Krampus POV
The last piece clicked into place with a soft, satisfying hum of magic.
I let out a slow breath and leaned back, flexing my fingers as the residual glow faded from the array in front of me. White light condensed, stabilized, and finally settled into a smooth, flawless form resting in my palm.
Project Origin Seed.
So this was what I was doing now—standing at the end of a long road I'd only started walking because Laxus had asked a simple, dangerous question.
Could I get something like spiritual equipment?
Honestly… I should've seen that coming.
Later that night, I found myself in bed, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind my head, the other loosely wrapped around a very warm, very muscular lightning dragon slayer currently breathing against my chest. His magic pulsed faintly even in his sleep, steady and familiar. Wanting something more than just spells and raw power—that was pure Laxus. And the more I traced the origin of that request, the clearer it became that it wasn't just a personal desire.
It was an opportunity.
An opportunity to raise Fairy Tail's baseline firepower to an entirely new level.
In other worlds—other stories—this kind of thing was already standard.
Heroes in the Fate series wielded Noble Phantasms—manifestations of legend itself, crystallized myths bound to their very existence. In Bleach, shinigami didn't just carry swords; they awakened Zanpakutō, soul-bound partners that evolved alongside their wielder and spoke with their own will. In Douluo Dalu, cultivators manifested Martial Spirits, embodiments of one's cultivation path that dictated destiny, growth, and ultimate potential. Even in worlds like Housamo, sacred artifacts weren't mere tools but divine companions—relics that recognized their owner and responded to their resolve.
All of them shared the same fundamental truth.
Those weapons weren't external crutches you picked up when convenient. You didn't simply use them and discard them when the battle ended. You nurtured them like a living thing. You trained together, suffered together, evolved together. With every breakthrough in strength or insight, the weapon responded in kind—reshaping itself, unlocking new forms, new abilities, new depths. Mind, body, and soul synchronized until the boundary between wielder and equipment blurred, allowing them to unleash something far greater than the sum of their parts.
And here?
Earthland did things differently.
Magic circuits determined output. Spell formulas dictated results. Enchantments were layered onto weapons forged by someone else, bought with coin or stolen from ruins. And if you were unlucky—or desperate—you relied on forbidden magic tools dug up from some ancient tomb or black market auction.
Strong, sure.
But all of it was ultimately external.
Borrowed power.
Something that could be sealed, stolen, shattered, or—worse—turned against you the moment the conditions changed.
That never sat right with me.
Power that didn't originate from the self was power on a leash.
So… I fixed it.
I turned my head slightly and glanced at the nightstand. A faintly glowing white object rested there, smooth and flawless, quietly radiating a warmth that wasn't heat so much as presence.
An egg.
The Origin Seed.
It looked deceptively simple—an oval shell of condensed magic and soul-framework, white as fresh snow, without inscriptions, sigils, or artificer marks. No excess. No ego. Just a perfectly balanced container holding the raw blueprint of becoming.
Inside it wasn't a weapon yet, nor armor, nor anything recognizable. It was potential in its purest form—unshaped, unbiased, waiting for a soul to give it meaning.
Once absorbed, the Seed wouldn't sit idle like a lacrima or overwrite the user's essence. It would listen. It would incubate within the user's magic and soul, bathing in their attributes, affinities, instincts, habits, desires—everything that made them them. Their temperament, their fighting style, even the way they subconsciously perceived strength and protection would all be recorded.
And when it finally hatched…
Not just equipment.
Battle outfits that moved as naturally as skin, reinforcing the body where it was strongest and shoring it up where it was lacking. Weapons that felt less like something held and more like an extension of will, responding instantly to intent rather than command.
Spiritual equipment uniquely tailored to the individual, amplifying their strengths, compensating their weaknesses, and resonating directly with their magic frequency. If damaged or shattered, it wouldn't be lost—only withdrawn, recalled into the soul, and reforged with magic power once more. And as its owner grew stronger, refined their technique, or deepened their understanding of themselves… the equipment would grow alongside them.
A lifelong partner.
A second soul, born from the first.
…And if those outfits happened to accentuate shoulders, abs, pecs, thighs—highlighting the very physique that carried that power—well.
I grinned to myself.
Hehhehehe.
Happy accident.
The best part?
I was done.
Not almost. Not theoretically complete. Done.
The framework was stable down to the soul-thread level. The replication matrix was complete, self-correcting, and scalable. I'd stress-tested it against mana overload, resonance backlash, soul rejection—every failure state I could think of. It held. Every time.
