For a few minutes, Grace allowed himself to act out the sacred ceremony to the tee, embedding the notions, the words, and mannerisms needed to maintain the best result of the ritual that was essential for the dire future that was ahead.
His eyes maintained an even expression, and his fingers held purpose with every motion taken. In the novel, there was an emphasis on the effort and refinery of the rituals that are enacted to not only be embraced by the touch of Gods, but also when ascending to greater planes of existences.
Even when the main cast attempted to ascend to greater strength through the rituals during combat, they always tried to maintain a consistent quality of their prayers and actions. However, due to the intense pressure of the situations, it results in something that is not of the highest quality at all.
This also didn't account for the location optimization.
A clear image of what I want. Grace thought to himself as his gaze trailed with every motion that his hands, fingers, and even body made. He recalled the practice that the owner of the body had done before the soul of "Allen Hart" took over, and replicated the exact and precise movements.
He did a fine job refining the movements. Even though the novel never fully delve deep into all the movements, the one time it did--the practice Grace Walker had done far exceeded the refinement and elegance of what had been demonstrated in the novel.
That is something you should be proud of. Even with the talent that lacks behind the main cast of characters, there is a clear abundance of determination and perseverance behind the cold layer that you uphold. After another few minutes of recalling and performing, Grace stopped and called over Abraham.
Briefly glancing at him, they went on with their day and awaited until the vibrant sun fell from the skies and the darkness of the moon enveloped the continent that they stood upon.
Within the dead of night, Abraham led Grace outside, into a car that shot forward and quickly brought them to their destination. Much further away from the temporary household that they were situated in, Grace was brought to a cathedral.
[Property of the Walker Family]
And establishment that was solely used for special occasions such as this one. Grace felt the memories flutter into his head, ushering towards the front as he remembered a man with similar characteristics to himself utter vague words.
"This, Grace, is your future."
It was only recently did the original owner of the body understand these words very well. This singular moment would define the very essence of Grace's future. It was a moment that could not be changed, rather destined. Despite the inability that the original owner held, there was no doubt he held certain hope in this ritual prayer.
Hope that this would change the course of his future.
Grace stepped outside of limousine, the fresh but cold air of the night pressing against his youthful face. Abraham stood beside him, standing quietly before stepping forward and looking back at Grace.
"Your parents are waiting inside."
His expression - even and cold - were maintained, however his heart began to beat violently. This feeling was rather foreign to him, but he could discern the reason.
The pressure engraved by the previous owner is influencing me. He followed Abraham, walking beyond a large gate that was the color of obsidian. And even further beyond it, the cathedral was of a similar color. The only major difference of the color was the lighter shade of the black that made it appear more gray than black.
Opening the door to the cathedral, Grace was met with a dominating presence, shifting the air immediately with coldness and royalty. Walking closely by Abraham, Grace's eyes landed on two figures standing at the altar. Their backs were turned, facing them, however, their presence were clear.
By this point, they should be a Special Grade 8. Near the bottom of the pinnacle of strength. In Blight, influence, strength, and prestige were measured with three progressive categories of classes.
Normal Grade.
Intermediate Grade.
Special Grade.
All Grades held 10 different layers. And progressing downwards meant a showcase of stronger strength, thus gaining more influence. The figures turned around, revealing their faces and their full entirety.
A man.
A woman.
The man stood tall and confident, draped with a red cape that was clean and neatly taken cared of. His body was clad in black royal garments, and a handsome older face that shared the same obsidian gaze as Grace. Furthermore, they shared the same black hair, alongside similar length.
His father.
The woman was shorter than his father, but the same confidence emanated from her. Her body was clad in the same black royal garments and a similar shade of red on the cape that draped along her back. Her face showed age, but even then there was beauty that shone brightly. Her hazel eyes reflected at Grace, and her light-brown hair pulled into a bun.
His mother.
Abraham walked forward, closing his eyes shut and bowing slightly.
"Lord Michael, Lady Rowena."
Michael and Rowena nodded their heads at Abraham's greeting. However, that was not their full priority. Their eyes peeled away from Abraham and landed at Grace. Grace, despite the thunderous beatings of his heart, maintained a clear head, subduing the pressure that the body was exacting onto itself.
"Son," Michael began, an eye of expectation boring into his being. "Are you ready?" He finished, his words lingering in the nigh-empty halls of the cathedral. By then, Grace steeled his resolve and vanquished much of the anxiousness and pressure embedded into his body.
"Yes."
However, he could not ignore the word used. From all the memories that he could recall from the original owner's mind, there was never a time where Michael addressed Grace as his "son." Grace did not linger on this thought for longer than this mere instance, as he did not want it to hinder him during the prayer to the Creator.
Anyhow, replacing this pondering and pressure was the feeling of excitement. At first, out of the abundant of Gods and Goddesses that existed in this world, he had two prime targets in mind for the prayer.
One was the God that the main protagonist, Ivan Sawyer, had prayed to after stumbling upon ancient text.
