Reincarnation Of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero! : "No Magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 27 : Dwarves And Debts
The decision hit like cold mountain air—sharp, no room for argument. Lyra's fever had crept up through the night, skin hot under the bandages, breaths coming shorter and raspier. Rolien had pressed his palm to her forehead more times than he could count, willing something—anything—to change, but there was nothing in him but steel and regret. No spells, no mana glow. Just the Jawbreaker's low whine mocking him every time he flexed it.
Arden crouched beside the pallet, face grim in the dying ember light. "Blackfort's out. Too close to the front lines right now—the inquisitors hit it hard last month, but we took it back. Word is the place is still half rubble, healers stretched thin patching our own boys. Lyra's wounds... they're deep. Infected. If we drag her there now, she might not last the week. We need somewhere steadier, deeper in dwarven territory."
Rolien looked up, jaw tight. "Where, then?"
Arden rubbed his scarred knuckles, eyes distant like he was pulling up an old map in his head. "Stonevein Hold. Not on any kingdom road, not on the maps the dukes keep. It's pure dwarven—only blood of the clans gets past the outer gates without a vouch. Hidden in the Ironspine foothills, lower levels carved into living granite, fed by hot springs that bubble up from the earth's veins. Geothermal pools laced with minerals that draw poison out slow, knit flesh where magic fails. They don't take outsiders easy, but I know someone there. Old squadmate from the border wars—Thrain Ironvein. Saved my hide more than once. Lost a leg in the same fight I lost half my squad, but the dwarves patched him up better than new. He owes me a favor. Big one."
Lyra stirred at the name, eyes cracking open. Her voice was thin, cracked. "Stonevein... Edric spoke of it once. Said the springs there could pull the rot from a man who'd been dead three days. If your friend's still breathing, Arden... it might be enough."
Rolien felt the knot in his chest twist harder—hope mixed with the familiar burn of helplessness. He nodded once, sharp. "Then Stonevein it is. How far?"
"Five days if the weather holds. Six if it turns ugly. Trails are goat paths at best, sheer drops and rock chutes. No patrols from Arcadia that deep—dwarves guard their own borders fierce. But the clans don't like humans sniffing around, magicless or not. We'll need to move careful, prove we're not trouble."
They broke camp before full light, the sky still bruised purple. Arden rigged Lyra a better carry—two sturdy branches lashed with rope, a sling of cloaks so Rolien could take shifts without jarring her too much. She protested weakly, but her strength was fading fast; she let them do it. Rolien shouldered the pack, Jawbreaker arm humming as he adjusted the straps. The metal felt heavier today, like it carried the weight of every failure he couldn't fix.
The path climbed steep and unforgiving from the start. Pines thinned to scrub, then bare stone. Wind howled through narrow passes, carrying the faint sulfur tang of distant vents. Rolien took point, mask on, blue glow muffled under dark cloth. Every step he scanned for signs—fresh boot prints, broken branches, the glint of steel on a ridge. Arden followed steady, Lyra's shallow breaths against his back a constant reminder to hurry without rushing.
By the second day the air turned thick with mist from hidden fissures. The ground warmed underfoot in patches, steam curling up like ghosts. Rolien rigged quick snares behind them—simple trip lines tied to loose boulders, nothing fancy, just enough to slow pursuers or give warning. Once, far below, they heard horses—Arcadia scouts, probably chasing the White Wraith rumor. Rolien waited until the sound faded, then dropped a small smoke pot he'd mixed from scavenged charcoal and powder. Gray haze rolled down the slope, masking their trail for hours.
Lyra worsened on the third night. Fever dreams made her mutter Edric's name, fingers clutching at nothing. Rolien sat beside her in the shallow cave they'd found, holding her hand while Arden scouted water. The fire was small, smokeless—dried moss and twigs. He talked to her low, voice rough. "Hang on, Nanay. We're almost there. Thrain's waiting. You'll get those springs, clean water running over the cuts, pulling the bad out. You'll be yelling at me to eat properly again soon."
