Cana trudged into the dimly lit bar in Hargeon, the salty tang of the sea still clinging to her clothes. 'The Mermaid's Tail,' the sign creaked above the wooden door, promising cheap drinks and even cheaper company if the usual Hargeon establishments were anything to go by. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale ale, fish, and something faintly floral – probably a cheap perfume trying too hard to mask the first two. Wooden tables were scattered haphazardly across the uneven floor, most occupied by weathered sailors and the occasional traveling merchant. Laughter, rough and boisterous, bounced off the low, smoke-stained ceiling.
She found a relatively clean spot at the far end of the bar, away from the loudest group of sailors, and signaled the barkeep, a stout man with a perpetually damp cloth draped over his shoulder. "Whiskey," she grunted, leaning her elbows on the sticky counter. Her initial optimism about finding clues had evaporated hours ago. Each rumor had led to a dead end – whispers of rogue mages, yes, but none cloaked in fire. No pink-haired enigma leaving trails of scorched earth and shattered dark guilds. Disappointment gnawed at her, a sour taste lingering longer than the cheap ale she was about to order.
The barkeep slid a glass of amber liquid towards her, its surface rippling slightly. Cana took a large gulp, letting the burn chase away some of the frustration. As she exhaled, her ears perked up, catching snippets of conversation from a group huddled around a nearby table. They were talking louder now, voices rising above the general din of the bar.
"…said it was like watching hell itself descend," one gravelly voice declared, punctuating his words with a slam of his tankard on the table. "This Salamander, they call him. Walked right into 'The Obsidian Hand,' no less! Untouchable, they were! Guild master a real nasty piece of work, magic strong as an ox – thought he owned this whole coast."
Another voice, higher pitched and laced with awe, chimed in, "But this Salamander… he just melted right through them. Like butter in a bonfire! Said he was covered head to toe in flames, couldn't even see his face. Just… fire. And screams." He shuddered dramatically, drawing out the last word.
A third voice, skeptical but intrigued, scoffed, "Aw, come on, lads, you're spinning yarns taller than the mast of a battleship. Melted through 'The Obsidian Hand'? They say their defenses are impenetrable, enchanted runes, magic barriers, the whole shebang!"
"I'm telling you, I heard it from a guy who saw the aftermath himself!" the gravelly voice insisted. "Said the place… it's gone. Just ashes and twisted metal. And no survivors. Not a single one. Just… gone." He repeated the last word, quieter this time, a hint of unease creeping into his tone.
Cana's own skepticism warred with a prickle of excitement. Salamander. Fire covering his body. Destroyed a supposedly impenetrable dark guild. It was too specific to be a coincidence. This had to be him. This was the kind of chaos Makarov had described, the kind of power they were trying to understand.
She finished her whiskey, a new sense of purpose stirring within her. This wasn't just a rumor; it was a lead, a solid one. 'The Obsidian Hand.' She would need to check with the Guild about any reports, see if they knew anything. Maybe even pay a visit to what was left of the guild herself.
As she turned to flag down the barkeep for another drink, a shadow fell over her table. She looked up, ready to politely ask whoever it was to move, but the words died in her throat.
Standing before her, silhouetted against the flickering light of the bar, was a figure draped in rags. Loose, earth-toned fabrics hung off a lean frame, and worn sandals exposed calloused feet. He looked like any other vagrant who might wander in off the streets of Hargeon, seeking a handout or a moment of respite from the coastal wind.
But it wasn't the clothes that made Cana's breath catch in her chest. It was the hair. The unmistakable shock of pink, faded and dusty, but undeniably pink. And then, her eyes traced further up, beyond the grime and shadow that obscured the lower part of his face. To the jagged scar that bisected his right eyebrow, a familiar white line against tanned skin. Another, smaller scar, just visible at the edge of his jawline, peeked out from beneath a haphazardly wrapped bandage.
Her mind raced, images flashing: the shock of fire, the raw power, the desperate fight against the phantom Laxus. The burning heat, the raw, untamed magic.
Her heart pounded in her ears as recognition slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. She knew those scars. She knew that hair. She knew that raw, unsettling power. Even disguised in rags, even shrouded in shadow... there was no mistaking him.
It was him.
Salamander.
Natsu.
Standing right in front of her. His eyes, hidden in shadow beneath the grime and the low brim of what looked like a tattered hood, were fixed on hers. And despite the disguise, despite the dirt and the weariness etched onto his face, there was something intensely familiar, something achingly vulnerable in their hidden depths that made Cana's resolve waver for a fraction of a second.
Before she could speak, before she could even fully process the shock of his sudden appearance, he leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that barely reached her ears above the bar's clamor.
"You're Cana, right?" he murmured, his breath ghosting across her face, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible scent of… smoke. "From Fairy Tail."
"Nice scarf," Cana managed, the words coming out a little breathier than she intended. She gestured weakly at the familiar scaled pattern peeking from beneath the rags, hoping to inject some levity into the tense air crackling between them. It was a weak attempt, she knew, the kind of deflecting humor she used when she felt cornered.
Natsu didn't even glance down at the scarf. His gaze remained locked on hers, unwavering and intense, despite the shadows clinging to his face. No twitch of a smile, no flicker of amusement. Just those shadowed, piercing eyes holding her captive. Her joke fell flat, a lead weight in the smoky air.
He shifted, sliding onto the stool beside her, his movements surprisingly fluid for someone draped in such cumbersome clothing. The barstool creaked under his weight, the sound momentarily filling the silence. He was closer now, and Cana could discern more details despite the dim light. The grime on his skin couldn't fully hide the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. The bandages were rough strips of cloth, probably torn from his own ragged clothes. And his hands...
She watched as he rested them on the bar counter, near her glass. They were large, calloused, the knuckles prominent and scarred, like a warrior who had seen countless battles. The skin was rough, weathered, telling a story of hardship and relentless action. These weren't the hands of a mage who relied solely on magical energy. These were the hands of someone who fought, physically, brutally.
"We have a lot in common, you and I," Natsu said, his voice still a low rumble, closer now, vibrating in the space between them.
