The sky, that vast and indifferent cosmic blanket, was already beginning to be tinged with the melancholy shades of a badly bruised peach when Makarov, still limping slightly like an arthritic gnome, managed to gather what was left of us around the still partially detonated clearing. The scene was a silent testament to the fury and passion of the previous battle; trees charred like burnt matchsticks, rocks split as if struck by a divine hammer, and a general aura of 'please don't break anything else, we've suffered enough'.
The mages, or rather, what was left of them, drew near, each bearing their own new scars like badges of honour. Some limping, others with makeshift bandages, and all with that glazed look of exhaustion one usually only sees at three-day music festivals or after marathon interrogation sessions with the Magic Council.
Erza, my brave and stubborn redhead, was sitting on a rock that had miraculously survived the small-scale apocalypse, trying valiantly not to pass out from sheer exhaustion. Her right arm was immobilised in a splint that Natsu had probably fashioned from twigs, desperation, and an alarming amount of spit. Her face, usually so flawless, was marked by bruises that formed a constellation of purplish hues, but she maintained that invincible warrior's posture of hers, her spine straight, her chin held high, a look that said 'I can still slice you into twelve pieces if you annoy me', a pose that no one, not even I, would dare to question at that moment.
Mirajane, on the other side of the now-rekindled fire, was still lying near the flames, muttering softly in her deep and, I suspected, not entirely natural sleep. She had been unconscious since the end of the fight, and Elfman, who seemed to have aged about ten years in a few hours, remained by her side, holding her hand with the delicacy of someone holding a wounded bird, vigilant as a heartbroken guard dog, refusing to leave her side.
Makarov looked around, his small eyes passing over each of his broken children, the tense expression of a father who knows he has sent his kids into a very, very dangerous game. He cleared his throat again, the sound lost in the island wind.
"Well… uh… my congratulations to the finalists. Or survivors. Whatever," he began, his voice a little hoarse. "On to the next match. According to the... confusing rules that I myself created, but which are rules nonetheless... only the final stage remains to decide this year's new S-Class Mage." He sighed, and his gaze fixed on Erza with genuine sorrow, a concern that overflowed from his wrinkled eyes. "Erza Scarlet... for your victory in the semi-final... Your next duel will be against Azra'il Weiss."
The entire clearing seemed to freeze. The wind stopped. The crackling of the fire diminished. Even Happy, who had finally retrieved one of the dried fish he kept for emergencies, stopped mid-bite, the fish dangling from his mouth like a tragic moustache. Everyone in the makeshift camp turned to me.
I, who was comfortably seated on a smooth log, enjoying the breeze and the momentary calm, simply raised an eyebrow, my gaze shifting from Erza's pained yet determined expression to the Master's worried countenance. My voice, when it came, was a mix of boredom and irrefutable logic.
"Master, with all due respect to your position and your impressive ability to ignore the obvious," I began, my tone serene but firm. I pointed unceremoniously with the tip of my boot in the redhead's direction. "The Titania over there is, to use a precise technical term, a complete wreck. A shell. A sliver of a warrior. She just came out of a battle that likely rearranged the topography of a few mountains and, I suspect, some of her internal organs." Erza tried to protest, opening her mouth with indignation, but was interrupted by a dry cough that made her double over, her hand clutching her ribs. "See? She almost coughed up a lung. I have absolutely no, not even the remotest, intention of fighting her in this deplorable condition."
Erza, stubborn as she was, clenched her fists with her good hand, her face flushing with frustration. "I... I can... continue!" she said, her voice failing miserably mid-sentence, sounding less like a warrior's declaration and more like the squeak of a strangled squirrel.
I fixed my blue eyes on hers, with that sharp calm I knew irritated her more than any shout or insult. "Erza, spare me your samurai-honour melodrama. You can barely stand without using your sword as a walking stick, let alone face me in a serious duel. The fight would last, being optimistic, about thirty seconds, and would end with you passed out on the ground and me dying of boredom. I'm not that sadistic." I paused. "Well, on most days."
Makarov scratched his head, visibly nervous and caught between the rules he himself had created and common sense. "But... but the rules are clear... the final battle must take place..."
I let out an exaggerated sigh, loud and dramatic enough for even the fish in the stream to hear and feel my exasperation. I crossed my arms. "Then let's do this, since flexibility doesn't seem to be a strong suit of this exam's regulations. I propose we postpone this... spectacle. The duel. For one day. Twenty-four hours." I shot a sharp look at Erza, who was still glaring at me, though with less conviction now. "You sleep. Eat something that isn't your own wounded pride. You recover. Let Natsu and Happy treat you or pretend they know what they're doing. And tomorrow, we fight for real. I do not want, under any circumstances, to kick a lame dog that's already been run over by a demonic truck. Understood? It would tarnish my reputation."
Erza blushed, this time a complex mix of shame, gratitude, and her usual stubbornness being wounded. She seemed to hesitate, her warrior's pride battling against the reality of her exhausted body. "But… wouldn't that be unfair to you? Having to wait? If I recover completely, the fight will be harder for..."
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain. "Red," I cut in, with the expression of someone who has completely lost patience with excessive nobility and a lack of pragmatism. "I couldn't give a damn about this S-Class certificate. It's a glorified piece of paper with a pay rise that, frankly, won't change my life in any significant way." I shrugged, with the most complete and honest nonchalance.
"To me, it makes no difference whether I win or lose this charade. But to you, I know it matters. A lot. You live and breathe by this code of honour, by this guild." I drew closer to her, my voice becoming a little lower, more serious. "So, do me a favour and face me whole. I don't want an empty victory, I want a decent fight to at least alleviate some of the monumental boredom this exam has been so far. You owe me that. Your best. And you," I tapped her forehead lightly with my finger, "deserve to fight for what you want with everything you've got. Not with the leftovers."
