The nickname survived breakfast.
Alastor had hoped it would die in the night.
It didn’t.
Wakaba called him Chicken Ghost before the stew was even warm.
Macao made a clucking sound behind his mug.
Gray looked far too proud of himself for someone wearing two different shoes.
Alastor pointed his spoon at him.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
Gray grinned.
“You sneezed flour.”
“I saved a child from getting run over by a wagon.”
“You sneezed flour after saving a child.”
Cana didn’t look up from her cards.
“Details matter.”
Erza sat beside her with a cup of tea, quiet but listening.
Her mouth twitched when Gray made another clucking sound.
Alastor stared at her.
“You too?”
Erza took a sip.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
Zestial sat across from him with Scout in his lap, checking the little supply box from yesterday’s market trip.
Scout gave a soft, smug mrrp.
Alastor narrowed his eyes.
“Scout also thought it loudly.”
Zestial closed the box.
“Scout thinks the name has tactical value.”
“Of course.
My humiliation is now part of guild strategy.”
Gray leaned forward.
“Can you turn into the chicken thing again?”
“Kulu-Ya-Ku is not a chicken.”
“It had feathers.”
“So do birds of prey.”
“Were you a bird of prey?”
Alastor opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Gray smiled wider.
Alastor lowered the spoon.
“I don’t like how quickly you’re learning.”
Makarov climbed onto the bench near the bar with a stack of papers under one arm.
“Good.
You’re all awake.”
Gray looked down at his half-empty bowl.
“Mostly.”
“Training yard after breakfast.”
Alastor perked up.
“Magic?”
“Yes.”
Gray perked up too.
Makarov looked at both of them.
“Controlled magic.”
Both boys deflated.
Cana shuffled her cards.
“There it is.”
Makarov continued, “Yesterday proved something useful.
You can act under pressure without starting a disaster.”
Alastor smiled.
“Don’t look so pleased,” Makarov said.
“It also proved you’re all very good at almost starting one.”
Alastor’s smile faded.
Zestial nodded.
“That’s true.”
Gray frowned.
“I saved the kid.”
“You did,” Makarov said.
“And then nearly started a flour fight.”
Gray looked at Alastor.
Alastor looked away.
Cana lifted one card.
“I saw both of you.”
Makarov pointed toward the back door.
“Eat.
Then yard.”
The yard had been marked before they arrived.
Three chalk circles.
Two wooden posts.
A rope line.
A barrel of water.
Makarov had also placed a folded cloth on a crate.
Red strips had been cut from it and tied into small ribbons.
Alastor stared at them.
“What are those?”
“Targets.”
“Why are they cute?”
“They’re ribbons.”
“Exactly.”
Makarov tied one ribbon around Alastor’s upper arm, one around Gray’s, and one around Zestial’s wrist.
“The goal is to take the opponent’s ribbon.
No strikes to the head.
No heavy impacts.
No large transformations.
No sharp weapons.
No ice spears.
No explosives.
No property damage.”
Gray raised a hand.
Makarov didn’t look at him.
“No.”
Gray lowered his hand.
Alastor leaned toward him.
“He didn’t even know what you were asking.”
“He knew.”
“He always knows.”
Scout sat on the fence beside Cana and gave a firm meow.
Zestial translated, “Scout says supervision is adequate.”
Makarov gave Scout a small nod.
“Thank you.”
Alastor looked between them.
“Scout has become management.”
Cana smiled.
“Scout’s more organized than most of us.”
Scout puffed up.
Erza stood near the porch with a wooden sword in hand.
She still wasn’t allowed to spar.
Porlyusica had come by that morning, checked her eye, and said the words, “Light work only,” in a tone that could cut stone.
Erza had accepted it.
Barely.
Makarov pointed to the first circle.
“Gray and Alastor.”
Gray rolled his shoulders.
Alastor grinned.
Zestial immediately said, “Don’t grin like that.”
“I have a handsome grin.”
“You have an about-to-do-something-stupid grin.”
“Gray likes it.”
Gray frowned.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You felt it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Makarov clapped his hands once.
“Begin.”
Gray moved first.
“Ice-Make: Shield!”
A flat wall of ice snapped up between them.
Alastor almost laughed.
Then Gray came around the side low and fast, reaching for the ribbon.
Alastor jumped back.
