The third day in the abandoned town was darker than the last. Heavy clouds pressed down, muting the light, and the wind carried a damp chill. Kusakabe walked beside Arata in silence, his posture sharp, his expression set. There was no trace of sarcasm in his tone anymore—only focus.
The school loomed ahead, its walls cracked and sagging as though the building itself was being stretched.
Inside, the air was heavier. Each step down the corridor stirred a faint hum, like static hidden beneath the silence.
Then it started again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps.
But this time, Arata paused and raised a hand slightly.
"Not walking," he murmured. "Listen carefully."
Kusakabe went still. They both listened.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythm repeated, steady, precise.
"…It's not footsteps," Kusakabe said grimly. "It's counting. Or keeping time."
The sound shifted, echoing unnaturally—sometimes from behind, sometimes above, sometimes beneath their feet.
The wooden floor groaned as if under pressure. The boards warped, stretching outward like rubber before snapping back into place.
Arata crouched, placing his hand against the floor. A faint pulse of cursed energy spread from his palm, tracing along the warped lines. The space shivered, then settled.
He stood. "It's sound-triggered. The rhythm sets the distortion."
Kusakabe nodded once. "That explains the circles we've been walking. The curse is expanding and folding space around us whenever the pattern repeats."
The sound came again—closer now.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The wall to their left rippled outward, swelling as if something was pressing from the other side. Dust rained down from the ceiling, cracks spiderwebbing across the plaster. The distortion made the hallway stretch unnaturally long, doors sliding farther away with each beat of the sound.
"Every tap expands the space," Arata said, his voice calm but steady. "Like striking a drum to push the walls apart."
Kusakabe's eyes tracked the shifting corridor. "…So the spirit isn't just using sound to confuse us. It's reshaping the environment with resonance."
Arata nodded. "If it keeps control of the rhythm, it controls where we move."
The distorted sound deepened into a low hum. From every corner of the hallway, a broken laugh echoed, faint and dissonant.
"You see it… don't you…?"
The words stretched unnaturally, as though spoken from multiple places at once.
Kusakabe adjusted his stance, hand brushing the hilt of his blade. His tone was clipped, steady. "It knows we've caught on."
Arata looked toward the warped wall, his expression composed. "Then it'll show itself soon."
The wall pulsed once more, swelling like a drumhead struck from inside—then stilled. The laughter faded, leaving only silence.
Kusakabe exhaled slowly. "…Tomorrow, we'll be ready for it."
Arata's gaze stayed on the wall. His voice was quiet but certain. "Yes. It won't hide much longer."