No Leaf Clover (Black Clover OC)

Raymon

The tea had cooled. Raymon could taste the bitterness more now, sharp and lingering. He set the cup down with a quiet clink. Fragil hadn't touched hers. The porcelain cup sat in her hands, barely disturbed, a thin line of steam still curling up into the air. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, rustling the leaves with a gentle whisper, but the space between them remained heavy.

"You really convinced them," he said, voice even. "The Tormenta Family swallowed the lie. Abiel walked free."

Fragil's fingers twitched around her cup, her grip tense. "It wasn't a lie," she muttered. "It was necessary."

Raymon watched her carefully. She was unraveling, though she tried to hold herself together. The stiffness in her posture. The restless flicker of her gaze, unable to settle. He had seen this before—on the battlefield, in war rooms, in the quiet after bloodshed. Doubt creeping in, twisting its roots deep.

"I branded him for a reason," she said, voice quieter now, almost to herself. "Not just to protect him. Not just for his sake." A breath. She hesitated. "Because of what he could be."

Her admission hung between them.

Raymon leaned back slightly, studying her. "You want to use him."

She flinched. A small reaction, but he caught it. She didn't deny it.

"He could be strong enough," she said. "Strong enough to defeat Nebra Silva." The name left her lips like a curse. "She—she broke my legs, that bitch. At a ball. A damn ball."

Raymon didn't need the details to understand what that moment had done to her. She had been powerless, humiliated, crushed beneath the weight of a royal's privilege. Some wounds did not heal, no matter how much time passed.

Her grip tightened on the cup. Her knuckles turned pale. "She walks free because of her name. Her blood." A pause. A breath. Shaky. "I won't let that stand."

Raymon remained still. He had fought enough wars, seen enough vendettas burn bright and ruthless, to recognize the fire in her eyes. Revenge sharpened people into weapons. Sometimes, it kept them alive. Other times, it consumed them whole.

"And you think Abiel is your answer," he said.

She nodded, but there was hesitation now, a crack in her certainty. "His magic—it's not in the Index. Just like Uncle Julius's Time Magic. You know what that means."

Raymon did. Magic like that didn't just break limits. It rewrote them. It was rare. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The kind of power that changed the course of history.

His fingers tapped against the wooden table, slow, thoughtful. He remembered the wars, the bloodshed, the weight of his blade slicing through enemies who were once comrades. The Shining Eight Generals, the chaos they wrought, the bodies left in their wake. He stared at Fragil for a long moment before reaching for his tea, taking another slow sip. The bitterness remained, grounding him.

"You know," he said, voice steady, "Julius was my student once."

Fragil blinked, momentarily pulled from her spiraling thoughts. "My uncle?"

Raymon gave a slow nod. "Long before he became the Magic Emperor."

The wind outside had picked up. The trees swayed, branches tapping softly against the windows. Fragil tilted her head, studying him now, as if searching his face for something she had never noticed before.

"He never mentioned you."

Raymon smirked, but there was no amusement in it. "He wouldn't. That time in his life isn't something he'd want to dwell on." He leaned forward slightly, fingers threading together atop the table. "He was reckless. Too ambitious for his own good. Always looking toward the future, obsessed with what came next." A pause. "Obsessed with time."

Fragil's grip on her cup loosened. "That sounds like him."

Raymon let the silence stretch, let the weight of memory press against him. He had seen that same hunger before. In Julius, in countless others who sought power, who wanted to carve their name into history. Some had succeeded. Many had not.

"He thought his magic would make him untouchable," Raymon continued, voice quieter now. "Time magic. The rarest of the rare. He assumed it gave him an advantage no one could counter." His gaze darkened. "I had to teach him otherwise."

Fragil frowned. "You fought him?"

Raymon's smirk returned, sharper this time. "More than once. He lost every time."

She inhaled softly. "You're saying you were stronger than the future Magic Emperor?"

Raymon didn't answer immediately. He glanced at his tea, watched the way the surface stilled. "Strength isn't just about magic. It's about knowing your limits. Knowing when to fight and when to step back." He lifted his gaze to hers. "Julius learned that the hard way."

Fragil seemed to process that, her lips pressing into a thin line. "And yet, he became the strongest in the end."

Raymon nodded. "Because he listened."

For a moment, the weight between them shifted. The talk of the boy, of revenge, of uncertain paths—they all faded, replaced by something simpler. A shared understanding of a man who had once been a reckless student and had grown into something far greater.

Raymon exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping lightly against the wood. "If you're searching for answers," he said, "you should be asking yourself why Julius took an interest in Abiel in the first place."

