Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero! " No Magic, No Problem!"
Volume 2
Encounter 2: The Flame That Failed
---
—Flashback Start—
Location: Classified Military FOB
Time: 4:21 AM
Date: June 7th
A fluorescent light buzzed overhead, cold and sterile. A tactical map flickered on the projector screen in the center of the tent. Six men sat around the table, each clad in dark military gear, their faces drawn with the weight of too many missions, too many lives.
Captain Rowan Elian Grey leaned forward, arms folded over his black vest. His jaw was tight. His eyes, sharper than anyone's in the room, locked onto the target area outlined in red.
"Intel confirmed. The terrorist known as 'Hunter Solomon' will strike tonight. Istanbul. Civilian building. Top floor used as a makeshift school for refugees."
Mike, the team's second-in-command, glanced at Rowan. "Kids? That son of a bitch is really going after kids now?"
Tom muttered under his breath, "What kind of monster..."
Rowan's voice cut through. Cold. Low.
"He's not just a monster. He's strategic. He wants attention. And killing those kids gets it. International headlines. Global fear. He wants to prove no one is untouchable."
He zoomed in on the building, highlighting the three potential entry points.
"Our mission is clear: get in, secure the hostages, neutralize the target."
Silence fell.
Then Rowan added quietly, as if to himself, "No casualties. Not again."
---
—Later That Night—
They moved under cover of darkness.
Black Ghost Unit-03, an elite anti-terrorist team, approached the apartment building from three angles. Drones confirmed Solomon's men inside. Rowan led the frontal infiltration—his heart beating a little faster than usual.
"Team Two—hold perimeter. Team Three—go loud in 3... 2... breach!"
Gunfire. Smoke. Screams.
Rowan moved like a shadow—silenced pistol, sweeping rooms, taking down guards with clean precision.
But he was too late.
A timer was already ticking.
On the 9th floor, the children were chained inside a small classroom—eyes wide, too scared to even scream. And in the far corner?
A crooked, handmade C4 charge. Solomon's favorite signature.
"Fuck," Rowan hissed, kneeling and inspecting it. His fingers trembled—not out of fear, but rage.
He knew this wiring.
It was just like the last time Solomon played him.
He reached for the disarm kit. His HUD counted down: 00:23.
Then he saw it—a decoy wire.
A trap.
He yanked his hand back, eyes narrowing.
> "Too smart. Too damn smart…"
The charge blinked faster.
He looked at the children. Frozen. Crying.
"MOVE!" he yelled, grabbing two kids and rushing toward the door.
Then—BOOM.
Everything went white.
He felt heat. Screams. Shrapnel.
He thought he was dead.
But when his eyes fluttered open—
> "You dumb bastard, don't you ever die without asking first!" Mike shouted, hoisting him over his shoulder.
Tom and the rest of the team were there, firing back, dragging survivors.
Rowan looked behind.
Too many small bodies weren't moving.
---
—Briefing Room, Three Days Later—
Bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. A bottle of painkillers sat untouched by his side.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Not until the commander spoke quietly, "You saved twenty-two. You lost seven. That's still a win, son."
Rowan's jaw tightened.
His voice was almost a whisper. "Not if those seven were kids."
---
Later That Night – Alone
Rain pattered on the window.
He sat in the dark, watching news footage of the attack. Photos of victims. One of them—a girl with short black hair, holding a drawing of a cat.
He remembered her. She had smiled at him before the blast.
He broke.
Punching the wall once, twice—until his knuckles bled.
"Next time, Solomon... I swear to whatever god is listening..."
"I'll be better. Smarter. Faster. You won't win again."
---
—End Flashback—
---
Present Day – Magisterium Academy
Rolien jolted awake. Cold sweat clung to his back, the remnants of the memory still clawing at his lungs.
The academy ceiling greeted him, sterile and white. His arm—a prototype again—still ached from Gerberra's final roar.
