Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero: Nuisence of Fates!
Volume 4
Encounter 9: Trauma
The world smelled of rain on hot concrete and rotting garbage from the market stalls. Eight-year-old Rowan's bare feet slapped against cracked pavement, the plastic bag in his grip crinkling with every hurried step. Inside were scraps he'd scavenged—some leftover rice, a bruised mango, anything that might quiet the hunger gnawing at his little sister's belly. His heart already beat too fast, the way it always did when the sun dipped low and the streets emptied out.
Lira was six, small and bright-eyed, the kind of kid who still hummed old lullabies their mom used to sing when things weren't so broken. She clutched that faded stuffed rabbit like it could shield her from the world. Their apartment door hung crooked, the wood warped from too many rainy seasons. Rowan pushed it open, the hinges groaning like a warning.
Blood.
The smell hit first—thick, metallic, mixing with the usual damp mildew and cheap cooking oil that clung to everything. His mom lay crumpled near the thin kitchen counter, eyes open but empty, a dark stain spreading slow across the floorboards. Lira… Lira on the mat they shared at night, her tiny body twisted unnaturally, the rabbit fallen from her limp fingers.
A sound tore out of Rowan's throat—raw, animal, nothing like a boy's voice. The bag dropped, mango rolling forgotten into the corner. He stumbled forward on knees that hit the floor hard enough to bruise bone. Small hands shook her shoulders, then his mom's. "Lira? Mama? Wake up… please wake up…" Tears burned hot tracks down his cheeks. Sobs wracked his small frame until his throat felt scraped raw. The emptiness rushed in like floodwater, drowning everything else. He kept shaking them, begging, as if sheer will could pull them back from wherever they'd gone.
Mang Rudy's heavy footsteps had already faded into the night.
Later, blue police lights flashed against the walls. Strangers in uniforms asked questions he barely understood through the haze. No relatives. No one left to claim two broken kids. The orphanage came next—cold metal bunk beds, thin blankets that smelled of bleach, distant sounds of other children crying or laughing in ways he couldn't bring himself to join. Days blurred. Nights brought the same nightmare on repeat.
Rowan curled tighter in the memory, the old grief rising fresh and sharp, like a wound that had never really closed. He'd scavenged longer that night, hoping for better scraps. If he'd come home sooner… if he'd been stronger… The thoughts looped endlessly, feeding on themselves.
But something tugged at the edges now. A distant throb in his body. Bandages tight around his chest. The faint blue glow of healing crystals somewhere far away. The sword—Wrathful King Lucifer—its cursed hunger still whispering in his blood. Emperor Albrecht's gift had given him the strength to face Luke Arcadia on that battlefield, unlimited power surging through his arms with every clash. But it stole years with every swing, clouded his judgment until rage was all that remained. Luke's face—older, twisted with the same hate from their Earth days—had taunted him across the fight, reminding him of every monster he'd failed to stop.
The dream shifted, pulling him deeper even as voices filtered in from the waking world.
In the orphanage, time moved slow and heavy. Rowan stayed shut down at first, eating alone, speaking only when forced. The place wasn't cruel, just… empty. Shared rice meals, group chores, teachers with tired but kind eyes. One noticed how quick his mind worked during basic lessons, slipping him extra books on math and history. Another older kid shared half a mango after a rough basketball game on the cracked court, ruffling his hair when Rowan finally cracked a small smile. That fragile sense of family started to seep in, easing the knot in his chest bit by bit. He began talking more. Laughing, even, in short bursts that felt stolen but real.
Then came adoption day.
Couples walked the halls, smiling politely at the children. Among them were Rolant Garnier Gray and his wife, Amée Gray—the pair who would quietly change everything for young Rowan. He hung back near a window, arms crossed, distrust carved deep into his small frame. That's when he saw him—Mang Rudy, outside the gates, dropping off another wide-eyed kid like it was nothing.
Rage blinded him. Pure, hot, the same kind that would later feed the curse sword. He snatched a broken vase from a dusty windowsill, the jagged ceramic biting into his palm. No thinking. Just movement. Bare feet pounded across the yard. Rudy turned, bigger and heavier, a sneer already forming.
Rowan ducked the first lazy swing, shoulder slamming hard into the man's gut—solid impact, air whooshing out. He kicked the back of the knee with everything he had, a sharp pop following as the joint buckled. Climbing up fast, he pressed the shard to Rudy's throat, drawing a thin, hot line of blood. His small hand shook with years of hate and grief. "You took everything from me! My mom… my sister!"
A strong hand locked around his wrist—not yanking, but anchoring. Steady. Rolant's voice cut through the red haze, calm but firm. "This isn't the way, son. Revenge like this just turns you into him."
Rowan's voice cracked, tears streaming. "Then how? He destroyed my family!"
Rolant's answer landed quiet and heavy, carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too much darkness. "Become better than him. Even when the world keeps kicking you down. Not everyone is poison. Some of us choose different." A small, real smile touched his face. "It's simple. I'll adopt you."
