Revenge of the Iron-blooded Sword Hound

Revenge of the Iron-Blooded Sword Hound Chapter 402

Revenge of the Iron-Blooded Sword Hound Chapter 402

[Translator – Clara]

[Proofreader – Lucky]

Chapter 402: Black Tongue (4)

Vikir carried the fallen Kirko into her room.

Creak, creak, clunk!

Despite pulling the door handle, it only made a loud noise without opening properly.

It seemed the latch was rusted with salt, causing it to corrode heavily.

“…Living in such dismal quarters.”

Vikir clicked his tongue. It was the norm for lower-ranking guards to live in such conditions.

Until recently, Vikir himself had lived in quarters meant for lieutenants and below.

Opening the door to the windowless stone chamber revealed a sparse scene with only a desk and a bed.

Kirko laid on the hard, clean bed, groaning.

It was the result of a blow from Black Tounge, compounded by the side effects of releasing too much mana at once.

“…”

Vikir silently looked down at her.

Suddenly, he recalled the words of Captain Bastille when Kirko was promoted to lieutenant.

“What a strange fate. Truly peculiar. In the end, Children do resemble their parents.”

He had muttered this upon seeing Kirko, who had ended up with Black Tounge.

Perhaps it was because he knew her past.

Kirko’s parents were tools used to deepen the emotional divide between prisoners and guards,

“…Now I understand why the name Kirko wasn’t known.”

Kirko undoubtedly possessed exceptional talent and qualities.

She could grow into a hero on par with Camus or Dolores.

Yet, despite all this, the reason Vikir had never heard her name in the world before his return was simple.

“Because she would have been murdered before becoming a hero. By Black Tounge.”

Kirko was born and raised in the worst place, Nouvellebag.

And she fought with the psycho, Black Tounge.

Perhaps these two factors would prevent her from leaving a legacy in the future.

Vikir looked back at Kirko, lying on the bed and groaning.

“… … …”

Even in her unconscious state, Kirko clenched her lips tightly, suppressing her groans.

Her sweat had completely soaked her bed..

Vikir let out a small sigh.

…Tap.

Vikir’s hand rested on Kirko’s stomach.

Tss, tss, tss…

Aura flowed from body to body.

Through his hand, Vikir transferred a bit of his aura to Kirko.

Kirko’s facial expression, contorted in pain, seemed to relax slightly.

“She leaped into a higher realm too abruptly. That’s why becoming a Graduator driven by emotions like anger isn’t ideal.”

Kirko became a graduator fueled by her anger towards Black Tounge.

Such awakenings were, in fact, not particularly good for the body. Just as muscles tear when subjected to unbearable weight or a fall from a great height, mana behaves similarly. An awakening triggered by explosive anger forcibly expands the mana-carrying veins to the point of bursting.

While one may momentarily exert great strength, the subsequent side effects resemble those of mana surges.

Kirko was super lucky.

It was like a chimpanzee, clueless about music, randomly pressing keys on a piano and somehow managing to play a classic symphony.

‘Still, it’s fortunate. Turning misfortune into fortune, what comes next is up to her.’

Kirko, who should have been killed by Black Tounge, survived thanks to Vikir. How this would play out in the future was unpredictable.

Vikir stabilized Kirko’s vital signs and harmonized the flow of mana within her. This act of kindness was uncommon, and had Vikir not been a Swordmaster, he might not have attempted it at all.

Then, a discovery.

“…!”

While probing Kirko’s body, Vikir noticed something peculiar. Mana flowing from his body to Kirko’s, mending the internal wounds and holes in her vital energy, gradually building up.

But there was one hole, resistant even to Vikir’s mana, through which the accumulated mana and vitality leaked out again.

“What’s this?”

Vikir felt uneasy and began to trace the flow of mana leaking out.

“…! …! …!”

As Vikir’s mana sought out the leaking hole, Kirko’s expression contorted in increasing discomfort. The cold sweat persisted, and her agonizing groans grew louder. Kirko clenched the sheets tightly, arching her back in pain, but Vikir continued manipulating mana, paying no heed.