The pain wasn't what woke him.
It was that memory. That vow.
And the fact that he'd seen Solomon again—here, in this world.
Same crooked grin. Same twisted logic.
But this time...
He was stronger.
This time, he wouldn't fail.
Steam rose in the morning air.
Rolien leaned forward under the rushing stream of water, eyes closed, one hand braced against the tiled wall. His breath was steady, but shallow. Every muscle ached from the battle. His prosthetic arm—Gerberra—had been removed and was being recalibrated back at the lab.
That meant his right shoulder was bare. Just smooth scars where metal once connected to flesh.
He stood quietly, letting the water wash away the grime, the blood, and the fragments of a war not just from this world—but from the one before.
A bead of water trickled down his jaw.
> "You're alive," he murmured to himself.
His voice was barely audible under the flow. There was no relief in it. Just acknowledgment.
He flexed his fingers. The left hand trembled.
> "No more mistakes. Not again."
He turned off the faucet, towel draped around his neck, and stepped into the changing tent. His uniform—dark gray with the academy's crest—was folded neatly. Standard issue. But the weight of it never felt standard.
He fastened the straps across his chest, tightened the gloves, then slid the black scarf up around his neck.
His face? Calm. His mind? Never still.
---
Near the Southern Ridge – Reconstruction Site
The academy had cleared a wide area at the damaged cliffside to reinforce the structural base. What was once the battlefield where Xexaria nearly manifested had now become a military-grade repair zone. Arcanists and engineers worked side-by-side, raising new pillars, erecting energy barriers, and sealing cracks with reinforced rune-slag.
Rolien stepped through the checkpoint—nodding at the guards. His steps were silent, but his presence was immediately noticed.
> "You sure you're even allowed out of bed, brat?" a familiar voice called.
Standing at the center of the crew, arms crossed and smirk intact, was Uncle Darias—muscles thick as boulders under his tattered coat. His bruised face still bore signs of the battle, and his weapon was slung lazily across his back.
Next to him stood Sir Marcellus, silver-haired and stoic as always. Former knight commander. A man whose silence was louder than most shouts.
And beside them—
"Young master Rolien!"
A blur of apron and tears launched toward him.
"W-Wait, Lyra, don't—!"
But it was too late.
His old nanny, Lyra, tackled him into a hug with enough force to make his ribs creak. Her cheeks were wet. Again.
> "You reckless little devil! You almost died! AGAIN!"
Rolien groaned softly. "Lyra... air. I need air."
She pulled back but didn't let go. "I told the Duke and Lady Lerien I'll keep watch on you myself! You're not going anywhere alone again! I packed your lunch, and you'll eat it with vegetables, and—"
"Lyra," he said flatly, "we're at a construction site. Not a picnic."
Sir Marcellus cleared his throat, a slight smile ghosting over his lips. "Let her fuss. She missed yelling at someone ever since Elian left for the northern post."
"Big bro's doing fine?" Rolien asked.
Darias answered, "He's already breaking bones up there. Sent word this morning—misses the chaos here."
Rolien smirked. "Lucky him."
Lyra tugged his scarf gently. "You look too thin. You always get thinner when you're brooding. And don't lie to me—I know you're brooding again."
"I'm always brooding," he deadpanned.
---
Later – Overlooking the Dam Site
The wind blew softly across the scaffold. Workers chanted spells to lift beams into place. The shattered chasm where Xexaria once emerged now echoed with construction magic and iron tools instead of screams.
Rolien stood quietly at the edge of the cliff, one foot resting on the low barrier, arms folded. The wind tugged at his scarf.
Darias joined him, gaze cast toward the rising structure. "You didn't say much after the fight."
"Not much to say."
"You won. That's not nothing."
Rolien's jaw tightened. "She wasn't complete. It wasn't a real victory."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Rolien added, quietly: "And Solomon was there."
That made Darias stiffen.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm never wrong about that face."
