Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From zero to Hero
" No Magic?,No Problem!"
Encounter 18 : Who are you?
Now — Deep in the Southern Forest
Vorax finally stopped roaring.
His breath steamed in the night air, harsh and uneven. His vision still flickered from pure white back to shadowy shapes, his eyes watering from the lingering burn.
Two of his elites knelt beside him.
"Lord Vorax… should we pursue?"
Vorax wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"No."
The word came low. Controlled.
Which, for him, was worse than shouting.
He stood, every muscle twitching with rage.
"They didn't beat me."
He kicked a fallen tree aside like it was tinder.
"They escaped."
He spat.
"That damn brat used something… strange. Some kind of flash tool. No common steel makes that."
Vorax turned toward the moonlit path leading north.
"Three rebels wounded me," he muttered, voice tightening into something almost dangerous. "Three."
His fingers flexed around the spiked bat until the handle creaked.
He motioned his squad to move.
"We're returning. Emperor Keain needs to hear this."
His grin returned. Wide. Cruel.
The kind that promised pain.
"And when I see those three again…"
He rested the bat on his shoulder.
"…I'm bringing their heads back myself."
The elites flinched at the tone.
Vorax walked, humming softly, as if the night wasn't still trembling from his rage.
Meanwhile — Valkaria Capital, Blackstone Palace
Emperor Keain lounged on the throne, eyes half-lidded as he listened to a trembling minister explain the weekly reports.
"…and last, Your Majesty, more farmers have been relocated to the Eastern Ritual Grounds to meet the demon king's blessing quota. Productivity has risen by—"
A door slammed open so hard the hall shook.
Vorax walked in.
Bloody. Bruised. Grinning.
Everyone froze.
Keain slowly straightened, sensing the shift in the air.
"You look like you wrestled a boar," he said dryly. "And somehow the boar won."
Vorax chuckled.
"Not a boar, Your Majesty."
He tossed something across the floor.
A cracked metal shard, scorched on the edges.
The minister jumped when it clattered across the marble.
Keain leaned forward.
"What is this?"
"Evidence," Vorax said. "Your rebels are using advanced gear. Not homemade. Not stolen. Something… designed."
Keain eyed the shard, running a thumb across its strange grooves.
"And who," he asked quietly, "could have made something like this?"
Vorax shrugged.
"No idea. But the rebels have someone backing them."
He stepped closer to the throne.
"And your dear cousin prince is alive."
The room went silent.
Keain's smile faded.
"…Darius."
Alive.
Fighting.
Rallying hope.
A soft, bitter chuckle escaped Keain as he leaned back.
"So the rat crawled out of the tomb after all."
Vorax grinned. "Oh, more than that. He landed a clean hit on me."
Gasps filled the chamber.
Keain's eyes sharpened. "You let him strike you?"
Vorax's smile twitched.
"I didn't let him. He and two others fought like cornered wolves. But they're still weak. They ran."
Keain tapped the shard again.
"And this?"
"Stung me more than their blades," Vorax admitted. "I want permission to hunt full force. No leashes. No restrictions."
Keain studied him for a solid ten seconds, then nodded once.
"Granted."
A ripple of fear passed through the ministers.
Vorax's grin widened.
"And the rebels?"
Keain waved a hand.
"Bleed them dry. Make examples of every village that sides with them."
Vorax bowed slightly, eager.
"And Darius?" he added.
Keain's face softened into something cold and haunted.
"Bring him to me alive."
Vorax raised a brow. "To execute yourself?"
Keain looked at his reflection in the polished floor.
"No," he whispered.
"To ask him why he still refuses to die."
He straightened, mask of an emperor sliding back into place.
"Go, Vorax. Burn out this spark before it becomes a flame."
Vorax thumped his chest once and marched out.
The hall stayed silent long after he left.
Keain watched the doors close… and the faintest crack in his expression showed something almost human.
Fear.
Or regret.
Even he didn't know anymore.
Valkarian Territory — a week earlier
A sudden rift tore open the night sky. Light ripped across the forest, crackling like static electricity. And then—he landed.
Naked. Vulnerable. The air smelled of earth and ozone as the world around him solidified into sharp reality. He hit the ground lightly, rolling instinctively, then rose.
With a calm efficiency, he opened the small box strapped to his side. From it, he pulled clothes, a dark cloak, and a mask. In minutes, he was transformed—ready, covered, and unrecognizable.
