In a long, narrow alleyway, damp concrete echoed with weak groans.
"You know what I hate most?" a voice spoke coldly. "Scum like you."
Several teenagers lay sprawled across the ground, all around seventeen years old, their faces marked with raw bruises and broken noses. All of them had been beaten down effortlessly.
All except one.
"People who fight just to hurt somebody weaker than them."
A boy with long, slicked-back black hair held the remaining teenager off the ground with one hand wrapped tightly around his collar. The body difference was absurd—the boy in his grip was nearly twice his height—yet the arm holding him up didn't tremble for a second.
"Don't get the wrong idea, though," Gajeel Lionheart said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I love a good fight. Hell, I fight because I enjoy it."
He looked into the teenager's frantic eyes with a cold, unyielding glare.
"I don't really care why somebody throws a punch, either. Fight to protect someone. Fight to survive. Fight to prove something to yourself. Fine by me."
His expression darkened sharply.
"But what I can't stand... are people who already know they're strong and still use that strength to crush people who can't fight back. Not for a challenge. Not for survival. Not even because it's fun." A dangerous edge cut into his smile. "They do it because they like watching people suffer."
The bully in his grip trembled, hyperventilating under the sheer weight of Gajeel's presence.
"Those kinds of people are the worst," Gajeel growled, his voice dropping into a low threat. "I hate bullies."
"Uuugh..." the teenager groaned weakly.
"Picking on weaker people must've made you feel pretty strong, huh?"
Gajeel released his grip, letting the teenager collapse to the ground in a pathetic heap. Without sparing him another glance, Gajeel turned his back and began walking away.
"If I catch you doing it around me again..." His voice echoed off the alley walls like a death knell. "...I'll kill you."
He kept walking, leaving the alley behind without looking back.
Gajeel believed the simplest way to live was through pleasure and displeasure. If he wanted something, he took it. If he hated something, he crushed it. To him, life was nothing more than following instinct and desire without letting fear, guilt, or hesitation chain him down.
Consequences didn't matter. Consequences were usually just complaints made by weak people who lacked the courage to do what they actually wanted. If he felt tired, he slept wherever he pleased. If he wanted food, money, or scraps of iron from some careless idiot, he took them.
And if someone looked at him wrong—or if he just felt like swinging his fists—combat started long before words ever had the chance to.
It was selfish and reckless, but Gajeel never denied it. Suppressing every desire sounded like a hollow existence, like living in a cage built from invisible bars.
Fear of punishment. Fear of judgment. Fear of other people.
Gajeel chose to live wildly instead. A bloody nose, bruised knuckles, broken bones—those were proof he was alive. Every injury was evidence that he lived without pretending, without lies. And somewhere along the way, Gajeel connected that belief directly to magic.
A wizard wasn't just someone who could cast spells. Anyone could learn magic with enough talent and effort. But to truly stand proudly as a wizard meant understanding the value of your own existence. If someone lived chained down by fear, if they hated themselves, if they couldn't even decide how they wanted to live—then what the hell were they fighting for?
To Gajeel, magic was an extension of the self. A reflection of raw will. And if a person couldn't live honestly with themselves, they'd never become truly strong.
Later that day, Gajeel sat atop a colossal mountain of scrap metal beneath the open sky.
The heap stretched endlessly upward against the pale blue backdrop, creating the overwhelming impression of a mountain forged from ruin. Twisted steel, shattered machinery, and rust-devoured wreckage were piled endlessly atop one another.
Automotive parts protruded from the mound, half-buried beneath layers of debris. Massive structural beams jutted outward at violent angles, bent nearly in half as if torn apart by monstrous force. Rust spread across every surface in deep browns, burnt oranges, and faded reds, while cracked gears, severed pistons, and snapped chains lay scattered throughout the debris.
A sharp, metallic crunch echoed through the yard as Gajeel bit down onto a rounded iron rim. His teeth tore through the metal with
ease. Dropping the remainder into his lap, he lazily chewed through the jagged chunk in his mouth.
"It's been a while since Metalicana disappeared..." Gajeel muttered aloud to the empty sky. "I've been trying to find him this whole time..." His red, slit-pupiled eyes lowered slightly. "It's like dragons completely vanished from the world."
