Prompt: Just a discarded fanfiction idea on a Modern Magical Black Clover AU.
—
There is no institution in the magical world more revered than the Clover Institute. Established centuries ago in the heart of England, the academy has maintained its dominance as the pinnacle of magical education, producing the most accomplished names in the magical world across the globe.
Though many nations have their own magical schools, none can truly claim to match the prestige of Clover, for it is not merely a place of learning—it is the foundation of the United Kingdom's magical hierarchy.
To be accepted into Clover is to be granted a future among the elite, whether as an honored researcher, a powerful official, or a member of the Magic Knights, the sovereign nation's central military and policing force. Simply stepping past its wrought iron gates elevates a student to the rank of magical citizen, an automatic station in the kingdom's hierarchy that grants privileges denied to untrained magic users.
The Institute itself is ancient, founded in the shadow of the First Wizard King, Lemiel Silvamillion, whose legacy is woven into every stone of the great castle-like structure that dominates the continent.
Though a Headmaster oversees the school, it is an open secret that the position often serves as a stepping stone toward becoming Wizard King. Nearly all past Wizard Kings once held the title of Student Council President during their time at the institute, a position almost as powerful or influential as the Headmaster's itself. To lead the student body is to stand at the pinnacle of a generation, and those who achieve this honor are nearly guaranteed a future in leadership.
Though officially, Clover has no class-based hierarchy, its rigid star ranking system all but ensures that prestige remains concentrated among the nobility. Every house competes for stars throughout the academic year, earning them through academic excellence, outstanding magical achievements, and contributions to the Institute's reputation.
Houses with high star counts are rewarded with the best resources, extravagant accommodations, and limitless privileges. Meanwhile, houses that fail to meet expectations languish at the bottom, forced to make do with meager funding, limited access to professors, and in extreme cases, outright neglect.
At the peak of the hierarchy stands House Dawn, the most revered of the nine. Entry into this house is a birthright rather than an accomplishment, as until now it consists solely of high nobility. The highest-ranking young mages of aristocratic lineage are placed here automatically, ensuring that their bloodlines continue their legacy of superiority.
Although one of the newest Houses the way its Head and members carry themselves you'd think they've been around for centuries. Dawn has reigned as the number-one house for several years now, its students enjoying unparalleled luxury: private chefs who tailor meals to individual tastes, personal attendants to manage their affairs, and exclusive access to the finest training facilities.
Close behind Dawn, two houses continually vie for second place. House Lion, known for its aggressive ambition and formidable spellcasters, is home to students with a deep-rooted warrior tradition. Many of its members come from families with long histories in the Magic Knights, and their training is often more brutal than that of the other houses.
House Eagle, on the other hand, boasts an equally storied history, but with a sharper focus on refinement, strategy, and spellcraft. Both houses were founded by direct descendants of Silvamillion himself, and are the founding Houses of the Clover Institute. Their rivalry remains a defining characteristic of the Institute's competitive spirit.
Further down the ranking, House Rose operates under an unspoken rule—while it is technically open to all, its culture dictates that it remains predominantly female. Any male members within its ranks are relegated to support roles, expected to serve rather than lead. Their house, while not at the absolute top, maintains a steady position due to their formidable magical prowess, and its most outstanding members often find themselves in high positions within magical society.
House Orca, filled with a mix of noble males and a handful of commoners, prides itself on pragmatism and adaptability. Unlike the top houses, which emphasize either pure talent or heritage, Orca values resourcefulness, accepting students who demonstrate the potential to rise through sheer effort. Although classim exists in this House, its Head is more concerned about how useful one can be to him.
House Mantis serves as a direct counterpoint, accepting only commoners and fostering an aggressive, survival-of-the-fittest mentality. Mantis students are expected to prove themselves constantly, with internal house duels a common occurrence. Despite their lack of noble status, Mantis members have occasionally outperformed their more privileged peers, though they rarely break past the mid-rankings due to the biases that saturate Clover's hierarchy.
