Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One: The Extraordinary Treasure

“The famous Ghost Tower’s been put up for sale, I tell ya—it’s even in the newspaper ads.” Amidst circumstances where many had yet to even whisper of its sale, the one who resolved to purchase it immediately was my uncle Marube Tomoo—former Attorney General now living out his days in quiet seclusion. “Why buy such a dreadful, dilapidated mansion?” people might question—but finding it tiresome to explain, he spoke to no one and immediately summoned me, ordering me to take full charge of the acquisition. I promptly negotiated with the real estate company and arranged each matter accordingly.

It was no wonder my uncle had wanted to purchase it from the start—the Ghost Tower’s original owners had been a family sharing our surname. From ancient times, in that vicinity, it had long been called “Marube’s Ghost Tower”—so thoroughly that the name had become proverbial. Since the estate had fallen into decline and passed through various hands—now being put up for sale once more—my uncle found himself unable to disregard old ties of their shared surname, and resolved to preserve it as a residence to pass down through his descendants. After purchase negotiations and price discussions were mostly settled, I set out alone to conduct an inspection of the house. The land lay some forty ri from the capital between mountains and rivers—quite rich in scenery yet utterly desolate nonetheless. Among the large buildings, what stood out was the old tower rising at its entrance. This tower was said to be Britain’s original model for clock towers, its midsection—some eighty feet above ground—embedded with an unusual large clock that had once informed the entire village of the time. The structure still loomed seventy shaku higher above this clock. At night, this tower appeared like some colossal standing monster, its timepiece shining like a single great eye. Even by daylight it presented a most terrifying sight. Yet this tower earned its name not through external dreadfulness, but rather through legends claiming various ghosts manifested within its interior.

Though it may seem tedious, I shall now recount only those aspects of the tower’s history relevant to this tale. Long ago, this mansion was bestowed upon the Marube family’s ancestors by the king, and it is said that the first Marube master constructed this clock tower to conceal some great secret. The so-called “great secret” was an extraordinary treasure—one so astonishing it could stir the world—and fearing its theft, he had concealed it deep within. For over a decade he racked his brains devising schemes until he finally resolved to construct this clock tower. Yet no sooner had it been completed than the master vanished—or rather, did not vanish. He had descended into a secret chamber beneath the tower (likely to count his treasure), but its mechanisms proved too ingeniously crafted; he could not escape. As for those outside—they did not know how to enter the tower. One might reach as far as the clock itself, but beyond lay only thick walls barring all progress, making rescue impossible. For several nights thereafter, his weeping voice seemed to echo from within—“Save me! Save me!”—yet his household could only grieve helplessly as they listened. Though they debated demolishing the tower, civil war had left no laborers for such work, forcing them to abandon him—or rather, to let his pleas go unanswered. Unable to disclose this truth, they suppressed rumors instead, claiming their master had disappeared amid the chaos of war.

Thereafter, as this master came to manifest as a ghost, what was originally called the Clock Tower gained currency under the nickname Ghost Tower; and since clock towers had subsequently been constructed in various places, merely calling it “the Clock Tower” would no longer suffice for identification—so even in official documents it came to be written as Ghost Tower. Of course, due to legends of an extraordinary treasure lying within, there were those afterward who schemed to demolish this tower; yet lacking concrete evidence, they reasoned that should no treasure emerge after demolition, it would prove futile—and thus to this day, the Ghost Tower remains intact.

I arrived at this estate for inspection in the twilight of late summer. Standing before the tower and looking up, its form loomed monstrously. As I pondered how that clock might resemble a glaring eye come nightfall—to my astonishment—its long and short hands began spinning of their own accord. Though clock hands are meant to turn, it struck me as profoundly strange that those of this long-abandoned timepiece—untouched for years—should now rotate repeatedly across its face. By design, this clock shared the tower’s secret mechanisms; how to wind it and set its hands in motion had been known solely to successive masters of this house—a lineage now extinct, leaving likely none alive capable of such manipulation. Even my uncle had spent days scrutinizing old records to unravel its workings. Suspecting some trick of sunset light reflected off the river bedazzling my eyes, I looked again—only to confirm the hands moved wholly of their own accord. It’s not as though some contrary ghost would be winding the clock.

Part Two: The True Nature of the Ghost

The rusted clock hands—with no one knowing who had wound them or how—had begun moving of their own accord atop the tower, no ordinary occurrence. Yet I felt no fear at such a thing; certain there must be some reason behind it, I resolved to uncover that reason and immediately proceeded to enter the tower.

Of course there was no caretaker; the entrance door had been removed years prior and remained unlocked—the very picture of dilapidation. When I reached the foot of the tower stairs, the dim surroundings reeked of mildew and decay—precisely the sort of place where ghosts might appear. Try as I might to suppress it, the mansion’s most recent ghost story rose unbidden in my mind. As this tale proves crucial to later events, I shall recount it here: the purchaser of this mansion from its original Marube owners was an elderly maidservant named Wata Okon. Apparently her brother, who had been working in Australia, died and left her a substantial inheritance. With these funds she bought her former masters’ estate, converting the room directly beneath the clock chamber into her living quarters where she slept—until one night her foster daughter murdered her. This occurred a mere six years past, since when the mansion has stood completely vacant. They say the old woman’s vengeful spirit still haunts that very murder chamber—the room directly above where I now stood. At this thought, I could almost fancy a phantom pacing overhead.

As for the foster daughter who did the killing, she was immediately apprehended and brought to trial. This happened precisely when my uncle was serving as a prosecutor. Viewing her as someone who had brought yet another ominous incident upon what could be considered our ancestral home—a residence sharing our surname—my uncle, though somewhat swayed by emotion, rigorously argued for capital punishment and achieved his aim. Of course she vehemently insisted she hadn't committed the murder at all, but the most damning evidence lay in how flesh had been bitten down to the bone on her left fingertips—matching both the flesh fragments in the deceased's mouth and the wounds on her hand—and with numerous similar pieces of evidence besides, her defense could not hold. Though capital punishment was decided, as she was underage her sentence was reduced by one degree to life imprisonment; after suffering about four years in prison, she ultimately died of illness. The woman's name was indeed O-Natsu—that is to say, Wata Natsuko.

I recalled this abominable tale and felt somewhat daunted, yet having never believed in ghosts or their existence in this world—and particularly as my physical strength surpassed that of ordinary men, having until then taken pride in my vigor which even friends had praised—I declared aloud "What's there to fear?" as if persuading myself, and began ascending the stairs. Climbing and climbing until I reached the fourth floor, this was indeed the room where the elderly woman Wata Okon had been killed. According to legend, there was a bed on one side of the room from which Okon would descend slowly and deliberately, blood dripping from her jaw as she bit into human flesh. But given the dimness, I first tried pushing open the window shutters—though rust had seized them fast, and they refused to budge. Moreover, being late evening, not much light shone through. Wondering where that bed might be and how one could reach behind the clock above, I peered quietly about the room when from one corner there came a sound like someone dragging a garment. As my eyes adjusted somewhat to the dimness, I could faintly make out what appeared to be a bed-like object near where the sound had originated.

Then, upon the bed, a figure sat up in a manner almost identical to the legend. In such moments, darkness proved most disadvantageous—though perhaps advantageous for a ghost—so I moved toward the window and pushed the shutters with all my strength one last time. Yet even as the stubborn shutters refused to yield, the eerie figure slowly descended from the bed and approached me. But judging by the sound of footsteps, this was no ghost—though something far more unnerving. I redoubled my efforts to push the shutters, and with a splintering crack, the hinges gave way—the shutters tumbled onto the roof below, flooding the room with sudden light. Though twilight’s glow could not rival daylight’s clarity, it proved ample to discern the ghost’s true form.

“You managed to get that door off! I also wanted to open it and tried pushing, but a woman’s strength wasn’t enough.” This was the ghost’s first utterance—musical and beautiful. I had intended to interrogate her harshly, but disarmed by the voice’s loveliness, I softened and asked, “Was it you who moved the large clock’s hands just now?” As I asked this while intently observing her figure, her face proved even more beautiful than her voice—a graceful form reminiscent of a noblewoman. Were I to critique it rigorously, her beauty resembled that of a celestial maiden’s mask used in bugaku court dance—too perfectly proportioned for a living human face. The thirty-two auspicious marks were all impeccably aligned with refined grace. Could this woman be wearing some sort of flexible mask made of rubber? However, I had yet to hear of such an ingeniously crafted mask ever being invented. If this were indeed not a mask but her true face, she would be a peerless beauty. Though there existed a woman—urged upon me by my uncle and herself as my fiancée—whom I found difficult to refuse, I thought with near certainty: I must decisively abandon that woman and replace her with this one. On the contrary, this angelic beauty could not have remained unattached until now; even were she unattached, she would not yield so easily to me. Reflecting thus, my heart had been far too rash—yet at this moment, I thought precisely so: *Therefore, whether this beauty’s face is a mask or her true visage, I shall discern it when she speaks.* I watched intently, waiting—whereupon the beauty, perhaps finding my demeanor absurd, smiled faintly and...

“Yes—it was I who wound the Large Clock moments ago.” Not a mask—no mask at all—her genuine countenance, her true visage.

Part Three: The Left Hand Who was this beauty? First—her solitary presence in this desolate tower, within the room where Wata Okon's ghost was said to appear, precisely upon the very bed where Okon had slept—this was suspicious. Second—her knowledge of a secret unknown to any living soul: how to wind the clock. Third—her deliberate act of winding it. Though initially captivated by her peerless beauty, these mounting suspicions now surfaced in my mind. There might yet be more mysteries beyond these. As I stood bewildered by these growing doubts, the tower clock chimed—seven strokes. When I checked my pocket watch, it indeed showed seven o'clock. Observing my perplexed expression, the beauty—as if finding amusement in it—mocked with a soft laugh, "Does it surprise you that the tower clock keeps accurate time?" The loveliness of her smile only heightened the strangeness—that such a peerless beauty should appear in this remote locale seemed suspicious enough in itself.

“What manner of person are you?” I desperately wanted to demand—yet confronted by the peerless beauty of her countenance and form, such blunt inquiry dissolved unspoken in my throat. Every gesture, every movement transcended what society deems graceful, leaving me involuntarily hesitant. At length I managed only: “Why did you wind the tower’s clock?” The beauty replied: “Ah—I thought this method might work, and wished to test my engineering approach practically.” “For what purpose did you conduct such an experiment?” “Since they say no one knows how to wind this clock, I thought I’d try it out and then teach the proper person.” “But really—how did you devise that winding method?” “Hoho—that is not something to be spoken of.”

Though increasingly suspicious, the mere existence of someone in this world who knew how to wind the clock would prove immensely advantageous for my uncle—who had wearied of investigating it. I began, “Then, could you teach me—” but the beauty grew solemn. “No—you are not the proper person. This winding method is a secret that must not be disclosed beyond the tower’s owner, as tradition dictates. Thus, I cannot reveal it to anyone save its rightful master.” “In the near future, my uncle will be purchasing this tower.” “In that case, I shall inform your uncle—but that too must be done through meeting him directly.” “No—Uncle will surely be delighted. I shall promptly arrange for him to meet you, so when that time comes…” The beauty showed not the slightest sign of displeasure; rather, with an air of satisfaction, she replied, “Yes—I shall teach you.” “But you—to this tower—” “No—I am someone who has no relation whatsoever to this tower.” “But to go so far as concerning yourself with the method of winding the clock—” The beauty replied: “If you persist in questioning me so insistently, I shall grow angry. Is it not sufficient that I declare myself wholly unrelated to this tower?” She declared in a tone both gentle and unassailable. Though myriad questions clamored within me, I could press no further—resigning myself that understanding would come in time, I fell silent. Then, reversing our roles, the beauty inquired, “You intend to conduct various inspections within this tower, do you not?” Though this was indeed my purpose, wishing above all to ascertain her true nature, I replied: “Yes—but with nightfall rendering inspection impossible, let us postpone it until tomorrow. Allow me to escort you to your lodgings now.” Though my words had been rather blunt, the beauty showed no anger as she answered, “Yes—I still have places I wish to inspect,” then turned her back to me and began descending the tower stairs. I hurried after her, and though we went down together, she did not head toward the main entrance but instead moved toward the rear garden. By now it was past seven o’clock—that hour when dusk deepens into gloom. The beauty rummaged through her garment folds to produce what appeared to be a map, then began surveying the garden alone. I craned my neck to glimpse the document—barely discernible as a rough sketch of the estate, marked with a river, moat, and garden paths. Yet more striking than this map was her appearance: her kimono, though clearly everyday wear rather than finery, was a plain pale gray from shoulder to hem—gray being a shade akin to mouse-color or shadow-tint, traditionally considered ill-omened and particularly avoided by young women. Why would she willingly don such disliked hues? This became another mystery—until my attention shifted to her hands. Both wore gloves, but the left bore peculiar ornaments: delicate golden chains woven into netting with pearls interspersed, emerging from deep within the sleeve to connect with the glove. Never had I seen such handwear—clashing utterly with her otherwise unadorned figure. I couldn’t help suspecting these gloves concealed something, yet found no pretext to inquire.

