Chapter 3: Albion and Gajeel
A violent crimson light flooded the sterile laboratory.
A shrill, deafening alarm screamed through the metallic corridors, echoing endlessly as if the building itself were panicking. Warning sigils flashed rapidly along the walls, bathing the entire room in a rhythmic, bloody glow.
At the epicenter of the chaos stood a single woman.
Her shaggy black hair was pulled into a loose, unkempt ponytail, damp strands clinging to her pale face. Her eyes, pitch-black and entirely vacant, reflected absolutely nothing.
Around her feet lay the bodies of elite scientists, sprawled across the reinforced floor in broken, unnatural angles. Fresh blood still glistened beneath them, pooling under the flashing alarms.
At her boots knelt a dying man.
He wore a black robe with long, frayed sleeves, a matching tattsuke-bakama, and a white sash tied loosely at his waist—an outfit that had once been ceremonial, but was now tattered and soaked in crimson.
His body trembled violently, blood dripping from his lips as he struggled to maintain consciousness against the suffocating pressure in the room.
The woman nudged him with the tip of her boot. Once. Then again. It was a mocking, entirely deliberate gesture.
"Look at you," she said calmly, her voice cutting through the blaring alarms. "Born in a shinobi village. Raised among hidden blades and lethal shadows. Praised by the elders as a once-in-a-generation prodigy."
She crouched slightly, her long shadow stretching over his broken form.
"And yet… you were utterly defeated by a woman." A quiet scoff escaped her lips. "A kunoichi."
She let the word linger in the heavy air, treating it like absolute filth.
"How utterly humiliating," she continued, her voice devoid of empathy. "All that prestigious bloodline. All that rigorous training. Reduced to absolutely nothing."
Her eyes hardened, any trace of dark amusement vanishing instantly. "I want everything connected to that man erased. His name. His legacy. His very existence." She rose back to her full height. "And unlike the rest of the fools in this world, my goal will never change."
Turning her back on the dying prodigy, she walked deeper into the high-tech facility.
The chamber ahead was vast, sterile, and cold. Thick pipes coiled along the walls like dormant serpents, pulsing faintly as violet electricity coursed through them.
The eerie glow led directly to the centerpiece of the entire room—a towering capsule constructed of thick, reinforced glass. Liquid magic filled the tank, so dense and volatile that it visibly warped the surrounding air.
Suspended within the glowing fluid was an infant.
His small, newborn body floated weightlessly, his tiny feet resting on nothing, as though gravity itself had simply forgotten his existence.
The woman stopped before the glass. She stared at the child for a long, silent moment, her lips curling into something resembling amusement.
"But you…" she whispered. "…What am I supposed to do with you?" A quiet, breathless laugh slipped from her throat.
"Oh, that's easy," she murmured to herself. "I can always just claim I was assaulted by some incredibly powerful wizard. Yes… that excuse will do perfectly. People absolutely love tragedies like that. They ask far fewer questions."
Her gaze sharpened, turning cold and dismissive. "I highly doubt you'll remember any of this, little one. And honestly, even if you did… I couldn't care less."
She tilted her head, studying the floating newborn not as a living child, but as an object of utility. "Hmm. You don't even possess a name, do you?"
At that exact moment, the infant's eyes slowly fluttered open. They were fuchsia—a vivid, unnatural reddish-pink. They were far too sharp, far too sentient for a newborn child. The striking color clashed eerily with his otherwise gentle, fragile features.
The woman paused, her vacant eyes locking onto the fuchsia rings.
"…Albion." A faint, terrible smile touched her lips. "It symbolizes absolute purity and innocence."
Her voice softened, laced not with maternal kindness, but with profound cruelty. "How beautifully ironic."
"A name so clean… forced into a life of absolute violence and corruption. I quite like that contrast." She placed her palm flat against the reinforced glass. "As for my own name, don't bother asking. I would be a fool to grant you my true birth name. I am a criminal, after all."
She leaned closer, her reflection distorting wildly across the curved surface of the capsule.
"You may simply call me Mother." The word carried no warmth. "And since I am your parent… your very life belongs to me." The flashing crimson light cast her shadow forward, swallowing the infant whole.
"You may forget this moment entirely. Or perhaps you will remember it." Her smile sharpened into a blade. "But if you do happen to remember…"
"Then I suppose you and I are destined to curse one another until the end."
A soft, volatile glow ignited beneath her palm. The magical energy traveled through the glass, disrupting the equilibrium.
Crack.
A jagged, lightning-like fracture split across the center of the capsule. She spoke one final time as the glass began to fail.
"After all… ordinary humans are merely born with magic." Her eyes narrowed into slits. "But your kind?"
