Black Clover : Asta's Father

Some heavy plot points in this chapters.

Nero sat alone in his study, the quiet diturbed only by the crackle of the fireplace.

The base of the Hōgyoku was complete—a marvel of twisting energies and boundless potential, now simply awaiting the necessary collection of souls to reach its full power.

For now, there was little else to do but wait.

In his hands lay an ancient, leather-bound book—a diary from a long-forgotten member of House Silva Million, predating even the era of the First Wizard King.

The faded ink and yellowed pages chronicled a fascinating account of the origins of grimoires.

The book revealed that while anyone could theoretically claim a grimoire from any magic tower, bloodlines held a significant influence over the type and quality of grimoire one might receive.

A person with a lineage deeply tied to a particular region's magic tower stood a greater chance of obtaining powerful grimoires, even rarities like the four-leaf clover.

He paused on a particularly intriguing passage:

"The fate of four-leaf grimoires is intertwined with destiny itself. They find those who resonate not only with mana but also with legacy tethered by the threads of magic and fate."

Nero's mind wandered.

The diary delved into fascinating theories, but it also raised questions about how much of magic was truly personal effort versus ancestral inheritance.

He wondered what other secrets the Silva-Millionline held, buried in their long, illustrious history.

His musings were interrupted by the creak of the door opening.

Nero looked up to see Nel standing there, her eyes heavy with unshed tears and exhaustion.

"Nightmare?" he asked softly, setting the diary aside.

She nodded, not saying a word as she padded toward him.

Without hesitation, Nel wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest.

Nero stiffened for a brief moment—surprise was not something he experienced often—but quickly relaxed, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

She nestled into his lap, clutching onto him like a child seeking solace.

He sighed, running his fingers gently through her hair in a comforting rhythm.

"You'll be fine," he murmured, though he knew the words weren't necessary.

She had done this often enough, seeking him out whenever the nightmares became unbearable.

To her, he was a substitute father. And though he rarely admitted it aloud, Nero didn't mind the role.

As her breathing slowed, Nel fell into a deep sleep, her face calm and untroubled.

Nero shifted carefully, rising from his chair and carrying her to the nearby couch.

He placed her down gently, covering her with a soft blanket of pure light conjured from magic her hands still circled around him.

Sitting beside her, his hand instinctively returned to patting her head.

The quiet warmth of the moment washed over him.

For someone like Nero, who had spent most of his life avoiding attachments, this bond was both strange and comforting.

Before he knew it, his own eyes began to close.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the room.

Nero drifted off to sleep, his hand still resting protectively on Nel's head, a rare, peaceful smile on his face.

---

The world around Nero seemed to blur as his consciousness drifted, his thoughts clouded by the hours spent in his study.

One moment, he was rubbing Nel's hair softly as she slept, her breaths steady against him; the next, the sensation of touch slipped away, replaced by an alien stillness.

Darkness enveloped him, dense and all-consuming, yet not suffocating. It was the absence of sensation, the kind that defied description.

He tried to move but couldn't.

He tried to speak, but his voice didn't answer.

Panic didn't rise—there was no fear here, just an odd certainty that this nothingness would not consume him.

Time didn't exist in this place.

Yet, somehow, he became aware of his own form—or rather, a form.

A child's body, small and frail, unseeing and unhearing.

There was a vast emptiness inside, a void where something fundamental should have been.

And then, warmth.

A fleeting sensation, like sunlight through the cracks of a stormy sky.

A touch—light, hesitant, reverent—

pressed against this lifeless form he inhabited.

A pulse of energy sparked, and Nero felt it, as though a piece of himself leapt forward.

The nothingness cracked ever so slightly.

The pulse of energy brought faint whispers, murmurs of relief, and gasps of awe.

The one who touched him retreated, their limp and broken form renewed, their wounds miraculously healed.

Another touch followed.

Then another. He could not see them, but he could feel them.

With each contact, his essence reached out, fragments of something deep within him flowing into these strangers, mending their bodies, soothing their souls.

He felt a strange tether to them, as if their lives were now entwined with his own.

When their lives ended—and somehow, he instinctively knew they would—it would return to him, carrying a part of their being.

A faint light flickered in his unseeing eyes, a blur that slowly sharpened with every fragment that returned to him.

Voices became audible, faint at first, then clearer.

A single word rose among the murmurs, carried on waves of awe and devotion.

"Yhwach."

The name rang in his ears, a chant whispered by countless voices.

Nero felt it pierce through the haze, settling deep within his consciousness.

He began to understand.

The child he was within this vision was revered—a savior and a miracle to the desperate.

Yet it wasn't simple adoration that fueled their worship; it was a mingling of awe and fear.

Fear of power.

