Krampus Interlude
The mantle of Santa had always been spoken of as a myth: a jolly figure in red who flew across the world in one night to bring children gifts, guided by sleigh bells and cheer. To villagers it was a story told to brighten winter nights, a promise that kindness would be rewarded and cruelty marked. Yet beneath the fairy tale was a binding truth. Santa was not a person but a role—a spirit bound by ancient law and cosmic order, tasked with watching over the hearts of children for a single holy night each year. His magic judged who had been kind or cruel, manifesting presents for the good and coal for the wicked, then scattering them across the earth with unerring precision as if carried by unseen winds. It was a duty of mercy, impartial and endless, but it was also a cage, confining even the strongest bearer to rules that could not be bent.
Krampus had long understood the truth of his dual role. As Santa, he wasn't merely a gift-giver in red, but an instrument bound by rules older and harsher than he could challenge. When his Santa mode awakened each year, his body shone with crimson radiance and his halo of snowlight brightened until it could pierce storm clouds. In those hours he was filled with an almost unbearable omniscience, as though every cry, every laugh, and every silent tear of every child resonated directly within his chest. He knew the situation of each one—their joy, their loneliness, their hunger, their suffering—with a clarity that cut like glass. His magic then responded instinctively, shaping itself into gifts of warmth, food, or wonder for the good children, or into lumps of coal heavy with admonition for those who had strayed too far. And so he would spend the long night traversing every continent in a blur of teleporting light, launching the conjured parcels into homes, huts, and hovels alike, unseen but everywhere at once, a red shadow stitching the world together for a single fleeting night.
Yet within that ocean of awareness were the cries of children who were not simply lonely or poor, but in chains, in cages, in torment. He knew them too. He felt their desperation, their hunger, their prayers whispered into the dark. But he could not save them. That was the restraint of his role, a wall higher than any fortress. Santa was not a liberator, not a warrior, but a spirit of giving bound to the cycle of Christmas. For those captives, he could at most create gifts that offered fleeting relief—an extra loaf of bread to still the gnawing pain of hunger, a doll to remind them of innocence, a blanket to keep the frost from their bones. And though those gifts were miracles in their own way, they were never enough. Krampus knew too many would not survive until the next year, and the helpless knowledge ate at him like a poison. The very thought weighed heavily on his heart, twisting the joy of giving into a burden he could never set down.
When the red glow of his cloak dimmed and the omniscience left him, so too did that precise knowledge. The names, the places, the cries—all of it was lost, leaving behind only the faintest memory of what gifts he had conjured, but not to whom they had been given or where they had gone. This was the curse of his station: the mercy to know, but not the freedom to act. And for Krampus, who carried a human heart beneath the mantle, the loss felt like betrayal. A true Santa spirit would let the knowledge fade and return to slumber in peace. But Krampus, a soul reincarnated from another life, clung to the memory of suffering children with an ache that would not vanish. Each year it left him haunted, gnawing at him with the certainty that there were lives he could have saved if only the rules were not chains as strong as any he could summon.
After making contact with the will of Earthland itself, Krampus once thought of asking for a reprieve—for the addresses of those desperate children, for even the faintest trail to follow once his Santa duty ended. But Earthland was rigid, unyielding, an impartial judge of order. It granted him technical knowledge of magic and the flow of ley lines, but denied him anything that touched the realm of mercy. To the will of the world, a Santa had no need for burdens beyond their category of labor, no reason to carry grief or guilt. A true spirit of Christmas would simply fulfill its task, release the weight of omniscience, and vanish into blissful ignorance until the next cycle, never once questioning whether more could be done.
But Krampus was no newborn spirit. He was a reincarnated soul who remembered the story of this world, who knew the canonical timeline, who knew there were children out there suffering whose names he recognized. He could not feign blissful ignorance. Each year when his duties ended, he poured his frustration into action, prowling the roads and slums of Earthland. Slavers, cultists, and bandits found themselves hunted by a towering figure draped in red, his chains binding their limbs before judgment fell. He ripped apart dens of traffickers, confiscated their hoarded gold, and scattered it among orphanages. In coastal towns he stalked pirates at night, their screams swallowed by the tide as he dragged them into prisons. Even corrupt merchants and nobles felt his shadow at their banquets, their ill-gotten wealth seized and their crimes exposed. He could only press forward with harsher judgment upon the wicked, punishing them with a ferocity that was equal parts wrath and sorrow, and pray that in each act of retribution, he brought some echo of justice, some faint balance to the children who were trapped in darkness.
