The triumphant entry into the enemy fortress, the one that bards and historians with a penchant for exaggeration would probably sing about for generations as "The Moment Fairy Tail's Courage Opened the Gates of Vengeance," was, in practice, considerably less glamorous and infinitely more… pathetic than any of us would like to admit.
Firstly, because the "door" I had judiciously created with a precise dose of power and surgical accuracy was, in essence, a smoking, misshapen hole with edges of molten metal that still spat incandescent sparks and dripped droplets of metal alloy that would do an excellent job of piercing the skull of anyone who stood underneath for too long. It was not exactly an inviting portal.
Secondly, because Natsu, in his infinite and unshakeable tactical wisdom, combined with a total lack of a self-preservation instinct, decided that the best way to lead the invasion would be to run in headfirst, literally, and was almost decapitated in real-time by a twisted steel beam that chose that exact and dramatic moment to collapse from the ceiling.
And thirdly, because Happy, who was flying right behind him as his faithful (and equally clueless) squire, got distracted by something shiny on the floor probably a piece of molten metal that he, in his fish-driven mind, mistook for a legendary golden carp and collided directly with the back of Gray's neck. Gray, in turn, was projected forward, tripping over his own feet and falling on top of Lucy, who let out a high-pitched squeak and fell on top of Elfman, who…
Anyway. It was a disastrous human domino effect. A logistical disaster worthy of a low-budget comedy of errors, starring particularly clumsy actors.
"You are, honestly, with every fibre of my ancient and tired being, the most pathetic invasion force I have ever had the displeasure of leading," I said, with a sigh that carried the weight of millennia of putting up with this kind of incompetence. I observed the heap of bodies, tangled limbs, and muffled complaints that had formed right at the entrance of the smoking hole. "And bear in mind, I've seen a bunch of drunk goblins armed with soup spoons trying to invade a bakery. And they, my dears, were considerably more organised. You are losing badly to the drunk goblins. Congratulations on the new record for inefficiency."
"Oi! It was Gray's fault, the exhibitionist, for stopping in the middle of the way as if he were posing for an ice sculpture!" Natsu protested, emerging from under a pile of rubble with his hair more singed than usual, but his ego miraculously intact.
"It was your stupid cat's fault for deciding to use my head as a landing strip!" Gray retorted, already, somehow inexplicably, shirtless. At some crucial point between the triumphant entry and the humiliating fall, he had managed to partially undress himself, a singular talent that I still could not scientifically explain and which, frankly, I was afraid to try.
"I'm not stupid! I'm a very intelligent and handsome cat, with excellent aerial reflexes!" the aforementioned protested from the middle of the human pile, with a shiny metal scale still comically stuck to his little paw.
"That's not a fish, you sardine-brained creature," I said, with a weary sigh, pulling off the scale and tossing it aside. "It's a piece of probably toxic and, who knows, radioactive metal alloy. If you lick that, you'll start glowing in the dark for the next three hundred years, which, while useful for night-time expeditions, would be terribly ungraceful."
Happy's eyes widened and he spat frantically on the floor, as if he had already licked the thing. Honestly, it was likely that he had.
Erza, as always, was the only one who managed to enter the fortress with a modicum of dignity and composure. Her armour tinkled softly as she advanced down the destroyed corridor, bypassing our human pile-up, her brown eyes already scanning every shadow, every corner, in search of immediate threats. Mirajane followed close behind, both with serious, focused expressions that contrasted absurdly with the horror show unfolding right at the entrance.
"Enough of this nonsense, you imbeciles," I said, and my voice, though low, cut through the beginning of what promised to be another epic and utterly unproductive argument between Natsu and Gray about who was more of an idiot (a debate for which, honestly, there was no easy answer, as both were strong contenders for the title). "Remember where we are. In enemy territory. In the lion's den, if the lion were a guild master with a questionable taste in décor and a phallic-proportioned cannon. The fortress is damaged, but far from destroyed. And somewhere, in the dark and smoking depths of this metal labyrinth…" I gestured with my chin towards the dark corridors ahead, "…the most powerful mages of Phantom Lord, and the iron dragon you all so desperately want to find, are waiting. Probably very, very annoyed and with a considerable desire to kill us in creative, painful, and time-consuming ways."
That, at least, had the desired effect of making everyone shut up and pay a little attention, the fear and adrenaline finally overcoming the momentary stupidity.
(Eos,) I thought, as the group, finally, organised itself into something that vaguely resembled a combat formation. (General scan. The so-called Element Four. Where are the strongest signatures?)
[Initiating scan of high-level hostile magical signatures within the structure, Azra'il…] Eos's voice sounded in my mind, as cold and precise as ever. [Three signatures of significant power detected and isolated. Juvia Lockser, the water mage, in the eastern sector, lower levels of the structure. Sol, the earth mage, in the northern sector, in the sub-levels, probably in the foundations. Aria, the air mage, in the central command tower, on the uppermost floors.]
