Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero: " No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 28: Whispers from the West
Rolien flexed the Jawbreaker again in the corridor outside the pools, the low hum vibrating up his shoulder like a second heartbeat. The new weight felt good—solid, balanced, not the desperate patchwork it had been. Those faint black veins under the blue glow caught his eye every time he moved, like ink bleeding through water. He could almost taste the curse in it now, not as something foreign, but as an old, patient hunger that matched the one he carried inside.
Arden caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. "You gonna stand there admiring it all day, or are we testing the damn thing?"
Rolien glanced around. The corridor was wide enough—rough-hewn stone walls, a few hanging phosphor lanterns casting steady amber light, no one else in sight except a distant dwarf hauling coal who didn't even look their way. Perfect.
He rolled his neck once, cracked his knuckles with the flesh hand. "Yeah. Let's see what she can do now."
Arden didn't hesitate. He shrugged off his cloak, tossed it over a nearby bench, and dropped into a loose guard—knees bent, hands open, weight on the balls of his feet. The man was built like a weathered oak: scarred, thick through the shoulders, but still fast when he needed to be. "No holding back," he said. "Hit me like you mean it. I'll block what I can."
Rolien nodded. He raised the Jawbreaker, fingers curling into a loose fist. The arm responded instantly—smoother than before, power coiling tight in the elbow and wrist. Then the familiar chime rang in his head, soft but clear, like a bell struck underwater.
A translucent window flickered into view at the edge of his vision.
Jawbreaker – Reforged
Mod: GALO
Core Integration: Curse Dragon Residue (Bones & Fangs)
New Features Unlocked:
Bubble Veil (Quick Release) – Rapid deployment of multiple corrosive bubbles. Fast spread, moderate damage on contact, lingers for area denial.
Abyssal Sphere (Charged) – Forms a single large containment bubble. Traps target, drastically reduces movement speed, amplifies internal pressure. On rupture: massive burst damage + curse corrosion (reduces enemy armor/resistance over time).
Passive: Dragon's Hunger – Strikes build residual curse energy. Overflow converts to temporary power surge (increased impact force, minor self-repair on plating).
Rolien blinked once. "Galo?" he muttered under his breath. The name felt right somehow—sharp, hungry, like the arm had picked it itself. He shook his head, refocused.
Arden was waiting, patient. "Whenever you're ready, kid."
Rolien exhaled, stepped in, and triggered the quick release.
He snapped his arm forward like throwing a punch, but instead of fist meeting flesh, the Jawbreaker's palm split open with a soft pneumatic hiss. A swarm of fist-sized bubbles erupted—translucent, faintly iridescent, trailing thin black wisps of curse smoke. They spread fast, a loose cloud that drifted toward Arden like soap suds from hell.
Arden moved—side-step, twist, batting two away with open palms. The bubbles popped on contact with his skin; each one burst with a sharp crack and a sizzle, leaving red welts that smoked faintly. He grunted, surprised more than hurt. "That stings like acid."
Rolien didn't stop. He clenched the fist again, this time channeling the charge. The arm whirred louder, black veins pulsing brighter. A single, much larger bubble formed in front of his palm—dark at the core, edges shimmering green-black like oil on water. He thrust forward and the sphere shot out, expanding mid-flight until it swallowed Arden whole.
Arden froze inside it, movements slowing to a crawl like he was wading through molasses. His face twisted in concentration; he tried to swing, but the bubble flexed and pushed back, tightening. Rolien felt the curse feeding—drawing on the trapped energy, building pressure.
Then it popped.
A concussive boom rolled through the corridor, not loud enough to shake stone but sharp enough to make Rolien's ears ring. Arden staggered back three steps, cloak singed, arms crossed in front of his face. Black scorch marks striped his forearms, shallow but angry, and the air around him smelled like burnt ozone and old rot. He lowered his guard slowly, breathing hard, a grin cracking through the grimace.
"Goddess's tits," he said, shaking out his hands. "That one actually hurt."
Rolien lowered the arm, staring at it. The blue glow had dimmed a little after the release, but the black veins still pulsed faintly, satisfied. He opened and closed the fingers again, feeling the new depth in every motion—the way the curse residue seemed to lean into the impact, hungry for more.
"Well," he said quietly, almost to himself, "that's not a bad arm."
Arden laughed once—short, rough, the sound of a man who'd just been reminded he wasn't invincible. "Understatement of the year. You keep that thing pointed at Vermorth's boys, we might actually stand a chance."
Rolien didn't smile back right away. He kept looking at the Jawbreaker—Galo—like he was seeing it for the first time. The arm had always been his crutch, his edge, his reminder that he could still fight without magic. Now it felt like more. Like it remembered the dragon his father had slain, like it carried a piece of that victory forward. The curse wasn't a burden anymore. It was fuel.
He glanced toward the pools. Lyra was probably watching from the doorway now, silver hair catching the lantern light, eyes wide but proud. Thrain stood behind her, arms crossed, nodding once like he'd expected nothing less.
Rolien took a slow breath. The weight on his shoulders didn't vanish, but it shifted—less like a chain, more like a weapon he finally knew how to use.
"Alright," he said, voice steady. "Let's get Lyra back on her feet. Then we figure out where we hit first."
Meanwhile at near at pendragon estate.
The road into Hollowmere was little more than two ruts worn into the clay, flanked by low stone fences that had long since stopped pretending to keep anything in or out. Rain had fallen off and on for three days, turning the ground soft and treacherous; hooves sank with every step, sucking mud that clung like wet hands. Vermorth Pendragon rode alone, cloak heavy with water, hood pulled low so only the scar along his jaw caught the weak afternoon light. He had left his escort at the last crossroads—six riders in muted gray, faces he trusted to stay silent and stay back. This was not a show of force. This was listening.
