Chapter 3 – Hell Hound (3)
The infant, Vikir Van Baskerville.
He lay on the edge of the nursery, lights long since extinguished.
In the frail body of a newborn—one who could not even sit upright—there was little he could do.
All he could manage was to drink the wet nurse's milk and quietly replay, one by one, the memories from before his regression.
At eight, he first sensed mana. The world might have called him a prodigy, but within the Baskerville family, he was nothing remarkable.
At fifteen, he formed his first circle of mana. His sword could just barely release a trace of aura.
At twenty, he was sent into the field. Assassinations, espionage, subjugation of barbarians—such were his missions.
At twenty-five, having lived with twice the desperation of others, he achieved swordsmanship that most collateral bloodlines of Baskerville would not touch even in their thirties.
At twenty-nine, he met the limit of what a bastard could reach. The direct line heirs, once slower, surged past him as they gained real combat experience, leaving him far behind.
At thirty, the gates to the Demon Realm opened, and endless demonkind poured into the world.
At thirty-five, he endured that era of ruin with his bare body, amassing countless battles and slaying more monsters than any other.
At thirty-nine, the war was won. A hard-fought victory for the Empire, for the union of mankind.
At forty, his life as a faithful hound came to an end. For all his loyalty, the Baskerville family repaid him with suspicion, false charges of collusion with demons, and finally—the blade of the guillotine.
Crack.
Even now, the hatred he bore for Hugo Baskerville burned deep.
When Van ground his teeth, the wet nurse startled and pulled him from her arms.
"My, the young master grinds his teeth sometimes."
She laid him in the cradle and rose from her seat. Her shift was over; it was time for another nurse to take over.
But then—
Rustle—
Instead of leaving through the door, she glanced around and slipped to the far side of the room.
"There, young masters. Drink your milk."
She pressed her breast to the lips of certain infants—different from those she had fed earlier.
Baskerville children were raised together in one room, all cared for equally. At least in principle.
But what mother could treat another woman's child as her own?
Some mothers memorized their baby's unique features, then whispered to the nurses, asking that their own child be given milk a little longer.
For Van, whose mother's identity was unknown, such requests were impossible. He could only abandon all hope.
At least until he was strong enough to seize food with his own hands, he had to endure.
…Until that moment.
The nurse, after looking about once more, returned to Van's cradle.
"Oh my, the mistress asked me to leave this here for young master Van."
The mistress? Few women in this family were addressed as such. And none would have reason to send something to him.
From her bosom, the nurse pulled a sizeable box, clearly unaware of its contents herself.
Clatter.
She set it beside the cradle, tilted her head a few times, then hurried from the nursery.
"…"
Van stared at the box.
Did this happen in his past life? He recalled nothing of the sort.
Straining, he lifted his head just enough to glance out.
His cradle stood apart, a good distance from the others.
A bad feeling gripped him. And his instincts were never wrong.
Crack… hiss…
The box shifted. Something inside forced its way out.
A gift for a newborn, it seemed.
A snake.
Two of them. Black, triangular heads pushing out thick bodies.
Bloody Mambas.
A single bite—death before seven steps. Called Seven-Step Death, they were vipers so rare they were nearly legends.
Van's lips parted in disbelief.
Who would unleash these here?
Judging from her ignorance, the nurse hadn't known.
His shock lasted only a heartbeat before the truth clicked into place.
So this was it. The nursery deaths.
So many infants, gifted and brilliant, had died young. He had dismissed them as accidents, assassinations, or cruel misfortune.
But no—now he saw clearly.
The black hand reaching into the nursery came from within the family itself.
Hisssss—
The two Bloody Mambas slithered toward him, scarlet maws agleam with venom.
If they struck here, every infant could be slaughtered. A disaster unlike any in Baskerville history.
"…Not that I'd mind."
He had no attachment to this house.
But if the end began with him, that was unacceptable.
Van reached out.
Through the Age of Ruin, he had slain monsters beyond counting.
Reptilian beasts, snakes among them—he knew their weaknesses all too well.
Even in a baby's body, it was enough.
Snap!
Both hands shot out, seizing a viper apiece by the nape, just where fangs could not reach.
The snakes writhed, their ambush turned against them.
Scales flared sharp as needles, but Van's body—blessed by the Styx—did not yield. No scale could scratch him.
At the same time, he called forth his mana.
Since birth his vessel had been empty, but the Styx's waters had filled it to the brim.
Fwoosh!
His fists glowed with light.
A realm these nursery infants would not reach for eight years—Van touched it before eight months had passed.
The serpents stiffened. Faced with a predator above them, instinct froze their bodies.
And Van's hands twisted.
Crack!
Bone shattered. Flesh and skin remained, but the frames that held them snapped.
The vipers' eyes bulged, tongues lolling, bodies convulsing as they voided themselves in death.
Venom dripped thick from their dangling fangs.
The next day.
A nurse's scream drew every knight-guardian of the family to the nursery.
There, smiling with infantile innocence, Van clutched the two dead serpents, their necks broken.
When the knights recognized them as the infamous Bloody Mambas of the Black-and-Red Mountains, their eyes nearly burst from their sockets.
The fangs had been torn free, but even so, finding such monsters in the nursery was catastrophe.
Within minutes, word reached Hugo himself. He stormed to the nursery in fury.
Every nurse on night duty was tortured and executed. Security grew harsher than ever.
But the hand that had set the snakes free was never found.
Only one knew the truth.
"…"
The young hound, still mute, understood it all.
The infant who had conquered the Cradle of Daggers, who had endured the Styx longer than any, who had strangled two vipers in his cradle—
Vikir Van Baskerville.
He lay quietly, waiting.
For the moment to repay his debts.
For the hour of vengeance.
…
And eight years passed.
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