(Only three?) I frowned mentally. (There were four, weren't there? The very name, Element Four, implies, quite directly and with a simple mathematics that even Natsu would understand, the existence of… well, four elements. Where is the fire?)
[Correct. Your count is accurate, Azra'il,] Eos confirmed, and I could have sworn there was a pause in her transmission, a pause that I, knowing her so well, could have sworn contained an AI's smile. [The fire element mage, Totomaru, has not been detected anywhere in this structure.] Another pause, this time, I was sure, for dramatic effect. [Considering the extent of the damage caused by your Kamehameha, which, I must remind you, passed through approximately dozens of metres of reinforced metal, rooms, corridors, and everything else in its path, I would venture a well-founded hypothesis that he, along with an undetermined number of other Phantom Lord mages who had the misfortune of being in the way, was simply… vaporised. a swift and, for a fire mage, ironically appropriate death. To be erased from existence by a wave of energy hotter than any flame he could ever conjure.]
(Ah.) I blinked. (So that's it. One less, then. How… convenient. And a little disappointing. I didn't even see him.)
I felt absolutely nothing at this information. No remorse, no guilt, no particular satisfaction. The fire mage Totomaru had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time, defending the wrong cannon, and was now just another set of dispersed and disorganised atoms in Magnolia's atmosphere. Life, in its infinite and brutal simplicity, went on. As did our mission.
"Right, you barbarians, listen up," I said aloud, turning my attention back to the group who were staring at me, waiting for some kind of plan. "Change of plans. Apparently, the Element Four are now, for all intents and purposes, the Element Three. It seems the fire one had a rather unfortunate and terminal encounter with my welcoming attack just now. Along with, probably, a good number of other Phantom Lord mages who had the misfortune of being in the way."
"Wait," Lucy said, her brown eyes widening. "You… you mean you… killed… several of them? At once?"
"I mean they were in the way when I, intentionally, destroyed the cannon," I corrected, with a sigh. "And now, they are no longer anywhere on this plane of existence. The moral and philosophical interpretation of the facts is up to you, blondie."
"But… how do you know that?" Gray asked, frowning. "We haven't even properly entered yet. How can you be sure that—"
"Trust me," I said, raising a hand to cut off any further line of questioning. "Just… trust me. Don't ask how I know. Just accept that I know."
The group exchanged confused glances, but something in my expression, probably the complete and utter lack of willingness to explain, made them decide that this was a battle not worth fighting. And an uncomfortable and slightly horrified silence settled for a few seconds. Natsu, to his eternal credit and complete lack of a moral compass, was the first to break it with an unshakeable enthusiasm.
"Serves them right! Bastards! Fewer people to punch, but at least the ones who are left will pay for the rest!" he declared, punching his own palm with a grin.
"Natsu! Don't talk like that!" Lucy chided him, looking genuinely shocked.
"What? It's true! Now let's go! I want to find that bastard with the face piercings who hurt Levy!"
Ah, yes. Gajeel Redfox. The Iron Dragon Slayer. The real reason Natsu had been practically vibrating with anxiety and fury since we entered this floating rust bucket. The image of Levy, Jet, and Droy, wounded and humiliated, hanging from that tree like grotesque trophies, was still fresh in all our memories, burned in with iron and fire.
And it wasn't just Natsu who felt this fury.
Levy was… special. Not in the sentimental and cheesy way that most people would use that word. But she was one of the few people in that noisy guild with whom I could have a civilised conversation about ancient runes, forgotten texts, and obscure magical theories without wanting to tear my own ears off from boredom. She was intelligent, curious, kind in a way that wasn't irritating. And that damned iron Dragon Slayer had broken her. My own cold, patient anger stirred in the bottom of my chest like a waking serpent.
For someone with Natsu's simplistic, direct, but absolutely unshakeable moral code, what Gajeel did was an unforgivable sin, an affront that demanded immediate, personal, and preferably, very, very painful punishment. And I, honestly, agreed with him. For the first time in a long while, the flame-brain and I were on the same page.
The difference was that if Natsu failed, which I doubted, I would be more than happy to finish the job. And my version of "finishing the job" would not just involve punches and flames.
"Calm down, flame-brain," I said, raising a hand to stop him before he went running through the corridors like a headless chicken with his hair on fire. "Before we go running around like a bunch of disorganised idiots, let's, for a moment at least, try to do this intelligently. For the first time in this guild's history, perhaps. A little experiment."
"Being smart is boring! Punching is faster!" Natsu grumbled, but at least he stopped trying to run off like a madman. A small progress.
