The leader cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like a death knell in the moonlit night. "I'll give you one last chance to surrender and return the papers," he declared, his voice a chilling blend of authority and annoyance.

Tristan tilted his head, then mockingly cupped a hand to his ear. "Did you hear that, Yve? One last chance," he mimicked, voice dripping with exaggerated dread.

Yvolt sighed dramatically, her rapier glinting as she casually flipped it. "Oh no, Tan. Whatever shall we do?" She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Surrender?"

Tristan smirked, notching an invisible Force arrow onto his bow. "Surrender? Us? Nah."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "Enough." He lunged forward, his speed a blur, sword aimed to cleave Tristan in half. Tristan twirled away, light as a breeze, and replied, "Whoa there! At least take me to dinner first!"

Meanwhile, Yvolt stepped in just after slashing one of the pursuer’s neck, thrusting her rapier with surgical precision at the leader. The leader parried with a snarl, the clash of steel ringing out. "Nice try," he growled, retaliating with a ferocious overhead swing. “Hrrah!”

Yvolt dodged, using her free hand to wag a finger at him. "Tsk, tsk. Watch the temper. Anger causes wrinkles."

The leader spun, and this time, his blade arced dangerously close to Yvolt's neck. She ducked, rolling away with a playful laugh. "Close, but no cigar!"

Tristan leaped in just after throwing three daggers the other pursuers threw at him back to them, killing them instantly, pretending to draw back an arrow. The leader scoffed. "You’re threatening me with an imaginary bow?"

Tristan winked. "Oh, you’ll wish it was imaginary." With a sudden burst of energy, he released his hand, and an arrow of Force energy shot forth. The leader twisted, barely dodging, the projectile whizzing past to explode against a rooftop chimney.

The leader’s composure cracked for a moment. "You really are the worst," he muttered.

"Aw, he likes us," Yvolt quipped, launching a flurry of rapier strikes just after killing another four pursuers around them. The leader defended with grit, his blade clashing, sparking, and countering with brutal precision.

Tristan, meanwhile, fired another Force arrow, forcing the leader to sidestep. "Teamwork makes the dream work," he said, and the arrow the leader dodged killed two other pursuers.

The leader snarled, lunging at Tristan again. "Your tricks won’t work forever!"

Tristan backflipped, almost effortlessly. "Good thing we only need them to work right now," he taunted. Yvolt slid back in, sword aimed at a gap in the leader’s defense just after killing another one.

"Surprise!" she declared.

Their opponent was impressively strong, but the dynamic duo had a singular goal: eliminate every last one of them. It was entertaining to watch their leader’s rage rise as his men dropped like flies, dispatched like cheap fireworks on a holiday.

As Yvolt dealt with her charming adversary, Tristan was busy playing a game of human darts with his arrows, ensuring no man could escape—because heaven forbid one of them gets away to tell the tale.

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Just as the leader decided to halt Tristan’s little sport, Yvolt graciously blocked him every time, like a bouncer at an exclusive club.

“Now, let him clear some space,” Yvolt quipped, but just as Tristan finished off the last unfortunate soul, their leader’s frustration boiled over.

Suddenly, with a growl that could wake the dead, he caught up to her speed and—BLAM!—punched her square in the face.

“Yve!” Tristan shouted, expressing genuine concern.

Yvolt, however, was sent soaring off the roof, her body flying through the air. Amazingly, her face remained unscathed, thanks to the impressive Force shield she had learned recently.

Tristan didn’t waste a single moment. He ascended toward the leader, keenly aware of the ominous black aura wrapping around him like a particularly clingy shadow. And just before Yvolt's body graced the ground with its inevitable thud, Tristan murmured, “I love you—”

The leader didn’t blink, yet somehow, the man who’d just lunged with such misguided bravado had swiftly transformed into the woman he’d sent tumbling off the roof faster than a magician’s trick.

Yvolt smirked, seamlessly stepping into Tristan's role, and hurled her rapier at him with a triumphant cry. “HAAAAAAA!”

CLASH!!!

They switched.

For a moment, the leader, caught off guard, stumbled backward, his mind frantically attempting to process this absurd turn of events. A Force arrow, complete with a mana string, zoomed to the roof, yanking away the man who’d lunged at him.

Their eyes sparkled with hearts, painted a lovely shade of pink, as both grinned like cats who just caught the canary.

This was the Love Potion Duo.

“The famous switch of the lovestruck knights… I finally witnessed it in the flesh,” the leader sighed, taking in the grim sight of his fallen men. Here he stood, outnumbered, as the odds shifted to a disheartening 2v1.

Ah, the curse of fame—their prowess as renowned as their name. The Love Potion Duo, with their signature flair, had etched their absurdity into the annals of popular culture with a move both romantic and incredibly annoying.

Yet, the mystery surrounding their potion remained tantalizingly unsolved. Was it genuinely a love potion, or some bizarre concoction whipped up by a mad scientist? The world may never know.

The only telltale sign was the delightfully ridiculous transformation of their eyes into pink hearts upon drinking—pure poetry, if poetry were a fight choreographed by a particularly whimsical playwright.

Until this very moment, all anyone had witnessed was their inexplicable ability to swap places and poses mid-battle—an utterly infuriating dance.

Individually, each knight was formidable, but together? Well, they were suspected to be more synchronized than a world-class ballet troupe.

But both knew: this man wasn’t merely as strong as Morien.

“Think Gawain?” Tristan asked, his voice dry, almost as if he were questioning a bad wine pairing.

Yvolt tilted her head slightly. “Gawain’s still stronger,” she replied, as if discussing the weather.

The leader of the pursuers chuckled, though the sound was more a low rumble of annoyance than genuine humor. “I see. Comparing me to the ranks of the illustrious Round Table?” His lip curled in a sneer. “I’m flattered.”

Having overheard earlier that he had been likened to Morien, and now Gawain, he should have felt honored. But the comparisons felt beneath him, like being measured against mere mortals. How revolting.

The air around him thickened as his black aura began to seep and swirl, growing ever more oppressive. “I suppose I should take pride,” he continued, voice dripping with contempt, “since in your eyes, I’ve climbed from seventh rank to fifth.”

The world had never issued a formal statement that the Round Table’s numbering matched their power. But the whispers persisted. After all, the number one was the Absolute Tyrant. Number two, the nightmare named Galahad. And the rumors, as rumors do, had stuck.

“But now that you’ve acknowledged I’m far stronger than you, the eleventh and twelfth, why do neither of you look the least bit terrified?” His words dripped with disbelief.

Tristan and Yvolt exchanged glances, a slow grin forming beneath their masks. Then they laughed. It was a laugh full of mockery, like they had just heard the world’s most predictable joke.

“Our titles don’t reflect our strength ranking,” Tristan said, the explanation sounding more like he was humoring a child than facing a lethal opponent. “And even if they did, that’s our individual strength.”

Yvolt bared her very human, very unimpressive canine. “Together, we’re about as strong as Landevale or Percival. Give or take.”

“As we’ve been trying to say…”

“Unless you’ve got Galahad-level nightmares packed in your punches…”

“We’re going to kill you.”