Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero! "No magic, No Problem!"
Volume 2
Encounter 4 : Game on!
sun climbed lazily over the horizon. The arena towered like a coliseum from a forgotten age—stone pillars ringed with enchantments, banners of each noble school rippling in the wind, and crowds slowly filling every tier with excited chatter and the hum of magic tech.
Rolien walked along the edge of the massive field, hands tucked into his coat pockets, the weight of Jawbreaker pressing lightly on his shoulder. He let out a low whistle.
"Damn... this place is huge."
His boots crunched against the gravel path circling the arena floor. Golems stood stationed like statues at every entrance, and hovering drones buzzed above—recording for the magical projectors floating around the stadium. As he passed under one, it flickered and displayed a frozen frame of him from last year, punching out a wyvern with just a shield and a busted spear.
He smirked.
"Better get my good side this time."
As he continued his lap, he spotted a few familiar faces up in the bleachers—students from the academy. Mina was waving frantically with both hands, already wearing a scarf in their school colors. Beside her, Gregor gave a single nod, arms crossed, while Mei clapped excitedly. Even Yven, the quiet kid who rarely spoke in class, gave him a fist pump from afar.
He raised a hand casually in return. "Yo."
Cheers followed—small, but warm. He wasn't the crowd favorite. Not yet. But he didn't need to be.
A sharp beep came from his comm, and Rolien tapped the side of his ear. Principal Thorne's voice buzzed through, gruff and straight to the point.
> "Rolien. I'm reminding you now—no beam blast unless the situation absolutely demands it."
Rolien rolled his eyes and spun around slowly, looking for where the old man might be watching from. Spotting Thorne high up in the VIP booth, arms folded and staring down like a hawk, he gave a lazy salute.
"Yeah, yeah. Chill out, old man," he replied with a wide grin. "As if I want to blow this whole place up just to win. Not my style."
From the other end, Thorne let out a heavy sigh. "Your style is destruction."
"Details," Rolien muttered, cracking his neck. He flexed his left arm—Jawbreaker let out a low hum, its inner circuits warming. One small burst of flame flickered at the knuckle ports before vanishing.
He grinned to himself.
"Let's break some expectations."
The large crystal screen above the coliseum gates flickered to life. The crowd's noise dulled as everyone turned their eyes to the matchups being projected midair by a floating orb—a combination of ancient mana script and modern tech. The names began to slowly rotate into place, forming the brackets for the first round of the youth division.
Each name glowed briefly, then locked in with a chime.
Rolien stepped forward with a mild squint, scanning the list. His hands were casually in his pockets. Beside him, Mira and Leto leaned forward.
"Looks like you're not up first," Mira mumbled. "But you did get a weird one."
Rolien found his name.
Match 5: Rolien Edric vs. Zarrukh Volgner (Demi-Ogre, Flame-kin)
"Zarrukh..." Leto echoed. "Isn't he the foreign exchange fighter from the northern volcano tribes?"
"Big dude. Likes fire. And punching," Mira added. "You're gonna need more than muscle control this time."
Rolien cracked his neck to the side. "Good thing I brought my new toy."
The other matchups scrolled in:
Match 1: Luke Arcadia vs. Felna Rayne (Elf, Wind User)
Match 2: Ayden Stroud vs. Bellatrix (Half-Drake Swordswoman)
Match 3: Sophia Eldwyne vs. Leif Redhart (Hammer Monk)
Match 4: Mira Lynn vs. Kieran of Noxhall (Dark Spell Lancer)
Match 6: Leto Durnhill vs. Serena Vaux (Dual Blade, Mist Veil)
Match 7: ??? vs. Crown Prince Kaien Cearan
The last one caught all of them off guard.
"Wait, he's joining the tournament?!" Leto blurted. "Wasn't this supposed to be for under-eighteens only?!"
Mira folded her arms. "You forget, the royal family can twist rules whenever they want."
Rolien clicked his tongue. "Tch. That bastard. Always trying to one-up Cearan."
