Family Business

The three technicians opened their mouths the moment they stepped inside.

Work, after all, was half done with the hands and half with the tongue—so in truth, they had already begun.

“Damn it, this is insane.”

“The place is a complete wreck.”

“This is not a three-man job.”

The High Priest who had entered with them kept a forced smile fixed in place amid their endless grumbling. The skin beneath his eyes twitched, yet the rosary in his hand continued to turn with perfect calm.

The technician in charge of steel welding sported a mustache that flared out on either side like a pair of wings. The one handling electrical equipment and instrumentation was bald. The site foreman, their de facto leader, wore a face permanently creased with irritation.

The foreman clicked his tongue at the congregants clustered around the power lines, then flipped open a small notebook.

“Let’s confirm the job order again. Emergency restoration of the worship hall. Diagnosis, replacement of damaged sections, realignment, and test run. Correct?”

“Correct.”

The High Priest answered in a low, even voice.

“Urare’s breath must never be allowed to cease. It has to pulse again before tomorrow’s grand service, so the test run must be finished today.”

The bald man jerked his head up.

“Today? Same-day emergency adds a forty-percent surcharge on the base rate.”

The mustached man piled on at once.

“And this is live-line work. Dangerous.”

He tapped a blackened electrode plate; a thin spark hissed and leapt.

“If we can’t kill the power, we need full sets of insulated suits, explosion-proof lamps, and hot sticks. Another twenty-five percent.”

The foreman smiled thinly.

“Factor in the floor surcharge and you’re looking at another thirty.”

The High Priest’s insides seemed to boil, yet he maintained a mild smile. He knew all too well that tongues that worked so well together meant hands that worked just as well.

“Urare will compensate you all generously in Blood Crystals.”

As if he had been waiting for exactly those words, the foreman drew a thin stone tablet from the pouch at his waist. Chalk lines divided it into neat columns.

“Ahem. What about the temporary scaffolding? You want that done too?”

At the foreman’s question the High Priest slowly surveyed the congregants. Their injuries appeared negligible. Raise the scaffolding and they could be put straight back into the service. Paying the technicians a little more to finish quickly was therefore the profitable choice.

“Do it.”

“Then let’s see… total comes to 80.4 Blood Crystals, plus the scaffolding, and we round the decimals up… a clean hundred.”

The foreman tapped the tablet with his chalk for emphasis, producing a sharp little click. The High Priest gave a short laugh.

“Your first quote was sixty.”

“That was when you told us the worship hall was ‘a little damaged.’”

The bald man swept his flashlight across a tattered railing, a half-burst electrode terminal, and blackened coils in turn.

“Right now you can’t put people up there without reinforcing the walls. And…”

He dipped a stick into a puddle on the floor and withdrew it. The tip crackled faintly and glowed reddish.

“Charge is running through the floor. Means the grounding mesh is blown.”

The High Priest twisted his lips once, then spoke in a voice thick with contempt.

“I’ll give you three of the congregants you want. Kill them or keep them—do as you please.”

A brief but intense yellow light flickered in the three technicians’ eyes. The foreman licked his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lips and scraped the chalk across the tablet.

“Well, fine. We’ll knock five Blood Crystals off for you.”

“Tch. Understood.”

The numbers on the tablet bent and straightened like broken rebar. The foreman finished his calculation and spoke in a decisive tone.

“So the grand total is a hundred, discounted to ninety-five. That pushes the cumulative bill a little past a thousand, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll pay in Heart Blood Crystals.”

The High Priest drew a velvet pouch from his inventory and upended it onto a nearby table. The crystals that spilled out rang like clear glass beads—ding, ding. A faint red light pulsed from within each one.

The bald man took a small glass vial from his bag; an unknown liquid sloshed inside. He let a single drop fall onto a crystal. A cloudy film rose across its surface and vanished in an instant, leaving only a clearer crimson and a heat so fine it seemed ready to scorch a fingertip.

Watching this, the bald man announced loudly,

“Genuine.”

