The Weight Of Barefoot Souls?

"It's impressive that some of you already know the spiritual arts," a voice called out, cutting through the lingering tension in the air.

The students turned to see a man of average height, his dark brown hair neatly combed, striding into the arena where the battle between Isolde and Viktor had just unfolded. His presence was calm but commanding, and the students instinctively parted, some stepping back to avoid being associated with the unauthorized brawl.

Lazarus, the instructor, climbed the library stairs, his polished shoes clicking against the stone steps. He paused at the top, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. The twin suns cast long shadows behind him, giving him an almost theatrical presence.

"Battles between students outside of the academia's engagements are not allowed," he began, his voice firm but not unkind. He removed his top hat, holding it delicately in one hand. "However, such skirmishes can be… common. Still, I'd advise you all to save your energy for later."

The students erupted into murmurs, their voices overlapping in a chorus of curiosity and confusion.

"Later? What does that mean?" one student whispered, their voice tinged with unease.

"What's going to happen… later?" another asked, their tone laced with nervous anticipation.

Lazarus ignored the questions, his expression unreadable. "I'm here for my students," he continued. "Those from Class Hyades, follow me. Fortunately for you, your classes begin now."

Maria's hand shot up, her face a mix of defiance and disbelief. "But we were told we're done for the day!"

Lazarus turned to her, his gaze steady but unyielding. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and began walking. "You may follow me," he said over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The students of Class Hyades exchanged uneasy glances but fell into line behind him. They moved past the scenes they'd seen during the tour—the grand halls, the towering statues, the eerie murals that seemed to watch them as they passed. The air grew heavier with each step, the weight of the unknown pressing down on them.

***

In the class...

"You may take your seats now," Instructor Lazarus said in passing as he strode toward a podium at the front of the room.

The students scrambled to find seats, their movements hurried but not chaotic. By the time the class settled, Faust found himself sitting directly beside Maria—and, to his surprise, the prodigy Isolde. She sat with her usual icy composure, her gaze fixed ahead as if the rest of the room didn't exist.

"It seems Viktor isn't in Class Hyades after all," Faust remarked, his eyes scanning the room. There were only about twenty students, a small group compared to the bustling crowds he'd seen earlier. His gaze lingered on a few unfamiliar faces before a yawn threatened to escape him.

Before he could stifle it, Instructor Lazarus's voice cut through the room. "Welcome to the academia once again," he began, his tone casual but commanding. "I've decided to begin your classes early. We'll need to finish before 6 p.m." He gestured toward one of the windows, where the twin suns' rays streamed in, casting long beams of light across the room. "Could someone cover that window? The glare is interfering with my sight."

A student near the window quickly drew the curtains, dimming the room slightly. Lazarus nodded in approval before continuing. "Whispers… Metaphors… Echoes… Spirit Gears…" He paced the hall, his words deliberate, each one hanging in the air like a puzzle piece waiting to be placed. He paused mid-stride, his gaze locking onto Jared, one of the students. The silence stretched for an awkward moment before Lazarus finally continued. "These are all the doing of the Primordial Spirit. What is the Primordial Spirit, you ask? Well, it's God. It's the origin. It's the source."

The class listened intently as Lazarus introduced these concepts, his explanations vague but intriguing. Faust's mind raced, trying to piece together what he'd learned so far.

The Primordial Spirit communicates with us through whispers. By interpreting them, we gain our metaphors. Metaphors are like marks , assignments or purpose given to our souls. A Spirit Gear is the physical manifestation of that soul. An Echo embodies an obstacle, an opposing force to those who use their metaphors or Spirit Gears…

A sudden realization struck Faust. He raised his hand, his voice cutting through the lecture. "If Echoes are bound to oppose a person's use of their metaphor and Spirit Gear, why use them at all?"

Lazarus turned to Faust, his expression unreadable. He cleared his throat before answering. "An idle person is one who fails to understand their metaphor. Yes, understanding your metaphor comes with risks—such as gaining more Echoes as you attain more veils or in better terms ascend through the path of the spirit."

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "Ah, that reminds me. Veils are the levels of understanding an individual can attain regarding their metaphor. There are seven veils in total. Veils can be interchanged with Paths.

"Now, having a dormant metaphor might prevent a person from gaining more Echoes, but it also leaves them vulnerable to metaphor corruption, madness, or influence from spiritual entities. In short, it's both safe and dangerous to advance in your understanding of your metaphor. It's how you equip yourself."

As he spoke, Lazarus had wandered closer to Faust, his hands gesturing animatedly. By the time he finished, he was standing right in front of Faust's desk. He gave a small nod before turning and walking back to the podium, where he retrieved a bottle of water from a bag and took a long drink.

Lazarus yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "Well, I'm getting bored already," he admitted, his tone almost conversational.

The class murmured in agreement, a few students chuckling nervously. Lazarus smirked, clearly enjoying their reaction. "We'll be going outside the academia to one of the Whispering Churches. It'll be a good chance to learn more about the Nelipots."

Faust's hand shot up again. "One more thing," he said, his voice steady but curious. "Who are the Nelipots? Why are they here? And why do they walk barefoot?"

