Chapter 14: Parental Love

**Parental Love**

**At night…**

The air hung thick with a heavy, almost suffocating stillness as the night cast its long, dark fingers across the port. On the bridge pillar, a lone figure cloaked in shadow stood, an indistinct silhouette against the inky sky. The figure's cloak rippled faintly in the soft breeze, as if the very darkness clung to it, but his presence was an unsettling stillness, an ominous quiet that disturbed the delicate balance of the night. His gaze was fixed on the distant fishing pond, his eyes narrowing as he silently surveyed the quiet waters that stretched like a black mirror under the moonless sky.

*"I've already destroyed many ports, and caused only small tremors. But this time..."* he muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper lost to the wind. His fist clenched tightly, knuckles turning white under the force, and his lips pulled back in a grimace. Blood oozed from the small cut he had caused when biting into his own flesh. The crimson drop fell, slow and deliberate, trailing down his chin like a symbol of his internal conflict, staining the silence around him. His dark eyes flickered—there was hesitation there, the slightest hint of doubt that threatened to unravel his carefully constructed resolve.

As his eyes locked onto the port, a voice broke the stillness, slicing through the night like ice through flesh.

*"I'm sorry, my guy, but you have to stop here..."*

His heart skipped a beat. He spun on instinct, body tensing, but to his disbelief, there was no one there. Just the eerily empty stretch of the port, the buildings standing like silent sentinels in the night. His breath hitched, and his eyes darted across the space, searching for the source.

*"What's going on?"* His voice was hoarse, tinged with panic. He activated his magic instinctively, his body shifting into a defensive posture, every muscle coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. The air around him shimmered with the crackling energy of his power as his hands came together in a swift motion, drawing a shimmering purple magic circle in the air.

*"Poison Magic: Poison Mist!"* he hissed through gritted teeth, and with a violent snap, a dense, toxic vapor poured from the circle, swirling like an evil fog toward his target. It crept across the space in a languid dance, the sickly green mist curling in the air like a serpent hunting its prey. The vapors moved with deliberate intent, seeping into every corner, making escape an impossible dream. He grinned to himself, a predator savoring the approaching victory.

But the mist didn't reach its intended target. A blur of motion disrupted his concentration as the boy before him, no more than nine years old, deftly ducked and dodged. The child's movements were too fluid, too precise, as if he were part of the night itself, a shadow among shadows. 

The cloaked man's grin faltered. *"What a smooth movement... But now you've fallen right into my trap."* 

His smile was cruel as he calculated his next strike, eyes narrowing in triumph. However, before the boy's foot even touched the ground, the cloak man's figure suddenly shifted—again, almost imperceptibly—and a second magic circle bloomed to life with a violent pulse of energy. 

*"Poison Magic: Thousand Needles!"* the cloak man declared, his voice calm despite the deadly power emanating from him. From the magic circle, hundreds of gleaming needles of pure poison materialized in rapid succession, each one pulsing with venomous energy. They filled the air in a barrage, like the thorns of a cruel vine, spiraling outward in an unrelenting storm. 

However, before the boy could reach his designated pad, his hand flew to the hilt of his sword, a swift motion born from countless hours of practice. The cold steel seemed to hum in anticipation as he drew it from his waist with the practiced grace of a master.

*"Sword Draw: Moulinet!"* he called out, his voice ringing with clarity, even in the midst of the chaos. The blade sliced through the air in a smooth arc, a flash of silver as it spun in a perfect circle. Moulinet—an elegant yet deceptively simple technique—meant to deflect and parry with effortless fluidity. But to him, it was more than just a defensive move; it was an art, a deliberate dance akin to the movements of a ballerina twirling with a ribbon, every motion as precise as it was wild. The sword swirled in his hands, carving the air like an extension of his very soul, his every motion sending ripples through the atmosphere.

The needles came like a storm, sharp and unforgiving, but his movements were a blur, his sword flashing in the moonlight, deflecting and repelling the barrage with practiced precision. He spun in a controlled frenzy, a storm of steel and grace that bought him precious seconds, creating a window of opportunity. The sound of the needles scraping against his blade echoed through the night, a symphony of sharpness against the soft swish of the wind.

