Chapter 50: Birthday Revelations

A/N: We finally hit big number 50! Thanks to everyone who's shown even the slightest bit on interest on my story so far, you help is really appreciated.

In particular I wish to thank:

BethxAngel

Divide bye zero

LordOfEternalHunger

707

aphilegumede6

poemboy1998

uzukage101

for following and favouriting the story. Your support quiote literally inspired me to keep going when I felt like abandomning the story in the middle.

I promise, I'll work hard to make the next few arcs memprable - here's a roadmap of what I have planned:

Escort Arc (current arc, 2 chapters left)
-

Lord of the Hunt Arc (upcoming arc)

Royal Knights Selection Exam Arc

Elf Reincarnation Arc

The world was shrouded in pink mist, a dreamy haze that curled and stretched around Lars's feet as if alive. The ground beneath him was soft and undefined, offering no sound or sensation with each step. He moved cautiously through the ethereal expanse, his plain white robe swaying around his shins. Despite the eerie quiet, he felt no fear—only an inexplicable pull guiding him deeper into the mist.

Then, out of the fog, a voice rang out. It was melodic yet commanding, resonating directly within his mind.

"Lars Mertens," it intoned, echoing through the boundless expanse. "Do you seek the truth? Or do you fear it?"

Lars froze, gripping the edges of his robe as the mist swirled more intensely around him. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the surreal surroundings.

The fog parted slightly, revealing a shimmering silhouette. It was indistinct, constantly shifting and pulsating with light and shadow. Lars strained his eyes, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make out the figure's features. The only constant was the piercing glow of two eyes, neither kind nor cruel, but watchful—searing into his soul.

"I am Iskra," the voice said, reverberating like a melody composed of a thousand thoughts. "The Celestial of Intellect. And you, child of thought and will, stand in my realm."

"Iskra? As in, the celestial I set free?" Lars repeated, his confusion plain. "Why am I here?"

"Because you are marked," Iskra replied, her form flickering as if made of starlight and vapour. "A curse, hastily crafted, festers within you. A tether to a greater, darker force."

Lars's eyes narrowed. "The curse… you can see it?"

"Indeed," Iskra said, a note of disdain creeping into her tone. "Such a sloppy piece of work. This is no creation of true power—it is the work of a coward. Hasty, crude, and desperate. It bears no comparison to the work of one such as…" She hesitated, her voice faltering for the first time. "The one you mortals would call…-."

Lars tilted his head, frowning. "-? Who is that?"

A ripple ran through Iskra's form, her glow dimming briefly before intensifying again. "It seems even her name eludes your time. Perhaps that is for the best. But make no mistake - though I cannot speak her name, it is she who fears me, even after five centuries of silence."

Lars's confusion deepened, but before he could ask more, Iskra pressed on.

"The details matter not," she said. "What matters is the potential within you—the untapped power of your Mind Magic."

"My magic?" Lars's hand instinctively went to his chest. "You mean… you know what this curse is?"

"I do," she replied. "And more importantly, I know how to break it."

Lars blinked, stunned. "But… curses afflict the soul. That's what I've always been told. How can Mind Magic affect something as intangible as that?"

Iskra's luminous eyes burned brighter, as though amused by his question. "Is not the brain an extension of the soul? A means to do its bidding? If you purify the brain, you purify the soul. Thought shapes action, and action defines essence. To cleanse one is to cleanse the other."

Lars hesitated, the implications of her words settling in. "So… you're saying my magic can break curses?"

"It can," Iskra confirmed. "Mind Magic is the bridge between reality and the intangible. It is not limited to battle, nor even to understanding—it is a power of change. If you embrace its ultimate potential, you will possess the means to unbind yourself and others from the chains of curses."

Lars's breath caught. He couldn't deny the allure of what she was saying. The idea of breaking curses, of undoing harm that others thought irreversible—it was both exhilarating and daunting. "And… you'll help me?"

"Only if you are willing," Iskra said. "This power will not come easily. To wield it is to shoulder great responsibility. But you are no stranger to burden, are you, Lars Mertens?"

He straightened, meeting her glowing gaze despite the overwhelming energy emanating from her form. "If it means breaking this curse—and protecting the people I care about—then I'll do whatever it takes."

