Enter! Rex Gardner!

In the vast realm of Earthland, the eastern continent of Ishgar stretches before us, an expansive peninsula teeming with a multitude of both formidable nations and charming smaller realms.

In a land far far away lies the kingdom of Fiore. A small peaceful nation of 17 million and a place filled with magic. Found in every home, bought and sold in every marketplace, for most magic is merely a tool, a mundane part of everyday life. For some however magic is an art, and they've devoted their lives to its practice.

These are the wizards; banded together into magical guilds, they polish their skills in search of fame and fortune. Many such guilds dot the landscape of Fiore. But, there is a certain guild in a certain town that soars high above the rest. One which countless legends have been born. A guild that will no doubt continue to create legends well into the future. Its name is Fairy Tail. 

This guild, which cherished matters of the heart above all else, possesses a rich and enduring story that has already been shared. Therefore, this tale will direct its attention toward something else. An aspect that might typically be dismissed as 'ordinary.' However, even in the seemingly mundane, there lies a profound intrigue, for within the standard, one can uncover the elements of a truly thrilling narrative.

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In the peaceful countryside of Fiore, numerous charming villages nestled amidst the green landscape. Each of these hamlets housed simple, modest rural communities. Not far from the picturesque village of Rosemary lay a larger, equally lush town known as Hobbiton.

The tranquil inhabitants of Hobbiton resided in dwellings known as smials or Hobbit Holes. Resembling burrows or cozy bungalows seamlessly nestled within the earth's embrace. Centuries ago, this village was home to a gentle race called Hobbits or Halflings, who, sadly, became extinct. Or at least, they were believed to be extinct, for no one had glimpsed a Hobbit since the age of dragons.

As time passed, much like the dragons before them, those who had knowledge of the Hobbits considered them to be mere myths. However, for the humans who settled in Hobbiton, the Hobbits were more than just legends; they were revered. Year after year, the settlers offered prayers to the memory of the Hobbits, as a gesture of gratitude for inhabiting their unique homes.

At the end of the village road, known as Bagshot Row, stood the smial called Bag End. It was a quaint structure with a circular green door, adorned with a round brass knocker. Bag End contained countless rooms with circular windows and a well-tended garden. Atop the hill-like structure, an ancient evergreen tree had loomed for generations.

Since the arrival of human settlers in Hobbiton, the village chief had been chosen to reside in this particular smial. This cherished tradition has endured through generations, remaining in place to this very day.

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The present chief, Gamgee Hardwick, had become a figure of profound pathos. He had overseen his village for years, occupying the esteemed role of chief. Once a youth with dreams ablaze and aspirations soaring high, he now stood as a mere shadow of his former self.

In this countryside, where the enchantment of magic was an elusive rarity, he was among the few who had managed to unlock its secrets, possessing an innate magical gift. Departing his village at the tender age of thirteen, he embarked on a journey of exploration, seeking to etch his name in the annals of history.

To make a livelihood, he ventured forth to join a guild, officially inducting himself as a wizard of Ishgar. For thirteen years, he honed his craft within the guild, and there, fate would introduce him to the love of his life. A fellow adventurer, she was a gentle and delicate soul, her magic intertwined with the essence of plants.

Their love story took an expected turn, as they decided to retire from their perilous lives, wed, and return to their roots in Hobbiton. Upon their arrival, Gamgee brought not only a spouse but also a wealth of riches, wisdom, and countless stories to share with his people.

Proud of the man his son had evolved into, Gamgee's father made a heartfelt choice, appointing him as the new chief. Unanimously, the villagers embraced this decision.

Life appeared promising for the younger Gamgee. He had earned not only his father's respect but also the genuine affection of his community. He was blessed with a beautiful wife and the anticipation of becoming a father.

However, as if by a recurring motif, the hands of fate, manipulated by forces beyond their comprehension, cast their grim shadow. Tragedy struck as his wife perished while giving birth, and, unlike some more fortunate souls, his child, his son, did not survive.

In the wake of these heart-wrenching losses, his father succumbed to the weight of grief, passing shortly after their funerals.

And there stood Gamgee, alone.

