CHAPTER LVI
~Lessons in the Dark~
But the stubborn spark in Rin’s eyes wouldn’t fade. The group’s footsteps echoed as they set off, weaving into the narrow web of corridors—foes, allies, fates tangled, each step pulling them deeper into the first scavenger hunt floor of the Midnight Carnival.
Rin took point, sharp ears flicking at every faint rustle in the shadows. His small form darted ahead with surprising confidence, until—he froze.
From the darkness ahead came faint shuffling, like dry leaves being dragged across stone. A cluster of tiny figures emerged into the sickly yellow glow of a flickering wall-lamp. They stood barely ankle-high, their round faces almost childlike, wearing simple moss-green vests and tiny boots stitched from dried leaves. Korobokkurus—each with fur-tipped ears twitching as they regarded the group with wide, unblinking eyes.
In their small clawed paws, they held something—a single card, aged and weathered, its edges curled by time. As Rin stepped forward, the creature extended his arms silently, the card trembling ever so slightly in his grip.
Rin slowed his pace, then dropped into a crouch so his eyes met theirs. “For me?”
None spoke, but a tiny nod from the Korobokkuru at the front sealed it. Rin reached out gently, taking the card from them with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
The creatures retreated wordlessly into the shadows, vanishing as though they’d never been there. Only the card—and the faint smell of wet moss—remained.
In the dim golden light, Rin turned it over. Weathered ink sprawled across the surface, curling letters that almost breathed in the dusty air:
“I move when you move, yet I make no sound.
I follow in light, but in darkness I am drowned.
Name me, and the path shall open.”
Saito stepped up beside him, leaning over to glance at the writing. “A riddle already? Guess we’ve officially started.”
Mofumi’s tail flicked lazily. “Too easy. But let’s hear what the little leader makes of it.”
Kaito narrowed his eyes, keeping one hand on his sword. “Whatever it is, solve it fast. I don’t like how quiet it’s gotten.”
Kaito’s father only grunted, his gaze scanning the corridor ahead with irritation. “Enough standing around. We move once the answer’s out of his mouth.”
Rin tilted his head, the dim light catching the mischievous flicker in his eyes. “Shadow…” he murmured.
And somewhere ahead, with the soft sound of gears turning, a locked door in the dark gave a slow, deliberate click.
The old wooden door creaked open with the sound of tired hinges, revealing the faint light bleeding into the dim hallway.
It was… a kindergarten classroom.
Tiny wooden chairs no taller than a shin were scattered in neat rows, each with names written in faded crayon. Stars, doodles, and stick figures were drawn across the walls and blackboard. Paper mobiles of planets dangled from thin threads above, swaying ever so slightly in the still air.
Kaito didn’t step lightly — he dashed in, katana snapping free in one swift arc. His gaze swept left to right in a sharp motion, blade angled to kill at the first sign of trouble.
Rin padded in behind him, hands in his little coat pockets, and gave a slow, exaggerated blink.
“Whoa, easy there, Geralt of Rivia,” Rin said, tone dripping with lazy amusement. “Bro, chill — this isn’t some demon rave. Nobody’s gonna jump out of a glitter-covered finger painting and stab you.”
Kaito didn’t even turn his head. “You don’t know that.”
Rin smirked wider, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah, I do. ’Cause if they do jump out, I’m pushing you in front first.”
Before Kaito could bite back, Mofumi stepped through the doorway, his keen feline eyes sweeping the room more methodically. The faint padding of his feet was soft against the faded linoleum tiles.
There, by a little round reading table, stood one more Korobokkuru. Its tiny mossy vest swayed as it stepped forward. In its hands — another weathered card.
The small spirit looked straight at Mofumi. Not at Kaito. Not at Rin. Just him.
Mofumi crouched slightly, his movements deliberate and smooth, before reaching out to take it with his mouth. The Korobokkuru gave a simple nod before tipping back into shadow, vanishing as though swallowed by the air itself.
Mofumi turned the card over with his paw. Inked in the same curling, timeworn script, the second riddle appeared:
“The more you take from me,
the bigger I get.
What am I?”
Saito leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Alright, genius cat. This one’s all yours.”
Rin flopped into one of the tiny wooden seats made for toddlers, kicking his legs playfully in the air. “Ooooh, I know this one! …Wait, no. I’m lying. Go, Mofu. Show these humans who’s boss.”
Kaito’s father just grunted impatiently. “If you’re going to solve it, solve it. We’ve wasted enough—”
“Hole,” Mofumi said flatly, not looking up from the card.
Everyone paused.
