Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy.
From Zero to Hero: No Magic? No Problem!
Encounter 2 : Aftermath
The medical wing of the Vanguard Command smelled of sterile herbs and burnt meat. Luke—or rather, Hunter Solomon, as he was known back on Earth—sat on the edge of the velvet-lined cot, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.
A high-ranking royal healer, her hands glowing with a soft, emerald luminescence, pressed her palms against his mangled arm. The "Galo Bubbles" left by Rolien's strike pulsed with a sickly, rhythmic light, looking like obsidian pearls embedded in his flesh. Every time the healing magic touched them, the bubbles hissed, turning the emerald light into black smoke.
"My Lord... it's not taking," the healer whispered, sweat beading on her brow. "The wounds are laced with a dual-type curse. The residual mana from the sword is eating my magic, and these bubbles are acting like a seal. I cannot close the flesh."
Hunter looked down at his arm. It wasn't just a wound; it was a brand of shame. He could feel the [Zero to Hero] skill's lingering spite—a "magicless" poison that mocked his status as a "Hero" from another world. To fix this, he needed a Priest for a full Purge Ritual.
But a Ritual meant a report. A report meant admitting that a sixteen-year-old boy without a drop of mana had slaughtered two of his Dragon Slayers and left him a cripple. The High Council would laugh him out of the capital.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The door creaked open. A figure stepped into the dim light, moving with a fluid, unsettling grace that didn't belong to the nobleman's body he inhabited. This was the Pseudo-Demon King—an ancient terror currently lacking his true, primordial form, forced to pilot a "fragile" human vessel until his resurrection was complete.
"Ah... Need a hand, Hunter?" the voice asked. It was melodic, dripping with a playful, ancient malice. He used the Earth name like a taunt, a reminder that he knew exactly who Hunter Solomon really was.
"I can manage," Hunter spat, his voice trembling with a mix of pain and rage.
The pseudo-Demon King giggled, a sound that made the healer freeze in terror. He walked closer, tilting his head as he inspected the black bubbles on Hunter's arm. "Ah... But it seems you got your ass handled by that brat Rolien. I'm going to say, it was quite fun to watch."
"Tch. Having fun, huh?" Hunter's eyes flashed with hate. "Why didn't you help?! If you had stepped in, I could have ended the rebellion right then and there!"
"Ah... don't get me wrong, boy," the pseudo-Demon King said, leaning in. He pointed a slender, pale finger at his chest and winked. "I can't interfere, you know? This body that you gave me is... what is the word? Kinda... fragile. In your human language."
He didn't have his true power yet, but the pressure radiating from the possessed body was still suffocating. The pseudo-Demon King straightened up, his eyes briefly glowing with a vertical, reptilian slit.
"Anyways, after you heal, come to Valkaria. We have something to discuss there."
He turned to leave, but paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder with another mocking wink. "And don't forget—not to make trouble until then, boy."
The door thudded shut.
Hunter sat in the silence, his teeth grinding together so hard they threatened to crack. The humiliation was a physical weight, heavier than the pain in his arm.
"Damn you, lizard fucko!" he hissed under his breath. "When I'm done with Rolien, I'll deal with you. Just you wait!"
He looked toward the window, the image of the magicless boy's final strike burned into his retinas. "Call the priest," he murmured to the servants.
They didn't move, paralyzed by the residual aura of the Demon King.
"Call the priest," he said again, a bit louder.
Still, nothing.
"I SAID CALL THE GODDAMN PRIEST, YOU IMBECILES!"
The roar echoed through the entire wing. The two servants jumped, nearly tripping over their own feet as they scrambled down the hallway to fetch the clergy.
Hunter Solomon leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as the black veins of the curse continued to spread. "Mark this day, Rolien," he whispered into the empty room. "I will kill you next time!"
The stone corridors of the royal wing usually hummed with the silent, efficient movements of staff. But today, the air was jagged.
Lina, a junior maid, kept her head bowed as she carried the silver tray. The porcelain tea set rattled slightly—not because of the weight, but because of the sounds coming from the east wing. A long, agonizing shriek tore through the heavy oak doors of the medical chambers, followed by the low, rhythmic chanting of the High Priests. It was a sound of soul-cleansing agony, the kind of scream that happened when a curse was being burned out of living flesh.
Lina reached the ornate double doors of the Princess's suite. Two guards stood like statues, though their eyes flickered with unease at every distant howl. They let her through without a word.
Inside, Princess Sophia stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her silhouette framed by the fading sunset. She didn't turn when Lina entered.
"Set it on the table, Lina," Sophia said, her voice unnervingly calm.
"Yes, Your Highness," Lina whispered, her hands trembling as she laid out the honey-cakes and jasmine tea.
