"Some victories don't leave glory—they leave decisions."
Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero! "No magic?, No problem!"
Encounter 25: "Even a Wraith Wears a Uniform"
The chimera wolves were dead, but their claw marks had left more than wounds—they'd left reminders. On Rolien's sword. On his arm. On his thoughts.
Two days passed in tired silence as they traveled toward the empire's capital. Every now and then, Rolien flexed his fingers on the mechanical arm. The joints squeaked faintly. There is a delay, then a twitch. The damage was subtle, but growing.
The sword on his back wasn't much better. A long, webbed crack ran from its base to the middle of the blade. It hadn't broken—but it would, soon.
---
Empire Capital – Noble Quarters
A grand hall greeted them—tall arched windows, floating crystal chandeliers, and velvet-lined carpets that swallowed their footsteps. At the far end, Duke Maervel of Westmarch sat with a goblet of golden wine, flanked by knights and attendants.
"My deepest thanks," he said, standing as they entered. "You protected my family through cursed land and beasts that should not have existed. I've already spoken to the Adventurer's Guild, but this is my personal thanks."
He turned to Rolien, eyes narrowing at the sword sheathed behind his back.
"Your weapon's seen better days."
"It held long enough," Rolien said.
The Duke chuckled. "Barely. Come to my estate when next you visit. I'll have a proper sword commissioned. Discreetly, of course."
Rolien nodded. "Understood."
---
Later That Evening
The capital's riverbank was quiet. Rolien stood over the water, the cracked sword unsheathed before him, moonlight bouncing off the dull metal. His reflection stared back—one normal arm, the other metal and scarred.
No repair script. No auto-heal. Just bolts and worn steel. It was a temporary fix he'd never expected to keep this long.
He clenched his jaw. "I can't keep fighting like this… one more mission, and this arm's going to snap apart."
Then came the soft ding in his mind.
> [SYSTEM NOTICE: Major Threat Neutralized – Chimera Wolf Pack Defeated.]
Combat Rank: A+
Reward Unlocked: "Create Your Own Blueprint" File
A one-time option to create a unique tool, weapon, or augment using currently available materials.
He blinked.
Create your own…?
He looked again at the cracked sword, then at his reflection. The normal arm. The old mechanical one hidden beneath his sleeve.
"They'd recognize any new sword. Luke… the others… I've built a name as Rowan, the Black Wraith."
Then it clicked.
"But no one looks at the arm. No one asks."
He smirked.
> [Blueprint Creation Option – Initiate Now?]
Materials Available:
– Chimera Wolf (Corebone, Hide, Claws)
– Dreadmaw (Nerve-Hide)
– Kaxxor (Flameplate)
Suggested Template: Weaponized Prosthetic Arm – Chimera Base Frame
Accept?
Rolien's grin widened. This time, there was no hesitation.
> [Accepted.]
Empire Capital – That Night
Moonlight spilled into Rolien's room, casting pale lines across the floor. He sat at the edge of his bed, slowly flexing his mechanical arm. The tension in his shoulders hadn't gone away—not since the fight.
His sword lay cracked on the table beside him, the edge jagged and the spine visibly fractured. The system had already given the final say:
> [Notification: Weapon Durability – CRITICAL]
Blade integrity: 11%. Breakage likely upon next clash.
Mechanical Arm: 60% Durability. No auto-repair function detected.
He sighed, quietly. Not frustrated—just… thoughtful.
Then another message pinged, soft and unexpected.
> [Reward Unlocked: One-time "Create Your Own Blueprint" Token]
Condition Met: Solo Subjugation – Twin-Chimera Wolf Variant
Materials Eligible:
– Chimera Wolf Corebone (Anti-Magic Properties)
– Chimera Hide (Flexible, Durable, Adaptive Layering)
– Chimera Claws (Element-Resistant)
He blinked at the text. Then, slowly, a small grin formed.
"I could make a sword… but someone might recognize it."
His gaze dropped to the mechanical arm on his left side. He raised it to the moonlight, studying its lines—clean, functional, boring.
"…But what if I turn this into the weapon?"
A hidden weapon. Under his sleeve. No one would see it coming. And more importantly, no one would suspect Rowan the Black Wraith was walking around with a new trick.
He opened the system again and began designing. A sleek forearm with layered chimera hide and a hidden channel for a retractable blade. Anti-magic plating along the knuckles. Clawed fingers reinforced with beast bone. And at the heart of it, a passive resistance to most spells—perfect against mages.
One slot blinked softly:
> [Ultimate Function Slot – "Greybreaker Protocol"]
Effect: Ejects an Anti-Magic Field in a 3-meter radius for 15 seconds.
Cost: Immediate Arm Shutdown. Requires 48 hours to cool down.
Use Limit: Once per Day
Failsafe Warning: Risk of Frame Collapse After Use
He accepted the condition without hesitation. Sometimes you need a trump card, even if it comes at a cost.
> [Blueprint Created – "Greybreaker"]
Frame Base: Chimera Hide
Corebone: Twin-Chimera Skull Shard
Claws/Blades: Refined Claws – Hidden Retractable System
Special Function: Magic Nullification Field (15s)
He exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his back. It felt good. Quietly satisfying.
But he wasn't done yet.
---
The Next Morning – Empire Capital Adventurer's Guild
The place was already buzzing. Swords clanged, armor rattled, requests shuffled. Rolien entered with his hood up and hands in his coat pocket. He wasn't hiding—just blending in.
He walked straight to the counter. The guild master was behind it, smoking a pipe and scanning over quest reports. The older man looked up when he saw Rolien.
"Heard about the twin-chimera job," the guild master said. "That was a nasty one."
"Need a blacksmith," Rolien replied. "A good one. I have something special I want made."
The guild master squinted. "Parts?"
"Chimera wolf." Rolien lifted his heavily damage weapon but in reality he wants to make a new prosthetic arm out of it not a sword and flexed the sword slightly. "I'm turning them into good weapon."
