Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero! " No magic, No Problem!"
Encounter 5 : Mano Mano!
The crowd held its breath as the fourth match began.
Serena Vaux stepped onto the platform with calm elegance, her long ash-blonde hair swaying behind her. Clad in fitted dueling armor with flowing silver accents, she unsheathed both her curved blades with practiced grace. Her reputation as the Rising Dual Fang of House Vaux wasn't just for show. She was fast, disciplined, and lethal in close-range combat.
Across from her, Rolien cracked his neck once, then exhaled deeply. His usual smirk was gone—his eyes narrowed with focused calm. As the referee stepped back and signaled the start, a faint shimmer rippled across Rolien's body.
A subtle shift in the air. His stance lowered slightly. Veins around his arms and collar faintly pulsed with a silvery-blue glow. His boots scraped the ground with a soft hiss.
Hollowveil Force activated.
It wasn't flashy. No glowing aura. No explosion of mana.
Just pure, refined spirit energy coursing through his muscles, tendons, bones—sharpening every sense, empowering his reflexes, his movement, his strikes.
A gift from the spirit core within him. One earned, not given.
Serena charged first. Blades dancing.
She came in fast—left blade feinting high, right one sweeping low in a blur. But Rolien pivoted on his back foot, letting the first blade slide past his shoulder, parrying the second with his elbow. The shock sparked against his bracer.
She twirled—reversing her momentum mid-spin, bringing both swords down with a vertical scissor strike.
Rolien Flash Stepped to her blind spot.
She reacted—barely.
She spun, bringing her right blade up—only to meet a solid roundhouse kick to her ribs. The impact echoed like a drumbeat across the arena. The crowd winced.
But she didn't fall. Serena gritted her teeth, landed hard, and lunged again.
They clashed—over and over—swords sparking, fists flying, boots stomping against the stone floor.
Rolien weaved in and out of her range, not relying on brute strength—but technique. He parried her blades with the flat of his saber, twisting his wrist to redirect her balance. He ducked low, slid forward under her slashes, then leapt up with a rising elbow to her chin—but Serena blocked it with a crossed guard.
Her counter came fast—a spinning double blade slash that left a deep gash across Rolien's shoulder guard. He grunted. Blood dripped—but his footwork never broke.
He didn't back off.
Instead, he surged forward—fainting with his saber before sliding behind her again in a blur of motion. Then came the finisher:
Hammer-Strike Punch.
A clean blow to her gut—amplified by Hollowveil Force. Serena's breath left her lungs in a single gasp, and she dropped to one knee, swords clattering from her grip.
Match over.
The silence was broken by scattered claps… then cheers erupting from the spectators.
Luke Arcadia sneered from the stands, eyes locked on Rolien like a predator sizing up a worthy hunt.
"Let's see who's going on top, worm! Whether it's the semis or the finals… I'll crush you there."
The cheers thundered louder as the announcer raised his voice.
"Victory goes to Rolien Edric of House Edric!"
But Rolien didn't bask in the glory. He stood there, eyes still locked on Serena as she coughed and tried to catch her breath, one arm clutched over her abdomen. Her pride was bruised more than her body.
He reached out a hand. She looked up, surprised for a second. Then, with a soft scoff, she accepted it and let him help her up.
"You're faster than I expected," she muttered, brushing her armor down, still slightly hunched.
Rolien gave a small nod. "You hid your tempo changes well. Almost got me on that last turn."
"Almost doesn't win matches," she said, forcing a smirk as she stepped off the platform, limping slightly. "Good fight, Edric."
The crowd was still buzzing when Rolien turned his head toward the stands—his eyes instantly meeting Luke Arcadia's.
Luke stood, arms folded over the railing. His white academy coat fluttered slightly in the wind, and the insignia of House Arcadia glinted proudly on his shoulder. His smirk was smug, but his gaze—sharp, appraising.
Their silent stare lasted just a few seconds. But it said everything.
Rivalry declared.
Luke turned and walked away, cloak snapping behind him.
Rolien exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulder as he walked off the stage. The pain from Serena's strike was real, but manageable. The Hollowveil Force was still coursing through him, though it had dimmed now, pulsing gently under the surface. It always lingered a few minutes after deactivation. Like embers that refused to die out.
