I’m not entirely sure how my words ca across to the priest, but judging by the look on his face, the only conclusion I could reach was that he was, at the very least, deeply shaken. His pupils were slightly dilated, his eyes wide as if trying to take in more than he could actually understand, while his mouth hung open in an involuntary display of shock.
His lips moved hesitantly, opening and closing over and over again, like a fish out of water struggling uselessly for breath. He was clearly trying to co up with so kind of response, but the words seed to slip away before they could even take shape.
Off to one side of the room, standing a bit apart, I noticed Emily and Laura exchanging quick glances before turning their attention back to the priest, waiting for any sort of reaction. My sisters, on the other hand, seed completely oblivious to the tension in the air. Their expressions were almost bored, as if this were nothing more than a trivial occurrence. Honestly, I’m pretty sure they don’t care about how this ends, no matter the outco.
“B-But...” the priest stamred, his voice breaking unevenly as his body trembled almost violently. A crooked, nervous smile, yet filled with desperate hope, spread across his dry lips, and his overly wide eyes shimred with sothing unsettling, bordering on madness.
“Y-You ca here because of ! I’m sure of it!” he went on, taking an unsteady step forward, his trembling hands rising in supplication: “You heard my prayers... you saw... you witnessed everything I’ve done for you, oh! Great ones!”
His voice echoed weakly through the room, filled with desperation, as if every word was less a statent and more an attempt to convince himself: “I-If not...” he hesitated, swallowing hard, his smile faltering for a mont before returning even more forced: “... then why else would divine beings co to ?”
The smile stretched wider, unnaturally so, as a faint laugh slipped from his throat: “Yes... yes, that’s it...” he murmured, nearly breathless, his eyes shining with twisted fervor: “Oh, great deity... your earlier words... they must have been blasphemy, a distortion my impure and inferior ears dared to perceive!”
He lowered his head abruptly, as if afraid of being struck down at any second: “Forgive ... forgive for even considering... sothing soone of your infinite stature would never say...”
His words caught off guard. Without realizing it, I took another step back, the soft creak of the floor echoing beneath my feet. For so reason, I had the clear impression that everything I had said had simply passed right through his mind, going in one ear and out the other, never truly being considered.
What was worse were his words. They sounded distorted. Delusional. He wasn’t just ignoring what I was saying, he was reshaping it, putting words in my mouth and, with fanatical conviction, accepting them as absolute truth. This wasn’t a conversation... it was a one-sided performance.
An unsettling thought began to take shape in my mind: this priest wasn’t talking to , but to a version of he had created himself. Maybe sothing fed by rumors, exaggerated stories, or absurd accounts that sohow reached him.
A caricature. A warped shadow. And the more I analyzed every nuance of his speech, the heavy tone, the fixed stare, the fanatical certainty, the more disturbing he beca in my eyes.
My thoughts were abruptly shattered when I felt sothing grab onto my knees. My eyes blinked reflexively, and then my “Eyes” sharper, deeper, finally registered it. It was the priest. His hands were wrapped around my knees with a sickening firmness, bordering on desperation.
His fingers pressed unevenly, as if he feared I might disappear at any mont. But there was sothing wrong, deeply wrong, in the look in his eyes. It wasn’t devotion. It wasn’t faith. It was sothing sick. Sothing possessive. Sothing dark.
It stirred in the depths of his gaze like a thick, muddy substance, sothing repulsive that seed to crawl behind his iris, tainting everything he was: “I-I waited... waited... and waited!” he said, his voice trembling and broken, as if each word were being forced out of his throat.
His head remained bowed, as though in eternal prayer, or submission, but there was a strange tension in his body: “All I’ve done since that day...” he continued, his voice now choked: “since I learned of your grace, your power, your benevolence... and beauty... was wait”
His body trembled again, more intensely this ti, as if he were on the verge of breaking into tears, or sothing worse. His breathing hitched for a mont. Then, with ritualistic slowness, he slid one hand slightly higher and touched my leg. The touch wasn’t rely physical. It was invasive. Wrong.
At first, it was just a touch, light and hesitant, as if testing whether what he felt was real. But it didn’t take long for it to turn into a grip. First firm, then intense, until it beca crushing.
His fingers tightened around my foot with increasing force, pressing against my leg as if they wanted to pierce through my skin. If my body were still as it once was, there would be no doubt, deep marks would have blood where he gripped , bruised, painful imprints betraying the violence of his touch.
