The Husband Hunt (6)

....

Something peered out of the darkness.

A darker, heavier darkness, casting its shadow across the water.

Deeper, thicker, heavier, darker, it is 'it'!

It had surely been drawn to the lights and commotion of the battlefield by Baskerville and the Morg.

"Here comes Madame Eight-Legged."

Balak's warriors are visibly panicking.

The warriors of Morg and Baskerville realize the gravity of the situation, as do the warriors who are not known for their fearlessness.

Vikir, in particular, already had some idea of what was peering out from beyond the darkness.

He had seen, heard, and experienced countless incidents in the jungles of the Black Mountains with the enemy before his return.

And Vikir remembered the words of an old native he had once stumbled upon while drifting in an unfortunate time.

'Madam with eight legs'.

A piece of ghostly legend.

It was a tale of untold horrors that lurked at the bottom of the water, in the depths of rotting root holes.

"...shhh. Don't make a sound."

Vikir placed his hand over the camel's lips in his arms and whispered in its ear.

"You may not be able to see very well, but you have sensitive ears and skin, old man."

Light and sound. He's sensitive to them.

Jahak... Jaharak...

Beyond the tangled skeins of roots in the floodwaters, a noise sounded otherworldly.

It sounded like the uncomfortable groan of an old man, or the last gasp of a drowning man in a swamp.

Rustling, rustling, rustling.

Soon there was the sound of bristly, dense fur being swept everywhere.

From the sound of it, the thing that was now approaching must be of immense size.

Even the mighty Morg Adolph was at a loss as to what species this creature lurking in the darkness belonged to.

"It must be a new creature that hasn't been seen before, but how could such a monster be undiscovered?"

Adolf's questions were legitimate.

But Vikir, who knew how large and vast the enemy and the Black Mountain's waters were, had nothing to say.

He merely recited the information from his pre-reversion knowledge, information that had been refined and perfected over the course of several more editions, even in the version Adolph now knew.

"Madame Eight-Legged. An annihilation-level demon. One that will grow into an even more terrifying monster in the next decade.

Risk Level S.

Dangerous enough that a single entity is capable of destroying a nation.

If we were to fight it head-on, we would have no chance.

Even here, in its home base of Suhai, it's not even at night!

…Gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp.

Something sticky is dripping down from above, onto the leaves, fallen branches, and human heads.

The drops of slime falling simultaneously from various locations created the illusion of drizzling rain.

....

Static.

Perfect static.

There hadn't been a sound of a grasshopper in the water since before.

And now this.

The veteran swordsmen of Baskerville, the seasoned wizards of Morg, and the fierce barbarian warriors of Balak had all been reduced to nothing more than grasshoppers.

All were frozen in place, unable to breathe.

Praying that the great nightmare in the sky would pass quickly.

Just then.

"Kaaaaaah!"

A tearing scream came from the air.

Vikir turned his head quickly.

There, standing there, was Camu, his eyes narrowed in horror.

"It's not ..., is it?"

She made an X with her hands as if to say, "No more embarrassment.

Vikir breathes a sigh of relief.

It's Ahun of Balak who's letting out a new scream.

"My, my head! Madame's poison!"

Ahun was running around, shaking out his hair.

Was it because he quickly cut it off with a knife?

Tsutsutsutsuts...

On the ground, Ahun's hair is melting away.

But dodging the onrushing water didn't save him from the tsunami that followed.

"It" began to respond to his screams.

A thick darkness descended upon the Balak warriors.

Aiyen quickly grabbed Ahun by the back of the neck and ran.

"You fool! If you weren't the eldest son of a shaman, I'd be all over you!"

Ahun cowered, unable to utter a word as Iyen growled.

Soon, Balak's warriors began to scatter, spreading out across the water.

"Let us run!"

At Adolf's words, Morg and Baskerville's pursuers retreated.

But there was a slight difference in the way the Balak, Morg, and Baskerville alliance retreated.

Balak's warriors fled individually, with none of them running in the same direction.

The Morg and Baskervilles, on the other hand, fled in unison.

This slight difference helped determine the "it" factor.