She squeezed his fingers once, weak but there. A tear slipped down her cheek, mixing with sweat. "My brave boy... always fixing things. Even when you can't."
The words stung worse than any wound. He swallowed hard, stared into the tiny flames until his eyes burned.
Dawn on the fifth day brought the first real sign of dwarven territory: a rune-carved stone marker half-buried in scree, warning in angular script that Rolien couldn't read but Arden could. "No mana-users beyond this point without seal. Trespassers broken on the wheel." Arden touched it like an old friend. "We're close. Thrain's clan holds the eastern gate. If he's still quartermaster..."
They crested a final ridge as the sun dipped low, painting the cliffs blood-red. Stonevein Hold unfolded below—not a flashy fortress, but a mountain eaten hollow by patient hands. Massive iron-bound gates set into sheer black rock, vents steaming from deep forges, terraced pools glowing soft amber in the dusk where hot water pooled and overflowed in slow cascades. No banners, no trumpets. Just the low rumble of hammers echoing from inside, steady as a heartbeat.
Arden lowered Lyra gently to a flat boulder. She was shivering now, teeth chattering despite the cloaks. Rolien knelt beside her, brushing damp hair from her forehead. "We're here. Just hold a little longer."
Arden stepped forward, hands raised palms out toward the shadowed gate. "Thrain Ironvein! It's Arden Voss! From the Ridgefall scrap! I bring wounded—one of ours, bad hurt. Calling in that debt you swore over bad ale!"
Silence stretched. Then a deep voice boomed from the ramparts, thick with the mountain accent. "Voss? Thought you were dead, you tall bastard. Show your ugly mug closer."
A smaller door groaned open in the gate. A dwarf in soot-streaked leather stepped out—broad as a barrel, one leg iron-shod prosthesis clicking on stone. Beard braided with copper rings, eyes sharp under heavy brows. Thrain.
He looked them over—Arden, Rolien's masked face and glowing arm peeking from the cloak, Lyra limp between them. His gaze lingered on her, then softened just a fraction. "Bring her in quick. The lower pools are hot tonight—good for drawing the black out. But know this: once she's in, you're clan guests only as long as I say. No funny business with that fancy arm, magicless. We don't take kindly to surprises."
Rolien met his eyes through the mask slits. "No surprises. Just healing. Please."
Thrain grunted, waved them forward. "Then move. She's not dying on my watch."
They passed under the gate into warm, mineral-scented dark. The rumble of forges wrapped around them like a blanket. Lyra's breathing eased just a little as the heat touched her skin.
Rolien let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
For now, at least, the running stopped.
The steam from the pools kept curling up in lazy spirals, carrying that faint mineral bite that clung to everything down here. Rolien sat on the edge of the Amber Basin, legs dangling, watching Lyra float half-submerged. Her breathing had evened out, the fever flush fading to something healthier, cheeks finally getting a touch of color back. Every now and then she'd sigh, soft and content, like the water was finally pulling the poison out inch by inch. It eased something tight in his chest, but didn't erase it completely. He still felt the weight of every mile they'd run, every close call.
Thrain came back around after checking on the guards, boots clanking, mug refilled. He dropped onto the bench beside Rolien with a grunt, the stone groaning under him. Arden was off talking to one of the younger dwarves about trail supplies—giving them space, maybe. Thrain took a long pull from his ale, wiped his beard, then fixed Rolien with a look that was half appraisal, half memory.
"You know," he said, voice low enough not to carry over the bubbling water, "I knew your father. Edric Grey. Not just in passing. The man saved my whole damn clan once."
Rolien turned his head slow, mask hiding most of his expression, but his eyes sharpened. "He never talked about that."
Thrain snorted. "Wouldn't. Edric wasn't the type to brag. Happened when I was still a beardless runt, barely old enough to swing a proper hammer. Our hold—back before we settled here permanent—was under siege. Not orcs, not goblins. Worse. A rogue mage cabal, hungry for our geothermal veins. Thought they could tap the springs, turn 'em into weapons. They cracked the outer wards, started flooding the lower tunnels with summoned elementals. Fire and stone golems tearing through everything. My da was quartermaster then, trying to hold the forges. We were losing ground fast."