House Deer stands as a rare anomaly within Clover's system, one of the few truly integrated houses where both genders and all social classes coexist in relative harmony. Often dismissed as unremarkable by more prestigious houses, it serves as a quiet sanctuary for students who want no part in the Institute's relentless political maneuvering.
What makes Deer quite formidable is its current leadership — their House Head happens to be widely recognized as the current number one magical prodigy in the world. Furthermore, as the former squad of the current Wizard King, the house commands a level of decent respect that belies its modest reputation. While Deer may never dominate the star rankings, its members take pride in their alternative approach to magical education.
House Peacock occupies a comfortable middle ground in the Institute's hierarchy, neither prestigious enough to draw envy nor lowly enough to attract scorn. Founded and led by a petite but formidable woman from one of Britain's unincorporated territories, the house stands out primarily through its flamboyant colors and unconventional style.
Beyond its vibrant aesthetic, Peacock's most notable feature is its vice head — a member of actual royalty whose presence lends the house an unexpected air of nobility. While not particularly distinguished in magical achievements, Peacock cultivates a unique identity that allows its members to thrive outside the usual expectations of Clover's rigid system.
The two houses represent different but equally valid alternatives to the Institute's typical power structures — Deer through its meritocratic harmony and quiet excellence, Peacock through its embrace of individuality and unconventional leadership. Both serve as reminders that prestige at Clover can take many forms beyond the traditional paths of Houses Dawn or Lion.
And then, at the very bottom of the rankings, there is House Bull—the worst of the worst. Its members are those who either failed to meet the expectations of their birthright or were rejected by every other house. Fallen nobles, troublemakers, commoners with no clear potential, and even outright criminals have found themselves placed within its ranks. Unlike the other houses, which at least maintain some dignity even when they slip in the rankings, the Bulls are openly mocked and disregarded by the rest of the Institute. Their dorms are neglected, their resources pitiful, and their reputation beyond disgraceful.
Leading this infamous house is a foreigner, an anomaly among the Institute's traditionalist leadership. Yami Sukehiro, a rough-edged, no-nonsense man from Japan, was appointed as House Bull's head many years ago. Unlike his peers, he has no interest in politics or prestige—his only criteria for admitting students is whether they can survive. Most house leaders carefully select candidates they believe will elevate their standings. Yami, on the other hand, recruits students based on sheer instinct, often making his decisions in the most unconventional of ways.
Despite their low standing, the Bulls are not without their own form of strength. Many of its members possess unique abilities that, while overlooked or dismissed by the elite, give them an unpredictable edge. However, the odds are always stacked against them. With limited access to the best instructors, outdated facilities, and a total lack of institutional support, House Bull remains at the bottom year after year, an easy target for mockery and disdain.
It is in this world that young witches and wizards dream of making a name for themselves. Every child who grows up hearing tales of the First Wizard King aspires to follow in his footsteps, to rise through the ranks, to one day claim the title of Student Council President, Headmaster, and even beyond. The Institute is not just a school—it is the proving ground for the future rulers of the magical world, where every victory and every failure determines one's place in society.
And in the year 2030, two orphans from the remote village of Hage are about to step into this battlefield, each carrying dreams as vast as the sky above them.
—
The village of Hage was small enough to be forgotten, perched on the edge of Germany's Black Forest like an afterthought of civilization. It had no magical academies, no noble estates, no grand wizarding duels in its town square—only fields, wooden cottages, and a crumbling old church that housed the handful of orphans that no one else wanted. It was the kind of place where people were born, lived, and died without ever leaving, where the rest of the world only existed in whispered stories and far-off dreams.
And yet, it was here that two boys who would shake the very foundation of the magical world took their first steps.
Asta had never known the meaning of silence. Not because he hadn't tried—well, no, he hadn't tried—but because his body seemed to reject the concept entirely. He was a storm given human form, a whirlwind of energy in a place where nothing ever changed. The people of Hage often whispered that the gods must have made a mistake, placing a soul as bright and loud as his in a village that had long since dimmed.
But then, there was Yuno. Where Asta was a wildfire, Yuno was the cold wind that followed, quiet and measured, sharp in a way that only those who looked closely could see. He didn't need to speak much; people simply listened when he did. Even as children, there had been something regal about him, something that made people step back and stare when he passed, as if he belonged to a world far beyond this one.
