Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy
From zero to hero "No Magic?, No Problem!"
Encounter 24: the Wolf and the sheep
The capital's war council chamber was heavy with the scent of wax and parchment. Candles flickered along the long oak table, their light catching the polished armor of the knights who stood guard. Elian Grey, eldest son of Grand Duke Edric, stood straight-backed, his report gripped firmly in his hand.
"Monster sightings have increased in the Elroy dukedom," Elian began, his voice even but carrying an edge of urgency. "Not just goblins or stray wolves. High-level monsters—ogres, manticores, even a basilisk—have been spotted near villages. Casualties are already mounting."
The council members shifted uncomfortably. A single basilisk could wipe out an entire hamlet if left unchecked.
Elian set the report down and continued. "I am requesting immediate deployment of troops to reinforce the border villages. Farmers and hunters are not equipped to deal with this. Moreover, I recommend dispatching a high-ranking adventurer party to the nearby dungeons. If the dungeon's balance has been disturbed, its monsters may already be spilling into the surrounding lands."
A thin, gray-bearded minister frowned. "You're certain this isn't simple migration? We cannot afford to thin our forces while the northern border still—"
"It's not migration," Elian cut in, sharper than intended. He caught himself, drew a breath, and steadied his tone. "These aren't scattered incidents. The reports follow a pattern, spreading outward in waves. Something is driving them—or releasing them."
Silence pressed into the room. The Grand Duke's crest above the council table seemed to loom heavier, a reminder of their responsibility to protect the realm.
Finally, one of the knight-commanders leaned forward. "If Elian Grey says there is cause, we should act. His scouts are thorough. Better to lose a few companies to a false alarm than risk an outbreak spreading to the heartlands."
The minister grudgingly nodded. Quills scratched across parchment as orders were drafted.
Elian exhaled slowly. Outwardly, he remained composed, but inside, his thoughts churned. This was too sudden, too widespread. Dungeons did not simply "spill open" without cause.
And though he did not voice it aloud, a grim suspicion gnawed at him: whatever was stirring near Elroy, it felt deliberate.
Elian pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the echo of his footsteps following him into the corridor. The air outside felt colder, sharper, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
One of his trusted subordinates stepped forward, eyes shadowed with worry but posture disciplined. "My lord," he said, bowing slightly, "we should leave immediately. If we delay any longer, it may already spell the end of the Elroy dukedom."
Elian stopped, his gaze flicking toward the distant horizon beyond the tall arched windows. Clouds hung low, bruised and heavy, like the sky knew of the storm to come. His jaw tightened.
"I've already dispatched messengers to Duke Elroy," the knight continued. "By now, he should be on high alert."
Elian nodded, steadying his breath. Every second was precious now, but hesitation would cost more than time—it would cost lives.
"Good," he said firmly. "Gather our forces. Ten of our strongest—knights and mages both. We move for Elroy's lands at once."
The knight straightened, a spark of determination replacing his unease. "As you command."
Within moments, the halls stirred with motion. Armor clinked, voices barked orders, boots struck the marble floors like the beat of war drums. Ten figures soon assembled in the courtyard, each hand-picked for their strength and loyalty. The knights stood tall, steel shining beneath their cloaks, while the mages clutched staves humming faintly with arcane power.
Elian stepped out into the open, his cloak catching in the wind. He looked over the gathered warriors—his warriors. Their faces were grim but resolute.
"Listen well," he said, voice carrying across the courtyard. "The Elroy dukedom may already be under threat. We ride not just to protect them, but to ensure that darkness does not spread further into our lands. Stand ready, for what awaits us will not be ordinary battle."
The knights slammed fists against their chests in salute, while the mages murmured oaths under their breath. The ground seemed to hum with the weight of what was to come.
Elian turned his eyes once more to the horizon. His gut twisted with a silent premonition. Whatever awaited them in Elroy's lands—it would test them all.
"Mount up," he commanded. "We ride now."
And with that, the company surged forward, hooves pounding like thunder as they set out toward the dukedom that might already be facing ruin.
The sound of galloping hooves cut through the smoke-filled horizon. As Elian and his group pressed forward toward the eastern front, a formation of silver-clad cavalry blocked their path, their banners snapping in the wind.
At their head rode a man who radiated command—his broad shoulders wrapped in a wolf-pelt cloak, his armor etched with years of battle scars. His stern gaze softened only slightly when it fell on Elian.
"Father…" Elian muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the reins.
Grand Duke Edric Grey dismounted, boots hitting the earth with the weight of authority. His men spread wide, halting Elian's advance.
