Laxus POV
I was already in a foul mood. What should've been a straightforward search quest had a nice little "escort" add‑on slipped in by Gramps without warning. And of course, my so‑called client was still Krampus in the full regalia he'd transformed into earlier—a regal aristocratic suit, the coat tailored to stretch across his broad, battle‑built shoulders with edges cut to precise lines, the silk vest beneath catching the light with each breath. Polished shoes shone like mirrors, white gloves hugged his clawed hands, and the whole ensemble framed his burly, muscular build with a restrained authority that only made the raw power beneath more obvious. Which meant by test rules, he couldn't lift a claw to help. My job: get him to the base of Tenrou. Alone.
"Small escort portion," Makarov had said. "It'll build character."
"On your left," Krampus murmured, cane tipping in a gloved hand.
The trees ahead erupted into a wave of monsters, and—because nothing's ever simple—a boulder the size of the guild's bar came arcing in right after, glowing with Makarov's magic.
"Again, not my doing," Krampus said evenly, then added with a faint smirk, "Though to be fair, this is your Master's way of making sure you never drop your guard before a mission's truly over. He's making you work for the hand‑in, and knowing him, the next curveball's already on the way."
"Really?" I growled, lightning already snapping off my skin. "More rocks? Figures he's not done yet. Hell, I'll be shocked if we don't get a whole avalanche before we're through."
One thunderclap later, the monsters were down and the boulder was spiked into the dirt hard enough to cough up a crater. Leaves rained down over Krampus, who clapped politely like we were at a play.
Another boulder came whistling. I hammered it back with magnetized bolts, and somewhere far off, I heard an old man sputter on his drink.
So it went: monsters, rocks, more monsters, a suspiciously placed pitfall that I vaulted without breaking stride, and three separate "whoops, a landslide" moments I could smell Makarov's magic all over. Each one was timed just a little too perfectly to be random, and by the third, I could almost hear him chuckling from miles away. I didn't even bother swearing after the second—just gritted my teeth and pushed harder. Escort meant no shortcuts, no quick jumps through the treeline, so I kept carving a corridor through the forest, blasting and tearing through whatever dared get close. Krampus glided along behind me, the picture of composed nobility on a murderous Sunday stroll, occasionally offering a maddeningly calm pointer like this was some scenic tour. Every time I glanced back, he met my gaze with that infuriating, proud little smile that said you've got this, and somehow that only made me push faster.
By the time the sacred tree's roots shouldered up from the earth like sleeping titans, I'd burned through a small platoon of beasts, dodged or countered at least six passive‑aggressive "tests," and was already half‑expecting the next trick to be some absurd, over‑the‑top finale. My boots hit the softer loam as we broke the treeline, and the world opened into the base clearing—sunlight spilling like warm honey, drifting pollen swirling in lazy spirals, the holy hush of Tenrou's breath hanging in the air. It might've been serene if not for the jarring contrast ahead—a scene that looked like a festival crashed head‑on into a hangover, all bright colors and exhausted faces.
Gramps lounged on a beach chair like he'd spawned there, shirt off, sandals kicked up, sunglasses tilted just enough to peer over the rim, a drink in hand drowning in an overkill of umbrellas and fruit wedges. Beside him, Gildarts occupied a shadowed corner doing his best impression of a very contrite mountain; every now and then he winced like someone had stepped on his conscience and left a dent. Matthew sat a ways off, practically mummified in bandages, aura scuffed to hell, posture sagging as if the weight of the word defeated had settled on his shoulders and decided to stay. Billy looked worse for wear—singlet torn in a couple of places, fresh scuffs tracing his arms and jaw—but the idiot was grinning, bright and alive, radiating the kind of stubborn cheer that told you he'd crawl to the finish line if he had to.
Krampus's disguise shimmered, the noble façade peeling away in a slow, deliberate cascade. Silk bled back into deep, commanding red, and the polished cane dissolved into nothing. Gold chains settled across a chest like carved stone, catching the light with a muted gleam, while the familiar crimson long coat unfurled over his frame, heavy and sure, draping down to meet worn camo pants tucked into battle‑scarred boots. The transformation wasn't just visual—it hit me in the gut like the toll of a bell. Client time over. Trial time real.
