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Author Note:
' ' = Thoughts
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Random School Boy: Have you heard of Misaki?
A boy from Yomiyama North Junior High asked the question while leaning slightly closer to another student, his voice lowered just enough to make the topic feel private, even though they were standing in the open school grounds where other students were passing by.
Random School Boy: From the 9th-grade class 3.
The girl beside him frowned and searched her memory, but the name did not immediately connect to anyone she knew.
Random School Girl: Was there anyone named that in Class 3?
Random School Boy: Not now. This happened twenty-six years ago. Back then, there was a student named Misaki. She had been popular ever since the seventh grade. She was smart, pretty, kind, and easy to like. Students liked her. Teachers liked her. Everyone treated her as if she was one of those people who naturally stood at the center of the class.
The girl thought about that for a moment, then gave a small shrug, as if trying to make the story feel less strange before it could become frightening.
Random School Girl: Yeah, there's at least one person like that in every grade.
Random School Boy: But shortly after she started 9th-grade, Misaki died.
The girl's expression changed immediately.
Random School Girl: What? How?
Random School Boy: I heard it was an accident. No one expected it, so everyone was shocked. Her classmates, the teachers, even the principal. But then, one day, something strange happened. In the middle of class, someone suddenly said it.
The girl swallowed nervously, her earlier casual tone disappearing.
Random School Girl: Said what?
Random School Boy: He pointed at Misaki's desk and said, "Misaki's right there. She's not dead."
For a brief moment, the girl's face turned pale.
Random School Girl: Was that…
Seeing her reaction, the boy quickly waved one hand, as if reassuring her before fear fully settled in.
Random School Boy: At first, it was just an act. That's what everyone says. The class was grieving, and maybe they wanted to pretend for a little while that she was still with them.
The girl let out a breath of relief.
But the boy was not finished.
His tone changed, becoming quieter and less playful.
Random School Boy: But from that day on, Class 3 continued to behave as though Misaki was still alive.
The girl shivered.
Random School Girl: That's kind of creepy.
Random School Boy: They kept it up all the way until graduation. They saved her seat. They spoke as if she was present. They treated the empty desk like someone was still sitting there. The principal even arranged for Misaki's seat to be included in the graduation ceremony.
Random School Girl: Isn't that… kind of sweet?
Random School Boy: Sure, if it had ended there.
The girl's expression tightened again.
Random School Girl: There's more?
The boy paused. This time, even he looked uncomfortable, as if repeating the story had made him remember why people usually lowered their voices when speaking about it.
Random School Boy: In the graduation photo, Misaki appeared with the rest of the class. She was smiling happily, standing with everyone else… but her face was deathly pale.
The girl trembled, then began asking more questions in a hushed voice, unable to fully believe the story but no longer able to dismiss it either. Around them, the school day continued as usual. Students crossed the grounds, voices rose and fell, shoes scraped against the pavement, and the wind moved lightly through the trees.
None of them noticed the hooded figure watching from the first-floor staff room window.
The distance was too great for an ordinary person to hear their conversation clearly, but Kaelthorn heard every word without difficulty. His face remained hidden behind the visor, and his posture did not change as he looked down at the students below.
Kaelthorn: If enough people believe a thing, it becomes true.
His voice was low, almost quiet enough to vanish beneath the faint sounds of the school.
This was not superstition. Not in this place. The tragedy of Yomiyama North Junior High had not begun from a monster clawing its way into the world or a curse falling from the sky. It had begun with grief, denial, and a classroom full of people choosing to treat a dead girl as though she had never died.
To most people, that would have been nothing more than a sad story.
To Kaelthorn, it was a mechanism.
A group of children had lied to reality, and the adults around them had helped preserve that lie. The school had accepted it. The ceremony had honored it. The photograph had recorded it. One by one, their actions had given shape to something that should have remained impossible.
Kaelthorn's gaze remained on the students below as his gloved hand reached for the window.
