The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound
chapter-495

Chapter 495: The Day After the End (2)

Year BE 1020 of the Continental Calendar.

The river of blood had finally dried up.

The war between the human realm and the demon realm, which had raged for decades, was forever etched in history as the "Era of Destruction."

And on the day the human realm's victory was carved in stone, a severed head hung from the main gate of humanity's final stronghold, Tochka.

Baal.

Also known as the "Mother of Destruction."

The spiritual leader of the 72 demons.

The Era of Destruction came to an end on the day Baal's head fell to the ground.

Several individuals played a key role in driving Baal and the other demon lords from this land.

- Camus Morg, head of the Morg clan.

- Osiris Le Baskerville, head of the Baskerville clan.

- Bourgeois Sinclaire, head of the Bourgeois clan.

- Dolores Rune Quovadis, pope of the Quovadis clan.

- Orca Montreuil-sur-Mer Javert, general of the Nouvellebag Prison.

.

.

In addition to them, many other heroes ensured that humanity could continue to survive.

...However.

There were also heroes who fought just as valiantly, yet their names were not recorded in history books.

They appeared suddenly one day.

They came with the eighth guiding star, fell onto the battlefield as if promised to bring salvation, and drove the demons away.

Their age, identity, and names were unknown.

But among the six heroes, their leader was said to have used the swordsmanship of the iron-blooded swordsman clan, Baskerville.

Rumors spread that he had ascended to the rank of the Ninth Style, which no one had ever achieved in life, though the truth remained unverified.

The other individuals also possessed many unusual characteristics that kept them from being officially recorded in history.

Amazingly, they bore identical appearances and powers to already existing figures like, Camus Morg, Dolores Quovadis, and Sinclaire, who had saved humanity and perished already.

There was even one who came from extinct barbarian tribes, as well as a deserter guard of unknown rank who was vaguely assumed to have once been part of Nouvellebag prison.

In the end, Baal was defeated at their hands, and a long peace dawned upon humanity.

After the Era of Destruction ended, they were granted only a small portion of recognition for their tremendous contributions, receiving a minor estate in reward.

"Only together in suffering, not in joy."

They voluntarily withdrew from the ugly quarrels over rewards and were content with a meager (considering their merits, ridiculously small) compensation, quietly retiring to their estates, never to be seen again.

It was merely assumed that they lived out their years in peace, raising large families and enjoying a quiet, comfortable life.

...

However.

As a diligent chronicler, a passionate historian, a beloved writer, and a survivor of the Era of Destruction, I cannot help but raise further questions as I record this journal.

Where did they come from, and where did they go?

Who were they really, and what purpose or thoughts guided their lives?

No matter how much I ponder and research, this remains a mystery that I, and all of humanity who were saved by them, must study for a lifetime.

In this situation, filled with nothing but questions, the guiding constellation they descended from continues to shine brightly, silently.

The seven stars shine more brightly than ever...

—From 'Nymphet' History of the Demon War, Volume 3,021, page excerpt—

* * *

Credit Cookie

Whooooosh—

A dry wind blew, peeling off a layer of skin from the desert.

A figure with a black, tattered cloak and long gray beard fluttered in the wind.

An old man was walking across the salt desert.

Could this be a side effect of reversing time?

A body that only aged one year when others aged ten or twenty.

Generations passed—his children grew up, then their children, and then their children's children... and so on, for what seemed like an eternity.

The old man was finally ready to leave.

Casting off all the shackles and restraints, the old man gave himself over to the instincts he had long suppressed over the ages, for a very, very long time.

Whooooosh—

Once again, the biting wind blew, eroding the rocks.

The old man silently crossed over the crescent-shaped dunes where the salty, bitter sand was swept by the wind.

Before long, what he had been searching for began to appear.

It was a tower.

A black and crimson tower, rising sharply against the white horizon.

The structure resembled a spike, protruding from the ground, reflecting both the blackness of the night sky and the redness of blood.

"The Sword Tomb"

The old man nodded quietly as he read the crude inscription in front of the tower.

"...A true Baskerville is born in the ‘Cradle of Blades’."

After a brief pause, the old man continued.

"...And a true Baskerville dies in the ‘Sword Tomb’."

Just then—

[This is the Sword Tomb, the place where those who pursue the ultimate in swordsmanship come for their final journey.]

A deep, resonating voice echoed from within the tower.

Soon, the top of the tower split open like the maw of a great beast.

Inside the tower, a throne of steel could be seen, and sitting upon it was an old man clad in black armor.

The white-bearded Baskerville.

A former seventh count and the strongest man humanity had ever known, having survived even the chaotic era of warring states and the destructive times that could not bring him down.

He stroked his long white beard and let out a booming laugh.

