Chapter 20 – Revenge of the Iron-Blooded Sword Hound

Episode 20 Morgue Camille (1)

Ten men have ten lives, a hundred men have a hundred lives.

A person’s life is unique and cannot be measured by a single formula.


In Baskerville, the Ironborn, a person’s life can be schematized and organized like a formula.

A typical formula is as follows

Sword Expert junior = 1 mage circle.

Sword Expert Intermediate = 2 Mage Circles

Sword Expert Advanced = Mage 3 circles

Graduator Low = Mage 4 circles

Gradient Intermediate = Mage 5 circles

Graduator Advanced = Mage 6 circles

Swordmaster = Wizard 7th circle

Sword mastery has been replaced by magical mastery.

In addition, the young hounds of Baskerville are not allowed to eat at an age when others would.

Their training is grueling, with every moment a firing squad.

In the process of digesting them, they usually go through a series of schematic growth spurts.

To reformulate it, it goes like this

Sword Expert Lower = 15 years old

Sword Expert Intermediate=18 years old

Sword Expert Advanced=20 years old

Gradient Lower = 30

Gradient Intermediate=35

Gradualtor Advanced=40


Most young hounds of House Baskerville progress according to the following formula.

Children of House Baskerville typically first become in touch with mana around the age of seven or eight, at which point they can, at best, concentrate it in their hands and feel its warmth.

It’s not until around age 15 that they can truly channel mana into a sword and emit an aura.

This is called the lower level of Sword Expert.

Most members of the Baskerville family learn a sword technique called the Baskerville Style, which is divided into three levels: first, second, and third …….

It starts with Baskerville 1, which is the level where you can draw a single tooth with the trajectory of the blade tip, then Baskerville 2, where you can draw two teeth, and then 3, 4, and 5, where you can draw three teeth…….

Considering that most 15-year-old Baskervilles who reach the rank of Sword Expert are trained in Baskerville 1 swordplay, the following formula is established

Sword Expert Low = 1 Baskerville, 1 Tooth

Sword Expert Intermediate = Baskerville 2, two teeth

Sword Expert Advanced = 3 Baskerville, 3 Teeth

Gradator Low = 4 Baskerville, 4 Teeth

Gradient Intermediate = 5 Baskerville, 5 Teeth

Gradator Adv = 6 Baskerville, 6 Teeth

Swordmaster=7th Baskerville, 7 teeth

However, the elite of the elite are those who can master more than five styles of swordsmanship.

That is, only the true heirs of Gaju.

It is no secret that Gaju, Hugo Les Baskerville, is currently capable of drawing the Seven Teeth.

It is also no secret that his eldest son, now away on assignment in the far reaches of the country, can draw five teeth, and his second son, now in training, can draw four.

On the other hand, those with “half” surnames, such as bastards and illegitimate children, who are not recognized as legitimate, cannot learn more than five sword techniques, no matter how much mana they have accumulated or how old they are.

As a result, there is a definite limit to the number of teeth they can draw, even when they become a Gradient.

But no one is complaining about this.

No one.

For the swordsmanship of the Baskervilles was so great, and the mastery of the four styles was enough to make the world tremble.


There is.

Even within the great Baskervilles, there are Irregulars who occasionally deviate from the formula.

The bad ones are the hounds that don’t follow the formalized progression and fall through the cracks.

These were nothing special, really.
They were disposed of on the spot.

Those who die in training and disappear into the experience of their brothers, those who die or go missing on a mission and become nothing more than numbers on a damage report, those who are assassinated for family interests, and those who are rarely soldiers…….

The casualties of the Baskervilles are many, but they become fewer with each passing year.

The older they get, the more seasoned they become.


There are few, if any, Irregulars who deviate from the formula in a slightly different sense.

Even within the Baskervilles, a family of geniuses, there are those who are recognized as geniuses.

Such was the case with Osiris Les Baskervilles, Hugo Les Baskervilles’ eldest son and cattleman.

A little sunshine who will lead the Baskervilles in the future.
A genius, by all accounts.

Until now, Osiris has been the greatest genius in the family.

But lately, a rumor has been spreading.