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General POV
Far away, in the cold stone belly of the eighth R-System tower, another figure was deep in thought. Brain, the shadowed master of Oración Seis, reviewed his research with a sharp gaze. Spread before him were not only his own diagrams, but also fragments of data and reports he had purchased at a high price from Ivan Dreyar's discarded archives—notes on failed dragon slayer lacrima implantations. Ivan's experiments had been clumsy, careless, and riddled with failure, yet even failure could be dissected. To Brain, every corpse, every ruined subject was another data point, another key to refine a formula.
"Knowledge is never wasted," he murmured to himself, eyes tracing the overlapping runes on his parchment. "Even the broken are teachers, if you are willing to listen." His fingers tapped across his newer notes detailing the implantation of a poison dragon slayer lacrima—an experiment centered on a small boy named Erik. "Yes… if the pattern is adjusted here, the rejection rate falls. Rune stabilizers applied in sequence… elegant, stable. A weapon that breathes." Compared to Ivan's attempts, his design was clinical, meticulous, a product of obsession more than ambition.
He leaned back, considering his options, muttering as though in dialogue with himself. "There are children here with potential. Sparks buried beneath filth and fear. To discard them as fuel… inefficient, shortsighted." He scribbled a note in the margin, lips curling with curiosity rather than malice. "If shaped correctly, they could be subjects, test cases, soldiers. Each a page in my book of discovery." He pictured it calmly: young minds reshaped with forbidden arts, bodies adapted under unyielding trials, until they became living extensions of his hypotheses. "Yes… not sacrifices, but proofs. Each one a confirmation that my theories are sound."
The thought stirred excitement, but not pride; it was the exhilaration of discovery, the hunger of a mind that valued results above morality. "Ivan, cultists, nobles, it matters little," Brain whispered. "They chase power. I chase understanding. And through understanding, I will shape power."
Elsewhere in the tower, the children endured another cycle of torment. Some slaved under the lash of guards, their tiny hands bleeding as they carried stone and timber, their backs striped with welts. The clang of chains and the crack of whips were constant, an oppressive rhythm that made time blur into endless misery. Others lay in their cells on straw mats damp with mildew, savoring what little rest they could steal while hunger gnawed at their bellies. They whispered quietly to one another of home, of families they barely remembered, of dreams they still held onto in secret. Their eyes burned with exhaustion, ringed with shadows, but carried faint sparks of hope that refused to be extinguished even in such darkness.
Among them were faces destined for names that would echo in history: Erik, small and bitter, whose eyes already glinted with venom as he dreamed of power that would ensure he was never hurt or humiliated again. Sorano, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, whispered fervent prayers to the angel she believed watched over them, clutching the smallest gifts to her chest as proof of that faith. Jellal, quiet and pensive, often stared through the narrow slits of his cell window, dreaming of freedom and of radiant light that could sweep away the shadows. Macbeth curled into himself in the corners, muttering about illusions and wishing for a world where he could disappear from torment. Sawyer, jittery and restless, rubbed his hands together and longed for speed, for the chance to run far away and never be caught again. Sho, still young but fiercely protective, sketched crude wooden swords from scraps and whispered promises to save his friends. Milliana, eyes red but stubbornly bright, dreamed of cats, of gentle purring warmth that meant safety and love. Richard, gaunt but imaginative, hummed broken tunes and wished for laughter around a dinner table again. Wally, ever trying to make the others smile, crafted toys from sticks and pebbles, holding onto the hope that joy could still exist in the smallest of things. Each of them was a child broken by circumstance, yet each clung to some fragile wish that kept their hearts beating against the weight of despair.
