Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 175: The Realm Reacts

Meanwhile, far away in Eldermoor, the Kingdom of Elves, in his pristine castle, King Galadrien sat on his throne, his posture relaxed, his expression graceful as always, even though he was greatly stressed.

"The two B-Rank Gate Worlds have been successfully sealed, Your Majesty," an armored general reported, bowing deeply. "Casualties were minimal. Portal Mages have been summoned for a Gate Transfer."

"Excellent work, General," Galadrien said, his voice a soft, melodic baritone that put everyone in the room at ease. "Ensure the families of the wounded are compensated from the Crown’s treasury."

One of his nobles turned to him. "This is truly worrying. More Gates daring to open this close to the King’s castle. Are the gods trying to tell us something?"

Galadrien didn’t know what to say. But he didn’t have to. The marble doors swung open and a royal Messenger, chest heaving and uniform dusty from a frantic ride, dropped to one knee.

In his trembling hand, he held a sealed parchment bearing the dark wax emblem of Hollowcreek.

"Speak," Galadrien commanded softly.

"From my Duke, your Majesty."

The Messenger offered the scroll instead. Galadrien reached out and took it. Once he did, Omares’ magic faded off, slowing him to break the seal.

He opened the scroll, and as he read, color drained entirely from his face.

"My love?" Miriel, his wife, asked, leaning forward.

"It is from Omares," the King whispered. "The Outworlder... Percival. He murdered Liraeth Windwhisper."

"What?!"

Gasps came first, then heavy, suffocating silence fell over the sunlit chamber. The gentle aura surrounding the King hardened instantly into something ancient and terrifying.

Galadrien stood up slowly. "We must send a dove to Arandor immediately," he ordered urgently. "Use the fastest bird in the rookery. It must reach Eristasia before the Whisperers do. If that mother hears of her daughter’s death from the shadows before she hears it from her King... the winds of Arandor will tear this kingdom apart."

Far to the west, the atmosphere in the Human Kingdom’s war council was entirely devoid of sunlight or grace.

"We should have shackled the cur the moment he refused us! Or at least the moment he awakened that Mythic Class!"

Lord Ulcraft was angry as usual, his heavy boots echoing as he paced the length of the grim, stone-walled chamber.

"I’m surprised you’re this infuriated, Ulcraft," Grigor taunted. "An Elf is dead. I thought you’d be jubilating?"

"Don’t start with me, Grigor!" the noble snapped. "That boy is a peasant from a dead world! We gave him freedom, and what does he do? He butchers an Elven noble and vanishes! The Elves will demand blood for this, Alfred! Our blood!"

King Alfred sat motionless on his dark iron throne. He did not yell or pace about like Ulcraft. Alfred had grown tired of such things.

Nevertheless, he was extremely angry. His jaw was locked, his eyes burning with a cold, suppressed fury that was far more terrifying than Ulcraft’s theatrical rage.

He had built this kingdom’s fragile alliances on a knife’s edge, and this Outworlder had just taken a hammer to the foundation. Killing not just a noble’s daughter, but a chosen Hero of the realm.

This was treason!

"Alright. Alright. Your shouting is giving me a headache, Ulcraft," Grigor said with a sigh, his long fingers steeped together in front of his face.

"He is a threat to the realm, Grigor!" Ulcraft spat.

"He is a variable," Grigor corrected, his tone soothing, almost hypnotic in its calmness. "There might be more to this that we do not know. Perhaps we should do our best to find the Hero before the Elves. Ask him questions, don’t you agree, Alfred?"

King Alfred slowly turned to the noble, his eyes were so red that even Grigor was taken aback. "Prepare my Vanguard," he ordered his standing guard.

Grigor looked at Ulcraft, and then at the King. The rotten smell of danger filled his nose.

In Luvengart, Baron Eutheo entertainedDuke Ithalan through the portal, ready to have a feast with him to celebrate their victory.

However, the Duke looked like a man who had seen a ghost. Ithalan was morbidly worried.