A pulse of energy radiated from Iskra, rippling through the mist and stirring the air around them. "Very well, young mage. Step forward, and let us begin. Together, we shall rewrite the rules of fate itself."

Lars took a deep breath and stepped closer, the fog swirling around him like a living thing. He had no idea what lay ahead, but he was ready to face it.

Suddenly, the world shifted once again. The fog darkened around Lars, twisting with a sort of ethereal pain that made him shudder outwardly. The vibrant pink of the mist dimmed into a murky grey, heavy with the weight of something unseen but oppressive. The ground beneath him felt less solid, like he was treading on a memory rather than reality.

"What's happening?" Lars asked, his voice sharp with unease as he glanced around.

Iskra's voice cut through the gloom, calm and steady. "You are stepping into the curse's domain. It draws its power from the recesses of your mind—your fears, your regrets, and your failures. It is designed to weaken you by forcing you to relive your most painful memories."

As if on cue, a scene began to take shape in the mist, blurry at first but sharpening with startling clarity. Lars's heart clenched as he recognized it: the courtyard of his family's once-great estate. A younger version of himself stood there, panting and battered, while his sister Frida loomed above him, her voice laced with disdain.

"Is this all you're capable of?" Frida's voice rang out, cold and cutting. "You're a disgrace to the Mertens name. Get up, Lars—if you can even manage that."

Lars clenched his fists, the old wound of humiliation and inadequacy tearing open as though it had never healed. He could almost feel the gravel beneath his palms, the sting of tears he had refused to shed back then. "This is just a memory," he muttered to himself, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. "It's not real."

"Not real, but potent," Iskra corrected. Her form remained indistinct, though her presence seemed to pulse around him. "The curse feeds on these memories, amplifies them. It weaves illusions to make you question your worth, your strength, and your very identity."

As she spoke, the scene shifted again. Lars now stood before the villagers of Lire, their faces twisted with anger and fear. "You let him die!" one of them shouted. "You call yourself a Magic Knight? You're a fraud—a failure!"

"No…" Lars whispered, shaking his head as guilt surged through him. "I didn't… I tried to save him…"

"Of course you did," Iskra said, her voice softening slightly. "But the curse does not care for truth or intent. It is designed to torment, to dig into the crevices of your mind where doubt and self-loathing reside, and amplify them until you are consumed."

The mist swirled again, darker and more oppressive than before. Lars felt his breath hitch as more memories emerged—failures, betrayals, moments where he had faltered or felt unworthy. They circled him like predators, their weight crushing down on his chest.

"How do I fight this?" Lars asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's… overwhelming."

"By understanding it," Iskra replied, her tone more commanding now. "This curse is a parasite, latching onto your mental state. It does not simply drain your mana—it warps your perception of yourself and the world around you. It wants you to succumb, to spiral into despair so it can fester unchecked."

Lars gritted his teeth, gripping the edges of his robe. "But why? What's the point?"

"To weaken you," Iskra said simply. "To reduce you to nothing more than a vessel of doubt and pain. But curses are not indomitable—they can be unravelled. And this one is fragile, hastily crafted as I said. The cracks in its design are already visible to me."

As if to prove her point, the oppressive weight of the memories eased slightly, and the fog shifted once more. Lars could feel Iskra's presence like a protective barrier, holding back the worst of the curse's power.

"I will guide you through it," she continued. "But you must walk the path. The curse will fight back—it will try to bury you in your past. When it does, remember this: your memories are not your master. They are a part of you, yes, but they do not define your future."

Lars steadied himself, taking a deep breath. "I'll do it. I'll break this curse."

"Good," Iskra said, her voice almost approving. "Then step forward, Lars Mertens. Face your past, and let us unweave this tether of pain and doubt together."

…

As Lars took his first hesitant step forward, the fog coiled around him, dense and suffocating. It seemed to seep into his skin, pulling him deeper into his own mind. The air grew cold, heavy with the sensation of something forgotten but not forgiven.

