Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 55: Infiltrating the Fort

Mere minutes later, Percival was no longer in the streets of Ostuary. He was by the Bracken River.

A figure scaled the walls of the Old Fort; Percival’s figure. His fingers, strengthened by his high Dexterity stat, found microscopic fissures in the stone.

He climbed upward, his breathing rhythmic and shallow, until he reached the opening at the high bottom of the Fort.

He squeezed into the chute and entered once again to the same place his Skeleton had found yesternight.

Carefully, he emerged into the lower foundation of the keep. There, he found the servant’s quarters: a labyrinth of low-ceilinged stone corridors.

The air here was different from the sea-mist outside. It was stagnant, reeking of burnt tallow and smelly old armor.

’Shower must be banned for these guards,’ Percival thought, placing a hand over his nose as he looked around.

’This structure is really medieval,’ he thought. ’Makes sense it’s called the Old Fort. The security is low in the service sectors, but the guards are likely concentrated at the interior checkpoints.’

Percival mapped the layout in his mind. He looked past the rows of small rooms and to the passage awaiting him that undoubtedly led upward into the Fort proper.

He ⸢Grave-Stepped⸥ to the passage. Once there, he wore his hood over his head and navigated the shadows.

For the most part, his dark cloak made him invisible against the damp stone. He moved past the kitchens and the armory, his footsteps lighter than a cat’s.

He ensured no one felt even a whisper of his presence. Not that he was afraid of any of them, but he knew the value of a silent approach.

Every life he didn’t have to take now was mana saved for the inevitability of the escape.

He reached the junction leading to the upper noble wing, and as he was about to turn the corner, he caught sight of two guards marching toward his position.

Percival slipped back into the corner.

Most people would not have noticed those guards, far as they were, but his high Perception stat kept his senses as sharp as a new blade.

"...Baron’s been in a foul mood since the news from the city," one guard grumbled. "Says the Goldtowers are breathing down our necks."

"Let ’em breathe," the second replied, irritated and proud. "They won’t try the fort. Not with the Lady still in the spire. She’s our only leverage because they respect the Crestveils too much."

Percival pressed his back against the wall’s cold stone. He had hoped he would have gotten a little more out of their conversation.

He needed a precise location. Finding a "Lady" in a fort this size could take hours he didn’t have.

But at least, now he knew the Goldtowers were a possible ally.

Nevertheless, the guards were matching close, and they would catch him there if he didn’t do something fast.

Percival looked to his left.

There was a heavy oak door, the only one ajar in the row opposite him. The soft, buttery light glowing from within it, informed him that someone was inside.

Regardless, he activated ⸢Grave Step⸥.

As he disappeared into blue mist, the two guards rounded the corner, passing where he had been and lowering down the stairs.

"If the Goldtowers keep trying us, they’ll know for sure why our military is so revered."

Percival rematerialized inside the room.

It was a study, packed from floor to ceiling with scrolls, vellum, and intricate topographical drawings.

At the center sat a man in velvet-trimmed robes, his back to a shelf, hunched over a massive map of the Brackenbridge province.

The scratch of his quill was the only sound in the room.

The man sensed the shift in the air; the sudden, unnatural drop in temperature that accompanied Percival’s presence.

He began to raise his head, his mouth opening to ask who was there.

He never got the chance.

The cold edge of Lightpiercer was pressed firmly against the man’s throat before he could even register a face.

"If you want to die, scream," Percival whispered.

The man froze. The quill fell from his hand, splattering a dark blotch of ink across a beautifully rendered forest.

His eyes tracked upward, catching the glimpse of a young man with dark, blue eyes and a terrifyingly calm expression.

He looked to his left and saw the crest floating above his shoulder. His eyes widened.

Percival could see that he recognized him.

"Where is the Lady Alenya kept?" he asked. His voice was so gentle and toneless, it almost seemed like a pleasant request.

But that was the scary part.

The man gulped, his throat swallowing against the blade. "I... I’m just a mapmaker," he stammered, his voice thin with terror. "I chart the lands... I don’t... I don’t know about... ngh!"

Percival pressed his sword forward with the slightest pressure.

The tip of the sword pierced the skin of the man’s neck, drawing a single, brilliant bead of blood.

"Honor yourself," Percival murmured, his gaze boring into the scholar’s soul, "and don’t let the last words out of your mouth be a lie."

The mapmaker trembled so violently the desk rattled. His fingers shook like leaves in a hurricane, and his eyes quivered like a goat for slaughter.

Percival watched him with no care.

"You chart this fort, don’t you?" he said. "You know every room, every occupant, every secret door. Tell me where she is, or the next map you’d be making is for the afterlife."

"By the... the North Spire! The Solarium!" the mapmaker choked out. "Its on top floor, separate from the barracks. Please, I’ve told you! Don’t kill me!"

Percival stayed still, his eyes boring into the man like he was letting him know what would happen if he found out he was lying.

Then, with a thought, Percival summoned two Skeleton Soldiers—two of the four he had sparred with earlier that morning.

The mapmaker’s eyes rolled back at the sight of them. He looked like he was about to faint.

"Muzzle him," Percival commanded. "If he moves or makes a sound, take his head."

The Skeletons obeyed immediately.

One tore a cloth from the curtain and wrapped it tight around the man’s mouth, while the other tied him to the chair with the golden curtain ropes.

Percival turned and vanished back into the hallway.

From this point forward, caution was paramount.

The North Spire was filled with guards and other workers at every corner, so he had to play the game of timing.

He bypassed the main stairwells, using the exterior scaffolding and window ledges to circumvent the guarded chokepoints.

It wasn’t his first time doing something like this. S-Ranked Gate Worlds required mental strategies such as this, maneuvering smaller threats to surprise-attack the boss.

This was child’s play compared to that.

He eventually reached the heavy double doors of the Solarium.

Two guards stood there, looking bored.

Percival appeared before them in a burst of blue smoke, and before they could let out the words: "What the hell?!", "Intruder!", he struck their heads with the pommel of his sword.

They were knocked out instantly. Percival caught them and eased them to the floor.

He fished the key from a belt pouch, unlocked the doors, and pushed them open.

Then, he dragged their unconscious bodies inside and closed the door.

BAM.

Percival turned and surveyed the room.

It was spacious enough not to resemble a prison, but it certainly smelled like one. Herbs, solitude, dried food. It was half forgotten, this place.

Moonlight poured through the tall lancet windows; the only light source for this depressing space.

At the center was a grand, canopied bed. A figure lay there, buried under a mountain of thick, heavy furs, despite the room not being particularly cold.

As Percival approached, he felt a surge of pure, unadulterated agony from Mercius. It was so sharp it nearly made Percival stumble.

’Is this her?’

The figure on the bed stirred. A thin, withered hand—trembling and translucent like parchment—reached out from under the furs.

As the woman turned her head, Percival’s eyes widened.

She wasn’t the young woman from Mercius’s memories. She was old. Her face held deep wrinkles, her hair was thin, and snowy against the pillow.

Her breathing was so shallow, it was like she was too tired to stay anchored to her own flesh.

She looked at Percival, her clouded eyes struggling to focus in the moonlight. She noticed the scythe hanging behind him.

Percival thought she would be afraid. But no.

Alenya looked relieved.

"Has the time come?" she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "Have you finally come to take me, Reaper?"