Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero
"No Magic No Problem!"
Encounter 22: The Weight of Six Years
The horses' hooves beat a rhythmic tempo against the mountain path as Rolien and Arden rode toward the looming shadow of Blackfort. The ten veteran soldiers trailed behind, keeping a sharp eye on the ridges, but the air between the uncle and nephew was heavy with the ghosts of the past.
"Six years, Rolien," Arden began, his voice raspy. "While you were... wherever you were, the world burned. The Valkarian Empire didn't just invade; they erased us. The Cecerean banners were torn down in a single week of blood."
Rolien listened, his hands tight on the reins. He told Arden about his "five days" in the Box, the confusion of coming back to ruins. But as Arden reached the part about the capital, the elder's face went pale.
"Greybrook... it wasn't just a siege, my boy. They used something we didn't think was possible. Nuclear Magic. A concentrated mana-collapse that turned the city center into a crater of white ash. It wasn't a battle; it was a nuke."
Rolien nearly fell from his saddle. "Nuclear magic? Who... who in this world is capable of that? That's not just mana—that's splitting the fundamental laws of reality!"
"Emperor Keain's personal mages," Arden spat. "But the worst was the border. Your father, Edric... he stood his ground to let the civilians escape. He was a lion, Rolien. He and his guard managed to bring down one of the new Valkarian Dragon Slayers. They actually killed one of the 'unbeatable' ones."
Rolien's heart swelled with pride for a moment, but then he saw the look in Arden's eyes.
"But the one who delivered the final blow... who executed him while he was wounded and exhausted... it was Grand Duke Vermorth."
Rolien pulled his horse to a violent halt. The dust kicked up around them as he stared at Arden, his eyes wide with a horrifying realization. The image of Vermorth in the alley—the man who had thanked him, the man he had almost respected for caring about the plague victims—flashed in his mind.
"You're joking, right?" Rolien's voice was a ragged whisper. "Father wouldn't go down like that. Not to a man who talks about honor."
Arden shook his head solemnly. "It was him. I saw the sigil. I saw the blade."
Rolien's blood began to boil, a heat more intense than any engine in his Jawbreaker. His mechanical hand gripped the hilt of his sword so hard the metal groaned and sparked. "That fucker! After what I did for his people! After I stayed my hand in that alley! Uncle, I promise you... he will die by my hands. I'll dismantle his 'honor' piece by piece."
After a long silence, Rolien forced himself to breathe, calming the internal alarms of his system. "Tell me about the others. My siblings... my mother."
Arden's expression softened slightly. "Your mother, Lady Lirien, is alive. She is the soul of the resistance, keeping the morale high in the hidden camps. And Elian and Elara... they aren't children anymore. They lead the soldiers. Elara has her mother's fire, and Elian has your father's tactical mind. They recently found Crown Prince Darius—he survived the purge and has joined them. Together, they are the 'Southern Trinity.'"
Rolien let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Mom is alive... thank God."
"We were on our way to meet an allied merchant in the Elroy Dukedom," Arden explained, gesturing to his men. "We needed supplies—food, medicine, steel. But we were sold out. A Valkarian patrol was waiting. They captured us and were parading us toward Blackfort to break the resistance's spirit by showing them their 'Royal Knight' in chains."
Arden pointed toward the dark fortress ahead. "Elian and Elara are planning to hit that fort tonight. They heard a rumor that a high-ranking Grey official was inside—they think it's your father's old advisor. But it's a trap, Rolien. The Valkarians want them to attack. They've lined the walls with Null-Mana ballistas and have an ambush unit waiting in the valley."
Rolien checked his Universal Detection. Faint pings were starting to appear.
"They're walking into a slaughterhouse," Rolien muttered, his mask clicking shut. The blue glow of his eyes was colder than the mountain air. "They think they're rescuing a prisoner. They don't know they're the ones being hunted."
He looked at Arden and the ten veterans. "Uncle, you take your men and flank the northern ridge. Disrupt their ballistas if you can. I'm going straight through the front. I'm not losing my family a second time."
