Chapter 15: Contradictions

“Junko-chan, your thoughts?” Yomikawa’s voice was a calm island in the suddenly turbulent waters of the clubroom. Her gaze, steady and direct, pinned Junko in place, carrying an unexpected, almost unnerving, weight in the charged atmosphere.

A hot flush crept up Junko’s neck. Her mind screamed to support Ōgami Yōsuke, to voice the logic she, too, could see. She opened her mouth, then closed it. The words wouldn’t come. The courage, so readily available moments before, evaporated under that unwavering stare. Finally, she faltered, her voice barely a whisper. “I… I believe Senpai’s plan is the most suitable. Relying on outsiders, particularly the police… it often leads to… complications.”

Ōgami Yōsuke saw it all, understood the subtle power play that had just unfolded. A bitter taste filled his mouth. Junko’s words were a flimsy excuse, he knew. If Yomikawa, their charismatic club president, had been the one to suggest police involvement, the response would have been a chorus of enthusiastic agreement.

But then, a new thought, sharp and opportunistic, pierced through his frustration. This… this is also a chance.

“You’re right. It was inconsiderate of me to suggest otherwise,” Ōgami said, his voice carefully neutral, offering a slight bow of contrition. “My sincerest apologies. Let us proceed according to Senpai’s proposed method.” Internally, however, a different script was running: This will provide an excellent opportunity to observe Senpai more closely. To see what makes her tick.

Despite Yomikawa having flawlessly dismantled his earlier, more direct accusations, the Senpai before him remained an enigma, a puzzle with too many missing pieces. There was something… off… about her. He scrutinized her elegant features, her calm demeanor. There wasn't a trace of lingering anger, no hint of resentment over his previous, audacious suspicions.

Was it truly possible that she was simply that magnanimous, that incredibly gentle and forgiving?

But the contradiction gnawed at him. She was, undeniably, exceptionally intelligent. Why, then, was she championing such an inefficient, almost deliberately obtuse, plan? Why not suggest something more direct, more… effective?

And there was more. Her sudden, almost complete, disinterest in the fate of the missing Kagehara-san, her apparent amnesia regarding the two recent homicides that had rocked their periphery… it was unsettling.

Ōgami Yōsuke felt a strange sense of unreality creeping over him. The beautiful, composed young woman seated before him seemed to shimmer, to blur at the edges, as if she were a phantom, a projection. So close, so tangible, yet somehow, forever beyond his grasp, beyond true comprehension.

As Ōgami voiced his acquiescence, a collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the other club members. Kana’s expression visibly softened, the earlier sarcastic bite vanishing from her tone. “Well, that’s more like it! Working together as a team, that’s the true spirit of club activities, isn’t it?”

Yomikawa Tsuko turned her serene gaze towards Ōgami Yōsuke. “Ōgami-kun, when I arrived, I couldn’t help but overhear your rather… spirited… discussion with Junko-chan. It sounded as though you have some rather strong opinions regarding Kimura-san’s ordeal?”

Ōgami Yōsuke took a moment to gather his thoughts, then began, his voice slow and deliberate. “Last night, I replayed Itō-san’s account over and over in my mind. And the more I considered it, the more I became convinced that there are several critical points in the narrative that are… contradictory. Illogical, even. I’ve tried to formulate various hypotheses, but I keep hitting a wall, unable to reconcile these fundamental inconsistencies.”

“Inconsistencies? Well, don’t keep us in suspense, spit it out!” Takada Shōji interjected, his usual boisterousness tinged with an undercurrent of impatience. In his private ledger, Ōgami Yōsuke had already used up his quota of speaking privileges for the day. To suspect Senpai one minute, then carry on as if nothing had happened the next… it reeked of a profound lack of self-awareness, in Takada’s opinion.

Ōgami ignored him, addressing the group. “We all have a basic understanding of what a ritual, a sacrifice, truly signifies, correct?”

Junko, eager to contribute, jumped in. “A ritual is a form of communication, isn’t it? A way for humans to connect with… with the gods, or other entities.”

“Precisely.” Ōgami Yōsuke nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “A ritual is a conduit between the mortal and the divine. It might be a plea for protection, a prayer for bountiful harvests, or a petition for favorable weather. And therefore, to ensure the deity in question deigns to respond, to grant these requests, humans present offerings. Sacrifices.”

“The nature of these sacrifices has varied throughout history. Human sacrifice, a brutal and ancient practice, eventually gave way to the offering of livestock – oxen, pigs, goats. In modern times, the rules are less rigid. Fruits, poultry, wine, incense… almost anything can serve as a symbolic offering.”

“Now, let us apply this to Kimura-san’s case. Let us operate under the assumption that this… deity… in the cave is real. And that its worshippers, in ages past, practiced a very primitive, very direct form of human sacrifice. The entire ceremony would have been orchestrated by a chief priest. And as the offering was presented, the chief priest would, in turn, voice their desires, their wishes, to the entity.”

