No Leaf Clover (Black Clover OC)

Salim Hapshass

A porcelain cup met his lips. Bitter. The coffee had gone cold, leaving an astringent tang on his tongue. He swallowed anyway, the flavor sharp against his throat.

Salim sat alone in the café's farthest corner, away from the morning bustle. The chair beneath him was carved mahogany, polished to perfection, yet it felt uncomfortably rigid. A gold-rimmed saucer rested on the marble tabletop, the surface cool under his fingertips. Outside the large windows, sunlight slanted over cobblestone streets, casting long shadows as the city stirred to life.

Today was the Magic Knight Examination.

He should have felt indifferent. With his family's wealth and influence, he could walk into nearly any squad without being assessed. Almost any squad. The Golden Dawn? They demanded strength above all else. The Black Bulls? He scoffed. A collection of undisciplined misfits. He wouldn't be caught dead among them.

His fingers traced the rim of his cup, slow and deliberate. The Hapshass name carried immense wealth, more than most noble families could ever dream of. But wealth alone meant nothing on the battlefield. The Hapshass House controlled banks, dictated commerce, and ensured even the noblest families remained in their debt. Money could buy power, but it could not buy legacy.

Then, just yesterday, he had heard the whispers. A boonie from Hage Village had received a four-leaf clover. A commoner—no, a nameless nobody—had been blessed with the same grimoire as the first Wizard King. The prodigy of the century, they called him.

Salim's jaw tightened. The scent of roasted beans thickened the air, but suddenly, it felt nauseating. He had spent his entire life perfecting his magic, refining it like a master sculptor chiseling marble. Yet some peasant, some dirt-born nothing, had been chosen? Given a four-leaf clover as if fate itself had bent to his existence?

The nobles at court had laughed at first, calling it a fluke. But Salim knew better. This was an opportunity.

If he defeated this lowly peasant, he wouldn't just be proving his superiority—he would be rewriting the narrative. A noble striking down an arrogant commoner who overstepped his bounds? That was a tale worth telling. A story that could be monetized. His family controlled banking and trade, but prestige? Prestige required spectacle. And there was no better spectacle than a noble restoring the balance of power.

Pro-nobility houses would take notice. The old families who despised the rise of commoners would see him as their champion. Their admiration could turn into alliances, alliances into wealth, wealth into power. And perhaps, if he played his cards right, the princesses of the three great houses would take an interest.

That, of course, was for later.

He could still back out. Return to his family's estate, drown himself in comfort, live the life of effortless luxury. No shame. No risk. No failure.

But then what?

His grip on the porcelain handle tightened. He set the cup down with a soft clink, the sound precise, deliberate. No. He would take the exam. Not because he needed to. Not because he wanted to.

Because today, he would carve out his own legend. And he would make the world pay to watch it unfold.

Huh?

But the world stilled.

Salim Hapshass exhaled, but the air felt thick, unmoving. The café's noise—chatter, the clink of porcelain, footsteps over polished floors—had vanished. Silence pressed against him like no an unseen force.

Color drained from his surroundings. The rich brown of his coffee dulled to gray. The golden glow of morning light, once streaming through the window, turned lifeless. Monotone.

Then, a chuckle.

It came from across the table. Someone was sitting there.

Salim's breath hitched. He hadn't heard anyone approach. Hadn't seen movement. But now, in front of him, lounged a figure, reclining with effortless ease.

A teenager. Smooth skin, unnervingly perfect, as if untouched by time. Eyes obscured by a black blindfold. Obsidian hair falling lazily over his forehead. A presence that demanded no attention—yet took all of it.

Salim tried to speak. Nothing came out. His throat locked. His body refused to obey him.

The figure smiled, tilting his head. "You have an interesting plan."

Salim swallowed.

A drop of sweat rolled down his temple.

The boy continued, voice smooth, untouched by concern or malice—only cold amusement. "A noble, desperate to prove himself. Hoping to be a legend by crushing a commoner. How funny."

Salim clenched his fists. The weight of the air pressed harder against him.

"But you're weak."

Salim's stomach twisted. He forced himself to glare, to fight against the paralysis creeping through his limbs. "What...?"

The figure leaned forward. His presence was suffocating, like a shadow cast by something far larger than itself. "You assume that because you were born into wealth, power should follow. But power isn't something handed to you. It's something taken."

Salim's thoughts swirled. He had assumed this person was a noble—no, a royal at the very least. But something felt… off. The sheer weight of his presence was unnatural. More than a royal. More than human.

"You think defeating the four-leaf clover wielder will make you a legend?" The figure chuckled, almost pitying. "You're not even close. If you fight him now, you'll do nothing but humiliate yourself."

Salim's jaw clenched.

Then—

The figure disappeared.

No flash of light. No blur of motion. Just gone.

And then—

A breath against his ear. A whisper.

"But I can change that."

Salim jerked. The figure was right beside him now, having moved in an instant. The scent of something ancient—something cold and lingering, like rain on stone—clung to the air around him.

Salim's body screamed at him to run. But he couldn't move. Could barely breathe.

"I'll make you an offer," the figure murmured. "One that might just give you what you really want."

Then, just as effortlessly, the presence vanished.

Salim gasped, lungs burning as though he had been drowning. His vision swam. His shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat. His fingers trembled against the marble tabletop.

The figure walked toward the door, unhurried.

Salim forced himself to speak. "W-wait—" He swallowed, forcing steadiness into his voice. "What's your name?"

The figure paused, glancing back.

Then—another chuckle. Amused. Dismissive.

"Just call me 'Ghost.'"

And with that, he stepped into the light, fading into the colorless world beyond.

>>>>>>>>

Reina

The streets stretched wide before her, no cobblestone paths shimmering faintly with residual magic. Buildings loomed high, their stonework too smooth, too perfect—etched with glowing sigils that pulsed softly, like the heartbeat of something alive. The air carried a strange weight, thick with the scent of burning incense and the metallic tinge of mana.

She inhaled slowly. It didn't smell like home.

Back in the countryside, mornings carried the crisp scent of dew-soaked earth, the distant smoke of bread baking, and the faint musk of livestock. Everything was steady. Familiar. Predictable.

Here, the very air seemed restless.

Voices crashed into each other like waves—merchants shouting their wares, spellcasters chanting incantations, nobles laughing from enchanted platforms as they hovered above the crowds. Magic wasn't just a tool here. It was woven into every inch of this city, flashing, humming, demanding to be noticed.

Reina's gaze flicked toward the edge of the square, where a cluster of spectators roared with excitement. Their cheers never stopped, their energy unshaken, like they had nothing else to do but watch, gawk, enjoy.

