Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy.
From Zero to Hero: " No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 30: The Dragon's Shadow
The great hall of Blackfort felt smaller than it ever had.
Torches guttered in their brackets, throwing uneasy light across the long oak table where maps lay unrolled like open wounds. The air was thick with the smell of cold stone, old blood, and the sour edge of men who had been fighting for too long without sleep. Prince Darius paced the length of the hall, boots ringing sharp on the flagstones, hand never far from the hilt of his father's sword. His face was flushed, eyes bright with the kind of anger that came from knowing the end might be minutes away.
Elian Grey stood motionless by the hearth, arms crossed tight over his chest. Silver hair caught the firelight, making him look older than his years. Beside him sat Lady Lirien Grey—Rolien's mother—back straight, hands folded in her lap, silver streaks in her dark hair catching the glow like threads of moonlight. Elara Grey, Rolien's younger sister, sat pressed close to her mother, fingers twisted together so hard the knuckles had gone white.
A heavy knock echoed from the main doors.
The runner burst in, chest heaving, face pale. "My lords! Duke Luke Arcadia sends terms. He will not attack if we open the gates and swear fealty to him. He has us surrounded. The Dragon Slayers stand at the front lines. Two of them."
Darius stopped pacing. The silence that fell was absolute.
Before anyone could speak, a sharp caw cut through the tension. A black crow flapped through a high arrow slit, wings beating desperately against the smoke-heavy air. It landed on the table with a clatter of claws, a small scroll tied to its leg with a strip of blood-stained cloth.
Elian reached for it first. His fingers shook as he untied the message.
He unrolled it.
The handwriting was Arden's—rough, hurried, ink smeared in places like it had been written in the dark while running.
"Rolien lives. He has a plan. Hidden passage under the fort leads to the old silver mine. Follow the blue markers. He will meet you on the other side. Get everyone out. He's coming for you. Stay alive."
Elian's knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the table to stay upright.
"He's alive," he whispered. The words cracked in the middle. "Rolien… he's alive."
Lady Lirien rose slowly, one hand flying to her mouth. Tears spilled down her cheeks instantly, silent and fast. "My boy… my youngest… he's back."
Elara let out a choked sob and threw herself into her mother's arms. "He's alive! Mother, he's alive! He came back!"
The hall erupted in quiet, stunned joy—whispers, choked laughs, hands clasping shoulders. For the first time in weeks, hope flickered in every exhausted face like a candle someone had finally remembered to light.
Prince Darius watched them, jaw tight. Then he spoke, voice cutting through the relief like a blade.
"What of it if he's back?" he said loudly. "What difference will it make? One magicless boy against two Dragon Slayers and five hundred men? We're still trapped. We're still dead."
Elian turned slowly, eyes hard. "He's not just one boy. He's the White Wraith. He survived the other world. He fought gods. And now he has a plan."
Darius laughed—short, bitter. "A plan? We're surrounded. The Dragon Slayers are outside breathing down our necks. What plan could possibly—"
Elian thrust the letter into Darius's hands. "Read it."
Darius took it. His eyes scanned the words. His expression grew grimmer with every line. The color drained from his face until he looked almost gray.
"Tch." He crumpled the edge of the scroll in his fist. "He knew it too. We can't escape here without sacrifice." He looked up, voice rough. "Fine. Let's do his plan."
The hall erupted in relieved cheers. Soldiers clapped each other on the back. Elara hugged her mother tighter, both of them crying openly now.
Darius raised his hand. The cheers died.
"Some of you will escape," he said quietly. "And I will hold the fort. I'll buy you time to reach the hidden passage under this keep."
Shock rippled through the room like a stone dropped in still water.
"What?!" Elian and Elara shouted at the same time.
Elara stepped forward, eyes wide with horror. "No! We won't agree with that kind of plan! Even Rolien wouldn't agree with you!"
Darius's voice cracked. "Then what is it then? That's his plan. That one of us will sacrifice so the rest can live."
The soldiers in the hall straightened as one.
"Us, sir!!" one called out.
"We will do it!" another shouted. "So you, our last hope of taking this kingdom back, can live another day and fight!"