"Being smart is what will, ideally, keep you from dying in stupid, avoidable, and terribly embarrassing ways," I corrected, with the patience of a millennial monk. "Now, pay attention, because I hate repeating myself and I'm only going to explain this once."
I gestured with my chin at Gray, who already looked like he would rather be anywhere else. "You, walking ice-lolly. Eastern sector, lower levels. There's a water mage there. From what I know from previous reports, she was one of the ones who helped with Lucy's kidnapping."
Gray's face hardened, his eyes turning as cold as ice. "Consider it done."
"Oh, and Gray," I added, with a teasing smile. "Try not to lose to a female mage, yes? It would be shameful. And if she happens to have a pretty face, try not to get distracted."
Gray gave me an incredulous look. "Me? Get distracted by a pretty face?" He snorted, crossing his arms. "You're confusing me with yourself, Azra'il. I'm not the type to spare enemies just because they're attractive."
"I don't spare enemies because they're attractive," I corrected, with dignity. "I just… reconsider the speed of the execution. It's different."
"It's the same thing."
"It's not."
"It is."
"Just go, you exhibitionist, before I change my mind and send Natsu in your place. At least he doesn't question me."
Gray rolled his eyes, but a smirk escaped his lips as he turned to head towards the eastern sector. "Try not to destroy the whole fortress before we're done, alright?"
"No promises."
I then turned to the Strauss siblings. "You two, the pretty she-devil and the wardrobe of muscles. Northern sector, in the sub-levels of the fortress. The earth mage, Sol, is around there, probably hiding in the foundations like the cowardly mole he is. Work together. Elfman, your brute force is ideal for breaking his defences. Mira, your speed and power are the finishing blow. Don't let him escape underground; that would be irritating and would prolong the process."
Mirajane nodded, her face a mask of cold determination, the silent promise of a private hell for her opponent. Elfman slammed his fists together, the sound of stone on stone echoing down the metallic corridor. "Leave it to us! Defeating enemies who hide in the earth… is a man's job!"
"Technically, Mira is a woman, Elfman, which slightly invalidates your logic. But, alright, I appreciate the enthusiasm and willingness," I corrected, and moved on before he could try to explain his philosophy of masculinity to me.
Finally, my gaze turned to the most chaotic and, perhaps, most important pair of this mission. "Natsu. Lucy."
Natsu was already baring his teeth, like a wolf waiting for the signal to attack. "It's the iron one, isn't it? Say it's him! I want him!"
"Yes, flame-brain. The Iron Dragon Slayer, Gajeel. He must be somewhere in the heart of this metal mess, probably eagerly awaiting a fight. Natsu, you wanted revenge for what he did to Levy and the others. Here's your chance. Don't waste it by being an idiot." I then looked at Lucy. "And you, blondie, will go as support."
"S-support?! But I… I can fight too, you know?" she protested, her hand instinctively going to the belt where her keys should have been, and finding only emptiness. Panic crossed her face for an instant.
"Looking for this?" I reached into the inner pocket of my hanfu and pulled out the familiar golden keyring, with the whole set of celestial keys tinkling softly. I tossed it towards her in a lazy arc. "You dropped it when you were kidnapped. I borrowed it."
Lucy caught the keys in the air with a surprisingly good reflex, her eyes widening with relief and surprise. "My keys! I… I thought I'd lost them forever! Thank you, Azra'il!"
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me after you've used them to kick someone's deserving arse," I said, waving a hand to dismiss the gratitude. "And yes, I know you can fight. That's exactly why you're going with him. Gajeel is strong. Really strong. As strong as you, Natsu, maybe even more so in some respects. You're going to need someone covering your back, someone with a functioning brain, while you do what you do best: cause indiscriminate destruction and ignore any kind of strategy."
I lowered my voice slightly so that only she could hear. "Besides, Levy is your friend too, isn't she? You have a duty to make that bastard pay. Go and show him the strength of the Celestial Spirits."
Lucy's face changed, the indignation giving way to something softer, but no less intense. A cold determination. Gratitude. She clutched the keys to her chest for an instant, as if hugging old friends, and then clipped them back onto her belt with a decisive click. "Right. Let's do this. For her."
"Aye sir! I'll protect Lushy!" Happy exclaimed, raising a little paw with a bravery that was almost convincing.
"Brilliant. You'll go with them, then," I said to the cat. "And, for the love of all that is holy, try not to eat any shiny or radioactive parts you find along the way. I'm serious."
With the orders distributed like cards in a dangerous game, the group began to disperse, each heading in their respective direction, like arrows aimed at the heart of the enemy. But before Erza, who had been watching everything in silence with an air of reluctant approval, could take more than two steps to go with any of the groups, my voice stopped her.
"Erza. Wait a moment."
She turned, her expression questioning, her eyebrows slightly arched. The others, sensing that this was something private, had the decency (or the common sense not to meddle) and pretended they weren't listening as they hurried away.