Cana frowned, her confusion momentarily eclipsing her shock. "Like what?" she asked, genuinely curious, despite the alarm bells ringing in her head. What could she possibly have in common with this fire-wielding enigma who destroyed dark guilds?
He turned his head slightly, just enough for her to glimpse the sharp angle of his jaw, the line of his cheekbone beneath the grime. His shadowed eyes flickered to her for a fleeting moment, then back to some unseen point beyond her shoulder.
"We both want to prove ourselves to our fathers."
The words hit Cana like a physical blow. The air seemed to thicken, the bar's clamor fading to a dull hum in her ears. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of disbelief and rising panic. Prove herself to her father? Gildarts? How…?
Her breath hitched in her throat. She hadn't spoken about Gildarts to anyone outside of Fairy Tail, and certainly not in the context of 'proving herself.' It was a deeply personal, complicated ache within her, a silent yearning she kept carefully guarded. How could this stranger, this fire-wreathed Salamander, possibly know?
Her mind raced, searching for an explanation, any logical reason for his words. Had Makarov told him? But Makarov barely knew the extent of her feelings about Gildarts, her hidden desire for recognition, her complex mix of awe and resentment. And even if he had, why would he share it with a rogue mage?
Her gaze sharpened, studying Natsu's disguised form with renewed intensity. This wasn't just some random guess, some lucky shot in the dark. There was a certainty in his voice, a knowing glint in his shadowed eyes that chilled her to the bone. It was as if he had peered straight into the deepest, most secret corners of her heart.
"How… how do you know that?" she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper, the usual confident edge completely gone. Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at her skin. This encounter, initially shocking, had just taken a profoundly unsettling turn. Salamander, or Natsu, or whatever name he went by, wasn't just dangerous; he was unsettlingly perceptive. And that, in its own way, was far more frightening than any display of raw magical power.
A strange hum rumbled from beneath the layers of fabric obscuring his throat, almost like a low chuckle, but devoid of any humor. "You smell like him."
Cana blinked, utterly bewildered. "Smell like… Gildarts?" That made even less sense than the father-proving comment. Gildarts smelled like… well, like adventure and a faint whiff of something singed, maybe remnants of magical mishaps. She certainly didn't think she carried that particular aroma.
Natsu shifted again, his shadowed gaze dipping down, almost as if he were considering her words – or perhaps considering her. "The booze too," he added, his voice still a low, gravelly murmur. "The strong stuff. He likes that as well."
The air hung heavy with unspoken meaning. Cana stared at him, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. What was this strange connection he was implying? Was he messing with her? Trying to play some kind of psychological game?
Silence descended between them, thick and cloying as the bar's smoke. The usual boisterous chatter around them seemed to fade into a distant drone, all her focus drawn to this enigmatic figure beside her. She could hear the faint crackle of residual magic clinging to his clothes, a faint warmth radiating from him even without the overt flames. It was a primal, untamed energy that sent shivers down her spine.
Breaking the suffocating stillness, Cana forced herself to take a steadying breath and meet his shadowed gaze head-on. "What are you doing here, Salamander?" she asked, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual firmness, though tinged with a nervous tremor. "In this town? In this bar?"
He didn't answer immediately, his gaze still fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder, lost in thought. Then, a slow, deliberate shrug rippled beneath his ragged layers. "Luck," he said, the single word hanging in the air, utterly unconvincing.
Cana snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "Luck? Don't insult my intelligence. Not after you just quoted my deepest insecurities back at me like you plucked them from my own mind." She leaned closer, ignoring the unsettling warmth emanating from him. "Who are you hunting, really?" she pressed, her voice dropping to a near whisper, intense and demanding. "This 'dark guild' you supposedly destroyed… was that just a warm-up? Is there someone specific you're after?"
For the first time since he'd sat beside her, a visible shift occurred in his demeanor. A corner of his mouth, barely visible in the shadows, quirked upwards in a slow, almost predatory smirk. It wasn't a friendly expression; it was sharp, confident, and carried a hint of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.
He finally turned his head, his shadowed gaze now directly meeting hers, the intensity within them even more potent in the closer proximity. "Perhaps," he said, his voice taking on a new, playful edge, like a predator toying with its prey. "But perhaps I'm just thirsty." He glanced at her half-empty glass of potent liquor, then back to her eyes, the smirk widening. "And perhaps… perhaps I'm in the mood for a little game."
Cana narrowed her eyes, suspicion warring with a flicker of something else – a reckless curiosity, a stubborn refusal to be intimidated. "A game?" she echoed, her hand instinctively tightening around her glass.
"A drinking game," he clarified, his voice a low purr. "A contest. Simple rules. We drink, we see who falters first." He gestured to the bartender with a subtle flick of his wrist, and another glass, inexplicably already filled with the same dark liquor, appeared in front of him. It was as if the barkeep himself was wary of this cloaked figure, anticipating his needs.
"And what are the stakes?" Cana asked, her gaze unwavering, despite the pulse thrumming in her temples. She knew she shouldn't play games with this man, not with the unnerving sense of danger that clung to him like the smoke in the air. But something within her, a daredevil streak she rarely suppressed, was already leaning towards acceptance.
"Simple," Natsu repeated, his shadowed eyes gleaming. "If you win," he said, pausing for dramatic effect, "I'll tell you anything you want to know. Anything at all. About me. About why I'm here. About… fathers." He let the last word hang between them, loaded with the weight of her own secret anxieties.
Cana's breath hitched. Anything? The lure was almost irresistible. She craved answers, craved to understand the enigma that sat beside her, to unravel the mystery of how he knew so much, felt so familiar, yet was so utterly alien.
"And if I lose?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, steeling herself for the inevitable catch.
His smirk deepened, becoming almost predatory. "If I win… you do something for me."
A shiver ran down her spine, colder than fear, more like anticipation. She knew she was walking into a trap, a game rigged against her, played by rules she didn't yet understand. But the promise of answers, the challenge in his shadowed eyes, was too compelling to ignore.
Cana lifted her chin, a familiar spark of defiance igniting within her. She was, after all, Cana Alberona. Fairy Tail's card mage, and, more importantly in this context, Fairy Tail's undisputed drinking champion. She'd out-drunk mages twice her size, held her own against gods of revelry. What was one mysterious, fire-cloaked rogue?
