Amara’s breath hitched as she inhaled deeply, but the air burned her lungs, causing a sharp pain. Her muscles coiled and tensed, instinctively preparing to flee, yet she remained rooted in place. Before her, her mother loomed in a dark, furious shadow. It wasn’t her actual mother, but the presence of her biggest fear wasn’t something she could’ve ignored—especially when it made her feel much, much smaller, pressing her very being into the icy ground.

Every instinct screamed at Amara to run—somewhere far away if possible. But she knew it wasn’t possible; the only way she could escape the storm of her mother’s wrath was if she gave up, surrendering to the darkness and her deepest fears.

Should I just—

But deep within, a whisper rose above the din of terror.

If she ran now, if she turned her back and surrendered to the fear, she would confirm everything her mother had always claimed: that she was weak, incapable, a failure. The countless nights spent battling the doubts, the moments where she’d almost shattered under the pressure—all would have been for nothing.

No… I’m not a weak, incapable failure. I… I won’t let her consume me!

“No,” she mouthed, the word slipping out like a promise. Her hands trembled at her sides, but she clenched them into fists, nails biting into her palms until the pain anchored her. She didn’t want to die. Not like this, not a story unfinished. A shiver crept up her spine, the icy tendrils of fear mingling with the heat of her decision.

Amara’s gaze sharpened, locking onto the figure of her mother’s eyes—unforgiving, cold, and calculating.

For too long, she had been the child in the shadows, content to cower, to endure. But now, she wanted more. She wanted a life where she wasn’t just surviving, but living, pushing forward on a path she could call her own. A life where she didn’t have to fear.

And she wasn’t alone.

Behind her, amidst all the icy chaos, the warmth of healing magic seeped into her skin, knitting wounds closed, steadying her breath. The soft glow outlined his figure—the one who had stood by her, even when she had doubted herself. His belief, unspoken but unwavering, radiated strength. She could almost hear his voice, low and firm, in the quiet, “You’re stronger than you think.”

Amara lifted her chin, resistance sparking in her eyes. Regardless of the loud thunder in her chest like a war drum, she stood tall as she knew her decision was made.

The cold voice of the wraith slithered into her ears, wrapping around her like a serpent. “Useless. Weak. A shadow even in your own life,” it hissed, echoing words that had haunted her for years. The spectral silhouette of her mother stood before her, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

She couldn’t let herself falter. Not now.

Her fingers twitched, guiding the orb of water mana that pulsed with raw energy, its surface undulating as if alive.

At this moment, Amara’s silence spoke volumes, the air around her crackling with anticipation. When she finally drew breath, her voice cut through the overwhelming feeling that tried to engulf her—suffocation.

“No, Mother, I’m not useless. It’s not my fault I was born as I am. And it’s not my fault you see me as nothing but a tool to bend.”

As the words slowly started leaving her lips, she saw something forming behind the shadows. Strong, large and it continuing to grow even larger.

Chains.

They were large chains; chains that symbolised all the words that were thrown at her.

They lunged, glistening with lethal intent, but Amara sidestepped with grace, feeling the chill graze her skin as they sliced past. In one fluid motion, she thrust her hands forward, releasing the water bomb with loud yelp.

It detonated in a surge of liquid force, crashing into the wraith. For a heartbeat, the realm was silent, suspended in the chaos of impact.

Then came the scream—a sound that pierced bone and soul alike.

The wraith’s form flickered, shattered shards of its visage swirling before reforming in jagged, uneven patches. The chains flailed desperately, trying to reattach, to ensnare her in their biting grasp. “You can’t escape me,” it rasped, voice splintering like shattered glass. “You deserve this. You deserve to break.”

Amara’s chest heaved, but she stood tall, eyes blazing with opposition. “I’ll never be your puppet,” she declared. The chains shuddered, their motion stuttering as though caught between two truths—one born of the past, and one forged now.

With the last vestiges of strength, she yelled. “I will break free.”

She stepped back, casting a quick glance at Arzan, who was busy mending the fractured landscape of her astral realm with gentle waves of healing energy. With each pulse of his magic, a surge of strength filled her veins, reaffirming that she was on the right path—that she could fight against this spectre of her past.

