Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero " Noagic? , No Problem! "
Encounter 5: True Dragon Slayers!
The thing that crawled out of the crater no longer resembled a man.
Its skin rippled like smoke trapped under glass, shifting between flesh and vapor. Four blackened tendrils extended from its back, dripping mist like blood. Its eyes—milky and hollow—locked onto Mira and Leto with pure hatred.
"Human toys…" it hissed, its voice a twisted echo. "You dare pierce the veil of my mist?"
Mira tightened her stance, flames flaring around her. "I'll do more than pierce it."
The creature lunged—faster than before, its form flickering. It vanished into a sudden fog burst and reappeared behind Mira. But before its claws could reach her, a sharp whistle tore through the air.
Leto's Tempest Fang detonated midflight.
The compressed air shockwave slammed into the mist-user, throwing his attack off balance. Mira twisted, her sword igniting into a roaring inferno.
"Fire Sword Vortex!" she shouted.
She spun in place, her flaming blade creating a whirling cyclone. Each swing ignited the oxygen Leto's previous shot had displaced, creating streaks of fire that burned even the mist itself. The creature screamed as its body caught fire.
But it wasn't down yet. Its mist tendrils slammed into the ground, generating a ring of black fog that crawled toward them like liquid shadow.
Leto cursed. "It's absorbing the air—!"
"I know!" Mira gritted her teeth, struggling to maintain her vortex.
The ground shook as the creature's shadowed mass began to swell, absorbing everything around it—the fire, the dust, even the sound. It was preparing for a massive burst.
"Leto!" Mira shouted. "Do it now!"
Leto nodded and crouched low, pulling out his last projectile. The air around him began to hum—his eyes narrowed, recalling Rolien's exact words:
"If you can control how the air collapses, you control the explosion."
He took a deep breath. "Let's see if you were right, boss."
He loaded the bullet and aimed high.
"Tempest Fang—Mark II!"
The shot fired with a deep thoom, vanishing into the fog. For a heartbeat, nothing happened—then the world inhaled.
A crushing silence followed, then—
BOOOOOOM!
The implosion ripped the mist apart, shredding it from within. The creature's body convulsed, its mist-like flesh torn away by invisible pressure. Its final scream echoed as it disintegrated into vapor, leaving only scorched earth and the lingering hiss of escaping air.
When the dust settled, Mira collapsed to one knee, breathing hard. Leto stood over her, offering a tired smile.
"You all right?"
She nodded weakly, brushing her hair back. "Remind me to thank Rolien… if he ever shows up again."
Leto exhaled and gazed at the fading mist. "Yeah," he said softly. "That crazy bastard just saved us—again."
In the distance, faint echoes of war drums rolled through the fields—Vermorth's army advancing.
Leto clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. "Looks like our next wave's coming."
Mira stood up beside him, tightening her grip on her sword. "Then let's make them regret stepping foot on Greyhold soil."
The two turned toward the smoke-streaked battlefield, the fiery glow of Greyhold's cannons painting their faces in gold and red.
Explosions thundered against the ancient stone battlements as waves of Valkarian soldiers crashed into the defenses like a black tide. Smoke and ash blurred the moon, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and burnt powder.
"Hold the line!" Sir Marcellus roared, his voice raw as he cut down another enemy who scaled the wall. His blade gleamed crimson, sparks dancing each time it clashed against steel. "Don't let them breach the gate!"
Below, the heavy boom of siege cannons echoed—Rolien's own machines, still firing but slowly being overwhelmed. For every Valkarian that fell, two more took his place.
Grand Duke Edric Grey stood on the rampart, his cloak torn and armor scorched. The silver in his hair glimmered under the flickering fires. His gaze swept across the battlefield, cold and unyielding. "They're pressing harder at the east flank," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "If they break through there, we lose the inner courtyard."
Beside him, Elian Grey—his eldest—was breathing hard, his blade dripping blood. "Father, we can't hold them much longer. The reinforcements from the capital haven't come. If this keeps up—"
"They will come," Edric cut him off, his tone calm but fierce. "Until then, we are the wall."
Marcellus approached, his armor cracked, his left arm bleeding through the plate. "Your Grace, the north tower's nearly down! The men are retreating from the inner wall!"
Edric turned, his expression like steel. "Then we make our stand here. Call in the last reserves from the west garrison. We hold the courtyard at all costs."
Marcellus gave a nod and sprinted off, rallying the remaining knights.
As Edric drew his sword, the runes along its edge flared faintly—a relic from his campaigns in the Demon Wars. He planted it against the stone parapet and looked out at the chaos below.
Thousands of Valkarian soldiers were swarming the fields—marching in tight formations under the glow of their siege fires. At the center, Edric saw them: three figures that stood apart from the rest.
Luke Arcadia, calm and calculating, flanked by the two dragon slayers—Vorak Seruun and Iskhar Thane—and Grand Duke Vermorth, his banner raised high.
Elian followed his father's gaze. "So he really came himself," he muttered.
