November 1983 arrived like a cold whisper seeping through the cracks of the orphanage. Dry branches tapped against the windows on windy nights, and the sky grew grayer with each dawn. The orphanage had a different feel when the cold settled in. Everything slowed down, everything grew quieter. And for Aurelian, that ant more ti alone, more hours in the chapel, more room to grow.
He didn't care about the cold. Or the orphanage. Or what others whispered behind his back.
He didn't need to be accepted.
He didn't want to be admired.
He only wanted one thing: to beco the best version of himself.
Building himself from every corner — mind, body, soul, and magic. Not as a promise to others, but as a declaration of war against his own past. It was his way of rewriting the destiny he had inherited.
Since he turned five, his training had grown deeper. His routine remained intact: wake before dawn, sneak into the abandoned chapel, ditate, visualize, push his magic to exhaustion. Empty himself to grow. Like a muscle that strengthens through tearing.
"Only those who reach the bottom of their power know how much they can grow," he reminded himself whenever his hands trembled from overuse.
And he kept to it. Every day. Without fail.
So days his entire body trembled after training. Others, he could barely hold a cup without spilling. But in each collapse, he felt sothing expanding. Not in muscle — but in spirit.
That month, he adopted a guiding principle: magic could achieve the impossible — but only if one believed it was possible. His inspiration didn't co from books, but from a very clear idea: the limit of magic was imagination.
He'd drawn that from various ani worlds — worlds where he used to dream of having those powers. But one stood above the rest: Black Clover.
He rembered how Asta, born without magic, still managed the impossible. Aurelian, with a magic he still didn't fully understand, had sworn to go beyond every limit.
Because to him, magic wasn't a tool.
It was the key to everything.
In his notebook — now covered in wax stains, glued pages and sketches — he wrote the phrase that would guide him:
"Magic makes the impossible possible. The only limit is what one believes they can achieve. Imagination is the map. Belief is the switch."
With that mindset, he began developing new theories.
Each morning, before the nuns lit the stoves, he was already in a corner of the chapel. Sotis with a candle, others under moonlight, dedicated to a singular goal: to give shape to his magic. Not just to summon it — but to structure it.
The notes in his journal multiplied with every new discovery:
Theory No. 59 – "Wandless shields — is instinctive defense triggered by emotional reaction possible? Inspired by the Protego spell, but without word or gesture. Can concentrated fear serve as a defensive catalyst? Hypothesis: attempt to imitate Gojo Satoru's infinity."
Theory No. 60 – "Internal seal construction. If magic flows like energy, can it be woven into internal runes to slowly release a spell, like a magical trap embedded in the body?"
Theory No. 78 – "Programd magical fatigue — Magic, like muscles, can expand if used daily to the limit. Empty it each day to renew it stronger. Constant effort = greater magical capacity. Expected result: gradual increase in magical volu and flow. Improved sensitivity and response ti."
Theory No. 79 – "Multiple magical cores — If magic flows through the body, why limit it to a single output point? Better to create multiple nodes (hands, feet, stomach) to broaden options for combat, defense, and movent. First experint: channeling through feet for magical jump. Partial result: suspension for fractions of a second. Future goal: levitation or enhanced speed."
For three days, he visualized his magic during ditation. Then, one frozen dawn, while touching the cold floor, the wood began to warm beneath his palm.
He wasn't surprised.
He just smiled.
Because to Aurelian, that wasn't magic responding to the cold.
That was his will.
One foggy Tuesday — typical in London — sothing strange happened as he practiced Theory 59.
Aurelian focused on projecting an energy structure around his body, visualizing a barrier, dense and pulsing — an "infinity," capable of automatically protecting and repelling any harm.
He had failed many tis.
But that morning, when he heard a creak behind him — likely a cat between the pews — his body reacted before his mind. The jolt startled a surge of energy out of him.
It was as if the air around him thickened.
He felt it. Sothing invisible enveloped him for a second… then vanished.
No sparks. No light. Just a subtle shift.
Exactly what he needed.
He wrote rapidly:
"Partial result: instinctive defense triggered by external stimulus. Weak but perceptible. The air changed. Hypothesis: magic channels better when emotion is not forced. Are shields truly an extension of the will to live?"
Weeks later, he tested another theory: internal runes.
He rembered an ani where characters used magical circles carved into their skin to unleash complex techniques. Aurelian adapted the idea: instead of inscribing his flesh, he would imprint them onto his mind — and his soul.
He visualized a symbol — a pattern — a sequence. Not on his skin, but within his magical flow.
A spiral with three concentric lines. A spark in the center.
For a week, he focused on embedding that pattern into himself. He tied it to his breath. To his pulse.
And one afternoon, he succeeded.
A spark flared in his right palm. Not blue — but white. Just for a second.
But enough to make him smile.
Theory No. 63 – "ntal runes. The pattern must be simple, symbolic, and repeated with intention. It's not enough to imagine it — you must feel it. As if tattooed onto your soul. This... is only the beginning."
By mid-December, Aurelian turned his focus once again to Parseltongue.
Not out of heritage — but because he understood it as a magic in itself.
He dread of serpents more often. In those dreams, they spoke in sounds that resonated through his body. He couldn't explain how, but certain combinations of words in Parseltongue affected the world around him.
He tried one sequence while touching a dried flower. He murmured, channeled magic… and the flower moistened slightly.
Theory No. 82 – "Spells in Parseltongue — Combination of magical language emotional intention energy direction = tangible effect. Can a branch of sorcery based entirely on non-human languages be developed? Hypothesis: phonetics affect the vibrational frequency of magic. Just as grimoires adapt spells to users in Black Clover, perhaps each magical language enhances different aspects of the soul."
Aurelian didn't just want to understand Parseltongue.
He wanted to create magic from it. To make his inheritance not a cursed gift — but a door.
A thought accompanied him every night:
"If I believe sothing is possible, I'm only one step away from achieving it."
And it wasn't naïve hope.
It was conviction.
He knew most wizards would call him mad. That without a wand, without schooling, he'd never achieve anything.
But how many of them had tried creating their own magical theory from scratch?
More importantly — how many had dared to forge magic they didn't inherit, but invented?
As the new year approached, he was asked to help clean the old library — one of the few children who spent ti there, so they thought he'd enjoy it.
While sorting books for cataloging, he found a forgotten volu buried among donation boxes. It was a physics book, explaining how waves could interfere with each other to create new resonances.
He wondered: could magic behave similarly?
An idea consud him: the possibility of fusing two types of magic.
Theory No. 88 – "Dual Magic — Combine two types of channeling: emotional (e.g., rage) and structural (e.g., a rune pattern). If both vibrate at the sa frequency, do they reinforce or cancel each other?"
He tried a simple combination: he used his internal spiral rune while feeling fear. He pushed the emotion into the center of the symbol. The first ti, it failed. The second, his nose bled.
The third…
…the candle went out without wind.
And a second later — relit itself.
Result: Synthesis. The fire ca from emotion, but followed the form of the rune. First evidence of a dual-origin spell.
He slept little. Ate just enough.
But he lived fully.
Because every breakthrough was a stone in his path.
He didn't seek to save the world. Or destroy it.
Only to create his own.
He dread of a vast mansion. Of books that resonated with his very presence. Of a grand entrance, sealed with a na carved in stone: "Riddle".
And with a motto that ant everything he fought for and the path he was following:
"Blood is not destiny. Magic is choice."
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