No Leaf Clover (Black Clover OC)

Lots of learning seems unaddressed. But I had to make the timeskip in order to to move forward. Things will be revealed on its own in the future chapters.

Enjoy the chap!

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Abiel

The courtyard shimmered. Void crackled in the air. Abiel's breath came in short, ragged gasps. He raised a trembling hand. Void energy pulsed at his fingertips. It coiled, lashed forward. Fast. Wild. Reckless.

Raymon moved. Effortless. Silent. He weaved through the attacks, his body a blur. He barely seemed to try. Each burst of Void energy hit nothing. Dispersed into the air like smoke. He didn't even counterattack. He didn't need to.

"You're unfocused." Raymon stepped back. Another strike missed. Another failure.

Abiel clenched his fists. The Void pulsed again. Wavering. Flickering. He forced it to stay. Forced it to obey. A blast surged toward Raymon. He batted it aside like it was nothing more than a stray leaf.

"Control it," Raymon said. "If you can't, then this is pointless."

Abiel grit his teeth. The world spun slightly. His body ached. His chest burned. He sent another wave of Void forward. Raymon stepped aside, dodging with ease.

Raymon frowned, watching him carefully. Abiel staggered. His vision blurred. His pulse pounded in his ears. His magic flickered, dancing at his fingertips, but it no longer roared. It barely whispered.

Raymon exhaled sharply. "Stop thinking. Focus."

Abiel's hands trembled. His thoughts swirled, too heavy to push away. He couldn't stop. He couldn't focus. But he had to.

He had read fanfiction before—about people self-inserting into Black Clover, being invincible, being perfect. He had laughed at how ridiculous it was. Now, he felt stupid. Trickled. Trapped in a world that looked cool. This wasn't a game. It wasn't a story where he was the hero. It was real. And it hurt.

Abiel staggered. His vision blurred. His pulse pounded in his ears. His magic flickered, dancing at his fingertips, but it no longer roared. It barely whispered.

Raymon exhaled sharply. "Stop thinking. Focus. If you keep letting your emotions run wild."

Raymon straightened. His expression unreadable. The air around them stilled. No more attacks. No more dodging. Just silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

>>>>

"You're done," Raymon said.

Raymon exhaled through his nose. "Void Magic…" he mused. His gaze drifted over Abiel, calculating. "This is the first time I've seen it. And it's the most potent I've encountered in thousand years."

Abiel blinked. His breath hitched. His chest tightened.

A thousand years?

His stomach dropped. His pulse roared in his ears. That wasn't right. This dragon is more than ancient. The Black Clover timeline. The most ancient recorded history—the story of Lumiere and Licht—was only five hundred years ago. Thousands? That was more than double. Impossible. His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists. His thoughts spun too fast.

"How do you manage to raise your Mana amount and density?"

His breath came too short. Abiel froze. His fingers twitched. The question weighed heavy, pressing against his chest. He hesitated. Should he lie? Should he deflect? His mind raced, but he forced himself to stay still.

He gambled. "I have a Void Sphere in my mind," he admitted, voice quiet, uncertain. "And there's a Void Space. I've been collecting energy from this dimension. Making it my own."

The words hung between them. The wind whispered through the courtyard, cool and damp. The distant chatter from the castle halls faded. Raymon's expression didn't change. But the weight in the air did.

Raymon narrowed his eyes. "Come again?"

Abiel took a slow breath. He forced himself to focus. "Inside my mind, there's a sphere. A Void Sphere. It's connected to a separate space, like a dimension filled with raw energy. I can pull from it, absorb it, make it part of me. It strengthens my mana, increases its density. The more I take in, the better my magic become."

Raymon stayed silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he crossed his arms. "That..." He exhaled sharply. "That shouldn't be possible."

Abiel frowned. "Huh?"

Raymon studied him, eyes narrowing. "Because," he said, voice measured, "in all my research, no human, elf, or dwarf has ever possessed a mechanic like that. Not even the most gifted among them could create or access an external space of pure energy." He hesitated, then added, "The only beings capable of something even remotely similar… are devils."

His body tensed. His sharp gaze locked onto Abiel. "But devils—no. That isn't it."

He stepped closer. His expression was unreadable as he raised a hand and pressed it against Abiel's chest. A shock rippled through his features. His eyes widened. Raymon inhaled, stepping back as if distancing himself from an unsolvable enigma. His voice, usually steady, wavered with awe and disbelief. "You… you're not a devil. Your body—it's unknown to me. It bears human traits. But it's something else..."

