Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero " No Magic?,No Problem!"
Encounter 32: Drag By the past
Rachel's eyes were cold, her voice cutting through the morning air like a blade.
"The City Hall is compromised. Hostages are confirmed inside—civilians, mostly government workers, possibly children. Our orders are simple: neutralize the enemy before they make their move. The bastards want attention, and they'll get it—only in body bags."
Her gaze swept over the squad. Every man straightened, the weight of the mission pressing down on their shoulders.
Rowan stood among them, heart pounding. It was like he was watching his own nightmare unfold again, trapped in a memory he thought he'd buried long ago.
"Marcus," Rachel called.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You and your squad breach the west entrance. Minimal noise. Secure the hostages if possible. Captain Rowan"—her eyes met his, sharp as knives—"you're with me on point. We go in hard. No mistakes. The city's watching."
Rowan's throat went dry. He wanted to shout, to say This already happened! He wanted to warn them, to tell them what came next—how it all went wrong. But his voice caught.
Marcus slapped him on the shoulder again, smirking like always. "Don't look so pale, Cap. We've been through worse. Easy sweep, in and out. We'll be back drinking cheap whiskey by sundown."
Rowan's hands trembled as he adjusted the strap of his rifle. Everything was the same—the smell of sand, the weight of the gear, even the sound of Marcus's laugh.
But inside his head, alarms were screaming.
Because he remembered what awaited them inside that City Hall. The blood. The screaming. The trap.
The moment everything changed.
The blinding memory shattered like glass.
Rowan's mind snapped back to reality—Rolien's battered body slammed into the cavern wall, coughing blood as the massive figure of the Chain Breaker loomed before him. Its skin was layered with jagged black scales that pulsed with red veins, chains rattling with each monstrous movement. Every time Solis's spells struck it, the magic fizzled into nothing, absorbed and consumed by the beast's body.
"ROLIIEEEN!!" Pete's voice cracked in terror, his small hands outstretched as if he could somehow shield the man who had just saved him.
The Chain Breaker lunged again, its claw carving through stone like butter.
Tessa's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.
"Brag! Ren! Solis! Grab him—NOW!"
The Asher Hawks didn't hesitate. Brag slammed his shield into the ground, intercepting the monster's strike. The sheer force cracked the floor beneath him, but Brag held, gritting his teeth. Ren sprinted to Rolien's side, arrows rattling in his quiver, while Solis raised his staff—not to attack, but to create a flickering barrier of raw mana, just enough to buy them seconds.
"Pete, stay behind me!" Tessa barked, blades flashing as she darted past, intercepting the beast's other claw before it could crush Ren and Rolien. Sparks erupted as steel scraped against scale, her arms shaking from the impact.
Ren hooked an arm under Rolien's shoulders, dragging his barely conscious body upright. "He's—damn heavy!"
"Then don't complain, MOVE!" Brag roared, bracing his shield again as the Chain Breaker's tail lashed, sending shards of stone spraying.
Rolien coughed blood, his vision swimming. His lips moved, voice raw. "D-Don't… run. Fight—"
"Shut up, Rolien," Tessa snapped, her eyes burning as she shoved the monster back an inch. "We're not leaving you to die here. Not now, not ever!"
She turned, both blades glowing faintly—not with mana, but with sheer steel-forged resolve. Her voice carried like thunder through the cavern.
"Asher Hawks! FALL BACK WITH HIM!"
The team obeyed instantly, closing ranks around their broken comrade as the Chain Breaker bellowed, chains thrashing violently against the walls, its eyes locked on Rolien like a predator scenting prey.
Behind them, the cavern shook with the monster's fury.
But ahead—the unknown waited.
Rolien's vision blurred, his head slumping against Ren's shoulder as the Hawks dragged him through the cavern. The echo of the Chain Breaker's roar rattled his bones, but the sound stretched, warped… until it wasn't a roar anymore.
It was gunfire.
