The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 149: Not Brother, But Uncle (1)

Chapter 149: Not Brother, But Uncle (1)

The volunteer work of the Golden Week has come to an end.

Everyone will return to the Academy tomorrow morning.

On their last night at the orphanage, the volunteer students gathered in the great hall to hear a speech from the orphanage's director, Guilty.

Resembling an old-time theater actor known for his eloquence, Guilty addressed the audience.

" ... So, our parents are working hard for you even at this very hour... but unlike you, the children in this orphanage have no parents... and so you, the wonderful people of the Academy, who should be an example to all, have become the guardians of these children... and these children will remember for the rest of their lives the grace you have shown them over the past ten days... and you are no different than the parents who have given birth to these children in your hearts...."

The tongue. It is only truly effective when it is attached to the demon's lips.

The demonic tongue is indeed the tongue of the demon, and it brought tears to the eyes of many students throughout the auditorium.

Guilty's speech reminded the volunteer students of the grace of their parents and made them feel, if only temporarily, a strong sense of compassion for the children of the orphanage.

It's not even funny.'

Except for Vikir.

In fact, Vikir knew that Guilty's speech was nothing more than a clever tapping into the feelings of respect and indebtedness that the Academy's students naturally have for their parents.

Proof of this was the giant donation box that appeared immediately after Guilty's speech.

"Now, show the children of our nursery the love you've felt for them these past ten days. As much as you've received from your parents, give to the children here!"

At Guilty's words, the students rushed to open their wallets.

Clink, clink, clink!

The sound of gold coins clinking together.

As much as the students of the Academy respect and love their parents, the coins are stacked on top of each other, forming a small mountain of gold.

...Of course, Vikir didn't pay a cent, because he didn't have any respect or love for Hugo.

Nor did he have any intention of donating anything to the demon.

Then.

Vikir was approached by someone.

It was Sinclair.

She tugged on Vikir's collar and said.

"Hyung. Aren't you paying?"

"...No money."

"Money? Why don't you have money? You're an Academy student."

Admission to the Academy required an enormous amount of tuition each year.

Sinclair looked a little angry and poked Vikir in the side.

"Don't you think you're being too harsh? The poor kids here have no parents, and we should help them."

That was the general reaction of the volunteer students.

Everyone except Vikir. I mean, Tudor, Sancho, Piggy... and even Bianca were all sobbing and dropping all their money in the donation box.

But Vikir shook his head resolutely.

"I don't need parents."

"Oh?"

Sinclair's eyes widened in disbelief.

Vikir added briefly.

"You have to navigate the world on your own anyway. Parents are only functional in childhood, when they are essential, but otherwise they are unnecessary."

In fact, Vikir didn't think the children in the orphanage were pitiful or needy in the first place.

Just as he had been born and raised as a hound in Baskerville, he didn't think the children in the orphanage needed a parent to help them through their childhood.

The "world" is full of pain, something to be fought and overcome, and "parents" are merely the initial guides to help with the first tutorials of that long battle.

It's a functional view, not an emotional one, but it's the way of parenting in Baskerville, where Vikir has lived his entire life, and in the Age of Destruction, where he's lived half his life.

And naturally, that perspective is somewhat unfamiliar to the average person in this day and age who hasn't lived through the Age of Destruction.

It's been said that those who have lived through war and those who have not will never understand each other, even in death.

Sinclair's gaze shifted slightly as he looked at Vikir.

From a curious, playful look to a sad, wistful one.

"Type ...."

Finally, Sinclair spoke up.

"You should come to my house sometime. For the holidays or something."

"...?"

"We can eat together."

Sinclair stood on tiptoe and stretched out his hand to stroke Vikir's head.

"...What are you doing?"

Vikir asked in disbelief, and Sinclair pulled his hand back with a snap.

The look of genuine embarrassment on her face told me that she hadn't even realized she was doing it.

"Uh... ... Well, then I'm done! I'm going to go see the kids! hyung! Really, let's have a meal later! Because I will buy it! Just make sure you're free when you get back from volunteering!"

She backed away in a huff, waved, and disappeared into the crowd.

"...What a weird girl."

Vikir frowned.

Memories of who Sinclair had been before the regression flashed through his mind.

A girl who didn't talk much, but smiled a lot. A girl who was reasonably friendly with everyone, but never really connected with anyone. A super genius who never missed the top spot in any of her written or practical exams during her four years at the academy. And the mysterious one who disappeared upon graduation, never to be seen again.

She was said to be of commoner descent, but strangely enough, nothing was known of her origins or background.

