Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy
From zero to hero " No Magic, No Problem!"
Encounter 16: behind enemy lines.
The first scream split the night. The second was drowned by the war cry of the goblins.
The village of Varnstead was chaos—fires licking rooftops, shadows darting between huts, and the metallic stench of blood hanging heavy in the air. Rowan stood at the center of the dirt road, wind whipping his black hair, eyes locked on the towering shape of the Hob Goblin Champion.
The beast's chest rose and fell with deep, guttural growls. Its spiked club dragged through the dirt, throwing sparks. Every goblin within earshot seemed to feed on its presence, their frenzy growing by the second.
Rowan's gaze swept the battlefield in an instant—counting enemies, mapping movements, and spotting every opening.
He turned to the Hawks. "We split—cover more ground. Ren, take the high vantage point and provide support shots. Solis, you're on rear guard—buffs and barriers, keep the path open. Tessa, Bragg—clear the main street and push them away from the houses."
"And me?" Pete asked, clutching his spear.
"You take the villagers and get them to the well. That's our choke point."
They nodded in unison. No hesitation.
Rowan took a step forward, his voice dropping low. "I'll deal with this ugly."
"Got it!" the Hawks shouted together.
And then, Rowan moved.
One breath—
One blur of motion—
He was already closing the gap to the Champion.
The Hob Goblin roared, swinging its massive club in a brutal horizontal arc. The air whistled from the force alone. Rowan slid under the swing, boots kicking up dust, his blade flashing upward in a lightning-fast draw cut that sliced across the monster's thigh.
The Champion staggered but recovered quick, bellowing in rage.
Ren's arrows whistled from above, each finding a mark in the eyes, throats, and joints of goblins swarming the village edges. Solis's voice echoed with arcane chants, walls of shimmering light blocking chokepoints, bursts of magic knocking back attackers.
Tessa's bowstrings sang rapid-fire as she and Bragg waded through the horde—Bragg's hammer crushing bones and sending green-skinned bodies flying, Tessa picking off any that slipped past.
Pete herded terrified villagers toward the well, his spear stabbing down any goblin that dared get close.
Meanwhile, Rowan's duel was a storm.
The Hob Goblin Champion's every swing shook the ground, splintered wood, and carved craters in the dirt. Rowan wove between the strikes, every dodge a hair's breadth from disaster. He struck fast and hard—slashes to weaken tendons, thrusts to pierce gaps in the armor.
The Champion howled, blood dripping from its leg and shoulder. It raised its club for a crushing overhead blow.
Rowan exhaled. His stance shifted—blade at his side, edge turned upward, ready for the draw.
Steel whispered from the sheath—
A flash of silver under firelight—
And the Champion's arm fell limp, tendon severed clean.
The beast roared in pain, stumbling.
Rowan stepped past it in a single smooth motion, sliding his blade back into the scabbard with a click—clean, precise, like a wandering swordsman walking away from the kill.
Only… the Champion still stood. Bleeding, shaking, but not yet dead.
Rowan's lips curved into a faint smile. "Still breathing? Good. Let's finish this."
The Hob Goblin roared one last time, charging. Rowan met it head-on—
The Hob Goblin Champion towered over Rowan, its massive frame rippling with muscle and hate. It swung its spiked club in a brutal arc, splintering the earth where Rowan had been a second ago.
Hollowveil Force—Activate.
The shift was instant. Time slowed, the heat of the burning village fading into the background hum of his hyper-sharpened senses. Rowan's boots pounded the dirt as he weaved through the Champion's swings—ducking, side-stepping, springing up from a crouch into a vertical leap.
Steel rang against steel as he met the monster's backhand with his sword, deflecting it just enough to roll past its flank. The creature roared and lunged, but Rowan spun away, sliding under its legs and carving a deep slash across its thigh.
The Champion stumbled but didn't fall. It whipped around with frightening speed, forcing Rowan to leap onto a half-collapsed roof for high ground. The monster followed, its massive weight smashing through the structure.
Rowan dropped behind it, Hollowveil Force pushing his speed beyond normal limits. His blade flashed in quick, surgical strikes—shoulder, ribs, hamstring—each one forcing the Champion back a step. But the beast was relentless, and when its club came down again, the shockwave cracked the ground.
Rowan landed in a crouch, breathing steady, eyes narrowing. Time to end it.
His left arm hissed as plates shifted, gears locking into place. Jawbreaker Arm—Punchline Mode. Energy vents glowed hot, steam hissing into the cold night.
The Champion bellowed and charged, raising its club for one final blow. Rowan stepped into the swing instead of away from it, ducked under the arc, and drove his fist forward.
Rocket Punch!
The Jawbreaker launched with explosive force, smashing directly into the Champion's jaw. The impact snapped its head back, the bones in its neck straining before—
BOOM!
