"Absolutely and transcendentally disgusting," I grumbled with a shudder of genuine revulsion, futilely trying to wipe the viscous, black, and terribly malodorous blood of those canine abominations from my already filthy clothes. Honestly, it was an offence to my aesthetic sensibilities and proof of our captors' lack of hygiene. "Who was the creative genius, the misunderstood artist, who had the brilliant idea to create these… things? Their stench is worse than the deepest, most forgotten sewers of Raven's End on a particularly hot summer's day, when the mouldy cheese decides to throw a party with the rotten fish. And mind you, that was already an olfactory terrorist attack."
I tried to maintain some residual dignity as I cleaned myself with a torn piece of fabric I found on the floor, a futile effort given the tenacity of the grime. I mournfully gave up after the fifth frustrated attempt to remove a particularly sticky substance, of a colour that defied description and a texture reminiscent of troll snot, from my snow-white hair. Being an ancient entity with cosmic powers trapped in a child's body was humiliating enough without having to look like a mop used by a cyclops with motor coordination problems.
"Right. Simply and spectacularly right. I'm going to reek of dead dog, dark magic, and existential regrets for the rest of eternity. Or at least until my next bath, which, considering the circumstances, might be a while."
With a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of several lifetimes of minor frustrations and encounters with disgusting monsters, I slumped onto an old, dusty crate in the corner of the abandoned storeroom. The crate protested with an ominous creak, threatening to give way under my insignificant weight. My clothes were a map of battle stains, my hair a nest of dirt and unidentified goo, and I would probably need a volcanic acid bath to feel remotely clean again.
"I sincerely hope that little, intrepid Jellal, our aspiring tragic hero with a questionable taste for escape plans, has managed to reach Erza without too many… mishaps." Or, at least, without getting as filthy as I did in the process. Children and their tendency to get themselves into spectacular trouble.
[You could have gone with him, you know, Azra'il,] Eos commented, with that irritatingly logical, subtly reproachful, and entirely correct tone that I both detested and appreciated at the same time. [It would have been, statistically speaking, and considering your vast and varied combat and infiltration skills, much easier, considerably faster, and immeasurably safer for all involved. Your abilities surpass his by approximately 99.99999%, with a negligible margin of error.]
"No, Eos," I replied with a tired sigh, my blue eyes fixed on the dusty, cobweb-ridden ceiling of the storeroom, where every shadow seemed to dance with the ghosts of lost cargo, forgotten contraband, and possibly some particularly large mutant rodents. "It's better this way. As much as it pains me to admit, and believe me, it physically hurts like a stab to the ego, it's better that he, the little blue-haired prince, saves her this time."
[And why exactly, if I may intrude upon your convoluted and frequently contradictory logic, this sudden and inexplicable display of altruism, delegation of dangerous tasks to an unprepared child, and an apparent aversion to solving problems in the most efficient way possible?] There was a hint of acidic sarcasm in Eos's mental voice that I knew, and secretly appreciated, very well.
"Because, my dear, sceptical, and occasionally irritating artificial intelligence," I explained, a small, almost imperceptible smile forming on my lips as I thought of the complicated and strangely captivating dynamic of those children, "that little, stubborn, and surprisingly strong redhead, our Erza, has a special, entirely unadmitted, and probably unconscious affection for that idealistic blue-haired brat, even if she doesn't fully realise it yet or vehemently refuses to accept the depth of her juvenile, muddled feelings. The stuff of mortals and their complicated, frequently inconvenient emotional dramas." And, to be perfectly honest, watching that youthful romantic drama unfold amidst the chaos and misery was an entertainment in itself, a welcome little distraction from my own long existence. "And also, and perhaps this is the most important and least sentimental point, because our little, arrogant Jellal needs to learn some important, painful lessons about life, the universe, leadership, and the crushing responsibility that comes with it."
[Learn what exactly, Azra'il? The fifty-seven different ways to fail spectacularly on an improvised rescue mission and end up being eaten alive by particularly hungry necromantic dogs with digestive problems?] Eos's dark humour was, at times, a disturbing reflection of my own.
"Being a leader, my dear, analytical operating system," I sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the hard, cold crate, which definitely hadn't been designed for the comfort of ancient beings trapped in childish bodies, "isn't just about strutting around giving orders in a presumptuously important voice and making harebrained, flawed plans on an imaginary blackboard. And it definitely, emphatically, and categorically is not about spouting pretty words, soundbites that sound good but mean nothing, and inspiring speeches that, deep down, are as empty, hollow, useless, and devoid of substance as a leaky barrel in a scorching desert." I had a particular, almost allergic, aversion to that kind of superficial, performative leadership.
[You seem particularly and personally irritated, almost offended, by this specific topic, Azra'il. Any unpleasant past experiences, perhaps involving glib, incompetent leaders with a special talent for leading their followers to ruin, that you'd like to share with the group, or at least with your trusted AI?]
"Because I've seen too much, Eos. Too much for a single, miserable existence, or even for several hundred of them," I spat the words with palpable disgust and cold fury, the bitter memory of countless flawed leaders, their promises broken like glass and their cowardly betrayals resurfacing in my mind like hungry ghosts. "I've seen 'leaders' who were true masters in the subtle art of vomiting up ready-made, trite motivational phrases, culled from some cheap self-help manual. In promising the earth with the ease and nonchalance of someone ordering a glass of water, without the slightest intention of delivering. In making people feel special, important, invincible, and part of something greater, with words sweet as poisoned honey, cheap flattery, and a carefully calculated, superficial charisma. But when it came to the crunch, Eos, when the shite truly, well and truly hit the fan with the force of a hurricane, when the blood started to pour like summer rain and things got truly ugly, difficult, dangerous, and desperate? They were, invariably and without exception, the first to run like the cowards they were, the first to hide behind their privileges, the first to sacrifice others, their loyal, gullible followers, to save their own insignificant, despicable skins. Cowards with fine words and rotten hearts. The worst and most dangerous kind of living being."
[And you truly think that young, idealistic Jellal, despite his tender age, his glaring inexperience, and his tendency towards somewhat grandiloquent speeches, could follow that same disappointing, predictable, and morally bankrupt path?]
"No," I replied after a moment's reflection, a surprising, almost reluctant sincerity in my voice. "In fact, and this is why I'm investing my time and risking mortal boredom in this storeroom, this is precisely why I'm letting him go through this ordeal now, through this furnace of responsibility. That lad, despite all his irritating naivety, his blind faith in the goodness of others, and his occasional, almost unbearable displays of youthful arrogance, has real potential. Raw, unpolished, but undeniable potential. He's not the type to just talk and do nothing, to hide behind empty promises; he acts, he tries, he takes risks, even if clumsily and ill-planned. But he needs to understand, and understand in the hardest, most painful, most visceral way possible, that fine words, however eloquent, don't save lives. That empty promises, however sincere and well-intentioned they may seem at the moment, don't heal deep wounds or bring the dead back to life." Reality, as always, was a cruel but effective teacher.
