Luxia's sharp, accusatory question hung heavy in the air, thick with childish disdain. The faint crackle of static around her fingertips seemed to intensify as she glared daggers at Endralian. He instinctively shrank back, feeling utterly exposed under her stormy gaze. This girl, this alternate, female Laxus, radiated an intensity that felt far too large for her small frame.
Makarov sighed again, a sound that conveyed both exasperation and the weary patience born of long practice in handling Dreyar tempers. "Now, now, Luxia," he said, his tone placating but firm, the underlying steel unmistakable. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, momentarily interrupting the flow of faint sparks. "Mind your manners. This young man is... a guest. Endralian, was it?" He glanced at the boy for confirmation, his eyes briefly softening.
Endralian managed a jerky nod, still unnerved by Luxia's undisguised hostility.
"See? Endralian," Makarov continued, turning back to his granddaughter. "He's had a rough time of it. Found him lost out in the woods. We're going to help him out, like Fairy Tail does. That's our way." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now, didn't you say you were going to practice that new lightning technique out back? Go on, shoo. Before you zap someone accidentally again."
Luxia puffed out her cheeks, clearly annoyed at being dismissed, but the mention of her training seemed to capture her interest more than the strange newcomer. She shot one last suspicious glare at Endralian, a look that promised future scrutiny and likely further interrogation, before turning sharply on her heel. With another imperious flick of her high ponytail, she stomped towards a rear exit, muttering something under her breath about "weird glowing boots" and "Gramps bringing home junk."
Makarov watched her go with another sigh, this one holding a complex mix of pride and worry, then turned back to Endralian, his expression softening into something more akin to weary kindness. "Don't mind her too much, lad. She's got her father's temper and my stubbornness, a fearsome combination even at this age." He gestured towards the less chaotic side of the hall. "Come on. Let's get you out of the doorway before you get trampled in the next brawl. And find you something to eat. You look like a strong gust of wind might knock you over."
He led Endralian towards the long bar, navigating the boisterous crowd with the practiced ease of a small boat maneuvering through a stormy sea. The sheer volume of noise was still overwhelming – waves of laughter crashed against shouts, punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of mugs and the occasional splintering crack that suggested furniture was meeting an untimely end. Endralian kept his head down, trying to absorb everything without drawing more attention, feeling like an out-of-place texture pack loaded into the wrong game.
Makarov procured a hefty plate piled high with steaming stew and a thick chunk of dark bread from the stout, apron-clad bartender, placing it on the polished wood counter in front of Endralian.
"Here you go. Eat up. Guild grub isn't fancy, but it fills the belly and warms the bones."
Endralian stared at the plate. The stew smelled rich and deeply savory, steam curling invitingly in the air. It looked... real. Wholesome. Textured. Utterly unlike the uniform, pixelated food items he was used to managing in his inventory slots. Hesitantly, his fingers clumsy on the unfamiliar weight of the spoon, he took the first mouthful. It was an explosion of flavor – tender chunks of unidentifiable meat, soft, earthy root vegetables, all swimming in a thick, peppery gravy. It was warm, substantial, intensely grounding. He hadn't realized how ravenously hungry he was, how cold and hollow the core of him had felt until that moment. He ate quickly, almost desperately, the simple, visceral act of consuming real food a stark, undeniable confirmation of his physical presence in this impossible world.
Once the plate was scraped clean, Makarov nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. "Better?" He didn't truly wait for an answer. "Right. You can sit tight for a bit. Find a corner, catch your breath. I've got Master duties to attend to – paperwork never sleeps, even if the Master wants to." He gave Endralian a reassuring pat on the shoulder – a touch that felt surprisingly solid, grounding, yet perhaps carried a faint, probing warmth that tingled almost imperceptibly against Endralian's skin – before turning and heading towards a sturdy wooden staircase leading to the upper floors, presumably to his office.
Left alone amidst the swirling chaos, Endralian felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over him. He slid off the tall barstool, his feet barely reaching the floor, and scanned the hall, searching for refuge. He spotted an unoccupied bench tucked into a slightly dimmer corner, partially obscured by a thick, carved wooden pillar. He quickly claimed it, retreating into the shadows, pulling his knees up to his chest, trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. From here, he could observe.
He watched Macao and Wakaba finish their card game with loud accusations of cheating and threats of minor magical retaliation. He saw Cana, having been shooed from the bar, now sitting cross-legged on the floor nearby, meticulously shuffling a worn deck of tarot cards with a focused intensity surprising for her apparent age. Other members drifted in and out, some slapping flyers claimed from the request board onto the bar, others joining the ongoing revelry, their laughter booming. Magic was woven into the fabric of the place, used casually, almost thoughtlessly – a mage lit his pipe with a controlled flicker of flame from his fingertip, another levitated a precarious stack of dirty mugs back to the bar with a lazy wave, a third giggled as she changed the color of her hair from blue to pink to green in rapid succession.