And though their days were misery, the gifts still found them. A crust of bread that Erik clutched with a trembling hand, whispering that at least for tonight hunger would not gnaw at him. A chipped toy that Wally proudly shared among the others, declaring it proof that joy could be made to last even in a dungeon. A warm scarf that Jellal wrapped around his thin shoulders, staring toward the window as if the cloth itself were a promise of light. Milliana once found a little carved cat left for her, and she wept as she held it close, swearing she could almost hear it purr. Sho discovered a wooden stick perfectly shaped into a toy sword and vowed to train with it to one day protect them all. Sawyer received shoes sturdier than the rags he wore, and for the first time dared to dream of running freely. Macbeth, given a small mirror, whispered to it every night, practicing the illusions he longed to master. Richard found scraps of paper and charcoal, enough to let him draw smiling faces and forgotten songs. Each token should have been impossible in such a place, but they gave the children reason to believe that they had not been abandoned. For Sorano especially, these presents were proof that there was something beyond this nightmare. To her, Santa was no myth—he was an angel, and she prayed nightly for him to deliver them from their cage.
It was on one such evening, with the orange sky bleeding beyond the barred windows, that the air shifted. The torches in the corridors flickered as if a great breath had passed over them, and even the guards paused in their patrols. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, stretching like grasping fingers across the stone floor, and then the heavens themselves darkened as though the sun had been smothered by an unseen hand. The children pressed to the narrow gaps, their weary eyes widening, their breaths caught in their throats as they felt something vast and terrible descend upon the tower.
Above, blotting out the sunset, a colossal cage of chains descended from the sky. It rattled with a dreadful harmony, each link glowing with purple runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. The guards scrambled in disarray, shouting contradictory orders, weapons shaking in their hands as panic sparked through their ranks. Some dropped their torches, others backed against the walls, eyes wide as the sky itself seemed to collapse into iron above them.
The children, however, did not scream. They did not cower. They pressed against the bars of their cells, gazing upward with awe. To them, the vast chains that spread like wings across the horizon did not spell doom but deliverance. Their hearts stirred as if some buried instinct awoke, and for the first time in years, hope surged in their chests. Somehow, they knew. Their prayers had been answered.
Krampus POV
The chains of Bound Prison rattled like thunder as they locked into place around the tower, blotting out the last of the sunset. Krampus stood on the edge of the magical construct, eyes glowing as his senses sharpened. The stench of sin rose like smoke from the tower's depths, foul and unmistakable. He tasted it on his tongue, a bitter tang of cruelty, fear, and blood. His nostrils flared as his senses combed through the tower, distinguishing the lesser miasma of terrified guards and whimpering slavers from something far denser. Among it, one presence was heavier than all others—oily, suffocating, brimming with cruelty and obsession, like tar oozing from a wound in the world. Krampus's lips curled, fangs glinting in the dim light. Brain.
Elated at the catch but disciplined enough to keep priorities straight, Krampus didn't rush in. First came the children. He lifted his massive blade and swung once, a motion deceptively casual yet brimming with apocalyptic force. The strike rang with both the Rule of Rending and the Rule of Punishment, each rune carved into his very soul igniting in resonance. The air howled, pressure shattering nearby stones as the slash cleaved forward, colliding with the tower's magical wards. For a heartbeat it was like two titans wrestling—the layered defenses of the R-System tower flaring bright, glyphs shuddering and spitting sparks, as if the very fortress was fighting for its life. For a full second it held, a defiance that would have repelled most high-level attacks, which impressed Krampus. But then the judgment woven into Krampus's swing overpowered it. With a sound like the heavens ripping open, the wall split apart in a spray of light and pulverized stone, collapsing inward as dust and fire gushed from the breach.
"Pathetic," Krampus muttered, his voice low but reverberating like a growl of judgment. He thrust out a clawed hand and already his chains surged forward, spilling into the breach like a tide of golden serpents. Each link was etched with violet runes that pulsed as they wrapped around small wrists and shoulders, lifting terrified children gently from the rubble as though the metal itself knew to treat them with care. Slavers lunged to stop him and were yanked aside, crushed against walls or slammed into the floor as the chains recoiled. Screams echoed through the shattered halls, desperate and panicked, but above that din came thunder. Lightning split the air as Laxus descended deeper into the tower, bolts raining down with merciless precision to fry every dark mage foolish enough to raise a hand. The tower shook under the combined assault—chains hissing, thunder cracking, and the cries of villains drowned beneath storm and steel.
Through their Binding Connection, Krampus's voice brushed against Laxus's mind: Big fish inside. Name's Brain. Don't let him slip.
