Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero: "No Magic?No Problem!"
Encounter 31: Delima
The gatehouse shook like it was trying to tear itself free from the cliff.
Darius felt the first impact through his boots before he heard it—deep, bone-rattling, the kind of thud that comes when something heavier than a man hits iron like it personally hates the stuff. He was already moving, sword up, shouting over his shoulder for the archers to loose again. Arrows hissed out in ragged volleys, most skittering off the Dragon Slayer's scaled pauldrons, but a few found gaps: one punched through the cheek guard of the lead one, drawing a wet snarl and a spray of dark blood. The Slayer didn't slow. It just ripped the shaft out with a gauntleted claw and kept coming.
Darius leaped down from the battlement to the gate platform, landing hard enough to jar his knees. The second Slayer was already there—seven feet of red-black armor, serrated blade humming with that low, angry red glow. It swung low, fast, aiming to take his legs out at the knee. Darius twisted sideways, the edge whistling past his greaves close enough to shave steel slivers. He countered with a rising cut—father's sword biting into the Slayer's forearm guard. Sparks flew. The blade bit maybe an inch deep before the Slayer yanked back, laughing that guttural, wet laugh that sounded like rocks grinding in a throat.
"You bleed like the rest," Darius spat, circling left to keep the gatehouse wall at his back.
The Slayer tilted its helmed head. "You talk like the rest too."
It lunged again—claw first this time, not blade. Darius ducked under, felt the wind of it ruffle his hair, then drove his shoulder into the Slayer's midsection. Armor met armor with a dull clang. The thing staggered half a step—more surprise than pain—but it was enough. Darius hacked down hard at the knee joint. Steel screeched on scale. The Slayer roared, backhanded him across the chest. The blow lifted him clean off his feet and sent him skidding across the platform stones. He hit the low wall hard, air punched out of him, sword clattering away.
He tasted copper. Ribs screamed every time he breathed. But he rolled, grabbed the hilt, came up swinging.
Around him the fight was everywhere.
Men poured from the sally ports—Blackfort knights, mercenaries, anyone who could still stand. They crashed into Luke's vanguard in tight, ugly knots. Swords rang on shields. A mercenary took a spear through the gut, screamed once, then drove his dagger into the attacker's eye before collapsing. Another knight parried a mace, twisted, rammed his pommel into a throat—cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed across the stones, dark and slick under torchlight.
From the high ground, Luke watched it all with the same detached calm he'd worn since the balcony. His void bracer pulsed once—violet light flickering along the runes. He raised his hand.
A sphere of crackling energy gathered in his palm, small at first, then swelling fast—violet-black, edges writhing like living smoke. The air around it warped, heat shimmering off it even from fifty paces.
"Clear the gate," he called. Voice carried clean over the chaos.
His mages obeyed instantly. Force lances stabbed out from the flanks—sharp, invisible until they hit. One punched through a Blackfort knight's breastplate like paper; the man flew backward, hit the wall, slid down leaving a wet smear. Another lance caught a mercenary mid-swing—his arm exploded from the elbow down, sword spinning away. Screams rose higher.
Darius saw the sphere growing in Luke's hand. Recognized the color, the way the light bent around it. His stomach dropped.
"Down!" he roared. "Everyone down!"
Too late.
Luke flicked his wrist.
The sphere shot forward—slow at first, then accelerating like it had been kicked by a giant. It hit the gate dead center.
The explosion wasn't loud at first—just a deep, sucking whoomph that punched the air out of every lung on the field. Then the sound caught up: a hammer-blow roar that flattened everything. Heat slapped Darius like a wall. Shrapnel sang past his ears—iron shards, stone fragments, pieces of men who'd been too close. The gate buckled inward, hinges screaming, then tore free completely and cartwheeled into the courtyard. Men screamed as it crushed them.
Darius was thrown back against the wall again. His head cracked on stone. Vision swam red and black. He tasted blood and smoke. When he blinked the spots away, the gate was gone—just a jagged hole filled with fire and dust.
Luke walked forward through the smoke, calm as if he were strolling through a garden. The Dragon Slayers flanked him now, blades dripping.
Darius pushed himself up on one elbow. Sword still in his hand. Blood ran into his eyes. He grinned anyway—teeth red.
"You'll have to do better than that," he rasped.
Luke stopped ten paces away. Looked down at him.
"I intend to."
He raised his hand again.
Behind the walls, in the hidden passage, Elian felt the explosion through the stone—deep vibration that rattled dust from the ceiling. Children whimpered. Someone started to cry.
He looked back at his mother and sister. Lirien's face was pale but set. Elara clutched her mother's hand so hard her knuckles were white.
