Sliding his large arm smoothly around my waist to pull my hips tight against his side, Yoon Seoho flashed a bright, blindingly radiant smile before his face descended once more, violently consuming my lips for the second time this morning.
In stark contrast to yesterday’s sprawling, chaotic cathedral, the vehicle pulled up to a distinctly alternate structure—a secondary, highly restricted sanctuary located within the subterranean depths of the central complex.
This localized chapel had been designed with an explicit emphasis on privacy, its architecture leaning heavily into an antique, high-gothic aesthetic.
Dark, centuries-old mahogany paneling lined the reinforced walls, and while a massive stone altar occupied the exact center of the raised dais, the sheer volume of high-backed wooden chairs arrayed across the marble floor was drastically reduced.
The data point was clear: the number of initiates permitted entry into this specific block was meticulously gatekept.
It was an intentional, strategically engineered bottleneck.
“Cult Leader. Regarding today’s proceedings, the formal liturgical service has been entirely expunged. We are slated to advance directly to the individual holy blessings.”
A senior Administrator arrayed in crisp, high-ranking clerical vestments glided to my side, delivering the status update in a hushed, reverent murmur.
The moment I offered a slow, passive nod of confirmation, the official executed a precise bow and methodically retreated into the shadows of the chancel.
From the exact second we breached the perimeter of this secondary hall, Yoon Seoho had pinned himself to a position exactly half a step behind my left shoulder, refusing to alter his coordinates by even a millimeter.
He merely stood there like an imposing, beautifully sculpted sentinel, a soft, indulgent smile permanently anchored across his features.
Whenever I tilted my chin to dart a calculated glance in his direction, he simply returned a reassuring, highly synchronized flash of his eyes—a silent cue indicating that everything was proceeding exactly according to his design.
Between yesterday’s grand debut and today’s localized arrangement, the operational methodology Yoon Seoho intended to maintain within the infrastructure of this cult was becoming remarkably transparent.
As the hidden Architect and active Vice-Leader of the order, he fully intended to occupy the role of a passive observer during these rituals, completely withholding his own presence unless a specific variable threatened to breach his personal parameters.
‘So, as long as I don’t trigger a logistical anomaly that directly irritates his agenda, he’s granting me absolute autonomy to operate this stage however I see fit.’
It was a clear psychological green light designed to accelerate my integration into the role of their living sovereign.
The conniving, self-serving nature of his benevolence was painfully obvious.
I swallowed a derisive sneer internally, masking my cognitive tracks perfectly as I took a single, deliberate step forward onto the cold marble of the dais.
Below the altar, the handpicked initiates were already locked into a state of total prostration, their foreheads pressed hard against the stone floor as they waited for the physical manifestation of their deity to advance.
Perhaps because the sheer volume of observers was heavily restricted today, the localized atmosphere radiated an exponentially more dense, suffocating layer of religious solemnity compared to yesterday’s mass assembly.
The baseline realization that I was standing in the center of a textually verified extremist cult while internally mapping out corporate utility metrics was borderline hilarious.
I let my eyes casually trace down the length of the queue winding through the center aisle.
I had logged the data point during yesterday’s ritual, but the raw volume of anomalous Espers currently requiring stabilization was exceptionally high.
Relying on a quick visual sweep, the current batch sat at approximately fifteen separate targets.
‘Is it biologically safe for this vessel to execute that many high-intensity Guiding sequences back-to-back without a cooling cycle?’
A brief flash of systemic doubt touched my mind, but I instantly locked it down.
Speculation yielded zero empirical data; the only mechanism to verify my operational limits was to initiate the sequence.
I looked down at the first target pinned to the base of the altar steps.
The man’s advanced physical deterioration was glaringly obvious; his frame was so thoroughly emaciated that he presented the clinical markers of severe, long-term malnutrition.
Though his skeletal architecture indicated a naturally massive, high-tier combat build, the absolute lack of muscle mass left his frame looking hollow—a fragile, hollowed-out shell held together purely by frayed nerve endings.
