CHAPTER 98OF MASTERS AND MONSTERS

  In the place all bright, Reina spoke—her voice low but steady as she drew her blade from its scabbard. It was not the Karmic sword but something new yet old. Hans had seen it clung to her many times. It was her sword— the blessed one he knew nothing about.

  “The enmity between Parv and Clandor stretches far into the past. A nation of knights, they say—and they are right. They had the skill, the discipline, the very bodies shaped for knighthood. Unlike us, the elves, who were ever more attuned to mana.”

  She paused.

  “That’s why, to counter a nation bred to butcher mages, the royal family chose the sword path. But we were only a bonfire set against a burning sun. So we evolved. Thus were born the Clandorian aura skills. They were crafted to counter the Parvian way.”

  Hans listened—every word struck true in his ears. He had heard tales, read accounts, that in her prime, the Clandorian queen could have challenged Samson himself. The only flaw in her path was that Samson had a way of solving whatever he could not overcome.

  He remained focused—on her voice, on her movements.

  “Clandorian aura skills will drain you dry unless you learn to breathe with the world, not merely from it.”

  She stabbed her blade into the ground, both hands clasped over the hilt. “Observe closely,” she said.

  “This is the first skill the royals forged through time: REGENRATIO. The art of rapid aura regeneration. Not by force—but by rhythm. Listen well, Theodred. This is no technique. It is a discipline. A way of living.”

  Hans leaned in, his eyes drinking in every motion.

  “Aura is drawn from mana—the breath of the world itself,” she continued. “But your body cannot take it all. Only what aligns with your elemental nature remains. The rest must be exhaled, or it poisons you. The heart is your forge—it sifts, refines, stores.”

  She tapped her chest once, firmly.

  “REGENRATIO is not about taking more. It’s about taking smarter. Faster. Harmonising your pulse with the ambient mana around you—like syncing your breath with a battlefield’s rhythm. You pull in only what you need, and release the rest without resistance. No waste. No clog. Unconscious of how you are doing.”

  “How?” Hans asked.

  “You silence the mind, slow the breath, and enter the rhythm of the world. Then—through practiced cycles—you refine. Inhale. Filter. Store. Exhale. Again. Faster. Like forging steel with every beat.”

  She held out her hand. Hans could feel it: the air around her thick with presence, her aura regenerating faster than a fresh spring’s flow.

  “Once mastered, REGENRATIO feels like a second breath.” She said. “You’ll be able to burn aura like wildfire, knowing the well refills with every heartbeat. But until then—you must train the rhythm. You must become the rhythm.”

  She stood.

  “Now. Stand up. Barefoot. Feel the ground. And breathe with me.”

  AT ELEANOR OFFICE

  Three people sat grim. “What of him? Did you find anything?” Eleanor asked.

  “No. Everything checks out.” Bernard shook his head. “When King Samwell of Grimgar caught wind of Sylvetor, he moved swiftly. Buried it all. Every trace—every lead, every record—wiped from existence.”

  “Tsk. Did that Theodred plan this?” Eleanor frowned, turning toward Bernard. “The moment Parv revealed the truth, the moment he showed up. It definitely doesn’t smell of coincidence. I’m getting a bad feeling, Bernard.”

  “I know,” Bernard nodded. “That boy... he emerged from nothing. And the way he manifests aura—I've heard of such control back in my home. When one's aura becomes an extension of the flesh, able to be shaped with mere thought... Even the great Parvian prodigies failed to achieve that. Yet an elven child wields it as though it were second nature. That doesn’t sit well with me.”

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  “Could he truly be the one from the prophecy?”

  “I cannot say, King Eleanor,” Bernard’s gaze shifted towards the third person in the room. The expert on prophecy. The one who brought that into light—Aredhel. She sat still, arms folded, a quiet storm in her eyes.

  “I’ve no clue what is happening, brother,” Aredhel responded, scoffing in silence. Man of prophecy, my foot.

  “It’s been three days,” Eleanor noted, concern etched on his brow. “The Oath-fire Rite should not take this long.”

  Her absence from royal affairs was taken care of by him. She might’ve been a little mad at Eleanor, but she trusted him like no one.

