Iron Blooded Hound

Chapter 94 - 94: Into the Inferno

Chapter 94: Chapter 94: Into the Inferno

Boom!

With a boisterous blast, the dam that had been holding back the water burst. The wooden sheets imploded, and the waterway started to flood on an enormous scale.

"Everybody, up in the trees!"

Luckily, Aiyen rushed to respond, and there were few casualties in Balak. As the stream rushed violently over everything, Balak's champions climbed high into the trees to avoid it. Those who were too slow to climb found refuge by clinging to solid rocks and braving the waves.

However, the Passing Knights, standing some distance away, couldn't avoid the wave.

Crash! Crash!

The rushing water swept the Passing Knights away all at once. Although the Passing Knights were strong enough to survive the waves, the issue wasn't the waves themselves.

Tsutsutsutsutsutsutsuts...

The bodies of the Passing Knights gradually turned to dark vapor and began to disperse. This was because the river water flooding the area was concentrated saltwater.

Typically, the undead are vulnerable to salt, which has the power to purify the unholy. These salt rivers have long been home to saltwater fish, and, remarkably, salt dissolved in water is effective against the undead.

The Passing Knights resisted the salt, but they couldn't withstand such an overwhelming force.

Purification.

One by one, the bodies disintegrated into dust, returning to where they should have been, swept away by the flowing waters and scattered across the flooded land where they had been raised.

Aquila swallowed hard at the sight of Adonai's flesh dissolving in the saltwater and being carried away. Unfortunately, the remains of her distant ancestors could not be properly recovered, but she was relieved that the unholy energy had been cleansed.

"I'm especially glad that the noble bodies of my ancestors were not scattered with the vile blood of Ahheman."

And now, the water level receded. It was the end of the rainy season, and the waters had finished overflowing. Balak's heroes descended to the ground as the water withdrew. Though the water still reached their ankles, it didn't hinder their ability to walk on the ground.

Vikir followed suit as the water level dropped.

Pow! ... pow! ... pow!

With each step, the water rose to his ankles, and the wispy grass tickled between his toes. In the stagnant pools below, catfish and eels caught by the current thrashed and gasped for air.

Then, Vikir spotted something. An object quietly submerged in the water, casting a ghostly aura over the surface.

"Is that...?"

It was a large bow. Dark matte, with horns and thistles protruding like teeth. This dark bow, without even a bowstring, must have been held by Adonai just moments ago. A weapon made from the carapace of a Madame Eight-Legged. Truly a remarkable weapon.

Vikir picked it up and handed it to Aiyen beside him.

Aiyen took it and cradled it in her arms, then hurried to pass it to Aquila, who stood in the distance.

Meanwhile, Balak's warriors were gathering at a single location. They were heading toward a solitary prickly tree that stood tall in an entirely open plain. It stood alone, with no other large trees around, and its trunk was densely covered with countless thistles.

The champions of Balak stood in a circle around the tree, gazing up as one. Above them, they saw a familiar figure.

"Ugh... Ugh..."

This resilient old man clung on, unable to be swept away by the rising waters of the river. Just before the water engulfed him, he had climbed this prickly tree, clawing at the ground with his hands and dragging his still lower half.

What could have driven him to this harrowing path of survival? The sides of the thistles were sharp as blades, and their tips were pointed like spears.

"Turn it off... Ahhh..."

Ahheman reached a trembling hand and grabbed them. He couldn't even pick out the slightly dulled thistles in the frantic rush of water. He simply grabbed onto anything he could get his hands on.

His hands were pierced, his fingers were mangled and worn, and his knuckles were torn. But it wasn't just his hands. His entire body was covered in thistles, cuts, and tears. His flesh was torn like fabric, and his body was dripping with blood. Saltwater and debris filled the gaping wounds, causing excruciating pain.

His insides were already deteriorating from being used by high-level Death Knights who were beyond his capabilities. Yet, despite this, the old shaman was still alive. He continued to reach and climb the thistles, seemingly terrified, or perhaps even stunned. He looked as though he had aged decades.