Fragil's breath hitched. Her fingers curled against the table.

Raymon leaned back. "Because whatever that boy is capable of... Julius saw it first."

----

Darkness stretched endlessly in all directions. Abiel floated weightlessly, his body suspended in a void that pulsed with something unseen, something alive. He could not move, could not speak. His breath—if he was breathing at all—was soundless, his own existence uncertain within the shifting abyss.

Then, a voice.

"Fascinating."

It did not echo. It simply existed, curling around him like an unseen force, weaving into his very being. Abiel did not recognize it, yet it felt as though it had always been there, lurking beneath his thoughts, whispering from the depths of his soul.

"You do not know what you are, do you?"

A flicker of something foreign stirred within him. He could not answer, could not even form a thought before the voice spoke again.

"The end. The last. The Kalpha."

Abiel's chest tightened. The weight of the words pressed down on him, suffocating yet intangible. He could feel something stirring in the void around him, coiling tendrils of energy unseen but undeniably real.

"The God of Hate."

His mind reeled. The words dug into him, burrowing deep where logic could not reach. God? Hate? None of it made sense. He tried to move, to deny it, to reject whatever this was, but his limbs remained frozen, his body nothing more than a drifting thought in the endless dark.

The voice hummed, satisfied.

"Do you hear it? The call? It sings for you. It always has. You simply refused to listen."

A soundless pulse rippled through the void. For a moment, Abiel swore he could hear it—the faintest melody, distant yet deafening, crawling into the edges of his mind. It was not a song. It was something else. Something primal. Something vast.

His heart pounded. Or had it stopped?

He did not understand. He could not understand.

Then, the darkness shifted. A light—faint at first, then blinding—cut through the abyss, splitting the void apart. It swallowed everything, devouring the nothingness, and for the first time, Abiel felt something.

Warmth.

It burned.

 ----

Abiel

He sat in the trees of the manor, perched on a thick, gnarled branch, staring past the golden barrier that encased the ruins below. His body felt weightless, yet impossibly heavy, as if he existed in two places at once. The wind whispered through the leaves, rustling them in a way that should have been comforting, but the sound barely reached him. His hands rested limply on his lap, fingers barely curled, and his bubble-gum pink eyes—once so full of youthful defiance—were now empty. Hollow.

He had killed people. Tons of them.

The realization sat within him, distant and detached, as if someone else had spoken the words and left him to simply listen. He did not feel grief. He did not feel horror. Shouldn't he? Shouldn't there be something? Instead, there was only silence, stretching endlessly inside him like an abyss that refused to echo back.

Footsteps. Light, deliberate, and approaching with an absence of hesitation. He did not turn.

Fragil stepped closer, her presence a quiet weight against the hum of magic in the air. She paused a few feet away, shifting uncomfortably, as if unsure how to bridge the space between them. Then, in a voice almost too soft for someone like her, she spoke.

"I'm sorry."

Her words hung in the air, untouched, unanswered. He continued staring at the golden barrier, watching the way the magic pulsed gently like the heartbeat of something still living. Still breathing. Unlike the ones he had erased.

Her voice trailed off, and she clenched her hands at her sides. Abiel said nothing.

The words reached him, but they did not stir anything inside. Fix this? There was no fixing this. The weight of what had happened was immeasurable, but somehow, he felt nothing beneath it. Just emptiness. Just the vast, endless void stretching within him.

His fingers twitched slightly, but he did not move. He did not look at her. He did not blink. The golden barrier below flickered, casting fractured light onto the twisted remnants of what had once been lives.

But there was nothing to say.

And so, he remained silent.

Fragil stood below, looking up at him. Her voice was steady, but the weight in it was undeniable. "The manor is protected. A magical artifact is keeping everything… intact."

Abiel blinked once. Slowly. He barely heard her.

"We're waiting," she continued. "For my uncle. Julius Novachrono."

That name made him flinch.

Fragil sighed, running a hand through her hair. "When he gets here, he'll use Reverse Time Magic to bring them back." She paused. "They aren't really gone. Not yet. The artifact locked the moment in place. If we act before it fades, we can undo this."

Abiel finally shifted, his fingers curling slightly against the bark. He turned his gaze to her, staring, trying to make sense of it.

"Julius Novachrono," he repeated, voice dull. "Your uncle."

Fragil nodded. "Yes."

A bitter laugh escaped him, quiet and empty. "Of course. Of course he is."

Silence stretched between them. The golden light flickered slightly, shimmering in the air.

