Previously in Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy.....
The crofter's cabin was little more than four rough-hewn walls and a roof that leaked in three places, but the hearth worked. Arden had coaxed a fire to life the moment they arrived—dry logs from last winter's stack, stacked tight, flames licking up quick and steady. Rolien sat on the floor beside Lyra's pallet, back against the wall, knees drawn up, Jawbreaker arm resting heavy across them like it weighed twice what it should. The medic had left them alone after the last bandage check. Arden was outside checking the perimeter one more time. Just the three of them now: him, Lyra breathing slow and shallow, and the fire.
He watched the flames too long. The logs popped, sending sparks skittering up the chimney. One ember cracked loud—sharp, like a distant rifle report. Then another. Pop. Crack. The sound burrowed under his skin, familiar in a way that made his stomach twist. He told himself it was just the wood settling. Just fire doing what fire does.
But the pops kept coming. Steady. Rhythmic. Like suppressed shots in the bush at dusk.
His eyelids grew heavy. The warmth pressed against his face. He let his head tip back against the uneven planks. Just for a second. Just to rest his eyes.
The embers snapped again.
Pop.
Crack.
And the cabin dissolved.
The air turned thick with diesel and cordite. Jungle rot. Sweat. The metallic stink of fear.
He was back on the ridge, prone behind the low berm, M4 steady in his grip. Marco was ten meters left, screaming over the radio.
"Rowan! Forget us! Get to the fucking bus!"
His squad was pinned. Terrorists moving in tight, disciplined wedges—six, maybe seven—flanking from the treeline. One by one his men were dropping. He could hear the wet thumps of rounds finding meat. Someone—probably Reyes—gurgled once and went quiet.
But the bus was two hundred meters downslope. Yellow paint peeling, windows fogged with panicked breath. Kids inside. Twenty, maybe more. Faces pressed to the glass. Small hands slapping the panes. One boy—no older than eight—had his mouth open in a silent scream.
The bomb was visible even from here: crude vest wired to the driver's seat, timer blinking red through the windshield.
Marco's voice again, ragged. "Captain! Go! We're done!"
Rowan's finger hovered on the trigger. He could suppress the flankers, buy his squad maybe thirty seconds. Or he could sprint downhill, try to disarm the vest before the clock hit zero.
He hesitated.
Just two heartbeats. Maybe three.
That was all it took.
A burst tore through Marco's position. The man jerked once, twice, then slumped forward over his rifle.
Rowan's legs moved before his brain caught up—boots pounding dirt, lungs burning—but he was already too late for the squad. Behind him the gunfire swelled into a roar, then tapered to sporadic pops as the last of his men stopped shooting back.
He reached the road just as the boy at the front window locked eyes with him.
"Please, mister! Help us!"
The kid's voice cracked high and desperate.
Rowan lunged for the door.
The world went white.
The explosion wasn't loud at first—just a deep, sucking whoomph that punched the air out of his chest. Then the sound caught up: a hammer-blow roar that flattened everything. Shrapnel sang past his ears. Heat slapped him like a wall. The bus lifted, twisted, came apart in slow motion—metal peeling, glass raining, small bodies tumbling like broken dolls.
He hit the ground hard. Ears ringing. Vision swimming red and black. Couldn't feel his legs. Couldn't stand.
Boots crunched closer.
A shadow fell over him.
Hunter Solomon—tall, scarred, eyes flat as river stones—looked down with something close to pity.
"What a shame," Solomon said, voice calm over the tinnitus whine. "All that skill, and you still failed to save anyone. Just like every other lapdog who thinks he's a hero. Always hesitating. Skin or strangers—same fucking choice every time. Tch."
He pressed the muzzle of a battered Glock to Rowan's temple.
Rowan stared up. No fight left. Just the slow, crushing weight of it all.
This is my fault.
The kids didn't have to die.
I hesitated.
Solomon's finger tightened on the trigger.
A gunshot cracked—sharp, clean—not from Solomon's gun.
The terrorist jerked. Blood bloomed on his shoulder. He spun, snarling.
More shots followed—rapid, disciplined. Friendly fire from the ridge. Reinforcements. Too late.
Solomon staggered back, cursing, then vanished into the smoke.
Someone dropped beside Rowan. Rough hands shaking his shoulders.
"Hey! Sir! Sir Grey! Captain Rowan!"
The voice blurred.
Then it changed.
Softer.
Familiar.
"Rolien… Rolien, child, wake up."
His eyes snapped open.
