The tree had barely finished growing when the laughter started.
It was a grating, honking sound, like a goose being strangled by a court jester. I turned my head toward the source and saw a young man with a ridiculous haircut—slicked-back blond hair with a single cowlick springing from the crown like an exclamation point—standing with his arms akimbo, his grimoire floating beside him, his entire posture radiating the smug certainty of someone who had never been punched in the face by reality.
"Fu ha!" The laugh echoed across the wooden arena floor. "Look at this! A bunch of commoners and weaklings, all gathered in one place! This exam is going to be easier than I thought!"
Sekke Bronzazza. The name surfaced from the murky fragments of my past-life memories—a minor antagonist, a comic relief bully, someone whose entire purpose in the story was to underestimate Asta and get humiliated for it. In the flesh, he was even more irritating than I'd imagined. His eyes swept across the crowd of candidates and landed, with the unerring instinct of all bullies, on the smallest, loudest, most vulnerable target in the vicinity.
"You!" Sekke strode toward Asta, his ridiculous laugh punctuating every step. "What's your name, shorty? And what's that dirty thing you're carrying? Is that supposed to be a grimoire? It looks like you dug it out of a garbage heap!"
Asta, who had been examining the massive tree roots with the wide-eyed wonder of a child at a festival, turned to face Sekke with a grin that showed absolutely no awareness of the insult. "My name's Asta! And this IS my grimoire! It got a little dirty, but it's the real deal! I'm going to be the Wizard King!"
Sekke stared at him. Then he burst out laughing again, doubling over with the force of it. "Fu ha! Wizard King! You? The Wizard King? With a grimoire like THAT? What's your magic, cleaning floors? Shining shoes? Being incredibly short?"
"I'm not short! I'm fun-sized!"
"Fun-sized! Fu ha ha! I like that! Fun-sized failure!" Sekke wiped a theatrical tear from his eye. "Don't worry, little guy. Maybe one of the captains will take pity on you and make you their squad's mascot. Every team needs a good luck charm that can't do anything useful!"
Asta's grin didn't waver, but I saw his fists clench. He was used to this. He'd been hearing variations of this mockery his entire life, and he'd learned to absorb it, to let it fuel him rather than break him. It was, I noted with clinical detachment, an admirable quality. The kind of mental resilience that couldn't be taught.
I stepped forward, my shadow falling over Sekke like a descending night. "Is there a problem here?"
Sekke looked up. And up. And up. His laughter died in his throat. The color drained from his face with such speed that I could track the exact moment his brain processed the sheer mass of the person standing in front of him.
"I... that is... we were just... having a friendly conversation!" Sekke backpedaled so fast he nearly tripped over a root. "No problem! No problem at all! Fu ha... ha?" The laugh came out as a question, a weak, trembling thing that bore no resemblance to the confident honk of moments before.
I let my grey eyes rest on him for a long, silent moment. The mask produced no smile this time—only the flat, unblinking stare of a predator deciding whether to bother with prey that wasn't worth the effort. Sekke swallowed hard and retreated to the other side of the arena, his bravado thoroughly punctured.
"Thanks, Ouga," Asta said, beaming up at me. "But you didn't have to do that! I can handle guys like him!"
"I know you can." I allowed the mask to soften into something almost warm. "But he was annoying me."
From across the arena, I felt Yami's eyes on us. The captain of the Black Bulls was slouched in his seat on the elevated observation platform, his cigarette trailing a thin ribbon of smoke, his expression unreadable. But he had definitely seen the exchange. The protective older brother persona was taking root. Good.
---
Captain Vangeance's voice echoed across the arena, magically amplified to reach every candidate among the branches. "The Magic Knights Entrance Exam consists of five tests. The first four evaluate your fundamental magical abilities. The fifth is a one-on-one combat tournament. Only those who demonstrate acceptable performance across all categories will be considered for squad selection."
He gestured toward the brooms provided with his magic. They were standard-issue flight brooms, the same model used by every Magic Knight for basic transportation.
"The first test is flight. As a Magic Knight, you will be required to travel quickly across the kingdom, often through difficult terrain and hostile environments. Broom flight is the most efficient method of magical transportation available to us. You will each take a broom and demonstrate your ability to maintain stable, controlled flight. Begin."