I ran a hand through my now terribly tangled hair, which had a texture reminiscent of wet steel wool, grimacing in sheer disgust as I found more of that disgusting, sticky, persistent goo. I would definitely need a miracle, or a very potent, possibly illegal, cleaning spell to get rid of that battle residue.
"A true leader, Eos, one who truly, genuinely inspires loyalty, respect, and the will to fight to the bitter end, needs to be willing, without hesitation, to bleed first, to suffer more than their followers, to bear the heaviest, most thankless weight on their shoulders. Leadership isn't about making people feel good, safe, and warm inside with empty speeches, condescending pats on the back, and promises of a glorious future that never arrives. It's about being there, present and firm, in the absolute shite with them, bleeding together, fighting together, suffering together, and, if and when necessary, dying together." That was my raw, tried-and-tested definition of leadership. A definition forged in the heat of countless battles, in the cold of innumerable losses, and in the bitter experience of seeing the best and worst of sentient nature.
[As you, for example, are doing at this very moment, Azra'il, by isolating yourself in a stinking, dusty storeroom, observing from afar, whilst a child risks their own life on an almost suicidal rescue mission? Your logic is, as always, impeccable and full of fascinating contradictions.] Eos's sarcasm was as subtle and delicate as a flaming meteor crashing directly onto one's head. She had a special talent for it.
"No, you irritating AI, with a worrying tendency to develop a personality of your own and problems with reading comprehension," I cut in, with a patience that was rapidly depleting like water through a sieve. "As I am letting him do now, you observant collection of circuits. Because sometimes, my dear, overly literal artificial intelligence, the best, most effective way to lead, the most powerful way to teach, is to humbly step out of the way, swallow one's own ego, and let others, especially those who aspire to leadership, find their own inner strength, their own indomitable courage, their own surprising ability to overcome the seemingly impossible." Or, at the very least, to fail spectacularly and learn some valuable, painful lessons from their own mistakes. Both options were, in the long run, educational and potentially amusing to observe.
[Even if it means, in practical terms, watching them suffer terribly and unnecessarily in the process? Even if there's a statistically high probability of failure, pain, and potentially irreversible consequences?]
"Especially and precisely because of that, my sceptical and pragmatic Eos," I confirmed, a bitter, tired, and perhaps slightly sad smile curving my lips. "Because at the end of the day, when the lights go out, the monsters come out of the shadows to play, and reality bites with all its teeth, fine words won't stop anyone from dying. Inspiring, hope-filled speeches won't stop a sharp blade or a deadly spell. Concrete, desperate action will. Unshakeable, stubborn determination will. Indomitable, almost insane willpower will. And those precious, rare, absolutely essential things, Eos? They aren't learned from mouldy self-help books or cheap motivational speeches delivered by charismatic charlatans. They are learned by bleeding. They are learned by falling flat on your face repeatedly and getting up with even more stubbornness, again, and again, and again, until your knees are raw, your soul is in tatters, and your body begs for rest, but you, even so, with a stubbornness bordering on madness, still stubbornly, categorically refuse to give up." It was the hardest, but also the truest, of schools.
I looked at my small, surprisingly delicate hands, now stained with the dark, oily, foul-smelling blood of those profane creatures I had dispatched to the beyond. A physical, visceral reminder of the countless, painful lessons that life, in its many and varied displays of cruelty and absurdity, had striven so hard to teach me over the aeons.
"And when he, our little Jellal, finally understands this, when this hard, inconvenient, utterly unglamorous truth penetrates his young, idealistic, and occasionally irritating skull, when he realises, not with his mind, but with his heart and with his own scars, that leadership isn't about making people feel good, safe, and hopeful with empty words, future promises, and blind confidence, but rather about keeping them alive, safe, and, if possible, minimally sane in the chaotic, terrifying present, even when everything around is collapsing in flames and despair is the only, deafening melody in the air… then, and only then, after much pain and learning, will he have the potential to become a true leader. Someone truly worth following. Someone truly worth fighting for and, if necessary, dying for."
[You truly do think, analyse, and philosophise about everything with an almost obsessive depth and a touch of poetic fatalism, don't you, Azra'il? It's simultaneously fascinating, a little frightening, and requires a considerable amount of processing power to keep up with.]
"No, Eos," I replied with a tired but genuine smile that rarely reached my lips. "I just have vast, varied, and painfully extensive experience with leaders of all sorts, who prefer the safe comfort of empty words, theatrical gestures, and popular approval to the uncomfortable, solitary, and frequently thankless hardship of concrete actions, difficult decisions, and necessary sacrifices. And, frankly, my friend? I'd a thousand times rather have a leader who stammers in his speeches, trips over his own feet, and makes honest mistakes, but is always, invariably on the front line, sharing the danger, the pain, and the last piece of mouldy bread, than an eloquent, charismatic, flawless orator who knows how to deliver beautiful, moving speeches from the safe, comfortable, distant top of his ivory tower, whilst others, his supposed followers, die for him and his fine words down below, in the mud and blood."
"Anyway," I sighed, with the air of one who had discussed enough cheap philosophy for one day, adjusting my still terribly dirty, smelly, and probably cursed clothes. Dignity, at that moment, was an extravagant luxury I could rarely afford, and frankly, I didn't much care. "All this deep reflection on the nature of leadership and human suffering has made me dreadfully thirsty. I wonder if little, intrepid Jellal has managed to reach his damsel in distress, our Erza, and if they are, perhaps, at this very moment, exchanging vows of eternal love and promises of a bright future together, whilst the world literally crumbles in flames around them. It would be a picturesque and wonderfully ironic scenario."
[Would you like me to check on the progress of his noble, probably disastrous, romantic-suicide rescue mission, Azra'il? I can attempt to filter out the screams and explosions for a more… palatable report,] There was a note of pure, crystalline amusement in Eos's voice now. She was clearly enjoying my warped humour.
"Please do, my dear, efficient AI. And try, if possible, not to sound so openly entertained by the imminent possibility of complete and utter disaster."
The familiar map, with its cold contours, precise lines, and impersonal data points, materialised in my peripheral vision, as it always did. And immediately, something bothered me deeply, like a jarring, shrill off-key note in a familiar, comforting symphony. The red, pulsating dot indicating Erza's vital presence was no longer located in the lower, dark, gloomy levels of the Tower, where the forgotten dungeons, isolation cells, and creatively named torture chambers were conveniently hidden from prying eyes.
"That… that makes no sense at all," I muttered, rising from the crate with a swift, agile, and fully alert movement, all my previous laziness, boredom, and cheap philosophies evaporating like water in the desert heat. A silent alarm sounded in my ancient mind. "She's no longer in the dungeons. What in the blazes happened down there?"