Raymon chuckled. Low. Amused. Intrigued. His golden eyes gleamed with something laughter grew louder. Rich. Almost delighted. The sound echoed through the courtyard, bouncing off the stone walls, mixing with the distant murmur of castle life. The air was thick with the scent of charred stone and lingering magic. Heat clung to Abiel's skin, sweat cooling against his arms, sticking to his clothes.

Raymon took a step closer, his boots scraping against the cracked ground. "Fascinating," he murmured. His gaze swept over Abiel once more, calculating. Weighing. Then, suddenly, "How old are you?"

Abiel hesitated. It was such a simple question, yet something about it felt heavier than it should. He swallowed, the dryness in his throat making it harder than expected. "I'm turning fifteen," he finally said, voice steady, though his chest still felt tight.

Raymon hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Fifteen," he echoed. A pause. Then, as if considering something far beyond just a number, he asked, "And your life before this?"

Abiel exhaled, slow and measured. His shoulders tensed. The past. He didn't like talking about it, didn't like remembering it, but there was no point in hiding something so ordinary. "Just a peasant," he admitted. "I lived and grew up in Kiten with my father. Helped him run the restaurant."

A simple truth. Plain. Nothing grand.

And yet, as the words left his mouth, he saw the shift in Raymon's expression. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way his lips pressed together, thoughtful. Calculating.

Raymon didn't speak right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, thick and expectant. His gaze darkened, distant yet sharp, like he was unraveling something hidden, something unseen.

Abiel steadied his breath. His mana reserves were nearly drained, his body heavy. The Void energy in his core swirled sluggishly, unstable. Too much had been used too fast.

Raymon watched him closely, arms crossed, his golden eyes sharp with thought. "Your Void magic is potent as I've said," he stated. "Far beyond anything I've seen so far. But it burns out too quickly."

Abiel frowned. He already knew that. His mana had expanded in size, yet the cost of using Void was too high. Even with the increase, it drained faster than other elements.

Raymon continued, his tone analytical. "Think about elemental mana. Fire mages ignite flames, and unless they sustain them, the fire burns out. Wind mages shape the air, but they aren't constantly consuming energy unless they keep a spell active. Light magic, fast and efficient, allows for rapid bursts without major depletion. But Void?" He shook his head. "It consumes everything. It's not just a spell—it's an erasure, a force that devours whatever it touches. That kind of power doesn't come cheap."

Abiel's mind worked rapidly, recalling his fights. The first time he had used a simple Void-infused mana bullet, it had nearly killed him—draining him completely and leaving his reserves in the negatives. But during his spar with Raymon, after his power had doubled due to the Tormenta Brand, he had been able to form a Void Raw Blast. A larger attack, but still consuming too much energy.

He thought of Sekke's Magnum Cannon Ball, a spell meant for compressed force. He had compared the cost, testing the numbers in his head. His Void Sphere rotated constantly, pulling in mana, but the rate of absorption was slow. He had timed it, measured the intake, yet the disparity remained—his magic output far exceeded his recovery speed.

"So, in simple terms," Abiel murmured, rubbing his temple, "I can create stronger attacks, but my mana consumption rate scales too high compared to other elements. The more power I use, the faster I reach zero."

Raymon nodded approvingly. "Exactly. High-risk, high-reward magic. Your issue isn't just the drain—it's sustainability. You're gathering energy, but not fast enough to keep up with the cost. That's your real weakness."

Raymon exhaled, deep in thought. "This reminds me of someone," he muttered.

Abiel tilted his head. "Who?" he asked, feigning curiosity. He already knew the answer—Yami Sukehiro. But he couldn't reveal that. His knowledge of the future had to remain a secret.

Raymon smirked. "A fool. A rude, reckless foreigner with a temper. Came from a faraway land, washed up on our shores with nothing but raw strength and an even rougher attitude. Now a Captain of Magic Knight Squad." His tone carried both amusement and exasperation. "He used Dark Magic. Similar to your Void in some ways. Slow, heavy, powerful. But unlike you, he had no problem making up for its weaknesses. He used a sword as a conduit, making his magic more efficient, cutting down on casting time."

Abiel nodded, as if hearing it for the first time. "What happened to him?"

Raymon huffed. "He never changed. Even when he got stronger, he stayed the same. That fool never admitted it, but he and Julius became best friends. The Time Magic Nerd and the foreign troublemaker—what a pair."

