The interior of the Black Bulls' base was even more chaotic than the exterior had suggested. The main hall was a sprawling mess of mismatched furniture, discarded dishes, and what appeared to be the scorched remains of at least three separate magical accidents. A chandelier hung from the ceiling at a drunken angle, its candles burning with flames of at least four different colors. The walls were covered in a combination of wanted posters, crude drawings, and what I sincerely hoped were tomato sauce stains. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed open and shut with no apparent cause, and the sound of manic laughter echoed through the stone corridors.
It was, in short, a disaster.
I loved it. Not emotionally—but strategically. A squad this chaotic, this disorganized, this desperate for new members, would ask far fewer questions than a more disciplined unit. I could work with chaos.
"ALRIGHT, NEWBIES!"
The voice came from directly in front of us, accompanied by the sudden appearance of a young man with spiky black hair, a red jacket, and sunglasses that defied both fashion and common sense. He was grinning with the manic energy of someone who had consumed far too much caffeine and was looking for an outlet. His grimoire, a red-bound tome covered in flame decals, floated beside him like an eager pet.
"I'm Magna Swing! The big brother of the Black Bulls! And before you two can call yourselves real members, there's something you gotta do first!"
Asta's eyes went wide. "Something we gotta do? Like a test? Another test? I thought the exam was over!"
"The exam is over!" Magna declared, striking a dramatic pose that sent his jacket flaring out behind him. "But this isn't a test for the captains! This is a test for ME! Magna Swing! The man who decides whether you're worthy of wearing THIS!" He grabbed the lapel of his jacket—no, his robe. The Black Bulls' signature black robe with its gold trim and distinctive insignia. "The robe of the Black Bulls! The symbol of our squad! The garment that separates the real Magic Knights from the posers! You want one of these? Then you gotta prove you've got what it takes!"
"Oh man, oh man, oh man!" Asta was practically vibrating. "A robe! A real Magic Knight robe! With the symbol and everything! I'm going to get one! I'm definitely going to get one! What do we have to do, Magna-senpai?!"
Magna's grin widened. "Simple. You fight me."
"FIGHT YOU?! LIKE A REAL FIGHT?! WITH MAGIC AND EVERYTHING?!"
"That's right! If you can survive my flame magic, you pass! If you can't..." He cracked his knuckles, and sparks of fire danced between his fingers. "Then you're not worthy of the robe. Simple as that."
From the doorway that led deeper into the castle, Yami's voice drifted out, lazy and amused. "Careful, Magna. The big one's not like the short one. You might actually break a sweat."
Magna waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, Captain. I heard about the exam. Poison guy, right? The tall dude just stood there and let the poison hit him until it stopped working. That's a cool trick, but my flames aren't poison. Fire burns no matter how many times you get hit with it!"
Yami didn't respond. He just leaned against the doorframe, a fresh cigarette burning between his fingers, his dark eyes gleaming with the particular amusement of someone who knew exactly how this was going to end and had decided to enjoy the show.
The other Black Bulls had gathered to watch. Vanessa had claimed a spot on a ratty couch, her wine bottle already half-empty. Luck was perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle, his grin somehow even wider than Magna's. Gordon stood in the shadows of a corner, mumbling something that no one could hear. And Finral, the spatial mage who had transported us here, was wringing his hands nervously.
"Captain, are you sure about this?" Finral asked. "Magna's fire magic is really destructive. What if someone gets hurt? What if the new kids get burned? What if the castle catches fire again? The last time the castle caught fire, it took three days to put out, and I had to—"
"Relax, Finral." Yami exhaled a stream of smoke. "If the giant gets burned, he'll heal. And if the castle burns down, we'll rebuild it. Again."
"That's not reassuring, Captain!"
"Wasn't meant to be."
Magna strode to the center of the hall, where a large open space had been cleared of debris—probably the designated sparring area, judging by the scorch marks on the floor. He pointed at Asta. "You first, shorty! Let's see what you've got!"
Asta needed no further encouragement. He sprinted to the opposite side of the sparring area, his grimoire already open, his grin threatening to split his face in half. "I'm ready! Give me your best shot, Magna-senpai! I'll prove I'm worthy of that robe!"
"Ha! I like your spirit, kid!" Magna's grimoire flared with crimson light. "But spirit alone won't save you from THIS! Flame Creation Magic: Exploding Fireball!"
A sphere of roiling flame materialized above Magna's palm. He drew back his arm, miming the motion of a baseball pitcher, and a bat made of condensed fire formed in his other hand. With a grunt of effort, he swung the bat and connected with the fireball, launching it toward Asta like a blazing comet.