Brrrrrrt!
The world snapped, and suddenly—he was Rowan again.
The hot sting of sand scraped against his boots as he sprinted through the crumbling alleyway of a Middle Eastern city. His rifle bounced against his chest plate, breath harsh inside his helmet. Marcus was just ahead, shouting over the comms.
"Cap, we're close! Eyes sharp, the bastards are dug in!"
The rest of the squad fanned out, weapons raised, boots pounding. Ahead, the massive stone structure of the city hall rose like a fortress, windows blacked out. Smoke curled from broken doorways.
Then it started.
RATATATATA!
Gunfire ripped from the second-floor windows, tearing chunks of plaster and brick from the walls around them. Sparks and dust exploded in Rowan's face as bullets chewed the air.
"CONTACT! SECOND FLOOR!" Rachel's voice cut sharp through the headset.
Rowan dove behind a wrecked car, glass crunching under his gear. He swung his rifle up, returning fire in sharp bursts. Marcus slid in beside him, laying suppressing shots.
The air reeked of gunpowder and blood already. Screams echoed from civilians trapped further inside the city hall—hostages. That's why they were here. That's why this mattered.
"Push forward! We need breach inside before they start killing!" Rachel ordered, her voice iron-hard, though Rowan could hear the strain beneath.
Rowan checked his mag—half empty already. He gritted his teeth, peeking over the hood just in time to see one of his men drop, blood spraying across the wall.
"Damn it!" Rowan cursed, shoving himself higher against cover. "Marcus, with me—we move on my mark!"
Marcus gave a quick nod, his jaw tight. "Ready when you are, Cap."
The building loomed, every dark window promising death. Rowan's pulse hammered like a war drum. He steadied his breathing, the past and present bleeding together for just a second—chains rattling, gunfire snapping.
His voice roared out.
"MARK!"
They bolted, breaking cover into a storm of bullets—
"MARK!"
Rowan and Marcus burst from behind cover, boots slamming against the dusty pavement. Bullets shredded the air around them, sparks kicking up off the rusted car behind. A tracer round hissed past Rowan's ear—too close.
They dove at the double doors of the city hall just as Brando and Jace laid down suppressing fire from the street, their rifles roaring like thunder. Glass shattered. Plaster rained down.
Rowan's shoulder hit the door first. BANG! It didn't budge. Reinforced.
"Breach charge!" Rowan barked.
Marcus was already there, pulling the satchel from his kit. He slapped the charge against the frame, fingers working fast. "Set! Clear!"
The squad fell back just enough. Rowan held his breath.
BOOOOM!
The entryway erupted, flames and smoke belching outward. The door blew off its hinges, clattering against the tiled floor inside.
"Go, go, go!" Rachel's voice roared in his earpiece.
Rowan stormed in first, rifle raised. The lobby was chaos—bullet holes riddling the walls, furniture overturned. A flickering chandelier swung wildly overhead. From the balcony above, insurgents opened fire, their AKs rattling without mercy.
"UPPER BALCONY!" Rowan shouted, firing short bursts. Two gunmen dropped, but more poured in from the hallway.
Marcus tossed a smoke grenade, the hiss filling the room as gray clouds swallowed their sightlines. Shadows darted in the haze, muzzle flashes sparking like fireflies.
A man lunged out of the smoke with a knife. Rowan's reflexes took over—he caught the attacker's wrist, twisted hard until it snapped, then slammed the butt of his rifle into the man's face. Blood spattered across his visor.
"Cap! Right side!" Marcus warned.
Rowan swung just in time—another insurgent appeared through the smoke. His rifle jammed mid-burst. Rowan cursed, dropping it and pulling his sidearm in one fluid motion. BANG! The man fell, chest blooming red.
The squad regrouped behind a marble pillar, Marcus panting hard.
"They're herding us, sir!" he yelled over the cacophony. "They want us pinned down!"
