He opened his eyes.
The effect was instantaneous.
This ti, he didn’t even have to test it. He could feel it within him. He could feel how different it felt.
That subtle, grinding pressure in the back of his skull whenever he created the channel was completely gone.
Yet, he could still sense the bridge itself.
It no longer felt like a fraying bridge of smoke that could evaporate at any second.
It was now a steel causeway, because it was backed by sothing physical, sothing that took the weight off his own willpower.
"It works," Percival said.
He realized then that Rettucia had been staring.
"Well," she chuckled. "That was dramatic."
Percival didn’t say anything. He felt a little disgraced.
"You told you needed the ring for two Artifacts." She rested an elbow on the counter, leaning closer. "How could it work already? Or do you have the Artifacts with you here?"
The lies scrambled in Percival’s throat, but he blurted it out.
"I do," he managed.
Then he quickly changed the subject. "I owe you ten gold."
He reached into his pouch, withdrew and placed a smaller stack of ten gold coins on the counter.
"Here it is."
Rettucia swiped the coins, eying him with that smile still playing on her lips. "You know, Percival... I try to keep to my business but I heard what you did for the village. You saved lives that would have surely died before the Baron’s troops arrived."
"So," she gestured to the shelves around her, lined with glowing staves, enchanted amulets, and elental gauntlets.
"I know you don’t like rewards. But consider this a thank you from . Pick anything in the shop. On the house."
Percival, already moving to leave, paused.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"As a heart attack," she smiled.
He thought for a mont. Rettucia wasn’t a politician; she was a craftswoman, a commoner with no ties to the crown.
It wouldn’t violate his code to accept.
"Okay," he accepted.
Percival stepped back and scanned the shop.
There were powerful items here; wands that could incinerate a room, pendants that increased one’s charisma and charm.
Vainly powerful items.
None of them complinted his specific, Dual-Class build.
But there was one thing he had spotted when he ca here the first ti.
Percival’sveyes drifted to the corner of the shop.
There, leaning against the wall, was a tall, coffin-shaped object wrapped in dusty leather.
He walked over and brushed the dust off the latch. It was just as he suspected.
⸢Sacred Armant Sword Case (A-Grade)⸥
⸢Aspect: Spatial Armory - Holds ten A-Grade swords in a pocket dinsion, reducing their weight to almost nothing⸥
⸢ 3 Intelligence⸥
⸢ 3 Dexterity⸥
"That?" Rettucia blinked, genuinely confused. "That is a sword case. Why would a Necromancer be interested in a storage unit for swords?"
Percival lifted the case, feeling the familiar balance.
"You didn’t say I had to tell you why I chose sothing," he said plainly.
Rettucia laughed, a bright, genuine sound. "I guess I didn’t. I’m rely intrigued. But I keep my word. That case is quite worth a lot, but it’s yours."
Percival opened it.
The interior was dressed with null-void silk, the ten empty slots waiting to be filled.
It was just like the one he had used in the forr tiline, only a Grade lower.
"Thank you," Percival said, slinging the case over his shoulder.
"Good luck on your travels, Hero," Rettucia called out as he turned to leave.
Percival stepped back out into the sunlight, raising his hood.
An A-Grade Sword Case cost at least upward of 70 gold. To get one for free...
Perhaps he should have been a bit more grateful to Rettucia.
He walked toward the city gates.
Everything was set now. The Anchor was secured, his gear upgraded, his Skeletons were stronger, and he had even acquired an additional piece of functional equipnt.
He was ready to leave Wolsend and head for Brackenbridge, to find and wake his Soul Soldier.
But his feet slowed. Even with everything prepared, he still felt like one thing was missing.
His mind wouldn’t stop thinking about the Scythe.
Percival had dismissed it before as inefficient. But even his Skeletons—mindless bags of bone—had learned to adapt. They had learned technique.
What was stopping him?
He was a Swordsman, yes. But he was also a Necromancer.
If his Swordsman Skills produced better output with a sword, wouldn’t his Necromancer Skill profit from a weapon fitting the Class?
Yes, the scythe was a difficult, unrealistic weapon. It left the user open. But if he mastered it? If he could switch between the lightning speed of the sword and the reaping arc of the scythe?
’...’
’This is my last chance,’ Percival realized, stopping in the middle of the street.
—---—
Valen was standing behind the long counter, organizing a ledger. He looked up as the doors drew open, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized the hooded figure.
Percival walked past him.
He didn’t glance at the rows of refined rapiers or the enchanted longswords shimring in the display cases.
He walked straight to the mannequin in the corner of the room.
⸢Weapon: War-Scythe of the Black Iron (B-Grade)⸥
⸢Attack: 35⸥
⸢Constitution: 11⸥
⸢Aspect: Grim Harvest — Increases cutting power on draw. Increases damage and control when attacks chain cleanly. Slows target movent when charged actively when charged with 5-chain attacks⸥
He reached out and snatched the weapon from the mannequin’s grip.
It was heavy. Brutally so.
Since it was no sword, wielding it granted him no instant mastery. It was a strange instrunt in his hand.
But he was willing to learn.
Valen walked out from behind the counter, his steps soft on the floorboards. He stopped a respectful distance away, watching Percival test the weight of the massive weapon.
"You ca back for it," Valen said quietly.
Percival raised the blade, gazing at his reflection on the curved steel.
"When a weapon calls to you as loudly as this one did," he replied gravely. "You would be a fool not to answer."
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