Chapter 146
Chapter 146
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 146
Chapter Title: Even If I Fall into a Ghost Story, I Still Have to Go to Work
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People tend to walk with their eyes on the ground on days when they're feeling down.
Smartphones have reduced it a bit these days, but it's something everyone has experienced at least once in the past.
So, everyone must have absentmindedly stared at one of these on the sidewalk or road at some point.
Manhole.
A gray circle you see sporadically along the streets.
A passageway for workers to access underground water pipes.
Everyone knows that.
So, at least once, while looking at that round gray manhole cover, you've probably imagined it.
Someone suddenly popping out from there.
Or... you opening the lid and climbing in.
Of course, it's not easy to encounter in reality. The lid isn't a weight just anyone can lift casually. Usually over 100kg.
So, for most people, it stays just an imagination...
'But what if that everyday fantasy becomes real.'
People suddenly get more curious and pay attention.
The ghost story I was looking for started from there.
"......"
I lifted my head.
It was a dark alley.
The laughter of noisy crowds, shouts, and music were audible right nearby. Flashing lights and that clamor felt like they were just around the corner.
The nightlife district that never sleeps.
But this place was a musty alley shrouded in shadowy silence.
Occurrence Location: Concrete floors near nightlife areas bustling with excited crowds late at night, such as bars, clubs, and college districts.
And a single streetlamp illuminated the filthy alley's concrete floor.
The manhole cover was there.
Situated casually in the midst of that quiet light, just like on any ordinary city street, the manhole had something strange about it.
It was slightly ajar, with a human hand sticking out.
"......"
Incomprehensibly, an arm protruded from the slightly shifted manhole cover.
Pale five fingers stood stiffly, shaking in the streetlamp's light.
As if pleading for help.
Previously sighted arm appearances:
Elementary school girl with nail art, street cleaner uniform, knitwear, old school uniform, suit, ■■-era military uniform, wart-covered old man's hand, nail-less ■■■ covered in ■■■ tattoos.
It's the kind of otherworldly sighting that would make most people scream, hesitate, or report it somewhere.
'But if someone's drunk or caught up in the vibe, they might approach without thinking.'
That's what this ghost story preys on to lure people in.
"......"
I slowly approached the hand sticking out of the manhole.
The hand waved gently.
One step, one step. When I was about my height away.
"Hoo."
I turned around.
I rummaged through my backpack, grabbed a salt packet I'd brought, scooped up a handful of salt, and tossed it over my left shoulder.
Toward the manhole.
Kiiiiieeeek!!
A bursting screech erupted behind me. An unbelievable roar from salt dust.
And a foul, burning stench like sewage igniting.
'Ugh...'
Smoke billowed up.
But I absolutely didn't turn back. If I just stood my ground...
Soon, the sounds and smells vanished.
"......"
Then I turned my head.
The arm was gone.
All that remained was the pitch-black manhole under the streetlamp.
Slightly ajar.
'...Good.'
I stuffed salt packets into both pockets and approached the manhole. The embossed patterns and letters on the lid grew clearer under the streetlamp.
Typically, the outer circle indicates the manhole's purpose and destination, while the center bears the managing entity's logo.
This lid was the same; up close, you could make out its 'destination' and 'managing entity'...
Hell
鬼鬼鬼鬼鬼
This wasn't a sewer entrance.
An gateway to somewhere else entirely.
"...Ha."
I grabbed the lid with trembling hands and pushed.
Heavy.
But beneath the slowly shifting black lid, a pitch-dark hole appeared...
Thud.
Nothing visible below.
An unsettling void.
"......"
I checked my gloves, mask, and hat were properly on. Sprinkled salt all over my body, then stepped down the ladder.
Clack, clack.
Gradually distancing from the noise above.
Lights and signs of life faded.
Downward. Deeper down.
Alone.
'...Being alone makes it scarier.'
My spine chilled, but I gritted my teeth and descended. I'm the guy who survived four days in that insane mart just a few days ago...!
'Do it.'
I clenched my teeth and moved my feet.
After tens of seconds, until sweat soaked the glove on one hand...
Splash.
My foot hit the bottom.
Ignoring the squelching oddity as best I could, I mechanically stepped forward.
A dark sewer tunnel stretched ahead, too low to stand fully upright.
Strangely, I could see the eerie passage despite no light.
'This is insane.'
Suppressing the spine-tingling silence, darkness, and cold stench, I pressed on. Into a disconnected place where phones and cameras wouldn't work...
Then, at some point.
'...There it is.'
"Hoo."
Finally, I found it.
A rusty door fitting for a sewer.
Circular like a moat gate, it was a filthy, heavy industrial door you'd see in an old factory.
And embossed on it:
餓鬼
'Hungry Ghost.'