A beat of silence. Then the guild master grinned like he'd just been handed a good bottle of aged mead.
"…Heh. Alright. I think I know a guy."
He stood, cracked his knuckles, and gestured for Rolien to follow him into the back room.
"C'mon, kid. Let's get you someone who knows how to bring monsters to life in steel."
The clanging of hammers echoed as the adventurers' guildmaster Gralt led Rolien into the heat-drenched basement of the capital branch. Smiths toiled at their forges, but one stood out—a large man working in silence, focused, the kind of quiet that didn't tolerate small talk.
"That's Thoren. No titles. Doesn't like visitors." Gralt gave Rolien a pat on the back. "He's the best."
As they approached, the blacksmith didn't look up. He simply muttered, "I told you not to bring me charity work, Gralt."
"This one's different," Gralt replied.
"Does he have a broken sword or a sob story?"
"Both, actually," Rolien said, stepping forward.
Thoren finally looked up, squinting at him. "Tch. Kid with a metal arm. I'm no prosthetic smith. I make weapons, not limbs. Go find some enchanted healer. I can't help you, brat."
Rolien didn't flinch. He walked straight to Thoren's workbench, pulled something from his satchel, and laid it down with a dull clunk—a blueprint crystal and a folded parchment.
"I'm not asking for your sympathy," Rolien said, quiet but firm. "Just your skill."
Thoren scoffed and turned back toward his anvil. "Even if that prosthetic is well-made by some artisan, I told you—"
He stopped mid-sentence as the blueprint flickered to life, casting a pale light on the bench. His eyes were drawn to it. Slowly, he turned back, reaching for the parchment beside it.
He scanned it once. Paused. Then again—slower. His one good eye narrowed.
"…The hell is this?"
He picked up the paper and stepped closer to the crystal, examining the structural layers, the folded chimera-hide sheath, the core socket, the hidden blade mechanism, the burst pulse limiter—and the sealed field generator marked Greybreaker Protocol: Anti-Magic Nullifier (One Use / Reset Cooldown 48hr).
"You're telling me this thing retracts its blade, auto-shields magic, and channels a force-nullifying field?" he muttered, half to himself. "You even integrated the fang bone as a stabilizer core…? Who built this?"
"I did. System blueprint. My concept."
He looked up sharply. "Bullshit."
Rolien just folded his arms. "Are we talking now, Mr...?"
"…Thoren," the blacksmith muttered, still staring at the blueprint. "Just Thoren. And yeah, we're talking."
He set the paper down, wiping soot from his gloves like he suddenly gave a damn.
"Where are the materials?"
"Right here." Rolien dropped a reinforced pack onto the bench. Inside—preserved chimera hide, claws, and a bone core still slightly humming with mana.
Thoren whistled low.
"…Alright, kid. You want this built, you help me. That includes working the forge, hammering, and cleaning out slag. You want a weapon that lasts? Then you damn well earn it."
Rolien nodded. "Deal."
> [New Quest: "Greybreaker – Wolffang Prototype"]
Assist Thoren in forging your custom prosthetic-weapon
Materials: Chimera Wolf Hide / Bone / Claws
Status: Design Approved
Forge Time: 2 Days
Note: Greybreaker Protocol will be sealed until field-testing.
Adventurers' Guild, Lower Smith Hall – Morning
The forge roared like a dragon's breath. Heat radiated from the molten core of Thoren's private furnace. Rolien stood beside him, sweat already soaking his collar as he gripped a pair of heavy tongs.
"Keep the bone in the center—don't let it shift, or we'll crack the inner housing," Thoren barked, adjusting the clamps that held the chimera fang-bone over the heated anvil.
Rolien nodded, bracing himself. The heat was unbearable. His skin prickled, and his eye stung from the smoke. But he didn't flinch.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Hours passed. The forge smelled of burnt leather, metal, and sweat. Rolien sanded down hide sheets that would serve as the sheath layer. He filed down the inner bone core, the one that would hold the anti-magic seals. Even with system-assisted precision, it had to be done by hand.
"You've worked a forge before?" Thoren finally asked, not looking at him.
"A little," Rolien muttered.
"Hmph. You're stiff but not useless. That's rare."
By dusk, the basic housing had been formed: a folded bone casing, shaped like a forearm, lined inside with chimera hide. Rolien's hands were raw, his arms sore, but the pride simmered beneath the fatigue.
> [Greybreaker: Frame Assembly 60% Complete]
Bone Sheath forged. Hide reinforced. Sea ls not yet installed.
Few days later at the testing ground after finishing the arm prototype Rolien is about to test it.
"Alright, brat. You're lucky I didn't toss you out the first day," Thoren said as he dragged a heavy steel case into the private test yard behind his forge. The place was quiet—no spectators, no prying eyes. Just soot, stone walls, and heat.
He knelt down and popped open the case with a clunk. Inside: Greybreaker, freshly forged.
It was a work of brutal artistry—deep matte black with glinting silver edges. The chimera hide wrapped the undercarriage like muscle over bone. Spiked knuckles curled into a clawed grip, and faint runes pulsed softly along the forearm. Wolf-fang patterns carved into the metal shimmered under the forge light.
"Go on," Thoren grunted.
Rolien removed his old arm—nothing but basic metal—and locked Greybreaker into place. The second the magitek spine connected with his shoulder socket, a surge of information hit him like a wave.
> [Greybreaker Installed.]
Core Sync: 87%
Anti-Magic Layer: Calibrating
Retractable Blade: Enabled
Burst Knuckle: Limited (3 uses)
Minor Auto-Regen: Locked (Cooldown 24hr)
Special Skill: "Greybreaker Protocol" – Available (1/day, 15 sec anti-magic field)
Status: Operational
The entire limb flexed with him. It didn't feel like metal. It felt alive—responsive, fast, and vicious.
He activated the blade. With a sharp click, it shot out from the wrist like a fang unsheathing. Rolien stepped toward the training dummy made of reinforced stone and wood.
