A horrific expression crept across Tristan's face as fear seized his heart with merciless force. His friend—someone so precious, so irreplaceable to him—was figuratively held at gunpoint, her life balanced on the cruel whim of another's hand.
Tristan wondered what he could do. He was not fast enough to stop the Jester from crushing her neck, nor was he strong enough to face the Jester in one-on-one combat, and then there was the matter of his ability—an ability Tristan had yet to fully understand.
He stretched out his hand slowly, desperately, as though the gesture itself could somehow defuse the situation.
"Please… don't do this," Tristan said.
The Jester stared at him in silence for a moment, then replied, "There is no way you thought that would be enough to make me stop."
Tristan was lost. He had no idea what he could do, or if there was anything he could do at all.
"You confuse me," the Jester continued. "You have so much potential, and yet when I look into your eyes, all I see is reluctance." He tilted his head slightly. "Reluctance to show your true self, but there is a place for people like you."
Wanting to prolong the conversation, to buy himself even a few more seconds to think, Tristan indulged him.
"Where is that?"
"The Order… our order. We accept people who feel rejected by the world," the Jester replied.
"But you're also terrorists," Tristan said, speaking from deep within himself, paying little mind to the words spilling recklessly from his mouth.
The Jester's face was hidden, but Tristan could sense his irritation. He began humming softly, then raised his head slightly. The moon was obscured by towering coral formations that blocked the sky, yet thin strands of silver light still managed to slip through the gaps.
"Maybe we are," the Jester said calmly. "Most of them do this because they feel wronged… rejected by the world. But me…" He lowered his head and fixed his gaze on the crimson-haired boy. "I do this for the love of combat."
Amelia began to tremble, sweat trailing from her forehead down to her cheek.
"No matter how long you drag out this conversation, I will still snap this girl's neck."
Tristan knew he was weak. That truth was painfully clear, especially when faced with such overwhelming strength. The helplessness clawing at his chest reminded him of another moment—another time when he had felt just as powerless. Even then, all he could do was stand and watch as someone he loved suffered, and eventually died.
'After all this time, I'm still weak. Of course death is something I can't control—death comes for everyone—but… that's bullshit. I want to be strong enough to stop the people I love from dying. And with this second chance, this power given to me, I will work toward that singular goal.'
Tristan drew his blade from its sheath, gripped it with both hands, and pointed it toward his enemy. The moment his fingers made contact with the hilt, a notification appeared before him.
[Your call for power has been answered.]
[Emotional Strength Activated.]
"What do you expect to do with a blade from that distance?" the Jester asked mockingly.
The Jester squinted slightly, sensing that something had changed. Tristan's power was rising at an alarming rate. It climbed steadily to the strength of a Three-Star… and then further still, reaching Four-Star levels. The crimson-haired boy burst forward, moving faster than he ever had before. He swung to sever the hand restraining Amelia, but the Jester reacted swiftly, leaping back just in time.
Tristan caught the Jester's wrist—not seriously—but Tristan still managed to cut him. The Jester stared at the blood staining his wrist, then looked at Tristan, who now stood firmly between him and the silver-haired maiden. His voice betrayed the fury hidden beneath his mask.
"You… you filth. You are filth! How dare you make me draw blood! I am unbreakable! You are nothing more than a seedling, a cog in a machine!"
Tristan met his gaze, every emotion burning openly on his face.
"You spew a whole lot of rubbish, but if I'm all that, then what are you?"
The Jester summoned a spear and declared, "I am unbreakable."
They rushed toward each other, Tristan's speed now matching the Jester's—to his evident surprise. The Jester thrust his spear forward, aiming for Tristan's heart, but Tristan deflected the attack with his Star Divider and pressed forward, forcing the Jester into close-range combat.
Tristan slashed for the Jester's neck, but the Jester ducked beneath the blade and swept Tristan's legs out from under him with a powerful swing of his spear. He leapt upward, poised to finish the fallen boy, raising his spear high before driving it downward. But Tristan's enhanced perception allowed him to read the movement; he tilted his head just enough to avoid the strike.
The Jester stabbed repeatedly, yet each time Tristan narrowly evaded. He rolled away, sprang back to his feet, and faced his enemy once more.
Amelia stood frozen, unsure of what to do, until she finally resolved to help.
"Stop!" Tristan shouted. "I don't need your help. Take Garfield and run—I'll be fine."
Amelia stared at him, torn between fear and doubt.
Tristan glanced at her and offered a smile—a smile meant to reassure her, despite everything.
The Jester hurled two daggers toward Tristan's eyes. Tristan deflected them with his blade, sending them spiraling into the air. As they fell, the Jester caught them effortlessly and brought them down in a deadly arc. Tristan stepped back, avoiding the strike, then countered, slicing cleanly through the Jester's torso—yet, just as before when Killington struck him and Amelia's La Glace touched him, it was as though the blow never landed. The severed portion dissolved like an illusion.
The Jester reappeared several steps away, daggers clenched tightly in his hands.
"Luck," Tristan said grimly as he spun his sword. "A truly horrifying ability—one that prevents you from dying. But last I heard, you have a time limit, and it depends on the number on the card you draw."
The Jester tilted his head, confusion surfacing.
"I don't recall ever meeting you before. So how do you know so much?"
Tristan smirked and rushed forward, swinging for the Jester's head. The strike was blocked instantly. The Jester countered, grazing Tristan's abdomen with his second dagger. Tristan stumbled back, clutching the wound as blood seeped through his fingers. The two clashed again—Star Divider against twin daggers—metal ringing violently, sparks bursting with every impact. Each strike was met with a block, each block with a counter, and each counter with a desperate dodge, forming an endless cycle of violence.
The Jester attempted a leg sweep, but Tristan leapt over it and brought his blade down as the Jester hit the ground. The Jester rolled aside, kicked himself upright, and slashed diagonally at Tristan's neck. Tristan barely avoided the blow, losing his footing and crashing to the ground.
Exhaustion began to overwhelm him. The backlash of the borrowed power weighed heavily on his body. His breathing grew ragged, his muscles screamed with agony, yet he refused to stop—not because stopping would mean his own death, but because stopping would doom the people he cared about.
The Jester chuckled as Tristan lay on the ground.
"You can't push any further. That is humanity for you. Limited by frailty. You are the perfect example—so much power trapped in such a fragile body. You have a threshold, one you will never overcome, because you… we… are simply human. That is the most frustrating part of it all," the Jester said, his tone softening almost sympathetically.
He spun his daggers once more, then stilled them in a reverse grip.
"This is the end of you."
He charged toward Tristan.
Tristan forced himself upward despite the pain, but he knew it—he could no longer move. Perhaps this was the end. Perhaps the Jester was right. Human frailty had always shackled him.
'If only I weren't human… if only I weren't weak.'
The Jester lunged, his dagger inches from Tristan's kneck.
"At least I gave them time to get away," Tristan whispered softly, thinking of his two companions—his two friends.