"You didn't give me an order," she said, crossing her arms, her armour tinkling softly. "Where should I go? With whom?"
"Central command tower. The uppermost floors," I replied, my voice calm, but with a weight she would certainly understand.
Her brown eyes narrowed slightly, the strategist's brain working fast. "That's the sector where, according to your information, the air mage is. Aria."
"Exactly. One of the Element Four. Probably the strongest of them, since he was left as the last line of defence," I confirmed, holding her gaze firmly.
"And," she continued, her voice even lower, "…it's also the sector where, most likely, their Master is, José Porla."
"Also correct. Yes," I affirmed.
Erza stared at me for a long moment, the silence between us heavy with unsaid words, her penetrating gaze trying to decipher my true intentions behind the cold logic of my strategy. "You… you're sending me after Aria to get revenge for the Master… and to conveniently keep me away from José. Am I correct?"
It wasn't a question. It was a statement. And she was absolutely right.
"I am sending you after Aria, Erza," I said, my voice calm, but with an intensity that matched hers, "because he's the bastard who did that to Master Makarov. That grumpy, stubborn old man with a terrible taste in hats, who took us in when we were just two broken girls running from a hell." I paused briefly. "I know he means much more to you than to me. You were always the one who allowed yourself to love him back, the one who allowed yourself to have a real family. I just stayed around being difficult and complaining about the noise." A small, almost imperceptible smile touched my lips. "But you, Erza… you love him like a grandfather. And he loves you like a granddaughter. And that bastard Aria took that from you, drained his magic, left him on the verge of death in a cowardly way, by attacking from behind."
My gaze hardened.
"You deserve to be the one to bring justice for him. Not me. And not Natsu. You."
Erza was silent for a few seconds, her jaw tense, processing my words, the right I was giving her. I saw something flicker in her eyes, a mixture of pain, anger, and a fierce, deep gratitude. Then, her expression hardened again, but with a different, more personal focus. "And what about José? He is one of the Ten Wizard Saints, Azra'il. You cannot, you must not, face him alone in his fortress."
"I can. And I will," I replied, with a simplicity that was a statement of fact, not of bravado.
"Azra'il, don't be reckless! He is one of the strongest mages in Fiore! This is suicide!"
"Erza." My voice came out softer than I intended, almost a whisper, and the concern in her eyes only intensified. "I just vaporised, without much effort, their war cannon with a single technique, one that no one on this continent has ever seen or even dreamed existed. Do you really, sincerely, think that an arrogant old man who, even at the peak of his strength, could barely handle Master Makarov and who, on top of everything, is probably still coughing up blood and has a few broken ribs thanks to my… previous greeting, is going to be a serious problem for me?"
"This isn't about power, Azra'il, and you know it!" she insisted, the concern in her voice now tinged with desperation. "José is cunning, he's experienced, he's cruel! He is dangerous! And you… you cannot underestimate him!"
"And you're right. About all of it," I admitted, surprising her. "I know he is dangerous." I took another step forward, completely closing the space between us. We were close now. Close enough that I could see the small lines of exhaustion under her eyes, the scratches on her armour that she hadn't had time to fix yet, the tension in her shoulders that she had been carrying since she saw the Master fall, since this war began. Close enough for her to see the absolute seriousness in my own eyes.
"But I need you to trust me, Erza," I said, and my voice was a whisper, a veiled plea that only she could hear. "Just as I've trusted you, so many, many times. Just as I trust you now, to go up there and do what needs to be done for the one who saved you."
Erza's eyes searched mine, a storm of emotions, pride, anger, fear, loyalty. Fear. Yes, that was it. Her fear was not for herself. It was for me. "If… if something happens to you up there, Azra'il…" she began, her voice trembling.
"Nothing will happen that I can't handle," I replied, with a certainty I hoped was contagious.
"You can't guarantee that. No one can," she insisted, the warrior within her refusing to accept the uncertainty.
"No," I admitted, and a small smile, one that was just for her, touched my lips. "I can't guarantee it. But I can guarantee you that if something happens to me, it won't be for lack of strength or will. It will simply be because the universe decided to be very, very unfair to me on that specific day. And honestly," my voice became almost mocking, "I am too stubborn to die a pathetic death at the hands of an arrogant old man who coughs up blood with every word. It would be shameful. A stain on my reputation."
She didn't find it the least bit funny. Of course not. Erza never, ever, found my jokes about death and reincarnation funny. "That's not funny, Azra'il. And you know it."
"I know." My voice softened, losing all its irony. "But I need you to go, Erza. Not just for the Master, or for revenge. But because we both know that if we're in the same fight, we'll end up getting in each other's way. You'll want to cover me, I'll want to cover you, and in the end, neither of us will fight at one hundred percent because we'll be watching the other." A smirk escaped. "And I know you hate to admit it, but you're just as stubborn as I am when it comes to… this."
