Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero " No Magic?,No Problem!"
Encounter 35:Vermorth's Son Cure Arc Finale
The chamber was silent except for the faint bubbling of the potion. Rolien's hands moved with steady precision, measuring every drop, stirring until the liquid shimmered like molten gold. His face was calm, but his shoulders were tense — each second weighed down by the knowledge that one mistake could cost a life.
At the far end of the hall, Grand Duke Vermorth stood like a statue, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His son lay pale and still on the bed, chest barely rising. Every shallow breath was a dagger in Vermorth's chest.
Rolien finally poured the finished potion into a small crystal vial. He knelt beside the boy and carefully lifted his head.
"Easy now…" Rolien whispered, tipping the liquid against the boy's lips.
The potion slid down. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the boy's body convulsed, a violent shudder running through him. Gasps erupted in the chamber. Vermorth surged forward, only to be held back by his knights.
"Wait!" Rolien barked. His eyes were sharp, unwavering. "Trust me."
The boy coughed, his skin trembling as if fire was coursing beneath it. Then, slowly… color returned to his cheeks. His breathing steadied. The sickness, the curse — gone like mist in the morning sun.
"...Father…" the boy's weak voice broke the silence.
Vermorth staggered, his mask of iron shattering. He dropped to his knees at his son's bedside, grasping his hand as tears fell freely. "My boy… my precious boy…" His voice cracked, trembling with relief. "You've come back to me."
The hall filled with the sound of muffled sobs and relieved whispers. Yet not all eyes were on the boy.
Tessa leaned against the wall, watching Rolien quietly wipe the sweat from his brow. She exhaled, her voice low but sharp with meaning. "He gave it up, you know."
One of Vermorth's knights turned to her. "What do you mean?"
Chris answered this time, his gaze locked on Rolien. "The Chamber of Eternal Flames. The Mother of All Flames itself. He had the right to enter. To claim it. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to grasp power that could rival gods." He paused, his voice heavy. "But he chose not to. Chose to save your young master instead."
The words rippled through the chamber like a shockwave. All eyes darted to Vermorth, who froze, his mind reeling. Slowly, he turned to look at Rolien, who was busy adjusting the boy's blankets, saying nothing of the sacrifice he had made.
The Mother of All Flames… forsaken. For my son… Vermorth's chest ached. No honor, no power, no treasure could equal the weight of that gift.
When his son finally drifted into peaceful sleep, Vermorth rose and crossed the room. His steps were heavy, but his resolve was clear. He stopped before Rolien, who looked up in confusion.
Without a word, Vermorth dropped to one knee. His large hand gripped Rolien's arm, his voice breaking.
"You… gave up the flames of eternity for a child that was not your own." His head bowed, shoulders trembling. "Rolien… that kind of debt can never be repaid. My blade, my name, my very bloodline — all will answer to you. From this day forward, Grand Duke Vermorth is not your ally… he is your vassal."
The knights gasped. Tessa smiled faintly. Rolien blinked, caught between exhaustion and disbelief, but he said nothing.
Behind them, the father and son clung to one another in quiet reunion. The hall was filled with warmth — yet just beneath that warmth, something stirred.
A faint tremor rolled through the stone floor. Rolien's vision flickered as his system interface shimmered before his eyes:
"Chamber of Flames path — erased."
"Warning: Greater anomaly detected. Multiverse instability rising."
Rolien's eyes narrowed. He didn't speak of it. Not now. This moment belonged to the boy and his father.
But in the silence of his heart, Rolien knew: their victory here was only a spark… and something vast was watching from beyond.
Rolien straightened slowly, trying to push back the heaviness in his chest. Vermorth was still kneeling, his son breathing peacefully for the first time in years. The warmth of the reunion filled the chamber, but Rolien's vision shimmered again.
The system interface expanded before his eyes, lines of glowing text unfolding across his view.
[Quest Completed!]
