Reincarnation of the magicless!
From zero to hero!
"No magic?, No problem!"
Chapter 20: the one who bears the scent!
The sun had just risen, casting a golden hue over the Grey Manor as Rolien stood at the front gates, his travel pack slung over one shoulder and his newly-upgraded air rifle secured along his side. The staff—maids, cooks, stablehands, and guards—lined up neatly, watching him with misty eyes and hesitant smiles. Some dabbed at their cheeks. Others clutched small gifts, from lucky charms to simple letters.
One of the older maids, Martha, sniffled as she tucked a handkerchief into his palm.
"For when you catch a cold, young master," she said with a tremble in her voice.
Rolien chuckled softly, his usual cocky grin more tender this time.
"Thanks, Martha. I'll try not to freeze myself somewhere dumb."
The crowd parted slightly as a familiar voice grunted behind them.
"Listen here, brat!"
Mr. Yohan, the gruff blacksmith with arms like tree trunks and soot forever stained into his skin, marched up, slapping a heavy palm on Rolien's back.
"You take care of yourself out there," he said, his deep voice betraying a faint shake. "Just because you're some fancy adventurer now doesn't mean you get to blow yourself up with those toys you call 'inventions.'"
Rolien smirked. "You got it, Mr. Yohan. I'll send letters time to time."
"Overconfident punk…" Yohan muttered, but there was no heat in his voice. "Always be observant. Arrogance kills quicker than a blade, you hear me?"
"I hear you," Rolien said, giving a respectful nod. "Thanks for everything."
From behind the manor steps came his mother, Lady Lirien, graceful even with red-rimmed eyes. She wrapped her arms around her son tightly, burying her face against his shoulder.
"You've grown so fast," she whispered. "Just… come back home safe. That's all I ask."
He hugged her back, gently. "I will, Mom. Promise."
His father, Grand Duke Edric, stood a few paces behind, arms crossed, trying hard to look stoic. But the slight twitch of his jaw gave him away. He stepped forward, resting a firm hand on Rolien's shoulder.
"Just remember what I taught you. Pick your fights wisely, and never forget who you are."
"I won't," Rolien said, locking eyes with him. "I'll make you proud, Father."
"You already have."
Before Rolien could reply, a sudden wail interrupted them.
"Rolien!"
Lyra, his old nanny, came running, waving a handkerchief dramatically. "Take me with you! I can still fight! I've been working on my sword swings again!"
Rolien laughed, giving her a brief hug. "No way, Lyra. Who'll take care of Mom when I'm gone? And the manor? Besides, you'll just lecture me the whole way."
She pouted, arms crossed. Then her eyes softened.
"Fine. But if you get even one scar, I'm marching out there and dragging you back by the ear."
He grinned. "Duly noted."
The manor gates opened slowly with a creak, and beyond them waited the wide, dirt path leading into the forested trail out of the capital's outskirts. The townsfolk had gathered too—familiar faces from the market, blacksmith district, and even kids who used to run after him when he visited the plaza.
Banners were waved. A few musicians played a silly off-key marching song. Children threw flower petals. It felt like a hero's farewell.
Rolien blinked, overwhelmed.
"Man," he murmured under his breath, stepping just past the gates as he looked back at the villa, the people, the warmth of everything he knew. "I'm gonna miss this place."
The wind caught his coat, fluttering it behind him as he took the first step.
As Rolien took his first step onto the road beyond the Grey Manor, the gentle breeze carried with it the scent of morning dew and familiar hearthfire smoke. He looked back one last time. The crowd waved, cheering lightly, and though he flashed them a confident smile, a knot had already begun to form in his chest.
This wasn't just a trip. This was the beginning of something bigger.
The path ahead twisted down the hill and into the pine-laced forest, the sun piercing through the trees like shafts of gold. Birds chirped, oblivious to the weight in Rolien's chest. The world seemed too peaceful, too calm… like it hadn't almost ended just months ago when Groteus nearly razed everything to the ground.
