Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero " No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 21: The Path of the Wraith
The Northern Burial Grounds were a jagged scar on the landscape, where the air felt like cold needles against the skin. Using Universal Detection, Rolien tracked the flow of necrotic mana—not to a Valkarian fortress, but to a hidden encampment tucked deep within the ravines. He stood on a high ridge, his cloak fluttering like the wings of a crow. Below, torchlight revealed a camp of men wearing the ragged, faded colors of fallen houses.
"Rebels," Rolien whispered, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. "Tch, what are they doing?!"
Rolien didn't use the front door. He dropped from the thirty-foot cliff, using Quick Dash mid-air to negate the momentum and land soundlessly behind a sentry. The guard turned, sensing a shift in the wind, but Rolien was already a shadow. Thwack. The blunt heel of his Jawbreaker hit the man's temple with surgical precision. Rolien caught the body before it hit the dirt, sliding it into the darkness.
He moved through the camp like smoke. A group of three guards sat by a fire; Rolien blurred past. Snap. Snap. Snap. Three pressure-point strikes. The guards slumped over as if falling into a deep sleep, their mugs of ale not even spilling. One elite warrior, sensing the Menace Rolien radiated, drew a blade and spun around. "Who's—"
Rolien didn't let him finish. He used Crescent Kick, the arc of his boot catching the warrior's chin and sending him into a dreamless slumber before he could raise a cry. He reached the command tent and simply walked through the flap, his presence so heavy it felt like the oxygen had left the room.
Inside, a man with a scarred face stood over a table covered in glass vials filled with a bubbling, black liquid—the necrotic catalyst.
"Who are you?" the Rebel Leader gasped, reaching for his sword.
Rolien didn't draw his weapon. He simply stood there, his mask reflecting the green glow of the poison. "The man who is going to stop you from becoming the monster you hate."
"You don't understand!" the leader hissed. "Valkaria took everything! This plague... it's the only way to rot their empire from the inside!"
"And the children?" Rolien's voice was a low, dangerous vibration. "The farmers? I've seen them in the streets, black sores covering their bodies because of your 'revolution.' This is not the way. If you hate them, fight them in their way—with steel. Kill them, not the civilians. You're no different from them if you do this."
The Rebel Leader stared into the cold, mechanical mask of the White Wraith. He saw no mercy there—only a terrifyingly clear reflection of his own soul. His hand fell away from his sword. He lowered his head, his voice breaking. "I... I just wanted them to hurt."
"Then you will help me fix this mess," Rolien commanded.
He didn't wait for an answer. Rolien closed his eyes, activating his Master Inventor (Legendary) class. In his mind's eye, a golden schematic began to stitch itself together.
SYSTEM: BLUEPRINT GENERATION
Title: The Sentinel Antidote (Mass-Aerosol Variant)
Rank: Legendary
Requirement: Alchemical Salts, Purified Mana-Water, Neutralizing Moss.
"Gather these," Rolien barked, listing the ingredients with clinical speed. The Rebel Leader, now acting out of a mix of fear and desperate redemption, scrambled to order his men. Crates were dragged out; rare herbs were brought from the stores.
With his 170 Dexterity, Rolien's hands became a blur. He didn't use a stirring rod; he used a specialized mixing attachment on his Jawbreaker. He followed the Legendary Recipe perfectly, his high Intelligence allowing him to stabilize the volatile necrotic reaction. Within an hour, several large barrels were filled with a glowing, sky-blue liquid.
"Half of this goes into the main river and the town wells," Rolien ordered. "The alkaline base will neutralize the bacteria at the source. The rest... you and your men will enter the villages secretly. Give it to the afflicted. If you created this hell, you will be the ones to walk through the fire to put it out."
The leader nodded solemnly. "We will do it. We'll send them as 'traveling healers.'"
Rolien watched as the first group of rebels departed with the vials. He then took a concentrated batch and headed for the capital's reservoir. From the shadows, he poured the cure into the water that fed the Valkarian elite. By sunrise, the "Black Death" wasn't just stalling—it was retreating.
