"Lightning Dragon's Breakdown Fist!"
Laxus lunged, his arm wreathed in spiraling arcs of violent gold, the roar of the spell shaking stained glass loose from its frames. The punch slammed toward Aelius with enough force to crater steel—but Aelius shifted at the last instant, his hand twisting up with sickly green light.
"Pox Make: Filament Vein."
Tendrils of toxic mist spiraled from his palm, not to block the blow, but to ride its current—parasites flowing like static into the lightning itself. Laxus struck true, slamming Aelius into the crumbling altar wall with a bone-rattling crash—but in the same heartbeat, he staggered, the muscles in his shoulder twitching unnaturally, his veins lighting up with a dull violet glow beneath the skin.
"You—" he hissed through his teeth.
"Neuroparalytic strain," Aelius murmured, stepping forward through the rubble, the imprint of Laxus's blow still pressed deep into his chest. "Takes the edge off your speed. Don't worry—it's temporary."
Laxus snarled, electricity flaring outward in violent bursts. "Raging Bolt!"
The sky above shattered with a roar of thunder. Pillars of lightning crashed down from the broken ceiling in rapid succession. Aelius ducked and moved with surgical precision, weaving between the bolts. One clipped his side—burning through his sleeve—but he didn't so much as flinch. Blood hissed against stone as it hit the floor.
"Plague Gods: Hollow Bloom."
Flowers of rot erupted once more from the cracked flagstones at his feet, their petals blooming in a thousand diseased hues. But before they could release their poison—
"Lightning Dragon's Heavenward Halberd!"
Laxus brought his hand down like a divine guillotine, the lightning scything across the battlefield in a brutal arc. The halberd-shaped surge bisected the floor and vaporized every flower before the spores even had a chance to take air.
Aelius leapt back—hands raised, conjuring another spell—but again, Laxus was there.
"Lightning Body."
He vanished in a blur of electricity, appearing behind Aelius mid-cast.
Aelius turned just in time to catch the tail-end of the punch with a raised forearm. The impact cracked bone, forcing him to skid across the cathedral floor. Still, his face betrayed nothing. No pain. No hesitation. Just a quiet calculation.
He stood.
"You're really starting to piss me off!" Laxus roared, frustration boiling through the static in his voice. "You just keep standing there—just reacting! What the hell kind of fight is this?!"
Aelius blinked, slowly straightening, letting the dust fall from his shoulders. He didn't deny the accusation. He hadn't gone fully on the offensive—not truly. Every spell, every motion, was honed to precision, measured to exacting degrees.
Because behind him, barely conscious, Natsu and Gajeel still breathed. Still moved. And he would not risk a single stray spore falling into their lungs.
Laxus didn't understand that restraint. And Aelius wasn't going to explain it.
Instead, he rolled his shoulder and calmly spoke, voice low and steady:
Instead, he rolled his shoulder and calmly spoke, voice low and steady—not casting, not provoking, just existing in that silent, suffocating stillness that always seemed to follow him like shadow rot in the corners of the light.
He took one step forward.
It echoed.
Another—measured, deliberate.
The corrosion from his last spell still bubbled behind him in a widening pool of greenish mire, hissing quietly like a snake too patient to strike.
Laxus grit his teeth.
That silence—it was infuriating. More than any taunt. More than any spell.
"You think you're better than me, huh?" he spat, sparks flying from his mouth with every word, voice rising like a thunderhead. "Standing there all high and hollow—pretending you don't feel anything. Pretending you're in control."
He pointed at the bodies behind Aelius—Natsu slumped against a pillar, blood streaked down his cheek, Gajeel still unconscious but breathing. "You're holding back. I see it. You think I don't notice, but I do. Every time you twitch instead of strike. Every time you flinch toward them instead of me."
His hand clenched into a fist, and with a growl, the ground split at his feet from the sudden discharge.
"You're a hypocrite," he snarled. "You think I'm the villain here? You think I'm wrong for throwing off the dead weight? The only thing I despise more than the weak are the fools like you who hold themselves back for the weak."
Electricity exploded outward from his form—golden arcs climbing the walls, racing along the fissures, dancing like vengeful ghosts through the shattered cathedral.
"You could've ended this by now. We both know it. But you're tiptoeing around their fragile little lives—and for what? Some dying old man's wish?"
He advanced again—brash, boiling over, lips curled in disgust.
"They don't trust you. They don't even understand you. But you'd bleed yourself dry for them anyway. That's not strength. That's cowardice."
Aelius's footsteps stopped.
He looked at Laxus—not with outrage, not with anger.
But with something colder.
Older.
Like a still lake where something massive waited just below the surface.
"…You mistake stillness for hesitation," he said at last, his tone stripped of any pretense. "And mercy for cowardice."
The sigils around his arms flared back to life—silent, spinning faster now. The spores that clung to the air around him vibrated with a new frequency. The green light behind his eyes didn't burn brighter—it sank deeper.