"You were born directly from it." Following her words, a cataclysmic shockwave split the laboratory apart.
And so, the woman cursed by the shinobi world officially became a mother. To the child cursed by humanity itself.
Thus began a fate that would stain the pages of history forever.
◆ ◇ ◆
"Ugh…" Albion groaned softly as his eyes slowly fluttered open.
The first thing he registered was the texture of the floor beneath him. It was cold, stone-hard, and profoundly uncomfortable. Sitting up with a slight wince, he rubbed the back of his aching head and began to survey his surroundings.
He found himself in a massive chamber, vast and cathedral-like in scale. The ceiling stretched incredibly high above, supported by thick stone pillars, while long rows of wooden tables were laid out with mathematically precise symmetry.
Everything looked immaculate, clean, and perfectly organized—almost too organized.
Before he could process his location, a loud voice shattered the silence.
"I see you're finally up!"
Albion flinched slightly at the sudden noise. He turned toward the source and spotted long communal tables filling the center of the grand room. Low-backed chairs lined either side, all identical, all neatly pushed in.
At one of those tables sat a familiar boy with long, wild black hair.
"Yooo! Over here, bruh—hey!" Gajeel shouted, waving both of his arms wildly in the air. "You hungry or what? I managed to snag some food!"
Albion blinked, utterly bewildered. "…Huh?"
The wild boy gestured enthusiastically toward the heavy silver tray resting in front of him.
On it sat a massive cheeseburger with a shiny, perfectly toasted sesame bun. Thick, melted cheddar cheese drooped over the edges, with crispy strips of bacon peeking out from beneath the lettuce.
Beside it sat a mountain of straight-cut French fries, golden, steaming, and lightly salted. To the side rested a small, condensation-covered blue bottle labeled Orange Juice.
Albion stared at the feast.
But right before he could speak, the brutal memories of their recent fight rushed back into his mind. His expression instantly darkened. He crossed his small arms.
"…I am not hungry," Albion stated flatly.
Yes, he was absolutely pouting.
"Oh?" Gajeel shrugged carelessly, picking up a fry. "That's perfectly fine by me. More for me."
Albion turned his head away with a soft, dignified "Hmph."
"Grrrglrrr…" The deep, cavernous sound of a starving stomach echoed a little too loudly in the quiet library hall.
Albion froze instantly. Slowly, a bright crimson blush crept up his neck, flooding his face.
"…How thoroughly embarrassing…" he muttered under his breath.
Trying his absolute best to maintain a look of supreme dignity, he uncrossed his arms, shuffled over to the table, and sat down in the chair opposite Gajeel anyway.
Gajeel tilted his head, chewing. "What? Why you lookin' at me like that?"
Albion narrowed his fuchsia eyes suspiciously. "…Why are you displaying such sudden kindness toward me?" he inquired formally. "You did not happen to expectorate into this meal, did you?"
"Hahaha!" Gajeel burst out into a roaring laugh, nearly falling backward out of his wooden chair. "Nah, man! You are absolutely wild!" He waved a hand dismissively, wiping a tear from his eye. "Relax. You just… seriously remind me of someone I used to know."
"…I see," Albion replied, still not entirely convinced.
Nonetheless, his hunger won the battle. He carefully picked up the heavy burger. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took a sizable bite.
His eyes widened significantly. A warm, incredibly juicy flavor instantly filled his mouth. The bun was pillowy soft, the meat exceptionally rich, and the cheese perfectly melted.
"…Delicious!" he blurted out, breaking his usual stoic composure.
He chewed rapidly and swallowed, immediately reaching down to grab a handful of fries, shoving them into his mouth with zero hesitation.
"Salty!" His unique fuchsia eyes sparkled like literal stars. "But remarkably good!" He looked across the table at Gajeel in utter disbelief. "Is this truly intended for me? All of it? In its entirety?"
"Yep," Gajeel nodded, grinning at the display. "All yours."
That was all the confirmation Albion required. He completely went to town on the meal.
Hack! Cough!
Suddenly, Albion's eyes went completely wide as he began aggressively pounding his own chest. He had eaten far too quickly. Desperate, he lunged for the blue bottle, twisted the cap, and gulped down the orange juice.
A wave of crisp, freezing sweetness rushed through his throat, clearing the blockage.
"Haaa…" He exhaled deeply, setting the bottle down with a soft thud. Then, without missing a single beat, he went right back to demolishing the burger.
Gajeel watched the five-year-old quietly, a small, uncharacteristic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
'Even the chaotic way he eats…' Gajeel thought. 't completely reminds me of him.' His internal curiosity stirred heavily. 'Just who the hell is this kid? And why does his presence remind me so much of Metalicana?'
