Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer

Chapter 184: The Blacksmith’s Story

"If you know what this sword is," Percival said, angling the thrumming blade in front of him, "then you know exactly what it is capable of."

The bald man stumbled back, eyeing his friend then the sword. "It... it was supposed to be destroyed! How do you have it?"

"It doesn’t matter," Percival replied. He swept his gaze over the mob. "What matters is what I will do to every single one of you if you don’t take me to where Theumir Steelcane was buried. Right now."

The armed villagers looked confused. What sort of request was that?

The handsome man lowered his pitchfork, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Where he was buried? What would you want there?"

Percival eyed him. "Do you want to ask questions, or do you want to live?"

Everyone fell silent. All their murderous, collective tenacity summed up to nothing in the presence of that S-Grade weapon.

Butrick swallowed hard, the fight rapidly draining from his scarred face as he stared at the space-warping edge.

"We’ll do it," the Innkeeper ground out, accepting defeat. "We’ll take you."

Percival tilted his head. "Then let’s go."

Slowly and agonizingly, they all proceeded from the village proper, marching through the grey, mist-choked streets.

Percival walked directly behind them, the Nameless Void-Ender held at the ready. Every time a villager’s hand twitched toward a weapon, or a shoulder tensed in thought of an ambush, the song of the blade reminded them of the instant death hovering at their backs.

They led him past the fortified basalt walls, out toward a desolate, rocky crag on the outskirts of the village, far away from the communal cemetery.

They stopped at the base of the crag and Butrick pointed toward a makeshift tomb built into the side of the cliff.

It was no grand mausoleum, but it was clearly made with intention — the best they could manage for the ’weapon god’.

"There," Butrick muttered, refusing to look directly at the heavy iron doors. "That’s it."

"Open it," Percival commanded.

The villagers hesitated, exchanging terrified glances.

Finally, the bald man stepped forward, his hands shaking as he reached for the heavy iron chains sealing the vault.

He grabbed the rusted metal, but as he shifted his weight, he suddenly pivoted, hoping to catch Percival off guard with a sudden strike.

Before the man could even launch the attack, Percival spun the Nameless and the blade edge was instantly a hair’s breadth from Baldy’s neck.

The villagers gasped.

"Don’t be stupid," Percival whispered, his eyes entirely devoid of mercy. "Open it."

"I—I’m sorry," the man stammered, sweat beading on his forehead as he carefully stepped back from the blade’s edge. "I’ll open it."

With frantic hands, he undid the heavy latches and pulled the iron chains away. The heavy vault door groaned open, revealing a simple, heavy stone coffin resting in the dark interior.

Gritting his teeth, the man pushed the heavy lid off the coffin, the sound of grinding stone echoing in the quiet crag.

Percival stepped forward, glancing down at the rotting, skeletal remains dressed in the decayed scraps of a leather blacksmith’s apron.

Satisfied, he tightened his grip on his hilt and turned to face the villagers. Saying nothing, he unleashed ⸢Bladewave⸥.

The massive crescent of Soulfire slammed into the twenty villagers, sending them flying backward into the dirt and gravel with shouts of shock and pain.

As the villagers hit the ground, they immediately scrambled, coughing and quickly rising to their feet with their weapons raised in a renewed, desperate frenzy to attack.

"Get him!"

But Percival had already turned his back on them.

He stepped over the threshold into the tomb, outstretched his hand toward the rotting corpse of the Artificer, and commanded:

"⸢Awake⸥!"

Blue fire exploded.

—---—

Instantly, the rest of the physical world around him was swallowed by the flames. The makeshift tomb, the grey morning light, the terrified villagers outside, all of it faded into a wash of deep, grave blue.

Percival found himself standing in the concept of a place, the familiar domain of the Soul Space.

He waited, and not very long after, a figure emerged from the distant flames.

Theumir Steelcane. At last.

Though officially classed as an Artificer, his physical form did not tell the truth: he was a Blacksmith down to his very bones.

He was a mountain of a man, with broad, soot-stained shoulders and thick, muscular arms crisscrossed with the pale scars of forge sparks.

A heavy, heat-singed beard framed his face. He wore a heavy, dark leather Blacksmith’s apron over runic-inscribed Artificer garments. His eyes glowed with the soulless blue of the undead, and the azure flames crackled around the edges of his heavy iron boots.

Theumir halted a few paces away. Then, the massive man fell to one knee, bowing his head.

"You are the Lord of Bones and Souls," Theumir’s voice rumbled, like the hammer he used to strike an anvil. "You are the King of the Dead. I answer your call."