A mother-of-pearl cloud floating in the infant star.
A tiny sun that floated beneath the sun.

Rumors circulated within the family that another genius had emerged to succeed Osiris Baskerville.

Vikir van Baskerville.
Eight years old.

A prodigy who, according to the patriarch himself, Hugo Lé Baskerville, recently reached the rank of Sword Expert Intermediate.

A swordsmanship that could draw two teeth and a mana that would be two circles in mage terms.

He has perfected at the tender age of eight what his siblings would have to wait until they were eighteen to accomplish.

So much so, that whenever three or more of them got together, even the most disinterested of Baskervilles, they were talking about Vikir.

“……Yes, you mean there’s such a kid?”

“Where’s he from? Is it the Barnes surname? Hmm, so we don’t even know where it came from.”

“Well, it’s worth keeping, if not, then early…….”

He listened with interest, or indifference, sometimes weighing his own interests.

And with that, Vikir had already bared his sharp fangs.

* * *



Bikir himself, the subject of the rumors, didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him or his reputation.

He already knew where the family’s power struggles and dirty tricks were headed.

How could he not? He had spent the last few decades as a dog seller, bouncing from one line to another.

…Chulpuduk! Chulpuduk!

Bikir thought as he watched the haggis fall to the table.

‘I was only going to show two teeth anyway, I’ve had enough of this.’

Now that we’ve clearly exposed the oatmeal, we may be able to utilize some of the family’s infrastructure on our own.

As I’ve said before, it’s good to be recognized in moderation if you want to make sure you stay off Hugo’s radar.

Vikir sat in the far corner of the dining room and began to munch on his haggis alone.

As the salty, fishy gruel slides down his throat, he thinks about many things.

First, about her true skill set.

“Currently, my official skills are Baskerville 2nd Class and Sword Expert Intermediate.

However, Vikir’s true strength is already at the level of a Gradualist, and in terms of swordsmanship, he’s a Baskerville Fourth Grade.

Due to his profound training in the Great Library, he is on the verge of reaching Gradient Intermediate.

If he keeps this up, he’ll be able to break through to the fifth level of swordsmanship without difficulty.

“I’ll reach the upper Gradient before I turn 17.

By then, my swordsmanship will be able to reach the Sixth Form.
Unlike before the regression, when you were stuck at just four.

What’s more.


The spoon that was unwrapping the haggis suddenly flinched.

Beelzebub, lurking in the artery of his right wrist, had moved.

/ Awl

-1 slot: Burn – Cerberus (A+)

-2 slot: Bleed – Hellhound (B+)

Slot -3: Super Regeneration – Troll (C+)

Beelzebub removes the Rats from slot 3 and fills the void by taking the skills of the recently killed Troll.

His opponent bleeds, he regenerates.
It was a terrible combination.

Add this ability to the mix, and he’d probably be even more formidable than the average Gradient.

Bikir thought to himself as he continued to devour the haggis.

It was his sixth serving already, and he felt that his appetite had only grown stronger since absorbing Beelzebub.


“…… Hey, hey.”

A voice called out from behind him, and Bikir turned his head.


Unexpected figures stood behind him.

Highbrow Les Baskervilles, Middlebrow Les Baskervilles, and Lowbrow Les Baskervilles.

The three who would come to be known as the Trident of Baskerville stood behind Vikir.

Vikir’s brow furrowed.

“Look at these assholes?”

Why bother asking? The harsh words come right out.

Bikir narrowed his eyes, and the triplets instinctively reacted with fear.

Is there anything in the world easier to handle than a frightened dog?

Bikir clutched the spoon he was using to scoop up the haggis, and the triplets immediately waved it away.

“Oh, no, not that one!”

“We just want……!”

“That, that, that, that, that, catching the troll with Cerberus was cool!”


Viktor frowned, not realizing what was going on.

“Is this a two-faced tactic or some kind of trick?

But looking at the trio in front of me, I don’t see any signs of advanced psychological warfare.

As I stare at them, I can’t help but feel a chill run down my spine.


Bikir had just finished preparing to send a spoon flying toward the foreheads of the three puppies.


Another voice came from beside him.

He turned to see Butler Barrymore standing at attention.

