Revenge of the Iron-blooded Sword Hound

Revenge of the Iron-Blooded Sword Hound Chapter 435

Chapter 435: The Return of the Night Hound (2)

“It’s been a long time, everyone.”

A low, deep voice.

Dolores, Tudor, Sancho, Figgy, Bianca, and Sinclaire widened their eyes as if they had witnessed something unbelievable.

Vikir. The infamous Night Hound.

The old friend who had been imprisoned in Nouvellebag over four years ago was standing right before their eyes.

His height had increased, his chest and shoulders had broadened, and his jawline had become even sharper.

It was one thing for a pretty boy who looked almost androgynous to grow into a handsome young man, but the density of the aura emanating from his well-built frame was on another level entirely.

It felt as though a massive mountain, no, a mountain range was placed before the NIght Walkers.

The change was so drastic it was as if he had become an entirely different person, but that made it all the more real.

The Vikir standing before them was the true Vikir who had endured those four years in Nouvellebag.

“…But how?”

Dolores and Sinclaire mouthed in disbelief as they looked at Vikir.

Tudor, Sancho, Figgy, and Bianca also wore dazed expressions, overwhelmed by the sudden reunion.

Tudor was the first to come to his senses.

“Vikir! Is it really you? Is it really my friend Vikir?”

“Maybe~” Vikir smiled.

“You bastard! We were worried! But how did you get out? What happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Then give us a short version!”

“Hmm. Alright. Here’s the short version.”

Vikir, stepping back slightly from the eagerly advancing Tudor, briefly summarized.

“I was imprisoned in Nouvellebag. I escaped. I came here to assassinate Monte. I was lurking around the main fortress for the past few days, waiting for a chance to sneak in, and then I saw you all enter, so I followed.”

“…You left out a lot, didn’t you?”

Everyone, including Tudor, had the same thought.

But, as Vikir had said, there was no time for a detailed explanation.

[…Kill… Demons]

The Death Knight version of Vikir began to move.

…Boom!

Baskerville’s 4th Style. Four fangs flew toward Vikir.

Each fang was powerful enough to split the earth and tear the sky.

Moreover, the proficiency was beyond the master level.

Yet Vikir remained calm in the face of the massive slashing vortex.

“The 4th Style, huh? I’m quite confident in that too.”

Vikir also deployed the Baskerville 4th Style.

Having practiced this swordsmanship his whole life, the movements were as natural as breathing.

The four fangs viciously tore at each other’s space.

Crack!

A few strands of hair and droplets of blood scattered.

In an intense exchange where neither side gave an inch, Death Knight Vikir gritted his teeth.

…Roar!

A dark aura surged even stronger.

Death Knight Vikir raised his swordsmanship to another level.

Baskerville’s 5th Style. Five fangs bore down on Vikir.

In response, Vikir also elevated his swordsmanship to the next level.

A storm of slashes, like facing a mirror, as the 5th Styles clashed.

Slash—Schlick—

Flesh flew and blood spurted.

Slight asymmetries led to minor injuries on both sides.

[Kill!]

Death Knight Vikir once again elevated his swordsmanship to another level.

Baskerville 6th Style. The ferocious onslaught characteristic of fangs ensued.

In response, Vikir also countered with the 6th Style.

Blade met blade, tip met tip, sparks flew, and the battle was once again evenly matched.

Next came the Baskerville 7th Style. Then the 8th style. Each matched by an equal number of fangs from the opponent.

Eventually, Death Knight Vikir revealed his ultimate card.

Baskerville 9th Style. The ultimate intent to kill that slashed everything into pieces.

Crack—Crrrack!

The crimson aura surged violently, carving away the surrounding rocks and hills.

Vikir, faced with the slashing net tearing the world apart, murmured in admiration.

“…The 9th Style. Is this the realm beyond the threshold of death?”

Perhaps because this was a dream world, the boundary between life and death was ambiguous.

Moreover, the fragment of his inner self before him included experiences of death from before his regression, making it even more so.

As a being rampaging without reason, it was natural for it to be indifferent to life and death.

All these factors combined to create the extremely rare and coincidental emergence of the Baskerville 9th Style.

Vikir was limited to the 8th style.

That was the limit of the living, those with much to lose.

“…But in the end, it’s just a remnant, a dreg left behind by the wheel of fate.”

With that brief assessment, Vikir drew his cursed sword beelzebub, to its full length.

…Flash!