The Endless Astral Overseer.
The classic secret but incredibly strong God, one that would open the doors for the protagonist to reach heights greater than many. However, Grace was unsure if the Endless Astral Overseer would accept him as a devotee, so the second had been more likely for him.
The Thousand Layer All-Encompassing Sword God.
A God that would slowly embed the great teachings of swordsmanship onto the devotee. Without a doubt, preaching to this God would have led him to an unshakable greatness. As the character that preached to this God became a swords master like no other.
These two, if preached and embraced, would eventually lead to the fortune of the devotee. However, now that Grace is being forced to preach to the Creator, these two - while their names seemed much grander than the Creator - could not even compare to the full capacity of the Creator.
"Very well," Michael nodded, his eyes bearing indifference. "Perform well."
Grace glanced his father one last time before nodding his head slightly. Even with the pressure and envy and desire for affection from his parents, Grace could feel the eerie emotion of resentment that originated from the mixtures of the original Grace's emotions.
His parents stood away, parting from Grace. Abraham walked away, allowing Grace to have the space he needed to perform the ritual prayer. Grace walked forward, his steps echoing within the cathedral. Reaching the altar, Grace stood in silence as the dazzling moonlight kissed his pale skin.
Then, he began to perform.
First, he closed his eyes, a tranquility washing over his body before he ushered out various movements. Perhaps these movements seemed silly--shooting out slow-mannered gestures was not exactly the most fashionable or stylistic thing the author of Blight could have done for the rituals.
"The Originator of Creation
"Awakening at the center of imagination
"A thought that hovers, an extensive overseer of the cosmos
"Your watchful eyes, doting, caressing, and guiding
"It is I, Grace Walker, who wishes to receive more of your everlasting guidance."
Each motion, each word, was uttered with profound purpose. There was not a single waste of space or utterance--this was the result of the magnifying determination of the original Grace Walker.
Someone who did not see the same light or guidance as his siblings had.
Someone who had to dip his toes, his heart, and mind into his blood and tears before he could reach even a fraction of his sibling's god-given talents. All of this was transferred into the Grace Walker that stood now.
The one who was syncing further into this depravity, pushing forward and delivering a performance that won't be ignored by no one.
"The refinement of the movements are excellent," Rowena commented to her husband.
"It even exceeds the refinement of his siblings." Her hazel orbs gazed at the concentrated Grace. She observed the significance in front of her--this was a promising development.
"Indeed," Michael responded, nodding. "However, how far can this practice, this refinement, take him?" The indifference had long since turned into this mild curiosity, an itch that crawled along his body and making him wonder the extent of this performance.
But, it was the moment they finally saw a glimpse of Grace's eyes, did they see the reflection of a blazing determination.
"I demonstrate humility in the dead of night
"As the moon gazes downwards
"I beg of you
"Shower me with your might!"
There was a sharp pain that enveloped his body, but he stayed fierce, as the ritual was yet to be closed. For the last few moments, silence enveloped the cathedral, and only the motions made by Grace could be heard.
This was the critical juncture--this would determine everything!
On Grace's right wrist, a small light emitted, and a burning sensation ran along it. What was left was a black cross resembling that of a sword. But that wasn't the end. Another cross appeared on Grace's left wrist, the residual burning sensation quickly leaving him.
For the final act, Grace shot his hand up in the air, his fingers reaching out to the moon, bathing in the moonlight, before closing his hand into a fist.
His eyes stared back at the effervescent moon.
Satisfaction flourished, welling deep into Grace's heart.
This was his brilliance.
For a moment, as Grace stared at the effervescent moon, he could feel strength pulsating through his veins, pumping through his blood with significance.
The ascension of being a regular human being who can dabble in the superficial level of magic to someone who will soon have a taste of what it truly meant to wield magic—this was just the first of many times Grace will experience this euphoria.
Lowering his arm to his side, Grace could hear footsteps echo behind him. Turning around, he saw his parents approach him, their crimson cape fluttering behind them. Their eyes stared at him before Rowena commented on something.
"Your nose is bleeding."
Grace blinked, bringing his hand below his nose. Just as he was about to wipe the blood away from his nose with his hands, a handkerchief entered his peripheral vision. He looked up and saw Michael holding out the handkerchief in front of him.
"Clean up. There is much to talk about."
Those words… Grace felt something rise from the deepest parts of his stomach, churning into something that he could vividly pinpoint.
Disgust.
Grace ignored his advice and wiped his hand below his nose, cleaning up the blood with his hand rather than using the handkerchief that his father offered.
"What is there to talk about?" His eyes narrowed as he wiped the blood that was now cladding his fingertips onto his perfectly fine clothing, staining it.
Grace had quickly made it a habit to look into these foreign memories to gain guidance on how he should be acting during various instances. Even with the clear envy and want for acknowledgement, Grace had an evident venom and distance in his tone when speaking to his parents.
Around them, a bubble that blocked any and all noise flourished.
"We welcome you, fellow transmigrator."