"Alright," she said, the word firm, cutting through the smoky tension. She met his gaze, a flicker of a confident smile finally touching her lips. "I accept your challenge, Salamander. Let's see who can hold their liquor."
He raised his glass, the movement surprisingly graceful for someone so heavily cloaked. "To secrets, then," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
Cana mirrored his gesture, her own glass clinking against his with a sharp, clear sound that echoed in the sudden hush that seemed to fall around them. To secrets, indeed. She just hoped she wouldn't regret delving too deeply into the ones this enigmatic Salamander held.
The first round vanished quickly, both of them downing their potent drinks with practiced ease. Cana felt the familiar burn in her throat, the pleasant haze beginning to creep around the edges of her awareness. She'd drunk far stronger, far faster, countless times. This was child's play.
Another round. And another. Natsu drank with an unnerving stillness, his shadowed face betraying no hint of the liquor's effects. Cana, on the other hand, was starting to feel the pleasant looseness she usually welcomed. She was in her element, confident, enjoying the contest.
Except… something was off. She couldn't quite place it, but a subtle unease was beginning to prickle beneath the surface of her confidence. Natsu wasn't even blinking. His shadowed gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering, intense, almost… calculating.
Round after round disappeared. The bar's noise seemed to swell and recede in her ears, the room tilting slightly around the edges. She was definitely feeling it now, a warm, comfortable buzz spreading through her limbs. But she was still clear-headed, still in control. She glanced at Natsu, expecting to see some sign, some flicker of intoxication in his masked demeanor.
Nothing. He sat as still and impassive as a statue, his shadowed eyes fixed on her, his glass always refilled as if by unseen hands. It was starting to become unsettling. Was he even human? Could he even get drunk?
Then, it hit her. Not the alcohol, but a cold, stark realization that cut through the pleasant haze like a shard of ice. She was focused on the drinking contest, the familiar game, the boastful confidence in her own abilities. But she was missing the point entirely. This wasn't really about drinking. It was about control. And Natsu had it. Completely.
The world seemed to slow, the sounds of the bar fading again. She watched, almost in slow motion, as Natsu raised his glass for what felt like the tenth round, or the fifteenth, she'd lost count. He didn't even lift it to his face fully, just tilted it slightly, the dark liquid vanishing like smoke.
She tried to mimic him, to lift her own glass, but her arm felt heavy, sluggish. Her fingers fumbled, nearly dropping the glass. She managed to bring it to her lips, but the smell of the liquor, once enticing, now assaulted her senses, acrid and overwhelming.
She took a small sip, trying to force it down, but her throat constricted. Her stomach churned. The pleasant buzz had vanished, replaced by a creeping nausea, a heavy, oppressive fatigue.
She lowered the glass, her hand trembling slightly. She looked at Natsu, his shadowed face still impassive, his gaze still locked on hers. And in that gaze, she saw not triumph, not mockery, but something far more chilling – a quiet, absolute certainty.
He already knew he had won.
Cana slumped back against the barstool, the fight draining out of her. Her head spun, the room blurring. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but everything seemed to swim and distort. She took a shaky breath, the air heavy and thick.
"I…" she started, her voice raspy, barely audible above the bar's din, "…I yield."
The words felt like a lead weight in her mouth, taste of bitter defeat. She, Cana Alberona, the guild's champion drinker, had lost. Against a stranger, a fire-wreathed enigma who probably wasn't even affected by alcohol.
Natsu remained silent for a long moment, his shadowed gaze still fixed on her. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered his empty glass to the bar. The sound was soft, almost insignificant, but in the sudden stillness that seemed to encompass them, it resonated like a death knell.
He had won. And now, she had to pay the price. A cold dread settled in Cana's stomach, far heavier than any amount of liquor. She had no idea what Natsu would ask of her, what dark purpose lay hidden beneath his enigmatic facade. But one thing was terrifyingly clear: this was just the beginning. And whatever game he was playing, she was now inextricably caught within its web.
She slurred her words, the liquor coating her tongue like a thick, syrupy glaze. "Whash… whash you want?" The question tumbled out, less a demand, more a weary exhale into the suddenly heavy air of the bar. Her head swam, each pulse a throbbing reminder of her foolish overconfidence. She vaguely recalled how they were utterly embarrassed by his hand when they tried to take him in – stories of a masked mage, a 'Salamander' who moved like wildfire and burned away darkness wherever he found it. Someone who could, apparently, drink anyone under the table without batting an eye.
A shiver, unrelated to the alcohol's chill, ran down her spine. She'd heard rumors about this Salamander. Whispers that hinted at power far exceeding anything she'd personally witnessed, even within Fairy Tail. Some fool had even boasted he'd seen him single-handedly dismantle a dark guild fortress, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins. Of course, such tales were often embellished, but the undercurrent of fear in those whispers… it was unsettling. The idea of being indebted to someone with that kind of rumored power, someone who could potentially… well, the thought trailed off, unfinished and laced with dread. She didn't want to dwell on the 'what ifs'. She had made a bet, she had lost, and Cana Alberona always honored her debts. But a knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach regardless.
Through the haze of drink, she saw Salamander shift. He rose from his stool with an unnerving fluidity, like smoke curling upwards, not a single sound escaping his movements. For a moment, she thought he was going to ignore her question, simply vanish back into the shadows from whence he came. Then, his voice, a low rumble she hadn't properly registered before, cut through the bar's drunken din.
"Tell Gildarts," he said, each word distinct, devoid of any slurring or intoxication, "tell Gildarts you're his daughter the next time you see him."
The words hung in the air, nonsensical, jarring against the weighty expectation of some dark, demanding task. Cana blinked, her blurry vision struggling to focus on his masked form. "What?" she managed, the single syllable laced with confusion.
Salamander didn't elaborate. He simply stood there, a silhouette carved from shadow against the bar's flickering light. Then, he spoke again, his tone taking on a strange, almost melancholic edge. "You never know how much time you have."
And then, just like that, he was gone. He moved with impossible speed, a flicker of fire dancing at his edges, and then the space where he'd stood was empty. The bar's noise rushed back in, a wave of drunken laughter and clinking glasses, as if he'd never been there at all.