Their bond was not something either of them questioned. The other children at the church had come and gone, but Asta and Yuno had always been there. They had learned to crawl in the same cramped nursery, scraped their knees on the same cobblestone roads, and watched the same shooting stars from the church rooftop, whispering about the future they swore they would seize.
They had always known that Hage could not contain them.
—
From the moment they were old enough to understand magic, it was obvious that Yuno was a prodigy.
Magic was everything in the world. It determined status, wealth, respect. The moment a child showed their first sparks of power, their path in life was all but decided. And Yuno… Yuno wasn't just powerful. He was blessed.
Most people were born with a single magical affinity—fire, water, earth, light, something rooted in nature or the arcane. Some rare cases, often among noble families, were born with two. Yuno was one of those rarities. His first attribute, Wind, had been apparent from childhood. He had been able to call the breeze to him before he could even walk, stirring the air with nothing but a flick of his fingers. His second, Star, had emerged later, a rare and celestial magic found only in ancient bloodlines. It was a power that bent space itself, allowing him to summon radiant projectiles, warp short distances, soot beams of starlight, and manipulate his heavenly constructs to do other strange or unthinkable things.
No one in Hage could teach him to control it. No one in Hage had ever seen magic like his before.
By the time they were ten, Yuno could already summon whirlwinds strong enough to knock grown men off their feet, and at night, when he thought no one was watching, Asta had seen golden starbursts flicker across his fingertips like dying embers. He had always known, deep down, that Yuno was meant for something greater.
And yet, for all of Yuno's talent, Asta had… nothing.
No matter how hard he trained, no matter how desperately he tried to call forth even a spark of mana, it never answered him. He had yelled at the sky, screamed at the gods, demanded to know why he had been born with a body that refused to do the one thing every other human being could. But the sky had given him no answer.
And then, one day, it had.
The first time Asta's power had appeared, it hadn't been gentle. It had erupted from him, raw and uncontrollable, in the form of a massive, rusted sword. The moment his fingers had curled around the hilt, the very air had seemed to recoil. Mana itself had shied away from him, as if his existence was an abomination in a world where magic ruled all.
He didn't understand it.
He only knew that the moment the blade had met another spell, the magic had vanished, snuffed out like a candle in a storm.
It wasn't normal. It wasn't magic. It was something other. And in a world that worshiped magic, something other was something to be feared.
Even Yuno, usually unreadable, had looked at him differently that day. Not with fear. Not with disgust. But with something sharper.
Like he had just realized Asta was going to change everything.
—
It was Sister Lily who had first told them about the Clover Institute. It had been a casual conversation—at least, for her. For Asta and Yuno, it had been like hearing the gates of heaven crack open.
"The most prestigious magical academy in the world," she had said, folding laundry as if she wasn't talking about the single greatest opportunity either of them had ever heard of. "Only the best of the best attend. Nobles, royals, magical prodigies… It's where the future leaders of the magical world are made."
Asta had practically vibrated out of his chair. "Then we have to go!"
She had laughed, a gentle, sad thing. "Oh, Asta. It's not that simple. You need a recommendation or an entrance exam invitation, and even then, only four or five commoners get in every year. Not to mention—"
He had tuned out the rest. It didn't matter how hard it was. If the door to the future was only cracked open a sliver, then he would simply kick it down.
Yuno had been the one to make it real. Asta was all passion and no plan—he would have marched straight to the Institute's gates with nothing but determination and a loud voice. Yuno, on the other hand, knew that dreams required careful steps. It was Yuno who convinced Father Orsi to set aside what little money he had for their travel expenses, Yuno who coaxed Sister Lily into writing to her distant noble relatives, begging for an audience with anyone who could provide them the chance they needed.
In the end, it was her family's old ties to House Aquaria that secured them an invitation to the entrance exam.
On the day of their departure, the entire village came to see them off. The old church bell rang as if heralding something far greater than just two boys leaving. The wind was sharp, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, and for a moment, Asta found himself committing every detail to memory.
