Phantom Lord.
It was one of the many guilds scattered across the Kingdom of Fiore, yet it was one of the select few whose name alone carried absolute weight.
People whispered that Phantom Lord possessed magic of overwhelming density—not merely in raw power, but in sheer quantity. It was an empire of mages, resources, knowledge, and political influence.
It was an organization whose foundations were built not on the warm ideals of unity, but on cold, unyielding dominance. Many believed it openly rivaled the strongest guilds in the entire country.
And the reason for that reputation was simple.
Jose Porla. The Guild Master.
It was a title reserved exclusively for those who stood at the absolute peak of their respective organizations. In any guild, the Master's word was law, authority, and final judgment. They were almost always the strongest mage within its walls.
Each guild bore an insignia—a crest that embodied its name and core ideals.
And the crest of Phantom Lord was never worn lightly.
The guild hall loomed like a massive beast at rest.
It was a vast, towering chamber that felt less like a home and more like a den of apex predators. The interior resembled a rough, subterranean pub—a lawless haven where discipline was entirely optional and strength spoke much louder than manners.
Heavy wooden tables were scattered across the hall, paired with long, worn benches scarred by years of violent brawls. The floor was constructed entirely of wood, arranged in square patterns like a massive chessboard, each square formed by four thick planks laid at sharp angles.
Time and conflict had beaten the surface down ruthlessly; some sections were polished smooth by countless heavy boots, while others were splintered, cracked, and uneven.
Above them, massive wooden beams crossed the ceiling like exposed ribs. Lanterns hung from the iron rafters, their dim, flickering glow stretching long shadows across the hall—shadows that clung to the stone walls and pooled darkly beneath the tables.
At the entrance stood a single, nameless boy
'So this… is my new home,'he thought quietly, observing the room. 'It resembles chaos itself.'
Yet his expression did not change. 'Still… I should be grateful. I have food and shelter. Not every child is afforded such fortune.'
He stood perfectly calm, his hands resting loosely at his sides.
The boy possessed medium-length black hair, smooth and untouched by any attempt at style. It framed his face naturally, rendering him entirely unremarkable—until one looked directly into his eyes.
Fuchsia.
They were a vivid, reddish-pink hue, ringed and unnaturally sharp against his otherwise gentle, fragile appearance. They carried a heavy, ancient weight far beyond his five years of life. His skin was fair, almost porcelain.
He wore a deep purple hoodie, loose and soft, its sleeves extending well past his wrists, paired with simple black trousers.
He wore no shoes. His bare feet were pressed flat against the cold wooden floor.
'I am grateful to Master Jose,' he reflected silently. 'The clothing he provided is… comfortable.'
He began to walk forward, his thoughts steady, his expression entirely neutral.
'Guilds function as businesses,' he recalled from his reading. 'They accept requests. They complete jobs. They earn Jewels. In essence… it is a profession.'
A sudden, earth-shattering roar completely fractured his train of thought. Near one of the reinforced stone pillars, a massive crowd had formed. A loose ring of rowdy mages were shouting, betting, and laughing raucously as coins slammed onto the tables.
"What—seriously? That's it?" a man jeered. "That's all you grown-ups got?"
At the center of the ring stood a single, solitary figure. Around him, grown men lay sprawled across the floor—unconscious, bleeding, and brutally beaten.
'there all adults,' the boy noted, his eyes narrowing slightly.
The figure's hair was long, thick, and jaggedly spiked, falling down to his upper back. Loose, wild strands framed his face, partially obscuring his ears and giving him a guarded, feral appearance.
His eyes were a piercing red. Not a human red, but something sharp, slitted, and dangerous.
Iron studs lined his face and body. Three sat above each eye, forming artificial metallic brows. Two ran along each side of his nose, and two more rested beneath his bottom lip.
His ears were pierced excessively, rows of silver rings glinting sharply in the dim lantern light. Dark, flame-like markings curled along his forearms, etched into his flesh as if burned there by design.
"Even at nine years old, Lionheart stands," someone in the crowd muttered in awe.
"At nine years old…" another whispered, shaking his head.
