Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero " No Magic?, No Problem!"
Encounter 20: Not enough
The alley tightened around them like a held breath.
Vermorth steadied his blade, shoulders squared. He'd stood on battlefields soaked in dragon fire, survived wounds that would've ended armies—but the pressure coming off the hooded figure was something else entirely. The man didn't move. He didn't even need to. His presence bent the air.
Then—he vanished.
No blur. No displacement of wind. Just gone.
A chill crawled up Vermorth's spine. His instincts snapped like a whip.
Behind you.
He turned, but too late. A heel slammed into his ribs, sharp and precise. The hit barely pushed him back, but the clean execution of the strike made his eyes narrow. Vermorth slid a few steps across the cobblestones before planting his heel and re-centering himself.
The man's speed was unreal—silent, surgical.
Vermorth gathered his aura, letting it coil around him like molten steel. "So. You're the ghost they whisper about."
No answer. Only a faint exhale as the hooded man lowered into a stance.
Then everything around him shifted.
A shimmer rippled beneath the cloak. Pale lines crawled along his skin—or along something beneath it. Pressure built in the air, sharp enough to sting.
He activated it.
Hollow Veil Forge.
No roar. No explosion. The change was quiet. Bones reinforced. Muscles rewove. Movements sharpened into something no longer natural.
Vermorth felt his pulse jump.
This wasn't magic. This wasn't aura.
It was a body turning itself into a weapon.
"Interesting," he muttered, blade tilting slightly. "Let's see how far you get."
The hooded man shot forward.
Their first clash cracked the stone. Vermorth met a palm strike with his blade, but the impact still pushed him back half a step—half a step, yet enough to register.
Vermorth's eyebrows lifted.
Someone that wasn't a Dragonslayer… hurt him?
The figure slipped under Vermorth's counter, elbow flashing toward his jaw. Vermorth blocked it effortlessly, but the strength made his arm tingle. "Fast…" he murmured.
Fast—yet somehow heavy.
The man flowed in, driving a knee at Vermorth's ribs. Vermorth caught it. Another strike came—a rising uppercut, metallic hum behind it.
It landed.
The blow didn't make him stagger, but it forced a small grunt out of him and made his aura flare on instinct.
He hadn't felt that kind of pressure in years.
He stepped back—not out of fear, but pure surprise—just as the hooded man was thrown away by the recoil of his own impact, smashing through a stall and tumbling across the street.
Vermorth inhaled, annoyed he'd felt anything at all.
Then he froze.
A shadow loomed.
The hooded man stood exactly where Vermorth had been a heartbeat ago—soundless, predatory. And the arm he used earlier? The one that slammed Vermorth's abdomen?
It detached mid-impact.
The severed prosthetic—Jawbreaker—hit the ground with a dull metallic thud. It twitched, hummed, then floated back. With an almost casual pull, it reattached itself, locking into the shoulder with a soft click. Veins of pale light pulsed once, sealing it seamlessly.
The hooded man rolled his shoulder as if nothing happened.
Vermorth stared.
Then—unexpectedly—he laughed. A short, low sound.
"Well. That's new." He wiped the faint smear of blood that had formed on his lip—a drop he hadn't expected from anyone but a Dragonslayer. "Didn't think I'd feel a hit from anyone outside my own kind."
The hooded man advanced, footfalls so faint they barely existed, the Hollow Veil Forge humming like a heart ready to break bone.
Vermorth's stance shifted. His aura thinned into something razor-sharp.
This was no ordinary human.
Not a Dragonslayer either.
Something in between—and wrong in all the right ways.
"Come then," Vermorth growled. "If you can make me bleed once, let's see if you can do it twice."
The hooded man lowered his posture—silent, lethal.
The next exchange was about to begin.
Vermorth shifted his footing, ready for the next exchange. The hooded man leaned forward, weight coiled like a spring—
A thunderous impact tore the moment apart.
Something crashed down between them so hard the cobblestones split. Dust exploded outward, rattling the glass of the nearby shops. Vermorth's aura flared instinctively.
