Reincarnation of The Magicless Pinoy!:
From Zero to Hero "No Magic?,No Problem!" Vol 4 : Nuisances of fate
Encounter 1: Borrowed time!
The sky hung like an open wound above the shattered valley, blood-red and pulsing with the kind of malice that made men question their gods. Five brutal years had forged the Seven Idiots into something the bards couldn't stop singing about—raiders of demonic holds, executioners of traitorous lords, dragon-slayers who somehow turned every impossible fight into a tavern tale laced with stupidity and luck. But this was different. This was the end.
Nyxtherion, the Curse-Weaver Eternal, dwarfed everything. Its body stretched across the ruined ground like living night, scales oozing liquid shadow that hissed where it touched stone. Each slow beat of its wings pushed out clouds of corrupting mist, turning grass to black sludge and trees to brittle husks. The air itself tasted of rot and despair.
Edric stood at the front, chest heaving, blood tracing warm lines down his forehead and into his eyes. His golden hair stuck to his scalp in sweaty clumps. Every breath hurt, ribs cracked, left leg screaming from the last hit. "Tch… this overgrown lizard makes the last six feel like practice dummies," he growled, voice raw.
Vermorth was right beside him, golden armor split open in jagged lines, his left arm dangling useless at his side. Sweat and grime streaked his face, but his eyes stayed steady. "We end this now," he said quietly, the words carrying the weight of every mile they'd walked together.
The dragon reared back and screamed. The sound drilled into their skulls. Then it gathered its final curse—a swirling vortex of pure oblivion that sucked in light and hope alike, growing wider with every heartbeat. It would wipe the valley clean if it landed.
Edric didn't hesitate. He roared and charged, broken body be damned, boots pounding over cracked earth. But Nyxtherion was faster. Its massive tail whipped around in a blur of shadow and scale.
The impact was thunder. Edric felt his feet leave the ground, the world spinning as he flew back and slammed into a pile of rubble. Pain exploded through him, white-hot and blinding. Vermorth tried to step in, anchoring the space around them with his resonance, but the curse mist ate through it like acid. The dragon's follow-up strike smashed him down too. Dust and debris rained over both of them.
Nyxtherion loomed, jaws parting for the killing breath. The vortex spun faster, ready to erase them.
Something inside Edric broke open.
A power that had slept for years stirred in his chest. His mana heart—the core that had carried him through every fight—twisted, changed, became something this world wasn't ready for. An Aether Heart. Pure, colorless energy flooded his veins like liquid starlight. He didn't understand it. He only knew he refused to die here, not with his friends still fighting in the distance, not with everything they'd bled for on the line.
His golden hair began to lose color, strand by strand, shifting to a striking ash-silver white that caught the bloody light like a defiance flag. The change felt intimate and wrong, like his own body was rewriting itself while he watched.
Vermorth's eyes widened in raw horror. "No… way. That lineage—"
Edric didn't wait for answers. He pushed up with a primal roar that tore from his gut and launched forward. Silver hair streamed behind him. He met the curse breath head-on, fists clenched, aether surging through every muscle.
The collision was cataclysmic. Light and shadow tore into each other in a storm of exploding energy that lit the entire battlefield. The ground shook. The air screamed. For a moment, everything went white.
When the dust and mist finally settled, Nyxtherion lay broken. Its colossal body crumbled into drifting black ash, carried away on the wind. Edric stood alone in the crater, panting hard, silver hair fluttering, bloodied but still on his feet. In the distance, the rest of the group—Alexander, Kane, Kaira, Alberch, and Kalvin—landed the finishing blow on the Demon King's avatar. A roar of victory rolled across the allied lines like thunder.
They had won.
---
That night the bonfire roared high enough to challenge the stars. The Seven Idiots sat around it, passing bottles and trading the kind of stupid stories that only come after you've stared death down and walked away laughing. Laughter came easy, but not everyone felt light.
Prince Kalvin sat a little apart, his usual easy grin missing. His eyes kept drifting to Edric's silver-white hair, sharp and thoughtful.