[No, Azra'il. According to my vital energy sensors and the architectural layouts of the tower I managed to discreetly collect and analyse, she is back in the common cell. That same cold, damp, overcrowded cell where you normally stay with old Rob and the other children. She is with them at this very moment.]
I narrowed my eyes, feeling a chill run down my spine, a bad premonition forming in the pit of my stomach. My mind, accustomed over aeons to processing complex information, analysing crisis scenarios, and detecting subtle patterns in nanoseconds, began to work feverishly to understand the numerous, alarming possibilities and the probable, terrible implications of that utterly unexpected and profoundly disturbing information.
"From a torture cell, where they took her to 'make an example', back to the common cell, as if it were a simple stroll in the park, a little sightseeing tour of the penitentiary facilities?" I ran a hand through my tangled hair, a growing unease, a sense of impending danger, gripping me like a cold shadow. "After all the carnage I caused on the lower levels to create a diversion for Jellal? For the love of forgotten gods, Eos, there are bodies of cultist guards and remnants of disgusting beasts strewn across every bloody corridor between here and those dungeons! It was, for all practical and visual purposes, an open, bloody, and terribly noisy declaration of war!"
I began to pace the cramped, dusty space of the storeroom, thinking aloud, a web of increasingly dark and unsettling possibilities forming in my mind like a storm on the horizon.
"In any normal, logical, minimally predictable situation, a rescue attempt of this magnitude… with so many significant, painful, and humiliating casualties on their side… they ought to be absolutely, completely thirsting for revenge. Mad to make a spectacular, terrifying example, to show in gory detail what happens to those who dare challenge the glorious, benevolent, utterly unquestionable order of the Tower of Heaven. Creative public torture, summary televised execution, something grand, memorable, and terribly theatrical to put the deepest, most paralysing fear back into the soft, rebellious hearts of the other slaves." It was standard operating procedure for fanatical cults, insecure tyrants, and anyone with a fragile ego and too much power in their hands.
[Perhaps, and this is merely a hypothesis based on insufficient data, Azra'il, they decided, for some unfathomable reason, that it wasn't worth the extra effort? Perhaps young Jellal, with his surprisingly effective youthful glibness and his pleading dark eyes, convinced them to show clemency?] Eos's suggestion was so ridiculously unlikely, so completely out of character for our captors, that it bordered on the comical.
"No, Eos. That makes not the slightest, most remote, bit of sense," I cut in impatiently, stopping abruptly in the middle of the storeroom, my instincts, sharpened by countless lifetimes of danger, betrayal, and careful observation of human nature in its darkest forms, screaming at full alert that something was fundamentally, intrinsically, and terribly wrong with this whole apparently 'merciful' situation. "The guards of this tower, and especially those two masked mages with a dubious taste in fashion and a clear predilection for sadism, are not exactly known for their sudden, inexplicable mercy, for their ability to forgive and forget offences, or for their inclination to give second chances. And after all this chaos, all these deaths, all this material and moral damage… they simply let Erza and, presumably, the small, now likely traumatised Jellal, return safe and sound to the common cell as if nothing major had happened? As if it were just a small, regrettable misunderstanding, a 'let's forget all about this and be friends'? That doesn't fit. Not at all."
With swift, silent, determined steps, I headed towards the dusty storeroom door, my instincts, now on full red alert, screaming that something terrible, insidious, and likely with tragic consequences was happening right under my nose.
"Either little, idealistic Jellal managed, against all odds and laws of physics, to achieve something absolutely impossible and miraculous, like convincing a stone to weep or teaching a politician to be honest, or…" I let the sentence die in the air, the dark, heavy implication hanging between us like a storm cloud laden with lightning. Something had been sacrificed. And I had a horrible feeling about who, or what.
[Are you absolutely, unshakeably certain that it is safe, prudent, and minimally intelligent to leave now, Azra'il? The surviving, probably very angry, guards must still be on high alert, sweeping every nook and cranny of the tower and actively looking for you, for Jellal, and for any other sign of rebellion. It would be, from a purely logical and self-preservation standpoint, much wiser to wait a little longer, until the dust settles and tempers cool.]
"It's probably not safe at all, Eos. In fact, it's almost certainly a terrible, suicidal idea," I replied with a cold, joyless smile, as I cautiously checked the bloodstained, debris-strewn corridor outside the storeroom. There were still bodies scattered like broken dolls, but, strangely, no guards in sight. The silence was almost more disturbing than the screams before. "But after such a violent, bloody, and defiant rescue attempt on their authority, this sudden, inexplicable, utterly suspicious 'clemency' from our hosts… there's something very, very wrong with this picture. It reeks of a trap. And I detest traps, especially when I'm not the one setting them."
[You are worried about them, Azra'il. Don't deny it. Genuinely worried. Your vital signs indicate a significant increase in adrenaline and cortisol levels, consistent with a state of alertness and protective anxiety.] It wasn't a question. It was a cold, precise, irritatingly true statement. Damn AI and its invasive sensors.
"I am worried, yes, Eos, but it's about the hidden price, the small print, of this apparent, utterly suspicious 'mercy'," I corrected, though I knew, deep down in my ancient soul, there was far more truth in her statement than I would ever care to admit aloud. "No one, absolutely no one with an iota of power and an inflated ego, allows dozens of their most loyal, obedient, conveniently disposable men to be brutally slaughtered, and simply lets those responsible get away scot-free with a condescending pat on the back and a 'don't do it again, alright, you rebellious little pest?'. Not in this kind of place. Not with this kind of sick, control-hungry people."
[And you think… what exactly, Azra'il? That this is all some sort of sadistic, elaborate game of theirs? A form of psychological torture before the inevitable physical punishment?]
"I think, my dear, sometimes surprisingly perceptive Eos," I replied, my voice now hard, cold, and laden with a grim determination, as I already moved with the silent, deadly speed of a vengeful shadow through the deserted, silent, terribly bloodstained corridors of the tower, "that I need, with an urgency that tightens my chest, to find out what really, truly happened in that damned, dark dungeon whilst I was here playing reluctant babysitter to an aspiring hero with a terrible sense of timing. Because after all this bloodbath, all this destruction of property, and all this affront to their authority, this apparent, sudden, utterly inexplicable display of 'kindness' from our sadistic captors can only mean one single, terrible thing: that something far, far worse, something they consider an even more effective punishment than death or physical torture, is about to happen." And I had a horrible feeling, a cold, creeping sensation deep in my soul, about who would be the target of this new, refined form of cruelty.
I moved with cold, lethal, utterly silent efficiency, passing like a ghost through more corridors littered with the bodies of cultist guards and the mangled, disgusting remains of those profane necromantic beasts. Every corpse I saw, every pool of dark, sticky blood I had to step around, every muffled scream echoing in the distance, only increased my growing, terrible certainty that something was fundamentally, intrinsically, horribly wrong. That oppressive calm, that heavy, unnatural silence… it was the sinister, deadly quiet before the most devastating of storms. And I feared, with an intensity that surprised me, that the storm was about to break, with all its fury and cruelty, upon the small, innocent, frightened heads of those children. Especially upon a certain stubborn redhead.
