Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero " No Magic?,No Problem!"
Encounter 20: The Search
The room was quiet except for the slow tick of a clock on the far wall. Rowan's hands moved carefully over Lucien's frail form—checking pulse, reflexes, and the subtle muscle atrophy in his legs. Every sign lined up exactly with what he'd seen before, back on Earth… back in Afghanistan.
His jaw tightened. The boy's skin burned under his touch, fever radiating like embers beneath flesh. The rasp of shallow breaths clawed at Rowan's ears, pulling him back to another place, another time—hospital tents, dirt floors, and men who never got the chance to see another sunrise.
As his fingers lingered on the boy's wrist, the faint shimmer of the system's interface lit up in his vision. The chime echoed in his head.
---
> [System Notification]
New Quest Unlocked – Cure of the Dragon's Heir
Objective: Diagnose and cure the illness afflicting Lucien Vermorth.
Reward:
– 5,000 XP
– Unique Title: Healer of the Fallen Line
– Bonus Blueprint: Formula for Complete Cure – [Earth-Origin Compound] (Blueprint automatically added to inventory)
Special Note: One key ingredient, Everburning Emberroot, can only be found in the Mother of All Flames' domain.
Time Limit: 14 days
Failure Penalty: Permanent loss of a unique skill.
---
Rowan's eyes narrowed as he scanned the glowing text. His lips curved in a wry, almost bitter grin.
"Bingo," he muttered under his breath, quiet enough that only he heard. "I knew you'd be useful this time, system."
But his smirk faded when his gaze landed on the special note. The Mother of All Flames. That name alone carried the weight of catastrophe. His mind played out the images—the fire, the legends, the deaths tied to that inferno.
Behind him, the Hawks shifted uneasily, their breaths caught between hope and dread. Ren crossed his arms, jaw tight. "Rowan…? That face of yours tells me this isn't simple."
Grand Duke Vermorth, however, leaned forward, his weathered hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. "Tell me." His voice trembled—not with fear, but with desperation only a father could carry. "Can you save my son?"
Rowan rose slowly, meeting Vermorth's gaze. His crimson eyes burned with a grim, unshakable resolve.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice steady as iron. "We can save him."
The butler's breath hitched, and Vermorth's shoulders sagged as though a mountain had been lifted. The Hawks, meanwhile, erupted into whispered banter—half-relieved, half-nervous.
Ren smirked despite himself. "Knew the bastard wouldn't just say that unless he was damn sure."
Pete whistled low. "Yeah, but if he's sure… that means the road ahead's gonna be hell."
Solis adjusted his glasses, his tone calm but edged with anticipation. "The question is, what kind of hell?"
Rowan didn't answer. His eyes lingered on Lucien's trembling chest, then back to the system's faint glow hovering in the corner of his vision. He already knew the answer.
The kind of hell that only the Mother of All Flames could bring.
And there was no turning back.
The following morning, the courtyard of the Grand Duke's estate bustled with quiet purpose. The Asher Hawks were already lined up, double-checking gear, tightening straps, and strapping blades across their backs. Vermorth's banner rippled faintly in the wind above the high walls, a solemn reminder of who they served.
Rolien leaned lazily against a wagon wheel, half-awake, arms folded as if this were just another errand rather than a mission that could shape their fate. His butler moved silently between the men, distributing supplies with his usual calm efficiency, the faint clink of steel and leather the only soundtrack.
Finally, the group moved toward the great gate of the dukedom. The heavy iron doors loomed overhead, the morning light spilling across the stone road that led into the wilderness beyond. Grand Duke Vermorth himself was there, standing tall, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes scanning each of them in turn.
When his gaze fell on Rolien, it lingered longer than the rest.
"Rowan," Vermorth said, his voice measured. "One thing before you go."
Rolien cracked an eye open at him.
"Why are you searching for the Mother of All Flames?"
The Asher Hawks turned slightly, some trying not to stare, others pretending to focus on their packs. The question hung in the air like a blade balanced on its edge.
