My name is Lambert, a former priest who, for reasons I cannot disclose, currently serves as a novice gardener in a mansion in the southwestern part of the Kingdom of Gath.

If you ask me how I've found my first day, I’d tell you: I regret it. A lot.

Why would I trust someone who doesn’t flinch at the word 'heretic'? I must've been dazed by hunger.

To understand how it got this bad, let's rewind a bit.

There I was, resting in that mine, hungry but otherwise fine, when that dastardly mid-tier mage Murphy found me.

Perhaps I wasn’t thinking straight, but after some sweet-talking, I agreed to join his team and found myself whisked away to City of Gath by this rather unnerving mage.

Simply put, I boarded a pirate ship, and I’ve been regretting it since.

I've never worked as a gardener in my thirty-something years, but the Great Cathedral in Valletta, the capital of West Territory, required greenery upkeep. Having observed gardeners among my duties, I was confident in taking on this role.

Arriving at Number Whatever Street, I tidied myself up, swapped into pedestrian clothes.

My beliefs remain steadfast, but in these dire times, I had to first ensure my safety, then find ways to prove my devotion later.

The mansion isn't lavish, but it's intricately designed and exudes a century-old finesse. To commoners, living in such a place is unimaginable luxury; to these folks, it's as mundane as dining and wining.

I’m guessing they must be quite wealthy.

Since the house was rather empty, I dined with the mage and others. Each one radiated their own brand of eccentricity, masked beneath seemingly rationale behaviors.

Supper was a quiet affair; maybe my unexpected presence cast a pall.

Raised an orphan, I learned to ward off neglect with a touch of pathos. So, to the stony-faced man, I recounted my unintended path to heresy.

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After my tale, the atmosphere lightened as they urged me to eat and drink more. Even in the serious man, I sensed a hint of kinship.

Could he possibly be an actual heretic?

That unsettling thought didn't linger long, outdone only by my decision to get up at night—my second-to-last regret.

Staying true to my guise, I chose to live in the ground floor's servant quarter after supper—my third-to-last regret.

Under the weight of remorse, fate had me witness something peculiar in the hallway.

I spotted the middle-aged man strolling through the moonlit courtyard, and under the luminescent glow, I saw...

He was transparent.

As a priest, comforting and healing are my daily bread. I knew of ethereal spirits from church history but was unaware they had evolved into tangible beings who could converse over cocktails.

Suddenly, not having my divine powers seemed fortunate. To them, I'm just a high-level civilian without a class.

Had I retained my powers, who knows? Maybe I would've uncovered their secret and ended up dead.

I finished up and headed back to my room, where I encountered the mage's dog.

Dammit, it was transparent too.

It's hard to guess how many spirits reside here, but for now, my only option is to pretend nothing happened, leading to a sleepless, agonizing night.

Come morning, visible bags under my eyes, I absentmindedly tended to the mansion's garden after breakfast.

Gardening isn't as sweet as it seems, but no one in the mansion seemed to care if the yard was well-kept or not. I finished quickly and slipped into rest mode.

They seemed benign enough, so I decided to take a peaceful nap.

That's when I felt an ominous presence beneath me.

Though my divine magics are gone, the innate priest in me sensed the vile aura of demonkind.

Rolling out of bed, I scoured the servant room, finding nothing amiss—it had to be the basement.

I knew better but compelled by my priestly intuitions and an ill-informed gardener’s curiosity, I was drawn to investigate.

Stealthy steps down an unhidden spiral stairway led to the basement, while I tuned my ears to the noises below.

A roar—unclear if beast or demon—pricked my ears.

Frozen, I dared not descend further, only listening.

"Where's the hand? How on earth did you summon a handicapped skeleton?" came a stern voice.

Murphy's voice—he was practicing dark arts!

"Wasn't he always like that?" queried another, tinged with guilt.

"Baloney! The fresh marks on his arm say otherwise. Check your summoning circle."

"Uh... I might have accidentally erased a piece of the scripture. It represents... let me check... 'completeness'..."

I recognized that second voice, it was that inconspicuous little girl.

A sorcerer’s apprentice in dark magic.

I retraced my steps, pondering my new predicament.

I’ve joined "Team Normal People," comprised of a male ghost, spectral canine, two dark mages, and a heretic.

Suddenly, I felt like the most normal member of "Team Normal People."

Perhaps it's time to accept this reality.