Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer

Chapter 182: Asking Questions

It was pretty cold in Deathlehem. As Percival crested the ridge overlooking the abandoned quarry, he saw azure flames glowing in the night like neons.

Mercius and Willow. Their blue flames and eyes were like ghastly colors in the darkness of the village, not to forget Argus, who Percival rode on, with his burning mane and tail.

At the edge of the treeline, a small cluster of villagers stood huddled together. They spoke in muted tones as their faces reflected the necromantic light of the Soldiers.

In a village that prided itself on silence and the memory of mortal grit, these flaming apparitions were a blasphemy.

Percival descended into the basin and unsummoned Argus. Mercius and Willow approached him, they didn’t seem too concerned with the stares of the villagers.

Willow looked happy.

"Master," she said, sounding triumphant and exhausted. "It is done. I have fully comprehended the ⸢Iron Soul⸥ Skill. It’s now permanently amongst my armory."

Percival’s interface concurred her news with a chime.

Ding!

⸢Willow Lockhart has unlocked a new Skill: [Iron Soul]⸥

"Well done," Percival said, his eyes scanning the ridgeline where the villagers watched. "But we’ve attracted enough of a crowd."

"It seems the villagers are wary of magic," Mercius said, looking at them with his blue soulless eyes.

"I always wonder why the gods never make one of them awaken," Percival mused. "If not for anything, then for the comedy of it."

He sighed the thought away. "Anyway, you must return now. Perhaps we’ll continue our training tomorrow."

They bowed their heads.

With a wave of his hand, the two Knights vanished into pillars of blue flame. Percival turned and began the trek back to the village.

As he passed the group of locals at the treeline, an old man with a face like cracked leather stepped forward, his hand trembling as he pointed a gnarled finger.

"Just what kind of strange Awakener are you, outlander?" the man rasped. "You command the dead? You ride a horse of bone?"

"You’re a bringer of misery!" a younger man shouted from the back. "Don’t bring your trouble to our gates! We want no part of whatever shadow is following you!"

Percival didn’t answer. He kept walking, feeling their gazes like needles in his back.

Once he arrived at the Grim Gazer, he opened the front door and stepped inside.

Butrick greeted him at the door, his scarred face twisted into a scowl.

"You’re late, boy," Butrick grunted, his voice like grinding stones. "I lock the doors by 8pm. I don’t care if you’re an Awakener or the King himself; I don’t like my sleep disturbed."

Percival didn’t offer an excuse. He reached into his pouch, pulled out a single, gleaming gold coin, and flicked it onto the counter. It spun with a melodic ring before falling flat.

"For your troubles," Percival said.

Butrick’s eyes widened. He snatched the gold with a speed that belied his bulk, his scowl softening into a greedy twitch of his lips. "Well... I suppose for a price, the lock can wait. Get upstairs."

Percival turned toward the staircase, but then he paused, his hand on the banister. He looked back at the Innkeeper.

"Butrick," Percival said. "Tell me something. Do you know anything about a Blacksmith called Theumir Steelcane?"

Butrick looked like he’d suddenly seen a ghost. Color drained from his face so violently it was like he’d been struck. He dropped his cleaning rag, his hands fumbling against the wood of the counter.

"Who..." Butrick’s voice cracked. He leaned forward, his eyes darting to the windows as if the name itself had summoned a ghost. "Who told you that name?"

"A Merchant in the city mentioned he was from here," Percival said vaguely. "I have an interest in his work."

Butrick lunged over the counter, grabbing Percival by the shoulder. His breath smelled of bitter hops and fear.

"Listen to me, boy. You better be careful with your lips in this village. Asking questions like that will get you killed faster than any monster in a Gate. Theumir is a name we don’t speak. Not here. Not ever."

Percival gazed blankly into the man’s face, then at the hand on his shoulder. Saying nothing, he removed the man’s hand and dropped it on the counter.

"So you can’t tell me anything?"

"For Azrael’s sake!" Butrick whispered harshly. "Get to your room. And if you value your soul, you’ll forget you ever heard of Steelcane."

Percival stood still for a while, then turned and headed up to his room. Clearly Butrick knew something. There was something super odd about the man and the village of Deathlehem as a whole.

Somehow, Theumir Steelcane was at the heart of it.

—---—

Far to the east, amidst the jagged, wind-whipped peaks of Arandor, the morning was young.

Eristasia Windwhisper stood on a plateau of white stone, her red hair whipping around her face like a banner of blood.

Behind her, the Wind Guard stood in perfect, terrifying formation—hundreds of Awakeners, their cloaks billowing in the artificial gale generated by their mistress’s presence.

"Report, Commander Theodore," Eristasia commanded, her voice cutting through the wind.

A tall Elf with a silver eye-patch stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of a curved glass blade.

"We have compiled the data, My Lady. The Outworlder, Percival, is a Necromancer. It is a strange new Class, but he controls a legion of Skeleton Warriors. Real Warriors of the past risen as Skeletons."

Eristasia’s brows creased with curiosity.

Theodore continued. "He has cleared C through A-Ranked Dungeons at an impossible pace, even at the low level of 26. We are uncertain of his present level."

"So he defiles the dead and makes them his slaves," Eristasia spat, her eyes burning with disdain. "Where has he been seen?"

"Wolsend, Ostuary, Luvengart, and Hollowcreek," Theodore replied.

Eristasia narrowed her eyes. "Did you notice the oddity in that list, Commander?"

Theodore nodded grimly. "Yes. Only Hollowcreek is within the Elven borders. The others are Human cities."

"Then how," Eristasia muttered, the air vibrating around her, "did he show up in Hollowcreek exactly when my daughter was there? This wasn’t a chance encounter. This was premeditated. An assassination."

The Wind Guard looked amongst each other.

"He has an army, and he thinks he is safe in the shadows of the Human Kingdom." Eristasia turned toward a massive beast resting at the edge of the plateau.

It was a Gale-Stalker Griffin; a creature with feathers the color of a thunderstorm and two big bright eyes with endless golden circles within them.

"He has an army," Eristasia roared, her voice echoing across the mountains. "But I am the Wind of Arandor! I have a legion of my own, and my daughter’s death shall be avenged!"

Theodore stepped toward the Griffin, holding out an image of the Outworlder. The circles in the beast’s eyes contracted as they narrowed in on the picture, then they expanded rabidly.

Its eyes searched through the entire world in minutes. It started with every province in the Kingdom of Valoris, moving through crowded streets and inside oblivious houses.

It searched cities, towns and villages. It searched the province of Southmarch, scanning every face in Crimson City, in the villages of Dumsy, Elebraham, Greensville, and Deathlehem.

It passed the statue, entered the Grim Gazer, and entered the only occupied room, then stopped right above a young man’s sleeping face.

Percival’s eyes snapped open.

"It’s found him!" Theodore cried.

Eristasia vaulted onto the Griffin’s back.

"Let’s go, Wind Guard! The might of the Windwhispers will bring vengeance upon that Outworlder!"