Rolien stretched, jaw popping as he let out a long, lazy yawn. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, as if the answer barely mattered.
"It's personal matters, sir," he said flatly.
No further explanation. No weight in his tone. Just a wall no one could climb.
Vermorth's brows tightened for the briefest moment, but he didn't press. He only gave a sharp nod and turned away.
"Very well. May your path not betray you," he said.
With that, the great gates groaned open. The Hawks shifted into formation, and Rolien pushed off the wagon, slinging his sword across his back before walking forward as if nothing in the world could rattle him.
And so their journey began.
The gates closed behind the Hawks with a thunderous groan, their echoes swallowed by the vast stone halls of Vermorth's estate. Alone now, the Grand Duke lingered at the balcony overlooking the courtyard, the weight of unspoken questions pressing on his mind.
Rolien. The Black Wraith.
That same young man whose shadow once carved through two Alpha Direwolves as if fate itself had lent him a blade. Precision. Brutality. Elegance. Everything about him screamed contradiction—mercenary and savior, wanderer and soldier. And now… hunter of the Mother of All Flames.
Vermorth's steps carried him deeper into the keep, down winding stairs to a chamber few had permission to enter. At its heart stood a glass vessel, humming faintly with arcane seals, inside of which shifted a pulsing, viscous mass of purple sludge. The goo pressed faintly against the glass, twitching like it sensed him.
The Duke stopped before it, his reflection wavering against the chamber walls.
"Rowan…" he muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Is it truly the flames you're after? Or…" His gaze locked on the quivering ooze. "…are you after this?"
The slime pulsed violently against the barrier, as though mocking his words. Vermorth's jaw tightened. There were truths here that could burn empires if spoken too soon.
---
Crown Prince Keain – Cerean Empire, War Council Chamber
The chamber was lit by cold fire, blue flames flickering along the torches that lined the obsidian walls. Crown Prince Keain sat back in his throne-like chair, sharp eyes locked on the messenger kneeling before him.
"Repeat that," Keain said, his voice quiet but carrying the edge of a blade.
The man bowed deeper. "The Black Wraith… and his companions, the Asher Hawks, have entered the Vermorth Dukedom. Reports suggest Vermorth himself granted them audience."
Keain's tongue clicked sharply against his teeth, a sound of annoyance more dangerous than a scream. "Tch. So the fox merchant's games bear fruit. That damned trickster really managed to slip them past our eyes."
The advisor dared to look up. "Your Highness, Vermorth asked them to aid him… in finding a cure for his son's illness."
Keain's expression twisted—half amusement, half contempt. "So that's his play." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "If those Grey dogs succeed… if they earn Vermorth's trust… then every plan we've sown, every delicate thread we've woven into this continent's neck, may snap."
His voice dropped lower, venom threading through each syllable.
"We cannot allow that bond to form."
The room froze as the prince stood, cloak brushing the floor like the wings of a predator.
"Send my shadows," he commanded coldly. "Assassins, every knife we can spare. Stop them before they reach their destination. Let their corpses rot in the wilds if need be. I will not see Vermorth's favor fall into their hands."
He turned, the blue flames painting his face in eerie hues, his eyes like daggers of ice.
"This cure will not belong to Grey blood," he hissed. "Not while a crown rests on my head. Kill the Black Wraith. Kill his Hawks. End this before they take one step closer."
The wind howled through the crags as Rowan pushed forward, his cloak snapping against the cold gusts. Behind him, the Asher Hawks followed in their usual formation, eyes sharp, hands never straying far from their weapons. They moved like shadows, disciplined and silent, each man and woman trained to read the land as though it were an open book.
The trail was rough and uncertain. Black stone gave way to tangled roots and sudden cliffs, as if the land itself was testing them. The ancient volcano lay somewhere beyond this vast wilderness, but none of them knew its exact location—only whispers, fragments of old maps, and half-forgotten legends gave them a direction.