'Kaelthorn: You people are the architects of your own destruction.'
He was not speaking only of the two students repeating the rumor in the courtyard.
He was addressing the entire school.
The students who believed. The teachers who ignored. The principal who participated. The system that continued moving forward while pretending the first mistake had never mattered.
All of them had helped build the cage they now feared.
With that thought, Kaelthorn closed the window, and the sound of the schoolyard faded behind the glass.
.
.
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Principal: Oh… you are here, Doctor.
By the time Kaelthorn closed the window and returned both hands to the pockets of his coat, a warm and hearty voice came from behind him. He turned slightly and saw an old man with white hair entering the staff room, followed by several teachers. The man at the front was the principal of Yomiyama North Middle School, and unlike the others behind him, he did not freeze the moment his eyes fell on Kaelthorn.
The teachers did.
One after another, their expressions stiffened as they noticed the figure standing near the window. A person covered from head to toe, with a hood lowered over his head and a full-face visor hiding every trace of expression, was not the sort of person one expected to find inside a school staff room. Some of the teachers tried to hide their surprise. Others failed completely. Only the principal remained composed, though even that composure came from preparation rather than comfort.
He had already seen the photograph sent by higher management.
Even then, accepting someone like Kaelthorn into the school had not been easy. If not for the documents attached to that profile, the principal would have refused immediately. The records described a doctor with flawless medical skill, an impossible success rate, groundbreaking pharmaceutical contributions, and experience handling critical surgeries that ordinary hospitals would hesitate to attempt. No school would normally receive someone of that level, and no ordinary doctor with such a record would choose to work in a small town like Yomiyama.
Of course, the principal did not know that every document had been fabricated.
The identity was false. The records were false. The authority behind the transfer was false.
But the skill itself was not.
Kaelthorn's knowledge of anatomy, disease, injury, treatment, and biological repair was far beyond anything this world could measure. If he wished, he could perform medical procedures that would make modern surgery look primitive. He simply had no reason to explain that to anyone.
Because of the official records, the principal showed him considerable respect, even coming to meet him personally instead of waiting in his office. He stepped forward with a polite smile and extended his hand.
Kaelthorn removed one hand from his pocket and grasped it.
Principal: Welcome to Yomiyama North Middle School.
Kaelthorn: Thank you.
Principal: Come. Let me introduce you to your fellow staff members.
The principal turned toward the teachers, who were still trying not to stare too openly.
Principal: Everyone, allow me to introduce him. This is Dr. Oracle. You may also refer to him simply as The Doctor.
The moment the name was spoken, the expressions of the teachers became strange in a way they could not fully hide. First, the unusual outfit. Now, an unusual name. A fully covered doctor calling himself "The Doctor" while standing silently in the corner of the staff room did not exactly inspire ordinary confidence.
Noticing their reactions, the principal gave a small, forced cough.
Principal: Ahem. Please do not judge a book by its cover. Dr. Oracle is one of the finest doctors in the world. He has saved countless lives, contributed to the development of new medications, and performed extremely complicated surgeries with exceptional success. According to the records, there has not been a single patient he failed to save once brought under his care.
The teachers' expressions changed from suspicion to shock. They did not openly question the principal's words, but the doubt in their eyes was obvious. If this doctor was truly so accomplished, then why was he standing here? Why would someone like him come to a small middle school in Yomiyama instead of remaining in a famous hospital, research institute, or international medical organization?
The principal understood that question without needing to hear it.
Principal: Due to the recent situations our school has faced over the past few years…
He stopped there and did not say more.
He did not need to.
The atmosphere in the staff room changed slightly. The teachers looked away, lowered their eyes, or grew still. Every adult in this school knew what he meant, even if none of them wanted to name it directly. There were topics in Yomiyama North that people spoke around instead of speaking about, and the more serious the topic was, the more carefully they avoided its center.
