Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
" No magic?, No problem!"
Encounter 26: no magic,No mercy!
The corridor stretched long and quiet, its stained glass windows casting soft colors on the polished stone floor. Rolien walked with his hands in his pockets, eyes forward, his pace steady and unhurried. Beside him, her steps matched his easily—regal yet relaxed.
Sophia walked with the same grace she always had, but there was something sharper now in her voice, something more seasoned.
"Five months," she said, tilting her head slightly as she glanced at him. "You vanished right after the crown city exams. No letters. No reports. Not even a damn rumor."
Rolien gave a small nod, not looking at her. "Had things to do."
"I figured," she said, not pressing. Her smile returned, amused. "Meanwhile, I've been dodging engagement offers like arrows. You'd think nobles would show some restraint. But no, they see a princess alone at the academy, and suddenly everyone's a poet, warrior, or heir to some dusty title."
Students lined the sides of the corridor, some whispering, some pretending not to look—but all of them noticed. The Third Princess of the Empire wasn't just walking through campus. She was walking beside him. The silent commoner. The boy with a prosthetic hand and a reputation for humiliating arrogant heirs on the training grounds.
Rolien didn't flinch under their stares. He just kept walking, his eyes scanning the far end of the hall.
Sophia glanced at the crowd, then leaned a little closer, speaking just loud enough for him to hear. "You've made a name for yourself, you know. 'The Quiet Blade,' 'Ghosthand,' 'That guy who broke Lord Amwell's jaw in a duel.' Not bad for someone who doesn't like attention."
"Not interested in titles," Rolien muttered. "Or noble politics."
She smiled again, faintly. "Same."
They walked a few more steps in silence before she spoke again, her tone softer this time.
"When I saw you today… I wasn't sure if you'd ignore me."
"I thought about it," he said simply, glancing at her for the first time since they left the courtyard.
Her eyes met his—bright, gold-flecked, unbothered. "But you didn't."
He gave the barest shrug. "You said 'found you.' Figured I'd let myself be found."
Sophia's smile lingered, more real now. "You've changed. You're colder."
Rolien's expression didn't shift. "You'd be too, if you saw what I saw."
Sophia didn't answer that. She didn't need to.
They reached the archway leading to the strategy hall. The doors were already crowded with upperclass cadets preparing for the incursion assignments. Murmurs followed their arrival.
Rolien stopped just before the doors. "You joining a team?"
"Already have one," Sophia replied. "But I haven't chosen a vice-captain yet."
He turned his head slightly toward her. "Don't pick someone soft."
"I won't," she said, then stepped closer. "Unless he's hiding behind a cold face and a busted arm."
Rolien gave her a look—not annoyed, not amused. Just… tired. "If you're trying to recruit me, I'll pass."
"No," she said, brushing past him toward the doors. "I'm not recruiting. Just reminding you who your real allies are."
She paused at the threshold, casting him one last glance over her shoulder.
"When the incursion starts, make sure you're not the last one left standing. Again."
Then she was gone.
And for the first time in months, Rolien felt the chill of memory catch up to him.
Not the battlefield.
Not the blood.
Just her.
The strategy hall buzzed with energy—voices overlapping, papers shuffling, boots echoing against stone. Dozens of students were gathered in formation rows, broken into groups of five, the sharp scent of ink and mana-heavy parchment hanging in the air.
At the front of the room, Professor Elric stood like a stone sentinel, arms clasped behind his back. His robe bore the academy's crest and silver stripes marking him as a war mage and combat veteran.
"Listen closely," Elric's voice boomed, magically amplified. "All squads have now been finalized. You will operate under your team designation, but make no mistake—you are all part of a larger force. Your actions reflect not just your squad, but this class, and the Empire's military division at large."
His sharp eyes swept the room.
"There will be no solo heroes. No disobedience. No dead weight."
Rolien stood at ease near the back, arms folded, watching. The rest of his classmates were still adjusting to the chaos of it all. Most of them were noble-born. Pampered. Educated, sure—but not hardened.
His team stood beside him.
Professor Elric stood at the front of the strategy hall, his sharp eyes scanning the rows of gathered students.
