Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 57: Percival’s Rage

As he burst out of the doors, he took a moment to gather himself.

Despite the plain countenance on his face, the turmoil within him was heavy. He couldn’t understand it.

There were millions of suffering in the world. This, although heart wracking, wasn’t especially surprising.

So why did it hit him this hard?

Was it because of Mercius? Did Percival now hold a sort of connection to his Soul Soldier? Would it be the same for other Soul Soldiers?

The questions churned in his mind, and the lack of answers only added to his growing anger.

After a deep breath, he activated ⸢Summon Swap⸥.

Percival switched places with one of the Skeletons in the map room.

The map-maker, still pinned by the curtain ropes and gagged by the rag, let out a muffled squeak of terror.

Percival looked angrier than before and that petrified him.

The Necromancer waved his hand, dismissing both the present skeleton and the one he swapped places with into a blaze of blue fire.

Then he dragged the cloth off the scholar’s mouth.

The man slumped forward, gasping for air.

"I have questions to ask you," Percival said.

His voice was no longer the soft, comforting tone he had used with Alenya. He was back to the cold, monotone graveness that made him sound like smoke.

"And you had better answer me truthfully."

The mapmaker nodded frantically, sweat beading on his forehead. "I will, sir. I swear it."

Percival stepped closer, gazing down at him, void of emotions, his mane making him look all the more deadly.

The mapmaker gulped. "I swear," he said again.

"Why did the Duke agree to the marriage between Mercius Seagrave and his daughter, only to back out once he went to war?" Percival asked. "Why sell his daughter to Tristop Highbard’s hand before the body was even cold?"

The mapmaker swallowed again. He looked at the door, then back at the young monster standing before him.

"It... it was a calculation, sir. The Highbards... they aren’t just nobles. They control the Iron Mines of Ostuary. They owned the strongest Warriors available in all five cities of Northern Brackenbridge. And they specialize in Awakener Equipment."

Percival’s eyes narrowed. "So he traded his daughter for the military power?"

"The Mantors were threatening the Crestveils rule over Br—Brackenbridge," the man stammered. "Duke Atristus needed the military backing to hold back against them. The Highbards offered that."

"But Alenya and Mercius were bethroted," Percival pressed. "Why allow that when he was already dealing with the Highbards? The Crestveils solidified their rulership status against the Mantors before the battle even began."

His eyes narrowed. "He didn’t annull the engagement then. Why did he wait until the battle ended to sell of Alenya to the Highbards? How could he have known that Mercius wouldn’t return?"

The moment Percival said that, the room went silent.

The mapmaker closed his eyes as if accepting his fate, before opening it again, looking up at Percival with fear and a plea for mercy.

The truth revealed itself in that silence. They both knew.

Percival’s face was aghast. His eyes were widened in sheer, horrified clarity. All of it made sense now.

The Warriors and Awakeners dying? How weak were the fighters dispatched with Mercius that they would die in the very first wave of attack?

Unless...

"He knew," Percival breathed.

The map-maker squeezed his lips shut and nodded slowly.

"Duke Atristus Crestveil... intentionally put Mercius on the front lines," the man whispered, the secret spilling out like poison. "He sent him out into the battle with the weakest soldiers, and only after he had died did they send the real Warriors and powerful Awakeners."

Percival felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.

"He held them back?"

"He waited," the mapmaker wept. "He waited until the Demon Knights. Until Mercius Seagrave was dead."

The old man didn’t understand why this young man—the summoned Hero—was interested in this story of history. But it wasn’t his place to ask questions, merely to answer.

"Atristus had to be sure Mercius died. If Mercius returned a hero, the people would rally behind him to keep the engagement with his daughter. And the Highbards wouldn’t have gotten their end of the bargain. So, Atristus made sure there was no hero left to return."

Percival stood there, frozen.

Everything just felt unimaginably wrong.

This was more than just a tragedy. This wasn’t a tale of bad luck, of bravery, or of being overwhelmed by a superior enemy as the people of Brackenbridge believed.

Mercius Seagrave—the man who had loved fiercely, who had fought with honor, who was currently a weeping soul in Percival’s Summon Space—had been murdered by the very man he swore to protect.

An anger built up in Percival’s chest, pushing up his throat, filling his veins with rage redder than his own blood..

His aura poured thick and blue, squeezing the bones of the mapmaker who shivered in his seat.

"You bastards..."

The mapmaker gazed at him, lips shaking. "Sir?"

Percival’s glare was a blue hell. His eyes were no longer human; they were the voids of a deathly court who had found this entire family guilty.

"You are all the same, aren’t you?" Percival hissed, the flames burning around him.

Everything in the room kowtowed to his essence. The air began to vibrate, shaking the inkwells on the shelves.

Books toppled over, a cuboid of ink fell, pouring black all over a map, the curtains howled.

Two disruptive mana cores seeped the room with pure killing intent.

"All of you wretched gloats with crowns as skulls and hearts made of thorned obsidian... you think the throne gives you the right to use and dispose of people like broken tools!"

"Please..." the man whimpered, pressing his body into the chair.

"You used Mercius for your wars!" Percival roared, his rage exploding outward. "You took his loyalty, you took his strength, and when you had no more use for him, you sent him to the slaughterhouse!"

His eyes flashed evil.

"You murderers! All of you! That is what you do! You build your castles on the bones of better men!"

Pain. Agony. Rage. Memories of Liraeth laughing as she pierced through him with her emerald spear. Aethelstan driving his sword into his chest. Dagna grinning as he faded away to death. Nessa... watching silently from a distance.

"You use! And you kill! You use! And you kill! We are nothing but slaves to your gilded desires!"

"Sir, please, I had no part in it—"

Slink.

In a blur, Percival had drawn with ⸢Quickdraw⸥, and a single, fluid arc of silver steel flashed in the room.

The mapmaker’s plea died in his throat. A thin red line appeared on his neck.

From his shoulders, his head slid away, spinning through the air in a grotesque pirouette.

The shock in the old man’s eyes showed in the spinning head, blood sprayed, painting the maps of the Brackenbridge province in crimson while Percival’s blade swiped, his face burning with vengeful stoicism.

The body remained tied to the chair, but the head fell with a thud and rolled, coming to a stop at a shelf.

Percival lowered the blade slowly, blood dripping down the sharp edge to the rug.

Rage was painted all over his face, even his mane couldn’t hide it.

"⸢Awake⸥"

He summoned his Skeleton Soldiers, the room filled up with all sixteen of them, wielding their Water Swords and Sea Bows.

"Scour this fort," Percival whispered. "Kill everyone."

The Skeletons clashed their jaws and turned, pouring out of the room like a tide of death.

"Ahhh!"

"By the Gods!"

"They were real!"

"Runnn!!!"

Percival could already hear the cries of the guards, and the sounds of blades slashing into skin.

He turned and stepped out of the room into the hallway where the slaughtering had begun.

"Hey! Who the hell is that?!"

"Get him! Kill him!"

Three guards were running down the corridor, halberds raised. They noticed the blood dripping from his sword, and the room he had emerged from.

"He killed Bersys, the mapmaker!"

"Finish him!!"

Percival looked at them. He didn’t see men. He saw King Alfred. He saw Tristop Highbard.

He saw the people that had taken everything from him and Mercius.

These people who believed that a seat on a golden throne meant they were more powerful than him who could summon legends from the dead.

"There is no mercy for the lot of you," Percival muttered. His mana flared, a bluish aura wrapping around his body like a shroud. "Only the judgment of my death blade."

The three guards attacked at once.

Percival raised his blade to meet them.

Slash!!