“Let us begin.”
Dropping the brief, flat pronouncement into the dead silence of the hall, I reached my right hand down toward his position.
My fingers initially tracked toward his forehead, but midway through the descent, I smoothly altered the trajectory.
I recalled that during yesterday’s initial trials, utilizing a restricted contact zone like the mere tips of my fingers had resulted in an inefficient, highly concentrated bottleneck of energy.
This time around, I fully intended to test the maximum throughput of my cells; I slid my entire palm flat against the side of the man’s face, completely cupping his hollow cheek within my hand.
The exact millisecond the surface area locked, a violent, near-physical rush of energy surged out from my core, hemorrhaging through the skin of my palm.
The emaciated Esper’s entire spine instantly arched, his frame thrashing against the marble as if a high-voltage current had been dropped straight into his central nervous system.
“Hah……! H-Heugh…… C-Cult…… Cult Leader……!”
His vocal cords fractured completely, dry, ragged gasps tearing through his throat as his lungs fought to process the sudden influx of stabilizing frequency.
I remained entirely unmoved, keeping my palm clamped tight against his cheek with an iron, unyielding pressure.
The empirical data matched my literary context flawlessly: expanding the physical surface area of contact unlocked a direct, proportional spike in the velocity and density of the Guiding output.
Although his outward behavioral metrics appeared slightly less explosive compared to the unhinged mania displayed by the two initiates yesterday, my internal tracking verified that the payload was hitting his system with twice the intensity.
As definitive proof of the stabilization, a thick, unending stream of tears began to erupt from his eyes, splashing against the marble as a series of violent, guttural sobs tore from his chest.
“It doesn’t…… it doesn’t hurt anymore. The agony…… the burning in my core…… it’s gone. It’s completely gone…….”
During the opening seconds of the transmission, his consciousness had clearly struggled to process the sheer magnitude of the biochemical shift—thrashing wildly like a organism failing to adapt to a foreign atmosphere.
But now, as the stabilizing frequency systematically neutralized the toxic, volatile psychic corruption eating his cells, he began to wail aloud, screaming raw, desperate prayers of gratitude toward the altar.
Exactly like the test subjects from yesterday, a sudden, healthy rush of crimson blood began to bleed rapidly back into his pale, hollow skin, restoring his baseline vitality in real-time.
I considered extending the duration of the sequence to observe the upper limits of his absorption, but concluding that this baseline was more than sufficient to preserve his operational utility, I smoothly broke physical contact.
There were no visible energy meters floating in my field of vision, yet a profound, distinct instinct—an advanced somatic awareness tied directly to the biology of this vessel—informed me exactly when an Esper’s core had achieved absolute saturation.
‘Target one is completely optimized. Next.’
I prepared to step past his kneeling frame to advance down the line, but before I could clear the coordinate, a pair of trembling, frantic hands shot upward, violently clamping around my right ankle in a desperate bid to anchor my presence.
My survival instincts flared instantly, and my chin snapped back over my shoulder to check Yoon Seoho’s positioning.
The man remained entirely static in his designated coordinates, his lips still turned upward in that faint, deceptive smile.
I braced for the sequence of events that had transpired yesterday—anticipating that he would deploy a high-density telepathic burst to systematically liquefy the offender’s cranium.
Yet, his psychic core remained completely dormant.
“Exercise proper restraint, Brother. Your holy investiture has concluded; retreat to the rear pews and anchor your spirit in silent prayer.”
Before the desperate Esper could execute another frantic plea, two auxiliary priests emerged seamlessly from the shadows of the pillars, their hands clamping around his emaciated limbs with practiced efficiency as they dragged him bodily away from the altar steps.
After forcibly dropping the weeping man into the final row of seating, the clerics marched back up the aisle, positioning themselves at the base of the dais to form a permanent physical perimeter behind me.
‘Ah. So this is the defensive strategy he’s deploying today.’
It made perfect logical sense.
