The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 50: The Husband Hunt (5)

Vikir wrinkled the bridge of his nose.

"...Passed?

I don't know what the hell that means.

But there was no time to ponder that.

Vikir searched his memory and guessed the identity of the barbarian girl in front of him.

Information about the Barbarian tribe of Balak flashes through his mind before he regresses.

#Balak #Civilized barbarians #Live in the highlands of the Red and Black Mountains #Population between 300 and 500 #Wolf-riding, bow-wielding hunter-gatherers #Friendship with the Empire is very low #Warriors of both sexes #Every single member of the tribe is highly militant....

After reviewing the many podiums, I'm starting to get the picture.

The Balak were a barbarian tribe with few known personalities, though some of their names were known far beyond the borders of the mountain range.

The first name that comes to mind is Adonai the Archer, one of the greatest warriors the Balak have ever known.

He was one of the Empire's "Three Outer Calamities," and a chieftain at the height of Balak's power.

He was so famous that he single-handedly declared war on the Empire, sniping and killing 542 Gradients during the 100-day war.

The number of casualties among the rank-and-file soldiers was uncountable.

The Empire suffered untold losses in the short span of 100 days, and from then on, the enemy and the Black Mountains were categorized as "extralegal" territory, and all-out war was avoided.

It's a much devalued account in the Empire's history books, but a remarkable one all the same.

'... But this is not the age of the Adonai.'

Vikir thought for a moment.

Adonai was from a whole generation before.

A great man so long ago that even Vikir had only heard of him in history books.

The archer Adonai had disappeared from the scene when the Baskervilles had just migrated to the Western Front and established themselves as pioneers, and he had presumably died around that time.

The current patriarch of the Baskervilles, Hugo Les Baskervilles, hadn't even been born yet.

So, who else could have been of the same age and as famous?

'If it's relatively recent, it's... the 'Fox of the Night' who fought a ten-day battle against the Baskervilles and the Morgans, killing 32 people before disappearing.'

When Vikir was a boy, Baskerville and Morg had joined forces to wipe out their enemies and the barbarians of the Black Mountains.

One of Balak's archers, who played a prominent role in those wars, was known as the Night Fox.

Not much else was known about her, only that she was female.

In the span of ten days, she had killed sixteen Gradient-class swordsmen in Baskerville, ten fourth-class mages in Morg, and six fifth-class mages.

Vikir was too young to see the devastation with his own eyes, but he could guess at the aftermath, as many of his instructors at the Hound level had died.

"And it was the same in this life.

The creature that had left scars on the bridge of Sword Star Hugo's nose and on Adolf's chest in a territorial dispute not long ago was probably the Night Fox.

'... but she doesn't look the right age to be a night fox.'

It was clear that her current age was at least in her early thirties, and most likely in her mid-thirties.

Even if she was an archery genius, she must have lived and practiced for quite a long time to be able to wound a Swordmaster and a Class 6 mage.

The barbarian girl in front of him was probably only in her late teens.

Although her skills were impressive, she was far too weak to be a Night Fox.

'It's not in the history books, and I've never heard of her.

So what was this, some kind of bloodline from the Night Fox?

Not much was written about the Balak in the history books, and even the local Baskervilles who fought them knew little about them.

If the Night Fox, who might now be leading the Balak, had left any blood, it could be this girl in front of him.

"So much for the barbarian researcher.

Vikir had thought a lot in such a short time.

Just then.

...Hook!

The sound of a wind blowing in from somewhere.

It was too faint to be the sound of an arrow.

But the hunter's senses, trained through the ages of destruction, would not allow for a gap as thin as a hair.

Boom!

Vikir swung the hem of the bloodwind to stop it in its tracks.

It was a cactus thorn, a stinger laced with paralyzing poison.

The same ones that had poisoned the camo before.

"...what! How did you stop it!?"

An exclamation of horror echoes across the water.

Ahun, hiding beneath the roots of a tree, was panicking, his mouth clamped shut.

Vikir debated whether or not to fight back, then withdrew his aura.

All that mattered now was getting the camel in his arms to safety, and by extension, erasing his massive debt to the Morgas.

"Just be patient, I'll take you to your uncle soon enough...?"

But Vikir did not finish his sentence.

The camel in his arms was looking up into his face with a blank expression.

His complexion was flushed and he was out of breath. His heart was beating too fast.

"Has it been poisoned with something other than paralyzing venom?

Vikir asked the camel, sensing something was wrong.

"Poisoned?"

"...I think so."

If so, this is bad news.

Vikir hurriedly retreated.

Aiyen drew his bow with lightning speed, but he couldn't catch Vikir as he darted backward.

Whirligig-!

The rope snares fly again.

The female warriors of Balak have been relentless in their pursuit of Vikir.

But.

Kiririk-grrrr!

Vikir, too, has unleashed his auras, slicing through the lassos.

