Routine at the Fairy Tail Guild, if one could even call a daily cycle of random explosions, large-scale property damage, and the occasional member being hurled through a window 'routine', was anything, absolutely anything, but predictable. In fact, it's almost a paradox worthy of a drunken philosopher to even suggest that the words 'Fairy Tail' and 'tranquillity' could peacefully coexist in the same sentence, or even in the same universe.
The Guild was a constant whirlwind, a category five hurricane of intense emotions, loud, contagious laughter that sounded more like the announcement of the apocalypse, 'friendly' brawls that usually resulted in a few conveniently broken bones and an impressive amount of fine furniture reduced to kindling for the next party, and, of course, like the sour cherry on top of a cake of pure, glorious anarchy, endless, inexplicable, frequently dangerous, always expensive-to-fix messes, which could erupt at any moment, without the slightest warning, like sudden, ill-tempered tropical storms on a seemingly sunny day conducive to a nap.
It was… stimulating, in a way that made my ancient liver tremble. And a bit tiring for someone who has witnessed the creation and destruction of galaxies with less fanfare.
Amidst all this glorious, noisy, occasionally smelly chaos, I, with my patience bordering on comatose and my sarcasm as sharp as a vorpal blade, tried to find a precarious, frequently illusory balance between my intrinsic, desperate need for peace, quiet, and perhaps a good book, and the vibrant, chaotic, occasionally explosive reality of my new, surprisingly tolerable 'family' of magical misfits.
On the rare, precious, almost mythical days when the Guild wasn't completely immersed in some new, harebrained, usually self-inflicted mess – like an invasion of talking frogs with a strong French accent, a fierce competition of who can eat the most dragon peppers without spontaneously combusting, or the accidental discovery of some ancient, cursed artefact with dreadful taste in decor in the dusty cellar – I dedicated, with an altruism bordering on masochism, part of my valuable time (which I could, and should, have been using for sleeping, conspiring, or perhaps just contemplating the futility of existence) to teaching the ever-striving, occasionally in-tune, now surprisingly musical Mirajane Strauss to torture the strings of a guitar.
When the young, once-feared 'She-Devil', now in her more… 'sweet, gentle, suspiciously normal' phase (which, honestly, still frightened me a bit more than her demonic form), approached me with the almost childlike, entirely misguided hope that the guitar would be considerably easier to learn, less painful on the fingers, and less prone to causing auditory haemorrhages than the ancient magic lute I so cherished (and which she had tried to play once, with sonically catastrophic results), I didn't hesitate to accept the challenge. After all, watching the great, powerful Mirajane pathetically struggle with basic chords like 'C Major' and horrendously sing simple songs like 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' was an inexhaustible source of subtle entertainment, perverse satisfaction, and material for future emotional blackmail.
"I solemnly promise, and with a sincerity that might even be true, that it's going to be incredibly fun, Mira, and that you won't regret it… much. Perhaps just a tiny bit, when your fingers start to bleed," I said at the time, with an encouraging smile that probably hid a generous dash of sadistic malice and the anticipation of many moments of pure comedy.
When she held the poor, innocent guitar for the first time, with a surprising, almost suspicious delicacy for someone who could transform her arms into demonic claws capable of tearing steel, there was a glint of pure, stubborn determination and an entirely unexpected vulnerability in her large, expressive blue eyes. And, to my utter, absolute, almost shocking surprise, and perhaps to the profound, lasting despair of my delicate ancestral eardrums, Mirajane quickly showed an innate talent, a surprising musical sensitivity, and an almost irritating ability to learn quickly. Damn it. Where was the fun in that?
"You… you're doing surprisingly well, almost frighteningly well, Mira! Keep it up and soon you'll be composing your own moving ballads about lovesick demons with relationship issues and questionable musical taste!" I exclaimed one day, with a sincerity that almost made me choke, as she strummed with increasing fluidity, disconcerting precision a few notes of a simple but beautiful melody I had taught her the previous week.
The raw, slightly melancholic, surprisingly competent beauty of the melody emerging from her now nimble, confident fingers was often accompanied by a surprisingly soft voice, sweet as honey (this time, without the poison), full of a restrained, palpable emotion that echoed through the small music room of Fairy Hills, making even the mice stop to listen. Or perhaps they were just curious about the noise.
And I realised, with a clarity that caught me completely off guard, a little irritated, that beneath the bold, confident, calculating, occasionally frightening facade of Mirajane Strauss, the infamous She-Devil, there was an incredibly sweet, surprisingly sensitive girl, with an enormous heart, a capacity for love that was almost palpable, especially when she spoke with an almost syrupy affection, canine devotion of her two younger siblings, the large, clumsy, door-IQ-ed Elfman, the adorable, cheeky, trouble-prone Lisanna.
The numerous, frequently hilarious, occasionally moving stories she shared about them, their childish antics, their epic quarrels, their unconditional, unwavering love, revealed a protective, affectionate, surprisingly vulnerable, entirely out-of-character side that few in the guild, or even in the universe, truly knew. It was… interesting. And a little unsettling to see the demoness being so… cute.
On the rare, precious days when we weren't immersed in the delicate, relaxing, occasionally frustrating art of music (or, more accurately, in my Herculean, frequently fruitless attempt not to laugh openly at Mirajane's grimaces of deep concentration when she tried to hit a particularly difficult chord, or not to suggest she might perhaps try a career as an opera singer for cargo ships), I dedicated myself, with a peculiar mixture of cynical resignation, growing interest, perhaps a dash of masochistic pride, to training with our dear, stubborn Erza Scarlet.
Our little, furious, now officially named Titania-in-training. Known throughout the guild (and probably in some neighbouring kingdoms) for her almost military discipline that would make a drill sergeant envious, her seriousness bordering on religious fanaticism, her absolutely unshakeable, slightly obsessive dedication to the constant improvement of her already considerable combat skills, she took every training session, however simple or brutal, to an almost sacred level of intensity, focus, a worrying amount of sweat.
