Revenge of the Iron-Blooded Sword Hound (Novel) Chapter 22

C 22: Morgue Camille (3)

"Do they not teach you at Morgue House not to covet what belongs to others?"

Vikir's words caused a sudden shift in the atmosphere as he entered the family room.

Adolf's previously subtle smile disappeared completely, and his expression hardened.

Camus also glared at Vikir with an angry look on her face.

On the other hand, Hugo adopted the subtle expression that Adolf had been wearing until now.



A clash of two strong egos, two geniuses facing each other.

Two supernovae, rarely seen once in a hundred years, stood face to face in the middle of the room.

Vikir carefully examined Morgue Camille in front of him.

Red hair, sparkling ruby-like eyes, a straight nose, chubby cheeks, and a fresh expression with a hint of freckles.

"Is this the Morgue Camille that I know?"

The face of his childhood overlapped with the face of the adult.

If he removes the baby fat from that face, adds a mature aura, and adds a few more years... Vikir can see the face he knows.

The Iron-Blood Empress of Morgue House.

A figure who stood out as an unrivaled genius even among the many great sorcerers in history, produced by the prestigious magical lineage of Morgue.

Not only possessed noble magical skills but also possessed a beautiful appearance that captivated the hearts of all men in high society, and she used her beauty to her advantage.

Camille's figure, which was excessively revealed as she went in and out of places, could even fit within the width of a skirt, causing even the high-ranking nobles with high noses to be amazed. This ultimately made her a manifestation of power.

Through numerous strategic marriages, the prestige of Morgue House soared every time.

During the prime of her reign as the ruling empress, she personally subjugated countless demons and barbarians in the "Red and Black Mountain Range," tightly grasping her enemies and burning them with fire, establishing borders of blood and ashes. She was a woman of power.

In her final years, she was known by the tremendous title of "Empress Zhè Tiān Wǔhòu (則天武后)."

"Hey, what did you just say?"

...But that is a story of a distant future. Right now, she is just an eight-year-old little girl.

Camus interrogated Vikir with a sharp voice.

"Why is the Ruby Mine yours? It should be ours!"

Adolf laughed and Hugo frowned at the sight.

However, Vikir dismissed Camus' objection with a single remark.

"You must have had a hard time coming all the way here to play the boss."

Hugo laughed at the scene, and Adolf frowned.

On the other hand, realizing that being a young child wouldn't be effective, Camus gritted her teeth.

So she changed her attitude and returned to her original logical demeanor.


A chilling aura emanated from the girl's body.

Camus, discarding her innocent expression, opened her mouth in a cold voice.

"If you dislike playing the boss, then logically explain why this Ruby Mine belongs to Morgue."

Camus took out a map and analyzed and explained the terrain of the mine.

"The surface mining site where rubies can be harvested is unique to our family. In other words, Basquerville cannot independently mine the Ruby Vein. From Basquerville's perspective, it is more advantageous from a business standpoint to transfer the mining rights of the underground Ruby Vein in our territory and receive a certain portion of the territorial lease."

She is the illegitimate daughter of a renowned mage family, a logic-driven young woman who has never been defeated by reason before. Even the grown-ups find themselves at a loss against her logical reasoning, so how could her peers stand a chance?

However, Camus' pride had to face a challenge.

"The mineral known as ruby is commonly used as a magical ingredient. There is no reason for Basquerville to mine them. Territory lease? It would be a great tragedy for Morgue if we had fools in our family who would open our territory for a mere pittance."

Camus looked puzzled at Vikir's rebuttal.

For the first time in her life, her own logic didn't prevail against her opponent. And to make matters worse, it was someone her own age!

Were most boys her age dense and foolish? Camus couldn't help but feel a little confused.

...On the other hand.

The debate between Camus and Vikir was not merely a dispute between two eight-year-olds.

Both of them understood the logic of Morgue and Basquerville well, so Adolf and Hugo couldn't help but take an interest and silently observe.

Narrowing her eyes, Camus spoke.

"Interesting. You're a new type of kid. In my household, there's no one of our age who can have a conversation with me."

"Go out a bit more."

"...Excuse me. I've already been on many territory inspections. What do you know about my life to make such a comment?"

"To be honest, I have no interest in your life. The issue is about the Ruby Mine. If you want to change the topic, do it alone."

While Vikir maintained a nonchalant attitude, Camus' gaze became increasingly annoyed.

"A man who is so indifferent to me, you're the first!" It was a classic, obvious emotion that transcends eras.

And it was understandable.

