The courtyard was already a graveyard. Smoke hung thick, choking the air with the smell of charred stone and blood. Darius was on his knees, sword planted in the cracked flagstone just to keep himself from falling flat. His chest heaved wetly with every breath. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, and the gash across his ribs had soaked through his gambeson in a dark, spreading stain. He could barely feel his left arm anymore.
Vorax loomed above him, blade still sheathed, red glow along the hilt pulsing slow and patient like a heartbeat counting down. The Slayer hadn't even drawn yet. He didn't need to. He'd been letting Thane have his fun, and now he was done waiting.
Leto was on the ground a few paces away, face purple, gasping like a fish on dry stone after Vorax had lifted him by the throat and squeezed. Mira was crawling toward him, hands trailing weak sparks of fire, her face streaked with tears and soot. Marcellus lay crumpled against a broken pillar—chest caved, eyes open but unseeing.
Elian staggered forward—sword dragging behind him like it weighed as much as his guilt. His legs shook. His breath came in ragged bursts. He threw himself between Leto and Darius just as Vorax raised the blade.
Steel flashed down—fast, merciless, aimed to split Elian from crown to groin.
Elian got his sword up in time. Barely. The impact drove him to one knee with a bone-jarring clang that echoed across the courtyard. The force traveled up his arms, through his shoulders, into his spine. His elbows buckled. The blade slid down, inching toward his neck. Cold steel kissed skin. He felt the edge bite—just enough to draw a thin line of red.
He looked up into the blank, glowing slits of Vorax's helm.
"Damn it, brother," Elian whispered, voice cracking. "I can't even get a chance to see you again. Or say my last goodbye to you. Please… take care of them, Roa. Save our kingdom."
He closed his eyes.
The blade descended.
A sound like thunder cracking open the sky.
Metal screamed.
Elian's eyes snapped open.
Vorax's sword was no longer in his hand. It was spinning high through the air—end over end—red glow winking out like a dying star. The Slayer himself staggered back a full step, shock plain even through the helm. His gauntleted hand flexed once, empty, as if he couldn't believe it was empty.
Explosions erupted behind Elian—sharp, clustered, deafening. Mana grenades detonated in tight groups along Luke's vanguard line. Shields shattered. Men screamed as blue-white beams lanced through armor and bone. Black-edged curse bubbles swarmed like angry hornets, popping against helms and breastplates with wet, corrosive cracks. Knights dropped, clutching faces, armor melting, skin blistering.
Elian's vision cleared.
Someone stood in front of him.
A familiar back.
Narrow shoulders that had always carried too much. Too young to bear it, too stubborn to put it down. The same back he'd seen six years ago when Rolien—barely a teenager—shoved him out of the way of a collapsing beam during a training accident, taking the hit himself and laughing it off with blood in his teeth.
The same back.
Elian's throat closed.
"Rolien…?"
The figure turned his head just enough.
Mask cracked along one seam. Blue glow leaking through like blood from a wound. Jawbreaker arm still smoking from whatever insane flight had brought him here.
"Hey there, big brother," Rolien said. Voice rough from smoke and shouting, but the grin underneath was wide—wide as it used to be when they were kids and Elian had just taught him a new sword trick. "Wuzzup. Long time no see."
He winked.
Elian's eyes burned. Hot. Sudden. He didn't even try to stop the tears. They just came—silent, fast, carving clean lines through the blood and ash on his face.
Rolien was here.
Alive.
Home.
The courtyard kept burning around them.
But for the first time in six years, Elian Grey felt something inside him loosen.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero : " No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 32.2 : The Hero has Return!
Vorax didn't rush these things. Why bother? The boy prince was already on his knees, sword trembling like a leaf in the wind, blood dripping from his mouth in slow, sticky strings. The old knight—Marcellus—was crumpled against the pillar, chest caved in, eyes glassy but still flickering with that stupid defiance. Vorax felt a flicker of respect for that. Not much, but enough to notice. Most men broke faster.
