Before I even touch the door, it squeaks open.
Awkwardly.
Loud.
Like it's announcing my shame to the world.
Great. Perfect. Love that for me.
All I can do is scratch my throat with a little harrumph, like I meant to do that.
I nod at absolutely no one and start walking all the way to an empty seat at the back.
Before I can even sit, a sudden cold finger presses under my chin and shoves my head upward.
I jerk.
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT SOMETHING WAS THERE!?
A faint, floaty voice whispers right next to my ear:
"Seat taken…"
I blink at the apparently empty chair.
Then I see it—
a faint outline of a ghost, half-phased into the backrest, glaring at me with lightly offended eyes.
"Excuse me. Yes, thank you," I say quickly, nod like an idiot, and shuffle sideways.
I head for the next best seat at the very edge of the last row.
This is perfect.
Far corner.
Good view of the professor.
Easy to duck behind if someone starts throwing curses.
Does it matter that everyone suddenly gets quiet as I make my way in?
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
I sit. Back straight. Hands flat. Casual. Totally normal.
Professor Umbra is frozen at the front of the room, chalk in hand, mid-diagram.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
Professor Umbra, please, continue your lessons because I AM DYING IN THIS SILENCE.
But of course, I can't say that out loud.
If I do, I'll get promoted to Number 1 School Enemy, Human Division.
The system pings quietly in front of me.
⸻
[New Environment: HAUNTOLOGY 101]
[Attendance: Registered]
[Auto-Quest: SURVIVE YOUR FIRST LESSON]
Objectives:
• Do not get used as a demonstration prop
• Do not get possessed
• Do not cry
Reward: +1 Haunt Point
Penalty: Educational Trauma
⸻
I stare at it.
"Love the confidence," I think.
Umbra clears his throat.
"Right," he says. His voice does that thin, brittle thing like a man already at the edge. "As I was saying—"
He flicks the chalk at the board, and glowing white symbols appear on the black surface.
HAUNTING 101:
EMOTIONAL ANCHORS & LINGERING WILL
Around me, the class shifts back into focus.
Ghosts.
Some see-through, some sharp, some with heavier auras like they're one bad day from going full poltergeist.
Spirits.
There's a girl whose lower body dissolves into mist.
A guy with antlers whose shadow moves a half-second slower than he does.
A witch near the front rows. Ink stains on her fingers, a floating pen scribbling notes by itself.
Couple of reaper trainees, silent and unreadable.
Umbra starts pacing.
"Haunting," he says, "is not merely the lingering of a soul. It is the persistence of emotion tied to place, object, or—" his eyes flick, just for a second, toward me "—person."
Every ghost in the room suddenly finds that word very interesting.
"An emotional anchor," Umbra continues, drawing a simple figure on the board, "is what keeps a ghost from dispersing into the Echo. The stronger the attachment—regret, love, obsession, duty—the stronger the haunting."
He taps the chalk.
"Now. Who can give me an example of an anchor?"
A translucent hand lifts near the middle.
"Yes. Yume."
The girl who raised her hand is… barely awake.
Hair a mess, eyes half-lidded, cheek faintly pressed to her desk like gravity's slightly stronger on her.
"Uhh…" she mumbles. "Unfinished… homework…?"
A few ghosts nod solemnly, like she has touched on something painfully real.
Umbra sighs. "Technically valid."
He writes it on the board:
UNFINISHED TASKS
"Others?" he prompts. "Love, vengeance, fear, guilt…"
Hands go up.
"Family," one ghost says.
"My sword," another intones.
"My favorite branch," a tree spirit mutters.
Umbra nods at each answer, adding them to a glowing list.
The whole time, I stay quiet.
Very quiet.
If I sink any lower in my chair, I'll phase through it.
Then Umbra says the line I was dreading:
"And finally… the most dangerous type of anchor…"
His chalk moves slowly.
"Living."
The air goes still.
Living.
Ghosts twist in their seats. Auras tremble.
Umbra turns around fully now, eyes tired, and for some reason they land directly on me.
Of course they do.
"An attachment to a living being," he says, "is the most volatile form of haunting. The anchor moves. Changes. Grows. The ghost risks being dragged, distorted. The living risk being overwhelmed."
His gaze lingers.
"Humans," he adds, "are particularly unstable anchors."
The entire class turns their heads in my direction.
Every single one.
I freeze.
This is fine.
Totally fine.
The system flickers.
⸻
[Attention: You Are Currently The Only Confirmed Living Human In The Room.]
[Notice: All Ghosts Are Now Aware Of This.]
