Monarch Chapter 65

Chapter 65

Three days passed after the revelation of a necromancer lurking in the dungeons of the Pascar Plains.

And nothing happened.

The captains kept the information to themselves. Only a report was asked of Rayne, and Captain Edran told him to be quiet until Commander Evans came to a decision. The army didn’t move, didn’t panic, didn’t change its rhythm.

If anything, the camp grew quieter.

The only change was that the scouts being sent to the dungeons doubled, and night security around the treeline grew more robust, possibly because of a probable undead attack.

But for the average soldier?

Life went on.

Rayne spent most of those three days recovering.

The healing potions and his [Lesser Regeneration] did their work, but the damage the undead lord had dealt wasn’t something that vanished overnight. His ribs still ached when he breathed too deeply, and there was a dull stiffness in his back that refused to go away completely.

At least John woke up and healed even faster than him, already taking part in training by the third afternoon.

As for his damaged armour, Master Lander took one look at it and cursed loudly enough for half the makeshift forge to hear.

“Trollskin cracked. Reinforcement shattered. You lucky bastard,” the old smith muttered, shaking his head. “Whatever hit you—if it had done so again—you’d have been cut clean in half. Do you even know how much it’ll take to fix this?”

Rayne didn’t argue. He just paid the gold the uncommon-classed smith asked and left, hoping it would be repaired before his next dungeon run.

Fortunately, Axel didn't seem to be in any rush to send him into death's jaws again.

Something had changed in the man since being trapped in the dungeon, and he seemed far more casual while talking to Rayne. Even going as far as to give him and his party a week of guard rotations and light patrols to let them rest.

That hadn't been the case when he had ordered everyone to burn goblin nests every single day.

Even Hobbs noticed it and informed Rayne that the man hadn’t even been drinking for days—a rare thing since he loved alcohol even more than women and gold.

But whatever was going on with him, Rayne didn’t care too much. He knew things could go to hell any second and enjoyed whatever amount of peace the gods had leashed him.

So, he stood on the walls, watched the forests, listened to soldiers complain about rations, rotations, and female cooks and workers not giving them any attention, and tried not to think too hard.

But his mind kept drifting.

To black arcs of destruction tearing through stone.

To the way death-aspected mana had felt—cold, heavy, wrong in a way that still made his skin prickle.

[Death Strike].

The skill sat in his status like a loaded blade he didn’t know how to swing.

By the third night, Rayne had healed enough and knew one thing for certain.

He couldn’t practice it in the camp.

Too many eyes. Too many soldiers wanting to fuck him over. Too many people who would notice death mana flaring around a sword. Even Casper would ask questions if she sensed it, and Rayne wasn’t ready for that conversation.

So he waited.

On the morning of the fourth day, before the camp fully woke, Rayne slipped out.

The sky was still dim, painted in shades of grey and pale blue. Mist clung low to the ground, and the forest beyond the camp walls looked quiet. Perfect for an hour or two of training.

He moved carefully, keeping to paths he knew patrols wouldn’t use this early. Once the camp was far enough behind him, Rayne pushed deeper into the woods until the sounds of clanging metal and waking soldiers faded away completely.

Only birdsong and the rustle of leaves remained.

He stopped near a small clearing, surrounded by thick trees with rough bark and tangled roots. On the way, he had seen no signs of monsters—only a few squirrels and small animals that wouldn’t bother him.

Perfect.

Rayne exhaled slowly and drew his sword.

He closed his eyes, his mind immediately telling him how to use the skill. Every skill he stole came with a basic comprehension drilled into his mind, but he didn’t know if his body would follow through on it.

“Time to find out,” he muttered, exhaling.

Mana stirred in his core at once, responding to his intent. It felt stronger than before—denser, heavier—but when he tried to guide it the way the skill demanded, resistance met him almost immediately around his arm.

It was like trying to push sludge through narrow cracks.

His pathways weren’t enough, and he hadn’t been able to open another one just yet. But he couldn’t go back without using the skill at least once.

Rayne grimaced and tried again, focusing harder. Hot mana slid through his core, moving through the narrow pathways around his shoulders and—

Pain flared immediately.

He cut the flow at once and staggered back a step, teeth clenched. His sword nearly dropped to the ground.

“So that’s how it is,” he muttered, letting the pain pass.

Then he wiped sweat from his brow and steadied his breathing. Rushing would only injure him, and he couldn’t damage his pathways. The only reason he even tried the skill was because he knew he could use it.