"Sa, save me... please save me..."

As he desperately moved his hands to climb the branches, pieces of flesh and guts dripped down the tree trunk with blood. The tree grew darker and darker.

Vikir looked at it, lost in thought.

Indeed, overall, he was certainly an extraordinary man. He had resurrected the legendary Adonai of Balak from the undead, though all his life force was gone, and he had managed to control several other Passing Knights simultaneously.

"Perhaps if he had solely devoted himself to magic, he would have reached the level of Adolph, the Lunatic of Morg."

However, it was a pity that he had awkwardly emulated a warrior to fit Balak's sentiments. Even with a dark magic skill of more than six circles, he was still playing the role of a warrior. Nevertheless, it showed how eager he was to blend into the atmosphere of Balak.

Vikir turned his gaze back to Ahheman. He climbed the thistles in fear, bleeding.

Seeing him suddenly brought back memories of when he first came to Balak's village many years ago. The prisoners of war climbing the thistles and the flames burning beneath them. Those condemned to the thistle tree had to climb it naked, their bodies covered in blood. They fell to their deaths at the base of the tree, bleeding to death or dying from burns.

Among the dead were men in charge of Baskerville and men in charge of Morg. It was especially poignant that in their final moments, they kept their mouths shut, though their eyes met Vikir's.

Vikir bowed his head silently for a moment, then raised it again and looked up at the flushed thistles. He had heard that it was Ahheman who had invented this terrible punishment, and now he was meeting his end through his own cruel torture method. In a way, Ahheman's true enemy was Ahheman himself.

Then, there was a hand on Vikir's shoulder. He turned to see Ahun standing there, his head bowed.

"Please, let me."

Was it the fact that he had disregarded Vikir's words before that troubled him? Ahun looked into Vikir's eyes and asked for assistance. When Vikir nodded, Ahun stepped forward.

He struck a flint to make sparks and soon ignited the oil and a little black powder he carried with him at the base of the thistle tree. Soon, a small ember caught and spread on the thistle.

Crackle!

The flames, flickering due to the moisture, soon spread upwards with surprising speed. The wet wood burned and emitted a lot of

smoke. Before long, red flames shot up like spears, reaching for Ahheman.

Pop, snap, pop, pop, pop!

The sound of burning wood was distinct. The flames ascended toward the top, engulfing Ahheman. The flames and smoke soon enveloped him, who had climbed halfway up the thistles.

No screams were heard.

The heroes of Balak watched the old shaman's final moments with mixed expressions on their faces. Remembering the past seventy years, they had cried and laughed at all his words, every gesture.

Pop, pop, snap, pop!

The smell of burning flesh was thick. The sound of sizzling fat permeated the air. Everyone was about to turn away.

"Hee-hee-hee-hee!"

Through the flames and dark smoke, something appeared. The fighters' eyes widened in astonishment, even Aquila.

There was a skeleton, burning brightly, shouting with fervor.

"Ahhhhhh.

No shaman, no hero, born in the body of an Extravagant and living in the mind of a Balak. A being whose flesh and the fat beneath it had now burned away.

He shook his flesh, which was now more like charcoal than a body, and screamed at the world.

"You will regret this! You'll regret putting me out like this...!"

The words he spat out after that were muted. Perhaps his tongue had been cooked, or the smoke he had inhaled had burned his lungs.

Ahheman struggled for a few more seconds after that, disintegrating into black powder like the Passing Knights he had commanded. He lifted his head and tried to see the village beyond the water in the distance. He couldn't see much through his fire-scorched eyes.

"...Return."

Chief Aquila ordered. The Balak fighters returned to the village, their bodies drenched with saltwater and exhaustion. Vikir and Aiyen did the same, slowly carrying each other back to the village.

A welcoming village. A community that should find peace now that its main enemy, Ahheman, is gone.

But.

When they returned to the village, the fighters finally understood what Ahheman had warned them about. Why he had laughed so much in his last moments, and why he had gone to look out over the village.

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