Her stomach twisted.

For them, this was a spectacle. A chance to gawk at hopefuls, to place bets on who would rise and who would fall. For them, today meant nothing.

But for her?

Today was everything.

She folded her arms, shifting in line as it crawled forward.

Her father would have hated this.

"You're wasting your time, Reina. We're farmers, not fighters. This land is our future."

She remembered the deep lines on his face, the way his hands shook when he tried to lift a full sack of grain. Fingers stiff. Back bent. Voice tired. Reina clenched her jaw. She could still see him, standing outside their home at sunrise, rubbing his temples after tallying up the accounts. Every season was a battle. Every year, a gamble. A single bad harvest could ruin them. A single failed deal could cost them their land.

Her father never said it out loud, but she knew—he carried the weight of survival on his back.

And she refused to do the same.

She wasn't going to wake up at dawn to the same fields, with the same struggles, with the same fate. She wasn't going to let her life be dictated by soil and seasons.

Magic Knights earned more in a year than her family had in decades. Some retired early, never lifting a finger again. That was her goal. Not just to escape, but to secure a future where she never had to worry about breaking her back for scraps.

The line dragged on.

Reina exhaled sharply. She had expected more. Maybe an immediate display of magic, a test of strength, something that would separate the weak from the strong right away. Instead, it was just this—waiting, shuffling forward, waiting some more.

She rolled her eyes.

Two figures ahead in the line. Something about them felt… off.

They didn't carry themselves like nobles. Didn't have the same effortless arrogance, the same air of expectation. Their shoulders weren't loose with confidence, No, these two were tense. Excited. Like they actually had something to prove.

And then, one of them—a short, muscular guy with spiky gray hair—practically exploded.

"WHOOOOOAAAA! WE'RE REALLY HERE, YUNO! THIS IS IT! THE MAGIC KNIGHT EXAM!"

Reina flinched.

The sheer volume of his voice slammed into her like a spell, making her wince. Heads turned. A few nobles sneered. The kid didn't seem to care.

The taller one beside him barely spared him a glance. Lean, dark-haired, golden-eyed. He carried himself like someone used to ignoring nonsense.

"Asta, stop screaming," he muttered. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"HEY! IT'S NOT EMBARRASSING IF IT'S THE TRUTH!"

Reina stared.

Who are this people?

She had expected nobles—elegant, unreadable, untouchable. But instead, she got this. A loudmouthed idiot and a guy who looked like he had better things to do.

Reina exhaled. Just her luck.

She had spent the last hour trying to avoid attention, blending in as just another hopeful—one among many. And now, thanks to these two, eyes were shifting in their direction. Not in admiration. Not in respect.

In judgment.

The murmurs started, low but unmistakable. Nobles whispering behind gloved hands. A few smirks. Someone in an embroidered cloak sneered before rolling his eyes, as if offended that he had to share space with people like them.

Her stomach twisted.

She knew that look.

The same one merchants in the capital gave when she entered a shop dressed in countryside fabrics. The same one travelers wore when passing through her village, pretending not to see the people working in the fields.

The same one that said: You don't belong here.

And Asta, completely oblivious, kept shouting.

"MAN, I CAN'T WAIT TO SHOW THEM WHAT I'VE GOT! YUNO, I'M GONNA CRUSH EVERYONE HERE AND BECOME A MAGIC KNIGHT!"

Yuno sighed, his own grimoire tucked neatly under his arm, golden eyes scanning the crowd like he couldn't be bothered.

"You already said that. Ten times."

"AND I'LL SAY IT TEN MORE TIMES!" Asta grinned, gripping his grimoire like it was a weapon rather than a spellbook. "I'M GONNA—"

Reina edged away.

Slow. Casual. Like she wasn't actively trying to distance herself from them.

She wasn't about to let some loudmouthed musclehead and his quiet, brooding friend drag her down. Not today. Not when she had spent years preparing for this moment. The last thing she needed was to be lumped in with them, to be labeled just another clueless peasant who didn't belong.

So she stepped forward. Then again. Just enough to put two… no, three people between her and them.

Out of sight. Out of mind. And hopefully, out of trouble. But as she moved, she couldn't help but glance back—just for a second.

The line crawled forward.

Reina shuffled along, arms crossed, watching as one by one, hopefuls stepped up to the administrative desk, stated their names and origins, and presented their grimoires. Some got polite nods. Others, particularly nobles with well-bred magic, received murmurs of approval, even the occasional forced smile.

Then, finally, it was her turn.

She stepped forward, keeping her posture straight. "Reina. From Ashbrook Village."

The staff member barely looked up. A middle-aged man, thinning hair, dark circles under his eyes—the look of someone who had seen far too many peasants like her come and go.

His gaze flickered to the grimoire in her hands. His bored expression barely shifted.

"Magic type?"

She opened the book with a snap. Flames flickered to life around the pages, casting an orange glow against her fingers. Warm, alive, waiting.

"Flame magic."

The man sighed. Not even subtle about it. Another waste of time.

He didn't say it, but she felt it. In the way he barely nodded. In the way he hurried to scribble down her name and magic type without so much as a second glance. In the way his hand reached up to rub his temple, as if dealing with yet another commoner with fire magic was giving him a headache.

Reina's fingers twitched. She should be used to it by now. This wasn't the first time someone dismissed her before she even had the chance to prove herself. It wouldn't be the last. So she swallowed down the irritation, grabbed her grimoire, and turned away.

It didn't matter what they thought.

Because soon, she'd make them see.

The coliseum buzzed with anticipation.

Hopefuls filled the arena, voices overlapping in a mix of excitement, nervousness, and barely contained ambition. Some stood in tight circles, already forming alliances. Others laughed, shaking hands, testing the waters of potential partnerships. Reina exhaled slowly, watching.

She needed connections.

Not friends, not companions—connections. People who could help. People with talent, magic, or at the very least, a decent shot at getting into a squad. Surrounding herself with the right crowd could mean the difference between standing out and being forgotten.

She scanned the groups forming around her. Patterns were obvious. The strongest clustered together, their magic power practically humming in the air. Nobles gravitated toward their own, already discussing future ranks and promotions as if their acceptance was guaranteed. Even the commoners who showed promise were finding footing, slipping into conversations, getting nods of acknowledgment.

But no one approached her.

Not because of her flame magic. Not because she wasn't skilled. But because of the damn anti-birds.

The small, winged pests flitted around her, their beady eyes gleaming, their presence unmistakable. They weren't attacking, not really, but their closeness was enough. Enough to make people hesitate. Enough to make them glance at her, then turn away.

