Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 109: Peeping Half-Blood

Percival stepped closer to the violent, swirling vortex, the red light washing over his obsidian armor like fresh blood.

Of course the obvious answer to his question was that the threat was Demons rather than the conventional beasts.

But just how much difference did it make?

Killing a Demonspawn of the same level with a beast rewarded more EXP as it was regarded as a more difficult achievement.

The same logic applied here. If Demonspawns were stronger than Beasts, then Demons themselves would be stronger than Demonspawns.

EXP gain would be massive, especially if he equipped his Thresher title.

His eyes narrowed at the Gate.

’But what exactly is the theme of this Gate World?’

⸢Gate World: The Haunting of Suicide Manor⸥

⸢Rank: Alpha Gate, A-Ranked Gate World⸥

Percival froze. As though he hadn’t been certain of what he read, his eyes traced the letters again.

The Haunting of Suicide Manor.

What kind of ominous name was that?

It was wrong. It was fundamentally wrong. Gate Worlds were usually named after their dominant biomes or their ruling tyrants: Hollowed Kingdom of Thorns, Worm World, The Forest of Eternal Rot, The Castle of the Lich King.

They were descriptive. Functional.

But Suicide Manor?

It sounded like something straight out of R.L Stine.

He read the description, hoping for tactical data on terrain or monster density. But as usual, he was given a riddle. This one was even worse than the riddles he was used to.

⸢Description: A house that stands at the edge of reason. Is it the origin of evil? The end of it? Or is it neither?⸥

Percival lowered his hand, the blue light of the interface fading. He stared into the churning red abyss of the portal.

"What exactly am I getting into here?" he whispered to himself.

Even standing ten feet away, he could feel it. The aura of this Gate wasn’t just raw mana radiation.

It was... invasive. It didn’t wash over him like heat or cold; it seeped into the cracks of his armor like a damp, freezing mist.

It felt like cold fingers brushing against the back of his neck, like a whisper he couldn’t quite hear but knew was speaking his name. It was an aura of profound, distilled malice.

And beneath that malice, there was something else.

A gaze.

Percival’s spine stiffened.

His high Perception had accustomed him to notice any and every odd sensation. This particular sensation was distinct from the Gate’s ambient pressure.

This one was directional. Focused. He was being watched, Percival concluded.

Slowly, casually, Percival turned his head, looking over his heavy obsidian pauldron.

Behind him, the Duke and his guards were conversing in low tones near the tree line, their backs turned.

But beyond them, deeper in the grey, twisted woods, a shadow shifted.

It was barely a movement: a rustle of dead leaves, a twitch of grey fabric against grey bark.

Nevertheless, Percival cold blue eyes dug through the trees and leaves like a furious ant. He found the peeping tom.

Fifty yards away, peering out from behind the knotted trunk of a dead oak, was a figure. An old man. He was watching Percival with intense eyes.

The moment their eyes met, the figure flinched.

The old man turned and bolted.

"Stay here," Percival said to the startled Duke.

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Percival launched himself forward.

The runner was fast, unnaturally so for his age.

He weaved through the dense thicket of the corrupted forest, sliding under low-hanging branches and leaping over exposed roots with a scrabbling, frantic agility.

Percival gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to win a footrace in full plate against a local who knew the terrain.

He reached into his core, tapping into the cold currents of his Necromancer Class.

"⸢Grave Step⸥."

Percival exploded into blue flames and reappeared instantly, twenty yards ahead, directly in the path of the fleeing man.

The old man skidded, his boots tearing up the dead grass as he tried to stop, his eyes going wide with panic. He tried to pivot, to dive to the left, but Percival was already there.

Percival’s hand—armored in the gauntlet of the Ironwolf—shot out and clamped onto the man’s shoulder.

"Got you."

The grip was iron. The old man gasped, his momentum arrested instantly. Percival spun him around and slammed him back against the trunk of a tree, pinning him there with a forearm across the chest.

"All you Elves are way too nimble," Percival grunted.

The old man tried to wriggle away but Percival kept him planted to the tree. "Stop!"

"Why were you watching me?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The old man wheezed, clawing ineffectually at Percival’s vambrace.

Now that he was close, Percival could see him clearly. He looked... different from a normal Elf.

He was short and stocky, with the barrel chest and thick, calloused hands of a Dwarf. But his face was lean, his cheekbones high and sharp, and poking through a mess of wiry, grey hair were ears that tapered to undeniable points.

A Half-Elf, Half-Dwarf.

A hybrid. In the lore of Eldermoor, such a thing was rare to the point of myth. The two races rarely mixed, their bloodlines too disparate, their cultures too opposed.

"I... I was just looking!" the hybrid stammered, his voice raspy. "Curiosity! Is it a crime to look at the Hero? The Duke made such a fuss... I just wanted to see the boy who refused the Kings!"

Percival stared at him, his aura unintentionally making the old man tremble. "Curiosity doesn’t make a man run until his lungs burn," Percival said coldly.

"And curiosity doesn’t put that look of terror in your eyes when you look at that Gate."

Percival leaned in, his face inches from the hybrid’s.

"You weren’t looking at me because I’m the Hero. You were looking at me like you knew my fate was sealed the moment I entered that Gate World."

The old man’s gaze darted to the side, unable to meet Percival’s eyes.

"I see what you are," Percival continued with a more analytical tone. "Half-Dwarf. Half-Elf. You have the lifespan of the Elves and the memory of the Mountain folk. You’ve lived in these woods a long time, haven’t you? Long enough to know things the Duke ignores."

Percival released the pressure on the man’s chest slightly, though he didn’t let go.

"That Gate... Suicide Manor. It killed a high-level party in an hour. An Alpha Gate shouldn’t be able to do that. You know why. You know what’s inside."

The hybrid slumped against the tree. The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a weary, ancient resignation. He looked up at Percival, and for the first time, the panic was gone.

He looked sorrowful.

"It is dangerous, Hero," the old man whispered. "Too dangerous. I knew it when those Awakeners from Luvengart came. I knew that they would not return."

He licked his dry lips and looked toward the distant red glow of the portal.

"You are strong, human. Stronger than the others. But strength doesn’t matter in that house. The Manor has no wish to fight you. It actually... invites you. It invites you to die."

Percival’s gaze darkened, his heart feeling a tug of fear. Was this half-blood trying to scare him or something?

The old man pushed gently against Percival’s arm.

"If you truly want to know what waits for you in there... if you want to know why those high-level Awakeners died..."

He looked Percival dead in the eye.

"...then let me go. We cannot talk here. The trees have ears, and the Duke prefers that I do not ramble my folktales where people can hear."

The hybrid gestured vaguely back toward the settlement, toward the lower, darker roots where the poorer folk lived.

"Come to my hovel. We will talk over a bowl of Lowen soup. It warms the blood... and you will need warm blood where you are going."

Percival stared.