Sleep, when it finally came, wasn't a biological necessity; it was a black hole. For the first time in seven days, Lencar Abarame closed his eyes and didn't open them to check a runic sequence or feed a rat. He simply dropped off the face of the earth.
He woke up ten hours later with the sun streaming through his window, hitting him directly in the face. He groaned, rolling over and shielding his eyes. His body, forged by mana and tempered by the hell of the Vermillion Belt, felt surprisingly heavy. Not the heaviness of exhaustion, but the deep, sluggish weight of a system that had fully rebooted.
"Morning already?" he muttered, his voice gravelly. He stretched, his joints popping in a satisfying rhythm.
He sat up and looked at his hands. They were steady. The tremors from the magical fatigue were gone. The frantic energy of the last week had settled into a calm, deep reservoir of power. He felt good. Human.
"Right," Lencar said, swinging his legs out of bed. "Back to the grind. Potatoes don't peel themselves."
The day at "The Rusty Spoon" passed in a blur of domestic normalcy. Lencar fell back into the rhythm of the kitchen with practiced ease. He joked with Marco about his "secret ninja chopping technique," helped Rebecca lift the heavy sacks of flour without making a show of it, and charmed the regular customers with that easy-going smile that was becoming less of a mask and more of a second skin.
But beneath the banter and the clatter of plates, Lencar's mind was charting a new course.
He had the means: [Reverse Replication].
He had the method: [Entropic Deconstruction].
Now, he needed the manpower.
"I can't just keep killing them," Lencar thought as he wiped down the counter after the dinner rush. "It's a waste of resources. If I'm going to survive the Devils and the Spade Kingdom, I need a buffer. I need an organization."
But he wouldn't target the innocent. He would stick to his code. He would hunt the wolves, break their teeth, and turn them into guard dogs. And he would point them at the Nobles—the corrupt, the lazy, the ones who treated the Common Realm like a trash can.
"Lencar? You're staring at the salt shaker again," Rebecca's voice cut through his thoughts.
Lencar blinked and looked up. Rebecca was smiling at him, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Just thinking about logistics," Lencar quipped, tossing the rag into the bucket. "We're running low on salt. I'll go pick some up later."
"You work too hard," she said softly. "Get some rest tonight, okay?"
"I will," Lencar promised. "After I run a few errands."
Once the lights were out in the Scarlet household and the soft breathing of the children filled the air, the "boy next door" vanished. The Heretic donned his black cloak, his wooden mask, and slipped out into the night.
He didn't head for the grocer. He headed for the underbelly.
[Mist Magic]: [Silent Veil]
He drifted through the streets of Nairn, blending into the fog, until he reached the hidden entrance to the Black Market.
The underground bazaar was bustling tonight. It was a sensory overload of illicit commerce—the smell of exotic spices mixing with the metallic tang of cursed weapons, the hushed whispers of deals being struck, and the colorful glow of mana crystals illuminating the damp cavern walls.
Lencar moved through the crowd like a shadow. He wasn't looking for trouble; he was window shopping. He checked the weapon stalls, the potion brewers, the grimoire smugglers. Most of it was junk—low-grade trash sold at premium prices to desperate people.
Then, something caught his eye.
tucked away in a corner, far from the main thoroughfare, was a modest stall draped in dark blue fabric. The wares weren't flashy. There were no glowing swords or screaming amulets. Instead, there were neatly arranged rows of tools—goggles, intricate lock-picking devices, and magical woven fabrics.
Hanging on a mannequin was a cloak. It looked like ordinary grey wool, but as a customer walked past it, the fabric seemed to ripple and vanish for a split second, revealing the wooden stand underneath.
Lencar stopped. His Mana Sense flared.
"That's not Illusion Magic," Lencar murmured to himself, intrigued. "That's Light Refraction. It's bending the light physically around the wearer. That is... incredibly high-level craftsmanship."
Items like that didn't just appear in a backwater market. That was military-grade tech, likely Diamond Kingdom design.
He walked up to the stall.
The seller was sitting on a stool, reading a book. She wore a heavy traveler's cloak and a porcelain mask that covered the lower half of her face, but her hood had slipped back slightly, revealing a shock of distinctive orange hair.
