Inside Wilson Academy's grand hall, the evening had grown dark, save for the strategic spotlighting that bathed the center stage in a warm glow. Rows upon rows of students were seated, their eyes glued to the central spectacle. The hushed whispers created a palpable atmosphere of anticipation.
In the spotlight was the ever-confident Yohan. He faced a challenge most unusual - a young girl surrounded by six peculiar creatures. The creatures were no ordinary rabbits, but "lionhead rabbits", known for their fierce temperament.
As if on cue, the rabbits lunged at Yohan, their nimble legs propelling them forward with incredible speed. But Yohan, with remarkable agility, danced around them, each movement fluid, each dodge calculated. Every time a rabbit came close, he used his unique weapon: a set of yoyos that seemed as if they were extensions of his very soul. With each swing, the yoyos made a sharp, cracking sound upon impact, sending the rabbits retreating, only to attack again.
From the periphery, Valeria, a stern-faced senior with a reputation for her keen observations, watched every move. Her voice, clear and assertive, sliced through the growing tension. "Mix up your vibration temperature! You can't give all your rabbits the same role!"
The young girl, eyes widened, stammered a response, "Y-yes ma'am!" Almost instantly, three of her lionhead rabbits switched strategies. Instead of attacking Yohan head-on, they began weaving through his legs, creating a whirlwind of chaos.
Yohan, focused on parrying the straightforward attacks of the other three, suddenly found himself grappling with the unexpected change in strategy. A mumbled curse slipped from his lips as he tried, in vain, to maintain his balance amidst the weaving, darting creatures.
Then, in a split second, one of the rabbits saw an opening. With all its might, it jumped and delivered a sharp smack to Yohan's head. The resonating thud was amplified by the room's acoustics, and as Yohan's form crumpled to the ground, a collective gasp filled the room.
But just as quickly, the atmosphere shifted from shock to exhilaration. The students erupted in cheers, rallying behind the young girl.
amidst the chaos of the battle between Yohan and the girl, something went unnoticed. With a sly maneuver, Yohan discreetly launched his yoyo high above the young girl's head, its string barely visible under the dim lights.
Valeria's sharp command, "Finish him!", seemed to signify the end for Yohan. The lionhead rabbits pounced, their combined might creating a symphony of wild thuds and fervent scratches. But in a twist of fate, Yohan yanked his yoyo back with laser precision. The metallic toy struck the back of the girl's head, producing a resonant crack that echoed through the vast hall. It was an unexpected, jaw-dropping moment. The rabbits, mid-jump, lost their momentum and landed lifelessly. The room plunged into a haunting quietness.
It lasted only for a split second. The deafening silence was soon replaced by a thunderous ovation. The crowd recognized genius when they saw it. Yohan had turned the tables in his favor, and they couldn't help but admire his cleverness.
Valeria, the ever-analytical observer, acknowledged his tactics. "The ol' false sense of hope trick, huh? You set her up to heat up her vibration, making her more vulnerable to your attack. Excellent battle IQ, Yohan."
Yohan, basking in the praise, replied with his signature confident smirk, "Did you really expect anything else?"
Valeria then turned her attention to Mr Wilson, the venerable headmaster of the academy, for his assessment. But what she found was a far cry from what she expected. Bevan Wilson, the man of honour and tradition, sat slouched in his plush chair, barely keeping his eyes open.
"Mr. Wilson!" Valeria snapped, bringing the elderly man back to the present.
Jolted awake, Bevan tried to play it cool. "Oh, yeah...um...well done, Yohan."
Not buying it, Valeria pressed, "Were you even watching?"
Avoiding the question, Bevan clumsily gathered his belongings. "I'm going to go get some rest. Valeria, take over, will ya?"
Her protests were cut short as Bevan exited, leaving the hall buzzing with whispered conversations and Yohan seething with barely concealed anger. His voice dripped with disdain, "Is he fucking serious?"
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Inside the ancient walls of a church, a sanctified silence pervaded. The vast expanse of the building magnified the softest sounds, making the footsteps of a lone figure resonate like gentle, echoing drumbeats. Tall Gothic windows let in filtered light, creating intricate patterns on the floor. And somewhere within, the air grew denser, heavy with anticipation around a dimly lit confessional booth.
A wooden partition with an intricately carved screen acted as a divide, ensuring the sanctity of one's most intimate revelations was preserved. As the footsteps approached, they slowed, revealing a man with dark skin, reflecting years of life's toils and inner struggles. He paused before the entrance, taking a moment to steady himself, then entered the booth, its door shutting behind him with a soft thud.