Just in case he never came back.
—
The Clover Institute's entrance exam was nothing like what Asta had imagined.
He had pictured some kind of grand magical tournament, a battlefield where only the strongest would emerge victorious. He had expected spells flying across the air, the ground shaking under the sheer force of competing auras.
Instead, the first test was a written exam.
Asta had never known suffering like this.
He had spent months preparing, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer depth of the questions. Magical history, political theory, advanced spellcraft—the paper practically sneered at him. Yuno, of course, breezed through it with that effortless grace of his, finishing long before time was up. Asta, on the other hand, fought for every single point, scribbling down whatever knowledge he had scraped together from stolen glances at Yuno's books and late-night study sessions in the orphanage attic.
When the results were posted, he barely made the cut. 70%. Just enough to move on.
Yuno, on the other hand, had scored a perfect 100.
The first in over a decade.
Even nobles, with all their resources and tutors, rarely achieved such a feat. The examiners had stared at him like he was some mythical creature—something terrifying and extraordinary all at once. The murmurs in the crowd were deafening.
And yet, Yuno remained as expressionless as ever, as if he had expected nothing less.
The second test was a sparring match.
This, at least, Asta understood.
His opponent was a smirking noble from House Haphass, the kind of aristocrat who had entered the exam just to say he had tried before accepting a family recommendation. He barely took the fight seriously—until Yuno demolished him in less than thirty seconds.
The written portion had nearly been Asta's undoing, but the sparring matches were where he could finally prove himself.
Yuno had already finished his duel in under thirty seconds, effortlessly dismantling his opponent with the ruthless precision of a noble duelist. His opponent was a smirking noble from House Haphass, the kind of aristocrat who had entered the exam just to say he had tried before accepting a family recommendation. He barely took the fight seriously—and paid dearly for it.
The moment the match started, Yuno had called forth a storm of slicing wind, pinning the other boy to the ground with nothing but the sheer pressure of his mana. And then, as if that wasn't enough, golden stars had flickered to life around him, shifting in orbit before locking onto his target.
A single pulse of magic.
A single burst of light.
And his opponent had been left unconscious, magic shields shattered, without Yuno even having moved.
It was terrifying. It was effortless. It was expected.
And then there was Asta.
Asta's opponent was a different kind of noble: Sekke Bronzazza.
Or rather, a commoner who had spent too much time imitating nobility.
Sekke walked into the ring with a swagger, smirking like he had already won. His bronze magic had coated his body, giving him a dull-green metallic sheen, his voice dripping with the overconfidence of someone who had never faced real hardship in his life.
"What's a magicless peasant doing in a place like this?" he sneered.
Asta had grinned at him, all teeth.
"Guess you'll find out."
Sekke had lunged first, his metal-coated fists swinging toward Asta's face.
And then Asta had called his sword.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt, mana broke. Sekke's reinforced fists, once gleaming with power, dulled and cracked as if his magic had simply been wiped away. The moment his magic failed him, he was just a regular fighter against someone who had trained his body relentlessly for years.
Asta moved before he could recover.
One swing.
One wide, brutal arc.
And Sekke had gone flying, landing in a crumpled heap at the edge of the arena.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The nobles watching from the stands were staring. They didn't understand what they had just witnessed. They had been ready to laugh at the magicless peasant, to sneer as he was effortlessly humiliated. Instead, they had watched as a noble—a fully trained magical combatant—had been reduced to nothing in seconds.
Yuno had been terrifying. But Asta?
Asta was unnatural.
And the house leaders had taken notice.
The third and final test was the most unpredictable—interviews with the house leaders.
Yuno had been flooded with invitations. Dawn, Eagle, Lion—every prestigious house wanted him. The first perfect exam score in a decade. The overwhelming display of mana. The controlled, elegant combat. He was a dream candidate, a future leader in the making.
Who's offer he accepted was obvious.
Asta, however, had received only four offers.
Fuegoleon, whose ideals of strength and determination resonated with Asta's sheer refusal to back down.
Rill, who was fascinated by the oddity of Asta's power, seeing it as something worthy of artistic exploration.