[Sub-Notice: Try Not To Look Delicious.]
⸻
"Great," I think. "Fantastic. Amazing."
Umbra hesitates for a second.
I watch the exact moment he makes a terrible decision.
"Since we have… a unique case present," he says, his voice tightening, "we may as well make use of this opportunity."
No.
No.
Absolutely not.
"Luka Vale," he says, "would you please come down to the front?"
The system chimes.
⸻
[Critical Flag: You Are Being Called As A Live Demonstration.]
[Choice Detected.]
⸻
My brain splits into two running tracks immediately.
Track One:
Nope. Absolutely not. Stay in the back. Become furniture. Merge with the chair. You live here now.
Track Two:
If I refuse, I become "the human who disobeys staff" AND "the suspicious anomaly" AND maybe "the snack someone takes in the hallway later."
I swallow.
Hard.
Someone whispers, "I bet he's cursed."
Another voice near the center: "Wonder what he smells like."
Nope. Not thinking about that.
I push myself up slowly, legs made of wilted pasta and trauma.
"Relax," I tell myself. "Just walk. Don't trip. Don't panic. Don't die."
The system adds, helpfully:
⸻
[Micro-Quest Added: WALK WITHOUT SHAME]
Reward: Emotional Stability (Minor)
⸻
"Too late," I think.
I step into the aisle.
Begin the walk.
Every pair of eyes follows me down.
Umbra gestures at a spot near the front, next to the board.
"Stand there, please."
I obey.
My hands hang awkwardly at my sides.
I have no idea what to do with my face.
Neutral?
Smile?
No. We already established my smile is menacing.
I settle on: exist quietly.
Umbra turns to the class.
"Visually," he says, "you see nothing remarkable. No aura, no spiritual density, no Ectocore. And yet…"
He glances past me.
My skin prickles.
Something presses faintly against my back.
Cold.
Like a whisper touching my spine.
Umbra raises a hand and makes a small gesture.
I turn my head—
A ghost is standing just behind me now.
A girl.
Her form is faint, edges fuzzy, like she's still getting used to existing.
Her eyes are locked on me.
Wide.
Curious.
"Newly-bound spirits," Umbra says, "often drift toward sources of strong emotional charge. Fear, confusion, wonder, guilt. The living are clusters of all of these."
The ghost girl leans closer.
I can feel her.
Not physically.
But there's this strange pressure, like an echo hovering just inside my ribs.
My heartbeat stutters.
"Hi," I say, because my brain is broken.
She blinks.
Her hand moves as if to touch my shoulder—hesitates, then stops.
Umbra watches closely.
"Now," he says. "Observe carefully."
He flicks his fingers again, sending out a subtle pulse of something I can't see.
The ghost shivers.
Her gaze sharpens.
Her presence—
shifts.
Suddenly it feels like all of her attention, all her existing, is leaning into me.
A cold whisper brushes the inside of my mind:
warm… alive…
I flinch.
The system shrieks.
⸻
[ALERT: UNREGISTERED GHOST IS ATTEMPTING TO ANCHOR TO HOST.]
[Risk: Mild Haunting, Emotional Interference, Long-Term Attachment.]
[Options:
• Allow Temporary Anchor (High Curiosity Gain, Unknown Side Effects)
• Reject Anchor (Will Disturb Ghost, May Draw Attention)
• Do Nothing (Default — Risky)]
⸻
Of course.
Of course I get a pop-up now.
I stand there, in front of the entire class, while a ghost quietly tries to tether herself to my existence and my system offers me a tiny haunted consent form.
Umbra continues, oblivious to the system UI hovering in my face.
"You will notice," he says, gesturing vaguely at my chest, "that the ghost reacts instinctively to the living subject's emotional state. We are not forcing the attachment—only observing a natural pull."
Natural.
Sure.
Totally natural.
My hands curl slightly.
The ghost girl looks at me with such open, fragile intensity that my throat tightens.
She doesn't feel threatening.
She feels… lost.
And desperately unwilling to let go of the one warm thing in reach.
Behind her, a couple of other spirits lean forward from their seats, watching how she behaves around me.
They're not looking at Umbra's diagram.
They're watching me.
The system pings again, more urgent.
⸻
[Decision Timer Initiated.]
[Please Choose:
• Allow
• Reject
• Ignore]
⸻
I swallow.
My mouth is dry.
I can feel Mira's warning echoing in my head—you attract things—and Aeria's quiet caution—be wary of everything—and Fenn's casual "I'll sniff you out later" like that's just a normal sentence.
And now there's this ghost.