Great Jaggi legs.
Quick.
Simple.
His calves shifted, toes digging into the dirt.
He pushed sideways and cleared Gray’s reach.
Gray skidded, turned, and grinned.
“You’re fast.”
“You’re obvious.”
Gray’s grin sharpened.
“Ice-Make: Floor!”
Ice spread under Alastor’s feet.
He slipped.
Hard.
The whole yard heard the thud.
Cana winced.
Zestial covered his eyes.
Scout gave a low mrrp that sounded very judgmental.
Alastor lay on his back, staring up at the sky.
Gray leaned over him and plucked the ribbon off his arm.
“Obvious, huh?”
Alastor closed his eyes.
“I walked into that.”
“Yes,” Erza said from the porch.
Alastor opened one eye.
She looked completely serious.
That made it worse.
Makarov helped him sit up.
“Again.”
Alastor rubbed his back.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
Gray tossed the ribbon back.
Alastor tied it on again.
This time, he watched Gray’s feet.
Gray liked direct tricks.
He made something obvious, then used the reaction.
Ice wall, floor trap.
Simple.
Smart enough to be annoying.
Makarov started them again.
Gray raised one hand.
“Ice-Make—”
Alastor didn’t wait.
Not a big form.
Not Tigrex.
Not Rathalos.
Too much.
He picked Nargacuga eyes.
Only for a breath.
The world sharpened.
Gray’s shoulder shifted before the spell formed.
Left.
Alastor moved right.
“Ice-Make: Shield!”
The ice wall appeared where Alastor would’ve been.
Alastor dropped low, shifted one arm into Kulu-Ya-Ku grip, and caught the edge of Gray’s sleeve without clawing skin.
Gray twisted.
Gray grinned.
“Ice-Make: Hammer!”
A tiny ice hammer bonked Alastor’s wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough.
Alastor’s hand jerked back.
Gray grabbed his ribbon again.
Alastor stared at his empty arm.
Then at Gray.
“Twice?”
Gray held up the ribbon.
“Twice.”
Alastor breathed in.
For half a second, the bigger doors in his magic stirred.
Tigrex wanted to roar.
Zinogre wanted to crackle.
Rajang wanted to solve the problem with unreasonable force.
He almost reached back.
Then Erza’s voice cut in.
“You leaned forward again.”
Alastor froze.
The magic settled.
He looked over.
Erza stood with the wooden sword lowered, watching his stance.
“You rushed when he annoyed you.”
Gray blinked.
“Did I annoy him?”
“Yes,” Erza said.
“That was the point.”
Cana laughed.
Alastor looked at Gray’s smug face.
Then at Erza.
Then at Makarov.
“Again.”
Makarov smiled faintly.
“Good.”
The third round was slower.
Alastor didn’t win.
But Gray didn’t take the ribbon in the first ten seconds either.
That felt like progress.
He waited.
Watched.
Kept his weight under him.
Used Great Jaggi legs for movement, Kulu grip for control, and Nargacuga eyes only in short flashes.
Gray still got the ribbon.
But Alastor almost got his too.
Almost counted for nothing in a fight.
It counted plenty in training.
Gray stepped back, breathing harder now.
“You’re getting better.”
Alastor rubbed his shoulder.
“You’re annoying.”
Gray grinned.
“That means I’m winning.”
“It means you’re annoying.”
“Still winning.”
Alastor looked at Makarov.
“Can I tackle him once?”
“No.”
“Respectfully?”
“No.”
“Worth asking.”
Zestial’s turn came next.
Gray stayed in the circle, still smug.
Zestial walked in calmly.
Too calmly.
Alastor knew that walk.
That was Zestial trying to be careful and annoyed at the same time.
Makarov noticed too.
“No real blades.”
Zestial nodded.
Blue-white magic formed around his hand.
A wooden training sword appeared.
Then a small shield.
Gray squinted.
“Same as last time?”
“Different situation.”
“Looks the same.”
Zestial stepped into stance.
“Then watch better.”
Cana snorted.
Gray’s eyes narrowed.
Makarov started them.
Gray opened with ice underfoot this time.
Zestial didn’t dodge backward.
He stepped forward.
Shield down.
Weight centered.
The ice caught the shield’s edge instead of his foot.
