It was somewhere around the year X754 when a child walked the stone-paved streets of her hometown.
Her eyes were empty—dull, dark, and utterly devoid of luster. Her skin was porcelain pale, untouched by sunlight. Clutched tightly in her small hands were the palms of two adults walking beside her, yet there was no warmth in their touch.
She did not speak. She could barely remember her own childhood—only the distant scent of her father and the light touch of her mother.
Their silent trek ended in front of a looming fortress: the Phantom Lord guild. The next distinct memory the girl retained was standing inside a vast throne room. Her parents bowed deeply before a tall, imposing figure—Master José.
She could not process the words they exchanged. Glancing toward a shadowed corner of the grand hall, she caught the gaze of a young boy with sharp, amber-glowing eyes, looking to be a few years older than her.
An hour later, her parents walked out of the hall. They left without her.
She was eventually told the truth: she had not been abandoned to an orphanage. Her parents were alive and well; they had simply used their daughter as payment to settle a debt.
Sheila was not a name given in love. It was an identity constructed from scratch by a child who had been discarded by her own flesh and blood.
In the brutal years that followed, she rebuilt herself piece by piece. She became the first female S-Class mage in Phantom Lord's history—an unquestioned authority figure who stood as a shield for those who could not protect themselves.
Sheila returned to the present when Damian spoke her original name. Or rather, her mind rejected the sound of it entirely, filtering the word into meaningless static.
Around them, their fellow guild members were slowly groaning back to consciousness, unaware that a brief, terrifying clash of magical aura had just knocked them out cold.
Damian stood unmoving, his amber eyes locked onto her with quiet, deliberate curiosity.
'Does she still intend to fight?'' Damian thought silently, his posture relaxed. 'Neither of us can unleash our full strength inside the hall without violating guild rules. She knows this as well as I do.'
Silence hung heavy over the room before Sheila finally broke it. Her expression—and her tone—settled into an absolute, unyielding solemnity.
"We are finished here," she said flatly. "I have no reason to continue this skirmish."
She focused her magic inward. A gentle, white-hued breeze began to swirl around her heels, rising from the floor like a soft updraft. Unlike standard elemental casters, Sheila possessed the rare ability to convert her physical body into her attribute itself—turning solid flesh and blood into wind.
Her mastery over the technique was precise enough to encompass Gajeel, who rested motionless in her arms.
"My sole objective was retrieving this boy," Sheila continued, her voice level, devoid of emotion."Engaging in combat without a purpose is an act of sheer foolishness."
Within seconds, the edges of her silhouette softened. Her body grew translucent, hair and white mantle dissolving smoothly into a spinning current of air.
Within seconds, with a quiet, lingering breeze, both she and Gajeel vanished completely, leaving behind nothing but a fading draft.
The moment the air settled, Damian burst into a rich, mocking laugh.
"Ha! It seems I struck a nerve!" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Who could have anticipated such a reaction from our stoic S-Class?"
His amusement was cold. Aside from Master José, Damian was the only person in the guild who knew the truth of her origin.
Noticing the groggy guild members stumbling to their feet, Damian waved his hand lazily toward the shattered tables and cracked woodwork left behind by their aura clash.
"Be at ease, my friends," Damian announced, his voice carrying the smooth, measured tone of an instructor addressing a class. "I shall restore order to the hall myself. I happen to be in an exceptionally good mood."
The surrounding mages gave him wary, confused looks, but none argued. If an S-Class mage volunteered to clean up his own wreckage, no one was foolish enough to object.
'Ah… your vision approaches fruition, Master José,' Damian thought, a faint, sharp smile touching his lips as he began lifting debris.
José Porla sought to create a guild built on dominance—a sanctuary where the strong devoured the weak. For those lacking strength, only two paths existed: remain submissive prey, or force oneself to evolve into a predator.
Phantom Lord was designed for one purpose alone: to forge the strongest mages in Fiore, second to none.
'This place…' Damian mused internally, his eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. '...truly is a kingdom of monsters.'