His body, moved as though it had been sculpted by time itself. A thousand years of practice, of perfecting every parry, every slash, now bearing fruit as he danced through the storm of death, his sword a blur of motion. The poison-tipped needles that would have pierced a lesser man were sent spiraling into the dark sky, harmless as they were deflected by his masterful strokes. 

With a final sweeping arc, he sent the last of the needles spiraling into the distance, the tension in the air beginning to dissipate. In one fluid motion, he stabbed the hilt of his sword into the earth, the tip sinking deep into the ground with a resounding thud. The sword, now a temporary anchor, became his foothold, and with a grunt of exertion, he launched himself into the air once more.

His leap was as fluid as water, and just as swift. The ground heaved beneath him for a brief moment before his boots found new purchase on solid stone; mid-air, with the wind whipping around him like a torrent of whispers, he cast another spell. His eyes, narrowed in focus, locked onto the katana buried halfway into the earth. He extended his arm, bending it at a precise, acute angle, his fingers curling in an almost imperceptible gesture that spoke of mastery.

*"String: PULL!"* he uttered, his voice carrying a razor-sharp clarity in the chaos of battle. His body swayed like a leaf in the wind, yet every movement was deliberate, a perfect dance of combat. The katana, as if responding to his command, trembled for a brief moment, the hilt vibrating under the unseen force of his magic. Then, with breathtaking speed, the blade shot toward him, cleaving through the air with a shrill, almost musical hum. The sound was a symphony of speed and precision.

As the katana reached him, he grasped the hilt, fingers tightening around the guard, steady and unyielding. He held it like an extension of his very will, a weapon that had been forged in the fires of his endless training. The tip of the blade now pointed directly at his opponent, sharp and unrelenting, like a javelin primed for destruction.

With a single, fluid motion, he coiled his body, summoning all the power in his muscles, before hurling the sword forward with the force of a tempest. His stance was rooted, his form impeccable. The air around him seemed to warp, as if recoiling from the sheer energy that coursed through his limbs.

*"Fiore dei Liberi: Sword Throw!"* he shouted, his voice crackling with the intensity of the strike. The katana sliced through the air, its trajectory a perfect line, a deadly arc destined for its mark. The power behind the throw was overwhelming, the force of it like a comet hurtling toward its target, unstoppable and fierce.

The blade glinted in the moonlight, a streak of silver cutting through the darkness with an almost ethereal grace. It flew, its speed unmatched, a blur of steel on a collision course with destiny.

Time seemed to slow as the weapon flew toward its target. The world held its breath, the atmosphere thick with the weight of anticipation. In that moment, it was not just a sword being thrown—it was a declaration of intent, a strike against fate itself. And as the blade neared its mark, the air seemed to crackle with the promise of its impact.

The ground trembled beneath him as the katana, sharp and unforgiving, surged toward its target with relentless speed. His eyes widened in realization, the very air around him seeming to grow colder with the approach of doom. *Damn... it's impossible to dodge it.*

The cloak man gritted his teeth, the pressure of the moment squeezing the breath from his chest. With an almost instinctive motion, he halted the casting of the poison needles. His fingers twitched with frantic energy, reaching deep within himself to summon the magic he had hoped to avoid. Sweat dripped down his brow, mixing with the tension in the air, as he focused every ounce of his remaining power.

His hand shot out, palm open, as if trying to grasp fate itself. From his fingers, a swirling, dark energy began to pool and gather. The magic circle flared to life with a violent burst, a sinister glow radiating from its edges. The air itself seemed to darken as shadows coiled and writhed, drawn toward his outstretched hand.

*"Poison Magic: Hydro Cannon!"* he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the space as the magic circle expanded, its dimensions growing with an almost terrifying speed. A torrent of black, viscous liquid shot forth from the circle—an immense wave of poison, thick as tar, barreling forward with an overwhelming force.

The two forces collided in a violent clash, a burst of energy so powerful that the very air seemed to crack under the strain. The Hydro Cannon surged forward, its mass forcing the katana to slow, its path becoming a battle of attrition against the corrosive onslaught.

