Tristan collapsed onto the ground, exhaustion finally overwhelming his battered body, his breathing heavy and uneven, and though the cut on his cheek was not as deep as he had first feared, it still bled steadily. The fight had drained him more than he cared to admit, and there were moments during the struggle when he truly believed he would not emerge victorious. Amelia grabbed a cloth from her bag, dipped it into the nearby water, and rushed to Tristan's side. Kneeling beside him, she gently rested his head on her lap. She began wiping the blood from his cheek, and as she did, she remained silent—her expression twisted with annoyance and quiet frustration.
Unsure how to break the tense, inexplicable silence, Tristan asked the simplest question he could manage. "Did I do something wrong?"
She stayed silent for a moment longer before finally answering, her voice tinged with both disappointment and hurt.
"Why didn't you let me help?" she asked.
Tristan chuckled softly, and Amelia's confusion grew—this was not a question to take lightly, nor one to dismiss.
"I could have asked for help," he said, "but I didn't, and it wasn't because I thought I could handle everything alone. It's because the cost of all of us draining our energy at once is far too high."
Tristan slowly pushed himself upright, brushing a finger across the wound on his cheek. Blood still seeped from it, though not excessively, and the touch produced a faint sting, but aside from that—and the bruising across his ribs—he was mostly fine. He sat beside Amelia before continuing.
"In that moment, Garfield was fighting to kill, so he was already burning through his energy, and since he targeted me, I had to defend myself, which forced me to use Star Energy as well. If you had joined in, you would have drained your energy too. That kind of exhaustion would be devastating if we encountered a Fallen Star beast or even a hostile team afterward."
"I understand, but—"
Tristan shook his head before she could continue.
"But nothing. You are our leader, and we need you at your strongest. Don't worry—our energy will recover soon enough." He turned his gaze toward Garfield's unconscious body. "What I want to know is why he changed like that. He was clearly not himself, but what could have caused it?"
"No," Amelia murmured, "I believe he was sane to some degree, at least enough to see the people he loved. He seemed feral, yes, but also trapped in an illusion of you hurting his sister."
Tristan looked at the golden-haired boy, sadness settling across his features, and Amelia immediately noticed.
"What is it?" she asked.
Tristan hesitated, then slowly turned to her.
"When we were fighting, I could sense his longing… and his grief. I now wonder why he never told us about his sister. Maybe it's because he can't." His voice softened into a rare vulnerability—a side of himself he seldom revealed. "He once said we were the same. Do you think Garfield could be the son of a nobleman?"
"He could be. Most people in the Middle District are the sons of nobles. And those who inherit stronger noble genes tend to have hair colors similar to families from the High District. So yes, it's very likely." Amelia began to ponder which family Garfield may have come from.
Tristan's brows furrowed as he stood, walked to his bag, and pulled out a length of rope. He knelt beside Garfield and began binding him.
"Should you really be doing that?" Amelia asked, her concern evident.
Tristan paused and looked at her. "It's better this way. We don't know if he'll be in his right mind when he wakes."
He continued tying the rope and ended by forming a tight knot—one difficult for anyone to escape. Then he returned to Amelia and sat beside her once more.
"It's probably best if we don't pry into his past. If he wants to tell us, he will. Until then, we shouldn't dig for answers."
Amelia nodded, agreeing. She then walked to Garfield's side with the damp cloth and began cleaning the wound on his shoulder.
Tristan lay back on the warm sand, his eyelids heavy, and slowly drifted into sleep.
Meanwhile, in the tent at the center of the island, a single man watched Tristan and his group through the shimmering projection—a scarred young man.
Blake Foster observed in quiet admiration as he began to understand the vision of the leader he served.
"Tristan Merigold… you are a peculiar one," he murmured. "So young, yet your eyes… your eyes speak of someone who has lived a life far harsher than his age suggests."
While he watched, Thomas Holmes entered the tent, draped in a purple gown and sipping wine from a polished cup.
"You're still awake? Aren't old men like you supposed to get plenty of sleep?" Blake teased.
Thomas chuckled as he sank into a couch a few steps away.
"I'm not that old," he replied, "and I would ask you the same question, but I already know why you're awake."
He took another sip before continuing.
"From what little I've seen of the boy, Tristan Merigold doesn't seem all that remarkable. He didn't even contribute to the defeat of the Earth Worm."
Blake turned to him with a smirk. "You weren't here to see everything I saw. What the boy lacks in power, he more than compensates for with sheer intelligence."
"You can't defeat a Fallen Star beast with intelligence alone," Thomas scoffed dismissively.
His words were not unfounded; history was filled with prodigies of intellect who still perished in battle. That reality was the reason a division dedicated to tactically gifted humans existed. And yet, those rare individuals who possess both exceptional intellect and combat capability have always risen to new heights. In Blake's eyes, Tristan possessed the potential to join that rare echelon.
"I suppose you're right," Blake added, "but he's not just intellect."
Thomas suddenly turned toward the mirror-like panel and narrowed his gaze. "Tell me—what's more impressive? A team defeating a high-end one-star… or a single boy slaughtering multiple mid-level one-star beasts?"
Blake followed his gaze—and his expression shifted. The sight he witnessed was shocking, almost chilling. A crimson-haired boy sat atop a mound of monster corpses—twenty at least—each of their bodies burned beyond recognition. Not a hint of satisfaction touched his face; only disappointment simmered in his eyes.
"This is not enough," Benjamin muttered. "I will not be satisfied until I defeat him."