"Unsprezece, meaning eleven… where did you obtain your title from?" Tristan asked, buying time with idle chatter.
"You knowing would do no harm. I represent Unsprezece, one of the Numbered. There are only twelve Numbered, all varying in strength, but at the top stands the one we hail as our Messiah. He is not known by a name, but only by the title—Unul."
Tristan swiftly discerned that their numbers merely corresponded to those upon a clock, rendered in Roman numerals. It was not particularly remarkable as a method of ranking members within an organization, yet it carried an air of singularity within the context of this foreign realm, distinct from the world once inhabited by the man whose soul now dwelled within Tristan's body.
'And the Messiah Eleanor spoke of… he is most likely the leader of this secret organization.'
Tristan then had another thought.
"Let me ask… do you have something to do with the sick students?"
Eleanor let out a laugh, a villainous laugh that seemed to send a shiver down Tristan's spine. Tristan, unsettled, instinctively took another step back.
"Haha! Forgive me… I shouldn't be laughing," she said as she wiped a tear from her eye. "You could say that."
"What does that mean?"
Eleanor's laughter slowly died as her gaze hardened, her expression shifting to one almost devoid of emotion.
"Well, you are a clever boy… what do you think I mean? Still, I don't have the patience to wait for you to conjure countless hypotheses." She declared as she summoned a black iron mace, its long staff gleaming with the same sinister hue as the weapon's brutal head.
Tristan, who understood their exchange could only end in bloodshed, knew he had delayed the inevitable. Eleanor would never reveal so much unless she intended to silence him forever. Still exhausted, he attempted to flee, but agony surged through him, halting his steps.
"Do not run… you will only make this more difficult for us both," she said, slowly advancing toward him.
She spun her mace in a deliberate circle before striking it against the ground. From the shadows, a jagged coral spike erupted—black and merciless—aiming directly for Tristan's left eye. The spike drew closer, mere moments from piercing into his brown iris.
Suddenly, a longsword slashed downward, shattering the coral spike into shards that fell like fragile glass upon stone.
"Why are you here?" Eleanor asked, turning to the new arrival.
Tristan, still dazed, finally steadied himself and looked upon his savior. A crimson-haired man stood tall, his hair tied back, his black coat billowing in the wind like the cloak of a hero. And a hero he was—arriving at the moment of dire need. This hero was…
"Decker Vermillion?" Tristan whispered, stunned by his arrival
Decker cast a brief glance behind, then fixed his eyes upon Tristan, his expression softening. With a voice almost gentle, he asked, "Are you alright?"
Tristan was struck speechless. The man who had once sworn to make his life a torment had now saved him—and worse still, seemed genuinely concerned for his safety. In that instant, Tristan wondered if he were seeing nothing more than a phantom in his moment of despair.
"Are you alright?" Decker repeated.
"Yeah," Tristan finally replied.
In Decker's hand gleamed a longsword unlike any Tristan had ever seen. It was neither steel nor iron; the blade radiated with a green emerald hue, translucent as crystal, yet strong as tempered steel. To Tristan, it appeared stainless, pure, and unyielding—a weapon of ethereal perfection.
Decker's gaze shifted toward the now black-haired educator.
"I do not know what you plot, nor the truth of your schemes, but it is evident that whatever you have done—or intend to do—is utterly wrong."
"Hmph. How brazen of you to label me wrong, when everything you and your High District snobs represent is the very embodiment of corruption. You thrive upon what we created, you steal from those whose blood built these lands, and you dare judge me? Then perhaps my definition of wrong is simply unlike yours," she retorted, her tone simmering with contempt and fury.
Her words rang with the same venom Tristan had once heard from the old woman. In that instant, fragments of her creed aligned, and he finally discerned the cause that bound their hidden order.
"You fight to protect those of the Lower Districts. That is your purpose… that is what your group stands for."
She planted her mace upright upon the ground, then began clapping her hands with mock applause.
"Ding. Ding. Ding. Correct. But that is only a fragment of our purpose. There is much more to come, though I would not dare spoil the surprise," she sneered.
"What surprise?" Decker asked.
Eleanor's lips curled into a chilling smile.
"A grand one."
The feline she had been conversing with slinked back to her side, scaling her shoulder before whispering something into her ear. Her face soured, disappointment flickering across her features. With a roll of her eyes, she sighed.
"How unfortunate. I would have relished more amusement with the two of you. But fate demands otherwise. Still, we shall meet again—soon enough."
With those words, she slammed her mace upon the ground, and from the shadows erupted a volley of black coral spikes, surging toward Decker and the weakened Tristan.
Decker seized Tristan by the collar of his blazer, dragging him swiftly out of the spikes' deadly range. He did not slow, pulling Tristan along as more spikes erupted behind them. Yet as the onslaught reached the light—sunlight unobscured by the forest canopy—the spikes halted, dissolving like shadows before the dawn.
Only once Tristan was safe did Decker glance back. Before them lay a wall of jagged black coral, obscuring the enemy from view, impenetrable and concealing.
Decker exhaled, then turned toward Tristan once again.
"Aren't you going to pursue her?" Tristan asked.
"No. Your well-being takes precedence. Once I am assured you have recovered, then I shall dispatch a search party," Decker replied as he draped Tristan's arm over his shoulder, steadying him as they walked.