Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From zero to Hero
"No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 15: where are you?
Darius's First Night Back
The camp slowly returned to its rhythm, but the air carried a different energy now—quiet excitement, cautious hope, a sense that something long buried had finally surfaced.
Darius stayed standing near the entrance while the others drifted back to their duties. He was still trying to process everything—faces he thought he'd never see again, voices he'd convinced himself were lost to the fires of Valkaria.
Marcellus placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Come. You need rest before anything else."
Darius hesitated. "There's too much to do."
"There will be time for that," Marcellus said. "But right now? If you collapse, we're doomed before our rebellion even begins."
Darius let out a weak breath, almost a laugh at how blunt the knight was.
He finally nodded and followed him deeper into camp.
Inside the Cave Shelter
The safezone had a network of caves carved into the canyon wall. Torches burned low along the corridor, filling the air with the warmth of smoke and old stone.
Marcellus guided him into one of the inner chambers.
It wasn't much—just a bedroll, a blanket, and a wooden crate for a table—but it was home for a man who had slept in ruins and forests for six years.
Before Darius could sit, Elara stepped inside.
She carried a small clay bowl of broth, steam curling from it.
"You should eat," she said softly.
Darius reached out, but his hand trembled. Elara noticed. She stepped closer, offering support without making a fuss. He managed a grateful nod.
"Thank you."
She sat beside him as he drank—slowly, carefully, the warmth easing the knots in his chest.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, Elara broke the silence.
"When the empire fell… when we lost our father… everyone thought you died."
Her voice shook. "Even I did. I hated myself for giving up."
Darius stared at the broth in his hands.
"I should have died," he murmured. "A prince who failed to protect his nation doesn't deserve—"
"Stop." Her tone sharpened. "You survived. And because of that, dozens of towns survived with you. Don't belittle that."
He closed his eyes, her words hitting harder than any blade.
Elara stood, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Rest. We'll talk tomorrow."
She left him with that small warmth… a reminder that he wasn't alone.
Marcellus Returns
After Elara left, Marcellus entered again with a leather-bound notebook.
"I know it's late," he said, "but there's something you need to see."
He laid the book on the crate and opened it.
Inside were hand-drawn maps, reports, sketches of banners, lists of names.
"The rebellion isn't just a rumor anymore," Marcellus explained. "Villages, towns, even some border cities—they haven't forgotten your father, or you. They held on to the idea that someone would rise again."
Darius looked at him.
"And they think that someone is me."
Marcellus nodded.
"You're Albrecht's son. The last heir. The only one with their trust."
He paused.
"And… you're the only one strong enough to stand against Emperor Keain."
Darius's jaw tightened at the name.
Six years ago, Keain stabbed their father in the back.
Six years ago, he handed the empire to Valkaria.
Six years ago, he became a puppet emperor drenched in blood.
Darius's fingers curled into fists.
"He'll pay," he whispered. "All of them will."
Marcellus didn't smile. He simply bowed his head.
"Tomorrow, we'll gather the leaders. You'll decide our next move."
He turned to leave.
But before he stepped out, he said quietly, "I'm glad you're alive, my prince."
The torch outside flickered as he walked away.
Darius Alone
When the silence settled, Darius lay back on the bedroll and stared at the cave ceiling.
For the first time in years, he wasn't sleeping under rubble or hiding from scouts.
For the first time in years, the weight of the empire felt shared.
But sleep didn't come easy.
Not when he remembered his father's last moments.
Not when he remembered failing to save the capital.
Not when he remembered seeing his maids die because of his own hesitation.
He covered his eyes with his arm.
"Father… I'll fix this. I swear it."
At the entrance of the cave, a small silhouette appeared.
Mira—the youngest of the Asher Hawks—peeked in timidly.
"Oh—sorry, I didn't mean to bother you," she whispered. "I just… wanted to see you. We all did."
Darius managed a small smile.
"It's alright."
She brightened, then held out a tiny charm—a wooden carving of a stag.
"We made this years ago. For luck. You should keep it."
Darius took it carefully.
"Thank you."
Mira nodded quickly, cheeks red, then ran off.
Darius stared at the little stag for a long time.
A symbol of House Grey.
A symbol of survival.
A symbol of the empire that once was.
He finally closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the rebellion begins.