Eventually, Albion let out a long, satisfied sigh, lightly rubbing his stomach as he leaned back comfortably in his chair. "I offer you my sincerest thanks for the sustenance, Gajeel," he said quietly.
"Yeah, no problem at all."
Albion hesitated, then straightened his posture, adjusting his loose purple hoodie as if remembering an important piece of data.
"Oh—right. That reminds me." He glanced over with steady eyes. "Have you ever happened to hear of a phenomenon called an Eternal Awakening?"
Gajeel raised an eyebrow, shifting his weight. "That's kind of outta nowhere," he noted. "What made you ask about that?" He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back into his chair as his posture relaxed.
"Well…" Albion shifted slightly. "I overheard my mother discussing the term with Master Jose." There was a brief, heavy pause before he added, entirely plainly, "She sold me to this guild to liquidate her debts."
Albion possessed no reason to lie to Gajeel. The older boy had provided him with a comfortable meal, and to Albion, that earned total honesty.
Gajeel studied the child's blank face for a moment. Then, he rested his elbows heavily on the wooden table, his gaze drifting toward the far end of the vast hall.
"Magic—or Mahō—isn't something rare," Gajeel began his explanation. "It's a natural part of the world itself. It's out there in the air, deep in the ground… living people just happen to be one of the natural containers it flows through."
Albion frowned slightly, tilting his head. "But I was under the impression that not everyone possessed the capacity to wield magic. Master Jose explicitly stated that those without it are nothing more than human trash."
Gajeel shook his head firmly. "Everyone has it inside them. Most ordinary people just never learn how to feel it. When that container inside you opens up and triggers for the very first time, that exact moment is what people call an Eternal Awakening."
To demonstrate, Gajeel lifted his left hand casually.
The heavy silver tray resting in front of Albion suddenly shuddered. Then, defying gravity, it slowly hovered into the open air between them.
Albion's fuchsia eyes widened, tracking the floating metal.
"My specific magic allows me to pull iron, and metal in general, directly into my own body," Gajeel explained, his voice steady. "I can shape it. Mold it. Turn parts of my own flesh into lethal weapons if the situation demands it."
As he spoke, the silver tray bent violently inward. The metal groaned, folding and twisting in midair until it formed a crude, floating iron fist hovering right beside Gajeel's shoulder.
"But the awakening itself?" Gajeel tapped his own chest lightly with his knuckles. "It's not just about a sudden burst of power showing up. It's more like a missing puzzle piece finally settling into place inside your soul. In an instant, you suddenly understand exactly what your magic is. What elements it reacts to. How it naturally wants to move."
Albion leaned forward, completely captivated. "So… you have already undergone this process?"
"Yeah," Gajeel nodded. "But I've only mastered the bare basics. Everything that comes after the awakening? You gotta earn it."
The crude metal fist rotated slowly in the air.
"Right now, I can only shape metal into simple, straightforward things. Like this." With a sharp flick of his wrist, the iron fist instantly unraveled, flattening back out into its original tray shape before clattering loudly onto the wooden tabletop.
"Magic is only fifty percent natural talent," Gajeel went on, his slitted red eyes fixed on the boy. "The remaining fifty percent is pure effort. Discipline. And a hell of a lot of imagination."
Albion looked down at his own small, smooth hands. "I am entirely incapable of performing such feats," he admitted softly. "Therefore, I must conclude that I have not yet awakened." He looked back up. "Tell me, is there a specific methodology required to trigger it?"
Gajeel shook his head. "Not really. Until a kid hits around five or six years old, there's no absolute guarantee their container will ever open. Then one day…" He snapped his fingers sharply. "It just happens out of nowhere."
"Most people who do undergo an awakening are born with what's known as innate Magic," Gajeel continued, breaking down the lore. "Think of it as your core elemental identity. Once it sets, you don't get to swap it out. You don't get to replace it with something flashier."
Albion tilted his head. "Is that what occurred with your magic?"
"No," Gajeel replied bluntly. "I wasn't born with mine. I was explicitly taught how to wield it by someone else." He paused for a brief moment, a shadow crossing his face, before continuing. "But for most ordinary mages, fire stays fire. Water stays water. Earth, wind, whatever you're born with."
"That doesn't mean an Innate Magic is weak, though," Gajeel added quickly. "Take my steel. You refine it. You expand its applications. You find entirely new ways to apply it to combat. A single, basic power can easily turn into dozens of deadly techniques if you understand its core nature well enough."
"So the type of magic one receives is merely a matter of random luck?" Albion inquired.