Erza's eyes widened, surprise taking the place of stubbornness. The warrior's pride that had been beaten down by exhaustion shone again from behind her fatigue. For a moment, emotion threatened to break her steel-like composure, but she swallowed it down, as she always did, and just nodded slowly, a small, genuine smile forming on her bruised lips.
"Thank you... Azra'il. For everything," she said, her voice still hoarse, but firm. "I... I'll give it my all tomorrow. I promise."
Makarov sighed so relievedly he seemed to deflate a little. I saw him discreetly wipe the corner of his eye, pretending it was an itch (or maybe it was just eye gunk, at his age, you never know). "You... you really are a bunch of crazy, unpredictable kids. And I wouldn't trade it for anything in this world," he muttered, with a fatherly pride that was almost palpable. "But alright! The Master has decided! At the request of one of the finalists, the final fight will be postponed by twenty-four hours! Now, rest, you little pests!"
I gave Erza's good shoulder a light punch, almost a tap. She still nearly toppled backwards from the impact, letting out a small "oof!" of pain.
"Oops, my bad," I said, a genuine smirk appearing. "Still fragile, I see. Now get some real rest. I want to see that sword of yours actually hit me tomorrow, not just swing like a wind chime."
Erza took a deep breath and, to my surprise, laughed, a tired but genuine laugh full of a gratitude that warmed something strange in my chest. "You can bet on it."
The high moon, full and white as a polished bone, cast long, ghostly shadows over our makeshift camp, illuminating the destroyed clearing like a dramatic, poorly lit stage waiting for its final act. The air was damp and heavy, with that scent of churned earth, burnt wood, and, more subtly, the metallic odour of dried blood and spent magic. It was almost poetic, in a terribly macabre way.
Erza remained stubbornly seated, trying to maintain her regal composure, even though she looked like a rag doll that had been used as a chew toy by a hellhound. And Natsu, the incorrigible stubborn oaf, was still trying to play nurse, with predictably disastrous results.
"STAY STILL, ERZA! I NEED TO TIGHTEN THIS BANDAGE!" he bellowed, shoving a roll of gauze in a somewhat random direction near her shoulder, probably cutting off her circulation. Happy, for his part, trembled beside her, holding a pot of ointment that was dripping everywhere, including on his own blue fur.
"Natsu, you're tying the bandage around my neck, you complete idiot! And that's not my leg, it's my arm!" Erza complained, her voice weak but loaded with a frustration that threatened to explode into violence if she had an ounce of strength left.
Happy, flying around her like a-focal hummingbird with a nursing degree bought at a flea market of dubious origin, was heroically trying to cover a deep cut on her cheek with a tiny plaster, the size of my thumbnail. "Erzaaa, you're all torn up! You look like a swordfish after a nasty fight with a hammerhead shark! And a giant octopus!"
Erza took a deep breath, looking like she was about to jump down both their throats, if she could move her neck, of course.
From the other side of the fire, a low, hoarse laugh caught my attention. Mirajane was laughing softly, still stretched out on her own makeshift bed of leaves and blankets, where Elfman was treating her with the extreme care of someone handling a bomb about to explode.
"Sis, want another pillow? A sip of water? Want me to stay up all night watching over you to scare away the nasty bugs?" Elfman offered, his deep voice sounding almost hysterical with worry.
Mirajane smiled, a lazy but genuinely amused expression on her still-pale face. "Elfman, dear, relax. I'm a powerful mage, remember? I'll survive. But look at Erza over there," she gestured with her head, "I don't think she'll last the next half-hour if those two incompetents keep 'caring' for her. She's liable to die of bandage-asphyxiation or pure irritation."
I sighed, my patience, that fragile and overrated virtue I possessed in merely homeopathic doses, finally running out like sand in a broken hourglass. I had seen this kind of battlefield 'medical care' far too many times, in countless worlds and eras, and the conclusion was almost always the same: it ended with more injuries, incorrectly bound limbs, and a worrying number of infections.
Slowly, with the reluctance of one forced to intervene in a problem that is not their own (but which, annoyingly, concerns them), I rose from my comfortable log. With a movement that seemed casual, I picked up my leather pouch where I kept herbs and other necessities, and the mug of tea that, predicting this exact scenario of medical incompetence, I had already prepared. Dissolved in the dark, steaming liquid was one of my creations: an intermediate-level Vital Recovery pill.
A small, discreet alchemical trick, a remnant from one of my numerous past lives, this one particularly long and focused on the art of cultivation, where mastering the alchemy of miracle pills was as essential as breathing to ascend to higher planes or, at the very least, survive duels with other overly dramatic cultivators with flying swords and immortality complexes. This small, condensed sphere of spiritual essences and ancient herbs was, for all intents and purposes, an entire pharmacy in the form of a dubious-tasting tablet.
"Get off her, you monkeys," I ordered, my voice low but sharp and firm as a blade of ice. My sudden arrival made Natsu and Happy freeze in place.
Natsu's eyes widened. "Hey! We were helping! I'm a great doctor!"
"You were trying to strangle Erza with a bandage and, if I'm not mistaken, using the ointment as toothpaste, Natsu. That's not 'helping', that's 'attempted manslaughter with an aggravating factor of stupidity'," I cut in, without the slightest mercy, and pushed them both aside with a gesture that was almost delicate in its firmness, but left no room for argument.
Happy backed away, trembling, probably expecting a scolding. "A-Azra'il-chan, d-do you... do you know how to do bandages? For real?"
