At the campsite where the representatives and other notable figures resided, Clara felt like a small fish cast into an immense pond filled with towering presences. She was merely a tactician—ordinary, unremarkable—standing among the strongest figures the country had to offer. The disparity was terrifying, so much so that discomfort coiled tightly in her chest. Within the confines of her tent, she sat alone, twiddling her fingers nervously, uncertain whether she even possessed the courage to step outside.
Her thoughts did not rest easy. Her mind wandered constantly to her friend—the one she had met only weeks ago, yet for reasons she could not fully understand, she felt inexplicably drawn to him.
"I hope Tristan is okay," she whispered softly, clasping her hands together as she closed her eyes, almost as if she were offering a prayer for his safety and well-being.
That fragile moment was interrupted by the arrival of the Headmaster.
Clara rose to her feet at once, her familiar exhaustion settling visibly upon her face as she addressed the visitor with respectful urgency. "Headmaster? What brings you here?"
The Headmaster's gaze swept across the tent. It was simple to the point of austerity—nearly empty, the only things the young girl had were a gas lamp and a soft cushion that served as Clara's bed.
"Am I not allowed to visit one of my students?" she asked calmly.
Clara smiled awkwardly and shook her head. "No, of course not. Your visit simply surprised me."
The Headmaster studied her for a moment before gesturing toward the cushion. "May I sit?"
Clara nodded.
The Headmaster seated herself gently, then tapped the space beside her, silently inviting Clara to join her. Clara hesitated only briefly before obliging, settling beside the Headmaster.
"Tell me, child," the Headmaster said softly, "are you comfortable here? If you wish, I could provide you with more—perhaps even a proper bed."
"No," Clara replied immediately. "This is already more than I deserve, considering I wasn't meant to be here in the first place."
The Headmaster smiled faintly and placed a reassuring hand on Clara's shoulder. After a moment, she withdrew it and asked quietly, "Why are you so close to Tristan Merigold? Or rather… what is it that draws you to him?"
The question caught Clara off guard. She had wondered the same thing herself, more times than she could count. She was drawn to Tristan, yet she could not fully explain why—nor could she understand why he had shown such kindness to someone he had only just met.
"At first," Clara said slowly, "I thought it was because we were two lonely souls who happened to meet at the right time. But I realized that wasn't true." She paused, then continued, "He has friends—people who clearly care for him. So we aren't the same."
"No," the Headmaster replied gently. "I believe the opposite is true. That boy, despite being surrounded by those who care for him, carries an unmistakable loneliness in his eyes."
Clara tilted her head, confusion etched plainly across her face. Lonely? That didn't make sense. Tristan was always surrounded by people—laughing, fighting, moving forward. How could someone like that be lonely?
"I don't quite understand," Clara admitted. "How can someone with so many friends feel so alone?"
The Headmaster's expression darkened with quiet sorrow. "He is not lonely in a physical sense, but in a mental one. He has people he could confide in—should confide in—but instead, he chooses to bear everything alone."
"You can tell all of that from the few interactions you've had with him?" Clara asked.
The Headmaster chuckled softly. "It is simply what I see."
She rose and walked toward the tent's entrance. Before leaving, she turned back once more, offering Clara a final, knowing glance. Then she departed, leaving Clara alone with her thoughts.
Clara inhaled slowly, then stood. Seeking clarity, she stepped outside, hoping the vast sky above might offer answers her mind could not.
As she moved, she froze.
A figure stood before her tent.
He was a boy with a lanky frame, unkempt orange hair, and wire-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose. She recognized him faintly—someone she had glimpsed once before.
"Clara Harrison," he said evenly, "please come with me."
Clara recoiled instinctively, clutching her chest as a chill ran down her spine. Something about his presence unsettled her deeply.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling.
The boy's stoic expression shifted into a faint smile—almost welcoming, disturbingly calm.
"Eric Thindel."
…
The trio pressed onward through the desolation of the desert, eventually reaching the coral lands of the island—a new terrain, and most likely territory claimed by an opposing team. They used their blades to cut through obstructing coral as they advanced.
Yet something felt wrong.
It was not merely the absence of the team meant to occupy the area—it was the silence. Not a single Fallen Star beast attacked them.
As they ventured deeper into the coral lands, they began to encounter corpses. Beast corpses. And something about them was deeply unsettling.
Garfield knelt to inspect one. The body was mangled—its head split cleanly from its torso, limbs torn apart with brutal force.
"Whatever team did this," Garfield muttered, "killed these beasts in the least humane way imaginable."
They continued forward, and the deeper they went, the more remains they found—scattered limbs, shattered bodies. Until they came upon a single severed limb.
This one was different.
Human.
The trio's expressions hardened instantly as they drew their weapons. This time, every step forward was slow, deliberate, and cautious.
Then they heard it—a scream.
A girl's scream.
They ran toward the sound, arriving at a scene of pure horror. A terrified girl crawled desperately across the coral, her right arm torn from her body, blood pouring freely as she left crimson pools behind her.
And standing over her was not a beast.
It was a man.
He wore a suit split evenly between black and white, though the white half was so drenched in blood it was nearly unrecognizable. He turned slowly toward them, revealing a theatrical mask—half smiling, half frowning.
"Who is that?" Amelia whispered.
Garfield didn't know.
But Tristan did.
His blood boiled as his grip tightened around his blade.
"Jester!" Tristan roared.