Rowan peeked through the smoke. His gut sank. Marcus was right. Enemy fire was tightening, pushing them toward the center of the lobby like rats in a cage.
Rachel's voice crackled in his headset again, clipped and urgent:
"Rowan, you need to secure the hostages before they start executing! Intel says they're on the third floor. You have five minutes before this whole place goes up!"
Rowan grit his teeth, wiping blood and sweat from his brow. His lungs burned. His squad's eyes were on him, waiting.
He clenched his pistol tighter, his voice cutting through the storm.
"Alright, Hawks—we fight up the stairwell, room by room. No hesitation, no mercy. Civilians come first. Marcus, you're with me. Brando, cover rear. Jace, clear left flank. MOVE!"
They surged into the smoke again, steel nerves against a storm of lead.
And as Rowan kicked open the first stairwell door, muzzle flashes met him head-on—
DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!
Bullets screamed down the narrow corridor, nowhere to dodge.
Rowan raised his arm—
Rowan gritted his teeth, shoulder braced as the stairwell doors slammed open. The corridor beyond was a choke point—tight, tiled, lined with doors that could hide shooters. Muzzle flashes lit the smoke like strobe lights. The world narrowed: breath, sight, target.
"Stack up!" Rowan barked, and his team snapped into formation—the practiced rhythm of men who'd done this before. Marcus at his six, Brando watching the rear, Jace sweeping the opposite wall. They moved like one hand.
Rowan read the geometry the way a swordsman reads a blade: fields of fire, blind corners, angles of ricochet. He started the climb two steps at a time, pistol tight in his fist, eyes carving through the haze. Bullets pinged the railing, kicked concrete dust into their faces. Someone ahead screamed—a grunt cut short. Rowan's heart slammed; no room for it.
On the second landing, an insurgent tried to catch them in a funnel—burst from an automatic, aimed low to shred legs. Rowan dropped, rolled through the spray, and slammed his shoulder into the shooter's chest. The man folded, a whimper choked off. Marcus was already on him, cuffing hands, breath ragged.
"Clear!" Marcus spat, voice raw. "Up!"
They moved in cascades: entry, clear, sweep. Every door they breached was a gamble. Room after room, they found the same pattern—insurgents using civilians as meat shields, booby-trapped caches in closets, radios crackling updates to people they could not let run.
At the fourth floor landing the air changed—less smoke, more blood. Doors were ajar, one flung wide, and voices—voices in broken shouts, weeping in the dark. Hostages.
"Two rooms," Jace said under his breath. "Left and right. Left's booby-trapped."
Rowan didn't hesitate. Marcus hit the booby-door with a sweep kit, fingers working in a practiced blur. The panel surrendered—no explosion. Rowan pushed the left door open, pistol up. Inside, a small group of civilians huddled, eyes wide, faces brick-blanched with fear.
"Down! On your bellies! Now!" Rowan barked, voice calmed to command. He and Marcus ran in, sweeping. A slender man by the window lunged—knife. Marcus snapped—one clean cuff, one choke, a sharp thud. Hostages sobbed, clutched at each other like a raft.
"Go! Down the hall—third floor center. Fast," Rowan told the civilians, directing them with crisp movements. "We get you out."
He covered the exit as the squad formed up again. Time was a leash wearing thin—every minute gave the insurgents chances to break clarity into chaos.
They pushed on toward the stairwell landing to the center of the building. That's when the real trap caught them.
The corridor exploded in a waterfall of gunfire—higher caliber, precise, pre-planned. The insurgents had set crossfire from a turned-over service elevator and a reinforced doorway opposite. Bullets slammed into the wall beside Rowan, punching through plaster with satisfying, terrifying efficiency. Heat sang down the hall.
"Ambush!" Jace screamed, slamming himself behind a tiled column as rounds peppered the stone. Brando dropped his magazine and returned controlled fire down the elevator shaft, voice a curse. Marcus swore and pressed low, returning fire in short controlled bursts, buying time.