The world sharpened suddenly, and Lars found himself standing in a grand, dimly lit hall. The ornate silver banners that once symbolized the pride of the Mertens family hung tattered and lifeless. The familiar scent of ink and parchment filled the air, mingled with the faint aroma of dust and decay. He knew this place all too well—the family library, where his father, Ellion Mertens, had once spent countless hours pouring over tomes of magic and history.

At the far end of the hall stood Ellion himself, his tall, imposing figure framed by the faint glow of a flickering candle. His grimoire rested on a lectern, its pages glowing faintly with silver light. Young Lars, barely twelve years old, stood before him, trembling.

"This is your last chance," Ellion's voice boomed, devoid of warmth. "You are a Mertens. You will succeed—or you will bring shame upon our name."

"I-I'm trying, Father," young Lars stammered, his small hands clutching a quill and a scroll. The spell he had been tasked to write—a complex incantation of concentration magic—remained incomplete. His hands trembled as he struggled to remember the intricate glyphs.

"Trying?" Ellion's voice dripped with disdain. "Trying is what commoners do. Mertens do not try, Lars. We succeed." He slammed his hand against the lectern, and the sound echoed through the vast hall, making young Lars flinch.

The boy's heart raced as he desperately scribbled on the scroll, sweat beading on his brow. The glyphs twisted and blurred before his eyes, the weight of his father's gaze crushing him. He knew the incantation was wrong, but he had to present something. Anything.

Finally, he held up the scroll, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it. "H-here, Father," he whispered.

Ellion snatched the scroll from him and read it in silence. The seconds stretched into an eternity as the flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows across his stern features.

Then, without warning, Ellion tore the scroll in half. "Pathetic," he spat, the venom in his voice cutting deeper than any blade. "This isn't even close to acceptable. How do you expect to uphold the Mertens name with such mediocrity?"

"I can do better!" young Lars cried, his voice cracking as tears welled up in his eyes. "Please, just give me another chance—"

"Enough!" Ellion's roar silenced him. "You are a disgrace, Lars. You will never amount to anything if this is the best you can offer. You are an insult to our bloodline."

The words hit Lars like a physical blow. He staggered back, his vision blurring as tears streamed down his face. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but his voice failed him. The shame was too overwhelming.

In the present, young adult Lars watched the scene unfold with a lump in his throat. He could feel every ounce of the boy's pain, the sting of humiliation, the crushing weight of failure. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain might anchor him.

"Do you see now?" Iskra's voice whispered through the mist, soft but piercing. "The curse knows where to strike. It dredges up these moments, not because they are false, but because they are true."

"I... I remember this," Lars said, his voice trembling. "It was the first time I thought—" His words caught in his throat.

"The first time you thought you were worthless," Iskra finished for him. "But tell me, Lars—does that moment define you?"

Lars stared at the younger version of himself, broken and weeping under the weight of his father's disdain. The urge to look away was overwhelming, but he forced himself to watch, to confront the memory.

"No," he whispered, though his voice was shaky. "It doesn't define me."

"Good," Iskra said. "Hold onto that. Because the curse will do everything it can to make you believe otherwise."

The mist churned again, swirling around Lars and pulling him out of the dimly lit library. The memory of his father's scorn faded into the ether, but the ache it left in his chest lingered. He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. "I've moved past that," he muttered, as much to himself as to Iskra. "I've proven him wrong."

"Have you?" Iskra's voice echoed faintly, neither accusatory nor supportive. "The curse is not bound by what you've achieved. It thrives on the doubts you've carried with you, buried but never fully healed."

Before Lars could respond, the mist condensed again, reshaping into a new scene. The air grew colder, heavier, tinged with the faint scent of damp wood and blood. Lars recognized the setting instantly: the outskirts of Lire Village, where he and his team had faced the Puppet Master. His heart sank as he realised what was coming.

The memory sharpened, revealing the chaotic battlefield. Sharya, controlled by the Puppet Master's magic, stood before Lars, her Clone Magic creating a swarm of identical figures around her. Each clone moved with the same precision, their blades glinting in the moonlight as they charged toward him.

"Sharya, stop!" Lars's younger voice rang out, desperate and strained. His Mind Magic shield flickered under the relentless assault, cracks forming as he struggled to maintain his defence. "It's me, Lars! You don't have to do this!"

