Henry lay in bed with his eyes closed, half-asleep but never truly resting. It was early afternoon—the time of day when the rest of the squad was awake and bustling through the base. For Henry, it was the hour he remained tucked away in his room, avoiding direct contact with the others, either dozing… or simply listening.

Watching, in his own way. Not in anything resembling a creepy sense.

The base was his home—more than that, it was an extension of himself. His mana and magic flowed through every beam, wall, and floorboard, weaving through the structure like veins beneath skin. Through it, he could feel the presence of the others as clearly as if they were standing beside him.

There was Noelle’s soft, shimmering mana, refined yet emotional. Captain Yami’s aura loomed darker and heavier, a pressure that never truly faded. And then there was that unmistakable absence—an odd, shifting void where magic should have been. Time had taught him to recognize that moving emptiness as Asta, anti-magic coursing through a body utterly devoid of mana.

Henry barely needed to see them anymore. He could recognize almost every member of the Black Bulls by the feel of their mana alone.