[Death Shards collected]
[Death Shards: 75/100]
"This is good," Tristan murmured as he sat upon his bed, legs crossed.
This had been Tristan's plan from the very beginning. He knew neither he nor Killington could endure, let alone vanquish, the rat beast; thus, he required the intervention of a third party. This third party would not only serve to distract the monster but also weaken it enough that its sensory perception would falter. And indeed, the third party executed their task with perfection, for the Headmaster's interference provided the opportunity Killington needed to close the distance and deliver the decisive blow.
"The Headmaster played her role flawlessly. From the Death Shard tally, I see my total has increased by eight after slaying that beast. That is perfect," Tristan declared, a menacing, almost villainous grin carving across his face as he rose from his bed.
As he stood, however, his body faltered, his steps unsteady, nearly toppling under the weight of dizziness. He grasped the side of the bed, his trembling frame struggling to steady itself, using its support to keep himself upright.
'I knew this would happen. But I could not squander the chance to further grow my strength. Still, I am uncertain if I can continue to conceal this any longer. My secret may soon be revealed.'
And indeed, what Tristan feared might come to pass. As of late, he had been wielding his abilities with increasing frequency, and sooner or later the disparity in his power would be noticed. Questions would inevitably rise: How is he capable of growing so powerful, when he has fought so few beasts? These questions loomed over him, and he knew he would soon be forced to answer them. At this point he had already accepted this reality… no, he had accepted it long before this moment. He was a liar—one who could never be trusted. That was Tristan's nature, immutable and unchanging.
Yet, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he longed for a day when he might forge a bond without deceit—a genuine relationship where falsehoods had no place.
"My Lord, may I suggest that you refrain from overexerting yourself," Killington's voice echoed.
Tristan's eyes widened slightly, startled. Ordinarily, once he had surpassed his threshold, he lost the ability to communicate with Killington entirely. But this time was different.
"Killington? I should not be able to converse with you with my energy depleted—especially after I forced you out while already in a weakened state."
"It is as much a surprise to me as well, my Lord. Yet, I believe the reason lies within your newfound increase in strength," Killington replied.
Tristan scratched his head, bemused at how he had failed to reach that very conclusion himself.
"I suppose you are correct. For now, remain silent. Let me proceed to meet with Garfield at the gate," Tristan said, moving toward the door of his room.
He exited the dormitory, his pace slow yet deliberate, and began making his way to the gate. It was then he caught sight of the radiant Eleanor, still lingering within the academy grounds.
'She must be heading for the exit,' Tristan assumed.
Yet his assumption was swiftly shattered as the elegant educator diverted her steps, not toward the exit, but instead toward the rear of the school. Her every movement betrayed secrecy—her gaze darting behind her like that of a fugitive. Though weakened and unfit for pursuit, Tristan's curiosity overwhelmed his restraint, compelling him to shadow the brown-haired teacher.
He ducked behind bushes as he followed her, keeping close yet concealed, until at last they arrived at a wired fence with a solitary entrance. Eleanor passed beyond the gate, and as Tristan drew nearer, he caught sight of a sign upon it that read: Do not enter. Restricted Area.
"So this is one of the restricted areas Eric spoke of," Tristan whispered.
He pushed the gate open and stepped into the dense forest that lay beyond. He pressed on, trailing Eleanor as she wound her way through the trees. More than once he believed her lost to his sight, yet inevitably he would find her again—until at last she stood before a tree, speaking to someone unseen.
"It seems they may have uncovered the hidden sanctuary," Eleanor said.
Tristan concealed himself behind a tree, his ears straining to catch her every word. But surprise rippled through him—for during his own exchange with the Headmaster, not once had she confessed to informing the teachers of the sanctuary beneath the school. So how, then, had Eleanor discovered its existence?
Perhaps the Headmaster had revealed it to the staff but withheld the truth from Tristan and Garfield. That, at least, was one possibility.
"We have been searching for that place for quite some time. And yet somehow the Headmaster unearthed it first. That truly infuriates me," Eleanor growled, her tone stripped of its usual gentleness.
The kind and nurturing demeanor she was famed for was beginning to fracture, exposing the darker essence beneath.
Tristan crept nearer, straining to see who she conversed with. His eyes fell upon Eleanor, who stood peering downward—addressing a creature with fur as black as night and eyes that glowed with venomous green light.
It seems Miss Eleanor is not the woman she pretends to be.
He edged closer, hoping to glean more from their exchange. Yet his foot betrayed him, snapping a twig beneath his weight. The sharp crack pierced the air, startling them both. Eleanor's head whipped toward the sound, her gaze searching. Yet she saw nothing, for Tristan remained shrouded in the tree's shadow.
"Who goes there?" she demanded.
Knowing escape was impossible in his condition, Tristan exhaled deeply, then emerged from his concealment.
"Tristan Merigold? What are you doing here?" Eleanor asked, her voice reverting instantly to its practiced softness.
"I believe I should be the one asking that. What business does a teacher have in a Restricted Area during an evacuation? Does that not seem suspicious to you?" Tristan's tone was sharp, his eyes piercing the brown-haired educator with suspicion.
"Well, I was…" She paused abruptly, then released a chilling laugh—twisted and villainous. "To hell with this charade. There is no longer any need to pretend. That wretched, saccharine voice I was forced to feign has been insufferable."
Eleanor—or rather, the impostor standing before Tristan—raised her hands to her face and began to peel away the false visage. No, it was not her face, but a mask, revealing beneath it her true countenance. The freckles were gone, the hair once believed brown now cascaded in shadowy black, and the eyes, once warm and brown, gleamed with an abyssal blackness.
"Who are you?" Tristan demanded, his stance shifting, every sense now guarded as he took a deliberate step back.
The woman chuckled darkly.
"If you require a name, you already know it. But if you seek my title, then hear it: I am Unsprezece."
As they conversed, behind a nearby tree, another figure lingered in silence. As the wind swept through the branches, they shifted, and the crimson strands of the watcher's hair stirred.