Cael stepped into the guild hall just as the first drops of rain started to fall outside. The sky was dark with rolling clouds, and thunder rumbled distantly. Perfect weather for tinkering—or so he hoped.
He had spent the last two days moving his sparse belongings into his new home: a crooked little place near the southern outskirts of Magnolia. It wasn't much, but he liked the solitude and the faint hum of ambient mana in the soil.
Now, he was back at Fairy Tail with one thing in mind: his next job.
The guild buzzed with activity, as usual. Natsu and Gray were already arguing about something, and Erza stood nearby, watching with a mix of disappointment and readiness to slam heads together. Mira greeted him with her usual warm smile.
"Morning, Cael," she said. "Did the roof collapse on your first night?"
"Almost," he replied. "But I built a support beam using scrap from a rusted garden fence."
She blinked. "...That sounds horrifyingly unstable."
"I did the math. It'll hold. Probably."
Mira just laughed. "Glad you're settling in."
Cael drifted toward the request board again, scanning the available jobs. He avoided anything involving heavy combat for now. He still hadn't fully unlocked the potential of his magic. His power hummed under his skin, but it remained wild and unshaped.
A courier request caught his eye—an urgent delivery of magical ink to a scribe in Hargeon. Easy. Time-sensitive. Far enough to think along the way.
He took the request and waved to Mira on his way out.
The path to Hargeon was muddy and slick with rain, but Cael made good time. He built a quick covering from scavenged branches and a tarp-like cloth he'd stitched together during his first week. Not elegant, but it kept him dry.
Along the way, he tested a few minor gadgets he'd sketched out: a wrist-mounted light emitter, a spring-loaded grapple hook (which backfired and nearly broke his nose), and a rune-etched compass that didn't point north but instead vibrated near magical hotspots.
It was wildly inconsistent—but fascinating.
When he arrived at the scribe's office, he handed over the ink, got the delivery signed off, and took a moment to wander the port. The scent of saltwater and rain mingled in the air, and Cael's thoughts buzzed.
Something about the machines on the docks—the way they moved, the rhythm of their gears—felt right. He sat under a canopy and filled six pages of his notebook, theorizing mechanical augmentations that could enhance magic efficiency by 3.4%.
He didn't even notice when the rain stopped.
That evening, back at the guild, Mira called him over as soon as he stepped through the doors.
"Cael. You have ink smudges on your face."
He blinked. "Ah." He tried to wipe them off with his sleeve. It made it worse.
She handed him a napkin.
"So?" she asked as he cleaned up. "How was the delivery?"
"Efficient. Wet. Productive."
"Did you fight anyone?"
"No. But I did invent a spring-powered punch gauntlet. I think it might break my wrist if I use it, though."
"You... invented a what?"
He opened his sketchbook and flipped to the diagram. Mira leaned over and examined it.
"It looks like it belongs in a comic book," she said.
"Or a war zone," added Erza, who'd come closer unnoticed.
Cael gave a small, sheepish grin. "It's just an idea."
Erza gave him a long look. "Your ideas might be more dangerous than most people's magic."
He didn't deny it.
Later that night, Cael sat on the floor of his home, surrounded by loose gears and parchment. A small device ticked quietly next to him—one of the few that had worked without exploding.
He reached for a crystal he'd found in a market stall earlier. It had strange magical properties—low power, but reactive. As he examined it, a tiny jolt of mana shot from his fingers into the stone.
The air buzzed. Cael pulled back.
"Still too unstable," he murmured.
He set the crystal aside and closed his notebook. The hum of potential stirred in him again. Machine Takeover... it was like a whisper in the back of his thoughts. Unnamed. Unformed. But it was waiting.
He yawned and leaned back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the crooked ceiling.
"I need to learn how to control all of this," he muttered.
But not tonight. Tonight, he would sleep—surrounded by strange machines, broken ideas, and the quiet promise of something great.
Tomorrow, he'd take another job.
And someday soon, he'd figure out what kind of wizard he really was.
(To be continued in Chapter 9...)