The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound
chapter-485

Chapter 485: The Marquis of discord (3)

Rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle...

Darkness falls.

It’s so pitch-black that even stretching out an arm, you wouldn’t be able to count your own fingers.

Yet, in this impenetrable darkness, some objects were eerily visible.

Before Vikir’s eyes, a figure rose.

"…Sergeant Janet."

Vikir murmured in a faltering voice.

The person standing before him was undeniably familiar.

A comrade from the same unit before he returned to the past.

One by one, familiar faces began to appear behind the figure.

Comrades left behind in the era of destruction. Subordinates, peers, and superiors stood there, bleeding, glaring at Vikir.

"Are you not coming back to us?"

"You could have brought us back to life."

"Are you abandoning your comrades?"

"Did you find the world after returning so comfortable?"

"Fine, then. Live well, having forsaken the sacrifices of your comrades."

"We trusted only you..."

They shouted at Vikir, tears of blood streaming down their faces.

Cold sweat dripped heavily.

The deep-seated trauma in his heart revived like a vengeful spirit, constricting Vikir’s heart.

"Were you reborn just to flirt with four beautiful women?"

"Did you really do everything you could to prevent humanity’s extinction?"

"How dare you call yourself a demon hunter?"

"Have you already forgotten the sacrifices of your comrades?"

"…Traitor! …Defector!"

The specters of his past began to wail.

They opened their mouths wide, wide enough to dislocate their jaws, and from within, tongues sharp as spears shot out, hurling cutting words at Vikir.

Thunk!

One of the tongues became a spear and shot toward Vikir, piercing into his chest.

Following it, countless tongues flew at him like daggers.

Thunk, thunk, thunk!

Vikir felt his entire body becoming drenched in blood as he staggered back.

Startled, he checked his body, only to find it unscathed.

Was the bloodbath just an illusion?

‘Andras specializes in playing with his opponent’s mind. I must not be deceived.’

Vikir desperately tried to ignore the spears and daggers stabbing at his mind.

Then.

In Vikir’s field of vision, other things came into view.

"Who are you to reject the contract as you please?"

"Are you not going to listen to our opinions?"

"At least you were born into a noble family."

"I was buried alive in a trash can right after birth."

"I froze to death in a coin locker on the magic train."

"Waaa- waaa-"

There stood the children who had died in the orphanage.

Children who died too young or ended their lives at birth.

Beings forcibly brought into existence by their parents.

They looked at Vikir with resentful eyes.

And at the front of the group stood a girl.

"Brother. No, Mister."

Nymphet.

A child who lost her life long ago, who became Vikir’s first guilt after his return.

Nymphet opened her mouth, speaking to Vikir.

"You talked a lot about humanity’s desire for progress and the instinct to rise... Do you really think you have the right to say that?"

"…That’s…"

Vikir unknowingly opened his mouth to speak.

But Nymphet didn’t wait for him.

“Do you think the truth will pierce through like a thorn from a pouch? Ho ho ho—were you perhaps talking about my tongue?”

The specter, wearing Nymphet’s face, grinned slyly, then extended his long, spear-like tongue from her mouth.

Thud!

The words of Nymphet which had pierced Vikir's chest, were as sharp and cold as ice—much like the world itself.

Before long, the comrades left in the era of destruction and all the children who had died in this world surrounded Vikir.

“You dare, without any right!”

“Hang him! Hang him!”

“Stone him!”

“Kill him! He must die!”

Simultaneously, the daggers continued to pierce him.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

The daggers didn’t just pierce his heart but also his body.

This wasn’t just a metaphor; he was truly being wounded.

"……!"

Vikir drew out Beelzebub with a swift motion.

Boom!

A black sun roared.

The 8th Style—a stage attainable only through extreme real-world experience. The final destination for the living.

Beyond this lies the realm of the dead.

No human with a short lifespan could reach this stage.

Vikir bared his eight fangs, scattering the surrounding darkness.

Yet the dagger-like tongues continued to embed themselves in Vikir’s body.

‘Where is it?’

Vikir kept running through the darkness that obscured his vision.

Andras' voice echoed in Vikir’s ear.

“You’ll die here. But if you accept the contract even now, I can make all of this disappear as if it never happened.”

The voice was so sweet and comforting.

It felt as though just taking the outstretched hand would resolve everything.

Like a promised salvation for humanity—a path lined with flowers.

……However.

Thud!

Despite the barrage of daggers piercing his chest, Vikir stood firm.

The ground was now littered with the blood he had shed filled with the daggers that were embedded in him.

It was truly a thorny path of suffering.

The promised flower path before him starkly contrasted the thorny path he had always walked.

[Are you scared? Are you afraid? Of course you are. That’s human nature. Now, even at this moment…]

Andras' voice clung to his ears, sticky as honey.

But.

“Demons…”

The aura radiating from Vikir grew even fiercer and more savage.

“...must be killed!”

A blood-red crescent slashed through the surrounding black fog.

