Monsters... they were the dread of this world, the embodiment of man's most primal fears, an undeniable reality that we, mortal humans, must confront. A truth that, if denied, would invite nothing but death and destruction upon us. For me, this truth was not some distant legend; it was a tormenting reality that had haunted me for the past decade. Ten years ago, a malevolent shadow had cast its suffocating grip over my life, forever altering the course of my existence. Something precious had been ripped away from me: my mother, a cherished part of my world. My father, driven by some dark force or twisted ambition, had committed unspeakable acts, leaving my mother cursed and condemned.

As I ventured into the depths of the unknown to reclaim her humanity, I found myself constantly on the run. We had to remain separated to protect my mother, a tragic necessity to evade the relentless hunters pursuing her. I had crisscrossed the vast expanse of our world, searching for answers, for salvation, but every avenue led to a dead-end. My father, who had been the architect of this curse, had long since met his own demise, his sins weighing him down to the abyss of his own making. Yet, the revelation of what he had wrought upon my family remained elusive, buried beneath layers of secrets.

My brother, Allan, bore the knowledge of our mother's plight, but we had to keep our distance for her sake. To stand by her side would be to condemn her further. My quest was solitary, fueled by the burning desire to liberate my mother from her cursed form. Ten years had passed, and I remained haunted by my father's transgressions, relentlessly pursuing a way to undo the curse that had shackled my mother. I wandered through desolate landscapes, labyrinthine forests, and decaying ruins, never coming any closer to unraveling the malevolent enigma that had ensnared her.

It was amidst this bleak, seemingly never-ending journey that I stumbled upon a revelation, a glimmer of hope that would guide my path into uncharted territories. The letter in my hand, penned by my brother Allan, bore the promise of salvation, a beacon of light amidst the relentless storm that raged around me. It seemed impervious to the torrential rain that drenched me as if some arcane force shielded it from nature's wrath. Clutched tightly against my chest, the letter became my lifeline, a tangible connection to the answers I so desperately sought.

The Holy State, an entity shrouded in mysticism and reverence, beckoned me. The towering Hall of Order, a monumental edifice that dwarfed all other structures in the city of Siciopolis, stood before me as both a fortress and a sanctuary. Its granite walls, hewn from a nearby mountain, spoke of centuries of unwavering devotion, each block meticulously crafted to perfection. The simplicity of its design belied the power it held, a testament to human ingenuity and divine devotion. The roof, adorned with slate, seemed to reach out to the heavens. At the same time, the stained glass windows cast kaleidoscopic patterns upon the interior.

There were two distinct paths to confront the monsters that plagued our world, and now I stood at the crossroads. The first path was that of the hunters, freelance vigilantes, and bounty hunters who pursued the vile abominations relentlessly. They were driven solely by the desire to exterminate these creatures, regardless of the cost, and operated independently, like shadows in the night. The second path that led me to this hallowed place was that of the State Exorcists of the Holy State Imperial Order. My brother, Allan, was one of these revered figures, a beacon of hope in a world steeped in darkness.

Here, in Siciopolis, the city where the hall loomed over all, my journey would genuinely commence. I was determined to become a State Exorcist, not for glory or prestige, but to save my mother from her wretched fate. The relentless rain, driven by the relentless winds, battered me mercilessly as I stood before the grand entrance, struggling to maintain my footing. The colossal doors, veiled in a cascade of raindrops, loomed like an impenetrable gateway to the unknown. The storm's roar drowned out all other sounds, a cacophony of nature's fury.

The letter I held, the linchpin of my hopes, remained miraculously unscathed amid the deluge. It was as if it carried an enchantment, a safeguard against the elements. The ink on its surface refused to smudge, its parchment refusing to yield to the relentless rain. I felt the weight of magic within it, a gift and a curse that could be used for both good and evil. This city, this hall, thrived on the blessings and curses of magic, and as I crossed the threshold, I became a willing participant in this ancient dance.

Inside the Hall of the Holy State, the grandeur was overpowering. The polished marble floors reflected my image as if I walked on liquid glass. Columns of mighty pillars flanked an aisle that led to countless oakwood pews, a testament to the multitude it could accommodate. A thousand souls could find solace within these hallowed walls, yet this was just one facet of the sprawling sanctuary. The north entrance mirrored the south, a symphony of architectural mastery.

However, the overwhelming sense of awe I felt was disrupted by the realization that the hall was eerily empty, a profound silence enveloping me. It was past nightfall, and this emptiness was unexpected. My mother's nocturnal existence should have granted me some anonymity in this sacred space. My wet boots echoed through the vast emptiness, my footsteps resonating with a haunting quality.

As I continued my exploration, my eyes were drawn to a pair of double doors at the rear of the hall, leading in opposite directions. The right doors stood open, revealing a dimly lit corridor that stretched into obscurity. The footsteps I had heard earlier seemed to beckon me in that direction. I was compelled to follow, my curiosity outweighing any caution I might have harbored.

With each step down the dimly lit corridor, the polished black floor seemed to shimmer in the subdued light. The resonance of my own footsteps merged with a subtle, haunting melody that filled the air, the eerie tune hanging like a shroud of mystery. In this corridor, I would first encounter the enigmatic Sister Rachael Morgan.

