The rhythmic scrape of the brush against wet ceramic, the slosh of soapy water, the satisfying clink of heavy mugs being stacked – these mundane sounds became an unlikely anchor for Endralian, a steady beat beneath the guild's persistent, swirling chaos. Standing behind the relative safety of the long, scarred bar counter, engaged in the simple, repetitive task of washing tankards, he found a small, unexpected pocket of calm. The initial, paralyzing terror still lingered, a cold knot deep in his gut that tightened whenever he thought too hard about the how or why of his situation, but the frantic edge of panic, the feeling of drowning, had begun to recede. It was replaced by something else, something pushing up through the fear: the ingrained analytical habit of his former adult self.
Okay, Leo, he thought, scrubbing furiously at a particularly stubborn stain, the name feeling both foreign and strangely grounding in its familiarity. Stop freaking out. Panicking won't change the reality. This isn't a game over screen. This is... a new level. A brutally unfair, undocumented, insane difficulty level, maybe, but still a system. And systems have rules. Patterns. The thought process felt rusty, overlaid with the genuine, visceral fear of a lost child, but it was there, a familiar framework asserting itself. He wasn't just a scared kid in glowing boots. He was (or had been) an adult, someone who solved problems, managed projects, navigated complex social structures. That part of him hadn't been deleted, just... temporarily overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of it all.
He rinsed the mug under the hot water provided by a simple heating lacrima embedded near the sink, the steam warming his face. Problem one: Survival. Basic needs – food, shelter – met for now, thanks to Makarov's grudging kindness. Problem two: Information. Need to understand this world, this specific timeline, these volatile people. Observation is key. He glanced around the bustling hall. Problem three: Control. He looked down at his small hands, flexing his unfamiliar fingers. Control over this body. Control over this... Void magic? Ender Step? Whatever the hell it is. The uncontrolled teleport yesterday had been terrifying, a moment of pure, instinctual panic made manifest. But viewed through this new, calmer lens, it was also data. A power existed, linked to stress or surprise. That was a starting point. Fear wouldn't help him understand it. Observation and careful, very careful, experimentation might.
His internal strategizing was interrupted by a sudden commotion near the guild entrance. The heavy doors burst open with a bang, and Luxia Dreyar strode in, looking slightly windswept and dusty, her high ponytail slightly askew, but radiating an aura of smug triumph that practically vibrated the air around her. Faint sparks, like tiny captured fireflies, still danced erratically around her knuckles, perhaps more from residual excitement than conscious effort.
"Mission accomplished!" she announced loudly to the hall at large, her voice cutting through the din, though her gaze immediately sought out her grandfather, who was currently engrossed in conversation with Macao and Wakaba at a nearby table. She marched straight to the request board with the air of a conquering hero, pulled down the flyer she'd taken earlier that morning, and slammed it onto the counter beside Makarov with unnecessary, dramatic force. "Escort duty completed. No incidents. Obviously." She sniffed disdainfully. "It was insultingly easy. Barely worth my time."
Endralian watched her performance from behind the bar, pausing in his scrubbing, mug held mid-air. He saw the boastful posture, the loud declaration meant for everyone to hear. But he also caught a fleeting glimpse of something else – the way she quickly, almost unconsciously, smoothed her tunic, the slight flush high on her cheeks that wasn't just from exertion, the almost imperceptible straightening of her shoulders as she waited, pretending not to wait, for her grandfather's acknowledgment. Beneath the arrogant pronouncements and the crackling static, there was a kid seeking approval, fiercely proud of completing her first 'real' job, even if she had to declare it beneath her.
Okay, Endralian thought, a new, crucial understanding clicking into place. She's just a kid trying to act tough. An arrogant, powerful, potentially dangerous kid, yes, but still... a kid. Probably used to being the center of attention, definitely insecure about measuring up to her grandfather name, desperate to prove herself. This realization didn't magically make her less annoying, or negate the genuine threat her uncontrolled power might pose. But it made her... less intimidating.