The captain of the mercenaries, a grizzled man with a scarred face and a missing eye, stepped forward. "Thank you, lads, but I've made up my decision. I'll protect everyone here."
Darius's eyes filled with tears. "Then let us stand beside you at the bitter end," he said, voice breaking. "Make us your swords and shields. Use us so you can protect the future of our sons. We beg you, your majesty! Lead us! Let us die first instead of you!!"
Darius was openly crying now, tears cutting clean lines down his dirty cheeks. "You idiots… Thank you. Thank you for still trusting an idiot of a leader like me who can't win a war."
Elian unrolled a large, faded map of Blackfort across the table. The hidden passages beneath the fortress were marked in old blue ink—narrow tunnels that snaked down into the old silver mine, forgotten by most but known to the Grey family for generations. Fingers pointed, voices overlapped, plans formed in urgent whispers.
Darius grabbed Elian by the shoulders. "Man, what are you thinking?! Your brother still needs you!"
Elian smiled through his tears. "Well, you need me more than him, my idiot friend! He is more than capable of holding his own with or without me. So I'll keep you company."
From the corner, an old knight rose slowly. Sir Marcellus Valerian Ironheart, the veteran who had served three generations of Blackfort lords, hair gone fully white but shoulders still broad as an anvil.
"You idiots," he said, voice thick with emotion. "You're moving this old man into tears again." He paused, wiping his eyes with the back of his gauntlet. "I'll be staying too."
Darius stammered. "Pls sir Marcellus, don't be like that. I-I…"
Marcellus put a heavy hand on Darius's shoulder. "Don't worry, my lord. We will protect you."
Darius shook his head fiercely. "Please, sir Marcellus. Protect them instead of me. Let me do my duty as prince and heir to our empire and protect everyone. So you guys can live and fight another day. Besides, I'm the only one they need here—not you. So I'll just strike a deal with them to let you be."
Marcellus disagreed, voice firm as bedrock. "No, my lord. I will hold the fort in your place."
Darius stepped back, tears streaming freely now. He looked around the hall—at every face, every soldier who had followed him through fire and blood.
Then he spoke, voice low at first, then rising like a flame catching dry tinder.
"Listen to me, all of you. I am no great king. I am no legend. I am just a boy who was handed a crown too heavy for his shoulders. But today… today I ask you to let me be worthy of it. Let me stand here, not as a prince who runs, but as the ember that refuses to die. Let me be the fire that lights the path for every son and daughter who will come after us. Let my blood be the price that buys their tomorrow. Let me protect you the only way I know how—by staying. By holding this line until the last breath leaves my body. Because if I run now, what kind of kingdom am I fighting for? What kind of future am I building? Stay with me if you must, but know this: your lives are not mine to waste. They are mine to honor. So let me do my job as your leader. Let me fulfill it. Let me protect everyone here. Let me be the embers that will carve the path for the next generation."
The hall was silent. Grown men—hardened knights, scarred mercenaries—had tears in their eyes.
Sir Marcellus Valerian Ironheart dropped to one knee. The rest of the hall followed—every soldier, every knight, Elian and Elara and Lady Lirien included.
"Then I, Sir Marcellus Valerian Ironheart, swear my undying loyalty and follow your Majesty's command. To the bitter end."
As they rose and began finalizing the escape plan—marking routes on the map, assigning who would go and who would stay—the horns sounded outside.
Luke's army had arrived.
The ground shook with the march of five hundred men.
The crow had barely taken flight again when the first horn sounded from the western ridge—low, angry, rolling down the valley like distant thunder that refused to fade. Everyone in the great hall froze. The map still lay open on the table, blue ink lines marking the escape route, red arrows showing Luke's encirclement. The torches flickered as if the wind outside had found its way through the cracks.
Darius straightened first. His tears hadn't dried yet, but his voice came out steady. "They're here."
Elian rolled the map with quick, practiced hands. "How long?"
"Minutes," one of the lookouts called from the stairwell. "Full line across the approach. Five hundred at least. The Dragon Slayers are at the front—scaled armor, red claws on black. They're not charging yet. Just… waiting."
