Reincarnation of the Magicless pinoy
From Zero to Hero. "No Magic?, No Problem! "
Encounter 4: The Start!
From the high ridge, the valley spread wide beneath the moonlight—lanterns flickering across fields, siege engines lined like waiting beasts. The faint shimmer of armor and steel looked almost beautiful, as if war itself were trying to imitate peace.
Luke Arcadia lowered his binoculars slightly, the corners of his mouth curling.
Greyhold was alive with movement. Men shouted orders, cannons rolled into position, and along the walls, archers adjusted sleek compact bows—Rolien's design, no doubt. The familiar stamp of his craft was everywhere: reinforced plating, odd-looking rifles, even mana grenades stacked neatly by the barricades.
Luke exhaled a soft laugh.
"Tch. Is he another from there? … Rolien Grey, who are you really? Are you him?"
Behind him, the sound of boots crunching gravel broke the quiet. Two men approached—dark cloaks trailing behind them like shadows given form.
The first, broad-shouldered and calm, stopped beside him. "Lord Arcadia," he greeted, voice rough but disciplined. "Vorak Seruun, reporting."
The second leaned casually on his spear, eyes glinting a strange gold in the moonlight. "And Iskhar Thane," he added with a faint smirk. "Ready when you are."
Luke lowered the binoculars and turned to them, his tone confident, almost bored. "Good. I assume everything's in place?"
Vorak nodded once. "Our forces await Vermorth's signal."
Iskhar tilted his head. "So the captured prince… that was part of your plan?"
Luke's smile widened, slow and sharp. "Of course. The Empire needed to believe the worst had passed. Keain's 'imprisonment' buys us time. The Emperor relaxes. Edric Grey leaves his post, thinking the front is stable." He looked toward the horizon where the fortress lights burned faintly in the fog. "And now, the moment he comes home… we strike."
Vorak's expression didn't change. "Efficient."
"Predictable," Iskhar added with a grin.
Luke chuckled. "Exactly. Tell Grand Duke Vermorth we move in. Crush Greyhold before dawn."
At that, Vorak bowed slightly and vanished into the dark. Iskhar followed, his footsteps dissolving into silence.
Moments later, from the far edge of the camp, three long horn blasts split the night.
Vermorth's massive banner rose—a crimson dragon swallowing a sun.
The ground began to rumble as the Valkarian army surged forward, their march shaking the fields.
Luke stood unmoving at the ridge, cloak snapping behind him in the cold wind. Below, the valley burned with torchlight, an endless tide of soldiers spilling toward the unsuspecting Greyhold.
"They don't know what's coming," he murmured, eyes gleaming. "And that's what makes it beautiful."
The drums thundered.
The banners advanced.
And Luke Arcadia smiled—utterly sure of victory.
The air grew heavy as the rumbling drew closer. At first, it was only a faint tremor beneath the soil—barely felt, almost imagined. Then came the distant roar of thousands of boots, the grinding of siege wheels, and the guttural chant of soldiers marching in unison.
The wind carried the sound across the open plains and over Greyhold's thick stone walls.
Up on the northern watchtower, one sentry froze mid-step. His hand shook as he lifted his spyglass, catching the faint glow of hundreds—no, thousands—of torches lighting up the darkness like a spreading wildfire.
His throat tightened.
"By the gods…"
He dropped the spyglass and grabbed the alarm rope, yanking it hard. "They're here!"
The bell's sharp clang split the night, echoing across every courtyard and corridor of Greyhold.
Within moments, the fortress burst into motion. Guards poured from their barracks, engineers scrambled to their stations, and gunners began loading the siege cannons Rolien had once designed for them. Mana cores flared to life, humming with pale blue light as archers took their positions behind the battlements, fitting arrows to compact crossbows.
"Ready the walls! Form the defense lines!" Sir Marcellus shouted as he ran through the chaos, fastening his breastplate on the move.
He stopped by a young officer panting from the sprint. "Report!"
"Enemy forces sighted—bearing the Vermorth banner, sir! Thousands strong!"
