Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero " No Magic?,No Problem!"
Encounter 28 : Smile that hides a knives!
The flames of Elroy Dukedom still smoldered long after Ravokar fell. What had once been proud walls now lay in heaps of stone and ash. The streets were littered with broken carts, shattered weapons, and blood that seeped into the earth like dark veins. The air carried the bitter stench of smoke, iron, and grief.
The people fled in waves—families clutching what little they could carry, mothers dragging children away from collapsed homes, men limping under the weight of wounded comrades. Soldiers not too injured to move lined the roads, forming shields against the forest, ushering survivors toward the inner districts still standing.
In the square, fires burned in great pits where bodies were piled, comrades working silently, eyes hollow as they consigned the dead to flame or soil. Priests walked among them, their chants faltering beneath the sheer weight of loss.
At the heart of the ruin stood Sir Marcellus. His battered armor was blackened with soot, his face lined with exhaustion, but his voice rang sharp as a sword.
"Form order! Secure the gates! Check every home—find the living, gather the wounded!" His commands cut through despair, giving the shattered city a rhythm to cling to.
But his eyes lingered often on the still figure of Duke Elroy, shrouded in a torn banner. The people wept as they passed, touching their foreheads in respect, their grief swelling like a tide.
Marcellus turned to his captains, voice lowering. "The duke's daughters—Lisa, Jenny. Find them. If they live, they must be secured at once. Without them, the dukedom will crumble into chaos."
The men nodded and dispersed, urgency driving their weary steps.
Near the temple, Elian staggered, his breaths shallow, each inhale laced with a wet, rattling sound. Blood seeped through the cracks of his armor, staining his tunic dark. His vision swam, his legs unsteady.
"Elian!" A soldier caught him as he swayed, but the boy's body buckled, finally betraying him now that the battle was done.
Marcellus rushed forward, catching him before he struck the ground. He pressed a hand against Elian's side—blood gushed between his fingers. His ribs had collapsed inward, puncturing his lungs.
"Elian, stay awake!" Marcellus barked, though his voice cracked.
Elian's lips trembled, his words weak, barely audible. "I… I can't… hold it anymore… my Kigen…" His eyes rolled back, the faint glow of his magic-clad body flickering out.
"Medic! To me, now!" Marcellus roared.
Priests and healers scrambled forward, lifting Elian onto a stretcher, rushing him into the shattered remains of the temple. Marcellus followed, his hand still trembling with the weight of Elroy's death and Elian's failing life.
The dukedom was alive with screams, prayers, and orders, but beneath it all lay the hollow echo of loss.
Far away, in the Demon King's citadel.
The throne room was vast, carved from black stone that drank the light of torches. The Demon King sat upon his obsidian throne, armored in shadows, his crimson eyes smoldering with cruel satisfaction.
Before him knelt two figures.
One was tall, white-haired, clad in sleek, blackened armor, his expression unreadable save for the faintest curl of a smirk. His presence radiated quiet menace, a man who needed no introduction to be feared.
The other was a stranger—at least to this world. He wore no armor, only a long dark coat, his brown hair swept back, his gaze sharp and calculating. His stance was confident, even casual, as though standing in the presence of the Demon King cost him nothing.
Luke stood slightly to the side, head bowed. His eyes darted between the Demon King and the stranger, unease etched into his features.
The Demon King's deep voice rumbled through the hall. "The plan worked flawlessly. Ravokar may be dead, but Elroy Dukedom lies in ruin. Their walls are broken, their soldiers scattered. The balance tips."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing on the man in the dark coat. "You gave me the opening I required. Speak your name, stranger."
The man stepped forward, lips curling into a half-smile. "Hunter Solomon," he said, his voice smooth, with a cadence foreign to this world. "An otherworlder, like some of your enemies. Unlike them, I know how to break kingdoms from within."
The Demon King's laughter echoed like thunder against the stone. "Hunter Solomon… very well. You've proven useful. You shall have a place at my side until this world bends to my will."
Hunter's smile widened, though his eyes remained cold, calculating. "Good. Because this is only the beginning."
The white-haired man tilted his head, silent but watching, a predator assessing a rival.
Luke's fists clenched at his sides. He had thought himself indispensable, yet beside this newcomer, he felt like a shadow at the edge of the board.
The Demon King rose, his shadow stretching long across the chamber. "Then let the world tremble. Tonight, the Elroy Dukedom. Tomorrow, the Grey's."
And the torches flickered, as if the stone itself shuddered at his promise.