For her, training wasn't just a necessity for survival or a way to get stronger; it was a way of life, a philosophy, a personal, non-transferable religion. Which, honestly, was a bit over the top, entirely unnecessary for someone with her potential, and, I must admit, also vaguely admirable in its pure, crystalline stubbornness.
The vast, usually tranquil training ground near Fairy Hills, a verdant, well-mown lawn, surrounded by ancient, wise trees that had probably seen more battles than I had, and with a few conveniently positioned, frequently splintered wooden targets for our 'amusement', improvement, was our private oasis of relative calm, intense concentration, occasional cries of frustration (usually coming from Erza). It was a stark, welcome contrast to the usual chaos, deafening noise, gratuitous destruction of others' property, persistent smell of spilt ale that characterised the interior of the welcoming, utterly insane Fairy Tail Guild.
There, Erza, the prodigious knight with her fire-red hair that seemed to reflect her indomitable soul, her silver armour shining under the sun like a beacon of justice (or trouble, depending on one's point of view), would position herself before me with the tense seriousness, absolute focus of someone going into mortal combat against a thousand-headed dragon, her reluctant, sarcastically amused, for her eternal frustration, surprisingly effective partner on this long, arduous, occasionally hilarious journey of self-discovery, martial improvement, quest for the perfect strawberry cake.
For a long time, to be exact, in the first few years after our arrival at the guild, I had only, solely observed her intense training sessions from afar, with almost clinical interest, secret amusement, interfering only minimally, very subtly when she was about to seriously injure herself, cause some irreparable damage to the local ecosystem, or, which was more frequent, completely destroy yet another of the poor, innocent training dummies with a fury that would make a demon pity the dummy.
But, with the inexorable passage of time, the exponential increase in her magical power, physical strength, I realised, with analytical clarity, that she, despite all her raw talent, unshakeable determination, had hit a certain, frustrating kind of bottleneck in her technical development, especially regarding her swordsmanship, her handling of the blade.
Her brute strength was, without doubt, undeniable, frequently frightening. Her Requip magic, with its ability to summon an impressive variety of weapons, armours, was spectacular, incredibly versatile. But her technique with the sword itself, the pure, simple art of fighting with a blade, was still a bit… raw. A bit predictable. A bit too reliant on strength, instinct, not refinement, strategy.
The constant, noisy, frequently destructive rivalry between Erza, Mirajane, though often hilarious to watch from a distance, certainly beneficial for developing brute force, resilience, both their ability to get up after being hurled through multiple walls, didn't help much in this specific aspect of Erza's training. Mirajane, with her overwhelming demonic power, her impressive, terrifying Satan Soul transformations, wasn't the type of opponent who fought using conventional weapons or refined fencing techniques; she relied, purely, simply, on raw magical power, overwhelming physical strength, razor-sharp claws, a good old dose of psychological intimidation, primordial terror.
This, of course, however challenging for Erza, didn't offer her the kind of technical, strategic, refined challenge she truly, urgently needed to genuinely hone her sword technique, polish her instincts, finally become a true, undisputed sword master, not just a force of nature with stylish armour, a fondness for sweets.
It was at this exact, opportune, perhaps slightly bored moment of perceptible technical stagnation on our Titania's part, that I, with my vast, varied, entirely unadmitted experience in all known, unknown, probably multiverse-prohibited forms of combat, a subtle desire to see just how far that little, stubborn redhead could really go, finally, reluctantly decided to step in, offer my modest, yet considerable, certainly very expensive talents as a private fencing instructor. And, of course, to amuse myself a little at her expense.
"Erza, my little, sweaty apprentice of fury," I called in a calm, neutral, perhaps slightly bored voice, breaking the tense, grunt-filled silence of the training ground, where she was, once again, methodically, with impressive fury, striking a poor, innocent, now entirely disfigured straw dummy with a series of attacks that would make an entire army rethink their career choices. "How about we vary your monotonous, predictable training menu a bit today? Let that poor straw fellow rest in peace, or what's left of him. Consider, if you dare, a small, instructive session of private, entirely free sparring with me. I might, who knows, with a bit of effort, much patience on my part, help you a little with that… shall we say, enthusiastic, vigorous, rather… one-dimensional swordsmanship of yours."
My offer was a mixture of genuine willingness to help, clear, crystalline provocation. She'd love it. Or hate me. Probably both.
She stopped mid-particularly brutal strike, her panting breath forming small clouds of vapour in the cool morning air, her long red hair, now completely plastered to her sweaty forehead, framing a face red with exertion, surprise. She turned slowly towards me, her brown eye, normally so full of unshakeable confidence, now narrowing with a peculiar mixture of genuine surprise, almost palpable suspicion, perhaps a hint of reluctant curiosity.
"You, Azra'il? Wanting to train swordsmanship… with me?" she asked, her voice laden with a doubt that was almost, but only almost, insulting, considering my credentials, my vast, bloody experience. "But… do you actually know how to fight with a real sword? I mean, seriously? I've never, ever seen you do it before, not even once. You always use that strange, frightening, slightly cheating psychic magic of yours on our missions, and usually, to be honest, you leave all the heavy, dirty, really fun hand-to-hand combat to me."
Ah, the sweet, painful irony. If only she knew. I perfectly understand, even appreciate her sceptical distrust, of course. I had, after all, with much care, dedication cultivated that carefully constructed image of a relatively fragile mental mage, with a clear, evident aversion to any kind of unnecessary physical exertion, a preference for observing battles from a safe, comfortable distance. And, to be completely, brutally honest, I usually did leave the heavy, dirty work to her. It was infinitely more amusing to watch others exert themselves, occasionally, fail miserably. Besides being much less tiring.
She, obviously, much to my luck, had not the faintest, most remote idea about my numerous, varied, frequently bloody past lives. About the centuries, millennia of intensive, brutal, relentless training in countless, forgotten martial arts, in every known, unknown school of swordsmanship by men, immortals (and some other, less civilised species). About the inconvenient fact I had been, on more than one occasion, in more worlds than she could ever dream of in her short, naive existence, a renowned, respected, frequently feared master of arms, with skill bordering on the supernatural.