Passasasak-

The sound of blade-like leaves bending so easily.

A huge pile of fur was breaking through the dense foliage and thorns, heading this way.

... into the room at breakneck speed!

Puck! Thump! Thump…

Dull noises came from all directions.

It was the sound of swordsmen and mages being crushed by an unidentified attack.

"What the hell is that?"

Adolph exclaimed as he ran, scooping up his camel.

Staffordshire, too, runs forward, carrying the Baskerville triplets in his arms.

The triplets, who had just been knocked out by an unknown attacker, were bleeding from the corners of their mouths, their eyes wide open and glaring at the "it" behind them.

Just then.

"That's it."

Vikir paused.

At this rate, we're all going to die.

Whirr-

Vikir spins around in his seat.

Camu sees him and cries out.

"Rain, Vikir! What!"

She gasps in surprise.

Facing the camel, Vikir doesn't turn around, but waves his hand briefly.

"Let me buy you some time."

"It" is not an opponent that can be fought by hiding its power.

And this crisis was an opportunity, a golden moment to legally slip off Hugo's radar.

Vikir instinctively sensed that the time had come to realize a plan he had long thought of.

Death. And camouflage.

Once a hound in the field is dead, all surveillance and control over it ceases.

In his mind, he had already memorized the theories of the Baskerville Tenth Sword Art. His mana and aura are slowly recovering to the level of his previous life.

All she needs is time. A place away from prying eyes.

This is the perfect place to hide and improve, so that when the time is right, she can leave and return to her family.

"No! Vikir, please come back!"

The camel cries out.

Vikir turns his back on the plaintive cry.

In the distant future, when he is no match for Hugo, or at least when he is able to hide and control his skills perfectly, he will return to his family and perhaps be treated as a hero.

At least he could claim to have sacrificed himself for the sake of Morg's feast.

Vikir straightened his posture.

"Do your best, or die.

He had no intention of giving it his all against an opponent who would likely die anyway.

It was just a matter of how much she could produce.

Vikir stood in front of 'It' in an almost sacrificial manner.

'If we go on like this, we'll all die,' 'I'll stop it for a while, so everyone run away,' 'Tell my family that I was brave at the end,' ... and other lines that Vikir didn't bother to say.

They must have gotten through without me.

"...Nephew."

Adolph bit his lip, a grim expression on his face.

He bites his lip so tightly that it bleeds from the corner of his mouth, but he must return to his family as soon as possible to save his poisoned niece.

"Master ...."

Staffordshire, also carrying the injured triplets, looked back at Vikir with trembling eyes.

Finally, Camus.

"...."

She stretched out her hands toward Vikir, her face covered in tears and snot, her expression now speechless, her throat hoarse from exhaustion.

Only to be blocked from moving forward by Adolf's strong forearm.

"Go."

Vikir turned his back on everyone and drew his sword.

Then.

"Do not let my niece's sacrifice be in vain!"

Adolf cried out, spitting up blood.

With that, the survivors of the Morgans and Baskervilles began to run away from 'it'.

"...."

Vikir watched them all move away.

And with that.

Passa Passa Passa.

The fast-approaching 'thing' broke through the darkness and leaned forward toward Vikir.

At the same time.

Vikir unleashes all the power he's been holding back.

Mana, fed by the waters of the River Styx.

An aura made even more refined by his newfound mastery of Baskerville-style High Swordsmanship.

In addition, the rare magic sword Beelzebub pierced my wrist, revealing long teeth.

…Puff-puff-puff!

A pitch-black aura, red as blood and dark as the abyss, began to rampage like a demon from Beelzebub's tip.

It quickly formed five gigantic teeth and clamped down on 'it'.

Jaaaahhhhh!

The monster let out a startled yell. A scream, tight with pain.

Quack, quack, quack!

There was a flash of light like a giant sun falling.

Vikir's aura surged with power, forcing dawn into the dark waters.

He didn't see Adolf and Staffordshire, who were concentrating on running forward, but... Camus and the triplets, who were being carried by them and looking backward, saw through the exploding beam of light.

…Flash!

Vikir's ridiculous power exploding the aura of a Gradual Intermediate.