The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 43: The Fiancée (1)

Chapter 43: The Fiancée (1)

A Morg supernova.

The only daughter of Morg Respane, the patriarch of the house.

Bloodline for bloodline, talent for talent, personality for personality, looks for looks.

No one can doubt that she will be the future head of Morg's household.

'And yet a child of fifteen.'

Vikir lifted his head and looked beyond the barrier of fire and the dead pool of skewers.

Morg Camu. She stood in an arrogant pose, looking down.

Her three sisters, sprawled out on the floor, tremble at the sight of her.

"Oh, it's a camel, sisters..."

"Ooohhh, they're just trying to ward off intruders..."

"They started the fight!"

Highsis, Middlesis, and Lowsis are a year older than Camu.

But they were crushed by the overwhelming force of Camu's strength, unable to catch their breath.

It was an unusual sight for the Morg, a martial arts family where the hierarchy between siblings is strictly based on age and achievement.

And then. Camu smiled seductively.

"Camu, are you talking to me, sisters?"

"Hic! Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!"

"Get out of the way. If you don't want to be like that."

The camel stretches out a finger in annoyance.

There, impaled on iron skewers, burned corpses lined the border.

It became clear who had created this murderous landscape.

"Gah!"

The three sisters fled, shaken by the words of their one-year-old brother.

An eerie silence falls over the battlefield as they disappear.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Even the Baskervilles' triplets, who had just bared their teeth, cowered before the camel.

Then the camo reined in his horse and rode toward the Baskervilles.

She stopped exactly in front of Vikir, locked eyes with him, and opened her mouth.

"Welcome, partner."

She was referring, of course, to the joint operation against the demons and barbarians that was about to unfold.

* * *

After seven years, Morg's straight face had changed quite a bit.

The freckles on his face are gone, and his wisdom teeth are gone.

Her cheeks were still plump from lack of milk, but she was already showing signs of what she would grow into and how beautiful she would be.

Vikir recalled her appearance from a distance a few times before her regression.

"She must have been about thirty, and she was pretty.

'Dazzling' could not have been a more apt description of her beauty, a beauty that even Vikir, who had never cared much for a woman's appearance, admired.

With all the love letters and marriage proposals coming in from Camu, Morgha would have enough firewood for the winter.

And the Camoos themselves enjoyed the situation.

She had all the ladies by the skirts and was involved in scandals here and there.

It was a strategic move, of course.

While she despised the men who clung to her beauty, she played with their minds, fomenting rivalries and conflicts between the houses, and absorbing all the byproducts into the Morg's service.

In a highly political move, she refused to give her heart or body to any man until the end, which made all men crave her love all the more.

She ruled over countless captive men.

She greatly multiplied Morg and revolutionized the war against the demons.

... but.

This was before the regression.

In this life, the Camouflage is somehow less scandalous.

She is surprisingly quiet, considering that by the time she turned 15, she was already managing fisheries for the imperial family, as well as the other powerful men of the other six families.

Rumor has it that she is not seeing a single man, despite her age.

"I don't understand.

Vikir reined in his horse with a bit of puzzlement.

Beside him, Camus reined in his horse, following closely behind.

"So this is not how things are in Baskerville, .... The damage done by the barbarian tribes is... so we've sorted them out, and in Morg, we've decided to forge an alliance with Baskerville against them...."

He rambled on and on.

Vikir didn't say much, other than a few dry chuckles.

Camu turned to Vikir and asked.

"Apparently, the Baskervilles don't know much about the enemy and the barbarians of the Black Mountains, do they?"

"Of course not. They fight them all the time, and they should know better than you."

"Then why did you send only your own men, all of whom are young and raggedy hounds?"

Camouflage had finally realized the quality of Baskerville's envoys.

Vikir was about to reply that they were Moors, but then he shut his mouth.

It had already been agreed with Morg that Baskerville's true 'home' lurked in the mountains on the other side.

"What do you ask when you know?"

The camo chuckled.

"I was just wondering if you knew about it."

"Of course I know, it's a family affair, and I'm in charge of the mission here."

"It could have been a scarecrow used as a discard pawn within the House, but I get it now."

Camu urged his horse forward, toward Vikir.

He looked back at Vikir and smiled.

"That you are quite trusted within the clan."

