Chapter 138: Can a Person Live Without a Heart?
Chihaya Mashiro wanted to refuse, but couldn’t speak, only watching Kamihara Shinji with pleading eyes. After handing her the soul beads and instructing her to absorb them that night, he bid farewell.
Instead of heading home, he returned to Harajuku Hospital. The mystery of how Chihaya survived the heart door at the bottom puzzled him, but he set it aside. Unclear matters could wait—investigating further might connect the dots later. For now, he had a critical task to confirm, one that could deepen his understanding of the hospital’s anomaly.
He sought the director to observe a brain surgery, aiming to verify if a 『Brain』 door existed. The director informed him no brain surgeries were scheduled. Kamihara nodded, understanding, and shifted plans. Instead of observing, he arranged for his own surgery—an appendectomy.
During the procedure, drowsiness hit, but unlike his first surgery’s surprise, he resisted. Glancing aside, he saw a door, nearly blending with the wall, materialize. He pondered: the human body space lacked an appendix door, so this door likely corresponded to the nearest organ—or another cause.
Post-surgery, the drowsiness faded, the anomaly no longer affecting him. Yet, a faint discomfort lingered, identical to the sensation after surviving the kidney extraction. Rising, he requested to observe another appendectomy.
When the surgery began, the door reappeared. Kamihara calmly entered, closing it behind him. The blood-red sign read: 『Large Intestine』. Did the appendix link to the large intestine, or was it the closest organ? Sprinting downward, familiar with the space’s layout, he reached the small intestine door but didn’t enter. Having explored all doors except the presumed brain door, another death was unnecessary.
As the blood torrent neared, he opened the 『Uterus』 door, returning to the hospital’s rest area. He’d evaded death again—a feat that seemed simple but was earned through deadly trial and error.
Leaving the hospital, he visited Senwa Hospital, the nearest facility, for a checkup. Using his authority to bypass lines, he underwent tests. All was normal until the cardiac ultrasound.
“You… you don’t have a heart?” The doctor, horrified, stared at Kamihara.
Typically, hearts sat on the left. Suspecting an anomaly, the doctor checked the right side, but found nothing. How could someone live without a heart? Kamihara, stunned, barely processed the words before darkness engulfed him. He died.
“Kamihara-san? Kamihara-san?” The doctor, pale, received no response. Cautiously, he checked Kamihara’s breathing. Dead. Panic and fear gripped him, his body stiffening. Hospital horror stories were common, but witnessing this—a heartless man alive, then dead—was unbearable.
As the doctor spiraled, Kamihara abruptly sat up. The doctor screamed, but a heavy pressure silenced him. “Quiet,” Kamihara said sternly, his eyes gleaming with realization and excitement. This death was his most valuable yet.
He’d sought the checkup to identify the post-surgery discomfort, avoiding Harajuku Hospital, knowing it was the anomaly. Tachibana’s death the day after a checkup there had made him wary. His caution paid off, revealing a crucial clue: after any surgery at Harajuku, his heart was taken, whether minor or major.
The doors, linked to the eleven tentacles of the bottom heart door, stole patients’ hearts during surgeries. This explained why the heart door was at the bottom—the hospital primarily collected hearts. He suspected this was a cognitive anomaly.
During his appendectomy, the anomaly took his heart unknowingly, altering his perception. He lived, reaching Senwa Hospital, until the doctor’s revelation. His first thought—impossible—shifted to no heart, no life. Subconsciously believing he couldn’t survive, he died. His hypothesis was close to certain, but needed confirmation to fully grasp the anomaly’s killing rules for containment.
Smiling at the trembling doctor, Kamihara’s grin made the man recoil. Attempting to flee, the doctor was halted by Kamihara’s spiritual pressure. “Don’t run. Answer my questions honestly, or you’re useless,” Kamihara said coldly, opting for intimidation over explanation, leaving the police to handle cleanup.
“Y-Yes…” The doctor, drenched in sweat, nodded, his willpower barely holding against collapse. Facing a potential ghost, he clung to hope, noting Kamihara’s clear consciousness. Sitting involuntarily, he awaited questions.
“If a person loses one or two organs, will they die?” Kamihara asked.
The doctor glanced at him, deducing Kamihara had survived without a heart, only to die and revive. Was he human or spirit? Controlled by Kamihara’s pressure, he leaned toward the latter but focused on the question, disappointed that a heartless human wasn’t a medical breakthrough.
“It depends on the organ,” he said, calming slightly at the chance to communicate. “Organs like the spleen, kidney, or intestines can be removed without immediate death, with proper care. Intestine removal complicates life, though.” He explained organ functions simply, treating Kamihara as potentially non-human.
Ten minutes later, noticing Kamihara avoided heart-related questions, the doctor felt mixed relief and disappointment. “I understand,” Kamihara said, thanking him before heading for the door. Pausing, he turned. “Can a human live without a heart?”
The doctor froze. How to answer? “Be honest,” Kamihara pressed.
Gritting his teeth, the doctor replied, “Of course they’d die. How could anyone live without a heart? That’s absurd!” He awaited judgment, heart pounding.
“Thank you.” Kamihara left, skipping further tests. His goal was achieved; he understood Harajuku Hospital’s anomaly.
Ten minutes later, back at Harajuku, he grabbed a nurse, ignoring her annoyance. “Can a person live without a heart?”
“Of course,” she said, eyeing him oddly. “Why ask such a thing?”
