Chapter 2: Hell Hound (2)

Vikir slowly opened his eyes, confusion and disorientation clouding his mind. His body felt weak, drained of all mana and strength. "Where am I?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.

As he surveyed his surroundings, a terrible realization dawned on him. This place was far worse than any hell he had ever heard of. This was the Baskerville family, where he had spent the last 30 years of his previous life as a hunting dog. The stench of blood and decay permeated the air, filling Vikir with dread.

With a body that had only just lived for a few short months, Vikir knew that there wasn't much he could do. But he had to try. He flipped himself over and sent a signal to the nanny, hoping that someone, anyone, would come to his aid.

But before anyone could arrive, he heard a voice that he knew all too well. Marquis Hugo Baskerville stood in the center of the room, looking as imposing and intimidating as ever. Vikir's teeth ground together in anger, even though he had none to grind in his current form. He took a deep breath, reminding himself to stay calm

For years, Vikir had yearned to be recognized by the Baskerville family, to be seen as more than just an inferior blood. But that life was over now. He had a chance to start anew, to live differently than he had before. And he was determined to make the most of it.

As Vikir was lifted out of his current position, he listened intently to Marquis Hugo Baskerville's words. "Move the children to the cradle of swords," the Marquis commanded. Vikir's heart skipped a beat at the mention of this particular rite of passage.

The cradle of swords was a journey to the Styx River, winding around a small hill. It was here that the children of the Baskerville family were reborn as warriors, the moment they soaked themselves in the river over a wall made of swords. It was a rite of passage that determined the fittest and the strongest among them.

As Vikir was thrown into the center of the cot of the cradle of sword, he thought to himself, "Is this my first rite of passage?" He knew what he had to do, having heard all the legends, myths, and ghost stories of the Baskerville family. He had to get out of the cradle as soon as possible and soak in the river for as long as possible to gain an advantage over his brothers.

He twisted the blade with his small, delicate hands, pressing it into his skin. The burning pain coursed through his body, but Vikir was familiar with it. He had endured much worse in his previous life as a hunting dog for decades. The scratches on his body, inflicted by the swords, were nothing compared to the hundreds of cuts he had received in the past.

For the Baskerville family, it was a tradition to hold blades that threatened the future from the very first birthday. And Vikir was no exception. He squeezed through the blade with force, allowing the water from the Styx River to seep into his wounds. He knew that the deeper the wound, the better it would allow the water to enter his body.

The children of some prestigious families held various objects to help their future, but the children of the Baskerville family had to hold swords that would threaten it. It was a survival of the fittest, starting from birth. And Vikir was determined to come out on top.

The soft body of the child was guided to hell by the tough soul of the hound, as he followed the blood path, a red road. Despite the blood flowing from his body, Vikir persevered, crawling forward in the direction indicated by the drops of blood.

Soon enough, he reached the Holy Land of Baskerville, where the Styx River flowed through the swamp. Soaking in its waters would render one's body as hard as steel and clear their soul. And without hesitation, Vikir threw himself into the river with a splash, enduring the painful sensation as the boiling water seeped into his countless sword cuts.

But he knew that enduring this pain was necessary, for the water from the Styx River would seep into his wounds, tears, and bursting cuts, changing his body in a little while. And indeed, soon after, his body began to change as the water permeated his bones and intestines.

"It's definitely different," Vikir thought, surprised at the difference a good start could make. In his previous life, his body was tough and skillful, but small and thin. He had weak bones, which limited his muscle building, and a narrow mana heart, which restricted his ability to create aura. But his half-brothers were different, with tall, thick bones and wide mana hearts, and they had superior talents and qualities from the start.

In his past life, Vikir had cleared the cradle of swords at the bottom, but he didn't get to enjoy the full effects of the Styx River. All his brothers had already absorbed all the power. And due to his illegitimate status and poor talent, he was discarded by the family. He ate dirty food, wore dirty clothes, slept in dirty places, and had to do only dirty work. Any achievements he attained were claimed by his father or half-brothers.

Even during the war against the Demons, where Vikir killed both Demons and human enemies of his father, his achievements always went to others. He had to engage in spy, assassination, intelligence, ambush, and intimidation activities, actively traveling back and forth between the great seven families to put Baskerville in the best position, but he was branded a traitor in the end.

On charges of communicating with the Demons, Vikir was executed, carrying all the dirty charges of Hugo. His sin was simply knowing too much.

"Ewwwink."

Vikir felt his teeth grind against each other with intense pressure, the sound echoing through his mind. He clenched his jaw, trying to contain the pain as his teeth continued to grow and collide inside his mouth. The anger within him was pushing the Styx River water deep into his bone marrow, causing his bones to thicken, toughen, and widen.

Despite the burning agony coursing through him, Vikir didn't stop. He purposefully inhaled water to strengthen his intestines, recalling an old Baskerville family legend about an invincible warrior who had a tragic end. The warrior was impervious to attacks, but a poison-tipped arrow struck his weak heel, caused by a nanny's mistake of dipping him upside down in the River Styx as a baby.

Determined not to meet the same fate, Vikir twisted and turned his body in the river, exposing every part of himself to the water. He opened up his wound, allowing the water to seep into his body, despite feeling out of breath and wanting to surface for air.

Because he knew, he knew that River Styx does not accept a child who once left her arms. If only the head got exposed to breathe, only the head will no longer receive any protection. So, Vikir desperately held on to the stone in the river.

Voices from above grew more panicked, urging him to come out of the river before it was too late.

"Young master! You must come out!"

"If you dive more than that, you will die!"

"Oh my gosh! Maybe like this!"

"Get him out! You must get him out!"

"Son. Come on up now."

Even Hugo Baskerville's voice couldn't shake Vikir's determination as he clung to a stone.

Finally, Vikir emerged from the river, gasping for air and gulping in the water until the very end. As he opened his mouth and breathed in the fresh air, Hugo Baskerville saw him and smiled brightly.

"Hahaha, look at this guy. He already has teeth?"

A hound boiled in boiling water exposed its fangs.