Marcellus cursed under his breath. "So the bastards didn't waste time." He turned toward the courtyard where soldiers were arming up. "Sound full alert! Get everyone to their stations—no one leaves their post!"
The soldiers moved like a machine, every one of them drilled in the plans Rolien had left behind. Compact bows, clustered grenades, even the prototype cannons—they were all set, just as the boy had instructed before leaving months ago.
From the ramparts, the defenders watched the enemy army emerge through the fog—a black wave of steel and banners that stretched across the horizon.
At the front rode Luke Arcadia, cloak rippling behind him, flanked by Vorak Seruun and Iskhar Thane.
When the first cannon fired, a deafening boom rolled across the battlefield. The shell streaked through the night and exploded among the front ranks of Valkarian soldiers, sending dirt and bodies flying.
Luke's subordinates froze in disbelief.
"What the hell was that!?" one shouted.
"They have siege cannons?!" another barked.
"And look at those—those aren't normal crossbows! What kind of weaponry is that?!"
Even Grand Duke Vermorth's expression twisted in confusion as more explosions thundered across the field.
Only Luke didn't flinch. He lowered his binoculars slowly, eyes narrowing as the fortress lit up with the glow of energy cores and muzzle flashes.
"Tch… Earth tech," he muttered, his tone flat.
He stared at Greyhold for a long moment, silent while his men around him murmured in panic and awe.
Rolien Grey… who are you really? he thought. Are you Rowan from Earth… or is the Blackwraith him? Or… are there more of us here?
The question gnawed at him, but his expression remained cold and composed.
Vorak turned toward him. "Are we going to make a move?"
Luke smirked. "Yes. Tell Vermorth we're moving in."
Moments later, a deep horn echoed across the enemy line. Grand Duke Vermorth raised his gauntleted hand and sent up a blood-red flare.
The command spread like wildfire.
The ground trembled as siege towers rolled forward, and the first wave of Valkarian soldiers broke into a sprint, shouting their war cries.
From Greyhold's walls, the defenders braced themselves.
"Archers—ready!"
"Cannons—fire at will!"
As the first volley of flaming shells streaked across the night sky, crashing into the valley below, Greyhold erupted into a storm of fire and thunder.
And while chaos consumed the battlefield, Luke watched from horseback, a faint, knowing smile forming on his face.
Whoever you are, Rolien… this world just got a lot smaller.
The night split open with the sound of thunder.
Greyhold's walls roared to life—cannons flashing, crossbows firing in unison, and compact air rifles cracking like whips in the wind.
The first volley tore through the advancing Valkarian ranks. Explosions rippled across the plains, each blast throwing dirt and fire into the air. The frontlines crumbled in seconds—men screaming, banners falling, the once-disciplined formation now thrown into chaos.
"Keep firing! Don't let them regroup!" Sir Marcellus bellowed from the ramparts, his armor glinting under the firelight.
Rows of defenders reloaded swiftly, their movements sharp and practiced. Compact bows twanged, sending bolts slicing through armor. Grenadiers hurled mana-cluster bombs that detonated midair, raining down burning shards of mana glass.
Vermorth's forces faltered. The Grand Duke of Valkaria barely had time to raise his shield before a shell exploded nearby, the shockwave knocking him half out of his saddle.
"Damn it—what kind of weapons are these?!" Vermorth snarled, his voice barely audible over the roar of explosions.
His generals shouted orders, trying to reorganize their troops, but Greyhold's defenses were merciless. Every time the enemy rallied, another round of fire tore into them, leaving the ground littered with charred bodies and broken steel.
And yet, through the storm of destruction, four figures remained unshaken.
Luke Arcadia, his dark cloak whipping violently behind him, stood on a small rise, eyes locked on the fortress. Around him were Vorak Seruun, Iskhar Thane, and Duke Vermorth—each one moving with uncanny precision, untouched by the chaos.