Before long, the beauty began walking along the moat’s embankment toward the garden’s depths. After proceeding about 120 meters, she finally descended below the levee. Here, five or six towering enoki trees loomed, beneath one of which stood a stone monument not yet weathered by time—the mound’s shape and the stone’s hue suggested someone had been buried here perhaps last year. A grave within the estate grounds seemed strange enough; stranger still was this new tomb appearing in a vacant mansion long uninhabited. My unease deepened, and before I knew it, I muttered under my breath: Mysterious beauty. Truly a mysterious beauty—everything about her was uncanny: her words, her bearing, her plain gray kimono, those peculiar gloves. That she knew the mansion’s secrets and carried its map only compounded the enigma—not a single aspect of her lacked strangeness. Soon she knelt before the fresh grave and began to pray—first with an air of bitter frustration, then with such sorrow that her eyes seemed to brim with tears. Was this the resting place of a cherished lover? A rival in love? Whatever the case, something here moved her profoundly. Unable to wait for her prayers to conclude, I boldly descended and asked, “Whose grave is this?”—then read the inscription on the stone. What I saw startled me. “Tomb of Wata Natsuko.” “July 11, Meiji 29 – Died at twenty-two years of age” was inscribed on either side. Who was Wata Natsuko? Readers may recall earlier accounts—she was the foster daughter of Wata Okon, this house’s mistress, who killed her foster mother and died in prison after receiving a life sentence. A matricidal criminal. Upon reflection, I remembered reading in newspapers of that time how a lawyer named Gonda Tokisuke—due to having defended her previously—had claimed her remains and buried them on these grounds. That this beauty would pay respects at such a despicable individual’s grave only deepened the mystery.

Part Four: Whose Mischief "Paying respects at a matricidal felon's grave seemed such tasteless behavior that I demanded without mercy, 'Are you related or acquainted with this woman?' The mysterious beauty answered, 'No—neither relative nor acquaintance.'" This grew ever stranger. Had this been the grave of some chaste martyr or wise sage, even strangers might visit reverently. But for someone unrelated by blood or friendship to pray at a murderer's prison death-site? An utterly inconceivable matter. I pressed, "Then why do you pay respects?" The mysterious beauty solemnly raised her face,

“There’s no need for such questions—when the time comes for understanding, it will come naturally,” she said, then began walking slowly toward the entrance—a phrase that seemed laden with hidden meaning. I found myself desperately wanting to know more about this beauty—parting ways now would be truly regrettable—so while continuing to follow her, I craned my neck sideways and asked, “Earlier, you mentioned teaching my uncle how to wind the clock—might I inquire your name?” The beauty seemed to ponder deeply before replying more curtly than before: “I do not give my name to those whose names I do not know.” Indeed, I realized I had not yet told her my own name. “Ah—I am Marube Michikurou. My uncle is Marube Tomoo.” The beauty softened slightly. “Ah—I have long been aware of your name. I am Matsutani Shūko.” “Where do you reside?” “Tonight I shall stay at an inn called Inaka Hotel further ahead,” she replied. Inaka Hotel was where I had left my luggage upon arriving here—the very place I too intended to lodge tonight.

“How curious! I too am going to that inn—let us go together.” The beauty showed no sign of gratitude at being escorted, merely replying “Is that so?”—yet her lack of refusal amounted to consent. Night had fully fallen now, the path scarcely visible, so I kindly offered, “Might I offer you my arm?” “No need—I’m accustomed to night roads.” Her tone cut like a blade through fog, leaving me anchorless. We walked side by side in silence as I pondered: Was “Matsutani Shūko” her true name or an alias? What purpose drove her to infiltrate that Ghost Tower? Surely more than merely testing clock mechanisms to instruct some “qualified person.” Whatever her aims, she undoubtedly harbored secret objectives—nay, profound enigmas veiling her very being. Would that promised moment of revelation—“when understanding comes naturally”—ever truly arrive? Would that destined hour ever chime?

As I walked lost in these thoughts, the sudden clatter of a carriage sounded from a side road—its lamplight flared across my face only for the vehicle to overtake us moments later. Yet in that brief interval, I glimpsed the passenger within and cried out involuntarily: “Ah—Uncle has arrived!” Indeed, my uncle rode inside that carriage. Having apparently spotted me from within, the carriage halted about eighteen meters ahead, and a figure leaned from its window calling: “Michikurou! Michikurou!”

The only one who dares address me as “Michisan”—using my childhood name with such familiarity—is none other than Oura. She is the daughter of my wet nurse, raised alongside me in my uncle’s household since infancy. Though the world praises her as a beauty, and though she herself considers her charms considerable, in my eyes she remains invisible. Yet the bitter truth persists: this woman is betrothed to me as my future wife. I know not how such an engagement came to be—originally, that wet nurse had been a remarkably strong-willed woman who managed my uncle’s household. Before her death, she persuaded him—while I was away at school—to finalize this promise of betrothal. My uncle, being the sort who acquiesces to any request with endless “yeses,” likely agreed out of sheer obligingness. I could not defy my deeply indebted uncle’s words, nor had I yet encountered another woman who stirred my heart—thus I complied with this arrangement. It stands that I may set the wedding date whenever I choose, but as I feel little enthusiasm, I intend never to fix that day in my lifetime. A wet nurse’s daughter—beauty or not—hardly impresses me. Yet Oura already carries herself as “Madame Marube,” celebrated in social circles, and like any common wife who tyrannizes her spouse, she attempts to dominate me—meddling in all my affairs. I steel myself for how insufferably she will nag after the wedding. But enough digression—I turned briefly toward the mysterious beauty as I hastened to the carriage upon being called: “Since my uncle has arrived, might you instruct us on winding the clock after dinner tonight? I shall speak to him and arrange your meeting.” With these words, I parted from her and rushed to the carriage—where my uncle pressed urgently: “What of your injury? What of your injury?” “Huh? Whose injury are you talking about?” “Yours!” “Huh? That must be some mistake about me being injured—as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

“If you’re unharmed, that’s what matters—but how strange! Whose mischief is this? First, look at this telegram,” said Uncle, handing over a dispatch. Holding it to the carriage lamplight, I read: *“DOKURŌ SERIOUSLY INJURED COME AT ONCE TO INAKA HOTEL.”* “Uncle—someone deceived you to lure you here! It’s utterly baseless. But with such pranksters about, we must act cautiously. You must go straight to the inn. I’ll visit the telegraph office immediately to inquire who sent this—then return.” Uncle said, “I came via express train through forty ri—it took two and a half hours to reach the station ahead—but I’m exhausted, so I’ll follow your suggestion.” Oura, displeased that I hadn’t uttered a single word to her, shouted heedless of Uncle’s furrowed brow: “Oh, Michisan! Not even a greeting for me, who came forty ri specifically to tend to you? Are you this cold even to the beauty you were just walking with?” I curtly replied, “This isn’t the time for greetings,” then dashed toward the telegraph office. Yet something felt deeply amiss—the vicinity of this haunted mansion seemed rife with inexplicable occurrences. Still, all that had transpired thus far would pale before what was to come.

**Part Five: Sacred Mandate** Who would forge such a false telegram to summon my uncle, and to what end? At the telegraph office, I pressed for answers but learned nothing conclusive—only that a grubby boy of fourteen or fifteen had brought the request form. It appeared someone had avoided delivering it personally, instead bribing a roadside urchin to handle the task. When shown the form, I observed characters hastily scrawled in pencil—clumsy strokes that might have been deliberately crude to prevent exposure. By my assessment, the writer lacked even the skill to disguise their handwriting. Moreover, something about it suggested a woman’s hand.

This alone revealed nothing about the crucial matter of who had sent it, so I went to the local Inaka Newspaper Company and requested an advertisement. The wording meant: "Any child who was asked by someone around such-and-such month and day at approximately such-and-such time to go to this area's telegraph office and submit a telegram addressed to A.M. in London should report to this Inaka Newspaper Company—a sufficient reward will be given." I paid the newspaper company ample fees and instructed them that if said child came, they should immediately send them to my London residence.

I cannot say whether this matter truly warranted such concern, but to address it without omission was simply my way—I could not rest until exhausting every possible measure at my disposal. Having returned to the inn, I explained these developments to Uncle and informed him about someone who knew how to wind the clock. Uncle was overjoyed, declaring that being deceived by the false telegram had proven fortuitous if it meant meeting this person, and insisted I arrange a shared dinner that evening. I left his room to seek the mysterious beauty but encountered her in the corridor while heading toward the front desk. When conveying Uncle’s request, she replied with slight reluctance: “Were it only myself, I would gladly accept—but I have another companion.” “That’s perfectly acceptable—both you and your companion.” The beauty responded: “But there is a matter concerning my companion.” What could this “matter” entail? I inquired: “A matter concerning?” “Yes—I keep a lemur with me that I never part with, making appearances before others rather impolite.” A lemur—an Indian wildcat resembling both fox and monkey, climbing trees, scurrying across land, preying on birds and snakes—I had heard they sometimes grew attached to humans and were kept indoors. “Nonsense! Many ladies these days appear in public holding lapdogs. A lemur companion hardly precludes accepting dinner invitations.”

Reluctantly, the beauty replied, “Then I shall accept your invitation. I have long desired to meet someone of your Honorable Uncle’s renown.” With this, their agreement was settled.

As I cheerfully turned to return to my uncle’s room, the beauty—as if suddenly remembering something—chased after me and called out: “Once your Honorable Uncle purchases the Ghost Tower, will you too come to reside in that mansion?” “Yes.” The beauty declared: “Then you must make that room where you saw me today your living quarters, and sleep there at night as well.” A truly peculiar admonition. I stammered: “Eh—th-that room where Okon was murdered? The one said to be haunted by ghosts?” “Don’t worry—ghosts won’t appear. Just now, I lay for a long time on the very bed where Okon slept, yet nothing happened.” So this beauty had indeed risen from that bed like a ghost. “But given this most peculiar demand,” I pressed, “why would you make such a request?” The beauty repeated the same phrase she had earlier told me—“When the time comes, you will understand”—then added sternly: “Should you refuse to consent to this matter, I shall not meet with your Honorable Uncle.” “Even if you insist,” I said, “I cannot promise to make that room—a room where ghosts appear, no, a room said to be haunted—my living quarters without first hearing your reasoning.” “No—I myself bear what I consider a sacred mandate. Until fulfilling this mandate, I cannot explain anything to you—” Sacred mandate, sacred mandate—in this day and age, one hardly hears of such things as sacred mandates. Yet observing this beauty’s actions, she indeed seemed to carry some sacred mandate—were she not bound by such a mandate or secret mission, one would never behave thus: sleeping on a murder victim’s bed or paying respects at a matricide’s grave. I demanded: “Was this sacred mandate entrusted to you by someone?” “No—I swore an oath in my heart to fulfill this at all costs. In truth, I’m already revealing too much by saying even this much, but you strike me as an honest man—that’s why I confide in you.” “That level of disclosure remains insufficient—I cannot make such a promise.” “No—this brings you no harm whatsoever. If you merely make that room your living quarters, a time will surely come when you’ll thank me.” Had this come from anyone else, I would never have complied—but in this beauty’s words, nay, not just her words but her eyes and countenance, there lay an irresistible quality. By humoring this bizarre request, I might yet discern the nature of her sacred mandate. Sleeping in a haunted chamber could prove diverting after all—weighing the matter, I declared: “Very well—I’ll make that room my quarters.” “If you do so, you will obtain the incantation that has been passed down in that house since ancient times. Recite it and carefully consider its meaning—happiness will surely well up within you.” The notion of spies and incantations—such words feel utterly foreign to this civilized age. I demanded: “If one recites this incantation, does it grant the power to wield dark arts?” The beauty replied: “A power surpassing dark arts will emerge.” “Could such power exist in this day and age?” “Whether it exists or not—that too you will understand when the time comes.”

