Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 53: The Way of the Scythe

The morning sun crested over the rooftops of Ostuary, long shadows fell across the open streets and the gentle noise of the busy people waking up already filled the cool air.

Percival had enjoyed his sleep. He was a fan of the nourishing exercise though he worried how much of it he would have as the future drew close.

Best to enjoy them now.

Stirring from this fitful sleep in the modest inn room he’d claimed, his Mana and Health were fully replenished once again.

Last night’s infiltrating mission exerted more mana than he expected. Either way, he didn’t have to worry about mana; the morning would be spent doing something more... physical.

He sat on his bed, holding the War-Scythe of Black Iron. His eyes trailed through the shaft of the weapon, noticing the runes inscribed on it for the first time.

The scythe was mainly made with black leather, and traces of glistening blue steel zig-zagged to the tip where the curved blade hung.

Along the blue zig-zagged was where the runes were etched. He made them glow as he squeezed tighter on the shaft, feigning intent to attack.

It was likely those runes that empowered the weapon with its Aspect.

⸢Aspect: Grim Harvest — Increases cutting power on draw. Increases damage and control when attacks chain cleanly. Actively slows target movement at the 5th chain attack when charged with 4-chain attacks prior⸥

Chain attacks were far easier with a sword. To successfully strike a target 5 super-quick times with a weapon only meant for distance attacks... that would be a task.

He touched the tip of the blade, and was instantly cut. A droplet of crimson trailed down his finger.

It was ruthlessly sharp, forged from crystalline steel, reflecting the light that spilled in from the windows.

Stats wise, it boasted +35 Attack, +11 Constitution,

However, there was nothing exceptionally special about this scythe.

It would serve its purpose for a time, but Percival expected that once he had mastered this weapon, he would seek for a more powerful scythe.

He stepped out of his room, responding to the greeting of the rotund innkeeper. The War-Scythe and Lightpiercer hung diagonally behind him as he stepped into the morning light.

Last night, he had seen a group of Warriors sharing ale and he had asked them if any of them had used a scythe.

He sought guidance from anyone with even a little amount of knowledge and experience.

"It’s a reaper’s tool, lad," they had said, "not a fighter’s. Flashy, aye, but it’ll get you killed if you don’t respect its quirks."

They had also laughed when they saw him holding one.

"How much did you buy it kid? 20 gold for a farmer’s tool! Hahaha!"

It didn’t take long for one of them to finally notice his crest and tell the rest to shut it.

Percival had ignored the advice and retreated to bed, still planning to master this damned weapon.

Now, in the light of day, no more doubt gnawed at him. He was determined to prove himself right and the others wrong.

He had found a good spot at the sparser parts of the city, though it had proved difficult to find.

Even though he couldn’t offer any sort of aid because of the Contract’s rules, Percival summoned Mercius to watch the training.

"I have my experience with the weapon, Master," Mercius said. "But my battle style required more close range and explosive weapons. My greatsword and shield were my destined arsenal."

"Did you ever face a scythe-wielder?" Percival asked.

"A couple," Mercius answered. "They are frustrating to battle when they know how to use the weapon. You are forced into ranged fights because they use the scythe to keep you at a distance. But... if you manage to infiltrate their area of effect..."

Percival gazed at him. "I understand."

He turned and moved to the center of the grounds, planting his feet shoulder-width apart.

He reached for the weapon and pulled it slowly, dramatically. He held it with both hands, and made his first note.

The scythe’s haft was longer than his sword’s, nearly six feet from butt to blade tip, demanding a wider stance to balance its forward-heavy design.

So, he compensated.

He widened his stance and once the weapon truly felt balanced in his hold, he moved on.

He started simple, gripping it two-handed near the center for control. Then he swung, dragging the weapon in a sluggish, horizontal arc.

The blade whistled through the air, cutting a clean path, but the follow-through pulled him off-balance.

His left foot stumbled forward as the momentum turned him from a Necromancer to a ballerina.

Percival executed a beautiful half-spin.

His cheeks reddened, and he looked from the corner of his eyes at Mercius.

Soul Soldiers might have sentience, but the Blade of Brackenbridge better not be laughing at him.

Heaving a calming breath, Percival reset his posture.

He made another mental note.

There was an advantage here: that sweep could cleave through multiple foes at range, keeping enemies at bay like Mercius said while his undead pressed the attack.

But the disadvantage: the recovery was glacial.

A sword allowed quick parries and ripostes; this thing committed him to each motion, leaving him exposed if he missed.

Percival tried again.

This time he angled the blade downward for a low cut, imagining a line of goblins at knee height.

The scythe bit into the dirt, jarring his arms and sending a shock up his spine.

Frustration bubbled up. Hot and familiar.

Not knowing how to use a weapon was truly maddening. It clashed so much with himself, with who he was.

It was intrusive and confusing in all aspects. He had oversimplified it earlier, but it was way deeper than that.

In his past life as a Sword Saint, precision and perfection was instant. There was no such thing as a miscalculated or poor attack, there was no learning of a weapon, there was no struggle.

All of this was new. And it felt like he was being mocked, mocked by this damned scythe.

Mercius watched, his expression plain. He was unable to assist in any way, that included advice. So he simply watched.

Percival took another deep breath, convincing himself repeatedly that the frustration was a good thing.

Now, however, it was a bit more difficult to sell.

But he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

He adjusted his grip, sliding one hand higher toward the snath’s end for leverage, and swung upward in a rising arc.

Ah.

That was... better.

The blade had lifted smoothly, but the telegraph was still obvious. The wind-up screamed his intent to any watchful opponent.

Percival tried again, intending to be less predictable.

This time, he overextended. The swing drew so far back that the tip of the blade clipped his own shoulder.

But the armor blocked against damage.

Percival paused, feeling anger rising and breathing steadily to push it down.

He spent the energy he would have spent on an outburst on reflecting on the weapon’s nature.

Scythes weren’t made for duels; they were agricultural tools twisted into symbols of death, ideal for harvesting in broad strokes.

For a Necromancer—a ranged class reliant on summons and curses—it complemented perfectly, extending his reach without closing distance, allowing him to reap souls from the backline while his legion absorbed the brunt.

He knew this.

So what was holding him back?

Percival’s brows raised. It didn’t take long for him to realize.

Yes, he was a Necromancer. But he was a Swordsman first.

After years of battle, training, and Gate World Clearing, the way of the sword was completely ingrained in him.

It was the only thing he knew, and no matter what weapon he held, the Swordsman way was his default.

Percival knew now what he had to do.

He had to unlearn his Swordsman’s instincts.

’...’

Maybe not unlearn them. But he had to stop depending on them. He had to turn into a blank slate, a man with no memory of a sword, training to master a scythe.

This meant no thrusting, no tight quarters feints.

Instead, he would emphasize circles, hooks, and sweeps.

But how could he become a blank slate? How could he abandon the fighting instinct that had been ingrained into him after nearly 4 years in this fantasy world?

Meditation?

Not the full essence of it. But, closing his eyes, soothing his muscles, and reimagining himself as the unawakened Percy Brightstar, naive and new to this world.

No knowledge of the sword. No fighting style. No technique.

And now... the scythe.

Percival imagined it was his first time wielding this reaper’s blade; that it was the first weapon he owned.

Then he opened his eyes.