Born to Steal Gods ( Fairy Tail )

The night in Hargeon enveloped the city like a suffocating cloak, the black sky torn by distant lightning that briefly illuminated the ravaged streets, while the wind carried the acrid smell of smoke and charred wood, mixed with the salt of the nearby sea.

The damp, narrow alleys, with slippery stone walls covered in moss, trembled with the echo of hurried footsteps. Lucius Draganov ran, his black overcoat billowing behind him like a living shadow, revealing the gray bracelet on his left arm pulsing with a bluish energy, like a magical heart in sync with his racing heartbeat.

His white hair peeked out from under the hood, tangled by the wind, while the duality mask remained firm on his face, its fine etched lines glinting subtly under the faint light of distant spells, a testament to the recent attacks that had marked his journey. The sound of his ragged breathing mingled with the distant clink of chains and the shouts of pursuers, a chaotic symphony heralding the relentless chase of the Magic Council.

The Council's reinforcements had detected the lingering trace of magical power from his last attack, a wave of energy still hanging in the air like an invisible echo. Mages emerged from the shadows, some wielding ornate staves studded with glowing gems, while others relied on hand gestures or lacrimas embedded in bracelets and rings, channeling diverse magics with fluid, natural movements typical of Fiore's vast repertoire.

Lucius knew every second counted, the weight of the hunt pressing on his shoulders like an invisible chain.

Reaching a dark corner where the alley split into two pitch-black paths like bottomless wells, Lucius stopped abruptly, his feet sliding on the wet stone. His sharp eyes, almost luminescent under the mask, scanned the horizon, catching the glint of four figures emerging from the shadows ahead.

They were mages sent to intercept him, each wielding a fighting style reflecting Fairy Tail's magical diversity. The first, a woman with eyes bright as stars, manipulated beams of light that sliced the air with surgical precision, like invisible arrows of solid glow. The second, a pale man with a cold expression, conjured crackling ice sculptures, the frost gleaming, ready to trap or wound with sharp spikes. The third, a burly man with calloused hands, controlled polished wooden puppets, their joints creaking with mechanical precision as the animated figures advanced with coordinated strikes. The last, cloaked in a dark mantle that seemed to absorb light, distorted reality with illusions—shadows rippled, morphing into menacing figures that danced, confusing even the sharpest eyes.

Lucius felt the moment's pressure, the air around him charged with hostile energy, his mind racing like an overloaded lacrima as he searched for an escape. He knew facing them all at once was a deadly risk, but fleeing without at least trying to clear a path wasn't an option either.

His fingers tightened on the gourd tied to his belt, the small but powerful vessel holding his liquid weapon.

With a fluid motion, he unhooked the gourd, the gurgling liquid echoing in the tense silence like the prelude to a storm, the drops reflecting the faint light of distant lacrimas. The water inside seemed alive, responding to his will as an extension of his body, rippling in bluish hues that glowed in the gloom.

Before he could act, the light mage launched a shimmering blade at him, the beam cutting through the air with a high-pitched hum. Lucius barely had time to raise a water shield, shaping it into a gleaming semicircle that repelled the attack, droplets flying like sparks on impact, splattering the ground with a hissing sound.

The woman advanced, her eyes blazing with determination, the light blade morphing into a series of stakes erupting from the ground like a deadly trap, the ice reflecting distant lightning. Lucius dodged with agility, rolling to the side as the stakes embedded into the wall behind him, leaving deep marks.

The water around him formed into flexible whips around his forearms, their tips dancing like hungry snakes, ready to strike. With one whip, he struck the ice sculpture conjured by the pale mage, the impact shattering it into glittering fragments that flew like broken diamonds, the sound of cracking ice echoing like shattered bells.

Before he could catch his breath, the puppet charged at him, its joints creaking with mechanical precision, wooden hands outstretched to grab him. Lucius dodged by a hair, the attack grazing his shoulder and further tearing his overcoat, as he unleashed a liquid chain that wrapped around the puppet, dismantling it with a metallic crash, the pieces falling to the ground like a broken toy's remains.

Meanwhile, the illusion around him seemed to close in, shadows morphing into menacing figures—a dark dragon, a horde of ghostly warriors—advancing with silent roars. Lucius closed his eyes for a moment, focusing to clear his mind, sweat dripping down his forehead as he channeled a concentrated wave of pure water. The illusion shattered with a snap, the shadows dissolving like smoke in the wind, revealing the dark-cloaked mage retreating, surprised.

The battle was fierce, every movement charged with tension, the magical power vibrating in the heavy air signaling the approaching storm, the wet ground reflecting beams of light and ice like a broken mirror.

With an agile leap, Lucius struck with his right whip, hitting the ice mage in the chest with a blow that echoed like muffled thunder. The man staggered back, falling to his knees with a groan, Lucius's mask cracking slightly, a faint line glinting in the dim light like a battle scar.

Before he could recover, the light mage conjured a final attack, a concentrated beam slicing the air with a shrill sound, its glow nearly blinding. Lucius raised a water wall, absorbing the energy with a liquid roar, droplets exploding in all directions, the pressure nearly crushing his hidden face as the mask creaked under the force.

But the fight didn't end there. Two new mages emerged from the shadows, drawn by the chaos. One, with tanned skin and short hair, summoned dancing flames that swirled like a tornado, unleashing a wave of heat that made the air shimmer. The other, a slender figure with piercing eyes, wielded wind gusts that cut like blades.

Lucius spun, creating a spinning water shield that deflected the flames, steam rising in dense clouds, but the wind sliced his flank, opening a shallow cut that bled instantly. With a grunt, he counterattacked, launching a pressurized jet that hit the fire mage in the chest, hurling him against a wall with a dull thud, the flames extinguishing as he fell.

The wind mage attempted a final gust, but Lucius leaped, condensing the water into a sharp spear that pierced the ground beside his opponent, forcing him to retreat in panic.

With time running out, Lucius seized the opening, vanishing into the alley's gloom, his heart pounding like a guild's festival drum. The bracelet pulsed stronger—a sign the Council wouldn't give up easily, the residual energy tracing his path like an invisible beacon. The sound of his boots on the wet stone mingled with the dripping of the rain now falling, cold drops hitting his face and sliding down his cracked mask.

In the distance, a tall, imposing, muscular figure with broad shoulders and a ruby-studded staff emerged from the ruins, rain streaming down his tattered cloak. He roared with a voice that seemed to split the stones, summoning more reinforcements with a shout that reverberated through the devastated streets.

"He can't escape! The Black Cloak will be caught today!" he thundered, the sound muffled by the intensifying storm, as mages rallied around him, ready for the next assault.

And so, as the night deepened and rain fell like tears over Hargeon, the hunt continued, promising that the true confrontation—a clash worthy of legend—was yet to come, with Lucius's fate hanging on the edge of an invisible blade.