Reincarnation of the magicless Pinoy!
From zero to hero!
"No magic?, No Problem!"
Chapter 22: an Offer from Dark
A few days later...
At the Stonehalt Regional Adventurers' Guild Outpost, tension simmered beneath the quiet murmur of voices and shuffling papers. The room was crowded—scouts, guild officers, adventurers all trying to stay calm in the face of what the latest field report suggested.
Guildmaster Elric, a grizzled half-elf with eyes that looked like they'd read too many death notices, paced behind his desk. He held the report tightly, as if it might explode in his hands.
"Mana cluster bombs disguised as some kind of… rectangular block," he muttered, "like they were made to look unassuming. And you're telling me, Rolien, you've seen something like this before?"
Rolien stood near the map board, arms crossed loosely, gaze thoughtful but guarded.
"I've seen the design," he said plainly. "Back where I came from. The shape. The setup. Even the material—it's not native here. But the mana fusion? That part's new."
Elric stopped pacing. "So someone brought foreign knowledge… and merged it with local magic?"
"Looks that way," Rolien replied. "But I've got no clue who. That's the part that bothers me."
Tessa, standing nearby, furrowed her brows. "So you're saying someone like you?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Maybe," he finally said. "Or maybe someone just found something they shouldn't have."
The room fell into silence again. Outside, a courier hawk shrieked as it launched from the tower.
"I've already sent word to the Capital Guild and to the nearby noble families," Elric said at last. "Greybrook included. This is no longer just a ruin expedition. We're moving into national threat territory."
A younger officer raised a hand. "Sir, about the creature mentioned in the report. The… mesh of flesh?"
"Right," Elric grimaced. "The part that sounded like something was built—or summoned—from a meat grinder."
"Not summoned," Rolien corrected. "Engineered. Grown, maybe. A failure… or a warning."
Someone cursed under their breath.
"Then we're dealing with a lost lab, or a buried site someone wanted hidden," Elric muttered. "And whoever set those bombs up… they wanted it sealed permanently."
Rolien's voice was quiet. "Like someone trying to erase their footsteps."
Elric stared at him a long moment. "And you? You still joining the follow-up expedition?"
"Of course," Rolien said without hesitation. "Something was down there. Something old. Something wrong. And if this is just the surface..."
He didn't finish the thought.
Elric didn't press him. Instead, he barked orders to his sub-commanders.
"Double the patrols. Notify the mage division. Prepare a containment squad just in case anything made it out before the collapse. I want every ruin in a hundred-mile radius reclassified until we know what we're dealing with."
Tessa followed Rolien out the side door into the cool dusk. She didn't speak for a while.
Then: "Back in the cave… you really recognized it?"
"Yeah," he said simply. "Where I'm from, we called it C4. Used to break things. Big things."
"…And someone planted it here."
He nodded.
She hesitated, then quietly asked, "And you don't know who?"
"…No," he said. "But if someone like me is here… we're already behind."
He looked up at the darkening sky, where the stars were starting to bleed through the clouds.
"And they're already moving."
—Days later, near the Arcadia border
It had been three days since they escaped the ruins and made their report. The guild's response was swift—investigation teams, cleanup units, and restricted notices were issued around the region. Whatever that cave had been, it wasn't just a forgotten dungeon.
Rolien laid low, as usual. Took a few solo requests. Fixed a broken mana pump at a small farming village. Quiet things. Boring things.
Then the letter came.
A formal request.
Not from the guild.
But from a noble house.
More specifically—House Arcadia.
The name meant nothing to the locals. Just another influential family up north. But to him, the name stirred something—like a wire pulled tight inside his chest.
The escort job was simple on paper: guard a noble on their journey from a regional estate to the capital. But what made it odd was how the request was delivered. Sealed with mana wax. Carried by a personal envoy. And more curious still…
The noble requested him. By name.
Not just the Black Wraith. But Tessa's entire party as well.
Tessa raised a brow when she read the guild bulletin. "What the hell did you do to get on a noble's favorite list?"
"Be good at my job," Rolien muttered.
She watched him as he tightened his gauntlets. "He asked for you specifically."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
"I didn't say that," she replied. "It bothers me a lot. Especially when he called you efficient, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes."
Rolien didn't respond. He just slipped the mission slip into his pouch and walked off.
—Several days earlier, Arcadia Estate
Inside the estate's private study, firelight danced across old books and marble statues. A silver tray of untouched tea sat cooling on the desk. Luke stood beside the window, skimming through parchment after parchment—names of high-ranking adventurers recently active in the region.