Fragil hesitated, then spoke again. "I'm sorry. For everything. I told Raymon to fight you. I—I didn't think it would end like this."

He looked at her then, really looked, but his expression was unreadable. He didn't know what to say. What to feel. His hands clenched slightly, but even that felt mechanical.

The golden barrier shimmered again, enclosing the manor in frozen time. Waiting. Holding everything still.

Waiting for Julius.

Abiel clenched his fist. The brand on his skin pulsed like an open wound, a reminder of everything that had been taken from him. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Steady.

"Remove it."

Fragil blinked. "What?"

"The brand." He lifted his arm, the cursed mark glowing faintly under the golden barrier's light. "Take it off."

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face. She shifted uncomfortably, her hands tightening at her sides. "I… can't."

His expression didn't change. "You put it there. You can take it off."

Fragil shook her head. "It doesn't work like that."

Silence.

Abiel's pink eyes, hollow and unreadable, bore into her. "Then how does it work?"

She hesitated, then exhaled. "It's an oath. A noble's contract. The only way to remove it is to fulfill the wish of the one who placed it."

His jaw tightened. "Your wish."

She flinched but didn't look away.

He let out a bitter breath, staring past her, into the shimmering gold of the barrier. "Then tell me. What is it? What do I have to do?"

Fragil bit her lip, then looked down. Her voice, when it came, was quieter. "I wanted revenge."

Abiel's gaze snapped back to her.

She swallowed. "Nebra Silva. A royal. A monster in silk gloves. She humiliated me—broke me. Years ago, at a ball, she shattered my legs. Not in battle. Not in a duel. Just because she could."

A beat of silence.

"They healed," she continued, voice steady but thin. "But not completely. Even now, when I walk, I feel it. A reminder. A scar I can't erase."

Her fingers curled into fists. "So when I saw you—when I saw what you could become—I made my choice."

Abiel said nothing.

"I branded you because I wanted control. I wanted an outcome." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "I thought if I had you—someone powerful, someone unique—I could finally put Nebra in her place. But I—" She exhaled sharply. "I never thought about you."

She stepped closer, guilt heavy in her expression. "What happened today… I didn't think it would go that far. I didn't think you'd—" Her voice caught. "I was selfish. And reckless. And for that… I'm sorry."

Abiel stared at her for a long moment.

Abiel's fingers brushed over the glowing brand, his pink eyes distant, unreadable. His mind churned, a restless sea of questions, doubts, and something deeper—something he couldn't name. He exhaled.

"You said I'm unique." His voice was quiet, yet heavy. "How?"

Fragil studied him for a moment before speaking. "Your magic. Your Void. There is no record of it in the Magic Index. No one has ever wielded anything like it before—except Time Magic. My uncle told me that anomalies like yours are beyond natural law. That alone makes you unique."

Abiel frowned. He understood the words, but they felt detached, like they belonged to someone else. He didn't feel unique. He felt… lost.

"You also have something else," Fragil continued, stepping closer. "Your mana capacity. It's growing."

Abiel glanced at her. "Growing?"

She nodded. "Mages are born with a fixed mana pool. It expands with training, but the upper limit stays the same. Yours… doesn't. It keeps increasing, adapting—like it has no limit at all."

The rotation of my Void Sphere.

"How do you even determine mana?"

Fragil hesitated, then sighed. "Here. I'll show you."

She raised her hand, a faint shimmer of snow radiating from her palm. "Close your eyes. Focus on the air around you. Feel for the flow of mana—yours and mine. It should feel like an affinity, a pulse, a presence."

Abiel did as he was told. He stilled, inhaled, and reached out—not with his hands, but with something deeper. And then—

There it was.

The world sharpened. The mana pulsed in his mind's eye, laced with intricate streams of energy. Fragil stood before him, her mana weaving through the air, a controlled storm of ice. And beneath it, within himself—his own presence. Dark. Vast. Unfathomable.

He opened his eyes.

Fragil was staring at him.

He blinked. "...What?"

"You just—" Her voice faltered. "That took you seconds."

Abiel frowned. "And?"

"And it takes years to develop mana perception!" She stepped back, as if seeing him for the first time. "How… how did you do that so fast?"

Abiel considered her words. The answer came to him as easily as breathing.

"I don't know."

Fragil's confusion deepened. "What?"

"I just did it..."

Abiel simply exhaled, glancing down at his hands. Even now, the knowledge settled into him, natural and effortless.

Something was different.

This world was real.

