Monarch Chapter 82

Chapter 82

As it turned out, even simple mana manipulation was beyond Rayne.

Every time he tried to call mana into his palms, it scattered almost instantly, dissolving into the air like mist under sunlight. Casper had warned him that death mana was volatile, but this wasn’t just death mana. Even unaspected mana refused to stay.

It pooled in his palm for a heartbeat at most before slipping away, bleeding into the atmosphere as if it had never been there to begin with.

Rayne gritted his teeth and tried again.

Mana flowed through his pathways—thin and reluctant—and then vanished. Again.

And again.

He adjusted his breathing, slowed his heartbeat, and focused harder. This time, the mana lingered for two seconds. Maybe three.

Then it dissipated.

By the tenth attempt, a faint queasiness settled in his gut as his mana core thinned. By the twentieth, his head felt light. By the thirtieth, his hands trembled faintly every time he reached inward.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He kept calling mana. Kept losing it. Kept forcing himself to try again.

Sweat gathered along his spine, his breathing growing heavier with every failure. The forest around them was silent save for the soft crunch of leaves beneath his boots when his stance shifted and the distant cry of birds overhead.

Eventually, even drawing a wisp of mana out of his core felt like trying to strangle a wyvern with bare hands.

Rayne let his arm drop, chest rising and falling as he stared down at his empty palm.

Casper, who had been watching quietly the entire time, finally smiled.

“I would’ve felt really bad for myself if you had managed to do it in under an hour,” she said lightly.

Rayne shot her a look, half exasperated, half exhausted.

“I’m still surprised by how fast you unlocked your pathways,” she continued. “That’s not normal.”

Rayne huffed and rubbed his palm. “At this rate, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it even in a week.”

Casper tilted her head. “That would actually be average, if you pull it off.”

He blinked. “Average?”

“It took me four days to consistently keep mana in my palm,” she said calmly. “And that was considered fast. Once you manage it, though, everything becomes much easier.”

Rayne steadied his breathing and looked down at his hand again. “Then how did you do it?”

Casper paused, visibly thinking.

“That’s a hard question,” she admitted. “Most mages will tell you that you gain control by… gaining control.” She shrugged faintly. “Which isn’t very helpful when the mana refuses to stay. But I think they mostly give such vague answers so the apprentices don't bother them.”

Rayne nodded. “I still don’t understand why it won’t stay still.”

Casper let out a soft hum. “That’s simple.”

She raised her hand and formed a wisp of mana in her palm, holding it there effortlessly.

“It’s like air,” she said. “You can trap it in a balloon. But the moment there’s even a tiny hole, it escapes. Mana follows the same principle, more or less.”

She closed her fingers slightly, the wisp remaining contained.

“What you should do,” Casper continued, “is keep practicing. But with intent. Imagine a small prison around your palm. A barrier. A boundary. Anything that makes you feel like you could hold mana.”

Rayne raised an eyebrow. “Intent?”

Casper inclined her head in a nod. “Yes, intent is vital for every mana user in this world. Mana manipulation responds to intent. Without it, you’re just leaking power. Every spell might have a matrix, but the intent of what you are trying to do is equally important.”

Rayne inhaled, thinking through it as his mana recovered. Basically, what he was doing till now was letting his mana out and hoping that it would stay, trying to practically hold it between his fingers when it was impossible to do so.

That approach had certainly not worked.

On the other hand, Casper’s approach didn’t sound bad at all.

If anything, it leaned heavily on imagination—and that was something Rayne had never lacked. He had once been a delusional college student who’d spent hours visualizing things he wouldn't admit to anyone. Compared to that, picturing a boundary around his palm was easy.

More importantly, it gave him direction.

Until now, he’d been flailing blindly, forcing mana outward and hoping it would obey. This at least gave him a direction. So instead of rushing, Rayne stayed quiet for a few minutes, sitting still as his mana slowly recovered.

He focused on the idea of containment and visualized how he wanted to keep his mana in one place.

When he felt like he’d recovered enough mana, Rayne inhaled and reached inward again. Mana flowed through his pathways in a familiar fashion.

