Final Destination
We huddled around Edward and quickened our pace once more. To escape the chaotic city streets, we chose a back alley in the restaurant district.
"Let's head back to the academy for now. There are too many hazards out in the open."
"Yes."
The others seemed to share my sentiment, offering no objections to my words.
Even in Everlight Academy, where nobles and royals gathered in droves, a back alley was still just that—a back alley. In this era without skyscrapers, it felt musty and foreboding.
Thud!
Rozalia narrowed her eyes at something she'd spotted and pointed it out.
"Teacher, over there…!"
For some inexplicable reason, a wooden barrel "happened" to topple over as we approached, even though nothing had touched it. It must have been filled with cooking oil from a nearby restaurant, because as it fell, a pungent, sticky oil spilled out, soaking the ground with its overpowering stench.
"Watch out. Something's about to start again."
That's when it happened.
"Gaaah!!"
Edward's scream pierced from the side. I whipped my head around to see him slipping comically on the spilled oil, like something out of a slapstick comedy.
But unfortunately, the world we lived in wasn't a rom-com or a gag fest. If he fell like that, he'd no doubt "accidentally" crack his skull or snap his neck and lose his life in some absurd way.
Thankfully, Edward managed to grab a pile of crates from another restaurant stacked in the alley just before he toppled over, steadying himself.
"Hah… hah…"
His face pale, Edward stared down at his feet. Right where he'd nearly fallen, a sharp rock jutted out "coincidentally" as if it had been waiting.
"Another brush with death."
"S-Sorry… I wasn't watching my step…"
"Don't sweat it. Even if you had, some 'coincidence' would've tripped you up anyway."
His expression soured at the word fate. Still, slipping was better than nothing. I'd half-expected a fire from that oil…
I let out a silent sigh of relief—then froze, my gaze shifting.
The crates Edward had grabbed to catch his balance. And atop them, teetering precariously, was an oil lamp with its flame lit.
Wobble, wobble… And thanks to the jolt from Edward's grab, the lamp shook "coincidentally" again…
"Rone! Grab that lamp!"
If it hit the oil-slicked ground and shattered, the whole area would erupt into a sea of flames in seconds.
Just before it crashed down, Rone reacted to my shout, lunging forward to snatch it mid-air. Before yet another "coincidence" could strike, she swiftly snuffed out the flame.
"…Damn it. Can't let our guard down for a second."
The group's tension mounted as the scale escalated, the 'coincidences of death' now blatantly gunning for the club members. This wouldn't do.
If even deserted spots weren't safe, maybe we should hole up somewhere utterly empty and quiet. That's when a small warehouse—likely used by the restaurants—caught my eye.
"Let's hide in there for now. It's too far to make it back to the academy."
No rule said avoiding the outdoors meant it had to be inside the academy. Everyone nodded at my suggestion.
We hurried over, slipped through the creaky door of the rundown shed, and concealed ourselves inside.
The interior was dark, dusty, and reeked of mildew. But it felt safer from 'accidental mishaps' than the street outside. Maybe we could just hunker down until midnight.
The fortune cookie prophecy specified Wednesday. So if we survived this Wednesday unscathed, the assaults should end.
To ward off any external threats, we bolted the warehouse door the moment we entered.
"At least we'll be safe holing up in here, right?"
Edward's voice trembled with anxiety. The relentless death traps had frayed his nerves to the breaking point.
"Don't jinx it—!"
At that instant, a massive flour sack perched precariously on a high shelf "coincidentally" tipped over and plummeted—straight toward Edward's head.
Damn it. Of course.
I yanked Edward toward me just as the scene unfolded.
Thud!
The sack hit the floor with a crash, bursting open and filling the air with a thick fog of fine flour dust in an instant.
The warehouse turned ghostly white as the powder blanketed everything.
"Cough, cough! Damn, this ghost story is relentless!"
"Teacher, are you okay?"
Rone hacked complaints between coughs while Rozalia immediately checked on me. Edward squinted through the haze, coughing nonstop.
"Dropping stuff from above again, huh? Guess the ghost story's running out of ideas. Hiding in here might've been the right call after all."
Even amid the chaos, Aurora coolly assessed the 'coincidence.'
True, before Edward reached the Paranormal Investigation Club: once with a brick, once with a flowerpot in the alley, and now the flour sack—three times total. We were starting to recognize the patterns.