The candidates surged toward the broom racks. I hung back, letting the initial rush pass. Yuno was already walking forward with his characteristic calm, a broom with the same casual confidence he brought to everything. Asta, predictably, had grabbed the broom as he was examining it like it was a mysterious artifact from a forgotten civilization.
"How do you work this thing?" he muttered, turning the broom over in his hands. "Is there a button? A switch? Does it respond to shouting? HEY, BROOM! FLY!"
The broom remained inert. Asta's shoulders slumped.
"It's mana-controlled," Yuno said, already mounting his broom with practiced ease. "You channel mana into the bristles and direct it with your intent. Like this."
He rose smoothly into the air, his dark hair ruffling in the wind of his own ascent. Within seconds, he was thirty feet above the arena floor, his flight path steady and precise, his posture relaxed. Four-leaf grimoire holders, it seemed, had no trouble with basic transportation magic.
I stood on the broom that looked sturdy enough to support my weight—and channeled a thread of mana into the handle. The bristles hummed to life. I rose into the air with the same deliberate control I brought to everything, my flight path straight and economical. The wheel behind my head rotated in its silent cycle, visible to the captains above, invisible to most of the candidates below.
Around us, the other examinees took to the air with varying degrees of success. The nobles, who had been trained in broom flight since childhood, performed elegant loops and spirals, showing off for the captains. The commoners were less polished but generally competent—broom flight was, as Vangeance had said, a basic skill for anyone with mana. Within minutes, most of the candidates were airborne.
Asta was not airborne.
He stood on the ground, broom clutched between his legs, his face contorted with concentration. "Come on, come on, COME ON! Fly! I'm telling you to fly! What's wrong with you, you stupid broom?!"
The broom did not fly. It did not even tremble. It sat there in Asta's grip like a particularly uncooperative piece of lumber.
"Is he... is he serious?" one of the nobles whispered, loud enough for half the arena to hear.
"Look at him! He can't even get off the ground!"
"What's his mana stage? Negative?"
The laughter began again, but this time it was tinged with genuine confusion. Broom flight was the simplest test. Even Stage 9 mages could manage a wobbly hover. To fail this completely, to not even generate a single spark of lift—that was unprecedented.
On the observation platform, the captains were reacting with varying degrees of disbelief. Fuegoleon Vermillion leaned forward, his lion-like mane of red hair framing a face of intense scrutiny. "That boy. He's not simply weak—he has no mana at all. How is that possible? How did he even receive a grimoire?"
"A grimoire that looks like it's been through a war," Nozel Silva observed coldly. "Probably stolen. Or fake. There's no place in the Magic Knights for a mana-less aberration."
Charlotte Roselei's eyes were fixed on Yuno, who was executing a perfect figure-eight above the arena. "The four-leaf grimoire holder is exceptional. His control is flawless. He'll be a prize for whichever squad claims him."
Jack the Ripper was grinning. "Forget the pretty boy. Look at the giant with the wheel thing. What IS that behind his head? Some kind of magic tool?"
Yami didn't say anything. He just watched Asta, his cigarette smoldering, his dark eyes glinting with something that might have been amusement. Or interest. Or both.
The test ended. Yuno landed with a grace that drew applause. I descended with solid, workmanlike competence. Asta stood in the middle of the arena, broom still clutched between his legs, his face a mask of stubborn determination.
"Not yet!" he shouted, even as the proctors collected the brooms. "I haven't given up! I just need more practice! This doesn't mean anything! I can still be the Wizard King! NOT YET!"
Sekke, who had landed nearby after an unremarkable flight, snickered loudly. "Fuha ha! Not yet? Not ever, more like! Give it up, shorty! You're embarrassing yourself!"
Asta ignored him. His eyes were fixed on the observation platform, on the captains who were watching him with expressions ranging from pity to contempt. "I'll prove it," he said, his voice quieter now but no less fierce. "I'll prove it to all of you."
---
The second test was Magic Ability—raw offensive power, measured by launching spells at an enchanted wall that absorbed and measured the impact.
Yuno went first among our group. He raised his hand, and a sphere of compressed wind magic formed in his palm, howling with the force of a contained hurricane. He released it in a single, devastating blast that shook the entire arena. The measurement crystal above the wall flared brilliantly, the numbers climbing higher and higher before settling at a level that made the proctor's eyes widen.
