Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero : "No Magic?No Problem!"
Encounter 32 : Brothers
The courtyard was already a graveyard of smoke and ruin. Darius was on one knee, father's sword planted in the cracked stone to keep himself upright. Blood ran from his split lip, from the gash above his eye, from the deep tear across his ribs where Vorax's claw had opened him like a letter. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat felt like someone driving a nail through his chest.
Iskar Thane stood over him—massive, blackened, one arm hanging limp from Marcellus's earlier chop. Black blood dripped steadily from the stump, pooling around his boots. He didn't seem to notice. He just tilted his helm and looked down at Darius like a butcher sizing up meat.
Vorax hadn't even drawn his blade yet. He stood twenty paces back, arms loose, red glow along the hilt pulsing slow and patient. He was waiting. Letting Thane have his fun.
Darius spat blood. "You gonna dance all night, or actually fight?"
Thane laughed—low, wet, amused. "You're still standing. That's entertaining."
Darius lunged.
Sword came up in a diagonal cut—aimed for the gap under Thane's armpit where the scale was already cracked. Thane didn't block. He stepped inside the swing, took the blade on his pauldron. Steel screeched. Darius felt the vibration all the way to his teeth. Thane's good claw snapped out—fast, casual—caught Darius across the chest. Armor buckled. Ribs gave with a wet snap. He flew backward, hit the ground shoulder-first, rolled twice, came up on one knee gasping.
The world tilted. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
Marcellus bellowed—charged in again, axe high. Thane turned lazily, met the swing with his forearm. The axe bit deep—halfway through scale and meat—then stuck. Marcellus yanked. Thane yanked harder. The old man stumbled forward. Thane's helm came down in a brutal headbutt. Marcellus's nose exploded. He staggered back, blood pouring, still holding the axe haft.
Darius screamed—raw, throat-tearing—and pushed off the ground. Sword up. He charged straight at Thane.
Vorax moved.
One stride. That's all it took.
He crossed the distance in a blink. Blade still sheathed. His free hand snapped out, caught Marcellus by the throat, lifted him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing. The old knight kicked, clawed at the gauntlet. Vorax squeezed. Marcellus's face turned purple. His axe clattered to the stone.
Darius's scream choked off. He swung at Vorax—desperate, wild. The Slayer didn't even look. Just flicked his wrist.
Darius flew sideways—hit the wall hard enough to crack stone. Sword skittered away. He slid down, gasping, vision swimming.
Thane laughed again—low, amused. "Still got fight in you. Good. Makes it sweeter."
He stepped forward.
Darius tried to stand. Legs wouldn't listen. He got as far as one knee, hand scrabbling for the sword hilt. Fingers brushed steel.
Then the gate arch exploded inward.
Not with fire or mana. With bodies.
Elian came through first—sword already red to the hilt, face set in that same quiet fury he'd worn since the estate burned. Behind him Leto and Mira—Rolien's classmates, the ones who used to sit at the back of every lesson drawing stupid diagrams and laughing too loud. Leto's hands were glowing with earth mana, Mira's trailing thin spirals of flame. Three more knights spilled in after them—faces Darius knew, men who'd chosen to turn back after the escape group reached the first safe bend.
Elian didn't shout. Didn't waste breath. He just charged straight at Thane.
Sword met claw. Steel screamed. Elian twisted inside the reach, drove his pommel into Thane's helm. The impact rang across the courtyard. Thane staggered half a step—more surprise than pain.
Leto dropped to one knee. Palms slammed the ground. Shrapnel erupted—jagged stone shards screaming upward in a tight cone. They punched into Thane's legs, chest, helm. Scale cracked wider. Black blood sprayed. Thane snarled, swung blind. Leto rolled away.
Mira raised both hands. Fire spiraled—tighter this time, hotter. A screaming orange lance shot straight for Thane's faceplate. The Slayer raised his good arm—blocked it. The flames washed over scale, turning the edges cherry-red. He laughed through the heat.
"You again," he rumbled. "The princess's pets. Leto. Mira." He lifted his maimed arm—the one that still remembered Sophia's nuke spell six years ago. "She almost finished me that day. Thought you two died with her."
Mira's voice was steady even as her arms shook. "She's not dead. And neither are we."
Thane straightened. The burned scales cracked and flaked off like old paint. "Then I'll finish what she started."