"You're going even without proper backup?" Edric's deep voice carried both reprimand and worry. His eyes scanned the young knights and mages gathered behind his son, some still bandaged, others trembling with fatigue. "You know what waits out there is no ordinary horde."
Elian clenched his jaw. "If we wait any longer, more cities will fall. Every moment we hesitate costs lives."
Edric's face tightened, pride and concern wrestling behind his eyes. He exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry… if I could, I would have already sent aid. But the western flank is drowning in blood, and I have to hold it myself. If I leave, the capital will be open to slaughter."
For a moment, the battlefield around them seemed to fall away. Just father and son—one bearing the weight of duty, the other desperate to prove he was ready to carry it.
Elian's chest burned with the urge to speak, but he steadied himself. "Then let me bear it. You raised me to be your heir, not to cower behind your shadow." His voice cracked slightly, but his eyes held firm. "Trust me, Father. If you can't send help, then at least don't stop me."
The grand duke stared at him, silence heavy between them. Finally, Edric placed a gauntleted hand on Elian's shoulder, grip firm, grounding.
"Don't mistake courage for recklessness, son," he said, voice low. "But… if you truly believe you can hold the line, then go. Prove to me that my heir is ready."
Elian's heart hammered. He nodded once, resolute. "I will."
Edric stepped aside, raising his hand. The cavalry parted, granting the young heir and his companions passage.
As Elian rode past, his father's voice carried after him, laced with both command and prayer.
The Grand Duke stepped aside, raising his blade in silent salute. "Then march, Heir of Grey. Show them the steel of our bloodline."
Meanwhile at Elroy duketom.
Duke Elroy could not sleep.
The candles in his study had burned low, dripping wax down bronze holders as reports piled high before him. Each messenger brought worse news than the last: farms attacked, hunting parties gone missing, merchants abandoning their trade routes.
And now—monsters.
He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. Why here? Why now? His land, though fertile and strong, had never been plagued by such unnatural activity. Wolves, perhaps. The occasional bandit. But these creatures… hulking shadows with red eyes, prowling the borders at dusk. Farmers whispered of scales glinting beneath moonlight. Children were kept inside, windows shuttered tight. Fear clung to his people like a sickness.
What twisted the knife deeper was the silence from the capital.
He had begged for reinforcements weeks ago, and yet the Crown Prince—his Highness himself—had not moved an inch. No battalion, no supplies, no word of comfort. Nothing. Deliberate silence.
Elroy paced the room, cloak swishing against the stone floor. His throat felt dry, his chest tight. "Why would he stall?" he muttered under his breath. "Does he not see the danger? Or…" A thought struck him cold, chilling the marrow of his bones.
Or does he want this?
He hated the suspicion even as it festered. The Crown Prince had always been calculating, ambitious, but to leave the borders vulnerable… it was madness. Unless there was another hand moving the board.
Another parchment was placed on his desk—a fresh report. He tore it open with trembling fingers.
Three villages abandoned. Survivors speak of a beast larger than a tower. Its roar cracked the air like thunder. Reinforcements did not arrive.
The words blurred. He sank into his chair, heart pounding. The walls of his study seemed to close in on him.
"Damn it all…" he hissed, slamming the desk with his fist. "If the capital will not protect us, then I must act. My people will not be left to die."
Yet even as he said it, doubt gnawed at him. Could his household knights, his bannermen, even stand against what was coming? The enemy was not mere man or beast—it was something unnatural, something that smelled of sorcery and war.
Outside, a hunting horn blew—a warning from the city walls.
Elroy's stomach dropped.
The monsters were no longer content with the forests. They were moving closer.
Duke Elroy slammed his fist on the armrest of his chair, the echo bouncing across the stone walls of his study. His chest heaved, and his wine-red cloak slipped from one shoulder, but he didn't care. His hand shook as he clutched the latest report—another village burned, another caravan devoured by monsters. Wolves with scales, ogres with twisted horns, and worse… creatures no scholar could name. They shouldn't be this deep into his territory.
His steward, a thin, balding man, kept his head bowed low, as though afraid to breathe.
"Again!" Elroy snapped, throwing the parchment down. "Three settlements in less than two weeks. And what do I get from the capital? Silence. Letters unanswered. Reinforcements deliberately stalled."
The words grated his throat. He rose and began pacing, each step heavy with frustration.
The Crown Prince… he wasn't blind. He knew very well the reports reached the palace. Elroy himself had sent riders day and night, each carrying sealed proof of the increasing attacks. And yet the soldiers he had requested, the supplies he had begged for, never came. Deliberately delayed.
