Reincarnation of the magicless! From zero to hero!
" No magic?, No problem!"
Chapter 17 : Blood, Smoke and Iron part 2!
The forest crackled with tension.
First came the growls—low and guttural. Then the tremors. Something heavy was stalking them from the shadows.
Rolien stepped forward, still battered, his body aching from the fight with Dreadmaw. But his stance was firm.
Marcellus tensed, sword raised, shield at the ready. "We're not done yet."
Three shapes tore through the brush. Not beasts. Not men. Twisted things—canine in shape, but corrupted beyond nature. Obsidian bone jutted from their backs. Crimson lines pulsed beneath their fur like molten veins. Hellhounds, warped by mana decay.
The first one lunged.
Rolien sidestepped, low and fast. He spun and drove his fist into the beast's flank, shattering ribs. Its yelp turned into a garbled snarl as it rolled across the dirt. The second snapped at him, jaws wide.
Marcellus intercepted with a thunderous shield bash that shattered teeth and dazed it long enough for a clean vertical slice that cleaved its torso in half.
Rolien pivoted to finish the first—only for a third beast to pounce from above.
Steel whistled through the air.
A knife embedded itself clean into its eye. The hellhound dropped like a stone.
Rolien's gaze snapped sideways. A lean figure stepped from the mist. Black cloak. Twin daggers. Movement like drifting ash.
"Corin," the man said. "Figured you two could use a third blade."
Rolien didn't hesitate. "You stab me, you die."
"Fair," Corin smirked.
The final hellhound tried to flee.
Too slow.
Corin blurred forward, slitting its throat mid-step.
Marcellus sheathed his sword with a grunt. "You're fast."
"I'm useful," Corin said.
Before they could regroup, the temperature dropped. A mechanical whir split the air—slow at first, then rising to a heavy, rhythmic hiss. Steam hissed through the trees like breath from a furnace.
Then it emerged.
Ten feet tall. Armored in dull iron plates and tangled with glowing green mana circuits. Its head was smooth and eyeless, save for a central glowing lens—pulsing.
Runeslaughter.
A Tier-S automaton.
"A prototype from the old war," Marcellus growled. "This shouldn't be active."
The machine raised its arm.
Mana surged, spinning into a compressed ball of kinetic energy.
"Scatter!" Rolien shouted.
The blast ripped past them, incinerating a line of trees and gouging the earth with molten trenches. Heat swept the clearing. Rolien's skin seared even from a near miss.
They regrouped.
"Eyes on the vents," Corin called. "Back plate—weakest point."
Rolien sprinted wide, drawing the automaton's attention. It turned and fired another blast. He leapt sideways, dirt erupting behind him as he skidded on a tree root and launched forward again.
Corin flanked from the shadows, throwing a dagger to distract it. Marcellus charged from the front, shield raised high.
"NOW!"
Rolien feinted low, then dashed behind the construct. He leapt up, grabbed onto the back, and with a grunt, drove his reinforced gauntlet into the vent casing. Sparks flew.
The automaton jerked.
Corin dashed up its leg and plunged both daggers into the neck seam. Mana surged wildly inside it, destabilizing.
Marcellus slammed the shield into its chest to lock it in place.
"FALL!" Rolien roared—and with one final punch, he caved in the back vent. The kinetic core surged—then exploded outward in a white flash of ruptured mana.
The automaton crumpled, its chest plate smoking, the lens dead.
Rolien dropped to one knee, panting. His knuckles bled, body screaming.
"We're still not done," he said hoarsely. "The main threat's still alive."
Marcellus turned his head east. The horizon burned red with battle fire. Screams echoed faintly through the trees. And above it all—a distant roar.
Groteus.
Corin looked that way too. "That the real monster?"
"Yeah," Rolien muttered. "And it's not finished."
He stood. Shoulders hunched. Grit in his voice.
"Let's end this."
—
Minutes Later – Southern Edge of the Battlefield
The ground shook beneath them. Screams, steel, and cannonfire melded into a deafening orchestra of chaos. Groteus loomed in the distance—a monstrosity of shifting muscle, jagged armor, and regenerative fury. His tail swiped through barricades like twigs. Mana artillery bounced off his hide like spitballs.
