Although this senior seemed rather unreliable, Rhodes and Makarov knew he wouldn't actually mislead them, so they obediently followed along.
The two of them debated inwardly whether to ask about his health or if he was living poorly. But after watching the vigor in his steps and the sheer cheer radiating from him, they decided it wasn't necessary. His optimism alone seemed like proof of good health.
Then, out of nowhere, Warrod spoke up again:
"Oh, Makarov, I've been thinking of visiting Tenrou Island in a few days. Would that be alright?"
Rhodes and Makarov exchanged glances, each wondering the same thing, although he called out to Makarov, who was supposed to answer this? And more importantly, was this question serious or just another one of his jokes?
Makarov answered cautiously, "Well… Tenrou Island is the Guild's sacred ground. But if it's you, you can go whenever you like, right?"
He figured Warrod might be planning to visit Mavis's grave or pay his respects.
"Because I've retired," Warrod said with a trace of sadness, "I'm no longer officially a member of Fairy Tail. So it wouldn't be right for me to trespass on such holy ground."
Makarov immediately protested, "No, you..."
But Warrod cut him off with a chuckle. "I'm only joking."
"Huh?" Makarov was caught mid-thought.
But then Warrod added with a perfectly straight face, "That last line was a joke."
Before they could untangle the logic, he tacked on, "Ah no, the line before that was the joke."
It was exhausting talking to him. Makarov was already starting to feel homesick, and they had only just left Magnolia.
Rhodes sighed quietly, "Mr. Warrod, it would be wonderful if you were ninety years younger."
Warrod laughed happily, "Wahahaha! Because then I'd be more energetic, right?"
'No… because then I'd have the chance to beat you up.'
Rhodes only nodded politely on the outside, while privately entertaining a very disrespectful thought about his elder who was over a century old.
At last, Warrod led them into a spacious lounge, or more accurately, a banquet hall.
In the center stood a long table, its edges lined with seven chairs decorated with elaborate carvings. Along the walls, doors led off into side rooms, though two of them were firmly shut. At the far end were several smaller tables and a row of plush sofas, seating that looked suspiciously like thrones.
As soon as he stepped inside, Warrod twirled about like a carefree child, humming some cheerful tune, before producing a watering can from who-knew-where. He busied himself tending to the potted plants by the window with exaggerated care.
Rhodes asked, "Have the others already arrived?"
"Yes, yes, you're the last ones here. The others got impatient waiting, so they all left early. The gathering was canceled!"
Warrod burst into hearty laughter, "Wahahaha! Just kidding, just kidding!"
At that moment, a door banged open, and out shuffled a short old man, barely taller than Makarov. He had a goatee, wore narrow glasses, and his back was slightly hunched, but the sharpness in his eyes gave off an unmistakable edge.
"Warrod! Can't you be quiet for once? You're the one who always says plants hate noise!"
Warrod turned with his usual grin and replied, "Of course that was a joke! Plants love the sound of people's voices the most! Wahahaha!"
"Wolfheim, you're just too rigid. Even your name sounds rigid, of course, that was also a joke, wahaha!"
A pulse of Magic Power rippled from Wolfheim's body. His neck and cheeks flushed green, his frame swelling as if he was about to transform.
Rhodes blinked in alarm. 'Hulk? No… not that set.'
This felt closer to Elfman's Take Over. Most likely a high-level Beast King–type transformation.
Perhaps mindful of the company, Wolfheim restrained himself and didn't transform fully. Instead, he gave Makarov a stiff nod, then turned his sharp gaze on Rhodes. After sizing him up, he frowned.
"They've chosen a youngster again? Six years ago, he would've been even younger than Jellal. What in the world is the Council thinking?"
Clearly, this old man had little faith in the young. Rhodes only smiled faintly and replied, "Maybe they were thinking about the aging problem among the Wizard Saints?"
Looking around, his point wasn't lost. Warrod was over a hundred. Makarov was eighty-eight (ninety-four on paper). Wolfheim himself had to be at least seventy or eighty. Rhodes, barely in his twenties, felt completely out of place, like he'd wandered into the wrong guild meeting.
A vein bulged on Wolfheim's forehead.
Rhodes immediately mimicked Warrod's tone, waving his hand and chuckling, "Just kidding, just kidding. Young people are reckless, old people are wise and steady."
He knew Warrod and the Master wouldn't mind. At most, they'd just smack him lightly on the head.
Wolfheim, however, did want to punch him right then and there. Of all things to imitate, this brat had chosen Warrod's nonsense!
Warrod, of course, roared with laughter. He had thought Rhodes was too gloomy before, but seeing this playful side made him think, 'Yes, he really is Fairy Tail's kind of mage.'
Makarov sighed and tapped Rhodes on the back with his fist. "Show a little respect for your seniors."
"Oh." Rhodes rubbed the spot. It didn't hurt, more like a father scolding a mischievous child in front of guests.
Wolfheim scowled, feeling the three of them were conspiring together. If this really were Fairy Tail, half the hall would've already been reduced to rubble by now.
Makarov, familiar with Wolfheim's temper, stepped forward with a chuckle and tried to ease the tension, asking about his travels in recent years.
Rhodes listened quietly. As long as the old man didn't provoke him, he had no desire to start an argument.
After some awkward small talk, the hall doors opened again. A bald man in a wide-sleeved robe with a long black beard stepped inside, smiling warmly as he greeted everyone.
"It seems I'm a little late returning."
"Mr. Jura," Rhodes said with a respectful nod, immediately recalling the Lamia Scale ship parked out front. "Didn't you already arrive earlier?"
Jura tucked his hands calmly into his sleeves and explained, "Yes. Since not everyone had gathered yet, I took the opportunity to head out and complete a request. It delayed me a little."
Makarov and Rhodes exchanged envious glances. 'So Lamia Scale is already taking requests from foreign clients regularly… look how far ahead they are compared to us.'
Wolfheim, at least, seemed to respect Jura. He gave a short approving nod, clasped his hands behind his back, and seated himself at the long banquet table.
Just then, the final closed door swung open. The initiator of the gathering, Hyberion, emerged. In his right hand he held a delicate stemmed glass, and in his left, a tall bottle that looked for all the world like expensive wine. He poured the liquid gracefully, letting it swirl into the cup.
Rhodes' eyes twitched. The liquid was stark white. Looking closer, he noticed the label clearly read Milk.
"..."
'Not blood. Not wine. Milk. Coolness factor completely ruined.'
Yet Hyberion himself looked utterly at ease. He swirled the milk as though it were a fine vintage, raised the glass with aristocratic poise, and took a slow sip. A satisfied smile spread across his face, elegant as ever.
His gaze swept over those present, lingering for a moment on Makarov and Rhodes, before he strode unhurriedly to the main seat at the head of the table.
"Since everyone is finally here, please take your seats," he said smoothly. "I've already had lunch prepared in advance."
Rhodes glanced around, mentally counting heads, and asked in confusion, "Wait, are there really only six of us?"