"Your mother would be proud," the old woman said softly.
Tristan looked at the tombstone, then brought his hands together in silent prayer, honoring her soul and wishing her safe passage into the afterlife.
"Your performance during the entrance exam has made you quite popular—especially among those from the Middle and Low Districts. I hope you succeed. It's been a long time since we've seen a successful Star Master rise from the lower ranks." Her voice held both hope and sorrow.
Tristan turned to respond, but his words were cut short by the thunderous sound of heavy footsteps. He froze, momentarily believing it to be an earthquake. But the old woman knew better.
"We must move quickly," she said, her voice calm and composed, honed by years of surviving the chaos.
They moved swiftly, slipping through narrow alleyways and taking cover behind the remains of crumbled buildings to avoid the approaching beast.
"You seem used to this kind of thing," Tristan remarked, eyes darting to the shadows.
"If you've lived in the Low District as long as I have, you'd learn to adapt to these horrors."
They eventually reached the old woman's home—a crumbling structure like so many others, missing large sections of roof, shattered windows, and a door that had long since given up its post.
Once inside, she gestured toward a stool. "Sit," she offered.
Tristan obeyed, seating himself cautiously.
"How long has it been like this?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"For as long as I can remember... no, perhaps even longer," she replied. "But what can we do? We are nothing more than an afterthought to those who hold power. We were forgotten long ago."
Tristan had no words to respond. His heart ached for the people of the Low District, but he knew the truth: he couldn't help them. Changing the status quo would be nearly impossible. He lacked the standing, the authority—he was just another name in a long list of the powerless.
"How did things get this bad?" he asked, genuine concern creeping into his voice.
"When nothing is maintained, this is what the world becomes. I believe it all began when the Constella arrived. I wasn't there to witness it myself, but my mother told me how it began."
She paused, gathering her thoughts.
"She said they came from the In-Between, like nomads drifting from a distant world. They brought ideas that promised to revolutionize our nation. We thought them a blessing. But in time, we learned the truth—they were parasites. We, the original inhabitants, built this land. We worked, we bled, yet we were offered no place in their so-called utopia."
"Why didn't you fight back?" Tristan asked, confusion etched into his voice.
"We couldn't," she replied, sorrow threading through her tone. "Their power was unlike anything we had ever seen. We need weapons to manifest our abilities—they do not. They do not abide by the same rules that dictate this world."
Tristan's eyes widened. No one he knew could activate power without a weapon. No one—except himself.
His thoughts spiraled.
'Could the Constella be like me? People who died and were brought to this world?'
He had never questioned why he was chosen, why he was blessed, or why the God of Death had selected only a handful of souls.
"Could there be others?" he whispered to himself.
The old woman looked at him blankly, uncertain of what to say next.
"Normally, beast attacks are random... but not the one that took your mother. Am I correct in assuming it was planned?"
Tristan fell silent.
Whether it was her experience, her intuition, or something deeper, she had seen through the chaos to the truth: the attack on his home had not been random. It was deliberate.
His silence gave him away.
"I don't know what your intentions are," she said, "but I have a feeling I understand why you came here."
Tristan's hand drifted to his sword, prepared to silence her if necessary.
"There's no need for that," she said gently. "I don't know what it is you plan to do, and I don't intend to find out. But allow me to leave you with one truth."
She looked directly into his eyes, steady and unafraid.
"Taking one apple from a tree doesn't stop it from bearing fruit. To stop the supply... you must cut down the tree."
"What does that mean?" Tristan asked, eyes narrowing.
"You'll understand when the time comes. For now, I think you should leave."
Tristan stood from the stool and turned to go. At the threshold, he paused and looked back at the old woman one last time. She met his gaze without flinching.
He turned away and made his way toward the wooden plank that spanned the dry moat. He moved stealthily, weaving between shattered buildings, careful not to draw attention. Even after crossing the plank, he remained silent, his thoughts consumed by the old woman's tale.
That thing said five would receive blessings. If I'm one… then the others—they must be out there. Are the Constella like me? So many questions… and so few answers.
As he crossed the threshold into the Middle District, he turned one last time to look back at the Low District. He said nothing. But in his mind, the questions lingered—unanswered and echoing.
He turned back in the direction of the Middle District and he never looked back again.
Back in her roofless home, the old woman sat silently on her stool, unmoving. Then, without warning, the beast crashed into what little remained of the house. Its roar was guttural, monstrous—horrifying in its fury.
The beast's appearance mirrored that of a monstrous sabertooth tiger—its colossal tusks as long as a grown man and as wide as the horns of an elephant, its gaping jaws wide open, poised to tear into the fragile, defenseless old lady seated calmly on her stool.
"Filthy beast," the old woman muttered, her voice low and filled with disgust.
She tapped her cane against the ground—once, twice.
In perfect synchronicity, the creature's body was slammed against the earth. Once. Twice. The second impact was so forceful that its body compressed violently and exploded from the pressure. Blood and organs were flung across the wreckage—but none reached her feet.
"What a mess you've made, Doisprezece," came a voice from the shadows.
The speaker was cloaked in darkness, their tone lighthearted but laced with menace.
"Were you able to accomplish the mission?"
"The seed has been sown," she replied.