The River of Blood had finally run dry.
The decades-long war between the human realm and the demon realm was recorded in history as a chilling chapter: The Age of Ruin.
And on the very day humanity's victory was carved into stone—
A severed head was hung upon the main gates of the iron-blooded House of Baskerville, famed as the family of swords.
Vikir. Vikir Van Baskerville.
The illegitimate son of Hugo Le Baskerville, lord of the house.
The shadow who had stained his hands with countless blood for the sake of his clan.
He had been the hunting hound of House Baskerville.
Episode 1 – Hell Hound (1)
Vikir.
He struggled.
His whole life had been a struggle.
An illegitimate child. The son of a concubine.
That's why his middle name was "Van."
While his half-siblings were freely given the noble titles "Ra" or "Le," he wasn't even born with that much. For that reason, he had to work hundreds of times harder, desperately clawing for survival.
But the end was not kind to him.
Spy, assassination, kidnapping, blackmail, smuggling… he had crossed the line of life and death more than 500 times for the sake of his family. Yet in the end, fortune abandoned him.
Branded as a demon spy, he was falsely accused and executed.
At that moment, he thought with burning intensity:
He wanted to live.
He wanted to live again.
"Waaah— waaah— waaah—"
The cries of infants filled the great hall.
In the swordmaster family of iron and blood, the House of Baskerville, waves of joy overlapped one another.
Hugo Baskerville, Marquis and head of the family, lifted his indifferent eyes to sweep over the children born that year.
"None of them look useful."
A harsh judgment for the first words a father would ever say about his newborns.
…And then.
As he passed the cradles in the nursery, Hugo's steps suddenly stopped.
Vikir. Vikir Van Baskerville.
An illegitimate child who, by rights, didn't even belong here.
Unlike his half-siblings, who were already six to eight months old, he was only barely a hundred days old when he was placed in this room.
The baby was not crying.
He simply lay there with his eyes closed, as if dead.
"..."
Hugo's expression softened slightly as he looked at Vikir.
Not because Vikir's qualities seemed greater than the other children's.
Simply because, if this place was already full of useless trash, a quieter piece of trash was at least preferable.
At length, Hugo spoke to the dozens of wet nurses standing at attention.
"Move the children to the 'Cradle of Blades.'"
From the moment a Baskerville child is born until the day they die, they must undergo trials.
From the cradle to the grave.
And the first trial had just begun.
…What is the Cradle of Blades?
It is a unique rite of passage of the House of Baskerville.
Countless swords are thrust upright into a rounded hill, forming a labyrinth. An infant is placed at its center.
The child is trapped in the maze of blades.
Every movement brings cuts, and their small bodies are torn and bloodied.
In such an environment, the child must crawl across the ground, struggle through the blade maze, and escape.
Only when they reach the river Styx—flowing in a circle around the labyrinth—and immerse themselves in it, are they considered a true Baskerville.
Hugo Baskerville thought:
"The water of Styx only works on children under a year old. Once they bathe in it, their bodies become as hard as steel."
Of course, the water's power was not infinite.
If one child absorbed much of its strength, there would be less left for the others.
It was like a mother's milk.
Thus, the children of Baskerville were thrown into the Cradle of Blades.
Whoever first escaped the labyrinth and leapt into the river would determine their future.
Thirty-two newborns—legitimate, illegitimate, and cousins—were cast into the center of the blade maze to compete.
The densely packed swords, spiraling like a snail shell, guided them toward the longest and most dangerous paths.
"Waaah— waaah— waaah—"
Some wailed for their wet nurses.
Some were already crawling quickly.
Some cried in panic, cut and bleeding.
Some lay down, sucking their thumbs, with no thought of escape.
Such was only natural for infants not even a year old.
But—
"Worthless things."
Hugo Baskerville's verdict was merciless.
Small, weak creatures. Beings unable to live without another's help.
His gaze upon the human young was filled with contempt.
Even though they were his own children, there were no exceptions.
After all, Hugo was known across the continent as one of the seven greatest swordmasters—an iron man from the day he was born.
"At this rate, how will they fight the fiends of the demon realm? How long must I wait before I can entrust my back to them?"
He sighed, standing high above, staring at the Styx river flowing around the Cradle of Blades.
That mysterious water, found only here in the sacred land of Baskerville, strengthened mana, purified aura, and made the entire body as tough as iron.
If it weren't limited to children under one year old, Hugo would have long since bathed in it himself.
As Hugo gazed regretfully at the river—
"…Th-there!"
"Ah! Impossible!"
"This can't be!"
Cries of astonishment erupted all around.
The family's guardian knights, who rarely wavered at anything, were shaken.
Hugo raised his head, puzzled.
And then—
"...!"
For the first time, the dull haze of boredom, contempt, impatience, and disappointment cleared from his eyes.
The Cradle of Blades.
Through that dense forest of swords, one infant was charging straight toward the Styx.
Squelch— rip— drip—
The child's body was already drenched in blood.
Astonishingly, the infant was cutting a direct path through the spiral maze, squeezing through the narrowest gaps between blades.
Not crawling cautiously along the safer winding paths, but forcing their way through.
The baby's soft white cheeks were slashed.
Chubby arms and waist were gashed and torn.
Tiny knees were raw, and the little palms were soaked in blood.
Parting the swords with their fragile body, the child carved a scarlet trail across the ground.
The sheer will radiating from this infant—not even 100 days old—overwhelmed everyone watching.
Even Hugo Le Baskerville, iron-blooded head of the clan.
At last, the baby broke free of the labyrinth.
The other siblings were still trapped near the center, unable to escape.
…Splash!
The infant, emerging from the cradle, immediately hurled themself into the Styx.
The river turned crimson.
For once, Hugo moved forward, gripping the marble railing with both hands.
The attendants' eyes widened at the cracks spreading through the stone.
They had never before seen their master, usually so stoic, this shaken.
"My child! What of my child? What has become of him!?"
Hugo raised his voice.
The infant who had plunged into the Styx had yet to resurface.
A few of the guardian knights rushed to the river's edge and peered down.
And then, in unison, they recoiled in shock.
"L-lord! The young master is drinking the river water!"
An answer so shocking, Hugo's mouth fell open as wide as a basin.
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