His boots crunched over the dirt road as he walked alone now, the sound of cheering fading behind him. He adjusted the strap of his travel bag and sighed.
"Let's see what kind of world's out there," he muttered to himself.
---
Two Days Later — The Adventurer's Road
He passed through two towns already—one sleepy village where he shared a drink with retired hunters, another bustling market hub where he bought a few potions and extra cartridges for his rifle. He didn't linger. Not yet.
His goal wasn't sightseeing. Not yet.
In five months, he'd be a full-fledged student of the Imperial Academy. And before that, he needed to push his limits—find out what kind of strength the world demanded of him. Not the kind that came from layers of enchanted armor or desperate, self-destructive bursts of life force… but real strength.
Strength he could control. Strength he could own.
By the fifth day, he was deep into the wildlands, just shy of the Border Hills. His map fluttered in the breeze as he checked his direction near a crossroads sign covered in moss.
> "South to Goldrain Caverns – Dangerous Creatures Beyond This Point."
"Perfect," Rolien grinned.
---
Later That Night — A Campsite Near Goldrain Caverns
The fire crackled gently as Rolien leaned back against a rock, polishing the barrel of his custom air rifle. The sky above was thick with stars, and somewhere in the trees, owls hooted. His prosthetic arm rested beside him, folded carefully in cloth—he still refused to wear it unless necessary.
"I know you're out there," he said aloud, speaking more to the shadows than anything. "Whatever you are... whatever caused that damn beast to come through a world tear and nearly wipe us out."
He raised his eyes to the stars.
"I'm not waiting for you to strike first again."
The wind whispered around him, and a faint rumble echoed from the direction of the caverns. Something deep and hungry. Something old.
Rolien smiled.
"Good."
He stood, grabbed his weapon, and slung his bag over his shoulder again. The stars reflected in his eyes, sharp and unwavering.
"I'm coming to find you first."
Few days later after reaching the next town.
The Adventurer's Guild in Westmire Outpost stood tall with thick timber walls, decorated with monster heads and faded banners. It buzzed with the chatter of hunters, mercenaries, and thrill-seekers. The scent of sweat, oil, and stew blended with the faint metallic tang of blood—welcome signs to those who lived by blade and risk.
A young man stepped through its heavy doors. Jet-black hair brushed down neatly over his forehead, giving him a composed, elegant look—like a noble pretending to be common. His clothes were dark leather reinforced with segmented plates, asymmetrical in style. One arm sleeveless, the other covered in a full-length black glove up to his shoulder, hiding the intricately crafted prosthetic beneath. Strapped to his back, a sword—a solid single-edged blade with a brutal edge and a grip worn smooth by practice.
He looked... familiar to no one. Which was exactly what he wanted.
The guild receptionist, a half-elf woman with sharp eyes and a ledger thicker than a spellbook, gave him a glance before offering a polite smile.
"Name?"
"…Rowan," he answered after a pause.
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Place of origin?"
"Outskirts of Ruzfen province," he said smoothly. Technically not a lie—he did camp near there last week.
She studied him for a moment, then shrugged and began scribbling.
"Any prior experience?"
"A little," he said with a grin. "I'd like to take the entry exam."
"Then head through that door—left corridor. There's a ranking and aptitude test scheduled this afternoon. You'll be paired with a few other rookies."
He nodded and walked off.
Later – Guild Testing Grounds
The arena was carved into the hillside behind the guild—a wide circular ring of stone surrounded by viewing terraces. Guild veterans leaned lazily on the rails, watching new blood go through tests that would determine their rank and privileges.
"Next group: Rowan, Lenz, Fiero, and Milla!" the examiner called out.
Four stepped forward.
Fiero and Lenz looked like country brutes, all muscle and oversized axes. Milla carried a staff and wore a nervous expression. Then there was Rowan—calm, quiet, almost bored.