He had appeared out of nowhere and addressed Vikir in his usual polite tone.

“My lord seeks you.”

* * *

Hugo Les Baskerville.

He was now seated on a couch by the window in a state of great irritation.

“Is the butler yet?”

Hugo’s question to Barrymore was answered by the maid, who bowed her head impatiently.

“I looked under the window and he was just coming into the lobby on the first floor, with Master Vikir.”

“They should be coming up any minute now.”

Hugo nodded, then shifted his gaze to the side of the couch.

On the couch next to it sat a middle-aged man with a handsome mustache.

Morg Adolf.

A delegate from House Morg, a martial family known as the rival house of Ironblood Baskerville.

The younger brother of Morg Respane, the head of House Morg, he is a key figure in House Morg, always present as the acting head of the house whenever there is an outside event.

Adolf lifted the teacup in front of him and drank.

Then he looked directly at Hugo with a wry smile.

“I hope this year’s annual event goes off without a hitch.”

The annual event Adolf was referring to was the friendly tournament between Baskerville and Morg.

The Morg and the Baskervilles train together once a year, in accordance with a decree from the previous Emperor, who said that “magic and swords are complementary.

Though it was only for children between the ages of eight and fifteen, it was a show of force for the imperial family.

Even then, the atmosphere was frosty, with Hugo, the current Lord of Baskerville, and Lespane, the current Lord of Morg, at odds over the ownership of a newly discovered ruby mine in the middle of their territory.

It was in this atmosphere that Adolf, the younger brother of the Morg family, came to visit.

The purpose of the visit is said to be to socialize through an annual event, but…… it remains to be seen if that’s really the case.

Hugo shrugged it off.

“It’s just a joint exercise, it’s always been that way.”

“Heh heh heh.
Didn’t we have one Baskerville and one Morg child seriously injured last year?”

“He’s alive, and the treatment was timely.
How can you call that a break?”

Hugo’s nonchalant remark brought a line of blood to Adolf’s forehead.

After a moment’s grimace, he coughed a few times and changed the subject.

So, let’s talk about this joint exercise, shall we? Oh, by the way!”

Just as he was about to cut to the chase, Adolf had a sudden thought.

“I heard that there’s a supernova over Baskerville, and I’d really like to see it, I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m just loading up …… right now.”

Hugo replied nonchalantly.

But the observant Adolf didn’t miss the ever-so-slight upturning of the corners of Hugo’s mouth.

“That lizard man responds to his child’s praise.
That’s unusual.

It is a surprise in its own way.
Adolf thought for a moment that he should go back and report to Gazoo, but then he continued.

“It is a great blessing for the Empire to have a once-in-a-hundred-years genius in Baskerville.”

“I would not go so far as to say that.”

Hugo bowed, at least formally.

However, Adolf’s next words were quite provocative.

“Well, it’s a double whammy, actually, because we have a once-in-a-hundred-years genius in the Morg family.”

Hugo’s eyebrows shot up at that.

Adolf smiled politely, then motioned toward the door to the parlor off to one side of the room.

“Come in, little camel, and say hello to the head of House Baskerville.”

Then, as if by magic, the door opened of its own accord.

In walked a small girl, trailed by servants.

Her hair flaming red, her eyes sparkling like rubies.

A Maalgan face with a small nose, full lips, and white, even teeth.

Morg Camu.

The girl, who had just turned eight years old, walked over and stood beside Adolf without a trace of embarrassment.

Hugo’s brow furrowed slightly.

A supernova of the Morg family, born only once every hundred years or so.

A girl who could hear the sound of genius even within the prestigious Morgue, where only magical geniuses gathered.

Morgue Camille.

The sight of her clutching at the hem of her uncle’s cloak, her eyes shining brightly, made even the mighty Hugo soften his expression a little.

But cuteness aside, Adolf’s statement was quite provocative.

“We also have an 8-year-old genius.
Let’s see your level of eight-year-old genius.

The Morg family had come to play.

You’re not worthy of such a flirtatious provocation.

Hugo tried to turn his head away as if he wasn’t worth the trouble.

The camouflage bombshell pinned his head back.

“Are you the thief who stole our ruby mine?”

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