Chapter 4: Frida Mertens

Lars had done it! He had finally arrived at Kikka, not the Royal Capital like he earlier thought (that was an authorial mistake on my part. That's my bad guys), albeit still quite early due to his adrenaline rush. Now that had worn off, and he staggered up the steps to the middle of the city. It was bustling with life, people's cheerful faces surrounding him.

In contrast, a dishevelled Lars trudged through the crowd, looking like a reanimated, undead figure. A mother hurriedly led her curious child out of the path of Lars by the hand, saying, "No Sammy, he is not your friend!" Lars, oblivious to this, trudged on.

A voice called out to him, cold, almost sneering. "Dear younger brother! Looking as pathetic as always."

Lars clenched his fist. He muttered, avoiding eye contact, a forced greeting to the Vice Captain of the Silver Eagles.

"Hello…Frida."

Frida Mertens was about the same height as Lars. Her long brown hair was tousling slightly in the breeze, much like her brothers, with her purple highlights standing out: a design choice as a tribute to her Amethyst Magic. Her piercing blue eyes were observing her surroundings with quiet intelligence, constantly focused but never harsh. Her clothing, though finely made and practical, was understated, much like Lars'—a deep navy cloak with silver accents, clasped with a subtle family crest. She wore the signature robes of the Silver Eagles. Even in motion, there was a quiet grace about her, a natural ease that came from years of noble upbringing, yet with the arrogance so often seen in those of her status.

Frida approached Lars with that arrogance, each step deliberate, like she owned the ground beneath her feet. As she stood before him, she tilted her head down, casting a disdainful glance, her eyes narrowing as if Lars was nothing more than an annoyance beneath her. They locked eyes for a long, tense moment, neither one willing to back down. It was Lars who broke the silence.

"What brings you here, dear sister?" Lars asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I would have thought the almighty Vice Captain of the Silver Eagles had far more important things to do than check on her brother's progress." He sneered, crossing his arms.

Frida's lips curled into a twisted smile, her eyes flashing with a cruel gleam. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low whisper, but filled with venom. "I'm here for the same reason I always am, little brother." Her words slithered into his ear, sending a chill down his spine. "To watch you roll around like a pig in your own failure."

Lars' heart clenched for a moment, the sting of her words sinking deep. His mind flashed to the stares of everyone around him, the weight of their expectations pressing down on his shoulders like an unbearable burden. But then, a thought flickered—why was he letting her get to him? What was he afraid of?

He stood up straighter, brushing off the sinking feeling. "Pressure is equal to force divided by area, Frida," he said, voice steady and calm as he began to walk away. "You can't force me to fall. Not this time."

But before he could get far, Frida's voice rang out like a crack of thunder. "Crystal Magic: Wall of Jericho!"

A towering wall of gleaming amethyst erupted before Lars, blocking his path. The sunset caught the crystal's surface, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Before he could react, Frida grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him back, pulling his head to face her.

"You think you can talk to me like that, you rat?" she hissed, her face contorted with fury. Her grip tightened. "I own you. You're nothing. You don't even deserve the privilege of me watching this pathetic excuse for an exam." Her voice lowered to a mocking whisper, her breath hot against his ear. "But I showed up anyway, just so I could watch you fail. Again. So be grateful."

She released him with a shove, but her tirade was far from over. "You didn't even deserve to be born," she spat, her voice sharp and cutting. "You disgrace the Mertens name every single day with your weakness. Just give up. Go home. Become a farmer or something worthless. I don't ever want to see you here again." With a dismissive flick of her wrist, she turned and strode away, her cloak billowing behind her as she left him standing there.

A few onlookers, shaken by the scene, rushed to Lars' side, offering their concern, but Lars waved them off with a weak smile. "Thank you," he muttered, barely able to summon the energy to care. Inside, he was seething, his sister's words leaving a deep, burning ache.

Later that day, Lars took to the forest, riding his broom toward solitude. He wasn't defeated, not by a long shot. His pain fueled him, strengthening his resolve. For the remaining hours of daylight, he trained relentlessly, pushing his body and mind to their limits, channelling the sting of Frida's insults into each spell, each movement.

That night, as he collapsed into bed, his grimoire sat on the nearby table. As Lars drifted into sleep, the magic tome began to glow faintly, its pages turning on their own. His negative emotions, the anguish and frustration, had coalesced into something new. Unseen by Lars, his grimoire etched itself a new spell, born from the pain Frida had inflicted, shaped by the determination he'd forged from it.

The next day

Lars woke up with one thought on his mind.

To win.

As he hurriedly shovelled his breakfast down his throat, that was all he thought about. Lars Mertens would not allow his humiliation to continue further.

As he rushed down the street, he saw the mage that he had defeated earlier, talking to another witch, who seemed to be dressed in a Magic Knight uniform. As Lars passed, they made eye contact, and she smiled and winked at him. He smiled back and headed towards the Magic Knights Colosseum.

"I should probably head there too, huh?" the witch lady smiled. "Comply with them, Amaryllis."

"Understood." the mage nodded, continuing her conversation with the Royal Guards stationed there.

"Hey Lars! How's it-" Asta started, upon spotting Lars at the gates of the entrance exam.

"Can it, Asta. I didn't mean that, but I need to be 100% focused or else my magic will not work to its fullest potential." Lars stated, walking past him.

Asta, seeming to understand, doubled back to talk to Yuno instead.

William Vangeance, the captain of the Golden Dawn, gave a speech. Lars was not listening. It was a speech he'd heard before. Right now, he was thinking up strategies.

Lars' completion of the various tasks given to him in the exam wasn't very notable.

He rode a broom. So what? He quite literally rode a turbo powered broom here.

Destroying walls? His attack spell made that a cinch.

Creating holographic images? Oh please, illusions were his specialty.

It was the battle portion he was mostly focused on. Candidate number 431, a noble named Terry Grieve, stepped forward to ask Lars to be his opponent. He had olive coloured hair, and a green grimoire appeared by his side.

Plant Magic? Lars thought. Interesting. "Sure, why not?" he replied, with a smile on his face.

"First battle of the Magic Knights Entrance Exam! Candidate 431 vs Candidate 52! Begin!"

Lars smiled.

Easy peasy.