The memory played out exactly as he remembered. Sharya's clones overwhelmed him, her blade narrowly missing his throat as he stumbled back. In the end, he had used his most powerful spell, Grand Catharsis, to shatter the Puppet Master's control and free her. But not before he had seen the terror in her eyes—the fear of losing herself completely to the magic that bound her.

Then came the moment that haunted him most. One of the villagers, a man who had tried to protect his family, lay on the ground nearby. Blood pooled beneath him, his breaths shallow and laboured. Lars had tried to reach him, but he had been too late.

The man's voice echoed through the memory, weak but filled with pain. "You… you're supposed to protect us… Why didn't you…?"

Lars's chest tightened as he watched himself drop to his knees beside the dying man, his hands trembling as he tried to heal him with what little magic he had left. The man's lifeless eyes stared up at him, accusing even in death.

In the present, Lars gritted his teeth, his nails digging into his palms. "I couldn't save him," he whispered, his voice thick with guilt. "I tried everything, but I couldn't…"

"That failure weighs heavily on you," Iskra said, her voice gentle yet firm. "It is a wound you've carried, festering in the shadows of your mind."

The scene shifted again, and Lars found himself standing in the village square. The remaining villagers surrounded him, their faces twisted with anger and grief.

"You call yourself a Magic Knight?" one of them spat, pointing a trembling finger at him. "You let one of us die! What good are you if you can't even protect the people you're supposed to serve?"

"You're no hero," another added, their voice dripping with scorn. "You're just a failure hiding behind a grimoire."

The accusations pierced Lars like daggers. He remembered how he had stood there, silent and numb, unable to defend himself. In that moment, he had believed them. He had believed that he was a failure.

"Do you still believe their words?" Iskra's voice cut through the cacophony of the memory. "Do you still carry their judgement as truth?"

Lars's hands shook at his sides, his breathing ragged. He wanted to say no, to deny that those words had power over him. But the weight of the memory—the guilt, the shame—pressed down on him like a physical force.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've tried to move on, but… it's still there. The doubt. The fear that maybe they were right."

"Then let us confront it," Iskra said. "What happened that day was not your fault. But the curse will try to make you believe otherwise. You must see it for what it is—a distortion of reality, twisted to weaken you."

Lars looked around at the angry faces of the villagers, the lifeless body of the man he couldn't save, and the younger version of himself kneeling in the blood-soaked dirt. The pain was raw, but he forced himself to speak.

"I didn't choose this," he said, his voice growing steadier. "I didn't choose for him to die. I didn't fail because I wasn't strong enough—I failed because I'm not a god. I can't save everyone."

The villagers' faces wavered, their sharp features softening as if his words had struck a chord. The oppressive weight of the memory began to lift, the mist swirling around Lars and carrying the scene away.

"You are stronger than you realise," Iskra said, her voice filled with a quiet pride. "The curse feeds on your pain, but it cannot consume you if you refuse to let it. Hold onto that strength, Lars Mertens. We are not done yet."

The world shifted once more, the fog curling tightly around Lars like a suffocating embrace. His heart pounded as he stepped forward, steeling himself for whatever the curse would throw at him next. The oppressive mist lightened slightly, and Lars found himself in a familiar place: the courtyard of the Mertens estate.

The scene was vivid, painfully clear. The sprawling estate, its grand arches and immaculate gardens, stretched before him like a painted memory. In the center of the courtyard, Frida stood poised, her silver hair catching the sunlight. She was clad in her pristine Silver Eagles robe, her grimoire hovering at her side.

Opposite her stood Nebra Silva, the two exchanging smirks as they prepared to spar. Nebra was every bit as haughty and composed as Lars remembered, her silver hair shimmering like polished steel.

Lars, no older than twelve, stood hidden behind a column near the edge of the courtyard, clutching his grimoire to his chest. He had snuck out here, curious to see his sister in action now that she was a Magic Knight. He watched as Frida summoned her Crystal Magic, creating intricate constructs that shimmered like glass. Nebra responded in kind with her Mist Magic, the two engaging in a dazzling display of skill and power.

