As the two arrived at school, they realized the morning's intervention had concluded, and the Headmaster was leaving the meeting hall while conversing with the teachers.
"We should inform the Headmaster of your theory—it could prove vital," Garfield declared, taking a step in the direction of the Headmaster.
Tristan immediately halted the golden-haired boy, placing a firm hand upon his shoulder to stop his movement.
"We shouldn't. She is surrounded by others, and this is a matter that must remain secret. We will wait until we have break from class," Tristan said.
Garfield remained silent but gave a solemn nod, signaling his agreement with Tristan.
As they ended their exchange, a pair of hands gripped the boys' shoulders—hands forged strong by years of relentless combat.
"What secret do you speak of?" came the sudden voice of a presence standing behind them.
The two turned, fear etched upon their faces, beholding the visage of Decker Vermillion. They spoke little, but Tristan knew Decker was a cunning adversary who sought to meddle in every endeavor he pursued at the Academy.
Garfield glanced at his brother, a single bead of sweat tracing down his cheek. He was visibly anxious, and when one is nervous, allowing it to show can prove disastrous not only for oneself but for those nearby.
Tristan quickly seized the initiative, drew a steady breath, and with a calm tone and a poker face that betrayed no emotion, he spoke.
"It is nothing, sir. We were merely planning something for a dorm mate of ours and hoped the Headmaster might assist us."
Decker appeared doubtful, yet found no cause to pry further into a matter that seemed not his own.
"Hmm. Very well then," he said as he turned toward the staircase.
Garfield, relieved of the tension, exhaled slowly, but just as he released his breath, Decker suddenly turned back.
"Ah, yes—I nearly forgot. I was told you were unwell, Mr. Merigold?"
"Yes, but I am feeling better now, so it will not be an issue," Tristan replied, maintaining his detached demeanor.
Decker gave a faint nod, then allowed a subtle smile to curl his lips as he closed his eyes and turned once more toward the staircase.
Tristan rubbed his eyes in disbelief. It almost seemed as though Decker was pleased by his recovery. He had believed Decker would revel in his suffering, perhaps even toast to his misfortune, but it was not so. Even in his manner of speaking, there was a trace of sincerity and a strange kindness toward the crimson-haired boy.
"No—it cannot be," Tristan whispered to himself, shaking his head. "I must be tired… I am hallucinating."
As he ascended the bewildering staircase, Decker spoke once more before departing.
"You two should make haste to class. You would not wish to arrive late."
With that, he continued upward, and the boys followed obediently, heeding the man's warning.
The two climbed the stairs and soon arrived at their classroom. At the front stood Decker, ready to begin his lesson—though his presence startled them, for he had climbed the same twisting staircase mere moments before, yet had arrived far ahead of them.
"Take your seats, boys. I wish to begin my lesson," he said, wearing his familiar mischievous smile.
The boys quickly obeyed, though confusion lingered upon their faces as they cast furtive glances back while approaching their desks.
"Very well, let us begin. Today, I will speak of classifications. As you know, there exist many types of weapons, and these are arranged into distinct categories. Snipers, revolvers, arrows, and all manner of projectile weaponry fall under Long-range. Spears and axes belong to Mid-range. And weapons such as daggers and brass knuckles are Close-range."
Benjamin raised his hand, eager to inquire further.
"Sir, what classification do swords fall into?"
"A fine question. Swords have long been regarded as the most versatile of weapons, able to serve as Close- to Mid-range arms, and in rare instances, even as Long-range—depending upon the wielder's abilities."
Decker paused briefly, then walked to the wooden table before the chalkboard. He seated himself upon its edge before continuing.
"Understanding classifications is crucial when assembling a squad. A team of solely Close-range fighters offers no opening when battling a beast, while a team with only one Close-range lacks the decisiveness to strike the final blow. Thus, I implore you: choose with wisdom, especially in preparation for this year's Selection Game."
Yaron raised his hand, a question burning upon his lips.
"Sir, in previous years the Selection Game was always an individual contest. Why is it now a team-based competition?"
Decker sighed.
