Makarov’s idea of training was nothing like Alastor expected.
There was no dramatic battlefield.
No roaring crowd.
No glorious declaration about surpassing limits.
There was a yard behind the guild, a chalk circle on the ground, three cups of water on a crate, and Makarov sitting on a stool with the patience of someone who had watched generations of children make the same mistakes in different ways.
Alastor stared at the chalk circle.
“This feels suspiciously educational.”
“It is,” Makarov said.
“That makes it worse.”
Zestial stood nearby with Scout perched on his shoulder.
The Palico’s guild mark remained on the back of his gauntlet, polished enough to catch the morning light.
Erza sat on the porch with Cana beside her.
Porlyusica had cleared her to watch, walk short distances, and do nothing else.
She had made that clear in writing, verbally, and with a threat involving a ladle.
Gray leaned against the wall with his arms folded.
He was wearing a shirt.
For now.
Makarov pointed to the chalk circle.
“Step inside.”
Alastor did.
Nothing happened.
He looked down.
“Is it supposed to glow?”
“No.”
“Explode?”
“No.”
“Summon something?”
“No.”
“Then why is it a circle?”
“So you know where to stand.”
Zestial covered his mouth.
Scout gave an approving chirp.
Alastor pointed at him.
“Don’t side with the tiny old man.”
Scout saluted.
Makarov’s eyebrow twitched.
“I am occasionally authoritative.”
“Authoritative tiny old man ,” Alastor corrected.
Scout meowed.
Zestial translated for Makarov, “Scout says that is less catchy.”
Makarov tapped his staff against the ground.
“Focus.”
Alastor closed his eyes.
The magic beneath his skin stirred.
It did not feel like a single spell.
It felt like a wilderness filled with doors, each one opening onto something with teeth, wings, claws, scales, or fury.
Some doors called louder than others.
Fast things.
Strong things.
Monsters that charged headfirst into danger and made the world move aside.
Those felt natural.
Comfortable.
Fun, if he was being honest.
But he could feel others too.
Cold ones.
Poisoned ones.
Graceful ones.
Ancient ones.
Creatures too powerful for his body to contain for more than a breath.
Makarov watched him carefully.
“Your power answered fear and anger in the Tower,” he said.
“Today, it answers choice.”
Choice.
The word settled differently.
Alastor reached past the loudest doors.
He chose something simpler.
A heavy hide.
Strong forelimbs.
Curved claws made for bracing, swiping, and hauling.
Golden magic crawled over his right arm.
Fur spread to his shoulder.
Muscle thickened, and his fingers widened into claws.
The transformation stopped cleanly.
Alastor opened one eye.
No tearing pain.
No loss of control.
Makarov nodded.
“Good.
Hold it.”
Alastor grinned.
“I can do that.”
The arm flickered.
His grin vanished.
“Okay.
No bragging.”
“Important discovery,” Zestial said.
Gray stepped closer.
“Can you punch with it?”
“No,” Makarov and Zestial said together.
Alastor looked wounded.
Erza spoke from the porch.
“You should learn to stop before learning to hit.”
Everyone looked at her.
Her voice had been quiet, but firm.
Makarov smiled.
“Exactly.”
Alastor studied his transformed arm.
For a moment, it seemed as if he might argue.
Then he exhaled.
The fur receded.
The claws shortened, and his hand returned to normal.
“Fine.”
Gray stared at him.
“You actually listened?”
“She made sense.”
Gray looked betrayed by the idea.
Cana leaned toward Erza.
“That makes you the responsible one.”
Erza looked down.
“I don’t know about that.”
“Responsible people usually don’t.”
Makarov let the moment pass before turning toward Zestial.
“Your turn.”
Scout jumped from Zestial’s shoulder and stood beside the circle like an assistant instructor.
Alastor leaned against the fence.
“Careful, Captain.
The circle is educational.”
Zestial ignored him.
Makarov studied the younger brother.
“Your magic creates equipment?”
“Retrieves it,” Zestial said.
“If I already have the physical equipment stored.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I can form an imitation from magic, but it costs more.”
“Weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Tools?”
“I think so.”