The arm detonated, sending the Hob Goblin Champion sprawling across the dirt in a heap of green blood and broken teeth.
Rowan looked down at the smoking socket where his arm had been, unfazed. He pulled a fresh Jawbreaker Arm from his storage dimension, clicked it into place, and flexed the fingers.
He glanced at the corpse and smirked.
"Man… can't take a joke right on the face, huh?"
That's when the [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION] flared to life before his eyes—
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
> Quest Complete: Defend Varntread Village
Objectives:
Eliminate the Goblin Horde ✅
Slay the Hob Goblin Champion ✅
Save 80% or more of the villagers ✅
Reward:
5,000 Combat EXP
Title: Village Defender (Reputation bonus in rural settlements)
Rare Loot: Champion's Fang (Can be crafted into a high-grade piercing weapon)
Bonus: +2 Strength, +1 Agility
The notifications faded just as the last echo of battle died out. The air was heavy with smoke and the copper scent of blood, but the village still stood. Fires crackled, some huts lay in ruins, but survivors huddled together in the square.
"Rowan!" Tessa's voice cut through the haze as she jogged up, her twin blades still dripping goblin blood. "Rear's clear. Brag took a hit, but Solis patched him up."
Ren dropped from a rooftop, bow slung over his back. "No more stragglers. I'll keep an eye out, but I think that's all of them."
Pete—still wearing the disguise—appeared from the side street, leading a group of frightened villagers. "Got them all to safety. One of 'em says they saw a second wave in the forest, but it might just be nerves."
Rowan looked over the group, scanning their faces, his eyes lingering a moment longer on Pete. "Good work. Everyone's alive, that's what matters. But we don't rest yet."
Tessa raised an eyebrow. "You think there's more?"
"I know there's more," Rowan replied, glancing toward the tree line. His tone was low, calculated. "That Champion wasn't acting alone. Something's pushing these goblins this far south… and I want to know why."
The others fell quiet, the flicker of torchlight dancing across their tired but determined faces. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
Rowan adjusted the new Jawbreaker Arm, the plates locking with a final click. "We regroup in ten. Then we plan our next move."
No one argued.
The air in Varntread was still thick with the scent of blood and smoke, but the worst was over. The villagers emerged from hiding one by one—faces pale, hands trembling—until the square was filled with murmured thanks and tearful embraces.
An elderly woman clutched Rowan's arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "We owe you our lives, stranger. You and your friends… may the gods watch over you."
Rowan gave a small nod. "Save the blessings for the dead. The living still have work to do."
Tessa clapped her hands together. "You heard him! Let's move, people—clear the streets, put out the fires. We'll help where we can."
The Hawks spread out without complaint. Brag hauled broken beams from the road while Solis conjured small bursts of water to douse smoldering thatch. Ren climbed to rooftops, cutting down dangerous, half-burnt structures before they could collapse. Pete worked quietly with the villagers, hauling buckets and repairing walls, his disguise still intact.
By the time the moon hung high over the village, the flames were gone. The air was cooler, calmer—just the sound of weary voices and crackling embers.
The Hawks gathered around a long table in the mayor's home. It wasn't much—bread, stew, and watered ale—but it was warm.
Rowan leaned over a map spread across the table, Tessa and Ren at his side. "We're here," he said, tapping the mark for Varntread. "Dragon's Jaw Mountain is northeast, past the Ironglade forest. Two days if we ride hard, three if we keep pace."
Ren frowned. "Ironglade's crawling with beast packs this time of year. Wolves, ogres, worse. If we take the main road, we risk running into patrols from Valkaria's border."
Tessa rested her chin on her fist. "And if we cut through the forest, we'll lose speed but keep a low profile."
Rowan's eyes narrowed at the map. "We go through the forest. Avoid attention. If Valkaria catches wind of us before we reach the mountain…" He trailed off, not needing to finish.
Ren gave a slow nod. "Understood. I'll plan the path."
Tessa smirked faintly. "Guess we leave at first light, then."
Rowan pushed the map aside and stood. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real climb begins."
That night, the Asher Hawks slept in the mayor's spare rooms—thin mattresses, patched blankets, but more than enough after the fight. Outside, the village was quiet for the first time in hours. Even the wind seemed to rest.
Rowan lay awake for a while, staring at the wooden beams above him. The smell of smoke still clung faintly to the air, a reminder of how close Varntread had come to ruin. His mind, however, was already at the mountains.
By dawn, the team was up and ready. Armor buckled, weapons checked, horses saddled. Pete adjusted his disguise one last time, muttering about itchy wigs.
When they stepped into the main square, the entire village seemed to be waiting for them. Men, women, and children crowded the cobblestone paths, smiling despite their exhaustion.