"Cure the Scion of Vermorth" — Mainline Sub-Quest (Part II)
Objectives:
Administer the Cure-All Potion ✔
Save Vermorth's heir ✔
Rewards Unlocked:
+2 Level Ups
Rare Title: "Savior of Bloodlines" (Grants passive favor with all noble families upon first impression)
Hidden Reward: Vermorth's Eternal Oath (Triggers storyline flag: "Allegiance of the Grand Duke")
Rolien blinked at the glowing words. His body shivered faintly as warmth coursed through him — the familiar surge of a level up. His muscles tightened, his senses sharpened.
[Level Up! Current Level: 42 → 44]
The sudden rush of energy nearly made his knees buckle. He clenched his fists, steadying himself before anyone noticed.
So that's the trade… he thought. The Mother of All Flames is lost, but in its place, I gained something no fire could ever give — trust that will last longer than power.
Rolien dismissed the window, though the title still lingered faintly at the edge of his sight. "Savior of Bloodlines." He almost laughed. Titles never mattered to him. Yet somehow, this one felt heavier than any weapon he had carried.
Vermorth rose, his expression softer now, though his oath still hung heavy in the room. He looked at Rolien not as a mere guest or savior, but as someone etched permanently into his family's destiny.
For the first time in years, there was hope in Vermorth's eyes.
The banquet hall gleamed with golden light, chandeliers swaying gently above the heads of finely dressed nobles. Music from a quartet of string players flowed smoothly through the air as servants hurried about, laying trays of wine and delicate dishes across the long tables.
Rolien—disguised as Rowan—sat among the crowd with the Asher Hawks, his posture straight and composed. He wasn't used to places like this, but years of drilling himself in how to walk, talk, and carry himself as if he belonged among nobles made his disguise all the more convincing.
Grand Duke Vermorth raised his goblet, his voice carrying proudly.
"Tonight, we celebrate not only my son's recovery but also the bravery of those who brought him back from the brink! Allow me to introduce them: the Asher Hawks—fearless and loyal. And their leader, Rowan, a man I call my friend!"
Applause rippled across the hall. Curious gazes fell on Rolien, some cautious, others admiring.
A marquess leaned toward another noble, whispering, "Look at the way he carries himself. Sharp posture, steady gaze. Not a common mercenary, surely."
A countess chuckled softly, hiding it behind her fan. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was a young heir playing knight for the thrill of it."
A few nearby nobles laughed at the jest, but it was laced with praise rather than mockery. Rolien dipped his head slightly, responding with just enough grace to fuel the illusion further. His movements—subtle, disciplined—made the laughter turn into nods of approval.
"Rowan," Vermorth continued, placing a hand on his shoulder, "is a man of honor. Years ago, he aided me when assassins sought my life. Tonight, he has returned—not by coincidence, but by fate—to save my son. I owe him more than I can ever repay."
Wine was poured, plates filled, and the night unfolded in warmth. One noble after another approached Rolien, raising their cups in toast. Compliments flowed—some for the Asher Hawks as a whole, but many directed at him personally.
"You speak like a noble's son, yet act with the humility of a warrior," one remarked.
"Your composure is rare among mercenaries," another added.
"A pity you are not of noble birth. A man like you would stand tall among the great houses."
Rolien gave only faint smiles, careful not to speak more than necessary. His disguise as Rowan demanded restraint, yet deep inside, he felt the odd sting of irony. They praised him for being something he truly was but could not reveal.
The hall glowed with laughter and music, Vermorth watching the celebration with relief written plainly across his face. For one night, victory and gratitude washed away the blood and shadows of the past days.
As the banquet carried on, laughter and chatter grew livelier. Servants poured wine into crystal goblets while nobles circled the hall in clusters, trading stories and praises.
Rolien—still under the guise of Rowan—kept to his seat, but even in silence he drew attention. His sharp features, framed by the noble attire Vermorth had insisted he wear, stood out more than he liked. The clothes brought out his stature, the clean cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity in his eyes.
It didn't take long before several young noble ladies noticed.
"Rowan, was it?" A girl in a pale blue gown approached with a glass in hand, her smile coy. "I must say, your presence tonight feels… different. Have you ever considered court life?"
Another, bolder, leaned closer. "Your etiquette is flawless. You don't slouch, you don't stumble with your words. I'd swear you were a duke's heir in disguise." She laughed lightly, not knowing how close her joke was to the truth.
