Chapter 98 Rescue Squad
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
A woman’s voice drifted through the ruins, clear and strong, singing a soldier’s tune that warped halfway into something filthy and funny. I appeared in the heart of the second layer’s dead city, the cracked highway slicing through towers of dust. My rescue team—the Second Squad—was on the move.
At the front marched a young woman with a huge pack on her shoulders. Her short curls bounced as she sang, striding as if this battlefield were only a mountain path behind her home. The tune, about snow and lost comrades, was one I half-remembered from my previous life—except she’d twisted the lyrics into jokes about men’s parts. Typical soldier humor.
She must have been the squad’s scout. The women of Kujukuri Town’s army still carried traces of the old Japanese military style—discipline wrapped in strange nostalgia. Trash-san, walking beside me unseen, smiled gently when I commented on how cheerful they looked.
”It’s a great honor to rescue a man, Young Master,” she said. “Some of them are quite excited. Forgive their mood.”
”Don’t worry about it,” I said. “When this is over, I’ll thank them properly.” Her eyes softened, though she still grimaced at the bawdy song.
Trash-san herself was part of the rescue operation, which made communication possible. I followed the column through the wrecked streets, bringing grim news from below and a message from Flatty-chan. When I told her what we’d discovered in the lower level, she ran to report it to the captain. Within minutes the unit gathered experts on Maggot creatures and illusions, discussing what little they knew. My job was to carry their findings back.
The situation was worse than I’d hoped, yet nothing changed about what I had to do—survive, and get everyone out.
Trash-san worried for me more than she admitted. She hadn’t expected that layer to be so horrific; she regretted leaving me there and was furious at herself for it.
”Still,” I said, “someone had to come deliver messages, right?”
”Even so, I should never have left your side,” she replied, gripping my invisible hand tight. “We will save you. Please, until then, stay safe.”
Her touch steadied me. “I’ll manage. Flatty-chan’s with me, though she hit her head. Be ready to treat her when we return.”
Trash-san nodded. “That’s her role, not yours, Young Master—but she’s more reliable than she looks.”
Seeing her again, even briefly, eased the weight in my chest. For a moment, it felt like safety itself.
The soldiers passing us couldn’t see me, yet none gave suspicious looks. The Second Squad was composed of psionic users from Kujukuri Town—women trained to show proper manners toward men. They weren’t simple troops; they served noble families whose heads could still marry men and share ritual power. The squad was a private force of those houses: younger daughters, orphans, and bastards, graceful and well-trained, proud as courtiers.
While the officers debated what awaited in the third layer, Trash-san explained the strange excitement running through the ranks.
”It pains me to say this before you, Young Master,” she murmured, “but many of us hate needless killing. Victory may be honorable, yet cutting down poorly armed villagers is no joy. Most of the women here are tired of slaughter.”
On the surface, Kujukuri’s main forces were already purging Isumi Town’s people—ray guns against bamboo spears. The Second Squad, at least, hadn’t lost their humanity.
”Our anger belongs to the leaders of Isumi, not the townsfolk forced to fight,” Trash-san continued. “Chasing helpless girls through the mud brings no honor.”
”So they don’t want to kill,” I said quietly.
”Most don’t,” she answered. “No matter what the nobles preach, it’s still people killing people.”
Her words eased me. The ethics of this era might be thin, but they weren’t gone.
”Still,” she added with a small smile, “when the mission is to save a man, even a grim battle feels a little brighter.”
It was like rescuing a kidnapped princess from an enemy nation. No wonder their spirits ran high. Sometimes I realized again just how much, in this world, a man was treated like something precious and rare—a princess in his own right.
Meanwhile, Kujukuri’s armies continued their so-called revenge, burning and killing their way through Isumi. The main force had already reached the center and begun the final sweep. For these women, vengeance against the leaders who had dared to touch a man was a duty that burned like faith.
Even so, no one could tell the ordinary citizens—those who’d never been told the truth—to die for society’s rules. The orders might demand an example, but to the people pulling the triggers, killing was still killing. Only a few warriors ever enjoyed it. For the rest, the endless slaughter was a weight they carried, and the idea of rescuing a man gave them something clean to cling to.
That was why the scout at the front hummed as she walked, leading the column like a cheerful sparrow. Her Psionic Power let her sense danger in the ruins, they said—a gift that made her the natural point woman.