Edric's jaw tightened. "He wants to make an example of House Grey."
A massive explosion shook the outer walls, showering them with debris. Part of the rampart collapsed, sending several men screaming into the flames below.
"Damn it!" Elian gritted his teeth. "They're breaching the second layer!"
Edric stepped forward, his voice booming above the chaos. "Marcellus! Take five knights and secure the breach! Elian, with me!"
They leapt from the wall to the lower platform, landing amid smoke and shattered stone. Enemy soldiers poured through the gap, screaming war cries—but the Grand Duke met them head-on.
His sword cut through armor like paper. Each swing was precise, powerful, honed from decades of command and bloodshed. Elian fought beside him, matching his rhythm—father and son, two flames burning against the night.
Marcellus joined them, shield raised, deflecting a spear thrust aimed for Edric's back. "They're not stopping!" he shouted. "We're outnumbered twenty to one!"
Edric parried a blow, kicked the attacker aside, and growled through gritted teeth, "Then we make every one of them regret stepping into Greyhold."
Another explosion roared in the distance. The eastern gate groaned, wood and iron splintering under the relentless barrage.
Marcellus turned, eyes wide. "Your Grace—the main gate!"
Edric's breath came out cold, steady. "So it begins." He raised his sword, shouting to his men:
"Greyhold stands! Fight until your last breath!"
His knights answered with a battle cry that tore through the smoke.
And as the massive front gates finally shattered inward—flames lighting up the courtyard—a shadowed army poured through the breach, led by Luke Arcadia himself, his smirk cutting through the firelight.
The two forces collided in a storm of steel, gunfire, and fury.
Greyhold's Inner Courtyard
The flames painted the walls red. Smoke curled around the broken towers as the roar of battle swallowed the once-peaceful estate.
Grand Duke Edric Grey stood at the forefront, his sword gleaming in the firelight. Around him, his men fought tooth and nail against the endless tide of Valkarian soldiers pouring through the shattered gates.
Then he felt it—two killing intents cutting through the chaos like razors.
He turned just as Vorak Seruun and Iskhar Thane stepped out of the mist, their movements silent, their armor blackened by strange symbols that pulsed faintly beneath the glow of the fire.
Vorak smirked, spinning his spear lazily in his hand. "So you're the man they call the Steel Duke."
Iskhar rested his massive cleaver against his shoulder. "He doesn't look like much. I expected more from the Empire's wall."
Edric raised his blade, stance firm but calm. "If you came for my head, you'll leave disappointed."
Vorak's grin widened. "We didn't come for your head." His voice dropped lower. "We came for your soul."
The two moved at once—faster than ordinary knights, their strikes heavy and deliberate. Edric met the first blow head-on, his sword ringing against Vorak's spear, then twisted aside just in time to parry Iskhar's cleaver that split a flagstone in half.
The clash sent a shockwave through the courtyard. Dust and embers spiraled upward.
Edric gritted his teeth, stepping back slightly. They're not human… these aren't soldiers.
He exhaled slowly. "So that's what Luke brought with him… monsters wearing men's faces."
Vorak laughed. "You're not wrong."
Iskhar swung again, and Edric ducked, answering with a counter-slash that sliced through the mist—only to find empty air. The two Apostles reappeared behind him, weapons glowing with unholy energy.
"Let's see how long the Steel Duke lasts."
The courtyard lit up once more—steel, light, and blood colliding in the storm.
Eastern Hall – Inside Greyhold
Luke Arcadia stepped through the ruined archway, his boots echoing softly against the marble floor. The fighting outside had begun to fade, replaced by the low hum of burning wood.
Ahead of him stood Elian Grey, sword drawn, and beside him, Princess Sophia, her eyes burning with fury despite the exhaustion in her face.
Luke smirked. "So this is what's left of the Grey line."
Elian's voice came sharp. "You betrayed us, Luke. You slaughtered our allies and brought war to our gates!"
Luke tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Betrayed? No, Elian. I simply chose to stop living under the illusion that the Empire could win."
Sophia stepped forward, her mana flaring faintly. "You're no patriot—you're a murderer."
Luke chuckled softly, lowering his sword. "Perhaps. But tell me, Princess—how far are you willing to go to stop me?"
Elian lunged first. Their blades clashed, sparks flying as Luke parried with a single, practiced motion. The force of it sent Elian skidding back, boots grinding against the floor.
Sophia raised her hand, forming a sigil—wind and light converging into a blast that tore through the hallway. Luke twisted aside, the spell barely missing him as it shattered a pillar into dust.
He smirked. "Not bad. But if this is all you've got—"
Elian was already behind him, his blade swinging down in a flash of steel. Luke blocked just in time, but the impact sent both men stumbling back.
"—then maybe I should've brought a real challenge," Luke finished, grin returning.
Courtyard, Moments Later
Edric's sword locked with Vorak's spear again, the air trembling from the impact. His arms burned with effort. He ducked under Iskhar's strike, then slammed his gauntlet into the man's chest, forcing him back a few steps.