The first trial was an ability assessment—testing mana flow, elemental affinity, and spirit strength. When it was his turn, he placed his hand on the crystal orb.
The orb blinked once… then flickered oddly.
A deep violet hue pulsed inside it—a strange, unstable glow.
The examiner squinted. "Unorthodox spirit signature… but not chaotic. Strong reinforcement potential. You've trained in some rare body-enhancement arts, haven't you?"
Rowan just shrugged.
"Interesting. Well, let's move on to the combat phase."
Mock Battle Evaluation
His three teammates squared off against summoned constructs—iron-bodied golems programmed with fight patterns. It was meant to assess real-time combat performance.
"Rowan, you're with that dummy on platform five," the examiner said.
The crowd hardly looked up. That changed fast.
The moment the golem moved, Rowan did too.
He closed the distance with a quick dash—his movement low, efficient, and tight. No wasted motion. He pivoted, ducked under a backhand, and swept his blade up in a clean arc that scraped across the golem's shoulder.
Not flashy—but precise.
He wasn't going all out. Just enough. Using Hollowveilforce, his footwork blurred slightly as he advanced again. His muscles tensed as violet spirit lines laced faintly across his visible left arm. The sword became a blur.
Clang!
A piece of the golem's chest plate clattered to the floor.
The veterans watching leaned forward. One of them muttered, "That kid's got control."
His bladesmanship was unmistakable—classical, deliberate. No mana flares, no loud bursts. Just raw technique and enhanced strength.
He finished with a wide spinning cut, knocking the golem's legs out. It crashed to the ground.
He stood still as the dust settled.
After the Evaluation
"That was… impressive," the examiner said. "You held back, didn't you?"
Rowan gave a lazy half-smile. "I'm here to pass, not show off."
"You passed alright. Mid-C rank, but I'm putting a special note. I suspect you're higher… you're just playing it safe."
He shrugged again. "Maybe."
The examiner handed him his adventurer tag—black steel with a violet stripe and his alias engraved: ROWAN // C-RANK.
As he walked out, a few other adventurers watched him go. One leaned over to.
As he walked out, a few other adventurers watched him go. One leaned over to his friend and whispered, "Did you see that? That kid moved like a trained killer."
"Yeah," the other muttered, frowning. "But he's just a kid. Probably peaked early."
"Maybe… but that swordplay? That's not something you pick up swinging at scarecrows."
Rowan ignored the stares. He didn't come here for attention. He just wanted a license, a path, and a quiet five months to get stronger before academy life locked him back in routine.
The sky above had darkened since he stepped in—storm clouds rolling in thick over Westmire. The scent of rain hung in the air, cool and heavy.
He tucked the adventurer tag inside his chest pocket and walked into the market street near the guild. He'd need a room for the night, supplies for travel, and perhaps a few commissions to build a name quietly.
As he passed a mirror in a tailor's stall, he glanced at his reflection.
His jet-black hair framed his face differently now. Brushed down neatly, parted low, it concealed the sharp angles of his cheekbones and his usual boyish charm. The dye made his once silver-white hair look natural—normal. Human.
With his dyed hair, dark outfit, and covered arm, he barely resembled the noble heir of House Edric. Gone were the tailored suits, polished boots, and ever-present guards.
In their place: Rowan. A traveler. A stranger.
He pulled his coat tighter.
"Five months," he murmured. "Five months to grow stronger."
---
That Night – Rented Room Above the Tavern
Rowan sat near the window, blade unsheathed, a whetstone in his prosthetic hand as he sharpened the edge in quiet, rhythmic strokes. The enchanted glove covering his right arm made the motions smooth, silent. He never removed it in public—it was too distinct, too recognizable. But in this private room, he peeled it off.
Underneath was a masterpiece of invention—elegant black steel interwoven with mana fibers and faint pulse lines. It clicked and flexed with life-like motion.
He touched the edge of the blade and exhaled.
