You ever get the feeling the universe has it out for you?
Not in a vague, philosophical "everything happens for a reason" way. I mean really has it out for you. Like somewhere in the cosmic cubicle farm, beneath flickering fluorescent stars, a bored celestial intern found my file, circled my name in red, underlined it twice, leaned back in their chair, and said, "Let's see how many Final Destination moments we can cram into this guy's Tuesday."
I used to think the universe was impartial. Balanced. A massive, indifferent machine that crushed people by accident and moved on without noticing. But gods? Gods aren't indifferent. Gods are petty. Petty, dramatic, and deeply unserious when they get bored.
And me?
Apparently I was the stress ball.
It started small. Innocent. The sun was out, my coffee was hot, and I was walking to buy bread, basking in that fragile illusion of peace life hands you right before it swings.
Then the pavement cracked.
And by cracked, I mean it erupted. The street beneath my feet bucked upward like it had personal beef with me. Asphalt shot into the air and—because physics was clearly on lunch break—formed a perfect ramp just as an eighteen-wheeler came screaming around the corner.
The truck hit the ramp.
The truck flew.
I remember blinking. I remember the shadow swallowing the street whole. I remember diving as my coffee launched from my hand like a caffeinated offering to uncaring gods. The truck sailed overhead and turned a hot-dog stand into modern art.
I should've taken the hint.
But I didn't. Because reasonable people call that a freak accident and keep walking.
A few hours later, I was in my sacred midday nap spot—deep woods, mossy ground, filtered sunlight, birds humming like background music designed by nature itself. Absolute zen.
Then the temperature dropped.
Not cool breeze dropped. Something has noticed you dropped.
I cracked one eye open.
The sky had twisted into a jagged snarl of electric-blue lightning. Close lightning. The kind that makes your fillings sing hymns. Three bolts slammed into the ground around me like divine harpoons, trees exploding into fire as birds screamed and scattered.
And just before instinct kicked in, I swear I heard a whisper.
"Run."
So I did.
By the time I staggered into a gas station—smoking slightly, nerves fried, clothes half-charred—I collapsed onto the curb with a juice box like a retired war veteran. Half laughing, half shaking, I muttered, "Alright, Universe. We're even now."
Then the sky screamed.
Metal tore through the air, a sound like reality ripping its own stitches out. A flaming chunk of satellite came screaming down like the wrath of a very specific god. It missed me by three feet. The shockwave launched me into a dumpster like a poorly wrapped burrito.
That's when it clicked.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was targeted.
I limped home smelling like bruises, smoke, and expired dumpster cologne, still trying to rationalize it. Bad karma. A cursed horoscope. Maybe I'd kicked a leprechaun in a past life.
Then Mr. Harrow—my sweet, trembling, elderly neighbor—decided it was a good day to clean his antique pistol.
One arthritic twitch later—
Curtain.
Not the truck.
Not the lightning.
Not even the falling space junk.
Just Harold.
I don't know how long I've been here.
Wherever here is.
Time doesn't flow in the void. It stretches like taffy, collapses like ash. Seconds blur into centuries until counting stops meaning anything. Stars blink in time with your heartbeat.
It's silent. Cold. But not empty.
Black, yes—but not blank. Pinprick stars glitter like frost on glass. Colors drift like half-remembered dreams—crimson, cerulean, gold, violet. Sometimes they wander. Sometimes they watch.
The cold isn't physical. It seeps inward. A soul-deep frost that whispers every regret you ever tried to forget. I should've gone mad.
Instead…
I meditated.
Blame anime. I imagined training under some ancient, wild-haired master with a god complex. Chakra. Ki. Reiatsu. Names didn't matter. The void listened anyway.
I shaped the cold. Bent it. Wove it into crystalline lotuses and frozen stars. Madness became art. Or maybe art became madness.
Then I saw it.
A star. Or a pearl. Drifting closer, glowing softly like moonlight on snow. It pulsed with intent.
I reached.
The void clung to me like thick dreamwater, but I pushed through. Touched it.
Reality split.
Emotion flooded in—rage, grief, longing, love. Memories that weren't mine poured into me until they were. Nine fragments. Nine pieces of something broken. When I gathered them, they fused.
And vanished.
Souls, I learned, aren't whole. They're mosaics. Scattered. Recycled. Reused. That déjà vu you get around strangers? That's just the seams showing.
Then a voice cut through the silence.
"Well, damn. Didn't think you'd last more than a billion years."
I turned.
She stood there like a warning dressed as a woman—pale skin, raven hair, eyes swirling with dying galaxies. Black velvet, sharper sarcasm, a smile that knew too much.
"Death?" I croaked.
"Death of the Endless," she corrected, winking. "But yeah."
She tilted her head, studying me. "You died because a few gods got into a spat. Divine tantrum spilled into your reality. You were collateral."
I just stared.
"Good news," she continued, snapping her fingers. A glowing screen spun into existence like a divine slot machine. "You're getting reincarnated. Bonus good news—this little thing decides your template. Basically the character whose abilities you inherit. You also get three extra powers for every time you dodged me. The template itself counts as an apology. Standard protocol. Big man upstairs' rules."
The screen flickered.
A name appeared.
Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro
I stared at it blankly.
"…Wow. That's… um. Good?" I said, hesitating. From what I remembered, the guy had a Bakotsu—insane speed, ice abilities. Maybe more. A Mythical Zoan, yokai-type. Definitely not bad.
Then the next rewards rolled in.
Pure Sharingan.
Shrine.
Moon Breathing — crescent moon blades attached.
Reincarnation ability.
I whistled. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
I looked back at Death, mouth opening—
"By the way, you're going to Fairy Tail," she said casually, already snapping her fingers. "Don't ask when."
—
When I opened my eyes, all I saw were trees. Trees, and more trees.
Then the migraine hit.
I dropped to my knees as information slammed into my skull—everything about Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro's Devil Fruit, his fighting style, speed-focused swordsmanship, the fundamentals of all three Haki. Armament and Observation felt… familiar but locked, like I could see the techniques but not quite reach them yet.
Conqueror's, though?
That one was there. Raw. Straightforward. No finesse required.
When the pain faded, I lay there, trying to sort through the mess, when something smacked into my chest.
A Devil Fruit.
Glass-like. Translucent. Nine leaf-tails spiraling upward. Cold enough to bite. A note dangled from it.
For a better start.
— J
I frowned. If it were Death, it'd be signed D. Curiosity won.
I sat up, caught the fruit as it slipped, ignored the cold, and took a bite.
The moment I swallowed—
Everything went black.
(—one month later—)
By late afternoon, the Fairy Tail guild hall was still loud, just not riot loud anymore. Chairs were overturned in familiar places, the bar had already claimed a few victims, and the air smelled like spilled booze, sweat, and burnt magic that never quite washed out of the walls. The younger mages had cleared out early, jobs in hand, chasing glory and quick coin while the rest of the hall settled into its usual, half-drunk hum.
A man in his early thirties cut through the crowd toward the quest board, dark blue hair slicked back and untouched by the chaos around him. Macao had a beer in one hand and the tired patience of someone who already knew what he was about to see.
Sure enough—empty.
He stared at the board for a second longer than necessary, then let out a slow sigh through his nose. "Figures," he muttered. "Kids grab all the easy jobs before noon these days."
"Hey, Macao, what're you doing here so late?"
He didn't have to turn to know who it was. Wakaba's voice always carried that lazy cheer, like he hadn't a single worry in the world even when he absolutely should. Macao glanced over anyway. Same as ever—average height, brown hair styled into that ridiculous pompadour that looked like it defied gravity out of pure stubbornness.
Macao lifted his beer and took a long swig. "Enno's got me running extra jobs," he said, grimacing slightly. "Says we need more money for little Romeo. Like I'm made of jewels or something."
Wakaba snorted. "Yeah, kids'll do that to you."
Macao turned back to the board just as one of the waitresses stepped up, hammer in hand, and pinned a fresh request onto the wood. The paper fluttered slightly before settling.
Macao's eyes narrowed.
He stepped closer, peeled the notice off the board, and scanned it once… then again, slower this time.