Vorax landed in a crouch, shoulders heaving, claws digging into the stone. His eyes burned like furnace embers when he snapped his head toward the hooded man. A guttural snarl tore out of him.
"So you're the rat hunting in my territory," Vorax growled, saliva dripping from his fangs.
He lunged.
A blur. A roar. A slash of claws aimed straight for the hooded man's throat.
The hooded man tilted his head, barely moving his feet. The swipe cut past him with a whoosh, slicing a clean groove in the wall behind him. Vorax didn't pause—he spun, bringing his knee up in a crushing strike.
The hooded man stepped back once. The knee missed by a hair.
Vorax snarled in frustration.
Then the hooded man's right arm hummed.
The Jawbreaker shifted—gears tightening, inner plates rotating until it locked into a different mode.
Punchline.
He sank his weight low and drove his fist forward, not aiming to break the surface of Vorax's body—aiming through it.
The hit landed just below Vorax's ribs.
A dull thud echoed.
No bone cracked. No flesh tore.
But Vorax's body jerked violently, like something inside him snapped loose. His eyes widened. He stumbled back a step, then another—
—and coughed out a thick spray of blood.
The shock in Vermorth's eyes was immediate. "He hit his core… from the outside?"
Vorax clutched his side, breath ragged. "You little—"
He surged forward, fury igniting his muscles. His aura flared wild, ready to tear the hooded man apart.
But the hooded man was already moving.
He reached into his cloak and flicked something at the ground between them—small, round, and glowing faintly like a captured sun.
Vermorth recognized it too late.
"Lighstone—!"
The flash detonated.
A white blast swallowed the alley, bright enough to bleach the world for a heartbeat. Vermorth shut his eyes and braced. Vorax roared, clutching his face as light burned against his senses.
By the time the flare dimmed—
—the hooded man was gone.
No sound. No trace. Nothing but faint scorch marks where he'd stood.
Vermorth exhaled, annoyed despite the grin pulling at his mouth.
Vorax snarled, still wiping blood from his lips. "Where is he?!"
Vermorth sheathed his blade. "Gone. Whoever he is… he didn't come here to finish a fight."
Vorax spat on the ground, breath still trembling from that internal hit.
Vermorth looked at the cracked cobblestones, the faint afterglow of the Lighstone, and the spot where the hooded man had vanished.
"He came here to send a message.-"he pause and turn his head to the people around him." What in the world...is happening here." He added scanning the people.
The affliction is now the Black Death of your world—incurable.
The hooded man didn't heal them; he only held it back temporarily.
No names used for Rolien.
Vermorth scanned the alley again, irritation still buzzing under his skin. Vorax grunted beside him, but Vermorth waved him off and stepped forward.
Something was wrong.
Not with the ground.
Not with the damage.
With the people.
A cluster of townsfolk who'd been left slumped against walls earlier were now sitting upright. One man who'd been shaking uncontrollably was breathing steady. Blackened veins along a woman's neck—signs Vermorth knew all too well—had faded to faint gray. A child who should've been writhing in fever was now sleeping peacefully in his mother's arms.
Vermorth's stomach tightened.
He knew this disease better than anyone.
Black Death.
The incurable plague of this world.
Once it took root, nothing short of a miracle could slow it.
And yet…
These people weren't cured.
He could see the signs clearly—this was temporary.
A patch. A delay. A borrowed breath before the sickness would return.
The hooded man didn't have the cure.
But he'd still tried to buy them time.
Vermorth felt a strange ripple across his chest—something close to frustration… and something close to respect. He clicked his tongue, annoyed at both.
Vorax scoffed from behind him, wiping blood off his chin. "What're you staring at? They'll still die. That plague eats everyone."
Vermorth shot him a glare that made Vorax's shoulders stiffen.
"These people were dying tonight," Vermorth said quietly. "He gave them another day. Maybe more."
He turned to his squad—men who'd just arrived, confused by the strange calm settling over the afflicted.
"You," Vermorth barked. "Fan out. Search the district."
One soldier hesitated. "Sir… are we hunting him?"