Principal: The government has decided that a doctor should be stationed on school grounds during school hours. That way, if something happens to a student, medical attention can be provided immediately instead of losing precious time waiting for the student to be transported to a hospital. The goal is to prevent injuries or sudden conditions from worsening before treatment begins.
The teachers understood the explanation.
They also did not believe it would truly solve anything.
What their school faced was not a normal medical problem. It was not something a doctor, nurse, ambulance, or medicine cabinet could erase. Even the principal, despite maintaining a calm face, likely understood that. But this had come as an official arrangement, and whether it was useful or not, refusing it was not an option.
Principal: Now then, Doctor, allow me to introduce the staff properly.
The introductions began one by one. Kaelthorn listened without interruption, memorizing each name, position, expression, and reaction. Some teachers greeted him stiffly. Some politely. Some tried to smile but could not quite make it natural. None of their responses mattered to him beyond the information they revealed.
Finally, only two people remained.
The principal gestured toward a young, light-skinned man of average height wearing a white buttoned shirt, brown pants, and square glasses with yellow rims.
Principal: This is Mr. Shoji Kubodera, the homeroom teacher of 9th-grade Class 3.
Shoji Kubodera: It is nice to meet you, Doctor.
Kubodera stepped forward and extended his hand. Kaelthorn accepted the handshake briefly, then released it. Kubodera stepped back with a polite expression, though his eyes still carried the same guarded uncertainty as the others.
The last person stepped forward.
She was a woman with slightly wavy brown hair and brown eyes, wearing a black blouse beneath a white sweater and a white medium-length skirt. Her posture was composed, and her voice remained professional when she introduced herself.
Mikami: I am Ms. Mikami, the assistant homeroom teacher for 9th-grade Class 3. I am also the art teacher at this school, and I preside over the art club. I look forward to working with you, Doctor.
Kaelthorn shook her hand as well.
The contact lasted only a moment.
Then she stepped back.
Principal: Now that the introductions are complete, Ms. Mikami, could you please show the Doctor to his room? It is the last room on the east side of the first floor.
Mikami: Of course. Doctor, please follow me.
Kaelthorn gave the others a slight nod, more as acknowledgement than courtesy, and followed Mikami out of the staff room. Behind them, the door closed, and the muffled voices of the principal and teachers began rising almost immediately as they started discussing the strange new doctor among themselves.
The corridor outside was long and quiet.
Mikami walked ahead at a measured pace, explaining the school facilities as they moved. She pointed out the nearby classrooms, the infirmary, storage areas, staff-only rooms, emergency exits, and the general layout of the building. Her explanation was professional and helpful, but carefully limited. She did not mention the curse. She did not mention the calamity. She did not mention Class 3 beyond what was necessary.
Kaelthorn listened in silence.
Before long, they reached the room prepared for him. Cleaning supplies were still placed beside the door, making it clear that the principal had ordered the room to be cleaned recently and in a hurry.
Mikami: Let us go inside.
She opened the door and entered first.
Kaelthorn followed.
The room had been thoroughly cleaned, with not even a speck of dust visible on the floor, desk, cabinets, or window frames. It was larger than most rooms in the school, almost as spacious as the staff room they had just left. Several examination beds had been arranged neatly along one side, with curtains installed for privacy. A desk stood near the center, equipped with a computer, a phone, and space for medical records. Cabinets were filled with bandages, gauze, antiseptic, adhesive tape, gloves, scissors, and other medical supplies. There were bookshelves containing health books and magazines, a few potted plants placed to soften the atmosphere, and various tools that made the room feel like an expanded version of the nurse's office.
It was almost exactly that.
A nurse's office, but larger, cleaner, and stocked with better equipment.
Mikami looked around with visible surprise.
Mikami: They prepared all of this already…
Her voice carried genuine amazement, but the moment did not last.
CLICK.
The sound of the door locking came from behind her.
Mikami instinctively turned.
A gloved hand was already reaching toward her.
