In the dimly lit storage room, Takakai quickly found what he was looking for.
A hidden ventilation duct, tucked away behind clutter near the wall.
The storage room had no windows—just a flickering lightbulb and suffocating narrowness. The duct itself should've led outside, but some baffling design choice had added a small opening connecting it to this room. Though blocked by two layers of wire mesh and too narrow for even a child to crawl through, its existence alone made Takakai want to facepalm.
Also… ugh, this is gonna suck.
Just peering into the pitch-black duct made his skin crawl. Even if he could fit (which he couldn't), his claustrophobia—a lingering trauma from Nutty Putty Cave—would've paralyzed him. Some fears never faded, no matter how many dungeons he conquered.
Luckily, he had a workaround.
"Sorry, but you're up. Scout ahead for me."
With a wave, the Rescue Team Badge activated, summoning a blurry-faced policeman in a grimy uniform. Without hesitation, the specter pried off the mesh and squeezed into the impossibly narrow duct, wriggling forward with eerie ease. The thump-thump of its progress soon faded into the darkness.
Through their shared senses, Takakai could see and hear what the officer did—without experiencing the suffocating dread himself. A perfect loophole.
Now, for my part.
Turning, he caught Hayasaka's curious gaze. Though she'd seen the badge before, its supernatural nature clearly still intrigued her. She stayed silent, though—polite as ever.
Clatter.
The 20-sided die rolled to 11. Satisfied, Takakai pushed the door open.
As predicted, the hallway was empty.
This was the deepest layer of Shirasawa Elementary.
Unlike the chaotic surface and inner layers, this place felt… structured. A straight hallway lined with classroom doors on one side, windows on the other.
The stench of rot clung to the air.
Black stains—like inkblots—smeared across the walls and floor.
Fleshy,腐烂-like growths bulged unnaturally from corners. Tiny red handprints and crayon-scrawled horrors covered every surface.
Then, the voices began.
At first, just faint whispers—barely audible.
But the moment Takakai noticed them, they amplified.
Children laughing.
Someone sobbing.
A voice calling his name—
[Takakai… Takakai…]
It had been distant. Now, it was closer.
Closer?
Alarm bells rang. He shoved Hayasaka back inside and slammed the door.
Silence.
The voices vanished—as if sealed away.
But the unease remained. Something was very wrong.
"Did you hear those voices just now?" Takakai locked eyes with Hayasaka, deadly serious.
"Eh? N-no… I didn't step out in time, so I didn't hear anything."
Hayasaka's confusion confirmed it:
She didn't hear them.
Frowning, Takakai reopened the door and stood motionless in the doorway. A full minute passed—nothing.
Only when he leaned into the hallway did the whispers return, swelling louder by the second.
"It's not inside the rooms."
"Not inside?" Hayasaka blinked.
"The voices are in the hallway itself. They 'approach' by growing louder. Rooms seem to block them… probably a proximity-based specter."
A die roll (19) confirmed his theory.
Another derivative specter. But how? And how did Hayasaka—a normal human—guide us to this exact storage room, a safe zone from the memory fragments?
The badge's scan still labeled her human, but…
What if something's influencing her?
Another die roll. Then another.
Takakai pocketed the die—now dangerously skewed toward 1 after seven uses—and stepped into the hallway.
"Let's go."
His tone gave nothing away.
Hayasaka followed, wary but obedient.
The whispers returned the moment they entered the hallway. Ignoring them, Takakai moved swiftly to the nearest classroom.
The door was crusted with black sludge, its window too filthy to see through. The voices grew louder here—one seeming to emanate from inside.
But Takakai knew better.
The sound wasn't from the classroom—it was converging on it from some unseen origin.
Still, the room itself might not be safe. But with the hallway's auditory threat, they had no choice.
Click.
The door opened.
[Ahahaha—!]
A flash of imagery:
Overturned desks, scribbled with vile words.
Severed hair. Lockers stuffed with trash.
A girl covering her face—surrounded by laughing children.
Outside the window: a blood-red world.
The girl lowered her hands, smiling.
Outside: children on the ground.
Nails impaled. Teeth ripped out. Figures writhing in agony.
—
But the classroom itself was empty.
Just black ooze swallowing the floor, walls, ceiling… dripping like tar.
To Takakai, it felt like void.
"Inside. Now."
Once certain nothing would ambush them, he waved Hayasaka in.
The voices cut off instantly.
The stench, however, remained.
At the window, Takakai tried forcing it open—no give. It was fused shut.
This place… it's like a warped reflection of Chiyo's psyche.
So why is it so empty?
Like a classroom stretched into a wasteland, edges forever out of reach.
No—that was an illusion.
The room was empty. No desks. No blackboard. No teacher. No students.
Unless…
…they're here, and I just can't see them?
For a split second—
Headless students, filling the seats.
Blood fountaining from severed necks.
They turned.
All of them.
Smiling. Standing. Approaching—
No.
The room was empty.
Whatever had been here was gone. In this twisted space, only nothingness was permitted.
"We're leaving."
Takakai yanked the door open, retreating to the hallway.
His fingertips had begun blackening.
Hayasaka gasped—her nails splitting, dark blood welling up.
"What just happened?!"
"This place… it's digesting us."
Takakai raised his arm, watching as patches of skin darkened, liquefied…
…and dripped off as black sludge.
Just like the ooze coating everything.