"Now listen closely," he said, voice magically projected across the hall. "This isn't just a mission. It's an evaluation."
A low murmur rippled through the class.
"This incursion will determine more than just your field readiness," he continued. "Every squad action—every decision—will be assessed and scored. Combat performance. Team coordination. Objective completion. Support effectiveness. Risk management. Even your behavior under pressure."
He tapped a glowing crystal embedded in the center of the mission table. It flared to life, revealing student names hovering in a shifting, rune-marked list.
"Points will be assigned individually and by squad. And once the mission ends, rankings will be released. The top five cadets will be recognized academy-wide. Recommendations for officer-track promotions will be influenced heavily by this list."
Some students straightened. Others clenched their jaws.
"You want to be at the top?" Elric said, letting his words hang. "Then earn it. In the field."
He paused, gaze locking briefly with Sophia… then Rolien.
"You'll be watched. All of you."
Squad Twelve.
Sophia, the third princess and squad captain, stood tall and unshaken, her crimson cloak draped perfectly over her shoulder like it had always belonged there.
To her right was Arwin Zell, a brute of a knight from a border noble house—proud, scarred, and too used to being the strongest in the room. He crossed his arms, clearly irritated by the thought of being led by royalty.
Next was Mira Deyn, a calm, calculating half-elf with ink-stained gloves and a stare that measured people the same way she measured spell vectors. Quietly observant, clearly not here to make friends.
Then Leto Farwind, the crossbowman from the southern provinces, lounging like they were prepping for a picnic instead of a combat assignment. The kind of guy who'd crack jokes in a battlefield… and maybe live long enough to regret it.
And of course, Rolien—hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, his prosthetic fingers twitching now and then as if recalling an old habit. He didn't talk. Didn't need to. Everyone already whispered about him.
From the side, Sophia leaned slightly toward him and said low enough only he could hear, "I didn't request you."
Rolien blinked, not turning. "Then why am I here?"
"I didn't not request you," she clarified, tone amused.
Before he could respond, Elric's voice boomed again.
"You've all been grouped into combat-functional squads for the upcoming incursion drill at the Old Kareth ruins," he said. "But you will move, deploy, and report as a unified class unit under my direct command. Any squad that falls behind compromises the entire operation. If you can't keep up, you'll be reassigned—or expelled."
There were murmurs. Tension.
Then a large mana screen lit up behind him, showing the rough terrain near the Old Kareth ruins—bogs, broken stone ridges, lingering mist.
"This isn't just a drill," Elric said, his voice now edged with something colder. "Demon activity has been confirmed in the area. Several ritual sites are active. You are not here to play soldier. You are here to learn whether you can survive the field."
Sophia raised her hand. "Squad Twelve reporting in. Ready."
Several heads turned.
Elric nodded. "Good. You'll be our advance recon unit. You'll move ahead of the class convoy, chart safe paths, and disable any active summoning sites you find."
"Understood," she said without hesitation.
Rolien caught the brief look she threw his way.
It wasn't a question.
It was a test.
He exhaled quietly. "Let's get it done."
And so, Squad Twelve stepped forward—not as lone wolves, but as part of a larger force, their skills and flaws laid bare in front of the class, the staff, and the Empire.
Whispers followed them as they left the hall and began preparations.
A royal.
A mercenary.
A mute with a ghost-hand.
An alchemist nobody trusted.
A rogue with too many jokes.
Not a dream team.
But something about it felt like a storm waiting to be named.
And Rolien could feel it in his bones:
This wasn't going to be just a mission.
It was going to be a reckoning.
The sun was dipping low over the academy walls, casting golden streaks through the barracks as Squad Twelve finished checking their gear. Leather straps tightened. Weapons were sharpened. Mana crystals were checked for charge.
The rest of the class was still scattered through the open staging ground, some practicing formations, others casually lounging or comparing armor enchantments.
Inside their assigned prep room, Squad Twelve sat in a loose circle, not training, but talking—finally letting the silence between strangers stretch into something resembling familiarity.
"Alright," Leto began, tossing a dried fruit into his mouth and leaning back on his bedroll. "Let's break the tension. If you could train under any adventurer in the Empire, who'd it be?"