"…Not a mark?" he muttered. He tilted the paper, as if the angle might change the words. "Village a couple days out. Monsters killing people, but no wounds, no damage." He frowned and handed it over. "What do you think, Wakaba? Internal attack maybe?"
Wakaba took the paper, his expression shifting as he read. The usual lazy smile faded, replaced with something more focused.
"Hmmm…" he hummed. "This doesn't line up at all." He tapped the page with a finger. "Says the monsters have been showing up for a month. Twenty villagers dead. No footprints. No property damage. Not even signs of a struggle."
Macao leaned in slightly.
"And here," Wakaba continued, voice lower now, "a mage was already sent. Found dead. Look on his face—terror. And there wasn't a shred of magic left in the body."
He paused.
"That's the part that bothers me. Ethernano doesn't dissipate that fast. Takes at least a week or two after death for it to bleed back into the air naturally."
Macao felt a faint chill crawl up his spine. "So someone—or something—drained him."
"Or erased him," Wakaba said quietly. "And look at this—'possible subjugation.' That means the client doesn't even know if fighting is the right call."
Macao scratched at his jaw, eyes still on the paper. "This whole thing feels off. Inconsistent details, half-answers." He exhaled. "You think we should bring this to Master Makarov? Last thing we need is some hotheaded kid grabbing it and walking into a scam… or worse."
Wakaba nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. This one's got bad vibes all over it."
They folded the request and turned in unison, already knowing where they'd find him.
It didn't take long.
Makarov was exactly where he always was—perched at the bar, drink in hand, laughing too loud at something Cana had said, boots dangling as if the weight of the world had never once touched him.
Macao and Wakaba exchanged a look as they approached, the paper crinkling softly between them, neither of them quite sure how to explain what felt wrong… only that it really, really was.
When they reached the bar, Makarov was mid-sip from a cup that looked comically large even in his hands. He was relaxed—laughing at something near him, shoulders loose, eyes half-lidded in that familiar I'm-the-master-but-I'm-off-duty way.
Then he noticed Macao and Wakaba coming straight toward him.
Makarov stopped. No dramatic pause, no flourish—just a clean, immediate shift. He set the cup down with a solid thunk, and his eyes sharpened like someone had flipped a switch.
"Ah. Macao. Wakaba." His voice was calm, but there was weight in it now. "What can I do for you?"
Macao didn't waste time. He slid the request across the bar.
Makarov took it easily—like he'd been handed a thousand of them, because he had. He skimmed the top half with the speed of a man who lived on paperwork and headaches, grumbling under his breath like the sheet had personally insulted him.
"Still need an assistant," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Then he slowed.
His brows drew together. He read the request again—more carefully this time. His fingers tightened slightly on the paper. Then he read it a third time, and the lines in his forehead deepened with each pass, the usual goofy warmth draining out of his face until all that remained was the Guild Master.
When he looked up, it was with that steady, measuring stare he saved for the things that could get his people killed.
"You two think this might be a false request," Makarov said. It wasn't a question dressed up as one. It was him testing their instincts.
Wakaba nodded, and Macao's jaw set.
"Yes, Master," Wakaba said, voice lighter than Makarov's but not joking. "We wanted to bring it to you first. Because if one of the more… eager kids—" he coughed into his fist, eyes flicking away innocently, "—Natsu—" he coughed again, "—grabs it, it's either way more dangerous than the client thinks… or it's nothing, and they come back bored and rowdy and then—"
Makarov flinched like Wakaba had jabbed him with a needle.
"…Paperwork," he muttered, eyes glazing for half a second with trauma. "So much paperwork."
He took a breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and stared down at the request like it was trying to crawl off the bar. For a few seconds he said nothing, just thinking—quiet, heavy thoughts. The kind that didn't belong in a loud guild hall.
Then his fingers moved to his chin, thumb rubbing slowly as his gaze stayed fixed on the words: no wounds. no traces. no ethernano.
Finally, he looked back up at them.
"Macao. Wakaba." His tone turned firm, clean, decisive. "I want you two to investigate this. Carefully."
He tapped the request once with a finger, as if pinning the order in place.
