“Good morning, everyone!
Today, our haunted house exploration program has brought us to Torimaru Maternity Hospital in Matsubara-cho, Kagoshima.
This place is a legendary paranormal hotspot!
I’ll let you in on a little secret: dozens of people have gone missing right here.
Come on!
Follow Nana-chan inside to take a look!
Go, go, go!” A cute-looking girl charged toward the hospital’s main entrance with boundless energy.
The cameraman scrambled to keep up, while the director and assistant director followed at a more leisurely pace.
The director looked brimming with confidence, whereas the assistant director looked like he was about to jump out of his skin.
“Director Kondo, are you sure about this place?
It doesn’t exactly scream ‘safe,'” the nervous assistant director, Arima, whispered.
Director Kondo slapped Arima on the shoulder, his voice loud and self-assured.
“Arima-kun, I hand-picked this location myself!
This dump has been abandoned for over twenty years without a single incident.
What’s there to be afraid of?
Our show is going to skyrocket after this!
My days of becoming a famous director are just around the corner.
Once that happens, I’ll be off to direct primetime dramas, and this position will be all yours.” He had just raised every death flag in the book.
“We were barely hanging onto our slot at the station thanks to Nana’s cuteness and some horror set-pieces, but the audience is getting harder to fool these days.
They keep complaining that our studio sets look fake.
How rude!
If we didn’t fake it, how could we afford to live it up in Ginza?
We wouldn’t have to drag ourselves all the way to this godforsaken place,” Kondo grumbled.
Watching Director Kondo immerse himself in his delusions of grandeur, Arima—swayed by the promise of a promotion—swallowed his fear and followed him inside.
Shortly after, amidst the screams of the crew, the wail of a newborn echoed from the depths of the building.
Wahhh…
wahhh…
“Two men and two women missing.
Five males confirmed dead.
The victims’ faces were frozen in expressions of extreme terror, suggesting they were tortured before death.
Here are the files on the deceased.
Mr.
Gojo, I’ll leave this in your hands.” A thin man with a center-parted black hairstyle and glasses read out the details of the tragedy with a deadpan expression.
This was Kiyotaka Ijichi, an Assistant Director at Jujutsu High and Gojo Satoru’s junior by two years.
His perpetual “exhausted salaryman” aura was a direct result of the constant pressure exerted by Gojo.
Gojo took the files casually, long since desensitized to such gruesome reports, and handed them to Taira no Minamoto.
“This was originally a mission specifically assigned to me by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, but it doesn’t look particularly dangerous.
I’m handing this one over to you guys.
Minamoto, pass the files around.” Ijichi stole a glance at Gojo, thinking to himself: You just want to slack off, don’t you?
Gojo spared him a sidelong look, immediately reading Ijichi’s mind.
“Ijichi…
you’re thinking something very rude, aren’t you?
I’m going to slap you.” Ijichi shrunk back, not daring to protest.
It was the classic dynamic: the timid junior and the overbearing senior.
Minamoto looked over the files.
The photos had been taken at dawn; the dim light made them grainy and blurred.
Still, he could clearly distinguish a body hanging from a tree outside the hospital.
The head had been snapped back by a branch, and the torso was skewered through by another.
None of the five victims had died peacefully.
Each corpse bore a twisted, horrific expression, their eyes wide with a primal fear of whatever they had witnessed in their final moments.
Minamoto remained unfazed.
Protecting the weak required no justification—it was his personal creed.
Besides, the mission pay was a nice bonus.
Once Panda, Toge, and Maki had finished reviewing the intel, Gojo flashed a double peace sign.
“This practical training will be conducted in two-man cells.
Toge and Minamoto, you’re Team A.
Maki and Panda, you’re Team B.
One team takes the left wing, the other takes the right.
Divide yourselves up.” Ijichi stepped forward.
“I will lower the Veil now.
Please be careful.
Emerge from darkness, blacker than black.
Purify that which is unclean.” The sky suddenly darkened as a pinprick of black appeared above the hospital.
