Yami Sukehiro
He stands at the highest row of the stadium. Arms folded. Eyes narrowed. It's rare to see this arena so torn to pieces.
Debris lies everywhere. Cracks split the once-pristine walls. Magic Knights below scramble to patch the damage. Normally, the Entrance Exams might dent a few pillars, leave a scorch mark or two—but this time, the wreckage runs deep. Yami's gaze slides across fractured arches and gaping holes, now littered with rubble piled high. All because of that final match, he thinks, recalling the surprising draw between the grey-haired boonie and the brooding Four-Leaf holder.
A stale tang of burned mana hangs in the air, stinging his nose. Dust coats his tongue whenever he breathes. The clang and thud of shifting stone echo throughout the battered amphitheater, each flare of repairing magic casting flickering shadows along the broken stands. He hears low voices from other captains, still buzzing about how an exam turned into all-out destruction. But he barely listens.
He knows this nation is already rotten—rotten with powerful nobles who wield their mana like a hammer, caring more about status than substance. They've held the reins of the Clover Kingdom for generations, looking down on anyone who doesn't share their bloodline or their magical potential. It's a web of pride and arrogance that chokes out genuine talent. Yami's not impressed by fancy spells or inherited prestige. His interest goes deeper, focused on grit and character—qualities that shine brightest when someone refuses to stay on the mat, no matter how many times they're knocked down.
He gazes down again. There's the grey-haired boonie, seemingly oblivious to the swirling dust around him. No visible mana, yet he made that blade devour the strong magic attacks. Yami recalls how the kid matched the Four-Leaf holder blow for blow, forcing a draw that nobody expected. And earlier, back in the initial trials, one single rock tossed by that cat-eyed brat was enough for the kid to pick up something akin to Ki—as if reading an attack's trajectory came naturally the instant he decided to learn it.
One rock, Yami muses, a small grin tugging at his lips, and the brat's already learned the basics. He wonders how far that kind of raw determination can go, especially under a kingdom so steeped in tradition, where the privileged flaunt their superiority at every turn. Yet for all their mana, these smug Nobles often lack the drive to push their limits. That's exactly why Yami trusts character first. True power's nothing without the spirit to wield it for something more than vanity. Because if a so-called nobody can go toe-to-toe with a Four-Leaf mage, then maybe the Clover Kingdom's long-standing hierarchy isn't as unshakable as it thinks. And if that's the case, he'd be more than happy to see those crusty nobles tremble when their precious structures come crashing down.
He notices the other Captains gathered nearby. Vangeance—calm as ever—clears his throat.
"We'll pause the proceedings. That final match was… intense. Give the repair teams time to stabilize the stadium."
Nozel straightens, flicking a bit of debris from his polished shoulder guard. "Hector belongs in the Silver Eagles," he declares, chin lifting imperiously. "Don't even try to dispute it."
A moment of silence passes before Vangeance inclines his head, not missing a beat. "If that's how you feel, then the Four-Leaf holder will join Golden Dawn," he says. Though his tone stays polite, there's an iron edge to his words, a certainty that makes a few of the other Captains shift.
From a few steps away, Charlotte Roselei—captain of the Blue Rose Knights—breaks her silence. "What about the other two?" she asks, her voice steady and direct. She keeps her gaze on the wrecked arena floor. "The grey-haired commoner who nearly leveled this place, and… number 214? The one who forfeited after dominating the trials?"
An attendant is quickly beckoned over. He rifles through a stack of parchments until he finds the one marked '214.' The hush among the Captains is almost tangible; even the swirling dust seems to hold its breath. Yami notes the sharp tang of burnt mana clinging to the air, mingling with the gritty taste of broken stone.
Vangeance accepts the paper and reads aloud, "Abiel. Fifteen, a commoner from Kiten. Worked in a restaurant. Branded by Tormenta." His masked face tilts slightly. "He defeated a rogue mage months ago—no grimoire at the time—under a cleanup mission assigned by the Wizard King himself. Apparently, only the Wizard King knows this 'Abiel'."
A low murmur sweeps through the group.
Charlotte's jaw tightens a fraction. "Defeating a rogue mage without a grimoire… That's unheard of," she remarks, though her expression remains composed.
Nozel exhales in disbelief. "Tch. Either the records are exaggerated… or he's hiding something."
Yami lets out a dry chuckle. "Hiding or not, kid's definitely trouble—my kind of trouble." He brushes some dust from his coat, half-grinning. "With so many pampered noble brats running around, maybe it's time for a real shake-up."
Charlotte crosses her arms, her blue eyes flicking in Yami's direction for a split second before focusing back on the crumbling stands. "Don't expect me to tolerate any more reckless destruction," she says, her voice cool. "If this Abiel stirs up more chaos, I'll handle it personally."
Vangeance gently folds the parchment. "We'll continue the selection once the stadium is stable."
Yami casts one last glance down at the shattered arena. Dust lingers in the air like a haze, and the hum of restoration magic vibrates against the cracked pillars. He can still picture the grey-haired boonie clashing with the Four-Leaf holder, the fierce strikes that tore up half the field. And somewhere in the middle of all that mayhem was this cat-eyed kid—Abiel—mysterious enough to pique even the Wizard King's interest. Guess the Clover Kingdom's about to get real interesting, he thinks, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. Can't say I mind.
