Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy.
From zero to hero
"No Magic?, No Problem!"
Encounter 25 : exhausted or not?
The heavy doors of Duke Elroy's carriage slammed open as it rolled into the fortress courtyard. The night air was sharp, carrying with it the faint stench of rot. His men were already scrambling along the walls, tightening defenses, torches burning in lines of orange.
The duke stepped down, cloak whipping behind him. His usually calm eyes darted to the horizon—dark shapes moved like shadows against the moonlit forest. Too many. Far too many.
"Raise the barriers!" Elroy barked, his voice carrying across the stone battlements. "Archers, to your stations! I want every gate sealed before they reach us!"
The ground rumbled. Low growls and screeches rolled in waves, like the drums of an unseen army. From the treeline, glowing eyes began to blink to life—first a dozen, then hundreds, until the forest itself seemed alive with malice.
The first monster broke from the shadows—a horned beast with skin like molten rock, its roar shaking the earth. Arrows flew, streaking fire through the night, but it barely staggered before ramming into the outer palisade, splinters exploding outward.
"Catapults!" Elroy shouted, climbing the battlements himself. His cape flared as the torches lit his stern face. The first volley launched, massive stones crashing into the beast and the swarm behind it, sending shockwaves through the field.
But for every monster that fell, more emerged—horrors of scale, fang, and claw. Wolves with too many eyes, serpents of mist that slithered between volleys, hulking trolls whose hides turned aside steel.
A soldier cried out from the western wall as a winged creature swooped down, talons tearing him from the battlements. Elroy's jaw tightened. He drew his blade—not ceremonial, but the steel that had carved its way through countless battlefields.
"Hold the line!" His voice thundered like a war drum. "This land is ours! Not theirs!"
The camera of the scene seemed to pull back, showing the whole dukedom erupting into chaos—walls lined with firelight, monsters surging in relentless waves, soldiers clashing steel against nightmare. Elroy himself stood like a pillar amid the storm, every swing of his blade cutting down a beast, every order steadying his men against despair.
Yet something gnawed at him. Their movements… their precision. These creatures weren't a mindless horde. They struck supply carts first, then torch-bearers, then the western wall—exactly where the defenses were weakest. Someone was guiding them.
Inside the keep, panicked voices rose. A councilor begged to ration arrows and save men for a retreat. Another, pale with fear, whispered that they should kneel to Crown Prince Keain before the duchy was reduced to ash. "Better shame than extinction," the man spat.
Elroy silenced them with a glare, though doubt pressed heavy in his chest.
Then came the second wave. The monsters split—half tearing at the walls, half vanishing into the villages beyond. Orange fire blossomed in the distance as homes and granaries went up in flames. Screams carried on the wind. Elroy had to make a choice: protect the fortress, or ride out to save the people.
His heart clenched as he looked west, where hundreds of villagers were already fleeing.
"Damn you, Keain…" he muttered under his breath.
Hours dragged into a blur of blood and fire. The fortress groaned, its walls cracked, its defenders weary. Just when the line began to buckle, horns blared from the north. Banners bearing the silver-gray of House Grey pierced the smoke. Elian, heir of Grand Duke Edric, charged with his riders, lances gleaming in torchlight.
The courtyard erupted with cheers, but relief was short-lived. Elian's forces smashed into the monster flank, but their numbers were too few. The rescue was desperate, not decisive—another bandage over a wound too deep.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the monsters began to pull back. No pursuit, no hesitation. They simply melted into the night, leaving corpses and burning ruins in their wake.
The silence that followed was heavier than the roar of battle. Elroy stood at the shattered wall, sword dripping black blood, watching the treeline. His men cheered victory, but his heart sank.
This was no triumph.
It was a message.
The battlefield stank of smoke and blood. Fires crackled along the outer villages, their orange glow staining the night sky like an open wound. The groans of the wounded carried across the courtyard as healers rushed between broken men, their hands trembling as they bound wounds they had no salves for.
Duke Elroy stood at the shattered wall, his sword still in hand, though his arm ached from hours of combat. Black monster blood dripped steadily onto the stone. He stared into the treeline where the beasts had vanished, his face hard, his breath clouding in the cold.
Boots scraped behind him. Elian dismounted, helm tucked under his arm. His silver-gray cloak was torn, his cheek streaked with blood that wasn't his own. Even his men, disciplined riders of House Grey, looked ragged, as though they had galloped through hell itself to arrive in time.