Jack, who simply liked the idea of a fighter who could cut down magic itself. Reminding him very much of himself.
And Yami.
Not that it had been much of a choice.
Yami had strolled into the room, cracked his neck, and without so much as a greeting, grabbed Asta by the skull like a misbehaving puppy.
"You're mine."
The other leaders had exchanged glances. No one wanted to argue with Yami. And, truth be told, none of them had been willing to take a real risk on the magicless outlier anyway.
Just like that, Asta had been claimed.
The Black Bulls were last-ranked. The worst. They were laughed at by every other house, dismissed as failures and misfits.
Asta should have felt disappointed.
Instead, as Yami released him and smirked down at him like he had just made the best choice of his life, Asta felt something different.
For the first time, someone wanted him.
Maybe that was enough.
—
Asta had barely stepped through the portal before he was hit with the overwhelming stench of something burning.
The Black Bulls' dormitory was nothing like the pristine marble halls of the Clover Institute. The moment his boots hit the wooden floorboards, he knew something was wrong—mostly because the floor creaked under him in a way that suggested it might not hold if he moved too fast.
This is a school dorm?
The air was thick with smoke. Somewhere in the distance, something crashed. A muffled voice let out a string of curses.
Asta turned to Finral, who had just warped him here through spatial magic. "Uh," he started, pointing at the swirling black smoke rising from what he could only assume was the kitchen. "Is that—"
"Oh," Finral said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. That happens a lot."
After a moment Finral smiled. "Don't worry it may look bad, but our resident chef knows what she's doing."
Asta barely registered his senpai's assurance as he turned fully, taking in his new home.
The Black Bulls' dormitory looked more like a rundown mountain lodge than anything remotely academic. The wooden structure loomed over them, its dark-stained exterior worn from time and neglect. Ivy crept up the walls, and one of the second-floor balconies looked like it was held together with hope rather than actual construction. A stone path led to a clearing where a few training dummies stood—one of which was actively on fire.
Asta wasn't sure whether to be impressed or concerned.
"I… thought student dorms were supposed to be, y'know, nice?" he asked.
Finral gave him a sheepish smile. "That depends on the house ranking. Dawn's dorms? Immaculate. Butler service, private chefs, enchanted baths, state-of-the-art training rooms. Eagle and Lion aren't far behind. Even Mantis gets solid funding. But Bulls?" He gestured vaguely. "Well… you're looking at it."
The realization hit like a stone in his gut. The rankings affect everything.
Not just reputation. Not just prestige.
But quality of life.
Every student at the institute was given a dorm based on their house's star rankings. The best houses got the best accommodations. The lowest-ranked…
Asta turned back to the lodge.
So this was what rock bottom looked like.
Asta missed Hage.
The church was just as rundown… but he was used to it, it was home afterall.
The Bulls' dorms on the other hand? He actually had expectations for this place.
Expectations shattered in seconds.
Asta missed Hage.
—
The second he stepped inside the living area, Asta was hit with a flurry of chaos.
To the left, a wooden staircase wound up to the second floor, its banister half-missing like someone had ripped it off in a fit of rage. The floor was scattered with loose papers, training equipment, and what looked suspiciously like a half-eaten sandwich. A single fireplace cast flickering shadows across the massive common room, where a large couch sat completely overturned, as if someone had decided furniture was optional.
A figure flew past his head.
Asta ducked instinctively as a blur of black and white hurtled through the air, crashing into a bookshelf with a thud.
"GAH—DAMN IT, MAGNA, YOU'RE DEAD!"
A street-punk boy with spiky purple-and-black hair came barreling down the hall, clad in a tattered jacket and a pair of aviator goggles shoved up onto his forehead. In his hands, he twirled a bat, crackling with flames.
Asta barely had time to react before another figure—a small and lanky guy with short blonde hair—scrambled to his feet, clutching his head where it had met the bookshelf.
"THAT FREAKIN' HURT, YOU ASS!" the blonde guy snapped. "I was just messing with you!"
"You were messing with my bike, Luck!" the fire-user, Magna, roared. "You deserve this ass-kicking!"