Luke tracked the arc of the cannon shells through the smoke, his mind racing faster than his heartbeat. Three-second delay between reloads… trajectory curving east… wind shift—now.
He twisted his reins sharply just as a shell screamed through the air, detonating exactly where he'd stood seconds before. The blast threw up a wall of dirt and flame.
Vorak grinned, his eyes gleaming unnaturally bright in the firelight. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Luke smirked, brushing the dust from his cloak. "You learn to when you've fought monsters smarter than you."
He reached for his binoculars again, scanning the ramparts—watching the coordinated patterns of cannon fire, the seamless reloads, the unnatural rhythm of the defense.
That's not random… that's design.
But before he could think further, a faint hiss reached his ears—barely a whisper in the chaos.
His instincts screamed.
He jerked his head aside just in time as a steel slug whizzed past, slicing a shallow line across his cheek before tearing through two soldiers behind him. The gunshot followed an instant later, echoing from the fortress walls.
"Air rifles?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Rolien, you crazy bastard."
More slugs cut through the air, each one faster and sharper than the last. Luke leapt from his horse, rolling behind a charred wagon as the ground around him erupted in dirt. He glanced at the shattered wood beside his face—a perfectly clean hole bored straight through.
Compressed mana propulsion. That's beyond what this era should have.
Vorak deflected one slug midair with a lazy flick of his wrist, his gauntlet ringing like struck metal. "Tch. You're telling me that runt made these toys?"
"Not toys," Luke said darkly, peering through the smoke at the fortress. "Blueprints from a world you wouldn't understand."
Another barrage of cannon fire answered him. The night sky glowed red, reflecting in his eyes as the shockwaves battered the earth.
The Valkarian army was in shambles—half their vanguard gone, siege towers burning, and morale collapsing by the second.
But Luke only smiled. A cold, patient smile.
He wiped the blood from his cheek and whispered,
"Impressive, Rolien Grey. But let's see how long your toys can hold once we get close."
He turned to Vermorth. "Prepare the next wave. And tell our pet sorcerers to release the corruption mist."
The Grand Duke nodded grimly, raising his staff.
Behind them, the air began to shimmer—a dark fog rolling in from the rear lines, twisting like something alive.
From Greyhold's walls, Marcellus felt the wind shift and his stomach tightened.
"What… what the hell is that?"
The once-clear night began to darken as the mist spread, crawling over the battlefield like the breath of a dying god.
And Luke, standing tall amid the burning fields, whispered with quiet satisfaction—
"The real siege begins now."
The sky dimmed unnaturally fast. The moon vanished behind a shroud of smoke, and the once-orange glow of fire turned into a sickly shade of green.
A heavy fog began to crawl across the plains—slow at first, then swelling like a tide. It crept over the bodies, over the smoldering wreckage, and began to climb the slope toward Greyhold's walls.
"Hold your positions!" Sir Marcellus shouted, voice cutting through the rising panic. "It's just smoke! Keep firing!"
But even as he yelled, the veterans among them could feel it—an ache behind their eyes, a burn in their lungs, the faint whisper of something alive moving within the haze.
Elian gritted his teeth. "This isn't normal fog. My mana's… reacting to it."
Mira, standing beside him, tried to summon a spell—but her magic fizzled halfway, the light from her palm sputtering out like a dying flame.
"What the—? It's draining mana!" she gasped.
Below, the battlefield was turning into a nightmare. The wounded Valkarian soldiers began to twitch and convulse. Their screams twisted into something inhuman as black veins crawled across their skin, their eyes glowing faintly crimson.
"They're… changing…" one of the archers whispered in horror.
The corrupted soldiers rose, moving with broken, jerking motions—bodies burning with dark energy.
From the rear line, Luke Arcadia watched it unfold with cold precision.
He turned slightly as Duke Vermorth and the two Dragon Slayers approached through the mist, untouched by its effect.
Vorak Seruun stretched his arms lazily, his scales glinting beneath his armor. "You really went through with it, huh? Letting them rot in your corruption fog?"
