Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Murder Without Results (3)
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"Gasp!"
With the plunging sensation of my body dropping, I shot up in bed.
My whole body was drenched in cold sweat—shirt and pants soaked through like I'd been doused with water.
"..."
What the hell just happened?
Was it because I'd been obsessing over that dream with Theodore that I ended up having another one like this?
But even that didn't make sense. The dream had been far too vivid, and far too brutal to feature someone I normally felt fondness for.
"Damn it... Was I secretly after Judith's ring after all?"
In the dream, what I'd been aiming for was precisely Judith's hand.
I knew I was no match for her, yet I'd grappled with her anyway—and in the end, hurled myself off the cliff.
While in the dream, I hadn't the slightest inkling why I was doing such a thing.
But now that I was awake, strangely enough, I could "feel" that I'd been obsessively targeting her hand.
Which meant there was only one thing left for me to do.
Even though it was just something from a dream with no real incident involved, I had to confess my depraved mental state and enter a monastery.
*Knock knock.*
As I agonized over whether I needed to bind my own body to enact this insane delusion, a faint knock-knock came from outside the door.
I roughly wiped away the cold sweat still trickling down my body and waited for whoever was out there to move on.
Coming right after such a bizarre dream, I couldn't shake the feeling that I shouldn't see anyone.
*Knock knock. Knock... BAM!!*
"Ack!"
The knocks seemed to fade, only for a thunderclap-like boom to reverberate next.
Off guard, I flinched hard and let out an involuntary yelp.
"Hey, you're in there. Why pretend you're not?"
*BAM BAM BAM!*
The voice from beyond the door belonged to Shirley, the strongest woman in the academy.
Normally, if the room's occupant doesn't answer the door, doesn't that mean they can't see you right now?
Shirley showed no regard for such social norms, pounding violently on the locked door in a show of brute strength.
"Wait—just a second. Hold on—"
Had some dire emergency arisen outside while I slept, one demanding I open this door right away?
I flung the door open in a hurry, and Shirley's fist shot right up to my face.
"..."
Reflexively raising both palms like a white flag of surrender, I heard Shirley exhale as if deflating, and she swatted her thrusting fist aside.
Already changed into her outing clothes, she wore a look that was flustered yet somehow relieved.
"What the heck? Did I do something wrong?"
It was right after dreaming specifically about killing someone.
I inwardly fretted that maybe—unknown to me—I'd committed not some harmless sleepwalking murder, but a real one.
The groggy haze unique to someone fresh from sleep was probably egging on such wild thoughts.
"Ah—er. It's not that..."
Shirley trailed off, eyes still wide in that flustered expression of hers.
We stared at each other's faces, sharing a wordless, awkward stretch of time.
Shirley was the first to break the bizarre standoff.
"I was worried."
"Worried? About getting kicked out of the classroom earlier?"
"Huh? Y-yeah, yeah. That. Y-your complexion looked awful."
No matter how I sliced it, it felt like a flimsy excuse.
Besides, even if it didn't apply now, I hadn't been in anywhere near bad enough shape when leaving the classroom for her to chase me down so frantically.
The moment I started to press on that point, Shirley grabbed hold of me again and dragged me hurriedly back into the room.
Having an uninvited young lady barge into a man's room wasn't exactly something to recommend.
Even if that young lady happened to be a stronger-than-me powerhouse.
"Hey, what's with you? Storming into a stranger's room like—"
"You're still such a massive tsundere."
"It's not tsunde... Wait, why'd you lock the door?"
Shirley paid no heed to my complaints, shoving me toward the middle of the room.
Was this a dream too, by any chance?
Had madness gripped me again, this time plotting to kill Shirley within the dream?
It was a disjointed train of thought, but the situation I was in hardly followed any logical progression either.
"Um, senior."
"Y-y-yes?"
"Why the sudden formal speech?"
Well, anyone woken from a nightmare and then trapped in their own room would act this way.
At my frightened reaction, a familiar smile briefly flickered across Shirley's previously anxious expression.
"Ha, unbelievable. What kind of crazy ideas are going through your head?"
"Me? No crazy ideas? If you've got something to say, we can just talk it out, right?"
"Ugh, you're giving me the creeps—cut it out already. Geez. Sit down first. Got anything to drink?"
"Thirsty even in a moment like this? ...Fine, I'll check."
Shirley's noticeably softened demeanor put me at ease too.
At the very least, if I'd killed someone while half-asleep, she wouldn't be reacting like this.
I quickly set a pot atop the small wall-mounted stove in the corner of the room, boiled some water, and prepared tea.
Dormitory rooms technically banned food and drink, but it wouldn't be a big issue... as long as Shirley didn't deliberately report my little infraction.
"So, what's going on?"
Even a hopeless young master who'd lived without ever lifting a finger would learn to brew his own tea after eleven years at the academy starting from age thirteen.