"I know something's out there… waiting to strike again," he said under his breath, eyes fixed on the dark sky beyond the window.
"I'm not gonna sit and wait this time. I'm going to be strong. Strong enough to protect them."
Outside, lightning danced across the horizon, thunder rolling behind it.
He didn't flinch. He just stared at the sky as if daring it to come down.
Chapter: Fangs Beneath the Fields
The next morning, rain had washed the dust from Westmire's streets. A breeze rolled in from the north, carrying the scent of pine and wet soil. Rowan stood in the guild's job hall, leaning against a post while scanning the mission board.
Most low-rank jobs were the usual: goblin cleanup, escort duty, errand runs, minor beast infestations. But one flyer caught his eye—a Class-C solo mission, still unclaimed.
> Quest Title: "Tunnel Echoes"
Location: Southfield Crop Mines
Request: Miners reported disappearances and strange noises. Suspected beast nest. Investigate and clear the source.
Reward: 20 silver, hazard bonus negotiable.
Notes: C-rank or above. Not recommended for solo applicants.
He plucked the slip and brought it to the counter.
The receptionist blinked. "You're taking this one? Alone?"
"I'm ranked for it, aren't I?" Rowan asked with a faint smirk.
"Well, yes, but—most avoid Southfield cases. Two teams didn't report back."
"Then I won't be part of a team," he replied, already turning for the door.
System Notification: Quest Complete!
> [Quest: Tunnel Echoes – C-Rank – SOLO]
Objective: Investigate the Southfield Crop Mines. Eliminate any threats.
Status: ongoing
▸ Monsters Defeated:
– Tunnel Fang × 0
– Alpha Tunnel Fang × 0
▸ Survivors Found: 0
▸ Nest Cleared: ongoing
Performance Rating: ★★★★★
Solo completion of a dangerous nesting threat. Efficient execution. Minimal energy loss. Zero injury sustained.
"Well, time to grind some level" he murmur to himself.
---
Southfield Mines – Noon
The abandoned shaft yawned open like a cracked mouth. Wooden beams creaked in the wind, and old mine tracks bent down into the earth like a path into a throat. Rowan lit a small crystal lantern and hooked it on his belt.
The deeper he walked, the more the silence pressed in.
He slowed his breathing, listening.
Scratches… faint. Repetitive. Not stone-on-stone. Claws.
He reached a fork and spotted something in the dirt—scraps of miner boots… and drag marks.
He unsheathed his blade in one smooth draw, his right gloved arm tightening.
Then, a hiss.
Out from the left tunnel slithered a pack of scaled beasts—Tunnel Fangs. They were serpentine, but their upper halves were spider-like, armored in rocky plates. Their eyes gleamed in the dark. Two had human bones lodged in their jaws.
Rowan didn't flinch.
As one lunged, he activated Hollowveilforce.
A faint violet shimmer danced across his skin. His muscles tightened, the ground cracking slightly beneath his boot as he sidestepped. He twisted mid-air, parried a fang with his blade, and landed behind it.
The sword slid effortlessly through its neck, a clean, silent kill.
Another pounced. He ducked, his blade humming low as he struck the underbelly, using the narrow tunnel walls to spring upward in a side-flip. He kicked off the wall, landing beside the last beast.
It hissed and struck.
He didn't dodge.
He slid his foot forward and slammed the hilt of his sword into its jaw, then spun, slicing its throat mid-turn.
Blood hit the wall in an arc.
Three monsters. Eight seconds.
He wiped the blade on his coat and stepped deeper.
---
Deeper in the Shaft
He followed the drag marks until he reached an old supply room, half-collapsed. Inside, he found what remained of the last team: armor scraps, blood trails, shattered weapons. No survivors.
But there was something else—a nesting pit, filled with unhatched eggs.
Dozens.
"That's not good..." he muttered.
Then came the real threat.
From above, a larger shadow dropped.
Alpha Tunnel Fang.