"I've fought long enough to know exactly how much force it takes to kill someone," he added, taking another step.
"And I've killed enough to know how to stop just short."
Laxus scoffed—but something in the air shifted. He felt it. His instincts were screaming. That the thing in front of him wasn't posturing anymore. It wasn't calculating. It had made a choice.
Aelius raised his hand, and his magic pulsed.
"Plague Gods: Nerve Rapture."
It hit like a whisper—impossible to see. A breeze of something unseen but felt—something that made the spine twitch, the nerves in Laxus's right hand spasm.
He growled and shook it off, charging in anyway.
"Lightning Dragon's Jaw!"
The air detonated around his fist as he swung—a spiraling hammer of voltage crashing down toward Aelius's skull.
But Aelius ducked beneath it, unnaturally smooth, and slid low.
"Pox Make: Necrobind."
A flash of green in the shape of thorned, rotting chains erupted from the cracked stone, snaring Laxus's ankles. Not strong enough to hold him long, but enough to steal a moment.
Aelius rose, fast, no wasted motion—and drove his palm forward.
"Black Breath."
The impact was silent—his hand pressing into Laxus's solar plexus, a point of pure necrotic magic surging into his bloodstream in a concentrated burst of hallucinogenic toxin.
Laxus staggered, swinging wide—too late.
Aelius was already gone—behind him again, calm, watching.
"You're wrong," he said, voice barely above a whisper as Laxus clutched his ribs, electricity flaring again in reflex. "They do understand me."
He raised one hand toward Natsu and Gajeel—not casting, not striking. Just showing.
"They know what I am."
Then his gaze cut back to Laxus, and the glow in his eyes darkened to something primal.
"And they still stood behind me."
He stepped forward once more as the battle resumed.
Laxus wiped a smear of blood from his lip, eyes still crackling with untamed voltage. He laughed—short, sharp, biting.
"Cut the bullshit," he said, stepping forward, his voice brimming with something more than mockery now. "Where's the real you, huh?"
Another step—lightning danced along his shoulders, arching between the runes along his arms, the static humming louder.
"I'm not talking about this quiet, reformed thing you're playing at now. I mean the one who left a trail of death in that forest.
Aelius exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath thin and measured. His head tilted—just slightly—as if listening to some echo not heard by mortal ears. His gaze shifted, not softening but thinning, narrowed not by pain but by irritation.
"I'd hoped that would be behind me already," he said, voice quiet and worn like the edge of a long-used knife. "It's already brought me more trouble than it was ever worth."
But Laxus pressed forward, his grin widening as lightning snapped across his shoulders in sharp, jagged flares. He could taste the line now—feel it beneath his feet—and he leaned into it with the recklessness of someone who enjoyed pushing too far.
"No such luck," he said, almost laughing. "What was her name again?" His head cocked, feigning thought though the malice was clear. "Neshi, right?"
Aelius's movement stopped.
Dead still.
No defensive stance. No words. Not even breath, for a moment.
"What did she do to piss you off so bad?" Laxus pressed, voice like a blade now. "Say something wrong? Beg the wrong way? Or did she remind you too much of—"
"Don't," Aelius said flatly.
The air around him dropped in temperature, as if the very spores pulled back to brace.
"I don't know who so willingly fed you that information," he went on, voice quiet and razor-thin, "but you'll not speak her name again."
Laxus didn't flinch, but something in him did take a step back—even if only internally. He felt it now. The sudden shift in pressure. That same thing he mocked, that he had tried to drag into the light, was now staring back at him with eyes that had no room left for moral high ground.
It wasn't just silence anymore.
It was a warning.
And it wasn't going to be given twice.
Laxus let out a sharp laugh, not out of humor but challenge—taunting and laced with lightning. His shoulders shook with it, sparks trailing down his arms as though feeding off the tension now thick enough to strangle.
"See?" he said, grinning wide. "You can act all cold and mysterious, all untouchable and distant, but it's still in there. You're still just another guy who snaps when the right name gets said."
He stepped forward again, electricity cracking across the stone beneath his boots. The air trembled with the static, sharp and invasive.
"You think you're different?" Laxus's tone sharpened, condescension flickering just behind the grin. "You think hiding behind that mask, that pretty poison, makes you anything more than the rest of us? Makes you above this?" He gestured between them, between violence and blood and the past still whispering under both their skin. "I like this part of you. Makes you real."
The spores thickened around Aelius again, coiling in the air like a slow, drawn breath.
But he didn't move. Not yet. Not even when his fingers twitched at his side, subtle as a death sentence.
Laxus kept going, because of course he did. "What'd she do, anyway?" he asked, like it was casual conversation. "Break your heart? Stab you in the back? Or did you just wake up and decide you were too dangerous to care about anyone at all?"
Still no answer. No rage. No curse hurled back.
Just that silence.
The warning had already been given.
