No Leaf Clover (Black Clover OC)

It might come as a surprise, but the power-scaling in this Black Clover fanfiction works differently. It's not about simple strength tiers or linear progression—it's more balanced, almost like a strategy-based game.

Think of it like a Pokémon battle, where type matchups and tactics matters too. Or better yet, like a card game, where the right combination of abilities, timing, and conditions can turn the tide of a fight. Some has better mana capacity - but can still lose because of elemental counter and precision. Some magic are just bullshit and cheat code. While some are just pitifully weak. So messy.

Some power sets? Completely absurd. Situational advantages can make even a weaker opponent overwhelming. Strength alone isn't always the deciding factor.

Some might call Abiel stupid. Reckless. That he exhausted himself only to wake up branded as a servant. A humiliating thing, one that could've been avoided. But think about it—he's only been here for a month. No real magic training. No practical experience. Just theories from a story, and no idea how to apply them. It's like some writers just throw in a ridiculously strong OC, give them every ability under the sun, and have them dominate every fight with zero struggle. No real tension, no strategy, just power flex after power flex. And the harem? Half the time, it's just female characters falling for the MC with no buildup, no chemistry—just because he's "cool" or "strong." "his d is bid. The series is built on struggles, rivalries, teamwork—characters growing through real hardship. A proper story shouldn't just hand out power and affection for free. There should be weight behind victories, risks behind choices, and consequences for strength.

Now less rant - more on story!

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Abiel

He lowered himself to the ground. Arms shaking. Chest burning. A pause. Then up again.

The courtyard was quiet, save for the distant rustling of leaves. The scent of damp earth clung to the morning air. His palms pressed into the cold stone, rough against his skin. His obsidian hair, longer than it should be, hung over his eyes, another thing undone. Another small failure of his haircut mission.

Push. Breathe. Push.

His muscles burned, but his mind wandered. Black Clover. A world where hundreds could be slaughtered - the people he killed - only to rise again minutes later. Not healed. Not scarred. Simply… reset. Would they feel the same? Would they remember the pain? Or were they just copies, hollowed-out versions of who they used to be?

You open your eyes, stand up, breathe again. As if it never happened.

Would the pain still linger, hiding somewhere deep, beyond memory's reach? Would there be a flicker of fear the next time a blade swung too close, an instinctive flinch at something your mind had erased but your body remembered? Or would you come back clean—no fear, no hesitation, no sense that anything had been lost?

And if so… were you still you?

Or just a thing built from scraps of what used to be?

His arms trembled. His stomach tightened, a slow nausea curling at the edges of his gut.

It felt wrong.

The thought gnawed at him. Small at first. A whisper. Then it grew. If they had the power to revive, then war was never-ending. Bodies would fall. Throats slit. Chests pierced. Limbs torn. Screams would rise, then silence. But only for a moment.

Then the light. The spell. The revival. And they wouldstand again.

Not healed. Not rested. Justreset.

Push. Breathe.

The cycle would never break. Cut down. Rise. March forward. Again. And again. An endless churn of flesh and steel.

How long before they stopped feeling? Before pain became nothing but a flicker in the back of their minds? Before they no longer feared dying at all?

His stomach twisted. His arms burned.

Would they still be people? Or just puppets—bodies that moved because they were told to, because they had no choice? Would they remember the scent of home? The laughter of friends? Or would those things fade, buried beneath a thousand deaths?

And what about the ones who commanded them?

If life could be given so easily, then death had no weight. No meaning. A general wouldn't hesitate to throw his men into the fire, knowing they'd stand again. A ruler wouldn't fear the cost of war, because there was no cost.

Push. Breathe.

Peace in this world doesn't exist.A winner just emerged. That was all. A tomorrow -

Fragil sighed. Arms crossed. Shoulders stiff. Her fingers tapped against her sleeve—slow, rhythmic, controlled. Always controlled. But her foot shifted, grinding into the dirt beneath her boot, a sign of unease she hadn't masked fast enough.

