Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
"No magic, No problem!"
Chapter 19: Crackling Oaths!
Half a year passed Rolien and his father and mother is at his father's study room.
— Edric Estate, Inner Chamber
The fire snapped in the hearth. Outside, wind howled through the towering pines lining the estate. Rain lashed the windows in rhythm, but inside, the tension was thunder enough.
Rolien stood in front of his parents, arms folded, soaked from training. Dirt clung to his boots. His eyes burned—not with anger, but with resolve.
"You're not going," his father said flatly.
"You can't stop me," Rolien replied, voice calm.
"You only have one arm now," Edric snapped. "You don't need to go to school, and more importantly—you don't have mana! What are you trying to prove!?"
"I'm not trying to prove anything," Rolien said, standing firm. "I'm strong. That's all."
Edric's jaw clenched. "Strong? You think you're strong?"
He stepped closer, his voice rising. "You think we forgot what happened in that crater? You didn't collapse, Rolien—you got swallowed whole. Groteus ate you. And we thought that was it. We thought we lost you."
Rolien's gaze dropped briefly.
"I found your body myself," Edric continued, quieter now. "When we tore Groteus apart and dug through what was left, you were cold. No pulse. Nothing. I thought—" His voice cracked, and he quickly bit it back. "I thought I was too late."
Lerien stood off to the side, her hand clasped tightly over her chest.
"The doctor said your body wasn't just broken," Edric went on. "It was experiencing life-span exhaustion—like you'd burned through years of your life just staying alive inside that monster. And you didn't wake up for a day or two—you slept for a whole week, Rolien."
"I'm still here," Rolien said quietly. "I'm still breathing."
"You've been hiding your pain," Lerien said softly. "That's not the same as healing."
There was silence for a while—just the fire crackling and rain tapping at the glass.
Then Lerien sighed. "You want to go? Fine."
Edric turned to her, surprised.
"But," she continued, looking back at Rolien, "only under our conditions."
Edric folded his arms. "You'll report to the family physician every month for a full evaluation."
"And you'll stay in direct contact," Lerien added. "Letters. Weekly."
"If you show signs of fatigue—real fatigue—you pull back, or you come home," Edric said firmly. "No arguments."
Rolien was quiet for a beat. Then he nodded. "Deal."
He picked up his travel cloak from the hook by the door.
"I'm not the same as I was four years ago," he said. "I'm not fighting to prove anything. I'm just moving forward."
He stepped to the threshold. Rain misted beyond the door.
"Rolien," his father called.
He turned back and smiled.
One Week Later — Royal Academy, Central Arena
The sun bore down over the stone coliseum, its rays gleaming off polished tiles and banners swaying in the warm breeze. In the observation deck, Grand Duke Edric stood with arms crossed, flanked by Lady Lirien. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes never left the field below.
The crowd buzzed with quiet anticipation. Noble students, instructors, and military officials filled the seats. This was more than a school test—it was a public spectacle.
The announcer's voice rang clear.
"Final mock battle for the week! Rolien of House Edric, challenger—versus Sir Marcellus, veteran knight and instructor of the Edric family!"
Some of the students whispered among themselves.
"Isn't that his personal tutor?"
"He's going against Marcellus with one arm?"
"Why's the old knight even agreeing to this?"
The gates opened.
Rolien walked in slowly. No prosthetic arm, just his empty sleeve tied neatly above the shoulder. No armor. Just the academy uniform, reinforced slightly, and his new air gun holstered behind him.
Sir Marcellus was already at the center, arms behind his back. His practice sword rested against his shoulder as he smirked at the boy approaching.
Rolien raised an eyebrow.
"Man… Did my father put you up to this?"
Marcellus snorted and cracked his neck. "Maybe. Maybe not. But when a student tells the world he's ready, a teacher's job is to make sure he actually is."
He lowered his voice, just enough for only Rolien to hear.
"And to be honest, I wanted to see it for myself."
Rolien shook his head with a half-smile, then stepped onto the dueling circle.
"Just don't cry when I drop you in front of all these nobles."
Marcellus chuckled. "I raised you better than to talk trash, brat."
BELL.
The fight began.
Marcellus didn't go easy. Not even for a second. His blade moved like a storm, heavy and purposeful, sweeping in arcs that tested Rolien's balance, timing, and vision. But Rolien didn't flinch. He pivoted, weaved, slipped inside every gap.
He didn't use his prosthetic. He didn't even touch the air gun yet.
Every move was close-ranged and brutal—kicks, sharp elbows, calculated dodges. His reflexes were honed to a razor edge.
Edric watched silently.
Lirien, arms folded tightly, leaned forward.
"He's not using his enhancements," she whispered.
"No," Edric muttered. "He's fighting with the same body that once stopped a monster from the inside."
