Nero was adorned with an unusual expression , devoid of the indifference that typically marked his demeanor.
Yami's brows lifted in mild surprise, a smirk playing on his lips as he prepared to throw in a remark about Nero's uncharacteristic attitude.
But before he could voice his impatience, Nero began speaking, his tone uncommonly subdued yet laced with purpose.
"Today, I'm not here to talk as the captain of my squad or as the head of the Kira house," Nero said, his gaze steady and unyielding. "I'm here to talk… as a father."
Yami blinked, caught off guard. "Oi, oi, you're joking, right?" he asked, eyes narrowing with incredulity. "Since when do you—"
Nero didn't reply to Yami's question. He took a deep breath and pushed on, his expression unwavering. "Asta… is my son."
The statement settled heavily between them, cutting through the early morning silence.
Yami's smirk faded as he looked at Nero completely shocked, seeing a side of the man he'd never expected.
"He's a stubborn kid, too stubborn for his own good," Nero continued, his voice carrying a hint of both pride and frustration. "I tried my best to keep him close, to train him myself. But… he wouldn't have it. The boy's relentless—he's set on carving his own path."
Yami watched Nero in silence, taking in the rare vulnerability and the steady resolve beneath it. This wasn't just a man fighting to protect his own legacy; this was a father, trusting his son's safety to another man.
"So, what do you want from me?" Yami finally asked, his voice unusually serious.
"I'm asking you to look after him," Nero said quietly. "He'll push himself to the breaking point if you let him. He won't back down, no matter the risk. I need you to help him control that fire before it burns him out."
Yami crossed his arms, his expression softening slightly. "The kid's got guts, I'll give him that. But he doesn't need a babysitter, Nero. If he's going to survive as a magic knight, he'll need to do it his way, or not at all."
Nero's gaze remained steady. "I know that. I don't want him coddled. I want him to grow. But every path has dangers… and as his father, I can't ignore them."
Yami sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, yet there was an understanding glimmer in his eyes. "Fine. I'll keep an eye on him. But don't expect me to go easy on him, either."
A small, barely perceptible smile crossed Nero's face. "That's exactly why I came to you, Yami."
With a nod, Nero turned, his usual stoic mask slipping back into place. "Thank you."
As he walked away, Yami watched him go, a newfound respect mingling with his curiosity.
---
Nel observed the traffickers below from her hidden perch, her expression twisted in disgust.
The mages she was supposed to hunt down were engaged in unspeakable acts, forcing themselves on their captives with brutal disregard, even some of the women in the group seemed complicit, joining in on the cruelty with twisted laughter.
"How unsightly," she muttered, her voice barely more than a breath but laced with loathing.
Nel held out her hand and summoned her grimoire. It appeared before her in a soft, ominous glow, pages flickering in the night.
The metal cover had glowing cracks like magma and a three leaf clover glowing with the same light.
Nel's grimoire floated in front of her, radiating a dark red, aura.
The grimoire's iron cover, scarred and cracked from countless battles, began to heat, the metal bubbling as if molten.
Slowly, almost ritualistically, it began to flow, defying gravity as streams of liquid iron arced over her body the grimoire melting away.
Each rivulet wrapped around her in spiraling patterns, connecting and hardening , forming pieces of armor that shone with a ethereal glow.
"Armor Creation: Grimoire Drive," she whispered, and with those words, the magic intensified and a sword formed in her hand.
[IMAGE]
The armor was more than protection—it was a complete fusion of spirit and magic, her entire essence crystallized into a formidable weapon.
Unlike ordinary mages who summoned spells through incantations and the pages of their grimoire, Nel's Grimoire Drive bypassed all of that.
Her armor wasn't just simple outer covering ; it bonded with her on a fundamental level, merging seamlessly with her soul and allowing her to call forth every spell, every ounce of power, with a mere thought.
She was her own grimoire, every rune etched on the armor pulsing like a heartbeat.
As she stood on the cliff, fully encased in this mystical armor, her presence felt like that of a goddess of war.
Below her, the traffickers went about their vile business, oblivious to the doom descending upon them.