I marched up and dropped the quest lacrima into Gramps's hand with a solid thunk. "Escort complete. No casualties. Also, you missed," I said, letting the dry bite in my voice speak for itself.
He slurped his drink as if I'd just commented on the weather. "Nonsense. I hit the boulder."
"I hit the boulder," I shot back, one brow arched in disbelief.
"Teamwork," he said cheerfully without missing a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting down a grin. Then he flicked a glance at Krampus. "How'd our actors do?"
Krampus folded his arms, still every inch the dignified noble despite the change in clothes. "He was insufferable and gorgeous. He passed."
Gramps chuckled, the sound shifting from lazy vacationer to commanding Guild Master as he sat forward. The sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing the sharp, appraising gleam beneath. "Results for the first test." His voice carried easily across the clearing to where Matthew and Billy stood. "Billy and Laxus: pass. Matthew: fail."
Billy whooped, a burst of victory that quickly crumpled into a sharp hiss as his battered ribs reminded him he was still made of flesh and bone. He pressed a hand to his side but kept grinning through the pain, stubborn light in his eyes refusing to dim. Matthew's jaw worked like he wanted to argue, maybe even protest the verdict, but whatever words he had seemed to shrivel under the weight of reality, sinking into him until his gaze fell to the ground, shoulders sagging as if the fight had finally bled out of him entirely.
I rolled my shoulder and eyed the two. "What happened?"
Gramps gestured lazily with his cup. "You should've already heard the gist from Krampus, but I'll say it plain—Billy's run was just like he predicted. Trouble all the way, but the kid stayed steady from start to finish. Protected the client to the end, took hits when he had to, backed off when he should, and never let panic take the reins." He gave a single approving nod, and Billy's grin softened into something proud…and maybe a little watery, the shine in his eyes betraying how much the praise meant. Good kid.
"And Matthew?" I asked, though I already knew the answer tasted like hubris.
Krampus inclined his head toward the embarrassed mountain in the corner. "He kited Gildarts too long. Gildarts got excited."
Gildarts coughed into his fist. "In my defense, I—"
"—broke through my suppressors in a hurry," Krampus finished, voice dry. "Highest spec. Rated to make even you think twice. You didn't think once."
Gildarts offered a tiny, miserable thumbs‑up.
Matthew finally spoke, voice rough and low. "I got too greedy. Should've pulled back the second the horde was gone instead of trying to milk the fight. Thought I could keep him busy a little longer, but… yeah."
Gramps sighed. "Collateral: the monster horde Matthew was supposed to subjugate. And Matthew."
I looked at the kid, wrapped like a tragic sushi roll, and couldn't help the twist in my chest. Those suppressors aren't toys. Krampus tunes them like hymns. Even Gildarts needs a minute to grind through. To make him so hyped he shredded them in a rush…
Just how hard did you taunt him, Matthew?
Silence rippled, then Gramps clapped once and the air snapped back to party density, his voice cutting clean through the clearing. "Lunch break! Eat, drink, breathe. In an hour, we begin the climb." His eyes slid to Billy, then to me, glinting with anticipation. "Top of the sacred tree. Your second trial is Pandemonium. Entry order follows arrival order—Billy first."
Billy swallowed, squared his shoulders, and nodded. "Aye, Master."
Gramps's smile thinned, the lazy warmth gone, replaced by the weight of a Guild Master laying down the law. "Pandemonium isn't a stroll through the woods. It's a dungeon Krampus and I built from the roots up, drawing power directly from the sacred tree. Stronger than the forest, smarter than the forest, limited in number at a time, but tuned to tear bad habits out of you by the roots."
Krampus's halo hummed faintly, his gaze sharp as his voice. "Monsters vary. Magic varies. Patterns are simple. Power is not. Treat them lightly, and you will fall."
"Sounds like fun," I said, grinning because my blood was already singing at the thought.