Her fists clenched.

She could hear their thoughts without needing to read minds.

Boonie.

Weak mana.

Not worth the trouble.

Useless.

Frustration curled in her stomach. She wasn't weak. She wasn't talentless. And yet, because her magic wasn't rare, because she wasn't super drenched in mana like some of these people, she was already being written off. Then she saw them again.

The two from before.

And her irritation briefly gave way to shock.

One of them—the loud one—was completely swarmed. Not a few anti-birds. Dozens. Maybe more. Pecking, clawing, flapping around him so aggressively he was practically drowning in feathers.

And yet, despite that, he was still shouting.

"WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU GUYS?!" "Asta' flailed his arms wildly, trying to shake them off. "STOP PICKING ON ME—OW! THAT WAS MY EAR!"

The other one, the one with the four-leaf grimoire, stood untouched. Not a single anti-bird approached him.

Not one.

The emo other barely reacted, standing there with his usual, borderline bored expression, as if completely unaware of the chaos happening at his side.

Reina just stared. She had never seen such a stark contrast in her life.

One drowning in anti-birds. The other completely ignored.

And both of them acting as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

She exhaled through her nose and looked away. Still irritated by the anti-birds and the silent rejection from the forming groups, Reina sighed and rubbed her temple.

Then—someone stepped closer.

She noticed immediately.

His presence had a strange weight to it. Not overwhelming, not suffocating, just… noticeable. Enough to make her glance up instinctively.

A teen, around her age.

Obsidian-black hair fell in slightly uneven layers, long enough to brush against his shoulders. His face was sharp yet smooth, his features almost unsettlingly composed. But what stood out the most were his eyes.

One metallic silver. The other an unnatural pink.

Heterochromia.

She had never seen a combination like that before.

He stopped in front of her, hands casually tucked into his pockets. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he spoke.

"You," he said, voice even, controlled. "Where are you from? and your magic type?"

Reina blinked.

It was such a straightforward question, yet it caught her completely off guard.

She had been so focused on trying to make connections—on figuring out who to talk to and who to avoid—that she hadn't expected someone to approach her. Let alone ask about her so directly.

For a brief, humiliating moment, her mind blanked.

"I—I'm from Ashbrook Village," she stammered, scolding herself internally for sounding so unprepared. Straightening, she cleared her throat. "Reina. I use flame magic."

The teen observed her, unreadable. Then, after a short pause, he extended his hand.

She hesitated—just for a second. Then she took it.

His grip was firm. Not overly strong, not weak either.

"Nice to meet you," he said smoothly. Then, without missing a beat, his lips curled slightly.

"My name's a secret."

Reina twitched. What.

"Excuse me?" Her eyebrow shot up. "You just asked for my name and magic, and now you're keeping yours a secret?"

"Yeah." His smirk didn't waver. "Names aren't that important."

She huffed, irritation prickling under her skin. "Fine. Then at least tell me your magic type."

For a moment, he just looked at her. Not smug. Not defensive. Just… considering. Then, with that same unreadable expression, he shook his head.

"My master told me that magic types shouldn't be casually revealed." His tone shifted slightly, mimicking an authoritative voice. "Because knowing someone's attribute means knowing their weaknesses."

Reina scoffed. "That's ridiculous. It's not like knowing what type of magic someone has instantly gives you a way to defeat them."

The teen shrugged. "Depends on the person."

Reina narrowed her eyes. Was he serious? Or just messing with her? Either way, she didn't like it.

But… at least she had someone to talk to now.

Then suddenly - the air felt different. Felt quiet.

Reina had been so used to the background chaos—the ceaseless flapping of anti-bird wings, the sharp cries that rang through the coliseum, the occasional feather brushing against her skin—that she barely noticed them anymore.

Until they were gone.

How?

Silence.

Not just a momentary pause. A complete, unnatural stillness.

Her skin prickled.

Then, the murmurs started.

"W-What just happened?" someone whispered, voice uneasy.

"Where did they all go?" another muttered.

A louder voice rang out, more alarmed. "Wait—look! They're completely gone!"

Reina turned, scanning the vast open area. The sky, once clouded with frantic black wings, was now eerily empty. From where she stood, all the way to the farthest parts of the coliseum, not a single anti-bird remained.

"This isn't normal," one of the examinees said, stepping back.

"Did someone do this?" another asked, glancing around, wide-eyed.

Reina's pulse quickened.

Then—a sharp, frantic flutter. She turned her head.

One remained.

One single, stubborn anti-bird still flapped furiously, still pecking mercilessly, still waging war against one unfortunate soul.

The gray-haired boonie.

Somewhere in the crowd, a snicker broke through the tension.

"Poor guy. Guess even fate doesn't like him."

"That's just sad…" another muttered, though they didn't sound particularly sympathetic.

Reina couldn't help but stare.

Of all the people in the entire arena, why was he the only one still suffering? It looked almost comical—like destiny itself had singled him out for torment. But that wasn't the strangest part. She slowly shifted her gaze back to the figure who had just approached. The moment he arrived, the birds had vanished.

The air shifted.

It was subtle at first. Like a ripple in still water. A faint disturbance that pulled at the edges of awareness, demanding attention without asking for it. Then—the presence arrived.

A strange silence followed. Conversations died in half-spoken words. Some turned their heads. Others tensed without knowing why.

The Black Bulls had entered. Reina caught the scent before she saw them. Smoke. Sweat. A faint trace of stale liquor. A distinct contrast to the expensive perfume clinging to the noble recruits around her. The coliseum was an open space, yet somehow, the air felt thicker. Her instincts sharpened. And then she saw him.

"Isn't that the God of Destruction - Yami Sukehiro?"

The crowd's eyes widened in awe, each face reflecting the mix of reverence and amusement that his reputation always managed to inspire.

A massive figure. Broad shoulders, thick arms that bore the scars of a thousand battles, a stance so casual it barely concealed the sheer, overwhelming danger radiating from him. His black, unkempt hair fell lazily over his face, his sharp eyes half-lidded, unreadable. He chewed absently on the end of a cigarette. Then—he exhaled. A wisp of smoke curled into the air, disappearing as quickly as it came. Reina barely suppressed a shiver.

That man is the most dangerous one here. She could feel the mana

The sheer weight of his presence pressed against the air, thick and suffocating. It wasn't magic—not in the way one typically sensed mana—but something deeper. A force of will. The sound of frantic flailing and panicked yelps cut through the moment.

"GET OFF ME, YOU STUPID BIRDS—AGH!"

Reina's gaze flicked to the source.