The only traces of dragons he ever found were buried inside old, dusty books, but he still read them over and over again, searching desperately for any clue that might lead him back to the dragon who raised him.
"Let's see... How long's it been now?" Gajeel muttered, holding up his hands to count on his fingers. "Dad disappeared on the seventh..."
"One... two..." He paused mid-count. "Three weeks... I think."
"So that means today is..." His expression stiffened as his mental gears ground to a halt. "Wait. How many days are in a week again?"
"Seven, right?" He stared blankly into space, struggling through the arithmetic. "I gotta multiply seven by three..."
He squeezed his eyes shut as his brain overheated under the strain.
"Uhh..."
"Oh! Right! Twenty-one!" He pointed proudly at an empty stack of rusted pipes. "That means today's the twenty-ninth of July."
Math wasn't his strength. But despite feeling mildly accomplished for solving such complex things, his mood quickly plummeted as reality settled back in. Twenty-one days. And still nothing.
«And somehow... you became the child I cherish most.»
The memory surfaced unbidden. Metalicana's voice. The quiet sadness behind it. The subtle crack at the end of the sentence.
A heavy tightness filled Gajeel's chest. To him, Metalicana had been everything: massive, knowledgeable, blunt, and kind of rude. But above all else, he was strong—strong enough to obliterate mountains with a single spell or crush monstrous beasts with a flick of his tail. He possessed centuries of absolute dominance.
Yet despite all of that…
«Hey... Gajeel.»
Despite holding strength that bordered on catastrophe—
«I love you, kid.»
The dragon had cried.
Gajeel's chest tightened so violently it hurt to breathe. "I'm not a crybaby..." He growled quietly, pressing his palm against his sternum. "I ain't soft enough to whine about something that already happened..."
His jaw trembled despite his words. Emotion swelled inside him, heavy and suffocating.
"Dad... why did you—"
A foreign scent suddenly drifted into his nose, followed immediately by the sound of an approaching voice.
"Hello there!"
Gajeel's eyes narrowed instantly into lethal slits. 'Someone's here...'
Jumping to his feet, Gajeel aggressively wiped his eyes with his forearm before anyone could see the tears in his eyes. A figure stepped onto a heavy piece of rubble several meters away, the metal groaning beneath his weight.
"Who the hell are you?" Gajeel turned sharply, his voice dripping with irritation.
"Greetings, young one. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," the stranger replied smoothly.
He was an exceptionally tall, slender man, standing well over 185 centimeters, with a presence that felt both theatrical and deeply unsettling. His long-limbed frame gave him the silhouette of a predator wrapped in noble attire.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is—"
"Better question," Gajeel cut him off, pointing a finger directly at his face. "What the hell are you wearing?"
The man blinked once, caught off guard. His long, straight dark-red hair fell neatly to his shoulders, framing a sharp, angular face with faintly pointed ears, pronounced eyelashes, and dark lips that enhanced his eerie, aristocratic appearance.
A thin pencil mustache rested above his mouth. Perched atop his head was a tall purple hat with a broad brim, its elongated tip bent loosely toward his left shoulder in a dramatic, witch-like silhouette.
Around his shoulders rested a deep-purple capelet trimmed with jagged white edges resembling sharp teeth, anchored by a high rigid collar with a vivid green inner lining. Beneath the cape, he wore a light-colored shirt paired with a large, puffed red cravat featuring a circular blue brooch with a white cross emblem.
Bright red trousers completed the flamboyant outfit, while extending from his back were enormous bat-like wings colored deep blue-black, their visible skeletal ribbing making him appear less like a human and more like a nightmare creature attempting a noble dress.
"...Huh?" the stranger said flatly.
"Don't 'huh' me, old man. You know exactly what I'm talking about," Gajeel shot back, sneering. "What's wrong with your outfit? You look like a clown. Do yourself a favor and crawl back to whatever circus you ran away from."
A crooked smile slowly spread across the man's face, though a subtle twitch appeared near his eye.
"My, my... what a sharp tongue you have. Though I suppose a mere child would lack any understanding of proper fashion."