Dorothy Unsworth stirs from her half-slumber against a broken column. She lifts the brim of her oversized hat, blinking away a yawn.
"Mmm… Did I miss something fun?"
Charlotte inclines her head. "Just talk of new recruits. Some… unusual ones."
The dreamer eyes wander toward Vangeance's parchment. "Abiel… 214… interesting." She tucks one hand under her chin, hat tipping forward again. "No mana readings. But the Wizard King's seen something in him, hmm?" She yawns. "That's worth a second look."
Nozel crosses his arms. "We can't ignore the fact that someone this unorthodox might prove dangerous."
Dorothy smiles faintly, tilting her head as if she's drifting back to a daydream. "Maybe… I'll keep an eye on him. If I feel like it."
Vangeance carefully refolds the parchment, nodding toward the swirl of magic below. "Let the repairs finish. We'll reconvene when the arena is repaired. Then we'll discuss offers."
He casts a brief glance at Dorothy—who's already drifting off again—and then at the other captains, all of them brimming with plans and claims. Let 'em fight over these kids all they want, he thinks, a sly grin tugging at his lips. I'll pick whoever's got real backbone, and then we'll see who's laughing in the end.
Noelle Silva
She crouched behind a section of the stadium wall, hugging a battered broom to her chest. Her pink eyes flickered anxiously from one Captain to the next, tracking their every move in the debris below. She tried to steady her breathing, but each breath felt shallow and tight, as though the dust in the air had lodged in her throat. The jagged stones around her dug into her knees, yet she barely noticed—her focus stayed locked on the heated conversation echoing through the ruined stands.
She risked a quick glance at her older brother, Nozel. He stood tall amid above, posture rigid and unyielding. She shifted her hold on the broom, her fingers trembling against the smooth wood. The faint quiver in her legs betrayed how hard she was trying to remain undetected.
Peasants… better than me. The words repeated like a taunt in her mind. She swallowed, recalling how her magic often refused to cooperate, and how the rest of her family viewed her as a lost cause. Worse still, lower-noble families were practically hovering around her, pressuring her toward marriage now that she was fifteen. The very idea made her skin crawl. She wanted to prove herself in magic, not be bartered off like some decorative trophy.
Biting her lower lip, Noelle peeked through a gap in the collapsed wall. A shard of broken marble scratched against her elbow when she leaned forward, but she ignored the sting. Her pink eyes widened at the sight of swirling restoration magic below—knights weaving spells to patch gaping holes in the arena floor, their strained faces lit by flickers of conjured light. The air smelled faintly of singed stone, and she could taste grit on her tongue every time she inhaled.
She didn't budge from her hiding spot. Her heart thumped painfully against her ribcage, each beat reminding her how unprepared she felt to face any of them head-on.
I'm not useless, she told herself, fingers curling tighter around the broom handle. I'm not just a spare princess waiting to be married off. Yet the more she heard about commoners and newcomers with remarkable feats, the smaller she felt. One had gone toe-to-toe with a Four-Leaf.
A faint clang sounded as more rubble tumbled somewhere out of sight. Noelle braced herself against a jutting piece of stone and slowly rose to her feet, still crouched low. She had to leave before someone spotted her. With one last anxious look at the captains above, Noelle slipped back through the sides. Her pink eyes darted left and right, scanning for any stray Magic Knight that knew her featuer. The stadium's half-collapsed walkway creaked under her boots, a sharp reminder of just how destructive this entrance exam had been. She tightened her grip on the broom, knuckles going white, determined not to let it rattle against the broken stones.
Someday… she vowed silently, pressing her lips together to quell a tremor threatening to spill tears. Someday I'll show everyone— the rest of my so-called family, and every commoner who can surpass me—that I'm not weak. With that promise echoing in her mind, she disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, her heart pounding as she envisioned a future where she'd finally stand proud among the Magic Knights, rather than shrinking away in their wake.
"You're not weak."
She twisted around, nearly losing her balance on a loose slab of stone. Standing by a crumbled pillar was a boy around her age—maybe older—wearing plain, worn clothes. What caught her attention were his mismatched eyes, one had a metallic gleam, while the other shone with a curious pink hue.
She straightened, forcing down the surge of anxiety that flared at the sudden intrusion. "What did you say?" she asked, voice edged with tension.
Noelle's shoulders felt tight, and she kept a defensive hold on the broom. "Why do you care if I'm weak or not?"
"I don't like seeing people beat themselves up. You've been standing here for a while, looking ready to jump in but also ready to bolt." He paused. "Figured you might need a reminder."
She let out a shaky breath, not entirely sure how to respond. "You don't know me," she said, quieter now. "And… you're a commoner, right?"
He acknowledged that with a small nod. "Yeah. That doesn't stop me from telling you - you're not weak."
She glanced away, wrestling with her own doubts. Everyone in the Silver Eagles had. Still, she couldn't ignore the steadiness in his voice. "I just… don't want to embarrass my family. I'm supposed to be a Silva, and I can't even—" She clenched her jaw, words failing her.
