Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From zero to Hero
" No Magic?,No problem!"
Encounter 14: spark of hope
For Darius, the world went dark the moment Aerthrys forced him into the sky. He didn't know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness. The dragon flew until her wings finally failed, crashing them into a forest far from the battlefield.
By the time Darius woke again, days had passed.
By the time he could stand, the empire he knew was already gone.
Six Months Later — What Became of the Empire
Everything collapsed faster than anyone believed possible.
Albrecht's death wasn't just the fall of a man — it was the fall of a pillar that held the entire Ceceran Empire together. With Vermorth and Prince Keain caught in the same blast, confusion spread through both armies like wildfire. The chain of command broke. Support lines shattered. Rumors overtook facts, and fear did the rest.
And while the empire staggered, the enemy nation struck.
The Under Valkaria Conquest
Under Valkaria didn't waste a single day. Their generals moved with brutal precision, swallowing border forts, towns, then entire provinces. What should've taken years took six months of nonstop invasion.
Most nobles died defending their lands.
Some fled.
Some surrendered.
Very few survived long enough to choose.
Prince Keain's Rise
When the dust finally settled, a single figure stood at the top.
Prince Keain.
Alive. Somehow alive.
He returned not as a prince, but as a puppet emperor crowned under the banner of Under Valkaria. His first act was to dissolve the Ceceran name entirely.
The empire was rebranded:
The Unter Valkaria Empire.
New laws followed. Cold. Inhuman.
Dissent became treason.
Silence became safety.
And the people learned quickly that their new emperor ruled with chains, not words.
The Fate of Greyhold
Greyhold, once under Grand Duke Edric, fell within weeks.
Grand Duke Edric died on the western front. His banner burned with him.
In the chaos, Luke Arcadia reappeared beside his father's slayers and was rewarded generously. Duke Lance Arcadia's lands and title were stripped down and reforged into a new seat:
Grand Duke of the Fallen Greyhold.
Luke became its heir—and its symbol.
The traitor the empire now called a patriot.
The Branded Rebels
Those who once belonged to Greyhold were hunted.
Elian Grey
His sister, Elara
Their mother, Lady Lirien Grey
All declared fugitives and enemies of the new empire.
Alongside them was a name whispered with both awe and dread:
Asher Hawks — the infamous adventurer whose survival made him a ghost story for young soldiers.
Anyone associated with them was executed or taken. No trials. No appeals.
The Iron Rule of Emperor Keain
Under Keain's new laws, the streets changed.
People disappeared at night.
Families were torn apart.
Recruitment wasn't a choice — it was demanded.
Worse, whispers spread about the capital.
A demon altar.
A pact.
And citizens being taken as sacrifices.
The empire bled in silence, feeding a Demon King that no one had ever seen but everyone feared.
Some prayed.
Some hid.
Some fought back in shadows.
And through it all, one rumor started to grow:
Darius Albrechtson is dead.
Crushed under the collapse of the battle.
Lost in the explosion.
No body.
No witnesses.
Just a ghost of a prince who no longer had a home to return to.
For Darius, the world went dark the moment Aerthrys forced him into the sky. He didn't know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness. The dragon flew until her wings finally failed, crashing them into a forest far from the battlefield.
By the time Darius woke again, days had passed.
By the time he could stand, the empire he knew was already gone.
Six Months Later — What Became of the Empire
Everything collapsed faster than anyone believed possible.
Albrecht's death wasn't just the fall of a man — it was the fall of a pillar that held the entire Ceceran Empire together. With Vermorth and Prince Keain caught in the same blast, confusion spread through both armies like wildfire. The chain of command broke. Support lines shattered. Rumors overtook facts, and fear did the rest.
And while the empire staggered, the enemy nation struck.
The Under Valkaria Conquest
Under Valkaria didn't waste a single day. Their generals moved with brutal precision, swallowing border forts, towns, then entire provinces. What should've taken years took six months of nonstop invasion.
Most nobles died defending their lands.
Some fled.
Some surrendered.
Very few survived long enough to choose.
Prince Keain's Rise
When the dust finally settled, a single figure stood at the top.
Prince Keain.
Alive. Somehow alive.