He raised his blade higher, the red glow along the edge pulsing in time with his breath. The weight felt good in his grip—familiar, like an old scar. He'd end the prince quick. Clean cut. Neck to navel. Let the body drop and be done with it. Luke wanted the head, but Vorax didn't care about trophies. He cared about the job. The kill. The quiet after.
Thane was laughing somewhere to his left—wet, amused sound that grated on Vorax's ears. Thane always played too long. Let them fight back. Let them hope. Vorax preferred silence. Efficiency. One swing. Done.
The blade descended.
Then—clang.
Loud as a forge hammer on cold steel. The impact jarred up Vorax's arm, straight into his shoulder, like hitting an immovable wall. His sword flew—spun high into the air, red glow winking out mid-twist. Vorax staggered back a step, shock hitting him like cold water. Who—?
Explosions ripped the courtyard. Sharp cracks, one after another, mana grenades detonating in clusters. Luke's vanguard screamed as beams lanced through—blue-white flashes punching holes in shields, armor, flesh. Curse bubbles swarmed like angry wasps, popping against helms with wet hisses, melting metal, blistering skin. Men dropped clutching faces, throats, eyes.
Vorax spun. Looked.
A figure stood there—mask cracked, glowing blue arm smoking, stance low and ready. The back to the prince and his idiots, shoulders squared like he was used to carrying the world. Vorax felt a chill crawl up his spine. The arm… that glow… the curse veins threading black under the plating. He knew that feel. Knew that hunger.
The figure turned his head slightly. Winked at one of the kneelers.
Vorax's grip tightened on his empty hand. This wasn't in the plan. This boy—this thing—had parried his full swing like it was nothing. Vorax's arms still tingled from the force. No one did that. Not Sophia with her nuke light six years ago. Not anyone.
He reached for his backup dagger.
The courtyard kept burning.
And the boy smiled wider.
The first mana spike had hit like a kick to the chest—sharp, distant, impossible to ignore even through five full days of hard trail. Blackfort was far. Too far. Five days on foot, maybe four if you killed the horses and ran yourself ragged. But that spike had crossed every mile in a heartbeat, and now the second one was coming, and the third—
I didn't wait for the fourth.
The Punchline arm was already humming under my skin, curse veins pulsing hot like they could smell blood on the wind. I flexed it once—rocket booster kicked in with a roar that echoed off the tunnel walls. The citizens flinched, kids cried out, but I didn't have time to explain.
"Arden!" I shouted over the noise. "Get them to the mine! Seal it!"
Arden's scarred face twisted—anger, worry, that old stubborn look he always got when I was about to do something stupid.
"You little—"
I didn't hear the rest. The booster fired full. The arm shot upward, dragging me with it. I twisted mid-air, landed on the back of my own forearm like it was a board, knees bent, weight forward. The rocket flame scorched the stone behind me as I rocketed out of the tunnel mouth and into open sky.
Wind slammed into my face—cold, hard, tearing at the mask. The ground fell away fast. Stonevein's peaks blurred below, then the foothills, then the long valley stretch toward Blackfort. Five days on foot. One hour like this. Maybe less if the arm didn't burn out first.
The curse veins flared brighter with every second—black threads glowing angry red under the plating, feeding off the strain. The arm vibrated like it was trying to shake itself apart. Pain spiked up my shoulder, hot and deep, but I gritted my teeth and leaned harder into the wind.
I could feel them now—faint pulses of mana still leaking from the direction of Blackfort. Spikes. Explosions. Screams I couldn't hear but could somehow feel in my bones. Elian. Darius. Leto and Mira. They were in it. And they were losing.
The horizon tilted as I pushed the booster harder. Smoke trailed behind me—my own arm cooking itself alive. The plating glowed dull orange in spots. Warning lights I'd never bothered to install flashed in my head: too hot, too fast, too much.
I didn't care.
One hour.
Maybe forty minutes.
The valley opened up below—Blackfort's black silhouette against the gray sky, smoke rising thick from the walls. Luke's banners snapped in the wind. Red and gold. I could see the courtyard now—tiny figures clashing, blades flashing, bodies dropping.
