Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero: " No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 34 : The Clash of Two Souls! Part 2
Rolien didn't bother holstering the air pistol.
He kept it gripped loose in his left hand—thumb resting on the slide, finger hovering just outside the trigger guard—while his right arm stayed locked in a loose guard, curse veins pulsing slow and steady under the cracked plating. The courtyard smoke was thick enough to taste now, bitter and metallic on his tongue, but he barely noticed. All his attention was on Vorax. The Slayer hadn't dropped yet. Hadn't even staggered properly. Just kept coming—slow, inevitable, like a mountain deciding to walk.
Fine.
Rolien reached behind his back with his flesh hand—quick, practiced motion—and drew the Tenbatsu no Yari from the sheath slung low on his hip. The dragon-killer sword Emperor Albrecht had placed in his hands himself, right after the Magisterium Tournament finals—handing it over in front of the entire arena with a single quiet sentence: "You earned this. Now make it earn its name." Long, slender blade of blackened steel veined with faint crimson, edge shaped narrow and leaf-like with serrated ridges that looked like they could split dragon scale and make it regret being born. The moment his fingers closed around the grip, he felt the familiar warmth crawl up his arm—stats boosting 30%, critical potency spiking another 10%. Not flashy. No glowing aura. Just a quiet certainty that every swing from here on would land harder, cut deeper.
Vorax tilted his helm. First real sign he'd noticed something changed.
Rolien spun the sword once—fast, fluid—then snapped it forward in a thrust aimed straight for the cracked chest plate Leto's shrapnel had already opened.
Vorax parried—blade meeting sword with a clang that rang across the courtyard. The impact traveled up Rolien's arms, but the Tenbatsu held. Didn't chip. Didn't bend. The crimson veins along the blade pulsed once, drinking the force.
Rolien didn't stop. He pulled back, spun the sword in a tight circle, switched grip mid-twirl, and thrust again—lower this time, aiming for the knee joint. Vorax stepped back—barely—and countered with a rising slash. Rolien ducked under it, rolled forward, came up inside the reach, and snapped the sword's pommel into Vorax's helm like a hammer. Metal rang. The helm canted sideways, fresh crack spiderwebbing across the visor.
Vorax grunted—first real sound of annoyance.
Rolien grinned under the mask.
He switched mods mid-motion—Gerbarra. Palm split open. He fired a tight burst of small blue-white beams point-blank into Vorax's chest. The Slayer raised his free arm—blocked most of them—but two punched through, blackening scale and drawing more blood. Vorax staggered half a step.
Rolien didn't let up. Mod switch: Overdrive. The arm crackled—electricity arcing along the curse veins. He thrust the sword again, this time channeling the lightning straight through the blade. The edge glowed white-hot for a split second before slamming into Vorax's pauldron. Electricity jumped—arcing across the Slayer's armor, crawling up the neck guard, making the red glow on his blade flicker wildly.
Vorax roared—low, guttural—and swung hard.
Rolien parried—sword meeting blade edge. The impact jarred his shoulders, but he twisted, redirected, stepped back, and fired another Overdrive-charged thrust. The sword tip punched through a scale plate on Vorax's thigh—deep enough to scrape bone. Black blood sprayed.
Still not enough.
Vorax laughed—rough, grinding. "Better."
He swung again—faster this time, blade whistling in a tight arc. Rolien ducked, rolled, came up firing another Gerbarra burst—beams stitching across Vorax's legs. Scale cracked wider. The Slayer staggered, but kept advancing.
Rolien switched again—Galo. Palm opened wide. Curse bubbles swarmed out—black-edged, hungry spheres drifting toward Vorax like angry hornets. The Slayer swung through them—blade cutting several in half—but the ones that popped against his armor hissed and ate. Scale bubbled. Smoke rose. Vorax snarled, shaking his arm like he could shake off the corrosion.
Rolien stepped back—breathing hard now, but steady. The Tenbatsu no Yari felt alive in his grip—boosted stats making every movement smoother, sharper. He twirled it once—fast, fluid—then leveled the blade at Vorax's helm.
"Still not enough?" he said, voice low. "Fine. Let's keep going."
Vorax raised his blade again—red glow flaring brighter, like the Slayer was finally starting to take him seriously.
Rolien smiled under the mask.
Bring it.
Rolien didn't give Vorax time to recover from the last hit.
He pivoted—sharp, low, boots scraping a half-circle on the cracked stone—and came around the Slayer's left side. The dragon-killer sword stayed loose in his right hand, tip trailing just above the ground like he was daring Vorax to step on it. The air pistol stayed up in his left, barrel tracking the helmet slits.