Arden gripped his scavenged sword, a fierce grin returning to his face. "Give 'em hell, Rolien. Show them what a 'Magicless' Grey can really do."
The rain fell in cold, jagged needles, masking the sound of thousands of boots on wet stone. Behind the cover of the treeline, Elian Grey signaled a halt to the massive column of rebel soldiers. Beside him, Elara checked the tension on her bowstring, her eyes fixed on the black spires of the fortress.
"The scouts say the gate rotation happens in five minutes," Elian whispered, his voice deeper and harder than the brother Rolien once knew.
Lady Lirien, draped in a tactical grey cloak, stood behind her children. She looked regal even in the mud, her face a mask of cold determination. "Be careful, my son. The Inquisition doesn't leave doors unlocked by accident."
"We have the Asher Hawks leading the vanguard, Mother," Elara reminded her, nodding toward the elite mercenary squad.
Tessa, the leader of the Hawks, adjusted her twin daggers. "The plan is solid, Elian. Brag, you take point. If those gates don't budge, you're our battering ram."
Brag, a mountain of a man with a tower shield, grunted a silent affirmation. Ren, the elven scout, narrowed his eyes as he peered through his longbow's enchanted sight. "Solis, Peter... you sensing anything?"
Solis, the wizard, held a crystal focus that stayed dim. "Nothing. It's like the fort is dead."
"Or it's a Null-Zone," Peter, the younger mage, wiped sweat from his brow. "If it is, Solis and I are just guys with fancy sticks once we step inside."
"Army, forward!" Elian commanded. "For Cecerea! For the Greys!"
The rebel army surged forward, a sea of ragged banners and iron-willed men. Brag slammed his shield into the side postern gate, and Solis used a concentrated blast of alchemy to rot the hinges. The door gave way with a groan.
They burst into the courtyard—and stopped. It was empty. No guards. No torches. Only the sound of the rain hitting the stones.
"It's a ghost town," Tessa hissed, her blades ready.
Suddenly, the heavy iron portcullis behind them slammed shut with a thunderous CLANG, cutting the vanguard and the leadership off from the main army outside. From the high balconies, hundreds of torches flared to life at once. The light revealed rows of Valkarian crossbowmen and massive Null-Mana Ballistas aimed directly at the center of the courtyard.
"Welcome, little rebels," a voice boomed from the shadows. A high-ranking Inquisitor in crimson robes stepped forward. "Did you really think we'd leave a survivor of the Grey Guard unguarded? There is no prisoner. Only your graves."
"Shields up!" Elian shouted.
TWANG—!
The first volley of bolts hissed through the air. Brag raised his massive shield, the wood splintering. Solis tried to cast a barrier, but the air fizzled. "The Null-Field! It's active! I can't reach the mana!"
The rebel soldiers inside the courtyard were being shredded. Outside the gate, the rest of the rebel army was screaming, hammering against the iron portcullis, helpless.
"Is this it?" Elara gritted her teeth, standing back-to-back with Elian and Lady Lirien as the Inquisition's elite infantry closed in, halberds leveled at their throats.
The Rebel Hidden Camp — Midnight
While the rain lashed against the stones of Blackfort, a different kind of storm was brewing at the southern camp. In a dimly lit medical tent, Sir Marcellus lay beneath a pile of furs, his chest wrapped in thick bandages. His face was pale, his breath shallow, still recovering from the brutal wounds sustained during their last narrow escape.
The tent flap was suddenly ripped open.
"Sir! Sir Marcellus, wake up!"
Marcellus's eyes snapped open—a warrior's instinct overriding the heavy fog of exhaustion. He sat up with a pained groan, his hand reflexively reaching for a sword that wasn't there.
A young scout, drenched to the bone and shivering, stood over him. The boy was gasping for air, his face white with terror. "I'm sorry, Sir... I was late. The Valkarian patrol... they pinned me down in the ravine for hours. I just got back."
"Speak, boy," Marcellus rasped, his voice like grinding gravel. "Where is Elian? Where is the Lady?"
