The two had dashed around campus for half the day. Sherlock even dragged Morris through the academy’s shopping street. In the end, *she* was the one having the most fun—Morris just played reluctant shopping buddy.

Sherlock finally picked out a silver bracelet for him. Morris eyed the merchant’s cheerful grin and hesitated. *Should I tell her it’s plated?* The moment he held it, the weight and texture felt off—clearly not real silver. The craftsmanship was subtle enough to fool most people.

“What’s the point of buying this?” Morris asked the girl after a pause. “I don’t need accessories. And wearing it won’t pop up a *Ding! Intelligence +3, Perception +2* notification or anything.”

“No,” Sherlock insisted, dead serious. “I spent ages picking this one. It’s *the* one.”

“Why?” Morris sighed helplessly. He didn’t want Sherlock cheated, nor the merchant embarrassed.

“B-because they look like a pair! Th-that’s why!” Sherlock stammered, head dipping low. She extended her right ring finger, flashing Morris the Ring of Verity—he’d nearly forgotten it. Only when placed side by side did he notice the patterns matched… *almost*. Just similar. Judas’s sole relic was the Ring of Verity. No “Ring of Verity” bracelet existed.

Morris, utterly fixated on Judas’s relic, missed the meaning entirely—and failed to see how hard Sherlock had fought to choke back her blush.

“Sigh…” Morris scratched his head. “Alright. Feels kinda fated. Let’s get it.”

Sherlock froze. Then stomped her foot. Fury flooded her eyes—so thick it seemed she’d lunge and punch him. But she held back. Silently, she paid, shoved the bracelet into his palm, and stormed off without a glance.

Morris stood bewildered, bracelet in hand. *What did I do wrong? Why’s she mad?*

“Young man,” the merchant chuckled, counting silver coins, “you really don’t get girls. Sometimes overthinking their words just makes everyone miserable. Don’t do that.”

His voice was young. Yet in the sweltering heat, he was swaddled head-to-toe in a purple wide-sleeved robe. Shoulders hinted at a lean frame; a high collar hid his lower face. His hat soared forty centimeters tall—only cunning eyes peeked through the weave. After pocketing the coins, he hummed and turned to Morris with faux concern: “Whoa, brother. Trust me—skip the tantrum-prone girls. Hey, freshman? Need essentials?”

Seemingly delighted, he’d even switched to “brother,” already pitching wares.

“No thanks,” Morris said flatly. Sherlock was already far ahead. He made to leave. “And I don’t buy from merchants who pass plated silver as real.”

“Huh?!” The merchant blinked, flustered. “Hmph! A connoisseur, huh? Fine—*real* goods then! First-year placement exam originals! Midterm leaks! All legit! Hey—hey, kid?!”

Morris was already sprinting away. The bracelet glimmered under streetlights. The merchant sighed, fanning himself with his hat. “Man… hasn’t been a freshman who sees through alchemy in ages. Hope Master snags him as my junior brother…”

At the alley mouth leading to the back garden, Sherlock wiped frustrated tears. Realizing Morris hadn’t followed, she kicked the dark lamppost—*thud*.

A faint *clink* echoed. She yanked her foot back, peering closely. *Did I break something inside?*

“Well, well—a little girl?” A man slunk from the shadows. Moonlight glinted in his eyes. He chuckled, swaying closer, scanning her up and down. Spotting her commoner uniform, his grin widened. “Where you from, huh?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, shaking her head. “I-I got lost. Heading back…”

“Why leave? Come with *me*.” He stepped closer—she barely reached his chest. He jiggled flabby arms. “Senior from the Student Council. Freshman, right? I’ll get you *in*.”

His smile twisted bare and hungry. Sherlock’s legs locked. Teeth gritted, she tried to move—but her whole body went limp.

“Come on… senior’s got something *special* to show you.”

Peering down the alley, Sherlock saw a girl in white lying motionless in the garden. Her pupils trembled. *He’s serious. He’d really do it.*

He loomed over her, breath hot, gaze burning. “What a prize… miles better than those academy trash.”

Sherlock squeezed her eyes shut. *Why did I storm off alone? If Morris were here… he’s probably searching everywhere…*

The man lunged, gripping her wrist rough. “Come on! Come on!”

“Come for *what*?”

He froze. A figure stood beside him—when had he appeared?

“I asked: *come for what?*” The newcomer stepped forward, face unreadable, gaze steel. Voice unwavering. Stance solid as a mountain.