Vorax swung—predictable overhead chop, red edge screaming. Rolien slipped left, let the blade bury itself two inches into the flagstone, then stepped in close. He snapped the sword up in a tight rising cut—Tenbatsu no Yari biting into the scale gap under Vorax's armpit. Black blood sprayed. The Slayer hissed—actual hiss this time, not the mocking laugh—and yanked his blade free with a twist that showered stone chips.
Rolien was already moving again—circling right, keeping Vorax's damaged arm between them. Every step was deliberate, boots finding the best purchase on the uneven ground. He could hear the Blackfort survivors behind him—Elian's ragged breathing, Mira's low curse as she tried to stand, Leto coughing up dust. They weren't running. They were watching. And he could feel their eyes on his back like heat.
One of the surviving knights—some grizzled sergeant with half his beard burned off—let out a shaky laugh.
"He's matching a Dragon Slayer," the man muttered, loud enough for the others to hear. "Holy shit… he's actually matching one."
The words spread like fire in dry grass. Heads turned. Shoulders straightened. A woman clutching a broken spear laughed—short, disbelieving. "Grey's back. The Wraith's back."
Morale didn't just lift. It caught.
Rolien didn't acknowledge it. He just kept moving.
Vorax lunged again—faster this time, learning. Blade came in low, then snapped high in a feint. Rolien read it—ducked the low, leaned back from the high, then stepped inside and drove the sword's pommel straight into Vorax's helm. Metal crunched. The visor cracked wider. Vorax staggered—half a step—and Rolien followed with a quick snap kick to the same dented midsection. The impact thudded deep. Scale buckled more.
But Thane was done watching.
The other Slayer stepped in from Rolien's blind side—silent, sudden, claw sweeping in a wide arc that would have taken his head off if he'd stayed still. Rolien twisted—barely—felt the claw tips rake across his back plating. Sparks flew. The curse veins flared in protest. Pain spiked hot and bright, but he spun through it, brought the air pistol up, and fired three quick curse rounds straight into Thane's chest.
The black-tipped projectiles punched through scale—veins spreading outward like ink in water. Thane snarled, staggered, but kept coming.
Now it was two.
Rolien pivoted again—fast, fluid, staying between them so they couldn't flank him clean. Vorax swung low. Thane swung high. Rolien dropped under both, rolled forward, came up between them, and snapped the Tenbatsu no Yari in a tight horizontal cut. The crimson-edged blade caught Vorax across the thigh—deep gash, black blood spraying—then continued the arc to parry Thane's claw mid-swing. Steel met scale. Curse veins drank the impact. Rolien felt the jolt in his teeth but didn't let it show.
He stepped back—light, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Tch," he said, loud enough for them to hear. "What's the matter, big guys? You two usually this slow, or am I just that pretty today?"
Thane growled—actual growl, low and wet.
Vorax didn't answer. Just advanced again—blade coming in a tight diagonal.
Rolien parried—spear haft meeting edge—then countered with a quick thrust that scraped along Vorax's neck guard, drawing a thin line of blood. Thane lunged from the side—claw raking for his ribs. Rolien twisted, let the claw graze past, then snapped the pistol up and fired point-blank into Thane's helm. The curse round punched through the visor slit—black veins exploded across the inside. Thane roared, staggered back clutching his face.
Rolien laughed—short, sharp, the kind of laugh that sounded more like a knife than humor.
"Seriously? That's all you got? I've seen tavern drunks swing harder than this."
He pivoted again—kept them moving, kept them off-balance. Vorax swung. Rolien ducked, rolled under the blade, came up behind him, and drove the sword's pommel into the back of Vorax's knee. The Slayer buckled—dropped to one knee for a second—then pushed back up with a snarl.
Thane charged—claw high. Rolien sidestepped, let the claw rake empty air, then snapped the pistol up again—two more curse rounds into Thane's chest. The black veins spread faster this time—eating deeper. Thane roared, staggered.
Rolien stepped back—breathing hard now, but steady. The Tenbatsu no Yari felt lighter in his hand, the boosted stats making every move feel effortless even as his muscles screamed.
He twirled the sword once—casual, almost playful—then leveled it at Vorax's helm.
"Come on," he said. "I'm just getting warmed up."
Vorax and Thane both straightened—slow, deliberate, the way predators do when they finally decide to stop playing.
Luke watched from the gate, arms folded, violet light flickering in his palm.
He clicked his tongue—sharp, irritated.
"This brat thinks he can beat us?" he muttered, voice low enough that only the wind carried it. "He's still holding back, huh."
Rolien kept moving like water around rocks—never still long enough for either of them to pin him down.
He circled left around Vorax, then cut right when Thane tried to close the angle. Every pivot was tight, boots scraping precise half-circles on the broken flagstone. The Tenbatsu no Yari stayed loose in his right hand, tip trailing just above the ground, ready to snap up or thrust depending on which way they committed. The air pistol stayed up in his left—barrel tracking, finger light on the trigger.
