The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound
chapter-500

Side Story: Chapter 5

Whooosh—

A dry wind blew.

A black cloak fluttered in the wind, along with a long, gray beard.

Vikir was walking across the vast, white salt desert.

A place that was once a sprawling green field.

But now, it’s a barren wasteland, filled only with rocks and salt.

Vikir turned his head to look beyond the desert horizon.

"......"

Lonely. And solitary.

Time wears away many things.

Feelings, desires.

… But even so, one emotion still throbbed within him, unchanged from his younger days.

The desire to win.

Who is stronger?

This is the one obsession, the one regret, that every warrior who lives by the sword cannot let go of, not until death.

And so, Vikir continued to walk.

Casting off all shackles and chains, surrendering his body to the instincts he had suppressed for an endless number of years.

Whoooosh—

A wind filled with the scent of salt blew.

He slashed through the raging storm, parting the curtain-like winds with his sword, revealing a path within.

Vikir found what he had been searching for.

The ‘Sword Tomb.’

This tower, with its spire-like shape jutting out of the ground, held the blackness of the night sky and the red hue of blood at the same time.

It stood there, unchanged from when he had last seen it.

Vikir brushed the grains of salt off his long beard and muttered.

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

This is a famous phrase passed down within the Baskerville family.

But. There’s a hidden sentence that follows.

"… A true Baskerville dies in the ‘Sword Tomb.’"

At this moment, Vikir was likely the only one who knew of this phrase’s existence.

Soon, Vikir entered the Sword Tomb.

Each step was upon steep and pointed stairs that jutted out like spikes.

This, too, was an all-too-familiar sight.

A dreadfully lonely, suffocating, and isolating space.

With each step, his whole body felt as if it was being cut, sliced like thin jerky.

The floor, walls, and ceiling were studded with countless swords.

Drops of red, fishy-smelling liquid dripped from them.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Vikir continued to climb the stairs.

One step, one stair.

Being sliced, shaved away, carved, and worn down, he ascended toward the summit.

And then, he finally came face-to-face with it.

The Iron Throne, located at the highest point of the tower.

Suddenly, a heavy, metallic voice rang out, like a clash of steel.

[This is the Sword Tomb, where those who seek the ultimate mastery of the sword come for their final journey.]

And there, a man clad in thick armor with a long, white beard appeared.

Beneath his snow-white eyebrows, where the whites of his eyes should have been, were hollow voids filled with darkness, and in their center, red pupils blazed coldly, like burning suns.

His sharp, blade-like nose and tightly closed lips gave him a stern appearance. His bluish-black skin was so dried out that it seemed barely clinging to the bones of his skull.

The heavy, dark armor that covered his body and the enormous greatsword he wielded made his fortress-like presence even more imposing.

Vikir recognized his face.

Cane Corso le Baskerville.

An old count from the era of warring factions, a man considered the strongest in human history, who even the era of destruction could not claim.

He stroked his snow-white beard and let out a hearty laugh.

[You feel familiar, even though it’s the first time we’ve met. Does a transcendent's intuition surpass even time itself?]

Vikir didn’t bother to respond.

‘Brings back memories. When I first met this man, I could barely withstand a single strike from him.’

He wondered how things would go now.

Since the war with the demons ended, there hadn’t been many chances to test his strength. But this was a good opportunity.

… Clang!

Vikir drew his lifelong companion, the sword Beelzebub.

And thus, the two swords clashed.

Cane Corso swung his massive saw-bladed greatsword, while Vikir thrust the long, needle-like blade of Beelzebub through the raging whirlwinds of the colossal slashes.

The Baskerville Ninth style against the Baskerville Ninth style.

It all happened in a fleeting moment.

The moment when the nine fangs met the nine fangs.

"......!"

Vikir froze as if struck by lightning.

He realized it slightly too late.

The countless truths he'd glimpsed in the Abyss of Magic resurfaced in his mind.

Something that had been blocked for an immeasurably long time was now blown wide open.

… Crack!

Time and space began to warp.

As the nine fangs viciously entangled, a small spark of light appeared.

A fang emerged from a realm filled with dust, gas, clouds, and stars.

It was the tenth fang.

So small that it was barely visible, but it was undeniably there, right next to the nine fangs.

… Flash!

The moment Cane Corso was pierced by that, he thought:

[......Is this the end?]

As if in response to that thought—

Crack!

His beloved sword ‘Draconis’, which had been with him for so long, split in two.

Cane Corso looked at his shattered saw-bladed sword with a warm gaze and murmured:

[Ah, I see. So you are finally ready to ascend. Congratulations.]

The dark energy that had been imbued in Draconis rose high into the sky.

Cane Corso's body, too, began to crumble into red dust.

[I couldn’t become the Sword God, but I did manage to become an Immortal Swordmaster. If I can serve as a guidepost for future generations, that is enough.]

He let his body be swept away by the winds created from the clash of the two swords.

It was a fitting end for a man who had lived his entire life obsessed with the sword.

