novelraw Chapter 62 : Chapter 62
Chapter 62 : Chapter 62
Chapter 62: Exorcism (2)
‘As expected…’
Abel thought, gripping the thurible.
Smoke seeped out from the censer, which was fixed with a chain. The scent was produced by burning frankincense wood soaked in holy water. The smoke, imbued with it, revealed the spells ambushing all around.
‘It seems the apostates didn’t visit.’
Abel placed the thurible on the table.
The private infirmary room, exposed to the smoke, was stained with lines.
The flow of mana had appeared. Defensive spells like Spell Cancellation, Motion Seal, and Action Detection. The true nature of the spells installed by the CIAR professors was revealed. There were no traces of black magic being used, nor were there any footprints of someone manipulating the spells to invade.
‘This child is not a Demon Human.’
Looking down at Emilio, Abel was certain.
A faint breath was tickling Abel’s ear. Was he dreaming? The sleeping Emilio’s expression looked bright for a moment. It was a look far too innocent to be determined as a Demon Human.
‘In the first place, if he had swallowed a monster’s core…’
The demonization would have started immediately.
The grace period would have been three days at most. The bodily organ made from the Demon King's blood, the so-called monster’s core, could transform creatures created by the Main Gods into monsters.
High fever, auditory and visual hallucinations. Bleeding and organ deformation. It is completed at the end of suffering from a destructive desire towards all living things. A being that is both a monster and a creature.
‘All preparations are complete.’
Abel rummaged through the inner pocket of his formal coat.
The approval for the exorcism. The moment he opened it and turned his gaze,
Konstanze’s voice reached Abel’s mind.
It was the result of using a communication spell. As one wall of the infirmary became transparent, Konstanze, with her arms crossed, and Fabien, writing a report, were visible.
Abel nodded his head.
An exorcism was a ritual to infiltrate someone’s mindscape. In other words, it was close to the process of possession.
Abel would move his soul towards Emilio’s unconscious. Emilio’s body, containing another’s soul, would rapidly weaken. The ceremony had to be finished as quickly as possible.
Abel nodded his head again.
There was no time to waste. He picked up the candle on the table and burned the approval for the exorcism.
Sizzle.
While the paper burned and scattered,
Abel chanted the incantation.
The seventh chapter of the Mother God Theory, the ‘Solemn Exorcism Blessing’.
It was a spell that only a very few practitioners could use. Only high-ranking clerics of the Inquisition Bureau, or clerics who had completed their penance, could cast the ‘Solemn Exorcism Blessing’.
Abel’s right hand rose to Emilio’s forehead.
The divine power gathered at his fingertips flowed towards Emilio. It was as if a transparent membrane was enveloping Emilio’s small body. Emilio’s eyes twitched for a moment, but he merely breathed evenly, lost in sleep.
Pazit──!
A streak of light was engraved on the scorched paper.
The approval for the exorcism received from the archbishop, that itself was a holy relic.
Abel’s chant became a doctrine. The holy relic became a cathedral. Emilio’s body became the world. The principle that one body must house one soul, the vastness of a cathedral meant to embrace many believers, the heart of a boy simply too weak to become a world, all collapsed.
Abel closed his eyes.
The moment a quiet darkness descended like silence,
he felt a pain. It was as if everything contained in his body was pouring out.
And so, when he opened his eyes, Abel had lost his sense of pain.
Someone’s mindscape,
a dreamlike place, so to speak.
It was impossible to feel pain in such a place.
* * *
‘This is nauseating.’
Abel thought, pinching his cheek.
He felt nothing at all. He tried twisting the flesh, but it remained stubbornly intact. Because the soul had no pain receptors.
Abel’s appearance was the same as usual. A monochrome formal coat, silver hair dark as ash, and dark blue eyes with a faint focus. However, he had only manifested his appearance by casting a suggestion on himself; the current Abel was nothing more than a halo of light.
He was merely a soul.
‘Is this Emilio Mackenzie’s mindscape?’
Abel lifted his head.
Looking around, it seemed to be a chapel. Abel was sitting on one of the pews that made up the chapel.
