Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero!" No Magic,No problem!"
Encounter 7: let it loose!
Cheers once filled the coliseum, but now, silence had taken root.
Sophia stood on shaky legs, her blade nicked and trembling in her hands. Sweat clung to her skin, her breathing ragged, chest heaving. Across from her, Gregor Cain towered like a steel mountain. His Warhammer—chipped but still monstrous—rested against his shoulder, crackling faintly with mana-enhanced weight. He didn't even look tired.
"Not bad… for a princess," Gregor sneered. "But this is where you break."
Sophia narrowed her eyes. "Not yet…"
She moved. A feint. Low swipe. A parry. Then she twisted into a reverse slash—clang!—Gregor blocked with his hammer's flat. She spun into a roundhouse kick—his shoulder took it, barely moving.
The crowd gasped.
She dropped low and went for a move Rolien had drilled into her—the Hummer Strike. Sword held reverse, she charged in close, shoulder in, pivoting her hips as she slammed her blade toward his ribs.
Bam!
A clean hit—but it only staggered him.
Gregor grunted. Then—
Crack!
The hammer came down hard. Sophia raised her sword—too late. The impact flung her back like a ragdoll. Her body skidded across the ground, coughing blood.
"Princess!" someone cried from the crowd.
In the royal booth, the princes stood in shock.
"She's… matching an elite?" whispered one.
"She's grown stronger," the second prince muttered.
"Unbelievable," said the third.
But it was Crown Prince Keain who leaned forward, his eyes glinting with sharp interest.
"Rolien's doing," he whispered. "He trained her."
He looked to the other side of the arena—where Rolien Edric stood, hands in pockets, face unreadable, watching Sophia with cold, still eyes.
The murmurs from the crowd turned toward Rolien.
"Isn't that the Edric boy?"
"The magicless one?"
"No way… he trained her to this level?"
"Wait… that sword move—was that the Edric technique?"
"He's a genius. A true tactician."
"I heard he's been using custom tech in battle."
"He might win this whole thing."
But Rolien wasn't listening.
His lips were trembling. His fists clenched.
Then Sophia tried to stand.
Her sword fell from her grip.
She looked at Gregor—bloody, barely conscious—but still defiant.
Rolien grit his teeth.
"Say it, Sophia," he muttered under his breath.
Gregor raised his Warhammer. The wind howled.
"Say it!" Rolien shouted. "Surrender!!"
She didn't.
Wham!
Gregor slammed her down. The ground cracked from the impact.
She didn't move.
And Gregor, panting now, raised his hammer again—ready to end it.
"STOP!!!" Rolien screamed.
In a blink—
"Mother fucker!"
CRASH!
He teleported.
One arm—his metallic prosthetic—rose and caught the hammer mid-swing.
Sparks exploded.
The metal of his Jawbreaker Arm shuddered from the force, but it didn't yield.
Rolien stood over Sophia, eyes filled with fury, face shadowed in rage.
"You've done enough."
Gregor blinked. "You—! You're not allowed—!"
Click.
The arm's gears rotated.
A hatch opened on his forearm, and a surge of glowing mana funneled into the cannon port.
The crowd's breath hitched.
"Oh gods!…"
The barrel of his prosthetic arm flared with light.
"Rolien… No…" Principal Thorne whispered, already moving.
A charged hum rose in the air. Lightning arced. Wind swirled violently.
And then—BOOM!
A blinding beam of pure energy exploded from his cannon. The sky itself turned white.
But it didn't hit Gregor.
Because two professors and Principal Thorne intercepted it just in time, redirecting the blast upward with combined barriers.
SKRRAAAAK!
The beam tore through the clouds, punching a hole in the heavens.
Even the sky bled.
The stadium shook.
Dust rained from the upper terraces. People screamed. Several mages in the audience collapsed from the pressure alone.
When the light faded, silence fell again.
Thorne's robes were scorched. The professors looked pale.
"If that had hit…" one whispered, unable to finish.
Gregor Cain had collapsed backward, face pale. He couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe.
Thorne turned to Rolien. His voice was calm, but strained.