Though her manner of speaking remained thoroughly bewitching, I resolved to follow her words and uncover the nature of this mysterious beauty's sacred mandate regardless. Yielding to her request, I returned from there to my uncle and announced that the beauty would attend dinner accompanied by one companion. I disclosed nothing of her background beyond stating she was an acquaintance named Matsutani Shūko. My uncle immediately secured a private dining room, had a meal prepared there, and dispatched a servant to summon her once arrangements were complete. True to form, Uncle maintained his gloomy silence while my betrothed Oura grew increasingly sullen—her sharp nerves likely detecting an opening for my affections to stray elsewhere. Of our trio, only I remained in good spirits. As we took our places at the table with three disparate moods, Matsutani Shūko glided in with the graceful gait only a true beauty could muster. Following behind came her companion—a coarse-featured woman of forty-eight or nine who looked ill-suited to noble company, accompanied by an exceptionally large and well-groomed lemur. The beauty first acknowledged me with a nod before gesturing toward the vulgar woman behind her: "This is my companion—Torai Fujin." Though the surname itself carried no vulgarity, I reserved such judgments for later and promptly turned to introduce her to my uncle: "This is Miss Matsutani." Before Uncle could fully rise to view her face, he started violently—his complexion shifting alarmingly before he lost consciousness altogether and collapsed against his chair.

Part Six: The Glove with Peculiar Adornments

However startled he might have been, it seemed rather spineless for my Uncle—a grown man—to faint outright. Yet none who knew his circumstances would think this unreasonable. Uncle had endured considerable misfortune in life, his nerves growing increasingly frayed in recent years. The root of it all lay in events from over twenty years prior: a minor misunderstanding had sparked marital discord with his wife, which escalated until she fled their home clutching their infant daughter and absconded to America. Horrified, Uncle gave chase, but upon arriving there discovered to his grief that a fire had consumed the inn where his wife lodged—both she and their child had burned to death, their remains already interred in a common grave alongside other victims' bones. This became a notorious incident, with newspapers even soliciting charitable donations for memorial services. Uncle exhumed fragments of bone from that crowded cemetery and brought them back to our country for proper reburial, though in those initial days he had behaved like a madman. He had already resolved to resign his post then, but colleagues dissuaded him since he stood on the verge of being appointed Attorney General. From that time onward, he ceased direct interactions with criminals, merely issuing instructions to other prosecutors through documents. Thereafter his nerves never settled—he occasionally fainted like a woman—until last year, when he finally resigned his office, recognizing his unstable condition rendered him unfit for duty.

Given his constitution, he must have fainted again tonight. At any rate, I lifted him up in alarm—one or two dishes clattered from the table. As I raised him, I shouted “Water! Water!”—but the quickest to act was the mysterious beauty, who immediately took the water pitcher from the table and poured it into a glass cup to offer. Seeing this, Oura intervened; whether from jealousy or not, she harshly rebuked the beauty: “You must not touch Uncle’s person! You’re the one who made him faint!” Then turning to me with fierce intensity: “Michisan, make this woman leave!” I am not “Michisan”—I am Michikurou. Though “Michisan” was merely what I was called in childhood, Oura insists on using it even before others. Being a woman of extraordinary nerve, she likely seeks to display me as her possession to the mysterious beauty even in such circumstances.

Contrary to expectations that the mysterious beauty might grow furious, she instead appeared genuinely concerned for Uncle. “I must apologize for causing such a disturbance; I shall take my leave at once to make proper amends,” she said, turning to depart. I interjected: “No—you’ve caused no disturbance whatsoever.” As I sought to detain her, Uncle regained partial consciousness—yet still half in a dreamlike state, he extended his hand as if clinging to something solid to raise himself. At that moment, his hand brushed against the mysterious beauty’s left hand. As the reader knows, this left hand was concealed by a glove with peculiar adornments. Startled, she swiftly withdrew her left hand and supported him with her right. Oura’s sharp eyes immediately fixed upon the unusual glove, while Uncle’s barely opened gaze also seemed drawn to it. Yet the beauty made no further use of her left hand—wordlessly transferring Uncle’s hand from her right to Oura’s—and began to withdraw with a bow. Fully recovered now, Uncle cried out with desperate reluctance: “No—you need not depart! Please—please stay until dinner concludes as promised!” His voice carried the tone of a pleading entreaty.

"But if my appearance has startled you so—" "I was indeed startled by your appearance—my nerves have deteriorated in recent years, hence these shameful episodes—but the shock was momentary. I've fully recovered now, perfectly composed. The truth is your bearing bears such striking resemblance to someone I once knew that I mistook you for her. Though considering it was over a decade ago—she couldn't possibly remain as youthful and beautiful as you—still, meeting you feels nothing like a first encounter... More like reuniting with an old friend." Who could this beauty possibly resemble among Uncle's acquaintances? If he emphasized it so, the likeness must be uncanny. Who? Who? For reasons unclear, this matter clung to my thoughts—yet Uncle never revealed whom she recalled.

At Uncle’s words, the beauty finally resolved to stay—in political parlance, order had been restored here. With this settled, I now had to placate Oura to salvage the evening, lest our carefully arranged dinner collapse into open conflict. Exercising diplomatic finesse, I addressed her: “Are you not the hostess of tonight’s gathering? Kindly manage affairs accordingly.” Flattering her thus, Oura’s mood improved at last. She promptly rang a bell to summon a servant, who arrived only to stare bewildered at the one or two shattered plates on the floor. As everyone exchanged uncertain glances, Madame Torai—silent until now—took charge. Half-muttering to herself and half-addressing the servant, she remarked, “These days, the wide hems of ladies’ robes are so fashionable they often cause mishaps,” while glancing down and lifting her own hem slightly. Masterful! Her words made it sound as though her skirt had snagged on something to break the plates, entirely concealing the earlier commotion beneath the shadow of her attire. Such voluminous hems proved quite convenient indeed! Yet I discerned this Madame Torai was no ordinary woman—a virtuoso liar who spun situation-appropriate schemes to achieve her ends. Might even the mysterious beauty be under her control? Where the beauty radiated grace and kindness, this woman exuded concealed malice—evil prevailing. If separating them could protect the beauty, then perhaps even that forged telegram had been Madame Torai’s doing after the beauty departed? Was this all an elaborate ruse to stage a meeting between the beauty and my uncle? Such suspicions swirled as we finally commenced dinner.

**Part Seven: Utterly Serious** Throughout the meal, Uncle’s eyes remained fixed upon the mysterious beauty’s face—he seemed utterly entranced by her. This only deepened my misgivings. *Who could she resemble so profoundly from Uncle’s past? What figure from bygone days could command such fascination?* Though not her own words, perhaps time alone would unravel this mystery. As we ate and conversed, our discussion naturally turned to the Ghost Tower. Uncle looked at the mysterious beauty and said, “It’s remarkable that you know how to wind the tower’s clock. Have you often ascended that tower?” “Yes, I used to climb it occasionally in the past,” she replied. “After all, it’s a mansion renowned since antiquity. Year after year, I lamented its decay—contemplating how to restore this section or tend to that one as if it were my own.” Uncle leaned forward eagerly. “Nothing could bring me greater joy! Having now acquired that mansion, I shall most assuredly seek your counsel and maintain it precisely as you advise.” “In truth,” she responded, “having recently heard from your nephew that circumstances might lead you to purchase it, I thought I ought to meet you at least once to share my knowledge and considerations.” Her words visibly grated on Oura, who waited like a coiled spring for any opportunity to disrupt their exchange. The mysterious beauty continued with slight discomposure: “I can only say I have no fixed residence. However, as I intend to accept most banquet invitations hereafter, provided you attend social gatherings yourself, you shan’t go a week without seeing me.” “No,” Uncle declared, “I had resolved to decline such invitations henceforth, having remained shut away at home until now. But if meeting you requires it, I shall attend every banquet without fail.” Overhearing this, Oura could no longer contain herself. “Uncle,” she interjected sharply, “must you chase after someone who won’t even disclose her address despite all this grand pretense?” Uncle flushed with anger but quickly composed himself. “I sincerely apologize for her willfulness—please pay no heed to this woman’s words.” His glance commanded me to restrain Oura as the mysterious beauty demurred: “Not at all—such suspicions are natural given my current circumstances. Strangers would inevitably doubt me.” “Suspecting you is unthinkable!” Uncle insisted. “I earnestly request you fully inform me about your designs for the Ghost Tower and its clock mechanism.” “I intend to explain everything,” she replied, “but such matters are best discussed privately. I’ve already informed your nephew of this.” Oura’s voice rose harshly: “Uncle! I cannot remain silent! Her words clearly interfere with Michisan and me! To be invited yet obstruct your own family—such discourtesy! I refuse to endure this!” Her words dissolved into outright abuse. Though Uncle must have seethed, his habitual restraint prevented proper rebuke. The mysterious beauty—having endured beyond courtesy’s bounds—rose abruptly. With a silent glance toward Madame Torai that declared *I shan’t tolerate slander*, she departed with queenly dignity. The ruined dinner’s sole grace lay in her retreating figure’s nobility—a stark contrast to Oura’s coarseness. I could no longer deny the chasm between their breeding. The mysterious beauty was no wet nurse’s foster child.

Uncle retreated to his room in extreme displeasure before I could even apologize to Oura on his behalf. When I then turned to Oura and harshly rebuked her, mere scolding proved insufficient—I stared her down in silent fury. My breath at that moment must have scorched her face with its heat; I was furious enough to breathe fire. Unfazed, Oura retorted: “Why do those large eyes of yours glow so? Do you not realize how deeply Uncle has taken a fancy to that woman of unknown origins? You are utterly blind! Leave things as they are, and Uncle will be lured into a second marriage by that creature. What then becomes of us—waiting to inherit his estate?” Ugh—to think she’d expose such increasingly vile inclinations! I am no man who covets Uncle’s estate! To speak of us as “mutual parties waiting to inherit” is utterly repulsive! That a wet nurse’s foster child could harbor such filth in her heart—had I known, I’d never have shared a roof with her this long! Stunned by her audacity, I glared in silent fury. Oura suddenly gripped her chair, trembling with resentment: “Ugh! Hateful! Hateful! That woman deserves to be killed a thousand times over! Look here, Michisan—if she dares cling to you or Uncle again, I’ll eradicate that root of calamity myself!” That woman clings neither to me nor Uncle—if anyone clings, it’s we who cling to her! Yet I refused to believe Oura’s threat against the mysterious beauty was earnest—not until witnessing proof hereafter. Unconvinced though I remained, this marked the end between Oura and me. Naturally, I detest Oura—and she likely considers her repulsion a blessing.

