Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From zero to hero
"No Magic? ,No Problem!"
Encounter 16: Arrival!
Two days passed in steady routine—planning, scouting, reinforcing the walls Rolien designed years ago. Darius settled in quickly, but the tension around him hadn't faded. People whispered his name with a mix of relief and awe. The "lost prince" was alive again after six years, and eyes followed him everywhere.
By the third morning, Elian walked toward Darius with two wooden practice swords slung over his shoulder.
"You've been restless," Elian said. "How about a match? The others are curious to see if the stories about you weren't exaggerated."
Darius raised a brow. "You sure? I don't want to embarrass you in front of your people."
Elian barked a laugh. "If you can, then I'll gladly get embarrassed."
Word spread fast. Within minutes, nearly the whole camp circled the clearing, forming a ring. Soldiers, mages, workers, even children perched on crates. Elara stood near Marcellus, both watching with quiet anticipation.
Darius rolled his shoulders and stepped into the dirt. Elian tossed him a wooden blade.
"First to three strikes?" Elian asked.
"Fine by me."
They took their stances.
The air shifted.
Even without armor, even without a real weapon—Darius carried a presence that made the crowd lean in. A stillness. A controlled focus. Like every breath in the clearing belonged to him.
Elian grinned. "Alright then. Let's see if six years changed anything."
He moved first.
A sharp step forward—fast. His foot slid over the dirt, blade cutting upward toward Darius's ribs.
Darius didn't even flinch.
He angled his wrist and deflected the strike cleanly, then pivoted his body just enough to slip behind Elian's shoulder. His wooden sword tapped Elian's back.
"One."
The crowd murmured.
Elian shook out his shoulders. "Still as annoying as ever."
He rushed again—this time with a feint. Low sweep, twist, upward cut.
Darius stepped back, avoiding both motions by a hair. Elian pressed harder, chaining into a three-hit combo: shoulder strike, side slash, thrust.
Darius parried each one—snap-snap-snap—moving like he'd seen these attacks a thousand times before. His counter came suddenly: a tight downward chop aimed at Elian's wrist.
Elian barely managed to block, but Darius used the force to spin, hooking Elian's ankle with his heel.
Elian hit the ground with a grunt.
Darius tapped the wooden blade against his shoulder.
"Two."
A few soldiers cheered. Someone clapped. Marcellus smirked like he had expected nothing less.
Elian pushed himself up, chuckling. "You bastard. You're reading me too easily."
"You telegraph your left foot," Darius said. "You lean when you're preparing a thrust."
Elian clicked his tongue. "I forgot how much I hate sparring with you."
The third round started differently. Elian didn't rush. He circled slowly, eyes narrowed, watching every muscle in Darius's body.
Darius waited—calm, centered.
Elian burst forward with all his speed, swinging downward in a wide arc meant not to hit but to force Darius into a dodge.
Darius dodged.
Elian dropped low, sweeping Darius's legs with a sudden burst.
But Darius anticipated it. He jumped lightly, spun midair, and landed behind Elian in one smooth pivot. Before Elian could even straighten up—
Thwack.
The wooden sword touched the back of Elian's head.
"Three."
Silence.
Then the entire camp broke into cheers and loud applause.
Elian sighed dramatically, raising a hand. "Alright, alright, you all saw it. He wins."
Marcellus was grinning. "It seems the prince hasn't rusted at all."
Elara let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, a small smile forming on her lips. "He's… even stronger than before."
Darius offered Elian a hand. "Good match."
Elian took it with a snort. "Yeah, yeah. Next time I'm using a real sword."
"Then you'll lose faster."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
But beneath the celebration, something subtle spread through the camp—hope. Real, tangible hope. The kind that had been missing for years.
They didn't just have a prince.
They had a warrior.
Someone who could stand at the front again.
Someone who might actually change their fate.
And as Elian raised Darius's arm for the cheering soldiers, Darius felt that weight settle on him—
maybe for the first time since the empire fell.
He wasn't alone anymore.
The cheering faded into a hum across the camp as the crowd slowly dispersed, people going back to their duties with lighter steps and brighter faces. For the first time in years, the safe zone didn't feel like a grave waiting for its end—but a place that might, finally, rise again.
Darius wiped the sweat from his neck with a cloth Elara handed him. "Thank you."
She nodded, though her gaze drifted elsewhere. "They needed this. A reminder that we still have someone who can fight for us."
Elian stretched his shoulders with a groan. "Someone who fights too well, if you ask me."