That I had, through my own effort, a considerable amount of blood, sweat, tears (mostly others'), reached the highest, most coveted, almost mythical levels of power, skill, enlightenment in the legendary, mysterious, almost inaccessible immortal realm. And that I had had, over many, tedious ages, numerous, varied, frequently incompetent disciples, some of them surprisingly talented, even surviving my training, others not so much, probably still trying to recover their wounded egos in some forgotten dimension.
Many sects of proud, arrogant immortals, with egos inflated like airships, literally begged on their knees, with generous offers of treasures, virgins, for me, the great, unparalleled Master Azra'il, to join them, share my vast, invaluable wisdom, please, with my infinite patience, pedagogical sadism, teach their lazy, spoilt, incompetent, entirely untalented students. But, of course, I couldn't just, casually tell all these small, insignificant autobiographical details to a curious, stubborn teenager with surprisingly well-polished armour. It would completely, irreversibly ruin my entire carefully constructed, maintained facade of 'mysterious, slightly odd, occasionally useful, mildly disturbed child'. And where would be the fun in that?
"I can assure you, with a statistically insignificant margin of error, the confidence of one who has seen far more than you can imagine, that yes, I do know how to hold a sword by the right end, point it in the correct direction most of the time," I replied with an enigmatic, smug, perhaps slightly condescending smile in my voice, a smile I knew would deeply intrigue her, simultaneously irritate her even more. I loved that effect. "Come on, my dear Titania-on-the-rise. Stop asking daft questions, show me what you're really capable of when you're not just destroying defenceless straw dummies. I'm genuinely, morbidly eager to see."
Erza, still somewhat reluctant, visibly suspicious, probably wondering if I hadn't finally lost my marbles entirely, was about to get myself seriously hurt, but also with a growing curiosity she could no longer disguise, an unmistakable glint of stubborn defiance in her brown eye, finally nodded. She wasn't entirely convinced, I could see, but the prospect of a new kind of training, perhaps the chance to finally hit me with something other than sarcastic words, was too tempting for her to resist.
"Alright, Azra'il," she said, with a seriousness bordering on comical for someone her age, as she adjusted her combat stance, held her own training sword with renewed firmness, a concentrated gaze. "If you insist on getting a bit of a pasting today, who am I to deny you this masochistic wish? But please, don't say afterwards I didn't warn you if you end up with some nasty bruises, a slightly wounded ego. And," she hesitated for an instant, a frown of genuine concern creasing her forehead, "I really don't want to actually hurt you. You… you don't wear armour like I do, you seem… well, less inclined to take a direct hit." The concern in her voice was almost cute, even if her assessment of my 'fragility' was comically misguided, based purely on my less… armoured choice of attire. And the fact I was a bit taller than her seemed to escape her analysis at the moment.
"Trust me, little redhead. I am, for your information, peace of mind, surprisingly resistant to damage, comments about my fashion choices, overly enthusiastic teenage swordswomen," I said with a reassuring smile I hoped didn't sound too arrogant, condescending, as I drew, with a fluid, elegant, almost lazy movement, a simple training jian, with a polished wooden blade, conveniently attached to my waist. It was not, by a long shot, one of my many, varied legendary swords, with pompous names, bloody histories, the power to destroy small planets, residing in my vast, well-stocked dimensional inventory. But, for the noble, educational purpose of perhaps gently humiliating a stubborn friend, who knows, teaching her a useful thing or two about the true, complex art of the blade, it would serve perfectly.
"Now, please, my dear, concerned Titania, do me the favour of attacking without holding back. With everything you've got, then some. I'm here precisely for that. I solemnly promise not to cry too much, or at least not in front of you, not because of pain, if you, by some miracle of the gods, sheer beginner's luck, manage to hit me."
At that exact, tense instant, as Erza gathered her courage and prepared for the first attack, the irritating, omniscient, ever-so-timely voice of Eos, with a special talent for unearthing my most embarrassing moments, emerged triumphantly in my mind.
[Ah, speaking of tempting offers, of trying to keep someone around with promises and, of course, of 'not crying too much' ... This vividly reminds me of that particularly… interesting, rather domesticated life of yours in the world of Shénvara, when the respectable, feared, let's face it, slightly desperate Grand Master of the renowned Celestial Sword sect, utterly panicked at keeping you there as their guardian – and, mainly, to prevent you, in one of your fits of boredom, from absconding with all the precious, well-guarded, probably overrated secrets of their ancestral cultivation techniques – offered you, in a gesture of pure, calculated, surprising generosity, the hand of his adorable, talented, incredibly beautiful daughter in marriage? And you, Azra'il, the great, indomitable ancient entity, in a rare, inexplicable, entirely out-of-character moment of… shall we say, aesthetic appreciation, perhaps a tiny bit of curiosity, accepted the proposal without even batting an eyelid?]
She laughed, a metallic, amused, entirely unnecessary sound echoing in my mind. And I, to my utter, absolute, profound embarrassment, couldn't stop a daft, almost idiotic, entirely involuntary smile forming on my lips as I remembered with vivid clarity, an unexpected warmth rising to my cheeks, a pang of almost painful longing for Anastasia. Ah, Anastasia. The adorable, gentle, incredibly intelligent Anastasia, with a smile that could melt the coldest glaciers, a patience rivalling that of a canonised saint, surprisingly tolerant wife I had in that life. And how I doted on her. Secretly, of course. I brought her the rarest mountain flowers, composed songs (awful, probably, but she pretended to like them) under the moonlight, found the most exotic teas, personally prepared her favourite sweets, even if it meant bribing the sect's cooks or facing some mythical beast for a rare ingredient. They were… pleasant moments. Intimate. Shamefully sweet for someone like me. What cosmic, utterly delicious embarrassment.
Whilst I was momentarily, dangerously lost in a wave of bittersweet nostalgia, memories of lazy mornings, shared laughter under blossoming cherry trees, long nights of philosophical conversations (and other, less philosophical things), a frankly embarrassing amount of intimate affection under the covers I tried to disguise as 'acts of pure, simple strategic convenience', Erza, my small, terribly impatient Titania, noticing my daft, distant, entirely inappropriate smile for a serious training session, frowned with an impatience that was, as always, her trademark, probably her main personality trait.