Luck grinned—actually grinned—before immediately lunging back at him, electricity crackling around him like he was a lightning rod.
Asta stepped back. "Uh—"
"Yeah," Finral sighed. "You get used to it."
The two boys tumbled across the floor, knocking over a stack of books and what looked like a wooden training sword. The fight was clearly not serious—neither of them were using their full magic—but they weren't exactly holding back either.
It was complete madness.
And yet, nobody seemed particularly concerned.
A girl with long and loose pink hair sat at the corner of the common room, scrolling through her phone and downing a drink without even acknowledging the chaos. She had light skin and wore a cropped top with a long skirt, her expression completely neutral as if she had seen this a thousand times before.
Across from her, a giant, round man in a black short—was he holding a knife?—watching with… truth be told Asta didn't know. It was hard to read any emotion on the scary thing's face.
There were several other creepy looking people present that Asta tried to ignore.
And off to the side, now leaning lazily against the wall with his arms crossed, stood Yami.
Asta felt his stomach jolt in surprise. He had barely even noticed the house leader standing there.
Only now taking the time to get a good look at him, Asta realized just how tall Yami Sukehiro was. Broad-shouldered and built like a brick wall. His sleeveless black coat hung open over a faded white shirt, and his dark hair was a mess, as if he hadn't bothered to comb it in years. He was watching the brawl with what could only be described as boredom, occasionally dragging a cigarette to his lips.
"Oi," he called suddenly.
Instantly, the fighting stopped.
Magna froze with his bat halfway swung. Luck had him by the collar, but neither of them moved.
Yami exhaled smoke and rolled his shoulders. "New kid's here," he muttered, tilting his head toward Asta.
Magna and Luck turned to look at him.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
Luck's grin widened. "Ohhh," he said. "He's small."
"HEY!" Asta barked. "I'm not small!" You're small!
Magna studied him for a second, his grip tightening on his bat. "Wait," he said. "You're that weird magicless dude from the exam, aren't you?"
Asta bristled. "I have powers! They're just—different!"
"Right, right. The freaky sword guy." Magna tilted his head. Then he smirked. "Alright, newbie. If you're one of us now, you gotta prove yourself."
Asta squared his shoulders. "Fine! How do I do that?"
Magna slammed the end of his bat against the floor, the flames flickering brighter. "You fight me."
Asta blinked. "What—"
"Don't worry," Finral muttered. "This happens to all the newbies."
Yami snorted. "If you lose, you're getting kicked out."
Asta's eyes went huge. "WHAT?"
Yami grinned. "Kidding. Probably."
Probably.
Asta took a slow breath.
This was fine.
This was fine.
He had spent his whole life proving himself. If this was what it took to be a Black Bull, then so be it.
He cracked his knuckles, planted his feet, and let his magic-nullifying sword appear in his grip.
Magna grinned.
Luck cackled.
And just like that, Asta's life in the worst house at the Clover Institute had officially begun.
—
Asta barely had time to catch his breath after his spar with Magna before Finral nudged him. "Hey," the older boy said, motioning toward the entrance. "Looks like you're not the only new recruit."
Asta turned, still panting, and found himself staring at a girl standing stiffly in the doorway.
She looked miserable.
Her uniform, though the same as his, seemed… different. Where his was already wrinkled from the fight, hers was pristine, buttoned up so perfectly it almost seemed constricting. The deep violet of the cape contrasted against her pale skin, and her silver hair—no, not just silver, but royal silver—was neatly tied back with a few loose strands framing her face. Her posture was rigid, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and despite the obvious disdain twisting her features, Asta could tell she had been standing there for a while, watching.
Her eyes—sharp, cold, and strikingly pink—scanned the room, lingering on the mess, the overturned furniture, and finally the people within it. The longer she looked, the more her expression twisted.
Disgust.
Asta blinked. What's her deal?
Yami was the first to break the silence. "Huh," he muttered, exhaling smoke. "Didn't think they'd actually send you."
The girl stiffened, just barely.
Luck leaned toward Magna. "Who's that?" he asked, not even bothering to whisper.
