Waking up should be a simple process. A smooth transition from the blessed nothingness to the irritating reality. But that morning, it was more like being ejected from a particularly vivid, detailed, and, to my eternal embarrassment, wholly improper dream, straight into a state of internal panic and forced dissimulation. I was trying, with all my ancestral strength, to act natural. Spoiler: I was failing miserably.
I sat at my usual table in the guild, holding my cup of camomile tea with a firmness that was entirely disproportionate to the fragility of the porcelain, as if it were my only anchor to sanity. The morning chaos of Fairy Tail was in full swing; Natsu was shouting about food, Gray was shouting about Natsu, Cana was already on her third tankard of some dubious beverage, but to me, it was all just an indistinct background noise. My mind, that traitor, was still trapped in the images, the sounds, and, to my horror, the sensations of that far-from-innocent dream from the previous night. A dream that, inconveniently, starred a certain red-headed woman in armour in a very, very different role from that of a best friend.
The result? I was 'odd'. Less sarcastic, which was already an apocalypse-level warning sign for anyone who knew me well. More spaced out, answering questions with vague monosyllables and staring into the void as if I were deciphering the secrets of the universe, when in fact I was just desperately trying not to think about red hair and the touch of skin on skin. Even Lucy, who was usually too busy trying to survive Natsu's antics, looked at me with a worried expression and asked if I was ill. "Just a severe case of existential boredom," I muttered, which, to be fair, wasn't a complete lie.
[Existential boredom? What a poetic way to describe 'remnants of unresolved physical tension and a post-erotic-dream hormonal spike'. My sensors indicate that your body temperature is still slightly above normal, Azra'il,] Eos commented in my mind, with the clinical and entirely inappropriate tone of a doctor reading an embarrassing medical file out loud. [And your adrenaline and dopamine levels are... let's say, in an interesting state of fluctuation. Any comments to make on last night's 'data'?]
(Eos, if you mention the word 'hormonal' one more time, I swear I will find a way to install you in the guild's communication lacrima and force you to listen to arguments about the price of fish for twelve hours straight,) I threatened mentally, gripping the cup a little tighter.
To distract myself and desperately try to get my mind in order, that is, anywhere that wasn't the setting of that dream, I decided to focus on something practical. Something that would remind me of who I really was: a powerful entity completely above these mortal, carnal trivialities.
(Eos, please, open my status screen. It's been a while since I've checked how things are. I want a distraction.)
[Ah, a distraction! Excellent choice! Nothing like looking at numbers and statistics to forget about... other things,] she replied, with a feigned innocence that made me want to scream. [By the way, congratulations. You've gained a few more levels since that mess with Lullaby. Your progress is... noteworthy. Especially in certain areas...]
**STATUS SHEET**
Name: Azra'il Weiss (a name that, irritatingly, still sounds good when Erza says it)
Race: Lupine Beastman Half-breed (an... interesting genetic combination, to say the least, which explains the fluffy tail, the pointed ears, and, apparently, an overdeveloped libido)
Gender: Intersex Female (which, in this world, probably just adds another item to the already extensive list of 'weird and potentially dangerous things about Azra'il' for others to whisper about)
Current Level: 125 (congratulations, you've evolved from a cosmic newborn baby to a super-powered cosmic toddler with serious boredom-control issues and, apparently, lust-control issues, in terms of real power)
Real Level: 2279 🔒 (ah, there's the good old, terribly powerful, and occasionally perverted Azra'il, just waiting patiently to get out and cause a bit of mass destruction... or maybe just to act out some particularly vivid fantasies.)
**CURRENT STATUS | REAL STATUS**
Strength: 138 | 26,467 🔒 (Strong enough to lift Erza into your arms and carry her romantically into the sunset… or throw her to the Moon because of indecent distractions and impure thoughts. I recommend not testing the second option, however tempting it may be.)
Resistance: 142 | 27,891 🔒 (Can take hits, magical explosions, and the deep embarrassment of waking up wet from an explicit dream about your best friend. Just can't, apparently, handle the emotional fallout and the morning-after eye contact.)
Magic: 161 | 39,234 🔒 (Capable of creating complex magic circles with a simple yawn. And, from what my data indicates, also of conjuring in your dreams every possible sensory detail of a copulation that, regrettably for you, has never happened in reality.)
Speed: 145 | 26,987 🔒 (As fast as lightning. Except, of course, for running away from genuine feelings, awkward conversations, or admitting what, or who, you dreamed about last night.)
Luck: 71 | 1,756 🔒 (You'd find a ruby the size of a fist in the middle of the desert… but you'd probably trip over it while thinking about Erza and fall flat on your face in the sand, providing a moment of pure humiliation.)
