849 participants had gone before Tristan, and only 20 were able to crack the crystal. Sixteen of them were from the High District, two from the Middle District, and two from the Low District. Though they had all managed to crack it, the task had proven immensely difficult—even after exerting one hundred percent of their power, they had only been able to produce a fracture. Even the so-called nobles could manage no more than a single crack.
Tristan assumed it was no ordinary crystal and voiced his suspicion to Killington.
"Yes, my lord, you are correct—it is no ordinary crystal. The globe is composed of Stagnite, a glass-like mineral that is nearly unbreakable. Even if hurled from the highest tower, it would not suffer a dent. Only when Star Energy targets its weak points will it begin to break. Those who managed to crack it merely struck the first point; there are five in total."
"I see," Tristan murmured as he observed the globe.
His number was called soon after. He walked slowly toward the platform where the crystal globe was held. The audience began to murmur—every whisper revolved around Tristan's hair. The Representatives, previously bored from the lack of spectacle, immediately sat up upon noticing the young man's appearance.
"Hey, Decker… is he a Vermillion?" Alice White asked in her refined tone.
Decker scoffed, then shrugged before replying.
"To be honest, I don't know. My uncle took many wives, so it's possible one of them left and raised a child in secrecy. But there's one thing that's certain—he is not of noble blood," he said with a menacing smile.
Tristan closed his eyes and placed his hand upon the crystal.
This stage is not a mere measurement stage—it's a test of energy manipulation. Sheer force is futile. Pouring all your energy into the globe may cause you to miss the points entirely. The key is control… to move slowly, Tristan thought to himself.
Though he had not trained extensively in Star Energy, Tristan had spent what little free time he had meditating—visualizing the intricate flow of energy within his body. Energy that coursed through the vessels, stemming from one central source—the heart, or an area close to it.
He drew in a long breath and allowed the energy to flow gently from the palm of his hand into the globe. He located the first point and directed his energy toward it. The point was like a glass cup, and the energy, like water—pour in too much, and it would overflow. And when it overflowed, that's when the crack appeared.
And just like that, Tristan produced a single crack on the globe. The audience remained indifferent—they had seen others do the same. But then, something astonishing occurred. A second crack formed… and then a third.
The crowd erupted. Their cheers echoed throughout the city, voices unified in awe and wonder. They called for him to do it again, oblivious to how much energy he had expended to achieve three cracks.
Sylvia watched in astonishment, silently impressed by the young man's extraordinary control over his Star Energy.
Tristan's breathing grew heavy. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. Sensing his limits, Sylvia—closest to him—seized his wrist and pulled his hand away from the globe.
"I told you to crack the globe, not destroy it," she said sternly.
Tristan took a deep breath, then gently removed his hand from Sylvia's grasp. Without a word, he stepped off the platform. As he descended, the announcer declared his result for all to hear.
"Number 850 has passed!" the announcer proclaimed.
The crowd erupted once more. Those from the Middle and Low Districts roared with pride, while those of the High District grimaced in disgust. That a boy of lesser blood had accomplished such a feat was unthinkable. And yet, it was done. Tristan had become an instant favorite among those born without privilege.
"Well done, brother. I'll have to do a lot to outshine you," Garfield said as Tristan passed him.
Tristan said nothing. He merely walked to the back and leaned against a nearby wall. Exhaustion gripped him—his labored breathing a clear testament to his efforts. Suddenly, a small cloaked figure appeared and handed him a drink.
"Who are you?" he asked, guarded.
The figure lifted her hood slightly, revealing blue eyes and silver hair—just enough to betray her identity.
"Amelia," he said, surprised.
"I came to watch you. Well done on passing the first stage."
Tristan took the drink and sipped it. The liquid reinvigorated him—not completely, but enough to regain some strength.
"Thank you. But you should go. If you're caught here, I don't know what will happen."
"You don't need to worry. I'll be fine. Though my maid won't be too pleased, so I'll take my leave. Good luck," she said, walking away.
Amelia exited the Colosseum. As she left, Garfield's number was called. Tristan didn't care much for him, but he was curious to gauge his control. He looked toward the stage and, to his surprise, saw that Garfield—who seemed no more than a muscle-bound brute—managed to produce two cracks in the globe.
The crowd waited, breath held, to see if he could surpass Tristan's record of three.
A third crack formed.
And then he stopped.
He was not exhausted, nor did he seem incapable of locating the remaining points.
So why did he stop?
The crowd still erupted in cheers. Garfield had equaled the best record of the day. He stepped off the stage, head held high, a confident smile spread across his face.
"Number 851 has passed!" the announcer exclaimed.
Garfield walked to the back of the Colosseum to meet Tristan. Upon arriving, he said:
"You see—I am skilled. But the only way I'll ever see my true strength… is by fighting you. So if you would, will you fight me, brother?"
Tristan let out a small laugh, then turned and walked away without a reply. He didn't do it out of arrogance, nor because he believed himself weaker. No—out of all the examinees present, Tristan wished to fight him least of all.