Chapter 77: If It Can Be Solved Directly, Why Overcomplicate It?
Mitarai Saburō stared at the operating table oozing thick red fluid, his mind racing.
The strange table now seemed completely still—but he had just seen it far away moments ago.
This eerie phenomenon sent chills down the spines of many chosen contestants. Even the audience from Sakura Nation held their breath for him.
Mitarai knew panic would only invite greater danger. Survival demanded a calm mind.
The operating table’s movement likely followed certain rules. When observed, it froze. But the moment he looked away, it crept closer.
To test his theory, he glanced out the window, then snapped his head back.
Just as he suspected—the table was now only three meters away.
The dripping from the table grew faster, like a beast salivating as prey drew near.
Mitarai had cracked the rule: the table moved only when unseen.
Testing its attack range was too risky—he had no room for error.
With this knowledge, he and the last remaining female specter stood back-to-back, inching down the hallway.
As expected, the table stayed immobile within their line of sight.
Attempting alternate routes proved futile—the tables acted as guards, blocking access to doctors and nurses. The only way past was to find a janitor.
Other contestants fared better in groups: one could watch the table while others advanced.
But this stage tested familiarity with the hospital’s layout. Those who hadn’t memorized it risked dead ends—trapped by the tables.
Luckier ones found rooms to hide in, though the tables would then blockade the exits.
The unlucky? Cornered until patrolling security dragged them to the “treatment room” for disposal.
The tables never attacked staff—a clue from the rules, as janitors could clean them without issue.
Mitarai, alone and vulnerable, barely escaped multiple close calls. Only his meticulous study of the hospital’s design and patrol routes saved him.
As more contestants fell, the stakes grew clearer: knowledge was survival.
Now, in the building where shadowy figures flickered, Mitarai searched desperately for a janitor.
Minutes passed with no sign of one. His pulse quickened.
“Wait—janitors store supplies in restrooms. If they’re not here, the restroom must be the key.”
He hurried to the restroom area.
The men’s room seemed empty. But upon opening the women’s door—
A ghastly figure loomed.
The janitor’s sagging, wrinkled face was nightmare fuel. Mitarai flinched but held firm—she showed no hostility.
He pleaded for help. With doctors and nurses off-limits, the janitor was his last hope.
Her demand? Fix the broken lightbulb in the women’s restroom.
Mitarai’s instincts screamed: “This is a trap.”
Restrooms—especially women’s—were notorious death zones in supernatural realms. Many had perished here before.
Yet hesitation meant doom. If doctors left before he escaped, he’d be stranded.
Steeling himself, he stepped inside, the female specter trailing him.
He avoided the mirrors—but his detective habits made him catalog every detail.
“Why are there urinals in a women’s restroom?”
Then, peripheral vision betrayed him:
The mirrors.
Words scrawled in blood materialized. His reflection smirked, lips curling—“Welcome to hell.”
Worse, shadowy shapes floated around his mirrored self. The harder he tried not to look, the more his mind conjured horrors.
Near the broken bulb, a stench hit—putrid, rotting.
Red sludge dripped from ceiling cracks.
Above, something gnawed and chewed.
Even Mitarai froze. This felt like point-of-no-return territory.
“Did I pick the wrong janitor? A disguised monster?”
The rules mentioned no such trickery—but the supernatural loved loopholes.
Many Sakura viewers shut their eyes, unable to watch his impending demise.
Three minutes of paralysis passed—then clarity struck.
The bulb was the key.
Its flickering had unleashed the hauntings. Delay risked either full-scale paranormal assault or missing the doctors’ exit window.
Gritting his teeth, he sprinted to the bulb, boosted by the specter.
As he worked, the ceiling whispered. Toilets flushed on their own.
Observers braced for his gruesome end—
Click. Light flooded the room.
The dripping stopped. The mirrors cleared. Only the inexplicable urinals remained.
Mitarai exhaled. The janitor’s hint had been literal: Fix the bulb, suppress the horrors.
Success won the janitor’s aid—a recurring rule in this world. Help specters, and they reciprocate.
Larger teams, like Eagle Nation’s veterans, fared better here. Shared courage made the task bearable.
Yet some still failed or quit.
Then audiences wondered: “How did Dragon Nation’s contestant handle this?”
The screens switched to Zhang Yangqing.
The answer left them speechless.
He never even entered the restroom.
As a security guard, he marched up to the operating table—smashed it to pieces—and tossed it out a window.
The tables didn’t attack staff. To him, this was a minor obstacle. Kick it aside and move on.
If it can be solved directly, why overcomplicate it?