He charged Mira first—fast, claw raised to crush her skull. Leto shouted, slammed both palms down again. More shrapnel rose—smaller, faster, peppering Thane's legs like angry hornets. The Slayer snarled, kicked through the barrage, kept coming.
Darius intercepted—sword driving into the knee joint where Leto's bullets had already cracked the plate. The blade sank deep. Thane buckled. Elian flanked right, sword biting into the shoulder guard. Leto rolled in low, grabbed Mira's arm, yanked her back as Thane's claw swept through the space where she'd stood.
Mira twisted free, raised both hands. Another fire tornado—smaller, hotter—surged straight into Thane's faceplate. The helm glowed cherry-red. Thane roared, staggered blind for a second.
Marcellus finished it—axe coming down in a two-handed chop that cleaved through the glowing helm and skull. The body dropped. Black blood pooled fast.
They stood over it, panting. Darius looked at Mira and Leto—Rolien's classmates, his brother's closest friends aside from Asher Hawks. They looked half-dead: Mira's sleeve torn, arm trembling from overchanneling; Leto bleeding from a gash across the forehead, hands raw from pulling stone.
"You were supposed to go with the others," Darius said.
Mira spat blood. "And leave you idiots to die alone? Rolien would never forgive us."
Leto wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Besides. Someone had to keep you alive long enough to see him again."
Darius laughed—short, painful. "You're both insane."
"Learned from the best," Mira said.
Vorax finally drew his blade.
The red glow along the edge flared bright—once, like a heartbeat—then steadied. He stepped forward.
Elian saw him coming. "Mira—cover!"
Mira spun—fire tornado roaring toward Vorax. The Slayer raised his sword. Red light pulsed. The tornado bent, twisted, collapsed into itself. Mira dropped to one knee, gasping.
Vorax kept walking.
Leto slammed both palms down—shrapnel storm rising again. Vorax walked through it. Bullets pinged off scale, cracked against helm, did nothing. He reached Leto in two strides. Blade came up—slow, deliberate.
Darius screamed—grabbed his sword, threw himself between them.
Vorax's blade stopped an inch from Leto's throat. Darius's sword caught it—steel screaming on steel. The impact drove Darius to both knees. His arms shook. He held.
Vorax tilted his helm. Looked down at him.
"You're brave," he said. First words he'd spoken. Voice flat. Cold. "Pointless. But brave."
He pushed.
Darius's arms buckled. The blade inched closer to Leto's throat.
Elian lunged—sword aimed for Vorax's back.
Thane intercepted—good claw snapping out, catching Elian mid-leap. He slammed him to the ground. Elian hit hard. Rolled. Came up coughing blood.
Darius looked up at Vorax.
"Do it," he rasped. "But you'll have to kill me first."
Vorax raised the blade higher.
Elian staggered forward—sword dragging, legs shaking. He threw himself in front of Leto and Darius. Vorax's blade came down—fast, merciless.
Elian got his sword up in time. Steel met steel. The impact drove him to one knee. The blade slid down, inching toward his neck.
He looked up at Vorax. And lift up his weapon to end elian once and for all.
And then he remember before everything went down long before this. Before his brother was born..
Elian Grey was never supposed to be the one left standing.
He came first. Always first. The one Edric pulled aside for the long, quiet talks about duty and legacy while Rolien got the late-night workshop sessions, ink on his cheeks and gears in his small hands. Elian was the heir in every way that counted: tall like his father, steady like his mother, with that quiet steel in his spine that made people listen when he spoke. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. When he gave an order, men moved. When he drew his sword, they followed.
But before any of that—before the estate burned, before the Dragon Slayers came, before the world decided to take everything—he was just a boy waiting for a brother.
The autumn before Rolien was born felt thick with waiting. The house hummed with the usual sounds—forges down in the lower yard, apprentices clanking late, wind rattling ivy against the east tower—but underneath it all was something heavier. Lirien moved slower now, one hand always resting on the swell under her dress like she was keeping a secret only she and the child could share. Edric caught himself watching her more than usual—across the breakfast table, in the solar when she read, in the garden when she insisted on walking even though the air was turning sharp. He didn't say it out loud, but the worry sat behind his eyes every time she winced or paused to catch her breath.
Elian noticed.