Just then, the wind picked up. A soft hush fell over the nearby crowd as Luke Arcadia stepped into the arena grounds with his team behind him. He didn't speak. His eyes locked with Rolien's—calm, sharp, but unmistakably burning with something. Hatred? Envy? It was hard to tell.
They stared at each other across the open courtyard.
Silent tension.
A minute passed. No one spoke.
Then both looked away at the same time—almost rehearsed.
Mira scoffed. "Bruh. That Arcadia dude's blood is boiling. I think he wants to beat you real bad."
"As if he can," Mira added, arms crossed.
"Yeah! My—uh... I mean Roah here can beat anyone, basically," Sophia said quickly, earning a side glance from Leto.
But their banter was cut off when Crown Prince Kaien Cearan strolled in, flanked by two knights. He smiled as he passed, exuding that same smug charisma that made Rolien's blood boil.
"I'd love to see him do that, sister," the prince said with a chuckle. "But don't you think that's setting the bar a little high?"
Rolien raised an eyebrow. "It's Rolien, sucker. And yeah, I'm not all-powerful or anything. Anyone here could beat me, maybe."
Instead of taking offense, the prince just laughed and waved it off.
"Now, now. Let's not pretend to be humble all of a sudden. You're strong. Just like your brother Elian. I'm actually looking forward to your fight. Don't disappoint me, friend."
With that, he walked away, cape fluttering behind him like a peacock on parade.
Rolien scowled. "Tch. Still got that weird fake smile."
Mira muttered under her breath. "That bastard... Always acting like he owns everything, just 'cause Father chose him instead of big brother Cearan..."
Rolien clenched his fists behind his back, but didn't say anything.
Murmurs spread like wildfire across the arena as the matchups lit up on the massive floating projection above the ring. The crowd leaned in, pointing at names and whispering guesses.
"Look! Luke Arcadia's in Bracket One. First match too!"
"Poor kid he's facing. That's a bloodbath waiting to happen."
"Wait… Rolien's in the second bracket, right? Ohhh, if they both win... that's a semifinal face-off."
A few gasps and murmurs of anticipation echoed louder.
"Arcadia vs the magicless kid?" someone whispered with a smirk. "I'd pay triple to see that."
The announcer's voice boomed throughout the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Opening Round of the Grand Schoolwide Combat Tournament! First up! Luke Arcadia, son of Duke Amon Arcadia of the Southern Flame Dominion, versus Feron Mettle, 3rd-year knight division!"
As soon as Luke's name echoed across the coliseum, half the crowd erupted in cheers. His name carried weight. Fame. Power. But not all clapped—some watched with tense expressions, others with folded arms.
Rolien just sat in the waiting zone, arms behind his head as he watched from the sidelines.
"Tch. Predictable match." he muttered.
Thorne stood beside him. "Eyes open. Even if you dislike the boy, you can learn from watching a veteran fight. Arcadia's not just all bloodline. He trained hard."
"Yeah, yeah. Noted, old man."
Out in the center, Luke walked into the ring with quiet confidence. No flashy movements. No raised arms. Just calm precision. His red-tinted armor shimmered faintly as if heated from within, and his eyes locked onto his opponent like a predator eyeing a weaker prey.
Feron Mettle tried not to show his nerves, but his grip on his sword tightened. He bowed stiffly. "Let's have a good match."
Luke didn't respond. He just drew his saber.
The announcer raised his hand. "Combatants ready? BEGIN!"
Feron charged, trying to close the gap quickly.
Luke didn't move.
Then in one swift motion—fwsh!—his blade flashed, and a trail of embers followed. Feron parried once, barely, but Luke's next strike came from a lower angle, slicing through his stance and knocking him off balance.
The crowd flinched as Feron staggered back.
Luke raised two fingers. The air around him shimmered—then with a shout:
"Ember Step: Blazing Fang!"
He vanished for a blink.
BOOM!
A pillar of flame erupted behind Feron as Luke appeared right in front of him, his knee slamming into Feron's gut. The older student crumpled.
Before Feron could hit the ground, Luke sheathed his saber with a sharp clang.