He planted his foot.
Pivoted.
Threw a Burst Knuckle.
The dummy shattered, flying backward as cracks spiderwebbed through the stone wall behind it.
Thoren blinked, his arms crossed. "...Huh."
Rolien let the blade retract. His breath came steady, but there was a fire behind his eyes now.
"No one knows about this," he said, turning to the old man. "No one."
Thoren grunted, nodding. "Kid, I work with steel, not mouths."
They stared at the wrecked dummy in silence.
"This thing..." Rolien muttered, flexing his fingers. "Greybreaker. It's just the beginning."
Two Days Later, East of Velhgard Empire – The Foglands Outskirts
Rolien and the Silver Ash party is with Rolien again doing another quest again.
The fog hung like a heavy curtain, thick enough to choke on. Rolien stepped from the carriage, his cloak pulled tight and Greybreaker tucked beneath his sleeve. The arm clicked softly as he flexed his fingers—ready.
Tessa, Ren, and Garon were already checking their gear, scanning the area like old war dogs sniffing trouble.
"You good?" Ren asked, tossing him a glance.
"Still breathing," Rolien replied, smirking lightly.
This was his first official mission as part of their party. No more tagging along. No more 'maybe.' Tessa had gone to the guild herself and filed the form—"Rolien, Rank B+, assigned to Silver Ash party effective immediately."
"Alright," Tessa called, voice clear. "Escort mission for some scholars poking around mana distortion zones. Be ready for anything."
---
Deeper Into the Foglands – 2 Hours Later
The deeper they went, the stranger the world became. No wind. No birds. No sunlight. Just fog, coiling around their boots like hungry snakes.
Then came the sound—wet and low, like flesh dragging across stone.
"Spread, not too far!" Tessa ordered.
Out of the white mist came malformed beasts. Chimera-like, but corrupted—bones protruding in the wrong places, their screeching like rusted steel.
"Cover the scholars!" Garon shouted.
One lunged at Ren, claws aimed at his throat. Rolien intercepted with a crackling Burst Knuckle from Greybreaker, blasting the creature mid-air. The shockwave sent it crashing into a tree trunk.
Tessa's flames flared bright as she roasted another.
"Did that arm just…?" Ren blinked at Rolien.
"Yeah," Rolien smirked. "Looks cool, right?"
"Looks like we got ourselves a monster," Garon said with a snort.
The fight was quick but brutal—five distortions, five skirmishes, one hell of a first day.
---
Later That Night – Velhgard Guild Tavern
The tavern was warm, noisy, and packed with adventurers blowing off steam. But in the far corner, a table had been reserved—and decorated with a simple "Welcome to Silver Ash!" banner drawn in hasty ink and chalk.
Tessa raised her mug. "To our new party member. About time he stopped freelancing."
Ren clinked his cup against hers. "To Rolien! And that monster-punching arm of his!"
"Don't forget his weird obsession with fog monsters," Garon added with a grin.
Rolien, sitting between them, looked a bit awkward—but there was a small smile tugging at his lips. This wasn't just a team anymore. It was starting to feel like something...real.
A tray of food arrived—extra meat, of course—and the tavern grew louder as the drinks kept flowing.
"You sure you're fine with us?" Tessa asked him in a quieter moment, leaning closer. "We're not the quiet type."
Rolien looked down at his new hand, then back up at her.
"I think this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The lamps bathed the tavern in a warm orange hue. Laughter echoed from the back corner where the Silver Ash party had gathered around a long oak table.
Ren, the sharp-eyed archer, raised his mug. "Alright, tonight's not just another drink! We've got something important to toast!"
Rolien tilted his head. "Something happen?"
Bragg, their heavy-built tank, thumped his fist on the table with a grin. "You happened, kid. You're official now."
Solis, ever calm with his robes slightly singed from a minor spell misfire earlier, nodded. "We filed the paperwork this morning. Welcome to Silver Ash, Rolien."
Tessa leaned toward him, her eyes gentle. "You've been with us for a while now, but this makes it real. You're not just tagging along anymore."
Rolien blinked. "...You sure?"
Bragg gave him a hearty slap on the back. "You survived a chimera wolf. Hell yes, we're sure."
They raised their mugs in unison.
"To Rolien—the quietest threat a monster could ever meet," Ren declared, smirking.
Rolien chuckled under his breath. For once, he didn't mind staying longer.
---
Weeks Later – Calm Before the Shift
Time flowed easily after that. Missions came and went. Their coordination grew tighter. The Silver Ash party was more than a team now—they were a family.
But Rolien had been preparing for something quietly.
Folded in his pack was a sealed document from the Empire Magisterium Academy. One of the most prestigious institutions for nobles, casters, and elite warriors.
He never told Tessa.
When she asked where he'd be heading in a few weeks, he just said, "Family business in the capital."
She gave him a nod and didn't press further.
And maybe… that was for the best.
A Few Months Later – Outside the Guild Hall, Late Afternoon.
The wind was crisp, carrying the smell of the autumn leaves that had begun to fall over the capital. Rolien stood at the edge of the training yard, watching Ren practice his aim while Bragg rested nearby with a mug in hand.
Solis sat under a tree, reading a book. Tessa was inspecting their guild requests, as usual.
It had been a good few months—steady missions, quiet nights, and that rare sense of peace Rolien never thought he'd find again.
But it was time.
"Hey," he said suddenly.
All four looked at him.
Tessa raised a brow. "What's up?"
Rolien shifted his weight. "I… I have to leave."
Bragg blinked. "What, like a vacation?"
Solis closed his book slowly. "You sound serious."
Rolien nodded. "I've been accepted into the Empire Magisterium Academy. Enrollment starts next week. I need to head back home tomorrow."
Silence.
Ren let out a low whistle. "Didn't know you were the scholarly type."
Tessa stared for a second longer, then quietly asked, "You knew this whole time?"
"I did," he said, not quite meeting her gaze. "Didn't want it to change anything. I just wanted to fight alongside you guys while I could."