He was ten, already tall for his age, already carrying himself like he thought he should be taller. He'd taken to shadowing his mother lately—bringing her extra pillows without being asked, fetching her shawl when the sun dipped behind the ridge, asking the cook to make the ginger tea she liked even though he hated the smell. Edric watched that too, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
One evening Elian found his father in the workshop. Edric was bent over a half-finished clockwork bird, tiny brass feathers spread out on the bench like fallen leaves. The lanterns were low, the room warm with forge heat and the faint scent of oil.
"Father?" Elian's voice was small in the doorway.
Edric looked up. "Come here, boy."
Elian crossed the room, boots scuffing on stone. He stopped beside the bench, eyes on the bird's half-made wings.
"She's going to be fine," Edric said without preamble. "Your mother. The baby. They're both going to be fine."
Elian nodded, but his fingers twisted together behind his back. "I know."
Edric set the tweezers down. Turned fully to face his son. "Then why the long face?"
Elian looked at the floor. "What if… what if it's another boy?"
Edric raised an eyebrow. "You don't want a brother?"
"I do." Elian's voice cracked on the last word. "I just… I want to be good at it. Being a big brother. I want him to like me."
Edric studied him for a long moment. Then he reached out, pulled Elian closer until the boy was standing between his knees.
"Listen," Edric said. "When you were born, I was terrified. Not of you—of me. I thought, what if I ruin him? What if I'm not enough? But the moment your mother put you in my arms, all that fear just… left. Because you were there. Breathing. Looking up at me like you already knew I'd do anything for you. That's what happens. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show up. Every day. That's enough."
Elian swallowed. "But what if he's better than me?"
Edric laughed—quiet, fond. "Then you'll be proud of him. And he'll be proud of you. That's how it works with brothers."
Elian looked up. "You promise?"
"I promise."
Edric ruffled his hair. "Now go wash up. Your mother wants you to read to her tonight. Something with dragons. She says the baby likes the sound of your voice when you do the voices."
Elian smiled—small, shy, real.
He left the workshop lighter than when he came in.
Two months later, in the dead of winter, Rolien was born.
Lirien's labor lasted through the night and into the next morning. Elian waited outside the door the whole time—back against the wall, knees pulled up, listening to every muffled sound. When the midwife finally stepped out, smiling tiredly, Elian shot to his feet so fast he almost fell over.
"He's here," she said. "Healthy. Loud. Your mother wants you."
Elian didn't wait for more. He pushed past her into the room.
Lirien lay against the pillows, face pale and shining with sweat, hair plastered to her forehead. Edric sat beside her, holding a small bundle. When he saw Elian he smiled—wide, exhausted, proud—and lifted the bundle toward him.
"Come meet your brother."
Elian approached slow, like the floor might crack under him. He looked down.
Rolien was red-faced, wrinkly, furious-looking. Tiny fists waved at nothing. His mouth opened in a wail that showed toothless gums.
Elian stared.
Then Rolien's eyes opened—big, dark, curious—and fixed on him.
The same way they had in the dream Elian had the night before the birth.
He reached out one careful finger.
Rolien's hand closed around it.
Elian laughed—shaky, relieved, happy.
"Hey, Ro," he whispered. "I'm your big brother."
Rolien blinked once, slow, then yawned so wide his whole face scrunched up.
Edric chuckled. "Think he likes you."
Elian looked up at his parents—tears in his eyes now, but smiling.
"I'm going to be the best big brother ever," he said.
Lirien reached out, touched his cheek. "I know you will."
Edric ruffled his hair. "You already are."
And in that moment, with the winter wind rattling the windows and the fire crackling low, Elian Grey made a promise to himself that he would keep for the rest of his life.
He would protect this tiny, furious, perfect thing.
No matter what.
Years passed. Rolien learned to speak. To run. To build things that made scholars whisper "genius" behind their hands. "One in a thousand years," they said. "Remarkable child." "The future of the Grey line."
Elian felt it first as a pinch in his stomach. Then as a slow burn. Then as full, choking jealousy that tasted like metal in his mouth.
He hated how Rolien could pick up a book once and recite it word for word. Hated how the tutors smiled wider at his brother than at him. Hated how Edric's eyes lit up when Rolien showed him a new gear train, even though Elian had just won the squire tournament that morning and come home with a ribbon and a split lip.
He started avoiding Rolien. Short answers. Cold shoulders. He told himself it was training. Discipline. But deep down he knew: he was terrified of being left behind forever.
