Learning?

Later that morning, the caretaker of the Spirit Library entered the grand hall of books and tomes, only to find Faust sprawled on the floor, fast asleep amidst scattered texts. The man shook his head, muttering about disrespect for sacred spaces, and nudged Faust awake with a broom handle.

Faust groggily opened his eyes, blinking at the sunlight filtering through the high windows. The caretaker wasted no time contacting his parents through a messenger sprite.

Spirits influenced reality in profound ways, including communication. Spiritual signals emanated from every living thing, carried by spiritual animas or beings, creating a vast, interconnected web of instantaneous messaging.

It wasn't long before Claire arrived, her sharp eyes taking in the mess and her son's drained appearance.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice a mixture of concern and reprimand.

Claire had grown increasingly sensitive ever since losing her first son, Casper. The memory clawed at her like a living beast, unrelenting in its torment. She remembered that day vividly: Casper standing at the altar during his metaphor ceremony. Twenty minutes passed, and he neither heard a whisper nor summoned a Spirit Gear. Unlike Faust, who had endured whispers and a delayed metaphor, Casper succumbed instantly.

The whispers surged in intensity, driving him to madness. Dozens of lesser spirits appeared, clawing to claim his body. In his frenzy, Casper had slammed his head into the stone walls, peeling his own skin as insanity consumed him. Claire's heart shattered that day, and she could never look at Faust's struggles without seeing the ghost of her firstborn.

Now, staring at her second son, she feared what his metaphor had wrought. She knew echoes the negative effects of metaphors—could alter ones behavior.

Faust scratched his head, his expression a mix of curiosity and sarcasm. "I only wanted to read," he said.

Yes, I'm here to read, Faust thought, his face twisting into a frown that teetered between skepticism and frustration. His brows furrowed, and a flicker of doubt lingered in his dark eyes, as if he was silently interrogating the very purpose of his existence. But why? Why do spirits exist? Why do we need metaphors? Why do whispers choose us? Why do they destroy as much as they create?

Claire sighed, brushing aside her unease. "Come home. You need a bath and rest."

Claire offered a curt apology to the caretaker, whose weathered face softened into an expression of understanding. He waved off her words with a dismissive hand, muttering, "Young ones often lose themselves in pursuit of answers. Just ensure he treats this place with the respect it deserves."

Claire nodded, her gaze flicking toward Faust, who rubbed the back of his neck, feigning sheepishness. She gently gripped his arm and guided him toward the library's exit.

As they stepped out of the grand, dome-shaped building, Faust instinctively paused and turned back to take in the structure's imposing magnificence. The Spirit Library loomed like a timeless monument, its vast stone walls etched with shifting patterns—glyphs that seemed alive, flowing like rivers of ink. Morning light cascaded through its intricate stained-glass windows, casting prismatic hues onto the cobblestone path below.

Though Faust had visited countless times before, the library now felt profoundly different. There was an itch in his mind, a restless feeling that something within those ancient walls still eluded him. It wasn't just the allure of its endless trove of knowledge but the sense that it held secrets far beyond what was written in its texts. For a moment, he lingered, the pull of curiosity gnawing at him.

Claire's voice broke his reverie. "Come on, Faust," she said, glancing back at him. "We're going home."

The street outside the library was bustling with activity. Businessmen in tailored coats and polished shoes rushed to their destinations, their faces tight with focus. Carriages clattered along the cobblestone streets, their wheels kicking up faint plumes of dust. Aristocrats in elegant morning attire leaned back against plush seats, their chins lifted with the quiet arrogance of those who had never wanted for anything.

Claire scanned the crowded thoroughfare, her frustration growing as carriage after carriage sped past, already filled with passengers. At last, she managed to flag down an empty one, its driver a wiry man with sharp features and an air of impatience.

"Finally," Claire muttered, opening the door and gesturing for Faust to climb in.

Faust hesitated for a beat, stealing one last glance at the Spirit Library. The feeling persisted, tugging at him like an invisible thread. There's more to learn, he thought, stepping into the carriage. Much more.

As the door clicked shut, Claire settled into the seat beside him, smoothing the folds of her dress. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately," she said, her tone a blend of exasperation and concern. "But I won't have you exhausting yourself like this. Whatever you're searching for can wait."

Faust didn't respond immediately. He gazed out the window, watching the city blur past. The buildings of Stigborne—the noble district where Gelatea lived—gave way to the quieter, more modest streets leading toward their own home. His mind was still in the library, wrestling with the questions that had taken root there.