Darius smirked. "Don't blame me for your slow reflexes."
"I'll blame you for everything," Elian shot back, but his tone was light. He was smiling—really smiling—for the first time in a long, long while.
Marcellus approached with a more solemn expression. "You gave them strength again, Your Highness. These people… most of them have lost everything. You made them remember they're still alive."
Darius looked down at his wooden sword, fingers tightening around it.
"I didn't do anything special."
"You breathed," Marcellus said. "And that alone reminded them the royal line still stands."
Before Darius could answer, he noticed movement at the edge of the clearing—some children peeking out from behind a wagon, whispering excitedly while pointing at him.
One of them finally mustered the courage to run over. A tiny boy, barefoot, his shirt too big for his frame.
"S-Sir… mister prince… sir!"
Darius crouched a little so he wasn't towering over him. "Just Darius is fine."
The boy gulped, then held out a small carved toy. A wooden dragon, chipped on the tail.
"I want you to have this. M-My papa made it before… before the soldiers took him." He pushed it into Darius's hand. "He said dragons protect people. So… maybe it will protect you too."
Darius froze for a breath.
It was the first gift he'd received in years.
He placed a hand gently on the boy's head. "Then I'll keep it safe. Thank you."
The boy's face lit up before he scampered back to his friends, who squealed as if they'd just watched a miracle.
Elian exhaled softly. "Kids really believe you can save everything, huh…"
Darius stared at the wooden dragon in his palm. "Then I have to try."
A moment later, a horn echoed from the northern gate—two short blasts.
Marcellus' expression sharpened. "Scouting party returns."
Darius stood, slipping the little toy into his belt. "Let's go."
They headed toward the gate where several scouts were already dismounting their horses, dust-covered and tense.
One scout bowed quickly. "Captain Marcellus—Prince Darius—we've confirmed it."
"Confirmed what?" Darius asked.
The man swallowed hard.
"Enemy movement. A large detachment from Valkaria heading south. They're sweeping every forest path and ravine." He lifted his eyes, voice trembling. "They're looking for us. And their vanguard… arrives in two days."
A cold wind moved through the camp.
No one spoke at first.
Then Elian stepped forward, jaw clenched. "Two days… That's not enough time to relocate everyone."
"It's not," Marcellus agreed.
Elara looked between all of them, fear flickering behind her eyes. "What do we do?"
Darius didn't hesitate.
"We prepare to fight."
Even the wind seemed to stop for a heartbeat.
Elara whispered, "There are hundreds of us, and thousands of them…"
Darius looked out toward the treeline, toward the direction the scout pointed.
His voice stayed steady.
"Then we make them bleed for every step. We protect everyone here. That's what a prince should've done long ago."
Marcellus placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll stand with you, Your Highness."
Elian nodded. "To the end."
Elara stepped closer. "Rolien believed this place could survive. I… I'll trust that too."
The camp stirred again—fearful, yes, but no longer broken.
Plans were forming. People were already running to gather supplies. The spark of hope from the sparring match had grown bigger—sharper—now ignited into something that felt like purpose.
And Darius, gripping the wooden dragon in his hand, felt his heartbeat settle into something steady and fierce.
Two days.
That was all they had.
But for the first time since the empire fell…
He was ready.
The throne room of the newly-renamed Valkarian Empire felt colder than the marble underfoot.
Emperor Keain sat on the obsidian throne—a seat once meant for his father—but the air around him carried none of the warmth or reverence the old empire used to hold. The banners hanging from the pillars were new: the black falcon of Valkaria replacing the silver stag of Cecerean. Torches crackled low. No musician played. No noble dared speak unless spoken to.
This was not a court.
It was a cage where every man feared the one seated at the top.
A knight knelt before him, armor stained with soot and dried blood. "Your Majesty… we bring troubling news."
Keain didn't look up at first. He rolled a wine cup in his hand, letting the dark liquid circle slowly. "Everything you bring me is troubling. Be specific."
The knight swallowed. "There are… rumors, sire. Several outlying villages claim to have seen a young swordsman wearing old imperial colors. They say he fights off Valkarian patrols and—"
Keain's gaze snapped up.
"And what?"
The knight hesitated. "They call him the Ghost Prince, sire. They claim he is Darius."
The entire court stiffened.
Keain's jaw tightened with a faint twitch. "A ghost? They think a corpse crawled out of its grave just to annoy me? Ridiculous."
