Iron Blooded Hound

Chapter 79: Chapter 79: Inquisition and Revelation

"Dolores L. Quovadis."

A saintess who turned 16 this year, she is the most probable contender to lead the Quovadis family in the future.

An undisputed wonder of the Supreme Foundation Colosseo, she hasn't missed a solitary class since she entered her first year utilizing the early confirmation framework, and presently in her sophomore year, she is the VP of the understudy chamber.

Her appearance helped Vikir remember a time before the relapse.

In the far-off past, she had been a saintess, heading out to the front lines of battle against demons and healing the sick, showing firsthand what it meant to be a living saintess.

Called an angel of the battlefield, she saved countless lives, a living example of goodness.

Though still young, she already has serious areas of strength and a clear mind.

Vikir, like all people who have survived the Period of Annihilation, had respect and warmth for the young saintess.

Vikir bowed his head, and the paladins nearby followed suit.

Dolores stopped, too.

Her senses were acute, and she could smell the animal aroma of Vikir's soul, the scent of blood, oil, and violence, anger, and hatred.

And at the center of all those swirling emotions, the scent of a terrible sorrow, buried deep within.

"Are you a lost sheep?"

"Yes."

Vikir replied with a choked throat.

Dolores nodded.

"You look more like a... puppy than a sheep."

"A scarred little pup."

As Dolores finished speaking, the faces of all the paladins gathered on the main floor turned a shade of red.

Mozgus shouted as well.

"Paladin, that's not a puppy! That's a blood-frenzied wolf! You really need to step back now...."

"Bring me tea."

Dolores lifted her hand to silence Mozgus.

Then, she said in a very firm tone.

"I want to talk to him."

Soon, a small parlor was set up with a table, chairs, and two teacups.

Warm, steaming cups of peppermint tea.

At the entrance to the parlor, a large Mozgus stood fidgeting.

In his hands, he held a small teapot with a floral design that resembled a large ring.

A small table was set in the center of the room, and Bikir and Dolores sat opposite each other.

Dolores sounded surprised.

"When I heard that Mr. Mozgus had emerged, I was surprised and came to see you, since I thought you intended to get hurt a lot."

Mozgus has the disposition and reasoning of an inquisitor. So does his body.

So there was no apparent reason for him to warmly welcome the dubiously dressed visitor.

However, who knew?

That the one who was the tactical backbone of the Quavadis would be crushed so terribly.

Suddenly, Mozgus cleared his throat from near him.

"Saintess. I didn't lose. If it had been a big picture approach, the odds were most certainly in my favor...."

The mere fact that he says this is a sign of defeat.

Dolores thought to herself.

"Mr. Mozgus was one of only a handful of exceptional Graduators in the Domain, and if he can be defeated with such ease, I can't imagine the reason why anyone would want to...."

She looked at Vikir's mask before her.

But, there was nothing she could read in it.

As Vikir stared down at the teacup before him, Dolores spoke again.

"I don't think you can drink tea with that gas mask on."

Vikir nodded silently.

He hadn't said anything since before, so Dolores decided to get straight to the point.

"I've been under a lot of stress lately."

Vikir's head perked up at her words.

Concerned about what? The studies at the institute? Or a homeschool class?

But, Dolores shook her head.

"I'm taking a break from the institute and my family's affairs because it's time to rest. It's the aristocrats and merchants you saw just now who are really bothering me."

They dragged their sick bodies to the saintess and begged her to heal them.

Unwanted guests, asking for money or fame.

"The things they ask me to fix are obvious: erectile dysfunction, sexually transmitted diseases, drug side effects - nothing really challenging."

If he had the divine ability to heal them, Dolores said, he'd rather help people who are truly struggling and sick.

"Justice, nobility, charity, equality, and the will of God may be these things... but people are too blinded by what's in front of them."

Vikir nodded in agreement.

"This is inevitable, since philosophy is essentially a course of understanding people."

It was a phrase he'd often heard from her mouth when he'd met Dolores on the front lines of the conflict before he'd relapsed.

Vikir had only briefly recalled a memory from some time ago, but Dolores' eyes widened at the sight before her.

Even Mozgus, who stood in the doorway.

"Hebrew Scripture, Azmoth, part 6, chapter 9. Very philosophical and significant."

"...."

"I can't quite believe that you know these ancient words. You must be well-versed in philosophy. Are you a member of the Congregation of the Runes?"

Vikir was silent for a moment.

He didn't know or care about Runes, the state religion of the Domain, so it seemed a good time to redirect the conversation.

"More than that. There is a plague in the ghettos of St. Mecca."

"... Is that reliable information?"

"You've seen the water in the streets. It comes directly from the wells of the ghettos."

"You had nothing to do with it?"

"For what other reason could I have come here willingly?"

Again, Vikir spoke.

"I hate to see innocent people hurt. Especially since this is my home."

"Oh, is this your home? I'm from here, too."

Dolores' eyes sparkled at Vikir's words.