Lady Lirien pressed a hand to her chest, breathing shallow. "Rolien's plan—"
"Still stands," Elian cut in. He looked at his mother, then Elara, then Darius. "We move now. The hidden passage is under the old armory. We get the wounded, the children, anyone who can't fight down there. The rest hold the line long enough for them to reach the silver mine."
Darius nodded once. "I'll take the gatehouse. Marcellus, you and the captains organize the rearguard. Elian, you lead the escape group. Get them out."
Elian opened his mouth to argue again, but the prince raised a hand.
"No more debate. You heard the letter. Rolien needs you alive. He needs all of you alive. I'm not asking. I'm ordering."
The room moved.
Soldiers grabbed weapons, kissed wives or brothers on the cheek, whispered quick goodbyes. The wounded were lifted onto stretchers. Children clung to skirts or were carried piggyback. Elara helped her mother stand—Lirien's legs still weak from weeks of captivity and grief, but her eyes were clear now, burning with something fierce.
"Mother," Elara whispered, "he's coming back to us."
Lirien squeezed her daughter's hand. "I know. And we'll be there when he does."
They filed out of the hall in quiet, hurried lines—toward the armory stairs, toward the hidden door behind the rusted weapon racks. Elian went last, glancing back at Darius one more time.
The prince met his eyes. Gave a small, crooked smile.
"Go. Tell your brother I'll see him on the other side."
Elian nodded—throat too tight for words—and disappeared down the stairwell.
Outside, the wind had picked up. Luke's army had formed a perfect crescent across the valley floor. Five hundred men in disciplined ranks, shields locked, spears leveled. Archers on the high ground. Mages standing in loose clusters, palms already glowing. And at the very center, the two Dragon Slayers—tall, motionless, armor the color of dried blood, helms shaped like snarling jaws. They didn't move. They didn't need to. The threat was in their stillness.
Luke rode forward alone, horse stepping slow over the broken ground. He stopped just out of bow range. His voice carried on the wind—clear, calm, almost bored.
"Blackfort! Your time is up. Open the gates. Swear fealty. Or we bury you here."
From the wall, Darius stepped into view. Armor dented, father's sword in hand. He planted his feet on the battlement, looked down at Luke like he was looking at something small and disgusting.
"No," he said simply.
Luke tilted his head. Smiled.
"Then die."
He raised his hand.
The Dragon Slayers moved first—fast, too fast for human. One leaped the last thirty paces in a single bound, claws raking the gatehouse wall. Stone cracked. The other drew a long, serrated blade that hummed with red light and charged the sally port.
Darius roared. "Now!"
Arrows flew from the walls. Some bounced off scaled armor. Others found gaps—throats, eyes, joints. One Slayer snarled as a shaft took him through the cheek, but he kept coming. The second reached the gate and slammed both gauntlets against the iron. Metal screamed. The doors buckled inward.
Inside the keep, the escape group was already moving—quiet, fast, children muffled against shoulders, wounded carried between two men. Elian led them down the narrow stair behind the armory, torch in one hand, sword in the other. The passage smelled of damp earth and old silver dust. Blue chalk marks glowed faintly on the walls—Rolien's markers, left weeks ago when he'd scouted the route in secret.
Behind them, the first crash of the gate echoed through the tunnels.
Darius stood on the battlement, sword raised. "Hold the line! For the kingdom! For Rolien!"
The soldiers roared back—raw, ragged, defiant.
Luke watched from below. His smile never wavered.
"End it," he said.
The Dragon Slayers surged.
And the fighting began in earnest—steel on steel, screams, the wet crunch of bodies hitting stone.
Inside the escape passage, Elian paused at a bend, listening to the distant thunder of battle. He looked back at his mother and sister.
"He'll make it," Lirien whispered. "He has to."
Elian nodded once. "He will."
They kept moving—deeper into the dark, toward the silver mine, toward whatever waited on the other side.
And far above, on the wall, Darius met the first Slayer blade-to-claw, sparks flying in the torchlight.
The fort shook.
To be continued…