“And companions like Scout?”
Zestial hesitated.
“Palicos.
Different ones may have different roles.”
Scout straightened proudly.
“Scout is the only one so far?”
“Yes.”
“For now?”
Zestial nodded.
“For now.”
Makarov gestured toward the circle.
“Choose a weapon.”
Zestial closed his eyes.
Weapons waited in his mind.
Not merely images.
Weight.
Reach.
Timing.
Purpose.
Great Sword for commitment.
Sword and Shield for balance.
Lance for holding ground.
Hammer for crushing openings.
Bow for distance.
Dual Blades for pressure.
Hunting Horn for support.
Other weapons waited deeper, their mechanisms familiar despite his hands never having built or carried them.
Every weapon felt known.
Not mastered by his current body.
Not yet.
His arms were too small.
His magic was too raw, and his stamina had not fully recovered from the Tower.
But the knowledge was there, returning like someone cleaning fog from glass.
Weapon follows purpose.
Not pride.
Not appearance.
Purpose.
Blue-white magic formed around his hands.
“Requip: Sword and Shield!”
A compact sword appeared in his right hand.
A round shield settled over his left arm.
Gray looked disappointed.
“That’s smaller than I thought.
Why not a giant sword?”
“A smaller weapon is better,” Zestial said.
“Why would smaller be better?”
“Because I am small.”
Alastor laughed.
Gray scowled.
“I knew that.”
Zestial shifted into stance.
The change was immediate.
He no longer looked like a child holding a weapon too carefully.
He looked like someone who understood distance, guard position, and the path a blade needed to follow.
Makarov’s eyes narrowed.
“Show me a basic sequence.”
Zestial moved.
Shield up.
Short step.
Diagonal slash.
Guard.
Thrust.
Shield bash.
Retreat.
The movements were crisp but restrained.
His body lagged slightly behind his knowledge.
His shoulders tightened too early, and his legs lacked the strength to carry the full sequence.
But the shape was there.
Gray stopped looking disappointed.
Cana stopped shuffling her cards.
Erza watched without blinking.
Alastor’s grin softened into pride.
“That’s my brother.”
The sword and shield dissolved after the final movement.
Zestial released a slow breath.
His face had gone pale.
Scout hurried over and smacked his shin with one paw.
“I stopped before I collapsed,” Zestial said.
Scout meowed sharply.
Alastor tilted his head.
“Barely.”
“Barely counts.”
Makarov stroked his mustache.
“You know how to use weapons.”
“I remember how.”
The yard became quieter.
Alastor went still.
Zestial did not panic or try to explain too much.
“The magic comes with knowledge,” he said.
“Or instincts.
It is clearer with weapons than it is with tools.”
That was true.
Incomplete, but true.
Makarov accepted it for now.
“Then your first lesson is restraint.”
“I agree.”
Gray looked offended.
“You agree with boring training too?”
“Control is what lets dangerous things become useful.”
Cana muttered, “Old man.”
Makarov looked pleased.
Alastor groaned.
“He’s going to become the teacher’s favorite.”
Scout saluted.
Zestial said, ” At least Scout agrees that someone in this family should.”
“Conspiracy.”
“Again tomorrow,” Makarov said.
“For today, that is enough.”
Alastor opened his mouth.
Makarov raised one finger.
Alastor closed it.
Gray stared at the guild master.
“How do you keep doing that?”
“Practice.”
The following morning, the yard had been divided into sections.
A chalk circle for Alastor.
A marked line for Zestial’s drills.
A shaded corner for Erza, who was permitted to watch and study basic Requip theory as long as she obeyed Porlyusica’s instructions exactly.
Erza disliked this arrangement.
Quietly.
Intensely.
In a way that made even Gray avoid saying anything foolish about it.
Makarov stood in front of Alastor.
“Today, you choose three partial forms.”
Alastor brightened.
“Three?”
“Partial.”
“Still three.”
“Small changes.”
“Three small changes.”
“Controlled changes.”
“Three controlled small changes.”
“You sound too pleased.”
“I am full of discipline.”
Zestial coughed.
Scout meowed.
