The Anomaly and the Normal?

The mass began, and after the preachings, four individuals approached the altar: a man, two girls, and a woman in her late fifties. The priest, his voice heavy with resignation, addressed the congregation. "As we all know, in accordance with the mass, we shall be celebrating the Seventeenth Ceremony." He turned to the four celebrants, clearing his throat. "If you have any representatives, they may stand behind you."

The elderly woman stood alone, her eyes downcast as she watched the other celebrants being joined by loved ones. A pang of sadness flickered across her face, but before it could settle, a little girl hurried forward, taking her place behind the woman. The old lady's lips twitched into a faint, grateful smile.

"You may offer your offerings to the spirit," the priest intoned, his voice carrying a weight of ritual and despair.

The celebrants stepped forward, each placing their offerings on the altar. The priest continued, his tone hollow, "Clarity comes to those who listen."

Faust couldn't help but wonder, How many times have some of them tried and failed ?The priest's voice, cloaked in despair, seemed to echo the hopelessness of the situation.

Silence blanketed the church as the celebrants closed their eyes, straining to hear their metaphors or summon their Spirit Gears. Moments passed—seconds stretched into minutes—and nothing happened. Then, without warning, the elderly woman began to make strange, guttural noises. Her eyes, nose, and mouth began to bleed, and her body started to corrupt. Her flesh seemed to dissolve, revealing writhing worms beneath her skin. Her eyes bulged grotesquely, and her form twisted into something unrecognizable.

Lazarus turned to his students, his voice calm but grim. "I wanted you to witness firsthand what happens when you fail your ceremony. Are metaphors a blessing? A curse? It doesn't matter." His gaze lingered on Isolde for a moment before sweeping over the rest of the class.

Before anyone could react, Lazarus muttered a phrase under his breath. Faust caught it clearly: "Spiritual Earth Art…" Two spears materialized in Lazarus's hands, their surfaces shimmering with an otherworldly glow. With a wink at his students, he hurled one spear at the corrupted woman. It struck her with precision, and her body began to petrify. The petrification spread, freezing not only her but also the lesser spirits that had invaded her form. The result was a grotesque fusion of human and spirit, her body twisted with disfigured worms and pincers.

The remaining spirits retreated, their eerie forms dissipating into the shadows. The congregation erupted into murmurs of complaint, but the priest raised a hand, calling for decorum. "Instructor Lazarus," he pleaded, "I would ask that you allow me to perform my spiritual duties as the priest of this church."

Lazarus scoffed, his voice low but cutting. "A Nelipot as a priest?" Before he could say more, another celebrant—a young girl—began to lose herself to the intensified whispers, her body trembling as madness took hold.

Lazarus turned to his students, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Who would like to do the honors?" His gaze swept over the group, lingering briefly on Isolde and Viktor before settling on Faust. "You," he said, pointing directly at him.

Faust blinked, pointing to himself. "Me?"

Lazarus nodded, his smile widening. "Don't worry. This is necessary. The Nelipots are the lowest of humanity, a thing to be pitied and relieved of their suffering." He turned to the rest of the students, his tone firm. "You must be able to help them by relieving them of their suffering."

The priest, meanwhile, had summoned his Spirit Gear—a glowing staff—and was muttering prayers, trying to calm the insane girl. But before his efforts could take effect, Lazarus barked, "Go! Help the nelipot girl!"

Faust felt a strange force take over his body. Before he could process what was happening, he was moving, covering the distance between himself and the altar in an instant. His arms moved as if guided by an unseen hand, the spear in his grip aimed squarely at the girl. With a swift, decisive motion, he thrust the spear into her.

Closing his eyes, Faust braced himself for the aftermath. When he opened them, he expected to see a lifeless body. Instead, he found himself back where he had started, standing in front of Lazarus, the spear still in his hand. The girl was unharmed, her form frozen in place, her corruption slowly halting by the prayers of the priest.