A long pause. Then Bragg stood up and stretched. "Well… can't say I like it, but I get it."
Solis nodded. "You're strong, Rolien. And smart. That place is lucky to have you."
Ren smirked. "Try not to get too famous while we're stuck doing escort missions."
Finally, Tessa stepped forward. "You should've told us sooner," she said. Her voice was calm, but there was something softer under it. "But... I understand why you didn't."
Rolien looked up. "I'll come back."
She smiled faintly. "You better."
They stood there in the orange glow of the setting sun—no goodbyes, no grand speeches. Just quiet acceptance and a bond that distance couldn't break.
Later That Night – Silver Ash Guild Quarters
The small tavern within their guild building buzzed with life. Bragg was already three mugs in, laughing too loudly. Solis kept things steady with occasional sarcasm and polite sips of wine. Ren brought out his lute—poorly tuned, but no one cared. And Tessa had finally allowed herself to sit back and enjoy the evening.
In the center of it all was Rolien, a faint smile on his lips, watching the group he'd come to consider family.
"Four months already," Ren muttered, leaning against the wall beside him. "Feels longer."
"Yeah," Rolien said, sipping from his glass. "Feels like… I'm going to miss this."
Bragg thudded beside him, placing something on the table with a toothy grin. "You better not forget us, kid."
It was a small charm—a wolf fang wrapped in leather, simple but sturdy. "For protection," Bragg said. "Even magic nerds need luck."
Rolien accepted it with quiet gratitude. "Thanks… all of you."
Tessa approached next, holding a folded parchment. "Here. A recommendation letter—signed by the Silver Ash Guild. Just in case anyone at that fancy academy needs convincing of what you're capable of."
Rolien took it slowly, his throat tightening for a moment. "I'll treasure it."
As the night wound down and the fire dimmed, laughter gave way to silence and soft goodbyes. No one made it dramatic.
Just a quiet toast.
"To Rolien," Solis said, raising his glass.
"To a Silver Ash forever," Tessa added.
They all drank.
---
The Next Morning – City Gates, Before Sunrise
Rolien stood in front of the wide gate leading out of the capital. The streets were quiet, painted in pale morning light.
Tessa and the others didn't follow him. They said their goodbyes the night before—he respected that.
He took one last look over his shoulder, the Silver Ash charm hanging on his belt, and started his walk back home.
The weight of five months settled in his chest—missions, laughter, close calls, and new bonds—but there was a different fire in his heart now.
A goal.
The Empire Magisterium Academy awaited.
And beyond it, something even greater.
He pulled his cloak tighter and stepped forward.
The wheels of the carriage ground to a halt just past Greybrook's stone archway. Before Rolien could even fully disembark, he heard it:
Cheers.
He blinked, stunned, as the town square—once quiet and humble—erupted with the voices of villagers, shopkeepers, guards, and children all gathering around. Flowers were thrown. Some people waved cloth banners with his name embroidered on them. A little boy shouted, "Rolien's back!" and the words spread like fire.
"He's back!"
"Our little duke!"
"The Young Lion returns!"
It wasn't just a warm welcome. It was something close to reverence.
Rolien stood still, momentarily overwhelmed.
He had scrubbed the black dye out of his hair last night in a quiet inn, and now the soft grey-brown waves of his natural hair shimmered faintly in the morning sun. Gone was the mask of the Black Wraith. Standing here now, in worn traveler's clothes and a single pauldron over his left shoulder, he looked like what he truly was:
Rolien Grey, son of the Grand Duke.
"Step aside, let me see him!" came a familiar voice, full of authority but softened by excitement.
A tall, broad man pushed through the crowd—Grand Duke Edric Grey himself, dressed in a casual noble's cloak, not his formal attire. His presence always had weight, but today, his arms were open.
Rolien barely had a second before he was pulled into a tight embrace.
"You're back," Edric said, voice low and full of unspoken pride. "You've grown."
Behind him came Lady Lirien, her light green eyes already misty. She cupped Rolien's cheeks and smiled, whispering, "You're skin and bones… but you're glowing, my son."
And then came the chaos:
"Oi! Baby brother!" Elian, now taller, bulkier, and with a medal pinned to his cadet coat, clapped Rolien's back with unnecessary force. "You look like someone who actually knows how to fight now."
"Don't bully him, Elian," Elara scolded. She stepped in, elegant as ever, her fourth-year academy uniform crisp and neat. "Welcome home, Rolien." Her smile was soft, sincere. "We've missed you."
From behind them, a familiar older voice piped up.
"My little lion cub!" Nanny Lyra burst through with a handkerchief in one hand and a meat bun in the other. "You didn't even write! I had to hear from travelers that you joined the guild!"
Rolien chuckled, taking the bun and hugging her tightly. "Sorry, Nanny. Things got... busy."
And off to the side, leaning on a hammer like it was a cane, Mr. Yohan, the gruff blacksmith of Greybrook, watched with crossed arms and a rare grin tugging at his lips.
"You're still alive," he muttered. "Good. I had a feeling you'd come back... especially if you wanted anything forged."
Rolien gave him a grin. "Good to see you too, old man."
Yohan scoffed but didn't deny the warmth in his eyes.
---
Later That Night – Grey Family Estate
The manor was alive with celebration. The kitchens were aflame with food preparations, minstrels played in the inner courtyard, and wine flowed generously. Nobles from neighboring towns had arrived to greet the Grand Duke's youngest.
Rolien stayed at the edge of it all, seated beside a warm hearth, quietly speaking with his mother and sister, listening to Elian brag about academy duels, and occasionally glancing out the window.
He had come back stronger—physically, mentally. And with secrets, too. The Greybreaker blueprint. The adventuring experience. The fight with the Chimera Wolf. His rise.
But this? This moment?
This was home.
And tomorrow, the road to the Empire Magisterium Academy would begin.