"No sense of fashion?" Gajeel scoffed loudly, throwing his arms out. "The fact you think that counts as fashion tells me everything I need to know about you." He gestured proudly toward his own rugged studs and dark vest. "Take notes, old man. This is what style looks like."
A prominent vein pulsed against the stranger's temple, yet he forced a light, melodic laugh.
"Heh. How adorable. But no child could possibly understand true fashion." He spread one arm dramatically against his chest, his grin widening with arrogant pride. "For you see... I am fashion."
'This guy...' A vein bulged on Gajeel's forehead. 'He's actively trying to piss me off.'
Across the rubble, the man was thinking almost the exact same thing. 'This brat... he knows nothing about elegance. I bet he doesn't even use soap. He's deliberately trying to provoke me.'
The man's brown eyes locked onto Gajeel's crimson slit pupils. The air between them sharpened with silent hostility.
"As I was saying..." The man continued smoothly, recovering his composure. "My name is José Porla. I am the Guild Master of the wizard guild, Phantom Lord."
"Gajeel Lionheart," Gajeel introduced himself briefly, crossing his arms. "And I'm an Iron Dragon Slayer."
"Iron Dragon Slayer?" José raised an eyebrow. "I can't say I've ever heard of such a title before." He paused, his expression shifting into something calculating. "Though, changing the subject... would you allow me to ask you a question?"
"What is it?" Gajeel gave a curt nod.
"Tell me," José began calmly, "what exactly do you think a Guild is?"
"It's a place for people who use magic," Gajeel answered bluntly. "Wizards. Mages. People like that."
"Not incorrect," José admitted, "but your answer is far too small." He folded his hands gracefully behind his back. "A Guild is an organization built around Mages and the work they perform. People from all across Fiore come to Guilds with requests—escort missions, monster exterminations, investigations, deliveries, protection detail."
"Yeah, I know about those," Gajeel said. "Jobs."
"Precisely. Guilds gather those Jobs, organize them, and send Mages out to complete them. It is how Mages survive—they earn jewels, buy food, repair equipment, and sustain their lives."
A slow grin spread across Gajeel's face. "Heh. So I get it now." His red eyes narrowed. "You want me to join your Guild."
"Indeed," José confirmed without hesitation. "A Mage without a Guild lacks structure. Connections, protection, reliable work. Guilds provide purpose, reputation, and a place to belong."
Gajeel stared at him blankly. He knew what Guild Masters were—they stood at the top, the strongest voice and usually the strongest Mage in the building. But he saw zero reason to sign his life away.
"Why should I give a damn?" Gajeel asked bluntly. "Let's make something clear right now, old man. I'd rather die than spend my life living for somebody else."
His grin vanished, replaced by an unreadable intensity.
"So stop dancing around it. What do you really want?"
"What do I want?" José repeated softly.
Then he laughed—a low, dark sound that vibrated deep in his throat. Leaning forward, his dark eyes gleamed with undisguised ambition.
"I want the name of Phantom Lord to carry weight across this entire continent," José said. "I want people to hear our name and feel their lungs crush under the pressure before we even arrive."
He slowly spread his arms outward.
"I want overwhelming strength. Not merely individual power... but quantity. Mages, resources, knowledge, influence, wealth, fear. I want it all." A cold, monstrous pride crept across his features. "I will construct a Guild whose foundation is not built upon childish illusions like 'friendship' or 'family'..."
He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over Gajeel.
"...but total dominance. A realm where the strong devour the strong to prove they deserve to stand at the peak. And the weak? The weak will have only two choices: climb, or be crushed beneath the boots of those who did."
He placed a hand over his chest, right over the hidden emblem of his guild.
"That is the Guild I will build. Not a home... but a kingdom of monsters."
Silence stretched over the scrapyard.
Slowly, a wide, wild, mania-filled grin stretched across Gajeel's face.
"A place full of monsters, huh..." Gajeel chuckled, his crimson slit eyes locking directly onto José's gaze. "That sounds fun. Show me what you've got, Master."
José's smile turned wicked. "As you wish."