The cabin swam back into focus. Fire still crackling low. Embers popping softly now, harmless.
Lyra's hand—bandaged, trembling—rested on his wrist. Her eyes were half-open, silver hair spilling across the pillow. She looked small. Fragile. But awake.
"Hey," she whispered. Voice cracked from smoke and pain. "You were shouting. In your sleep."
Rolien swallowed. His throat felt raw. The Jawbreaker arm whirred faintly as he flexed the fingers—habit, grounding himself.
"Just… a bad one," he managed.
She studied him for a long moment. Didn't push. Just squeezed his wrist once, weak but sure.
"You saved me tonight," she said. "That's enough for now."
He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
The fire popped again.
This time it sounded only like fire.
He stayed where he was, her hand still on his, listening to her breathe until the rhythm steadied.
Outside, dawn was starting to gray the windows.
Inside, for the first time in years, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.
Not gone.
But lighter.
Reincarnation of the Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero : "No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 26: Heroes Regret
Few hours later at the Grand Duke Vermorth Pendragon's estate.
The grand hall of Vermorth Keep smelled of old stone, beeswax, and the faint metallic bite of polished armor. Morning light slanted through the high arrow-slits, cutting pale bars across the long oak table where the council waited. Duke Vermorth sat at the head, back straight, fingers steepled under his chin. His face was the same carved mask it had been for thirty years—cold gray eyes, thin lips, the scar along his jaw that never quite faded. The nobles around him shifted in their seats, murmuring over parchments and wine cups. Trade disputes. Border skirmishes. The usual noise.
A messenger in dust-streaked livery knelt at the foot of the dais, scroll extended on both palms.
Vermorth took it without a word. Broke the Arcadia seal. Read.
The words were Luke's—careful, almost rehearsed. No hard proof. No body dragged in chains. Just a description: the mask, the glowing blue arm, the precise way the intruder moved through steam and shadow. The old nanny carried out like a prize. Half the Grey estate reduced to smoking rubble. And one line that made Vermorth's pulse kick once, hard.
The White Wraith is the magicless heir. Rolien Grey lives.
He read it twice. Slowly.
Around the table the nobles kept talking—some lord droning about grain tariffs, another complaining about bandit raids in the western passes. Vermorth let them. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile exactly. Something smaller, sharper. Private.
Rolien Grey.
The boy who'd been declared dead six years ago. The runt without a drop of mana who'd still managed to humiliate half the training yard—including Luke Arcadia—without breaking sweat. The same boy whose father, Edric, had once looked Vermorth in the eye and said, "He'll outbuild any mage you throw at him." Vermorth had laughed then. Now the laugh was trapped somewhere behind his ribs.
He folded the scroll. Tucked it inside his doublet.
The room noticed the silence first. Conversations trailed off.
Vermorth lifted his gaze. Poker face locked back in place—flat, unreadable, the same expression he wore when signing execution orders or marriage contracts.
"Enough," he said quietly.
The hall went still.
He turned to the nearest guard captain, a tall man with a face like weathered granite.
"Relay this to Duke Luke Arcadia. Word for word." Vermorth's voice stayed level, almost bored. "The Crown demands the immediate capture of the entity known as the White Wraith. Alive, if possible. Dead, if necessary. Full resources of the eastern legions are at his disposal. Failure will not be tolerated."
The captain saluted, fist to chest, and turned to leave.
Vermorth waited until the man's boots echoed out the side door.
Then, very softly—so only the nearest two nobles might have caught it—he chuckled.
It was a low sound. Dry. Almost fond.
"White Wraith," he murmured to the empty air in front of him. "You just changed the color, brat. But it's still you."
The chuckle died as quickly as it came. His face smoothed again. No one dared ask what was funny.
He leaned back in the high chair, fingers drumming once on the armrest.
Rolien Grey was alive.
And running.
And building things that made empires nervous.
Vermorth allowed himself one last private flicker of satisfaction.
Good.
Let the hunt begin.
Meanwhile back the cabin
The dawn light filtered through the cabin's grimy shutters like weak tea, turning everything inside a muted gold. Rolien could smell the damp earth outside, mixed with the faint herbal tang of Lyra's bandages and the lingering smoke from the fire that had died down to glowing coals. His back ached from the hard floor, but he didn't move. Lyra's hand still rested on his wrist, warm despite everything, and Arden had come back in quietly, pulling up a rickety stool across from them. The three of them formed a small, broken circle in the cramped space—walls patched with mossy planks, a single window rattling in the breeze, the kind of hideout that felt temporary, like everything else in his life these days.
