As Makarov had predicted, Laxus's unconsciousness didn't last long.
He woke up almost immediately after being carried into the guild.
"Put me down—now!"
The moment he realized he was being piggybacked, Laxus's face burned with humiliation.
Ever since that incident, he'd sworn to stand as the guild's strongest. Yet here he was—defeated and hauled back like luggage.
"Seriously, kid? You wake up the second we get here?" Wakaba grumbled, dropping him unceremoniously. "Sure you weren't faking it?"
Laxus's legs buckled on impact, forcing him to brace against a table. Though conscious, his magic and stamina were far from recovered.
"I don't do petty," Laxus shot back, eyes darting across the guildhall.
No jeers. No mockery.
After years of preaching "only the strong belong," he'd been crushed by someone he'd once dismissed as weak. He'd braced for scorn—for whispers about unworthy heirs and wasted potential.
Yet…
The guild's atmosphere remained unchanged.
Their expressions held neither pity nor gloating—just the usual raucous indifference.
And Laxus, hypersensitive to tone since that day, knew it wasn't an act.
The realization left him torn—relieved, yet inexplicably hollow.
Weakened and emotionally raw, he couldn't even guess what face he was making.
"That puppy-eyed look won't get you out of paying the 100,000J," came a familiar, grating voice.
"I'm not puppy-eyed!" Laxus snarled, whipping his head up to glare at Rayne.
Only then did he notice—this table held just three people: himself, Rayne, and that ever-present white-haired shadow.
The rest of the guild had deliberately drifted away, drowning themselves in ale and exaggerated laughter.
Somehow, the distance eased the tension in his chest.
"Tch. 100,000J's nothing. Like I'd care," Laxus scoffed, tilting his chin up.
"Mhm. So… money when?" Rayne deadpanned, rolling his eyes.
So much for comforting him.
"I'll get it later," Laxus muttered. He hadn't exactly brought a wallet to a brawl.
Rayne's smirk returned, already mentally stacking imaginary jewels.
The Aftermath:
"I lost this time. But don't think it's over!" Laxus's fists clenched, knuckles whitening. "Next time—"
"Next time, you'll lose harder," Rayne interrupted, confidence blazing like sunlight. "I told you—your only chance was that first night."
"From here on out? You'll never catch up. All you can do… is pray to keep my dust in sight."
For a heartbeat, Laxus flinched.
The words hit like a hammer—not as trash talk, but as fact. Rayne's certainty was absolute, unshakable.
It rattled something deep in Laxus's pride.
Guildside Whispers:
"Whoa. Harsh much?"
"Think we should step in? Kid might break at this rate…"
"If someone said that to me, I'd cry into my ale."
"Boss? Shouldn't you—?"
Makarov shook his head, nursing his drink. "Rayne knows what he's doing."
The words sounded cruel—but Makarov knew his grandson.
Laxus Dreyar didn't break.
He burned.
Laxus's Resolve:
Pain bit into Laxus's palms—old scabs splitting under tightened fists.
The sting fanned the embers in his chest.
**"And I told you—"** His voice dropped, low and fierce. "I'm Laxus."
Golden eyes locked onto Rayne's, unyielding.
"Remember that name. It'll be the one breaking your record someday."
Ripple Effect:
Somewhere in the guild, tankards paused mid-air.
"…Are we really gonna let these brutes outshine us?" Wakaba muttered.
"Kinda embarrassing if they do," Macao admitted, scratching his head.
"Might be time to dust off the ol' spellbooks," another mumbled.
Gildars, eavesdropping from the bar, smirked into his drink.
Interesting.
Years of stagnant power ceilings had dulled their edges. But now?
The guild's "washed-up" veterans were stirring—rekindled by two kids too stubborn to quit.
Makarov's grin widened behind his mug.
This was Fairy Tail.
Not a cage for obedient soldiers—but a home for dreamers chasing that elusive fairy's tail.
For those who'd stumble, bleed, and rise again—always forward.
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