“You might be my mother,” Amara said, her voice unwavering, “but you never treated me right. You saw me as a burden, but I am not one. I am beyond you.”

“No! You are not!” the wraith shrieked, desperation dripping from its every word. But Amara was already in motion. The water mana surged at her command, coalescing into hundreds of shimmering lances.

With a powerful sweep of her arms, she sent the lances hurtling toward the wraith. The air hummed as they streaked forward, piercing through the wraith’s form with unerring precision. It let out a keening wail, its large form breaking apart, flickering as it crumbled under the relentless assault.

The wraith tried to speak, its fragmented voice straining to reclaim control, to sow doubt. But Amara didn’t give it the chance. “You are just my fear,” she said, eyes blazing. “And I am going to win over you.”

Amara’s final attack shattered the wraith, its form crumbling into wisps of dark smoke that dissolved into the void. Silence followed, heavy and deafening, broken only by the shudder of Amara’s ragged breathing.

The adrenaline that had fueled her moments before seeped away, leaving her limbs weak and trembling. She sank to her knees, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her like a shroud.

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Her chest rose and fell with each laboured breath, but before despair could take root, a warm touch anchored her back to the present. A hand rested on her shoulder, firm yet reassuring.

She looked up and met Arzan’s calm, gentle eyes, a smile of pride softening his usually neutral features.

“You did well, Princess. It’s over,” he said.

Amara’s eyes widened, a question forming on her lips before she could stop it. “It’s… over?”

Arzan nodded, glancing around the ethereal landscape. “Yes. Your astral realm is fixed.”

She followed his gaze, taking in the realm around her. The once jagged cracks spider webbing through the air were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished surfaces. The biting chill that had clung to everything had lifted, replaced by a fragile warmth. On the distant horizon, blades of grass pushed through the barren ground, green and hopeful, swaying gently as if to welcome her newfound freedom.

“Your astral realm tear is sealed,” Arzan continued, his tone carrying a quiet assurance. “It will begin to heal itself now. Your spirit is strong, Princess Amara—it won’t take long. Most of your surgery is complete with this.”

Amara opened her mouth, wanting to voice her gratitude, to express the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. But the words tangled on her tongue, and instead, what escaped was a single, uncertain question.

“What now?”

Arzan’s smile widened, a rare spark of warmth dancing in his eyes. “Now? We need to wake up.”

***

Anya stood at the edge of the sterile room, her hands trembling slightly as her eyes flicked between Princess Amara’s still form and Lord Arzan’s. The minutes seemed to stretch on endlessly. Every passing second felt like a new weight adding onto her already worried heart.

It had been nearly twenty minutes since the procedure began, and a cold dread had settled deep in her gut. Should they be waking up by now? She couldn’t tell. There was no way of knowing if the surgery had succeeded or failed.

Princess Amara’s pale face told her little.

For the first ten minutes, the princess had been groaning softly, muttering incoherent words that Anya couldn’t decipher, her voice weak and strained as if she were trying to fight through some unseen force. Blood had trickled from her nose ten minutes earlier, dark and ominous, a sign of how bad it had been. Anya had felt her heart plummet, her hope wavering with the sight, but now—now there was a faint flush returning to Amara’s cheeks. The princess’s complexion, still fragile, no longer looked as lifeless as before.

Anya swallowed, her hands coming together in prayer, silently begging the goddesses above to spare the princess. Please, please let this work…

As she whispered her prayers, the quiet of the room shattered.

Both bodies twitched in unison, a jolt that made her breath catch in her throat.

Her eyes widened, and without thinking, she rushed closer to the bed, her pulse quickening.

Lord Arzan’s strong arms, once limp, moved slowly to pull princess Amara in closer, instinctively protective, as if he felt her stir. His face, which had been pallid and strained, twitched, his brow furrowing as though he were battling something in his unconscious state.

Princess’s lips parted, a soft, unintelligible sound slipping from them. Anya froze.

The faintest shimmer of colour returned to the princess’s lips. Anya’s heart leaped into her throat, her breath coming in short gasps. Could this be the sign? Could it be that the surgery had worked?

Both bodies jerked again, this time more violently. Lord Arzan’s grip tightened around the princess, and a low groan escaped his lips, his eyes flickering open for the briefest moment before fluttering shut once more.

