Tristan and Garfield sat in the meeting hall, further discussing Tristan's hunch. Garfield found it difficult to believe Tristan would base his misguided assumption on merely a hunch. It was far from Tristan to do such a thing, and Garfield knew this well. Garfield knew that Tristan was secretive, but he did not know the true extent of his secrets. He only possessed surface-level knowledge when it came to the enigmatic Tristan.
"Are you listening?" Tristan asked.
Tristan's question snapped Garfield out of his deep contemplation and back into the current discussion.
"It is still strange to me how you came to that conclusion. If you could tell me more, perhaps…"
His words were cut short by Tristan's venomous gaze, a look so sharp it seemed to silence his very voice. Garfield's eyes shifted uneasily. Tristan's expression softened as he drew in a slow breath.
"I cannot tell you how I reached this conclusion—you will simply have to trust me," Tristan said, attempting to persuade Garfield.
Garfield nodded slowly.
"Very well then. What do we do now? We already searched his room, so what remains?"
Tristan began tapping his shoe against the wooden floorboards of the meeting hall, his mind drifting deep into thought. His thoughts wandered in search of a solution to Garfield's pressing question. They knew nothing of the lanky boy—not his motives, nor his reasons, and certainly not any hidden place where he might conceal something of value.
Suddenly, Tristan's rhythmic tapping came to an abrupt halt.
"Did you think of something?" Garfield asked, curiosity seeping into his tone.
Tristan's expression remained grave, his eyes closed, his breathing calm and measured as he prepared to speak. His lips parted slightly, the words lingering at the edge of release.
"I have nothing."
Garfield was stunned—after all that, Tristan had come up with nothing. It was almost laughable, absurd even, if one chose to think of it that way.
Garfield rose from his seat, preparing to return to class as the brief intermission granted to students was about to end.
"It is fine—we will devise something sooner or later. But we cannot neglect our other obligations. We must prepare for the Selection Game."
"You are right," he began, before the vision of the silver-haired maiden's wrathful expression entered his mind, "Amelia will be furious—perhaps we should bring her something."
Their time for scheming was cut short as the break concluded. They soon returned to class, where they met the piercing gaze of the disappointed Amelia, seated firmly at her desk. The boys tried to avoid her eyes, yet they could always feel her frigid blue stare boring holes into the backs of their heads as they walked toward their seats.
Time passed, and the school day came to an end.
Tristan and Garfield had pondered long and hard over what they might do to appease Amelia and ease her simmering displeasure. At last, after classes had ended, they reached a conclusion: Tristan and Garfield would take Amelia to a place that was certain to lift her spirits.
Floare Café.
"Why are we here?" she asked.
"We know we angered you, so we decided to bring you somewhere that would cheer you up, and at the same time, we could discuss how to approach the Selection Game," Garfield explained.
Amelia's lips curved into a smile.
"I am pleased that both of you care for my feelings, but I was never truly angry. I understand you both have other duties. So I was not so upset."
"I told him that, but he was convinced you were furious," Tristan said in a dismissive tone.
"Me? Brother, you were the one who first insisted we do something to calm Amelia, fearing she might be angry," Garfield retorted, breaking into soft laughter.
Amelia's smile widened as she realized Tristan had been the one to suggest coming to Floare Café. The three of them took seats at the same spot where they had sat the first time—outside, at the far right of the café's entrance. As they settled in, a waitress approached to take their orders. Since the trio only knew the pastries Synthia had introduced them to, those became their choice once again. With their orders placed, the waitress departed, leaving them to their discussion.
"So, I assume you already have a game plan?" Tristan surmised.
Amelia smirked, her confidence radiating.
"Naturally. I believe the teams have already been decided. Ours, of course, consists of myself, you, and Garfield."
"What of the other teams?" Garfield asked.
"I was getting to that," she replied to Garfield's impatient demand for knowledge. "Yaron's team will consist of himself, his brother Francis Rivers, and the spearman Hendrick Trafford. Their squad layout mirrors ours closely, with the only distinction being that their two frontal fighters are close-range combatants—Yaron with his gauntlets and Francis with his dagger. Hendrick will likely serve as a long-range fighter, though he is equally capable at mid-range."
Garfield absorbed the information slowly, not immediately recognizing his own role. Only after a moment did it dawn on him that he had been relegated to the position of long-range support.
"Wait—wouldn't I be more effective as a close- to mid-range fighter?"
Tristan already understood why Garfield was best suited to hang back rather than charge forward, but allowed Amelia to do the honors of explaining.
"Tristan is strong, but he lacks the stamina to endure prolonged combat. That is where you come in—your energy expenditure is far less, allowing you and Tristan to alternate roles. The only drawback is that during Tristan's recovery, we will be left vulnerable without long-range support," Amelia explained, answering Garfield's concern.
Amelia had meticulously orchestrated the team's formations, ensuring they would harness the full extent of their potential. But what else could be expected from the prodigious genius that is Amelia Green.
'Clever… though, of course, I anticipated this long before our meeting.'
"So then, what of the other teams? Surely there are others you deem threatening?"
Amelia answered at once.
"Benjamin will choose Adelia White and Adrian Garnet for his team. I do not know much about the latter two or their weapons, but it is safe to assume they complete the composition of a balanced team."
She continued after drawing a measured breath and consulting her carefully prepared notes.
"This leaves Bella Grand and the two other snipers. I would dismiss them as inconsequential—were it not for Bella Grand."
Garfield furrowed his brow, the name failing to spark recognition.
"Who is she again?"
"She was the first person you knocked unconscious during the third stage of the entrance examination," Tristan reminded him.
Garfield searched his memory, rifling through recollections until at last the image of the young markswoman surfaced.
"Ah, I remember now. Beyond her explosive bullets, she seemed rather unremarkable."
"On the contrary—she is exceptionally intelligent. If anyone could make use of a poor hand of cards, it would be her," Amelia replied, speaking with unreserved respect.
"Are there any other individuals you regard as threats?" Tristan pressed.
Amelia pondered briefly before answering with unwavering certainty.
"Benjamin Vermillion, Yaron Rivers, and Adelia White."
"Is there a method by which you judged them to be threats?" Tristan asked further.
"Yes. Potential, intellect, leadership, and strategic planning were among the chief criteria I used to identify them."
Tristan was satisfied with her response but could not resist one final inquiry.
"Then may I assume you already have a plan to counter all three teams?"
Amelia smiled, her confidence unshaken, and responded with certainty.
"Of course I do."