They were drawn to him for what he could give and terrified by it at the same timw.

The fragments returning to him brought more than healing—they brought knowledge, memories, and emotions.

Each piece of his shared soul carried the weight of lives lived, of pains endured, of triumphs and regrets.

As his body grew stronger, as his senses awakened, so did his understanding of the paradox he embodied.

The people called him savior, yet he was no less a taker than a giver.

The vision shifted.

He saw throngs of figures bowing before the child's radiance, their eyes filled with reverence and terror alike.

They willingly gave their lives, their faith unwavering, their souls entwined with his power.

Nero couldn't help but feel unease settle over him.

This wasn't power—it was inevitability.

A cycle where giving and taking were indistinguishable, where salvation came at the cost of life itself.

The name echoed again, louder now: "Yhwach."

And just like that, the dream fractured.

The warmth fractured into cold.

The light faded, and Nero found himself standing in the aftermath of a battlefield.

The stillness of death surrounded him, thick and suffocating.

Men lay scattered across the blood-soaked ground in intricate armor, weapons abandoned by lifeless hands.

Their faces bore expressions of agony, not of physical pain, but of shattered purpose—Quincies, every one of them.

Nero turned his head, confusion settling deep within him.

These weren't his memories, nor his men, but he felt the weight of their loss as if it were his own.

They were his sons...

His chest ached, and his hands—calloused, scarred, yet unfamiliar—trembled with an understanding that eluded his conscious thoughts.

The silence that hung over the scene was deafening, save for the falling rain.

Yhwach stood in the center of it all, his sword lowered, his posture straight despite the weight in his chest.

His soldiers lay around him, their lifeless faces turned upward as if seeking one final blessing from the man they had followed into the abyss.

Ahead of him, a figure emerged—a silhouette of swirling darkness, its edges shifting like smoke caught in a storm.

The presence was suffocating, a manifestation of something far beyond mortal comprehension.

The shadow moved closer, its form solidifying into a humanoid shape with features obscured, save for its mocking smile. "Look at your kingdom, Yhwach," it said, its voice a cold whisper that echoed across the battlefield. "Behold the fruits of your ambition."

Yhwach remained silent, his gaze fixed on the shadow, unwavering.

"They fought for you," the shadow continued, circling him like a predator. "They gave their lives for your dream. Yet, here they lie—broken, discarded, forgotten. Do you still call this victory?"

Yhwach's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. "They understood the cost. They fought willingly."

The shadow laughed, a cruel, hollow sound that seemed to rattle the very air. "Willingly? Or were they blinded by your promises of salvation? Did they march to their deaths for you, or for the lies you fed them?"

Yhwach's expression didn't falter, but the weight of the shadow's words pressed against him, heavy and relentless.

"You silenced their cries," the shadow sneered, leaning closer. "Their despair, their doubts—you refused to hear them. And now, even in death, they scream for you."

The corpses around them began to shift, the lifeless bodies contorting into grotesque shapes.

Their hollow eyes glowed faintly, filled with rage and sorrow. One by one, they turned toward Yhwach, their twisted forms reaching out as if to drag him down into the blood-soaked earth.

The shadow's voice dropped to a whisper, sharp and biting. "This is your legacy, Yhwach. An empire built on promises. A throne of corpses."

Yhwach raised his sword, his stance steady despite the turmoil around him. "I carry their hopes," he said, his voice calm yet resolute.

"The sacrifices of my sons will not be in vain."

The shadow stopped circling, standing directly in front of him now. "And yet, here you stand—alone. A king without a kingdom. A god without believers."

Yhwach's silence was his only response.

The shadow leaned closer, its formless face mere inches from his. "You should have kept your voice to yourself Yhwach. "

"You should have listened to their despair. Perhaps then, you would have understood what it means to be truly powerless."

In a flash of darkness, the shadow moved, and Yhwach's vision swam.

He didn't feel the blow, but he heard the sound—the sickening slice of a blade cutting through flesh and bone.

His head fell.

It tumbled to the ground, landing with a dull thud at the feet of the shadow.

From this new perspective, Yhwach could see his own body, still standing tall despite its decapitation, the sword still firmly in its grasp.

The shadow stood over him, its mocking smile widening. "Even kings fall, child of miracles."

The battlefield began to dissolve, the figures of the dead fading into nothingness.

Yet the shadow's laughter remained, echoing in the void, a reminder of the cost of ambition.

---

The confined Quincy King regains his pulse after 900 years,

His mind after 90 years,

His strength after 9 years,

And the world in 9 days.

The vision shifted once more, and Nero—no, Yhwach—found himself in a vast, somber throne room.

The air was thick with authority and ancient power, every corner of the chamber resonating with an energy that made the very stone seem alive.