I followed, one hand pressed against my bruised stomach, climbing over the broken asphalt. Holding Trash-san’s scarred fingers grounded me. Lately she’d stopped objecting when I touched her arm or hand; maybe she’d given up arguing.
”Where are we heading now?” I asked.
”To a fixed point for the rescue,” she said. “When using teleportation-type Psionic Power inside the dungeon, the axes must align precisely. Otherwise, movement between floors becomes unstable.”
So their mobility specialist was guiding everyone toward a point where her power would work best. Judging by our pace, we might reach the hut ahead of them.
”Excuse me, Artificer-dono,” someone called. I looked up.
The woman leading the march had turned, her black hair—wet and clinging like seaweed—swaying as she bounded back toward us. Trash-san’s old nickname, “Artificer,” still followed her from her fieldwork days.
”Forgive me,” the scout said, eyes bright with curiosity. “Were you speaking to your master just now?”
Her face was open and friendly, like a playful tanuki. “If so, please excuse the interruption. I only felt… well, a bit envious.” She laughed, rubbing her gloved hands together, then ducked her head shyly.
For common soldiers, chatting with a male master was an unthinkable privilege. Even joining such a conversation could be seen as envy-worthy. Trash-san tilted her head. “Did my talk distract your search?”
”Not at all!” the scout said quickly. “It’s just—everyone speaks so highly of you in the town. Graceful, calm, never pretentious. I’d heard many tales, but seeing you here feels unreal.”
The girl fidgeted, twisting her fingers, her voice trembling with excitement. Trash-san chuckled softly. “She hardly notices such things herself.”
”That’s exactly what’s so wonderful!” the scout blurted. “You carry yourself without vanity. So clear—so free of pride. We never see you at the southern town, so if it’s not too rude, may I…?” She trailed off, cheeks burning as her hair fell forward again.
Trash-san, ever patient, said, “Would you like to speak with the Young Master directly?”
”N-no! I’d only like to hear a little about him,” she stammered. Around us, other soldiers leaned closer, curious smiles peeking through the dust. It was clear they’d encouraged her to approach.
I couldn’t help smiling. It felt like a meet-and-greet at an idol event. Considering their mission risked their lives, their curiosity was understandable. “It’s fine,” I said. Trash-san relayed the permission, and the scout’s face lit up.
”Really? I can ask?” she gasped.
”Just mind your senses while you talk,” Trash-san reminded her.
”Of course! Actually, my Psionic Power works better when I keep talking!” she said proudly.
”Then by all means,” I said, and their easy camaraderie made me laugh.
Thus began an impromptu interview. She asked several questions—polite, careful ones—and spoke as if representing the entire rescue unit. Curious glances surrounded us like a quiet audience.
”So, Young Master,” she finally asked, “what is your opinion of women?”
”I like them,” I said without hesitation. “You included. When you’re older, I’d like to speak with you again.”
Trash-san translated smoothly: “He holds no dislike for women, Chiyo-dono included.”
”Truly?!” the scout cried, her seaweed hair bouncing. She nearly jumped for joy.
Trash-san kept interpreting my short replies, though she didn’t need to. Then the questions turned toward her. She tried to stay modest, but I could tell the girl’s fascination wasn’t just with me.
When I asked about that, she admitted, beaming, “Your return from Ichihara has been in every paper. People can’t stop talking about the heroic escape!”
”So that’s what it’s come to,” Trash-san muttered, rubbing her forehead.
Apparently, our struggle through the dungeon had become a sensation—printed in broadsheets, exaggerated into legend. To the public, I was the damsel who’d escaped death, and Trash-san the gallant prince who saved me. Old-fashioned romance dressed as wartime propaganda.
”I knew people were talking,” I said, “but not that much.”
”They’ve even turned it into a play,” the scout confessed. “A traveling troupe asked to perform it outside town!”
Trash-san groaned. I only sighed. Thinking of the woman we’d lost down there, the idea of seeing it dramatized made my stomach twist.
Honestly, I’d had no time to care about my reputation. There were too many things close to me that still needed protecting.
Not everyone loved my Imperial Guards. Some noble families still despised them, enough to spit when they passed through the northern districts. That the rescue unit could now walk through town without open hostility was, in itself, progress.
The questions were starting to die down when a sharp, mocking voice sliced through our talk. “Can’t you be quiet? Seems the lower-born Imperial Guards don’t know how to march properly.”
