Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From zero to Hero
" No Magic?,No Problem!"
Encounter 19: The Ghost of the past
Valkaria Capital — War Council Chamber
The chamber smelled of polished stone, iron, and the faint tang of spiced wine. Maps of conquered territories were spread across a massive oak table, pins marking cities, villages, and rebel sightings. Generals, dukes, and emissaries leaned over the maps, voices low but urgent.
Grand Duke Vermorth sat to the side, eyes sharp as they swept across the room. He had fought and bled for this empire; he knew the difference between panic and strategy. And yet, as he observed Emperor Kalvin, a subtle unease tugged at him.
The emperor sat straighter than usual. No glass of wine was raised, no finger tapped the edge of his well-groomed beard in thought—a habit Vermorth had grown accustomed to over decades. Instead, Kalvin's fingers flexed lightly on the table, pale knuckles pressing into the wood. A soft, almost forced laugh escaped him occasionally, thin and wavering, not the booming, confident tone that normally filled the chamber.
Vermorth narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Only those closest to the emperor would notice the shift—a hesitation in his movements, a strange tension in his voice—but no one dared speak of it aloud.
"Reports from the Southern Forest," a general said, voice tight. "Several villages have been raided… but not by our forces. Rebels—bolder than ever—rescue operations succeeded even under Valkarian patrols. Casualties on our side are higher than expected."
Vermorth's eyes flicked toward the maps, scanning the clusters of red pins that marked their losses. He had already sent scouts, spies, and elite units to investigate. The rebels weren't just surviving—they were learning, adapting.
Emperor Kalvin laughed again, low and odd. "They're amusing," he said. His hand twitched, brushing the tabletop like he was testing it for cracks. "They believe they can defy us… think they can inspire hope."
A hush fell. Even the generals stiffened; the emperor's tone had always been a signal for either fury or decree. This, however, was neither. Vermorth didn't speak, didn't question, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
He simply nodded and turned his gaze back to the maps. "Let them grow bolder," he muttered quietly to himself. "We'll see how long they survive."
While the council debated troop movements and punitive measures, Vermorth's mind worked differently. He observed the subtle cracks in the emperor's usual poise, noting the laughter, the lack of ritual gestures, the restrained demeanor. It was unusual—but for now, he would ignore it.
Orders had already been dispatched. Scouts would follow the trails left by these rebels. Evidence would be gathered. And when the time came, Vermorth would ensure the rebellion was crushed… as he always did.
For now, though, the emperor sat quietly, a shadow of unpredictability behind his sharp gaze. Vermorth filed it away, like a soldier noting the wind before a storm. Something was off—but the battlefield waited for no one.
Southern Territories — Rebel Movements
Vermorth didn't waste a moment. The reports had been clear: villages were being liberated, Valkarian patrols ambushed, and the rebels—those whispers of hope—were growing bolder by the week.
A small detachment of his elite scouts was dispatched first. They moved silently, blending with the shadows of the forest, marking trails, observing every movement, but never engaging. Vermorth wanted more than kills; he wanted intelligence.
Meanwhile, deep in the Southern Forest, Darius, Elian, and Sir Marcellus had regrouped after their last encounter. The villagers they'd saved had been relocated to a hidden valley Rolien had discovered long ago, still intact despite years of war. Darius moved among them, checking on supplies, listening to the stories of recent raids, tallying the numbers of those ready to fight.
"Three villages in two nights," Elian whispered, showing Darius his maps. "Valkarian patrols didn't know what hit them. But now… they'll retaliate faster."
Darius clenched his fists. "Let them come. We're ready."
Sir Marcellus, as always, was pragmatic. "We've done well, but don't forget—they know we exist now. This was our loudest strike yet. If we stay in one place too long, they'll crush us."
Darius nodded, eyes scanning the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, the soft glint of banners and armor would signal the coming storm. And he knew who would lead it.
Valkaria Capital — Emperor Kalvin's Chamber
Vermorth returned to the emperor, reports in hand. Maps were spread across the table, showing the paths of rebel movements, villages targeted, and patrol failures.
"The rebels are stronger than we thought, Your Majesty," Vermorth said evenly. "They're organized, but still limited in number. We can contain them if we act swiftly."
Kalvin's gaze lingered on the northern sectors, distant from the main battlefield. "Containment is… temporary," he said, voice low and unusual. "What we need is a… message. Something unmistakable. A lesson they cannot ignore."
Vermorth nodded, though the emperor's tone carried a subtle, chilling edge. He had fought alongside this ruler for decades, and yet, something about the voice, the pacing of his words, the almost quiet amusement… it unsettled him.
"Send the army," Kalvin continued. "Show them the weight of Valkaria. Let them see that resistance comes at a price."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Vermorth replied. But in the back of his mind, he noted the oddity again—the restrained gestures, the unusual laughter, the absence of any ceremonial habit.
For now, he would follow orders. And he would hunt those rebels… because, one way or another, the prince's head would be delivered to the emperor.
Few hours later
Vorax gather his troops and go to the said location to executive the villagers .