"If what the client says is true—no matter how unlikely—then you finish the job. Deaths have already been reported, and I don't want the Council getting any more ammunition to throw at us." His eyes narrowed just a little. "I'm still apologizing for their last complaints about Natsu and 'property damage.'"
Macao almost smiled at that—almost.
Makarov didn't.
He grabbed his stamp, slammed approval down onto the paper with a sharp clack, and slid it back across the bar.
"Go. And if it's something bigger than it reads…" His gaze flicked between them, serious in a way that made the noise of the guild feel far away. "…don't be heroes about it. Come back and tell me."
Macao took the request. Wakaba nodded once, the humor drained out of him for real now.
"Got it, Master," Wakaba said.
And with that, both men turned and headed out of the guild hall—paper in hand, steps steady, and the strange, crawling feeling that this wasn't just another job… it was the kind of request that didn't belong on a board at all.
(—three days later—)
The guild hall was loud again, but it was the tired kind of loud. The aftermath loud. Tables half-fixed, walls patched with rushed magic, scorch marks that Mira swore weren't her fault, and Erza's armor-shaped dents still very much present. Fairy Tail after a brawl always felt like this—like a tavern that had survived a siege and decided to keep serving drinks anyway.
Makarov sat at the bar, both feet dangling, a massive mug of alcohol clasped in his hands like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Paperwork was stacked behind him in uneven towers—reports, repair costs, Council complaints already written before the dust had even settled. He rubbed his temple with one finger and took another long drink.
"Erza and Mirajane…" he muttered. "One disagreement and the whole guild turns into a battlefield."
He lifted the mug again, preparing to drown the thought, when a sharp ring cut clean through the noise of the hall.
The communication lacrima in his pocket.
Makarov froze.
That alone drew eyes. The old man didn't freeze often.
Slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled the lacrima free. It glowed faintly, pulsing in uneven intervals, like a nervous heartbeat. He activated it without a word.
The image that flickered into existence stole the breath from his lungs.
Macao's face filled the projection—bloodied, swollen, one eye nearly shut. Cuts crisscrossed his skin, some rimmed with unnatural frost, others still bleeding sluggishly like his body couldn't decide how to heal. His breath came in ragged pulls, each one sounding like it hurt.
Makarov's mug slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor.
"Master—" Macao coughed hard, red staining his lips as he forced himself to keep talking. "We need help. This quest… it's worse than we thought."
The guild noise faded. Conversations died mid-sentence. Chairs stopped scraping. Everyone felt it—that shift in the air when something serious broke through.
"The client said the monsters were coming from the nearby forest," Macao continued, voice shaking. "But when we got there, we realized… they weren't real. Illusions. Or we thought they were." He sucked in a breath, pain flickering across his face. "But they can hurt you. Trick the mind, maybe. Make the body follow. That's our best guess."
Another cough wracked him, sharper this time.
"We went deeper," he went on, forcing the words out. "Trying to find the source. Stop it before more villagers died. That's when… it found us."
The image shook as Macao shifted, the background barely visible through fogged distortion.
"The whole forest was covered in this thick, freezing mist. Couldn't see ten feet ahead. It swallowed sound. Magic felt wrong—heavy. Then we saw it. Just a silhouette." His jaw clenched. "It moved so fast it barely existed. One moment it was there, the next—"
Macao jerked slightly, like remembering the pain all over again.
"It slashed at us. Too fast. A blur. We tried to counter, tried to track it, but it was already behind us. Using a katana—I think it's imbued with ice magic. Every wound it leaves freezes over, ice crawling into the flesh. Slows you down. Drains your magic at the same time."
His breathing grew harsher.
"Wakaba's trying to give us cover so we can retreat but—"
Macao's eyes flicked sharply to his left.
Something unseen.
His face went tight with sudden fear.
Then the image cut to static.
The lacrima went dark.
For a heartbeat, the world didn't move.
Then Makarov's magic pressure exploded outward.
The floor cracked. Tables skidded. Mages across the hall dropped to their knees as if gravity had suddenly doubled, chests heaving as raw power crushed the air around them. Even the strongest struggled just to stay upright.
Makarov stood on the bar, shaking.
