Chapter 114: Can’t Contain It Much Longer
Early in the morning, Kamihara Shinji rose. Or rather, he’d barely slept, staying half-awake to watch for signs of the doll anomaly in the apartment. No trace appeared. At six a.m., he left a note and departed without lingering.
When Chihaya Mashiro woke and learned this, she felt a mix of relief and disappointment. She’d fretted over walking to school with Kamihara, agonizing over what to say to avoid awkwardness. The sleepless night of overthinking was now moot—she didn’t need to worry.
At breakfast, Rinako asked, “Mashiro, how’s your relationship with Shinji at school?”
Mashiro mumbled, “It’s… fine, I guess.” Fine was generous. She knew Kamihara saw her as just another Ghost Club member, nothing special. Her pursuit of him felt like a long, daunting road.
“Oh.” Rinako nodded, then abruptly said, “Mashiro, I’m your aunt, you know.”
“Mom!” Mashiro flushed, exasperated. “I’m really your daughter!”
Rinako gave an awkward smile. “Just testing, just testing.”
By noon, Kamihara had visited all seven dangerous locations Mashiro marked via the Fate Coin. Each housed a grudge, which he dispatched without disappointment. He called Chihaya Masato, reporting the results and confirming Mashiro was human, easing their fears. Masato exhaled in relief, thanking him over the phone.
At the call’s end, Masato added, “Kamihara-san, I know it’s a lot to ask, but… if Mashiro’s ever in danger, can I count on you to help?”
“Of course,” Kamihara replied without hesitation. As a Ghost Club member, Mashiro’s threats would likely be grudges or anomalies—naturally, he’d assist.
“Thank you so much,” Masato said, invigorated. “Come by our place anytime.”
Last night, Rinako had mentioned Kamihara’s family was gone, though the reason was unclear. Living alone, he must feel isolated. Coupled with her urging, Masato saw the perilous world and agreed Mashiro was safer with Kamihara. Without him, the doll anomaly might have killed Mashiro and targeted them next.
“Alright,” Kamihara said, his tone perfunctory. Masato sensed the brush-off but remained optimistic—there was time to build trust. Kamihara didn’t question Masato’s phone use. In Japan’s social culture, ditching phones was near impossible, especially for a working man like Masato.
During lunch break, Kamihara returned to school. Before entering the classroom, he overheard hushed conversations about the government’s phone recall. The Special Division had amplified the issue, steering public focus to New Beginning to obscure Shikoku’s death toll. The recall had begun, Kamihara noted, his eyes glinting. But eavesdropping further, he grew puzzled.
Classmates, particularly girls, planned to keep their phones, some even intending to download New Beginning. Searching online, Kamihara stifled a laugh. A Twitter post by a female model—known for selfies and mildly viral content—claimed New Beginning’s melody repelled attackers. Drunk at a bar, she’d been targeted by three men. Unable to resist, her friend called, and her ringtone, New Beginning, played. The men died, their deaths mirroring the TV footage, with eerie melodies faintly audible from their bodies. Drunk, she chalked it up to hallucination.
Her post gained traction, with others sharing similar tales, marveling at the coincidence. Some joked the song was composed by a kidnapped prodigy, Takanotsume Kaoru, five years prior, killed after its completion. Her vengeful spirit, they mused, killed via the melody. Japan’s ghost culture fueled such theories, and New Beginning’s eerie nature sparked heated discussions.
The model, seeing her post explode, proposed testing the song’s “anti-thug” effect. Her morning update went silent—likely deleted, her account possibly banned. Kamihara refreshed and found her profile gone. The Special Division had acted, but too late. The post’s influence spread across forums, amplified by mass visibility and the division’s deletions, which stoked public defiance. Many scoffed, but confirmations piled up—it seemed real.
Robberies, though rarer now, and kidnappings, mostly news fodder, didn’t deter thrill-seekers. Some staged mock robberies for online clout, only to trigger Ghost Calls’ killing rule, their deaths recorded and viral. The Special Division’s regional police preparedness suppressed short-term leaks, but Kamihara, browsing forums, sighed at the chaos. The recall policy fueled discussion, veering beyond the division’s control. If they couldn’t resolve this quickly, containment would fail.
Kamihara watched, biding his time.
[Author’s Note: Some ask why the protagonist is kind to his deceased friends but cold to Mashiro. It’s simple: losing friends showed him the world’s dangers. Forming new bonds risks more grief, so he avoids emotional investment.]
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 115: This Is a Dark, Gritty Light Novel
Afternoon, Ghost Club.
“Here.”