"You don't need to do this." Her voice was even, but her brows pulled together, just a fraction. Lips pressed into a thin line.

Abiel kept going. Push. Breathe. Push. His arms burned, veins bulging, sweat rolling down his temple. The courtyard air was thick, the scent of damp stone and scorched mana lingering from earlier sparring sessions.

"I'll handle thatbitch myself."

Still, he didn't stop. He didn't even look at her. "I need the brand gone," he said. Low. Even. "And I need to be better so I could survive in this hell-hole."

Fragil scoffed. A sharp breath through her nose. Her arms stayed locked, but her knuckles turned white where they gripped her sleeve, the fabric creasing under the pressure.

"Hell-hole?You don't need strength," she said. "That's what Uncle Julius and the Magic Knights are for. They protect people. That's their job."

Abiel exhaled. Finally turned to face her.

She was as still as stone. Her stance—straight as a blade, feet firm, uniform pristine despite the courtyard dust. But her eye, storm gray, cold, calculating—flashed with something unspoken.

"And what if they're not there?"

A quiet question. A heavy weight.

Fragil's brow twitched. "That's not—"

"This world doesn't work like that." His voice cut through hers. Sharp. Certain.

A noble wakes up, bored. Decides to flood a village. A single spell. A wave higher than rooftops, swallowing streets whole. The people? They drown. They can't fight back. They don't have the magical power to survive.

A gust of wind, sharp as blades. A storm of fire, turning homes to embers.

And what happens?

The nobles go home. Laugh over wine. Forget.

Push. Breathe.

"Just choice. If you don't have it, you're just waiting for the day someone decides you don't deserve to breathe anymore."

Silence. The wind stirred the courtyard dust, lifting Fragil's hair slightly, strands shifting against the high collar of her uniform.

Her grip loosened on her sleeve. Fingers curled at her sides, slow, hesitant. She inhaled, deep and quiet, but her throat bobbed—just once.

"You sound just like them."

Abiel stilled.

And for the first time, he wondered if that was a bad thing.

Fragil's fingers twitched. Just slightly. Her throat bobbed again. Then—she exhaled. Long. Slow.

She met his gaze, steel-gray eyes steady. Unshaken. But beneath the surface, something flickered. Something uncertain.

"And if you had that power," she said, voice measured, quiet but sharp, "what would you do?"

Abiel frowned. "What I have to."

Her lips pressed tighter. A muscle in her jaw tensed. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one that matters."

Fragil let out a breath—half a laugh, half something bitter. She looked away, scanning the courtyard like it held something she could use, something she could say to make him see.

Finally, she spoke.

"So that's it, then? You hate them so much you're willing to become them?"

Abiel's brows pulled together. "That's not—"

"You say the nobles wake up and decide people don't deserve to live." Her voice didn't rise, but the weight behind it pressed like a blade to his throat. "But what do you think you're doing?"

Abiel opened his mouth—closed it.

Fragil stepped forward. Close enough that he could see the tension in her fingers, the way she flexed them like she was holding something back.

"You think power changes things. That if you just get strong enough, people will stop dying. That if you fight hard enough, you'll never be weak again." Her breath hitched, just slightly. "But you know what power actually does?"

Abiel stayed silent.

"It makes you think you're right."

The wind stirred the dust between them. Fragil's stare didn't waver.

"The nobles don't kill because they're nobles, Abiel. They kill because they think they have the right to." Her fingers curled into fists, not in anger, but restraint. "And if you think power is all that matters—if you think your power makes you different—" She exhaled, shaking her head.

"Then you're just one bad day away from proving them right."

Abiel's jaw clenched. His muscles burned, but it was nothing compared to the heat curling in his chest.

Fragil turned, just slightly. Not quite leaving. Not quite staying.

But her words lingered. Hung in the air like a weight he couldn't shake.

Abiel stood still.

