Chapter 52: Loss = Gain

"Bertha's broken…" Lars sobbed into his knees, his shoulders heaving as he lamented the loss of a great weapon. A now smaller Iskra, the size of the hand of an adult man, rubbed his shoulder comfortingly.

"If you ask me," Yul said, shadowboxing the air with weighted wristbands, made out of his steel magic, "you should be grateful you're alive. Your injuries were no joke."

It had been two weeks since Lars's birthday declaration, and Lars, Yul, Elijah and Malakai, Russell and Amaryllis were lounging in the common room, relishing in their day off. Lars had been absolutely barred by Dr Owen from going on missions, so he was a pent up ball of energy and emotions, who had just been training to improve Gedankenreich and his communication with Iskra (like a spirit magic user).

Lars had been without his naginata for these two weeks, taking it to multiple places to try and get it fixed after his battle with the blood mage, paying each a handsome amount of money to try and recover Bertha, but each had only made it worse. Now, the next day after the final vendor told Lars that nothing could be done, he was sitting, lamenting the loss of his trusty partner that had carried him through so many battles.

"Weapons are replaceable," Amaryllis sighed, flipping a page of her book. "And besides, this may be a new opportunity for you to try something new."

"Normies like you," Russell declared, running a hand above his newly buzz cut hair that felt like bristles on a hairbrush, "just don't get it. To weapon users like us, weapons are imprints of the soul, our greatest companions. For example, I've had my trusty rapier, Exos, since I was-"

"Grow your hair back and then we'll talk," Amaryllis snarled. She was still reeling from a prank this grown-arse man had played on her today. "And why would you guys name weapons anyways? That's weird."

"Bertha's not replaceable," Lars sighed. "She was one of a kind."

"WHY was everyone around me born so ugly?" Kirsch sighed dramatically, strolling into the room with a flourish of his hand, sending cherry blossoms scattering across the room. "And yet, why was I born so beautiful?"

"Get to the point, Kirsch! I'm lamenting," Lars snapped, his head sinking back down into his depressed position.

"But do not lament, Lars, my friend, as you alone have earned 10 stars for the Coral Peacocks! Theresa has also earned 10 stars, so be happy! Earning over 10 stars in a single mission means… bonuses for the whole squad!"

Russell, who was of noble blood and therefore used to having near infinite supplies of money, was not impressed, and gave an unenthusiastic "yay", returning back to polishing Exos. Meanwhile, the others, especially Yul who valued every single coin right to the last yul (haha funny get it), Amaryllis, who had discovered ever since leaving the Witches' forest that one of the many joys of life is going on shopping sprees, and Lars, who had a lot of new stuff to buy, rejoiced.

Money truly was a vice.

As the others received their pay, grabbed their brooms, and headed out to spend most of it in a heartbeat, Lars was stopped by a flowery hand. Flowery because it was made completely out of cherry blossoms.

"New spell?" Lars said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, well, your sister inspired me. Anyways, that's not the point," Kirsch said, huffing. "I know that you must be going to Kikka right around now, so I was wondering if you would like to take on a simple patrol mission around there. I know you must be tired, so if not, I'll-"

"Yespleasethankyou," Lars said, grabbing the bag of yul from Kirsch and heading to the broom cupboard. Kirsch simply sighed and shook his head, cherry blossom petals coming to rest at his feet.

"He will not do it," Kirsch sighed. "I'll ask Anastacia to help me. Now then, to see Frida…"

…

"Well? What do you think?" the shopkeeper asked, watching Lars carefully as he stood before the mirror, trying on the first outfit.

"None of these suit me," Lars sighed. "I'll keep looking."

The shopkeeper walked away, and Iskra materialised out of seemingly nowhere. "You can't be so picky, Lars," she said, pouting, "or we'll be here forever."

"You sound like my mother," Lars replied, his eyes scanning the shelves for different combinations of clothes. "We'll get to the details in due time."

Iskra sighed. "I didn't want to have to do this, but…" She tapped the side of his head, transferring some of her magical power directly to Lars's brain.

Lars stumbled slightly as Iskra's magic coursed through his mind, vivid images of potential outfits flashing before his eyes faster than he could process. It was overwhelming—a kaleidoscope of textures, colors, and designs—each one more intricate than the last. He groaned, rubbing his temples.

"Did you have to be so dramatic?" he muttered, though his tone lacked bite.

"Yes," Iskra replied simply, arms crossed. "Now hurry up and pick one. That one, for example—perfect."

Her finger jabbed toward a sleek, fitted black coat displayed on a mannequin nearby. Lars sighed and reluctantly reached for it, holding it up to himself before heading into the dressing room. Moments later, he emerged.