"The decision rests with the Pillar Leaders, who hold the final authority. From what I have gathered, they discerned a flaw in the individual format. They wish to reduce casualties in missions by sending forth teams whose members possess the chemistry to work as one. Even Pillar members themselves are sorted into teams rather than choosing freely."
"So it was made so we could demonstrate our ability to cooperate, and reveal our synergy with our chosen teammates?"
Decker nodded gravely.
"Indeed. That is correct."
Tristan slowly absorbed the knowledge while Amelia diligently transcribed every detail, even the most trivial.
Tristan's mind raced. For balance, a team would require at least one Long-range specialist and two Close-range fighters. Yet he realized his own team lacked a true Long-range combatant. Still, this problem was not insurmountable. Garfield's power allowed him to manipulate earth, hurling stone projectiles at foes. With Garfield's role secured, the burden fell upon Tristan and Amelia.
Tristan wielded a sword, though his blade-work lacked refinement and consistency, leaving him unreliable for decisive strikes. Yet Amelia's skill was sharp and unwavering, countering his flaws with mastery.
Thus, their team's dynamic was set.
Time advanced, Weapon Practice concluded, and next came Plant Study—where they continued their lessons on edible and poisonous flora encountered in the wild.
Soon after, the break arrived. Tristan and Garfield swiftly closed their books, tucked them beneath their arms, and hastened toward the door—only to be blocked by Amelia, who stepped firmly in their path.
"Where are you two going? We must discuss the Selection Game and how we intend to prepare."
Pressed for time, the boys could not linger.
"Uh, we'll meet you after school—we're occupied right now. You know… with that issue," Tristan said, deliberately stressing the word.
Amelia quickly understood, though displeased. She moved aside, allowing them to pass.
She sighed, then returned to her desk to gather her things. In doing so, she dropped her Plant Study textbook, but before she could retrieve it, Benjamin stooped to pick it up. He brushed off the dust and offered it back to her.
"Thank you," she said softly as she accepted the book.
"The way those rats treat you is disgraceful. They fail to see your worth—but I do. Join me. With the first and second-ranked together, we would crush the competition."
Amelia continued packing her books as he spoke.
"You need not answer now. I will give you time—but do consider my offer."
As he moved toward the exit, Amelia's voice cut through the silence.
"Benjamin, I need no one to win the Selection Game. My teammates are more than capable of defeating you and ensuring my victory."
Benjamin laughed cruelly.
"We shall see. But considering I nearly burned one of them alive, I doubt I'll lose sleep over it," he mocked.
Meanwhile, the two boys reached the Headmaster's office.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Enter," came the Headmaster's command.
They stepped inside cautiously, locking the door behind them.
"Did you uncover anything?" she asked.
The boys drew closer to her desk, lowering their voices so only she could hear.
"We suspect Eric may have been impersonating Committee members and meeting with the victims," Tristan stated.
"Do you possess proof?"
"I searched his quarters but found nothing," Garfield admitted.
The Headmaster shook her head gravely.
"Then upon what foundation is your suspicion built?"
"I learned of an artifact capable of altering one's appearance. I suspect he may have wielded it," Tristan said.
"The relic you speak of is the Mimicry Fake. And you believe Eric holds it?" she asked, brows furrowed.
Tristan's gaze locked with hers, his eyes burning with determination.
"I am uncertain—but with time, we may uncover the evidence we need."
The Headmaster sighed wearily.
"Very well. Seek the proof. I will not condemn the wrong culprit."
Their meeting ended, and the boys departed. The Headmaster resumed her paperwork. Yet suddenly, a cold wind swept through, nearly scattering her documents. Rising swiftly, she moved to shut the window—when, at the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a shadow. Black. She leaned outward, scanning the grounds, but nothing was there.
"Am I imagining things? These endless meetings have stretched late into the night. Perhaps I am simply exhausted."
She secured the window and returned to her seat.
Beyond the glass, a form began to coalesce from the shadows—a black, four-legged figure, its emerald eyes glowing with malice.
"So… that is the truth," it whispered in silence.