Rolien managed a polite smile, but his hand tightened slightly on his goblet. Compliments were one thing, but the fluttering giggles, the sly glances, the faint brushes of their hands when they leaned too close—those made him stiffen.
A third noble girl, cheeks flushed from wine, tugged gently at his sleeve. "Why don't you dance with us? Surely a man like you can't refuse."
Before Rolien could think of a polite excuse, a firm voice cut in.
"Sorry, ladies. He's taken for the night."
Tessa slipped between them with all the ease of a practiced older sister. She looped her arm around Rolien's and gave the girls a playful but pointed smile. "Rowan's part of my Hawks, and after everything he's been through lately, the last thing he needs is to be dragged into endless dances."
The noble girls pouted, but Tessa's tone left no room for argument. One of them muttered under her breath, "How protective," before stepping away.
As Tessa steered him toward a quieter corner of the hall, she shot him a sideways glance. "You looked like a deer about to be cornered by wolves."
Rolien exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "I'd rather fight a pack of actual wolves."
Tessa snorted, patting his shoulder. "You clean up too well, that's your problem. Next time, I'll make sure you wear something less… princely."
Despite himself, Rolien chuckled. For all the grandeur of the banquet and the weight of Vermorth's gratitude, it was moments like this—simple, grounding—that reminded him he wasn't alone.
The banquet carried on with music swelling from a small ensemble of lutes and violins. Plates of venison, roasted pheasant, and glazed fruits filled the long tables. The nobles were in high spirits, glasses raised often in cheer, laughter spilling through the hall.
Rolien had just managed to settle into his seat again when Vermorth rose with a goblet in hand. The hall quieted at once, all eyes turning toward the Grand Duke.
"My friends," Vermorth began, his voice carrying warmth instead of formality. "Tonight, we celebrate more than my son's recovery. We celebrate loyalty, courage, and the bonds that make even impossible things possible."
He gestured toward Rolien and the Asher Hawks, who sat further down the table. "These are the ones who stood with me when despair threatened to take my son from me. Hawks they may call themselves, but to me—they are family."
A round of applause broke out, many nobles nodding in agreement, some even standing to clap more heartily. Rolien inclined his head politely, though his ears burned under the sudden spotlight.
Vermorth wasn't finished. A mischievous spark lit in his eyes as he raised his glass again. "And, I must say, it seems young Rowan has caught more than my gratitude tonight."
A ripple of laughter rolled across the tables. Several young noblewomen giggled, glancing in Rolien's direction. The men smirked knowingly, whispering behind their cups.
"Such posture. Such etiquette." Vermorth's grin widened. "If I didn't know better, I'd suspect him of being some hidden heir. Perhaps one of you young ladies will uncover his secrets, eh?"
The laughter grew louder, wine sloshing in goblets. Rolien shifted uncomfortably, keeping his polite mask on. He muttered under his breath, "This is worse than wolves."
Tessa elbowed him lightly, a smirk tugging her lips. "Careful, Rowan. They'll start fighting over you next."
Rolien gave her a sideways look. "I'll let you handle that battle."
When the laughter finally settled, Vermorth lifted his glass higher. "To the Hawks! To friendship! And to Rowan, who reminded me tonight that nobility is not only born—it is chosen, in the way one carries themselves."
The hall erupted in a resounding cheer, goblets clinking, voices echoing. Rolien, despite his discomfort, felt the weight of those words settle in him. For a moment, he wasn't just playing at being a noble. In their eyes, he already was one.
The banquet hall still echoed with laughter and music when Rolien slipped out into the cool night air. The garden beyond Vermorth's estate was calm, lit only by lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. He found a quiet corner beneath an old oak and crouched, opening his item box.
One by one, he pulled the loot into neat piles across the stone bench.
The twin Chainbreaker chains, still faintly humming with sealing energy.
The jagged fangs of a mana beast, their edges gleaming in the lantern light.
Scales tough as plate armor, fragments of shattered horns, and rare herbs they had gathered along the way.
He sorted methodically, his hands steady even as his mind drifted. Each piece wasn't just treasure—it was proof of how far they had come, how many battles they had survived.
A familiar chime broke the silence.