The black coat was tailored to perfection, the fabric soft yet structured, its collar lined with a soft purple hue that framed his face. Subtle pink accents wove through the seams along his shoulders and cuffs, the colour faint but deliberate, adding a whisper of vibrancy. He'd also chosen a dark purple tunic beneath peeked out just enough to complement the coat, its rich tone drawing attention to his sharp features and piercing blue eyes. Fitted black gloves with intricate purple stitching completed the ensemble, and the subtle shimmer of pink embroidery matched the silver-white streaks in his brown hair. He turned to the mirror, his expression unreadable, but even Iskra could tell he was pleased.

"Well?" she asked, grinning.

"It's… not bad," Lars admitted, tugging the collar into place.

The shopkeeper returned with a practised smile. "Ah, a fine choice, young sir. That particular ensemble is a favourite. It'll be—"

The price he named made Lars keel over as if struck by lightning. "That much?!"

Iskra stifled a laugh, patting his back as he groaned in despair. "Consider it an investment in your image," she teased.

Lars, still clutching his knees, muttered, "I think I liked the robes better…"

…

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bertholt," Lars said, stepping into the weapons shop, his coat slung over his arm.

The shop was cosy and warm, lit by the golden glow of enchanted lanterns that hung from the ceiling. Every wall was lined with weapons, each one polished to a mirror shine. Behind the counter stood Mr. Bertholt, a wiry man with a thick, greying moustache. He looked up from the blade he was sharpening, his face lighting up at the sight of Lars.

"Ah, Lars! Just the man I wanted to see," he said, setting down the whetstone. "What brings you in today? Your naginata holding up?"

Lars hesitated, his hand tightening on the cloth sack slung over his shoulder. He walked up to the counter, carefully placing its contents down. When he unwrapped the broken pieces of Bertha, his face fell. "She's… she's not holding up anymore," he admitted softly. "She gave everything she had in the last fight."

Mr. Bertholt picked up one of the shattered fragments, running his fingers along the jagged edge. His expression was a mix of regret and sympathy. "A fine weapon like this, broken… must've been one hell of a battle." He looked at Lars, his brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, lad. This can't be repaired. But you'll need something new, won't you?"

Lars nodded, though his gaze lingered on the broken naginata. "I suppose so. I just… don't know what to choose. Bertha was perfect. I'm not sure anything else will feel right."

The shopkeeper gave him a kind smile. "Come now, lad. Let's see what we can find. Maybe you'll surprise yourself." He motioned for Lars to follow him to a large rack at the back of the store.

But before they could do anything related to helping Lars choose, they heard shouting as two girls, the older one dragging the younger one by the scruff of their neck, both wearing the robe of the Crimson Lion Kings.

Lars turned at the sound of shouting, his hand instinctively moving toward the broken naginata on the counter. Two girls were arguing as they entered the shop, the older one gripping the younger by the scruff of her robe and dragging her inside.

The older girl had striking black hair that cascaded down her back, the same dark shade as Zoe's, though with more control—her hair neatly tied back in a practical yet elegant style. Her sharp grey eyes scanned the room, her stern expression betraying little emotion. She wore the robe of the Crimson Lion Kings, the insignia proudly emblazoned on it, over a long, flowing grey dress. Lars could sense immediately that she wasn't someone you'd want to get on the wrong side of.

The younger girl, however, couldn't have been more different. She was shorter, her face framed by wild, untamed blonde hair with streaks of orange that was bundled in two short, almost spiky ponytails. Despite being dragged along by her much more composed companion, she still managed to scowl defiantly, her sharp green eyes gleaming with mischief. She wore a short orange skirt, a long red cardigan under her Crimson Lion Kings robe that covered her hands, and high orange stockings.

Cara Castro—Lars recognized her immediately from their previous, chaotic encounters—was a year younger than him and always seemed to find herself in trouble. She had a unique blend of eccentricity and charm, a little unhinged at times, but Lars had always found her to be oddly endearing. Today, though, she seemed to be trying (and failing) to escape her older companion's grip.

As they drew closer, Lars couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. He'd seen Cara in a few brief, yet memorable, encounters over the years, but it was clear she was no longer the same carefree, disorganised teenager he'd once known. Instead, she was wearing the robe of the Crimson Lion Kings, looking like a full fledged Magic Knight. Still, even though the sight of her in this new, more serious light surprised him, it didn't quite wipe away the playful, slightly eccentric image that had always lingered in his memory.