Abiel masked his thoughts well, but inside, he was piecing things together. Yami's growth had been absurd, but compared to where he was now…

"How strong is he?" Abiel asked, pretending to be just curious.

Raymon gave him a sharp look before answering bluntly, "Infinitely stronger than you right now."

Abiel fell silent. His thoughts raced. If Yami, at his current strength, was already leagues beyond him, then the Spade Kingdom Arc… the Devil Arc… those were on an entirely different level. Asta and Yuno had climbed to such heights at impossible speeds. The scale of power in this world was terrifying.

Abiel took a deep breath. He had gathered enough pieces. Now, it was time to fit them together.

"The main problem with Void Magic," he began, "is its cost-to-output ratio. It's absurdly high. Compared to other elements, the depletion rate is far steeper, and it takes longer to recover. Even though my mana pool is increasing, the efficiency just isn't there."

Raymon folded his arms, nodding slightly. "That much is obvious. Your Void might be stronger than usual attributes - but your actual sustain is garbage. If you were to fight a prolonged battle, you'd burn out before even using half your potential."

Abiel furrowed his brows. "But that doesn't make sense. Magic should have a natural balance—if Void is that expensive, then logically, there must be something that compensates for it. Either I'm missing a crucial part, or there's a way to mitigate the cost."

Raymon smirked. "And here I thought you were just another reckless brute. You actually think things through."

Abiel ignored the jab. "Let's assume Void is naturally inefficient. Then the question is: how do I optimize it? Other elements as you have told me have properties that regulate their mana usage. Fire spreads. Water flows. Lightning surges. But Void? It consumes."

Raymon tilted his head. "That's the issue. It doesn't just exist—it erases. Unlike Dark Magic, which binds and pulls, Void negates. Meaning every time you activate it, you're not just creating something. You're forcibly deleting something from existence. That kind of power isn't cheap."

Abiel frowned, deep in thought. "Then the trick isn't in making it cost less… it's in controlling how much it consumes at a time. Like regulating fuel intake in a furnace instead of just dumping everything in at once."

Raymon chuckled. "Sounds like a decent theory. But in practice, how do you do that? You said earlier that you can only gather mana at a slow rate—meaning your 'fuel intake' is already throttled. If you push too hard, you're just gonna run out and collapse again."

Abiel nodded. "That's true. But what if I had a medium? Something that can control the flow and act as a stabilizer. Like how some mages use staffs, wands, or even weapons to refine their magic output."

Raymon's smirk widened. "Now you're thinking. That's exactly what Yami does. His Dark Magic is slow, but his katana acts as a channel, letting him release his magic in controlled bursts. He doesn't waste energy swinging blindly—he focuses it all into precise cuts."

Abiel's mind raced. He had suspected as much, but hearing it from Raymon confirmed it. So Dark Magic and Void Magic really weren't that different in terms of limitations… but their applications were.

He had been treating Void like raw, unshaped energy—expending massive amounts without control. But if he could learn to regulate its output, refine how much was consumed at any given moment…

"Then the key isn't just a medium," Abiel said, his voice steadier. "It's the method of release. This Yami doesn't just store power—he refines it before using it."

Raymon nodded. "Exactly. Your problem isn't just the high cost—it's that you're dumping out everything with no regulation. You need a way to control the flow."

Abiel's gaze sharpened. "Then the next step is finding the right medium… and learning to shape Void like Yami does with Dark Magic."

His mind whirred, calculating. What was the best conduit?

If Void consumed everything it touched, then the material had to be something that could withstand or regulate its erasing nature. Metal? No. Too rigid, might crumble under Void's corrosive effect. Wood? Useless. Something alive? No—organic matter would break down too fast.

Then… a medium that didn't resist but flowed with the nature of Void. Like how Yami's katana wasn't just a sword—it was a vessel that conducted his magic. Something sleek, refined, durable, and able to act as a precise channel for controlled release.

He considered several options, disguising his thoughts as simple theory. In truth, he was filtering through ideas from his past world—things that shouldn't exist here. But he had to be careful. He couldn't reveal too much.

A spear? Too unwieldy. A dagger? Too close-range. A staff? Weaker too.

Then it clicked.

A bladed gauntlet.

A direct conduit, attached to his arm, allowing him to mold Void without worrying about wielding an external weapon. If designed correctly, it could stabilize the flow while letting him release controlled bursts. No unnecessary movement, no excess consumption. Just pure, refined execution.