"Winner, Luke Arcadia!"
The medics rushed in.
Cheers exploded again from his supporters, while others murmured about how brutal that was for a first round.
From the stands, Mira scoffed. "He's still a show-off."
Leto nodded. "Yeah, but damn, he's good."
Rolien just stayed quiet, tapping his foot. His eyes never left Luke.
Luke didn't look back. But for a second—just for a flicker—his gaze angled toward Rolien before he turned away with a faint smirk.
The arena pulsed with noise—cheers, gasps, scattered whispers that rolled like thunderclouds across the crowd.
"Damn. That Arcadia kid's ruthless."
"Did you see how clean those strikes were?"
"I heard he trained with the Crimson Blade Knights since he was ten."
"But Rolien's up in Bracket Two… if they meet..."
Back at the waiting zone, Rolien leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. The smirk on Luke's face burned in his mind.
Yeah… he knows I'm watching. Cocky bastard.
Sophia, who sat beside him with her arms folded under her cloak, glanced over. "You two got beef or something?"
Leto chimed in from behind her. "It's not beef. It's… fermented tension."
"Yeah," Mira added. "The kind that starts with a handshake and ends with a crater."
Rolien didn't answer. He just tilted his head back, cracked his neck, and exhaled. "He's strong. Fast. Knows how to end fights quick. But… he doesn't adapt. He controls."
Sophia raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you're already planning how to beat him."
He grinned. "I'm always planning how to beat him."
Suddenly, a familiar voice cut in with a soft, polite tone.
"Well, if you're going to beat Arcadia, Roah, you'd better not get too confident."
The group turned. Crown Prince Darius stood there, hands folded behind his back, smile lazy, eyes sharp.
Sophia's breath hitched for half a second. "D-Darius... I mean, Your Highness—"
"Save it, Soph. We're off the battlefield." He turned to Rolien, still smiling. "So? Think you've got what it takes to win this tournament?"
Rolien didn't flinch. "Maybe. I'm not betting on it."
Darius gave a single, amused chuckle. "Humble. Not what I expected from Elian's little brother."
Mira blinked. "Wait, wha—?"
Rolien stood. "That name means nothing here. I'm me. He's him."
Darius's eyes sparkled with interest. "Well said. Elian was a monster on the battlefield. Everyone expected you to crumble under his shadow." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Don't disappoint me. The Empire's watching."
With that, he walked away, his cloak trailing behind him like a drawn curtain.
Leto scratched his head. "Dude… Did he just pressure you or motivate you?"
Rolien shrugged. "He's royalty. It's all politics."
Sophia stepped closer, whispering, "Still. Being Elian's brother? That explains a lot."
Rolien looked at her. His tone softened. "Don't make it a thing. I'm fighting as Rolien. No ghosts behind me."
The crowd's energy shifted again as the announcer returned.
"And now, for the next match—"
The noise surged, but Rolien had already turned inward.
His eyes drifted shut.
He exhaled slowly, quietly.
Time to move.
"Let's find a seat!" Mira said, tugging Leto and Sophia toward the edge of the viewing zone.
Behind them, Rolien remained for a moment longer.
He looked to the arena.
Then to the sky.
Then back at his own hands.
His right hand flexed—the smooth finish of his prosthetic catching the sunlight. The new Gerberra 4.0: Jawbreaker—still untested in a real battle.
And his other hand clenched with quiet certainty.
No mana. No legacy. Just me.
Let's see how far that gets me.
The announcer's voice echoed again across the coliseum.
"Second Match! Ayden Stroud of the Southern Paladins… versus Bellatrix of the Redscale Clan!"
Cheers rumbled from the crowd as the two entered the circular arena. Ayden, clad in silver and navy-blue light armor, raised his spear with calm confidence. His stance was solid, refined—every movement screaming discipline.
Bellatrix stomped in, dragging a massive cleaver-like sword across the ground, sparks flying. Her crimson scales shimmered under the sun, half of her face hidden under a metal jawguard. She grinned wide.
