Reincarnation of the Magicless pinoy
From Zero to Hero "No Magic? No Problem! "
Encounter 3: Shadows Before the Storm
The great gates of Greyhold Estate opened slowly, the iron hinges groaning in the cold morning air. After days of travel, Grand Duke Edric Grey rode through with his retinue of knights, their armor dulled with dust and fatigue. The banners of House Grey fluttered weakly in the breeze—once a proud symbol of strength, now dim beneath the gray sky.
The Duke dismounted as servants hurried forward. At the top of the steps stood a woman dressed in deep blue, her presence calm and commanding despite the faint worry in her eyes.
"Edric," she breathed, stepping forward.
Lady Lirien Grey—his wife, the Duchess of the West—met him with quiet relief.
He offered a faint smile, the lines of exhaustion clear on his face. "I didn't expect to be home under such grim news."
She nodded solemnly. "The messengers brought word of Elroy's fall… and Prince Jun's death. I feared it was worse."
Edric sighed, his expression hardening. "It is worse. Valkaria's banners are moving faster than we anticipated. The Emperor stripped Keain of his title and locked him away. And Luke Arcadia… branded a traitor."
Lirien's brow furrowed. "A noble's betrayal is one thing, but for him to lead the enemy into our lands—"
"—it means this war's already here," Edric finished quietly. "The western front has collapsed. We'll be next."
Before another word could pass between them, shouting erupted outside—the clatter of armor, hurried footsteps, and a voice calling his name.
A guard burst through the doors. "Your Grace! Survivors from the Elroy territory—they've just arrived!"
Courtyard, Greyhold Estate
The Duke and Duchess hurried out to the courtyard. The gates swung open again, and through them stumbled a small group of riders, mud-streaked and battered.
At their front rode Princess Sophia, her face pale with exhaustion. Behind her came Sir Marcellus, Elian Grey, the Asher Hawks, Mira, and Leto—all wounded, armor cracked and cloaks torn.
Edric's eyes immediately found Elian. "Elian…"
The young man barely had time to dismount before his father reached him, gripping his shoulders tightly. "Thank the gods," Edric breathed. "You're alive."
Elian nodded weakly. "We barely made it out, Father."
Edric's relief lasted only a moment before he scanned the rest of the group. "Where's Rolien?"
The silence that followed was heavy—too heavy.
Pete lowered his head. "He was right beside me… handing me a potion. Then… he was gone, Your Grace. No sound. No trace."
For the first time, the Grand Duke's expression faltered. The air seemed to still around him.
"Gone?" he repeated quietly.
Elian's jaw tightened. "We searched everywhere, Father. Not a single trace."
Edric stood frozen for several seconds, his mind racing between disbelief and dread. The noise of the courtyard—the horses, the orders, the cries of the wounded—faded into the background.
Lady Lirien's hand found his arm. "Edric…" she whispered softly, seeing the tremor in his gaze.
He blinked once, forcing himself back into focus. There would be time to grieve later—if they survived.
"Send word to His Majesty immediately," he said sharply. "Tell him Valkaria's army is advancing. If Elroy has fallen, we're next."
He turned to Marcellus. "Gather every knight within Greyhold—every one who can still fight. Fortify the walls, double the watch."
"Yes, my lord."
"Elian," he continued, voice steady again despite the pain behind it, "muster every able-bodied man in the villages. If they can wield a sword, a spear, or even a pitchfork, I want them armed. We won't let Greyhold fall like Elroy."
Elian nodded, though his eyes lingered on his father's expression—a mix of command and quiet anguish.
As the courtyard erupted into movement, messengers rushing out and soldiers readying the defenses, Lady Lirien stood beside Edric. "You're trembling," she murmured.
He exhaled slowly, the firelight reflecting off his armor. "Our son is missing. The enemy marches on our gates. And my men are spread too thin."
He looked out toward the horizon, where the faint glow of distant fire stained the clouds a haunting red.
"…Damn it," he muttered under his breath, voice low and ragged. "If I'd known this would happen, I'd have brought my whole legion home."
The sound of thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
But it wasn't thunder.
It was the march of Valkaria's army, drawing closer with every heartbeat.
And this time, Greyhold stood alone.
Luke stood on the ridge and watched the plain breathe. The Valkarian banners below were a moving ocean, men and war machines arranged in exacting lines. Smoke coiled from distant fires, and the sunset painted the iron of armor into a slow, hungry glow.
