Chapter 27: The End of the Corridor
'That vibration just now… Gajeel, what the hell are you up to down there?' Albion thought, shifting his gaze toward the dust filtering down from the ceiling of the Phantom Lord Library.
The sheer kinetic impact of the dragon slayer's spell had physically reverberated through the stones beneath his feet, yet Albion didn't show a single trace of fear or intimidation.
Instead, a rare, faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he let out a low chuckle. 'I bet even now, you've got that stupid, massive grin plastered across your face.'
To Gajeel, combat was never a tedious chore or a calculated stepping stone toward some grand, ambitious milestone. He didn't crave fame, nor did he hunt for the superficial glory of being labeled the absolute strongest.
For him, throwing fists and trading blows was the purest, most visceral expression of life itself.
Albion, however, existed on the polar opposite end of that spectrum. To survive his own history, he had been forced to practically cauterize his own emotions.
Whenever he was insulted, targeted, or openly threatened, he never flared up with immediate, hot-headed fury; instead, he went entirely, calculatingly cold.
This total emotional flatlining served as his ultimate psychological defense mechanism—a conscious choice to ensure his tormentors never received the satisfaction of a reaction.
'Enough wasting time thinking about that muscle-brained idiot,' Albion muttered internally, his gaze snapping back to the present. 'I need to map out my own trajectory.'
Resting in his palm was a heavy, leather-bound tome titled The Architecture of Magic.
This book highlighted his immediate roadblock: he simply didn't know what to prioritize.
While it was true he had the unrestricted freedom to stay sequestered in this library for as long as he pleased, he had absolutely no intention of burning an entire day trapped between bookstacks.
He had a rigid, self-imposed discipline streak to maintain, and there were far too many other physical and tactical goals on his itinerary that required his attention.
At the same time, the glaring lack of fundamental knowledge was a vulnerability he couldn't ignore; he had never been formally taught the basics.
Realizing he couldn't realistically digest the entire library in one sitting, he applied a logical filter: it was far more efficient to isolate two primary subjects at most.
After a few minutes of silent deliberation, his strategy solidified.
'First, I master the core architecture of magic. I don't need to decipher every complex, high-tier spell theory right now—just the absolute basics and foundational principles.'
'After that? I dive straight into the structural mechanics of guilds and jobs. I'm standing inside Phantom Lord, one of the elite corporate superpowers in the country; I need to understand how this economy functions.'
As he finalized his plan, an intrusive memory suddenly forced its way to the surface of his mind—the chilling, resonant voice of the Guild Master:
["After all these years away from the guild… surely you've returned with the money required to repay your debt, yes?"]
Albion's brow furrowed slightly. 'Now that I actually think about it, how does a woman like that run up such an astronomical debt directly to the Master anyway? Was she an official member of the guild layout in the past?'
The questions kept compounding. 'And if she actually was part of Phantom Lord, what possessed her to abandon an empire like this? More importantly, how did she have the sheer nerve to walk right back through the front doors?'
Jose's parting words had left Albion with an incredibly tangled web of questions. Shaking his head violently to dispel the distraction, he forced his focus back to the immediate task at hand.
'It doesn't matter right now. I'll just have to meet the Master and extract the truth when a seamless opportunity presents itself. Which gives me even more incentive to expedite my training and get out of this room.'
It was precisely in that moment of absolute focus that Albion noticed a subtle anomaly.
A faint, luminescent line of light blue energy was hovering directly above the open pages of The Architecture of Magic. It wasn't an environmental reflection; it was physically anchored to the parchment, bleeding out from the ink like a glowing, gossamer thread.
'What is this…? It looks almost identical to a thread of raw energy.'
Driven by rare, unchecked curiosity, Albion kept his body perfectly still while slowly extending a single, cautious finger toward the blue anomaly.
As if reacting directly to his proximity, the luminescent thread suddenly extended in length.
Before he could pull his hand back, the energy line darted forward, wrapping itself tightly around his finger in a flawless spiral.
A sharp, involuntary gasp tore from Albion's throat as a sudden, intense rush of raw information and foreign energy violently poured into his consciousness.
The sensation was overwhelming, sparking behind his eyes as the dormant, deeply buried seeds of his Innate Magic finally cracked open, beginning to rapidly bloom inside his brain.
