The sight of Lazarus bolting out of the church was all it took. The students didn't ask questions, they followed instinct and ran after him.
Their feet pounded the same path they had taken earlier that day on their way to the church, only now it echoed with panic, not purpose.
A flurry of voices broke out mid sprint.
"What's happening?"
"Why are we running?!"
"Instructor Lazarus!"
Screams,strange and guttural pierced the air like splinters in the ears. Somewhere behind them, cries of pain twisted into something inhuman.
"FOCUS!"
Lazarus's voice sliced through the chaos, sharp and commanding. The group steadied, breath heavy, legs still moving, but their minds narrowed to one thing...run.
But it was already too late.
A breath of silence passed.
Then all hell broke loose.
Barefooted figures burst from homes, shops, and alleyways. Ordinary people moments ago now reduced to frenzied creatures. Their eyes locked onto the running students, and with jerky, unnatural movements, they gave chase.
Lazarus veered right into a narrow three-way path and skidded to a halt. Several nelipots blocked the way, wild-eyed and trembling.
"Don't move," he warned the students, stepping forward. "Let me handle this."
His voice was calm, but there was tension beneath it. He eyed the nelipots with a grim expression.
"They're experiencing what's called Spirit Lust. This, along with the event currently happening at the academia, is a recurring phenomenon. It starts every day at 7 p.m. and lasts for thirty minutes."
He paused, muttering under his breath, "Spiritual Water Art… Enhan..." But he stopped himself with a frustrated slap to his forehead.
"No," he said sharply, turning to face the group. "Listen carefully. Spirit-related abilities, conjuring, spells, magic, anything drawn from the eldritch source are forbidden during this period. Spirit gears can't be used during Spirit Lust, it only fuels the chaos."
Even as he spoke, one of the nelipots lunged toward a nearby student, eyes wild with hunger.
"STOP!" Lazarus barked.
The creature froze mid-lunge, its limbs trembling violently. It fought the command, twitching and snarling, trying to break free.
"ALL NELIPOTS AROUND ME RUN AWAY!" Lazarus added with force.
The creatures shrieked in protest, then scattered in all directions like marionettes whose strings had been yanked.
"Students,come with me! Only metaphor-based abilities are allowed from here on out!" Lazarus added like the students had any other option.
They obeyed without hesitation.
The group ducked into an abandoned building nearby. Dust hung in the air, and silence settled like a heavy curtain. They crouched low, catching their breath.
From what could be taken from the twilight illumination, the building was made of wood and seemed to be a storage unit. But at this moment it was empty.
"Shh…" Lazarus whispered, voice low but urgent. "We wait."
As Lazarus's breathing slowed, he raised a finger to his lips, signaling the students to stay silent. The only sound was the erratic pounding of their hearts and the distant madness echoing from beyond the walls.
He began pacing, hands behind his back, gaze sharp and calculating. Then, he stopped and turned toward them.
"How many of you have even a basic understanding of your metaphor?"
The students of Class Hyades glanced around, their faces pale, their eyes wide with fear. Growls and shrieks clawed at the silence outside. Through the jagged holes in the wooden walls, a few could see twisted silhouettes—creatures defying human form, tearing into each other with glee and inhuman strength.
"Anyone? If you know your metaphor even slightly come here."
Several students, hesitant but driven by instinct, stepped forward toward the spot Lazarus indicated.
"Good," he said, voice low and steady. "Now, muster everything you've got. Channel your metaphors. I don't care how weak or uncontrolled they are if they keep us alive, that's enough. Welcome to Spirit Academia... once again."
Faust raised his hand, mouth opening to ask a question but then the light in the building began to bleed away.
Not fade.
Bleed.
As if the twilight itself were being sucked from the world outside. A cold, creeping blackness swallowed the room, inch by inch, until nothing remained but darkness.
And then
The Voice.... "Blackkk!!!"
It wasn't spoken aloud, yet it rang in their minds with unbearable clarity.
A scream followed. Human but barely.
Pain tore through the air, and instinct forced the students to huddle together.
Faust turned toward the sound of someone muttering near him. The words weren't random there was rhythm, repetition. He leaned in, trying to make it out.
"Light…"
"Light…"
"Light!"
Each repetition grew louder, stronger. Then, slowly, as if pushed back by the sheer will behind the word, light began to return.
Dim. Flickering. But enough to reveal horror.
Lazarus's eyes widened. "Isolde…"
She lay in a pool of her own blood, crumpled at the very spot he had asked the metaphor-aware students to stand. Her right arm...gone. Cleanly severed. Her expression was icy, though tears spilled silently down her cheeks.