He paused, staring into his mug like the foam held the picture. "Then Edric showed up. Young himself—maybe twenty-five, twenty-six. No army at his back, just a squad of his retainers and that damn sword of his. He didn't blast the elementals with magic; he out-thought 'em. Rigged pressure vents from the springs themselves, turned the steam into scalding jets that melted the golems' joints. Bought us time to regroup, then led the counter-push himself. Sword flashing like it was alive. Saved my da's life when a fire elemental cornered him—Edric took the hit across the ribs so my old man could get clear. Clan owed him everything after that. Ironveins don't forget debts like that."
Rolien felt a strange heat behind his eyes, not quite tears, but close. He'd always known his dad was capable—seen the scars, heard the stories—but hearing it raw like this, from someone who owed him their life... it hit different. Made Edric feel bigger, and Rolien smaller in comparison. "He never said."
"Course he didn't," Thrain said, shrugging one massive shoulder. "After that, he started coming back. Time to time. Not for politics or trade deals—just practical shit. His sword couldn't handle his strength. Blade was good steel, but he'd crack it every few months. Show up at the gate with that sheepish grin, dented edge or split tang, and I'd fix it myself. Learned a lot watching him—how he balanced the weight, how he treated the metal like it had feelings. Respectful. Not many humans are."
Thrain's voice dropped softer, almost fond. "Then came the curse dragon. Big bastard, old as the mountains, scales like blackened iron. Edric took it down—solo, they say, though I never believed that part. Too clean for one man. Anyway, after he dragged its corpse back to the kingdom, he came here again. Not for repairs this time. Brought the bones and fangs—said the curse lingered in 'em, wanted something that could contain it. Asked me to forge a sword from the remains. Not just any blade. One that could bite back against whatever darkness was in those bones."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at Rolien like he was seeing Edric's ghost in the mask. "I did it. Took three months, working the forge day and night. The curse tried to fight us—flames turning black, metal screaming like it was alive. But we bound it. The sword came out perfect. Black as midnight, edge that never dulled, and when you swung it... felt like the dragon was still in there, snarling. Edric took it, tested the balance once, nodded like it was exactly what he needed. Said, 'This'll do the job.' Then he left. Never saw him again after that. Heard later he was gone—estate burned, heir declared dead. Figured the curse finally caught up."
Rolien swallowed hard. His throat felt thick. "The sword... he never used it around me. Kept it locked away. Said it was too dangerous for a kid to even look at."
Thrain studied him a long moment, then nodded slow. "Makes sense. That blade wasn't for show. It was for ending things that wouldn't die any other way." He glanced toward the pool where Lyra lay drifting, peaceful now. "Your nanay's looking better already. Verdant Deep next—another hour or two, she'll be strong enough to stand on her own. You Greys... tough stock."
Rolien let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The steam felt thicker now, wrapping around the ache in his chest like it could soften the edges. He thought of his dad—not the legend everyone else saw, but the man who'd ruffle his hair after a long day in the workshop, who'd sketch stupid inventions with him on scrap paper until dawn. The man who'd saved a whole clan and never once mentioned it.
"Thanks," Rolien said quietly. "For telling me. And... for not turning me in."
Thrain barked a short laugh. "Kid, after what your old man did? Vermorth's gold can rot. You're safe here long as you need. But word travels fast—even in these halls. If the hunt gets too close, we'll have to move you deeper. Or fight."
Rolien flexed the Jawbreaker fingers, metal clicking softly. "Then we fight."
Thrain clapped him on the shoulder—hard enough to jolt, but steady. "That's the spirit. Now go check on your nanay. She'll want to yell at you for hovering soon enough."
Rolien stood, the weight in his chest still there, but shifted somehow. Lighter. Sharper. Like a blade finally finding its balance.