“A… hole?” Rin echoed, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah,” Mofumi replied, flicking his tail. “The more you take away from it, the bigger it gets. Logical. Clean. Obvious.”
Before anyone could argue, a gentle click echoed at the far end of the kindergarten room. One of the cubbyhole shelves slid sideways, revealing a dark opening where no wall should have been.
Rin hopped off the child’s chair dramatically. “Well, what do you know, cat brains is right. Guess we follow the creepy secret cubbyhole now.”
Saito glanced at the passage, lips thinning. “Let’s move.”
Kaito tightened his grip on his katana. Kaito’s father said nothing, but his eyes narrowed as they all approached the dark gap.
Somewhere deep down the hall beyond it…the Carnival’s scavenger hunt was only getting started.
With a deafening thud, the iron door behind them slammed shut, sealing the five of them inside. The sudden drop ended hard — they all hit the cracked linoleum floor of the 1st floor with a jarring impact that sent a low metallic echo rippling through the empty corridors.
Haruki grimaced, pushing himself up and brushing dust from his sleeves.
“Perfect. Just perfect,” he muttered, irritation sharpening his voice. “First floor… and it already smells like trouble.”
Nozomi landed lighter than the rest, rolling her shoulders as she stood. There was no fear in her eyes — only a calculating calm. “Don’t get sentimental. Floors don’t matter, what’s waiting on them does.”
Ren sat up with a grunt, his tone flat and distant. “Could’ve stuck the landing if we weren’t shoved in like luggage.”
Ren’s father stood silently, jaw tight, assessing the dim stretch of hallway ahead; the old walls were lined with abandoned lockers, their paint peeling and padlocks rusted. Somewhere far off, there was a faint tap… tap… tap, like dripping water.
Nozomi’s father dusted off his coat, his gaze sharp as he swept it over the flickering lights above. “We’ll treat this as enemy ground until proven otherwise.”
Haruki exhaled through his nose, glancing around the hallway. “Stay together. No wandering off. If this floor is part of the Carnival’s little game, we’re walking right into the first test.”
They began moving as a unit down the corridor, footsteps crunching faintly over bits of broken tile.
The oppressive stillness here was different from the abyss — this had the quiet of a school long abandoned, but the air still carried a low hum of tension, as though something was watching… waiting.
The hallway stretched ahead in long, broken lines of flickering ceiling lights, the air stale with the scent of rust and dust. Their footsteps were the only sound—until a faint, dry skitter-skitter whispered from somewhere in the shadows ahead.
Nozomi’s eyes narrowed instantly, her hand drifting toward her weapon. “Something’s moving,” she murmured, gaze darting low to the ground.
Ren, without even breaking stride, said flatly, “No surprise. Every floor in this place wants us dead.”
The skittering grew louder—then from the darkness emerged three small creatures, each no longer than a forearm. Their bodies were covered in smooth, blood-red scales, glistening faintly in the harsh strip-light glare. Their narrow snouts and slit-pupiled eyes fixed on the group with a reptilian stillness that felt… deliberate.
Nozomi’s father stepped slightly forward, studying them. “Kaga-Kaga,” he muttered. “Messengers.”
The lead lizard flicked its forked tongue, then scuttled right up to Ren’s boot and reared back on its hind legs. Clutched between its tiny claws was a thick scrap of parchment, edges singed, the ink scrawled with careless boldness.
Ren stared down at it with visible annoyance. “It’s looking at me like I’m supposed to care.”
Haruki let the words slip out coldly, “Just take the damn thing before it decides to bite you.”
Ren sighed, snatched the parchment from its claws, and held it up so the group could see. The Kaga-Kaga didn’t scurry away—just stood there, red eyes unblinking, as if waiting for the answer before it would leave.
The ink read:
“The more you take from me,
the more you leave behind.
What am I?”
Nozomi arched a brow, glancing between the men. “Not exactly subtle, is it?”
Haruki’s gaze stayed on the page. “If you know it, say it. The faster we clear these, the less time we spend in whatever this floor’s ambush is.”
Ren’s father glanced at Ren, an unspoken test in his eyes.
Ren shrugged. “Footsteps.”
The moment the word left him, the Kaga-Kaga hissed approvingly, its eyes glowing faintly. Without warning, it whipped around and sped back into the shadows. Somewhere down the hall, there came a metallic click—the sound of a lock disengaging.
Nozomi rolled her shoulders. “Door’s open. Let’s see what’s waiting. And keep sharp—if this floor runs like the first riddle, the carnival’s just getting warmed up.”
