Monarch Volume 2 Chapter 110 (Patreon)

Chapter 110

Bran adjusted the weight on his shoulder as he carried the bag of herbs back toward the camp, his steps steady despite the uneven ground beneath his boots.

The sack was full, heavier than he would have liked, but it was probably the last proper haul he would get before they packed everything up and began the march back. The thought of that alone made him breathe a little easier.

The past few weeks had been nothing but tension and exhaustion, and while the dungeon and the undead were behind them now, the aftermath hadn’t been much better.

At least once they reached Fort Algar, things would settle down a bit. And after that, they would move towards the central parts of the kingdom.

The idea lingered in his mind as he walked. He would finally get a proper bed. One that didn’t dig into his back or leave him waking up stiff and sore every morning. He didn’t like to admit it, but it mattered more now than it used to.

He was getting older.

It wasn’t something he thought about often, but it had been creeping into his awareness more and more lately. Unlike the fresh recruits who will get stronger and stronger for the next two decades if they survive, he will get weaker and weaker.

His stats would eventually fall, and he didn't want to face that for the next few years.

Which was why he had started paying more attention to his body, even if it felt like a small thing. If he wanted to last, he had to be careful.

Still, there was one thing that gave him a little hope—Finally feeling like he would get past Level 30.

The number sat in his mind like a distant goal, one that had once felt completely out of reach. For the longest time, Bran had accepted that he would never cross that line. That he would remain where he was and someday retire into a farm.

But recently… something had changed.

He couldn’t explain it properly, but it felt as if he could finally see it. The wall that had stood in his way for so long didn’t feel as distant anymore. It was still there, but it no longer seemed impossible to cross.

For the first time in years, he felt like he might actually be able to break through. A small part of him had even believed it would happen in the dungeon.

But that hadn’t been the case.

Bran exhaled quietly as that thought crossed his mind. The dungeon had been the most dangerous place he had ever stepped into, filled with enough threats to kill him ten times over, yet he had spent most of it on the edges, staying just far enough away from the worst of it.

Maybe that had been the problem. Maybe if he had taken more risks, even gone down that hallway with Rayne and Fredrick—

Bran stopped himself.

He shook his head firmly, pushing the thought away before it could settle any deeper.

He already knew what had happened there, or at least enough of it. Being present wouldn’t have changed much. If anything, it might have just added another corpse to the count.

Instead of letting his thoughts wander any further, Bran simply adjusted the bag on his shoulder and kept moving.

The ground stretched ahead of him, uneven and worn from constant marches of soldiers over the past few weeks, but his steps remained steady as he walked. He didn’t rush, nor did he slow down, letting his pace settle into something familiar.

It didn’t take long before the silhouette of the camp came into view.

Wooden walls stood tall against the morning light. A few soldiers were leaning on the top, whispering among themselves while two soldiers remained posted at the entrance, guarding the gates as usual.

None of them reacted much as Bran approached, but as he came to a stop near the entrance, he noticed something unexpected.

Dean was one of the two guards at the gates. He had been one of the few who had made it out of the dungeon with minimal injuries, but even so, there was something off about him. His posture was fine, his armor intact, yet his face carried a faint, sickly look that Bran had seen for weeks now.

The campaign had taken its toll on him. It always did on soldiers, some more than the others.

Bran had seen it countless times before. Men who walked out of battle whole on the outside, only to fall to the trauma that came with it.

It didn’t take wounds to break a man. Sometimes, all it took was what they had seen.

Without saying anything at first, Bran stepped closer and untied the bag of herbs from his back before handing it over.

“Get this to Captain Edran,” he said, looking at Dean. “Leave out ten percent. That’s my share. I’ll get you something to help you sleep better from it.”

Dean blinked in surprise as he took the bag, clearly not expecting that.

“You know alchemy?” he asked, his eyes widening slightly.

Bran shook his head. “No,” he replied simply. “But I know a bit about herbs. These grow around the dungeon and feed on its mana. They’re far more vital than the normal ones.”

As he said that, the second guard nearby let out a quiet scoff, glancing between them.

“If you’re heading inside anyway, why not take it yourself?” he asked.

Bran didn’t even look at him as he answered. “I need to be somewhere.”

There was a brief pause after that, and when Dean spoke again, his tone was quieter. “The memorial?”

Bran gave a small nod. “Yes.”

Dean shifted slightly at that, his expression tightening just a bit before he spoke again.

“He should still be there,” he said. “You’ll find him.”

Bran didn’t respond to that.

He simply waited as the gates were pulled open, the wood creaking as they made space for him to pass through. Then, without another word, he stepped inside the camp and began walking forward.

There were far fewer people moving around the camp than Bran had grown used to seeing.

Even in the morning, when activity was usually at its peak, the place felt quieter than it should have. No drills echoed through the air, no shouted commands from squad leaders trying to whip their men into shape. The open spaces between the tents remained mostly empty, with only a handful of soldiers passing through at a slow, unhurried pace.

The captains have been taking it easy these days.

After everything that had happened, no one had argued against it. The campaign was over, the dungeons cleared, and for once, there was no immediate pressure. Training would resume eventually, but for now, even the most disciplined squads had been allowed to take rest.

It was needed. Men weren’t made of steel, no matter how much the army tried to shape them into it.

They needed time to recover, not just from wounds, but from everything they had seen. Too many of them had been new recruits, thrown into a battlefield far harsher than anything they had imagined.