Maybe hiding inside was the answer? The kinds of 'coincidences' in a sealed space like this were limited.
…Wait.
Warehouse. Flour. Sealed space.
A powerful sense of déjà vu hit me. The bone-dry interior. Flour saturating the air. The enclosed area. The three keywords flashed, forming a chilling combination.
"No! Open the door now! Run!!"
"Huh? Teacher, what—"
As I desperately yanked the bolt, a crackle! echoed from the corner. A "coincidental" static spark flared up.
BOOM!!!
A deafening roar shredded our eardrums as an orange flash engulfed the warehouse.
Fortune smiled—we were prying the door open right as it detonated, blasting us out instead of trapping us inside.
"Cough! Cough! Damn it!"
"W-What just happened!?"
"Dust explosion. Happens in sealed, dry, confined spaces filled with flour particles in the air when a big shock or static hits."
"S-Such a thing…! What ghost story is that!?"
"Not a ghost story. Science."
Well, technically ghost story-induced, but no time to lecture Rozalia on facts.
"F-Fire!!"
"Teacher!"
Edward and Aurora's shouts drew my eyes. The alley was already an inferno.
The oil puddle we'd slipped on earlier, the spilled barrel—now ignited by the dust explosion's flames.
I knew it!
Roaring crimson fire devoured the entire alley. Breathing through the scorching smoke was agony; we veered desperately into a side street and ran.
…
The moment we burst onto a safe road, we collapsed, gasping for air. Sweat, dust, and soot caked our bodies, but no serious injuries.
Edward trembled, face ashen, but at least he was breathing steadily. Behind us, the warehouse still crackled with flames.
The blaze had claimed merchants' livelihoods and tears—but not us. Guilt stabbed at the shop owners' screams, but I reminded myself it'd all rewind later and looked away.
"This… this is too much."
Rozalia muttered between ragged breaths. The others didn't voice it, but their exhaustion screamed agreement.
Wave after wave of relentless 'coincidences' had worn us to the bone; we could only pant in fatigue.
This ghost story's assaults were meticulously vicious. It started simple—slipping on oil. But layered beneath: a flaming lamp poised to drop. Dodging that led to the warehouse, flour sack drop, burst sack filling the air—triggering dust explosion. Escaping outside? The oil ignites into a massive blaze.
One event hid multiple death triggers. Evading one sparked another. Breaking free reactivated the initial trap's hidden blade.
Felt like starring in a creative slasher flick. Problem was, we were the protagonists.
What ingenious trap awaited next? The thought killed any urge to laugh.
As the utterly drained students fell silent, I lay back and closed my eyes.
But I wasn't surrendering. Solving this ghost story was simple—its name hinted at the method.
Inevitable prophecy. Make the prophecy fail, and it becomes avoidable—triggering resolution.
The prophecy: Edward's death. Desperately saving him was the right track.
The cookie specified Wednesday. Survive past that, and these creative 'coincidences' end.
Ultimately, a battle of endurance: protect Edward until Thursday, Paranormal Investigation Club vs. the ghost story.
But trouble brewed. The ghost story's onslaught was fiercer, more tenacious than I'd gauged. Endless flight would exhaust us to collapse.
It waited for us to break, for Edward to yield to fate.
From the start, the fight favored it: it attacked endlessly; we only defended. One slip, and it won.
We needed another solution. And for that, a different tool.
I finalized my plan mentally and opened my eyes.
"Rozalia."
She'd been whining tearfully but startled at my voice, looking up.
"Yes, Teacher!"
"Head back to the academy right now."
Her eyes widened.
"Pardon? I… I can still do more! If you're saying that because you think I'm useless now…!"
"No. Rozalia, we need Elaine to resolve this ghost story. Someone has to swap with her."
Plus, her gift meshed poorly—Pure Wish amplified ghost stories via imagination, terrible synergy with coincidence-weaving 'fate.'
She gazed at me, confused, weighing if I was just excusing her away. But soon grasping my sincerity, she nodded.
"Understood, Teacher. I'll fetch Miss Elaine as swiftly as possible."
With a final worried glance, Rozalia hurried off toward the academy.
Soon, the end credits would roll on this wretched Final Destination. And this film's ending wouldn't be bad—it'd be bittersweet.