"Oi, Azra'il! Come down from cloud cuckoo land, back to reality! Are we training today or are you going to stand there with that romantically smitten idiot face of yours all day, as if you've seen a particularly handsome ghost with excellent taste in tea? I'm here, totally ready to fight, who knows, eager to show you what I've learned, if you haven't noticed, deign to pay attention!"
She was visibly, adorably, utterly irritated by my distraction, I could feel, almost physically, like a charged, static energy in the air, a small but unmistakable, entirely hilarious twinge of utterly inexplicable, irrational jealousy, I must admit, entirely amusing in her voice. Which was… profoundly interesting. And a little worrying for my already complicated emotional life. Or lack thereof.
"Of course, of course, my little, impatient, surprisingly jealous Titania-in-training. Forgive my momentary, inexcusable mental distraction. I was just… appreciating the sublime, ephemeral, utterly inspiring beauty of nature around us, perhaps, just perhaps, contemplating the remote, unlikely possibility of a tasty, not-too-poisonous snack magically appearing," I replied with a relaxed smile, a flimsy excuse she certainly didn't swallow for a second, turning my full, complete attention back to the present, the blade she held with renewed determination, the adorable little scowl on her face. "Let's begin this little, instructive, hopefully not too painful ballet of swords whenever you, O great, mighty warrior, are ready. I'm all ears… and reflexes."
She hesitated for just one more brief, almost imperceptible moment, probably still afraid of truly hurting me or making a fool of herself, but soon her indomitable determination, tireless fighting spirit, pure, simple stubbornness that defined her, overcame her momentary hesitation. She lunged with the explosive speed of lightning, her wooden training sword cutting through the air with a sharp, menacing whistle, fierce, almost palpable determination in her eye. "Here I come, Azra'il! And this time, don't say I didn't warn you!" she yelled with a fervour that would make a berserker envious, delivering a swift, powerful, direct, surprisingly well-executed attack towards my chest.
I parried her blow with almost disdainful ease, the dry, resonant impact of wood against wood echoing through the training ground's silence. Even with the considerable, almost frightening brute force for someone her age, which she employed with ferocity in each of her attacks, her movements, though faster, more precise than before, were still a little predictable to my experienced eye, a little raw in their execution.
After patiently probing, blocking with surgical precision several of her subsequent attacks, each delivered with even more force, more speed, growing frustration than the last, I decided I had gathered enough data, had completely absorbed her current fighting style. It was time to change the dynamic of this dance, add a little more… spice. With a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of my wrist, an almost invisible shift in my stance, I began to gently, with fluid elegance, dodge her increasingly desperate blows, instead of blocking them directly as before.
I used her own considerable strength, aggressive momentum against her, making her lose balance for a split second, miss the target by a minimal but significant margin, most importantly, become more, more frustrated. A laughing, openly teasing, perhaps a little sadistically irritating expression bloomed on my face. I loved this game. And she hated losing.
"Take this seriously, Azra'il! Stop mucking about with me as if I were a defenceless child, belittling my effort with that irritating dance of yours! Attack for real, you arrogant layabout with a terrible sense of humour!" Erza exclaimed, her voice now laden with palpable frustration, growing anger, a tone of defiance bordering on desperation. Her face was as red as her hair, not just from physical exertion, but also, I suspected, from pure, simple irritation at my apparent invincibility, my mocking attitude.
"But I am taking this very, very seriously, my dear, sweaty Erza. I am analysing your every movement, every intention, every hesitation, with the deepest, coldest, most calculating concentration," I replied with an irritating, almost supernatural calm, as I continued to dance gracefully, with a lightness bordering on insulting, around her, like a butterfly avoiding a net, dodging her increasingly frenetic, powerful, desperate attacks with a fluidity, elegance, precision I knew left her even more, more frustrated, furious.
"And, as for me attacking you… well, as I said before, my little, impatient Titania, I will only begin to seriously consider the remote, unlikely possibility of a minimally serious, not entirely humiliating counter-attack for you when you, with all that impressive power of yours, all that unshakeable determination, all that righteous fury, finally, by your own merits, manage to land a single, measly, perhaps even accidental blow on me. A single one. Until then, my dear, consider this just a… fun warm-up. For me, at least." I winked at her, with a smile that was pure provocation, which only served to further increase her already considerable fury, her determination to hit me. She was so predictable. And so adorable in her stubbornness.
The intense, gruelling, utterly one-sided exchange of blows – or rather, of countless, frustrated attempts at blows on her part, elegant, precise, frequently irritating dodges on mine – continued tirelessly, under the hot afternoon sun, until the celestial body, probably bored with my evasive performance or pitying poor Erza, began to lazily dip below the distant horizon, painting the vast, cloudless sky with vibrant, melancholic hues of orange, purple, a gold that announced the day's end. And I could clearly see, despite her almost superhuman stubbornness in not admitting, showing weakness, that Erza was completely, absolutely, utterly exhausted.
Her face, previously just red from exertion, was now almost purple. Her breathing was ragged, irregular, painful. And her arms, which before wielded the wooden sword with impressive force, speed, now trembled visibly with prolonged effort, accumulated fatigue. "I don't… I don't believe it…" she said at last, her voice hoarse, weak, almost a whisper, as she propped her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. "Not even… not even Mirajane… not even she, with all that demonic strength of hers… has managed to tire me out this much in a single fight…" There was a complex, fascinating mixture of deep frustration, unshakeable determination refusing to yield, perhaps, just perhaps, a small, reluctant hint of admiration, respect in her tired voice.
"Right then, my little, exhausted Titania. I think we've had enough excitement, exercise for one glorious day. Let's take a small, well-deserved, urgently needed break for today," I declared with a gentle, satisfied, perhaps slightly smug smile, as I sheathed my own training jian with an elegant, precise movement, as if I hadn't even broken a sweat.