"He knows, Eutheo! Omares knows everything!" Ithalan said, pacing about the courtroom, his eyes darting around as if expecting the Scholar to materialize from the shadows. "He knows about the illegal portal. He knows I’ve been feeding you the spoils of the Gate Worlds in exchange for your military backing. He put the pieces together himself!"

Baron Eutheo staggered back, knocking over a crystal goblet of wine. It shattered on the marble floor, red liquid pooling like blood.

"Are you insane?!" Eutheo gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs. "If Omares tells the Kings... Galadrien will strip you of your title, and Alfred will mount my head on the gates of Luvengart! We committed high treason, Ithalan!"

"Listen to me!" Ithalan shouted. "He isn’t going to tell them! Not yet."

Eutheo stared at him. "Why?"

"It’s the Outsider," Ithalan’s voice reduced to a whisper. "He killed one of the Heroes. He killed Liraeth Windwhisper, and now he’s on the run."

The Baron’s eyes widened with disbelief. "Wha—"

"Omares made us a deal," Ithalan continued. "He said if we use all of our combined forces to capture Percival and bring him directly to him before anyone else finds him... then our secret stays buried."

Eutheo stared at the man, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "He killed Liraeth— By the gods! Why didn’t you tell me soon enough!"

His terror immediately gave way to the ruthless survival instinct that had allowed him to build Luvengart into a powerhouse city. If the cost of his life was the Outworlder, he would pay it a thousand times over.

"He’s here," Eutheo realized, his voice dropping to an excited whisper. "The boy came back through the portal. He’s in my city."

Eutheo slammed his hand onto the silver bell on his desk. His doors burst open a second later, two heavily armored guards stepping through.

"Shut down the city gates!" Eutheo roared, his face twisting into a mask of pure desperation. "No one leaves Luvengart! Send guards and Awakeners to the inn where the Outworlder was! Bring him to me right away!"

But the event hit hardest in the high eastern peaks of Arandor. Inside the grand estate of House Windwhisper, the air was entirely still.

Eristasia Windwhisper stood on the balcony of her private study, looking out over the sprawling, ancient forests of her province.

She was a striking woman, her red hair braided intricately with sapphires, her posture as rigid and unyielding as the mountains her family ruled.

Behind her, a servant stood trembling, holding a small, crumpled piece of parchment that had been delivered not by a royal dove, but by a Whisperer employed by the Windwhispers.

King Galadrien’s dove was late.

Eristasia did not turn around. She simply stared out at the horizon.

"Read it again," she commanded. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

"M-My Lady..." the servant stammered, tears spilling down his cheeks. "It says... Lady Liraeth... she fell in Hollowcreek. Slain by the Human Kingdom’s summoned Outworlder. The Hero."

For a long moment, Eristasia did nothing. She didn’t weep. She didn’t scream.

Then, the ambient mana in the room snapped.

It started as a low whistle, vibrating the crystal chandeliers. Within a fraction of a second, it escalated into a deafening roar.

A violent, concentrated hurricane erupted outward from Eristasia’s body. The heavy iron-wood doors of the study blew off their hinges, crashing into the hallway.

The towering bookshelves splintered into thousands of pieces, ancient tomes shredding into confetti as they were caught in the cyclone of her raw, unfiltered rage.

The servant threw himself to the floor, covering his head as the magical storm tore the room apart.

Eristasia turned slowly, her eyes glowing with a blinding, terrifying white light.

The air around her was so dense with kinetic magic that the stone floor beneath her boots began to crack and buckle.

"An Outworlder," Eristasia whispered, her voice layered with the howling force of a gale. "A filthy, mongrel from the dirt takes the life of my blood."

She stepped over the ruined threshold of her study, the storm settling into a deadly, focused aura around her.

"Mobilize the Wind Guard," she ordered the cowering servant, not looking back. "We do not wait for the King’s slow justice. I will hunt this waste down myself, and I will scatter his ashes across the realm."