Rowan paused at a ridge, gazing into the distance. The horizon was a jagged line of peaks, shrouded in low clouds that churned like smoke. His jaw tightened. "We keep moving east," he said, voice steady but firm. "If the tales are true, the mountain will reveal itself soon enough."
One of the Hawks, a scout with a scar along his cheek, spoke up. "And if the tales are wrong?"
Rowan glanced back, his eyes cold but resolute. "Then we'll carve our own truth from this land. Keep your doubts close and your steel closer."
With that, they pressed on, their boots crunching over frost and stone. Every step deeper into the wilderness carried weight—an unspoken understanding that the path ahead was as treacherous as the enemy they sought. Somewhere in the endless stretch of mountains, the ancient volcano waited. And Rowan, with the Hawks at his back, would find it—whether by fate's hand or his own.
The road ahead was rough, cutting through broken stone and patches of wild grass that clawed up from the cracks. The wind carried the smell of damp earth and pine, and the Asher Hawks pressed forward, their boots crunching against gravel. Rowan walked near the front, Yamato resting at his hip, its quiet weight a reminder of battles both past and coming.
Behind him, Ren moved lightly, always a few steps ahead, bow in hand and eyes flicking to the treeline. The scout's voice carried back with easy arrogance.
"Nothing out here but squirrels. Not exactly the ambush of legends."
Brag snorted, the massive shield strapped across his back clattering with the motion.
"Keep running that mouth, Ren. The moment a beast twice your size leaps out, I'll let you wrestle it first."
Laughter rolled through the group. Even Rowan's lips twitched. He had seen squads fall apart under pressure before, but this one carried their weight with banter.
Tessa walked alongside him, dual blades sheathed across her back, her sharp eyes never resting. "Ignore them," she muttered. "This road leads straight into raider territory. They'll be here. It's only a matter of when."
Solis, his long robes brushing the dirt, hummed as he tapped his staff lightly against the ground. Soft motes of light shimmered around his fingers—protective charms layered over the group as they moved.
"Best to stay ready, then. Forewarned is forearmed."
At the rear walked Pete, quiet but steady. His hands rested lightly on the strap of his satchel, which rattled faintly with the sound of vials and herbs. He wasn't much for words,he's like a scare cat.
Brag glanced back at him and smirked. "Hope you packed enough miracles, Pete. I've got a feeling Ren's about to need patching up."
Pete sighed, brushing his sandy hair back from his face. "As long as you don't try to block another charging boar head-on, Brag, I'll have enough."
That earned another round of chuckles.
Rowan listened, quiet, though every exchange sunk into him. He wasn't part of them—not yet. He was the stranger with a blade too dangerous to speak of. But as they marched together, through rough earth and fading daylight, he found something dangerous sparking inside him.
It was almost… comfortable.
And comfort was something Rowan hadn't trusted in years.
The Hawks kept their formation: Ren scouting the front, Tessa close to Rowan at the vanguard, Brag shielding the middle, Solis and Pete anchoring the rear. The rhythm of it was practiced, a dance born from countless battles survived. Rowan felt himself slipping into step without thinking, his instincts aligning with theirs.
By nightfall, the group found a clearing to rest. Tessa set about sharpening her blades, Ren climbed a tree for a better vantage, Solis built a low fire with careful, almost ritualistic precision, and Pete laid out his supplies—wrapping bandages, checking tinctures, setting aside dried herbs.
Rowan sat at the edge of the firelight, hand resting on Yamato. The Hawks weren't his family, not yet—but watching them work, laugh, argue, and fall into their roles with ease, he wondered.
Maybe they could be.
Maybe, for once, he wasn't walking this road alone.
The forest was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in on the ears and made even the sound of boots crunching against roots feel like thunder.
Rowan walked at the front with Tessa, her dual blades glinting faintly whenever shafts of moonlight cut through the trees. Ren was already ahead, moving like a shadow, his bow strung and eyes sharp. Brag trailed behind like a wall of iron, while Solis muttered small incantations under his breath to keep a protective aura around them.
