Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero! " No Magic No Problem!"
Encounter 3: Jawbreaker!
"Long ago, when the stars bled and the skies turned black, the world stood on the edge of annihilation… not by war, nor by famine… but by the return of the ancient gods who were cast out of creation itself."
> "They came from beyond the veil—beings known only as the Outer Gods. Corruptors of time, destroyers of realms."
> "But in mankind's final breath… a figure appeared."
> "A phantom. A great sage. No name, no past—only a burning light that stood against the endless dark."
> "He wielded the lost knowledge of the heavenly bodies… and with it, scattered the gods back to the void."
> "It was said the Phantom vanished soon after… but left behind a prophecy."
> 'When the seals weaken and the black stars rise, I will return—not alone, but with seven who bear the Angelic Flame. Chosen from across worlds. Marked to resist the void.'"
> "Now, in an age where myths are bedtime stories and faith is thin as air… the shadows stir again."
> "And somewhere out there… the Phantom walks among us. Reborn. Forgotten. Waiting."
> "The search begins… for the Great Sage."
Rolien's POV
"Achoo!"
Rolien sneezed hard, nearly dropping the toolbox he was carrying. He wiped his nose with the back of his glove and muttered, "Someone's definitely talking about me…"
The morning sun glinted off the surface of the newly completed dam, the water behind it now calmly resting in place like a giant tamed beast. Construction workers laughed and shared high-fives in the background. The project had finally wrapped up.
Rolien stood at the edge, arms crossed, silently admiring the structure he'd helped build with his own two hands—well, what was left of them. The makeshift arms he'd slapped together were still holding, but the damage from his last fight was obvious. His left forearm creaked every time he moved it, and the plating on his right looked like someone had tried to chew through it.
That's when a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder.
"I'm proud of you, brat!" Arden's voice boomed like a drum. "How 'bout I treat you to a drink? You earned it."
Rolien smirked, brushing some soot from his shirt. "Love to, but I'm only sixteen. So... that's a no-no for now."
He jerked his thumb behind him where Sir Marcellus stood with arms folded and that usual disapproving scowl. Beside him, Nanny Lyra was holding a parasol like she was waiting for someone to even try dragging Rolien somewhere inappropriate.
"And besides," Rolien added, flashing a sarcastic grin, "I've got these two breathing down my neck."
Arden laughed loud enough to make some nearby workers jump. "Fair enough! Maybe next time."
Rolien rolled his shoulders. His gaze drifted across the dam, eyes narrowing slightly.
In the back of his mind, something gnawed at him—a quiet unease. A whisper of destiny brushing against his shoulder, the kind you couldn't explain, only feel.
But for now... he just wanted to breathe in this moment of peace.
The midday sun was soft, filtered by the shimmering mana barriers that lined the academy's high walls. The wind carried the scent of trimmed grass and faint ozone from a recent spell practice. Rolien adjusted the strap of his bag, still a little sore from carrying makeshift construction materials the last few days.As they passed through the academy gates, Rolien walked side by side with Leto, Mira, and Sophia. The morning sun caught the strands of his slightly golden-brown hair, making it glint with a soft luster against the clean blue of his uniform.
"You still smell like oil and damwater," Leto teased, squinting at Rolien with a grin.
"Better than smelling like your fear every time the professor asks for volunteers," Rolien shot back.
"Oof," Mira laughed from behind them, hugging a couple of thick theory books. "That's a clean hit."
"You wound me," Leto groaned dramatically, spinning on his heel as he walked backward. "But really, why are you back already? You could've taken more time off. You just finished rebuilding a whole dam."
"Because someone has to pass this subject," Rolien muttered, brushing back his dark bangs. "Also… I kinda missed this dumb routine."
"You just missed seeing Sophia," Mira said with a sly smile, nudging him.
Before Rolien could reply, Sophia approached, hair tied up neatly, holding her own notebook and staff in one hand. "Oh, you're all here. We're gonna be late if we keep standing around."
"I missed your punctual nagging too," Rolien smirked.
Sophia just rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "Let's go."
The four of them entered the large marble-walled lecture hall, where enchantments floated notes mid-air and diagrams moved on their own across the blackboard. The class was packed with students, some whispering spells under their breath to prep for pop quizzes, others already asleep at their desks.
Professor Halden, a cranky old elf with silver eyes, raised a brow when he saw Rolien walk in.
"Well, well. The little dam builder returns. I was beginning to think you'd chosen a career in civil engineering over magic."