The battlefield had fallen into silence, save for the moans of the wounded and the muffled sobs of grieving men. Duke Elroy's banner still fluttered against the smoky wind, but the man himself lay still beneath it, covered with a bloodied cloak by his soldiers. The once-proud warrior who had shielded his people with his life was now gone, leaving a void heavier than the mountain itself.
The soldiers knelt around his body, heads bowed. Some wept openly, others pressed fists against their chests, trying to keep their grief from spilling over. The mourning spread like a wave across the ranks—his people were leaderless, but more than that, they were fatherless.
Sir Marcellus stood tall amidst the sorrow, jaw clenched, his sword still stained with the giant's blood. He gave no time for despair to fester. "Raise your heads," he commanded, his voice firm but edged with grief. "The Duke's sacrifice will not be in vain. From this moment on, I assume command of this duchy until the heirs are secured."
The words struck like a steel hammer. Soldiers saluted, some trembling, but they obeyed. Marcellus could not allow their spirits to wither now—not when the duchy's survival depended on swift action.
"Elian," he turned to the stretcher where the young heir of House Grey lay, pale but alive. His wounds were grave, but the retired court mage who had come forward from among the reserves was already weaving old incantations over the boy. The mage's hands trembled with age, yet his magic was steady, light flowing into Elian's broken body, knitting bone, sealing torn flesh, and stabilizing his faltering breath.
"He'll live," the old mage murmured at last, exhaustion weighing his voice. "The boy has strong blood in him. Strong enough to endure."
A breath of relief escaped the gathered knights. Elian was the eldest son of Grand Duke Edric, and losing him here would have been a calamity.
But Marcellus had no time to waste. He turned to his captains. "Send riders. Search every corner of the duchy. The Duke's daughters must be found. Lisa and Jenny must be protected at all costs." His tone left no room for hesitation.
The search stretched into the night until finally, word came from Elroy Villa. Beneath its stone foundations, in a hidden underground bunker, the two young ladies were found alive. Lisa, the elder, clutched her younger sister Jenny close, both trembling but unbroken. With them were the loyal head butler and his wife, the head knight of the villa guard, and the maids who had refused to abandon their charges.
When Marcellus himself arrived, he knelt to eye level with the two girls. His stern face softened, just for them. "Your father… fought bravely. He saved us all. From this day, I swear to you, I will keep his last wish alive. You are not alone."
The girls broke down, clutching him as the weight of truth struck them. Soldiers nearby lowered their heads, some openly crying once more, but Marcellus held firm. In that moment, he was no longer just a knight—he was the pillar holding together the remnants of Duke Elroy's people.
Meanwhile, Elian rested under the care of the retired mage, his body stabilized but his spirit weighed with guilt. He could feel the weight of his house's expectations already pressing on him, even in unconsciousness.
The chamber was dark, lit only by the faint glow of braziers. Keain stood before a vast mirror, its surface rippling like liquid silver. On the other side, projected clear as day, was a man draped in black and crimson robes, a golden crown pressing down on his graying brow: the Emperor of the enemy nation. His eyes burned like embers, cold and sharp.
Keain bowed his head, but the smirk never left his face.
"It is done," Keain said, his voice smooth as silk. "Elroy has fallen. His city burns, his banner lies in the dirt. The northern flank is exposed, weaker now than it has been in a century. When the time comes, you may carve into it without resistance."
The enemy Emperor leaned forward, resting a hand beneath his chin. "And when," he asked, voice deep and measured, "will this… time… come? When shall my legions march across your father's borders?"
The braziers flickered, and for a long moment the chamber was silent.
Then Keain's lips curled into a sharp grin.
"Soon, sire. Very soon."
The mirror rippled once more, and the connection snapped, leaving only shadows in the room. Keain straightened, his reflection faintly visible in the mirror's dull surface. The smirk deepened.
The throne would be his.
POV Shift – Princess Sophia
Far from the treachery of court and whispers of war, in the sunlit gardens of the capital, Princess Sophia sat cross-legged on polished stone, her eyes shut in steady concentration. A circle of runes glimmered faintly at her feet, drawn with painstaking precision.
Before her lay an open tome—its pages not written by scholars of the Empire, but by Rolien. The notes, though strange, carried theories that defied their current magical understanding. Flow of mana was described like currents, pressure points like circuitry, and resonance of elements in ways no court mage had ever dreamed.
Sophia didn't know the author's true origins. To her, it was simply… brilliance. Knowledge ahead of its age.
"Stabilize the channel… split the flow… pressure, then release…" she murmured under her breath, fingers tracing glowing lines in the air.
