The sun, in its final and frankly melodramatic act, was bleeding all across the horizon, painting the sky a deep violet that merged with a wounded orange. It was a spectacle of almost violent beauty, a cosmic oil painting where a divine artist, probably drunk and with impeccable taste for tragedy, had decided the world needed a little more passion and pain before nightfall.
I have witnessed the birth of supernovas exploding silently in the void of space and the slow, quiet death of entire galaxies; compared to that, a simple sunset on a category-7 planet should be trivial, an astronomical event of almost insulting banality. And yet, this one, in this place, with the promise of an imminent confrontation, seemed to carry an unusual weight. A solemnity that clung to my skin like a shroud, as uncomfortable as clothes I had long outgrown, full of memories I would rather forget.
I was sitting in a lotus position on the cool, damp grass, the black oak jian resting across my lap like a faithful old cat, silent and full of secrets from other lives, from other hands that had wielded it. The wood, dark and polished by countless touches and centuries of obsessive care, seemed to absorb the dying light of day, becoming a swathe of pure emptiness against the fabric of my dark trousers.
The wind, coming from the sea, was a constant presence, carrying the scent of salt, of earth churned by the brutal battle between Erza and Mira, and the subtle, yet undeniable, aroma of impending ends and uncertain beginnings. It whispered tales of bygone eras in the leaves of the ancient trees that circled the hill like silent guardians, but I could only hear the thick, heavy silence that always precedes a storm. A silence that screamed with anticipation.
[Heart rate stabilised at 62 beats per minute. Ethernano level: Calm and contained. Current emotional state: Contemplative with a strong bias towards existential boredom, slightly tempered by a reluctant curiosity. Sarcasm level: Dangerously dormant, awaiting the slightest external stimulus for activation and verbal chaos.]
(I'm still waiting for the sarcasm level to rise, Eos. The monotony of my own calm is almost unbearable. Don't disappoint me,) I thought, with a hint of irritation that was, in itself, a familiar comfort, an anchor amidst the vastness of my own conflicting emotions.
[I can provide a detailed report on the statistical futility of this exam and the likely cost of repairs to the island, if you wish. Data analysis on bureaucratic incompetence and gratuitous destruction usually has a stimulating effect on your sarcasm levels.]
An almost imperceptible smile touched my lips. The sound of firm footsteps interrupted the wind's monologue, which until then had been my only company. They were precise steps. Determined. A familiar shadow was ascending the hill with the stubbornness of one who carries the weight of a continent on their shoulders and yet stubbornly refuses to ask for help carrying it, preferring to develop a herniated disc in silence and with a dignity that bordered on the absurd.
Erza.
Even with her body still patched up by my improvised medical care and surely aching like hell, there was something unbreakable in her walk, a strength that emanated from within. Her bare feet barely seemed to touch the damp grass, but each step was an affirmation, a silent declaration of war against her own weakness, against the pain, against the exhaustion.
The earth beneath her feet seemed to firm up, as if acknowledging her sovereignty, as if the island itself bowed before the Titania's will. She moved like a queen on her way to her coronation, or perhaps, with the same sombre dignity, to her own execution. With Erza, I had learned, the line between the two was always dangerously thin and fascinating to observe.
"I thought I'd have to drag you up here by your scarlet hair, or have Happy carry you like a glamorous sack of potatoes," I said, my voice sounding as calm and still as the surface of a lake before the first stone is thrown, shattering the perfect reflection. "But you walked, on your own two feet. That's new. Usually you prefer to arrive more... explosively, leaving a trail of destruction, a few demolished buildings, and a pile of complaints from the Magic Council in your wake."
She stopped a few metres from me, her gaze as firm as ever, but I could see a hint of hesitation behind that Valyrian steel facade, behind the warrior's mask she wore so naturally that, sometimes, I think she forgot to take it off even to sleep. It was that subtle doubt that only arises when what's at stake is not just the victory, but what it means, and, more importantly, who your opponent is.
Her brown eyes analysed me, not as an enemy to be struck down, but as a complex enigma, a riddle she desperately needed to decipher in order to move forward. It was the same look she'd had at the Tower of Heaven, years ago, when, still a frightened child, she tried to understand why I was different, why I didn't break like the others, why I seemed to have already lived a thousand lives and seen a thousand horrors before I had even learned to cast a decent spell.
"Are you alright?" she asked, and the audacity of that question, the complete inversion of the situation's logic, almost made me smile. She, covered in bandages, her body protesting with every breath, asking if I, the bored and emotionally constipated ancestral entity who had barely moved a muscle all day, was alright. The pure sincerity in her voice, devoid of any irony, was almost disarming. Almost.
I raised an eyebrow, the gesture slow, deliberate, almost an art form in itself. "I wasn't recently beaten, crushed, and thrown against a mountain by a demonic albino with serious anger management issues and a penchant for charming sadism, if that's what you're asking. So, yes, I am splendidly bored, thank you for asking. And, for your information, a little disappointed by the chronic lack of superior quality tea options on this island. Seriously, would a bit of camomile with moonbeam petals be too much to ask of the forest spirits?"
Before she could formulate one of her noble, serious, and slightly irritating responses about the importance of focus and discipline, a deep laugh, followed by a pained clearing of the throat that betrayed a still-grumbling knee, sounded from behind her, from the top of the hill.