Before she could react, it closed around her throat.
Her body stiffened as Kaelthorn lifted her from the floor.
It should not have been possible with ordinary strength. His current body was no stronger than an average human's, but the force holding her was not coming from muscle alone. His hand served only as the point of contact. The pressure itself came from something unseen, something precise and controlled, wrapping around her neck and body like an invisible restraint.
Mikami's feet left the ground.
Panic struck her immediately.
She grabbed his wrist with both hands and pulled with all her strength, but the arm did not move. She kicked, twisted, and tried to force air into her lungs, but the pressure around her throat tightened just enough to deny her that comfort. Her eyes widened. Her face paled. The composed assistant teacher from moments ago vanished, replaced by a terrified woman struggling helplessly in the grip of something she could not understand.
Mikami: Do… ctor… air… please… I can't… breathe…
Tears began streaming down her face as her strength started to weaken. Her fingers trembled against his glove. Her kicks became smaller. Her desperate attempts to free herself lost force with each passing second.
Kaelthorn looked at her without pity.
There was no anger in his posture. No cruelty in his breathing. No visible satisfaction. He was not doing this because he enjoyed it. He was applying pressure because pressure produced truth faster than conversation, and at this moment, truth mattered more than comfort.
Then his voice cut through the room, low and controlled.
Kaelthorn: Let us have a talk… Miss Mika—
He stopped deliberately.
Then corrected himself.
Kaelthorn: No. I mean… Mikami Reiko.
The effect was immediate.
Mikami's eyes widened through the pain and fear.
That name was not something most people knew. Mikami Reiko was her true name, one she had hidden carefully. Except for those she had personally trusted enough to tell, no one should have known that Ms. Mikami and Mikami Reiko were the same person.
For one brief moment, she thought she understood.
Blackmail.
That had to be it. This strange doctor must have discovered her identity and intended to threaten her with it. Perhaps that was why he had locked the door. Perhaps that was why he was choking her. Perhaps this was only human malice wearing a darker shape.
Then Kaelthorn spoke again.
And the thought shattered.
Kaelthorn: Or should I say…
His grip remained steady.
His hidden gaze did not leave her face.
Kaelthorn: This year's "Extra."
The room fell into a deeper silence.
Mikami Reiko's terror changed.
It was no longer only fear of death.
It was fear of recognition.
.
.
.
For a moment, Mikami Reiko's eyes remained wide with terror.
Then that terror shifted.
Confusion appeared beneath it.
Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but Kaelthorn's grip still denied her enough air to form the words properly.
Reiko Mikami: I… don't… kn… ow… what… you're… talk… ing… about…
Kaelthorn watched her without surprise.
That response was expected. The Extra never knew they were the Extra. That was part of the curse's cruelty. Reality did not simply add a dead person into the class and leave them exposed. It protected the mistake by changing memories, documents, habits, and perception until the unnatural presence felt ordinary to everyone involved, including the dead person themselves.
In Reiko Mikami's case, the situation was even more unusual.
She was not a student.
She was a teacher.
Kaelthorn: You still do not understand. Do you think it was a coincidence that I was in the staff room when the principal arrived?
Reiko could not answer.
Her hands still clutched his wrist, but the strength in them was fading.
Kaelthorn: I already have the list of every teacher and student in this school. I also know about the curse surrounding 9th-grade Class 3.
Reiko Mikami: Wha… t…
The curse called the calamity had begun twenty-six years ago at Yomiyama North Middle School. From that point onward, every year, 9th-grade Class 3 would become distorted by the presence of someone who should not have been there. A dead person would be added into the class, and the world would alter itself so that no one could immediately recognize the problem.
There would be an extra desk.
An extra name.
An extra presence.
But because of the curse, memories and records would adjust around that false addition, making everyone accept the dead as one of the living.
Then the deaths would begin.