Yet, the confusion clawed at him. How? How could he stand in the world of a manga he had once read? A story, once ink on paper, now the very air he breathed?

His thoughts spiraled. If this was Black Clover, then where were they? The main characters, the ones who were meant to be the true forces of change. Asta. Yuno. Were they out there, fulfilling their roles, walking the path that had already been written? Or had his existence disrupted everything?

Am I supposed to be here?

His grip tightened. He thought back to his fight with Raymon, the way his body had moved, the instincts that had carried him through. It wasn't scripted. It wasn't drawn into a panel. It was him. Real, breathing, fighting, existing. The voice from his dream echoed in his mind. God of Hate. The End. The Kalpha. It felt distant now, like a fading whisper, slipping through his fingers the more he tried to grasp it.

Abiel exhaled. He didn't have answers. Not yet. But this wasn't a dream. This wasn't a game.

This world was real.

Abiel steadied his breath, his mana stretching outward like unseen tendrils, grasping for something—anything—beyond the golden barrier. He felt the presence of those inside the manor, scattered and flickering like candle flames in the dark. Some were stronger, the nobles standing out like torches, while the peasants barely glowed, their mana small but steady.

Then—nothing.

A void. A gaping absence where something should be.

His body stiffened. His heart pounded against his ribs. He reached out again, more carefully this time. Fragil's mana loomed high, structured like a tower, solid and unmoving. But unlike the others, hers carried something else—cold. A frigid presence laced with sharp edges, sinking into his skin like frost creeping across a windowpane. It wasn't just powerful—it was bitter. Her aura carried the weight of ice itself, unyielding, distant.

Then space collapsed.

A pressure unlike anything Abiel had ever felt settled onto his skin. The very air twisted, bending at its seams, and in an instant, Julius Novachrono stood before them.

Abiel's breath hitched.

He hadn't sensed him. Not even a flicker.

His instincts screamed at him, his body coiling like a wound spring. He reached out again, desperate to grasp even a thread of Julius's presence. But there was nothing. No weight, no mana—just empty space where a person should be. And yet, the sheer force rolling off him was suffocating, an unshakable, unseen power pressing into Abiel's very bones.

If Fragil's mana was a tower of ice, then Julius was something else entirely. Not fire, not lightning, not wind—nothing. A blank, formless space in the world itself, as if existence refused to acknowledge him.

Julius smiled, his expression unreadable.

"Ah," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "You're quite the perceptive one, aren't you?"

Abiel could hardly breathe.

Julius Novachrono stood before him, smiling, relaxed, yet something about his presence gnawed at Abiel's instincts. The space around him felt… displaced, as if reality itself bent to accommodate him.

"Strange," Julius murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "Have we met before?"

Abiel blinked. His throat felt dry. "No," he answered, but even as he said it, something deep inside him whispered otherwise.

Julius studied him for a moment longer, then let out a soft chuckle. "Ah, never mind," he said lightly. "Must be my imagination."

But Abiel's gut twisted. A deep, primal warning surged through him. He couldn't explain it, but the air felt heavier, pressing down on him, making it harder to breathe. Then, without meaning to, his mana flared—no, coated his body, wrapping around him in a thin but solid layer.

Julius's eyes lit up with intrigue. "Mana Skin?"

Mana Skin? Abiel stiffened. He hadn't willed it. He barely even knew how to use it after trying to figure it out in the restaurant. And yet, his body had done it instinctively.

Something inside him screamed. The void space—his void—quivered, retreating, as if warning him. Run.

Julius placed a hand on his chin, thoughtful. "Your reaction is… fascinating," he mused. "Void Magic is rare enough, but for it to instinctively reject something…" His golden eyes gleamed. "It seems your magic is particularly sensitive to tiered otherworldly affinities. Time Magic… and perhaps even World Tree Magic."

Abiel's breath hitched.

Julius smiled, childlike curiosity in his gaze. "Vangeance had the same expression once, you know," he continued, tilting his head. "I wonder… would you react the same way to his magic?"

Abiel couldn't answer. His body remained tense, every fiber screaming that something was wrong. But why? Why did his void—his very being—seem desperate to escape this place?

The pressure vanished.

Abiel exhaled sharply, his body sagging as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The suffocating tension, the instinctive warning that rattled his very core—it was gone. And with it, his mana skin dissipated, like it had never been there in the first place.

Julius still stood there, his expression unreadable for a fraction of a second before he smiled again—effortless, casual. Had he done something? Had he adjusted his presence to make Abiel more at ease? It felt like it. Whatever force had been pressing down on him, whatever had made his void recoil, was no longer there.