He ran the idea through his mental simulations. How would the mana circulate? How would Void be stored before release? What materials could possibly endure its nature? He needed something resistant but adaptive—something that could handle the constant drain without breaking apart.

Still, there were gaps in his theory. Could he create such a thing with the resources available in this world? Was there an alternative if this plan wouldn't work?

He had no time.

I need to think.

Abiel took a breath. "A bladed gauntlet," he said. "Reinforced. Light. Fast."

Raymon barely paused before shaking his head. "Wrong."

The word was sharp. Final. It felt like a slap against Abiel's reasoning.

Raymon crossed his arms, expression firm. "You're fighting with Void, not steel. A gauntlet relies on brute force, but Void isn't force. It's nothingness. You can't reinforce 'nothing.' You're adding weight without purpose." His tone was even, but the truth behind his words cut deep.

Abiel opened his mouth to argue, but Raymon continued. "A gauntlet means close-range combat. You'll be forced to fight within arm's reach, limiting your options. It might work for someone using fire or wind—elements that enhance physical strikes. But Void? Void devours. It doesn't enhance. It doesn't push. It negates."

Abiel clenched his fists. The logic was sound. His gauntlet idea wouldn't work the way he envisioned.

Raymon wasn't done. "And what happens when you swing?" He pointed at Abiel's hands. "Void isn't steel. If you coat a blade in it, the moment it makes contact, the structure collapses. It's like punching through water. The force disperses. You won't get a clean cut—just wasted energy."

Abiel exhaled sharply. His initial plan was crumbling under the weight of Raymon's reasoning.

Raymon tilted his head. "And let's not forget your mana issue. You're already struggling with consumption. A gauntlet forces you into prolonged engagements, meaning you'll burn through your reserves even faster. You need efficiency, not weight dragging you down."

Abiel bit the inside of his cheek. Every point was brutal, but it made sense. He needed something different. Something that worked with Void's properties, not against them.

He straightened. "Then what about a weapon that shifts between melee and range?" His voice was even, hiding the spark of excitement beneath. "A blade that doesn't just cut but also releases controlled bursts of Void on impact?"

Raymon arched a brow. "Tch. And how do you plan to regulate the energy consumption?"

Abiel glanced at his own hands, flexing his fingers. "By using Void as an extension rather than a reinforcement. If I swing a sword, the impact carries weight. But what if, at the exact moment of collision, a controlled release of Void enhances the strike?" He looked up. "Not a constant flow. Just a timed burst. A weapon that strikes and fires in one movement."

Raymon's eyes narrowed slightly.

The old dragon was listening now.

Abiel pressed forward. "We already know Void depletes mana fast. I can't coat a weapon in it without draining myself dry. But if the release is momentary—like an explosion instead of a burn—then the cost is minimized."

Raymon hummed. He turned away and gestured. "Test it."

The air shifted. The scent of singed wood filled Abiel's nose. The training ground was littered with scars from previous experiments—craters, shattered stone, deep gouges in the dirt. The remnants of their training.

He summoned his Void.

Darkness curled around his fingers, weightless yet dense. It wasn't fire. It wasn't wind. It was absence. No heat, no cold. Just a pulling sensation, like space itself was unraveling.

Abiel clenched his fist, shaping the Void into a rough edge along his knuckles. He struck forward.

The air gave way. A sharp pop echoed. The impact was hollow. Weak.

Raymon sighed. "And there's your problem."

Abiel exhaled, sweat beading on his forehead. "I need something to focus it."

Raymon nodded. "Exactly. Your Void isn't stable. It disperses too quickly. You're fighting your own magic instead of wielding it." He gestured toward the remains of the strike. The earth was untouched. Not a dent. "It lacks structure. It lacks weight. Without form, it's just wasted mana."

Abiel's mind raced. If Void refused to hold shape, then instead of forcing it to remain stable, he needed to control its release.

His breath slowed.

A weapon that carried momentum. A blade that could store energy and release it at precise moments. A mechanism that could cycle Void without wasting excess mana.

His heart pounded.

The answer was clear.

"A blade that fires."

Raymon glanced at him, waiting.

Abiel met his gaze. "A weapon that cuts when swung but expels Void when triggered. Not a ranged weapon. Not just a sword. A conduit designed to maximize impact at the perfect moment."

