No Leaf Clover (Black Clover OC)

Abiel woke to the sensation of soft silk against his skin—a stark contrast to the coarse, dirt-ridden fabric he was used to. A thick, perfumed warmth clung to the air, heady with the scent of jasmine and something sharper, metallic. His muscles ached, leaden with exhaustion, as if he had run for miles with chains strapped to his limbs. A dull, throbbing pain settled at the base of his neck, a persistent pulse that beat in time with his own heartbeat.

His fingers dragged across the soreness, tracing over something raised and rough, heat seeping from it like embers beneath the skin. Not a wound—at least, not in the way he understood.

What is this...

"Ah, you're finally awake."

His head jerked up. Too fast. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots flickering across his gaze as a wave of nausea rolled through him. Swallowing thickly, he blinked to steady himself.

A woman sat near the window, perched lazily on an ornate chair. Moonlight spilled over her, highlighting the deep purple folds of her robes, the sharp curve of her cheekbone, the way her gaze—frigid and unwavering—settled on him as if she had been waiting for this moment.

Abiel's throat dried.

"You..."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Fragil Tormenta."

A name like glass shards in his ears.

What happened?

Abiel forced himself upright, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs, the way his body protested with sharp pangs at every movement. His breath hitched, but he pushed through it. Move. Assess.

"What—where is the person that was with me?"

Fragil exhaled, long and slow, as if the question itself was an inconvenience. Her fingers trailed along the armrest, languid, absent. "He's alive. Recovering." Her tone was almost dismissive. "You, on the other hand, have bigger things to worry about."

His fingers curled over the mark again, pressing harder this time, as if he could claw it off his skin. "And what the hell is this?"

Fragil's lips curved slightly, the kind of smile that wasn't meant to comfort. Amusement. Expectation.

"That, dear Abiel, is the brand of House Tormenta."

Abiel stilled. The what?

"Come again?"

She sighed, tilting her head. "A magic seal binding you to my family. It signifies absolute servitude. For commoners, it's considered an honor—to be directly under the command of nobility."

The air seemed to thicken. An honor.

His stomach twisted. "A seal?"

"That's an awfully harsh way to put it."

His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. The thought of being shackled—leashed—to anyone, let alone a noble house, made his blood burn beneath his skin. Not like this.

Fragil leaned forward, resting her chin against her knuckles. "You'll find that fighting it is… unwise. The seal ensures obedience. Defiance isn't really an option."

Abiel breathed in through his nose, steadying himself. He needed to think. Think. He had no idea what kind of magic was embedded in this mark, how strong it was, or what would happen if he tried to resist it. But deep in his gut—some primal, gnawing instinct warned him.

His Void Globe, the endless abyss inside his mind, felt caged. A restriction roped around it, squeezing, suffocating.

If he defied it—

Collapse. Erasure.

His gut twisted violently. This wasn't just a shackle. It was a death sentence, poised to strike the moment he stepped out of line.

His voice came out hoarse, tight. "My father... Where is he?"

Fragil stood, stretching. The movement was fluid, unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world. "Gone for a while. His shop is closed."

What?

That didn't make sense. The last time he and his father spoke, they talked about sponsorship—about gaining connections, becoming something more. He had hoped to be their champion, not their hound.

Fragil stepped closer, her presence pressing down on him. For the first time, Abiel noticed the way the room felt wrong. The walls stretched impossibly tall, the corners too dark, the air humming with spells beyond his comprehension. This was not just a noble's home—it was a den of magic, a labyrinth of unseen forces pressing against him.

His mind raced back to Sekke.

The last thing he remembered was Sekke on the ground, his Mana Bullet fired, exhaustion ripping through him. Sekke had taken a bad hit. Bad enough that Abiel thought he wouldn't make it.

And yet—

Now he was here. Branded. Property of House Tormenta.

What had happened between then and now?

He asked, his voice careful, controlled. "Why did you put this on me?"

Fragil arched a delicate brow, a smirk playing at her lips. "Why? Isn't that a good thing?"

She stepped closer, her presence suffocating in its sheer arrogance. "Hundreds of thousands of souls, living and dying, never even glimpse the chance at something greater. And yet, you—a commoner, no lineage, no standing—were chosen." She tilted her head, studying him as if he were an amusing little puzzle. "Most would fall to their knees in gratitude. And here you are, questioning it?"