[System Notification]
Quest Completed: Cure of Vermorth's Son.
Rewards Granted:
2 Level Ups
Noble Favor (Grand Duke Vermorth)
Unique Loot Blueprint: [Cure-All Potion]
Rolien exhaled, leaning back slightly. The glow of the notification lingered in his vision before fading. He muttered, "Not a bad haul… for nearly dying twice."
"Not bad at all," came a deep voice behind him.
Rolien tensed for a heartbeat before turning. Vermorth stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his expression softer than the stern duke most people knew. The lantern light caught the lines of weariness on his face, but tonight his eyes carried something else—gratitude.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Vermorth said, stepping closer. His gaze flicked to the organized loot. "But I see even after a feast, you work. That… tells me more about you than your posture at a banquet ever could."
Rolien gave a small shrug. "I'm used to keeping things in order. Loot doesn't sort itself."
Vermorth chuckled lowly. "No, it doesn't. But not every man values the effort behind it. Most nobles would leave that to servants." He paused, then his tone softened. "Earlier, Tessa told me what you gave up. The Chamber of Flames. The chance to claim the Mother of All Flames for yourself… and you chose to turn away from it—for my son."
Rolien's hands stilled over the pile of fangs. He didn't answer immediately.
Vermorth drew a slow breath. "I owe you more than a banquet, Rowan. You've given me back my son. You've given me back… hope." His voice caught, rough at the edges. "That is a debt I can never repay in full."
For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling the oak leaves overhead. Rolien looked down at the gleaming chains, then back up at Vermorth. "I didn't do it for repayment."
Vermorth's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Which is exactly why you deserve more than any treasure I could give." He placed a firm hand on Rolien's shoulder. "Know this: my favor is yours. Should the day come when you call upon me, I will answer."
The weight of the promise sank into the night air, heavier than any loot Rolien had stacked.
The banquet hall still echoed with laughter and music when Rolien slipped out into the cool night air. The garden beyond Vermorth's estate was calm, lit only by lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. He found a quiet corner beneath an old oak and crouched, opening his item box.
One by one, he pulled the loot into neat piles across the stone bench.
The twin Chainbreaker chains, still faintly humming with sealing energy.
The jagged fangs of a mana beast, their edges gleaming in the lantern light.
Scales tough as plate armor, fragments of shattered horns, and rare herbs they had gathered along the way.
He sorted methodically, his hands steady even as his mind drifted. Each piece wasn't just treasure—it was proof of how far they had come, how many battles they had survived.
A familiar chime broke the silence.
[System Notification]
Quest Completed: Cure of Vermorth's Son.
Rewards Granted:
2 Level Ups
Noble Favor (Grand Duke Vermorth)
Unique Loot Blueprint: [Cure-All Potion]
Rolien exhaled, leaning back slightly. The glow of the notification lingered in his vision before fading. He muttered, "Not a bad haul… for nearly dying twice."
"Not bad at all," came a deep voice behind him.
Rolien tensed for a heartbeat before turning. Vermorth stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his expression softer than the stern duke most people knew. The lantern light caught the lines of weariness on his face, but tonight his eyes carried something else—gratitude.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Vermorth said, stepping closer. His gaze flicked to the organized loot. "But I see even after a feast, you work. That… tells me more about you than your posture at a banquet ever could."
Rolien gave a small shrug. "I'm used to keeping things in order. Loot doesn't sort itself."
Vermorth chuckled lowly. "No, it doesn't. But not every man values the effort behind it. Most nobles would leave that to servants." He paused, then his tone softened. "Earlier, Tessa told me what you gave up. The Chamber of Flames. The chance to claim the Mother of All Flames for yourself… and you chose to turn away from it—for my son."
Rolien's hands stilled over the pile of fangs. He didn't answer immediately.
Vermorth drew a slow breath. "I owe you more than a banquet, Rowan. You've given me back my son. You've given me back… hope." His voice caught, rough at the edges. "That is a debt I can never repay in full."
For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling the oak leaves overhead. Rolien looked down at the gleaming chains, then back up at Vermorth. "I didn't do it for repayment."
