Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to hero" No Magic? No Problem! "
Encounter 7: The Falling Sky
The night trembled beneath the clash of legends.
Ash drifted like dying snow, and the fires of Greyhold painted the sky a deep, bleeding red.
Grand Duke Edric Grey stood his ground at the center of the courtyard—his armor cracked, his breath ragged, but his gaze unshaken. The Curse Fang pulsed with a sinister rhythm in his grasp, veins of molten crimson racing across its blade.
Before him stood three figures: Grand Duke Vermorth, his old ally turned adversary, and the two newly anointed Apostles—Vorak Seruun and Iskhar Thane—their armor now reformed in radiant gold and silver, burning with divine seals.
Edric's jaw tightened. "So that's what they turned you into," he said, voice low and rough.
Iskhar smirked, resting his gleaming cleaver against his shoulder. "The new age doesn't need relics, old man."
Vorak spun his spear lazily. "They call us the New Dragon Slayers. Guess that makes you our first test."
Edric gave a dark, humorless laugh. "Then let's see if your gods can save you."
They attacked together—three storms colliding.
The Apostles' movements were sharp, divine, synchronized to deadly precision. Vermorth, however, moved with grace honed by centuries. His blade carved arcs through the air like flowing water, each swing carrying the weight of experience.
Edric parried one, ducked under another, and countered with a feint—his sword flickering left, then snapping right with sudden speed. The strike grazed Vorak's neck, forcing him back with a spray of sparks.
Vermorth's brow furrowed slightly. That move—smooth, efficient, deceptive. It wasn't the usual brute precision of Edric's swordsmanship. He didn't question it, though. He had no time to.
The courtyard became a tempest. Every clash of steel cracked the ground, every step crushed embers beneath their boots. The wind howled with every swing.
Edric roared, twisting his body and driving his sword upward in a devastating slash. Flames erupted from the cursed blade, forcing both Apostles back. But before he could breathe, Vermorth was already there—meeting him with a counter that sent tremors through his arm.
Then—
The Apostles rejoined.
Vorak lunged, his spear flashing toward Edric's ribs, while Iskhar's cleaver came down from above in a burst of light. Edric barely managed to parry one—only to be struck across the side by the other.
The blow drove him to his knees, blood spraying from his lips.
Vermorth's eyes widened. "Edric!"
He tried to intercept the follow-up strike, but the two Apostles pressed harder, sensing victory. Holy fire surged around them as they prepared to finish it.
Edric raised his sword again—hands trembling, yet steady with resolve. The ground beneath him split as his aura flared one last time. "You think… I'll kneel that easily!?"
He swung upward in a wide, defiant arc, meeting all three at once. The explosion that followed ripped the courtyard apart. Stone shattered. Towers fell. The light of it blinded even the Apostles.
When the smoke cleared, Edric stood half-slumped, bleeding heavily, the Curse Fang still in hand. His armor was fractured, his left arm limp, his breathing shallow.
The Apostles circled him, blades gleaming.
"Die, old man," Vorak hissed.
The blade rose—
—but Vermorth stepped in.
His sword intercepted the strike in a blinding flash. Sparks flew as steel screamed against steel.
"That's enough," Vermorth said quietly, his tone calm but absolute.
"Lord Vermorth?" one of the Apostles asked in disbelief.
"I said enough. You two go now eradicate the remaining soldiers of this duketome. I'll handle this. . ."
He shoved the Apostle back with a burst of mana so heavy it cracked the ground beneath them." Hell fll by my hands"
" But Lord ver-" Vorax argue but vermorth shut him by glaring at him that make the two tremble in fear. " Tch, fine make sure to finish him off.... Damn this honor shit lets go now thane. " Vorax shouted and they turn their backs at them and run off in other direction.
Edric's head tilted slightly, blood dripping from his chin. "Still playing hero?" he rasped.
Vermorth didn't look at him. "Shut up. You're already half-dead."
Vermorth stood tall amid the chaos, his blade gleaming under the infernal glow. Across from him, Edric knelt, armor shattered, his breath shallow and ragged. The once-mighty Grand Duke looked more beast than man now—drained, broken, yet still unbowed.
Edric staggered, trying to rise. His blade trembled in his hand, its crimson glow flickering weakly. "Heh… you always were bad at following orders," he muttered.
Vermorth didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the broken man before him — the same man who once stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, against dragons and gods. The same man who once saved his son's life without asking anything in return.
The silence stretched. Only the crackle of fire and the distant screams of war filled the night.
Then, without warning, a ripple of mana exploded from the edge of the courtyard.
Five silhouettes emerged through the haze — the Asher Hawks.
Tess led the charge, twin blades flashing in the firelight. Brag followed, heavy axe raised high, with Solis and Pete close behind. Ren was last, bow already drawn, eyes scanning for any opening.
From the smoke, the Asher Hawks stormed in. Tess led first, screaming his name.
"GRAND DUKE!"
She lunged, both blades crossing for Vermorth's throat. Sparks erupted as steel met steel—Vermorth's single parry sent her flying back. Solis was next, a giant fire ball is fired splitting the ground, only to be met by Vermorth's effortless block. Brag roared from the flank, axe raised high—but a single kick crushed the attack and hurled him across the courtyard.
Pete charged, lightning sparking around his gauntlets. He landed a flurry of blows, fast and fierce—but Vermorth barely moved, deflecting every strike with inhuman precision before shoving him aside.
"Stay out of this," Vermorth said coldly, his tone slicing sharper than any sword.
Then came Ren.
From the shadows, his arrow cut through the chaos—a single streak of light heading straight for Vermorth. The Dragon Slayer turned his head just enough; the arrow grazed his cheek. His eyes met Ren's across the battlefield.
And in that frozen heartbeat, Vermorth's lips moved. A whisper—silent but clear.
Ren's grip faltered. His eyes widened. Then, with his jaw tight, he lowered his bow, leapt down, and sprinted through the wreckage.
Tess shouted, "Ren! What the hell are you—!?"
Ren ignored her. He dashed straight to Edric, grabbed the wounded Duke by the arm, and slung him over his shoulder. "We're getting out of here," he hissed through his teeth.
Edric groaned, blood spilling from his lips. "You fool… he'll—"
Ren didn't wait. He ran, boots pounding across shattered stone as flames roared behind him.
Vermorth turned. The Hawks threw themselves at him again—Tess, Solis, Brag, and Pete, a storm of steel and desperation. But Vermorth met them with terrifying ease.
A sidestep. A parry. A burst of mana.
Tess slammed into the wall, her blades scattering. Brag's axe cracked. Solis barely caught Pete before Vermorth's shockwave flung them aside.
Ren didn't look back. His teeth clenched as he carried Edric toward the collapsing gates. For a brief moment, he turned his head—and saw Vermorth's mouth move once more.
No sound. Just that calm, steady stare.
Ren's jaw locked. He faced forward and kept running, faster.
Then—silence.
Behind him, the world seemed to stop.
Vermorth now stood alone in the courtyard. Edric knelt before him, covered in blood, his breaths shallow and uneven. The fires painted both men in red.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the wind, howling through the ruins, filled the space between them.
Then Vermorth lifted his sword. His voice was quiet, almost mournful.
"Time to end this, old friend."
He moved. A single, perfect swing—clean, decisive.
Blood splattered across the stones. A severed arm rolled to a stop beside a shattered sword.
The Curse Fang lay half-buried in a pool of crimson, its glow fading like a dying heart.
Vermorth stood there, staring down at the fallen Duke. The night was silent now, save for the crackle of fire and the whisper of the wind.
Greyhold had fallen.
Smoke covered the horizon, turning the sun into a pale disc of ash. The banners of the Grey Duchy lay burned and trampled. Among the corpses and ruins, only a few survivors staggered—soldiers too wounded to fight, too stubborn to die.
Vermorth walked through them in silence, his armor scorched and bloodstained. The Apostles, Vorak and Iskhar, returned from the eastern gate, their weapons still glowing with divine residue.
Vorak grinned. "So it's done? The dragon's dead?"
Vermorth tossed the bloodied arm and sword at their feet. The metallic clatter silenced every breath nearby.
"He's finished," Vermorth said coldly. "Greyhold has no more defenders."
Iskhar's eyes narrowed at the sight of the severed limb. "Hmph. Fitting end for the so-called Dragon Slayer."
Vorak crouched, picking up the shattered sword. "This thing's cursed to hell," he muttered. "Should we destroy it?"
Vermorth's hand shot out, gripping his wrist tight enough to make the Apostle flinch.
"No. Leave it. The Emperor will want proof."
He released him, gaze unreadable. "Bring it to him yourself. Tell him Greyhold has fallen."
The two Apostles exchanged glances, clearly pleased to deliver the message of victory. They left, their laughter fading into the wind.
The ruins of Greyhold still smoldered when the next storm began.
Elian's sword clashed against Luke Arcadia's halberd, each impact echoing like thunder through the burning streets. Sparks danced across the shattered stone, and the heat from nearby fires warped the air around them.
Luke advanced with fluid precision — one swing, one step, one effortless domination. His white armor glowed in the crimson light, and his tone carried that infuriating calm.
"You've improved, little heir," Luke said, blocking another desperate strike. "But you're still a child pretending to wear your father's armor."
Elian gritted his teeth. "Keep talking. I'll make sure you choke on that arrogance."
Sophia appeared at his side, wind gathering around her hands, her voice sharp and defiant. "We'll end this, Luke. For everyone you've killed!"
Luke smiled faintly. "End me? You should worry about surviving first."
He lunged. His halberd became a storm of steel, colliding with Elian's blade. The sheer weight of each hit sent tremors through the cobblestones. Sophia fired bursts of compressed air — sharp, cutting, relentless — but Luke spun his weapon, deflecting them all as if swatting at flies.
One swing caught both of them in its wake — a shockwave slammed into their chests, hurling them back into the debris.
Elian coughed blood, but still rose, trembling. His sword hand burned, his breath ragged.
Luke lowered his weapon, calm, almost bored. "Your father fought with purpose. You fight with pride. That's why you'll die here."
Elian growled, "Then I'll die on my feet!"
He dashed forward—
—but a mocking voice cut through the air.
"Mind if we join this fun?"
From the smoke came three figures.
Vermorth.
Vorak Seruun.
Iskhar Thane.
The ground seemed to quake beneath their arrival.
Elian froze. Sophia's heart dropped.
Vorak grinned, his spear resting lazily on his shoulder. "Tsk. And here I thought we were too late. Still a few toys left to break, huh?" His gaze slid toward Sophia, lingering far too long. "Guess I found mine."
Sophia's glare could have cut steel. "You filthy—"
Elian stepped forward, shielding her. "Say another word and I'll gut you."
Vorak's grin widened. "Then try it, prince. Let's see if your blade bites harder than your father's."
Luke smirked. "Careful, Vorak. He's still got some fire left."
Vorak chuckled darkly. "Then I'll snuff it out myself."
They moved as one.
Elian rushed Luke, trading strikes so fierce the air split with every swing. Luke parried, countered, and slammed the halberd into the ground, releasing a burst of light that threw Elian off balance.
Sophia unleashed a storm of wind blades toward Vorak and Iskhar — but Vorak spun his spear, deflecting them with blinding speed. The backlash shattered nearby walls, sending shockwaves through the rubble.
Vorak lunged. Sophia met him with a barrier, but the spear pierced through, grazing her arm. She cried out in pain.
"Princess bleeds pretty," Vorak sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.
Elian's aura flared. He darted across the battlefield, intercepting Vorak with a furious swing. Their weapons collided — steel screaming against steel.
Vorak laughed in his face. "That anger suits you, boy!"
Elian roared, pushing forward with all he had. For a second, his strength forced Vorak back—
—but then Luke appeared behind him.
A brutal kick slammed into Elian's ribs, sending him crashing beside Sophia.
The young heir gasped for air, clutching his side. His vision blurred as blood spilled from his mouth.
Sophia reached toward him, trembling. "Elian… we have to fall back…"
He shook his head weakly. "Not… not while he's still breathing."
Luke approached slowly, halberd dragging through the dirt. "Then you'll die beside your pride."
But before he could strike, Vermorth raised his hand.
"Enough."
All three stopped immediately.
Vermorth's gaze swept over the scene — Elian broken, Sophia barely conscious, Greyhold burning around them. His tone was cold, steady.
"Their defeat is certain. Don't waste your strength."
Luke stepped back without a word.
Iskhar sheathed his cleaver.
Vorak, however, lingered — grin never fading.
He crouched down, spear in hand, eyes fixed on Elian's bloodied face. "You remind me of someone." He chuckled. "Ah, that's right — your father."
Elian's breath hitched.
Vorak's grin turned savage. "You're dying just like your father, young heir."
Something snapped inside Elian. His eyes burned with fury.
"SHUT UP!" he roared, forcing himself up and swinging his sword.
Vorak caught the blade with his bare hand, twisting it aside with a laugh. "There it is. The same pathetic defiance."
Elian's vision blurred, his knees buckling — but he didn't stop. He swung again and again, each strike slower, weaker.
Vorak blocked the last one, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him off the ground. "Your father begged for breath too. Wonder if you'll scream louder?"
He pulled back his spear — its point aimed at Elian's heart.
Sophia screamed his name. "ELIAN!!!"
Vorak smirked. "Time to die, heir of Greyhold—"
The spear lunged forward—
The battlefield had gone still, like the world itself was waiting. The fires burned low, the smell of ash hanging thick in the air.
Vermorth's sharp eyes were the first to turn toward the light forming behind them. It was faint at first — a glow no bigger than a candle flame — but it pulsed like a heartbeat. He frowned, his calm face flickering for the first time.
Vorax tilted his head with a smirk. "What's that? Another spark from your dying princess?"
The light grew. Red shifted to orange, then to a fierce blue. By the time it blazed white, the ground beneath Sophia's boots had started to crack.
Luke felt something crawl down his spine. "No… don't tell me that's—" His words broke off. He took a step back without meaning to.
Sophia stood alone amid the chaos, both hands raised toward the swirling orb of compressed flame. Sweat streamed down her face, her hair lifting from the pressure around her. She could barely hear anything — only the pounding of her heart and the steady pulse of her own mana pushing against its limits.
For a beat the world narrowed around that white core, then widened — and a flashback cracked open the memory like a broken mirror.
Sophia, months earlier, had stood in a quiet training yard, hair loose, eyes more stubborn than she'd ever looked. Rolien leaned against a practice post, bored and patient both.
"I want a signature move," she'd said. "Something I own. Fire — I want fire so I can stand beside you, not behind you."
Rolien blinked, then smiled the sort of private smile he only gave to people who meant it. "You don't need to be that strong," he started.
"No," she cut in. "I don't want to rely on you. Like a damsel. I want to be your equal."
Rolien's smile widened. "Alright, fine. But it won't be easy."
She said, "I'm prepared."
He'd leaned in, lowering his voice. "Think of mana like a field — like pressure or density in a pot of boiling liquid. If you add heat, it expands. If you confine it, pressure rises. Fire in this world behaves a lot like plasma in a furnace. You can't just make more heat; you have to make the space that holds it behave differently."
Sophia tilted her head. "So… containment?"
"Sort of," Rolien said, careful. "Except with magic we don't build steel containers. We build fields. Condense the elemental charge — in this case, fire — again and again into tighter lattices of mana. You compress the flame's energy density until it starts to act like it has its own pull. Not gravity exactly, but a local curvature in the flow of mana that draws things in. Once that condensation threshold is reached, the fire becomes a self-sustaining core — hotter, brighter, and far more cohesive than ordinary spells. It behaves like an object, not a spray. That's how you build a fire that punches through defenses instead of fizzling out."
Sophia had closed her eyes, imagining the math of it even though Rolien used no numbers. "So you force the flame to hold itself… to be small and furious."
"Yeah," Rolien said, light in his eyes at the idea. "Think of pulsing your channel — short, dense pushes of mana — and then stacking those pushes so the field contracts. The trick is—" He hesitated, smiling at her intensity. "—your will. The field follows your intent. You keep it focused and it refuses to dissipate."
She'd nodded like she understood exactly, and Rolien had chuckled and added, "It's close to science: pressure, confinement, and a stable feedback loop. But don't try to treat it like a machine. It answers to your breath, not just your hands."