Month after month, someone connected to Class 3 would die. It was not because the Extra personally killed them. The truth was far colder than that. The world itself was trying to correct a mistake. A dead person had returned to a place meant for the living, and reality responded by forcing death back into balance.
The solution was simple in theory.
If the Extra was killed, the calamity would stop for that year.
But the students did not know that clearly, and even when fragments of the truth survived, fear and confusion twisted them into rituals. Instead of identifying the dead person, the class chose a living student and treated them as if they did not exist. By pretending one living person was absent, they attempted to balance the number of people in the classroom.
One dead person had been added.
So one living person had to be erased socially.
It was a crude solution.
But it worked well enough for them to keep using it.
This year, however, something was different.
There was no extra desk in 9th-grade Class 3.
The number of desks in the classroom was correct.
But there was an extra desk in the staff room.
That meant the Extra was not among the students.
This year's Extra was among the teachers.
And that teacher was Mikami Reiko.
Kaelthorn looked at her calmly as that truth settled like poison in the air.
There were three reasons.
First, no other class except 9th-grade Class 3 had an assistant homeroom teacher. That alone made her position unusual.
Second, in the official teacher lists Kaelthorn had obtained, there was no proper record of "Mikami" as an assistant teacher. Her presence existed in practice, but not cleanly in the structure beneath the school's administration. To ordinary people, such gaps could be ignored. To Kaelthorn, they were evidence.
Then came the third reason.
Kaelthorn: Third… I searched deeper, and do you know what I found?
A bad premonition crossed Reiko's face.
Even through her suffocation and fear, something inside her seemed to reject the next words before they were spoken.
Kaelthorn paused for a moment, allowing the silence to sharpen.
Then he continued.
Kaelthorn: A teacher named Mikami did exist at Yomiyama North Middle School. However, one and a half years ago, she was killed.
Reiko's entire body froze.
Her eyes widened so violently that, for a moment, all struggle vanished from her limbs. Her fingers loosened around Kaelthorn's wrist. Her feet stopped kicking. The terror in her expression did not disappear, but it changed into something much deeper.
Not fear of being harmed.
Fear of being wrong about her own existence.
Kaelthorn released her.
The invisible pressure holding her disappeared at the same time, and Reiko fell to the floor.
THUD!!
She collapsed onto her knees and hands, coughing harshly as air rushed back into her lungs. Each breath came broken and desperate, her throat burning from the pressure that had held it shut. For several seconds, she could do nothing except breathe.
Then she slowly raised her head and looked at Kaelthorn.
Reiko Mikami: No… You're lying.
Her voice carried no strength.
The words were denial, but not conviction. Something inside her had already cracked, and through that crack, doubt had entered. Memories that should have been firm now felt fragile. Her job, her name, her place in the school, her everyday life—each one suddenly stood beneath a shadow she could not push away.
Kaelthorn ignored the vulnerability in her expression.
He offered no comfort.
Only facts.
Kaelthorn: Then decide what you will do. Kill yourself now and prevent further deaths this year, or continue believing that you are alive and watch the students of 9th-Grade Class 3 die one after another.
The words struck her harder than his grip had.
Reiko stared at him as if he had ceased to be human.
Kaelthorn turned away from her and walked toward the desk, where the medical records prepared for him had been placed. He picked them up and began examining the pages as though the woman collapsed on the floor behind him was no longer important.
Reiko watched his back, trembling and unable to understand.
If he knew what she was, why was he letting her go?
If he believed she was the cause of the calamity, why had he not killed her himself?
Before she could ask, Kaelthorn answered without turning around.
Kaelthorn: I have no connection with 9th-grade Class 3. What happens to it has nothing to do with me.
Reiko Mikami: How could you say that?
Her voice rose, cracked by pain and disbelief.
Kaelthorn turned one page.
Kaelthorn: If you are so concerned about them, reveal your identity to them.
Reiko went still.
Kaelthorn: People fear death. If they learn that you are the Extra, I am certain the entire class will not hesitate to get rid of you.
