Chapter 257: Revival and Return
The Principality of Corlay, or rather the land currently occupied by the Corlay Family, bordered the territory of the Dark Creatures. Compared to being besieged by Fishmen and Original Sin, the Corlay Family’s situation was much better.
Before evacuating, the Corlay Family had taken away seven Holy Relics. Whether these Holy Relics originally belonged to the Corlay Family or not was unimportant.
With the deterrence of these Holy Relics, the Dark Creatures at Blackrock Point dared not recklessly invade the Corlay Family’s territory.
Thus, both sides fell into a strange balance.
Blackrock Point was a place where countless Dark Creatures gathered. Compared to the scattered Dark Creatures roaming in the endless Northwind Mountains, the Dark Creatures on this land were stronger, more ancient, and more united.
The sky was filled with thick, oppressive clouds. This layer of clouds that blocked the Morning Star’s light had existed for an unknown amount of time—tens of thousands of years perhaps, or maybe an even more immeasurable span.
Deprived of the Morning Star’s radiance, the plants on this land grew in grotesque forms.
Deep underground, within a dug-out burial chamber, a stone coffin lay in the center.
Suddenly, with a loud bang, the stone coffin shook as though something within was knocking from the inside.
Whoosh—the sound of wings beating. Grayish-blue skin, a thin yet extremely robust body, and from his back, fleshy wings stretched open.
It was a Vampire.
His eyes fixed on the trembling stone coffin as he let out an excited shriek.
As though aware of this Vampire’s presence, the coffin’s shaking ceased. The Vampire’s eyes gradually darkened into pitch black. He raised his clawed hand and violently pierced through his chest, pulling out his still-beating heart.
Blood gushed from the hole in his chest, and was immediately absorbed by the life inside the coffin.
The Vampire’s body grew thinner, his bones extracted and ground into powder, mixing into the blood, seized by the coffin. His falling skin disintegrated mid-air into fragments, all devoured by the coffin before touching the ground.
When the Vampire had been completely consumed, a hoarse groan echoed from the coffin.
Bang! The coffin lid was smashed open by a single punch. A shriveled, grayish-blue figure floated upward.
His body was withered, almost like skin stretched over bone.
“Heh…” He let out a dry rasp, his wings slowly spreading, revealing tattered holes across the flesh.
Then with a sudden violent flap, his body shot upward, piercing through the deep underground straight to the surface.
Stretching his body, shaking off dust and rubble, he seemed to celebrate his rebirth with a hoarse roar.
Blackrock Point itself seemed to awaken at this sound. Countless Dark Creatures crawled out from who knew where, raising their voices in frenzied shrieks toward the being above.
The shriveled Vampire tugged at the skin of his face, curling into what looked like a satisfied smile. Beating his wings, he ascended further, piercing into the clouds, soaring above them to gaze directly at the Morning Star hanging in the sky.
His skin tingled in pain, but this only excited him further.
He opened his mouth, trembling, uttering something unclear—whether words or a shriek, none could tell.
Suddenly, a golden cup appeared in his hand. Beneath the clouds, a violent eruption of countless blood-bursts spread. In an instant, Blackrock Point held only the Vampire—every other Dark Creature had perished.
The blood, as though summoned, surged skyward, becoming an inverted blood rain that stained the clouds red before breaking through and pouring into the golden cup in his hand. When the flow finally ceased, the cup was only half full.
The Vampire tilted the cup slightly, the liquid swirling within, then brought it to his lips and drank greedily.
With each mouthful of blood, his body swelled with vitality. The holes in his flesh wings slowly mended. He was reviving beneath the radiance of the Morning Star.
When his body fully returned to its peak, he stopped drinking, raised the golden cup toward the Morning Star, as though offering a toast—or perhaps bidding farewell.
On the ground, the blood-soaked clouds rained crimson upon Blackrock Point. The Vampires below tilted their heads back, shrieking ecstatically. They seemed to be drinking in the power of the blood rain, as though celebrating the return of their Progenitor.
…
The Northern Kingdom was the northernmost human kingdom. But even further north lay a land forgotten by all.
Its temperatures were unbearably low. Permafrost gripped it year-round. No crops could grow there. To humans, it was a place as unknowable as the deep sea.
For the Northern Kingdom, however, it served as a place of exile.
Now, upon that forsaken land, a Werewolf with horn-like protrusions from his head was nailed to a crude cross. His fur was matted and torn—cut away in some parts, burned in others, stained with unknown poisons.
He roared viciously, but lacked the strength to break free from the nails that bound him.
In front of him, a man in scarred armor stuffed raw, stiff meat into his mouth.
Though the land was frigid, fire could still be kindled. Yet in the North there was a legend—that lighting a fire in the Exile Lands would bring misfortune.
Hode had been born in the North. This legend was one his mother had told him to lull him to sleep. So, upon his long-awaited return, he chose to obey it.
Thus, he had carved a piece of meat from the Werewolf’s body to eat.
Glancing at the still-bellowing Werewolf, Hode picked up a sturdy bow. With a single arrow through the Werewolf’s mouth, he pinned him to the cross.
“Hurghh…” The Werewolf could now only rasp from his throat.
