Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 113: Most Fundamental Lesson

They all made their way to the training arena. Nessa put on something tighter, lighter. As a Shadow Assassin, she had learnt the importance of weightlessness and movability.

Wearing clothes that dragged her down, clothes that weren’t fitted to her body, would only be a liability in the art of espionage and stealth.

It was for this same reason that she had her long luscious hair that her father had been so proud of, cut. Not tied, not braided. Cut.

That way, the winds could not leave her hair behind; a trail of dark slower than her shadow. It was a lesson one of the Scholars in Elderis Stone had taught her.

Others wore mostly what they had been wearing when they entered the Tutorium. They entered without coordination, clinging to the people they were most familiar with.

In names, these were the twenty that were now fated to save the world.

For the Main Party, led by Aethelstan, a human Knight at Lvl 100; was Liraeth, an elven Elemental Mage at Lvl 22; Bromm, a dwarf Barbarian at Lvl 25; Deron, another human Knight at Lvl 22; Dagna, a dwarf Druid at Lvl 20; Corvell, an elven Healer Mage at Lvl 26; and Nessa, a human Shadow Assassin at Lvl 18.

For the Support Party, led by Corisande, an Elven Healer Mage at Lvl 10; the team was made of the Elf group: Selor (Archer), Aelade (Wind Mage), Calarin (Knight) and Melena (Arcanist).

The Dwarf group: Ugmar (Knight), Jorik (Earth Mage), Jarbrun (Healer Mage), and Strida (Berserker).

Finally, the Human group: Stenya (Arcanist), Steppard (Barbarian), Vadrian (Swordsman), and Teson (Knight).

Twenty of them. They wondered how the training was going to be. Usually, the Tutorium only housed 7 members; the Hero and his Party, and would have to deal with training all seven.

But with fourteen more added to the party, the Scholars here must have their work cut out for them.

Nevertheless, despite any of this, or the certain difficult fate that awaited them in the future, these Awakeners were all happy, satisfied. Maybe even pleased.

The moment they were chosen to join the Party, the lives of their family members and loved ones were changed immediately. They were given lands, farms and gold. They were upgraded to the sublevel of nobility.

For those that came from nothing like Teson, they were full of the joys.

As they entered the revered place, their chatter died down slowly. Their eyes swept over their surroundings as they witnessed the blackened earth and shifting geometry.

Strangely, stone pillars rose and fell in unpredictable rhythms. They stared at the slabs of obsidian and pale marble floating inches apart, drifting slowly like tectonic plates in zero gravity.

Between them flowed rivers of light: mana made visible, blue and gold currents threading the earth like veins. They formed a floor beneath their feet that was perfectly level, smooth stone stretching in every direction without seams or cracks.

Each step they took caused sigils to bloom underfoot, reacting to intent rather than weight.

There were no walls that they could see, yet the space was clearly contained; an invisible boundary defining the limits of the area.

The air felt normal, though there was a small, certain pressure they felt. Perhaps it was the fact that they knew many Heroes had trained in this same place.

Above them, the ceiling was a neutral pale tone. Light came from everywhere evenly, casting no harsh shadows.

This place was constructed, not natural.

At the edge of their vision, faint magical sigils hovered, spinning continuously as if waiting for a magical order.

Aethelstan had seen sigils like those before. Very few training grounds had them. They were used to set difficulty settings, environmental zones and target parameters.

With a single command, the ground could become anything the commander willed it to be.

Eventually, their eyes found their teacher.

Master Omares stood on a floating platform twenty feet above the mana ground, his midnight-blue robes fluttering in the wind generated by the arena’s enchantments.

"Power," Omares’s voice projected clearly, bouncing off the unseen walls of the training grounds, "is the most common resource in this room. Every one of you can shatter a boulder. Every one of you can burn a forest."

He pointed a withered finger down at Bromm Axebringer, who was flexing his massive arms, eager to smash something.

"But a Demonspawn does not care how hard you hit. It cares about how isolated you are. Individually, you are snacks. Together, you are a grinder."

His eyes narrowed. "How many beasts have each of you killed?"

The Heroes paused. They thought of it for a while before their responses came like choruses.

"I’ve killed a total of forty-two, sir," Stenya replied.

"I’ve killed sixty!"

"Fourteen."

"Thirty-seven."

"Seventy-five!"

Omares’ eyes swept through their faces and stopped at Aethelstan, who like Corisande and Nessa, had not replied. "And what about you, Prince Aethelstan?"

The Prince narrowed his eyes. "Over three hundred, Master."

Gasps filled the Training ground. The Awakeners stared at him, whispering to each other.

"Over three hundred? That’s unbelievable."

"Well, he’s at Lvl 100. What did you expect?"

Liraeth turned red cheeked as she ogled him, daydreams illuminated in her eyes.

Omares remained reactionless. "You have reached the point in your life when you stop counting. That is good. But you still have a long way to go."

His eyes swept through them again. "How many Demonspawns have you killed?"

Suddenly, silence.

Their heads lowered. Not even Aethelstan had a single Demonspawn kill to his name.

"One."

Everyone’s heads raised in unison, then turned in the same unified motion.

Deron was the one who had spoken. Softer murmurs followed this time as they stared at the white-haired, shadow-eyed Knight.

"He’s killed a Demonspawn before?"

"That’s impossible."

"Where did he even find one?"

Omares finally showed a bit of interest. Even Aethelstan had turned around to look at the boy.

"Which one?" asked Omares.

"A Cursed Vulture, Master." Deron answered.

Omares looked even more impressed. Cursed Vultures were Lvl 15 Demonspawns. Considering the disparity in power, for Deron to kill one, being a Lvl 22, he must have displayed true strength.

Perhaps this was why he was chosen, despite his family’s controversy.

"Very impressive," Omares praised. "But this only means you all have no experience in battling the very thing you have been chosen to fight. Demonspawns are fundamentally different and more powerful than ordinary beasts. They are coated with mana. Made of more magic than flesh."

"You have to grow your Class, lean into your magic more than ever, become attuned in mana in a way like never before."

Aethelstan listened with anticipation. He loved what he was hearing at the moment. Getting stronger was all he wanted. All he cared about.

"But first," Omares raised a finger. "We shall see how you all work together. That is the most fundamental lesson that you will learn here."

Aethelstan frowned. He had hoped to go straight into training, into getting stronger. He didn’t care about these other Awakeners. All they would do was hold him back.

His fist clenched, eyes narrowed in anger. But then, when he looked up and noticed Omares watching him, he immediately let go of the anger.

Maybe it was a good thing to exercise patience.

The air in the training ground suddenly became tense and still. Twenty young Awakeners stood in a loose cluster, their eyes fixed on Omares as he descended from the observation platform.

"You know fhe battle formations," Omares began. "The Spearhead. The Phalanx. The Hammer and Anvil. Today, you will learn the reality of them. Not as diagrams, but as instinct."

He raised a hand and bluish mana formed around his fingertips. The floating, spinnin sigils reacted by stopping, then glowing with a soft blue light.

Omares clenched his fist.

From the earth, shapes heaved themselves upward. They were blocky, humanoid figures of magically compressed earth and gravel, standing eight feet tall.

Their eyes glowed with a dull, menacing red. Ten of them formed a line with a sound like grinding boulders.

"Golems," Bromm declared.

"Their strength is moderate. Their speed is slow. Their intelligence is non-existent. They are a simple, physical problem," Omares stated, floating back to his platform. "Execute a Spearhead formation and break their line. You have five minutes. Begin."