Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 167: To A New Province

The iron portcullis of Luvengart’s southern gate rose with a heavy, noisy clatter. The same border guards who had processed his arrival more than a week ago now stood at attention.

Big smiles stretched from ear-to-ear, as their eyes glinted with admiration.

To them, Percival was still the lone conqueror of The Rending Marsh, the man who defeated the three biggest Guilds.

Since no Unawakened person particularly liked the Guilds, Percival was a hero all over again.

"Safe travels, Sir Hero!" one of the guards called out, offering a crisp salute.

Percival, despite his solemnity, responded to the man with a gesture of looking back. Then, he promptly spurred Argus forward, the skeletal steed’s hooves striking the dirt with muffled thuds.

"We’re on the roads yet again, Argus," Percival muttered. "What story awaits us in the next city, mhm?"

The bone horse neighed, thudding forward into the dry lands.

As the walls of Luvengart shrank into the horizon, the civilized air of the city was conquered by the calm silence of the open road.

Perched atop Argus, Percival let his mind drift into the cold calculus of survival. The death of Liraeth Windwhisper was a stone cast into a very deep, very still pond.

Percival knew the ripples would be violent.

She attacked first, he mused, his blue eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of pursuit. Master Omares saw it. The entire Heroes’ Party saw it.

’Under the laws of duel and self-defense, I am within my rights. But politics has never been about rights.’

He knew how the Elven Throne worked. To them, an outworlder had butchered a royal daughter. He might be the Summoned Hero, but he was still an outworlder.

They wouldn’t care that she was screaming for his death while hurling fireballs; they would demand his head on a silver platter to satisfy the Arandor noble line.

If Aethelstan had his way, Percival’s face would be plastered on every bounty board from Valoris to Eldermoor by sundown.

So, he needed to vanish.

He couldn’t go to capital cities. He couldn’t stay in any place that valued the "Hero" title. He needed a place where the law was thin and the people were thick-skinned.

The first place that came to mind was Withercrook, but he knew that he would eventually be found. He literally lived there.

His second option was Deathlehem.

It was a grim, forgotten town tucked away in the province of Southmarch. In his past life, he remembered the old tales that were told about the town.

He’d always assumed that the tales were fabricated to keep people away from the town.

Perhaps he should find out.

Besides, a town like that was the perfect sanctuary for a man with a target on his back.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the jagged, rust-colored walls of the Southmarch province appeared in the distance.

Southmarch was a world away from the relative greenery of Luvengart. Like its northern counterpart, it was a province of iron and salt, a massive military base masquerading as a territory.

To the south of the province lay the Sea of Late, the expanse of water that served as a barrier before the Great Shield and Akuma Island.

Because of this, Southmarch experienced three times the Demon Migrations of any other province.

The walls were scarred by claw marks, the air smelled of battle and spent mana, and the Duke and Barons were perpetually at odds with the Crown, constantly demanding more gold and more steel to defend themselves.

Percival pulled on Argus’s reins, bringing the steed to a halt a mile from the border crossing.

He looked down at his A-Grade armor, the obsidian and silver, gleaming even in the fading light.

Percival huffed. He might as well be wearing a neon sign that said ’I am the person you are looking for.’

He spotted a traveler sitting by a small campfire near the road; a man wearing a ragged, filth-stained linen cloak that had seen better decades.

Percival dismounted and approached.

The man jumped, his eyes wide with fear as the armored giant neared him. "I—I have no coin, m’lord! Only dry bread!"

"I don’t want your bread," Percival said flatly. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a gold coin. "I want that cloak."

The traveler stared at the gold, then at his own tattered rags. "This old thing for a gold? Right away!"

He stripped the cloak off so fast he nearly tore it, shoving it into Percival’s hand before grabbing the gold and sprinting into the bushes like a startled rabbit.

Percival threw the ragged cloth over his armor. It smelled like woodsmoke and unwashed skin, but it successfully broke his silhouette, turning the "Hero" into a nameless drifter.

He dismissed Argus back to the Summon Space, adjusted the hood to shadow his blue eyes, and walked the rest of the way to the border on foot.

The entry fee was steep—Southmarch taxed everything to fund their endless war—but Percival paid without a word. He passed through the gatehouse, blending into a line of weary mercenaries and salt-miners.

Inside, the province of Southmarch was almost a complete replica of Northmarch. Another city of martial activity.

Blacksmiths hammered out breastplates in open-air forges; companies of Warriors marched through the streets in dirt-caked mail; and the architecture was brutalist—thick stone blocks designed to withstand a siege, not to look pretty.

Percival walked through the main thoroughfare, his eyes tracking the movement of the guards. They were focused on the horizon, watching for a possible Demonspawn attack from the sea, not looking for a rogue outworlder.

He began his trek toward Deathlehem, but then suddenly paused. He remembered that there was a Contract Quest he was yet to complete.

⸢Swamp God Dragon - Soul Beast⸥

⸢Contract Quest: Find the Baby Dragon a home.⸥

⸢Time Remaining: 2 Days, 23 Hours.⸥

He had almost forgotten. He had to find a fitting home for the Baby Swamp Dragon in order to contract that intelligent beast.

And he had to do it in three days, else the quest would fail, and he would lose the chance to contract his first Soul Beast.

Percival paused, his gaze shifting toward a side street where a large, painted wooden sign hung over a sprawling complex of iron-barred pens and straw-covered stalls.

THE CRIMSON MENAGERIE: BEAST MARKET.

If there was anywhere in Southmarch that knew how to handle a high-rank egg, it was here.

Percival pulled his ragged hood lower and made a sharp detour into the market.