Guided by the lingering memories of the body's former occupant, Tristan made his way toward the Low District. He descended the rusted ladder, then crossed several uneven streets, moving with purpose down the slanted, weather-worn roads. The path before him existed only in fragmented recollections—ghostly impressions from another life—yet they were vivid enough to guide his steps.
Eventually, he arrived at a dried-up moat, spanning which lay a long wooden plank, weathered and gray with age.
Tristan examined the makeshift bridge, his eyes narrowing. He cautiously placed one foot upon it, then rapped his knuckles against the wood. To his surprise, it was sturdier than expected—though its creaking betrayed its fragility. He stepped forward, each creak growing louder, echoing like warnings into the silence, until at last he reached the other side.
"I'm surprised it didn't give way," he murmured to himself, voice barely above a whisper.
He had stepped onto the land of the Low District.
The ground beneath his feet was rugged and scarred. Patches of dead grass lay like lifeless veins across the earth, and much of the soil was too dry and infertile to yield even the most desperate weed. Tristan raised his eyes to the buildings that loomed before him—or what remained of them. Some stood as fractured monuments to a forgotten era: roofs caved in, windows shattered, doors gone, walls leaning precariously. Others were reduced to mere husks—broken silhouettes that whispered stories of ruin.
Though some of these ruins still harbored life, there were many who had no shelter at all. The homeless had built crude dwellings from salvaged debris—fallen bricks, discarded wood, and sheets of plastic strung together in desperation. Their huts were modest, barely habitable, but they stood as testaments to survival. Plastic tarps stretched across rooftops in sad anticipation of rain that rarely came.
As Tristan walked through the crumbling remains of what was once a neighborhood, his black oxford shoes were soon cloaked in the dust of decay. People turned to watch him, their eyes wide, their voices low. Fingers pointed, whispers carried through the dry air—but Tristan paid them no mind. Their words meant nothing. Not to him.
He pressed on, until he reached the edge of the district—the furthest recess, where the remnants of a home stood like a skeleton. It was worse than any he had seen. A cracked stone path led to a door that hung loose from one hinge, barely clinging to the threshold. He stared at it, and though he had no personal bond to this desolate structure, grief washed over his face. The boy whose body he now inhabited—Tristan Merigold—had lived here. Had loved here. Had cherished this place.
The house was in complete ruin. Its walls blackened by fire, its insides reduced to cinders. Any trace of life—or evidence—seemed scorched beyond recognition. Yet, determined, Tristan stepped forward, climbing over debris and lifting charred planks one by one, searching for anything that might offer a clue.
With each piece he moved, a tear slipped from his brown eyes, tracing a sorrowful path down his olive-toned skin.
"Damn it…" he whispered hoarsely, using the sleeve of his suit to wipe his tears away. "Stop crying. How am I supposed to find anything if my vision's clouded by tears?"
Yet the tears came anyway. They refused to be silenced.
Time passed. His cries quieted. He wiped his face once more and resumed the search, turning over every piece of wood not yet reduced to ash. He sifted through soot, brushed aside dust, and finally—after nearly forty-five minutes—his fingers grazed something hard beneath the ashes.
A white, horn-shaped object. Bloodstained. Roughly the size of his arm.
"What is this?" he breathed.
He attempted to lift it, but its weight overwhelmed him. Instead, he crouched and tapped it with his knuckles. It was solid—stronger than steel, it seemed. But what could it be?
[Remnant collected.]
[Tooth of a Tamed Beast.]
"So this… is a tooth?" Tristan recoiled, his face contorting in disgust. He had touched the tooth of a creature—most likely a grotesque one. He stepped back instinctively, only to step forward again. Intrigue outweighed revulsion. He knelt beside the object, studying it closer, but found no immediate answers. He could only guess it belonged to whatever monstrous beast had decimated this home.
"Maybe there's more to this thing… But I can't take it with me. I've nowhere to hide it, and walking around with a beast's tooth would only raise suspicion."
Then, as if summoned by his thoughts, a message appeared before him.
[Do you wish to store the Tooth of a Tamed Beast?]
Tristan stared at the message for a moment, then whispered his response.
"Yes."
[The Remnant will now be stored in your Celestial Forge.]
The tooth began to shimmer, dissolving into particles of light. Slowly, they drifted into Tristan's body, absorbed by his very being.
He stood from his crouch and exhaled a heavy sigh. He had hoped to find more—something definitive—but this small discovery was not without promise. If he could identify the creature from which the tooth came, perhaps he could follow the trail to the one responsible.
As he turned to leave, he noticed an old woman standing a few paces away. Stooped and frail, she leaned on her cane, her eyes glistening with age and memory.
"A sorrowful sight, isn't it?" she said, her voice trembling like dry leaves in the wind. "She was such a kind woman. Hardworking, always smiling. It's tragic she was taken so soon. We all mourned her, but for you… it must have been worse."
Tristan lowered his gaze once more, his throat tightening as fresh tears welled in his eyes.
"Raise your head, boy. Pay your respects to her properly."
He obeyed, lifting his eyes to meet hers. He nodded solemnly. The old woman shuffled past him, heading to the rear of the house. Tristan followed in silence.
Behind the ruins stood a modest tombstone, its surface weathered but the inscription still clear:
"Here lies Mary Merigold—A woman who lived for her people."
"We wanted to do more for her," the woman said, her voice strained with regret. "But we don't have the money, or the means. This… was all we could manage."
Tristan stared at the grave for a long moment, then smiled faintly through his pain and shook his head.
"No," he whispered. "I think she's happy here."