And then there was Pete.
Pete, the newest member, had been staring at his staff like it was a broom he didn't know how to use.
"So… if someone loses an arm, do I just… uh, stick it back on?" Pete asked, voice cutting into the tension.
Brag groaned. "Gods, lad, we're not expecting limbs to fly off. Just keep us standing when we take a hit."
Ren, from ahead, whispered back sharply, "Shhh! You'll get us—"
Before he could finish, the woods erupted with guttural snarls. From the brush burst a pack of scaled wolf-like creatures, their glowing eyes burning with hunger.
"Ambush!" Tessa shouted, blades flashing as she darted forward.
The Hawks moved instantly—years of teamwork showing in how they shifted into formation. Brag slammed his shield down, the ground shuddering with the impact. Solis raised a warding light, forcing the wolves back a step. Ren loosed arrows in rapid succession, each one striking true.
And Pete? Pete panicked.
He raised his staff, shouted something halfway between a prayer and a sneeze, and a blinding light shot out—straight into Brag's eyes.
"GAAAH! I'M BLIND!" Brag roared, swinging his axe wildly. A tree groaned as he nearly split it in half.
"Sorry! Sorry! First time under pressure!" Pete yelped, fumbling to try again.
Rowan slashed through one of the beasts and barked, "Focus, Pete! Heal Brag, not kill him!"
Ren snorted, even as he fired another arrow through a wolf's skull. "At least he's enthusiastic."
Pete finally managed to channel a proper healing spell, and Brag's vision cleared—just in time for him to cleave two wolves with a single swing.
The battle carried on in a blur of steel and spellfire, the monsters pressing hard but breaking one by one under the Hawks' coordination. Tessa danced through the fray, her swords carving arcs of silver, while Rowan cut down another wolf that lunged for Pete.
By the time the last beast collapsed, the Hawks were standing in a ring of bodies, panting and bloodied but alive.
Pete was on his knees, gasping, his staff trembling in his hands. "Did… did I do good?"
Brag stared at him. Then, against all odds, the big man let out a booming laugh. "You blinded me, boy, nearly got me killed—but aye, you did your part."
Solis smirked. "Welcome to the Asher Hawks, Pete. Survive one ambush, you're family."
Pete smiled weakly. "So… no lost limbs?"
Ren clapped him on the back. "Not tonight. Try not to push your luck."
Rowan just sheathed his sword and sighed. "Stay sharp. That was only the forest's welcoming party."
The forest thinned into jagged stone paths as the group pressed deeper toward the volcano. Heat already shimmered faintly in the distance, carried by the sulfur-tinged wind. Rowan kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his sharp eyes scanning the cliffs, while Ren stayed close behind, scribbling notes in his journal.
"Uhh, so… quick question," Pete piped up, adjusting the strap of the oversized satchel slung across his shoulder. "If I heal someone too much… like, pump them full of life… is it possible to, I dunno, make them explode?"
Everyone stopped.
"No," Rowan said flatly, resuming his stride.
"Pretty sure not," Ren added, flipping a page.
"Depends on the body," Asher muttered under his breath, smirking.
Pete blinked. "Wait, WHAT—"
The ground suddenly trembled. From the crags above, shadows burst forth—scaled beasts with jagged claws and molten eyes, snarling as they launched down at them.
"AMBUSH!" Rowan shouted, drawing steel in one swift motion.
The creatures crashed into the rocky path, spraying gravel. One leapt at Ren, but Rowan intercepted, blade flashing as he cleaved it aside. Another went for Pete. The poor healer yelped, tripped backward, and accidentally flung a healing charm like a rock. It bounced off the monster's snout, glowing weakly before detonating in a small burst of holy light.
The creature screeched and stumbled back, smoke curling from its face.
"See?! I knew over-healing could kill!" Pete shouted, half in terror, half in triumph.
