Demolition notice

The smell of scorching. The faint rustle of plaster flaking from the walls. And the choking dust left behind after the ceiling light shattered.

Dead silence settled over the shabby room again, heavier than ever, as though that brief, violent supernatural disturbance had drained every trace of vitality from the air, leaving only the oppressive stillness of ruins.

Demolition notice.

Fitting. They were no longer content with warnings. They had begun shaking the physical foundations of my existence. Next time, perhaps they would not be so "gentle" as flickering lights and peeling plaster.

Ryuk panted in the corner, his massive body trembling slightly-not with fear, but with the utter fury of someone deeply offended. His crimson eyes glared viciously into empty space, as though he wanted to tear those invisible "old bastards" apart with his gaze.

"Bastards... a bunch of ancient corpses..." he cursed hoarsely, his voice thick with venom. "Just because you've lived longer... you think you can order me around... Wait until you've rotted all the way through..."

His complaints gradually faded into a low, guttural growl of uncertain meaning. He seemed to have realized, too, that cursing alone accomplished nothing.

I ignored him. My fingertips brushed the fine layer of glass shards and plaster dust on the desk.

Fight back. I had to fight back. But not with an equally brutal clash of energy. That would play straight into their hands, and it exceeded the capabilities the Death Note had demonstrated so far-it seemed better suited to precise "single-target kills" than "AOE."

I needed a smarter approach. I needed to find their "foundations." No matter how ancient they were, no matter how well they hid behind the scenes, maintaining this interference with the rules of reality had to require some support, some... "anchor."

My gaze sharpened into absolute focus. My mind worked faster than ever, sorting through every clue.

Mentor's system. The SRO-7 protocols. The Silent Council's records. The scraps of information Ryuk occasionally let slip. And the... signature contained in that bout of "demolition."

It had not been a pure burst of energy. It was more like a... "distortion" and "accelerated corrosion" of local physical laws. That required positioning, coordinates, a "fulcrum" capable of directly influencing reality.

What could that "fulcrum" be? An ancient ritual site? An object imbued with power? A particular person who carried enough "history" or "belief"?

The target had to be directly connected to how the Deep Nest operated. Their death had to disrupt, or even temporarily cripple, its ability to interfere with reality.

Like an invisible scanner, my gaze plunged into the abyss of information again. Ancient maps, geological anomaly reports, energy-field readings, even "ley-line nodes" or "spiritual intersections" mentioned in urban legends and religious myths...

Found it.

Temple Hill. Not the one in Jerusalem, but another name for an ancient stone circle in the remote Highlands of Scotland. Powerful, unexplained electromagnetic anomalies shrouded the site year-round, making it the heart of countless supernatural legends and unsolved mysteries. More importantly, fragments of the Silent Council's classified archives had obliquely mentioned it as the signing site of an "ancient covenant," and one of several "foci" that maintained the "balance."

That was it.

Or, more precisely, the... current guardian who protected that "focus," ensuring ordinary people could neither disturb nor exploit it.

A hermit named Aidan McRae. His family had guarded the stone circle for generations. He was a well-known local "eccentric," versed in Celtic Mythology and herbalism, who rarely emerged from seclusion. The Silent Council's records designated him the "silent shield of focus-7."

His death should trigger... the "focus" running out of control.

I walked over to the desk. The Death Note lay open. My pen hovered.

This time, the writing felt as though it would be entirely different. It would no longer target a specific person's sins, but a... "function," a "node."

The pen touched the page.

[Aidan McRae]

Cause of death: covenant failure. Time: midnight tomorrow, when the moon reaches a specific angle in its waxing and waning cycle. Cause of death: the magnetic field at the core of the Temple Hill stone circle, which his family has guarded for generations, will undergo a brief but extremely violent fluctuation. Its frequency will resonate perfectly with his vital magnetic field, instantly ionizing his body at the cellular level and dispersing him silently into the air. Before his death, the "focus" he guards will lose control for three seconds upon losing its "silent shield." During those three seconds, all electronic devices within a ten-kilometer radius of the stone circle will burn out permanently, and every living creature will experience intense, indiscriminate hallucinations of psychological terror.

Location: ancient ruins. Cause of death: assimilation and dissolution by the power he guards. Effect: loss of control at the focus, regional chaos.

The pen left the paper.

There was no powerful sensation of being drained. Instead, there was a... strange, cold sense of "connection." As though, through the notebook, the pen had touched the rules of some deeper, older network. The writing flowed smoothly, yet felt heavy, like carving a mark into an enormous slab of cold metal.

It worked. The notebook had accepted this form of "judgment" again.

In the corner, Ryuk abruptly stopped growling. His crimson eyes swung toward me again, filled with disbelief.

"You... you actually dared touch a 'focus'?!" His voice rose into a distorted shriek. "That's... that's a pillar holding up a lot of things! Do you have any idea what those three seconds of lost control will bring?!"

"I do," I replied calmly, closing the notebook. "That's why it's 'demolition.'"

Not demolishing my rented room.

Demolishing their foundations.

Midnight the next day.

The Temple Hill stone circle, in the Scottish Highlands.

Wearing an ancient woolen cloak, Aidan McRae walked silently among the enormous standing stones, following the ritual passed down through his family and sensing the familiar flow of energy from the earth beneath his feet.

Clouds half veiled the moon, which cast a dim, uncertain light.

Suddenly!

A violent, silent tremor surged through the ground beneath his feet! It was not a physical vibration, but a terrifying roar on some deeper, energetic level!

The air around him instantly grew scorching hot and warped! The ancient carvings on the standing stones seemed to come alive, emitting a blinding, ominous white light!

"No-!" He barely managed a short cry!

Starting at his fingertips, his body rapidly turned transparent and broke apart like dust scattered by the wind, becoming countless tiny, faintly glowing particles that dispersed into the suddenly raging flow of energy!

Almost simultaneously!

An invisible, terrifying pulse swept outward from the stone circle!

Within ten kilometers, the lights in every village went out instantly! Every car alarm shrieked wildly, then burned out! Every phone and computer screen shattered! Cattle and sheep stampeded across the pastures in terror, trampling one another! Sleeping people all jolted awake from indescribable nightmares, letting out piercing screams!

Three seconds.

The pulse vanished.

Everything returned to dead silence.

All that remained were completely disabled electronic devices and countless terrified people, still shaken and unable to understand what had happened.

In my room, the screen displayed news of a sudden, powerful geomagnetic storm in the Scottish Highlands that had caused widespread equipment damage and public panic. Experts called it "inexplicable" and "unprecedented."

I was waiting.

Waiting for the Deep Nest's response.

This time,

the response came quickly.

But it was no longer supernatural interference.

On the desk,

the phone whose screen had long since shattered, leaving it utterly ruined,

suddenly,

with immense difficulty,

through a crack in its screen,

oozed a single drop

of thick,

pitch-black,

crude-oil-like

liquid.

The drop slowly gathered,

until finally,

with a soft plop,

it fell onto the dust-covered desktop.

It left a tiny,

bottomless

black spot.

Like a silent

sigh

from the abyss.

Had demolition

earned me...

a single black tear?

Or was it...

the blood of a declaration of war?