Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy
From zero to hero " No magic, No problem!"
Encounter 30: breach!
"False Flames, True Chains"
Location: Principal's Office – Nightfall
POV: Veylor Thorne – Grand Mage of Flame and Stone
---
The flames in the hearth flickered, casting long shadows on the old stone. Principal Veylor Thorne stood by the mana projection wall, frowning. The leyline surge had grown worse. No natural mana behaved this way.
> "Something's bleeding into the school's core…"
"No. Someone."
Then—
Boom.
The heavy oak doors exploded inward, splinters flying. Dust and hot wind flooded the office.
Thorne turned, cloak billowing behind him.
Three masked intruders rushed in—glyph suppressors glowing blue on their armor. Trained. Precise.
> "Thorne! You're coming with us!"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he raised one hand—a snap of his fingers echoed, and the hearth erupted behind him. Fire surged like a tidal wave, turning the air molten.
The first intruder raised a shield spell—too slow.
The flames hit him like a battering ram, sending him crashing through a desk with a shriek.
The second attacker drew a blade etched with runes—enchanted to nullify mana. He lunged.
Thorne's hand carved through the air.
The floor between them rippled, then rose. Jagged stone spears burst upward, one piercing through the attacker's thigh—another slamming into his ribs and pinning him to the wall.
The third man activated a suppression field and tossed a mana grenade.
Thorne's eyes flared red-gold.
With a stomp of his foot, the floor cracked—then launched him skyward. In midair, he spun, caught the grenade mid-flight, and coated it in obsidian, sealing the explosion.
> "You dare lay siege to my academy?" he bellowed, landing hard, cracking tiles.
The attackers regrouped, gasping for breath—realizing they were wildly outmatched.
Then—
> "H-Headmaster… Please… stop…"
From the hallway behind them, a voice broke through the chaos.
Luke Arcadia.
Bloodied. Shackled. Limping.
He was dragged in by the man with gray hair, a blade at his throat.
> "Don't make this harder than it needs to be," the gray-haired man said, calm. "We've failed to overpower you. But we've got hostages. You burn us down, and they die."
Flames surged from Thorne's cloak once again, bathing the room in gold.
His gaze flicked to Luke—then behind him. He could sense them. More students. Bound. Afraid.
The fire around his fists flared again—burning hotter, almost white.
> "You vermin. You come into my halls, strike my home—and dare threaten them?"
Stone around his boots began to ripple. The whole tower groaned with rising mana.
> "I should bury you beneath your own cowardice."
> "Do that, and Arcadia dies. And the others." The man pressed the blade slightly deeper. Luke whimpered, eyes wide, faking panic so well that even Thorne's sharp instincts hesitated.
A long silence.
Then Thorne lowered his hand.
The heat faded. The stones calmed.
He extinguished the fire on his shoulders… and unfastened his cloak.
> "...You'll pay for this," he said coldly.
> "We'll see," the man replied.
---
Minutes Later – Under the Academy
They descended into the sealed substructure. Magic-dampening cuffs clicked around Thorne's wrists, glowing blue.
He didn't resist—but his eyes never stopped burning.
> "You know what lies beneath," Thorne said as they reached the seal. "You can't control it."
The man didn't answer. He only smiled.
---
Meanwhile – Bomb Room
Luke stood now in silence, no longer bound or injured.
He inspected the bomb embedded in the chamber's heart. The mana crystal pulsed steadily.
Students lined the wall—real hostages. Gagged. Shaking.
Luke knelt beside the core, placed his hand on the casing, and whispered:
> "Come on, Rolien Edric Grey… I know you're coming."
"Come try to stop me again."
POV: Princess Sophia Valen Ashroth
Location: Upper-Level Balcony, East Wing – Academy Campus
---
They weren't supposed to be there.
Not this far into the night.
Not this deep into the East Wing—past curfew, above the principal's quarters.
But Sophia had insisted.