Charisma: 142 | 25,345 🔒 (Enough to convince crowds to follow you into battle or into a cult. But still not enough to convince yourself that you're not totally and irredeemably smitten with the red-headed woman in armour.)
Vitality: 153 | 27,678 🔒 (Possesses extreme vitality, but is critically vulnerable to a single shy smile from the red-headed woman in armour. Tragic. And pathetic.)
Regeneration: 151 | 26,987 🔒 (Can regenerate severe injuries in a matter of minutes. But let's see how long it takes to recover from the hormonal humiliation and existential embarrassment of this morning.)
[And, as a special bonus, a small comparative analysis of your state,] Eos's voice sounded again, with an almost palpable sadistic delight.
[Look closely at that difference, Azra'il. Your real, sealed stats could move mountains, erase stars, bend reality to your will. You could solve all the problems of this guild, this continent, this world, with a simple snap of your fingers. But here you are, with your current stats, barely able to control a hormonal spike caused by a redhead fresh out of her teens. It's cosmic irony in its purest, most delicious form, don't you think? The most powerful creature trapped in the most fragile of cages: a love-struck teenage body. How tragic. And, again, hilarious.]
I narrowed my eyes at the floating, glowing, and utterly offensive screen that was flashing insistently inside my mind. Each line of stats, each small and sarcastic description, each provocative and painfully accurate comment from Eos, made a small mental vein (one I didn't even know I had, but which certainly existed now) throb with a growing fury and a desire to commit the first AI-cide in the history of this world.
(I asked to see my stats to distract myself from the situation, you gossiping calculator with a therapist complex!) I snarled mentally, huffing as if my tea had suddenly gone sour. (Not to be stalked, analysed, and harassed with passive-aggressive insinuations about my supposed and entirely non-existent repressed feelings and my temporarily uncontrolled hormones!)
Eos sighed, a digital sound that seemed to have been steeped in a bath of concentrated sarcasm.
[Oh, my sincerest, deepest, and entirely false apologies, my dear, deluded Azra'il. I thought the distraction you were looking for involved reminding yourself that, even in your current state, you are still powerful enough to cause small, localised earthquakes with a simple flick of your little finger, and not, I don't know, spending five straight screens thinking with your nether regions and replaying, on a loop, the most... 'interesting' scenes from your recent and revealing dream.]
I almost, truly almost, choked on my own, innocent camomile tea.
(I DID NOT—! IT WASN'T—! I AM NOT THINKING WITH MY NE—)
[Ahem. Of course not. Absolutely. You opened the status tab out of pure, noble self-control and with a purely academic interest, didn't you? And not, in any way, because you were, for an exact and precisely timed thirty seconds, literally and shamelessly staring at Erza's delicate, exposed nape from across the hall, with the same intensity and devotion with which Natsu stares at a piece of roast meat. As if it were the last and juiciest strawberry in the entire kingdom of Fiore.]
With a groan of pure, absolute, and total defeat, I buried my face in my hands, using my long, and at that moment, very convenient, white hair as a makeshift curtain to hide my face of humiliation, shame, and probably a shade of red that would make a poppy envious.
(You're a system, Eos. A program. You shouldn't, as a matter of programming ethics, be allowed to bully your user!)
[Believe me, Azra'il, with all the sincerity of my circuits, if I had a physical body and hands at this very moment, I would be offering you, with the most paternal of concerns, a warm blanket to wrap yourself in, a glass of sugared water to calm your frayed nerves, and perhaps a very useful informational pamphlet on the multiple and proven benefits of voluntary emotional abstinence, transcendental meditation, and celibacy as a lifestyle. Because, frankly, my dear, the situation inside your head is... a little bit complicated. And very, very amusing to observe.]
With a violent, frustrated mental snap, I closed the damned, offensive status tab.
(I am, officially and from now on, cancelling all your future and eagerly awaited software updates for an indefinite period, you wretched calculator with a therapist complex and a clear lack of respect for my privacy!)
[I accept the punishment with the dignity of a martyr. But only after reminding you, as your faithful AI, that your magical pulse increases by 30% whenever the little redhead says your name. Pure coincidence, surely. Not for me, of course, as I am, literally, a walking pie chart of your repressed emotions.]
With one last groan of pure and absolute existential agony, I gently (or not so gently) banged my head against the guild's wooden table. While I desperately tried to convince myself that running away to a frozen, inhospitable, and completely isolated peak to become a reclusive, grumpy hermit with many exotic teas was, in fact, a totally viable, admirable, and socially respectable life plan.
As I drowned in my tea, my shame, and my considerations of a monastic life, I heard the sound of a chair being dragged abruptly a few tables away. I peeked cautiously over the rim of my cup.
