When misfortune begins, it rarely comes alone—it arrives in waves, each more crushing than the last. This was a truth Takakai knew intimately.
So when he detected the anomaly in their surroundings, he acted without hesitation.
CRACK.
He slapped the Rescue Team Badge onto Hayasaka's chest, then struck her ear with precisely measured force—enough to rupture her eardrum and render her unconscious, but not enough to cause fatal damage.
His reasoning was methodical:
[Student Rule #5] explicitly warned that in an unsealed hallway, one must not be detected by anyone. The rule made no distinction between friend or foe.
By incapacitating Hayasaka, he eliminated the risk of her inadvertently observing him and triggering the hallway's mechanisms.
As for himself? He would simply refuse to meet the entities' gazes and run like his life depended on it—because it did.
"Kyahaha… HAHAHAHA!"
The childish laughter crescendoed behind them.
The monstrosity wearing Kaguya's body and a face of tangled red-and-black scribbles was gaining ground.
Outside the windows, the headless silhouettes pressed closer, their faceless forms blotting out the light.
Takakai crouched low, his muscles coiling—
Then kicked off the ground with enough force to crater concrete, propelling himself forward—
Only for the hallway to stretch infinitely before him, the exit shrinking to a pinprick in the distance.
"■■■… ■■■…"
Indistinct whispers slithered into his ears.
The headless ones were chanting something.
Behind him, the footsteps multiplied, gaining ground despite his supernatural speed.
I can't outrun this.
This was the dungeon's inescapable rule:
In an unsealed hallway, flight was futile.
Then why had survivors documented this phenomenon?
Unless—
"If you find yourself in an unsealed hallway, you are not in a hallway."
This wasn't a hallway at all.
Takakai pivoted on his heel, shattered a window with his elbow, and hurled himself into the void beyond.
The Glitch Zone
No ground. No sky.
Only pale, sourceless light and fragments of reality—like a corrupted game render.
The headless figures stood frozen, blind to his presence.
"I hate riddles. Just tell me how not to die next time."
He sprinted past them, deeper into the fractured landscape.
Fragments of classrooms, dormitories, offices floated in the void:
A teacher's desk, its drawer spilling severed fingers.
A shatered bunkbed, its frame twisted into a cage.
Three eyeless children skipping rope with their own intestines.
Other shapes defied description:
Living crayon scribbles that oscillated between humanoid and abstract.
A castle's ruins, its bricks weeping black tears.
Gravestones engraved with laughing faces.
Is this a glitch?
No. Survivors had navigated this space before.
This broken realm was part of the dungeon's intended design.
Dreams? Collective unconscious?
Was this zone a physical manifestation of the test subjects' shattered psyches?
A deeper stratum of Shirasawa Elementary's horror.
But contemplation was a luxury he couldn't afford.
His pursuers were multiplying, their footsteps converging.
Then—a door, hovering midair like a cruel joke.
Takakai leaped, grabbed the handle, and jammed the Blood Key in—
Click.
He flung it open and shut immediately, voiding the "bad roll" from his earlier 20-sided die check.
On the second attempt, a headless corpse tumbled out, its hands clawing at his ankles.
BANG!
Takakai shot himself backward using recoil, evading the grasp.
A severed head rolled after him—Kaguya's face contorted in a scream as it locked eyes with the scribble-faced abomination chasing them.
Takakai didn't wait to witness the confrontation.
He barreled through the door, slammed it shut—
And crashed onto the cafeteria's second-floor lounge.
But the doorknob began turning.
Something was pushing through from the other side.
Of course.
This door had been barricaded for a reason. The survivors had sealed something unspeakable inside.
And he'd broken their last defense.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs—the dining hall entities, drawn by the noise.
No time to breathe.
Takakai sprinted for the third floor.
The stairwell opened into a labyrinth of furniture:
Cabinets sealed with industrial tape.
Book piles wrapped like mummies.
Every door lock shattered beyond repair.
A nightmarish playground.
Takakai rolled under a table, wove through gaps, and flattened himself behind a chair barricade.
The footsteps scattered, momentarily confused.
As predicted, the entities lost track when obstructed.
More "rules" from children's games?
He checked Hayasaka—still feigning unconsciousness—then mapped the maze.
Every exit was sealed shut.
Even the stairs were now guarded (he glimpsed small feet beneath a cabinet).
But survivors had left instructions.
On one wall, crude crayon text:
[Are you a student? Students eat in the cafeteria. No playing!]
[Are you a teacher? Teachers watch students. No leaving!]
[Are you an officer? No officers left. All dead!]
[Are you nobody? Watch for the red wardrobe.]
Takakai's eyes narrowed.
The first three lines describe Shirasawa's original hierarchy. The fourth is for interlopers like me.
His gaze found the red wardrobe nestled against a brick wall (an architectural impossibility indoors).
Behind it: a rat tunnel, barely wide enough to crawl through.
As he shifted the book stack blocking it, Hayasaka stirred—
And immediately comprehended, slithering backward into the tunnel to reconceal the entrance.
(For one fleeting moment, Takakai registered the pale expanse of her thighs and the curve of her hips beneath the damp shirt. Smooth. Well-proportioned. Childbearing hips.
…Not the time.)
The tunnel emptied into a familiar hallway—one side choked with debris, the other featuring a half-open door.
A sound leaked through:
Creak… creak…
A rocking chair in motion.
Takakai eased the door open.
A dim storeroom. Dust motes swirling in slatted light.
A weathered rocking chair by a boarded-up window, its rhythm unbroken.
And seated within—
Kaguya, eyes closed, chest rising and falling gently.
Then—
Her eyelids fluttered open.
Her gaze pinned them in place.