Bloodhound’s Regression Instinct

Chapter 71

Yan glared at the inscription beneath the statue. “To think I’d see that dog-like face again.” Momon ground his teeth in anger, spewing curses. But Yan had no time to keep pace with Momon’s tantrum.

Thump, thump.

His mana heart reacted the entire time he read the inscription. It clearly meant there was a carving within the statue. “With one sword, a thousand soldiers fall.” Yan mulled over those words. To the average person, it would seem like a boastful exaggeration, but Yan knew better. There were those capable of such feats. For instance, during his journey to the North. The countless barbarians who scaled Beowulf’s walls were frozen solid by the Duke’s “Eternal Frost” domain, unable to resist. At that time, Duke Beowulf didn’t even draw his sword. Merely rolling on the ground, he unleashed an immense energy that slaughtered the barbarian hordes.

“Hmm.” Yan stroked his chin, deep in thought. ‘It’s not a clue about domain expansion. The founder is known as the strongest in the empire, no, in the history of the continent.’ If it were about the domain, the numbers would be different. Not ‘thousands,’ but ‘hundreds of thousands.’

It made more sense to look at the meaning behind each word rather than the sentence as a whole. “One sword.” It means to swing the sword once. “Falls a thousand soldiers.” It’s literal.

“What in the world does this mean!” Yan scratched his head in frustration. No answers came to mind. Momon seemed amused by Yan’s confusion. [Did you forget what you gained from the riddle last time?]

Yan’s lips twitched. Of course, he knew there would be some strange riddle attached to the piece he needed to obtain. But how could he solve it if he couldn’t even grasp the riddle? “With one sword, a thousand soldiers fell.” It’s something a second, no, a third-class warrior could easily achieve. But would the founder have really inscribed such a phrase with that meaning?

Yan took a deep breath to calm his throbbing headache. Then he examined the statue again, from top to bottom.

The founder’s figure, with his sword hanging down. He was dressed in the ‘Yellow Dragon Robe’ worn by successive emperors, crowned with a golden circlet. The sword in his hand was familiar. It was the ‘Dragon Sword’ he had been slain with in his past life.

“…Wait.” Yan’s eyes widened as he inspected the Dragon Sword. “Why are there scratches on the Dragon Sword?”

It was impossible. The Dragon Sword was supposed to maintain its flawless blade even in the future. He knew it well, having been cut by it. The hardness of the Dragon Sword was beyond imagination.

Scratches on such a sword? Yan squinted and brought his face close to the part of the statue replicating the Dragon Sword. The scratches were very fine. What was peculiar was the sheer number of them.

On a hunch, he checked other parts, but nothing stood out. Yan began counting the scratches on the Dragon Sword.

After a moment. “A thousand.” That was the number of scratches on the Dragon Sword. Thinking of the inscription, something seemed to click. It mentioned the falling of a thousand soldiers.

“Did a soldier leave such marks on the Dragon Sword?” Could each soldier leave such a scratch? Impossible. The hardness of the Dragon Sword that Yan knew was unimaginably high.

Then something flashed through his mind. “Are they not scratches?”

Then what were these marks on the Dragon Sword? As Yan pondered, time flew by. During that time, Yan stared at the Dragon Sword, and he was able to formulate a plausible hypothesis.

“Could it be that a thousand soldiers mean a thousand swords?” And the inscription didn’t signify an ‘action.’ If he was right…

“The founder’s sword contains a thousand swords? Since the founder didn’t make the Dragon Sword himself, it wouldn’t be about the manufacturing process, so what remains… swordsmanship?”

[Hmph.]

Momon snorted as if to say, ‘You’re just realizing now?’ At that reaction, Yan’s mouth gaped open.

The founder’s swordsmanship! It would rank among the top three in the continent. And that’s a generous estimate.

Yan, who had been gleeful, suddenly furrowed his brow. ‘But where is this swordsmanship?’ He had succeeded in understanding the meaning of the inscription, but he hadn’t obtained the piece.

Yan touched the inscription. It felt rough, and something seemed off. Realizing something was strange, Yan ran his hands over the inscription repeatedly.

Swish.

Yan’s half-closed eyes began to fill with astonishment. And after a brief moment.

“Ha, hahaha, this is insane.” Yan laughed awkwardly. More than the thrill of discovery, he was astonished by the founder’s audacity.

“To think someone would embed their swordsmanship into a statue for all to see.”

[I told you so, and you’re just realizing it now? Ignorant fool.]

Momon babbled nonsense, but Yan hardly heard.

Drip.

From now on, he could only drool over the founder’s swordsmanship.

“Sigh.”

* * *

Yan’s revelation was a secret so profound that without considerable experience and discernment, it would have been impossible to unravel.

“One sword to vanquish a thousand soldiers.”

This phrase signified swordsmanship, and at the same time, it was a verse concealing swordsmanship within. Precisely, it was hidden only in the inscription beneath this statue. The inscription was not carved with a chisel but written with a sword, through the execution of a certain sword technique.

“To inscribe with swordsmanship…”

Had Yan not consumed the elixir Momon had crafted, he would never have deduced it. Yan reached out once more to touch the inscription.

“One sword to vanquish a thousand soldiers.”

As he caressed the rough-hewn words etched into the stone, something ‘replayed’ in Yan’s mind.

Swish-swish.

The skills he had honed in the armory and those learned from sparring with the knights of the Beowulf ducal house flashed by swiftly. But that wasn’t all.

Swish-swish.

Even the martial arts and arcane arts he had shown the slightest interest in his past life poured out. “This is madness,” he thought.