After the mission, Rolien vanished into the trees to find clues. His mind turned to a specific sanctuary—a hideout he and Mr. Yohan had fortified years ago. He pushed his pace, desperate to check if his family had sought refuge there.
Rolien reached the coordinates of the southern safe zone, his heart hammering against his ribs. He expected to see the flickering firelight of a rebel camp or hear the familiar voices of Elian and Elara. Instead, the forest was crawling with the sharp, rhythmic clank of imperial steel. Using Universal Detection (Lv. 3), Rolien mapped the area. There were at least thirty Valkarian soldiers stationed around the entrance of his hidden bunker.
"Dammit," Rolien hissed, his fingers twitching. "Did I lose them again?"
He didn't hesitate, dropping from the canopy like a falling shadow. He moved with the efficiency of a machine. One soldier standing near a supply crate didn't see the blur before a Hammer Strike to the back of his neck sent him into instant unconsciousness. Rolien caught him, dragged him into the brush, and bound him.
Inside the cave entrance, two guards were leaning against the smooth metal walls Rolien had forged.
"Waste of time," one grumbled. "The rebels were gone before we even breached the perimeter. They move like rats through these tunnels."
"Commander says we stay," the other replied. "Just in case the Ghost Prince or those Grey brats crawl back for their supplies."
Rolien's eyes flared. They're out there. They escaped.
He blurred forward with Quick Dash, slamming their heads together with a sickening thud before they could draw their swords. Within minutes, the remaining soldiers were neutralized—knocked out and tied together with reinforced wire from his Item Box. Rolien then stepped into the light of a mana-lamp, his Jawbreaker arm clicking as he adjusted the tension. He splashed a bucket of cold water on a sergeant with a nasty scar.
The sergeant gasped awake, glaring at the masked figure. "You're just another rebel rat! It won't matter. Emperor Keain has the South in a vice. He'll find your little hideout and burn you all alive!"
Rolien leaned in, his Menace (Lv. 4) skill activating. The air grew heavy and suffocating. "Where are the Greys? Where is Darius?"
The sergeant laughed manically. "How should I know? The rumor is the two Grey children—the girl and the older brother—are leading the rats now, along with that Ghost Prince. But by the time we breached this hole, they had already fled. They didn't leave a single body for us to catch. They vanished into the mountains like smoke."
Rolien froze. The words "two Grey children" hit him harder than any physical blow. Elian and Elara. They weren't just alive; they were the heart of the resistance.
"So they really are out there," Rolien whispered.
The sergeant sneered. "For now. But the Inquisition has a trap set at Blackfort. They're using a high-ranking prisoner as bait—a man who served your 'Grand Duke.' If the rebels want their secrets back, they'll have to walk into the lion's mouth."
Rolien clicked his tongue in irritation. Tsk. The sound echoed in the metallic bunker. He was frustrated at the narrow miss and the realization that his family was walking into a massacre. His Core Level pulsed with a cold, protective fury.
"Blackfort," Rolien muttered, his mask clicking into place.
He didn't kill the soldiers, leaving them bound in the dark of his childhood bunker. He turned toward the exit, his Stat Points fueling his sprint. He didn't have time to be a doctor or an investigator anymore; he had to be the shield his family didn't know they still had.
"Hold on, Elian... Elara," Rolien whispered to the wind as he sprinted toward the Eastern mountains. "Don't worry big bro, big sis, mom... I'm coming!"
The wind whipped against Rolien's mask as he blurred through the mountain pass, his Agility pushing the limits of his stamina. Every second counted. But as he crested a jagged ridge overlooking the main imperial highway, he skidded to a halt, his Universal Detection pinging with a heavy cluster of hostile signatures.
Below, a Valkarian caravan was snaking its way toward the dark spires of Blackfort. It was a grotesque display of arrogance. At the front was an ornate, gilded carriage bearing the sigil of a minor Valkarian Count, draped in silk and guarded by armored knights. Behind it, chained like cattle and stumbling through the dirt, were dozens of captives.
Rolien's eyes narrowed as he assessed the force.