A shroud of darkness cascaded down like liquid mercury, swallowing the entire building and cutting it off from the world.
Seeing the Veil in place, Gojo grabbed Ijichi and began dragging him toward the exit, but not before throwing a final comment over his shoulder.
“Show me what you’ve got!
And stay sharp—don’t go dying on me.” The Veil’s purpose was to force curses to manifest and to prevent outsiders from seeing the supernatural phenomena within.
Once it was set, the hospital took on a different form.
Inside the barrier, it was as if they had entered another world—the pitch-black darkness seemed thick enough to swallow any flicker of light.
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
A sharp, rhythmic, and bizarre sound echoed from within the hospital.
The mechanical frequency of the noise was enough to make anyone’s skin crawl.
Maki unslung her weapon from her back—a naginata.
Originally a weapon used by monk soldiers to guard temples, it had become a traditional weapon for women in the Edo period.
Panda donned the panda-themed brass knuckles gifted to him by Principal Yaga.
Fully armed, the group entered the hospital according to their teams.
As the heavy doors swung open, the mechanical clicking stopped abruptly.
In its place came a wet, rustling sound.
The group stepped into the void without hesitation, and as the doors closed, the world went silent.
It was as if they had stepped into yet another Veil within the first.
Swallowed by the dark, Minamoto could see nothing but a thick, black fog.
“Toge!
Panda!
Maki!
Are you okay?” “Mustard leaf!” (I’m fine.) “Tuna mayo!” (They’re gone.) That was Inumaki Toge’s voice.
“We must have entered the Curse’s innate domain.
It separated us.
Nothing for it—let’s find the source and exorcise it.
Let’s go, Toge!” Minamoto’s voice carried a hint of resignation.
Toge pulled out a bottle of throat medicine and gave a quiet, “Salmon.” (Understood.) The black mist was incredibly dense and cloying, sticking to their skin with a nauseating texture.
Visibility was less than three meters.
The click-clack sound returned.
As the mist thinned slightly, the rustling grew clearer, and Minamoto began to make out words.
“It doesn’t hurt at all…
it doesn’t hurt at all…
it doesn’t hurt at all…” Three syringe-shaped Curses emerged from the fog, chanting their mantra as they marched toward the pair.
Minamoto narrowed his eyes and realized the clicking sound was coming from their feet.
The collective fear of nurses and injections had birthed these Curses.
They had murdered humans and fashioned shoes out of their bones, using polished ribs for heels that clicked sharply against the floor.
Sensing the intruders in their domain, the Curses shrieked and lunged.
Minamoto held out a hand to stop Toge, shaking his head.
He charged forward, projecting a slender Japanese blade in mid-stride.
The veins in his wrist pulsed as he spun with violent force.
The long blade traced a blinding arc of light, carving out a sanctuary of clarity in the black mist.
With one sweep, the first Curse was bifurcated.
Reversing his grip, he slashed again, splitting the second Curse down the middle.
The third Curse recoiled in fear.
It seemed capable of hearing the agonizing wails of its companions—sounds that had dissolved into meaningless shrieks as blood geysered from their wounds.
For a moment, the line between Curse and sorcerer blurred.
Minamoto flicked the blood from his blade, the droplets tracing a crimson arc on the floor.
“Curses are pathetic.
The weaker they are, the more they huddle together.
The strong walk alone; the weak flock in groups.
Whether human or Curse…
it’s all the same.
Disappear.” He stepped forward like a lion, delivering a final, decisive strike that severed the Curse entirely.
He noticed Toge staring at his blade.
It seemed his classmate knew a fine weapon when he saw one.
“This is the Kogarasu-maru (Little Crow).
Or rather, a projection of it.
The original is an Imperial treasure gifted to my family.
If I actually took the real one out, my mother would kill me.” As they spoke, both boys suddenly whipped their heads around.
A massive infant’s head had appeared behind them, its hand gripping the edge of the wall.
A tender, childish voice echoed through the hallway.
“Big brother…
come play with me!”