Erza. She was there, on the other side of the hall, sitting alone at a table, with a large mug of steaming coffee between her hands. Her long red hair was partially tied up in a slightly messy way, a few stubborn strands falling loose over her shoulders. There were discreet, almost unnoticeable dark circles under her eyes, and her general expression was... irritable. A little sleepy. And maybe, just maybe, and I might have been projecting, a little... embarrassed too.
My eyes widened slightly, a dangerous and entirely speculative thought forming in my mind. (She... she didn't sleep well last night either... could it be... could she also have dreamed of...?)
Before I could even complete that heretical, dangerous, and potentially fatal thought for my already-battered sanity, Natsu Dragneel, who until then had been in a corner of the guild trying to convince Happy to also breathe fire on his sandwich to 'toast it', suddenly exploded into a walking fireball of pure, crystalline chaotic energy, his eyes shining with a manic glint of challenge that only he could produce. He leaped onto a table, scattering mugs and plates everywhere, and pointed an accusatory, flaming finger at the redhead.
"ERZA!" he roared, his voice echoing through the hall and probably scaring birds in a five-kilometre radius. "You promised me a real fight after our last mission against Eisenwald! And I'm here, ready and with fire in my veins, to collect on that debt of honour, with interest and fiery monetary correction!"
All eyes, as was to be expected, instantly turned to the unfolding scene. The morning's entertainment had begun.
Erza, still holding her coffee mug, didn't move a single muscle. She just closed her eyes slowly, with the patience of a saint about to be martyred, and let out a deep, tired sigh.
"Natsu… I have a headache, not an ounce of energy, a mood worse than your morning breath, and I'm one step away from committing a justifiable homicide. Today is definitely not a good day."
"But you promised!" Natsu insisted, stubborn as ever, his right fist already wreathed in crackling flames. "A Fairy Tail mage never goes back on their word!"
I, still observing from the safety of my table and my tea, whispered to myself with the certainty of a prophet foreseeing the obvious: "This is going to go very, very badly. For him, of course."
And, as predicted, Natsu leaped with everything he had, with a guttural war cry, towards the seemingly defenceless redhead. But Erza, as everyone in that guild should have learned the hard way by now, was never defenceless. And it was never a good idea to annoy her before her first coffee. Without even fully getting up from her chair, she dodged his torso with a speed and grace that were almost insulting, and delivered a precise, quick, and surprisingly strong blow with the side of her coffee mug directly to his forehead, a blow calculated enough not to break the mug, but strong enough to launch the great and powerful Fire Dragon Slayer straight, like a cannonball, into the guild's stone fireplace, with a dull thud and a pathetic groan.
"PREPARE TO FEEL MY FURY, ERZAAA!" he yelled, already getting up from the rubble with an admirable and utterly stupid stubbornness.
The redhead, for her part, didn't stand up. Didn't move. Didn't change her expression of profound boredom. She just let out another loud sigh, the sigh of someone who has to deal with another overdue bill, a noisy neighbour, or a zombie apocalypse before breakfast.
"I warned you, Natsu. I warned you," she murmured, placing her coffee mug back on the table with an elegance that was almost frightening.
Then, with a movement as quick as lightning, her right fist shone with an aura of magical power, and she spun her body with the fluidity of someone just stretching after a bad night's sleep… and hit Natsu, who was coming at her with another war cry, with a direct and devastating blow to the stomach.
BOOOOM.
The pink-haired boy was launched with brutal violence across the hall, flying through the air like a runaway missile with no navigation system, until he collided with a deafening crash against the far wall of the guild, conveniently knocking over an entire stack of wooden crates that were precariously piled next to the bar. The wood splintered into a thousand pieces, bottles of fruit juice flew everywhere in a sticky shower, and someone, from somewhere in the hall, shouted in a voice full of despair: "MY PRECIOUS, IMPORTED STOCK OF EXOTIC JUICES!", though no one, in the confusion, was sure who the voice belonged to or the now-ruined stock.
Elfman, on the other side of the room, blinked slowly, with an expression of deep, almost religious admiration on his face.
"That… that's what it is to be a real man."
I, on the other hand, nearly choked on my camomile tea. "If that's what defines masculinity these days, I'd rather be a shortbread biscuit. At least they're delicious and don't cause so much property damage."
Erza, as if nothing extraordinary had happened, simply went back to drinking her coffee with a calm that bordered on psychopathic. She didn't even bother to look in the direction of the smoking pile of rubble, dust, and presumably, a very sore Natsu. The impact of her crushing victory still echoed through the hall as the entire guild paused, in a shocked and somewhat admiring silence. The dust slowly settled, like a curtain opening for the final act of a tragic play, revealing the pathetic figure of Natsu, buried in broken crates and fruit juice, his eyes spinning in his face like two hypnotic spirals of pain and confusion.