The morning sun cast a warm golden hue across Greybrook, and the streets were quieter now after last night's celebrations. The scent of freshly baked bread mixed with the sharper tang of oil and metal as Rolien stepped into the familiar forge near the town's west quarter.
Mr. Yohan's forge hadn't changed. Still cluttered. Still hot. Still full of clanging steel and the occasional bark of curses from the grumpy old blacksmith.
Yohan glanced up as Rolien walked in.
"Back already? Thought you'd sleep in like the soft noble brat you used to be."
Rolien chuckled and reached under his cloak. "I wanted to show you something first."
He rolled up his sleeve and extended his right arm.
Greybreaker.
Its matte surface gleamed with subtle anti-magic inscriptions, and the chimera wolf's materials were seamlessly integrated into the orecalcum bone frame. The fingers flexed with surprising grace, and a small hiss of pressure released as Rolien activated the energy conduits running through its forearm.
Yohan's eyes widened.
"...Well, I'll be damned."
He took a step forward, grabbed Rolien's wrist, and turned the arm gently with a craftsman's precision. "This is the arm you had me build from that blueprint?" he muttered, inspecting the etched anti-magic veins and the faint pulse of power near the shoulder joint.
"I made the base. You brought it to life."
"You've got a bloody tank cannon for a fist, boy," Yohan muttered. "This thing could shatter a chimera's spine."
"It already did."
Yohan let out a snort that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. "Get out of here. Go hit your brother with it."
---
Later That Day – Greybrook Courtyard
A small crowd had gathered in the open courtyard of the Grey estate. The training grounds hadn't seen this many eyes in months.
Grand Duke Edric leaned against the stone fence, arms crossed.
Lady Lirien sat in a shaded garden seat nearby, Elara beside her. Even Nanny Lyra peeked through the kitchen window, holding a tray of tea she had forgotten to serve.
Elian, now clad in his polished academy cadet uniform, spun a wooden training blade in one hand and grinned.
"You sure about this, little brother? You've been gone five months. I've been training every day at the capital."
Rolien shrugged off his cloak and cracked his neck. "So have I."
He stepped onto the packed-earth ring. No armor. Just the Greybreaker arm at the ready and his stance low, practiced.
Elian rushed in first—fast, controlled. His blade whistled through the air in a clean horizontal arc. Rolien sidestepped smoothly and blocked the second swing with his metal arm. Sparks flew.
"You got faster," Elian muttered.
"You got louder."
Rolien slid under a wide swing and tapped his brother's side with his knuckles—not hard, just enough to make a point.
The crowd ooh'ed.
Elian scowled, then grinned. "Alright, no more playing."
They clashed harder now. Elian's blade movements were disciplined, a product of formal imperial training. Rolien's footwork was more grounded, more... lived. He had bled in real battles. His movements had weight.
Then—BOOM!
Elian's third strike was blocked by Greybreaker's palm and repelled by a short burst of kinetic force. Not enough to injure, but enough to send him sliding back several feet.
"What the hell was that?!"
"A taste."
Elian shook his head, chuckling as he steadied himself. "You little monster."
He raised his sword again—but before the next move could come, Grand Duke Edric raised a hand.
"That's enough."
Rolien lowered his stance. Elian did the same.
Lady Lirien clapped politely, beaming with motherly pride. "Impressive, both of you."
"Not bad, runt," Elian said, putting an arm around his brother's neck. "I guess you really have grown."
---
As the sun dipped low and the courtyard quieted, Rolien sat on the garden steps, breathing in the scent of Greybrook's evening air.
Tomorrow, the road to the Empire Magisterium Academy would begin.
But for today?
This was enough.
The Empire's capital shimmered under the midmorning sun, its white-stone spires and magical constructs floating gently in the air, guarded by sentries both mortal and enchanted. But nothing in the sprawling city outshone the Empire Magisterium Academy—a fortress, cathedral, and arcane research facility rolled into one.
It wasn't just a school. It was where heroes were molded.
Rolien stood at the bottom of the wide marble staircase, looking up at the silver gates carved with runes older than the empire itself. Around him, carriages unloaded noble children in expensive uniforms and magical luggage that walked on its own. Some students wore glowing badges, insignias of bloodlines famous in the empire's history. Others arrived surrounded by escorts—personal guards or summoned spirits.
But Rolien?
He wore his worn black coat, sleeves rolled, and a plain steel badge stamped with the academy's seal. His Greybreaker arm gleamed faintly beneath the sun, tucked carefully under a long glove so as not to draw too much attention—yet.
"Name?" asked a bored-looking clerk at the admissions table.
"Rolien Grey."
The clerk glanced at the list, paused, then looked up again. "...Grey? As in, Grand Duke Edric's youngest?"
"That's right."
The man coughed once, sat straighter, and hastily checked off the name. "Welcome to the Magisterium, sir. You've been placed in Class Valiant."
Rolien raised an eyebrow. "Valiant?"
"Mixed ranking class. Combat-heavy. Expect a lot of fieldwork."
"Sounds fun."
---
Later That Day – Orientation Hall
The massive arcane dome was filled with over three hundred students seated in circular rows. Floating crystal orbs projected maps, timetables, and department sigils across the space. Headmaster Arden Frosbane, a silver-bearded man whose presence made the very air vibrate, stood at the center like a storm barely restrained.
He began his speech.
"You are not here because of your bloodline. Nor because of money. You are here because something in your soul is sharp enough to cut through fear."
His gaze swept the crowd.
"Here, you will rise—or be forgotten. There is no middle path."
And then, after announcements, class assignments, and initial dorm placements...
"Class Valiant—report to the east courtyard for first evaluation."
---
East Courtyard – Class Valiant Evaluation
Rolien arrived with a dozen others, all standing in a wide circular ring. Among them, he immediately noticed a few:
A silent girl with white hair and bandages over one eye, her mana pressure disturbingly calm.
A brawny boy with two greatswords strapped to his back—more muscle than brain, probably.
And then… him.
