The girl lifted her gaze toward the boy who stood before her. She smiled softly as her eyes drifted toward the boy's gilded hair.
"We share a similar hue of hair," she remarked.
The boy's expression remained guarded, yet he chose to indulge in conversation with the young maiden. Extending a lock of his long, tarnished-gold hair, he examined it briefly before turning his gaze to the girl's cleaner, more refined golden strands.
"Perhaps a little, though yours possesses a brighter color. Perhaps it is due to the difference in class," he replied.
The girl's smile lingered.
"Perhaps you are correct, but I perceive no true difference between us. You are a person, and I am a person. We both have red blood coursing through our veins. I suppose the only distinction lies in that I am female and you are male."
Garfield regarded the girl with a puzzled expression. Her words carried a warmth he had never heard nor felt before. It was strange—profoundly strange to him.
From the orphanage's main building emerged an elderly man clad in a butler's uniform. He appeared to be searching for someone, rushing out the door, glancing left, then right, and finally forward. His eyes found the young maiden standing before Garfield. Without hesitation, he hurried toward them.
"Lady Veronica, please refrain from wandering off in such a manner," the butler implored.
Veronica gave a lighthearted giggle.
"I can hardly run off, can I?" she replied wryly, gesturing toward her wheelchair.
The butler, paying little heed to the phrasing of his own words, lowered his head in visible regret.
"I apologize, my lady."
Veronica waved her hand dismissively, her smile unwavering.
"It is quite alright," she said graciously.
The butler then lifted his head, his eyes falling upon the boy before him—a boy he recognized, not from a prior meeting, but because his features so strongly mirrored a woman he had once known. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he approached the boy, raising a hand to gently touch his face.
"You bear an uncanny resemblance to her," he murmured.
Garfield brushed the man's hand from his cheek and lowered it gently.
"Forgive me, but I do not know who—or what—you speak of," Garfield said, his expression awkward.
The old man narrowed his eyes, studying the boy's face, before resting a hand upon his shoulder. Garfield glanced at the hand, then turned to meet the man's gaze.
"I may be old, but I have not yet gone senile. I know… or rather, I knew your mother," the man said, his voice tinged with sorrow.
The boy's eyes brightened, his expression shifting from guarded to one of eager curiosity.
"You knew my mother? From where?" Garfield pressed.
Before the man could answer, a voice called from a fair distance—clear, deep, and commanding.
"Francis, you truly ought to learn to hold your tongue."
The old man froze, as though a predator loomed behind him. Garfield gripped the man's shoulders.
"Old man, you must tell me more—you said you knew my mother," Garfield pleaded.
Yet despite his earnestness, the old man remained silent, like a figure carved from stone. Garfield shifted his gaze toward the source of the voice—a man approaching with measured steps. He bore golden hair much like the young lady before him, a neatly groomed beard, a physique honed by discipline, and attire befitting a man of rank: a deep blue coat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, and in his hand a cane with a silver horse-head handle atop a shaft of dark iron.
The man came to a halt before Garfield.
"Is your name Garfield Frutia?" he inquired.
Garfield released the old man and spoke with measured respect—not from fear, but necessity.
"Yes… and you are, if you do not mind my asking, sir?"
"I do not mind. My name is Damian Redgrave—your father," the man declared, the words striking both his daughter and Garfield with astonishment.
Damian strode toward his carriage, each step ringing sharply against the cobblestones, his cane tapping in rhythm.
"Francis, assist Veronica into the carriage," he ordered as he passed the stunned boy. "You should follow as well, Garfield."
Garfield hesitated only briefly before following the man who claimed to be his father. The coachman quickly opened the door, allowing Damian and Garfield to enter first, followed by Veronica—helped in by Francis—who entered last. Veronica sat beside her father, while Garfield and Francis sat opposite Lord Redgrave.
"I imagine you have many questions. Allow me to answer a few," Damian began.
"Very well. Why seek me out only now, and where have you been my entire life?" Garfield asked.
Veronica glanced at her father, awaiting his response.
"The first answer is simple," Damian said, crossing one leg over the other. "As a man of high standing, there inevitably comes a time when I must bequeath my wealth to a successor. Yet I possess no son—only daughters whom I love dearly—but a son is what eluded me. Then I recalled that one of my servants had borne a child of the same blood as I. Though the child's gender was unknown to me, I learned where they lived."
Garfield lowered his gaze, his heart heavy. He was not sought out of love—only out of necessity. Though he had only just met his father, the truth still wounded him.
"As for your second question—I was in the High District, raising my daughters," Damian stated plainly.
"So… what is it you want from me?" Garfield asked, his eyes fixed on the carriage floor.
Damian turned his head to gaze out the window as the carriage rolled through the streets of the Middle District.
"From this day forth, that orphanage no longer claims you—I do. I do not yet acknowledge you as my son, though you share my blood. You must earn my respect, as well as the respect of the nobility, for they will never esteem one of lesser birth without strength and renown."
Garfield looked up, still wounded but now perplexed.
"What do you mean?"
"From this moment onward, you shall be granted the Remnants of Fallen Star Beasts to strengthen you. By the time you reach sixteen, you will stand as a high-end One Star. You will then attempt the Constella Academy entrance examination, presenting yourself before the world. That alone will not impress me—but it will serve as the foundation. From there, what you achieve is your own doing, but everything you do must be with the aim of earning the nobility's recognition."
It was much to absorb, and Garfield was far from pleased with what he had learned. Yet, one benefit emerged from the arrangement—he would leave that wretched orphanage behind. For that alone, he felt a reluctant obligation toward the noble seated before him.
"I will do whatever you require of me," Garfield said firmly.
"Then we have an agreement," Lord Redgrave replied, a faint smile curling his lips.