"Easy," Mira said, not even looking up from where she was adjusting the straps on her mana satchel. "Lady Varissa of the Azure Spire. Third Circle Enchanter. She reinvented half of modern field healing theory."
"Boring," Arwin muttered. "I'd go with Sir Dagarion. Man fought off a manticore pack with just a tower shield and a broken spear. That's someone who knows war."
Sophia tilted her head. "I'd probably say General Helbrecht. Strategy over strength."
Leto grinned. "Pfft. All good picks. But come on—none of you said him."
They glanced his way.
Leto's voice dropped slightly, as if saying the name carried weight.
"The Black Wraith."
Mira actually stopped adjusting her satchel. "He's real?"
"Oh, he's real," Leto said, eyes wide like a campfire storyteller. "Solo-cleared an A-Class incursion in the deep Weeping Forest. Took out an entire cult cell in the Red Quarter with no backup. Witnesses say he just appeared from the shadows, no sound, no name, no insignia. Just that black armor and the mask."
"I heard he vanished after killing a corrupted knight captain," Arwin added. "No one even knows what he looks like."
"Some say he's a failed noble," Leto mused. "Others say he's a former assassin. Maybe even a royal exile."
Sophia raised a brow. "Why the interest?"
Leto shrugged. "Guy works alone. Never asks for credit. Just… gets it done. That kind of efficiency? That's power."
Rolien, who had been sitting silently by the edge of the room, resting with his back against the wall and arms over his chest, suddenly let out a low, brief chuckle.
Mira glanced at him. "What's funny?"
He looked up lazily, that usual unreadable calm on his face.
"Nothing," he said. "Just thought it's funny how everyone admires someone who's supposedly a newcomer."
Leto smirked. "Newcomer? Are you kidding? He's only been active a year and he's already making the guilds nervous. The high-tier adventurer's board won't even list his name—they just file the missions under 'cleared by unaffiliated.' That's not a newcomer. That's a ghost."
"Exactly," Mira added. "Whoever he is, he doesn't want fame. Makes him even more suspicious."
Rolien stretched his fingers, the prosthetic joints softly clicking. "Maybe he just doesn't want to be known. Maybe he knows what happens to people who are."
Sophia glanced at him, but didn't speak. Her eyes lingered a little longer than they should have.
Leto sat up. "What about you, ghosthand? Who'd you pick to train under?"
Rolien shrugged. "No one."
"Oh, come on—"
"I don't admire people I've never met."
Mira rolled her eyes. "Typical."
But Sophia said nothing. She was staring at Rolien now. Quietly.
Because there had been something in his chuckle earlier.
Something too knowing.
Too familiar.
Like someone laughing at a joke no one else in the room understood.
She opened her mouth to say something—
—but at that moment, the bell tower rang three times. The call to muster.
Professor Elric's voice echoed magically across the training grounds.
"All squads, report to the courtyard. Final departure in fifteen."
The team stood.
Conversation faded.
Gear was secured.
But as they filed out the door, Rolien stayed a step behind. Just for a moment. Long enough to glance back over his shoulder.
The Black Wraith.
He could still hear the title in their voices, like it belonged to some legend in the fog.
He smirked faintly.
Idiots.
The fog rolled thick across the valley floor as Squad Twelve and the rest of the class made their descent into Old Kareth's outskirts.
Mud sucked at their boots, and skeletal trees loomed like broken watchtowers. The sky above was a dull gray—not stormy, just sick. Wrong. Like something under the surface was breathing.
Professor Elric's voice crackled through their earpieces, magically enhanced for long-range field command.
> "Squads One through Nine, set up the perimeter and control runes. Squads Ten and Eleven, stay with the support convoy. Squad Twelve—you're on advanced recon. Cut through the ruins from the northeast and eliminate any active summoning circles. If you engage, do not linger. Understood?"
"Understood," Sophia replied crisply.
Their squad peeled away from the larger group, cutting through the ruins via a crumbling stairway swallowed by moss. Between broken stones and cursed roots, the air grew heavier, humming faintly with dark mana.
"Eyes sharp," Mira muttered. "There's something old buried here."