"Why?" he muttered, gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened. "Why would His Highness wish to see my lands fall to ruin? What have I done to earn this punishment?"
He thought of the politics of the court—the endless dances of power. He had not opposed the prince openly, nor had he sided too strongly with Grand Duke Grey. Still… in the web of power, even neutrality could be a crime.
The steward spoke timidly. "M-My Lord… some whisper the prince sees you as… an obstacle."
"Obstacle?" Elroy's eyes flared. "I've given nothing but loyalty! My coffers bled to fund the empire's wars. My sons fought and died for the crown!" His voice cracked, and for the first time in years, his composure slipped into something raw—fear, mingled with desperation.
He turned toward the window. Outside, the torches of the city flickered against the dusk. In the distance, a low howl carried on the wind. It wasn't the sound of wolves. It was deeper, unnatural, a herald of something that didn't belong in this world.
Elroy's chest tightened. The monsters were getting bolder, closer. If the crown prince continued his silent betrayal, then his land would be the first to fall.
And in that moment, Duke Elroy realized something dreadful: the prince's inaction wasn't negligence. It was intention.
The candlelight in Duke Elroy's war chamber flickered, throwing jagged shadows across the map spread before him. His trembling hand hovered over the pins that marked enemy movement. No matter how often he updated it, the truth became more unbearable each day—monsters were appearing deeper and deeper within his lands.
He clenched his jaw. Reinforcements should have been here weeks ago.
At first, he thought it was a simple delay—marching armies took time. But then came the messengers from the capital, each delivering the same polished excuse: "The Crown Prince has redirected forces elsewhere."
Elsewhere?
"What in the hells is more important than the frontier?" Elroy muttered to himself, fingers digging into the wooden table.
The silence answered him back, broken only by the muffled roars that echoed faintly in the night outside the keep's walls. Even here, in the supposed safety of his stronghold, he could hear them. Too close. Far too close.
His steward entered, pale-faced. "My lord… reports just came in from Blackroot village. It's gone. Nothing left but blood and ash."
Elroy slammed his fist against the table, making the candle tremble. Another one? That was the third village this month. At this rate, his duchy would be reduced to wasteland before winter.
He could no longer wait. He needed answers.
Elroy rode hard for the capital, fury burning away the exhaustion in his bones. When he was finally admitted to the Crown Prince's council chamber, he barely bothered with formalities.
"Your Highness," Elroy said through gritted teeth, bowing stiffly. "I demand to know why my pleas for reinforcement have been ignored while my people are butchered in their homes!"
The Crown Prince lounged in his chair, calm, too calm. His expression was unreadable, though there was a faint curl of amusement at the corner of his lips.
"Elroy," the prince said smoothly, "your lands are not forgotten. They are… being tested."
Elroy's eyes widened. "Tested? My men, my people, slaughtered like cattle—do you think this is a game?!"
The prince leaned forward, eyes cold and sharp as glass. "Do not raise your voice at me. You think monsters suddenly appear without reason? No… they are drawn. Someone, somewhere, is guiding them. Better they strike your lands than the heart of the kingdom. Don't you agree?"
For a moment, Elroy couldn't breathe. His chest tightened with rage. "You mean to use my duchy as a shield?!"
The Crown Prince didn't answer directly. He only smiled faintly, as if Elroy's fury amused him. "Hold the line, Duke. That is your duty. Do so, and you'll earn your place in the history of this kingdom. Fail…" His voice dropped to a whisper, almost conspiratorial. "…and someone else will inherit your lands."
Elroy stormed out, but the unease gnawed at him. The Crown Prince wasn't just withholding reinforcements—he was letting the monsters spread deliberately. But why?
That night, as Elroy returned to his territory, he saw it himself. From the battlements, beyond the forest line, dozens of eyes glowed red in the dark. Wolves, ghouls, things without names—watching, waiting.
And behind them, a figure. Tall, armored, standing among the beasts like a commander among troops.
Elroy's blood ran cold. They're not just wandering. They're organized.
He now understood the real danger: the prince's "test" wasn't about the monsters—it was about Elroy himself. Someone wanted him weakened, broken, stripped of his power before the war truly began.
The Duke's study was a mess. Maps sprawled across the long oak table, ink smeared from his trembling hands. Reports from scouts piled high, each one worse than the last. Villages gutted overnight. Caravans ambushed by monsters that shouldn't even be this far inland. Children dragged off screaming into the woods.