The ground beneath her trembled. A swirl of fiery orange erupted at her side, coiling like liquid flame—magma, burning hot but flowing smooth, not wild. At the same time, in her opposite hand, a blade of pure light crackled into being, thin and sharp as a rapier, but humming with lethal precision.
Not lightning, not pure fire—something sharper, condensed. A blade of energy itself, searing like a laser.
The two spells resonated in the air, and for a heartbeat, the garden was transformed: molten rock dripping and hardening at her feet, while the luminous blade hummed in her grasp, cutting faint streaks into the air as she moved it experimentally.
Her chest rose and fell, sweat beading on her brow, but her eyes shone with exhilaration.
"I did it," she whispered, breathless. "By the gods, I… I actually did it."
The magma cooled, cracking into dark stone. The blade of light flickered once, then vanished with a hiss. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by her quickened breaths.
Rolien's writings had unlocked something terrifying—something revolutionary.
And Sophia, for the first time, felt the shiver of possibility: this magic could change the entire Empire.
Sophia stared down at her hands, trembling not with fear, but with exhilaration. The runes beneath her still glowed faintly, the air heavy with residual heat. She closed the book, her pulse quickening.
"This isn't enough," she whispered. "If I can combine them once, I can do it again. Stronger. Perfect."
The sky above was clear, the palace gardens quiet save for the chirp of crickets in the hedges. She spread her arms, summoning her mana with a force that made the runes blaze brighter than before. Her veins felt like they were on fire, her chest tight—but she welcomed it.
Magma swirled into existence once more, bubbling violently, chunks of molten stone dripping onto the flagstones. At the same time, the blade of light reformed, sharper, denser, its glow burning white-hot.
But something was wrong.
The spells didn't resonate this time. They clashed. The magma roared, unstable, spitting sparks of molten fire, while the blade vibrated wildly, arcs of raw energy cracking against the air.
Sophia gritted her teeth, sweat running down her temples.
"Stabilize—! Balance the flow—!"
The runes shattered, one by one, breaking the circle. The backlash came instantly.
A shockwave ripped through the garden, tearing leaves from trees and cracking marble benches. The magma collapsed into chunks of cooling rock, while the energy blade detonated in a blinding flash. Sophia was thrown back, her body skidding across the stone until her shoulder slammed against the garden wall.
"Ghh—!" She gasped, clutching her chest. Her lungs burned, and blood dripped from her nose. Her body screamed for her to stop, but her mind burned with a single thought: I was close.
A shadow fell over her.
"Enough."
Sophia blinked through the haze, her vision swimming. A tall figure approached from the colonnade, his robes deep blue, embroidered with sigils of the Imperial Academy. His hair, once black, was streaked silver with age, but his eyes were sharp—merciless in their judgment.
It was Archmage Varus, the Imperial Court's most senior mage.
"You dare meddle with unstable constructs unsupervised?" His voice was like cold iron. With a flick of his staff, the air shimmered, and the lingering wild mana collapsed into silence.
Sophia tried to stand, but her legs wavered. "I almost had it—if I just had more control—"
"You nearly killed yourself." Varus knelt, his hand pressing against her shoulder. Healing light spread, dulling the pain in her chest. He studied the cracked stones, the strange residue of her failed magic, his frown deepening.
"This… this isn't any theory from the Academy." His eyes shifted back to her, suspicious, sharp. "Where did you learn this?"
Sophia hesitated, clutching the closed tome to her chest. For the first time, she felt a shiver of doubt.
"I… found it," she said softly, not daring to speak Rolien's name.
Varus' gaze lingered on her, long enough that the silence pressed like a weight. Then he stood, robe swirling.
"Whatever its source, it is dangerous. You will not attempt this again without my supervision. Do you understand?"
Sophia lowered her eyes, hiding the fire still burning in them.
"Yes, Archmage."
She sat there for a minute and thinking.
The garden was still scarred from her failed spell—the cracked tiles, the half-melted marble bench, the faint scent of ozone lingering in the air. Sophia sat on the edge of the shattered fountain, still clutching Rolien's book against her chest, her breathing steadying under the faint hum of magic lingering in her veins.
Sophia wiped the sweat from her brow, her breath ragged but her smile glowing with satisfaction. The magma spell still simmered at the far end of the chamber, a molten crater cooling against the enchanted walls, while the thin beam of her lightning-forged blade fizzled out into sparks. She was getting better—Rolien's strange notes on advanced elemental theory were starting to make sense, even if she didn't fully understand where that knowledge came from.
The heavy doors creaked open. She turned, surprised, and saw Prince Darius striding into the chamber. His expression was grim, his armor still dusty from council and travel.