The room fell silent, the weight of Faust's question hanging in the air. Many of the students leaned forward, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. It was a question they all wondered about but hadn't dared to ask.

Lazarus's smile was enigmatic, his eyes glinting with something Faust couldn't quite place. "Nelipots are people who fail to hear a metaphor. Sometimes, they also fail to gain a Spirit Gear. Metaphors are unique purposes assigned to an individual's soul. A soul with a metaphor is no different from a lesser spirit."

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "As for why they walk barefoot…" He tilted his head, his smile widening. "Has any of you tried to remain barefoot for ten minutes outside or on the sand or earth as they call it?"

The students shook their heads, some muttering under their breath. "My mother would never hear of it," one whispered. "It was either I wore leg covers, socks, or shoes before stepping out."

Lazarus chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "Exactly," he said. "Now, follow me outside. Faust, come forward."

The students followed Lazarus outside as they gathered.

Faust's heart sank as he turned to Maria, his face a mask of despair. She gave him a sympathetic look but said nothing. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and stepped forward.

"Take off your leg cover. Ensure you're barefoot," Lazarus instructed.

Why did I have to ask this question? Faust thought, his stomach churning. He'd only stayed barefoot with Gelatea and Uriel for four minutes once, and it had been a painful ordeal.

As Faust stood there, barefoot and uneasy, Lazarus turned away from him and addressed the class. "While we wait, let's take questions. I'll give adequate answers."

***

After ten minutes of questions and answers, Faust was beginning to sweat. A chance to ask important questions, and this is what they ask? he thought, exasperated.

"What's the time for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?" "When do we have group meetings?" "How do we do spirit world explorations?" The questions were mundane, and Faust couldn't help but feel frustrated. And why is nothing happening? It's been ten minutes already.

Suddenly, a sharp jolt of pain shot up from his feet, jolting him upright. His body stiffened instinctively, and before he could stop himself, he let out a scream. "Instructor Lazarus, do something!"

Lazarus's smile deepened, his eyes glinting with amusement as he watched Faust writhe in pain. Then, as if responding to an unseen force, Faust was lifted off the ground, his body levitating a few meters above the earth. The pain didn't subside—if anything, it intensified. It felt like lightning was striking the soles of his feet, sending waves of agony through his body.

What's going on? What is this pain?Faust thought, his mind racing. He tried to force his feet back onto the ground, but an invisible force repelled him, sending him flipping backward before he stabilized in midair.

Lazarus's voice cut through the chaos, calm and measured. "As I was saying, Nelipots have to walk barefoot due to a unique trait they possess, they need to be barefoot.

"Those with metaphors, however, cannot stay barefoot for more than ten minutes on the earth. This is because of our affinity to the spirit realm. It's like a connection that makes the mortal realm repel us—hence the repelling force keeping Faust's legs from touching the ground.

"This is why depictions of ghosts, wraiths, phantoms, and spirits are often shown hovering above the earth. It's the same principle at play."

A random voice piped up from the crowd. "Are you saying we're like ghosts?"

Another student chimed in, their tone tinged with panic. "Am I dead?"

Faust's eyes darted around, searching for the source of the questions. His gaze landed on Isolde, who had facepalmed in clear disgust at the absurdity of the inquiries.

Lazarus chuckled, shaking his head. "No… and yes. The moment you gain a metaphor, you become more spirit than mortal—yet you're still mortal. We're something in between, though unfortunately, there's no term for that.

"Now, Nelipots don't experience this repelling effect. Instead, the earth acts as a limiter for them, reducing the intensity of the amplified whispers and ravings they endure after failing to gain a metaphor. It lowers the risk of instant madness, though it varies from individual to individual. Some Nelipots still lose their sanity to the whispers despite walking barefoot. It's more of an inherent ability than an established system as they can still lose it when they continue to attempt the seventeen ceremony in order to gain a metaphor."

Faust's face lit up with understanding, but the pain he was enduring was almost unbearable. Jared, who hadn't spoken to him much except in their room, stepped forward. Without a word, he helped Faust put on his shoes. Once they were on, Faust hesitated for a moment before placing his feet on the ground. After a few seconds, he gained enough confidence to stand upright, the pain gradually subsiding.

"We'll be heading to the church now," Lazarus announced. "Let's go."

As they traversed the path outside the academia, the students of Class Hyades couldn't help but stare at the Nelipots they passed. Their gazes were a mix of terror and intrigue, as if seeing the Nelipots in a new light. After taking a right turn through a road opposite a landmark—a tall building with a signboard that read "Walker's Pit"—they arrived at a church.

The Nelipots' Whispering Church had an entirely different vibe. Footprints were clearly visible on the floor, and the air carried a solemn, almost serene feel. A strange, minty scent permeated the space, unlike anything Faust had ever encountered. His family had used countless types of incense, but this was unfamiliar—sharp and refreshing, with a faint medicinal edge.

Viktor, his friends, and some other students were about to take their seats when Lazarus interrupted. "We'll be standing. I prefer to stay active during occasions like these. Let's move forward."

As they traversed the pews, forming a pathway through the church, Faust noticed the reactions of the congregation. Some turned away, their expressions unreadable, while parents shielded the eyes of their children, their gazes lingering on the shoes the students wore.