  “Knock! knock!—Your Majesty,” The new aide appointed after Dijkstra unofficially offed the previous. Came in a hurry. “The queen—she came to the training ground— they are clearing for her.”

  All three rose at once. They had waited too long for answers.

  When they reached the grounds, the scene before them was nothing short of a spectacle. Knights, veterans, and trainees alike had formed a wide circle. At the edge stood Aredhel’s daughter.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Our children are there,” she said sharply, pointing. Bernard and Eleanor followed her gaze.

  Chris and Delimira stood alongside Allynna and Riftal—the elven royal siblings, with Allynna the elder.

  “What’s going on?” Bernard asked as they approached the young ones.

  “They just appeared out of nowhere,” Chris answered. “Said to clear the grounds.”

  As the grounds got completely cleared, Reina, from her dimensional pocket, drew a training blade and tossed it to Theodred. He caught it with ease, rolled his shoulder, and stretched out his arm, centering himself with a slow, measured breath.

  The light pulsed from both. Aura. The unmistakable glow of her first skill: Regenratio.

  “The rules are simple,” Reina declared. “I’ll only use my first skill. Do whatever you must to defeat me.”

  Hearing this , Theodred drew his blade, planted it before him in a ceremonial stance, gripping the hilt with both hands. “I, Theodred, wish to learn from my master.”

  The formality, the old style—it caught even Reina off guard.

  “I’d forgotten you favoured the old ways,” she said, amusement breaking through her usual stoicism. It was genuine, not the cunning smile she showed everywhere.

  Even Eleanor seemed surprised. But among the children, a different kind of storm brewed. Allynna stiffened. Her mother—so often cold, unyielding—was smiling. Not at her. Not even at Riftal. But at this boy. This stranger.

  Jealousy curled in her chest like smoke, and Riftal, though less overt, felt it too.

  Then Reina stepped forward, adopting the ancient ritual of master and student.

  “I, Reina Clandor, grant your wish,” she intoned, levelling her blade toward Theodred’s brow. “Come, dear student.”

  With that, the match began.

  Theodred moved like lightning. His steps were the art of swordplay made manifest—Agile sword steps. He glided across the ground, blindingly fast. Regenratio—Three days of practice had already carried him to mastery. His aura too increased; he was at the doors of breaking to grade 20.

  Each of his blows turned to a volley of stabs. Sharp, deliberate, deadly.

  Yet Reina met them all—deflecting, dodging, parrying with graceful efficiency. Still, every time she turned aside a strike, his blade curled around and, like a serpent, it found its way towards her vitals.

  Seeing him matching her, his aura consumption and regeneration balancing each other—a perfect equilibrium. The one she was trying to teach him. It made her joyous and it was on her face.

  Clang! A strike almost met her eyes.

  With a sudden flare of aura, she forced him back.

  “Are you planning to kill your teacher, Theodred?”

  “Me not holding back is my way of showing respect towards your teacher,” he said, breathing steadily. “And it’s not like that is going to happen soon.”

  “Soon? You say it will happen in the near future?” Reina took offence, now it was her turn. And Theodred, like a true knight, deflected without retreat, using her momentum to fuel his ripostes.

  His agile sword steps fitted his form: elven-light, not built for brute strength. His blade moved like water over stone, redirecting force rather than contesting it. He befriended her momentum to use it against its own originator.

  “Maybe or maybe not?” Hans imitated Reina, with a large chunk of aura on his blade, he pushed her back. “Isn’t being bested by your own student a teacher’s accomplishment and dream?”

  She is raising a serpent —Eleanor murmured.

  Bernard nodded. He too felt something was amiss.

  The children, however, watched from different angles. Allynna now understood the change in her mother’s face. Reina had found a prodigy—a pupil who met her impossible expectations. One who wasn't her.

  Chris, meanwhile, clenched his fists. He didn’t voice it, but the fire in his eyes spoke clearly: I want to fight him.

  Delimira, on the other hand, sighed heavily. “Another bastard prodigy,” she muttered. “How many stupid talents does this world have? Some of us have to work our asses off... and others hit Grade 20 in three damn days.”