I emerged from that cave with the air of one who has just finished a particularly tedious spring clean, though, I admit, with an artistically satisfying conclusion. I dusted non-existent specks from my shoulder. The glow of the runes sealing the passage behind me was a dramatic touch the Master would surely approve of. And as for the next step… well, the First Master's tomb. What's the rush, eh? Ancient tombs have an admirable patience, usually proportional to the amount of dust they accumulate.
My strategy, for now, was that of 'tactical procrastination'. After all, the island was large, and boredom a far more present, irritating enemy than any S-Class mage with ego control issues.
"I must admit, Happy," I commented as the little Exceed still hovered near my ear, chattering about lightning and how cool and intimidating I was, "the look on that bleached blonde's face when he realised his 'divine spark' was nothing more than a faulty bedside lamp, unable to even scorch my wooden jian… was artistically satisfying. Almost worth the effort of having to move for more than five minutes."
A small, sadistic smile curved my lips. The memory of the drawing I left on his forehead also helped to warm my spirit. Yes, I might be an old, ancient entity, but some simple pleasures are eternal.
"He shouted a lot, Azra'il-chan! And went 'BZZZT!' and 'KABOOM!', but you just went 'pssht' and he fell down!" Happy gestured with his little paws, his eyes still shining with the adrenaline of battle (or perhaps with residual trauma).
"A rather crude simplification, my dear feline, but the essence is correct," I conceded. "Now, all this demonstration of tactical superiority and ego dismantling has left me with a particular thirst. How about a break for tea? I can sense a minimally decent clearing and the pleasant sound of running water not too far from here."
Following the sound of a nearby waterfall that my ears had picked up, we found a quiet nook, the sunlight filtering through the less dense trees, creating dancing patterns on the forest floor. Perfect. While Happy, under the promise of being allowed to nibble on the crumbs from my biscuits (which I hadn't yet decided whether or not to materialise from my inventory), tried uselessly to light a fire with two damp twigs, I, with a sigh of resignation at others' incompetence, produced a small, stable, and efficient magical flame.
My travelling rucksack, which seemed to contain a private universe (and, indeed, in a way, it did), was opened. With my hand plunged into its depths, I discreetly accessed my dimensional inventory.
To an outside observer, it would have seemed as though I were just rummaging around in its depths, but the antique, polished silver kettle, the delicate glass jars containing a myriad of dried herbs in exotic colours and scents, some certainly not catalogued in this world, and my fine porcelain teacups emerged with an ease bordering on the magical. Which, technically, it was.
"Frankly, Happy, the quality of this island's water is… questionable," I murmured, analysing the water I had collected from the waterfall with a critical eye, before muttering a small purification charm that would make any alchemist weep with envy. "And the complete absence of lemon-iced ginger biscuits is an affront to civilisation. A truly difficult day for a connoisseur of small pleasures."
[The thermal efficiency of this magic fire is only 87.3%, Azra'il. I recommend an adjustment to the Ethernano flow to optimise the boiling point of H₂O and preserve the more volatile notes of your Whispering Dimension's Weeping Willow Leaves,] Eos commented in my mind, ever the art critic of my daily life.
(Thank you for the thermodynamic consultation, Eos. I'll jot that down in my grimoire of 'Things an Artificial Intelligence Finds Terribly Important While I'm Trying to Relax',) I thought, as the complex, comforting aroma of my special infusion began to permeate the air.
It was a blend of rare nocturnal flowers, a touch of soul-warming spices, and a hint of something that promised either mental clarity or, depending on one's tolerance, light and amusing hallucinations. Even Happy, an exclusive devotee of piscine cuisine, stopped trying to turn a caterpillar into bait and sniffed the air with an almost reverent curiosity.
"Wow, Azra'il-chan," he admitted, his whiskers twitching. "That smells… almost as good as a giant grilled tuna!" High praise, coming from him.
