Iron Blooded Hound

Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Showdown...

What a fantastic view.

...Hiccups!

Even Hugo Les Baskervilles, the head of the Iron Sharp Edge family, had hiccups.

Vikir's actions were just as surprising.

"Aaaaah!"

Camus closed his eyes and screamed. No wonder, his arm was about to be cut off.

She was yelling and crying at a problem she had never faced before.

Even his uncle, Adolf, had never seen her cry like this.

"Hey, stop!"

Adolf unknowingly raised his power.

The power of a 6th Circle Expert burst out, pushing Vikir.

But.

...Sasak.

As if he had expected it, Vikir quickly let go of Camus' arm and fell backward.

"Aaahhh! Uncle, he has my arm... ... !"

Camus cried, rushing to cover his face in Adolf's cloak.

Adolf looked at Vikir in surprise, not even angry, before turning his attention to Hugo.

"Disappear, what's wrong with you!"

Hugo ignored Adolf's protests. He just tilted his head and looked down at Vikir.

"Son."

Son, he said, and Vikir responded obediently.

"Yes, father."

"Your prank just now was too much, though it pains me to say it."

"I am sorry. It is a common prank among the family siblings."

After speaking, Vikir took the tip of the knife in his hand and bent it.

Mmm.

The knife bent easily. It's a fake sword, made of rubber.

When Adolf saw it, he exclaimed in dismay.

"No, no, no, what kind of a toy is this?"

"You've never seen a kid play with a toy sword before, and we Baskervillians play with them from the time they're a year old."

It was only at Hugo's words, which seemed to surprise him, that Adolf woke up and saw the sword in Vikir's hand.

It was a crude rubber sword, obviously a fake, the kind of thing that even the average child in the world would play with.

My mistake was that I didn't recognize the quality of the sword in Vikir's brief burst of strength.

Seeing Adolf, who was known for his meticulousness and levelheadedness, stagger in shock gave Hugo a bit of satisfaction.

He quickly forgot his own surprise.

"Now, I've thought of something about the ruby mine. Maybe the Morg will like it."

"...."

"So let's just get this friendly competition over with."

Hugo's blatant attempt to betray.

Adolph, looking confused, tried to argue in Moorish.

"... ... Blah, blah, kihing, kihing. That rascal, I won't let him get away with it, you'll see!"

Unfortunately, he couldn't deal with that as he was busy comforting Camus, who was wiping his nose against his cloak and whining.

So, an important meeting between the two families was strangely interrupted by an eight-year-old child's argument.

* * *

'Magic and the sword are in conflict with each other in normal times, but in times of crisis they are a good complement to each other and save the nation.'

According to the former King's beliefs, Morg the Mage and Baskerville the Ironblade hold a competition that welcomes yearly.

Children from the ages of eight to fifteen gather to test their skills against each other.

By tradition, the 15-year-olds compete in the most intense and grand battles with swords and magic, instead of the 8-year-olds who compete in theory and mana awareness.

... but.

During this year's friendly competition, everyone's attention was elsewhere.

The 8-year-old category usually gets attention.

The two children standing there were the main heroes of the day.

Vikir van Baskerville, of the iron-blooded House Baskerville.

Morg Camus of House Morg, an expert mage.

At Morg's urging, the eight-year-olds were moved aside from the field next to the 15-year-old category where the real action was happening.

They would be fighting just like the 15-year-olds.

The contrast between the relaxed Vikir and the venomous Camus was very striking.

"Get ready, kid."

"...."

"You won't get any breaks once you're in the ring."

"...."

"Say something!"

"...."

"Eeh!"

Vikir could yawn.

The more he does so, the more he steps his foot in frustration.

Finally.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the real contest.

And with that, the match began.

"Yaaaaaah!"

A loud cheer rang out.

Camus immediately drew up his power and charged at Vikir.

All a display that draws its power from the beginning.

It's a great way of getting a quick start, but in the long run, it's not a good strategy because it reveals all of your cards.

But.

...Hook!

Vikir dodged a barrage (more like three children's fists) of spells, and then approached Camus.

And then.

Puck!

Vikir kicked the mud wall that was protecting Camus and broke it.

"Huh?"

Camus swallowed hard.

Bringing in his magic was too close.

The foundation of the mud wall collapsed, and Vikir's face appeared.

Camus felt his heart pounding in his chest.

"We're down!"