The wild boy inhaled deeply through his nose, catching a scent in the air. His expression shifted.
"…Huh," the ruffian muttered, his brow furrowing. "That's weird." He turned his head slowly, scanning the rowdy hall.
"Not over here." Another glance. "Not over there, either." Then, his red eyes locked squarely onto the boy with the fuchsia gaze.
"Yo." He jerked his chin forward, stepping over a groaning adult. "You."
'Is he addressing me?' Albion wondered.
He stepped through the parting crowd calmly, arriving at the center of the ring. His eyes widened a fraction.
'He… isn't much older than I am.'
The wild boy's outfit was simple, yet incredibly loud. A sleeveless beige top hung loosely over his wiry frame, and a massive, pale scarf was draped over one shoulder, oversized and heavy.
Dark trousers bore vertical gold stripes and red flame motifs along the thighs, grounded by worn leather boots. Studded iron bands wrapped tightly around his wrists.
The wild boy pointed a thumb at his own chest. "Name's Gajeel Lionheart." Then, he pointed his finger directly at Albion. "So," he said casually, his slitted eyes sharpening. "Who—or what—the hell are you?"
A storm of rowdy voices instantly erupted from the surrounding mages. "Fight! Fight!"
"Break something already, kid!"
"Ten Jewels says the new brat bleeds first!"
"Make it fifty!"
Their words carried pure, sadistic excitement, entirely devoid of concern. Albion did his best to ignore the ambient noise. He lowered his head slightly and answered Gajeel's question with a measured, polite calm.
"My name is Albion Ebonveil. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He raised his head once more, his fuchsia eyes perfectly steady. "As for what I am… I would say I am an average five-year-old child."
His tone was flawless. His internal thoughts, however, were not. 'These people take genuine joy in hurting others.'
'They are nothing more than worthless, hollow bags of flesh.'
"That's not what I'm asking!" Gajeel snapped. He leaned forward, his posture aggressive as his eyes narrowed. "Your scent is off. Way off. It doesn't match anyone else in this place."
He paused, sniffing the air once more. "…Are you even human?"
Albion maintained his neutral expression, raising a single eyebrow. "Are you implying that I am an animal?"
Gajeel shrugged carelessly. "Honestly? No damn idea." He waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, guess that makes you the only other kid in this dump besides me, huh?"
"I suppose so," Albion replied mildly. "I only joined this guild recently." His gaze drifted downward, taking in the bruised adults littering the floor. "…Did you do all of this?"
Gajeel nodded proudly. "Yeah. So what?" He scoffed. "They were chumps. Weak as hell. You can't seriously call those guys fighters, right?"
"I wouldn't know," Albion answered honestly. "I have never engaged in a fight before. Tell me, Gajeel… why is it that you fight?"
A wide, wild grin split Gajeel's face. "Why? Because I like it. Straight up, I fight for the pure love of the game." He flicked his wrist. "Oh—and don't worry. I didn't even use my magic on 'em. They'll wake up eventually."
'He defeated grown men with nothing but his bare fists…' Albion realized, his heart tightening. 'What an absolute monster.'
"Magic?" Albion turned his head slightly.
Gajeel blinked in utter disbelief. "Wait—seriously? You don't know what magic is?"
"Magic," Albion repeated thoughtfully. "I am afraid I have only heard the term used for the first time today. Tell me, does this establishment possess a library? If so, I would greatly appreciate being shown its location."
Gajeel chuckled, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, we got one." Then his eyes gleamed. "But I can't just give away handouts. In this guild, your place is earned. Strength talks. You feel me?"
Albion exhaled a slow, heavy breath. "I was hoping you would not say that." His voice remained incredibly polite, almost regretful. "I am not fond of violence. Should I fight, I would only do so reluctantly, as I do not wish to inflict harm upon others."
He paused, looking at the surrounding crowd.
"…However, it seems I do not currently possess a choice."
The wild grin crept right back onto Gajeel's face as understanding dawned. "Didn't you just say you don't wanna fight?" he laughed. "Sounds kinda hypocritical, doesn't it?"
