Asta swung his heavy black sword at the wooden post behind the ramshackle hideout. The lot was empty, like always. No captains watched. No judges marked his name. He wanted to be the Wizard King, but no one with rank ever looked here. Splintered posts ringed the dirt. Stones he had lifted lay stacked in crooked towers. His arms shook. He kept swinging anyway. When his hands cramped, he opened the dark grimoire on the crate and made a small mark inside the cover. Another day. Another count only he could see. He stopped. The marks filled the page now, edge to edge. He stared at them and felt the truth land hard. Private numbers were not rank. Solo swings were not proof. His body was breaking, and no one was watching it happen. Asta closed the book and pushed it into his coat. He shouldered the heavy sword and walked toward the road that led back to the academy grounds. If effort needed witnesses, he would go find some.