The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 93: The Ghosts of the Ancestors (5)

Chapter 93: The Ghosts of the Ancestors (5)

...Boom!

With a loud boom, the dam that held back the water burst.

The wooden boards collapsed and the river began to flood on a massive scale.

"Everyone up in the trees!"

Fortunately, Aiyen was quick to react, and there were few casualties in Balak.

As the river swept ferociously over everything, Balak's warriors climbed high into the trees to avoid it.

Those who were too slow to climb the trees managed to hold on to sturdy rocks and ride out the waves.

But. the Death Knights, standing in the distance, were unable to avoid the wave.

Crash! Crash!

The rushing water swept the Death Knights away in one fell swoop.

Of course, the Death Knights were strong enough to withstand the waves, but the problem... wasn't the waves themselves.

Tsutsutsutsutsutsutsuts...

The bodies of the Death Knights gradually turned to black vapor and began to disperse.

This was because the river water that was now flooding was a concentrated salt water.

By nature, the undead are weak to salt, which has the power to purify the unholy.

These salt rivers have long been home to saltwater fish, and even salt that is dissolved in water is effective against the undead.

The Death Knights resisted the salt, but they could not withstand such an overwhelming force.

Sanctification.

One by one, the bodies crumble to dust.

The bodies of their ancestors, returning to where they belonged, swept away by the flowing waters and scattered across the flooded land where they had been born and raised.

"...."

Aquila swallowed hard at the sight of Adonai's flesh dissolving in the salt water and being swept away.

It was unfortunate that the remains of her distant ancestors could not be properly recovered, but she was glad that the unholy energy had been cleansed.

Most of all, I am glad that the noble bodies of my ancestors were not spattered with the disgusting blood of Ahheman.

...And now.

The water level subsided.

It was the end of the rainy season, and the waters were no longer overflowing.

Balak's warriors descended to the bottom as the water receded.

The water was still up to their ankles, but it didn't interfere with their ability to walk on the ground.

Vikir followed suit as soon as the water level dropped.

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

With each step, the water rises to his ankles and the wispy grass tickles between his toes.

In the stagnant pools at the bottom, catfish and eels trapped by the current flailed and gasped for air.

Then.

Vikir spotted something.

An object, silently submerged in the water, wafting an eerie aura above the surface.

"Is that ...?"

It was a large bow.

Dark matte. Horns and thorns sprouting like teeth.

This black bow, without even a bowstring, must have been held by Adonai just a moment ago.

A weapon made from the carapace of a Madame Eight-Legged. At first glance, it was an unusual weapon.

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

"...."

Aiyen took it and cradled it in her arms. Then he ran to hand it to Aquila, who stood in the distance.

Meanwhile.

Balak's warriors were converging on a single location.

They were heading for a single thorny tree that stood tall in the middle of a wide open plain.

It stood alone, with no other large trees around, and its trunk was densely covered with countless thorns.

The warriors of Balak stood in a circle around the tree, and in unison they looked up.

Above them, they saw a familiar figure.

"Ugh... Ugh...."

This tenacious old man was hanging on, unable to be swept away by the rising waters of the river.

Just before the water washed over him, he climbed this thorny tree, scraping the ground with his hands and dragging his motionless lower half.

What could have led him to this harrowing path of suras?

The sides of the thorns were sharp as blades, and their tips were pointed like spears.

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

Ahheman reached out a trembling hand and grabbed them.

He couldn't even pick out the relatively blunt thorns in the mad rush of water.

He just had to grab whatever he could get his hands on.

The backs of his hands were punctured, his fingers were zigzagging and tattered, and his knuckles were falling off.

Needless to say, it wasn't just his hands.

The whole body was covered in thorns, cuts, and tears.

His flesh was torn like rags, and his body was dripping with blood.

Salt water and debris filled the gaping wounds, causing hellish pain.

His guts were already disintegrating from being used by high-level Death Knights who were out of their capabilities.