It was twice the size of the others. Two sets of eyes, jagged horns, and a heavy armored hide crusted with dirt and mana residue.
Rowan clicked his neck. "Guess I'll go a bit faster."
He activated Hollowveilforce again—this time stronger. His veins pulsed violet along his neck and left arm. His eyes sharpened, and his grip shifted subtly.
The Alpha charged with a roar.
Rowan dashed forward. His blade met the first claw, deflecting it upward in a diagonal arc. He ducked under the second and cut across the beast's belly—sparks flew, but no blood.
Too tough.
The beast swiped at him, claws raking the earth. He jumped backward, flipped once, landed, then ran along the wall to flank it.
He sheathed his sword mid-run.
One breath.
Two steps.
Shing!
A clean Iai-draw cut straight across the Alpha's exposed side.
It howled.
Not dead—but wounded.
It tried to charge again, but this time, Rowan leapt—using Hollowveil's burst to reach above it. Midair, he flipped, rotated his body like a screw, and drove the blade down into the gap between its plated shoulders.
CRACK!
The sword pierced deep.
The Alpha collapsed with a groan and tremor.
Congratulations you have completed the quest!
You have received the rewards.
Rewards Gained:
💰 Silver Earned: 26 Silver (+6 bonus for Alpha subjugation)
💎 RP (Reputation Points): +240 RP
▸ "Adventurers in Westmire now whisper your name."
📦 System Reward: Spirit Bonus Selected!
▸ [You may now absorb the Alpha Beast Core to advance your Spirit Core]
You have level up!
You have level up!
You are now level : 28
> ⚠️ Alpha Tunnel Fang Core detected. Would you like to absorb now?
➤ [Y/N]
Random Blueprint Acquired!
> [Blueprint: Shadow Fang Cloak – Tier 3 | Rare]
A cloak woven from monster sinew and cursed silk. Grants +15 Agility and low-light concealment. Can be enhanced.
▸ Materials Required:
– Tunnel Fang Hide ×4
– Beast Fang Dust ×1
– Darkweaver Thread ×2
"Nice.. good loot! Open status window!"
Current Status:
> Name: Rowan (Alias)
True Name: Rolien Edric
Race: Human
Class: ??? (Hidden Class Detected)
Level: 26
RP Total: 2,640
HP: 1480 / 1480
MP: 1230 / 1230
Attributes:
▸ Strength: 138
▸ Agility: 172
▸ Intelligence: 95
▸ Dexterity: 160
▸ Constitution: 127
▸ Perception: 151
▸ Willpower: 142
Spirit Core: [LV. 3 – 52% Progress]
▸ [Absorption Recommended: Alpha Beast Core]
Titles:
▸ [The Hidden Sword]
▸ [Ghost Ranker]
▸ [Bloodless Victor]
---
🌒 Passive Effects Active:
Hollowveilforce (Bound Skill)
▸ Enhanced speed, strength, and perception for 10s. Cooldown: 3m
▸ Gain partial invincibility frames when striking first in combat.
Hidden Bloodline Buff (???)
▸ Dormant. Will awaken at Level 30 or Spirit Core LV. 4.
"Not bad at all, ok let's head back!" He murmur under his breath as he walk out.
---
Later, Back at the Guild
He dropped the monster's horn and fang on the guild counter. The staff's eyes widened as she called over the appraiser.
"T-Tunnel Fang Alpha?! You went alone?"
"Yeah," Rowan said, scratching the back of his head. "Took longer than I thought. Can I get that hazard bonus now?"
The appraiser stared at the blood-soaked proof, then back at the black-haired boy.
"…You sure you're only fifteen?"
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "You asking for my birth certificate?"
Whispers buzzed behind him. Other adventurers had noticed. Some curious. Some skeptical. Some already watching too closely.
He pocketed the reward pouch, gave the receptionist a nod, and walked out into the rain.
Another step forward.
Another secret kept.
