Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer

Chapter 185: False Bravery

The Soul Space reduced to a single blue flame in Percival’s hand and the physical world took over.

Percival was back in the tomb.

Ding!

⸢New Contract Quest Initiated: Reunite Theumir Steelcane with his family⸥.

Percival dismissed the glowing text, then lifted his head to a surprising sight spread out in front of him.

The entire population of Deathlehem had gathered at the base of the cliff. It wasn’t just the twenty men from before; it was everyone. Men, women, and even children stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the dirt.

This time however, they were not armed with rusty pitchforks and crude logging axes. This time, their hands held the weapons that Theumir built.

Gleaming broadswords with thunder runes, perfectly balanced halberds, great axes that controlled the earth, and heavy, pristine kite shields amongst many others.

The Artificer’s masterpieces, the ransom of a kidnapped family.

"Who really are you?" Butrick shouted from the front of the mob, anger and also fear in his voice. He had a fiery sword in his hand, though from the way he held it, Percival was certain he wasn’t used to wielding such a weapon.

"Your crest says Wanderer. But you were a Necromancer before?! What is this Necromancer Class?! Why did you hide it? And what were you doing with the Soul of Theumir Steelcane?"

The bald man stepped up beside him, his eyes wide with a frantic, hunted look. "We saw you! We saw the blue flames, but we couldn’t enter that strange, spherical world! Who are you?!"

"We’ll kill you right now with these powerful weapons!" another villager screamed from the back, raising a mastercrafted spear. "Don’t think you can curse us! We’ve taken down a Demonspawn before!"

Percival stood at the entrance of the tomb, his face locked in a grimace. The audacity of these villages was filling his veins with rage.

To satisfy this anger, he wanted nothing more but to paint the rocky crag red with the blood of these hypocrites.

But there were way too many of them. Way too much human blood to be spilled for him to leave with his conscience intact.

Percival held the Nameless at a low angle, looking down at them with disgust.

"I know what you all did," he said icily. "I know exactly how you got those weapons."

The villagers fell silent, their eyes moving from one to another, as if sharing the shame they felt. The false bravery drained from their faces, and a naked terror took over.

Butrick lowered his glowing sword, blood rushing from his scarred cheeks. They realized, in that singular moment, that their darkest, most shameful secret had been unearthed by this wanderer.

Percival ⸢Grave Stepped⸥ and reappeared far away, solidifying by the main gate of the village, right at the base of the central plaza.

They all turned, shocked.

Percival turned his gaze to his upward right, staring at the statue of the villagers fighting the six-limbed Demonspawn.

He scoffed. "Using farming tools and cheap weapons in your grand statue to hide your disgraceful act? Or was it to tell a lie to visitors? To avoid the city asking where a peasant village got their hands on weapons forged by an Artificer?"

Percival suddenly swung the sword, shattering the statue at impact. The iron pitchforks, the human hands and the Demonspawn’s horns all broke into sharp, ruined pieces.

Loud gasps and cries of horror echoed from the distant crowd. "How dare you!" "No!"

Their symbol of pride had been reduced to nothing but scrap.

Percival returned the blade to his Swordcase, looking down the main thoroughfare at the paralyzed villagers.

"Whatever the reason," Percival declared, his voice a chilling promise, "when I return, you will pay for it. I’m bringing an army back with me. And I’ll make sure every single one of you pays."

He extended his hand. Blue flames erupted from the cobblestones, swirling and condensing into the skeletal form of Argus. The bone steed let out a neigh, its bone hooves dancing in the air.

When it finally stayed still, Percival climbed onto its back. Without another glance at the ruined monument, he spurred Argus forward, riding out through the gates and heading toward the city.

Behind him, the people of Deathlehem were left standing with hearts engulfed in fear.

—---—

The cramped, single-story cottage on the outskirts of the market district looked exactly as it had a few days ago. Percival stood before the uneven wooden door for a moment.

After taking a deep breath to prepare himself for what was about to happen, he knocked.

A moment later, the door scraped open by a half. Mertha stood there, wiping her hands on her apron.

Like before, she looked tired, though a woman like her clearly enjoyed working herself out for the comfort of her children.

When she saw the long-haired figure standing on her doorstep, her eyes widened in surprise.

"Oh. Percival," she said, a polite but confused smile touching her lips. "What are you doing here?"

Percival, without a corresponding smile on his face, just gazed at her, his blue eyes piercing into her motherly face.

"You’re not really from Barnesville, are you?"

Mertha’s smile vanished, with her heart dropping into her stomach at the same time. The color drained from her face in an instant, leaving her pale and trembling. "What... what are you..."

"You’re from Deathlehem," Percival stated flatly.

Mertha stumbled back a half-step, panic seizing her features. Her breathing hitched, her hands flying up to her chest. "Why are you doing this?" she gasped sadly. "I thought you were helping us! Was the egg just a way to get close to our family? Was it a trick? Please, we just want to be left alone from things of the past. Please!"

"I’m not here for any of that," Percival said, realizing that he might have spoken a bit too blandly. "I’m here to show you someone."

He signalled with a slight nod to the empty space beside him on the porch. Mertha, confused, opened the door fully, her eyes moving to the space beside Percival.

There, she saw a man.

He was formed of spectral light, like a ghost. He had massive shoulders, stained by sooth, and wore a runic Blacksmith’s apron that looked like it belonged to an Artificer.

His eyes were blue and soulless, but even then, they were familiar. So familiar that as he looked down at the terrified woman in the doorway, she gasped from a rush of memory.

His rough, scarred face broke into a gentle, heartbreaking smile.

Mertha stopped breathing. Her hands began to shake violently.

"Theumir," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of a decade of grief.

"Mertha," the ghost of the Artificer rumbled softly.