They both landed on their feet, boots echoing faintly against the cold marble floor.
Ethan lifted his head, and his breath caught. The room around them was vast — an abandoned cathedral turned classroom, its high arched ceiling cradled in shadows. Veins of enormous roots crept through cracked stone walls, splitting the masonry apart. Some roots twisted into shelves, their bark smooth and polished like old wood, holding glass jars of preserved organs that floated in cloudy amber liquid. Others pierced the walls, their tips pulsing faintly — alive.
The air was heavy with the scent of formalin, damp soil, and the faint sweetness of decay. A low humming came from somewhere above — the old chandelier, forged from mismatched street lanterns, flickering weak light across the chamber. The glow caught on brass instruments, dissecting tools, and anatomical sketches pinned to corkboards.
At the center stood a colossal chalkboard, stained with chalk dust and strange runic markings that looked more like spells than lessons. Black wooden desks faced it in neat, soldier-like rows, their surfaces scarred with initials and ink burns. On one corner of the room, glass cases displayed skeletal remains — some unmistakably human, others with elongated ribs or double sets of joints.
Ethan took a slow step forward, boots crunching on fragments of dried leaves. On a nearby table lay a model of a human torso — open chest cavity exposing a heart-shaped crystal where the real organ should've been. His eyes drifted to a large diagram pinned beside it, depicting a luminous orb embedded in a ribcage, wires of light threading through veins.
"This is Recovery Class," Mycroft said at last, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. He walked past the tables and sat at one of the chairs, moving like someone who'd been here far too many times.
Ethan followed, still taking in the odd beauty of the place. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the chart of the glowing orb in a chest.
"That's our Will," Mycroft replied, flipping a page in his worn-out book. "Even though we're dead, we can still die — if someone takes or breaks our Will."
Ethan frowned. "Takes?"
Without looking up, Mycroft sighed. "We're not the only ones who awaken here. There are three Fractions." His voice dropped to that calm, eerie monotone that somehow made every word heavier.
He turned a page, the soft sound almost sacred in the silence.
"First, us — the Awakened. We live through our Persona, our Core, our Will. That's what keeps us tethered.
Then, the Cursed. Those who woke not by choice, but by rage. Their hatred was so strong that their bodies refused death. They feed on fear and negativity to keep going. You'll know them by their veins — they run black."
He turned another page.
"And lastly, the Anomalies. Creatures and beings with Cores of their own. They're not always hostile, but they aren't bound by human reason either."
Ethan stared, still half in awe of the strange anatomy around them. "So we can still die?"
"Not just die," Mycroft said evenly. "We vanish. Completely. No trace. No memory. As if we never existed."
Ethan blinked slowly. "Vanish completely, huh…" he murmured, voice soft like the dust in the air.
He hesitated, then asked, "Have you… met the Cursed?"
Mycroft nodded. "We've run into them during missions."
"Missions?"
"To take down or relocate Anomalies to human sectors," Mycroft said. "Or to push the Cursed back into their zones before they spread their decay."
Ethan tilted his head, curiosity flickering. "What does an Anomaly even look like?"
Mycroft finally looked up and pointed toward the far end of the hall.
Ethan stood and followed his gaze. In the dim light, a massive chart stretched across the wall — labeled Anomalies.
It was filled with sketches of twisted forms — serpentine bodies with hollow eyes, hands that bloomed like flowers, hearts that beat outside the flesh, wings made of bone dust.
Something about one drawing made his stomach tighten.
A figure — familiar. Human, yet not.
And its core… was drawn in the exact same place as his own.
Theres a list explaining as he reads
Anomalies spawn in three factors
Nature, Creature and Negative manifestation
There are categories how hostile they are
Type C not hostile and friendly they usually roam around and get their core from plants and natural resources
Type B those who are hostile in their territory they won't attack you if they are alone or wondering but they may disturb you but if in packs there killing intent is high
Type A very hostile and bloodthirsty they attack what ever or wherever there's a core they are based on survival instincts and would harm you instantly
Type X those who manifested to negativity so much that they control the domain of their territory making them both hostile and powerful to destroy the balance of nature
He observed the Anomalies
SIGHTS – "The Pale Watchers"
Threat Level: B — Territorial Hostiles
Symbolism: Anxiety, Overawareness "When they look at you, even your heartbeat forgets how to move."
They are tall, white figures, their skin smooth as marble yet thin as parchment, stretched tight over trembling veins.
Eyes bloom all over their bodies—across arms, chest, even fingertips.
Each one darts, blinks, and shifts independently. Their arms hang too long, the fingers almost touching the floor when they walk.
Their stare is paralytic—once those eyes land on you, your body locks, your breath freezes, your core trembles.
And when several gather, forming a pact, their shared gaze creates unbearable pressure—until your eyes rupture, shattering from within, and your core bursts into static light.
They never speak. They only hum softly, like glass about to break.
They are blind in total darkness, and that is their one mercy.
They represent anxiety made flesh—the feeling of being watched, judged, cornered.
MUNCH – "The Crawling Hunger"
Threat Level: A — Active Killers
Symbolism: Gluttony, Starvation
"If you hear chewing, it's already too late."
A grotesque creature with a distorted human head stretched into a jaw too wide for its face.
Rows of teeth spill outward like a flower made of knives.
Their bodies are hunched, spindly but fast, with arms that drag along the ground and claws that tear through metal.
They move on all fours, crawling and sprinting with inhuman bursts of speed.
They hunt by sound—a whisper, a breath, even a shifting step is enough to draw them.
They devour not just flesh but the core itself, ripping it out in one brutal gulp.
When sated, they curl up and hum softly, like a child after a meal.
When starved, their jaws chatter violently, echoing down the forest like broken windchimes.
They represent hunger that knows no end, both literal and emotional.
NO-FACE – "The Hollow Mirror"
Threat Level: B — Deceptive Hostiles
Symbolism: Identity, Dissociation
"They wear your face until you forget it's yours."
No-Face starts as a faceless, gelatinous humanoid, a pale mass of skin without eyes, nose, or mouth—just a smooth, breathing surface.
They mimic humans they touch, copying memories, posture, even voice.
But they can't replicate scars, moles, or birthmarks—their one fatal flaw.
If they hold a disguise for too long, the original person starts to wither, their body slowly melting into the No-Face's own, until only one remains.
Their skin drips when they're nervous, and when discovered, they shed the disguise violently, revealing their blank, trembling form before lunging.
They represent the terror of being replaced—the anxiety that someone else could live your life better than you.
"If you see yourself waving from across the room—run. The one waving back isn't you."
TRIX – "The False Light"
Threat Level: C — Neutral
Symbolism: Deception, Innocence
"A ghost wearing a rabbit's smile."
At first glance, they appear as tiny, floating bunny-like spirits, their glow faintly blue.
They giggle, mimic voices, and play harmless pranks—tugging skirts, opening doors, leading lost travelers down safer paths… or deeper into danger.
But when angered or corrupted, their bodies distort, bones cracking outward into a skeletal black mouse with exposed ribs and sharp claws.
Their cry becomes static, and everything within ten feet feels their pulse—a low hum of dread.
They rarely attack unless provoked and sometimes guide survivors, driven by an instinct no one understands.
They are fragments of emotion—curiosity gone wrong
"Interesting right" the person behind him says