Part Eight: Furuyama Oto

It was truly regrettable that our carefully arranged dinner ended so dismally, but there was no helping it now. I resolved that come what may, I had to properly apologize both to the mysterious beauty and Madame Torai. Leaving Oura behind, I went to the room where the mysterious beauty—no, she was no longer a "mysterious beauty" but simply Matsutani Shūko—was staying. What words could suffice for apology? Given circumstances, I might even declare Oura a madwoman—her conduct tonight surpassed even madness. Unless I branded her thus, no adequate apology could be made. As I stood outside the door pondering this, a strange voice emanated from within. Indeed, Matsutani Shūko and Torai Fujin were arguing. “No—no matter what you say, I cannot lie or deceive others.” “If my excessive honesty should bring failure, then failure itself became my true wish!” declared the mysterious beauty with resolute courage. Madame Torai then rebuked her—criticizing her for being too forthright and refusing to deceive others—clearly opposing her stance. What an admirable sentiment! To embrace failure as one’s true desire due to unyielding honesty—this was the disposition of a saint! My respect for the mysterious beauty grew immeasurably. Next came Madame Torai’s voice: “Circumstances dictated that one must tell minor falsehoods! What good comes of spouting such foolishly upright notions?” “No matter the circumstances, it remained unchanged. If my foolish honesty offends you, let us part ways here. You may act as you see fit, and I shall act alone as I deem right. From the very beginning, your purpose and mine were never aligned.” Into this ongoing quarrel between those long acquainted, I—having met them only today—could not possibly barge in headlong. Yet neither could I bear to linger like some detective eavesdropping. Resolving to offer apologies come morning, I retreated to my chamber. Likely Uncle too intended to make proper amends at dawn.

The next morning, I went to check the dining hall a bit early. Oura had already arrived, but of course did not speak to me. It seemed she had given money to the servant to interrogate him about the mysterious beauty’s background. When she saw my face, she appeared momentarily flustered—as if an unwelcome intruder had arrived—but the servant continued unperturbed: “Yes, O-Natsu—the foster daughter who murdered Okon—died in prison. But there was another maid around the same age named Furuyama Oto who apparently also knew how to wind the clock.” Oura, having apparently obtained useful information, pressed eagerly: “Was that Furuyama Oto a beautiful woman?” The servant replied: “Yes, she was an extraordinary beauty—though I never saw her myself, as this was before my employment here. According to hearsay, she stood tall and slender like a noble lady, causing such a stir among the village youths that one became her lover. About a month before Okon’s murder, she eloped with this paramour and vanished. After Okon’s death, they were discovered in her hometown of Wesshu and summoned to court for questioning. But residing in distant Wesshu made involvement in this local murder impossible—they were merely examined as witnesses and promptly released. Rumor says they later emigrated abroad together.” “By now they’re probably in America or Australia or some such place.” “That woman had the disposition to even imitate a noblewoman.” “Yes, it’s said she took great delight when country folk would marvel at her for dressing like a noblewoman.” “If she were alive now, how old would she be?” “When Okon was killed, she was said to be nineteen or twenty—so her current age would be twenty-five or twenty-six. But as they say, beauty knows no age—she likely still appears youthful.”

Whether Oura found this sufficient, she ceased her interrogation and strode to my side with triumphant bearing. "What did you make of that conversation?" "I didn't hear anything at all." "Oh, 'Michisan'—your precious noblewoman has quite the pedigree, hasn't she?" "A mere maid who took a lover and eloped—then hid her real name Furuyama Oto to put on airs as Matsutani Shūko!" "Oh? You think Miss Matsutani is this Oto person?" "It's not mere opinion—isn't it said none alive know that clock's workings except Oto? And yet your 'noble lady'—*Ohoho*, what grandeur!—confessed last night when Uncle pressed her about climbing the tower repeatedly before! If they aren't the same person, what else explains it?" Were this suspicion true, it would make for a dreary tale indeed. Her visit to Wata Natsuko's grave—the foster daughter who murdered her guardian—might support the theory. One could argue nostalgia drove her there, having worked closely with Natsuko as a maid. Yet inexplicably, I refused to believe this mysterious beauty could descend from servant stock. She felt wholly distinct—an intuition born of my nature, for such instincts rarely erred. That Matsutani Shūko differed entirely from a drudge like Furuyama Oto couldn't possibly be mistaken—this I alone maintained.

Though there was no real quarrel to settle, I brooded in silence—searching fruitlessly for some means to dismantle Oura’s suspicions—when Uncle Tomoo entered. His demeanor radiated dejection as he announced: “Ah—this morning I went earnestly to Miss Matsutani’s room, intending to reiterate last night’s apologies and inquire about the clock’s secret. But she and Madame Torai had already departed this inn at dawn. Their destination remains unknown.” Oura grew ever more triumphant. “Just as I said—one can’t linger long where many know one’s former identity,” she muttered as if to herself, then addressed me directly: “Michisan, doesn’t a *morning flight* seem more ladylike to your eyes than a midnight escape?” How far did she intend to corner me? Yet I refused to engage, maintaining silence until breakfast ended. Soon Uncle turned to me: “Since we’re here, let us inspect the Ghost Tower.” Though we set out together, this marked our first true daylight examination of the tower. What discoveries awaited within its walls? Even the keenest reader could scarcely imagine.

**Part Nine: The Marube Family's Incantation**

At last, the time had come to inspect the Ghost Tower. I went out to the inn's entrance first—Uncle and Oura had not yet emerged. Likely Uncle was reprimanding Oura over last night's incident. Perhaps he thought it too pitiful to scold her in my presence, and so had deliberately sent me ahead.

While waiting, I opened the guest register at the front desk. There I found the names Matsutani Shūko and Torai Fujin recorded immediately before ours—meaning they had arrived at this inn one day prior to us, staying only two nights. Suspecting the guest register’s handwriting might match that of last night’s forged telegram, I carefully examined it, but they differed completely. The register’s script was remarkably elegant—one might even call it masterful penmanship—likely written by the mysterious beauty herself, bearing no resemblance to the crude scrawl on the telegram request form. I slipped the clerk some silver and inquired who had filled out the register. Upon confirming it was indeed the mysterious beauty’s work, I pressed further about samples of Madame Torai’s handwriting, but none existed. Had there been any, it might have confirmed or dispelled my suspicions about the forged telegram.

I then inquired at the front desk about what time the mysterious beauty had departed that morning. According to the clerk’s account, before six o’clock, the mysterious beauty had come alone to settle both their bills and left immediately. Around seven, Madame Torai descended with a puzzled air and, upon hearing the mysterious beauty had already settled the accounts and departed, hurried upstairs in surprise. She then gathered her lemur and luggage before hastily giving chase. From this, it appeared last night’s argument I’d partially overheard had ultimately failed to reach an amicable resolution—the mysterious beauty had likely abandoned Madame Torai. Though uncertain of their exact relationship, they hardly seemed compatible companions.

Soon Uncle and Oura arrived, and we all boarded the prepared carriage. Before long we reached the Ghost Tower, though nothing particularly unusual occurred—it remained as gloom-laden as ever. Leaving the upper tower for later, we first inspected the lower chambers. Given how successive generations of the Marube family had haphazardly added wing after wing, the number of reception rooms proved considerable. Yet their spatial relationships were poorly conceived, with some chambers existing for inexplicable purposes. Uncle appeared thoroughly satisfied nonetheless, remarking, “Hmm—if we rework all these crude additions, it could become quite an intriguing estate,” thereby revealing his firm decision to purchase it. Concluding our lower inspection, we ascended the tower. Upon reaching the room where I’d encountered the mysterious beauty the previous evening, I discovered that whereas last night’s path to the clock chamber above had eluded me, this morning a secret door in one wall stood open, revealing the clock room. There was no need to wonder how this door had opened—the mysterious beauty who’d departed our inn at six that morning must have stopped here to unlock it. That she knew this secret door’s mechanism was evident from her winding of the clock yesterday evening, for operating that device would be impossible without first opening this passage.

Yet why had the mysterious beauty specifically come to open this secret door in the tower this morning? I concluded it must have been an act of kindness toward us—leaving the door ajar intentionally. Thinking there might be other traces of her visit in the room, I looked around and found a single rose blossom fallen upon Okon’s bed. Before I could react, Oura noticed it first. “Well now,” she said, picking it up, “someone came to this bed either last night or this morning—this flower hasn’t wilted yet.” Exactly as I’d suspected—the rose served as proof of the beauty’s morning visit. Enraged that Oura might claim this token of goodwill for herself, I nearly resorted to physical force to wrest it from her. But tragically, she seized something far more crucial than the flower—a single key hidden beneath it. Undeterred by losing the rose, Oura immediately turned back to the bed. “Ah! Right under the flower—there’s this old copper key,” she declared, lifting a key far cruder than modern ones. Clearly, the beauty had placed the rose atop the key to draw my attention to it. As I reached to claim it, Oura snapped: “Oh no you don’t! I found this key first. I’ll keep it until its true owner appears—and give it to no one!” With that, she swiftly concealed it somewhere in her garments.

While Uncle and I were inspecting the upper clock chamber, someone—evidently having tried the key in various locks—suddenly cried out, “Oh! There’s something here!” Upon investigating, I found them opening a wall cabinet near the bed’s headboard. This key indeed fit that cabinet. Inside lay a single large book—an ancient, thick Bible of such magnificence that few libraries or museums could rival it. Were an antiquarian to see this, they’d gladly spend a fortune to display it as a study ornament. “This must be one of the Marube family’s treasures,” I remarked while opening the cover. Strangely, even the inner lining was fully leather-bound with embossed gilt letters. Among these characters, two words immediately caught my eye: “Incantation,” inscribed first. Recalling how the mysterious beauty had instructed me last night to memorize the Marube family’s secret verses in this very room—this had to be that incantation. *An incantation?* What could it mean? Though the characters were clear, deciphering them proved arduous. With effort, I finally parsed the text.

A hundred hu of luminous pearls A wicked monk’s plunder — Plumb the lake’s depths (here, explore the lake’s depths) — Inverse flames still blaze — Deeply hidden within chambers The bell tolls—verdure quivers —

Rising and falling (that is, ascending and descending)— Where mystery resides— Silently open the blueprint

What could it mean? First, I wished for the readers to consider it themselves.

**Part Ten: The Diagram** In any case, this incantation undoubtedly contained the Ghost Tower’s secret. If we could decipher its meaning, we would undoubtedly uncover the Ghost Tower’s secret. “A hundred hu of luminous pearls—royal boon for blessed fortune; A wicked monk’s plunder—dark waters where dragons weep; Plumb the lake’s depths—return heirlooms to their chest; Inverse flames still blaze—deeply hidden within chambers; The bell tolls—verdure quivers—flickering faint lights; Rising and falling through winding stairs— Where mystery resides—silently unroll the Diagram.” The verses were archaic, employing characters unused in modern parlance. Yet when cross-referenced with the Ghost Tower legends I had long studied, a faint interpretation emerged for the opening lines: “A treasure hoard bestowed by royalty was stolen by a sinister monk and cast into dark waters. Now we search those depths to reclaim our family’s heritage, concealing it anew within these walls during troubled times.” Such might have been their meaning—but the subsequent lines defied comprehension. Tolling bells? Quivering foliage? Flickering lights? What could they signify? Understanding these verses might reveal both the treasure’s path and the legend’s veracity, yet their meaning eluded me completely—not just myself, but likely all others. Hence their secrecy had endured centuries. Still, hope lingered in the final couplet: “Where mystery resides—silently unroll the Diagram.” Did this mean “Consult the blueprint for answers”? If so, examining this Diagram might illuminate everything.

As I pondered thus, Uncle descended from the clock chamber and said, “No matter how I look at it, I cannot discern how to wind this clock. There’s no choice but to meet Miss Matsutani once more and have her instruct me.” But then he noticed the incantation and Bible behind him and exclaimed, “Ah! Ah! This is extraordinary! This Bible has been passed down for generations to heirs inheriting the Marube family headship—one of our treasures! Though the incantation’s meaning remains elusive, every family head was obliged to recite it on each birthday and contemplate its significance. Where did this Bible come from?” “I found it in this cabinet just now.” “This grows ever more perplexing,” said Uncle. “This Bible went missing several years before Wata Okon purchased this tower. The family head at that time spent considerable resources searching for it, yet it remained lost. Had it been in this cabinet then, they would have found it immediately—they emptied every shelf during their investigation. Clearly this long-lost item has now returned through time. A Bible cannot return on its own—someone must have brought it here and secretly placed it.” The more I recalled the mysterious beauty’s words, the more certain I became—she must have placed this Bible here out of kindness, wishing me to decipher its incantation. Yet how she came to possess this Bible remained beyond my understanding. Not that this singular mystery warranted suspicion, for her every action brimmed with enigmas beyond reckoning.