"I told you never to use that cannon in the arena."
Rolien didn't respond. He just glance at principal Thorne then back to Sophia.
He just stood there, shielding Sophia, steam rising from his Jawbreaker arm, eyes still locked on Gregor with quiet, murderous rage.
The arena was still.
Wind swept across the battered stone tiles, carrying with it the sharp tang of scorched air left behind by Rolien's near-deadly beam.
Rolien stood tall, dust swirling around his boots, Sophia limp in his arms. His expression was unreadable—except for the searing heat in his eyes. The kind that promised ruin.
He turned his back on the arena, taking one step, then two.
But behind him, Gregor Cain spat blood to the side and straightened up, half-laughing, half-snorting.
"Oi, brat!" he barked, voice echoing across the broken floor. "Where the hell d'you think you're goin'? We still have our match, right?! Or are you chickening out because your lovely little girlfriend got her ass beat?"
The air shifted.
Rolien paused.
He didn't look back.
For a second, it seemed like he'd ignore him entirely—but then he slowly turned, one arm holding Sophia like she weighed nothing, the other hanging by his side, twitching faintly.
His gaze met Gregor's.
And every professor, student, and noble in the stands felt it. That... pressure. Like gravity suddenly thickened. Like all sound died, and the only thing left was the crushing weight of something ancient and furious.
Even Principal Thorne felt it—and he'd fought dragons.
Rolien's jaw clenched.
His voice came low. Dangerous.
"Shut up... mountain bear."
"Stay there, and I'll deal with you later."
It wasn't a shout.
It was worse.
It was calm.
Too calm.
Even the professors flinched, some unconsciously reaching for their staves or artifacts. Not to stop him—but to brace.
Gregor, for the first time, took half a step back.
Rolien turned again, cloak fluttering behind him.
He walked toward the infirmary.
The silence stretched, until the whispers returned in hushed waves:
"Did he just—"
"That killing intent... was that really from a seventeen-year-old?"
"I—I couldn't breathe..."
"He's just a magicless... how?!"
Mira and Leto said nothing.
They just followed behind Rolien with pale faces. Leto's knuckles were white. Mira's lips pressed into a line. They knew. This wasn't the calm, sarcastic Rolien they trained with. This... was something else. Something terrifying.
A boy's rage that even magic couldn't contain.
And not a single person in that arena dared to step in his path.
The scent of blood still clung to the air when the clinic doors slammed open.
Rolien entered, carrying Sophia's limp body in his arms. Not a scratch on him—but everything about him screamed fury. His steps were fast, purposeful, like a man walking away from war but dragging it behind him.
The nurses moved quickly. One tried to stop him to take her pulse, but he didn't speak—just laid Sophia gently onto the healing bed, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. Her cheeks were pale, her lips trembling even in unconsciousness. The burn marks across her ribs, the bruises on her arms… it made his jaw tighten.
Sophia lay unconscious on the clinic bed, bruised and bloodied, her breaths shallow but steady. The nurse checked her vitals and gave a silent nod to Rolien.
Only then did he move.
A long breath escaped his lips—not calm, not at peace, just controlled. Contained.
He turned without a word and walked out the door.
Because they couldn't look away. Couldn't disobey the gravity that now surrounded Rolien Edric.
They whispered.
"Did you feel that just now…?"
"He's only seventeen!"
"That wasn't killing intent. That was something worse."
Step by step.
Heel, toe. Heel, toe.
Each footfall echoed through the corridor like the beat of a war drum, louder than it should be. He wasn't stomping. He wasn't rushing. But the air around him shifted. Like something ancient and monstrous was waking up.
He passed students and staff alike, and not one dared meet his eyes. Leto and Mira quietly followed, not saying a single word. Even they felt it—the pressure. Not mana. Not ki. But something else. Something heavier.
The closer he got to the arena, the quieter the world seemed to get. The arena crowd was restless, murmuring about the brutal match they'd just witnessed. But then the murmurs stopped.
Darkness veiled the entrance tunnel as Rolien approached.
And then he appeared.
One step out of the shadows, into the light.
Rolien Edric Grey.