Which meant I could start mass production whenever I wanted.
That realization carried weight.
This wasn't a prototype meant for a chosen few or a personal trump card tucked away for emergencies. This was infrastructure. Something that could redefine what it meant to be a Fairy Tail wizard—not by changing who they were, but by allowing their power to finally come from themselves.
And that was where things got complicated.
The only remaining question was policy.
I'd need to talk to Grandpa Makarov.
Was this something restricted to elites? A privilege earned through rank, merit, or trust? Or was this a universal right—something every Fairy Tail member could claim simply by belonging to the guild?
Power like this could protect.
Power like this could also change the balance of the world.
Project Origin Seed: completed.
Unfortunately… not everything was going that smoothly.
The Dragonman Project.
I exhaled slowly, fingers pressing against my brow as the familiar weight of it settled in.
On paper, it was perfect. Elegant, even. A stable beastman physiology that fused draconic traits with a humanoid framework without compromising identity. A permanent form that could be switched back to human at will, not a transformation locked behind moon phases or emotional triggers. No dragon seed madness gnawing at the soul. No creeping loss of self. No degeneration, no erosion, no inevitable point of no return.
Everything the first-generation Dragon Slayers should have had.
And yet.
Every time I pushed the design toward finalization, Earthland itself pushed back.
Not rejection. Not failure.
Just the same infuriating response.
No reference point.
It wasn't that the theory was flawed. The equations balanced. The soul-anchoring held. The biological restructuring was viable.
There was simply nothing in this world that had ever done this properly before.
I could brute-force it—design the dragonman model entirely from scratch, map every interaction between soul, magic, and flesh on my own. But that kind of foundational work didn't take weeks or months.
It took years.
Maybe decades.
And Takeover Magic was no help at all. Those transformations were overlays—borrowed skins worn temporarily over an unchanged core. The moment the magic ended, the body reverted. Useful in battle, impressive to look at, but fundamentally unstable for what I wanted.
What I was aiming for wasn't a spell.
It was a state of being.
Something permanent. Stable. Capable of existing for an entire lifetime without collapse.
Which meant… I needed precedent.
After digging through every keyword I could think of—ancient curses, hybrid physiologies, inherited transformations—something finally surfaced.
Werewolves.
Not a single condition, but a hierarchy.
At the top existed the Alpha werewolf—permanently transformed, locked in beast form for life. No human reason remained there, only predatory instinct and a brutal, animal intelligence honed for survival and dominance. These were the true source of the curse.
Those they infected didn't immediately lose themselves. Instead, the curse lay dormant, forcing transformation only during the full moon. In that period, the victim became a beast—mind overwhelmed, instincts dominant—and when dawn came, they reverted back to human form with no memory of what they'd done.
That state could last years. Even decades.
But the Alpha could choose otherwise.
If it deemed someone worthy—strong enough, compatible enough—it could forcibly elevate them. The result was a permanent transformation into werewolf form, sanity stripped away for life. Not mindless, but broken—kept as living backups, potential successor Alphas bound by instinct and curse.
A curse, yes—but curses were just magic with a bad PR team.
From a research standpoint, they were damn near perfect.
The problem?
They were rare as hell.
Not because the condition failed—but because it spread.
Anything contagious in Earthland didn't stay quiet for long. The moment a werewolf incident got confirmed, it didn't sit in the request board like a normal job. It got flagged. Escalated. Reclassified as urgent.
And once that happened, wizards rushed it.
Extermination teams. Multi-guild cooperation. Overkill by design.
Entire villages didn't even wait for proof—rumors alone were enough to light the fuse. Better to wipe out a potential outbreak than risk letting something like that spread unchecked.
Efficient. Brutal.
Effective.
Which meant most werewolves never lived long enough to be studied.
I let out a quiet groan.
Of course.
And there I was, naked in bed, mentally wrestling with ancient magical epidemiology, the rise-and-fall of Laxus's chest grounding me more than I cared to admit. His arms were locked around my waist like iron bands, possessive even in sleep. His face was relaxed, almost boyish when he wasn't awake—no thunder, no arrogance, just warmth. Lightning magic hummed softly under his skin, a low, constant resonance brushing against my senses.
If this was the calm before a storm, I was enjoying it far too much.
My thoughts kept circling back—curse vectors, Alpha dominance, soul stability—until my mind refused to settle. With a quiet sigh, I reached for my fairy phone out of habit, the screen lighting the dark as I idly scrolled. Routine updates. Completed requests. Low-rank jobs.
