Long before Magnolia trembled from a miraculous crash landing—before Earthland even whispered the name Krampus Santa Grimgaros—a man in another world died alone in the rain. His name, long forgotten by time and record, once carried immense weight in his world.
Standing at 6'5" with a physique rivaling a professional strongman, he drew stares wherever he went. Built like a mountain, his broad chest, corded limbs, and tightly packed muscles made him seem more elemental force than man. Raised an orphan, he drifted between foster homes and elite institutions—always excelling, always isolated. His brilliance was both armor and prison. Though he graduated at the top of every academic tier, friendship remained elusive. His cold amber eyes and sharply chiseled features intimidated more than they invited. Admiration came easily; connection never did.
As an adult, he became a top-tier lawyer—an omnipotent genius in the courtroom, wielding wit like a sword. He dismantled lies, toppled corrupt systems, and turned the most convoluted cases into decisive victories. Feared by criminals, revered by colleagues, he stood alone.
He had no close friends. No romantic partners. His phone rarely rang, and when it did, it was strictly business—meetings, updates, briefs. His apartment was pristine, sterile—no clutter, no laughter, no warmth. He'd eat alone, the city lights flickering beyond the window, imagining what it might be like to have someone waiting for him. He was rich, respected—and utterly alone.
On the sidewalk, he'd pass couples holding hands, sharing coffee, leaning into one another—and feel an ache twist in his chest. Around Christmas, that ache sharpened. Decorations, carols, the sheer togetherness of it all felt like a cruel reminder of what he lacked. He didn't hate their happiness. He simply couldn't understand how they made it look so effortless.
Sometimes, after exhausting workdays, he would collapse onto his bed and cry—not loudly, but with the quiet resignation of someone worn thin by years of solitude. Staring at the ceiling, he would wonder: What's wrong with me? Why did connection feel like a language he was never taught? Why did vulnerability feel so impossible, so unsafe?
Beneath all his strength and success, he yearned not to conquer or impress—but to be held. Not feared, but seen. He often dreamt of being cradled by someone even larger—someone who saw through the accolades to the man beneath. In those dreams, he was carried like a bride by a mountain of a man—warm, kind, and loving. A sanctuary with arms.
In his loneliest moments, he sang. A song from a holiday playlist stuck with him—a quiet prayer in melody:
"I look for you ... Every day ... Every night ... I close my eyes ... From the fear ... From the light ... As I wander down the avenue so confused ... Guess I'll try and force a smile ... Pink lemonade sipping on a Sunday ... Couples holding hands on a runway ... They're all posing in a picture frame whilst my world's crashing down ... Solo shadow on a sidewalk ... Just want somebody to die for ... Sunshine living on a perfect day whilst my world's crashing down ... I just want somebody to die for."
He whispered the lyrics into the sterile dark of his apartment, each line a quiet confession. But beneath the yearning to die for someone was a deeper, more desperate truth:
What he truly longed for… was someone to live for.
He wanted shared coffee in the morning, petty bickering over blankets, walking beside someone who made the world feel less lonely. He longed for the soft familiarity of shared silence, the warmth of intertwined fingers, the simple reassurance that his existence mattered. He wanted someone who laughed at his terrible jokes, who asked him about his day even if they already knew the answer. Someone who looked at him and didn't just see success—they saw him.
Christmas always amplified this emptiness. He would watch couples and families through frosted windows and wonder—was he broken? Too cold? Too intimidating? Too strange? He didn't resent their joy. He just didn't know how to find his own.
And when the ache overflowed, he'd cry beneath the covers—quiet, hidden sobs with no one to notice, no one to ask, no one to tell.
So he sang. Because in Sam Smith's voice, he could pretend, if only briefly, that he wasn't utterly alone.
But even then, he hoped—not for someone to die for.
He hoped for someone to live for.
He died at 37, ambushed in a rain-slick alley behind the courthouse just hours after a final victory against a powerful criminal syndicate. He'd anticipated retaliation. He hadn't expected its ferocity.
The attackers came in waves—knives, bats, then bullets. He fought back with disciplined fury, his mastery over more than twenty martial arts turning the alley into a war zone. Ribs cracked under his fists. Jaws shattered beneath his kicks. He disarmed assailants mid-swing and turned their weapons against them. Blood drenched his long coat—some his, most not. He was a tempest of righteous wrath.
But numbers wore him down. Blades pierced defenses. Bullets tore through flesh. A crowbar shattered his arm. Still, he fought on. His body faltered, but his will endured. Until at last, knees buckling, vision swimming, he fell.
From a nearby café, Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas Is You" played faintly, cruelly cheerful against the carnage. The scent of cinnamon pastries wafted from an open door as he bled.
He tilted his head toward the sound. Blood ran from his lip. And in that moment, regret drowned him.
He had lived for justice, but died unloved. No one to call. No one to miss him. No one to share a Christmas morning. He would die a virgin. He would die having never been held. He would die with a song in his heart and tears in his eyes.
His final wish wasn't for vengeance.
"I want… someone of my own."
A tear slid down his cheek.
And the universe, mischievous and merciful, was listening.
Far away, atop Mt. Hakobe in Earthland, something shimmered into existence. It looked like a gift-wrapped egg—red and green with a golden bow. Inside, the soul of that lonely warrior-lawyer began to change.
As the Age of Dragons came to an end, the world shifted. With the rising hope of peace and the spread of culture, a myth began to take root among humans and beastfolk alike—an ancient spirit who rewarded good children and punished the wicked, arriving on the coldest night of the year. The legend of Christmas, imported by travelers, grew in whispers and folklore, bolstered by wizards who performed miraculous feats on winter nights.