Luke didn't look at him. "They're soldiers. Tools. If their death brings us victory, then their sacrifice is efficient."
Iskhar Thane chuckled darkly, his twin blades humming with violet energy. "And here I thought you humans were soft."
Luke's lips curled faintly. "Softness has no place in conquest."
Then he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the corrupted troops surged forward—sprinting, crawling, leaping on all fours like rabid beasts. Their screams filled the night as they hurled themselves against Greyhold's outer walls, heedless of pain or death.
Inside the fortress, panic rippled through the defenders. Arrows and bullets tore into the corrupted, but they just kept coming. Even when blown apart, their remains crawled forward like piles of living sludge.
Elian slammed his sword into the parapet, glaring down at the swarm. "What kind of nightmare is this?! They don't die!"
Marcellus barked, "Focus fire on the front gate! Don't let them climb the walls! Archers—switch to mana-burst bolts!"
Explosions rippled across the battlements, blowing the corrupted apart—but the fog only thickened, and every second it lingered, their weapons weakened.
Outside the Walls
Vermorth rode up beside Luke. "You said this mist was a weapon from the Old War… but it feels like something worse. What exactly did you unleash?"
Luke lowered his binoculars and finally smiled—a slow, knowing smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"The Outer Gods left many gifts buried in this world. We just had to dig deep enough."
Vorak laughed lowly, the sound reptilian. "You're walking the edge of madness, boy. Even we don't use their blessings so carelessly."
Luke's gaze cut to him—sharp, calculating. "You two call yourselves Apostles, right? Then you should understand something."
He looked toward Greyhold again, his expression calm, certain.
"This world belongs to the ones willing to burn it first."
He turned toward the fog and raised his hand again.
From within the haze, something massive began to move.
The ground shook. The corrupted soldiers fell to their knees as the fog rippled outward, parting for a monstrous silhouette—something forged of bone and metal, its chest glowing with a heart of black light.
A Corruption Engine.
A relic from the age of gods and monsters.
Vermorth's eyes widened. "By the heavens—how did you—"
"I found it buried beneath the Elroy ruins," Luke said, voice steady. "And I've made it mine."
The Engine let out a roar that shook the air, its maw opening to release a beam of dark energy that lit up the night. It tore across the plains, erasing everything in its path, until it slammed into Greyhold's outer barrier—cracking it like glass.
From the ramparts, Edric Grey stared in disbelief. "What in the hell… is that?"
Marcellus's voice shook. "A siege weapon… but—there's no mana signature!"
The Duke's eyes narrowed. "Then it's not of this world."
He drew his sword, its edge gleaming beneath the burning sky. "Ready the second line! We'll fight until there's nothing left to burn!"
The roar of the Corruption Engine echoed once more, drowning the battlefield in an unholy sound.
And in the distance, Luke Arcadia smiled to himself.
"Let's see if your precious Greyhold can survive my gift from the gods."
The mist thickened, rolling like a living shroud over the battlefield. Shadows of soldiers flickered and vanished within it—only the screams and clash of metal hinted at where the fight still raged.
From the fog, a cloaked figure emerged, dragging a curved sickle coated in venomous light. "You shouldn't have come here," he hissed, his voice echoing unnaturally in the haze.
Mira gritted her teeth, gripping her sword tighter. "You think mist can hide you?" she said, her eyes narrowing as she traced faint embers forming at her feet.
The cloaked figure lunged, the sickle cutting through the fog in a flash of green. Mira sidestepped, sparks bursting as steel met steel. Then she twisted her body, spun once, and shouted—
"Fire Sword Vortex!"
Flames erupted, spiraling around her blade like a burning cyclone. The heat tore through the mist, igniting it in glowing streaks. The assassin barely managed to leap back, his cloak catching fire as he rolled.
"Now!" she yelled.
Leto raised his arm from behind a shattered barricade, three stone bullets hovering in the air. Each one had been carefully carved with hollow cores—Rolien's design. With a flick of his wrist, compressed air pulsed within them, vibrating sharply.