She watched, her gaze hardened in disgust, as some of the captives lay bound, others brutalized, and some wept in silence.
Her armor glowed in response, resonating with her intention.
The runes etched into her gauntlets flared as if alive, eager to unleash devastation upon those below.
She closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself.
Then, with a single step, she launched herself into the air, descending like a comet of retribution upon the encampment below, her armor blazing against the darkening sky.
Nel crashed through the roof, sending splinters and debris scattering across the room.
Her armored form landed with a thunderous impact, silencing the space with an instant chill.
The traffickers barely had a moment to react.
One of the men, caught in his vile act, froze in horror as Nel's hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat.
He managed only a strangled gasp. "P-please… wait! Don't—"
But Nel's grip tightened, her fingers digging into his flesh.
She ripped out his windpipe with merciless precision, cutting off his pleas.
Blood sprayed across her armor as he collapsed, his eyes frozen wide in agony.
"W-what the hell?!!" screamed another man, scrambling back in terror.
But he wasn't fast enough.
Nel's sword flashed, and he saw his world split in two as her blade cleaved his body perfectly, his scream dying in a gurgle as he fell.
Across the room, a woman who had been torturing a young boy turned, eyes wide with panic.
She raised her hand, trying to summon a spell. "You filthy—get away from me!"
But Nel was already upon her. The woman's words turned to a shriek as Nel's armored hand plunged into her chest.
Her eyes bulged in horror as Nel's fingers closed around her beating heart, feeling its desperate beats.
"No… no! Please!" the woman gasped, tears streaming down her face.
Nel's gaze was cold, unfeeling.
Without a word, she pulled the heart free. The woman's pleas ceased as her body crumpled lifelessly to the floor.
Around her, the remaining traffickers screamed and scrambled for the exits, their faces twisted in terror.
"Who the hell is she?!" one of them shrieked.
"She's a demon! Run! Just run!" shouted another, nearly tripping over his own feet in his blind panic.
Nel didn't care she had already marked them.
They would be killed soon enough.
She let the bloody heart drop to the floor with a sickening thud, her eyes daring anyone else to test her fury.
Nel glanced briefly at the huddled, terrified captives, her armored hand flicking out in a casual wave.
With that simple gesture, the bindings around them fell away, chains clattering to the floor.
She didn't bother looking back as she walked forward, her gaze locked onto the strongest magical presence in the hideout.
In the corner of the room, a large, muscular man was just waking up, his face contorted in anger as he took in the destruction around him.
He reached for his grimoire, a dark smirk crossing his lips as he saw Nel approach.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" he sneered. "You think you can come in here and pull this stunt? I'll kill you, you b—!"
He didn't get to finish.
In a swift motion, Nel raised the medallion given to her by Nero. Its power ignited, forming an ominous four-leaf clover pattern made entirely of swirling darkness in the air before her.
Each leaf was marked with four brilliant, glowing blue lights, crackling with otherworldly energy.
The man's smirk faltered as massive pillars of blue, solid light shot forth from the lights, binding him in place as the structure around him seemed to collapse under the force.
He felt an indescribable tearing sensation, as if a part of his very soul was being wrenched away.
He gasped, his eyes widening in horror as he realized his connection to his grimoire was gone.
The once-powerful magical tome now hovered in front of Nel, stripped from him, defenseless.
Nel lowered the medallion, and the torn magical bond solidified into a new grimoire that reformed in front of her.
She smirked as she slipped the medallion back around her neck.
"Now," she said coldly, her voice dripping with contempt, "let's see how it feels to be at the mercy of your own magic."
She opened the grimoire, her eyes scanning it as if already familiar with its pages. "Bomb Magic: Punk Detonator!"
A vicious sphere of jagged energy formed in her hand, pulsating with a dangerous, unstable rhythm, like a bomb primed to explode at the slightest touch.
She hurled it at the man, who stumbled backward in terror.
"No, no! Stop! You don't know what you're doing! That'll—"
His screams were swallowed by the deafening blast as the Punk Detonator erupted, filling the room with a violent surge of explosive magic.
When the light and smoke cleared, Nel stood alone, unfazed and unscathed, the man now nothing more than scattered body parts and burnt flesh.