She had fought bravely. With more passion, stubbornness than technique or strategy, but still, she had fought with all her heart. And that, in itself, was admirable. "Tomorrow, if you still have the strength to get out of bed, aren't too sore, or your ego isn't too wounded, we'll practise again. And perhaps, just perhaps, if you're a good girl, bring me a strawberry cake, I might even teach you a few new, interesting tricks to vary your 'hit it hard' repertoire a bit."
Erza, visibly frustrated to her core for not having managed to hit me a single, measly time during our entire 'training', but still with that unmistakable glint of stubborn determination, a promise of future revenge in her eye, nodded in silent agreement, too exhausted to protest, argue, or even formulate a complete, coherent sentence.
Before we parted to crawl back to the relative safety, comfort of Fairy Hills, a much, much needed, probably very long bath, I left a few enigmatic, carefully chosen, utterly irritating words for her to reflect on during the night, words I myself, in my youthful arrogance of some distant, dusty life, had learned the hard, humiliating way from an old, wise, terribly patient sword master who had the bad habit of speaking in confusing metaphors:
"Always remember this, Erza, my little, impetuous apprentice. If you focus all your mind, all your attention, all your gaze on a single, small, solitary leaf swaying in the wind, you will inevitably, much to your great frustration, fail to see the entire tree in all its majesty, complexity. And, just as frustratingly, do not let your restless mind, competitive spirit dwell, fixate obsessively on a single, isolated tree, however impressive it may seem, for then, my dear, you will certainly, forever, fail to contemplate the infinite vastness, stunning beauty, surprising diversity, intricate complexity of the entire immense, verdant forest stretching before you." Poetic, no? And utterly confusing. I loved it.
"When you, with your own considerable intelligence, your growing perception, your stubborn willpower, finally find the answers, the balance, the true, deep meaning behind these somewhat poetic, slightly confusing, utterly irritating words of mine, my dear, promising Erza," I completed with a mysterious, almost condescending smile, observing with almost scientific interest her expression slowly change from a tired, almost palpable frustration to renewed focus, intense curiosity, even greater determination. "On that day, and only on that glorious, probably very distant day, will you finally, truly be able to strike me with your sword. And perhaps, just perhaps, with much luck, a favourable alignment of the planets, you might even, who knows, manage to defeat me in a fair duel." It was a direct, clear challenge. And I knew, with absolute certainty, a hint of cruel amusement, that she, with her stubbornness, her wounded pride, would accept it without the slightest hesitation.
As we slowly, in thoughtful silence, walked away from the training ground, now plunged into the long, melancholic shadows of the rapidly approaching twilight, I felt, with a clarity that surprised me, that this unexpected, improvised training journey of ours with Erza was not, in any way, merely about the simple, mundane improvement of her physical abilities, combat techniques. It was, much more than that, a precious, rare, perhaps even dangerous opportunity for her, little, strong Erza, to discover the true, surprising depth of her own, indomitable inner strength, her limitless, seemingly infinite potential, her innate ability to overcome any obstacle, any challenge, any pain, with a grace, resilience, stubbornness that were, simultaneously, admirable, a little frightening.
And I, to my utter, absolute, almost embarrassing surprise, was genuinely, deeply, perhaps a little dangerously eager to see her flourish, see her grow, see her become the living legend, the force of nature, the Queen of Fairies, she was, undeniably, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, destined to be. Even if that, in some uncertain, perhaps not-so-distant future, meant she, indeed, against all my cynical expectations, really could defeat me in a duel. Which was, of course, a highly improbable, statistically insignificant possibility. But, still, not entirely, completely impossible. And that, in itself, was interesting. Very, very interesting.
------------------(*)-------------------
The days, with their predictable monotony, relentless routine, turned into weeks of sweat, pain, small progressions. And the training ground, once just a forgotten, unremarkable lawn, had become our private refuge, our sacred temple of effort, learning, a growing, unexpected camaraderie. The morning sun, relentless, a silent witness to our dedication, shone brightly upon us, almost like a curious, approving spectator, reflecting on our polished wooden blades, our unshakeable, frequently stubborn determination.
The little Titania-on-the-rise and I continued to train tirelessly, day after day, come rain or shine, with a discipline that would make a Shaolin monk envious. And with each new, exhausting encounter, each new, challenging exchange of blows, I saw, with growing satisfaction, a pride I steadfastly refused to admit aloud, her remarkable, impressive, almost frightening evolution in every precise, calculated movement, every powerful, focused strike, every instinctive, increasingly effective defence.
Neither of us, by tacit agreement, mutual understanding, was using any sort of flashy magic, cheap tricks in our intense, frequently brutal fencing training; it was pure, simple, painfully honest swordsmanship, the ancient, noble art of the blade, the true, arduous, honourable path of the sword. A millennial discipline demanding not only, solely brute physical strength, superhuman agility, cat-like reflexes, but also, perhaps more importantly, unshakeable mental focus, saintly patience, surgical precision, a deep, intuitive, almost spiritual understanding of the rhythm, flow, deadly dance of battle.
"Right then, Erza. Let's begin another of our little, amusing morning tortures," I said on a particularly clear, cool morning, with a gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of Fairy Hills' garden flowers. I held my faithful training jian with a relaxed firmness, a readiness betraying my concentration. "Always remember what we discussed at length last night, during our improvised, surprisingly philosophical dinner. The true, deepest essence of swordsmanship, my dear, impatient apprentice, is like a complex, dangerous, elegant, deadly dance between a mind sharp as a razor, a body trained to exhaustion. And you, to be truly, undeniably effective, to become a force to be reckoned, feared, must be in perfect, absolute, total harmony with both. Without the slightest hesitation. Without the slightest trace of fear. Just the pure, crystalline, instinctive flow of battle."
She nodded in silence, with an almost solemn seriousness, her one good, intense brown eye completely focused on me, like a hungry predator intently watching its next, perhaps last, meal. "I am ready, Master Azra'il," she replied with surprising calm, a new, disconcerting confidence, her voice firm, clear, laden with a determination that burned in her eye like a living, imposing, inextinguishable flame. 'Master', she called me. Interesting. And a little… presumptuous on her part. But I let it pass. For now.