She felt something off ever since the spike in mana the night before. The leylines under the academy were groaning like something had stirred awake beneath them.
And now… it was unfolding in front of their eyes.
From their hidden vantage on the upper balcony, Sophia, Leto, and Mira watched, breathless, as masked intruders were launched like rag dolls through the principal's chamber.
Fire spiraled in great arcs across the stone floor.
Stone spikes erupted in bursts from the foundation.
And at the heart of it—
> "The principal…" Sophia whispered, eyes wide.
Grand Mage Veylor Thorne stood like a titan of old. Flames curled up his arms like golden serpents. His every step cracked tile. His voice roared with centuries of magical command.
The fight was brutal. Unrelenting. The attackers, skilled as they were, were outclassed completely.
Then—
> "Wait—someone else—" Mira gasped.
Another man entered.
Cloaked. Confident. And dragging someone—
> "Luke?" Leto choked.
They saw him. Shackled. Bloodied. Terrified.
> "No… no, that's—" Sophia squinted. Her gut twisted.
And then they saw it—the shift in the principal's stance. The pause in his overwhelming attacks.
They saw him lower his hand.
> "They're using Luke to control him," Leto said, voice dropping.
> "We need to call Rolien." Mira was already reaching into her coat, drawing out the enchanted communication crystal.
Sophia nodded, eyes still locked on the chamber below as Thorne was led away in shackles.
> "Damn it…"
Mira tapped the stone and whispered, "Rolien? Are you there?"
---
Far Away – Temporary Camp, Construction Site
Rolien sat on a steel beam, shirt off, wiping grease from his prosthetic as a blueprint hovered beside him. His eyes narrowed as the crystal glowed.
> "Mira?"
Her voice came through—urgent. Fast.
> "We saw the principal get ambushed. He's gone. They took him under the school. And Luke—he was there—"
> "What—?!"
> "We think it's a setup. You need to—"
> CLANG!
The sound cut off.
Screams followed.
Static.
Then—silence.
---
Back at the Balcony
A blade had ripped through the wall behind them, scattering mana shards across the floor.
Masked attackers surged in—silent, fast, and ready.
Mira raised her shield, blocking the first strike.
> CLANG—SPARK—CRACK!
Sophia ducked under a spear sweep, her cloak flaring. She spun, drew her wand in a smooth arc, and summoned a shockwave of pure wind—blasting the attacker into the railing.
> "We've been spotted! Leto!" she shouted.
Leto stepped in, sword drawn, face serious for once. His blade danced in a crescent arc—clean, elegant, fast.
> CLANG—CHINK—DASH!
He parried one dagger, spun low, and swept the legs of the next assailant before stabbing downward—non-lethal, but firm.
Another shadow figure dropped from above.
> "Incoming!"
Mira tackled Sophia out of the way, raising her barrier just in time as three black needles embedded into the wall beside them.
> "We're surrounded!" Mira shouted. "We need to move!"
Sophia growled, eyes blazing.
> "No. We fight our way out."
She raised both hands—one wind, one fire.
The balcony exploded in a violent swirl of heat and gales.
Leto stepped forward, defending the rear, sword flashing in the smoke. Mira formed a wide dome of mana to shield them from the next volley.
They fought with precision, with teamwork, with the desperation of cadets who knew this wasn't training anymore.
> This was real.
---
Cut to: Rolien standing.
He clicked the communicator again.
Nothing.
His jaw clenched.
> "Tch…"
He reached for the black case beneath his cot. Quietly unlatched the lock.
Inside: his Black Wraith gear.
> "tch, got a bad feeling about this"
"Drake Engine"
POV: Rolien Edric Grey
---
The communicator blinked. Still no signal.
Dead silence.
Rolien didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He stood and dragged the large, matte case onto the table, the steel latches clicking open.
Inside, it wasn't the medieval armor of the knights.
It wasn't mage robes either.
It was tactical.
Efficient. Clean. Terrifying.