Anya’s eyes filled with tears, her hands clasped tighter as her voice, barely a whisper, echoed her silent prayer. Please, don’t let this be the end. Please let them both be okay.

The next thing she knew, eyes fluttered open, and at once, Lord Arzan awoke, his head throbbing as he blinked against the dim light.

His eyes, still heavy with the fog of unconsciousness, scanned the room slowly. He groaned, his hand coming up to his forehead as if trying to make sense of what had happened.

Anya moved toward him, her concern clear in her eyes. “Lord Arzan,” she asked, her voice filled with urgency, “What happened? Is Princess Amara… okay?”

Before he could respond, princess Amara’s voice—soft, shaky—cut through the silence. She stirred beside him, her wide eyes finding his form beside her.

She blinked, confused, then turned to Anya. And then, as if some invisible dam inside her had broken, tears began to fall, slowly at first, before they flowed freely down her pale cheeks.

Anya’s heart skipped a beat, and she rushed to the princess’s side. “Princess Amara, are you alright?” she asked, her hands hovering, unsure whether to touch her or reach for something to ease her pain. “Should I bring some medicine? Are you in pain?”

She shook her head, her face softening as she met Anya’s gaze. “Anya, it’s not like that,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “I’m healed.”

Anya blinked, her mind struggling to grasp the meaning of those words. “Healed?” she echoed, almost in disbelief. “You’re… healed?”

Princess nodded slowly, her tears now drying as a faint smile tugged at her lips. The exhaustion and fear had not yet left her entirely, but there was a relief in her expression—one that Anya hadn’t dared to hope for.

Lord Arzan, now standing beside them, answered for the princess. “Yes,” he confirmed, his gaze fixed on Amara. “She’s healed. You don’t have to worry about it now, your prayers worked.”

“Thank Goddess Lumaris! Thank you so much!” Anya’s voice strained in the end as her eyes filled with tears. She looked up towards Lord Arzan, the man who had healed the princess with an unwavering gaze. “Is it permanent this time then?”

Lord Arzan nodded at that.

“Her astral realm is fixed. We’ll give it two days to stabilise, and then we can perform the external surgery. That one will be far less complicated, and once it’s done, she’ll be as good as any Mage.”

Anya’s heart soared with the relief in Lord Arzan’s words, and she turned her gaze to the princess, searching her face for any sign of doubt. “Is that true?” she asked softly.

She nodded again, more firmly this time. “Yes,” she said, a new strength in her voice. “I already feel better. The pain… it’s gone. The pressure inside me is gone.”

Anya smiled broadly through her tears, a weight lifting from her chest. Her hands moved to clasp together in gratitude, though she wasn’t sure to whom—Lord Arzan, the goddess, or just the fates for this miracle.

Her thoughts were interrupted soon by Princess Amara, who wiped away the last of her tears, her eyes finding Lord Arzan’s as she slowly sat up, her movements a little slow. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet but filled with emotion. “Thank you for this, Count Arzan. You don’t realise it, but you’ve given me a boon. You’ve done far more for me than anyone else ever has. I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

Lord Arzan, his posture relaxed but still with a quiet dignity, simply nodded, his gaze meeting hers with a steady, thoughtful look. “You don’t need to repay me, Princess. I did what was necessary. What was right.”

Princess Amara gazed at him for a moment, her expression softening as she studied him, a new respect blooming in her eyes, along with a trace of something deeper—something that Anya couldn’t quite place, but she felt it in the air between them.

Anya, still a little in awe of the entire situation, remained quiet, watching as Lord Arzan spoke. “Actually… I think you will be able to pay me back.”

Princess Amara, who had just started to settle back into the bed, blinked in confusion at his words. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she leaned forward a bit.

“How?” she asked, though the sincerity in her tone made it clear she would do anything within her power to repay him. “If there’s anything you need—anything at all—you can just tell me. I’ll make sure to do it. If it’s possible, I’ll make it happen. And even if it’s not, I’ll do everything I can to succeed.”

Lord Arzan’s smile widened just a touch, his gaze softening as he regarded her, almost as if savouring the moment before speaking. “No, it’s not a treasure or anything like that. What I need are answers. I have a few questions for you, Princess. Particularly about your mother… Queen Regina.”

***

A/N – You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep