Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy!
From Zero to Hero
" No Magic? No problem!"
Encounter 8 : Fleeing!
The council chamber was a vaulted expanse, heavy with tapestries depicting centuries of Imperial victories. Lords and generals stood around the long obsidian table, their faces pale under the torchlight. The murmur of whispered speculation fell silent as Albrecht entered, each step measured, deliberate.
"My Lords," he began, voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "the scouts bring grave news. Greyhold has fallen. The Grey Duchy is no more. The northern border stands exposed. The enemy is emboldened."
A few nobles exchanged uneasy glances. One of the older generals, a grizzled veteran of decades, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty… surely the Greyhold garrison fought. There must have been survivors—"
Albrecht's gaze swept across the room, cold and unyielding. "There were none. The scouts report overwhelming force. The garrison was annihilated. Every fort, every wall… razed."
A murmur ran through the council, a mixture of shock and fear. One of the younger lords, eager to display his knowledge, spoke quickly. "My Emperor, perhaps we can send reinforcements north immediately—retake the duchy before the enemy consolidates—"
Albrecht lifted a hand, silencing him. "No. Reinforcements sent piecemeal will fall one by one. Greyhold is gone. The enemy will expect haste; they will exploit it. We will not send men to die for empty vengeance. We will strike decisively. We will mobilize the Empire as a single force."
A general gritted his teeth. "With respect, Your Majesty, even a full mobilization will take weeks. By then—"
"By then," Albrecht interrupted, voice rising just enough to command attention without anger, "the northern border must be fortified. Every fortress must hold. Every village must prepare. Every ally must answer our call. This is not a battle for honor; it is a war for survival."
The room fell silent, each member weighing the Emperor's words. Even in his fury, Albrecht radiated a controlled authority that brooked no dissent.
A councilor of intelligence, sharp-eyed and meticulous, leaned forward. "Your Majesty… we can send messengers to the southern duketomes immediately. They can muster forces in half the time it would take to march from here. And we have reserves—elite regiments who can move swiftly to secure the northern passes."
Albrecht nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. "Do it. Every messenger, every rider, every soldier you can spare. The enemy may believe Greyhold is the only northern threat. They are wrong. We will show them the Empire does not falter so easily."
The generals straightened, renewed purpose in their movements. Orders began to echo through the chamber, strategies debated, messengers dispatched. Albrecht watched it all with the measured patience of a man accustomed to command.
And yet, beneath the calm, a fire burned. Greyhold's fall was not just a loss of territory; it was a warning. A challenge. The enemy had shown their strength—but the Empire had yet to see its true might.
Albrecht leaned over the map once more, tracing the northern borders with his finger. "Prepare for war," he murmured to himself. "Greyhold has fallen… but we will reclaim it. And all who stand in the path of the Empire will learn the cost of defiance."
The chamber buzzed with activity, the air thick with tension and determination. The Emperor straightened, his cloak brushing the floor, and took a long, steadying breath. The wheels of war had begun to turn.
The frost spread across the council chamber door like a living thing—thin veins of ice crawling outward, reaching across stone and torchlight. The flames dimmed, paling to sickly blue before sputtering weakly.
Albrecht froze where he stood.
Not because of the cold.
But because he recognized it.
That aura.
That temperature.
That kind of frost.
He had felt it once, long ago—when he was young, brash, and still foolish enough to hunt legends.
The air thickened, sharp enough to bite skin. Snowflakes drifted through the gap under the door, each one shimmering with unnatural light.
A whisper rose in the back of Albrecht's mind, old memories clawing to the surface.
Azure… the White Frozer Monarch.
The oldest.
The coldest.
The one who froze armies with a breath.
The one he killed.
He remembered the taste of blood in the air. The howling blizzard. The feeling of his bones nearly shattering as the dragon's tail struck him. The blinding light of its final scream before collapsing into the mountain snow.
He had been twenty-three. Barely a man. Yet he had walked out of that frozen tomb with the dragon's heart still steaming in his hands.
That was the day he earned his title.
Albrecht the White Dragon Killer.
One of the Seven Dragon Slayers—champions who rose together during an age when true dragons still ruled the skies.
But now…
Only four of them remained.
And one of them—Edric Grey—had just fallen.
And another—Vermorth—had turned traitor.
The ice thickened. A shadow moved behind the frozen door.
Albrecht's heartbeat spiked.
He's coming for me.
Vermorth.
Fellow Dragon Slayer.
The man who had shattered the spine of the Red Abyss Tyrant.
The man who earned the title Slayer of Light, after killing a dragon that breathed miniature suns.
And now…
That same man had razed Greyhold, butchered Edric, and unleashed forbidden magic from a past era.
Albrecht backed away from the door, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.