"Exceptional," the proctor managed. "Next."
The nobles and commoners took their turns, launching fireballs and lightning bolts and shards of ice. Sekke made a great show of his turn, summoning a bronze-colored spell that looked more impressive than it was. "Fu ha ha! Witness the power of Sekke Bronzazza's Bronze Creation Magic! A versatile and elegant magic that will surely catch the eye of every captain!" The wall registered a moderate impact. Sekke puffed out his chest anyway.
Then it was my turn.
I stepped up to the firing line and considered my options. Soul Slash was useless here—it would pass through the target wall like mist, registering no impact at all. I had no offensive spells in my grimoire, at least none that were designed to damage physical matter. What I did have were the basic water spells I'd learned from watching Father Aldric, now refined by the grimoire's amplification.
I raised my hand, mana flowing into the familiar channels. "Water Magic: Aqua Bullet."
A sphere of compressed water, roughly the size of a fist, shot from my palm and splashed against the target wall. The measurement crystal flickered, registering a hit that was firmly in the average range. Unremarkable. Adequate. Passable.
"That's it?" a noble sneered. "The big scary giant can only manage a water bullet? My little sister can cast better than that!"
I didn't respond. The mask didn't require me to impress people. It only required me to pass. And the water bullet had done its job—I had demonstrated basic magical ability without revealing anything about the Soul Slash or the true nature of my Talent. Let them underestimate me. Underestimation was a weapon.
Yami, I noticed, was watching me with renewed interest. He wasn't looking at the water splash on the target wall. He was looking at the wheel behind my head, which had turned a fraction faster during the spell. He knew there was more. He just didn't know what.
Asta's turn was last.
He stood at the firing line, his grubby grimoire open in his hands, his face set in an expression of ferocious concentration. "Come on! Give me something! Any spell! A little one! A tiny little gust of wind! A spark! ANYTHING!"
Nothing happened.
"Not yet!" Asta shouted at the silent wall. "Not yet! I know there's magic in here! I've seen it! I just can't access it right now! But I will! I swear I will! NOT YET!"
The proctor sighed and marked something on his clipboard. The nobles laughed. Sekke's "Fu ha ha" rang out above the din. And Asta stood his ground, refusing to move until the proctors physically guided him away from the line.
---
The third test was Creation Magic—the ability to shape mana into physical objects.
Yuno conjured a perfect replica of the four-leaf clover from his grimoire, each leaf detailed down to the veins, the whole thing spinning gently in his palm like a living artifact. The proctors nodded approvingly. The captains murmured to each other.
I shaped water from the moisture in the air, condensing it into a simple sphere, then a cube, then a rudimentary sculpture of the church where I'd spent four years of my life. The water held its shape perfectly, the mana reinforcement keeping it solid. Adequate. Passable. Unremarkable.
Asta held his grimoire, closed his eyes, and concentrated until the veins stood out on his forehead. Nothing materialized. Not a pebble. Not a spark. Not a single molecule of magically shaped matter.
"Not yet!" he bellowed, and the words were starting to sound like a war cry. "NOT YET!"
Sekke, who had conjured a bronze statue of himself (of course), was practically dancing with glee. "How many times are you going to say that? It's getting sad, little guy! Fu ha!"
---
The fourth test was Development Magic—the ability to manipulate and evolve existing spells, demonstrating creativity and control.
Yuno took his wind sphere and transformed it into a spiraling vortex of razor-sharp air currents, then into a gentle breeze that carried the scent of spring flowers, then into a miniature tornado that he dispersed with a snap of his fingers. The transition was seamless, each form flowing into the next like water. Even the nobles stopped their chatter to watch.
I took my water sphere and cycled it through the forms I'd practiced in the jungle—sphere to whip to vortex to mist to ice and back to water again. The transitions were smooth but simple, the work of someone who had mastered the basics but hadn't yet pushed beyond them. Again, adequate. Again, passable. Again, absolutely nothing that would reveal what I was really capable of.
Asta stood before the proctors, his grimoire trembling in his hands. His face was pale, his jaw clenched, his entire body rigid with the effort of trying to force magic through pathways that simply didn't exist. A minute passed. Two minutes. The silence stretched, broken only by the whispers of nobles who had already written him off.