"I said I would prefer not to," Albion corrected calmly. "Not that I am incapable."
He shifted his stance, his bare feet spreading slightly against the cold wooden floor. His eyes locked perfectly with Gajeel's.
"You and I, Gajeel. Let us throw hands."
Gajeel's grin widened, absolutely delighted by the nerve of the smaller boy. "Oh, you're messed up," he laughed out loud. "That's crazy. I like that. I really, really like that."
The fight exploded in an instant.
Albion kicked off the floor, his bare feet skimming the wood as he circled Gajeel in a wide, rapid arc.
"Oh?" Gajeel tilted his head, his eyes tracking the movement. "Didn't expect that speed."
Albion pivoted hard on his heel and shot forward like an arrow. He threw a clean, textbook straight jab. Gajeel slipped it by a hair.
Another jab followed. Then another. Albion pressed the offensive, his fists snapping forward in rapid, disciplined succession while keeping his footwork impossibly tight.
Gajeel weaved through the barrage, his feral grin stretching wider with every miss.
"Damn," Gajeel laughed, thoroughly entertained. "You ain't scared to get in close, are you?"
"I do not care what you like," Albion replied flatly. He shifted his weight, his hips twisting fluidly as he whipped out a sharp roundhouse kick.
This time, Gajeel didn't dodge. His hand clamped down around Albion's leg like an iron vice.
"A textbook roundhouse," Gajeel evaluated casually, holding the boy aloft. "Horizontal swing, good rotation." His smile turned wicked. "But you gotta commit to the kill."
The back of Gajeel's knuckles slammed brutally into Albion's jaw.
The sheer impact lifted Albion completely off the ground. Before gravity could pull him back down, Gajeel bent his knees and launched himself upward, twisting midair with the speed of a striking viper. His body snapped like a heavy whip.
A devastating spinning kick sent Albion hurtling across the hall. He hit the floor hard, rolling violently across the wood as splinters jumped loose from the floorboards.
Albion coughed violently, clutching his ribs as his breath came in ragged, agonizing pulls.
'it Not just fast reflexes…' Albion realized, a metallic taste filling his mouth. 'His physical strength is entirely abnormal. Two strikes… and I have sustained this much pain?'
Pain exploded in his side, blinding and hot.
"Oi!" a rowdy guild member barked, stepping forward and kicking Albion hard in the stomach. "I didn't bet my Jewels to watch a toddler get folded in five seconds!"
The man reeled back, delivering another cruel kick. "Get up, brat! At least make it worth the money!"
"Ah—!" Albion gasped, a fresh wave of pain ripping through his small frame.
Before the man's third kick could connect, a massive iron club smashed directly into his chest, launching him completely across the grand hall.
The man crashed into a heavy wooden table, shattering it to splinters upon impact before going still.
The hall fell into a dead silence.
The iron weapon retracted seamlessly, flowing back into Gajeel's arm as the metal peeled away like liquid steel, exposing his skin.
"This ain't your fight," Gajeel said coldly, glaring at the remaining mages. "So back the hell off."
The hall instantly erupted back into cheers and laughter, loving the sudden violence. Meanwhile, Albion pushed himself up from the floor, his limbs trembling.
"So… this is the magic you mentioned earlier?"
"Bingo!"
'Unbelievable,' Albion thought.
In the blink of an eye, Gajeel vanished from his field of vision.
Albion instinctively raised his guard. 'He's going to overpower me from the front again—'
No.
Gajeel was already standing directly behind him. Before Albion could turn, a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around his waist in a brutal body lock.
"You got good instincts," Gajeel muttered right against his ear. "But that's all you got."
*When did he—?!'
"Your body is way too weak."
Gajeel lifted him cleanly into the air and drove him straight down into the floorboards.
The wood beneath them shattered under the force of the slam. Albion's head struck the impact point hard, blood spilling freely across the splintered surface.
Before he could even register the concussion, Gajeel was already airborne, leaping up for a crushing follow-up.
Albion rolled backward out of pure survival instinct. Gajeel's heavy descent cracked the floorboards where Albion's head had been a fraction of a second prior.