He used it like a brace, slid half a step, and thrust the wooden sword toward Gray’s ribbon.
Gray jerked back.
“Whoa.”
Zestial followed.
Short steps.
Controlled.
No wasted motion.
For five seconds, he looked exactly like what his magic said he could become.
Then his foot lagged behind his intent.
His knee turned wrong.
His balance slipped.
Gray noticed immediately.
“Ice-Make: Wall!”
The wall rose between them.
Zestial tried to pivot around it.
Too fast.
His child body didn’t keep up.
He stumbled.
Gray grabbed the ribbon.
“Got it.”
Zestial caught himself on the shield.
His face tightened.
Alastor stepped forward.
Zestial shook his head once.
Don’t.
Alastor stopped.
Makarov walked into the circle.
“What happened?”
Zestial looked at the ground.
“I knew the movement.”
“And?”
“My body didn’t.”
Makarov nodded.
“That’s the lesson.”
Zestial’s grip tightened around the shield.
“It’s frustrating.”
“It should be.”
Zestial looked up.
Makarov’s voice stayed gentle.
“Knowledge can guide the body.
It can’t replace practice.”
Zestial swallowed.
“I know.”
“Again.”
Zestial reset.
This time, he picked Lance.
Not because it looked impressive.
Because it let him hold a line without needing quick footwork.
A wooden lance and shield formed.
Gray looked at it.
“That’s bigger.”
“It’s simpler for this.”
Gray frowned.
“That feels backwards.”
Zestial settled behind the shield.
“It isn’t.”
Makarov started them.
Gray tried the floor again.
Zestial planted the shield and held.
Gray tried to circle.
The lance blocked him.
Gray made a small hammer.
Zestial took the tap on the shield and shifted the lance just enough to keep Gray back.
No chase.
No fancy motion.
No overreach.
Gray got impatient first.
He darted in.
Zestial tilted the shield, stepped once, and hooked Gray’s ribbon with the blunt side of the lance.
It came loose.
Gray stared at his arm.
Cana clapped once.
“Nice.”
Scout gave a proud trill.
Alastor grinned.
“Captain wins.”
Zestial let the weapons dissolve before his arms started shaking too obviously.
Gray frowned, then shrugged.
“Okay.
That was good.”
Zestial blinked.
Gray looked away.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Cana called, “That’s my line.”
Erza watched Zestial with a thoughtful expression.
“You changed weapons because your body couldn’t do the first plan.”
Zestial nodded.
“Yes.”
“That’s smart.”
“It’s necessary.”
Erza looked at her wooden sword.
“I need more than one answer.”
Makarov looked at her.
“You will have them.”
Her fingers tightened around the hilt.
“When?”
“When one answer doesn’t hurt you to practice.”
She didn’t like it.
But she nodded.
After training, Porlyusica arrived.
Nobody had sent for her.
Everyone accepted that this was how she worked.
She checked Alastor first, pressing two fingers against his wrist and then his shoulder.
“You’re less stupid today.”
“Thank you?”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“It felt almost like praise.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I’ll take it anyway.”
She checked Zestial next.
“Your hands are strained.”
Zestial looked down.
“From the lance?”
“From everything.
You grip like you expect the tool to be taken from you.”
Zestial went still.
Alastor’s smile faded.
Porlyusica didn’t soften her voice, but she didn’t look away either.
“These hands have old habits.”
Zestial stared at his palms.
Small scars.
Calluses.
Thin lines from work he remembered and didn’t remember.
Tower hands.
His hands.
Both.
Porlyusica wrapped his fingers with practiced efficiency.
“Magic tools won’t erase that.
Practice might teach you better ones.”
Zestial nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
Alastor watched his brother’s hands.
Then his own.
Porlyusica turned to him.
“And you.”
“I was just checked.”
“Your face changed.”
Alastor blinked.
“What?”
“You heard what I said and made the same expression.”
He looked away.
Porlyusica snorted.
“Children.
Always thinking wounds are original.”
Cana muttered, “That’s harsh.”
Makarov quietly said, “But not wrong.”
Porlyusica looked at Alastor’s hands.
“You curl your fingers before danger.
Like claws, even without magic.”
Alastor forced them open.
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the magic?”
“Maybe.
Maybe before the magic.
Maybe fear.
Maybe habit.” She stepped back.