He passed through the archway into the waiting chamber, where Miraa and Leto were already waiting.
Mira grinned. "Showoff."
Leto, more reserved, just handed him a towel. "You okay?"
Rolien took it, wiping the sweat and blood from his neck. "Shoulder stings. Nothing broken, though."
Mira leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "that was cool roah. Looked cleaner this time. More precise."
"well you know me," Rolien muttered. "Serena wasn't holding back."
Sophia folded her arms, brows furrowed. "you should use arm of yours just in case. Not everyone will take kindly to a 'magicless' suddenly surpassing top ranks. So it's better if they saw something they can focus on like that arm of yours."
Rolien gave her a look, smirking. "That's their problem, not mine."
"Well. You're heading into the semi-finals. Your next match won't be easy. There's a gap between those who claw their way up—and those born at the top." Leto said.
Mira scoffed. "We'll see how wide that gap really is."
Sophia gave her a dry smile, then turned and walked off.
Rolien looked at the match chart on the wall. His name had now advanced, right beneath Luke Arcadia's.
A storm was brewing.
He could feel it in his bones.
The semis weren't just another step.
They were the beginning of war.
Above the arena, in the gilded observation balcony, the air was thick—not with smoke or heat—but tension.
The fourth match had ended, and the aftershock still lingered. Velvet-lined chairs creaked as nobles shifted uncomfortably, craning for a better look at the boy exiting the platform.
Crown Prince Kaien leaned forward, one leg crossed over the other, smirking. "Now that was fun."
Beside him, Prince Darius whistled low. "I'm glad I backed the kid. That wasn't finesse—that was calculated violence."
"Pfft." Prince Jun flicked his folding fan closed. "Still placing my bets on Sophia. But…"
He glanced at the board, eyes narrowing.
"…Kaien. Why's your name on the bracket?"
Kaien gave a grin that could melt ice or start wars. "Relax. That's not an official fight."
Darius raised a brow. "Then what is it?"
"Exhibition match," Kaien said, waving his hand lazily. "I'll fight whoever wins the semis. Just for entertainment. Y'know, shake things up a bit. Hahaha."
Jun stared flatly. "You say that now. But the last time you said 'just for entertainment', a general lost his spleen."
"Well," Kaien chuckled, "he did swing first."
The laughter didn't last long.
Around them, nobles, professors, and military brass all whispered, still trying to understand what they'd just seen.
"Did he enhance his speed mid-step?"
"That impact—Serena was airborne for a second. Did you see the crater from the punch?"
"No chant, no glyph, no visible mana activation… and yet…"
Down the line, Duke Arcadia—father of Luke—sat with his arms crossed, jaw tight.
He muttered, "So… the Edric whelp decided to get serious."
Then his eyes flicked toward Grand Duke Edric Grey, seated further down the row.
And there sat the Grand Duke, statuesque, calm… but unreadable.
He offered no applause, no smile. But when a younger noble leaned in and asked, "What technique was that? A hidden scroll? A spirit gear boost? Surely not natural—"
The Grand Duke replied coolly, almost dismissive, "A prototype boost in his arm. We call it Jawbreaker. It channels kinetic discharge on impact."
He said it like it was nothing.
But those close enough could feel it—he was lying. Or at least… deflecting.
The name Jawbreaker was real, sure. But the energy Rolien unleashed wasn't from any prototype they knew. No sigils. No artifacts. Just pure, terrifying precision.
Still, the Grand Duke's answer was enough.
Nobody pressed further. No one dared.
But the whispers only got darker:
"Is that really the Edric boy?"
"No magic, no scroll… and he dismantled a Vaux swordswoman like it was sparring practice."
"Wait… that prophecy—the Phantom child…"
One noble murmured, "The boy born magicless. The one who rises beyond the five houses. The shadow born in the age of kings…"
Another added, "Could he be the one? The Phantom from the old verses?"
Duke Arcadia scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Fairy tales. Superstition."
But his fingers tapped restlessly against the armrest.
And across from him, Grand Duke Edric Grey stared down at the arena. Silent. Still.
Only his eyes moved—tracking the boy as he walked toward the tunnel, away from the lights, back into shadow.
The Semifinals.
The crowd had settled into a different kind of silence—not boredom, but tension. The early rounds were for proving ground. This stage? This was where legends were carved.
