[Ability of the Star Divider Activated.]
[Emotional Strength]
Details: [The stronger the emotion, the stronger its wielder.]
[Healing Attribute Activated.]
[Mother's Blessing]
Details: [A mother who holds strong feelings for her son has blessed you.]
"I wondered... for a moment... if my hate was enough to win this fight," Tristan said as he rose, his voice sharpened by newfound clarity. "But now I have no doubt."
He raised the blade from the earth, gripping it firmly with both hands.
"My hate is greater than your determination."
From the amphitheater, the Five Representatives stood from their seats, astonishment carved into their expressions. Day had turned to night, and a star had come crashing down to the ground. But even more striking was the feeling—an uncanny, haunting familiarity that enveloped them all.
"Why does he have her weapon?" Ruben asked, his tone thick with disbelief.
"The most beautiful weapon... the one that can change day to night. It's definitely hers," Alice White replied, her voice vibrant with excitement.
Decker stood frozen, words caught in his throat. A memory stirred—one long buried by time and the world itself.
"So... he's your son."
Sylvia said nothing, her silence joined by the other two Representatives.
Yaron stared, bewilderment etched deep into his features. How did Tristan summon his Trinket? Why did he no longer seem to feel pain? Each question clawed its way through his mind. The sky remained dark—night had truly claimed the day.
"What... what are you?" Yaron asked, his voice hollow with fear.
But Tristan remained silent, unbothered by the boy's words. With both hands wrapped tightly around the Star Divider, he stood, resolute, ready to continue the fight.
Yaron, too, took his stance, his body coiled in readiness. A heavy silence blanketed them, the moment suspended in time. Tristan, in that fleeting pause, allowed a thought to surface—a question that echoed in his mind:
What, truly, can be seen as a weapon?
Swords, spears, hammers—yes, the obvious. But was there more?
Tristan recalled when he first asked Yaron about his Star Weapon. The blue-haired boy had been certain he possessed it, yet nothing had ever been visible. With focused eyes, Tristan scanned Yaron's form—his head, his boots, his entire body—but still, no clue. No weapon.
He cast the thought aside and narrowed his focus solely on the battle.
Yaron, equally focused, launched forward—silent, swift, and without warning. A right hook. A left. Then a vicious kick to Tristan's left side. Each strike landed with rapid precision, but none did significant damage. Tristan retaliated with a vertical slash—just as before, the blade passed through Yaron's body like mist. But something had changed. As the blade phased through him, it felt as if it struck something solid—an organ perhaps.
Yaron staggered, clutching his abdomen. His breathing had grown heavy. Pain laced his face.
What is a weapon? The question returned to Tristan like a whisper in the dark.
Abilities couldn't activate without a weapon—this he knew. So Yaron must have had his on him. Then another thought struck—his ability. It allowed attacks to pass through him. But... was it really that simple?
With a burst of speed, Tristan launched a flurry of high-velocity jabs toward Yaron. At first, the blade passed through harmlessly. But soon, Yaron began to dodge. And then—finally—Tristan's blade pierced his shoulder.
He bled.
His body isn't untouchable, Tristan realized.
He'd noticed something during their exchanges—Yaron's breathing fluctuated wildly. Between each jab, the boy exhaled briefly, then sucked in air.
"So that's it," Tristan whispered under his breath.
He halted. Yaron, sensing his stillness, lunged forward—but stopped dead in his tracks a few paces away.
Tristan had moved. He placed his sword into the earth and began to draw a line.
"You know," Tristan began, his voice calm but cutting, "I've been wondering for a while now—what exactly is your ability? What is your weapon? But now... I understand."
"What are you babbling about, lesser blood?" Yaron snapped.
Tristan completed the line and looked up, his gaze cold and unreadable. On the surface, he appeared calm. But inside, his rage surged like a tidal wave.
"Your breathing," Tristan said. "That's your trick, isn't it? When you hold your breath, your body becomes intangible. And when you breathe... you become solid again."
Yaron's chest rose and fell erratically. Sweat beaded down his temples. His secret had been uncovered, and Tristan was ready to exploit it.
"You look down on us—lesser bloods," Tristan said, his voice rising. "But maybe... just maybe, it's because you are the one being looked down on. Still—" he paused, then continued with venom, "—I don't give a damn about the pain you're going through."
He stepped back and pointed to the line he had carved.
"Come then. If you're truly superior—cross this line. Show me. Show everyone."
His voice thundered across the amphitheater, even the nobles could hear him now.
Yaron bit his lip, his fists clenched with fury. Humiliation twisted his features. His cool facade cracked, and the entitled aristocrat beneath was revealed.
"How dare you think you're better than me?!" Yaron roared. "I am Yaron Rivers, second son of Laurence River! I will not be disrespected!"
Tristan had set the bait, and Yaron had taken it whole.
Yaron charged.
Tristan was ready. He grasped the Star Divider with both hands and unleashed a slash toward his opponent.
In Yaron's mind, the plan was clear.
'I'll save the last of my energy. I'll wait till the very last second... then I'll use Faze.'
He thought he had the advantage.
But he had no idea what Tristan had prepared.
"Activate: Necromancer's Mimicry. Speed of DeAndre Killington," Tristan whispered, too low for anyone around him to hear.
[Necromancer's Mimicry Activated.]
In an instant, his speed multiplied. Yaron wasn't ready. And with one swift vertical slash across his chest, it was over.
Yaron dropped to his knees. The cut wasn't deep, but it sliced through his armor and left a bleeding scar across his chest.
He had lost.
And with the last bit of energy he had left he said.
I really wish you had accepted me. I could have been like him.