Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero " No magic?, No Problem!"
Encounter 10: All Out!
The midday sun blazed down over the Magesterium's Grand Arena, but the crowd's energy ran hotter.
The stands buzzed—not with cheers, but whispers.
"Isn't he the Crown Prince?"
"Keain Cerean… that's him. The one they say is a prodigy—Royal Tier."
"But why is he here for an exhibition match?"
"Because of Luke. Because a magicless kid beat the golden boy of Arcadia…"
The murmurs grew heavier the moment the announcer stepped forward.
"—Presenting, heir to the throne, son of King Aldebrant the Fourth! A practitioner of the Fifth Elemental Path and master of Astral Enchantments—Crown Prince Keain of House Cerean!"
The gate on the opposite end of the arena slid open with a grinding hiss.
Out strode Keain.
Dressed in sleek silver-blue ceremonial armor etched with glowing runes, the Crown Prince walked with the grace of a seasoned warrior and the arrogance of someone who'd never known defeat. His cape flared with each step, catching the light like the wing of some divine beast. His hair, ash-blonde and tied back with a dark braid, made his icy stare all the more cutting.
But the crowd wasn't cheering. They were watching.
And whispering.
"Isn't this just bullying?"
"Rolien just fought yesterday! And Luke didn't hold back—he nearly broke his arm!"
"Why didn't the Edric family stop this match?"
They didn't know.
Behind the gate, where shadows swallowed the hallway to the arena, Rolien stood still.
His right arm was still wrapped tight, the bruises not yet fully healed. Bandages peeked beneath the sleeves of his combat shirt. But it wasn't the pain that made him pause.
It was the voice behind him.
"…You don't have to do this."
Rolien turned.
Grand Duke Edric Grey stood tall and cold as always—but there was something softer in his voice this time. Less commanding. More… human.
"You've already proven your worth. The whole capital saw it. You beat Luke Arcadia with nothing but technique and grit," the Duke said, stepping closer. "This match—they're only doing this to save face. To punish you. You won't gain anything here, Rolien. Except another trip to the infirmary."
Rolien didn't answer immediately.
He just looked toward the sunlight pouring in through the end of the hallway.
Then he smiled—not smug, not reckless. Just calm.
"I didn't do it for the recognition."
The Duke's brow furrowed. "Then why? What are you fighting for?"
Rolien tightened the wrapping on his wrist.
"…To prove that I don't need magic to stand at the top. That I don't have to be like them."
He turned to walk into the light, the roar of the crowd rising again.
"And if I stop now—just because they're afraid of what I might become—then everything I've fought for means nothing."
The Duke stared at his son's back for a long, quiet moment.
"…You're your mother's son, after all."
Rolien didn't hear it.
He was already stepping into the arena.
The sun bathed him in gold.
The crowd gasped as he emerged—bandaged, bruised, but unbowed.
Crown Prince Keain's eyes narrowed.
He looked at Rolien like he was an insect that refused to die.
Rolien met his gaze with calm indifference.
The announcer hesitated for a beat, then raised his voice.
"Exhibition match: Crown Prince Keain Cerean versus… the Champion of the Magesterium Tournament, Rolien Edric Grey!"
The arena shook with noise—cheers, jeers, arguments, protests.
But none of it mattered now.
Rolien took his stance.
No magic. No weapon.
Just him.
And a prince who hated being second place.
Keain didn't move yet.
He simply watched Rolien walk toward the center of the arena.
His gloved hand flexed once, slowly, like he was trying to keep himself calm. Like his own pride was coiled up inside his chest, screaming to be let out.
"This brat humilimilated Arcadia I'll prove that you're using something"
He clenched his jaw.
They didn't know what it was like—growing up knowing you had to be the strongest. That the title of Crown Prince wasn't a reward, but a responsibility. Everything he did, every duel, every test, every move—watched. Judged. Measured.