"You look like a rabbit," she growled, licking her lips. "Let's see how you squeal."
Ayden didn't flinch.
The bell rang.
Bellatrix charged like a beast unchained, slamming her sword down with brute force. Ayden sidestepped, fast and efficient, the spear darting forward in a precise counter—ping! It bounced off her shoulder scale.
"Tough hide," Ayden muttered, resetting his stance.
She spun, tail whipping toward him. He ducked under it, then drove his spear upward—this time aiming for a joint in her armor. It hit flesh. Bellatrix snarled and backed off.
The crowd roared.
Bellatrix came again, this time coating her blade in a flickering red aura—draconic essence. Her swings were heavier, more vicious. Ayden deflected them with practiced motion, always an inch from danger, until finally—he swept her leg, drove the butt of his spear into her gut, and pinned her down.
"Match over!"
Ayden stepped back, offering no celebration. Bellatrix growled, coughed, then laughed as she accepted her defeat.
From the stands, someone murmured, "He's calm… too calm. That kid wasn't even trying."
Second Match: Sophia vs. Germaine
The crowd leaned forward in anticipation. The bell rang—and Germaine charged first, his gauntlets pulsing with reinforced mana. He closed the distance with a flurry of jabs, aiming to overwhelm the princess early.
But Sophia didn't flinch.
She stepped in—not back—and used Rolien's saber feint, a quick misdirection with her footwork that made Germaine lurch to the side. In a blink, she executed a sharp Zwerchau slash—not with a blade, but her reinforced open palm, twisting her whole body like Rolien often did with his sword.
The blow caught Germaine across the chest, forcing him to stagger. Before he could regain balance, Sophia vanished in a blur—flash step—reappearing behind him.
CRACK! Her roundhouse kick connected with the back of his knee, forcing him to one side. As he gasped in pain and turned—
"Sorry," she whispered.
She coiled her arm and unleashed a thunderous hammer strike punch to his gut, empowered by her mana channeling gloves. Germaine's eyes rolled, air knocked completely from his lungs. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The bell rang.
Cheers erupted across the crowd.
At the viewing platform, Luke watched with a narrowed gaze. He clicked his tongue, arms crossed.
"Tch. Now even the princess moves like him…"
He looked away, jaw clenched.
Back near the participants' waiting area, Sophia exited the arena with her gloves slung over her shoulder. Before she could wipe the sweat off her brow, she was greeted by two eager figures.
"Sophiaaaa!"
Leto rushed in first, giving her a dramatic, spinning high-five. Mira followed right behind with a more casual slap of palms.
"You nailed it!" Mira said, grinning. "That flash step into the hammer strike? That was sick!"
Sophia giggled, slightly bashful. "I… kinda borrowed that one."
Just then, Rolien appeared beside them, arms casually folded. He raised his fist.
Sophia blinked, then bumped her own to his.
"Good job, crybaby," Rolien said with a smirk, the same teasing tone he always used back in training.
"Hey!" she laughed, elbowing him. "I'm not crying now, am I?"
"No," he said, turning away. "But keep your guard up next round, princess."
---
Match 3: Asher Lynwood vs. Joran Vens
The announcer's voice echoed once more.
"For our third match—Asher Lynwood of House Lynwood versus Joran Vens from the Border Guard Corps!"
The two fighters entered the arena with very different energies. Asher wore a refined smirk, his polished armor gleaming and cape trailing. Joran stomped in with heavy boots, no-nonsense, wearing rough leathers and a battered pauldron, his eyes steady.
The bell rang.
Joran charged like a wild boar—straightforward, aggressive, blunt.
Asher, calm and calculating, stepped aside with a dancer's grace, twisting his rapier mid-motion to catch Joran's momentum and redirect it. In a blink, Asher pivoted and struck—a single, precise thrust to the shoulder joint. Joran stumbled, his blade falling from his hand. The crowd gasped.
It was over in less than twenty seconds.
Asher sheathed his rapier and bowed, elegant and smug.
"Victory to Asher Lynwood!"