"Not yet," Asta whispered. Then, louder: "Not yet! NOT YET!"
The proctor shook his head and began to write. But before he could finish, a voice cut through the arena.
"That's enough."
It was Yami. He had risen from his seat, his cigarette still burning, his dark eyes fixed on Asta with an expression that was impossible to read. The other captains turned to look at him, their faces reflecting varying degrees of confusion.
"Captain Yami?" Vangeance said. "Is there a problem?"
"No problem." Yami took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nose. "Just getting tired of watching everyone kick the runt. Either disqualify him or let him finish, but stop wasting time."
The arena went silent. Asta stared up at Yami with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open. A captain had spoken for him. A captain had—in his gruff, indifferent way—defended him.
Vangeance inclined his head. "Very well. The fourth test is concluded. All candidates will now proceed to the final examination."
He raised his hand, and the arena shifted. The central area cleared, the walls retracted, and a series of elevated platforms rose from the wooden floor. Combat platforms. The one-on-one tournament was about to begin.
"The final test," Vangeance announced, "is single combat. You will be paired against your fellow candidates in a series of matches. Winning does not guarantee selection. Losing does not mean elimination. The captains will judge your performance based on your skill, your strategy, your courage, and your potential. Fight well. Fight honorably. And show us what kind of Magic Knight you truly are."
The candidates buzzed with nervous energy. Fuegoleon Vermillion rose from his seat, his crimson robes billowing, his presence commanding immediate attention.
"Before the matches begin," he said, his voice deep and resonant, "I want to remind you all what it means to be a Magic Knight. We are not soldiers. We are not mercenaries. We are not tools of the nobility or weapons of the crown. We are the shield of the Clover Kingdom. Our duty is to protect the innocent, to defend the weak, and to stand against the darkness that threatens our land. Whether you are noble or commoner, rich or poor, your magic is not a privilege—it is a responsibility. Use it well."
The speech was stirring. I could see the effect it had on the candidates around me—the straightened spines, the clenched fists, the eyes blazing with renewed determination. Even Asta, who had spent the entire morning failing every test, was standing taller, his grimoire clutched to his chest, his face alight with the fire of someone who had been told "no" his entire life and had never once accepted it.
I felt nothing.
I let my expression become one of quiet resolve, the protective older brother ready to fight not just for himself but for the people he'd chosen to stand beside. Yami was watching. The persona was solidifying. And the matches were about to begin.
The proctors began posting the match brackets on a massive wooden board at the edge of the arena. Candidates crowded around it, searching for their names, sizing up their opponents. I made my way toward the board with Asta and Yuno flanking me—the short loud one, the quiet prodigy, and the hollow giant with the wheel on his head.
"Who do you think you'll fight?" Asta asked, bouncing on his heels. "I hope it's someone strong! Someone really strong! Someone I can prove myself against!"
"You couldn't fly," Yuno said. "You couldn't shoot a spell. You couldn't create anything. You couldn't develop anything. What exactly are you planning to do in a fight?"
"WIN!" Asta shouted, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm going to win, Yuno! Just watch me!"
Yuno's lips twitched—the closest thing to a smile I'd ever seen on his face. "I'll be watching."
I looked at the bracket board. My name was there, near the top, paired against a noble whose name I didn't recognize. Yuno was in a different bracket. And Asta—
Asta was paired against Sekke Bronzazza.
"Fu ha ha ha!" The laugh rang out behind us. Sekke had found the bracket board and was already celebrating. "Look at this! I'm up against the magicless runt! This is going to be the easiest match of the entire tournament! Sorry, shorty, but your Wizard King dream ends here! Fu ha ha!"
Asta turned to face him, and for the first time all day, his grin was gone. In its place was a look of absolute, unwavering focus. "We'll see," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "We'll see."
Sekke's laugh faltered. Just for a moment. Just enough to notice.
The matches were about to begin. And everything I'd been planning, everything I'd been training for, everything I'd sacrificed pieces of myself to achieve—it all came down to this moment. The mask was in place. The wheel was turning. And Hasegawa Ouga was ready to show the Clover Kingdom exactly what happened when you pushed a monster too far.