I let out a low, dry, almost humourless chuckle that made the little cat shudder. "Happy, my dear and naive feline," I began, my tone calm but with a subtext that silenced Natsu's protests, "the last time I was in Raven's End a few months ago, I had to patch up the arm of an artefact smuggler in some dive bar after he tried to cheat at cards against a three-eyed troll. I did it on a filthy bar table, in the dark, using only a net-mending needle, gut-thread from some questionable animal, and half a litre of cheap whiskey as an antiseptic. Part for the wound, most for me." I tilted my head, a dangerous glint in my eyes. "The troll, by the way, wasn't as lucky as the smuggler. Do you really think a few scratches and bruises on a stubborn redhead in urgent need of a bath are going to give me any trouble?"
Erza, who had been watching the scene in silence, shivered slightly. It wasn't the first time she had heard one of my stories about my 'childhood' in Raven's End, but familiarity did not lessen the impact. Each new anecdote about that time seemed only to add another layer of darkness and forced survival to my image. An instant blush rose up her neck and cheeks, not from shock at the violence, but from a mixture of sadness, helplessness at not having been there to protect me, and perhaps, a reluctant admiration for the absurd resilience I displayed. "A-Azra'il… d-did you… really do that? Back then... you were so little," her voice was a shocked whisper.
"Necessity has a peculiar way of making us grow up fast, Erza Scarlet," I murmured, my voice losing its mocking tone and becoming more serious, almost cold, as I approached her. I ignored Natsu's crooked bandages. My expression was now focused, but if she looked closely, beneath the mask of indifference, she might have seen a fleeting glint in my blue eyes. A mix of protective affection, an emotion that both irritated me for its existence and comforted me for its sincerity. "And I've had to do what was necessary more times than you could count, at ages you can't even imagine. Now, be quiet and let me take care of this, before you get an infection and I actually have to use the cheap whiskey on you as the only option. And believe me, the smell is worse than the taste."
Without ceremony, I began to undo the crooked, poorly tied bandages, my fingers, which had once danced over the strings of a lute, now working with a cold, efficient precision worthy of an elite surgeon or a particularly meticulous watchmaker. My touch was firm, sure, but surprisingly gentle as it passed over Erza's open wounds, cleaning away the dirt and dried blood, as if I were memorising every scar, every mark of the battle she had fought.
Erza shivered visibly when she felt the cool skin of my hand brush against the warm side of her ribs, and her face, even in the firelight, flushed a shade of scarlet that rivalled her own hair. It was almost... cute, seeing her so disarmed.
"C-could you... could you be a little… gentler?" she asked, her voice a thread, her gaze averted, clearly embarrassed by her own vulnerability and my calculated proximity.
I let out a low, amused smirk from the corner of my mouth. I leaned a little closer, enough for my whisper to be for her alone. "This is my gentle side, Red," my voice came out low and intentionally provocative, loaded with a subtext I knew she would understand perfectly. "Do you really want to see how... 'rough' I can be?" I paused for a moment, letting the implication hang in the heavy air between us, my blue eyes meeting hers with a glint of pure mischief. "Usually, it involves less 'medical care' and much, much more... ah... active participation. And considerably less patience. But if you insist..."
Erza turned even redder, if that was humanly possible. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound coming out, like a fish out of water. She seemed to be fighting an internal war between her warrior's pride, her anger at the provocation, and an embarrassment so deep I could almost hear it screaming. Finally, she fell silent, completely surrendered and visibly shaken, not by my care, but by my audacity. A point for me.
"Relax, Titania," I said, my tone shifting back to something so serene it bordered on angelic, which made the previous taunt even more impactful. My voice was a balm now, a lullaby for an overburdened warrior's soul. "I'm only joking. Or maybe not. Either way," I continued, returning my focus to her wounds with professional efficiency, "I'm not going to let you fall to pieces. Not today, at least. I have plans to kick your arse fairly tomorrow, remember? And for that, I need you... whole." The last word came out with a subtle emphasis that, I was sure, did not go unnoticed by her.
With an impressive agility, born from many lifetimes practising the healing arts and, occasionally, dismemberment (the two require a surprisingly similar anatomical knowledge), I cleaned her cuts with an herbal tincture that stung but disinfected, aligned the dressings with geometric precision, and adjusted her posture, placing one of my soft blankets as a support for her back, so as not to strain any tense muscles. It was as if I were mending a valkyrie, a warrior work of art, and I remembered exactly how to do it without causing unnecessary pain and with maximum efficiency.
Mirajane, who was watching the whole scene from the other side of the fire with half-closed eyes and a smile that was a dangerous mix of malicious amusement and perhaps a hint of genuine jealousy, didn't miss the opportunity to stir the pot. Her voice came out, velvety and loaded with a provocation as sweet as poison.
"Well, well, Azra'il, what a gentle touch you have," she began, her gaze moving from my hands on Erza to the incredibly flushed face of the Titania. "You'll end up spoiling our little redhead like this. She's not used to so much... affection. But," and here her smile widened, her blue eyes sparking in Erza's direction, "if you continue with this special treatment every night, I'll have to admit defeat and retire from my post as your rival, Titania. It's hard to compete with someone who gets VIP treatment." She paused for a moment, her gaze turning to me with a glint of shameless flirtation. "Unless, of course, 'Doctor Wolf' has appointments available for other patients... We bad girls know how to appreciate a good... personalised treatment too."
Erza, who already looked on the verge of spontaneous combustion from shame, huffed, half-breathless. "S-shut up, you meddling, perverted she-devil! It's not like that at all!"
I just smiled, raising my gaze over my shoulder towards Mira with an expression of pure, false innocence, the kind I knew irritated (and perhaps charmed) them in equal measure, before offering a steaming mug to Erza. "Drink this. All of it." The internal amusement at this little romantic drama was, I admit, a balm for my bored soul.
Erza looked at the dark, suspicious-smelling liquid with understandable distrust. "What's in it?"
