Trainer

"Your my trainer? I don't remember hiring one," Tristan said, irritation lacing his voice.

Darren lowered his outstretched hand, his sharp gaze shifting to Amelia with an expression of mild annoyance. Though his frustration was evident, it was not directed at her—but at Tristan.

"This kid is already getting on my nerves," Darren muttered.

Amelia exhaled a quiet sigh before addressing Tristan.

"I told you—I want to become the leader of a Tower, and for that, I need a partner. I chose you, but I'm well aware that you lack even the most basic combat skills. That's why I asked a trusted family friend to assist you."

Tristan fell silent, contemplating her words. He had agreed to be Amelia's partner, to help her achieve her goal, but the details of how they would accomplish this had never been made clear.

"And how exactly do we become Tower leaders?" he asked.

Amelia's expression remained resolute. "You and I will enroll in Constella Academy. There, we'll undergo rigorous training, be assigned various missions, and, through our success, grow in strength and gain recognition from those in power."

Constella Academy.

It was the first time Tristan had heard of it. He assumed it must be common knowledge—something everyone in the country should be familiar with—so rather than revealing his ignorance, he decided to listen carefully. Once he returned home, he would consult the history book that held information on the academy.

Home.

The realization struck him. He had left the boutique without notifying Mr. Kenway. Without a doubt, the old man would be looking for him.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," he said abruptly.

Both Darren and Amelia exchanged glances, confusion flickering across their faces.

"And why is that?" Darren asked, his tone edged with suspicion.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," Tristan shot back, his voice laced with defiance.

The air grew tense as the two locked eyes, their mutual distaste for one another clear. Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding.

"Fine. But be here tomorrow," Darren finally relented.

"Fine."

Without another word, Tristan turned and exited the room, then the bar itself. However, as soon as he stepped outside, he realized something troubling.

"I have no idea where I am."

A voice, deep and unwavering, resonated in his mind.

"Sir, I know where we are and how to return home. Turn left from here."

Killington.

Tristan followed the instruction, careful not to draw attention to himself as he spoke. Once he had put some distance between himself and the bar, he finally allowed himself to ask the question that had been gnawing at him.

"Why didn't you appear when I called for you?"

There was a slight pause before Killington answered.

"My lord, your energy was nearly depleted after summoning me. Manifesting me in the physical world for so long drained what little Star Energy you had left."

Star Energy—the life force granted by the star within one's body. The more stars a person possessed, the greater their reservoir of power. Tristan, having only a single star, had expended nearly all of his energy summoning Killington.

"How frustrating," he thought bitterly. "Will it always be like this? If I can't even summon properly, how am I supposed to grow stronger? No, I refuse to remain weak. I need power—enough power so that I never end up like before."

As he neared the boutique, Amelia's words echoed in his mind.

Constella Academy.

"What exactly is Constella Academy?" he asked aloud.

Killington responded without hesitation. "Constella Academy is the primary training ground for young Star Warriors. It was established to prepare the next generation to fight against the Fallen Star."

"The Fallen Star?" Tristan murmured, confusion flickering across his face.

The moment the words left his lips, an unexpected sensation overwhelmed him. A memory surfaced—one that was not his own, but Tristan's, the real Tristan's.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed.

The memory unfolded in vivid detail:

A small, run-down house. A dining table adorned with carefully prepared meals. His mother, smiling despite the leaking roof and creaking floorboards. The warmth in her eyes made their hardships seem insignificant.

Then—destruction.

A beast crashed through the fragile ceiling, its form concealed by the swirling dust. Only its dark blue eyes were visible, burning with malice.

Then, darkness.

The vision ended as suddenly as it had begun.

Tristan gasped, clutching his trembling hands. His entire body shook, his teeth chattering as an inexplicable fear seized him.

"Why...?" he whispered. "Why do I feel like this? These aren't my memories. I shouldn't care about a past I never lived... about a woman I never knew!"

His voice cracked as he forced himself to his feet.

"My lord, are you all right?" Killington asked, concern lacing his usually composed tone.

Tristan's response was swift and sharp.

"I'm fine."

He continued walking, determined to suppress the emotions clawing at him. Eventually, he reached the boutique. To his surprise, the door was still open.

As he stepped inside, his gaze landed on Mr. Kenway, seated on the stairway. His expression was a mix of anger, disappointment, and—most unexpectedly—concern.

"Where have you been?" the old man asked, his voice measured but firm.

Tristan hesitated. He couldn't tell the truth. What would Kenway think if he knew Tristan had slaughtered multiple members of the Crescent Moon Gang?

He needed to fabricate a lie.

"I... went to meet a friend," he said carefully. "You've met her before. I told you earlier that I'd be seeing her tonight."

Kenway regarded him for a moment before nodding slowly. "A friend… oh, yes, I remember now. But still, you shouldn't be out so late. If anything were to happen to you, I wouldn't be able to face your mother."

Guilt twisted in Tristan's chest.

The power of Truthful Liar had allowed him to weave a believable falsehood, yet it pained him to deceive someone he had grown to respect.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

Kenway's expression softened. "It's fine. Come upstairs and eat. We'll talk tomorrow."

Tristan obeyed, finishing his meal before retreating to his bed. As sleep threatened to claim him, Kenway pushed open the door, stepping into the dimly lit living room where Tristan lay.

"Tristan?" Kenway's voice was gentle. "I know I said we'd talk tomorrow, but... if you're still awake, can we talk now?"

Tristan sat up slightly. "Sure. I actually had a few questions about my mother."

Kenway entered, settling beside him. "What would you like to know?"

There was a brief pause before Tristan finally spoke.

"I don't mean any disrespect, but… what exactly was your relationship with my mother?"

Kenway blinked, caught off guard by the question. Then, a slow smile spread across his face.

"Someone who admired and respected her greatly. A friend, a teammate... a brother. Take your pick."

Tristan watched him, noting the genuine warmth in his expression.

"It's been a long time since I've seen someone smile like that," he thought. "It's... refreshing."

Satisfied with the answer, he was about to settle in when Kenway suddenly straightened.

"Tristan," he said, his voice quieter now. "You know what a Star Weapon is, right?"

Tristan hesitated. He had heard the term before—Amelia had mentioned it in passing at the library—but he hadn't fully grasped its significance.

"I've heard of it, but not much."

Kenway's eyes glowed with something unreadable—pride, perhaps, or nostalgia.

"Then it's time you learned," he said. "Because I want to give you your mother's Star Weapon."