Marvel's master of cosmic magic-Chapter 833

Rowan followed Yami up to the captains’ viewing platform.

Nine figures took their seats overlooking the arena below. Rowan let his senses drift lightly across them.

Their mana reserves were roughly comparable. None stood overwhelmingly above the others in raw power. The real difference would lie in refinement, experience, and how creatively they wielded their magic.

"Yami Sukehiro," a sharp voice cut in from the side, "your standards keep dropping. That new recruit of yours barely has any mana at all."

The speaker was Jack the Ripper, captain of the Green Mantis. His grin was wide and jagged, as if he were perpetually considering how best to cut something apart.

Yami shot him a lazy look.

"Got a problem with that? I’ll slice you."

Jack’s mana flared instantly, blades forming along his arms. "Try it."

Darkness thickened around Yami in response.

For a brief moment, the air between them felt ready to split.

"Gentlemen," came a calm, measured voice.

William Vangeance of the Golden Dawn rose smoothly to his feet, a polite smile resting beneath his mask.

"This examination determines the futures of these young mages. It would be troublesome if the captains destroyed the venue before it begins."

The tension eased.

Mana receded.

Still, the exchange had drawn attention. The other captains—and the members standing behind them—had noticed Rowan.

Low mana. Black Bulls.

That alone explained enough.

The Black Bulls were infamous for recruiting oddities and misfits. Among the other squads, they were jokingly called a gathering place for disasters.

William stepped forward and raised his grimoire.

"Thank you for your patience. I will oversee today’s examination."

"World Tree Magic: Great Tree’s Descent."

A colossal tree erupted into existence above the arena. Branches extended outward, forming and distributing temporary magic brooms to every candidate below.

Rowan watched with quiet interest.

Efficient spell design. Wide-area distribution. Stable mana structure.

If transplanted into another magical society, such a spell could have commercial value on its own.

William began outlining the structure of the exam.

Six stages:

Mana control.

Mana output.

Spell precision.

Spell creation.

Spell development.

And finally—combat.

The first test was simple.

Flight.

Candidates were to mount their brooms and demonstrate mana control.

Nobles, trained from childhood, took to the air with confidence. Even those with mediocre control had practice on their side.

Commoners struggled more often.

Rowan understood the imbalance immediately.

Finral leaned in and murmured, "The captains take background into account. Standards differ."

Rowan nodded.

This was not blind favoritism. It was practical evaluation. A noble who faltered despite lifelong training would be judged more harshly than a village youth trying a broom for the first time.

At the highest level, though, pedigree alone meant little. The truly elite noble families did not send their heirs to compete here.

The Kira royal line.

The Vermillion family.

The Silva family.

Their children had paths carved out long before the exam.

The first test concluded quickly.

One boy stood out.

Spiky black hair. Calm eyes.

A four-leaf grimoire.

He handled the broom effortlessly, even standing atop it midair. Every subsequent test, he dominated. Mana output. Control. Spell versatility.

Wind Magic.

Refined. Efficient. Elegant.

When the combat trial began, he defeated the top noble candidate in a single exchange.

At selection time, all nine captains raised their hands for him.

He chose the Golden Dawn.

Predictable.

Finral sighed. "There goes another promising one."

Yami shrugged. "What can you do?"

It was no secret. The Black Bulls ranked near the bottom. Reputation mattered to candidates.

Rowan’s gaze, however, was not on the four-leaf prodigy.

It was on the short boy from earlier.

The one with no mana.

Asta.

He had failed nearly every magical measurement. Could not lift the broom. Could not perform standard spells.

Yet he had not left.

When combat began, he drew a massive black sword from his grimoire.

The blade erased magic.

Not disrupted.

Not countered.

Erased.

Spells shattered on contact. Constructs dissolved. Mana itself seemed to recoil.

The principle differed from anything Rowan had encountered in this world so far. It wasn’t simply negation. It was rejection.

A foreign force.

Demonic in origin.

But controlled.

Crude.

Raw.

Fascinating.

When Asta stepped forward during the final selection phase, most captains remained silent.

Low mana. No conventional magic.

Liability.

Rowan leaned slightly toward Yami.

"Captain."

Yami grunted.

"That one," Rowan said quietly, nodding toward Asta. "He has potential."

Yami exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing as he watched the boy standing alone in the arena.

Potential.

In the Black Bulls, that word mattered more than pedigree.

The question was whether Yami saw it too.