"Too quiet," Arwin added, hand tightening around the hilt of his greatsword.
"Always is before something loud," Leto replied, loading his crossbow.
They moved in formation—cautious, fluid—until Mira raised a fist. "Circle. Ten meters ahead."
Beyond a cluster of jagged pillars, red glowing sigils pulsed in the dirt—twisting, broken shapes feeding off the very mist around them. Around it stood half a dozen robed figures in ritual stance. Cultists.
Sophia gave the signal.
They moved in.
Arwin went right, Leto perched above, Mira whispered a silencing ward into the soil.
And Rolien?
He didn't draw his sword.
Instead, he slid a strange device from under his coat—a sleek, dark, barrel-forged mechanism with compressed valve channels and rotating chambers etched with runes. A weapon no one had ever seen before.
"What's that?" Mira muttered, blinking.
Sophia didn't even glance.
"He's had it a while," she said simply, smirking.
Rolien crouched low behind a fallen slab. With barely a sound, he took aim.
Then—fssht.
No flash. No recoil.
Just silence.
A cultist's head snapped back and collapsed, the sigils around him breaking instantly. The others panicked—but before they could react, two more dropped in the same eerie rhythm. No visible projectile. No blast of light. Just… dead.
Even the professors watching from a distance, including Elric himself, paused.
> "What the hell was that?" one of them muttered through the comms.
"Rewind the image—slow it down."
> "I already did. There's no spell. No mana signature. Just... impact."
"Air pressure manipulation?" Elric guessed aloud. "But that precision—at that speed—"
Back in the field, Arwin stopped mid-step, staring wide-eyed. "What the hell kind of weapon is that?!"
"Didn't even see it move," Mira said, stunned. "I've read imperial weapon prototypes—this isn't even on record."
Even Leto, usually all jokes, let out a slow whistle. "Remind me never to stand in front of you when you're bored."
Rolien said nothing. Just reloaded—quietly, methodically, the chambers hissing as they rotated back into place.
Sophia stepped beside him, arms behind her back, her tone light but meaningful.
"He made it himself, you know," she said, almost teasing. "The Empire wouldn't even know how to use it."
Everyone turned to her.
"You knew?" Mira asked.
"Of course," she said with a smug little smile. "He only ever shows off when it counts."
Rolien flicked the last chamber into place with a click and stood.
"One left," he said calmly.
Then he vanished into the mist.
Moments later, the last cultist dropped—this time with a clean puncture through the chest, no blood spray. Just silence.
When he returned, no one spoke. Not even Arwin.
The fog pressed back in.
Sophia glanced at him with a raised brow. "Still pretending you're not worth admiring?"
He didn't answer.
But as they moved forward again, there was a new kind of silence around him—not suspicion.
Respect.
Even fear.
And Sophia?
She just walked a step ahead of them all, smiling like this had all been inevitable.
With the ritual site destroyed and the summoning circle neutralized, Squad Twelve began making their way back through the fog-cloaked ruins to rendezvous with the rest of the class.
Mira double-checked the sealed scroll containing a sample of the corrupted glyphs. "This should be enough for analysis. Hopefully, the professors stop treating us like kids after this."
"I'm just hoping the next assignment isn't ankle-deep in mud and cultist blood," Leto muttered.
Rolien walked ahead of them, slightly apart, air gun secured beneath his coat once more. He hadn't said a word since the fight, and no one dared to break the silence.
Sophia walked just behind him, half-smiling like she knew what was coming next.
Then—
A scream.
High. Sharp. Human.
The group froze.
"That's not an echo," Mira said, eyes narrowing. "That was close."
Another voice cracked over their earpiece—panicked, staticky.
> "T-this is Squad Six—we're under attack—something just—gkkk—!"
Then nothing.
Sophia's expression changed instantly. "Go. That was from the western column ruins. That's right behind the support squads."
Rolien was already gone.
A blur.
He shot forward like lightning, the ground cracking under his first step as he activated Spirit Art: Dash—a pure physical burst channeled directly through his spirit pressure. No mana trail. No chant. Just force.
Dust blew out from where he stood. One moment he was there, the next—
Gone.