His pathways just weren’t used to what he was trying to do.

So when he tried again, Rayne changed his strategy and went slower. He didn’t think of the skill and simply pushed mana through his arm, coaxing it until it reached the surface of his blade.

Then he activated [Death Strike], and the sword trembled.

A faint black sheen flickered along its edge for a second before vanishing.

“That worked… barely,” he said, a smile slowly inching onto his face.

After a minute, he tried again.

This time, the coating held for another two seconds. The air around the blade felt colder, heavier, as if sound itself had dulled near it.

Rayne swung before it could vanish.

Nothing happened.

The blade cut through empty air like any normal strike, the death mana dispersing uselessly.

He cursed under his breath but didn’t give up. He had time, and despite the slight pain in his shoulders and arm, it was nothing compared to being thrown into a wall.

So he coated his blade and swung again. Then again. And then one more time.

Each attempt left his arm aching, his core throbbing with strain. The mana drained quickly—faster than he expected—and every failure reminded him just how unprepared his body was.

But with each attempt, he held the mana on his blade for a few seconds longer. Even his pathways felt like they were opening a bit wider each time.

“One more,” he told himself after what felt like an hour of sweat and pain.

He gathered what mana he could—carefully—and fed it into the blade. The black coating returned, thicker this time, crawling along the edge like oil.

Rayne swung and forced the mana forward, visualising how the undead lord had done it. His blade vibrated, but the first swing did nothing. Then he swung again, willing the mana to move forward.

And then—a thin, distorted arc flickered into existence. Barely visible. Unstable.

It slammed into the tree in front of him.

The bark cracked.

Not split. Not destroyed. Just cracked, leaving behind a thin, scorched white line.

Rayne stared, not believing it for a second. But the line was there. Undeniable.

He had done it.

The skill fizzled out instantly, leaving his sword ordinary once more. His core burned, pathways aching like they’d been stretched too far.

But it worked. Barely. Weakly. Pathetically.

Still… it worked.

Rayne flopped onto the ground immediately, chest heaving as all the tension drained out of him. [Death Strike] wasn’t something he could rely on yet—not without opening more pathways—but just being able to use a lesser version of it was worth all the pain.

He lay there for a while, staring up at the slowly brightening sky before deciding it was time to return to camp.

Before doing so, he opened his status screen, and at once, a slew of words and numbers filled his vision.

***

Status (1/3)

Name - Rayne Frayser (Human)

Age - 21

Class - Soldier

Rank - Common Soldier (Forsaken), Valeria Kingdom

Level - 28

Health - 97%

Mana - 21%

Stamina - 44%

Stats

Strength - 59

Vitality - 21

Endurance - 55

Agility - 56

Arcane - 21

Titles -

Bastard of the Fraysers

The Tortured Child

Soldier of Valeria

Survivor of the Trolls

Otherworlder

Skills -

General Skills

Valerian Language Mastery (Basic) - Level 5

Lycarian Language Mastery (Basic) - Level 2

Foraging (Basic) - Level 2

Mathematics (Basic) - Level 2

Toughened Physique (Uncommon) - Level 3

Footwork (Basic) - Level 3

Unarmed Mastery (Basic) - Level 2

Pain Tolerance (Uncommon) - Level 3

Class Skills (2/10)

Sword Mastery (Basic) - Level 3

Formation Knowledge (Basic) - Level 1

Unique Skills (5/10)

Skill Stealer (???) - Max

Goblin Tongue (Uncommon) - Level 1

Umbral Sight (Uncommon) - Level 1

Lesser Regeneration (Rare) - Level 1

Death Strike (Rare) - Level 1

***

The biggest advancements had been in level and stats, as usual. Rayne had gotten used to seeing them grow, and it gave him unrivaled satisfaction. There was just something about numbers going up that filled him with joy.

Unfortunately, his skills weren’t growing at the same pace.

After every grade, skills were much harder to level up. A basic skill wasn’t as hard to level up as an uncommon one, so he guessed he couldn’t hope for rare ones to level up in a couple of weeks.

Still, he at least hoped that [Lesser Regeneration] would get to another level soon. That might be the one skill that had kept him alive against the undead lord, and it growing would let him live a little longer.

Soon, Rayne dismissed his status and got up. Cold wind brushed against his back, and his stomach growled. He needed to get breakfast, watery as it was in the army camp.

