Chapter 492

[Translator - Clara]

[Proofreader - Lucky ]

Chapter 492: The Hound Runs (3)

When you close your eyes, you can hear the sound of the waves.

Though the sky and sea are both shrouded in darkness, the coarse sand that slips between your toes is unmistakably felt.

As the waves crash upon the shore, your frail wrist trembles.

Even the small amount of sand you held in your hand is washed away by the waves.

I cry and try to hold onto it, but nothing comes back.

Not the waves, not the sand, not even the tears.

With a mouth sewn shut, I ask:

"God, is there no way to hold onto them more tightly?

Is there no way to save even a handful from these cruel waves?

What I hold in my hands now—or perhaps what I think I hold—is it all just a dream within a dream?"

The one I love watches my lament from above the sandbank.

With a sewn mouth, I say:

"My dear, when I disappear, do not sing a sad song.

Do not plant the red spider lily or the blue Higanbana by my bedside.

Just place a knife, sharp enough to weather the storms and years, in front of my grave.

And if you ever have the time, please remember me.

But even if you forget, there's nothing that can be done.

For I will not be able to hold your congested heart or listen to the bruised cry in your throat.

Following the owl's sorrowful wail steeped in despair,

I might wither away, dreaming, buried in the dawn's twilight.

And at some moment, suddenly and by chance, I may remember your beloved face.

Or perhaps I might forget."

* * *

"...!"

Vikir snapped out of the daze that had overtaken him.

For a moment, his legs almost gave way.

It is said that the heaviest thing in this world is an eyelid.

Vikir felt his entire mana drain away like the ebbing tide.

He felt a chill. His fingers and toes were so cold they felt as if they might break off.

Never before had the demon sword, Beelzebub, protruding from his wrist, felt so heavy and rough.

...Thud!

The vibration that transmitted through the ground, this overwhelming weight.

It was not something that Vikir’s body had created.

And of course, even in such a situation, Vikir never knelt to the ground.

What fell to the floor was the head of a demon.

Andras.

The first corpse. The Marquis of Discord. The final adversary. The last demon.

The owl's head fell to the ground, spraying thick blood.

Vikir’s ninth style was so powerful that the cut on its neck showed no sign of regeneration.

No, in fact—

Crack, crumble—

Looking at the petrified and crumbling wound, it was clear that regeneration was no longer possible.

Andras was truly dying.

Soul and body, both on the brink of oblivion.

"...Did I do it?"

Vikir muttered unconsciously.

At that moment.

[Human! Don’t say such ominous things! It might come back to life!]

Decarabia hurriedly covered Vikir’s mouth.

Vikir let out a dry chuckle.

The idea that the story continues right after sensing the end was a well-worn cliché, a popular trope.

But this time, no such predictable event occurred.

Andras had expended all of his final strength and ended up self-destructing from within.

Moreover, being struck by the Ninth style, the ultimate technique of the Baskerville family, his soul was likely torn to shreds.

Indeed.

The world beyond the dimensional gate was the world where Vikir had died.

The hound, who had gained a new body in this world, was now preparing to cross over to that world once again.

Yet, deep down, Figgy seemed to hope that Vikir wouldn’t return to that other world.

“If you go back, you’ll never be able to return here. The ties of fate will be severed. It will be a farewell forever.”

This world had almost fully regained its peace.

The storm of catastrophe had ended as soon as it began, and even the great flood would soon disappear.

The demons were annihilated.

Many people survived, and the demon beasts and monsters would all perish.

“All that’s left for you is to live out a happy life with those who follow you. There’s no need to return to that harsh world you came from, is there?”

Figgy was right.

That other world was teeming with sixty-two demons far more powerful than even the Ten Great Calamities.

It was a world where an even more horrific destruction and apocalypse, far worse than any Vikir had ever experienced, was rampant.

It would be a hellish landscape of unimaginable horror.

Figgy spoke again, urging him.

“Some of them still haven’t given up on this world. I can feel them converging on this last dimensional gate.”

The final gate, created by Andras before his death.

An intense malevolence was surging toward this passage.

If the gate wasn’t closed soon, something truly terrifying might cross over.

Something far more powerful and evil than all the Ten Great Calamities combined.

Vikir hesitated.

Just then, distant voices echoed in his mind.

“Annihilation! We’re being wiped out!”

“We can’t hold on any longer!”

“Retreat! Retreat!”

“Damn it! There’s nowhere left to retreat to!”

“God, save your children in their hour of peril...”

From beyond the gate, anguished screams echoed through.

They were the dying cries of comrades left behind in the age of destruction—the final remnants of humanity.

Among them were a few familiar voices.

“All Morg units! We’ll fight to the end here!”

“Don’t lose faith until the very end, everyone!”

“Haha... Gold and money are worthless now, aren’t they?”

Vikir made his decision.

“I can’t just walk away after hearing the voices of my still-living comrades.”

He was going back. To the world he originally came from. He would return.

He knew he would have to walk the thorny path he’d already traversed once more.

No, this time it would undoubtedly be an even longer and harsher pilgrimage.

But still, the hound would go. Bloodied, limping, yet determined.

Hearing Vikir’s resolve, Figgy closed his eyes, as if he had expected this.

“Of course. That’s just like you.”

Vikir said nothing in response, merely nodding once.

Finally.

Vikir ascended the steps.

He climbed the half-destroyed throne and the crumbling stairs with determination.

Soon, he stood before the last dimensional gate remaining in this world.

Beyond it lay the world of severed necks.

A timeline marred by blood and disgrace.

Vikir turned his head and met Figgy’s gaze.

Figgy nodded with a sad smile.

The Night Hound, Vikir van Baskerville, was returning to his original world.

It was truly time to cross over.

Just then—

“Where do you think you’re going?!”

A voice shouted, grabbing Vikir by the collar just as he was about to step through the gate.

[Translator - Clara]

[Proofreader - Lucky ]