Krampus POV
It was December of X767.
A year had passed since I joined Fairy Tail. Time was a funny thing in this guild—erratic, intense, emotional. I came in as a divine interloper, a walking divine apocalypse with horns, chains, and judgment, and somehow, I'd found a home. I didn't expect to care so much. But damn it, I did.
And none more than for the brat I refused to let break—Laxus Dreyar.
Five months had passed since Ivan got the boot, and the guild still carried the weight of that ugly fallout. Laxus had been especially bummed. Not loudly—not dramatically—but in the way his eyes darkened at stray mentions of the guy, or the way he'd get quiet after seeing other fathers and sons talk. He was trying to act tough, but I saw the cracks. The doubt. The guilt.
But I didn't let him drown in it.
I barged into his emotional lockdown like a blizzard with a battering ram. Dragged him on missions. Made him eat. Made him talk. Took him on long walks through Magnolia just to make him admit he liked the smell of roasted chestnuts. Set up ambush therapy sessions where he'd rant into a log while doing pull-ups. And yeah—after I forced him and Makarov into the same room, chained them both down, and didn't let them leave until the shouting turned into hugging all five months ago, something shifted. With the air finally cleared, there were no more walls between them. Makarov, freed from the burden of unspoken guilt, actively began to comfort Laxus. The two spent time just talking—sometimes sitting in silence—and in those quiet moments, Laxus found his footing again. I didn't even need to hold the room anymore. They supported each other now. Healing not just from Ivan's betrayal, but from years of emotional distance. A scarred, sturdy bridge had formed. One that made all the difference.
That changed everything. Laxus stopped pretending and started healing for real. Makarov smiled more, shoulders relaxed. And me? I wasn't just some mad reaper of justice anymore. I was someone the old man trusted.
The guildmaster started sending me on the real missions—the high-risk, high-body-count kind. And more importantly, he let Laxus go with me.
Makarov didn't do that lightly. But he had his reasons.
My mission record was flawless. One job a day on average, always wrapped up before evening. Clients wrote thank-you letters praising how respectful, fast, and weirdly considerate I was. The only complaint? They didn't get a good look at my face thanks to my enchanted hood, which made the rumor mill go berserk. Some sorcery magazines had a field day. "The Phantom Saint," "The Hooded Horror," "Merry Executioner"—none accurate, all hilarious.
Still, Makarov sparred with me himself. Judged my magic. Assessed my judgment. In his words, I was already S-Class and he was prepared to make it official after New Year's.
And so, he trusted me—with the guild's future.
And then came that mission.
The job came in from a small village nestled on the northern edge of Bosco's border—fishing folk who reported a rising number of disappearances near a nearby ruin. Officially, the mission claimed a minor dark guild had set up shop inside an abandoned cathedral. Simple recon, light threat, medium pay. We figured it'd be a clean job.
We prepped like usual, though I had a gut feeling. Nothing I could explain—just that tightness in my horns, the kind that flared when something was off. So I went overboard on preparations. My Requip space—an intricate fusion of binding magic and storage spells—was crammed with backup sabers, rapid deployment chains, enchanted stakes, mana dampeners, smoke bombs, healing tonics, explosive talismans, even a fucking emergency kettle. Ever since I mastered Requip as a storage system, I'd been working on upgrading it—someday I'd fold in something like Gate of Babylon, but for now, it was still pretty damn stacked.
Laxus, for his part, followed my lead. He hadn't learned Requip or spatial storage magic yet—lightning training and my specialized body-hardening regimen were taking up all his time—but he came packed. Belt of lightning charges, booster rings, reinforced boots, three days of rations, and a field journal to track any irregular magic signatures.
We expected a solid beatdown and a bonus.
What we got was a war zone.
We walked into a twisted mockery of a cathedral and got ambushed. Not ten. Not fifteen.
"Forty. Cute," I muttered, cracking my neck.
"Uh. Boss?" Laxus asked, charging his hands with lightning. "That's more than 'minor.'"
"Yeah," I said, stepping forward. "Which means we can skip the warm-up."
I activated Rule of Rending and drew my twin hooked sabers. Each blade shimmered with spatial magic, severing not just flesh, but location—warping the very concept of 'cut.' With a twist of my wrist, the blades extended into long chains, and I flung them outward like whips. The first ten mages were caught off-guard—literally disarmed as the blades passed through their limbs. Arms and legs scattered to the floor in clean slices, yet no blood flowed.
The pain, however, was real.
"AAAAAAAARGH!"
"What the hell—why am I still alive!?"
"Oh god my arm! My ARM!!"
I slammed my foot forward, activating Rule of Binding, locking their severed parts in place through spatial tethers. Despite being cut into pieces, they were alive, intact in concept—just not in appearance. Pain flooded their nervous systems, dialed up by Rule of Punishment to ensure every injury hurt like divine hellfire.
From the rear, Laxus launched bolts of high-voltage lightning, targeting clustered enemies.
"COME HERE YOU FUCKING BASTARDS!" I roared, cutting through three spell circles mid-chant. Chains lashed out, caught two dumbasses by the arms—I swung them like fucking maces into their buddies.