Edric noticed.
One evening in the workshop—Rolien asleep at his bench with charcoal on his cheek, small hand still curled around a half-finished brass bird—Edric pulled Elian aside. Sat him down on an old crate.
"Son," he said quietly, "you and Ro are two different people. Both excellent in different lines. You as a knight, him maybe in magic or crafting—who knows. But this I do know: I love you both. Even if you reach forty, you're still my first baby boy. My first pride. That's why you're my heir, right?"
Elian stared at the floor. The words felt too big to look at.
"But Rolien… he's excelling at almost everything," he said, voice small. "I'm afraid someday I won't make you and Mom proud."
Edric laughed—soft, warm, the laugh Elian hadn't heard in months.
"My boy. Listen. Yeah, your brother is extraordinary. But so are you. Not everyone your age can master swordsmanship and kigen at the same time. That alone is special. So be proud, my son. And someday when you two grow up, I wish both of you will stand side by side. Defend our country. Can you do that while guiding your siblings?"
Elian looked up. Saw the purest smile he'd ever seen on his father's face.
He nodded hard. "Yes, my lord. I promise. I'll protect my country and my siblings."
Edric ruffled his hair. "Good. Now go wake your brother before he drools on my blueprints."
Elian did.
And he kept that promise.
Even when the estate burned.
The Dragon Slayers came on a night Elian was away—sent north first by Edric to help their neighbor, Duke Elory Duketom, whose border keep was under sudden pressure from raiders. Elian had argued against going. Said he belonged at home. Edric had clapped him on the shoulder, smiled that tired smile, and told him: "Someone has to keep our neighbors breathing while we keep our own alive. Go. I'll hold the line here."
Elian went.
Duke Elory's keep fell anyway. The duke himself died covering their retreat—sword in hand, roaring defiance as the raiders closed in. Elian fought beside him until the end, took an arrow through the shoulder, kept swinging until Elory shoved him toward the escape tunnel. "Go, boy. Tell your father I'm sorry."
Elian escaped. Barely.
He rode south through the night—shoulder burning, vision blurring from blood loss—straight into smoke rising over the Grey estate.
The manor was gutted. East wing collapsed into the courtyard. Bodies in the gardens. His father's workshop reduced to blackened timbers and twisted metal. No sign of Rolien. No sign of Lirien or Elara. Just rumors: the boy had vanished, the mother and sister taken, the father dead in the great hall with his sword still in his hand.
Elian didn't cry that day. He didn't scream. He knelt in the ash, picked up a broken gear from one of Rolien's old prototypes—small, brass, still warm—and closed his fist around it until the edges cut his palm.
When he finally reunited with Lirien and Elara—after months of searching, bribes, and blood—he broke down in front of them for the first time. Sobbing like a child, blaming himself over and over. "I should have been there. I should have stayed."
Lirien pulled him close. Held him while he shook.
"You did what your father asked," she whispered. "You survived. That's enough for now. We'll find him. Together."
He believed her.
And he fought.
For six years he fought to free their empire—for Rolien's memory. Because he knew, deep down, that if Rolien were alive, he'd be doing the exact same thing. So Elian became the blade in the dark. Raided supply lines. Broke prisoners out of cells. Carried messages no one else could be trusted with. Every scar he took was penance. Every life he saved was a promise kept.
Until the crow arrived at Blackfort.
Until Arden's handwriting—rough, hurried—told him Rolien was alive.
He didn't cry that time either.
He just stared at the letter until the ink blurred.
Then he folded it carefully, tucked it inside his armor next to the old brass gear, and walked to Prince Darius.
"We're not running," he said. "Not yet."
And when the escape group reached the first safe bend—Asher Hawks leading Lirien, Elara, and the civilians deeper into the mine—Elian looked at the knights who'd followed him. Leto and Mira. Three others who'd turned back without a word.
He didn't have to ask.
They just nodded.
And they ran back toward the courtyard.
Toward the sound of steel and screams.
Toward whatever was left of Darius and Marcellus.
And toward the moment they hoped Rolien would arrive—because if anyone could turn the tide against two Dragon Slayers and Luke Arcadia, it was the brother Elian had spent six years believing was dead.
Elian led the charge through the broken gate.
Sword already red.
Face set.
Ready to die.
But hoping—praying—he wouldn't have to.
Not yet.
Not until he saw Rolien again.
To be continue