“Does it matter?”
Alastor opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Porlyusica picked up her bag.
“It matters if knowing changes what you do next.
Otherwise it’s just another way to stare at yourself.”
Then she left.
Gray watched the door close.
“I never know if she helped or made it worse.”
Cana said, “Both.”
Alastor looked at Zestial.
Zestial looked back.
Both, then.
That kept coming up.
Later, they ended up in the storage room again.
Not working.
Just sitting.
The repaired shelves held.
The nail box sat beside Scout.
The little Palico was asleep on a folded rag with one paw over the supply box.
Alastor sat on the floor with his back against a crate.
Zestial sat beside him, wrapped fingers resting on his knees.
For once, the silence wasn’t bad.
Alastor broke it anyway.
“You weren’t a craftsman before.”
Zestial looked at him.
“Not really.”
“You were good at planning.”
“Yes.”
“Games.
Builds.
Strategy.
Figuring stuff out.”
Zestial nodded.
“I fixed small things sometimes.
But not like this.”
He looked at his bandaged fingers.
“This body had tool habits.
Tower habits.
Then the magic gave me weapon knowledge.
Monster Hunter gave me the rest.”
Alastor leaned his head back.
“That’s a lot of ingredients.”
“Still calling it identity soup?”
“Privately.”
Zestial huffed.
Alastor flexed his hands.
“I wasn’t this quick to snap before.”
“No.”
“Was I mellow?”
Zestial looked amused.
“Mellow might be generous.”
“Rude.”
“You were playful.
Protective.
Sarcastic.
You liked pushing buttons, but you didn’t look for a fight in every doorway.”
Alastor looked toward the storage room door.
“Now I do.”
“Sometimes.”
“Most times.”
“More than before.”
Alastor nodded.
For a while, he didn’t speak.
Then he said, “I think part of that’s him.”
“The Tower kid?”
“Yeah.
I think he was already angry.”
Zestial’s voice softened.
“Probably.”
“And scared.”
“Definitely.”
“And I think I gave him more ways to be loud about it.”
Zestial didn’t argue.
Alastor let out a slow breath.
“So what am I supposed to do with that?”
“Same thing I do with the hands.”
Alastor looked at him.
Zestial lifted his wrapped fingers.
“Learn which habits help.
Train the ones that don’t.”
Alastor stared.
Then smiled faintly.
“Simple.”
“Not easy.”
“No.
But simple.”
The door creaked open.
Erza stood there.
Neither brother knew how long she’d been outside.
She looked at Zestial’s bandaged fingers, then at Alastor’s hands.
“I remember my village,” Erza said quietly.
Alastor and Zestial both looked at her.
Her hand rested over the wooden sword in her lap.
“I remember streets.
Houses.
People’s voices.
I remember being smaller and thinking the world was bigger than it was.”
She looked down.
“But I don’t remember how to be that girl anymore.”
Zestial sat straighter.
Erza’s gaze dropped to her wooden practice sword.
“I remember being afraid.
I remember deciding not to be.
But sometimes I don’t know if that means I’m strong or just… different.”
Alastor leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Maybe different can become strong.”
Erza looked at him.
He shrugged.
“I’m hoping so.”
She considered that.
Then stepped inside and sat across from them.
Scout opened one eye, gave a sleepy mrrp, and went back to sleep.
Erza looked at the Palico.
“Scout agrees?”
Zestial glanced down.
“Scout’s asleep.”
Alastor whispered, “Scout agrees in spirit.”
Erza’s mouth twitched.
Then she looked at her practice sword.
“Makarov says I’ll have more than one answer.”
“You will,” Zestial said.
“How do you know?”
He was careful.
“Because you’re already looking for them.”
Erza held that answer quietly.
Outside, the guildhall rumbled with laughter.
Someone shouted Gray’s name.
Gray shouted back that it wasn’t his fault, which convinced no one.
Erza looked toward the noise.
Then back at the brothers.
“I don’t want the Tower to be the only reason I’m strong.”
Alastor’s chest tightened.
Zestial’s wrapped fingers curled.
Alastor spoke before the silence got too heavy.
“Then we’ll find other reasons.”
Erza looked at him.
“Together?”
Zestial nodded.
“Together.”
Erza held the word like she was testing its weight.
Then she nodded back.
“Okay.”