The wind shifted, threading through the courtyard, dragging loose dust in slow, swirling eddies. It was cool against the sweat on his skin, a fleeting relief that did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. His shirt clung to his back, damp, heavy. The scent of stone, warm from the sun, mixed with the faint metallic tang of his own exertion.

He had no answer.

Fingers curled. Nails dug into his palms, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to feel the sting. His breath came slow, deliberate, drawn in through his nose, released through clenched teeth. His pulse still hadn't settled.

Fragil didn't understand. She Couldn't.

Because she didn't see it.

Not the way he did.

This world wasn't just unfair—it was sick. Held together by paper-thin delusion.

Midnight Eye, those narcissistic elves and bunch of misfits dropouts - waiting in the shadows, patient, unshaken. The Spade Kingdom, ruled by devil's pawn, watching from across the borders, hands never truly at rest. And beneath them all—the devils. Those powerful cruel beings - how can we even hope to overcome them?

The Three Rulers of the Underworld. And Lucius. Abiel swallowed, the thought sitting heavy in his chest. Midnight Eye, the elves, the Spade Kingdom—they were nothing compared to them.

Lucifero.

Beelzebub.

Megicula.

Rulers of the devil realm. Monsters beyond anything this world had faced. Their power wasn't just magic—it was absolute. Gravity that could crush nations. Curses that could make death a mercy. A speed so overwhelming that even blinking could be a mistake. And then there was Lucius Zogratis. The man who knew. Who planned. Who looked at fate itself and decided he would rewrite it. Who could see everything and still believed he would win. Abiel's hands curled into fists. What did strength even mean against beings like that? Against devils that twisted the very laws of nature? Against a man who played with time like it was nothing? The Magic Knights thought they were protectors. The kingdom thought they were safe.

They weren't. Because the war that was coming wasn't just about territory. It wasn't about revenge. It was about control. Completely slavery orutterannihilation.

Everything would be lost.

Raymon's voice cut through the courtyard like a whip.

"You talk as if the Magic Knights are non-sense bunch!"

Abiel blinked, pulled from his thoughts. He turned, eyes settling on the man striding toward him.

Raymon. Older. Sharp-eyed. Magic thrummed in the air around him—controlled, steady, powerful. A butler, maybe. An elder of the manor. But even from here, even with his presence pressing against the space between them, he was still—

Far.

Abiel didn't move. Didn't react. Just watched. Because Raymon was strong. That much was obvious. But not strong enough. That quiet realization sat heavy in his chest, but he kept it there, locked behind his ribs. His face stayed blank. His hands relaxed at his sides. Because it wasn't worth saying. It wasn't worth arguing. Raymon's steps didn't slow. His presence loomed closer, his gaze sharp, cutting through the air between them.

"You act like you see everything," he said, voice edged with something between frustration and disappointment. "Like you've already decided who wins and who dies. And yet, here you are—wasting time. Playing soldier instead of becoming one."

Abiel didn't flinch. He met Raymon's gaze, unreadable. Silent.

Raymon scoffed. "You talk about danger, about war, but you don't train like someone who means it. You don't tap into your potential. You think brooding over the future will make you strong? You think standing there, thinking you're smarter than everyone else, will save you?"

His magic flared—controlled, disciplined. A force that had been honed over years, sharpened like a blade. "The Magic Knights—those you dismiss so easily—they fight. They bleed. They train until their bodies give out. And what do you do?" His eyes narrowed. "Push-ups in a courtyard?"

Abiel's fingers twitched.

"That brand on you," Raymon pressed, his voice quieter now but no less sharp. "You act like it defines you. Like it's the reason you need to be strong. But strength isn't just about erasing the past, boy. It's about what you do next."

The wind stirred again. Abiel said nothing.

Raymon took another step forward, the weight of his presence pressing down like a storm about to break.

"You think you understand strength?" His voice turned sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "You think staring at the horizon and sulking over what's coming will make you ready?" He scoffed. "You're a fool."

Abiel's jaw tightened.

Raymon wasn't finished.