"Tch," Fragil huffed beside him, arms crossed as she pouted. "Uncle, you're never around when I need you."

Julius gave a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his head. "Ahh… well, you know how it is. So much to do, so little time."

Fragil's glare deepened.

The Magic Emperor grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I really am sorry. I should've been there more."

She turned away with a small "hmph," but Abiel could tell she was just being difficult.

Julius stretched, rolling his shoulders, then turned toward the golden barrier surrounding the manor. "Now then," he said, voice slipping into something more serious. "I suppose I should get to work."

Before Abiel could react, Julius vanished.

No flash of light. No distortion. No drawn-out spell. Just—gone.

Abiel blinked, stunned. No grimoire? No elaborate spellcasting? He had seen Julius in the anime before—during the fight against Patry. Back then, he wielded a massive grimoire, brimming with countless pages of time magic. But now… nothing. No book. No pages. Just disappearance.

His mind raced.

What the hell is he?

Line Break ----

Same time Grimoire Tower, Hage.

The church bells rang.

Loud. Proud.

The village square buzzed with excitement. Asta could feel it in the air—the thick anticipation, the collective breath held in every chest. The crowd was restless, shifting on their feet, waiting. Some kids bounced excitedly, while the older ones stood still, eyes gleaming with ambition.

Today was the day. The Grimoire Acceptance Ceremony.

Asta stood near the front, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. His whole life had built up to this. He had trained, pushed himself, screamed to the heavens about becoming the Magic Emperor.

Now was his chance to prove them all wrong.

The great doors of the Grimoire Tower creaked open. A sudden gust of wind blew out, carrying a faint hum of magic. Inside, shelves stretched to the high ceilings, lined with ancient tomes that pulsed with power. Each book seemed alive, waiting, searching for its chosen wielder.

The ceremony began.

One by one, grimoires floated from the shelves, glowing as they sought out their new masters. The villagers gasped, whispering excitedly. Some received small, battered books, their magic barely flickering. Others got massive grimoires with elaborate golden engravings, proof of their potential.

Asta grinned, his heart hammering in his chest.

Any moment now.

The grimoires thinned out, their numbers dwindling. More people clutched their books, some grinning, others barely holding back tears of joy. Excited chatter filled the air.

Then—

The last book left the shelves.

Asta's hands were empty.

The world around him blurred.

A dry chuckle broke the silence. "Wait, hold on... Did Asta not get one?"

"Maybe it's invisible?" Someone snickered.

A few nervous titters spread through the crowd, but then came the real laughter—mocking, sharp, biting.

"Hah! The loudmouth finally got shut up!"

"Guess all that yelling about becoming Magic Emperor was just hot air."

"Not even a weak grimoire? That's just pathetic!"

Asta's fingers twitched, but he forced a grin. "H-Hey, maybe mine's just, uh, taking its time!" His voice cracked, but he fought to keep it light.

Then, it happened.

A golden glow. A warmth so radiant it made the air hum.

From the highest shelf, a single grimoire floated down, slow, deliberate, bathed in shimmering light. The crowd stilled.

A four-leaf clover.

Gasps. Stunned silence.

"Four leaves...?"

"No way... that's the same as the First Magic Emperor's!"

Asta's throat went dry.

The grimoire landed gently in Yuno's hands.

Yuno, standing tall, gaze unwavering, fingers curling around the book's cover as if it had always belonged to him.

The murmurs swelled into a roar. Excitement. Admiration. Worship.

"A four-leaf in a dump like Hage? That's crazy!"

"He's going straight to the top!"

"The next Magic Emperor for sure!"

Asta could barely hear over the rushing in his ears. His breath felt too shallow, his chest too tight.

This was Yuno. His rival. His brother. The person who pushed him forward. He should be happy. He should be celebrating.

Then why—why did it feel like the ground had been ripped from beneath him?

Yuno glanced at him, unreadable as ever. Then, as if sealing the moment, he shut his grimoire with a quiet snap.

Asta stood frozen.

The air felt suffocating. The jeers, the laughter, the sharp whispers pressing against his skin like daggers.

"Asta really got nothing, huh?"

"Heh, guess some people are just born useless."

He wanted to scream. To fight. To say something—anything.

But the truth had already settled deep in his gut like a heavy stone.

He had nothing.

And Yuno had everything.

Line Break ----

Thinking of intense training arc with sisho! Asta Villain Arc? When I watched the manga - I felt so bad to Asta. HAHA. Still not sure on how Abiel will use his Meta-Knowledge but let's see.