The memory snapped like a snapped wire. Present cut back in. The white orb hovered above Sophia's palm, humming in a pitch the lungs would have recognized if any of them were listening for it.
At the edge of her sight, she spotted movement — Mira and Leto dragging the half-conscious Elian, his armor cracked, his breathing shallow. Sophia caught their eyes and gave a single nod, a silent signal. Take him. Now.
Mira's lips tightened, but she understood. She threw Elian's arm over her shoulder while Leto covered them, both of them retreating through the rubble as quietly as they could. Sophia exhaled slowly, turning back to the glowing core above her hand.
The orb had reached its peak. What began as white now pulsed green — then violet — each color shift twisting the air around it tighter and tighter until even light itself seemed to bend.
Vorax laughed, forcing a grin through the tension. "What's that tiny fireball gonna do to us, princess? Warm our toes?"
Vermorth didn't laugh. His hand tightened around his sword. He could feel the pressure building — not just mana, but something heavier, almost gravitational.
Then Sophia whispered through clenched teeth, "Now."
The orb detonated forward — not as a blast of fire, but as a beam of burning energy that roared like a dragon's breath. The ground fractured, light engulfing everything in front of her.
Before it could strike, Vermorth moved. His wings of shadow erupted from his back, and he dashed forward — faster than sight — his sword blazing crimson as he swung upward with both hands. He met the beam head-on.
The explosion that followed swallowed the world. A shockwave ripped through the castle ruins, flattening walls and hurling debris skyward. For a moment, everything was sound and light.
The blast carved a crater deep into the earth — and when the smoke cleared, only two figures stood at the center.
Vermorth was on one knee, his armor scorched and cracked, sword buried into the ground as he forced the residual energy upward. The remaining flare tore through the clouds, exploding high above into a sunburst of green and violet flame.
Thane lay nearby, his chest burned and motionless — the impact had hit him full on before Vermorth could deflect it.
Sophia collapsed to one knee, her hands trembling, her mana completely drained. Her chest heaved, her lips pale.
Vermorth rose slowly, smoke curling off his armor. He stared down at her, expression caught between awe and rage. "Impressive," he muttered. "But reckless."
Sophia lifted her eyes, her voice barely a whisper. "As long as it saved them…"
Vermorth's sword tilted slightly, the crimson glow returning to its edge. "Then you've done your part, princess."
He took a step forward through the haze.
Sophia's knees buckled. The light in her eyes dimmed as the last flicker of mana drained from her body. Her trembling hand reached out, fingers brushing against the scorched ground before she collapsed face-first into the dust.
Smoke rolled across the battlefield like mist over a graveyard. For a long moment, there was only the crackle of fire and the faint hiss of molten stone cooling.
Then — a laugh.
Vorax stepped through the haze, his armor dented and charred but his grin untouched. He twirled his spear once, then rested it on his shoulder. "Well, well," he drawled, eyes dragging lazily over Sophia's unconscious form. "Guess the little spark finally burned herself out."
He raised his spear, its tip glinting in the dying light. "Let's see how bright she screams before—"
A blade blocked him.
Vermorth's sword slid between Vorax's weapon and Sophia's neck with a sharp, metallic ring. The air rippled from the sheer pressure of the parry.
Vorax blinked, caught off guard. "...What?"
"Stand down," Vermorth said quietly. His voice wasn't angry — just cold, cutting, absolute.
Vorax scowled. "Tch. You going soft on me, old man? She's the enemy—"
"I said stand down."
The weight behind his tone froze Vorax mid-step. For a second, the younger warrior looked ready to argue, but Vermorth's glare silenced him. The old Dragon Slayer's eyes were distant now, fixed on the crater where the explosion had begun.
He lowered his sword slightly, gazing at the scorched lines etched into the stone — the pattern of the blast, the density of the energy. He'd seen it before. Long ago.
That color. That compression. That flame that bends light itself.
His breath caught. "Impossible…" he muttered under his breath.
Thane groaned nearby, half-buried under debris, but Vermorth didn't hear him. His mind had already drifted to that night — the night that had given him his title. The memory was sharp, violent: a mountain split in half, a dragon wreathed in light so pure it burned through the clouds.