Uncle examined the Bible’s cover and said, “The lack of dust here shows this was in someone’s hands until recently. My conjecture seems correct after all.” “Your conjecture being...?” “When this book went missing years ago, I suspected Okon—the old caretaker woman—stole it. That greedy hag heard legends of treasure hidden here and thought viewing the incantation would reveal its location. She stole this Bible first, then bought the tower itself.” “Then how did it return here?” “She must’ve had an accomplice. Since Okon couldn’t read the incantation herself, she likely passed it to someone else for study. When even they failed to decipher it, despair drove them to return it.” If this conjecture held true, it meant the mysterious beauty was that accomplice—a role I couldn’t reconcile with her elegance. No woman of such grace would participate in such villainy. Had she been involved, she’d never have left this Bible here for me to find. Even Uncle would abandon all suspicion of her being Okon’s partner if he knew she’d returned it. But bound by silence, I kept listening until shrewd Oura—perhaps sensing my dilemma—declared, “Exactly as Uncle suspects,” then added in a voice meant only for me: “Doesn’t this prove Matsutani Shūko is Furuyama Oto—Okon’s maid accomplice? Oto couldn’t act alone, so she left roses and keys to entangle you as her partner. She knows Uncle plans to buy this estate and needs an insider among his family. If she can’t recruit you, she’ll deceive Uncle directly to gain access for future thefts. She even sent that forged telegram!”

Though I disagreed with this suspicion, to refute it would only invite complications—so I let the words pass in silence. Meanwhile, Uncle repeated the incantation: "There must be something called a diagram—I've long heard it's concealed within this book." He turned the book spine-downward and shook it. From within emerged an aged diagram about one shaku square, bearing the inscription: "Marube Family Diagram." This is it—this must be it! With this, everything will become clear.

**Part Eleven: Charini’s Tiger** What manner of thing was this Diagram? Both my uncle and I leaned forward eagerly to examine it—a blueprint depicting the Ghost Tower’s interior, yet tragically abandoned mid-creation. It amounted to nothing more than an incomplete rough draft, utterly useless. Where the incantation proved indecipherable, the Diagram offered no further clarity. According to Uncle’s theory, the tower’s builder had first composed the incantation before commencing work on this Diagram, only to fall into the tower’s depths during its construction and perish without returning to the mortal world. Thus, the Diagram alone remained forever unfinished.

However, Uncle’s intention to purchase this tower had never originally been for the sake of the incantation or Diagram. The rumored treasure itself had never figured in Uncle’s considerations from the start. That the Diagram remained largely incomprehensible warranted no particular disappointment. Nevertheless, this Diagram—passed down through generations of the Marube bloodline alongside the Bible—now fell to Uncle’s custody as its closest living heir. To this arrangement, Oura could raise no objection. Yet she adamantly refused to relinquish the copper key she had retrieved, declaring to me: “I shall prove its worth to you in due course.” Hmm... What possible use could she have for it?

With the tower inspection thus concluded, we three immediately returned to London. By the day after next, the purchase agreement had been finalized without complication, and the Ghost Tower reverted to its rightful owners—the Marube bloodline. Though renovations ought to commence now, Uncle declared he absolutely wished to hear Matsutani Shūko’s opinions on the restoration plans. Henceforth, he resolved to accept every social invitation—apparently relying on that mysterious beauty’s assurance that attending all gatherings would lead to their reunion within less than a week. Naturally I too accompanied Uncle without fail, eager to meet the mysterious beauty once more—as did Oura—yet our paths obstinately refused to cross. During this period, Uncle somehow procured a book titled *The Private Secretary*—whether novel or memoir remained unclear—published in America under Matsutani Shūko’s authorship. Presenting it to me, he remarked: “She appears an American lady of standing—and judging by this work, quite learned. Perhaps she even served as a private secretary to some American statesman despite her sex.” I took the book and read it. As fiction it held little appeal, yet it keenly dissected American political machinations through prose of remarkable elegance. Its overarching aim seemed to mock America’s democratic republicanism while tacitly admiring Britain’s aristocratic monarchy. Such a work would likely find little favor in America yet be warmly received by British literati—or so I mused. Sure enough, days later a critical review appeared in a literary journal that lavishly praised the author’s talent, adding that she had recently arrived in Britain where select social circles fêted her and was currently touring Surrey.

At this very moment, a peculiar invitation had arrived for my uncle from the Asakura household in Surrey—peculiar because the master of that house, Baron Asakura (a longtime enthusiast of sundry entertainments), wished to showcase newly acquired magic tricks. Amateur conjuring, like all dilettante arts, delights its practitioner far more than its captive audience. Yet the Baron, ever the sophisticate, had thoughtfully appended that an Italian menagerie exhibitor named Charini—featuring tigers and lions—had recently arrived in the neighboring county, which we might also visit. Tigers or lions mattered little to my uncle, who disdained such spectacles; he initially resolved to decline. But upon reading a critical journal’s article, he abruptly changed his mind. As ever, Oura and I found ourselves dragged along. En route, we learned of a grave incident: Signor Charini’s massive tiger—captured in India or Africa—had broken free overnight, demolishing its cage and vanishing. Police milled about with grave expressions, cautioning travelers at every turn. This was no trifling matter—turning back seemed safer than courting a mauling. I’d no desire to end as tiger-fodder yet.

After much debate, we halted our carriage midway. Under normal circumstances we would have turned back without hesitation—but recalling that critic’s journal article made retreat seem unthinkable. For if its claims held truth, the acclaimed authoress of *The Private Secretary* herself might be attending the Asakura gathering. A darker thought followed: What if this very authoress became the tiger’s prey? Though Uncle left this fear unvoiced, his resolute expression mirrored my own conviction. We resolved to press onward. Only Oura voiced objections, yet she refused to return alone once Uncle and I declared our intent. This deliberation delayed us considerably beyond our scheduled time—when we finally arrived at the Asakura estate, it was nine o'clock at night.

Upon arrival, Lady Asakura alone came to greet us. Expressing concern over our tardiness, she declared: “Now then—the magic show is just commencing! We drew lots among the guests earlier to select one participant for the trick’s mechanism. You’d never guess who won—such an uproar ensued!” Her solitary delight in her husband’s amateurish arts—while denying guests even a word of commentary—struck me as quintessential high society behavior. Feeling swept along like smoke in a gale, we passed through corridors ablaze with electric lights toward the grand hall where laughter and murmurs surged like tidal waves. Just as we reached the threshold, every lamp in the chamber extinguished at once, plunging us into absolute darkness. Both Uncle and I started—Oura let out an “Ah!”—but our hostess explained from the void: “No need for alarm! This darkness precedes the magic—much like dimming lights before unveiling a panorama’s marvels.” With cautious steps, she guided the three of us into the grand hall. After a moment, the space gradually brightened, and upon the pale blue curtain ahead—like a magic lantern’s projection—the figure of a beauty appeared and began to move. Of course, this “beauty” stood merely two feet tall—no true woman but unmistakably a shadow cast by the lantern. Yet as we watched intently, the silhouette steadily grew until it transformed into a genuine beauty who offered a bewitching smile. Dear readers—what do you suppose? This beauty was none other than Matsutani Shūko herself! The enigmatic woman Uncle and I had longed to meet! Evidently, she was the “distinguished guest” Lady Asakura had mentioned earlier—the one selected by lot from the attendees to participate in this trick’s mechanism.

**Part Twelve: Adept at Transformation**

The magic lantern’s shadow transforming into a genuine beauty was hardly a novel trick, yet for an amateur’s effort, it demonstrated considerable finesse—prompting enthusiastic applause from the entire audience. The applause was truly deafening, with some even going so far as to cheer, "Long live Baron Asakura!" As we watched, this beauty—Matsutani Shūko—appeared fully entrusted by our host. She moved to the music stand at the front, bowed to the assembled guests, and began performing. Her mastery was extraordinary—her singing voice so mellifluous that an Eastern poet might liken it to pearls rolling through a nightingale’s throat. Once more, thunderous applause erupted—this time celebrating solely the mysterious beauty’s artistry rather than our host’s contributions. When the music concluded, her form gradually shrank until transforming back into the lantern’s projection—a winged celestial child dancing through heavenly gardens. While a professional illusionist might have executed this reversal seamlessly, the amateur’s limitations showed: though replacing a shadow with a living figure proved feasible, reversing the process eluded them. In truth, they abruptly extinguished the lights at the music’s end, plunging the hall back into darkness to mask the clumsy transition. Half the guests felt compelled to offer diplomatic praise—"How elegantly understated!"—their forced compliments revealing society’s polished hypocrisy.

When the hall relit, Matsutani Shūko returned to her seat. Guests lavished praise upon both our host and Shūko, though none requested an encore of the Baron’s magic tricks while many clamored insistently for another performance of her music. By all appearances, her artistry surpassed even our host’s. Among them, my uncle rose with visible delight, approaching her to express his joy at their reunion and adding a request for “just one more piece”—his manner that of an infatuated suitor. Shūko too seemed genuinely pleased to see him, bestowing a smile of particular warmth, yet modestly declined: “My music grows discordant upon second hearing.” Witnessing this exchange—her effortless grace in refusal, his besotted persistence—I felt defenses shatter, my very soul dissolving to merge with hers. Of course I knew secrets clung to her being; I who had dubbed her “the mysterious beauty” could hardly imagine her history as crystalline as her demeanor. Though her authorship of *The Private Secretary* revealed literary cultivation and tonight’s performance demonstrated musical accomplishment, these very qualities could be seen as suspicious from certain perspectives. Yet however enigmatic she remained, she was undeniably a distinguished lady—one who would bring no disgrace as any man’s wife. That she openly stated “I bear a secret purpose” itself proved her free of deceitful cunning. Thinking thus, I grew uneasy at Uncle’s excessive familiarity with Shūko. Not wishing to interfere yet unable to remain passive, I approached her side—edging Uncle aside with deliberate force—to offer my greetings.

At that moment, someone behind me raised their voice loud enough for the entire crowd to hear—it was Miss Urahara. No, simply referring to her as “Miss Urahara” would leave readers puzzled—it was Oura. Her legal surname being Urahara, others addressed her formally as “Miss Urahara.” Whether finding it beneath her dignity to forcibly approach this mysterious beauty, Oura pointed at Miss Matsutani and shouted: “Truly, you’re adept at transformation!” For all its semblance of praise, “adept at transformation” rang discordantly. The crowd pricked up their ears in peculiar fascination. Unperturbed, Miss Matsutani merely laughed lightly: “It wasn’t I who transformed—the magic lantern’s light did that for me.” Miss Urahara seemed to have been awaiting this response. “Oh, you play dumb just like him! I’m not talking about tonight! I’m talking about the accomplice impersonating a lady!” So Miss Urahara intended to publicly air her longstanding suspicion—that this beauty was none other than Furuyama Oto, that accomplice and former servant of old woman Okon—and humiliate her before the entire gathering. Yet the mysterious beauty feigned complete incomprehension: “Why, whatever do you mean by that?” “Can’t you grasp it? I thought if I simply said ‘accomplice,’ you’d immediately realize I meant Okon’s accomplice—sparing you the humiliation of detailed explanations. But since you feign ignorance, I’ll spell it out: Furuyama Oto, the accomplice dragged to court with her lover during the murder investigation of that old hag. Yes—the maid. That Oto, despite being a lowly servant, has masterfully disguised herself as a lady! Astounding—no, I should say admirable. I was praising you out of admiration!” I wanted to strike Oura down upon hearing these words—yet could not bring myself to do so. Moreover, a part of me did wish to ascertain whether this beauty truly was Oto or not. This was no cunning scheme to play the innocent while letting Oura expose the truth, but that sliver of doubt alone stayed my hand. In that brief hesitation, the confrontation escalated dreadfully.

