Chapter 433: The Returned Hound (2)  

"It's been a while, everyone.."

A low, low-pitched voice.

Dolores, Tudor, Sancho, Piggy, Bianca, and Sinclair's eyes widened as if they had witnessed something unbelievable.

Vikir. The Night Hound.

Their old friend, imprisoned in Nouvelle Vague more than four years ago, stood before them.

His height had increased, his chest and shoulders broadened, his jawline sharpened.

Not only had he grown into a handsome young man with a pretty boy face that made his gender seem ambiguous, but the density of his aura, which radiated from his entire body, had also changed to another level.

It was as if there was a mountain, or rather a mountain range, in front of them.

It was like he was a completely different person from the friend they had remembered, but that made it all the more real.

It was like realizing that Vikir in front of everyone was the real Vikir, four years older.

"...Ha, but how?"

Dolores and Sinclair stare at Vikir, mouths agape.

Tudor, Sancho, Piggy, and Bianca are also stunned by the sudden reunion.

Tudor is the first to come to his senses.

"Vikir, is that you? Is that you! Are you my friend Vikir?"

"At least I think so."

"You bastard! I was worried about you! But why are you out here? What the hell happened to you?"

"It's a long story."

"Then you can tell me the short story!"

"Hmm. Okay, then I'll make it short."

Slipping away from Tudor, who was lunging for an immediate hug, Vikir thought for a moment before summarizing.

"Trapped in Nouvelle Vague. I escaped. Came straight to assassinate Passamonte. I've been hovering around the castle for days, waiting for the right moment to sneak inside, but you guys went in first, so I followed."

"...Something's missing in front of that?"

Everyone, including Tudor, thought the same thing.

But there was no time to elaborate, as Vikir said.

[...kill, demon].

The Death Knight, Vikir, made his move.

...kwakwang!

The 4th Baskerville Form. Four teeth swooped down on Vikir.

Each strike was powerful enough to cut through the earth and tear the sky apart.

Moreover, his skill level has already surpassed the master level.

However, Vikir remained calm in the face of the massive maelstrom of strikes.

"Is it 4th Form? If that's the case, I'm pretty confident."

Vikir also deployed a Baskerville 4th Form.

The movements were as natural as breathing, as he had practiced swordsmanship his entire life.

The four teeth clawed ferociously at each other's space.

udeudeudeudeudeug!

A few hairs, a few drops of blood, scattered.

After an offensive and defensive battle without giving up an inch, Death Knight Vikir gritted his teeth.

...Kuoooooooooo!

The dark aura emanates even more strongly.

Death Knight Vikir has raised his swordsmanship to another level.

Baskerville 5th Form. The five teeth pressed down on Vikir.

Vikir, in turn, has raised his swordsmanship to another level.

Five against five. A storm of blows as if facing a mirror.

pis- seogeog-

Flesh splattered and blood fountained. A small amount of bleeding on both sides along the tiny cracks from the left-right asymmetry.

[Kills!]

Death Knight Vikir has raised his swordsmanship to another level.

Baskerville 6th Form. A ferocious onslaught of carnivores.

Vikir responds with a matching 6th.

Blade to blade, sword tip to sword tip, sparks flew, and the battle hung in the balance once more.

Baskerville's 7th, followed by Baskerville's 8th. The number of initiates who continue to do so.

Finally, Death Knight Vikir played his final card.

Baskerville 9th Form. The ultimate killing blow, destroys everything.

kwa-gigigigigigig!

The dark red aura fluctuates steadily, carving away the rocks and hills around it.

Vikir, facing the net of slashes tearing apart the entire world, exclaimed in a low voice.

" ...9th Form. This is the realm after death's threshold."

The line between life and death is blurred, perhaps because it's in a fantasy world.

What's more, the fragments of his self in front of him were mixed with the experience of death he had before his regression.

Furthermore, as a being that rampages without an intelligence, it is only natural that he would be familiar with life and death.

All of this combined to create a 9th Form Baskerville by the most unlikely and coincidental of odds.

Vikir is an 8th Form Baskerville.

Even if he were to move up a level, he could no longer keep up.

That is the limit of the living, or in other words, of those who have much to lose.

"...But in the end, it is only a byproduct, a residue, left where the wheels of fate have rolled."

With that brief assessment, Vikir drew his magic sword, Beelzebub, as long as he could.

...Flash!

Baskerville 8th Form. The eight teeth that Vikir had created swirled toward the nine teeth in front of him.

"Vikir, let me help you!"

