Bloodhound's Regression Instinct
Chapter 257

Chapter 257

Now that the Emperor knew Natae’s true identity, he understood why he couldn’t openly present him. Natae wasn’t merely human; he was a self-aware domain.

This made it nearly impossible for the Emperor to showcase him. Even during the recent clash with Duke Beowulf, where both Natae and Beowulf simultaneously deployed their domains, Natae’s influence had significantly diminished.

It was as if Natae’s domain was gradually eroding, much like how Helena’s mind had been consumed from her subconscious to her imaginary world.

“Being within this domain leads to erosion,” Beowulf mused, observing Natae’s labored breathing. “But against someone who fully expands their domain, the damage inflicted isn’t substantial.”

Yan nodded in agreement. “I share the same view. And now... I finally understand why Helena sacrificed herself.”

The light that emerged when she self-destructed her mental realm—the same light that revealed Natae’s vulnerability—had also been her desperate plea to expel Theo, Lorena, and Yan from within.

Had she hesitated even slightly during that critical moment, she would have perished without resistance.

Beowulf’s expression tightened when Helena’s name came up.

The intense battle continued, with Beowulf relentlessly attacking Natae. Each strike represented a different debt: his daughter’s, Hans’s, and finally, his wife’s.

Natae’s screams echoed as the blade pierced him repeatedly. Despite the agony, Beowulf remained cold and resolute. His mechanical determination drove him to inflict pain, regardless of Natae’s pleas.

The room filled with the sound of slashing steel, and Natae’s once composed demeanor vanished. He fell to his knees, forehead pressed against the ground. “Please, end it! I don’t want to suffer anymore... Please.”

Beowulf’s response remained unyielding. His focus was solely on causing pain. Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the clash of blades and Natae’s cries.

After a prolonged struggle, Natae fell silent. His unfocused eyes stared ahead, and even as his body disintegrated, he showed no further reaction.

Finally, Beowulf fully extracted the Everwinter Blade, releasing a chilling aura that froze everything nearby. The room crackled with ice, and Natae’s remains turned to gray dust.

Beowulf stood there, dazed, until Yan broke the silence. “It’s over now.”

Beowulf’s lips curved into a merciless smile. His violence and determination were palpable. He approached his wife’s lifeless form, cradling her as if handling fragile glass.

His gaze shifted toward the Imperial center—the direction of Avalon. Yan caught the meaning behind Beowulf’s eyes.

“It’s not over yet,” Beowulf declared. “We’ve only taken down one pawn. The one who dared to threaten my wife remains.”

If the Seven Sins were pawns, there was only one person Beowulf referred to: the Emperor himself, Bahamut Caballan.

Yan recalled Hans’s words. But there was much more to reveal—the Emperor’s connection to the Seven Sins remained shrouded in mystery.

As Yan moved toward other injured individuals, Beowulf’s hoarse voice reached him from behind.

“...Helena?”

Yan turned, and faint, almost imperceptible breaths confirmed that Helena, despite everything, was still alive.

* * *

As Yan and Beowulf arrived at Winterhold with the injured, knights rushed out, their faces filled with surprise.

“What on earth happened? And why is the Duchess here?” The knights stared at the unexpected scene before them.

Among the injured was Vila, the chieftain of a barbarian tribe—an adversary of Duke Beowulf. The leader of the Frost crops Knights, Kion, trembled as if struck by lightning.

“Is that... the Duchess?!” Why would the Duchess be cradled in the Duke’s arms instead of resting at the mausoleum?

Other knights were equally bewildered by the situation. Just then, Beowulf’s urgent voice cut through the chaos.

“Get a doctor! Quickly!”

Unlike his usual demeanor, Beowulf’s face showed genuine concern. The knights hurriedly set off to find physicians, driven by a determination to locate one as swiftly as possible—even if it meant exhausting their mana and invoking divine magic.

Beowulf paid no attention to the others and headed straight for his chambers. Yan, observing from a distance, entrusted Lorena to a nearby knight.

“Please take care of her.”

“Of course.”

Yan followed Beowulf, ignoring the knight’s futile attempt to stop him. The skill gap was too vast; Yan easily bypassed the guard.

“Guest! His Grace hasn’t granted permission—”

“If he truly objected, he would have stopped me already!”

Yan’s retort left the knight flustered. The guard’s head shook involuntarily, realizing that if Yan had been unwelcome, Beowulf would have intervened beforehand.

* * *

Duke Beowulf gently laid Helena on her bed, his face revealing a whirlwind of emotions.

Sighs carried confusion, relief, astonishment, and worry—a maelstrom of feelings compressed into one breath.

Screech.

From behind, Yan cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.

Beowulf glanced at Yan briefly before returning his gaze to Helena.

“Do you know anything about Helena’s condition right now?”

“Not exactly. However...”

“However?”

“I know of someone who might be able to help.”

Beowulf remained silent, but Yan sensed the unspoken request.

Though veiled in defiance, it also carried an implicit plea for answers.

Yan deftly retrieved a scrying orb from their pocket and manipulated it with practiced ease.

Mana flowed as they pressed various points on the orb, filling the room with crackling energy.

Soon, an image materialized within the orb—a familiar voice echoed.

“Why disturb me when I was enjoying my rest?”

The voice belonged to Momon, the undead sorcerer who once wielded icy winds and white bones.

Beowulf’s stern expression hardened further.

“Undead?”

“Oh, it’s you. The foolish brat who used to play with frosty gusts.”

Momon’s words were as unyielding as ever, even in the presence of the Duke.

Beowulf’s brow furrowed; he had never heard such insolence.

But that wasn’t the crucial matter now.

“Let’s not discuss our amicable relationship with the lich. If he can heal Helena, that’s all that matters.”

Yan nodded. “He’s more than capable. A former Archmage of the Founding Era—his magical prowess is unmatched.”

The scrying orb shifted, revealing Momon’s spectral form.

“Can you spare a moment for a patient?” Yan asked.

“Tch, do you think I’m an ordinary physician?”

Ignoring Momon’s defiance, Yan focused on the orb.

“Show us Helena.”

“Hmph. Fine.”

As the image shifted, Beowulf’s eyes widened.

He dropped to his knees—an unprecedented act in the Empire.

Beowulf, who even the Emperor would receive with mere courtesy, now knelt before the scrying orb.

“Undead?”

“What’s this? The daughter’s fool who once commanded icy winds?”

Beowulf’s stern facade wavered.

“Enough of your insolence!”

Momon chuckled.

“I can heal her.”

Beowulf trembled, desperation in his eyes.

“Save my wife, and I’ll grant any request—even my life.”

“Beowulf, what—”

“Haha! Very well.”

Momon’s approval ignited Beowulf’s longing.

The scrying orb shifted to Helena’s side, and Momon observed.

“Fascinating... Her body lives, but her mind is severed.”

Beowulf’s face darkened.

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. I can mend her.”

A surge of hope electrified the room.

“I’ve never had anyone explain my hormones more clearly.”

Yan watched, glimpsing Beowulf’s inner turmoil.