The fourth day began with silence.
For Arata, that silence was more unsettling than any screech, tap, or echo they'd heard in the last three days. The abandoned school, once alive with strange noises that warped walls and twisted corridors, now stood still. The air was heavy, too heavy, as if it were holding its breath.
He and Kusakabe stepped through the warped main doors into the central hall.
The hall should have been no larger than a gymnasium. But what lay before them stretched impossibly far, pillars scattered like distant trees and the ceiling lost in shadow. The windows along the left wall were cracked and stretched, their frames pulled into shapes that defied geometry. Dust hovered midair, suspended unnaturally, as though the room itself had forgotten how time worked.
Kusakabe's sharp gaze swept across the space. His grip tightened on his sheathed sword. "…This wasn't this large yesterday."
Arata nodded, scanning the shifting walls. His voice was calm, steady, the voice of someone who had already seen worse. "It's already expanding the area. Means the curse knows we're here."
A low hum rolled across the hall, faint at first. Then it deepened, vibrating through the cracked tiles beneath their feet.
The silence shattered.
BOOM.
A single note—like a drum the size of a mountain—struck from nowhere. The walls shuddered, then swelled outward with impossible force. The hall doubled in size in the blink of an eye, beams creaking like stretched sinew. Dust rained from the ceiling as wooden supports bent and elongated like softened clay.
From the far end of the room, something began to crawl into existence.
The curse did not step forward—it resonated forward. Its body quivered, rippling with every movement, like sound given flesh. Long and thin, its frame was covered in stretched layers of pale, skin-like membrane. Across its chest and arms, hollow circular holes punctured its form, each one vibrating faintly, like the mouths of flutes or the surface of drums.
Its head was faceless, but it tilted toward them as if listening.
Every inhale rattled the air, as though the room itself was breathing with it.
Kusakabe's tone was low, measured. "…A resonance-type. It's manifesting sound itself. Turns vibrations into force… and reshapes space with them."
The curse's chest quivered. Then—
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
A steady rhythm echoed from its hollow chest, and the floor beneath them buckled. The hall stretched wider again, the sound dragging Arata and Kusakabe apart like invisible hands pulling them away from each other.
In seconds, the space between them had grown to more than fifty meters.
Arata's boots scraped the floor, his cursed energy flaring faintly to stabilize his stance. His voice cut across the hall, unwavering. "It's forcing distance. Wants to isolate."
The curse struck its chest like a drum.
BOOM.
The air rippled outward in a visible wave. Pressure slammed into Arata, pushing him back a step, dust kicking up around his heels. He raised his arms, reinforcing them with cursed energy to anchor himself. The pressure pressed against his skin, heavy as if trying to crush his bones.
Kusakabe's voice carried across the distorted space. "It isn't just expansion—it's compression too. That blast will shatter a man's body if it hits clean."
The curse tilted its head, as if pleased it had their attention. Then the holes along its torso vibrated all at once.
Screeeech.
A piercing note ripped through the air. Where the sound passed, the world itself bent—pillars twisted like corkscrews, and the far wall folded inward like fabric being pulled. The air wavered like heat haze, space itself bending under the sound.
Arata narrowed his eyes, expression unreadable. His cursed energy flickered brighter across his frame. "…So that's its trick. Sound waves to bend and break space itself."
Kusakabe stayed rooted by the hall's entrance. His blade slid half an inch out of its sheath, but he didn't advance. His role was clear. "I'll hold the barrier. Keep this thing from bleeding into the outside. The fight's on you."
The curse's body rippled, every hole on its torso beginning to hum in unison. The sound built, overlapping rhythms forming a grotesque chorus—like flutes, drums, and strings all screeching together. The vibrations warped the air around it, bending light and shadow.
Arata exhaled, steady as stone. He stepped forward against the warped floor, his cursed energy flowing in steady waves across his arms and legs. His presence cut through the distortion like a blade.
The curse's chorus reached its peak.
Then—
CRASH.
The sound detonated outward, the entire hall convulsing. The floor cracked and split, the walls warped like melted wax, and the ceiling stretched higher into darkness. The entire building was no longer a hall but a shifting, twisted soundscape.
Kusakabe braced against the entrance, hands weaving the signs to hold his barrier steady against the warping. Sweat beaded on his temple, but his voice carried out firmly: "The stage is yours. Don't let its rhythm dictate the fight."
Arata stopped walking. His fists clenched, cursed energy flowing down into them. A faint glow spread across his arms, his aura steady and composed.
His gaze locked on the vibrating, faceless curse.
"…Then let's break the rhythm."
With a step that cracked the warped floor beneath him, Arata surged forward. The distorted world shook under his aura as he charged straight into the curse's twisted symphony.
The battle had begun.