"Wha—" Arwin blinked, stunned. "Did… did he just vanish?!"
"Are you sure that guy doesn't use magic?" Leto asked, half in disbelief. "Because I'm starting to feel like we've been lied to."
Sophia smirked as she followed at a quickened pace. "Nope. No magic. That's just him holding back."
By the time the rest of Squad Twelve caught up, they found chaos.
Half of Squad Six lay unconscious, scattered across the cracked stones. Another was backed against a ruined arch, bleeding, sword trembling.
Standing over one of them—its long, skeletal body twisted like something half-born—was a lesser demon, dripping black ichor from its claws. Its head twitched unnaturally, maw stretched too wide, eyes glowing faintly like embers behind bone.
And at the center of it all was Rolien.
Already mid-fight.
His coat was ripped at the edge, dust curling around his boots. He ducked under a claw swipe, pivoted, and struck with a spinning kick that cracked one of the demon's legs sideways with a sickening snap.
It shrieked.
But Rolien didn't give it time to recover.
His prosthetic hand glowed faintly with spirit pressure, the joints humming as he slammed it into the demon's chest.
The air shifted—then collapsed inward as a pressure shock burst from the point of contact. A miniature sonic pulse erupted in a tight radius. The demon's ribcage caved in like paper.
It crashed to the ground, convulsing, then fell still.
Rolien stood over it, his breath steady, not even a drop of blood on him.
Sophia arrived seconds later with the rest of the team, taking in the aftermath with a sharp glance.
Mira moved quickly to heal the wounded student, while Arwin muttered, "Remind me again why he's not leading the class?"
Leto, unusually serious, stared at the fallen demon. "I've seen A-rank adventurers take longer than that. He didn't even draw a weapon."
Sophia crossed her arms, her voice low.
"He doesn't need to."
Rolien turned his head slightly toward them. "One more out there. It retreated west."
"How do you know?" Mira asked.
He tapped his chest once. "Heartbeat."
No one responded.
There was no point.
Whatever Rolien was… he wasn't just another student.
As Squad Twelve stood amid the aftermath—demon slain, wounded cadets stabilized—Mira muttered while applying healing magic, "They're still counting points, right?"
Sophia smirked. "Oh, absolutely."
Leto glanced toward Rolien, who stood back with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the west for movement. "Well, I know who's getting top marks after this."
Rolien didn't look at them, but he spoke flatly.
"Don't care about points."
"Maybe you don't," Sophia said, voice cool, "but you're about to be a legend."
At the command outpost a few kilometers north of Old Kareth, a smaller operations tent buzzed with arcane screens, mapping relays, and shimmering projections. Glowing runes floated in the air, constantly updating mission stats from the field.
Professor Mendell Graeve, sharp-faced and always leaning too close to power, stood beside a floating crystal screen, quietly reviewing the live incursion leaderboard.
Next to him stood Luke Arcadia—third-year, highborn, top-ranked swordsman of his class, and son of a renowned general. His cloak bore the Arcadia crest like a medal, and his presence reeked of expectation.
"Let me see it," Luke said, arms crossed, tone already impatient.
Professor Mendell gave a knowing smile. "You've been doing well. Already top ten."
He tapped the crystal display. Names flickered into view, ranked in bold text beside their growing point totals.
Luke leaned forward—
—and froze.
At the very top of the board:
1st — Rolien Edric (1st Year) — 3,870 Points
2nd — Sophia Arclight — 2,940 Points
3rd — Leto Farwind — 2,760 Points
…
9th — Luke Arcadia — 1,540 Points
"…What?" Luke's voice came out low, bitter. "That's not possible."
"I triple-checked," Mendell said calmly. "His team cleared a high-threat summoning site, eliminated a greater-class demon, and retrieved three incapacitated cadets—all within the first hour."
"He's a first-year. First semester," Luke snapped. "How the hell is a rookie leading the board?!"
"Not just leading," Mendell said with a click of his tongue. "He's dominating. Over nine hundred points ahead of the next student—and most of that is individual contribution."
Luke's fists clenched. "No way he did all that himself. What's he using? Artifacts? Cheat magic? That prosthetic?"