"Maybe it can," he said finally, his voice distant. "But maybe it shouldn't."

. . .

After cleaning up, Faust sat by his desk, his hair still damp,rays from the sun prying into his room through the window. He summoned a messenger sprite, instructing it to deliver messages to Gelatea and Uriel. Within the hour, the trio met up at their usual spot.

Their gathering place was a secluded corner behind the monastery of the Stigborne north street, where ancient stone arches loomed overhead, their surfaces etched with unreadable runes that glowed faintly in the day light.

A broken fountain lay at the center, its basin overgrown with moss and wildflowers, yet a trickle of water still flowed, producing a soft, melodic sound. Lanterns hung on makeshift hooks along the surrounding trees, casting warm, flickering light against the cold, crumbling stones. It was a place that felt forgotten by the world, where the past lingered like a whisper, and the present seemed to pause just long enough for secrets to be shared.

"So," Gelatea began, her voice bright, "your parents finally made a decision?"

Faust nodded, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips. "Yes,yes they have."

Gelatea and Uriel exchanged amused glances, though their expressions held genuine happiness for him.

"Faust," Uriel said, "You deserve this,who knows with time you might even become a High tiered Spiritualist."

Faust smirked. "You're both far too optimistic."

Their conversation shifted, the air charged with Faust's unrelenting curiosity as he willed the dice to appear. Its intricate carvings glinted under the sunlight, as if the object itself pulsed with quiet anticipation.

"Let's see what these numbers actually do," Faust declared, tossing the dice into the air. It spun and tumbled, suspended unnaturally as if gravity were a mere suggestion.

"Wait," Gelatea interjected sharply as if it would stop the spinning dice, her tone laced with caution. "Are you sure about this? It seems... dangerous."

Faust shrugged nonchalantly, though a sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips. "Understanding is key, isn't it? Besides, how dangerous could one little roll be?"

The dice continued its ethereal spin before finally slowing, its motion deliberate. It landed on 2.

A sudden shimmer rippled through the air, and the world around them twisted unnaturally. Their meeting spot—the quiet clearing under the shadow of the Spirit Ruins—seemed to warp. Trees bent at impossible angles, and the lantern hanging from a low branch stretched as though its very structure resisted reality. Shadows danced in fragmented patterns, and the once-muted hum of the forest was replaced by an eerie dissonance, a sound that seemed to grow louder with every passing moment.

"This feels worse than the Lesser Spirit incident," Faust muttered, eyes darting as the illusions played havoc on their surroundings. He tilted his head, listening to the growing hum. "And that sound... unsettling."

Gelatea's sharp gaze flicked to him. "Unsettling doesn't even begin to describe it. What if it gets worse the longer the dice are active?"

Ignoring her warning, Faust flicked the dice into the air again. "Only one way to find out."

This time, the dice landed on 4.

The air rippled, not with the violent distortion of before but with a more insidious presence. Subtle changes spread outward like a quiet wave. A nearby tree sprouted golden leaves that shimmered unnaturally in the dim light. A faint breeze passed by, nudging the hanging lantern to sway, but instead of dimming, the light inside intensified.

Gelatea crossed her arms, studying the changes. "It's altering outcomes," she murmured. Her voice carried a mix of fascination and wariness. "Not all at once, but… in layers. Like it's nudging reality itself."

"Ripple," Faust said, nodding as if trying the word out. "That's what we'll call this one."

Uriel, who had been silent until now, frowned. "And how exactly does that help us? A leaf turning gold isn't going to save you in a fight."

"Maybe not," Faust admitted, "but what if it alters something bigger? Something significant. This one's potential isn't obvious—it's subtle."

His curiosity remained insatiable. Faust rolled the dice again, this time with more force. It spun violently before landing on 1.

Pain. Blinding, searing pain shot through his body, driving him to his knees. He gasped, his hands clutching the ground as a wave of raw energy surged through him. It felt like his very essence was being shredded and pieced back together in a chaotic loop.

"Faust!" Uriel shouted, rushing forward.

Gelatea tensed, her hand instinctively reaching for her Spirit Gear. "What's happening to him?"

Faust gritted his teeth, sweat pouring down his face as he forced himself to speak. "This... this one is pure chaos." He exhaled sharply, his voice strained. "Call it "Rend",it literally renders me powerless."

Uriel pulled him to his feet, concern etched across his face. "This is reckless, even for you, Faust. Are you seriously planning to keep experimenting like this? You barely survived that roll."

"Survived is the key word," Faust countered, a flicker of determination in his eyes. He straightened up, ignoring the tremor in his hands. "We're starting to understand them. That's progress."

