turned his gaze back toward the sea.

Watching the fierce storm and the towering waves, it seemed impossible that even the strongest fleet could set sail in such conditions.

Though they had gained the upper hand, time was of the essence, and the situation felt increasingly frustrating and bleak.

“You should go back inside. It wouldn’t do for you to fall ill,” Aiyen, who had appeared out of nowhere, said to Vikir.

Her superhuman eyesight could scan several kilometers ahead, surpassing even Vikir’s vision. If Tudor’s fleet were on its way, she would be the first to spot it.

“What’s this? Barbarian? Why are you hanging around someone else’s man?”

“Barbarian? You want me to strip you bare again?”

“Oh—brings back memories, doesn’t it? You think you can still pull that off?”

As always, Camus Morg and Aiyen of Ballak didn’t get along then—and they certainly didn’t now.

At that moment—

"Stop fighting already. Big brother’s already stressed enough."

Sinclaire appeared after finishing repairs on the fortress wall.

Camus and Aiyen narrowed their eyes at her, but Sinclaire casually ignored them. She placed a warm cup of tea in front of Vikir and said softly, “The next battle will be the final one. Why don’t you calm yourself with a cup of tea?”

“…So, we’re heading to the Imperial City. I’ve only read about it in books.”

Next to her stood Kirko, who was in charge of security. She looked at Vikir and asked, “So does this mean everyone living in the lowlands has perished now that the surface is in such a state?”

Sinclaire answered on behalf of Vikir, “We did everything we could to bring as many people to the fortress as possible. And for those who couldn’t make it here, they’ve already been evacuated to other highlands. We did our best.”

It seemed like they had been discussing this since a long time.

Just then—

“Huh!?”

Aiyen, who had been sitting close to Vikir, suddenly jumped up. Her sharp eyesight had picked up something beyond the dark stormy waters.

She shouted loudly, “It’s here! The fleet is here!”

Sure enough, a massive ship began to appear, cutting through the towering waves and fierce storm.

The enormous, heavy ships pressed forward toward the highland fortress, undeterred by the rough seas. There were so many ships; their sheer numbers were awe-inspiring.

Dolores, with a look of joy, also shouted, “It’s Tudor! Tudor has returned!”

As she said, the lead ship bore the flag of Donquixote, a symbol of the Solar Spear Clan. Even from afar, it was clear the ship was carrying a large number of people.

“It’s true! The fortress hasn’t been submerged!”

“If we reach there, will there really be food?”

“Salvation is real! There is still dry land!”

“We should’ve trusted the Night Walkers when they warned us! If only we had listened earlier…”

Countless refugees were aboard the massive fleet of ships.

And at the helm of the lead ship, two familiar figures stood—Tudor and Bianca.

“Vikir! I’m sorry we’re late! I’m ashamed!”

“This fool insisted on rescuing everyone stranded in the highlands, which delayed us!”

Even in such a moment of triumph, the two continued to bicker.

Camus, Aiyen, Dolores, Sinclaire, and Kirko all looked on with concern at the numerous refugees now approaching the fortress.

“If we take them all in, won’t our food supply diminish?”

“Hm, there could be new security issues as well.”

“It’s fine. We’ve been told we have enough food, and with the Nouvellebag team joining us, security should be manageable.”

“We can last at least five months. I’ve already poured all of my Clan’s resources into this.”

“It’s good to pursue justice, but we can’t let anything disrupt the final battle.”

At that very moment—

"It doesn't matter. We'll be leaving here soon anyway."

Vikir finally stood up.

"Now, it's time for the final battle."

Everyone's expressions hardened. They all understood what Vikir meant. The decisive showdown in the Imperial City was near. The final moment was approaching.

The number and variety of ships Tudor brought were staggering.

There were small, nimble longships, karve with 13 oars and 26 rowers, snekkja with 20 oars and room for 40 rowers, skeid that could carry 100 warriors, and the massive drakkar, capable of transporting over 1,000 fighters.

Moreover, these ships were manned by the seasoned veterans of the Donquixote C;an, known for their mastery of the open seas. They were fearless sailors who had once navigated the frozen North Sea as if it were flat land, and now they pushed boldly toward the empire’s submerged heart.

***

Swoosh—Crash!

The many ships cut through the rough waters, the united forces of the Baskerville Clan, the Morg Clan, the Quovadis Clan, and the survivors of the Bourgeois, Don Quixote, and Usher Clan were all aboard.

Even members from the Colosseo Academy, the Temiscuira Women’s College, the Barangian Military Academy, and the Mage tower had gathered.

Among them were renowned figures like Osiris, the Seven Counts, Respane, Adolf, Pope Nabokov I, Cardinal Luther, Inquisitor Mozgus, Damian, and Principal Banshee. All stood at the forefront of the coming battle, alongside countless others whose fates had intertwined with Vikir.

The Tochka Alliance boarded the Don Quixote fleet, sailing toward the Imperial City charting a course inward, closer to the heart of their enemy.

Vikir stood at the stern of the lead ship, gazing out at the endless horizon.

Clang—

Each time the ship rocked from side to side, the chains wrapped around Vikir’s hands scraped against the deck.

Beside him, Minipin and Chihuahua looked on with concern.

"Uh-oh! Y-Young Master! Over there...!"

Vikir turned his gaze to where Chihuahua was pointing. A massive shadow passed beneath the waves near the ship. It was a giant sea monster, the likes of which shouldn’t exist in these waters.

'So that's what’s become of the Imperial City.'

The place where the emperor once ruled—now home to the crown prince, submerged beneath the sea. Vikir could guess what it looked like now.

Their final opponent in the empire’s capital was First Corpse.

The end of the road, the moment for vengeance for all his fallen comrades, was slowly coming into view.

Whoooosh—

A fierce sea breeze filled the sails, and the ship began to fly over the waves.

Clang—

Again, the chains scraped across the deck as Vikir tightened his grip on them. Minipin, noticing the end of the chain, hesitantly asked, "Uh, Sir Vikir, I’ve been wondering... what is that?"

Minipin asked Vikir about the thing attached to the chains.

It was a coffin.

Vikir was carrying a large, heavy coffin, its contents unknown to all.