The camo continued with his questions.

"Do you know which of the barbarian tribes is the most troublesome?"

Of course I don't. It was one of Vikir's primary duties to search out and destroy the enemy and the Black Mountains before returning home.

"From Morg's perspective, it would be the Balak, a warrior tribe, and the Rokoko, a shaman tribe."

The Balak are the most common warrior tribe in the Borderlands, and while their numbers are small, each member of the tribe is a powerful warrior, making them a headache for Baskerville.

"Their archery is far more powerful than that of the Empire, and its principles are not well understood."

"Hmm. That's right, they're a mysterious people."

Camu nodded, then looked back at Vikir, his eyes shining.

"You're very knowledgeable about the ecology of savage tribes. Eight points."

"Huh."

"On a scale of one hundred, you're flunking."

Camu stuck out his tongue, and Vikir frowned slightly.

"I answered well, so why is your score like that?"

"Because you answered well."

"...?"

When Vikir still looked puzzled, the camel grinned, a wry smile curving the corners of his mouth.

"What's a man to do with being smart?"

"...?"

"I don't like smart men, Zagoro males are supposed to be dumb."

Apparently, the mindset that had gripped and shaken so many men before the regression wasn't going anywhere.

Vikir spurred his horse faster, as if he didn't deserve an answer.

But the camouflage followed him, giving him a long list of ratings.

"Horsemanship, six. Maybe it's because you're shorter than me, but you're riding a horse that's too big for you."

"...."

"Fashion 4. Your clothes are too drab."

"...."

"No answer? 1 point for manners."

"...."

"Well, your face is a 99. You've grown up nicely. But I'm deducting one point for not managing your facial expressions."

My ears began to burn from listening.

Vikir cut him off.

"Stop giving me stupid grades."

"Why is it useless?"

"And where is it useful?"

"Of course it's for our future, isn't it?"

Our future?

At Vikir's incredulous look, Camu shrugged and puffed out his chest.

"You're my future husband, so I'm going to weigh in."

"...."

"If I'm flirting with you, then you should evaluate me too, right?"

"...."

"No, I'd rather be judged, because I need to know what you think of me."

Vikir asked in disbelief.

"Why do you think I'm your husband?"

"Why? You passed your uncle's test the other day."

As Vikir thought about what he was saying, he remembered a time when he had competed against Morg's deputy, Adolf.

At the time, Adolf the Mad had a jar of water on his head, and Viktor had broken his sword at the end of the duel and used the shards to break the jar, passing Adolf's test.

'... But that was already seven years ago.'

But now he was saying it as if it had happened yesterday.

Camu shuddered and said

"How could my uncle judge my husbandliness by such a crude test! He made that promise in front of everyone, and now I'm a married woman, but what can I do? A promise is a solemn law! I have to obey it, even if I don't want to. I'll obey it, I'll obey it, I'll obey it...!"

No one said anything, but he was burning hot.

Vikir watched and thought.

"What an accomplished fire mage.

If he had mastered fire magic to the extreme, would he be able to spontaneously combust like that?

Vikir was mildly curious.

Anyway, that's that and this is this.

It would do no good to go against the wishes of the woman who was to become the head of Morg's household, so Vikir was considerate of Camu.

"Forget what happened that day. I'll pretend it never happened."

For a moment, the camel stiffened.

Vikir watched and thought.

"A paralyzing spell? That's amazing for a moment. But why did he cast it on himself?

Sometimes wizards could do things you couldn't understand.

I didn't really care, but diplomacy dictates that I should at least ask what's going on.

Vikir had just opened his mouth to say.

"Hey, how do you make something that wasn't there, make something that was!"

Camu suddenly screeched.

For the first time since his regression, Vikir panicked.

He had just opened his mouth to say something.

"I know because I'm a genius and I never forget what I've seen!"

With the camo's shout, something flew into Vikir's face.

A shredded piece of cloth. It was a blood-red robe, the size of an eight-year-old's.

Boldly emblazoned with the Baskervilles' sigil, it was the cloak Vikir had once used to cover the naked camo.

Seven years old, the cloak still smelled faintly of that day's sweat.

Holding it in his hand, Vikir scowled at the camel as it moved away.

"... You're giving it away without washing it.