The foreman’s eyes deepened to a denser yellow before he recited the terms.

“Then let’s finalize the contract conditions. One: worship-hall power remains at ritual minimum only; we isolate the high-voltage lines. Two: we choose the three congregants. Three: any residual Blood Crystals generated during the work are ours to expend at our discretion. Four: if rework is required due to our negligence, free repairs for seven days; otherwise you rehire us. Five: we are authorized to perform the test run before the ritual begins… agreed?”

The High Priest closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and answered as if summarizing everything in a single line.

“Authorized. Come here.”

He held out the rosary. Each of the three men touched a fingertip to it in turn. All of them wore the same expression of distaste, yet it was an indispensable condition for sealing the contract.

The foreman rubbed his hands together.

“Excellent. Let’s start with the turbine. Baldy—lockout!”

“Confirmed.”

The bald man stood before the old distribution box, hung a red tag on the handle, and snapped a padlock shut with a solid click.

“Megger 5 kV. Insulation-resistance measurement… starting.”

“Stator coil phase A: 0.24 megohms.”

“Below minimum. Moisture’s gotten in. Bake it first.”

“Hit the coils with the heat gun.”

“I’ll scrape the oil.”

“Static’s still circulating. Baldy, check the grounding mesh.”

“Two ground terminals are burned. Lay a temporary bypass and weld the gaps.”

“Secure the waterwheel first.”

“Rotation prohibited. Tag attached.”

“Bearings.”

“Inner-ring spalling. Outer race has pitting. Replace.”

“Lubrication?”

“Brought cold-weather oil.”

“Maintains viscosity at low temperature. Won’t seize even if lightning hits.”

“Electrodes?”

“Pitting holes enlarged, electrode faces chewed up by arcing. New plates.”

“Contact gap standard: 3.5 mm.”

The work proceeded with rhythmic precision. They dried the coils with heat guns, recoated them with varnish until a glass-like film formed, then baked the coating hard. The grounding mesh was bypassed with copper straps, overlaid with new mesh, and painted twice with rust-proofing over the weld scars. Torn brackets on the temporary railing were cut away; scrap iron from the storeroom was cut into stiffeners and bolted into place.

In the real world the volume of labor would have been impossible for three men—or even thirty. Yet under their hands the work began to finish at an unnatural speed. Only a supernatural ability existing inside the Backrooms—a skill—could explain it.

Bang—!

Clang—!

Clack-clack-clack!

Sparks fell like rain. Every time they flew, the bald man made minute adjustments to the fire blanket and explosion-proof lamp positions. The High Priest nodded with solemn gravity.

“Urare, bestow Your grace upon us.”

At those words the foreman snorted. He trusted only numbers and specifications.

“Three, two, one… engage.”

The turbine began to turn, very slowly at first. It dragged like a stiff breath—hrrrr—then, as though a cord had been cut free, spun lightly. The sound from the bearings was smooth; the foreman laid a hand on the casing and felt no significant vibration.

“No-load current 18 A… 15 A… stable.”

“Coil temperature rising 42 degrees. Normal.”

“Ground potential 0.3 V. Good.”

“Nice.”

“Apply load, starting at 20 percent.”

“Raising. 40… 60… 80.”

The turbine recovered its former majestic respiration, pushing the air in a steady rhythm. Dust that had fallen from the ceiling danced in midair as if keeping time. Only then did the High Priest release a long breath. The rosary in his hand turned slowly, clicking—tak, tak. A tiny light kindled in his eyes.

The foreman ran through the final checklist. At that moment a long, straight bolt of lightning cracked down between the electrodes.

“Final: vibration good, temperature good, insulation good. High Priest, please verify.”

The air thinned. A sacred, acrid reek of ozone filled the High Priest’s lungs.

“Oh… oh… Urare’s grace is, as always… perfect. Perfect.”

His voice trembled slightly. Even the mindless congregants were already drifting toward the turbine.