Magna scratched his head. "No clue. Some noble brat?"
At that, the girl's jaw tightened. "I am not some noble brat," she bit out. "I am Noelle Silva of House Eagle."
Asta blinked. "Wait. Silva?"
That got everyone's attention.
"Silva Silva?" Finral asked, his tone shifting into something hesitant.
"The Silva family?" Magna said, eyes narrowing. "As in the royal Silva family?"
Even Luck seemed interested. "Ooooh," he hummed. "So why's a fancy royal like you here?"
Noelle's hands curled into fists.
Asta frowned. Yeah, actually—why is she here?
If she was really a Silva, that meant she was royalty. She was supposed to be in House Eagle, the oldest and most prestigious house next to Dawn and Lion. The Silva name was legendary, tracing back to the first generations of magic users in the Clover Institute. House Eagle had produced some of the most powerful mages in history, including the Silva family's own head, Nozel Silva, who had an undefeated reputation.
As well as the legendary Dancing Princess of the Battlefield who had disappeared from the scene for nearly fifteen years after that incident.
That aside, the Silvas were the best of the best.
So what was she doing in the Black Bulls?
Asta was still trying to wrap his head around it when Yami let out a low chuckle. "Well," he said, "they said they were sending me some deadweight, but I wasn't expecting a royal failure."
Noelle flinched.
It was barely noticeable—just a flicker, a slight movement, her shoulders tensing ever so slightly. But Asta caught it.
Royal failure.
Yami hadn't said that for no reason.
The realization hit.
She hadn't chosen this house.
She had been put here.
Asta stared at her, but Noelle refused to meet his eyes.
Whatever happened, whatever went wrong, it was enough for her to end up here, in the lowest-ranked house of the entire Institute.
Luck grinned. "Sooo," he said, tilting his head. "What did you do?"
Noelle lifted her chin. "Excuse me?"
"Come on." Magna crossed his arms. "There's no way a Silva just ends up here. You had to screw up bad."
"I didn't screw up," she snapped.
Yami shrugged. "Didn't get into Eagle. Sounds like a screw-up to me."
Noelle's lips pressed into a thin line.
Asta, watching all of this, couldn't hold it in anymore. "Oiii," he said, stepping forward. "What's your deal? Why are you acting like we're the problem? It's not like we forced you to come here."
Her gaze snapped to him, and for the first time, she really looked at him.
Asta watched as her eyes flicked down to his uniform—his messy, rumpled, too-big uniform—then to the broad sword strapped to his back, then finally back to his face.
The longer she looked, the more her expression curdled.
"You," she said slowly, voice dripping with disdain, "are that commoner from the entrance exam."
Asta's eyebrow twitched. He was a peasant but he wasn't going to correct the mix-up.
"Uh," Finral muttered. "That commoner has a name, y'know."
Noelle ignored him.
Asta, however, was already bristling. "I do have a name!" he snapped. "It's Asta! And you—" He jabbed a finger at her. "—have a real attitude problem!"
Noelle let out a short, sharp laugh. "I have an attitude problem?" She gestured vaguely at the room. "I have been dumped in this… this cesspool and forced to associate with people like you—"
"People like me?!"
"—when I should be in House Eagle with my siblings! And you expect me to be gracious?"
"Yes!" Asta threw up his arms. "I do expect that! 'Cause you're here now whether you like it or not, so you might as well—"
Noelle scoffed. "You peasants wouldn't understand. I don't belong here."
Asta's temper flared. "Well, you're here, aren't you? So maybe you should stop acting like you're better than everyone just because your family has a fancy name—"
Her eyes blazed. "It's not about the name!"
"Then what is it?!"
For a second, her mouth opened—like she was about to say something—but then she snapped it shut just as fast.
The silence that followed was tense.
Asta huffed, crossing his arms.
Noelle, red in the face, glared at the floor.
Finral rubbed his temples. "Wow," he muttered. "That was… something."
Magna just grinned. "Y'know what? I kinda like her."
"She's interesting," Luck agreed.