Only after the flow of all the arts and doctrines he had learned did the ability of ‘embodiment’ unfold. In the midst of an empty plain stood a middle-aged man, holding a dragon sword loosely at his side.

‘Natural stance.’

Yan recalled the information about it. A posture from which any sword technique could be unleashed immediately, without preparatory movements. It might sound unremarkable, but only a handful in the empire could assume this stance. It was a posture that could only be achieved through the extreme refinement of swordsmanship, beyond the mere expulsion and manipulation of mana through Qi Gong.

Even among superhumans of the second or third grade, those who had reached the pinnacle of swordsmanship could be counted on one hand. Because enlightenment was not limited to swordsmanship alone.

The figure of the middle-aged man in a natural stance began to blur like mist.

Wriggle, wriggle.

And the mist writhed, beginning to form another shape. “What?!” It was something that looked exactly like Yan, from height to build, expression to face. Yet, it didn’t feel like looking into a mirror. It was as if he was facing another person.

Whoosh.

‘That thing’ slowly drew Ascalon from its waist and let the sword tip hang down powerlessly.

A different stance from the middle-aged man’s, but Yan realized it was the natural stance optimized for him.

“The dragon stands alone in its entirety.”

With a voice heard from somewhere, the puppet resembling Yan began to move.

Click.

The puppet, in a natural stance, slightly lifted its arm.

Swoosh!

With a movement too concise to believe, Ascalon swung up with a satisfying sound. It was merely a lifting strike, but the result was far from simple.

Boom!

It felt as if space itself was being sliced through.

Chill.

Yan’s forearms began to prickle with an eerie and bizarre sensation.

“There is nothing the dragon’s claw cannot slice. Dragon Fang.”

Yan brushed the goosebumps on his arm while intently observing the puppet. The puppet lowered Ascalon again, returning to the initial natural stance. This time, it added another hand to the Ascalon which was held with one hand.

The puppet, now wielding Ascalon with both hands, lifted the sword slightly and then lowered it at an extremely slow pace. An exceedingly slow sword. Yet, as the sword descended, it felt as if the world itself was sinking to match its pace.

Could Lia, the future ‘Witch of Oppression,’ evoke such a feeling? As the tip of the slowly descending sword finally touched the ground, Yan felt as if his body was being flattened. Quite menacingly.

“The dragon’s wrath slowly crushes the world. Oppression.”

Only after hearing those words could Yan finally exhale.

Gasp.

Though a pain as if his lungs were contracting struck him, Yan’s eyes shone brighter than ever before.

‘This is… the swordsmanship of the Founding Emperor.’

It was an overwhelmingly powerful sword technique, almost too intense to be called mere swordsmanship. Perhaps it would be more fitting to call it a ‘divine power’ as touted by religions?

Before Yan could finish his thought, the puppet returned to the natural stance once more. Yan watched the puppet’s every move with wide eyes, determined not to miss even the slightest detail.

But then…

Crack-crack.

A fissure appeared in the space that was manifesting Yan’s imagination.

‘What’s this?’

Yan scanned his surroundings involuntarily. A small crack had formed in the clear space, spreading like a web. Yan quickly turned his gaze back to the puppet, but it remained motionless in its natural stance.

As the fissure covered the entire space…

Gasp.

Yan came back to his senses. He was drenched in cold sweat, his clothes and hair soaked through.

[You were never meant to handle this.]

Momon’s words left Yan staring blankly ahead. The statue of the Founding Emperor seemed to be looking back at him.

[I hate to admit it, but Bahamut is a monster. Honestly, I think you’re not bad either, but compared to Bahamut, it’s like the difference between the sun and a firefly.]

“…”

[Whatever you’ve gained in the realm of imagination, be content with it.]

It seemed Momon hadn’t seen what Yan had.

Yan was still staring blankly at the statue, unable to escape the sword techniques the puppets had displayed.

Thud!

“Damn, that startled me!”

[Don’t be bound by such things, don’t be enchanted! They’re nothing more than illusions that don’t even exist!]

Momon’s shout snapped Yan back to reality.

The anxiety that had filled his mind vanished.

Only then did Yan’s focus return.

[Even if you absorbed me through despicable means, I won’t forgive you if you’re played by the remnants left by Bahamut.]

Momon shouted in genuine anger.

“Ugh!”

[Are you laughing?]

Yan shook his head vigorously, shaking the sweat from his wet hair.

Then he straightened up.

Crack.

“Thank you, Momon.”

If it weren’t for Momon, Yan might have lost his mind.

‘No, there’s a high chance I would have gone mad.’

If Momon hadn’t awakened him, he would have been entranced by the Founding Emperor’s swordsmanship indefinitely.

Hmph.

Momon snorted, not bothering to say much else.

Yan turned around with a satisfied look.

‘I’ve acquired a part of the Founding Emperor’s swordsmanship. Well, not acquired, but since it remains in my mind, I must obtain it by any means necessary.’

Though it seemed like he was just gazing at the puppet’s swordplay, he had carefully stored every minute detail in his eyes.

He would be able to absorb it in some way.

From the looks of it, there were still unseen sword techniques remaining.

‘But greed invites disaster.’

So, slowly. Only as much as I can handle.

It’s time to move on to the next level.

“Shall we go up to the next floor?”

If I’ve gained this much from the second floor.

What incredible things might the third floor hold?

Yan’s heart began to pound with anticipation.

The clock hands on the second-floor wall pointed to nine.

There was still an hour left before the royal armory closed.