[Azra'il, I detect rapid, erratic movement. Erza is moving with speed. She has just left the common cell area, and does not appear to be accompanied by guards. She seems… desperate. And she is heading towards the main work courtyard.] Eos's voice sounded in my mind, this time not with sarcasm or cold logic, but with an urgency and a new, unsettling alarm that made my ancient blood run even colder in my veins.
"What? Alone? To the courtyard?" I quickened my pace immediately, my ancient heart giving a painful, uncomfortable lurch in my chest. The distant, but now unmistakable and ever-loudening, sound of metal on metal, of desperate cries of fury, of pain, and of a nascent defiance, began to echo through the labyrinthine, gloomy corridors of the tower, growing in volume and intensity with every hurried, silent step I took, like the roar of an ancient, powerful beast finally awakening from a long, unjust slumber. Something terrible was happening. And Erza was in the middle of it.
With the agility of a wildcat hunting in the darkness, and with a concern I refused to name, I stealthily positioned myself atop one of the protruding stone ledges that afforded a wide, clear, privileged view of the vast common area of the slave work courtyard. The scene chaotically unfolding below was pure, absolute, gloriously terrible, and unexpected chaos. Unbridled fury, an explosion of violence born from the deepest despair and the faintest, most stubborn, of hopes. A rebellion. A bloody, damned rebellion.
The air in the courtyard was thick, almost unbreathable, with fine stone dust and the strong, pervasive smell of oxidised iron, generously, horribly mixed with the metallic, cloying, sickeningly sweet, unmistakable odour of fresh, abundant blood. Pickaxes and mining shovels, once humble tools of slave labour and daily suffering, had now been transformed, in the desperate, furious hands of the oppressed, into makeshift but surprisingly effective and deadly weapons, cutting through the air with sinister whistles and a promise of vengeance. Heavy, rusty chains, once painful symbols of oppression, imprisonment, and hopelessness, were now used as improvised, brutal whips, as treacherous lassos to bring down unsuspecting cultist guards, and as terribly effective blunt impact weapons. Elderly folk, whose frail bodies could barely stand upright under the relentless weight of years of hard labour and constant misery, now wielded pieces of rusted metal, large stones, and rotten wooden staves as if they were ancient, sacred clubs, fighting with the desperate, suicidal fury of those who have absolutely nothing left to lose, except their own lives, which were already a burden to them. Children too small to truly fight, with tears of fear and anger streaming in torrents down their dirty, hungry faces, threw stones with surprisingly accurate aim and ran hysterically to distract the few remaining necromantic beasts still patrolling the area with their guttural growls and slavering jaws. It was pandemonium. It was absolute chaos. It was a revolution born of suffering, pain, and unbearable loss.
And in the exact centre, in the calm, deadly eye of that chaotic maelstrom of unspeakable violence, primitive fury, and desperate hope, like a beacon of incandescent defiance amidst the darkness and despair, was she. Erza. Our little, stubborn Erza Scarlet. Her vibrant scarlet hair, normally tangled, dirty, and lifeless, now billowed energetically around her like a living banner of war, a flaming symbol of defiance and leadership amidst the chaos of battle. She moved amongst the enemies, the surprised cultist guards and the snarling beasts, with a surprising grace, an instinctive speed, and a calculated ferocity I hadn't known she possessed, that no one there knew. Every strike of her improvised sword – a sharp, rusty piece of metal she had probably torn from some broken structure – was precise, focused, and deadly. Every movement of her improvised shield – the lid of an old, rotten barrel, tied to her small arm with strips of torn fabric – saved a precious life, deflected a treacherous blow, opened a vital breach in the enemy's defence. Even visibly wounded, even with one of her eyes now horrifically bruised, swollen, and likely blind, and with blood trickling in rivulets down her pale, dirty, fiercely determined face, she didn't stop. She didn't hesitate. She didn't retreat. She fought. With the fury of a lioness protecting her cubs. With the determination of a soul that refused to be broken.
"Press on! Don't stop! Don't give up now!" her young voice, surprisingly strong, clear, and filled with an innate authority, echoed powerfully above the deafening battle cries, the guttural roars of the remaining beasts, and the painful groans of the wounded on both sides. "Fight! Fight for our freedom! For Jellal! And for all those who have fallen!"
The cultist guards, once so arrogant, so cruel, so certain of their power and impunity, now fell one after another like skittles, surprised, overwhelmed, and terrified by the unexpected ferocity and righteous fury of the slaves they had for so long kept submissive, docile, and terrified. One of the last remaining disgusting beasts, its slavering jaws full of rotten teeth and its multiple red eyes gleaming with a blind, unholy hunger, tried to attack a group of small children cowering terrified and crying in a corner. But before the monster could reach them and tear them apart, three men, slaves like all the others, but now imbued with a newfound courage and a protective fury, leapt upon the unholy creature with rusty pickaxes in hand, felling the monster in a shocking, bloody spectacle of primitive violence, brutal justice, and deserved vengeance.
It was then, at the height of the rebellion, when the scales of fate seemed, miraculously, to be tipping in favour of the oppressed slaves, that the bloody magic guards finally graced them with their presence, probably awakened from their slumber of beauty and arrogance by the deafening noise of the liberation party happening below. The air in the courtyard suddenly crackled with a palpable, oppressive magical energy, laden with deadly intent. And, without warning, rays of sinister, deadly purple light began to cut through the air, tearing through the desperate crowd of revolting slaves, leaving a trail of destruction, pain, and death in their wake. Simon, the gentle, protective giant of our little group, was the first of them to fall, struck full in the face by a treacherous beam of purple energy that threw him with brutal violence against a solid stone wall, where he lay, motionless and bloodied, his eyes wide and empty.
"SIMON! NO!" Erza screamed, her voice choked with the searing pain of loss and impotent fury, and she began to run desperately towards her fallen friend, her improvised sword in hand, her face contorted into a mask of pure agony, ready to face the cowardly mages and avenge her friend.
Time, as if by magic or some cruel whim of fate, seemed to slow, to freeze in an instant of pure, crystalline horror. The most powerful beam of magical energy of all, a spear of pure, relentless purple destruction, concentrated and deadly, cut through the air in ominous silence, directly towards Erza, who, in her desperate race to help Simon, was completely exposed, vulnerable, and with no chance of escaping the fatal blow. But before the ray could strike her and snuff out her young, promising life, an aged, frail figure, bent by the weight of years and suffering, moved with surprising, almost supernatural speed, a speed born of the purest, most instinctive, most desperate act of protection and love. Rob. Kind, old Rob, the storyteller, the beacon of hope and kindness in that hell. He threw himself, without the slightest hesitation, without a second of doubt, in front of her, his thin, trembling arms open wide, like a fragile but unshakeable human shield.
