Monarch Chapter 83

Chapter 83

The next two weeks passed faster than Rayne expected.

He didn’t know whether it was Captain Edran deliberately giving him rest or simply circumstance, but Rayne was barely deployed outside the camp. Most days, he was assigned guard duty, and even then, it rarely lasted more than a few hours before another soldier showed up to take his place.

At first, he found it strange.

Guard rotations in the camp weren’t usually flexible, and certainly not generous, simply because most of it was just sitting around, and soldiers would rather bet and watch training duels. But after a few days of it repeating, Nate finally gave him an answer.

“They’re giving you respect,” Nate said one evening as they sat near the fire. “You’re a spellsword now. Most of them haven’t seen it, but everyone’s heard the stories.”

Rayne frowned. “Stories you and Kesh spread.”

Nate grinned. “They are true. We only exaggerated our roles in the battle. And soldiers take it at face value because Varrick hasn’t said anything. They think if it was false, the Crown’s Hand would have put a stop to it already.”

Rayne sighed quietly.

Word travelled fast in the army, especially when undead were involved. Too many soldiers had watched their comrades die to undead over the past month. Someone who had stood against a necromancer naturally gained fame, even with Rayne’s background.

That reputation gave him an easier life in the camp.

But it didn’t earn him friends everywhere.

Some warbands were still hostile to him, even more so than before. Especially Captain Clark’s soldiers, who kept staring and chuckling among themselves whenever they saw Rayne, and didn’t hide their disdain for him.

And once, things nearly came to blows.

Shawn had cornered Heins near the supply wagons, needling him over some imagined slight. Rayne had stepped in before it could escalate, but Shawn didn’t back off. The man had done everything to make him angry, and openly called him and his party liars who had hidden behind a boulder while Varrick handled the necromancer.

The whole thing had attracted a lot of attention, and it was clear Shawn was looking for a duel.

But Rayne had no intention of anything like that.

For him, Shawn was just not important enough to waste time on, and he had ended the challenge by warning him calmly that he had no interest in seeing Shawn lose a limb in a blood duel—after reminding him, quietly, of his ancestral bloodline.

To make his threat come across as lethal, he had even gathered mana in his palm, lighting his flesh with a white glow. A trick he had learned during his mana manipulation training.

It wasn’t an attack. But to someone who didn’t understand magic, it might as well have been.

That had been enough.

Shawn had gone pale and backed away without another word. And the whole thing had died down and only given more credibility to his status as a spellsword.

That mana trick wouldn’t have been possible if he hadn’t practiced daily.

Ever since Casper’s lesson, Rayne had practiced holding mana in his palms whenever he could—morning, evening, even during short breaks. Using her method, focusing on intent and containment, he’d grown steadily better. By the end of the first week, holding mana had become almost second nature.

He knew it was just average, but unlike mage apprentices, Rayne hadn’t trained endlessly, and also didn’t have large enough mana reserves yet.

Unfortunately, Casper had remained busy, leaving him without further guidance.

So Rayne experimented on his own.

Once holding mana became easy, he tried shaping it, stretching it into thin threads, forcing it into crude chains. He failed every time. The moment he tried to impose structure, the mana slipped away, dissolving into the air.

Even opening another pathway hadn’t helped.

It was frustrating.

But Rayne didn’t stop.

If holding mana was the foundation, shaping it had to be the next step. And even if progress was slow, he knew he couldn’t give up. Casper’s talk about hunting the master necromancer and any more apprentices kept pushing him forward.

Especially because Rayne knew the final battle against the master necromancer was coming.

The common soldiers acted as if the threat was already over. Laughing more freely. Complaining about food instead of undead. Talking about when they’d finally be called back to the cities. But the leaders told a different story.

Squad leaders still pushed their men harder instead of letting them sit idle. Anyone not deployed into a dungeon was told to do additional training sessions.

No one with experience was relaxing.

It became more clear every time he saw Hobbs.

Every time Rayne crossed paths with the burly giant, the man would clap a hand on his shoulder and repeat the same thing in his gravelly voice. “Train your party. Don’t slack. We’re moving inward.”

It didn’t take much imagination to understand what that meant. Dungeon by dungeon, the army was carving its way closer to the heart of the Pascar Plains. Closer to the ley line convergence and wherever the master necromancer was hiding.

Axel’s behaviour also confirmed his thoughts.

Rayne saw it in the early mornings while going out for his own training. When the camp was still half-asleep and the air was cold enough to bite, Axel would already be out there, practicing his stances alone.

Seeing that made Rayne pause more than once.

If Axel was taking things seriously, then they were closer to launching an assault against the master necromancer.

Rayne trained harder because of it.

Still, doubts crept in.

A part of him wondered if refining his mana control and sharpening his sword was really enough. He’d hit Level 30. The temptation to push further—to chase a class advancement—sat heavy in his chest.

A spellsword class could change everything for him, and even give him more mana skills. But staying in camp meant he couldn’t fight any monsters.

Another, more rational part of him slowed these thoughts down.

He constantly reminded himself of Bran’s words about setting a foundation and not rushing ahead. What Rayne was doing now mattered just as much as any level.

And even if he was confident he could reach Level 31 eventually, everyone knew the truth.

Class advancements didn’t happen fighting weak monsters.