His breath fogged in front of him.
"No… not now," he muttered, voice low but shaking. "Not you, Vermorth. Not after all these years."
The frost on the door thickened—then stopped.
Silence.
No footsteps.
No breath.
No aura.
The cold remained, but the presence behind it began to fade… like a beast reconsidering its prey.
Then—
A voice. Soft. Calm. Familiar.
But impossibly close.
"Still alive… White Dragon Killer?"
Albrecht spun.
The room was empty.
Only frost swirling in the air like falling petals.
Vermorth wasn't here after all.
Only his message.
A warning.
Or a promise.
Then, as quickly as it came, the cold retreated. The frost cracked, melting off the door in slow rivulets. The torches flared back to life, warm and trembling.
Albrecht stood alone, trembling slightly, hand still on his sword.
The Emperor—the man who commanded millions—felt something he hadn't felt in decades.
Not during wars.
Not during political uprisings.
Not even when he faced a dragon.
Fear.
Slowly, he exhaled and steadied himself.
"First Edric… now Greyhold…" he whispered. "If Vermorth is making his move… then the Dragon Slayers are next."
He looked at the council table—empty now, but still etched with the map of the realms.
"Four remain," he murmured. "Myself… Vermorth… Rowan of the East… and the Black Spear Saint."
His jaw tightened.
"If Vermorth is hunting us… then the Age of Dragons ends again. In blood."
The room fell silent.
Outside, the capital bells began ringing—the sound of full mobilization, echoing across the city.
War was coming.
Not just against an invading duchy.
But against one of the strongest heroes their world had ever produced.
And Albrecht knew, with chilling certainty:
Vermorth wasn't done.
He was only getting started.
The forest path narrowed as they pushed their horses forward, the wind biting against their faces. Luke rode ahead of the group, silent and tense, the message from the scout still echoing in his head.
"Lord Arcadia," the messenger had reported, panting, "we found no trace of Rolien Grey in the ruins. No body. No tracks. Nothing."
Now, long after the scout fell back into the column, Luke finally let out a sharp, irritated click of his tongue.
"Tch. That bastard. Figures he'd run when everything turned to hell." His voice dipped, dripping with contempt. "Magicless coward. Leaves his whole family to die and slips away like a ghost. Expected from someone useless."
Vermorth's horse trotted up beside him. The black-haired dragon slayer watched Luke with a lazy smile that somehow felt sharper than a blade.
"So that boy," Vermorth said, "this Rolien Grey… he's the same 'magicless creator' who made your empire's new machines? The cold-air device, the self-moving carts, all that?"
Luke's jaw twitched. "Yes."
Vermorth caught the expression instantly and chuckled. "You hate him. I can hear it from a mile away."
Luke scowled. "Drop it."
"No," Vermorth said, amused, "this is interesting. You talk about him like he spits in your food every morning."
Vorax joined in from Luke's other side, his voice calm and grounded. "Sounds personal."
Luke's grip tightened on the reins. "It is."
They rode a moment in silence before he continued. "That brat… no magic at all, yet he still managed to go toe to toe with me. Every time I accomplished something, he'd do something bigger. Every time I earned a title, he'd invent something that outshined it. Even as a kid, he kept stealing the spotlight."
His face tightened—not with anger, but with something far closer to resentment.
"He even won my father's approval," Luke muttered. "Lance Arcadia praised him more than his own son."
A heavy quiet settled over the three of them, broken only by the steady beat of hooves.
Vermorth breathed out a low whistle. "Your grudge runs deep."
Luke didn't deny it.
"But we're not riding to settle childhood bruises," Vermorth said, voice shifting to something more serious. "We're riding into the territory of the White Dragon Killer. Emperor Albrecht."
Luke nodded.
Vermorth continued, "And he isn't your father. He isn't Lance. He's the man who slayed the Azure Monarch with his own hands. One of the seven true dragons… wiped out."
Vorax spoke up. "And his son, Prince Keain, sits imprisoned somewhere inside his own empire. That alone tells you how cutthroat Cecearan politics are."
"That empire eats its own," Vermorth added. "And we're walking right into its jaws."
Luke lifted his head. The distant banners of Ceceara were coming into view—steel-gray flags painted with a single, pale dragon curling around a sun.
"Let him think Vermorth the Black Skull came to challenge him," Vermorth said with a grin. "It keeps the game fun."
Luke exhaled through his nose. "The whole world thinks the dragon slayers are dying off. Edric's death makes it four left. Four. And Albrecht probably thinks Vermorth came to finish him next."
Vermorth shrugged. "He should worry. I would, if I were him."
Vorax glanced at Luke again. "What about Rolien? If the boy survived… he could complicate everything."
Luke scoffed. "He's probably hiding somewhere, trembling like always."
