Silence usually ant the absence of noise. Yet, Percival listened. He could hear the sound of the silence in the Foyer. It did not really feel like an absence.
It felt more like a held breath, dark anticipation, a coiled spring of malice waiting for the pressure to release.
His eyes swept across the room, first he glanced under the staircase where he had seen so of the Vampires appear from in Willow’s mories.
The corpses of the vanguard stared back at him. Percival narrowed his eyes, knowing that he had to be exceptionally careful. Those corpses were warnings of what would happen to him if he wasn’t.
He held the War-Scythe of Black Iron right in his grasp as he scanned the ceiling, then the scratched paintings.
Those were the places where the green mist had poured out from before coalescing to Vampires.
Quietly, with his eyes still peeled, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a curious item. It wasn’t a weapon or a Relic, but a silver bulb of garlic.
Percival’s eyes peeled away from the ceiling to inspect the vegetable. The absurdity was not lost on him.
He was aware that he couldn’t be completely certain that this myth from his forr world actually worked in this ga world.
But, he was the only one in Evernia who knew about Vampires prior to this Gate World. And ever since he started reading novels and watching movies with vampires in them, one thing had remained consistent.
They were always deterred by garlic... or onion. So, after listening to Drigurd, before heading for the Gate, he had asked for three bulbs of the weeping vegetable.
Now, he only hoped that this would actually work.
He crushed the cloves of the garlic. The pungent, earthy scent erupted, blasting at Percival’s face. His human self would have reacted to the effects, but as an Awakener, he was barely moved.
He worked thodically, saring the oily paste into the seams of his Obsidian Scaled Ironwolf Armor, over the pauldrons, along the gorget protecting his throat.
He crushed another bulb and painted the haft and the brutal, curved blade of the War-Scythe of Black Iron.
The scent was strong. Even though he wasn’t a vampire himself, Percival wrinkled his nose in repulsion.
With his weapon prepared, he turned his mind to his army. With his mana reserves full to the brim and his new Title, the Undead Creditor, he could afford to go as nuclear as he wanted, though being careful was still important.
He outstretched his hand and summoned his Skeleton Soldiers.
Only 15 of them.
⸢Skeleton Soldiers: 39⸥
The azure fire blazed up the foyer, blooming in a semicircle before Percival. Fifteen Skeleton Soldiers solidified from the Soulfire.
Eight of them were clad in the formidable Furnace Steel that he had looted back in the Old Fort. The other seven, which were newer recruits, stood with the simple armors they wore in life.
In their bone arms were basic iron ore swords and shields, but their empty eye sockets glead with the inherited, downloaded knowledge from Percival’s earlier teachings.
Despite so of the Skeletons not being very shielded with high grade armor, Percival wasn’t necessarily worried.
The Vampires barely caused any physical damage from what he had seen. They only drained blood and then, life force. But the Skeletons didn’t have necks for them to sink their teeth into, or blood for them to drink.
This ant, despite their extrely low level, these Skeletons were basically immune to the Vampires.
"Stay in position," Percival ordered them.
The Skeleton Soldiers clattered into position, forming a shield wall of bone between him and the creeping dark.
"They will co for the neck," Percival said, his voice a low rasp that didn’t carry beyond his phalanx. "They will try to drain you. You have nothing to give them, so hold the line."
His Skeletons obeyed, standing strong in the defensive semicircle in front of him. Then, silence followed. Percival listened.
His gaze trawled the room like a predator. He checked the grand staircase, checked the floor, and then the paintings. Still nothing.
The Vampires seed to be taking their ti. Where they perhaps curious who he was?
Whatever the case, Percival knew they were there. He could sense them, he could feel their eyes.
One particular pair of eyes burned brighter on the back of his neck. Sensing where it was coming from, he looked up.
He ignored the fresco ceiling, his eyes moving to the shadowed corner by the left. The darkness there wasn’t behaving correctly.
Percival’s eyes narrowed.
A patch of viscous, erald mist clung to the plaster like mold. As he watched, the mist swirled, condensing into a dense, semi-solid shape.
Then, two eyes opened within the fog.
They were glowing, vertical slits of toxic green, burning with a hunger so intense it felt like a physical weight pressing down on Percival’s skull.
Found you.
Suddenly, the Vampire poured out of the corner with viscous hunger.
It let out a hiss that sounded like steam escaping a valve as it launched itself from the ceiling, diving straight for the center of the formation—straight for Percival.
Percival reacted quickly. He planted his back foot, the Obsidian Scaled Ironwolf Armor locking into place, and swung the War-Scythe in a brutal, upward arc.
WHOOSH.
The curved black blade erupted with azure Soulfire. The blue flas roared, trailing a cot-tail of cold heat as the weapon t the descending monster.
SCREEEEEECH!
The impact was sickening. The Soulfire-coated blade didn’t just cut the mist; it burned the mana that held the creature together.
The Vampire’s shriek shattered the silence of the manor, a high-pitched wail of agony that vibrated in Percival’s teeth.
The garlic paste sared on the haft sizzled against the creature’s ethereal skin. It was blasted backward by the force of the strike, and it spun through the air, trailing wisps of burning green smoke, and slamd violently into a marble pillar twenty feet away.
The stone splintered. Whining in pain, the creature slid down the column, hissing and spitting, its form flickering as it tried to knit the damage from the Soulfire.
Percival knew that more would be coming now. That scream had been a signal.
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