Chapter 130: Cut Ties!
That afternoon, Kamihara Shinji visited the home of the female doctor Hinata Keigo had pursued, Tomomi. She was surprised by his arrival and shocked to learn of Keigo’s death. Kamihara saw regret in her eyes, but during their conversation, he sensed a mix of truth and evasion in her words. He deduced Tomomi had feelings for Keigo, playing hard-to-get. As an ordinary person, she seemed unconnected to his death.
The Metropolitan Police’s review of three months’ hospital records wasn’t a half-day task, leaving Kamihara with time to spare. That evening, he received a call from Akane. “Ghost, I’m done with you,” she declared.
Stunned, Kamihara’s voice grew serious. “What’s wrong?” He wondered if he’d slipped up somehow.
“Didn’t you get a rule-based item yesterday?” Akane grumbled. “The police sent the files to the Special Division. That item kills a friend per use.”
“Oh,” Kamihara said, at a loss. “Then… let’s cut ties.”
“Exactly,” Akane said, then chuckled slyly. “But after, we can be colleagues.”
“Fine by me,” Kamihara replied, steering away from the topic. Curious, he asked, “Have you checked on Hell Girl? Any updates?”
“Don’t ask. It’s a mess, and the Special Division barred me from talking.”
Akane winced at the mention of Hell Girl. Her biggest regret was joining Aoji to investigate her. The more she learned, the deeper her despair. Her only solace was a fatalistic outlook—she likely wouldn’t live long. If sentient anomalies united to slaughter humanity, she’d probably be gone by then. That was for future generations to handle. After her death, the world could flood for all she cared.
The investigation also revealed the Special Division controlled an anomaly called “God,” but the higher-ups wanted to erase her memory of it. During a despair-filled meeting, Akane slipped away. Erasing her memory? No chance, despite her own hopelessness.
Kamihara hung up, unsurprised by Akane’s reticence. Soon, Aoji called, and before he spoke, Kamihara knew his intent. After casual chatter, Aoji brought up the Soul-Trapping Pencil, announcing his intent to cut ties. Kamihara understood. Akane had suggested colleagueship post-severance, and he agreed.
Several other monitors he’d met at the Special Division called, all acquaintances whose names and contacts he’d exchanged. Kamihara didn’t bother mocking their concern—were these bare connections truly friendships? Still, he empathized. If someone he knew held an item that killed a friend per use, costing them nothing, he’d panic too. His life, cheap as it was, could become fodder if he befriended such a person, consumed with each drawing. Over an hour of calls and pleasantries later, his friend list was empty.
The next day at lunch, the Metropolitan Police called, reporting they’d finished the hospital record review. “That fast?” Kamihara asked.
“Your task was top priority,” the officer replied. “From yesterday afternoon to noon today, roughly a day, we mobilized enough force to wrap it up.”
Kamihara nodded. Previously, investigating Saikyo Daisuke involved only two officers, as most police resources tackled Ghost Call. With Takanotsume Kaoru contained, manpower freed up. His unique status ensured the police prioritized monitor tasks, especially since most officers now knew anomalies existed. Monitor requests typically involved rule-based items or anomalies, so mundane cases took a backseat. Kamihara suspected think tank pressure played a role too.
“Most cases were in Chiyoda Ward, speeding things up,” the officer added, voice tinged with unease. “But nearly all the deceased visited Harajuku Private Hospital. That’s a lead, hopefully useful.”
“All the deceased?” Kamihara’s focus sharpened. “Many deaths?”
“Yes,” the officer confirmed, sending the data to Kamihara’s phone.
With too many records to sift, Kamihara had the police highlight deceased patients’ traits in red. Within an hour, he reviewed the files. Harajuku Private Hospital, a thirty-year-old comprehensive facility, averaged 3,000 daily outpatient visits and 150 surgeries. The police’s organization clarified the pattern.
Of the deceased, 97% had undergone surgery. Investigations revealed most who had surgery at Harajuku died suddenly. A few cases were unverifiable but likely similar. Those who only sought consultations, without surgery, survived. Notably, deaths over the past three months were predominantly middle-aged or elderly. Young surgical patients largely lived.
Surgery led to sudden death? Young survived, older patients mostly perished? Yet, Tachibana Takeshi, an elderly widower, hadn’t had surgery—just a checkup the day before. A checkup triggered death?
Though unclear, Kamihara had a lead. Harajuku Private Hospital was undeniably suspect. The data showed 13,500 surgeries over three months, with over 3,000 deaths—not immediate, but staggered. About 80%—roughly 2,500—were elderly.
