Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 108: The Province of Hollowcreek

Percival’s greaves sunk deep into layers of ancient, damp mulch. A unique kind of air filled his lungs. It was shockingly crisp, tasting of pine resin, sweet sap, and a dense, underlying currents of old magic.

He looked left and right. This didn’t look like the Human Kingdom at all. Heck, it barely resembled the Elf Kingdom.

In his past life, he never stepped foot into Hollowcreek. Which brought up the question that had been bugging him since yesterday.

Why didn’t he ever hear of Demons in his last timeline?

Forcefully, he ignored the thought again, choosing to focus on the cathedral of nature before him.

The trees of Hollowcreek were titans, their trunks were slim and pale as bone, stretching hundreds of feet into a twilight sky that was obscured by a canopy of leaves.

Some were a deep, verdant green, but others—the older ones—bore leaves of pure, spectral white that shimmered with their own faint luminescence.

They drifted down slowly, spiraling through the mist like falling snow that never melted.

The silence was profound. An almost magical absence of noise. It felt... unsettling.

This whole place was unsettling.

"You have arrived."

A soft, musical voice caught his difficult attention. Percival turned, almost reaching for his Sword Case, only to find a figure standing less than ten paces away, leaning casually against the white bark of a massive tree.

It was a girl. An Elf.

She wore a tunic of woven spider-silk and leather dyed in forest hues, blending perfectly with the gloom.

Her ears tapered to sharp, elegant points, and her eyes were a startling violet. She didn’t carry a weapon, but the way she stood—balanced, light on the balls of her feet—suggested she didn’t need one to outrun him.

Percival’s eyes narrowed at the crest beside her head.

⸢Class: Messenger⸥

⸢Level: 77⸥

She wasn’t an Awakener. She had no combat class, no aura of a warrior. She was a resident of this frontier, leveled by existence and duty rather than the slaughter of the System.

"Lord Hero," she said, straightening with a fluid grace that made human movement look clumsy. She offered a slight bow, hand over her heart. "Duke Ithalan sensed the disturbance in the ley lines. He awaits you in the High Boughs."

"Lead the way," Percival said, pretending as though he hadn’t been flustered.

There was just something about Elven women.

She turned and moved. Percival followed, his heavy A-Grade armor crunching loudly over the roots. Compared to her silent steps, his feet were like bells.

As they moved deeper into the wood, the settlement of Hollowcreek revealed itself. This place was not built on the land; it was grown from it.

There were no stone walls or timber frames. The homes of the elves were woven into the living wood of the giant trees.

Massive branches curved to form walkways, hollows in the trunks served as doorways, and glowing bioluminescent moss acted as streetlamps, casting a soft, amber glow over the suspended bridges that connected the grove.

It was a city in the sky, hidden beneath the canopy.

Elara led him to a central tree, the "High Bough," a massive white oak that dwarfed all others.

A spiral stair carved directly into the living bark took them up, past guards clad in silver-leaf armor who watched Percival with impassive, alien eyes.

At the summit was a wide, open-air platform.

The "throne room" had no roof, only the canopy of white leaves above.

Sitting on a chair formed from intertwined roots and blooming vines was Duke Ithalan.

He was old, even for an elf. His hair was a cascade of silver, and his face was lined with the weight of centuries.

He wore robes of deep emerald velvet, heavy with embroidery, and a simple circlet of woven gold rested on his brow.

As Percival stepped onto the platform, the Duke rose.

"The Hero of the World," Ithalan said. His voice was deep, resonant, and carried a warmth Percival hadn’t expected. "I know you have rejected Evernia. But we rejected it long ago. You are still the Hero to me. To us."

The Duke descended the short steps of the dais, his hands open in welcome.

"You must be weary. The portal travel is taxing on the soul, and your armor bears the scent of the forge and the grave. Please, sit. We have prepared a feast in your honor: nectar from the Moon-orchids and meat from the Stags of the lower valley."

Servants materialized from the shadows, bearing silver platters laden with exotic fruits and steaming venison.

The smell was intoxicating, rich and savory.

Percival didn’t move. He stood like a statue of iron and obsidian in the center of their natural paradise.

"I will eat later," Percival said, his tone flat and devoid of diplomacy.

The servants froze. The warmth in Duke Ithalan’s eyes dimmed slightly, a flicker of surprise replaced them.

"My time is expensive," Percival continued, stepping forward, the metal of his greaves clanking against the wooden floor. "And so is the safety of this province. As you know, every second we spend feasting is a second until the Gate bursts open."

He looked the Duke in the eye.

"It’s best we go. Now."

Ithalan studied him for a long moment. The ancient elf seemed to be weighing Percival’s soul, looking for the arrogance of youth.

He wasn’t certain of what he found, but he liked the determination in the Hero’s voice.

"Very well," Ithalan sighed, the sound like wind through dry leaves. He gestured to his guards. "You have the spirit of the old kings. Grounded. Impatient. Focused."

The Duke turned and walked toward the edge of the platform. "Come. It is not far."

They descended the tree in silence. The Messenger girl, Elara, joined them, showing no reaction to the altercation.

They moved past the settlement, past the safe zones, into a section of the forest where the white trees turned grey and twisted.

The air started to grow heavy. The sweet smell of pine vanished, and then came this iron tang mana and static. The birdsong died out completely.

And then, through a break in the trees, Percival saw it.

It stood in a clearing of dead grass, a towering rupture in the fabric of the world.

The Gate.

It was massive, easily twenty feet tall, an oval of swirling energy that distorted the space around it.

The edges crackled with black lightning, but the core... the core was a deep, violent, churning red.

Percival stopped. His eyes narrowed as he analyzed the Gate.

It was an Alpha Gate. Which meant it led into an A-Ranked Gate World: the exact same rank as the Lizard World he had just conquered.

Percival frowned.

’How does an A-Ranked Gate World kill a high-level party in the very first Encounter Zone?’