And now, this magicless kid…
This commoner in noble clothing.
This nobody was stealing the attention meant for him.
"Your highness," one of the royal advisors had whispered just this morning, "if he isn't corrected, the people will believe that magic isn't necessary to rule."
That was all it took.
No one questioned the match after that.
Keain's fingers sparked with soft, pale light as he slowly raised his hand. Thin trails of ethereal silver mana circled his wrist like orbiting moons.
Astral Enchantments.
Not just a flashy elemental school—but one of the rarest branches of mana control. It manipulated astral forces: pressure, density, gravity, and spatial compression.
Keain wasn't just a prodigy.
He was a walking singularity.
---
Rolien stopped ten steps away, arms relaxed at his sides. His bandaged arm hung looser now, but his expression hadn't changed.
Calm.
Composed.
Unshaken.
"Ready?" Keain asked, flatly.
Rolien didn't answer.
Instead, he exhaled slowly… and shifted his stance.
Right foot slightly behind.
Center of gravity low.
Weight on the balls of his feet.
A stance taught by Sir Marcellus, the head knight of House Edric—built for countering faster, stronger opponents. The kind of stance that says come at me first.
The referee raised a white flag between them.
Both boys locked eyes.
Tension rippled through the crowd like a wire pulled tight.
"Begin!"
The flag dropped.
---
Keain moved first—fast.
Not fast for a noble.
Fast like a meteor breaking atmosphere.
His boot struck the ground with a shimmer of light, and the sand beneath him compressed violently, kicking up a burst of force that rippled outward in a ring. An astral jump—using pressure manipulation to launch himself like a bullet.
He was already in front of Rolien before most spectators even blinked.
Right palm open, glowing with gravitational force.
He went for a palm strike to the chest—no flourish, no testing the waters. Just a full-force blow meant to pin Rolien to the ground like a bug under glass.
But Rolien didn't flinch.
He moved.
Half-step pivot, right shoulder drop.
The gravitational pulse whiffed past his left side, tearing through the air where his ribs had been just a second ago.
In one smooth motion, Rolien twisted his hips and drove a counter elbow upward—targeting Keain's ribs.
Thwack!
The hit connected.
Clean.
But Keain's body didn't budge.
A glowing sigil under his armor flared—Astral Shell. He had layered spatial pressure around his torso, absorbing physical blows like a sponge.
Rolien gritted his teeth and jumped back, but Keain was already moving.
He rotated his palm mid-air and cast down.
A dense orb of gravity slammed toward Rolien like a cannonball.
BOOM!
Dust shot up, the arena floor cracked.
The crowd gasped.
But as the smoke cleared—
Rolien stood again.
Knee scraped, brow bleeding, but still on his feet.
He wiped the blood from his lip and stared at Keain.
"…So that's it? All that royal magic, just to throw rocks?"
Keain's eyes twitched.
The match had begun—and neither was planning to walk out quietly.
The crowd didn't even have time to cheer before Rolien moved.
He surged forward—no flashy footwork, no enchantments—just raw explosive movement. The kind that only comes from drilling the same techniques a thousand times under the eyes of a brutal mentor.
His eyes locked on Keain's centerline. Not the shoulders. Not the hands.
The core.
Keain instinctively raised both arms to defend—but Rolien wasn't aiming for the obvious.
Step one.
A feint.
He threw a quick jab to the left shoulder—not hard, just enough to draw Keain's guard up and bait a counter.
Keain's arm twitched—
And that was what Rolien wanted.
Step two.
He ducked low, pivoted on his left foot, and spun in tight. His injured right arm stayed tight to his chest, protecting his ribs, while his left elbow came sweeping across Keain's lower side.
Crack!
A clean hit to the floating ribs.
The impact wasn't enough to drop the prince, but it staggered him—he wasn't used to someone attacking inside his mana field.
Step three.
Rolien didn't stop.