Then my thumb stopped.
My breath caught.
Mission Update – Posted This Afternoon
Priority: Escalated
Classification: Werewolf Extermination Request
Location: Bareshade Village (Remote)
…
What.
"—HOLY SHIT."
Laxus jolted awake. "Huh—? Another round already?" he muttered groggily, hand immediately sliding down my abs on instinct.
"NO—! Laxus, wait—!" I grabbed his wrist before things escalated. "Mission update. Werewolf. Bareshade."
That snapped him fully awake.
"…Werewolf?" he repeated, eyes sharpening.
I nodded, excitement buzzing through me—not just at the mission, but at what it represented. "A real one. Stable transformation. This could be the reference point I need."
His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was aligning pieces he'd already been holding.
Because this wasn't the first time I'd brought up his future.
Weeks ago—after training, after bruises, after the kind of silence that only comes when a man has finally run out of excuses—I'd sat Laxus down and talked to him properly. Not as a guild master giving orders. Not as a lover teasing fantasies. As someone who understood what lived inside his soul.
I'd told him how Dragon Slayer magic started: Irene's enchantment theory made flesh. Humans grafted with draconic law. Powerful, yes—but flawed. The dragon seed wasn't a bedtime story. It was a real spiritual consequence, a slow rewrite of the self. When the change from human to dragon became too drastic, the soul buckled under sensations it wasn't built to carry. Madness. Dissociation. A hunger that didn't feel like yours.
And I'd been honest about what scared me most.
Not that Laxus would become weaker.
That he'd become stronger in a way that didn't leave him human enough to care.
So I showed him my counterproposal.
A stable beastman model. A dragonman form that could exist for life without uncontrolled dragonization. A state of being you could enter and leave at will—human when you wanted, dragon-augmented when you needed. Not a temporary Takeover overlay. Not a curse. Not some brittle lacrima hack with a growth cap.
A true, permanent restructuring done right, anchored to the soul so it wouldn't eat away at who he was.
I didn't sugarcoat the cost.
I told him it would take time. That it would need references the world didn't like to leave alive. That if we did it wrong, it wouldn't be a power-up—it would be a life sentence.
Laxus had listened the whole way through.
Then he'd asked the only question that mattered.
"Will it make me stronger?"
"Yes," I'd said.
"…And will I still be me?"
I'd looked him straight in the eyes then, too.
"That's the entire point."
He'd held my gaze for a long moment, and then—like the decision had always been waiting behind his ribs—he'd nodded.
"Do it," he'd said, voice low and steady. "If it's you, I'll take it. I want the strength. I want the future."
So now, in the dark, with his hand still hot against my stomach and his attention fully locked on me, I didn't have to sell him anything.
"And—" I looked him dead in the eyes. "—it could change your future, too."
For a beat, lightning flickered faintly under his skin—more feeling than magic.
Then Laxus grinned wide.
"I'm in."
Of course he was.
I booked the mission immediately. Departure: tomorrow.
Silence lingered for half a heartbeat.
Then Laxus cracked his neck, a slow roll of muscle and intent. "Since I'm awake anyway…"
His hands returned with purpose—not hurried, not crude—just certain. Fingers traced familiar lines, lingering where lightning liked to gather, where my magic answered his without a word.
I sighed, laughter soft and breath-warm between us. "You're impossible."
"Yeah," he murmured, pulling me close until there was no space left to argue in. His forehead brushed mine, his breath steady, grounding. "But you love it."
I did.
The night unraveled into heat and chaos—low growls and rough breaths tearing free, the bed protesting loudly beneath their weight. Sheets tangled and slid, the air thick with magic and sweat, lightning snapping sharp and wild against divine warmth. Everything was close, wet, messy, overwhelming in the best way—sounds colliding, bodies crashing together without patience or restraint. No words. No civility. Just two forces slamming into alignment until the world dissolved into noise, motion, and heat.
The world faded to black.
—
Morning came fast.
Too fast.
The kind of morning that snapped into existence whether you were ready or not, dragging you out of warmth and sweat and half-remembered noise with the blunt insistence of responsibility. Not that I minded. By the time sunlight crept through the curtains, my body was already awake even if my thoughts weren't quite there yet.
