Chapter 32: Flame Practice, Mana Bullets, and Maternal Inquisition
The warm orange light of the setting sun bathed the backyard as I stood barefoot on the scorched earth. A faint breeze rustled the neem tree overhead while I held Ashratal, my halberd, firmly in my hands. The shaft was warm to the touch, the weapon humming gently with anticipation.
With a deep breath, I let mana pour from my core into the weapon. As it flowed along the handle, it shimmered, then burst into flickering flame. The reddish-orange hue wrapped around Ashratal like a second skin. The flames danced—alive, reactive, obedient. The temperature wasn't unbearable, likely a passive ability of the spear suppressing the heat from harming its wielder.
I recalled the Starfall Requiem—the ultimate technique I'd accidentally unleashed during the goblin siege. It required precise conditions: height, momentum, and extreme mana compression. Right now, I didn't have any of those. Without them, I could barely replicate ten percent of its full destructive power.
Three elements flowed within me now: lightning, fire, and storm. Of them, only lightning seemed somewhat under my control, fused naturally into my mana skin. It enhanced my movement, boosted my reflexes. Yet I could sense a ceiling—it wouldn't improve much unless I reached the next level.
Storm? That one felt locked, like it existed behind a door I couldn't find the key to.
Fire was the only element I could practice freely. It didn't originate from my body—it came from Ashratal. When I poured mana into the halberd, flames were born. As long as I kept the mana channelled, the fire followed my command—but only while using the weapon.
Ashratal had changed too. After two days of rest, the weapon looked and felt different. It was heavier, a few inches longer, and the axe head glinted sharper than ever. The spear tips on either end were now elongated and wickedly pointed. A glowing circular mark had formed near the grip—likely a sign of seal influence.
It wasn't just stronger. It felt… alive.
I exhaled and relaxed my grip. I wasn't done. Today, I wanted to try a new technique I had read about on the HunterNet: the Mana Bullet.
Mana techniques were tricky. Every hunter's mana had unique tendencies. Some had sticky mana—good for creating dense mana skins. Others had smooth mana—ideal for bullets and external attacks. Mine was somewhere in between: not too sticky, not too fluid. Just middling.
Still, I wanted to try.
I focused. Mana poured from my core, shaped into a rough sphere near the end of Ashratal. I let it slide along the shaft, building momentum. As it traveled, it passed through the flames wrapping the halberd. Instantly, the bullet flared red. By the time it reached the tip, it blazed like a miniature sun.
I aimed at a thick log I had propped up twenty meters away. With a flick of my arms, I released the bullet. It soared, fast—but not blindingly so. Maybe half the speed of a real gunshot.
The impact was solid.
The log shook. The bullet pierced halfway through it, embedding itself with a sizzling hiss.
"Not bad," I muttered. "But not enough."
I needed more power. More control. The path was long, but I had started walking.
The sky deepened into purple as I turned toward the house. Tomorrow, Monkey Saint would take me to a dungeon—one said to house the second seal's key.
Inside, the air smelled of herbs and spices. The cozy scent of turmeric, cumin, and garlic told me dinner was underway. Our kitchen—an open, modern space carved into the eastern wall—glowed softly with amber mana lights.
Mother stood by the stove, her long black braid trailing over her shoulder, wearing a faded green saree stained with potion ingredients. The folds of her sleeves were rolled up, revealing arms toned not by battle, but by years of careful stirring, grinding, and brewing. Her eyes—deep brown, sharp, and unreadable—reminded me where I got my perceptiveness from.
Father and Raj were out. Probably scouting dungeons or handling some Flamebearer mission. Uncle and Aunt were missing too. The cousins must be at the academy. For once, the house felt silent.
"Hey, Ma," I said, trying to sound as casual and loving as possible.
Without turning, she responded, "What do you want?"
Classic.
I sauntered over and leaned against the counter. "You remember Anaya?"
"The girl from the Brooks family?" she said, still stirring the thick stew bubbling in a mana-insulated pot.
"Yeah… well, she needs your help. Potions."
At that, her spoon paused. Not a twitch. Not a glance. Just silence.
Mother being a expert potioneer wasn't something we discussed openly. Everyone in the house knew, but we respected her privacy. Her potions weren't just powerful—they were beyond classification. Rank 6, maybe even higher.
"And what does she offer you in return?" she finally asked, slowly turning to face me.
Her gaze pinned me to the floor. There was no hostility, just an intense assessment—like she was peering into my soul, weighing motive against merit.
"She has a training regimen," I said. "Full flexibility-focused. I need it. She needs help refining her formula."
She tilted her head. "So in this trade, I'm the currency. Interesting."
I winced. "Okay, fair. What would you like in exchange?"
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Tell me about the princess."
That made my throat dry.
Of course she knew.
She cleaned the room. She was a potioneer. She noticed traces no normal person would. Even a molecule of lingering scent was a confession to her.
I gulped. "I… I haven't really thought about her. Been a little busy surviving goblins and awakening powers."
She didn't interrupt. Just waited.
"But I remember her," I continued. "She's… beautiful. Like a drop of rain in a desert. And we did… some stuff. I don't know if I believe in fate, but I feel a sense of duty."
Mother turned back to the pot and stirred it gently. "You're still young. Very young. And she's from a saint household. Her life is tangled in webs you don't even see yet. If your paths align, if your heart grows strong enough, maybe something will come of it. But you're not there yet. Not even close."
For the next fifteen minutes, she lectured me on strength, responsibility, and emotional maturity. I was cooked more thoroughly than the stew.
When she finally turned the stove off, she said, "Tell the Brooks girl to meet me. I'll see what she has to say. Then I'll decide."
I bowed my head. "Yes, Ma."
With my tail tucked between my legs and ego shredded, I slunk upstairs.
Collapsing onto my bed, I stared at the ceiling.
One more piece of the puzzle lay ahead.
If tomorrow's dungeon truly contained the second seal's key, then I had to be ready—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Another boost for the Indian hunters depended on it.
I let my thoughts fade, preparing for the path to come.
Because tomorrow, the next chapter of my journey begins.