Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero : " No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 33: The Clash of Two souls! Part 1
Rolien kept his arm locked around Vorax's blade, the curse veins in the Jawbreaker pulsing black and hot against the red glow of the Slayer's weapon. The metal was still singing from the impact—high-pitched, angry, like two pieces of the world refusing to fit together. He could feel the vibration traveling up his elbow, into his shoulder, but he didn't let go.
He turned his head just enough to look at Elian.
Big brother was still on one knee, sword trembling in his grip, blood streaking down his face in dark lines. His eyes were wide—red-rimmed, wet, staring up at Rolien like he was afraid if he blinked the kid would disappear again.
Rolien swallowed once. His throat felt raw from smoke and shouting.
"Hey," he said, voice quieter than he meant it to be. "I got this."
Elian's lips parted, but nothing came out at first. Then a shaky breath. "Ro…"
"Rest now, okay?" Rolien forced a small, crooked smile under the cracked mask. "You've been carrying it long enough. Let me take a turn."
Elian's hand tightened on his sword hilt. He shook his head—small, stubborn, the same way he used to shake it when Rolien tried to stay up past bedtime. "No. Not leaving you—"
"You're not leaving," Rolien cut in. "You're just… sitting this one out. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere again."
Vorax didn't wait for the family reunion to finish.
The Slayer wrenched his blade free with a sudden, brutal twist—metal scraping metal, sparks spitting. Rolien's arm jerked sideways from the force, but he was already moving. He released the blade, spun on his heel, and drove forward.
Vorax swung again—wide, sweeping cut meant to bisect him at the waist.
Rolien ducked under it, low and fast. His left leg snapped up in a tight arc—roundhouse kick, knee bending at the last second so the arc came in sharp instead of wide. Spirit energy surged through the motion—Holloveil Force coiling tight in his thigh, then releasing like a whip crack. The variation hit different this time: instead of a flat impact, he channeled the Hammer Strike principle straight into the kick. The heel of his boot glowed dull silver for half a heartbeat as spirit condensed at the contact point.
The kick landed square on Vorax's chest plate.
A dull boom rolled out—more felt than heard. The Slayer's torso rocked backward, armor denting inward in a fist-shaped crater. Black blood sprayed from a fresh crack in the scale. Vorax actually slid back two full steps, boots gouging furrows in the stone.
But he didn't go down.
He laughed—low, grinding, the sound of stones tumbling in a steel drum.
"Better," he rumbled. "Still not enough."
Vorax lunged—blade flashing in a tight, vicious diagonal. Rolien sidestepped, brought the Jawbreaker up in a parry—steel clanged against claw, curse veins flaring as they drank the force. He twisted his wrist, redirected the momentum, stepped inside the reach, and snapped another kick into Vorax's knee joint. The Slayer grunted, leg buckling for half a second before he recovered.
Rolien danced back—light on his feet, breathing hard through his teeth.
"Tch," he muttered, wiping sweat from under the mask with his free hand. "What? No chitchat? No monologue?"
Vorax tilted his helm, silent.
Rolien snorted. "Getting right to the point, huh."
He reached behind his back with his flesh hand—quick draw from the hidden holster at his lower spine. The air pistol came out smooth—small, matte black, barrel already glowing faint blue from the compressed curse rounds he'd loaded earlier.
He leveled it at Vorax's helm.
The Slayer paused.
Rolien's grin turned sharp under the mask.
"Let's see how you like this one."
He squeezed the trigger.
Meanwhile
Mira reached Elian first, dropping to her knees beside him so fast her torn skirt ripped another seam. Her hands were already glowing—soft golden light, the kind she'd practiced in secret back when they were all still kids sneaking out to the old training yard after curfew. She pressed both palms to the worst gash on his side, the one where Vorax's claw had torn through armor and flesh like it was parchment.
"Hold still," she muttered, voice tight. "Don't move or I'll make it hurt worse on purpose."
Elian hissed through his teeth as the light sank in, knitting torn muscle and sealing skin. It burned like salt in a cut, but the bleeding slowed almost immediately. He leaned back against the broken pillar, chest rising and falling in ragged pulls, eyes still locked on Rolien's back.
Leto slid in next, crouching on Elian's other side. He wiped blood off his own forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a dark smear, and stared at Rolien like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
"Man," Leto said, half-laugh, half-disbelief, "I think he didn't age one bit. I'm jealous."