The villagers, while well-intentioned, were not family.

Many implored him to relinquish his role as chief, to retire and seek solace in peaceful obscurity.

But he refused.

He may have been an errant son, who once abandoned his home to chase adventure, failing even to return before his mother's passing. He might have been a fragile husband and a sorrowful father, unable to shield his wife and child from calamity.

But he would not be an inept chief. He would not tarnish the memory of a father who had never harbored resentment, even after his flight from home.

For years, he labored and toiled tirelessly as the chief. He earned the respect of neighboring villages, and instead of succumbing to the snares of depression and alcohol, he persisted in his training, continually refining his body and honing his magical skills. Even as his magical energy waned, his strength and wisdom grew.

Outwardly, he presented the very embodiment of vitality and power, embodying the ideal image of a chief.

Yet, within, a profound weariness loomed, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of solitude. At the age of 70, his childhood friends had long departed this world, returning to the embrace of the earth. Although the village remained, its people were different.

In an effort to fill the void, he tried to adopt the role of a doting grandfather, caring for the village's children as if they were his own. But their faces only served as painful reminders of his dearly departed comrades.

He had taken to secluding himself within his house, emerging only when decisions for the village needed to be made or for a bare modicum of exercise. 

His sole source of solace was found in the pages of a handful of magical books kept within the village.

The once-fiery motivation to honor his father's legacy and be a remarkable chief had steadily dimmed, flickering like a dying ember. Soon, it seemed as though there would be nothing left in his soul but ashes. How could passion persist when there was no one left for whom to live?

Little did he realize that on this fateful day, in the Earthland year X766, a change would arrive in his life, and perhaps, just perhaps, the horizon would begin to brighten once more.

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Gamgee Hardwick POV

The relentless rain pounded on my windows, a persistent reminder of the somber day outside. I sat in my study, where the faint glow of a single candle cast eerie shadows upon the ancient tome I was immersed in. Its pages held the secrets of transformation magic, a comforting refuge on days like this. My bony fingers traced the well-worn text, each word an anchor to a world beyond my own.

Excerpt from "Secrets of Transformation Magic":

"In the arcane realm of transformation magic, the boundaries of reality are stretched to their limits, and the possibilities are as boundless as the imagination itself. This enigmatic branch of magic delves into the very essence of existence, allowing practitioners to shape and reshape the world around them.

At its core, transformation magic hinges on the intricate interplay of two fundamental forces: the power of one's own inner energy, and the ever-present, intangible Ethernano that saturates our world. The art of transformation begins by establishing a profound connection between these two forces, melding them into a harmonious union.

This connection is the foundation upon which all transformations are built. By channeling their inner energy and harnessing the Ethernano, practitioners of this elusive art can weave intricate spells that alter the fabric of reality itself. Through their will and intent, they can change the form of objects, creatures, or even themselves, transcending the limitations of the physical world.

Mastery of transformation magic lies not only in the skillful manipulation of these energies but also in the creative ingenuity of the caster. The art of transformation is a canvas upon which the caster paints their desires, using their inner energy as the brush and the Ethernano as the vibrant palette. Whether it be turning stone into water, a beast into a companion, or mundane objects into extraordinary creations, transformation magic is a testament to the boundless potential of the human spirit.

However, as with any powerful magic, the journey of transformation is not without its risks and challenges. The caster must maintain a delicate balance between their inner energy and the world's Ethernano, lest their creation be fleeting or uncontrollable. In their quest to transcend the boundaries of reality, practitioners often face ethical dilemmas, moral choices, and a profound responsibility for the consequences of their actions.

The secrets of transformation magic are written in the stars, waiting for those with the courage to reach out and grasp them. But as one delves deeper into the mysteries of this arcane art, one may discover that transformation goes beyond the mere manipulation of form—it is a reflection of the transformations that occur within the self, a journey of self-discovery and understanding of one's place in the grand tapestry of existence."

Once again, the enigmatic depths of something as seemingly straightforward as transformation magic eluded my comprehension. A heavy and burdensome sigh escaped my lips as I gently closed the text, setting it down to my right on the wooden coffee table.

