Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 165: Tombstones In Worthsville

The giant doors of Baron Eutheo’s fort closed behind Percival, and a wave of breeze crashed against his back.

Rather than heading for the city’s outer walls, he stood out there for a moment, staring into the heavens above, strategizing his next course of movement.

The obvious plan was of course to leave immediately. Every second he spent inside Luvengart was a second the Heroes’ Party in Hollowcreek was using to find where he had escaped from.

If he was caught here, it could be an all-out war against the most elite Awakeners of the realm.

Percival heaved a sigh and walked down the fort’s steps. It was important that he left the city right away, yes, he knew. But there was something else that was also quite important.

As he blended into the bustling crowds of the town center, he remembered Willow, his Soul Soldier awaiting him to complete her Contract Quest.

This was his only chance. If he fled Luvengart now, he would be leaving Worthsville behind, and Willow Lockhart’s Contract Quest would expire in seven days.

He needed her locked down before the coming storm. He needed that Legendary Severed Fate talent in his arsenal.

So, he was going to stay for a while. But not more than a day.

Percival navigated the cobblestone streets, his dark A-Grade armor drawing wary but respectful glances from the Traders, Merchants and Mercenaries.

He had no idea where Worthsville was. All he knew was that it was a village in Luvengart. So, in search of directions, he approached a fruit stall where a rotund, elderly woman was busy organizing bruised apples.

"Excuse me," Percival said with a soft voice. "I need directions to the village of Worthsville."

The old woman jumped slightly, wiping her hands on her apron as she turned. Her eyes immediately widened when she saw him. She gave him a long once-over, taking in his tall, broad-shouldered presence.

A flush of color rushed to her wrinkled cheeks as she looked up into his striking blue eyes.

"Oh, my," she fluttered, fanning herself with a thick hand. "Well, aren’t you a sight to make a widow’s heart skip? Such broad shoulders... you must be a high-level Swordsman, handsome. Looking to protect a poor village?"

"Just visiting," Percival said flatly. "The directions?"

"Of course, of course," she giggled, leaning over her cart to point a chubby finger toward the southern gate.

"You just follow the South Road past the scarred lands. It’s about an hour’s ride. You can’t miss it. It’s the place that looks like it’s trying to grow out of a graveyard."

Percival flipped a silver coin onto her stall. "Thank you."

"Anytime, handsome wolf."

Before leaving the town center, Percival made one necessary detour. He found a local Stonemason operating a dusty workshop near the mercantile district.

Percival slapped three gold coins onto the man’s workbench, enough to buy his immediate and unquestioning obedience.

He selected a large, heavy slab of polished dark granite and commanded the mason to carve a specific epitaph.

Ten minutes later, Percival walked out of the shop, carrying the heavy tombstone in his palm like it weighed nothing.

The engraving was exactly as he asked: The Lockharts. Rest At Last.

He thought it was poetic, and hoped Willow would like it.

Quietly, as the Traders and other commoners watched, he left the town center.

Once he reached the southern outskirts of Luvengart, Percival summoned his Skeleton Beast.

"Argus."

The air dropped in temperature as blue flames erupted from the dirt. From the necrotic fire stepped the massive Skeleton Steed, its hooves leaving scorched hoofprints on the cobblestones.

Percival swung himself into the saddle, his hair dancing with the wind as Argus galloped with excitement.

"I missed you too, Arg," Percival muttered. "Come on. Let’s go. We’ll be out of the city soon and on the roads again, you and I."

They tore across the scarred lands, the wind howling past them. The terrain here was still wounded from the Demon Migration years ago.

The soil was blackened, boulders laid shattered and husks of dead trees were spread over the barren land.

"Somehow, Withercrook isn’t that bad anymore," Percival joked.

The recovering village of Worthsville came into view soon enough. Anyone could tell that a great tragedy had happened here, although the village was resilient enough to survive.

Barely.

Small, newly built wooden houses stood stubbornly at the forefront, but in the distance, the skeletal remains of the original village still scarred the earth.

Percival dismounted Argus, dismissing the steed back to the Summon Space. He stared at the distant ruins. It was a large pile of waste, lots and lots of it.

A sigh left the Swordsman. He had his work cut out for him, and worse, the System’s rules dictated that the target of a Contract Quest could not assist in its completion.

Willow was bound to the Draft Space until the deed was done.

He walked past the nervous, staring villagers until he found an old man sitting on a porch, whittling a piece of pine.

"The Lockhart house," Percival said, pulling a silver coin from his cloak. "Where was it?"

The old man’s eyes locked onto the silver. He swallowed hard, pointing a trembling, calloused finger toward the deepest part of the ruins.

"The old fisherman’s plot. It’s... it’s just ash and rubble now, youngling. Furthest east, right by the dried creek."

Percival tossed him the coin and walked into the graveyard of the village.

It was a desolate sight. Piles of ancient debris, collapsed timber, and burnt thatch formed a chaotic mountain of sorrow. It was a tomb of its own, burying everything beneath it in suffocating weight.

Percival stood before the largest mound of rubble and looked around like a kid told to clean his bedroom. He had no idea where to start.

Thankfully, nothing prohibited him from asking other summons for help.

Blue flames erupted beside him.

"Master?" Mercius’s voice spoke.

"Help me, Mercius," Percival said to the Knight.

"Of course."

Together, the Necromancer and his greatest soldier began to dig. They spent hours moving scorched beams, tossing aside heavy boulders, and shifting layers of hardened ash. Percival’s gauntlets were stained with the soot of a forgotten tragedy.

"Master," Mercius finally called out, his spectral hand resting on a collapsed floorboard.

Percival walked over and helped his summon heave the wood aside. Beneath it lay a skeleton, its bones charred and brittle.

It could have been any Skeleton, but Percival noticed something. Around the cervical vertebrae rested a tarnished silver pendant—a small, crudely carved fish.

He remembered seeing that in Willow’s smoky narration back in the Soul Space.

"Gently," Percival ordered. Together, they lifted the fragile remains and placed them on a cleared patch of ground.

They resumed their search. It didn’t take long to find the second set of remains.