Erza advanced with a swift, almost explosive attack in its intensity, her wooden training sword cutting the air with a sharp, menacing whistle, seeking an opening in my seemingly relaxed defence. I dodged gently, with a fluid, almost lazy, entirely instinctive movement, which for me, after so many ages of practice, was as natural, automatic as breathing, or feeling a profound boredom at others' stupidity.
"Always remember this, Erza, my little, stubborn, occasionally surprising apprentice of fury. The true, deepest, most significant art of war, by extension, of swordsmanship, is not, never was, merely about the simple, brutal task of defeating your enemies, accumulating empty victories. It is, fundamentally, above all, the art of living fully, of knowing oneself deeply in all one's lights, shadows, of accepting one's flaws, celebrating one's strengths. It's not just, solely, about overpowering your opponent with brute physical force, overwhelming magical power, dirty, dishonest tricks. It is, first, foremost, about understanding, mastering, transcending oneself, one's deepest fears, most shameful weaknesses, most overwhelming passions, most secret ambitions." I sounded like some old, wise kung fu master. What a cliché. And yet, it was the purest truth.
She attacked again, this time with a combination of blows more complex, faster, considerably less predictable than previous ones. She was learning. She was adapting. And as I dodged with an ease I knew, from experience, deeply irritated her, wounded her warrior's pride, I could see, with crystalline clarity, the familiar, stubborn shadow of frustration beginning to form, deepen on her young, beautiful, intensely concentrated face.
"It's very, very hard, Azra'il! Damn it! You're too fast! It's like trying to hit the wind with a needle! Or a ghost with a sledgehammer!" Her voice, normally so firm, controlled, was now a delightful mixture of reluctant admiration, pure, simple exasperation, a touch of childish despair.
"Simple, raw physical speed, Erza, though undeniably useful, frequently impressive to the less experienced, is only a small, tiny, frankly, often overestimated part of what you truly, genuinely need to become a true, undisputed sword master, a living legend," I replied with an irritating, almost supernatural calm, maintaining my relaxed posture, fluid movements, condescending comments. She needed to learn to control her emotions in combat. "We, aspirants to mastery, must, above all, before anything else, learn to master the abstract but fundamental concepts of time, space. Observe intently, with all your sharpened senses, not just your opponent's cold, threatening blade, but also their cunning eyes, tense breathing, calculated stance, the subtle, almost imperceptible intention behind each minimal, calculated movement. Anticipate your opponent like an experienced predator. Read their most secret thoughts before they even formulate them in their slow, limited mind. Transform their seemingly unpredictable actions into entirely predictable, easily exploitable reactions."
Yes, I was definitely channelling some old, bearded martial arts master from one of my past lives. And I was loving every second of it.
This time, to my genuine, growing surprise, my secret, undisguised satisfaction, Erza completely, drastically, intelligently changed her tactical approach. She paused for an instant, took a few deep breaths, I could see the cogs whirring rapidly in her shrewd mind. Instead of a direct, frontal, predictable attack based solely on brute force, as she had been doing until then, she executed, with surprising speed, unexpected grace, a swift, agile, entirely unexpected lateral movement, skilfully trying to flank me, surprise me with a cunning, precise blow to my supposed, non-existent blind spot.
I dodged at the last possible instant, with a movement that required a little more effort than I'd care to admit, but she was, this time, much more prepared, much more attentive, much faster for my usual evasive manoeuvre, and almost, almost indeed, managed to touch me with the sharp tip of her wooden blade. Almost.
"That's it! Yes! Much, much better, stubborn, surprisingly cunning little redhead!" I exclaimed with genuine, perhaps slightly exaggerated enthusiasm, offering her a rare, sincere, entirely deserved smile of proud approval. That, yes, was significant, noteworthy progress. She was thinking. She was evolving.
"Continue to pay attention to the smallest details, the subtlest signs. Always remember, my dear, promising Erza, that the true, most effective way to win a battle, any battle, is, fundamentally, in its purest essence, the same way to be, to live in your daily life. Be like flowing water, Erza: always adaptable, incredibly fluid, surprisingly persistent, stubborn, most importantly, able to gracefully, intelligently bypass any obstacle that arises in your path, or, when necessary, as a last resort, to destroy it with total, overwhelming, implacable force." Yes, I was definitely in my 'Master Oogway' mode today. And I was having a whale of a time.
She smiled, a broad, genuine, confident smile this time, the previous frustration, irritation visibly transforming into renewed determination, keen curiosity, growing confidence in her own, considerable abilities. "I'll try even harder, Azra'il! I'll keep learning! And I swear, one day, I'll land a proper blow on you!" Her promise sounded like an amusing challenge.
She attacked again, and this time, though I still managed to dodge her blows with a relative, irritating ease for her, there was a new, undeniable confidence in her fluid movements, a lethal grace in her stance, a surprising tactical intelligence in her feints, a controlled ferocity in her attacks that simply hadn't existed before. She was, indeed, learning. And she was learning very, very quickly. Perhaps too quickly for my own comfort.
"Yes! That's exactly it! Now you're finally starting to truly understand, to feel the essence, the spirit of the blade, Erza!" I said, with genuine admiration, growing pride at her swift, impressive, almost frightening evolution as a swordswoman. She possessed an undeniable natural talent for combat, an almost spiritual affinity with the blade that was incredibly rare to see, even amongst the most experienced, dedicated warriors I had known throughout the ages. She was a force of nature in the making.
"The mind of a true, legendary swordswoman, Erza, must be like a clear, polished, unblemished mirror – without a defined form of its own, without limiting prejudices, without paralysing fears, but intrinsically, wonderfully capable of reflecting with crystalline perfection, absolute clarity everything, absolutely everything, that presents itself before it, be it an enemy, a challenge, an opportunity. Never, ever bind yourself to a single, limiting combat strategy, a single, predictable fighting style, a single, repetitive set of movements. Keep your mind always, eternally open, curious, flexible as bamboo in the wind, always eager for new knowledge. Observe intently, adapt quickly, learn constantly from each new, challenging exchange of blows, each hard-won victory, especially, my dear, promising apprentice, from each bitter, painful defeat!"