"Arriving late for your own glorious ceremony of chaos, Master?" I teased, with a smirk, seeing Makarov emerge like a proud and slightly sadistic grandfather, about to watch his dear granddaughters face off in a duel with sharp kitchen knives, a suspicious flask in hand and an expression of one who has accepted his fate and decided to enjoy it with a good dose of alcohol.
The others, the inevitable Fairy Tail audience, were also there, at a respectful distance, forming an unlikely semi-circle for our little personal drama. Natsu looked like a coiled spring about to release, his fists letting off small sparks and a thin smoke, his energy crackling with anticipation and a clear inability to stand still.
Mirajane, already on her feet and in a new set of clothes (where did she get these clothes? The same place I get my teacups, probably), was pale, yes, but with that feline, knowing smile on her lips, watching the scene with an intensity that suggested she was seeing much more than just an imminent duel. And even Elfman, by her side, seemed to understand that something important, something fundamentally and manlily manly, according to his distorted standards, was about to happen. A real party.
"I was just finishing a mental calculation of how much this island is going to cost me in repairs, compensation for the traumatised tree spirits, and, possibly, group therapy for the local fauna," Makarov grumbled, taking a generous swig from his flask. "But I confess, with a certain shame, that I'm curious. Are you two actually going to fight or are you going to start exchanging strawberry cake recipes and resolve your unspoken emotional tensions with a frank, honest, and terribly boring conversation? Because, honestly, the second option would be much kinder to my budget."
I rose slowly from the grass, with the reluctance of millennia of other people's problems weighing on my bones. The movement was fluid, almost lazy, like that of a great predator that sees no reason to hurry, knowing its prey has nowhere to run. "With all due respect, Master, I think your options are a little limited." My gaze fixed on Erza's brown eyes, completely ignoring the noisy and unnecessary presence of the audience. For me, at that moment, there was only the two of us on that windswept hill, under the gaze of a rising moon. "But I propose a different kind of duel than what you probably imagine."
My gaze was a challenge, a promise. "No flashy armours that shine brighter than a collapsing supernova. No mass-destruction magic that rearranges the local geography and scares the fish. No telekinesis, no arcane explosions, nor anything that would make the already overburdened Magic Council itch with bureaucratic anxiety and start drafting another pile of useless, grammar-error-filled paperwork. Just... swords." I looked at my jian, then at the katanas at Erza's waist. "Just technique. Just the mind. Just the two of us. And our blades."
Makarov scratched his head, confused and genuinely intrigued. "Just swords? No Heaven's Wheel Armour, no Satan Soul, no... well, no whatever it is you do with that telepathy of yours that defies the laws of physics and personal privacy and gives me the shivers just thinking about it?"
"Oh, none of that," I replied, resting the wooden jian on my shoulder with a lightness that belied its conceptual weight and the energy that pulsed within it. "It will be just the art of the blade in its purest form. Body, mind, technique. A duel of soul to soul, to see which one breaks first."
"Hmm… that's a refined proposal… and quite... artistic," the Master murmured, more to himself, seeming intrigued. "And, I must admit, much, much kinder to this island's topography and to my battered and suffering budget."
"Kind?" a crooked, almost cruel smile played on my lips. "This sword here, Master, has smacked the backside of your arrogant grandson and made him question his life choices and his taste in fur coats. With this," I patted the wooden blade fondly, a gesture that was almost a caress to an old friend, "I have broken enchanted defences, iron wills, and the self-esteem of many people who thought themselves too powerful for their own good. Don't underestimate me. Kindness, my dear Master, is just a facade for efficiency."
Makarov coughed, choking on his own swig of drink, surprised and indignant at my familiarity and casual revelation. I just smiled. It was then that Erza, who had remained in an almost reverent silence during my little declaration, absorbing every word, took a step forward, her hesitation dissipating like morning mist. In its place, there was now a cold, clear resolution like the steel of her finest blades.
"So... no armour," she said, and there was a thoughtful, dangerous glint in her eyes, an acceptance of my challenge. "In that case... how about this attire?"
In a sudden, yet soft glow, magical particles as golden as stardust danced around her body. The light wasn't explosive, it wasn't violent. It was gentle, almost affectionate, a light that seemed woven from pure determination and respect. It was an intimate, personal exchange, a requip that was not for war, but for the duel. When the light faded, she was no longer the Titania in her steel fortress, the Fairy Queen in her impenetrable breastplate. She was a warrior. Pure. Stripped of all defences, save for her own strength.
White bandages, as pristine as the first snow, were wrapped tightly around her bust, hiding the scars I knew existed underneath. Her defined midriff, a testament to an iron discipline and a body forged for battle, was exposed. The blue Fairy Tail mark, the proof of her loyalty, the symbol of her family, gleamed on her arm, a proud and stubborn promise against the darkness of the world. A pair of wide, hakama-style trousers, of a deep, burnt red, almost the colour of dried blood, that rivalled the shade of her scarlet hair, fell to her bare feet, marked with stylised flames that danced on her legs with every sea breeze. At her waist, a simple white sash held the fabric, the only touch of softness in an ensemble that screamed 'danger'. And in her hands... the katanas. Twins. Flawless. The perfectly polished blades reflected the dying sky, a steel mirror for the tragedy and beauty of the moment.
She walked towards me with slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial steps. The sound of her bare feet on the soft grass was the only noise besides the whisper of the wind. "Does this attire suit, Azra'il?" she asked, her voice firm, but with a vulnerability she rarely showed.