And it was done being generous.
Aelius raised his hand.
It wasn't a flourish. There was no dramatic surge of power, no explosion of spores or rot to herald what might have followed. Just a simple, deliberate motion—fingers spread, palm tilted ever so slightly toward the space between them. Enough to promise death. Enough to mean it.
The air shifted. Even Laxus—brimming with power, spoiled on certainty—felt it. The magic coiled like a beast behind the gesture, invisible but undeniable. It made the walls creak. Made the floor whisper in cracks.
But it didn't come.
Instead, Aelius's hand trembled—barely, but it did. A twitch in the fingers. The tell of pressure mounting from within, not without. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered it. Let the would-be execution fade back into stillness.
He sighed.
Not heavily. Not like someone wounded or wearied by pain. But like someone tired of revisiting a room they thought they'd locked for good. It carried no resignation—but it reeked of bitterness, and something worse.
Finality.
"...She doesn't belong here," he said quietly, more to the floor than to Laxus. "And neither does that part of me."
Laxus stared at him, grin faltering, teeth still bared but losing the edge. Confusion flickered. Disbelief, maybe. Even he didn't expect restraint—not like this.
But Aelius wasn't looking at him. His gaze had shifted somewhere far behind him, behind the stone and smoke and dust. Somewhere unreachable. His voice when he next spoke was still steady—sharp, measured—but the edges were duller now, as if dulled by too many cuts.
"You talk like you want the monster," he muttered, lowering his hand completely, brushing soot from his sleeve like it disgusted him. "But you don't know what that costs. You've never had to live with what's left when the rot settles and there's nothing left to poison but yourself."
Then—finally—his eyes returned to Laxus. And they were still cold. Still green and bright like stained glass before the fire reaches it.
"Pathetic."
With a snarl, Laxus thrust his hand forward, unleashing a surge of lightning—fueled by his fury—that slammed into Aelius, hurling him backward. Aelius crashed against the stone wall beside the cathedral's open doors, the impact sending dust and debris into the air.
As Aelius struggled to rise, a voice rang out from the entrance.
"Laxus, stop!"
Levy stood in the doorway, her eyes wide with urgency. "Master Makarov is on the verge of death," she pleaded. "Please stop this madness."
Laxus turned to face her, his expression hard. "The old man? He should have stepped down long ago."
"He's dying, Laxus!" Levy shouted, tears streaming down her face. "Is this how you honor him? By tearing the guild apart?"
Aelius, still leaning against the wall, watched silently, the tension in the air palpable.
Levy stepped closer, her voice softer now. "Please, Laxus. Come back to us. Before it's too late."
For a brief moment, there was only the sounds of the town, a reminder of the peace just outside the chaos. But in that stillness, Laxus's laughter shattered the quiet—a harsh, mocking sound, filled not with anger, but with an almost manic joy. It echoed off the broken walls, reverberating through the empty halls like a dark promise, like the crackling energy that surged around him.
He stepped forward, the electric aura around him pulsing with life as if it were answering his every step. His eyes were alight with triumph, a grin spreading across his face that was almost feral in its intensity.
"Well then," Laxus said, voice thick with glee, "it looks like I'm guaranteed to be the next Guild Master."
His laugh bubbled up again, louder this time, a sound of exhilaration that filled the air, unmistakably victorious. The kind of laugh that belonged to someone who had just seen the culmination of all their work—someone who knew the world was bending to their will. "The old man fades, and the guild will belong to me, by fire and force, no questions asked." His eyes gleamed with raw ambition. "No one left to stand in my way. Just me, the guild, and the future I'll carve out for it."
His gaze flicked toward Aelius, still standing near the wall, his bloody chest dripping, unyielding in his silent defiance. Aelius's gaze never wavered, a coldness in his eyes that made Laxus feel even more alive, even more powerful.
Laxus let out another satisfied chuckle, his hands crackling with energy, as if the mere thought of his victory fueled his magic. "Unless, of course, one of you plans to stop me."
His voice lowered, dripping with arrogance, daring anyone to challenge his reign. "But I highly doubt you could anyway."
Levy followed Laxus's gaze, her breath catching as her eyes landed on the figure slumped against the cathedral wall.
It took a second—one long, harrowing second—for her mind to register what she was actually seeing.
Aelius stood there, not collapsed but held upright by some iron will that defied common sense. His head was bowed slightly, shadows draped over his features, one hand braced against the wall as the other hung limp at his side. But it wasn't his posture that froze her in place.
It was the wound.
The blast from Laxus hadn't just knocked him back—it had torn through him. A gaping hole, jagged and seared around the edges, was carved clean through the left side of his torso, just opposite his heart. The fabric of his shirt had fused with the charred skin, peeled away in ribbons around the blast radius. Beneath the ruin of cloth and flesh, Levy could see the pale shimmer of exposed ribs, the glisten of raw muscle still twitching, still trying to function, and behind it all, the grotesque motion of organs shifting faintly—still alive. Still working.
