Chapter 199: Equipment to Salvage

The ethereal blue broadswords that formed Percival's prison began to dissolve, turning into motes of light that drifted upward before fading completely.

What remained was a landscape of absolute devastation. The earth was cratered, scorched by raw mana, and littered with the broken bodies of the Wind Guard.

Some of the Awakeners were merely incapacitated, groaning weakly in the dirt, their armor shattered and their stamina entirely burned away. Others lay perfectly still… and perfectly dead.

Percival stood in the center of the carnage, the Basilisk resting casually at his side. He swept his gaze across the field of bodies, then an idea struck him.

"Theumir," Percival said as he outstretched his hand. "Awake."

A vortex of blue flames erupted a few paces away. From the swirling fire, Theumir Steelcane stepped into the physical world.

Theumir froze the moment he materialized, his ghostly eyes sweeping over the decimated field, the fallen drakes, and the lifeless Elven Awakeners. His gaze finally settled on Percival.

"Master..." Theumir breathed, his deep voice thick with awe. "You did all of this?"

"With help from Mercius and Willow," Percival replied plainly, nodding toward the two spectral Knights who stood like silent sentinels near a pile of bodies..

Theumir looked at the Brackenbutcher and quick Knight, then back to Percival. "I was not aware that I was serving such a great fighter. To defeat so many highly-trained Awakeners... it is a terrifying feat."

"It's all in a day's work," Percival said, his tone entirely flat. He pointed the tip of his sword toward a cluster of fallen Elven guards. "Take a good look at the armor those dead Awakeners are wearing, Theumir."

The Artificer stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the gear from afar. "High-quality craftsmanship. Elven steel, likely forged with elemental crystals or mountainstones."

"I guess," Percival said, being outsmarted in equipment knowledge for the first time. "I have a unique feature that allows me to create the spectral forms of armor and weapons for my Undead. I'm making that your job. You'll be the forger of my army's gear."

Theumir's eyes flew open. "Master? Such honor."

Percival walked over to one of the corpses, nudging a dented breastplate with his boot. "I'm going to loot these bodies. The physical, real forms of this equipment, I will likely sell for coin. But the Undead, spectral forms will go directly into my Undead Inventory. I want you to salvage them. Melt them down, break them apart, and forge completely new armor for my next army of Skeletons."

Theumir's eyes widened, a spark of absolute passion igniting within his spectral flames. "You truly wish for me to arm your legion."

"I do," Percival confirmed, his eyes hardening with focus. "My Skeletons are frail, ultimately. I want you to forge armor with crazy defensive buffs. Make them walking fortresses. And as for the weapons... I want them imbued with magical attacks. Give my Skeletons more ranged options so they aren't just melee fodder."

A wide, fierce smile spread across Theumir's bearded face. He brought a massive fist to his chest, bowing deeply.

"It has been a while since I molded steel, Master, but the memory is still entirely fresh in my head. I will forge a legion that cannot be broken. I will create armor that will make you proud to call me your Summon."

"I'm counting on it," Percival said. He looked at Theumir, then at Mercius and Willow. "Great job, all of you. Rest up. I'll call upon you later, but for now, I'll take it from here."

The three Soul Soldiers bowed in unison. In a flash of flames, they dissolved into wisps of blue smoke, returning to the Summon Space.

Left alone with the fallen, Percival closed his eyes and triggered ⸢Grave Sense⸥.

With the aid of the Skill, Percival didn't have to waste time checking pulses or guessing who was unconscious and who was dead. It directed him straight to them.

Percival moved methodically from one corpse to the next. He ignored the groaning, living Awakeners, stepping right over them to reach his prizes.

First was that Arcanist and the loot was surprisingly average for someone that relentless.

⸢Loot Acquired: Standard Wind Guard Tunic (C-Grade)⸥

⸢Loot Acquired: Iron-wood Staff (B-Grade)⸥

He tossed the physical items into his spatial pouch, but a secondary prompt flashed, sending the spectral blueprints of those exact items directly into his Undead Inventory.

He made sure to loot absolutely everything—even the lowest D and C-Grade items. To Theumir, it was all just raw material waiting to be salvaged.

However, among the standard issue gear, there were absolute treasures.

Percival knelt beside a heavily armored captain he had slain early in the fight. Resting his hand on the man's chest, he pulled a beautifully crafted breastplate from the corpse.

⸢Loot Acquired: Gale-Forged Cavalry Plate (B-Grade)⸥

⸢Bonus Stat: +15% Kinetic Resistance⸥

"Theumir will have a field day with this," Percival muttered, storing the spectral version.

A few yards away, near the corpse of another Arcanist had better loot.

⸢Loot Acquired: Arcanist's Conduit Staff (A-Grade)⸥

⸢Effect: Amplifies raw mana output by 30%⸥

Percival smirked, adding the A-Grade weapon to his collection. By the time he reached the end of the field, his Undead Inventory was overflowing with high-quality Elven steel, enchanted leather, and potent weaponry.

Now to deal with the noblewoman.

Percival walked over to the corpse of Commander Theodore's wind-drake. Drawing a small blade, he efficiently sawed through the beast's thick, reinforced leather reins, fashioning a long, incredibly sturdy length of rope.

He carried the rope back to where Eristasia Windwhisper lay unconscious in the dirt. Her red hair was matted with dust, her royal armor scuffed and dented.

This time, Percival didn't feel an ounce of pity. He had spent enough of it.

He roughly rolled her over, binding her wrists tightly behind her back with the drake-leather rope. He wrapped the remaining length around her ankles, securing her with a knot that even a high-level Awakener couldn't easily slip.

With a grunt of effort, Percival hauled the matriarch of House Windwhisper over his shoulder. He carried her out of the ruined field, his boots crunching over the ash and shattered stone, until he reached the intact dirt road leading west.

He dropped Eristasia unceremoniously onto the grass.

"Awake, Argus," Percival commanded.

Blue fire tore through the earth, and the massive, skeletal steed burst onto the road, its bone hooves clattering against the dirt. Argus shook its mane of ethereal flames, letting out a hollow, echoing whinny.

The horse turned its skull, its empty eye sockets fixing immediately on the bound, red-haired woman lying in the grass.

Argus let out a low, inquisitive snort, stomping a hoof as if to ask, What exactly is going on here?

Percival stepped forward, patting the cold bone of the horse's neck. "Nothing to worry about, Arg," he said. "We'll just be having company for a while."

He reached down, hoisted Eristasia back up, and draped her stomach-down across the back of the skeletal horse, just behind the saddle.

He used a spare piece of leather to tie her bindings directly to Argus's ribcage, ensuring she wouldn't slide off if the horse broke into a gallop.

Satisfied that his royal prisoner was secure, Percival climbed into the saddle and took the spectral reins in his hands.

He looked down the long, winding road ahead, the horizon slowly swallowing the last light of the sun.

"Come on now," Percival said, giving the reins a light flick. "Let's head onto Oldmarsh. Just right ahead."

Argus let out a soft neigh then broke into a steady, tireless trot, carrying the Outworlder and his captive deeper into the province.