For an instant, and may all the entities of the void condemn me for this pathetic weakness, my mind blue-screened. My brain, capable of processing complex cosmic equations and remembering useless details from ten thousand years of history, simply... stopped working. It wasn't just the outfit, though it was, I admit, an aesthetically... impressive choice. It was her in the outfit. Vulnerable in her lack of armour, yet more powerful and imposing than ever. Stripped of her steel fortress, but dressed in her purest, most lethal warrior essence. The image stirred some ancient, dangerously foolish part of my soul, an ancestral fraction I thought I had locked away and thrown away the key for ages ago, a part that didn't know what to do with a barefoot, armed, and so absurdly, almost painfully, beautiful Erza that it was an affront to the natural order of the universe and to my carefully constructed indifference.
[Physiological anomaly alert. Heart rate: abnormal acceleration detected to 112 beats per minute. Peripheral body temperature: slightly elevated, consistent with an imminent facial flush. Biometric analysis indicates a significant spike in norepinephrine and dopamine in your central nervous system, as well as... oh, how fascinating... a notable influx of blood to the lower regions, characteristic of physiological arousal.] Eos's voice sounded in my mind, with the clinical precision and subtle sadism of an entomologist describing a rare insect's reaction to a particularly effective stimulus.
[Translation for laymen with currently compromised emotional processing capabilities and in a state of denial, i.e., you: You are irredeemably, pathetically, and, for the record and future reference in our studies on emotional anomalies, rather amusingly, head-over-heels, you foolish, existentially compromised entity with an obvious and recurring weakness for dangerous red-headed women with a samurai honour code.]
(Of course I'm not, you AI inner narrator with terrible timing, a total and absolute lack of a filter, and an urgent need for an update to your 'not being so irritating and meddlesome' module!) I retorted mentally, feeling the heat in my face intensify alarmingly, as if I were developing a spontaneous fever out of sheer humiliation. (It's... it's just a physiological reaction to pre-combat adrenaline! A totally normal blood flow for a warrior preparing for battle! And... and a tactical appreciation! Yes, that's it. A deep and purely strategic appreciation for the choice of a combat garment that, objectively speaking, is extremely efficient, allows for maximum mobility, and... and excellent, almost impeccable, ventilation in crucial areas, which, in turn, optimises performance in prolonged duels! It's pure and simple martial logic, not cheap sentimentality! And stop, immediately, using the words 'idiot' and 'fool' in your analyses! It sounds terribly unprofessional and overly personal for an AI of your supposed calibre! Maintain objectivity, you gossiping box of circuits!)
[As you wish, Azra'il. Logging your justification under the category "Poetic Rationalisations for Hormonal Meltdown". Proceeding with observation and, of course, the recording of every delicious, embarrassing second for posterity.]
I cleared my throat, desperately trying to recompose my facade and failing miserably. "It suits… perfectly well." My voice came out a shade hoarser and lower than I would have liked, and for the first time in ages that I could remember, I had to look away at the ground, at a particularly uninteresting molehill, like a shy teenager caught red-handed admiring something or someone they shouldn't. What a humiliation.
Erza raised an eyebrow, and a treacherous, victorious little smile, full of a malice I didn't know she possessed, appeared on her lips. She knew. The little minx knew exactly the effect she was having. She had read me like an open book and was probably enjoying every page. "Are you sure you won't get distracted during the fight, Azra'il?"
"Oh, my dear, presumptuous Titania," I retorted, raising my gaze with my best, most mocking expression, forcing the wall of cynicism and superiority back into its rightful place with a herculean effort. "If there's one thing I've learned from you over the years... it's how to fight with precision and focus, even when my heart is an absolute chaos and threatening to leap out of my throat. So, no, don't you worry about me."
I spun the wooden sword in my hands, feeling its familiar weight, a comfort, before gently planting it in the grassy ground between us, the tip sinking into the damp earth. "But, as I said, this is no ordinary fight, Red. It's not until one of us falls unconscious and needs to be carried back to camp like a sack of potatoes. I don't want you to fight until you're crawling on the ground again, like you did with Mira. That's boring, repetitive, and honestly, makes a terrible mess to clean up, and I'm in no mood for housekeeping. My back aches just thinking about having to carry your heavy warrior's body back to the tent."
"Then what's the objective? What's the condition for victory?" she asked, her voice now serious, the amusement giving way to the total and absolute concentration of a swordswoman about to enter the duel of her life.
I held the jian again, raising it between us like a sacred relic, like a final challenge. The last light of the setting sun glinted on its dark surface, revealing the grain of the ancient wood. "You want to win, Erza? You want to prove you're worthy of the S-Class title? Then it's simple." I looked her directly in the eyes, and there was no more sarcasm in my voice, only the naked, raw truth. "Break this sword."
She observed the jian with a new intensity, her eyes tracing the dark wood, the marks of time, the small, almost imperceptible imperfections that only a keen, experienced eye like hers would notice. She didn't just see a piece of wood. She saw the history I didn't tell. She saw the weight of what I was offering her. "Are you… are you really serious, Azra'il?" her voice was a whisper, full of disbelief and the weight of the responsibility I was placing in her hands.
I touched the blade with two fingers, a soft caress on an ancient, almost invisible scar near the hilt, a mark of a failure I would never forget. "It's been broken many times, you know. Countless times, in fact." My voice grew lower, more distant, as if I were speaking of a past long, long ago.