It was the first time she had heard of his homeland, so Vikir simply shook his head.

"I believe in absolutes, too. I hope the plague will be eradicated soon."

"A harsh soul, but... a good one, you are."

Dolores turned serious.

"You told Mr. Mozgus earlier that you saw some suspicious individuals, didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. I saw them pouring liquid into vials all around the wells."

"If this plague is man-made... who spread it and for what reason?"

Dolores seemed to be thinking a lot.

Plagues are not a simple matter.

When a plague starts to spread, the hardest hit are institutions where many people reside in community, typically monasteries and schools.

When a plague hits a monastery, the number of priests decreases, and cults, religions, and superstitions begin to flourish, necessitating even more priests.

Thus, when ignorant and inexperienced priests go out into the field, more blasphemies, cults, superstitions, etc. are created.

So, in the event of a plague, the Quavadis would be at a significant political disadvantage.

To prevent this from happening, they would need to quickly suppress the Red Death.

Vikir's response was succinct.

"The ones

who stand to gain the most are the Leviathan and the Common."

The extremely poisonous Leviathan will use this potential opportunity to collect samples from various patients, research, analyze, and improve the plague to use as their own weapon.

Since they are a family that uses poison and medicine as their main weapons, the fact that a strong plague has spread is a very good thing for them.

Moreover, the oligarchic Common were also likely to see significant gains.

Gold and silver fortunes do not vanish in a plague.

The deaths of the doctors would bankrupt the landlords, and their warehouses, gold and silver coins, banknotes, and production facilities would be taken over by the Common.

Once the Common has consumed the dead and empty factories, farms, shops, businesses, and other land capital, they can use their accumulated wealth to start new businesses.

Fashion companies for the newly rich, health supplements for those who remember the horrors of the plague, etc.... sales will skyrocket.

"Merchants from common families could visit Balak's towns and try to buy up prongs and ginseng and such things, right?"

Vikir thought to himself.

"The ones spreading the Red Death must've been Leviathans, the fanatics.

And they probably have a Common partner as an ally.

No doubt, they were trading information with each other.

The staunch Quavadis and the natives of the wilderness are the substitutes.

"... Therefore, consequently, I believe they may be very familiar with the plague. Just a speculation, of course."

Vikir had actually seen, heard, and experienced the events before his relapse, and he was able to sort through them a bit.

What?

I don't feel much of a reaction from the front.

"...?"

Vikir tilted his head slightly, as if searching for something.

Then, he looked at the faces of Dolores and Mozgus behind the gas masks.

Both were frozen completely still, their mouths half open.

"You. Who on earth would you say you are?"

Dolores asked in a questioning tone.

The being who had abruptly appeared one day and warned him of the disaster facing the Quavadis family.

A solitary man, wearing peculiar attire, yet with a distinct and pure soul.

"Who are you, and how do you know about everything?"

Dolores' voice started to shake.

Typically, among the visitors who come to the House to take care of themselves, there are generally those who are knowledgeable in the ways of the world.

But few of them could predict the future with such precision.

Even more so, they have the distinction of being early warners of a plague that hasn't even been reported yet.

Naturally, Dolores and Mozgus couldn't help but ponder the identity of this strange visitor to the Quavadis family.

"Oh, impressive! Doesn't the saintess inquire? Who are you?"

Mozgus also asks, dangerously tinkering with a small teapot that looks like it will be folded at any moment.

It's as if he's forcing me to respect the saintess' authority, yet all the while he's just curious.

Dolores and Mozgus both look at Vikir's face, their eyes shining.

In turn, Vikir answered briefly.

"Dog of the Evening."

At that, the two ministers' demeanors become somewhat subdued.

"... Night dog. That's a rather melancholy name."

"Even when you give yourself a moniker, you wear it like a garment. How very irreverent."

Dolores and Mozgus grunted.

Vikir remained silent thereafter, saying nothing else.

Mozgus, meanwhile, hastened to act.

"... Whatever is happening... all that he said is possible, Night Dog. We need to investigate the plague next, report back to our patriarch, and take action at the family level."

There was a need to get moving in the cathedral.

Dolores officially requested that Bishop Mozgus organize an expedition to alleviate the plague.

She also officially reported to her biological father, Cardinal Humbert, whose monastery was not far away.

Today, Dolores' decision would reach the ears of Lord Nabokov I, patriarch of the Quavadis and Pope of the Congregation of Runes.

It was a matter of grave importance.

Mozgus hurried off to convey the saint's will.

Meanwhile, Dolores was gazing at Vikir with wide-eyed wonder.

Vikir, in turn, met Dolores' gaze calmly.

Vikir didn't waste any time trying to recount the tale of House Baskerville and House Morg to the saintess.

To actually do so would reveal that the Red Death was first unleashed in the waters of the Red and Dark Mountains.

Indeed, the Baskervilles and Morg have the most to gain if the Red Death is released into the waters of the Red and Dark Mountains.