He shifted his stance, mismatched eyes firm. "Family name isn't everything. You step into the arena, you prove what you can do. If it works out, you'll get scouted. If it doesn't, you get up and try again. Pretty simple."
She inhaled slowly, trying to calm the knot in her stomach. "I've never really thought of it that way," she admitted. "But if I lose control—"
"Then learn from it," he said, as though it were obvious. "We've all got something to prove. Trust me. You just do your best and keep going."
Learn from it. As if it's easy.Noelle hesitated a second, eyes narrowing slightly. "Hold on," she said, taking a few steps closer as he turned away. "Have we… met before?"
He paused, the set of his shoulders suddenly stiff. "I—" He cleared his throat, glancing aside. "I don't think so. Must be mixing me up with someone else."
She opened her mouth to press further, but he shook his head. "I really need to go," he muttered, averting his gaze. "The captains'll notice if I'm gone too long."
Without waiting for her response, he turned and slipped away among the broken pillars. Noelle stood there, staring after him as dust swirled in the air. Even though she couldn't pin down all the details, the lingering sense of familiarity wouldn't quite leave her. Was it really the same person?
Noelle's grip on the broom tightened as she pulled the memory into sharper focus—one from only a few months back, outside the library in Kiten. She'd gone there hoping to find some quiet space to study magic theories to be better. Instead, she'd ended up fending off a brash suitor who insisted on trailing after her, bragging about his family's prestige and making unwelcome hints about marriage.
He'd been in the middle of a self-important rant when a small figure approached the library's heavy front door, clearly planning to open it. The boy was short—his features delicate enough that Noelle almost mistook him for a girl at first glance. But it was his eyes that caught her attention: both an unusual shade of pink, wide with uncertainty.
Her suitor, determined to show off, brushed the kid aside with a flourish of his arm. The boy stumbled, landing hard on the paved entrance. For an instant, Noelle locked eyes with him. He looked shaken, as though tears might spill at any second. Then he hurried to right himself.
Noelle had stepped around them both, wanting to avoid an even bigger scene. The suitor returned to boasting, but she only half listened. A vague sense of guilt had flickered through her—she hated the way the boy was treated but felt powerless to intervene without causing a stir. Soon after, she managed to slip inside the library, letting the heavy door clang shut behind her.
Now, months later, she realized that trembling boy with pink eyes must be the same person who'd just vanished among the broken pillars. Except back then, there was no metallic sheen in his gaze, and he certainly wasn't as tall or composed as the figure who'd told her You're not weak. The change between then and now was startling.
"I'm not weak."
Asta
He took a long gulp from the coconut in his hand, savoring the sweet, refreshing taste. It still surprised him that people were coming up to offer him drinks and cheerful greetings. Ever since his intense match with Yuno, the crowd's attitude toward him had shifted—from seeing him as some oddball with no mana to treating him like a rising star. The attention felt strange, but he couldn't deny that it gave him a small jolt of pride.
He found a seat near the edge of the repaired arena, watching the next bout with rapt attention. Even with the stadium still showing signs of damage, the new contenders refused to hold back, hurling spells and unleashing powerful attacks. Asta's gaze flicked from one fighter to the other, taking note of how they positioned themselves, how they timed their magic, and the tricks they used to gain an advantage. There was a lot more to combat than he'd originally realized.
His thoughts drifted back to his own recent battle with Yuno. The memory fired him up, but it also reminded him of how crucial it was to anticipate moves and maintain proper footing. In that clash, Ki had been a lifesaver—it let him sense attacks before they landed and strike faster than he thought possible. Now, he wanted to push those abilities even further. Where had his master gone, anyway? Asta wondered about that, determined to track the man down and learn more advanced techniques. The idea of surpassing Yuno at something—especially something this important—lit a spark of excitement in his chest.
Taking another swig of coconut water, he stood and stretched, rolling out his stiff shoulders. The lingering aches from his match were a reminder of how far he'd pushed himself. But in a way, the soreness only fueled his determination. He scanned the field as spells lit the air in brilliant flashes, telling himself he wasn't just watching for fun—he was studying. Every clever tactic or sudden feint he witnessed was something he could store away for future battles. Asta leaned forward in his seat, eyes focused on the center of the arena as another bout began.
A flame-powered girl squared off against a tall, lanky contestant whose swirling greenish energy flickered around him like drifting wisps. She hurled bolts of scorching fire, but her gaze kept flicking up into the stands, as if hunting for something—or someone—else. Each time she glanced away, her stance faltered, and her attacks lost precision. The tall contestant seized the opening, and in one swift maneuver, her flames sputtered out. She fell to her knees in defeat. Asta took a final sip from his coconut, a small frown pulling at his lips.
The matches ended. Then the selection came.
From his seat in the stands, Asta watched as the arena staff ushered the remaining hopefuls into a row near the center. Despite the lingering dust and dents in pillars from earlier matches, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation. According to the rules, each contestant waited quietly while the announcer—holding a long scroll—read off numbers in a clear, ringing voice.