It happened when you were pushed to the edge and when you actually feared for your life. Gods rewarded someone crazy enough to risk his life for more power—at least that’s what everyone spoke about.

And he wouldn’t achieve that even if he pushed for another dungeon run.

Smaller dungeons no longer posed much of a challenge to him. He could clear them with minimal risk with his party, but that kind of fighting wouldn’t push him to the edge, and without that, there would be no breakthrough. The larger dungeons were a different matter entirely. Those required full squads, careful planning, and time. Time he suspected he didn’t actually have.

Rayne was better off preserving his strength.

If he had to risk his life to get his advancement, then it would be against the master necromancer. And that fight was coming whether he liked it or not.

The first sign of it came one evening at the end of the two weeks, without warning.

Rayne had been sitting inside his tent, working through another stack of ledgers Axel had dumped on him earlier in the day when the shouting started. At first, the voices were distant, confused, raised in alarm rather than panic.

Then the screams followed.

Rayne was on his feet immediately, shoving the ledgers aside and grabbing his sword as horns blared across the camp. By the time he reached the walls, three warbands were already engaged against undead that poured in from the treeline.

Hundreds of them.

The sentries probably hadn’t even seen them until they were already too close.

Fortunately, they had been the normal undead, some without even a weapon. And there had been no undead lord or chimera looming among them.

They were just numbers that the warbands handled efficiently. A few mages had even joined by the end of it, wiping the remaining undead out in a matter of minutes. Rayne didn’t even have to join the battle.

But that short wave made everyone alert. No one dared to relax afterward.

More soldiers were posted on the walls. Patrol routes were increased around the hill and the forests, and scouts were sent to track the undead wave’s path.

Rayne could feel the tension settle over the camp like a suffocating blanket, and hardly anyone slept properly that night.

The next day, it happened again.

Another wave surged toward the camp shortly after dusk. This time, Rayne was on the walls when the fighting started, and even Commander Evans made his way halfway through the battle.

The commander didn’t draw his weapon. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the battlefield below as soldiers cut through the undead ranks. Captain Verella stood beside him, talking calmly, but Rayne didn’t miss the tightening of his jaw or his cold gaze.

Anyone could tell that the master necromancer was probing the camp. Maybe sending a warning, or simply showing that he or she had a lot more undead than the army expected.

After all, there was no way ordinary undead would be able to get through an army camp filled with spellswords and mages, no matter how many of them there were.

The necromancer would know that.

And just as he’d expected, the following morning Commander Evans called for every soldier to assemble. The captains stayed on the side of Commander Evans, who stood in the centre of a small makeshift stage.

Soldiers craned their necks to see properly, particularly Rayne’s party, who stood in the back of the formation, looking nervous despite him already warning them what it might be about.

He’d wanted them to be prepared instead of suddenly getting the news, but it didn’t seem to have the desired effect.

Fortunately, Commander Evans didn’t let the tension fester.

He stepped forward, and before the murmurs could swell into something louder, his voice carried across the camp—calm, steady, and sharp enough that even the soldiers at the very back fell silent.

“I’m not going to mince my words,” Commander Evans said. “All of you saw what happened the past two nights. Our camp was attacked twice by filthy undead.”

His gaze swept over the mass of soldiers, though most of them couldn’t see him clearly from where they stood.

“If you think that was a coincidence,” he continued, voice hardening, “then let me correct you. It was not.”

A ripple passed through the formation.

“By the aid of the Crown’s Hand and our own soldiers,” Evans went on, “we brought down one necromancer operating in the Pascar Plains. We earned that victory even when the group that took her down didn’t know what they would be facing. That shows the conviction of all of you.” He paused briefly before adding, “But that was not the end of it.”

A silence followed those words.

“There are two more necromancers,” Commander Evans said plainly. “They are hiding within a dungeon near the intersection of the ley lines.”

Gasps spread through the ranks despite the discipline drilled into them. Rayne saw shoulders stiffen, jaws tighten, hands curl into fists as men looked at each other. No one dared whisper, but the shock was written clearly across their faces.

Evans raised a hand, letting the noise die.

“The Crown’s Hand has already deployed scouts,” he said. “Their exact location will be mapped within three days.”

Rayne felt the weight of those words settle in his chest. The battle was going to be this week. Around him, soldiers exchanged looks—grim, anxious, resolute. Strangely, when his gaze drifted to the side, he noticed Fredrick standing a short distance away. The man looked… calm.

When he caught Rayne watching him, he merely nodded once.

It sent a prickle of unease down Rayne’s spine.

“At dawn on the fourth day,” Commander Evans continued, voice rising slightly, “the army will march.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

“All but a small force left to secure this camp will advance toward the heart of the ley lines,” he declared. “We will hunt down the remaining necromancers and wipe out the undead infestation once and for all.”

He straightened, his presence filling the space.

“This is not something to fear,” Evans said firmly. “This is something to take pride in. You are soldiers of Valeria. You are here to do what the great gods commanded in the First Epoch—to cleanse this world of corruption and rot.”

His voice rang out over the camp.

“To end the filth that dares crawl out of the dark and defy the living!”

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then cheers erupted.

Shouts and chants surged through the formation, soldiers pounding shields, raising weapons, shouting Valeria’s name and the gods’ blessings.

Rayne didn’t cheer.

He stood there, eyes moving across the sea of shouting men and women, and wondered—grimly—how many of them would still be standing when the battle was over.