As Keain stumbled, Rolien stepped into his space again—tight quarters now, exactly where mages hated to be.
He threw a low sweeping kick, aiming for Keain's ankle.
The prince tried to jump—but Rolien was faster.
Thwack!
Keain's leg buckled.
He dropped to one knee.
For the first time, Keain's expression cracked. He wasn't just annoyed now—he was shocked.
How was he being outmaneuvered?
Step four.
Rolien's body twisted like a spring.
He brought his right knee up with vicious intent, aiming for Keain's chin while the prince was kneeling.
But just before the blow landed—
Keain's palm snapped up.
A micro-shield of compressed gravity exploded outward like a shockwave.
Boom!
The blast sent Rolien flying backward across the arena, tumbling through dust and dirt, coughing as he rolled to a stop.
His ribs screamed. His vision spun. But he pushed himself up again—bruised, bloodied, steady.
The crowd had gone silent.
Even the nobles were sitting forward now.
Not because Rolien was winning…
But because he wasn't afraid.
---
Keain stood slowly, wiping dust from his face.
His voice was low, shaking slightly.
"…You really think grit is enough?"
Rolien cracked his neck and raised his fists again.
"I don't need 'enough.' I just need to outlast you."
Sand crunched beneath Rolien's boots.
He slid back, hard, nearly hitting the arena wall. His breath was ragged. His muscles trembled from the relentless pressure.
Keain was no longer playing fair.
He wasn't just showing off his magic anymore—he was hunting. Each step pushed the battlefield around him. Floating runes locked into place. Invisible pressure traps made every movement a gamble.
And now—Rolien was cornered.
No space. No clean angle to strike.
Keain stood ten paces away, arms lowered, head tilted slightly, his smile just a little too cold.
"You're disappointing me."
Rolien didn't answer. He just adjusted his footing.
Keain took a step closer.
"I watched your match against Luke. Over and over. You used that thing on your left arm—Jawbreaker, isn't it?"
He nodded toward Rolien's mechanical arm.
Black steel wrapped in intricate plating, with faint etched lines that pulsed dimly like veins under skin. For most of the fight, Rolien had kept it mostly still—until now, it had barely moved.
"I saw the way it discharged lightning to throw off his aim. And that projectile blast? It wasn't just raw strength."
He took another step.
"You're hiding tools… enhancements."
No response.
"…You're hiding everything, aren't you?"
Keain's voice dropped lower, full of venom now.
"Don't mock me by pretending you're just some scrappy kid with good footwork."
He pointed, slow and deliberate.
"I noticed it. That slight recoil when you stepped forward earlier. The way your body moves like it's bracing from the inside. You have some sort of body enhancement—like Kigen from the Eastern Orders. But cleaner. Refined."
He clenched a fist.
"Let me guess. Something like the Hollowveilforge technique, am I right, magicless?"
The crowd flinched at the name. Even some of the nobles stiffened. Hollowveilforge was a banned enhancement technique in most kingdoms—said to unlock hidden reserves of power by forcibly syncing physical tissue with elemental traces.
Deadly if used wrong. Illegal for good reason.
Rolien's jaw tensed.
"…You've done your homework."
"So it is that." Keain's eyes lit with triumph. "You're a liar. Standing there, acting like you're fighting fair. When really, you're just another tool user. Just another—"
"I didn't use it," Rolien cut in.
His tone was flat. Calm. But under that calm was something colder.
"You think I'm mocking you? You're the one who dragged me into this match when I was still injured. You're the one chasing me around the arena like I owe you something."
He raised his prosthetic arm slightly.
Metal clicked into place.
"I wasn't trying to insult you. I was trying to respect you."
A pulse of quiet energy hummed through the air.
The etched lines on Jawbreaker flickered—once—like it was waking up.
"But if you really want me to fight like I did yesterday..."
Zzt!
Lightning crackled faintly from the elbow joint.
"…Then stop whining and make me."
