Tristan looked down at Eric's headless body, his breathing growing increasingly violent as each passing second dragged on. His face was expressionless—eerily calm in a way—before he slowly turned his head to look at Clara's lifeless body. His mouth parted slightly, as though he wished to say something, but the words refused to leave his lips, remaining lodged painfully within his throat.
The people—the nobles—screamed, terror filling their lungs as panic spread through the crowd.
Garfield and Amelia looked at their friend. They had not seen him draw the blade, but they knew—without the slightest doubt—that he was responsible for Eric's death. The two instinctively stepped backward. And who could blame them? In Tristan's current mental state, he could lash out at anyone at any moment.
Before he could do anything further, however, he was restrained.
A soldier belonging to Aries pinned him to the ground with brutal efficiency. The man forced Tristan down, pressing his forearm firmly against the back of Tristan's neck, holding him in place. Tristan grunted as his body was forced on to the stone road. He struggled against the restraint, shifting slightly, attempting to rise. In response, the soldier drove his head down harder, forcing his skull violently against the cold cobblestone.
"So we have yet another criminal," the Lord Chancellor said as he descended from the high platform. "How low the academy's standards must have fallen to allow such individuals into an institution once considered illustrious."
He clasped his hands behind his back as he continued walking. "This is precisely why I endorsed the removal of all you lessers from the academy, because I knew nothing worthwhile could ever come from people like you."
His gaze drifted toward Eric's headless body, and a sinister smile slowly crept across his face.
"Well," he continued mockingly, "at least you all are killing one another. That certainly makes things much easier for the rest of us, don't you think?"
Tristan, blood streaking down his forehead, responded to the Chancellor's cruel words. He lifted his head slightly despite the pressure crushing it down, his stoic and expressionless face still present as he spoke.
"Life will be much better… once I kill you."
The Lord Chancellor's grin stretched from ear to ear as he placed his foot firmly atop Tristan's head. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed Tristan's skull back into the cobblestone road. He enjoyed it—truly enjoyed treating the lessers as if they were nothing more than dirt beneath his heel. For him, it was nothing more than a game, a cruel and endless pastime that would continue until he finally obtained everything he desired.
Amelia and Garfield did not know what to do. They both stood frozen, unable to act. And who could blame them? Both of their goals revolved around standing on the correct side of the law. Tristan could not ask them for help, and even if he could, he would never allow himself to.
Tristan's rage only intensified as the Chancellor's foot remained grinding against his skull.
"Take him to the holding area," the Chancellor ordered coldly. "Once this place has been cleared, we will begin his execution."
The guard lifted Tristan roughly and dragged him toward the holding area. It was a small structure positioned behind the platform where the execution had taken place. The guard unlocked the iron gate to a cell and threw Tristan violently inside.
The stench inside the holding area was unbearable. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and urine—an utterly repulsive odor. Though it was located within the High District, it hardly resembled anything noble. Tristan sat on the cold stone floor and took a slow breath, though inhaling the foul smell nearly made him gag.
It was almost as if they wanted their prisoners to suffocate and die slowly so they would not have to stain their own hands with blood.
Tristan sat there for nearly thirty minutes before he heard noises outside the building. It sounded as though a fight had erupted between one of the guards and another individual. Suddenly, a body crashed through the doorway and slammed into the stone wall with such force that it caused instant death. As the corpse slid down the wall, a trail of blood smeared across the stone.
Tristan attempted to see who had killed the guard, but he could not. The door was too far to the left, and the angle prevented him from seeing clearly.
Footsteps echoed through the nearly empty holding area.
The rhythm of the steps was accompanied by the tapping of wood striking the ground in steady intervals. The sound followed each footstep with perfect timing.
A wooden cane.
The figure approached slowly, but eventually, she arrived.
"It's you," Tristan said quietly.
Standing before him was an old woman—a very familiar old woman. The same person he had met when he first visited the Lower District.
"It seems your circumstances are less than ideal," the old woman said calmly. "However, we are willing to help you."
Tristan stared directly into her eyes, the fire of his anger and contempt burning clearly within them.
"Who exactly is going to help me?" Tristan asked bitterly. "You people—the same ones responsible for my friend's death? Are those the people I'm supposed to trust?"
"You blame us," the old woman replied calmly, "yet we were not the ones who brought the blade down upon her neck. If I recall correctly, it was the nobles of this land who did so."
Tristan walked toward the corner of his small cubical cell and ran his hand through his hair before turning back to face her.
"What about Eric?" Tristan asked quietly.
"What about him?" she responded.
Tristan's anger flared instantly. His voice rose as his patience began to crumble.
"Don't play games with me. Were you the ones who made him do what he did?"
The old woman sighed and sat down upon what appeared to be an invisible seat before answering.
"We were," she admitted. "But we never intended for him to harm your friends… or you."
"Why me?" Tristan demanded, his voice trembling as tears threatened to form. "Why me and not someone else?!"
The old woman licked her lips before responding.
"You are the prophesied one—the chosen individual destined to bring about change. It was crucial that you witnessed who your true enemies are. These people do not care whether you are right or wrong. They care only about whether they can kill a lesser-blood. Eventually, they would have killed your friend regardless. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps not even within the next few months. But I assure you, they would have killed her."
Tristan understood her words. Deep down, he had known the truth from the very beginning—perhaps from the moment Clara stood trial. Every solution he had imagined had been meaningless, and he knew it. Yet his naïve optimism had convinced him that he could somehow make a difference.
The lazy man chuckled softly and whispered to himself,
"I suppose this body still retains that immaturity."
He shook his head slowly.
"No… this body's immaturity is my own immaturity. I am Tristan Merigold."
"I have additional information," the old woman said. "We have reason to believe Albert Kenway has been killed."
Tristan's heart sank even further. He rushed forward and grabbed the iron bars of his cell tightly.
"You're lying!" he shouted.
The old woman stood, walked toward the lifeless guard, and removed the keys hanging from his belt.
"I can show you."
She opened the cell door, and the two of them exited the holding area together. She handed Tristan a dirty cloak with a hood so he could conceal his face as they moved through the High District.
When they reached the border between the High and Middle Districts, guards stood watch. Tristan felt anxiety creep into his chest, but the old woman calmly told him to keep walking.
One guard approached them to ask questions, but the moment he stepped close, his body was flattened instantly—crushed into a grotesque pile of flesh. The other guards rushed forward to intervene, but they met the same horrifying fate.
Eventually, Tristan and the old woman passed through the gate and across the bridge, leaving behind only mangled bodies.
Once inside the Middle District, they summoned a carriage that carried them toward the boutique—or rather, what remained of it.
Even from a distance, Tristan could see the flames.
Brilliant orange fire devoured the building.
Although his time there had been brief, it had been the first time in many years that he had felt something like the warmth it gave to him. The warmth of a parental figure who truly cared for him was something he had been deprived of as a child, and now, once again, someone he saw as family had been taken from him.
"Why…?" Tristan whispered, his arms trembling with rage. "How could they harm an innocent man?"
The old woman answered immediately.
"As I told you before, these people do not care whether someone is kind or evil. As long as we are lesser-bloods, we are all the same to them."
Tristan wiped the tears forming in his eyes. His arms stopped shaking as he stared at his burning home, engraving the image deep into his memory.
He had accepted the deaths of Clara and Albert Kenway.
No.
He had embraced them.
"I accept your request," Tristan said quietly.
"I will join your organization."
—End of Volume 1—