The air inside the guildhall buzzed with life, laughter, and the occasional argument. It was a symphony of chaos, and yet it felt oddly comforting, like the background noise of a home I hadn't realized I missed. The giant doors of the Fairy Tail guild loomed in front of me, the insignia etched above them a bold reminder of where I was.
I pushed the doors open cautiously, the creak of the hinges announcing my presence. A few pairs of eyes turned toward me, each one sizing me up.
I felt the weight of their stares—curiosity, suspicion, and a hint of amusement. I couldn't blame them. A scrawny seven-year-old walking in alone didn't exactly scream future guild member.
Before I could falter under the pressure, a booming voice cut through the silence.
"Well, what do we have here?"
I turned to see the guild master himself, Makarov, perched on the counter. He was smaller than I'd expected, his stature almost comical compared to the power I knew he wielded. But there was a warmth in his gaze, a kindness that instantly put me at ease.
I straightened up, swallowing my nerves. "I want to join Fairy Tail," I said, trying to sound confident. My voice cracked slightly, but I held my ground.
The first thing Master Makarov asked me when I stood before him wasn't what I expected.
"SURE! Why do you want to join Fairy Tail?"
His voice wasn't harsh, but it carried weight—an undeniable presence that demanded an honest answer. He sat on the bar counter, barely taller than a child even with his great hat. His eyes were piercing, though, gazing at me as if he could see right through me.
I froze for a moment, glancing around the guild hall. The place was as chaotic as I remembered from the series—Gray and Cana arguing over something trivial, Erza quietly watching from the corner, her steel gaze already intimidating despite her age. The atmosphere buzzed with energy, warmth, and camaraderie.
But why did I want to be here?
I'd thought this moment would be easy, that joining Fairy Tail would be as simple as showing off my magic or proving my strength. Yet now that Makarov had asked me directly, the words didn't come.
I looked down at my hands—still unfamiliar to me, still not my own. This body wasn't just Natsu's; it was a tool, a vessel for a power I barely understood. The fire within me burned constantly, a reminder of the destructive potential I carried.
Why did I want to join Fairy Tail?
The easy answer was that I knew what it represented: family, strength, a bond that transcended blood. I'd seen it in the anime, felt it through the screen. But living it, standing here now? It was different. The weight of this world, the reality of the power I wielded, made everything sharper, more real.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to dig deeper. Back in my old life, I'd always admired Fairy Tail's sense of belonging, their unshakable loyalty to one another. But that wasn't my only reason. There was something more—a selfish need I hadn't wanted to admit to myself.
I was lonely.
Not just in this world, but before. I'd spent so much time disconnected, drifting through my days without a clear purpose. And now, standing in this hall full of people who fought, laughed, and cried together, I realized I wanted what they had.
"I want to belong," I said finally, my voice quiet but steady.
Makarov raised an eyebrow, clearly NOT expecting my response to be that.
"I've always been on the outside, looking in," I continued, my gaze fixed on the floor. "But here, in this guild, people stand together no matter what. They fight for each other, protect each other, and... I want to be a part of that. I want to grow stronger, not just in magic, but as a person. I want to protect what matters."
Makarov studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he chuckled.
"That's a good answer," he said, hopping down from the bar. He walked toward me, his tiny stature belying the immense power I knew he carried. "Fairy Tail isn't just a guild. It's a home. A family."
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.
"Welcome to Fairy Tail, then," he said with a warm smile, reaching out a hand.
I hesitated for a moment before shaking it. The warmth in his grip wasn't just physical—it was the same warmth I'd felt in the guild hall, the same warmth I wanted to carry in myself.
Cana was the one who dragged me over to the counter to pick my guild mark. "So? What color? Where are you putting it?" she asked, her grin mischievous.
I glanced at the options, my heart pounding. In the anime, Natsu's guild mark was red, placed proudly on his right arm. But this wasn't just Natsu's body anymore—it was mine.
"Black," I said, surprising even myself.
"Black?" Cana repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah. It feels... right."
The guild wizard stamped the mark onto my right arm, the ink sinking into my skin like it had always belonged there. I flexed my arm, the mark a symbol of something I hadn't felt in a long time: hope.
As the day wore on, I found myself blending into the chaos of the guild. Gray challenged me to a fight almost immediately, but Erza put a stop to it with a single glare. Cana tried to teach me how to play cards, though I quickly realized I was terrible at it.