She looked down at the remnants of his grimoire, now an empty husk.
"Unpleasant" she muttered before turning her back on the wreckage, her mission complete.
The test was a complete success.
---
Nero hovered alone above the clouds, his gaze distant and unyielding as the icy wind whipped around him.
Thoughts stormed through his mind like the clouds below, churning over a decision he knew would alter him forever—a decision that threatened to challenge every value he had left.
Years of relentless pursuit had brought him here, to the edge of a choice that was as terrifying as it was tempting.
He'd been fighting two battles.
On one side, a desperate search for a way to bring back Richita, a path littered with failure after failure.
Despite all his knowledge, every forbidden tome he'd scoured, he'd found nothing that could undo death the way he wanted.
On the other side was his drive for power, to strengthen himself to a level he'd d be able to take his revenge.
Yet his grimoire, a four-leaf , had remained blank, as if mocking him.
No spell had ever appeared, no inscription had ever graced its pages. It was a hollow testament to his abilities.
It was an undeniable truth, one so absurd that no one would ever consider it.
An empty grimoire, unmarked by even a single spell, in the hands of one of the most powerful mages in the kingdom.
Despite standing nearly on par with Julius himself, Nero's grimoire remained blank.
He had never unlocked a spell within it—not because he lacked power, but because he lacked the drive or the catalyst to need one.
He was born above the others after all.
Most mages, if they even dared approach him, couldn't withstand the oppressive density of his mana and weren't qualified to touch him.
It was a force that acted like a shield of raw, unfiltered pressure.
With control so precise and innate, he found that he had little use for conventional magic spells or scripted incantations.
In battle, he could silence opposition with sheer presence, rendering complex grimoires and intricate spells unnecessary.
Over the years, Nero's study of the soul had led him to question the very foundation of magical power itself.
If the grimoire was an extension of the soul, was there a way to bypass it entirely?
The idea simmered in his mind—one inspired by his favorite man, Aizen.
What if he could create something akin to the Hogyoku, a catalyst to transcend all limitations.
And when seen from above Him and Aizen had similar approqch to power why need complex spells and swords when you can crush everything from your presence alone.
The notion seemed like common sense now.
But the dillema lay in the method of its creation.
The amount of sacrifices it would take to make somthing like that the only way he knew.
Creating something like that—a Hogyoku, a conduit of pure, unrestrained power—was no simple feat.
It would require an ungodly amount of pure mana, concentrated and contained in a construct as close to myth as reality, something akin to a holy grail.
The problem, however, was that pure mana was elusive.
Even in nature, mana was tainted with elemental attributes, twisted by the environment it flowed through.
Refining natural mana into its pure form was an agonizingly slow process, one that would take longer than his lifetime multiplied a hundredfold.
The other, darker path was soul refinement—crushing souls under such immense pressure that they would dissolve, shedding their identity and reverting to raw energy.
The mana within would be purified, stripped of its impurities and rendered perfect.
He had already gathered over 3,000 souls across years of careful experiments, enough to attempt the creation.
Yet, each step he took down this path challenged every moral boundary he had ever known.
The making of a Hogyoku would not be just a pursuit of strength; it would be a descent into darkness.
For a long moment, he stared into the distance, the weight of his decision hanging in the air.
His jaw clenched, and then, with a sudden exhale, he made his choice.
"F*** it," he muttered, a hard resolve in his eyes. "I'm doing it."
The consequences no longer mattered.
---
Some Time Later.
Nero moved with precision, setting up a network of conduits across the entire Clover and Diamond Kingdoms.
Hidden in plain sight, these conduits were carefully embedded within the lay lines and concealed by intricate barriers—each conduit a siphon, a silent channel designed to draw in the souls of the deceased and actively weakened life force of the one's near death.
With the power he was preparing to unleash, he knew he had to take every measure to ensure it was perfected, untraceable, and unwavering in its strength.
As he completed each conduit, he murmured faint incantations, words infused with control and intent, making sure each piece was aligned with the next.
The network would be his masterpiece—a system designed to gather souls undetected, their essence funneled toward a central point where he could harness and purify them.