I was about to pour the first cup, anticipating the warm, restorative sip, when a shadow seemed to deepen amongst the more distant trees. And then, he emerged. Silently, like a tired ghost or a bad idea that refuses to go away.
Tall, wrapped in dark robes that seemed woven from night itself, with jet-black hair falling untidily over a pale face marked by a sadness that seemed as ancient as the stars themselves. The very vegetation around his feet seemed to wilt and darken slightly at his passing, as if life itself recoiled from him. The aura he exuded was heavy, a palpable mixture of immense power, deep darkness, and a melancholy so vast, so oppressive, it made the air hard to breathe.
Ah, grand. Another immortal with existential issues to interrupt my moment of peace. The universe really did have impeccable timing for others' boredom.
[Proximity alert. Magical signature detected. Power level: Extremely high. Nature of energy: Predominantly necrotic, with traces of… something older and fundamentally broken. Recommendation: All the caution your negligent mind can muster. Possible extreme-level hostile entity. Do you wish for me to prepare a tactical evacuation protocol for the feline specimen and, possibly, for you, although your chances of survival are statistically… disheartening for your current power?] Eos's voice sounded in my mind, with an alarm that was almost palpable, even in her usual monotony.
"Don't be so dramatic, Eos," I murmured quietly, more to myself than to her, but the AI's warning only confirmed what my own senses were already screaming. This was no ordinary wanderer.
The man stopped a few metres away, his dark, empty eyes, filled with an ancient pain all at once, fixed on the small clearing, on me, on the fire.
"The aroma of life..." he murmured, his voice low and soft as the brush of silk over a gravestone, yet laden with an infinite sorrow and the restrained power of a collapsing star. "...so ephemeral… and so dangerous."
I didn't even look at him directly, concentrating on pouring the steaming tea into my cup with the precision of a surgeon. "If you're referring to my special 'Dawn of the Forgotten Soul' tea," I replied, my tone casual but with a connoisseur's hint of pride. (Among the numerous rare ingredients that composed that blend, there were a few that, frankly, didn't even exist on this particularly dull plane of reality, but of which, fortunately, I kept a considerable stock in my private inventory, for existential emergencies such as this). "I appreciate the compliment on its aromatic nature, though 'ephemeral' is a little pessimistic to describe its effects. I would say they are… memorably lasting. I make enough for at least two or three cups and a subsequent melancholic contemplation on the futility of the cosmos and the urgent need for more biscuits. Now, if you don't mind, I'm in the middle of a critical infusion, and the exact moment of removing the leaves from the water is absolutely vital to preserve the final bouquet and avoid a bitterness that could, metaphorically speaking, rival your current countenance."
[Enhanced magical signature analysis in progress… Cross-referencing with the database of high-level entities and known energy anomalies… Positive correlation identified with 99.97% certainty,] Eos's voice in my mind remained in its usual neutral tone, perhaps with a slight increase in processing speed that indicated the importance of the information.
[The individual in question is Zeref, historically classified as 'The Immortal Black Wizard', bearer of the Curse of Ankhseram. Given your current power restrictions, Azra'il, a direct confrontation would result in a probability of personal annihilation close to 100%. The proximity of the curse also represents a significant and unpredictable risk to the feline specimen. I recommend activating the 'Distraction and Subtle Retreat' protocol, if available. Or, as a less elegant alternative, simply stop provoking him and hope he loses interest.]
I ignored Eos's precise, though, as always, slightly pessimistic analysis regarding my immediate survival. However, the name 'Zeref' and the classification 'Immortal Black Wizard' echoed in my mind with the weight of ancient legends, tales of destruction, and… a particularly bitter irony. Zeref.
The same Zeref that the cult of lunatics in the Tower of Heaven was so desperately trying to revive, sacrificing countless lives, including Rob's, and plunging so many others, like mine and Erza's, into a hell of pain. And there he was, not a resurrected ghost, but apparently very much alive, though with the air of one who would rather be six feet under.