Rowan's world snapped into a sequence of micro-decisions. He could feel the incoming: trajectory, velocity, where the next round would strike based on the recoil of shooter three doors down. His body moved on a different clock—half instinct, half training. He laid down suppressing fire toward the elevator, then pivoted hard toward the doorway where tracer lines painted a lethal cross.
A runner—thin, wiry, with an AK—popped from the doorway and sprinted across the corridor. Marcus tracked him, fired. The man dropped—no theatrics, just a ragged fall. But another one slid from overhead vents. They were everywhere, pushed by comms, a synchronized pestilence.
"Push the elevator shaft!" Rowan barked. "Marcus, with me. Brando, on me—cover the left flank. Jace, cut off the doorway!"
They sprinted, bullets punching the air around them, plaster dust rain. Rowan slammed into the elevator lip, the metal cold and slick under his glove. He peered down into the dark—an insurgent crouched there, firing back, muzzle flashes painting the shaft gold.
Rowan climbed down like a man sliding into a throat. Marcus was on his heels. The shaft was a death chute; the insurgent tried to wheel—Rowan was faster. He rammed his shoulder, the shock of contact firing up his arm, and disarmed the man in one brutal motion. The gun skittered. Marcus cuffed him; the man's eyes were wild.
Then—from behind.
A shadowed figure emerged from an office doorway, moving silent as a ghost. Rowan turned just in time to see the glint of a blade arc past his shoulder. Pain ripped through his side—hot, bright, a fist to the ribs. He tasted copper. He'd taken knife strikes before; this felt different—deeper, angrier.
"Marcus—!" Rowan barely got out.
Marcus spun, but the attacker was already gone, swallowed in smoke and noise. Rowan spat, hand going to the wound instinctively—blood silked his fingers. His breath came jagged. Ligaments sang with every inhale.
They kept moving. There was no script for staying down. Hostages were still inside. Orders were simple: rescue or die on the way.
At the stairwell's final flight, the third-floor center corridor opened into a vaulted atrium—the heart of the city hall. Rowan saw them then: three men with rifles had the hostages corralled against a marble balustrade. One had a civilian pressed against him like a shield. The leader was broad-shouldered, tattoos crawling up his arms. He smiled like someone offering a bargain only he could set.
"Hold your fire!" Rachel's voice came, but was swallowed by the blast of the leader's shout. "Make a move and we lose them!"
Rowan's squad hit positions—aiming, ready. The leader's grin widened, his index finger twitching on a detonator.
Time slowed into the throb of a wave—Marcus's breath, Jace's grip on the rifle, Brando's stance like a dam. Rowan's ribs burned. Blood slipped warm down his side. He ignored it. He could read the man's micro-gestures—finger twitch, heel shift, breath flare. The detonator was a bluff, maybe. The leader wanted bargaining power. Or he had a real cord in his fist.
"You have twenty seconds to walk out and give us safe passage," the leader boomed. "Otherwise—" He raised the pistol at the nearest hostage.
Rowan's world narrowed until it was a dot—target, timer, decision. He didn't have twenty seconds. He had a fraction.
"On my mark," Rowan breathed, and the squad tightened like a spring.
"Mark!"
They moved. It was a blur: Marcus from the left, Rowan from the right, Brando sweeping the rear as cover. A cacophony of motion and fire—controlled, compensated. Rowan fired a shot that clipped the trigger hand of the leader's pistol—metal sparking, the man snarled as the gun flew wide. Marcus hammered the nearest shooter with a double tap. Brando shoved forward, shield up, the breath of revolution.
For half a heartbeat, the world went still: hostages blinking, dust motes drifting, the leader's face a mask between fury and shock.
Then the detonator exploded in his hand.
