For the next few days, the Fairy Tail guild hall remained in a state of quiet upheaval. Ever since Master Makarov's announcement regarding the Grand Magic Games, a wave of frantic energy had swept through the hall, only to rapidly give way to an eerie, hollow silence. One by one, members gathered their gear, formed temporary pacts, and left in droves to embark on grueling training trips across the kingdom.
During those initial hectic days, over a dozen wizards had approached Rudra—offering him spots in their training camps or begging for a pre-tournament spar. He turned down every single invitation.
Right now, he was slumped backward over a bench at his usual corner table in the half-empty hall. His head dangled upside down off the wooden edge, his arms hung limply toward the floor, and his eyes were glued to a knot in the ceiling beams above. A heavy, soul-crushing aura of boredom radiated off him in waves.
If you're truly this bored, you could go take a job, System's voice echoed inside his mind, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. There is literally a board overflowing with high-paying requests twenty feet away from you.
"No, I can't do that," Rudra muttered aloud, unbothered by the few remaining guild members who glanced over at him talking to himself.
And why is that? System asked, dripping with sarcasm. Are you suddenly allergic to jewel? Or perhaps allergic to basic productivity?
"I am currently practicing a heavily guarded, highly sophisticated ancient art," Rudra replied in a hushed, reverent whisper, his eyes never straying from the speck on the ceiling. "It requires absolute concentration and unwavering mental discipline."
A long beat of silence stretched out in his mind.
...Right. And what grand, world-shattering art would that be?
"The heavenly art of doing absolutely nothing," Rudra declared solemnly, adjusting his neck by a fraction of an inch to maintain his vantage point. "It takes decades to master. Very few ever reach the supreme realm of true passivity."
Just admit you want to laze around, System deadpanned. You're being extraordinarily lazy.
"Hmm," Rudra hummed thoughtfully. "You could call it that. But 'practicing a heavenly art' looks much better on a resume."
You have a kingdom-wide tournament coming up in three months, System grumbled, letting out an exasperated synthetic sigh. Everyone else is out in the wilderness coughing up blood and expanding their magic reserves. Meanwhile, you're trying to telepathically bore a hole through a wooden ceiling.
"I work hard," Rudra defended smoothly, blinking slowly.
You haven't moved a single muscle in three hours! How about you go train your chakra control? Refine your elemental affinities? Work on your Fuinjutsu seals?
Rudra scoffed, waving a casual hand in the air. "My shadow clones are doing all of that for me in my basement right now. Why sweat through my shirt when I can delegate?"
I hate that your method actually works, System muttered bitterly. So what's the plan? You're just going to lie here like a stranded turtle until the games start?
"That is the master plan, yes." Rudra closed his eyes, settling deeper into the hard bench. "Wake me up if the guild hall catches fire."
System went quiet, giving up on trying to motivate a man who had successfully automated his own self-improvement. Left in peace once more, Rudra reopened his eyes and resumed his staring contest with the ceiling grain.
This tranquil state would have likely lasted the entire day, if not for the loud, scraping screech of a wooden chair pulled aggressively across the floorboards.
Gildarts dropped heavily into the seat directly across from Rudra. Without a word, the S-Class mage popped the caps off two frosted bottles with his thumb and tossed one across the table.
Rudra's hand shot out, snatching the neck of the bottle mid-air with practiced ease. He sat up slowly, resting his elbows against the wood as he gave the veteran wizard a bewildered look. "Do you usually hand out booze to people who are clearly in the middle of hibernating?"
Gildarts took a long, heavy gulp from his bottle, slamming it down with a sharp clatter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm and leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto Rudra with an intense, inquisitive edge.
"I've had a question burning in my mind for a few days," Gildarts said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's been nagging at me so badly I couldn't even sleep off my injuries properly."
Rudra took a slow sip from his own bottle, letting the cool liquid settle before setting it aside. He raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I have the answer to whatever is keeping you awake?"
"Because I asked the Master first," Gildarts replied, pointing a thick, scarred finger across the table. "And the old man took one look at me, crossed his arms, and said: 'If you want to know the truth about that thing, go ask Rudra yourself.' So, here I am."
Rudra let out a soft sigh, resting his chin in his palm with a tired nod. "Fine. What's the question?"
Gildarts leaned further across the wood, every trace of humor draining from his face. "Why was that demon scared of you?"
Rudra blinked, shifting uncomfortably against the bench. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Gildarts said softly, his tone carrying the grim weight of a man who had walked through hell and back. "That black parasite on my chest—it wasn't just some random curse I picked up on the road. I caught that thing during a high-tier mission near the northern border."
Rudra didn't interrupt, remaining quiet as Gildarts pressed on.
"Turns out, the whole request was a trap," Gildarts explained, his gaze lowering as the memory resurfaced. "A dark cult set up the entire scenario to lure high-ranking mages to an ancient ruin. They wanted a strong wizard's blood to feed a bloodthirsty monster they'd just unsealed."