The ghost that fell to hell from greed, tormented by eternal hunger. Or the hell where such ghosts reside.
And strangely, there was a hole to the left of the door.
...Beyond it, the sound of running water...
"......"
I caught my breath, sprinkled salt over my body again, and gripped the rusty door handle.
Held my breath, and opened it.
Kiiiiieeeek.
A vast space like a plaza unfolded.
Topped with a hemispherical dome cover, it resembled a typical sewage treatment plant...
Aaahhh!
But countless hands filled its walls.
Bony withered hands, corpse-blue hands, hands etched with bizarre tattoos, hands in ceremonial gloves, hands with manicured nails...
And every hand clutched something.
'Made it.'
Darkness Exploration Records' Meeting Plaza.
'Faceless Market.'
[Faceless Market]
A small special region derived from a ghost story in [Darkness Exploration Records]. Accessible via the 'Manhole Arm' that lures and devours people between the afterlife and this world. Insert an arm here, and like the 'Manhole Arm,' you can entice others with an item in your palm. Praised by ghost story insiders as an anonymous marketplace: accessible anywhere, identity hidden for trades. Various factions that would never meet otherwise interact here—reading those combos is a delight.
That's right.
These arms embedded here react to someone approaching with a suitable item, snatching it away.
In the process, they drop their held merchandise, completing a barter.
A bizarre market utilizing the horrific ghost story phenomenon of luring humans to harvest organs and spawn missing person tales—for trades.
Daydream Corporation, with its many hostile groups due to its nature, risks trade refusals or attacks if affiliation leaks. Considering their personalities, it's no surprise. Fun to watch in these special records.
That's why I hadn't come until now.
'Why add risks when I'm diving into ghost stories nonstop? Especially with stable spots like the alien shop for good deals if you have cash.'
But now... no money.
And if issues arise, I can 'reveal' a non-Daydream identity.
'Hoo.'
I stepped inside.
Recalling the ghost story constraints.
Got to be quick.
In the records, the intrigue outweighed the horror, but being here made the whole vibe creepy as hell.
'Feels like stepping into a horror game...'
I ignored the unidentified liquid pooling on the floor, staying as calm as possible.
I wasn't alone, after all.
"......"
A few people were already wandering the cavern sporadically.
Checking the arms lining the walls, most were covered head to toe.
Some strolled openly in normal clothes, faces exposed, smiling—but I avoided them most.
'That's the real madness.'
Better not get involved.
I had specific trade candidates in mind.
Anonymous meant no personal IDs, but faction hints were there.
In the hand shapes.
True to the ghost story world, they had eerie tells.
With enough knowledge, sleeves, tattoos, accessories pinpointed affiliations.
'Few have that knowledge, so it's practically anonymous. But I do.'
And my top target had a standout physical trait. Namely...
"......"
I stopped.
Amid the tempting arms shaking items, I spotted a gaunt hand.
A hand missing the pinky finger.
On its palm wasn't merchandise, but a bloodstained scrap of paper.
Gripped so tight the text inside was illegible.
No one knew if it was even for sale; passersby didn't even glance.
But it was what I sought.
'That paper.'
I approached the arm and reached out...
"Eh, that's been here like five years already."
My body froze.
"You don't seem to know how things work here? These arms aren't real people waving; they're ghost phenomena mimicking them."
Someone grabbed my shoulder, chattering away.
"Meaning no one's been manning that arm for five years straight. They might've left ages ago and croaked."
The problem was,
"What do you think?"
I knew the voice.
"......"
Instead of shaking them off and bolting, I stiffly turned my head.
"Doesn't seem like a very enticing item, does it?"
Only curved eyes showed from the masked face.
But those eyes and the voice were unmistakable.
I'd seen the face just days ago.
'...Agent Choi!'
The early named agent who'd visited my hospital room was there.
'W-Wait.'
But he was talking to me?
Right now, I'd deliberately padded my missing right arm area with a mannequin prosthetic and cotton, hidden under my coat.
Not easy to spot a missing arm in this darkness.
Sure, a veteran Supernatural Disaster Management Bureau agent might notice...
'But in the ghost story world, missing limbs are a dime a dozen.'
No way to be sure.
Running would look suspicious.
I barely calmed and faced him.
Might be probing this item's identity via chat.
"Ah~ Want another tip? Most folks don't know this..."
Agent Choi glanced at my hand reaching for the 'arm,' then leaned in chummily.
It was...
"Veins on the wrist are unique to each person? Like fingerprints. Remember them, and you can ID anyone. They hide faces, fake builds, burn prints—but can't burn veins."
"......"
"And don't let your guard down. Even if covered up."
Caught.
"Rookie. What're you doing here? No..."
Agent Choi grinned.
"Who told you about this place?"