Chapter 3:
The Libary Lockdown
The Talisman And The Floofball
I spent the next two periods—Feudal History and English Lit—trying to perfect the "Talisman Tap," a quick, subtle pressure on Fumo's taped-up forehead that delivered a measured dose of anti-spiritual repulsion. If I pressed too hard, I'd cause a minor localized hurricane. Too soft, and Akira's demonic shadow would be back.
It was exhausting, like using a sledgehammer for micro-surgery, but it was working. Every time I noticed Akira’s shadow begin to stretch toward an unsuspecting classmate, I’d tap the backpack. Thrum. The shadow would shriek (inaudibly, thankfully) and snap back.
By the time the lunch bell rang, I felt like a human tuning fork, vibrating with anxiety and residual Void energy.
I didn't head to the cafeteria. I headed straight for Akira.
He was still slumped in his desk, looking pale and completely unaware that he was hosting a spiritual parasite. This was the problem with Manifestations—they were invisible to the mundane, and they kept their hosts docile to prevent disruption.
"Akira-kun," I said, leaning over his desk.
He looked up, groggy. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had the haunted look of someone who hadn't slept in a week. "Sato? What’s up?"
"Nothing much," I lied, trying to look casual. "Look, about that agrarian practices paper... I was having trouble with the bibliography. Could you come with me to the library? Just for five minutes? You always nail the citations."
Akira blinked, slow and tired. "The paper's not due for another week, dude."
"I know, but, uh... extreme procrastinator," I said, tapping my head.
Thankfully, Akira was too drained to argue. "Fine. But I need coffee."
"Perfect. The library vending machine has the really terrible, highly caffeinated stuff," I chirped.
I practically hauled him out of the classroom, my backpack—containing the now-twitching Fumo—clenched against my chest. Every step brought us closer to the rift, which meant the shadow was getting stronger and Fumo was getting angrier.
We were halfway down the main hall when the air suddenly thickened. It wasn't just the metallic taste anymore; it was a heavy, suffocating pressure, like the atmosphere had turned into syrup.
And then, the sound.
It was a low, scraping, clicking sound, like fingernails dragging across stone, but it seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was the sound of the world’s seams fraying.
Akira didn't react, still shuffling along like a zombie. But I knew what it meant: the Manifestation was tired of being tapped away, and it was actively trying to solidify the tear.
I shoved Akira through the library doors. "Five minutes, Akira! Bibliography emergency!"
The school library was usually a sanctuary of quiet, but today it was empty. Perfect.
I pulled Akira toward the secluded fiction section in the back corner. "Just sit here. I’ll grab the citation guide."
As I turned, I heard a terrible, wet sound behind me. It wasn’t Fumo.
I spun around. Akira hadn't moved. But his shadow, which had been lurking meekly at his feet, was now fully detached. It had risen up to his height, a towering silhouette of pure, undulating black.
The Manifestation finally had enough power to separate from its host.
The shadow figure had no discernible features, just an outline—a tall, emaciated shape with impossibly long, spidery arms. And those clicking noises? They were coming from the places where its arms should have joined its body, flexing and unflexing like broken joints.
"Ssssstooop..." The voice scraped the air, causing the fluorescent lights above us to flicker violently. It didn't speak with its mouth; the sound vibrated out of the air itself. "...The containment... You will cease."
I backed up slowly, putting a tall bookcase between myself and the entity. My heart rate was definitely topping 200, but years of living with Fumo had trained me to operate on pure adrenaline and sarcasm.
"Listen, buddy, I don't know what you are—a rogue poltergeist, a vacuum cleaner spirit, whatever—but this is a library," I hissed. "We have a no-noise policy, and you’re violating at least six major Fire Code regulations with that whole 'amorphous black hole' thing."
The creature ignored me, its eyes—two small, sickly yellow pinpricks—fixated on the backpack.
"The Talisman... you cannot hold the gate closed."
I knew what it wanted. It wanted to remove the seal, let Fumo fully materialize, and then presumably fight it for control of the rift, allowing a whole carnival of spiritual nightmares to flood into Andrew Bell High. Not on my watch.
I backed up until I hit the cold glass wall of the emergency exit door. I was cornered.
Suddenly, Fumo did more than just twitch. The backpack exploded open, not violently, but with a rush of freezing air that smelled strongly of ozone. Fumo, the pathetic, taped-up fluffball, floated out, hovering right in front of my face.
The Manifestation hissed, backing up slightly. It clearly recognized Fumo’s power, even when contained.
Fumo looked at the shadow creature—at least, I think it looked at it with its four grumpy eyes—and then, in a clear act of defiance, it performed a slow, deliberate vertical spin.
The packing tape, which had been holding perfectly, finally gave way under the strain of a dramatic, contained-demonic pirouette.
SHHHHHHP.
The Talisman ripped free. It floated harmlessly to the ground.
Instantly, the library was plunged into chaos. The lights went out completely. The atmosphere didn’t just thicken; it froze solid. Fumo was still physically small, but the raw, unadulterated power of the Void-Eater erupted from it, creating a spherical zone of pure, blinding magenta light.
The shadow creature screamed—a sound that shattered a nearby vase—and disintegrated, turning into a cloud of ash that was instantly sucked toward Fumo’s core.
The Manifestation was gone. The threat neutralized.
I braced for the collateral damage, the inevitable building-shaking explosion.
But nothing happened. The light subsided. The air went back to normal. The only evidence was the broken vase and the smell of ozone.
I looked at Fumo. It was floating, no longer fluffy, but condensed into a tiny, intensely dense black hole of a creature. It wasn't sealed, but it wasn't destroying the world, either.
Then I noticed the difference. The Talisman had fallen off, but the Manifestation had been sucked into Fumo.
Fumo turned toward me. It looked powerful, terrifying, and completely unsealed. Then, it made a sound. It was not a hiss or a squeak. It was a single, perfectly clear, human word.
“Hungry.”
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