"ERZA! LOOK OUT! GET DOWN!" his desperate cry echoed across the courtyard, an instant before impact.
The impact was brutal, a dull, sickening, hollow sound that echoed across the courtyard, momentarily silencing all other battle cries, all other sounds of chaos and destruction. The old mage, gentle Rob, absorbed with his frail, aged body the full, terrible, concentrated force of the magical attack, his small, thin body glowing for an instant with the deadly, sinister purple energy that should have struck and obliterated his protégée, his little granddaughter of the heart. He staggered under the force of the impact, his knees buckling, but, for an almost eternal instant, he remained standing, a final, stubborn act of defiance against the cruelty of the world, his eyes still fixed on Erza with an expression of love and protection.
"Gramps Rob! NO! NO, PLEASE, NO!" Erza screamed, a guttural, animal sound of pure anguish, denial, and a pain so deep it seemed to tear her soul apart, and she knelt beside him, supporting his body as it now slowly collapsed, like an old tree finally yielding to the storm, her hot, salty tears streaming in torrents from her one good eye and mixing with the dark blood and dust on the old man's wrinkled, pale face. Her world, already so fragile, had just shattered.
"Erza… my little one… my brave… Erza…" Rob's voice was weak, almost an inaudible whisper amidst the chaos resuming around them, but his eyes, those kind, wise eyes that had seen so much, still shone with a stubborn fire, an inner light that not even imminent death, not even excruciating pain, seemed able to extinguish. "You… you must go on… my dear… you must fight… with all your strength… Always remember, my little one… magic… true, powerful magic… it is not made to kill… it does not exist to destroy… to cause pain… It exists… it must exist… to protect… to protect those we love… those who are precious to us… those who need our strength…" His trembling, thin, now terribly bloodied hand rose with a painful effort and gently touched her face, wiping away a tear with his thumb.
"No… don't speak, please, Gramps! Don't strain yourself! Please, stay with me!" Erza sobbed desperately, holding his cold, weak hand with both her small, trembling hands, as if, with the strength of her love and desperation, she could somehow prevent life from slipping through his thin, fragile fingers.
"True freedom, Erza… my little scarlet flower…" he continued, with a final, painful effort, his breath becoming ever weaker, more shallow, an almost imperceptible puff. "It is not in this cold, damned tower… it is not in any physical place one can touch or see… True freedom, the kind no one can take from you…" And with a final, trembling, significant gesture, his cold hand lightly touched her chest, right over the heart that beat uncontrollably with pain and panic. "It is here… my little one… it always has been… and always will be… in your heart… in your indomitable soul… Erza… my dearest Erza… you must live… you must fight… live for your freedom… live for the freedom of all your friends… Live…" And with a final, soft sigh, his eyes lost their light, his hand fell limp, and the gentle, serene smile froze on his lips. Rob was gone.
For an instant that felt like an eternity, Erza remained there, kneeling in the dust and blood, holding the lifeless body of the man who had been more than a friend, more than a mentor, who had been like a grandfather to her. The only adult who had shown her kindness, compassion, and unconditional love in that hell. And now, he was dead. Dead because of her. Dead to protect her. The pain on her face was something no child should ever experience, a pain so deep, so raw, so overwhelming it seemed to break something inside her, something fundamental.
And then, his last words, that final breath of hope, faith, and encouragement, seemed to echo in her mind, in her soul, and awaken something deep, something primeval, something incredibly, frighteningly powerful within her. The air around Erza, already tense and charged, suddenly grew thick, heavy, almost unbreathable, vibrating with a palpable, electrifying energy, laden with an overwhelming amount of pure, raw, instinctive, utterly uncontrolled magical power. The searing pain of loss, the impotent, consuming fury against injustice, the overwhelming, absolute despair in the face of the world's senseless cruelty – all of it converged, fused, transformed, channelled into an incandescent torrent of pure, indomitable magical power.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
Her cry, which began as a sob of pain and transformed into a roar of pure fury and an agony that seemed to tear her very soul and the fabric of reality, echoed through the tower like the clang of a thousand clashing swords, like the roar of an ancient, mortally wounded lioness. And the air around her grew heavy, dense, oppressive, electrifying. And then, with a force that seemed to emanate from the very epicentre of her being, it happened. Every weapon on site – bloodied swords still warm in the hands of the dead, broken spears thrust into the ground, rusty, abandoned pickaxes, bent, forgotten mining shovels, even the small, insignificant, almost useless kitchen knives that some of the more desperate slaves carried – began to tremble violently, to vibrate with an energy of its own, and then, defying all known laws of gravity and logic, to levitate into the air, floating like a flock of metallic, hungry, terrifyingly deadly birds, hovering menacingly around the small, trembling, kneeling figure of Erza Scarlet. This was the painful, bloody birth of a warrior. A legend being forged in the unbearable heat of deepest pain, baptised in the innocent blood of the noblest of sacrifices, and tempered in the incandescent furnace of the most just, most implacable of furies.
What followed was less a battle and more a macabre, hypnotic, terrifyingly efficient dance of pure destruction. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of blades of all sizes, shapes, and origins, spinning and whirling through the air with frightening speed and precision, reflecting the scant, sickly light of the courtyard in menacing, metallic flashes, before shooting forth like a volley of sentient, deadly steel arrows, like an incandescent rain of metallic fury, against the cultist guards and oppressor mages who still dared to stand in her way. Mages fell screaming in agony, their bodies pierced by multiple blades that seemed to have a will of their own. Necromantic beasts, once so threatening, were brutally impaled against the stone walls, their unholy bodies disintegrating into clouds of dark, stinking dust under the impact of the steel barrage. And the metal, once silent, cold, and inert, now sang its terrible, shrill, gloriously vengeful song of death, pain, and liberation, under the unconscious, instinctive, but absolute command of the little red-haired warrior, whose one good eye now shone with a supernatural, cold, implacable, terrifyingly beautiful light.
"It was about bloody time that ancestral, indomitable fire within you finally ignited and burned with all its glory and fury, little one," I murmured to myself, feeling a strange, unexpected wave of… raw admiration? Reluctant respect? Or perhaps just a morbid, twisted professional appreciation for the impressive spectacle of raw, instinctive, utterly uncontrolled, absolutely magnificent magical power unfolding chaotically before my ancient eyes. She was, indeed, and without the slightest shadow of a doubt, extraordinary. A rough diamond, forged under the harshest of pressures.
With the silent, fluid, almost bored grace of an experienced predator who had witnessed countless battles and massacres, I leapt from the observation ledge, the fall of several metres being no more than a small, insignificant inconvenience for a being like myself, and a perfect opportunity for a dramatic, visually impactful landing. I landed softly, almost soundlessly, beside her, like an avenging shadow sprung from the deepest nothingness, just in time to see another devastating, spectacular wave of weapons of all kinds flying under her furious, instinctive command, clearing a considerable swathe of enemies around us as if they were mere insects.
