Tristan POV
Tristan released his black blade into the darkness of his Celestial Forge. His expression remained utterly vacant—no smile, no flicker of pride for having bested his opponent, not even the faintest trace of satisfaction.
"You've grown strong, my lord," Killington said.
Tristan glanced at Killington, then lowered his gaze to his palm, which was riddled with blisters—a brutal testament to the relentless training he had endured over the past nine months.
"I'm not strong enough."
Tristan closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he found himself back in his room, with Claire seated beside him.
"I've never seen someone commit murder and then proceed to meditate."
Tristan rose from his bed, reached for the black leather gloves at his side, and began pulling them on with slow, deliberate movements.
"Meditation requires a silent mind," he said, his voice low and edged with exhaustion, "and mine is anything but."
Claire's expression tightened with concern as she stepped closer. Gently, she cupped his face and pressed her fingers beneath his eyelids, studying him carefully.
"You didn't get enough sleep," she said, her voice laced with worry.
Tristan took a step back, slipping free from her touch.
"I'll be fine."
He shrugged on his black coat and moved toward the exit of his resting quarters. The room lay within the inner confines of the church—one of many chambers hidden behind the cathedral walls. Though the inhabitants of the underground city did not reside in these quarters, they were nevertheless occupied by members of the Clockwork Path. As Tristan stepped into the corridor, Claire followed closely behind, their footsteps echoing softly as they made their way toward the cathedral's central chamber.
"You came to my room early this morning," Tristan said, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture refined, almost aristocratic. "So I assume there's something Bertal wants us to do."
Claire, walking a few paces behind him, replied, "We've been sent to Sector 3 to find someone."
Tristan's mind stirred with curiosity.
"Is it the replacement for Trei?" he asked bluntly.
Claire nodded.
Two months prior, the third-ranked member of their order had been killed in action. The identity of his killer remained unknown, though fragments of his final reports from the capital hinted at something far more complex. Tristan himself had never been told the full truth of Trei's mission—only that it involved gathering information on a particular individual. Who that individual was remained a mystery, one Tristan had neither the means nor the answers to solve.
As they continued down the corridor, Tristan's composure faltered slightly at the sight of a familiar figure approaching from the opposite direction—the Jester.
Irritation flickered across his features.
He attempted to sidestep him, but the Jester immediately moved to block his path, forcing an encounter Tristan had no desire to entertain.
"Good day, great one," the Jester said, his tone dripping with mockery.
Tristan exhaled slowly, already weary of the interaction.
"What do you want, Jester?"
The man chuckled behind his mask, raising his arm to reveal the prosthetic hand that had been crafted for him.
"It's been feeling a little slow lately. I'm going to have it checked out," he said casually. "Perhaps you should come along, seeing as you're the one who did this to me."
Claire stepped forward, a frown etched across her face as she cut into the exchange.
"It's as if you've forgotten I'm standing right here."
The Jester feigned surprise, placing a hand dramatically over the mouth of his mask. He bowed slightly, one hand pressed to his chest.
"Oh, my apologies, Doi," he said, glancing up at Tristan with amusement. "The great one's babysitter."
Tristan remained unmoved, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. He offered no retort, no acknowledgment—only silence. Then, without another word, he walked past the Jester and continued down the corridor.
Fatigue weighed heavily on him, yet he refused to yield to it.
Behind him, the Jester clicked his tongue in irritation, unable to provoke the reaction he so clearly desired. With a frustrated scoff, he turned and walked away.
Claire let out a soft chuckle as she caught up to Tristan, seamlessly resuming their conversation.
"The person we're looking for goes by the name Jack the Ripper."
Tristan's weary eyes widened, the name cutting through his exhaustion like a blade.
"Jack the Ripper… are you certain that's the name?" he asked.
"Yes," Claire confirmed. "I'm certain."
The name echoed in Tristan's mind—a relic from his previous world. A figure cloaked in infamy, known for the grotesque murder of five women. The question gnawed at him.
How had such a name crossed into this world?
Curiosity stirred within him, but he knew better than to expect answers to materialize without effort.
"What does he do?" Tristan asked.
"He doesn't move often," Claire replied, "but he's known for the deaths of important nobles. And his methods… they've been described as something utterly horrifying."
Tristan brought a hand to his mouth, his interest sharpening, evolving into something darker, more focused.
"Is there any more information?" he asked.
"We're to meet with an informant once we arrive."
Sector 3 of Constella—ruled by House White and protected by Orion, the strongest Pillar. Entering such a domain was inherently dangerous, but Tristan felt no fear. If anything, he welcomed it. There was something intoxicating about stepping into enemy territory, about defying the structures that sought to confine him.
Before killing the Lord Chancellor, Tristan had never ventured beyond the boundary separating the Lower Districts. Back then, the world had seemed dazzling—almost beautiful. Now, he saw it for what it truly was.
A facade.
A world built upon the suffering of others, upheld by those who dared to call themselves noble while trampling upon the very people who sustained their existence.
Yet Tristan's crusade was not born of ideology alone.
It was personal.
The murder of a dear friend. The loss of a father figure. These were the wounds that fueled him, the fire that drove him forward, compelling him to pursue greater and greater power.
"Let's be off, then," Tristan said at last.
Claire shook her head.
"We're not complete yet. There's one more person joining us."
Tristan turned, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Who?"
A voice answered from behind him.
"That would be me."
Tristan turned to see a brown-skinned boy with long locks standing there, his presence calm yet undeniable.
Recognition flickered.
It was him—the boy from the academy entrance exam. The one who had defeated his beast simply by standing still.
Tristan had forgotten his name.
The boy did not allow that to persist.
"I am Victor Heart," he said evenly, "and I am the third member of this team."