Eyes burning with quiet fury. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Every breath like steam pressing through a lid ready to burst.
The moment they saw his face, the atmosphere changed.
A wave of fear washed over the crowd—not magic-induced, but primal. Like they were prey watching a predator enter the ring. Like they all collectively remembered what it meant to fear something they couldn't explain.
And Rolien never looked up. He just kept walking forward. Slow. Steady. Inevitable.
Toward Gregor.
Toward the fight.
Toward the reckoning.
Gregor was already waiting in the center of the arena, pacing like a caged beast. Blood still stained his gloves—Sophia's blood. His breathing was steady, but his expression had soured since the crowd fell quiet.
He felt it too.
Something had changed.
From the edge of the ring, a judge raised a hand to signal the next round was about to begin—but even he looked unsure. His voice faltered a little as he tried to keep to protocol.
"Final match... begins in one minute. Fighters, to the center."
But Rolien didn't move faster. He didn't posture. He didn't even raise his hands.
He just walked.
The sound of his boots touching stone echoed again. Slow. Rhythmic. A heartbeat of dread.
One step.
Two steps.
Three.
Gregor forced a smirk. "So... the Edric runt , you hot a scary face there"
No answer.
Rolien finally stopped a few feet in front of him, eyes leveled—not at Gregor's face, but at his fists.
The ones that had struck Sophia.
Gregor scoffed, trying to hold onto some pride. "You think you're different from the rest? That you're better than the others I put down today?"
And Rolien just yawn " you talk too much for an ape!" He said still yawning. And Gregor brows twitch in anger.
Then, finally Rolien moved.
He raised a single hand… and pointed it at Gregor.
Not a gesture of honor.
Not a salute.
But an accusation.
A warning.
Something in Gregor's throat tightened. His hands clenched out of instinct.
Then—
BANG!
The bell rang.
The match had begun.
But for a second… no one moved.
Not even Gregor.
Because Rolien didn't take a stance.
He didn't draw a weapon.
He just stood there.
Then… without a sound—no flash, no charge, no cry—he was gone from sight.
The crowd gasped.
Gregor's eyes widened.
"Wha—?"
A fist slammed into his stomach like a battering ram.
CRACK!
Gregor's feet left the ground. His mouth opened in a choked grunt as saliva sprayed out, and his body was lifted, airborne, before crashing back-first to the stone tiles.
Silence.
The crowd didn't cheer.
Not yet.
They were still trying to process what they'd just seen.
Because Rolien had just moved from standing still… to flooring a seasoned brawler in less than a second.
No magic.
No weapons.
Just raw, terrifying intent.
And Rolien? He wasn't even breathing hard.
He stood over Gregor, face blank. Not out of mercy.
But because he wasn't done yet.
And Gregor slowly rose and smile
"Not bad kid!" He said wiping the blood on his mouth.
The Arena Was Quiet Again.
Dust rolled lightly with the breeze, and every eye was locked onto the one figure slowly emerging from the shadows of the tunnel.
Each step Rolien took echoed like a war drum. He wasn't running. He wasn't charging. He walked—steady, cold, and slow. His coat swayed behind him with each step like a predator's tail. And when the light finally touched his face, it wasn't the same calm boy they all knew.
His gaze burned.
Gregor, who had been leaning lazily against the side of the ring, pushed off and cracked his neck with a grin. "Tch ,you thinking high you're self huh"
CLANG!
The sound of steel sliding from its sheath cut him off. Rolien drew his sword with one hand and pointed it directly at Gregor without saying a word. His other hand clenched, trembling—not with fear, but with barely restrained violence.
Professor Harth stood up from his seat. "W-Wait, are we seriously letting this match continue—?"
Principal Thorne raised his hand. "No one move let them be. I wanna see the full capability of this kid."
They could all feel it. It wasn't mana. It wasn't bloodlust in the traditional sense. But it was something else. Ancient. Raw. Like a wild beast just woke up in that boy's chest.
Gregor spat to the side. "Ready.?"
The Fight Began again.