For a moment, it seemed as though time itself was frozen, the sword and the magic struggling against each other, each inch of progress marked by the strain of the collision. The Hydro Cannon's pressure was unyielding, each drop of black liquid creating a sizzling sound as it collided with the katana, but the blade, like a comet in the dark sky, refused to be stopped completely.

The tension in the air was palpable, like the electric hum of an approaching storm. The Hydro Cannon, relentless and vast, met the sword's charge inch by inch, the battle between them a dance of destructive forces. The sword, still cutting through the black wave with an iron will, slowly began to inch closer toward its target, even as the stream of poison fought tooth and nail to hold it at bay. 

Both powers, lethal in their own right, were now locked in a deadly embrace—neither willing to yield, neither willing to back down. Eventually the sword loses it moment burying itself to the ground.

The air crackled with a tense silence before it was shattered by a sharp, resounding command. "String: PULL!"

In a single fluid motion, the sword, once buried deep in the earth, now trembled in the air, its edge gleaming ominously as an artificial hand of magic tightened its grip, moving the weapon with eerie precision. With a swift motion, he performed a *chiburi*, the traditional Japanese sword-cleaning flourish, shaking off the remnants of the poison-laced air, a taunting gesture to emphasize his mastery over the weapon.

"I see..." His voice dripped with mockery, his words cutting deeper than the sword's edge. "Although your poison magic is very strong, it's unidirectional."

The cloak man grit his teeth in frustration, remained silent, his pride unwilling to let the sting of defeat seep into his bones. He had hoped his magic would end the fight, but it was clear the tide was shifting.

"You are certainly powerful," the cloaked figure admitted, his tone a grudging respect. "However!" 

The words came as a sudden challenge, his body shifting into a familiar stance, arms raised and hands positioned in an iconic fashion that felt like the calm before the storm. The air seemed to hum with raw energy as his opponent recognized the movement—*That stance...* It was a stance that demanded attention, that forewarned devastation.

It was like a supernova collapsing in on itself—no need to gather magic power because it would manifest instinctively, as though drawn from the very marrow of his being. His fingers spread wide, his palms facing the opponent in a gesture that could silence entire battlefields.

Then, with a sudden, explosive burst of arcane energy, another massive magic circle erupted into existence, its size dwarfing the figure of the caster. It loomed like a blackened sun, casting a long shadow over the battlefield. The circle expanded, its edges swirling with chaotic, poisonous energy, a vortex of destruction waiting to unleash itself.

"Super Magic: Omni Poison!" the figure shouted, his voice echoing with finality, like a death knell for all who dared stand in its way.

In an instant, violent vapor poured from the circle, billowing outward in a wave of toxic mist that devoured everything in its path. The air grew thick with a putrid, suffocating miasma. Each inhalation was a promise of corruption, of life rotting away from the inside. The very earth seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the attack, the poison creeping through the air like a living thing, intent on smothering all that opposed it.

For a fleeting moment, even the most hardened of warriors would find themselves faltering. The vapor spread rapidly, wrapping its tendrils around the port, sinking into the very fabric of the environment. The trees, the water, the very ground seemed to scream as the life within them began to wither and die, all in the wake of this monstrous onslaught.

He could feel the poison gnawing at his insides, burning through his flesh with an unrelenting hunger. Yet, he knew there was no escape from the inevitable. The battle had reached its apex, and in that final, violent flash of power, he was consumed by the attack.

The vapor continued to churn, relentless and ever-hungry, until the last trace of resistance crumbled into silence. Only then did the air clear enough for him to see the masked figure, crumpled on the ground, a fallen shadow amid the chaos of his own making. The magic had done its work, and the fight was over—at least, for now.

For a brief moment, it was still. Only the faintest rustle of wind seemed to stir the suffocating silence, a quiet aftermath to a storm of such devastating magnitude.

"Huff... Huff..." 

The figure's breathing was ragged, but his resolve remained firm, his body moving forward despite the exhaustion gnawing at him. His footsteps were slow but purposeful, each one drawing him closer to the fallen adversary. The air around them crackled with the remnants of destructive energy, the ground beneath their feet still shaking from the power unleashed moments before.