"You talk about power, but you've never stood on a battlefield. Never felt your bones shake from the pressure of overwhelming mana. Never watched comrades fall, knowing you weren't fast enough, strong enough, good enough to save them." His eyes burned with something raw, something old. "You speak like someone who's seen the worst of this world, but all you've done is imagine it from the safety of these walls."

Abiel's breath stayed steady. His pulse did not.

Raymon's voice dropped, colder now. "You claim you want strength, but you train like a child playing knight. You hold back. You waste time on thoughts instead of action. And worst of all? You sit here acting as if you know better than those who've given their lives to protect this kingdom."

His magic pulsed—controlled, restrained, but vast. A reminder. A warning.

"You mock the Magic Knights, but they would die for you." Raymon's gaze hardened. "Would you do the same for them?"

Silence.

The wind stirred. Dust curled around Abiel's feet.

Raymon exhaled, shaking his head. "Pathetic."

The air shifted.

One moment, Raymon was just a man—frustrated, lecturing, a strong mage, in magic knight level but nothing beyond what Abiel had already assessed.

The next, his presence changed.

His concealment shattered.

A pressure unlike anything Abiel had ever felt exploded into existence. The ground trembled beneath his feet. The air grew dense, thick with something far beyond normal mana—something that felt wrong. Otherworldly.

Raymon's body lifted off the ground, slow, effortless. Not with the practiced control of a Magic Knight but with sheer, undeniable force. His magic, once steady and disciplined, now roared—amplified to an unnatural degree. Light twisted around him. Shadows stretched in ways they shouldn't. Every spell technique Abiel had ever seen in this world—the way mana shaped, condensed, surged—was now sharpened, enhanced, made absolute.

Abiel's breath stalled. His muscles locked.

This wasn't just strong. This wasn't just the power of a high-ranking Magic Knight.

This was something else.

The man he had fought before, the one he had sparred with? That was nothing. A fraction. A mere sliver of what Raymon truly was.

A single thought ran through Abiel's mind, ice-cold and absolute:

I was wrong.

The world blinked.

One moment, Raymon hovered before him, his presence suffocating, warping the space around him. The next—

Gone.

A whisper of displaced air. A flicker of movement that shouldn't have been possible.

Then—behind.

A shadow loomed over Abiel. Taller. Larger. The sheer contrast between them—a towering, seasoned force against a boy still trying to find his place—made something cold settle in Abiel's gut.

Raymon's voice came, smooth, quiet. Mocking.

"You thought you had me figured out."

Abiel turned slowly, pulse hammering against his ribs. Raymon stood there, arms crossed, gaze leveled with something between amusement and disappointment.

"You looked at me, weighed my strength, and placed me in a box, didn't you?" Raymon exhaled, shaking his head. "How naive. How arrogant." His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You've been training, what? Months? A year, weeks, maybe?" He tilted his head. "And you thought you could already see the peak?"

His magic pulsed again—steady, overwhelming. Controlled in a way Abiel had never seen before. Like breathing.

"Do you know how many have stood where you stand now?" Raymon asked, stepping forward. The pressure increased, pressing against Abiel's skin, his bones. "How many young, stubborn, self-righteous boys have looked me in the eye and thought they understood what it meant to be strong?"

His expression darkened.

"I've seen them all. Broke them all. Trained them all."

The weight of his words sank deep.

Raymon let the silence linger before speaking again—soft, but absolute.

"I have been shaping kings before your great-grandfather was even a thought."

Abiel's stomach twisted.

Not a Magic Knight. Not an elder. Not a butler.

A force. A cornerstone of history, hidden in plain sight.

And Abiel had assumed he was just another strong mage.

Raymon chuckled, low and sharp. "You're still looking at me like you can't believe it." He stepped even closer, his towering form casting Abiel completely in shadow.

"Tell me, boy—" His voice dropped, edged with quiet amusement.

"Do you still think you know anything at all?"