Cosmic comedy, in its infinite capacity to surprise us with the absurd, never failed to… 'entertain' me. Interesting. Extremely interesting. And potentially very, very problematic, given my… current circumstances.
I sighed, a long, resigned sigh, not of fear, but of that familiar feeling that the universe has a special talent for sending the most complicated specimens, the cruellest ironies, and the worst timings to cross my path just when I'm about to enjoy a good cup of tea. My peace had been, once again, desecrated by the inconvenience of others' existence and the ridiculous turns of fate.
At last, I shifted my gaze from the contemplation of my kettle (which now seemed less inviting and more like an accessory in a particularly bizarre theatrical play) and focused on Happy. The poor blighter was paralysed with terror, his blue fur completely on end, looking like a small, unfortunate electric porcupine, his wide eyes fixed on the dark figure as if he were staring at Death itself wearing a ribbon and offering tea. And, in a way, considering who was before us, perhaps he was.
"You know, Happy," I said, my voice surprisingly soft, a gentleness not typical of it unless I wanted to get rid of a nuisance or protect something without admitting it. "Thinking about it, you're right. A fresh fish, or three, would do wonders for my mood and my rapidly dwindling patience. Go to that waterfall we passed, will you? And try to catch some of those silvery fish we saw leaping about. But only the silvery ones. The ones that glow in shades of neon green or have more than six eyes are strictly forbidden, unless you want to serve as a walking lantern for the rest of the trip, or perhaps as a scientific experiment for our new company."
I gave a light but firm nudge with the toe of my boot in the direction of the forest. "Go on. And don't come back until you have at least three good-sized ones. Today's quality of tea requires a fitting accompaniment, and I'd rather not have a panicking cat as the main course for our… guest."
Happy, though clearly terrified by the stranger's presence and his aura of 'death-by-boredom-or-by-dark-magic', was also a cat with simple priorities and a demanding stomach. The mention of fish, and the undeniably appealing prospect of escaping that suffocating aura and my increasingly acidic comments, was enough to break his paralysis.
"A-aye, Azra'il-chan!" And he shot off into the forest like a little blue bullet, disappearing between the trees with a speed that would have made lightning envious, certainly understanding the cue that his presence there was not only unnecessary but potentially dangerous. Such a clever cat, despite everything.
I watched him vanish with an impenetrable expression and then turned to the man, who remained silent, watching me with those sad, piercing eyes that seemed to carry the weight of all the world's tragedies.
With precise, elegant gestures, I took a second fine porcelain cup (which, like the kettle and herb jars, seemed to have appeared from nowhere, materialised from some forgotten corner of my inventory) and, with a calm bordering on the surreal, began to pour the steaming tea, the amber liquid releasing an even more intense, comforting aroma into the air.
"Well," I said, my voice calm but with a light tone of irony I simply couldn't, nor wanted to, avoid. The name 'Zeref' and the title 'Immortal Black Wizard', courtesy of Eos's efficient and not-so-subtle analysis, still echoed in my mind. What a quaint encounter. "Since my noisy, hungry companion has gone… shall we say, on a mission to collect essential ingredients for the maintenance of my already frayed sanity and to, hopefully, prevent him from spontaneously combusting from boredom or dread, I suppose a little tea wouldn't harm anyone who is still, against all odds, breathing on this peculiar island."
My gaze swept over the dark figure before me, noting how life seemed to shrink in his presence, the heavy aura that enveloped him. "Unless, of course, you, O bearer of an energy so… singularly potent and dramatically lethal," a faint smile played on my lips, almost imperceptible, "have any particular dietary restrictions against liquid happiness, philosophical contemplation, or the desperate attempt to maintain a minimum of civility amidst the impending chaos of an island that is probably trying to kill us slowly. And, possibly, failing miserably against some of us."
I extended the cup towards him, the fragrant steam rising in lazy spirals, a surprisingly hospitable gesture considering the circumstances and the reputation Eos had just provided about my… unexpected guest. My blue eyes, however, remained cold, calculating, intensely evaluative, watching every micro-expression, every hesitation. His aura told a dark, powerful story, and I was curious to see how this living legend would react to someone who, on the outside, seemed to have not the faintest idea with whom she was having tea.