Vermorth shook his head.
"No. You're going to thank him."
The squad blinked, stunned.
Vermorth continued, voice low. "Black Death doesn't pause. Not for magic. Not for potions. Not for priests. For someone to force it back, even for minutes… that's something I've never seen."
He glanced at the fading gray lines on a woman's skin.
"He can't cure them. Not yet." His eyes narrowed. "But he's trying."
Vermorth slid his blade to his back and exhaled through his nose. "Tell him this: Vermorth of the Dragonslayers owes him a debt."
The soldiers saluted and rushed out.
Vorax scowled. "You're giving gratitude to a man who hit you?"
Vermorth smirked faintly. "I've bled for less-worthy men. A stranger who buys my people even a moment against this plague? That's worth more than a bruise."
He stepped forward once, scanning the rooftops, knowing the hooded man was already long gone.
"But I want him found," Vermorth murmured. "Not to capture him… but because anyone chasing a cure for Black Death needs allies."
He glanced down the empty alley.
"And I intend to be one."
Meanwhile in the middle of the forest
Rolien's identity is finally revealed, and his full status window appears exactly as you want it—clean, readable, and in-story.
The forest whispered under the night wind as a single figure dropped onto the branch of an old tree. Leaves shook loose around him.
Rolien exhaled hard, one hand braced against the trunk.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath. "He's still way too strong… even after I awakened my abilities."
Sweat rolled down his temple. His ribs still ached from every blocked hit, and his arm buzzed faintly from the recoil of using Punchline twice in one fight.
He lifted his right hand—his prosthetic fingers clicked softly, adjusting themselves as the Jawbreaker cooled down.
Rolien shut his eyes.
"Status."
A familiar chime echoed in his head as the translucent window opened in front of him.
STATUS WINDOW
Name: Rolien Edric Grey (Alias: Rowan Grey)
Race: Otherworlder / Reincarnator
Age: 17
Level: 67
Core Level: 4
Class: Master Inventor (Legendary) — Awakened
ABILITIES
• Item Box — MAX
Slots: 58/100
• Appraisal — MAX
• Hollowveil Forge — Lv. 3
• Hollowveil Force — Lv. 2
• Quick Slash — Lv. 4
• Quick Dash — Lv. 4
• Equinox Slash — Lv. 2
• Hammer Strike (Awakened) — Lv. 1
(Internal-damage type. Ignores external defenses.)
• Crescent Kick — Lv. 4
• Menace (Intimidation) — Lv. 4
• Universal Detection — Lv. 3
WEAPONS
Grey's Heirloom Sword / Cursed Dragon One-Handed Sword
Level Requirement to unlock skill: 80
Effects: Debuff / Buff / Damage
Jawbreaker (Prosthetic Arm) — Lv. 6
Enhances all stats by +10
+15 to Attack
Additional Functions:
• Can launch the user or grapple enemies
• Can detach and operate independently
Modes:
• Punchline — Lv. 5
– Can explode on command
– Doubles attack power
– Can be ridden like a hoverboard
• OverDriver (Lightning Type) — Lv. 7
– Shock-boosted strikes
– Releases stored charge in bursts (similar to a lightning gauntlet)
• Gerbarra (Light Type) — Lv. 4
– Cannon Mode
– Beam Mode (concentrated ray similar to a Godzilla beam)
STAT POINTS
Strength: 124
Agility: 167
Endurance: 93
Intelligence: 141
Dexterity: 159
Vitality: 108
Stamina: 101
Unallocated Points: 26
Rolien frowned at the window, thumb tapping against his jaw.
"Even with the Forge active… Vermorth barely flinched."
He let out a quiet, frustrated laugh. "I need more. I'm not even close."
The status flickered away.
Rolien stood on the branch, staring past the trees toward the distant lights of the city he'd just escaped.
"I don't have the cure for Black Death yet…" he whispered. "But I'll buy them time. As much as it takes."
His Jawbreaker clicked once—quiet, determined—like it agreed.
Rolien turned toward the deeper forest and vanished into the dark.
To be continue