A gray-haired kid—the same one she saw earlier. The one who had been drowning in anti-birds. Still covered in tiny scratches. Still flailing. Still grinning. Yami's scowl deepened.

"Tch." His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone. "Oi. You want to die, brat?"

The gray-haired kid, she vaguely recalled—froze mid-struggle, eyes wide.

"H-HUH?! WHAT DID I DO?!" His voice cracked, loud and grating, bouncing off the stone walls.

Beside Yami, a blond-haired man in a red-trimmed coat—stylish, self-assured—sighed dramatically, adjusting his collar.

"Yami, maybe go easy on the recruits this time?" His tone was silky, practiced. A voice that had likely talked its way out of more fights than into them.

Then—the moment he turned, flashing a roguish grin at a group of noblewomen—

Some blushed. Some scoffed. One outright gagged. Reina rolled her eyes.

Typical.

A whisper. Soft. Almost too soft. Yet it crawled under her skin like ice-cold fingers. A shadow lurked in the Black Bulls' ranks. Her gaze flicked over. Pale skin, dark eyes, lips moving in constant, silent murmurs.

"Gordon Agrippa - King of curses?"

No one had noticed him at first. Then—someone did. A noble shifted uncomfortably. "What the hell is that guy whispering about?"

"... Creepy."

"... He's just standing there. Breathing."

Reina exhaled slowly.

What kind of squad was this?

Then—

Beside her.

A smirk.

Slow. Sharp. Amused.

The weird-eyed teen.

Reina felt him move before she saw him. Not in a way that drew attention—no grand gestures, no flashy magic—but in a way that made the space around him feel… quieter. He turned slightly toward her, a glint of something unreadable flickering in those mismatched eyes—one metallic, the other pink.

And then—

"Hey," he said.

A pause.

Then, casually, as if he were asking about the weather—

"Do you think I could take him on? Right here, right now?"

Silence.

Reina's brain short-circuited. She turned her head. Stared. The idiot was serious.

Not a joke.

Not some empty, bravado-filled challenge. But an actual, genuine, calculated thought. Like he had already started playing it out in his head. Like he truly, honestly believed he could. The sheer weight of his confidence was suffocating. Reina's fingers twitched at her side. Her instincts had never failed her before. She knew when someone was posturing and when someone was a real threat He wasn't posturing. He meant it. she barely held back a groan.

This idiot is going to die.

Luckily Yami did not seem to hear them.

The Magic Knight squad captains entered.

No Wizard King this time. Yet, the mood shifted.

The coliseum, lit by a steady glow, filled with clear voices and measured steps. The crowd's murmurs, soft at first and then growing louder, blended with the sound of clinking armor and rustling uniforms. Among the candidates, Reina watched closely. She had expected mid-ranking purple orcas or coral peacocks, but these higher-ranking figures challenged her expectations. Every exchanged word and glance was a measure of her resolve.

Each captain carried a distinct presence. Some radiated authority, their gazes sharp and assessing. Others seemed uninterested, standing with arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, as if they'd rather be anywhere else.

Reina barely paid attention.

She knew how this worked. The strong were worshipped, their power admired, their mere presence enough to shift the air. The weak? They blended into the background, invisible, ignored, forgotten.

She exhaled, folding her arms, trying to shut out the noise.

Then—

"Hey," a voice broke through.

Reina stiffened. Oh no. Not again.

The figure beside her shifted.

She turned, already regretting it.

"What?"

The teen had already pulled out his notepad. The cover was worn, corners slightly frayed, but his grip on it was firm—practiced. A charcoal pencil twirled between his fingers before pressing against the page.

"Between the Vermillion girl and that big guy over there—" he gestured lazily toward a red-haired noble and a broad-shouldered recruit, "who do you think would win in a fight?"

Reina blinked.

"What?"

The heterochromic eyes flicked to her, completely serious.

"Strength-wise, speed-wise, magic efficiency—" he clarified, tapping the notepad.

Her brow twitched. "How should I know?"

"But if you had to guess?"

She exhaled sharply. Fine. He wasn't going to drop it.

Her gaze flickered to the pair he had pointed at. The red-haired girl had a strong stance, controlled breathing. Disciplined. The broad-shouldered guy, though imposing, seemed slower. His footwork was slightly off—small details, but enough to tell her what she needed.

"The Vermillion girl," she said, crossing her arms.

The figure nodded, scribbling something down. His handwriting was quick, almost rushed, but deliberate.

"Interesting," he murmured.

Reina sighed, hoping that would be the end of it.

Then—

"And between that silver-haired guy and the fat guy over there?"

Her patience snapped.

"What is with the weird questions?"

"Power scaling," he said, flipping the notepad toward her.

Reina squinted.

A chaotic mess of numbers, arrows, and calculations filled the page. Some names had been assigned rankings, with hastily drawn graphs mapping out theoretical matchups. He had even scrawled predictions—some crossed out, others underlined.

"What kind of nerd—"

"Between Yami and Fuegoleon, who do you think has the better mana control?"

Reina groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

Luckily Exam Begins.

A hush fell over the coliseum as a single figure stepped forward.

William Vangeance.

The Golden Dawn's captain stood upright. His stance drew every eye. His mask shone in the light, concealing his face while his posture spoke of strength and control. A low hum of magic filled the air around him—clear and steady, like the quiet before a storm.

The murmurs died down.

Then, he spoke.

"Welcome, aspiring Magic Knights," he said, his voice smooth, carrying effortlessly across the arena. "Today, you stand on the precipice of your future. Beyond this examination lies the path to your ambitions, your trials, and your growth. Not all will succeed, but those who do… will become part of something greater."

Reina straightened, fingers twitching slightly.

She already knew all this. She didn't need a speech to remind her of what was at stake.

Still, there was something about the way he spoke, the weight of his words, that demanded acknowledgment.

Vangeance's gaze swept over the sea of applicants, unreadable behind his mask.

"Do your best," he said, voice steady. "And may your magic shine."

The silence held for a breath.

Then—

A loud, sharp chime rang through the coliseum.

William Vangeance stood still for a moment, as if allowing his words to settle like dust in the coliseum's charged atmosphere. Then, with deliberate grace, he raised a hand, and a controlled pulse of magic rippled outward.

"The first test," he announced, his voice steady and smooth as polished steel, "is a fundamental assessment of magic control—flight."

A wave of whispers spread through the recruits. Some nodded in understanding. Others shifted, their unease visible in the way they clenched their fists or adjusted their stances.

Vangeance pressed on, unfazed.

"Magic Knights must move swiftly across battlefields, traverse vast distances, and engage enemies from unpredictable angles. Mastery over flight is not a luxury—it is a necessity."