A forbidden magic — Solar Core.
The same one that nearly killed him.
His eyes fell back on Sophia, faintly breathing amid the rubble. "That technique…" he whispered, voice low, almost reverent. "I've seen it before. The light that devours everything."
Vorax frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Vermorth didn't answer right away. His eyes glowed faintly red as the wind howled through the ruins. "They once called it the Flame of Extinction. A spell lost to time… and the reason they called me the Dragon Slayer."
He turned away, sheathing his sword.
"Because I killed the beast who used it."
Vorax blinked. "So what now? We kill her or what?"
Vermorth's gaze lingered on Sophia one last time. "No," he said softly. "Not yet. I need to know where she learned that magic."
The fires crackled around them, shadows stretching long across the ruins.
Vorax sneered but stepped back, lowering his weapon. "Fine. You always did love your mysteries."
Vermorth's expression darkened. His eyes swept the horizon — toward the direction where Mira and Leto had fled with Elian.
"Get the wounded ready," he said. "This war isn't over. Not yet."
And as the night wind carried the ash into the sky, a faint tremor rippled through the ground — something ancient stirring beneath the battlefield.
Vermorth felt it. His grip tightened.
He turned toward the rising moon, the glow reflecting in his bloodied eyes.
"The dragons will not sleep forever," he murmured.
The screen of light behind him flickered once… then died out, leaving only darkness.
The air still crackled with heat. The sky above Greyhold shimmered faintly where Sophia's magic had torn through the clouds, leaving behind a burning scar of color. The battlefield was quiet now—too quiet.
Vermorth stood in the middle of it all, his cloak fluttering against the rising wind. He looked around at the devastation—the scorched earth, the melted stone, the fading embers that glowed like dying stars.
Vorax was the first to break the silence, spitting to the side. "So what now? You just gonna let them crawl away?"
Luke, standing a few paces away, crossed his arms, his tone sharp. "She's unconscious. We could finish this easily."
Vermorth didn't answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the crater's edge, where faint motes of light still floated in the air. His instincts screamed something familiar… something dangerous.
He exhaled slowly. "We're retreating."
Vorax's head snapped up. "Retreating? Now? After all this?"
Even Luke's brow furrowed. "You can't be serious."
Vermorth turned toward them, his expression calm but his tone carrying weight like iron. "If I'm right about that spell—what she just released—it's not over."
Vorax frowned. "What do you mean?"
Vermorth looked back toward the glowing haze where Sophia had fallen. "That was Nuclear Magic. Condensed fire, compressed to a density where it bends light. If the containment breaks before the core cools…" He paused, his voice dropping lower. "It'll consume everything within miles."
A shiver ran through Vorax despite himself. "You're saying this whole place—"
"—will turn into ash," Vermorth finished.
He turned to them fully now, eyes sharp, commanding. "Gather the troops. I want every surviving soldier pulled back immediately. We move toward the capital and prepare for Phase Two of the invasion."
Vorax looked like he wanted to argue, but Luke stepped forward, his usual arrogance tempered by unease. "He's right," Luke said quietly. "I've read about that magic in the forbidden archives. It's not meant to exist. If we stay here…" He glanced at the fading glow. "…we die with it."
Vermorth gave a curt nod. "Then it's settled."
He sheathed his sword, eyes lingering once more on the distant ruins. "We've done enough damage here. The Greyhold line has fallen. The rest will crumble in time."
Vorax grumbled under his breath but obeyed, signaling the retreat to their troops. The soldiers—wounded, scorched, exhausted—began to pull back, their banners flickering like shadows in the smoke.
Vermorth turned to Luke as they walked. "Once we reach the capital, tell the bishops to prepare the second phase. We strike when the north's defenses collapse completely."
Luke smirked faintly. "Phase Two, huh? I suppose the old wolf still knows how to plan ahead."
Vermorth's gaze hardened. "This isn't planning. It's survival."
Behind them, the wind began to shift. The light that lingered over Greyhold shimmered once more, pulsing faintly—like the heartbeat of a dying star.
They didn't look back.
The army withdrew into the distance, and for a moment, the ruins of Greyhold stood silent beneath the trembling sky.
To be continued…