The village appeared around the final bend like something half-forgotten. Cottages of rough gray stone crouched together under roofs of dark slate, chimneys trailing thin threads of smoke that smelled faintly of damp peat and healing herbs. The epidemic had passed only weeks ago, but the marks remained: shuttered windows still boarded from quarantine, a cart left tipped in the lane with one wheel cracked, patches of ground where grass refused to grow because bodies had lain there too long. A dog—mangy, ribs showing—watched him from an alley mouth, tail low, eyes wary.
Vermorth dismounted near the central well. The wooden bucket hung crooked, rope frayed. He let the reins fall loose; his horse, a tall black gelding with a white blaze, stood still, ears flicking at every small sound. The duke did not call out. He never did in places like this. He simply waited.
It took less than a minute.
A woman stepped from the nearest doorway—forty, maybe, hair pulled back in a tight knot, apron stained with what looked like boiled liniment. She carried a child on her hip, no more than three, cheeks still flushed from recent fever. The woman stopped at the edge of the porch, one hand resting on the doorframe like she might bolt back inside.
"You're him," she said. Not a question.
Vermorth inclined his head a fraction. "Duke Vermorth Pendragon."
She studied him like she was measuring cloth for a shroud. "We didn't ask for help. Didn't need it in the end."
"I know." He gestured toward the empty square. "May I walk?"
She hesitated, then nodded once. The child buried his face in her shoulder.
They moved together through the lane, boots squelching. Vermorth kept his pace slow, hands clasped behind his back. The woman matched him step for step, child quiet against her.
"Tell me how it ended," he said.
She exhaled through her nose. "One night the fever broke. All at once. Like someone snuffed a candle. My boy woke up asking for water. Old Marta down the lane opened her eyes and cursed the draft. We thought it was a miracle. Then we found the bottles."
"Bottles?"
"Small glass vials. Left on doorsteps before dawn. Bitter as gall, but it worked. One sip every four hours. By the third day most were on their feet. We never saw who left them. Just… footprints in the mud. One set. Heavy boots. And a faint blue glow, like foxfire, fading west toward the ridges."
Vermorth's expression did not change, but his fingers tightened once behind his back. "And the footprints?"
"Large. Man's. But the stride was… careful. Like someone carrying weight on one side."
He nodded slowly. They had reached the far end of the village, where the lane gave way to open pasture sloping up toward the Ironspine foothills. The mountains rose sharp and black, mist clinging to their lower slopes like smoke from a dying fire. Somewhere up there, hidden in the folds of rock, was Stonevein Hold. And Rolien Grey.
The woman shifted the child to her other hip. "You're hunting him."
"I am looking for him," Vermorth corrected. "There is a difference."
She snorted softly. "Tell that to the wanted posters. Five thousand gold for the White Wraith, dead or alive. That's not looking. That's blood money."
Vermorth turned to face her fully for the first time. His eyes were the color of winter slate—flat, unreadable. "The posters are Luke Arcadia's. Not mine."
She searched his face. Found nothing she could read. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I need to know if he is still breathing." Vermorth looked back toward the peaks. "And if he is, I need to know where."
Silence stretched between them. Wind moved through the grass, carrying the faint mineral tang of distant hot springs.
The woman finally spoke again, quieter. "There were three of them. A man with scars all over his face—old soldier, walked like he expected knives in every shadow. A woman, silver hair, moved like she was hurt but wouldn't admit it. And him. Masked. One arm glowing blue under the cloak. He didn't speak to anyone. Just left the medicine and vanished."
Vermorth absorbed the words without reaction. "When?"
"Ten days ago. Maybe eleven. They passed through at night. Didn't stop long enough to be seen by more than a handful."
He nodded once. "You have my thanks."
She gave a short, bitter laugh. "For what? Telling you where to send your dogs?"
"For keeping your people alive." He reached into his cloak, produced a small leather pouch, and placed it in her free hand. Coins clinked softly inside. "For the child's medicine. And for silence."
She looked down at the pouch, then back at him. "You think coin buys quiet?"
"No," Vermorth said. "But it buys time."
He turned and walked back toward his horse. The woman watched him go, fingers closing around the pouch like she wasn't sure whether to throw it after him or keep it.
Vermorth mounted without looking back. The gelding sidestepped once, eager to move. He reined it west, toward the rising ground. Half a mile out, where the village disappeared behind a low rise, he stopped again. Pulled a small silver whistle from his cuff—sharp, almost silent—and blew three short notes.
From the treeline to the north, three riders detached themselves—cloaked, hooded, horses dark and quiet. They approached without speaking.
"Foothills," Vermorth said. "Stonevein sector. Three targets: scarred soldier, silver-haired woman, masked man with glowing arm. Confirm sighting only. No engagement. Report directly to me."
The lead rider—tall, face hidden—nodded once. "And if Arcadia's people arrive first?"
Vermorth's scar twitched. "Then we pretend we were never here."
The riders melted back into the trees.
Vermorth sat a moment longer, staring at the distant black peaks. Wind tugged at his hood. Somewhere up there, Rolien Grey was still breathing, still running, still carrying a piece of Edric's fire in that cursed arm.
Vermorth allowed himself one quiet exhale.
"Good," he murmured. "Keep running a little longer, boy. I'm coming."
He turned the horse and rode west into the gathering dusk.
To be continue...