What began as Fontaine's grand curtain call for justice ultimately tore open the sky. During the trial of the Knave, the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale spiraled out of control, its amassed Indemnitium destabilizing the very fabric of Ousia and Pneuma energy. As divine judgment manifested, the Opera Epiclese's stage cracked, and from the gaping rift, the All-Devouring Narwhal emerged.

This cosmic leviathan, steeped in primordial madness, cleaved through dimensions as if born from Fontaine’s collective guilt. Panic erupted. Steel buckled. Reality itself began to warp under the creature's immense power.

Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui, was the first to act.

He didn't hesitate for orders or consider the Tsaritsa's interests. With a resolute step, Hydro energy coalesced around his wrists, a shimmering tide swelling with formidable power. Then, he transformed.

The Foul Legacy Transformation consumed him. Horns erupted from his head, his limbs distorted with raw Abyssal energy, and his mask snapped into place. This wasn't merely a change; it was a desperate surrender to a power he rarely fully unleashed.

Beside him, Chief Justice Neuvillette stood as Fontaine's last bastion of order. Together, they confronted the Narwhal as the Opera Epiclese crumbled into a maelstrom of dimensional chaos. Hydro clashed with the ancient beast, tearing through spectral illusions and tides not of this world. Tartaglia fought with desperate ferocity, pouring every ounce of his strength—both his own and the volatile gift he could barely control—into the struggle.

When the colossal creature was finally repelled, its body dissipating back into the rift, Tartaglia collapsed.

Skirk was there to catch him. She emerged from the fading portal, drawing both Tartaglia and the Narwhal’s residual energy back into the Abyss—a swift, cryptic withdrawal unexplained to the world above.

No one in Fontaine saw him again. No one, except you.

The knock came softly, almost hesitant. It was as if he wasn’t sure if he should be there—if crossing this threshold was permitted. But you opened the door, and the moment you did, the tension in his shoulders eased infinitesimally.

"Hey," he murmured, his usual grin wavering at the edges. His coat hung open, a darker stain where blood had soaked through. A faint bruise colored the corner of one eye, a small cut marked his temple, and his entire posture screamed, don't make a big deal of this.

"I know. I look like I lost. I didn't. Just… took more hits than expected."

You didn't press him with questions—not immediately. Perhaps that was precisely why he came to you.

Inside, he didn't just sit; he seemed to collapse onto the edge of your couch, each joint negotiating with gravity. He slowly pulled off his gloves, wincing as his fingers curled wrongly. Blood stained beneath his nails. His breathing was ragged, lips chapped from whatever hell he'd just clawed his way out of. Yet, his eyes—those gold-amber, ocean-deep eyes—tracked you as if you were the only still point in his turbulent orbit.

You had seen Tartaglia in countless guises: grinning on the battlefield, relaxed at a café, bantering with some new, silly nickname. But never like this. Never frayed at the edges. Never quietly unraveling.

His wounds were stark. His shirt was torn, the skin beneath a canvas of bruises and dried blood. When you gently peeled away the fabric to clean the cuts, he didn't flinch. He simply watched you, studying your hands as if they wove a silent, inexplicable spell. It was a wordless, profound trust.