A noble-looking teen in crimson and gold, leaning against the wall like the world owed him something.
"Rolien Grey," the boy said, stepping forward with a polite bow that didn't reach his eyes. "I've heard of your family. Grand Duke's son, right? What's it like—being the weakest Grey?"
Rolien blinked once.
"Do I know you?"
"No. But you will." The teen smiled coldly. "Name's Victor Drellem, heir of House Drellem. Top marks in theoretical magic and sword combat. And your first real rival."
Rolien smirked, rolling his shoulder.
"uhm… well good for you I guess. But Then I guess you should try not to embarrass yourself too much."
Victor's eyes narrowed—but before anything else could be said, an instructor arrived, cutting the tension with a single barked command.
"Form up! Today we test your raw combat ability—no spells, no artifacts. Just movement, instincts, and pain."
Rolien cracked his knuckles and stepped forward.
"Let's see what this place is really made of."
The east courtyard buzzed with tension.
Steel practice swords were handed out—dull-edged, but heavy enough to bruise deep and make mistakes hurt. Dozens of students lined the outer circle as pairs stepped into the sparring ring.
"Next—Victor Drellem vs. Rolien Grey."
The murmurs started the moment the names were called.
"Victor? He's top-ranked in the Southern cohort."
"Grey? That's the new noble kid, right?"
Victor stepped in first, spinning his sword once for show. His stance was clean—classic academy form: high guard, solid centerline, trained knees.
Then came Rolien.
No formal stance. No salute. He just walked in, holding the sword loosely in one hand, the tip angled lazily toward the ground.
"You're not even going to raise your guard?" Victor said with a scoff.
Rolien's eyes didn't leave him. "Why waste movement?"
The instructor gave the nod. "Begin!"
Victor launched forward with a flourish—an upward diagonal slash aimed at Rolien's shoulder.
But Rolien didn't meet it head-on.
Sabre faint. Rolien subtly shifted his blade to the left, baiting Victor's swing toward a phantom opening. The moment Victor committed, Rolien stepped off the centerline, turned his wrist, and redirected with a clean Schwerthau—a sword-strike with the flat edge of his blade—right into Victor's ribs.
Thud.
"Point."
Victor staggered, eyes wide. He quickly stepped back and reset.
"You little—!"
He advanced again, more aggressively this time. Fast jabs. Sweeping arcs. But Rolien flowed like water, barely blocking. He used footwork and subtle redirects, using the weight of Victor's sword against him.
Another feint, this time low.
Victor lunged.
Rolien pirouetted just outside the reach, stepping behind Victor and tapping the back of his neck with a clean blade-touch.
"Point two."
The murmurs around the ring quieted. Some mouths hung open.
"He didn't even use aura…"
"That technique—it wasn't from here."
Victor gritted his teeth. "Try blocking this!"
He roared and brought his blade down with a full-force two-handed swing.
Rolien met it—but not with a parry.
Another Schwerthau, this time with his full weight and both hands. The flat of his blade smashed against the flat of Victor's at an angle, disrupting the rhythm of the strike mid-air. The shock vibrated through Victor's arms. His weapon tilted, momentum ruined.
Before Victor could recover, Rolien slipped in, grabbed his opponent's wrist with one hand, and pressed the edge of his sword across his collarbone.
"Point three."
Match over.
Victor stumbled back, chest heaving. "Who… the hell… are you?"
Rolien gave a shrug and turned toward the instructor.
The man nodded once, slowly. "Match concluded. Winner—Rolien Grey."
As Rolien stepped out of the ring, students moved aside, giving him space like he carried a different kind of weight.
They didn't know what sword style that was.
But it was deadly, efficient, and calm.
Too calm to be self-taught.
After his mock battle, Rolien returned to the stands, where students still whispered about his match. He ignored them. He didn't come here to show off. He came to watch.
To study.
He leaned against a marble pillar in the viewing terrace, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Below, the arena continued.
Axe-user versus a dual-blade elf. The elf moved quick—relying on agility, rolling under strikes and retaliating with cuts to the legs. The axe-user tried to corner him but lacked the footwork to control the tempo.
"Too wide on the swing," Rolien muttered under his breath. "Should've baited high and chopped low. Rookie mistake."
Then came the next match.
"Cadet Luke Arcadia vs. Cadet Jael Forn."
The crowd shifted. People sat straighter. Even a few instructors gathered at the balcony's edge.
Rolien narrowed his eyes.
Luke Arcadia. Noble-born. Arrogant. Popular. The kind who made himself known wherever he went.
He stepped into the ring like a champion entering his throne room—short-cut red hair, crimson scarf fluttering, a sleek longsword strapped to his back. His uniform was modified: sleeveless and trimmed with gold. Gaudy.
But when he drew his blade, the heat shifted.
A pulse of flame ignited from his gauntlet, running up his arm and into the sword. Fire magic, tightly controlled. His blade shimmered with heat, the edge glowing orange.
His opponent—Jael, a spear-user—took position on the opposite end, clearly tense.
"Begin!"
Jael lunged first, trying to keep distance. The spear darted like a viper—but Luke didn't flinch.
Boom.
He twisted his hip, stepped in, and unleashed a flame-propelled draw slash that melted the tip of the spear outright.
Jael stumbled.
Luke didn't let up.
In three blinding steps, he closed the gap, sword trailing fire.
Rolien watched the footwork.
Aggressive. Confident. Clean.
Luke's style combined imperial fencing forms with violent, elemental bursts. Every slash was backed by combustion—explosive acceleration and heavy kinetic shock.
He wasn't dancing. He was detonating.
With a roar, Luke spun and unleashed a flame vortex slash, sweeping Jael off his feet. He landed hard, coughing, armor scorched at the chest plate.
The instructor shouted. "Match over!"
Cheers erupted.
Luke stepped back, his blade still smoking. He waved to the crowd, then casually glanced up toward the balcony.
His eyes landed on Rolien.
Their gazes locked.
Rolien didn't look away.