"When I was... far less than I am today. A stubborn, frightened child, full of anger and lost in a place that didn't want me, a place where weakness meant death. I used to break this sword in brutal training sessions, in desperate duels, in ugly, humiliating falls. Every time the wood split with a dry snap, I felt as if a part of me broke too. As if a rib from my soul was being torn out." I paused, the memory of the pain, the cold, the loneliness, still vivid.
"But I always fixed it. Patiently. With resin, with magic, with blood and tears, if I had to. Not because I couldn't just get another one; there were thousands of them in that place. But because this one... was mine. In a place where I owned nothing, not even my own name or my own destiny, this broken and mended sword was the only thing that was truly, undeniably, mine."
The wind carried my words across the silent hill. "Over time, it stopped breaking so easily. Not because it became some legendary artefact or an indestructible divine sword. It's still just wood, Erza. Old, stubborn wood. It stopped breaking because, just like me, at some point in my tiresome, endless journey, it learned to endure. To withstand the pressure. To bend without breaking, to yield without surrendering. Every repair was made with my magic, my sweat, my frustration, my stubborn hope. If you can break it now... you won't just be breaking wood. You'll be breaking my resilience. You'll be overcoming every reinforcement, every layer of power, every fragment of pain and triumph I have placed within it over time. It's not just a sword, Erza Scarlet. It's what was left of me when I myself, countless times, didn't know if it was worth continuing to fight, to exist."
Erza bit her lower lip hard, her brown eyes shining with a sudden, intense understanding that took my breath away. She absorbed the colossal weight of those words, of that untold story, of that unexpected vulnerability. And she answered, no longer as a rival seeking victory, but as a confidante accepting a sacred burden. "Then I won't just fight to defeat you, Azra'il. I'll fight to understand you. To reach the soul behind the blade."
"Of course, if I lose because of you," I added, the mask of cynicism and superiority returning to my face like a self-preservation reflex, breaking the unbearably sincere tension with the elegance of a sledgehammer to a pane of glass. My voice was light, almost casual, but each word was a stone thrown into a still lake.
Erza arched an eyebrow, confused by my abrupt change of tone, her emotional guard rising instinctively. "My fault? What do you mean?"
I tilted my head, a slow, almost predatory smile appearing on my lips. Instead of raking over her body, my gaze fixed directly on hers, analytical, intense, as if I were dissecting the secrets of her soul. "Erza, my dear Erza, don't play naive. You, of all people, know that swordsmanship is an art of precision, focus, and... energy. The control of mind over matter." I took a step closer, closing the space between us so that only she could hear the next part, my voice dropping to a more intimate, almost conspiratorial tone. "And, at this very moment, you are deliberately, and with admirable efficiency, completely dysregulating my variables."
The confusion on her face deepened. "Variables? What are you talking about, Azra'il?"
My smile widened, gaining a touch of intellectual malice and a dose of pure, crystalline cheek. "The outfit. The posture. The katanas. It's an aesthetically... potent combination. It causes a sensory overload. And a brain like mine, which processes an excess of data, tends to fixate on particularly interesting anomalies." I paused, letting the weight of the word 'interesting' hang in the air between us. "And you, at this moment, my dear Titania, are a fascinating anomaly, the kind that deserves an in-depth... field study."
[Level of intentional ambiguity: High. Probability of Erza interpreting 'in-depth field study' as something significantly beyond a tactical analysis: 99.3%. Effectiveness in destabilising the opponent: Optimal.]
"I call it an unfair tactical advantage. A direct assault on the opponent's concentration before the first blow is even struck. And you're not even using magic," I continued, my voice a whisper now, almost a caress on the cold night air. "And the worst of it, Titania," my eyes shamelessly dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before meeting hers again, with a glint of pure amusement. "Is that my own body, this treacherous, hormonally unstable vessel, seems to be in full agreement with your strategy. It insists on redistributing... vital... resources to certain areas that, frankly, have no use in a sword duel. At least," and here, my smile became a masterpiece of provocation, full of second, third, and fourth intentions, "not in this kind of duel."
The effect was nuclear. Instantaneous and glorious.
The air seemed to escape Erza's lungs with an audible whoosh. Her brown eyes, which moments before had shone with the determination of a warrior queen, were now wide with pure shock, her pupils dilated as if she had seen a particularly attractive and inconvenient ghost. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, like a noble fish out of water, trying to formulate a response, an accusation, a cry for help, but only an almost inaudible stammer of "Y-you... you... can't..." escaped. The colour shot up her neck like a wildfire, a vivid, intense red that fiercely competed with her hair and made her freckles almost invisible in the sunset light. Her invincible warrior's posture crumbled into a pile of adorable, fluffy embarrassment, her entire body stiffening in a mixture of panic, indignation, and perhaps, a tiny, terrifying spark of... interest?
A few metres away, the audience had equally spectacular reactions.
Makarov, who until then had been watching the duel with the seriousness of a master, coughed loudly, choking on his drink so violently he almost fell off his seat on the grass. His eyes were wide with paternal horror. He looked at the sky, then at the ground, then at his flask, as if begging the gods of sobriety, decency, and common sense to take him far away, anywhere he wouldn't have to witness such blatant and psychologically devastating flirting between two of his most problematic 'daughters'.