Vermorth caught it. He moved over to Edric, dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and forced a casual tone. "Even your hair went white from mana exhaustion. Get some rest, you stubborn bastard."
Kalvin's gaze softened a fraction. He chuckled and slipped back into his laid-back mask.
Later, as the fire burned lower and they prepared to head back for the victory banquet, Kalvin spoke up. "Hey, Edric. It's been a few days. Your mana still hasn't come back?"
He pointed at the unchanged silver hair.
Vermorth froze mid-bite, spoon hovering. His pulse kicked up.
Edric just laughed and scratched his head, face perfectly blank. "Hell if I know, mate. First time I've ever drained myself completely. Hair's still white even after most of my mana returned. Probably temporary. Don't worry about it."
Kalvin raised an eyebrow. "Fair enough… But while we're on the subject—do you know anyone in Cecerean with white hair and the last name Azura?"
The name dropped like a stone into still water.
Vermorth's heart hammered. Edric kept his poker face and shrugged. "Azura? Can't say I do. Sounds noble, though. Hah."
Alberch jumped in quick, clapping Kalvin on the back a bit too hard. "Even I haven't heard that name, and I'm a damn prince of the empire. Cecerean's huge, Kalvin. Stop overthinking, you dork."
Kalvin stared at them for a long beat, then smiled again. "Yeah… you're probably right. Just thinking out loud."
But the suspicion was there now, quiet and growing in the prince's eyes. Vermorth clenched his fist under the table, fear for his best friend's life sitting cold in his stomach.
---
The healing room felt too quiet. Soft blue light from the crystals washed over everything, turning shadows gentle while doing nothing for the tension in the air. Vermorth sat in a wooden chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. Exhaustion carved deep lines into his face. The stoic mask he usually wore had slipped.
On the bed lay the boy, almost completely wrapped in bandages. Only a sliver of his messy hair and part of his pale face showed. His breathing was shallow, each rise of his chest a small battle.
The mage-doctor stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead. "His body is stable… barely. Recovery will be slow. His mana reserves are almost gone—like trying to fill a jug with holes in the bottom."
Vermorth's eyes narrowed. "And the core?"
The doctor hesitated, glancing between the two men. "That's the strange part. He has a core, but it's not mana. It feels like condensed spirit energy. Pure. Raw. Almost primordial."
A low chuckle came from behind Vermorth. Edric Gray stepped forward, his own golden hair still streaked with battlefield ash, face tight with pride and worry. He rested a heavy hand on Vermorth's shoulder. "Told you my boy was special."
Vermorth turned his head slightly. "This only makes everything worse than I thought."
"Yeah," Edric said, trying for a tired grin. "But we'll handle it. Let the kid rest. We plan when he wakes."
The doctor cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "My lords… there's more."
Both men tensed.
"What?" Vermorth asked, voice sharp.
"He's suffering severe lifespan depletion. From what I can sense… he's already lost nearly seventy years."
Edric's hand froze on Vermorth's shoulder. Shock hit him like a physical blow. He grabbed the doctor's robe. "How many years does he have left?"
The doctor's voice dropped to a whisper. "Only three."
Silence crashed over the room.
Edric's grip loosened. Color drained from his face as he stumbled back a step, staring at the small bandaged figure—his son—like the floor had vanished beneath him. "Three years?" The words came out cracked, barely human.
Vermorth closed his eyes for a long moment, letting the full weight settle: the Aether Heart, the hidden Azura blood, the hunters who would come for them, and now this ticking clock.
He stood slowly and put a steadying hand on Edric's arm. "We keep this quiet," he said, low and firm. "No one else hears about the lifespan. Not until we know what we're dealing with."
Edric didn't reply. He just stared at Rolien's still form, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white, the kind of helpless fury only a father can feel when time itself turns enemy.
Outside the window, dawn light crept over the horizon—soft golds and pinks promising a new day. For the two men in that room, it felt like the sun was rising on borrowed time.
To be continued