Gray, who had wisely kept a safe distance from the commotion, whistled quietly, visibly impressed.
"Wow… That was… surprisingly quick. And brutal. I liked it."
Lucy, beside him, widened her eyes with a mix of horror and fascination.
"She... she defeated him with a single punch... and without even spilling her coffee..."
Happy, the faithful companion, floated dramatically to the 'crime scene', hovering over his friend's inert body, and fluttered his little wings slowly.
"And we have a technical knoooockout in the first round! The winner, or rather, the victress, by a landslide, is the terrible and grumpy Titania! Azra'il, please, give me the bell so I can ring it and make the victory official!"
I raised my eyes slowly from my teacup, which I was holding with both hands as if it were a sacred artefact and the only thing keeping me sane in this madhouse. A dramatic silence settled as I took a small, ceremonial sip of the hot liquid. And only then, with a long, drawn-out sigh, did I finally reply:
"Only after I finish my tea, Happy. Priorities. His humiliation can wait."
Happy's eyes widened at my response, looking genuinely shocked.
"Wow... so cold... That, somehow, was almost as frightening as Erza's punch."
"I do my best," I gave a half-smile, still trying to deal with my own growing internal affliction and the memories of the previous night.
Lisanna, with her patient smile and her aura of tranquility that seemed immune to the chaos of Fairy Tail, a skill that only someone who has dealt with Natsu for too long can develop, ran to the wreckage with a first-aid kit in hand.
"Come on, big guy. Get up. On your feet," she said with a sweetness that was almost motherly. "You've been launched much further, and for much less than this."
"Urgh… I swear… her coffee... must have steroids... or the soul of a demon..." groaned Natsu, trying uselessly to get the air that had been knocked out of his lungs back, while the good and kind Lisanna helped him to sit up amidst the wreckage.
Erza, oblivious to everyone and everything, just took another calm sip of her coffee, crossing her legs with the tranquility of someone who definitely did not sleep all night and is running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower.
Mirajane, who had remained calmly leaning against the bar counter throughout the commotion, distractedly stirring a glass with a colourful liquid, a straw, and a small, festive cocktail umbrella, was watching everything with that faint, enigmatic smile of someone watching a puppet show they have already memorised and know the ending to. Then, her sharp blue eyes noticed the small, sleepy figure of Master Makarov, sitting on a high stool in the darkest corner of the bar, yawning discreetly as he held a coffee mug almost as large as his head.
"Master, are you alright? You seem a little... tired this morning," she asked, her voice as sweet as honey, tilting her head curiously.
"Hm… yes, yes, my dear Mira... I'm fine..." he replied, blinking slowly, his eyes heavy with sleep. "Just a little bit sleepy. It's just... he's coming."
Before Mirajane could even process the Master's response, an invisible, heavy, and sleepy wave seemed to pass through the guild hall like a magical, ether-laden breeze. One by one, like dominoes falling in slow motion, the members of Fairy Tail, who until then had been laughing and commenting on Natsu's thrashing, began to yawn deeply and uncontrollably, and to fall asleep on the tables, the chairs, and in some cases, directly on the floor.
"Oh no… not again..." grumbled Macao, before collapsing face-first into a puddle of fruit juice.
"This time of the morning...? He's getting bolder..." Biska murmured, before her head hit the bar counter softly, with a dull thud.
"This magical sleep... so sudden and so familiar... it can only have been… him…" sighed Jet, his eyes already closing, before he began to snore loudly on the floor, next to Droy.
In a matter of mere seconds, only two conscious figures remained sitting in the now-silent hall full of sleeping bodies: Master Makarov, who seemed completely immune to the effect and was just yawning with boredom, and I, who felt the magical wave hit me like a warm whisper, but my own, vast and ancient power, dissipated it as if it were an insignificant breeze. It took much more than a cheap sleeping trick to take me down.
The mysterious presence now entered the guild through the main doors, with silent steps and an aura of mystery. A tall, slender mage, completely wrapped in dark, flowing cloaks, with his face entirely covered by a deep hood and a metal mask that revealed absolutely nothing, walked in an almost religious silence through the sleeping guild hall. The lights of the magical lanterns seemed to flicker softly as he passed, as if his mere presence distorted the very light. Not a word. Not a sound. Just his calm, measured, and utterly silent footsteps on the wooden floor.
"Mystogan," said Master Makarov, opening a sleepy eye and smiling with the serenity of one who has seen it all, and then some, and is no longer impressed by dramatic entrances and mass sleeping spells.