The man, Zeref, according to Eos's precise, slightly alarmed identification, and frankly, who else in this world would have that kind of 'casual end-of-the-world vibe' mixed with an aura that would make a Reaper resign out of intimidation? blinked slowly, as if waking from a long, painful sleep that had lasted for centuries, as if trying to process a particularly complex mathematical equation with variables that defied logic, sanity.
A faint surprise, almost imperceptible to a less attentive observer, but undeniably present to my eyes trained in deciphering beings' masks, crossed his pale, angular face. He was, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, accustomed to a very limited repertoire of reactions to his presence: abject fear, undisguised horror, visceral hatred, or, in rare, equally irritating cases, fanatical adoration from some deranged cult. But calm? An offer of exquisite tea from a stranger, accompanied by a veiled sarcasm bordering on purest, most intentional disrespect for his aura of imminent death?
This was… decidedly new in his vast, tragic catalogue of social interactions. And, I could see clearly in the subtle wavering of his dark eyes, the way his eyebrows twitched slightly, that it was profoundly unsettling. Good. Unsettling the terribly powerful, melancholic, especially those who took themselves so seriously, was one of my less confessable, I must say, more gratifying pastimes.
"You… do not fear me?" Zeref's voice was low, soft as the brush of moth wings on a tomb, yet laden with an infinite sadness, the restrained pressure of a black storm about to break, an energy capable of sucking the life, hope from the environment.
He looked at the steaming cup in my hands, then at me, his dark eyes trying to decipher the enigma I represented, the unexpected calm confronting him.
"My presence… does not usually invite hospitality. Quite the contrary." As if to emphasise his words, the small wildflowers at his feet, which had previously swayed with a naive joy, were now completely withered, reduced to a dark, brittle dust. The grass around them had taken on a sickly, blackened hue, a subtle but unmistakable circle of death slowly expanding. A silent but effective reminder of the nature of his company.
I shrugged with a nonchalant elegance I had perfected over several particularly tedious existences, taking a sip of my own tea, savouring the warmth, the complexity of the flavours.
"Fear? My dear man, fear is such a… draining emotion. And, frankly, rather overrated. Usually reserved for things that truly matter, like running out of my precious stock of Sleeping Dragon Mountain Tea, or being forced to listen to a certain fire mage hum off-key during a mission journey. Now that is pure terror."
My attention turned back to him, my blue eyes meeting his without flinching. "Your… singular presence," I chose the words with an almost amused care, "is certainly potent, I'll grant you. A trifle dramatic, with all this spontaneous wilting of local flora, the palpable aura of 'woe is me, the end is nigh, and it's all my fault'. But nothing that a good cup of tea, a minimally interesting conversation cannot, perhaps, make tolerable for a few minutes."
I kept the cup extended in his direction, a silent invitation, a veiled challenge. "So? Or do you prefer to stand there looking like an omen of impending doom, spoiling my forest feng shui? Because, honestly, you're rather killing the vibe of 'zen tranquillity amidst a tropical island rich in ancient magic, apparently, with an insatiable fetish for existential trials, dramatic combats' that I was trying, with much effort, to cultivate."
He hesitated for a long moment, his dark eyes still fixed on mine, as if trying to read in my soul the secrets of my strange calm, my apparent indifference to the danger he so visibly represented. The teacup, delicate, steaming, remained extended between us, a silent invitation, a question mark amidst the palpable oppression of his aura.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, as if fearing the simple contact might trigger some cosmic catastrophe or, worse still, a tedious conversation about his feelings, he extended his pale hand. His long, slender fingers, which seemed to carry the chill of a long-forgotten tomb, moved with an almost painful caution, accepting the cup from my hands with meticulous care to avoid any accidental contact with my skin.
