Chapter 253: The Grave of Swords (1)
Vikir has entered the depths of the Red and Black Mountains.
From the Western Front at 207, he follows the ridge of the lowlands to the banks of the Salt River in the distance and sees a familiar place.
The village of Balak. It was once a place where Vikir had spent much of his time.
... But there was nothing here now.
Balak's warriors had moved deeper into the jungle after the events of Ahheman, and Vikir hadn't seen them since.
Even the occasional letters from Aiyen had ceased at some point, and there was no way to know their news.
'According to Cindiwendy's testimony, Balak's warriors did not show up for the trade, either. What happened to them?'
The natives of Jungle all hailed Vikir as a hero and were fully cooperating with the Cindiwendy's trade, but Balak was not among them.
Even the Cindiwendy were puzzled by the recent loss of contact with Balak.
But Vikir dismissed her concerns.
" ... They are not a people to be taken lightly."
There are many outstanding warriors in Balak.
Their leader, the night fox Aquila, is a fearsome force, and her daughter, Aiyen, is strong enough to cross into the realm of the dead at a young age, so they are not the ones to worry about.
'Once they cut off contact and hide, there is no way to find them here.'
They say no news is good news, so it was best to believe that we would hear from them again soon.
"For now, let's focus on finding the Wraith Tree."
Vikir snapped back to reality.
The Wraith Tree. It was an ancient artifact, a type of mana alchemy that was now the stuff of legend.
A tree of mana that took root in a mage's mind, nourished by the karma of the soul.
An incomprehensible being that feeds on abstraction and metaphysics and delivers its harvests to the material world.
It appears in a mythological book entitled The Return of the Magic Hound, an ancient text that tells the life story of Morg Tzersi, one of the old ancestors of the Mage head Morg.
The date of the myth's creation is unknown, but it is believed to have occurred during a time when the continent was a collection of small states before it was unified into a single empire.
The story has been passed down through the Morg family for so long that no one has given much thought to its authenticity.
But Vikir, who had seen the future, knew.
For when the Age of Destruction came, there was a being who had actually used this wraith tree.
'...Snake, King of the Dead. Contractor of Seere. The Wraith Tree was originally an ancient artifact that was supposed to fall into his hands.'
This man, now lost to history, was the one who was supposed to be the owner of the Wraith Tree.
Seere used Snake's body to control the Wraith Tree, which gave him terrifying powers.
On the surface, the Wraith Tree is nothing more than a dry, gnarled, dead tree.
But the plant feeds on the will of the dead, and after absorbing countless deaths and wraiths, the Wraith Tree grows trunks as tall as the world itself, and skull-like fruits dangle from its branches.
Wraith Tree seeds require a great deal of death to germinate.
As the Wraith Tree grows from the manure of countless wraiths, it hangs fruit at the end of its branches that contain the wraiths it has absorbed, and when eaten by humans, the wraiths' powers and skills become their own.
As such, a mage with a wraith tree planted in his or her soul is inevitably drawn to the black magic, and is bound to walk a path marked by countless blood and lives.
When the pre-regression Snake gained possession of the Wraith Tree, he turned the corpses of the countless dead he had killed into an army and consumed them all, turning their souls into fruit.
'... His mana was comparable to that accumulated by the once-in-a-millennium genius, Morg Camus, through natural talent and hard work.'
Their battles were of such magnitude that they shattered the sky and turned the earth upside down.
Vikir, a lowly officer, didn't dare to look them in the eye.
'An entire island was wiped out in their fight.'
Whatever.
In times of peace, the Wraith Tree would remain hidden as a seed or small bush; in times of war, it would grow into a mythical thing, its trunk and branches as vast as the mythical World Tree.
This time, I will need this Wraith Tree to add to the power of my allies.
Therefore, it was essential to get it first before the Age of Destruction arrived.
'Seeing as I am attracted to this, it seems that Pomeranian qualities are considerable.'
To show such obsession and affection for something that a normal black mage would never dream of, Pomerianian certainly has the potential to be a great black mage.
After all, there's something to be said for having a connection with an ancient artifact like this.
...Chak-chak!
Vikir jumped down from under a large tree using the young madam's thread.
"From here."