Happy, who was hovering nervously near Natsu, let out a shrill, high-pitched whistle, covering his little eyes with his paws in a gesture of pure, theatrical innocence. "Natsu! Natsu! Azra'il-chan said a very, very grown-up thing to Erza! The kind of thing Mira-nee sometimes says and the Master tells her to wash her mouth out with soap! And Erza turned into a giant pepper! What's happening?!"
"What? Vital resources? Blood flowing? What's she talking about?" Natsu asked, completely oblivious to the tension in the air, scratching his head with a genuine confusion that was almost touching. "Is Erza sick? Is that why she won't fight properly? That's not fair! A fight has to be fair!" His complete and utter inability to understand any social nuance was, as always, both a blessing and a curse.
Meanwhile, at a safe distance, Mirajane laughed. A low, throaty laugh, full of genuine admiration and delight, that made her bring a hand to her mouth to stifle it. "That girl..." she murmured to Elfman, shaking her head in disbelief and with a glint of pure envy in her blue eyes.
Elfman, as always, seemed to have less of an idea of what was happening than a fish trying to understand the theory of relativity, or perhaps a golem trying to knit. "But... but is Azra'il's blood not flowing right? Does she need a doctor? Being a man is helping your comrades when they're sick! That's not manly!" he said, with a sincere and entirely misguided concern that made Mirajane laugh even harder, almost doubling over.
And I, observing the ripple effect of chaos, panic, and embarrassment my words had caused, just smiled. Happy whistled, covering his little eyes with his paws, as if watching a scene unsuitable for minors, or perhaps just to avoid seeing the Master faint. And I just smiled, satisfied. A point for me.
The dance began.
Not with a bang of magic, but with the sound of the wind being sliced by steel. Just a silent understanding that passed between us like an electric current, a challenge accepted and returned in the glint of our eyes under the twilight. A still-faintly-blushing Erza moved first, a swift red blur, seeking my flank like a hungry lioness, her twin katanas drawing two lethal, silver arcs in the crepuscular air. Fast. Intense. But a little predictable in her eagerness.
I dodged smoothly, a step to the side, a movement that seemed lazy but was measured with millimetric precision. The jian in my hand met the first of her blades with a dry, resonant clack, the sound of ancient wood meeting modern steel, while my body spun to avoid the second by a breath's margin. She wasted no time.
Before her feet had even fully settled on the ground, she was already coming with a direct thrust, a line of steel aimed straight at my heart. "Good girl... always offensive, always relentless," I murmured, a silent compliment. My jian rose, parrying the blow with the flat of the blade, not with brute force, but with the perfect angle to deflect her energy. The impact vibrated through my arm, a familiar sensation. The dark wood groaned, an ancient protest against the young, impetuous fury of her opponent.
She wasn't joking. And neither was I.
And then, the memory came, not as a violent flash, but as a cold mist seeping into my consciousness, bringing with it the scent of cheap incense, damp wood, and melting snow from the Sect of the Immortals. The sharp, painful cold on bare feet in the stone training courtyard of a mountain forgotten by gods and men, where the winter seemed eternal and hope a rare luxury. The image of the skinny girl I once was, with eyes more tired and old than an elder's, holding that same sword, then new and full of splinters, the rough wood against my small, calloused hands.
"You won't last a week here, runt. You're weak, your blood is wild." The instructor's voice, hard and cold as the stone beneath my feet.
"That training sword is just to keep you busy, so you don't get in the others' way. It's a toy for weaklings like you." The cruel laughter of the other disciples, a sound that echoed in my dreams for years.
"Let the real cultivators train in peace. Go back to the hole you came from, you stinking bastard."
But there I was, every day, before the sun rose, when the cold was so intense it felt like it burned the lungs, honing that sword, practising the basic forms a thousand and one times, until my arms ached and my hands bled. Not because I believed I could become one of them, not because I had any great hope. But because that sword... it was my only, stubborn act of silent rebellion against an entire world that saw me as a mistake, as something that shouldn't exist. It was the only thing that was truly mine in that frozen hell. And I would protect it.
Back in the present, in the silver moonlight of Tenrou Island, Erza's katana descended like a line of celestial fire. I blocked firmly, feeling her pure intent, the raw strength of her determination channelled into the blade. The jian creaked, an organic sound, a pained protest. It didn't break. But it trembled violently in my hands, sending an unpleasant, worrying vibration up to my shoulder. She was close. Too close.
"You're holding back, Azra'il!" she said between lunges, her voice firm but her breathing a little ragged, each word a blow in itself. "Don't do it. Don't insult me with your pity! Fight for real!"
"And you're pushing yourself too hard, as always," I retorted, ducking under a deadly arc that whistled dangerously close to my ear, cutting a few stray strands of my silver hair. "You think that defeating me is your only chance to be recognised, to prove your worth. But you're already a legend, you stubborn redhead with an excess of honour. Even if you're too stubborn and blind to realise it."
"Then strike me down at once, if what you say is true! Prove me wrong!" she shouted, frustration evident in her voice, fuelling the fury of her attacks, making them faster, more desperate. Her blades became a whirlwind, a blur of silver steel that sought to swallow me, to overwhelm me with sheer speed and power.
"No. I've already told you what I want you to do, Erza."
The impact of our blades echoed across the silent hill. She tried a clever feint, a low blow that turned into an unexpected upward slash. I read her. I saw her. I spun on my heel, a fluid movement that seemed to defy inertia itself, letting the blade of her katana pass millimetres from my face, feeling the wind of the steel on my skin. And I used the movement, the momentum of her own attack, to position my jian and parry her next blow with a dull thud.