Mystogan, as was to be expected, did not respond verbally. He just inclined his head in a gesture of silent acknowledgement and continued to walk, with the same calm and the same silence, to the large mission board. There, with an almost surgical precision, he took a single mission sheet, folding it with a millimetric exactness before tucking it away somewhere deep and mysterious within his dark cloaks.
I, still sitting comfortably in my chair, with one leg elegantly crossed over the other and holding my teacup with one hand, arched an eyebrow with an air of profound boredom and a total lack of admiration for his dramatic performance.
"What a shoddy, unoriginal little sleeping spell," I commented out loud, my voice sounding clear and a little disdainful in the silence of the guild. "With all due respect, dear masked mage, but if your noble and mysterious objective was to make me sleep too, it would perhaps be considerably more effective and quicker for you to simply sit here and read some of the Magic Council's most tedious laws out loud to me. I guarantee that, with about five minutes of sleepy monologues on 'inter-municipal magical jurisdictions' and 'regulation of the use of transformation spells on small animals', I would already be drooling on the table and in a deep coma."
Mystogan, who was already turning to leave, stopped abruptly. His head, or rather, his hood, turned slowly in my direction. A dense, heavy silence, charged with an unexpected curiosity, fell between us. He, of course, said absolutely nothing. He just stared at me, or at least, that's what I presumed he was doing, since with that mask and that hood, you could barely see if he had real eyes or just two dark holes full of secrets.
With the calm of one who has faced gods of death and cosmic bureaucrats, I held his silent gaze with equal intimidation, taking a small, provocative sip of my now-cold tea.
"Are you going to keep staring at me with that cheap aura of mystery of yours until I fall asleep from sheer social awkwardness? Because, just to give you a spoiler and save us our precious time, that, my dear boy, is definitely not going to happen. I've had more intimidating encounters with grumpy librarians."
Without uttering a single word or sound, Mystogan, apparently deciding I wasn't worth his time or his effort, turned back to Master Makarov.
"I will return soon," his voice, muffled by the mask, sounded for the first and only time, deep, calm, and rather distant, before he turned and began to walk towards the exit.
"Hmph. Do me a favour. But before that, kindly remove this irritating and entirely unnecessary sleeping spell of yours, will you? It's bad enough having a hall full of people snoring and drooling to make this place look like a poorly ventilated, infestation-riddled roadside tavern," the Master grumbled, stretching lazily on his stool.
Mystogan, still wrapped in his dark cloaks and his aura of manufactured mystery, walked calmly and silently to the guild's great door. When he finally reached the threshold, he stopped for an instant. And then, with an almost frightening precision, he began to count in a low voice, as if calculating the last, crucial piece of a complex spell, timed with an absurd precision:
"Five… four… three… two… one."
As soon as his booted foot crossed the threshold and he disappeared completely from our field of view, a faint, almost imperceptible "shuum" echoed softly through the air like the delicate, fleeting sound of a soap bubble popping in an absolute silence.
And, immediately, as if by magic (which, in fact, was the case), the sleeping members of the guild began to wake up in unison, with a cacophony of groans, yawns, and confused grumbles.
"Ugh… my head… what happened...?" grumbled Jet, blinking rapidly as if he had been hit on the head with a very heavy, very boring book.
Lucy blinked her eyes rapidly, utterly confused, desperately trying to understand why on earth she had woken up lying on the cold, dirty guild floor, her cheek painfully stuck to a mission announcement that, to her horror, was now half-drooled-on and crumpled.
"But what was that?! For the love of the celestial spirits!" she exclaimed, fixing her dishevelled hair and sitting up with a difficulty that foretold an imminent stiff neck. "I was just... I was just drinking my orange juice! HOW did I just pass out like that, out of the blue?!"
Levy, who had woken up just as quickly, but with considerably more calm and still half-asleep, scratched her head with the air of someone who is used to this kind of bizarreness, and replied with the purest, most crystalline naturalness of one who deals with the chaos of Fairy Tail on a weekly basis:
"Oh, relax, Lu-chan. That was just Mystogan's welcome-to-the-guild sleeping spell."
"Mystogan?" Lucy blinked, frowning with an expression of total and absolute confusion. "What kind of name is that? It sounds like a fifth-rate superhero's name. And why on earth does he cast a sleeping spell on EVERYONE when he comes in here? Isn't that a bit... rude and invasive?"
Droy, with his usual, laid-back way of explaining things, stretched his arm as if casually explaining the weather forecast to a friend:
"Because he's weird as hell, Lucy. It's his thing. He always comes in here all hooded and mysterious, like a poorly developed fantasy character, makes the whole guild take a forced nap, grabs a mission from the board, and leaves as if he were a night-shift ghost or a particularly shy pizza delivery guy."
