Transmigrated as the Side Top used as an Emotional Trash Can - Chapter 52.2

“Hey! What number are you?!”

“You crazy bastard, you killed them, didn’t you!”

Wanting the commotion to end, the kids shouted at the one holding the gun and demanded that he reveal his number. The kid with the gun, who had been trembling and anxiously watching everyone’s reactions, twitched his lips before finally forcing out an answer.

“I-I’m Number 16…”

“16!”

“16, you fucker!”

“Is it really that bastard? 16.”

The Townspeople shouted Number 16 in agitation without understanding what was happening. It wasn’t because they held malice or wanted to kill someone. They only shouted because they felt they had to do something in this situation. Most of the kids casting their votes probably had no idea what consequences their votes would bring.

“Huh? U-Ugh! Guys! I’m sorry! Stop saying my number…! It really wasn’t me!”

When his number was called, the kid holding the gun panicked and screamed. Then he clutched his head and collapsed to the floor.

“N-No… Ugh, my head…! It hurts!”

He lay trembling on the floor for a moment, complaining that his head hurt, and then…

Clack.

He raised his head and aimed the gun at himself.

His expression was no longer the deathly pale, trembling one from moments ago. It was utterly blank, as though he had become a doll. The trigger was pulled. And then.

Bang!

A Mafia member had died.

As soon as the discussion began, the Mafia members started typing as though a bomb had gone off. Blue and Red sent the most messages, followed by Purple and me.

Mafia Green, who had been participating in the chat until moments ago, was silent. Red sensed that something was wrong and called for Green, but there was no answer.

Everyone instinctively realized what that meant.

Mafia Green was dead.

The chat window fell silent for a moment after Blue pointed out the truth.

Red unleashed a fit of profanity into the silent chat window, but the rest of us, including me, simply remained quiet without typing anything.

Then Blue sent a message that broke the silence.

Blue wrote that he was Number @ and asked us not to kill him. In the chaotic mafia game, he was proposing that we cooperate before the Townspeople did.

It seemed this mafia game was designed to prevent us from revealing our own numbers in the chat, just like our names.

Since I couldn’t state my number directly, I gave them an indirect hint. That much seemed to be allowed because the message wasn’t censored with at signs.

I estimated that Red was 13, Blue was 20, and Purple was 15. As I memorized the approximate numbers, Purple suddenly sent another message.

Bang!

“Aaaagh! Who died this time!”

“Who was it?! Was it Mafia?!”

Once again, the screams and chaos began.

A pool of blood formed by the corpse’s gunshot wound to the head, fragments scattered haphazardly around it, and the metallic stench of blood. The kids were forced to realize that all of this was an inescapable reality.

“Doctor! Doctor! I’m Number 11. Please save me!”

“I’m Number 23! If you don’t save me next round, you son of a bitch, I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Ugh, please, Number 8… Please save Number 8… Please…”

Without drawing attention to myself, I reached toward the teacher’s desk and opened the attendance register. Then I compared the students’ class numbers with the numbers they were shouting. The numbers must have been assigned randomly because everyone was calling out numbers completely different from their class numbers.

Ignoring the children’s desperate pleas and screams, the system operated without fail.

“Please, just save me…!”

CRAAASH!

At that moment, amid the pandemonium where all order had collapsed, someone hurled a chair at the blackboard.

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Ghost

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