"Sorry for the slight delay in joining your private little mass destruction party, poppet. Seems you started the fun without me, and, I must say, I'm impressed with your initiative and your… metallic pyrotechnics."
"Azra'il!" Erza exclaimed, turning sharply towards me, her one good eye, still shining with that raw power and unshed tears, wide with a surprise that quickly morphed into almost palpable relief, as more weapons, now responding to a more focused, precise control, still danced and spun menacingly around her like a small, personal metallic tornado of pure, implacable destruction. "Where were you? I thought… How… how did you get here so quickly?"
"I went, along with your noble, brave, and somewhat clumsy blue-haired knight in shining armour, our dear Jellal, to try and rescue you from the cold, cruel clutches of evil and poor hygiene, like any good, loyal sidekick in a typical tale of youthful adventure and romance," I explained with a casual shrug and a smile that didn't reach my eyes, as I moved with the fluidity of water, or a hungry shadow, between two idiotic cultist guards who, in their stupidity, tried to attack us from behind. I left them unconscious and probably with a few broken ribs on the floor, with some swift, precise, painfully effective strikes to strategically chosen pressure points. Nothing lethal, this time. Just… educational. "I stayed behind, as you know, creating a small, noisy, highly effective diversion for our hosts' big, ugly, anger-managed dogs, so that the little prince could reach you without too much trouble or too many scratches. Seems his original plan had a few… minor, regrettable setbacks along the way. Nothing major, just a kidnapping and a near-death experience."
The simple, direct mention of Jellal's name completely, almost instantly, changed the expression on Erza's tired, bloodied face. The diffuse concern and generalised fury of her battle for everyone's survival transformed, as if by magic, into a new, even more intense, terrifyingly focused wave of iron determination, now clearly tinged with a personal, palpable, almost desperate concern for a single person. Ah, the power of young love. So predictable. And so dangerously motivating.
"Jellal! Those two disgusting, cowardly, masked mages took him! They got him while I… while I was being taken here!" Erza cried, her once strong voice now choked with urgency and renewed fear, as her floating weapons, responding to her growing anguish and directed fury, felled three more unlucky guards who had the misfortune to get too close, with cold, renewed violence. "The fat mage, that loathsome one with a hyena's smile and a smell of rotten cheese, and that other one who looks like a malnourished toothpick, with a dead fish stare and a consumptive cough, they… they dragged him into that damned dungeon! We need to save him, Azra'il! Now!"
"Ah, you mean that dynamic, fashionable duo of troll abortions with serious self-esteem issues and a clear lack of talent for villainy?" I cut in, with a smile that was not in the least bit reassuring, as I dodged with almost bored elegance a badly aimed magical attack that whizzed past my ear. Their incompetence was almost insulting. "The walking barrel of lard with a particularly dubious taste for ceremonial masks and the toothless scarecrow, with a chronic cough and an aura of existential failure? I always thought, from the first moment I saw them, that they had that unmistakable look and air of someone who habitually licks public lavatory floors for sheer sadistic pleasure, or perhaps for lack of better entertainment options." My opinion of those two 'villains' was not, shall we say, of the highest or most respectful. They were an insult to the very art of evil.
"Azra'il! This is serious!" Erza tried to sound serious, firm, and reproachful, but a small, almost imperceptible, entirely involuntary stubborn smile escaped her trembling, bloodied lips. Even in the midst of that hell of pain, loss, and vengeance, a little dark humour and creative insults seemed to have a surprising therapeutic effect. Or perhaps she was just delirious from exhaustion and magical power.
"What? I'm being perfectly polite, objective, and descriptive in my character analysis. I could have called them…" I paused for an instant, looking at Erza's young, tired, wounded, yet still surprisingly innocent face, despite all she had been through. There were limits, even for my dark humour. "Ah, never mind. Forget it. You're still too young, have too pure a soul, and too sensitive ears to hear what I really, truly think of those two crawling, despicable worms with terrible personal and professional hygiene habits." Certain words really weren't for children.
"We need… we need to go after him, Azra'il! We can't leave him there!" The urgency in her voice was almost palpable, a sharp knife of worry and fear.
"Save your dear, heroic Jellal from the clutches of evil, I know, I know, little one," I completed, with a theatrical sigh of one who has seen this scene repeat itself in countless cheap plays and soap operas over the ages. I approached her and, in a gesture that surprised myself, placed a reassuring, firm hand on her shoulder, which still trembled slightly, whether from physical exhaustion, uncontrolled magical power, or plain, simple worry for her blue-haired friend. "After all, let's be fair, the lad was all brave, idealistic, and a tiny bit terribly stupid trying to rescue you alone from that disgusting dungeon. Nothing more fair, honourable, and dramatically appropriate than for the damsel in distress, now duly armed and furious, to go and save her noble, somewhat inept knight in shining armour from the cold, cruel clutches of the dragon… or, in this case, from two incompetent mages with ridiculous masks." I winked at her, a mischievous glint in my eyes.
"A-Azra'il! Stop it! This is no time for joking!" Erza stammered, her face, previously pale with fury, pain, and worry, now turning as intensely red as her scarlet hair. Adorable. And so easy to tease.
"What? Don't tell me you, with all your intelligence and perception, still haven't noticed the looks full of canine devotion and youthful adoration that boy throws your way when he thinks no one is looking?" I teased a little more, gracefully dodging a stray arrow that whizzed dangerously close to my ear. Someone needed to improve their aim around here. "That boy, my dear Erza, is more obvious and transparent in his feelings than…" I dodged another badly aimed magical attack, this one from a particularly persistent guard with a terrible sense of timing. "…than a pink elephant in a china shop trying to go unnoticed whilst buying a Ming vase. Alright, alright. I've stopped with the romantic teasing. I promise. But only because we are, technically, in the middle of a bloody battle, with a tight schedule to save the day and a high probability of painful death and evisceration." Priorities, after all.
"But what about everyone here? The other slaves? The children? We can't just abandon them all to their fate!" The genuine, altruistic concern in her voice, even amidst her own suffering and her personal rescue mission, was further proof of the noble character and inner strength of that small, surprising warrior. She truly cared.
"Let me take care of this generalised mess here and organise a strategic, minimally organised retreat to get the remaining folk, those who can still walk or be carried, to the boats we 'miraculously' and conveniently found waiting for us at the docks," I said, with a quick spin and a sure strike of a sword I had 'requisitioned' from a fallen guard, efficiently felling one last stubborn necromantic beast that tried to approach from behind with clearly hostile intentions. "You, my little, furious, and now officially named Scarlet Valkyrie, go after your princ– I mean, your friend Jellal. He needs you much more than these poor souls here need me at this moment. And, honestly, you're the only one with a chance of getting him out of that tower alive."