Rolien, Corin, and Marcellus arrived at the rear flank where the capital's remaining forces were getting overrun.
A commander turned, bloodied and desperate. "You—reinforcements?"
"Better," Rolien said, wiping blood from his lip. "We're here to kill that thing."
Corin twirled a blade. "Someone point me at the throat."
Marcellus raised his greatsword. "Let's finish what we started."
As Groteus roared, spinning toward them with a tail of destruction, Rolien narrowed his eyes.
No more running.
No more hesitation.
It was time to bring the monster down.
The battlefield was a boiling cauldron of ash, flame, and screaming steel.
Groteus towered at the heart of it—massive, maddened, and regenerating from every wound like a nightmare made flesh. One arm, half-blown away by a magic barrage, was already reforming with grotesque speed. Each step he took crushed stone and soul alike.
He roared—and the wind itself seemed to shatter under the weight of it.
Frontlines trembled. Mana-imbued halberds cracked. Knights were flung like dolls.
At the very center stood a formation of elites: the Grand Duke Edric, regal even with blood on his coat; Lady Lerien, her long spear coated in crimson; and Elian Grey, standing like a shield in front of them, twin swords flashing like stormlight.
Beside them: the Emperor himself, his silver mantle torn but eyes aflame with mana fury. At his side, the Crown Prince fought with reckless elegance, his rapier leaving arcs of light in the air.
They were holding Groteus back.
But only barely.
"His core's buried deep in the chest cavity!" Elian shouted between strikes, sweat dripping down his jaw. "The bastard's growing armor faster than we can break it!"
Lady Lerien spun her spear and pierced a regenerating limb, but it sealed around the blade. She pulled back with a grunt.
"We need heavy force," Edric growled. "We need Rolien."
The earth cracked behind them—then a blur darted past, leaping onto a pile of broken stones and ruined artillery.
"Ask and you shall receive," Rolien called.
He landed between the Imperial Guard and his family, gauntlet humming with renewed energy.
Elian blinked. "You were supposed to retreat."
"I got delayed. Crushed a warbot. Killed a few hellhounds. Met a guy named Corin—he's probably stabbing something right now."
Corin whistled nearby, flicking blood off a dagger. "He's not wrong."
Marcellus jogged up behind, panting. "I hate sprinting. This is why I use horses."
Lady Lerien's eyes softened for a fraction of a second. "You look like hell."
"Missed you too, Mom."
Rolien stepped forward, eyes locked on Groteus.
"Time to end this."
Edric didn't speak—but he moved aside half a step, giving Rolien the front line. That alone said everything.
"Orders?" the Emperor asked.
Rolien stared at Groteus. Then he cracked his neck, flexed his gauntlet, and grinned with all the wild arrogance of a son who'd survived hell.
"Hit him hard. Hit him fast. I'll rip open the core."
The Crown Prince raised an eyebrow. "You sound confident."
Rolien stepped into a run.
"I am."
Then he charged.
And the battlefield shifted.
The sky bled smoke and ash.
Below it, the battlefield trembled under the weight of a monster. Groteus loomed over the capital like a god of ruin—massive as a mountain, black-scaled and steaming with mana. Six corrupted crystals glowed across its armored body—chest, back, thighs, and shoulders—pulsing like rotting hearts, healing the beast in real time.
Rolien's sharp eyes locked on to them. "That's our way in."
"Those crystals," muttered Marcellus, "they're channeling regeneration. Destroy them, and we kill the beast."
Easier said than done.
The crystals were half-buried in obsidian armor or nestled in deep muscle. Every step from the monster warped the air, pressure spiking with raw mana.
Then came Edric, Grand Duke of the North—his cloak torn, silver hair wind-tossed. He carried the greatsword Wyrmsunder, a relic heavy with dragonbane runes. His calm stare held no fear.
"Crystals like that..." he muttered, "they're no different from fire-glands on ridgeback drakes."
