The air in the room grew thick, laden with a dark and oppressive energy that would make any ordinary mage tremble to their very bones. José's ghosts swirled around me like hungry vultures, their faces contorted in expressions of eternal agony, their mouths open in silent screams that promised a slow and painful death. It was, I had to admit, a visually impressive spectacle. If I were an ordinary mage, I might even have been a little intimidated.
But I was not an ordinary mage. And José's little light and ghost show was starting to bore me.
"DIE!" José screamed, his voice echoing with a supernatural power, and with a dramatic gesture of his hands, he launched the first wave of ghosts directly at me. Dozens of spectral forms, each carrying enough energy to disintegrate a mid-level mage, flew towards me like an avalanche of death and despair.
I did not move. Not immediately.
I let them approach. I let José savour, for one brief and illusory instant, the sweet sensation of victory. And then, when the first ghost was inches from my face, I simply… tilted my head to the side.
The ghost passed through where my face had been a fraction of a second before and crashed into the wall behind me, disintegrating a considerable section of stone and wood. The others followed, a rain of furious spectres, and I dodged them all. Without hurry. Without effort. As if I were dancing a slow and tedious waltz with particularly clumsy partners.
[Analysis of the first attack complete,] Eos informed in my mind, her voice as calm as if she were commenting on the weather. [Individual power of each spectral manifestation: approximately equivalent to a Class-A spell. Attack speed: 847 kilometres per hour. Accuracy: acceptable by human standards. Cumulative threat to your person: statistically irrelevant. You could dodge these attacks in your sleep, Azra'il. And you would probably have more interesting dreams.]
(I know, Eos. But let the old man have his fun. After all, it's his last show.)
José, to his credit, did not seem discouraged by the initial failure. On the contrary, his face contorted into a mask of even greater fury, and he raised his hands again, the black aura around him intensifying.
"You think you can provoke me?!" he snarled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he forced his already damaged body to channel even more power. "You are nothing! NOTHING! Dead Wave!"
A massive wave of shadow energy exploded from his palms, a wall of pure darkness that expanded rapidly, consuming everything in its path. The bookshelves were disintegrated. The velvet armchairs turned to dust. The very air seemed to scream as the wave advanced, promising to obliterate anything it touched.
I raised one hand. A single hand. And when the wave of destruction reached me, I simply… pushed it aside.
The shadow energy split around me like water around a rock, roaring to the sides and destroying what was left of the office walls, but without touching me. Without even messing up my hair.
"Interesting," I said, examining my hand as if checking my nails. "An area-of-effect technique. Impressive by local standards, I suppose. But terribly inefficient against someone who knows what they're doing."
The expression on José's face was almost comical. Disbelief. Denial. And, growing beneath it all like a black tide, despair.
"Im… impossible…" he babbled, sweat pouring down his pale face. "No mage should be able to simply… deflect…"
"And yet," I interrupted him, with a smile that contained no warmth, "here we are."
He roared in frustration, an animalistic and desperate sound, and launched attack after attack. Dark Pulse, concentrated bursts of dark energy that pierced the air like cannonballs. I dodged them with minimal movements, sometimes just turning my body, sometimes using a single finger. Shade Legion, more ghosts, dozens, hundreds of them, a spectral horde that would have been enough to conquer a small city. I walked through them as if they were morning mist, letting them pass through me without causing harm, or simply dispersing them with a glance.
[Current count of attacks delivered by José Porla: 47,] Eos updated, with an almost irritating efficiency. [Count of attacks that caused any measurable damage to your person: zero. Opponent's frustration levels: critical. Opponent's magical reserve levels: approximately 23% and rapidly decreasing. Suggestion: perhaps it is time to stop playing with your food, Azra'il.]
(Patience, Eos. Art cannot be rushed.)
José, panting, trembling, spent his last reserves of energy on one final technique. I could feel him channelling everything he had, every drop of power, every fragment of his corrupted soul, into a single, desperate attack.
"Dark… Moment…" he whispered, and the darkness exploded.
It was not just the absence of light. It was the absence of everything. The world around me disappeared, swallowed by an absolute void that deprived all senses. There was no sound. There was no smell. There was no touch. Just a darkness so deep, so complete, that most living beings would go mad in seconds.
[Technique identified: Dark Moment. A magic of absolute sensory deprivation. Maximum sustainable duration by the caster in his current state: approximately 30 seconds. Effect on you: nil. You have spent ages in dimensional vacuums darker and quieter than this, Azra'il. This is, comparatively, a poorly lit wardrobe.]