Mira didn't even look up from her healing. Her fingers pressed harder against Elian's ribs, golden light flaring brighter for a second. "Shut it, Leto. Rolien's always been that handsome. But yeah… he's like he's still sixteen. Exactly like he was before he vanished."
Elian let out a rough laugh that turned into a wet cough. He tasted copper again, but the pain was dulling under Mira's hands. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntlet, smearing more blood, then looked at Rolien—still standing there, Jawbreaker arm smoking, mask cracked, shoulders squared like the weight of the whole damn courtyard wasn't even registering.
"Hahaha—cough, cough—he always has this kind of dramatic entrance." Elian's voice cracked on the last word, but the smile stayed. "We're safe now. He's here."
Mira's light pulsed once more, then faded. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, sweat beading on her upper lip. "You're not dying today, at least. But if you pull another stunt like that again, I swear I'll heal you just enough to feel every bruise."
Leto snorted, still staring at Rolien. "He just dropped out of the sky riding his own arm like it's a surfboard. I'm never gonna let him live that down."
Elian coughed again—lighter this time—and pushed himself up straighter. His eyes never left his little brother's back.
"Yeah," he said softly, almost to himself. "Never gonna let him live anything down ever again."
Rolien hadn't turned around yet. He was still facing Vorax, air pistol steady in his flesh hand, curse bubbles drifting lazy circles around his feet like they were waiting for permission to bite.
But Elian could see the slight tilt of his head.
He knew Rolien was listening.
And for the first time in six years, Elian felt like he could finally breathe.
Meanwhile 2 minutes earlier. Luke arcadia's Pov.
Luke stood at the edge of the shattered gatehouse, boots planted on cracked stone still warm from his own spell. The lightning pillar Rolien had thrown had come close—too close. The shockwave hit him square in the chest like a battering ram made of air and ozone. It didn't burn, didn't cut, but it shoved him back five full steps. His heels gouged twin furrows in the dirt. The void bracer on his forearm flared violet once—instinctively shielding him from the worst of it—but the force still rattled his teeth and made his lungs seize for half a heartbeat.
He caught his balance before he fell. Straightened slow. Rolled his shoulders once, feeling the ache settle in. Then he looked up.
A streak of blue fire was still fading in the sky—rocket trail, bright against the smoke-choked dusk. And the figure riding it had just landed in the middle of his slaughter like he owned the damn place.
Luke's eyes narrowed behind the visor slits of his helm.
That back. That stance. The cracked mask leaking blue glow. The arm—smoking, scarred, curse veins threading black under the plating like poison rivers.
"Grey!!!"
The name tore out of him, raw and furious. Not Rolien. Not the White Wraith. Grey. Rowan Curtis Grey. The name he'd cursed under his breath for six years. The name that had haunted every plan, every victory, every time he thought he'd finally buried the bastard for good.
Rage flooded him—hot, immediate, the kind that made his vision tunnel and his pulse hammer in his ears. All those nights replaying the bus explosion, the kids screaming, the way Rowan had looked up at him with that stubborn, unyielding stare right before the blast. Luke had promised himself then: if he ever got another shot, he'd make it slow. He'd make it hurt. He'd make sure the kid knew exactly who was ending him.
"At long last," he hissed through clenched teeth. His free hand flexed, violet light already gathering again in his palm. "You slippery little—"
Vorax moved before he could finish the thought.
The Slayer lunged—blade flashing in a tight, vicious overhead chop meant to split Rolien from crown to groin. Luke swallowed the rest of his rage like bitter wine. Forced it down. Watched.
Let the monster play first. Let him test the boy's new tricks.
Rolien met the swing head-on—caught the blade with his metal arm, palm clamping around the edge like it was nothing. Metal screamed. Vorax actually staggered. Luke's eyes narrowed further.
Interesting.
Rolien didn't stop there. He twisted, spun, drove a roundhouse kick straight into Vorax's chest plate—heel glowing dull silver for half a heartbeat as spirit energy condensed at the impact point. The hit landed with a dull boom that rolled across the courtyard. Vorax slid back two steps, armor dented, black blood spraying from a fresh crack in the scale.
But the Slayer laughed—low, grinding, amused.
Luke's lips curled under his helm.
"Heh. This is good." He lowered his hand, violet light dimming but not fading. "Let's see what kind of tricks you've got now, Grey."
He stepped back a pace—watching, waiting, rage still burning but banked for the moment.
Because this time he wasn't going to rush.
This time he was going to enjoy it.