Cana, watching from the porch, said, “Even the cat disagrees.”
“Palico,” Alastor corrected automatically.
Scout nodded his approval.
Makarov tapped his staff once.
“Begin.”
Alastor closed his eyes.
The wilderness inside him stirred.
The doors were clearer now.
Arzuros waited behind one, heavy and direct.
Great Jaggi waited behind another, quick and social.
Nargacuga watched from a darkness filled with silent claws.
Rathalos circled somewhere above.
Zinogre crackled with lightning that made Alastor’s bones itch.
Others waited farther away.
Some called to every bad decision he had ever wanted to make.
Rajang, because some terrible ideas had golden fur and fists.
Tigrex, because roaring at problems until they became smaller sounded satisfying.
Brachydios, because explosions were obviously a valid personality trait.
But wanting was not choosing.
That was the lesson Makarov kept forcing into him.
First, Alastor chose the legs of a Great Jaggi.
Golden magic crawled over his calves.
His muscles shifted, his tendons tightened, and his toes changed enough to provide a stronger grip.
He bounced once on the balls of his feet.
“Stable?” Makarov asked.
“Feels like I could sprint sideways.”
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You considered it.”
“I consider many things.”
“Consider stillness.”
Alastor sighed.
Second, he chose an Arzuros forearm.
His right arm thickened.
Fur spread to his elbow, and the claws formed cleanly.
Not as large as before.
More contained.
Makarov nodded.
“Better.”
Alastor grinned.
Then he remembered what had happened the previous day and stopped.
The arm remained stable.
Progress.
For the third change, he hesitated.
The sensible choice was something he had already used.
Something else pulled at him.
Not huge.
Not ancient.
Just sharp.
Silent.
Watchful.
“Nargacuga,” Zestial said.
Alastor opened one eye.
“How did you know?”
“Your expression changed.”
“I’m fine.”
“You picked something different.”
“Just the eyes.”
Makarov’s gaze sharpened.
“Explain.”
“Shadow monster.
Fast.
Quiet.
Good senses.
I’m only asking for the eyes.”
“Why?”
Alastor looked toward the porch, where Erza sat pretending she was not listening.
“Because if something comes, I want to see it first.”
Makarov’s expression softened by a fraction.
“Proceed slowly.”
Alastor exhaled.
Golden magic flickered across his face.
His pupils narrowed.
The world changed.
Edges became sharper.
Movement stood out against stillness, and the shadows deepened without concealing as much.
He could see Scout’s whiskers twitch from across the yard.
He could see Gray’s shirt slipping from one shoulder before Gray noticed.
He could see Erza’s hand tighten around her sleeve.
Then everything became too much.
Too sharp.
Too bright.
Too alive.
Alastor hissed and covered his eyes.
The transformations broke at once.
Makarov caught him before he fell out of the circle.
“Breathe.”
“Too much.”
“I know.
Breathe.”
Zestial was beside him a heartbeat later.
Scout arrived just after, tiny paws striking the dirt.
Alastor slowly lowered his hands.
His normal vision returned, duller by comparison.
He blinked hard.
“That was amazing.”
“You almost fell over,” Zestial said.
“Still amazing.”
Makarov sighed.
“Accurate, but premature.”
“I could see everything.”
“That is the problem.
Enhanced senses require as much training as enhanced strength.”
Zestial picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the fence.
NO NARGACUGA EYES OUTSIDE A CONTROLLED ENVIRONMENT.
Alastor groaned.
“Don’t write it like that.”
“I am writing it exactly like that.”
Scout chirped.
“Scout agrees.”
“Scout agrees too much.”
Makarov handed Alastor a cup of water.
“Enough for today.”
Alastor opened his mouth.
Makarov lifted one finger.
Alastor drank.
Zestial’s training came next.
His body was still catching up to what his mind and magic knew.
That frustrated him in quiet ways.
Alastor exploded outward when annoyed.
Zestial folded frustration inward and tried to make it useful.
Makarov placed three wooden markers across the yard.
“One enemy near,” he said.
“One enemy far.
One ally behind you.”
Zestial nodded.