A general stepped forward, voice lower. "Your Majesty… the sightings are consistent. Scouts have reported destroyed patrols in the southern forests over the last months. All with similar sword wounds. Clean. Precise. Too… royal."
Keain leaned back, expression unreadable.
"Darius died with my father," he said. "I ensured that myself."
The room stayed silent. Everyone knew better than to question that.
But the general bowed his head deeper. "Even so, sire… these rebels are emboldened. Someone is training them. Arming them. Guiding them."
Keain let out a sharp breath through his nose.
Rebels. Always more rebels.
And each rumor, each whisper… felt like a challenge to his rule.
"How many strong are they?" he asked.
"We believe a few hundred. But they are organized. The Grey remnants lead them."
At that name, Keain's eye twitched again. "Elian Grey… that stubborn rat is still alive?"
"And Lady Elara. The Asher Hawks as well, sire."
Keain swirled the wine slowly. "It always comes back to the Greys… and that cursed house."
He set the cup aside and stood. The room followed instantly, spines straight and trembling.
"Send more soldiers," he ordered. "Sweep the south. And send Vorax. He enjoys crushing hope."
The general nodded. "At once, Your Majesty."
Keain stepped down from the throne, voice dropping.
"And find this… Ghost Prince."
His eyes narrowed with cold hatred.
"I want his head delivered to me. Whether he's Darius or just some fool using that name."
He walked past his court without another glance, cloak trailing behind him like spilled ink.
As he reached the archway, he paused.
A whisper—one barely audible—slipped from his lips.
"He should've stayed dead."
But then another voice echoed behind him—one of his advisors, bold enough to speak only because he thought Keain had left.
"Sire… what if it truly is Prince Darius?"
Keain froze for a heartbeat.
Then, without turning back, he answered with a quiet, cold certainty.
"If Darius lives… then this empire won't."
And he left the throne room, leaving the entire court sitting in heavy, suffocating silence.
Because for the first time in years…
The tyrant looked afraid.
The murmurs in the throne room died the moment Keain's boots vanished behind the great archway. No one dared breathe too loudly, as if the air itself might carry their fear to his ears.
The generals and ministers remained where they were, kneeling even after the emperor had gone. It was safer that way.
Only when the heavy doors finally shut did the court exhale.
A younger officer leaned toward the general who had given the report. His voice shook. "General… if the Ghost Prince is alive—"
The older man raised a hand before he could finish.
"Don't say it," he whispered. "Walls in this palace have ears."
But the younger officer couldn't hold it in. "Sir… six years ago, our best men claimed Prince Darius's body was never recovered. They said the rubble swallowed him. And now—"
Another man, a minister with dark rings under his eyes, cut in quietly, "And now an entire battalion disappears in one night. No survivors. No screams. Just… gone."
The silence that followed carried a kind of dread that felt almost hopeful.
A court mage stepped forward, speaking in a hushed tone. "If it is Darius… this could spark the full rebellion."
The general's jaw tightened. "Then it is our duty to crush that spark before it becomes a wildfire."
But he didn't sound convinced.
Because deep down—even the loyalists felt it—
The empire was cracking.
Behind the throne room, in the long marble corridor leading to the private chambers, Keain walked alone.
The silence pressed on him, thick and suffocating.
He hated silence.
In silence, the past crept in.
And in the past… he had been weak.
He stopped by a tall mirror. His reflection stared back: a man who now wore a crown he was never meant to have, the murderer of his own father, the usurper of his own empire. Six months had turned his eyes colder, sharper. There were lines around his mouth he didn't remember earning.
"Darius…" he muttered.
For a moment, the image in the mirror shimmered—not with magic, but memory.
He saw his younger brother, a boy with steady eyes and a stubborn jawline, always pushing himself beyond his limits, always trying to earn Father's praise.
Always following me.
Always chasing me.
Always in the way.
Keain slammed his fist into the mirror. A crack split across the glass like lightning.
He didn't look away.
"You should've died that day," he whispered. "You were supposed to die."
His breath fogged against the fractured reflection.
"And if you're back… I'll make sure you don't escape a second time."
Elsewhere, in the outer palace barracks, another scene unfolded.
Vorax leaned against a weapon rack, whistling low as a soldier read out new orders.
"Commander Vorax," the man said, voice trembling, "the emperor commands that you lead a hunt to the southern woods. Break the rebels. Capture or kill this… Ghost Prince."
Vorax grinned, his teeth sharp under the torchlight. He thumped his spiked bat—a brutal chunk of metal wrapped in wicked barbs—over his shoulder.