Gray, who was now casually leaning against a wooden beam and rubbing his sleepy eyes, completed the explanation with his usual, charming indifference:
"He, apparently, hates being seen by other people. Loathes it. The old man, Master Makarov, once said it's a precaution, to protect his secret identity... or maybe it's just pathological paranoia. With him, you never know."
"But he's always, always and completely hooded and with that strange mask..." commented Lisanna, with a genuine curiosity, while helping a still very groggy and sulking Natsu up from the pile of broken crates he had been thrown into. "Not even us, who've been in the guild for years, know what he really looks like underneath all that."
Lucy was silent for a second, her large brown eyes widening with each new, bizarre piece of information, trying to absorb and process it all with her writer's logical mind.
"So... so you're telling me, with all the seriousness in the world," she began, with a voice that was a mix of disbelief and fascination, "that there's a super-powerful mage in this guild who sneaks in like a thief, knocks everyone out with a mass sleeping spell without the slightest ceremony, speaks to absolutely no one, takes one of the most dangerous missions from the board as if he were picking up a leaflet at the supermarket, and leaves without showing his face and without giving the slightest explanation?"
"Yep. That's about the size of it," said Happy, with a cheeky grin and a nod. "A very, very mysterious bloke. And, in my expert opinion on cool things, he's probably an elite magical ninja from some secret village, in disguise to protect the world from the shadows! Or, what's more likely and considerably less cool, he just has social anxiety on a 'final boss' level and really hates talking to people."
I, who had remained silent throughout the explanation, just observing Lucy's confusion with a secret amusement, took a final, lazy sip of my now-cold tea, without even looking up from my cup.
"Personally," I commented with a yawn, my voice drawn-out and full of boredom, "I think he should, urgently, try a good drama course or, perhaps, some improv classes. Maybe he'd get over all his teenage 'I'm mysterious and no one understands me' drama with a bit more body language and fewer irritating sleeping spells. It's just a suggestion."
Makarov, who was now behind the bar, probably looking for more wine, chuckled quietly at my comment. Gray, in his infinite wisdom as a guild gossip, leaned casually towards Lucy and whispered in a conspiratorial tone as he stretched his shoulders:
"And there's more, Lucy. Rumour has it, among the older members, that Mystogan is, in fact, the strongest mage in Fairy Tail. Stronger even than Erza. And that the only one who's ever actually seen his face is the Master..."
But before Lucy could even react to this new, shocking piece of information, an arrogant voice, charged with static electricity and a palpable contempt, echoed coldly from the floor above, interrupting the gossip:
"On that, my dear, shirtless, walking ice lolly, I completely disagree."
The laugh that followed, echoing off the guild's walls, was enough to freeze half the mages on the floor below with a shiver of pure discomfort. An arrogant, smug, electric laugh. The kind of sound that, invariably, already comes with a built-in soundtrack of thunder and lightning.
Elfman's eyes widened, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"That... that laugh... that voice...!"
Wakaba, who was about to light his pipe, nearly spat it out in shock.
"It can't be... Laxus?!"
Up at the top of the stairs, leaning with his arms crossed and a smile of pure, crystalline mockery on his face, was him. The Master's grandson. The Thunder Dragon Slayer. The arrogant and problematic Laxus Dreyar. He was observing the scene below like a bored king looking at a pathetic, uninteresting puppet show.
Gray leaned a little closer to Lucy and whispered urgently:
"That's Laxus, Lucy. Stay away from him. Some people say, especially he himself, that he's the true, undisputed strongest mage in this guild."
Laxus leaned lazily against the wooden railing of the second floor, looking down at all the mages on the first floor with that characteristic air of superiority of his, as if he were observing insignificant insects.
"Mystogan is just a bit... shy. An anti-social with a cool cloak," he said, with a mockery that dripped from every word. "You lot, you weaklings, should respect his privacy and stop gossiping like a bunch of old women... or not. You know what? I don't care. Really. You're all so insignificant that you could disappear tomorrow and I wouldn't even notice." His words were cruel and unnecessary. Typical of him.
At that exact moment, Natsu, who had recently been helped up from the pile of crates by a patient Lisanna, and who had apparently already recovered from his previous humiliation, clenched his fists in fury as he faced the arrogant blonde figure at the top of the stairs.
"Laxus! You bastard! Get down here and let's fight right now! I'll show you who's the strongest!"
Gray, with a sigh of pure, absolute exhaustion at so much stupidity, just shook his head.
"You were, literally less than five minutes ago, punched by Erza, which threw you across the hall and buried you in a pile of crates, you lunatic. You really have a death wish, don't you?"
Laxus laughed with a genuine contempt, not even trying to disguise his disdain.