Gajeel shook his head yet again. "Magic doesn't manifest the exact same way for everyone, Albion. A person's internal mindset. Their raw emotions. How they fundamentally view the world around them—all of that directly shapes how their magic behaves."
"Two completely different mages can use the exact same element of fire, yet their spells will feel entirely different. One mage's fire might be wild, explosive, and destructive, while the other's is perfectly controlled, cold, and precise."
"So… magic serves as a direct reflection of one's identity?" Albion surmised.
Gajeel nodded. "Exactly. It can run in families, too. Bloodlines matter a lot in Fiore. A kid might awaken to a magic that's incredibly similar to their parents' abilities, but it's never completely identical. Magic remembers exactly where it came from… but it still obeys the individual soul."
"And if a person fails to awaken an Innate Magic naturally, or simply wishes to expand their knowledge?"
"Then they learn the old-fashioned way," Gajeel said simply. "Books. Ancient texts. Mentors. Endless practice. It's a hell of a lot slower, and it hurts a lot more, but it works." He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "In the end, a mage's true strength isn't about how much raw power they stack up inside their container."
"It's about how perfectly they understand the power they already possess." A faint, knowing smirk crossed Gajeel's face. "Remember that, kid. One well-mastered magic will always beat a dozen half-understood ones."
Albion gave him a completely flat, unimpressed look. "I must request that you refrain from addressing me as 'kid.' We are, for all intents and purposes, basically the same age."
"Hah!" Gajeel barked out a sharp laugh, standing up from the table and stretching his limbs. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. Still feels like you're a total pipsqueak to me."
Albion immediately rose and fell into step right beside him. "So… to what specific location are we currently traversing?"
Gajeel glanced up, clearly milking the dramatic pause. "Where are we?" He spread his arms slightly.
"Welcome to the Phantom Lord Library."
Towering wooden shelves stretched continuously from the polished floor all the way to the vaulted stone ceiling, packed tight with ancient books, scrolls, and books of every imaginable size and era. Unlike the raucous, chaotic noise of the main guild hall, the library was entirely orderly.
The rows were laid out with absolute, deliberate symmetry, each magical section clearly defined.
The ceiling arched incredibly high overhead, supported by dark stone ribs and heavy, iron-reinforced beams. Multiple architectural levels rose upward into the gloom, seamlessly connected by narrow staircases and spiraling iron walkways that wrapped tightly around massive stone columns like coiled metallic serpents.
Balconies lined the upper floors, providing a perfect vantage point for watching the aisles below.
Lanterns hung at measured intervals from the iron rafters, their illumination dim and intentionally restrained. Some burned with ordinary kerosene flames, while others flickered with a faint, enchanted violet glow, casting light only upon specific, high-priority shelves.
Heavy shadows pooled thickly between the narrow aisles, giving Albion the distinct, unsettling impression that the library itself was actively listening to their footsteps.
"Here," Gajeel said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, "you can practically learn about anything in the world."
Albion took in the breathtaking scale of the knowledge surrounding him. "Then why have you escorted me to this place?" he asked quietly. "You emerged victorious in our combat. You were under no obligation to fulfill my request."
"That's true." Gajeel shrugged carelessly, his boots clicking against the floor. "Guess I was just curious about you."
*'Curious… about what?'* Albion wondered silently.
Gajeel slowed his pace, then turned his slitted red eyes fully toward the smaller boy. "What about you, anyway? Why did you want to come to the library so badly?"
Albion stopped walking entirely, standing in the center of a shadow-drenched aisle."…Huh."
Gajeel squinted down at him. "You're telling me you don't even know your own reason? Man, you are seriously weird."
Albion did not attempt to argue the point. After a long, heavy moment of silence, he spoke, his voice incredibly quiet and resonant in the empty space.
"For as long as my memory serves… my world consisted exclusively of my mother and myself. I possess absolutely no memory of my father. I do not even know his name or identity." His gaze drifted downward to his bare feet. "She frequently stated that he committed an unforgivable sin. A sin that caused her to utterly despise me… simply for existing."
He paused, his small fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his purple hoodie. "I have never met any external relatives. There was never anyone else to turn to. She used to strike me physically. And quite frequently… her words inflicted far more damage than her hands ever could."
"But even so," Albion whispered softly, a heavy emotion shifting in his chest, "I refuse to believe she truly hated me. At least… that is the narrative I choose to believe."
He lifted his head, his striking fuchsia eyes locking directly with Gajeel's stunned red gaze. A faint, incredibly fragile smile touched the child's lips as tears began to well up once more.
"So I suppose…" Albion's voice lowered to a fragile whisper. "I simply wanted to acquire enough knowledge to know if it is truly permissible for a person like me to continue living."