"If your number is called, step forward," the announcer instructed. "If you receive an offer, confirm your acceptance. If not—well, better luck next year."
Asta's fingers drummed on his empty coconut cup as he kept one ear open for the announcements. The crowd around him murmured nonstop, some pointing at favorites, others lamenting the ones who'd already been rejected.
"Number twenty-three—Sonia! Step forward," the announcer called. A tall woman with braids of electric-blue hair walked out with a slight swagger, as if she owned the place. The crowd erupted in scattered cheers and whistles. After a tense pause:
"You have one offer—from the Coral Peacocks!"
"Yes!" Sonia shouted, fists pumping in delight. She hurried over to her new captain, who gave a nod of approval.
Asta couldn't help smiling a bit at her obvious joy. Then his attention quickly snapped to the next announcement:
"Number forty—Darius! Step forward."
Darius, a lanky boy with slightly trembling hands, stumbled onto the field. The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath for a heartbeat.
"No offers," the announcer said, tone dipping. Soft murmurs and a few consoling claps rippled through the audience as Darius bowed his head and trudged away.
Asta's chest tightened. He remembered what it felt like when no one believed in you. But he forced himself to stay focused. Each new name just reminded him that 214 hadn't come up yet, and neither had 214 actually shown up.
Over the next few minutes, the announcer rattled off a small parade of numbers:
"Number fifty—no offer."
"Number seventy-one—no offer."
"Number ninety—one offer from the Azure Deer!"
"Number one hundred three—no offer."
The wave of disappointment and relief ebbed and flowed across the arena. Asta noticed some contestants fidgeting where they stood, probably praying they'd hear at least one squad interested in them.
He squinted as the announcer read the next line. "Number one hundred five—Kai! Step forward."
A boy in a tattered jacket stepped forward. The hush that fell was broken only by a handful of hopeful cheers.
"Hah! That's the guy who used that weird barrier technique," someone in the crowd muttered.
"Yeah, it saved him during the Earth Shaker's attack," another replied.
A few spectators clapped politely, but the pause stretched.
"No offers," the announcer concluded softly.
Kai looked crushed, shoulders sagging. With a bow, he walked off, applause trailing after him in fitful bursts. Asta grimaced, tapping his foot on the ground. Come on, Master Jerk, Where are you?!
"Number one hundred ten—Lorelei! Step forward." A fiery-eyed girl bounded forward, her hair still singed from a recent bout.
"One offer: the Blue Rose," the announcer proclaimed. A wave of excited chatter rolled through the stands, and Lorelei stood straighter, clearly thrilled.
Asta's grip on his cup tightened. It was good to see others get their shot. But he couldn't stop scanning the line of remaining contestants for a familiar cat-eyed figure. So far, nothing.
Finally, the announcer cleared his throat and read another name. "Number one hundred thirty—Colt! Step forward." Colt, an older teen with wild red hair, stumbled forward. A hush hovered, then:
"No offers."
A collective sigh ran through the crowd. A few people clapped sympathetically, others exchanged looks of pity. Colt exited, blinking rapidly like he was trying not to cry.
"Number one hundred sixty-five: Yuno. Step forward!"
Immediately, a murmur of anticipation rippled through the stands. Asta's eyes snapped over to where Yuno stood, calm as ever, wind stirring faintly around him. Even after the chaos of the earlier matches—and that insane draw with Asta—he carried himself like nothing in the world could faze him. There was a small flicker in his eyes, though, as if he was fully aware this moment was about to change his life.
The announcer paused dramatically. All the Captain raised their hands. Then his voice rang out, clear and certain:
"All squads have extended an offer to Yuno."
A hush fell across the stadium, broken only by the rustling of banners and the distant crackle of restoration magic still patching the damage. It took a few seconds for the news to really sink in. Then an explosion of voices, cheers, and gasps filled the air. People leaped to their feet, clapping and shouting in disbelief. Asta heard scattered exclamations from every direction:
"All squads? Is that even allowed?"
"This has never happened before!"
"He must be the first in history!"
Asta's heart thumped unevenly. For an instant, he felt a fierce pride swell inside him. That's Yuno for you, he thought, remembering how they both vowed in Hage Village to become the Wizard King someday. There was no denying Yuno's incredible talent. Yet beneath the pride, a twinge of competitive frustration gnawed at Asta's gut. Every squad wants him… That's… That's huge.
Even the captains looked startled, exchanging glances and nods. Some seemed outright gleeful at the prospect of snatching up Yuno, while others looked like they were plotting how best to convince him. Yuno merely stood there, absorbing the clamor without so much as blinking. A collective hush fell over the stadium as every Magic Knight squad extended an offer to Yuno. Asta could hardly believe what he was hearing—all squads? Cheers and whistles erupted around him, the stands rumbling under the weight of the crowd's excitement. Even the captains looked stunned, some nodding appreciatively, others openly vying to catch Yuno's attention.
The wind mage himself remained composed, standing tall in the center of the battered field. He surveyed the captains, calmly taking in their eager expressions. Then, in that same cool manner, he lifted his gaze and announced, "I choose… Golden Dawn."