Darias muttered something under his breath, rubbing his jaw. "Then the cracks are wider than we thought."
Rolien said nothing.
His eyes were fixed on the dam, but his mind was elsewhere—on the classroom. The bomb. The blood. And the ghost of Istanbul that refused to stay buried.
> "I need to get stronger," he said at last.
Darias nodded. "Then you better eat Lyra's damn vegetables."
Magisterium Academy – Temporary Engineering Camp
Rolien stepped away from the edge of the overlook and made his way toward the nearby supply tents. Inside, reinforced tables held the wreckage salvaged after the battle—mostly twisted scrap, shattered steel, and smoldered arcane circuitry.
But at the center of it all—
> His prosthetic: Gerberra. Or what was left of it.
The arm was in two pieces now. Burnt. Cracked. Exposed internal tubing hissed faintly, leaking vapor from damaged outer-time cores. The fingers were bent inward like it had seized up just before impact.
And next to it, his backup blade: Punchline 2.0, now nothing more than a warped chunk of alloy. The hilt was melted into the guard. The signature recoil system—shattered beyond repair.
He stood over the table, silent.
Then clicked his tongue.
> "Tch… damn it."
He reached out slowly and picked up Gerberra's cracked forearm module, turning it over in his hands. Blackened edges flaked off like burnt paper. The once-glowing lines along the plating were dull now—completely drained.
> "That's the third version I've lost," he muttered under his breath.
From behind, one of the younger field engineers flinched. "W-We can… maybe salvage parts for a Gen 4, sir. If the core's not contaminated."
Rolien didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on the scorched remains like they were the corpse of a friend.
He gently set the module back down and stared at it for another long second.
> "I trusted you to hold out. You did more than that…"
He inhaled once. Deep. Then turned away, slipping his gloves back on.
---
Outside, Darias was waiting, arms crossed.
"Gear's fried?" he asked.
"More like cremated," Rolien muttered.
"You gonna take a break now?"
Rolien looked up at the sky, where clouds moved lazily across the morning sun.
> "No."
He tightened his scarf.
> "I've got a new one to build."
Rolien crouched beside the ruined remains of Punchline and Gerberra's arm, the once-proud weapons now little more than warped metal and scorched plates.
Sparks flickered weakly from the cracked core as he turned the forearm over in his hands. The stabilizing vents were melted, the internal channels caved in.
> "No point salvaging this..."
He clicked his tongue and sat back with a tired sigh, wiping sweat from his brow with a grease-stained sleeve.
> "I don't even have the materials to rebuild it. No orichalcum, no reinforced conduit lining… and that outer-time alloy's gone. What a mess."
> "A mess, yes—but a fascinating one," came a voice from the entrance.
Rolien turned to see Principal Thorne stepping inside, his cloak billowing gently from the wind outside. His sharp eyes immediately scanned the broken arm pieces.
> "So this is it. Gerberra… and Punchline, I assume?"
> "What's left of them," Rolien muttered.
Thorne stepped closer, crouching beside the bench and inspecting the scorched circuitry and framework with unexpected precision.
> "You built this with no magic?"
> "None," Rolien replied simply.
Thorne let out a low whistle, genuinely impressed.
> "Astounding. The energy channels… the exhaust lines… You used alternating vent compression to regulate the outer-time energy flow?"
> "Barely. It almost killed me."
> "Still," Thorne said, running a finger along one of the fractured seals, "I've seen dwarven prototype limbs with less elegance than this. Where did you even get the idea?"
> "Old designs. Trial and error," Rolien replied. "Mostly books. And blowing things up until it worked."
Thorne gave a dry chuckle and then stood, folding his arms behind his back.
> "You'll want to rebuild it one day. And when that time comes, you'll need more than magesteel and a soldering tool."
Rolien looked up at him, cautious. "Go on."
> "I don't know the exact location," Thorne admitted, "but I have… a clue. An old fragment. A lead on where the Mother of All Flame might rest."
