Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero " No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 9: Final brawl!
The ruins echoed with the dull clang of steel on steel.
Rolien's breath was ragged. Blood trickled down his temple, staining the collar of his torn shirt. His arms trembled, muscles screaming every time he lifted his sword. Across from him, Luke was in no better shape—his coat hung in tatters, one eye nearly swollen shut, knuckles cracked and bleeding from gripping his hilt too hard.
No words passed between them anymore.
They just moved.
Luke stepped in first—quick thrust to Rolien's ribs. Rolien twisted, the blade grazing his side, and retaliated with a high slash. Luke blocked it, barely, the force pushing him back a step. They separated again.
A beat.
Then both charged.
Blades collided mid-swing, shrieking from the pressure. Rolien ducked low, slashing for Luke's knees, but Luke hopped back and countered with a brutal downward strike. Rolien caught it with the flat of his blade—but his footing faltered. Luke capitalized, stepping in, elbowing Rolien across the jaw, then swinging again.
Rolien blocked with the hilt, then twisted in close, their foreheads nearly clashing.
They shoved each other apart, both panting.
Then it was Luke's turn—he spun, low sweep, trying to unbalance. Rolien leapt back, raised his sword just in time to parry another slash that would've carved his throat open.
Their blades danced, but not with elegance—this wasn't a duel of style. This was survival. Desperation. Each strike heavier than the last, each move slower, more labored.
Luke swung—Rolien blocked.
Rolien thrust—Luke deflected.
Again and again.
Then suddenly—crack.
Luke's blade split near the hilt.
He stared at it, wide-eyed.
A breath later, Rolien's blade snapped in half, the tip flying off into the rubble behind Luke.
They stood there, both armed with broken swords, panting like dogs after a chase. Blood dripped from their wounds, pooling on the cracked ground beneath them.
And then Rolien let out a tired chuckle, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Well... that's a draw, I guess."
Luke didn't answer—just stood there, sweat dripping from his chin, broken blade still raised.
But in his eyes?
There was fire.
This wasn't over yet.
Steel shrieked against steel.
Both boys were bruised, bleeding, and exhausted. Their once-pristine uniforms were torn and dirtied with dust and sweat. Rolien's breathing was ragged. Luke's shoulders trembled with fatigue. Their swords were chipped, worn from the long and merciless duel. Yet neither backed down.
They clashed one last time with a mighty roar—
CRACK!
Both blades shattered at the same instant, shards flying in all directions. The crowd gasped, many rising from their seats as the broken steel scattered across the floor.
Silence reigned for a breath.
Then—without hesitation—both reached for their knives.
It was like watching wolves tear into each other.
Rolien struck first, slashing diagonally. Luke twisted sideways, barely avoiding the blade and retaliating with a tight jab aimed at Rolien's side. Rolien blocked with the hilt of his broken sword, deflecting the blow with a grunt. Then he spun low, cutting at Luke's legs. Luke jumped over, countered mid-air, and kicked Rolien's wrist. Steel rang as Rolien's knife bounced once—then back into his hand like a rebound.
Their blades danced in brutal close-quarters—parries, slashes, jabs—each move done with surgical precision and feral instinct.
Luke grabbed Rolien's wrist, trying to twist the knife away. Rolien leaned in, slamming his forehead into Luke's nose with a sickening CRACK! Blood sprayed. Luke staggered, but didn't let go.
He retaliated with a knee to Rolien's gut. Rolien bent forward, only to be elbowed in the back. Luke saw the opening and spun his wrist—disarming Rolien completely.
The knife clattered to the ground.
But Rolien didn't flinch.
He charged in barehanded, just as Luke lunged with the blade.
Rolien weaved under Luke's stab, caught his arm, and flipped him over his shoulder. Luke hit the ground hard, lost his grip on the knife. Rolien dove after him, but Luke kicked upward, catching Rolien in the chin. Rolien stumbled back, Luke rolled up to his feet, and—
Now it was hand to hand.
Punch. Block. Elbow. Knee. The two struck like old friends who knew every move the other would make. Each motion was mirrored, dodged, countered. They knew each other's rhythm, like two dancers with fists instead of music.
Rolien feinted left, caught Luke's leg, and tossed him—Luke rolled mid-air, landed, and tackled Rolien into the dirt.
A blur of fists and feet followed. Dust kicked up around them.
Left hook—duck.
Uppercut—miss.
Grab—toss.
Headlock—break.
Spin kick—connect.
Jaw punch—landed.
Reverse elbow—blocked.
Sweat poured. Bruises bloomed. Breaths came in pained gasps. But Rolien's strikes started landing cleaner, sharper.
And Luke—he began to slow.
One final exchange.
A right cross from Luke—Rolien dodged.
A left jab from Rolien—Luke blocked.