Every piece black. Matte-finished. Weather-resistant. Reinforced.
Combat boots. Bulletproof vest with spirit fiber lining. Hardened tactical helmet. Modular pouches. Grapple reel. Smoke canisters.
And at the center of it all—a smooth black skull-painted mask, its surface cold and unnerving, etched with white streaks to resemble a ghost's skull—and a built-in voice modulator.
He clipped on each piece of armor with surgical calm. Straps tightened. Buckles secured.
No cape. No flashy colors.
Just the silent weight of someone trained for war.
> "Ghost mask on. Systems live," he muttered, voice already warped into a low, distorted drawl.
He removed his old prosthetic. Snapped in the new one—
Drake Punchline 2.0, right arm.
The mechanical hiss of compression sealed it to his shoulder.
---
[Gear Loaded: Drake Punchline 2.0 - Mk II]
Hauling Punch: Spirit-charged rocket fist, burns on impact, launches targets.
Hummer Strike: Internal burst attack. Even a graze sets off searing shockwaves.
Detonator Core: Can remote-blow the fist mid-air or mid-grab.
Integrated Spirit Art Compatibility: Internal spirit flow synced.
He secured the second Punchline to his left arm—calibrated for grappling and utility—and holstered the original Punchline on his back as a backup.
Next, he drew his sword.
Ashbringer Fang.
Its obsidian-black steel shimmered with deep ember veins, heat rising subtly from the sheath itself.
> "Good to see you again," he murmured.
He slung it across his back magnetically.
Lastly, the sidearm.
A matte-black Beretta pistol, modified with strange sigils etched near the chamber. Experimental combustion rounds. Chamber glow faintly red.
> "Still unstable…" he said, loading the mag.
"But if it fires—it hits like a truck."
Holstered.
He stood fully armed. Fully transformed.
Not as a student.
Not as a cadet.
But as the Black Wraith.
---
Watching from the Shadows – POV: Ardan Grey
From a scaffold above the worksite, Ardan Grey lit a cigar stick with a coal ember.
He exhaled slowly, watching his nephew disappear into the trees.
> "Well now… That's not the academy's precious Rolien anymore, is it?"
His lips curled into a grin.
> "That's him. The Wraith in black."
---
Cut to: Academy Outskirts – Midnight
Rolien leapt through the trees in bursts, his black gear melting into the darkness, gliding over branches with the silence of a predator.
No glow. No aura.
Only a cold, tactical presence—like a ghost haunting the woods.
> "They messed with the wrong school."
> "And they messed with the wrong wraith."
The school grounds were unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
Rolien crouched on the rooftop edge of the old observatory, hidden in the shadows. Through the scope attached to his visor, he scanned the main building's interior—mana flares still spiked all over the academy's leyline network.
The mana was concentrated at the central hall. It wasn't subtle.
And down below, in the glass-windowed floor of the auditorium…
He saw them.
Students. Dozens of them. Hands bound. Guarded by masked figures.
> "Bingo. There's the hostage group."
He switched vision modes, searching for thermal patterns.
Nothing above them. Which meant the control room was likely on the upper levels.
He turned to move—then—
A hand suddenly gripped his shoulder.
His instincts flared, and he almost swung his blade—
> "Woah woah—easy, dear boy! It's only me!"
Rolien froze mid-motion.
That voice.
He turned his head slowly.
> "Uncle?!" he whispered harshly.
The man in front of him grinned behind a sleek obsidian scarf, a dark leather cloak flowing behind him. Gray hair tied back messily. Scar across his right brow. Light armor. Twin short blades strapped to his back.
> "Ardan Grey," Rolien muttered. "The fuck are you doing here, old man?!"
Ardan just chuckled, brushing dust off his gloves.
> "So it really was you, huh? I had a feeling."
Rolien swore under his breath and pulled him behind cover.
> "Godsdamn it... You followed me all the way back?"
> "Mhm," Ardan hummed, casually peeking out over the roof ledge. "You think you're the only one with stealth skills in the family?"