"You held longer than any could've hoped," Elian said, voice steady, though his eyes betrayed the horror he'd just seen. "But this… this wasn't a siege. It was a demonstration."
Elroy finally lowered his sword, leaning it against the broken parapet. "They weren't random. You saw how they moved. First our food stores, then our torch-bearers, then the western wall. Every strike meant to bleed us dry."
Elian nodded grimly. "And when we joined, they didn't fight to the death. They withdrew. Too clean. Too deliberate." He narrowed his eyes. "Monsters don't retreat. They devour."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant wailing of villagers who had lost everything.
Inside the courtyard, soldiers gathered in clusters. Some celebrated survival with hollow laughter, but others whispered. Elroy caught snatches of their words—words that stung deeper than any blade.
"…if Keain were here, this wouldn't have happened."
"…maybe it's folly to side with Darius. Keain has the strength to protect us."
"…Elroy's a good man, but he can't shield us from this."
The duke's jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
Elian placed a hand on his shoulder. "You know this is his doing."
"Of course I know," Elroy said, his voice low, almost a growl. "But proving it? That's another matter. And while we scramble for truth, he poisons the people's hearts."
Another cheer rose in the courtyard as a small group of children were found alive in the ruins of a burned house. The joy was sharp, desperate, a candle flame in a storm.
Elroy turned from the wall, cloak heavy with ash and soot. "We'll bury our dead at dawn. Then we rebuild. Let Keain see we do not bow."
Elian studied him, then gave a single nod. "You'll have my riders as long as you need them."
Yet even as he spoke, a raven circled overhead, its black wings cutting against the firelit sky before darting back toward the capital. A messenger. A spy. Perhaps even one of Keain's own eyes.
Elian remained in Elroy's fortress for three days. In that time, he came to know the sound of despair more intimately than he ever wished to.
By day, the walls echoed with hammer blows as men patched breaches with scorched timber and salvaged stone. By night, the silence of the survivors weighed heavier than any battle. The people buried their dead in shallow graves just beyond the keep, too many bodies for the priests to bless individually. Children carried water to the walls, their eyes hollow. Every breath of smoke and ash was a reminder of how close they'd come to ruin.
Elian kept his riders busy, patrolling the perimeter, cutting down stray beasts that had scattered after the first assault. Yet he couldn't shake the unease. The withdrawal had been too sudden. Too clean. He'd fought monsters all his life—wild, ravenous, reckless. But these? These felt like soldiers obeying orders.
On the fourth night, the storm broke again.
It began with silence. No warning cries, no rustle of claws in the dark. Just a sudden stillness that made the hair at the back of Elian's neck rise. Then the horns sounded.
The ground trembled. From the eastern ridge, shadows poured like a black tide. Not the scattered horrors of before—this wave moved in formation. At its head came a beast that dwarfed the rest, its armored hide reflecting torchlight like burnished iron. Behind it, packs of smaller creatures fanned out, their glowing eyes eerily uniform, as if they shared a single will.
"Elian!" Elroy's voice cut through the chaos from atop the battlements. "Take the riders—protect the village!"
Elian didn't hesitate. He vaulted into the saddle, his men rallying behind him. They thundered through the gates, lances leveled, hooves striking sparks from the stone. The villagers were already screaming, fleeing as creatures tore through their fields and granaries, setting fire to what little food they had left.
The heir of House Grey lowered his lance. The first impact was thunder—a beast's chest pierced clean through, black ichor spraying across his cloak. He swung his blade free and wheeled his horse, cutting down another. His riders followed, a silver wave in the dark, but for every monster they felled, three more took its place.
"Too many!" a rider shouted.
"No," Elian growled, parrying the strike of a clawed horror, his arm straining against its unnatural strength. "Not too many. Too precise."
And then he saw it. The monsters weren't attacking at random—they ignored soldiers when they could, focusing instead on villagers carrying sacks of grain, carts loaded with what little supplies remained. This wasn't slaughter. It was starvation.
A roar split the night. The massive iron-scaled beast smashed through the outer houses, its bulk scattering rubble across the streets. Elian spurred his horse forward, grit stinging his face as he charged. His lance splintered against its hide. The creature turned, jaws wide enough to swallow him whole.
"Elian!" one of his men cried, but before the beast struck, a barrage of flaming stones rained down from the fortress catapults, hammering the creature's flank. Elroy's voice boomed from the walls, steady even in the storm:
"Do not falter! Do not break!"