Vorax swung again—low, sweeping cut meant to open him from hip to shoulder. Rolien stepped over the blade like it was a jump rope, brought the sword down in a quick diagonal slash. The crimson edge bit into Vorax's forearm guard—deep enough to scrape bone. Black blood sprayed across Rolien's mask. Vorax hissed, pulled back, but Rolien was already gone—rolling under Thane's incoming claw, coming up behind the second Slayer, and firing three curse rounds point-blank into the small of Thane's back.
The black-tipped projectiles punched through scale—veins spreading outward fast, eating deeper than before. Thane roared—actual roar this time, frustration cracking through the amusement—and spun, claw raking the air where Rolien had been half a second earlier.
Rolien was already on Vorax's other side—sword flashing in a tight horizontal cut that opened another gash across the Slayer's thigh. Vorax staggered—first real stumble—and Rolien followed with a snap kick to the same spot. The impact thudded deep. Scale buckled inward. Vorax dropped to one knee for a heartbeat before forcing himself back up.
Both Slayers were breathing heavier now—wet, ragged sounds leaking from behind their helms. Their movements weren't lazy anymore. The casual arrogance was gone. Thane's claws flexed like he was trying to shake off the curse corrosion. Vorax's blade glowed brighter, red light pulsing faster, angrier.
They were agitated.
Rolien felt it in the shift of the air—the way their mana suddenly thickened around them like a storm rolling in. The system window flickered in the corner of his vision, red warning text scrolling fast.
Mana surge detected. Target output exceeding previous readings by 300%. Threat level: Critical. Recommend immediate termination or evasion.
"Tch," Rolien muttered, wiping sweat from under his mask with the back of his wrist. "They're taking this serious now. I need to end them before Luke jumps in."
He tightened his grip on the Tenbatsu no Yari. The crimson veins along the blade pulsed once—hot, eager.
"Beast Roar," he said under his breath—Gerbarra's final mode, the one he'd only ever used twice before, both times when everything else had failed. The arm whirred, conduits realigning, curse veins flaring bright red-black under the plating. The spearhead began to glow—faint at first, then brighter, building into a concentrated core of raw energy that looked like bottled lightning wrapped in shadow.
Vorax and Thane felt it. Both helms turned toward him at the same time.
Rolien exhaled once—sharp, controlled—and raised the sword high.
But before the beam could fire—
Lightning cracked from behind him.
Not a pillar. Not a warning shot. A full, searing bolt—white-blue, thick as his arm—slammed into his back like a sledgehammer made of thunder. The impact lifted him clean off his feet, threw him forward, sent him skidding across the stone on his chest. Pain exploded white-hot across his shoulder blades, down his spine, into every nerve. The curse veins in the Jawbreaker flared wildly—overloaded, screaming—then dimmed as the system flashed red again.
Warning: Critical mana overload. Systems compromised. Mobility reduced 40%
Rolien rolled—slow, painful—pushed himself up on shaking arms. His back felt like someone had poured molten lead down his spine. Smoke curled from the scorched plating along his shoulders.
He looked up.
Luke walked forward through the smoke—slow, deliberate, violet light still crackling between his fingers. His smile was thin, cold, the same one he'd worn six years ago right before the bus went up in flames.
"Cocky little shit," Luke said, voice carrying clean over the dying crackle of the lightning. "Thought you could just waltz in here, play hero, forget I exist?"
He stopped ten paces away, raised his hand again. Violet light gathered—bigger this time, edges writhing like living smoke.
"You always did love your dramatic entrances, Rowan. Shame they never work out."
Rolien pushed himself to one knee. The Tenbatsu no Yari was still in his grip—blade smoking, crimson veins dim but not dead. He spat blood onto the stone.
"Still talking?" he rasped. "Thought you'd have learned by now."
Luke's smile tightened.
The violet light brightened.
Rolien wiped a streak of blood from his lip with the back of his wrist, eyes never leaving Luke. The violet light in the duke's palm was still flickering, hungry, but Luke hadn't thrown it yet. He was savoring this—had to be. The same way he used to savor every second of a fight he knew he'd already won.
Rolien tilted his head, cracked a grin under the mask.
"Well, look who it is," he called out, loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear. "The fake-ass duke of trash himself. Reintroduce yourself, your highness."
Luke's smile tightened at the corners. He stepped forward one measured pace, boots crunching over broken scale and ash.
"Still with your bad jokes, eh?" he said, voice carrying clean over the crackling fires. "Sure you can still talk after we beat you?"
Rolien laughed—short, sharp, the kind of laugh that sounded more like a knife than humor.
"Well, yeah. Maybe you can. You brought the band together and everything." He jerked his chin toward Thane and Vorax, who were circling wider now, blades low and patient. "But it's a shame, you know? Ganging up just to beat a little boy. Hahaha—yeah, make yourself proud, mama's boy."