> "Still doesn't explain how you found me."
> "I have an Assassin-Class license, kid. Grade S."
"You can't track what doesn't want to be tracked. I chose to let you think I stayed behind."
Rolien sighed through his modulated mask.
> "Jeez, old man…"
> "Watch your tone. I'm still your uncle."
> "Tch, whatever. Just—fine. You're here now, might as well help."
> "Damn right I will. What's the situation?"
Rolien knelt, tapped the side of his helmet, pulling up a tactical layout of the school. A floating blueprint glowed faintly between them.
> "We split this up. First, we breach underground floor—I'm guessing the principal's being held there, near the restricted archives or summoning chamber. Then we clear our way down to the auditorium and free the students."
> "Hostages before hammering the bastards. Got it."
Ardan's expression shifted—less teasing, more focused.
> "Whoever did this," he muttered, "they're organized. This isn't just a tantrum. Someone wanted the principal alive for a reason."
> "Yeah… and I'll find out why after we get him out."
Rolien stood, double-checked his weapons.
Ashbringer Fang across his back.
Punchline 2.0s primed.
Experimental sidearm locked in.
Three flash bombs. Grapple line loaded.
> "Alright, follow my lead, uncle. We ghost it from the north atrium stairwell and breach the summoning chamber. We take out any patrols quiet. Got it?"
Ardan gave a two-finger salute.
> "Heh. Still bossy, even under a skull mask."
> "Don't make me punch you."
> "Try it and I'll disarm you, one arm boy."
They both smirked behind their masks.
> "Let's go," Rolien said. "Silent entry. We do this fast, clean."
> "Right behind you, kid."
The academy behind them faded into the quiet night, but Rolien and Ardan didn't bother with the main entrance.
Instead, they slipped beneath the surface—moving fast through an old maintenance shaft that connected the northern storage wing to the abandoned lower floors of the academy. A place most students didn't know still existed.
Only staff and old records even mentioned it now.
> "They're not keeping him above ground," Rolien muttered over comms.
"Too risky. They brought him down here—for the summoning chamber."
Ardan gave a low whistle as they navigated deeper into the stone corridors.
> "You mean that half-collapsed hall the school sealed off decades ago?"
> "Yeah. They used to train advanced summoning arts there. Big stuff—elementals, spirits, otherworldly contracts. Then one day… boom. Something went wrong, and they shut it down."
> "So why go there now?"
Rolien's visor adjusted as they rounded a bend.
> "Because whatever they're planning… needs space. Big space. And maybe something that's still sealed down here."
That's when movement flickered at the end of the corridor.
Two hooded figures—posted as guards. Each holding crystal-spears humming with mana.
Ardan tensed, hand drifting to his blade.
> "Quiet or loud?" he whispered.
> "Quiet," Rolien said, eyes narrowing behind his skull-mask.
He didn't wait.
Rolien shot forward—Dash.
A sudden blur in the torchlight. His steps didn't echo—he moved like a ghost, and by the time the first guard noticed—
Crack!
Rolien drove his elbow into the man's throat, twisted behind him, and flipped him into the wall with a bone-snapping thud.
The second raised his weapon.
Too late.
Rolien lunged—sweeping his leg under the man's stance and slamming his fist into his gut. The Punchline 2.0 gauntlet let out a dull thump as the air was blasted from the guard's lungs.
> "Target incapacitated."
Ardan blinked, eyebrows raised.
> "Damn, kid. Thought you were gonna let me have one."
> "You're slow," Rolien replied, already dragging one unconscious body to the shadows.
They pushed forward—deeper into the corridor where old runes still pulsed faintly on the walls.
---
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Tactical Gear Sync: ACTIVE
Mana-Draw: STABLE – No resupply needed
Blueprint Interface: Linked
---
Rolien's gear wasn't enchanted—it was engineered. Built by his own hand. Modeled after Earth's elite black-ops kits, but powered by this world's energy.