Upon a grand throne of pale, cold stone, Yhwach sat.

His form was no longer frail or restrained.

Strength radiated from him, his presence suffocating and divine.

His eyes, dark and piercing, gazed forward with a certainty that could shatter nations.

At his side stood his greatest follower, Jugram Haschwalth.

The Sternritter Grandmaster's immaculate white cloak glimmered faintly in the dim light.

His long blond hair, perfectly kept, fell gracefully down his back.

His sharp, calculating eyes did not waver, his posture an emblem of unwavering loyalty.

The throne room was silent except for the faint hum of power emanating from Yhwach himself.

Then, his voice, deep and resonant, broke the stillness, each word carrying the weight of inevitability:

"Nine hundred years for my pulse to return.

Ninety years to regain my mind.

Nine years for my strength to become whole once more.

And in nine days, the world will once again be mine."

Haschwalth inclined his head slightly, his voice calm and measured as he spoke. "Your will is absolute, Your Majesty. The Quincy are ready to march. The time has come to reclaim what was taken from us."

Yhwach's gaze swept over the room, distant yet all-encompassing. "This world has forgotten the name Quincy, but they will remember. They will kneel. They will know despair."

As his words echoed through the chamber, the scene shifted again, and Nero felt a cold certainty settle in his chest.

He was not merely watching this unfold—he was Yhwach, bound to this vision of power and ruin.

The dream fractured once more, leaving only the haunting echo of Yhwach's final words:

"The future belongs to those who seize it, and I will take everything."

---

The battlefield stretched endlessly, a desolate wasteland littered with the broken remnants of war.

Yhwach stood amidst the carnage, his form commanding yet weighed down by an unspoken burden.

His blade, radiant with unyielding power, pierced through the swirling darkness before him.

The darkness, bound by searing chains of light, writhed and shrieked, but its voice remained calm, mocking.

It was a formless silhouette, shifting and rippling as though it existed only to defy definition.

"You think your light can restrain me forever?" the darkness sneered, its voice dripping with venom.

Without warning, it plunged a shadowy hand through Yhwach's chest.

Yhwach staggered, his eyes wide with shock as he felt the cold, invasive tendrils of the darkness spreading through him.

"I may not be able to keep you dead, Quincy King," the darkness hissed, its laughter echoing like shattered glass.

"But I will destroy everything you have ever built."

The poison of the darkness surged through his veins, seeping into the very essence of his soul.

The corruption spread outward, infecting every Quincy tied to Yhwach's power.

Nero—still trapped within Yhwach's perspective—felt the horrifying shift as the Quincy began to change.

One by one, they fell, their humanity stripped away.

Their bodies twisted, their minds shattered, and they became something monstrous—beasts of pure instinct and magical insanity.

These were no longer Yhwach's soldiers, no longer the noble Quincy.

They were Devils.

For the first time in his eternal life, Yhwach felt despair.

He erased the darkness but what good did it do now ?

He watched helplessly as his children, his empire, and his legacy were consumed by the poison.

Their screams of agony became guttural roars as they turned on him, their creator, their king.

Yhwach's blade moved with ruthless precision, cutting down the devils that had once been his loyal followers.

Each strike was a reluctant act of mercy, tears streaming down his face as he whispered their names in anguish.

Thousands fell to his hand, but the tide was endless.

Amid the chaos, he found Haschwalth.

The Sternritter Grandmaster was on his knees, his body trembling as he resisted the transformation.

His eyes, still filled with clarity, met Yhwach's.

"Your Majesty," Haschwalth said, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "I cannot hold on much longer. Please... end me. I do not wish to raise my sword against you."

Yhwach's despair deepened. His sword trembled in his hand as he looked upon his most faithful follower, the one who had always been by his side.

"No," Yhwach said, his voice breaking. "I will not take your life. I will heal you. This... this will be my final miracle."

He laid down his sword and stepped toward Haschwalth, the light of his soul radiating from his form.

Ignoring the devils gnawing at his flesh, tearing at him with feral hunger, Yhwach placed his hands upon Haschwalth.

He poured the last uncorrupted fragments of his soul into his loyal follower, piece by piece, even as his own body began to falter.

The devils swarmed him, their claws rending his flesh, but Yhwach's resolve did not waver.

He raised his hand, his fading power igniting in a final act of creation.

He split the world apart with his light and the poisoned darkness, using his very body as the foundation for a new realm.

As the Almighty faded from his eyes, Yhwach sealed the world shut.

His voice echoed in the void, a whisper of defiance against the darkness that had consumed everything.

"For my sons... I leave a sanctuary. A world of their own."

And then, silence.

The vision shattered, leaving only an overwhelming emptiness in its wake.

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