Abiel pulled out his notepad, flipping to a blank page. His fingers moved quickly, sketching rough outlines, adjusting as his thoughts refined. A slender blade, slightly curved, designed for swift, controlled strikes. A mechanism near the hilt—something to store and compress Void. A release system, allowing him to direct energy in precise bursts. He paused, analyzing the flow of power. Could he make it work? The theory was sound, but the materials…

Raymon leaned over, scanning the rough schematics. His sharp gaze traced every line. "This design assumes Void can be held. But what material could even withstand nothingness? Void doesn't just destroy—it erases."

Abiel tapped the hilt's section. "Then we use something that doesn't resist Void but adapts to it. A structure that channels, not repels. Maybe a metal that can act as a stabilizer." He frowned, considering. "Mithril might work, but it's too conductive I think. It would leak Void before I could use it properly."

Raymon clicked his tongue. "Then you need something denser. Dragonbone could work—ancient ones can retain magic essence, but it's rare and I won't give mine. Or enchanted obsidian, if properly reinforced." He crossed his arms. "But the key issue isn't just containment. How do you regulate Void's release?"

Abiel's eyes narrowed as he returned to his sketches. "A chamber system. A containment core near the base of the blade, with a trigger mechanism. The Void wouldn't flow freely—it would be stored in micro-bursts, only released when needed." He circled the section near the hilt. "Like a muscle contracting. Build up force, then strike."

Raymon studied the design, rubbing his chin. "Interesting. But regulating Void's release will be difficult without a stabilizing agent. If the structure fails, it will either collapse inward or explode outward. Either way, you'd be left weaponless." He glanced at Abiel. "Any ideas for reinforcement?"

Abiel's mind raced. "What if the core isn't just a container, but something alive? Not in the literal sense, but a medium that can absorb and adjust to Void's nature. A self-regulating system." He hesitated, then wrote something down. "Runic circuits… but designed specifically to handle Void's volatility."

Raymon raised an eyebrow. "A risky approach. Void doesn't follow standard magic properties. Runes might not hold."

"Not standard runes," Abiel countered. "Custom ones. Designed to work with Void's nature instead of against it. If they don't contain, they redirect. Guide the flow instead of trying to suppress it."

Raymon exhaled, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're ambitious." He studied the notepad again, nodding slightly. "This… could work. But you'll need to test materials. And if you miscalculate even slightly, you'll either waste all your mana or obliterate yourself."

Abiel smirked. "Then I'll make sure the calculations are perfect."

Abiel exhaled, staring at his rough schematics. His mind whirled with calculations, adjustments, possibilities. He needed this weapon—something that wouldn't just channel Void but enhance his combat efficiency and survival. The theory was there, but execution? That was another challenge altogether.

He turned to Raymon. "I need your help with this." His tone was firm but not demanding.

Raymon barely glanced up, arms crossed. "You're asking for my help," he said, voice laced with irritation, "but you're not even calling me 'Master'? Bold of you."

Abiel blinked. "Does that really matter?"

Raymon clicked his tongue. "It does when you're asking me to put in effort for something I won't even use." He sighed, glancing at the notepad. "This is your project. You're the one who benefits. So, it's your assignment."

Abiel frowned. "You're not even a little curious? A weapon that can regulate Void, store and release it in precise bursts? It's an entirely new application of magic theory."

Raymon snorted. "Curiosity? Maybe. But that doesn't mean I'll waste my time on it. You refine it. If you can't make it work on your own, then maybe you don't deserve to wield it."

Abiel clenched his jaw but wasn't surprised. Raymon was ancient, powerful—he had no obligation to assist in a pet project that didn't serve him directly.

Still, that didn't mean Abiel would drop it. If anything, it only hardened his resolve.

"Fine," he said, flipping to another page in his notebook. "Then I'll make it work myself."

Abiel hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Earlier, you said Yami is infinitely stronger than me." His voice was measured, curious. "Does that mean the number of leaves in a grimoire really determines power?"

Raymon raised a brow, arms still crossed. "Statistically, yes. More leaves, more potential. Three is average, four is rare, five… well, that's something else entirely." He tilted his head, eyes sharp with experience. "But after all these years, I've seen plenty of four-leaf grimoires. Some amounted to nothing. Some three-leaf wielders became monsters in their own right."

Abiel frowned, processing the implication. "So, it matters, but it's not absolute?"

Raymon smirked. "Exactly. Power isn't handed to you just because you've got an extra leaf in your book. It's a factor, not a guarantee. The one wielding it matters more."