His finger froze.
A name stared back at him. A name he hadn't heard in years.
Rowan Black.
He blinked. Once. Slowly.
The silence around him grew heavy.
The Guildmaster, sitting across the room, leaned in casually, following his gaze. "Ah, that one. Rowan Black, yes," he said, with a small grin. "New blood. They call him the Black Wraith."
Luke didn't say a word, eyes fixed on the ink.
"He's efficient," the Guildmaster continued. "Clean missions. Swift results. No wasted movement. The type who finishes the job before anyone even knows he was there. Scary strong, too. That's how he got the nickname."
Luke exhaled through his nose. Not a laugh, but something like it.
"Black Wraith, huh..." he echoed, stepping away from the window and toward the desk.
He leaned over slightly, eyes narrowing at the neat rows of data—dates, locations, success rates. The man's record was too clean. Too perfect. Like someone trained… not born in this world.
He tapped the edge of the parchment once with his gloved finger. "Pick him," he said flatly. "And the party he's been working with. I want them for the escort."
The Guildmaster raised a brow, then nodded, scribbling the formal approval onto the request scroll.
Luke stared at the name once more. Rowan Black.
His lips barely moved.
"Black Wraith... or Rowan... who are you really?"
The fire crackled behind him, unnoticed.
And outside the study, the wind howled faintly—like it carried a memory that never died.
The escort caravan had stopped for the night. Tents were pitched, a small fire crackled at the center, and the soft clatter of armor being removed filled the air as guards settled into shifts. The noble's tent sat a bit further from the others—embroidered, lined in gold—but Luke hadn't gone in.
Instead, he sat on a nearby rock with a tin mug in hand, watching the newest addition to the group.
Rowan was tending to his gear under a tree, away from the firelight. Quiet. Methodical. Sword laid across his knees, cloth moving across the blade in smooth, repetitive strokes.
Luke stood up and wandered closer, steps casual. "You always that quiet?" he asked, voice light and conversational.
Rowan gave a glance, short and silent, then nodded once. "Yeah."
Luke chuckled and sat nearby, not too close. "Not a fan of small talk, huh?"
Another nod. "Not really."
He kept cleaning.
Luke took a sip from his mug, eyeing him. "Where you from?"
Rowan didn't look up. "West. Moved around."
"Right, right… You fought in the Beor Fields last year, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"Supposedly wiped out a bandit camp alone."
Rowan shrugged. "Wasn't alone. Just the last one standing."
Luke smirked. "Humble, too."
Rowan grunted. Not an answer—just a low, uninterested sound. Not rude. Just... distant.
Luke tried to hide his frown. He'd spoken to hundreds of adventurers. This one was different. Too calm. Too controlled. And it wasn't just the silence—it was the type of silence. The kind trained into someone. Not born from solitude, but built from experience. Real, violent experience.
Still… he kept the friendly act going.
"I was surprised the guild approved my request," Luke said, stretching out his legs. "Normally, they'd send standard guards. But then your name popped up. Lucky me, huh?"
Rowan finally looked at him—really looked. Eyes unreadable behind the shadow of his hood.
"…Sure," he said.
Luke's smile faded just slightly. "You remind me of someone I used to know."
Rowan's response was immediate. "I get that a lot."
Another grunt. Another nod. Then back to the sword.
Luke stood after a few seconds, brushing his cloak off. "Well, rest up. We've got a long road ahead."
Rowan didn't reply. Just gave another nod without looking.
Luke walked back to camp, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he glanced over his shoulder.
"Too composed. Too familiar. That tone…"
He stared at the dark silhouette under the tree, illuminated only by moonlight.
"Who the hell are you?"
Tessa sat on a log close to the fire, slowly stirring a bowl of stew in her hands. Across from her, Luke had returned, face unreadable as he stared into the flames. The night was cool, and the shadows around the campsite deepened as the moon rose.
She glanced at him, then followed his gaze toward the tree where Rowan sat alone, sharpening his blade again with calm, practiced movements.
"He always like that?" Luke asked quietly.
Tessa gave a small smile. "Yeah. That's just Rowan."
Luke turned to her, brow slightly raised. "That quiet?"
"He's not big on talking, but he listens. Watches everything. Always thinking. He doesn't open up much, but…" She looked toward Rowan with a fond, almost protective expression. "He's a good kid."