"Special recovery herbs I found lying around, in a secret corner of the island," I lied, without blinking, even though I knew it was the contents of an intermediate-level Vital Recovery pill I myself had created in another life, dissolved in a bitter-tasting tea to disguise it. "It will speed up your healing and lessen the pain. Unless you're allergic to magical leaves that heal mortal wounds in a few hours. In that case, the side effects might be... interesting."
The redhead, still suspicious, gave a cautious sniff and wrinkled her nose. "It smells awful... like wet earth with a hint of crushed toad."
"A small price to pay for not waking up tomorrow looking like you've been run over by a freight train, don't you think?" I retorted, with a provocative little smile that dared her to refuse.
With a resigned sigh, Erza took a sip, making an instant face at the taste. I took advantage of the distraction to adjust the bandages on her shoulder again, leaning in so close that my silver hair brushed against her cheek and the discreet scent of my tea mingled with the smell of sweaty skin, blood, and the hot determination that emanated from her. It was a strangely... addictive mixture.
Erza's heart hammered, the blush deepening, and she looked away, completely flustered. "Y-you're very… close… again..."
I arched an eyebrow, immensely amused by her embarrassment. "Is there a problem, Titania? Would you prefer I step back and leave you to the care of the expert in neck-tourniquets over there?" I gestured with my head towards Natsu, who was now trying to teach Happy how to breathe fire, with predictably chaotic and smoke-filled results.
"...no," Erza replied too quickly, visibly ashamed, which made me hold back a sincere laugh. The great Titania, terrified by a little proximity. What delicious irony.
Happy and Natsu watched the scene with dumbfounded looks, not understanding a thing. But Mirajane, ah, Mirajane understood. And she was laughing so hard, a low, restrained laugh, that it looked like she might pop her own stitches.
Elfman, next to his sister, ever the well of innocence, muttered, "Wow... Azra'il is better than any hospital I've ever seen..."
Mirajane agreed, breathless from laughing. "And, apparently, the only medicine that makes Erza turn as red as a ripe tomato without needing a fever or being embarrassed about some stupid thing she's done."
Finally, I moved away, checking my work with an air of professional pride, like someone admiring a valuable relic that had just been meticulously restored. "There, Red. The dressings are firm and the dubious healing tea should be taking effect already. Now sleep. I want you whole for our fight tomorrow. No excuses."
Erza, still somewhat speechless from the succession of events, the unexpected care, and my disconcerting proximity, let out only a quiet, almost inaudible "thank you," her gaze fixed on me with a mix of gratitude, surprise, and something else that I didn't want, or couldn't, decipher.
I allowed myself a genuine smile and, on an impulse I would certainly blame on fatigue later, I lightly ran my hand through her red hair, brushing away a few rebellious strands that were stuck to her forehead with sweat. The touch was brief, almost fleeting, but it seemed to send a small electric current between us. "You're going to give me a lot of trouble tomorrow, aren't you?"
Erza smiled back, a tired but genuinely happy smile, her eyes shining in the firelight. "You can bet on it. With everything I've got."
After I finished adjusting the bandage on Erza's head as a way to disguise my previous caress, I let out a light sigh of a job well done (or of exhaustion from having to socialise so much), and turned towards my other... 'patient', that sly little grin dancing at the corner of my lips again.
"Alright… now it's your turn, little devil," I said, facing Mirajane, who was still comfortably lying with her head resting in the lap of an overly protective Elfman, laughing at the whole scene with a malicious joy that told me she was far less incapacitated than she appeared.
Mirajane arched an eyebrow, her gaze suspicious but with a challenge shining in her blue eyes. "Are you going to pamper me and treat me with that surprising delicacy of yours like you did with the little redhead over there? Careful, Azra'il, people will start to think you have a heart."
I smirked, approaching with slow, almost feline steps, a predator assessing its prey, and replied in a tone of pure, amused provocation: "I'm going to patch you up with the same precision with which I dismantled the ego of a certain electric mage, Mirajane. So be thankful I'm not a butcher, because with you, the temptation would be great."
Erza, still blushing but recovering a bit of her tough warrior pose, didn't miss the chance to return Mira's taunt. "Enjoy it, Mira. It's rare for her to be so dedicated and... careful with someone. You should feel special." Erza's smile had that little hint of revenge, as if to say, "now it's your turn, 'She-Devil', good luck holding back the embarrassment."
Mirajane huffed, an amused sound, but she couldn't suppress a slightly nervous laugh as I approached, crouching beside her with the same precision and serenity with which I had treated Erza. My touch was firm, sure, gliding over the bruises on her arms and legs, checking her temperature, her pulse, reviewing points of tension as if I were reading a battle map on her skin.
Mira shivered slightly at my touch, her tense muscles reacting to my proximity. She was the 'She-Devil', the personification of demonic power, but under my hands, for an instant, she seemed… surprisingly vulnerable. Clearly unaccustomed to receiving such delicate and precise care from anyone other than her overprotective siblings.
"You're… you're really good at this, huh…" she commented, her voice a little hoarse, a little breathless. A subtle but undeniable blush began to appear on her pale cheeks, and she tried to disguise it with a smile that was more nervous than predatory.
I paused my work for a second, my blue eyes meeting hers in the firelight, and I let a small, slow, mischievous smile, full of unsaid promises, curve my lips. I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice to a whisper that only she could hear.
"That's because I'm being gentle, my little devil," I murmured, the tone loaded with a double meaning I knew she couldn't ignore. "Usually, when I put my hands on someone with that aura of 'I love good chaos and a little bit of pain'," I paused, letting the word hang in the air, "the end result involves considerably more screaming, much heavier breathing, and a level of exhaustion that would leave you unable to walk straight for at least a full day." I looked directly into her eyes, the challenge and the promise there, clear as crystal. "So, tell me, Mirajane, when you're all healed up... would you like to schedule an appointment for the 'standard' treatment? Or can the famous 'She-Devil' not handle the intensity?"