Gregor charged first, swinging his gauntlet-covered fist in a wild arc.(because his Warhammer was got thrown away after Rolien punch him.
Rolien sidestepped cleanly, not even blinking, and slashed at Gregor's leg. Steel met skin—barely a scratch. Gregor was built like a fortress.
He threw a backhand. Rolien ducked, skidded back, then dashed forward again. His sword struck—once, twice, three times—aiming at the joints, under the ribs, behind the knee. Gregor blocked one, took the second, shrugged off the third.
He grinned. "You're fast. But not fast enough."
A punch came. Rolien parried with the flat of his blade—but Gregor spun and kicked him away, sending Rolien tumbling back across the dirt.
The crowd leaned forward. This wasn't just brute force anymore. It was a test of patience.
Rolien wiped blood from his lip. Then, he exhaled—slowly.
The sword vanished in a blink of metal sliding back into storage on his back. His hand moved, shifting to the side holster—and with a smooth motion, he drew his air gun.
Boom! A compressed shot exploded out. Gregor raised his arm, blocking—but the force still sent him stumbling.
Another shot—this one at his legs. Then one to the shoulder. Gregor growled, "Coward's weapon!"
He charged again, and Rolien dropped low, firing from the ground up—then rolling, jumping to his feet.
But this time, Gregor closed the distance. Fast.
He slammed Rolien down with a body blow to the gut, sending the boy flying across the ring.
Silence.
Dust.
Rolien stood.
Spat blood.
Then pulled the sword again.
He rushed this time. Blade clashing against Gregor's gauntlets in a frenzy of sparks. He wasn't defending anymore. Each strike was meant to cut, to break, to hurt.
Gregor laughed. "Now you're getting serious—!"
Rolien ditched the sword.
Mid-swing, he let it go. Let it slide into the sand behind Gregor.
Then came the fists.
A right hook. A gut punch. A feint to the face followed by a low kick.
Gregor blocked two, ate the third, but the last one made him stagger.
Rolien was now on him like lightning. His arms wrapped around Gregor's waist, lifting him—suplex! The ring shook.
Gregor coughed hard. But Rolien wasn't done.
He grabbed the man's collar and headbutted him square on the nose.
Blood sprayed.
The arena gasped.
Gregor reeled back—stunned for the first time.
Rolien stood over him, panting, not from exhaustion but from rage barely being kept in check.
Gregor growled, wiping the blood from his face.
"This isn't over."
Rolien cracked his knuckles, eyes burning.
"No," he said coldly, "it's just starting."
Gregor's knuckles sparked faintly as mana surged to his arms. "heh cocky little brat?" he barked. "Then I'll show you who's stronger!!"
His body tensed. Muscles expanded. Veins along his arms bulged unnaturally as the earth beneath him cracked. Stone lifted—tiny shards hovering like dust caught in a storm—and his skin took on a faint metallic sheen.
He was powering up.
The Warhammer, embedded in the ring floor from earlier, trembled—then ripped free, flying to his waiting hand like it had a will of its own. He caught it mid-air, eyes now glowing faint red. The crowd gasped. Even the professors leaned forward.
"That's Cain's combat trance," someone whispered. "His Earth Body Form…"
"Now he's serious," another murmured. "He could crush steel in that state."
Gregor roared, lifting his Warhammer high.
Rolien didn't flinch.
Instead, he stood still, breathing in.
His fingers twitched—and suddenly, he snapped.
A ripple of energy exploded outward—not mana. Not visible.
But every fighter in the stands felt it.
Crowd Control: Lightning Element—Stun Pulse.
Sparks danced at Rolien's heels, then shot outward in thin threads along the floor. Gregor's charge halted for half a heartbeat as arcs of controlled lightning bit into his limbs—not enough to injure, but enough to numb. A split second of paralysis.
Rolien moved.
Speed Boost: Light Element.
His body blurred—nothing but a streak of motion and the sound of rushing air.
He reappeared on Gregor's left flank.
Hollowveilforge activated.
A pale blue shimmer coated Rolien's limbs. His strikes grew heavier, faster. Fists and elbows came like sledgehammers, hammering Gregor's side and arm again and again.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Gregor howled and swung—wild. Rolien ducked, countered with a palm to the sternum. Gregor skidded back.
