The guild went silent in a snap. Nearly everyone drinking, chatting—even brawling—froze and turned as one to the three by the broken wall.
Then the uproar doubled:
"Gildarts! You bastard! Another hole in the wall!"
"How many times is that?! The master's gonna kill you!"
"Huh? Brought fresh faces this time?"
"Two little ones…"
Standing behind Gildarts, Shane and Erza peered through the hole at the roaring life inside.
The air was thick with ale, food, raw energy—and… chaos.
Thanks to that entrance, a dozen stares raked over them without pretense.
After the Tower, Shane didn't mind. The usually iron-nerved Erza, though, straightened her back a notch, looking a little tense.
A voice, anger tightly leashed, boomed from the second floor, riding a crush of mana that made hearts flutter:
"Gi—ld—ar—ts—!!!"
"The Council's complaints are stacked to the ceiling! Using magic all over town was bad enough, but getting drunk and hitting on women?! You've dragged my face through the mud!"
"Do you know how hard I have to work to smooth things over?!"
A small figure vaulted from the balcony. The bowler perched on his head barely contained his fury; spittle flecked Gildarts's face.
Shane blinked. Somehow the priorities weren't "street damage" or "harassing women," but how hard it was to fix…
Gildarts picked his ear, all nonchalance. "C'mon, c'mon, small stuff, Master." Then with one big arm he swept Shane and Erza forward. "Look—I brought back two rookies with insane potential."
He turned to them. "Kid, girl—this is our master, Makarov. Don't let the height fool you—he's one of the 'Ten Wizard Saints.'"
Shane nodded, serious. Even he could feel the crushing power wrapped around the old man.
"'Ten Wizard Saints'—the ten strongest mages on Ishgar!" crowed a pompadoured uncle with a pipe.
"Hey, Wakaba!" snorted a spiky-haired drunk beside him. "Don't introduce the master like you're bragging about yourself!"
"You wanna go, Macao?" Wakaba glared.
"Bring it!"
Two sentences and they were nose to nose like fighting cocks. The crowd didn't split them up—if anything, cups lifted in glee.
"Oh! It's on!"
"500 J on Macao!"
"Wakaba! Don't lose this time!"
"You morons—!" Makarov's mustache bristled. He spun and roared, "We've got new members! At least pretend to be respectable!"
The noise dipped a beat, then bounced back louder.
Shouts, jeers, clinking mugs—louder than before.
A chair sailed past Shane's nose. A rolling tankard followed, ale arcing through the air.
He sidestepped the splash and murmured, "Uh… this is fine?"
Erza's hand was already on her new sword, eyes wary.
She leaned in, voice low, incredulous. "Heads up. There's a pervert in underwear."
She meant the spiky-haired teen in nothing but boxers, one foot on a table, staring into space.
Makarov stared at their reactions, at a loss. He opened his mouth—then felt only a stab of helplessness.
His heart hurt.
He whipped around to chew out the culprit—only to realize Gildarts had already ghosted into the crowd, an arm around a shoulder, laughing and drinking like a man without a care.
"Sigh…" Makarov rubbed his brow and waved the two over. "You two—this way."
They picked through fruit pits and toppled stools to the relatively clean bar.
"You want to join, yes?" His tone softened.
Shane nodded. "Yes, Master. If there's a test we should—"
"Hand," Makarov interrupted, smiling as he produced a distinctive stamp from nowhere.
Puzzled, Shane obeyed.
Snap.
The stamp pressed cleanly onto the back of his hand, leaving a fairy with a cheeky tail.
"Done! Welcome to Fairy Tail," Makarov said, beaming.
Shane stared at the still-warm mark, a bit dazed. "Th-this is it? No trial? No strength check?"
Makarov waved it off, gaze sweeping the rowdy hall. "To be comrades and family needs no reason."
The warmth made Shane a little uneasy; he wasn't used to closeness.
The master turned to Erza. "And you, girl? One too?"
She nodded, raised her left arm, and flipped her sleeve. "Here."
Snap. The fairy sigil bloomed on her forearm.
Makarov looked the pair over, satisfied—thinking they'd grow into fine figures one day.
His eyes paused on Erza's red hair; something amused him. Stroking his beard, he chuckled. "Mmm… redheads, both. Don't tell me you're Gildarts's daughter?"
He didn't say it loudly, but it carried straight to a few eavesdroppers.
"Pfft!" A black-haired girl at a nearby table, mid-card game, visibly wobbled—eyes jumping to Erza and Gildarts. "No way! Red hair's rare, but still!"
"I don't know who my parents are… but…"
Erza glanced at the scoundrelly redhead picking his nose and chugging beer.
One look was enough. She shook her head, decisive.
"Impossible. Absolutely impossible."
~~~
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