Cana stared at the empty space, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. Tell Gildarts… her father? Why in the hell would this masked stranger, this powerful, enigmatic mage, care about her relationship with her deadbeat dad? It made absolutely no sense. It was… absurd.
She rubbed her temples, trying to clear the alcoholic fog in her brain, but it only seemed to thicken. Her victory had turned into a strange, anticlimactic defeat, and now… this bizarre request. She felt a prickle of frustration, a burning confusion that was more potent than any liquor. Why him? Why Gildarts? Why now?
A tear, hot and unexpected, traced a path down her cheek. She immediately scrubbed at it, annoyed with herself. Drunken sentimentality was not her style. But the words, 'You never know how much time you have,' echoed in her mind with an unsettling resonance. It wasn't the request itself, but the strange, almost mournful way he'd said it. It hinted at something deeper, something hidden beneath the layers of fire and shadow.
She swiped at her eyes again, forcing down the sudden lump in her throat. Damn him and his cryptic pronouncements. Damn him for making her feel… emotional. And damn herself for losing a drinking contest to a freak who probably ran on pure fire and spite.
She ordered another drink, stronger this time. Maybe if she drank enough, she could drown out the unsettling questions swirling in her head. Maybe she could forget the shadowed face, the strange request, and the unnerving certainty in his eyes. But deep down, Cana knew she wouldn't. This encounter, this strange debt owed to the Salamander, felt like the beginning of something. Something she didn't understand, and something that, despite her bravado, terrified her just a little.
Erza Scarlet, Titania, the Knight, and Gray Fullbuster, the Ice Make mage, stood outside the imposing, sterile white structure of the Magic Council headquarters. It loomed against the Magnolia skyline, a symbol of authority and, in Erza's experience, often frustrating bureaucracy. Today, however, the frustration held a sharper edge of unease.
"So, we're being subtle, right?" Gray muttered, adjusting the collar of his dark blue jacket. He hadn't stripped down to his usual state of undress, a testament to the gravity of Makarov's request.
Erza nodded, her scarlet hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her usual flamboyant armor replaced by a dark, practical travelling cloak that concealed her weapon's hilt beneath. "Subtle, Gray. We are here as concerned citizens, seeking information, not Fairy Tail belligerence."
"Right, 'concerned citizens' who can pulverize mountains," Gray quipped, a hint of his characteristic smirk playing on his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. The image of the Salamander, cloaked in roaring flames, his presence as scorching as his magic, lingered in both their minds. They had sparred with powerful mages, faced monstrous creatures, but there was something different about this Salamander. Something… isolated.
"We need to start with Elara," Erza stated, her voice firm. "Makarov mentioned her specifically. Headmaster's assistant… it's an unusual position for someone to attract the Council's interest in connection to a rogue mage."
They entered the building, the air inside immediately cooler, crisper, devoid of the warm, chaotic energy that pulsed through Fairy Tail. The reception area was vast and echoing, polished marble reflecting the cold light filtering through high, arched windows. A stern-faced receptionist with meticulously styled silver hair sat behind a large desk, her eyes sharp and assessing.
Erza approached, her posture radiating quiet confidence. "Good day. We are here to inquire about a matter of public concern."
The receptionist raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Public concern? And what might that be?" Her voice was as sharp as her features.
"The recent… incidents… involving a mage known as the Salamander," Erza said, choosing her words carefully. "We are citizens of Magnolia, and we are worried about the collateral damage. We've heard rumors of the Magic Council's involvement and wished to understand the situation better."
The receptionist's lips tightened. "The Magic Council is handling the situation. There is no need for public concern. We advise citizens to remain calm and allow us to conduct our investigation."
"With all due respect," Gray interjected, his voice smooth but laced with an undercurrent of steel, "'remain calm' is easier said than done when a mage capable of leveling entire city blocks is running around. Surely, you can understand our apprehension. Perhaps if we could speak with someone who is directly involved in this investigation?" He leaned forward slightly, adding a touch of persuasive charm to his words.
The receptionist remained unmoved, her gaze unwavering. "Access to Council investigations is restricted. Unless you have a specific appointment or official clearance…"
"What about Headmaster Gran Doma's office?" Erza asked, knowing the Council Headmaster was the highest authority within this building. "We understand his assistant, Elara, might be privy to certain information."
A flicker of something – annoyance? Recognition? – crossed the receptionist's face, so fleeting Erza almost doubted she saw it. "Headmaster Doma and his assistant are unavailable for unscheduled appointments. Please state your business, and I will see if it can be directed to the appropriate department."
"Our business concerns the Salamander and any information the Council may have regarding his motives and potential threat," Erza reiterated, her patience beginning to thin. "Specifically, we are interested in understanding the Council's perspective and any insight Elara might possess, given her proximity to Headmaster Doma."
The receptionist tapped her long, manicured nails on the polished desk. "Hold on." She turned to her console, her fingers flying across the keys. After a moment, she turned back, her expression still impassive but with a subtle shift in her demeanor.
"Headmaster Doma's office has acknowledged your request. Ms. Elara will see you shortly. Please wait in the designated area." She gestured curtly towards a row of plush, uncomfortable-looking chairs lining one wall.
Erza and Gray exchanged a glance. They hadn't expected it to be this easy. Perhaps mentioning Elara directly had shifted the gears. They settled into the chairs, a tense silence descending between them as they observed the sterile surroundings. Minutes ticked by, each one stretching the anticipation taut.
"Think this is a trap?" Gray murmured, breaking the silence.
Erza considered it. "Possibly. But we came prepared for anything. Keep your senses sharp, Gray. Something feels… off."
Just as she finished speaking, a door at the end of the corridor opened, and a woman emerged. She was tall and elegant, with flowing silver hair that cascaded down her back and intelligent, piercing blue eyes. She wore a simple, yet impeccably tailored white dress, and an aura of quiet authority emanated from her. This had to be Elara.
"Erza Scarlet and Gray Fullbuster of Fairy Tail, correct?" Elara's voice was calm, measured, with a hint of formality. There was no surprise in her tone, no question, only a statement of fact.
Erza rose, her cloak swirling around her. "That is correct. You are Elara?"