Camus' eyes rolled back in his head as Vikir's flying palm blocked his vision.

Then, a burning sensation shot across his forehead.

...Crack!

Bam. Camus pulled back, clearing the dirt from his eyes, and looked up.

"...?"

Her forehead burned, but that was all.

Vikir did nothing, just flicked his finger and made a small bump on Camus' forehead.

"You, you rascal! Are you messing with me?"

"...."

"Go, go!"

Camus dropped one of the three hostile spells he had cast earlier.

Woodshed!

Mud Wall, a mass of mud, was created in two layers, covering Camus.

"Haha, now there's a double wall! You can't get past this!"

The problem is, with the double wall, Camus herself can't see out of it.

But.

...Puck!

The two layers of mud were as easy to get through as a piece of paper.

It was Vikir's hand that got through the wall and reached before Camus' face.

"Whose hand is this?"

The hand that got through Camus' wall and into her space.

Vikir's fingers moved quickly while Camus was shocked and unable to find the words to reply.

"The answer is, turn off the stronger one."

Another snap.

Another tear spilled from Camus' eye.

He was hit again.

Several smacks hit the same spot, making a second, smaller bump.

To make matters worse, Vikir's hand escaped after the second blow.

It wasn't like he was delivering a powerful blow, it was just a quick slap.

"Whose hand dares to play with me-aaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Eight years old, a genius girl who has spent her whole life growing up like a fragile jade leaf.

Camus screamed as loudly as possible, unable to contain her rising tantrum.

With that, she dropped all her hostile spells and formed four walls of mud to surround herself.

"Now, this, nobody can get through this, not even you! Ha ha

!"

Camus didn't seem to mind that his vision had gone completely dark.

In fact, he was glad that he didn't have to show his hands rubbing his forehead and his gloomy expression.

"...."

He paused, wondering if that little trickster Vikir couldn't get through the four walls.

Camu smiled easily.

"Ho-ho-ho! loser! They say you couldn't physically go through walls because you're a small compost pile! Come all the way here, you idiot!"

But still no response.

....

Some time passed.

Trapped in the mud dome, Camus rubbed his forehead and thought to himself.

"Huh? But, this could let me get out, could it?

What should I do? My vision is completely blocked and I can't see what's happening outside.

I couldn't try to do something else, because I'm left with four layers of mud.

I thought, "Well. Maybe I can cut an opening and look out?'

With a bit of effort, Camus cut a small opening in the mud wall.

He stuck his face through the opening to look out.

...Bam!

Vikir's hand plunged in like a ghost and delivered a third blow to Camus' forehead.

"Kaaaahhhh!"

Three bumps!

With three small bumps on the same spot on her forehead, Camus squirmed miserably and angrily.

She lifted her burning eyes and quickly dropped all four layers of mud walls.

As the mud wall fell, she could see the face of the insignificant rascal in the distance.

"I will kill him! Aaahhhh!"

Camus screamed. He was too angry and frustrated to think about his dignity.

So he threw away all his defensive spells and cast four offensive spells at the same time.

A skill that would have been impossible for a fifteen year old to pull off!

Meanwhile, Vikir faced Camus' rage and thought.

"... ... How should I respond?"

To kill her, you can snap her neck in 0.1 seconds. But that's not the issue right now.

Dealing with children is painful. You don't know where to stop and where to start.

This is especially true for Vikir, who has spent his entire life on the battlefield.

He was too young to be soothed by the younger members of House Morg.

Eventually, Vikir made a decision.

"Morg's problems are Morg's problems."

It's always cleaner to do things without getting involved.

Boom!

A quick look to the side reveals an intense battle in progress.

An unnamed fifteen year old Baskerville and a fifteen year old Morg were engaged in a furious battle of swordsmanship and magic.

Both are so focused that they don't realize that someone is approaching them.

The 15 year old Morg seems to be practicing a powerful fire blast spell, and a loud blast is emanating from the field.

Swoosh-

Vikir dodged back and stood as close as possible to the line of the adjacent field.

A very angry Camus followed closely behind him.

"Well, if there's any more, the referees will step in.

Vikir moved slightly, and Camus followed him steadily, not wanting to give up.

And then.

...Boom!

An explosion. And sneezes.

"Ouch! It's Camus!"

"Oh my goodness, Miss Camus!"

"No! It's...!"

Vikir began to see the picture he wanted.

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