Got it. Here's the revised section with the Tenbatsu no Yari now being the sword Emperor Albrecht personally gave Rolien right after he won the Magisterium Tournament. I kept the rest of the flow and details intact, just wove in the origin naturally.
Rolien didn't bother holstering the air pistol.
He kept it gripped loose in his left hand—thumb resting on the slide, finger hovering just outside the trigger guard—while his right arm stayed locked in a loose guard, curse veins pulsing slow and steady under the cracked plating. The courtyard smoke was thick enough to taste now, bitter and metallic on his tongue, but he barely noticed. All his attention was on Vorax. The Slayer hadn't dropped yet. Hadn't even staggered properly. Just kept coming—slow, inevitable, like a mountain deciding to walk.
Fine.
Rolien reached behind his back with his flesh hand—quick, practiced motion—and drew the Tenbatsu no Yari from the sheath slung low on his hip. The dragon-killer sword Emperor Albrecht had placed in his hands himself, right after the Magisterium Tournament finals—handing it over in front of the entire arena with a single quiet sentence: "You earned this. Now make it earn its name." Long, slender blade of blackened steel veined with faint crimson, edge shaped narrow and leaf-like with serrated ridges that looked like they could split dragon scale and make it regret being born. The moment his fingers closed around the grip, he felt the familiar warmth crawl up his arm—stats boosting 30%, critical potency spiking another 10%. Not flashy. No glowing aura. Just a quiet certainty that every swing from here on would land harder, cut deeper.
Vorax tilted his helm. First real sign he'd noticed something changed.
Rolien spun the sword once—fast, fluid—then snapped it forward in a thrust aimed straight for the cracked chest plate Leto's shrapnel had already opened.
Vorax parried—blade meeting sword with a clang that rang across the courtyard. The impact traveled up Rolien's arms, but the Tenbatsu held. Didn't chip. Didn't bend. The crimson veins along the blade pulsed once, drinking the force.
Rolien didn't stop. He pulled back, spun the sword in a tight circle, switched grip mid-twirl, and thrust again—lower this time, aiming for the knee joint. Vorax stepped back—barely—and countered with a rising slash. Rolien ducked under it, rolled forward, came up inside the reach, and snapped the sword's pommel into Vorax's helm like a hammer. Metal rang. The helm canted sideways, fresh crack spiderwebbing across the visor.
Vorax grunted—first real sound of annoyance.
Rolien grinned under the mask.
He switched mods mid-motion—Gerbarra. Palm split open. He fired a tight burst of small blue-white beams point-blank into Vorax's chest. The Slayer raised his free arm—blocked most of them—but two punched through, blackening scale and drawing more blood. Vorax staggered half a step.
Rolien didn't let up. Mod switch: Overdrive. The arm crackled—electricity arcing along the curse veins. He thrust the sword again, this time channeling the lightning straight through the blade. The edge glowed white-hot for a split second before slamming into Vorax's pauldron. Electricity jumped—arcing across the Slayer's armor, crawling up the neck guard, making the red glow on his blade flicker wildly.
Vorax roared—low, guttural—and swung hard.
Rolien parried—sword meeting blade edge. The impact jarred his shoulders, but he twisted, redirected, stepped back, and fired another Overdrive-charged thrust. The sword tip punched through a scale plate on Vorax's thigh—deep enough to scrape bone. Black blood sprayed.
Still not enough.
Vorax laughed—rough, grinding. "Better."
He swung again—faster this time, blade whistling in a tight arc. Rolien ducked, rolled, came up firing another Gerbarra burst—beams stitching across Vorax's legs. Scale cracked wider. The Slayer staggered, but kept advancing.
Rolien switched again—Galo. Palm opened wide. Curse bubbles swarmed out—black-edged, hungry spheres drifting toward Vorax like angry hornets. The Slayer swung through them—blade cutting several in half—but the ones that popped against his armor hissed and ate. Scale bubbled. Smoke rose. Vorax snarled, shaking his arm like he could shake off the corrosion.
Rolien stepped back—breathing hard now, but steady. The Tenbatsu no Yari felt alive in his grip—boosted stats making every movement smoother, sharper. He twirled it once—fast, fluid—then leveled the blade at Vorax's helm.
"Still not enough?" he said, voice low. "Fine. Let's keep going."
Vorax raised his blade again—red glow flaring brighter, like the Slayer was finally starting to take him seriously.
Rolien smiled under the mask.
Bring it.
To be continue