---
Keain's eyes narrowed.
So that arm… wasn't just decoration.
A weapon. A modular one.
He'd only heard rumors. That the youngest son of House Edric had been fitted with a prototype—a prosthetic capable of elemental channeling. Designed for adaptive combat. Able to:
Discharge elemental pulses to stun, slow, or blind.
Blast concentrated elemental projectiles—fireballs, ice shards, sonic bursts, depending on the input.
Enhance his own speed, defense, and striking force using elemental-based feedback loops.
And now…
Rolien was finally turning it on.
---
Rolien took one step forward—and this time, it wasn't slow.
He vanished in a blur of wind.
Keain's eyes widened—barely tracking him as Rolien flickered to his right flank.
"Wind enhancement—speed boost," Keain realized.
He snapped his palm to the side and cast a gravitational pulse—BOOM—but Rolien was already gone, ducking low and sweeping his metal arm across the sand.
Zzraakk!
A thin arc of ice burst from Jawbreaker's palm—striking Keain's ankles and freezing the ground beneath him. Not enough to trap—but enough to throw off balance.
And that's all Rolien needed.
He struck.
Left fist—metallic and humming with force—slammed into Keain's gut.
Thud!
The prince staggered. For the first time, his feet left the ground.
Thud!
Rolien's punch landed flush into Keain's gut, sending the Crown Prince sliding back across the arena floor, heels carving shallow trenches in the sand.
The crowd exploded—a rare moment of awe.
Rolien stood upright, chest heaving, his left arm—Jawbreaker—still crackling faintly with residual elemental charge. Steam hissed from vents near the elbow as the ice pulse cooled.
But even as the prince stumbled, Rolien staggered too.
His left leg nearly gave out.
His right shoulder flared with pain, forcing him to clench his jaw.
He was starting to feel it.
The bruises from yesterday's fight against Luke Arcadia hadn't fully healed. The damage ran deep—not just surface cuts. Strained tendons. Swollen ribs. Torn muscle fiber that hadn't rested.
And Hollowveilforge wasn't gentle. Every second it was active shaved down his stamina.
His breaths came shorter. Deeper.
"Damn it…"
He clicked his tongue and reset his stance, swaying slightly on his feet.
Keain wiped blood from the corner of his lip. His pride had taken a hit—but his composure hadn't cracked.
Not yet.
Instead, he grinned.
"You look like you're about to drop, magicless."
He raised both arms.
Dozens of glowing runes flared to life around him—each one orbiting like a constellation of stars.
Rolien narrowed his eyes.
"He's weaving simultaneous spells… multiple arrays…"
This wasn't basic gravity play anymore.
This was advanced Astral Constellation Casting—a complex, elite-tier method where spells were pre-loaded and held in orbit, ready to fire off in rapid succession.
Keain wasn't just angry now.
He was done playing.
"You had your fun. Time for you to see the difference between skill—"
The runes pulsed.
"—and supremacy."
Boom!
The air twisted.
In a split-second:
A gravity sphere launched from the left, meant to crush Rolien under pressure.
A delayed shock pulse detonated near his feet.
And a midair rune fired a strobe-light burst, blinding and disorienting at once.
Rolien's instincts screamed.
He rolled sideways just before the gravity orb flattened the ground where he'd been standing—crunch!—then kicked off with a wind boost just as the shockwave cracked the stone floor.
Mid-air, he turned—
Flash!
The blinding strobe hit.
His vision went white.
He couldn't see—could only hear the hum of incoming pressure—he twisted his torso, raising Jawbreaker just in time to fire a flame burst downward—
BOOM!
The propulsion launched him backwards, out of range of the follow-up.
But he slammed hard against the ground, rolling once, twice, coughing.
Pain bloomed behind his ribs. Vision blurred.
And still—he got back up.
Keain walked forward slowly now, confident, runes still circling him like a miniature cosmos.
"Stay down. You're running on fumes."