But there was no time to rest; Gajeel was already on him again.
Punches. Elbows. Knees. Albion blocked frantically, but his small arms were failing him.
'I am guarding, but the strikes are still breaking my bones!' Every single blow felt heavier than the last. 'Speed. Strength. Endurance. Everything about this guy is inhuman!'
With a savage grin, Gajeel forced his way clean through Albion's collapsing defense. One hand seized Albion by the hair, lifting him effortlessly before slamming his face back down into the stone-cold wood.
The last thing Albion saw was Gajeel's heavy fist descending toward his vision.
Then, darkness. And a buried memory surfaced.
◆ ◇ ◆
A cramped, suffocating bedroom.
The air was stagnant, heavy with the foul scent of sweat and rusted metal. A woman with fair skin and shaggy, unkempt dark hair stood in the center of the small space, pacing in tight, frantic circles.
Her fingers were shoved violently between her teeth, biting down until fresh blood welled at the edges of her fingernails.
"He said he loved me…" she muttered frantically. "Loved me… loved me… loved me…"
Her voice rose, fraying into madness with every repetition. "Love—! Love—!" She bit down harder, drawing more blood. "HE SAID HE LOVED ME!" she shrieked at the empty walls. "So WHY DID HE ONLY USE ME?!"
Her agonizing cries shattered the heavy silence of the house. "WHY?! WHY?! WHY?成功?!"
Her hand shot toward the wooden dresser. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of a small kitchen knife.
"It isn't my fault…" she whispered to herself, dragging the sharp blade lightly across the skin of her forearm. "It isn't my fault…"
Crimson blood ran slowly down her pale arms.
"He assaulted me," she murmured, her voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and grief. "He used me. Then he threw me away like garbage."
Soft, hesitant footsteps echoed from the doorway.
A small child stood half-hidden behind the drywall, his tiny fingers clenched tightly into the fabric of his oversized shirt. It was a younger Albion.
The woman spun around, her eyes bloodshot. Her manic gaze locked instantly onto the boy's unique, reddish-pink eyes.
Something deep inside her completely snapped.
She rose slowly, a wild, manic gleam twisting her features into a horrific mask as she stepped toward him, the knife still dripping in her hand.
"It's your fault," she said quietly, her voice deadly soft. "You're the exact reason he left me." Her lips trembled violently. "Those fuchsia eyes… they're the exact same as his."
The young boy's breath hitched in his throat.
Blood dripped steadily from her arms onto the floorboards. The knife caught the dim light of the room. He stumbled backward into the hallway, panic flooding his small body as his gaze remained glued to the blade.
"He forced me to have you," she said, looming over him like a monster. "So now…" Her grip tightened around the handle. "Now it's your turn to feel the pain."
His tiny body shook violently.
And then, pain exploded through both of his small arms—sharp, burning, and absolute.
Back then, all he had ever wanted was his mother's love.
To an extent, he had forced himself to believe she truly did love him. But deep down, in the dark corners of his mind, he knew the truth.
She utterly loathed him.
◆ ◇ ◆
The violent clash finally came to an end.
Gajeel exhaled a light breath, standing over Albion's motionless, battered body. "You know… you weren't half bad," he admitted to the quiet room. "But without magic, you'll never be able to take down a real wizard."
Blood pooled beneath Albion's head, trickling steadily from a deep gash on his forehead. His small chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow intervals.
Turning his back on the fallen child, Gajeel began to walk away toward the counter. "Well, guess that's that," he muttered. "Wonder what I'll grab for lunch today."
Step. Step.
He stopped.
Something felt… profoundly off. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Slowly, Gajeel turned his head around to look—and froze completely in his tracks.
Albion was standing.
He was wobbling violently, covered in dark bruises, bleeding from multiple wounds, but he was upright.
"…Hey, hey, hey," Gajeel said, his disbelief instantly giving way to a massive, roaring grin. "You're still on your feet after all that? Man, you've got some serious toughness."
Albion's small body was completely battered with swelling and lacerations, yet he stubbornly refused to let his knees buckle.