Laxus shifted beside me, heavy and solid, radiating heat like a living furnace. He was half-awake, eyes still closed, breath slow but charged, lightning magic crackling faintly under his skin like a storm pacing behind glass. Impatient even in rest. Always ready to move, to fight, to go.
We didn't linger.
This wasn't one of those mornings where you pretended the world could wait.
A flagged mission didn't wait.
By the time we stepped into the guild hall, the noise dipped just a fraction. Familiar stares. Familiar nods. Respect where it was earned. Wariness where it wasn't. A few sets of eyes widened when they realized who had taken the job—and more importantly, who was standing beside whom.
I didn't slow down.
"Bareshade," I said briefly, signing off the request without ceremony.
Makarov looked up from his desk. His gaze moved from the mission details, to me, then to Laxus at my side. For a moment, he didn't joke. Didn't lecture.
"…Be careful," he said quietly.
I smiled, easy and untroubled. "Always."
Laxus rolled his shoulders, joints popping as he cracked his neck, already slipping into that familiar pre-mission edge. "We'll be back before dinner."
And that was that.
We teleported.
Not through public circles or rented arrays.
I'd long since marked every major city across Ishgar with my own teleportation anchors—quiet, permanent sigils threaded directly into the land's mana flow. Any Fairy Tail member with a Fairy Phone could access them. No delays. No tolls. No permissions.
A perk of infrastructure done right.
The first jump dropped us into the closest marked city to Bareshade. The transition was instant, clean—no vertigo, no mana backlash—just a sharp displacement and then stone underfoot.
The city itself was… old-fashioned.
Not Crocus old—where medieval aesthetics were carefully blended with modern magic and hidden technology beneath polished stone and illusion.
This place hadn't made that leap.
The streets were simple and worn, built the way they always had been. Sparse enchantments used only where absolutely necessary. No integrated mana lines reinforcing infrastructure, no city-wide grids smoothing logistics or sanitation.
Just stone, mud, smoke, iron—and people living the same way their grandparents had, because progress had simply passed them by.
Which meant Bareshade would be worse.
We chained teleports from there, leaping forward again and again, cutting distance brutally. Each jump tore a chunk of land out from between us and Bareshade, the scenery blurring into meaningless flashes of stone, road, and treeline. With every landing, the forest crept closer, the air grew heavier, and the ambient magic thinned, stretched taut like a skin pulled too far.
Something in my chest tightened.
Not pain. Not fear.
Recognition.
An ill omen.
Not the kind that whispered of failure or warned of impossible odds. I'd long since stopped listening to those.
This one felt… petty.
The kind that promised irritation. Bureaucratic stupidity. Small-minded cruelty. Something needlessly ugly waiting to be stepped in. The sort of unpleasantness that didn't threaten my life, but would gnaw at my patience and sour my mood long before blood was spilled.
I sighed quietly as we jumped again.
Of course.
The moment we landed at the outskirts of Bareshade, I knew exactly why.
The village looked like it had been scraped out of the dirt and forgotten, as if someone had carved a settlement straight into the land and then abandoned it to fend for itself. Narrow paths wound between crooked wooden houses, their beams warped with age and neglect. Windows shuttered too quickly. Doors that didn't quite close all the way. Faces that had learned to distrust first and ask questions never.
And the moment they saw me—
Fear rippled.
Not screamed. Not panicked.
It spread quietly, instinctively, like an animal sensing a predator before it understands why. People stopped mid-step. Conversations died in throats. A few stiffened like they were about to step forward, to challenge, to demand answers… only to freeze halfway, eyes widening, bodies locking in place as something deep and primal told them no. Not danger. Judgment.
My aura had changed over the years.
It used to intimidate those who had already sinned—those who knew, on some level, that they deserved to be afraid.
Now?
It pressed earlier than that. Deeper. It discouraged the idea of sin entirely, a pressure that whispered consequences before intent could fully form.
Prevention was better than cure.
Still, the looks I got—the furtive glances heavy with suspicion, the clenched jaws, the unspoken judgments baked into every stare—were painfully nostalgic in the worst way. I'd seen that look before. Lived under it. Carried it long enough to know exactly what it meant.
Laxus bristled instantly, his entire posture tightening like a coiled strike.
"The hell are you all lookin—"
I squeezed his hand.
Not hard. Just enough.
He stopped immediately, breath catching as instinct overrode anger. The lightning under his skin snapped once, then settled, contained.
I didn't slow my pace. Didn't acknowledge the stares, the mutters, the fear masquerading as hostility. I just led him forward, fingers interlaced, my grip steady and deliberate—an anchor as much as a gesture.