For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath, the forest's silence becoming almost absolute, broken only by my growing craving for a biscuit.
He brought the cup to his lips, the subtle, complex aroma of the tea, an ethereal blend of nocturnal flowers that, according to legend, only bloomed under the light of specific moons in long-forgotten worlds, with an earthy hint of rare roots growing in the depths of sacred mountains, a nearly imperceptible citrus tang I myself had cultivated in a dimensional greenhouse in another life, reaching his nostrils.
He took a small sip, his eyes briefly closing, as if savouring not just the drink, but the very act of allowing himself a moment of peace.
When he opened them again, there was an expression of genuine, deep surprise on his face, an emotion so rare, unexpected on features so marked by suffering it almost made him… human for a fleeting instant. Almost.
"This tea…" he murmured, his voice still low, but now tinged with a note of almost childlike incredulity, something resembling… pleasure? Was it possible? "I… I have wandered this world, this cursed existence, for countless centuries. Tasted the waters of a thousand bitter rivers, smelt the scent of a million flowers that died at my touch… but never, ever, in all my long, miserable life, have I experienced anything like this." He looked at the amber liquid in the cup as if it were an elixir from some forgotten spring, a legend made real. "The taste… it is complex. Welcoming. Calming. Almost… hopeful."
The last word seemed to catch him by surprise, as if it were an alien concept, a foreign tongue on his lips.
I smiled faintly, an enigmatic smile revealing nothing substantial, but suggesting a depth of knowledge that could be both fascinating, unsettling, a small personal victory against the tedious predictability of the universe.
I took another sip of my own tea, my blue eyes shining with restrained amusement, that scientific curiosity which rarely abandoned me. "Ah, yes. As I said before, my special 'Dawn of the Forgotten Soul' blend." I paused, savouring the name. "A rather dramatic title, I grant you, but the names of teas, like those of the most effective curses, most persistent legends, must have a certain… panache, don't you agree? A promise of something beyond the mundane."
I twirled the cup between my fingers, watching the steam rise in lazy spirals that seemed to carry ancient secrets. "The secret lies, in part, in the Lunar Lotus Petals, a flower that, as the old sages tell, only blooms under the gaze of the thirteenth full moon of a decennial cycle, hidden in the heart of mystical swamps that rarely reveal themselves to mortals. Infused, of course, with the Dew of the Star Serpent, said to be collected from the scales of a celestial creature that dances amongst the constellations, a nearly imperceptible hint of something resembling the Ashes of an ancient Phoenix. Just enough for the exotic flavour, that subtle promise of renewal, not for complete resurrection, evidently. That would be dreadfully… inconvenient, I imagine, would involve considerable paperwork with the competent authorities."
A glint of irony danced in my blue eyes. "And, as a final touch, the water… ah, the water!" I sighed dramatically, as if about to reveal the secret of creation itself, a knowledge only the most enlightened (or most bored) beings possessed. "Ideally, it would need to be from the purest spring of an untouched mountain, filtered through seven layers of abyssal quartz crystals, blessed by the first light of dawn reflected in an obsidian mirror for seven consecutive days. Details, details." I paused again, savouring the image of perfection, then an almost imperceptible smile touched my lips.
"Unfortunately, today I had to make do with the rather… rustic water from this island's stream, duly purified by some of my more effective minor charms to remove any residual taste of previous adventuring mages' despair or, ancestors forbid, of fish. But don't worry," I added, with a reassuring nod that was likely not at all reassuring to him, "the herbs are potent enough to mask most aquatic deficiencies. The true art, my dear, dark connoisseur of unexpected moments, always lies in the subtlest details, frequently, in my unshakeable ability to improvise with what the universe stubbornly refuses to provide with the due quality I deserve."
Zeref stared at me, the genuine perplexity on his features making him look surprisingly young for an instant, almost vulnerable under the mask of eternal sorrow. The way he processed my words, as if each ingredient were a piece of a cosmic jigsaw he couldn't assemble, was almost… amusing.