A fresh roar of applause and exclamation swelled through the stadium, and Asta felt pride and a prick of envy twist together in his gut. Vangeance, wearing a faint, polite smile, welcomed Yuno into his squad with a dignified nod. The other captains, while obviously disappointed, acknowledged Yuno's choice with grudging respect. After all, it was unheard of for a single contestant to receive offers from every squad.
From his spot in the stands, Asta couldn't shake the surge of mixed emotions. So that's where he's headed, he thought, gripping the empty coconut cup so hard the sides caved. Asta's heart thundered in his chest the moment his name echoed through the stadium. He'd been so wrapped up in worrying about 214's absence—and dwelling on Yuno's astounding success—that his own turn felt like a distant dream. Yet here it was, ringing loud and clear:
"Number one-hundred-sixty-six: Asta! Step forward."
He stood and made his way onto the battered field. The arena had quieted just enough for the announcer's words to carry: "You have three offers—Black Bulls, Crimson Lion… and Golden Dawn!"
The reaction was instantaneous. A wave of stunned gasps and excited chatter surged through the crowd. People craned their necks and traded wide-eyed glances as whispers piled on top of each other.
"Three offers? But he doesn't even have any mana!"
"He matched to that Yuno blow for blow!"
"That sword of his cancels magic—maybe that's how he did it!"
A few onlookers shot to their feet, clapping and shouting, while others just gawked in disbelief. Even the announcer, who'd been so composed all day, looked taken aback by how the stands erupted.
"Black Bulls as usual must see something in that kid—he's always picking the oddballs…"
"Yeah, but Golden Dawn? That squad never takes anyone who isn't top-tier!"
"Dumbass! He fought the Four Leaf Genius in a draw - of course he's top tier."
Asta's head spun at the sheer disbelief swirling around him. He could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes locked on his every move, waiting to see what he would do next. His palm tightened around the hilt of his broad anti-magic sword, a reminder of the power that had earned him this shot at joining a squad in the first place.
"He's the one with no mana, right?"
"Yeah, from that tiny church in Hage Village. I heard he grew up an orphan!"
Asta's stomach twisted at those comments, but he fought to steady himself. He scanned the crowd one more time for 214, but still no sign of his jerk of a master heart hammering. The uproar only grew, voices melding into a thunderous wave of curiosity, excitement, and outright shock.
Clearing his throat, he glanced between the captains, taking note of the intense curiosity in their eyes—whether hidden behind a stoic mask like Vangeance or out in the open like the Crimson Lion's bold stare. He felt a sudden surge of confidence well up inside him. No mana or not, I'm here to fight.
Asta held his breath, the roar of the stadium pressing in on him. Three offers—Black Bulls, Crimson Lion, and Golden Dawn—floated in front of his mind like glowing neon signs. He glanced toward the Golden Dawn captain, Vangeance, then flicked his eyes to Yuno, who had already chosen that prestigious squad. Asta's heart clenched. No way. I'm not gonna be "Yuno's sidekick" in his story. The thought struck with surprising clarity. He wanted to stand on his own two feet, prove himself on a different stage.
That left Crimson Lion or Black Bulls.
He pivoted his attention to the Crimson Lion leader, who stood tall with a fierce, fiery aura. His gaze then swung to the Black Bulls' captain: Yami Sukehiro, arms crossed, mouth set in a half-smirk. He looked both bored and intrigued, as if he was sizing Asta up even now.
Asta cleared his throat, clenching his fist around the strap of his sword. Crimson Lion… that's a great place to test my mettle—
Before he could voice a word, he felt a sudden heavy presence. Yami was somehow right in front of him, imposing figure casting a shadow over the battered arena floor. "You," Yami said, voice low and direct.
"You used Ki, didn't you?"
Asta blinked, momentarily speechless. He heard a few gasps in the crowd—Ki wasn't a topic most people brought up. Memories of how he was taught a while ago by that cat-eyed weirdo flashed through his mind. "Uh… yeah," he admitted, chest tightening. "But I only know, like, some of it. Still gotta learn more."
A small spark of recognition lit in Yami's eyes. "Huh. Thought so." He shifted his weight, gaze unwavering. "Kid, if you can sense an enemy's next move, slip through their guard, and cut down any spell, that's my kind of crazy. I run a squad of troublemaker—ones who fall through the cracks. You'd fit right in."
A ripple of murmurs skittered through the onlookers. Asta could practically feel the tension from the Crimson Lion's side, as if they were thinking, Don't you dare steal our potential recruit. But Yami's comment pried open an unexpected door in Asta's thoughts. A squad of misfits? He pictured rough-and-tumble training, forging new bonds, and—maybe best of all—truly developing his Ki with someone who actually knew about it.
He spared a quick glance at the Crimson Lion captain, whose expression seemed resolute but slightly concerned. They were giving him a chance, no doubt, but the intensity in Yami's demeanor pulled at something deep in Asta's gut. Part of him thrived on the idea of forging his own path in the least conventional squad out there—especially after hearing words like "That's my kind of crazy."