The world stopped spinning with a gut-jarring drop.
Group 3 — Shingure, Himari, Akihiko, Kagami, and Ayaka — hit the warped wooden floor of an unfamiliar hallway hard enough to rattle their bones.
Dust bloomed into the stale air as they scrambled to their feet. The corridor around them was lined with slanted bookshelves and warped wooden lockers, wallpaper peeling in curling strips like aged skin. It was dim, lit only by a few sickly amber bulbs hanging from looping black wires, swaying slightly as if the building itself was breathing.
Kagami ran a hand back through his hair with an annoyed smirk.
“Oh, 2nd floor, huh? Figures I’d get dumped in the middle of nowhere with the shy ones and the boss man. Thanks a lot, fate.”
Akihiko, Haruki’s father, gave him a pointed, unimpressed glare. “Save your breath. We don’t know what floor two holds yet, but the Carnival doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.”
Ayaka stayed close to Himari, her grip on her sleeve tight enough to wrinkle the fabric. Himari’s free hand rested subtly over Ayaka’s, a silent reassurance, though her eyes swept every shadow.
Shingure tilted his head back, voice quiet but lyrical.
“The air here… is heavy with dust and borrowed secrets. The shadows… are waiting.”
Before anyone could answer, a soft skitter-skitter-skitter echoed from the shadows ahead — overlapping with light, almost comical patter-patter footsteps.
From the corner of the hallway emerged the unlikely sight of a Kaga-Kaga: a sleek red-scaled lizard, gleaming in the sparse light, its slit-pupiled gaze fixed straight ahead. Climbing onto its back like a noble rider was a Korobokkuru, barely bigger than a child’s head, wearing a tiny moss vest and holding a scroll in both hands like it weighed more than gold.
Kagami’s smirk widened as he leaned forward slightly. “Well, that’s… adorable. If this is the welcoming committee, I think I’m in love.”
The Kaga-Kaga hissed softly, curling its tail around its claws as it stopped before the group. The Korobokkuru then stood shakily atop the lizard’s back, stepping forward to hand the scroll to Himari. Its tiny paw trembled — not out of fear, but ritual — before it let go.
Himari glanced at Akihiko, who gave her a curt nod. She broke the simple twine and unrolled the card, the weathered ink revealed in curling script:
“I have a face, but no mouth to speak.
I have hands, but no arms or feet.
I tell stories without lies, and measure without pause.
What am I?”
Ayaka tilted her head, thinking aloud. “Sounds… familiar. Like I’ve heard it before.”
Shingure’s eyes softened with recognition as his voice dripped gently, “Ah… a keeper of hours, the one who marks the dance between day and night…”
Kagami snapped his fingers lazily. “Clock. It’s a clock. You could just say that, poet.”
The Korobokkuru and Kaga-Kaga both perked up at the same instant, the lizard’s throat rattling in approval. Without another sound, they turned and scurried away, vanishing into the warped shadows as if they’d never existed.
From behind them came the deep, slow thunk-thunk of gears turning.
At the far end of the corridor, an arched double-door creaked open — the golden hands of an ornate grandfather clock split perfectly down the middle as the entrance awaited.
Akihiko’s gaze hardened. “Stay together. Whatever’s through there wasn’t built to welcome us.”
Kagami grinned wickedly, rolling his shoulders. “Good. I was getting bored.”
With Himari and Ayaka in the middle, they stepped forward as one, into the waiting dark beyond the clockwork doors…
The heavy lock clunked for the last time, and the rusted classroom door at the end of the hall creaked open just enough for the group to pass through.
The air inside was cooler, carrying a vague smell of paper and chalk dust. Rows of old desks sat under sheets, as though the room itself were holding its breath.
As they stepped forward, Nozomi’s father’s eyes, ever alert, fell on something behind him — and froze. His gaze locked on Haruki, whose hand had just gently closed around Nozomi’s. The young man didn’t seem to realize it until the sharp voice cut through the stale quiet:
“HARUKI! NOZOMI!”
The sudden bark made Nozomi flinch; instinctively, she drew her hand back, the warmth between their palms gone in an instant.SHIT. We’ve been caught. She thought, turning her head away as if trying to find the next riddle.
Ren’s father’s brow furrowed, a shadow of disappointment and disapproval hardening his voice.
“What sort of behavior is this, Haruki-kun? A young man taking a young lady’s hand without her permission, and in the presence of her elders? This is a disgrace to both of our families.”
The scolding hung thick in the air for a heartbeat — louder than any gunshot could have been in that empty room.
To be Continued...
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