"Rise, Theumir," Percival said, his voice steady in the void. "We do not have much time. But go ahead. Tell me your story."

As the Artificer spoke, the light blue smoke around them began to thicken and swirl, forming moving, spectral images of his past.

"I was one of the only people to ever Awaken in Deathlehem," Theumir began.

The smoke shifted, showing a younger Theumir walking through the familiar basalt walls, villagers side-eyeing him with deep mistrust.

"To them, magic was a curse. I was treated as an outcast, a pariah. But my skills... my forging... brought a semblance of wealth to their barren lives. And so, they accommodated me."

The smoke softened, forming the interior of the abandoned house Percival had just visited. A beautiful woman appeared, her hands resting on a pregnant belly, while a little girl with a tangled mane of hair ran around the room.

Percival’s brows raised at the sight of the woman.

"I had a wife," Theumir’s voice turned sorrowful. "And a daughter. My wife was with child. It was because of this I made a great decision. After years of labor, of crafting weapons to keep the village fed and protected, I was tired. I planned to retire. I wanted to put down the hammer and be a father."

The smoke swirled, condensing into the image of a forge. Theumir was striking a piece of featureless, light-eating metal.

"But I could not stop before forging my masterpiece. The Void-Ender." The ghost looked at Percival’s hip. "I finished it, hung it in my home and I dropped my hammer with no plans of ever picking it up."

The smoke suddenly became violent. The tender images were shredded by a dark, chaotic mass. A massive, vicious, bull-like Demonspawn materialized in the mist.

It was the exact beast depicted in the village square’s statue. It tore through the outer walls, sending villagers fleeing in terror.

"But then the Demonspawn attacked," Theumir said, his spectral fists clenching. "I wanted to take my family. I packed our things, desperate to run into the city where it was safe. But... my neighbors stopped me."

The smoke formed a sickening scene. Theumir, trying to push through a mob of villagers, the villagers violently grabbing his pregnant wife and his terrified daughter, holding rusted blades and pitchforks to them.

Percival stood perfectly still, listening quietly, a cold horror settling in his chest.

"They seized my family," Theumir whispered, the agony in his voice echoing in the limitless blue. "They told me that if I ever wanted to see them alive again, I had to stay. I had to make weapons for them to fight the beast. I had to pick up the hammer, again."

The smoke showed Theumir chained to his anvil, weeping as he hammered red-hot steel, day and night, while the village burned outside.

"I slaved away for days. I gave them everything. Every ounce of my mana, every drop of my strength. I armed them all. And when the weapons were finished... I was weak. My core was drained. Yet, they forced me out of the forge. They sent me to the frontlines to join them in the battle."

The final image in the smoke showed Theumir, exhausted and barely able to lift a sword, being trampled and gored by the massive bull-demon.

"Although awakened, I was only an Artificer. I had no offensive magical skills. Worse, I was weak, and for this, I was amongst the very first to die,"

Theumir finished, the smoke slowly dissipating around him. He looked up at Percival. "I died in the mud. Now, I am lost. I do not know what happened to my wife, or my daughter, or my unborn son. I do not even know if the village was saved."

Percival stared at the kneeling giant. The pieces slammed together in his mind.

So that’s why they were so scared and so secretive. They were guilty.

Their entire fabric of belief, the great monument to their "mortal tenacity" in the plaza, was all built on a horrific lie.

They hadn’t bravely defended their home; they had enslaved their only Awakener, held a pregnant woman and a child hostage, and sent a drained, desperate father to his death to save their own skins.

"The village still stands," Percival said quietly. "They defeated the beast with the weapons you forged."

Theumir exhaled a long, shaky breath. His broad shoulders slumped. "Thank the gods. Despite everything... I am glad the walls did not fall."

Percival’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. He thought of Mercius, who had readily demanded the extermination of an entire bloodline.

"You still care for them? After what they did to you and your family? Isn’t revenge your lingering desire?"

"No," Theumir said softly, shaking his head. "Blood will not undo what was done. My only desire... is to find my family. To be assured that they survived the aftermath, that they are fine. That is all I ask of you, Master."

Percival gazed at the Artificer thoughtfully. It was thankfully not an extremely difficult Contract Quest, but it wasn’t a straightforward one either.

The good news was, Percival knew where to start.

"Do you recognize the name Lyra?" Percival asked softly.

Theumir’s head snapped up, his soulless blue eyes widening in shock as he pushed himself halfway up from his kneel. "Why, yes, Lord of Souls! That is my daughter’s name. How do you..."

Percival heaved a deep, melancholic sigh."I think I know where your family is, Lord Steelcane."