Endralian surfaced from sleep like a diver breaking through thick, murky water, gasping for air he didn't realize he'd been holding. For a disorienting, heart-stopping moment, he didn't know where he was. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of dust and old, dry wood. Unfamiliar shapes loomed in the pre-dawn gloom – barrels stacked high like silent sentinels, crates casting long, distorted shadows, rolled-up banners leaning against the walls like forgotten relics. Then memory slammed back into him with the force of a physical blow: the bewildering forest, Makarov's sharp eyes, the overwhelming chaos of the guildhall, Luxia's hostile glare, the terrifying, involuntary shift in space. He wasn't home. He wasn't safe. He wasn't even in his own body.
He sat up slowly on the narrow, unforgiving cot, the rough blanket scratching against his unfamiliar skin. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, a weary remnant of the previous day's overwhelming sensory and emotional barrage. Weak, grey light filtered reluctantly through a high, grimy window near the ceiling, doing little to illuminate the cluttered confines of the small storeroom. Through the heavy wooden door, he could hear the muted, distant sounds of the guild beginning to stir – muffled footsteps on wooden floors, the occasional clatter of pottery from the kitchen, a low murmur of voices rising and falling like a tide. Morning had come to Fairy Tail, whether he was ready for it or not.
A quick, frantic check confirmed the lingering nightmare. Small hands, pale and unfamiliar. Limbs that felt too short, too weak. The strange, stylized jacket that felt stiff and foreign against his skin, smelling faintly of damp earth and something else... ozone? He glanced down at his feet. The boots still emitted a faint, almost imperceptible violet hum, their strange glow muted in the dim light but undeniably present. A constant, bizarre reminder of his impossible, inexplicable situation.
Fear, cold and sharp as ice shards, coiled tightly in his stomach again, mingling with the bone-deep exhaustion that sleep hadn't fully managed to erase. He had to leave this room. He had to face them again. The thought of Luxia's stormy eyes alone made him want to burrow under the scratchy blanket and simply cease to exist. But disappearing, he suspected with a grim certainty, wasn't something he could control – yet.
Taking a deep breath – more a remembered habit from his old life than a physical necessity in this strange new body – he slid off the cot. The ancient floorboards creaked loudly under his slight weight, protesting the disturbance. He moved towards the door, hesitating with his hand hovering over the cool metal latch. What waited for him on the other side? Curiosity? Hostility? Indifference? Or just the overwhelming, chaotic normality of this impossible place? Steeling himself, drawing on a reservoir of gamer- honed resilience he didn't know he possessed, he eased the door open just a crack and peered out.
The main hall was bathed in the soft, hazy light of early morning filtering through the large, arched windows. It was active, certainly, but the frantic, almost violent energy of the previous afternoon had subsided into a calmer, more purposeful rhythm. Several members were seated at tables, quietly eating breakfast or nursing steaming mugs of what smelled like strong, bitter coffee. The stout bartender, which he eavesdropped yesterday people calling him Tao, was methodically wiping down the long, polished counter. Others were sweeping the floor, tidying stray mugs left from the night before, or consulting the request board with focused, serious expressions. It was the mundane, operational underbelly of the legendary guild.
Endralian slipped out of the storeroom like a shadow, trying to make himself invisible, hugging the wall. Tao gave him a brief, noncommittal nod as he passed, his expression unreadable. Macao and Wakaba were at a table near the entrance, looking slightly worse for wear, quietly sipping from mugs and examining a crumpled job flyer with tired eyes. They glanced up as he passed, their expressions holding a flicker of recognition and perhaps lingering curiosity from the previous day's teleportation incident, but they didn't say anything, returning quickly to their discussion.
Near the request board, however, his attempt at stealth failed spectacularly. Luxia stood there, arguing animatedly with a tall, lanky older mage Endralian didn't recognize, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "...utterly ridiculous! A simple delivery job? I could do that in my sleep! Gramps needs to give me something challenging, something worthy of my power!" Her voice, though still high-pitched, carried that familiar, grating edge of command and entitlement.
Then she spotted him lurking near the wall. Her argument faltered mid-sentence. Her stormy eyes narrowed instantly, sweeping over him with undisguised disdain, lingering for a moment on his glowing boots. "You're still here?" The question was flat, dismissive, each word dripping with condescension, making it brutally clear she considered his continued presence an unwelcome anomaly, an annoying piece of lint on her guild's otherwise perfect fabric.
Endralian froze, pinned by her gaze, unsure how to respond. Before he could stammer out an answer, Luxia let out an exaggerated scoff, tossed her ponytail with a sharp flick of her head, and pointedly turned her back on him, resuming her argument with the older mage as if Endralian simply didn't exist, a piece of dust unworthy of further notice. The deliberate, childish snub stung more than open hostility might have.
"Rough crowd this morning, eh?"
Makarov's voice, suddenly close behind him, made Endralian jump nearly out of his glowing boots. The Master had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, perhaps descending the stairs silently while Endralian was focused on Luxia's performance. "Morning, Endralian. Sleep alright in the cupboard? Didn't get eaten by dust bunnies?"
"Uh... yes, sir. Fine. Thank you," Endralian mumbled, immensely grateful for the intervention, though Makarov's attempt at humor felt slightly jarring.
Makarov grunted, his eyes twinkling faintly. "Good. Come on." He led Endralian towards a relatively empty table away from the main bustle, gesturing for him to sit. "Any clearer memories this morning, lad? About how you ended up playing hide-and- seek with the trees?"
Endralian shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the intricate patterns of scars and stains on the tabletop. "No, sir. Still... fuzzy. Just the light, and... falling, maybe."