[Though this is the first time we've met, your face is familiar. Could it be that the intuition of a transcendent, one who has reached the supreme realm which transcends even time and space?]

The gray-bearded old man offered no reply to the white-bearded elder's words.

He simply drew a crimson blade from its sheath with the back of his hand.

As the gray-bearded old man's fierce aura spread, the white-bearded elder smiled with deep satisfaction.

And then—

The two old men, with white and gray beards, swung their swords at each other.

It happened in an instant.

At the moment when nine fangs clashed against nine fangs, the gray-bearded old man stopped in his tracks as if struck by lightning.

And in that moment, something that had been blocked for countless years suddenly cleared, and his body trembled.

At the same time, space and time began to warp.

…Crack!

As the nine fangs violently tangled, a small flash of light appeared.

It was another small fang—specifically, the tenth fang.

It was so small that it was almost invisible, but it was undeniably there, attached next to the nine fangs.

Eventually, the storm subsided.

Only one person remained—just the gray-bearded old man.

He lifted his head to gaze at the tower.

After standing there for quite some time, he slowly began to move his feet.

Toward the inside of the tower.

And as the gray-bearded old man slowly entered the tower—

[Your birth is the birth of the sword, and your death will be the death of the sword.]

The voice of the now-vanished white-bearded old man faded into the distance.

The End.

* * *

…BOOM!

With a deafening explosion, scorching flames erupted into the air.

"Who said it's over!?"

A woman, her anger rising to the top of her head, stomped her feet furiously.

"Agh! After making me stuck in this ageless body thanks to some side effect of time travel, now you're going to leave me alone!? Really? Running off without a word again, like in the old days! Typical Baskerville hound!"

Her fiery red hair flared up like an erupting volcano.

Around her, crimson flames and black iron spikes shot up menacingly.

Beside the fuming woman stood another with bronze skin, carrying a bow on her back and wearing a choker around her neck.

"I want to have many children. To rebuild our tribe, we still don’t have enough. And with humanity’s population dwindling, isn't it considered a virtue to have many offspring...? At the very least, we need to reach triple digits."

The native woman, passionately advocating for the virtue of prolific reproduction.

Next to her was a woman in a white nun’s habit, calmly knitting.

"Oh dear. Please calm down, everyone. Excessive excitement is bad for your health. Though, by now, I suppose none of us have bodies that can truly be harmed... Oh? Could it be... Have we perhaps been... too demanding? Could that be why he ran off in fear!?"

The saint, who had been composed, was now the first to panic.

The next one to speak was a woman with short, white hair, which suited her perfectly.

"Quit nagging him so much. No wonder he ran off again. If I were in his shoes, I'd run away too, what with all the bickering and chasing after him. A person needs trust, you know."

The white-haired woman scolded the others.

Lastly, the conversation was joined by a woman with black hair and red eyes, her expression cold.

"Leave it to me. Catching runaway criminals is my specialty. I've already found out where he escaped to this time."

The eyes of all the women sparkled.

"Where? Where did he go this time?"

"Isn’t it obvious? Back to that desert, again."

"If he's gone back to that tower, how disappointing. Always the same pattern."

"This time, though, he seemed a bit different."

"Don’t worry. I already found that tower. I've scouted it twice already, so I could find it with my eyes closed."

The five women quickly came to an agreement.

Though they were always bickering, they had a long history of coming together to solve problems swiftly in moments like this.

"Just wait! When we catch him, he's in for 50 years of nagging! He’s dead!"

"Ha! The one who’ll end up sobbing and begging him to come back is you."

"I already miss him. I can’t bear to be apart from him for even a moment..."

"Why worry? We have all the time in the world. Oh, but we should cut his allowance in half when we catch him."

"Maybe it's because we keep cutting his allowance that he keeps running away?"

"How about we double the number of sparring matches instead of cutting his allowance?"

"He'd probably fear that more."

"I just enjoy watching from the sidelines."

"Ugh—Are you still playing coy after all these decades?"

"But this time, it really seemed like he wanted to leave for good."

"Come on! It’s the Sword Tomb! Same old story. I’ve already marked it on the map."

"Oh, that place? The one guarded by the basilisk? After I gave it a good thrashing during my last scouting trip, it hasn’t shown up again."

"If it has any sense, it's probably already fled. It’s a high-level magical beast with some intelligence."

"We should be spotting him anytime now, right?"

"Wait, look! There he is!"

The five talkative women crossed the desert, heading toward the tower.

[A life spent running and fleeing until the bitter end, constantly evading pursuit.]

[But those who chase you will find you. And eventually, they will reach where you are.]

[You cannot escape them. Never.]

[Behold, the angry faces of your pursuers. Your miserable future, bound to them forever.]

At that moment, an ominous prophecy spoken long ago came true.

[In the end, your body and soul will be divided into five pieces!]

The true end. Thank you.