The air in the cathedral felt stifling, as if the weight of countless failed Seventeens lingered in the stones themselves. Faust stood frozen before the altar, his gaze drawn to the congregation. They avoided looking directly at him, their pity palpable. Whispers of "Poor boy," and "Another lost soul" floated between them, though their lips barely moved.
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. So, this is what they see me as? Another Casper?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. His brother's memory haunted the room as much as the echoes of failed Seventeens. Faust's eyes found his father, Dominic, who stood stiffly with his arms crossed. His expression wasn't one of disappointment—no, it was worse. The despair carved into his face was a mirror of the past.
That same look… He wore it when Casper failed too. When he lost him. I'm just going to add to his grief, aren't I? Another son swallowed by the Whispers. Faust shook his head, desperate to drive the thought away, but it lingered like a shadow he couldn't escape. If I'm going to fail anyway, maybe it'd be easier to just—
"Faust."
The sound of his name startled him, pulling him from the spiraling pit of his thoughts. Father Maximus stepped forward, his stern gaze fixed on him.
The priest raised his hands and whispered, "Enchain." Immediately, shimmering chains burst forth, snaking around his arms and trailing to the floor.
The congregation gasped. Maximus's Spirit Gear was a rare sight, a manifestation feared for its ability to nullify. The chains glowed faintly, their light dancing across the cathedral's stained glass windows—windows that depicted tales of Whispers made flesh: a knight kneeling to the void, a woman holding a lantern, a broken chain reforged by invisible hands.
Faust stepped back instinctively, the air growing colder as the chains crept closer.
"Father, stop this!" Claire's voice broke through the tension, trembling with desperation. She clung to Dominic's arm, her eyes glistening with tears. "Not again. Please, not another one."
Dominic remained silent, his gaze locked on Faust.
The chains reached him, and the cold touch sent a jolt through his body. Panic swelled in his chest. Is this how it ends? His mind raced. No metaphor, no Spirit Gear. Just madness… or death.
The whispers surged, louder than ever, clawing at his sanity. His breathing quickened. Listen. I have to listen. There has to be something in there.
The chains tightened around him. He clenched his teeth, closing his eyes to block out the growing murmurs of the congregation. Then, through the cacophony of whispers, he felt it—a faint presence, distinct from the chaos.
A light flickered before him, soft but unmistakable. It grew brighter, forming into something solid.
What is that? Faust opened his eyes, his breath catching as the shape became clear: a dice, spinning in midair.
The whispers stilled. For the first time in his life, they became singular—a single word resonating in his mind.
Why.
The word echoed, unrelenting. Why? What does it mean? The dice hovered, its glow pulsating as if alive. Faust's knees felt weak, his thoughts spiraling into confusion. A dice? Could that be my Spirit Gear?
"Faust!" Father Maximus's voice shattered his daze.
The priest's Spirit Gear unraveled, the chains dissolving into nothingness as the ethereal glow faded. The whispers, once a maddening storm, receded completely.
The congregation erupted in murmurs, their confusion and fear evident.
"Did you hear your metaphor?" Maximus asked, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.
Faust hesitated, the word still ringing in his head. "Y-Yes."
"What was it?"
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to his parents. Claire's eyes glistened with tears, while Dominic's expression remained unreadable.
"Why," Faust whispered.
The murmurs grew louder. The priest raised a hand to quiet the crowd. "And your Spirit Gear—a dice?"
Faust nodded slowly, still unsure what it all meant.
"Then let it be known," Maximus declared, his voice echoing through the cathedral. "Faustus Dante has successfully completed the Seventeen ceremony. He shall henceforth be known as the bearer of the Metaphor Why and the Spirit Gear that takes the form of a dice."
The crowd remained silent, their expressions a mixture of awe and unease.
Faust felt his mother's arms around him, trembling but firm. His father stood nearby, still and quiet. Faust met Dominic's eyes, searching for approval, but what he saw was something more complex—a flicker of pride, tempered by worry.
The dice was gone now, but its presence lingered, a weight Faust couldn't shake, I actually did it.
---
The ceremony ended in whispers, not the kind that clawed at Faust's mind, but those of the congregation. They avoided meeting his eyes, as though the dice in his grasp had cursed the very air around him. Faust could feel their judgment like needles on his skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.
Dominic placed a firm hand on Faust's shoulder as they walked toward the family carriage. "You've survived," he said, his voice low and measured. "That's what matters."
Faust wanted to believe him, but the pit in his stomach told another story. The dice, ethereal yet tangible, felt heavy in his mind. Why? What did it mean? He clenched his fists, the phantom touch of Father Maximus's chains still lingering on his skin.
The ride home was a silence thicker than the fog outside. Claire sat beside Faust, her gloved hands twisting the fabric of her dress. Her usual warmth felt distant, replaced by something brittle.
Faust glanced at her, but her face was turned toward the window. He could see her reflection, though—a portrait of pain trying to smile.
Dominic cleared his throat. "You'll rest tonight. Tomorrow, we'll start making sense of this. Father Maximus will guide us."
"I don't need guiding," Faust muttered, barely audible. He stared at his hands, where the dice had appeared. His thoughts spiraled: Why a dice?, I know a Spirit gear can take any form but this can't aid in anything not even a battle against a lesser spirit. Is this the essence of my soul?
They arrived at their estate, its towering spires and shadowed halls more foreboding than ever. The warmth of the hearth didn't reach Faust as he climbed the stairs to his room. The house felt like a mausoleum—too many ghosts, not enough space to hide.
---
Inside Faust's room...
Faust sat on the edge of his bed, the dim light from a single candle casting shadows on the walls. He pulled the dice from his pocket, turning it over in his fingers. It felt cold, as though it didn't belong in this world.
His thoughts churned: Seventeen years, and this is what I have to show? A metaphor that asks more questions than it answers? A spirit gear that looks like a toy?
He rolled the dice on the wooden floor, half-expecting nothing to happen. It stopped on a side marked with a strange symbol—a swirling question mark that seemed to shift when he blinked.
Faust recoiled, his heart racing. He snatched the dice and clenched it tightly in his hand. I think I should sleep, we'll continue later today.
---
Downstairs...
Dominic poured himself a glass of brandy in the sitting room, his hands trembling for the first time in years. Claire entered, her face pale. "We need to speak to Maximus tomorrow," she said. "There's something different about Faust's spirit gear."
Dominic nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. The dice had unsettled him—more than he cared to admit. Why a dice?
"Dominic," Claire said sharply. "You're not listening."
He shook himself from his thoughts. "I am. And you're right. This isn't normal." He placed the glass down and turned toward her. "But we mustn't let him know we're afraid. Not now."
Claire looked toward the stairs, her heart aching for her son."I only hope his Echo won't be to much to bear".