……

……

At last, the storm subsided.

The only one left standing was Vikir.

[Your birth was like the birth of a sword, and your death will be like the death of a sword.]

The distant voice of Cane Corso, now gone, faded into nothingness.

Just then—

"You fool!"

A loud, familiar scolding voice echoed from behind him.

Vikir turned around, startled, and saw familiar faces standing there.

“I knew you’d end up here.”

“After I heard you mumbling about this place before, I kept an eye on it.”

“You all are way too suspicious…”

“We have an expert tracker who used to be a warden on our side, after all.”

“Huh? You mean me? Sure, I was a warden, but I’m no expert tracker. I’m better at arresting people.”

Camus, Aiyen, Dolores, Sinclaire, and Kirko—his comrades who had journeyed with him from the other world—were all gathered here.

"I thought I’d come alone. H-How did you…"

A rare sight—Vikir stumbling over his words.

The one who stepped forward was none other than Camus.

“You should have at least brought me. After all, you don’t even know how to open the door to the Abyss of Magic.”

“......”

Vikir stayed silent.

Camus, without hesitation, had entered the Sword Tomb and was now examining the enormous magical symbol engraved at the bottom of the spiral staircase.

“...The trace of ten fangs and ten mana wheels.”

Camus observed the magic circle on the floor and the traces left from the expulsion of mana.

“It’s similar to the ritual of complete resurrection, but far more noble, grand, and powerful. …I can’t believe such magic even exists. What could its purpose have been?”

“It almost seems like it symbolizes the truth itself. I can’t claim to know what this is if even Camus doesn’t know…”

Even Sinclaire, well-versed in magic, was sweating nervously.

Aiyen, Dolores, and Kirko were also huddled together, thinking.

“Even from the traces alone, we can tell. It looks like there was a massive explosion.”

“I’ve heard this area used to be a lush forest. It might have turned into a salt desert because of that explosion…”

“Maybe a meteor fell? If so, it could be related to the two periods of human history that are marked by unexplained gaps.”

And the one who pieced all these thoughts together was none other than Camus.

“Well, we’ll just have to go see for ourselves.”

The second expedition to the Abyss of Magic.

This was the one thing Vikir fully agreed with.

* * *

Vikir and Camus once again descended into the Abyss of Magic.

Passing through the "Five Fingers of the Creator", they encountered a familiar inscription:

- All things are born from the Abyss of Magic and return to it.

- On the fated day when the stars align, a new level shall open, and all things will meet their inevitable end.

These two lines, standing like gatekeepers to the void, were solemn and ominous.

Camus extended the roots of the ghost tree, deftly unlocking the locks between the pillars.

When the eight doors were finally opened, Vikir came face to face with something.

It was a human figure—an ethereal, female presence.

The moment Vikir laid eyes on her, he instinctively understood:

‘Mother.’

The radiant being before him was his distant ancestor, the "First Mother."

And the Mother spoke to Vikir, her son.

[I've longed to see you.]

"......"

Vikir remained silent, unable to speak.

Once more, the Mother spoke.

[I've stayed because I couldn’t leave you all behind. I don’t know how many generations have passed, but you are still my sons and daughters.]

The Mother embraced her son warmly.

And with a gentle, soothing voice, she spoke:

[Now I can finally leave in peace. To where he has gone,]

“Where will you go?” Vikir asked.

The Mother answered.

[I’m going to pull someone by the hair.]

“......?”

Vikir tilted his head in confusion, not understanding her meaning. The Mother reached out and patted his head affectionately.

[Live.]

"......"

[Live as you wish. Fully, joyfully. Enjoy this world with all your heart.]

It seemed as though the Mother already understood why Vikir had come to this place.

But Vikir still appeared unsure about what he should do.

“Can I not go with you?” he asked.

The Mother shook her head.

[Come here when the very last moment of your life arrives, far, far in the future.]

"......"

[Until then, indulge in trivial happiness, ordinary contentment. That is the true essence of joy, perception, and love.]

That was the last time Vikir spoke with his Mother.

* * *

Vikir returned from the Abyss of Magic.

He lived for a long time in this world.

Beautiful wives, cheerful children, and countless joyous moments passed like the fleeting dream of nine clouds.

And as time flowed by, until all the noise of this world was buried beneath the sands of time—

Only then did Vikir return to the Abyss of Magic for the third time.

Beep—

On his first visit, he had unlocked the truth of the resurrection and the ten truths of the ritual.

On his second visit, he had met the First Mother.

What would he accomplish on this third visit?

"....... ……. ……."

Without a word, Vikir ascended the stairs of dust, clouds, and starlight one step at a time.

And at the end of those stairs, I encountered someone sitting at the abyss of magic.

'The Five Fingers of the Creator.'

Beyond the enormous five fingers, there shone the throne at the far edge—or rather, the constellation.

There sat an old man.

He fiddled with a few glass beads in his hand.

"....... ....... ......."

With a look that seemed utterly unsure of what expression to make.

-The End-