Abiel gritted his teeth. He got it now. The brands weren't shackles to most people. They were luxury. Coveted. A mark of status. A brand wasn't a shackle to them. It was a blessing. A privilege. A mark that set them apart from the nameless, faceless masses. But what did it matter if you stood above others when you were still kneeling before someone else?

Power wasn't power if it wasn't yours to wield. What good was status if it came with a leash? A noble's hound was still just that—a beast that obeyed, no matter how fine the collar around its neck. He exhaled sharply, forcing his hands to unclench. No use picking a fight over something so deeply ingrained. Let them have their delusions. He knew better.

He had been aiming for infinite power through Void Magic. And now, instead, he had been collared.

His jaw tightened. He still didn't know the full extent of this brand, how deeply it bound him, how much control it had over him. But his instincts told him one thing—if he tried to defy it, he would cease to exist.

That was tricky. But he could work with trickery.

Let's see how I can make the most out of this.

Fragil turned toward the door, her voice lilting, light. "Get comfortable, Abiel. Now, follow me."

And then she was gone, leaving him in a room that felt far too small, despite its sheer size.

He swung his legs off the bed, the cold marble floor biting against his bare feet. His movements were sluggish, his body betraying him with its stiffness. He clenched his jaw, suppressing a grimace. Every muscle aches, like he had been dragged across miles of unforgiving terrain. He traced the mark on his neck again, fingers hovering over the raised surface. It pulsed—faintly, almost as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

Magic. Curse. This.

He exhaled sharply and forced himself to stand.

The moment his weight shifted forward, a dull tug—something deep within him—jerked at his insides. His breath hitched, vision momentarily darkening at the edges. It wasn't pain, not exactly. It was more like a leash tightening around something he couldn't see, reminding him of its presence.

His hands curled into fists.

Move.

Fragil had already left, her presence lingering in the space like the scent of rain before a storm. She expected him to follow. Expected obedience.

His teeth ground together.

Slow. Measured. He forced himself forward, his breathing even despite the growing unease clawing up his spine. The chamber was too perfect—flawless white stone, sweeping drapes of purple and silver, not a speck of dust out of place. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, thick and humming with something he couldn't quite place.

He stepped through. The Void slowly repairing his body.

---------------

The courtyard stretched wide before Abiel, paved with stone and lined with neatly trimmed hedges. Old oaks loomed overhead, their branches casting long shadows in the fading light. The air smelled of damp earth and burning incense.

Fragil came to a stop beside him.

"Raymon," she called, her voice carrying a playful edge.

Abiel followed her gaze. A man turned from where he stood at the center of the courtyard. His silver hair caught the last of the sunlight, and his pale eyes settled on them with quiet intensity. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and though he wore no armor, something about the way he carried himself made it clear—this was a man who had seen battle.

Raymon's presence was grounded, steady. There was nothing showy about him, no outward display of strength, yet Abiel felt it all the same—a weight pressing against his senses, like standing too close to a fire without seeing the flames.

Raymon studied him, unreadable.

"This him?" His voice was deep, even.

Fragil hummed. "He's interesting, isn't he?"

Raymon exhaled through his nose, something like amusement flickering across his face. He took a step forward, and though his movements were unhurried, Abiel couldn't ignore the shift in the air. It wasn't magic or anything supernatural—just presence. The kind that came from knowing exactly what you were capable of.

Abiel clenched his jaw. He didn't need to be told.

This man is strong.

Fragil sighed, crossing her arms as she glanced between the two of them. Then, with an almost lazy smirk, she said, "Why don't you test him out?"

Raymon let out a short, amused breath. His silver eyes flicked toward Abiel, unreadable. There was no warning, no shift in stance, no dramatic prelude—just movement.

Huh?

Abiel barely had time to process the blur of Raymon's form before something heavy slammed into his gut.

Air exploded from his lungs.

The world spun sideways as his feet left the ground. His back hit the stone pavement hard, pain lancing through his spine. His vision flickered, darkening at the edges. He tried to breathe, but his diaphragm refused to cooperate, his body locked in the helpless shock of being struck too fast, too hard.

