With permission granted by the majority of the Representatives, Tristan was allowed to reenter the final stage of the examination.
He continued to glare at Decker, a look of disdain mixed with unspoken questions etched into his expression. Why? Why would Decker vote in favor of his return? The answer had been made painfully clear during their very first exchange: Decker wanted Tristan to pass—only so he could make his life a waking nightmare.
'I'd like to see you try,' Tristan thought bitterly.
As he stood locked in thought, Garfield suddenly snuck up behind him and gave him a hearty, almost violent pat on the back.
"Congratulations, brother! Looks like you'll be joining after all. But just one question…"
Tristan turned, puzzled by the sudden interruption.
"What?"
"How exactly are you going to fight without your Star Weapon?"
Tristan's face darkened as the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.
'Damn. I forgot I don't have a weapon… but I can't let them think I came here unprepared.'
Thinking quickly, he conjured an excuse that might both justify his lack of weaponry and impress the crowd. Without hesitation, he turned his eyes toward Yaron and pointed directly at him.
"I don't need my Star Weapon to defeat someone of his level," he said, voice laced with venom, his expression twisted with contempt.
Yaron's pride took a blow, but he recomposed himself swiftly. He wouldn't allow himself to be riled up by someone of lower blood. That would be beneath him.
Yaron chuckled mockingly, placing his hand over his face before dragging it slowly through his cerulean hair. "I hope you're not all bark, rat. I know your kind—prone to lies and delusion."
The hatred Tristan harbored for Yaron was on par with what he felt toward Decker. But now was not the time for blind rage. He turned sharply and sprinted toward a nearby weapons rack. Countless weapons lay before him, but he sought only one—a longsword akin to his own.
His search was short-lived. He found it—a simple blade, dull and unimpressive, hardly capable of slicing fruit. Still, it would suffice. Grasping the worn hilt, he turned and made his way back to the central stage.
Garfield met him halfway.
"What's the plan?" he whispered, eyes locked on the enemy.
"Huh? Plan?" Tristan scoffed. "There is no plan. I just want to beat that guy into the ground."
Garfield laughed heartily. "Alright then. If that's the case, I'll handle the rest," he said with his signature grin.
Tristan's eyes briefly drifted to the scorched side of Garfield's body, concern flickering across his face.
"You sure you'll be fine?"
"Don't worry, brother. I'll be fine. Just focus on your fight!"
With that, Garfield took his stance, axe in hand, eyes filled with unshakable resolve.
Tristan tapped the brooch on his suit, activating his STAR uniform. The red skin-tight suit snapped into place, followed by the emergence of his segmented armor. He pulled on his half-mask, then drew up his hood.
In the stands, Amelia and Darren observed silently.
"I knew it was only a matter of time before he snapped," Darren muttered. "But I worry. The High District has trained their elite in combat since birth. I don't think he's ready for this."
Amelia paused before answering, her expression unreadable.
"He'll be fine."
Darren blinked, surprised by her conviction, but said nothing more.
The Colosseum fell into silence, all eyes trained on the stage. Only one voice echoed through the arena.
"With all distractions cast aside, the examination shall resume!"
As her final word left her lips, the air cracked with the roar of thunder. A golden blur streaked across the field—Francis, his short sword gleaming, surged toward Tristan like a bolt of lightning, intent on ending him before the battle truly began.
But his strike was intercepted.
Garfield, with monstrous reflexes, blocked Francis's vertical slash using the belly of his Norse-inspired axe.
"I hope you didn't think you could take out my brother while I was still breathing!" he roared, voice brimming with fire.
Behind him, Tristan remained motionless, unfazed by the sudden assault.
"Thanks for that, Garfield."
"No problem, brother," Garfield replied.
With a mighty shove, Garfield launched Francis backward, putting distance between them. He then summoned his power, commanding the earth beneath him. A stone platform formed beneath his feet and surged forward like a surfer on a wave, closing the gap between him and Francis.
Meanwhile, Yaron seethed, his disappointment boiling over.
"Francis! What the hell do you think you're doing?! You're letting these rats humiliate you! I expected better!" he bellowed.
The sting of his brother's words struck Francis like a dagger. He faltered, his confidence shaken, focus dwindling.
"Hey," Garfield's voice rang out again, strong and sincere, "don't listen to him. You're one of the toughest opponents I've faced. And I want that version of you—the one who fights with purpose. If your head's not in this, then even when I win, it won't feel like a victory."
Francis blinked. Then he smirked.
"So you think you've already won, huh? I guess it's time I show you I'm not so easily beaten."
He reversed his grip on the blade, eyes narrowing.
Electricity surged around him. Blue lightning arced across his limbs, and the air trembled with each crackling pulse. The crowd erupted, their cheers deafening, their excitement contagious.
"I like the sound of that!" Garfield shouted back, spinning his axe in a tight, circular flourish.
There they stood—Garfield and Francis. Two warriors from separate worlds. Yet in this moment, they were equals. Bound not by blood, but by battle.
And as they stared one another down, the war drums of fate beat louder.
As the clash between Garfield and Francis loomed on the horizon, Tristan shifted his full attention to Yaron. In the brief moments he spent analyzing him, something became clear—Yaron wasn't armed.
"You look down on us so much that you don't even bother to bring a weapon?" Tristan said, his voice sharp, accusatory.
Yaron smirked, the condescension in his expression unmistakable.
"I may not consider you two threats," he replied, his tone dripping with disdain, "but I'm not foolish enough to come without my Star Weapon."
"Then where is it?" Tristan snapped.
Yaron chuckled darkly, then fixed Tristan with a glare so cold and calculated it sent a chill down his spine—his eyes gleaming with a quiet, deadly promise.