The savage tribes play a significant role in the Red and Dark Mountain ecosystem, and the loss of these typically ferocious creatures would cause subordinate demons to overpopulate, leading to monster waves and a spike in civilian casualties.

Vikir recalled the past.

Before the relapse, more than 40% of the savages had been wiped out as the Red Death gradually spread.

This caused the demon population to soar, and the political influence of the Morg and Baskervilles on the line grew.

Hugo used this political leverage to further his family's power, and once again, many dogs were lost.

Vikir was one of them.

Indeed, it matters not.

Keeping the Balak alive is about seeking revenge on Leviathan the Radical and Bourgeois the Tycoon, which in turn is about seeking revenge on your comrades who died in Baskerville the Ironblade.

It's a chain of events, by design.

Vikir closed his eyes quietly, contemplating what was to come.

Meanwhile, Saint Dolores gazed at Vikir as he did so.

"... A lost puppy, weary and lonely."

Why do these thoughts come to mind for a man who calls himself a dog?

Why did the one who had brought down the mighty Mozgus and the paladins under his sway look so small and forlorn?

He smelled of blood, of the howling of a broken soul, and the scent of death.

Sorrow, hatred, and loneliness. And a man walking a thorny parsimonious path, fretting about all these concerns alone.

He had the aura of a prophet or a seeker.

Suddenly, she remembered the words he had murmured in his deep voice.

"Religious philosophy is essentially a course of understanding people, so this is inevitable."

There is no doubt that the person who knows this passage of the ancient scripture, which even the religious philosophy experts don't know well, isn't a Rune supporter.

He must be a practitioner of the runes, practicing the tradition on the front lines of suffering, at the very least, in the most extreme places.

'There's no way he could remember and recite those words otherwise.'

Simply Dolores thought so.

She is a young, immature sixteen-year-old girl with the qualities of a saintess who can read the souls of others.

Is that why? Her misconceptions about Vikir were gaining weight.

But, even if she does, Vikir is just waiting for the arrival of the holy water that can quench the Red Death.

"...."

"...."

A man and a woman gaze into each other's faces with different thoughts.

The tea

that hadn't even been touched was quietly cooling off. Later.

Vikir hurried to the ghettos of St. Mecca.

Saint Dolores, Inquisitor Mozgus, and many paladins and ministers followed.

"Is there really a plague here?"

Dolores asked, breathless as she climbed the steep stairs.

The paladins accompanying her seemed to be in dismay as well.

But there was no hesitation in Vikir's step as he ran ahead like a scout at the head of the pack.

Finally, arriving on a high rooftop high above the city of Dahl, Vikir looked from one chimney stack to another.

Despite the weather not being too cold, the chimneys of several houses were wreathed in smoke from wood-burning stoves.

Vikir searched for houses with smoke rising from their stacks.

As it turned out, some of the houses with smoke rising from their chimneys were already experiencing an outbreak of the Red Death.

The initial symptoms of the Red Death are usually chills and fever.

This is followed by severe pain throughout the body, followed by vomiting and diarrhea.

Patients shiver at the sight of red spots that slowly appear on their skin.

The chills usually lead them to push firewood into the chimney.

But just because there was no smoke rising from the chimney didn't mean there were no patients.

In the ghettos, many families lacked enough firewood, and most of them were wrapped in dirty blankets to keep the chills at bay.

Dolores wept at seeing their suffering.

"Alas, poor people, just relax. Rune's great love will heal you."

Without further ado, she touched the bodies of the plague victims, uttering prayers and blessings.

Vikir paused behind her, assessing their condition.

"Thank goodness there are no children."

It was worth it to frighten the children at the well. There were no children among the patients.

Since Vikir had come in such a hurry, they were all early cases with only slightly overwhelming pain.

They were all primary cases, infected by drinking water, and secondary cases, infected by the saliva or feces of primary cases.

The disease must be stopped early, while there were no deaths.

Saint Dolores gathered the patients in the central square and prayed.

[Best part of me, fire of my life, my sins, my soul, peer downward on the young and poor gathered here... ... ]

The saint recited the prayer in a clear voice.

And then.

A single tear fell from Dolores' eye and rolled down her cheek.

She looked so weak, so holy, so somehow divine.

It was the appearance of a beautiful girl, yet with zero trace of lust or obscenity.

Soon, a single tear, broken by contact with the ground, began to work miracles.

...Pow!

It emitted a white, holy light and instantly wiped away the red stains from the bodies of the patients before her.

With a single drop of her tears and a single line of prayer, five or six patients were freed from the red death.

"Oooh! Thank you, saint! Thank you!"

"You are my savior."

"I'm healed, I'm cured, my God, it's a miracle!"

The citizens, who had been shivering with chills and gasping just a short while ago, sprang up and danced as if they hadn't experienced a plague.

Dolores smiled as wide as she had ever cried when she saw her patients regain their strength.

And there was a man behind her, gazing at her smile.

"That's all there is to it. I really want that."

It was Vikir, expecting a miracle from the holy water.

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