"He used some kind of high-compression ranged weapon," Mendell muttered, eyes narrowed. "Nothing standard. No mana signature. No elemental trace. Even the staff analysts can't classify it yet."
Luke stepped away from the board like it had personally insulted him. "He doesn't even have real magic. He shouldn't be up there. This is supposed to be my year."
Mendell watched him, his voice cold and calculating.
"You asked me to tell you the moment someone threatened your standing," he said. "Consider this your notice."
Luke turned, face hard. "I'm going to make sure he doesn't hold that spot for long."
"Then prove it on the field," Mendell said, unimpressed. "Not here with words."
Luke didn't reply.
He stormed out of the tent, boots crunching into the gravel as his squad scrambled to catch up behind him. But his glare burned with something new:
It wasn't about the mission anymore.
It was about Rolien.
And Luke wasn't going to let some no-name first-year walk through his legacy without a fight.
Luke Arcadia stood atop a crumbling wall overlooking one of the deeper ruin pits. Fog clung to the shattered statues and twisted columns below like a choking blanket. His squad trailed behind—nervous but obedient.
"There," he pointed. "More cultist signatures. Same mana frequency. If we take them out clean, we'll pass Squad Twelve."
One of his teammates, a third-year mage named Ren, frowned. "Sir, this area's marked red. It's a collapsed zone. Support teams haven't even—"
"I didn't ask for caution," Luke said coldly. "We clear it. Fast. No mistakes."
They descended into the pit.
At first, it was quiet. Dead quiet.
Then the chanting started.
Dark. Guttural.
They rounded a collapsed corridor and found them—at least fifteen cloaked figures encircling a glowing glyph. Except this wasn't a normal summoning.
This was a Tier B demonic gate.
Already open.
"Shit—back up! That's not standard!" Ren shouted.
But it was too late.
Something huge stepped out from the mist inside the gate. Bone-white armor. Sinewed flesh. A head with no eyes, just a gaping spiral maw. It roared, and the ruins shook.
"Form up! Form up now!" Luke shouted, his sword lighting up with flame magic as he leapt toward it without thinking.
It caught him mid-air.
Slapped him aside like a gnat.
He crashed into a pillar and didn't get up right away.
"Luke!" his team screamed.
The demon advanced. Behind it, the summoners continued chanting.
It was a massacre waiting to happen.
Back at the ruins' western flank, Squad Twelve was clearing a broken corridor. They'd just finished rescuing a wounded cadet from a shattered watchpoint when a burst of wild, unstable mana flared in the distance.
Mira turned. "That's a gate. A big one."
Sophia narrowed her eyes. "Northwest… Wait."
She tapped her earpiece. "Command, who's operating in the collapsed zone near Column Ridge?"
A pause.
> "Only one team was routed that way… Arcadia's squad."
Sophia clicked her tongue. "Idiot."
Rolien was already walking in that direction.
Then sprinting.
"Rolien—wait!" Leto called.
He didn't.
Spirit Art: Dash.
The wind cracked behind him.
Sophia sighed, then drew her sword. "Follow him. Fast."
Smoke curled around the broken pillars. Screams echoed through the mist. One of Luke's squad members was crawling, bloodied, toward cover—only to be dragged screaming back into the circle.
The demon stood over Luke, who knelt coughing blood, eyes wide as the creature raised its massive blade-clawed arm—
—and then something hit it.
Fast.
A blur of movement. Air pressure cracked. The demon stumbled.
A second shot pierced its shoulder. Another into its leg.
It roared, confused—no source in sight.
Then the wind shifted.
Rolien stood at the edge of the pit, calmly loading his air gun.
Behind him, Squad Twelve arrived in formation, weapons drawn.
Luke looked up through blurred vision—eyes locking with Rolien's.
His voice rasped.
"You…"
Rolien's gaze didn't change.
But there was something in the way he looked at Luke.
Like a shadow that had finally come to collect.
Sophia stepped forward beside him, her voice dry.
"Don't worry. We'll save you. Eventually."
The demon roared again—and Rolien jumped.
Straight into the pit.
Scene cut to black.
---
[TO BE CONTINUED]