Krampus's chibi clones rolled out what could only be described as a full‑blown festival banquet—long tables piled high with steaming rice, salted meat glazed with fragrant herbs, fruit so fresh it still glistened with dew, and rich broth swirling with spices that made the air feel warm just to breathe it in. Each dish radiated the warm glow of cooking magic, a subtle shimmer in the steam promising not only flavor but restoration. The scent alone untied knots I didn't know I'd been carrying in my shoulders. Every bite was crafted to boost stamina, knit frayed muscles back together, and coax even the deepest bruises toward healing.
While some of the chibis bustled between tables with trays, others ran an impromptu equipment restoration line. Tiny tools flashed in miniature hands as they moved with assembly‑line precision, mending seams, polishing buckles, and re‑enchanting worn gear until it gleamed like it had just come off the rack. Even the faint frays and dirt on my snug white sleeveless vest and the bold, functional straps cutting across my torso vanished—Krampus's own description for the look being a "Lara Croft‑meets‑Solid Snake" mash‑up—until the whole thing was sharp enough to pass inspection. Billy's torn singlet got the same royal treatment, patched and pristine before he'd even finished chewing his first plateful.
Once we were full, recovered, and looking like we'd just stepped out of a tailor's shop instead of a battlefield, we took the lift‑paths spiraling up the great trunk. The wind thinned, sharp and clean, and the leaves whispered like an expectant audience above. At the entrance, an arch of bleached root framed a door of rune‑etched bark, its surface faintly pulsing with latent magic. A circle flared when Billy stepped through, reading him, judging him, accepting him.
"Good luck," I said, my voice carrying the kind of weight that was half encouragement, half warning.
He grinned, nervous and brave all at once, a flicker of determination in his eyes. "See you in five." With that, he stepped into the dark without looking back.
The doorway sealed with a soft, almost ceremonial thud; above it, a pane of light blossomed—transparent, hovering—unfolding like a living picture to show the dungeon interior in crisp, magnified relief. The same image bloomed down below at the base of the tree for the rest of the guild to see, anchored firmly into place by the steady, deliberate thrum of Gramps's magic feeding into twin screens.
The chamber inside wasn't just a cave—it was a towering cathedral of roots, their ancient coils fused with ossified mana that hummed faintly in the air, like the very walls were alive and watching. Pale bioluminescent veins traced through the roots overhead, casting an eerie, reverent glow across the floor. Billy stood just inside the threshold, taking a single, deep breath that steadied his stance and sharpened his eyes before he moved.
The first wave didn't walk in—it blinked into being, coalescing from shards of bark and splinters of bone‑white wood that swirled into humanoid shapes. Their faces were frozen masks, expressionless like some cruel theater, each body crafted with uncanny precision. They hit with the weight and speed of A‑Class mages, each a distinct threat: one sprinted with predatory speed, one hurled compressed air like cannon fire, another spat a water blade so thin it whistled. Their spells were simple in form, but executed with brutal, unrelenting precision.
Billy's bubble magic bloomed in answer—big, clear orbs that snapped into place with a protective, almost affectionate hug, each one pulsing faintly with magic. The first three mooks slammed into them and bounced back like drunk uncles getting bounced out of a bar, staggering from the impact. With a sharp pivot, Billy rolled the shoulder of a bubble shield and banked an incoming air blade at just the right angle, the gleaming curve of the orb redirecting the attack like a polished mirror. The projectile whipped back into its sender with brutal precision, the ricochet turning the enemy's own magic against it in a move that was as clever as it was satisfying. Smart.
Foam swept out under his boots like a tide, thick and purposeful. Not weak soap—his soap, refined and sharpened over months of Krampus's personal tutoring. The old goat (Krampus: Lion! I'm a lion!) had been drilling everyone in the guild lately to dig deeper into the intricate side of their magic, to twist it, fold it, and weaponize it in ways most mages never thought of. Billy had taken that lesson to heart. His foam didn't just make you slippery—it washed things away, stripping magic down to its bones. I watched a water blade unzip into harmless spray the moment the foam kissed it. Watched a wooden brute's swing go lazy as the suds scoured the fight out of its joints—intent slicked thin, edges dulled, momentum unthreaded until the attack was nothing more than a clumsy push.