The statement was not spoken cruelly.
That made it worse.
He said it as a simple observation of human behavior.
Reiko's face twisted, and the fragile restraint holding her together finally snapped.
Reiko Mikami: I AM NOT THE EXTRA!!!
Her scream filled the room.
Then she turned and ran.
She pulled the door open with shaking hands and fled into the corridor without looking back. Her footsteps disappeared quickly, uneven and frantic, until the room returned to silence.
Kaelthorn did not stop her.
He had already done what he intended to do.
The present truth had been shown to the one person who wanted to hear it least. Whether she denied it, buried it, fought it, or broke under it no longer mattered. A crack had been made, and from that crack, the curse would begin reacting.
'Kaelthorn: Let us see how long you can hold on to it, Reiko Mikami.'
With that thought, Kaelthorn lowered his gaze and returned to the medical records in his hand.
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.
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WHOOSH!!
A gust of wind swept across the school terrace, brushing against the hem of Kaelthorn's long coat as he stood near the railing and looked down at the field below. 9th-grade Class 3, was currently having P.E., though unlike the other classes in the school, they did not share the lesson with anyone else. The cursed class remained separated even in something as ordinary as exercise, as if the school itself had learned to isolate it without needing to say why.
Kaelthorn's hidden gaze was fixed on one student in particular.
Kōichi Sakakibara.
The boy was resting on the side instead of participating with the others. He had only joined the school today, and to most people, he was just a transfer student recovering from poor health. But Kaelthorn had already noticed him before this day, back in the hospital when he first arrived in this world. At that time, Kōichi had not yet entered Yomiyama North Middle School, and yet the strange traces of the curse had already clung to him.
Those traces were not visible in the ordinary sense.
They were not marks on the skin, nor an aura that any normal person could see. They were more like a stain in the way fate touched someone, a slight wrongness around their presence, as if the world had already begun placing them near a disaster before they had reached it. Kaelthorn had seen the same traces on Mei Misaki as well, and because both of them carried that same kind of distortion, it had not been difficult to guess that they were connected.
At the hospital, Kōichi had been trying to speak with Mei. He had been unusually eager, too eager for a casual conversation between strangers. A person did not continue speaking to someone for that long without some kind of thread pulling them together, even if they did not understand what that thread was. At the time, Mei had been wearing the uniform of Yomiyama North Middle School, which immediately connected her to the place Kaelthorn had already begun investigating.
For Mei Misaki, the traces were easy to explain.
She was a student of Yomiyama North Middle School.
More importantly, she belonged to 9th-grade Class 3.
But Kōichi Sakakibara was different.
He was also meant to enter that school and that class, yet on the day Kaelthorn met him, he had not joined them yet. That meant the curse had reached him before the classroom itself had formally accepted him. Either the calamity had marked him in advance, or he was connected to it through someone else.
That was why Kaelthorn had chosen his words carefully in the hospital elevator.
When Kōichi asked whether Kaelthorn was a teacher at the school, Kaelthorn did not say yes. He said he would be joining on the same day as Kōichi. It had been a small distinction, but an important one. Mei Misaki was sharper than the boy, and though her expression had remained almost unchanged, Kaelthorn had seen the slight shift in her face the moment Kōichi asked that question. She already knew the teachers at the school. If Kaelthorn had claimed to be one of them at that time, she would have recognized the lie immediately.
So he had allowed Kōichi to provide the information himself.
The boy had blurted out the date of his own return.
Early May.
Kaelthorn then used that answer and inserted himself into the school on the same day.
After that, the remaining connections became clear.
Mei Misaki was tied to the curse because she was the chosen non-existent student of Class 3, the living girl whom the class had decided to ignore in order to balance the number of people inside the room. Kōichi Sakakibara, however, was connected through blood and household. He was living in Yomiyama with his aunt.
And that aunt was Reiko Mikami.
This year's Extra.