"Whoa!" Asta's eyes widened, but his body moved on pure instinct. His grimoire surged with black anti-magic, and the massive sword materialized in his hands—the same blade that had shattered Sekke's bronze cannonball. He swung it in a horizontal arc, and the fireball met the anti-magic edge.
The result was spectacular. The fireball didn't just dissipate—it was erased, the anti-magic consuming the mana that held it together and leaving nothing but a faint wisp of smoke. Asta stood in the center of the sparring area, his sword planted in the floor, his grin undiminished.
"WHAT?!" Magna's sunglasses nearly flew off his face. "You nullified my magic! How did you do that?!"
"I don't have any magic!" Asta announced proudly. "So my sword cancels out other people's magic instead! Cool, right?!"
"That's... that's insane! That's completely insane! Captain, did you know about this?!"
"Yep." Yami took another drag of his cigarette. "That's why I recruited him. Keep going, Magna. You haven't even seen the best part yet."
Gritting his teeth, Magna summoned another fireball. Then another. Then a whole volley of them, launching them one after another like a magical batting cage. Asta met each one with his sword, the anti-magic blade consuming the flames in bursts of black energy. But Magna was relentless, and eventually one of the fireballs slipped past Asta's guard and struck him directly in the chest.
"ASTA!" Vanessa shouted, half-rising from the couch.
But Asta didn't fall. He stumbled back a step, smoke rising from his singed shirt, and then he was swinging again, his grin somehow even wider than before. "That stung! But I'm not giving up! I'm never giving up! HIT ME WITH ANOTHER ONE!"
Magna stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. "You're insane, kid! Completely insane! I love it! You pass! You definitely pass! Welcome to the Black Bulls, Asta!"
"YES! I PASSED! I'M A REAL BLACK BULL NOW! WHERE'S MY ROBE?!"
"Hold your chocobos, shorty. You'll get your robe after I test the other one." Magna turned toward me, and his grin became something sharper. Something more competitive. "Alright, big guy. Your turn. Let's see if you're as tough as the captain says."
I stepped into the sparring area, my bare feet silent on the scorched stone. The wheel behind my head rotated in its steady, eternal cycle, golden light casting faint shadows across the walls. Magna's grin flickered—just for an instant—as he got a good look at me up close. I towered over him by more than a foot, and my shadow swallowed him whole.
"So you're the giant," Magna said, recovering his bravado quickly. "Gotta say, you're even bigger in person. What are they feeding you in the jungle? Other giants?"
"Mostly mana beasts," I said.
"...Right. Okay. Cool. Normal answer. Not terrifying at all." He hefted his fire bat, the flames along its length intensifying. "Well, being big doesn't mean anything if you can't handle the heat! Let's see what you've got, Ouga! If you're worthy, you get the robe!"
I smiled. It was the gentle, reassuring smile of the protective older brother, the persona I had carefully constructed for exactly this kind of situation. "Sure."
Magna didn't waste any more time. His grimoire blazed, and a new fireball materialized above his palm—larger than the ones he'd thrown at Asta, its flames burning white-hot at the core. He swung his bat with a shout, and the fireball rocketed toward me like a meteor.
I didn't move. I didn't summon the Sword of Severance. I didn't raise a barrier or cast a spell. I simply raised my right hand, open-palmed, and met the fireball head-on.
The flames exploded against my skin.
"OUGA!" Asta shouted. "THAT WAS A DIRECT HIT! ARE YOU OKAY?! DO YOU NEED—"
The flames cleared. My hand was still raised, completely unburned. The fire resistance I'd built through months of walking into my own pyres, of burning myself naked in the jungle until my skin learned to repel heat, had done its work. The fireball had struck me with enough force to shatter stone, and my palm wasn't even red.
"What." Magna's sunglasses slid down his nose. "What. What. WHAT."
"Another anti-magic guy?!" Vanessa shouted from the sidelines. "Captain, you recruited TWO people with anti-magic?! How is that even possible?!"
"He doesn't have anti-magic," Yami said, and despite his lazy tone, there was a sharp edge of interest in his voice. "That's pure resistance. His body's adapted to fire. Probably poison too, after today. Maybe a few other things. The wheel behind his head—you can't see it, Magna, but trust me, it's there—that's what lets him do it. Every time something hits him, he gets a little more immune to it."
"That's..." Vanessa lowered her wine bottle, her eyes wide. "That's incredible. That's the most incredible magic I've ever heard of."
"It's not magic," Yami said. "It's something else. Something I've never seen before."
Luck's grin had become something almost predatory. "He adapts to whatever hits him. That means if I fought him, I'd have to use everything I have all at once. No holding back. No second chances." His fingers crackled with electricity. "I want to fight him. I really, really want to fight him."