The young Lars watched with a mix of awe and envy. He admired Frida's grace, her precision—everything he lacked. But he also felt the familiar sting of inadequacy, the weight of his family's expectations pressing down on him.

Then it happened.

As Nebra unleashed a swirling mist attack, Frida deflected it with a flourish of her crystal constructs. The mist swirled out, spreading across the courtyard—and toward Lars's hiding spot.

"Who's there?" Nebra called, her sharp eyes narrowing as the mist parted, revealing Lars.

Frida turned, her expression twisting into an annoyed sneer. "Lars?" she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "What are you doing here?"

Lars froze, his hands gripping his grimoire tighter. "I-I was just watching," he stammered. "I wanted to see you train…"

Nebra's smirk widened as she stepped closer, her mist curling around her like a living thing. "Oh, isn't this precious? The little failure wants to learn from the big leagues," she said, her tone mocking.

"Go back inside, Lars," Frida snapped, her tone cold. "You're wasting your time. You'll never be able to do what we do."

Lars's cheeks burned with humiliation, but he didn't move. "I can learn," he insisted, his voice trembling. "I can get stronger—"

"Stronger?" Nebra interrupted with a laugh. "You're like Noelle, my useless little sister. You can't even control a single spell properly, can you?"

Frida crossed her arms, her expression hardening. "She's not wrong. You're a Mertens, Lars. That means something—or at least it's supposed to. Right now, you're nothing but a disappointment."

The words cut deeper than any blade. Lars's shoulders sagged, his grip on his grimoire loosening as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to defend himself, to prove them wrong, but their words echoed in his mind, drowning out any sense of self-worth.

In the present, Lars clenched his fists as he watched the memory unfold. The weight of his sister's words, Nebra's ridicule, and his own feelings of inadequacy pressed down on him like a physical force.

"Do you see, Lars?" Iskra's voice echoed softly around him. "The curse feeds on moments like these—moments when you doubted yourself, when others tore you down. It seeks to keep you shackled to these memories, to this pain."

Lars took a shaky breath, forcing himself to step closer to the memory. He saw his younger self, broken and defeated, and the sight filled him with a mixture of sadness and resolve.

"That's not who I am anymore," Lars said, his voice steadying. "I'm not that scared kid. I'm stronger now. I've proven that—to myself and to others."

The mist around him trembled, the oppressive weight lifting slightly. The figures of Frida and Nebra wavered, their taunts growing faint as Lars's resolve solidified.

"I'm not a failure," Lars continued, his voice rising. "And even if I was, that's not a weakness. It's a starting point. Everyone has to start somewhere. And I've worked hard to get where I am."

The memory began to crack, fractures spreading across the scene like glass under pressure. The young Lars turned to look at his older self, their eyes meeting for a brief, poignant moment.

"I'm proud of how far you've come," Lars said softly, addressing his younger self. "And I'll keep going—for both of us."

With those words, the memory shattered, the pieces dissolving into a soft, golden light that dispelled the remaining mist.

"You've done well," Iskra's voice said, warm and approving. "The curse has lost its hold on this part of your mind. Its foundation is crumbling."

Lars stood tall, the air around him clear and light. "What's next?" he asked, determination burning in his eyes.

"Next, we go deeper," Iskra replied. "But take heart, Lars Mertens. You've taken the first step toward breaking the chains that bind you. And in doing so, you've proven that no curse—no matter how dark—can stand against the strength of your will."

…

February 12, 4:00AM

The royal hospital's intensive care wing buzzed faintly with the soft hum of mana-infused machinery, the only sounds breaking the tense quiet. Inside the small room, seven members of the Coral Peacocks surrounded Lars Mertens, their faces etched with worry. His battered and bruised form lay still on the pristine white sheets, his breathing shallow, his mana reserves dangerously depleted. His grimoire rested on the nearby table, dulled and lifeless, as though mirroring its owner's fragile state.

Dr. Owen, the Kingdom's finest healer, worked meticulously over Lars, his hands glowing with golden light as he mended the wounds that marred Lars's body. Each incision, bruise, and burn was treated with precision, but the severity of the injuries weighed heavily on everyone in the room.

"Come on, Lars," Russell muttered under his breath, pacing restlessly near the bedside. "Don't you dare give up now."