Rolien didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just reached up and clicked a small switch on his prosthetic's inner wrist.
Chk.
The runes along Jawbreaker glowed bright orange for a brief moment.
Then shifted… to deep crimson.
Fire mode—Full Boost.
His entire left side radiated heat now. The air shimmered around his shoulders. His gauntlet exhaled a thin stream of smoke like a dragon's breath.
Rolien finally looked up. Eyes tired, blood on his brow—but defiant.
"I told you… I don't need to win."
He stood tall, battered but unbroken.
"You talk too much for a prince weird smile."
The arena floor looked like a battlefield.
Pillars of crushed stone. Craters from collapsed gravity pulses. Scorched trenches from elemental strikes. The once-pristine combat grounds now lay in ruin.
And in the center of it—
Rolien stood, swaying.
His left arm—Jawbreaker—smoked and hissed with overheating vents. Crimson light pulsed faintly through its channels, flickering now. The Fire Boost had done its job—he moved faster, hit harder—but it came at a cost. His shoulder felt like it was tearing from the inside.
His legs trembled. Hollowveilforge was nearing its limit.
Across from him, Keain wiped blood from his cheek, breathing heavier now. His armor was cracked along the right pauldron, and his lip was split, but he was still standing tall.
Still composed.
Still a prince.
"You're persistent," Keain said, his voice tighter. "I'll give you that."
Rolien said nothing.
He just moved.
---
Final Exchange.
Rolien launched forward, boosting with a quick wind-enhanced dash—closing the distance in an instant. His right fist swung wide, feinting high.
Keain predicted it—ducked low—
Too easy, he thought.
That's when Rolien twisted his wrist.
Jawbreaker's palm snapped open—point-blank discharge.
A burst of lightning—
Keain took the full brunt to the side of the head.
Crack!
His spatial defenses flared too late, just barely dulling the shock.
The prince stumbled, ears ringing—
But Rolien couldn't capitalize.
His knees buckled mid-charge.
His chest tightened. His left leg failed to lift properly. A warning hiss rang from inside his prosthetic—"Cooldown exceeded."
He gritted his teeth, forced his body to move again, and threw a knee into Keain's gut—but it landed too soft. No weight behind it.
Keain's eyes flashed.
He was done playing.
---
"Enough."
Keain raised both hands.
The air around him folded.
Dozens of runes snapped into alignment, forming a spiral shape above him. Light bent unnaturally. Mana hummed low like the warning groan of an earthquake.
Rolien tried to move.
But his legs gave out.
He dropped to one knee, panting.
Keain looked down on him—not out of cruelty, but the cold, impersonal confidence of someone executing a verdict.
"You wanted to stand with us?"
He raised one glowing palm.
"Then learn what it takes."
The spell snapped into completion.
Astral Collapse: "Event Horizon."
A singularity—small, dense, pure gravitational force—erupted above Rolien's position. Not meant to kill. But to end it.
The air crushed in.
The sound vanished.
Everything around Rolien warped inwards.
He looked up—just in time to see it falling.
And he smiled.
A soft, defiant smile.
"I lasted longer than anyone expected."
Then—
Impact.
BOOOOOOOM—!
A controlled explosion of gravitational force slammed into the arena floor. Dust engulfed the area. The shockwave knocked debris outward. Silence fell again.
As the smoke cleared, the crowd leaned forward.
And through the haze… they saw him.
Rolien.
Collapsed on his back.
Jawbreaker's plating cracked and sparking. His breathing shallow. His eyes half-lidded.
Still alive. But unmoving.
The referee stepped in.
"Match over!"
The silence broke into a wave of murmurs, cheers, gasps.
"Winner: Crown Prince Keain Cerean!"
---
Keain stood tall, lowering his arms slowly.
But his gaze lingered on Rolien.
Not with triumph.
With something closer to… disbelief.
"…He really made me go that far."
To be continued...