Beside him, Grand Duke Vermorth watched with the easy patience of a man who had learned how to wait for the world to do his work for him. He nodded once toward the valley. "They march well," he said, voice flat.
Two figures approached through the dusk. They moved without flourish, each step measured like a clock. Their armor was unusual: scaled plates etched with sigils no army put on parade, helmets horned like predators. Titans in size and bearing, they carried themselves like men bred for a single purpose.
The taller of the two inclined his head. "Lord Arcadia," he said, his voice low and resonant. "They call us the Dragon Reapers in Valkarian tongues. I am Vorak Seruun." His eyes were black glass. Behind him, the other man removed his gauntlet — a pale scar wreathed in a tattoo of concentric circles below the wrist. "I am Iskhar Thane."
Luke smiled, small and dry. "Titles fit you," he said. "They make men feel important before they break them."
Iskhar's lips twitched. "So the prince being captured was all part of your plan?"
Luke's hands folded behind his back. He pictured the palace room where a crystal had recorded the conspiracy, the soft sound of Keain's voice tasting ambition. "Of course," he said. "You need a spark to light a city. Keain was the match. Fear humbles a court. It makes men hurry and make mistakes."
Vorak shifted, the faint glint of something like hunger under his words. "And the Demon Lord's army? Their retreat looked like a victory we cannot explain."
Luke's gaze slid to the horizon, to the small thread of smoke still visible where Elroy had burned. He let the ordinary cadence of his voice do the work. "Movement must look random to be believable. When the demons withdrew, commanders breathed easier. Grand Duke Edric thought the worst of his front had passed. He took men farther away to consolidate his honor. That left his home thin. That is where we struck."
Vermorth, who had listened without betraying so much as a finger's twitch, nodded once. "He will not bring his full legion home. Pride keeps men away from the things they fear will shame them. He believes his honor must be proven on the field. We used that."
Iskhar smiled then, and it was not a pleasant thing. "So we strike the heart."
Vorak turned to Luke, voice a rumble. "We are ready to burn a hundred villages to take one keep. We will crawl through flame to rip out the noble's hand."
Luke watched them both. They were not merely warriors. The sigils on their plates caught fire in the last light, symbols that didn't belong to human kings. Something older lay quiet under their skin. They were monsters that wore human shapes and names. Apostles, if anyone still spoke that old word. Instruments shaped for ritual and ruin.
"You know the terms," Luke said, quietly decisive. "Vorak, Iskhar. You fall upon Greyhold when the lines are set. Vermorth and I draw Edric out. He will step into the valley, thinking to save his people. He will not imagine he is stepping onto a trap. He will not bring enough men to dig him out."
Vorak's laugh was a dry crack of timber. "And when he falls?"
"Chaos." Luke's voice dropped. "Panic breeds decisions. The Emperor sends men to patch cracks. The council hesitates. The capital fractures. Keain's disgrace keeps eyes from looking up. By the time the sun sets on Greyhold, there will be no single hand strong enough to hold this realm together."
He swept his arm toward the army arrayed below, a monumental chessboard. "We do not need to win every battle. We need to break their will. Make the Empire look like it is tearing itself apart. Then we step into the gap. We do not conquer. We inherit their fear."
Iskhar's expression grew thoughtful. "They will curse us in their prayers."
"They will worship someone else later," Luke said. "Or nothing at all."
Vermorth's hand went to the hilt at his hip, a private motion. "Make certain your men know what they must do. Spare what can be spared that will still serve us. Leave the central roads open. Let the fleeing carry terror like a lantern."
Vorak bowed, inclining his head toward the war plain. "We have trained for this meat and fire. Let the drums call."
Iskhar's gaze flicked to Luke with something like eagerness. "When we descend, there will be no mercy."
Luke let the words hang and then tightened a grin. "Good. Mercy was expensive."
He stepped forward and looked down at the plain where thousands waited on his cue. The sun slipped behind a bank of cloud and the first star pricked the evening. He felt like a conductor before an orchestra, nothing as chaotic as the notes that would soon rise, everything bound to his hand.
"Forward," he said.
The drums answered.
The field shuddered, not like thunder but like breath about to split a lung. Far below, the army rolled out as one, banners swelling, horns calling, siege engines creaking into motion. The line of fire crawled across the plains like a slow, methodical disease.