"Good," I murmured, leaning closer to the screen. "Don't meet force with force. Make it forget how to be force."
Billy kept moving, his footwork sharp and instinctive—bubble, step, bounce. He'd pop a hug bubble with a palm to launch himself sideways in a spring‑loaded burst of momentum, smack another into an enemy to trap them before hurling them into a root pillar, then blanket the follow‑through in a curtain of foam that ate away at their fighting will. It was the kind of fluid, adaptive style Krampus had been hammering into the guild during his tutoring sessions: don't just throw magic—shape it, bend it, make it dance. The simple‑minded magic the dungeon used at this tier shoved and slammed; Billy's answer was to refuse to be a wall, to turn himself into something that absorbed and redirected without ever staying still. He was a spring, coiled with creativity and release.
The waves escalated, and the arena shifted with them. The masks changed—flickers of new enchantments gleaming across their porcelain faces—bringing fire lines, ice needles, and sound pulses into the mix. Billy bent, redirected, washed, each move building on the last like a sparring match with the environment itself. Once, a bubble took a fire lance head‑on, shuddered, and then shrugged the flame into a gout of harmless steam that rolled over him like a sauna, heat dissipating harmlessly into the glowing root‑walls.
Below, I could hear the muted roar of the guild watching from the base, carried up along the trunk. Gramps would be giving play‑by‑play between sips. Krampus would be silent, eyes like knives, storing data.
Then the light inside the screen shifted.
An S‑Class presence pressed against the chamber walls, thickening the air until it felt like breathing through water. The thing that emerged from the dark wasn't wood at all—it was a nightmare in porcelain over iron, runes writhing beneath its surface like living veins, a crest at the brow glowing with cold authority. The magic it exhaled spiked—dense, razor‑clean, utterly unbothered by soap, carrying the kind of weight that made instincts scream.
Billy did what he should: he didn't freeze. Bubble forward to create space, foam under to control footing, angle the ricochet to counter—three good decisions packed into a single heartbeat. But the S‑Class construct ignored the rebound entirely, caught the bubble with one gauntleted hand, and crushed it like overripe fruit. The shockwave cracked across the chamber, rattling the root‑walls.
Billy pivoted hard, widening the gap, trying to flood the floor into a treacherous skating rink that had undone so many before. The masked construct didn't so much as waver. It read him—every twitch, every habit—and in barely five exchanges it had adapted, switching its rhythm to slip past his defenses. Then it punished, clean and decisive.
I felt the hit in my teeth when it landed—an invisible hammer that bypassed the shield and burned straight through the foam's mitigation, slamming down into the boy's bones. He skidded across the floor, gritting his teeth, trying to rise, but the follow‑up came too fast, erasing the option before it could exist.
The dungeon caught him before the wall did. Runes flared. The floor bloomed with a soft sigil, and Billy vanished in a spill of light—gentle, clean—teleported out before damage turned from lesson to scar.
The screen lingered on the empty space for a heartbeat, the silence in the viewing chamber stretching thin, as if even the magic feed was catching its breath. Then it dimmed back to the door, the rune over the arch pulsing once in slow, deliberate acknowledgment of Billy's run.
I let out a long breath, not from relief, but from the coiled anticipation now sitting in my chest. I wasn't disappointed. I wasn't even tense.
I was alive.
Now I knew the slope. Now I knew the bite. This wasn't some forest mop‑up or a polite exhibition—it was a crucible, built by my grandpa and my best friend to grind you down and sharpen you until only the best edge remained. Exactly my kind of church.
Lightning crawled over my skin like the first shiver before a storm, hungry and impatient. My jaw set, my chest felt lighter, and my pulse hammered in my ears in that steady, electric rhythm I only got before a real fight.
"Finally," I whispered, smiling at the door as the mechanisms reset with an audible click of challenge. "Something I can go all out."
