Part 1 Epilogue: The Scratch That Followed
I woke up in bed. Snap! What was that? It felt like I'd just heard something ominous. I glanced at the floor and saw my pad lying there, probably knocked off when I got up. No, thankfully the screen was facing up, but why was it propped at such a weird angle like a seesaw? I picked up the pad. Beneath it, the floor revealed the long metal support strut from the desk. A sturdy metal one at that—one that could easily scratch a pad!
I hurriedly flipped it over to check the back, and sure enough, there was a nasty scrape mark. Screeech! My pad! But amid the frustration, a chilling sensation crept in. I'd seen this somewhere before. Wait, that didn't make sense. Where on a brand-new pad would there be a rough spot like this? Still, I definitely remembered seeing it. So... where was it? A scratch on a new pad. Huh?
I traced the scratch on the pad with my finger. Unsettlingly enough, it matched the wound I'd gotten while wandering those passages without spotting the gate to the afterlife. I couldn't be 100% sure it was the exact same mark, but the position was roughly the same. It was almost like the scratch that should have appeared back then had finally caught up to real-world time... No, logically speaking, wouldn't this be the causal truth? The footage I'd snapped and brought out from there didn't show any scratch, which was the weird part. Having this one here actually proved it wasn't a dream.
I turned on the pad and navigated to the video folder. Inside was a hefty broken file. The one over 23 hours long, right? All of it was proof that place was real. How I'd woken up in bed and made it back to reality was still a mystery, but the fact that I had woken up was crystal clear. I'd wandered around there for nearly a full day, huh?
I tried pressing play, but it still just displayed the "broken file" message. So it wouldn't magically fix itself just because that place collapsed or whatever. Nothing else was there. This time around, unlike the first solo trip, Lambda Lilion had been with me, so I hadn't needed to turn on the pad anyway.
As I went to tap it again, Lambda Lilion's warning flashed in my mind. Not just the student handbook or school systems— even off-the-shelf pads from outside could be dangerous.
Bzzz. The pad vibrated right then. Wait, no—the pad was still. I instinctively turned toward the sound and spotted the student handbook. I crawled across the bed and grabbed the device labeled "Student Handbook" from the desk. I'd left it up there because it felt like something only for studying.
Opening its book-like cover revealed a pad that folded in half. There was one alarm waiting. I tapped the student handbook, then the alarm, and a message popped up.
Checking where the notification came from, I saw it was a school-exclusive messenger app integrating all sorts of functions, separate from the pad. It looked just like the ones from my past life. And with just a student's grade and class, you could contact anyone. Teachers from the affiliated school included, of course. Wait, doesn't this trash personal privacy?
I dove into the settings to see what was there. Whoa. As expected, it was a minefield of traps. First thing, I cranked personal info visibility down to the minimum. No, the default being maxed out—and including report cards?! That's straight-up insane.
I poked around more. Holy crap. It wasn't just the affiliated school; it linked to the university and even the research institute. In other words, with a student handbook, you could message basically anyone inside. Most people had tweaked settings so you couldn't unless they approved, but first-years in the affiliated school? Every single option connected...
Harsh, but getting burned here might save you from real-world scams outside. Education through safe failures, I guess.
First, I texted Phaenax back to confirm receipt—and tossed in how to access privacy settings. No need for anyone to learn the hard way, right?
Then a thought hit me, and I searched with no filters. Boom—everybody showed up. I scrolled down looking for those names I'd just heard: Philip Goldberg, Ailia Secrem, Irene Fraggit. As expected—or inevitable—their names weren't in the alphabetically sorted list.
Searching them directly would probably invite death, though. I'm not scared of dying, but the agony on the way there? Hard pass. Better play it safe.
Oh, right. I'd promised to remember the names. I opened the student handbook's notepad, then closed it. Grabbed the pad, opened its notepad, closed it. These are risky too. If hacking's a threat, storing stuff on magitech devices isn't smart.
Instead, I eyed the one bookshelf crammed with actual books. Sure enough, amid the fresh new ones, I found a blank notebook with no title. Obviously—if you're prepped for studying, blank notebooks are a must. I pulled it out and jotted down the three names.
Under Irene Fraggit, I added "" for Nirvana. Wait, she'd said something else after that, right? Oh yeah. "If needed, give them Fraggit."
Irene Fraggit. Nirvana... Fraggit? A chill unrelated to that dead space washed over me. What did giving a name mean? Why attach the Fraggit surname to herself? Logically, only one answer: child.
Irene Fraggit's image resurfaced. Not "resurfaced"—more like it still lingered, refusing to fade from my eyes. Anyway, focus on her. Unlike Philip Goldberg and Ailia Secrem, who were just single cross-sections like they'd been sliced by a sword, Irene's lower half was gone from below the ribs, as if deliberately carved out. The smooth curved cross-section looked like surgical removal of unnecessary parts.
My brow furrowed naturally, but recalling Ailia Secrem's horns grotesquely piercing her own eyeballs gave me a rough idea. Biological experiments. You guys cleaned all that up, didn't you? The internal records all covered the Grey Ark Research Institute's horrors from over 60 years ago, full of vows never to repeat it.
Ugh. Can't expect everyone to be good. Diversity means accepting the bad too. This world's no fairy tale brimming with dreams and hope like I'd imagined.
Or wait— the idea of children being precious is a modern invention, so maybe not that different? Back in my past life's Industrial Revolution, kids got wrenches shoved in their hands and pushed into machine gaps, or up chimneys for cleaning. Plenty crushed or lungs wrecked by soot. Treating them as disposables was normal—and that was less than 200 years ago. Not my place to judge. Eyes shut on this one.
I don't even want to "do something" like Lambda Lilion expects. I'm not that grand a person. Gotta respect this world's culture. If it's worthless? My inner Confucian dragon whispered, You treated kids as mere generational links—what're you on about? I smacked my wavering morals aside, closed the notebook, and shoved it to one side.
The sky outside was blindingly white. The dorm was cool enough inside but not frigid. Fall must be here, yet the late summer heat lingered. Today was Saturday. Schedule completely empty—no rec activities or anything. My time to kill, basically.
Oh yeah, something popped into mind. I fired up the pad and searched for games. Mobile games. After nearly 13 years—first time since reincarnating, first real web access in forever—I hadn't thought of it till now. But with a pad, these had to exist. And yep, they did. Even compared to high-spec stuff I knew, these didn't suck at all. Tons of 'em.
No way—random boxes here too? Relentlessly exploiting human weaknesses for dopamine hits and cash, same everywhere. Comments griping about dirty business models, or flexing "Pulled this character in one box—is that good?!" all over the place. Even this is identical...
Still, that familiarity warmed me as I browsed boards for well-rated games. Spotted one with art like my old favorites and went to download—then stopped. Sadly, this pad wasn't mine. Issued for work, sure, but not my property. I know better.
Life's about not making enemies, and money ties can turn murderous over a slip-up. Especially when the other party's a demon, not even human. What kinda nightmare would that unleash? So, games on hold. Gotta buy my own pad. Hmm...
Means earning cash. Adds stuff to do. Once school life's routine, maybe grab a part-time gig? Could meet folks, see how this place really ticks.
I listed future to-dos, then searched gameplay vids of my target game to tide me over. ...I never should've done that. Blew my mind—the story's insane. Gotta grind cash for my pad, stat!