The wound hadn't closed. It wasn't healing.
Her heart twisted at the sight—at the unnatural stillness of Aelius, the way he didn't move except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His breathing was slow, methodical, as if every breath was a calculation. There was no outward sign of pain. No flinch. No grimace. Just that same detached, impassive mask.
And that made it worse.
"Aelius…" she whispered, horror bleeding into her voice.
He slowly raised his head at that—eyes duller now, yet steady, unwavering, not meeting hers but not avoiding her either. There was a chill in them, a resigned stillness, as though this was neither unexpected nor unwelcome. He blinked once, deliberately, then shifted his gaze back to Laxus as if Levy hadn't spoken at all.
The blood pooling at his feet didn't seem to concern him. Nor did the exposed bone or ruined muscle. He stood in silence, like a statue carved in suffering and defiance, daring Laxus to see it as weakness.
Laxus's laugh finally died down into a satisfied exhale, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of power. "Still standing, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "I gotta admit, that's impressive. Most people would be screaming by now. Or dead."
Levy didn't speak. Couldn't. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, torn between the horror of what she was witnessing and the rage that was slowly mounting in her chest.
Aelius's hand lifted, slow and deliberate, toward the scorched, gaping hole in his chest. His fingers curled around the charred edge of the wound, the blackened flesh cracking faintly under the pressure of his touch. Blood seeped around the edges—dark, slow-moving, almost too thick—but he didn't so much as blink.
He straightened, vertebrae clicking faintly beneath the bloodstained fabric of his torn shirt. The movement was controlled, almost mechanical, like a puppet lifting itself from the ground, not because it wanted to—but because it refused not to. His face betrayed nothing: no anger, no agony, no fear. Only that cold, calculated focus. His eyes never left Laxus. Not once.
Levy called his name again, voice taut with worry, but he didn't answer. Not out of cruelty. Not out of disregard. But because in that moment, every fraction of his attention was pinned like a blade-tip on the man before him.
Laxus—grinning, powerful, wild with heat and lightning, too caught up in his momentum to recognize what he was looking at.
"You want to know why I restrain myself, Laxus?" Aelius spoke finally, voice low and even, the words threading through the cathedral like steel wire, quiet and impossible to ignore. "It's not morality. It's not compassion. And it's certainly not fear."
He dug his fingers into the wound.
The sound was sickening—wet and fibrous, flesh parting as his hand forced its way past scorched tissue. Blood spilled freely now, streaking down his side, painting the ruined white of his shirt in thick crimson arcs. Still, he didn't flinch.
"I show restraint," he continued, still driving his fingers deeper into the cavity, "only because I pity the fool standing before me—a man who's lived his whole life on half-truths and hollow convictions. You chase power like it'll fix whatever rots inside you, but you don't even know what it's for. Your ego is the only constant in your life. And despite all that—"
His hand yanked back, a length of ruined, charred tissue torn free in his grip. It hit the cathedral floor with a wet slap.
"—these people still care for you."
As he dropped the blackened flesh, the wound on his torso began to shift—slowly, but unmistakably. Where the dead, cauterized tissue had been, new growth began to bloom. Veins stretched, muscles pulled taut and knitted together with impossible precision, sinew reforming with the steady, grotesque elegance of something practiced. Regeneration sparked anew, crawling through his skin like vines twisting up a decayed wall.
"I restrain myself not because you deserve mercy," Aelius said, voice dropping an octave, colder than before, "but because they still see something worth saving in you."
His hand flexed once, then lowered.
"And that, Laxus, is more than you've ever deserved."
The air turned heavy, a static pressure building again as magic stirred from both sides—rot and lightning, poison and storm—ready to clash once more.
"You think you know me?" Laxus growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can stand there, bleeding and broken, and judge me?"
He took a step forward, the ground beneath him sizzling with each movement. "I've fought for this guild, bled for it, and yet you dare to question my loyalty?"
Laxus raised his hands, a blinding light beginning to emanate from his palms. The energy coalesced into a sphere of pure magic, illuminating the cathedral with an ethereal glow. The very air seemed to hum with power, the walls trembling under the force of the spell.
"Fairy Law," he intoned, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Let this be the end of your arrogance."
A beam of light shot forth, enveloping the area in a radiant explosion. The spell, one of the three legendary Fairy Magics, was designed to target only those the caster perceived as enemies, leaving allies unharmed. Its power was immense, capable of incapacitating even the strongest foes in an instant.
Laxus's eyes gleamed as the sacred words left his lips, his voice thick with wrath and triumph.
"Let's see if you can hold up to this," he growled, arms outstretched as the radiant torrent of Fairy Law surged forth.
