Gray got snapped at and his already-bad mood flared hotter. He glared back, about to fire off a retort—
"Hey! Who do you think you—"
Before he could finish, Wakaba—who'd been watching the show—slid in and slung an arm around his neck.
"Alright, alright, Gray, come have a drink with me. He's always like that." Wakaba chuckled, dragging him toward the bar, trailing cigarette smoke.
"I don't drink!" Gray protested, squirming. He clearly wasn't used to "adult-style" conflict mediation.
"Details, details." Wakaba waved it off, then added his usual jab. "By the way, when did your clothes come off?"
Gray blinked, looked down. "Huh?! Who took them off? When?!"
On the other side, Shane's gaze stayed on the blond newcomer.
After days in the guild, he'd gotten used to the place—most people were loud, direct, easy to approach.
This guy was different.
He radiated a very clear don't talk to me stiffness, totally at odds with the environment.
The only other person Shane had seen like that was the master's scowling son, Ivan.
Though to be fair, Ivan was on a whole other level of prickly.
"He's Laxus," a bright voice said beside him.
Shane turned to find Levy at his elbow, arms full of books.
"Oh, hey," he said, a bit surprised.
"Mhm." She nodded, following his gaze. "Laxus Dreyar. He's the master's grandson."
"The master's grandson—Ivan's son?" Shane looked back at Laxus with fresh curiosity.
Laxus clearly had no intention of lingering. He strode straight to the request board, flicked his eyes across it, tore off a flier without really looking, and turned toward the door.
As he pivoted, his gaze brushed Shane's way and met his.
"New kid, huh," he muttered, lip curling faintly.
Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and walked out.
"Don't mind him too much," Macao said, appearing with a fresh drink, voice tinged with nostalgia. "Hard to believe, but Laxus used to be a really sweet kid."
"Seriously?" Shane arched a brow, struggling to reconcile "sweet" with that cold-faced punk.
"Haha," Macao snorted. "He's still a good kid. He's the master's grandson, after all. Just has a bad attitude—but his heart's fine."
"Mm." Shane lifted a shoulder.
He wasn't naive enough to think he had to be buddies with everyone in the guild. Someone who could play the social game perfectly with every person alive was basically a god.
"I'm gonna head out," he said to Erza. The two of them, with Levy in tow, set off toward the library.
Halfway down the hall, Levy seemed to remember something. She gently tugged Shane's sleeve and rose on her toes to whisper in his ear:
"Um… Laxus really hates it when people treat him differently because he's the master's grandson."
Shane blinked, then thought back to how Macao and Wakaba had acted around him.
They had been a shade more careful. Not fawning, exactly—but measuring his status as Makarov's blood.
He suddenly understood where that bristling came from.
A teenager's pride is thin as paper. When "the master's grandson" is all anyone sees, every effort you make ends up swallowed by your grandfather's shadow.
He could understand it—but that didn't mean he agreed. Very few people get truly "fair" judgment. Some don't even get the luxury of sulking about it.
He glanced at the girl beside him with new respect.
"You pay close attention, huh, Levy," he said sincerely.
She ducked her head, pushing up her glasses. "Because Laxus is our comrade too."
Watching her earnest little face, Shane couldn't help smiling and ruffling her hair.
Erza, seeing this, reached out and copied him, giving Levy's head an even, careful rub.
"H-hey! Don't squish the master!" Levy squeaked, covering her head, half-pouting like a scolded kitten.
Her flustered glare made both of them chuckle.
Joking and chatting, the three slipped into the library.
With a copy of the Requip texts finally back in his hands, Shane couldn't help thinking how hard it was to get a peaceful moment to study.
It felt like he'd had to fight his way through three boss battles just to sit down.
He pushed the distractions aside and started reading. Erza sat quietly beside him, just as focused.
It wasn't long before he noticed something: she kept adjusting her pace to match his—slowing just a little whenever he lagged.
A week's head start was hard to ignore…
Being "waited for" like that made him uncomfortable. He hated feeling like a drag.
He didn't want to hold her back. After a moment's thought, he closed his book and stood.
"What's wrong?" Erza looked up, curious.
"There's something else I want to look up. You keep going," he said, and headed deeper into the shelves. He wanted to see if there was anything on Zeref.
The guild's library was surprisingly well-stocked, towering rows of books stretching into dim corners—but a bit haphazardly organized.
He wandered between history and arcane theory for quite a while and came up empty. The oldest, most obscure texts weren't easy to find.
So he went back to his favorite resource: Levy.
Hearing he was hunting for information on Zeref, Levy tilted her head, then pointed to a dusty corner in the very back. "I remember an old travelogue over there, written by some ancient mage. I think it mentioned 'Zeref' once."
He thanked her and followed her directions.
That corner was piled with neglected tomes. After some digging he unearthed a thick, leather-bound volume. The pages were yellow and brittle, ready to crumble at a careless touch.
He slipped on his Gale-Force Reading Glasses and began to read.
As the pages turned, his brow slowly furrowed.
In the words of a mage from centuries past, the world of that time was shattered by endless wars; nations splintered, magic turned into a tool of slaughter. Some mages, desperate for power, willingly hurled themselves into the abyss of dark arts.
And at the deepest point of that abyss stood one man—the one said to have taken black magic to its ultimate extreme, birthing tens of thousands of demons and drowning the world in fear and chaos:
The strongest, vilest black mage in all magical history—Zeref.
No wonder the dark cults are obsessed with reviving him, Shane thought, a chill running down his spine.
He remembered his two brushes with Zeref's legacy: the R-System in the Tower of Heaven, the emotion-eating demon in the city's shadows. Everything tied to that name reeked of danger.
He cradled the heavy book and read on, more carefully now.
The descriptions dripped with the writer's fear and condemnation, painting Zeref as a walking catastrophe—a living personification of death.
Between those chilling passages, the author also recorded the strange customs and sights of his journeys. The prose was vivid, the details rich; before long, Shane found himself completely absorbed.
~~~
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