Still, he hesitated, recalling how impressed he'd been by the Crimson Lions' bravery. The choice wouldn't be easy: pick the regal, proud lions who could shape him into a powerhouse—or leap into the unknown with the rowdy Black Bulls, guided by a captain who recognized his Ki usage?
Yami caught the flicker of doubt in Asta's eyes and let out a low chuckle. "Hey, I'm not here to hold your hand. I'm telling you I see your potential. You can come with me and make use of that Ki, or you can pass and wonder if you missed something good."
Asta's lungs felt tight, every nerve in his body poised on the edge of a decision. His dream was to become the Wizard King, and he realized he'd need a place that wouldn't just accept his anti-magic, but throw him into the deep end, push him to grow. In his mind's eye, he saw glimpses of standing toe-to-toe with Yuno again—only this time, fully in control of his Ki, matching him blow for blow. Maybe forging his own legend. Asta stood there, torn between two very different offers. Fuegoleon Vermillion of the Crimson Lions radiated a calm, confident presence that promised rigorous training—exactly the sort of discipline Asta often craved to push himself past his limits. On the other side was Yami Sukehiro, captain of the Black Bulls, arms folded and wearing a half-smirk that seemed both amused and challenging. The buzz around them intensified, the onlookers captivated by the standoff.
Fuegoleon broke the tense silence first, voice carrying clearly through the battered stadium. "Asta, I've watched your determination. You push forward regardless of your lack of mana. The Crimson Lions value that drive above lineage or background. Under our guidance, you could shape that raw resolve into real power."
"Crimson Lions are a top squad. Obvious pick for sure"
"Captain Fuegoleon's known for molding strong Knights!"
Asta's heart pounded. Fuegoleon's promise was enticing—he'd heard of the Lions' legendary training, how they forged unstoppable warriors. But Yami took a step forward, and his next words froze Asta in place.
"Kid," Yami said, tone low and direct, "I'm from another land entirely. That's why I know Ki—and I can teach you to use it right."
A ripple of surprise ran through the onlookers. Asta's thoughts shot back to the times he'd relied on Ki to sense attacks and react faster than any normal person should. If the Black Bulls' captain truly mastered Ki, this was a chance no one else could offer. Fuegoleon responded calmly, though his gaze flicked to Yami with a hint of challenge.
"A single skill—no matter how rare—doesn't guarantee victory in all situations. The Crimson Lions prize discipline, unity, and a relentless drive to refine every aspect of combat. That's how we nurture talent. Your perseverance, Asta, would flourish with us."
Asta swallowed hard, recalling how Ki had saved him multiple times—helping him stand toe-to-toe against Yuno. Fuegoleon offered a path of polished, disciplined growth, while Yami offered a more unpredictable but potentially groundbreaking way to harness Ki. Two different roads to power, each promising something unique.
"Listen," Yami cut in, shifting his weight. "If the kid can sense attacks and cut down spells with that weird anti-magic sword, then learning Ki from someone who actually knows it—me—would send him skyrocketing." He flicked his gaze at Fuegoleon. "Discipline's great, sure, but if he's aiming to shatter limits, he'll need more than a standard routine."
Fuegoleon's tone stayed measured. "Chaos without focus is a shortcut to ruin. If Asta wants to reach his peak, he also needs a structured environment."
"There is another factor you may wish to consider, Asta," Fuegoleon remarked. He turned a steady gaze toward Yami. "Are you aware that Captain Yami rarely has any money to spare—at all? Joining a squad means relying on your captain at times."
A flicker of surprise rippled through the onlookers, and a few muffled laughs sounded in the stands.
Asta blinked. "Huh?"
Yami straightened, face darkening by a fraction. "Oi," he muttered, scowling at Fuegoleon, "is that supposed to be a joke, or are you prying into my personal business?"
"Brat," Yami growled, turning to Asta, "don't let this prissy lion make you rethink things. I've managed my squad just fine, thank you very much. Whether I'm flat broke is my issue."
Fuegoleon raised an eyebrow but didn't rise to the barb. "I simply wanted to ensure Asta understood all the factors involved. A stable environment is often crucial for growth."
Langris Vaude
He soared through the night sky, his breath sharp and measured, his fury burning brighter than the moonlight that bathed the forsaken landscape. The endless game of cat and mouse had finally led them here—the First Wizard King's Statue - standing tall in the middle of the forgotten, desolate land.
The robed thief, blindfolded but impossibly aware of his surroundings, had stopped at the statue's base. He stood with an air of maddening confidence, arms folded beneath his cloak, the stolen Vaude family artifact tucked safely under his robes. Though his eyes were obscured, Langris knew that smirk was still there, mocking him. Taunting him.
Langris's rage flared like a whip crack. The thief's mocking laughter still lingered around the statue's base when the nobleman bared his teeth, voice lowered to a lethal edge. "I will kill you," he snarled. Whatever sliver of patience he'd had at the outset of this chase was now in tatters. The robed man's smug expression—visible even with the blindfold—gnawed at every nerve Langris had left.
Without waiting for a reply, Langris funneled even more mana into his spatial magic. Around him, the swirling purple distortion thickened into pulsing bands of energy. A deep, resonant boom echoed through the air as he launched himself skyward, scattering shards of cobblestone beneath him. In a flash, he was hovering near the colossal statue of the First Wizard King, nearly at eye level with the stone visage.