His masked gaze swept over the applicants, sharp, unrelenting.

"Controlling a broom with magic is a test of precision, endurance, and efficiency. If you cannot manage this most basic task… then you have no place in a Magic Knight squad."

Reina inhaled, her fingers curling slightly at her sides.

The truth was simple, brutal, and absolute.

No excuses. No exceptions. No second chances.

"You will each receive a broom," Vangeance continued, his tone unwavering. "Your task is to maintain flight for a set duration. Those who fail… are eliminated from the examination."

A few recruits swallowed hard. Some tightened their grip on their grimoires. Tension rippled through the crowd, thick as a storm cloud ready to break.

Reina rolled her shoulders, shaking off the stiffness.

The air pulsed with energy, thick with excitement, frustration, and the occasional crash of another recruit plummeting to the ground.

Reina steadied herself, gripping the rough wooden handle of her broom, feeling the faint hum of mana coursing through it. She took a breath—focus, control, balance. With a measured push of magic, she lifted off the ground, her body adjusting instinctively.

The wind curled around her skin, cool and sharp, carrying the sounds of scattered yelps and triumphant cheers.

Some recruits barely managed a few inches before their brooms sputtered out, dropping them unceremoniously to the stone floor. Others shot up wildly, overshooting their control and careening through the sky like startled birds. A handful glided with natural ease, their movements fluid, confident.

She was decent. Nothing spectacular. Nothing pathetic.

But him?

The gray-haired idiot?

He sat rigidly on his broom, fists clenched, teeth gritted so hard it looked painful. His body shook from sheer effort. Nothing happened.

Not even a tremble.

The laughter came quick. Barrage. Sharp. Ruthless.

"He's a total failure!"

"Not even a single inch?!"

"Hey, someone check if he glued himself to the ground!"

His face burned red, his jaw tightening.

"I—I'll do it! Just watch!"

He threw his hands out, pouring everything he had into the attempt.

Still—nothing.

More laughter. A few outright cackles. Someone pretended to wipe tears from their eyes.

Reina clicked her tongue. Embarrassing.

Then, a shift.

The tone of the whispers changed. The laughter died.

All eyes turned.

Four Leaf Wielder.

Suspended in midair, not a single movement wasted. The light caught his form just right, casting a golden sheen over his robes. The breeze barely ruffled his hair.

He wasn't just floating. He was standing above them.

Whispers surged like a tide.

"A Four-Leaf… of course."

"He makes it look effortless."

"No way he doesn't get recruited immediately."

Reina sighed. Predictable.

Then—laughter.

Low. Amused. A thin edge beneath the smoothness.

Reina stiffened. And then—he moved. The mismatched-eyed freak. He was grinning. No—smirking. And he was upside down. Balancing on his hands like some street acrobat, arms locked, body controlled. The broom didn't shake beneath him. For a moment, silence stretched across the coliseum, held breath and wide eyes. Then—he moved again. A flash of motion.

His broom twisted sharply, cutting through the air with surgical precision. A spin—no, a series of spins. He flipped, mid-air, once—twice—three times, his body twisting like a ribbon caught in the wind.

And then—he shot up. Up—past the scattered recruits, past Yuno, past what their eyes could even follow. Into the clouds.

He was gone.

The entire coliseum stared, necks craned, breaths caught in their throats. A second passed.

Then two.

Then—

A shadow.

And like a streak of black lightning, he plummeted down.

But not chaotically. Not uncontrolled. Fast. Precise. Intimidating. He twisted in midair again—an unnatural movement that shouldn't be possible—before catching himself effortlessly inches above the ground, flipping once more, and landing lightly on his feet atop his broom.

His smirk hadn't faded.

After the broom flight test, William Vangeance stepped forward again, his voice carrying effortlessly across the coliseum.

"The next test will measure your precision and control. In battle, every spell matters. A single misdirected attack can expose your allies, waste mana, or leave an opening for the enemy. Magic Knights must not only wield power but also direct it with accuracy. A reckless mage isn't just a weak link—they are a danger to their own squad. Your ability to strike targets with precision can determine whether you lead an assault or become a liability on the battlefield."

With a smooth wave of his hand, dozens of floating orbs appeared in the air. Each pulsed with faint, shifting light, hovering at varying distances, moving in erratic patterns. They zigzagged unpredictably, mimicking how enemies rarely remain still in real combat.

"You will each be given three attempts," he continued. "The farther the target, the higher your evaluation. However, you will also be racing against a timer."

A faint click echoed as a glowing countdown manifested in the air beside the orbs.

"In real battle, hesitation is fatal. You will not always have the luxury of careful aim. You must react, adjust, and strike—all while the enemy is closing in. This test will determine how well you perform under pressure. If you cannot land a hit at all…" His masked face remained unreadable. "Then you are not yet ready for this path."

He let silence hang for a moment. Then, in a calm yet firm tone, he added, "Every second counts in a fight. A well-placed spell can end a battle before it truly begins. A delayed attack could cost a comrade's life. Keep that in mind as you take your shot."

Reina focused. Her flames surged, controlled, precise. Not the strongest, but accurate enough. She struck her target dead center, the embers dispersing into the wind. Decent. Satisfactory. Good.

Then, a strangled laugh broke through the noise.

"Look at that boonie! Can't even get his grimoire to work!"

Reina's head snapped toward the voice.

Asta.

He stood there, fists clenched, face scrunched in frustration. His target remained untouched—not even a scratch. Around him, sneers formed on noble faces, their whispers carrying through the crowd.

"No magic at all? What is he even doing here?"

"Pathetic. Just leave already."

Asta bristled, growling, "I'm not done yet!" He raised his fist, determination burning in his eyes.

Reina swallowed hard. The scene was uncomfortable to watch, but—what could he do? The exam was ruthless. If you failed, you failed. Then, something else caught her attention. A flicker of movement. A shadow shifting against the sky.

She turned—and froze.

Above them, far beyond where most could see, a figure moved—not on a broom, but without one.

Levitating.

Mismatched eyed freak. No wood. No handles. No visible means of support.

He simply floated, effortless, his mismatched eyes—one metallic, the other glowing pink—reflecting the sunlight in eerie flashes. He moved like a wraith, twisting, flipping, his body gliding through the air as if gravity held no claim on him.

Murmurs spread like wildfire.

"Wait… where's his broom?"

"Is he—flying?"

"That's not possible."

Then—he struck.

No grimoire. No incantation.

Just a flick of his fingers.

A distant orb—one of the hardest to reach—shattered. Completely. Effortlessly.

Silence followed. Reina felt her breath hitch.

