Tristan quickly instructed Killington to leave the building, an action that immediately drew the attention of the one eyed man. Yet the man's focus was not fixed upon the shadow itself. Instead, he sensed the source from which it drew its power, and without hesitation, he leapt toward the upper floor. His sensory abilities were extraordinary—perhaps a tier beneath Claire's, yet still terrifyingly refined. Tristan's mind raced. He had been discovered, and if a battle erupted now, their entire objective could collapse before it had even begun.
The man crept closer to Tristan's door, his voice unnervingly calm.
"Come out. You cannot hide forever."
Tristan's gaze darted toward the glass window. In a single motion, he hurled himself through it. The pane shattered violently, fragments of glass scattering across the wooden floor and raining onto the streets below as Tristan landed upon the cobblestone road and immediately broke into a sprint.
The crimson-haired man leaned over the broken windowsill, a devious grin stretching across his face as he shouted after him.
"Why are you running? I only want to talk!"
Moments later, the man leapt from the window in pursuit. As he watched Tristan flee through the streets, he licked his lips and summoned a revolver from his Celestial Forge. Raising the weapon with his one good eye fixed firmly upon his target, he pulled the trigger.
The thunderous crack of the revolver echoed through the district.
The bullet tore through the air toward Tristan.
Hearing the shot, Tristan reacted instantly. He summoned his black blade and turned sharply, blocking the bullet with the flat side of his weapon. Sparks burst from the impact.
Tristan had been trying to avoid combat in a place crowded with civilians. That was why he fled the Pleasure House in the first place. But now, standing amidst the bustling cobblestone roads of the Third Sector's Middle District, he was surrounded by people. Citizens lined the sidewalks—some frozen in shock as they watched, while others screamed and fled in terror.
"I suppose it cannot be helped," Tristan muttered as he steadied his resolve.
He gripped the swirling hilt of his sword with both hands and pointed it toward the approaching man.
For a moment, Tristan was prepared to fight.
But then he saw her.
A little girl clinging fearfully to her mother, tears welling in her trembling eyes.
The resolve within him faltered instantly.
Slowly, Tristan returned his blade to his Celestial Forge and raised both hands into the air.
"I will not fight you!" Tristan shouted.
The man approached him leisurely, completely unbothered.
"If I wanted to fight," he said, "I would not have fired a simple bullet."
His gaze shifted toward the frightened onlookers gathered along the sidewalks. A deceptive smile spread across his face as he addressed them.
"There is nothing to see here, folks. Just two friends having a disagreement."
Tristan narrowed his eyes, confusion and suspicion intertwining within him. He could not understand what the man was planning.
The man returned his revolver to his Celestial Forge before wrapping an arm around the back of Tristan's neck. His voice dropped into a quiet whisper.
"Let us go somewhere more private and talk."
He led Tristan through the streets and toward the back entrance of a nearby building. Opening the door, they descended a narrow staircase leading into a dimly lit basement bar.
A small bell rang overhead as they entered, alerting the owner stationed behind the counter.
The establishment was modest. Only three tables occupied the room, scattered sparsely across the floor. The air smelled of smoke, aged liquor, and damp wood.
The man selected the table furthest from the entrance and sat down. Tristan followed cautiously, hoping that listening would prevent the encounter from devolving into bloodshed.
The man raised his hand toward the bartender.
"One bottle of your finest, Slug!"
"Slug?" Tristan repeated with visible confusion.
The man grinned.
"That is his name."
Slug was a rugged giant of a man. His sleeveless shirt exposed thick muscular arms covered in old scars, each one seemingly carrying its own story. Without a word, he placed a bottle and two glasses onto the table before pouring the drink into both cups and returning silently behind the counter.
"Tristan Merigold, correct?" the man asked.
"Yes," Tristan replied cautiously, "but I am still curious as to who you are."
The man lifted the glass, taking a slow sip of the dark golden liquid before answering.
"Bart Vermillion. Which would make us cousins."
"I suppose," Tristan answered quietly.
Bart leaned back into his chair, lazily swirling the drink within his glass before taking another sip.
Tristan remained deeply unsettled. Bart was one of Orion's member's, a warrior of immense status and terrifying power. If he had recognized Tristan, then why had he not arrested him? Why had he not killed him outright?
Instead, Bart drank with him as though they were old friends reunited after years apart.
Tristan's eyes drifted toward the glass sitting before him. Temptation tugged at him. Slowly, he reached for it—only to stop midway and pull his hand back.
Bart tilted his head slightly.
"I have never met a man who refused a drink."
"I am not a man," Tristan replied flatly. "I am a boy."
Bart chuckled softly as he set his glass down upon the table.
"No," he said while pointing toward Tristan. "You stopped being a boy the moment you took someone's life."
Tristan leaned forward slightly, strands of his crimson hair falling across the table.
"What is this? An interrogation?"
Bart shook his head immediately.
"No, cousin," he answered calmly. "This is a negotiation."
Tristan's brows furrowed.
"A negotiation?"
"Yes." Bart's tone became colder. "This can go one of two ways. You help me… or I hand you over, and eventually you are executed."
Tristan leaned back into his seat and silently assessed his options.
Truthfully, the choice was not much of a choice at all.
Execution was not a future he intended to accept.
"Fine," Tristan said at last. "Let me hear your terms."
Bart rose from his chair and wandered behind the counter, grabbing the bottle their drinks had come from. Leaning casually against the wood, he drank directly from it before speaking again.
"You have heard of my sister, Adel Vermillion?"
At this point, it would have been absurd for Tristan not to recognize the name. Adel Vermillion was revered throughout the world—the strongest among humanity, the leader of Pillar Orion, a figure worshipped even by the mightiest.
Before Tristan could respond, Bart continued.
"I will assume you have. Humanity's strongest warrior. Leader of Pillar Orion. My superior… and the person I have tried to surpass since I first learned how to speak."
"Is there a point to this?" Tristan asked impatiently.
Bart's demeanor changed instantly.
The carefree smile vanished.
His expression twisted into something cold and deeply unsettling. The darkness beneath his eyepatch only amplified the hostility radiating from him.
"I hate my sister," Bart said.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"And I want to kill her."
Silence filled the bar.
Bart slowly lifted the bottle again before fixing his lone eye upon Tristan.
"So here is my question, cousin…" he said softly.
"Will you help me kill my sister?"