Lazarus and Maria rushed to her side. The strange whispering still pulsed in their heads.
The light began to fade again.
The boy who had summoned it was collapsing, spent. As the glow retreated back into him, another scream split the air. This one ended abruptly with a wet sound and a splash of blood.
Where one of the students had stood, now there was nothing but a pool of blood.
Panic erupted.
Metaphors bloomed like uncontrolled wildfires. Some lashed out. Others warped reality. The very walls of the building groaned under the strain. Cracks spiderwebbed outward. A hole opened in the ceiling another beneath Faust's feet, although the holes appeared at random. Faust seemed to have been unlucky today.
He fell.
And then appeared, bursting through the ceiling hole, only to fall again. Caught in a paradoxical loop, spinning through space twisted by metaphoric tension.
Then Singing.
Unbidden. Uncontrolled.
Voices,everywhere. The students, overcome by raw emotion and fear, began to sing. No melody. No harmony. Just a chaotic chorus of madness.
Various weapons also materialized and where flying haywire in the building, causing more chaos.
These where the effects of metaphors gone wild, it was influencing everyone to sing their thoughts and causing war blessed weapons to hover haphazardly.
"This is bad, sir," Maria said in a rhythmic tone, hands soaked in blood as she pressed against Isolde's wound, trying desperately to stanch the flow.
Lazarus stared at her, eyes calm but cold. "I know."
His voice dipped. "There's a nelipot in this room,one of them. It's the source of this darkness."
He paused, his tone shifting to that of a teacher forced to give a crash course in life and death.
"This isn't the time... but I have to teach you now. Listen carefully."
As he spoke his sentence also came of in a rhythmic manner.
Isolde just stared at them. Her face was pale, pain radiating off her in waves, but she didn't scream. Didn't whimper. Her eyes were sharp cutting.
Maria looked away, swallowing. Even now, she has the nerve to keep that cold front... Her body's trembling, but she won't show it.
"Spirit…" Maria murmured, shaking her head. "I thought I heard something regeneration? Did the instructor say it? Or did I imagine it?" She turned to Lazarus. Sir do you have that kind of ability?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he knelt beside the bleeding girl, hands hovering over her wound.
"That," Lazarus said, "was supposed to be for another class. But if you want to survive…"
He looked up.
"You'll learn it now."
"It employs one's understanding of their metaphor and how deeply one resonates with it. Now watch."
With no hesitation, Lazarus grabbed a random floating dagger and sliced off his own arm.
Maria tensed up, shaken by the sudden act. Blood sprayed. Her breath caught in her throat. But then she remembered what he had said.
"It's called Metaphorical Healing, or Metaphorical Reversal," Lazarus said, as if nothing had happened. "It can be used by an individual once every seven days. No matter how severe the injury as long as it isn't instant death and as long as you have enough energy, one can heal… or regenerate."
He lowered himself into a lotus position, calmly holding the shoulder of the severed arm, blood pooling beneath him.
"Now," he murmured, eyes closed, "you think deeply about your metaphor. Meditate on your metaphor. Be the metaphor."
As he focused, his arm began to regrow. Bone twisted into shape, veins coiled like threads, flesh knitted itself together and in moments, it was as if the wound had never existed.
Maria winced. A strange discomfort welled inside her. A voice whispered in her mind over and over "Lex… Lex… Lex!"
It was instructor Lazarus metaphor!
Pain stabbed through her skull. Warm liquid trickled from her ears and nose. Her vision blurred. But through the haze, she saw a woman floating above Isolde,covering the girl's ears protectively.
Below, Lazarus's arm was whole again.
Isolde stared in disbelief pale, blood-soaked, but nodding faintly, as if accepting her next move.
This isn't you, Isolde. The metaphor you despise with your entire being… is what's going to save you.
As if reading her mind, Lacrimosa let go of Isolde's ears and laughed.
"If you're going to save yourself, do it now," she said. "You can't achieve your goals while being dead. At least… not yet."
Isolde closed her eyes, trying to drown out the chaos and the fear. She focused on her metaphor.
Before she could begin, Lazarus raised a hand and added, "One last thing expect a strange effect when the process begins. Understanding ones metaphor usually comes with strange effects."
With that, he covered his ears.
Elsewhere, chaos still raged. Faust had already fainted,his body tumbling endlessly through the holes on the floor and ceiling. The building groaned and fractured from the chaos within it.
And then a word. A sharp word. It pierced the minds of everyone.