After everyone had gone to their rooms, Tristan and Garfield met in Tristan's room to discuss their next move. Tristan sat on the edge of his bed, while Garfield settled into a worn wooden chair tucked in the far right corner of the room.
"So, what exactly is the plan?" Garfield asked, rocking the chair backward with a mischievous grin.
"We should most likely speak to Eric first," Tristan said, voice low and thoughtful. "He might have information we can use. But remember—we must be discreet. We can't afford to let him catch on to what we truly want."
"You're right. We don't want him tipped off," Garfield replied, still rocking casually on the chair.
Tristan's eye twitched in visible irritation as he watched the rhythmic motion.
"Would you stop?" he snapped.
Garfield blinked, feigning innocence. "Stop what?"
"That." Tristan pointed sharply at the chair rocking.
"Oh. Right. Sorry, I'll stop."
But as Garfield tried to halt the motion, the chair tilted too far, and he tumbled backwards, slamming into the nearby wall with a loud thud. As he hit the wall, his elbow struck a hollow section, cracking the plaster and punching a hole straight through it.
Tristan stormed toward him, his expression thunderous. He seized Garfield by the collar, his voice a furious growl.
"Why don't you listen?!"
But mid-scolding, something inside the hole caught Tristan's attention. He released Garfield abruptly and shoved him aside, reaching into the cavity.
"A… book?" he murmured, drawing out an old, weathered journal bound with a single, fraying thread. The cover was tattered, the title nearly faded beyond recognition. Tristan wiped the dust from the front, revealing only a partial name.
"'Bertal'... but the rest is illegible," he muttered, brow furrowed.
"What's a book doing inside the wall?" Garfield wondered aloud, leaning closer to inspect the hole.
Just then, Garfield recoiled in terror, eyes wide with horror.
"S-Spiders…" he whispered, his voice trembling.
Tristan barely spared him a glance as he returned to the bed and cracked open the mysterious book. Its contents revealed it to be a diary—likely belonging to the former occupant of this very room. With curiosity piqued, Tristan began to read aloud:
"15th January, Year 345 of the Celestial Calendar. This is my diary, the record of my time at Constella Academy. Today marks the beginning, and I am excited beyond words. They say the new Headmaster is a beautiful woman—I can't wait to see her for myself."
"16th January, Year 345. My first day wasn't quite what I expected, but I remain hopeful. I saw the Headmaster—she is as beautiful as the rumors claimed, and her speech… captivating."
As Tristan flipped through the pages, the tone of the entries grew darker, more desperate.
"3rd April, Year 345. The nobles threw me into a well. I'm sick of this. Why are we treated like trash just because we're different? I was down there for seven hours—cold, starving, terrified. I began to question everything."
Tristan's gaze lingered on the page. "The school broke him in four months. I wonder how long it will take to break you," he said, glancing at Garfield.
Garfield let out an uneasy laugh, his expression clouding as he cast his eyes toward the floor. The light-heartedness he normally carried faded, replaced by something somber and shaken.
"What's on the next page?" he asked quietly.
Tristan turned to the next entry.
"4th April, Year 345. The Headmaster visited me during my recovery. Her smile—radiant, unchanged. We spoke for hours. Somehow, her presence made all the pain I've suffered feel worth it."
For a while, the writer seemed to recover—but it didn't last.
"12th July, Year 345. I had a nightmare—one so vivid I cannot forget. The rulers of this country will destroy not just the nation, but the entire world. It is my duty to stop them… to destroy the so-called Gods of this land. But how? I haven't the faintest idea."
Tristan leaned back slightly, scowling. "This guy's clearly lost his mind. The school shattered him, and now he's inventing fantasies to give his suffering purpose." He slapped the book's pages with the back of his hand.
But Garfield didn't seem convinced. His face was pale, fear tightening his features. A silence stretched between them until Garfield asked again:
"What's next?"
Tristan flipped to the next page.
"30th July, Year 345. A theory has begun to form—perhaps the only way humans can stand against Gods is by becoming more than human. I believe the essence of a Star Beast, or its blood, could accelerate our potential—perhaps even unlock untold power."
"Definitely insane," Tristan muttered. "Mixing human blood with beasts? Who would agree to something like that?"
Garfield said nothing. His expression was grim, serious in a way Tristan rarely saw. He remained completely still, visibly rattled. Bathed in the dim glow of a solitary light casting its eerie shimmer upon the tattered pages of the book, the atmosphere was suffocating with dread. Garfield stood frozen, gripped by an overwhelming silence—his voice caught in his throat, uncertain of what to say.
Tristan continued.
"12th December, Year 345. I've gathered enough blood from Star Beasts. I combined it with human blood—some from hospitals, others from corpses. I injected it into rats first. At first, they grew stronger—lifting objects many times their size—but then… they became sick. Twisted. Monstrous. I failed."
The two boys stared at the book in stunned silence. The transformation within the diary—from hopeful student to madman—was jarring. A single year had warped the writer beyond recognition.
Tristan turned the page… but it was blank. There were no further entries.
"He must have stopped writing after the experiments failed," Tristan said. "Too broken. Too ashamed."
"Could it be true?" Garfield asked, voice low. "That the rulers will destroy the world?"
Tristan recalled the tale from the old woman in the Low District—the one that hinted at a darkness beneath Constella's glittering surface. He met Garfield's gaze.
"There's no way to know. But you can't seriously believe the ramblings of someone clearly unwell."
"Maybe you're right… or maybe you're not. What if he was telling the truth? Aren't you even a little scared?" Garfield asked.
Tristan fell quiet. He considered the question, then looked at Garfield with a deadened expression.
"To be totally honest, I couldn't care less if the world was ending."
Garfield's eyes dimmed, and he shook his head slowly before turning toward the door.
"I see… brother. But I refuse to watch the world burn."
Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Even if the world you're trying to protect hates you? You'd still fight for it?"
Garfield paused in the doorway. "Yes. Even if the world I swore to protect rots into a pile of garbage… I'll still protect it."
With that, he stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Tristan let out a long breath, eyes lingering on the door.
"I wish I were like you. I wish I could see the world through that kind of light… but it's clear to me now—this world is just as rotten as the one I left behind."
He collapsed backward onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
'Killington, do you think I said the right thing?'
"I am not one to judge, my Lord. But I believe you said what you did for a reason. You wish to keep Garfield from getting involved."
Tristan chuckled softly.
'The way you say it makes it sound like I actually care about him…'
"Not only Garfield. Amelia. Mr. Keyway. Darren. You care for them all—you just refuse to admit it."
"I… I don't know," Tristan whispered.
Then, sleep claimed him once more.