Vikir, the scarred hound, stood on the thorny path, gasping for breath.

The scent of blood hung thick in the air, heating his body and warming the surrounding atmosphere.

“I’m not afraid of death.”

Vikir had already died once.

No, if you count his experience in the Abyss, twice.

And he had crossed countless death-defying situations to reach this point.

“I’ve been beheaded on the guillotine, and I’ve even taken my own life. This isn’t a metaphor or a figure of speech—it happened.”

A man who has experienced death more times than others have even imagined.

[You’re not afraid of death, huh? Then you’ll die braver than most!]

An entity so alien that, despite facing death, still breathes in this place while hunting disgusting demons.

Vikir moved his hand and raised his blade.

The sword that had always accompanied him through the countless deaths he had overcome.

Vikir swung his sword.

Perhaps it would be the last sword technique he ever executed.

Eight fangs began to shine like guiding stars.

But then—

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

[You’re not afraid of death, huh? Then you’ll die braver than most!]

There was no avoiding the countless dagger like tongues lashing out from the darkness.

Vikir spewed blood as he fell to his knees.

"......"

Without even a groan, Vikir's head drooped.

The darkness ahead parted, revealing Andras, who clicked his tongue in disapproval.

[Too rigid, and you break.]

Andras nudged Vikir's blood-soaked head with his foot.

[Dead? Hmm—did his spirit die too? Ah, I misjudged my strength. Now, where should I find that second prince?]

Andras tugged at his hair, his expression growing increasingly frustrated.

...Boom! ...Bang!

Explosions and tremors could be heard in the distance, the battles outside the palace were growing fiercer.

[I suppose I should deal with those causing a ruckus outside first.]

Andras frowned in irritation.

As Andras slowly turned his back on Vikir—

[......A demon...]

A groan emerged from Vikir, the kind one might make when their guts are torn apart.

Vikir lifted his unfocused eyes to stare at Andras.

[Must die.]

[Hahaha—you’re like a damn mangy dog.]

Andras laughed, incredulous.

But Vikir, ignoring him, slowly moved his battered body.

...One. ...Two. ...Three. ...Four. ...Five. ...Six. ...Seven. ...Eight.

All his mana was exhausted; not even a faint aura remained.

His hand moved, but his fingertips could no longer feel his blade.

Only the dry, brittle sensation of near-death repeated eight times, a feeling he was now all too familiar with.

Andras paid no mind to Vikir's final act of desperation.

And because of that, Andras missed something crucial.

...Nine.

The ninth fang followed the eighth, a continuation of the sword technique.

And then, finally—

Whoosh—

A terrifyingly intense light began to burst forth from the tip of Vikir’s Beelzebub.

[...Hm?]

Andras turned his head.

An explosion of light was so bright that it incinerated his darkness-attuned pupils in an instant.

[Aaagh!?]

He squeezed his eyes shut as they burned.

Through his eyelids, thick smoke billowed out.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight—

...And then, nine.

When Andras opened his eyes, those small points of light had grown into a massive halo that filled his entire vision.

[Only those who tread into the realm of masters with the same relentless spirit they had when they first picked up the sword will gain anything in the end.]

The subtlety of the Ninth Style that Cane Corso once spoke of.

[You will probably never reach this level while alive. The realm of the Ninth Style lies beyond the threshold of death.]

The Sixth Style.

A realm that can only be reached by transcending all emotions.

The Seventh Style.

A realm that can only be reached by reclaiming the emotions you once discarded.

The Eighth Style.

A realm that can only be reached by traversing countless brutal battlefields while gripping your sword like you did when you started learning swordsmanship.

And the Ninth Style.

A realm that only those who have truly experienced death can ascend to—the incomprehensible zone at the very core of the realm of masters.

“…….”

Vikir blankly stared at the nine shining fangs beyond his fading vision.

Beyond the swirling darkness, the voice of Cane Corso echoed from a time long past.

[This is a realm that defies all human understanding, empathy, conviction, belief, common sense, logic, and causality. Those who have never experienced true death can never set foot here.]

[Child, it seems you still cling to life. Well, at your age, it’s natural not to have fully contemplated death.]

[You are not yet ready.]

Words that, at the time, he couldn’t understand.

……But now, somehow, they made a bit more sense.

Even though he was alive, Vikir had experienced death multiple times had witnessed countless other deaths slip through his fingers.

And then, at the crossroads of life and death, a sudden enlightenment opened a new door somewhere beyond the shores of the afterlife.

Vikir reached out and gazed into the world beyond that door.

A mere point in time, broken into countless fragments, each smaller than a single instant.

In that incredibly brief moment, he glimpsed the high parts of the swordmaster realm..

The landscape he saw with the eyes of his heart and soul burned into his retinas, leaving an indelible mark.

And as he followed that mark, moving his hand absentmindedly, it became a trajectory of living, moving stars.

…Flash!

At last, the ninth fang began to reveal itself in its full Style.