The beast staggered but did not fall. With a furious bellow, it retreated—dragging the horde with it. Just like before.
The village smoldered, half in ruins. Survivors huddled together, clutching what little they'd managed to save. Elian dismounted, chest heaving, sweat and blood staining his armor. He looked at the retreating shadows, his grip on his blade tightening.
This wasn't war. It was strangulation. Every attack wasn't meant to conquer the duchy outright—it was meant to bleed it slow. And worst of all… the whispers among the people grew louder with every raid.
"Keain would protect us."
"Why do we suffer for Elroy's pride?"
"Maybe it's time to choose the stronger prince."
Elian turned toward the fortress. In the firelight, Duke Elroy stood rigid on the walls, watching the horizon. Their eyes met across the distance, and in that brief exchange, Elian saw it clearly:
The message was clear: this night was only the beginning.
At night elian sat at his room By candlelight in the ruined fortress chamber, Elian sat with armor still dusted in ash, ink bleeding faintly across parchment. His hand trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of what he was asking.
Father,
The Elroy dukedom cannot endure this alone. Their walls crack, their people starve, and still the beasts return. Each wave is guided by a hand I dare not name, yet you will know who I mean. If House Grey does not send aid, Elroy will fall—and with him, the only dukedom still standing firmly with Darius. I beg you, ride to us.
He pressed his seal into the wax with steady resolve, though his chest burned with shame at needing to beg. "Ride swift," he told the raven handler, who bowed and vanished into the night.
Elian stood at the window, looking over the torchlit ruins. He prayed his father would answer before Keain's noose tightened fully.
Cut to Grand Duke Edric Grey
The scene opened on chaos. The earth itself shook as a hulking beast lumbered across a battlefield lit in hellish fire. It stood as tall as a fortress wall, hide plated in jagged scales like obsidian, its maw belching smoke and embers with every guttural roar. Around its feet, smaller demons tore into soldiers of House Grey, their claws raking armor, their screeches drowning out the clash of steel.
Edric stood at the center of it all, a mountain of a man clad in battered silver armor, his greatsword gripped in both hands. His silver hair, streaked with ash, whipped in the storm of battle.
"Form the line!" he thundered, his voice booming over the chaos. "Hold! HOLD!"
The beast roared, sweeping its tail like a battering ram. Dozens of men were flung through the air like broken dolls. The ground cracked beneath its weight as it charged, molten breath spilling from its jaws.
Edric did not flinch. He surged forward, boots pounding against broken earth, and leapt. His greatsword, gleaming with runes etched in ancient silver, arced downward. The impact was like a thunderclap—the blade carved into the beast's shoulder, splitting hide and spraying black fireblood across the field.
The monster shrieked, staggering, but swung its claw the size of a ballista. Edric braced, raising his sword in both hands. The blow struck like an avalanche, hurling him back through shattered stone. Dust engulfed the battlefield.
Gasps rippled through his men—but then, through the smoke, his silhouette rose. Edric spat blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntlet, and bellowed, "I'm not done yet!"
He charged again. The beast lowered its head, maw glowing with molten fire. It spewed a torrent of flame that scorched the battlefield, incinerating stone and steel alike.
Edric raised his sword high, runes blazing silver-blue. With a roar, he cleaved downward—the blade split the flames in two, carving a path through the inferno as he barreled straight into the beast's chest.
The greatsword sank deep. The monster staggered, howled, then collapsed with a crash that shook the ground for miles. Ash and embers rained down like black snow.
Edric stood atop its carcass, chest heaving, armor glowing red-hot from the flames. His men raised their swords, cheering, though exhaustion weighed heavy in every voice.
Before he could even rest, a captain sprinted across the battlefield, blood running down his temple. He dropped to one knee.
"My lord," he panted, holding out a sealed parchment. "A raven—from your son."
Edric's hand, still slick with black ichor, took the letter. His eyes scanned Elian's words, his jaw tightening with every line.
When he finished, he crumpled the edge of the parchment in his fist. His gaze drifted northward—toward the distant lands of Elroy.
"Two fronts," he muttered, voice low, heavy with the burden of command. "Damn you, Keain…"
He turned to his men, raising his sword once more. "Send word to muster every banner that can still march. House Grey rides again."
The soldiers roared, their voices echoing over the smoldering battlefield, though the Grand Duke's face remained grim.
Because even he knew—facing both the new demon king's hordes and Keain's schemes… would stretch his house to the breaking point.
To be continued..