After various failed attempts, the trio were strained by the effects of the repeating effects of Faust's Dice. The second outcome was the most draining as the illusions inflicted negative effects on them.

The trio sat by the fountain, drained of energy. Gelatea sighed, her arms dropping to her sides. "Fine. We know what outcomes 1, 2, and 4 do. But what about 3, 5 and 6? You've rolled at least 15 times already, and they haven't shown up once. That's not just bad luck."

"Maybe it's by design," Uriel suggested. "What if they're locked until something triggers them?"

Faust tilted his head, considering the possibility. "Locked or not, we'll figure it out. We always do."

Gelatea, ever the pragmatist, shifted the topic. "Since we've hit a dead end here, why don't we make the most of tonight? You're leaving tomorrow, after all. One last exploration of the Spirit Ruins?"

The suggestion brightened Uriel's mood. "It's tradition, after all. And we all have our Spirit Gears now."

"She really considers this dice a reliable power source," Faust muttered under his breath, smirking. "Well, after what we've seen… maybe she's right."

Gelatea rolled her eyes but didn't reply, leading the way toward the ruins. The trio pressed onward, the weight of their discoveries lingering in the air. Faust dismissed the dice, his thoughts spinning faster than the rolls he had cast.

This wasn't just a tool. It was a key—one he had barely begun to unlock.

The Spirit world overlapped with the corporeal world, the ruins, scattered throughout the world, served as liminal spaces where the spirit realm bled into reality. Those without metaphors risked stumbling into these places, unable to see the spirits that influenced them. But for those with metaphors, the ruins offered insight and danger in equal measure.

As they traversed the surreal landscape, Gelatea said, "I hear the Dorian family acquired another Spirit Sanctum."

Faust raised an eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "You don't say."

Gelatea shot him a look. "I'm serious."

Before she could elaborate, the air shifted,reality as blinking gave off a black and white light and the trio vanished.

They reappeared in a strange, ominous domain. The ground resembled blood-stained sand, and silent screams echoed around them. The air was thick with dread, and a dark mist swirled, eyes glowing like embers within its depths.

Gelatea braced herself, her gown flowing as she prepared to summon her Spirit Gear but she realized her Spirit gear failed to manifest. Before she could act, a voice thundered, shaking the ground beneath them.

"In a haste, are we?"

The mist swirled closer, its glowing eyes fixed on them. Gelatea tried to speak but found her voice silenced.

Faust's mind raced. A Greater Spirit... or worse, a Principality. What have we gotten ourselves into?

The mist chuckled, the sound reverberating like shattering glass. "Hmm, hmm, hmmm... interesting."

In an instant, the scene shattered, and they were back in the Spirit Ruins. Without hesitation, the trio reappeared in the real world, their hearts pounding.

"I'll be heading home now," Gelatea said, her voice tight as fear gripped her. She could feel the weight of vulnerability pressing down on her. She couldn't manifest her Spirit Gear, and the encounter had left her shaken. Despite their history of extreme adventures, this was different. This felt… personal. Gelatea waved a quick goodbye to Faust and Uriel, then, pulling a bead from her gown, she whispered something into it. The air shimmered for a moment before she vanished, leaving no trace behind.

Uriel, who had maintained his usual composure, betrayed himself for a brief second. His expression hardened as his mind processed the event. "Faust, I think we've just caught the attention of a strange spiritual entity," he said, his voice low. "I'm heading to St. Vikor's for cleansing. You'd best visit a Whispering Church or the cathedral for a purification before you head to the Academia." He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Faust, his gaze sharp. "It's better to take precautions."

With a wave, Uriel started toward a nearby carriage, but then halted and shot Faust a meaningful look. Faust, understanding the silent communication, nodded.

As Uriel disappeared into the carriage, Faust lingered by the roadside, his mind spinning. The Whispering Church... he could visit there. But the cathedral? He couldn't risk it—not with his parents questioning his every move. He had already endured one cleansing when he was seventeen, a rite that had left him unsettled and wary. His family was already suspicious enough about his involvement in the Spirit Realm; the cathedral would only raise more questions.

Finally, Faust hailed a passing carriage, its direction aligning with his own. He climbed in, paying the driver with a distracted motion. As the carriage rattled away, Faust's thoughts churned. What had just happened? The Spirit Realm was far more dangerous than he had ever imagined. But at the same time, it was undeniably compelling—its mysteries, its shadows, its power. He couldn't let go of it, no matter the cost.