Vikir's current destination was a deserted area deep beneath the jungle.
It was an unusual desert with vast expanses of white sand.
The Yuuni Desert. A salt desert, one of the driest deserts in the world.
An area dominated by extreme dryness that doesn't allow for even the slightest bit of moisture.
All that can be seen is white, salty salt and withered vegetation.
Hmph.
Vikir bent down and dug his fingers into the white sand at the bottom.
When I finally removed my finger, I saw that the tip of my finger was severely wrinkled.
It was a grotesque salt sand that sucked the moisture out of everything it touched.
Long ago, this vast salt desert was created from the dried tears of an evil god, and this salty dry season has claimed the lives of countless creatures.
The mummified corpses of countless monsters lay strewn across the white sands as proof.
Vikir walked in the center of this salt desert for a while.
Then he spotted something quite remarkable.
"...!"
It was the remains of a giant monster, nothing but bones and skin.
Danger Rating: S
Size: 44 meters
Found in: Ridge 10, Red and Black Mountains
-Named the Dragon of the Saha river.
A terrifying creature believed to be a hybrid of a dragon and a demon.
Its breath causes birds in the sky to fall to their deaths, and where its scaly body once crawled, a place becomes a desert where no grass grows for half a century.
Its mere existence is a terrible disaster, but for some reason it seems to have made its home on the Tenth Ridge of the Red and Black Mountains, where it has remained motionless.
The moment it moves, mankind must be prepared.
No amount of spear and magic can slay this fierce terror!
Three disasters outside the world.
Adonai the Archer, Madame Eight-Legged, and the final one, the Basilisk, the dragon of Saha.
"I was worried that this thing would go on a rampage after Madame disappeared, but... why is it dead here?"
Basilisks and spiders are not natural enemies.
In this way, Madame and Saha have been bitter enemies for a long time.
With each holding the other in check, neither could move easily, and with Madame Eight Legs gone, I expected that the other side would become stronger.
... but?
"I was going to go hunting anyway, but you've relieved me."
I hadn't expected to find a basilisk lying dead in a place like this.
The hunt had been carefully planned out.
Vikir carefully examined the basilisk's corpse.
It did not appear to have died at the end of its life.
Not only was it much smaller than the ones Vikir had seen during the Age of Destruction, but it was also clearly riddled with sword marks.
Wounds were evident where the sword had torn through leather, dug into flesh, and broken bones, and where the wounds had rapidly regenerated due to the basilisk's immense regenerative powers.
The scorch marks from the aura around it were also clearly visible.
The thick scales of the basilisk were densely covered with marks that looked like liquid splashes, indicating that the man must have been a highest level Graduator.
As I retraced all of these trajectories, a clear pattern emerged.
'The Baskerville Four!'
It seems that long ago, a hound of the Baskervilles fought a lonely battle here.
Vikir searched the area around the basilisk's corpse.
Sure enough, not far from the basilisk's corpse, the tattered remains of a black wind whipped about.
A skull worn down by the cold wind.
The tattered uniform of a Baskervillian lay on the white salt sand.
His thick cloak was unmistakably a symbol of his affiliation with the Pitbull Knights.
A knight of the Baskervilles, long dead and unrecognizable.
Judging by the fact that he only had four teeth at the time of his death, he was probably from a lesser background.
However, he practiced the 4th Form for so long that he was able to single-handedly slay the Dragon of Saha.
Vikir was silent for a moment as he looked at the ashes, as if he were seeing himself before his regression.
Then he turned to the nameless pit bull in front of him and said a silent prayer.
" ...Go to a good place."
Then, the gold badge symbolizing the Senator was carefully laid down in front of the remains.
It was as much respect as Vikir could muster.
Then.
"...?"
Something caught Vikir's eye as he bent to pay his respects.
A flutter.
Something was visible between the ribs of the ashes.
It was a bundle of parchment that looked very old. It was a letter addressed to someone.
The seal was red, indicating that it was a top-secret military secret, written by the head of House Baskerville himself.
"...Is this Hugo's?"
The letter had been buried in dry salt, so it was very well preserved.
Without hesitation, Vikir broke the seal and opened it.
Soon, the contents of the letter began to be etched into Vikir's retina.
...It was quite an eye-opener.
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