The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound-Chapter 423: The Night Walkers (1)

The source of this c𝐨ntent is 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝘯𝘰𝘷ℯ𝘭.𝑐𝘰𝑚

Tochka.

A citadel located on a high plateau in the Rocks Mountains of the Northern Continent.

Its high, solid walls, deep moat, and towering cliffs surrounding it made it a natural fortress.

However.

This fortress, which was said to be able to fend off a hundred soldiers by one girl, was now a deserted, ownerless mountain.

No wonder, another name for Tochka, the strongest fortress, is , the 'Crying Castle'.

The name, which means "beheaded while crying" comes from an ancient story of a general in the Warring States Period who was defeated by the enemy army while sitting-in in the fortress here.

The young and talented general, trusting only in his own skills and military theories, waged a siege in this natural fortress, but the result was a disastrous defeat.

Fortress Tochka was a massive fortress with impregnable defenses, but it had only one drawback: it was located on a plateau filled with rocks in the dry climate of the northern highlands, and there was no water nearby for drinking.

Because of the general who suffered from hunger due to lack of water and opened the gate and escaped, the country eventually entered the path of destruction.

Therefore, the king had no choice but to behead his favorite general according to military law, and the nickname 'Crying Castle' was given because the king swung his sword with tears in his eyes.

The ominous legend of Crying Castle, a harsh environment where there is hardly any drinking water.

As a result, this magnificent and sturdy fortress has become an unremarkable place that is slowly being forgotten as the years go by.

... However.

There is a group of people who operate out of this abandoned fortress that no one takes notice of.

Night Walkers. They were 'those who walk the night'.

ungseong-ungseong-

The Tochka, which not long ago had been nothing more than a desolate highland fortress, was now bustling with people.

Additions and renovations are everywhere.

Pillars and watchtowers were being raised, and holes in the walls were being filled.

Countless goats pulled carts loaded with food and water.

Where the tents were pitched, refugees from all over the continent had gathered.

They had all followed the Night Walkers to this 'Ark'.

Famine, drought, wildfires, and monster outbreaks have displaced them from their original homes.

The sick are healed and the hungry are fed.

Not enough to fill them to overflowing, but enough so that they no longer had to watch their children clutch at their empty bellies.

The refugees who settled here all looked tired and exhausted, but there was a glimmer of hope in their eyes.

They had come from a place where they had left the unbelievers behind.

They had traveled a long way, risking ridicule, mockery, and scorn, to follow a gleam of faith, and the outcome was bright.

At least here, they were blessed by priests and rationed food and water.

It was a paradise compared to their old home, where they had to worry about food shortages, robberies, and monster attacks every day.

Meanwhile.

In the tents where the wounded and sick lay, dozens of priests bustled about.

One priest was tending to a refugee who had been crushed by a boulder while helping to repair the city walls.

She took a deep breath and muttered.

"Calm down, Lolita. This is just a simple recovery baptism, nothing to be afraid of, so don't tremble."

"Sister. My name is not Lolita."

"I know. Lolita is my name."

"...?"

When a young nun, who doesn't look like she has much experience, asks for God's help with trembling hands.

Swoosh-

A hand gently grasped her hand from behind.

"Our Lord Lun is willing to extend his hand to the lamb that groans in pain before his eyes."

Sister Lolita turned her head in surprise at the experienced and compassionate voice.

There stood Dolores, the 'Saint of the Night', leader of the 'Night Walkers', smiling.

'...it's dazzling!'

Lolita, the novice nun, was momentarily intimidated by the solemn, compassionate, reverent, and beautiful figure.

Then Dolores' expression changed into a mischievous one for an instant.

She whispered in a low voice that no one else could hear, only Lolita.

"Don't be afraid to draw on the divine power, draw on it as much as you can, and He will pay you back. In a time of crisis like this, the interest is cheap."

The Old Testament priests taught her a good lesson.

Lolita's eyes narrowed at the familiarity in Dolores' tone.

"D-do you think a saint could say something like that?"

"Of course."

Dolores smiled and raised her two fists in encouragement, and Sister Lolita's expression brightened.

As if emboldened, she began to pray. She had done an excellent job of healing the patient.

Dolores smiled as she watched the young sisters who had trusted her with their lives in the Quovadis family grow into young women.

As it turns out, the flower of faith blooms most beautifully in the fiercest places on the front lines.

Then.

A voice called to Dolores.

"'Saint of the Night', it's been a long time!"

A man can be seen beyond a herd of goats grazing on the highlands in the distance.

A man of impeccable height and manly handsomeness.