Elara offered a slight, enigmatic smile. "Indeed. Please, come with me." She turned and walked back through the door, leading them down a long, dimly lit corridor. The atmosphere shifted again, becoming more private, more clandestine. The walls were lined with closed doors, each one humming with an unseen energy, a silent testament to the magic contained within.
"I must confess, your request was… unexpected," Elara said, her voice echoing softly in the corridor. "The Magic Council rarely grants audiences based on unsubstantiated public concerns, especially not involving ongoing investigations."
"Then why are we being granted this audience?" Gray asked, his eyes narrowed, scanning their surroundings.
Elara stopped before a plain, unmarked wooden door. She placed her hand on the handle, her gaze locking with Erza's. "Perhaps," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "because your 'concern' is not entirely public. Perhaps… because the Magic Council has been expecting you."
She opened the door and gestured for them to enter. Erza and Gray exchanged another uneasy look before stepping into the room. It was small and sparsely furnished, containing only a simple wooden desk, two chairs, and a single window overlooking the city. Headmaster Gran Doma was seated behind the desk, his aged face etched with a weariness Erza had never seen in him before.
"Erza, Gray," Headmaster Doma greeted them, his voice low and grave. "Thank you for coming. Or perhaps… thank you for finally arriving."
Erza felt a chill crawl down her spine. "Headmaster Doma, with all due respect, what is going on? What does the Magic Council know about this Salamander – about Natsu?" She instinctively used the name Gajeel had mentioned, the name that had sparked a flicker of recognition in Makarov's eyes.
Doma sighed, running a hand over his thinning white hair. "Natsu… yes. That is the name he once went by. And Elara is correct. We have been expecting you, Fairy Tail. Not just for days, but for years." He looked up at them, his gaze intense. "The Salamander, Erza, Gray, is not merely a rogue mage. He is a consequence. A consequence of choices made long ago, choices the Magic Council has been desperately trying to contain."
"Choices?" Gray repeated, his brows furrowed. "What kind of choices?"
Elara stepped forward, her expression now devoid of any trace of a smile. "The kind that involve forbidden magic, dangerous experiments, and the desperate pursuit of power, even at the cost of… humanity."
Erza felt her heart pound in her chest. This was far more than just a rogue mage investigation. This was something deeper, darker, something connected to the very foundations of the Magic Council, and possibly, to Natsu himself.
"Tell us everything," Erza commanded, her voice sharp and unwavering. "Tell us everything you know about Natsu, the Salamander, and what the Magic Council has to do with him."
Headmaster Doma and Elara exchanged a silent glance, a communication passing between them that Erza couldn't decipher. Then, Doma nodded slowly, a grim resolution settling on his face. "Very well, Fairy Tail. It is time you knew the truth. A truth that has been buried for far too long, a truth that could shatter everything you believe about magic, and about yourselves."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It began twenty years ago… with Project Chimera."
Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams slicing through the high windows of the Fairy Tail library. Gajeel grumbled, shoving another ancient tome aside, sending a miniature cloud of parchment dust swirling around Wendy's smaller form. He'd been at it for hours, his iron nose buried in brittle pages filled with arcane script and faded illustrations. Wendy, perched precariously on a stack of even more precarious books, was fairing no better. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her gentle fingers carefully tracing the faded ink of a dragon scale diagram in a monstrously oversized bestiary.
"This is useless." Gajeel finally declared, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the wooden shelves. He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the usually lively, now unusually quiet, guild hall. Most members were out following Makarov's orders, chasing shadows of Salamander, seeking whispers of Elara, unearthing secrets from the Magic Council. The air hung thick with unspoken questions and a palpable tension that had settled since Salamander had erupted – literally – into their lives.
Wendy sighed, lowering the heavy book onto her lap. "I haven't found anything either, Gajeel-san. Just… myths and legends. Heroic dragons, evil dragons, dragons made of stars... nothing about dragon slayers killing their own parents, let alone being stolen from their bodies." Her voice wavered slightly as she repeated the words, the concept still jarring and unsettling.
Gajeel ran a hand through his spiky black hair, his metal piercings glinting in the light. "Gramps wants us to understand this… Salamander. But dragon lore is rarer than rocking horse droppings. It's all fairytales and bedtime stories." He scowled, his frustration mounting. He knew dragons weren't fairytales. He knew them. Metalicana had been as real as the iron in his blood, as fierce as the roar that still echoed in his memory. To think of a dragon slayer killing their dragon… it went against the very grain of his being.
"Maybe… maybe it's not about the lore we know," Wendy suggested softly, her eyes thoughtful. "Maybe it's something… older. Something lost." She gestured around at the towering shelves filled with forgotten knowledge. "These books are… human perspectives. What if dragons had their own stories? Their own ways?"
Gajeel considered this, his scowl softening slightly. Wendy had a point. Their knowledge of dragons was filtered, fragmented, coloured by human interpretation and fear. They had been raised by dragons, yes, but even that felt like a lifetime ago, shrouded in the mists of childhood memories. Metalicana, he remembered the raw power, the gruff affection hidden beneath layers of metallic scales, the sheer, awe-inspiring dragonness of him. Could he imagine raising his hand against Metalicana? The thought was repulsive, unthinkable.
"Even if… even if dragons had their own stories," Gajeel grumbled, pacing a small circle amidst the books, "where the hell do we find those? It's like trying to catch smoke with bare hands."
Wendy's gaze drifted back to the dragon scale diagram in her book. "What about… the connection between dragon slayers and dragons? Is there anything about… losing your dragon? Or… being separated?"
They plunged back into the books, their search becoming more focused, desperate. They sifted through texts on dragon magic, ancient runes, even obscure herbology books rumored to contain dragon-related remedies. Hours bled into the late afternoon, the library growing darker, shadows lengthening across the crowded shelves. The only sounds were the rustling of pages, the occasional frustrated sigh from Gajeel, and the soft murmur of Wendy reading aloud passages that proved to be dead ends.