“For some unknown period in the distant past, these rituals were performed regularly. Until, for reasons lost to time, the worshippers abandoned this deity, this sacred site. The cave lay dormant, forgotten, for centuries. Until Kimura-san, an unsuspecting intruder, stumbled upon it.”

“As Kimura-san himself surmised, he, through his actions, inadvertently became both the sacrificial offering and the chief priest in this newly, unintentionally, reactivated ritual. Now, consider this: Kimura-san’s initial act of fleeing the cave… how should we interpret that, in the context of a sacrificial rite?”

Takada Shōji, who had been visibly chafing under Ōgami’s methodical explanation, found himself momentarily stumped. The question, despite his irritation, snagged his attention. “Interpret it… how?”

Yomikawa’s eyebrow arched, a minuscule, almost imperceptible movement, before her expression smoothed back into its usual placid mask. Ōgami Yōsuke is indeed a different breed, she mused silently. If anyone, without the… benefit… of a direct, personal experience with Lord Mask-Taker, could deduce its existence, its nature… it would be someone like Ōgami. Someone with his potent combination of vivid imagination and an almost unnervingly keen sixth sense.

Junko frowned, her brow furrowed in concentration, slowly piecing together the threads of Ōgami’s logic. “Kimura-san… he was both the priest and the sacrifice. So, when he ran from the cave, the ritual was obviously incomplete. So… he was, in effect, an escaped offering, and a derelict priest?”

Seeing the thoughtful nods from the others, Ōgami Yōsuke pressed his advantage. “Precisely. As we’ve established, a ritual is fundamentally a dialogue, a transaction, between humans and a divine power. A wish is made, an offering is given. That, in essence, is the framework.”

“Now, in any system of human sacrifice, it’s inevitable that there would be instances of the designated offering attempting to escape, wouldn’t you agree? So, in the customs and traditions of other cultures, when a sacrifice tries to flee, what is the prescribed response?”

Takada Shōji, on firmer ground now, answered immediately. “That’s a no-brainer, isn’t it? They’d be hunted down and dragged back, kicking and screaming if necessary.”

“And who would issue that order? Who would carry it out?”

“The priests, I guess. The temple guards. Whoever was in charge of the holy rites.”

“And if the runaway sacrifice couldn’t be recaptured? What then?”

“If… if they got away for good… then the ritual would be a failure, wouldn’t it? And the gods would be angry. There’d be hell to pay, probably.”

“Generally speaking, yes, that would be the logical outcome. But this particular deity, the one in Kimura-san’s cave, clearly operates under a different set of rules.” Ōgami Yōsuke tapped Junko’s meticulously drawn map on the table. “Because Kimura-san began to sleepwalk. In his slumber, he was inexorably drawn back towards the cave. We can, of course, attribute this to the deity’s supernatural power, its divine will. But consider it from another perspective: doesn’t this also strongly imply that the deity desires the ritual to proceed? That it wants Kimura-san back?”

Junko nodded slowly. “Recalling the sacrifice, bringing back the priest… yes, of course, that would mean it wants the ritual to continue. What’s the inherent problem with that interpretation?”

“Ah, but there is a problem,” Ōgami Yōsuke said, “A very significant one. If this deity is so intent on the ritual continuing, if it’s actively pulling Kimura-san back… then why, why would there be this accompanying phenomenon of ‘knowing the story brings misfortune’?”

A collective "Eh?" went around the table.

“Let us assume, for a moment, that this deity is a tangible, active force. Then the unfortunate ‘accidents’ that befell Fujita-san and Itō-san… they must also be manifestations of this deity’s power, correct?”

“But why would it do that? Why would it harm them? It directly contradicts its apparent primary objective of ensuring the ritual’s completion.”

“Perhaps the contradiction isn’t clear when we focus solely on Kimura-san. So, let’s broaden the scope. Imagine this deity at the zenith of its power, with a large, devoted following. And then, a similar incident occurs: the chosen sacrifice and the chief priest both manage to escape.”

“The deity, naturally, would be enraged. It would unleash its power to summon them back, to drag them, sleeping or waking, back to the sacred site, so the ritual could resume. Now, in that scenario, who would be the ones ‘knowing the story’? Who would be aware that the sacrifice and priest were being supernaturally recalled? It would be the other worshippers, the other cult members, wouldn’t it?”

“You can almost hear their hushed, fearful whispers: ‘The god is wroth! Its power reaches out, drawing the runaways back in their dreams! Soon, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, the sacred rite will continue!’”

Ōgami Yōsuke leaned forward, his eyes burning with the intensity of his conviction. “So, I ask you this: why would these loyal worshippers, these devotees who are merely aware of the deity’s actions to reclaim its due, then suffer misfortune themselves? Why would the god punish those who are, in essence, on its own side?”