But despite this, the old shaman was still alive.

He continued to reach out and climb the thorns, seemingly frightened, or perhaps even dazed.

He looked as if he had aged decades.

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

As he desperately moved his hands to climb the branches, bits of flesh and guts were dripping down the tree trunk with blood.

The tree turning more and more gray.

Vikir stared at it, lost in thought.

"...."

Ah, well, in retrospect, he was certainly a remarkable man.

He had raised the mythical Adonai of Balak from the undead, even though all his life force was gone, and he had managed to wield several other Death Knights simultaneously.

'Perhaps if he had only devoted himself to magic, he would have been at the level of Adolph, the Madman of Morg.'

However, it was a pity that he had awkwardly imitated a warrior to match Balak's emotions.

Even with a black magic skill of more than six circles, he was still playing the part of a warrior.

But it proved how eager he was to blend into the atmosphere of Balak.

Vikir turned his gaze back to Ahheman.

He climbed the thorns in terror, bleeding.

The sight of him suddenly brings back memories of when he first came to Balak's village two years ago.

The prisoners of war climbing the thorns and the flames burning beneath them.

Those condemned to the thorn tree were forced 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 of burns.

Among the dead were men of the house of Baskerville and men of the house of Morg.

It is especially memorable that in their last moments, they kept their mouths shut, even though their eyes met Vikir's.

"...."

Vikir bowed his head in silence for a moment, then raised it again and looked up at the reddened thorns.

He had heard that it was Ahheman who had devised this horrible punishment, and now he was meeting his end by a brutal torture of his own making.

In other words, the real enemy of Ahheman was Ahheman himself.

Then.

"...I'll finish it."

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'd rejected Vikir's words earlier that bothered him? Ahun looked into Vikir's eyes and asked for a favor.

When Vikir nodded, Ahun stepped forward.

He struck a flint to create embers, and soon spread the oil and a little gunpowder he carried with him at the base of the thorn tree.

Soon, a tiny ember rises and falls on the thorn.

Crackle!

The flames, flickering due to the moisture, soon spread upwards with astonishing speed.

The wet wood burns and emits a great deal of smoke.

Soon, scarlet flames shot up like spears, pursuing Ahheman.

Crackle, crackle, crackle, crackle, crackle!

The sound of burning wood is loud.

The flames burned toward the top.

The flames and smoke soon engulfed Ahheman, who had languished halfway up the thorns.

No screams were heard.

"...."

The warriors of Balak watched the old shaman's final moments with mixed expressions on their faces.

Recalling the past seventy years, how they had cried and laughed at his every word, every gesture.

Crackle, crackle, crackle, crackle!

The smell of burning meat is thick.

The sound of sizzling fat was everywhere.

Everyone was about to turn away.

"Hee-hee-hee-hee!"

Through the flames and black smoke, something appeared.

The warriors' eyes widened in surprise. Even Aquila.

There was a skeleton, burning brightly, screaming with open arms.

"Ahhhhhh.

No shaman, no warrior, born in the body of a Rococo and living in the mind of a Balak.

A being whose flesh and the fat beneath it had already burned away.

He shook his flesh, which was already 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 muffled.

Not only had his tongue been cooked, but the smoke he'd inhaled had burned through his lungs.

Ahheman floundered for several more seconds after that. Disintegrating into black powder like the Death Knights he had summoned.

He lifted his head and tried to see the town beyond the water in the distance.

He couldn't see much of anything through his flame-cooked eyes.

"...Go back."

Chief Aquila ordered.

The Balak warriors returned to the village, their bodies soaked with saltwater and exhaustion.

Vikir and Aiyen did the same, carrying each other slowly back to the village.

A friendly village. A tribe that should be at peace now that its arch-enemy, Ahheman, is gone.

... But.

When they returned to the village, the warriors finally understood what Ahheman had warned them about.

Why he had laughed so much in his last moments, and why he had turned to look out over the village.