The cathedral was swallowed in brilliance—pure white light flaring so violently it cast towering shadows of stained glass across the stone walls. Pillars cracked. Dust rained from above. The hum of ancient magic vibrated in the bones of every onlooker. Levy shielded her eyes, heart pounding, while even Natsu and Gajeel, now fully alert behind her, tensed at the feel of the spell.
It felt like judgment. Like finality.
And then, silence.
The light receded in an elegant, dying shimmer, like sunlight leaving a cathedral at dusk. The wind settled. The floor, scorched and groaning, steamed faintly under the aftershock.
But Aelius was still there.
He stood precisely where he had been, amidst the rubble and fractured tiles, his silhouette unfazed. Blood still stained his side. His cloak was gone. His shirt was torn, and his hair hung slightly loose now, bits of dust and embers caught in it—but he stood. No blast marks. No burns. No paralysis. His body, still bloodied and healing, hadn't suffered another scratch.
Laxus's smirk faltered.
The silence that followed was worse than any explosion.
Aelius slowly opened his eyes, unblinking. His hand lowered from where it had shielded nothing. He didn't laugh. He didn't flinch. He only looked at Laxus with something that resembled pity—and far more damningly, understanding.
Fairy Law had done nothing.
Because in Laxus's heart—even through the rage and bitterness, through the blow dealt and the wound given—he hadn't truly seen Aelius as an enemy.
Not completely.
And so, the spell obeyed.
And spared him.
As the radiant light of Fairy Law faded, leaving the cathedral bathed in an eerie silence, Laxus stood motionless, his expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. The spell, meant to vanquish his enemies, had left Aelius untouched. Before he could process this, a familiar voice broke the silence.
Freed Justine, his clothes singed and a fresh wound visible from an earlier battle, stepped into the cathedral. His gaze was steady, filled with a mix of pain and understanding.
"Laxus," Freed began, his voice calm but firm, "Fairy Law didn't work because it reads the caster's heart. No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, deep down, you don't see us as your enemies."
Laxus turned to face his comrade, the weight of Freed's words sinking in. The realization that his own heart had betrayed his intentions was a heavy burden.
Freed continued, "You can hide your feelings from everyone else, even from yourself, but your magic knows the truth. It reflects what's truly in your heart."
The tension in the room was palpable, the silence speaking volumes. Laxus, confronted with the undeniable truth, felt the walls he'd built around his emotions begin to crumble.
In that moment, the battle-hardened mage was reminded of the bonds that tied him to his guild, the family he'd tried to distance himself from. The power of Fairy Law had not failed; it had revealed the truth he had long tried to suppress
Laxus's face twisted with fury, his pride wounded by the failure of Fairy Law and Freed's revelation. With a roar, he unleashed another lightning-infused spell, hurling it directly at Aelius. The bolt crackled through the air, its path unerring.
Aelius, though injured, reacted swiftly. He raised his hand, catching the lightning with a grimace. The force pushed him back, his back being forced farther into the wall, but he remained upright. The energy seared his arm, leaving scorch marks and the scent of burnt flesh.
He looked up, his eyes meeting Laxus's with exasperation but still no pain. "Why me?" he asked, his voice steady despite the injury. "He's the one who said it."
Laxus's eyes narrowed, his fists clenched at his sides. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with the aftermath of magic and unresolved emotions.
Freed, still leaning against the doorway, sighed. "Because you're the one who challenges him the most. You don't just fight him—you confront the truths he doesn't want to face."
Laxus turned his glare toward Freed, but the words seemed to have struck a chord. His shoulders sagged slightly, the fight draining from him as the weight of his actions settled in.
The cathedral remained silent, the echoes of battle fading into the distance. Outside, the storm had begun to subside, the thunder rolling away as if taking the anger with it.
Aelius straightened again, slow but unshaken, blood running in slow rivulets down his side. His chest still bore the gaping wound Laxus had inflicted, the ragged edges scorched and red, but he moved like it meant nothing—as if pain were a currency he'd long ago stopped counting.
"That's not it," he said, voice low but firm, eyes locked on the blonde across from him. "It's because he's scared. He knows I'm the one standing between him and his dream."
He turned slightly, just enough to cast a glance over his shoulder—first at Levy, then at Freed. His tone sharpened, more command than suggestion.
"Levy."
She jolted at the sound of her name, eyes wide, hands curled near her chest as if she'd been bracing for another blast. Her breath caught, her fingers twitching reflexively at his voice.
"Take the Dragon Slayers," Aelius continued, every syllable crisp with restrained urgency, "and get them out of here. Now. Don't let anyone else through those doors."
Levy nodded quickly, swallowing hard. Her eyes flicked to Natsu and Gajeel, both still unconscious nearby, before darting back to Aelius. "R-Right," she stammered, already moving, her boots scuffing against the fractured stone as she hurried to their sides.
"Freed," Aelius said next, his tone low but absolute, sharpened by something heavier than command—responsibility. "Help her."