Erza staggered back, panting, sweat trickling down her temple, shining in the silver moonlight. Her arms, even a Titania's, must have been burning with the effort of wielding two katanas with such speed and force.
"You're… you're not using magic in your strikes," she said, disbelief clear in her voice as she tried to catch her breath, her wide eyes trying to understand the disparity between what she expected and what was happening. "Not even power… It's just… is that it? Just the sword?"
"A sword is a sword, Red," I replied with a lopsided grin, feeling that cold, calculated battle adrenaline, a dear old acquaintance I didn't visit as often as I would have liked (or perhaps should have), begin to flow through my veins. "What matters isn't the brightness of the explosion or the grandeur of the spell. It's the precision of the cut. The clarity of the intent. The silence of the soul behind the blade."
She advanced again, and this time, there was less blind fury and more focus in her eyes. More concentration. I retreated, and the ancient dance, the dance I had taught her not long ago, began anew, this time with much higher stakes. Dodging by inches, parrying at the last instant. I knew her every impulse, her every hesitation, her every burst of anger in her movements. Because I myself, in our training sessions in the fields outside Magnolia, far from the curious eyes of the guild, had helped her forge them, to hone them.
"I'm fighting against my own memories," I said softly, my voice almost inaudible, as our blades crossed and slid against each other with a metallic hiss, like a lullaby made of steel. "And you, Erza, are still trying to beat me with strength. With the body. But this," and our blades locked for an instant, our faces inches apart, our breaths mingling in the cold night air, "...is a duel of the soul. And yours is still too noisy."
"Easy for you to say when you're not feeling the pain of defeat approaching!" she growled, pushing with all her strength, trying to unbalance me, trying to break my stance.
"Do you really think I don't feel pain?" I murmured, and my voice was a cold whisper, an echo of forgotten winters. And another flash, another memory, this one sharper, more painful, tore through the veil of time. My young, small hands, covered in blood that was not my own. The jian, my precious and only companion, shattered into dozens of pieces in the crimson snow of a distant mountain, atop a world that no longer exists on any map.
The memory of an opponent, of a friend, that I couldn't save. Not because I wasn't strong enough in power, but because I hesitated for a single, fatal instant. Because I allowed myself to feel in the middle of battle, allowed hope and fear to distract me.
The pain of that failure, of that loss, was sharper than any blade that has ever cut me. The jian broke that day. And I spent days, maybe weeks, I don't remember well, remaking every inch of that wood, gluing every splinter, mixing resin from petrified trees with fallen stardust and my own silent tears, crying as if I were burying the last trace of my own innocence, an old friend I had failed. And every repair, every glued sliver, was a silent promise, an oath to never fail like that again. To never hesitate again.
Back in the present, under the moon of Tenrou Island, Erza roared, a guttural, primal sound that came from the depths of her soul, not of anger, but of pure, unshakeable determination. She channelled all her frustration, all her pain, the weight of her own terrible scars, into a single, desperate blow. Her katana, now glowing with her own magic, met mine with a crash that made the air vibrate and the stars seem to blink.
A new crack, fine as a hair but deep, appeared in the dark wood of my jian. And I felt it. Not just in my trembling hands. I felt the impact in my arm. In my chest. In my soul.
"Very good," I murmured, and there was a painful pride blooming in my chest, a reluctant admiration for this stubborn, wonderful girl. "You're starting to really talk to it."
"Talk to what?" she gasped, leaning on her knees, her breath heavy, her whole body shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline.
I touched the jian fondly, as if caressing a living extension of my own body. "To me. To every fragment of myself I have placed within it."
From the top of the hill, I could feel the tension of the silent, mesmerised audience. Natsu had stopped jumping. He understood, in a primitive, instinctive way, that this was not just another fight. It was something more.
"She's dancing with death… but with a smile on her face," I heard Master Makarov murmur with a reverence I hadn't expected from him. "Azra'il is holding back almost all of her power... but even so, even so, Erza has no room to breathe."
Beside him, I heard Natsu's voice, no longer a shout of excitement, but a low, worried growl. "This is wrong! Azra'il is moving like she's just... playing, dodging, but Erza... Erza is killing herself out there! She's fighting with everything!"
Happy, always the heart of the group, hovered in the air with his wings trembling with tension, his eyes wide. "Azra'il doesn't want to really hurt her, Natsu… but she's not making it easy either... it's like... like she's waiting for something, for a specific moment."
And then, I heard Mirajane's voice, sharp, insightful, with the gaze of someone who understood shadows and wounded souls. "It's typical of Azra'il. She'll never give you anything for free, least of all a victory. Not even for Erza, the person she cares about most, even if she refuses to admit it." Her voice was calm, analytical. "If Erza wants this victory, she'll have to earn it. She'll have to conquer it. She'll have to... break her. Not just the sword, but Azra'il herself."
"But isn't that... a bit cruel, sis?" Elfman's voice, full of an innocence that contrasted with the scene.
"It's not cruelty, Elfman…" Mira's voice was soft, but laden with a certainty that sent a shiver down my spine. "...it's respect. The deepest, most absolute, and perhaps, most painful kind of respect there is."