She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped. Because she knew I was right.
The silence that followed was thick, laden with unsaid things, with feelings neither of us was ready to name out loud.
Finally, Erza let out a sigh. A long, tired sigh, of one who knows they've lost a battle of wills.
"You… you are completely impossible, you know that?" she said, but there was no more anger in her voice. Just an exasperated resignation and a reluctant affection.
"I know. I'm told that with an alarming frequency," I replied.
"Stubborn. Arrogant."
"I know that too."
"And irritatingly, almost diabolically, persuasive when you want to be."
"It's one of my many and varied talents, my dear. I'm glad you've noticed."
She shook her head, but I saw the ghost of a smile touch her lips, a small victory amidst so much tension. "Alright, Azra'il. You win. I'll go after Aria. I'll make him pay for what he did to the Master. With interest." Her eyes shone with a cold promise. "But… if I hear a single sound that indicates you're in danger, if I feel your magic falter for a single instant, I will abandon everything and come to you, understood? I don't care about the orders."
"Fair enough," I agreed. "And if you die up there, Erza, I swear I'll find a way to resurrect you just so I can kill you again myself for being so careless."
She laughed, a low but genuine laugh. "Fair enough." And then, with one last look, one that was a mixture of a warning, of trust, and of something deeper that made my heart give that damned, irritating lurch again, she turned. With a fluid movement, she requipped one of her faster swords, a long, elegant blade that shone with a silvery light and promised a swift justice.
"Take care, Azra'il Weiss," she said, without turning back. And then, lower, almost inaudible, a whisper carried on the wind: "Please."
"I always take care, Erza Scarlet," I replied to her back.
And then she was gone, her firm, quick steps echoing down the metallic corridor as she climbed towards the central tower, towards her target, towards her revenge, her justice. I watched her disappear into the darkness, feeling that familiar, uncomfortable tightness in my chest, that irritating and addictive mixture of pride, worry, and an admiration I would never admit out loud.
(She'll be fine,) I told myself, trying to convince myself. (She is Erza Scarlet. Titania. She can handle a simple, overrated, arrogant air mage with ego problems.)
[The persistent concern in your neural patterns, as well as the elevation of your cortisol levels, suggests that you are not as confident in your own assessment as your words indicate, Azra'il,] Eos observed, because of course that damned artificial intelligence observed. She never missed anything.
(Shut your circuit-mouth, Eos. And start monitoring her vital signs. Now.)
[Just a factual observation, Azra'il. And I have already been monitoring them since she left your sight. Your subconscious protection protocols are so predictable.]
(I said shut up.)
With a sigh that came from the depths of my millennial and tired soul of having to deal with meddling AIs and stubborn, redhead warriors, I turned and began to walk in the opposite direction, into the depths of the destroyed fortress, to where I knew José Porla, the man who had started all this mess, was waiting for me.
The corridor before me was dark, illuminated only by the occasional sparks from broken cables and the faint, ghostly glow of a few emergency lacrimas that, miraculously, still worked, casting dancing shadows on the twisted metal walls. From somewhere distant, on the floors above and below me, I could already hear the sounds of battle beginning muffled explosions, cries of fury, the sharp, constant clang of metal on metal, the sound of breaking ice. My companions, my pack of noisy misfits, had already found their respective and unfortunate opponents.
And I? I walked alone, in an almost meditative silence, my steps echoing softly in the desolation, towards the final confrontation. Towards the heart of the beast.
(José Porla,) I thought, and a cold smile, devoid of any warmth or humour, formed on my lips, the smile of a predator that has finally found the trail of its prey. (One of the Ten Wizard Saints, whatever that means. Master of one of the most powerful and wealthy guilds in Fiore. A man who dared to attack my family. Who dared to harm my friends. Who dared to threaten my home.)
I passed through a door that I kicked off its hinges and entered a wider corridor, where the signs of my own destruction were even more evident. Massive chunks of the wall had collapsed, creating small mountains of rubble that I had to climb over or around with an agility that came from years of practice. In a corner, I saw what was left of a large medieval suit of armour, not a magical armour, just a decorative piece, probably part of José's pretentious and tacky collection. Now, it was just a pile of twisted, useless, and pathetic metal, an omen of what was to come.
(He thought he was untouchable,) I continued my internal monologue, as I climbed a pile of rubble with the agility and effortlessness of someone who has done this more times than they'd care to admit, in worlds far more destroyed than this one. (He thought he could play with Fairy Tail like an old, fat cat plays with a wounded mouse. He thought his giant cannon and his walking fortress of dreadful taste made him invincible.)
I reached the top of the pile and jumped to the other side, landing softly, without a sound, on the relatively clean floor of a new corridor.