On the field, Rolien ducked a sideways slash and launched upward, using Marcellus's own missed momentum against him. A spinning knee hit the knight's chest. The older man grunted, stepped back—and smirked.
"That the best you've got?"
Rolien didn't answer. He just moved again.
It wasn't flashy. It was fast. Efficient. Every strike screamed of someone who had fought not for training, but survival. Against beasts, soldiers, hellish creatures—and come out alive with nothing but grit.
After a final clash, Rolien slid low, feinted left—and swept Marcellus's legs out with a scissor kick. The knight almost fell but didn't, but then step back and say. " This is enough. The match is over I got what I need."
Silence.
BELL.
The match was over.
"Winner: Rolien of House Edric!"
The crowd finally erupted. Cheers. Disbelief. Awe.
Marcellus smile at the young noble and let out short laugh and raised offer his hand to his student.
"Well," he said, voice low so only Rolien could hear, "looks like you're finally done being my student."
Rolien offered a hand down with a smirk. "Guess I'll start teaching you next time."
"Hahahaha, mybe if you taught me how to make your gun hahahah"
From the stands, Edric and Lirien said nothing. But their eyes—once full of doubt—now carried something else.
Pride.
And fear.
Because for the first time, they understood: Rolien really didn't need saving anymore.
"You said you're strong." Edric met his eyes. "Then show them what strength looks like without mana."
Rolien smirked. "That's the plan."
Then he stepped into the rain, the door closing softly behind him.
SOPHIA — UPPER BALCONY, TRAINING ARENA
Sophia leaned over the cold stone railing, watching with narrowed eyes as Rolien stepped into the sand-floored ring.
He wasn't wearing his prosthetic.
She noticed immediately.
His right sleeve hung loose, tied at the shoulder with a simple band. His only weapon was his upgraded air gun, slung across his back. No armor, no enhancements, just a thin black tunic and the quiet fire in his eyes.
Sir Marcellus stood across from him, tall and broad-shouldered, his stance relaxed but undeniably experienced. A wooden greatsword rested in the older man's hands.
The whistle blew.
Rolien moved first.
Not a reckless charge—but a pivot, a quick step in and low dash to the right. Marcellus swung downward, a clean arc meant to bait him. Rolien ducked, twisted, then snapped his heel forward like a piston.
CRACK.
The sound echoed as Marcellus stumbled back a step. A precise strike to the thigh—not enough to injure, but enough to show he was serious.
Sophia's breath caught.
He was fighting with one arm. But nothing about him looked incomplete.
Marcellus came in harder this time, sweeping left. Rolien bent backward under the blow, one hand bracing against the ground, and kicked himself back up into a spin—catching Marcellus's arm with his knee to divert the force.
"He's predicting him," she murmured. "No… he's controlling the rhythm."
The old knight smiled through his beard and picked up the pace.
Blow after blow followed, each clash stirring the dirt. Rolien didn't block—he slipped, angled, dodged—using every part of his body to redirect or counter without taking a hit. He vaulted off his left hand, using his legs like whips. It wasn't brute strength. It was leverage, calculation, precision.
Still… he was holding back.
Sophia could tell.
He hadn't used the prosthetic on purpose. Maybe as a handicap. Maybe to prove something. But even without it, he danced with a strange grace—one forged not in noble halls, but in survival.
She glanced to her right. Lady Lirien had a hand over her mouth, tense. Grand Duke Edric had barely blinked.
Then, a flicker of movement.
Marcellus feinted a high swing—then dipped low, sweeping Rolien's feet out.
He fell, landed in a roll, kicked up into a crouch, and fired his air gun.
THUMP.
Compressed wind erupted from the barrel—cracking against Marcellus's chest and forcing the knight a full meter back.
Sophia almost jumped.
It wasn't a toy anymore. That was a real weapon. It moved like a rifle now—shaped like one too—and if he infused it further, gods help whoever was on the receiving end.
Marcellus planted his greatsword in the ground. He was smiling.
"I yield," the knight said, raising a hand. "I got what I needed."
The crowd clapped politely. Some even cheered.
Sophia felt something twist in her chest—something proud. Something warm.
But then—
"Lucky bastard."
She heard it.
Luke Arcadia.
Sitting two rows behind her with that smug sneer on his face.
"What's everyone so impressed about?" he scoffed. "One-armed freak barely scraped a draw. Probably bribed Marcellus to hold back."
Sophia's head turned slowly, eyes darkening.
"Yeah," one of Luke's lackeys chimed in. "His daddy probably pulled strings. Make the cripple look good in front of mommy and daddy."
Sophia's jaw tightened.
Luke leaned forward, chuckling. "I bet that air gun's the only reason he's even standing. Remove that, and he's just a broken brat playing soldier."
Sophia stood up.