(I know. But I admit it's an interesting trick. A shame he has no idea who he's dealing with.)
I waited. I counted the seconds. I let José savour his illusion of victory, his certainty that he had finally defeated me, trapped me in his eternal darkness.
And then, at exactly the twenty-eighth second, when I felt the technique begin to waver, I simply… switched on a light.
It was nothing dramatic. Just a small sphere of pure energy, the size of a tennis ball, floating above my open palm. But in that absolute darkness, it shone like a sun. And when the light touched José's shadows, they dissolved like smoke in the wind.
The world returned. The destroyed office, the moon visible through the ruined ceiling, and José Porla, on his knees on the floor, panting, trembling, completely exhausted.
"Is that it?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Have you used all your tricks? Have you shown all the power that makes you one of the Ten Wizard Saints?"
He looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw something that gave me a deep and warm satisfaction. It was no longer anger. It was no longer pride. It was terror. Pure, absolute, and paralysing terror.
"W-what… what are you…?" he whispered, his voice broken.
And I, finally, let the mask fall.
The smile vanished from my face. The casual, slightly bored posture that I maintained like a second skin dissolved. And what was left in its place was something I rarely showed. Something I carefully hid, every day, from all the people I pretended to call "comrades."
The truth.
"You know, José," I said, and my voice was different now. Lower. Colder. Devoid of any trace of humanity or humour. "I spend most of my time pretending. It's almost a hobby, really. I pretend to be just another mage. I pretend to care about the rules, the laws, the morality that you mortals so cherish. I pretend I have patience. I pretend I am… civilised."
I began to walk towards him, my steps slow, deliberate, each one echoing in the silence like a sentence.
"But the truth, my dear and already-condemned José, is quite different. The truth is, I have already been everything you fear in the dark. Every nightmare you've ever had, every monster you've imagined hiding in the shadows, every demon you've prayed you would never meet…"
I stopped before him, looking down at that pathetic, trembling figure who had once considered himself one of the most powerful mages on the continent.
"…I have been worse. Far, far worse."
José tried to crawl backwards, the survival instinct finally overcoming his pride, but his legs wouldn't respond. His body, drained of all energy, refused to obey.
"Please…" he began to say, and there was something in his voice that could have been the start of a plea.
"Shh," I silenced him, placing a finger over my own lips in an almost maternal gesture. "Don't spoil the moment with words, José. Words are for the living. And you," I smiled, and it was the kind of smile that would make demons look away, "no longer qualify."
I drew my Jian from its scabbard on my back. The seemingly harmless wooden blade shone softly in the moonlight that streamed through the destroyed ceiling. José looked at it with confusion, probably wondering why I would use a wooden weapon against him.
He would find out soon enough.
"You wanted to be remembered, didn't you, José?" I asked, slowly twirling the Jian between my fingers, the blade singing softly in the air. "You wanted your name to echo through history. You wanted to be feared, respected, immortalised."
I brought the tip of the Jian to his face, tracing a soft, almost affectionate line along his cheek. Where the wood touched, the skin opened, not with the brutality of a common cut, but with the surgical precision of a blade infinitely sharper than any steel.
"I'm going to give you that," I promised, watching the blood trickle down his face, a perfect red stream against his pale skin. "I'm going to turn you into a legend. An example. A story that the mages of this continent will tell their children and grandchildren, to teach them a very, very important lesson."
Another cut. This one on his shoulder. Precise. Deliberate. Deep enough to cause agonising pain, but not enough to kill him. Not yet.
"The lesson," I continued, as I worked, "is simple: don't touch Fairy Tail."
José screamed. A high, desperate sound that echoed through the ruins of the office. Music to my ears.
"No, no, no," I murmured, frowning as I examined my work. "That cut is slightly asymmetrical. Unacceptable. Let me correct it."
Another cut. On the other shoulder. Perfectly mirrored.
"Much better."
[Azra'il,] Eos's voice sounded in my mind, and for the first time, there was something in her tone that wasn't pure analysis. Something that could be interpreted as caution. [The levels of endorphins and adrenaline in your system are reaching peaks I haven't registered since… previous events. You are enjoying this.]
(Of course I am, Eos. It's been a while since I've allowed myself… this. Let me have my moment.)
[Just an observation. Continue.]
And I continued.
Each cut was a statement. Each scream was a note in a symphony that only I could fully appreciate. I worked with the precision of an artist and the patience of an eternity, transforming José Porla's body into a canvas for my private art.