Abiel tapped his fingers against his notebook, absorbing every word. So leaf count set the ceiling, but effort, skill, and willpower could shatter that limit. That meant he wasn't doomed to mediocrity. His path was his own to carve.

He looked up from his notepad, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Then… where do Grimoires actually come from?"

Raymon's expression shifted. He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. "You want the common answer or the real one?"

Abiel frowned. "The real one."

Raymon chuckled, shaking his head. "Figured. Most people are content with the fairytale—Grimoires are gifts of mana, bestowed by the world itself, choosing their wielders based on fate or talent." His golden eyes gleamed with something deeper, something knowing. "But reality isn't so romantic."

Abiel tightened his grip on the notepad, absorbing every word.

Raymon continued, voice steady but edged with something almost distant. "Grimoires are more like… accumulations. Not divine bestowals. They are records—living, adaptive records of one's mana, one's will, and one's potential. The moment someone awakens their Grimoire, it doesn't just 'appear.' It manifests. A reflection of everything they are and could be, compressed into something they can wield."

Abiel's mind raced. That made sense. It wasn't just a magical book appearing out of nowhere; it was a construct of the soul, refined by the mana around it. But that led to another question.

"If that's true," Abiel asked, voice steady but intrigued, "then why do they vanish when the user dies? Shouldn't they stay, like an old relic of the person's existence?"

Raymon smirked, as if pleased with the question. "Because a Grimoire is a bridge, not a book. It exists as long as there's a will—your will—to wield it. Once that's gone, it unravels, returning to the flow of mana it came from. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is permanent."

Abiel tapped the pen against the page, eyes narrowing in thought. "Then... what about lost Grimoires? The ones that are found abandoned or inherited?"

Raymon's expression turned serious. "Those are rare, but they exist. Usually, they belong to someone who never truly died in the mana sense—people whose existence lingered, unfinished, unfulfilled, or… interfered with."

That made Abiel pause. He thought of the legendary Grimoires of history, of spells that persisted long after their users had vanished. If a Grimoire was a bridge, then that meant…

"They're not just books," Abiel murmured, more to himself than to Raymon. "They're echoes."

Abiel hesitated for a moment, then asked, "How about you? What leaf is your Grimoire?"

Raymon chuckled, a deep, knowing sound that sent a shiver down Abiel's spine. "Now that's an interesting question." He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "Even Julius never managed to figure that one out."

Abiel's eyes widened. He gritted his teeth, biting his lip in frustration. Julius Novachrono, one of the strongest being in this verse - couldn't discern Raymon's attribute? That meant it wasn't just unknown—it was something beyond conventional magic classifications.

Slowly, Abiel lowered his gaze to his notepad and, without a word, added a new entry to his growing list of personal objectives.

Find a way to reveal Raymon's true magic.

Fragil Tormenta

The candle flickered. Ink glistened on parchment. Fragil's quill scratched against the paper, swift and deliberate. She wrote with precision, every stroke carrying weight. The noble's persistence irritated her. She had refused. That should have been enough.

But it wasn't.

Her office smelled of parchment and candle wax. The faint scent of dried roses lingered, a gift from a visiting merchant. Outside, rain tapped against the glass. The sound was steady, rhythmic, like a distant heartbeat. She dipped the quill back into the ink, tapping off the excess.

Her hand hesitated.

Hage Village.

She had read reports. Small. Remote. Insignificant. A farming village tucked in the farthest reaches of the Clover Kingdom. A place where no noble would set foot unless they were desperate or foolish. It should have been irrelevant.

But it wasn't.

A four-leaf clover grimoire had appeared there.

Her fingers curled slightly against the parchment. She leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking softly beneath her. A four-leaf… in Hage? That alone defied everything the statistics claimed. Four-leaf grimoires were rare. Unbelievably so. They belonged to prodigies, those born under fate's brightest star. Royalty. Elites who carried power in their very blood.

And yet… a commoner had received one.

Her sources had been thorough. She had read the details, piecing together a narrative from scraps of intelligence, testimonies, and eyewitness accounts. The boy had been an orphan. No noble lineage. No wealth. No known ancestry of remarkable magical prowess. And yet, the grimoire had chosen him.

Fragil exhaled slowly, running a hand along the edge of her desk. Her nails tapped against the polished wood, rhythmic and thoughtful. If the four-leaf could manifest in a place like Hage, then what exactly determined its selection? Was it power? Potential? Or something more elusive—something not bound by noble bloodlines or magical ancestry?