It was fascinating, terrifying, and utterly alien. He felt a profound, aching sense of isolation amidst the boisterous camaraderie. These people belonged here. They knew the rules, they understood the vibrant energy that thrummed in the air, they navigated the chaos with an easy familiarity. He was an anomaly, a foreign program running on incompatible hardware, a glitch in their reality. He didn't belong. He missed his room, his worn keyboard, the predictable logic of Minecraft's code, even its manufactured hardcore dangers. Here, the dangers were unknown, the rules unwritten, and he was trapped in the body of a child wearing strange clothes and even stranger boots that pulsed with a faint, embarrassing light.
He was so lost in thought, absently tracing the glowing seams on his boots with a finger, that he didn't notice Makarov observing him from the shadowed landing at the top of the staircase until the Master began to descend again, his steps surprisingly quiet. Makarov approached, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes held a thoughtful depth. "Still here, Endralian? Good, good." He stopped beside the bench, his presence surprisingly commanding for his stature. "Tell you what, lad. Feel up to making yourself useful? See that stack of books by the bar? Looks like someone knocked 'em over in their cups. Be a good lad and tidy them up, would you? Can't have library books treated like bar coasters."
It seemed like a simple, innocuous request. A test? Maybe. Endralian nodded numbly and slid off the bench, forcing his reluctant legs to move. He walked over to the small pile of scattered books near the end of the bar. They were heavy, imposing volumes bound in thick leather, their titles embossed in faded gold lettering he couldn't read. As he bent down, his fingers brushing the cool, worn leather of the topmost book, concentrating on the simple, mundane task, a nearby table erupted in a sudden, violent explosion of noise and motion. Two burly mages, faces red with drink and anger, suddenly launched themselves at each other, fists flying, sending mugs crashing to the floor and splintering the thick wood of the table.
The sudden detonation of sound and aggression, so close, so unexpected, startled Endralian badly. A jolt, like powerful static electricity, shot through his entire body. Without conscious thought, without any intention, his body reacted. There was a faint pop sound, like the air itself tearing for a microsecond, and suddenly he wasn't standing by the books anymore. He was three feet to the left, stumbling, his balance completely thrown, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The heavy book he'd been reaching for clattered loudly onto the floorboards exactly where he had been standing a split second before.
He stared, wide-eyed and breathless, at the spot he'd just vacated. Had he... teleported? An involuntary Ender Step?
The brawl died down almost as quickly as it started, the participants forcibly separated by exasperated guildmates, but several people nearby had noticed Endralian's sudden, impossible displacement. Macao, wiping spilled ale from his face, stared openly at him. "Whoa! Kid, did you just... blink over there?" Wakaba squinted through his pipe smoke, scratching his head. "Huh. Didn't see you move a muscle." Cana looked up from her cards, her young eyes wide with undisguised curiosity.
From the staircase, Makarov watched, his expression thoughtful, a flicker of confirmation – and perhaps concern – in his deep-set eyes. He'd seen it. The instability. The spatial warp. Exactly the kind of uncontrolled power he'd sensed earlier.
Endralian felt his cheeks flush hot with embarrassment and a rising tide of fear. He quickly gathered the fallen books, his hands trembling slightly, avoiding the curious stares now directed his way. He stacked them clumsily back on the bar, the heavy bindings feeling slippery in his grasp, then looked desperately towards Makarov, silently pleading for rescue.
The Master gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze conveying understanding. "Alright, lad," he said, his voice calm, projecting a quiet authority that seemed to momentarily dampen the surrounding noise. "Think that's enough excitement for one day. You look done in." He gestured towards a narrow hallway leading towards the back of the guildhall, away from the main room's persistent chaos. He opened a door revealing a small, rather dusty room primarily filled with stored supplies – barrels, crates, rolled-up banners – but containing a simple wooden cot tucked into one relatively clear corner. "It's not the master suite, but it's quiet, and the door locks from the inside. You can rest here for the night. We'll talk more tomorrow, figure things out."
Endralian practically dove into the relative sanctuary of the small room, the scent of dust and old wood a welcome change from the ale-soaked air of the main hall. Makarov gave him one last, long look, a complex mix of concern and calculation swirling in his eyes, before closing the door softly, leaving him alone in the sudden, blessed quiet.
He sank onto the edge of the cot, the rough, woolen blanket scratchy beneath his fingers. The heavy door muffled the guild's relentless noise, reducing it to a distant, indistinct roar, like the sea heard from far inland. Alone at last, the full weight of the day,the impossibility of it all, crashed down on him. He was here. In Fairy Tail. Turned into this child's body. Possessing strange, uncontrollable powers apparently linked to a video game he could no longer play. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling incredibly small, fragile, and utterly lost. Exhaustion warred with a bone-deep fear, nascent curiosity drowned by waves of despair. What was he supposed to do now? Where did he even begin? He didn't know. All he knew was the faint, rhythmic violet glow from his boots, pulsing softly, mockingly, in the dusty darkness of the storeroom.