During the carriage ride, a moment of absolute silence settled between them. It was in that silence that Tristan allowed himself to absorb the passing scenery. The wheels dipped gently into the road's worn grooves, making the ride subtly jostled, like a slow heartbeat against the city's skin.
They passed a serene park, vibrant with trees draped in shimmering, emerald-green leaves. The sunlight filtered through the branches in dappled patterns, and for a fleeting second, the world felt peaceful. Not far after, they passed a quaint jewelry shop. Though Tristan couldn't glimpse the interior, he caught the glint of jewels sparkling through the window—flashes of wealth behind the glass.
But beauty was not everywhere.
Soon, the landscape changed—decrepit buildings, sagging under their own weight, lined the streets like broken teeth. Homeless citizens huddled in the alleys, finding warmth only in each other's company, their eyes hollow, their futures uncertain.
"Sad, isn't it?" Amelia asked, her voice heavy with solemnity.
Tristan turned to her, meeting her gaze before responding with a question of his own.
"How does it even get this bad?"
"All the districts are divided by priority," she explained. "Those in the Lower District have no connection to nobility, and so they're deemed low priority. The Middle District holds those with minor noble lineage, so they're slightly better off… but still neglected. And the High District…" she paused, her tone edged with disdain. "Well, I don't think I need to explain why they are considered the highest priority."
The concept of hierarchy wasn't foreign to Tristan—not even in the world he came from. The wealthy reigned, and the poor endured. It was a universal truth. And though he felt a flicker of pity for those suffering, he couldn't summon the will to help. Not yet. But he knew one thing for certain: push people too far, and even the most docile of them would eventually revolt.
He turned his gaze back to the window, watching as the carriage neared the border between the Middle and High Districts. But before they arrived, a silent thought echoed in his mind.
'Killington… the weapon you used against those rats—was that your Star Weapon?'
Killington responded instantly, as if waiting.
"Yes, my lord. It is called Reflector's Steel. It allows me to redirect energy-based attacks back at their origin."
"I see," Tristan murmured aloud.
His voice, sudden and unprompted, drew the attention of both Amelia and the maid.
"What do you see?" Amelia asked, arching a brow.
To deflect further questioning, Tristan replied smoothly, "I was just thinking about what you said—about them not having enough food to survive. Do you want to help them?"
Amelia took in a deep breath, then answered with unwavering conviction.
"I will become a Pillar Leader not only for myself—but for the people of Constella."
Tristan had known she sought that title, but her motivation had been unclear—until now. He assumed the position would bring prestige, wealth, and privileges most could only dream of. But to challenge the inner workings of a nation so deeply rooted in class... that bordered on impossible.
He didn't reply. Instead, he silently admired her resolve—and, admittedly, her beauty—and resumed watching the passing streets.
They soon crossed a long bridge that stretched over an enormous moat, its waters sky-blue and teeming with colorful fish that swam like living gems beneath the surface. At the gate stood two armored guards, spears in hand—likely their Star Weapons—standing sentinel beside the towering iron gates.
One of them approached the carriage and examined the insignia etched into its side: a silver shield bearing a majestic green eagle. Upon seeing it, the soldier immediately bowed.
"Welcome back," he said with reverence.
The gates opened without resistance, and the carriage continued forward. Tristan had always known Amelia came from nobility—but how high did her status reach?
"Amelia," he asked quietly, "who are you, really?"
She sighed and answered without emotion, as if the words were practiced.
"I am Amelia Green. Second daughter of Darell Green, patriarch of House Green."
Tristan shut his eyes, saying nothing aloud. Amelia assumed his silence was one of understanding. But she was mistaken.
'I don't even know what House Green is…'
To his rescue, the ever-present, walking encyclopedia—Killington—answered his master's unspoken question with unwavering precision.
"House Green is one of the Five Great Families of Constella. They wield great influence, particularly in trade and medicine. However, they are not known for their warriors—births of true combatants among their ranks are rare."
Killington then listed the remaining four houses: Violet, Garnet, White, and Vermillion.
'Vermillion… Could that mean Decker Vermillion is from that house?' Tristan wondered.
"Most likely, my lord," Killington replied.
From the moment they'd passed through the gate, Tristan hadn't looked out the window again. Now, he did—and was stunned.
The buildings were colossal, dwarfing those in the Middle District. The roads were pristine, without a single crack. People strolled the sidewalks dressed in the finest suits, adorned with top hats and polished monocles.
They passed a bakery with a line trailing down the block, and a boutique that made Kenway's look like a roadside stall. It stretched across an entire block, buzzing with patrons.
Moments later, they arrived at the Green family estate.
An enormous black gate blocked their path, connected to a fence that wrapped around the entire mansion. Guards stationed at the entrance quickly opened it upon recognizing the carriage.
"Welcome back, Lady Amelia. Your father awaits you inside," they announced, bowing respectfully.
Amelia said nothing—she simply gestured for the driver to proceed.
As they followed the winding path, Tristan marveled at the meticulously tended gardens on either side: rows of red roses, pink cherry blossoms, tulips, and countless other blooms he couldn't name. A fountain stood at the path's center, crowned with a stone eagle spouting water from its beak.
And beyond that, the mansion itself.
It was a structure fit for royalty—enormous, elegant, commanding. Its dark green facade echoed the family's name. Towering windows were spaced with deliberate care, and two grand wooden doors loomed ahead, three times the height of an average man. Atop it all rested a pristine white roof, catching the light like a crown.
The maid stepped down and assisted Amelia from the carriage. Tristan followed.
Amelia turned to him, her voice soft but proud.
"Welcome to Green Manor."