Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero "No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 29 : Targeted
Sophia stepped forward, her hands trembling as she clutched the hem of her dress. She didn't rush to Elian's side like a lover would, but her voice carried steady worry.
"Elian…" she whispered, then quickly turned her eyes toward Marcellus. "How bad is it? Tell me honestly."
Marcellus, his jaw tight, gave the faintest shake of his head. The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.
Sophia pressed her lips together, her eyes lowering—not from grief as if she had lost someone dear in that way, but from the weight of Rolien's future. She could already imagine the moment when Rolien would see his brother's state, the pain it would bring him.
"I'll stay here," she said, steady now, her voice carrying quiet resolve. "Until Rolien arrives… he deserves to see his brother still breathing. No matter what it takes, I'll make sure Elian holds on for him."
Her words weren't born of romance, but of loyalty to the family she was about to join. She wasn't thinking of herself, but of the younger brother who would soon be her partner—and the hole this loss would carve into his heart.
Marcellus gave her a small nod, respect flashing in his tired eyes. "Then we'll do everything we can."
Prince Jun sat in the shadow of his chamber, a single lantern flickering against the dark walls. The reports lay scattered across the desk before him, parchments and coded letters smuggled by his informants. Each word painted the same picture: Prince Keain's ambition was no longer veiled. It was sharpened, hungry, and dangerous.
"He won't stop at the throne," Jun muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. "He'll gut anyone in his way—including me… and Darius."
The quill in his hand snapped in half without him noticing. He stared at the ink blot spreading across the parchment like spilled blood, then pushed it aside. He had no choice. The court was too riddled with spies to trust his father's men. The royal guard would bend to whoever held power. If Keain struck, Darius and he would be the first heads on the pike.
That was why Jun had begun assembling his own forces—not knights of the crown, but men who owed loyalty to no one but gold and survival.
In the dead of night, he slipped through a hidden passage to a deserted hall of the old palace, where firelight flickered against steel. Mercenaries leaned against pillars, sharpening blades. Retired adventurers with scars of old battles sipped ale, their eyes watchful. There were even a handful of deserters from other noble houses, drawn by coin or grudges.
Jun scanned them with a calculating gaze. They were rough, undisciplined, but deadly—the kind of men who could vanish from records, fight without banners, and spill blood without asking questions.
"Listen well," Jun said, his voice low but carrying authority. "This is not rebellion. This is survival. Keain's shadow grows bolder every day, and soon he'll come for me… and for Prince Darius. When that time comes, I refuse to be slaughtered like cattle."
A grizzled swordsman stepped forward, the jagged scar on his jaw catching the firelight. "And when Keain falls, what then, Prince? Do we march for the throne?"
Jun's eyes narrowed, but his answer was measured. "The throne is not my aim. Protection is. But if Keain forces my hand…" His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "…then the realm will decide who is fit to sit on that seat."
Murmurs rippled through the men. Greed, loyalty, fear—it didn't matter why they came, only that when Keain's knife finally bared itself, Jun would not be alone.
The old palace hall was quiet again once the mercenaries dispersed into the shadows of the city. Jun stood alone, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He hadn't drawn it in months, but tonight his chest felt heavy, as though instinct whispered he might need it sooner than he thought.
A knock came at the side door—three taps, pause, two taps. The signal.
Jun opened it to find one of his spies, a hooded boy no older than sixteen, panting and clutching a satchel. "My prince… word from the capital's inner council," the boy stammered, pressing the satchel into Jun's hand. "It's about Prince Keain."
Jun shut the door and broke the wax seal in one motion. His eyes moved quickly over the parchment, and his expression darkened.
Keain had already begun moving his pieces. He had convinced certain generals to withhold their banners from the western front, deliberately weakening the lines. Worse, there were whispers of an 'accident' being arranged—an ambush on the road meant for none other than Prince Darius himself.
Jun's hand clenched the letter so tightly the paper tore. His mind spun.
"So it begins…"
His thoughts snapped back to Sophia. She had left earlier with Darius, Leto, and Mira, blissfully unaware of just how deep Keain's knife was already buried in their backs. Jun's mask had held when he told her to be careful, but behind his calm smile, fear churned.
If Keain made a move against Darius during this campaign, Sophia would be caught in the fire as well. Rolien's fiancée. Rolien's brother.
Jun couldn't allow that.
He paced the chamber, running through the possibilities. If he warned Darius outright, Keain's spies would hear it before his brother did. If he stayed silent, Darius walked blind into the wolf's jaws.
The only choice left was the one Jun had already started down—build a shield of blades that answered only to him.
"Double the recruitment," he ordered the spy sharply. "Find me those with grudges against the court, against Keain, anyone who knows how to fight and bleed without question. And keep eyes on the western road. If Darius is targeted, I want to know before Keain breathes it."
The boy nodded and darted off, leaving Jun staring at the torn parchment. His reflection in the lantern flame flickered back at him, eyes colder than he remembered.
"Keain…" he muttered. "If you plan to draw your sword on your own blood, then so be it. Just know I'll have mine ready when you do."
The night over Elroy was heavy with smoke and ash. The once-proud dukedom lay broken, its streets littered with rubble and burned-out homes. From the ridge where the convoy camped, the glow of the ruined city pulsed faintly, like dying embers refusing to be snuffed out.