"Keep moving," Elian said. Voice rough. "He's buying us time. We don't waste it."
They kept going—deeper into the dark, blue markers glowing faint on the walls, toward the silver mine, toward whatever waited.
Above, Darius staggered to his feet.
The Dragon Slayers advanced.
And Luke smiled.
Back at stone veil....
Rolien and the others are guiding the dwarves to escape there.
Encounter 31: Echoes in the Dark
Rolien moved through the main tunnel like a man carrying too much weight in his chest.
The passage under Stonevein was narrow—barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast—and the ceiling dripped cold water every few steps. Lanterns swung from iron hooks carried by the dwarves at the front and back, throwing long shadows that danced across the rough walls. Citizens shuffled ahead of him in a quiet, frightened line: families with small children clinging to legs, old ones leaning on sticks or shoulders, a few wounded on makeshift stretchers. No one spoke much. The only sounds were boots scraping stone, the occasional sniffle, the low mutter of a mother trying to hush her baby.
Lyra walked beside him, one hand on his elbow for balance. She was stronger now—weeks in the pools had pulled most of the poison out—but she still moved careful, like every step cost her something. Rolien kept his pace matched to hers. The Jawbreaker hung at his side, blue glow dimmed so it wouldn't spook anyone. Curse veins pulsed slow and steady, almost calm for once.
Arden walked a few paces ahead, axe across his shoulders, scarred face turned toward the dark like he could see through it. He hadn't said much since they started moving. Just kept scanning the side tunnels, listening for anything that didn't belong.
They were almost at the fork—left led deeper to the old silver mine, right branched toward a surface exit Thrain had marked as a fallback. Rolien was counting heads again, making sure no one had fallen behind, when Arden stopped dead.
The big man's shoulders went rigid.
Rolien felt it a heartbeat later.
Not sound. Not light. Something else. A spike—sharp, sudden, like a needle driven straight into the base of his skull. Mana. Raw, violent, blooming and collapsing in the same instant. It wasn't close, but it was big enough to punch through distance. His head snapped west without thinking. The direction of Blackfort.
Arden turned at the same time. Their eyes met.
"You felt that," Arden said. Not a question.
Rolien nodded once. His mouth had gone dry. "Yeah."
Lyra's fingers tightened on his arm. "What is it?"
Arden's voice came out low, rough. "Mana spike. Big one. Like someone just ripped open a hole in the air and slammed it shut again. Too far to see, but…" He trailed off, jaw working. "Blackfort's five days hard march even on good roads. Whatever that was, it crossed half the kingdom in a blink."
Rolien's stomach twisted. He knew that direction too well. Knew the feel of it now—same way he'd known the ravine explosion weeks ago, same way he'd known when Luke's void bracer flared in the fight at the gate. But this was different. Bigger. Hungrier. Like something had burned itself out in one blinding flash.
Arden looked at him—really looked. "You shouldn't be able to feel it at all. Not like that."
Rolien flexed the Jawbreaker. Curse veins pulsed brighter for a second, then settled. "I know."
They stood there in the tunnel, citizens flowing past them like water around rocks. A child tugged his mother's sleeve, asking why they stopped. The mother hushed him, kept moving.
Arden rubbed a scarred hand over his face. "I'm commander rank," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Knight ranks go Squire, Blade, Shield, Commander, Paragon. Fourth tier means I can sense mana shifts across miles if they're strong enough. But you…" He looked at Rolien again. "You're magicless. Or supposed to be."
Rolien didn't answer right away. He stared west into the dark like he could see through stone and distance.
"Something's wrong," he said finally. "Darius wouldn't throw that kind of power around unless he had no choice."
Lyra's breath caught. "You think—"
"I think Luke got there," Rolien said. "And I think someone paid for it."
Arden's knuckles whitened on the axe haft. "We can't turn back. The passage is the only way out. If we go back up now, we're caught between both armies."
"I know." Rolien's voice was flat. "That's why we keep moving."
He started walking again. Lyra followed. Arden lingered a second longer—staring west—then fell in step.
The tunnel kept going. Blue chalk marks glowed on the walls—Rolien's own handiwork from weeks ago, when he'd mapped every escape route he could find. He'd done it quietly, late at night, while everyone else slept. Just in case.
Now the case had come.
Behind them, the last of the citizens passed the fork. The dwarves at the rear sealed the entrance with a heavy iron grate and a quick prayer to the stone. No one looked back.
Rolien kept his eyes forward.
But his head stayed turned slightly west, listening for the next spike that never came.