"I considered it," Rolien said as he took his seat, "but I figured breaking things is more fun than fixing them."
The class chuckled lightly, and Halden let it slide with a grunt.
As Rolien settled in, Sophia leaned toward him, whispering, "By the way… I want to see your notes later. I heard you made some modifications to your mana theory circuits notes during the construction?"
He nodded, whispering back, "Yeah. I had to. I realize it when The recoil on my last punch nearly tore my shoulder out. I rerouted it into a pressure-diffusing matrix."
Sophia looked genuinely intrigued. "You have to show me after class."
"I will… if you bribe me with lunch."
"Deal."
And for the first time in weeks, despite all the chaos outside, Rolien felt just a little like a normal student again.
Few day later
The sun was beginning to dip past the roof of the Academy's west tower, casting long shadows across the open training field. The clang of training weapons and the rhythmic thud of feet echoed across the grounds as students honed their skills, but at one end—near the stone columns wrapped in mana-conductive vines—four first-years moved in sharp, fluid coordination.
"Again!" Rolien called, stepping back as Mira dashed forward, her spell fizzling just inches from the edge of a makeshift barrier. "Too slow. Mira, if that was a real duel, they would've blown your head off before you even finished chanting."
Mira groaned but nodded, brushing her black bangs from her sweaty forehead. "Yes, yes. Less chant, more instinct. I get it."
"Not just instinct," Rolien corrected, his golden-brown hair catching the light as he turned toward the others. "You three have magic. That's great. But even magic needs solid ground. You trip, you lose. You flinch, you die. So… work with the ground. Use it."
Leto, ever the quiet one, crouched beside a slab of broken stone and nodded. "Like this?" He vaulted forward using the rubble for momentum, twisting in the air before landing behind a conjured barrier.
Rolien grinned. "Exactly that. Nice."
Sophia gave a small cheer. "Bruh. Thank God you're our leader. I swear, we've gotten this much stronger in the past few months because of you."
Rolien rubbed the back of his head, a modest smile on his face. His prosthetic arm—still in its standard civilian mode—shifted slightly as he rested it on his hip.
"Don't say that too loud," he joked. "You'll hurt Sir Marcellus's pride."
Unseen by the team, standing a few paces back behind a thin row of trees, Luke Arcadia leaned against a trunk, arms crossed, lips curled into a sneer.
"Tch. This is what the Academy's become? Letting a magicless brat bark orders like he's a commander? What a joke."
His eyes narrowed on Rolien's every movement. The grace, the calculation, the absurd control over his body—it all irked him. Rolien didn't even need mana to put half the class to shame. And that made Luke's blood boil.
Meanwhile, on the field, Rolien crouched beside a diagram he had drawn with a stick earlier. It was a crude battlefield plan sketched in the dirt, with pebbles representing opponents.
"Alright, next simulation," he said, pointing at the formation. "This one's meant for open terrain with broken cover. You'll be baiting someone with superior range—maybe a third-year fire type or something fast. Mira, you'll draw them out. Sophia, focus on backup shielding. Leto, you go for flank and disruption."
"You're not joining?" Sophia asked.
Rolien smirked. "I'm the ghost in this run. Pretend you don't see me—'cause neither will the enemy until it's over."
The three of them grinned, excited and confident.
Behind the trees, Luke clenched his fists. "They'll regret putting faith in a fake."
But Rolien didn't notice the scowl. He was too busy helping his team grow. Magic or not, he was their leader—and he'd make damn sure they were ready for the tournament.
Scene Cut: Deep Beneath the Cradle of Shadows — Inner Sanctum of the Red Throne
The cavernous chamber is deathly silent, carved from obsidian and black marrow rock that twisted unnaturally like it was grown, not built. The only source of light glows malevolently from a red crystal embedded deep into the grotesque throne at the center—a throne not sat upon, but possessed.
Kneeling before it, head bowed, is a man—young, strikingly built like a soldier chiseled by war and precision. Short white hair, cropped tight and swept slightly to one side, frames a face that could be described as both noble and cold. High cheekbones. Sharp jawline. Eyes like faded sapphires, haunted and wary.
His name: Lucien Argent—a top enforcer of the demon's will and the one sent to retrieve the Descendant of Their Master.
He's on his knees now. Ash-dusted black armor cracked at the shoulder, where a burn mark from the Black Wraith still smolders faintly. His left gauntlet trembles.
> "I ask for forgiveness… my Lord," Lucien says, voice low but controlled.