Another scream—louder, more desperate than the last—vibrated through the floorboards. Sophia finally turned. Her eyes were sharp, searching Lina's face. "The Palace feels like a slaughterhouse today. What is happening? Why is the Duke screaming like a common criminal on the rack?"
Lina swallowed hard, glancing toward the door. "The... the Purge Ritual, Your Highness. Duke Luke Arcadia... he returned from the Blackfort Forest in a state. The healers couldn't close his wounds. They say it's a curse that eats magic."
Sophia's brow arched. "A curse? From the rebels? I was told they were a disorganized rabble."
Lina leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a panicked breath. "It wasn't the whole army, Princess. The servants are saying... they're saying he was beaten by a single boy. A sixteen-year-old named Rolien."
Sophia froze, her hand pausing halfway to her tea. "Rolien? My Rolien did that?"
The mask of royal indifference she had worn for months didn't just crack—it vanished. A genuine, radiant smile broke across her face, a look of pure triumph that she usually had to bury deep. She looked down at her own wrists, where a pair of intricately carved silver bangles sat. They were Mana-Dampeners, heavy-duty seals that suppressed her magic, leaving her as "powerless" as the boy she loved as long as she remained in this gilded cage.
She leaned toward Lina, her eyes burning. "Tell me—did the rebels escape? Did the people get away?"
Lina nodded frantically. "Yes, Your Highness. They vanished into the Weeping Stone Caves before the Duke could regroup. They got away clean."
Sophia let out a breath she felt she had been holding for years. "Thank the stars."
But Lina's expression faltered. "There is... more, Princess. They didn't all make it. The veteran who held the line... Arden Voss. He's dead. He sacrificed himself so the others could flee."
The color drained from Sophia's face. She sank into her chair, her joy suddenly tempered by a cold, heavy weight. She knew what Arden meant to Rolien—he was the one person who never saw "magicless" as a defect.
"Uncle Arden..." Sophia murmured, her fingers tracing the cold metal of her dampeners. Her mind raced. If Arden was dead and Luke Arcadia was screaming in the medical wing, this was no longer just a rebellion. It was a blood feud.
Another shriek cut through the air—a jagged, pathetic sound of the "Hero's" pride being flayed by the holy light.
Sophia looked toward the door, her eyes narrowing. "Let him scream," she said, her voice turning icy. "He's lucky a purge ritual is all he's facing. If I could get these dampeners off, I'd give the Priests the day off and handle the 'cleansing' myself."
She turned back to the window, watching the first stars blink into existence over the Blackfort forest.
Keep running, Rolien, she thought, pressing her hand against the glass. The fake Duke is wounded, and the palace is in chaos. Use this time. For Arden... and for me..
Meanwhile at valkaria empire at the throne room of the emperor.
The throne room of Valkaria was a cathedral of shadows. High above, the vaulted ceilings were lost to the darkness, and the only light came from the flickering crimson braziers that lined the walk toward the dais.
Sitting upon the obsidian throne was the Emperor of Valkaria—or at least, the shell that had once been him. The Pseudo-Demon King leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with a casual, predatory grace that the aging Emperor had never possessed.
He swirled a glass of deep, blood-red wine, watching the legs of the liquid coat the crystal.
"Heh..." A low, melodic chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Splendid show, Hunter."
He took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on nothingness as if he were replaying the battle in the Blackfort Forest on the back of his eyelids. He could still see the black bubbles of the curse eating into Solomon's "Hero" ego.
"And for you... Rowan Elian Curtis Gray," he whispered the boy's true name, the syllables tasting sweet on his tongue. "I want to see more from you. So much more."
The Pseudo-Demon King sighed, a sound of genuine, twisted disappointment. He tilted the glass toward the darkness. "But I don't think I can anymore... Because you're dying."
He knew the extent of the damage. He had felt the world-shaking vibration of that final blast. No human, magicless or otherwise, was meant to walk away from a collision of those two powers.
"But I still hope you pull through," he murmured, his gaze drifting to the massive, ancient scroll hanging on the far wall—a map of the known continents, marked with the positions of every major mana vein. "I want more of a show like this before my resurrection. A tragedy needs a protagonist who refuses to stay down, after all."
He took another long pull of the wine, then gestured dismissively at the gilded tapestries and the empty, silent court around him.
"Shame," he muttered, his lip curling in a sneer of pure boredom. "Human politics is too boring. All these dukes and princes, scurrying like ants... they have no sense of theatre."
He closed his eyes, his consciousness reaching out, searching the ley lines of the world, waiting for a spark—any spark—that signaled the "Magicless" boy hadn't let the darkness take him yet.
To be continued