Iron Blooded Hound-Chapter 98 - : Clash of Nightmares

It was late around evening time.

Thundering... ... blast!

The downpour had halted, however there was more thunder.

Vikir lifted his head and gazed toward the monster rock development ascending before him.

Made out of quartz and sandstone, the monstrous bluff remained solitary as a taking off top as opposed to the level landscape around it.

Many caverns have been cut into the precarious bluffs, and their students gaze vacantly into the murkiness, similar to the eyes of a visually impaired Guani.

Sometimes, in the haziness of a cavern, quartz or amethyst gemstones would glimmer in the impression of a lightning bolt, and the precipices would appear to stand monitor toward each path, similar to 1,000 looked at gatekeeper.

Vikir gritted his teeth.

From Baskerville Road to the watery profundities of Balak.

Vikir's body had been prepared as far as possible at this point, and each jerking muscle in his body was rigid.

Vikir started to climb the precarious bluff barehanded.

The muscles in his back and arms pulled and delivered, pulled and delivered, pulled and delivered... ... .

Vikir mixed up the stone wall, each foot in turn.

...Walgrok!

In some cases the cave rock formations he was clutching would snap, or the stone bill he was stepping on would snap crazy.

Without a solitary shout, Vikir smoothly prepared herself with the strength of his other arm or foot, accounting for a fast snatch or step.

At the point when he believed he didn't have anything to snatch or step on, he drew his enchanted blade, Satan, and hammered it into the wall, moving vertical.

On account of Mushu Hushu's capacities, no sound was made during the whole cycle.

...I can't help thinking about how long he climbed that way.

At the point when I assumed I was mostly up the precipice, I saw a cavern.

It was limited enough for one individual to fit in, yet it was very twisting inside, so it felt comfortable.

It seemed to be a spot to enjoy some time off from the trip in the event that anybody ended up running over it.

Yet, Vikir didn't enter the cavern.

"...A trap."

This is where the Madame's home is found.

I didn't figure there would be an agreeable spot underneath the most horrendously terrible of beasts.

There was a slight opportunity that this was a characteristic snare to test the desire of the challenger.

A more fragile man, depleted from the excursion up here, would have been handily enticed, yet the carefully prepared Vikir actually had some endurance left.

Vikir didn't hurry into the cavern, yet watched out for it.

...etc.

A cadaver, a skeleton, moved around in the cavern.

Had there been a fighter who had come this far previously?

It appeared to be that he had placed this cavern, never made it out, and kicked the bucket, abandoning just his remaining parts.

Vikir looked up without entering the cavern.

Presently he comprehended the reason why there were such countless skeletons in the cavern.

Tacky... ...

In time, a slight fluid started to stream down the precipice.

It was a combination of liquids and feces that Madame frequently tossed out, and it was generally hard or thick, yet when it down-poured, it thickened and slackened.

The bodily fluid that has collected in the stomach is released by the downpour.

They streamed down, covering the entire region, taking steps to obstruct the entry to the cavern.

From an external perspective, it seemed to be whipped cream dribbling down a goliath cake, yet the nausea and odor was indefinable.

"... ... Assuming we strolled into that cavern, we'd be in a tough situation."

Luckily, Vikir hadn't gone into the cavern, nor had he nodded off in it, so he immediately kicked open the entry and shifted aside.

Fortunately, there was a stone bill sticking out like a rooftop right close to him, and he dodged under it to keep away from a shower of ooze.

The ooze, a combination of the Madame's natural liquids and dung, makes skin swell and knock upon contact.

Vikir's skin was saturated with the security of the Styx Waterway, so he ought to have the option to endure it, yet all things considered, he would have rather not interacted with that ooze.

...Gulp!

Before long, the sludge had totally covered the opening of the cliffside cavern, and it streamed down the delicate incline of the cave, filling it with a cloudy, foul scent.

Dahlgrak.

The skeleton existing in contacted the sludge and started to drift.

The fighter, who probably come to see the Madame quite a while in the past, had most likely nodded off in the cavern when he entered for a brief reprieve and suffocated, never to return.

It wasn't the main cavern that held a skeleton.

Compulsions to rest were all over the place, and it took godlike perseverance to climb the exhausting and troublesome offshoots to stay away from them.

Nails strip, fingerprints blur.

Each time Vikir wanted to enjoy some time off, in any event, briefly, he gritted his teeth harder.

As the dog of the Baskervilles, evil was all that survived from his time in the Period of Annihilation.

