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CHAPTER: FRIDAY, 3:36 PM
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Sure Lake University Courtyard.
A girl with dark brown hair stood still, her hair flowing freely down her back. Her posture was straight, her expression blank—blue eyes wide and dilated.
Gasp.
Her breath caught in her throat, panic tightening her chest.
What was she looking at?
A soul—devouring a girl alive. The victim's voice was muffled, her blood painting the floor beneath her. Her limbs were gone—only one trembling arm remained, jerking helplessly, as if still clinging to a faint spark of life.
But the brown-haired girl couldn't move. Her hands lay useless by her sides, frozen, watching the scene unfold.
"…"
"…"
The arm twitched… jerked…
But why?
All around her, people walked past—oblivious. They strolled by the grisly scene without a glance, unaware of the horror she alone could see.
---
ENTER: Neavu Ritualist Personnel.
A tired-looking man stood near the university gates, hunched slightly, a cigar between his lips. Thin trails of smoke drifted from the glowing tip.
A sleek black car pulled up and stopped in front of him. The man's eyes sharpened as a second figure stepped out—tall, composed, his movements deliberate.
"What's the situation, Detective?" the newcomer asked, not even glancing at the tired man.
The detective sighed, scratching his neck.
"Missing persons. Started last month."
"Last month? And you didn't act sooner?"
"The cases weren't all on campus. Just around the area. We've sent officers to investigate, but nothing solid."
The newcomer's gaze shifted to the university buildings.
"Troublesome… I read there's a girl involved?"
"Yeah. But she won't speak—she's still in shock. Her classmates say she's always been a bit… off."
"Bring her in. Meanwhile—"
RING!
The man's phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting off his sentence. He answered with a sigh.
"Yes?"
"What do you mean 'yes'—it's your buddy, Jean!!"
"My apologies, Jean. I'm not in the mood for games—"
"Not games! Just a favor~"
"What is it?"
"You remember Sir Hughes? He's been sent south on a mission."
"Good for him." The man folded his arms, a strand of hair falling over his brow.
"Well, here's the thing—we've got new recruits. Two of them know Essence decently, but June… well…"
"June? The boy the Elders are watching?"
"Exactly!"
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"Why not bring him along? He could learn a thing or two. He's a fast learner—"
"I decline," the man said flatly, adjusting his collar.
"Come on, Grey! Do me a solid. I'm busy."
"Drinking again? I can't risk dragging an inexperienced kid into this… and this case is unique."
"True, but remember—you were a rookie once. And this kid's dead set on earning his Ritualist certificate."
The man—Grey Sulek—fell silent, calculating.
The case would already be difficult… and adding a rookie meant more work.
But Jean—annoying as always—was right.
Sigh…
"Fine. Bring him."
"Great!! Oh, and—he's already on the way."
"You son of—"
Click.
Grey let his shoulders drop in defeat. The phone beeped in his ear.
"Friend of yours?" The detective asked.
"No... Colleagues will be more precise... That's by the way, I'll be going in"
"No problems with me"
---
A hand...
A mutilated hand, veins and blisters covered the tips of each fingers and the nails as long as a dagger.
Rubbing and caressing June's face, but his expression laid unbothered, grasping his cheeks and lips. In the surrounding darkness a face appears. Eyes shining bright and a smile on the big headed creature.
June stared at it with a straight face, not making any move.
Run, run, run!!! You idiot, running!!!
Although his mind opposed to the chilling creature from the darkness, said "thing" smiled, an abstraction of normalcy.
The hands on his face tighten violently. The creature opening his mouth wide as he descended on June.
Black...
June open one of his eyes, surveying the room he currently resides, his dormitory. The creature no where to be found.
Perhaps it was of own illusion an aftermath interpretation of his very first mission.
June sighed, his beating heart stopped hitting the snare, and went on a normal rhythm.
He lay sprawled on his bed, stretching like a cat. His bones cracked softly as he reached out, limbs loosening.
The room was tidy—white walls decorated with jazz band posters, clothes neatly folded, a few empty soda cans on the far table.
A knock broke the quiet.
Grumbling, June shuffled to the door—and blinked in surprise.
"Sir Hughes?"
The older man looked as tired as ever, deepening his sharp European features.