There was no care in the gesture. No gentleness. It was rough, suffocatingly uncomfortable. He held my foot like soone clinging to their own salvation, as if it were the only thing keeping him from being dragged into an endless void.
The intensity was such that it felt like, the very instant his fingers let go, I would simply cease to exist. And beneath all of it, there was sothing deeper. Obsession. A grip filled with a primitive, desperate need.
It wasn’t just about holding, it was about taking. About tearing away what was mine and claiming it as his. His fingers didn’t just restrain; they demanded, they asserted ownership, as if what he saw in had never truly been mine... as if, from the very beginning, it had always belonged to him.
“Haaaa...!” the man exhaled, feverish and uneven, as though each breath scorched his lungs. His hands remained on my feet, trembling yet firm, and little by little, his grip tightened further, growing more desperate... more obsessive.
“So much beauty...” the priest murmured, his voice low yet strangely clear to my ears, like a whisper seeping into my mind: “So much grace... so much presence... so much... power!”
With every word, his tone rose, carried by a mounting fever, as though he were on the verge of losing control. His fingers pressed harder now, as if afraid I might vanish at any mont.
At that mont, a certainty ford in my mind, clear and unshakable: he envied . I didn’t know exactly why, but his ambitions were as evident as daylight, burning.
“So majestic...!” his voice faltered for a mont, choking on his own devotion: “E-Even if just a little... even if only a fraction...”
His final words slipped out in a completely feverish state, warped by an almost sickening desire. His wide eyes glead with a mixture of reverence and greed: “Make ... make as beautiful and strong as you... O great being!”
My mind practically short-circuited at the absurd escalation of the priest’s desires. Each word seed more disconnected than the last, until his final plea actually made raise an eyebrow. My expression, usually neutral and detached, cracked, giving way to clear confusion and disbelief. This priest... wanted to be like ? Like my sisters?
The idea sounded so absurd that, for a mont, I wondered if I had misunderstood. But no, there was a strange conviction in his gaze, a feverish certainty. I simply couldn’t grasp the logic behind it, much less how he had co to the conclusion that such a thing was even remotely possible. He wanted to beco... an anomaly?
From the brief conversation we had, it was already clear that he knew about the recent events involving anomalies. He knew what they were, what they caused... and still, he wished to beco one? Sothing that belongs nowhere? Creatures incomprehensibly rejected?
My mind tried, futilely, to draw a coherent line of reasoning, but all it found was an uncomfortable void. Was that really his line of thought? “If you can’t fight them, join them?” Unable to find any logic on my own, my eyes drifted toward Emily and Laura, a silent search for support, for so plausible explanation... or at least confirmation that I wasn’t the only one finding this entire situation completely illogical.
However, their expressions made it clear, they were just as confused as I was by this mad priest’s request. If we had already considered him insane before, after hearing his bizarre desire to beco an anomaly, it seed to have escalated to nearly unbelievable levels.
Seriously... this again? Why the hell does this priest keep thinking I’m capable of turning other people into anomalies? Does he actually believe I’m so kind of highly contagious virus, just spreading mutations around without any control?
Even if, for so completely unknown reason, I did have that absurd ability, to turn sothing or soone into an anomaly, why would I pick him of all people? That unhinged priest, with that disturbing stare and his twisted sense of faith?
Honestly, he doesn’t inspire even the slightest bit of trust. Quite the opposite... everything about him screams that if he ever got a power like that, he’d lose whatever little control he already barely seems to have.
Turning him into an anomaly wouldn’t just be a mistake, it would basically be an invitation for a complete disaster involving a deranged priest with anomalous powers.
My sisters, on the other hand, wore truly lethal expressions. They weren’t exactly looking at the priest’s face, but rather at his hand, which gripped my feet with sickening insistence. It gave the unmistakable impression that, at any second, they would lunge at him and sink their hands into his throat, crushing the life out of him without hesitation.
With the exception of Althea. Althea was smiling... but there was nothing friendly about it. It was subtle and elegant, but unmistakably not kind. Eryanis, in turn, maintained her usual poised stance, the embodint of elegance and control. At first glance, she seed indifferent, as though none of this were worthy of her attention.
And yet, her eyes, cold, icy like freshly forged blades, were fixed on the priest. Her mind, I was certain, was working at full speed, devising countless ways to tear him apart... each one likely more refined and ticulous than the last. Unfortunately for the priest... I was beginning to seriously consider letting Eryanis test so of those ideas on him.
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