His gears absorbed ambient mana—independently feeding his loadout., his thermal visor, the grappling modules—all ran independently.
No spellcasting.
No chants.
No mana required from him. Thanks for the help of Mr.yohan .
> "We're close," he said quietly.
"That big door up ahead? That's it. The old summoning chamber."
The twin doors were sealed with glowing sigils and old-style magic locks.
Ardan stepped beside him.
> "If they dragged the principal down here… they're not just holding him. They're preparing something."
> "Yeah," Rolien said coldly. "They're going to summon something. Maybe someone. Either way—it stops here."
He raised his right fist.
The red glow of Hummer Strike charged inside the gauntlet.
> "Knock, knock."
BOOM!
Flames and shockwaves spiraled out from the door as the internal locks snapped and the sigils shattered.
The stone door groaned—then slowly swung open.
And what they saw beyond made both men freeze.
The heavy doors groaned open on rusted hinges, scraping the stone with a metallic screech. Dust and old magic spilled into the corridor like smoke.
Rolien stepped through first, visor adjusting to the dim red glow inside the chamber.
His boots landed on old summoning circles—etched deep into the floor, glowing faintly with unstable mana.
The air was heavy. Wrong.
And at the far end of the room—chained by glowing restraints, arms bleeding from fresh cuts—the principal stood slumped but conscious. Fire and earth mana pulsed faintly around him, trying to flare but getting suppressed by dampening crystals embedded into the floor.
> "Bastards," Ardan muttered, eyes scanning the altar-like platform.
> "They're trying to drain him," Rolien said quietly, stepping forward. "He's not just a hostage—they're using him."
Around them, the old summoning chamber looked more like a warlock's lair than a classroom. Broken desks. A dozen chanting glyphs reactivated. Runes flaring to life on the far wall—matching old diagrams of seal-break rituals Rolien had only read about in dusty, forbidden texts.
> "They're preparing to unseal something… or someone."
And then—
> Clack. Clack. Clack.
Footsteps echoed from the upper balcony of the chamber.
A hooded figure emerged slowly—lean, armored in dark robes, eyes glowing faintly under the hood's shadow.
The same one who gave Luke the ring.
> "Well, well… you're early."
Rolien raised his left gauntlet, weapons systems primed.
> "Let him go. Now."
The hooded man chuckled, hands raised like he meant no harm.
> "You don't understand what's happening here. The principal is a keystone. A lock. We're simply… removing an obstacle. You think you're saving lives, but in truth—you're preserving a lie."
> "I've heard that cultist crap before."
> "Heh," the man mused. "Not cultists, boy. Just correction."
Ardan stepped beside Rolien, hand already gripping his blade.
> "You're outnumbered."
> "Am I?"
> CRASH!
A hidden side-door burst open—more hooded figures emerged, at least six. All with enchanted weapons, glyphs dancing along their sleeves.
Rolien scanned quickly.
> "Can't risk a direct firefight. Principal's in the middle. If this place collapses—we lose him."
> "Uncle—distraction."
> "With pleasure," Ardan said, already vanishing into the gloom.
The moment the first enemy stepped forward, Ardan was there—a blur of silver as he slashed the man's staff in half, followed by a spin-kick that knocked him unconscious.
Rolien charged forward—Punchline 2.0 igniting—and shoulder-checked another guard into the wall, following up with a Hummer Strike that launched a third one into the ceiling with a fiery shockwave.
> "You're just kids playing villain," he growled.
One of the guards tried casting—too slow. Rolien's knife hand slammed into his side, disabling him instantly.
Above, the hooded man frowned.
> "Tch. You're not some random hero, are you?"
> "Never said I was," Rolien replied, advancing.
Suddenly—a deep, low pulse vibrated through the floor.
BOOM... BOOM... BOOM...
Runes along the walls started flaring.
Rolien stopped cold.
> "No—no, they already started the unsealing...!"
