By evening, John was back at his apartment.

  He’d chosen not to board at the school. Sure, Ron was powerful, but even he couldn’t protect everyone—not after the disastrous mission of Spirit Class Two proved that. And more importantly, John was terrified the ghostly face on his chest would be exposed.

  If Ron ever mistook him for a spirit and exorcised him? That would be total nonsense.

  Study paranormal lore, grow stronger…

  That night, John lay in bed, waiting for the ghostly face to manifest with his nightly pill while mapping out his future.

  The clock struck midnight. The ghostly face flickered into view, pressing a single physical enhancement pill into his palm.

  “Is this the only kind of pill there is?” John muttered, popping it into his mouth immediately. His physical strength surged, just a little more than before.

  “Could it be the spirits I’ve devoured are just too weak?”

  He knew next to nothing about paranormal hierarchy, but one thing was clear: both the wraith from the cinema and the fleshy mass he’d consumed earlier were the absolute dregs of the spirit world.

  A regular person with a little nerve and a bottle of rooster blood could take them down—no professionals needed. For spirits that weak, it was a miracle they even produced a pill at all.

  “I need to find a powerful vengeful spirit to hunt soon.”

  John spoke to himself, no trace of impatience in his voice. He planned to build his strength steadily and carefully.

  He might not have an innate fear of spirits, but his power was still lacking.

  Lay low and level up—that was the only way to survive.

  The next morning, John was about to head out when he heard a commotion upstairs. A crowd had gathered, chattering anxiously about something.

  “Huh? What’s going on?”

  His brow furrowed. In these tense times, he knew what a crowd like this usually meant.

  John didn’t hesitate—he ran upstairs, finding a group of neighbors huddled around one apartment door. Every single one had faces pale with terror, muttering words like someone’s dead and a spirit killed him. Several were already dialing the official paranormal hotline.

  John listened to their frantic whispers and pieced it together in seconds.

  “A real spirit?”

  He glanced at the apartment door, then stepped straight into the crime scene.

  “John! Are you insane? Get out of there!” a familiar neighbor called after him, grabbing his arm. “There’s a spirit in there! Don’t go in!”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “It’s fine, Uncle. I’m in the Intelligence Division now. This is exactly the kind of thing we handle.”

  John smiled and pulled free, stepping inside the apartment.

  The living room was untouched. He walked straight to the bedroom—and froze.

  On the bed lay the body of a man in his pajamas. His face was ashen, his features contorted in pure, unadulterated fear—he’d clearly died terrified out of his wits. But what caught John’s eye most were the dozens of bloody footprints covering the corpse, stark and unnatural against the pale fabric of his clothes.

  “So it is a paranormal incident.”

  John’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing.

  Outside, the sound of sirens blared. Uniformed constables arrived moments later, swarming the building and cordoning off the area with yellow tape.

  “You again?!”

  Brian pushed his way into the bedroom, his eyes locking onto John the second he stepped through the door. His expression was equal parts confused and exasperated.

  This kid’s always at a damn death scene, isn’t he?

  “Uncle Brian, I live here,” John explained quickly, half-afraid the constable would accuse him of murder again.

  Brian nodded, his attention immediately snagged by the body on the bed. His jaw tightened.

  “A paranormal hit?”

  “Looks like it. You need to call in the professionals.”

  “Goddamn spirits…” Brian’s eyes flashed with anger, then sorrow. He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. “You need to leave. Don’t come back here for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “Not sure. Could be a while.”

  “The authorities are stretched too thin, aren’t they?”

  John didn’t need Brian to say it—he could see the worry in the man’s eyes, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “Just go,” Brian said, his voice firm. He didn’t elaborate, but his grim expression said it all.

  John nodded, saying no more. He turned and left the apartment, the sound of the constables’ radios crackling behind him.

  “Too many paranormal incidents…?”

  Brian hadn’t said a word, but John could feel the gravity of the situation settling over him. It was only a matter of time before this spirit apocalypse engulfed the entire world.

  Before he knew it, he’d reached school, heading straight for the Intelligence Division’s wing.

  “John. A word.”

  Ron called out to him from the hallway, his tone sharp. John froze.

  Did something happen?

  He followed Ron into his office, the room empty and quiet this early in the morning.

  “Spit it out,” Ron said, sitting down at his desk and leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on John. “Why’d you kill the wraith during the assessment?”

  “Huh?”

  John blinked, feigning perfect innocence. “What wraith?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me.” Ron raised an eyebrow, unamused. “I asked around. You were the one who swapped seats to the far right of the back row that day.”

  “Instructor Ron, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Is this yours?”

  Ron smiled, pulling a clear plastic evidence bag out of his desk drawer and sliding it across the table. Inside was a small smudge of dried, rust-colored blood—rooster blood.

  “Found it by your seat. No use denying it.”

  “It is mine,” John admitted, nodding calmly. “But what does that have to do with a wraith?”

  “Still playing innocent?” Ron’s brow furrowed, his voice rising slightly. “If you didn’t kill the wraith, why the hell were you carrying rooster blood?”

  “To wash my hands, obviously.”

  “…What?”

  Ron’s mouth fell open. He stared at John, dumbfounded.

  “I heard it wards off evil spirits, so I carry it with me. My hands were feeling really dry yesterday, so I used it to moisturize them a little.”

  You washed your fucking hands with blood?!

  “Mhm,” John said, nodding seriously, not a hint of a lie on his face.

  Ron’s eye twitched. He stared at John for a long moment, speechless. The kid said it with such straight-faced sincerity it was almost believable.

  “Then why swap seats?” he ground out, regaining his composure.

  “I was afraid I’d spill it on the other students. That would’ve been rude. So I moved to the edge to be safe.”

  “You—fucking hell, you actually thought that up?”

  Ron was stunned into silence.

  John’s story was full of holes, so many it was practically Swiss cheese. But for the life of him, Ron couldn’t find a single way to refute it.