Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 58: The Slaughter of the Highbards

"Intruders! In the map room! To arms!"

The alarm bells tolled, boots thundered against the floorboards, and workers ran helter skelter.

The Highbard guards stormed the corridors of the fort, and to their surprise, they saw Skeleton Soldiers dancing in the air, cleaving their cohorts like seasoned warriors.

"It really wasn’t an imagination? They are real?"

Percival walked down the center of the main corridor. His countenance was cold and indifferent, as if the madness around him was invisible to him.

A squad of Highbard heavy infantry charged from a side hall, their shields locked.

A Skeleton Skirmisher, clad in the Merman Warrior armor, met them head on.

It slid low, using a disarming maneuver to sever the tendons in the lead guard’s ankles with his Water Sword.

As the line faltered, the Skeleton rose, executing a perfect 360-degree cleave that sent helms and heads bouncing across the stone.

From the rafters above, Ranger Skeletons drew back the Sea Arrows tipped with necrotic soulfire.

Thwip. Thwip.

Guards stationed on the balconies above let out gurgling cries as arrows pierced their throats. People yelled as their bodies tumbled over the railings to crash into the ground at Percival’s feet.

Or to the lowest floor of the fort.

Percival didn’t even glance at the corpses. He stepped over them, his boots splashing in the growing rivers of crimson.

"Kill him! Protect the inner sanctum!"

A team of elite Highbard guards blocked his path.

They weren’t ordinary guards, because as Percival noticed, their blades glowed with fire enchantments, and their shields radiated protective mana.

They approached him in a coordinated phalanx, three lunging while two guarded the flanks.

Percival looked at them like they offered no threat at all.

In truth, they didn’t.

Ngyaaahhh!!!

They screamed as they attacked in unison.

Percival activated ⸢Flash Strike⸥, turning into a blur of silver.

The first guard’s chest was split open by a diagonal slash so deep it cleaved through the heart and spine.

They stopped and looked around.

"Hey? Isn’t that supposed to be a Swordsman’s Ski— ughhh!"

Percival had ⸢Grave Stepped⸥ into their formation and stabbed right through one of the guards.

They reorganized quickly and swung their flaming blades at him. Percival ducked, feeling the heat on his face.

Rising up instantly, he activated ⸢Whirlwind Cut⸥.

⸢Whirlwind Cut: A spinning, AoE attack where the blade cuts rapidly in a full circle without losing speed, damaging surrounding foes⸥.

⸢C-Grade⸥

Bodies—parts of them rather—flew out of the tornado of blades. By the end of the whirlwind, all the guards were laid bloodied and dismembered on the floor.

His eyes moved to a door.

Percival had noticed that the guards were intentionally trying to protect it.

He could guess why. Someone important was in there.

Six guards were what remained, their hands shaking as they watched the Necromancer approach.

"Stay back!" One yelled. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

Percival looked at them.

"Okay," he said.

He raised his hand, and a swarm of ⸢Bone Spikes⸥ erupted from the floorboards, impaling four of them instantly.

The remaining two were decapitated by a single, wide sweep of his sword.

He kicked the doors open.

Inside was a luxurious suite, filled with fine silks and the scent of expensive wine. A man around thirty, dressed in opulent silk robes, stumbled backward, his face pale and slick with sweat.

He tripped over a footstool, scrambling into the corner like a cornered rat.

Percival stepped into the room, his sword dripping blood onto the white rug.

"Who are you?" Percival asked, his voice low and terrifyingly calm.

"I... I should be asking you that!" the man shrieked.

Percival stepped closer.

"Wait wait!" The man squeezed himself into the wall. "Don’t kill me! My father... my father has gold! He can give you as much as you want! Bounties, titles, women. Anything! Just stay back!"

Percival narrowed his cold eyes. "Your father? You’re Olysson. Tristop’s son."

Olysson’s eyes lit up with a pathetic hope. "Yes! Yes! I’m the heir! So don’t kill me and I’ll make sure you’re paid bountifully!"

Percival looked at the man. Being a Highbard was enough reason for this coward to die.

The blood of the "wolves" ran through his veins.

But as Percival looked at him, he felt a sickening twist of irony. This was Alenya’s son. The child she had nearly died to give birth to.

The child who was the reason for her "Long Sickness."

"What do you think of your mother?" Percival asked, his grip tightening on his hilt. "The woman who rots in the solarium. Why do you allow her to suffer there?"

Olysson blinked, a look of genuine confusion crossing his face before it twisted into a sneer of annoyance.

"Wait? That old hag? So she is the one who sent you?" He let out a sharp, derisive snort. "Heh! That wench should have died years ago instead of—"

Percival didn’t let him finish. That was all he had to hear.

He lashed forward with the speed of a striking viper, his blade leveled at Olysson’s throat.

But just as the tip was inches from the skin, a blinding flash of white-blue light illuminated the room.

BOOM!

A violent bolt of lightning slammed into Percival’s side. The sheer concussive force sent him flying across the room, crashing through the stone wall.

He tumbled through the air, landing hard amidst a pile of rubble and shattered masonry in the outer courtyard.

Percival groaned, his vision swimming.

Dust filled his lungs. He felt a sharp, searing pain in his ribs.

This was the first real pain he had felt since his regression.

Smoke trailed up from his armor, and his skin sizzled with residual electricity.

"Get the heir to safety!" a booming, authoritative voice commanded.

Through the settling smoke, Percival saw a troop of guards rush into the room to scoop up the whimpering Olysson.

Standing at the breach in the wall was a new figure.

The man wore heavy mage-plate armor, white capes fluttering in the wind. His long white hair was tied back, and in his hand, he held a silver scepter that crackled with violent, dancing bolts of lightning.

Percival pushed himself up, coughing out a mouthful of grit. He wiped the blood from his lip and stared at the newcomer.

He saw the crest above his shoulder.

"A Lightning Mage," Percival muttered, letting out a bored breath.

The Mage looked down at Percival with a sneer of aristocratic disdain. "So, the Summoned Hero has proven to be a traitor. Attacking the home of a Noble family... a grave mistake, boy. You will be executed for this insolence."

Percival didn’t look afraid.

He simply stood up, his face returning to that eerie, emotionless stoicism.

He found his blade in the rubble, his fingers closing around the hilt once more.

He swung it in a sharp arc to clear the dust, then pointed the tip directly at the Level 78 Awakener.

"Let’s get this over with."