Kamihara Shinji slid seven soul beads across the table to Chihaya Mashiro. The beads spun smoothly, never rolling off, mesmerizing her. She hurriedly collected them, still too shy to meet Kamihara’s gaze, though less flustered than yesterday.
“Thanks, President,” she said, wondering if she should string these beads with the one he’d given her before, perhaps as a necklace. These were smaller, though.
“You still have that other soul bead?” Kamihara asked.
“Yes, yes!” Mashiro pulled it from her pocket, where she always kept it.
Kamihara stared, incredulous. “You don’t know how to absorb it?”
“I… wanted to keep it as a memento.”
He frowned. “You read the booklet. This world’s dangerous—these are consumables, not keepsakes.” With a thought, he summoned the bead to his hand, purging its impurities. Grudge-born soul beads were larger than ghost-derived ones but carried more impurities, risking negative effects if over-absorbed, as Aoji had explained. Since soul beads were useless to him, he gave them all to Mashiro. Handing back the purified bead, he said, “Absorb it.”
“Um…” Mashiro hesitated, catching his stare. Relenting, she averted her gaze and mumbled, “Okay.” She absorbed all seven, her head spinning briefly before adjusting.
As she recovered, Kamihara copied his novel from the computer. “President, heading home?” Mashiro asked, noting the early hour for club activities.
“I’ve got something this afternoon,” he said curtly, leaving Sakuraku High after a brief goodbye.
He wasn’t going home. With no pressing matters and uncertainty about the Special Division’s Ghost Calls response, he decided to act. His novel, over 100,000 words, wasn’t just for honing urban legend creation—it deserved submission, not digital obscurity. He opted for in-person submission over email to discuss with an editor directly, refining his plot and getting prompt feedback.
Taking the train to Chiyoda Ward, he targeted Iwaharu Publishing, a mid-tier light novel publisher, neither prestigious nor obscure. He’d contacted an editor online, who provided the address for a same-day visit. At the office, a receptionist called for the editor, and a young man emerged.
Seeing Kamihara, he looked surprised but smiled. “You’re Kamihara?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Saikyo Daisuke. Didn’t expect you to be so young.” Noting the school uniform, a flicker of disappointment crossed his eyes, quickly masked. “Come in.”
At the editorial department, Saikyo greeted colleagues warmly. At his desk, Kamihara handed over a USB drive. Saikyo extracted the manuscript but didn’t read it, pulling a chair for Kamihara. “Thanks,” Kamihara said, sitting.
Pointing to the dense text onscreen, Saikyo said, “Looks like over 100,000 words. I’ll read later—first, tell me your concept and plot.”
“Alright,” Kamihara began, choosing his words. “The concept is death rewind.”
Saikyo nodded. Death rewind, though common in films, remained fresh in light novels, not yet overdone. “The protagonist uses death rewind to… initially, pursue girls.”
A harem story? Saikyo mused. Harem tropes were light novel evergreens, timeless for market appeal, catering to otaku tastes alongside standout or surprise hits.
“Unlike typical light novels,” Kamihara continued, “the girls don’t fall for the protagonist’s kindness. To win them, he must trial-and-error their personalities, preferences, and deeply hidden secrets. Uncovering these secrets gets him killed.”
“Why?” Saikyo frowned. Even in urban fantasy, cheating wouldn’t prompt murder—just breakups.
“Because these girls aren’t normal. They’re not human.”
Saikyo’s eyes lit up. “I see.” Non-human girls justified the violence.
“Using death rewind to pursue non-human girls is an intriguing hook,” Saikyo said. “Pursue?”
“Not quite,” Kamihara smiled, outlining his plot. A normal person with death rewind endures excruciating pain per death. Initial affection for the girls turns to resentment after repeated killings. The protagonist, a daydreaming everyman, aims to use his ability for romance but grows embittered, darkening over time. Ultimately, he “wins” the girls, then kills them all in revenge. “This is a dark, gritty light novel.”
Saikyo, stunned, stammered, “This…”
“Shinji, what are you doing here?” a voice interrupted.
Kamihara turned, startled. “Uncle, you’re here?”
“I’m the chief editor,” Chihaya Masato said, equally shocked. His expression darkened—Kamihara, a supernatural operative, here? Was something amiss?
Saikyo stood, greeting, “Chief Chihaya.” Suddenly, he collapsed, face-first, with a thud. The noise drew editors’ attention. “Saikyo, what’s wrong?” someone gasped.
Kamihara, bewildered, crouched to check Saikyo’s pulse. Dead?
(End of Chapter)
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