The effect was instantaneous and glorious.
Mirajane, the great and confident She-Devil, the mage who flirted with danger as if it were an old friend, choked. A small, almost inaudible sound. The blush on her cheeks exploded into a deep crimson, spreading down her neck. Her blue eyes, normally so full of fire and malice, widened in pure, absolute shock, her mind clearly struggling to process the audacity of my response. She opened her mouth to retort with one of her sharp taunts, but nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. For the first time since I'd known her, Mirajane Strauss was speechless. And, I must admit, the sight was incredibly… satisfying.
Elfman, beside his sister, widened his eyes, completely confused by the atmosphere forming between us, by our exchange of barbs that seemed more like a strange flirtation than a medical consultation. "S-Sis, a-are you really okay?! She's not hurting you, is she?" he asked, distressed and ready to make me his next punching bag.
Mirajane lightly tapped her brother's arm, still holding back a laugh. "Elf, dear, relax… Azra'il is just teasing me. It's her way of... showing affection. I think."
I smiled, but my fingers continued to work with enviable skill, adjusting dressings, changing soiled bandages with an efficiency that would make any field medic jealous, treating her as one would care for a rare and particularly venomous porcelain relic.
"There. And try not to pop all your stitches laughing at my jokes. I don't want to have to sew you up again, Miss Little Satan," I said, patting her shoulder lightly when I finished my work.
Mirajane rolled her blue eyes, but her smile, now, was genuine, devoid of the 'She-Devil' mask. She finally relaxed completely against the makeshift bedding, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. "Thank you… my white wolf with surprisingly gentle hands," she teased back, her tone half-joking, but with a sincerity and warmth that warmed something deep and forgotten in my chest.
I arched an eyebrow, amused by her response. "You can pay me in compliments, strawberry cake, and, perhaps, absolute silence afterwards," I said, theatrically, before facing the two now-patched-up rivals with an air of renewed challenge.
Mirajane crossed her arms, that predatory half-smile back on her face, and spoke directly to Erza: "If by some miracle you can't beat her tomorrow, Titania, you can leave it to me to do it next time. Just to be sure."
Erza, who already looked a little better thanks to my elixir, laughed, a low but confident laugh, gently shaking her head towards Mirajane. "Deal, Mira. But don't count on it. She's mine."
I just shook my head, my silver hair swinging with the movement, and sighed, somewhere between exasperated by their competitiveness and genuinely, almost uncomfortably, relieved to see them both alive, teasing each other, and full of fire.
"You two are going to give me a headache…"
Natsu, who was only understanding half the interaction, as usual, approached with Happy still trying to wipe a last bit of ointment from his furry cheek. "Hey, Azra'il, I took some punches from that giant over there too! Don't you want to take care of me as well? I can pretend I'm really, really hurt," he asked, half-serious, half-joking, with a goofy grin on his face.
I didn't even blink. My gaze measured him from top to bottom with icy disdain. "Natsu, my dear. You have a dragon for a father, a regenerative ability that defies medical logic, and most importantly, you are not nearly pretty enough to deserve my highly exclusive, private medical services. You are, I regret to inform you, a lost cause. Ask your cat to give you a few licks. They say it helps."
Happy burst out laughing, a high-pitched, mocking sound, and to my absolute surprise and delight, even Erza and Mirajane laughed together, a tired, pained, but genuine laugh that echoed through the clearing like a promise that, despite everything, we were still a family. A very, very dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless.
For a second, a single, fleeting second, the camp seemed almost… peaceful. And I hated how much I liked it.
The sun had barely shown its face on the horizon, painting the sky and clouds with that lazy, orange-gold of a new day, when I got up and went to where Erza was still dozing, finally breathing calmly and deeply, thanks to the miracle pill disguised as bitter herbal tea I had forced her to drink.
Mirajane was snoring softly a few feet away, a curiously human sight for Mirajane-standards, with Elfman standing guard beside her like a faithful dog, dozing while sitting up with his head lolling to the side, yet still alert to the slightest noise or threat to his sister.
I let out a sigh that contained no irritation, only a deep weariness. I knelt beside Erza to check her dressings with my intimidatingly meticulous manner, ensuring the bandages were still firm, that there were no signs of infection. The redhead awoke at my touch, her long lashes fluttering before her brown eyes opened, blinking a few times to shake off the sleep, until they finally focused on my silver figure before her, silhouetted against the dawn light.
"You again…" she murmured, her voice still hoarse and a little thick with sleep, but, to my satisfaction, without that note of throbbing pain from the previous night.
I gave a half-smile, the first genuine one of the day, and adjusted a stubborn red lock of hair that was stuck to her forehead with a bit of dried sweat. "I told you I wouldn't let you drag yourself to our duel like a bloody zombie, Red. Or did you think my offer of a postponement was just to publicly humiliate you? I have my... efficient side too," I joked. "Sleep well?"
Erza took a deep breath, sitting up slowly, testing her muscles. I could see the surprise in her eyes when she realised her body felt much lighter than she expected, almost new, if not for the remnants of a fatigue that now seemed more muscular than a soul-deep exhaustion.
"Better than in a long, long time," she admitted, with a certain reluctance, but with an undeniable gratitude and a glint in her eyes that stared directly at me. "It was you, wasn't it? That awful tea… It had something more than just herbs in it." She wasn't asking, she was stating. Her intelligence was, at times, as irritating as her stubbornness.
I feigned the most shameless innocence I could muster at that time of the morning. "Suspicious herbs I found lying around, Erza. The magical, unpredictable nature of this island's flora," I said, winking provocatively. "Maybe a mushroom with healing properties fell into my teapot by accident. Accidents happen."