Makarov sighed softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Thought as much." He leaned forward slightly, his expression becoming more serious, the earlier levity vanishing, though his tone remained gentle. "Listen, Endralian. About yesterday... that little jump you did by the bar. I told you I sensed something unusual about you in the forest, a sort of... chaotic, unstable energy. That little stunt confirmed it. Now, I don't know what kind of magic that is – never felt anything quite like it in all my years – but unfocused power, any power, can be dangerous. To you, and potentially to others around you."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Endralian felt a familiar knot of dread tighten in his stomach. Was Makarov angry? Was he going to kick him out now that he'd confirmed he was some kind of magical hazard?
"I want to help you understand it," Makarov continued, his voice calm and reassuring, cutting through Endralian's rising panic. "And, more importantly, help you learn to control it. Can you try something for me? Just close your eyes for a moment. Think back to that instant yesterday, when you suddenly moved. Don't try to force it to happen again. Just... reach for that feeling. That shift you felt inside. Can you still sense it?"
Feeling awkward, exposed, and deeply skeptical, Endralian reluctantly closed his eyes. He tried to push away the surrounding noise, the lingering scent of coffee and stale ale, the uncomfortable feeling of being watched (even though Makarov was the only one close), and focus inward, searching the unfamiliar landscape of his own body. He thought about the sudden spike of fear, the jolt of energy like a misfired circuit, the strange pop sound... He strained, searching for an echo of that sensation in the quiet stillness. For a long moment, there was nothing but the frantic, unsteady beating of his own heart. Then, just as frustration began to curdle into despair, he felt... something. A faint, internal vibration, like a single, deep string being plucked somewhere inside his core. Simultaneously, the air around his clenched fists, resting on the table, seemed to shimmer almost imperceptibly for a fraction of a second, distorting the wood grain beneath them like heat haze. A few microscopic, dark purple particles, like tiny fragments of night sky, flickered into existence near his knuckles and vanished instantly, leaving no trace.
He opened his eyes, startled, breathing a little faster. Had Makarov seen that? Had he even really seen that?
The Master was watching him intently, his gaze sharp and analytical. He nodded slowly, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Interesting. Very faint, almost undetectable, but... definitely there. Raw power, completely untamed. Like trying to hold lightning in a bottle with your bare hands." He stroked his magnificent mustache thoughtfully, his eyes distant for a moment. "Alright. That's enough for now. Pushing too hard when you don't understand the source will only lead to trouble." He stood up abruptly. "Untamed power needs discipline, lad. And discipline often starts with simple, honest work. Keeps the mind focused, builds character. Come on, give Tao a hand cleaning up the morning rush's mugs behind the bar. Good way to learn names and faces, too. Try not to break anything."
For the next hour, Endralian found himself elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing an endless procession of greasy tankards behind the bar. It was surprisingly mundane, almost mind-numbing work. Tao, the gruff but not unkind bartender, showed him where the soap, hot water cauldron, and drying racks were with minimal words and then largely left him to it, busy restocking shelves and dealing with members ordering hair-of- the-dog concoctions. The repetitive, physical action was almost soothing, a simple, understandable task in a world that otherwise made absolutely no sense. It also gave him a prime, relatively safe vantage point to continue observing the intricate ecosystem of the guild.
He saw members returning from early jobs, reporting their successes (or, in some cases, sheepishly admitting failures) to Makarov or other senior members with varying degrees of enthusiasm and detail. He heard snippets of conversations floating over the general din – talk of monster sightings near Hargeon Port, debates over magical item prices in Oak Town, arguments about the best strategy for dealing with troublesome Vulcan nests in the nearby mountains. He saw Luxia finally snag a flyer from the board – a simple escort mission to a nearby village, judging by her disgruntled expression – and stomp out of the guild with an air of profound dissatisfaction, presumably to prove she was capable of far more dangerous and exciting endeavors.
During a lull, when Tao stepped away to haul in a fresh barrel of ale from the cellar, Endralian found himself alone behind the relative safety of the bar for a moment. He glanced around cautiously. No one was paying him any attention; the morning's focus had shifted towards job preparations and gossip. He thought about the shift, the teleport, Makarov's words about control. Could he do it on purpose? Just a small one? He remembered the feeling, that faint internal vibration. He focused, trying to replicate it, concentrating fiercely on the empty space just a few feet down the polished bar top.
He pushed, mentally and physically straining, trying to grasp that elusive, slippery energy. He felt a faint internal buzz, perhaps a little stronger this time, and the air around him seemed to thicken slightly, pressing in. For a split second, the rows of clean, gleaming mugs on the shelf directly in front of him flickered visibly, their edges momentarily dissolving into faint static, like a bad video signal on an old monitor.
Then... nothing. He hadn't moved an inch. The mugs solidified back to normal, looking entirely mundane. He let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Failure. Or maybe just... not enough power? Not the right focus? It was intensely frustrating. In Minecraft, using an Ender Pearl was simple. Point, throw, bam, teleport. This... this was different. This power, whatever it was, felt like an intrinsic part of him, tangled up with his nerves and muscles, and he had absolutely no idea how it worked. No instruction manual, no tutorial level.
He sighed, picking up another dirty mug, the greasy surface cool against his fingers. He glanced up instinctively towards the upper landing and saw Makarov standing there again, leaning against the railing, watching him. The Master's expression was unreadable, thoughtful, his gaze penetrating. Had he seen the flickering mugs? Or was he just keeping a constant, wary eye on the strange, displaced boy with the chaotic, unknown magic?
Endralian quickly looked back down at his work, scrubbing the mug with renewed, unnecessary vigor. Control. Makarov was right. He needed control. But how, he wondered with a rising sense of despair, can you control something you don't even understand?