Luke smirked. "Tch. Him again " his expression said.
Rolien blinked slowly.
"Another firework."
The bell tower tolled across the academy grounds, sharp and echoing—like a sword tapping stone.
Rolien adjusted his uniform, still stiff from being freshly issued, and stepped into the high-arched hall of the Magic Theory Wing. Stained glass filtered colored sunlight across white marble floors, and floating crystal orbs hovered at intervals, projecting historical diagrams of mana flows and magical circuits.
He found his assigned seat—third row, by the window.
The professor, a stooped old mage with silvery robes and a voice that sounded like creaking wood, hadn't even begun lecturing when the murmurs started.
"That's him, right?"
"The Groteus Slayer?"
"Is it true he was eaten alive and just… walked out?"
Rolien slumped into his seat and sighed. He hadn't even opened his notebook yet.
From behind him, a girl with short red curls leaned over. "You really got eaten by that monster, huh?" she whispered.
A bespectacled boy on his right nudged in. "They say you cut your way out from the inside."
"That's not even possible!" another added from the row ahead. "He would've been vaporized! Groteus had beam cannons!"
"He did get hit," said someone further back. "His entire arm was destroyed by one of its core beams. That prosthetic he has? It's just a replacement."
Rolien stayed quiet, his eyes on the professor's desk.
"Why isn't he saying anything?"
"Maybe it traumatized him?"
"Or maybe the Empire made him swear an oath of silence!"
The door slammed.
Professor Galthros entered, robes dragging like old curtains. His stern glare silenced the room.
"I see the academy gossip has outrun the curriculum once again," he muttered, setting down a stack of floating grimoires.
He glanced at Rolien with tired eyes. "Mister… Grey, is it? Or would you prefer Beast Slayer?"
"…Rolien is fine, sir."
"Good. Then sit, Rolien, and learn. If the stories are true, you may not need this class. But if they aren't—then you'll definitely need it."
Some students chuckled. Rolien gave a thin smile.
"Today's topic: the properties of differential mana compression and its application in hybrid spellcasting."
As the lecture began, and arcane glyphs flickered in the air beside the professor, Rolien finally had a moment of peace.
He let his eyes drift to the window beside him, watching a training field in the distance, where cadets practiced sparring.
Some still whispered. Some still stared.
But for now, he was just another student.
And that was enough.
Later that day at the canteen.
The academy cafeteria buzzed with activity—laughter, footsteps, and floating trays weaving around students like clockwork. Rolien walked in alone, his posture relaxed, but his eyes constantly tracking. After five months on the road and barely surviving battles most would only read about in heroic ballads, this place felt like a different battlefield altogether.
He found a quiet spot near the windows and began eating with his good hand. His prosthetic stayed covered, blending in with his uniform. Peaceful. For about five minutes.
"Well, well… Look what the sewer dragged in."
Rolien glanced up just in time to see Luke Arcadia strut over, fire cape flaring slightly behind him. His voice was loud enough to grab attention—but not loud enough to get him scolded. A perfect balance, like always.
"The one-armed wonder," Luke sneered. "Didn't realize the academy was letting in mascots now."
Rolien didn't flinch. He sipped from his cup calmly, gaze level. "Didn't realize nobility came with barking rights."
Luke's smug grin tightened. "You don't belong here, Grey. This is a place for future Archmages, Commanders—people who matter."
"I know," Rolien said, tone dry. "That's why I'm surprised you're here."
Nearby students gasped. A few awkwardly turned away, pretending not to listen but obviously invested.
Luke slammed his tray down across from him, leaning over the table.
"You think you're clever, but let's be honest—you're just a broken tool playing adventurer."
Rolien set his fork down slowly and met Luke's eyes. Calm. Unshaken.
"I came here to learn. To graduate. I'm not here to fit in. I'm not here to impress anyone. Especially not an overgrown matchstick with daddy's name stitched to his collar."
Silence followed. You could almost hear a spoon clatter from another table.
Luke straightened, face red, jaw clenched. But he said nothing.
With a scoff and a flick of his cape, he turned and stormed off, eyes burning.
From the far end of the hall, watching behind a cup of steaming tea, sat Professor Kaelus—head of Tactical Magic Theory. A man known for being strict, rarely amused, and never easy to impress.
He sipped his tea and chuckled.
"Finally," he murmured to himself. "Someone with teeth."
Then he scribbled a quick note on a small enchanted parchment before flicking it. It vanished into the air.
A new name to watch.
Rolien Grey.
The aftermath of Rolien's exchange with Luke Arcadia spread through the Empire Magicsterium Academy like wildfire. Within a day, students across all departments had heard of the "One-Armed Hero" who put the Arcadia heir in his place without lifting a single spell.
Some whispered admiration. Others called it reckless. But all of them—especially those in the lower classes—remembered his name.
Rolien didn't bask in the attention. He stayed quiet, turning in his assignments, attending lectures, and training alone. While others studied flashy spells, he focused on the fundamentals—saber footwork, parrying drills, pressure points. His prosthetic arm didn't glow or shift—it was just that. A tool. A reminder.
During Magic Theory classes, he kept to the back. His notebook filled with diagrams, personal research, and the occasional blueprint sketch. He asked sharp, well-timed questions that sometimes made the lecturers pause before answering.
Watching from the faculty balcony, Professor Kaelus took note.
"Grand Duke's son… no registered elemental affinity… yet no hesitation facing Arcadia. Interesting."
The old professor scribbled something in his leather-bound journal. Not many impressed him, but this boy—this quiet storm of steel—might just be one of the few.
---
Back in Class…
The days rolled on. Rolien kept his head down, but even he noticed the stares. Some students watched him too long. Others nodded quietly in the halls. Luke Arcadia hadn't spoken to him again—but the silence spoke louder than words.
What stood out most wasn't Rolien's rank or background—it was that when Luke mocked him, he didn't flinch. He didn't shout or posture. He simply responded like someone who knew exactly who he was.