Cheers mixed with murmurs. Some clapped out of awe, others muttered about the sheer skill gap.
Back in the waiting area, Mira raised a brow. "Well… damn."
Rolien simply nodded. "Textbook clean. But too proud. I can smell it from here."
Mira smirked. "Think you can wipe that smug off his face?"
"Eventually," Rolien muttered.
"Hey Leto! Your up next!" Rolien said raising his hand for a high five. Then Leto walk towards him and high-five him. " yeah, want me to end it quick?" Leto replied with grin.
"Nah. Just enjoy the fight brother"
" Got it!" He reply again then walk to the arena confident like rolien said.
"That's my boy"
"Shut up Roah" Mira and Sophia said in unison.
Match Three: Leto vs. Gregor
The arena felt colder now.
Gregor stood tall across from Leto—muscular, calm, with a quiet menace in his stance. Unlike the flashy types, Gregor didn't show off. But his presence alone hinted he'd crushed opponents before.
Leto exhaled slowly, lowering his stance—palms open, grounded like a true earthbender. Dust gathered around his feet. He remembered Rolien's words:
"If the opponent's stronger, don't meet them head-on. Overwhelm them with control. Technique beats raw power when you own the rhythm."
"Let the mountain move as you will it," Rolien had said once.
The whistle blew.
Gregor rushed in without hesitation. No fancy moves—just a clean, brutal jab aimed for Leto's chest. Leto barely leaned aside, sliding his left foot and twisting his hips, letting the force graze past him. He didn't counter immediately.
Instead, he stomped the ground. A ripple pulsed through the earth, and shards of compressed dirt—shaped like bullets—shot up from below. Gregor raised his arms, blocking most of them, but one struck his leg, exploding like a mini-grenade on contact, sending dirt and shockwaves outward.
The crowd gasped.
Gregor charged again, unfazed. This time his fist glowed with faint mana—his knuckles tearing through the air. Leto caught it on his forearm, sliding back from the impact. His arm numbed instantly. Gregor wasn't just strong—he was methodical.
Another punch. Leto ducked, pivoted, and threw an open palm strike to Gregor's rib.
Gregor grunted.
But then came a brutal hook to Leto's side—he misread the angle. His breath hitched, and he stumbled back.
"Move!" he cursed under his breath, blood at the corner of his lip.
He flashed behind Gregor—footwork sharp, not teleportation, but Rolien's "Flash Step" mimic. He stomped again. The ground beneath Gregor crumbled, forcing him to readjust his footing. Leto leapt, spinning with his full body weight and landed a crushing heel kick to Gregor's collarbone.
Gregor staggered—but still grabbed Leto mid-air and slammed him down.
The arena floor cracked.
Silence.
Then Leto's eyes snapped open—he kicked upward, using the recoil to flip up, dirt exploding behind him.
Sweat dripped. His uniform was torn near the shoulder. Breathing hard.
Gregor smiled. "You're better than you look."
"So are you," Leto muttered, arms trembling, blood dripping down one hand. "But this dance isn't over."
Gregor came again. But this time, Leto didn't dodge.
He moved around him.
Every step was deliberate. Earth shifted. Small walls sprang up. His palms touched the ground—two earth bullets fired and shattered mid-air, blinding Gregor briefly in the dust.
Leto launched forward.
A feint to the right—Gregor bit. Leto rolled left, and slammed his palm into Gregor's gut with full force, sending an earthen shockwave into his core.
Gregor gasped and dropped to a knee.
Leto staggered, coughing blood. He was one more clean hit from falling too.
But Gregor couldn't rise.
He stayed kneeling… then bowed his head slightly, lips twitching in a half-smirk. "You win."
"winner ! LETO!! of squad 12!" The announcer shouted and the crowd erupted in shock. Because a first year beat a second year a genius.
"Outta boy!" Rolien said. And Leto didn't reply he just high-five his friend again." My coke remember" he said with a wink.
" Well, you'll get that after this messy tournament!" Rolien said that then him and Luke met each other eyes again. " But I think winning inst going to be easy"
To be continued....