Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 39: Skeleton Sword Art (1)

The village finally came into view. From the back of his burning steed, Percival could see the workers and builders sent by the Baron.

The noise of their hammers and saws filled the air.

Cuttleham was healing. Scaffolding hugged the sides of damaged cottages, and the smell of fresh timber mingled with the scent of the wet earth.

The villagers joined in as well, determined to bring back their village to the haven it once was. Some stopped to wave at him, others sent their children running to thank him.

Responding with nods, Percival unmounted his horse, returned it into its Space, and entered the inn.

The common room was empty. With everyone helping with the reconstruction, no one had time for ale or leisure.

The Innkeeper looked up from wiping the counter with his exhausted eyes.

"Mister Awakener," the man breathed, looking exceptionally relieved for a reason. "We... we were worried you’d moved on without a word."

"I am still here," Percival said, taking a seat. "How is your daughter?"

"Elise is still sleeping," the Innkeeper said softly, glancing at the door again. "The healer said the mana poisoning is actually stronger than expected. But she is breathing easy. That is enough for me."

Percival nodded. He ate a quick meal, then headed out the back door. "I have something I must do. I’ll be back in a few hours."

"Oh. Of course, sir."

He looked around the village, wondering where he could find a suitable piece of land to begin training his Skeletons.

The village square was a bit invasive, so he walked past the village proper to the bordering farmlands.

The farmer who owned it was the same one he had saved from the Imp Demonspawns.

The man was fixing his fence. When he saw Percival, he dropped his hammer and rushed towards him.

Percival let him know what he wanted.

"You need the field?" the farmer said. "Take it. Take the barn too. Anything you need."

"Just the open pasture," Percival replied. "And perhaps some privacy."

The farmer nodded vigorously and retreated to his cottage, ensuring no one would disturb the Hero.

Percival walked to the center of the fallow field. The sun was firm in the sky, the wind poured over the grass. This was as good a spot as any.

"⸢Awake⸥"

The flames erupted, and thirteen of his Skeleton Skirmishers formed out of the furnaces.

They stood before him, the Goldscales armor hanging loosely on their frames, and the Water Swords in their tight, uncertain grips.

Percival wasn’t trained in archery, so he left out his three Rangers, directing focus to the summons who would lead the line in his battles.

He drew the Lightpiercer.

But before beginning, he summoned the stats of his Skirmishers.

⸢Attack: 150 - 250 (+7)⸥

⸢Defense: 50 - 85 (+7)⸥

⸢Strength: 80 - 95⸥

⸢Agility: 75 - 90⸥

⸢Speed: 75 - 90⸥

⸢Constitution: 35 - 50⸥

⸢Intelligence: 30 - 40⸥

⸢Dexterity: 30 - 40⸥

⸢Luck: 55 - 65⸥

⸢Perception: 90 - 100⸥

⸢Charisma: 35 - 40⸥

They had different ranks, so their attributes varied slightly. Still, the numbers were abysmal.

"I don’t know how much memory you have of your past life," Percival addressed them, his voice like that of a monotone general, "but forget everything you learnt of the sword."

The Skeletons stared at him blankly, the blue flames in their sockets cracking.

"Rather than battle tactics, today I will be training each of you in true sword art. How to fight like an expert sword wielder so you can be more useful to me."

He narrowed his eyes. "There’s no reason to keep you around if you’re of no use to me."

The Skeletons seemed to gulp.

"Lesson one," Percival said, stepping forward to the nearest skeleton. He smacked its hand with the flat of his blade. "The Grip."

The skeleton dropped its sword.

"Pick it up. You’re not a Bandit anymore; you’re a Skeleton Soldier," he admonished. "You do not hold the hilt like you intend to choke it. It’s not a club."

Percival performed a demonstration.

Extending his hand for their sockets to see, he showed them his grip on the Lightpiercer:

Despite holding a sword of such power, his fingers were calmly curled around the hilt. Even though they were relaxed, his grip was still firm.

"The index and thumb guide the blade. The bottom three fingers provide the power. If you squeeze too tight, your wrist locks. You become immobile."

He swung his blade in a few slow arcs. "The hold of your sword is the battery behind every attack. With a weak hold, your sword movement becomes flawed. With a perfect hold, perfect execution of sword skills is almost inevitable."

He spent the next thirty minutes walking down the line, physically adjusting their bony fingers.

He molded their hands, forcing them to understand the tactile difference between a killing grip and a resting grip.

After that, he made them attempt some sword moves, letting it register to their pattern memory that the sword executed skills better with this new hold.

