Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 49: Raising a Soul Soldier

Back in the Wounded Peaks, Percival guided Argus down the treacherous, shale-covered slopes.

The wind howled a despondent song, like the mourning wail of a thousand widows, as it blew over their faces.

The horse’s hooves found purchase on rock faces as they descended into the bowl of the valley.

Here, the ruins of the ancient mountains lay.

Bones were scattered about, half-rocks, and wasted leather.

They rode past the debris and reached the crumbled archway of the main keep.

Percival dismounted.

"Return, Argus."

Neighing, Argus dissolved into flames, vanishing into its Summon Space.

Percival stood alone in the silence. Or what he thought was silence.

Hiss.

He shifted his weight, glancing to his left.

From behind a collapsed watchtower, he spotted two green-dripping monsters crawling around the gloom.

⸢Threat: Dry Devilcat Demonspawn⸥

⸢Level: 23⸥

They were grotesque, like all Demonspawns, feline in shape, but with skin like parchment that had dried and cracked, stretching too tight over jutting bones.

They had no eyes, only sensing pits, and their tails ended in scorpion-like barbs.

Percival narrowed his eyes.

Devilcats were like hyenas. They held grudges for decades which was why they were lingering here.

They mocked the dead soldiers who had killed their ancestors in the Fourth Mortal War. They pissed on their graves and gnawed on the mana residue of their abandoned equipment.

Percival hated Devilcats.

His hand instinctively went over his shoulder for the hilt of his sword, but then he stopped.

He reached over his left shoulder and gripped the cold, leather-wrapped haft of the War-Scythe of the Black Iron.

He pulled it free.

Holding it, planning to fight with it, Percival grew nervous.

He didn’t know why.

It was no sword, he knew that. But it was beyond that simplicity.

He wanted to prove to himself that purchasing this weapon was worth it. He was nervous of disappointing himself.

However, after holding back from using it in the Gate Worlds he cleared on his way here, Percival was done with waiting.

He had to know just how well he could handle this reaper’s weapon.

He disappeared into blue flames and reappeared directly in front of the Demonspawns.

They turned around, spooked by his sudden presence.

"Hello," Percival muttered.

The Devilcats shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, and pounced.

Percival side-shouldered out of the way, then stepped forward to engage the flanking cat.

Holding the scythe with a firm grip, he tried to snap the weapon up for a quick, vertical slash.

It was a mistake.

The weight of the scythe’s head caused his attack to lag.

Instead of a lightning-fast cut, the motion was a sluggish heave.

The Devilcat easily sidestepped the clumsy strike, and attacked with a claw strike.

Skreeee!

Its claws raking across Percival’s breastplate.

Sparks flew. But the Obsidian Ironwolf armor didn’t take a speck of damage.

The first cat lunged for his legs. Percival tried to parry, twisting the haft of the scythe.

He remembered too late that the length of his sword was incomparable to this weapon.

Even worse, the cylindrical haft didn’t align like a flat blade.

He over-rotated.

The blunt end of the staff hit the ground, missing the block entirely. The cat bit his greave, cracking a tooth on the enchanted steel.

Percival jerked his shoulder, sending the Demonspawn crashing to the fall and rolling to its paws.

"Damn all of it," he grunted.

The two Devilcats began to prowl, circling him as they watched his movements carefully.

Percival swung the scythe horizontally, keeping them at a distance.

It was an ugly swing. His stance was so awful that the centrifugal force alone pulled him off balance.

Percival had to take an extra step just to stay upright.

’I look like an idiot,’ he thought, frustration bubbling in his chest.

If he had a sword, these things would have been diced into cubes before they touched the ground.

Heck, they would be dead even without a sword.

The only reason he was using this damn farming tool was that desperate desire to prove something to himself.

To prove he could master this weapon.

Nothing boosted the ego more than telling yourself you can do something.

And then you go do it.

The first cat leaped again.

Percival grit his teeth. He stopped trying to force the weapon to be a sword. This time, he surrendered to the momentum.

He gripped the haft lower, using his hips to drive the swing rather than his wrists.

He spun.

SLINKKK!

The heavy black blade sliced through the air and caught the hideous cat mid-air

The slice wasn’t very clean, but the impact was brutal enough, slamming the monster into the ground, nearly cutting it in half.

