Born to Steal Gods ( Fairy Tail )

The Hargeon alley lay in ruins, shrouded in a haze of dust and the distant flicker of lacrima lanterns glowing at its edges. Broken stones and puddles of water reflected the faint light, creating a chaotic scene straight out of an epic battle.

In the center of this chaos, Lucius Draganov and Garren Valtor faced each other, panting, their bodies marked by effort and pain. Lucius's black cloak was torn, his right shoulder bleeding where Garren's iron blow had struck, and his waterskin hung loosely, nearly empty. His blue eyes, visible through the mime mask, gleamed with a mix of exhaustion and determination. Across from him, Garren, still on his knees, breathed heavily, his Magic Council uniform stained with blood and dust. The iron on his arms was fading, revealing bruised skin marred by scratches and cuts, but his red eyes burned with restrained fury.

Lucius knew he was on equal footing with the mage. Neither had enough magical power for a decisive blow, and his body screamed for rest. Trying to steal an ability from Garren in this state was nearly impossible—the black cross on his palm pulsed weakly, as if begging for energy. He needed an escape, and fast.

With the last of his strength, Lucius focused what remained of his magical power into the waterskin. His trembling fingers shaped the remaining water into a weak but precise jet. With a groan of effort, he aimed it at the cracked wall above Garren, causing stones to collapse like an avalanche. The rocks fell with a deafening roar, enveloping the mage in a cloud of debris and dust.

Seizing the moment, Lucius stumbled back, ignoring the pain coursing through his body. His steps were unsteady, but he ran, his cloak fluttering like broken wings as he vanished into the alley's shadows. Garren's muffled groans faded behind him, mingling with the sound of rolling stones. The plan had worked—for now.

He reached the Anchor Tavern, his body on the verge of collapse. The streets were buzzing, residents emerging from their homes, alarmed by the commotion echoing from the alley. Some pointed toward the fight, whispering about the Black Cloak and the Council mages.

Lucius found a dark corner by the tavern's outer wall, sliding to the ground with his back against the cold stones. His breathing was shallow, sweat dripped down his face, and the mask hung loosely, revealing strands of white hair with blue-tipped ends, damp from exertion. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to catch his breath, when the creak of the tavern door interrupted him.

Mara, the tavern's owner, appeared in the doorway, holding a lantern that cast a trembling light on the ground. Her tired eyes scanned the darkness until they landed on the figure slumped against the wall. The torn black cloak, the blue-tinted hair standing out even in the dim light, and his exhausted posture made her pause. A shiver ran down her spine, her hand trembling slightly as it gripped the lantern, the glass clinking against the metal. Then, her eyes widened, a mix of shock and disbelief etched on her weathered face. Recognition hit her like a punch, and she took a shaky step back, her mouth slightly open as if words were struggling to escape.

"Lucius?" she whispered, her voice trembling, almost a sob. "No… it can't be… you're the Black Cloak?"

Her eyes traced the torn cloak, the bloodstains, and the way he clutched the waterskin with trembling fingers. Her expression was a whirlwind of emotions: shock, disappointment, and a hint of fear.

"How… how can you be a bandit? A thief? I saw you helping Kaelith, laughing in the tavern… and now this? Robbing merchants, causing this chaos?" she said, her voice rising with disbelief as she clutched the lantern to her chest, as if seeking protection.

Lucius snapped his eyes open, his heart racing. His right hand instinctively slid under his cloak, shaping a small, sharp water blade with the last traces of his magical power. He was ready to silence her, the weight of necessity tightening his throat.

Mara froze, her eyes locked on him, the lantern's glow reflecting tears she refused to let fall. Then, she stepped closer, bending to inspect his exposed wounds—the cut on his shoulder, the purple bruises on his arm, the pallor betraying his exhaustion. She shook her head slowly, as if trying to dispel the image of a young man she knew as stubborn but not a criminal. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, and she extended a hand, her voice firm but laced with a maternal tone.

"Come on, kid, get up," she said, her fingers trembling as she offered support. "I'll help patch up those wounds. You can't stay out here bleeding like a rag."

Lucius met her gaze for a moment, the weight of the situation reflected in his eyes. With effort, he accepted her help, dispelling the water blade and leaning on her shoulder as she guided him inside the tavern. The warmth inside contrasted with the chill he felt, and he collapsed heavily into a corner chair, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion.

Mara locked the door behind them with a sharp click that echoed in the silent room. She turned to Lucius, shoulders tense, her eyes boring into him with a mix of concern and frustration.

"Why, Lucius?" she began, her voice shaking as she approached. "Why steal? Why are you doing this? Wasn't there another way? What about honest work, something like that?"

Lucius lowered his head, his hair falling over his face, the weight of her questions piercing his chest. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he looked up, his voice hoarse and low.

"You know I'm an outsider, a foreigner. This was the best chance I saw. I need money, I need power," he said.

Mara stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line, the firelight reflecting the moisture in her eyes. She shook her head slowly, as if trying to process his words, but didn't press further.

With a heavy sigh, she approached again, grabbing a clean cloth and a basin of water from the counter. With careful hands, she began tending to Lucius's wounds, cleaning the blood from his shoulder and wrapping a cloth around the cut. The gentle touch contrasted with the tension in the air, and she murmured as she worked.

"You're a mess, kid. After all this, you need rest," she said. She helped him stand, guiding him firmly by the arm. "Come on, I'll take you to your room. You're not staying here dragging yourself like this."

Lucius, nearly out of strength, let her lead him up the tavern's narrow stairs to a simple room upstairs. The bed creaked under his weight as he lay down, his body finally giving in to exhaustion. Mara extinguished the lantern, leaving him in the dim light, and left silently, closing the door with a soft click.

The sun barely peeked over the horizon when the first rumors began to spread through Hargeon. In the streets, residents whispered in hushed tones, gathering in groups by market stalls or shadowy corners. They spoke of the fierce fight that had shaken the alley the previous night, an epic clash between the Black Cloak and the Council mage, Garren Valtor.

"They say the Black Cloak took out those thugs with a single blow," a grizzled fisherwoman whispered, eyes wide. "Then he faced off against the Council mage! I saw blood all over the alley when I passed by this morning."

"It's true," a merchant nodded, rubbing his hands nervously. "I heard the fight was even, a clash of titans. The Black Cloak threw water like blades, and Garren countered with those iron arms. Both came out battered, but the mage is in bad shape—they could barely pull him from the rubble."

Others speculated on the details. A young seamstress claimed she saw deep cut marks on the walls, as if water had sliced through stone, while a street kid swore he heard Garren screaming in pain before being buried. The news that the Council mage was gravely injured—with a broken leg and fractured ribs, according to rumors—spread like wildfire, fueling both fear and awe for the mysterious Black Cloak.

Meanwhile, the Magic Council, convened in an emergency chamber in Era, debated furiously over the next steps. Leaders like the stern Master Aldric demanded a relentless hunt, summoning elite mages to track the Black Cloak. Posters with a sketch—a hooded figure in a mime mask—were distributed across cities, accompanied by a 30,000-Jewel bounty for his capture, dead or alive. The Council planned to send a special unit, led by an A-class mage, to Hargeon in the coming days, determined to restore their authority and punish the one responsible for attacking one of their own.

In the Anchor Tavern, Lucius slept restlessly, oblivious to the growing whispers outside. Garren, meanwhile, had been rescued at dawn by fellow Council members, his body carried on an improvised stretcher. He breathed with difficulty, his face pale and sweaty, his right leg immobilized in a crude splint. His subordinates reported he could barely speak, muttering something about "treacherous water" before losing consciousness, leaving the Council's healers working tirelessly to save him.