The older girl finally let go of Cara, who immediately took a step back, rubbing her neck and muttering under her breath. "You didn't need to drag me in like that, Anastacia."

Anastacia shot her a pointed look. "If I hadn't, you'd still be out there causing trouble," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "Now, are you going to apologise to Mr. Bertholt, or should I take you back outside and let you deal with the consequences of your actions?"

Cara rolled her eyes dramatically but was clearly aware of the threat in Anastacia's tone. "Fine, fine," she muttered, looking at Lars for the first time. "Sorry, Lars… I got a little carried away back there. And Mr Bertholt, I'm sorry too."

The wiry man laughed. "There's no problem, Cara. Just… don't break anything today, please."

Lars blinked, taken aback by the sudden reappearance of his old friend, but he quickly recovered, offering her a half-smile. "It's fine, Cara. I'm used to your… enthusiastic nature."

Anastacia's gaze shifted to Lars, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took him in. She had been quietly assessing him from the moment she entered, though she hadn't yet said anything. "You're Lars Mertens, aren't you?" she asked, her voice steady. "The Coral Peacock." Her tone was more curious than confrontational, but Lars noticed a glimmer of something unreadable in her eyes.

Lars nodded, surprised by the recognition. "Yes, that's me." He wasn't sure how Anastacia knew him - perhaps through her position in the Crimson Lion Kings, or maybe from rumours - either way, there was no denying the weight in her voice when she said his name.

Anastacia gave a small nod, as if satisfied by his answer. "I've heard of you," she said, her expression softening slightly. "It's good to meet you in person."

Lars felt a sudden, fleeting sense of unease. He wasn't sure what to make of the way she regarded him. Was it approval? Disapproval? There was a faint tension in the air, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Before he could respond, Cara interrupted, a mischievous grin on her face.

"Anyway, since Anastacia dragged me in here," she said, stretching her arms dramatically, "I guess I should take a look around! You wouldn't mind if I tried some of the cool weapons, would you, Mr. Bertholt?" She shot a pleading look at the shopkeeper, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Anastacia sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Cara, we're not here to play around. We have a mission."

Cara winked, unbothered by the reprimand. "Right, right. But what's the harm in having a little fun while we're at it?"

Lars couldn't help but chuckle at their interaction. Despite everything, it was nice to see her again, even though she'd caused him a lot of stress.

Cara immediately darted toward the weapon rack before anyone could stop her, her eyes gleaming as she ran her fingers over the array of blades, poles, and axes. "Oh, Lars," she said, spinning on her heel to face him with a wicked grin. "You're indecisive, right? Lucky for you, I've got a great eye for this stuff. Let me pick your new weapon!"

Lars blinked. "I—uh—Cara, I don't think—"

"Perfect! You trust me!" she said, cutting him off. "Now, let's see…" She reached for a halberd first, its intricate axe-blade glinting under the enchanted lights. "This one! Look at this beauty! It's got reach, versatility, and oh, baby, you could chop through anything with this bad boy."

She spun the halberd experimentally, nearly hitting Anastacia, who quickly stepped back with a frown.

"Cara," Lars said hesitantly, "I don't think I—"

"Okay, fine. You're not a halberd guy," Cara interrupted, tossing the weapon back onto the rack with a clatter that made Mr. Bertholt wince. "How about…" She grabbed a lance, its slim, elegant form contrasting sharply with her chaotic energy. "A lance! Classic, refined, screams 'knightly hero!' I mean, come on, Lars—doesn't this just feel right?"

Lars took the lance from her, holding it awkwardly for a moment before shaking his head. "It's… not quite me."

Cara groaned. "Ugh, picky, picky. All right, moving on!" She shoved the lance back and grabbed a battleaxe. "Now this—oh, man—this is the weapon. Look at it! Raw, brutal, makes a statement. You don't fight with a battleaxe; you announce yourself with it."

She held it aloft, striking a ridiculous pose. Anastacia, who had been watching with growing exasperation, pinched the bridge of her nose. "Cara, can you be serious for five minutes?"

"This is serious!" Cara protested, swinging the axe through the air in an overly dramatic fashion. Lars took a cautious step back as it whooshed past him. "See? It's intimidating! Lars, you'd be unstoppable with this thing."

"I appreciate the thought," Lars said, gently taking the battleaxe from her, "but it's a little… heavy for my fighting style."

"Fine, fine," Cara said, rolling her eyes. She tossed the battleaxe back onto the rack with a loud clang that made Mr. Bertholt mutter something under his breath. Without missing a beat, she grabbed a nagamaki. "Okay, hear me out—this is basically your old naginata but, like, sleeker. Fancy handle, shorter blade, very you."