Then—another impact.

His ribs.

The force flipped him over, and he landed on his side, skidding against the rough stone. Dust scraped against his cheek, and he forced his eyes open just in time to see Raymon closing the distance.

Another strike.

His body convulsed as a booted foot crashed against his ribs, sending him rolling across the courtyard. He barely processed the sensation of movement before hands—solid, unrelenting—snatched him mid-roll and hurled him backward.

Abiel hit the ground with a choked gasp, his ears ringing, his limbs sluggish. His fingers clawed against the dirt, struggling to find purchase, but his arms refused to lift his own weight. His chest felt tight—too tight—like his lungs had forgotten how to work.

What the fuck did I do?

Above him, Raymon scoffed.

"Is that it?"

His voice was sharp, unimpressed. It barely registered past the pounding in Abiel's skull, but he still caught the bite in it.

"Fragil, you dragged me out here for this?" Raymon exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as if this whole thing had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "His Mana may have been special to a commoner's but compared to a Noble - it's average."

Abiel could hear the words. He could hear Fragil shifting nearby, biting her lip, but no words of defense came from her.

Useless.

Something burned in his chest—fury, frustration, the sheer helplessness of it all. His fingers twitched against the stone, curling into a fist. His body was screaming at him, but something deep inside—something instinctive—was pushing him to move.

He wasn't thinking. There was no strategy, no plan. Just the raw need to defend, to stop the next hit before it landed.

Void.

He had no spells yet. No Grimoire. It wasn't an incantation, wasn't a deliberate call—it was just a shift, something so natural it felt like breathing. The air around him seemed to bend, warping ever so slightly as a thin, dark shimmer spread from his fingertips.

Raymon moved.

Abiel saw it—he saw it—just for a fraction of a second. That flicker of movement, that slight rotation in Raymon's shoulders before he struck.

Abiel's body reacted.

His Void spread, expanding outward like a barrier—thin, but there. The next blow should have been swallowed by it. The attack should have been missed.

It didn't.

The hit connected cleanly, snapping his head to the side.

Pain exploded across his jaw, a sharp, electric burn that sent his mind reeling. His own ability had failed—or rather, it had done nothing. Raymon had bypassed it like it wasn't even there.

Impossible.

No—not impossible. He wasn't up against some common opponent. He wasn't up against someone who could be fooled by a half-formed defense. Raymon's abilities weren't just overwhelming—they were unnatural. He seemed to wield spatial magic with an ease that defied reason, warping distance and nullifying the void as if it were nothing more than a gust of wind. No hesitation. No strain. As if space itself bent to his will.

A real expert. A monstrous Mage.

Abiel's breathing was ragged as he tried to push himself up. His limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, but he wasn't done. He couldn't be. His Void wasn't enough, not the way he was using it. He needed something else—something real.

Abiel couldn't react.

A fist struck his gut, and the world flipped. His feet left the ground. The air ripped from his lungs before he even understood what had happened. The sky blurred, the stone pavement rushed toward him, and then—impact.

Pain shot through his ribs. He tried to breathe, but nothing came. His diaphragm locked up, his body refused to move. Then—another hit. His ribs crunched under the force, and his body flung sideways like a ragdoll.

A boot crashed against his side. He rolled. Dust scraped against his cheek. His arms twitched, but he couldn't lift them.

He heard voices—distant, like echoes through water.

"What a waste of time. Young Miss…"

Fragil shifting, her presence lingering, saying nothing.

Abiel clenched his teeth.

Useless? You're assaulting me for no reason - you fucking old bastard.

The word repeated in his head, sharper than the pain in his body. He forced his fingers to move, nails scraping against stone. His chest burned, each inhale shallow and ragged. But still—he moved.

A shimmer of Void flickered across his fingertips. Instinct, not conscious effort. He wasn't thinking, wasn't planning. He was reacting.

Raymon moved.

Abiel saw it, felt it. The subtle rotation of his shoulders, the weight shifting in his stance. He raised his arms—too slow. The punch broke through his Void like it wasn't there. His jaw snapped sideways, and pain exploded across his skull.

He hit the ground again.

His Void wasn't enough - against the absoulute speed magic.

Not against someone like this.