The days, with their routine of morning training, afternoon missions, nightly sing-songs in the guild, turned into weeks of intense dedication, honest sweat, excruciating muscle pain (mostly for her, of course), countless, frequently hilarious near-misses on Erza's part. And with each new, long, exhausting training session under Magnolia's strong, inclement sun, which seemed to test us as much as we tested ourselves, Erza became visibly, palpably, almost frighteningly more skilled, faster, more precise, more confident.
I watched her, with a mixture of genuine pride, growing admiration, perhaps a small, utterly irrational twinge of fear, develop an impressive, almost supernatural fluidity in her attacking, defensive movements, a lethal, hypnotic grace in her combat stance, her sword technique, once so raw, based solely on strength, honing, refining, becoming more complex, dangerous with each passing day, each new challenge I set her.
On one particularly sunny morning, with a gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of Fairy Hills' garden flowers, the distant sound of guild laughter, as she executed with a mastery, precision that genuinely impressed me an incredibly complex, swift, powerful sequence of attacks I myself, with great difficulty, some help from Eos, had taught her the previous week, I realised, with crystalline clarity, deep, unexpected satisfaction, that her self-confidence, her belief in her abilities had grown exponentially.
She was no longer just a raw, uncontrolled brute force with cool armour. She was, slowly but surely, transforming into a true, fearsome, legendary swordswoman. Titania was, indeed, awakening.
"Erza, my little, surprising, now officially dangerous apprentice," I praised with a sincerity she certainly perceived, as I dodged, out of pure reflex, habit, perhaps a bit of luck, one of her now incredibly faster, more precise, considerably harder-to-predict attacks. My margin for error was shrinking dangerously. "You are doing exceptionally, surprisingly, almost frighteningly well. I must admit, with a certain reluctance, a slight tremor in my legs, that you learn with a speed bordering on the supernatural. A true, undeniable fight, as you are finally beginning to realise, internalise, is not just, solely a simple matter of raw physical strength, overwhelming magical power, or who shouts loudest during battle. It is, fundamentally, above all, a complex, intricate matter of refined, flawless technique, intelligent, adaptable strategy, an incredibly calm, utterly focused, ice-cold mind, even in the heat of the most desperate of battles. Your considerable, growing skill with the blade, my dear Erza, is sharpening with each passing day, like the finest, strongest steel of a legendary sword being patiently, painfully tempered in the consuming fire of ordeal. Now," a challenging, confident, perhaps slightly smug smile appeared on my lips, as I adopted a slightly more serious combat stance for the first time in weeks, "the time has finally come for your true, definitive test. Try to actually hit me this time, Erza. With everything, absolutely everything, you've learned so far. No dirty tricks. No flashy magic. No mercy. Just you, your sword, your indomitable will." And, secretly, I was eager to see the result.
Erza took a few deep breaths, her shoulders relaxing, aligning, her intense, bright brown eye fixed on mine with an intensity, concentration, determination that would make an experienced, jaded warrior hesitate, perhaps even reach for the nearest nappy. She held her faithful wooden training sword with both hands, her stance now impeccable, elegant, deadly, her slim but strong body visibly vibrating with a contained, powerful, almost palpable energy.
And then, without a single sound, a single warning, she launched into the attack, her wooden blade cutting the air like a silent, silver flash of lightning, in an attack that was a perfect, harmonious, absolutely lethal combination of stunning speed, surprising strength, surgical precision I myself would have envied. I dodged instinctively, my own rusty, ancient reflexes kicking in at the last millisecond, but this time, to my utter, absolute surprise, perhaps a little genuine panic, I noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible, yet fundamental shift in her approach.
She wasn't just blindly attacking, following a learned pattern; she was thinking, analysing, reading my movements with frightening precision, adapting in real-time to my defences. With a swift, agile, entirely unexpected, incredibly cunning movement, she executed an elaborate, convincing feint to the left, forcing me to move to dodge the non-existent blow, and then, in an instant that seemed to stretch for an eternity, made my heart perform a triple somersault in my chest, she managed, with surprising speed, masterly precision, to completely reverse her attack, surprising me utterly, absolutely, rather humiliatingly.
I felt the lightness of the almost ghostly touch of her wooden blade's tip on my face, a small, almost insignificant, entirely painless scratch on my left cheek – a superficial cut, almost invisible to the naked eye, but, at that moment, incredibly, deeply, transcendentally symbolic. I looked at her, who now stood a few inches from me, panting, her eye wide with a mixture of shock, disbelief, hesitant joy. And then, to my own surprise, perhaps to Eos's horror, a slow, genuine, incredibly broad smile, full of a pride I could no longer, nor wanted to, hide, formed on my lips.
"You… you did it, Erza Scarlet. You stubborn little, absolutely brilliant Titania. You finally, spectacularly, managed to hit me!"
She stood there for a long, tense moment, completely still, her young brain probably trying to process what had just happened, the surprise, incredulity gradually giving way to pure, crystalline, noisy, utterly childlike elation.
"I… I did it! I really did it! I hit you, Azra'il!" she yelled at last, her voice full of a pure, contagious joy that echoed through the training ground, her eye shining brightly with tears of happiness, relief, overflowing pride. The pride stamped on her dirty, sweaty, now radiant face was palpable, the accumulated frustration that had accompanied her for so many weeks of intense training, countless defeats had, finally, completely, gloriously vanished, replaced by a newfound, radiant, powerful, absolutely unshakeable confidence.
"Yes! Yes, you did, you little, stubborn, now officially dangerous Titania!" I exulted along with her, feeling a wave of genuine, deep admiration, almost maternal pride, which was profoundly unsettling, for her incredible, deserved, entirely earned progress. She had, through her own effort, her own strength, overcome not only my defences, but also, more importantly, her own, self-defined limitations.
