Anomaly

Chapter 383 – Worship of the true gods [29]

I’m not entirely sure how my words came across to the priest, but judging by the look on his face, the only conclusion I could reach was that he was, at the very least, deeply shaken. His pupils were slightly dilated, his eyes wide as if trying to take in more than he could actually understand, while his mouth hung open in an involuntary display of shock.

His lips moved hesitantly, opening and closing over and over again, like a fish out of water struggling uselessly for breath. He was clearly trying to come up with some kind of response, but the words seemed to slip away before they could even take shape.

Off to one side of the room, standing a bit apart, I noticed Emily and Laura exchanging quick glances before turning their attention back to the priest, waiting for any sort of reaction. My sisters, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to the tension in the air. Their expressions were almost bored, as if this were nothing more than a trivial occurrence. Honestly, I’m pretty sure they don’t care about how this ends, no matter the outcome.

“B-But...” the priest stammered, his voice breaking unevenly as his body trembled almost violently. A crooked, nervous smile, yet filled with desperate hope, spread across his dry lips, and his overly wide eyes shimmered with something unsettling, bordering on madness.

“Y-You came here because of me! I’m sure of it!” he went on, taking an unsteady step forward, his trembling hands rising in supplication: “You heard my prayers... you saw... you witnessed everything I’ve done for you, oh! Great ones!”

His voice echoed weakly through the room, filled with desperation, as if every word was less a statement and more an attempt to convince himself: “I-If not...” he hesitated, swallowing hard, his smile faltering for a moment before returning even more forced: “... then why else would divine beings come to me?”

The smile stretched wider, unnaturally so, as a faint laugh slipped from his throat: “Yes... yes, that’s it...” he murmured, nearly breathless, his eyes shining with twisted fervor: “Oh, great deity... your earlier words... they must have been blasphemy, a distortion my impure and inferior ears dared to perceive!”

He lowered his head abruptly, as if afraid of being struck down at any second: “Forgive me... forgive me for even considering... something someone of your infinite stature would never say...”

His words caught me off guard. Without realizing it, I took another step back, the soft creak of the floor echoing beneath my feet. For some reason, I had the clear impression that everything I had said had simply passed right through his mind, going in one ear and out the other, never truly being considered.

What was worse were his words. They sounded distorted. Delusional. He wasn’t just ignoring what I was saying, he was reshaping it, putting words in my mouth and, with fanatical conviction, accepting them as absolute truth. This wasn’t a conversation... it was a one-sided performance.

An unsettling thought began to take shape in my mind: this priest wasn’t talking to me, but to a version of me he had created himself. Maybe something fed by rumors, exaggerated stories, or absurd accounts that somehow reached him.

A caricature. A warped shadow. And the more I analyzed every nuance of his speech, the heavy tone, the fixed stare, the fanatical certainty, the more disturbing he became in my eyes.

My thoughts were abruptly shattered when I felt something grab onto my knees. My eyes blinked reflexively, and then my “Eyes” sharper, deeper, finally registered it. It was the priest. His hands were wrapped around my knees with a sickening firmness, bordering on desperation.

His fingers pressed unevenly, as if he feared I might disappear at any moment. But there was something wrong, deeply wrong, in the look in his eyes. It wasn’t devotion. It wasn’t faith. It was something sick. Something possessive. Something dark.

It stirred in the depths of his gaze like a thick, muddy substance, something repulsive that seemed to crawl behind his iris, tainting everything he was: “I-I waited... waited... and waited!” he said, his voice trembling and broken, as if each word were being forced out of his throat.

His head remained bowed, as though in eternal prayer, or submission, but there was a strange tension in his body: “All I’ve done since that day...” he continued, his voice now choked: “since I learned of your grace, your power, your benevolence... and beauty... was wait”

His body trembled again, more intensely this time, as if he were on the verge of breaking into tears, or something worse. His breathing hitched for a moment. Then, with ritualistic slowness, he slid one hand slightly higher and touched my leg. The touch wasn’t merely physical. It was invasive. Wrong.

At first, it was just a touch, light and hesitant, as if testing whether what he felt was real. But it didn’t take long for it to turn into a grip. First firm, then intense, until it became crushing.

His fingers tightened around my foot with increasing force, pressing against my leg as if they wanted to pierce through my skin. If my body were still as it once was, there would be no doubt, deep marks would have bloomed where he gripped me, bruised, painful imprints betraying the violence of his touch.