He returned not as a prince, but as a puppet emperor crowned under the banner of Under Valkaria. His first act was to dissolve the Ceceran name entirely.
The empire was rebranded:
The Unter Valkaria Empire.
New laws followed. Cold. Inhuman.
Dissent became treason.
Silence became safety.
And the people learned quickly that their new emperor ruled with chains, not words.
The Fate of Greyhold
Greyhold, once under Grand Duke Edric, fell within weeks.
Grand Duke Edric died on the western front. His banner burned with him.
In the chaos, Luke Arcadia reappeared beside his father's slayers and was rewarded generously. Duke Lance Arcadia's lands and title were stripped down and reforged into a new seat:
Grand Duke of the Fallen Greyhold.
Luke became its heir—and its symbol.
The traitor the empire now called a patriot.
The Branded Rebels
Those who once belonged to Greyhold were hunted.
Elian Grey
His sister, Elara
Their mother, Lady Lirien Grey
All declared fugitives and enemies of the new empire.
Alongside them was a name whispered with both awe and dread:
Asher Hawks — the infamous adventurer whose survival made him a ghost story for young soldiers.
Anyone associated with them was executed or taken. No trials. No appeals.
The Iron Rule of Emperor Keain
Under Keain's new laws, the streets changed.
People disappeared at night.
Families were torn apart.
Recruitment wasn't a choice — it was demanded.
Worse, whispers spread about the capital.
A demon altar.
A pact.
And citizens being taken as sacrifices.
The empire bled in silence, feeding a Demon King that no one had ever seen but everyone feared.
Some prayed.
Some hid.
Some fought back in shadows.
And through it all, one rumor started to grow:
Darius Albrechtson is dead.
Crushed under the collapse of the battle.
Lost in the explosion.
No body.
No witnesses.
Just a ghost of a prince who no longer had a home to return to.
Six Years Later
Darius didn't remember the last time he felt the warmth of a real home.
For six years he had lived like a shadow—moving village to village, slaying corrupted beasts, destroying Valkarian caravans, ambushing patrols, then slipping back into the wild before dawn.
He hadn't aged so much as hardened.
His hair was longer, tied loosely at his nape. His eyes sunken but sharp. His clothes worn down to leather straps and travel-stained layers. His sword—his father's sword—never left his hand.
He didn't fight for hope anymore.
He fought because he refused to disappear.
Tonight, he thought he would die.
A dozen Valkarian hunters cornered him in the ravine. Their blades flashed in the moonlight. He could barely stand—blood dripping down his arm, breath sharp and uneven.
As they closed in, a storm of steel tore through them.
One hunter's head rolled.
Another fell with his spine cut clean through.
A third collapsed before he even understood he'd been struck.
Darius blinked through the blur, expecting another enemy.
Instead… he saw a face he knew.
A face he had mourned five years ago.
"...Marcellus?"
The man straightened, wiping blood from his blade. He looked older—hair streaked with white, armor battered, eyes carrying six years of grief—but that posture, that steady presence… it was unmistakable.
Sir Marcellus, former head knight of Greyhold. Loyal to Grand Duke Edric. Loyal to the Grey children. Loyal to the empire.
His voice cracked when he spoke.
"Your Highness… it's really you."
Darius stared, unable to breathe for a moment. "You were supposed to be dead."
Marcellus gave a tired smile. "So were you."
He sheathed his sword and stepped closer, his boots crunching over fallen leaves and bodies.
"For years there were rumors," he said quietly. "Travelers spoke of a lone swordsman saving villages… a ghost of the old empire… a prince who refused to die."
He placed a hand on Darius' shoulder, gripping it tight.
"We prayed it was you. We wanted to believe. But none of us dared hope."
Darius swallowed, throat burning. "Who's 'we'…?"
Marcellus nodded, expression firm.
"The survivors of Greyhold. The remnants of your father's knights. The Asher Hawks. The freed towns. Anyone who still dreams of restoring the empire."
He leaned in slightly.
"We call ourselves the Stalwart Legion now. It isn't much—but it's growing."
Darius exhaled shakily. For a moment he felt weightless… and crushed… and somewhere between the two.
"You've been fighting all this time… without me?"
Marcellus shook his head.
"We've been hiding, regrouping, waiting."
