Tristan quickly zipped up his trousers, startled by the sudden voice that echoed from behind him. He spun around at once, heart pounding in his chest. His breath caught as he turned to face the source of the voice—a student. A girl. Her hair was tied neatly in a bun, her skin fair and luminous, and her tired eyes carried a weariness that seemed permanently etched onto her expression.
Realizing it was only another student, Tristan exhaled a long, relieved breath, one hand clutching at his chest as he tried to steady himself.
'Is everyone in this world like this? Why do they all just appear behind me without a sound?'
"You really shouldn't be doing that," she said, her voice lazy yet playful. "You'll get into trouble. I still don't know what happened to the last guy who did that."
Tristan bowed hastily, his face flushing with embarrassment. Without another word, he turned to flee—but just as he reached for the door, the girl called out once more.
"Stop right there, sir. A simple apology won't erase what you just did to that poor tree."
Tristan cast a quick glance at the unfortunate tree before shifting his gaze back to the girl.
"What do you suggest I do?" he asked, his tone cautious.
She tapped a thoughtful finger against her upper lip, eyes drifting upward in mock contemplation.
"Hmm... You could stay and help me plant some flowers."
Tristan half-turned toward the door. "I really should get to class. It's my first day, and I don't want to be late."
"Don't worry—it won't take long," she said casually, already turning back to her work.
He looked between the exit and the girl once more, sighed in reluctant surrender, then slowly stepped away from the door and walked toward her.
"Fine."
"Great!" she chirped. "My apologies—I haven't introduced myself. I'm Clara Harrison," she said, extending her hand with a gentle smile.
"Tristan Merigold," he replied, shaking her hand firmly.
"A pleasure," Clara said before crouching beside the small holes she had dug into the soil. She handed Tristan a pair of gloves and a small shovel, followed by a bag overflowing with seeds.
Tristan stared at the bag, his expression one of dread.
"You want me to plant all of these?" he asked, incredulous.
Clara looked up at him with a deadpan expression. "Of course—unless you'd prefer to face punishment from the Headmaster."
'I really don't need any trouble right now, especially if I want to avoid drawing attention to myself,' he thought bitterly.
With a groan, he grabbed the shovel from the ground and took the bag of seeds from Clara.
"Fine. I'll do as you say."
The two of them knelt beside the flowerbeds and began planting at a steady pace, Clara did so to make sure Tristan wouldn't be late for his next class. As they worked, conversation bloomed between them like the seeds they buried.
"So, you're a first year?" Clara asked, her hands still moving methodically through the soil. "I thought you were a Vermillion, honestly—your hair gave it away."
"I don't think I am, but others seem to believe so. They think it's the red hair... but I don't know. Honestly, I don't care all that much."
"You strike me as someone who doesn't care about anything," Clara said with a smirk tugging at her lips. "For a second, I thought you were going to ditch me and leave me to plant all these seeds alone."
Tristan gave a sheepish chuckle and looked away. His eyes drifted upward, locking onto the radiant artificial sun shining down from above.
"How does that work?" he asked, shielding his eyes from the blinding light.
"Oh, that? The Headmaster created it with her powers. She did it during my first year. It was like the distant sun was brought down and suspended in this very room."
'I felt her strength the moment I first met her... and I've felt it every time I've come across her. But to replicate the sun itself? That's a different level of power entirely.'
"So what year are you in?" he asked, turning his focus back to the planting.
"Second."
Tristan glanced at her collar—it was plain black, just like his, lacking the colored distinction of those chosen by a Pillar.
"Your collar... it doesn't have a color?"
"That?" she said, eyes dulling slightly. "I wasn't selected by a Pillar. I'm just not strong enough."
"Not strong enough? Then how'd you get in?"
"While most of you manage the military side of combat, we handle the analytical. That's the job of the Analyst Class. We don't take the standard entrance exam—we sit a written one to prove our strategic and intellectual aptitude."
"I see..."
After several minutes of quiet labor, they finally finished planting the last of the seeds. Clara brushed her hands off on her skirt and looked at him with a soft, genuine smile.
"Thank you for your help. It was nice talking to you. I don't really have a lot of friends, so... this was nice."
Tristan nodded respectfully and gave a brief wave as he turned to leave. As he walked out of the lush, forest-like room, he couldn't help but think about Clara's eyes.
'Her eyes… they tell a story. A story of loss. A story of sorrow. A story of unspoken rage. She hides it well, but her eyes speak volumes. Clara Harrison... you are an enigma.'
As he stepped back into the corridor, he came face to face with the teacher assigned to guide the first-years.
"You're a first year, aren't you? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in class," Eleanor said, her voice warm and gently scolding.
"I got lost looking for the bathroom," Tristan replied honestly.
"You must be the boy who missed registration... What was your name again? Tantris? Trish?"
Eleanor began rattling off increasingly bizarre variations, each one farther from the truth. Tristan finally sighed and interrupted, his tone laced with exasperation.
"Tristan. It's Tristan, Miss Eleanor."
"That's it!" she said with a cheerful grin. "Well, let me take you to class."
She led him through the halls, arriving soon at a classroom not far from the one he had just left. She opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Tristan.
Tristan entered, only to be greeted by the voice of a man standing at the front, book in hand and spectacles perched on the edge of his nose.
"Look who's decided to grace us with his presence. Tristan Merigold, I presume?" the man said, raising an eyebrow.
Tristan stared at him silently, unmoved. Eleanor quickly stepped in to explain.
"Yes, this is Tristan Merigold. He got lost on his way to class, so please don't be too hard on him," she said with a smile so radiant it seemed to momentarily disarm the stern instructor.
Charles Moore's face turned slightly red. His voice lost its sharp edge.
"Of course, Miss Eleanor. I'd never dream of it. I'm a very nice man, you know," he said, grinning broadly. "You may take your seat, Mr. Merigold."
The classroom was structured like a university lecture hall, with seats rising in tiers. Tristan scanned the room until he spotted Garfield, then quietly climbed the steps toward him.
All eyes followed him—some familiar, others new, all filled with curiosity, scrutiny, and judgment.