"Still holding back…" he muttered, eyes on the road ahead. "But they'll all know soon enough."
The sun dipped low over Westmire Outpost, bathing the crooked timber buildings in soft orange hues. Rowan walked with steady steps through the sloped market street, blending with the crowd. The adventurer tag at his hip clinked faintly with each step.
The market was lively even at dusk—stalls overflowing with dried herbs, jerky, baked roots, and smoked fish. Smiths hammered blades and repaired buckles while peddlers shouted over one another, pitching everything from lucky charms to mana-dye leather.
Rowan bought what he needed without much talk:
Dried ironroot strips (for stamina)
A flask of Lesser Recovery Tea
A black cloth mask (to replace the worn-out one)
Spirit polishing oil (for sword maintenance)
And a warm meal: roasted boar slices with spiced barley rice, sold by an old woman near the corner smithy.
He sat by a side bench, eating quietly while the wind carried the scent of coal and stew. The food was simple, but solid. The meat melted with savory fat and pepper, and the barley had a kick that lingered. For a moment, he allowed himself to just breathe.
"One day at a time…" he murmured, watching the smoke curl into the evening sky.
---
Later – Rowan's Room at Hollowveil Inn
Back in his rented room—third floor, end of the hall—he locked the door, drew the curtains, and sat cross-legged on the wooden floorboards. Moonlight slanted through a gap in the shutters.
He took out the glowing Alpha Tunnel Fang Core and held it in both hands.
> [Use Core for Spirit Absorption?]
➤ Yes
The core dissolved into raw energy between his palms. Spirit lines etched down his arms, and the air around him grew heavier for a moment. His breath slowed. Muscles tensed. A faint violet glow pulsed from his chest.
> Spirit Core Progress: 42% ➤ 44%
Absorption completed. Spirit Core adjusted.
Note: Due to core-grade mismatch, minimal gain recorded.
"Tch. Weak beast, weak reward…" Rowan muttered, eyes narrowing. "Guess I really am outpacing these missions already."
He stayed silent for a moment, letting the new energy settle inside his core.
Then he inhaled deeply, pressed his right hand to the floor, and closed his eyes.
> Activating: Spirit Detection Vein Pulse
➤ Expanding radius… 10 meters… 15… 25…
A soft ring echoed in his mind, like sonar—thin pulses spreading through walls and floorboards. The inn felt quiet. One guest snoring. Another sharpening a knife. A rat behind the pantry.
Then…
A void.
A space with no spiritual feedback. Still. Watching.
His eyes snapped open.
There—perched on the rooftop across the alley. Just outside the range of regular perception.
Someone was masking their mana but not their spirit heh—but not well enough.
"Amateur," he thought.
He didn't move yet. Let them watch. Let them think they were unnoticed.
But in his mind, he was already deciding how to bait them. Or trap them.
Maybe both.
The name "Black Wraith" had spread faster than he'd expected.
It wasn't official—he was still "Rowan" on the books—but among guild whisper networks, barroom talk, and unlucky bandits who'd barely survived, that was what they called him now.
Black Wraith.
Because of the way he moved—silent, efficient, and brutal. Because of how his targets never saw him coming. Because he never boasted, never lingered, never smiled. Just took the job. Finished it. Gone.
He hated the name.
But he didn't correct them.
---
A Few Days Later — Guild Lobby
He was sipping tea at a corner table in the adventurer's guild when they approached.
Four people. All experienced. Their armor and weapons told the story—dented pauldrons, bloodstained cloaks, eyes sharp from surviving too many fights.
The leader, a stern woman with a glaive on her back and a silver badge pinned to her chest, approached his table. Her party stood behind her, skeptical but quiet.
"You're the one they're calling the Black Wraith?" she asked.
Rowan glanced up lazily. "…That's what they say."
"We need a fifth for a dungeon clear. A tier-three ruin, north edge of Hollowveil. Just a clean-up raid—already been mapped, just needs clearing and formal re-flagging so the guild can reopen it."