The walk back to the camp took only half an hour. He slipped back through the trees, approaching the front gate. His boots sunk into the mud where a patrol had already left prints. The early morning mist still clung low to the ground, pale and cold, and when he saw the gate, he noticed only two sentries there.

One of them noticed him and immediately stepped forward.

“Halt!”

Rayne stopped, hands raised slowly, and the sentries relaxed. Both of them wore tired expressions and were probably at the end of a night shift.

“Identify yourself,” the one in the front barked. “You a soldier?”

“Rayne Frayser,” he replied evenly. “Axel’s squad.”

The sentries exchanged a look, clearly having heard of him. One of them squinted at him, eyes lingering on the faint scorch marks along his blade.

“What were you doing out in the forest this early?” the other sentry said from the back, lowering his spear.

“Just some running in the forest. Helps keep my legs active. The camp is too congested,” Rayne muttered.

The first sentry frowned. “You picked a bad morning for it.”

Rayne’s brow creased. “Why?”

Instead of answering directly, the man waved him through the gate. “Commander Evans called everyone for some announcement. You better hurry if you want to catch what’s going on, or you’ll need to pay a copper for the information just like us. He should be in the centre clearing.”

That made him pause, immediately thinking about the necromancer, before he stepped toward the gate.

“Announcement about what?” he asked as he passed them.

The man simply shrugged. “Something big, probably. Not like I’ve left this place for hours.”

Rayne nodded and immediately broke into a brisk walk into the camp. The familiar smells of smoke, sweat, and unwashed armor washed over him.

He barely saw any men on the way, and his steps carried him toward the centre of camp almost instinctively.

By the time he reached the open clearing, it was already half-empty. Soldiers were peeling away in waves—some arguing with their squads, some laughing nervously, others silent and pale.

Commander Evans wasn’t there.

Rayne slowed, scanning the area. A few captains still lingered near the edge, talking to their squads. Though, he didn’t notice Captain Edran among them.

Rayne exhaled through his nose. He was too late. He decided to go to his squad’s tents to see if anyone was willing to explain what the commander had said.

He turned just as a familiar voice called out, “There you are!”

Nate jogged toward him, a waterskin in one hand, eyes bright with something between excitement and dread. Kesh followed close behind, looking far less pleased.

“You missed it,” Nate said before Rayne could ask.

“I figured,” he replied. “What was it?”

“Apparently, you were right,” said Kesh, voice low. “A necromancer is actually around here, moving through the dungeons. Commander Evans mostly talked about it, and how the captains need to be more careful going forward in conquering dungeons since undead might be waiting there in a trap.”

Nate nodded. “Also, the Crown’s Hand is going to come to handle them.”

That made him think back to Jeff in Bricksall, and how the man had lied about not informing anyone of the family’s death because of the fear of the Crown’s Hand. He hadn’t given it much thought back then, but he could still remember how Jeff had talked about them as if they were harbingers of hell.

Their name was self-explanatory, but Rayne had no idea how strong they were, or what they actually did.

“What does the Crown’s Hand even do?” he muttered.

Before either of them could answer, a familiar shout cut across the camp.

“Rayne!”

All three of them turned immediately.

Axel stood near the edge of the clearing with Hobbs and Ardan. His eyes locked onto Rayne instantly.

“Don’t just stand there,” Axel shouted over the conversations. “Get over here now.”

Rayne didn’t hesitate. He gave Nate and Kesh a brief look, then moved.

As he approached, Axel frowned. “You’ve got timing like shit, you know that?”

“I was running through the forest. Some light training,” he replied. “What’s going on?”

Hobbs smiled. “What do you think? Captain Edran called all the squad and party leaders up to his tent to talk about the recent announcement. We were just waiting for you.”

Rayne nodded, then decided to ask, “Do you think he will—”

Axel cut him off with a tired grunt. “Yes, he’ll probably be giving all the squads new orders. With the Crown’s Hand coming, we all need to be careful—especially someone like you.”

After saying that, he took the lead, walking across the camp as the rest of the soldiers cleared out of the way. Rayne fell in behind Axel with Hobbs and Ardan.

Unable to contain his curiosity, he looked at Hobbs and whispered, “Why is the Crown’s Hand such a big deal?”

Hobbs replied immediately. “You don’t know? They’re an elite force of King Xanders himself and only take orders from him. They have spies everywhere in the kingdom, and even outside it. They also hunt necromancers and werefolk with a fervor.” He paused, then locked eyes with Rayne. “They were also responsible for hunting the Fraysers after they were branded traitors.”