The principal groaned on the platform, struggling against the mana-bindings.
> "You… must stop… the ritual—" he managed to say.
But the floor beneath the chamber began cracking, glowing red.
> [SYSTEM ALERT]
Ritual Seal Integrity – 58%
Lock Threshold – Breach Possible in 3 Minutes
Rolien clenched his fists.
> "Uncle—we're out of time!"
Ardan vaulted across the altar, knocking two cultists away as Rolien sprinted toward the principal.
But the hooded man raised a single hand—and the cracks surged upward.
> "You're too late, Black Wraith. The door is opening. And soon, even you won't be able to stop what comes through it."
The chamber floor cracked further. Runes pulsed with heat. Whatever they were trying to summon was almost through.
Rolien didn't wait for the light show to end.
> "Cut the crap—I'm ending this."
He raised his prototype pistol—the Beretta still scuffed from field testing. The barrel hummed with modified ether triggers and Earth-forged tech.
BANG!
The shot rang out—not loud, but deep. A hollowed thud like compressed thunder.
The bullet slammed into one of the glowing restraints chaining the principal.
CRACK!
The magical shackle shattered like brittle glass.
> "Magic doesn't work on that chain..." Rolien muttered, adjusting his aim.
"Good thing this isn't magic."
BANG—BANG!
Two more perfect shots. Two more restraints exploded off.
The principal gasped as the final seal sputtered, energy bleeding out like smoke.
> "Get ready, old man!"
Rolien took a step back and launched his Drake Punchline 2.0.
The gauntlet blasted off his arm like a rocket, the chain-module wrapping tightly around the principal's torso mid-air.
> "Punchline—GRAB."
The mechanism yanked tight—and reeled the principal toward him like a hook-shot.
He caught him mid-fall, grunting under the weight but keeping his stance.
> "Tch. You're heavier than I thought."
> "You're not… a student…" the principal rasped, barely upright.
> "Not right now."
Rolien activated comms.
> "Uncle—we're leaving."
Across the chamber, Ardan rolled over a knocked-out cultist and shouted,
> "With pleasure!"
As they moved, Rolien opened his satchel and began tossing shaped charges left and right—custom Earth-style C4 with rune fuses and ether triggers.
> Tick. Tick. Tick.
The moment the gray-haired cultist lunged forward, trying to cut them off—
> Tink.
A small metal object bounced at his feet.
He caught it instinctively.
> "What the—?"
FWOOOM!!
A brilliant white flash detonated in his hand.
The explosion wasn't lethal—just blindingly bright. Designed to disorient. A loud high-pitched DING screamed into the chamber like a siren.
The cultist howled and staggered back, clutching his ears.
> "Aghh—my vision—what is that!?"
> "Flashbang," Rolien muttered. "From a world that actually studied how to win wars."
With the enemy dazed, Rolien slapped a fresh gauntlet module into his arm—Punchline snapped back into place with a satisfying clack.
He turned to Ardan, who was already helping the principal up.
> "Exit route. Northwest shaft. Move!"
> "Already mapped it!" Ardan barked back. "I'm not that old, brat!"
They ran, Rolien pressing the detonator—
> click
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!!
Fire erupted behind them, sealing off the summoning chamber in smoke and flame as ancient stone collapsed inwards. The entire place trembled.
But they didn't stop.
They vanished into the tunnels—the Black Wraith and the Ghost of the Past, carrying the school's headmaster and the last hope of stopping whatever was clawing through that door.
The world exploded.
Luke stumbled backward as the shockwave from the collapsing chamber slammed into him, dust and stone cascading from the ceiling above. He raised his cloak to shield his face, coughing as the heat singed the air.
> "What the hell was that—!?"
He turned toward the now-flaming hallway, pupils narrowing beneath his hood. The summoning room—gone, buried under rubble and smoke. The principal was gone. That masked bastard was gone.
But something… stayed behind.