Kamihara called the police, requesting a year’s worth of Harajuku’s records for further analysis. He leaned toward an anomaly as the cause, with a rule-based item less likely. While the police investigated, he returned to Harajuku Hospital after school.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 131: Investigating Anomalies Through Surgery
Kamihara Shinji wasn’t at Harajuku Private Hospital to investigate today—he was there for surgery. Despite his robust health, he could opt for one, choosing an appendectomy. The appendix, a vestigial immune organ, had little impact when removed, preventing issues like tumors or appendicitis.
Initially, he linked Hinata Keigo and Saikyo Daisuke’s deaths to appendectomies. The data clarified: any surgery at Harajuku Hospital seemed to issue a death sentence. The cause of post-surgical sudden deaths was unknown, but a pattern existed—one Kamihara hadn’t yet grasped. Lacking assistants, he’d risk himself to test the theory, hoping his death might reveal the anomaly’s killing rule. Containing it would yield legend and morality points, perhaps freeing Takanotsume Kaoru from the Sound Extinction Horn sooner.
His privileged status expedited the process, and soon he lay on a minor operating room’s bed. Five staff entered: two surgeons, an anesthesiologist, and two nurses. Before the procedure, Kamihara smiled. “Local anesthesia only.”
The surgeons paused. One spoke up. “Local varies by patient. You might feel pain during surgery. Sure about this?”
“Certain,” Kamihara said.
“Alright,” the lead surgeon said, glancing at him, puzzled. “You’ll need to sign a liability waiver.”
If Kamihara couldn’t endure the pain, causing a surgical mishap, the hospital wouldn’t be liable. “No problem,” he agreed, signing swiftly. Full anesthesia would knock him out, thwarting his observation of the procedure.
On the operating table, the appendectomy—a routine ten-to-twenty-minute procedure—began. Without appendicitis, it was a preventive cut, unlikely to complicate. Or so Kamihara thought.
Seven or eight minutes in, his consciousness wavered. Mid-surgery, he didn’t dare move, only shaking his head slightly. The motion worsened the dizziness—or rather, an overwhelming drowsiness. He glanced up: the lead surgeon focused intently, the circulating nurse moved lightly, monitoring the room’s cleanliness and occasionally wiping the surgeon’s brow. After a brief scan, Kamihara couldn’t resist, sinking into deep sleep.
When he awoke, a nurse bustled nearby. Assessing himself, he felt only mild waist pain, nothing severe. Seeing him stir, the nurse smiled warmly. “You’re awake.” She began explaining post-op care.
But Kamihara sensed something off—an unsettling, discordant feeling in his body. His expression darkened. How had he fallen asleep during surgery? Recalling the operating team, he fixed on the nurse. “I need the surgical footage.”
“Footage?” The nurse faltered, confused, but answered honestly. “I’m not sure about other hospitals, but Harajuku’s operating rooms don’t have cameras.”
Most hospitals avoided surgical surveillance. Procedures often required disrobing, especially in obstetrics. Hospitals might favor cameras, but patients, fearing privacy breaches, could easily sue. Kamihara, expressionless, understood.
“Then summon the entire surgical team—doctors and nurses,” he said flatly. “I have questions.”
“This…” The nurse, suspecting a potential dispute, gave a wry smile. “Sorry, Dr. Ono’s in another surgery.”
Surgeons, especially at major hospitals like Harajuku, were perpetually swamped. “I’ll wait,” Kamihara said, handing her his badge. “I just need to ask something.”
The nurse, startled by the badge, glanced at it. “If you doubt my identity, ask Dr. Yabumoto,” Kamihara added. With only one Yabumoto at Harajuku, she nodded, still skeptical, and left.
Alone, Kamihara’s face grew grim. He’d chosen local anesthesia to observe the team’s actions, yet he’d blacked out seven minutes in. With his robust physique and fourth-stage spiritual power, losing consciousness was unthinkable unless caused by an irresistible force: an anomaly or a rule-based item.
He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the second page. Lifespan: 100 days. He deliberately maintained this number, a reminder to check daily. A drop to ninety-nine—after a day or death—would be stark. He’d cultivated this habit, adding a day at midnight. No change now meant he hadn’t been harmed in surgery.
Yet, his body felt wrong, a vague unease he couldn’t pinpoint. Half an hour later, as he grew impatient, the nurse returned with the surgical team. The five, bewildered and uneasy, had been briefed en route: their questioner was a Metropolitan Police inspector. If probed, they were to answer honestly, no lies.
“Seven or eight minutes in, I felt dizzy and passed out,” Kamihara said, noting their nerves but not pressing. He faced the lead surgeon. “While you operated, did anyone do anything to me?”
The surgeon, focused throughout Kamihara’s conscious moments, seemed clear. Another team member might be culpable. “No,” the surgeon said, puzzled, reflecting. “We were operating. Nothing else happened.”
Kamihara calmed, asking simple, direct questions. The five, tense but truthful, answered earnestly. Finally, he dismissed them, his gaze chilling. They hadn’t lied.
Was it… an anomaly?
(End of Chapter)
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