“Choose the weapon that fits.”
Blue-white magic gathered around him, but he did not summon immediately.
Near enemy.
Far enemy.
Ally behind.
Not a Great Sword.
Too much commitment.
Not Dual Blades.
Too aggressive.
Not a Bow.
That would leave the nearest enemy unchecked.
A Lance could hold ground.
Sword and Shield could respond quickly.
He chose the Sword and Shield.
The equipment formed smoothly.
He stepped between the nearest marker and the space representing his ally.
Makarov nodded.
“Good.
Situation changes.”
A fourth marker rose from the ground to Zestial’s left.
“Second enemy.
Armored.”
Zestial assessed the field again.
The Sword and Shield could work, but it would not control both enemies well.
“Requip: Iron Lance!”
The first weapon vanished.
A lance and reinforced shield took its place.
Their weight struck him immediately.
His knees bent.
They did not buckle.
He adjusted.
Makarov’s brows rose.
Zestial planted the shield and angled his lance toward both markers, using its reach to control the space between them.
Gray stared.
“That looks heavy.”
“It is,” Zestial said through clenched teeth.
Alastor leaned over the fence.
“Captain’s got a wall now.”
“Tiny wall,” Cana said.
Scout meowed.
Alastor tilted his head.
“Scout says portable wall.”
Zestial’s mouth twitched despite the strain.
Makarov pointed toward the distant marker.
“Enemy casting.”
The Lance vanished.
Zestial swayed.
Alastor straightened, ready to move.
Zestial steadied himself.
Weapon follows purpose.
He needed to interrupt the distant enemy without abandoning the ally he was protecting.
A simple Bow formed in his hands.
He drew and released a blunt magical arrow.
It struck the marker with a crack.
The Bow disappeared.
Zestial dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
Scout marched over and smacked his boot.
“I know.”
Scout meowed again.
“I stopped.”
Another meow.
“Mostly stopped.”
Makarov approached him.
“You changed weapons three times in less than a minute.”
“Was that wrong?”
“No.
But it was costly.”
Zestial wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Yes.”
“Why not remain with the first weapon?”
“Because the situation changed.”
Makarov smiled faintly.
“Good.
But sometimes the best weapon is the one you can afford to keep.”
Zestial considered that before nodding.
“That makes sense.”
Alastor shook his head.
“I would’ve picked the biggest one.”
“Which is exactly why you are not choosing my weapons.”
“I have excellent taste.”
“You have dramatic taste.”
“Same branch.”
Erza spoke quietly from the porch.
“Not always.”
Both brothers looked at her.
She was watching the markers rather than them.
“Sometimes simple is better if it keeps people safe.”
Zestial nodded.
“Yes.”
Alastor looked at the chalk circle and then at the arm he had transformed.
“Yeah.”
Makarov said nothing.
Some lessons were better when children taught them to one another.
Training continued over the next several days.
Alastor learned that holding a weak transformation for a full minute could be more difficult than releasing a strong one for a heartbeat.
He learned that stronger legs did not automatically give him better balance.
He learned that enhanced hearing became unbearable inside the guild hall.
He learned that transforming both hands into claws made opening doors unnecessarily complicated.
Zestial learned that knowing a weapon did not mean his current body could use it.
He learned that changing equipment too quickly left his hands trembling.
He learned that a magical imitation of a weapon could teach him its balance, but not how real metal wore down.
Most importantly, he learned that equipment failed.
Leather stretched.
Metal bent.
Edges dulled.
Straps loosened.
A damaged buckle could make good armor dangerous.
Scout taught him how to inspect every piece before storing it.
At first, Zestial repaired whatever Makarov placed before him.
A broken hinge.
A cracked shield strap.
A knife with a damaged handle.
A section of chainmail with mismatched links.
The repairs were ugly.
The hinge squeaked.
The strap sat crooked.
The knife handle was too thick.
The chainmail held together, but only because Scout noticed that Zestial had closed one of the links in the wrong direction.
Zestial stared at the repaired section.
“I knew that.”
Scout crossed his arms.
“I knew it after you pointed it out.”
Scout’s expression did not change.
