I Am The Strongest Ghost Hunter

Chapter 7

Peace’s voice lost its edge, turning almost quiet—like she was sharing some ancient secret instead of dropping bombs.

“There are two kinds of people in this world,” she said. “The ones who live their lives… and the ones who never really do.”

Raito frowned, but kept his mouth shut.

“When a human dies,” she went on, “the soul doesn’t just poof—gone. It slips into what we call the Stillflow. Huge, endless quiet. Time stops pushing. No pain. No hunger. No fear. Just… rest.”

She flicked a quick glance at him, checking he was tracking.

“Not heaven. Not hell. Just an ending. You fade slow—memories blur, self dissolves, and you become part of something bigger.”

Pause.

“But not everybody’s cool with letting go.”

“Some people grip something with everything they’ve got,” she said. “A wish. Regret. Hate. Or love so fierce it owns them. They carry it right to their last breath.”

Her fingers curled tight.

“When those people die? Their souls say screw the Stillflow. They fight it. Anchor themselves here—chained to that obsession. Desperate to finish it, perfect it, live it again.”

Eyes sharpened.

“They don’t move on.”

Silence slammed the hall.

“They stay,” she said, low and deadly serious. “Tied to their fixation. Repeating it. Sharpening it. Feeding it.”

She locked eyes with Raito.

“Those souls? We call them ghosts.”

Raito swallowed hard.

Peace straightened up, tone shifting back to sharp, professional—teacher mode.

“Ghosts get sorted by how intense and mature their obsession is. Four known classes.”

She raised one finger.

“Blue-aura—the weakest. Fresh ghosts, shaky and half-baked. That’s the one you saw tearing up the school.”

‘You mean the ghost she wrecked at school was one of the weakest?’

A cold chill slithered down Raito’s spine.

‘If that was weak… what the hell are the strong ones like?’

Second finger up.

“White-aura ghosts—way more dangerous. That’s the class of the bastard that hit you and your friend.”

Raito’s jaw locked tight, memory punching him in the gut.

“Then come the red-aura,” Peace kept going, cool as ice. “Obsession’s gone deeper—twisted by rage, grief, or years of failing over and over.”

Final finger rose.

“And finally… black-aura ghosts.”

Even Hank shifted, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“All ghosts start blue,” she said. “But obsession levels up. The stronger the fixation, the sharper the ghost gets. Blue turns white. White rots into red. And in super rare cases…”

She paused, just long enough to make it sting.

“…one hits black.”

Raito felt ice crawl up his back all over again.

“Black-aura isn’t just a soul anymore,” Peace said slow. “Legend says it’s an idea with a pulse—an obsession so absolute it forgets it was ever human.”

She exhaled.

“Only recorded once in history. And the second it showed up? Contained. Fast.”

“How?” Raito asked, voice low, curiosity winning over fear.

“Because it didn’t know what it was yet,” Peace answered. “If it had figured that out…”

She let the sentence die, ugly and unfinished.

Silence hung for a beat, then she kept rolling, voice steady, clinical—like facts were the only armor against this crap.

“Auras don’t flip randomly. They evolve.”

Boots echoed as she paced again, slow and deliberate.

“Grief. Rage. Obsession cranked to the extreme. Or chasing perfection till it breaks you.” Quick glance back at Raito. “Any of that can trigger the jump. Blue lingers long enough? Becomes white. White festers? Red. And if nobody stops it…”

She stopped walking.

“…the obsession eats everything.”

Raito didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“When you kill a ghost,” Peace said, hard and clear, “it doesn’t get freed. Doesn’t get purified. Doesn’t move on.”

Eyes locked on his.

“It gets erased.”

The word dropped like a hammer.

“No Stillflow. No memories left. No trace. Total wipe.”

Raito’s throat went tight.

But Peace wasn’t done.

“Thing is—when a white or red ghost is killed? Something stays behind.”

She reached down, drew her dagger slow.

“An object.”

Blade caught the light—dark, flawless, wrong.

“The thing that ghost was obsessed with in life,” she said. “The tool their fixation lived through.”

She held it out, just enough for him to feel the weight in the air.

“This beauty? Cursed weapon.”

The space around it felt heavy. Hostile. Like it hated being stared at.

And Raito couldn’t look away.