No one had seen a spell. No pages turned. No mana surged. And yet—the result was undeniable.

People scanned the field, glancing at his untouched grimoire, their confusion mounting.

The annoyer smirked, resting an elbow lazily on his knee—midair. His posture too casual for someone blatantly defying every known law of flight magic. He let the silence hang, his expression teasing, unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Precision," he said smoothly, his voice laced with amusement. "Isn't that what this test was about?"

His metallic eye gleamed. The pink one flickered.

Asta's eyes lit up. "Whoa, that was amazing! You're so cool! What's your name?"

The mismatched-eyed teen hovered just above the ground, arms crossed, smirking down at Asta like he was considering something amusing. The way he carried himself, floating effortlessly without a broom, made him look untouchable—completely in control of everything around him.

He leaned slightly forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "My name?" He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think. "Hmm… that's a secret."

Asta blinked. "Huh? What do you mean 'a secret'?"

The teen shrugged. "Exactly what I said. My name isn't free information."

Reina, still standing nearby, rolled her eyes. Of course. Another weirdo.

Asta, unfazed, just pouted. "Aw, come on! That's not fair!"

The guy chuckled. "Tell you what—I'll make you a deal."

Asta perked up. "A deal?"

"If you want to learn my secret technique—the one that lets me become cool—you have to call me 'Master' from now on."

Reina choked. What?!

Asta froze. Then, with an expression of pure, unfiltered excitement, he screamed.

"WHAAAAAAT?! YOU HAVE A SECRET TECHNIQUE?!"

The murmurs around them grew louder. More people were starting to pay attention, casting curious glances toward the floating teen.

The teen grinned wider. "That's right. And I might be generous enough to teach you… if you agree to the terms."

Asta stared at him, completely serious. Then, after exactly two seconds of consideration—

"MASTER!" Asta threw himself forward, grabbing the teen's hands with both of his, shaking them wildly. "PLEASE TEACH ME YOUR SECRET TECHNIQUE!"

Reina pinched the bridge of her nose. What. An. Idiot.

The mismatched-eyed teen's smirk deepened. He leaned down, just enough so that only Asta could hear him. His voice dropped into a low, conspiratorial whisper.

The trials continued, each one designed to test their magical prowess, control, and combat potential. The stronger candidates stood out immediately—especially the four-leaf grimoire wielder, who carried himself with effortless precision, and the mismatched-eyed teen, who remained an enigma.

Reina watched as the latter maneuvered through every challenge with an almost infuriating ease. He never fumbled, never hesitated. He deflected, dodged, countered—graceful yet detached, like he had done this a thousand times before. And yet, despite all of that, no one could tell what kind of magic he wielded. He hadn't cast a single spell from his grimoire.

Why?

Reina's hands clenched. She had done well—decent, at least. Her control was above average, her technique solid, but her mana capacity was weak. Every spell she cast had to be measured carefully. She couldn't afford reckless firepower like some of the other contestants. And compared to the overwhelming displays of magic from noble-born candidates, her efforts seemed lackluster.

Still, it was better than that 'Asta'.

Reina winced as she glanced at the silver-haired boy, who—despite his absolute lack of magic—hadn't lost his fire. He kept pushing forward. He never hesitated, never gave in. Even after failing every single magical trial, he would get up, dust himself off, and try again, grinning like an absolute lunatic.

The other candidates whispered. Some snickered.

"What's the point?"

"He's wasting everyone's time."

"How did he even get in?"

Reina sighed. Even if he had no magic, his sheer stubbornness was something to admire.

Then she caught sight of the mismatched-eyed teen, who was floating lazily above the battlefield, watching Asta with a smirk.

That expression—it wasn't mocking. It was… entertained.

The final trial was about to begin—one-on-one combat. This was where the real assessments took place. Strength, strategy, adaptability—all would be tested in a live duel. Reina braced herself. She had expected this. The moment of truth.

The arena quieted as the next match was announced.

"Next match—Number 214 versus Number 215!"

A pause. Then the murmurs started.

"214? That's him."

"The mismatched-eye freak."

"He topped every trial so far."

Reina's eyes followed as Number 214 stepped forward. He was lean, his middle-length obsidian hair falling in messy strands over his face. His gaze felt sharp, dissecting, as if he saw things no one else could. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, unconcerned with the murmurs surrounding him.

Then came Number 215—Hector.

The crowd reacted immediately.

"Now that's a real candidate."

"Hector's a sure pick for Golden Dawn."

"He'll end this quick."

Hector stood tall, broad-shouldered, with a crisp uniform and golden hair neatly tied back. His stance was firm, controlled. He radiated power, his mana presence steady, unwavering. Unlike 214, he acknowledged the crowd with a slight nod before cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders.

The examiner raised a hand.

"Begin."

Hector moved first. He slammed his palm to the ground. Mana surged through the coliseum floor, and the earth trembled. Stone cracked. The ground swelled and burst upward. Massive hands—dozens, then hundreds—erupted from the ground.

Earth Creation Magic: Hands of God

They moved with terrifying speed, thick fingers of stone lunging to grab, crush, and restrain. 214 stood in the eye of the storm. Then, he vanished. Not teleported. Not phased. Just—gone. A hand slammed down where he had stood, cratering the stone. Another burst from the ground, reaching for him in midair—only for him to twist, barely brushing past its fingertips. Then another. And another. Hundreds of hands shot toward him, rising like a tidal wave, yet none could catch him. His movements weren't panicked. They weren't rushed.

He evaded each strike as if he had read them before they came.

A low skid. A pivot midair. A sharp turn that let him slip through the crushing grasp of stone. It was like he floated between them, never truly touching the ground. One moment he was upside down, spinning through a collapsing fist; the next, he was perched on the back of a falling hand before launching off again. The coliseum shook. Dust filled the air. Spectators shielded their eyes from the debris.

"Is he flying?" someone whispered.

"No—he's just moving that fast!"

Hector growled, forcing more mana into his spell. The hands surged higher, thicker, faster—yet 214 still remained untouched.

Then—he stopped. He stood atop one of the crumbling stone hands, his feet light against the shifting mass. Dust swirled around him. His pink and metallic eyes flickered in the dim light.

Hector gritted his teeth, raising his hand for another strike.

214 raised his instead.

"I forfeit."

Silence.

Then, an uproar.

"WHAT?!"

"Is this a joke?"

"He was winning!"

Hector lowered his arm, eyes narrowing in frustration.

The examiner barely hesitated before nodding. "Match over. Victor—Number 215."

214 stepped off the ruined stone as if nothing had happened.

