The Endless Night Patrol Manual

In front of the incessantly blaring alarm—beep-beep, beep-beep-beep—I could only stand there, dazed and unable to even think of turning it off. I was trapped in a ghost story. Or rather, the moment I'd accepted the night duty role, I'd essentially volunteered to throw myself into one. But the choice I'd made back then was different from the situation I faced now.

At least until just moments ago, I'd believed that even if I was inside a ghost story, I could escape whenever I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wanted. I had regression as a fallback, and even without it, I could observe the story's structure, understand it, spot its weaknesses, and slip through. That's how I'd handled everything so far. Like solving a jigsaw puzzle—when you get stuck, shove the remaining pieces aside, sleep it off, and tackle it fresh the next day.

But now, in this moment, I realized for the first time that I was truly cornered. Time and space. The ghost story had bound my hands and feet with those two chains. Infinite in space, so impossible to resolve. Endless in time, so no escape.

"...Am I really going to be stuck here forever like this?"

Come morning, the students would notice I hadn't returned after finishing duty and rewind time for me. But... when the hell would that morning come? After I'd spent days, months, years in this midnight academy? Hell, would I even live long enough to see it?

"I need to die."

I was exhausted now. So suicide it was. But this wasn't some desperate, despair-driven conclusion. Logically, my mental fortitude couldn't endure that eternity, nor did it need to. To survive it, I had to die. Obviously, the dead perceive no thoughts, no passage of time. No matter how much time looped, from my perspective, death would just be a brief daze followed by instant awakening.

With my thoughts sorted, I left the duty room and headed for the central staircase.

"Who would've thought I'd end up as the final bait for the central staircase, after feeding it so many anomalies during my patrols."

Reaching the central staircase, I walked forward bit by bit and threw myself in. The moment my foot hit the step, thick fog surged up, devouring me from the toes upward.

"A manual ghost story, huh..."

I wouldn't call the number of ghost stories I'd faced "countless," but it wasn't a small number either. Among them, though, the manual ghost story was on another level entirely. Far more cunning and meticulous than ordinary ones, manipulating space and time at will—it was a whole different class. I could escape via death this time, but I had no clue how to confront it. Even the most plausible answer I'd cleverly devised fell flat, as if mocked. Could retrying solve it? Would bringing other students change anything? Or would I just flee via death again? Next time with them in tow?

"..."

By the time the thick fog had crept up to my waist, I thrashed, shook off the mist climbing my body, and escaped the central staircase.

"No. Not yet."

The fog had reached my waist, but since I'd barely stepped onto the first stair—or maybe because it was the first floor—the pull wasn't that strong. I barely managed to break free.

"Right now, I can't solve this ghost story. And I can't escape alive. So in that sense, yeah, I'm definitely going to have to die to get out."

But how I died was up to me. A regressor's death must always be strategic, valuable. Not some reckless plunge into the story. Especially not when I was a teacher with the lives of the Paranormal Investigation Club students on my shoulders.

"Sorry, but feeding me to it can wait. First, I need to investigate at least one more potential weakness."

Die fighting—inflict damage, grab a weakness if I could. With that resolve, I turned from the central staircase and recommenced the night patrol. Not to solve the ghost story this time, but to die with value.

...

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

The alarm clock I'd grabbed from the duty room rang again. The third time since abandoning suicide at the central staircase.

"So, three hours have passed."

The Paranormal Investigation Club students walking the hallway with me chimed in agreement.

"Teacher, we've investigated plenty. Time to rest, right?"

"Yeah, Mr. Allen. Give up already and hang out with us."

"Ohohoho! To tumble about with beautiful young ladies like us in the dead of night—Mr. Allen, you truly are a blessed teacher!"

"..."

"Don't ignore me, you damn bald bastard! I'll rip out your tongue!!"

I ignored them completely. But the so-called club students—no, the ghosts merely mimicking them—soon revealed their true colors. Ignoring them from the start meant they could only tempt or threaten verbally; no physical harm.

The manual said ignoring ghosts was best, but verifying it firsthand was another matter. In three hours wandering the midnight academy, I'd gathered plenty of intel.

"Kekekeke!!"

"Ehehehehehe."

"Ohohohohoho!!"

Ugh, annoying as hell. Ignoring the cackling ghosts scraping at my nerves, I sorted my findings.

"My harvests from patrolling the academy boil down to three big ones..."

First: Physically escaping the academy was impossible. After the central staircase, with my head cooled, I'd wondered if I could smash a hallway window or force the front gate. No dice—the gate's lock wouldn't budge, and chairs bounced off unbreakable windows. Not just tougher; the very concept of breakage was gone.

Honestly, after confirming time rewinds, I hadn't expected much. Windows shattering from a chair toss during loops would've been ridiculous anyway.

"First one's low-value info. Next, the second."

"What? Talking to himself? Losing it? Kekekeke."

Ugh, these ghosts were shifting from scary to irritating. Second realization: Every hour on the hour—precisely when 12:59 ticked back to 12:00—the manual ghost story grew stronger. The ghosts of Rone, Aurora, and Rozalia appearing with each alarm were prime examples.

At first, I thought I'd missed them during patrol, but I'd checked every classroom up to the fourth floor. No way I'd overlook them. Ghosts had no need to hide from me anyway.

Caught off-guard at first encounters, I'd nearly spoken but restrained myself. And that explained it: This manual ghost story was too high-class for one unexposed to many people. Replicating space to stack endless fourth floors, looping time to prevent midnight's end—it was overpowered for a baseline story. Unless... it'd undergone strengthening events without my knowledge?

I'd thought the Elaine ghost woke me before midnight, but rationally, she couldn't have. So the story had already strengthened by wakeup. Maybe multiple times.

"Second bit was useful. But not as much as the third."

The third intel came the moment I grasped the second.

The hidden entries of the night patrol rules unlocked. Their contents were as follows.

A status window hovered over the duty log ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like an overlay. It contained extra details absent from the log itself—like viewing others' descriptions via status windows, but for the ghost story atop the rules.

Most was just a summary of what I'd figured out solo during patrol. Makes sense for Observation. If it revealed unknowns, it'd be precognition, not observation.

Still, not all useless. It detailed things like music duration—experienced but unnoted amid chaos. And crucially, hints for escaping without dying. Maybe even more than escape, if my hypothesis held.

"Good thing I didn't die."

"Huh? What's that?"

"Thinks he's cool. Ugh, gross."

"My stomach feels off, milord."

Ugh, once out, I'd mess with the real ghosts' originals. Ignoring the chattering pests on either side, I followed the status window's hint and moved.