Camus has lived receiving countless admiration as a direct descendant of the Morg family. Will she now face such blatant contempt from her peers? Moreover, this is a debate that cannot be avoided on the stage that must not be lost.

Her self-esteem, which has never been broken before, has ignited.

Camus scrutinized and asked, "The mining site is within Morg's territory! So, naturally, the mining rights belong to Morg!"

"The underground vein extends beneath Baskerville's territory. So, the mining rights belong to Baskerville," replied Vikir.

"Baskerville has no interest in rubies!" argued Camus.

"That's right. They're only interested in territory. So, they should stay out. Is that hard to understand?"

Morg cares about the rubies, while Baskerville cares about the territory. Since their priorities differ, there is no room for agreement.

And even the adults behind the children have no significantly different stance from the children, so there seemed to be no sign of resolution to the conflict.

At that moment, Camu's ruby-colored eyes sparkled.

"Fine. I will clearly show you who owns the ruby vein!"

Camus picked up a brush and ink from the desk.

Then she began drawing on the floor.

A large circle centered around Vikir, and another large circle centered around Camus.

The two circles were touching each other.

Eventually, Camus created a wall with a large piece of paper to separate the two circles.

(Due to the large size of the paper wall, it took two people from both sides to hold it.)

Finally, Camus, on the other side of the paper wall, said, "That side is your land, and this side is mine."


Vikir didn't respond at all.

Only Hugo and Adolf were watching with interest as the two 8-year-olds argued.

At that moment...


The paper wall was torn apart.

Camus tore the paper wall and inserted her arm into it.

Her pale and chubby arm pierced through the paper wall and entered Vikir's territory.

Camus asked Vikir, "So, whose arm do you think this is?"

Adolf's expression brightened upon hearing her words.

On the other hand, Hugo's expression crumpled.

Camu's metaphor was clear.

Even though her arm had crossed the boundary, the ownership of the arm still remained hers, just as it was with the ruby vein.

Long ago, there was a significant scene that reflected the wisdom of our ancestors, who went to claim ownership of a persimmon that grew beyond the neighbor's fence.


"...Hm. Whose arm is this?"

Vikir wasn't easily swayed.


An unexpectedly firm grip, not typical of an eight-year-old, tightly seized Camu's pale and chubby forearm.

Before Camus could even let out a scream, Vikir spoke first.

"Now it belongs to me."

In that instant, an immense sense of dominance emanated from Vikir.

It wasn't a presence that exuded power by harnessing mana; it was a power that emanated directly from his existence.

It was the overwhelming force that seasoned hunters who had endured the Age of Destruction could project.

Adolf and Hugo couldn't help but flinch for a moment in the face of that impact.

Of course, Camus, who was merely eight years old, couldn't utter a word.


Camus tried to pull her hand away, but it was futile.


As the paper wall tore apart, Vikir forcefully grabbed Camu's arm.

The distance between the two children had now become so close that their noses almost touched.


In an instant, Camu's gaze wavered.

It was the first time she had ever looked at another child, especially someone of the opposite gender, from such a close distance.

The face of the boy from a different family, whom she was seeing for the first time beyond the wall, was incredibly unfamiliar yet intriguing.

Black hair, black eyes, fair skin.

And a scent and faint, indiscernible sound of quiet breathing that was completely different from what she had encountered before.

In that moment, Camus felt a shock that seemed to blur her senses.

For an eight-year-old with limited experiences of venturing outside her own family, it was a profoundly unfamiliar encounter.

"He looks cute."

Camus momentarily forgot about the seriousness of the situation and had such a thought.

Why was that?

She blushed, took a step back, and retreated in embarrassment, making a clumsy move during an important meeting.

"Why, why would you be mine? Th-this is ridiculous!"

She retorted, although her words were half-hearted as her gaze remained fixed on the ground, so it was uncertain if the retort hit properly.

Adolf and Hugo observed the scene with subtle expressions.


"Um, um."

The innocent emotions of eight-year-olds intertwined with a significant diplomatic issue, creating an awkward atmosphere that was neither here nor there.

...And it was at that moment.

Vikir's words broke the tension and continued.

"Who said you're mine?"

At the same time, Kkamu's hand, which she hadn't released yet, tightened in Vikir's grip.

Camus was once again pulled towards Vikir with a sudden force.

Before she could even scream in surprise, Vikir's other hand moved.

"Your arms belong to me."

With those words, Vikir swiftly drew something from his waist like a lightning bolt.

It was a finely sharpened dagger.

The sight was so shocking that it made Camus, and even Adolf and Hugo, who were always poker-faced, gasp in disbelief.

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