Chapter 116: A New Anomaly?
Iwaharu Publishing, editorial department.
Chihaya Masato stood frozen, his body rigid. He watched Saikyo Daisuke collapse abruptly, the heavy thud of his forehead hitting the floor and the sickening crack of his nose shattering making Masato’s eyelids twitch and cheeks tremble. Seeing Kamihara Shinji’s face turn grave after checking Saikyo’s pulse, Masato swallowed hard, his voice quivering. “Shinji… what’s this?”
Kamihara didn’t respond, his brow furrowed. His first thought was that Little Ai had spirited Saikyo’s soul away, but he dismissed it. He sensed no trace of an anomaly’s killing. Little Ai tormented her cursed targets before taking them, a process he’d detect. Yet Saikyo’s death seemed eerily mundane, like a sudden cardiac arrest. No supernatural aura lingered. Could it truly be natural?
Someone had already called the police. Kamihara stood, noting Masato’s anxious gaze. “Uncle, don’t worry. Saikyo-san likely died of natural causes,” he said, offering reassurance.
“Is that so?” Masato managed a weak smile, sensing Kamihara’s words were mere comfort. He wasn’t wrong.
Kamihara was indeed placating him. Using spiritual power, he’d found Saikyo’s soul completely dissipated, an unnaturally thorough death. No novice, Kamihara knew natural deaths left souls lingering briefly, not vanishing instantly. Ruling out Little Ai, another entity—or anomaly—was likely responsible.
Local police arrived swiftly. Initially, they intended to detain Kamihara, closest to Saikyo, but his Metropolitan Police badge shifted their demeanor to deference. Only one officer came—Japan’s police were stretched thin battling Ghost Calls. Routine cases fell to inexperienced interns, with police academies mobilized for support.
Despite his rank as inspector, protocol required Kamihara to visit the station, alongside Masato. Surveillance showed Masato approaching, Saikyo greeting him, then collapsing, marking them as suspects. Kamihara had no objections. Masato, however, was rattled. After learning of the world’s supernatural underbelly, he’d used his phone warily. Saikyo’s death strained his middle-aged heart, though Kamihara’s presence steadied him.
Instead of the local precinct, Kamihara directed the officer to the Metropolitan Police headquarters. Upon arrival, the usually orderly headquarters buzzed with chaos. Citizens flooded in, many crowding uniformed officers, demanding answers in a cacophony.
“Officer Yamamoto, how did my father die? Give us answers!” one shouted.
“Mr. Fujiwara, I’ve explained,” Yamamoto replied. “New Beginning induces hypnotic murder. The Metropolitan Police have been tracking this. Didn’t you see Professor Ono on TV last night?”
“I’ve been swamped with work—no time for TV. And my father’s body was playing music when he died!”
“That’s a calculated terrorist act,” Yamamoto said gravely, gesturing to others. “These families’ loved ones were targeted, too. The music you heard? Terrorists stuffed a player in his stomach during a robbery. These are random killings—harassing us won’t help. It only burdens our investigation. Once we catch the culprits, we’ll hold a press conference.”
As Kamihara walked through, he saw officers swarmed with similar questions. Masato trailed silently, the headquarters resembling a bustling market. He sighed inwardly. These people likely didn’t know their loved ones fell to anomalies. He felt no superiority—humans were fragile before grudges, let alone anomalies. Glancing at Kamihara ahead, he took a deep breath and hurried to keep up, realizing ordinary people’s powerlessness in supernatural crises. Rinako was right—they needed to cling to Kamihara.
“Lord Ghost,” an officer greeted in an interrogation room, verifying Kamihara’s badge via the system. The Metropolitan Police were briefed on the world’s hidden side, initially skeptical until Ghost Calls’ chilling footage—gruesome deaths, eerie melodies—shocked them. Fear, awe, and respect for monitors who faced anomalies grew.
“Send a few officers to investigate Saikyo Daisuke’s recent contacts and whereabouts,” Kamihara said sternly. “His death is likely anomaly-related.”
“Anomaly?” Masato, behind him, froze. About to light a cigarette to ease his stress, he pocketed it. No cigarette could quell this.
“Lord Ghost, a sudden death suggests Hell Girl,” the officer ventured, well-informed. “If it’s her, investigation is pointless.” With Ghost Calls dominating the Special Division and police focus, other anomalies took a backseat.
“It’s not Hell Girl,” Kamihara said evenly. “I was there. I’d have sensed her.”
The officer stiffened, trusting Kamihara’s seasoned judgment over his own. “Lord Ghost, manpower’s tight. We can’t spare many officers.”