The rune over the arch flared for me, reading, weighing, then letting me through. The air inside the dungeon hit like stepping into a storm cellar full of coiled predators—mana so dense it prickled my skin, every breath tasting of earth, ozone, and something sharp enough to cut the tongue.
The moment my boots hit the glowing root floor, they came for me.
A dozen shapes blinked into existence—humanoids shaped from stone, bone‑bark, and twisted root, each radiating magic at A‑Class levels. No warm‑up, no handshake, just straight to killing intent.
Good.
I moved through them like current through copper, every strike measured. Railguns—fast, clean shots of magnetized magic—punched through skulls and split torsos. I kept my output efficient, killing without wasting more mana than needed. The boss was coming, and I wasn't burning myself out before the main course.
One of them flung a spear of lightning my way, thinking it clever. I opened my chest to it, let it punch through my elementalization, and drank it down until the heat and crackle filled my veins. My fatigue eased. My grin sharpened.
"Thanks for the top‑up," I muttered, turning the charge into a wide‑arc blast that fried three more.
Minutes passed in hammer‑blow exchanges. My boots crunched through debris, the floor littered with shattered masks and steaming scraps of their bodies. I shifted constantly—Heart Net active, Godspeed flickering under my skin, my biomagnetic sense painting their movements before they made them. Every dodge was half‑a‑breath early, every counter a whisper faster than their guard.
The chamber shook when the boss arrived.
It didn't blink in—it walked, each step sinking the floor with the weight of a mountain. Its frame was massive, armored in plates of living stone veined with glowing runes. The mask was jagged, more helm than face, with a single eye of molten gold glaring through the slit. Earth magic poured off it in waves, the mana so thick it dragged at my limbs.
And it had the bad manners of being partially immune to lightning.
The first clash rattled my bones. I darted in, drove a railgun into its chest—sparks, smoke, but no stagger. It answered by splitting the floor open under me, jagged stone teeth lunging for my legs. Heart Net flared, and I vaulted out just before they snapped shut.
We traded like that—me slipping in and out with Godspeed and elementalization, chipping at it with high‑density bursts and slamming the occasional charged strike into its joints. It threw walls, spires, shockwaves. I tore them apart, but it was wearing me down. I stopped counting railguns somewhere around forty. My body wasn't cut up too bad—just a few scratches—but my mana was bleeding away fast.
Then it planted both hands to the ground, runes screaming to life.
"Precipice Edge."
The air turned into a storm of razors—countless sharp rock spires screaming toward me from every direction. Too many to dodge. Too many to just tank.
I dropped low, spreading my biomagnetic field wide, feeling for every fleck of metal in the air. The boss's constant earth magic had seeded the place with it, tiny traces in every chunk of stone. I seized them all, pulled them into a whirling shell around me, grinding the spires to dust as they struck. The air filled with sparks and grit.
Opportunity.
I broke forward, lightning howling around me, Godspeed screaming in my muscles. The boss's arm came up—too slow.
"Lightning Dragon's Secret Art—Plasma Crush!"
I drove my palms into its chest. The magic radius was small, tight, but the damage was absolute—atoms tearing apart, stone and rune‑flesh disintegrating into nothing. When the light died, all that was left was its head, rolling to a stop with the mask cracked open.
Relief hit harder than fatigue, and my knees started to give. The dungeon shimmered at the edges of my vision.
Krampus was suddenly there, filling my sight, all strong lines, red coat, and warm, furred solidity. I didn't fight the gravity pulling me forward—I let myself fall into his chest, the steady rise and fall beneath my cheek grounding me in a way that made the world outside feel distant and unimportant.
"Well done," he rumbled. "Welcome to S‑Class, Laxus Dreyar."
I managed a tired grin, my hands fisting lightly into his coat. The warmth of his arms around me was a barricade against everything else, solid and sure, radiating a security so deep it seeped into my bones. Every shred of tension bled away, every lingering trouble washed out of my mind until all that was left was the steady beat of his heart and the unshakable certainty that I was safe here. For a moment I was a kid again, napping on this same chest after a long day, surrendering completely to the comfort. The world faded, and I let it, sinking into sleep with the faintest smile.