Eventually, he pinpointed the source of the leak.

Thunk—

Vikir laid Kirko flat and tore her uniform at the waist. There, on her lower abdomen, where Black Tounge’s palm had last touched, the flesh was turning black and dying. And in the center, a black leech was visible, like a round, dark egg attempting to take root in Kirko’s belly.

“How intriguing.”

Vikir immediately recognized what it was. It resembled the wriggling creatures found in the chamber where Black Tounge resided.

Astonishingly, this larva-like creature was growing larger with each feeding on Kirko’s blood and mana.

Squelch…

Hands, feet, and a head formed, soon followed by facial features. Its appearance was eerily reminiscent of a miniature Kirko.

Feeding on mana and blood, it grew to a size and appearance resembling Kirko in her youth, entirely black from the head to toe.

‘If left unchecked, it might birth a black monster identical to Kirko… However…’

“Fascinating power,” Vikir muttered. He forcefully detached the creature from Kirko’s abdomen and sealed the wound with his healing abilities.

Snap!

The creature, now on the floor, succumbed under Vikir’s military boot.

“…”

Finally, Kirko’s complexion eased. The cold sweat ceased, and her irregular groans and breaths subsided.

Quietly, Vikir murmured, “Have you ever heard of such creatures, draining blood and mana, and transforming into their likeness?”

[No. This is the first time,] replied Decarabia, nestled in Vikir’s chest.

Even Vikir, who was an experienced demon hunter, was unfamiliar with such a creature.

Even Decarabia, who had lived for centuries, had encountered or heard of it.

“Perhaps a new breed developed by Black Tounge here in Nouvellebag.”

Though unique creatures like “bone-sucking mosquitoes” exist on the surface, none could steal both strength and appearance from their adversaries.

[Hahaha… If this creature were known on the surface, it would cause quite a stir, wouldn’t it? Its potential is limitless. Even demons would covet it.]

This was an entirely new kind of creature, unknown even to demons. If Decarabia spoke with such certainty, then it must be true.

Vikir’s eyes gleamed. For the first time since arriving in Nouvellebag, he desired something. He began plotting to obtain the eggs of these creatures bred and raised by Black Tounge, separate from his official mission of escape.

“Let’s devise a plan to obtain as many of these eggs as possible… separate from the escape route, of course.”

To do so, he must first deal with Black Tounge, who might hinder his escape.

Since he was a dangerous figure with an unclear identity, status, and affiliation, there was no reason to keep him alive. Vikir hoped that disposing of him would positively impact Kirko’s future. A sense of indebtedness partly influenced this sentiment. After all, she was Garam’s first and last love.

As Vikir was about to rise from the bed…

Suddenly, Kirko grabbed his sleeve. She looked at him with faint eyes, indicating she hadn’t fully regained consciousness yet. She seemed to hover between dream and reality.

“Garam,” she whispered, still in an informal tone.

Kirko’s dry lips quivered as she expressed gratitude. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Vikir replied dryly, attempting to turn away.

But…

“Don’t leave, please?” Kirko pleaded, as if releasing something held within her.

The specter of loneliness. A child born and raised here. A woman with nowhere else to lean on.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Kirko confessed.

Vikir silently regarded her plea.

‘I want to leave this place.’

Suddenly, he recalled the words written at the end of every page in Garam’s diary.

‘With her.’

However, Vikir shook his head. He wasn’t Garam. Nouvellebag was just a transient stop on his journey; he still had a long way to go before reaching the final stage.

“You won’t be alone,” he assured her.

And so, Vikir could only offer these words:

“Perhaps…”

By the time Vikir finished his last sentence, Kirko’s hand, which had been gripping his sleeve, had fallen limply to the bed.

…

Kirko had already closed her eyes, slipping into a deep slumber. Vikir ensured once more that her complexion and breathing were completely calm before leaving the room.

Thud—

The door, which had been briefly ajar, closed shut.

The latch was considerably looser than when he first opened it.

[Translator – Clara]

[Proofreader – Lucky]