"You're just like me, ain't ya?" Gajeel asked, his eyes flashing. "Someone born with a natural knack for fighting. The only difference between us is that I was actually trained."
"My head…" Albion murmured, his voice incredibly low, raspy, and unsteady. "It's… really pounding. How long was I out…?"
"That's the spirit!" Gajeel's right arm hardened instantly, transforming back into a heavy iron club. "I knew you had that dog in you! Let's go!"
The iron beam extended in a straight, blinding line, rocketing directly toward Albion's face.
"You smile the exact same way I do, Gajeel."
The heavy iron club stopped dead in its tracks, resting barely millimeters away from Albion's forehead. The wind from the sheer speed ruffled the boy's black hair.
"…What did you just say?" Gajeel asked, his voice lowering as his grin vanished.
"When the person who was supposed to protect you disappears," Albion said, limping forward, entirely unfazed by the weapon in his face, "they leave a hollow, empty space behind."
His fuchsia eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and glassy. He looked ready to collapse at any second.
"A place that nothing ever really fits into again… no matter how strong or powerful you become."
Gajeel didn't move an inch. His breath hitched.
"I know this," Albion continued softly, offering a fragile, heartbreaking smile as tears finally welled up in his eyes, spilling down his bruised cheeks. "Because I can feel what others feel. But being human… it taught me something much deeper."
The tears fell freely now, mixing with the blood on his chin. "What my mother gave me wasn't love," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I just desperately wanted to believe it was."
He took another agonizing step forward. "I'm lonely. And I don't want to be alone anymore."
"I want to matter. I want to be needed by someone. I want to know that it is okay for a person like me to exist. But I was scared—too scared to ever leave my house. So I just sat there and waited…" His steps slowed, his strength fading. "Hoping someone would come looking for me. Hoping someone would choose me."
"What the hell are you doing, Lionheart?!" a betting mage in the crowd shouted, breaking the heavy atmosphere. "Finish the brat off! I want my money's worth!"
"Yeah! End it already!"
Gajeel didn't hear a single word they said.
His iron arm went entirely slack, the living metal slowly melting and retracting back into ordinary flesh. 'This kid… how does he know?' The thought thoroughly unsettled him.
How could a boy he had met mere minutes ago dig so effortlessly into the deepest scars of his soul?
Albion finally reached him, his quiet tears unceasing.
"Maybe that's what we all do in the end," the five-year-old said softly. "We only reach out with our hands when we want to hurt someone… because we completely forgot how to use them to hold someone instead."
With the last of his shaking strength, Albion reached out and grasped Gajeel's hand. "So… is it okay," he asked, his voice barely a whisper into the void, "if we start… right here?"
Suddenly, an echo of a voice resonated deep within Gajeel's mind. A gravelly, ancient voice he hadn't heard since the dragon vanished.
[Gajeel… one day, I won't be here anymore. That's just how time works.]
[When that day comes—when you find yourself at your absolute lowest—someone will reach out a hand to you.]
[Not because you deserve it. Not because you asked for it. But simply because they chose to.]
[You're rude. Impulsive. Loud. Basically a massive pain to deal with. And you've got a temper hot enough to melt iron.]
[And still… if someone offers you their hand despite all of that…it hope you take it.]
[…Or don't. It's your life. I'm not your damn keeper.]
When Gajeel finally snapped out of the memory, Albion was already on his knees before him, his small body completely out of energy, yet still holding Gajeel's hand securely with both of his.
"…Did he pass out while standing?" Gajeel muttered. Slowly, Gajeel crouched down. He carefully pried Albion's small, bruised fingers loose from his hand, easing them gently back to the boy's sides.
"Tch… congratulations, kid," Gajeel muttered under his breath, a faint, genuine smirk returning to his face. "You've got my respect. And my curiosity."
Straightening back up to his feet, he effortlessly hoisted the unconscious Albion over his right shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He glanced down the dark, narrow hallway of the guild base.
"Me and you are taking a little walk." He shifted the boy's weight comfortably. "Time to visit the library."