Vikir frowned.

'Come to think of it, one of the pieces of crap Sindiwendy sent me said, There's a royalty in the mix among this year's 20th batch of Academy newcomers... You mean...?'

Given Sinclair's good looks, talent, and strangely hidden background, it's not out of the question.

As Vikir was thinking about this.

The voice of the Mean Guilty comes back.

"Now, from now on, the children of our orphanage will be thanking their parents for giving birth to them with their hearts!"

Just then, a spotlight shines on the far side of the stage.

There, lined up in a row, are the children of the nursery, all dressed up and looking awkward and embarrassed.

Each and every one of them holds a crudely crafted wreath in their hands.

Guilty grinned from ear to ear.

"Now, children – let's thank them for being your parents for ten days, shall we?"

It's obvious that Guilty's plan is to use the kids as bait to scrape more donations out of the academy's inexperienced students.

But the heart and connection between the children who made the wreaths and the volunteers who were happy to wear them around their necks was genuine.

The children were excited to share their handmade bouquets and flower necklaces with their sisters, brothers, and older siblings, hoping that they would like them, and their sisters, brothers, and older siblings were overjoyed to receive their gifts.

Tudor, Sancho, Piggy, and Bianca hugged them tightly.

"Awww! I'm Tudor, I swear! I will come to you every week until the day I become a great hero, and of course after that!"

"In the North, we cherish our children most. The future of the empire depends on you. Do your best."

"Awww! I'll be back! Next time I come, I'll bring lots of goodies!"

"Well... ten days is a short time if it's short, and a long time if it's long. You've gotten yourself into a lot of trouble."

The children tied garlands around the students' necks and kissed them on the cheeks.

But.

"...."

Noticeably, the children were not coming closer to Vikir.

This was partly due to Vikir's blunt and cold demeanor, but the main reason was that he hadn't been in front of the children for the past ten days.

Cleaning the sewers, repairing the plumbing, tiling the cafeteria, maintaining the playground, etc.... Vikir always took care of the dirty work behind the scenes, so his activities went unnoticed.

Is that why? Vikir's community service scores, ratings, and image were quite low.

Then.

A little kid walked up to Vikir's side.

It was Nymphet.

"...."

"...."

Nymphet stared at Vikir.

Vikir stared at Nymphet, too.

Unusually, Vikir broke the silence first.

"...What do you see?"

Nymphet, somewhat hesitantly, held out what he'd been hiding behind his back.

It was a small, crudely made wreath.

"Mmm. Thank you."

Vikir took the wreath from Nymphet's hand.

Normally, he would bend down to the child's eye level and let the child tie the wreath around his neck, but Vikir had no such consideration.

Then, Nymphet grabbed Vikir's hand.

She moved her tiny fingers and wrote on Vikir's palm.

'Thanks for the ball, oppa.'

For your work in the sewers.

Vikir nodded once.

"You're welcome."

Vikir was unimpressed; he'd only done it to save Madame Eight-Legged's eggs.

Unexpectedly, the Nymphet was willing to continue the conversation.

"Will you come again?

For a moment, Vikir's pupils fluttered.

Next time. Would there be a next time?

Hounds prepare for death every moment.

They could be killed by their prey or boiled by their master.

So Vikir, like the other volunteers, didn't find the word "next" easy to say.

And Nymphet was no stranger to disappointment, especially with the increasingly less frequent volunteer visits.

After a moment's hesitation, Vikir finally nodded.

"As long as there is a 'tomorrow' for me and for you."

That was the most Vikir could promise.

Nymphet's eyes went wide for a moment.

Then Nymphet smiled wryly and nodded.

"I'll wait.'

In Vikir's parched palm, Nymphet's moist fingers plant a message of promise.

And then. It's kissing time.

All the other children kiss the cheeks of the other volunteers.

But neither Nymphet nor Vikir stood still, not particularly trying to bring their mouths and cheeks close to each other.

Finally, Vikir turned away.

"It's okay if we don't kiss. I don't like it either."

"...."

Nymphet was visibly flustered.

For some reason, Nymphet hesitates, fidgeting with its hands.

To Nymphet, Vikir had one last word.

"... ... and. "It's not 'oppa,' it's 'uncle.'"

For a thirteen-year-old girl, it was somewhat unfamiliar to hear her brother called Vikir.

Leaving a visibly disappointed Nymphet behind, Vikir turned to leave the auditorium on foot.

"Now, wait!"

Vikir would have done so, had it not been for Saint Dolores standing in his way.

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note: the tittle is Not Oppa but Ahjussi