Chapter 122: Let’s See Your Masterpiece
A minute later, Kamihara Shinji sat up on the sofa. Self-destructing his soul was no less agonizing than Matsunai’s tearing—it was a pain one could never grow accustomed to. As he steadied himself, Saikyo Daisuke’s abrupt collapse flashed in his mind. Could Saikyo have been trapped in Asada Kazumasa’s canvas? Kamihara had initially thought Saikyo’s soul dissipated completely, but now suspected it was imprisoned. His brief glance at the canvases hadn’t registered Saikyo’s presence, as he hadn’t focused closely.
Picking up his phone, he called the Metropolitan Police. Despite the midnight hour, the headquarters had officers on duty. “Check someone named Asada Kazumasa,” Kamihara said calmly. “He’s likely in Minato Ward, near Tokyo Tower. Find him, don’t alert him, just monitor, and call me.”
“Yes, Lord Ghost,” the officer replied.
Hanging up, Kamihara frowned. The incident was baffling. He didn’t know Asada, yet the man used a rule-based item to trap his soul, clearly intent on killing. From Asada’s muttering, a “Tanaka” had paid for the hit. Who was this Tanaka? Pondering, he found no leads. Only finding Asada would clarify things.
From their brief exchange, Kamihara pegged Asada as self-absorbed and inflated, likely an ordinary person transformed by a rule-based item. Such power could unhinge anyone, making them believe they were a god of a new world. Asada’s malevolent shift was unsurprising—ordinary people wielding such items often assumed invincibility. Yet, Asada’s casual demeanor suggested his item’s cost was minimal, unlike most rule-based items.
Changing into casual clothes, Kamihara reached the apartment complex’s entrance. A police car awaited. “Lord Ghost,” an officer greeted.
“Have you found him?”
“We’re still searching, but if your location is accurate, it won’t take long.”
“Thanks for working late.”
“Serving a monitor is no hardship,” the officer said earnestly.
Kamihara nodded with a smile. He’d pinpointed Minato Ward from seeing Tokyo Tower outside Asada’s window, located in Shibakoen, Minato. Soon, word came—Asada was under surveillance. Kamihara studied the sent photo, Asada’s heavy dark circles unmistakable. “To Black Night Bar,” he directed.
At Black Night Bar, Asada Kazumasa brushed off a provocatively dressed woman, his face grim. Spotting Tanaka in a corner, flanked by women, Asada stormed over, splashing a drink in his face. “Who’s the bastard?” Tanaka Zeyao roared, then froze under Asada’s icy glare, shivering. “Mr. Asada, what brings you?”
“Outside,” Asada spat.
Outside, Asada showed Tanaka a phone photo—a picture of Kamihara Shinji and Mito Riko. Pointing at Kamihara, he scowled, “What’s your beef with him?”
“Love rival,” Tanaka said.
“Do you know him?”
“Not really,” Tanaka replied cautiously. “Is he a big deal?”
Tanaka, a Todai professor, had fallen for Mito Riko, a new psychology instructor. Her blunt rejection, citing someone she loved, didn’t deter him. One day, he glimpsed her phone wallpaper—a cozy photo with a young man, likely her beloved. Undeterred, he bribed Mito’s roommate to snap the photo while Mito showered, then sent it to Asada to “deal with” the man.
“So, you don’t even know who he is…” Asada’s face darkened. Kamihara’s suicide had unnerved him, stirring a strong sense of dread.
Tanaka nodded, about to speak, when Kamihara emerged from the shadows, clapping Asada’s shoulder. “Care for a drink, gentlemen?” Asada froze, terror-stricken, as if seeing a ghost. Kamihara smiled. “You weren’t this pale at home.”
“You… who are you?” Asada stammered, fear slurring his words.
“Before questioning me, shouldn’t you explain why you trapped my soul?” Kamihara’s spiritual pressure enveloped Asada, making breathing laborious, like the sky was collapsing. Tanaka, tipsy, fared worse, nearly collapsing.
Asada haltingly recounted Tanaka’s story. Kamihara listened, dumbfounded. Gesturing, he summoned officers. “Lord Ghost,” they acknowledged.
Pointing at Tanaka, Kamihara smiled. “Take him to Tokyo Bay. Break his limbs, sink him.”
The officers, chilled by Kamihara’s calm smile, obeyed without hesitation. “Yes, sir.” Tanaka, crushed by spiritual pressure, couldn’t plead, his eyes begging futilely. Kamihara ignored him, focusing on Asada, certain he hadn’t lied—both were ordinary men.
“You’re a painter?” Kamihara asked.
Asada, pale, nodded, realizing he’d crossed a line. He wasn’t the only special one in this world, and that truth had dragged him into a deadly quagmire.