"Later, Luck."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Magna, meanwhile, was having a crisis of confidence. "Okay. Okay, so you can block one fireball. Big deal! Maybe you've got some kind of flame-resistant skin! But that was just a warm-up! Let's see how you handle THIS!"
He summoned a barrage of fireballs—smaller than the first, but faster, more numerous, a relentless volley designed to overwhelm rather than overpower. He swung his bat again and again, launching flame after flame toward me with the desperate energy of someone who refused to accept that his opponent was out of his league.
I deflected them all.
My hands moved with the precision of someone who had spent years training his body to react faster than thought. Left palm, right palm, backhand, open fingers—each fireball met the same fate, its flames splashing against my skin and dissipating into harmless sparks. The heat was noticeable, a distant warmth that registered as data rather than discomfort. Fire Resistance (mid) had been built through genuine suffering, and Magna's flames, while respectable, were nowhere near intense enough to push it further.
The barrage stopped. Magna stood in the center of the sparring area, his chest heaving, his fire bat flickering with the last dregs of his mana. His sunglasses had fallen off entirely, revealing wide, disbelieving eyes.
"You... you didn't even move," he said. "You just stood there and... and deflected everything. With your bare hands. How are your hands not burned? How is ANY of you not burned?"
"I trained," I said simply.
"Trained. He trained. He trained for THIS." Magna let out a laugh that was half exasperation, half genuine admiration. "Fine! Fine, you pass! You definitely pass! I don't know what kind of monster the captain brought back, but you're worthy of the robe! Both of you are worthy!"
"YES!" Asta pumped his fist in the air. "WE PASSED! WE'RE REAL BLACK BULLS NOW! GIVE US THE ROBES! GIVE US THE ROBES!"
Magna, still catching his breath, gestured toward a storage cabinet at the far end of the hall. "They're in there. Different sizes. Grab whatever fits. Or doesn't fit. I don't care anymore."
Asta practically teleported to the cabinet, throwing it open and pulling out a robe that was comically oversized for his diminutive frame. He didn't seem to notice or care. He threw it on over his clothes, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, the hem dragging on the floor, and struck a pose that was clearly meant to look heroic but mostly just looked like a child playing dress-up.
"I'M A BLACK BULL!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "LOOK AT ME! I'M A REAL MAGIC KNIGHT! YUNO, WHEREVER YOU ARE, I BET YOUR ROBE ISN'T THIS COOL!"
I selected a robe in my size—the largest one available, which still fit snugly across my shoulders—and pulled it on. The black fabric settled over my frame like a second skin, the gold trim catching the light of the mismatched chandelier. The Black Bulls' insignia, a stylized bull's head, was embroidered over the heart. It was, objectively, a well-made garment. Functional, distinctive, and imbued with minor protective enchantments.
Vanessa let out a low whistle. "Okay, I take back what I said about the squad needing more eye candy. Between the giant and the short one, we've got the full spectrum covered."
"I'm not short!" Asta protested. "I'm fun-sized!"
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid."
---
The introductions that followed were a whirlwind of personalities that could only have been assembled by a captain with a deliberate preference for chaos.
Vanessa Enoteca was the squad's resident alcoholic and Thread Magic specialist. She greeted me with a bottle of wine in each hand and a smile that suggested she had already decided I was worth paying attention to. "If you ever want to drink," she said, pressing one of the bottles into my hands, "my door's always open. Literally. I don't have a door. Long story involving Luck and a training accident."
"I don't drink," I said.
"More for me!" She didn't seem offended. If anything, she seemed pleased. "You know, for a guy who looks like he could crush a boulder with his thighs, you're surprisingly polite. I like that. Most of the guys in this squad are either insane or socially dysfunctional."
"I am standing right here," Finral said.
"Case in point."
Luck Voltia was the squad's battle maniac, a young man with spiky blond hair and a grin that never quite reached his eyes. He circled me like a shark scenting blood, his fingers crackling with barely suppressed lightning. "You're strong," he said. "Really strong. I can feel it. The way your mana moves—it's different from everyone else's. Dense. Controlled." He stopped circling and looked up at me with an expression of pure, unfiltered anticipation. "Fight me. Not today—the captain said not today. But soon. Promise me you'll fight me soon."
"When the time is right," I said.
"That's not a promise!"
"It's the only answer you'll get."
Luck's grin somehow widened. "I like him! He's mysterious! Mysterious people are always the most fun to fight!"
Gordon Agrippa was the squad's Poison Magic specialist and, apparently, its most socially isolated member. He lurked in the shadows of the corner, his dark hair falling over his face, his voice barely above a whisper. "...new members... this is nice... maybe they'll talk to me... probably not... no one ever talks to me... I'll just stand here... being quiet... unnoticed..."
"I can hear you," I said.