Abiel's pulse pounded in his ears. His mind raced, clawing for any logical explanation, but the truth pressed down on him like an undeniable weight. This was something beyond magic. Beyond power. Beyond anything he had ever known.

He forced himself to breathe. To think.

If Raymon wasn't human, then what was he?

A devil? No—impossible. Devils were vile, dripping with malice, their presence tainted the very air. Raymon's presence wasn't like that. It wasn't corrupt or twisted. It was old. Heavy with something far greater than cruelty.

An elf? Perhaps. Elves held immense magical power, their spells refined, their very existence intertwined with mana itself. But even the elves, with all their arrogance and brilliance, were still bound by the natural order. Plus his ears were of human.

Raymon wasn't.

He spoke as if he had seen civilizations before they had names. As if kings and wars were nothing more than passing seasons. As if he had lived through eras that history itself had forgotten.

And then there was the way the world bent around him.

Not like a spell. Not like magic forcing reality to obey.

No.

Reality recognized him. Yielded to him.

The way wind shifts around a mountain. The way the tide pulls toward the moon.

A force, ancient and immovable.

And suddenly, Abiel knew.

A dragon.

His chest tightened. His instincts screamed it was true. Dragons were nothing but myths, but myths often carried truths buried beneath time. They were said to be ageless, entities that walked long before magic was ever studied, before kingdoms built their walls. Their power was not just magic—it was woven into existence itself. His void is screaming. Pure instinct. Abiel's mind churned as he stared at Raymon. A dragon. That was his closest guess. But dragons in Black Clover? Canon was vague, frustratingly so. There were hints—scattered mentions in myths, remnants of stories barely acknowledged. The dragon of the Grand Magic Zone. The dragon referenced in Hino Country. The ancient beings that may or may not have existed in the past.

He felt sick. Small. Human.

Raymon watched him carefully, his expression unreadable.

Then, as if hearing his thoughts, he smiled. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… knowing.

"Ah," he murmured, the weight of centuries laced in his voice.

"You finally understand."

Abiel's bubble gum pink eyes flickered with something unreadable—hesitation, calculation, a flicker of something deeper. They were unnatural in this world, a shade that stood out too much, too soft for someone carrying the weight of knowledge he shouldn't have. They caught the dim courtyard light, a strange contrast against his dark, sweat-dampened hair.

"You have drive," Raymon said, eyes gleaming. "Most don't. Not in a way that matters." His voice was thoughtful, almost distant. "People train to protect, to serve, to prove themselves. But you—" He narrowed his gaze. "You're trying to outrun something."

Abiel tensed.

Raymon chuckled. "I like that."

Then, a pause. A shift. A decision.

"I think I'll train you."

Abiel blinked.

What?

Raymon stretched, rolling his shoulders as if he had just woken from a long nap. "It's rare I find someone interesting enough to bother with," he mused. "Stronger men have stood before me. Weaker ones, too. All of them lacking something." He gave Abiel a slow, measured look. "You, however… You might be worth the trouble."

Abiel's breath felt shallow. This wasn't normal. This wasn't supposed to happen. Raymon wasn't part of the story. Abiel wasn't part of the story. He was stepping into uncharted territory.

Raymon's gaze flickered over him, unimpressed. "You're still weak," he said bluntly. "But not hopeless."

Abiel exhaled through his nose. The insult barely registered. His mind was still processing the sheer absurdity of what was happening. The absurdity of him. A kid with an unassuming frame, pink eyes that should have no place in a battlefield, standing before a being that should not exist, being offered power.

Raymon was still watching him, waiting for something. A reaction. A refusal. An answer.

Abiel clenched his fists, nails pressing into his palms.

This world is too dangerous. Too unpredictable. His knowledge of canon was already shifting, already proving unreliable. He couldn't afford to rely on fate, on the assumption that things would play out as expected.

If Raymon was offering him an opportunity—he had no choice but to take it.

"Fine," Abiel said, lifting his chin. "Train me."

A slow smirk spread across Raymon's face.

"Good."