Black armor and blonde hair flowing in the wind, he was the epitome of the ideal wandering knight.

He looked like a painting in a canvas, but his severed left arm was a reminder of the harsh reality.

"'Knight of the Night'!"

Dolores grinned at her comrade in the distance.

Tudor had returned.

They had been senior and junior at the Colosseo Academy, and they had gotten along well within the Night Walkers.

"I've brought a lot of new people with me."

"We've graduated, just let it go."

"Once a senior, always a senior."

Dolores and Tudor were both early graduates of the Academy.

As a result, their time together was fairly short, but Dolores still remembers Tudor's school days vividly.

After Vikir's imprisonment at Nouvelle Vague, Tudor had become noticeably less talkative.

The once cheerful, leadership, and romantic Tudor had become a quiet, sincere student who devoted himself only to training and studies.

Something terrible happened to his family afterward that shaped him into the man he is today.

Sancho the Warrior of the Night, Piggy the Gatekeeper of the Night, Bianca the Sniper of the Night, and the rest of his fellow academy classmates, their cheerful smiles hiding an unimaginable amount of sadness and pain.

'Maybe, if I hadn't met Vikir earlier, I would have been in the same situation as Tudor.'

Dolores sympathized deeply with Tudor's pain and grief, but she was also deeply grateful to Vikir for his early help in chipping away at the darkness of the Quovadis.

No, the civil war would have been much more chaotic if Guilty and Humbert had lived,

'No, there would have been no civil war in the first place.'

Set, or rather Andromalius, lurking in Baskerville, the Ironblood Swordman.

Seeré, hiding in Morg, the Mage Sect.

Bartolomeo, no, Belial, who was lurking in hiding among the wealthy Bourgeois.

If each of them had seized control of their families and joined the civil war, the human world would have been turned into a horrible hell by now. freew(e)bnovel

Dolores felt a newfound reverence and pity for the weight of Vikir's burden and the length of the thorny path he had been carrying.

'In times like these, we must be even more resolute in our support of his will.'

This must take precedence over helping him escape from his imprisonment in Nouvelle Vague.

Any hasty movements would only hinder Vikir, so they must complete the task at hand.

Then.

"Hey, Knight of the Night!"

Two more men appeared in the distance, beyond a cart full of drinking water.

It was Sancho and Piggy.

"Long time no see, boys!"

Tudor, Sancho, and Piggy hugged each other, celebrating their first reunion in months.

The Night Walkers had been traveling across the continent like this, sharing the story of the Ark with refugees and bringing them to Tochka.

'Only here will fire and water be spared, only here will true salvation be found.'

All of this was based on a message left behind by Night Hound.

Sancho, standing beside Tudor, looked back at the now bustling fortress of Tochka.

"This place has become quite crowded. When we first took up residence here, it seemed like it was haunted."

"Yeah. It's a good thing you guys have been so good about keeping up with us in this high, barren place."

Piggy nodded.

But neither Tudor, Sancho, nor Piggy, who had led the refugees to this place, had resolved the fundamental question.

"But why did Vikir tell us to gather people here?"

It was a mystery that even Dolores, the leader of the Night Walkers, had yet to solve.

But the situation was too urgent for Vikir to explain much.

Besides, Vikir, as everyone knew, never told a lie.

"There must be a reason, because I've never lost anything by listening to him."

"I know. There must be a reason why he insisted on gathering as many people as possible in such a desolate, remote fortress."

"Exactly, so let's push on, it's all we can do until we find a way to rescue Vikir!"

Tudor, Sancho, and Piggy once again look determined.

Dolores looked at them with trust in her eyes.

Just then.

"Hey, executives. I need you to assemble, we have a meeting to conduct."

In the distance, the curtains of the barracks were lifted and a figure stepped out.

"...!"

"...!"

"...!"

"...!"

Dolores, Tudor, Sancho, and Piggy turned their heads in unison.

It was the Wealth of the Night, the sponsor who financed the Night Walkers.

Also known to a very few as 'rich friend'.

A wealthy individual who had taken Tochka from a mere abandoned fortress on the outskirts to a fully fortified fortress, stockpiling enough food and water to feed and shelter a large number of refugees.

A supernova in the business world, where once funds are mobilized, the wealth is comparable to that of the tycoon Bourgeois.

And an advisor to the Colosseo Academy's investment club, the Oracle.

'Messinadnaro CindyWendy'.

No, she was now Countess Cindy Wendy of Baskerville, and she was looking down in this direction.

"...It's urgent."

With a rare look of seriousness.