Makarov offered her brief but genuine praise ("Good work, Luxia. Responsible. That's the first step towards taking on bigger challenges."), which earned a pleased, almost haughty sniff from the girl, before he returned to his conversation, leaving her momentarily adrift. Luxia, basking in the afterglow of her success and her grandfather's (appropriately mild) approval, then swaggered towards the bar, clearly intending to claim a victor's reward.
She hopped onto a stool with practiced ease, her boots thudding against the footrest, and then seemed to notice Endralian properly for the first time since her triumphant return. Her stormy eyes narrowed immediately, the smugness evaporating, replaced by her default setting of disdainful suspicion. She leaned onto the counter, attempting an air of casual interrogation that didn't quite land.
"Whatcha looking at, Glow-boots?" she demanded, the nickname clearly chosen for maximum irritation, delivered with a challenging tilt of her chin.
This was it. The test of his new resolve. The old Endralian, the panicked kid from yesterday, would have flinched, looked away, stammered. The new Endralian, the one consciously overlaying his adult perspective onto this childish form, met her gaze calmly. He summoned the detached patience he used to employ in tedious client meetings or when dealing with particularly unreasonable user feedback. He offered a small, neutral smile – not friendly, not hostile, just... present. He added a tiny shrug. No words. Just a quiet, unwavering refusal to be baited or intimidated.
Luxia blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. This wasn't the reaction she'd expected, wasn't the reaction she usually got. She'd clearly anticipated fear, or anger, or defensive stammering. Getting nothing but calm indifference seemed to short-circuit her usual aggressive approach. She huffed, a small, frustrated sound, crossing her arms petulantly over her chest. "Well? Are you just going to stand there like a weird, glowy- footed statue, or are you going to get me some juice? And stew! I finished a mission, I deserve a reward!"
"Right away," Endralian said, his voice even and steady. He turned to Tao, who grunted and began ladling out a generous bowl of the same hearty stew Endralian had eaten earlier. Endralian fetched a clean mug and filled it with bright red fruit juice from a large clay pitcher.
He placed the steaming bowl and the mug carefully on the polished counter in front of her. As she reached eagerly for the spoon, already anticipating the food, he added, his tone simple and sincere, "Heard you finished your mission. Congratulations, that was fast work."
Luxia paused, spoon halfway to the bowl. She looked up at him, a flicker of surprise in her stormy eyes at the direct acknowledgment. Then, her chest puffed out slightly, visibly, and she lifted her chin, the earlier smugness returning full force, amplified. "Hmph! Of course it was fast. It was easy." She took a large, slightly unladylike bite of stew, but her eyes held a spark of something other than annoyance – a flicker of grudging, deeply buried satisfaction at being praised, at having her accomplishment seen.
Okay... Endralian noted internally, turning back to the waiting sink full of dirty mugs. So direct, simple, sincere praise works. Doesn't deny her accomplishment, acknowledges her effort. Doesn't feed the ego too much, just... validates. Interesting. It felt profoundly strange, applying basic psychological tactics he'd used on difficult colleagues or insecure interns to an eight-year-old lightning mage from an anime world, but it seemed... effective. A potential strategy discovered. A small, crucial win in navigating this chaotic new environment.
He continued washing mugs, the familiar rhythm returning. He still felt lost, adrift in an impossible reality, a stranger in a strange land and a stranger in his own skin. But the crushing weight of panic had lessened significantly, replaced by a tentative, flickering sense of agency. He was stranded in a world brimming with unpredictable magic. It was terrifying. But maybe, just maybe, it was also a complex, dangerous, fascinating problem he could start to solve. He needed to understand the rules – the rules of magic, the rules of this guild, the rules of interacting with volatile personalities like Luxia . He glanced towards the stairs, wondering if Makarov was watching from his office window, observing his own small experiment in social mechanics. Probably. The old Master didn't seem to miss much. Control, Endralian thought again, scrubbing harder at a persistent grease stain. It started with controlling himself.