Darius pushed himself up a bit, letting his back rest against a stack of crates wrapped in canvas. The camp was quiet for now—just the soft clatter of armor from patrolling scouts and the distant crackle of controlled campfires. He finally had a moment to breathe, and that alone felt strange.
He picked up one of the swords leaning beside his bedroll, turning it in his hand. The blade was spotless—no chips, no dents, not even a scratch from use.
"Why are your weapons this clean?" Darius asked, honestly impressed. "You're fighting every day. These should look like scrap by now."
Elian looked up from the map spread across the table and grinned a little.
"Oh, that? That's thanks to Mr. Yohan—our blacksmith. Man's a miracle worker. If it isn't pristine, he won't hand it back."
Darius raised a brow. "A blacksmith that picky sounds like a luxury these days."
"You have no idea," Elian said, shaking his head.
While they spoke, Darius's eyes drifted to the corner of the tent. Several odd devices were propped on a bench—metal cylinders with glowing cores, strange compact panels with rotating gears, a small cube humming with mana that didn't behave like normal mana at all.
He stood, curiosity pulling him closer. "What… are these?"
Elara, who had been cleaning her bow, quietly set it down and walked over. She pointed at the cube first.
"Ah… those," she said softly. "They're not from this era. Or… well, they shouldn't be."
She exhaled, almost fondly. "My little brother made all of this. Rolien."
Darius blinked. "Rolien? He made—these?"
Elara nodded. "Every single one."
Darius felt a smile spread across his face. "That's incredible. This is great news! I need to talk to him—bring me to him! Someone with that kind of mind could turn this whole war around."
But Elara didn't respond.
Elian didn't either.
Both of them just… lowered their heads.
Elara's fingers clenched around her sleeve.
Elian's jaw shifted, like he was trying to hold something in.
That was when it hit Darius.
A cold heaviness crawled up his spine.
"…Hey," he said quietly. "Hey don't tell me."
His chest tightened. "He… died too?"
Elara shook her head fast—not denying it, just reacting. Her breath trembled.
Elian pressed his palms on the table, staring at the map.
"No body was ever found," he said.continu second he ws standing beside pete then he's gone , no words no trace. Nothing."
Elara's voice cracked. "We looked for him. For weeks."
Darius felt the world go still for a moment.
Rolien. The boy who used to follow elian around with wide eyes when he and elian used to play when they where teens.
The boy who always smiled even when life beat him down.
Gone? Like Edric? Like everyone else?
He lowered himself slowly back onto the bedroll, the weight settling into his bones.
"…I see, i...im sorry" he murmured.
Elian finally looked at him. "We don't know if he's dead. We don't know if he's alive. But the last time i saw and talk to him when he was standing alone against a monster that devoured cities."
Elara wiped her eye with the heel of her palm.
"He gave us time to escape. If not for him, none of us would be here."
Darius closed his eyes for a moment.
His voice came out rough, but steady.
"If he's alive… I'll find him i promise."
Elara swallowed. "And if he isn't?"
Darius opened his eyes again—sharper, fiercer.
"Then I'll finish what he died protecting."
The camp stayed quiet for a long moment. Only the mana cube hummed in the background, one of the last traces Rolien left behind.
And now, more than ever, Darius felt the war shift inside him.
This wasn't just about revenge anymore.
It was about honoring the boy who refused to give up on the world—even when the world took everything from him.
Darius stared at her.
Elara clenched her fists.
"If he were dead… we wouldn't still be surviving off the systems he left behind. His work is everywhere. His ideas, his tools, his preparations. It's like he's still guiding us."
Her eyes glistened. "I know he's out there. I know he'll come back. And when he does… he'll save all of us."
Darius didn't interrupt. He just watched her—saw the hope she clung to like a lifeline.
Elian sighed quietly. "We all want to believe that. But six years is a long time."
Elara turned away, refusing to hear it.
Darius finally sat down again, his voice low but sincere.
"If he's alive… then I'll help you find him."
Elara glanced back, surprised by the conviction in his tone.
"And if he's gone…" Darius continued, "then we'll make sure his work wasn't for nothing. This safe zone. These inventions. This resistance… he built the bones of it."
He placed a hand on one of the strange devices, feeling its faint hum.
"Even if he's not here… he's still fighting with you."
Elara looked down, swallowing hard, her voice soft but steady.
"He'll come back," she whispered. "I know he will."
And for the first time since Darius entered the tent, he let himself hope—just a little—that she might be right.
To be continue