Amelia began cooking the spaghetti with Mr. Kenway's assistance, of course, but merely watching her attempt to cook made it painfully evident to Tristan and Garfield that she possessed no prior experience in the kitchen. She was tasked with cutting the tomatoes—a simple chore for most—but even that proved to be a struggle. At times, she nearly sliced her finger, her grip on the knife so unsteady that it occasionally slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor and nearly piercing her feet. By sheer luck and reflex, she managed to move in time each instance, narrowly avoiding injury.
In her earnest attempt to be of assistance, she had instead become a hazard—not only to herself but also to the one she sought to help. Yet, through perseverance and Kenway's patient guidance, the spaghetti was eventually completed. Though several bits were charred and unevenly cooked, it was, all things considered, a respectable first effort for Amelia.
When the meal was ready, they gathered at the table, their plates neatly arranged before them. Each dish held a generous portion of spaghetti piled high like miniature mountains, drenched in a glistening coat of tomato sauce.
"Let's eat," Mr. Kenway declared warmly.
They began to dine, and to their collective surprise, the meal was not terrible—until Tristan took an unfortunate bite of the burnt spaghetti. It was hard, bitter, and almost inedible. His expression twisted subtly as he chewed, yet he refused to spit it out. Seeing the pride and anticipation on Amelia's face, he could not bring himself to insult her effort.
Garfield and Mr. Kenway wore similar masks of forced contentment, chewing slowly and avoiding eye contact.
"You don't have to pretend," Amelia said, noticing their discomfort. "I know the spaghetti is awful."
"Well, you said it, not me," Tristan muttered softly.
Garfield shook his head quickly. "No, no—it's not bad! Some parts are very delicious, but others are…"
"Burned," Amelia finished for him, a faint frown forming. "I understand. I'm sorry."
Tristan exhaled and spoke in a calm, understanding tone. "You don't need to apologize. It's your first attempt—no one expects perfection. But if you truly wish to improve, Mr. Kenway and I could teach you if you'd like."
The faint sorrow in Amelia's eyes melted into a small, genuine smile. "Okay then."
Mr. Kenway watched his adopted son with quiet pride. There was a new depth in Tristan's voice—a calm maturity he had not seen before. He realized it was likely the result of the friends Tristan had made at the Academy, friends who had shaped him into the young man sitting before him. Albert Kenway could not help but feel proud.
After they finished their dinner, Tristan and Garfield took it upon themselves to wash the dishes. Once the kitchen was tidied, the group lingered at the table, conversing about life at the Academy—their lessons, the café Amelia had taken them to, and the assortment of people they had encountered, both good and ill.
As the hour grew late, fatigue began to weigh on Mr. Kenway's shoulders. With a yawn, he excused himself, bidding them goodnight before retreating to his room. Before leaving, he assigned their sleeping arrangements: Amelia would take the room nearest his own, while Tristan and Garfield would share the one beside the kitchen.
The night deepened, the world outside falling into quiet stillness. Garfield and Amelia soon decided to retire.
"You coming?" Garfield asked as he paused by the doorway, glancing at Tristan, who sat on the couch sipping water.
"I'm more comfortable sleeping here," Tristan replied evenly. "So you guys go ahead."
Garfield hesitated for a moment, then nodded as realization struck—Tristan had often slept on that very couch before the Academy. Perhaps it was nostalgia, a faint echo of simpler days.
"Alright then," Garfield murmured before heading to bed.
Amelia bid them goodnight, then offered a gentle wave toward Tristan as she gracefully made her way into her room, the soft rustle of her attire fading into the quiet of her room.
Once Mr. Kenway, Garfield and Amelia were asleep, Tristan quietly checked on them, ensuring their rest was undisturbed. Satisfied, he returned to the couch and settled into his meditative position.
'Killington, it is time.'
From beneath him, Killington's circular shadow expanded, slipping soundlessly through the floor before vanishing into the night. It traversed the streets of the Middle District, eventually reaching the Low District.
This had been part of Tristan's plan all along. His visit to Mr. Kenway had not been solely out of sentiment; he had also wanted proximity to his hunting grounds to conserve his energy.
Killington emerged in the Low District—a desolate place, broken and silent. Crumbling buildings loomed like hollow corpses, and not a soul stirred. From the shadows, Killington rose, his blade glinting coldly beneath the moonlight.
"It's time to hunt," Tristan whispered.
If all went according to plan, he would ascend to a two-star by the end of this hunt. Before the week-long training camp, Tristan had amassed seventy-five Death Shards. With Ruben's supplied Remnants, he had gained five more. Tonight, if luck favored him and his stamina endured, he could collect twenty additional shards from the beasts of the Low District.
Killington stood motionless, listening. In the silence, faint scrapes and whispers betrayed movement—the beasts that slinked and hid, believing themselves unseen. Then, in a blur of motion, Killington moved. His blade sang through the air, slicing through the dark. One by one, creatures fell before him, their blood painting the streets crimson under the moon's pale gaze.
He soon came upon a pack of rat-like beasts, though unlike the one they had faced in the secret laboratory, these creatures were far less intelligent—more akin to true vermin, only warped and grotesquely mutated until their bodies had swollen to the size of wolves. The monstrous rats feasted savagely upon the carcass of some unfortunate animal, one they had likely hunted down and dragged to this forsaken place. They stood ankle-deep in a pool of its congealed blood, the wet, sickening sound of tearing flesh echoing through the desolate streets.
"Grotesque creatures," Killington muttered, disgust lacing his tone.
He descended upon them in an instant, his blade flashing. Heads rolled, bodies fell, and silence reclaimed the night.
[Death Shards collected.]
[Death Shards: 90/100]
"We are close," Tristan said, a faint smile curving his lips.
Killington flicked the blood from his blade, letting it splatter across the cobblestones. Just as he prepared to move on, a sudden chill crawled up his spine. He turned—and saw a man seated casually atop a ruined building.
The stranger wore a theatrical mask, half white with a painted grin, half black with a solemn frown. His hair was dark, streaked with ghostly strands of white, and he spun a deck of cards idly on one finger as his gaze locked onto the shadow warrior.
"My Lord, you see what I see," Killington murmured, his tone wary. "But I do not know if you feel what I feel. The energy radiating from that man… it reeks of malice."
Tristan's voice echoed in his mind, calm but edged with tension. "Unfortunate. We'll have to cut the hunt short—return immediately."
Killington hesitated, then replied, "I don't think he intends to let me."
Tristan frowned, uncertain of what he meant.
"When I heard there was something killing beasts in Sector Two of the Low District, I expected something feral—something monstrous," the masked man said, shuffling his cards lazily. "But this? Just a human. Humans are so very easy to break. Still, orders are orders. I've been told to dispose of you."
Killington readied himself.
"Killington—do not engage!" Tristan's command thundered telepathically.
The man chuckled, drawing a single card and twirling it between his fingers. "I wonder which card I'll pull tonight."
Killington blinked—and in that blink, the man was suddenly behind him. He slid a card from behind Killington's ear with magician-like grace. The card: Two of Spades.
The stranger's grin deepened. "Time to move fast."