Black Clover · Chat

Before the dawn had fully broken, a wicker basket appeared once more at the door of the church in Hage Village. When Father Orsi pushed open the creaking wooden door, the morning mist was spilling down the stone steps, looking just like the bowl of cold porridge he had poured out the night before. Lying in the basket were two infants: one swaddled in cloth embroidered with golden thread, breathing evenly; the other uncovered, kicking his legs with fists clenched, wailing loud enough to scatter every pigeon from the church belfry. "Here we go again." The priest crouched down, his rough fingers hovering between the two tiny faces. The one in the gold swaddle opened his eyes, quietly gazing up at him with grey-green irises. The other was still bawling, his entire face scrunched into a knot. With a sigh, the priest scooped up one in each arm, turned, and shouted inside, "Sister Lily—heat up another pot of goat's milk!" Lily looked up from the stove, her apron dusted with flour. Glancing at the two bundles in the priest's arms, she asked no questions, simply setting the milk pot onto the fire in silence. Hage Village was too remote—so out of the way that even the royal capital's tax collectors couldn't be bothered to circle it on a map. The people here were long accustomed to it: things falling from the sky weren't just hailstones and wild boars, but occasionally children too. Five years later, on a dusk beneath the village's old locust tree. The boy who had grown up in the gold swaddle stood on an earthen slope, wind swirling around his fingertips and gathering the fallen leaves into a miniature whirlwind. Looking out toward the distant skyline ablaze with the sunset, he said without looking back, "I'm going to become the Wizard King." Under the tree, Father Orsi slipped as he chopped firewood, nearly hacking into his own foot. Sister Lily froze mid-motion while hanging laundry, and a wet bedsheet dropped to the ground with a soft splat. Meanwhile, the other boy—the one left uncovered, who at five years old still couldn't light a single match—crouched on the ridge between the fields, face flushed red as he strained all his might at a withered twig. "Ha!" He shot to his feet, but the twig hadn't budged an inch. The blond boy didn't even turn his head. "I can do it myself!" he shouted at that retreating back. The blond boy finally glanced back over his shoulder. The wind ceased for a moment, and he spoke calmly, his voice as clear as a winter brook: "You don't even have any magic of your own." With that, he walked away. The boy on the ridge stood stunned for a couple of seconds before suddenly bolting after him, running until he was caked in mud, running until he was out of breath, running as the setting sun stretched their two little shadows out long—long enough that they seemed to reach that invisible castle of the Wizard King resting on the horizon. "Yuno—wait for me—!" The church bell chimed with a steady toll. Father Orsi lowered his axe, watching the two figures—one in front, one behind, one tall, one short—fade into the gathering dusk.