They were not random cuts. There was a pattern. An aesthetic. Lines that crossed at specific angles, creating shapes that, to a common observer, would seem chaotic, but which, to trained eyes, would reveal something more. Runes. Ancient. Forgotten. Symbols from an era when magic was wild and gods still walked among mortals.
"You know," I said conversationally, as I worked on a particularly complex pattern on his chest, "most people don't understand the beauty of pain. They see it as something to be avoided, something negative. But pain, José, when applied correctly, is the purest form of communication. It is honest. It is immediate. There is no room for lies or pretence when every nerve in your body is screaming."
He had stopped screaming some time ago. Now he was just crying, a low, pathetic sound, tears and blood mixing on his ruined face.
"And what your pain is telling me now," I continued, tilting my head to examine my work, "is that you finally understand. You finally comprehend how small, how insignificant, how terribly ill-prepared you were to face me."
I took a step back, admiring the completed work. José's body was now a tapestry of precise cuts, each one telling a part of the story, each one contributing to the whole. It was, if I may say so myself, one of my best works in a long time.
"The art," I said, sheathing the Jian, "is almost complete. All that's left is… the final touch."
I knelt beside him, almost gently, like a mother about to say goodnight to a child. My hands, surprisingly still clean despite all the work, I was always careful with personal aesthetics found his neck.
José tried to say something. His lips moved, forming words that never materialised into sound. A final threat, perhaps. A final plea. A curse. I didn't care enough to decipher it.
"You wanted to be remembered, didn't you, José?" I whispered, my fingers closing around his throat, feeling the weak, erratic, desperate pulse beating against my palm like a trapped bird. "You wanted your name to echo through history. You wanted to be feared, respected, immortalised."
I leaned closer, my lips almost touching his ear, my voice now just an intimate, almost affectionate whisper, the kind of whisper lovers exchange in the dark.
"Congratulations. You will be remembered. As an example of what happens when someone is stupid enough to touch my family."
And then, with a single movement, not quick, not merciful, but deliberate, slow enough for him to feel every fibre, every tendon, every vertebra separating, I tore his head from his body.
The sound was… satisfying. Wet. Final. The kind of sound that closes chapters and begins legends.
I stood up, holding the head by the hair, examining it with an almost academic interest. The eyes were still open, wide with an absolute terror that death had not managed to erase. The mouth was half-open, frozen in the middle of a word that would never be spoken.
"You look better this way," I said to the head, as if it could hear me. "Quieter. Considerably more pleasant to be around."
[Is the work complete?] Eos asked.
(Almost. The exhibition is missing.)
I turned and began to walk towards the exit, carrying my trophy by the hair with the same casualness with which one would carry a shopping bag. José's body was left behind, a heap of flesh and bone that had once considered itself one of the most powerful mages in Fiore. Now it was just… rubbish. Remains. A bloody footnote in history.
The corridors of the fortress were quieter now. The sounds of battle had subsided, replaced by occasional groans of pain and the murmur of voices. My boots echoed on the metal, a rhythmic and constant sound, as I descended towards the main hall.
I found them in the large central hall of the fortress, the area that had probably served as the operational heart of Phantom Lord before I had, so kindly, remodelled the place's architecture. The space was full of people now. Phantom Lord mages, some wounded, some just frightened, all unarmed and clearly defeated. And, surrounding them like shepherds watching a particularly pathetic flock, were the victorious members of Fairy Tail.
I saw Gray first, with a new collection of scratches and, of course, shirtless. Beside him, to my surprise, was the water mage, Juvia, if I remembered correctly, who was looking at him with an expression that was a fascinating mixture of adoration and confusion. Interesting. I would have to ask about that later.
I saw Mirajane and Elfman, both clearly victorious. I saw Natsu, with a grin from ear to ear, his fists still smoking, and an impressive number of new bruises decorating his face and body. Beside him, Lucy looked like she'd been through a hurricane, her hair dishevelled, her clothes torn, dust all over her, but she held her celestial keys with a fierce pride that made me feel something irritatingly close to approval. Happy was flying around them, chattering about something that probably involved fish and questionable bravery.
And on the floor, a few metres from Natsu, was him. Gajeel Redfox. The Iron Dragon Slayer. The bastard who had turned Levy, Jet, and Droy into trophies hanging from a tree.
He was destroyed. There was no other word to describe it. His body was stretched out on the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, covered in burns, contusions, and cuts. His face, that arrogant face full of piercings, was swollen and bloodied, barely recognisable. He was breathing, I could see his chest rising and falling weakly, but he clearly wouldn't be waking up anytime soon.
Natsu had done a good job. A very, very good job.