“Just a random thought.” After she left, Kamihara smirked. As expected, the anomaly altered the staff’s and patients’ perceptions, even fooling their bodies. Post-surgery, hearts were taken, yet bodies functioned, believing they were intact. But learning a heartless person couldn’t live triggered death.
This anomaly’s subtle, bizarre killing method evaded his fourth-stage senses, mimicking a dormant state. No wonder the Special Division hadn’t noticed. Donning a white coat, he entered a patient’s room, posing as a doctor. “Do you think a human can live without a heart?”
“Of course,” the recent surgery patient replied.
Kamihara chatted briefly and left. Patients’ perceptions were altered too, likely due to his spiritual power resisting the anomaly’s influence. Sitting on a bench, he reviewed his notes, sensing a discrepancy. Police data showed most deaths were elderly, yet his findings suggested otherwise.
If altered perceptions and bodies allowed heartless survival, learning the truth caused death. Young people, constantly online, would learn this fastest, dying first. Yet, elderly deaths dominated, with younger deaths rising over time. Why?
An elderly patient in a wheelchair passed, then collapsed. The nurse froze, then rallied others to move the patient to a bed. Kamihara asked a male nurse, “What happened?”
Assuming Kamihara was a doctor, the nurse replied, “He had surgery days ago, still recovering. His doctor said his weak constitution needed extra care. Didn’t expect him to go like this.”
Weak constitution? Kamihara froze. His scattered clues snapped into place, forming a complete picture. “I see.”
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 139: Heart Transplant!
Kamihara Shinji sat on the bench, watching nurses wheel away the deceased elderly patient. Opening his notebook, he didn’t write but reviewed his recorded patterns to clarify his thoughts.
This human body hospital was a cognitive architectural anomaly. Whether it could move was unclear and irrelevant to its killing rules. Through two days of deadly investigation, Kamihara knew checkups or consultations didn’t trigger the anomaly’s rules. But physicals or surgeries allowed the anomaly to steal the heart, unbeknownst to the patient, while altering their perception.
This guaranteed death. It explained why, entering the doors, he survived kidney extraction but died with others. Lacking medical knowledge across both lives, he only knew kidneys weren’t vital, thanks to a past-life joke about selling kidneys for phones. Believing kidney removal was survivable, he lived. For spleen or intestines, which could be non-fatal short-term, his ignorance led to death, assuming their loss was lethal.
For ordinary people, death required two conditions:
Knowing a human can’t live without a heart.
Realizing their heart was gone.
Combining these triggered death. A third condition emerged from the nurse’s words: weak constitution. Weak constitutions led to frequent illness. The anomaly fooled bodies into functioning without hearts, but viruses didn’t care. Weak bodies invited infection, triggering immune responses. Discovering the heart’s absence, the body’s organs, bewildered, ceased functioning. Death followed, souls vanishing instantly.
This explained the police data: early months showed high elderly deaths due to their weaker immunity. Over six months, younger deaths rose as illnesses—colds, fevers—disrupted bodies, revealing the missing heart. Viruses exposed the anomaly’s lie.
Reviewing his notes, Kamihara grasped the anomaly’s killing rules. Containment, once unclear, now seemed feasible, thanks to Chihaya Mashiro—or her diary from six months ago. Pulling out the tattered, blood-soaked diary, he flipped through it. Its text, blurred and fragmented from his steps, offered little. Yet, it wasn’t critical—he knew how to survive the heart door.
Calling the director, he requested a heart surgery observation. “None scheduled,” the director replied. Kamihara paused. “Any lung surgeries?”
The lung door led to the heart door, a necessary step before the bottom. “There’s one,” the director confirmed.
“Arrange it.”
Twenty minutes later, disinfected and dressed, Kamihara entered as the surgery began. Pushing through the emerging door, he was swallowed by darkness. Closing it, he glanced at the faintly glowing, blood-scrawled sign: 『Lung』. The blood’s roar erupted above, relentless. He sprinted downward, entering the 『Heart』 door as the torrent neared.
On the operating table, he felt drowsy but didn’t resist, sinking into sleep. Awakening on a hospital bed, he checked his phone—past 6 a.m. Dawn’s light crept in, Tokyo stirring, the hospital quiet. Pressing his chest, he felt no heartbeat. His heart was taken, yet he lived.
Before observing, he’d hypnotized himself, altering his belief that heartlessness was survivable—a trick learned from Mito Riko. Calling the director, he arranged a small intestine or appendectomy observation. Thirty minutes later, in an appendectomy operating room, he entered the door as surgery began.
Racing to the bottom, he veered left to the blood-glowing 『Heart』 door. Entering, he faced the pulsing heart, eleven tentacles piercing it, stretching upward. Counting seconds—one, two, three… eleven, fifteen, fifty-five… a minute passed. He didn’t die. Yesterday, death came within ten seconds. Now, heartless, he was immune to the heart’s fatal resonance.
Relieved and elated, he confirmed his hypothesis. Without a heart, the anomaly’s heart couldn’t kill him. How to contain it? Approaching the heart, he reached out. Touching it, he didn’t die. Heart racing, he acted swiftly.
Ripping open the stitches from yesterday’s surgery, pain surged, his body trembling. Hissing, he clenched his teeth and shoved the heart into his chest’s cavity. Integrating it was his containment plan. The heart, entering his body, thumped loudly. His body shook, collapsing, ears ringing as consciousness faded. The eleven tentacles withered instantly.
In darkness, time blurred. His neck pendant vibrated faintly, then stilled.
(End of Chapter)
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