The railing groaned under her grip.
Her voice came low, controlled—but sharp enough to slice stone.
"Say one more word, Arcadia."
Luke blinked.
"What?"
She didn't repeat it.
Just stared.
Like a sword still in its sheath—seconds from drawing blood.
From the seats above, Sophia turned just as she heard Luke Arcadia rise from his seat and stroll toward her with that arrogant ease he always wore like armor.
"Princess Sophia," he said with a half-bow, smug smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't expect to see you wasting your time watching a one-armed charity case pretend to spar."
She didn't answer—just stared at him.
Luke continued, undeterred. "I mean, sure, it's admirable in a tragic kind of way. Like watching a dog try to walk on three legs. You want to clap out of pity. But come on. You really think he belongs here?"
Her gaze sharpened. "You're saying this to me? The emperor's daughter?"
Luke hesitated just slightly, but the smirk didn't fade. "I'm just looking out for you, Your Highness. You've always been sharp. Focused. But chasing after someone like him? It'll drag you down. He doesn't have mana, doesn't have a noble standing anymore—and now, not even two working arms. Let the poor fool chase glory on his own."
Sophia's silence lasted just long enough to make him nervous. Then she stepped forward—face calm, tone neutral.
"Luke Arcadia."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Open your mouth again, and I'll break your jaw in front of every noble here. And then I'll make sure you never step foot in the palace again."
Luke blinked. "You're joking."
She didn't blink. "Do I look like I joke?"
He opened his mouth again—then thought better of it.
Sophia turned her back on him with absolute finality and made her way down to Rolien, whose eyes flicked from her to Luke, confused.
"What was that about?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "Nothing important. Just taking out the trash."
Sophia fell into step beside him as the crowd began to disperse, the clamor of whispered praise and astonishment still echoing from the stands. Rolien casually toweled off the sweat from his brow, cradling his right side where his prosthetic arm should've been.
She glanced at him, brows knitting. "Why didn't you use Hollowveilforcge?"
Rolien shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Didn't need to."
Her eyes narrowed. "And your arm?"
He slung the towel over his shoulder. "Still working. Didn't bring it."
Sophia stopped in her tracks. "You intentionally fought one of the kingdom's top instructors without using either your prosthetic or your spirit art?"
Rolien turned, walking backward now as he grinned. "Meh. I just needed to pass, not beat Sir Marcellus."
Sophia folded her arms. "You didn't just pass. You made him sweat."
"Barely," he chuckled. "Besides, I got what I wanted."
Her expression softened, lips tugging up. "And what was that?"
Rolien nodded toward the edge of the arena, where Grand Duke Edric stood with arms crossed and Lady Lirien next to him, visibly relieved but trying not to show it.
"They let me in, didn't they?" he said simply. "That's all I needed."
Sophia looked at him for a long moment, then turned her gaze back toward the stands where nobles still murmured, where Luke Arcadia sulked in silence.
"Still," she said at last, voice low, "next time you fight, don't hold back for my sake. I didn't come here to watch half your power."
Rolien's grin widened. "You came to watch?"
She smirked. "Of course. I had to see what kind of idiot charges into a mock duel one-armed."
He laughed. "And?"
Sophia looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Still an idiot. But a damn interesting one."
They walked off together as the sunlight dimmed behind the Whispering Pines. The shadows of the arena stretched long, but in that moment, neither of them seemed to notice.
The two of them walked down the gravel path that curved around the training arena, the wind shifting softly through the tall pines. Sophia glanced at Rolien again, watching the way he rolled his shoulder, keeping his weight evenly balanced despite only using one arm.
"Your footwork," she said, finally breaking the silence. "It's cleaner than before."
"I had a year to clean it up," Rolien replied. "Marcellus drills it into me every day like he's forging a blade. Left, right, pivot—again. Left, right, pivot—again."
"And yet you never used that perfect pivot to throw him."
He gave a little huff. "If I threw him, he'd just throw me harder next time. He's not the kind of guy you humiliate and walk away from. Besides, I didn't want to win."
"You could've."
"Yeah," he said, eyes forward. "I know."
Sophia was quiet for a second, her voice a little softer now. "You said you got what you wanted. Was it really just about proving yourself to your parents?"
He looked at her, a little smile playing on his lips. "What else would it be?"
She didn't answer, but something in her expression tightened—frustration, maybe, or something deeper. They walked in silence a little longer until she suddenly said, "You know, Luke's been talking."
Rolien tilted his head. "Let me guess. Something about me being broken, or weak, or getting special treatment?"
"Something like that," she muttered. "He called you a pitiful half-hero with a pity pass."
Rolien chuckled without humor. "Creative."
"I nearly drew steel on him," Sophia muttered, hazel eyes sharp.
He blinked. "You what?"