If you couldn't fend for yourself, you'd get weeded out in academy communal life.
I poured tea that roughly mimicked something palatable into cups and handed one to Shirley.
"Pfft! Ow, did you fish this out of lava or what?"
In her rush, she tried to down it in one go, only to grimace sourly, clench her chin like a walnut, and set the cup down.
I fretted intensely that she might smash the tea table and cups over the shabby treatment, but thankfully, the kingdom's basic education hadn't been wasted—she didn't go that far.
Shirley rolled her eyes this way and that, then ruffled her bangs with a lost, bewildered look.
"Did you do something bad to me, by any chance?"
"No—if anything, it's more you, senior... I mean, not that... Anyway, nothing's happened yet."
"Yet?"
"My head's a mess right now, so no leading questions."
I wasn't sure if I was the one leading, but one thing was clear: Shirley was subjecting me to mental torture.
At the tea table, she crossed her legs, uncrossed them, slung her arms sloppily over the table, arched her back, twisted her body in all sorts of ways—then, as if resolved, finally opened her mouth.
"You can't exactly go without sleep for a day or so, right?"
"Who...?"
"You, senior."
"Me..."
The barrage of bombshells left my head reeling.
But the disorientation was fleeting; doubt crept into Shirley's words.
They felt eerily linked to the nightmare I'd been having.
"What do you mean by that?"
"..."
Shirley straightened her posture and clamped her mouth shut with a grave expression.
She so rarely wore such a serious look that I realized the situation was graver than I'd imagined.
"This'll sound stupid, but... does it have something to do with the dreams I've been having?"
"...Yes."
Just this morning, she'd listened halfheartedly to my dream talk—and now, hours later, her attitude had flipped.
"I don't even know how to explain it. Truth is, we don't have much time..."
Her throat parched for no reason, she gulped down the rest of her tea and slammed the cup down.
"Theodore White just had to go and lose his memories, leaving us in a real pickle. Not blaming Theo, though."
She hurriedly tacked on.
"Senior—for the next four days, anything that surfaces is nothing but ghosts of the past."
"Ha... I seriously don't get a word of this. Ghosts of the past? And what's with four days?"
It was the moment Shirley opened her mouth again to field my rapid-fire questions.
A suspicious *ding* rang out from her pocket.
Wearing a troubled look, she fished out a pocket watch inlaid with silver and gold studs, checked something on it, and rose to her feet.
"Arma."
It wasn't her usual playful "senior" tone—this was serious, her voice low and level, expression matching.
Shirley slowly lowered her head to meet my eyes.
In the depths of her gaze, I faintly glimpsed my own reflection.
"We all agreed to this. We've accepted this death. So—don't try to turn it back. Don't try to protect anything. Just... live your normal daily life like this. No need to think about a thing."
The words carried a strange coercive power.
I'd always been spineless and gone along with whatever Shirley wanted, but this time... it was as if defiance was impossible.
Dizziness threatened to return, and I winced slightly—just then, Shirley pressed her finger to my brow, smoothing out the crumpled expression.
"Don't open the door anymore. And please—have good dreams."
Somehow, the unusually intimate contact embarrassed me, and that was when I noticed her eyes gleaming with an odd hue.
The instant I stared into them, I woke up.
"...?"
Unbeknownst to me, I'd been holding my breath—regaining my senses, I gulped down air in heaving gasps.
I'd thought I'd merely closed and opened my eyes for a moment, but apparently, I'd nodded off.
By now, dusk was settling beyond the window.
Reluctantly dragging my body upright, I drew back the curtains.
The landscape, crimson tints nearly gone and edging toward night, exuded its usual desolate aura.
'Don't open the door?'
After one dream after another, my body felt as heavy as lead.
The fine tremors in my limbs made it clear: this was the onset of a cold.
Recalling Shirley's abrupt departure without even a proper goodbye, an aching longing pierced me.
The next emotion to hit was fear.
Fear stemming from the conviction that I'd never see that Shirley again...
Bizarrely, the more I replayed the dream, the worse my condition got.
To avoid dwelling on Theodore, Judith, or Shirley, I consciously quieted my thoughts and drew the curtains shut again.
"Damn... Feels like I absolutely shouldn't fall asleep right now."
The vibe was rotten, but I couldn't shake off the crashing wave of drowsiness.
It felt like tumbling into an inescapable trap tailored perfectly to my body.
I strained to lift my impossibly heavy eyelids and forced a few steps, but it wasn't enough to resist the vicious sleep demon.
*Thud.*
In the end, blackout once more.
Not long after, my darkened vision brightened again.
Before I knew it, I was facing a man standing rigidly straight.
Sword at his waist, black hair—which he usually combed back neatly—now hanging messily over his forehead. The cold-faced man was someone I knew very well.
"...Arthur Usher."
In this dream, Arthur Usher had appeared.