He moved through the forest, every step silent, every glance calculating. As he emerged from the trees, banners with the Valkarian sigil flapped in the wind. He paused, brow furrowed, taking in the scene. Some villages were in ruins, blackened walls and collapsed roofs littering the streets. Others bore Valkaria's mark, banners hung from every gate and tower.
"What…?" he murmured, confusion tightening his chest.
A villager shuffled past, clutching a bundle of cloth. Without thinking, he grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around.
"What happened here?" he demanded, voice low but urgent. "Why is Valkaria's banner raised everywhere? Why are these villages in ruins?"
The villager stared at him blankly, then spat out the truth like bitter medicine.
"The… the Cecerean Empire… it's fallen. Valkaria's army swept through six years ago. Greybrook… the Grand Duke's lands… they're gone. The villages, the towns… burned, enslaved, or taken. Everyone… everyone who resisted…" His voice cracked.
He hesitated, then added, "Your… your father? The Grand Duke? And his children, Elian and Elara?"
The villager shook his head. "They're fugitives. Emperor Keain put a reward for anyone who gives information on them. And… the Grand Duke Edric… he's dead. Killed by Grand Duke Vermorth of Valkaria."
The figure froze. The words sank into him like ice water. Six years had passed—six years he had not seen. And yet, for him, it had been only five days. His mind spun, trying to reconcile the impossible.
He murmured under his breath, almost inaudible:
"Six years… just five days for me…"
The villager blinked, then scoffed. "The hell? You didn't know that? Where you living… under a rock?" And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving the figure in the shadowed streets.
The forest seemed to hold its breath around him.
And in that silence, he began to plan.
He moved like a shadow through the outskirts of the village. Every step calculated, every movement silent. The faint wind carried the smell of smoke and blood, reminders of the chaos that had swept through here six years ago.
He kept to the edges, hiding in ruins, slipping between collapsed walls and scorched trees. Each banner he passed made him pause—a stark reminder of the empire's fall. Valkaria's reach was absolute here; soldiers patrolled every road, every crossing, like they owned not just the land, but the air itself.
A small group of farmers trudged down a dirt path, heads bowed. He followed, keeping a safe distance.
A sudden noise—a cart wheel caught on a stone—made him freeze. A soldier nearby turned sharply, scanning the area. The figure flattened against a broken wall, eyes narrowing. Minutes passed. The soldier moved on.
He exhaled slowly, and in that quiet, he observed everything: the routines, the patrols, the weak points. Every village under Valkarian control, every ruin, every survivor hiding somewhere. Each detail was a thread, and he intended to pull them all.
He approached another settlement, smaller this time. No banners waved, no soldiers marched openly. The villagers eyed him warily, clutching farming tools and children close. He stopped at the edge, keeping his cloak wrapped tight, his mask hiding his face.
"Tell me," he said to one of the braver men stepping forward, voice low but commanding, "what happened here? How did Valkaria take this place?"
The man hesitated, fear obvious, but the figure's calm confidence pushed him forward.
"They… they came years ago," the villager stammered. "Burned the farms… killed those who resisted… took others. Most of us… we're hiding… surviving where we can. The empire… it's gone. Greybrook… the royal family… fugitives, I hear. Everyone else… gone."
The figure's eyes, hidden behind the mask, darkened. He nodded once. No words came. He didn't need them.
He turned away from the man and moved silently through the streets, stepping over debris, ducking behind walls, scanning every alleyway. This world was not like the one he remembered. Everything had changed. And yet… he could see the weak points, the cracks in Valkaria's grip.
He crouched atop a ruined wall, looking down at the town below. Shadows moved, soldiers patrolled, but none could see him. Not yet. Not until he wanted them to.
And somewhere deep in his mind, a single thought repeated:
This world doesn't know me yet. But it will.
A few more nights of observation, a few more villages scouted—and the quiet hunt would begin.
The moon hung low, silver and sharp over the forest edge. Fires from distant villages painted the horizon orange, smoke curling like the fingers of a dying beast.
He moved silently through the trees, cloak blending with shadows, mask hiding any trace of his features. Every step calculated, every breath measured. He had been watching for days, learning patrol routes, memorizing where the soldiers slept, where the villagers cowered.
The first target: a small Valkarian outpost, barely more than a guard tower and a few barracks. Two sentries laughed over a fire, the harsh glow illuminating their faces.