Not with fear.
With rage.
His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. "I sent them," he growled, voice trembling. "I sent them into that."
The pressure intensified for a split second, then snapped inward as he forced himself to breathe. He reached for the communication lacrima again—this time with purpose.
It rang only once.
Gildarts' face appeared almost immediately, still dusty from travel, grin already forming—
"Hey, old man, I just got back, so if this is about—"
He stopped.
One look at Makarov's face wiped the humor clean away.
"…What happened?" Gildarts asked, tone sharp, grounded, dangerous.
Makarov didn't waste words.
"Gildarts," he said, voice heavy. "I need you. Immediately. West of Magnolia. A village three days out." He drew in a breath. "Macao and Wakaba took an investigation job I thought might be false. I told them to confirm the details and retreat if things went wrong."
His eyes burned.
"They encountered something far beyond expectations. Extreme speed. Ice magic. Magic-draining effects. Possible illusion-based attacks that cause real wounds." His voice lowered. "They're injured. Possibly cornered."
Gildarts' jaw tightened.
"I'm authorizing this as an S-Class mission," Makarov continued. "Find them. Bring them back alive. And stop whatever did this."
Gildarts didn't hesitate.
"I'm on it," he said, already turning, magic flaring around him. "Hang tight, old man."
The connection cut.
The guild hall slowly regained its breath as Makarov's pressure faded. People stood, shaken, silent. The old master lowered himself back onto the bar, shoulders heavy, eyes fixed on the darkened lacrima in his hand.
"I should've rejected it," he murmured. "I should've listened to my gut."
The hall stayed quiet.
Somewhere far away, in a fog-choked forest, steel was still moving faster than sight… and the hunt wasn't finished yet.
The silence didn't last.
It never did.
Makarov sat there for only a few seconds after the lacrima went dark, staring at his reflection in its dull surface. The rage had cooled just enough to let something else slip in underneath it—something colder, sharper.
A thought.
Rescue.
Not containment. Not subjugation. Not victory.
Just getting them out alive.
He trusted Gildarts. More than trusted him—Gildarts was power incarnate, a walking disaster in human form. If anyone could tear through whatever monster lurked in that forest, it was him.
And that was exactly the problem.
Gildarts' magic wasn't gentle. It never had been. Crushing, breaking, erasing—Collateral damage followed him like a shadow, no matter how careful he tried to be. In a fog-choked forest, with wounded guild members whose magic was already being drained?
Makarov's jaw tightened.
If they're still alive… they won't survive another storm like that.
He pushed himself off the bar and stood fully now, the weight of the room pressing in on him from all sides. His gaze lifted, sweeping across the guild hall—faces he knew better than his own, mages he had raised, scolded, laughed with. His children.
"Erza."
She straightened instantly.
"Mira."
Mirajane looked up from where she'd been quietly helping someone back to their feet, her expression sharpening the moment she saw his.
"You two are in charge," Makarov said, voice steady, final without being cold. "Until I return."
Erza didn't question it. She only nodded, already shifting into command mode. "Understood, Master."
Mira offered a small, calm smile—but there was steel beneath it. "We'll keep everyone in line."
Makarov turned and didn't look back.
He burst through the guild doors, the afternoon light flashing across his eyes as the air rushed to meet him. The street outside barely had time to react before magic surged.
His body expanded in a flash of golden light—bones creaking, muscles swelling, his form towering over Magnolia's rooftops as Giant Magic took hold. The ground shuddered beneath his feet as he took his first step forward.
Wind magic coiled around his massive legs like roaring currents, wrapping him in invisible force.
Then he ran.
Each stride carried him entire streets at a time, wind screaming around him as buildings blurred past below. People scattered, shouting, pointing—but Makarov barely registered them. His focus was locked westward, toward that distant village, toward the forest swallowing his guildmates whole.
"I won't be late," he growled to the rushing air. "Not again."
The clouds parted as he tore through them, the old master moving with a speed that belied his age, magic flaring brighter with every step. Somewhere ahead, fog waited. Steel waited. Something fast enough to cut seasoned mages down waited.
And Makarov was done waiting back at the guild.