He paused, taking another heavy swig to wet his throat. "I fought that creature for three days straight. Three entire days of ripping through blood magic, spatial distortions, and raw, malice-infused dark energy. Even after I finally crushed its physical body, the damn thing latched onto my chest as a last-ditch effort to rot my soul from the inside out."
Gildarts leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as his tone grew grim. "That creature was a tyrant. It didn't possess a single shred of fear—it fought like a feral, starving beast right up until its physical frame shattered. But earlier today, when you walked up to me... I felt it. The parasite didn't just writhe in pain. It was paralyzed with sheer, unadulterated terror before you even laid a hand on me."
A heavy, dramatic silence fell over the table.
Gildarts kept his eyes glued to the rafters as the silence stretched, letting the full weight of his story hang in the air. He sat there waiting, half-expecting the old Rudra—the fragile kid who used to jump at his own shadow—to be trembling in his seat.
When no response came, Gildarts slowly lowered his gaze, ready to offer a reassuring word, only to find Rudra passed out cold.
His head was propped up awkwardly on his knuckles, his breathing was slow and steady, and a thin trail of drool was lazily winding its way from the corner of his mouth down to his collar.
Gildarts' jaw hit the floor. A thick vein bulged on his temple, and he slammed his bottle down with enough force to split the table straight down the middle.
BANG!
"HEY! KID! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?!" Gildarts roared, his voice booming off the rafters of the empty hall.
Rudra snapped awake, his head jerking back as he blinked away the haze of sleep. He hastily wiped his chin with the back of his sleeve, rubbed his eyes, and let out a massive, unbothered yawn.
Gildarts didn't immediately explode. Instead, he just sat there, staring with a mixture of utter disbelief and mounting exasperation as the younger mage slouched back against the bench, acting as if he hadn't just snored straight through a harrowing tale of life-and-death combat.
Gildarts pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, heavy sigh. "Are you going to answer the damn question or not? Why was that monster terrified of you?"
Rudra reached for his bottle, took a slow, deliberate sip, and set it down with a light click. "It's simple, really. It's because I'm Him."
Gildarts blinked, his brow furrowing into a tight knot. "...You're who?"
"I am Him, bro," Rudra repeated, delivering the line with a completely straight face, as if those three words explained the fundamental laws of the universe.
Gildarts stared at him blankly for five agonizing seconds. "That makes zero sense, kid. What does that even mean?"
"It means what it means," Rudra shrugged, swirling the liquid in his bottle. "I'm just built different."
"Built different?" Gildarts echoed, his voice pitching up in irritation. "You were drooling on your shirt two seconds ago! Stop talking like a street performer and give me a real answer."
Rudra shook his head, sighing at the older man's complete lack of comprehension. "Fine. If you want the dumbed-down version—I've put down a few high-tier demons in my time. It recognized the vibe."
"That still doesn't add up," Gildarts countered, leaning over the bench and tapping a heavy finger against the cracked wood. "I've slaughtered my fair share of demons, too. But not a single one of them ever acted like they were staring down their own executioner the second I walked into a room. There's a difference between beating a beast and making it freeze in primal horror."
"Maybe you just lack presence," Rudra offered dryly. "Have you tried looking more imposing?"
"I'm eight feet of muscle and destruction, Rudra!" Gildarts snapped. "My presence is fine!"
Rudra opened his mouth to toss out another dismissive brush-off, but before the words could leave his tongue, a blinding pillar of golden light erupted right in the middle of the hall.
The ambient chatter from the few remaining members vanished as everyone shielded their eyes. As the golden radiance faded, a suave, sharply dressed man in a tailored suit and dark sunglasses stepped onto the wooden floorboards.
Loke adjusted his jacket, his sharp gaze scanning the quiet room before locking onto the corner table. Without missing a beat, he strode over, his expression unusually serious.
"Rudra," Loke said, stopping beside the table. "You need to come with me. Right now."
Rudra didn't even look up from his bottle, merely raising an eyebrow. "Where to?"
"The Celestial Spirit World," Loke replied, his voice dropping into a low, firm tone. "The Celestial Spirit King wants an immediate audience with you."
The mention of the Spirit King made Gildarts tilt his head, his eyes flickering with renewed curiosity as he glanced between the spirit and the young mage.
Rudra let out a soft grunt, offering a casual nod. "Fair enough. Lead the way."
He pushed himself up from the bench, brushing a speck of dust off his jacket. Before stepping toward Loke, he turned back to Gildarts, who was still sitting there with his bottle in hand, looking for answers.
Rudra offered the S-Class wizard a lazy, razor-sharp smirk. "To answer your question—let's just say my grandfather was a total badass. The kind of man whose name alone made demons piss themselves."
Gildarts' eyes widened. "Your grandfather—?"
Before Gildarts could ask what he meant by grandfather, Loke snapped his fingers. A glowing magic circle expanded beneath their feet, engulfing both of them in gold. In the next heartbeat, the light vanished, leaving the corner table empty and Gildarts sitting alone in the quiet hall.