**Part Thirteen: All Hair Stands on End** Miss Urahara’s manner of speaking was truly venomous—her words artfully entangled yet cutting to the quick. This brand of verbal evisceration belonged solely to women; no man could ever achieve its like. Had the mysterious beauty truly been Furuyama Oto—a lowly maid skillfully disguised as a lady—she could never have withstood such an assault. One would expect blushing cheeks or flustered agitation. Yet the mysterious beauty remained utterly composed. With an air of polite incomprehension, she turned calmly toward Miss Urahara and said: “My, listening to your words—it almost sounds as though you’re implying *I* am this Furuyama Oto—” “No matter how much you play dumb, it’s useless—there are those who know even that Oto went to America afterward.” The mysterious beauty regarded Miss Urahara as if she were either mad or entirely unworthy of engagement. “Oh? You?” she said, smiling faintly before letting the expression fade. Had this smile appeared on an ordinary face, it might have seemed a sneer—but on this exquisitely beautiful countenance, not a trace of such insolent mockery could manifest. It was a thoroughly charming smile. Observing this demeanor, I perceived conclusively that this beauty, Matsutani Shūko, was not Furuyama Oto. Admittedly, even without witnessing this demeanor, no maid or accomplice could author an exceptional book like *The Private Secretary* requiring such keen observation—thus, with minimal consideration, one could sufficiently discern she was not Oto.

Thus lightly brushed aside, Miss Urahara grew utterly flustered. “Oh? Oh? So now you’ll play innocent and claim not to know Oto at all?” The mysterious beauty replied: “No, I know Oto quite well. Though I don’t know where she is now, we were as close as friends in our youth.” Stunned by this candid yet dismissive reply, Oura faltered. As her shock crested, she cried, “How infuriating!” and rose to her feet. “No one will side with me—not even Michikurou pretends to care!” she wailed resentfully. Pitiable indeed—though her own misguided suspicions had brought this humiliation upon herself, the utter futility of her public accusations made the bitterness understandable.

Uncle appeared deeply flustered, and I too found the situation untenable. As I moved to calm Oura, the household mistress—well-versed in such matters—embraced her as one would a child and admonished: “This will not do! That spoiled streak from your upbringing hasn’t gone away. First—one does not voice suspicions so recklessly in public! Even if you harbor doubts, airing them here only shames yourself. Miss Matsutani is the author of *The Private Secretary* and arrived here with impeccable credentials!” Whether this reasonable reproach finally struck home, Oura snapped: “Very well—my apologies! But that woman’s a maid so cunning she fools everyone into thinking her a lady! Of course I couldn’t match her alone—only a fool like me would engage such a creature unwittingly!” Still insisting on demoting the mysterious beauty to servant status, she stormed from the room in fury.

Though I felt remorse toward Matsutani Shūko, I could not abandon Oura and thus followed her out of the room. There I saw Oura being escorted by the mistress of the house into the second-floor chamber assigned to her, comforted all the while. Though I meant to return directly to the parlor, an unnameable awkwardness made me linger indecisively in the corridor for nearly twenty minutes before rejoining the gathering. The guests appeared thoroughly entertained—evidently having compelled Shūko back onto the music platform solely to mask their collective discomfiture. There she sat once more at the instrument, though her demeanor had grown somber and her music lacked its former vitality. Beside her, my uncle—a gentleman behaving quite undignified for his years—devotedly turned pages of her scorebook. He seemed to have offered extensive apologies to Shūko during my absence.

By then, the guests had begun departing one by one until scarcely any remained, and at last the gathering drew to a close. Having finished her piece, Shūko descended from the platform and came directly to my side. “I must sincerely apologize for provoking Miss Urahara so grievously,” she said. “I intended to withdraw to my room immediately, but everyone insisted I stay—lest my departure escalate matters into a genuine quarrel.” “No, there’s absolutely no need for you to apologize,” I replied. “It was entirely Oura who made such baseless accusations toward you.” “If only Madam Torai were here—she would somehow manage to offer apologies to everyone on my behalf.” Hearing these words, I noticed for the first time that Madam Torai was absent. “What became of that lady?” Shūko answered quietly: “When she heard the tiger had escaped from the menagerie, she declared she couldn’t risk having her precious lemur mauled—and fled all the way back to London.”

While we were speaking, one of the servants brought something like a written note and handed it to Shūko. “Please read this immediately,” he said curtly before leaving. Shūko murmured, “I wonder who sent this,” and opened it to read. I caught a glimpse of the handwriting and knew unmistakably that Oura had sent it. *If this were a man’s doing,* I thought, *it might resemble a duel challenge.* As I pondered this, Shūko finished reading and made to leave. I stepped forward: “If Oura has summoned you, there’s no need for you to go. I’ll meet with her in your stead.” Shūko declared, “No—I must go myself. To do otherwise would only cast greater suspicion upon me,” and strode into the corridor. At that moment, Uncle showed no intention of escorting her, engrossed in conversation with another gentleman. Resolving to accompany her myself, I followed into the hallway—anxious about what fresh conflict might erupt between Oura and Shūko. Upon reaching the corridor, I found Shūko already far ahead, turning right. By the time I reached that junction, she had proceeded to the stairwell and entered what appeared to be a gun room beneath it—a chamber stocked solely with firearms. Even as I marveled at this strange choice of meeting place, a female figure slipped out from the stairwell’s shadows—Oura herself. Her furtive movements resembled those of a thieving cat pilfering goods. I expected her to follow Shūko into the armory, but instead she locked the door from outside. *Good heavens—she’s trapped the mysterious beauty inside!* Though I couldn’t fathom her purpose, I hurried over just as Oura ascended halfway up the stairs, peered down through the gun room window, then disappeared into the upper floor. My suspicions of Oura’s conduct redoubled. Testing the door confirmed Shūko’s imprisonment—the lock held fast, its key vanished with Oura’s departure. With no alternative, I climbed to where Oura had stood moments before and peered through the same window into that deadly chamber. Dear readers—no human word like “shock” could convey my horror then. Every hair stood erect; my body might have turned to stone then and there! For there in one corner crouched an enormous tiger, forelegs tensed to spring upon Shūko! At last I understood—Oura had discovered this beast’s presence and lured her prey into its lair.

**Part Fourteen: The Tiger Leaps Upon Me** The extent of my shock would be understood were readers to place themselves in my position at that moment—a shock utterly beyond the power of pen or tongue to convey. It can only be left to each reader’s imagination. Though it lasted but an instant, my thoughts raced in all directions—first shocked by Oura’s malice. However enraged she might have been, to lure someone into a tiger’s den and lock them in from outside before departing—what depravity! I’d never imagined Oura capable of such cruelty; my patience with her had truly reached its limit. How loathsome—all this time I’d shared a roof with that woman under the pretense of being betrothed. But now a far graver matter consumed me: how to wrest Matsutani Shūko from the tiger’s jaws. Her preternatural calm astonished me—whether she grasped the beast’s lethality or not, her composure suggested utter ignorance of peril. There she stood, locked in a measured stare with the creature. *This* was true equanimity—what manner of person maintains such poise before death? Even the tiger seemed baffled by her nerve, hesitating as though calculating risks. But its restraint wouldn’t last. To save her, I must act now—this fleeting moment alone held hope.

There was no way around it—I couldn’t abandon her. Desperation drove me to decide: I must leap between the tiger and Shūko myself, offer myself as her substitute to be mauled, and let her escape in the interval. From my current vantage at the window, leaping into the gun room wouldn’t be particularly difficult. Yet upon jumping down, I’d land not between them but directly behind the tiger. No matter—the beast would surely startle at something suddenly crashing down behind it and turn around. What would it do upon turning? Two possibilities: immediately seize and maul me to death, or flee in surprise through the very window it had entered—the one facing Shūko’s entry point, now wide open to the garden. If it chose flight, nothing could be more fortunate. Yet one complication remained: to escape through that window, the beast would need to step over my fallen body behind it. Would a tiger tread gently without harming me? Unlikely—but no alternative existed. I entrusted my fate to heaven.

My resolve crystallized in an instant—though describing it would take far longer than the two minutes it truly occupied. Being one to act the moment a decision forms, I gripped the window frame and swung feet-first toward the tiger’s rear, dangling my body straight down before releasing my hold. I landed with a heavy thud directly behind the beast. Though proficient in gymnastics—ordinarily such a drop would leave me upright—my frayed nerves betrayed me, sending me sprawling sideways. Even Matsutani Shūko, who until now had faced the tiger with unshakable composure, cried out in alarm—something like “Mr. Marube!” Almost simultaneously, the tiger pounced upon me like an unfurled umbrella. Though resigned to death, I refused to be devoured without resistance—I would test my strength against this beast to the utmost! I tried pushing back to leap up, but the tiger’s putrid stench flooded my nostrils while its hot breath steamed against my face. This alone made me faint—all thoughts of struggle vanished as I prepared to meet my end. Zoo visitors might never imagine tigers reek so terribly, but pinned beneath one, the stench proved unbearable—it stung my eyes and choked my breath. I realized struggling was futile. Had that stench not overwhelmed me, I might have gouged its eyes for temporary advantage—but immobilized as I was, death seemed certain. The beast tossed me like ragdoll, pinned me beneath pillar-like forelegs, and opened its maw to crush my skull—yet fortune favored me over the tiger. A gunshot rang beneath my ear as it recoiled with an earth-shaking roar, collapsing like a crumbling mountain after the second report. Who had fired the fatal shot?

**Part Fifteen: A Hint of Suspicion** Who could have shot the tiger for me? That person was none other than my savior. In truth—driven solely by desperation to rescue the mysterious beauty—I had charged into that room without assessing my own strength, an act of pure recklessness upon reflection. However formidable my physical prowess might be, subduing a tiger bare-handed remained impossible. Had no one intervened with that fateful shot, not only would I have perished, but Miss Shūko too would have fallen prey to the beast, rendering my rescue attempt utterly futile. Thus our shooter became savior to us both. But what of Shūko herself? Was she truly unharmed? As I rose and scanned my surroundings, there she stood unmistakably before me—rifle still in hand. Before I could utter a word through my daze, she spoke calmly: “Oh! You’re uninjured? I feared terribly I might have shot you by mistake.” She set the rifle on a side table and approached with evident concern. Ah! I who had meant to save the mysterious beauty had instead been saved by her! To think my life’s preserver was this very woman—how could I resent it? “Your composure astounds me,” I said. “Truly, I owe my life to it.” The mysterious beauty smiled faintly. “You leapt through that window to save me, didn’t you?” “Yes—but I could never have defeated the tiger alone. It was you who saved me.” “No,” she countered softly. “It was I who owed you my life. “When I first entered this room and saw the tiger, I knew shooting it was my only recourse. Yet had I reached for the rifle hastily, the beast would have surely sensed my intent and pounced at once. I resolved to wait for even a moment’s distraction—some shift in its focus. Having once heard a traveler’s advice—that showing fear before a wild beast invites certain doom, while maintaining a calm gaze keeps them hesitant—I held my ground. Then you leapt in, drawing its attention. That diversion finally allowed me to seize the rifle. Once armed, I could have fired swiftly—but deemed it vital to aim precisely for a lethal strike with one shot... all while agonizing over possibly hitting you instead.” “Still,” I remarked, “having a loaded rifle at hand proved most fortuitous.”

“Ah, this morning—when we heard the tiger had escaped from the menagerie—the master of this house insisted we keep rifles loaded at all times, in case the beast strayed near,” replied the mysterious beauty. “He gathered several guests staying here into this room and made us pledge to signal others immediately upon spotting the tiger, then rush here to retrieve the firearms. As I’ve been lodging here these past two or three days, I was present in this room during those preparations.” I said nothing, simply overcome with admiration for our host’s thorough preparations. In a surge of emotion, I unconsciously seized Shūko’s hands in mine and exclaimed from the depths of my heart, “Ah! Thank you!”