"That wasn't healing, you idiot—that was you PANICKING!" Ren yelled while unleashing a fire rune at another beast.
The fight raged on. Asher spun his twin daggers, carving deep slashes into two beasts at once, while Rowan crushed another with precise, heavy strikes. Ren's magic lit the cliffs with bursts of flame and lightning. And Pete—bless his panicked hands—kept throwing random charms that sometimes healed his allies… and sometimes blinded the monsters by accident.
After a few tense minutes, the last beast dropped with a guttural hiss, its body dissolving into ash. The group caught their breath, the path littered with claw marks and scorch burns.
Ren crouched near one of the beasts' remains, frowning. "This doesn't make sense…" He dug through his bag and pulled out a small, glowing shard—black crystal, pulsing faintly with unnatural energy.
Rolien, who had been silent the whole time, stepped closer and narrowed his eyes at it.
Ren held the shard up, voice steady. "This thing… it's a lure. Something's drawing the monsters here, directing them. Someone doesn't want us reaching the volcano."
A heavy silence settled, broken only by Pete's shaky voice. "…S-so… does this mean we're, like… hunted? 'Cause if that's the case, I vote we all turn around and go home."
Asher clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "Congrats, rookie. You just figured out what it means to adventure."
Pete groaned. "I hate it here already."
The faint blue crystal pulsed in Ren's palm, each throb sending a ripple across the clearing. Rolien narrowed his eyes, the glow reflected in his silver irises.
"That's no ordinary stone," Rolien muttered, his voice low. "It's a lure."
Pete leaned forward, curious but nervous. "Uh… lure? As in fishing bait? Please tell me this isn't the 'catch a monster' kind of lure—"
Before he could finish, the ground rumbled. A fissure split the earth only a few meters away, molten steam erupting with a hiss. The forest grew deathly silent, save for the distant crackle of fire.
Ren tightened his grip. "Someone planted this here. They want every beast in the region drawn to us." He looked at Rolien, grim. "They're not trying to slow us down—they're trying to wipe us out before we reach the volcano."
A branch snapped in the distance. Then another. The underbrush shuddered as if alive, multiple sets of glowing eyes opening in the dark.
Pete gulped, fumbling with his staff. "Oh no. Oh no-no-no. That's a lot of eyes. How many eyes does a wolf usually have? Two? Right? So why am I counting sixteen?"
Rolien's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smirk. "Too many to be wolves."
The first beast broke through—a hulking lizard-like creature with jagged obsidian scales, dripping lava from its maw. More followed, a pack of molten hounds, their breath steaming against the cool night air.
Ren's hand went to his blade. "They're all converging. The lure is doing its job too well."
Pete took a shaky step back. "I signed up for healing papercuts and hangovers, not—" He ducked as a fireball seared past his head and exploded against a tree. "—not lava-spitting lizard-dogs from hell!"
Rolien's tone hardened. "Stay behind me. Heal when I say. No more, no less." He raised his sword, eyes locked on the incoming tide. "Ren, destroy the lure before they overwhelm us."
Ren nodded, but before he could move, another noise pierced through the chaos—a low, guttural roar from deeper within the forest. The monsters froze for half a breath, then suddenly parted, clearing a path.
Something massive was coming.
The ground trembled harder now, each step like thunder. Trees toppled as a towering silhouette loomed, its jagged spine glowing faintly in the dark.
Pete's jaw dropped. "…That's not in the adventurer's handbook."
Ren's expression darkened as he lowered the crystal, realization flashing across his face. He whispered, almost to himself:
"They're not just luring beasts. They're summoning mana beasts."
The colossal figure stepped into view—Groteus, the creature Rolien had once seen in his visions, now towering over the treeline, molten breath spilling into the night.
Rolien's knuckles whitened around his blade. "Tch. So the real game begins now."
The beast's roar shook the earth.
And in that instant, something—or someone—moved in the shadows just behind the monster, unseen by the party. Watching. Waiting.
To be continued...