For the first time since I'd woken up in this world, I didn't feel out of place. I still had a long way to go, still had to figure out how to control the fire inside me, but for now, I had a starting point.
Fairy Tail wasn't just a guild—it was a chance. A chance to be better, to belong, to find a purpose. And I wasn't going to waste it.
The first thing I learned about fire was how easily it could destroy. Fire wasn't subtle. It didn't hesitate or second-guess itself—it consumed everything in its path. And as I stood in the clearing I had claimed as my training ground, surrounded by charred earth and ash, I realized I wasn't trying to learn how to wield fire.
I was trying to become it.
Fire was freedom, an untamed force of nature that could warm or destroy. It burned brightly, illuminating the darkness, but it also carried the promise of chaos. As I trained, I began to see it not just as a weapon, but as a philosophy.
I remembered how Natsu fought in the series—his style was instinctive, wild, and almost reckless. But there was also a deeper understanding beneath his flames, a connection to his emotions that fueled his power. That was the key, wasn't it? Fire didn't just come from magic—it came from will. From passion.
The flames inside me weren't just raw power; they were an extension of myself. But that realization brought its own challenges. Every flicker of doubt, every surge of frustration or fear, would twist the flames into something dangerous. Controlling fire wasn't just about focus; it was about balance.
In my old life, I'd watched countless anime where fire users stood at the pinnacle of power, each with their own philosophy and techniques. I thought back to those stories, drawing on their ideas to guide my training.
From Avatar: The Last Airbender, I remembered Zuko's lesson: fire was life, not just destruction. It was energy, motion, and the breath of creation itself. That mindset helped me shift my approach, focusing on the flow of magic within me rather than forcing it out.
From Demon Slayer, I thought of Rengoku and the way his flames burned with unwavering resolve. He didn't hesitate; he embraced his fire as an expression of his will. I tried to embody that same clarity, letting my magic flow naturally instead of overthinking each move.
And then there was One Piece's Ace. His mastery of fire wasn't just raw power—it was precision. I started experimenting with smaller, more controlled flames, trying to shape them into different forms. I couldn't match his complexity yet, but it was a step toward understanding.
Being aware of the source of my power made training both easier and harder. On one hand, I had a clearer picture of what I needed to do. I knew my limits, understood that my flames came from both my magic and my emotions. But that awareness also meant I couldn't ignore my failures. Every time I lost control, every time the flames flared out of hand, it felt like I was fighting against myself.
The fire inside me wasn't just mine—it was Igneel's. I could feel the dragon's presence, distant but undeniable, like a low rumble in the back of my mind. His power was immense, far beyond anything I could comprehend, and trying to tap into it felt like standing on the edge of a volcano.
But I wasn't afraid of Igneel. I respected him, admired him, and I wanted to learn from him.
In canon, Natsu had only unlocked Igneel's true power after the dragon's death. For ten months, he trained relentlessly to control the flames, and even then, it had been a struggle. But my situation was different. Igneel was still alive, still a part of me. If I could understand his power now—if I could learn to wield it as my own—I wouldn't just match Natsu. I could surpass him.
My training focused on two things: precision and endurance.
For precision, I practiced shaping my flames into specific forms. At first, I started small—tiny fireballs that hovered above my palm, barely bigger than a marble. I'd try to hold them steady, keep them from flickering or flaring out. Once I could do that, I moved on to more complex shapes: streams of fire, spirals, even crude animal forms.
For endurance, I pushed my body to its limits. Fire Dragon Slayer magic wasn't just about the flames; it was about the strength to wield them. I ran laps around Magnolia, practiced hand-to-hand combat against tree trunks, and forced myself to use magic until my reserves were completely drained.
I was not a reckless child like Natsu and inflicting violence on real people have never been a specialty of mine. I have been in fight and actually participated in boxing and MMA competitions but This felt infinitely more dangerous.
Every day was a battle against myself. The fire demanded everything I had, and some days I felt like I would collapse under the weight of it. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
I never notice my watcher.
"Master, he's fine," Gray said, exasperated, but Makarov wasn't convinced.
"He's not fine, Gray. You've seen it, haven't you? The boy's always training, always keeping to himself. He doesn't laugh, doesn't play. That's not how one of my children should grow up."
Gray sighed, scratching the back of his head. "What do you want me to do about it? He's stubborn."
"Then you'll just have to be more stubborn."
Gray groaned, but he didn't argue. When Master gave you that look—the one that said, Don't question me, just do it—you listened.