And yet—reinforcements from the capital hadn't come.
Duke Elroy slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the candlesticks.
"Why? Why is His Highness stalling?" he muttered, his voice cracking with frustration.
He had sent letter after letter, even stamped with his personal seal, each carried by his fastest riders. The Crown Prince acknowledged them—he knew that much—but every reply was the same, wrapped in polite dismissal. "We are evaluating the situation. Hold fast. Reinforcements will come at the right time."
But weeks had passed. And the "right time" had never arrived.
The Duke rubbed his temples, exhaustion pulling at his bones. He had led men to war against rebels, bandits, and even rogue mages before, but this—this creeping infestation of beasts—was unlike anything he had seen. They weren't raiding for food or territory. They were spreading, like a plague.
Then the thought struck him cold.
What if the Prince knew this? What if he was deliberately letting Elroy's lands rot?
"Gods above…" Elroy whispered, the weight of realization dragging him into his chair. His mind raced back to court. He had been vocal—too vocal—about the Prince's… questionable policies. Could this be retaliation? No, it couldn't be that simple. The kingdom itself was at risk. Unless…
Unless the Crown Prince wasn't playing the game of politics anymore.
Unless he was playing with something darker.
A sharp knock broke his spiral. His steward, pale-faced, burst in without waiting for permission. "Your Grace—another village has fallen. It's worse this time. Witnesses say the monsters… they were organized. Like an army."
Elroy's throat went dry. Organized? That wasn't natural. Not unless someone—or something—was directing them.
He shoved away from the table, grabbing his cloak. "Summon the knights. Ready every able-bodied man left. If the capital won't send us steel, then I'll drag the truth out of the mud myself."
As he stormed out, his steward's voice wavered behind him. "And if the Prince is the reason for this, my Lord?"
The Duke stopped in the doorway, his shadow stretching long against the flickering torchlight. His jaw clenched. "Then I'll expose him. Crown or no crown. I won't let my people bleed for a prince's ambition."
But even as he said it, fear gnawed at him. Because if the Prince truly was behind this… then monsters were the least of their worries.
The war council had long ended, yet Keain lingered in the empty chamber, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest of his chair. The polished table before him still bore the faint scratches of maps and markers, but his eyes weren't on them. His thoughts stretched far beyond today's debates about borders and treaties.
The Elroy Dukedom.
His lips curled faintly. That loyal dog of a duke—forever loud in his support of Darius, the "ideal" crown prince. The gall of it. To stand in open defiance of his rightful claim, throwing his weight behind an older brother who had no spine for power. Keain would not forgive that.
He rose and paced the length of the chamber, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. Grey Dukedom is untouchable, he reasoned, gaze narrowing. Edric Grey wasn't just any Grand Duke—he was a Dragon Slayer. A man whose very name carried the weight of deterrence. No foreign nation would dare breach his walls; no assassin would dare test his watch.
But Elroy?
Elroy's strength was political, not martial. Their lands were fertile, their armies respectable, but compared to Grey, their defenses were brittle. More importantly—they were vulnerable to whispers, to blades in the dark, to the slow erosion of loyalty. A weakened Elroy would send cracks across the kingdom's foundation. Cracks that the neighboring empire would eagerly sink its claws into.
And Keain wanted that.
Let the foreign hounds come. Let them bite into Elroy's soft belly. By the time the dukedom was bleeding and gasping for aid, he would ride in draped in royal banners, not to save—but to seize. His father, ever the cautious king, would have no choice but to yield him authority to "stabilize" the crumbling frontier.
And once that was done… the throne would no longer be his father's.
"Darius…" Keain spat the name softly, like a sour taste on his tongue. His brother's soft-heartedness, his tendency to shield peasants, to talk of fairness and balance—those ideals made nobles restless. Dangerous. The kingdom did not need a shepherd. It needed a wolf.
They will learn to follow me. Or they will burn with Elroy.
Keain's eyes flicked toward the shadowed corner of the chamber. A presence stirred there, unseen but felt—the figure who obeyed him without question, the hand he had already set against the dukedom.
"Cue Deta," he murmured, voice low and cold. "Tear them from the inside. Make Elroy bleed until their banners are ash. When they crumble, the kingdom will have no choice but to look to me."
The figure shifted but gave no words, only silence and obedience.
Keain smirked, his reflection flickering in the polished floor beneath him. The path was clear. The crown was his. And soon, no one—not Darius, not Elroy, not even his dragon-slaying father—would stand in his way.
To be continued...