Bones shattered. Teeth flew. Someone screamed about their mother.
"THAT'S RIGHT, SHITHEADS! I'M YOUR HOLY NIGHTMARE!"
A curse blast flew at me. I grabbed a bound idiot and flung him into it. The impact made a sound like wet laundry hitting firewood.
"Oh, you're not dying yet, fuckers!" I shouted, stabbing a chain through someone's jaw and yanking his soul partially out his eyes. "You want pain!? I'LL GIVE YOU PAIN!"
Chains snared ankles, ribs, throats. I started swinging them. Projectiles of agony. Some cursed. Some cried. One just started praying.
"FUCK YOU, AND YOUR DARK GOD TOO!"
The ground was soon littered with twitching limbs, groaning torsos, dislocated heads blinking from the wrong angles. My coat flared behind me. My halo pulsed like a dying star. The air smelled of ozone, burnt mana, and cold steel.
I stood atop the pile of groaning meat puppets. My heart was pounding. Laxus stood behind me, blood on his knuckles, sparks flickering across his shoulders. He took down five of them himself—not bad.
"You good?" I asked, ripping my blades from the ribcage of a screaming cultist.
"Yeah," he grinned through sweat. "You're scary as hell, though."
Laxus, panting, eyes wide, grinned. "But you look fucking badass."
That hit me harder than any dark mage.
I barked a laugh loud enough to scare the birds off nearby trees.
"Damn right I do."
We high-fived. Over dismembered bodies. Over groans of the damned.
Another mission. Another memory.
Beating an ambush of dark mages wasn't a bad way to kick off December.
My debut as Santa was coming up soon. God help me.
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A few days before the party, I stood in the middle of the guildhall, cleared my throat, and declared, "Last year, I was introduced as Krampus—the Divine Enforcer of the Naughty. This year, I am also your designated Santa Claus. Officially active starting this Christmas Eve."
Makarov blinked from his seat on the balcony. Macao nearly dropped his mug, while Wakaba actually choked on his pipe smoke. Gildarts let out a booming laugh and slapped the table. A few newer members exchanged confused glances, but the seasoned ones? They cheered. Loud and full-throated.
"Just make sure you don't mix up the naughty list with the hit list!" Macao hollered.
"I'm serious, man!" Wakaba gasped. "We don't need another chimney incident!"
Gildarts slapped me on the back so hard I genuinely tasted colors for a moment.
Laxus raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Don't drop a coal bomb on my house."
"Only if you deserve it," I said with a wink, to much laughter.
And with that, the pre-lift-off celebration kicked off with glorious chaos.
The guild hall was transformed. Tables overflowed with roasted hams, buttery potatoes, sugared fruit tarts, and barrel after barrel of spicy winter cider. Charms hung from every rafter—gleaming stars, snowflake runes, enchanted tinsel that sparkled in shifting hues. Magical snowflakes drifted gently from the ceiling, summoned by an overeager apprentice. Someone enchanted the jukebox, and now it belted out alternating carols and battle anthems.
Gildarts, sufficiently buzzed, challenged a sentient armor suit to a dance-off—then lost spectacularly when it breakdanced. Wakaba and Macao tried to build a snowman out of meatloaf. Makarov made a toast from atop the bar. Even Laxus laughed when someone spiked the eggnog with a fire-enhancement potion.
For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged.
They weren't afraid of me. They weren't waiting for chains to fly or judgment to be declared. They were cheering for me. They saw me as part of the holiday—part of the joy.
When the clock struck midnight on Christmas Eve, I stepped outside, boots crunching against magically conjured snow, and looked up at the stars. Then, with a breath of frost and focus, I walked into the sky.
The transformation began with a heartbeat. A pulse of divine resonance flared from my core, and the neon-blue snowflake halo above my head descended. Light surrounded me in a swirling vortex—like ribbons of snow and starlight wrapping around my body.
My golden horns, usually regal and sharp, caught the divine energy and refracted it into a crown of aurora hues. My wild, storm-grey mane shimmered and shifted, strands extending and softening until it flowed in long, elegant waves of pure snow white—like fresh-fallen powder sculpted by wind and moonlight.
My red sleeveless coat ignited with radiant warmth. Golden filigree unraveled across its surface in curling, animated vines, forming symbols of peace and winter. Long sleeves formed in cascading patterns, glimmering with magic, and the collar flared into a royal cowl lined with white fur. The hem extended down past my knees, trimmed in runic lace that pulsed with holy magic. What had once been a battle garment was now ceremonial and divine.
Beneath the coat, my form was no longer bare. Red fitted trousers covered my legs, tucked neatly into snow-etched sabatons that clicked softly against the air itself. A crisp white dress shirt adorned my torso, buttoned to the neck and ironed to perfection. Over it, a deep forest green vest shimmered with golden threads, embroidered in starlight motifs and fir tree patterns. I looked like the ghost of Yuletides divine—a divine miracle in formalwear.
"So this is what it's like," I muttered aloud, voice echoing in the snowy stillness. "To be the light instead of the judgment. To give instead of take. To be… Santa. Not the destroyer. Not the punisher. But the warmth in a cold night."
My sleigh answered.
