Chapter 257

Chapter 257

[Translator – Clara]

[Proofreader – Lucky]

Chapter 257: Sword Tomb (3)

From Cradle to Tomb.

A life governed solely by the blade—that’s the existence of the Baskerville hunting dogs, members of the Ironblooded Sword Clan.

“True Baskervilles are born in the ‘Cradle of Blades.'”

Everyone in the world knew about this fact.

...However, within the legends passed down within the family, there was a continuation of this story.

“True Baskervilles die in the ‘Tomb of Swords.'”

This was a faded inscription found on an old page of a history book. An ancient myth that everyone deemed fictional.

But the moment Vikir discovered this place, the ‘Sword Tomb,’ he sensed something different.

Among the proverbs handed down in the Baskerville family, there was not a single falsehood. Quite literally, ‘from the cradle to the tomb.’ The path of Baskerville is entirely made up of blades.

Vikir once again realized that it was the destiny of the Ironblooded Sword Clan hunting dogs.

Thump, thump, thump—

Vikir ascended the steep stairs inside the tower.

Each step resembled a sharp spearhead, rising high. If one were an ordinary person, they might not have recognized these as stairs.

While the inside of Mage Tower was mysterious, beautiful, and dreamlike, this tower was a desperately desolate, suffocating, and lonely space.

With every step, the feeling of flesh being cut by the surrounding granite and metamorphic rocks, rusted swords embedded here and there—numbing and slicing away.

Prickling sensations—countless blade tips, relentless sharp glares.

As he ascended, the feeling that his entire body was gradually shrinking overwhelmed him.

Worn away, carved, and chipped step by step, the stairs seemed to demand a heavy toll to climb.

If Vikir were not a Swordmaster, he would have died the moment he entered, with his entire body turned into minced meat.

Eventually, Vikir reached the upper part of the tower.

Countless blades were stabbed in, resembling the scenery of the ‘Cradle of Blades,’ but here, the atmosphere was much more brutal and sharp, filling the empty space.

...This was because of the old man seated on the central throne.

A throne of iron formed by sharp blades.

And there, a man in thick iron armor, with a long flowing gray beard, sat.

Under gray eyebrows, the place that should have been white was filled with empty darkness, and in the center, coldly burning, were red pupils that seemed like the finest rubies.

“...!”

Vikir quickly discerned the identity of this old man.

Cane Corso Le Baskerville.

Reading the book [The Return of the Magic Hound of Morg]. one can understand. Ghostwood grows here.

Furthermore, thanks to Vikir’s past life knowledge, he knew that Ghostwood was present in the Yuni Salt Desert.

Vikir recalled scenes from his past life...

‘At that time, countless lives were sacrificed to prevent Ghostwood from falling into the hands of demons.”

And using the lives sacrificed, Ghostwood grew even larger.

A tree that covered the entire desert, even more massive and taller than the entire range of the Red and Black Mountains.

It seemed like seeing the World Tree from mythology beneath the twisted branches that spread throughout the mountains.

Underneath, countless fruits were hung on the grotesque branches.

The fleshy fruits, shaped like dangling skulls, were filled with mana from the lower dimension, spurting out with blood-like juice when demons took a big bite. Simultaneously, agonizing screams filled with pain echoed loudly.

Ghostwood Fruits. Spectral Flesh.

When a demon devoured the fruit in one bite, thick mana from the lower dimension gushed out along with the blood-like juice, creating a painful scream, “Kyaahh,” reminiscent of a row of corpses hanging by their necks.

The Demons, who were all dying, would be again ready to fight and were more powerful than before, as a single bite of Spectral flesh would completely revive them.

The Ghostwood provided tremendous strength to the demon legions, simultaneously turning into a catastrophe for the Human Alliance.

“...”

Vikir concluded his reminiscence.

To his surprise, behind the Iron Throne of countless assembled swords, something obscure came into view.

That was it. That was the Ghostwood.

Other than that, there seemed to be no tree worthy of being called Ghostwood in the world.

A tree nourished by the resentment, cries, and despair of the dead. The skeletal-shaped fruit, filled with the power of the deceased, grew from the nourishment of hatred and agony.

The way it branched and climbed was so eerie that it sent chills down Vikir’s spine, even someone like him.

Still small, but given time, it would cast a shadow darker and larger than any other shadow in this world.

On the other hand, Cane Corso raised his head. In a voice as heavy as molten lead, he spoke.

“This is the Sword Tomb. The place where those who pursue the essence of the sword eventually come.” His black eyes with ruby-like iris, made him look young and handsome.

Vikir’s curious expression was noticed.

“...Kid, who are you?”

Cane Corso was much older than Hugo and technically Vikir’s great-uncle.

But he didn’t bother respecting the family’s laws or hierarchy. That’s why he could unsheathe his sword so freely.

“Find out for yourself.”

Vikir had only one interest: the path to Baskerville 8th Style and the Ghostwood fruits blossoming behind the Iron Throne.

[Translator – Clara]

[Proofreader – Lucky]