Rolien lingered by the Amber Basin longer than he needed to. Lyra had drifted into a proper sleep now, the kind that looked like real rest instead of just exhaustion winning out. Her chest rose and fell steady, the angry red lines around her wounds already fading to pink under the mineral glow of the water. One of the dwarven healers—a stocky woman with forearms like knotted rope—had checked her pulse twice, nodded once, and muttered something about "the deep one next, but she'll live through the night easy." That was enough. Rolien finally let himself breathe full, the knot behind his ribs loosening just a fraction.
He stood, joints popping from too many hours crouched on stone, and turned to Thrain. The dwarf was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, watching him with that same half-curious, half-wary look he'd worn since they walked through the gate.
"Thrain," Rolien said, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry to the other dwarves tending the pools. "Mind if I use your smithy? Just for a couple hours. Won't burn anything down."
Thrain's thick brows climbed. He tilted his head, sizing up the masked figure in front of him like he was trying to decide if this was a joke. "My forge? The one my clan's been hammering in since before your grandda was born? And you want it… why, exactly?"
Arden stepped up beside Rolien before the question could hang too long. He clapped a hand on Rolien's shoulder—firm, familiar, the way he used to when they were still running from scouts back in the hills. "Just let him," Arden said, voice calm but carrying that old-soldier weight. "Then watch him."
Thrain stared at Arden for a beat, then back at Rolien. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe, or simple curiosity finally winning out over caution. He huffed once through his nose, a sound that was half laugh, half sigh. "Fine. But if you melt my good anvil or set the bellows on fire, I'm tossing you both in the Verdant Deep headfirst. Follow me."
The smithy sat deeper in the hold, down a wide corridor lit by hanging braziers that burned clean and smokeless. The air grew hotter with every step, thick with the smell of hot iron, coal dust, and the faint sweet burn of quenching oil. When they pushed through the heavy double doors, the heat slapped Rolien full in the face—alive, almost welcoming after so long running cold trails. Massive forges lined one wall, their mouths glowing cherry-red. Anvils the size of dinner tables sat in neat rows, scarred and blackened from generations of work. Tools hung on racks like weapons: hammers with heads bigger than Rolien's fist, tongs long enough to reach into dragon mouths, files and chisels polished to mirror shine.
Thrain didn't waste time. He waved off the two apprentices who'd been shaping a breastplate, sent them to fetch water and fresh coal. Then he crossed his arms again and planted himself by the main anvil. "Right. Show me what you've got, ghost kid. And don't bullshit me—I've seen plenty of tinkerers think they know metal. Most of 'em don't."
Rolien stared at the pile of dwarven-grade ingots Thrain had dumped in front of him like they were nothing. The tungsten-laced bar alone looked heavier than half the scrap he'd been hauling around for years. He could feel the difference just holding it—dense, cool, promising strength that didn't come cheap. His chest tightened with something he hadn't felt in a long time: real gratitude mixed with the old sting of knowing how far he'd fallen from the kid who once had access to the Grey family vaults.
He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. "Thrain… this is too much. I can't just—"
Thrain waved a thick hand, already cranking the bellows again. The coals roared louder, hungry. "Shut it, brat. You think I'm doing this out of charity? Your old man saved my clan when I was still shitting myself over forge sparks. Edric never asked for repayment, never even brought it up again. This?" He jerked his chin at the materials. "This is me squaring a debt that's been sitting on my ledger too long. Now hammer or get out of my forge."
Rolien swallowed the rest of the protest. He nodded once, sharp, and got to work.
First came the disassembly. He unbuckled the Jawbreaker's outer plates with careful fingers, the backup prosthetic strapped to his left arm letting him hold pieces steady without fumbling. The blue glow dimmed as he disconnected the core conduits—thin mithril threads he'd scavenged back then, now frayed and discolored from overuse. Every screw he backed out felt like peeling away layers of his own skin. This arm had carried him through vampire dens, outer-god incursions, the kind of fights that should've broken a man ten times over. Seeing the cracks up close—the hairline fractures from punching through dragon-scale plate, the scorched wiring from overloading the kinetic amplifiers—hit him harder than he expected. It wasn't just metal failing. It was proof he'd been pushing too far on too little for too long.