Erza huffed, a small, amused sound, but didn't press the issue. She knew she wouldn't get the truth out of me so easily. A small, honest smile, the kind that softened her features and made her dangerously... beautiful, formed on her lips. "Be that as it may... thank you, Azra'il. Truly."
I shrugged, looking away, feeling that uncomfortable warmth spread through my chest. "You can thank me by giving me a decent fight, not by being a pathetic opponent who falls at the first blow. Don't you dare come at me with that look like you're going to take it easy on me, because if you do, I swear on all my bored ancestors that I will put you on the ground myself in the most humiliating way possible, just on principle," I threatened, but my voice lacked its usual harshness; it was more... like someone protecting an unquestionably valuable friend.
Erza took another deep breath, and when she stood, swaying only a little, she clenched her fist with renewed strength. The pain and exhaustion were still there, in the shadows under her eyes, but the warrior's fire, the one I so admired and hated, burned brighter than ever. "I won't hold anything back, Azra'il. I promise."
"That's what I like to hear," I murmured, standing up as well, feeling a pang of something that felt dangerously like... anticipation.
At that moment, Makarov appeared from between the trees, scratching his moustache and rubbing his sleep-swollen face, but with his usual shrewd, firm gaze. "Azra'il. Erza," he began, sizing us both up with a serious expression. "Are you two sure about this? The final duel, the one that will decide the next S-Class Mage of Fairy Tail this year. It's a title of great weight and responsibility."
I looked first at Erza, letting her, the wounded challenger, speak. But noticing her gaze seek mine for an instant, as if asking for permission, I intervened with my usual calm. "Master, I asked to postpone the combat for a day precisely to ensure she was in a condition to fight for real. I have no interest in an empty victory, won against someone who can't even lift their own sword firmly. That wouldn't be a test, it would be a massacre. And as much as I appreciate a good show, I prefer my opponents to be, at the very least, conscious and with most of their limbs functioning correctly."
Makarov arched an eyebrow, his gaze turning to the Titania. "And you, Erza? What does your warrior's heart say?"
Erza stood up completely, stretching her muscles with visible care. And though I could see a discreet tremor in her legs, the fire in her brown eyes burned with the intensity of a forge. "I want to fight, Master," she declared, her voice firm, resonating with unshakeable conviction. "The title of S-Class Mage is something I desire with all my being, so I can protect my friends, my family, even more. If I am to lose, let it be on my feet, fighting with everything I have, not half-dead and lamenting my weakness."
Makarov sighed, a long, heavy sound, but his face broke into a proud smile he couldn't contain. "You two... you sometimes surprise me." He clapped his small hands in a ritualistic gesture, his voice taking on a solemn tone. "Then it is decided! The final fight of this year's S-Class Trial will take place at sunset, on top of the wide southern hill of the island. Be prepared!"
I adjusted the sheath of my wooden sword, which was discreetly fastened to my hip, and smiled, that lazy, secret-filled smile of mine that hid the power I truly carried.
"I was born ready, Master. The problem is that the rest of the universe usually isn't."
Erza nodded, a serene confidence taking over her face, and added, "And I have fought my whole life for a moment like this."
Makarov smiled, a father's pride written all over his wrinkled face. "Very well, then. I am sure that today, as the sun sets, we will have a combat worthy of the greatest legends of Fairy Tail. Good luck to you both. And please, try not to destroy the entire hill. It has sentimental value for the forest spirits and for the Guild's wallet."
He walked away, probably to prepare himself mentally and perhaps to take another swig from his flask, leaving the two of us alone in that half-magical, half-frightening moment, where the future of the guild and the fate of one of us seemed to fit entirely within a single exchanged glance.
On an impulse I hadn't expected from her, Erza extended her hand to help me up from the rock I had sat back down on. I accepted, still a little surprised by the gesture. Our fingers touched, and her hand, though calloused and strong, was surprisingly warm.
"Are you really going all out, Azra'il?" she asked, her voice a little lower, not hiding the mix of fear and excitement in her eyes.
I arched an eyebrow, pulling a smile that was half-dangerous, half... affectionate, a combination that made me uncomfortable. "Erza, don't overthink it, just fight. But I'll guarantee you one thing," I said, and with my other hand, I lightly touched her face with my fingertips, the most intimate gesture I had allowed myself in centuries. "If there's one thing I never, ever want to see in those fiery eyes of yours... it's regret. Fight without holding back, so that, no matter the outcome, you won't regret a thing."
Erza took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly, touched by my unexpected gesture and my words. Her face flushed slightly, but she smiled, a smile full of renewed courage and a determination that could move mountains. "Then... let's give it our best. And may the best fairy win."
"The best... mage," I corrected softly. "It's the least we can do," I whispered, before pulling away, feeling the warmth of her face still on my fingertips, and I began to prepare, my mind already focusing on the battle to come, a dance of blades, power, and confused feelings under the setting sun.
I left Erza to her preparations or, more likely, to what she called 'resting', which usually involved meditating on two hundred and forty-seven different combat tactics and polishing her armours with an almost religious dedication. The redhead has an irritating habit of trying to get up and fight even with her guts practically spilling out, so I gave her a warning look that said "if you try to exert yourself before it's time, I'll put you to sleep myself with an induced-coma spell," which seemed to work, for now. I ran my hand over her head as one would calm a wounded but still dangerous war wolf, promising we would meet on the hill at dusk, and went on my way, ignoring Happy's worried look and Natsu's bark of protest, who wanted to escort me as if I might explode without supervision or start singing sad ballads again.
I reached the southern hill.
The place was perfect—wide, with soft green grass, surrounded by ancient trees that formed an almost perfect semi-circle, as if they were spectators at an ancient ritual. The wind blew straight from the sea, bringing the scent of salt and freedom, and vaguely reminding me of a lost temple on a clifftop in some particularly lonely past life, where I used to meditate for days on end to avoid having to deal with the local populace, who had a worrying taste for human sacrifices and noisy cheese festivals.