But he planted his Warhammer deep into the ground, breathing hard, face bloodied but grinning.
Gregor slammed his Warhammer against the ground, cracks spidering beneath his feet.
"Who the hell trained a brat like you?!"
Rolien, eyes locked, voice flat and cold—
"Your mama."
The arena went silent for a second. Then someone in the crowd wheezed.
Gregor's face twisted. "You little—!"
Then another stun pulse—a controlled burst of lightning beneath Gregor's feet. He twitched, off balance.
Rolien moved in again—this time bringing down his elbow straight into Gregor's shoulder.
Gregor roared—his left arm dropped limp.
Rolien tried for a follow-up strike, but the Warhammer slammed into the ground between them, sending up a wave of earth that forced Rolien to leap back.
"You're not the only one with tricks, brat!" Gregor bellowed.
The ground beneath Rolien exploded—Earth Spike!—but he was already mid-air, flipping over it.
He landed, skidding back, switching instantly.
Sword out again.
Blade danced.
He cut the earth spike in half on the landing and charged—blade flashing like lightning. Every step came with the thrum of speed. His blade met Gregor's hammer—CLANG!
Then again. CLANG!
Then—Rolien ducked, tossed the sword upward, and punched Gregor across the jaw with a rising uppercut.
The sword dropped back into his hand—caught clean.
Slice!
He nicked Gregor's leg—finally drawing a real cut.
Gregor staggered—eyes wide. Then snarled and lifted the hammer in both hands.
Boom!
The hammer came down—but hit nothing.
Rolien vanished again.
Then reappeared behind him—this time grabbing the hammer's shaft. With a twist of his enhanced strength—Hollowveilforge still active—he ripped it from Gregor's grip and threw it across the arena like trash.
Gregor spun—too late.
Rolien drove a boot into his back.
Gregor hit the ground with a thunderous crash, coughing blood.
The crowd was stunned.
No one dared cheer. No one breathed.
Rolien stepped forward, jaw tight, blade dragging against the ground with a low shriek.
Gregor pushed himself up—wobbling, blood dripping from his mouth.
"You… you bastard," he spat. "You're just a—magicless runt! How are you doing this?!"
"So what who's laying now?!"
Rolien stopped in front of him.
And said, flatly—
"I don't need magic to break you."
Then—CRACK!
Rolien's knee drove into Gregor's nose—breaking it clean.
Blood exploded. Gregor reeled back—
And Rolien switched again—air gun out.
Boom!
A shot to the leg. Then the arm. Then the gut.
Gregor hit the floor, coughing violently.
But Rolien didn't let up.
He sprinted.
Dropped the gun mid-run—back to fists.
He grabbed Gregor by the collar, lifted him—
And drove him face-first into the stone.
BOOM!
The ring cracked.
Dust flew.
Gregor's arms twitched.
The referee raised his hand—but dared not say a word.
Rolien stepped back, breathing hard—but still moving like a fighter not even close to his limit.
Gregor groaned.
And didn't rise.
Finally—the referee looked to the head table.
Principal Thorne stood slowly.
"...This match is over," Thorne said. His voice rang across the arena, clear and steady. "Victory goes to Rolien Edric Grey."
Silence.
Then—
The arena exploded.
Cheers. Screams. Shock. Disbelief.
Not because he won.
But because the impossible had happened.
A magicless boy just tore through a powerhouse using nothing but tactics, grit, and the impossible force of spirit.
Mira covered her mouth.
Leto whispered, "He wasn't just holding back… He was waiting."
In the royal booth, Crown Prince Keain stood and clapped once—slowly. "A monster," he murmured. "That boy is a monster."
And at the center of it all, Rolien stood, alone.
Sword in one hand, knuckles bruised, jaw tight, eyes distant.
Not smiling.
Not triumphant.
Only walking away—toward the fallen hammer, the shattered earth, and the path out.
Not because he had won.
But because this wasn't about victory.
It was about a promise.
And he had just kept it.
To be continued...