Thrain didn't hover. He worked beside him instead, quiet and precise. When Rolien hesitated over how to heat the cracked forearm guard without warping the inner gearing, Thrain grunted and took the tongs. "Slow. Color first—straw, then cherry, never past salmon if you want the temper to hold. Rush it and the whole section turns brittle as glass."
Rolien watched, absorbed every word. He'd always been good at this—better than good—but dwarven forge craft had rules he'd only guessed at before. Thrain showed him how to fold the new tungsten alloy into the old frame, layering it like Damascus so the flexibility stayed while the hardness doubled. They hammered in tandem for what felt like hours: Rolien striking the hot metal, Thrain guiding with short, barked corrections—"Angle shallower, you're mushrooming the edge!"—until sweat soaked both their shirts and the anvil rang like a bell.
At one point Rolien paused, hammer raised, staring at the glowing knuckle cluster he was about to peen shut. "This… this is going to change everything. The old version was tough, but it was always one bad hit from seizing. With this—"
"With this," Thrain finished for him, voice low, "you'll break bones before the arm does. But don't get cocky. Metal remembers every mistake. Treat it right, it'll treat you right."
They worked through the night. Rolien rebuilt the elbow actuator with the adamantite powder mixed into the lubricant—Thrain's trick to make it self-healing under friction heat. He rewove the mithril wiring with fresh coils, doubling the conduits so power flowed smoother, no more bottlenecks that made the whole limb stutter after long fights. The final touch was the forearm plating: two layers now, outer tungsten-dark, inner high-carbon steel folded so thin it almost looked like silk under the hammer. When they quenched the last piece in the mineral-laced oil vat, steam hissed up like a dragon exhaling, and the blue glow came back brighter, steadier, edged with faint silver veins from the new alloy.
The forge coals had settled to a dull cherry glow, the last hiss of steam from the quench vat fading into the quiet. Rolien stepped back from the anvil, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache, the rebuilt Jawbreaker hanging loose at his side. He opened and closed the fist again—slow, deliberate—just to feel how clean the motion was now. No catches, no protests from the joints. It felt like the arm had finally caught up to the rest of him.
Thrain, wiping black grease from his palms with a rag that looked older than both of them, gave a short grunt of satisfaction. Then he reached into the same locked shelf he'd pulled the ingots from earlier. This time he came out with something smaller: a narrow leather pouch no bigger than a man's hand. He untied the drawstring without ceremony and tipped a thin stream of fine black powder—almost like ground charcoal mixed with dried blood—onto the still-warm forearm plating.
The powder didn't just sit there. It sank in, vanishing into the metal with a soft, hungry hiss. A thin thread of dark smoke rose and vanished almost instantly. The blue glow flickered—once, sharp—then steadied again, but now there were faint black veins threading through the light, like cracks in ice under moonlight. The whole arm seemed to take a deeper breath; Rolien felt it in his bones, a low vibration that wasn't quite sound.
He stared. "Thrain… what the hell did you just do?"
Thrain tied the pouch shut and tossed it back into the shelf like it weighed nothing. "Leftovers. From the curse dragon bones and fangs your father brought me all those years ago. The scraps that didn't make it into his sword. The curse never quite burned out of them—not completely. Been sitting sealed in there for decades. Figured it was safer locked away than rotting in some vault."
Rolien's mouth went dry. He flexed the fingers again, slower this time, testing. The power felt… different. Hungrier. Not wild or out of control, but sharper, like a blade that remembered what it was made to cut. "You just dumped cursed dragon dust into my arm. Without asking."