He tightened his grip on Darius' shoulder.
"You are the one who's been fighting."
A long silence passed between them.
Then Marcellus looked around the ravine.
"We can't stay here. Valkarian trackers will be on their way."
He jerked his head toward the forest. "Come. There's a safezone three days from here. You need rest. And… Your Highness…"
His voice lowered.
"…they need to see you. The real you. Not just the rumor."
Darius stood still for a moment—blood drying on his skin, wind moving faintly through the trees.
Then he nodded.
"Lead the way, Sir Marcellus."
Marcellus bowed his head once.
"Welcome back, Prince Darius."
And together, they vanished into the night—toward the camp that had been waiting for a king who never came.
For six long years.
The Safezone
They walked for hours through rough terrain—old war-torn paths, burnt forests, and stretches of land still marked by Valkarian corruption. By the time they reached the cliffside trail, Darius's legs were trembling.
Marcellus steadied him with a hand.
"Almost there. Hold on."
Darius nodded, biting down the pain.
The trail opened into a narrow canyon hidden behind overgrown vines. At first it looked empty—just rocks and silence. But when Marcellus pressed his palm against a carved stone sigil, the canyon shimmered.
A barrier quietly dissolved.
Inside stood a camp.
Not a big one, but enough to surprise him—maybe two hundred people scattered around the enclosed valley. Makeshift tents lined the rock walls. Fires crackled softly. Children ran barefoot. Women carried water. A few armored scouts patrolled the upper ridge with crossbows ready.
Everyone turned when they heard the barrier open.
Whispers spread fast.
"Someone's back—"
"Is it Marcellus?"
"He brought someone—who is that…?"
Darius felt his heart stutter. For six years, he lived as a ghost. Now he was walking into the last remnants of the empire he failed to save.
A small group approached from the center of camp—armor worn, cloaks patched, but posture proud.
Tessa of the Asher Hawks moved first, blade at her hip and disbelief in her eyes.
Behind her were Brag, Solis, Pete, Mira, and Leto… all older, scarred, and carrying the exhaustion of six years running.
Elara pushed through them, trembling.
Lady Arwen followed close, supporting herself on a carved wooden spear.
And Elian—bandaged, taller, face sharper but still carrying the same stubborn fire—walked with a limp toward the front.
The moment Elara saw him, she stopped breathing.
"...Darius…?"
He froze.
Six years of nightmares, guilt, and grief—all hitting him at once. His throat tightened. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Elara didn't wait.
She ran straight into him, arms locking around his torso. He staggered but caught her, an old familiar warmth flooding through his chest.
"You're alive," she whispered against him, crying openly. "You're alive… gods… we thought you died with the capital…"
Lady Arwen stepped forward, hand over her heart. Tears welled in her eyes—the kind of tears a mother cries when she sees a child she never expected to see again.
"We prayed you survived," she said softly. "But hope has been a fragile thing these past years…"
Darius bowed his head to her—not as a prince, but as a survivor among survivors.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he whispered.
Elian approached last. His voice was steady but hard.
"You fought alone all this time."
He paused.
"That was reckless… stupid… but… thank you. Because without you, half the free towns would have fallen."
Darius felt something loosen in his chest—something he'd kept locked away since the night his father died.
Tessa stepped forward, hands on her hips, staring at him like he was a myth.
"Prince Darius," she said quietly, "welcome to the last piece of the empire."
People around them started kneeling—one by one.
Not out of fear.
Not out of duty.
But because they finally had something real to follow.
Someone real.
Darius swallowed hard, shaking faintly.
"I'm not here to reclaim a throne," he said.
Marcellus answered for him.
"No. But you're here to help us take back our world."
A quiet roar of agreement spread through the camp.
Elara squeezed his hand, her voice steady.
"Darius… we can't win this alone. We need you. The empire needs you."
Darius looked out over the camp—faces tired, hungry, scarred… but alive.
Alive because they refused to kneel to Emperor Keain's iron rule.
Alive because the world still needed a spark.
He exhaled slowly.
"Then we fight," he said. "All of us."
The camp erupted—not with cheers, but with the breath of people finally seeing a path forward.
Prince Darius had returned.
And the rebellion had a pulse again.
To be continue