And that, more than anything, unnerved people.
From his office window, Kaelus chuckled while watching students clear the training yard.
"It's been a while since someone ruffled Arcadia's feathers. Let's see what else you can stir up, Grey."
It started with a whisper during morning drills.
"Rolien Grey's name is on the board."
By lunch, it became official.
A public challenge had been issued.
Not by Luke Arcadia—he wasn't that petty—but by someone from his circle. A third-year knight cadet named Cassian Vortell, known for his dual blade style and fiery temper. Not a noble, but a bootlicker through and through. He volunteered to "put the arrogant one-armed brat in his place" on behalf of those too important to do it themselves.
Rolien didn't decline.
He simply looked at the posted board, nodded once, and returned to eating his plain meal.
---
The Arena, Late Afternoon
The dueling yard was packed. First-years, upperclassmen, even a few professors stood along the rails, murmuring.
Rolien stepped in with his plain practice sword, dressed in the simple cadet uniform. No enchantments. No shine. His greyish-brown hair now back in its natural color, tousled slightly by the wind.
Cassian entered like a performer—twin blades flashing, polished armor fitted tight, and a crowd of sycophants cheering him on. Fire magic hummed faintly around his boots.
Professor Kaelus stood in the center as the neutral witness.
"No spells above Tier Two. No lethal blows. You yield, or you're disarmed."
The bell rang.
Cassian didn't wait.
He came in fast—blades spinning, flame-enhanced footwork accelerating his charge.
Rolien didn't move.
He watched, foot slightly back, grip loose.
As Cassian's right blade came in for a sweeping slash—
Rolien side-stepped.
His sword met Cassian's second blade mid-air with a calm parry—redirecting it just enough to break the rhythm.
He moved with sabe—small, economical cuts.
Then flowed into swerchau—twisting slashes meant to trap and redirect, a technique he learned mimicking German longsword duels from Earth.
The crowd went quiet.
It wasn't flashy, but it was clean. Every strike Rolien made was precise, meant to control, not dominate.
Cassian grew angrier, flames sparking with each failed strike.
"You bastard—fight properly!"
Rolien didn't answer.
Cassian's final thrust came, both blades flashing red—
And Rolien turned his body, spun on his heel, and disarmed him with a brutal riposte. One sword clattered to the ground, and the second followed when Rolien flicked it away with a twist of the wrist.
Cassian fell to one knee.
Silence.
Professor Kaelus raised his hand. "The match is over. Victory: Cadet Rolien Grey."
---
Aftermath
Some students whispered about magic. Others thought he cheated.
But the professors—especially Kaelus—knew the truth.
He didn't win with spells.
He won with skill.
As the crowd began to disperse, Kaelus watched him walk back toward the dorms. Alone. No cheers. No celebration.
Just a swordsman who came to learn.
"A magicless, one-armed boy..." Kaelus murmured, stroking his beard, "and yet the sharpest blade I've seen in years."
Elsewhere, Watching from Above
Up on the stone terrace overlooking the training grounds, Luke Arcadia leaned against the railing, arms crossed.
He had watched the entire duel in silence, eyes narrowed.
Cassian limped off the field below—humiliated.
And there stood Rolien, brushing dust off his cadet uniform like it was just another afternoon.
Luke clicked his tongue.
"Tsk. Another one with that weird sword stance..." he muttered, brows knitting in irritation.
His fingers drummed the stone ledge slowly, annoyed.
"I hate this boy."
He turned and walked off before anyone could notice he'd been watching.
Few Days later – Academy Auditorium
The lecture hall buzzed with the usual energy of tired cadets, half-listening as the professor scribbled on the enchanted blackboard. Then, without warning, the lights dimmed slightly—magic pulsing through the crystal fixtures—and the room quieted.
Professor Merdan, a stern man with graying hair and a deep scar across his chin, stepped forward with a clipboard in hand.
He cleared his throat.
"Listen up, cadets."
His voice boomed through the enchanted amplifiers.
"The Empire's Magicsterium Academy has officially received notice from the Imperial Defense Department. An incursion gate has appeared near the western forest quadrant. As part of your practical combat exams, you will be deployed."
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"You will form a team composed of six members—two upperclassmen and four cadets."
His eyes scanned the hall sharply.
"Each team must be registered within three days. Choose wisely. This will not be a mock battle, but a real combat zone. Monsters are expected. Injuries are likely. Some of you may not return the same."
The room fell completely silent.
Professor Merdan closed his clipboard.
"Dismissed."
---
Rolien stood in the middle of the hall, surrounded by a sea of students suddenly scrambling to form teams. But he remained still. Calm. Watching.
He knew he had to pick allies soon—ones he could rely on when things got real.
Shadows were gathering again.
And he could already feel the tension in the air shift. The incursion was coming.
The academy courtyard was chaotic, students rushing between buildings and bulletin boards as names and ranks were being announced for the upcoming incursion mission.
Rolien leaned against the marble railing just outside the assignment tower, arms folded, quietly watching the madness unfold. His prosthetic hand flexed slightly as he absentmindedly traced invisible patterns in the air.
"Cadet teams must be finalized in 72 hours!" a staff mage shouted, his voice magically amplified. "Team leads must be upperclassmen ranked 3rd year and above! If you don't have one, your application will be voided!"
Rolien exhaled. He wasn't worried about finding a team. He just hadn't decided who was worth trusting.
Then… he heard it. That familiar voice.
"Is this where I sign up for the incursion teams?" the girl's voice called out, calm but filled with royal confidence.
His eyes snapped up.
At the head of the courtyard steps stood a young woman draped in the Empire's crimson and gold academy cloak. Her soft, platinum-blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders. Her presence turned heads. But what froze Rolien in place wasn't just the way she walked like a commander—it was her face.
Sophia.
The third princess of the Empire.
And the girl he hadn't seen in five months.
Their eyes locked.
She blinked.
Then smiled faintly.
"Found you."
---
[To be continued…]