“Let’s see your masterpiece,” Kamihara said.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 123: The Pencil
Near 1 a.m., Mito Riko slept soundly until her phone’s ring jolted her awake. Groaning nasally, she rubbed her eyes, irritated. Grabbing the phone without checking the caller, she answered, voice lazy and edged with anger, “Who is it?”
“Me,” a pleasant male voice replied.
Mito shivered, instantly alert, her delicate face blooming with a charming smile. “Lord Ghost, what’s up? Need therapy?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, no!” she insisted.
“Good. I need to tell you something.” Kamihara recounted the night’s events briefly.
“What?” Mito’s tone turned frantic, learning Kamihara was threatened over a photo. “Lord Ghost, are you okay?”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
“I understand.”
“I’ve informed you. Handle it. I’ve got things to deal with. Hanging up.” The call ended with a beep.
Mito’s face paled. Kamihara hadn’t sent someone to deal with her, calling personally instead—a courtesy, she knew, especially since her roommate’s act of snapping the photo wasn’t a grave offense. Money moved mountains; without her roommate, Tanaka might’ve found another way. Kamihara’s leniency stemmed from her prior therapy sessions, which had genuinely soothed him. Monitors got free counseling, but he didn’t take it for granted. Gratitude guided his choice to let her decide the response.
Mito sensed no blame in his tone, but his magnanimity wasn’t to be presumed. Like Kamihara, she valued accountability. Staring at her phone’s wallpaper—a photo with Kamihara—she sighed. That image had endangered him. Though he didn’t say it, she suspected he’d died once. For a non-death-substitution monitor, her error could’ve been fatal. Biting her lip, she deleted the photo, her expression turning icy.
Taking a deep breath to quell her turmoil, Mito dressed and marched to her roommate’s door, anger flashing in her eyes. Knocking, she entered without waiting. As expected, Kyoko was awake, livestreaming in provocative attire. Seeing Mito, Kyoko’s face flickered with embarrassment. Muting her stream, she turned, feigning irritation. “Riko, why barge in?”
Kyoko knew Mito was aware of her streaming but not its content. “Did you send my phone’s photo to Tanaka Zeyao?” Mito asked coldly.
She’d planned to rent alone, but Kyoko, a college friend, pleaded to share, citing Tokyo’s high rents. Soft-hearted, Mito agreed, only for this betrayal. Kyoko relaxed, smiling. “Yeah, I did. You’re not young, and Professor Tanaka’s handsome. He wanted to know his rival, so I snapped your wallpaper.”
“How much?”
“Money? Riko, I did it for you. You think I’m like that?” Kyoko protested.
Mito’s disappointment solidified. She smiled faintly. “Quit streaming. I’ve got a job for you—high pay, guaranteed.”
Kyoko’s eyes lit up, assuming Mito’s visit was a test, perhaps signaling Tanaka’s success in wooing her. Relieved, she grew excited. Mito, a Todai psychology instructor, likely secured a prestigious job. Maybe she’d introduce the boy from the photo—too handsome to be “wasted” on Mito. “What job?” Kyoko asked eagerly.
“Very lucrative,” Mito said, smiling. She dialed the Special Division. This job was a once-in-a-lifetime deal.
Kamihara, unaware Mito had handled things decisively, had called to warn her about her roommate. How she dealt with it wasn’t his concern. The true culprits were Tanaka Zeyao and Asada Kazumasa, their fates sealed.
He accompanied Asada home. Gone was Asada’s earlier arrogance; Kamihara’s presence deflated him entirely. Kamihara spared him mockery, entering the house and heading to a studio. The familiar scene unfolded—walls plastered with canvases, each trapping a soul. Seeing a stranger, followed by officers, the souls erupted in frenzied cries.
“Is the Metropolitan Police finally here? I’ve been trapped a year—please free me!” one pleaded.
“Asada, you’re done!” another laughed maniacally.
“Kill him! Kill him!” screamed a third.
Many souls, long imprisoned, were mentally broken. The officers, witnessing the canvases’ tormented expressions, shuddered. Kamihara remained impassive. Trapped souls couldn’t be revived. “You’re a real sicko,” he remarked to Asada, marveling at his cruelty. Instead of destroying the canvases, Asada displayed them, relishing their torment.
“Collect these canvases,” Kamihara ordered the officers, approaching a central easel. Beside it lay a single black pencil. He picked it up, inspecting it—indistinguishable from market pencils. Applying slight force, it wouldn’t budge, confirming it as a rule-based item. Turning to Asada, he asked, “What’s the cost of using this pencil?”
(End of Chapter)
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