Yami, who had been watching the whole thing, finally exhaled and stretched his arms. "Welp," he said. "That's enough drama for the day." He tilted his head toward Noelle. "You're one of us now, royal pain in the ass. You can either suck it up or get lost."
Noelle stiffened.
Asta frowned.
For a moment, it almost looked like she would leave—like she would turn and storm out of the door. But then, slowly, stiffly, she straightened her posture and raised her chin.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said.
Yami grinned. "Good. Then welcome to the Black Bulls."
Noelle's hands curled into fists at her sides.
Asta sighed, rubbing the back of his head.
This was going to be a disaster.
—
Noelle stormed away from the common room, her breath coming out in sharp, furious huffs.
She couldn't believe this.
The Black Bulls. The bottom-ranked house. The laughingstock of the entire institute. Her house.
It was humiliating.
She had spent her entire life preparing to follow in her siblings' footsteps, to claim her rightful place in House Eagle alongside the strongest mages in the school. And yet here she was, thrown into the gutter with peasants and criminals, all because—
She clenched her jaw.
No. She wouldn't think about that.
She wouldn't think about how she had failed.
She wouldn't think about the way her siblings had looked at her when she left.
She wouldn't—
Noelle grit her teeth and exhaled sharply, coming to a stop in the middle of an open courtyard at the edge of the Bulls' territory. It was a little clearing tucked away behind the dorm, far from the chaos of the common room, surrounded by thick trees and overgrown vines. It was quiet.
Perfect.
She needed to train.
She had been here for barely an hour, and she had already lost her temper in front of a commoner. She had let them provoke her, let them look down on her. It was disgraceful. If she wanted any chance of proving herself—of proving that she didn't belong here—then she had to get stronger.
She took a deep breath, straightened her stance, and raised her hand.
Her mana surged, raw and powerful.
Water spiraled around her fingers, twisting and curling like a serpent ready to strike. Good, she thought. Good. I can control this. I just have to—
The spell slipped.
Her control wavered.
The water bulged, swelled, and then—
It burst.
Noelle barely had time to react before the spell spun out of control. The water lashed outward in violent, spiraling arcs, forming a massive, unstable sphere around her, churning and twisting as if caught in a storm.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
She tried to stop it, to pull the mana back, but it was too much, too wild, too strong. The magic raged around her, spinning faster and faster until she was completely engulfed in a swirling torrent of water.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't move.
She was trapped.
Panic clawed at her chest.
No, no, no, not again—
She tried to call for help, but the water swallowed her voice.
It was happening again.
She was drowning in her own magic.
Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred. I can't—
Something slammed into her.
A hand—strong, calloused—grabbed her arm, yanking her forward.
The next thing she knew, she was falling.
The sphere of water burst, collapsing in on itself, and Noelle hit the ground hard, gasping for air.
She coughed violently, choking on water, struggling to regain her bearings. Her limbs felt weak, her whole body trembling from the aftermath of the spell.
A voice rang out beside her.
"Whoa! That was awesome!"
Noelle blinked, still dazed.
Asta crouched next to her, completely soaked, grinning like an idiot. "I mean, terrifying, sure, but wow—that was crazy! You have so much mana!"
Noelle just stared at him, her breath still coming out in ragged gasps.
What…?
She had nearly killed herself. She had failed—again. And instead of laughing at her, instead of mocking her like her siblings would have, instead of calling her useless—
He was praising her.
Her hands curled into fists. "Shut up," she muttered weakly, turning her face away. "I lost control. It was a failure."
Asta huffed. "It wasn't a failure! It just needs work!" He grabbed her wrist and tugged her up. "C'mon, you're way stronger than you think! You just gotta learn to control it better!"
Noelle stiffened.
Asta's grip was warm.
Steady.
She swallowed hard, heat rising to her cheeks. "Don't touch me, you idiot," she snapped, but she didn't pull away.
Asta just grinned. "Sure, sure, whatever you say, Princess."
Noelle's eye twitched. "Don't call me that."
"Then stop acting like one!"
She gasped, scandalized, and Asta just laughed, bright and carefree.
Noelle scowled, shoving him away. But for the first time since she had arrived, she felt…
Lighter.