Behind him, the Emperor chuckled. His white and gold armor was battered, but regal as ever. "Still talking like the monsters can hear you."
"They usually scream back."
Then the Emperor raised a hand and whistled.
A shriek cut the sky.
From the broken clouds above, Aerthys descended—an avalanche of ivory wings and divine frost. The White Dragon, thought long dead, returned like a living miracle. Her scales shimmered like polished moonstone. Horns curved back in arcs of gold. Her eyes radiated ancient light.
"Aerthys!" the Emperor roared. "Mark the cores!"
The dragon soared high, divine breath chilling the storm itself. Rings of sapphire magic pulsed from her horns, scanning Groteus. With a roar, she released a piercing frost beam—slamming against the monster's back. Armor cracked, steaming.
Crystals flared—now glowing, outlined with radiant sigils.
"She's exposing them!" Rolien shouted.
"That's our cue!" Edric slammed Wyrmsunder into the earth. "We break them. One by one."
He turned to his family. "Lerien, Elian—flank it. Crown Prince, protect the mages. Emperor… let's see if we still remember how to kill titans."
The Emperor smirked. "Try not to die before I do something dramatic."
They charged.
Edric struck first—Wyrmsunder sang, slicing through Groteus's thigh. Black ichor erupted, and the beast staggered.
"NOW!" Edric barked.
Lady Lerien hurled her spear like thunder. It pierced Groteus's chest, peeling open scale.
Elian darted in, twin sabers cutting deep into the exposed muscle.
The crystal was vulnerable.
Rolien moved.
He sprinted across a rooftop, leapt off the edge midair, and hurled a mana-piercer bolt like a javelin.
CRACK!
The crystal exploded in a burst of violet corruption.
Groteus let out a deafening howl—the wound refused to close.
"One down!" the Crown Prince called.
Aerthys dove low, shielding Edric and the Emperor with her wings. Her frost breath carved a path through Groteus's leg, slowing the monster.
"She still listens to you," Edric grunted.
"She remembers who saved her egg," the Emperor replied.
Rolien landed hard and kept running—locking eyes on another core, near the left thigh. Another bolt, another throw.
CRACK!
The second crystal shattered.
Then the third—on the back.
CRACK!
The battlefield roared in victory—until Groteus froze.
Its glowing eyes narrowed.
Locked on.
On him.
Rolien blinked. "Wait… what?"
The beast's spine lit up—pulsing, humming.
Mana surged.
Then—
BOOM!
A short burst of atomic breath screamed toward the tower.
Rolien's eyes widened. "Man, are you kidding me?!"
He dove, rolling off the crumbling ledge as the top of the tower exploded behind him. A blinding heatwave followed, searing the air where he stood just seconds ago.
He hit another rooftop, slid across the tiles, and popped up panting. "Okay… definitely pissed it off."
He glanced up—Aerthys banking wide above. Groteus was turning toward him now, snarling, charging mana for another blast.
Rolien muttered, "Guess I'm the main character today..."
He dashed again, pulling the next mana bolt from his pack.
Still three more crystals to go.
And the real fight had just begun.
Rolien ducked just as the shockwave slammed behind him, cracking the tower like a dry bone. Rubble exploded into the air. Heat sizzled the edges of his cloak as he landed hard on the next rooftop, rolling into a crouch.
He didn't even have time to breathe.
Groteus moved.
The monster turned with unnatural speed for something that massive—its thick tail lashing around buildings like a scythe. Gleaming, molten veins pulsed down its neck and chest, and Rolien could see it—another crystal, glowing like an angry eye near the left shoulder.
But the beast was onto him now. Every step it took tracked his motion. Every core he shattered made him more of a threat—and now, Rolien was priority target number one.
"Oh great," he muttered, pulling the bolt back on his air rifle. "I poked the mana-zilla too hard."
Another burst of atomic flame ripped toward him—shorter than the last, but faster, more focused. The tower beside him turned to slag in seconds.
He dove behind a stone spire, bits of molten rock pelting his coat. With a sharp breath, he popped out, braced the rifle, and took the shot.