Soft. Faint. Tired.
Reaching.
Oh, hell no.
There is no way I'm letting some random barely-rendered ghost girl latch onto my soul like I'm a subscription service.
In my head, I'm screaming:
Wait. Do you really expect me to be kind to some random chic of a ghost when she is nowhere near pretty? Must I say, she is close to being nothing. I can barely even understand her.
THERE IS NO POSSIBILITY OF ME ALLOWING JUST ANYTHING TO TETHER TO ME—EVEN A LITTLE—IF THEY ARE NO BEAUTY!
Of course, all of that stays in my head.
Outside, I keep my expression… neutral.
Hopefully.
We're not doing this.
Reject, I think, hard.
I don't say it. I don't move. I just shove the intent at the system like I'm slamming a form across a counter.
The text glitches.
⸻
[Choice Registered: REJECT ANCHOR]
[Processing…]
[Attempting Gentle Detachment…]
⸻
Gentle?
I brace for an emotional nuke.
Instead, something… shifts.
A small warmth flickers in my chest, then pushes out. Not bright. Just… firm.
The ghost girl flinches.
Her hand, half-raised toward my shoulder, trembles, then slowly curls back.
The weight pressing against my ribs pulls away like someone unplugged a cord.
Her eyes widen.
For a heartbeat, she looks—
Hurt?
Not furious. Not vengeful.
Just… rejected.
My stomach twists.
I didn't say anything. I didn't shove her. I didn't yell.
But she felt it.
Umbra's eyes sharpen.
"Good," he says quietly, more to the class than to me. "Did you feel that?"
Several ghosts nod slowly.
A witch raises a hand. "Professor… the living refused her?"
Umbra inclines his head. "Exactly. The living anchor is not passive. Even without spiritual training, their instincts can reject or accept. This is what makes human anchors so volatile."
The ghost girl backs up a step, gaze still locked on me.
I don't look away.
I want to.
But I don't.
Her form flickers at the edges.
She hesitates.
Then she bows her head.
Just a little.
Then fades back, slipping toward the side of the room, half-hiding behind a row of desks.
The system pings—quietly this time.
⸻
[Anchor Rejected Successfully.]
[Side Effects:
• No Haunting Acquired
• Minor Guilt Accumulation (Host)
• Ghost's Interest: +1]
[Note: She Will Remember That.]
⸻
Yeah, I think. Same.
Umbra clears his throat and gestures at the board again.
"As you saw," he says, turning to the class, "a ghost can attempt to form attachment to a living anchor. But the living consciousness is not a passive vessel. Acceptance, rejection, fear, indifference—they all shape the bond."
He lets his gaze drag across the rows of students.
"Remember: the dead are not the only ones with power in a haunting."
He waves a hand at me.
"You may sit down now, Luka Vale."
"Gladly," I say under my breath.
I turn.
Walking back up that aisle feels worse than the trip down.
I can feel the looks.
Some ghosts stare at me with sharp curiosity.
A few look… offended.
One whispers, "Rude."
A spirit beast snorts. "Human has standards."
I don't react.
Neutral face. Neutral face. Neutral—
The system flashes:
⸻
[Notice: Your Neutral Expression Still Reads As 'Cold.']
[Suggestion: Try Blinking More.]
⸻
I blink aggressively all the way to my seat.
It doesn't help.
I flop down in the back row, careful not to sit on anyone half-phased into the chair.
The ghost I almost sat on earlier scoots two inches away from me now.
Fair.
Yume—the half-asleep dream ghost—turns her head from where she's slumped two rows down and just stares at me for a good three seconds.
"Your dreams are going to be loud," she mumbles, then goes back to dozing.
…What does that even mean?
Umbra resumes lecturing.
Words drift in:
"Echo feedback."
"Over-anchoring."
"Emotional bleed."
"Do not form casual attachments to the living."
My brain catches some of it.
The rest?
It all blurs into one background buzz while my thoughts spin.
I rejected a ghost.
In front of a room full of ghosts.
In a class about ghost attachments.
I didn't do it because of rules or safety.
I did it because I panicked and I'm shallow and I don't want some random, barely-visible stranger hooking a cable into my life.
Aeria's face flashes uninvited into my mind—clear, controlled, distant.
I shove that thought aside immediately.
Nope. Not ready for that mess.
Eventually, Umbra claps his hands.
"That is all for today. Read chapters one and two of Hauntology: An Introduction To Lingering Will and do not experiment with live anchors without supervision."
His eyes land on me for that last part.
"I mean it."
Chairs scrape.