Disappointment swept through the crowd.

"What a waste."

"All that show-off talent, and he quits?"

"Freaks like him don't belong here."

Reina clenched her fists. He had outperformed everyone in the trials—magic control, reaction time, endurance. He wasn't weak. He wasn't scared.

So why?

Then, he turned.

His eyes locked onto hers.

He grinned. Slow. Lazy. Amused. Reina's stomach twisted. That wasn't frustration. That was certainty. Like he was already ten steps ahead. Like this was never about winning.

Before the next match could begin, a voice cut through the murmurs.

"I challenge Yuno!"

The arena went still. Heads turned. Then, laughter erupted.

Standing before the administrator, fists clenched, was Asta.

A murmur rippled through the coliseum before breaking into outright mockery.

"What did he just say?"

"Challenging the four leaf owner? Him?"

"This has to be a joke."

Reina stared. It was absurd. Laughable. Asta had no mana—not a trace—yet here he was, standing in front of everyone, declaring Yuno, one of the strongest candidates, as his rival. The administrator sighed, rubbing his temple.

"This is an official exam, not a playground. You can't just—"

"I have to," Asta cut in, voice firm. "Yuno and I made a promise. I won't back down just because everyone thinks I should."

"Tch. This idiot again."

"Just throw him out already."

"He's embarrassing himself."

Reina swallowed. The crowd wasn't just dismissing him—they were tearing into him.

"Go home, magicless!"

"You're a stain on this exam!"

"A wannabe Knight with no mana? Get lost!"

But Asta didn't flinch.

He stood tall, shoulders squared, unwavering in the face of their insults.

Reina felt a knot form in her chest. If she were in his position, would she be able to do the same? Would she be able to stand there, unmoving, while the world laughed at her?

No.

She would have crumbled, looked away, tried to disappear.

But Asta wasn't backing down. The administrator sighed again, glancing toward Yuno. "And you? Do you accept?"

'Yuno', who had been silent through it all, finally spoke.

"...Fine."

The crowd hushed for a beat. Then, all at once—

Absurd. Completely absurd. Yet, deep inside, something shifted. She was starting to admire him.

>>>>>>>>

Asta

The moment the match began, Asta's grimoire snapped open, its worn pages pulsing with dark energy. A surge of power erupted from within, and in a single instant, a massive black sword shot out, its weight settling into his grip like an extension of himself. The Demon Slayer Sword—his one and only weapon.

Across from him, Yuno stood still, unreadable as ever. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the air shifted. A sharp gust spiraled toward Asta, fast and precise.

Asta reacted on instinct. His arms tensed as he swung his sword, cutting cleanly through the magic. The wind spell shattered upon impact, dispersing into harmless wisps. The crowd gasped.

"He cut through magic?"

"No... he negated it!"

Asta planted his feet, a grin splitting across his face. "You're not gonna get me with cheap tricks, Yuno!"

Yuno remained silent, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. Then, he moved. A sharp rush of air. A burst of speed.

Yuno vanished from sight. Asta barely had time to brace before a powerful whirlwind spiraled toward him. He swung again, tearing through the storm, but the force behind it sent him skidding back, his boots screeching against the stone. His grip tightened on his sword as the dust cleared.

Then another attack came. And another.

Wind slashes, razor-thin yet deadly, cut through the air toward him. Asta deflected the first, then the second, each clash ringing out like steel on steel. But Yuno wasn't stopping.

Tornado bursts. Air currents twisting in unnatural patterns. Each strike came faster, sharper, never from the same angle.

Asta gritted his teeth.

"I can cut through them, but it's not enough."

Yuno had the advantage. Range. Speed. Agility.

Asta could negate magic, but that meant nothing if he couldn't reach his opponent.

He pressed forward, his legs burning as he charged through the onslaught. He swung, slicing through a rushing cyclone, but another gust slammed into his side. His body twisted midair before he crashed back onto the stone floor, skidding several feet before stopping.

The crowd roared in excitement.

"Hah! That magicless idiot doesn't stand a chance!"

"He's getting tossed around like a ragdoll!"

"This fight is already over."

Asta ignored them. He forced himself back up, breathing hard, his muscles screaming. But he was grinning.

"I'm not done yet!"

He lunged forward, gripping his sword tighter.

If he couldn't win at range, he'd close the distance.

No matter how many attacks came at him, no matter how many times he got hit—

He'd keep going.

Asta staggered, his breath ragged, his body aching from Yuno's relentless wind barrage. The force of every attack pushed him back, his muscles screaming for him to stop. His fingers tightened around his sword, sweat dripping down his face.

Yuno hovered above, watching, waiting. "Just give up, Asta. You can't win."

Asta gritted his teeth.

He had to win.

Then, in the middle of his exhaustion, a memory surfaced.

Not of a brutal training session. Not of a wise, battle-hardened mentor.

But of that jerk—Number 214.

The mismatched-eye freak who somehow, without meaning to, became his master just a while ago.

—"You're hopeless."—

Asta had been trying to land a hit on him for hours. Swinging wildly. Missing every time. The guy never even used magic, just dodged like it was a joke.

—"Use something else."—

Asta had yelled back, frustrated. "Like what?! I can't sense magic like everyone else!"

214 had smirked, arms crossed, looking completely bored.

—"Tch. You don't need magic. Just use Ki."—

"Huh? What's Ki?"

214 shrugged.

—"I dunno. Just do this."—

And then, without warning, he threw a rock at Asta's face.

Asta barely dodged it in time, flailing backward. "HEY! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!"

214 just grinned.

—"Congrats. You used Ki."—

Asta never even realized it back then. He thought the guy was just messing with him. But now… standing here, bruised, exhausted, pushed to his limit—

He remembered. Ki wasn't magic. It wasn't sight. It was feeling. The shift in the air. The flow of an attack. The instinct to move before the enemy even strikes.

Asta exhaled. He loosened his stance. He let go of his frustration. Then—he felt it. The way the air pressure changed as Yuno prepared his next attack. The faint disturbance before a spell was even cast. The moment right before movement. Asta's eyes snapped open. Yuno fired a wind blast, faster than before. Asta moved before it left his fingertips.

A sharp turn—he dodged without looking. Another spell, an incoming tornado burst—he ducked low, shifting before the attack could fully form. The crowd gasped. Yuno's gaze sharpened. Asta moved faster.

His feet barely touched the ground as he weaved through Yuno's attacks, evading with an ease he never had before. Wind slashes tore through the air, but he read them before they came. Every gust, every shift in pressure, every flicker of movement—it all clicked in his mind, his body reacting on instinct.

He wasn't just dodging.