Zestial sighed.
“Fine.
Good catch.”
Alastor laughed hard enough to disturb his ribs.
After training, Zestial began drawing in the dirt beside the fence.
At first, he sketched weapons. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Then he started drawing systems.
A brace that could flex when Alastor’s wrist changed shape.
Layered plates that could slide instead of snapping.
Straps that would release before the equipment damaged the transformed limb beneath it.
Scout sorted scraps beside him while he worked.
Small buckles.
Leather strips.
Bent pieces of metal.
Anything useful went into one pile.
Anything questionable went into another.
Anything provided by Gray went into a third.
Gray watched this happen.
“Why does my stuff get its own pile?”
Scout pushed Gray’s spare shirt farther away.
“Because you said it was probably clean,” Zestial replied.
“It was in a bush.”
“That did not improve your argument.”
Alastor crouched beside the design scratched into the dirt.
“What is that?”
“A wrist stabilizer.”
“Boring.”
“Accurate.”
“Monster brace.”
“No.”
“Claw guard.”
“No.”
“Wildguard.”
Zestial paused.
Alastor’s grin widened.
“You liked that one.”
“I did not.”
“You paused.”
“I was considering how to reject it.”
Scout meowed.
Zestial closed his eyes.
Alastor leaned forward.
“See, even Scout agrees.”
“Scout says the title is acceptable.”
Alastor raised both arms.
“Victory!”
Makarov called from the bar, “No celebrating loudly indoors!”
“We’re outside!”
There was a pause.
“Then celebrate farther from the windows!”
Alastor lowered his voice.
“Quiet victory.”
Zestial returned to the design.
“You’re happy,” Alastor said.
“I’m busy.”
“Same for you.”
Zestial looked at the lines in the dirt.
Then at the pieces of metal.
Then at Scout, who was rearranging the buckles by size.
His expression softened.
“I like making things.”
“I know.”
“I forgot how much.”
The words settled between them.
The Tower had not allowed them to make anything for themselves.
They had built what others demanded.
Carried what others ordered.
Destroyed what others feared.
This was different.
Here, Zestial could choose what to repair.
What to protect.
What to improve.
Alastor tapped the design with one finger.
“So we’re making it?”
“We are attempting a prototype.”
“Wildguard.”
“Wrist stabilizer.”
“Wildguard.”
Zestial sighed.
“Fine.”
Makarov supplied scrap metal from old guild repairs.
Cana found leather straps from broken luggage.
Scout selected the pieces that remained strong enough to use.
Erza watched from the far side of the table.
“Can I help?”
Zestial looked at her.
Her right eye had been uncovered that morning.
At first glance, it looked real.
Almost too real.
It did not move exactly like the left one.
It did not focus the same way.
It did not cry.
No one mentioned that.
“You’re supposed to rest,” Zestial said.
“I can hold something.”
“No lifting.”
“I can hold something that isn’t heavy.”
Scout selected a narrow leather strap and pushed it toward her.
Erza picked it up.
“What do I do?”
Zestial showed her how to inspect the leather for cracks and weak points.
She took the task as seriously as she took everything else.
By evening, the first rough version of the Wildguard lay on the table.
It was ugly.
Scrap leather.
Dull metal.
Uneven stitching.
A sliding joint that jammed twice before Scout corrected it by shifting one plate half an inch to the left.
Zestial stared at him.
Scout stared back.
“Did you just improve my design?”
Scout saluted.
Alastor laughed again.
“Fine,” Zestial said.
“Good catch.”
The first test did not involve magic.
Zestial wrapped the Wildguard around Alastor’s right wrist and forearm.
He tightened the straps, adjusted the hinge, and stepped back.
“How does it feel?”
Alastor flexed his hand.
“Like armor.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“Cool armor.”
“That tells me less.”
Alastor rotated his wrist.
The plates shifted without pinching him.
His expression changed.
“Actually?
It feels good.”
Zestial’s shoulders lowered.
“Good.”
Makarov inspected the brace.
“Crude, but thoughtful.”
“It’s a prototype.”
“Can it withstand a transformation?”
“No,” Zestial said.
