The two boys ascended to their customary place of gathering, Tristan's room. The first subject they broached was the day's events at the academy. Garfield conveyed to Tristan the details of the Selection Game and how they were expected to approach it as a three-man squad.
Amelia had made it emphatically clear that they ought to commence training as a unit without delay, and thus she proposed that the two of them come to Green Manor. Garfield then elaborated on the other occurrences throughout the day, such as the various lessons they had attended.
"That should be all," Garfield said.
"Are you entirely certain that is all?" Tristan asked as he sat upon his bed, his ten fingers interlaced and placed firmly beneath his chin.
Garfield paused in thought before recalling one final matter. The matter he and Amelia had discussed first when the news of the Selection Game had reached them.
"We agreed that Amelia's brother should serve as our Master, seeing as he possesses both the wealth and the skill required to train us."
"I suppose Ruben is the most fitting option, and even if he himself cannot train us, he may enlist the aid of Darren," Tristan said, his tone carrying the weight of agreement.
With the discourse on the recently concluded school day behind them, their attention shifted to the other paramount concern—the discovery of Bertal Wenkay's clandestine laboratory.
"So how do you suggest we proceed with this?" Garfield inquired.
"At first, I considered confronting Eric directly, but I quickly dismissed the idea."
Garfield, bewildered, pressed, "Why did you dismiss it?"
"We assumed that Eric might simply be acting on the directives of the Disciplinary Committee," Tristan explained, "but what if he is not? What if he is orchestrating all of this of his own volition, using the committee as a veil to conceal his true intentions?"
Garfield remained unsettled, his mind struggling to comprehend the full extent of Eric's possible duplicity.
"But how? The Headmaster himself said that before each victim either fell ill or vanished, they met with a member of the committee."
"That is the very question I posed to myself," Tristan admitted. "But then I remembered something from our time during the Entrance Examination. During that trial, Amelia—or someone who bore her likeness—gave me a drink. Later I discovered that it had not been Amelia at all, but rather a figure masquerading beneath her face."
Garfield's eyes widened as he began to piece together the trajectory of Tristan's reasoning.
"Are you implying that Eric may have the ability to assume the faces of committee members to commit his crimes?"
"Yes, though I cannot be entirely certain. It remains, for now, a hypothesis," Tristan replied gravely.
Tristan was not certain whether his conjecture held any truth; for all he knew, he might have been spewing little more than conjectural nonsense. Yet in a world where nothing was absolute, uncertainty was as dangerous as fact. Unless they could prove that Eric had been elsewhere entirely when these meetings between victims and committee members transpired, he could not be dismissed as merely a pawn obeying the commands of his superiors.
As Tristan pondered, his thoughts were interrupted by Garfield, whose golden head bent with sudden insight.
"Do you not think there could be evidence hidden within his room?"
Tristan slowly shook his head.
"Unlikely. Eric is exceptionally intelligent, and if he is truly entangled in this, he will have erased all traces of his involvement."
"Well, surely it would not hurt to search, would it?" Garfield countered.
Garfield was correct—it would not hurt to investigate. If they sought to exonerate or condemn Eric definitively, they required tangible proof. And the closest place to begin their search was within Eric's room.
"Very well. Tomorrow morning we shall search his quarters after the others have departed."
Garfield nodded, and with that, their council drew to a close. Every matter they had set out to address had been covered. Rising from the wooden chair, Garfield prepared to depart. As he neared the door and extended his hand toward the knob, he halted suddenly at Tristan's words.
"Thank you."
Garfield turned back, a puzzled look upon his face, though a smile lingered faintly upon his lips.
"And why do you thank me?"
"For keeping me informed on all that happened today, and for taking over my share of chores," Tristan said in a tone laden with sincerity.
"You need not thank me. As you said yourself—we are friends," Garfield replied warmly as he opened the door.
With that, Garfield closed the door, leaving Tristan to the solitude of his thoughts.
'Long-distance Necromancy devours far too much of my strength. If I persist in this manner, I may cripple myself entirely. I must ration the use of Necromancy, scheduling its deployment carefully, if I am to expand my Death Shards without destroying my body.'
He addressed the system, commanding it to reveal the current number of Death Shards in his possession.
[45/100 Death Shards]
Thus Tristan came to understand the precise amounts he received whenever Killington felled the beasts of the Lower District. The canine-like Fallen creatures were mid to high-end One Stars, yielding two or three Death Shards each, whereas the low-level One Stars produced but a single shard.
'Intriguing,' Tristan mused inwardly.
And with that, his day drew to a close. Tomorrow loomed, heavy with plans yet to be enacted.
The next morning soon dawned, and as the others departed, Tristan among them, Eric had already taken his leave. As they made their way out, Gareth asked, "Where is Garfield?"
Harrison swiftly interjected with a chastisement of his own.
"Yesterday you were absent, and now today it is him. You two had best begin treating your lessons with seriousness."
"He has unfinished matters to attend to. Proceed without us; I shall remain here and wait for him," Tristan answered calmly.
The two accepted his words without further inquiry, and with Tristan's discreet knock upon the wooden stair, the operation began.
Garfield emerged, cautiously glancing left, then right, then left once more. Seeing the path clear, he advanced toward Eric's quarters. Though the door was locked, every room in the dormitory had a spare silver key for circumstances in which the original was misplaced.
Garfield unlocked the chamber and entered the neatly arranged room. His first course of action was to inspect beneath the bed. He first pressed his hands upon the bed several times, he even searched within the feather-stuffed pillows, yet there was nothing. He dropped to one knee, peering into the shadows.
Nothing.
He checked again, yet still nothing. Shifting his attention, Garfield moved to the wardrobe, its rails lined with suits prepared for every imaginable occasion.
"This fellow is exceedingly well prepared," Garfield muttered.
He searched the base of the wardrobe, then sifted through the garments.
Yet again, nothing.
His eyes turned to the shelves brimming with books. He thumbed through them one by one, but still found nothing. Their suspicions were steadily unraveling before him. A thought began to whisper at the edge of Garfield's mind.
"Could it be… Eric is innocent?"
Only one last place remained unsearched—the study table and the drawers within. Garfield approached it, yet as he drew near, he froze.
Knock! Knock!
The sharp rapping of the front door echoed from below. Two deliberate knocks—an omen that someone approached.
And indeed, someone was.
Eric was returning.