"And?"
"You look like you don't scare easy. And people talk. Figure you'd be better than dragging in a rookie. It's one day's work. We'll split evenly."
Rowan tilted his head. "Alright. But I keep anything I personally find."
"Deal," she said without hesitation. "Name's Tessa. That's Braggs, Ren, and Solis."
He nodded once. "Rowan."
---
Later — At the Dungeon Entrance
The Hollow Deep Ruin was a sunken stone fortress half-swallowed by the forest. Moss clung to broken battlements, and the air stank faintly of wet iron and rot.
They lit torches. Rowan didn't need one—his Spirit Sense kept the terrain mapped in his mind, like sonar pulses echoing in blackness.
The first floor was nothing. Old bonewalkers and mana-starved slimes. The party fought cleanly, efficiently. They were good—disciplined. Rowan didn't have to step in much.
But they noticed how he moved.
Every strike was to kill. Every parry, tight and practiced. He never panicked, never wasted effort. Ren, the archer, muttered at one point, "He doesn't fight like a C-rank…"
---
Third Floor – Spirit Core Chamber
That's when things got interesting.
The chamber's doors were sealed with a runic lock—still pulsing faintly.
"Wait," Rowan said quietly, stopping them. He placed a gloved hand against the stone.
Spirit Detection Pulse.
He felt it—multiple signatures beyond the wall. Something was… awake.
"Three constructs," he said. "And something else. Bigger."
They exchanged nervous glances.
"You still in?" Tessa asked.
Rowan simply drew his sword.
---
[Combat Scene – Dynamic Choreography]
The doors crashed open, and the fight began.
Tessa moved like a whirlwind with her glaive. Braggs, the tank, held the line. Ren sniped from the high archway, while Solis maintained wards.
Rowan was a ghost.
He weaved between the clashing constructs, Hollowveilforce rippling across his legs for silent bursts of speed. A construct swung—a massive cleaver arm—and he ducked under it, slashing its core in one perfect upward cut.
Whirr—clang—crash.
It fell.
Then the Mana-Bound Warden appeared—twelve feet tall, made of cursed armor stitched together by ghostflame and spirit energy.
Braggs was nearly thrown across the chamber.
"Regroup!" Tessa shouted.
"No," Rowan said, stepping forward. "I'll deal with that."
He surged.
Using only Level 3 Spirit Core strength and body enhancements, he didn't overpower it—but he outpaced it.
Rolls, pivots, feints.
He disarmed it, slid beneath its swing, and drove his blade through its backplate—rupturing the core.
A final burst of Spirit Pressure collapsed the flames. It crumbled.
Silence.
The team stared.
"…Holy shit," whispered Solis.
Tessa just muttered, "Now I get the nickname."
---
System Notification
> [Quest Complete: Hollow Deep Ruin Sweep]
Participants: Party of Five
Status: Clear ✅
🧭 New Title Unlocked: "Wraith of Hollowveil"
💠 Reputation Gained: +60 RP (Local: Westmire)
🎁 Reward Obtained: Blueprint – Specter Cloak (Rare, Spirit-woven cloth, grants minor invisibility effect when still)
⚙️ Spirit Core Absorption Option: 1x Lesser Warden Core Available
> Would you like to absorb core now?
▸ Yes
▹ No
(Rowain: Yes)
> ☯️ Spirit Core Progress: [44% → 46%]
⚠️ Minor boost. Higher-quality cores required for greater gains.
"Tch, so low"
The sun was barely peeking over the treetops by the time Rowan returned to the Westmire gates. The group moved quietly, the kind of silence that followed a hard but clean mission. No boasting. No complaints. Just tired boots hitting stone.
They split the pay at the guild. True to their word, Tessa's team didn't try to cheat him—he respected that.
Rowan said nothing as he turned to leave.
"Hey."
He paused.