I looked at the fallen Iron Dragon Slayer, then at Natsu, and allowed a small smile of genuine approval to touch my lips. The flame-brain had kept his promise. He had brought justice for Levy. In his noisy, destructive, and completely exaggerated way, yes, but justice nonetheless.
(Good boy,) I thought. (Maybe you're not as useless as I like to pretend.)
[Are you feeling pride?] Eos asked, and there was a note of surprise in her voice. [For Natsu Dragneel? The individual you regularly classify as a "walking disaster with impulse control problems"?]
(Shut up, Eos. And don't tell anyone.)
And then I saw Erza. My Erza. Her armour was scratched, her scarlet hair loose and wild, and there was blood on her sword, not hers, I hoped. She was standing, as imposing as ever, the personification of Titania in all her post-battle glory.
They all saw me at the same time. They saw me. They saw what I was carrying.
The silence that fell over the hall was absolute. Total. The kind of silence that exists only when death enters a room and everyone realises, at the same time, that it could easily decide to stay for dinner.
I continued walking, my steps echoing in that silence like the beat of a funeral drum. The Phantom Lord mages moved out of my way instinctively, some stumbling over each other in their haste not to be in my path. The members of Fairy Tail just… stared. Some with shock. Some with horror. Some, like Gray, with something that could be reluctant approval.
When I reached the centre of the hall, I stopped. I looked around, making sure all eyes were on me. And then, with a casual, almost distracted movement, like one who throws a ball for a dog, I tossed José Porla's head onto the floor.
It rolled a few times, leaving a red trail on the floor, until it stopped at the feet of a Phantom Lord mage I didn't recognise. He looked down. He looked at the head of his former master, the dead eyes staring at the ceiling, the mouth still open in a silent scream.
And he vomited. Spectacularly.
"Phantom Lord," I said, and my voice, calm, cold, devoid of any emotion, echoed through the silent hall like the tolling of a bell, "is finished. Your master is dead. Your fortress is in ruins. Your army is defeated."
I let the words settle, observing the reactions. Fear. Shock. Despair. Some of the Phantom Lord mages were crying silently. Others were trembling. Some looked as if they were about to faint.
"What you do with the rest of your pathetic and purposeless lives," I continued, "is your own problem. Go away. Rebuild. Find new masters. Open bakeries. I really don't care."
I paused, letting a smile, that smile, slowly form on my lips.
"But if any of you, at any point in the future, however distant, think of touching any member of Fairy Tail again… if the idea even crosses your small and insignificant minds…"
My gaze swept the hall, meeting every pair of eyes, engraving my message into their souls.
"…I will make what I did to him seem like mercy."
The silence that followed was so deep I could hear the sound of blood still dripping from José's head onto the floor. No one dared to breathe. No one dared to move. The terror was palpable, almost physical, a weight that pressed down on everyone in that room.
And then, as if a spell had been broken, Lucy moved. She took a trembling step towards me, her face pale, her eyes wide.
"A-Azra'il…" she began, her voice failing. "Are… are you… alright?"
I looked at her as if I had forgotten other people existed. Which, honestly, was partially true. When I entered that state, that mode, the world tended to shrink to just me and my work.
"Hmm?" I blinked, forcing the mask back into place, piece by piece. "Ah. Yes. I'm perfectly fine, thank you for asking. I just need a bath." I looked at my hands, noticing the dried blood for the first time. "And perhaps a good cup of tea. Does anyone know if there's a functional kitchen left in this old tin can? I'd really kill for a decent infusion right now." I paused. "Well. Kill more, technically."
The joke fell flat. No one laughed. No one even smiled. They just kept staring at me, and I could see in their eyes, in the eyes of every single one of them, that something had changed. Something fundamental. They had seen something they couldn't unsee. They had met a part of me that I kept carefully hidden.
Natsu, to my surprise, was silent. The boy who never shut up, who had an opinion on everything and didn't hesitate to express it at the top of his lungs, was simply… quiet. He was looking at José's head on the floor, then at me, then at the head again, his normally so expressive face now unreadable. It wasn't approval. It wasn't condemnation. It was something more complicated. Something he probably didn't know how to process.
Gray was the first to find his voice. "You… you tore his head off…"
"Yes," I confirmed, as if we were discussing the weather. "It was the most efficient way to ensure he didn't come back. You'd be surprised how many villains have a nasty habit of surviving seemingly fatal injuries. Decapitation solves that problem quite definitively."
"That's…" he began, but stopped, apparently unable to find the right words.
"Brutal?" I offered. "Excessive? Unnecessary? Artistically satisfying?"