Ever since Laxus and I made it official, something in my mind had settled. Sublimated. Old scars that used to itch under scrutiny simply… didn't anymore. With my love fully returned, fully claimed, there was no hollow space left for this kind of ugliness to sink its teeth into.
Say it.
Look.
Glare.
I'm invincible.
People parted as we walked, clearing the way like we carried plague or judgment incarnate. Those who dared glare openly felt it snap back at them immediately—Laxus returning the look tenfold, lightning flaring sharp and warning just beneath his skin, promising consequences without a word spoken.
And then there were the exceptions.
A small handful who didn't flinch. Who didn't avert their eyes.
They stared not with fear, but awe.
Recognition.
Respect.
Veterans. Travelers. People who'd seen enough of the world to know what real power looked like.
Laxus noticed them instantly. His spine straightened, chin lifting, expression settling into something smug and satisfied.
Finally someone knows the goods, his face seemed to say.
It was only a short walk before we reached the only bar in Bareshade—a squat, weather-beaten building that smelled of old wood, stale ale, and the kind of history that never made it into books. The sign creaked lazily in the wind, paint long faded, but the place was clearly the village's nerve center. Conversations paused the moment we stepped inside.
The client was easy to spot.
He took up space behind the counter like it belonged to him—which, judging by the way people deferred without thinking, it probably did.
First impression?
Goddamn, he was fat.
Not sickly. Not weak. Just broad and heavy, the kind of bulk that came from years of good food, long nights, and a life lived stubbornly on one's own terms.
Second impression?
Relaxed. Grounded. Sharp eyes behind the bulk, watching everything without looking like he was trying.
Harold.
He blinked when he saw me, eyes widening just a fraction.
Then his posture eased, tension bleeding out of his shoulders like someone had just lifted a weight he'd been carrying too long.
"…Well I'll be damned," he said, letting out a breath and giving a low chuckle. "Didn't think I'd get you."
His expression practically screamed this job will be completed now.
"As expected," I thought. As one of Bareshade's leaders—the one who actually communicated with the outside world—Harold knew better. He'd seen enough traders, mercenaries, and wandering mages to recognize real authority when it walked in. He wasn't carrying the village's rot on his shoulders, just its responsibility.
Laxus seemed pleasantly surprised too, tension easing from his stance as he took Harold in.
Harold recovered quickly and gestured toward a side door half-hidden behind stacked barrels. "Private room. Let's talk."
Once seated, he inclined his head respectfully, hands folding together atop the table. "Thank you. Both of you. For taking this. It means a lot that the Warden… and Thor of Fairy Tail would answer our call."
There was relief there. Not flattery. Relief that someone capable had finally shown up.
"Get to it," Laxus said bluntly, already leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.
Harold nodded without offense. "Right. The rumors are real. Werewolves in the forest next to Bareshade." He paused, jaw tightening. "We had an incident years back—one casualty. A young man. Good worker. Better friend."
His fingers drummed once against the table. "Back then, we were too poor to hire mages. Couldn't even afford a proper escort, let alone extermination. No more sightings followed, so the matter was… buried. People told themselves it was a one-off. Easier that way."
He exhaled heavily. "But lately? Howls every night. Not distant either. Close enough to hear the breathing between them. Sightings near the village—edges of torchlight, shapes slipping back into the trees. Too close. Too many."
I frowned. "They're mounting something."
"Yes," Harold said grimly. "An attack. Or at least the preparation for one."
He hesitated, then continued, voice lowering. "And worse—some friends of the old victim have started talking. Grief festers when it's left alone this long. They think if they strike first, they can end it. Spears. Traps. Torches."
"Reckless idiots," Laxus muttered.
Harold nodded. "Exactly. Brave. Angry. And very dead if they try."
"So you posted the mission," I said quietly.
"Before they get themselves killed," he confirmed. "Before they wake something they can't put back to sleep."
I rose from my seat. "We'll finish this by evening."
Harold looked up sharply, then nodded once. "That's all I can ask."
Laxus cracked his knuckles, lightning snapping softly around his fingers. "Leave it to us."
As we turned to leave, my ears caught something—voices outside, hushed but frantic, panic barely kept under control.
"…Logan went after them."
"…Bernard chased him into the forest."
Everything inside me went cold.
My expression hardened.
"Change of plans," I said, already moving. "We accelerate."
Because now?
Lives were on the clock.