With so many eyes on him, he was only able to display the swordsmanship and aura of a lower level Gradient, but that was enough to overwhelm the common warriors of Balak.

But.

Ping-ping!

Aiyen's arrows were so powerful that even Vikir had to be careful.

The good news is that Aiyen's arrows are deflected by Vikir's rapid fire.

Arrows aimed precisely at Vikir's legs, and the occasional noose flying by.

Add to that the fact that Vikir is carrying a camel in his arms, and you've got a recipe for trouble.

Meanwhile, the camel clutches at the hem of Vikir's robe in a show of understanding.

"...Ugh, I never thought I'd be an embarrassing heroine who only grabs ankles."

"Heroine, you're so self-conscious."

Vikir scooped the camel up and kept falling backwards.

Just then.

Quack, quack, quack!

A loud explosion puts a giant wall of ice between Balak's warriors and Vikir.

Suddenly, a massive wall of ice surrounded them, trapping them all.

Morg Adolf.

Morg is a delegate to the Mage Council, leading the great party known as the Ming Party.

One of the highest ranking members of the Imperial Magisterium.

His power, looking beyond the sixth class to the seventh, was unbridled.

"Stand down, nephew."

He drew a number line in the air, calculating complex formulas.

The volume of ice, the specific gravity of ice, the latent heat of melting ice, the amount of mana remaining, and the fatigue of magic tools are multiplied and divided.

And the results are frightening.

Boom, boom, boom!

The entire sea of water began to freeze.

As if an ice age had come, hail and snowflakes scattered through the air, and the ankles of those fleeing were frozen to the ground.

Balak's barbarian warriors and their wolves were hardy, so their frozen legs would not be cut off.

But there was nothing to be done about being pinned to the ground.

"Bite them all to death."

Baskerville's hounds' teeth sank into the defenseless Balak warriors.

Morg's wizards joined in, and screams began to erupt from everywhere.

By then, Adolf had taken the camo from Vikir.

"My nephew, are you all right?"

Adolf called out anxiously to the camel, who was still covered in Vikir's blood.

At the same time, detoxification magic appeared.

...Pow!

CURE POISON.

It was a very high class magic, and not just anyone could use it.

Adolf succeeded in removing some of the paralyzing poison from the camel's body.

"That's a lot of paralyzing poison, and it's going to be hard to get it all out. You're going to have to lie down for a few months, and when we get back, we'll start by visiting the Holy House of Quavadis."

Even Adolph's strength could not remove the poison.

Afterward, the camel recovered from the paralyzing poison and leapt to his feet.

And then?

...boom!

He rushed to his less paralyzed leg and hugged Vikir around the neck.

"You saved me again!"

Adolf's expression behind him turned to one of frustration and sullenness.

"Nephew, here's your uncle."

"Why is my uncle here now, I'm going to tell my mom everything!"

"...."

At this, Adolf grew even more sullen.

At that moment, Vikir pushed the camo away from him and spoke to Adolf.

"My lord. It seems that the camouflage is poisoned with other poisons as well. From what I heard earlier...."

"Hmm? I don't recall any other poison besides the paralyzing one?"

"...?"

What? I thought it was clear earlier....

But not if it's not Adolf.

Vikir was just about to turn to look at the camo.

Charalak!

Another rope lasso flew in.

This one wasn't like the last one.

It was much more sophisticated, with a strange, writhing motion. It was like watching a live snake.

"...!"

Vikir frowned, striking the noose with the back of his sword.

Aiyen. Holding the end of the noose, she glared at him with a determined expression.

Not at Vikir, to be precise, but at the camo.

"You'd better be caught quietly, we're running out of time."

Slurred Imperial, Vikir thought, puzzled.

"No time?

What does this mean? Did he misspeak because he was not fluent in Imperial?

Even now, the Morg and the Baskervilles are overwhelming Balak. It is only Balak

time.

Bombastic sounds, bright lights, and high-pitched screams echoed from everywhere.

Sssssssss...

The water reacts to the untimely disturbance.

Leaves slowly rustled.

Just then,

"... came!

It's finally here!"

Ahun, who was carrying the longsword, shouted in a seizure.

All the Balak warriors who heard it stopped moving for a moment.

"...?"

Vikir scratched his head.

Even the keen senses of a hunter who has lived through an age of destruction can't pick up on anything.

Only.

A buzzing.

Beelzebub, lurking within the arteries of his wrist, was warning him furiously.

"It's coming!"

"Madame Eight-Legged!"

"She's coming, she's coming!"

Balak's barbarians are hardy souls, whose faces never change in the face of the most severe torture.

To see them so terrified now was indeed a grave sign.

....

...And now.

Something peeks out from the darkness.

A heavier, darker blackness, casting its shadow across the water.

This moment,

drawn by the light and commotion of battle.

An unknown horror was coming.

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