From the throne, the red crystal pulses, then a thick and disembodied voice seeps out like a whisper crawling over skin:
> "Forgiveness…?"
The shadows twitch. Shapes coil around the throne's edges. Something ancient and unholy stirs behind the voice.
> "You were handpicked, Lucien. Groomed. A descendant of the fallen archons. And you let a spirit-forged mongrel ruin our retrieval. You failed the one command carved into your blood."
Lucien doesn't move, but his jaw tightens.
Then—four silhouettes step out of the gloom. Humans, but not ordinary. Each one radiates a pressure that crushes the air.
A woman in red monk robes, bare feet soaked in blood—Lady Veil, mistress of illusions and poisons.
A towering brute with gray skin, mechanical limbs, and an axe on his back—Magnus Bonefury, a former gladiator king.
A blindfolded youth with golden prayer beads around his neck, smiling too widely—Saint Abram, exorcist turned madman.
And the last, a quiet man in military dress, not a wrinkle on his gloves—General Enzo Drein, a master tactician who once leveled cities for sport.
The red crystal flares again.
> "Look upon them, Lucien. These are humans who've embraced what lies beyond mortality. Why haven't you?"
Lucien finally raises his head slightly, defiance just a shimmer in his eye.
> "Because I know shame. And I will not fail again."
The shadows curl back for now. The crystal dims, but not before the voice warns:
> "Then earn your right to kneel before me again. Find the Cradle Bringer. Retrieve the Spiritless Heir. And kill the Black Wraith."
As Lucien slowly rises, his shattered pride burning quietly inside him, the four elites smile—some mocking, others curious.
He doesn't flinch.
Scene shifts—back to the surface.
The real hunt has just begun.
The sun hung low over the academy, casting an amber glow on the stone towers and training grounds below. Inside one of the open-air workstations tucked behind the engineering building, the scent of soldered metal and oil filled the air.
Rolien sat cross-legged on a worn bench, his shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes focused as he adjusted the wiring of his prosthetic arm with a small wrench. The table before him was a mess of screws, wires, steel plates, and an oddly sleek-looking forearm casing—something clearly custom.
Principal Thorne stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with visible irritation.
"Seriously, kid. I'm the principal of this place, and you're treating me like a damn errand boy," he grumbled, setting down a heavy toolbox filled with enchanted gears and mechanical cores.
Without looking up, Rolien replied with a cheeky grin.
"Well, Mr. Principal, you asked me how you could help me. So I helped you help me."
He tossed a small gear into a tin tray with a metallic ting and glanced up with a smirk.
"You're welcome."
Thorne sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is this even for that gear-uh...ger-something? That spiky mess you used to wear?" He waved a hand vaguely toward the workshop corner, where pieces of Rolien's old arm, Punchline, rested in a dusty crate.
Rolien raised a brow and leaned back slightly, flexing the fingers of his current prosthetic. "Nah. It's for my new one. Something more subtle. Punchline got popular—too many eyes saw Black Wraith throwing fists with it. So I'm making a second arm. Something a little... less punchy."
"Huh." Thorne knelt beside the bench, peering over the blueprints Rolien had half-sketched on a parchment. "So what is this? Like... a backup weapon?"
Rolien tapped his temple. "More like misdirection. If everyone thinks I'm a one-arm brawler, they won't expect what the other hand can do."
Thorne chuckled, eyes gleaming like a kid staring at a new toy. "Alright, now this I want to see in action."
Rolien grinned and returned to his work.
"Then sit tight, old man. You're about to witness the birth of Jaw breakers Gerberra 4.0!."
The workshop stank of oil and scorched steel.
Rolien wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. Sparks flicked behind him as the mechanical forge cooled. Gears hissed and settled with tired clinks. Laid out on the heavy table, gleaming faintly under the lamp's orange glow, was the newest iteration of his prosthetic arm.
Jaw Breakers: Gerberra 4.0.
Unlike the last one, this version was bulkier—but smarter. Its framework was reinforced with one of the world's strongest metals, Trinite Alloy, scavenged and refined from wrecked war relics left behind in the eastern battlefield. Not as indestructible as Groteus' remains, but it could hold itself together without self-detonating. And most importantly—he could actually repair it.
A series of embedded crystal cores along the wrist and elbow housing glinted with raw elemental energy—fire, ice, lightning, earth, and even mist. He'd carved the slots himself, modeled like magazine cartridges. All he had to do was slot in the elemental core and fire away—muscle control, not mana. That was the secret.