"This is my ultimate move, the one I swore would guarantee the death of any living creature it touched, within a minute..." His voice carried a strange sadness, heavy with regret as his eyes flickered down to the fallen form. The words he spoke were not born of pride or triumph, but of something deeper—perhaps the pang of guilt, the weight of an impossible choice. 

He glanced at his opponent, a hollow sorrow clouding his face. Without hesitation, he pulled a small vial from his belt—a bottle that shimmered with a faint green glow. The antidote, something that could reverse the deathly poison coursing through the fallen figure's veins. He sat down beside him, a faint tremor running through his fingers as he held the bottle close to his chest. 

"To be honest... I didn't want this," he muttered, voice tinged with regret. "I didn't want to kill you, or anyone..." His eyes fell to the bottle, as if contemplating the weight of his own actions. 

"If you... if you promise to leave me alone, I'll give you this antidote." His voice wavered slightly, the decision already made deep within him. Regardless of the agreement, he would give the antidote—he had no intention of ending a life, not a life with so much potential, not one that still had so much to give to the world.

His hand trembled, the faintest of shakes that betrayed his true emotions. He had no desire for death; he had never intended for things to escalate this far. His fingers twitched at his side as if his own conscience was fighting against him, struggling to make contact with the antidote before it was too late.

Cough! 

A violent, guttural sound tore from the wounded figure, followed by a harsh spray of blood. Blargh! 

The poison's effect was already taking hold, seizing his body in its unforgiving grip. Every passing second was a reminder of the ticking clock that threatened to snatch away a life before it could be saved. The urgency clawed at him, but still, his body faltered in its movement, as if an invisible weight held him back. His hand shook, hovering between the dying figure and the life-saving vial. 

'I'm too late,' he thought, the guilt intensifying with each passing moment. But still, his hand trembled closer, not reaching for the neck, not for the antidote, but rather, slowly, it stretched toward the cheek of the fallen figure. A moment of hesitation, a moment of grace amidst the chaos.

In that moment, memories from long ago flashed before his eyes—visions of another time, another face, another life he wished he could have spared. The warmth of his smile, the innocence of youth, the feeling of protecting someone who needed him... It was all too familiar.

His hand, on the brink of touching the cheek, stopped, the fingers frozen mid-air. His mind reeled. 'It reminds me of the past...' The words whispered in his mind, but before his fingers could make contact, a sharp, sudden shift in direction—his index and middle fingers twisted away from their path, pointing instead to a spot beside him.

His heart skipped a beat. 

'Could it be...? Leviathan!?'

A chill ran down his spine, and instinct, not thought, took over. The battle was far from over. The real danger was closing in.

The man's heart pounded as he spun on his heels, his eyes widening in disbelief. Perched atop one of the crumbling bridge pillars, the very same figure he had just poisoned—the child—sat, his legs and arms crossed in an impossible display of casual nonchalance. There was no sign of pain, no sign of the poison taking its deadly toll.

"What!?" The question spilled from his lips in a gasp of confusion, his mind racing to catch up with the absurdity of the moment. He looked back, eyes desperately scanning the space where the child had once lain. To his horror, the body began to twist, flesh peeling away in ragged strips, disintegrating as if the very concept of being human was beneath it.

The figure transformed, its body twisting into a raven, feathers blacker than night sprouting from its skin. With a mocking caw, it soared into the air, wings beating violently as it circled above him.

CAW!

CAW!

The echo of the raven's call reverberated through the air, each note mocking him, each beat of its wings a reminder of how far his understanding had fallen short.

"Bastard!" The words left his mouth in a guttural hiss, a burning fury bubbling within him. His fingers gripped the antidote bottle with such intensity that the glass creaked in protest, threatening to shatter beneath the weight of his anger and confusion.

His mind reeled in disbelief. *Was that all an illusion?* He could only ask himself. The poison had been powerful—enough to incapacitate anyone in its path—but here was the child, alive, mocking him, untouched by his deadly brew.