Baskerville 8th Style. The eight fangs created by Vikir roared towards the nine fangs before him.

“Vikir! I’ll help you!”

Dolores stepped forward.

“It’s fine. I can handle this alone.”

Vikir declined Dolores’s help.

He needed to conserve her holy power for the upcoming battle against the fourth Corpse.

Moreover, Vikir wanted to test how much his 8th Style had matured.

Facing the Baskerville 9th Style, which no one other than Cane Corso had ever reached, was a perfect opportunity.

…Boom! Boom! Boom!

Vikir’s 8th Style clashed with Death Knight Vikir’s 9th Style.

Different trajectories, but the essence was the same.

After all, fangs exist to bite and wound others.

Crack—

The balance broke.

Surprisingly, it was Death Knight Vikir’s 9th Style that wavered first.

“[……!]”

For the first time, Death Knight Vikir, who had never been pushed back, retreated.

His expression twisted with bewilderment.

Seeing this, Vikir felt assured in his judgment.

‘This is nothing compared to Cane Corso’s 9th Style.’

Indeed, the nine slashes created by Death Knight Vikir were each powerful and destructive.

However, they moved in separate directions, lacking a clear intent and purpose.

Eight hunting dogs working in unison to strike and retreat can capture a much larger and stronger prey than nine dogs acting independently.

This was exactly the current situation.

Crack!

The eight fangs created by Vikir rotated in a circular formation.

Black sun.

This was the most efficient killing method he had indirectly learned from Cane Corso.

As it spun fiercely and converged into one point, it shattered the irregularly protruding fangs and drilled into the core with rough, heavy force.

It was like throwing a solid bowling ball into the mouth of a predator with bared teeth.

Crack—Snap—Crunch—Boom!

The nine fangs created by Death Knight Vikir were all broken.

In contrast, the eight fangs created by Vikir surged forward without a single one breaking or falling out, heading straight for Death Knight Vikir.

[……! ……! ……! ……!]

Even as he was sucked into the center of the black sun and his body was slashed and torn apart, Death Knight Vikir did not utter a single scream.

He only glared at Vikir with burning eyes.

[…Demon.]

Eventually, Death Knight Vikir crawled out from between the slashes.

[I will kill you!]

However.

“One must be careful not to become a demon while fighting demons.”

Waiting for Death Knight Vikir, who emerged from the cracks in the black sun, was an even larger black sun.

“Sadly, you have become no different from a demon.”

Another black sun stacked on top of the first.

Crack!

The two gigantic black spheres interlocked like clockwork gears, turning together.

At last, a scream burst from Death Knight Vikir, crushed beneath the mass of slashes.

“Arrrgh!”

His body was shredded into a pitiful state. But even worse was the uncontainable rage boiling in his chest with nowhere to vent.

[…Demon! Die! Die! Demon, die!]

Even as a blood-soaked, tattered mess, Death Knight Vikir clawed at the ground, desperately struggling to kill his opponent.

Those who endured the era of destruction harbored deep-seated anger and resentment towards demons.

And those born as hunting dogs, surviving such times, often ended up in similar ways.

Shattered egos, unimaginable hatred, and suppressed rage exploding in the end.

“…”

Vikir looked down at him silently, lost in thought.

Dolores watched Vikir’s profile and wondered.

‘What is he thinking?’

Death Knight Vikir was another fragment of Vikir’s subconscious, an embodiment of his deep-seated grudge and animosity towards demons.

What thoughts ran through Vikir’s mind as he looked at a being that was essentially himself?

‘…He must be sad. Melancholic.’

Dolores shed tears as she looked at Vikir.

Who could remain unaffected watching their own reflection being destroyed so terribly?

Who could stand before such a horrific scream and dreadful struggle and not be moved?

…

…

Right here.

“This is perfect.”

Vikir looked at the struggling Death Knight Vikir with a faint smile.

“The perfect material. It was worth it to enter this fragment of Abyss tree.”

Ignoring the bewilderment of Dolores and the others, Vikir untied the pouch from his waist and held it in his hand.

Thud— Thud— Thud—

He dumped the contents onto the ground.

“Feast.”

They were objects that looked like black kidney beans.

“…?”

Dolores, Sinclaire, and the others widened their eyes in surprise.

The black masses wriggled toward Death Knight Vikir the moment they hit the ground, drawn by the intense scent of blood emanating from his entire body.

‘Leeches.’

A secret weapon Vikir had brought from Nouvellebag.