(Poor, poor, and predictable idiot. He doesn't even imagine, not in his worst and darkest nightmares, what is, in fact, coming his way.)
[José Porla's magical signature detected and located,] Eos informed, her voice cold and precise in my mind. [Approximately two hundred metres ahead and one floor up. He is in motion, but slowly and erratically. The damage you caused him previously on the outskirts of Oak Town seems to be significantly affecting his mobility and, from the patterns of his audible breathing, his respiratory capacity.]
(What a shame. Honestly. And here I was, looking forward to a fair and balanced fight. I'll have to settle for a quick and efficient massacre, then,) I thought, with a disappointment that was entirely and completely false.
[Detecting sarcasm at dangerously high levels. Registering for later psychological analysis and possible adjustment of your dark humour parameters.]
(You do that every time I'm brilliant, Eos. I'm starting to think you like it.)
I continued walking, my pace calm and steady, past more destroyed corridors, more ruined rooms, more evidence of the chaos my single, measly attack had caused to the structure of that overrated fortress. At a certain point, I found what seemed to have been, in the recent past, a meeting room, a long, noble dark wood table, now snapped in half like a twig, luxurious leather chairs overturned and torn, papers and scrolls scattered all over the floor like autumn leaves. Maps. Mission reports. Confidential documents with the seal of Phantom Lord.
I stopped for a moment, my foot brushing one of the papers. I bent down and picked it up from the floor, my eyes quickly scanning its contents. It was a contract. A cold, impersonal service contract, detailing the terms of the agreement between the Phantom Lord guild and… my blue eyes narrowed… Jude Heartfilia. The obscene amount offered for the "safe and, if necessary, forced return" of his daughter, Lucy Heartfilia, was there, written in numbers that would make most people, and even some kings, choke. A fortune. An obscene and immoral fortune, offered by a father to kidnap and, essentially, imprison his own daughter.
I crumpled the paper in my hand with a force that turned it into a compact ball and let it fall to the floor with a dull thud, as if discarding rubbish.
(Humans,) I thought, and there was a weariness that came from centuries and centuries of observation in my soul, (have an almost infinite and artistically creative capacity for cruelty. Especially, and ironically, against those they are, in theory, supposed to love and protect. What a fascinating and depressing species.)
I continued walking, the cold anger adding to my determination.
The corridors grew narrower, darker, and, curiously, less destroyed. I was approaching the top of the fortress, the command tower, the area that probably served as José's personal quarters and sanctuary. The decor here was more elaborate, or at least, it had been, before my… direct and noisy intervention. Torn and scorched tapestries hung from the walls like shrouds. Bronze statues of famous mages (or perhaps of himself in heroic poses) lay toppled on the floor, some broken, others just humiliated. A crystal chandelier the size of a small car had collapsed from the ceiling, scattering thousands of glittering fragments that crunched under my boots like frozen snow, a strangely satisfying sound.
And then, finally, I reached a door. A large, double door of solid wood, probably from some rare and extinct tree, reinforced with bars of black iron and protection runes. A door that, despite all the destruction and chaos around, was still standing. Intact. Closed. As if daring the world to try and open it.
I stopped before it, feeling the magical energy pulsating from the other side.
[José Porla is on the other side, Azra'il,] Eos confirmed the obvious. [His vital patterns indicate high stress, significant physical pain, but also a growing concentration of magic. He knows you are coming. He is preparing for battle. And he is not alone.]
(Ah, so he has company? How rude. And here I came all this way for a private audience.)
[Not exactly. I detect multiple magical signatures, but they are… spectral. Incorporeal. Echoes of power. Part of his own magic.]
(Interesting. A ghost show, then. At least he's trying to be original.)
I raised a hand and, with a casual movement, as if knocking on an ordinary door to ask for sugar, I pushed the solid wood. As expected, it didn't move. Locked. And sealed with some kind of defensive magic. Predictable.
I sighed, a sound of pure and profound annoyance with the lack of creativity of modern villains.
(Why, Eos, why do they always have to make things the hard and tedious way?)
I concentrated a small, tiny amount of energy at the tip of my fingers, not my ancestral Ki, which would probably disintegrate the door, the wall, and possibly a considerable part of the fortress's structure, but just ordinary Ethernano, because I really didn't need to use a cannon to kill a particularly annoying fly and gently touched the iron lock. The metal, for an instant, seemed to resist. And then, it melted. No sound. No smoke. It simply liquefied, running down the wood like tears of liquid silver, revealing the internal mechanism which also dissolved. The door, now free of its lock and its magical seals, slowly opened on its own, with a long, dramatic, and ominous creak that echoed down the silent corridor, like the opening of an ancient tomb. And I, with a scornful smile on my lips, entered to meet the pharaoh.