Rolien flexed the fingers, letting the servos sync with his nervous system. A faint hum answered back. Not perfect, but good enough to test.
Evening arrived. The sun dipped past the treeline.
"You done playing mad tinkerer?" said a dry voice from behind the barn.
Principal Thorne appeared, arms crossed, scarf flapping in the wind like it had better things to do. His coat was half-buttoned, a cigarette hanging loosely in his mouth like it had given up halfway through a complaint.
"You're still a student," Thorne muttered, walking over. "You should be flirting, breaking school rules, or sleeping. Not forging god-killing weapons with zero funding."
"I like this better," Rolien replied, strapping the arm in place with a firm click.
"I figured," Thorne said, lighting the cigarette with a flick of his thumb—no magic, just a stone. "Come on. I know a spot."
---
They reached a quiet forest Thorne privately maintained. No students, no guards, just trees and the sounds of cicadas. Stars peeked through the canopy like curious watchers. Fireflies danced between the leaves.
"This is where I test forbidden spells," Thorne muttered, kicking a rock aside. "Or cry. You know. Teacher things."
Rolien chuckled, raising the prosthetic.
"Ready?"
"No. But go ahead."
The shoulder-mounted panel snapped open. Rolien inserted the Fire Core. It pulsed red-hot. The arm's plating glowed faintly, veins of energy spiraling up like magma under skin.
Test #1: Beam Shot.
His muscles tensed. A thin whine built up, then—
THWOOOOOM!
A red-hot blast tore through the air and slammed against the cliff wall. The explosion lit the sky orange. Birds scattered. Smoke curled upward from molten stone.
Thorne blinked. "...Did you actually copy Groteus' beam?"
"I scaled it down."
"That was scaled down?!"
Rolien looked down at the arm. The cooling vents hissed. Core still stable.
"Next: Shield."
He tapped the element change—a blue Ice Core rotated in.
FWIP!
A curved, semi-translucent shield burst from his forearm like a curved riot guard made of solid frost. It shimmered, stable, pulsing gently with stored mana from the crystal.
"Good against projectiles," Rolien said, tapping it. "Not perfect against direct strikes. Yet."
"Yet," Thorne echoed. "What's the cooldown?"
"Six seconds. Less if I pump both arms."
"You don't have both."
Rolien smirked. "Details."
---
Crowd Control Test – Mist Core
He swapped it in with a muscle twitch. A puff of ghostly vapor burst out, flooding the area in a chilling fog. Thorn took a cautious step back as the mist swallowed the clearing. Visibility dropped to nearly zero.
Then came the hum.
VRRRRRRMMM—FZZT!
A sudden flash—dozens of condensed frost shards shot out in every direction, non-lethal but fast and disorienting. They embedded in trees, rocks, and even clipped Thorne's sleeve.
"HEY!"
"Distraction move," Rolien said, calmly walking through the mist. "Designed to break formation."
"You're insane. I love it."
---
They stood in the silence that followed, the mist clearing.
Rolien unstrapped the arm and sat against a rock, breathing a little heavier now.
"Not bad for a guy with no mana, huh?"
Thorne sat beside him, sighing. "You shouldn't be able to do half of what you're doing."
"I know."
"But here you are."
Rolien didn't say anything. He just looked up at the stars—calm, for once.
Gerberra 4.0. Not as strong as what he lost. But it was his.
And it worked.
Panting with excitement, Rolien pumped his fist.
"Woah. Nicezu!!!" he shouted, giddy like a kid with a new toy. "Now I'm ready to kick some ass!"
Thorne winced, pinched the bridge of his nose, and groaned.
"Please don't ever say that again. I felt my soul leave my body."
"But it's cool, right? Right?!"
"Cool like eating charcoal and washing it down with moonshine."
He rubbed his temple. "Let's go. You've got the tournament tomorrow. If you don't kill you're opponents , your catchphrases will."
Next Day — Morning of the Tournament
The sun rose over the academy like a golden banner unfurling across the sky. The air buzzed with energy. Banners fluttered from tall stone towers. Students, faculty, and nobles gathered from all around the kingdom. Vendors lined the outskirts, selling trinkets, charms, and snacks.
The tournament grounds were alive with cheers and excitement.
Back in the preparation tent, Rolien stood in front of a mirror, his new arm gleaming under the light. He adjusted the collar of his coat, cracked his neck, and smirked.
"Time to see if you're more than just a pretty arm, partner."
He stepped out, ready to show the world that a "magicless" freak could still shatter expectations—one Jaw Breaker at a time.
To be continued...