The wheels of the carriage creaked as it rolled along the rugged cobblestone road, jostling its passengers with every uneven turn. Faust sat stiffly, his chin resting on a gloved hand as he stared out the fogged window. The outskirts of Asperbone Ridge stretched out before him, a bleak and craggy landscape veiled in morning mist. Crooked pines swayed with the chilled wind, and every so often, the faint outline of a crumbling stone archway emerged—remnants of a bygone era.
Faust's thoughts, however, were far removed from the dreary scenery.
"The whispers... they're like a disease," he mused silently, "a curse we're born into. They hollow you out piece by piece until there's nothing left but madness—or worse, an early grave."
Even now, the faintest echo of them lingered, a fading memory of countless murmurs clawing at the edges of his mind. He shuddered at the thought of what could have been if he hadn't succeeded at the ceremony.
"The whispers… they cease when you succeed, leaving behind only the single word—the metaphor." He tightened his jaw. "But if you fail... those countless voices only grow louder. And when they grow louder…"
He glanced at the young girl sitting across the carriage. She trembled violently, her small hands clutching the fabric of her dress as her mother whispered reassurances. Her wide, bloodshot eyes darted nervously around the space as though she were searching for invisible threats.
Insomnia, Faust noted clinically. Restlessness. She's suffering, just like I was…
Her scream pierced the air just as the carriage struck a pothole, lurching violently to one side before settling again. The driver cursed under his breath as he steadied the reins, but the girl's panic didn't subside. Her cries grew louder, frantic, and Dominic was already moving to help. With the girl's mother, he managed to calm her down enough that her sobs softened into occasional hiccups.
"If I hadn't succeeded yesterday," Faust thought, "I'd be the same. Worse, if I had failed, I might never have gotten a metaphor. What kind of life would that be? Whispers gnawing at your mind, society branding you as a failure, all while being hunted by lesser spirits and Echo Beasts…"
Faust exhaled and turned back to the window, forcing himself to focus on the bleak beauty of Asperbone Ridge. The road spiraled higher, twisting through rocky crags. Tiny streams of water cascaded down the cliffsides, creating glistening trails that disappeared into unseen depths below.
Soon, the carriage approached a grand iron gate etched with intricate sigils. Beyond it, perched precariously on the ridge's highest point, stood Father Maximus' estate—a towering stone mansion with pointed spires and stained-glass windows that shimmered faintly even in the muted light.
Dominic nudged Faust as the carriage came to a halt. "We've arrived."
---
Father Maximus greeted them at the door. His gaunt figure was draped in robes of deep gray, lined with faint silver embroidery that shimmered like cobwebs in the dim light. His piercing eyes seemed to look straight through Faust, and when he spoke, his voice was low and resonant, like the hum of distant thunder.
"Welcome, Dominic. And this must be young Faust. Come in. We have much to discuss."
Inside, the estate was a maze of dark wood paneling, looming bookshelves, and glinting candelabras. A massive tapestry dominated the far wall, depicting a scene of spirits locked in eternal battle, their forms both haunting and majestic.
Father Maximus led them to his study, a room that smelled faintly of aged parchment and incense. As they settled into worn leather chairs, the priest wasted no time diving into the heart of the matter.
"The metaphors are a blessing... and a curse," he said, steepling his fingers. "You've succeeded, Faust, and for that, you should be grateful. The countless whispers that plague humanity have been silenced, replaced by a single word—a metaphor. It defines you, strengthens your spirit, and shapes your very essence,it literally gives your soul a purpose."
He paused, his sharp gaze meeting Faust's.
"But know this: the whispers are not gone. They are... contained. Your metaphor is both a gift and a burden. It grants you strength, but it also chains you to an Echo—a flaw that manifests as the price of power. Use your metaphor wisely, and it will elevate you. Abuse it, and the echoes will devour you."
Dominic nodded gravely. "We've seen it happen."
Father Maximus continued. "And then there are those who fail the ceremony but retain their sanity—the Nelipots. You may encounter them. They walk barefoot, claiming it brings them closer to the spirit realm. They're wrong. But the intensity of their whispers grants them strange abilities, ones born of desperation rather than clarity. Unlike your metaphor, their abilities are called... whispers. And they are dangerous."
Faust listened intently, his curiosity sharpening with every word.
"They resent people like us," Maximus added. "Be wary. They do not hesitate to attack those who bear metaphors."
Dominic cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence.
"I was hoping you might guide us, Father Maximus. Faust's Spirit Gear… it seems peculiar, even unusual."
Father Maximus leaned back in his chair, his piercing gaze shifting to Faust. "A dice," he said slowly, his tone laced with contemplation. "As soon as I saw it, I recognized its nature. A Spirit Gear tied to probabilities—a rare and volatile manifestation. This implies that both his Echo and his Spirit Gear may carry dangerous and unpredictable outcomes."
Dominic nodded, his brow furrowing. "Yes, Father. That's what concerns me. If his Spirit Gear operates on chance, then his power may not always work in his favor. It could just as easily harm him—or those around him."
Father Maximus tapped his fingers together, his expression darkening. "Indeed. Such Spirit Gears are not without their risks. They demand extraordinary discipline, both to wield and to avoid being consumed by the very chaos they embody. Faust will need more than training—he will need to master himself completely if he hopes to survive its demands."
Faust shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between Father Maximus and Dominic. He couldn't help but feel the weight of their words pressing down on him. A Spirit Gear tied to probabilities? The implications gnawed at him. If his power wasn't entirely his to control, what might that mean for his future—and his safety?
For the first time, he questioned whether his so-called "success" was a blessing after all.
Father Maximus nodded thoughtfully. "The Spirit Academia is where he belongs. It is the only place where he will find the training he needs to master his metaphor and—eventually his Spirit Gear."
At this, Faust stiffened. "The academia?"
"Yes," Father Maximus said firmly. "The whispers and the dangers they bring will only grow more complex from here. You need discipline, and you need knowledge. The academia will provide both."
The conversation turned to practical arrangements, but Faust's mind wandered. He studied the tapestry on the wall, its scenes of battle now taking on new significance. He thought of the girl in the carriage, of the whispers that had haunted him for years, and of the uncertain path that lay ahead.
The academia... He wasn't sure if it was a promise or a threat.
As they left the estate later that evening, the weight of Fagher Maximus' words settled heavily on Faust's shoulders. The road back to town seemed darker, the mist thicker. But somewhere, deep within, a spark of determination flickered.
He had succeeded once. He would not fail again.