Tessa stepped forward, wiping her glaive with a strip of cloth. "We've got another raid lined up. Bigger one. Official C-rank clearance, but between you and me, we expect higher-tier resistance inside."
Rowan looked at her.
She held up a sealed parchment.
"Two days from now. Meet us at Hollowpine Crossroads at dawn if you're interested. We could use a blade like yours. You don't talk much, but you work cleaner than most A-ranks I've seen."
Rowan took the parchment silently.
Braggs gave him a nod. Even Ren muttered, "We'll keep a spot open for the Wraith."
He left without a word.
---
Later That Night — Westmire, 4th District
The night fog rolled in thick and low. Rowan sat at the inn's window ledge, cloak draped around his shoulders, finishing a bowl of stew. Cheap but warm.
He checked the sealed parchment. The mission title was written in dark ink:
> "Investigation Order: The Tomb of Echoes."
Classification: C-Rank
Objective: Unknown mana spikes, disappearances. Suspected cursed constructs.
Team: Tessa's unit (+1 slot)
He stared at it a moment, eyes narrowing slightly.
His Spirit Sense stirred—someone was outside again. Same pressure as last night. Watching. Distant. Careful.
But he ignored it for now.
He slipped the mission note inside his coat and moved to his bed. Rest now. Move later.
---
Two Days Later — Hollowpine Crossroads
The fog hadn't lifted. It hung heavy over the trees like a curse.
The team was waiting—Tessa, Braggs, Ren, and Solis—packed and armed.
Rowan arrived silently, walking out of the mist. No horse. No gear visible. Just his long black coat, mask hanging loosely from his collar, and that same unreadable expression.
"You came," Tessa said, a small smirk touching her lips. "Good."
The party didn't speak much as they set out, following old cart tracks deeper into the woods. The ruins they were heading for had no formal mapping—just rumors from desperate traders and a single shaky report from a scout who'd turned back.
Half a day's walk later, they reached it.
The Tomb of Echoes.
It wasn't much to look at—just a half-buried archway in a hollow, choked in vines and silence. But the moment they stepped near it, Rowan's Spirit Core twitched.
Wrong.
The place felt wrong.
A deep, humming resonance buzzed at the edge of his senses. Like something ancient—something sealed was just beyond that threshold.
"Why is it so cold?" Solis murmured. "There's no wind."
Ren nocked an arrow. "Guys. Look at the arch."
Tessa turned—
Her eyes narrowed.
Carved in the moss-covered stone were strange symbols—twisting, flickering at the edge of visibility. Even Braggs stepped back.
"What language is that…?"
Rowan stepped closer.
Then—
His Spirit Sense flared.
There was something inside. No—someone.
Still.
But aware.
Watching them back.
Then the system flicked open.
SYSTEM ALERT
> ❗️⚠️ [Emergency Quest Triggered]
Mission Title: The Sleeping One Stirs
Location: Tomb of Echoes
⚠️ Unknown threat identified
Danger Level: ???
Party strength insufficient
Do you wish to proceed?
> ▸ Yes
▹ No
Rowan's eyes were fixed on the dark hollow beyond the arch. Cold sweat clung to his skin.
And then—
A presence pressed into their minds. Not a voice. Not a sound. But an echo of something ancient, crawling through thought like a whisper under the skin.
"You… bear his scent… but you are not him."
Silence. The team froze.
Even the birds had stopped singing.
Rowan didn't move.
The voice scraped deeper, peeling through reality like wet paper.
"Step closer, thief of fate… Let me remember… the one you stole this path from."
Then—
The archway exploded, not outward, but inward—sucked into the dark, like the mouth of a god swallowing its own name.
What waited inside?
Rowan stepped forward, slowly unsheathing his blade.
Tessa gripped her glaive. "What the hell was that voice talking about?"
But Rowan didn't answer.
His Spirit Core pulsed.
And inside his mind, a memory not his own tried to surface.
---
TO BE CONTINUED…