Lilian sat on the edge of a chair, her usual cheer absent as she clenched her fists tightly in her lap. Oda leaned against the wall, his sharp eyes fixed on Lars's pale face. Malakai and Elijah knelt together in a quiet prayer, while Ximena and Amaryllis stood with crossed arms, their imposing figures unmoving as they stared down at their unconscious comrade.

The room's heavy silence was broken by the creak of the door. All eyes turned sharply as Frida Mertens stepped inside, her Silver Eagle uniform immaculate, her expression unreadable. The usual aura of arrogance she carried with her was dimmed, but her presence instantly tensed the room.

Russell stopped pacing, his expression darkening. "What the hell is she doing here?"

Oda straightened, stepping away from the wall. "Frida," he said flatly, his tone colder than usual. "This isn't the place for you."

"I..." Frida hesitated, glancing at Lars. Her jaw tightened as her gaze lingered on her younger brother, his fragile state striking something deep within her. "I came to see how he was."

"To see how he was?" Russell repeated, his voice dripping with incredulity. "Oh, now you care?"

Frida's eyes snapped to Russell, her composure wavering. "Of course I care," she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual conviction.

Russell laughed bitterly, taking a step closer to her. "Funny, because from where I'm standing, all you've ever cared about is tearing him down. Every word out of your mouth has been an insult or a put-down, and now you suddenly care?"

"Russell, calm down," Lilian said softly, but her voice also lacked conviction. She looked at Frida, her usually warm eyes cold. "He's right. You've been nothing but cruel to him. Why are you even here?"

Frida stiffened, her pride refusing to let her falter. "I was hard on him because I wanted him to be strong," she said, though her voice was unsteady. "He needed to learn—"

"To learn what?" Oda interjected, his voice sharp as a blade. "How to endure abuse? How to 'earn' your respect, the respect of someone who's supposed to be his sister?" He took a step forward, his gaze piercing. "Because if that's your idea of family, Frida, you've got it twisted."

Frida's hands clenched at her sides, but she didn't respond. Her eyes darted back to Lars, as if searching for a justification in his motionless form.

"Do you even know him?" Ximena spoke up, her voice quiet but filled with anger. "Do you know what kind of person he is? What he's done for us? For this squad? He's kind, selfless, and a good training partner, not because of you, but in spite of you."

Amaryllis, who had been silent until now, added, "He idolised you, Frida. Even after everything. He just wanted you to be proud of him. And all you did was push him down, again and again."

Frida flinched as if struck, her usual confidence crumbling under their words. "I never wanted this," she said quietly, her voice trembling. "I didn't want him to get hurt."

"But he did," Russell spat, stepping even closer. "And you weren't there to stop it. Hell, you probably made it worse. Do you have any idea how much he's suffered because of your twisted need to prove something to him?"

"I—" Frida faltered, her shoulders slumping slightly. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her fists unclenching. For the first time, the squad saw not the Vice Captain of the Silver Eagles, but a woman who was lost and unsure of herself.

"You think you can just waltz in here and act like none of that matters?" Russell continued, his voice rising. "Do you even know what it took for him to get here? How many times he's failed, picked himself back up, and kept fighting? He doesn't need you, Frida. Not now, not ever."

"That's enough, Russell," Malakai said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. The large man's voice was calm, but his eyes were just as hard as the others'. "Let her leave."

Frida looked up at him, her lips parted as if to argue, but no words came out. Her eyes moved back to Lars, and for a moment, her mask of pride shattered completely. She looked at him not as a Magic Knight, but as her little brother—the boy who had once looked up to her with bright, hopeful eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hands trembled as she reached for the door. "I'll... I'll leave."

She turned and walked out, her back straight but her steps unsteady. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room in heavy silence.

"She's sorry?" Russell muttered, shaking his head. "Too little, too late."

"Maybe," Oda said, his tone softer now. "But that's for Lars to decide, not us."

The group fell silent, their attention returning to Lars as Dr. Owen continued his work. The tension lingered, but beneath it was a shared determination. No matter what happened, they would be there for Lars. Because unlike Frida, they knew exactly what kind of person he was. And they weren't going to let him fight this battle alone.