He needed something else. Something more.

Ki.

His thoughts snapped into focus. He knew this. He had seen it before. Felt it. Read it. This wasn't magic. This wasn't some overpowered system cheat. It was real. A skill. A technique.

Yami had done it against Patry. Dark Magic was painfully slow. But strong - the reason he managed to be on par with the speed was due to the fact that he removed himself to the equation.

He didn't chase. He didn't react. He let the fight come to him. Every motion was stripped down to its essence. No wasted movements, no hesitation. Just the shortest, deadliest path between action and result. It wasn't magic that let him match Patry's speed. It was instinct sharpened to the point of inevitability.

Reading breath. Feeling intent. Sensing the attack before it landed.

Raymon stepped forward, and Abiel inhaled—shaky, uneven, but deep.

He focused.

Not on sight. Not on guessing. On feeling.

Raymon twisted. A punch? No. A kick. Left leg. Fast.

Abiel moved. Arms up. The block wasn't perfect, but the force didn't send him flying this time. He staggered, but his feet stayed on the ground.

Raymon's brow lifted.

Fragil tilted her head.

Abiel exhaled. He felt it now. A current in his body, something deep and instinctive. He was slow. Weak. Barely keeping up.

But for the first time—

He had a chance.

Raymon didn't give him time to breathe. He moved again, a step forward, a shift in weight, the tightening of his core. A fist snapped toward Abiel's face, fast, deliberate, impossible to dodge. He braced—arms up, body turned. The impact jarred through his bones, but this time, he didn't crumple. He absorbed the hit, let it glance off as he twisted with it. His feet scraped against stone, his balance wavered, but he was still up.

Raymon clicked his tongue. "Huh."

Abiel didn't respond. He was too busy feeling.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His skin prickled with awareness. His muscles screamed at him to stop, but something beneath that pain—something deeper—kept him moving. He was catching it now, that invisible thread of movement and intent.

Raymon lunged again.

A feint—right hand shifting slightly before his left foot pushed off the ground.

A knee strike.

Abiel barely saw it, but he felt it, the sudden gathering of power. He reacted, dropping his weight, twisting his torso—not enough. The knee slammed into his side, not as bad as before, but bad enough. He stumbled. His breath hitched.

Raymon pressed the attack.

A punch. Another. A third. Each one is faster than the last.

Abiel moved—arms up, body weaving. Some blows he deflected, others clipped him. The force still rattled his bones, but he was enduring. Learning. Adapting.

Raymon's smirk widened.

"You're getting there."

Abiel gritted his teeth. He wasn't sure if it was mockery or amusement. It didn't matter.

Raymon twisted his body—low, sweeping—a kick.

Abiel knew it before it happened. His muscles tensed, and for the first time, his body moved without hesitation. He leapt back, just barely out of range.

The kick whistled past his ribs.

His lungs burned. His legs ached. But his stance—his stance was still solid.

Raymon exhaled, shaking out his hand. "Not bad."

Abiel didn't let himself relax. His instincts screamed at him.

Abiel's breath came ragged, his lungs burning from exertion. His mind swam, but somewhere beneath the exhaustion, something sharpened—an edge carved from raw instinct.

Raymon barely looked winded. He rolled his shoulders, his silver eyes assessing, calculating. The smirk on his face wasn't just amusement. It was an expectation.

Like he was waiting.

Like this was just a test.

Something inside Abiel twisted.

His arms ached, his ribs throbbed from the barrage of attacks, but it wasn't the pain that gnawed at him. It was the feeling. The weight of expectation. The cold, detached evaluation in Raymon's eyes.

It was the same.

The same as before.

The same as back then.

—Try harder. Again. Again. Again.—

A flash.

Hands grabbing him, forcing him down. The sting of failure, the taste of blood on his tongue. The dull, unfeeling gaze of those who expected him to endure—to push past the breaking point because that was what he was meant for.

Because that was all he was.

His breath hitched. His vision wavered.

No. Not again.

His fingers twitched. His mana stirred.

Raymon lunged.

Abiel didn't think. He didn't strategize. He moved.

A pulse.

Void cracked through the air, swirling to life at his fingertips. The darkness was instant, raw and unrestrained, curling out in jagged tendrils.