"You didn't just land a blow on me, Erza. You did much more than that. You found your own, unique strength, your own particular rhythm, your own, non-transferable path of the sword. You have become, before my own, beautiful eyes, much more than just a simple, skilled swordswoman. You now, my dear, promising friend, finally, definitively, understand, with every fibre of your being, what it truly, genuinely means to be in perfect, absolute, total harmony with the true, noble, frequently misunderstood path of the sword."
Erza nodded slowly, her brown eye, now clear, piercing, shining with a new, deep wisdom, meeting mine in a moment of profound, silent, total mutual understanding. It was as if, for a brief, magical instant, our souls had touched, recognised each other.
"Azra'il… I… I finally, finally, understand what you meant with all those enigmatic words of yours, those confusing metaphors about leaves, trees, forests." A small, wise, almost imperceptible smile appeared on her lips, a smile that spoke of an understanding far beyond simple words. "I realised, during all these long, exhausting training sessions of ours, that by focusing all my mind, all my energy, solely on a single blow, a single movement, a single, desperate opportunity to hit you, I frequently, much to my great frustration, completely forgot to look at the whole of the battle, the complete picture of the deadly dance we were engaged in – my own position relative to you, the environment, your subtle, almost imperceptible body movement, the hidden, cunning intention behind each of your seemingly casual dodges. I was, indeed, completely blind to the vastness of the forest, lost in a single, insignificant leaf." Her self-awareness was impressive.
"Exactly, Erza. Exactly that," I replied, feeling a wave of deep, genuine, almost overwhelming satisfaction at her keen perception, her newfound humility, her wisdom blossoming like a rare, precious flower. She was, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, an exceptional student, a true rough diamond beginning to reveal its inner brilliance. "The vast, unpredictable forest of battle, just like life itself, is incredibly, wonderfully vast, infinitely complex, full of numerous, countless, infinite possibilities, for both glorious victory, bitter, humiliating defeat. When you, my dear Erza, learn to see beyond what is immediately, obviously before you, when you expand your perception, your awareness, to encompass the entire battlefield, all subtle variables, all hidden dangers, all fleeting opportunities, you become, almost as if by magic, infinitely more capable, more prepared, more confident to respond with lethal effectiveness, strategic intelligence, surprising creativity to any unexpected challenge, any cunning opponent, any desperate situation cruel fate, or a particularly sadistic instructor with a questionable sense of humour, decides to sadistically throw onto your already complicated, trial-filled path."
Erza smiled, a broad, confident, serene smile, full of a deep, tranquil understanding that went far beyond her mere words. "Yes, Azra'il. Now I truly understand. Every movement, every attack, every defence, every breath, every beat of my heart… everything, absolutely everything, is an intrinsic, interconnected part of a greater whole, a complex, fluid, ever-changing, eternal dance. Now, I finally, with a clarity that frightens, frees me at the same time, can see it with my own eyes."
We both stood in a comfortable, meaning-laden silence for a long, precious moment, just watching the sun begin its slow, majestic descent on the distant horizon, painting the vast, cloudless sky with vibrant, melancholic, almost painfully beautiful hues of orange, purple, a gold that seemed liquid. We were just absorbing the depth, the meaning, the importance of what had just happened between us, on that simple, dusty training ground.
The small, almost insignificant, entirely painless cut on my left cheek, which, to my slight annoyance, was already beginning to heal, disappear completely thanks to my irritating, efficient accelerated cellular regeneration, had become, at that instant, much more, infinitely more, than just a simple, trivial superficial wound. It had become a powerful, indelible symbol of her remarkable growth as a warrior, her impressive evolution as a person, a visible, indisputable mark of her unshakeable determination, her indomitable strength, her incredible, inspiring ability to overcome not only her opponents, but, which was far more important, difficult, her own, self-defined limits.
"I am genuinely, deeply, immensely proud of you, Erza Scarlet," I declared at last, my voice surprisingly devoid of any trace of sarcasm, irony, condescension, my ancient, jaded, usually so cold heart filled with a pure joy, an almost palpable pride, an affection I rarely, if ever, felt or expressed. "This, my dear, now officially dangerous friend, is only, solely, the humble beginning of your long, arduous, glorious, undoubtedly very noisy journey. Always remember, with every fibre of your being, that the true, noble, frequently misunderstood path of the sword, just like the even more complicated, confusing, frequently painful path of life, is a continuous journey, without a defined final destination, without a clear map, of constant learning, tireless improvement, a self-discovery that never ends. Continue to explore your limits with courage, curiosity, continue to humbly learn from your inevitable mistakes, your well-deserved victories, never, ever, under any circumstances, lose that stubborn inner flame of yours, that indomitable strength, that ability to love, to protect. That is what makes you who you are. That is what makes you… Erza."
She smiled, a radiant, confident, serene smile, full of unsaid promises, her indomitable determination, newly rekindled hope shining brightly in her now clear, steady gaze. "I promise I will continue, Azra'il. With all my strength. I will become even stronger! Strong enough to protect all those I love! Strong enough to build a better future for all of us! And, who knows," a mischievous glint appeared in her eye, "strong enough to, one day, perhaps, who knows, truly beat you in a fair duel, no tricks!" There was an amusing challenge, a veiled promise, a deep friendship in her words.
The sun finally began to set completely on the distant horizon, casting a soft, melancholic golden glow over both of us, as we prepared, bodies tired but spirits renewed, to end another long, exhausting, yet incredibly, unexpectedly rewarding day of intense training.
Erza Scarlet's journey as a true, legendary swordswoman was, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, only just beginning. And I, to my utter, absolute, almost embarrassing surprise, was genuinely, deeply, perhaps a little dangerously eager, almost genuinely excited, to see just how far that small, stubborn, incredibly strong, surprisingly promising Titania-on-the-meteoric-rise would go on her journey. And, who knows, perhaps she really would, one day, with much effort, perhaps a little luck, manage to truly beat me. Which would be, at the very least, to my growing horror, secret admiration, very, very, incredibly interesting. And probably very expensive in terms of repairs.