THUMP—CRACK!
The shot hit the shoulder crystal, fracturing it—but not enough.
The core flickered like a damaged lightbulb, mana leaking in distorted waves. It needed more pressure.
Above, Aerthys saw it too.
FWOOOOOSH!
Her frost breath struck the weakened crystal, and in a split second—
CRASH!
It burst apart like frozen glass under a hammer.
Three down.
But Groteus didn't flinch.
He roared—not in pain, but fury. His back opened like a furnace, revealing rows of internal mana vents. The glow intensified. The sky turned violent.
"Oh no," Rolien breathed.
The air boiled. The beast was charging a full breath, not just a short burst.
And it was still locked on him.
"Man, are you kidding me!?" Rolien shouted, leaping from one rooftop to the next just as a wave of molten death vaporized the one he left behind. The beam wasn't wide—but it was fast. Almost instantaneous.
He zigzagged through ruined spires, barely keeping ahead. One missed step, one mistimed dash, and he'd be reduced to ash.
He ejected the spent canister from his rifle, slammed in a new one, and took position on a crumbling ledge.
He exhaled.
Everything else blurred.
The fourth core—mid-back, just above the spine—gleamed red through the smoke.
He squeezed the trigger.
THUMP—CRACK!
A direct hit. The air rifle's armor-piercing bolt pierced through the scales and cracked the core like a spiderweb.
"C'mon, c'mon..."
Aerthys swooped in again, battered but unyielding, and finished it with a frost blast.
BOOM!
The core exploded.
Rolien didn't stick around to celebrate.
Another beam surged past him, the heat singing his skin.
He leapt off the ledge, barely catching the next tower.
Aerthys caught him midair, claws curled gently around his torso. She tossed him to a nearby rooftop and roared as she soared overhead again, trying to draw Groteus's attention.
Rolien rolled to his feet, coughing, hands still tight around his rifle. "Still got it…"
Four cores down.
Two left.
And he was still the bait.
Groteus howled again, the sky pulsing with mana.
From above, Aerthys banked hard, circling to prepare another frost dive—but the monster twisted mid-roar. Its spine flexed unnaturally, and from the gaps in its scales, black tendrils began to emerge—slick, writhing things pulsing with corrupted mana.
Rolien steadied himself on the rooftop. His fingers were blistered from the heat, but he reloaded anyway, sliding in his last mana-burst canister. "Two cores left," he muttered. "Let's finish this before the bastard mutates."
He lifted his rifle.
Target: the core on Groteus's lower thigh—it glowed faintly behind a layer of armored scale.
He exhaled slowly, eye steady down the scope.
Click. Boom—CRACK!
The bolt flew—and struck.
Another perfect hit.
The core didn't break completely, but cracks spread fast. It pulsed brighter. Aerthys dived again to finish the job.
But Groteus moved faster than before.
The black tendrils shot up like a net—piercing Aerthys mid-flight.
"NO!" the Emperor roared from below as Aerthys shrieked, veering violently off course.
She crashed hard into the edge of the battleground, carving a trench into the ruined plaza.
Rolien's stomach dropped. "Aerthys—!"
The fifth core was left hanging—cracked but not destroyed.
The tendrils weren't just reacting anymore.
They were reaching.
And then Groteus did something new.
Its body hunched.
Its limbs folded in.
And from within its torso, something began to tear out—a second mouth, lined with jagged teeth, opening vertically across its chest. Inside—
A seventh core.
Massive. Pure black. Still beating.
Rolien's blood ran cold.
"That… wasn't there before," he whispered.
And then the core moved.
It looked at him.
It actually looked at him.
A pulse rippled through the battlefield.
Everything stopped.
Mana warped violently. The skies cracked.
And in a voice not spoken, but carved directly into their minds—
"I see you now, little hunter."
The black core throbbed once, and all six remaining tendrils shot toward Rolien, faster than bullets, locking on.
His legs moved before he could think.
Too slow.
They were almost on him.
"ROLIEEEN!!!" someone screamed from below.
He jumped—
But the world turned white.
To be continued....