As it reached his palm, he imagined a boundary.

One similar to the [Force Shield] of Varrick. A thin, invisible shell around his palm through which mana couldn't escape.

He also focused on his intent of letting the mana rest on his palm.

Soon, warmth spread across his palm.

Rayne’s eyes widened just slightly as he felt it—mana sitting there, not rushing away, not dissolving immediately. He didn’t move. Didn’t tighten his fingers. He just let it be and counted.

One, two, three—his breath stayed slow and controlled. Four, five—the mana trembled faintly but held. Six, seven—

It finally slipped away, dispersing into the air like it always did.

Rayne frowned at his empty palm and almost cursed. He had wanted to hold it for some more time. At least ten seconds. He didn't even know where he had gone wrong.

Before he could call on more mana, Casper spoke. “That wasn’t bad.”

He looked up at her.

“Seven seconds on your first day is good,” she continued calmly. “Better than good, actually. But I don’t think you should practice anymore until evening.”

Rayne raised an eyebrow, then felt the lingering weakness in his shoulders and understood immediately.

“…Yeah,” he admitted. “I don’t want to feel like dead weight during guard duty.”

Casper smiled faintly. “Want me to ask Axel to give you the day off? You deserve it after the necromancer battle.”

Rayne shook his head without hesitation. “No. He’s already pissed with me no matter what I do. I don’t want him thinking I’m getting special treatment more than I already am.” He hesitated, then looked at her properly. “I'm really thankful you are doing this for me.”

“I'm just paying off a debt.” Casper shrugged. Then she added, almost casually, “You’ll need at least a basic grasp of [Mana Manipulation]—if not the whole skill—to survive the next few weeks.”

Rayne blinked. “The next few weeks?”

She gave a wry smile. “Normally, at this stage of the campaign, the army starts pushing deeper into the Pascar Plains. Toward the center of the ley lines. That’s where the largest and more dangerous dungeons form.” She paused. “But with the necromancer situation, the plans have changed.”

Rayne’s brow furrowed. “Change how?”

“Every available soldier will be mobilized other than the few left to protect the camp,” Casper said. “Once we have a clear direction, the army will move to hunt the remaining necromancers down.”

A cold sensation crawled up Rayne’s spine. “…There’s more than one necromancer left?” he asked slowly.

Casper hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. “Yes. We believe so, but don’t repeat this to anyone.” She lowered her voice. “When we inspected the rings taken from the woman’s body, we found a soul-tether ring.”

Rayne opened his mouth to ask what that was, but got an answer before he could.

“It’s a master’s ring,” Casper added. “Used to monitor apprentices. It lets the owner know whether the bearer is alive, injured, or dead. And even their rough location.”

Rayne exhaled slowly. “So there's a master necromancer out there who knows that their apprentice is dead.”

“Yes,” Casper said simply. “Selene is attempting to scry through it right now. We believe the master necromancer is responsible for the undead movements and the chimeras. And normally, such mages always have more than one apprentice.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Rayne stared at the ground, thoughts racing.

He had already suspected it. The necromancer they’d fought had been dangerous, but too weak and dependent on her artifacts. She had honestly felt like a pawn, not the hand behind the board.

A small, foolish part of him had still hoped that killing her was the end.

That hope faded quietly.

Undead gave a lot of stat points in Arcane. But he didn't want to fight anymore of them, knowing that another chimera or some other monstrosity might be nearby.

No wonder Casper had gone out of her way to help him.

As if reading his thoughts, she straightened and brushed the dirt from her robes. “You don’t need to worry too much,” she said. “Once we locate the master necromancer, the entire army will move. You won’t be alone, and the Crown’s Hand will handle the worst of it. They are here for that.”

She took a step back. “I have a quest of my own today, so I’ll be heading out. Don’t practice anymore until your core fully recovers.”

Rayne nodded. For a second, it looked like she would say more, but then she turned and walked away, disappearing between the trees.

Rayne stayed where he was.

Her words replayed in his head, stacking atop old memories and patterns he wished he could ignore.

He didn’t truly believe Commander Evans would throw him at a master necromancer.

