The Ghost In Charge

Mikel's face twitched.

Of all the things he expected, a floating cartoon-eyed bedsheet wasn't one of them.

The "Headmaster" drifted sideways across the room like a blanket caught in a breeze. He wore a sleeping mask printed with cartoon eyes—one open, one winking—where his real ones might've been. Mikel glanced down, half-expecting feet.

Nothing.

"Welcome, welcome!" the blanket ghost, apparently the headmaster, circled Mikel. His voice was youthful, almost like a child was speaking through him.

The ghost floated toward Danika and Amon, who stood just a few steps away.

"Dada! Monmon! What do you prefer?" he beamed. "The usual?"

Monmon?

Mikel scrunched up his nose, eyeing Amon, who didn't seem the pet-name type.

"Headmaster, you don't have to bother," said Amon in his usual flat baritone—still polite, though.

The ghost giggled and drifted back toward Mikel. As he did, a chair scraped loudly across the floor and bumped into Mikel's legs, forcing him to sit.

He blinked. One moment, he was standing. The next, seated, leaving him stunned.

"What about you?" the ghost asked cheerfully. "Tea? Blood orange juice? Or spiritual osmosis?"

Mikel's face contorted slightly. The cartoon mask—one eye open, one winking—drew his gaze like a magnet.

"Uh—"

"Milk it is!" the headmaster chirped. He zipped back toward the desk, shouting, "Basil! Three cups of warm milk for my beloved students!"

Danika's reaction didn't change, but her voice was colder. "Headmaster, for the hundredth time… I am lactose intolerant."

The headmaster either didn't care or chose to ignore her. After placing the order, he floated back.

The ghost hovered closer... and closer... until the cold, static cling of fabric brushed Mikel's cheek.

Cheek-to-cheek. Ghost-to-skin.

Hmmmm, the ghost purred, contemplating milk with the solemnity of a philosopher.

Then he flew back to his desk. "More milk! Basil, more cups—no, make that a gallon for Mikmik!"

Mikel's under-eye twitched.

I get to have a pet name too? You can't be serious.

He exhaled sharply, turning to Danika and Amon—the two agents who brought him here for "answers."

"Hey," he said under his breath, eyeing the floating bedsheet. "Do you… also exorcise ghosts?"

Danika and Amon just stared at him, offering him no response.

"... Shouldn't you exorcise him first?"

"Ack—!" The headmaster froze mid-hover. He turned slowly to Mikel, then to Danika and Amon.

Seeing the expression, Mikel was torn between laughing and screaming.

Isn't he the headmaster or something? Why does he look so terrified?!

"Master, I doubt Miss Danika and Sir Amon would do that to you."

Just then, Butler Basil entered, balancing a tray of milk cartons. He moved with practiced grace, offering drinks to Danika and Amon. The two agents accepted them quietly—even Danika, despite her earlier protest.

Still smiling, Basil approached Mikel.

"Please," he said gently. "Apologies. The Headmaster is simply elated. Sir Stefan recommended you to the Academy, and now he's heard you neutralized the threat in District 5."

Stefan... and the Academy.

Of course. Mikel was getting familiar and increasingly curious about both.

Basil gave him an encouraging smile and extended the tray.

"Thanks," Mikel muttered, taking a carton. He watched Basil turn to the ghost.

"Headmaster, please," Basil said patiently. "Sir Stefan finally sent you a candidate. There's no need to be afraid. Miss Danika and Sir Amon won't exorcise you."

Behind the mask, the ghost tilted his head dramatically.

"Even if I wanted to, I don't think I'm capable," said Danika, holding her carton. Amon was already sipping through a straw. "I sent you the file and the report about tonight's incident in D5. We believed it was a Type II Wraith."

"Oh!" the headmaster nodded, adjusting his float. "Danika, that wasn't a Type II. That was a Type IV—Corrupted."

Danika's and Amon's brows twitched.

"A Type IV?" Mikel repeated, blinking.

I know it was corrupted, according to Doom… but a Type IV? That sounds excessive.

He remembered Doom calling it Low and Mild.

Not that it was easy. Without my recovery status, I'd be in an evac center right now.

"A Type II is aggressive but only partially manifested," Danika explained tonelessly. "It can cause damage, but not major havoc. A Type IV—Corrupted—is two levels up, meaning it's more powerful. It's a spirit twisted by a curse or a Cursed Fragment."

She meant the Shard of the Mourning Eye.

That's still not major havoc for you?

"Uh..." Mikel blinked again. Danika and Amon were staring hard at him. 

"A Type IV usually requires an elite shaman team," the headmaster said, now in front of Mikel. "But you handled it solo — lololo! That's… interesting."

Mikel's brows furrowed, their reactions unsettled him.

Neutralizing a threat should be good news. But something about the way they looked at him made his stomach tighten.

"Don't be scared," the headmaster said cheerfully, noticing Mikel's unease. "I'm just curious how you managed. But, to be fair, the Blighted had only just awakened. It hadn't accessed its curse~! Easy stuff. Even Basil could've done it!"

Still, Mikel didn't relax.

"I was told I'd be brought here for some questions," he said warily. "I've got plenty myself. Why am I here? What is Zone Zero? What's your purpose? And if you all know this much, why isn't any of it in the news?"

"Good questions~! But one at a time!" The headmaster floated upward, then settled again. His blanket trailed on the floor like a half-curtain.

Mikel's eyes followed it down.

"As you saw, the Corrupted didn't just lash out," the headmaster said. His voice was still light, but quieter now. "It had a purpose—you."

Mikel's breath caught.

He knew that.

The Blighted had come for him. And according to the memories from Lawrence Gatsby, the Blighted had one goal:

Kill the bud before it blooms.

"It's a long story," the headmaster went on, "but in short: unstable and stable entities—those empowered by Fragments or Awakenings—have started targeting potential shamans they consider a future threat."

He paused, his voice growing more solemn as he stressed each syllable. "Pluck the bud before it blooms."

Mikel froze; his chest felt tight.

"And they'll keep coming," the ghost said. "Until one of them finishes the job."

Mikel swallowed hard. Even if this ghost wore a cartoon mask and ordered warm milk, his words hit deep. Every word felt like a knot twisting in his gut.

"That's why they keep coming after me?"

"Yes."

"How do I stop them?"

"You don't." The headmaster floated higher, voice drifting like fog. "They'll keep coming. One after another."

A beat of silence quickly followed suit, and Mikel didn't even have the strength to make a sarcastic comment. For the first time, he listened without getting tempted by another wave of coping mechanism called sarcasm. 

"And the only thing you can do," the ghost continued, "is become strong enough to stop them. To protect the living… and the dead. To protect yourself."

Despite the ridiculous mask, the headmaster felt suddenly, unshakably sincere. And even with such a cartoonish appearance, Mikel could feel the headmaster's gaze deep in his bones. 

"That's why I'm inviting you to join our academy. To learn what you must… to become a great shaman."