Desks hiss.
Students stand, flicker, drift, leap out of their seats.
The room fills with overlapping auras.
My head starts pounding.
The system pops up again, as if sensing my rising stress.
⸻
[Class: Complete]
Reward: +1 Haunt Point
[Haunt Points Updated.]
[New Quest Available: AFTER-CLASS DECISIONS]
Options May Include:
• Leave Quietly
• Approach Professor Umbra
• Check If Mira Is Waiting Outside
• Get Dragged Into Something By A Classmate
⸻
"Of course I don't just get to leave normally," I think.
I stand slowly.
The ghost girl I rejected doesn't come near.
But I can feel her eyes on me from the side of the room, clinging like a faint chill between my shoulder blades.
I don't turn.
If I turn, I'll feel worse.
If I walk out, I'll feel worse.
Pick your pain.
As I'm debating which emotional damage flavor I prefer—
Professor Umbra calls out:
"Luka. Stay a moment."
Of course.
Of course he does.
A few nearby students pause to stare before drifting out.
The door creaks as the last of them leaves.
The room quiets.
Umbra sets his chalk down, rubs his temples once, then looks up at me.
"Luka Vale," he says, sighing in a way that suggests he regrets getting out of bed this century, "we need to discuss your… situation further."
"Honestly? I feel like I need to discuss that with myself, too."
I say it with a small chuckle.
It dies faster than my social life.
The air shifts. Professor Umbra's expression doesn't change much, but the room feels… heavier.
I let the grin fade and just nod.
"Yeah," I add quietly, "my situation is all sorts of wrong."
He exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. Just tired.
"Correct," he says. "But the question is how wrong… and in what direction."
He gestures lazily and a piece of chalk floats up, sketching something in the air—three circles overlapping.
Mortal.
Spirit.
Echo.
They shimmer faintly.
"You crossed from a stable mortal environment," he says, "into the convergence point of three realms, attached to a system you were never meant to host. You survive encounters you should not, attract entities you should not, and reject anchors you should not."
He looks right at me.
"You are not just 'wrong,' Luka. You are… contradictory."
"That sounds worse," I say.
"It is," he agrees.
Cool. Love that.
The system pops up, uninvited:
⸻
[New Descriptor Detected: CONTRADICTORY]
[Filed Under: Accurate / Rude]
⸻
I ignore it.
Umbra leans back against the desk, arms folded.
"Tell me," he says, "since you arrived—headaches? Voices? Time skips? Any sense of being… out of step with the room?"
I think back.
Blackout void.
System boot.
Headmaster's office.
Mira's scythe.
Wolf girl.
Panic slimes.
Orientation.
Ghost princess small talk.
Accidentally terrifying entire orientation hall with my face.
"I mean," I say, "I feel out of step with everything, but I think that's mostly the 'being alive in ghost school' part."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.
"And the system?" he asks. "Any changes? Crashes? Warnings it cannot process?"
I hesitate.
Just a second.
The system buzzes at the word "crashes" like it's offended.
⸻
[Status: Functioning Within Acceptable Chaos Levels]
[Note: Please Do Not Snitch.]
⸻
"...It glitches a lot," I admit. "Complains. Panics. Mislabels things. But it's… trying?"
Why did I defend it?
Umbra hums.
"It shouldn't be trying anything with a living host," he mutters. "But it appears to be adapting instead of… eliminating. Interesting. Dangerous, but interesting."
He taps the chalk diagram in the air.
"When a ghost anchors to something," he says, "they gain stability. Focus. A place to… exist from. When the living rejects them aggressively, there's backlash. Sometimes for the ghost. Sometimes for the anchor. Sometimes both."
I remember the ghost girl's eyes when the connection snapped.
It felt like slamming a door on someone's fingers.
"So I hurt her?" I ask, quieter than I mean to.
Umbra studies me for a long moment.
"You denied her," he says. "That is not the same as harming… but it does leave a mark. On her memory. On you."
The system chimes softly.
⸻
[Emotional Flag Updated: MINOR GUILT INSTALLED]
[This Is Normal. Please Do Not Panic.]
⸻
"Thanks," I think. "I hate it."
Umbra goes on:
"From now on, if any ghost attempts to attach without consent, you are to reject or delay them. Do not accept anchors on instinct. Not yet. You are unstable enough without adding Echo feedback loops."
"Right," I say. "So: no adopting random dead people. Got it."
"Exactly."
He straightens, flicks his wrist.
The chalk diagram dissolves.