Lyra's eyes were clearer now, the pain etched in fine lines around them, but she managed a small smile. "You've got some explaining to do, boy. Six years... we thought you were gone for good. Buried somewhere we couldn't find."
Arden leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face a map of scars and worry. "Start from the beginning, Rolien. Where the hell were you?"
Rolien stared at the floorboards, tracing a crack with his gaze. His flesh hand clenched, unclenched. The Jawbreaker arm hummed faintly, like it was listening too. "It wasn't... here. Not this world. I got pulled somewhere else. Another universe, they called it. One with vampires, ancient curses, a girl with a sword that could cut through shadows. I fought there. Against this thing—an outer god named Xaxeria. It was devouring everything. I helped stop it."
The words felt heavy coming out, like dragging stones from his chest. He didn't look up, just kept his voice steady, but inside it churned—the memories of blood-soaked nights, alliances forged in desperation, the weight of a world not his own on his shoulders.
Arden's breath caught. He sat back hard, eyes wide. "Another universe? That's... goddess's work. Has to be. Only she could weave something like that. Sending a soul across the veil..." He trailed off, shaking his head, a mix of awe and something sharper flickering across his face. "That means you're chosen, kid. The real hero. Not some prophecy puppet—the one she picked to save a whole damn reality."
Lyra's grip tightened on his wrist, her bandaged fingers trembling just a bit. Pride lit her eyes, soft and fierce, like the first time he'd shown her one of his inventions working. "My boy... a chosen hero. I always knew you were meant for more. Even without the magic, you were always building, always fighting smarter. I'm so proud, Rolien. So damn proud."
But Rolien's face twisted, a grimace pulling at his mouth like a bad scar. He finally met their eyes, his own burning with a frustration that clawed up his throat. "Yeah? I saved their world. Fought tooth and nail, bled for people I barely knew. But what about ours? Tch." His voice cracked on the last word, raw and ragged, like he'd been shouting into the void for years. He rubbed his human hand over his face, feeling the stubble, the exhaustion settling in his bones like lead. "If I had a choice, I wouldn't have gone. I'd have stayed. Maybe... maybe I could've done something. Helped hold the line. Saved Dad." The regret hit him like a gut punch, hot and twisting—images of his father flashing: strong hands clapping his shoulder, that quiet laugh when Rolien sketched out some wild idea. Gone now. All because he wasn't here.
Arden's expression softened, but there was steel in it too. He reached out, clamped a hand on Rolien's shoulder—firm, like an anchor. "And then what? You think you were a match for those barbaric Dragon Slayers back then? Kid, you were clever as hell, but without that arm, without the years you've got now... you'd have died right alongside the rest of us. Nothing changes. Or it just gets worse—more bodies, more chaos." He paused, his thumb digging in just enough to ground him. "I get it, Rolien. That knot in your gut, wishing you could turn back the clock. I've felt it every day since Edric fell. But what's done is done. We face what's in front of us, move forward. We owe that to our fallen comrades, to your father—my brother-in-law. Edric would've wanted you swinging, not drowning in what-ifs."
Rolien looked up slowly, his eyes meeting Arden's—searching, desperate. His voice came out raspy, scraped raw from the inside. "Then why am I still here? Just to suffer? To see my family shattered, Dad gone, everything we built turned to ash?" He paused, swallowing hard, the words sticking like thorns. "What's the point of all this strength if I can't save the people who matter?"
Lyra made a small sound, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth. Tears welled up, spilling over as she placed her other hand over his, squeezing with what little strength she had left. "You might think it was all for nothing, sweet boy, but I believe... I have to believe the goddess sent you away for a reason. A good one. To keep you safe, because back then you didn't have the power to stand against them yet. Not those Slayers, not Vermorth's schemes." Her voice cracked, breaking on the edges, and the tears came faster, silent at first, then with a quiet sob that shook her frail frame. "You're the only one who can save us now. If you'd stayed that day... maybe you'd have... died too." The last words choked out, her shoulders hunching as she cried, the pain of it all—the torture, the loss, the relief of having him back—crashing over her like a wave.
Rolien's chest tightened, watching her break like that. He shifted closer, awkward with the arm, but pulled her into a gentle hold anyway, letting her bury her face against his shoulder. The cabin felt smaller, the dawn light harsher, but in that moment, with Arden's hand still on his back, it was just them—three survivors clinging to whatever scraps of hope they had left.
To be continued…