They might have gotten used to it over the past few months, forced to adapt through constant quests and battles but that had also kept their thoughts occupied. Now that things had slowed down, there was nothing left to distract them.

They had time to think, and that was often worse.

Bran exhaled quietly as he walked deeper into the camp, his gaze drifting across the scattered figures. Some sat alone, staring at nothing. Others stayed in small groups, speaking in low voices that carried little emotion.

Maybe that was why Rayne hadn’t been able to move on properly either.

The thought lingered in Bran’s mind as he took a turn, leaving the cluster of tents behind. The noise of the camp faded gradually, replaced by a small clearing that opened up ahead, and in the center of it lay the memorial.

He slowed slightly as he approached, already recognizing the figures gathered there.

Nate and Kesh stood off to the side, close enough to speak to each other but far enough to leave space for Rayne who sat right in front of the memorial stone.

As Bran stepped closer, Nate noticed him first, glancing over before speaking without much thought.

“He’s still the same,” he said. “I don’t even know what he’s thinking just sitting there. Not like it’s going to bring John back.”

Kesh frowned immediately at that, his expression tightening as he turned toward him.

“My uncle lost his son once to a bear,” he said. “He drank himself half to death for a year before he even started acting normal again. You’re just heartless, Nate.”

Nate shook his head slightly, unfazed. “Not heartless,” he replied. “Just practical. I already made my peace with it.”

Bran didn’t say anything.

His gaze shifted past them, settling on Rayne for a moment before his thoughts drifted back.

After Rayne had gone ahead, chasing after the necromancer, things had turned chaotic for the rest of them. A group of undead had rushed them from the side.

Most of them had managed to hold their ground, but John had taken the hit.

A single strike across the neck because his helmet was damaged. The blood had come too fast, too much, and in the middle of everything else happening around them, there had been no time to move to help him.

By the time the fight ended, he was already dead.

Rayne had woken up four days back, mostly healed. And once he had heard about John’s passing, and how he had missed the funeral entirely, he had been coming here, to the memorial.

It wasn’t anything grand. Just a clearing with carved stones set into the ground, each one marked with the names of those who had fallen during the campaign. There were more of them than Bran would have liked, scattered across the dirt in uneven rows.

Rayne always sat in front of one of them containing John’s name.

He never spoke while he was here. He didn’t move much either. Most of the time, he simply stared at the carving, his gaze fixed on it as if trying to burn it into his memory.

Bran had let him grieve.

He had not interfered for the past few days, knowing well enough that a man needed time for such things, that forcing him away too early would only make it worse. But there was a line between grieving and getting stuck, and they were getting close to it.

They would be leaving soon, and he couldn't have Rayne keep being distracted then.

Hence, Bran stepped forward, closing the distance between them before placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“You have grieved enough,” he said, his voice steady and as calm as he could make it. “You need to let his soul rest in the Halls of Hathras.”

Rayne’s gaze shifted slightly before he looked back at him.

“I actually have said my goodbyes to him,” he replied. “It’s just… he was my responsibility, Bran. I was his party leader. I left you all behind to go after the necromancer. Otherwise, I might have saved him.”

Bran frowned faintly at that. “Those are just regrets,” he said. “Don’t drown in them.”

Rayne didn’t look away this time. “I’m not saying what I did was wrong. The necromancer needed to be put down,” he continued, his voice even. “But I could have definitely looked over at you all a bit before moving. Small things can both save and cost lives.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back toward the stones.

“So I’m just here,” he went on, quieter now, “thinking through everything I did, all the orders I gave, and how I could be better.”

Bran let out a slow breath. “You will learn.”

Rayne didn’t respond immediately. He remained still for a moment before speaking again.

“Maybe,” he said. “If I don’t get locked up with whatever verdict the truthsayers will give.”

Bran didn’t answer that.

Rayne had already told them what had happened with Fredrick, and even without hearing the full account, Bran had already made a guess.

He also knew that nobles looked after their own, and no matter how it was spun, Rayne would not walk away from the incident untouched. The only question was the severity of the verdict.

After a brief silence, Bran spoke again. “They won’t lock you up. You are a spellsword, you have merits, and Fredrick attacked you. That will come up in the investigation. You’ll get away easy. Captain Edran and Commander Evans will make sure of it.”

Rayne nodded once at that, accepting the words without arguing, though whether he believed them or not was harder to tell.

A moment later, his expression shifted slightly, and something more focused took its place.

“I need to go now.”

Bran’s hand slipped off his shoulder. “Where?”

“Captain Edran told me to come talk to him,” Rayne replied as he pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “I think it will be about what will happen in the capital.” He gave a small nod. “I’ll see you later.”

Then he turned and walked off, his steps steady as he left the clearing behind.

Bran remained where he was, watching his silhouette grow smaller before his gaze shifted back toward the memorial, toward the rows of carved names pressed into the earth.

One thought settled quietly in his mind as he stood there.

The next few months were going to be important, not only for himself, but for this new party that he was now a part of.

***

A/N: Please know that this is just the introductory/set up chapter for the second volume. Rayne will get his class in two chapters. I don't really wish to delay it, and after this, everything will be in Rayne pov.

This was just to set up Bran, and Rayne becoming more of a leader in this new volume. Also, will post consecutive chapters in the next two days, so you all don't have to wait too long.