The isolation in my home weighed heavily upon me, the solitude that had become my closest companion. As the rain intensified, a palpable loneliness crept in. I couldn't help but drift into contemplation of my life. I saw my past as a series of missteps, a litany of failures. The thought of relinquishing my role as chief began to germinate in my mind. Maybe it was time for a peaceful retirement, I thought, as I glanced at the flickering candle, its flame an echo of my dwindling spirit.

In the quiet of my home, I couldn't help but consider my own mortality. The belief that my days were numbered had become a constant companion. I understood the intricacies of magic; I knew that it thrived on the harmonious synchronization of one's inner energy with the Ethernano of the world. And within me, I felt a disarray, a chaotic turbulence that heralded the end of my journey.

As I pondered the years that lay ahead, I envisioned a journey—a farewell tour of sorts. A return to my old friends in the magical guild, Fairy Tail, and a reunion with my family in the afterlife. It was a painful but necessary decision, and my heart began to steady itself as I contemplated it. Perhaps it was time to lay down the burdens of my past and embrace what the future held.

And then, a resounding knock shattered the silence. I was pulled from my contemplations, perplexed by the intrusion. Who would come at this hour, amidst the raging storm? I knew it had to be something of great importance for someone to seek me out in such wretched weather. Without hesitation, I granted entry, calling out, "It's unlocked!"

Yet, as moments stretched into minutes, a growing unease crept over me. No one entered, and the silence hung heavy in the air. Annoyance coursed through me at the thought of a cruel prank, but I knew my villagers were not capable of such unkindness. I considered the wind, perhaps a trick of the tempest. I turned to close the door, but a sudden halt gripped me.

At my very doorstep, nestled amidst the rain-slicked stones, lay a newborn infant. My heart constricted with shock and concern. Without a second thought, I scooped the fragile child into my arms, anger coursing through me at the unknown soul who had left an innocent babe exposed to the fury of the storm. I carried the child into my room, where I gently placed him on the bed.

I rushed to the bathroom, snatching up a towel to dry the baby off, but as I unswathed him, I was met with an astonishing sight. The infant, as well as his clothes, remained untouched by the tempest's wrath. They were pristine and dry, as if shielded by an invisible barrier. I was left in awe of this inexplicable miracle, but I knew that mysteries like these were beyond human comprehension.

I took a closer look at the child, checking for any signs of distress. Other than his natural thinness, he appeared perfectly healthy and unharmed. Tied around his neck, a small silver pendant captured my attention. Its inscription read 'Rex Gardner.' My mind whirled with questions, pondering the circumstances that had brought this child to my door.

My thoughts drifted back to my past, to the son I had failed to protect, to the wife I had lost. I couldn't help but see the ghost of my own child in the innocent eyes of this newborn. It was as if fate had granted me a second chance—a chance to be a father, to make amends for my past mistakes. It didn't matter that I wasn't a religious man; it felt as though the heavens themselves had delivered this child into my arms.

With resolve burning in my heart, I wrapped the baby in my coat, ensuring his safety and warmth. I drew upon my magical abilities, casting a nameless spell that conjured a small, protective blue dome around us, shielding us from the relentless downpour. With Rex cradled against my chest, I dashed into the storm, my footsteps marked by newfound purpose.

At that moment, as the rain poured around us, I vowed to raise this child as my own. I was given a second chance, a glimmer of hope in the storm of my life. I would protect him, guide him, and love him, for he was the embodiment of a promise—a promise to make amends and to find meaning in a world that had once seemed so gray.

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On the day I found Rex at my doorstep, confusion and concern welled up within me. The miraculous appearance of a newborn infant was a mystery that demanded answers. I gathered the villagers, their faces etched with bewilderment, as I inquired, "Did anyone happen to see someone carrying a child to my home?" 

The quiet village square was filled with hushed murmurs and exchanged glances, but no one stepped forward with a response. The puzzled faces of the villagers mirrored my own, their collective silence a testament to the inexplicable nature of the situation. It was as though the baby had simply materialized out of thin air.