Her mind drifted back to another anomaly.

Two children, raised in that same village. One gifted with the rarest grimoire. The other… with nothing at all.

Fragil's eyes darkened. She picked up the quill again, but her thoughts had already strayed too far from the letter on her desk.

To the esteemed House—"

Fragil's fingers paused over the parchment. The ink had begun to dry, dark and crisp against the expensive paper. She was about to return to her letter when the door creaked open.

Abiel stepped in, holding a bundle of papers in his hands. His eyes carried the usual sharpness, but there was something else—something brimming with thought. He moved without hesitation, crossing the room with the casual air of someone who did not care for decorum.

He dropped the schematics onto her desk. "I need materials."

Fragil arched a brow. No greeting. No pleasantries. Typical.

She picked up the top sheet and examined it. Her eyes scanned the carefully drawn lines, the measurements, the annotations scribbled in fine detail. The craftsmanship of the design itself was sound—too sound. As if it had been conceived by someone with knowledge far beyond what an ordinary magic knight should possess.

Interesting.

She tilted the paper slightly under the candlelight. The design was ambitious, intricate in a way that suggested it was not the work of a mere novice. And then, there was the real problem.

"This," she said, flicking the edge of the paper, "is ridiculously expensive."

Abiel remained unbothered. "How expensive?"

Fragil set the page down and laced her fingers together. Her mind ran through calculations, drawing upon her extensive knowledge of the market, materials, and their current scarcity. She estimated the costs, factored in transportation, and then cross-referenced them with the standard economy of Kiten.

She let the number settle in her mind.

Then, with a pointed look, she answered, "More expensive than Kiten's entire economy."

Silence.

Abiel clicked his tongue. "Great. Branded with absurdity and zero benefits." He scoffed, shaking his head. "Seems like a scam."

Fragil chuckled under her breath. "That's what you get for thinking beyond your means." She set the papers aside, resting her chin against the back of her hand. "Unless you're planning to conquer a trading guild or plunder a noble's vault, your materials aren't just expensive. They're unattainable."

The candle flickered. The wax dripped, pooling onto the polished wood. A faint scent of lavender oil mixed with the warmth of burning tallow. Fragil sat still, fingers pressing against the desk. Across from her, Abiel remained silent. His hands curled into fists. His breath steady but slow.

She exhaled. "I would have suggested you become a Magic Knight."

The chandelier overhead swayed slightly, its crystal ornaments catching the low firelight. The heavy velvet curtains muffled the outside world, leaving only the quiet crackle of the hearth and the distant clink of silverware from another chamber. The air in the room was thick—warm, scented, stifling.

"But you're not ready," she continued, voice softer now, almost reluctant. "You're young for the outside world."

She leaned forward, brows furrowing. Her voice held no scorn, only certainty. "If you joined now, they'd eat you alive. You'd be thrown into situations you're not prepared for, against dangerous people who don't make mistakes in doing bad things." She let the words settle, watching him, searching his face for hesitation, for doubt. "I don't want to see you come back in pieces, or worse—not come back at all."

Her fingers drummed lightly against the desk, breaking the silence between them. "That's why Cleanup is the better choice. It pays well. It's dangerous, but controlled. You'll have time to learn, to grow."

The scent of old parchment and warm candlewax filled the space between them. Outside the window, a distant fountain bubbled, its trickling water a stark contrast to the weight in the room.

"Since you're my own," she said, her voice quieter, as if reluctant to pull him into this world, "I can connect you to a broker that pays well. Someone who won't send you to die over a handful of coins." She let out a slow breath, tracing the parchment's frayed edges. "But it's still your choice. Once you take that job, there's no turning back."

The fire crackled louder, sending a flicker of warmth against her back. The candle's glow stretched across the marble floors, warping as the flame wavered.

"Before anything," she added, tilting her head slightly, "get your grimoire. It will make all the difference."

She hesitated, just for a moment, then spoke again, her tone quieter but insistent. "And train with Raymon. Please. The missios are dangerous. If you don't take it seriously."

Her throat tightened slightly, but she forced her expression to remain steady. She had seen too many people rush in without thinking. She had seen what was left of them after.

Abiel's fingers flexed against the armrest. He didn't speak, not yet, but Fragil could already see the answer in his eyes.

"Here take it..."