"Sir Hughes? Is something wrong? It's… 5 AM."
"A good morning would suffice," Hughes said dryly.
"Oh—right. Morning."
"Morning. And yes, I'm here for an urgent reason."
"Urgent? Like what?"
"Get dressed. Meet me at the campus entrance in thirty minutes."
June's eyes flicked to his drawers.
"…Got it."
---
Later.
Rain misted down as June followed Hughes across the campus, both holding umbrellas against the drizzle.
"A new case," Hughes said. "Though this one… is difficult."
June swallowed. His thoughts flickered to the horrors of his first mission.
"A new case… that sounds terrifying."
"Don't worry. Your new mentor is reliable."
"Not Jean?"
"Jean has his hands full. That last case was one of thirty happening across the U.S."
June remembered Jean's words—thirty cases?
"…So who's the new mentor?"
"Sir Grey Sulek."
June slowed, thinking.
"…Grey Sulek?"
They passed through the invisible barrier at the campus edge. The pull of Essence still made June's skin prickle, the hairs on his arms rising.
A black car waited for them, engine humming. The driver wore dark glasses, expression unreadable.
Without a word, they climbed in.
---
As the car sped along, Hughes glanced at June.
"So. What did you learn from your first case?"
June blinked.
"I… I'm sure I learned a lot. But it's hard to put into words."
"That's natural. But the most important lesson—you now understand why Ritualists exist."
Hughes adjusted his glasses, tone serious.
"Yeah. That part I get…"
"Let me make it clearer." Hughes produced several photos from his coat pocket.
"These are the victims from the last exorcism—the host Jean captured."
June's eyes widened at the grisly photos. His stomach churned, throat tightening. He shoved the pictures back.
"…Sorry."
"No need. But we want to make sure all Youth Program members understand what they're getting into."
June swallowed hard.
"…What exactly is a host?"
Hughes tucked the photos away.
"In simple terms—a puppet. A body possessed by a soul. They act through the host."
"Okay… that clears things up. But you guys really should teach this in class!" June huffed.
"The basics of Essence come first—"
"Yeah, yeah. More excuses."
Hughes gave a tired smile.
"Guilty."
June stared out the window, the drizzling rain hitting the glass, a serene calm coming with the patting sounds.
"I... I had a dream," June said, voice low, the words slipping out like something he wasn't sure he wanted to share. "Well... more of a nightmare, really."
Sir Hughes, seated across from him in the dim study, glanced up from his notes. The sharp lines of his weathered face softened slightly, though the usual sternness never quite left his expression. He leaned back in the car's leather chair, folding his arms.
A brief pause.
Then: "Nightmares aren't uncommon," Hughes said, his tone even, deliberate. "Especially with new intake into this field. It happens more than you'd think—particularly with the young ones."
June shifted uneasily in his seat, his hands idly fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. The flickering light of the nearby oil lamp cast restless shadows across the room, giving everything a strange, wavering life. He glanced at Hughes, unsure whether to continue.
"Is that so…?" June murmured, eyes darting down to the floor. "But… do you think it could be some kind of warning? Y'know... like… a sign to stay away from all this?" He swallowed, hesitant. "To… withdraw?"
For a moment, the only sound was the patting sounds of the rain against the car as Hughes shifted his weight.
"I don't think so," the older man said at last, voice calm but laced with a subtle firmness. "Dreams are what you make of them. People like to assign meaning—sometimes too much. Interpret them however you will, but more often than not, they're little more than reflections of your own thoughts. An act of bias."
June looked up, meeting Hughes' gaze now, searching for reassurance... or maybe contradiction.
Hughes continued, "In this field… particularly when dealing with Manifestation, the mind becomes... uncertain. Vulnerable. I would wager that most of the time, such dreams are born from doubt. The person's doubt—in themselves, in their ability, in their purpose."
"My doubt..." June echoed softly, almost to himself. The words lingered in the air. His gaze drifted, unfocused now, as if something unseen had tugged at his mind, pulling it elsewhere. A distant place. A cold one.
Hughes watched him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing—not from suspicion, but from a careful, measured concern.
"You're young," Hughes said, more gently now. "It's normal to doubt. Just don't let it drown you."
June nodded slowly, though whether he truly understood—or believed it—was hard to tell.