From the cracks in the stone—a red glow began to pulse. Slow. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat.
> Thud... Thud... Thud.
The wall at the far end of the chamber—once sealed with ancient glyphs—split open with a hiss of unnatural steam. Molten lines crawled along the stone.
> "No... that's not possible…" Luke muttered.
The gray-haired man staggered out from the dust, one eye scorched and bleeding, fury dancing across his face.
> "They interrupted the main spell. But it's too late…"
Luke clenched his fists.
> "You said the seal wouldn't open unless the principal's core was drained!"
> "It wasn't just his core we were using!"
> Thud... Thud...
Then it growled.
A sound like iron grinding against bone. Deep. Bestial.
Everyone froze as a dark figure began rising behind the broken summoning altar. Massive. Covered in spiraling symbols and shackles that cracked with each movement.
> A chained monster… with glowing eyes… staring straight at them.
Luke stumbled back a step.
> "Wh-what is that thing!?"
The gray-haired man looked up, trembling slightly, then grinned.
> "It's not a thing."
> "It's a god that shouldn't exist."
Chains snapped. Runes burst in a flash of blue fire. The ground trembled harder now—cracks splitting the walls like spiderwebs.
Then—
BOOM.
The creature slammed its fist into the floor, and the entire underground chamber tilted sideways.
Luke fell to his knees, caught in the quake.
Above ground, the students began screaming as the school itself lurched, tremors shaking the foundation.
> "This… this wasn't part of the plan—!"
The man only laughed louder.
> "Welcome to your new age, boy. Whether you're ready or not."
Rolien froze mid-step.
A sound vibrated through the stone—deep, pulsing. Not magic. Not spiritual. Just wrong. Like something ancient stretching after a long sleep.
His HUD flared to life with a bright red warning.
---
[SYSTEM ALERT]
UNKNOWN ENTITY DETECTED
Classification: ???
Threat Level: CATASTROPHIC
Designation: OUTER ENTITY - INCOMPLETE
Status: AWAKENED - FORM UNSTABLE
Mana Surge Detected Across Campus
---
The roar that followed was guttural. Primal. The air itself seemed to shrink away from the sound.
> "Shit… We didn't stop it," Rolien muttered, scanning the direction they'd come from.
Beside him, Ardan steadied the principal, who looked half-conscious but still aware.
> "There's a backup plan, right?" Ardan asked.
Rolien paused—face still, eyes sharp.
> "There is. A prototype weapon."
He checked the rear compartment on his tactical harness… empty.
> "Damn it."
> "Don't tell me…" Ardan raised an eyebrow.
Rolien exhaled through his teeth.
> "It's still in my room. At the dorm."
> "Of course it is," Ardan grunted. "The one time you don't carry a death cannon."
> "Gerberra-07," Rolien muttered. "Groteus Arm. Modeled after the last A+ monster I fought. Unstable, not fully integrated… and made of magesteel."
> "Why not orichalcum?"
> "Because I'd need the Mother of All Flame just to melt it," Rolien replied. "This prototype can't take the full charge. It could misfire. Detonate. Snap my whole damn arm off. Or worse—blow a hole through the academy."
The principal coughed. "But it can hurt that thing?"
> "If I can fire it… yeah. It'll hurt."
> "Then go," the old man said, eyes sharp even through blood and dust. "Retrieve it. We'll hold things together until you're back."
Rolien hesitated. His jaw clenched.
> "If this goes sideways—"
> "We'll buy you time," Ardan cut in, voice calm but steady. "Get your gear. Then come back and finish this."
The ground shook again, harder this time. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Rolien turned.
> "Contact the others. Evacuate the campus. If we're doing this, no one else gets caught in the crossfire."
> "Understood," Ardan nodded.
Rolien activated his leg boosters and spirit-drive, crouched low.
> "This ends tonight."
With a blast of compressed air, he shot off into the tunnels, headed for the dorm—racing against a god's awakening.
---
TO BE CONTINUED