Once that was stored in their flame-filled skulls, he moved over to:

"Lesson two: The Will."

Percival assumed a stance. "The blade is not a tool you hold. It is the last bone of your arm. When you thrust, the intention does not stop at the tip. It extends through the target."

He lunged, the Lightpiercer whistling through the air, stopping a millimeter from a skeleton’s skull. The air pressure alone blew the skeleton’s jaw open.

"Now you."

The Skeleton lunged the blade, putting too much force behind it. Percival merely sidestepped and the Skeleton stumbled over, almost falling.

"Move like a tree. You are rooted, but unlike a tower, you’re also flexible," Percival said. "Use less strength and more technique."

The Skeleton tried again.

"Your blade is an extension of your arm, remember that."

They kept trying.

"Better. Your feet, your grip, your lunge. Everything must be perfect to create the flawless attack."

Percival corrected their feet.

Skeletons had no muscles to balance, so they relied on magical anchoring.

He taught them to shift their center of gravity, to bend the knees they didn’t really need to bend, solely to generate momentum.

He taught them the importance of distance.

"You must measure your opponents distance from you every second in battle. Your sword length is the measure."

"Too close, and the sword is useless. Too far, and it is useless yet again."

"Do not fall trap to the length of your opponent’s weapon. Make them fight in yours."

He taught them timing over speed.

"The fastest sword loses to the patient one."

After demonstrating; ensuring their simple minds registered the visuals and movements, he moved to practical application.

"Attack me," he ordered a Skeleton.

It swung. Percival stepped inside the guard, poked its ribcage with the hilt of his sword, and when it looked up at him, he tapped its skull.

"You telegraphed," Percival lectured as the skeleton regrouped itself. "You pulled your shoulder back before you swung. You told me the future. Stop lying to yourself and start lying to your enemy."

"You have to expect trickery. Even more important, you have to be tricky."

He kept feigning attacks after attacks, irritating his Skeletons into confusion whenever he did something that naturally didn’t follow a move he performed before.

He broke every sequence they expected.

It destabilized their pattern recognition, and forced them to seek other patterns.

By nightfall, he returned his frustrated Skeleton Soldiers into their Summon Spaces and retired to sleep in the inn.

Percival remembered Master Omares; the Lvl 150 Swordsman in his past life who had taught him everything he knew.

He might have been assigned to him by the crown, but Omares was truly a kind and respectable man.

He had been patient with Percival, despite the boy’s desperate hunger to get stronger and fulfill his destiny of killing the Demon Lord.

Percival wondered what Omares was doing now, in a timeline where he never had Percival as a student.

Morning came, and Percival returned to the farm, summoning his Skeletons for another training session.

They had more time now, so first, he revised all they had learnt the previous day, refreshing their memories.

The grip. The will. The distance. Timing. And deception.

Four of those concepts were locked in, but they continued to struggle with deception.

However, Percival had a plan for that.

"You still think deception is a move," Percival said. "It is not. It is a violation of moves."

They did not understand. He knew that.

Skeletons learned through repetition, through recognizable sequences. Their minds were furnaces that burned patterns into permanence.

So Percival gave them patterns.

For the first few exchanges, he attacked only after the third swing.

Always the third.

The Skeletons adapted quickly. On the third swing of every exchange, they braced, shifted their footing, raised their guards tighter.

But then, he suddenly switched, attacking instead on the second exchange.

The Skeletons were confused. The scapegoat took the brunt of Percival’s hilt and fell to the grass.

"Your enemy watches for habits," Percival said as he helped the minion stand. "Do not allow them to see yours."

They stared at him, confused. But that was good, confusion meant they were trying to understand.

Next, he attacked only after feigning weakness.

A shallow step. A loose grip. A deliberate stumble.

The Skeletons learned. When Percival faltered, two hurried in to take advantage.

But Percival struck them down instantly.

They all stared at him, realizing he hadn’t faltered at all. He had... pretended.

But why? To bait them?

"You believe what you want to believe," he said. "That is why deception works."

Again and again, he repeated it, punishing them for taking the bait until their pattern memory adjusted.

Then he stopped attacking entirely.

"Attack me," Percival ordered.

They rushed him.

He countered every strike, precise and merciless, dismantling them without fatal blows.

"Now stop," he said.

They froze.

"Notice something," Percival continued. "I haven’t attacked in ten minutes. And yet—"

He stepped closer.

"—you are more tense than before."

The Skeletons’ flames burned brighter.

"You are waiting for a pattern that is no longer coming."

That was when it began to click.

They were waiting for him to break the pattern, hence a new pattern was created.

The act of breaking the pattern became the pattern.