Dolores stepped forward.

"It's okay. I can handle myself."

Vikir refused Dolores's help.

It was necessary to save divine power in preparation for the battle with the Ten Corpses that would follow.

Vikir also wanted to see just how ripe his 8th Form had become.

This was fortunate, as he was about to face Baskerville 9th Form, which no one but CaneCorso had ever climbed.

...kwakwakwakwang!

Vikir's 8th Form and Deathknight Vikir's 9th FForm clashed.

Their trajectories were different, but in the end, they were the same.

Teeth exist to bite and hurt others in the first place.

ppagag-

The balance was upset.

The first to falter was, surprisingly, Death Knight Vikir's 9th Form.

[...!]

The Death Knight Vikir, who had never been pushed before, staggered backwards for the first time.

His face contorted with embarrassment.

Seeing this, Vikir felt confident in his judgment.

'Not even close to CaneCorso's 9th form.'

Certainly, each of the nine swords that Death Knight Vikir unleashes is powerful and devastating.

But each one tended to play separately in different directions, roaming about with no clear intent or purpose.

Rather than nine hounds playing separately, eight hounds working together in unison can catch a much larger and stronger prey.

This was the current situation.

ujijijijijig!

Vikir's eight teeth spun in a round sphere.

A Black Sun.

It was the most efficient way to kill, learned indirectly from CaneCorso.

With a fierce spin, it converged into a single point, shattering the irregularly sprouting teeth and crushing them into a harsh, heavy mass.

It looked as if a hard bowling ball had been thrown with all its might into the mouth of a toothy beast.

wagigig- ppujig- ppudeudeug- kwakwang! All nine of Death Knight Vikir's teeth are shattered.

Vikir's eight teeth, on the other hand, rushed toward Death Knight Vikir, not a single one broken or missing.

[...! ...! ...! ...! ...!]

As Death Knight Vikir was sucked into the center of the Black Sun, his entire body shredded and shuddered in agony, he did not utter a single scream.

It merely glared at Vikir with burning pupils.

[...Demon].

Then, the Death Knight Vikir crawled through the gap between the blow and the blow.

[Kills!]

But.

"He who fights demons must take care not to become a demon himself."

An even greater black sun awaited the Death Knight Vikir as he emerged through the cracks of the Black Sun.

"It is a shame that you have become a demon."

Another black sun was placed upon the black sun.

wajijijijijig!

Two huge black spheres interlock and rotate like clockwork.

Death Knight Vikir, crushed by the pile of slashes, finally let out a single scream.

[Gu-aaaahhh!]

His flesh writhes in agony. But worse than that, he had no outlet for the rage that burned like wildfire in his chest.

[...Demons! Die! Die! Demons! Die! Demons!]

Death Knight Vikir was struggling, scratching the ground with his bloody, rag-like body.

Determined to kill his opponent no matter what.

All those who have lived through the Age of Destruction harbor bitter anger and resentment in their hearts.

And those who were born as hounds and survived such times have a similar story to tell.

A collapsed ego, dogmatic hatred, and anger that exploded after being suppressed and repressed.

"...."

Vikir stared down at the figure, lost in thought.

Dolores studied Vikir's sideways face and thought.

"I wonder what he's thinking?

Death Knight Vikir is Vikir's alter ego, a fragment of his unconscious.

As a being who has become stronger by mulling over and over old grudges, he symbolizes and represents the hostility that Vikir originally has towards demons.

And what is Vikir thinking now as he looks at the being that is like himself?

'...That must be sad. It must be painful.'

Dolores cried as she looked at Vikir.

How could anyone look at a self-portrait being torn to shreds and still be sane?

Is there anyone who wouldn't be shaken even when faced with that terrible scream and that horrifying cruelty?

....

... There it was.

"It's the best."

Vikir smiled weakly as he watched Death Knight Vikir scrabble at the ground.

"It's the best material. It's worth it to come into the fragments of the Hell Tree."

With everyone, Dolores included, looking on in confusion, Vikir untied the sack from around his waist and held it in his hand.

hududug- hududug- hududug-

He shook out what was in it onto the ground and said.

"Eat up."

It was something that looked like a bunch of kidney beans.

"...?"

Everyone's eyes widened, including Dolores and Sinclair.

The black blobs hit the floor and immediately crawled toward Death Knight Vikir in front of them.

They were clearly reacting to the strong smell of blood emanating from Death Knight Vikir's body.

'Black Tongue Leeches'.

Vikir's secret weapon from Nouvelle Vague.