They found fragments, whispers of dragon rituals, hints of dragon grief, but nothing concrete, nothing that addressed the core mysteries surrounding Salamander. Nothing to explain why a dragon slayer would claim to have killed his dragon parent, or why he would be stolen afterward. The date… July seventh, X777… it echoed in Wendy's mind. The day she lost Grandeeney, the day Gajeel lost Metalicana, the day all the dragon slayers lost their dragon parents. Was there a connection? Could Salamander somehow be linked to that shared trauma?
As evening drew closer, Wendy closed the last book with a soft thud, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Nothing, Gajeel-san. Absolutely nothing that makes sense of what he said."
Gajeel slumped onto a nearby stool, the iron in his joints creaking softly. He felt a heavy weight settle in his chest, a sense of unease that went beyond just the mystery of Salamander. It was the feeling of something fundamentally wrong, a dissonance in the natural order of things.
"There is one thing though," Wendy said quietly, breaking the silence. She looked up at Gajeel, her brow furrowed again, this time with a different kind of worry. "What you said earlier… about his wounds."
Gajeel straightened up, the earlier conversation with Makarov and the others flashing back in his mind. He remembered his own grim observation, dismissed earlier as just another oddity in a string of oddities surrounding Salamander. "Yeah, what about it?"
"Dragon slayer healing… it's fast, Gajeel-san. We are infused with dragon magic, our bodies are stronger, more resilient. Minor cuts? Gone in minutes. Deep wounds? They close up quickly, leaving scars that fade over time, but the healing itself… it's accelerated." Wendy's voice was hesitant, as if unsure how to articulate the subtle shift in her understanding.
"So?" Gajeel prompted, impatient. He knew all this. They lived it.
Wendy bit her lip, her eyes troubled. "Salamander… his wound from Erza-san's sword… it was… bleeding for a long time. And when we saw him later, the bandage was still soaked. And you said… his other wounds, the ones from the dark guild members, they weren't healing quickly either."
Gajeel frowned, finally understanding where Wendy was going. He had dismissed it as stress, fatigue, some unknown factor hindering Salamander's natural healing. But Wendy was right. Dragon slayer healing was practically superhuman. For a dragon slayer to heal at a normal, even slow rate… it was abnormal. Disturbing.
"You think…?" Gajeel started, his voice low, a grim realization dawning.
Wendy nodded slowly, her eyes wide and solemn. "What if… what if his dragon slayer magic… isn't working properly? Or… what if something is… blocking it?"
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions. The library, once just a place of dusty books and forgotten lore, now felt charged with a new kind of mystery, a more unsettling kind of darkness. The slow healing, the fragmented memories, the claims of dragon slaying, the theft… it all swirled together, a tangled knot of questions with no clear answers.
Gajeel stared out into the deepening twilight, the shadows outside mirroring the shadows gathering within his own thoughts. Salamander was a puzzle, a dangerous, volatile puzzle. And the fact that his dragon slayer magic seemed… broken… that was perhaps the most unsettling piece of the puzzle of all. What could possibly suppress or hinder such a powerful, primal force? And what did it mean for the man shrouded in flames, the rogue mage called Salamander, and the secrets he so fiercely guarded?
The whispers of dragons, once faint and distant, now seemed to echo with a new urgency, a chilling premonition of something darker yet to come. And Gajeel, alongside Wendy, knew they were only just beginning to scratch the surface.
Mira Jane wrestled with the communication lacrima, her brow furrowed in concentration. Hours had bled into what felt like an eternity as she relentlessly attempted to pierce the veil of static that stubbornly clung to the connection. Each failed attempt tightened the knot of anxiety in her stomach. Laxus. It had to be him. The monstrous mimic, now thankfully incapacitated and contained within the guild's infirmary, had been a chillingly perfect imitation, fooling even the most perceptive members of Fairy Tail. But the real Laxus… where was he? And did he have any inkling of the chaos unfurling in Magnolia?
She adjusted the lacrima's frequency again, her fingers nimble yet tense. Another hiss of white noise met her ears, then… a crackle, a flicker of something more. Hope surged through her, a fragile bird taking flight in her chest. She spoke into the lacrima, her voice clear and laced with a quiet urgency. "Laxus? Laxus, can you hear me? It's Mira."
Another agonizing pause, filled only with the hum of magical energy and the frantic beat of her own heart. Then, finally, a voice burst through, rough and edged with a familiar impatience.
"What in the hells do you want, Mira?" Laxus's voice was a thunderclap, distorted by the lacrima but undeniably him. The irritation was palpable, radiating even through the magical link.
Relief washed over Mira in a dizzying wave, so potent it almost buckled her knees. He was alive. He was… Laxus. "Laxus! Thank goodness. It's… it's important. Where are you? Are you alright?"
"Of course, I'm alright," he snarled back, the static crackling around his words like lightning. "What do you think, I'm incapable of taking care of myself outside of your coddling little guild?" There was a rustling sound on his end, as if he were moving, pacing perhaps. "And why are you suddenly so concerned about my well-being? Last I checked, I was still banished. Or has Gramps finally lost his mind completely and decided to welcome back his black sheep?"
Mira swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady despite the tremor of emotion still running through her. "It's not about the banishment right now, Laxus. It's… complicated. Listen, have you… have you encountered anyone strange lately? Anyone calling themselves… Salamander?"
There was a beat of silence, a heavier silence this time, devoid of even the crackle of static, making Mira's heart clench. Then Laxus's voice, laced with a new kind of edge, a sharper suspicion. "Salamander? What kind of ridiculous name is that? No. Never heard of him. Why?" The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken demands.
Mira's breath hitched. "It's… it's hard to explain over this. Laxus, please, you need to come back to the guild."
"Come back to the guild?" He barked out a harsh laugh that echoed in Mira's ear unpleasantly. "Are you deaf, woman? I'm banished! Unless you suddenly forgot the little stunt I pulled, setting the whole damn place on fire, fighting Gramps, nearly destroying Magnolia! Does that sound like something that gets you a welcome back mat?"
"I know, Laxus, I know about the banishment," Mira pleaded, her voice rising slightly. "But this is different. Master Makarov… he's worried. We all are. Something happened. Something… about the mimic. And… and this Salamander. Please, just come back. I'll explain everything. Just… please, Laxus. Just come back to Fairy Tail."