"Next," he says, "you will receive a formal schedule. For now: Hauntology with me. Survival-focused orientation with Exorcism & Mediation. Restricted exposure to Echo Wing. And—"
His gaze sharpens.
"—no more unsupervised experiments with your system."
I cough.
"That is a very specific restriction for someone who has never done that. Ever."
His eyes deadpan.
"The slimes, Luka."
I deflate.
"…Okay. The slimes might have been a poor decision."
"Containment had to rewrite half its seals to account for 'anxiety jelly imprinting on a living anomaly'," he says dryly. "Try not to cost the academy more warding resources than your theoretical tuition would cover."
I blink.
"I have theoretical tuition?"
"You are extremely expensive," he says. "Do not die. The budget will never recover."
Did… did he just make a joke?
The system pings like it heard it too.
⸻
[New Data: Professor Umbra Possesses A Sense Of Humor]
[Rarity: Ultra Rare]
⸻
Umbra pushes off the desk.
"One more thing," he says. "The ghost you rejected? She is minor-tier. But others may try. Some stronger. Some old. Some… curious."
I think of Aeria's eyes.
I don't flinch, but I want to.
"If any of them attempt to anchor," he continues, "and you feel something you can't shake—report it. To me. To Mira. To Nurse Sanguina. Do not handle that alone."
My first instinct is to say, I can manage.
I don't.
Because I can't.
"...Okay," I say. "I'll tell someone. If it gets weird."
His stare says it is already weird, but he lets it go.
"Good. You're dismissed," he says, then adds, almost begrudgingly, "You handled the rejection cleanly enough. For an untrained human."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Is that your version of praise?"
"Yes. Don't get used to it."
Fair.
I turn to go.
The system flickers in the corner of my vision.
⸻
[Class: Complete]
Reward Already Granted: +1 Haunt Point
[Total Haunt Points: 4]
⸻
I take a breath.
And step into the hallway.
I can't seem to shake it off.
Aeria's curious gaze on me.
The way she looked through me instead of at me.
It's stuck in my head like a song I never agreed to listen to.
And now?
…now I feel like I know where she is.
Not logically.
Not "oh yes, I checked the map."
Just a pull.
Soft. Cold. Echoing.
My feet move before my brain finishes arguing.
I don't stop.
I head toward the echo stairs.
The Whispered Staircase.
The air cools the closer I get.
Not the sharp, clean cold of reaper aura—
but the soft chill of something remembering itself.
The stairwell opens ahead:
tall, spiraling up and down into shadows,
stone steps worn smooth like too many feet never quite touched them.
Sound… dulls here.
No distant chatter.
No door slams.
Just whispers.
Too faint to catch.
Too many to ignore.
"Good idea," I mutter. "Follow the creepy stairs. Alone. Great survival instinct, Luka."
The system buzzes awake like a guilty conscience.
⸻
[Area Detected: WHISPERED STAIRCASE]
[Layer Influence: ECHO — MEDIUM]
[Warning: First-Years Are Not Encouraged To Loiter Here Unsupervised.]
[Sub-Warning: You Are You. This Is Worse.]
⸻
"Thanks for the support," I whisper.
I put my foot on the first step.
The stone feels… not quite solid.
Like it remembers being stepped on and is replaying that instead of actually existing.
I climb.
One step.
Two.
Three.
The whispers grow clearer.
"…late again…"
"…I told you not to…"
"…don't leave me—…"
None of it aimed at me.
All of it brushing my ears like forgotten conversations trying themselves on.
On the sixth step, my vision flickers.
Just a blink.
Stone.
Then—
For half a second I see the bus.
The hand holding the milk tea.
The pearl.
I grip the railing hard.
The vision snaps back to stone.
My heart stutters.
"Okay," I breathe. "Fun. Love that."
The system pings, far too calm about all of this.
⸻
[Notice: Echo Layer Bleed Detected.]
[Your Memories Are Being Lightly Prodded.]
[Recommendation: Do Not Spiral.]
⸻
"Great advice. Really actionable."
I climb a few more steps.
It feels like walking through someone else's nostalgia.
Or my own.
Or both.
Then—
On the landing between floors,
sitting on the railing like gravity is optional,
there she is.
Aeria Wraithborn.
Ghost princess.
Echo royalty.
Professional "I make reality feel like a library at midnight."
Her silver hair drifts like it's underwater.
Her dress shifts between styles—a formal gown, then something more modern, then something from a century I don't even recognize—never quite settling.
She's half-faded, legs dangling casually over empty space.
Her eyes find me before I speak.
Of course they do.
"You came," she says.
No hello.
