I Was Kidnapped by a Book and Ended Up Saving the World - Chapter 15

Mizutani Hikaru sat in a soft chair, lightly pushing with his feet so the chair on wheels slid outward, then let it roll back to its original position.

Despite looking and acting like a serious, composed adult, he actually had all sorts of strange little hobbies in private.

At the moment, he rested his chin on his hand, conjuring in his mind the figure of a man he’d seen from another perspective—a tall figure with black hair tied into a bun, dressed in monk’s robes.

Just from his aura alone, it was clear that this man had not been ordinary when alive. The more formidable someone was, the more likely their name would be remembered.

Mizutani opened up his other phone’s contact list. At the very bottom was a number belonging to an information broker from the jujutsu world he’d added earlier.

[Help me look into a sorcerer who’s already dead.]

[Got any details?]

[Black hair in a bun, wearing monk’s robes, height over 1.8 meters.]

The reply came back almost immediately.

[Suguru Geto. He was killed just last month by Satoru Gojo himself. And by the way, he wasn’t a sorcerer—he was a curse user. In fact, the strongest among them.]

Attached was a colored photo: the man in robes with a gentle smile curving his features, violet eyes glimmering with what looked like compassion.

Aside from the expression, his appearance and clothing were identical to the spirit Hikaru had seen.

Hikaru swiftly transferred the information fee.

A curse user’s ghost following his alias down the mountain… it felt like the start of some bl00d-soaked tale.

Still, Hikaru understood that if things were really as he’d observed—if Suguru Geto’s soul couldn’t affect the physical world, couldn’t even leave a footprint in fresh snow—then he wasn’t even a threat.

“What’s wrong?” Suguru Geto tilted his head slightly, looking at the young man who had stopped walking.

The youth who had been moving along the street—Snow—suddenly froze. White flakes fell gently into his hair, as though draping him with a pure bridal veil.

“I don’t have a home. I don’t know where to go.”

Snow bluntly explained his predicament. That was indeed the truth—his real body could always funnel money over, but it would take at least half a day to arrange. Meanwhile, this vessel had no ID, no bank card, making earning money even harder.

Geto swept his gaze over the surrounding buildings. He was silent for a moment, then in a voice lighter than the drifting snow itself, he said:

“Come. I’ll take you somewhere.”

The only person who could see him was this frail youth trembling even in the light snowfall. If he let him die here in the season’s first snow, Geto didn’t even know where he’d find another who could perceive him.

So Snow followed behind him once more.

It wasn’t late yet, but many shops had already lit their colorful little bulbs. Red, blue, green lights flickered, painting even the falling snowflakes with a strange brilliance.

Snow extended his hand to catch one. The tiny hexagonal flake melted instantly against the warmth of his fingertip. No matter how many times he saw it, the realism of this borrowed body always left him in awe.

While he was playing idly with the snow, Geto suddenly halted. Snow, caught off guard, walked right into him—and then something uncanny happened. He overlapped with Geto’s figure.

Visually bizarre, but physically there was nothing—like one shadow lying over another, with no sensation at all.

Snow silently stepped back, then looked up.

Geto seemed not to notice. The nearly 1.9-meter-tall man stood before an ordinary house, his expression distant, as though lost in a memory long past. Snow was falling thicker now; when viewed from below, the sky looked like a white sheet studded with glittering flecks.

Only when Snow’s body began shivering from the cold did Geto finally stir, as if waking from recollection.

He said nothing, his silence like frost clinging to his face. Still wearing that monk’s robe, he bent down and reached out a hand—only for his fingers to pass straight through the flowerpot.

Snow hurried forward. “Do you need me to do something?”

“There’s a key underneath. With it, you can open the door.” Geto’s voice remained soft, his mood clearly unsettled since arriving here.

Snow moved the pot, pried up a loose brick, and indeed found a key beneath. Rust speckled its surface, as though it hadn’t been used in quite some time.

He unlocked the house. Inside hung the stale scent unique to homes long unoccupied. Twilight had already dimmed the air, so he instinctively flicked on the living room light. White brightness instantly filled the space.

Snow blinked in mild surprise. Judging by the dust and disuse, he had thought the power would be cut.

Yet not only was there electricity, but everything was in good condition—like a family that had simply gone on a short trip and might return any day.

He took in the room: soft couches, a handwoven tablecloth, dried flowers on the fridge now turned dark brown.

Geto stood in the middle of the room. He did not sit, simply remained there, tall and solitary, his face still wearing that same expressionless mask. His gaze dipped slightly toward his own monk’s robes.

Snow stayed quiet. It was warmer inside than out, and the rising heat made him drowsy. A yawn escaped, misting his pink eyes with a watery sheen.

When he next blinked them open, he heard the man beside him ask in a low voice:

“Are you hungry?”