It was not a cathedral of the Platinum Round Table Orthodoxy. It seemed to be located underground rather than on the surface, and incomprehensible paintings were scrawled on the granite walls.
Someone eating someone.
Eating and eating to become someone bigger.
‘All of this actually happened.’
Abel’s soul was in Emilio’s unconscious.
Among that, he was observing the deepest point, a time that Emilio could not remember. If an evil spirit, or an existence equivalent to it, had possessed Emilio, it would have surely coiled itself at the bottom of his heart.
- The food of hope is despair.
Suddenly, the man sitting next to Abel muttered.
- Truth is renewed by lies. Peace is made through hatred. True words are caused by falsehoods, and hope is found only in the midst of despair….
The man moved his lips, lost in a daze.
He was a man with half of his face covered in burns. Between the man’s melted eyes, his unfocused pupils wavered murkily.
- The food of hope is despair.
It wasn't just the man.
- Truth is renewed by lies. Peace is made through hatred. True words are caused by falsehoods, and hope is found only in the midst of despair….
Whispers spread from all directions.
The crowd filling the chapel was muttering in unison, as if chanting a slogan, with their empty eyes raised.
Abel gazed at where the crowd's eyes were directed. In the center of the chapel, there was an altar. A figure standing by the dark altar stood out. A man in robes was holding a blanket in his arms.
It was a blanket wrapped around a newborn baby.
‘Emilio Mackenzie.’
Abel rose to his feet.
He took a step and headed towards the altar.
‘That child must be Emilio Mackenzie.’
The unconscious is formed in infancy. An episode experienced in infancy can sometimes influence one's entire life.
And so, Abel stood facing the altar. If this was the depths of Emilio’s heart, then the youngest one must be Emilio himself.
‘What are they trying to do?’
Abel narrowed his eyes.
He glared at the man holding Emilio.
It wasn't difficult to figure out his identity. Long, flowing navy hair, a weakness that seeped into his large eyes. The man was Emilio's father. It was easy to recognize because he resembled his son.
‘According to the records…’
Emilio’s father was a magician.
And yet, the man’s actions were like those of a cleric.
After glancing at his son’s face for a moment, the man smiled and extended his arms. Emilio, wrapped in the blanket, was placed on the altar. Gurgle. Laughing faintly, Emilio flailed his arms. He was reaching out to his father.
“...O Prophets.”
The man bowed his head.
“I offer my hope.”
He whispered in a neat tone with his eyes closed.
His voice was small, but the joy that seeped into his breath was immense. The man was happy. As if presenting a carefully prepared gift to a king.
“──O Prophets!”
The man lifted his head.
A mad smile was spreading across his face.
“I offer my son, Emilio Mackenzie!”
The man shouted, spreading his arms.
Feverish excitement heated the chapel. Simultaneously with the man’s shout, the crowd that made up the surroundings rose and rejoiced.
Laughter and crying mixed to become a commotion. Songs and screams tangled to become an outcry. The moment Abel frowned and turned his head,
Thud──!
The archway doors of the chapel were thrown open violently.
The sound stopped. The jubilant shouts subsided, and the movements of the believers froze as if time had stopped.
‘It is not time that has stopped.’
While everyone else was frozen,
only Abel could move.
‘By someone, Emilio’s mindscape has been stopped.’
Abel looked back at the chapel’s archway doors.
Sunlight was pouring in from beyond the doors. The sunlight flickered as if licking its tongue. The violently opened archway doors looked like the snout of a beast.
‘As I expected…’
Abel thought as he moved his feet.
The soles of his shoes brushed against the stone steps. A heavy silence was pressing down on Abel.
‘It cannot be the work of an evil spirit.’
Emilio’s mindscape seemed to be completely dominated.
If they could stop the scenery in the mindscape, it would also be possible to manipulate memories or control the body. Emilio was no different from a puppet.
It was impossible for an evil spirit. They would not have been able to suppress the mindscape to this extent. The reason those possessed by evil spirits go on a rampage, the reason they leave scars on their bodies, is because they can resist the evil spirit for ownership of their self, but…
‘It’s too quiet.’
Abel stopped walking.
Facing the archway doors, he looked back at the chapel.
The religion of the apostates. A premonition close to certainty took root in his mind.