"F-forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned," the man whispered, his voice quivering with emotion. "This is my first confessional."
A voice responded from the other side, kind and understanding, "Welcome, my child. It is never too late to seek forgiveness. I am here to guide you through this sacrament."
The man's reply held a hint of trepidation, "I...I'm not actually here for a confession. This was just the only way I could get to meet you, Joseph Abrams."
And from behind that wooden screen emerged a face that bore the marks of years of faith, wisdom, and unwavering commitment. Joseph Abrams, with his weathered face framed by a snow-white beard, smiled warmly. His eyes, deep and thoughtful, regarded the man with patience and compassion.
"Interesting," Abrams mused, his voice gentle. "So then, what brings you here today?"
With a shaky voice, the man asked, "Father, does the Lord truly welcome everyone?"
"Indeed," Abrams responded without hesitation. "God sees everyone as his children, no matter who you are or what you have done. You are still his child in his eyes."
A weightier pause filled the booth, "Even...a fiend host?"
Abrams's face grew contemplative, "Your soul is our most important element. If we sell our soul, we have nothing left, and thus, he no longer recognizes the human he has created."
The man's voice trembled even more, "W-what if...the fiend host still has part of your soul left...?"
Abrams leaned closer to the partition, ensuring his words were heard loud and clear, "Even if it is a miniature portion of the soul that's left, the Lord will still be able to recognize you as his child."
The man, with hope dimming in his eyes, asked, "Father Abrams, do you think anyone would be willing to help a Fiend host?"
Abrams sighed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his position. "Unfortunately, not many Dove hosts quite understand the essence of Dovanity. They are all too consumed with hatred for the enemy. I'm guessing that is why you came to me?"
The man hesitated, caught off-guard, "Huh? W-what do you mean?"
Abrams, with years of experience discerning secrets, responded gently, "Are you not a Fiend host? Why else would you be asking these questions?"
A poignant silence enveloped them, making the already thick air in the booth even denser.
"I...I-" the man stammered, his vulnerability palpable.
Abrams, always the guiding force, interjected, "Izaak. He is the only one who would be able to help you."
The name seemed to baffle the man, "Izaak...?"
With a fondness in his voice, Abrams explained, "You would be able to find him in Kolmården Forest. He normally goes hunting there on Sundays."
"But wouldn't you be able to help too?" The man's voice was tinged with hope.
Abrams sighed, feeling the constraints of his position and age. "No, sadly, the King has restricted any contact for me. I am not allowed to see anyone. This is the only time I get to go outside."
Confusion and intrigue danced in the man's voice, "Oh...but...but why him? Why Izaak?"
Abrams replied, his voice filled with pride and a hint of melancholy, "For he is my successor."
"Your...successor?" The man echoed, trying to piece together the story.
Abrams nodded, letting the weight of his words settle. "Indeed. Every ten years, I have to renew the bubble protecting us from nether's beasts. As we near the 10th-year mark, the bubble weakens, allowing some of the lesser beasts to penetrate our defences. We are approaching our sixth year, and I am precisely 118 years old. The Lord has set 120 as the age limit for every human being, so I only have two years left. By the time we reach the 10th year, I will not be there to renew the bubble. A replacement was needed, and Izaak was the chosen one."
the dark-skinned man voiced his confusion, "Why are you helping a fiend host, Father Abrams?"
Father Abrams chuckled softly, a warm sound that hinted at age-old wisdom. "You see, those wholly consumed by Fiends lose their souls and thus their capacity for regret. But you... you're different. Even as a fiend host, you're not entirely lost. Your very aura vibrates with remorse and guilt. A desire to make amends."
Tears welled up in the man's eyes, a testament to the weight of his burden. He blinked them away, trying to retain some semblance of composure.
Abrams continued, his voice taking on a gentler tone, "This confession marks the beginning of a difficult path for you. The journey will be treacherous, but remember, the Lord never forsakes His children. And now, you've taken your first step towards redemption."
As the man rose from his seat, his voice, though filled with gratitude, wavered with emotion, "Amen." With that, he slid the door open and stepped into the filtered sunlight.
Alone in the confessional, Abrams let out a contemplative sigh. "How did he manage to come this far undetected? Whoever crafted his disguise did an impeccable job." Pausing for a moment, he whispered to himself, "May your journey be fruitful, son of Iche."