No surprise.
Just a soft statement of fact that somehow makes my chest feel weird.
"…Yeah," I answer. "Hi. Again."
Smooth, Luka.
Very smooth.
She studies me in silence for a moment.
"You felt where I was," she says, not asking. "Did you not?"
I pause.
I want to say no.
I want to say I just guessed.
But lying to a ghost who can probably smell memory feels like a bad idea.
"…Kind of," I admit. "More like… a tug. In my head. Or in the air. Or both. I just… knew it was this way."
Aeria's gaze sharpens.
The stairwell's whispers hush a little, like they're listening.
The system pings immediately:
⸻
[New Phenomenon Detected: ECHO SENSITIVITY (Proto)]
[Note: Host Shows Early Signs Of Hybrid Resonance With Echo Layer.]
[Note 2: This Is Above Your Pay Grade.]
⸻
"Shut up," I think.
Aeria drifts off the railing and touches down on the step in front of me without a sound.
Up close again, she feels different than in the hall.
There, she was formal.
Distant.
On display.
Here?
Her edges are softer.
Her presence heavier.
"She warned you," she says quietly. "Mira. Did she not?"
"About the Echo Wing?" I shrug. "Yes. Multiple times. Very firmly."
"And yet," Aeria says, "you walk into its influence. Alone."
I glance around.
Yeah.
Okay.
In hindsight, this does look very dumb.
"I couldn't shake it," I say. "Your… look. Back there. It felt like you stopped thinking when you looked at me. For a second."
Her eyes lower for a heartbeat—like that hits something.
"…I was not prepared," she murmurs.
"For what?" I ask.
Her gaze returns to mine.
"For you to ask how I am."
Oh.
Right.
That.
My brain tries to cringe itself into another dimension.
"Yeah," I say. "About that. I'm… aware that wasn't exactly normal dead etiquette."
She tilts her head slightly.
"Among the living," she says, "you ask this of each other as a matter of routine. As a shallow ritual. A social script. Whether or not you mean it."
She steps closer—a single, almost-glide.
Not enough to invade my space.
Enough to make the air colder.
"What made you ask a ghost?" she asks.
I think about it.
The question hangs there.
Honestly?
I don't know.
It just… happened.
"Habit," I say first.
Then, quieter:
"And you looked like no one had asked in a very long time."
The whispering around us seems to pause.
Like the stairwell itself is surprised.
Aeria's form flickers.
Not destabilizing.
Just… reacting.
"Your perception," she says slowly, "is… inconvenient."
"Common review," I say.
The system slides into my vision.
⸻
[Relationship Progress: AERIA WRAITHBORN — INTEREST +1]
[Flag: Emotional Anchor Potential Detected]
[Warning: Do Not Acknowledge This Out Loud.]
⸻
"Absolutely not," I think. "We are not saying the word 'anchor' right now."
Aeria's eyes flick past my shoulder briefly, like she heard something.
She probably didn't.
I hope.
She raises a hand slightly.
A faint ripple passes through the stairwell.
The whispers shift—from random noise to softer, more rhythmic breathing of sound.
"This place," she says, "shows echoes. Fragments. The residue of steps taken, words spoken, fears held." Her gaze lingers on my hand clutching the railing. "It likes you."
"…It tried to show me my own death," I say. "So I'd say we're at the complicated acquaintances stage."
Her lips twitch.
That's twice now.
Not a smile.
But dangerously close.
"You should not linger here long," she says.
"You're here," I point out.
"I am part of the Echo," she replies. "You are… not."
She says it like that's the whole problem.
And to be fair—it is.
Silence hangs between us.
Not uncomfortable.
Just dense.
I shift my weight.
"Aeria," I say quietly, "earlier you told me to be cautious of everything. That's a pretty big net. Any… specifics?"
She watches me for a long moment.
Then:
"The realms are… fragile where they touch," she says. "The Academy holds them together. But it is old. And stitched with compromises."
Her fingers trail through the air.
Tiny lights ripple after them.
Echo remnants of gestures she's made a hundred times before.
"The living," she continues, "do not belong in this weave. Your presence is not… neutral. It pulls. Emotions pull. Memory pulls. The System affixed to you pulls hardest of all."
My stomach knots.
"So I'm… what? A walking hazard?"
"A walking possibility," she corrects.
That's worse.
"So your advice," I say, "is be cautious because… everything here reacts to me."
"Yes."
"Even you?"
The question blurts out before I can stop it.
Her eyes meet mine.
There's a flicker—like the faint shimmer on a lake just before it freezes over.