The mayor, a broad-shouldered man with soot still on his hands, stepped forward. "You saved Varntread. That's not something we forget."
One by one, villagers came forward with small bundles wrapped in cloth. A loaf of fresh bread. A pouch of dried meat. A waterskin sewn with care. Even a handful of silver coins pressed into Brag's palm by a shy little boy.
Tessa took a scarf woven in deep red wool from an old woman and draped it over her shoulders. "Thank you. We'll put it to good use."
Rowan accepted a leather satchel filled with herbs from the village healer. "These are for wounds and exhaustion," the woman said, bowing her head. "Safe travels, stranger."
Ren nodded to the crowd from atop his horse. "We'll make sure this wasn't for nothing."
As they rode out, the villagers waved until the Hawks disappeared beyond the hills. Rowan glanced back once, the rising sun casting long shadows over the rebuilt streets.
He muttered to himself, almost too quiet for the others to hear. "Let's hope they can keep it standing."
Then he faced forward, eyes on the faint outline of the mountains in the distance.
The air grew colder as the Hawks approached the Ironglade. The forest loomed ahead, an unbroken wall of black-barked trees and mist that curled low over the ground. Even the horses snorted uneasily, their hooves slowing on instinct.
Ren's eyes scanned the treeline from his vantage point. "Looks clear… but in Ironglade, that means nothing."
Rowan's grip tightened on his reins. "Stay sharp. Once we're in, we keep to the ridgelines until we reach Dragon's Jaw."
They rode on, the canopy swallowing the morning light. Somewhere far off, a crow called once and then went silent.
---
Meanwhile, in Greybrook
Inside the war room of the Grey estate, Grand Duke Edric Grey stood over a vast oak table. The map stretched across it was marked with inked circles and small metal pins.
One pin in particular was driven deep into the parchment—just south of Velkaria's border.
"That's where the last of their scouts was sighted," Edric said quietly, his voice cutting through the murmurs of his advisors. "The fact that they were even this deep into Imperial territory means they're testing us… or worse—preparing something."
A senior officer stepped forward. "Velkaria's presence here isn't reconnaissance, Your Grace. If their agents are moving through the Ironglade, they're laying ground for an incursion."
Edric's eyes narrowed, shadows from the candlelight cutting across his face. "If that's true, then the council will see it as more than provocation. It will be war."
Another advisor cleared his throat. "Your son's current heading… aligns too closely with their last known route. If Velkaria knows who he is, they may try to seize him—or silence him."
The Grand Duke's gaze lingered on the Ironglade mark. "Velkaria would be bold to try. But boldness has never been their weakness… patience has."
He straightened, voice firm. "Send word to the Imperial Court that Velkaria scouts have breached our borders. Mobilize border legions discreetly. I want the west prepared without stirring panic."
"And your son sir," General voux added after a beat, "must not fall into their hands—no matter what it costs."
"Don't worry, I trust my son. He can get back here safe . He is capable,his a Grey after all." Grand duke Edric said then turns around.
The Ironglade's air was damp and cold, the smell of moss and old bark hanging thick between the trees. Somewhere above, the flap of wings cut through the silence.
A grey-feathered pigeon swooped down, landing neatly on Rowan's forearm. A small scroll was tied to its leg.
Rowan untied it, scanning the familiar seal of House Grey before breaking the wax. His eyes flicked over the neat, sharp script.
---
Rowan,
Our scouts confirm Velkaria agents were last seen near your current heading. Your route puts you dangerously close to their operational lines.
Change appearance and behavior immediately. Have the one imitating you shed the disguise—present your group as an independent mercenary band pursuing a rare monster rumored to nest in Dragon's Jaw Mountain. If Velkaria's patrols or scouts engage you, let no hint be given that you hold allegiance to the Empire or House Grey.
They will test you. They will question you. Give them no truth worth carrying back to their masters.
And, my son—be safe. That is an order from your father, not your Duke.
— Edric Grey
---
Rowan let out a slow breath as he refolded the letter.
He turned to Pete. "Alright, you're done being me. Lose the wig and face changer. From here on, you're just a mercenary swinging steel for coin."
Pete was already tugging the wig off, scratching at his scalp. "Finally. Thought I was gonna sweat to death under this thing."
Tessa leaned forward in her saddle. "We're really expecting company?"
"Velkaria scouts are in the area," Rowan said flatly. "If they see us, they need to think we're nothing more than hunters on a contract. Ren, spread the word—no Imperial terms, no House names, nothing that ties us back to Greybrook."
Ren gave a short nod. "Got it."
The Hawks fell silent, each of them absorbing the shift in tone.
Rowan glanced at the letter one last time, his father's final line lingering in his mind. He tucked it away, eyes hardening as the trees ahead thinned toward the mountain pass.
"Let's move."
To be continued...