It was from this growing belief that the egg of Krampus Santa Grimgaros began its incubation.
For four centuries it remained dormant, nestled in crystal and snow, absorbing magic, karma, and holiday cheer. Enshrined beneath the mountain, it marinated in justice, joy, and divine retribution. Slowly, the soul within was rewritten—not erased, but reforged. Transformed from a man of reason into a spirit of magic. When Earthland had enough belief, enough joy, and enough sin to justify his existence, the egg hatched.
On Christmas Eve, Year X766—it cracked.
No thunder. No quake. Just light, and a burst of confetti.
A lion beastman emerged—majestic, divine, and terrifying in the way a living myth ought to be. He towered at seven feet tall, his hulking physique covered in slated black fur that made his already massive form appear even broader. Despite the thickness of his fur, every muscle was pronounced and visible—pecs like stone slabs, abs chiseled into an eight-pack, arms like coiled cables of strength. His limbs radiated raw power honed by discipline, and his stance carried the effortless threat of something that did not need to prove itself.
His head was that of a lion, proud and primal. A wild mane of greyish-white hair exploded around his head and down his back, reaching the small of his spine. It was styled in a jagged, windswept crown that gave him a regal, dangerous aura—like a storm wearing a crown. Two thick, ram-like golden horns curled protectively around his round lion ears, glinting like molten metal in the light. Twin fangs jutted from beneath his lips like tusks, emphasizing the blend of bestial and divine.
Above his head floated a neon-blue snowflake-shaped halo that hummed faintly with ethereal power, flickering like celestial frostlight. It shimmered with soft radiance but carried an edge—less peace, more judgment. His golden eyes burned from beneath his mane, sharp and all-seeing, like a divine predator.
He wore what could only be called spiritual equipment—clothing not sewn, but manifested with him. A dazzling red sleeveless long coat trailed behind him like a battle banner, trimmed with white fur around the hood and edges. The coat remained open to proudly display his powerful chest and abs, exposing him to the cold he didn't feel. Thick, heavy golden chains hung around his neck, swaying with each step like both adornment and shackle. His forearms were wrapped in flexible, fingerless gauntlets plated with lightweight armor to protect without hindering.
His legs were clad in snugly fitted military camo pants that hugged the muscles of his thighs and calves, fastened with a thick utility belt. Heavy-duty military boots, weathered but reinforced, grounded his every footfall with weight and purpose. His hands and feet were humanoid in shape but padded with fur, paw pads, and tipped with retractable claws. A thick lion's tail swayed behind him, the tuft of fur at its end matching the color of his mane, flicking like a war banner in idle readiness.
His appearance was not seductive or alluring in the traditional sense—it was intimidating as all hell. Handsome, yes, but in a brutally rugged, feral way. He looked less like a warrior and more like a sentence handed down by divine judgment—a punishment given form. A walking manifestation of karmic retribution wrapped in red and adorned with frost.
He looked like a god of punishment—and perhaps a misunderstood hope, dressed for war but dreaming of acceptance.
"I am Krampus Santa Grimgaros," he said, memory and purpose settling into place.
Spirit of Christmas. Arbiter of karmic balance.
He looked around, taking in the snowy cliffs and enchanted stillness of Mt. Hakobe. The wind howled faintly, but the cold did not touch him—it welcomed him, as though he were its kin. As Earthland's spirit of karmic balance and holiday judgment, the world itself had granted him certain boons. He knew this place not through learning, but through an instinctual familiarity, as if the very land whispered its name to him.
Earthland had imprinted some of its essence into him upon his rebirth. He understood the basic weave of its ambient magic—the ebb and flow of ley lines, the resonance of life force within people and beasts, the emotional gravity of places saturated with joy or sorrow. He could feel the location of towns nearby, sense which direction Magnolia lay, and taste traces of magic woven into the very snow.
He flexed his claws, and magic responded—a flicker of wind, a pulse of frost. Not spellcasting exactly, but something deeper: a spiritual authority over themes aligned with his domain. He was not merely granted power. He was power, forged from faith, legend, and the longing for justice and joy.
And now, with Earthland's subtle guidance, he knew where to begin.
"…This is Earthland." He blinked. "I've been reborn into Fairy Tail."
He remembered the anime—magic, chaos, found family. He had watched it often in his last life, secretly yearning for a guild like that. Somewhere to belong. Somewhere to be himself.
A grin curled his lip.
"Well… that's awesome."
But as he examined his towering, intimidating form, he frowned. He looked more like a final boss than a friend—something straight out of Tartaros, a demon in festive colors. Hulking, shadowed, unsettling. The kind of presence that might draw awe… but not trust.
"Too much," he muttered.
He actually liked his body—his strength, his presence, the heavy frame of power built over sleek fur and forged from myth. He took pride in his physique, both in this life and the last. He didn't want to hide it. He wanted people to like it. To admire it. To accept it. But he understood that trust wasn't something brute strength could earn. Not right away.
Especially not with Fairy Tail.
He needed to ease them in.
A flash of blue light. His massive figure shrank—until he stood just under four feet, a lion cub with compact, toned muscles still visible beneath his fur. The halo remained, eerie and luminous, but the rest of him had softened. Still powerful, still strange—but now small, cute, and more likely to be offered cookies than fireballs.
"Cute. Intimidating-adjacent. Vaguely unsettling," he mused. "Perfect."
And so, he began his journey toward Magnolia.