Freed, though still clearly worn from earlier clashes, stepped forward without hesitation, gripping his sword tighter, a slight wince crossing his face as the movement pulled at the wound on his shoulder. But his resolve never wavered.
Aelius's gaze lingered on them both, just long enough to make certain the message landed.
"And neither of you come back in," he added—flat, final. "If anyone tries, you stop them. I don't care who it is."
Levy froze in place for a heartbeat, looking back at him, her lips parting as if to protest—but the look in his eyes stole the words from her throat. There was no warmth there. No softness. Only the weight of a man who had already decided what came next, and knew the path wouldn't allow anyone else to walk it with him.
"…Understood," Freed said quietly.
And with that, they moved, Levy already struggling to help carry Natsu and Gajeel, the spell glowing faintly under her trembling fingers. Freed stood guard behind her, sword drawn, already facing the ruined doors like the sentinel he was trained to be.
Behind them, the cathedral held its breath again—stone and shadow preparing for what could not be stopped.
And with that, they moved. Levy rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside Natsu, her breath hitching as she began casting. A soft glow of magic bloomed beneath her hands—delicate but focused—as runes spiraled out in fine script. With a gesture, the glowing lines wove themselves around Natsu and Gajeel like ethereal threads, lifting their unconscious bodies just inches off the ground. They floated gently, supported by the enchantment, their limbs limp but stable in the air.
Freed stepped in beside her, his expression tight with pain, but his movements precise. With one hand still on his blade, he extended the other toward Gajeel, lending his magic to reinforce the spell. Together, they guided the suspended Dragon Slayers out of the cathedral, Levy biting the inside of her cheek to keep her composure as she moved.
Behind them, the ruin of the cathedral yawned open like a broken throat, and the presence they left behind weighed heavier than stone.
The last echoes of retreat faded behind the shattered cathedral doors, leaving only the hollow whistle of wind threading through broken stained glass. The thunder outside had all but died, and with it, the pretense of chaos. What remained now was deliberate—intentional. A silence not of peace, but of the space between drawn blades.
Aelius straightened slowly, movements unhurried, deliberate. Each breath he took was measured, each step forward eerily calm. His chest still bore the evidence of the earlier blow—a gaping wound carved opposite his heart, the exposed edges raw, slick with fresh blood. And yet, he walked as though none of it mattered. No limp. No hesitation. No signs of discomfort.
The air shifted with each footfall, the dim cathedral light reflecting off his blood-slick shirt and the faint, pulsating shimmer of lingering plague magic that still clung to his skin like a second breath. The sharp tang of ozone had begun to fade, replaced by something older, heavier—rot, ruin, and patience.
Laxus stared at him from across the fractured floor, his fists clenched, electricity still snarling faintly across his shoulders. His jaw twitched, the smile gone, eyes narrowing.
Aelius didn't slow. Didn't falter. He looked as though he was simply going to pass through Laxus like he was nothing more than another ruin in his path.
Each step echoed like a tolling bell.
Still walking—slow, soundless but deliberate—Aelius spoke, voice low but unmistakable. "You want to know what really separates us, Laxus?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"You believe power is loud. That force is something you shout into the world until it listens." Another step. "But real power? True rot? It doesn't ask permission. It seeps in. Unseen. Unfelt. Until the foundations break beneath it."
He was almost within striking distance now, yet he made no move to raise a hand. No flourish of magic. Just presence—looming, immutable, unshaken.
Laxus's brow furrowed, one corner of his mouth twitching with rage. "You think walking toward me with some cryptic speech is gonna change how this ends?"
"I know exactly how this ends," Aelius murmured. "But it's not for your sake I'm here."
And he stopped, finally, only feet away. No combat stance. No summoned spell. Just a man standing tall, his body bleeding, his eyes unblinking.
Laxus's teeth ground together. Sparks burst from his shoulders. "Then say it. Say you're afraid. Say you're done."
Aelius tilted his head.
"I already told you," he said, voice steady, indifferent. "I don't care what you think."
And in that instant, the tension snapped taut between them like a drawn wire, the air heavy with the promise of what came next.
The silence shattered—not with a sound, but with a moment.
Aelius moved again, unflinching, the distance between them vanishing by mere steps. Each one fell heavier than the last, not because of noise, but because of what they meant. Because they shouldn't have been possible.
Laxus's body tensed instinctively. His magic surged on command—except, it didn't.
Nothing happened.
No lightning.
No flare of power.
No spark.
His breath hitched. Just slightly. Enough to betray that he felt it.
His fingers flexed, reaching for the well of electricity that had never once failed him. He willed it to answer him. Demanded it.
Still nothing.
He blinked. His glare sharpened, confused for only a fraction of a second before being replaced by disbelief. "What the hell…?"
His voice echoed hollow across the vast cathedral, and still Aelius came, slow and steady, until he stood within arm's reach, his presence impossibly heavy. Not physically. Not magically. Something deeper. Something wrong.