UNIVERSAL DETECTION (LV. 3) ACTIVE
Hostiles: 42 Imperial Soldiers, 8 Heavy Knights, 1 High-Tier Mage.
Target of Interest: High-discipline group among the captives.
"Tch. Not on my watch," Rolien muttered. He didn't have time for a detour, but his principles wouldn't let him walk away.
Rolien threw himself off the ridge. He hit the ground like a meteor, but with the silent grace of a predator. Before the rearguard could even register the shift in the wind, Rolien was among them. His Jawbreaker arm hissed as it shifted into OverDriver mode, blue sparks dancing between the plates.
CRACK-THOOM!
A single Hammer Strike to the ground sent a non-lethal kinetic shockwave through the dirt, buckling the knees of the rear guard. He was a whirlwind of grey cloth and humming steel. A knight raised a heavy shield, but Rolien's 170 Dexterity was too fast; he stepped inside the guard and delivered a focused Punchline burst, sending the knight tumbling thirty feet into the treeline.
The court mage scrambled out of the noble's carriage, his staff glowing with fire magic. "Burn the rat!"
Rolien didn't dodge. He used Quick Slash, his blade cutting the fireball in half as he surged forward. Before the mage could gasp, Rolien crushed the mana-gem in the staff with his mechanical hand and delivered a swift, silencing kick. The noble inside the carriage shrieked as Rolien ripped the gilded door off its hinges, snatched the ring of iron keys from the man's belt, and tossed him aside like trash.
Rolien moved to the back of the caravan, his fingers working the locks with surgical speed. Chains snapped like dry twigs. Most of the villagers fled toward the trees, but one group stayed behind—a band of ten men who stood with the rigid posture of soldiers, led by a man whose face was etched with exhaustion but whose eyes remained sharp.
The leader, a man with broad shoulders and a greying beard, stepped forward and bowed his head. "Thank you for saving us, young sir. I, Arden Grey of House Grey, am thanking you along with my ten men. You have done a great service to the kingdom of Cecerea this day."
Rolien froze. His mechanical arm made a faint clicking sound as it stilled. He knew that voice. It was the voice that had taught him how to hold a practice wooden sword; the voice that had laughed at his childhood inventions.
"Uncle... Den?" Rolien muttered, his voice cracking beneath the mask.
Arden Grey's eyes widened. He recoiled as if struck, his gaze searching the masked figure with sudden, desperate intensity. No one called him 'Den' anymore. Not since the fall of the capital.
"Ro... Rolien?" Arden's voice trembled. "Rowan? My boy... you're alive?!"
Rolien didn't wait. He reached up and unlatched the pressure seal of his mask. The cold mountain air hit his face as the mask hissed open. "Yeah, Uncle. It's me. I'm back."
For a heartbeat, the former Royal Knight stood in stunned silence. Then, letting out a ragged sob, Arden dashed forward and wrapped his nephew in a crushing embrace. "My boy! My boy! We knew it! We knew you couldn't have died in that blast! We always believed!"
"Yeah, yeah... me too, Uncle," Rolien said, patting Arden's back with his human hand, his eyes misting over. "I just arrived. I have so much to tell you... but first things first."
Rolien gently pushed back, his expression turning sharp and professional once more. He scanned the horizon, his Universal Detection still active. "We need to move out of here. This noble was important; there might be more patrols coming to check on his 'trophies.' We can't stay in the open."
Arden immediately wiped his eyes and straightened his posture, the fire of a Royal Knight returning to his soul. He turned to his ten men—the last of his loyal guard. "You heard him! Move! Grab the weapons from these cowards and take their food supplies. We aren't captives anymore—we're soldiers again!"
As his men scrambled to scavenge the defeated Valkarians, Arden turned back to Rolien. "Your siblings, Rolien... they're leading the resistance near Blackfort. They're walking into a trap."
"I know," Rolien said, clicking his mask back into place. The blue glow of his eyes returned. "That's why we're going to break that fort together. Ready to show them what House Grey still has?"
Arden grinned, gripping a scavenged sword. "Lead the way, my boy."
To be continued