He exhaled, calm. One step. Two steps. Then—
A flash of movement. A rope looped around the first guard's neck, yanking him silently into the shadows. A blade flashed, cutting through rope and resistance alike. No screams. No warning.
The second sentry turned, startled, but a dagger to the throat silenced him before he could shout.
He moved like a ghost among the tents, severing communications, leaving nothing but chaos in his wake. Sparks flew as he burned the outpost's signaling flares, masking his presence, then vanished into the forest before anyone could react.
By morning, the village found the outpost in ruin. The sentries were gone. The only trace: a symbol carved into a tree—a single, sharp slash, precise, clean.
Rumors began to spread immediately. Whispered among frightened farmers and soldiers alike: "The White Wraith has come. He kills without warning… without mercy…"
In the next few nights, it repeated. Another outpost burned. A convoy ambushed. Scouts never returned. But no one saw him clearly. Only the movement, the flash of steel, the signature mark left behind.
One soldier whispered to another, fear trembling in his voice:
"Did you see him?"
"No… but that… that slash… it's… like he's already gone before you even notice."
Meanwhile, in Valkaria's capital, reports piled onto Emperor Keain's desk. Vorax delivered news of the latest raids, but even his bravado faltered as the destruction patterns became undeniable.
"The… it's the same as before," Vorax muttered, staring at the burned outposts on the map. "Three strikes, silent, precise… but this time they've doubled down. Whoever it is… it's not a soldier."
Keain leaned back, expression unreadable behind the crown of iron. A single hand tapped the table.
"Let them come," he said quietly.
"Bring him… to me," Vorax pressed.
Keain's eyes glimmered. "No. Let him leave a trail. Let him show himself. Then… we'll decide if he's a tool… or a threat."
In the woods, the figure paused, watching a Valkarian patrol stumble upon a burned supply wagon. He crouched in the shadows, cloak fluttering slightly in the wind. No words. No hesitation. Just the quiet preparation for the next strike.
And as the villagers whispered his legend, even he allowed himself a thought, quiet, almost imperceptible:
They think they know fear… they have no idea.
Southern Border — Rebel Hideout
The first light of dawn spilled through the cracks in the cave, dust particles dancing in the beams like tiny embers. Darius sat on a stone ledge, sharpening his sword, though his eyes were distant, scanning the forest beyond. Sir Marcellus polished his greatsword nearby, the rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone a calming counterpoint to the tense silence. Elian checked over a set of supplies, eyes flicking nervously toward the mouth of the cave.
A scout returned, breathless, cloak torn, dirt smudged across his face.
"Prince… another village," he gasped. "It's… burned. Soldiers… gone. No survivors. Only… a mark." He pointed vaguely toward the forest.
Darius frowned, lowering his sword. "A mark?"
"Like… a slash, sharp, clean. Almost… surgical."
Marcellus exchanged a glance with Elian. "I've heard whispers of this," he muttered. "They're calling him… the White Wraith. They say he moves like a ghost, strikes like death itself."
Darius' grip tightened around his blade. "A ghost…" he repeated. "Then maybe… he's already inside Valkaria."
Elian shook his head. "Impossible. No one could strike like this and survive… no one I've ever heard of."
Darius' eyes narrowed. He didn't speak, but a thought lingered in the back of his mind—a shadow of familiarity, though he couldn't place it.
Marcellus leaned closer. "If this… White Wraith… is working against the Valkarians, we can use this. He's drawing their attention. That gives us a chance to strike back, to move freely, maybe save more villages."
Darius nodded slowly. "Keep the scouts ready. We'll gather what survivors we can, strengthen our defenses, and—" His voice hardened. "—we'll be ready for when he—or whoever—is ready to strike again."
Elian glanced at the scout, then back to Darius. "Do you think… he's one of ours?"
Darius paused, gripping the hilt of his sword. "I don't know," he said quietly, "but whoever he is… he's fighting for the same reason we are. And that… is enough."
Outside the hideout, the forest lay quiet, almost too quiet. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faintest scent of smoke from a distant village.
And somewhere, beyond the hills, a figure moved silently through the shadows, cloak brushing leaves, hood low over the face. Steel gleamed in the faint moonlight, and a single slash—precise, clean—was left behind on a wooden post.
The legend of the White Wraith continued to spread.
To be continue