◆ ◇ ◆
Meanwhile, within the sprawling expanse of the Phantom Lord guild hall…
The central hub of the fortress was a vast, towering chamber that felt less like a communal home and more like a den of apex predators.
The interior design closely resembled a lawless subterranean pub.
Heavy wooden tables were scattered across the expanse, paired with long, worn benches heavily scarred by years of violent brawls. The flooring was constructed entirely of dark wood, arranged in meticulous square patterns like a massive chessboard, with each distinct boundary formed by four thick planks laid at sharp, contrasting angles.
Time and ceaseless conflict had beaten the wooden surface down relentlessly; some central pathways were polished smooth by the passage of countless heavy combat boots, while the outer perimeters remained splintered, cracked, and uneven from impact.
High above, massive wooden beams crossed the ceiling like the exposed ribs of a monolith.
Luminescent lanterns hung from rusted iron chains and rafters, their dim, flickering glow stretching long, distorted shadows across the hall and leaving entire corners swallowed by absolute darkness.
Dominating the center of the hall was a circular fighting pit sunk slightly below the level of the surrounding floor.
A low iron railing enclosed the mini-arena, its structural bars bent, dented, and warped from years of physical abuse.
The wood surrounding the pit was noticeably darker than the rest of the hall, permanently stained by spilled ale, sweat, and dried blood.
While the arena served no official regulatory purpose, everyone within the hierarchy understood its social importance.
Personal grudges were settled there; elite reputations were forged there. More often than not, the entire room shifted its focus to the pit whenever a particularly high-stakes match began.
Surrounding this fighting pit were several broad communal tables where members gathered to eat, drink, gamble, or watch the ongoing combat.
Currently, a significant portion of the Phantom Lord membership was crowded around these tables, cheering and shouting as a chaotic, high-intensity brawl unfolded within the sunken pit.
A good distance away from the roaring crowd, a tall man was navigating the outer ring of the guild hall. He held a large ceramic plate with both hands, balancing a massive portion of freshly prepared food.
He stood at 5'9" (175 cm). His medium-length, pitch-black hair was casually swept backward, though several loose strands hung down over his forehead, slightly spiked at the tips.
His sharp eyes held a distinct, subtle amber glow within the irises. Physically, he was lean yet heavily muscled, possessing strong, broad shoulders, highly defined forearms, and an athletic waist.
A dark purple Phantom Lord guild mark was prominently tattooed onto the left side of his neck.
As he walked, a soft, carefree humming sound vibrated in his throat.
He actively bypassed the raucous tables near the fighting pit, heading all the way to the secluded, heavy wooden tables situated in the rear of the chamber.
His reasoning was entirely practical: the last thing he wanted was a stray guildmate being hurled out of the pit and crashing directly into his meal.
Arriving at an isolated back table, he slid onto the bench and set his plate down with a heavy thud. Before touching the food, he clasped his hands together in a brief, silent gesture of genuine gratitude.
"Thanks for the food," he muttered, appreciative of the simple luxury that brought him consistent happiness every few hours.
Resting on his plate were three thick steaks, seared in a screaming-hot cast-iron skillet to a precise medium-rare.
They boasted a deep, beautiful, caramelized crust across the exterior. Completely disregarding any semblance of formal table manners, he proceeded to eat with his bare hands, grabbing a steak directly by the edges.
A rich, juicy flavor instantly flooded his palate, causing him to let out a low groan of utter satisfaction.
About half a minute into his meal, a familiar silhouette caught his attention in the corner of his eye. Pausing mid-bite, he waved a grease-stained hand while still aggressively chewing.
"Yo! Wassup, Sheila!" he called out.
Hearing her name cut through the ambient noise, the woman turned on her heel and began adjusting her stride toward his position.
"Sheila!" he called again.
"There's no need to shout, Damian. I can hear you perfectly fine," she replied, her voice smooth but laced with a quiet, freezing authority.
Sheila was a strikingly tall woman whose very presence carried an unsettling weight. She possessed a slim, graceful frame that bordered on model-like elegance, yet her figure remained undeniably feminine, with soft curves that contrasted against her otherwise severe, unyielding demeanor.
She stood at an imposing 5'11" (180 cm). Her skin was remarkably pale—almost porcelain-like—appearing as though it had never been touched by natural sunlight.