Kaelthorn's gaze remained on the field below, where Kōichi sat apart from the others, unaware of how close the center of the calamity already was to him. The boy did not know that the person he called family had become the very distortion around which this year's deaths would gather.
As for Reiko Mikami, Kaelthorn had already heard what happened after the morning introductions. After bringing Kōichi Sakakibara to 9th-grade Class 3, she had left the school, claiming that she was not feeling well. That was expected. Kaelthorn had given her enough clues to make her question her own existence, and once doubt entered someone in her position, it would not leave easily.
He had not followed her.
If he had wanted to kill her, he would have done so already.
For now, she still had value. His plan had only begun, and until it reached the proper stage, Reiko Mikami's continued existence was more useful than her death.
GRIND!
Behind him, the iron door scraped against the terrace floor as it opened.
A student stepped outside.
The moment she noticed another person already standing on the terrace, she hesitated and almost turned back. Then she recognized who it was, and surprise briefly touched her visible eye. She bowed slightly, polite but cautious.
Mei Misaki: Good day, Doctor. I hope you are doing well.
It was the same eye-patched girl Kaelthorn had met in the hospital.
Mei Misaki.
Kaelthorn: Good day to you as well, Mei Misaki. Though whether you are doing well or not is something you understand better than I do.
Mei Misaki: I am doing well too.
Kaelthorn: If that is what the "non-existent student" says, then I will accept it.
Mei's visible eye narrowed slightly.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. The wind moved softly between them, carrying the distant voices of students from the field below. Then Mei let out a quiet sigh, as though she had expected the truth to reach him eventually but not this quickly.
Mei Misaki: So, the teachers already told you about the calamity.
Kaelthorn neither confirmed nor denied it.
This year, the student chosen to be ignored by Class 3 was Mei Misaki. To everyone following the old countermeasure, she was the one who did not exist. They spoke around her, walked past her, and treated her presence as empty space in order to reduce the class by one living person. It was cruel, but the class believed cruelty was better than death.
The truly surprising part was not that Mei had accepted the role.
The surprising part was that she already knew the deeper truth.
There was no extra student this year.
There was an extra teacher.
And that teacher was Reiko Mikami.
Mei Misaki had already understood this, though not through the same methods Kaelthorn used. She had not hacked records, compared staff lists, studied old deaths, or forced the hidden pattern into the open through investigation. Her knowledge came from something much simpler and far stranger.
The prosthetic doll's eye hidden beneath her left eye patch.
To others, the eye patch concealed a missing or damaged eye. To Kaelthorn, such a surface-level obstruction meant nothing. He had seen what lay beneath it from the beginning. Mei's left eye was not an ordinary prosthetic. It was a doll's eye, but one that carried a peculiar ability.
It allowed her to see the color of death.
Not death as a wound or a corpse, but death as a state attached to a person. With that eye, Mei could see a distinct, ghostly color around humans who were already dead, no longer truly alive, or standing close to their own end. That was how she knew Reiko Mikami was the Extra.
That eye was also the reason Mei had caught Kaelthorn's attention more strongly than Kōichi Sakakibara back in the hospital.
An ability like that was useful.
Extremely useful.
After confirming the nature of Mei's eye, Kaelthorn had searched the city for its origin. Since the eye was connected to dolls, the answer eventually led him to Misaki M. Studio. There, he found the doll he later purchased, a creation that carried the same kind of perception as Mei's eye, but in a stronger and more stable form.
At that moment, Mei spoke again.
Mei Misaki: I apologize for disturbing you.
She bowed slightly and turned to leave, clearly having no intention of continuing the conversation any further. But after taking one step, she paused, as if something she had been holding back finally surfaced.
Mei Misaki: Doctor… may I ask you something?
Kaelthorn did not answer.
He kept looking down at the playground.
Mei took his silence as permission.
Mei Misaki: That doll… the one in Misaki M. Studio… were you the one who bought it?