Vermorth's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Which is exactly why you deserve more than any treasure I could give." He placed a firm hand on Rolien's shoulder. "Know this: my favor is yours. Should the day come when you call upon me, I will answer."
The weight of the promise sank into the night air, heavier than any loot Rolien had stacked.
Vermorth's hand lingered on Rolien's shoulder for a moment before he slowly withdrew, folding his arms behind his back. His eyes studied the younger man in silence, sharp yet not unkind.
"Rowan," he said finally, his voice low, "may I ask you something?"
Rolien looked up from the loot. "Go ahead."
"You gave up entering the Chamber of Flames. A chance no man would easily abandon. Why?" Vermorth's tone was curious, but beneath it was the weight of a duke gauging a man's true heart. "Why do you seek the Mother of All Flames?"
Rolien's gaze flicked briefly toward the night sky. The stars shimmered faintly, cold and distant. His fingers brushed over one of the fangs on the bench as if grounding himself.
"There's something I need to melt," he said at last, his voice quiet but steady. "Something no forge, no magic fire, can touch. Only the Mother of All Flames could ever hope to consume it."
Vermorth's eyes narrowed, his breath catching in his throat. A sharp glint of recognition flashed in his gaze. He stepped closer, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.
"Tell me… is it perhaps the Orichalcum metal?"
The words struck the air like a hammer blow.
Rolien's head turned sharply, surprise flickering in his eyes. Vermorth's face was grave now, stripped of the warmth from moments ago.
"You know of it," Rolien said, not as a question, but a statement.
Vermorth's jaw tightened. "Every true noble of the old blood has heard the name, though few dare to speak it aloud. Orichalcum… the cursed metal said to outlast even time itself. Weapons forged from it are indestructible—and unyielding. Not even dragonfire can scar it." He paused, searching Rolien's expression. "And yet you seek to melt it."
For a heartbeat, the night seemed to still, lantern flames wavering as if caught in their silence.
Rolien's silence stretched, his eyes unreadable. Whatever reason he had for needing to melt Orichalcum, it wasn't something he was ready to share.
Vermorth studied him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "No need to answer. It's a personal matter—I can see that." His voice softened again, regaining its earlier warmth. "Every man carries a burden best kept close to the chest. I'll not pry."
Rolien inclined his head slightly in thanks.
"But," Vermorth continued, his tone shifting with quiet conviction, "a man who gives up his own chance at power for the sake of another's child deserves more than gratitude. He deserves something worthy."
Rolien blinked, caught off guard. "Reward? I don't need—"
"You misunderstand," Vermorth said firmly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I am not offering gold, nor land, nor hollow titles. What I will give you… is something that may serve your purpose."
Rolien frowned faintly. "And what purpose would that be?"
Vermorth's smile widened, almost teasing. "Follow me, Rowan. You'll see."
The duke turned, his cloak stirring in the night breeze as he began walking down the lantern-lit garden path. His stride was purposeful, carrying the weight of a man who knew exactly where he was leading his guest.
Rolien hesitated only briefly before standing, brushing the dust from his hands, and closing his item box with a flick. His curiosity, despite himself, outweighed his caution.
With the faint sound of the banquet's music fading behind them, he followed Vermorth into the shadows of the estate.
The crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound as Vermorth led Rolien through the moonlit garden paths. Lanterns hung from carved stone pillars, casting long shadows that stretched like silent sentinels.
Just as they rounded a bend near the inner courtyard, a voice slipped into the night.
"Ah… if it isn't Duke Vermorth, walking the gardens at such an hour. And accompanied, no less."
A tall, slender man stepped from the shadows. His cloak was embroidered with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the lantern light. His slicked-back hair and neatly trimmed beard framed sharp features and pale, calculating eyes.
"Marquis Deycard Veylor," Vermorth greeted with measured civility, though his tone carried a touch of wariness.
Deycard's gaze lingered on Rolien. His smile was polite, almost too polite, but when he leaned ever so slightly forward, his lips hardly moved.
A breath, softer than a whisper, coiled in Rolien's ear—threaded with mana.
"It's good to see you, Black Reaper."
Rolien froze. His hair stood on end, a cold jolt running down his spine. He masked his reaction instantly, but his pulse thundered in his ears.