"They've already departed for Blackfort, sir! They left three hours ago!" The scout's voice cracked. "But the intel was a lie! I intercepted a courier on the way back. It's a trap, Sir! The Inquisition isn't just guarding the fort—they've moved a full legion into the hidden valleys. They're waiting for the vanguard to enter the courtyard before they seal the gates!"
Marcellus felt a cold dread sink into his gut, sharper than any blade. "Gods above... they're walking into a slaughterhouse."
Encounter 26: The Lion's Alarm
The Rebel Hidden Camp — Midnight
While the rain lashed against the stones of Blackfort, a different kind of storm was brewing at the southern camp. In a dimly lit medical tent, Sir Marcellus lay beneath a pile of furs, his chest wrapped in thick bandages. His face was pale, his breath shallow, still recovering from the brutal wounds sustained during their last narrow escape.
The tent flap was suddenly ripped open.
"Sir! Sir Marcellus, wake up!"
Marcellus's eyes snapped open—a warrior's instinct overriding the heavy fog of exhaustion. He sat up with a pained groan, his hand reflexively reaching for a sword that wasn't there.
A young scout, drenched to the bone and shivering, stood over him. The boy was gasping for air, his face white with terror. "I'm sorry, Sir... I was late. The Valkarian patrol... they pinned me down in the ravine for hours. I just got back."
"Speak, boy," Marcellus rasped, his voice like grinding gravel. "Where is Elian? Where is the Lady?"
"They've already departed for Blackfort, sir! They left three hours ago!" The scout's voice cracked. "But the intel was a lie! I intercepted a courier on the way back. It's a trap, Sir! The Inquisition isn't just guarding the fort—they've moved a full legion into the hidden valleys. They're waiting for the vanguard to enter the courtyard before they seal the gates!"
Marcellus felt a cold dread sink into his gut, sharper than any blade. "Gods above... they're walking into a slaughterhouse."
Despite the agonizing flare of pain in his side, Marcellus threw the furs off and stood up. His legs wobbled, but he braced himself against the wooden tent pole.
"You," Marcellus pointed at the scout. "Don't stop to rest. Take the fastest mare we have. Ride East. Find Prince Darius at the border of the neutral territories. Tell him his kingdom is about to lose its heart. Tell him to bring every ally, every mercenary, and every blade he has gathered. We need a relief force, or no one is coming home tonight!"
The scout saluted and vanished back into the rain.
Marcellus limped out of the tent into the center of the camp. The fires were low, and only the injured and a handful of reserve soldiers remained.
"Listen to me!" Marcellus's roar echoed through the camp, silencing the wind. The soldiers scrambled to their feet, startled by the sight of the wounded commander standing in the rain. "Our brothers and sisters have marched into a lion's mouth! We are the only thing standing between them and a shallow grave!"
"But Sir, your wounds—" one soldier started.
"My wounds will heal in the dirt if we don't move!" Marcellus barked. "Every man who can still hold a spear, mount up! We aren't here to take the fort. We are here to cover their retreat! We ride for Blackfort!"
With grim faces, the remaining twenty soldiers—most of them bandaged or limping—grabbed their gear. They didn't have the numbers to win a war, but they had the desperation of men who had nothing left to lose.
Marcellus hauled himself onto his horse, his face set in a grimace of iron. He looked toward the dark mountains where the faint glow of Blackfort sat on the horizon.
"Hold on, Elian," Marcellus whispered, clicking his tongue to urge the horse forward. "Just hold on a little longer."
Meanwhile, at Blackfort...
The Inquisitor lowered his hand. "First rank... fire!"
The sound of a hundred crossbows echoed like a crack of thunder. Brag's shield shattered under the concentrated fire, and Elian pulled Elara behind him as the bolts rained down. The rebel vanguard was being compressed into the center of the courtyard, the walls of Valkarian shields closing in like a tightening noose.
Just as the Inquisitor opened his mouth to order the second volley—the one that would end the Grey lineage—the massive outer gates of the fort didn't just rattle.
They disintegrated.
A blue streak of kinetic energy punched through the iron-bound wood, sending the heavy doors flying inward. And through the dust, the heavy mechanical thud of a metal boot hit the stone.
To be continued