Thane actually giggled—low, wet, the sound bubbling out from behind his cracked helm like something dying in a drain. Vorax didn't react, but Luke's brows twitched once. A small thing. But Rolien saw it.
Luke's hand flexed. Violet light flared brighter.
"Let's see if you can still talk after this."
Thane and Vorax moved at the same time—coordinated, no wasted motion. Thane came in low and fast, claw sweeping for Rolien's legs. Vorax stepped right behind him, blade rising in a tight upward cut meant to split him from groin to collarbone.
Rolien didn't back up.
He switched mods—Overdrive. The arm crackled alive, curse veins glowing electric blue-white. He thrust it forward, palm open, and released the crowd-control burst: Lightning Shock.
A web of chained lightning exploded outward—thick arcs snapping from his fingers, forking fast toward both Slayers. The bolts hit Thane first—arcing across his chest plate, crawling up his neck guard, locking every joint for a split second. Vorax took the second fork—electricity dancing along his blade, jumping into his gauntlets, freezing him mid-swing.
Both Slayers locked up—muscles seizing, blades trembling in their grips.
Rolien exhaled sharp through his nose.
But Luke was already moving.
A volley of blue fireballs—six of them—shot from his palm in a tight spread. They streaked toward Rolien like angry comets, trailing white-hot tails.
Rolien twisted—spear up, parrying the first two with the flat of the Tenbatsu no Yari. The fire splashed off the crimson edge, scattering harmlessly. He sidestepped the third, let the fourth graze past his shoulder—heat searing the air close enough to singe his cloak—and deflected the fifth with the air pistol, the curse round in the chamber exploding on impact and turning the fireball into a harmless puff of steam.
The sixth one he couldn't dodge clean.
It clipped his left side—right where the plating was already cracked from earlier. Pain flared white-hot. The blast threw him sideways, boots skidding on stone. He hit the ground rolling, came up on one knee, coughing smoke.
"Fuck!"
He slapped his free arm across his face—Jawbreaker shielding his eyes as the explosion's aftershock washed over him. Heat stung his exposed skin. The curse veins in the arm flared angrily, drinking the pain like it was fuel.
Luke lowered his hand. The violet light dimmed, but his smile was back—thin, cold, satisfied.
"Still cocky," he said, walking forward slow through the smoke. "Still forgetting I exist."
Rolien pushed himself up from the scorched stone, knees scraping as he got his feet under him. The lightning still buzzed in his bones, a low, angry hum that made his teeth ache, but he forced his back straight anyway. Smoke curled off the Jawbreaker's plating like it was pissed at being used as a shield. He spat blood onto the stone and looked up at Luke.
The duke was walking forward again, slow, like he had all the time in the world. Violet light still flickered between his fingers, not quite ready to throw, but ready enough to remind everyone he could.
Rolien cracked his neck once, slow and deliberate. The mask hid most of his face, but the grin underneath was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Well, yeah," he started, voice rough from smoke but steady. "I forgot there's a fly buzzing around here that learned to talk back. Like human trash. Did you tell your mom you're here?"
Luke's step faltered—just half a second, but Rolien caught it. The duke's lips thinned. The violet light in his palm flared brighter for a heartbeat before he reined it in.
"Even if you're losing," Luke said, voice low and clipped, "you still crack your jokes. That's the only thing you're good at. Just as always. Typical of Gray."
The name landed like a slap.
Gray.
Not Grey.
The old Earth surname. The one only Luke knew—only Hunter Solomon knew. The one tied to that Magisterium Tournament back here, when Rolien had folded him clean in the finals, pinned him flat in front of the screaming stands, and walked away with the emperor's sword as the prize. Luke had never lived that down. Never forgiven it.
Rolien's grin faded under the mask. His eyes narrowed behind the cracked visor.
Old memories flashed—quick, ugly. The arena lights hot on his skin, the roar of the crowd, Luke's face twisted in rage as Rolien swept his legs out and locked him down. The way Luke had snarled "Gray" like it was poison right before the ref called it.
Rolien's grip tightened on the Tenbatsu no Yari. The crimson veins along the blade pulsed once, hot.
"Yeah," he said, quieter now, almost thoughtful. "Old news."
But the way he said it wasn't mocking anymore. It was cold. Final.
Luke's smile twisted—something ugly and old flickering behind it.
"You always did love running your mouth," he said. "Let's see how long it lasts this time."
He raised his hand higher. Violet light gathered thicker—edges writhing like smoke that knew how to bite.
Rolien shifted his stance—sword low, pistol still up, curse veins in the Jawbreaker flaring brighter.
He didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
The fight wasn't words anymore.
To be continued…