The words hung in the air.
Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
Rolien stared at him, the weight of that title sinking in.
> "The forge said to melt anything. Even divine metal."
> "Or reforge a limb that channels energy beyond our world," Thorne added.
Silence.
Then Rolien leaned back again with a sigh.
> "Appreciate it, really. But I can't go chasing myths right now."
> "Because of the academy?"
Rolien nodded.
> "Too much happening. Students to protect. Eyes on the school. I'll chase your forge story some other time—maybe during break, if I can slip away."
Thorne gave a small nod, not pushing further.
> "Then when the time comes, I'll have the map ready."
He turned to leave but paused at the tent flap.
> "You're not just rebuilding a weapon, you know."
> "What do you mean?"
> "You're rebuilding who you are. Just don't lose the part that's still human in the process."
And with that, the principal left.
Rolien sat in the silence for a moment.
Then looked down at his wrecked arm.
> "Heh… Easy for you to say, old man."
POV – Crown Prince Caelan
Location: Imperial Capital – Throne Hall of Aeterran Empire
The golden double doors creaked open as Crown Prince Caelan stepped into the grand throne room, escorted by two royal knights. His uniform was still scorched at the sleeve, remnants of the academy's chaos visible in the soot and dried blood on his boots. But he walked with steady purpose.
Seated at the far end, Emperor Theodin Grey waited silently. His aging but sharp eyes bore into the prince as he approached and knelt at the base of the steps.
> "Rise, Caelan," the Emperor said, voice deep and calm. "Report."
Caelan stood straight and took a breath.
> "The incident at Magisterium Academy has been neutralized. The Outer God-class entity—codename: Xexaria, the Rot Mother—was successfully repelled."
The court stirred at the words. Whispers buzzed between ministers and generals lining the gallery.
> "Repelled?" the Emperor echoed, eyebrows arching. "By who?"
> "By a lone figure… dressed in black, wielding an experimental prosthetic arm and non-magical armaments." Caelan paused. "The students call him The Black Wraith."
A wave of murmurs broke through the gallery. The name was already spreading.
> "He fought the Outer God alone?" the Emperor asked, his voice low, disbelieving.
> "Not entirely. Faculty provided limited support. But the finishing blow… came from him. A prototype weapon capable of channeling energy not tied to mana—some kind of… extra-temporal source. It overwhelmed her."
The Emperor leaned back, thoughtful.
> "What do we know of him?"
> "Nothing, Your Majesty. No verified identity. He vanished after the battle. Only the name remains. Black Wraith."
> "You mean to say," the Emperor said slowly, "that a nameless adventurer succeeded where nations would falter?"
> "He saved hundreds of students," Caelan added. "I witnessed it myself."
There was silence again.
Then Theodin stood.
His cloak rustled like thunder as he turned toward a sealed compartment behind the throne. He waved his hand over a magical crest. The lock glowed, then clicked open.
From within, he retrieved a thick, leather-bound tome wrapped in aged chains and inscribed with ancient celestial runes.
> "This," he said, lifting the book carefully, "is the Grimoire of the Great Sage. The last known record of the Heavenly Body Technique, passed down by Rowan Elian Grey himself during the first era."
Caelan's eyes widened.
> "I thought it was sealed permanently…"
> "Only for the unworthy," the Emperor said. "But this… Black Wraith proved himself against a god. That strength... that technique... it aligns too well with what the first Sage left behind."
> "But we don't even know who he is."
> "We will find him," the Emperor said simply. "And when we do, this shall be his reward. No titles. No coin. No throne."
He held the grimoire forward, the runes glowing softly in his hand.
> "Only the truth of his path."
Caelan bowed his head.
> "And if he refuses the reward?"
> "Then," Theodin murmured, eyes narrowed, "we'll still know where to start looking. Because no one but a descendant of the Sage… should be able to wield what he did."
To be continued...