The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 305 Age of War Enthusiasts (7)

‘What’s this?’

Even with her eyes closed, Dolores felt an unprecedented sense of unease. And soon, that unease materialized through her ears.

“U-Ug-Uwa-Ugha”

How could she forget? This dreadful voice…

Unconsciously, Dolores blinked her eyes. What she saw in front of her was a familiar face, but a man with an unfamiliar appearance.

‘Humbert L Quovadis.’

He struggled towards Dolores with a muzzle on his mouth. With no hands, he was unable to free himself from the constraints.

Already wrapped in explosives all over his body, he was no different from other criminals who had become Sadi’s slaves.

Such a pitiful sight.

“Ah….”

Dolores, seeing Humbert, instantly froze in place. The man she had feared since becoming his adopted daughter. A person she feared and loathed to the point of encountering him even in the horrific masks of horrors pulled out by Dantalian.

But!

Suddenly, Dolores fiercely gritted her teeth. She couldn’t keep being afraid forever.

Even when she went to an Old Testament temple, she was trembling in fear and was saved by Night hound.

It was the same during the fight with Dantalian.

“Now I won’t be burdened by him anymore!”

For the first time, Dolores opened her eyes toward her father. The figure in front of her didn’t feel much threatening.

It was time to gather the courage to protect Night hound.

She wanted to give back even a little of what she had always received.

And at that moment, Dolores realized her own feelings.

A presence that gave her the courage and determination to face what she had been so afraid of.

And what she thought of that presence.

“Hey!”

She swung her fist towards Humbert’s approaching face,

Whack!

Humbert, with his white eyes turned upside down, fell backward.

The trauma and nightmares that had blocked Dolores her whole life shattered as easily as if they were nothing.

At the same time, a different white light began to explode from Dolores’ body enveloping Vikir.

“What!?”

Dolores widened her eyes. The soul distance between her and Night Hound remained the same, but what about her powerup?

She still knew nothing about him, but what was this? A tremendous amount of divine power, unlike before, was welling up in Dolores’ heart.

“Did you have an awakening?”

“Well, it seems so. It’s a bit strange to say it myself…”

Dolores answered Vikir’s question with a slightly nervous voice. Even she couldn’t grasp what kind of harmony this was.

Then, a strange sound suddenly came from behind.

“Ho ho ho – Yes, that’s natural.”

Dolores turned her head to find Pope Nabokov with a subtle smile, looking in their direction.

“Dolores, my child. Love is not something you can force by reducing the distance. It naturally seeps through even the most distant spaces. It naturally leaks, much like when you fill a broken jug with water.”

Vikir tilted his head, but Dolores had a look as if she had realized something.

‘Yes, the Pope did say something like this back then…’

She just heard a fragment of the conversation by the well…

“Natural is always the best…”

“What is natural? What does that mean?”

“Bottoms with cracks or holes should be left as is. Just use something bigger, and you can fill in the gaps. Hohoho-”

Love. Love is something that should flow naturally.

It transcends all gaps and distances—class, status, age, race, gender, and all other disparities.

Love is such a ting.

This natural process, called the ‘natural state,’ is not only essential for religious practitioners but also for non-believers as a crucial process of cultivating the mind.

“And the thing about love is, you can naturally understand it without someone telling you. Ho ho ho – It’s only natural for both young men and women.”

Listening to Nabokov’s voice, Dolores prepared her divine defense barrier.

There was no time to celebrate the success of the soul resonance.

…Boom!

Horn attacks kept on coming like lighting barrages.

The onslaught of Amdusias had begun fiercely.

“Ugh!”

Dolores felt pain in her wrist and grimaced. The strength contained in Amdusias’ horns and hooves was truly immense, even ‘Steel Maiden Dolores’ couldn’t easily block it.

[It would be better to step back. That guy is top-tier among the Ten demons in terms of attack power.]

Only after Decarabia, who had absorbed nearly half of Vikir’s aura, stepped forward did the balance on the battlefield barely equalize.

Pahat!

After retracting the defense barrier, Dolores concentrated all buffs on Vikir.

“…Certainly, it’s on a different level than before.”

Vikir admired the increased amount of aura and physical abilities. His Mid-Tier Swordmaster, at the peak of the 7th Style, barely touching 8th Style, had suddenly risen by one level.

It wasn’t his own strength, but it felt like forcibly breaking through the wall above..

“Now, I can perfectly implement the 8th style.”

The voice of Cane Corso echoed in his mind.

[Even after entering the realm of the master, only those who continue to run without stopping and with the same mindset as when they first picked up the sword will gain something.]

Baskerville’s 8th Style. A stage supported by intense survival instincts, a longing for life, and extreme combat experience.

The step in which someone who has lost and regained emotions embraces attachment to life on the verge of death .

Those who became Swordmasters rarely get opportunities to fight for their lives, and here is where their identity crisis arises.

Therefore, Cane Corso’s words were the most fundamental and closest to the correct answer.