Vikir climbed the bluffs, evading dribbling ooze en route, and passed handfuls more caverns containing skeletons.

...How long had passed?

Vikir could see the highest point of the top through the thick fog of water and inky mists.

He had made it this far without tumbling off and biting the dust, without being shrouded in ooze, and he had achieved his objective.

Each muscle and bone in his body shouted, however it was as yet an exceptional achievement.

Presently, Vikir checked out the pinnacle.

The dark, soft soil was covered with wobbly, tacky strings that whipped in the breeze.

A foul smell radiated from the whole pinnacle. An odor so foul that not even downpour and tempests could wash it away.

" ... ... Maybe a lot of meat has been assembled and is spoiling."

Vikir moved toward the focal point of the pinnacle, and afterward.

Bam! Swoosh.

The ground at the highest point of the pinnacle sank in, sucking Vikir's foot up to his shin.

It resembled stepping on the outer layer of a marsh.

After looking into it further, the ground was shrouded in decaying tissue. That is the reason it felt so disagreeably soft and hot.

A disagreeable sensation folded over my whole leg.

On the off chance that I hadn't enveloped my legs by cowhide, I would have been tingling.

"In the event that I stay actually, I'll depend on my midriff."

Vikir mixed to his feet.

I didn't have a clue about the floor, so I needed to pick just the hard ottomans that projected vertical in view of the floor that was gradually sinking.

Vikir immediately understood the personality of the wobbly tractions standing out of the sludge and decaying soil.

They were bones.

A story made of incalculable bones.

They went head to head with tacky, hardened sludge to shape a huge mass.

The odor exuded from the less rotted lumps of meat that lay underneath them.

These cadavers, evidently extras from Madame's feasts, are canvassed in ooze, rotting and maturing, radiating a foul toxic substance, smell, and intensity.

Vikir needed to strive to hold himself back from suffocating in this marsh of ooze and spoiling meat.

Then.

"...!"

Vikir halted abruptly briefly.

An inauspicious air radiated from the cavern ahead.

However, that wasn't what left Vikir speechless.

The skeletons. Bodies that hadn't yet rotted, dissipated in different pieces.

Earthy colored skin, silver hair, faces distorted in agony and dread.

They were plainly Balak's men and wolves.

Abui was a decent tracker. Adul, the solid swimmer. Akelon, who was a seasoned veteran of sewing. Asagl, who was an extremely quick sprinter. Asak, who giggled and cried a ton. Aguil, who was continuously contending with Ahun when they originally moved to the town. Agun, who was surprisingly greedy. Atlatl, who was great at spear... ... .

The companions he'd lived with for the beyond two years, every one of whom he perceived, obviously.

" ... ... In the event that you will hurl like this, you should eat it."

Vikir squeezed his lips together and assembled the remaining parts of his companions.

Then, at that point, he noticed a snapshot of quietness.

A fighter's custom before a last fight. It was a progression of steps that changed the feelings of the beyond two years into resolve.

"...."

And afterward Vikir's head gobbled up, his eyes shining red.

Toward the finish of the long queue of tissue and bones, an extraordinary haziness prowled.

A vast opening in the focal point of the pinnacle. An underground passage of bone and tissue.

It was clear from its size and toxicity that it was Madame's home.

A harmful exhalation, unquestionable as the Madame's regurgitation from the lower part of the profound chamber, surges out of the sinkhole.

Vikir paid attention to the breath and smell coming from under the ground.

"...."

Regardless of how frequently he checked, the outcome was something similar.

The unusually projecting tummy fat, that plump piece of tissue wincing was clear.

Madame has been in her passages for quite a while, breathing equally, as though she in no way wants to slither out.

No big surprise she'd struck a Balak town and eaten to her fill.

Karak-

Vikir quietly got the bow on his back.

Then, at that point, conveying the Baskerville family's interesting dim red emanation, he terminated a bolt.

formal statement of war.

A red path flew through the drape of ooze and spoiled strands.

It conveyed the challenger's goals to the profundities inside.

And afterward.

... ... ... ... ....

The breath and toxin that had been heaving from the tunnel halted.

Then.

[Zzzzzzzzzz!]

A savage fury ejects.

Madame's vindictiveness regurgitated forward like a torrential slide from a functioning well of lava.

Before long, an evil presence rises up out of the decaying meat den.

An eerie depht bad dream.

Repulsions of relentless causality.

An inhabitant of the clouded side.

It was the second when 'Lady Eight Legs' uncovered its repulsive appearance under the heavy downpour and lightning.

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