On the other side, a large room was revealed. And, indeed, it was what was left of a luxurious and ridiculously pretentious office mahogany desks carved with details that screamed "I am very rich," tall shelves full of leather-bound books that I was sure he had never read, velvet armchairs that looked like they had been stolen from a haunted castle, all illuminated by the faint, pale light coming through a huge cracked window in the ceiling, from which one could see the moon and the stars. And there, in the centre of it all, standing, but clearly leaning on an expensive-looking cane that I was sure was not part of his usual look and was more a necessity than a fashion accessory, was him.
José Porla.
Master of the glorious and now slightly perforated Phantom Lord guild. One of the Ten Wizard Saints, according to the questionable standards of this continent. The man responsible for this whole mess. The next on my list.
And, I must admit, he looked… dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. And that, in itself, gave me a deep, warm, and completely justified satisfaction that not even the best cup of tea in the universe could provide.
His face, which had probably once been considered elegant in an aristocratic, cold, and insufferably smug way, was now as pale as candle wax, covered in a thin, shiny layer of cold sweat. His elaborate clothes, some kind of exaggerated blue coat with golden details that screamed "opera villain with an unlimited budget," were crumpled, dirty with dust, and, in some places, stained with something that looked suspiciously like his own dried blood. His hair, once, I imagine, impeccably styled with some expensive product, was now in a disarray that suggested pain and a profound lack of concern for aesthetics. And his eyes… his dark, deep-set eyes, were looking at me with a hatred so intense, so pure, so concentrated, that it was almost admirable in its totality.
"You," he said, and his voice, which had sounded so imposing and threatening through the fortress's sound system before, now came out as a low, weak growl, interrupted by a dry, painful cough that he tried, without the slightest success, to suppress. "You… cough… dared… to invade my sanctuary…"
"Hello, José," I said, walking calmly into the room, my boots making an almost silent sound on the expensive carpet, my hands relaxed at my sides, the picture of tranquillity. "Sanctuary? A strong word. I would say… an office with excessive ventilation now. You look simply terrible, I must say. Should I assume that my affectionate kick from the other time, in Oak Town, is still having a lasting effect? Or was it my little Kamehameha that left you so… nervous and breathless?"
He glared at me, and I could see his jaw was so tense I thought I could hear his teeth grinding from across the room. "You… cough cough… you wretch… you destroyed my fortress. Killed my men. Ruined… cough… ruined absolutely everything!"
"Technically," I pointed out, with a calm and professorial reasonableness that I knew, with absolute certainty, would irritate him even more. "You were the one who started this whole mess. You attacked our guild first, without provocation. You hurt our members. You kidnapped one of our mages. And, most grievously of all, you threatened to destroy our city, our home, with a ridiculously large and compensatory cannon." I tilted my head, pretending to think, as if weighing the facts. "Considering all that, I would say that everything that happened afterwards, every little scratch on your fortress, every one of your members who needed a… forced medical break, was just… a logical and natural consequence of your own stupid actions. Cause and effect. As simple as that."
"CONSEQUENCE?!" He tried to shout, the indignation making his pale face turn red, but the word turned into another coughing fit, violent and deep, enough to make him bend over his cane, his whole body trembling. When he finally managed to recover, coughing something dark onto the floor, there was a trickle of fresh blood running from the corner of his lips. "I am José Porla! I am one of the Ten Wizard Saints! Phantom Lord is one of the most powerful and feared guilds in all of Fiore! And you… you are just… cough… some random mage, an arrogant child from a guild of… of noisy, sentimental, failed misfits!"
I let him finish his little, pathetic speech, the last gasp of a mortally wounded ego. It was the least I could do before finishing him off for good.
"Have you finished your monologue?" I asked politely, when he finally stopped to breathe, or to cough some more. "Because if so, I would like to make a few small and important corrections to your narrative, just for the sake of historical accuracy. I detest inaccuracies."
He looked at me, and now there was a hint of confusion mixing with the hatred on his pale, sweaty face.
"First," I said, raising a single, elegant finger, "I am not, in any way, 'just' some random mage. I am Azra'il Weiss. And although I understand that this name means absolutely nothing to you now, in your moment of agony and humiliation, I assure you that in the few and precious minutes of life you have left, you will learn to respect it. And to fear it."
I raised a second finger. "Second, Fairy Tail is not, in fact, a guild of sentimental, noisy, failed misfits. Well, perhaps the noisy and sentimental part is a little accurate. But above all, it is a family. A terribly dysfunctional, chaotic, irritating family, with a worrying tendency for the destruction of public and private property and, frankly, with poor hygiene habits in some of its members. Yes. But a family, nonetheless. And you, my dear and already-condemned guild master," my gaze hardened, the temperature in the room dropping a few degrees, "have made the primary and childish mistake of messing with my family."