Vorax stalked through the trees, sensing the faintest movements, muscles coiled like a predator. The unknown figure emerged from the undergrowth, cloaked and silent, and Vorax swung his spiked bat in a wide arc.
The man—Rolien, though no one knew him—sidestepped effortlessly. No mana signature, no aura—just a human moving like a ghost. Vorax's eyes narrowed. No mana? This is impossible… He clicked his tongue in frustration.
Vorax lashed again, faster, more precise. The forest trembled with each strike. But the man weaved between blows, striking where Vorax least expected.
A sharp impact—the figure's attack connected. Vorax staggered, stumbling back. He swung his bat defensively, managing to shield himself physically, but the blow had bypassed his defenses internally, rattling him to the core. The force slammed him across the forest floor, debris flying, trees quivering under the impact.
Vorax gritted his teeth, realizing he had no choice. He rose slowly, spitting dirt and blood, shaking his head. "You… you'll pay for that," he growled. His pride burned hotter than the pain in his ribs.
He tried to close the distance, his swings more vicious, faster, but the figure's movements were uncanny—every strike avoided, every angle covered. Vorax couldn't sense a single trace of power, no signature, nothing to predict. This is not normal.
Another strike landed from the figure—a clean, precise hit that sent him flying again. He barely managed to protect his head and shoulders, but internally, the damage was undeniable. Pain radiated through his body. Vorax finally gave a guttural growl and halted mid-air, landing roughly but steadying himself.
He took a step back, glaring at the man who had just toyed with him like a shadow. "You're… a freak," he spat. Then, with a low, dangerous hiss: "I'll get you… after I heal. After I recover. And when I do… you'll die screaming."
With that, Vorax turned and fled, disappearing through the treeline. The forest fell silent, only the whisper of leaves carrying the echo of their clash.
The man stood alone, breathing slowly, scanning the forest. No words were spoken, but the message was clear: the shadow had struck first, and the predator had been repelled—for now.
Southern Forest — Rebel Rescue
By the time the dust settled and Vorax disappeared into the shadows, the forest grew quiet, save for the labored breathing of those who had just survived the chaos.
Not long after, the familiar rustle of armor and boots echoed through the trees. Darius emerged first, his cloak catching the dim moonlight, followed by Sir Marcellus and a dozen of their best fighters. Behind them, the villagers stumbled, shaken but alive, guided by the grey cloaks of the rebels.
Darius scanned the area immediately. "Everyone safe?" he asked, voice sharp but calm.
Elian stepped forward, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow. "We're fine. But the villagers… they need shelter, food, and someone to listen to what happened here."
One of the rescued villagers, an older man with soot-streaked cheeks, stepped forward shakily. "Please… my home… my people… the Valkarians came without warning. They killed anyone who resisted and burned what remained. This… this is all that's left," he said, gesturing to the small group of survivors. His voice cracked, and his hands trembled.
Darius's jaw tightened. "Bring them with us. We'll get them to the safe zone."
The march back was tense, the villagers' whispers carrying tales of horror. Homes destroyed, families torn apart, and yet the small glimmer of hope—the rebels had arrived—kept them moving.
Once they reached the hidden camp, the survivors were quickly ushered inside, given blankets and water. Darius stood at the edge, watching as the villagers settled in. Their eyes were full of fear and exhaustion—but some even glimmered with the faint spark of hope.
An elder villager finally spoke up. "We saw a man… moving through the forest before you arrived. He… he struck down the Valkarians faster than anyone we've ever seen. No magic, no power… just… skill."
Darius froze, recognizing the description. He looked toward Elian and Marcellus. "Did anyone see him clearly?" the man shook his head. "No. Just a shadow… a figure moving faster than thought."
The elder man chuckled bitterly. "People are already calling him the White Wraith. They say he's like a ghost sent to punish the Valkarians. Hahaha… I don't even know if he's real or just a story to keep fear alive in their hearts."
Darius felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn't speak, but inside, he knew the forest had just been visited by someone far beyond any ordinary warrior. Someone who could change the tide of this war.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying a silent promise: the White Wraith would strike again.
A week later at vermorth estate
The sun hung low over the sprawling estate, painting the stone walls in crimson and gold. Smoke from chimneys mixed with the thick smell of sickness that had begun to linger in the air. Guards walked through the streets, calling for calm, while the few nobles still present whispered anxiously behind closed doors.
Grand Duke Vermorth paced the main hall, his usual composed demeanor stretched thin. Reports had arrived in waves, each one darker than the last. People were dying faster than they could bury them, black sores spreading along their skin, fever burning their bodies. The doctors and local healers were powerless.
Vermorth's chest tightened as he read through the latest account. His estate—his people—were falling one by one.
He stepped outside, climbing the balcony overlooking the town square. His voice boomed across the estate: "Stay calm! The Duke's guards are here to help! The sickness… we will overcome it!"
But even as he spoke, fear clung to the whispers of the crowd. Mothers clutched children to their chests. Farmers stared blankly at their fields. Vermorth's eyes caught the first bodies being carried away by pallbearers. He gritted his teeth.
