Just outside the library, the students lingered, their instructors strangely absent. The air buzzed with tension, a palpable energy that refused to dissipate. Groups formed and dissolved like ripples in a pond, each student seeking safety in numbers, except for one.
Isolde sat alone on a weathered stone slab, her expression as unreadable as the ancient texts within the library. Her presence was a quiet storm, drawing glances but repelling approach. Faust watched her from a distance, his thoughts a cluster of curiosity and unease.
"Everyone's already forming groups," Faust remarked, more to himself than anyone else. His gaze flickered to Isolde. "After all, who wants to be alone … except you."
His attention shifted to Maria, who moved through the crowd with effortless charm, her laughter ringing out like a melody. She was a natural, weaving connections where others faltered. Faust, however, stood apart, his mind a labyrinth of questions and whispers.
Are you going to leave the door?
Don't you wish to know what lies behind the door?
Forget the instructor we need to see what's behind that door.
The whispers slithered into his thoughts, unbidden and insistent. Faust stiffened, his breath catching. "Are the whispers back? But that's impossible… Is this the effect of my metaphor?" He shook his head, as if to dislodge the voice. "I have to distract myself. I can't go to that door now."
His attention snapped back to the scene unfolding before him. A group of boys approached Isolde, led by Viktor, his confidence as sharp as the twin suns overhead. Viktor stopped in front of her, his shadow falling across her like a challenge.
"I'd like to know, Isolde," Viktor began, his tone polite but edged with curiosity. "Which noble family are you from? I've never seen or heard of any Isolde."
Isolde raised her head, her cold gaze meeting his. "She's not a noble," she said flatly.
Viktor's eyebrows shot up, but his surprise quickly melted into a smirk. "That's actually a relief, isn't it? I bet you wouldn't be able to handle the pressure of nobility."
Maria nudged Faust, her voice a whisper. "What pressure is he talking about?"
Faust didn't answer, his focus locked on the exchange. Viktor's smirk widened as he leaned in, his voice carrying a challenge. "Do you mind if I challenge you to a brawl?"
At this point it was obvious that Victor's questions where his attempt to push Isolde to his game.
The surrounding chatter died down, all eyes turning to Viktor and Isolde. Maria rolled her eyes. "Who approaches a girl for a brawl?" she muttered.
Faust stepped closer, his curiosity piqued. "He feels threatened by her. She's a prodigy with two Echoes. If he can defeat her, he'll establish himself as one of the best among us."
Maria turned to him, her brow furrowed. "What's his metaphor again?"
How am I supposed to know that Maria it's not like... Wait I think I recall his metaphor's name from our room.
"Conquer," Faust replied. "But I don't know what it does."
"Conquer…" Maria repeated, her voice trailing off.
Isolde stood, her movements deliberate, her gaze locking onto Viktor. For a moment, he faltered, taking an involuntary step back. "Okay," she said simply, her voice devoid of emotion.
The crowd formed a circle, their excitement palpable. Faust edged closer, his heart racing. A battle between humans with metaphors? hethought. It's a thing to behold…
Viktor raised his arm, specks of light coalescing as he summoned his Spirit Gear. But before it took shape, he hesitated, his smirk returning. "I'm a decent noble," he declared. "Since you're a female, I'll do you the honor of not summoning my Spirit Gear."
With that, he lunged, his fist aimed at Isolde's stomach. But before it could connect, a burnt hand materialized from thin air, catching his fist mid-strike, bones could be seen from the hand as some of its skin where burnt off. The hand seemed to emerge from a tear in space, its presence chilling.
Viktor leaped back, his eyes wide. "What was that? What's your metaphor?"
He rolled up his sleeves, revealing intricate tattoos that glowed faintly. "I am Viktor," he announced, his voice booming. "I've been blessed with the metaphor Conquer. In simple terms, it gives me a ninety percent chance to not lose any battle I face."
Viktor's tattoos where unique physical manifestation of his metaphor.
The crowd erupted into murmurs. "What a metaphor," someone whispered. "That's incredibly unique."
Faust's mind raced. "Ninety percent chance to not lose? How do you even counter that?"
Faust and the other students failed to realize that Viktor's explanation of his metaphor was just his basic and crude understanding of his metaphor. At the moment that was all he knew about it.
Maria rolled her eyes. "Revealing your metaphor is a clear act of ignorance. What a fool."
Viktor smirked, clearly enjoying the attention. "You may as well tell me your metaphor," he said to Isolde. "It'll make for a more fair and balanced battle."
Isolde's lips curled into a faint, unsettling smile. "Metaphors are not blessings," she said softly. "Isolde won't tell you her metaphor but Isolde can show you."