Many people, startled by the gunshot, rushed to this room. At their forefront stood the master of this house, who tried pushing open the door from outside. “This is outrageous! Earlier, I left the key in the lock’s keyhole so anyone could open it—but now it’s gone!” Retrieving a duplicate key from somewhere, he unlocked the door and entered. The master declared, “That gunshot must have been the prearranged signal! Where is the tiger?” After surveying the smoke-filled room, he exclaimed, “Ah! So Marube-kun has already shot it down? As expected of someone who boasts of his hunting skills daily—such deftness!” “No, it wasn’t me—Miss Matsutani was the one who shot it down.” The master declared, “This only deepens my admiration! Truly, Miss Matsutani’s marksmanship rivals any man’s—no wonder, given her time in America. What a pity I missed this tiger hunt!” He showed no awareness of the bizarre circumstances under which Shūko and I had entered the room—nor could he reasonably have discerned them. After all, people who knowingly lure others into tiger-infested chambers or leap like madmen from upper windows into predators’ paths have few parallels in civilized society.

All the guests chimed in, “How did you manage to kill it with just one or two shots?” “How did you spot the tiger?” Some even asked questions like “How on earth did the tiger get into this room?” as if Shūko and I could read the beast’s very mind, but Shūko—appearing reluctant to cast suspicion on Oura—answered with deliberate nonchalance. Thus, the guests concluded we had discovered the tiger sleeping here and stealthily shot it down. This perception owed entirely to Shūko’s composure, and I grew ever more impressed by her noble-heartedness. Yet among them, one person harbored doubts deep down—my uncle. Though reserved, his years as a prosecutor had preserved remnants of his former sharpness for such occasions. “Even so,” he remarked, “isn’t it suspicious that the door was locked from outside and the key vanished?”

**Part Sixteen: Heavy Luggage** While Uncle’s suspicion was entirely reasonable, no one could imagine a prankster bold enough to lock me and the mysterious beauty in this room from outside—especially as the guests were too engrossed in appraising the tiger’s carcass to heed such a gloomy inquiry. Only one among them remarked dismissively: “Oh, these sudden crises always leave inexplicable oddities! Likely Baron Asakura yanked the door handle without turning it—mistaking an unlocked bolt for a locked one.” Two or so guests chimed in: “You! You! This one’s added another tale to tell!” The guests laughed derisively. Baron Asakura began to offer an explanation but—whether fearing deeper scrutiny might tarnish a guest’s honor or genuinely believing his own error—ultimately joined their laughter. “Well! At least we had a duplicate key prepared! Though I can’t recall whether I turned it left or right,” he guffawed, clutching his sides without reason. “Had there been no duplicate, I might’ve yanked that unlocked door until my arms dislocated! Ah ha ha ha!” Thus Uncle’s suspicions vanished like smoke swept away by wind.

Yet Uncle himself seemed unable to dispel his doubts. While the guests vied to chatter—appraising the tiger’s carcass, praising Miss Matsutani’s marksmanship, or commending Baron Asakura’s foresight in keeping rifles loaded since noon—he appeared wholly absorbed in scrutinizing the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him pretending not to notice until at last he picked up what resembled a scrap of paper beneath a side table and slipped it into his pocket. There was nothing else worth noting that night, and so it passed without incident. The next morning, I went early to my uncle’s room to inquire after his well-being. He appeared to have risen earlier than I and was seated at his desk, deeply engrossed in thought as if studying criminal cases from his days as a prosecutor. When he turned to me, he spoke curtly: “Bring Oura here.” Startled that Uncle had already discerned Oura’s scheme, I complied with his order—only to learn she had risen earlier still, departing for London at dawn with her belongings packed. This, then, was her flight upon sensing exposure.

I promptly reported this outcome to Uncle. Having heard it all without particular surprise, he replied in a voice graver than before: “Last night’s affair must have been Oura’s scheme.” I exclaimed, “Wh-What?!” It seemed he hadn’t deduced that I’d descended from the window, but regardless, I marveled at his keen insight. I asked: “Why do you suspect such a thing?” Uncle thrust forward a single scrap of paper. “Observe this.” The text read: “I humbly request your immediate presence at the gun room to discuss urgent matters. Should you hesitate out of fear toward me, such reluctance shall itself constitute proof that you are Furuyama Oto. From Urahara Jō.” The note Uncle had picked up last night was this one—evidently dropped by Shūko when she entered that room and reached for the rifle. This document explained everything. I could muster no retort; I merely bowed my head before him. “You must go to London at once and summon Oura here,” Uncle declared. “After interrogating her properly, you must offer Miss Matsutani a full apology yourself.” His demand was perfectly reasonable. “Understood—I’ll depart for London immediately. But what if Oura refuses to come?” “In that case, I shall go myself,” he declared with unassailable dignity, leaving no room for objection.

I returned promptly to London, but Oura had already fled with her belongings packed here as well, leaving me only a single hastily scribbled note: "I am astonished you would thwart my carefully laid plans even at the cost of your life. How deeply you love that woman - and how little you love me - stands now plain as day. As you well know, I never held affection for you from the first; our engagement existed solely to keep the Marube inheritance from passing to outsiders. I hereby dissolve our pact. Henceforth we are strangers, free to wed whom we please." "A marriage without love ends in mutual obstruction and misery - this truth you learned through last night's events. I depart today for the continent under Madam Konshi's escort, and shall return once you have tasted desolation's full measure in my absence. That maid will undoubtedly beguile your Honorable Uncle - and you - to usurp the Marube estate during my absence. Though this lies beyond remedy, know your hearts have already melted under her spell. Her ambition stretches even to seizing the treasure said to lie beneath the Ghost Tower. The profound secret she conceals shows plain in that peculiar glove ever clasping her left hand - never removed under any circumstance. Should you or your uncle pledge marriage to her, do so only after making them remove that glove. This final warning I leave: if hereafter you are ensnared by her, your ruin springs wholly from your own folly - a matter in which I claim no part."

I scoffed, “What impudence!” Yet above all, I felt relief at being freed from my engagement to Oura—now unshackled, I could adore Matsutani Shūko as fiercely as I wished without restraint. Imagining myself unburdened of heavy luggage, I nearly reveled in this newfound liberty. But this was no time for self-congratulation. Resolved to confront Oura, I rushed to the residence of Madam Konshi—only to arrive a step too late. At every destination I pursued thereafter, I found myself trailing Oura’s departed shadow. By day’s end, I had squandered hours in vain. Of course, I telegraphed Uncle of this outcome. The next day, I raced about until dusk but failed to meet her. On the third day, I chased her as far as Dover Port—only to discover her party had already boarded a ship ahead of mine. Disheartened, I returned to Uncle’s London home, where a telegram awaited: “Your return unnecessary. I shall arrive shortly.” *Unnecessary?* What nonsense! After causing me such trouble, it seemed he had managed to fully apologize to Matsutani Shūko and reconcile with her without awaiting my return—though he should by all rights be returning to London now, what madness was this “coming back shortly”? Could it be—could it truly be—that he could not bear to part from Matsutani Shūko and intended to idly away his days in her company? Tormented by the possibility that Urahara Jō’s letter might prove prophetic, I writhed with gnawing anxiety—yet unable to defy Uncle’s explicit telegram forbidding my return, I could only wait in wretched restraint. Two days, three days, four days passed before Uncle returned beaming. He summoned me immediately to a private chamber, his formerly gloomy countenance now startlingly rejuvenated. “Now then, Michikurou,” he declared, “there’s a matter requiring your congratulations. A most auspicious occasion!” I started. “Very well—if it is so auspicious an occasion, I offer my congratulations,” I replied, my voice somehow catching in my throat. Uncle declared, “At my age, nothing could bring me greater joy.” For me, it brought none at all. Uncle pressed on: “Truly joyous! That author of *The Secretary*, you see—” “Wh-What? Matsutani Shūko?” “You there—that Matsutani Shūko,” Uncle said, “compelled by my kindness, has at last granted her promise.” I found myself utterly voiceless. With a sensation akin to strangulation, I forced out the question: “When will the wedding be held?” The anguish of this retort—how I wish he might have comprehended it.

**Part Seventeen: A Clever Preface** “When will the wedding be held?” At my question, Uncle recoiled in astonishment. “What are you saying? A wedding?!” I asked in bewilderment, “Your wedding with Matsutani Shūko…” Uncle burst into laughter. “Ha ha! How absurd! Do you truly think a man past fifty like me would remarry? Not me—I’m adopting Matsutani Shūko as my daughter.” To hear this was truly awkward—awkward, yet delightful. If that Shūko were to dwell long in this house as my uncle’s adopted daughter, living alongside me, who could say what favorable winds might not blow in time?

“I would prefer to make the announcement immediately,” Uncle continued explaining, “but at her request, we will hold the adoption ceremony together with the housewarming banquet once the repairs on Ghost Tower are finally completed and I have moved in.” “Until then, Shūko will remain at the local inn as before and come to this house daily.” “What brings her here?” “She comes to assist with my writings,” Uncle replied. “In truth, even while staying at the Asakura household, I tested her by having her draft letters. As expected of the author of *The Secretary*, her penmanship and composition surpassed even the clerks I had employed during my official tenure.” “From now on, she will visit daily to consult with me on plans for Ghost Tower’s repairs and organize my study in the process. She possesses remarkably astute insights into such matters—I’ve gained practically a daughter who also serves as a secretary.” He paused, then added as if recalling something: “By the way—what became of Oura?” I explained how Oura had departed abroad with Madam Konshi and recounted the dissolution of our engagement. Uncle responded gravely: “I too never imagined Oura harbored such malice—I arranged your marriage believing it would be agreeable. Now that the engagement is voided, it is only natural. In its place, you shall surely find a splendid fiancée.” There was no mistaking that this “splendid fiancée” meant Shūko—a shiver crept down my neck.

Just as our conversation concluded, a servant arrived and reported that a strangely dressed child was requesting to see me. Assuming it might be a beggar seeking alms, I excused myself from Uncle’s presence and went to the entrance. There stood a grubby boy of about fifteen or sixteen, who abruptly thrust out a provincial newspaper and demanded with brazen audacity: “I’m the one who sent that telegram in this ad for someone else. How much’ll ya pay me to snitch on who hired me?” Given my lingering suspicions about who had lured Uncle near Ghost Tower with that forged telegram, I felt a flicker of hope. Assessing the boy’s appearance as sufficiently credible, I offered: “Three pounds.” The child merely retorted, “That ain’t worth talkin’ about,” and started briskly walking away. “Wait—wait! How much d’you want?” “Ten pounds.” “But a letter came from the person who hired me. Said if I keep pretendin’ not to know ’bout this ad for two months, they’ll give me five pounds. Followin’ their offer pays better, see?” The fact that someone tried to buy this child’s silence with an extra five pounds showed they must deeply fear their name being revealed. This only confirmed that their forged telegram served some profound purpose—I had to uncover its sender without delay. “Very well—here are ten pounds.” When I produced precisely that amount in banknotes, the child retorted, “Even gettin’ this much ain’t worth my while—had to pay travel costs just to come here.” After delivering a smug little preface, he began his explanation.