He was reading Yuno.

The shift in his opponent's stance. The slight dip of his shoulder. The flicker of mana before a spell was even cast.

Ki.

Yuno's golden eyes narrowed. His wind magic lashed out, trying to pin Asta down, trying to force him into an opening. But Asta was past that. He lunged, blade raised, closing the distance in a blink.

For the first time—Yuno was the one on the defensive.

The crowd roared.

"What the hell? The wimp's keeping up?!"

"Is he… winning?"

Yuno gritted his teeth. His spells came faster, stronger, but Asta was relentless. He cut through the attacks, surged forward, closed in. Yuno took a sharp step back, his usual calm cracking under the pressure. Asta's sword came down. Yuno dodged—but barely.

He skidded backward, his breath coming quicker.

Asta grinned. "Not so easy when I can actually see what you're doing, huh Yuno?"

Yuno didn't answer. His hands clenched into fists.

Asta charged again. Asta lunged, sword swinging—

Yuno rose. A burst of wind erupted beneath him, propelling him upward. For a split second, it was unstable, awkward—then it clicked. The wind didn't just carry him. It held him. His body steadied. He hovered. Then—he flew.

The coliseum went silent.

The entire crowd froze.

Then—

"DID HE JUST LEARN HOW TO FLY?!"

"NO WAY! IN THE MIDDLE OF A FIGHT?!"

"HE COPIED THAT 214 FREAK!"

Down below, Asta skidded to a halt, eyes widening. "Oh, come on! Now you can FLY?!"

Yuno looked down at him, his golden eyes sharp, his breath still heavy from exhaustion—but his face was set.

"I'm going to win," he said.

Then, he dove.

The battle reached its peak.

Asta and Yuno stood across from each other, both panting, both refusing to fall. The arena around them was torn apart—cracks lined the stone floor, debris littered the battlefield, and dust swirled in the air like a battlefield after a war.

Yet neither of them looked tired.

They looked alive.

Asta slammed his sword into the ground, using it to hold himself up as he grinned. "Heh… you're strong, Yuno. But you're gonna have to do a lot more than that to keep me down."

Yuno narrowed his eyes, wiping the sweat from his brow. "You're still standing?"

Asta lifted his head, his grin widening.

"OF COURSE!" His voice boomed across the coliseum, reaching every single person watching. He took a deep breath before shouting, "BECAUSE I'M GOING TO BECOME THE WIZARD KING!"

The crowd gasped.

Some scoffed, some laughed, but others—others watched in silence, eyes wide, something stirring in their chests.

Yuno's lips pressed into a thin line. "You're a fool." Then, he lifted his chin, golden eyes filled with quiet, unshakable determination. "Because I'm going to become the Wizard King, not you."

The tension in the coliseum spiked.

Then, in the same instant—

They moved.

Mana roared around Yuno, his grimoire glowing bright. His hands lifted, and the wind answered. It surged, twisting, building, growing into a spiraling force that towered into the sky.

Wind Magic: Towering Tornado!

The winds spun with terrifying force, pulling in everything around it. Debris lifted from the ground, the very air howling with power. It wasn't just an attack—it was a force of nature.

But Asta didn't hesitate.

He tightened his grip on his sword. Ki pulsed through his body, timing, instinct, everything coming together into a single moment. He inhaled deeply, feeling everything—the shift in the air, the force of the tornado, the exact second it would reach him.

Then—he moved.

With a burst of power, he launched himself forward, dodging the full force of the winds by inches. His grimoire glowed, a pulse of energy crackling around him.

This was it.

His strongest attack.

Asta gritted his teeth, raised his sword—

DEMON-SLAYER STRIKE!

A single, devastating slash.

His blade cleaved through the air, cutting through Yuno's tornado like a blade through cloth. The sheer force of the attack sent a shockwave rippling outward, splitting the arena in two. The impact shattered the ground beneath them, sending cracks spider-webbing through the stone.

The tornado collapsed. The wind died.

For a moment—absolute silence.

Then—

BOOM.

A massive explosion of force erupted, throwing both Asta and Yuno backward. They crashed into the ground, rolling, sliding, until they finally came to a stop at opposite ends of the ruined battlefield.

Dust settled. Neither of them moved. The entire coliseum was destroyed—cracks lined the ground, stone pillars had crumbled, and the sheer force of their battle had nearly torn the place apart.

The crowd was silent.

Then—

"A… draw?"

"They destroyed the battlefield… and they're both still breathing?"

"Those two… they're on another level."

Asta groaned, barely able to lift his head. His whole body ached, his limbs felt like lead, but he was grinning. Across from him, Yuno lay on his back, staring up at the sky. He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. They had given everything. They had both reached beyond their limits. And in the end—neither had won.

But neither had lost, either.

The rivalry wasn't over.

It had only just begun.

>>>>>>>>>

Reina

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The battlefield was gone.

Cracks ran through the coliseum floor like shattered glass. Stone pillars had crumbled. The sheer force of their final attacks had nearly torn the entire arena apart. And yet—both of them were still there. Bruised, exhausted, but still there. She could feel her own heartbeat hammering against her ribs, the energy of the fight still thrumming in the air. Asta. Yuno. They weren't just strong—they were on another level entirely.

How…?

How was Asta, a magicless boy, standing his ground against someone like Four Leaf Magic Genius?

Her thoughts were racing, trying to make sense of it, when suddenly—she heard a voice beside her.

"This is the strongest magic that was ever thought of."

Reina flinched, turning sharply.

"Asta's magic... I will not give up."

Her pupils dilated. Say what?

And then—he appeared.

The mismatched-eye freak stood beside her, casually eating popcorn.

She blinked. Popcorn. He hadn't been there a second ago. Where did he even get popcorn? Why was he acting like he was watching a show instead of one of the most intense duels in the history of the Magic Knights exam?!

She opened her mouth—then shut it again, unsure if her brain had just stopped functioning. He crunched down on a handful of popcorn, then, without even looking at her, spoke.

"What you witnessed is the very essence of the human will. A force beyond logic, beyond power itself. The kind of determination that turns the impossible into reality. That shakes the very foundation of fate."

He chewed slowly, then continued.

"In essence—" He flicked a popcorn kernel into his mouth, expression unreadable. "The unyielding spirit of a man who refuses to lose is the most powerful magic of all."

A deep, philosophical statement. Reina could feel the weight of it. The meaning. The wisdom.

And yet—

She couldn't help but feel annoyed. Because the entire time, 214 had that same smug, lazy grin on his face. Like he had figured out the secrets of the universe while doing absolutely nothing. This guy…

This guy was infuriating.