He wasn't outmatched—but he was being pushed.
Vorak twirled his weapon, laughing. "You fight like a legend, Duke. Shame legends die the same as men."
Edric exhaled sharply, drawing mana into his sword. "Then you'll learn what kind of man I am."
He thrust forward, his blade glowing white-hot, cutting through Vorak's guard and searing across his chest. The Apostle hissed—not in pain, but in amusement.
"You draw on willpower instead of faith," Vorak whispered, his wound already closing. "Fascinating."
Edric's eyes narrowed. "You heal like a demon."
Iskhar's cleaver swung toward him again, and Edric barely blocked it, the shockwave cracking the stone beneath their feet.
The flames danced across his armor, reflecting the glint of a memory—of a mountain drenched in ash and dragon blood. The world once called him the Wyrmreaper of the North, the man who felled the Curse Dragon Vraekor, one of the strongest true dragons ever known. Its death had stained his soul with its dying curse, and since then, his blade carried that same dreadful weight.
The Apostles felt it now—the oppressive aura of something ancient and vengeful pressing against them like a phantom.
Vorak's grin faded. "That presence… what are you?"
Edric raised his sword, the air warping around its edge. "A man who's already slain worse monsters than you."
He stepped forward.
The three clashed again—each impact thunderous, shaking the ground as the fate of Greyhold burned beneath a blood-red sky.
The courtyard was a graveyard of smoke and steel. Fire licked the broken walls, and every breath carried the taste of ash.
Grand Duke Edric Grey stood firm, his armor scorched, his blade still gleaming through the haze.
Before him, Vorak Seruun and Iskhar Thane advanced—two predators wearing human shapes.
Their weapons pulsed with unholy light, the ground cracking with each step they took.
Vorak smirked. "Tired already, Duke?"
Iskhar spun his cleaver, his grin stretching too wide. "Let's see how long that legend of yours lasts."
They moved as one. The air split open—one spear thrust from above, one cleaver from the side. Edric met them both, his sword flashing silver in the firelight. Steel screamed against steel, the shockwave bursting outward and shattering what remained of the courtyard pillars.
But the next strike came faster, harder—black and red mana twisting together in a single, monstrous burst of power.
The impact hit like a storm.
Edric blocked—barely. The ground beneath him exploded, and his sword, the ancient blade of House Grey, shattered under the pressure.
Fragments scattered like shooting stars. The Duke was thrown back, sliding through rubble, blood trailing from a cut along his cheek.
Vorak lowered his spear, laughing. "So that's it? The Steel Duke falls to the Apostles of the Outer Gods?"
Iskhar planted his cleaver into the ground beside him. "Disappointing. I expected more from the Dragon Slayer himself."
For a moment, there was only the crackle of fire and the distant screams of war.
Then—Edric laughed.
It wasn't mocking or bitter. It was low, steady, dangerous.
He rose slowly, blood dripping from his hand as he wiped it across his mouth. "Heh… I'll admit—it's been a long time since anyone's made me bleed."
His voice grew colder, sharper. "Be honored, both of you. In return…"
He stepped forward, mana crackling around him like lightning.
"...it's time I got a little serious."
The ground trembled. The air thickened. Then, a dark, pulsating aura surged from beneath his feet.
A black fissure split open in the cracked stone, spilling smoke and faint whispers that made even the Apostles hesitate.
Edric stretched out his hand. "Rise… Ebonfang."
A jagged blade tore free from the darkness—long, cruel, and carved from bone so black it seemed to drink in the light. The edge glowed faintly with a cursed crimson hue, veins of molten red running through it like blood.
The Apostles froze. Even they could feel it—the crushing pressure that came with the blade's awakening.
Edric gripped its hilt, eyes glowing faintly red as the air around him distorted with power.
"This sword was forged from the bones and fangs of the Curse Dragon I slew myself. Its hatred never faded—nor did mine."
He lifted the weapon, resting it over his shoulder, the cursed aura radiating like heat.
"Now… let's see how gods fare against dragons."
A slow, measured voice echoed from the far side of the battlefield.
"It's been a while, Edric."
Edric froze. The voice was unmistakable.
Through the smoke, a tall figure approached—armor dark green and gold, draped in a cloak bearing the sigil of Valkaria. His face was older, sharper, but those eyes… Edric knew them.
"Vermorth," Edric said quietly.
Grand Duke Vermorth, the Dragon of the East, smiled faintly as he drew his own blade—a spear with scales melted into its shaft. "Two of the Seven Dragon Slayers. Never thought our reunion would be like this."
Edric's expression hardened. "You chose your side, Vermorth."
"I did," Vermorth replied, lowering his spear. "And now I'll end one of my own."
The ground between them cracked, heat and mana distorting the air.
Vorak and Iskhar stepped back instinctively—the pressure of two ancient monsters about to collide was suffocating.
The fire flared.
The night deepened.
And as the last banner of House Grey burned, two of the greatest Dragon Slayers in history faced each other once more—one bathed in steel, the other in shadow.
To be continue