"I was going to say 'intense'," he murmured.
Erza had said nothing. She was just looking at me, her brown eyes unreadable, her expression a mask that rivalled my own. I held her gaze, waiting. Waiting for the judgement. For the condemnation. For the rejection.
But before either of us could speak, before the moment could resolve itself one way or another, the sound of footsteps interrupted the silence.
They were not hurried steps, nor hesitant. They were firm, steady, measured steps, laden with an authority and a weight that I would recognise anywhere, in any world, in any life.
Everyone turned towards the entrance of the hall.
And there he was. Makarov Dreyar. The Master of Fairy Tail. Standing, firm, without the weakness that had brought him down before. He seemed smaller than I remembered, but then, he had always seemed small physically. It was his presence that was gigantic. The aura. The weight of decades of experience, of battles, of losses and victories, all condensed into a figure that barely reached my waist.
His eyes, normally kind, playful, full of that irritating grandfatherly wisdom of one who has seen too much and yet still chooses to smile, were now serious. Intense. Sweeping the scene before him with the precision of a general analysing a battlefield after the conflict.
He saw the Phantom Lord mages, defeated and terrified, huddled together like frightened cattle.
He saw the members of Fairy Tail, victorious, but in a silence that did not match any victory.
He saw the head of José Porla on the floor, the dead eyes still wide open, the blood still forming a slowly expanding pool.
And then, slowly, very slowly, his gaze met mine.
The silence that followed was the heaviest I had experienced in this life. Heavier than the pressure of my own power when I had almost lost control in Magnolia's square. Heavier than the darkness of José's shadows. Heavier than all the ghosts he had summoned.
It was the silence of a judgement. Of an unasked question. Of a chasm opening between the person I pretended to be and the creature I truly was.
Makarov said nothing. Not immediately. He just looked at me, and I, for the first time in a very, very long time, could not read what was in those eyes. Disappointment? Fear? Understanding? Condemnation?
[Elevated heart rate detected,] Eos observed in my mind. [Yours, Azra'il. Not his. Interesting.]
(Shut up, Eos.)
"Master!" Erza's voice broke the silence, a mixture of surprise, relief, and worry. She took a step towards him, the warrior's mask falling for an instant to reveal the girl he had saved so many years ago. "You're alright! You've recovered! How...?"
But Makarov did not answer her. He did not look away from me. Not for a second.
And then, finally, he spoke. A single word. Low. Heavy. Laden with something I couldn't, or wouldn't, identify.
"Azra'il."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't a greeting. It was just my name. But the way he said it… the way each syllable carried the weight of everything he had seen, of everything he now knew…
It made something inside me, something very old and long dormant, contract painfully.
And I, Azra'il Weiss, the creature who had faced gods and demons, who had destroyed and created worlds, who had died and been reborn more times than there are stars in the sky, found myself, for the first time in countless ages, at an absolute loss for words.
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Author's note
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I need to be honest for a moment, and yes, I'm going to complain, because this isn't just sad, it's genuinely frustrating.
I discovered recently (and I'm still grieving, honestly) that Fairy Tail was removed from HBO Max's catalog at the end of December.
No warning.
No transition period.
No official alternative.
I was planning to rewatch some important arcs to help me write the upcoming chapters, especially the Tower of Heaven arc, because I like revisiting details, emotional beats, and specific scenes.
And suddenly… it was just gone.
What makes this worse is that in Brazil there is currently NO official streaming service that has the early seasons of the anime.
Crunchyroll only has 100 Years Quest.
So if you want to rewatch the classic arcs? Too bad. You're stuck.
And that's what bothers me the most.
We try to consume media legally.
We pay for streaming services.
We do everything "right".
And in return, we get:
unstable catalogs
shows removed without notice
no legal alternatives
and a very clear "figure it out yourself".
I genuinely loved being able to rewatch Fairy Tail dubbed, properly, while writing. It was accessible, comfortable, and perfect for creative reference.
Now? It has basically become emotional lost media. 😭
Because of this, it's possible that:
some arcs may take longer to write
certain details may end up a bit different from the anime
or I'll have to rely more on memory, wikis… and eventually ahem… "alternative sites"
When the system offers no legal options, it pushes people away from it. That's not the audience's fault, that's on the platforms that remove content and don't replace it.
The story will continue, I promise.
But I wanted to clearly express my dissatisfaction with streaming services that treat stories as disposable and leave fans and creators with no official way to revisit them.
Thank you for your patience, your support, and for sticking with me even when capitalism decides to sabotage fanfic writers out of nowhere.