Then a sudden spinning backfist—
THWACK.
Luke's body twisted in the air.
He dropped.
Face-first.
Silence. The whole coliseum held its breath. Even the birds in the rafters didn't dare flap their wings.
Then—
"LUKE IS DOWN!!" the announcer screamed. "ROLIIIEEEEN EDRIIIIIC IS THE WINNEEEEEER!!"
The crowd erupted.
Shock. Disbelief. Then thunderous cheers.
"HE DID IT!"
"THAT'S MARCELLUS' TRAINING FOR YOU!"
"ROLIIIEEEEEN!! ROLIIEEEEN!!"
Leto stood and clapped, eyes wide in awe. Mira covered her mouth, stunned. Sophia, trembling slightly, smiled faintly and whispered, "You did it…"
In the arena, Rolien stood tall, panting, arms trembling.
Luke lay unconscious at his feet.
The prodigy had fallen.
And the crowd roared for the one who beat him.
Some clapped with slow admiration.
One high noble even dropped his monocle into his wine.
The professors exchanged glances, their mouths slightly open.
"Impossible…" muttered Sir Theron, head of close-quarter combat.
"He beat Luke," whispered Professor Allana. "Without using a drop of mana."
Up in the royal box, the Queen stood slowly, her hand over her lips. The King leaned forward, impressed.
"That child…" the King muttered. "So this is the youngest son of Edric...?"
Then—
A booming voice echoed across the hall.
> "THAT'S MY BOY!"
Everyone turned.
Grand Duke Edric Grey was standing—armor-clad, face flushed with pride, fists clenched. His usual composed demeanor gone, eyes gleaming.
A few nobles looked at him with surprise—he rarely ever showed emotion.
Luke's father—Duke Reinhardt—remained seated, stunned, gripping the railing, his face unreadable.
Down below, the medical team rushed toward the unconscious Luke as Rolien stood still, chest rising and falling.
Bloodied, bruised, but victorious.
He looked up toward the stands—saw his father.
He didn't smile.
He just nodded.
And Grand Duke Edric nodded back.
toward the infirmary, his limbs limp, his breath shallow. His once-pristine uniform was torn in places, streaked with dirt and bruises. Even in unconsciousness, the tension in his jaw told of his refusal to surrender until the very last second.
Up in the royal box, murmurs began to rise among nobles and scholars alike. Some still looked stunned, their mouths slightly open in disbelief.
"He beat Luke...?" whispered a noblewoman, clutching her fan tight.
"That was no fluke," muttered a battle-scarred instructor from the Academy. "That boy didn't win by luck. He read him—outmatched him at every stage. Tch. Marcellus trained that one too well."
The king leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed but his eyes gleaming with interest. Beside him, Queen Elira placed a gloved hand over her chest, a flicker of concern for Luke… but something else lingered in her eyes. Awe.
A proud father's voice had never sounded so loud.
Rolien, still breathing heavily on the field, glanced up toward the voice. For a second, the young Edric heir smiled—just barely—but his eyes gleamed with something far deeper than pride. Recognition. Fulfillment. Like he finally earned something he'd been chasing for a long time.
Then, the announcer's voice rang out, booming once more across the massive coliseum.
"AFTER A GRUELING AND UNFORGETTABLE FINAL BOUT… THE WINNER OF THIS YEAR'S MAGESTERIUM TOURNAMENT IS—ROLIEEEEEEN EDREEEEEEC!!!"
The entire stadium exploded.
Cheers thundered like a tidal wave. Banners were thrown in the air, nobles stood and clapped, students howled in celebration. Even the reserved ones couldn't help but applaud.
"ROL-IEN! ROL-IEN! ROL-IEN!"
And just when the arena had started to settle, the announcer raised his hand again.
"And don't go anywhere, folks! Because tomorrow morning… our newly crowned champion will face off in a special EXHIBITION MATCH…"
He paused, letting the moment hang.
"…against none other than HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS—CROWN PRINCE KEAIN HIMSELF!"
The arena erupted again.
Gasps. Cheers. Shouts of disbelief.
"HE'S FIGHTING THE PRINCE?!"
"This tournament keeps on giving!"
Down below, Rolien stood alone in the center of the battlefield, chest rising and falling. He didn't look surprised. Just… ready.
As the crowd roared around him, his hand drifted toward his belt, feeling the empty sheath where his sword once was.
Tomorrow, he'd have to face a different kind of storm. But tonight… he stood tall.
Victor. Champion.
And finally recognized.
The hallway to the infirmary echoed with hurried steps and murmurs. Leto had Luke slung over his back, the boy's arm limp, his knuckles bloodied, his jaw bruised. Even unconscious, Luke looked like he was still clenching his teeth in defiance. Mira and Sophia walked beside them, silent but visibly shaken. Mira kept looking over her shoulder, as if expecting Luke to wake up mid-journey, while Sophia held her arms tightly to her chest.