.
.
.
Night came to Yomiyama.
As expected, no patient had come to the clinic today either. In fact, it had been the same since Kaelthorn bought the place a month ago. The sign remained outside. The equipment remained prepared. The rooms were clean, functional, and ready for use. Yet not a single person had entered seeking treatment.
That did not trouble him.
The clinic was only a front.
After closing the shutter, Kaelthorn returned to the residence on the first floor. His steps were quiet as he entered the master bedroom, removed the familiar palm-sized metal piece from inside his coat, and let it float toward the table beneath the window. The moment it settled on the surface, a pale light spread from it, forming a holographic screen and keyboard in the air.
Kaelthorn typed several commands, then turned away from the table and walked toward the display box near the wall.
Inside it sat the doll he had bought from Misaki M. Studio.
The coffin-like case opened silently as he approached.
Kaelthorn stopped before it and pulled his right hand from his pocket. He raised it toward the doll, palm facing upward, and in the next instant, a ghostly, colorless energy appeared above his hand. It had no warmth, no light, and no stable shape. It trembled like mist, but its presence made the room feel slightly colder, as though something invisible had begun remembering death.
This power came from Reiko Mikami.
Back at the school, Kaelthorn had not grabbed her throat merely to reveal the truth. While she struggled in his grip, while terror filled her eyes and she tried to deny what she was, he had also been extracting the cursed power rooted inside her existence. That power was not ordinary energy. It was the distorted force that marked her as the Extra, the abnormal presence inserted into the school's year, the dead thing treated as living because reality itself had been forced to accept a lie.
Kaelthorn had taken almost all of it.
Ninety-nine percent.
Not one hundred.
The reason was simple. The curse was self-sustaining. As long as even a small portion remained, it would gradually rebuild itself, feeding on the structure of the calamity and restoring what had been taken. If he had removed everything, the system might have collapsed too early, and Reiko Mikami would have lost her value. By leaving one percent behind, he allowed the curse to recover naturally.
Within a month, that one percent would grow back into a full reservoir.
Then he could extract it again.
As for whether Reiko might kill herself, or whether someone else might succeed in killing her before that happened, Kaelthorn had already accounted for it. He would not allow something useful to slip out of his hands so easily. A pawn did not leave the board simply because it had learned the shape of the game.
At his will, the colorless cursed energy began moving from his hand into the doll.
The moment it entered, the doll's hollow emerald eyes gave off a faint glow.
It was weak at first, barely visible beneath the stillness of its face, but as more of the cursed power flowed into it, the glow deepened slightly. The doll did not move. It did not speak. It did not change expression. Yet something inside it accepted the offering with quiet hunger, drawing the abnormal force into itself as if it had always been meant to contain such things.
The process took nearly an hour.
Kaelthorn remained standing the entire time, unmoving and silent, watching as every trace of the extracted curse disappeared into the doll. Once the transfer was complete, the faint glow in its eyes faded, and the hollow emerald gaze became dull again.
Only then did Kaelthorn turn back toward the holographic system.
He returned to the table and typed again. A few moments later, the same dark screen he had seen a month ago appeared before him, its surface empty except for the single waiting bar.
Kaelthorn looked at it for a moment, then entered the words.
"The deepest abyss is always the one that still has a bottom."
He pressed send.
The screen vanished.
Kaelthorn closed the holographic interface and returned to the doll. To an ordinary eye, nothing about it had changed. It still sat in the display box with its delicate face, still body, and hollow emerald eyes. But Kaelthorn could see beneath the surface. He could see the cursed power settling inside it, not merely stored, but being reshaped into something more useful.
His hidden gaze remained fixed on the doll.
'Kaelthorn: I have great expectations of you, so do not disappoint me.'
The room remained silent.
Outside the window, Yomiyama slept beneath the weight of its own curse, unaware that something far colder than the calamity had begun taking it apart piece by piece.
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*To be continued…
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