"Air Fragment—Burst Shot!"
The bullets shot out, hissing like cannons. They struck the ground near the enemy's feet—each detonation unleashing a concussive blast that sent dirt, debris, and flame skyward.
The cloaked man staggered, his body scorched and bleeding, the mist around him beginning to thin.
"Damn… Rolien really made monsters out of you two," the assassin growled, clutching his weapon tighter.
Mira smirked, her sword still burning faintly. "You have no idea."
As the smoke cleared, Leto reloaded another round of hollow stone bullets, his eyes calm and steady. Mira's flames dimmed, leaving trails of smoke curling from her blade.
The two stood side by side, ready to strike again as the enemy's silhouette wavered—then split into three shadowy forms, circling them.
The mist figures circled them like wolves, their movements barely visible. Mira tightened her grip, her breathing steady but sharp. Leto crouched low, eyes darting through the fog. He could hear soft footsteps—three, maybe four—but the sound kept shifting.
"Damn it," Mira hissed. "I can't see anything—"
Then Leto froze. A memory flashed in his mind, Rolien's voice echoing from one of their late-night tinkering sessions in the Greyhold courtyard.
Flashback — Greyhold Workshop
Rolien stood over a messy wooden table littered with metal scraps, tubes, and a few smoking flasks. He fanned the air, coughing as a trail of black smoke filled the room.
Leto stood by the door, laughing. "You're gonna choke us both to death one day."
"Relax," Rolien said, waving his hand. "This is part of the test." He pointed to a small contraption with a tube and a fan-like gear inside. "You see, smoke doesn't just disappear—it's displaced. If you push enough air in one direction, you can clear an area faster than wind spells can."
Mira tilted her head, curious. "So… you're making a spell to blow things away?"
"Not exactly," Rolien said, adjusting the gear. "Think of it like this: air pressure is invisible, but powerful. If you can compress it, you can make it expand fast enough to push even gas or mist away. It's all about pressure differentials."
He held up a small stone with carvings along its surface. "And if we store that compressed air in a hollow shell—"
Leto finished his sentence with a grin. "We can blast anything that tries to hide."
Rolien smirked. "Exactly. Remember that. Someday, it might save your ass."
Back to the Present
Leto's eyes snapped open. "Mira—use your vortex! Full spin!"
Without hesitation, she planted her sword into the ground. Flames roared to life, forming a burning spiral. "Got it!" she shouted, rotating her blade in a wide arc.
Leto extended his right arm, channeling wind magic into a circular motion. The compressed air caught Mira's flames, amplifying the swirl. Together, their combined force formed a massive current—an explosive gust that burst outward like a fiery hurricane.
The mist screamed away, torn apart by the sheer force of air pressure. The battlefield was laid bare—revealing their opponent hovering just above the ruined ground, panting heavily, his body half-covered in dark scales.
"There you are," Mira growled.
Leto grinned, pulling out a newly carved projectile from his satchel. Its stone surface gleamed faintly with etched runes and a swirling core of faint blue light.
He whispered, "Let's test this one out… Tempest Fang."
He loaded it into his launcher, the air around the weapon vibrating from compressed mana. The moment he fired, the bullet vanished—only to reappear midair with a thunderous crack.
The Tempest Fang didn't just explode; it imploded first, sucking in air and sound, before detonating with a sonic boom that shattered the assassin's scales and ripped his mist cloak apart completely.
The blast sent him crashing through a stone wall, leaving a gaping crater where he landed.
Mira exhaled slowly, lowering her sword. "That… was new."
Leto chuckled, eyes still on the smoke. "Rolien's idea. My execution."
From the wreckage, faint coughing echoed—followed by a low, eerie laugh.
"Well done," the mist-user rasped, slowly standing up, his human form peeling away to reveal a monstrous, mist-draining creature. "But you've only made me reveal my true self."
Leto cocked his weapon again, wind swirling around him. Mira raised her sword, fire reflecting in her eyes.
"Good," she said. "Less talking. More killing."
To be continue