When the fairy wearing Tristan's name was lured into pursuit by hatred, Tristan quickly sensed that, besides Bavanzi, other Servants had also followed him in the shadows.
And their identities, for Tristan, were hardly difficult to guess.
Those who ignored the main battlefield and chased after him with the intent to kill could only be ones who bore personal grudges. Among the enemies opposing the Lion King, the ones who harbored deep hatred for him—besides that fairy knight "Tristan"—were, of course, the Hassans whose brethren he had slaughtered.
Though he could vaguely sense their lurking presence, they were Assassins, masters of concealment. Tristan could not pinpoint their exact positions, yet he had long prepared himself, always alert for their ambush.
Thus, when Cursed Arm and Hundred Faces finally revealed themselves, Tristan's Noble Phantasm—readied long in advance—was unleashed without hesitation. His right hand plucked the bowstring in a blur, and by the time the assassins closed in, they found themselves completely immobilized.
"What—!"
"Damn it—!"
Both assassins' faces changed instantly as they realized what bound them: countless thin, near-invisible threads. At some unknown moment, Tristan had already woven a web around him, like a trapdoor spider lying in wait. Now the prey had been ensnared.
Tristan seized one of the near-transparent threads and gave a savage pull. In an instant, bloody cuts split across the bodies of Cursed Arm and Hundred Faces, crimson gushing forth.
At the same time, Tristan swiftly raised his bow, aiming it at the two behind him. Dense violet mana condensed upon it.
"As fragile as you are, you've no right to speak of revenge."
In desperation, Cursed Arm clenched his teeth and forced his body to move, heedless of the agony as the threads sliced into his flesh. His cursed arm reached out toward Tristan.
Tristan noticed and quickly retreated, wary of the hand. But at that very moment, several scarlet arrows flew in from another angle—Bavanzi, having spotted the situation, had immediately loosed her bow to aid the assassins.
Faced with the threat, Tristan hesitated for half a breath before making his choice. Between two dangers, he chose the greater one: the cursed hand weighed heavier than Bavanzi's arrows.
He ignored the incoming shots and released his prepared strike—Phantasm: Lament of the Weeping Strings.
The violet arrow blazed like a falling star, piercing Cursed Arm's cursed limb. The bandaged red arm crumbled like rotten wood, annihilated by the searing power, leaving behind only a faint, unwilling wisp of crimson ash.
The next instant, Tristan dove to the side, evading Bavanzi's blood arrows as best he could. Yet destroying Cursed Arm's arm had cost him precious time. Even with all his effort, one arrow struck his shoulder, sending him staggering.
Gritting his teeth, Cursed Arm grabbed a dagger with his remaining hand, ready to hurl it at Tristan's face.
But Tristan was far faster than expected. Before the blade could fly, Tristan's other hand drew Filnaught again. He released a formless wind blade, which split open Cursed Arm's chest and belly, ready to cleave him in two.
Yet suddenly, the blood spurting from the wound came alive. Part of it surged together, shattering the wind blade, while the rest formed sharp crimson spikes that shot toward Tristan.
"Gh!"
This time, Tristan could not avoid them. The blood spikes pierced into his body. With a groan, he slashed another wind blade, cutting them apart, but he staggered backward, blood spilling heavily.
"To think you'd weaponize the blood your ally shed… quite ruthless."
Glancing at the incapacitated Hundred Faces and Cursed Arm, Tristan turned back to Bavanzi.
"But it's unfortunate. Your combined assault failed to kill or cripple me. Alone, you still have no chance."
"Is that so? Is that really what you think?"
Bavanzi let out a sigh of relief and said softly:
"Unfortunately for you, the battle is already over. You're already a dead man."
Tristan frowned, then sneered.
"Hah? What arrogance. How could you say such—"
But mid-sentence, Bavanzi plucked her bowstring.
A blood-red light flashed across Tristan's body. Agonizing pain cut him off, and looking down, he found a wound had appeared on him out of nowhere.
"Impossible… you've learned the wind blade too?"
For a moment Tristan was stunned by the familiar attack. Then he realized:
"No… not wind. With your strength, you couldn't produce a strike even I wouldn't sense. That means… this attack is—"
His expression darkened as the realization hit.
"It was… that blood arrow earlier!"
"Well, well, you figured it out that quickly." Bavanzi tilted her head, impressed, then sneered.
"Yes. When you were struck by the arrow condensed from my own blood, it carried my essence into your veins. Now my blood has spread throughout your body… fulfilling the condition for my newly learned curse."
"You—"
Before Tristan could speak, Bavanzi brushed the strings of her harp-bow, modeled after Filnaught. As notes rang out, blood flared across Tristan's body, deep wounds tearing him open.
He tried to endure the pain and reach for Filnaught's string in counterattack, but Bavanzi struck again. A flash of bloodlight severed his arm at the root.
Then, mercilessly, she plucked three more times, slicing away his remaining limbs.
"…To think you'd have such a method. Truly the daughter of a witch. I underestimated you."
Collapsed on the ground, Tristan strained his neck to look at her one last time before lying flat, resigned.
"Not killing me outright… do you mean to torment me first? Hah. If you want to see me suffer, you'll be disappointed."
"Because as the beast you are, nothing I do could break you?" Bavanzi's cold gaze pierced him. Then she said:
"What if I told you I have a way to strip away the Lion King's blessing?"
"—" Tristan froze.
Bavanzi drew a dagger, its blade gleaming with strange power, and approached him. She thrust it into his chest.
"This is a replica of the dagger All Seals Must Break my mother entrusted to me. It shatters contracts and magical states alike. Perfect for you."
Her eyes burned with venom as she hissed:
"Your blood won't drain out immediately. Until then, repent for your crimes."
She turned away, heading to aid Cursed Arm and Hundred Faces.
"…So she really is that woman's daughter."
As she departed, the light in Tristan's eyes dimmed, despair flooding in as the blessing left him. Yet alongside the sorrow and regret, there was also relief.
"To die wretchedly, consumed by despair and remorse… quite a fitting end for a villain like me."
He whispered, blind eyes staring into the void.
"At least… something to be slightly grateful for."
At the same time as Tristan's fall, on a floating isle above the Holy City, Agravain, locked in a death match with Melusine, suddenly stiffened.
"—Tristan is dead?"
His distraction caused a lapse in his coordination with the knights under him, creating a gap in their formation. Melusine, cornered as she was, seized the chance, slashing through and beheading a berserk Knight of the Round in a flash of steel.
"Damn it… of all times…"
Agravain gritted his teeth and tried to rally the knights to surround Melusine again. But the fallen knight's death had already broken their lines. Melusine cut through them with renewed ferocity, scattering blood and corpses in mere breaths.
As the situation spiraled, Agravain's face twisted. Blood spattered across him as knights fell one after another. At last, he smeared the blood across his face and layered himself in more madness, resolved to give everything to slay her.
But then hurried footsteps approached. A messenger sprinted toward him, shouting even before he arrived:
"Report! Lord Advisor! A message from Sir Gawain! Sir Lancelot has… he has betrayed us!"