I sat on my heels on the grass, adjusted my wooden sword in front of me, and stared at the horizon, where the blue sea met the sky. The sun was already high, painting everything with its golden light and, believe it or not, for the first time since I arrived on this island, I didn't feel that hot, suffocating heat. Quite the opposite. I had that foolish, almost youthful feeling of peace, that stillness that usually precedes a catastrophe or, in my case, a battle I would rather avoid. A peace that, as I knew all too well from experience, never lasted long in my chaotic routine.
I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. The world seemed to fall silent.
(I can't just lose on purpose. Not to her.) The thought arose in my mind, clear and irritatingly logical.
Eos's voice, ever so punctual in moments of inner reflection, echoed inside my skull, cold and analytical as always, a true killjoy.
[Confirmation. A deliberate surrender on your part would be easily detectable by a combatant of Erza Scarlet's level. The projection of her personality algorithms indicates a result of intense disappointment, a possible crisis of confidence, and a decline in the current emotional bond between you estimated at 17.3%, with a margin of error for considerably worse.]
I let out a short, bitter laugh, without opening my eyes. "I know, Eos. I don't need your statistics for that. I know her better than, sometimes, I know myself. If I handed her this victory on a silver platter, like a consolation prize, she would hate me for it. And frankly, I would hate myself. It would be an insult to her strength, to her determination... to everything she is."
[Correct. However, my data indicates that in Erza Scarlet's current physical state, even after a day of accelerated recovery due to your alchemical interventions, the probability of her defeat in combat against you utilising your full potential, even with your current restrictions, is approximately 89%.]
I huffed, running a hand through my hair, feeling the sea breeze mess up my silver strands, a gesture of frustration. "Exactly. And if I go all out, I'll break the girl. Literally. And then, what's the point? Where's the test? Where's the honour in that? Besides," I added mentally, with a touch of selfishness I couldn't deny, "I don't want to spend the next few weeks feeling guilty and listening to the Master's lectures about 'going easy on my comrades'."
[Proposed solution: adjust your combat power level to the theoretical maximum ceiling compatible with Erza Scarlet's current performance. Calibrate strength, speed, and Ethernano flow to create a scenario of apparent power balance. Execute a simulation of plausible strategic failures at key moments in the battle, without mischaracterising your overall combat performance and tactical superiority.]
"Simulation of failures... wow, how poetic. And what a cold term for 'pretending to be an idiot at times'," I said sarcastically, staring at my own hands, their palms smooth, but which carried the invisible scars of a thousand battles, of other worlds, of other deaths. "You make it sound like I'm a perfectly programmable combat automaton, Eos."
[At times, in practice and in moments of high efficiency, you behave exactly like one. With the addition of sarcasm, of course. Which is an irritating variable, but one I have already incorporated into the model.]
I rolled my eyes at the sky. "Thank you for the brutal honesty and the unsolicited personality analysis, as always. Your ability to compliment and insult me in the same sentence is truly an art form."
I was quiet for a moment, feeling my magical flow circulate within me. A calm, powerful current, deeply restrained by my own will. It was a force I had spent ages learning to tame, to hide, to control. How many worlds had I not shaken without even meaning to? How many people, how many lives, had I erased from existence in fits of rage or pain in other existences, before learning self-control as a necessity for the survival of everything around me? To contain myself, for me, was as natural, as instinctive as breathing. To release it all at once was the real danger.
(But I couldn't, I wouldn't, be unfair to her.) She deserved more. She deserved the truth. Or, at least, a version of the truth that wouldn't break her.
Erza deserved a real victory, if she could earn it. Not a gift, not a consolation prize given out of pity, not charity from a bored entity. Something she could look at later, in the mirror, with her warrior's eyes, her scars, and her pride, and say, "I did it. I beat her. I am worthy."
I was going to give her that chance. A real chance.
I sighed, letting my body relax completely, still seated in my meditative position. The scent of sea salt and fresh grass washed over me, and I closed my eyes again, focusing on a single idea, a simple and, in my own way, elegant plan.
I remained there, sitting on the green hill, feeling the salty sea air lick my face and that chilly, rather cheeky wind playing with my wolf ears and making my silver hair dance. The sun was practically sinking into the sea, bleeding across the sky in shades of orange, gold, and a deep, melancholic purple, a landscape too beautiful, too dramatic for the amount of chaos, boredom, and existential problems I carried in my chest. Typical of the universe and its ironic sense of humour.
My mind, of course, that restless, noisy machine, wouldn't stay quiet. It never did.
(I could just hold back my strength. Keep the duel balanced, defend myself, wait for her to find an opening. But she would see. She would feel the hesitation. Erza always sees, with those warrior eyes of hers that seem to peer into the soul. She would know I was going easy on her, and her victory would have the bitter taste of pity. And I wouldn't do that to her. Not to Erza.)
I took a deep breath, opening my eyes and looking at my wooden sword, which rested beside me on the grass, looking almost innocent, harmless. A simple piece of black oak, carved with a precision that bordered on the supernatural, but still, just wood. Or so it seemed. It was charged with years, decades, centuries, depending on how you counted, of my magic, my intent, my battles. A weapon that had proven its worth.
I remembered my training sessions with Erza at the guild, not long ago. The countless times she, the stubborn teenager, in full armour and with sweat pouring down her face, tried desperately to hit me. I let her try, I provoked her, urged her to advance, to attack with everything, let her bite the air with her swords a thousand times, creating a ballet of steel and frustration. "You just have to touch me, Red," that was the deal. And, usually, she failed spectacularly, ending up breathless and annoyed, but always stronger, always learning.