There was no care in the gesture. No gentleness. It was rough, suffocatingly uncomfortable. He held my foot like someone clinging to their own salvation, as if it were the only thing keeping him from being dragged into an endless void.

The intensity was such that it felt like, the very instant his fingers let go, I would simply cease to exist. And beneath all of it, there was something deeper. Obsession. A grip filled with a primitive, desperate need.

It wasn’t just about holding, it was about taking. About tearing away what was mine and claiming it as his. His fingers didn’t just restrain; they demanded, they asserted ownership, as if what he saw in me had never truly been mine... as if, from the very beginning, it had always belonged to him.

“Haaaa...!” the man exhaled, feverish and uneven, as though each breath scorched his lungs. His hands remained on my feet, trembling yet firm, and little by little, his grip tightened further, growing more desperate... more obsessive.

“So much beauty...” the priest murmured, his voice low yet strangely clear to my ears, like a whisper seeping into my mind: “So much grace... so much presence... so much... power!”

With every word, his tone rose, carried by a mounting fever, as though he were on the verge of losing control. His fingers pressed harder now, as if afraid I might vanish at any moment.

At that moment, a certainty formed in my mind, clear and unshakable: he envied me. I didn’t know exactly why, but his ambitions were as evident as daylight, burning.

“So majestic...!” his voice faltered for a moment, choking on his own devotion: “E-Even if just a little... even if only a fraction...”

His final words slipped out in a completely feverish state, warped by an almost sickening desire. His wide eyes gleamed with a mixture of reverence and greed: “Make me... make me as beautiful and strong as you... O great being!”

My mind practically short-circuited at the absurd escalation of the priest’s desires. Each word seemed more disconnected than the last, until his final plea actually made me raise an eyebrow. My expression, usually neutral and detached, cracked, giving way to clear confusion and disbelief. This priest... wanted to be like me? Like my sisters?

The idea sounded so absurd that, for a moment, I wondered if I had misunderstood. But no, there was a strange conviction in his gaze, a feverish certainty. I simply couldn’t grasp the logic behind it, much less how he had come to the conclusion that such a thing was even remotely possible. He wanted to become... an anomaly?

From the brief conversation we had, it was already clear that he knew about the recent events involving anomalies. He knew what they were, what they caused... and still, he wished to become one? Something that belongs nowhere? Creatures incomprehensibly rejected?

My mind tried, futilely, to draw a coherent line of reasoning, but all it found was an uncomfortable void. Was that really his line of thought? “If you can’t fight them, join them?” Unable to find any logic on my own, my eyes drifted toward Emily and Laura, a silent search for support, for some plausible explanation... or at least confirmation that I wasn’t the only one finding this entire situation completely illogical.

However, their expressions made it clear, they were just as confused as I was by this mad priest’s request. If we had already considered him insane before, after hearing his bizarre desire to become an anomaly, it seemed to have escalated to nearly unbelievable levels.

Seriously... this again? Why the hell does this priest keep thinking I’m capable of turning other people into anomalies? Does he actually believe I’m some kind of highly contagious virus, just spreading mutations around without any control?

Even if, for some completely unknown reason, I did have that absurd ability, to turn something or someone into an anomaly, why would I pick him of all people? That unhinged priest, with that disturbing stare and his twisted sense of faith?

Honestly, he doesn’t inspire even the slightest bit of trust. Quite the opposite... everything about him screams that if he ever got a power like that, he’d lose whatever little control he already barely seems to have.

Turning him into an anomaly wouldn’t just be a mistake, it would basically be an invitation for a complete disaster involving a deranged priest with anomalous powers.

My sisters, on the other hand, wore truly lethal expressions. They weren’t exactly looking at the priest’s face, but rather at his hand, which gripped my feet with sickening insistence. It gave the unmistakable impression that, at any second, they would lunge at him and sink their hands into his throat, crushing the life out of him without hesitation.

With the exception of Althea. Althea was smiling... but there was nothing friendly about it. It was subtle and elegant, but unmistakably not kind. Eryanis, in turn, maintained her usual poised stance, the embodiment of elegance and control. At first glance, she seemed indifferent, as though none of this were worthy of her attention.

And yet, her eyes, cold, icy like freshly forged blades, were fixed on the priest. Her mind, I was certain, was working at full speed, devising countless ways to tear him apart... each one likely more refined and meticulous than the last. Unfortunately for the priest... I was beginning to seriously consider letting Eryanis test some of those ideas on him.