"…Especially me," she says quietly.
The system pings so fast it almost buzzes.
⸻
[Warning: Echo Entity Exhibiting Emotional Distortion Near Host.]
[Note: This Is Dangerous For Her.]
[Secondary Note: Also Dangerous For You.]
⸻
My throat feels a little tight.
"I didn't come here to… mess you up," I say.
"I know," she answers.
She takes one half-step back.
Her form steadies.
"For now," she says, "you must not let anything anchor to you. Not ghosts. Not beasts. Not systems. Not even this stairwell's memory."
I think about the slimes.
About Fenn's tail curled on my blanket.
About Mira's aura wrapping around me in that distorted corridor.
"Uh," I say. "About that. I might already have… several problems."
She blinks once.
"Of course," she says. "You are you."
"Wow," I say. "That sounded almost Mira-like."
"This is not a compliment," she replies.
"Fitting."
Her gaze softens at the edges again.
"Luka Vale," she says. "You should return. The more you listen here, the more you will hear things not meant for you."
Like on cue, the whispers shift again.
This time I hear my own voice.
Faint.
Overlapping.
"—I don't want to die because of a tapioca pearl—"
My stomach lurches.
"That's enough," I say quickly. "Got it. Leaving. Life-affirming decision. Very motivated."
The system chimes in:
⸻
[Quest Complete: FOLLOW THE ECHO PULL]
Reward: +1 Haunt Point
[Total Haunt Points: 5]
New Passive Flag: [ECHO SENSE (Very Weak)]
⸻
Great.
I have ghost Wi-Fi now.
I start to turn away.
"Luka."
Her voice stops me on the step.
I glance back.
Aeria stands on the landing, hair drifting, eyes calm but… not empty.
"If the echoes show you your death again," she says softly, "do not watch it alone."
Something in my chest stutters.
"Who," I ask, "should I watch it with? A reaper? A therapist? The bed that sighs?"
She doesn't smile.
But her head tilts.
"Come find me," she says.
Silence.
The stairwell's whispers hush for a beat, like the world is holding its breath.
The system almost short-circuits:
⸻
[Major Flag Set: AERIA — INVITES FUTURE INTERACTION]
[Route Potential Increased]
[Reminder: You Are Still Not Allowed To Die.]
⸻
My brain chooses the least appropriate response possible:
"Got it," I say. "If I see my death, I'll… schedule it with you."
Nailed it.
Absolutely nailed it.
Regret hits one second later.
But Aeria just looks at me, eyes strange, like she's filing that sentence away somewhere important.
"Go," she murmurs. "Before the stairwell gets curious again."
I don't argue.
I step down, back toward the safer, louder, more murderous parts of the Academy.
The air warms a little with each step.
The whispers fade.
By the time I hit the bottom,
I can hear students again.
Footsteps.
Distant laughter.
The normal kind of supernatural chaos.
The system floats back into view.
⸻
[Status Update:]
• Echo Exposure: Mild
• Emotional Stability: Wobbly But Functional
• New Connection Threads: GHOST PRINCESS (Strength: Faint)
⸻
I know the professor told me not to go near Echo stuff.
Restricted.
Dangerous.
"Not for the living," etcetera.
So yeah, if I go back to Mira now with fresh Echo dust on my soul, she's going to smell it. Somehow. Reapers probably do that.
Fenn definitely will.
Wolf nose. Emotional lie detector. Walking "you smell weird" machine.
Safest option?
Slime babies.
God help me.
I turn away from the main flow of students and head toward the Aura Displacement Closet.
"I guess the safest is to go check on my slime babies," I mutter.
My brain catches the wording one second too late.
"Papa is coming!"
That comes out way too loud.
I freeze in the middle of the hallway.
…Did I just accept that?
The system slides into my vision like it's been waiting to judge me.
⸻
[Terminology Update Registered: "Papa"]
[Emotional Link: Confirmed And Strengthened]
[Note: Host Has Entered The 'Reluctant Caregiver' Phase.]
⸻
"Shut up, system," I whisper. "This is to my benefit."
⸻
[We See No Immediate Benefit.]
[We See Many Long-Term Emotional Complications.]
⸻
"Add it to the pile."
I make my way back through the corridor maze.
Past a pair of gossiping witches:
"…did you see the human's face? He smiled."
Past a cluster of spirit beasts:
"…smells like toast and anxiety…"
Past a floating textbook that growls at me for making eye contact.
Finally, the familiar hallway comes into view.
The rune-lined door sits quietly in the wall, humming with soft blue light and repressed feelings.
