Vikir left the main hall where the Great Banquet was being held.
He had just stepped out of the main gate and turned into the path between the training grounds and the castle.
"...."
Vikir had to stop in his tracks at the mouth of the training grounds.
There was life beyond the bushes, a blatant hallucination.
Then a black stalk snaked toward him.
An aura as sticky as honey and as red as blood, a sword strike that only a Top Graduator could unleash.
Six teeth sliced through the air, aiming for Vikir.
'Should I fight back?'
Vikir thought for a moment.
An attack of that caliber could be blocked and countered.
But Vikir was only an Intermediate Graduator, and there were only so many ways he could react in a situation like this.
Vikir draws his longsword from his belt, deflects the blow, and rolls to the side to correct his stance.
The number of teeth Vikir drew in that brief moment was four. Six teeth that flew out.
Four of the teeth bumped into each other and canceled each other out, leaving only two teeth aimed at Vikir.
Vikir decided to just take them with his body.
With the protection of the Styx River, Vikir's body instantly turned to black iron.
kkaang! ttang!
Unsurprisingly, the sword, which contained an intermediate Graduator aura broke into two, and a handful of the hem of the cloak was torn off.
Quack, quack, quack!
The strike flew off in a deflected trajectory, leaving a large scar on the ground.
The two teeth that made contact with his body scattered on their own before he could fight off Styx's protection.
"...!"
Vikir realized that the attack hadn't flown to harm him in the first place.
Instead, he heard laughter coming from beyond the bushes.
"My nephew, you're grown up."
The Earl of Boston Terrier. One of the Seven Counts, he smiled wryly at Vikir.
Vikir straightened his stance in front of the Boston Terrier. He stood in front of the Boston Terrier and straightened his stance.
The Boston Terrier's eyes sparkled as he realized that Vikir was even more precious.
Then.
"Who goes on a rampage with a knife in the house?"
Someone stood between the Boston Terrier and Vikir.
A hulking man, his black hair whipping around him. It was the Earl of Great Dane.
He glared at the Boston Terrier.
"Attempted murder," he said, "and if your brother knows about it, you'll be on probation for at least a few months."
"Do not discredit your uncle's affection for his niece."
"Affection? Hiding and letting go of the sword is affection?"
"Kids grow up fighting."
"You're a f*cking kid, are you?"
At the Great Dane's words, the Boston Terrier bared his teeth under his sunglasses.
"Stay out of the next pit bull's business and go on your way."
"The next pit bull? Maybe the next mastiff. I can't believe we're sending our darling niece to such a ragtag bunch of misfits."
"A bunch of big mutt bastards, begging for their lives with their guts spilling out at the slightest crack in their stomachs."
"Hoo hoo hoo. You're so big, there's no skin to tear."
The Boston Terrier leading the pit bulls and the Great Dane leading the mastiffs were snarling at each other tensely, neither giving an inch.
Now that there was no hugo, they could go at it with impunity.
"Good! Whoever wins here gets Vikir!"
"Anything for the future of my beloved nephew!"
The two counts drew their swords and faced each other.
"...."
Vikir had long since walked away.
'Troublesome people.'
He'd expected the brash Count Boston Terrier to be pestering him to show him exactly what he was capable of.
It was a good thing he had an opponent, the Count of Great Danes, who was a bit of a handful.
Meanwhile, Vikir recalled the force of the earlier blow.
'That was more than I expected.'
Before the regression, the Seventh Counts were the highest level of Graduators, and the current Seventh Counts were equally accomplished.
Vikir was also a top Graduator, but the difference between them was in the level of swordsmanship they used.
Now, however, Vikir had mastered the seventh form of Baskerville and was more accomplished than the seventy counts who had mastered the sixth form of Baskerville.
And with the protection of the River Styx and the power of the magic sword Beelzebub?
'I can take on one seventh count, but not two.'
Who would believe that this was an accomplishment at only seventeen?
Vikir closed his eyes, planning his next move.
"Brother!"
He hears another voice calling out to him from behind.
He turns to see what it is, and a sickening stench hits his nostrils.
Set Les Baskerville. Hugo's second son.
He's looking at Vikir with a big smile on his face.
"Where are you sleeping tonight?"
"...."
"If you don't have plans, why don't you sleep at my castle, it's not far from here."
Vikir watched Set's mouth twitch with excitement.