“Naturally,” Kamihara nodded. “Two or three to investigate will do.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
[Thanks to World’s Most Beautiful Wife for the patron support!]
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 117: All Things Silent
While Kamihara investigated with the Metropolitan Police, at the Special Division, Kimura Kohei sat in his chief’s office, waiting three hours. Even his patience frayed, irritation simmering.
Last night’s urgency prompted a direct call to Kyoto’s Nishi Honganji temple to contact Ronin. The temple reported Ronin had returned to his hotel that afternoon, but a search found him absent. With Ghost Calls banning phone use among monitors, the Special Division was left scrambling. Ronin only responded at noon, vaguely promising an afternoon arrival, yet by four or five p.m., he hadn’t shown.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in.”
“Chief, Transparent Scissors has arrived.”
“Where’s Ronin?”
“Lord Ronin said he’s only delivering the scissors. How we use them is our business—just return them after.”
Kimura gave a bitter laugh. He’d have reprimanded another monitor, but Ronin, a Special Division protégé, dodged accountability. “Fine. Prepare to use Transparent Scissors.” Pausing, he added, “Has the Sound Extinction Horn reached Kamagasaki?”
“It was delivered at noon.”
Kimura nodded. “If Transparent Scissors fails, have Osaka’s Special Division use the horn.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kimura’s cheek twitched at the thought of the Sound Extinction Horn’s cost. A thirteen-person team left headquarters: ten security personnel, one clerk, one ordinary person to wield the scissors, and one prisoner. A drone trailed above, capturing footage. Monitors stayed behind—any adverse reaction from cutting Ghost Calls could kill them needlessly.
The team drove far from headquarters to a wide area lined with houses—Special Division test sites for trial-and-error. The group was mostly silent. The gagged prisoner, bound and terrified, assumed he faced execution. A minor kidnapper whose hostage was rescued, he didn’t merit death, but prisoners had no rights here.
The clerk unlocked House 1, a barren room with only a table, chairs, and omnidirectional cameras. “Mr. Gojo, take the scissors,” the clerk, a stoic man nearing forty, said, handing a white cloth-wrapped bundle to an ordinary man under a death contract.
Gojo took it, smiling bitterly. “I’m regretting this. Can I back out?”
No one answered. Surrounded by security, he swallowed hard, forcing a strained smile. “Kidding.” Unwrapping the cloth, he saw nothing but felt weight. Unfazed, he’d been briefed post-contract: he’d face ghosts, grudges, or anomalies. Sighing, his eyes dulled with resignation. He was doomed.
Touching the invisible scissors, he discerned their tailor-like shape. Grasping them, his vision shifted, revealing the unseen. Suddenly, an ethereal, oppressive melody emerged. Gojo saw black-and-white notes form a line, streaming from a phone toward the prisoner’s ears, crowding in eagerly. The sight unnerved him.
A delicate yet sturdy thread of notes lay before him—his task was to cut it. Without waiting for the clerk’s prompt, Gojo gritted his teeth and snipped. A crisp snap echoed from the void, tensing the team. Then, a scream—not the prisoner’s, but Gojo’s. Cutting the thread, he felt like fabric torn in two, agony overwhelming him. His wail stopped abruptly as he died, body and soul severed—the price of Transparent Scissors.
The clerk, accustomed to death, still flinched. Seconds later, he retrieved the scissors, rewrapping them, and turned to the prisoner. The melody, now fragmented, stuttered like a lagging stream. A spark of hope lit the clerk’s eyes—success? But the broken notes paused, then resumed, flowing seamlessly for 3:35. The prisoner trembled, bound and kneeling, eyes wide, dying unfulfilled.
A minute later, Kimura received the report. Sighing deeply, he told his aide, “Contact Osaka’s Special Division. Use the Sound Extinction Horn.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Wait,” Kimura said. “Has the think tank planned post-horn actions?”
“They have solutions.”
“Go.”
The aide closed the door, heading to the second floor to contact Osaka. Ten minutes later, in Osaka’s Nishinari Ward, Kamagasaki—a city within a city—stood as Japan’s largest hub for day laborers. Over ten thousand middle-aged and elderly men lived here, scraping by on temporary jobs and aid, in Japan’s biggest slum. Poverty, illness, and homelessness plagued the area, with dozens of yakuza groups profiting from drugs, gambling, and extortion. Sin thrived amid squalor, yet Ghost Calls had curiously improved local safety.
In a modest house, a young man held a horn, its deep black surface glinting faintly, sized like a standard horn. Closing his eyes to steady himself, he gripped it tightly and blew. No sound emerged, but a ripple spread from the horn. Instantly, the noisy slum fell silent.
All things went mute.
(End of Chapter)
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