Against this pale complexion, her long black hair created a dramatic, stark contrast. The dark tresses fell well past her waist in smooth, silky waves that caught and refracted the dim lantern light.
It was meticulously maintained, always appearing immaculate regardless of the chaotic environment around her.
Her face was beautiful in a cold, aristocratic manner, defined by high, sharp cheekbones and a flawless jawline. Her lips were naturally full, painted in a muted shade of deep crimson.
The most memorable aspect of her features, however, was her eyes. They appeared strangely dull and lusterless, as though the vital spark within them had faded long ago.
Their exact color was difficult to pin down—hovering somewhere between a washed-out gray, pale silver, or a faded, icy blue—but regardless of the exact shade, they possessed an eerie, vacant emptiness.
She stopped directly in front of the table. "Damian," she said, offering a curt nod.
"Sheila," Damian replied, matching the short gesture.
Sheila took a seat on the opposite side of the heavy table, sliding her long legs beneath the wood. "I see you've returned from your latest job. How did it go?"
"Well, naturally, it was an easy run. When you get to my level of skill, everything is easy," Damian said, flashing a carefree, slightly arrogant smile.
Guilds operated as structured intermediaries for jobs, connecting civilian clients with capable professionals.
While heavily dominated by Mages, these specialized missions were also regularly undertaken by Mercenaries, Assassins, and unaligned combatants.
The contracts themselves ranged from mundane daily operations to high-stakes, lethal combat campaigns.
With his explanation finished, Damian immediately went back to tearing into his steak.
Sheila, either completely desensitized to his lack of etiquette or simply indifferent, began searching the deep pockets of her coat.
Pulling her hand out, she slid a single cigarette between her long fingers. "Aw, shit. I left my lighter back in the clinic," Sheila muttered, her brow furrowing in irritation.
A sudden thought struck her, and she looked back up across the table. "Hey, Damian. Be a good boy and light this for me, would you?"
"Why the hell should I?" Damian retorted, tearing off another massive bite of meat. "It ain't my problem your dumbass forgot your gear."
"True," Sheila conceded, not even bothering to deny the oversight. "But you were the loud mouth who called me over here in the first place. And frankly, if you're going to sit there and eat like a primitive beast instead of a genuine human being in front of me, the absolute least you could do is not be an unmitigated asshole."
Damian let out a sharp growl, pausing his meal to glare directly at her.
With a sudden, intense widening of his amber eyes, a localized spark of thermal friction ignited the tip of the cigarette between her fingers almost instantly.
"Thanks. That innate power of yours is handy," Sheila remarked dryly, taking a slow, deep drag and letting the smoke drift from her lips. "You know, you should really consider retiring from active guild work and just become a human lighter for a living. I wager you'd be significantly more competent at it."
"Blow it out your ass," Damian grunted, undeterred as he shoved the rest of the steak into his mouth.
An expression of genuine disgust flitted across Sheila's refined features, brought on by a combination of his crude words and his complete absence of table manners
"You are an absolute caveman," Sheila remarked, her voice dripping with condescension. "Seriously, watching you attempt to navigate a standard conversation is like watching a silverback gorilla try to solve a Rubik's cube. It's pathetic."
Damian slammed his hands down, finally stopping his chewing to look her dead in the eyes. "And watching you try to act like you're somehow above the mud in this place is fucking hilarious. You're not royalty, sweetheart. You're just a stuck-up, miserable bitch who desperately needs a giant stick pulled out of her ass."
"At least I maintain basic standards," Sheila fired back smoothly, leaning forward as the smoke swirled around them. "You physically reek of stale beer and exceptionally poor life choices. Get out of my sight before your complete lack of hygiene ruins my afternoon."
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Did my mere presence offend your delicate, hyper-privileged sensibilities?" Damian mocked, rolling his amber eyes aggressively. "Cry me a fucking river."
He leaned over the table, matching her proximity. "God, you absolutely love the sound of your own voice, don't you? It's a literal miracle that anyone stays in a room with you for more than five minutes without wanting to swallow broken glass."
Sheila's pale face twisted into a sharp, venomous sneer. "And it's a miracle you remember to keep breathing with a brain that is entirely vacant. You're a loud, obnoxious, disgusting brute who consistently mistakes being an unprompted prick for having an actual personality."