Sir Marcellus moved along the outer perimeter, his armor dulled with soot, his hand never straying far from his blade. He had fought beside Elian through the worst of the siege—against the demon general himself—and though victory had been won, it came at a cost that weighed on them all. Duke Elroy lay buried beneath the ruins, and Elian barely clung to life within the healer's tent.
Inside the camp, Sophia sat with her hands folded tight against her lap, her mind restless. The cries of the wounded carried faintly through the night, punctuated by the rattle of the supply wagons being unloaded.
A faint whistle cut the air.
Marcellus froze mid-step. His instincts screamed. He whirled, blade half-drawn—
Thwip!
The arrow grazed his shoulder, embedding itself in the ground beside him. Dark liquid hissed where it touched earth. Poison.
"Assassins!" Marcellus roared, his sword flashing free.
Shadows burst from the ruins around the camp. Figures clad in black leathers and masks swarmed forward, their blades curved and glinting under the moonlight. Silent, efficient—too disciplined to be mere bandits.
The Green Numbers snapped into formation instantly, shields locking as they met the first wave. Steel clashed in a harsh rhythm, torches scattering sparks across the dirt.
Sophia surged to her feet at the noise, her hand going to the dagger strapped at her side. But before she could step outside, the tent flap tore open, and a dagger arced straight for her throat.
Darius moved before thought. His blade caught the strike with a sharp clang, sparks flying. His calm mask was gone now, replaced by a predator's stare.
"Stay behind me, Sophia."
Sophia's breath hitched, but she obeyed, clutching her dagger close.
Outside, Marcellus fought like a wall of iron, cutting down two assassins in a single swing. But even as he cut them down, more pressed in, their movements coordinated, their targets clear. They weren't here for loot.
They were here for the second prince.
Inside the healer's tent, Elian stirred weakly at the commotion. Pain lanced through his body as he tried to rise, but his hand found the hilt of a sword lying at his bedside. His vision blurred, but he recognized the ring of steel, the cries of men fighting.
"They're… here…" he rasped, forcing his battered body upright.
The assassins pressed harder. A pair slipped around Darius's defense, eyes locked on Elian's tent.
If they reached him, Rolien's brother would never rise again.
Elian staggered out, blood soaking his bandages, his hand wrapped around a blade. His body trembled, his legs weak—but his eyes burned with defiance.
"You'll… not take him… while I still breathe."
The assassins faltered only for a second, then split their formation. Two on Darius. Two on Elian.
The night's true battle began.
Steel clashed as the assassins split their formation. Two pressed against Darius, their curved blades striking like vipers, while the other pair closed in on Elian, who was barely able to lift his sword.
Sophia stood frozen for a heartbeat, fear tangling her chest—but then something shifted in her eyes. She drew her blade in one smooth motion, and with her free hand she traced a glowing sigil into the air.
"[Magma Vein]!"
The ground split beneath the nearest assassin, molten fire bursting upward. The killer leapt back, but not fast enough—the heat scorched his leg, his leather armor smoking as he hissed in pain.
Elian's eyes widened. "Sophia…"
Her grip tightened on her sword. "I won't let Rolien lose you both," she said, her voice steady now, no tremor in it.
One of the assassins lunged at her, thinking her distracted. Sophia pivoted sharply, blade flashing in an arc. At the same time, a beam of white seared from her palm—
"[Laser Ray]!"
The strike cut across the assassin's shoulder, burning through leather and flesh. He screamed, collapsing, clutching at the smoking wound.
Darius parried another blow, sparks dancing from his blade, but his eyes flicked toward her in brief shock. "You can fight?"
Sophia's lips pressed thin. "I can do more than hide."
The assassins recalibrated instantly, circling her as a new threat. Their formation tightened—efficient, clinical. They meant to overwhelm her before she could cast again.
But Sophia didn't step back. She slashed her sword through the air, glyphs igniting around its edge. Flames coiled up the steel, and when she met their blades, sparks and embers exploded outward.
Still, Elian stumbled, his body breaking under strain. He blocked one blow, but the second assassin's dagger slipped through and carved across his ribs. He gasped, dropping to one knee.
"Damn it…" he coughed, blood spilling over his lip.
Sophia saw him falter and without hesitation thrust her free hand toward him. A green glow enveloped her palm, spilling into his body. "Stay up, Elian! [Restoration Surge]!"
Warmth spread into his wounds, knitting flesh just enough to hold him together. His breathing eased, though pain still clouded his eyes.
Elian's voice came low, hoarse. "…You're… stronger than Rolien told me."
Sophia's eyes hardened. "Then don't make me waste my strength keeping you alive."
Before Elian could answer, the tent grew colder. The assassins parted, and their leader stepped in. His mask bore crimson streaks, his presence heavy enough to still the air.
"Impressive," he said evenly, his gaze on Sophia. "But it changes nothing. The second prince dies tonight."
Sophia raised her sword, flames curling along its length, her stance unshaken despite the fear burning inside her. "You'll have to go through me first."
Darius stood beside her, his blade raised, his voice steady but grim. "Then we fight together."
The assassins surged forward again—faster, sharper, deadlier.
And the true battle began.
To be continued.