AURA DISPLACEMENT CLOSET — EMERGENCY MOOD STORAGE
Feelings pantry.
Slime daycare.
My shame.
I glance both ways down the corridor.
Empty.
Good.
I step up and lay my hand on the door.
"Hey," I murmur. "It's me."
The runes brighten—just a little.
Like they recognize my emotional stupidity.
The system pings:
⸻
[Notice: Stored Entities Reacting To Host Proximity.]
[Emotional Spike: Excitement / Relief / Mild Panic]
⸻
"Honestly? Same."
The door unlatches with a soft click.
I open it.
A wave of warm, nervous air hits me in the face.
Then—
Slimes.
So many slimes.
Okay, not a horde, but more than I remember.
They're all piled together in a quivering, pastel-colored anxiety nest inside the circle of runes, glowing faintly in the filtered aura light.
The moment the door is fully open, they all jolt.
Seven tiny blob heads turn toward me at once.
Seven pairs of wobbly eyes widen.
Then they squeak.
All at once.
Like a choir of rubber ducks having a collective emotional breakdown.
I step inside and shut the door quickly behind me.
"Hey," I say softly. "I'm—"
They launch.
Not far—the ward field keeps them from flinging themselves completely out of the containment zone—but they surge as close as they can to the edge, pressing against the invisible barrier like jelly fans at a concert barricade.
I crouch in front of them.
They wobble violently, small squeaks tripping over each other.
The system appears, smelling drama.
⸻
[Emotional State Detected: "Reunion."]
[Panic Slimes Are Experiencing: Joy / Relief / Underlying Terror (Default).]
⸻
"Yeah, I get it," I say. I breathe heavily, mutually feeling it.
One of the slimes—the cross-eyed one—pushes forward and bumps its head gently against the barrier in front of my hand.
The rune there flares briefly.
Not repelling.
Almost… softening.
I touch my fingers to the same spot.
Warm.
Like pressing hand to glass warmed by sunlight.
I exhale.
"I told you I'd come back," I say quietly.
My voice sounds… different.
Tired, but softer.
Why am I talking to jelly.
The system coughs textually.
⸻
[Observation: Host Keeps Promises To Emotional Blobs.]
[Contrast: Host Has Known Them For Less Than One Day.]
[Hypothesis: You Are In Trouble.]
⸻
"Join the club," I mutter.
The slimes gradually calm.
Their trembling eases from "earthquake" to "washing machine on spin."
One by one, they settle against the inside of the circle, still clustered close to me.
We sit there in weird, quiet companionship.
Me.
Seven stress-jellies.
A glowing ward-circle.
And my possibly-possessed brain.
"Okay," I say eventually, rubbing the back of my neck. "Here's the deal. I am going to get very nearly murdered by classes, clubs, accidents, and my own decisions. A lot. So if I'm… late… visiting, it's not because I forgot you."
One of them squeaks, accusing.
"No," I say. "Not because I forgot you. Because I nearly died. Again. There's a difference."
The system flickers.
⸻
[Micro-Quest Unlocked: "KEEP VISITING YOUR MISTAKES"]
Objective: Check On Panic Slimes Periodically
Reward: Minor Emotional Stability Buff
Penalty: Guilt (If Ignored)
⸻
"Okay, that's actually rude," I say.
But my chest feels a little… lighter.
Just a bit.
Horrible school.
Ancient forces.
Catastrophe-level entities.
But here, in a glowing broom-closet of feelings, I have seven squeaky reminders that I didn't ruin everything.
Just most things.
I reach forward and lay my hand fully against the barrier.
The runes brighten gently, like they're syncing heartbeat to heartbeat.
The slimes press closer, all of them now clustered at that point.
The system quietly logs something:
⸻
[New Passive: "Low-Level Emotional Anchor (Slimes)"]
Effect: Minor resistance to panic in close proximity to imprinted entities.
Side Effect: Attracts More Panic Slimes Over Time.
⸻
"…Of course it does," I sigh. "Why would anything be unconditionally good."
I stay like that for another moment.
Just breathing.
Letting the quiet hum of the ward soak into my nerves.
Then—
Footsteps.
In the hall.
Sharp. Light. Familiar.
The hairs on my arms stand up.
Mira?
No. Not that cold.
Fenn?
No—less bounce.
The footsteps stop right outside the door.
The handle turns.
Slowly.
The system lights up in alarm.
⸻
[Alert: Incoming Entity.]
[Identity: UNKNOWN (Yet Familiar Aura)]
⸻
The latch clicks.
The door begins to open.