⸢Soul Soldiers: Unlike Skeleton Soldiers, these minions can not be enslaved upon summoning. They are Awakeners, hence their souls are powerful enough to be recalled, granting them stronger will. To obtain their submission, you must forge a contract; forging a contract requires completion of an immaculate ritual⸥
Percival read with a focused mind.
With Soul Soldiers, the possibilities were limitless. He could summon the souls of Lvl.150 Mages, Beast Tamers, Arcanists and more. Awakeners of legends, making their powers extensions of his own.
It was understandable that his Class had strict rules around it to regulate him from hoarding powerful Soul Soldiers.
But what was this ritual?
⸢The Contract Ritual: Upon awakening the Soul of the undead, you must resolve their lingering regret⸥
Percival lifted a curious brow.
⸢Like you, every one dies with unfinished business. But unlike you, not everyone gets a second chance to fulfill it. It is up to you to fulfill the unfinished business of your Soul Summons⸥
⸢Even the most peaceful death leaves something behind⸥
⸢Because of their willpower, Soul Soldiers cannot be enslaved like Skeleton Soldiers: they carry desires of their own, the need to finish what was left undone. But once you resolve that for them, their soul is emptied of desire and regret. The only will they carry forward is to serve the one who freed them⸥
⸢You will lead an army of loyal undead Awakeners⸥
Ding!
⸢You have been given a title: The Thresher. Like a farming machine, you didn't merely fight enemies; you harvested them industrially and leveled up brutally⸥
⸢Aspect: ×1.5 multiplier on EXP claimed when clearing Gate Worlds⸥
Percival sank himself to the ground, crossing his legs as he analyzed his glowing silver-and-blue interface.
There was plenty to unpack.
First, Soul Soldiers. The Contract Ritual was more tasking than it appeared, but the logic behind it was perfectly reasonable to him.
Somehow, the Class accustomed to his own return story and mapped it onto his Soul Soldiers. He'd been given a second chance to do things better, but his Soul Soldiers weren't.
So, to obtain their undying loyalty, he had to resolve or complete their old unfinished business: regrets, broken vows, desires that scarred them in life.
That was the Contract Ritual.
The problem was that such a task could be extremely simple or unbelievably difficult.
There were no fixed parameters or straight forward objective to meet. It all depended on the Soul Soldier.
Percival squeezed his brows in thought. It was an interesting mechanic, one he'd have to deal with if he wanted to command the most powerful Summons in the world.
It was also a fair deal. And after turning it over in his mind, Percival was willing to make the harmless sacrifice. For his Soul Soldiers, he would complete their stories so that they could join his.
He thought about some of his potential candidates, wondering what their unresolved desires might be.
Knowing he could never know for certain, he focused on the other notification; his Title.
Titles were names bestowed by the gods upon Awakeners, reflecting their accomplishment, playstyle, and performance.
They were the gods' way of acknowledging them.
These Titles weren't just cosmetic labels that appeared next to one's name on their status; they were functional pieces of equipment, each with its own Aspect.
Over a lifetime, an Awakener might collect over 50 titles, but they must strategically choose which one to "equip" based on the buffs they need for the fight ahead.
Like other of his collected items from his past life, Percival had lost all his Titles, and this one—The Thresher—was his first in this timeline.
⸢Aspect: ×1.5 multiplier on EXP claimed when clearing Gate Worlds⸥
That was a very useful Aspect, especially for his next level goal, Lvl. 50, where he hoped to awaken something very important.
As for now, finally at Lvl. 20 and finally owning the Summon Soul Soldier Skill, his time in the Gate World Hall was done.
He rose, interacted with the Carrion Queen's corpse, collected the loot—Queen's Carapace, Beast Core, Mana Coins—and exited the portal.
The Gate World Hall was quieter when he stepped out of the orange vortex.
The sun was settling and most Awakeners were already returning to their homes or Guild estates.
Percival turned to leave, only to make the discovery that his path had been blocked.
Stenya, the charlatan Arcanist from earlier, stood there, flanked by three other Awakeners. Percival could tell by the sigils clipped to their armor that they were all from the Golden Spire Guild.
They weren't high-ranking—mostly Level 20s and 30s—but they wore those glistening guild sigils with arrogant pride.
"Hold it right there," Stenya demanded, her arms crossed.
Percival stopped, looking at her with dead, tired eyes. "It's you. Again."
She tilted her head back, air leaving her lips in disbelief before she retorted. "Of course it's me. You've got some explaining to do."
Percival raised an uninterested brow. "Do I?"
"Yes!" she snapped, stomping her feet on the ground. "We saw your recent activity. You're clearing C-Rank Gates solo. And your level... it says 20 now."
"20?" the Berserker wowed. "Already?"
"How is that possible?" the Knight asked, eyeing Percival suspiciously. "No one levels that fast. Are you using a Deceit Spell to fake your icon? Are you actually a Level 40 smurfing in low-tier Gate Worlds?"
Percival sighed. He moved to step around them.
"Hey!" The Berserker reached out to grab his shoulder.
Percival paused. Then his gaze caught that of the Berserker and he simply exerted a fraction of his Swordsman aura; a sharp, killing intent that radiated from his core.
The Berserker froze, his hand trembling and slipping away from Percival's coat. He stepped back, his eyes wide like he'd seen a ghost, his face purple with fear.
"Wha— what the hell are you?"
The other Awakeners stared at him, wondering what had him so shook.
"Hey," a quieter voice spoke.
Percival's eyes moved to the young man with white hair and a longsword strapped to his back. A Swordsman.
He had been silent until now, observing.
"You're a Necromancer, aren't you?" he asked. "The Necromancer."
Stenya gave her Swordsman colleague a confused glance. "Vadrian, What do you mean the Necromancer?"
Vadrian narrowed his eyes. "This guy right here," he pointed a finger at Percival, "is definitely the Summoned Hero."
The silence that fell over the group was absolute.
Stenya's eyes went wide. She snapped her head toward Percival. "What? Him? The Hero who rejected the King?"
"I heard whispers today that he summoned a skeleton horse in a market in the King's City!" the Knight whispered. "Is it really him?"
"Just now," the Berserker added, his voice calmer now after the fright earlier, "I felt an overbearing force of energy when he looked at me. That was definitely the aura of the Hero."
They stared at him, a mix of awe, fear, and confusion painting their faces.
Percival still refused to speak. He took a step, daring anyone to block him again.
Knowing what they knew now, they parted and let him pass. He walked quietly past them, heading for the stairs.
"Hey! What are you all doing standing around? We're burning daylight!"
Percival's footsteps suddenly froze. That voice… that high-pitched, commanding voice.
He recognized it instantly.
How could he ever even forget? It was one of the very last voices he'd heard before he was murdered.
The Guild members turned toward the far end of the floor.
Walking toward them was a breathtaking figure of a beautiful young woman.
She was an Elf of royal bearing, tall and slender.
She wore Mage armor of crimson leather and gold weave, hugging a form that was both elegant and deadly.
She had hair as red as the blood of an ox, and her long ears were adorned with jewelry that bedecked the rest of her body, even the arm that waved at Stenya's group with a cheerful, charismatic smile on her face.
Percival turned around just in time to see that smile. The smile he remembered catching in the corner of his vision as Aethelstan's sword cleaved through him.
The smile that belonged to Liraeth Windwhisper.
Percival's eyes widened out of his control, turning red, veins bulged from his neck and his heart began to pound like he had ran a marathon.
If there was anyone he wanted to kill just as much as Prince Aethelstan, it was Liraeth. It was her.
Percival's hand reached for his sword.