A month, he thought.
A month should be enough.
Another thousand souls would feed into his creation, enough to reach the preliminary stage of the Hogyoku he envisioned.
Each soul, each life taken would bring him closer to a power beyond his limits.
---
Nero stepped into the grand ballroom with a steely reluctance, his expression unreadable as he took in the glittering crowd of nobles and elites around him.
The only reason he had agreed to attend was to appease Augustus, the portly king who had dragged him here under the guise of "strengthening relations." And for the sake of his kingly appearance.
Nero usually had no patience for that fate pig, such affairs—he saw them as distractions and held little respect for the court's idle indulgences.
But as a high-ranking noble, there were appearances he had to maintain, even if it meant enduring a night of superficial pleasantries and feigned politeness.
As he entered, conversations in the hall quieted momentarily before whispers swept through the crowd.
His presence commanded attention, and soon, the guests resumed their hushed chatter, now focused solely on him.
Several women glanced in his direction, some fanning themselves with delicate, jeweled fans, others casting fleeting, coy smiles.
"Oh, look at him," one young noblewoman whispered excitedly to her friend, eyes fixed on Nero. "He's barely acknowledging anyone! So mysterious, don't you think?"
Another woman, older and already married, sighed with an almost wistful smile. "I wouldn't mind if he looked my way, just once. My husband wouldn't have to know everything," she whispered with a mischievous glint, nudging her friend beside her.
Even some of the more seasoned noblewomen—usually accustomed to ignoring men younger than them—couldn't help but steal glances. The elegance and restrained power in Nero's stance held an almost magnetic allure. Not far off, Augustus's own favored mistress was among the onlookers, clearly entranced. "Honestly, why would anyone settle for Augustus when there's someone like him?" she murmured to her friends, almost swooning. "He doesn't even need magic—just one look, and I'd do anything he asked."
An older nobleman, overhearing the fawning remarks, scoffed under his breath. "Does he think he's too good to even speak to anyone here?" he muttered to a companion, folding his arms indignantly.
"Maybe he is," another noble said with a shrug. "Have you seen his power? The man could probably match half the kingdom's elites, no grimoire needed."
Several women nearby heard this comment and giggled in agreement. One of them dared to say, "I wouldn't care if he never spoke. I'd be honored to have his children—if only he'd look my way just once."
It wasn't long before one of the wealthier noblemen, mustering up his courage, approached Nero with a courteous bow. "Lord Nero," he said, voice full of pride and persuasion, "we would be honored if you'd consider a marriage alliance with our family. My daughter is a fine match—well-educated, powerful—"
"No," Nero replied bluntly, not even sparing the man a second glance.
His flat dismissal left the noble stunned and red-faced, fumbling for words as Nero moved away, indifferent to the murmurs and glances following his every step.
In the crowd, the ex matriarch of the Kira family his aunt , an elderly woman with a proud, unyielding gaze, observed him closely.
She approached him next, driven by a deeper concern than mere social ambition. Bowing slightly, she said, "Lord Nero, for the stability of the Kira line, please consider finding a suitable match, there are many options here. You understand the legacy our family holds—without an heir, our lineage and stability are vulnerable."
Nero turned to face her, his gaze unreadable as he calmly replied, "There's no need to worry. I already have a child."
Gasps and shocked whispers filled the room.
The revelation rippled through the gathering, with nobles exchanging bewildered looks, struggling to comprehend what they'd just heard.
"He… has a child?" one woman muttered in shock, her fan nearly slipping from her hand.
"When did this happen?" another noble asked in disbelief, her voice barely a whisper.
Augustus's favored mistress looked devastated, her eyes wide with disappointment. "A child? Does that mean… he's spoken for?"
She sighed, crestfallen, as Nero's revelation sank in.
Without another word, Nero turned away, leaving the noblewoman stunned and the rest of the crowd in awe. He walked back to Augustus, giving a polite but cool nod. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said, his tone indicating that his patience was at an end and the pig only deserved this much time anyway.
"Best of luck in your future endeavors."
With that, he left the ballroom, leaving behind a flurry of gossip, speculation, and fascination that would surely linger long after his departure.
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