From a dark alley at the edge of the town, a figure watched. Cloak wrapped tight, hood low, face hidden. Hooded man had arrived earlier that day through a silent portal, landing unseen near the estate. He moved with caution, observing from shadows. The signs were unmistakable—blackened lips, swollen lymph nodes, fevered eyes. He recognized the symptoms immediately. This was no ordinary flu; it was a virulent plague, one with no known cure in this land.
hooded man's fists clenched beneath his cloak. He could not act here—enemy territory meant a single mistake would cost him his life. But the guilt gnawed at him, pressing on his chest. He had the knowledge to help these people, yet he was powerless to intervene openly.
Inside the hall, Vermorth finally spoke to the emperor via messenger. "Your Majesty, the sickness is spreading at an alarming rate. I request a court mage—send your healers. We need proper treatment!"
Emperor Kalvin lounged in the grand throne room, swirling wine in his goblet as if reading the report bored him. He didn't lift his gaze. "It's just a flu, Vermorth. Don't overreact."
Vermorth's jaw tightened. "This… is not just a flu. It is killing my people! We need—"
Kalvin waved a dismissive hand. "Send a few mages, if you must. But do not bother me further."
Reluctantly, Vermorth sent a small contingent of court mages. They arrived to find the sick already dying, powerless against the plague. Some tried potions, others chants, but none could stem the tide. The duke watched helplessly as his people's cries filled the night.
From his vantage point in the shadows, hooded man observed the chaos quietly. He could have saved them… he should have saved them. Yet he remained hidden, calculating, weighing his next moves.
The streets of Vermorth's estate were now silent except for the coughing, the weeping, and the footsteps of the few guards still trying to maintain unanswers man's eyes glimmered in the dim moonlight, hood shadowing his face, as he silently swore: this plague, this suffering… would not go unanswered.
Night had fallen, thick and suffocating. The estate streets were eerily quiet except for the groans of the dying. The black death was relentless, and the few remaining townsfolk huddled wherever they could, fear painted on every face.
From a narrow alley, a hooded figure slipped silently through the shadows. Cloak pulled tight, hood low, face hidden, he moved without a sound. His eyes scanned the streets, taking in the signs of death, decay, and despair.
Then he saw them. Two children, no older than ten, clinging to each other in the corner of a small courtyard. Their skin was pale, eyes fevered, lips darkened. They shivered violently, too weak to cry out.
The hooded man clicked his tongue softly, a sound more frustrated than angry. He knelt beside them. Without a word, he reached out, placing his hands near their trembling forms. A soft glow—so faint it might have been moonlight reflecting off his palms—seemed to wrap around them. The children's breathing, ragged moments ago, began to slow, steadier, as if the unseen force was pushing back the sickness.
But the calm didn't last.
"Stop!" a sharp voice cut through the alley.
A group of Valkarian mages had arrived, robes rustling, staves glowing faintly. They surged forward, eyes wide, magic sparking at their fingertips. "Who are you? How dare you interfere!"
The hooded man didn't rise immediately. He simply shifted slightly, the faint glow around his hands flickering like a candle in the wind. Then, in a blur, he moved.
The first mage lunged, but the hooded figure sidestepped, his movement impossibly quick. Another swung a staff, fire blooming from the tip, yet he ducked under it, leaving the caster stumbling past. He struck back with precise, controlled blows—swift kicks and glances with his hands that sent more than one mage sprawling into the walls.
A third tried to pin him with a chain of ethereal energy, but he twisted, slipped, and a faint wave emanated from him, knocking the mage off his feet without a touch.
The alley was chaos. Shouts, sparks, and explosions of magic filled the air. The hooded man didn't speak. His cloak swirled as he moved, a ghost among the mages, untouchable yet unseen in the way only a predator could be.
Then came the sound of approaching boots—heavy, purposeful, authoritative.
Vermorth had arrived.
He emerged from the shadows of a side street, his cloak flaring behind him. The sight that greeted him was shocking. His own men lay scattered, some groaning, others unconscious. Their staves and weapons cracked or shattered. The mages' formation was broken.
And there, in the center of the alley, the hooded figure paused.
Vermorth's eyes narrowed. He felt it before he saw it: a weight in the air, a suffocating pressure pressing in from all sides, as if the very presence of the man could crush him. The aura of killing intent radiating from the figure was intense, almost physical, like a tightening vice.
Vermorth's hand tightened around his blade. His jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed at him to strike first—but he hesitated.
The hooded man slowly rose to his full height, head tilted slightly toward Vermorth, hood hiding most of his face. His presence alone spoke volumes: he was a force beyond ordinary men. And he wasn't just here to fight.
Vermorth swallowed. He had faced many enemies, countless warriors, and assassins. He had crushed entire battalions before. But this—this was different.
The alley was silent, save for the faint breathing of the children still clutching each other. The hooded man's eyes, sharp even beneath the shadow of his hood, scanned Vermorth. The tension was unbearable.
Neither moved first. Yet both knew the clash was inevitable.
To be continue