"Heh. The prince is scared of a ghost, huh?" he chuckled. "Well, I do love breaking scary stories."
The soldier bowed so quickly his helmet nearly fell off.
"And the emperor asks that you move immediately," he added.
Vorax stretched lazily. "Yeah, yeah. Tell His Majesty I'll handle it. Might take me a day or two. I like to savor my hunts."
The soldier fled gratefully.
Vorax rolled his neck, amused.
"Darius, huh…?"
He licked the corner of his teeth.
"Let's see if the runt can still scream."
He kicked off from the rack and swaggered toward the courtyard, humming like a man looking forward to a good show.
And somewhere far from the palace—
A spark had already ignited.
A spark named Darius.
And the empire was about to learn:
A ghost can burn an army down.
Vorax was already in a foul mood when he and his convoy reached the southern forest border. The hunt for the rebels had been dragging for days, and he wanted a distraction. Anything to release the itch under his skin.
So when he spotted the small farming village tucked against the treeline, and saw her—the young woman with long dark hair hauling water—his lips curled into that familiar cruel smile.
"Pretty little thing," he muttered.
Then he spotted another girl beside her, younger, clinging to her arm.
"Two. Even better."
He didn't bother hiding his intent. He flicked his fingers toward his men.
"You know the drill. Take them. All of them."
One of the soldiers hesitated. "Sir… the village head is coming out."
Vorax rolled his eyes. "Then kill him if he annoys you. I'm leaving for the forest. Clean this up."
He kicked his horse forward, heading down the dirt path. Behind him, he heard the shouting start—exactly the chaos he wanted.
"Stop! Don't touch them!"
"Let the girls go!"
"We won't hand them over!"
Then came the screams.
Steel hitting flesh.
Someone begging.
Someone choking in blood.
And Vorax didn't even turn his head.
The soldiers had the two girls dragged by their wrists, crying and struggling, though it changed nothing. Villagers lunged at the kidnappers with pitchforks and makeshift clubs.
They were cut down like weeds.
"Keep moving!" one soldier barked, shoving a dying man aside with his boot.
"Load them! Vorax wants them alive!"
They were halfway through the village road when a shadow fell over them.
Not the clouds.
Not a bird.
Not a rider.
Someone dropped from above—straight down in front of the two girls.
The impact sent dust and broken earth rolling across the street.
The soldiers froze.
One of them stuttered, "W–Who the hell—?"
He didn't finish.
The figure moved.
Not charging.
Not shouting.
Just… gone from where he stood.
A wet snap echoed.
A soldier crumpled, throat opened cleanly.
Another tried to pull his sword—his arm bent the wrong way before he even blinked.
A third felt a hand brush his helmet—then his face hit the ground without a head.
The girls were dropped instantly as panic broke through the group.
"S–SHOOT HIM!"
"FIRE! FIRE!"
Arrows flew.
They hit nothing.
Bodies fell in pieces before the archers even realized their fingers were empty.
There were no screams—just choked breaths as each man tried to understand what was killing them faster than they could speak.year, as the last soldier hit the dirt with a dull thud.
Smoke drifted between the huts. The two young women the soldiers had dragged out stood frozen, shaking so hard their knees nearly buckled. The rest of the villagers stared from behind shattered doors and broken fences, afraid to breathe.
The stranger didn't look at any of them.
He walked forward through the bodies as if the fight had never raised his pulse, stopping in the middle of the muddy street. His blade hung loosely at his side, still dripping.
Then came the telltale motion.
Slow. Controlled.
He lifted the sword, angled it slightly, and drew the back of the blade across his forearm in one smooth stroke—cleaning it without a wasted movement. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just precise, familiar habit.
The same kind of habit only a few warriors in history ever practiced.
A soft metallic click echoed as he sheathed the weapon.
No words.
No threat.
No comfort.
He simply stepped past the terrified villagers and walked toward the treeline. A few blinks later, he was swallowed by the forest, leaving nothing behind but corpses… and that unmistakable, almost ceremonial blade wipe.
A move the world hadn't seen in six long years.
Dust drifted around him.
Blood pooled by his feet.
No emblem.
No banner.
No name spoken.
Just a silent shape, half-hidden by the settling dirt and the sun at his back.
Not revealed.
Not yet.
He turned his head slowly toward the southern path—the one Vorax had taken.
Almost like he was listening.
Almost like he already knew what came next.
The girls held their breath.
The figure stepped forward once… and vanished into the forest.
"The hapeen here?"
To be continue