"Disappear," Langris spat, voice trembling with fury. He slashed his hand through the air, warping space in a violent ripple. Sparks of violet mana crackled and spun, forming a jagged barrier meant to trap his target in an inescapable cage. Langris's anger surged. He thought, I must catch you myself. I cannot let the world learn our secret treasure. He remembered how, luckily he chose a small vacation at his family's estate, he had chosen to remain close by; otherwise, the thief would have long escaped with the artifact.
For thirty long minutes, they had played cat and mouse through narrow alleys and deserted courtyards—Langris chasing, the thief darting with spatial speed unrivaled in transportation. Until they manage to get in this place.
"Is that all you've got?" the thief called, his voice soft and mocking as he surveyed the ruined landscape.
Langris fought on. He launched his spatial orbs with unyielding fury. Yet they were absorbed.
Langris's spatial magic—once invincible—now faltered under the thief's dark blue power. He had battled countless criminals and even waged war in the Spade Kingdom. His spatial magic had always been the strongest. But tonight, something was different.
His every move, every carefully honed technique, was met with an uncanny counter, as if the thief's unknown magic evolved with each clash. His spatial barriers, normally unbreakable, buckled under the thief's relentless, dark blue attacks that swept in like crashing waves. The sound of clashing energies filled his ears—sharp, sizzling impacts that echoed against the lifeless crater where the forest once stood. He sensed something odd in the thief's magic; it wasn't just raw power, it was sophisticated, adaptive, and growing stronger as the battle continued.
I've never seen magic like this, Langris thought bitterly. Every time he adjusted his spatial angles, the thief seemed to learn from it, nullifying his strikes with an ease that defied his own experience. The thief moved with a fluidity that was both graceful and terrifying, dark blue boxes of power countering each of Langris's desperate, calculated moves. Langris's eyes burned with frustration as he recalled his past victories—days when his spatial magic had been flawless. Now, his every attack was met by a retaliatory force that twisted his own precision against him. The cool bite of night air, the smell of burnt earth and shattered wood, and the electric crackle of unstable mana all conspired to remind him that his opponent was no ordinary criminal.
"Stay still you rat!"
His voice, heavy, echoed through the ruined expanse as he attempted another barrage of spatial orbs. Yet the thief's dark blue energy pulsed and shifted in the air, deftly absorbing the orbs as if they were nothing more than sparks. The thief's mocking laughter, soft yet chilling, resonated in Langris's ears, a constant reminder of his own failing prowess. Each counterattack by the thief made him feel smaller, his invincible magic reduced to mere flickers against an ever-strengthening unknown.
Then, in a voice cold and cutting, the thief jeered, "You're nothing compared to Finral, Langris. You're inferior in every way. And it's no wonder the Kira Sick Girl didn't choose you."
Langris's hands trembled as he tried to muster his spatial magic once more.
He roared, "You dare compare me to Finral? You dare mock me?"
But his voice was drowned out by the thief's mocking laughter, which rippled over the desolate battlefield. The thief's tone was savage, each word laced with derision.
"Finral—he's a real man, isn't he? Not like you, weakling. And as for the Kira Sick Girl—she'd never choose someone as insecure as you. "
Langris felt every insult like a sharp wind against his skin. The forest roared around him, the sound of splintering trees and frantic rustles of disturbed fauna mingling with the thief's sneering laughter. Cold, biting air rushed past him as his spatial magic flared with desperate intensity.
Langris strained to feel the pulse of his magic—a vibrant, almost tangible heat amid the bitter chill—and yet the thief's dark blue power seemed to draw the very essence from him, warping space itself. As the battle raged, the forest became a canvas of chaos, leaves scattered like confetti, bark and soil trembling beneath the weight of clashing forces, and the acrid smell of burning wood mingled with the coppery scent of blood, filling his nostrils as he fought to reclaim control. The thief's words, laden with cruel taunts, resonated in
Langris's ears like a relentless drumbeat, each insult a reminder of his supposed inferiority, even as he soared through the carnage of a world unravelling around him, his vision capturing every fleeting detail of devastation and every pulse of raw, unyielding energy.
"You're just not cut out for this," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
He pictured his enemy, that sly rat, getting a taste of his own medicine. I'm going to make sure he regrets ever mocking me, Langris thought, a grim smile tugging at his lips as he dodged a barrage of destructive magic. Langris got angry. He seethed with fury.
The rat's words pushed him too far.
Mana Zone: Spatial Mage Apex
The air shimmered. Space twisted. A sphere of raw energy surged from him. Its power commanded respect. Langris poured every ounce of his wrath into the attack.
In a heartbeat, the space around him rippled as the zone advanced—a pulsating sphere that distorted the very fabric of reality, its force so immense raw, untamed will. The sphere tore through the night, devouring sound, scent, and color in a maelstrom of power, leaving behind a trail of warped, shattered space as if the very air had been violently rent.
"Die, rat."