*Let's be honest here,* he thought, teeth grinding in frustration. *I often rely on Kyoka Suigetsu...* It wasn't a strategy born out of arrogance, but practicality. There were times when it was better to rely on a trick, to temporarily put pride aside. But the situation now... it was more than just strategy—it was a matter of survival. The illusion had been a masterstroke, a subtle trick to pull the wool over his eyes. *If I'd been more careful... if I hadn't let my guard down...*

But his moment of reckoning came quickly. The instant the child—no, the raven—had launched into the air, his pride collided with his own downfall. He realized too late how easily he had been manipulated. *I only used it before he activated his super magic.* The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

He could feel the weight of his mistake.

****

The air was thick with tension, as if the very world itself was holding its breath. I landed on the ground with a soft thud, the weight of my question hanging heavy in the air. "Calm down. I don't have any reason to kill you," I said, my voice steady, though my mind raced. "I only want to ask you one thing... Why are you destroying the pond?" My suspicion burned deep, but I needed to hear the truth from his lips.

For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze dropped, his face shadowed by turmoil. His mind seemed lost in a labyrinth of thought, as if wrestling with a question that had plagued him for far too long. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

"It's because—"

But before he could finish, the ground trembled beneath us, a violent shudder that sent ripples through the very earth. Then, a sound—a deafening roar—filled the air, so deep it seemed to shake the very sky. We turned instinctively, the source of the sound drawing our attention. There, towering in the distance, was a monstrous sea snake—Leviathan.

"Leviathan..." My voice barely rose above a whisper as I instinctively reached for my sword. But before I could draw it, he stopped me, his hand raised in a firm, almost pleading motion.

"Wait... I'm the reason why he's here. At least let me be responsible for my actions." With a visible struggle, he pushed himself to his feet, his body staggering under the weight of exhaustion and pain. Despite his condition, he took slow, deliberate steps forward, towards the menacing form of Leviathan. I could sense the magic stirring within him, gathering like a storm on the horizon.

*Is he going to cast another super magic? He'll die if he does that...* I thought, my heart racing. With a quick motion, I struck his neck, knocking him unconscious before he could complete his spell. As his body crumpled, I faced the sea monster alone.

"Ugh..." The words escaped his lips as he fell into unconsciousness. He was not dead, but this had to be done. He would not get the chance to sacrifice himself to that beast. With one final glance at him, I turned my focus entirely to Leviathan.

I approached the great serpent, the immense creature coiling through the air with a graceful, terrifying power. I knew my fists, no matter how hard I struck, could never scratch its scales. Leviathan was no mere beast—it was a sea king, a creature of myth and legend, with power beyond my reckoning. *S-rank...* I could hear my inner voice whisper. *An S-rank monster, and I, an illusionist, must face it head-on.*

My strength lay not in raw power, but in illusion—an art of deception and subtlety. To face Leviathan directly was to court death, but that was not what I had in mind. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what was to come.

"I wanted to test something..." I murmured softly, my voice just above a whisper. And then, with a fluid motion, I unleashed my strongest attack.

"Universal Attack: Sword Draw!"

*Ding!*

The sound rang out like a chime, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it was as if time itself slowed. The sword ki, sharp and deadly, rocketed toward Leviathan, its trail leaving a shimmering wake in the air. I knew full well that it wouldn't kill the beast; my illusions had shown me the truth. But I needed to see how much damage I could truly do.

Leviathan, perhaps acknowledging the deal between us, allowed the strike to hit. The sword ki, powerful enough to shatter mountains, collided with the sea king's scales—and only scratched them. A single, shallow cut marred its otherwise indestructible hide.

"I see..." I murmured, retracting my sword and bowing slightly to Leviathan, respect in my posture. "So that's the current level of my strength?"

With a slow, deliberate nod, the sea serpent acknowledged me and, without a word, slithered back into the depths of the ocean. I watched it disappear into the waves, the sea swallowing the last trace of its enormous form. I sighed deeply, the weight of the encounter settling into my bones.

As I turned to leave, I hoisted the unconscious body of Alexander onto my shoulder. It was time to return to the manor, to finish what had been started.

When I arrived, the commissioner's manor was exactly as it had been—a testament to the obsession with wealth that had driven them to such extremes.

Inside, I could hear the faint murmur of voices. The commissioner's son, Alexander, slowly regained consciousness. His face was still pale, his body weak from the poison, but his mind was clear enough to remember what had transpired.