"Your Highness," Sophia greeted, straightening her posture.
Darius didn't waste time. "Sophia, I came here to ask you to join me. I'll be leading a convoy to Elroy—bringing rations, medical aid, and reinforcements for the survivors. Sir Marcellus and… Elian Grey are there."
At the mention of the name, Sophia froze, her lips parting slightly. Elian? Rolien's older brother. Her fiancé's blood, fighting on the frontlines while she was here, training.
"Elian?" she repeated softly, her voice wavering. "He's… at Elroy?"
Darius nodded heavily. "Yes. He was dispatched with Sir Marcellus and only a handful of knights. They arrived just in time to join Duke Elroy in his last stand. They managed to defeat the demon general—but only by the thinnest of margins. Duke Elroy fell buying them the opening to strike."
Sophia's hands trembled. She pressed them against her chest, fighting the sudden ache in her heart. "So he's alive, then? Elian still lives?"
"He does," Darius assured her, though his tone carried weight. "But barely. He's wounded, exhausted… and the burden of command is falling on him now. The Emperor is already questioning why Prince Keain failed to send proper reinforcements, why the dukedom had to be sacrificed. Yet the truth remains—Elian and Marcellus stand as the last bulwark holding the northern border together."
Sophia's throat tightened. For the first time since she began her training, the theories and spells felt like nothing compared to the thought of Elian out there, bloodied and struggling, fighting to survive.
"I'll come," she whispered, resolve lighting in her eyes. "If Elian is there, if he's still standing—I'll stand with him."
Darius placed a hand on her shoulder, steady and solemn. "Then prepare yourself, Princess. Elroy's ruins will test more than your spells. It will test your heart."
The convoy was already being prepared when Sophia hurried down the palace steps. Wagons loaded with rations and medicine rattled across the courtyard, the Green Numbers—Darius's most trusted knights—moving in disciplined lines. Sophia paused only long enough to summon her two closest friends.
"Leto! Mira!" she called.
The two arrived quickly. Leto, tall and broad-shouldered, rested his hand on the hilt of his longsword. The blade, sheathed at his hip, gave off a quiet aura of steel-like confidence—simple, reliable, and deadly in the hands of a seasoned fighter. Beside him strode Mira, fiery-haired and restless, her staff glowing faintly with an eager pulse of magic.
"You're coming with me," Sophia said firmly. "Elroy is in ruin, and the people there will need all the hands they can get. Elian will need all the help he can get."
Neither argued. Both nodded with quiet resolve.
But as Sophia turned to rejoin the convoy, Prince Jun stepped into their path, his presence quiet but heavy. He leaned close to Darius, whispering something low—so low Sophia couldn't catch the words. Whatever it was, it froze Darius for a heartbeat. His face went pale, then tightened with unease. Slowly, he turned his eyes toward Sophia.
Sophia's heart gave a small lurch. What did Jun tell him?
But in the next breath, Darius's expression softened back into the gentle, composed face he always wore. "We'll leave soon," he said simply, voice steady.
Sophia pretended she hadn't noticed the shift, though inside her chest tightened. She faced Leto and Mira instead, her voice sharp and commanding as she briefed them. "Mira, you'll handle support spells—healing, fortification, barriers. Leto, stay close to me. Your blade will be our shield if we're surrounded. I'll take the front—together, we'll keep the convoy safe."
Leto gave a firm nod, his hand tightening on his sword's hilt. "Understood, Princess."
Mira smirked, spinning her staff once. "Leave it to us."
Darius gave a firm nod. "Then let us move."
The Green Numbers fell in behind him, armor glinting under the torchlight as the group began their march toward Elroy. Sophia fell into step, though something still gnawed at her—the way Darius had looked at her after Jun's whisper, the way his mask had slipped, even for an instant.
Unable to resist, she turned her head slightly. Her eyes found Jun, still standing on the palace steps, hands tucked behind his back. He caught her gaze immediately. For a moment, his stern face softened into something warmer.
"Be careful, Sophie," Jun said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Call Rolien if you must."
Her breath caught.
Rolien.
The name rang through her chest like a bell. Her fiancé. Her secret anchor. Her hope.
But Jun's tone… the way he said it…
It sounded less like advice, and more like a warning.
Sophia gripped the reins of her horse tighter, her knuckles white. She forced herself forward, not daring to look back again.
Somewhere deep inside, she knew—whatever lay ahead in Elroy, it wasn't just about survival anymore.
It was about truth.
And the truth was coming for her.
To be continued...