Lencar's heart skipped a beat. He knew that hair. He knew that craftsmanship.
Dominante Code.
In the original story, she was a defector from the Diamond Kingdom, a master of magical tools, and the wife of Fanzell Kruger—the man who taught Asta how to use a sword. She was a genius artisan who fled the Diamond Kingdom's tyranny.
"Jackpot," Lencar thought, suppressing a grin. "I need an R&D department. And I just found the head engineer."
He walked up to the counter, keeping his posture relaxed but confident.
"Interesting weave," Lencar said, pointing at the cloak. "Spider-silk infused with Refraction Crystals? You don't see that kind of work in the Clover Kingdom."
The woman looked up. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and instantly wary. She closed her book.
"You have a good eye," she said, her voice muffled slightly by the mask. "Most people just think it's a glamour spell. It's 50,000 Yuls. Non-negotiable."
"Steep," Lencar whistled, leaning against the wooden post. "But for a cloak that hides you from mana sensing and eyesight? I'd say it's a bargain. Does it overheat?"
Dominante raised an eyebrow. "It has passive cooling vents stitched into the lining. I'm not an amateur."
"Clearly," Lencar said. "I'll take it."
He dropped a heavy bag of coins onto the counter. He didn't haggle. He wanted to establish that he had resources.
Dominante weighed the bag in her hand, her eyes narrowing slightly. She hadn't expected a quick sale. She began to wrap the cloak in brown paper.
"You're not a typical shopper," she observed, handing him the package. "You look at the stitching, not the sparkle."
"I value function over form," Lencar replied. "Which brings me to a question. Do you take custom orders?"
Dominante stiffened. Her hand moved subtly toward her hip, likely where she kept a wand or a magical tool. "Depends on the order. And the customer. I'm just a traveling merchant."
"Relax," Lencar said, raising his hands in a peace gesture. "I'm not asking for anything illegal. Well, not too illegal. I'm looking for someone who understands how to stabilize mana flow in external devices."
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "I have a project. A gauntlet that needs to channel multiple attribute frequencies without melting the user's arm. The local smiths look at me like I'm speaking alien when I explain the schematics. But you... you built a refraction cloak with passive cooling. You should understand the engineering."
Dominante hesitated. The artisan in her was intrigued. "Multiple frequencies? That's unstable. You'd need a dampening core made of mithril or black iron."
"Exactly," Lencar smiled beneath his mask. "But shaping black iron requires a heat source I don't have. I supply the materials and the cash. You supply the expertise."
He could see the gears turning in her head. She was on the run. She needed money. But more than that, people like Dominante were bored by simple repairs. They craved a challenge.
"I don't work with strangers," she said guardedly. "And I don't stay in one place for long."
"I don't need you to stay," Lencar countered smoothly. "I just need a week. And I pay double the market rate for custom work. Half upfront."
He pulled out another, smaller bag of gold—20,000 Yuls—and slid it across the table.
Dominante looked at the gold, then back at Lencar. She was assessing him. He wasn't giving off malicious intent. He felt... professional.
"A week," she said finally, snatching the gold. "I can make a prototype stabilizer. But if you're late to the pickup, I leave, and I keep the gold."
"Fair enough," Lencar nodded.
"Meet me at the old watermill east of the city," she whispered. "At Midnight. Come alone there. If I sense another person with you, I will be gone."
"You have my word," Lencar said.
He took his package and stepped back. He didn't push for her name. He didn't ask about Fanzell. Trust was a slow game, and he had just played the opening move.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Lencar said.
"We'll see," Dominante muttered, opening her book again, though Lencar noticed she was watching him walk away until he disappeared into the crowd.
Lencar moved away. He had just made contact with a quite useful support character in the World of Black Clover. If he could bring her into the fold—and eventually Fanzell—his organization would have the expert Artifact maker and a expert combat instructor in the.
"One step at a time," Lencar told himself. "Now for the intel."
He turned down a dark, dripping tunnel that led away from the market and into the sewers. It was time to visit an old friend.