She took one last drag of her cigarette, exhaling the ash directly toward his plate. "If I wanted to hear an opinion from an illiterate Neanderthal, I'd ask for your input. Until then, shut the fuck up."
"Make me, you arrogant bitch," Damian snarled, his eyes flashing dangerous amber as he glared at her with unbridled hostility.
"...."
An oppressive, freezing silence instantly fell over the table, cutting through the ambient noise of the shouting guild members behind them.
The two operatives remained locked in a venomous stare-down, neither breaking eye contact for a fraction of a second, remaining completely still until Damian finally reached down and silently finished the remaining scraps of his food.
Sheila leaned back against the worn bench, tilting her head back to watch the thick curls of cigarette smoke drift up toward the exposed rafters. "So… how is life treating you?"
Damian released a heavy, drawn-out sigh, his aggressive posture melting away into a rare moment of relaxed calm.
"Pretty good right now, honestly. Just kind of going with the flow of things. Got no big plans coming up, that's for sure." He tapped his empty plate. "What about you? Life treating you well?"
Sheila stared up into the dark, shadowed corners of the ceiling for a moment before answering. "Honestly… My clinic keeps me busy for the most part. I was never fond of fighting, you see."
She turned her head slightly, her dull, lusterless eyes scanning the roaring crowds gathered around the central pit. "Unlike these brutes."
"Oh, that's right," Damian muttered, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You think fighting without a clear reason or a purpose is crazy, don't you?"
"Not just crazy. To me, it is the very definition of insanity."
'Right. How could I forget,' Damian thought inwardly, looking at her sharp profile. 'She's one of those rare kinds of people in a place like this who genuinely despises violence.'
It left a lingering question in the back of his mind—why a refined, pacifistic wizard would willingly tie herself to a ruthless empire like Phantom Lord. But he quickly dismissed the thought, shaking his head. 'Whatever. It's none of my damn business.'
"Oh, that reminds me," Damian said, shifting gears to break the sudden heavy atmosphere. "Didn't you bring some kid into the guild hall a while back?"
"Hm?" Hearing the question, Sheila's gaze snapped away from the rafters, her vacant silver-gray eyes locking onto Damian. The cigarette bobbed slightly between her lips.
"Let me think… What was her name again?" Damian scratched the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as he dug through his memory. "Hmm… Oh, I know! It was Julia, right?"
"Close. It's Juvia," Sheila corrected him, a hint of warmth softening her tone. "But you're right. I brought her in just last year."
"Right, Juvia. That reminds me, didn't another kid join around the exact same time?" Damian asked, tapping his fingers on the table. "Yeah. He got brought straight in here by the Master, if I recall. What the hell was his name again…?"
Sheila and Damian stared at each other for a solid five seconds, searching their brains, before simultaneously shrugging their shoulders.
"Who knows," they muttered in unison.
Sheila let out a slow puff of smoke, her gaze softening. "I've been helping Juvia with the transition into becoming an official Mage. Mostly getting a firm hold on her innate magic."
"Innate Magic?" Damian's eyes widened slightly, the subtle amber glow in his irises flaring with genuine surprise. "You mean she already went through a full awakening?"
"Yep." Sheila nodded her head, a rare, undeniable spark of maternal pride breaking through her aristocratic demeanor. "Safe to say she's remarkably talented, too. I even taught her Floating Magic."
Floating Magic, a fundamental Caster-Type Utility
A sophisticated technique that grants a Mage the ability to levitate and navigate three-dimensional space without relying on biological adaptations (like wings) or external enchanted artifacts.
By precisely channeling Mahō through the body's internal pathways and expelling it outward, the user manipulates the surrounding ambient Ethernano currents to completely neutralize the local gravitational pull.
It is entirely Attribute-neutral. It does not command wind currents or manipulate gravity itself; instead, it serves as a pure test of raw energy regulation and precise output control.
Despite its complete lack of offensive capability, it is widely considered an invaluable tactical utility.
"Well, good for her," Damian responded, leaning back and crossing his arms. "If she's being personally trained by a perfectionist like you, she's going to be an absolute handful in the coming years."
"Probably." Sheila didn't even attempt to deny the praise. It was the first time Damian had ever seen her look genuinely proud of someone other than herself.
