Eric opened the door to a room filled with four students seated inside, engrossed in a game of chess. They paid no heed to those who had just entered. Eric, not wishing to disrupt their concentration, spoke softly, introducing the four second-years.
He introduced them all, revering them as the finest of the fine when it came to Second-Years.
There were three boys and a single girl. The girl's name was Felicia Otlestein. The two other boys bore the names Hector Belfort and Graham Hister. Yet none among them carried the commanding presence of the blue-haired boy. He dominated his opponent, executing move after move with no reprieve. It was clear he surpassed anyone in the room, at least in intellect—each move deliberate, calculated, and exact.
Tristan didn't know much about chess, but from what he observed, Eric was utterly overwhelming his adversary.
The boy's facial features reminded Tristan of someone else—a boy with similar hair and a similar structure, one he was not particularly fond of.
"His name is William Rivers," Eric whispered.
That was the confirmation. He was in the presence of the brother of one of his greatest adversaries.
"Tell me, Eric, why are you here? As far as I recall, I forbade you from ever stepping foot in this room, so why…?!" he snapped, his tone laced with fury as his gaze tore away from the chessboard toward Eric and Tristan.
He paused for a moment as he swiftly discerned the crimson-haired boy. He gradually rose from his seat and fixed his gaze upon the youth, a slow, deliberate smile unfurling across his face.
"You must be the boy everyone whispers about. What was your name again? Um…" He paused, as though savoring the thought. "That's it. Tristan Merigold, am I correct?"
William stood, striding toward a nearby cabinet, momentarily abandoning his game. He opened it to reveal shelves laden with bottles of alcohol—an assortment of vintages and spirits.
"You drink?" he asked.
'Technically I do, but I would never allow a minor to indulge.'
"No, I do not."
William withdrew a bottle and retrieved a glass from the lowest shelf of the cabinet.
"Shame," William muttered.
He leisurely returned to his seat, uncorked the bottle, and poured the dark golden liquid into his glass. He swirled it gently, stirring the amber depths, then finally raised it to his lips for a deliberate sip.
"You know, I've long desired to meet you—ever since you defeated my brother, to be precise."
Tristan tilted his head.
"You wish to avenge your brother?"
William burst into laughter.
"Ha! Gods, no. I couldn't care less what becomes of that boy. My family's name, however, is another matter entirely. The Rivers family is regarded as one of the closest in strength and political standing to the Five Great Houses, so for one of ours to fall at the hands of a vermin like you is an insult I cannot tolerate."
"So what will you do?" Tristan asked, his gaze fixed intently upon William.
William scoffed and beckoned Eric to his side. Eric complied, moving closer. The boy calmly set his glass aside, then suddenly stood and delivered a brutal kick to Eric's knee, forcing him down. This was followed swiftly by a savage knee to the face, blood spilling from his nose.
Tristan was taken aback, yet he did not intervene. He stood his ground, silently observing.
William seized Eric by his orange hair, wrenching his head upward, exposing a side of Eric Tristan had never seen before—his frailty. Tears streamed from his eyes, mingling with the blood that dripped freely from his knose.
"I already know the type of person you are. Hurting you directly would mean nothing. The only way to break you is to shatter those around you."
Tristan chuckled.
"Do you truly believe I feel anything for Eric?"
William's expression darkened as he glanced between Tristan and the broken boy bleeding at his feet. He exhaled heavily, then released Eric's hair.
"I suppose not," he muttered, retrieving a white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiping his hands.
Tristan cast his gaze upon Eric, revulsion stirring within him—not merely at William's cruelty, but at Eric's weakness, his willingness to be humiliated without resistance.
"Even if you feel nothing for Eric, I can guarantee there are others you hold dear."
Tristan remained silent, his face a mask of indifference. Yet deep within, emotions seethed uncontrollably, though he would never allow William to glimpse them.
William returned to his seat and resumed his unfinished game.
"Please. Take Eric and leave."
Tristan moved to Eric, lifted him to his feet, and draped the weakened boy's arm over his shoulder. Together they made their way out. Though bloodied and bruised, Eric managed to speak.
"Thank you… for not causing more trouble."
Tristan glanced at him, noting the defeat in his spirit.
"Of course I'd help you. You're my friend."
"Friend? We're not even close to being friends," Eric muttered through clenched teeth, enduring his pain.
Tristan was silent.
"Yeah… we're not friends."
Tristan carried Eric to the infirmary, laying him upon one of the beds before departing to the meeting hall, where he found Garfield waiting. He sat himself across from the golden-haired youth, and lingered in silence.
"What happened?" Garfield asked.
Tristan scoffed, then met Garfield's eyes with a grave expression.
"Eric is definitely still a suspect."
"Huh? How can you tell?"
Earlier, outside, Tristan had tested Eric. He had implied they were friends, but Eric had instantly rejected the notion. That denial revealed everything. Eric was feigning weakness, fabricating his vulnerability—it was all a façade.
How did Tristan discern the truth?
By invoking Truthful Liar—the ability that bends reality through deception. If Eric had truly been broken, he would have accepted Tristan as an ally. But the power failed, exposing his act for what it was.
"Call it a hunch."