I turned toward the speaker—a girl in her late teens, elegant in bearing but with eyes that cut like knives. She was beautiful in the way of wild things, and clearly used to getting away with insolence.
”We only brought her along out of pity,” she went on. “Perhaps someone should’ve taught her when to keep her mouth shut.”
Chiyo stepped forward immediately, bristling. “A male is present. That tone is far too rude!”
The noble girl smiled thinly. “Oh? Forgive me. But with all this pretending, how do we know he’s truly here? Maybe this woman is just performing a little pantomime.” Her fake smile turned toward Trash-san.
That did it. Chiyo’s cheerful expression vanished. “How dare you speak that way! You insult the Artificer and, worse, you question our master’s honor!”
”A jest,” the noble said. “Only… the behavior of those around him seems rather shallow for such a distinguished presence. If he truly hears this, I pity him.”
So that was her angle—concern disguised as contempt. She believed she was defending me from humiliation.
”I’ve heard,” she continued, “that the Imperial Guards have endangered their master more than once. To praise such recklessness as heroism—how pitiful. A noble like him deserves guards who act the part.”
Her clear voice carried through the ruined street. Beneath the words lay anger, but also something colder: envy. She looked toward where she guessed I stood, her gaze oddly sympathetic.
I couldn’t blame her suspicion. For most women, speaking freely with a man was a fantasy. To those of high birth, such casual familiarity must have looked like a lie.
Then she crossed a line. “For a scavenger’s brat to chase glory by fighting instead of keeping to her place—it’s filthy ambition. Ah, but I jest, of course. No offense meant, dear Artificer.”
Her sneer was all poison. Trash-san only smiled, the picture of calm.
”Even a chosen unit has its rough stones,” she said gently. “Some born to noble families fail to inherit title or duty, and they grow bitter. We should pity them, not answer them.” Then, meeting the girl’s glare head-on, she added softly, “But of course, this young lady is not one of those. Her manners toward gentlemen show her fine upbringing.”
”What did you just say?” the noble hissed.
I finally understood. She came from one of the houses that loathed my Guard. Among the nobles, daughters ranked third or lower often lived near men of their household but were never permitted to speak to them. That nearness bred jealousy—against elder sisters, against anyone closer to a man’s favor.
Trash-san’s words were a knife wrapped in velvet: a reminder that despite her birth, the girl had no standing. The air between them cracked with tension.
”Did I mishear?” the girl snapped. “What did you call me, half-blood?”
”It’s a shame,” Trash-san replied smoothly. “But the Young Master has no need of leftovers. Nor is he swayed by noble sponsorship. If you want his attention, you’ll have to earn it another way.”
The noble dropped her fake smile; Trash-san kept hers. The silence between them was sharp enough to bleed.
So that was it—she’d been trying to display herself before me, to fill the missing slot among my Guards. Chiyo hovered anxiously nearby, wringing her hands, uncertain whether to intervene.
Before anyone could speak again, the night itself interrupted us.
A chime rang out through the ruins. Ping–pong, pan–pong. A public broadcast tone—soft, stupid, and wildly out of place.
”What’s that sound?” I murmured. “Some kind of announcement? This is surreal.”
The whole unit froze, gazing up at the black sky. The hollow speakers built into the city ruins crackled to life, the voice echoing through the empty streets.
”Good morning. Good morning. This is the Isumi Town Administration Office.”
The sound rolled through the concrete canyons, distorted, full of static. Thirty women stood motionless, listening. The only thing moving was the voice.
”A notice from your district office,” it droned. “Regrettably, this year’s summer festival is canceled. Please evacuate the town immediately.”
The words spilled from the sky, looping over us like a ghost. Each pulse of the broadcast seemed to chill the air.
”The summer festival is canceled. Please evacuate the town. This year, next year, the year after, and the year after that…”
Then came the music—a cheap, tinny melody like the morning radio exercises of a school summer break.
”The year after that, and the one after that, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next…”
The same line repeated endlessly, echoing through the empty streets until it no longer sounded human at all.
The voice looped like a broken record.
No power ran through the city. The electrical lines were nothing but rusted veins, the buildings drowned in darkness. Only a few dying streetlamps and stubborn traffic lights still burned with pale, lonely light.
The broadcast hadn’t sounded human. It carried the cadence of something that remembered how to imitate a person but had forgotten meaning. Static, echoes, words stitched from fragments of an older world. I’d felt this before—the strange aura of a mystical object born from the Uncanny Valley.
