Faulty Perception?

"Form up!" The man gestured with his hands, urging the new intakes to gather. Slowly, they assembled in rows of three, their movements sluggish and disorganized.

"We'll be taking you to the reception where you'll be assigned rooms using the stones you were given." His voice was crisp as he adjusted his glasses. "Males, proceed to the bluish miasma. Females, to the red." He paused for a moment, his sharp gaze scanning the group. Then, with a pointed tone, he added, "Your lessons have already begun. Consider this your first test—to prove whether your seventeen years of hearing the illusory whispers were worth anything at all. Prove yourselves... to yourselves."

With that, he turned sharply, his two female assistants flanking him on either side. Their movements were graceful, deliberate, their garments flowing in the wind like rippling shadows.

"Finally," a girl muttered nearby, stifling a yawn. "I can't wait to sleep. I'm so exhausted."

Faust turned, noticing her for the first time. The new arrangement had placed her beside him, and she seemed wholly unimpressed by the situation.

She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, her purplish pupils catching the faint light—a subtle mark of the whispers' influence. "You can stop ogling. Can't a lady be tired?"

Her hair caught Faust's attention next—a striking mix of white and purple. The colors intertwined as though each strand had been painstakingly dyed to alternate shades.

"Hello? Are you even listening?" She waved her hand in front of his face.

Faust blinked, snapping out of his daze. He flushed slightly, realizing he'd been caught staring. He hesitated but finally managed to respond. "Sorry... I believe I should greet you with a gesture, right?" He gave a small, awkward bow. "Apologies. Your hair just... stood out. And, uh, yeah, I'm tired too."

"My hair?" she asked, brushing a stray lock away as a sudden zephyr swept through. She glanced at him with a faint smirk. "Well, I'm Maria. Hope to see you around."

Before Faust could respond, Maria turned and walked away, her white gown swaying like a ghostly silhouette as the group arrived at the reception area.

The man and his two assistants had vanished without a trace, leaving the intakes standing before the strange entrances. The doors were cloaked in swirling miasma—one seemingly blue, the other red—but the colors flickered and shifted, playing tricks on the eyes.

"Which one is which?" Faust muttered, eyeing the entrances nervously.

The man's instructions echoed in his mind: blue for males, red for females. But as Faust watched, the miasma seemed to mock him. A male would enter the right door, only for a female to follow moments later.

Taking a deep breath, Faust closed his eyes. He reached out with his spiritual perception, the same technique he had used during his Seventeen Ceremony to decipher the illusory whispers.

A faint scent drifted to him—jasper extract, unmistakably feminine. His eyes snapped open. "That must be the female section," he muttered, turning toward the right entrance.

But as he stepped closer, the miasma shifted again, revealing a reddish hue. Alarmed, he backed away, turning instead to the left.

"Are those guys actually heading into the female section?" Faust thought, stifling a laugh at the potential disaster.

Confident now, he stepped through the left entrance.

A blinding light filled his vision, and when it cleared, Faust froze. He was standing in a line... surrounded entirely by girls.

The receptionist, a stern-looking woman, glanced up and shook her head in disapproval. Laughter erupted from some of the girls as Faust's face turned crimson.

"What... You've got to be kidding me." He stumbled backward, mortified. The lone girl in the line regarded him with cold indifference, her gaze piercing.

Awkwardly, Faust spun on his heel and darted back through the door. The same blinding light enveloped him, and he found himself standing outside again, back where he started.

Smack! He slapped his forehead, frustration bubbling over. "I just had to mess it up."

Some of the boys who had noticed his ordeal chuckled, their jeers cutting through his embarrassment.

Gritting his teeth, Faust stared at the entrances once more. This time, he focused his senses fully, ignoring the noise around him. He calmed his breathing, allowing his perception to sharpen.

Finally, the blue miasma stood out—unmistakable now. With renewed confidence, Faust hurried toward the correct entrance.

As he stepped through the door, relief washed over him. He was finally in the male reception area, a sense of accomplishment dulling the sting of his earlier mistake.

"The male reception," he muttered under his breath, joining the line.

For now, at least, he could breathe easier.

---

After what felt like an eternity of standing in line, Faust finally stepped forward. He had studied the procedure meticulously while observing the others, so he moved with measured confidence, reaching into his pocket to produce the stone he had been given and placing it onto the desk in front of the man stationed there.

The man's eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head, lowering his glasses for a better look at Faust. His appearance was rugged, his demeanor stoic, but when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm, almost soothing—a contradiction that made him seem even more unsettling. "Walk through that door," the man instructed, gesturing curtly. "It will lead you to your assigned room. There will be no activities for the rest of the day, so you may rest until tomorrow."

With that, the man slid the stone back across the desk toward Faust, his expression unreadable.

Faust retrieved the stone and stepped past the door. The moment he crossed the threshold, his surroundings shifted, and he found himself standing in a long hallway cloaked in an unsettling stillness. Directly ahead of him was a single door, its surface etched with the words Hali: Room 3. A strange sense of relief washed over him as he stood there, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours.

For a moment, he let his bag slip from his grip, his focus entirely on the door. The weight of everything—the journey, the unfamiliarity, the exhaustion—seemed to dissipate as he stared at it. Then, as if waking from a brief trance, he bent to retrieve his belongings. Glancing to his left and right, he noticed something peculiar: the rest of the hallway was obscured by an unnerving mist, the other doors barely visible through the swirling fog.

"What is this?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are the other rooms hidden by this strange fog?"

The curiosity tugged at him, whispering temptations to step closer, to unravel the mystery. But the fatigue pressing down on his body was stronger, anchoring him to the task at hand. Fighting the urge to explore, Faust turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping into what would be his room for the night.

Inside, the space was simple yet functional, designed for nothing more than rest. Without hesitation, he chose the nearest bed and set down his bag. The moment his head hit the pillow, an overwhelming heaviness consumed him, and darkness veiled his vision. Sleep claimed him in an instant.