Raymon's smirk dropped.

Abiel poured everything into the attack. Every ounce of mana, every last dreg of energy. The pressure built, and built, and built—until it finally broke.

The air collapsed inward.

--------

A shift in the air.

At first, it was subtle, almost imperceptible—a tremor just beneath the surface, like a breath being drawn in too deeply. Then the world itself seemed to pull inward, the very atmosphere compressing under a force that did not belong. Fragil's skin prickled, her heartbeat quickening, instincts screaming for her to move.

Then—collapse.

The sky blinked out.

A black sphere consumed everything in its path, its edges swirling like a wound in reality itself. The courtyard was gone in an instant. The grand stone pathways, the towering oaks, the neatly trimmed hedges—all erased. Not shattered. Not destroyed. Simply… removed, as though they had never existed.

Then came the sound.

A delayed, thunderous roar that split the heavens, rattling the bones of all who remained standing. It was deeper than any explosion, heavier than any storm—a resonance that settled into the marrow, vibrating through flesh and stone alike.

Then the wind.

A force so powerful it ripped through the land, kicking up debris. The servants—those caught within the initial blast—never even had the chance to scream. They were simply there one moment, gone the next. What little remained of them was reduced to mere shadows burned onto the fractured ground.

The estate, the heart of the Tormenta family's dominion, crumbled like a sandcastle beneath a tidal wave. Buildings buckled under the pressure, walls caved inward, and then, the earth itself split apart.

Deep beneath the foundations, something stirred.

Lava bubbled from the cracks, veins of molten rock rising to the surface, painting the devastation in shades of red and orange. Smoke curled into the sky, thick and choking, its scent a mix of scorched stone and something more acrid—burning flesh.

Fragil reacted on instinct.

Her feet barely touched the ground before she hurled herself backward, arms twisting in sharp, practiced movements. The air around her froze in an instant, raw mana condensing into jagged ice as she threw up a wall between herself and the incoming destruction. A glacial bridge formed beneath her feet, a temporary lifeline.

It lasted a heartbeat.

Then it shattered, chunks of frozen mana sucked into the vortex of annihilation.

She barely had time to breathe before she was launched into the distance. The world spun, a blur of smoke and bloodied sky, before she collided with a fractured pillar. Ice crawled up her arms instinctively, cushioning the blow, but the force still sent pain lancing through her ribs.

She gasped, forcing herself to look back.

And there—standing amidst the chaos—was Raymon.

His silver hair whipped wildly in the storm of magic, his gaze locked on the epicenter of the destruction. There was no smirk, no amusement in his expression now—just sharp, focused calculation.

He didn't retreat. He didn't shield himself.

He punched through it.

His fist moved in a blur, and the air around it fractured, ripples spreading outward as he forced his way through the Void's consuming pull. The pressure mounted, reality itself groaning under the strain—

And then, with an ear splitting crack—

The attack gave way.

Raymon staggered, exhaling sharply, his clothes tattered from the backlash. He remained unfazed. Indifferent. His muscles tensed, his shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. His gaze shifted, sharp and piercing, toward the crater left in the wake of Abiel's attack.

Raymon's voice was quiet, but in the silence that followed, it carried.

"…He doesn't even have a Grimoire."

Fragil barely heard him. Her fingers curled, still trembling from the cold magic that had barely saved her. The air was thick with the weight of what had just happened. The servants, the knights, the lesser mages—hundreds of them—were gone. Dead.

Only those strong enough to endure the blast remained. Those ho had survived only because of their own overwhelming magical power, stepped forward from the smoke. Their expressions were unreadable, their eyes locked onto the unconscious boy.

Fragil swallowed hard.

Raymon rolled his shoulders, breaking the suffocating silence.

"Well," he murmured, his silver eyes flicking toward her. "Guess we'll see what they do with him now."

The Tormenta's Elite came.

----

Magic Types.

Raymon - ? Magic.

Fragil Tormenta - Snow Magic

AU Facts for the sake of story:

Noble Brand: A ceremonial slave collar bestowed upon a commoner by a noble that enhances the wearer's innate powers. It is considered a prestigious honor, marking the recipient as favored. As Nobles has superior treatment in commoner's - treating them as superior entities.