***

With a smirk, Lazarus watched as a hooded figure materialized in front of the corrupted Nelipot on the altar. Two other hooded figures appeared moments later, their presence casting an eerie stillness over the church.

"A Plaguewalker?" Faust's eyes widened as he noticed the symbol on the back of the lead figure's cloak—a foot. Is this a Nelipot Plaguewalker ?,the attire looks similar but not the foot symbol. His mind raced.What just happened? Wasn't I attacking the insane celebrant? How am I back here?

Still in the pose of someone who had just stabbed the ground with a spear, Faust straightened himself, his confusion evident. The lead figure removed her hood, revealing a girl roughly the same age as the new intakes. Her dark hair was tied into pigtails, and her eyes burned with a mix of anger and hatred.

Adjusting her cloak, she revealed a chain wrapped around her arm, its sharp tip glinting ominously. "Miserable wretch of a Listener," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You dare…" Without warning, she lashed out, sending the chain hurtling toward Faust, its pointed tip aimed directly at him. The killing intent in her eyes was unmistakable.

"That's enough, Guinevere!" A commanding voice echoed through the church, Guinevere halting the chain mid-air. Its sharp tip stopped inches from Faust's face. "Please don't forget yourself. We are in a church."

The congregation turned toward the source of the voice, their expressions a mix of relief and reverence. It was Madame Constance, her presence as imposing as her voice. She took a long drag from the cigar she held before tossing it to the floor and crushing it under her barefoot. Dressed similarly to Guinevere but without a cloak, she wore epaulets adorned with intricate symbols.

"For your second day as a Nelipot Plaguewalker, you've performed well," Madame Constance said, her tone both approving and stern. She turned to Guinevere. "Which of your whispers was that just now? 'When'? Or 'How'?"

Guinevere scratched her neck, a nervous habit, before answering hesitantly, "Wh…"

Madame Constance nodded, her gaze shifting to Lazarus and his students. "Anyhow…" She stepped forward, her voice carrying a sharp edge. "Listeners in a Nelipot's Whispering Church? Lazarus, is the academia's church not welcoming enough for the new ones?"

Lazarus ignored her question, his smile unwavering as he observed the priest, who had successfully tamed the insane girl. The other celebrants continued their desperate attempts to hear something, their faces etched with frustration and fear.

What is Instructor Lazarus thinking? Faust wondered, his mind buzzing with questions. And what does she mean by 'Listeners'? Is that a term for people like us?

Madame Constance approached Lazarus, her movements deliberate. The church's pews were arranged to allow three openings—left, middle, and right. The walls were adorned with intricate designs, sigils, and symbols, including numerous depictions of feet.

"Gone are the old days when we were used as objects for the academia's desires," Madame Constance said, her voice low but carrying the weight of authority. "For the sake of your new Listeners, I'll leave you with a warning: leave this church and allow the ceremony to proceed as intended. The priest and my team are more than capable of handling the whisper's corruption."

Lazarus let out a soft giggle, his smirk widening. "And what if I don't, Constance?"

"It's 'Madame' to you, Lazarus," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "Madame Constance, if you must know. I am now the head of the Nelipot Plaguewalkers".

Lazarus closed the gap between them, his tone dripping with disdain. "Listeners? Don't call us names. Your cursed kind are the ones who have been tagged 'Nelipots.' There's no name to be given to us, for we are the normal, the regular, the right. And you…" He glanced at the congregation, his expression one of disgust. "You Nelipots are the anomaly, the irregular, the wrong. As for your desperate attempts at spiritual awakening, you must be tired by now. Stick to your whispers and enjoy what little you have."

He turned to his students, his menacing smile vanishing, replaced by a cheerful expression. "Let's be on our way, students. The lesson is over for today. After all, we have to be back in the academia by 7pm."

Glancing at his pocket watch, Lazarus noticed it was 6:59pm. Swallowing hard, he muttered to himself, "W..We..Well, students, let's begin to walk out of here… slowly..." After taking some steps backwards he shouted "RUN! ".