A new set of banners hung above the dueling platform, shimmering under the arena lights. The announcer's voice rang across the coliseum:
"For our first semifinal match… representing House Arcadia—Luke Arcadia! Versus… Leto of Eastern Steelwright Academy!"
Cheers and murmurs mixed, but the dominant sound was the buzz of expectation.
Luke stepped onto the platform like he owned it. No hesitation. His posture was proud, blade still sheathed. His uniform, pristine white and trimmed in silver, flowed behind him as he took his place.
Across from him, Leto adjusted the grip on his glaive. Unlike the noble houses, the Steelwright Academy trained warrior-for-hire types. Mercenaries. Fighters who clawed their way up without a fancy name.
And yet… he didn't flinch.
Luke cracked his neck once, his smirk sharp. "Let's make this quick."
The bell rang.
And then steel screamed.
Leto came at him hard—wide swings, hammering footwork, brute strength backed by raw endurance. But Luke—he didn't move like a duelist. He moved like a predator.
Elegant. Precise. Merciless.
He parried with the flat of his sword, stepped in—then struck low, then up, then inside Leto's guard in three clean motions. Leto barely blocked one before a sharp kick crashed into his knee.
The match didn't last long.
Five minutes later, Leto lay on the platform, breathing hard, bruised but conscious.
Luke turned without fanfare.
The crowd erupted.
---
"Victory: Luke Arcadia advances to the finals!"
---
Next came a sudden shift in atmosphere. The announcer's tone softened slightly, out of courtesy.
"Next match: Mira of Northgard Flameguard… versus Princess Sophia of House Valenheart!"
A wave of polite applause echoed, mostly from nobles. But scattered roars came from the common seats—Mira had made a name for herself this tournament with raw firepower and grit.
Sophia stepped onto the platform in her polished battle dress, her rapier glinting in the sun. Her light-blue cloak bore the royal crest of Valenheart—two swans intertwined beneath a crown of stars.
Mira followed, eyes steady, flame gloves already crackling around her knuckles. She nodded toward Sophia.
"Don't hold back, Your Highness."
Sophia tilted her head. "I don't intend to."
Their match was a dance of fire and grace.
Mira's flame-punches shook the floor with every impact. Sophia, meanwhile, flowed like water—parrying, dodging, redirecting. A flash of frost magic cooled the platform, dampening Mira's flames.
Back and forth they went—until Sophia baited a wide haymaker, twisted inside, and knocked Mira's legs from under her with a spinning sweep.
The end came in a burst of wind magic that slammed Mira to the ground—but not without a hard fight.
"Victory: Princess Sophia advances to the finals!"
And now… the crowd held its breath again.
This was the match they were really waiting for.
The announcer's voice dropped in tone—serious, grounded.
"Final semifinal match: Rolien Edric of House Edric Grey… versus Ayden of the Southern Paladin Order!"
The roar that followed wasn't elegant. It wasn't noble. It was raw.
Rolien walked out onto the platform without fanfare. His armor was simpler than the others', more practical than ornate. His sword was already strapped across his back, but he hadn't even touched it last time.
Ayden followed—tall, broad, with a two-handed silver claymore slung over his shoulder. His golden armor bore the crest of the Southern Paladin Order: a burning sun over an open gauntlet.
He looked like a wall.
And he looked like he meant it.
The announcer barely had time to step off the field before Ayden slammed the claymore to the ground, pointing it at Rolien.
"No tricks. No hidden scrolls. No sudden punches. Fight like a man."
Rolien just rolled his shoulder.
"Cool. Long as you can take it."
And then…
The bell rang.
The Arena Fell Silent.
Not a bird, not a cough, not a whisper.
Just the creak of Ayden's armor as he stepped forward.
And Rolien, standing across from him, still as stone.
Ayden's voice echoed through the arena.
"I won't be using any magic. No divine aura. No paladin amplification. Just my body."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Even the announcer hesitated.
Leto, seated among the previous competitors, muttered, "Is he out of his mind? Did he forget who he's up against?"
He leaned forward, hands clenched. "Rolien doesn't need magic. He breaks people without it."
Sophia, seated calmly nearby, answered without looking at him.
"No… he didn't underestimate Rolien."
She narrowed her eyes, her voice cold.