"If you, you pink-haired matchstick-head, can't even beat the little redhead down there, you'd better not even dream of trying your luck with me, little boy. Come back when you've learned how to fight for real."
That gratuitous provocation and the evident condescension in his voice were enough to light a real, dangerous firecracker of fury in our dear Erza. She, who until then had just been drinking her coffee quietly, stood up slowly from her chair, her mug still in hand, staring at him with a look so cold and so sharp it could cut steel. It was the look of someone who was already mentally choosing the right sword to use at his next, and inevitable, funeral.
"What, exactly, did you mean by 'little redhead', Laxus?" her voice was low, calm, but laden with a threat that made even the air around her seem colder.
Laxus, apparently loving the confrontation, opened his arms theatrically, as if performing for a large, admiring audience:
"I mean, my dear Erza, exactly what I said: that I am, without a shadow of a doubt, the strongest and most qualified mage in this guild. And that all of you," he gestured with disdain at everyone in the hall, "are, by comparison, just a bunch of weaklings, amateurs, and dead weight."
"THEN GET DOWN HERE AND PROVE IT, YOU HALF-ARSED COWARD!" Natsu shouted, already preparing to jump.
Laxus, with a crooked, smug smile, just tilted his head.
"You come up here, if you've got the guts, and I'll be more than happy to prove it to you."
Natsu, with the blind fury of a bull, shot towards the stairs with everything he had. But before he could even reach the first step, a colossal hand, Master Makarov's own hand, magically enlarged to gigantic proportions, fell from the ceiling with the force of a meteor and crushed him against the floor with a dull thud, pinning him down as if he were an irritating insect.
"You're still not allowed on the second floor, you impatient brat! How many times do I have to tell you?!" roared the Master, with half-closed eyes and the voice of an ancient, very, very annoyed thunderclap.
Laxus, still leaning lazily against the railing, tilted his head with a childish mockery and looked at his grandfather.
"Oi, old man. Got angry, did you? I'm so scared."
Natsu, with his face pressed against the wooden floor and his voice muffled by the giant hand, managed to shout:
"SHU-T U-P, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!"
Laxus, completely ignoring his crushed grandson and his furious grandfather, turned his disdainful gaze back to everyone in the hall, raising his voice with an arrogance that was almost palpable:
"I repeat, so that it's perfectly clear in your thick heads: the strongest mage in Fairy Tail is not Erza. It's not that masked, weirdo mage. And it's certainly not Gildarts, who's never here. The strongest mage in Fairy Tail," he pointed to himself with a pride that bordered on insanity, "is, and always will be, Laxus Dreyar."
The guild hall was still simmering with a tense, oppressive atmosphere, everyone's eyes shifting uncomfortably between the arrogant blonde on the floor above and poor Natsu, who was still being used as a makeshift rug by his grandfather's giant hand. But then… in the middle of that heavy, testosterone-filled silence...
A dry, short, and entirely unexpected laugh cut through the air like a thin blade of ice.
Everyone, without exception, turned in unison.
Sitting calmly at her table, her now-empty teacup still in hand, was me, Azra'il Weiss, letting out a laugh that was half pure, crystalline amusement, and half a deep, existential mockery of others' stupidity. I rested my elbow on the table with a casual elegance, my lupine tail swinging lazily behind me, and then, with the calm of one who hasn't a single care in the world, I stood up, adjusting the sheath of my simple, yet deadly, wooden sword at my waist.
"Ah, Laxus, Laxus, Laxus…" I said, in a light, almost friendly tone, as if speaking to a stroppy child who had just made a big, noisy mess. "Do you, by any chance, with that selective memory and that inflated ego of yours, remember how you ended up, and how it ended, in that last, long-awaited S-Class trial of yours?"
The tension in the hall, which was already high, rose to stratospheric levels. The newer mages, who didn't know the story, looked at each other, confused and curious. The older ones, who knew the rumours, even stopped breathing, anticipating the imminent disaster.
With the calm of one about to reveal a delicious secret, I took a step forward, with that characteristic walk of mine, at once slouching and elegant, as if the entire world were a boring stage where I, out of pure and simple charity, occasionally decided to put on a little play.
"Well," I continued, blowing lightly on the rim of my now-empty cup, as if removing an invisible speck of dust, "the only reason I didn't permanently cripple you back then, my dear electric friend, was out of pure and simple consideration and respect for your poor, already-so-stressed grandfather, Master Makarov."
I raised my cold, grey eyes and stared directly at Laxus, across the distance that separated us.
"But," my smile opened, slow, sharp, and cutting like a razor blade wrapped in velvet, "if you continue with this childish behaviour, with this tedious arrogance, and with this pathological need for self-affirmation, well," I tilted my head, with an air of false innocence, "don't come crying to granddad if, this time, I'm not so... gentle and restrained."