Vermorth, oblivious to the mana-veiled words, spoke firmly. "Marquis. It's late, and Rowan is under my protection tonight. Whatever recognition you claim can wait until morning."
Deycard's expression never wavered. He gave a shallow bow. "Of course, Duke. Forgive me. I only wished to extend my welcome to such… intriguing company."
As they passed, Rolien kept his face carefully neutral, though his mind burned. Black Reaper…? How the hell does he know that name?
Vermorth muttered, jaw tight, "Pay him no mind. Veylor has a habit of digging where he shouldn't. His tongue is sharp, but his blade is dull."
Rolien only nodded, though unease coiled in his chest." But no one knew that name here"
They continued until they reached a heavy door at the base of an inner tower. Intricate sigils glowed faintly as Vermorth pressed his palm to the seal. With a deep groan, gears shifted, and the vault door unlocked.
"Here," Vermorth said, glancing back at Rolien. "The vault of House Vermorth. Few men outside my bloodline have ever set foot within."
The door swung open, revealing shelves stacked with relics, weapons sleeping in silence, and enchanted crystals glowing faintly. The air was thick, alive with the weight of history and hidden power.
The vault stretched deep, lined with treasures that most kingdoms would envy—armor etched with runes, blades that shimmered faintly in their scabbards, tomes sealed by chains of silver. But Vermorth walked past them all without pause.
At the far end stood a pedestal, encased in layers of protective wards. Within, resting inside a transparent crystal casing, was something Rolien never thought he'd see with his own eyes.
A lump of molten-black metal, hardened yet pulsing faintly with its own aura—like a slumbering beast.
Rolien's breath caught. His body moved on instinct, taking a step closer. His eyes widened as recognition struck him. That's… impossible.
Vermorth looked back, reading the shock on his face. "You know what this is, don't you?"
Rolien's lips parted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "…Orichalcum. Melted. That shouldn't even be possible."
The duke gave a low chuckle, though there was no mirth in it—only weariness. "It took my ancestors three generations to melt even this much. They sacrificed relics, artifacts, lives, and more flames than I care to admit. And for what? To keep it locked away, gathering dust."
He stepped forward, deactivated the wards with a press of his signet ring, and reached inside the casing. The molten-black metal seemed to hum in his grip, heavy enough to drag his arm slightly downward, yet he lifted it with ease born of long familiarity.
Turning back to Rolien, Vermorth held it out.
"It's yours now, kid."
Rolien froze. The weight of the words felt heavier than the Orichalcum itself. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, feeling its aura thrum against his skin. For a moment, he hesitated—unworthy, unprepared—but his fingers closed around it nonetheless.
The instant he touched it, a chill fire raced up his arm, not burning but pressing down, as though the metal itself were testing him. His pulse quickened, but he didn't let go.
"…Why?" Rolien finally asked, voice rough.
Vermorth smiled faintly, though his eyes were serious. "Because you're the only one I've met who has the resolve to do something with it. The only one stubborn enough to give up power to save another's life. That's the kind of man Orichalcum won't reject."
Rolien's hand hovered above the glowing lump of molten orichalcum, its light reflecting in his widened eyes. The heat radiating from it wasn't just physical—it felt alive, thrumming with a rhythm that pulled at something deep in his chest. He swallowed hard, fingertips trembling as he reached closer.
Vermorth's scarred hand pushed the ore forward, his tone calm but weighty.
"It's yours now, kid."
The words landed heavy, as if declaring something more than a simple inheritance. This wasn't just treasure. This was power—responsibility—destiny.
Rolien's palm was inches away when—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The wristwatch strapped to him lit up, its glow clashing against the ore's molten shine.
"Rolien!" A sharp, urgent voice rang out from it.
His breath caught. His eyes widened further, heart pounding so loud he almost dropped the ore. That voice. He knew it.
Princess Sophia.
The others froze, watching the sudden light and sound. Vermorth's brows furrowed, but he said nothing. The molten orichalcum pulsed once in Rolien's hand, as if reacting to the call.
Shock and dread collided inside him.
How…? Why now…?
And before he could move, before he could answer, the volume cuts to black.
[End of Volume]