"Lunar Lotus Petals harvested under the thirteenth moon? Ashes of a… Minor Phoenix? Water blessed by the first dawn's light?" He repeated the names as if they were forgotten spells, names of extinct stars, the confusion deepening in his dark eyes.
"That… that sounds like ingredients from lullabies for credulous children, fairy tales drunken bards invent in forgotten taverns. Ancient legends, whispers of lost myths, not… not components of a simple tea." His voice was a thread, disbelief wrestling with the evidence of the extraordinary taste he had just experienced. The idea that such things could be real, or that someone could treat them with the casualness I did, seemed to shake the foundations of his secular understanding of the world. Poor soul, so accustomed to his own, dark reality he had forgotten the universe still held its whims, its small, delicious impossibilities.
"Legends to some, a simple Tuesday harvest for others, more… persistent," I replied with a dismissive wave of my hand, as if we were discussing the price of bread at the market, not the existence of phoenix ashes. (The convenience of my inventory, of course, greatly facilitated this 'persistence'.) "Reality, my dear connoisseur of scepticism-defying teas, often extends beyond what is commonly accepted, easily understood."
A small, enigmatic smile appeared on my lips, one I knew Zeref wouldn't be able to completely decipher. "Especially when one possesses… shall we say, considerable experience accumulated over time, a curiosity that stubbornly refuses to be extinguished, a certain predilection for exploring the most forgotten corners, dustiest libraries in search of… peculiar knowledge."
I took a sip of my tea, the familiar, complex taste a small anchor amidst the surreal unfolding. "And, of course," I added with an almost imperceptible wink, which could be interpreted as mischief, a quiet confidence in one's own methods, "it's always useful to cultivate the right friendships, know the less obvious paths to acquire certain… rare components. Some of them, let's just say, are not listed in the most respectable apothecaries' catalogues."
While I continued my monologue on the merits of botanical experimentation, the pleasures of a good tea (and he, to my surprise, continued to listen with an attention bordering on the hypnotic, almost as if he'd never participated in such a… normal conversation before), I noticed something extraordinary happen.
Almost imperceptibly at first, a subtle change in the clearing's atmosphere. The dark, oppressive aura around Zeref's figure, the one that had previously made the air feel as heavy as lead, life itself recoil in submission, seemed to… retreat a fraction.
It was as if a dark tide had stopped advancing, perhaps even receded a little before an unexpected light, or, more likely, before the sheer, disconcerting banality of my discourse on rare herbs.
The small wildflowers that had completely withered at his feet when he arrived were still a pitiable sight, ashen, brittle as burnt paper, but the grass around them, which had been progressively darkening as if touched by an insidious plague, seemed to have stopped deteriorating.
The air, previously so heavy it could almost be chewed, laden with a tacit promise of death, despair, seemed to clear a little, lose some of its oppressive density. The pressure on my lungs (and, presumably, on poor Happy's, who I could sense spying from a distant thicket with eyes the size of saucers, probably wondering if the tea contained some secret ingredient to turn him into a fish) eased noticeably, making breathing a little easier.
I observed him with renewed interest. His shoulders, previously so hunched under an invisible weight, looked a little less tense. The deep melancholy was still there, of course, etched on every line of his face like a map of ancient suffering, in every shadow under his dark eyes like an indelible tattoo on his soul.
That wouldn't vanish with a simple cup of tea, however exotic. But the raw agony, the hungry, almost palpable darkness that always seemed to lurk in his aura, like a caged beast, seemed to have… calmed down. A little. As if it had found a brief, very brief, unexpected moment of respite in its eternal war. Perhaps it was the tea. Perhaps it was the distraction of a conversation with someone who didn't flee screaming, try to attack him at first sight, even venerate him. Or perhaps he was just very, very bored. In any case, it was a… curious change.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES
I wrote this chapter with sweat, tears, and three cups of coffee. Comment to remind me it was worth it 😭☕
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