Laxus's hands began to tremble—not from fear, not yet—but from the sudden foreign sensation of powerlessness. He tried again, harder, pushing his will toward his core. The muscles in his arms twitched. His veins strained. Still, not even a flicker of light.
Aelius stopped just before him.
And looked him in the eye.
"Ah," Aelius said quietly, as if amused by the struggling thunder dragon slayer before him. "There it is."
Laxus growled, jaw tight, trying to push through it. "What…did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," Aelius replied flatly, not with a smirk or cruelty—only a distant neutrality, like a doctor watching a patient discover the prognosis too late. "You stepped into the rot too long, too deep. It's inside now. Poison works quietly. That's why it wins."
He lifted a hand, not to strike, but to gesture lazily toward the floor between them, where the cracks he'd seeded earlier with his corrupted spores still webbed like roots. They had long since stopped glowing, long since become a part of the environment. Like a trap waiting for someone too blind with arrogance to notice.
"You were breathing it in the moment you made your little speech," Aelius continued, tone as flat as the cathedral walls. "Toxins. Not enough to kill—not even close. Just enough to interrupt."
Laxus's eyes narrowed. He tried to take a step back, but his legs felt slow, numb beneath him.
"You'll get it back," Aelius said mildly. "Eventually. Your body's strong. It'll adapt. But not now."
He took a step closer, and the floor underfoot seemed to groan in sympathy with Laxus's struggle.
"Now," Aelius continued, tone sharpening like a scalpel slipping beneath skin, "you learn what happens to those who cross me."
Laxus's lip curled, frustration bleeding into disbelief. He stared at his hands as if willing them to spark—just once. One flicker. But still, nothing.
"You already won," he growled, defiance coiled in his throat. "So why'd you send them out? The girl, Freed. You were sure this was over—so why not let them watch?"
Aelius's eyes flicked upward at the question. A subtle twitch of something unreadable passed across his face—not hesitation, not guilt. Recognition. The weight of foresight. And the burden of it.
"I wasn't sure," he admitted, almost thoughtfully. "Not completely."
His gaze dropped back to Laxus like the blade of a guillotine. "And prevention is the only true discipline in a world of chaos."
Laxus blinked, caught between confusion and something deeper—an unease he couldn't name.
"But that's not the real reason," Aelius added, quieter now, his voice a low murmur that hummed with the gravity of something long decided. "I didn't want them to see what comes next."
He stepped forward again. Laxus didn't flinch—but he could feel something in the air shift, as if the temperature had dropped several degrees, or the room had tilted on an unseen axis.
"I didn't want them to still believe I was merciful."
A breath. Cold. Clean. Final.
"Because I'm not."
The words lingered in the air like a curse, low and absolute. And as they settled, Aelius reached out—not with rage, not with force, but with a quiet, measured certainty. His hand moved with the softness of inevitability, the kind of gentleness that comes not from kindness but from complete control.
Two fingers pressed against Laxus's chest.
That was all it took.
Laxus staggered, the strength in his legs faltering under a weight that had nothing to do with pressure and everything to do with presence. He toppled backward—not hurled, not thrown, simply tipped, as if gravity had shifted its allegiance to Aelius alone.
The impact echoed dully through the ruined cathedral as Laxus landed flat on his back, eyes narrowed in disbelief, defiance still flickering in them—but the rest of him motionless.
Aelius stepped forward, the light filtering through the shattered windows casting jagged patterns across his bloodstained shirt and the pale skin beneath. His shadow loomed long and sharp, stretched across Laxus like a blade suspended at the moment before execution.
He stood above him, still and wordless, the architecture of him more grim than human.
Not a victor.
Not a hero.
A judge.
The movement of his coat, the twitch of his fingers, even the way he breathed—it all felt curated, purposeful. Like a final rite. A silhouette sculpted in dominion, crowned not with light but the suffocating weight of inevitability.
He looked like death incarnate.
Not wrathful.
Worse—unimpressed.
A flicker of electricity crawled pitifully across Laxus's fingertips—his body trying to respond, to rebel, to ignite. But it faded again, smothered before it ever became a spark.
And Aelius simply watched.
Unmoving.
Unforgiving.
Unmerciful.
A reaper, drawn by the sin of choice.
Aelius watched the crackle of fading defiance fade from Laxus's hands, that final guttering spark trying and failing to manifest. It was pitiful—not in the way that invited sympathy, but in the way one might look down at a burnt-out torch, still clinging to the notion of being fire.
"I told you I wasn't going to kill you," Aelius said flatly, as though correcting a misbehaving student. "That promise still stands."
He took a slow step closer, not to loom but to make his presence unmistakable. His tone never rose, never sharpened—it simply deepened, as if the weight of what he was about to say could not be spoken with anything so base as anger.
"I've spent this entire fight," he continued, "deciding what punishment you truly deserve. And I believe... I've found the answer."