I saw Elian.
On his knees. Vorax's blade raised high. The swing coming down.
My stomach dropped.
No.
I yanked the Punchline back—mental command, sharp as a knife. The arm snapped to my stump with a painful clunk. Mod switch: Gerbarra. Palm split open. I fired blind—multiple small beam bursts, blue-white lances stitching across Luke's vanguard line. Soldiers screamed as beams punched through shields, chests, helms. Bodies dropped in clusters. Armor melted where the energy hit.
Luke was advancing—hand raised, violet light gathering. I switched again—Overdrive. The arm crackled with electricity, curse veins flaring black. I thrust it forward. A pillar of lightning shot out—thick, branching, slamming into the ground right in Luke's path. The earth exploded upward in a shower of dirt and stone. He staggered back, clicking his tongue—sharp, annoyed.
"Tch."
I didn't stop. Mod switch: Galo. Palm opened wider. Curse bubbles swarmed out—black-edged, hungry spheres that drifted fast toward the enemy ranks. They popped on contact—wet cracks, corrosive mist eating through metal and flesh. Men clawed at their faces, screaming as skin blistered and armor dissolved.
I pulled the clustered mana grenades from my item box—small, glowing orbs I'd prepped weeks ago. Tossed them high—fifteen, twenty—scattering like seeds over Luke's line.
They detonated.
Chained blasts ripped through the ranks—orange and white fireballs blooming, shields shattering, men flying. Smoke billowed thick.
I dropped—knees bending to absorb the impact as I landed hard on the courtyard stone. Right in front of Elian. Vorax's blade was already swinging back down—recovering from the parry, aiming to finish what he'd started.
I activated Holloveil Force. Spirit energy surged—hot, wild, nothing like mana. It flooded my veins, sharpening everything: strength, speed, toughness. No glow. No show. Just raw power coiling under my skin.
Vorax's blade came down—full force.
Rolien lunged forward—one long step, body low, weight shifting onto his front foot. The Jawbreaker arm coiled back behind his hip like a spring winding tight. Curse veins flared black and angry under the plating, drinking in every ounce of spirit he could pull. Holloveil Force was already surging through him—hot, wild, spirit energy flooding muscle and bone until everything felt sharper, heavier, unstoppable.
He exhaled once—sharp, controlled—and drove upward.
"Hammer Strike."
Not the normal one. The variation he'd only ever used once before, when he was cornered in that collapsing cavern back in the other world. The one that turned his fist into something closer to a battering ram than a punch.
He twisted at the waist, hips snapping first, then shoulders, then elbow—all the force channeling straight up through his arm in a single, perfect line. The Jawbreaker's knuckles glowed a dull, angry silver as spirit energy condensed at the impact point. No flashy light. No explosion of color. Just raw, focused weight.
Vorax's blade met his rising fist dead center.
The collision was ugly.
Metal screamed—high, tortured, like two pieces of the world grinding against each other until one gave. The red glow along Vorax's edge flickered, stuttered, then snapped out completely. The Slayer's arms buckled upward—both of them—shoulders jarring back so hard his whole torso lifted off the ground for a split second. The blade flew free, spinning end over end into the smoke-choked sky, trailing dying sparks.
Vorax staggered—two full steps back, boots gouging furrows in the stone. For the first time since the fight started, the Slayer actually looked off-balance. His helm tilted like he was trying to understand what had just happened.
Rolien didn't give him time to figure it out.
He landed from the uppercut in a low crouch, arm still extended, knuckles smoking. The curse veins throbbed hot under the plating, feeding on the impact like they were starving. He looked over his shoulder at Elian—big brother on one knee, sword trembling, eyes wide and wet, staring up at him like he'd seen a ghost.
Rolien forced a grin, even though his shoulder felt like someone had driven a spike through it.
"Hey there, big brother," he said, voice rough from smoke and adrenaline. "Wuzzup. Long time no see."
He winked.
Behind him, the clustered mana grenades he'd scattered earlier finally hit their peak fuse.
The courtyard erupted.
To be continued…