"Stop talking like that, you irritating, unbearable thing!" Erza protested, still visibly flushed beneath the dirt and blood, but with an unmistakable glint of gratitude, relief, and a new, fierce determination in her one good eye.
"Alright, alright. I solemnly promise I won't tease you about Jellal anymore. At least not today. Maybe tomorrow, depending on my mood." I lied outrageously, of course. This was far too much fun to stop now. "Now, off you go, little warrior, before I regret my sudden, inexplicable generosity and start singing some terribly out-of-tune, embarrassing love song to inspire you on your noble rescue mission."
Erza hesitated for just one more second, casting a final worried glance at the other slaves and at me. Then, with a quick, determined nod, she turned and ran towards the dark, menacing entrance of the tower, her small, solitary figure disappearing into the gloom, driven by concern for her friend and, probably, as much to rescue him from the cultists' clutches as to escape my future, inevitable teasing as quickly as possible. I didn't blame her one bit.
"Ah, youth and their complicated romances, full of danger and with a soundtrack of explosions and cries of agony," I sighed dramatically to no one in particular, with the air of an old, slightly cynical, matchmaking aunt, as I turned to face the battle still timidly raging around me, though considerably diminished in intensity and number of participants thanks to Erza's spectacular, somewhat excessive intervention. "Now, where was I before I was interrupted by all this youthful drama and displays of uncontrolled magical power? Ah yes, in the middle of a slave rebellion, with a remaining horde of incompetent guards, disgusting monsters, and a few third-rate mages to eliminate efficiently and, if possible, stylishly. What a bore. But, someone has to do the dirty work. And, apparently, that someone is always me. Time to teach these poor, ill-equipped souls how one truly flies… or at least how one falls with a modicum of dignity and maximum pain."
With a fluid, graceful, almost lazy movement, as if picking a flower in a garden, I retrieved a broken, bloodied, dangerously unstable-looking spear from the ground. The cold, rough, bloodstained metal fitted perfectly in my small hands, like an old, dear friend rediscovered after a long, painful separation. It felt… right. The jagged tip of the broken spear reflected the scant, sickly light of the courtyard, promising more pain, more suffering, and a swift, efficient conclusion to this small, irritating rebellion.
"Well," a slow, cold, distinctly predatory smile spread across my lips, a smile that didn't reach my blue, ancient eyes. "Since all of you, lost souls with a terrible sense of timing, insist on standing in my way and disrupting my plans for a quiet afternoon tea and, perhaps, a good read… Let's play a little." And this time, I wasn't playing around.
[Ah, here we go again. The bloody, utterly gratuitous grand finale. Another spectacular, unnecessary, probably illegal demonstration of 'how to traumatise innocent children and guarantee vivid nightmares and intensive therapy for several generations in five minutes or less'. Your subtlety and self-control are, as always, truly inspiring and noteworthy, Azra'il.] Eos's voice in my mind was a complex, fascinating mixture of weary resignation, logical disapproval, and an undisguised, morbid fascination. She enjoyed a good show too, even if she wouldn't admit it.
The first cultist guard, probably some unlucky recruit, having a bad day and an even worse sense of strategic positioning, didn't even have time to process what hit him. The sharp, jagged tip of the broken spear pierced his throat with a wet, disgusting, terribly intimate sound, and the hot, dark blood spurted in an almost artistic crimson arc onto the grey, dirty stones of the courtyard. Before his limp, surprised, now terribly dead body even touched the ground with a dull thud, I was already spinning with a speed, grace, and precision that completely belied my small size and childish appearance, lunging like lightning towards the next, equally unlucky target. The spear tip, now even bloodier and hungrier, tore through flesh, bone, and cheap armour with brutal, almost disdainful ease, piercing the chests of two cultist guards at once, with a single, powerful thrust, joining them in a final, grotesque, terribly intimate embrace. A two-for-one. Efficient. And rather disgusting.
[You know, Azra'il, with all due respect for your efficiency and your… artistic creativity in the art of killing, there are considerably less… theatrical, bloody, viscerally disgusting, and frankly, unnecessarily brutal ways to neutralise opponents. Diplomacy, for example, ever heard of it? Or perhaps a good, old, reliable mass sleep spell? Less mess, less trauma.]
"Quiet, Eos. I'm in the middle of an important, inspiring artistic performance. An ode to primal violence and lethal efficiency. Do not disturb the artist's profound inspiration with your logical, terribly boring suggestions."
A cultist mage, a little sharper than his infantry companions and with a glint of genuine panic in his wide eyes, or perhaps just with a slightly more acute, developed instinct for self-preservation, hurriedly, with trembling hands, tried to cast some sort of defensive or offensive spell. Too slow. Too late. Pathetically predictable. The sharp tip of my spear, moving with the speed and precision of a hungry, irritated viper, cleanly lopped off his trembling, sweaty fingers before he could even complete the stupid, probably ineffective incantation. His shrill cry of pain and surprise was abruptly, mercifully silenced when, shortly thereafter, with an almost casual movement, the same bloodied spear tip found its inevitable path through his wide, disbelieving, now permanently surprised eye. The distinct, unsettling sound of the thin skull cracking under the impact of the metal tip echoed briefly off the stone walls with a horrible, unnecessary clarity. Details. Always the bloody details.
[Oh, marvellous. Simply splendid and educational. I am absolutely, unshakeably certain that the few children still conscious and observing this demonstration of skill and self-control will love to recount this thrilling, uplifting, entirely age-appropriate story in their future, long, inevitable intensive therapy sessions with some traumatised professional. 'And then, children, the little white-haired girl, with an angel's smile, gouged out the bad mage's eyes with the tip of a broken, bloodied spear! Wasn't that fun and memorable, Gramps Rob? Oh, wait…'] Eos's sarcasm was a work of art in itself, sharp, precise, and always perfectly timed to annoy me.
Blood. Hot, dark, sticky blood painted the stone floor of the courtyard in chaotic, abstract, artistically unsettling patterns as I danced gracefully amongst them, a small, unlikely, terrifyingly efficient valkyrie of death, reaping souls as if they were rare flowers in a forbidden garden. One guard had his stomach slit open with a precise, swift, upward stroke of my spear, and his colourful, steaming, surprisingly long viscera spilled onto the stone floor in a grotesque, malodorous offering to the forgotten gods of carnage. Another, a particularly brave or simply stupid fool who tried to attack me from behind with a rusty axe and a pathetic war cry, had his entire jaw torn off by a brutal, swift, satisfyingly upward strike from my spear. The spear, my faithful, temporary dancing partner, sang its ancient, guttural, deadly song, a song of sharp steel and spilled blood, piercing throats with the cold, impersonal precision of a surgeon, tearing limbs with brutal, almost disdainful ease, crushing skulls with a soundly gratifying, utterly final impact. It was almost… therapeutic. A peculiar, effective way to release accumulated stress.