I pressed further, hoping for any small clue that might shed light on the mystery. "Are you certain no one saw anything unusual or out of the ordinary?" I implored, my eyes searching the crowd. But the villagers' shaking heads and bewildered expressions conveyed a shared truth—they had witnessed nothing, and the origins of the child remained shrouded in mystery.

In the wake of Rex's arrival in my life, I embarked on an uncharted journey as a grandfather. The role of a caregiver, nurturer, and protector was a mantle I had never worn before. It was a transformation of its own kind, something that breathed new life into the worn-out chapters of my existence.

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From the very beginning, Rex displayed a quality that set him apart from other children—his remarkable silence. Unlike the typical wailing and crying of infants, Rex communicated his needs with an almost adult-like expressiveness. He would furrow his tiny brow in annoyance or discomfort when he was hungry, tired, or in need of a diaper change. The villagers around us couldn't help but shower me with compliments on my well-behaved grandchild, some expressing outright envy, wishing their children could be as composed and well-mannered. But for me, it was a constant source of concern.

I didn't want Rex to be an exceptional child; I simply wished for him to be a normal one. The journey to greatness often came with sacrifices and burdens that could weigh heavily on a young soul. I knew that true happiness was often found in the simple pleasures of an ordinary life.

As the weeks turned into months, Rex's development continued to defy expectations. At the tender age of five months, he was already deftly crawling across the room, exploring every nook and cranny with unbridled curiosity. By seven months, he could stand unaided, his eyes alight with the thrill of newfound independence. And, at ten months, he took his first wobbly steps, a determined expression on his cherubic face.

As the days stretched on, Rex's mastery over language grew. He began to speak words and phrases, his babbling evolving into attempts at meaningful conversation. By his third year, he had exhibited a precocious interest in reading and writing. His innate curiosity led him to explore the pages of my dusty old magical texts, his eager eyes scanning their contents as if searching for the secrets of the universe.

Rex's fourth birthday approached, and I was determined to give him a surprise that would reflect his boundless love for magic. The spark of enchantment that ignited within him every time I demonstrated a spell was a testament to his affinity for the arcane arts. It was a rare gift, one that needed to be nurtured.

I left Rex in the care of a trusted babysitter, knowing that our village, Hobbiton, was not a place of abundance. Yet, as an ex-wizard who had explored the wider world, I had access to modest resources. I journeyed to a nearby bazaar, a bustling town a few hours away, where I purchased a twig from an elder wood tree, known for its natural connection to magic, and a sparkling magical orb that seemed to hold the secrets of the cosmos.

During the carriage ride back, as the wheels creaked and the rain pelted the roof, I set to work crafting a wand for Rex. The wood was smooth and sturdy in my hands, and I carved intricate patterns onto its surface. I knew that this wand would serve as a symbol of his potential, a testament to the magic that flowed within him. It was a gift that spoke of my faith in his abilities and a promise of the journey that lay ahead.

My health had improved significantly since Rex's arrival in my life, but the world of Earthland remained a perilous place. The memory of my past, of the losses I had endured, never truly faded. It gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, a relentless reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. I couldn't afford to grow complacent; I had a responsibility to protect and prepare Rex for the challenges that lay ahead.

As I returned to the village in time for Rex's fourth birthday dinner party, I anticipated the joyous reunion with my grandson, a moment of shared laughter and celebration. But instead, I was met with a gathering of worried faces and frantic voices. They rushed toward me, the urgency in their words washing over me like a tidal wave. They explained that Rex had suddenly taken ill, his tiny body burning with fever, his skin aglow with an otherworldly radiance.

Without a second thought, I disregarded their explanations, my heart pounding in my chest. I raced to the village clinic, the rhythm of my footsteps echoing my growing anxiety. As I pushed through the door, I saw the village apothecary, a seasoned healer, frantically attempting to understand the inexplicable.

My breath caught in my throat, and my eyes widened in disbelief as I laid eyes upon Rex. He lay on a small cot, his little body illuminated by an ethereal, radiant light. The energy emanating from him was palpable, like an aura that surrounded him in shimmering waves of brilliant magic. A force of pure, raw energy seemed to have awakened within him, and as I stood there, gazing upon my beloved grandson, I realized that something extraordinary and potentially perilous had begun.