"What a failure... I will not fail. I'll prove to them that I am worth their attention," Yaron muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his head bowed low, eyes fixed on the ground.
A few steps away, Tristan watched him. Though the anger in his chest still smoldered, something new dawned within him—concern. His gaze drifted toward the now-concluded battle between Garfield and Francis, the lingering aftermath etched in the dust and silence.
'I've never seen him like that,' Tristan thought. 'I guess he does have other emotions besides happiness.'
He turned his head, focusing his eyes sharply on Yaron.
"So, are you done whispering to yourself?" he shouted. "Because I'm ready to get this started!"
Yaron—who was always seen with a devilish grin—had shed that expression entirely. His face was grave. He refused to speak. Wordlessly, he dropped into a stance, one that mirrored that of a seasoned boxer—solid, precise, unshakable.
Tristan said nothing. Like a predator circling its prey, he moved with primal calculation, dull blade in hand. He dragged the sword along the dirt, the grating metal carving a perfect circle into the ground, leaving a trail of rising dust in his wake.
Once he completed a full rotation around the blue-haired boy, he began a second—and just as he reached Yaron's back, he lunged.
With blade raised high, Tristan prepared to cleave him in two with a vertical slash—but the moment the blade connected, it felt as though he'd struck air. His sword sliced clean through Yaron's form and embedded itself into the solid earth at his feet.
Tristan's typically composed expression twisted into confusion and shock.
Yaron remained unharmed, untouched. He didn't even flinch. Tristan had no time to process the impossibility—Yaron spun around in a blur, extended his arm, and delivered a devastating backhand to Tristan's face, sending him crashing into the dirt.
As he lay in the soil, stunned and breathless, only one thought echoed through his mind:
What was that?
Yaron advanced slowly. His face was calm, his footfalls soundless, his silence deafening. He raised a clenched fist and drove it toward Tristan's face.
Reacting instinctively, Tristan grabbed his dull blade and used its flat edge to block the blow. But once again—no impact. It was like trying to catch smoke. He barely had time to wonder before Yaron launched a brutal kick into his side, targeting his already fractured ribs.
Pain exploded through Tristan's body as he clutched his side, a low groan escaping his lips.
"That's a dirty move... I thought your people were supposed to be refined?" he spat through clenched teeth.
Yaron adjusted the gauntlets on his wrists and replied coolly, "It's unfortunate. I don't like resorting to such tactics… but I can't afford to lose."
His eyes no longer gleamed with arrogance—they blazed with purpose. Everything about him had changed. He wasn't the smug noble brat anymore. He was resolute, focused, relentless.
And Tristan? He—no, the lazy man—had no true reason to fight.
Sure, he hated Yaron… but was hatred alone enough to match such unwavering determination?
And then the lazy man remembered…
He was once a quiet, timid boy—just a shadow in a classroom, invisible and unheard.
"Hey, I can borrow this, right?" a boy asked, already holding his pen.
He had wanted to say no. He should have said no. But he couldn't. Fear strangled his words. The boy laughed and walked away with his pen… again. Every day, the same routine. Until one day—
"Please… stop taking my pen. My parents… they can't afford to keep replacing them," he whispered, his voice fragile, barely holding together.
The boy's smile twisted into a sneer.
"So you do have a voice, huh? I don't care. So what are you gonna do about it, Christopher?" he sneered, standing nose-to-nose with him.
The boy's eyes burned with cruelty. He knew the shy boy wouldn't fight back. Christopher stared at the floor, powerless. He couldn't even muster the courage to look him in the eye.
Then the bully grabbed Christopher by the hair, forcing him to look up, forcing him to see him.
"You're nothing. Just a voiceless puppet. Stay that way," he hissed.
Eventually, Christopher began to skip school. Once a week at first, then twice… then three times. Then came the silence—he stopped going altogether. For months, he shut himself away in his room, sleeping endlessly, drowning in the black waters of depression.
"I should kill myself," he muttered into the darkness, clutching his pillow, tears soaking the fabric.
Then—he appeared. The older Christopher stood before his younger self, staring into his broken reflection.
"No… you shouldn't," the older Christopher said softly.
"Then what should I do?!" the younger one shouted, tears now streaming down his face. "Tell me what I should do!"
Back then, he didn't know. But over time, the answer revealed itself.
"Use your hate," the older Christopher said. "Use it. Let it be the reason you push yourself. Show them you're not a puppet. Go to school. Show them that your hate is your strength. That's all the reason you'll ever need."
He extended his hand.
The younger self looked at it… then raised his head. And for the first time, he stood up.
He reached forward and took the hand of his future self.
[Star Divider has answered your shout for change.]
The skies darkened. Day became night.
"What's happening?" murmured voices from the crowd echoed in awe.
Above, stars shimmered—countless stars piercing the darkness. One broke away and began to descend.
A blade fell from the heavens, stabbing into the earth before Tristan like a celestial artifact of legend. His blade of legend.
The Star Divider. A black blade, its edges glittering with the light of stars. The sky itself honored its arrival.
Tristan stared, stunned. Yaron stared. The crowd gaped in silence. No one knew what was happening.
But slowly, Tristan lifted his right arm and gripped the hilt.
[Star Divider has answered your shout for change.]
[All stats amplified.]
[Star's Blessing activated. All injuries have been healed.]
"I wondered... for a moment… if my hate was enough to win this fight," Tristan said, rising, his voice steeled with clarity. "But now I have no doubt."
He raised the blade from the earth, gripping it with both hands.
"My hate is greater than your determination."