Before it could find its feet, Percival poured ⸢Soulfire⸥ into the edge of the blade and swung again, creating a weaker form of ⸢Bladewave⸥ that was still powerful enough to cleave down what was left of the Demonspawn’s HP.

⸢You have killed a Demonspawn⸥

The second cat hesitated, sensing the shift in momentum.

Percival looked at it with a wicked smile.

"Come here!"

The cat tried to leap away, but he used the rebound from the ground to pull the scythe back.

It still felt unbearably uncooperative in his hand but he had the Dexterity to pull it off.

The Blade hooked the cat’s legs as it tried to retreat.

Percival yanked hard. The beast tripped, screeching.

He raised the weapon high, the tip of the blade reflecting the sun’s glint before he brought it down like an executioner’s axe.

SLSSSSH!

The Devilcat’s head burst open as the scythe sunk into the skull.

Silence returned to the ruins.

Ding!

⸢You have killed a Demonspawn⸥

⸢Type: Dry Devilcats (Lvl 23)⸥

⸢+240 EXP⸥

Percival stood there, breathing slightly harder than he should have been. The mental exhaustion from that fight had somehow materialized into a physical one.

He looked at the messy corpses.

It had taken him five moves to kill two trash monsters.

’I’m lucky my Skeletons weren’t here to see those telegraphed moves,’ he joked. ’That would have been ironic.’

He was frustrated, but he accepted that it was a good thing.

He’d never been frustrated with a weapon before.

For the first time in two lifetimes, Percival was bad at something. There was no "Scythe Master" class that granted him instant mastery of this weapon.

Every swing he improved would be his own.

He dedicated himself to learning as he returned the scythe to the weaponhold on his back.

Ding!

⸢Congratulations! You have leveled up⸥

⸢Lvl 25 → Lvl 26⸥

⸢+200 Mana⸥

⸢+100 Attack⸥

⸢+40 Defense⸥

⸢+100 Health⸥

⸢All Attributes increased by 5⸥

Percival didn’t seem surprised by the notification.

With his title, he had gained a good EXP haul from clearing the Gate Worlds on his journey here.

He had only been a finger tip short of Lvl 26. Killing an ordinary cockroach would have sealed it.

Anyway, he was more than halfway to Lvl. 50.

But for now, he turned toward the ruins.

The entrance to the tomb was partially collapsed, but the main archway offered enough space for him to squeeze through.

The air inside was cool and still, though dry like the rest of Brackenbridge.

Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that pierced through cracks in the ceiling, falling on the graves of the dead heroes.

Along the walls were smaller sarcophagi, the resting places of the Warriors and Knights. Their stone lids were carved with the crests of the Classes.

Percival walked past them to the end of the hall, where a massive tribune rose from the floor.

Resting there was a sarcophagus.

This one was evidently different from the others. Not merely in size, but it was made of black granite and draped in old tattered banners of Brackenbridge.

There were carvings on the wall after it, depicting images of a Knight holding a greatsword and standing atop a mountain of demon corpses.

Percival used to draw back on Earth.

"Amateur," he rated the artwork.

He looked to read the inscriptions on the sarcophagus.

’Here lies a Pillar of the Knight Class, Mercius Seagrave’

’The Blade of Brackenbridge’

Percival placed his hand on the lid. The stone was freezing.

Despite its weight, he easily pushed aside the slab.

Grrrrrrrr-krunk.

The heavy stone moved out of the way.

Percival looked inside.

Mercius lay there. Time had taken his flesh, leaving behind a skeletal visage that still held a semblance of dignity.

He was wearing the Descending Steel Lotus armor which still bore the deep gouges of the Demon Knights who had slain him.

His hands were folded over his chest, gripping nothing.

His Legendary weapon, the Paragon Blade, was gone.

It had likely been retrieved by the province and auctioned off to some noble who would hang it on a wall and never use it.

It doesn’t matter, Percival thought. Mercius would awaken with an undead version of the weapon anyway.

Percival stared at the hollow sockets of the skull.

This wasn’t a mindless summon. He was about to wake a man who had died a hero, an Awakener with a Level of 131... his first ever Soul Soldier.

He had to prepare himself. What would Mercius demand?

After a moment of hesitation, he accepted that the only way to find out was by summoning the Brackenbutcher.

Percival took a breath. He outstretched his hand, his palm hovering over the lifeless corpse.

Dark blue mana began to burn around his fingers.

"⸢Awake⸥"