Lars took the nagamaki, testing its weight and balance. It was closer to what he was used to, but something about it still didn't click. He handed it back reluctantly. "It's close, but… not quite."

Cara sighed dramatically. "Man, you're a tough customer. All right, let's try something bold." She grabbed a warhammer next, hefting it with surprising ease. "Boom. Problem solved. You don't need finesse—just smash everything in your way."

"Cara, I—"

"Don't argue, Lars. Imagine it: Mind Magic: Smashy Smashy." She grinned, swinging the warhammer down hard onto the floor. The sound reverberated through the shop, and both Anastacia and Mr. Bertholt flinched.

"That's… definitely not what my spells are called," Lars muttered, looking horrified as he took the warhammer from her. It felt completely wrong in his hands, and he immediately set it back on the rack. "Next?"

Cara huffed, crossing her arms. "Okay, I'm starting to think you don't want a weapon."

Anastacia finally stepped in, her tone sharp. "Perhaps Lars should choose for himself."

"Oh, come on!" Cara said, turning to her sister-in-arms with a pout. "We're this close to finding the perfect one."

"I think we're closer to destroying the shop," Anastacia said dryly, gesturing to the scattered weapons Cara had tossed aside.

"Wait," Cara said suddenly, her eyes locking on a scythe tucked into the far corner of the rack. "Ohhhh, now this is the one."

She pulled it out with an exaggerated flourish, holding it aloft as if presenting a treasure. The scythe's long, curved blade gleamed menacingly, its dark steel etched with faint magical runes. The handle was wrapped in black leather, giving it an elegant yet ominous appearance.

"Look at this thing, Lars," Cara said, her voice almost reverent. "It's sleek. It's deadly. It's got presence."

Lars hesitated, reaching out to take the scythe. As soon as his hands wrapped around the handle, he felt a strange hum of energy, like the weapon was reacting to him. He swung it experimentally, and it cut through the air with a satisfying whoosh. Something about the scythe felt… right.

"Well?" Cara asked, leaning in with a grin. "Admit it. I nailed it."

Lars couldn't help but smile. "You might be onto something."

"Finally!" Cara threw her arms up in victory, turning to Anastacia with a smug look. "See? Told you I had a great eye."

Anastacia sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in her expression. "At least it's over."

Mr. Bertholt stepped forward, his own expression softening as he examined the scythe. "That's a fine choice, Lars. Durable, enchanted with mana-conductive runes, and the balance is excellent. It suits you."

Lars nodded, running his fingers along the smooth handle. "Thank you, Cara. And thank you, Mr. Bertholt. I think this will do."

"Well, I guess it's official," Lars said, looking at Cara. "Looks like I'm in your debt now."

Cara grinned widely. "It's no big deal! I'm just here to make sure you look cool while kicking a- oww! Let go of me!"

"Watch your words," Anastacia snarled. Lars sweatdropped.

She really is like her sister, he thought. Even their snarl is the same.

As Lars tested the weight and balance of the scythe, Mr. Bertholt leaned against the counter, his sharp eyes watching the young mage with a thoughtful expression. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Lars, before you go running off with that fancy new weapon… Can I ask you a favour?"

Lars looked up, tilting his head. "A favour? What's on your mind, Mr. Bertholt?"

The shopkeeper scratched his greying moustache, glancing toward the back of the shop as if looking for someone. "It's about my son, Alexis. You remember him, don't you?"

"Alexis?" Lars frowned, his brow furrowing for a moment before his expression lit up with realisation. "Oh, the runt! Yeah, I remember him. How's he doing?"

Mr. Bertholt let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Still calling him that, eh? He's not so little anymore, you know. Fourteen just last week now."

Lars raised an eyebrow. "Fourteen? That scrawny kid who used to trip over his own feet?"

"The same," Mr. Bertholt said with a wry smile. "And he's got his heart set on being a Magic Knight someday. Problem is, he's got more enthusiasm than sense. He's been sneaking out of the shop to 'train' - if you can call it that - since he got his grimoire, and I'm worried he's going to get himself hurt."

Lars leaned the scythe against the counter, crossing his arms. "So, what are you asking me to do? Talk him out of it?"

"No, no," Mr. Bertholt said quickly, shaking his head. "The boy's stubborn as a mule - gets it from his mother. Talking won't change his mind. I just… I want someone to keep an eye on him. Trail him when he sneaks off, make sure he doesn't get in over his head. And if he does, well…" He gestured at Lars, then at the scythe. "You're more than capable of pulling him out of trouble."