The three technicians began to scan those congregants with deliberate care. Yellow Wildness once again leaked from their eyes. They exchanged sly looks.

The foreman cleared his throat and spoke softly.

“If we’re to continue work, we may need a short rest.”

“Take them as you please. But only three.”

The technicians smirked at one another, each selecting a congregant that caught his fancy. They began dragging the mindless figures toward a secluded corner. Watching them, the High Priest clicked his tongue.

“Tch. Tch. Tch. Disgusting creatures. Because they know nothing of Urare’s grace they commit such acts. They’re bound for hell anyway—what difference does one more sin make?”

“And you?”

An unfamiliar voice.

The High Priest’s eyes flew wide. He had not been seeking an answer, yet someone had replied. Moreover the sound had come from high above, descending from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠air itself.

He started to lift his head slowly—but a cold sensation was already at his throat.

“Move and you die.”

Minel’s low voice.

Yet even at that warning the High Priest did not stop. He opened his inventory. A dagger filled his hand. The instant he made to drive it at Minel—

Shrring—.

A cold light sliced the air. A thin, vivid blue trajectory fell as though a fine line had been drawn through empty space. The High Priest’s brow split, and the world itself split with it.

Minel frowned. Even for a fanatic, he had not expected an immediate counterattack in the face of certain death. Unfortunately the High Priest’s speed had been high enough that killing him first had been the only option. If it was going to end this way, using Noise from the start would have been correct—because the sound had already made the three technicians react. Each of them was frantically drawing a gun.

Bullet immunity existed, but relying on it alone was unwise.

“Hina.”

Minel’s cold voice slipped out between the neatly halved face of the High Priest. Hina, who had been waiting in the open doorway above, fired the Digital ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Vein as if she had already been aiming.

Zzing—!

Zzing—!

Zzing—!

The first beam punched clean through the center of the bald man’s forehead. Like a doll whose string had been cut, the light in his eyes flared once and went out. He collapsed without a sound.

The second beam struck the mustached man squarely between the eyes. His head snapped backward; blood and teeth sprayed from his mouth. The welding torch fell from his hand, rolled across the floor, and spat sparks with a crackle.

The third beam pierced the foreman’s face. The line of light crossed the bridge of his nose and exited the back of his skull, white steam jetting upward. The stone tablet he still clutched dropped to the floor, scattering red droplets across the still-wet Blood Crystal calculations.

The three congregants standing beside them understood nothing. They merely stared blankly at the corpses whose brows had been drilled open.

“Huu…”

Hina exhaled a long breath, feeling the residual heat still hanging in the air. Behind her, Aisil peeked around the doorframe. At the sight of the dead High Priest and technicians his face went pale.

“Th-this… such a g-great sin…”

“The sin was theirs.”

Minel’s brief reply was followed by him prying the rosary from the High Priest’s clenched fingers. He immediately drew out the Backrooms Compendium and examined it.

So this is how they control the priests and the congregants. It would also serve well as identification for High Priests.

“Aisil. High Priests can reach the fourth floor, correct?”

“U-unlike us, they c-can behold Urare’s glory d-directly every time… so they must know the path to the upper floors.”

“Understood. I’ll give you the lightning first.”

The words had barely left Minel’s mouth before Aisil leapt down from the doorway as if nothing at all had happened. He landed lightly, ran forward, and prostrated himself before Minel.

The moment Minel produced the Shocker’s heart, Aisil’s expression flooded with rapture. The congregants who had been gathered around the turbine likewise drifted toward Minel and suddenly began to bow.

“Aaa… aaa…”

“O Urare…”

“Grace! Bestow Your grace!”

Minel calmly watched the scene of dozens kneeling in worship, then glanced up at Hina and Chori, who were looking down at him. Both of their eyelids were half-lowered.

“You’re weirdly good at handling congregants.”

“Right? Kind of scary, actually.”

Minel looked at them, gave a silent shrug of one shoulder, and murmured a single dry line.

“Family business.”