Not a bomb—flash charges, smoke, a flash-bang meant to blind and disorient. The leader had gambled on confusion, not mass death. It worked. A wave of aching sound and white light slammed into Rowan. Pain detonated behind his eyes. His ears rang like clanging metal. He stumbled, vision a bloom of color, the world gone noisy and wrong.
When the light cleared, the leader was on his feet, pistol up—pointed at Rowan's gut.
Rowan forced breath into his lungs. He could feel the ragged edge of his wound like a hot coal, but the world had taught him to use adrenaline like armor. He shouldered forward—then a shadow detached from the balcony.
A clean, fast figure dropped down, collar of a jacket flaring—a shot cracked. The leader's head snapped as a single round found the temple. He slumped. The pistol clattered against marble and slid to a stop.
Rowan's legs gave a twitch. Someone—someone with steady aim—had taken the leader. A cleaner's hand than most—calm, surgical. His vision tunneled to the balcony rail.
And there—half-hidden by the balustrade—Rowan caught the flash of white hair, the outline of a familiar silhouette he'd seen only once before: arrogant, dangerous, the kind of face that stayed with you.
A grin flickered across that stranger's mouth as he looked down and then tilted his head toward Rowan. For a split second their eyes met.
Rowan felt something colder than the building's smoke crawl up his spine.
The man raised a gloved finger, but not to threaten. He only nodded once—an acknowledgement more than a signal—and then he vanished into the crowd like a phantom.
Rowan tried to call after him, to move, but the pain rolled like thunder through his ribs. His knees trembled. Someone caught him—Marcus's hands, firm and urgent.
"Cap—stay with me!" Marcus hissed, voice raw. "You're hit bad—medic's on the line, hold on!"
Rowan's mouth formed words, but the world was shifting—bright ceiling tiles melting into cavern crystals, smoke into the stench of sulfur. The phantom's nod burned behind his eyes as his consciousness frayed—like a seam being pulled apart.
He tasted iron and the aftershock of a life split into two worlds.
Then darkness took him.
—
A metallic echo—chains in the deep—rippled the edge of Rowan's mind. He surfaced with a grunt, lunging back to the present as Ren's gloved fingers dug into his shoulder. The cavern's roar crashed around him again: the Chainbreaker's chains, the system chiming warnings. He spat grit and blood, every rib a bell of protest.
Tessa's voice broke through, sharp and urgent. "Rowan—move! Pete's down—get up!"
Rowan pushed to his feet, body protesting like a wounded animal. The flashback's heat receded, but its sting stayed: the look on the balcony, the phantom's nod, the man with white hair who had pulled a trigger and then vanished.
Now, in the pit, the Chainbreaker reared, chains rattling, a mountain of black mist and cold malice. Rolien—Rowan—found his jaw tightening into a smile that wasn't happy.
"Time to finish what we started," he rasped, spirit flaring in his veins as he readied blade and hollowveilforge sparks. The Asher Hawks snapped into motion around him. Bragg set his shield, Ren loosed a string of hawk-eyed shots, Solis began weaving the arcane anchors, and Tessa darted like a blade of wind—each action a gear in a single, brutal machine.
Rowan's hands wrapped around the katana now, spirit energy licking along the edge like a living thing. The Hollowveilforge woke in his bones—speed, reaction, muscle—flowing through him with a clarity only he felt. He inhaled, the system whispering one last message before the world narrowed to two things: blade and beast.
[Boss: Chainbreaker — Absorbing mana. Use physical/kinetic attacks. Vulnerable when chains are severed.]
He barked orders—fast, capital-brief commands—then charged.
"Ren—left flank! Bragg—bait right! Tessa, cut its chains when I open! Solis, Pete—support and seal that hole!" His voice was hot iron.
They moved. The pit flared with steel and flame. The Chainbreaker howled, and the cavern answered. The final collision began.
But something at the back of Rowan's throat still itched with a single question: who was the man on the balcony, and why had his nod felt like a sentence?
And higher, away from the pit, a distant shadow watched.
To be continued