Lars hesitated, glancing at Cara and Anastacia, who were both listening intently. "You're serious? You want me to play babysitter for the runt?"

Mr. Bertholt sighed. "He's my son, Lars. I just want to make sure he stays safe. And you're someone I trust. Besides, maybe you'll knock some sense into him while you're at it."

Cara grinned, elbowing Lars. "Oh, this is going to be fun. You and the kid—what a team!"

"Fun isn't the word I'd use," Lars muttered, but he couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. "All right, Mr. Bertholt. I'll keep an eye on him. Just don't expect me to go easy on him if he gets himself into something dumb."

"Wouldn't expect anything less," Mr. Bertholt said, a look of relief washing over his face. "Thank you, Lars. I owe you one."

Lars picked up the scythe, giving it another test swing. "Guess I'll need this sooner than I thought. When does he usually sneak out?"

"Late afternoons," Mr. Bertholt said. "He thinks I don't notice, but I've got eyes like a hawk."

Lars smirked. "Clearly, he didn't inherit that. All right, I'll be ready."

Cara clapped her hands together, grinning mischievously. "Oh, I am so coming with you. This is going to be a riot."

"Absolutely not," Anastacia said firmly, grabbing Cara by the collar. "You've caused enough chaos for one day."

Cara pouted but didn't resist as Anastacia began dragging her toward the door. "Fine, fine. But Lars, you better tell me everything afterward!"

Lars chuckled as he watched them leave, then turned back to Mr. Bertholt. "All right, old man. I'll see what the runt's up to. But don't blame me if he ends up hating me for it."

"He'll thank you someday," Mr. Bertholt said, though his tone carried more hope than certainty. "Good luck, Lars. You'll need it."

…

As Lars stepped out of Mr. Bertholt's shop, his new scythe strapped securely to his back, he adjusted the sack of weapon maintenance supplies he'd just purchased. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over Kikka's bustling streets, the hum of voices and the clatter of carts filling the air. He turned a corner, lost in thought, when a figure walking briskly in the opposite direction nearly collided with him.

"Oh, pardon me," Lars said automatically, stepping back.

The young woman he'd almost run into paused, her lavender eyes narrowing as she took him in. She was dressed impeccably in the uniform of the Black Bulls, though her regal bearing and silver hair marked her unmistakably as a Silva. Lars blinked, recognition sparking in his mind.

"Noelle Silva," he said, tilting his head slightly. "I recognize you. You're Captain Nozel's younger sister, aren't you?"

Noelle's eyes widened slightly before she crossed her arms, her expression shifting to something more guarded. "You're Lars Mertens," she said, her tone measured. "Your family was… quite esteemed in its day. I've heard of you."

Lars raised an eyebrow. "From Nozel, I'm guessing? Probably not something positive."

She nodded, though she didn't elaborate. Instead, her gaze flicked to the scythe on his back. "You've changed weapons?"

"Bertha broke," Lars said simply, patting the shaft of the scythe. "This one's not bad, though it's taking some getting used to. What about you? How's the Black Bulls treating you?"

Noelle hesitated, clearly unused to such casual conversation. "They're… unconventional," she said carefully, before adding, "But effective."

"Understatement of the year," Lars said with a small chuckle. "You were part of the team that went to the Underwater Temple, right? That was impressive work. I heard about it."

At this, Noelle's expression softened, a faint hint of pride flashing across her face before she quickly masked it. "I was just doing my duty."

"And you did it well," Lars said sincerely. "I know what it's like to want to prove yourself. That couldn't have been easy."

Noelle's gaze lingered on him for a moment, her posture relaxing slightly. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I've… had to prove myself for a long time."

"Yeah," Lars said, his voice softening. "I get that." He shifted the sack on his shoulder. "So, what brings you to Kikka?"

"Supplies," Noelle said, glancing at the small satchel at her side. "Captain Yami decided at the last minute we were running low on essentials."

Lars smirked. "Classic Yami. I ran into him once - his approach to life is… unique."

Noelle gave a faint laugh, surprising both herself and Lars. "That's one way to put it."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the buzz of the town around them. Finally, Lars said, "Well, if you ever need anything, feel free to call on me. I may not be Captain Dorothy, but I like to think I'm not too bad at lending a hand."

Noelle studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. "I'll keep that in mind, Lars Mertens. And… thank you again."

With that, she turned and continued on her way, leaving Lars to watch her go. As he adjusted his supplies and headed toward his next destination, he couldn't help but smile.

"She's just like her brother, their mind energy's almost the same," he chuckled.

A/N: readthenextchapter