The envelope slid across the desk. The wax seal cracked under Abiel's fingers. His eyes flicked down. He hesitated. Then he opened it.

Stacks of Yuls. More than he had ever held in his hands. She assumed. More than he had ever seen outside a noble's vault. His breath hitched. His grip tightened, as if testing whether this was real, whether the weight of the coins would vanish like a cruel illusion.

Fragil watched.

She saw the shift—his brows twitching, the slight parting of his lips before he forced them back into a tight line. Shock. Restraint. The silent battle of someone trying to understand why.

He didn't ask.

She exhaled, slow and steady, but inside, something twisted.

Because this was her fault.

That attack. That void. That abyss of power that had swallowed hundreds without mercy. It had been her doing. Not by casting the spell, but by pushing him, by lighting that fire, by leading him straight to the edge of oblivion and letting him fall.

She had pushed him to that point.

The thought sickened her.

And yet, even now, she was using him. She could feel it, the cold calculation running beneath her skin, the part of her that knew exactly what he could become with the right push. She wasn't like the Royals. She wasn't like the Nobles who played with lives like pieces on a board.

But she wasn't better than them, either.

She had dirt on her hands. Blood under her nails. And when she looked at Abiel now, silent, staring at the Yuls, she almost wished he would throw them back in her face.

Almost.

Abiel

Abiel moved like a blur, muscles burning, lungs searing. His body, once fragile, now endured the relentless storm that was Raymon.

A feint—Raymon didn't fall for it. A void bullet—Raymon sidestepped before the shot even left Abiel's fingertips. A barrage of void slashes—Raymon weaved through them with inhuman precision. Abiel twisted, launched a roundhouse kick laced with compressed void energy—Raymon caught his leg mid-air and slammed him into the ground.

The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing across the dirt. The wind was knocked from his lungs.

He rolled. Dodged. Countered.

Nothing worked.

Raymon wasn't even using magic.

That was the contrast that made the battle infuriating. Abiel threw every technique, every strategy, every ounce of power he had trained for months to perfect—yet Raymon met him with nothing but raw, terrifying physicality.

It was like fighting against the laws of nature itself.

Abiel leaped back, panting. His hair, once reaching his ears when he first arrived at the Tormenta household, now whipped around his face in long, obsidian strands. Sweat dripped from his sharp jawline. His once-small frame had been reshaped through hellish training, molded by an extreme regimen of strict diet, relentless combat, and brutal conditioning. His shoulders had broadened, his arms packed with coiled muscle, his breath steady despite the exhaustion clawing at him.

But it still wasn't enough.

Raymon cracked his knuckles, eyes as sharp as a beast locked onto its prey. "You're thinking too much," he said. "You want control over your power? Then stop letting it control you."

Abiel's fists clenched.

He had done everything. Strengthened his willpower. Mastered his body. Refined his mana control, sensory, and manipulation. He could now fire precise void shots, compress his energy into deadly bullets, shape attacks at will—all while battling, evading, and calculating his next move.

But it wasn't until Raymon pushed him to his limits—until his body was ragged, his mana nearly drained—that something inside him cracked.

Or rather, expanded.

Everything blurred. The battlefield disappeared.

He was no longer in the training grounds.

He was inside his Void Space.

A realm of pure emptiness, silent and boundless.

The Void Sphere stood before him—his greatest weapon, his ultimate manifestation of power. It had once been small, no bigger than a house. But in these months of suffering, of breaking, of surviving, it had grown.

Larger.

Denser.

He could feel it. Pulsing. Living.

The sphere trembled, then began to expand.

It devoured the space around it, warping reality, bending the very concept of existence itself. It swelled, growing past the size of a fortress, a mountain, a kingdom—until it dwarfed even the sky itself.

Then, at its peak, when the weight of its existence became unbearable—

It exploded.

A silent detonation. A rupture of pure void. Lightless. Absolute.

For a moment, there was nothing.

The remnants of the explosion didn't fade. They condensed. They stabilized. The darkness became something new. Something more refined. More potent.

And Abiel understood.

This was the breakthrough.

His mana wasn't just denser—it had evolved. His power, once raw and unwieldy, had reached the next stage. His control, his strength, his essence as a mage—transformed.

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the training grounds.

Raymon was still standing. Watching. Waiting.

Abiel exhaled, steady, unwavering.

Fifteen years old.

No longer weak. No longer frail.

It was time.

His grimoire awaited.