“Don’t make noise, Ymir. This time, I won’t let you escape. This time, I will kill you.” Hode bit into the strip of meat, grinning at the Wolf King Ymir.
Blood still stained his teeth.
Ymir’s pupils contracted. His throat trembled, forcing out words. “...Human… I will not die! I am the great Wolf God. Just as you cannot kill me.”
Hode replied, “If your god truly protected you, if you truly could not die, you wouldn’t have fled here.”
This land was eternally shrouded in clouds, untouched by the Morning Star’s light. For Dark Creatures that could endure the hunger and cold, it was an ideal refuge.
Yet Ymir’s words carried truth. No matter how Hode crushed Ymir’s heart, dug out his brain, shattered his bones, severed his limbs and head—none of it could truly kill him. Each time Hode ceased his torment, Ymir would regenerate.
Sometimes from his torso, sometimes from a limb. Thus, whenever captured, Ymir resorted to self-mutilation to escape.
But after capturing him many times, Hode simply imitated what Ymir once did to him—building a cross and nailing Ymir upon it.
Though it felt like sacrilege, he chose it over futile attempts to kill him.
He was prepared to repent and accept punishment once he returned.
Finishing his strip of flesh, Hode rose and walked before Ymir, pulling the arrow from his head.
Freed slightly, Ymir lunged and bit Hode, but Hode countered with a punch, dislocating his jaw.
“Now,” Hode said, “heal yourself quickly. Later, I want to hear your screams.”
“You cannot kill me,” Ymir rasped.
Hode grinned. “I will make you choose death yourself.”
“You have no idea what you are facing,” Ymir growled.
“I am facing a mad dog,” Hode retorted, turning away.
“Hsss… Awooo!” Ymir’s voice broke into a feral howl.
Hode returned to where he sat, slung the wooden box over his back, and walked a hundred meters from Ymir.
Opening it revealed a bow lying silently inside.
It was the Church’s Holy Relic—Hunting Fang.
Hode could feel its intimacy with him, as though it were part of his own body. Because of this, he could forcefully draw it even under its resistance.
The first time he hunted Ymir, he had attacked from afar.
Back then, he could only draw a quarter of the string. Yet even with Ymir’s speed, the bow’s range enveloped him, nearly shredding him into pieces.
Still, even then, Ymir nearly killed him once he drew close.
Ymir had been terrified by the rain of arrows and fled, sparing Hode.
From then, Hode knew he could not win in close combat.
The second time he wielded Hunting Fang, he coated an arrow in poison and shot Ymir.
It was Hunting Fang’s second ability—Inevitability.
The strike was certain, only requiring him to act out the motion afterward.
Thus, Ymir was poisoned.
The venom was one Hode had bought in the North. The seller claimed a single drop could kill a Northern Warrior. Hode had coated the entire arrow with it.
But instead of dying, Ymir merely weakened. Hode subdued him and dug out his heart.
In his coming-of-age ceremony, Hode had hunted an Icefield Wolf, eating its still-warm heart raw.
So, he had also torn out Ymir’s heart—but since this one was poisoned, he regretfully tossed it aside.
Yet after only a short rest, he discovered Ymir had fled. When he found him again, his heart had regrown, and there was no sign of poison in his body.
Puzzled, Hode tried again with another poisoned arrow when Hunting Fang allowed.
This time he planned to dismember Ymir and bind his body parts separately.
But as soon as he approached, Ymir leapt up and attacked.
Though struck, he was now immune to the toxin. He had faked weakness to lure Hode in.
That time brought Hode closest to death. The bishop’s gifted armor blocked Ymir’s claws, but his immense strength dented the steel inward, nearly crushing him alive.
If not for a sudden Icefield Wolf pack’s attack, Hode would have died.
Ironically, Ymir, a Werewolf, could not command the wolves.
Of course, Hode too was besieged. But while his armor could not withstand Ymir, it withstood the wolves.
Unable to break the “iron shell,” the wolves eventually dispersed.
That time, a veteran hunter rescued Hode. The man told him that hunting was not about the weak overcoming the strong, but proof of superiority. To hunt meant you were already stronger—whether through courage or wisdom.
That, he said, was why Northern adulthood rites were hunts, and why Northern Warriors were famed.
They embodied wisdom and technique refined into pure strength.
Hode dismissed it as nonsense.
But the old hunter added: Werewolves were born hunters. No matter how skilled a man might be, he could never outmatch their instinct. And Ymir was not just any Werewolf—he was the Wolf King. Perhaps Hode thought he was hunting Ymir, but in truth, Ymir had long seen him as prey.
This, Hode admitted, sounded true. After all, he noticed Hunting Fang always answered his call at night.
So he asked the old hunter how he should hunt Ymir.
The hunter said, “Forget all your tricks, your wisdom, your thoughts. Especially that so-called merciful Lord of yours. Mercy buries the power in your bloodline. Give yourself to instinct—then master that instinct.”
Hode dismissed it again.
Then the frail-looking old hunter beat the strong Hode half to death.
Literally half-dead—Hode’s hardy body required ten days to recover enough to stand.
Thus, Hode admitted the old hunter had a point, and earnestly sought his guidance on how to achieve it.