"He overestimated himself."
---
Rolien cracked his neck.
His voice was quiet but clear enough for the stands to hear:
"Well, don't cry after this."
Then, he casually tossed his sword out of the ring.
The blade clanged across the arena floor, sliding to a stop.
Ayden raised a brow. "Hey? You want me to keep my arm or—?"
Rolien cut in, deadpan:
"Do you want me to break it or just snap it clean off?"
But Ayden grinned, eyes blazing.
"Keep it. I don't like people whispering I fought a disabled opponent."
Rolien exhaled once, a small shrug.
"Well… have it your way."
The bell rang.
And the moment it did—they exploded forward.
---
Ayden swung first, a straight iron punch, more like a battering ram than a jab.
Rolien tilted his head—just enough for it to miss—then slammed a palm against Ayden's chest.
Ayden staggered two steps—but didn't fall.
Instead, he caught Rolien's arm mid-withdrawal and pulled him into a shoulder thrust.
Boom.
Rolien skidded back across the stone, boots carving a short trail.
The crowd gasped.
Ayden didn't waste it. He surged forward.
Hooks. Elbows. Kicks.
Each one fast—not clean—but backed by brutal weight.
Rolien ducked, rolled under a kick, popped up—and countered with a snapping backfist.
Ayden caught it with his forearm—but winced.
The sound was like leather smacking oak.
Then Rolien flowed into a rising knee.
Ayden grunted, twisting away just in time, but Rolien stayed glued to him, like smoke chasing fire.
---
They traded strikes.
Body to body. Bone to bone.
Rolien's movements were sharper—every step was trained, every dodge rehearsed. But Ayden had the raw strength, the stubborn will, and the war-forged body that refused to buckle.
Rolien slipped inside Ayden's guard and snapped a jab into his ribs—then another. Then a rising elbow.
Ayden roared and grabbed Rolien by the collar, lifting him off the ground—then slammed him into the stone tiles.
The ground cracked.
"—Shit," Rolien hissed, legs wrapping around Ayden's torso.
He rolled them over, broke the grip, then flipped back to his feet in one motion.
The crowd lost it.
Even the judges leaned forward.
Ayden stood again—spitting blood.
He grinned. "Not bad."
Rolien dusted his palms. "You're not slow. For a wall."
---
They clashed again.
This time, it wasn't strikes—it was momentum.
Grappling. Clinching. Sweeps. Counter throws.
Ayden tried to catch Rolien in a standing headlock—but Rolien dropped, spun under, and delivered a spinning hook kick that connected flush with Ayden's temple.
Ayden's head snapped sideways—but he didn't drop.
He charged— shoulder-first like a bull.
Rolien sidestepped, grabbed the arm, twisted—
Dislocated the shoulder.
The crack was audible.
But Ayden—mad bastard—didn't even scream.
He just snapped it back into place against the wall.
The crowd went silent.
Even the nobles leaned back, eyebrows raised.
"What the hell…" one of the instructors muttered.
---
Rolien took a slow breath. He didn't grin anymore. His stance was lower now.
Ayden stepped back into position. Breathing heavy.
Blood ran down both their faces. Their uniforms were torn. Their knuckles were raw.
"You still standing?" Rolien asked, voice quiet.
Ayden nodded. "Are you?"
They charged again.
This time—Rolien moved first.
A blur. A pivot. A flash of motion.
He didn't just strike—he flowed.
Palm to throat. Chop to collarbone. Knee to the gut. Elbow to the back of the skull.
Ayden flailed—but Rolien was already behind him.
Then came the finisher:
A gut punch—short, brutal, close-range. The air exploded from Ayden's lungs.
Then a step-in spin…
—And Rolien's boot hit Ayden's jaw so hard it knocked him off his feet.
Boom.
Ayden flew back six feet before crashing down. Rolled once.
Then stopped.
Silence.
The referee hesitated… then stepped forward.
"Winner—Rolien of House Edric!"
---
The crowd erupted.
Some in awe.
Some in fear.
Some too stunned to speak.
In the stands, Leto exhaled. "I take it back."
Sophia stood, arms crossed. "He wasn't overestimating himself."
She turned, gaze fixed on the boy standing alone on the cracked platform.
"He underestimated what a real monster looks like."
To be continued...