Vermorth didn't agree. His voice dropped to a thoughtful murmur. "Or the world already placed him where it needs him."
Neither Luke nor Vorax replied.
The empire loomed ahead.
Old legends were moving again.
The dragon slayers were gathering—willing or not.
And somewhere out there, a magicless boy had just gone missing on the day the world needed him most.
The storm wasn't coming.
It was already here.
Night swallowed the forest around them, and every branch felt like a claw reaching for their throats.
The Asher Hawks moved in a tight formation, boots crunching through underbrush, breath frosting the air. Tessa ran at the front, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between the dark paths ahead. Behind her, Brag half-carried Sir Marcellus while Ren slipped in and out of the trees like a shadow.
Elian Grey—barely conscious, pale as ash—was slumped over Brag's other shoulder, blood soaking his tunic. Each jolt of movement forced a thin, pained groan out of him.
Elara kept pace right beside him. Her hands were trembling, her face streaked with tears and soot, but she didn't break stride.
"Stay with us, Eli…" she whispered, voice shaking.
He didn't answer.
Solis, robes torn and burned, muttered a spell under his breath to light the path, but the flame flickered weakly. Pete, running beside him, kept glancing back toward the distant red glow—the burning ruins of Greyhold.
The smell of smoke still clung to them.
Tessa raised a hand. "Ren. Report."
Ren stopped, panting. Even he, usually unshakably calm, looked rattled. "I scouted the back trail. No sign of pursuit so far. But the forest's too quiet. Even the beasts ran off."
Brag growled under his breath. "Who the hell wouldn't run? Did you see the duchy? Whole damn place flattened. Like someone took a giant hammer and smashed everything."
Pete swallowed hard. "It wasn't a hammer. It was Vermorth. I saw him… I saw him cut down the Duke like he was nothing."
Tessa didn't respond. She'd seen it too. That last swing. The arc of blood. Edric's arm hitting the ground.
She forced her breathing steady. "Our priority is survival. Once we reach the next fort, we can send word to the capital."
Elara stumbled. Her legs almost gave out, but Mira quickly caught her.
"Easy," Mira whispered. "Don't push yourself."
Elara wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "My… my father is dead. My home is gone. My brother is dying. I have to push. I have to—"
"Stop." Mira gently squeezed her shoulder. "You don't need to pretend you're made of iron. Just stay with us."
Behind them, Leto trudged on silently. His usual sarcastic grin was gone. He hadn't said a word since they escaped the estate's collapse.
Solis glanced at the unconscious Marcellus. "He won't last if we keep moving without rest."
Tessa shot him a sharp look. "If we rest here, none of us will last. Vermorth's men could sweep this forest at any moment."
Ren's head jerked sideways. "Speaking of that—something's coming."
Everyone froze.
Brag gently lowered Elian and Marcellus to the ground. Leto and Mira moved to Elara's side. Pete and Solis prepared spells, hands shaking.
Tessa stepped forward, drawing her blades.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then Ren relaxed slightly. "False alarm. Just deer."
A shaky breath rippled through the group.
Brag wiped sweat from his brow. "Thought my heart was gonna leap out."
Tessa didn't lower her blades. "Fear means we're still alive."
Ren moved closer. "Leader… what do we do when we reach the capital? Greyhold is gone. Everyone will panic."
"We shine a light on the truth," Tessa said softly. "The empire needs to know Vermorth is moving. And the boy—Rolien—"
Elara's head snapped up. "Rolien? What about him?" Panic sharpened her voice. "Do you know something? Did someone see him? Did he escape with another group?"
Tessa hesitated.
They all looked at her.
Finally, she spoke quietly, "We didn't find him."
Elara's knees nearly buckled.
Mira caught her again. "Don't assume the worst. Rolien's smart. He survives things he shouldn't."
Solis nodded. "He outwits half the academy without even trying."
Leto found his voice at last. "If anyone can slip past an invading army… it's that kid."
Elara clung to that sliver of hope. "He's alive. I know he is. He has to be."
Tessa didn't argue. Not now.
They needed hope just as much as water and air.
A distant boom rolled through the forest.
The ground trembled.
Everyone looked back—toward the direction of the Grey estate.
The sky glowed faintly… like embers still burning.
Pete swallowed. "Is… that Sophia's magic… still detonating?"
Solis shook his head. "No. This feels different. Something else collapsed."
Tessa tightened her grip on her weapons. "Whatever it is, we're not staying to find out. Move."
The Asher Hawks lifted the injured and pushed forward again, deeper into the night.
Behind them, the Grey duchy smoldered.
Ahead of them… the empire waited, wounded and unprepared.
And somewhere in the ruins or the darkness—
Rolien Grey was still missing.
To be continue.