"You remain silent, yet I sense you. I feel your energy slowly converging, reforming what you once were. I know you are there, so heed my call."
Tristan's eyes remained closed as he lay upon the ground, his body utterly exhausted after pushing himself beyond his absolute limits by tapping into a power he was never meant to wield so soon. The Jester slowly approached him and quickly noticed the boy's closed eyes. In a condescending tone, he said, "Praying to your god will not save you."
Tristan opened his eyes and looked at the Jester with a smile.
Why would he smile? Tristan understood the gravity of the situation he was in, yet he smiled anyway. Why?
"I'm not praying… I have no need to pray when my God has already answered."
The Jester balanced his dagger atop a single finger, then tossed it lightly into the air before catching it with effortless precision.
"Tell me, what prayer do you speak of?"
Tristan said nothing, but his smile never wavered.
The Jester clicked his tongue in irritation. He stood over the boy as he prepared the final, precise strike that would end their battle.
"You are a perfect example of human frailty. Your emotions bind you. You would rather sacrifice yourself for the sake of others… how very sad," he said, bringing his dagger down—swift and exact—its target Tristan's heart.
The blade drew closer, yet there was no fear upon the crimson-haired boy's face. To him, it felt as though time itself had slowed to a crawl. Was it exhaustion? Or something else entirely? Whatever the cause, one truth remained clear in his mind: he would not die here. Not yet.
As the dagger touched his chest, nearly piercing flesh and plunging into his heart, the hand that held the blade… separated cleanly from its body.
The Jester's expression twisted as he stared at his severed hand, then at the wound from which blood began to gush violently, staining the ground a deep crimson. He reeled in agony, screaming at the top of his lungs as he clutched what remained of his arm.
"My arm! It's gone!"
He turned toward Tristan—and beside him stood a warrior. A warrior cloaked in shadow, wielding a blade as long as a man.
"You took your time, Killington," Tristan said weakly from the ground.
Killington bowed deeply in reverence to his king. "Forgive me, my lord. It took longer than I anticipated to reform."
Tristan slowly began to rise, his gaze fixed on the Jester, a faint smile still playing at his lips. Though the mask obscured his features, Tristan could feel the fury radiating from the Jester—anger, humiliation, disbelief.
Killington plunged his blade into the earth, then moved to support his lord, offering his shoulder as Tristan struggled to stand. Tristan smirked at the blood-soaked Jester.
"Tell me… in your current condition, are you prepared to face two opponents?" Tristan asked calmly.
The Jester, blood still pouring from his wound, took a hesitant step backward. He assessed Tristan's state—barely able to move—meaning the true threat was the shadow-clad warrior.
No. There was something else. Someone else. A presence approaching rapidly.
"You feel it, don't you?" Tristan continued. "The power approaching may not rival yours, but in your current state, it will be more than enough. Combined with my warrior… you are finished."
Tristan began to laugh—a villainous, gut-wrenching laugh that grated against the Jester's nerves.
His body burned with agony, yet even that pain could not silence his laughter.
The Jester's stare turned cold—vengeful and murderous. Suddenly, his body began to disintegrate into tiny particles, fragments carried away by the wind. But before the last of him scattered into nothingness, he spoke.
"We will meet again soon. And when we do… I will have my revenge."
Seconds after the final remnants of the Jester vanished, a scared man appeared. He was unmistakably the source of the power Tristan had sensed. The man glanced left, then sharply right, a frown etched upon his face. He steadied himself and approached the exhausted boy. He noticed the shadowed warrior but quickly deduced it was not hostile—though he kept a wary eye on it regardless.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Yes… Are Amelia and Garfield safe?" Tristan replied.
The man nodded. "I directed them along the safest route back to camp. But we must move quickly so we can tend to your injuries."
"Of course. Though I may require your assistance to walk, because… this man will no longer be able to remain in this physical form."
The man frowned in confusion but offered his support nonetheless. He draped Tristan's arm over his shoulder and helped him walk. Once Tristan was steady, Killington bowed once more before receding into his master's shadow.
As they navigated the coral reefs, the man briefed Tristan on what had transpired over the past hour.
"Approximately one hour ago, three individuals appeared on the island without warning. They attacked the teams nearest to them. Four are dead. Three more are injured. The assault caught us completely off guard, and the only person capable of reaching each team in time was nowhere to be found."
"The Headmaster?" Tristan asked quietly.
"Yes. For reasons unknown, she vanished. She was nowhere near the island. But one question still troubles me. There were four teams… yet only three attackers. Why was your team singled out?"
Even Tristan had no answer. Why were they specifically not targeted? It felt deliberate, calculated—almost personal. But for what reason?
"I don't know," Tristan admitted, his tone heavy with uncertainty.
"There's something else. That being that fought beside you—what was it?" the man pressed.
Tristan had tried to conceal his ability for as long as possible, but that was no longer feasible. Though he would reveal the truth, he would not reveal all of it.
"He is my summoned warrior, awakened when I bound my very essence to my weapon."
"I see," the man responded thoughtfully.
The remainder of their journey passed in silence. They paused several times so Tristan could recover, then continued onward. After nearly an hour, they reached a massive gate. It appeared to guard nothing, yet it remained firmly closed.
The scared man raised his hand, and the enormous metal gate began to creak open, its mechanisms groaning under it's own weight. Beyond it lay a campsite. The gate functioned as a bridge connecting different parts of the island.
The moment Tristan crossed through, he was engulfed in a sudden embrace—a desperate, trembling hug from a silver-haired girl. Tears streamed down her face, her body shaking violently.
"I was worried," she whispered.
Though pain coursed through him, Tristan gently raised a hand and placed it upon her head.
"I told you," he said softly, "I would be fine."