It was undoubtedly a bad premonition, and bad premonitions were never wrong.
‘Shall I check.’
And so, one step,
the moment Abel stepped beyond the archway doors,
<──Gorgias of the Tree proclaims.>
The chapel was gone.
A dark forest path spread out before Abel’s eyes.
In the middle of giant trees that soared as if to pierce the sky, a stooped old man sat on a tree stump. His body was cracked wood, he had no eyes, nose, or mouth, and the growth rings that spread across his face were as red as scars.
The old man raised his right arm.
Snap. The sound of something rustling.
The gnarled branches, like bones, stirred. Corpses, hanged, poured out from between the leaves. The corpses, unable to reach the ground, swayed like rotten fruit.
<──Paracelsus of the Water proclaims.>
The forest path was gone.
A deep lake spread out before Abel’s eyes.
In the middle of the busily churning lake, a small old man stood on the spray. A pipe was in the old man's mouth, and the bubbles pouring out from it were red. As if blood drops had been inflated.
The old man spat out the pipe.
Bob. The sound of something floating up.
The direction of the flowing lake water changed. In the midst of the circularly swirling lake, drowned corpses began to shoot up. As if trying to find a breathing hole even in death.
<──Kierkegaard of the Iron proclaims.>
The lake was gone.
A desolate plain spread out before Abel’s eyes.
In the middle of the fog-covered plain, an old woman in armor stood with her back turned. The skin that made up the old woman’s body was a sturdy iron plate. Pieces of iron were sewn all over the old woman's body.
The old woman shrugged her shoulders.
Thud. The sound of something falling.
A pile of blades was driven into the plain. Swords, spears, axes. Cold weapons poured down on the desolate plain like raindrops. Every weapon was imbued with cold blood.
<──Mumford of the Soil will proclaim.>
The plain was gone.
A dilapidated cemetery spread out before Abel’s eyes.
Amidst the rows of various graves, a demure woman sat on a tombstone. Although the woman had adorned her face with splendid ornaments, what flowed from her eyes was nothing more than muddy water.
The woman took a deep breath.
Rustle. The sound of something being dug up.
The tombstones surrounding the woman tilted. The graves were sinking into the ground. And so, reaching hands. From within the collapsed graves, the dead extended their arms.
<──Therefore, Heraclitus of the Fire proclaims.>
The cemetery was gone.
A vast flame spread out before Abel’s eyes.
Corpses tied to stakes were burning in the fire. And so, the sound of embers spreading, the smell of burnt skin, and faces filled with screams greeted Abel.
Abel frowned.
The appearance of the old man standing in front of him was unpleasant. Crimson flames were taking the form of a human body. The old man’s body was visible beyond the flickering flames, but because it was scorched and festered, it was like witnessing a monster, not a person.
‘What are their identities?’
Abel wondered, staring at the old man.
Are they human, or are they monsters? Such a suspicion was meaningless.
Abel knew. The fact that they were human.
He also knew what had made humans so grotesque. It must be because they had eaten souls. The souls of those who died hanged from trees, the souls of those who died drowned in water, the souls of those who died wounded by weapons, the souls of those who died buried in the earth, the souls of those who died burned by fire, they must have devoured them all.
It was just questionable.
To the point where their bodies were transformed, to the point where they became close to monsters,
by what means had they devoured so many souls?
Abel could not bring himself to ask.
Because he was asked first.
But it is questionable, he thought.
Heraclitus muttered in a low voice.
Heraclitus was not looking at Abel.
He was looking behind Abel. This was, after all, a world where a mindscape was embodied, and the corpses burning around Heraclitus were illusions. It was just that the soul that made up Heraclitus had taken form. In other words, it was like the essence of the soul revealed through a dream.
And so, it was encompassing Abel's back.
The essence that made up Abel’s soul, having taken form.
<...You seem closer to a madman.>
A pile of corpses was stacked behind Abel.
It was like a world. As if a sea was made of blood, and the earth was made of flesh.
Those who died hanged, those who drowned in water, those who were pierced by weapons, those who were buried in the ground, those who were scorched by fire, they made up Abel’s soul.
For a long, long time,
because he had not forgotten any of their names.