What in the world lurked beneath that shell that made him reek so badly?
Perhaps it is evil, but it is not ordinary evil.
We already have some evidence that Set is responsible for numerous kidnappings and the disappearance of adopted children, thanks to the testimony of Sindiwendi and Chihuahua.
This was also the most damning and conclusive of the accusations against Vikir before his regression.
"...And there was more."
Some of the additional information that Sindiwendi brought to the table were things that Vikir hadn't even guessed about.
For example, it was Set's mother who sent two venomous snakes to Vikir's cradle when he was an infant, and it was Set who kidnapped Hugo's oldest daughter, Penelope, from the Rococo tribe.
Sindiwendi uncovered how Set's men had purchased two bloody mambas from the natives of Depht seventeen years earlier, and further uncovered how Penelope's walking route and itinerary had been leaked to the Rococo.
Both were uncovered while preparing to trade with the tribes of Depht on Vikir's behalf.
'How fitting, then, that it was Ahheman of Balak who sold the Bloody Mamba ....'
Vikir smiled dryly. He had unintentionally paid off a debt from his infancy.
Well, whatever.
The reason Set hadn't been taken as a suspect was because he'd been playing his usual good-natured, soft-spoken self.
He wouldn't have been a suspect at all if he hadn't been wearing a child's body at the time.
So Vikir could only stare at the set, or rather, the shell of a set, in front of him now, and stare at this strange thing that had been pressed against Baskerville Street for decades.
"So, little brother, what are you going to do now, come back as the Underdog's Deputy Commissar or enter the Academy?"
Set remained at Vikir's side, trying to be friendly.
Then. A voice interrupted him.
"I said moderation, Set."
Osiris. He rode in on his horse, separating Set and Vikir once again.
He turned to Vikir and Set with a stern look.
"Do not speak loudly in the presence of nature, and since it is late at night, we will save this conversation for another time."
A stranger would have thought he was a jerk.
Vikir, before his regression, had thought similarly.
But having read Osiris's true intentions, Vikir simply bowed his head.
"I'll see you next time and say hello, brothers."
Osiris' expression softens slightly at Vikir's words, while Set's face hardened.
But it's hard to tell if it's praise or resentment.
Vikir's demeanor was very formal, and as such, not exactly flawless.
The eldest son spoke, and with good reason. It was the elder son's word against the younger son's.
Even Osiris could not help but admire Vikir's skillful way of looking out for his own interests in the most neutral and objective way possible.
* * *
There are many castles in Baskerville that have been around for a long time.
As a result, there are many remote and hidden corners.
Vikir had come to Yuasa Castle today in search of a temporary place to stay.
His room, where he had spent many hours as a child.
He crossed the entrance to a flooded cellar and climbed a spiral staircase through abandoned food storage and unrepaired cracks.
Vikir walked through these dank corridors, recalling memories from decades ago.
A moment.
A strange sense of déjà vu hits him.
Vikir stopped in his tracks and turned his head.
There was a scene that reminded him of ten years ago.
The triplets of House Baskerville, aka the Trident of Baskerville.
Highbrow Les Baskervilles, Midbrow Les Baskervilles, and Lowbrow Les Baskervilles.
The half-brothers, who hadn't spoken a word to each other since meeting at the Great Banquet, stood.
Now eighteen years old, they had grown to full height, and their jawlines had thickened.
"...."
"...."
"...."
They still had the same stiff demeanor whenever they were in Vikir's presence.
Vikir, meanwhile, wore a dry smile.
It's pretty obvious what he's waiting for in this dingy, remote place at sword-point.
"What?"
I asked, ready to draw my sword at a moment's notice.
And then.
Thud.
The triplets wordlessly drew the swords from their waists.
They didn't emit any auras, but the energy emanating from their bodies seemed to have some sort of hard resolve.
'I must kill them.'
Vikir made a decision. A hound that can't cover its shit and sinks its teeth in like this is no answer.
A killing blow.
This was a good time to bury what happened in the depht two years ago.
...?
The triplets then began to react in a way that even Vikir hadn't anticipated.
…shaking.
All three knelt on their right knees in front of Vikir, heads bowed.
The tips of their drawn swords rested on the insteps of their right feet, the tips of their handles pointed at Vikir.
"...?"
Vikir's face contorted in bewilderment.
This was the oath of the knights of the Empire when they met their destined masters.