Her sudden appearance, emerging from the shadows like a wraith, caught me off guard. Her presence was both ethereal and commanding, clad in the signature attire of a holy nun. She wore a long, tight-fitting black tunic, a white scapular draped over her shoulder, and a white gold belt cinched around her waist. Her thigh-high, high-heeled boots hinted at a hidden allure, their appearance partially obscured by the side slits of her tunic, revealing a glimpse of white pantyhose.

Sister Rachael stood tall and unyielding, her vivid green eyes penetrating through the very depths of my soul. Her alabaster skin seemed untouched by time, her veil concealing most of her vibrant red hair, the fiery hue peeking out from beneath. Her heart-shaped face framed by those elegant, almost angular eyebrows gave her an air of intelligence and determination. Her perky, upturned nose and full, inviting lips added to her beauty.

But beneath the striking exterior, Sister Rachael exuded a confidence and intelligence that was far more than skin deep. Her gaze bore into me with unwavering focus, her stature suggesting a strength that belied her seemingly delicate appearance.

In the face of her unexpected presence, I faltered and stammered out an apology. "I'm sorry," I uttered, my voice laden with genuine contrition. "I was...taken aback by your beauty."

Sister Rachael's response was stern yet tinged with an understanding that hinted at her compassion. "Be that as it may," she replied, her emerald eyes unwavering, "you should keep your eyes front and center. I forgive you this time. But remember, Sister Diane Fisher is not as lenient as I am."

A momentary panic surged within me as I realized my folly, the danger of openly admiring her beauty in this sacred place. Sister Diane Fisher, a name I'd never heard, sounded like an imposing figure with limited tolerance for such indiscretions. My apology was swift and earnest.

"Please forgive me, Sister Diane," I implored, my head bowing deeply before her. The echoes of her footsteps in the corridor seemed to grow distant as I humbled myself.

For the first time, I laid my eyes upon Sister Diane Fisher, who had appeared behind me, her hands resting on her hips. Like two chips of sapphire, her ice-blue eyes bore into me with a cold, calculating intensity. Her bleach-blonde hair framed her face, lifeless strands falling straight around her pale complexion. She resembled a porcelain doll, her lips forming a heart-shaped line, her very presence exuding an air of eerie serenity. Much like Sister Rachael's, her ample bosom was gracefully well-endowed and plump, adding to her porcelain-doll-like allure.

Sister Diane possessed an oval face adorned with high cheekbones, slanted eyebrows, and a sharp, pointy nose. Her youthful appearance, somewhere between her late teens and early twenties, concealed a hidden depth. This enigmatic aura left an indelible impression. As with Sister Rachael, my eyes couldn't help but be drawn to her bosom, a facet of her physicality that seemed emphasized by the circumstances.

"My good sir, please keep your eyes up and your mind righteous. This is a Hall of the people and I have work to attend to," the nun snapped.

Although the Holy State was religiously based, the order employed all faiths as members. Her words did snap my eyes back to her face, and I felt like an idiot for ogling over her blessed features. I didn't know what to say but knew I had to.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was just taken back by your beauty," I stated.

"Be that as it may, my good sir. You should keep your eyes front and center. I forgive you this time. I will ask again, how can I assist you tonight?" the nun questioned.

"Right, thank you for forgiving me. I'm Adam von Yeager, and I have this letter that I can bring to any Hall of the Holy State," I revealed, holding the letter up.

"It is good to meet you. My name is Sister Rachael Morgan. May I see this letter, my good sir?" Sister Rachael questioned.

My interaction with the two enigmatic nuns, Sister Rachael and Sister Diane, was marked by intrigue and a touch of embarrassment. They seemed to wield an otherworldly presence, their physical beauty enhanced by an air of unyielding authority. The letter, my lifeline to salvation, remained in Sister Rachael's hands, its contents shrouded in mystery. My heart raced with anticipation as I awaited their response, hoping against hope that they would hold the key to freeing my mother from her cursed existence.

Again, I found my eyes drawn to her bosom.

Without looking up, Rachael caught me.

"Did I not instruct you to keep your eyes front and center my good sir? Are you hard of hearing?" Rachael asked. "Sister Diane Fisher will not take kindly to your indiscretions. She is not as lenient as I am," Sister Rachael stated.

It dawned on me what Sister Rachael was implying, and I felt a slap across my face. The force of her open-palmed slap sent a sharp pain through my cheek and the side of my face. I immediately bowed before her before dropping to my knees. I must say that my experience has been highly negative and disappointing. If someone outside of the clergy heard this, I was done for. I couldn't risk being ostracized in a world full of monsters.

"Please forgive me Sister Diane," I exclaimed.

"Hmph, you are forgiven, my good sir," Sister Diane said. "What is this letter that this man has brought us?" she added.

I waited while the two gorgeous nuns, their heads bowed over the letter, read the words that my brother, Allan Hunter, had written. I could see the concern on their faces as they read, and I knew that they were worried about what he was asking of them. But I also saw the determination in their eyes, and I knew that they would help me, no matter what.

As they finished reading, I took a deep breath and waited for their response.