Vermorth watched the black tide move and, for a breath, allowed himself a small smile. "Well played, Crown Prince Keain," he murmured, though he knew Keain would not be the one to live with the choices he had made.
As Luke turned away from the ridge, the last light caught the blade at his hip and painted it in clean silver. He felt nothing like triumph. He felt the precise cool of inevitability.
Below them, out of sight, something older than kings stirred, and the two slayers cracked their necks like hounds tasting the wind. Their armor, etched with impossible runes, seemed to drink the dusk.
They marched.
The plan unfolded. The world would not be kind enough to stop them.
They moved like a household that had been designed for war long before any war came to them.
Greyhold's inner yard transformed into a forge of last resort. Blacksmiths and gunwrights—young men Rolien had once recruited and taught in secret—ran between workbenches and the old stone embrasures, hauling out crates stamped with a familiar, crude crest: Roan's mark. Rolien had not only been the Duke's youngest son; he'd been an engineer in his spare hours, an obsessive tinkerer who refused to let chance be the only architect of survival. Now every one of his odd inventions mattered.
Marcellus issued orders like a man running a tape of battle in his head. "Two cannons on the northeast barbican, angled low to catch the hoofs. Elian—take the compact ballistae on the outer palisade. Leto, you and the archers cover the drawbridge approaches. No exposed men on the parapets." His voice never rose. It simply carried—and men obeyed.
The cannons were crude, bellied iron and black powder, designed to punch holes in a charging line rather than to be ornamental. Nearby, boys who had apprenticed under Rolien assembled compact crossbows—smaller, faster-loading weapons Rolien had insisted on building for mobile defense. They required less manpower and could be fired from behind stone with lethal accuracy. Rolien's handwriting annotated many of the crates: "Field-ready — one-man reload," "Stabilizer mod 3 — test-fire with sandbags." The work had a hurried, intimate rhythm—sweat, cursing, and the steady hymn of hammer on metal.
They also hauled out things that made older knights frown. Glass vials wrapped in cloth, humming faintly as if nervous—mana cluster grenades, Rolien's crude but effective marriage of arcane residue and brittle shell. "Throw and take cover," Marcellus instructed. "They'll buy us seconds." Young engineers checked fuses, tamped powder, and loaded bolts; a small team calibrated the aiming rigs for a crank-operated, Rolien-made repeater that spat quarrels in quick succession.
Lady Lirien organized the stores like a commander with a midwife's patience. She moved among the wounded and the smiths with equal attention, divvying ration tins, setting shields by the gate, and ordering extra oil for the ballista gears. "If he were here," she said to Edric as she handed him a steaming bowl, "he'd be in the front with a wrench in his hand."
Edric's laugh surprised even those nearest him—short, sharp, a sound that cut through the tension like a blade. He let the rooftops and the clang of preparation fill his chest for a moment, as if he could breathe in the boy's presence through the metal and wood. "He always loved his toys," Edric said, voice rough with something like pride. "Who knew they would be the thing that keeps us standing?" He set the bowl down, and for an instant his eyes were not the General's but a father's. "If Rolien comes back to see this…" He stopped, the sentence unfinished, gratitude and fear knotted together.
Marcellus looked up, jaw set. "We'll make him proud, Your Grace." Around them, men checked straps, reloaded magazines, and took their assigned posts. The compact crossbows clicked like mechanical insects on the parapets. The cannons were sponged and run through; their muzzles leaned like waiting throats. A young gunwright rolled a set of grenades into a lined crate and lingered a moment, tracing the carved initials in the wood—R.G.—as if blessing them.
Outside the walls, the plain lay dark and waiting. The first faint drumbeat rolled across the grass like a warning. In the courtyard, a flare was struck and the map table was covered with pins and candlelight. Edric let the sound reach him, felt the weight of it, and then—because a leader must still lead—he straightened. "Sound the watch. Hold nothing back," he ordered.
They were ready as they could be. Not because Rolien had returned—but because Rolien had already prepared them to be. The gratitude in Edric's throat was private, a raw and fierce thing. He pressed his palm to the crate with Rolien's mark as the drums rose again, and laughed once more—more sound than joy, more relief than humor—and called, "For Greyhold!" The men answered with a shout that folded into the night.
Far on the ridge, torches pricked the darkness, and somewhere in that sea of light, a pair of figures—armored and patient—shifted as if to answer a cue. The drums multiplied. The world tightened its shoulders and waited for the first strike.
To be continue.