Disclaimer: Tri-Ace and its wonderful staff. I apologise for my bad writing. I'll try harder, really.

Chapter 1: A New Tutor

"Good afternoon, ma'am, my name is..."

"I know. You must be from the Tuition Agency. Come on in."

Though he appeared perfectly calm on the outside, inside he felt like a nervous wreck. It was his first time actually tutoring someone, and he would not have done it if not for the hole in his wallet. He had to put an end to days of starvation at school. His elder sister was far from approachable, and he could understand why—he too considered his bills meagre and unimportant compared to the appalling everyday bills his sister juggled to pay. Quitting school to take up a full-time job just to support the family had dealt her a very large blow; for she had loved her teachers, her friends, and most of all, her education. When the boy expressed his desire to help his sister shook her head.

"You must stay in school," she insisted. "I won't have you quitting school or anything. Whatever will Mother and Father say?"

He loved his sister so much for that. For letting him experience the joy of learning, acquiring new experiences, making new friends. It was something his sister was deprived of; hence he truly cherished his moments at school, making most of it while he could. But his joy was only temporary—he realised he had to help out regardless of whatever his sister said. With the rising prices of goods but a sustained income there was no way they could hope for a better life.

"I must help out," he told his sister one day. "How would I face Father and Mother otherwise? Imagine a man letting a woman do all the work while he bathes himself in luxury, oblivious to the woman's sufferings. It's too shameful." And his sister finally relented, a warm, touched smile on her lips.

"But you must not neglect your studies," she cautioned. "If you feel that your grades are at risk, I…"

"Yes, sister," he nodded reassuringly.

Now he was doubting his assurance and wondered where he had gained the courage to mouth the words he had his sister listen to.

The house he had uneasily stepped in was much better than the rented flat he had spent his life in. The boy's eyes glanced left and right, looking at the fine furniture, new books and pottery with much envy—he could never afford all these luxury even if he worked all his life. Perhaps he could hope to be lucky, but hope had rarely been an engine to success. Smooth, clean planks. A soft, comfortable sofa and a shiny television. Bright lamps which lit up the darkest nights. His eyes darted to every corner of the house. This family is very lucky.

"My son may be a little rough, but he's actually a very good boy," the mother spoke, her voice brimming with pride. "He may be slow at times, but he's a hard worker, I assure you that. I ask that you would be patient with him—and if possible—be his friend."

She sounded a little hurt when she spoke the last few words. The youth empathised a little, then nodded solemnly.

They had finally reached the foot of the staircase. The marble felt cool beneath his feet. The railings were smooth and shiny, as if they had been polished for a grand occasion. His steps were soundless, unlike those that he made with the old flight at home—creak, creak—like an old man wheezing his last words. Along the walls were paintings so beautiful even Picasso would be amazed, then the youth realized that one of the paintings was done by Picasso himself. He stared in admiration at the paintings for a while before increasing his pace to catch up with the lady. He soon found himself in a rather long corridor, at which end stood a bronze bust statue, smooth and glossy, evidence of a professional job.

"I can give it to you if you do a satisfactory job."

The boy seemed startled by the words. "Why, no, ma'am, I can't possibly—"

"In fact, I have so many of such things that I can give one to you right now," the lady clucked. "You seem to be very interested in arts. I can tell. You have that glint in your eyes when you look at them."

That comment was nothing short of embarrassing. "I'm sorry," he apologized.

"What need is there to apologise?" the lady beamed. She stopped in front of a sturdy wooden door and politely knocked on it. "Honey, are you in there? The tutor is here to see you."

No answer. The boy grew more nervous. The lady seemed surprised that the door was left unlocked. She carefully opened the door and was about to step in when—

"Die."

In the blink of an eye, a long, shiny sword had leapt ferociously for them.

"Ma'am, look out!"

CLASH!

The youth had drawn his blade out to hold the attack just in time. He was taken aback by the monstrous strength that weighed down upon him. His limbs trembled as they struggled to keep his balance.

"What in the world—"he began, his vision disrupted by his long fringe that had draped down.

"Not bad for a maggot," a familiar voice sneered back at him. "You're the first person to have ever blocked my atta—hey, wait a minute, aren't you…"

The boy caught sight of a horrifyingly familiar figure out of the corner of his eye.

"Leingod?"

The green-eyed boy stared back in equal disbelief. "Albel?"