Tristan's eyes slowly began to open, his energy low and his body unbearably heavy. He turned his head slightly, only to realize he was in a hospital room. His memory of what had transpired was foggy, but as soon as recollection returned, so too did his sorrow. His warrior… his warrior was gone. And from the depths of his weary mind, a memory of his long-dead mother surfaced.
"It's been a while since I've dreamt of Mother… so why now?"
The door to his room creaked open, revealing a silver-haired maiden carrying a tray of food. Her head was bowed, sorrow etched delicately into her porcelain face. But as she crept closer to Tristan's bed, she noticed his eyes were open. Quickly, she set the tray upon a stool and embraced the bedridden boy tightly.
"What happened? And why am I here?" Tristan asked as Amelia continued to hold him.
Amelia released her grip and sat beside him as he lay upon the bed.
"The doctor said you suffered a heart attack. Did something happen during your sleep—perhaps a dream of some sort?"
Tristan knew the true cause of his collapse, and though Amelia was likely the only person he could trust with the truth—because she knew of his warrior—he still did not feel entirely safe revealing what had occurred before he fell unconscious. So he crafted an excuse, one true, yet untrue.
"I had a dream of my mother's death… I suppose it frightened me."
Amelia gently rested a hand on Tristan's leg, her eyes filled with grief as she gazed downward and softly said, "Of course it would frighten you. Any person would be terrified to see their mother die, even in a dream."
Tristan looked at her with concern, her tone heavy with something deeper than empathy—as if she had endured the same torment.
"You seem to have experienced my grief before?" he asked quietly.
She lifted her gaze, sorrow still shadowing her expression.
"Yes, I have. My mother died while were helping the people. She was strong, but even her strength wasn't enough to stand against the world's greatest enemy," she said softly.
"Who—or what—was that?"
Amelia drew a deep breath before answering, "Human hatred. She was slain by someone who despised nobles. While performing charity work, she was murdered."
She paused for a moment, her words trembling with emotion before continuing.
"I was consumed by grief, and for a long time, I hated those from the Lower Districts."
"What changed?" Tristan asked curiously.
"I realized that Mother wouldn't want me to despise those who wronged us, because it isn't entirely their fault. If not for the way they were treated, perhaps that tragedy would never have occurred. The ones to blame are not those who brandish the blade… but those who force them to brandish it," Amelia said.
Tristan looked at her, deeply moved by her words.
"Where did you hear that from?" he asked softly.
Amelia smiled faintly, though grief still lingered in her eyes.
"How do you know I didn't come up with it myself?"
Tristan tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. Amelia let out a quiet chuckle before saying, "It was something my mother used to say. She believed in turning the other cheek, and I inherited her belief."
Tristan smiled gently. "You and your mother are kindhearted souls."
Amelia smiled back, then lifted the tray, placing it on her lap before she began feeding the bedridden boy. As he ate, Garfield and Mr. Kenway entered the room, their faces lighting up at the sight of his wakeful expression.
"It's good to see you're alright, boy. I don't know what I would've done if something happened to you," Mr. Kenway said, relief thick in his voice.
"Well, I'm fine, so there's no need to worry. But…"
"But what, brother?" Garfield asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes at Tristan's sudden hesitation.
Tristan glanced at Amelia, whose face reflected his concern.
"My worry is that I might not be fit enough to compete. But depending on the time we have left… I think I'll manage."
Amelia began to calculate quickly. Her eyes shifted to the clock hanging on the wall before recalling the day.
"It's 12 p.m. on Friday. The game begins Sunday at 3 p.m., so that gives us about 51 hours," she said.
Tristan paused for a moment, then smiled faintly, his voice firm with quiet confidence.
"That's more than enough time."
The three exchanged smiles, and after Tristan had finished his meal, they departed to let him rest. But as Tristan closed his eyes, his thoughts could not escape the image of his warrior's final moments.
He tried calling out to him.
"Killington! Killington!" he shouted inwardly.
He called again and again, but no answer came. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he finally surrendered to the silence.
"Damn it…" he whispered, sorrow lacing his words as he drifted into uneasy sleep.
The recovery was exhausting. It took five hours for Tristan to regain movement, and another five to move without pain. In ten hours, his body had healed, and his energy began to replenish gradually. His daily Remnants hastened his recovery, yet he knew this time he could not rely on his warrior's strength.
He had forty-one hours left to refine his body and strengthen his resolve. During the nurses' absences, he pushed himself to the limit—swinging his sword for an hour, jogging around the hospital block, and meditating for thirty minutes. But the silence only deepened the ache in his heart; there was no voice to guide him, no ally to counsel him, and no one to listen to his unspoken burdens.
With only five hours left before the Selection Game, Tristan continued to hone his swordsmanship and endurance. After an hour, Amelia and Garfield arrived in Amelia's personal carriage to collect him.
For most of the ride, the trio sat in silence, each consumed by their own reasons for entering the game. But as the Academy drew near, conversation began—focused, strategic, and determined.
After an hour and a half, they arrived. On their faces was the same expression—fierce, unwavering resolve.
The most determined they had ever been in their lives.
Two hours and thirty minutes until the Selection Game begins.