And, finally, I raised a third finger. "And lastly, about you being one of the Ten Wizard Saints…" I smiled, a cold, cutting smile that did not reach my eyes, and I saw something new flicker in his. Something that was not anger or pride. It was fear. Pure and simple fear. "That, perhaps, meant something before you decided to start this stupid war. Perhaps even a few hours ago. But now? At this very moment? Now you are just a pathetic old man, coughing up blood on your expensive carpet, barely able to stand, about to be defeated in your own ruined sanctuary by someone you don't even begin to comprehend. The title? It has, suddenly, become irrelevant."
I slowly lowered my hand, letting my words hang in the air like a sentence.
"So, José Porla, former master of the almost-extinct Phantom Lord guild, and former Wizard Saint, unless an unlikely miracle occurs," I said, and my voice, now, was completely devoid of any humour or sarcasm. It was just cold, hard, final, like the sound of a tomb door closing. "You have, at this moment, two options, and only two. And I suggest you choose very, very carefully. One: you can surrender now, unconditionally. You will be arrested, tried by what's left of the Magic Council, and will probably spend the rest of your miserable and painful life rotting in some dark, damp cell, lamenting your poor strategic decisions. Or two…"
I didn't finish the sentence. There was no need.
The smile that formed on his face, despite all the pain, the evident weakness, and the blood on his lips, was… disturbing. It was not the smile of a defeated man. It was the smile of a man who had already passed the point of rationality, of self-preservation, of no return. The smile of a madman.
"You… you really think…" he said, straightening up with a visible effort, the cane trembling in his hand, and his dark, oppressive magic began to manifest around him, like a black, ghostly aura that seemed to suck the very light from the room, "…that I, José Porla, will surrender? To you? To an arrogant and insolent child who doesn't know who she's dealing with? To a member of that trash guild?!"
The magical pressure that emanated from him, I had to admit, was considerable, even in his weakened state. By this world's standards, for a mere mortal, he was genuinely powerful. The black aura, which I vaguely recognised as some form of shadow magic or spectral summoning, was rapidly expanding through the office, darkening the corners, making the temperature in the room plummet.
"I will show you," he continued, his voice gaining a supernatural strength as his power grew, fuelled by his pure and absolute hatred, "why I am one of the Ten Wizard Saints! Why Phantom Lord has been feared throughout the kingdom! Why you, and all your precious and pathetic Fairy Tail guild, should never, ever have crossed my path!"
And with a final cry of fury and desperation, his magic exploded.
Ghosts. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of ghosts, translucent, spectral forms with faces contorted in agony, materialised from the darkness around him, completely filling the room with their ethereal bodies and their silent, desperate screams. It was a sight that, I supposed, would have made most ordinary mages freeze in terror, a display of power that, under normal circumstances, would justify his position among the ten strongest and most feared mages in Fiore.
[Full analysis of the hostile magical manifestation,] Eos informed in my mind, her voice as calm and dispassionate as if she were reading a weather report or a cake recipe. [Shadow Magic, spectral summoning variant, known as 'Dead Wave'. Estimated power of the current manifestation: upper S-Class. Destructive capability of the technique: significant. Actual threat to your person, considering your current skills and defences: minimal. Statistically irrelevant.]
(I know, Eos. It's just very… noisy, don't you think?) I replied mentally. (But, alright, let's let him have his fun. It is, after all, his last and great moment of glory. Courtesy demands that I watch him with at least a modicum of attention.)
José raised his hands, and the ghosts around him, responding to his command, began to spin, forming a vortex of darkness, wails, and silent screams, a storm of lost souls. The air in the room grew cold, dense, heavy, laden with an energy of death that would make any ordinary mage tremble with fear and perhaps even have a heart attack.
"BEHOLD!" he shouted, his voice echoing with a supernatural power that did not seem to come from him. "THE POWER OF THE SHADES OF DEATH! THE MAGIC THAT MADE ENTIRE KINGDOMS TREMBLE! THE INVINCIBLE FORCE THAT WILL—"
"José," I interrupted him, and my voice, calm, low, and laden with an almost palpable boredom, cut through all his dramatics and his storm of ghosts like a cold, sharp blade. "Frankly, you talk too much."
The vortex of ghosts stopped for an instant. For one brief, almost imperceptible instant, I saw uncertainty cross his face, the confusion breaking his pose of absolute power.
And then, with a deliberate slowness, I smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile. It was not the sarcastic smile I used to irritate Natsu, or the soft, almost affectionate smile that sometimes, very rarely, escaped my lips when Erza did something particularly adorable in her stubbornness. It was a different smile. An ancient smile. Cold. Devoid of any recognisable human emotion. It was the kind of smile that the oldest and most powerful predators in the universe show their prey at the exact and terrible moment when they realise, too late, that they never had a chance, that the hunt was never fair, that the outcome was already decided from the very beginning.