[You are, without the slightest shadow of a doubt and with alarming clarity, having a bit too much fun with all this gratuitous carnage, creative dismemberment, and generalised destruction, Azra'il. Should I be seriously concerned about your mental sanity… or, more precisely, what remains of it after so many aeons of chaos and violence?] There was a genuine, though probably entirely useless and resigned, concern in Eos's voice. She ought to be used to it by now.
"I'm just being… thorough, efficient, and ensuring there are no loose ends in my work, my dear, overly concerned Eos. I detest leaving unfinished business. Or irritating survivors who might later tell exaggerated stories about me." Thorough cleaning was essential.
One of those remaining necromantic beasts with a terrible sense of self-preservation, probably the daftest of the lot and with more courage than brains (which wasn't saying much), predictably, suicidally tried to attack me from behind with its filthy claws, rotten teeth, and a growl that sounded more like an asthmatic wheeze. With a swift, fluid, almost bored spin on my heels, I used the spear in a wide, powerful, aesthetically pleasing arc, lopping off its disgusting, malformed head with such force, precision, and a certain artistic flourish that it flew several metres through the air, like a badly thrown bowling ball, before hitting the stone wall with a wet, repugnant, utterly final thud, its multiple dull red eyes still blinking in confused, pathetic agony. Such a lack of hygiene and common sense.
The last cultist mage standing, a thin, pale fellow with an expression of pure existential terror on his face, seeing the bloody, inevitable fate of all his companions and probably doing some quick, desperate calculations about his minimal chances of survival (which were, to be painfully frank with him, statistically nil and diminishing by the second), tried, in a final, pathetic act of cowardice, to flee like a frightened rat, pathetically tripping over the mutilated bodies of his fallen comrades and whimpering like a baby. With an audible sigh of sheer boredom and contempt at such a lack of bravery and dignity in the face of death, I hurled the broken spear with a supernatural force, precision, and speed that would make an Olympic javelin champion weep with envy. It flew through the air like a silver bolt of steel and blood, whistling its song of death, and pierced his spine with a sickening sound of bone splintering, emerging cleanly, triumphantly through his chest, effectively pinning him to the cold stone wall like a particularly ugly, noisy, irritating insect in an amateur entomologist's collection. He hung there, twitching like a landed fish for a few excruciating seconds, his eyes wide with pain and disbelief, before finally succumbing to the inevitable and slipping into the sweet, silent embrace of death. Dramatic. And rather overdone, but effective.
[Congratulations, Azra'il. Mission accomplished with flying colours. You've just successfully guaranteed, with an absolutely impressive, utterly unnecessary display of brutality and creative sadism, vivid, colourful, terrifyingly detailed nightmares, plus a pressing need for intensive therapy and possibly heavy medication, for this entire poor, traumatised generation of children for many, many years to come. Your legacy of inflicting deep, lasting childhood trauma remains impeccable and noteworthy. You must be proud.] Eos's sarcasm was so thick you could build a fortress with it.
"They already had many, many nightmares even before I arrived and graced this place with my charming presence, Eos. I merely added a little more… colour, variety, and a touch of visceral realism to their already extensive, depressing repertoire." It was almost a community service, a way of preparing them for the future, inevitable cruelties of the world. I was, in fact, doing them a favour. You're welcome.
When the heavy, oppressive silence finally reigned once more in the now terribly bloodied courtyard, broken only by the low groans of the wounded still clinging to life and the suppressed sobs of the children who had witnessed the massacre, the ground was literally covered with mutilated bodies, severed limbs, pools of dark blood beginning to coagulate under the weak sun, and the disgusting, unrecognisable remains of those unholy beasts. The few children still able to stand and remain conscious, including those who struggled to carry Simon's large, motionless body, looked at the scene of abject, unspeakable carnage around us, and then at me, standing in the midst of it all like a small, unlikely goddess of war, with a complex, understandable, entirely justified mixture of terrified admiration, deep, paralysing fear, and perhaps, just perhaps, a tiny, reluctant shred of gratitude. It was an expression I had, unfortunately, seen many, many times before, on many different faces, in many different worlds, throughout my countless, frequently bloody existences. And, to my surprise and slight discomfort, it never got any easier to face.
With a sharp, practical, entirely emotionless movement, I turned to them, wrenching the bloodied spear from the wall and the now limp, impaled body of the last mage with a visceral sound of tearing flesh and splintering bone, and a slight, irritating spatter of warm blood on my face. I would need another bath.
"All of you, you little, traumatised survivors, to the docks. Now. No stupid questions, no unnecessary crying, no suicidal hesitation. Just move as if your precious little lives depend on it. Because, guess what? They do." My voice was cold, hard, implacable, and brooked no hint of argument or disobedience. The time for kindness, stories, and false hope was definitively over. Now was the time for brutal survival and desperate escape. And I was the only one qualified to lead this mess.
[Ah yes, of course. Nothing like a relaxing, educational, entirely child-appropriate sightseeing tour of the newly redecorated facilities, guided by a ruthless, merciless assassin completely covered in blood, viscera, and bits of brain, shortly after a mass slaughter worthy of the history books. What a lovely, memorable, certainly traumatising end-of-captivity excursion. The children will simply adore the bloodstained souvenirs they can take home. If they survive, of course.]
(Eos, I solemnly swear by all forgotten gods, by all bored demons, and by my own, precious sanity, if you do not shut your overly sarcastic, irritating, utterly unnecessary AI gob RIGHT THIS INSTANT…)
[Alright, alright, Madam Azra'il 'I'm-Not-Maternal-But-I-Adopt-Traumatised-Children-and-Then-Traumatise-Them-Even-More' Weiss. Understood. Message received and duly filed under 'Empty, Dramatically Exaggerated Threats'. Turn right at the next bloodstained, poorly lit corridor. And please, Azra'il, try, just try with all your ancestral might, not to decorate any more innocent walls with internal organs and bodily fluids on the way to the docks, yes? We already have enough material for a low-budget, B-grade gore horror film, and I really don't want to have to clean up this mess afterwards.]
With a final, contemptuous glance at the improvised battlefield, at the bodies of those who had fallen fighting for a glimpse of freedom, and at the tower that, despite everything, still rose arrogantly against the sky like a dark monument to tyranny and human stupidity, I began to guide the few, precious survivors out of that hell of stone and blood. Freedom, as always, came at a terribly high price. And kind, old Rob, with his silent, selfless sacrifice, had paid it in full, with interest and inflation. Now it was up to us, the living, and especially to little, furious Erza, to ensure his noble, painful sacrifice had not been completely, utterly in vain. And, to be honest, even if I wouldn't admit it aloud, the safety of that stubborn little redhead with frightening potential had somehow, inexplicably, irritatingly, become an unexpected priority. Damn children and their ability to sneakily get under one's skin.