"I didn't, okay? I'm still technically royalty. I'd get a week of lectures and a thousand lines of court conduct." She clenched her fists. "But I wanted to. He doesn't know you. He didn't see you walk out of that crater after taking down a creature no one else could scratch. He didn't see your body being dragged back with no pulse."
Rolien's gaze dropped. For a moment, he looked tired. Older than fourteen. "Most people don't know what happened inside Groteus."
"I do," she said. "I remember."
He gave her a sideways glance, but said nothing. Just kept walking.
Sophia nudged his shoulder. "So? What are you going to do about Luke?"
Rolien smiled faintly. "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Let him talk," he said. "Words are cheap. He'll see me again in the field. And when he does, I won't need to explain a thing."
Sophia's eyes darkened for a moment, the memory hitting her again. The fight with Groteus... She hadn't forgotten the chaos of that day—the way the earth shook beneath her feet, the thunderous roar of that monstrous beast. When she finally landed at the scene, Groteus was already falling, crippled and collapsing.
Her heart had dropped seeing him there—her friend—swallowed whole by that beast.
She remembered how her father, the Emperor, and her older brother, the Crown Prince, stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching tensely. But it was Rolien's father, Grand Duke Edric, who had sprinted forward and pulled Rolien's body free from inside Groteus.
When Edric lifted him out, Rolien was limp, no pulse, lifeless.
They immediately began CPR, pressing hard against his chest, trying to force life back into him. Tears streamed down Sophia's face as she watched helplessly, her sobs choking in her throat.
Minutes passed in unbearable silence. Then the adults shook their heads grimly, stepping back—signaling that Rolien was gone.
"Why'd you stop? Do something!" she shouted, falling to her knees, begging them desperately.
And then—a gasp. A sharp intake of breath.
Rolien's chest rose.
He had a pulse again.
---
She looked at Rolien now, standing strong before her, and whispered, "You survived when no one thought you would."
Rolien met her gaze with a small, tired smile. "I'm still here, alive and kicking!"
A month had passed since the academy's mock battles ended, and the buzz around the campus had finally settled. New students had been officially enrolled, including Rolien. But the actual classes wouldn't begin for another six months. It was a traditional gap year system—one that allowed nobles and commoners alike to prepare, explore, or train before fully stepping into academy life.
Most chose to rest. Some used the time for private tutoring or politics. Rolien had other plans.
Inside the Grand Duke's estate, the morning light poured through the tall windows of his room. A map was spread across his desk, marked with ink and notes. Several local regions were circled—border villages, mid-level dungeons, and beast sighting locations. His modified air rifle rested beside the map, cleaned and freshly tuned.
"Adventuring?" Sophia leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
Rolien didn't even look up. "I've got five months to get stronger. Wasting that behind books before class starts? Not happening."
"You just survived death," she reminded him, stepping closer. "And now you're going back out there like nothing happened?"
He smirked. "I came back, didn't I? Besides, it's not like I'm jumping into another war. Just… travel, train, take a few bounties. I'll be back before the semester starts."
"Alone?"
Rolien hesitated. "I can handle myself."
She frowned but said nothing. She knew better than to try to stop him—he was stubborn as hell. "You're still not using that new arm of yours," she muttered, glancing down at his side.
He flexed the fingers of his prosthetic arm, now hidden beneath a fitted long coat. "I will when I need to," he said simply. "This trip's not about showing off. It's about control."
"You're going to push yourself again," she said. "I can see it."
"Yeah. That's kind of the point."
Sophia looked down, lips pressed in a tight line. "Just… don't die again. You're not allowed to do that twice."
Rolien chuckled, walking past her with a small duffel of supplies slung over his shoulder. "I'll keep that in mind, Princess."
As he headed toward the estate gates, he passed by Grand Duke Edric and Lady Lirien. They stood silently at the edge of the courtyard, watching him with unreadable expressions.
"You know the rules," Edric said. "Return in five months. No broken bones. No dead limbs. And write to your mother."
"Yes, sir."
Lady Lirien stepped forward and hugged him—brief, firm. "You're still recovering. Don't try to prove anything."
"I'm not," Rolien answered softly. "This time... it's for me."
Then he walked away—off to carve his strength into the world, far from the gilded halls of nobility.
Five months. That was all the time he had.
And he was going to make every second count.
"I know something's out there… waiting to strike again," he murmured, his voice low but steady. "But I'm not just gonna sit here and wait for it to happen."
His fingers curled into a fist at his side.
"I'm going to be strong. Strong enough to protect them… no matter what."
As he looked up, the sky above rumbled—thick clouds swirling as lightning cracked across the heavens. The wind picked up, sharp and cold, carrying the scent of rain and something heavier… like a warning.
A storm was coming.
And so was he.
To be continued....