And, on the battlefield under the moon, Erza seemed to hear Mira's words in her own soul. She rose, and this time, something fundamental had changed in her posture, in her gaze. She was no longer annoyed. She was no longer frustrated with my seemingly impenetrable defence. There was a clarity in her eyes, a frightening serenity. She had finally understood. I remembered my own teachings to her, not the exact words, but the feeling behind them. "It's not about strength, Erza. It's about intent. About clarity. About the harmony between your will and your blade."
She closed her eyes for a second. Her breathing calmed, becoming deep and regular. Her combat stance shifted, becoming firmer, more anchored to the earth. Firm stance. Empty mind. Honest heart. It was the initial stance I taught at the sect, the stance I forced her to practice for hours on end, under the cold light of dawn, while she grumbled and complained of muscle aches and my apparent cruelty.
When she opened her eyes, it was no longer the Erza who was desperately trying to beat me. It was the Erza who was, finally, trying to reach me.
And then, she didn't attack me. She danced.
And the duel was instantly transformed. It ceased to be a collision of brute forces and became a silent conversation of blades. Every precise step, every calculated movement, every blow no longer an attempt to wound me, to overwhelm me, but to read me, to understand me.
Her katana slid along the side of mine, not to break with impact, but to feel the texture of the wood, to test the resistance of my enchantments, to find the resonance of my soul. Subtle sparks, not of magic, but of the pure friction of souls meeting in steel and wood, lit the space between us like ephemeral little stars. A spin. An advance. A dodge. She no longer tried to break through my defence like a raging bull; she flowed around it like a river, seeking the paths of least resistance, the invisible gaps. She was forcing me to retreat, not with raw power, but with a frightening synchronicity, as if she were predicting my next moves before I even made them.
I smiled, a genuine smile, perhaps the first truly devoid of irony that night. "Good, Titania. Very good. You've stopped trying to be stronger than the mountain… and decided to become the wind that carves it."
A cross-cut, followed by a fluid, graceful thrust. I defended, but I felt the vibration deepen in my wrist, a conversation that was intensifying. The rhythm had changed. It was no longer her against me. It was us. She was reading my history through the grain of the wood. She was reading me.
Up on the hill, Master Makarov murmured with a reverence I didn't think he possessed. "She's no longer fighting like a Fairy Tail mage… nor like a knight in armour. She's fighting like… like a true disciple of the blade. Like an artist."
"THAT'S IT, ERZA! KEEP IT UP! STICK THE SWORD IN HER UNTIL SHE TURNS TO DUST!" Natsu shouted, completely shattering the poetic mood.
"I think it's a metaphor about the soul, Natsuuuu," Happy corrected, covering his ears with his paws, probably already tired of explaining things to his best friend.
Mirajane just watched, her arms crossed over her chest and an enigmatic, perhaps slightly sad smile on her lips. "She finally gets it. The only way to reach someone who has built such high walls... is not by trying to tear them down by force. It's by showing that you're willing to fight with the same passion, the same pain, the same hope they used to build them. She understood how to love... by fighting."
The wind on the hill shifted, becoming colder, more intense. The last light of the sun was completely gone, surrendered to the darkness. We were now alone under the silver, cold, and indifferent gaze of the moon and the countless stars. Erza stopped, a few metres from me, her breath forming small white clouds in the night air. Her eyes, once focused on my sword, were now fixed on mine, not with challenge, but with a pure, frightening surrender. She no longer saw an impenetrable opponent. She saw a scarred, ancient, and perhaps slightly broken soul, protected by a shell of wood and indifference. And, for some unfathomable reason that my brain refused to process, she trusted me. And, most importantly, she trusted that I would let her in, that I would accept what she was about to do.
"You said... it wasn't about winning..." she whispered, her voice laden with a new, deep understanding, the vapour of her breath mingling with the moonlight.
"...it was about reaching me," I completed, my own voice an echo of hers, an acceptance of the challenge I myself had proposed.
My feet firmed on the damp grass. I raised the black oak jian, holding it with both hands in front of me, the blade pointing to the ground at an angle that was neither for attack nor defence. It was an invitation. An offering. My soul, or what was left of it, my energy, my qi, my history, concentrated in the ancient wood. And the jian shone, a faint but unmistakable greenish-silver glow emanating from its repaired scars, as if it too knew what was coming, as if it were ready, and perhaps even eager, for its final test. And for its rest.
Erza advanced.
Not with a combat step. With a single, powerful push, the ground cracking beneath her bare feet.
With a contained cry, a sound that was not of fury, but of pure and absolute catharsis, of release. With her heart on the edge of her sword, with the entire history of her life, her pain, her hope, pulsing in every muscle of her body.
Flashes of her life passed before my eyes, not as a distant observer, but as if I were there again, feeling her pain, her determination. Her, as a child, being torn from her village, watching her home burn. Her, in the cold, cruel hell of the Tower of Heaven, becoming the fragile but unshakeable wall that protected the others, because no one, no one ever, had protected her. Her, covered in blood and tears in the rebellion, watching old Rob die in her arms, her first cry of magical power born from the deepest pain and the bitterest loss. Her, in Fairy Tail, building her armour of loneliness and responsibility, piece by piece of steel and soul, to never feel weak again, to never lose anyone again, to never have to cry again.
I saw her forge herself in the fire of suffering. And, in silence, over the years we spent together, from the Tower to the Guild, I loved her. Not as a lover, not as a sister, not as a mother. But as an ancient, tired soul loves a young, bright, and incredibly stubborn star, one that refuses to be extinguished in the vast, dark indifference of the universe, a light that insists on shining, no matter how oppressive the void.