Without warning, an invisible weight slammed down onto the scrapyard. The pressure skyrocketed instantly, causing the massive mountains of junk surrounding them to groan, rattle, and warp beneath the load. Steel beams screeched, rust sheared off in massive sheets, and loose iron scraps vibrated violently against one another like shattering glass.
Gajeel's body violently rigidified. A sickening, suffocating sensation struck his core like a physical blow. His knees buckled slightly, fighting against a burden that felt like an entire mountain dropped onto his shoulders.
'W-what the hell...?!'
The world around José darkened as a deep purple aura erupted outward from his body, staining the ambient light in an ominous, malevolent glow.
"Well?" José's voice rang out calmly through the roaring pressure. "Can you handle this? This is my aura—the physical embodiment of my resolve."
A localized tempest exploded outward. The sheer wind pressure whipped Gajeel's long hair and clothes wildly around him, while José's cape billowed like the wings of a dark god.
"What is this power?!" Gajeel shouted over the deafening roar of grinding metal. "It... it makes me feel sick!"
The magic pressure continued to scale without a visible ceiling. The steel heap beneath their boots split apart under the strain, tearing open structural fractures as entire sections of scrap metal collapsed inward.
'So much pressure...' Gajeel gritted his teeth so hard his gums bled. 'I can feel it crushing my damn bones...!'
In the world of magic, this was Magic Pressure—the raw physical force exerted by a Mage's immense magic power. When a Mage's internal energy vastly surpassed standard human thresholds, excess power leaked continuously into the physical realm, warping gravity, air, and the area itself.
It was the metric of a Mage's strength. And right now, José Porla was radiating enough of it to crush a lesser man into paste.
"I-I'm not scared of some stupid pressure!" Gajeel shouted, his teeth bared as he forced his right boot forward. "It'll take more than this to break my will!"
The instant his boot touched the ground, José's eyes flashed. The pressure multiplied tenfold.
The gravity spiked violently. Gajeel's body shook uncontrollably as his joints screamed. His arms locked up, his legs rigidified, and a cold, paralyzing terror crawled up his spine, invading every nerve ending in his body.
'T-this can't be...'
Memories of Metalicana flashed rapidly behind his eyes.
«You will crush your enemies in close combat. This magic is not a trick. It is not convenient. It is transformation.»
"I'm supposed to be the strongest!" Gajeel screamed, his mind raging against the paralysis holding his muscles. "So why... why can't I move?!"
«With power like a dragon's... there's no way in hell I won't become the strongest!»
Every cell in Gajeel's body—every bone, every instinct inherited from Metalicana's dragon magic—screamed a single, desperate message:
Run.
Even if his pride refused to speak the words, his body had already surrendered.
'If I fight this guy...' The cold reality pierced straight through his heart. 'I'm dead. He'll kill me in a second.'
The sheer terror overwhelmed his willpower. His knees finally gave out entirely, slamming hard against the jagged iron floor. For the first time in Gajeel Lionheart's life, he was utterly, completely terrified.
'I...' He dug his fingernails into the rust beneath him, trembling violently. 'I don't want to fight this monster...'
Seeing the boy broken on his knees, José closed his eyes smoothly.
In an instant, the crushing weight vanished. The violent winds died to a whisper, the malevolent purple glow dissipated, and the atmospheric gravity returned to normal.
Yet even with the magic gone, the physical destruction remained—and so did the absolute terror stamped onto Gajeel's soul.
"If I intend to create a kingdom filled with monsters..." José spoke calmly into the sudden silence, looking down at the boy, "...then it is only natural that I become a greater monster than all of them."
Silence hung thick over the scrapyard.
"...I'll do it," Gajeel's voice came out quietly, his head hanging low, his long black hair shielding his face from view.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. His expression was pale, but beneath the residual terror lingering in his eyes, a fierce, wild fire ignited.
"I'll join your Guild," Gajeel said, his voice regaining its sharp, metallic bite. "I'll become a monster too. A monster that lives for combat... one that lives for its own desires."
Gajeel forced his trembling legs to push him back up, standing tall once again before the Master of Phantom Lord. A savage, unyielding grin tore across his face.
"So let me join Phantom Lord..." Gajeel snarled softly. "...Master José."