Laxus's grin was audible even in thought. "Got it." He hefted an iron sphere the size of a beach ball, veins of lightning crawling over its surface, the metal warping under the sheer voltage. The tower above was already in tatters from Krampus's slash, walls split and wards shattered, yet Brain's presence was still lurking below, deep in an underground lab. Krampus's Revelation Eyes locked onto him through layers of rock and secrecy, and Laxus's own Heart Net confirmed the target with pinpoint clarity. Crouching low, thunder building in his chest, Laxus unleashed a roar and fired the sphere as a railgun shot straight into the earth. The projectile tore the air apart with a sonic crack before tunneling downward, striking home with devastating force. The underground chamber erupted as stone ruptured like paper, the shockwave blasting through corridors, flattening cultists like rag dolls and scattering rubble like leaves in a storm. The ground itself convulsed beneath the blast, echoing like a war drum across the battlefield.
Krampus's enchanted sight pierced the smoke. Brain staggered but stood, his robes torn and hair disheveled. Layers of sacrificed talismans and a wall of defensive dark-type magic flickered out around him, several of his magical items crumbling into dust after giving their lives to protect him. Impressive, perhaps, but hardly unexpected. As expected of a mid-tier boss in Fairy Tail he got some skills, but nothing that could truly save him. "Mid-tier boss," Krampus muttered. "He's got tricks, but tricks don't save villains."
With the children pulled free and handed to the Rune Knights stationed outside, Krampus leapt into the breach. His chains lashed, colliding with Brain's spells in a storm of sparks. The impact shook the chamber, every strike lighting the room with violet and black flares. Brain raised a hand, voice trembling with a mix of calculation and desperation. "Wait—we can discuss—listen, there are things I can give you! Knowledge, artifacts, forbidden texts! I am not your enemy, we can reach terms!"
Krampus's glare burned through him. "You think your scraps of corruption interest me? You stole lives. You broke children."
Brain stumbled back, throwing up another barrier as chains shredded it like paper. "You don't understand! It was for progress! Sacrifice is necessary—for magic to advance, for humanity to—"
"Save it." Krampus's voice cut like a blade. "You've had your time."
The melee was short and brutal, though not without desperate thrashing on Brain's part. His barriers crumpled one after another under the weight of judgment, counterspells unraveling before they could even take shape. Krampus's chains snared his limbs, dragging him off balance, and his claws carved through flesh with merciless precision; with a single ruthless strike, Brain's right hand and leg were severed, blood arcing across the stone. Gasping and trembling, Brain raged and pleaded in the same breath, spitting words between the pain. "You fool—knowledge must be bought with suffering! Children, slaves, they are stepping stones to enlightenment! If not me, then another would—" His tirade dissolved into a howl as he forced his broken body upright, attempting to summon his second stage, the murderous personality called Zero. His aura split violently, his eyes glazing with madness as he tried to justify himself even as he began to unlock it, babbling of progress and necessity like a zealot at the altar of cruelty.
But Krampus's chains coiled first. The Rule of Rending tore at the very essence of that second self, unraveling the unstable split of consciousness. Knowledge, memories, and the violent will that was Zero bled away into nothingness, strands of power snapping like cobwebs in a storm. Brain shrieked as the forbidden personality was shredded from him, eyes rolling back as fragments of his arcane research, spells, and dark insights unraveled into nothing. The Rule of Binding followed, lashing through his core with merciless finality, fixing what remained of Brain into a crippled husk. His intelligence guttered like a candle drowned in wax, his threat neutered beyond recovery, his body twitching with the aftershock of severed power.
Krampus looked down at the broken man, his halo casting a pale, pitiless light over the ruin. "I believe this is more than merciful enough. For your crimes, permanent stupidity is a kinder sentence than you deserve. May the void of your own ignorance weigh heavier than chains."
The rest was clean-up, though even this had the weight of battle. With Brain incapacitated, Laxus stormed the halls like a living thunderbolt, crushing the last of the slavers in bursts of blinding light. Rune Knights poured in soon after, steel boots ringing on stone as they bound the surviving cultists and offered blankets, food, and words of comfort to the freed captives. Krampus oversaw the children personally, his chains forming a protective perimeter as he checked each one with his Revelation Eyes to ensure no lingering curses or lacrima remained embedded. He noted the spark of magic in some of them—tiny flickers of potential waiting to grow—but forced himself to hold back the urge to claim them for Fairy Tail then and there. Choice mattered more than talent. Respecting it was the least he could do for them, especially after so much had been stolen already.