Spatial Magic: Arcangel Shootdown
Hundreds of lethal bolts hammered down on the thief. Every second stretched into an eternity of sensory overload—the piercing clash of colliding energies, the taste of ozone mingled with scorched earth, and the blinding bursts of dark purple light slicing through the darkness. The thief's evasive maneuvers faltered as the barrage intensified; his movements slowed, and his attempts to dodge and deflect crumbled under the crushing weight of Langris's spatial fury.
"Maybe Finral is better in bed than you that's why the Kira girl prefers him."
Langris's focus tightened despite the barbed words. The thief's taunt tried to undermine him, but Langris channeled his rising fury into even more precise strikes. He unleashed another volley of searing, dark purple energy that warped the space around them, each orb slicing through the air like a shard of pure retribution.
The forest, already a cacophony of shattered branches and ruptured reality, echoed with the sound of colliding powers. As the relentless assault pressed on, every explosive moment—the brilliant flashes of dark purple, the disorienting roar of twisted space, and the stinging sensation of charged air—melded into a single, overwhelming surge of determination, leaving Langris undeterred by the thief's desperate, trivial jibe.
"I gotta hand it to you," the thief said, "You're on a whole different level."
He flipped open his grimoire—the strangest one yet, resembling a sleek notepad more than a magical tome.
"Physical Strength—Tier C; Magic Amount—Tier S; Magic Control—Tier A; Magic Sensing—Tier B; Cleverness—Tier C; Cold Bloodness—Tier A," the thief muttered under his breath.
"However. Playtime's over."
Truth Magic: Unlimited Reworks
A small globe materialized in his hand. It pulsed with energy. It shimmered like liquid starlight. In an instant, he surged forward, teleporting from one shattered patch of space to another, each jump leaving behind a brief, electric afterimage. Langris's dark purple orbs collided with the thief's ephemeral forms as the two forces clashed, creating sparks that scattered like shattered glass in the night. He fired his arcangel barrage. It roared across the night sky. He felt the tremor in his chest. The thief hovered.
The space warped. A white burning katana emerged. He held it. And went into a hilt pose.
Langris stared as the distortion revealed a blade, white as stars, its eerie glow slicing through the chaos spatial destruction. His eyes caught every shimmer, and the taste of ozone filled his mouth while the distant echo of clashing energies hummed in his ears, drawing out a dread that vibrated in his core.
Langris's breath hitched.
"Unlimited Reworks grants my body the vision of truth—and thus my form will adapt itself to be true."
The battle surged onward. They soared, flipped, and skidded across the sky. Langris's every muscle screamed with exertion as he maneuvered through the biting wind and searing sparks, while the symphony of clashing magic, the pungent aroma of burning energy, and the electric sting on his skin all merged into a single, relentless reminder that no matter how fast or strong he fought, the thief's adaptive power rendered his attacks mere whispers against an impervious force.
Langris lunged forward. The katana sliced through space. It moved with blinding speed. A whizz cut the air, sparks scattering, a surge of charged ions filling his senses.
In a heartbeat, the thief's blade arced across the battlefield, carving brilliant strokes through the dark. Langris watched, eyes fixed on the dazzling white katana as it met his defenses with surgical precision; each clash resonated with colliding energies, the situation mingling with the taste of adrenaline, and the subtle warmth of radiant sparks against his skin. He pivoted and dodged, narrowly evading the lethal edge of the luminous weapon. The katana danced relentlessly, slicing with unstoppable grace. He swing echoed a precise, measured fury, the sound of its passage a rhythmic, searing sound that filled the night.
As Langris twisted through the chaos, the blade continued its intricate ballet—a breathtaking display of speed and precision that etched shimmering trails across the void. The weapon's every cut unleashed bursts of light and sound, each movement punctuated by the whisper of slicing gale, the electric scent of charged metal, and the bitter tang of fear, all merging into a relentless, sensory storm that threatened to overwhelm him. Langris fired his spatial barrage. It tore through the space. It annihilated everything in its path.
He felt the raw surge of cosmic power. The air vibrated. A deafening roar the thief hovered. His white katana shimmered ethereally, slicing through space with impossible speed.
Langris advanced, unleashing pulse after pulse of his devastating spatial barrage—a furious, relentless attack that ripped apart the very fabric of existence. Each pulse exploded outward, scattering shards of obliterated matter like cosmic debris while the heat of the annihilation pressed against his skin. Amid this overwhelming assault, he watched the thief counter with a swift, precise katana swing that cleaved through one barrage, sending scintillating sparks and ripples of light dancing across the warped battlefield.
The fight surged into a relentless back and forth. The thief lunged, his blade a streak of celestial brilliance slicing a fresh pulse of spatial energy in two. Langris roared and countered, channeling another torrent of annihilating power that shattered the space between them. Their battle became a dynamic collision: the white katana's razor-sharp precision meeting Langris's devastating spatial onslaught, each clash punctuated by the taste of scorched metal, the electric tang of charged air, and the searing heat that blurred every sound and sensation into a single, chaotic symphony of destruction that rewrote the very limits of existence with every savage, echoing strike.
Impossible.
Langris realizes he cannot win.
I'm lazy to create a voting poll. Should I keep Reina relevant to the plot or not?