"But enough about this Juvia girl. I want to know some stuff about you," Damian said suddenly, his amber eyes locking onto hers with uncharacteristic curiosity.
"About me?" Sheila let out a low, mocking chuckle. "I'm flattered, Damian, but you are miles away from being my type."
"Get over yourself," Damian groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Didn't you use to run some kind of orphanage out in the provinces a few years back? Whatever happened to that place?"
The casual question hit the table like a lead weight.
Sheila's entire body suddenly stiffened. The easy posture evaporated, and her long, silky black hair swayed forward just enough to cast a heavy shadow over her vacant eyes.
She took a slow, deliberate drag of her cigarette, the cherry glowing a violent orange in the dim light.
"About that…" she began, her voice dropping into a flat, icy register as she exhaled a thin, ghost-like stream of smoke. "That place doesn't exist anymore."
"Huh? Doesn't exist?" Damian's face twisted into an immediate expression of confusion. "What do you mean it doesn't exist? Did some rival guild raid it, or—?"
"That orphanage… as well as every single child that once lived there… are no longer," Sheila answered flatly, cutting him off before he could dig any deeper.
The implication hung horribly in the air.
Damian's jaw tightened, the tough, reckless front he usually maintained completely crumbling. He stared at her rigid silhouette before letting out a soft, defeated sigh.
"I'm sorry to hear that. My condolences, truly."
Sheila didn't respond to his pity. She didn't want it, and she certainly didn't need it. Instead, her mind drifted backward, the image of a very specific, blue-haired little girl flashing behind her eyelids.
'That's the entire reason I took her in the moment I had the chance,' Sheila thought bitterly, recalling the exact day she had stumbled upon the young rain-maker. 'So I could save her from the absolute darkness of this world before it swallowed her whole.'
'Juvia… I wonder what you're up to right now.'
Just then, the idle conversation at the table shattered. Both Damian and Sheila stiffened, their heads snapping in unison toward the western perimeter of the grand chamber.
At several points along the hall's perimeter, heavy, iron-banded oak doors led into the fortress's adjoining corridors—their dark surfaces usually worn smooth by years of constant use.
But as the pair locked their eyes onto one specific threshold, the ambient Ethernano in the room spiked violently.
BOOM!
A colossal, silver-gray cyclonic blast tore through the iron-reinforced door, obliterating the thick wood into flying shards of shrapnel.
The roaring tornado of iron-infused wind surged forward with terrifying velocity, plowing directly into the sunken fighting pit at the center of the guild hall.
Catastrophic screams and panicked shouts erupted through the chamber.
The sheer kinetic shockwave sent massive communal tables flying like cardboard, flipping benches and violently throwing several gambling mages through the air.
"What the hell is going on?" Damian growled, his carefree demeanor vanishing instantly as a serious, predatory expression locked onto his face. He surged to his feet, his amber eyes flashing.
As the dense, metallic smoke and dust slowly began to settle over the ruined center of the hall, a lone figure became visible on the splintered floor.
It was a young girl, coughing violently through the haze as she pulled herself up against the dented iron railing of the pit.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Did someone just attack the guild?"
"Is there a rogue battle going on in the corridors?!"
Dozens of Phantom Lord members began barking out questions, drawing weapons and flaring their magic in confusion.
'Juvia?!' Sheila's dull eyes widened in a rare, profound shock. 'What is she doing back here? And in that state?'
Mirroring Damian, she stood up in a single, fluid motion, her aristocratic composure completely cracking as she eyed the girl's battered appearance.
While Juvia continued to draw ragged, coughing breaths through the lingering exhaust, a dark silhouette stepped forward to frame itself within the shattered, smoking ruins of the doorway.
It was a boy.
His eyes were a striking, unnatural crimson, featuring sharp, dark slitted pupils that cast a fiercely intense, inhuman glare over the entire room.
He was a creature who lived purely for the visceral thrill of excitement—treating every life-or-death battle like an elaborate game and every new opponent as a fresh source of entertainment.
That jagged, carefree smirk resting on his lips masked a restless, bottomless hunger for raw combat, marking him as one of the single most unpredictable and dangerous wildcards in the entire guild.
Wiping a trace of soot from his bare shoulder, he let out a sharp, mocking chuckle that echoed off the high rafters.
"There you are. The water-maker in the flesh."
Gajeel Lionheart had entered the guild hall.