Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 146: Heroes in Hollowcreek

Outside the Gate World, Hollowcreek was about to thrust into a possibly dire situation. The Heroes of Evernia all stepped through the portal that connected Neverglades to Hollowcreek’s border.

Their feet trampled on green tall grass as they walked past gnarled and ancient trees with roots that looked like dragon ribs.

As the mist swirled around them, the party approached the cheaply built border wall, now fashioned in higher Grade gears. The Vault of the Silver Bough had transformed them.

Aethelstan stood at the front, wearing an A-Grade lightbending armor: Plate of the Solar Meridian. It was crafted from white Elven steel, and infused with gold filigree that had the power turn light into sustaining energy.

His cape was no longer simple cloth but a weave of Starlight Silk that trailed behind him like liquid mercury. He held his A-Ranked sword, now fitted with a Sun-Stone pommel that stored emergent mana.

To his far right, Nessa was almost invisible. She wore the Wraith-Thread Tunic, an A-Grade Gear that was made of dark-spun Elven silk, meant to be translucent in light and blend in dark.

Her daggers had been replaced by Twin Thorns of the Shadow-Root, blades made of metal trees that were only found in the dark farmlands of a village in Neverglades.

Corisande looked ethereal in her Mantle of the Weeping Willow, a blue-and-silver armor that provided a passive mana-regeneration aura.

She had Serene Chakrams connected to her waist, her legs were covered with a half skirt and high metal boots.

Bromm had heavy Obsidian Dragon-Scale armor, Liraeth wore robes of Cinder-Silk, the Knights collectively selected the Mithril-Plates, and so on.

The three local guards by the border, dressed in simple chainmail and leather, froze. They were huddled around a small fire, their spears trembling in their hands as the twenty titans emerged from the rift.

"H-Halt!" the lead guard stammered, his eyes bulging as they landed on Aethelstan’s radiant plate. "This is the sovereign territory of Duke Ithalan Finil! State your... your... by the Gods, who are you?"

Aethelstan looked at the men with disgust. Nessa saw his face and looked away..

"I am Omares," said their aged leader, stepping forward from the rear. His midnight-blue robes trailed in the mud.

One of the guards almost lost his eyes as they widened out of his socket. "Omares? The great Scholar?" He looked at the rest. "That means..."

"These are the Heroes of Evernia," Omares rasped. "Tell your Master that the Heroes have arrived to save this province. Lead us to Waterscor."

The guard swallowed hard, looking at his companions. "The Heroes. Truly? But the Duke said... he said we were fine! He didn’t say anything about a Gate!"

"He said many things, I’m sure," Omares whispered, his white eyes piercing the guard’s soul. "Now, go. Before the choice is taken from you."

One guard dropped his spear and sprinted toward a nearby stone outpost. Moments later, he returned after sending a message using a raven.

"I’ll take you," he said.

Omares followed, and so did the Heroes.

They walked past the collection of low, stone buildings and tree houses, cascading waterfalls and fine lakes. Hollowcreek was beautiful in a rustic, forgotten way, but the lack of defensive enchantments or even a basic mana-shield was glaring.

They were led through the muddy streets toward the Duke’s residence. The local populace peered out from their windows, watching the powerful visitors with awe.

The doors to the Hall swung open, and Duke Ithalan Finil stepped out. He was a man of middle age, wearing robes of fine green velvet that looked out of place against his tired, haggard face.

Beside him stood Elara, his Messenger, a woman with sharp eyes and a nervous habit of smoothing her leather vest.

"Saviors! Welcome, welcome!" Ithalan exclaimed, his voice booming with a forced, hollow cheer. He spread his arms wide, though his hands were visibly shaking.

"What a magnificent surprise! To have the Chosen Twenty in my humble province... truly, a blessing from the gods! Please, come in. We have pure wine, bread— whatever you require after your long journey."

Omares stopped ten feet from the Duke. The party halted behind him obediently.

"Unfortunately there is no time for wine, Lord Ithalan," Omares said.

Ithalan’s smile wavered. "Master Omares? No time for wine? Well, what could be of such import that you can not drink with me? Border disputes?"

"We are not here for border disputes, either," Omares stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the stone floor. "We are here for the Alpha-Rank Gate that has been festering in your territory for six days."

The silence that followed was deafening. The roar of the nearby waterfalls seemed to grow louder in the absence of speech.

Ithalan’s face went from pale to a ghostly white. He stammered, looking toward Elara."An Alpha Gate? Here? Master Omares, I fear your journey has made you see shadows where there are none. We have a few C-Rank dens, perhaps a stray B-Rank hive in the deep woods, but an Alpha? That is... well, it’s preposterous."

Beside him, Elara the Messenger suddenly shifted. She reached up, readjusting the leather collar of her vest with a sharp, frantic tug, her eyes darting toward the floor.

Omares watched the girl, then looked back at Ithalan. "You are hiding it. I can feel the mana-rot on the wind, Ithalan. Why? Why would a Duke risk his entire bloodline by keeping an Alpha-Rank break a secret?"

"I am hiding nothing!" Ithalan insisted, his voice pitching higher. "I am merely a man who knows his own land! If there were such a threat, I would have been the first to call for help! Why would I stay silent?"

Omares tilted his head, his white eyes narrowing. He looked at the Duke’s shaking hands, then at the forced "normalcy" of the guards in the square.

He was uncertain of the why—was it pride? Greed? Self-sabotage? Surely there had to be a reasonable explanation for this.

"It doesn’t matter why you’ve chosen this path," Omares hissed, stepping so close to the Duke that Ithalan could see the reflection of his own fear in the scholar’s white eyes.

"We are here now. We are the ones who will handle it. You will cease this charade and lead us to where it is. Let the Heroes handle it so the matter ends here. Deny the Heroes, and face the Kings that anointed them."

Ithalan opened his mouth to protest again, to maintain the lie, but his gaze fell upon the twenty Heroes.

He saw Aethelstan’s hand rest on his pommel, the Solar mana beginning to hiss. He saw the shadow-rogue, Nessa, watching him from the periphery like a predator.

The weight of their presence crushed the Duke’s resolve. Not only that, he knew Omares was right. Refusing them would only cause more problems.

His shoulders slumped, the green velvet of his robes suddenly looking too big for his frame.

"It... it is three miles north," Ithalan whispered, his voice finally breaking. "In the valley where the quartz reflects the dawn. I... I will lead you."

"Move," Aethelstan ordered the Duke with no respect in his tone.

Omares looked at him but decided to ignore as Ithalan stepped forward, leading them out of the Hall

The party turned as one and marched toward the Haunting of Suicide Manor, with Percival waiting inside.