Thrain met his eyes, unflinching. "You want this thing to last? To hit harder than anything Vermorth's mutts can throw? Then yeah, I did. The curse isn't madness anymore—not the way it was when we forged the sword. Your old man tamed most of it back then. What's left is just edge. Hunger. It'll drink impact now, make every strike land heavier, cut deeper. Won't eat your soul or turn you into a monster. Just makes sure the next bastard who swings at you regrets it twice as much."
Rolien looked down at the arm. The black veins pulsed once, faint, then settled. He clenched the fist—hard—and felt something coil inside, dark and patient, waiting. It didn't scare him. It felt like closure. Like the last piece of his father he'd been missing had finally found its way home.
He exhaled, long and shaky, the forge heat drying the sweat on his face. "You could've warned me."
"Could've," Thrain said with a shrug. "Didn't. You're Edric's blood. You'll handle it." He clapped Rolien on the shoulder—hard enough to jolt, but steady. "Now quit staring at it like it's gonna bite your hand off. Go check on your nanay. She's probably awake wondering why her boy smells like forge smoke and bad decisions."
Rolien let out a tired half-laugh, the knot in his chest loosening just enough to breathe. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
He gathered his things, the rebuilt Jawbreaker humming quietly at his side—now carrying echoes of a dragon long dead and a father who'd never stopped protecting him, even from beyond the grave.
Dawn was graying the high vents by the time they left the forge. Arden met them in the corridor, arms crossed, eyes flicking straight to the arm. He didn't speak at first, just studied the new plating, the silver threads, the faint black veins that weren't there before. Then he clapped Rolien on the back—gentle for once.
"Looks good, kid. Looks like you again."
Rolien nodded, too tired and too full to argue. They walked back to the healing pools in silence, boots echoing soft on stone.
Lyra was awake when they got there, sitting on the edge of the Verdant Deep with her legs dangling in the glowing green water. Her silver hair hung damp and clean, wounds reduced to faint pink lines. She looked up as they approached, eyes sharpening when she saw Rolien's arm—no more cloth wrap, no more dim flicker. The blue light pulsed steady now, silver threads running through it like lightning in a bottle, and those thin black veins shifting beneath the surface like shadows under skin.
She smiled—small, tired, but real. "You've been busy."
Rolien knelt beside her, resting the Jawbreaker across his knees so she could see it properly. "Had to. Couldn't keep running on half-broken parts. Not when you're finally getting better."
Lyra reached out, traced one finger along the new plating. Her touch was light, careful, like she was afraid it might break again. Then her brow furrowed just a fraction. She paused over one of the black veins, feeling the faint vibration there. "This… feels different. Darker."
Rolien swallowed. "Thrain added something. Leftovers from Dad's curse sword—the dragon bones. Said it would make the arm stronger. Hungrier."
Lyra's eyes flicked up to his, searching. For a long moment she said nothing. Then her hand closed around his wrist—stronger now, no tremble. "Your father carried that curse for years. Never let it touch his heart. If Thrain trusted you with it… then I trust you too." She squeezed once. "Your father would've been proud. Not just of the arm. Of you. The way you keep fixing things, even when the world tries to break them."
Rolien's throat closed up. He looked away for a second, blinking hard against the steam and the sudden burn behind his eyes. "I'm just trying not to lose anything else."
"You won't," she said quietly. "Not while I'm here to remind you who you are."
Behind them, Thrain cleared his throat. "Enough of the feelings. She's clear to travel in a day or two. After that, you lot need to decide what's next. Word from the surface runners says Vermorth's pushing scouts west. They haven't found the hold yet, but they're sniffing."
Arden straightened. "Then we don't wait for them to get lucky."
Rolien stood, Jawbreaker humming faintly at his side—stronger, darker, ready. The arm felt different now—not heavier, but more solid. Like it belonged to someone who wasn't just surviving anymore.
He looked between Lyra, Arden, and Thrain. "We move when she's ready. And when we do… we stop running blind."
Lyra's eyes met his—fierce, proud, a little scared. "Then let's make sure we're ready to hit back."
To be continued...