Gordon's head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. "...you can? You can hear me? No one can hear me! I talk and talk but my voice is too quiet and everyone just ignores me and I've been trying to make friends for years but—"
"Your voice is quiet," I said. "But my hearing is enhanced. I understand everything you said."
Gordon's eyes filled with tears. Real, genuine tears. "...a friend... I've finally made a friend... this is the greatest day of my life... I'm going to remember this day forever..."
"I'm not your friend yet," I said. "But I'm willing to talk to you. That's a start."
"...a start... he said a start... that means there's potential... potential for friendship... I'm so happy..."
I filed Gordon away as a long-term asset. His poison magic was powerful, his social isolation made him desperate for connection, and his mumbling was only a barrier to those who couldn't hear him. I could hear him. I could talk to him. And in a squad full of loud personalities, having a quiet ally who owed you emotional loyalty was a strategic advantage.
Charmy Pappitson was the squad's chef and, according to Magna, the most dangerous person in the base if you got between her and a meal. She was a small, round-faced young woman with an enormous cotton candy-like cloud of hair that served as both fashion statement and sleeping quarters for a sheep she insisted was a wolf. She was also, as it turned out, a hopeless romantic.
"So you're the new one," she said, looking me up and down with an appraising eye. "The tall one. The one with the mysterious past and the tragic backstory. Vanessa mentioned you. She said you looked like a prince from a fairy tale but with more muscles." She circled me, her chef's apron swishing. "Hmm. I can see it. The jawline. The cheekbones. The tragic, empty look in your eyes that suggests you've seen things no one should have to see. Very romantic."
"I'm not a prince," I said.
"All the best princes say that." She pulled a cupcake from somewhere within the cotton cloud of her hair and offered it to me. "Here. Eat. You're too thin."
"I'm over two hundred pounds."
"Too thin," she repeated firmly. "A man your size needs proper nutrition. I'll be making your meals from now on. No arguments."
I took the cupcake. The persona required me to appear grateful, and Charmy's goodwill was strategically valuable—she controlled the food supply, and food was a social currency in any communal living situation. "Thank you."
Charmy beamed. "Polite! I like polite! And he accepts my food! This one's a keeper!"
Gauche Adlai was not present for the introductions. According to Vanessa, he was visiting his sister in the capital and wouldn't return for a few days. "Don't take it personally when you meet him," she advised. "He's obsessed with his sister. Like, really obsessed. It's creepy. But he's a good fighter when he's motivated, and his Mirror Magic is incredibly versatile."
"Noted."
Grey was also absent—or present, but in a form that no one could identify. "She's shy," Vanessa explained. "Transformation Magic. She could be that chair for all we know. Or that lamp. Or that suspiciously quiet suit of armor in the corner." The suit of armor in the corner squeaked and shuffled a few inches to the left. "Yep, that's her."
The final two members—the vice-captain Nacht and the base's mysterious inhabitant Henry—were not introduced. Magna mentioned them in passing, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Nacht's... around. Sometimes. He does his own thing. And Henry... look, you'll meet Henry eventually. Just don't go into the basement unless the captain tells you to. It's not safe down there."
"Why not?"
"Henry lives down there. And Henry's magic is... complicated. He absorbs mana from anyone who gets too close. If you're not careful, he'll drain you dry without even meaning to." Magna shuddered. "I made that mistake once. Slept for three days. Woke up feeling like I'd run a marathon in a desert."
Mana absorption. A condition that drained the life force of anyone who got close. That was exactly the kind of phenomenon the Talent was designed to overcome. I filed Henry away as a high-priority target for adaptation training. If I could develop a resistance to mana absorption, I would have access to a part of the base that no one else could enter, and whatever secrets Henry was hiding would be mine to uncover.
Before I could pursue that line of thought further, I noticed something that had been nagging at the edge of my perception since we arrived. A small, dark shape was fluttering near the ceiling, its feathers ruffled, its beady eyes fixed on Asta with an intensity that went beyond mere avian curiosity. An anti-magic bird. The same species that had swarmed Asta during the exam, drawn to his complete absence of mana.
This one was different, though. Its mana signature—what little of it existed—was too controlled, too deliberate. Anti-magic birds were simple creatures, their attraction to mana voids purely instinctual. This bird was watching. Observing. Tracking.
Secre. The name surfaced from my fragmented past-life memories. The bird was Secre Swallowtail, the former attendant of the first Wizard King, transformed into an anti-magic bird by forbidden magic. She was following Asta because his five-leaf grimoire was connected to the devil she had spent centuries trying to seal.
I didn't acknowledge her. Knowledge was power, and revealing knowledge prematurely was weakness. The bird could observe. I would observe the bird. And when the time came, I would use what I knew.
(Author note:...)