The shard slipped from Rowan's fingers. Police sirens wailed closer. Rudy was dragged away in cuffs. Rowan collapsed against this stranger's chest, the first safe arms he'd known in forever, sobs shaking him until exhaustion finally took hold.
Back in the healing room, Rolien stirred faintly under the bandages. The dream clung to him, mixing with the sword's lingering curse and the memory of Luke's taunting face. Three years left. The doctor's words echoed somewhere distant. But facing the past again… it cracked something open inside. The kid who couldn't save them still lived in him. Maybe the man he was becoming could finally make that count.
The years in the dream didn't pass in a neat line. They stretched and folded, carrying Rowan forward through the kind of quiet rebuilding that never feels dramatic until you look back.
Life with Rolant Garnier Gray and Amée Gray settled in slow, like warm rain after a long drought. The first weeks were strange—clean sheets that didn't smell of mildew, meals with actual meat and vegetables instead of scraps, evenings where no one shouted or slammed doors. Amée had a gentle laugh and patient hands; she taught him how to help in the kitchen without expecting perfection, slipping him extra spoonfuls of adobo when Rolant wasn't looking. Rolant himself moved with the measured calm of a man who'd walked through fire and decided not to let it define him. He never pushed, never pried too hard at first. Just steady presence—teaching basic self-defense in the backyard on weekends, listening when Rowan finally started talking about the nightmares.
School came next. By the time Rowan turned thirteen, the orphanage boy who barely spoke had transformed into someone the teachers couldn't stop talking about. High school hallways buzzed with the usual chaos—lockers slamming, laughter echoing off concrete walls, the faint scent of cafeteria rice and fried fish lingering in the air. Rowan wore the crisp uniform like armor, but it was his mind that set him apart. Top of every class. Math problems that left others frowning solved in minutes. History essays that made instructors pause and reread. Late nights at the dining table, Rolant across from him with a mug of coffee, going over strategy games and logic puzzles that sharpened the edge Rowan already carried.
"You've got a gift, anak," Rolant would say, pride softening the hard lines of his face. Amée would watch from the kitchen doorway, eyes shining as she wiped her hands on her apron. "We're so proud of you."
Those words landed deep every time. They eased the old ache, the one that still woke him some nights with Lira's name on his lips and his mom's empty eyes burned into memory. He let himself have small joys now—shooting hoops with school friends on the cracked court after class, the ball thumping rhythmically against pavement, sweat and laughter mixing under the humid sky. A tentative crush on a girl in his literature class who shared his quiet humor. The fragile family feeling from the orphanage had grown roots here, solid and real. He started believing he might deserve it.
Graduation day arrived bright and warm, the sun beating down on the open field where rows of chairs faced a simple stage. Rowan stood in his gown, cap slightly crooked, heart pounding harder than during any exam. When his name was called, he walked up steady, but his eyes found Rolant and Amée in the crowd immediately. Rolant's chest puffed with that quiet, fierce pride. Amée dabbed at her eyes, smiling like the whole world had righted itself.
That evening back home, the house smelled of celebratory sinigang and rice, the table set with care. They ate slow, talking about nothing and everything. But as the plates cleared, Rowan felt the weight settle in his chest—the same one that had never fully left.
He waited until the dishes were done, the three of them sitting in the living room with the fan stirring warm air. "Dad… Mom… I need to talk to you about something."
Rolant leaned back in his chair, sensing the shift. "Go on."
Rowan met his eyes, voice steady but carrying the years of buried fire. "I want to join your unit. The counter-terrorist work. I want to help take down the traffickers, the ones who destroy families like mine. No kid should have to go through what I did. What Lira and Mom went through."
The room went still. Amée's hand tightened on her glass. Rolant's face hardened, a flash of fear cutting through the pride. "Rowan… you finally have a life here. A good one. College, a future without looking over your shoulder. You don't need to chase this."
They argued, voices rising then falling in the way real families do when love and fear collide. Rolant paced a few steps, rubbing the back of his neck. "I pulled you out of that hell so you could live, not throw yourself back into it. Happiness—that's how you honor them."
Rowan stood his ground, fists loose at his sides but eyes burning. "That night I couldn't save them. I was too small, too late. But I'm not a kid anymore. I know what those bastards are capable of—the monsters who ruin lives and walk away laughing. This is my atonement. I'll dedicate everything to ending it. No more kids left broken in rooms like that."
Silence stretched. Amée reached over and squeezed Rolant's hand, tears in her eyes but understanding there too. Rolant finally exhaled, long and heavy, the weight of old battles showing in his shoulders. "If you do this… you do it right. My way. Full training. No shortcuts, no blind rage. You fight smart, or you don't fight at all."
Rowan nodded, the promise settling deep. "I swear."
Later that night, lying in bed with the familiar creak of the house around him, the dream began to thin at the edges. The healing room's blue glow tugged stronger now. Bandages. Pain. The sword's curse still humming in his veins like a bad aftertaste. Three years. But something had shifted inside—the kid who lost everything had faced it again, and the man waking up carried a clearer fire.
Rolien's fingers twitched under the wraps. Dawn light from the window felt a little less mocking this time.
To be continued...