"Sorry, man," Leto muttered to the unconscious boy. "You really gave him a hell of a fight."
The moment they reached the end of the hall, a figure came running down from the opposite direction.
"Elian!" Mira said, eyes lighting up.
The tall young man—his platinum hair tied messily at the nape, his armor still stained with ash and smoke—rushed past the guards without hesitation. Elian Edric, the eldest of the Edric siblings, had just come straight from the front lines. His white cape bore the symbol of the lion, the battlefield still clinging to his scent and breath.
"Rolien!" he called out, and the boy in question—barely able to walk, leaning on Sophia's shoulder—raised his head with a tired, crooked grin.
"Big bro…" Rolien mumbled.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Elian said as he reached them, falling to one knee in front of his brother. "I tried to make it… They wouldn't let me off the wall until the shift changed. Gods, you look like hell."
Rolien chuckled, lips split and swollen. "I won."
A sob broke through from behind Elian.
It was Elara.
His older sister stood just behind Elian, her violet dress wrinkled and her golden hair unbound from the formal braid she had worn earlier in the royal box. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks as she rushed to Rolien and knelt beside him, pulling him into her arms carefully.
"You idiot," she whispered. "You fought like it was war. You scared us to death."
He didn't say anything. He just leaned into her embrace, letting her tremble against him.
Elian placed a hand on his little brother's shoulder, firm but gentle. "You didn't just win, did you?" he said with a proud smirk. "You made history."
The three siblings stayed there in the corridor for a long moment—Rolien, battered and bloody but grinning; Elara, still crying; and Elian, who held back his own tears by grinning like a soldier watching a victory parade.
Mira and Sophia watched from the side, smiling softly.
Eventually, Elian stood and nodded toward the infirmary. "Come on. You've earned your rest, champion."
Elara pushed past her brother, hands trembling. "Look at you," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears as she cupped Rolien's bruised face. "You fought like your life was on the line…"
Mira and Sophia stepped aside as Elian and Elara simply stood there, their presence calm and warm. Elian gave Leto a pat on the back before gently taking Rolien into his own arms. "I've got him now. Let's get him fixed up."
Rolien didn't correct him.
He didn't need to.
Meanwhile, the crowd still hadn't gone home. They were waiting—no, buzzing—for the next announcement.
"Who's gonna fight next year?!" one student shouted.
"Doesn't matter! Rolien's a beast!"
But then the announcer returned to the center podium, his voice magically amplified.
"Attention! To all students, nobles, and royal guests!"
The arena quieted instantly.
"By special request of His Highness, the Crown Prince Keain, there will be a special exhibition match tomorrow morning between the winner of the Magesterium Tournament—Rolien Grey!—and His Royal Highness himself!"
The crowd exploded.
Cheers. Gasps. Whistles. Bets being shouted across rows.
"What?! No way!"
"Who do you think will win?!"
"Of course it's the prince, idiot!"
"Shh! Shut up! You wanna get arrested?! That's treason talk!"
"But it's just an exhibition match, right?!"
"Still…"
In the noble section, older nobles started whispering to each other—about politics, about legacy, about House Grey and House Vortigan. But the younger ones? They were already passing around slips of parchment and coins.
---
Back in the infirmary, sunlight was beginning to creep through the narrow windows. Rolien still hadn't woken up.
Mira crossed her arms. "Seriously, still asleep?"
"He's snoring," Mira whispered.
Sophia gave him a poke on the cheek. "Rolien? Wake up."
Leto leaned in with a smirk. "You got a date with the crown prince, champ."
Rolien stirred again, mumbling something under his breath.
Elian sat by the bedside, arms crossed, amused. "If he doesn't wake up soon, I'm fighting that exhibition match for him."
"No, you're not," Elara said, flicking his arm. "Let him rest. He earned this."
"…cola… sugar… carbon dioxide infusion… maybe lemon zest… salt pinch…"
The three blinked at each other.
"…fermentation cycle… damn it, where do I get caffeine in this world…"
Mira raised an eyebrow. "Is he…?"
Sophia covered her mouth, giggling. "I think so."
"…he called it the Dr. Stone recipe!," Leto muttered under his breath with a laugh.
Meanwhile…
The arena was quiet again. The sun overhead, casting a silver glow over the coliseum grounds. But one figure stood in the center—tall, regal, wrapped in royal blues and deep crimson.
Crown Prince Keain.
His golden eyes stared up at the stands, then at the horizon, where the first hints of dawn would soon rise. He spun his sword once in hand, letting it hum through the air, then slid it back into its sheath.
"Let's see what you've got, Champion of House Edric."
The wind rustled his cape as he waited alone under the bright sunlight.
—
To be continued…