“Maybe,” Alastor said.
Zestial and Makarov both looked at him.
“I said maybe as a concept.”
“No testing tonight,” Zestial told him.
“I know.”
Scout meowed.
“Scout says unauthorized testing will result in confiscation.”
Alastor stared at the Palico.
“You can’t confiscate my arm.”
Scout slowly looked at the Wildguard.
Alastor gasped.
“You wouldn’t.”
Scout gave no answer.
Erza approached after Makarov finished inspecting the brace.
“You made that for him?”
Zestial nodded.
“Eventually, I want to make better equipment.
Things that work with his magic instead of fighting against it.”
Alastor tapped the brace proudly.
“Monster knight.”
“No.”
Erza tilted her head.
“It does look like armor for a knight.”
Alastor pointed at her.
“See?”
Zestial gave Erza the betrayed look of someone abandoned by the last reasonable person in the room.
Her mouth twitched.
Only a little.
But on purpose.
“Fine,” Zestial said.
“But he is not calling himself that in public.”
“No promises,” Alastor replied.
Erza touched the plain practice sword Makarov had given her.
“Could you make armor for other people?”
The question sounded casual.
The way her fingers tightened did not.
Armor did not mean decoration to Erza.
It meant not being helpless.
It meant not being chained.
It meant placing something between herself and the next blade.
“One day,” Zestial said.
Not too quickly.
Not too grandly.
Just the truth.
“I need materials, practice, and control.
But one day, yes.”
“I want to learn too.”
“To make armor?”
“To use it.”
Old memories stirred in Zestial’s mind.
Erza Scarlet.
Armor changing in flashes of magic.
Requip.
Titania.
He said none of it.
“Then we learn carefully.”
“Carefully does not mean slowly forever.”
Alastor grinned.
“There she is.”
Zestial nodded.
“No.
It doesn’t.”
Makarov watched from the bar with quiet eyes.
Later, when the guild had settled, he called Alastor and Zestial into his office.
Alastor arrived with the Wildguard still strapped to his arm.
Zestial carried the loose sketches he had made on scraps of old paper.
Some showed weapon stances.
Others showed repair plans, material tests, or possible improvements to the brace.
Scout followed them inside and shut the door.
Makarov sat behind his desk.
For once, no paperwork waited in front of him.
Instead, two small notebooks rested side by side.
They had plain covers.
Cheap paper.
Nothing decorative.
Useful things rarely needed to announce themselves.
Makarov pushed the first notebook toward Alastor.
“Write down every form you attempt.
What triggers it.
What hurts.
What helps.
What changes more easily and what you cannot control.”
Alastor picked up the notebook with suspicion.
“Is this homework?”
“Yes.”
“Boring.”
“You may also write down questions.”
“Can one of the questions be why you assigned homework?”
“If you feel it will help.”
Alastor opened the cover.
Every page was empty.
The blankness did not feel like an order.
It did not tell him what he was supposed to become.
It waited for him to choose.
Makarov pushed the second notebook toward Zestial.
“Weapons, armor, tools, materials, repairs, and the cost of using your magic.
Write down what succeeds.”
Zestial accepted it carefully.
“And what fails?”
“Especially what fails.”
Scout placed both paws on the edge of the desk and nodded.
Zestial opened his notebook.
He imagined the designs that might fill it.
Weapons suited to different situations.
Armor selected for purpose instead of appearance.
Repairs that held.
Repairs that did not.
A better Wildguard.
Equipment for Erza.
Tools for Scout.
He ran one thumb along the edge of the pages.
“May we keep them private?” he asked.
“No one reads them unless you give permission.”
Alastor looked up.
“Not even you?”
“Not even me.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Alastor looked down at his notebook again.
A private place.
A door that opened only from his side.
Beside him, Zestial held his own book against his chest.
“Thank you,” he said.
Alastor turned his notebook over in his hands.
Then he glanced at his brother.
Zestial glanced back.
Two plain covers.
Two sets of empty pages.
Two places where the next choice belonged to them.
Alastor grinned.
Zestial smiled.
Together, they carried their notebooks out of Makarov’s office.