She held her breath, the silence stretching taut, thick with tension. She could hear the faint sounds of wind whistling on Laxus's end, the distant cry of a bird. He was outside, somewhere far away, and she could almost feel the resistance radiating from him, the years of anger and pride battling against whatever flicker of concern might be ignited by her words.
Then, with a sharp, dismissive snort, Laxus's voice cut through the silence, cold and final. "Worried? Gramps? Don't feed me that sentimental garbage, Mira. He banished me himself. And I made my peace with it. I don't need Fairy Tail, and Fairy Tail doesn't need me. Whatever this 'Salamander' nonsense is, you and your little guild can handle it. Goodbye, Mira."
The line went dead, the lacrima reverting back to static, the sudden silence deafening in the bustling guildhall. Mira stared at the unresponsive crystal, her hand still clutching it tightly. He was gone. He hadn't come back. And the weight of everything they were facing settled even heavier on her shoulders. Laxus was out there, somewhere, oblivious to the shadow that had fallen over Fairy Tail, and now, more than ever, they were alone in facing it.
The guild hall buzzed with a focused energy, a marked contrast to its usual boisterous chaos. Makarov's words hung heavy in the air, a blend of concern and determination that had settled over Fairy Tail like a protective cloak. The image of the masked mage, Salamander, burned in their minds – the raw power, the unsettling mystery, and the vulnerability glimpsed beneath the fiery façade.
Following Makarov's directives, small groups and individuals dispersed into the world, each carrying a piece of the puzzle they were tasked to assemble. The quest for information began, a hunt for whispers and rumors that might lead them to the enigmatic Salamander, or at least shed light on his shadowed past.
Lisanna Strauss, nimble and swift, found herself in the bustling port city of Navis. The air was thick with the smell of salt and fish, the cries of gulls overhead mingling with the shouts of merchants and the rhythmic clang of shipwrights' hammers. Navis was a crossroads, a place where sailors from distant lands mingled with local traders, a breeding ground for gossip and tall tales.
Lisanna, her white hair tied back, moved through the crowded marketplace with practiced ease. She approached a stall overflowing with brightly colored silks, the vendor a stout woman with a shrewd eye. "Excuse me," Lisanna began, her voice polite but clear, "I'm looking for someone, and I was hoping you might have seen him passing through."
The woman raised a skeptical eyebrow, her gaze sweeping over Lisanna's guild mark. "Everyone passes through Navis, little bird. You'll need to be more specific."
Lisanna described him – "Pink hair, quite young, though he hides his face. And… well," she hesitated, lowering her voice slightly, "he might have a large scar on his chest. Has anyone mentioned seeing someone like that?"
The vendor's eyes sharpened with a flicker of interest. "Pink hair, you say? Not common around these parts. And a scar… hmm." She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "There was a lad a week or so back, came into my stall for some thread. Hair the color of cherry blossoms, and he kept himself wrapped up tight even in this heat. Face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat though. Didn't see no scar."
Hope flared briefly in Lisanna's chest. "Did he say where he was headed? Or anything about himself?"
The vendor shook her head. "Just bought the thread, paid his coin, and was off like the wind. Asked for directions to Rydon Village, inland a bit. Said he was looking for work."
Rydon Village. A small, agricultural community. It seemed an unlikely destination for someone shrouded in such mystery. Still, it was a thread, a fragile lead in the vast tapestry of the world. Lisanna thanked the vendor, purchasing a small spool of blue thread as a token of her gratitude and a pretext for her visit. She immediately set off towards the edge of Navis, catching a carriage heading in the general direction of Rydon Village. The rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones became the soundtrack to her growing anticipation.
Meanwhile, in the quieter, more inland town of Clover, Lucy Heartfilia and Happy were pursuing a different approach. Clover was known for its tight-knit community and the persistent hum of local gossip that permeated its every corner. If rumors were swirling, they would be found in Clover.
Lucy, dressed in a simple sundress, strolled through the town square with Happy fluttering beside her, a small satchel slung across her shoulder. They stopped at a bakery, the air thick with the warm, yeasty scent of freshly baked bread. Lucy purchased a loaf and a fish for Happy, initiating conversation with the baker, a plump woman kneading dough with powerful hands.
"Lovely bread, as always," Lucy complimented with a warm smile. "You always seem to know what's going on in Clover. Have you heard any unusual stories lately?"
The baker chuckled, her flour-dusted hands pausing for a moment. "Clover's always got stories, dearie. But unusual? Hmm… depends what you call unusual. Old Man Hemlock swears he saw a gnome dancing in his garden last night, but he also swears his turnips are sentient, so…" She winked.
Lucy laughed politely, then subtly steered the conversation. "I'm looking for someone. A young man, pink hair… he might be keeping to himself, or moving through quickly. Just wondering if anyone's mentioned seeing someone like that."
Happy chimed in, fluttering closer to the baker. "Aye! Pink hair! And maybe a big ouchie on his chest! Like a scratch from a grumpy dragon!"
The baker blinked, momentarily taken aback by Happy's sudden interjection. She squinted at Lucy, then at Happy, her brow furrowing. "Pink hair, you say? Come to think of it… old Mrs. Gable, she was saying something about a strange lad at the inn. Kept his hood up, real quiet, wouldn't look anyone in the eye. Said he was travelling through, heading west towards the Blackwood Forest."
Blackwood Forest. Known for its dense, ancient trees and whispered rumors of dark creatures. It was a far cry from Rydon Village, pulling the fragmented trail of Salamander in a completely different direction. Lucy thanked the baker profusely, handing over a few jewels for the bread and fish. As they walked away, Happy munched contentedly on his fish, oblivious to the complexities of their investigation.
"West towards Blackwood Forest," Lucy murmured to herself, pulling out a town map. "That's…quite a distance. But it's something." She decided Blackwood Forest would be their next stop, even if it felt like chasing shadows.
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit tavern in the port town of Virent, Macao Conbolt and Wakaba Mine, veterans of countless Fairy Tail brawls and information-gathering missions, were applying their time-tested, if somewhat less subtle, methods. The tavern, "The Salty Siren," was a rough and tumble establishment, filled with sailors, mercenaries, and the general riff-raff of the harbor. The air hung thick with the smell of stale ale, pipe smoke, and unwashed bodies.