Later, he met with the Rune Knight captain, who explained their arrangements in detail. The adults, weary but grateful, would be resettled in villages that had space, supported with subsidies from disaster relief funds. Children who still had families would be escorted back to them, though only a handful had that chance. The rest, the majority who had no family left to claim them, would be placed in carefully vetted orphanages the Knights had on record as safe and reputable.
"Reputable," Krampus echoed darkly, his tone sharp enough to cut stone. "Make absolutely certain of it. Too many so-called orphanages are nothing but slaver fronts in disguise, and I will not see these children handed from one set of chains to another. I expect you to conduct full investigations, check every record, and question every patron and overseer. Only those whose histories are spotless and proven are to be trusted with these children."
He then spoke at length of the magical children—most notably, those gathered here at the Eighth Tower, almost certainly handpicked by Brain for their potential. "If they wish it," Krampus said firmly, "Fairy Tail will take them in. They will be given safety, a family, and the promise that their strength will never again be twisted for cruelty. Their magic should serve their dreams, not their chains. They will have a place where they are free to grow, and where what was stolen from them will be returned in the form of choice."
Many children shrank away, scarred by their abduction, whispering in trembling voices that they never wanted to touch magic again. They clutched at one another, some burying their faces in thin blankets, others staring down at their own hands as if afraid of what might come from them. Yet not all looked away. A few slowly raised their eyes, emboldened by the halo that still glowed faintly above Krampus's horns. The gentle light washed over them, stirring long-forgotten memories of childhood joy—snowy mornings, warm meals, laughter with family. Recognition spread in hushed gasps, one child even whispering, "Santa… it really is him."
Richard declined, explaining quietly that he only wanted to find Wally and live a simple life. He spoke of their shared dream of farming potatoes far from the reach of magic or war, a future where peace came from soil and sweat rather than spells. Sho too shook his head, his voice firm but weary, saying he had no wish to be strong anymore—he wanted peace, freedom from the cycle of violence, a life where he could choose who to be without power looming over him. But Milliana stepped forward eagerly, her eyes shining with determination. She declared that any guild with "such an awesome big kitty" had to be the best home, adding that she wanted friends, warmth, and a place where her laughter and love for cats could finally belong.
Laxus barked a laugh, his impression of Milliana got a +1000, he fold his arms with a cocky grin and said. "Kid, you've got good taste. Anyone who can see the charm of our big muscle kitty right off the bat is all right in my books. You'll go far with that kind of eye."
Krampus flushed, the tips of his ears burning red as he hunched his shoulders. He growled under his breath, muttering, "Idiot. Stop saying embarrassing things in front of the kids."
Still, many more followed Milliana's lead. Sorano's eyes glimmered with reverence, as though she saw him not as Santa but as an angel descended. Her lips moved soundlessly, as if she were offering a prayer, and her small hands clutched the hem of her dress in trembling awe. Krampus glanced upward briefly. Angel? Really?
The will of Earthland rumbled in his head, dry and amused. (You were born of me. In a sense, yes. To her, the light you carry is proof enough.)
Krampus sighed. "Great. Just what I needed."
Among those who chose to join were Sorano, Jellal, Macbeth, Sawyer, Erik—his body still reeling from an imperfect lacrima implant—and others. Krampus's sharp eyes fell on Erik's companion: a tiny purple snake coiled weakly at his side. His expression twitched as recognition struck him, memories of canon brushing his thoughts. "Kinana. Right," he muttered under his breath, his tone a mixture of irritation and responsibility. "I almost forgot. I'll fix that later—both the boy's lacrima and the poor creature's true form."
For now, he looked over the gathering of freed children, their tired eyes darting between the Rune Knights and the Fairy Tail mages. A dozen of them would be homeless, with no parents to claim them, their futures uncertain. Kardia Cathedral could not shelter them all; its halls were already filled beyond capacity. Krampus folded his arms, his gaze heavy with thought as he watched the children cling to each other for comfort. Maybe it's time Fairy Tail built its own orphanage, he mused. A dorm where they could sleep safely, a sanctuary where no chain could ever reach, a true home built on trust and warmth. Something more enduring than temporary refuge… something that would give them back the childhoods they were robbed of.