"Ugh..." He groaned, his eyes fluttering open. "Where...?"

"Don't move," I instructed him, gently peeling an apple for myself as I spoke. "Your magic power is exhausted. I've taken you back to your house, so rest assured."

He looked at me, the weight of his actions and his father's neglect hanging heavily between us. I knew there was more to his story than he had yet revealed.

"Anyway, I haven't introduced myself yet," I continued, my voice calm, even. "I don't have an official name yet, but at the moment, I'm being called Kyoka Suigetsu. I'm a mage from Fairy Tail, known as Black Calamity." I extended my hand toward him, offering a handshake, the gesture sincere despite the tension.

Alexander, still weak but with a new clarity in his eyes, shook my hand. "I see... My name is Alexander Socrates." His voice was quieter now, filled with an emotion I couldn't place.

*Socrates...* I thought, my mind briefly drifting. *Like father, like son. I wouldn't be surprised if you, too, meet your end by poison.*

I forced the thought aside, returning to the matter at hand. "Now, Alexander," I said, my voice soft but firm, "can you tell me why you destroyed the port?"

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he met my gaze. "I don't have a deep reason," he began, his voice trembling slightly. "Before we built this manor, we were poor. My father and I worked as fishermen to survive..."

He paused, his chest rising with a shaky breath. "My mother... she was sick."

The words hung heavy in the air, and I could see the pain in his eyes. "When my father took her to the hospital for a check-up, they told him that she needed surgery—but we couldn't afford it. The medicines were too expensive. My father tried to ask our relatives for help, but no one came. They chose to ignore us. It's... it's cruel, isn't it?"

I said nothing, but my mind raced back to my own past, to a time when I too had been left to struggle, to fight against a world that didn't care.

"Despite everything, my father didn't give up. He kept working, day and night, trying to make enough money for the surgery. But it was all in vain. He watched her die slowly, helpless..."

His voice cracked as he continued, his tears beginning to flow. "After that, he never stopped. Even when we had enough money, he worked tirelessly, obsessed with wealth. He never stopped to think about me. All I wanted was for him to be with me."

Tears fell freely now, staining his cheeks as he looked down, unable to hold back the emotions that had been building for years. "I don't want him to die like that. He can't keep working like this... not until he's gone, too. I wanted to make him notice. If I destroyed the port, if I caused enough disruption, he might realize there's more to life than money. He might realize that I'm more important."

I didn't interrupt him. I let him speak, let him release the sorrow that had weighed him down for so long.

"Money couldn't bring back my mother. But if I destroy his business, maybe he'll see that there's something more precious than all the gold in the world: his son."

"I understand..." I said quietly, and with a flick of my hand, I undid the Kyoka Suigetsu, the illusion that had masked his reality.

He blinked, his eyes widening as he looked around in confusion. "Father... since when?"

"From the beginning," I said simply, standing up. "I'm going first."

I didn't wait for a response. As I walked away, I knew the path ahead for them wouldn't be easy. But it was a start—a chance for reconciliation, for healing.

Back in the guest room, I sipped my tea in silence, waiting. *This is my 34th cup,* I thought idly.

A light knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. I opened it to find the father and son standing there, their faces brighter than I had expected. They had reconciled.

"You seem to like tea a lot," Alexander remarked, a chuckle escaping his lips as he eyed the cups on the table. "I could send you many packs as thanks for helping us."

I simply shook my head. "Well, about the commission..." I began. "I made a deal with Leviathan. In exchange for sparing you, you'll clean up the poison on the port and rebuild the damaged buildings. If you wish to thank me, that's how you can do it."

"Sure," Alexander said with a warm smile. "I plan to atone for my mistakes."

His father, a quiet man, turned to me. "Although the mission was monster subjugation, repelling it is still considered a task completed. I assume you won't refuse your reward?"

"Certainly," I replied with a nod. "You've done your part as well."

As I prepared to leave, Alexander approached me, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I hope you can solve your own problem, too..."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Oh? You noticed?"

He smiled warmly and nodded. I waved goodbye, the weight of the day finally lifting as I stepped into the night.

"I hope so too," I whispered under my breath. "But it won't be easy."