Macao, his mustache twitching with anticipation, slammed a tankard onto the rough-hewn wooden table, attracting the attention of the burly bartender. "Barrel-head!" he bellowed, his voice still carrying a respectable resonance despite years of use. "Another round for me and my friend! And let's have a little chat, shall we?"
Wakaba, ever the pragmatist, leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag from his pipe. "Subtly, Macao, subtly," he muttered under his breath, though with little conviction.
The bartender, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with a scowl, lumbered over, wiping down the counter with a damp rag. "What kinda chat you wantin', old-timers?"
Macao leaned in conspiratorially, though his booming voice hardly lent itself to secrecy. "We're looking for someone. Young fella, pink hair… you seen anyone fitting that description around here? Maybe with a nasty scar on his chest?"
The bartender's scowl deepened. "Pink hair? You lost your minds? Only pink I see in this tavern is the sunrise after a long night of drinking. And scars? Everyone in here's got scars. You gotta be more specific."
Wakaba finally intervened, taking a puff of his pipe and blowing a smoke ring towards the ceiling. "We're asking about someone… distinctive. Keeps to himself maybe. Might be using fire magic, or something like it. You know, someone who stands out."
The bartender scratched his stubbled chin, his eyes scanning the room. "Fire magic, huh? There was that fella yesterday, came in here smelling like a bonfire. Kept his face covered, ordered a strong drink, and left without a word. Didn't see his hair though, kept a hood pulled up."
Macao and Wakaba exchanged glances. "Bonfire smell, face covered…" Macao mused. "Sounds promising. Did he say where he was going?"
The bartender shrugged. "Nah. Just paid and left. Headed towards the docks, last I saw."
Another thread, leading in a different direction entirely – the docks of Virent. Macao and Wakaba, with their characteristic directness, decided to canvass the dockworkers and ship captains, hoping to find someone who might have seen the fire-smelling, hooded figure.
Elfman Strauss, Lisanna's older brother, and the epitome of manly strength, chose a different tactic, and a different location. He found himself in the town of Silverpeak, renowned for its robust blacksmithing industry and its population of hardy, physically imposing individuals. Elfman believed that a man as powerful and mysterious as Salamander, even if hiding his face, would leave an impression on the town's strong-willed inhabitants.
He strode through Silverpeak's bustling main street, the rhythmic clang of hammers ringing from the numerous forges lining the road. He entered a blacksmith shop, the heat radiating from the glowing furnace feeling almost welcoming to him, a master of Take Over magic.
To the burly blacksmith hammering a piece of red-hot steel, Elfman boomed, "Excuse me, brother! I am searching for a MAN! A strong MAN! Have you seen a powerful individual passing through Silverpeak? Pink hair, maybe a scar… someone who carries himself with strength and resolve!"
The blacksmith, barely pausing his hammering, grunted. "Silverpeak's full of strong men, pal. Gotta be more specific if you want me to remember one."
Elfman puffed out his chest, his voice resonating in the forge. "This MAN… he is… mysterious! He might use FIRE! A true warrior! Someone who embodies MANLINESS!"
The blacksmith finally stopped hammering, wiping sweat from his brow with a soot-stained forearm. He eyed Elfman, his expression a mixture of amusement and slight bewilderment. "Fire, you say? And… manliness? Son, you just described half the blokes in this town after a few drinks. Look, I've been hammering steel all day, haven't paid much attention to who's walking by. Try the tavern down the street, 'The Anvil and Tankard'. They see everyone who comes and goes in Silverpeak."
Elfman, undeterred by the lack of immediate information, thanked the blacksmith with a hearty "MANLY gratitude!" and headed towards the tavern. His direct, albeit somewhat simplistic approach, was at least focused. He would find his information, through the sheer force of his manly determination.
In stark contrast to Elfman's boisterous search, Juvia Lockser embarked on her investigation with a quiet, almost ethereal presence. She chose the rain-slicked port city of Aquaria, a place perpetually enveloped in a misty drizzle, where secrets seemed to cling to the damp air like the sea spray. Aquaria was a city known for its clandestine dealings, its hidden alleys, and its inhabitants who were adept at keeping their own counsel.
Juvia moved through the narrow, cobbled streets, her blue hair plastered to her face by the constant rain, her dark eyes scanning the faces around her. She haunted dimly lit docks, the rhythmic creaking of ships and the mournful cry of foghorns her constant companions. She didn't ask direct questions, not like Lisanna or Macao. Instead, she listened. She became a shadow in the damp streets, absorbing snippets of conversations, fragments of rumors carried on the wind.
She frequented fish markets, listening to the hushed bartering between merchants. She lingered near taverns, catching the drunken ramblings of sailors. She observed the furtive glances exchanged in dimly lit alleys. Juvia, a master of water magic and observation, was trying to sense the currents of information flowing through Aquaria, hoping to catch a ripple that might lead her to Salamander.
Days blurred into nights as the Fairy Tail members spread out, their individual searches painting a fragmented picture across the landscape of Fiore. Lisanna in Rydon Village, Lucy and Happy heading toward Blackwood Forest, Macao and Wakaba combing the docks of Virent, Elfman interrogating the strongmen of Silverpeak, and Juvia becoming a ghost in the rain-soaked streets of Aquaria. They followed every whisper, chased every shadow, hoping to grasp a solid lead in their elusive hunt for Salamander.
Yet, as the initial flurry of investigation subsided, a frustratingly consistent pattern emerged. Whispers of a pink-haired figure, yes. Rumors of someone concealing their face, perhaps. Glimmers of fire magic, maybe. But nothing concrete. No consistent description of a chest scar. No clear direction of travel. No definitive confirmation that any of these sightings were of the same person, let alone the Salamander who had stormed into their guild hall.
The world was vast, and rumors were fickle things, easily distorted and misinterpreted. As days passed, and the reports trickled back to Fairy Tail, a sense of mounting frustration began to settle in. The mystery of Salamander deepened, shrouded in whispers and half-truths, proving as elusive and intangible as the flames he commanded. The hunt had begun, but the quarry remained frustratingly out of reach, a phantom glimpsed only in the periphery of their search.