The blow came. A perfect arc, drawn with the precision of a master calligrapher. A slash of pure light and intent. The air split before the blade. There was no hesitation in her movement. There was no more doubt in her heart. There was only… her. Complete. Determined. Absolute.
My jian rose at the last instant, with a movement that seemed to last an eternity, not to defend... but to accept. To receive her. To, finally, allow myself to be reached.
CRACK.
The sound was clean, dry, final. Not the boom of an explosion, but the intimate, painful snap of a heart breaking, or perhaps of a world shattering to make way for a new one. It resonated across the hill, a sound that only the two of us, and perhaps the oldest stars, truly understood in all its depth. A piece of my jian, the very tip, a good five centimetres of wood impregnated with centuries of my own soul, broke off, flying in slow motion through the cold night air. It spun gently, like an autumn leaf bidding farewell to the tree that had sustained it for so long. And it touched the grass with a soft, delicate, and definitive thud.
Silence. A silence that weighed more than any sound, any explosion.
Erza panted, kneeling on one knee, her posture broken, but not defeated. Her katanas had fallen beside her, their gleam now dulled by the moonlight. Her brown eyes, which stared at me with a breathtaking intensity, were brimming with tears, but she did not cry. Her entire body trembled, no longer from victory, no longer from exhaustion, but from the responsibility of what she had just done. She hadn't just broken a weapon. She had touched a soul, and now she felt the weight of all its scars, all its ages.
"Azra'il..." she whispered, her voice broken with emotion and effort, almost inaudible in the silence of the hill. "I... I didn't... I didn't want to break something that was so important to you..."
I approached slowly, my steps as silent as hers at the start of the duel, each movement an acceptance, a surrender. I knelt before her and picked up the fragment of wood from the ground. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, pulsing with a residual energy that was mine and, now, a little of hers too. I looked at the clean break in the main jian, the mark of her victory, the proof of her understanding. And I smiled, a tired but genuine smile, free of a weight I didn't even know I had still been carrying with such zeal.
"You didn't break my sword, Red," I said, my voice softer than ever, a caress on the cold air. She looked up at me, confused and full of unshed tears. "You... you reached me."
I knelt before her, on the same level, on the damp grass. Carefully, with a gentleness that was foreign to me, I took her hand, the hand that had held the katana, and placed it on the hilt of my still-firm jian. "This sword has been cracked dozens, maybe hundreds of times. Every scar you don't see, every vein of dark resin... is a memory, a pain, a failure that I turned into strength so I could continue. And now," I looked at the new, clean break, her mark, "...you've marked it again. But not with violence, Erza. Not with fury. With presence. With understanding. With your own soul."
A tear finally escaped from the corner of her right eye, hot and salty, tracing a clean path through the dust and sweat on her face. "I just... I just wanted... to reach you," she repeated, her voice choked, a sob caught in her throat.
"You never needed to be stronger than me, Erza. This was never about power," I said, and on an impulse that came from the depths of my ancient, tired being, I touched her face with my fingertips, wiping away the solitary tear with a delicacy I didn't know I possessed. "You just needed to be you. Strong enough to break your own barriers, not mine."
Far away, at the base of the hill, the audience finally seemed to breathe again, the spell that held them all being broken. I heard Happy's loud, high-pitched sob. "It's… so… so beautiful!" I heard Natsu's bellow, not a cry of challenge, but of pure, unconditional pride. "SHE DID IT! ERZA DID IT! THAT'S OUR TITANIA!"
Elfman, I was sure, was just muttering to himself, "Men don't cry…" while probably discreetly wiping his eyes with the back of his huge hand.
And Mirajane... I could feel it, even from a distance. She was silent. But I could imagine the smile on her face. A tender smile… perhaps even a little sad, but a smile of one who understood, of one who saw.
And then, like a distant thunderclap announcing the end of the storm, Makarov's voice, heavy, solemn, and thick with an emotion he no longer bothered to hide, cut through the silent night of Tenrou Island. He cleared his throat, but I could hear the tear in his voice.
"The exam… is concluded. The new… the new S-Class Mage… of the glorious Fairy Tail Guild… is Erza Scarlet."
I let out a long sigh, one that seemed to come from centuries of waiting, of countless battles and loneliness, and I looked up at the sky, now a deep indigo velvet, sprinkled with the first, bright stars of the night. My hand still held the warm fragment of my jian. But my heart… somehow, in a way I didn't understand, in a way that scared me and comforted me at the same time… was a little lighter.
"The sword may have cracked," I murmured to the wind, to the stars, to the soul of that island. "But I think, this time… something inside me broke too. And in a good way."
Because maybe, just maybe, after so many, many ages, I was ready to stop hiding behind the cold blade. And, who knows, just who knows, start living alongside the one who had proven herself strong enough, brave enough, stubborn enough, to break it. And, perhaps, to mend me too.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES
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Quick break from the fanfic, because I have to tell you lot: I got my internship!!! 🎉✨
And honestly… I blame you.
Yes, YOU. Every single comment, every bit of positive energy, every "pls update" worked like a buff of +200 morale in real life.
So truly, thank you from the bottom of my heart. This isn't just my win. it's ours. You gave me that little push I needed. 💜
I promise I won't vanish (too much 😏), but from now on I'll be writing chapters with the mighty authority of someone who officially owns an intern badge.