It burst forth from the skies above like a divine comet—its hull crimson with swirling draconic engravings, runners gleaming like winter ice. No beasts of burden were needed. The sleigh flew on its own, powered by celestial engines and divine intent. Arcs of mana spun in delicate mechanisms under its frame, humming in harmony with the very fabric of the night.
A massive sack of presents sat behind the cockpit, its surface glowing with stabilized spatial magic, gently pulsing with each pulse of the sleigh's ethereal engine.
As I stepped into the sleigh, the road unfurled.
A rainbow river of starlight burst from behind the sleigh like a ribbon across the sky. It shimmered with every hue imaginable, reflecting constellations and dreams.
Below me, the guild watched in awe.
"Holy crap," Macao whispered.
"That's the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen," Wakaba said, pipe hanging loose.
Gildarts let out a wolf-whistle and raised his mug. "Now that's a lift-off!"
Even Makarov smiled, eyes misty. "You did it, Krampus."
Laxus stood a bit apart, arms crossed, but grinning with pride.
"Give 'em hell, Santa," he muttered.
And I, Krampus, soared into the sky as Santa Claus incarnate—trailing glory, light, and cheer across the world.
Clairvoyance EX: On.
My eyes flared. All over the world, I could see them—the good, the naughty, the almost-there. Like shimmering stars on a divine radar.
I reached back.
Gift Launcher: Loaded.
With a pull of the lever, the launcher locked on target. Presents whizzed from the cannon—wrapped in color-coded paper, enchanted to explode into ribbon and joy upon arrival.
For naughty ones? Smoke bombs. Whoopee cushions. Sometimes a talking coal that insulted them.
The sleigh, enhanced with the Rule of Christmas, twisted through spacetime. Hours compressed to seconds. Homes blurred past as I fired shot after shot, each gift landing perfectly under trees, on windowsills, beside sleeping heads.
Kids who stayed up late gasped as a light shot past. Some saw me in my sleigh and screamed, "IT'S HIM! IT'S REALLY HIM!"
Faith surged.
Magic answered.
I felt it—power blooming within me. Not immense, not overwhelming. Just... brighter. Fuller. A warmth.
The faith of children, fresh and untainted. Belief.
I laughed as I soared, leaving aurora roads across continents.
Santa had come.
By dawn, I returned.
The sky was pale with early light. The guild was quiet. The snow undisturbed.
I landed the sleigh softly, its wheels touching down on enchanted snow. The last swirls of aurora-light faded behind me like the tail of a dream.
My halo dimmed to a soft shimmer. My mane change from wavy and snow white to explosive and grayish white. My red coat lost all its extra decorations as the fancy clothes underneath fades away in startlight and Krampus's "soldier in a red coat" style was back in action.
And there—outside the guildhall—was Laxus.
Fast asleep, bundled in a heavy coat, sitting in a rickety chair under a makeshift wooden shed someone had cobbled together overnight. His blond hair was tousled by the winter breeze, arms folded tight, head tilted back as he snored faintly. A faint line of drool traced down his jaw. There was a crust of frost on the tips of his lashes, but he didn't look uncomfortable. He looked... peaceful.
I had seen this through clairvoyance earlier, of course. But seeing it with my real eyes—it hit me differently. Like something sacred had been laid bare. Like someone had built a shrine of quiet faith right outside the doors of my temple.
Next to him, on the snow, was the present I had shot for him from the sleigh. Wrapped precisely. Labeled with care.
But in his arms?
Another box. A different one. Slightly wrinkled, with hand-cut wrapping paper that didn't quite line up at the edges. The ribbon was handmade too—woven from silver twine and gold thread. It was clumsy. It was honest. It was his.
I blinked, my voice barely escaping as I muttered, "Did... Makarov give him a second one? Or did he somehow sneak in a spare just to... fool me? No, wait, that doesn't make sense... maybe it's something he meant to give someone else? But then why is he holding it like that? Is he keeping it warm? Is it fragile? No, it's too small. Could be jewelry? Gods, what if it's a prank? Did he pack me a prank gift? Did he reverse Krampus me? That little goblin, I swear—"
Then Laxus stirred.
His eyes fluttered open. Groggy, bleary—but the moment he saw me, he sat up straighter, smile blooming like the first sun after a blizzard.
"Welcome back," he said, walking up with stiff legs and pressing the box into my hands. "Merry Christmas, Krampus."
I stared at the box.
"You... got me a gift?"
"Yeah," he smiled, awkward and proud. "You give gifts to everyone else, but nobody gives one to you. I thought maybe… maybe you'd like one, too."
"I mean—fuck, shit—Santa's not supposed to get gifts. He gives gifts. That's the whole role. I—I bring the bag, I give the goods, and maybe there's cookies, but not this. This is—this is…"
"You were Santa for everyone," Laxus said. "So let me be yours. Just for this morning."
I stared at him. At the gift. At the sincerity in his voice.
"I… thank you," I whispered, tears welling up. "I love it. I fucking love it."
I pulled the box to my chest like it was the most sacred thing in the world.
And together, we walked into the hall, ready for the rest of Christmas.
And for once... neither was the night.