But now? No. The situation was different. She was no longer that impetuous, unrestrained girl, though she was still as stubborn as a pack mule. And I... I was no longer the distracted master who laughed at her falls and offered cryptic advice between sips of tea. Today, I was her opponent. The final barrier. And, for her victory to be real, the goal had to be real. Tangible. Unquestionable.
I caressed the polished blade of my wooden jian, feeling with my fingertips every micro-fissure, every invisible scar that the wood held like a badge of honour, silent memories of other battles, of other worlds.
(It was with this very wooden sword that I disarmed that cocky grandson of old Makarov's. It was with this that I, with a boredom that bordered on an art form, dismantled and humiliated Laxus Dreyar, an S-Class Mage, at his own game of raw power and flashy electricity.) And Erza... ah, Erza certainly already knew this. Or, at least, the more chaotic and childishly summarised version of events.
I remembered the moment earlier at the camp, while I was still cleaning the redhead's wounds. I could hear, in the background, Happy's shrill voice narrating his version of the facts to a gobsmacked Natsu, probably with poorly disguised envy. Something along the lines of "And then, Erza, the bad lightning guy went 'BZZZT!' really hard, but Azra'il-chan just went 'shhh' with her twig and he went 'AARGH!' and fell over! And then she drew a really funny thing on his face!". The description was, as always, simplistic to the point of absurdity, but the message was clear. I didn't need to say a word. The gossip, the fastest and most efficient weapon in Fairy Tail, had already done its work through its most unlikely and furry messenger.
Erza, with her strategist's mind, wouldn't need more than that to connect the dots. The defeat of Laxus, my presence, Happy's narrative. She would know this sword was not a simple training object I used with her. She would respect it as the weapon that had subjugated an opponent of an S-Class Mage's calibre. And that... that made my plan even more delicious. What if...
A crooked, almost amused smile appeared on my lips, as the twilight breeze rustled my clothes and brought me the distant scent of the sea and the spent magic of the previous battle. The idea that formed in my mind was simple. Elegant. And, in its own twisted, lazy way, poetically just.
"So, Erza… could you, with all your strength, with all your determination and untameable heart... could you break my humble wooden sword?" I murmured softly, as if she were there beside me to hear my silent challenge.
[Battle plan identified,] Eos's voice entered my mind, invasive, methodical, and, as always, with a touch of unnecessarily detailed analysis, as if commenting on a cosmic chess match. [Self-imposed defeat condition: destruction of your primary weapon, the black oak jian of the ancient Celestial Sword Sect. The sentimental name 'Shadow of the Silent Oak' is your own addition and, I should note, is not listed in the sect's official records.] Eos paused for a moment, as if to add drama to her analysis.
[Challenge proposed to the opponent: to overcome the durability of a mundane object that has, over an extensive life cycle, been systematically imbued with your life energy, strengthened with refinement techniques from your cultivation life, and polished by a frankly excessive amount of boredom and contemplation. The challenge is not to break a legendary artefact, but to break a concentrated fragment of your own defence. Degree of difficulty for Erza Scarlet: Extreme. Degree of feasibility, considering her maximum destructive potential and her ability to surpass limits under emotional and sentimental pressure: High, though not guaranteed. Victory path perceived as 'acceptable' and symbolically potent within the parameters of the Titania's personal honour and pride.]
"That's right," I said, stretching my legs out on the grass, feeling my muscles relax. "Simple and direct. If she breaks my sword, I lose. She wins. And she can call me defeated without an ounce of shame or pity. The victory will be hers, by right and by merit."
[Confirmation. Erza Scarlet will interpret such an event as a just and absolute victory. Prediction of satisfaction of the emotional bond and strengthening of the relationship of mutual respect: 94%, with a 67% probability of her offering you a piece of her next strawberry cake as a sign of gratitude.]
"Eos… sometimes, you make it sound like my heart, and hers, is just a spreadsheet with projections and pie charts," I huffed, half-laughing, half-tired of that cold logic applied to something so... human and chaotic.
[Your heart is a quantum anomaly, Azra'il, a paradox of indifference and intense affection. It's a very, very complicated spreadsheet. With many broken formulas.]
I let out a short, genuine laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. Sometimes, Eos's brutal honesty was almost... captivating. "Maybe it is. But don't tell the redhead, okay? I don't want her to discover the complexity of my spreadsheet before it's time."
[State secret stored under Omega-level encryption protocol. The spreadsheet remains confidential.]
I took another deep breath, feeling the salty sea air fill my lungs, and propped the wooden jian upright in the earth before me. The dark, almost black blade trembled a little in the dying light of the setting sun, as if it were alive, as if it were waiting. Eagerly.
(It's going to be a fine challenge, Red.) The battle wouldn't be an exchange of mass-destructive power blasts, like the spectacular duel between her and Mirajane. No. It would be a more intimate duel. A test of strength against resilience. Of raw power against technique. Of will against will. She just needs to break this. Just this. This... she can do. I had to believe she could.
I crossed my arms, feeling my chest warm with a foolish, unexpected pride, like that of a master preparing her best and most promising student for the final challenge of their life.
(This is it, Erza. Come at me with everything. Come with your fury, with your honour, with your strength. I'll be here, waiting for you. And I won't hold anything back. Except, of course, for my unshakable conviction to see you win, to see you achieve your dream, to see you shine like the star you were born to be.)
I closed my eyes, letting the sea breeze embrace me, the sound of the waves a distant, calming mantra. And I fell into a deep meditation, my magic flow adjusting, calibrating, becoming calm, contained, controlled, but ready. Ready to dance the final waltz, the most dangerous and, perhaps, the most beautiful of all, with my favourite Titania, under the sky of an island that held secrets, ghosts, and, who knows, the beginning of something new.