Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 67: Luvengart

Luvengart. Percival could finally see the damned city in the distance.

For two days he’d been riding. For two days he had not rested, fearing that sleeping would take time away.

It was deathly important that he reached the city in time. Deathly.

He swayed slightly in the saddle, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead plates.

For his low Mana, he had drunk the Elixirs in his inventory, using it to keep his core humming, his muscles moving and more importantly, to sustain Argus.

But Elixirs were a poor substitute for actual rest. The mind needed slumber to truly regenerate mana, and his mind had been a storm of map reading and paranoia.

Beneath him, Argus galloped tirelessly, hoofs clicking the earth.

The Skeleton Beast was a blessing in this state. Unlike a living horse that needed fodder and rest, or a Soul Summon that drained a constant stream of mana, Argus required only a trickle to maintain his form.

It was why the Skeleton Steed was so efficient.

It picked up pace when it saw the city of Luvengart as well.

Luvengart was impressive. In terms of sheer architectural intimidation, it dwarfed Ostuary.

While Ostuary was a capital of trade and coastal politics, Luvengart was a fortress of an economy built on violence.

The mana density in the air here was thicker, sharper. This was a city fed by high-frequency Gate Worlds.

The loot, the monster cores, and the coin earned from Grinding Gates, it all funneled into these walls, making the stone look newer, the walls higher, and the fortifications more severe.

Percival slowed Argus to a trot as he approached the massive iron-shod gates.

He was so tired he had forgotten to return Argus into his Summon Space before reaching the gates.

Oh, well.

"Halt!"

Two guards stepped forward.

"Entry toll is five silver," the lead guard grunted, extending a gauntleted hand. "And present your identification."

Percival didn’t speak. He simply reached into his inventory, retrieved the coin and handed it to the guard.

They waited for his identification. Nothing came.

"Where’s your identification!" the guard barked.

Percival gave him an irritated, tired look. "I don’t have one."

"Nonsense. The only way you can’t have one is if—" He caught the crest floating beside Percival.

The guard’s eyes widened. He took a step back, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, not in aggression, but in sudden, disciplined wariness.

"You..." the guard stammered, then stiffened into a salute. "You’re the Hero."

Percival sighed internally. "Can I pass now?" he asked with a raspy voice.

"Not... yet, Sir Hero," the guard said, signaling to his partner to close the portcullis. "We were told that any arrival of the Hero must be reported immediately to the Baron. You are to be escorted to the City Fort."

Percival’s grip on Argus’s reins tightened. "And if I refuse?"

The guard didn’t flinch. "Then you cannot be allowed in. This is the Baron’s command, Sir Hero."

Percival gritted his teeth. He didn’t have the time for this.

But there was no other option. Staying here arguing only wasted more time,

"Fine," Percival said, unmounting Argus. "Take me to your Baron."

He returned the Skeleton Steed into its Summon Space and followed the guards into the City proper

The houses in Luvengart were more complex. They weren’t the timber-and-plaster cottages he saw in Ostuary and Oakhaven Shire; they were multi-story structures of reinforced brick and dark iron.

The people walking the streets looked different, too. They were hard-faced, many missing fingers or sporting jagged scars.

Their unawakened Class Crests floated above their shoulders as they paused their daily jobs to watch Percival and the guards head to the Fort.

Percival ignored them, keeping his hood low, though he could still feel their eyes.

They arrived at the City Fort, a brutish square keep that sat in the center of the district like a brooding gargoyle.

The guards led him through the heavy oak doors, down a hallway lined with the mounted heads of B-Rank monsters, and into the main audience chamber.

"Ah! The Prodigal Son returns! Or... arrives! First time, right?"

The voice boomed across the hall, shaking the banners on the walls.

Sitting—or rather, sprawling—on a wide velvet throne was Baron Eutheo.

He was a massive man, not fat, but broad like a bear, with a red beard that looked like it had exploded from his chin. He wore fine silks that looked ready to burst at the seams from his sheer energy.

"You are Baron Eutheo," Percival said.

"That’s me!" Eutheo laughed, slapping his knee. "And you! You are Percival Nightstar, the outworlder. The one the King is crying over. The Necromancer who had the effontery to say ’No’ to the crown!"

Eutheo stood up and walked down the steps, his movements surprisingly light for his size.

He circled Percival, eyeing his armor with glee. "Look at this beauty! Did you purchase it in Wolsend? Hah! I know the quality of equipment they sell in that gloomy city. Ours are much better, I assure you."

For some reason, he sniffed the confused Hero. "You smell like... well, road dust and secrets! Your journey must have been long."

Percival kept his face impassive. "It was. I was hoping I would rest. I didn’t expect to be dragged here."

"Oh, come on. ’Dragged’ is an overexaggeration, don’t you think?" Eutheo shrugged innocently. "I was only curious because I’m a fan. But about this curiosity of mine; tell me, Percival, what brings your heroic feet to my city?"

"I only want to challenge your Gate Worlds, purchase some equipment, and then I’ll be moving on," Percival said with a straight tone.

"Moving on? Just like that?!" Eutheo grinned, leaning in close. The smile was wide, but his eyes—sharp, calculating beads of black—did not laugh.

"Surely you’re not scared that what happened in Ostuary would happen here, are you? Something about a ghost army? A supernatural judgment? Lord Highbard turned into a pin-cushion?"

The air in the room instantly grew heavy.

Eutheo watched Percival intensely, gauging his reaction. "Did you not hear about that?"

Percival refused to blink. He looked tired, bored, and confused.

"I did," he replied. "But I left for Luvengart before it happened. News reached me in the market roads."

Eutheo continued to stare at him. Another long, stretching second passed. He was looking for a tic, a sweat drop, a shift in pulse.

But Percival gave him nothing.

Then, the Baron threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Hah! Of course! You’re a grinder! Like all Awakeners, you only care about leveling up! Why would you bother about politics and dead nobles, eh? You’re only here for the XP!"

He clapped Percival on the shoulder, a blow that would have knocked a normal man over. "Fine! Fine. Luvengart welcomes you, Hero. Go. Kill monsters. Spend coin. Just don’t cause commotion in my streets, eh? I heard of what you did in Wolsend. Zoning laws are a nightmare!"

"Thanks... Baron," Percival said. He did not have the strength for any of this.

"Oh, and Hero?" Eutheo called out just as Percival reached the door.

Percival paused.

"Try the roasted boar at the Gilded Tankard. It’s to die for!" Eutheo winked. "Get it? Die for? Because you’re a... never mind. Move along!"

Percival left the fort, the heavy doors booming shut behind him.

Inside the hall, the laughter died instantly. Baron Eutheo’s face dropped into a cold, terrifyingly serious expression. He walked back to his throne and sat down, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

"He’s certainly lying about something," Eutheo muttered. "He smells like blood."

After a moment of thought, he called a name. "Lirac?"

A being detached itself from the corner of the room. It was a slender figure wrapped in gray leather, holding two serrated daggers.

"My Lord?" the shadow whispered.

"Follow him," Eutheo commanded, his voice low. "Do not engage. Do not let him see you. I want to know where he goes, who he meets, and what he buys. Every city the Hero has been to, something curious occured. I have to protect Luvengart."

"As you command."

The being, a Lvl 87 Assassin, disappeared thin air and breezed silently out the window.