The tunnel stretched on, cold and narrow, the kind of dark that presses in from all sides until you forget what open sky looks like. Rolien kept one hand on the rough wall, counting steps more out of habit than necessity. Lyra walked close enough that her shoulder brushed his every few paces, her breathing still a little shallow but steady. Behind them the last stragglers from Stonevein shuffled along—old dwarves leaning on younger ones, kids clutching parents' cloaks, the soft clink of whatever possessions they could carry.
Arden was up ahead, scouting the next bend. He hadn't said much since they felt that first mana spike. Just kept moving, axe across his shoulders, head cocked like he was listening for something only he could hear.
Then it came again.
Not loud. Not visible. Just a sudden, sick lurch in the air—like someone had punched a hole through the world and let something huge scream through for half a heartbeat before it slammed shut. Rolien's teeth clicked together hard. He stopped dead. So did Arden.
Another one. Sharper this time. Closer in feel, even though the distance hadn't changed. Rolien's head snapped west again, same direction as before. Blackfort. Five days away on foot. Five days of hard trails and worse weather. And still the mana hit like a slap across the face.
He clicked his tongue, sharp and frustrated.
Arden turned slow. Their eyes met in the lantern glow.
"Again," Rolien said.
Arden's scarred face looked carved from stone. "Yeah."
Rolien took one step toward the west tunnel branch—instinct, no thought behind it. Arden's hand clamped down on his shoulder, hard enough to stop him cold.
"Where the hell you think you're going, brat?"
Rolien tried to shrug him off. Didn't work. "Damn it, they need help!"
Arden didn't let go. His grip tightened instead. "Get yourself together. What do you think you could do there? You're still half-broken from the last time you tangled with Luke. Arm's patched, not fixed. And there's two Dragon Slayers in that mess. You really think a couple new mods and some curse juice puts you on their level?"
"No," Rolien snapped, voice low and raw. "But someone has to do something. I can't just stand here and do nothing. I'm not sitting on my ass when my friends—when family—are in danger. When I can save them."
Arden stared at him for a long second. Then he slapped him—open palm, across the cheek. Not hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to sting.
The sound echoed off the tunnel walls. A few people ahead flinched, looked back. Arden didn't care.
"Are you listening to yourself, kid?" His voice was rough, almost shaking. "Yeah, you're right. We can't stand here and do nothing. Even if you, me, and Marcellus combined wouldn't be enough to beat those two. Then you add Luke? That's a death trap. For you. For me. For everyone who'd follow us back there."
Rolien's cheek burned. He didn't touch it. Just stared at the ground, breathing hard through his nose.
"Tch." Another tongue click, quieter this time. "Just like you said before. Someone has to hold the line so the others can escape. You said it yourself—we can't save everyone this time. So you gave Darius that plan." His voice dropped. "But…"
Arden let go of his shoulder. Slow. Like it hurt to do it.
"I feel you, Ro." Short for Rolien—the old nickname only Arden still used. "I feel it in my guts same as you. But this time we keep going. We save the people we can still save. The ones right here. The ones who are counting on us not to throw our lives away for a fight we can't win."
Rolien didn't answer.
Then it came again.
Another spike.
This one was different—longer, uglier, like something tearing itself apart and taking half the sky with it. The air in the tunnel seemed to flex for a second. Lantern flames bent sideways. A child whimpered somewhere behind them.
Arden's face changed. The worry that had been there before turned into something colder. He looked west again, same direction Rolien was staring.
Before anyone could speak, Rolien moved.
He broke into a run—straight toward the west branch tunnel, boots pounding stone.
"Rolien!" Lyra's voice cracked behind him.
Arden cursed under his breath—short, vicious—then turned to Thrain. "Get them to the mine. Seal the passage behind you. No one comes back up until it's safe."
Thrain nodded once. "You sure?"
"No," Arden said. "But the kid's not listening to reason. Someone's gotta drag him back before he gets himself killed."
He took off after Rolien.
Ahead, Rolien didn't slow. He flexed the Jawbreaker—Punchlines mode. The arm whirred, fist glowing bright blue. He slammed it into the ground once, hard.
The rocket booster ignited.
The arm shot upward like a missile, dragging him with it. He twisted mid-air, landed on the back of his own forearm as the booster kept firing—riding it like a goddamn skateboard. Metal screamed against stone. Sparks flew. He leaned forward, balancing, accelerating down the west tunnel like a comet made of steel and desperation.
Arden watched him go for half a second.
"Stubborn little shit," he muttered.
Then he ran after him—long strides eating distance, axe bouncing against his back, lungs burning already but not stopping.
Behind them, the citizens kept moving. Thrain barked orders. The iron grate slammed shut. The tunnel sealed.
But Rolien was already gone—rocket arm roaring, curse veins flaring bright, carrying him west toward whatever was left of Blackfort.
And Arden chased him, cursing every step, because someone had to.
To be continue