What he didn’t trust was the rhythm of this world.

Ever since he’d woken up here, danger had followed him. One terrifying monster after another. And now, everyone knew he was a spellsword. That alone meant he’d be placed where things were worst with a high chance of him losing his head.

Partly due to his luck and partly because he was a forsaken.

Rayne let out a slow breath and reached for his sword, resting it across his knees. He stared at it for a few seconds before getting up and moving in a stance.

He doubted he could control his fate, but what he could control was his strength.

The only thing he had going in his favour.

***

As Rayne trained and focused on his upcoming battles, far away from the Pascar Plains, in the Valerian capital Valers, his name was already beginning to make rounds.

Viscount Aldric Vaelor moved through the narrow hallways of a rundown inn in the lower district, his polished boots muffled by threadbare carpets and the stink of cheap ale clinging to the air. He hated this place. Every instinct in his body screamed that a man of his standing shouldn’t even be breathing the same air as the people who frequented this district.

And yet, every month for the past year, he had come here without fail.

Some matters sat far above pride.

He stopped in front of the last door at the end of the corridor. After a brief pause, he knocked three times in perfectly spaced intervals. A moment later, a voice answered from within.

“Come in.”

Aldric opened the door, slipped inside, closed it carefully behind him, and immediately bowed.

“Rise,” the man inside said curtly. “Get up, Aldric. I have no patience for formalities today. Report what you’ve gathered about the Pascar Plains campaign.”

Aldric straightened, lifting his head.

The man seated behind the table was in the middle of a lavish meal, plates stacked with roasted meat, fruit, and wine utterly out of place in such an inn. He had blond hair pulled back neatly and a slightly pudgy face that spoke of indulgence, but Aldric knew it was nothing more than a facade.

Just the man's presence was enough to tell him that.

An oppressive, commanding aura pressed outward from him. Aldric had felt it before in every member of the Valerian royal family, but with the Third Prince Caelan Valeris, it was much sharper and focused.

As Aldric lingered a moment too long, Prince Caelan tapped his knife lightly against the table.

“I gave you a command.”

Aldric stiffened. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I was gathering my thoughts.” He took a breath and began. “This year’s Pascar Plains campaign has been… unusual. As you know, there are signs of a necromancer, and the Crown’s Hand has been deployed in force.”

“I know,” Caelan said dismissively, cutting into his steak. “And I don’t care. Have you found any men worth my attention among the new recruits?”

Aldric smiled faintly. “Yes, Your Highness. This year produced a strong mix. Several nobles have already begun posturing for those who show promise.” He paused. “There are only a few I believe truly worth bringing to your attention. Jason, Marwen, Bran, Hector and…”

He suddenly hesitated.

“And one more name, Your Highness,” Aldric continued carefully. “One confirmed to have awakened as a spellsword.”

Caelan’s knife stopped mid-cut.

“A spellsword?” He looked up sharply. “Who? A noble son?”

Aldric’s throat tightened. He hesitated only a second before answering. “Yes, Your Highness. Technically, he's one. It's the traitor bastard of House Frayser, Rayne Frayser.”

For the first time since Aldric had known him, Prince Caelan’s eyes widened.

“He’s not dead yet?” Caelan said slowly.

“No, Your Highness. Quite the opposite.” Aldric swallowed. “He is flourishing in the army. He recently survived a duel involving a Hand apprentice.”

The prince leaned back in his chair, surprise deepening on his face. His fingers tapped the table, once, twice, before he laughed softly.

“Interesting.” His gaze snapped back to Aldric. “Tell me everything he’s done.”

Aldric hesitated. “Are you sure, Your Highness? Associating with someone like him could—”

“Just do as you’re told, Viscount,” Caelan cut in coldly.

Aldric sighed inwardly. He knew this would happen. Prince Caelan hardly cared about reputation until a man was worth investing in, and although Aldric didn't support this, he was nothing if not loyal.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

So, he began recounting everything he had heard from his people in the campaign, and with every word, he saw Caelan’s expression shift—from curiosity to intrigue and then, finally, to something far more easily recognisable.

Interest.