Luke leaned back slightly. "Kid, huh? Doesn't fight like one."
Tessa chuckled. "I know. He's only been an adventurer for two months. Two. But in that time, he's cleared over a dozen missions. Ones even veterans backed off from. No one knows how he got that good."
Luke looked down at his hands, then flexed his fingers slowly. "It's not just how he fights. It's how he carries himself."
Tessa tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Luke didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked back over to Rowan—now standing up, putting away his sword, cloak swaying gently as he moved silently into the shadows beyond the firelight.
"Like someone who's been doing this for much longer than two months," Luke murmured.
Tessa's smile faded slightly, her expression thoughtful now. "...He doesn't talk about where he came from. We met him on a job. He soloed a whole ogre nest. After that, well... we asked him to join us. He said 'sure' and just never left."
Luke nodded slowly, gaze lingering in the dark. "Yeah… He's got that look."
Tessa raised an eyebrow. "You're not planning anything shady with this escort mission, are you?"
He smirked, breaking the tension. "Nah. Just business. Family business."
Tessa gave him a look, not entirely convinced but letting it go. "Then don't worry. Rowan may seem distant, but if things go sideways? He'll have your back."
Luke's eyes remained fixed on the dark, where Rowan had vanished into the treeline for patrol. The wind stirred. Leaves rustled. And that strange, uneasy feeling stirred again in his chest—familiar, bitter.
"Then I hope I don't end up regretting this."
The wheels of the noble's carriage creaked over uneven earth as Arcadia's forest gave way to sun-dappled hills. Birds chirped in scattered bursts, but Luke wasn't listening. His gaze wasn't on the road—it was on the man riding ahead, just a little too quietly.
Black Wraith.
He studied the young man cloaked in dark leather, the one moving like mist on a still lake—unbothered, unreadable, unreachable.
"Rowan Black…" Luke muttered under his breath, eyes narrowed.
The name was just barely familiar. Faint. Like a scar half-faded.
No. Not possible…
But there was something. Something off. A scent of déjà vu that itched behind his eyes. That aura… so precise. Clean. Cold.
He nudged his horse closer until he was riding side by side with the so-called Black Wraith. "So. Rowan, right?"
The man glanced his way with a flat stare. "Yeah."
Not even a trace of recognition. But his eyes—too sharp, too calm. Not the look of some new adventurer. Luke pressed on.
"Impressive record for someone two months in the guild. Clean, fast. Like a scalpel."
Rowan said nothing at first, then gave a low grunt. "I do my job."
Luke smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Where'd you learn to move like that?"
Rowan turned his head slightly. "Travel a lot."
The silence hung thick for a beat too long.
From behind, Tessa rode up beside them, clearly sensing the tension. She flashed a smile Luke's way. "Don't mind him. Rowan's always like that. Quiet, blunt—but he's a good kid."
Luke blinked. "Kid? How old is he?"
"Seventeen," she answered without missing a beat.
Seventeen, huh?
Luke's jaw clenched ever so slightly as he pulled back the reins, letting his horse fall behind the group.
He kept his eyes locked on Rowan's back.
Still. Steady. Perfect posture. Too perfect. He'd seen that walk before—in briefing rooms and warzones.
It can't be him. That bastard died.
But the unease clung to him like a fog.
He muttered under his breath, "Who the hell are you really… Rowan Black? A ghost? Or a shadow I forgot to bury?"
The wheels behind him squeaked again, breaking the rhythm of the march. Rowan kept his eyes forward, scanning the tree line. Sunlight filtered through a shifting canopy, casting dappled shadows across the winding dirt road.
Something about this mission didn't sit right. He could feel it in the air—not just the landscape, not the noble they were escorting.
It was him.
The noble who approached him days ago. The one who asked for him personally. Luke Arcadia.
Now, the man rode just a few paces behind. Friendly on the surface—too friendly. Like someone trying to tug open a locked door with a smile.
Rowan didn't like that.
Tessa's voice broke through the tension. "Rowan," she said, nudging her horse beside his, "he keeps watching you."
"I noticed," he replied flatly.
"He's been trying to talk to you since we left. You could at least pretend to be civil."
"I am being civil," Rowan said, expression unreadable.
Tessa sighed. "You could at least say more than two words."
Rowan's gaze drifted over his shoulder for just a second. Luke was talking to another guard now, smiling like he didn't have a care in the world. But his posture was off—too trained, too composed.
