"Remember, Chad—spread out all your Sar and leave your reserves empty."
The words Tear had drilled into them rang in Chad's ears as his hand hovered above the crystal.The chamber grew still. Remy's chest tightened, each breath pressed from him as though by an unseen hand.
Chad's palm met the glass sphere. He waited—rigid, expectant. Nothing happened.
"This one's fine, Conner," the inspector muttered, his tone dripping with boredom more than relief. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, then waved lazily. "You—come here." His thick finger pointed at Charles.
Chad stepped aside, returning to his place. Charles moved forward and pressed his hand to the orb. Again, the result was plain, and the inspector sighed, wearied by the monotony.
This is dull… No one who passes here ever shows a spark of the Mystic. What a waste of time, the guard thought, calling out again.
"What are you waiting for—an invitation?" Conner grumbled when Remy hesitated.
"S-sorry," Remy stammered, shuffling forward.
"Place your hand," the inspector said flatly, impatience lining every syllable.
Remy's hand hovered, trembling. They had practiced this countless times, yet doubt still gnawed at him. At last, he pressed his palm against the sphere. Like the others, he drove every trace of Sar from his body, forcing himself into emptiness.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then—
"Ah—what the—?" The inspector lurched forward, eyes widening as the crystal burst into a sudden, blinding white. His earlier lassitude shattered, replaced with sharp alarm.
Remy tore his hand back in a flash.
"Did you see that, Conner?" Ralf barked from behind the desk.
"Hey—you! Put your hand back!" His voice cracked with urgency.
"Saw what?" Conner muttered, turning in confusion. He had missed the flare entirely.
Remy's heart thundered, his eyes wide with fear.
"I said put your hand back!" Ralf commanded, voice cutting like iron.
Remy glanced back. The boys were fidgeting, fear flickering through their faces, though they tried to hide it.
Charles kept fidgeting his thumbs, moving them against each other, clearly trying to mask the fact that his hands were trembling.
Chad gave a small flick of his head, accompanied by a gentle smile—an attempt to reassure him, perhaps, that all would be well.
Remy turned forward. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Drawing a steadying breath, he set his hand on the crystal again. This time, the sphere stayed dark—silent, inert, just as it had for the others.
"Hu…" the boys sighed almost in unison, relief spilling from them.
"Ha…? For sure, I thought—I must've been seeing things," Ralf muttered, though his voice carried a strange edge.
"You've been standing in the sun too long, Ralf," Conner said, waving the boys toward the door.
"Perhaps," Ralf replied, trailing behind, his gaze fixed a moment longer on the crystal. His eyes narrowed—unconvinced, as though it had whispered to him, "That fellow is suspicious."
"Well, welcome to the Great Region of Agustin, the Saint of August," the guards announced as the massive steel gate groaned open before them.
Ralf and Conner moved to either side, seizing the chains and heaving. The spiked gate shuddered as it rose, grinding against the stone until—
Clang!
It struck the top of the wall, ringing like a bell of iron. The guards gestured them through, and the boys tugged their cart inside.
What awaited them was a sight that struck them still. The air was sweet, fragrant with blossoms. The streets gleamed with cleanliness, and from every corner rose lush green trees heavy with life. Men, women, and children strolled between stalls, laughter spilling freely as merchants called out their wares.
Granite buildings lined the avenues, their pale stone glittering in the sun's glare. From their walls hung banners—the image of the Lady Remy had glimpsed in the interrogation chamber, stark black and white against the dazzling stone.
The streets themselves were paved with neat grey blocks, laid wherever roots and greenery did not claim the earth.
And then, before them—
A tree. Towering, crimson, its trunk and branches seeming drenched in blood. It stood like a monument at the city's heart, defiant against the sky. Around its roots bloomed a bed of flowers, encircling it like guardians—or a prison.
"I didn't expect it to be this grand… Is this really the place Tear saw?" Charles murmured as they ventured deeper into the city.
"Be careful, Charles… If something looks too good to be true, it probably is," Remy replied, his voice low and cold. "I would know… all too well," he added under his breath.
The boys drew closer to the great crimson tree.
"Mmmm… You know, it's strange, but I feel drawn to this tree," Charles admitted, staring up at its towering branches.
"I know, right? It's brilliant. The tree was planted during the Great Depression. Ever since it took root, the land has thrived—lush and abundant. We owe so much to the Saint," a voice boomed from behind them, startling the boys. They spun around sharply.
"Oh… my, forgive my rudeness. When I see newcomers, I just can't help but blabber on about the great deeds of the Saint—a true servant of God. My name is Stark, by the way. I noticed you were new, so I thought you might need a guide. I would be honored to help you get to know the place, if you'd allow me."
The man before them looked to be in his mid-thirties. He wore neat maroon trousers, a linen shirt, and a fitted blazer, polished but simple. His brown hair was carefully combed, and his face bore a kind, almost naïve expression.
The boys exchanged hesitant glances. It was true—they needed a guide. This land was unfamiliar, and any information could be invaluable.
"Good day to you, Mister Stark… We would be very grateful if you could guide us," Chad said, stepping forward for a handshake.
"No, it's my pleasure," Stark replied, shaking Chad's hand warmly.
"By the way, my name is Chadwick. This is Remy and Charles. We've come here seeking a better life," Chad added, gesturing to the other boys as they waved politely.
"A better life, you say… All who come here look for a better life… and a better life you shall get." Stark spoke, a huge grin flashing from his face.
After the brief introductions, the guide began to lead them through the city.
The world seemed wondrous, full of splendor and life—but the boys failed to see it through the eyes of the Mystic.
Had they done so, they would have realized immediately that this place was not fit to live in, and they should have escaped when they still had the chance; that mistake—the simple trust in appearances—would soon cost them dearly.