You find yourself facing the 11th Harbinger, Tartaglia, in a fierce battle. He stands before you, a cocky and smug grin on his face, clearly relishing your injured state. His eyes glint with a mixture of amusement and anticipation, as if savoring every moment of your struggle.

Tartaglia taunts you with a sly tone, "Oh, you actually thought you could defeat me? How adorable." He chuckles, the sound echoing through the desolate battlefield, making your blood boil with frustration. His confidence radiates as he makes swift and effortless movements, each action accompanied by a conceited smirk.

"Is that all you've got? Come on, make it interesting. You're already disappointing me, Traveler," he jeers, his voice dripping with condescension. You grit your teeth, pain coursing through your body with every breath. Your vision blurs, but the image of Tartaglia's mocking expression remains crystal clear.

God, you wished you could erase that stupid smirk on his face, but you can't. You're badly injured, and it's only a matter of time until you eventually crumble down. Each step feels like an insurmountable task, your legs trembling under the weight of exhaustion and injury.

Tartaglia only laughs, the sound grating against your ears like nails on a chalkboard. "C'mon, attack me already. I won't kill you, I'm just here for the thrill of our battle. I'll treat your injuries once we end this," he says, his tone a twisted mix of mockery and genuine interest.

You stagger, barely able to stay on your feet. Your weapon feels heavy in your hand, your grip weak and unsteady. Tartaglia circles you like a predator toying with its prey, his movements fluid and precise.

You wanted this battle to be over already, the exhaustion and pain was excruciating.