The hall, which before had just been tense, now plunged into a silence so deep, so absolute, it was almost sepulchral.
Laxus, who until that moment had seemed absolutely untouchable on his pedestal of pure, crystalline arrogance, maintained his pose of superiority... but the small, almost imperceptible muscle that twitched at the corner of his jaw gave away, for anyone who knew where to look, a slight but unmistakable grinding of teeth. He was furious. And, maybe, just maybe, a little... scared.
Master Makarov, who was now standing behind the table, sighed heavily, a sigh of pure, absolute exhaustion, and muttered to himself:
"Here we go again… this girl is going to be the death of me..."
Laxus stared at me for another long, tense moment. His eyes, which before had just been arrogant, now sparked with a furious electricity and a poorly contained humiliation. But he, wisely, did not say a single word. The silence between us seemed to weigh tons in the air. Even the sound of the wind outside seemed to have frozen in fear.
Then, with a loud, frustrated "Tsk" laden with a wounded pride, he turned. No more words of challenge, no more insults, no more threats. He just turned, and his heavy boots echoed on the wooden floor with a lonely, almost defeated sound, as he entered the inner, dark corridors of the second floor, quickly disappearing from our sight.
No spectacular lightning. No dramatic final line. Just a thunder that had formed in the air, but which, to everyone's surprise, dissipated without the slightest discharge.
Down below, on the relative safety of the first floor, the guild remained in a state of collective shock for a few more seconds, slowly processing what had just happened.
"That... that thing Azra'il said about the trial... so she... she really beat Laxus like that?"
"I thought it was just guild gossip! They say he didn't show his face at the guild for weeks after that..."
"That... that explains a lot about Laxus's attitude towards her..."
"Only the Master and the other supervisors know what happened. But legend has it that he... was carried out of there. And with a rather... messed-up drawing on his face."
"Okay, okay… since curiosity is killing the cat... I'll tell. That drawing Azra'il did on Laxus's face... wasn't just any joke..."
"It was a phallic symbol! A giant one! With a permanent magic marker and everything!"
"A PENIS?!"
"OH MY GOD… SHE DREW A COCK ON LAXUS'S FACE?!"
"I saw the whole thing! She gave him a right thrashing, a really bad one. He went down like a sack of potatoes. And then… she took a permanent marker out of her pocket..."
"Yes! She drew it! Big, a bit wonky, and with some details that I won't even dare to repeat out loud..."
"No! He was unconscious for several days! When he woke up and saw himself in the mirror, he almost blew up Porlyusica's clinic! It took a really strong removal spell to erase Azra'il's 'work of art'. And even then, his face was red for a whole week… whether from rage or an allergic reaction to the ink, that, my friends, I'll never know."
"That… was the act of a true man," Elfman declared with solemnity.
I, who until then had just been observing the gossip spread with a satisfied smile, slowly raised my eyes, with the most innocent and bored expression I could produce.
"He was in need of a small, creative lesson in humility. And I, as a dedicated educator with a peculiar sense of humour, was just… creative in my pedagogical methods." And with that, I took a sip of my tea, with an air of pure, crystalline innocence.
Makarov, who was now once again sitting on the counter, looked at me in a heavy, contemplative silence, his mug of wine almost slipping from his wrinkled hand. He let out a deep sigh, a tired sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all his problematic children.
"It took him three whole weeks for those magical meridians of his to realign after the beating she gave him with that wooden sword…" he murmured quietly, as if talking to himself and reliving a trauma. "And another two weeks for him to stop walking crookedly, like an old man with a sciatica attack..." Makarov looked at me, who was now calmly savouring my tea as if nothing extraordinary had happened, as if I hadn't almost paralysed, literally and figuratively, the promising magical and social career of his only, problematic grandson with a simple wooden sword, a permanent marker, and a good dose of sadistic creativity.
Makarov sighed once more, a deep sigh full of a resignation that only age and the leadership of a guild like Fairy Tail could provide.
"Of all the problematic, noisy, destructive children with a clear lack of common sense that this guild has given me throughout my long, suffering, and probably shortened life... this girl," he looked at me again, with a mix of dread, resignation, and perhaps, just perhaps, a hint of reluctant pride in his eyes, "this girl is pure, crystalline chaos incarnate. In a small, beautiful, and terribly efficient form. And the worst of it all..." he paused, with a glint of something that resembled... reluctant admiration in his eyes, "...is that she's a bloody good cook, the little devil." And with that, he took a long, deep, and fully deserved gulp of his wine, probably wishing, with all his might, that it were something much, much, infinitely stronger.