Before Viktor could react, the air around Isolde shimmered. Grotesque versions of Viktor began to materialize charred, stabbed, disfigured, and broken. One was missing an arm, another ,half-severed at the waist. More and more appeared, their numbers quickly surpassing the crowd and each having a unique defect or deformation.
The onlookers stumbled back, their faces pale with dread. Maria clutched Faust's arm, her voice trembling. "What is this?"
"Is this the effect of her metaphor?" Faust wondered aloud. She's creating clones of Viktor, but each one is… broken. What kind of metaphor is this?
Viktor lunged forward, his voice sharp as he muttered, "Spiritual Light Art…" Bolts of lightning crackled through the air, striking the ground around him. He charged through the horde, his fists and feet a blur as he fought to push past them.
Faust watched in astonishment. Viktor's metaphor had clearly enhanced his physical traits his speed and strength were beyond normal. His punches and kicks dented the earth causing cracks and holes where the clones dodged. The spectators had to clear space as he became frantic, his technique crude but effective.
Viktor charged at the eyeless figure, its skin mottled and decayed as if gnawed by rats. His right fist shot forward, landing a solid punch, and before the creature could react, he followed up with a sharp elbow strike. The impact sent the figure staggering, but Viktor didn't let up. He stomped down hard with his right leg, crushing the creature's foot and forcing it upright. Then, with a feral intensity, he unleashed a flurry of blows ,fists, elbows, knees,each strike landing with brutal precision. The air crackled with the force of his attacks, the ground beneath them trembling as he pummeled the grotesque clone into submission.
"Thou spirit," Maria whispered, drawing the sign of the Primordial Spirit on her chest. "Is this what he planned to do to Isolde?"
"Conquer! Conquer!! Conquer!!!" The ravings echoed in Viktor's mind as he raged through the clones, a beast unleashed. He was a whirlwind of violence, his movements fueled by an insatiable urge.
Faust turned to Isolde, his breath catching. She stood motionless, a faint smile playing on her lips. It sent a shiver down his spine.
***
Approaching his charred doppelganger, Viktor heard a faint, coarse whisper: "Spi…ri…tu…al… Light… Art." Before he could react, a searing bolt of lightning struck him squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling.
The crowd gasped. "Did you see that?" one student whispered. "His own clone used the spirit art against him!"
Viktor groaned, pushing himself to his feet. His clothes were torn, his face smudged with dirt and sweat, but his eyes burned with determination. "Impressive, Isolde?" he shouted, his voice tinged with desperation.
***
Meanwhile, Isolde clutched her head, her voice trembling. "Hush… hush… hush," she muttered. Her eyes snapped open, red-rimmed and wild, as she shouted, "Leave me alone!"
The spectators turned their attention to her, momentarily distracted from Viktor's struggle. A figure materialized beside Isolde—a woman with long, flowing white hair and an eerie, frozen smile. She wore a shimmering white robe, her presence chilling.
"Isolde, sending me away already?" the woman said in a soft but disturbing tone. "Quick to display our blessings, are we? I thought you despised it. I thought you despised us."
Isolde's sharp gaze locked onto the woman. "Blessings?" she spat. "Please, Lacrimosa… this is no blessing. It's a curse. Nothing but a curse."
Faust's eyes narrowed. AnEcho?he thought.
***
Lacrimosa turned to the crowd, her smile never wavering. "Lacrimosa," she repeated, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Isolde you finally called me by my name." She burst into laughter, the sound echoing unnaturally before being cut short by a sudden surge of energy.
The spectators turned back to Viktor, who was now surrounded by the remnants of his clones. He raised his hands, his voice trembling with exertion as he chanted, "Spiritual Light Art…" Lightning enveloped his body as he lunged at Isolde.
"That's enough!" Instructor Lazarus appeared, his voice a thunderclap. Viktor froze midair, his attack dissipating into a harmless wave of energy. Lacrimosa glanced at Lazarus, her smile cunning, before vanishing.
The force of the wave washed over the crowd, leaving them stunned. Isolde stood unharmed,the arms of her summoned clones forming a shield that slowly dematerialized as it has blocked the wave of enery. One of the spectral arms even dusted her shoulders before fading.
Viktor regained control of his body, retreating to his friends. They quickly exchanged coins, their bets settled based on the outcome. Although there was no obvious winner they believed Viktor would have won so the ones who supported Isolde had to give up their money.
Maria dragged Faust by the hand, approaching Isolde. "Let's go check on her."
"Check on what...?" Faust hesitated, but Maria was already pulling him forward.
"How do you do, Isolde?" Maria asked, her voice warm.
Isolde looked at them, her expression unreadable. Faust turned his face away, a flush of awkwardness creeping up his neck. Without a word, Isolde dusted herself off and walked away.
"That was not very nice," Maria muttered, watching her go.
Instructor Lazarus approached, his presence commanding silence. The crowd dispersed, the tension slowly ebbing away.