Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer

Chapter 187: Battle of Deceit

Percival’s eyes widened. He wasn’t going to waste a single second trying to reason with a grieving, heavily armed Elven mother. He simply turned around and bolted.

"Wind Guard! Bring me his head!" Eristasia shrieked, her voice tearing through the wind.

The massive griffin let out an ear-splitting screech, its wings beating downward with the force of a localized hurricane.

Stalls shattered, crates of exotic fruits and beast feed exploded into splinters, and the screaming citizens of Crimson City were thrown flat against the muddy cobblestones.

Percival threw his body sideways just as three razor-sharp lances of concentrated wind magic gouged craters into the exact spot he had been standing.

He hit the ground rolling, his cloak billowing around him, and immediately exploded into a sprint down the chaotic, terrified market alleyway.

"Do not let him escape!" the Elven commander, Theodore, roared from the rooftops. "Form the net!"

Wind howled overhead. Two Elven Awakeners, likely Wind Assassins from their aerodynamic silver armor, dropped directly into Percival’s path.

They landed gracefully, their dual-curved blades drawing the ambient mana from the air.

"Die, Outworlder!" the first Elf snarled, lunging forward with a strike fast enough to blur.

Percival refused to slow down. He reached over his shoulder and drew Lightpiercer.

The blade sang in the air like it was happy to be used after such a long time. Percival parried the Elf’s strike with a string enough force to shatter the Elf’s blade.

Not missing a beat, Percival spun the momentum into a savage horizontal cleave.

⸢Bladewave⸥ crashed right into the Elf’s shimmering chest plate, sending the Awakener crashing backward into a fruit stand in a spray of blood.

The second Elf hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes wide at the sight of the Outworlder’s swordsmanship.

’Isn’t he supposed to be a Necromancer?’

That hesitation was all Percival needed. He slammed a heavy, armored boot into the Elf’s knee, shattering it, and shoved him aside.

"Out of my way!" Percival growled, bursting through the perimeter of the market and sprinting toward the outer gates of the capital.

Whenever a civilian got in his way, rather than pushing them away, he burst in blue smoke, ⸢Grave Stepping⸥ further ahead which helped him create distance.

But the sound of galloping hooves and roaring wind magic still echoed right behind him. The Wind Guard was fast—terrifyingly fast. Eristasia’s griffin cast a massive, sweeping shadow over the road as it banked for another dive.

Percival cleared the massive stone archway of the city gates, his boots hitting the open dirt road. He ⸢Grave Stepped⸥ out of the way, and once he reappeared some distance ahead, he stretched out his hand.

"⸢Awake, Argus⸥!"

Blue fire erupted from the dirt. The towering, skeletal form of Argus burst forth, its bone hooves striking the earth with a hollow, rhythmic thud.

Percival vaulted onto the saddle without breaking his stride.

"Go!" he commanded.

Argus surged forward, becoming a blur of bone and pale blue fire.

Behind them, the Elven host poured out of the main city streets. Fast-moving wind-drakes and heavily armored cavalry gave chase, whipped into a frenzy by Eristasia’s furious commands.

Arrows from Archers rained down from the sky, some stabbing the earth, others detonating into the dirt inches from Argus’s galloping hooves.

Percival kept his head low against the rushing wind, his mind racing as fast as his steed. He couldn’t outrun a griffin forever. He couldn’t fight an entire army by himself on an open road.

What he needed was a distraction. A way to get out of here.

He looked at the horizon ahead and realized he was heading back to Deathlehem.

That was when he was hit with a grim idea.

’I told them I was bringing an army back with me.’

Indeed, Percival had promised to make them pay for what they did to Theumir. He had promised to return with an army. The villagers were likely terrified, and would be armed to the teeth with Theumir’s weapons, and waiting for an attack.

Let’s keep that promise.

"Keep this pace, Argus!" Percival shouted over the roaring wind. "Take us straight to Deathlehem!"

For miles, the high-speed chase tore through the Southmarch countryside. By the time the massive, rust-veined basalt walls of Deathlehem came into view, the village was already ringing the alarm.

"Ring the bells! Ring the bells!" a voice screamed from the squat watchtower.

Down in the plaza, the gates were thrown wide open. Butrick, the scarred innkeeper, rushed out to the front line alongside the bald man and dozens of other villagers.

They were all brandishing the glowing, masterfully crafted weapons of the Artificer.

"He’s back!" the bald man yelled, his voice cracking with terror as he pointed down the moonlit road. "The Necromancer is back! And he brought the army!"

Climbing the tower and looking ahead, they saw him: the terrifying Outworlder riding that skeleton horse. And right behind him, an overwhelming, heavily armored host descended from the sky and the road.

"Hold the line!" Butrick roared, raising his runic broadsword. "We killed a Demonspawn! We can kill them! Defend your homes!"

Above the chase, Eristasia saw the fortified gates and the armed mob rushing out. She saw the heavy, glowing weapons in the hands of the humans.

"He has sympathizers!" Eristasia screamed from the back of her griffin. "A human militia comes to his aid! Leave no one standing! Avenge Liraeth!"

The gap closed in seconds. Percival rode Argus right into the teeth of the collision. The villagers charged forward with a deafening war cry. The Elven cavalry lowered their lances. The griffin folded its wings for a lethal dive.

Timing was everything.

Just as the first volley of Elven magic lit up the sky, Percival unsummoned Argus. The skeletal steed vanished into blue smoke, dropping Percival toward the dirt.

Before his boots even touched the ground, he activated⸢Grave Step⸥.

Percival reappeared behind the Wind Guard that charged right past where he had been. He looked up just in time to watch the impact.

Eristasia’s griffin slammed into the front lines of Deathlehem, its talons ripping two men in half before Butrick swung his massive, runic blade.

The Artificer’s weapon flared with its power, slicing a deep, burning gash across the griffin’s flank. The beast shrieked in agony, thrashing wildly.

"Kill his army!" the villagers screamed, desperate to survive the wrath they believed Percival had brought down upon them.

"Slaughter the murderer’s defenders!" the Elven Awakeners roared back, their magic slicing through the air.

Theumir’s weapons proved their worth. For a brief, chaotic window, the unawakened villagers held their own against the elite Awakeners, the high-grade swords and shields deflecting elemental strikes and shattering Elven armor.

But the numbers and raw power of the Wind Guard were too overwhelming.

Screams of pain, the clash of high-grade steel, and the explosive roars of wind magic echoed into the night sky. The gates of Deathlehem began to splinter. Fire caught on the thatched roofs near the walls.

Neither side realized they were fighting the wrong enemy. They were locked in a desperate, deadly misunderstanding, tearing each other apart for a man who wasn’t even there.

Percival stood in the shadows, watching with an impassive face as the village that had enslaved Theumir burned under the wrath of the Wind Guard. The lie they had built their pride upon was finally catching up to them.

He adjusted his cowl, turned his back on the slaughter, and began to walk in the opposite direction.