In fact, reaching the level of the 8th Style could be considered a step that is difficult to experience without a senior guiding you, who’s himself at least a Mid-tier to High-tier Swordmaster.

Or it requires truly relentless effort.

And now, Vikir, after a fierce battle, is at the crossroads of life and death.

Although not a senior, he has a powerful supporter sending buffs with an earnest heart.

“Since the 9th Style is said to be a realm that cannot be reached in one’s lifetime, practically the power I can exert now, is the strongest in this realm.”

The strongest sword style, Baskerville 8th Style.

Vikir, who reached this level, thanks to Dolores’s protection, did not miss the timing.

…Flash!

Eight giant fangs clashed, soared, pierced, cut, tore, slashed, chopped, and smashed.

The unyielding aura extending from the demonic sword Beelzebub created eight storms that tore through everything.

[K-aaah!]

For the first time, Amdusias roared in agony.

The broken outer horn clashed with Vikir’s attack, creating a disharmonious sound.

In the intense tug-of-war with no clear dominance on either side.

Jjee-juk!

The first to start shaking was Amdusias.

Crack!

The cracks at the tip of the horn began to spread with a loud noise. The cracks, originating from numerous marks on the surface of the horn, eventually split the horn into three pieces.

Boom!

Amdusias, pushed backward with a thunderous explosion, showed a bewildered expression for the first time since he came to existence.

[This can’t be. How, how could a mere human…!?]

The mighty Amdusias had lost control.

At the same time, Winston, clenching his tingling head, opened his bloodshot eyes.

Meanwhile,

Kwack-woo-woo-woo!

Vikir, after splitting Amdusias’ horn, fell to the ground in a state of pain

“…Kuk.”

It seemed like hot blood would pour out in abundance if he opened his mouth.

An attack where all his strength was squeezed out.

And in that process, Vikir strained his neck.

‘9th Style… Does it really exist?’

The 8th Style is considered to transcend the realm of mortals and is one step beyond the acknowledged 7th Style as a level of superhumans.

Climbing to such a high level in a moment, Vikir did not waste time indulging in self-satisfaction as he looked down below.

Reaching such a high place, one might take a moment to look down below, but Vikir did not hesitate, and quickly raised his head to look above.

…And he found it.

The door of the ‘9th Style,’ located in a place so high and distant that it seemed impossible to reach.

…!

It was so high and far that one wouldn’t dare to think they could reach it. But whether it truly existed, and in what direction it was, was already a tremendous accomplishment.

[In one’s lifetime, it would be impossible to reach this level. The realm of the 9th Style lies beyond the threshold of death.]

According to Cane Corso, the realm of Swordmaster is limited to 8th style.

The 9th Style negates all understanding, empathy, acceptance, belief, common sense, causality, and reason of ordinary humans.

It is the territory ruled by absolute beings, for example the person who dominates the current Sword tomb. A realm that’s only possible to grasp after death.

However,

“I might be able to reach it.”

Vikir was trying to blaze a trail slightly different from the one Cane Corso had walked.

“…!”

The thought that he might be able to reach it is astonishing enough. Whether it truly exists and in what direction, the depth of such thoughts is immense.

Cane Corso’s voice echoed in Vikir’s mind again. The limit of humans is the 8th Style.

The realm of the 9th Style is beyond the threshold of death.

‘If it is death, I can experience it without dying. Surely, it’s a hidden ability of that damned demon before me!

Vikir staggered as he stood up, looking at Winston adjusting his posture and Amdusias on the ground.

“…The problem is time.”

Vikir rolled his eyes and gazed beyond the crumbling ruins.

A spot in the sky visible between the ruins indicated that the sun had just set.

Vikir requires a little more time because he is currently waiting for some sort of ‘event’.

“I need to call in a patriarch or hero figure from beyond the ruins… At the very least, if Donquixote or Usher heads come, it would buy us enough time.”

However, unfortunately, the collapsed debris perfectly shielded various areas, making it difficult to request support. Even Sadi, she fell victim to Amdusias and lost consciousness, making their luck exceptionally bad.

This, oddly enough, turned out to be an advantage for the just-recovered Amdusias.

[For a human, you’re quite remarkable. Honestly, I’m surprised, young demon hunter.]

Amdusias looked down at Vikir with a raised eyebrow. Winston, adjusting his posture, sent a sympathetic glance toward Vikir.

“But you, too, will eventually experience the same as me. You will deny God, humanity, and even yourself three times.”

The shadow of the one who abandoned both the devil and humanity loomed long. Vikir and Dolores, having exhausted all their strength in the recent clash, had no choice but to prepare for the inevitable.

… Just then.

“Ho-ho-ho. By the way, why have you been denying things three times since earlier?”

A voice with no tension whatsoever echoed. A small shadow slipped in front of Vikir and Dolores.

An elderly nun with a frail stature, who seemed as if she could collapse with a single touch.

Just as Dolores, with a tense expression, had no chance to step forward, the nun, still with a warm demeanor and a comfortable voice, opened her mouth.

“Are you talking about your mother?”