Military. Not noble.
"I don't like the way he watches," Rowan muttered.
Tessa blinked. "You think he's dangerous?"
Rowan didn't answer.
Instead, his hand slid subtly over his side, brushing against the hilt of his short blade. Just a habit. Just in case.
He'd felt it the moment their eyes met—something ancient between them. Not memory, but muscle. Instinct.
Like we've fought before…
But that couldn't be.
He was Rowan Black. Just another adventurer. A rising one, maybe. Quiet. Cold. Efficient.
The past was dead.
Wasn't it?
Still, he didn't like the feeling in his gut. He hadn't felt this kind of pressure since—
Since Earth.
Rowan's jaw tensed. He shifted in the saddle, checking the trail ahead.
Nothing.
Yet the silence was starting to feel too clean.
Behind him, Luke called casually, "You've got good eyes, Rowan. Feel anything off up ahead?"
Rowan didn't look back. "No," he replied. "But I'm still watching."
The forest shifted.
Rowan pulled the reins with a sharp motion. His horse stopped without a sound.
Tessa glanced at him from a few feet away. "What is it?"
He didn't answer. His eyes scanned the treetops, the underbrush, the curve of the road ahead. Birds had stopped singing. Even the insects were quiet. A creeping silence crawled over the group like a cold breath.
"Something's wrong," he said at last, low and certain.
Luke's guards perked up. "Everyone, form up!" one barked. "Protect the cart!"
Too late.
A blur shot out from the undergrowth.
Rowan was already off his horse—feet landing lightly on the dirt—blade drawn in one fluid motion. The bandit didn't even see it. One step. A pivot. His short sword sliced upward, catching the attacker across the ribs. He dropped with a howl.
More followed—at least eight, maybe ten. Armed with blades, axes, and makeshift armor. Clearly not just bandits. They moved too well. Quick. Coordinated.
"Ambush!" someone shouted.
Too late.
Rowan was already moving. He dodged the first blade with a sharp pivot, slipped behind the attacker, and drove his sword clean through his back. No wasted motion.
Another rushed him—sloppy footwork, wild swing. Rowan ducked low, swept the man's legs from under him, and finished it with a clean slash across the neck.
The third barely had time to scream before Rowan flicked a throwing knife into his throat. Three down. Two more hesitated.
Rowan didn't.
Steel sang through the air. Two quick slashes. The last attacker staggered, already dead on his feet.
The forest was still again, but the air hung heavy with iron and breathless silence.
Rowan stepped over the last body, blade still glistening. Calmly, he turned it inward and pressed the flat edge against the back of his forearm. One clean draw along the dark fabric. The blood came away, streaking his sleeve, but the blade now gleamed spotless in the fading light.
It was a practiced motion—precise, mechanical.
Luke's eyes narrowed, lips parting just slightly.
That—
He said nothing. Just watched.
Rowan sheathed the sword and walked back without looking at him.
Tessa, half-glancing between the two, shrugged and said lightly, "Told you he was always like that. Quiet, but reliable."
Luke didn't answer. His gaze lingered on Rowan's forearm. On that subtle, wordless ritual.
Then he looked away.
The fire crackled quietly as the camp settled. The nobles had taken their rest under velvet tents, while the adventurer escort lingered near the wagons. Rowan leaned against a tree, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but alert.
Luke approached, footsteps measured.
Rowan didn't move.
Luke stopped beside him, gazing out at the dark forest as if they were just two travelers sharing a quiet watch. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then—
"You handled that ambush flawlessly. The way you moved… it was like a shadow with purpose."
Rowan only gave a grunt in reply. He didn't look at him.
Luke chuckled, soft and dry. "You're wasted as a mere escort."
Still no answer.
"That's why I'm offering you a place," Luke finally said, voice steady. "In the Arcadia Dukedom. Not just as a hired blade—" He turned, eyes steady. "But as an official knight under our banner."
Rowan's eyes opened slightly.
Luke extended a hand.
"You'll have rank. Resources. Recognition. And more than that… a family. We take care of our own."
The silence stretched.
Rowan stared at that hand.
Tessa glanced up from the firelight, catching the exchange from afar. Her brows drew in subtly. Something felt… off.
Luke's smile remained in place, easy and patient.
Rowan looked at the hand.
Looked at the man.
Something behind his eyes stirred.
But he said nothing.
He reached out.
And just as his hand hovered above Luke's—
[Scene cut.]
---
End of Chapter.