Laxus, still sprawled against the stone floor, eyes blazing in fury but body trembling in futility, managed to grind out a word between his clenched teeth.
"H-How…"
It wasn't confusion. It was desperation. The demand of a man who'd always believed his strength—his will—was enough to burn through anything.
Aelius granted him the answer.
"I told you earlier, didn't I?" he said, kneeling beside him, slow and deliberate. "Your body is strong. So strong, in fact, that throughout our fight, it managed to resist the worst of my magic. Even as my toxins were seeping into your bloodstream, it fought back—neutralizing them, dampening their effects."
He tilted his head, watching Laxus like a biologist might observe a rare, fascinating creature on the edge of expiration.
"But you ran yourself dry, Laxus," he said, voice quieter now, edged in something colder than anger. "Your magic is gone. The moment you tried to cast Fairy Law… that was your last reserve."
Aelius slowly extended his hand and tapped the side of Laxus's neck with two fingers, as though checking for a pulse. His touch was cool, almost clinical.
"And with that," he murmured, "the dam broke."
Laxus's breath hitched.
Aelius remained kneeling, his hand still near Laxus's neck, the moment stretching as silence thickened between them. Then, slowly, with a detached, almost ritualistic fluidity, he shifted his hand downward—fingers gliding with surgical grace until they hovered directly above Laxus's heart. His other hand braced his knee, steadying himself not because he was tired, but because the act required precision, intention.
He held his fingers there—not touching, not pressing, but close enough that the energy radiating off his skin began to make the golden threads of Laxus's torn jacket tremble faintly. And then, between his fingertips, something formed.
Small at first. A pinpoint of darkness—dense, pulsing, alive.
A seed.
It looked like no natural seed—glossy and black as obsidian, its surface etched with subtle veins of deep green, like corrupted vines wrapped around a buried heart. It beat faintly, in time with Laxus's slowing pulse, as though it had found a rhythm in the weakness.
Aelius studied the seed in silence, its pulse throbbing faintly between his fingers like a second heartbeat—his own will forged into a tangible curse. There was no incantation, no swirl of grand gestures or crackling sigils. His magic moved with purpose, not ceremony. It was shaped by thought, distilled malice, and grim precision. Where others relied on drama, he worked in truths.
"I'll humor you one last time," he said at length, his voice low, measured, not mocking but utterly devoid of warmth. "Consider it an acknowledgment of your strength. You lasted long enough to warrant it."
He tilted his hand slightly, the seed swaying like a pendulum of judgment above Laxus's still chest.
"This," he continued, "is a seed—but unlike those meant to bloom, this bears no life. It will not sprout. It will not flourish. Nothing will grow."
A pause. Then, almost gently, he lowered his hand and pressed two fingers to the center of Laxus's chest, directly over the still-thundering heart.
"But it will consume."
And then he pushed—not with force, but with intent.
The seed did not pierce skin or draw blood. It passed through the surface of Laxus's flesh like smoke seeping into cloth, sinking into muscle and bone as though it had always belonged there. The air hissed, ever so slightly, as the magic took root deep within his chest, locking itself to the very rhythm of his being.
Aelius withdrew his hand slowly, his fingers leaving behind a faint, pale mark like a brand seared not by heat, but by absence.
"In simpler terms," he said coolly, "it's a lock. And as long as it remains, you will not be able to use magic. Not even a spark."
Laxus's eyes widened, the implications hitting him like the aftershock of a blow.
"You'll be like a child again," Aelius went on, straightening. "No magic to fall back on. No strength to flaunt. Less than a civilian, really. They can at least learn."
He let that sink in.
"Fitting, isn't it?" he added after a beat. "For someone so obsessed with power, for someone who would tear apart the ones who cared for him just to prove something—it's only fair that you get to learn what it means to be powerless."
Laxus tried to speak, but the effort was too great. His jaw clenched, breath shallow.
Aelius glanced down at him once more, not unkindly—but still distant, composed, and unshaken.
"It won't be permanent," he said at last, almost as if offering a mercy. "I'm not that strong. Not yet."
He turned to leave, the shadows seeming to recoil from his steps.
"If I had to guess?" His voice floated back like the closing of a coffin lid. "Three months. Maybe less, if you rest."
He didn't stop walking.
"But if you push too hard, try too soon... It'll take longer. And if you really want to make it permanent, try me again."
The cathedral's stillness returned, the world outside now a soft murmur. The only sound that lingered was Laxus's ragged breathing—and the hollow echo of power slipping away.
Aelius's footsteps echoed softly across the cathedral floor as he continued to walk, each one deliberate, unhurried. Behind him, Laxus remained slumped where he'd fallen, the phantom burn of the seed still radiating from his chest, helpless to do anything but watch.
Then Aelius paused, just at the threshold of the ruined doors where moonlight spilled in through fractured stained glass, casting fractured shadows across the cracked marble.
He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
"Next time you threaten someone, make sure you're strong enough to back it up."