”That concludes this message from the administrative district,” the voice finished cheerfully. “We wish you a pleasant day in your neighborhood. Let’s all live happily and energetically!”
The speaker gave a final chirp and fell silent.
The Isumi Town Administration District—did that mean Himawari’s people? But there were no districts anymore, no functioning government offices. The very concept had vanished generations ago.
Naturally, we ignored the order to evacuate and resumed the march. Flickering streetlights flashed in the corner of my vision. The ruins felt heavier now, the earlier argument gone as if swallowed by the night. Something unseen was wrong—like discovering a forgotten god had twisted into something unholy.
”This place gives me the creeps,” I murmured.
The darkness felt sentient, as though each corner led somewhere that wouldn’t let us return. Night in the second layer was like that—a maze of wrong turns and invisible eyes.
Isumi had few weapons but plenty of mystical objects, each with unpredictable effects. Anything could happen here.
”Trash-san,” I whispered, “what was that broadcast?”
She kept one hand on her photon rifle, eyes scanning ahead. “We are already in full conflict with the ogress. She’s likely manipulating the dungeon’s traps and mystical artifacts against us. It’s begun.”
She released my hand and moved with silent precision. “The enemy triggers traps deliberately so their backlash strikes us. We’ve already passed through several of them.”
She called Himawari “the enemy” now.
The squad moved slowly, each step measured. With their psionic abilities, they could have dashed through the ruins like shadows, but speed meant death when every inch of ground might be cursed.
After a few minutes, we reached an old phone booth standing alone beneath a halo of white light. It looked absurdly clean, as though the rest of the street existed only to frame it. A single spotlight on a dark stage.
”Why is that spot so bright?” I whispered. The booth drew my gaze like a magnet, and soon everyone else was staring too.
Then the ringing began.
Ring-ring—
I jumped, and the soldiers froze mid-step. The sound echoed through the dead air, too loud, too alive.
Trash-san exchanged a few urgent words with the captain. “Can you identify it, Artificer-dono?”
”It’s an electric telephone,” she said. “A device once used to send messages by wire. But that one isn’t real—it’s a construct.”
I’d never seen one, but she spoke with certainty. She’d forced knowledge of traps and mystical artifacts out of the peasants before migrating here.
”Ignore it,” she said. “It doesn’t move unless provoked. As long as we don’t touch it, it’s harmless.”
”So it’s a trap, then?” the captain asked.
”Yes. Never pick up that receiver. Anyone who does will keep listening forever.”
We started forward again, careful not to look directly at it.
Jiriririri—Jiriririri—
The bell kept shrieking as we passed. No one was near the booth. The cables were cut long ago. There shouldn’t have been power or a caller. Who could be on the other end—a person, a ghost, a monster?
No one was foolish enough to answer.
Or so I thought.
”That was a mistake,” someone muttered.
The ringing stopped.
I ducked behind Trash-san. The sudden silence was worse than the noise.
At the front of the column, the same proud young noblewoman was stumbling. The captain was shouting at her. The receiver hung loose, swinging gently inside the glass box.
No one had touched it. No one had even gone near it. Yet the coiled phone cord dangled, slack and broken.
Everyone’s eyes went to the girl—and then to her feet.
Something thin as piano wire was looped around her ankle, running from her boot to the booth. A nearly invisible trip line. She’d triggered it without realizing, yanking the receiver off its hook.
It wasn’t a mystical object at all—it was bait. A manmade snare designed to make someone ‘answer’ the call.
The debris and wrecked cars around the street had been arranged to funnel us straight across that line.
The captain sighed, voice tight with anger. “Careless. Learn from this.”
”H-how was I supposed to see that!” the girl snapped, slicing the wire and rising, weapon trembling in her hands as she aimed at the phone booth.
I wondered if even that counted as “picking up the call.” The receiver had fallen because of her; the line was open now.
Whatever waited on the other end was already listening.
Notes:
• Psionic Power – Mental energy concept in Chapter 35’s lecture. Trash-san teaches it to strengthen the protagonist’s mind after dungeon ordeals.
• Chiyo – The squad’s finest scout from Kujukuri Town. Her Manifestation Type psionic power allows her to “hear the density of mystery itself” by singing an old military song, acting as a living sonar. Has curly hair; has a singing voice.
• Himawari – A one-eyed black oni girl/aberration-type psionic; town leader/face; asks for promotion help; apologizes for killings; sets 2‑day deadline.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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