**Part Eighteen: A Bizarre Procession** According to the boy’s account, a widow called Oshiwaba—who eked out a living growing flowers—resided just seven or eight *chō* from Ghost Tower. Her shop, Senzo-ya, was locally known enough that anyone nearby could direct you there. This boy worked as her flower delivery assistant. One day, a short woman around fifty came to purchase flowers and, upon leaving, secretly beckoned him into the shadows. She tasked him with sending a telegram discreetly, bribing him with one pound to keep silent indefinitely. The following morning, while delivering flowers to a rural hotel, he spotted the same woman departing the inn with a lemur larger than any dog or cat—that was all. From this, it became clear that the perpetrator behind the forged telegram was none other than Torai Fujin, Matsutani Shūko’s attendant. Though I had no reason to doubt the boy’s story, I pressed him for evidence nonetheless. “None,” he said, “but five days later, this letter arrived.” He produced it, and indeed, the clumsy handwriting matched exactly what I had seen on the telegram form at the post office: *“Don’t breathe a word about the telegram. Don’t reply to newspaper ads either. If you keep it completely hidden for two months from now, I’ll give you five pounds as a reward—promise.”* This sufficed; I paid the agreed sum and sent him away. The revelation brought me little comfort. Of course, this had nothing to do with the “mysterious beauty”—no, I must cease calling her that—Matsutani Shūko herself. It was entirely concealed from her. Yet the mere fact that her attendant had orchestrated such schemes left me deeply unsettled. Forging telegrams to lure my uncle suggested Torai Fujin harbored grave intentions toward him—intentions that lent credence to Oura’s suspicions. But no—no! Since Shūko remained oblivious, there was no justification for doubting her on account of Torai Fujin’s crimes. I strove to quash these misgivings within my mind, yet whenever I met Shūko and beheld her radiant face, such doubts dissolved of their own accord before I could dispel them myself. Hers was decidedly not the countenance of a wrongdoer.

After this, Shūko came to the house every other day—often accompanied by Torai Fujin, though occasionally alone. Her intimacy with Uncle was natural now that their adoptive father-daughter bond was formalized, but I too grew quite close to her. Since the tiger-slaying incident, I regarded her as my life’s savior—no, truthfully, even without that event, I would have deemed her essential to my existence. Without her visage before me, my life would wither. She too seemed convinced I had saved her, deeply admiring my reckless courage in leaping behind the tiger despite mortal peril. She now appeared to believe clinging to me alone could shield her from any foe—a notion I found unbearably touching. Of course I would defend her against any adversary, yet I yearned for the rightful status to do so. To confront enemies with “Why harass a woman who isn’t even your wife?” felt precarious; protection required irrefutable proof of ownership lest my footing falter at critical moments. Securing this right now seemed no great challenge—proposing marriage at an opportune time would likely settle matters smoothly. Yet each time I thought this, Oura’s words surfaced unnervingly in my mind. She had fiercely doubted Shūko’s origins—what indeed was her true identity? Uncle must have inquired before adopting her, yet I remained ignorant. Though I occasionally broached the subject, Shūko always artfully deflected my questions, steering conversations elsewhere. The only information I could glean was that prior to coming to this country, she had served as secretary to a certain administrator promoted by a Louisiana state legislator in America, authored his book titled *The Secretary*, and departed the United States before its publication.

Several months passed in this manner until at last the major repairs on Ghost Tower were completed. We finally moved in and decided to hold a banquet combining our housewarming celebration with Shūko’s formal adoption ceremony. Uncle, overjoyed beyond measure, had cast aside all lingering resentments and sorrows, declaring his intent to “expand his social circle and enjoy his remaining years.” He sent invitations not only to friends but even to those who had grown distant or held minor grudges—adopting an unusually open-door policy of welcoming all comers. To me, it felt surreal that this mansion—long whispered about as “Ghost Tower” with eerie disdain—now stood transformed into a splendid banquet hall and our future residence, as though we were settling into some fantastical realm. Wondering what strange occurrences might await us here, I arrived at the tower’s village by train well before the banquet’s appointed hour—not yet five in the afternoon. From the station, I ambled leisurely along the two-and-a-half-mile path without hiring a carriage. Reflecting now, this walk served as our family’s bizarre procession onto a most extraordinary stage.

**Part Nineteen: Bird’s Nest Hermitage** As I strolled leisurely and drew near Ghost Tower, something caught my attention. Ghost Tower had no house worthy of being called a neighbor. The closest dwelling was a small villa-style building locals named Bird’s Nest Hermitage. Though separated from the tower by over two blocks of nothing but trees, one might grudgingly deem it a neighboring property. By local accounts, it had been built generations prior as a summer retreat by a wealthy Kyoto aesthete—yet after Okon’s murder at Ghost Tower years ago, its owner declared the vicinity too eerie, stripping even its fixtures to relocate them to another villa. Thus abandoned, the hermitage had fallen into decay matching the tower’s own. Each time I had previously visited this area, I observed a decaying sign reading “No Fixtures—For Rent” hanging on the house’s wall. This time, however, it appeared someone had taken occupancy much like with Ghost Tower—the sign was gone, and basic furnishings seemed installed within. The interior and exterior had been cleaned thoroughly, making the presence of inhabitants unmistakable at a glance. Today evidently marked their move-in date, as luggage brought by cart from near the station was being unpacked into crates. Wondering idly who this tenant might be, I glanced at the house’s window—only to see someone hastily close its shutters. They had likely been leaning out to observe me but recoiled upon realizing I noticed them. Though unidentifiable, the glimpse of an ornate red kimono flashing before my eyes as the shutters snapped shut suggested a young woman.

Though unable to investigate further, I proceeded directly to Ghost Tower. The transformation from my previous visit was staggering—through mere maintenance alone, the tower’s age had seemingly regressed three or four generations. Most striking were the hedges encircling the estate: once overgrown into shapeless ruin, they now stood neatly trimmed and reknotted with such artistry that I mused—not boastfully—England itself might lack a hedge of comparable charm. Preferring to inspect the exterior first, I traced their perimeter until emerging from the rear garden onto an embankment by the moat. Following this ridge, I soon reached the grave of Wata Natsuko—the murderess who killed Okon and died in prison—as readers well know. Having previously witnessed the mysterious beauty paying respects here, I was astonished to find another visitor now: a figure standing meaningfully before the tombstone. This person was not a woman. He was a distinguished gentleman who appeared to be thirty-four or thirty-five years old.

Hearing my footsteps—perhaps thinking himself observed in some wrongdoing—the man affected an air of nonchalance as he moved to depart. Though I couldn’t detain him outright, I hastened toward where his face might come into view, desperate to glimpse his features. He couldn’t retreat directly backward. At a spot several yards from the grave, we faced each other across that distance. A decade might pass and I’d still recognize him in any throng—not for any grotesquery of feature, but for that uncannily smooth countenance reminiscent of matinee idols who set women and children aflutter. Handsome yet repellent; a beauty ill-suited to my tastes—nor Shūko’s, I wagered. When our eyes met, he seemed poised to offer some greeting, but my suspicious glare made him reconsider. With measured steps he began withdrawing—but to what destination? I resolved to see this through. I watched his retreat unopposed. He followed my earlier path down the embankment beyond the hedge until vanishing from sight. In that interval I sprinted to the hedge myself. He emerged beyond it without a backward glance, absorbed in contemplation—likely deeming caution unnecessary. Still I pursued him further, though he might have deliberately avoided turning while aware of my shadowing—how like him! At last he entered Bird’s Nest Hermitage. Was this its new master? Even if not the owner, his lingering near Wata Natsuko’s grave hinted at deeper purpose. That red-kimonoed silhouette glimpsed earlier at the hermitage’s window, coupled with its abrupt occupancy—no mere coincidence when considered together.

**Part Twenty: Unexpected Figures**

I couldn’t shake my unease about Bird’s Nest Hermitage. Who had rented it? For what purpose? Who was that woman who had watched me from its window? And why had one of its residents been lingering at the murderess’s grave? Before long, the banquet hour arrived. Uncle had come to the house the previous day accompanied by several servants, and with Matsutani Shūko having arrived that morning, both were in remarkably high spirits. Guests streamed in continuously—one after another—until Uncle concluded his announcement to all present regarding Shūko’s adoption and the guests finished offering their congratulations. The time finally came to commence the dancing. Naturally, every eye turned toward Shūko, and though each guest sought to be first in requesting a dance with her, she offered no proper responses. She appeared lost in thought, waiting for someone—ah, she must have been rejecting others to choose me first! With this conviction, I approached Shūko and said, “Miss Shūko, would you honor me with the first dance?” Yet she showed no trace of delight. “No, I have been declining all requests since earlier,” she replied, “for I believe someone whose refusal I dare not risk will arrive shortly.” “Could there truly be someone surpassing even me?” I felt a twinge of jealousy. “Who is this person?” “Have you already promised to dance with someone tonight?” “No promise was made,” Shūko answered, her tone growing ever more peculiar, “but should that person request it, I cannot refuse. To dance with another without his permission might invite reprimand hereafter.” “Only a father or husband could scold you so,” I pressed. “Who is this person?” “My uncle?” “No—it is not Father.” Though referring to him as “Father” still struck my ears oddly—Uncle had strictly instructed her days prior to use this address—I persisted: “If not Uncle, then who? Tell me his name!” Shūko seemed amused by my fervor. “Ohoho—there’s no need for such insistence. You’ll know soon enough.” “If you know now, tell me!” “The lawyer Gonda Tokisuke.” “Gonda Tokisuke?!” I exclaimed. “I know of him—he’s that murderess’s—” “Yes—the one who defended Wata Natsuko during her trial.” “Why do you respect him as if he were your husband? What is he to you?” Shūko hesitated slightly. “Whatever the reason… I must obey his instructions.” “I see—he is your future husband, then?”

“If he weren’t her future husband, why would he give orders? And why should she feel compelled to obey? How absurd—I’d never imagined this woman might already have a betrothed! To have fixated on her without deeper inquiry made me the greatest fool. What a fool I’d been! Even Shūko herself must have known my feelings grew daily—how bitterly I resented her silence!” Yet Shūko replied calmly: “Ah—my future husband? What an outrageous notion. I’m still in no position to decide such matters.”

Though it was somewhat suspicious for someone who wasn't her husband to be issuing commands, nothing could have been more reassuring than knowing her future spouse remained undecided. Unconsciously forming a smile, I was about to apologize for my earlier suspicions when Torai Fujin abruptly arrived. The woman seized Shūko's hand—"It's terrible—they've come! You must flee at once—quickly!"—and began dragging her away, nearly snarling in frustration: "What a pity—to have come this far only to meet *him* now." Though I couldn't comprehend the situation at all, the urgency in Torai Fujin's demand suggested extraordinary circumstances. Exasperated by Shūko's refusal to move, she fretted, "We can't avoid meeting them now, but at least retreat to another room to compose yourself before facing him. Come—they'll be here any moment!" With this, she forcibly guided Shūko toward the bonsai room. As I turned to see who could inspire such fear, the group entering proved truly unexpected. At the forefront stood my former fiancée Jō, hand-in-hand with the expressionless gentleman I'd seen lingering near Wata Natsuko's grave—the resident of Bird's Nest Hermitage. Behind them followed the Konshi couple who'd accompanied Jō abroad. Shūko's flight undoubtedly stemmed from dread of this group—though being accused by Jō of being Furuyama Oto must have been unbearable enough. Regardless, I resolved to confront Jō and learn the name of her companion. Stepping forward, I stood before her. Jō met me with unflinching composure: "Michisan—do you know this gentleman? He's Takanawada Chōzō, adopted son of the unfortunate Okon and former owner of this tower. The very one who sold it to Uncle." So this was Okon's heir—the realization struck me anew—and now Jō's purpose crystallized. Since this man undoubtedly knew Furuyama Oto's face, Jō meant to expose Shūko by having him identify her. The depth of her obsession astonished me, yet why would Shūko flee from him? Piecing together Madam Torai's words suggested she too feared exposure.

**Part Twenty-One: The Clock’s Sonorous Chalice**

Oura had undoubtedly come to reignite her war against Shūko. In their previous battle, she had pushed Shūko to the tiger’s jaws only to fail at the brink of certain victory; this time, armed with the formidable backing of Takanawada Chōzō, she likely intended not to suffer even one misstep in ten thousand. Indeed, if—as Urahara Jō suspected—Shūko were Furuyama Oto disguised as an accomplice, Takanawada Chōzō would have exposed her at first glance. Yet how had Jō obtained such a formidable ally? Later, I learned that during her three-month travels with Konshi Fujin, she had coincidentally befriended him at an Italian inn. This explained everything: Jō had persistently sent apology letters to Uncle, desperate to bring Chōzō and strip Shūko’s disguise at the earliest opportunity. Though Uncle—not one to hold grudges—had initially raged at her conduct, he soon relented and considered permitting her return. Yet he had hesitated, fearing this might discomfort Shūko. However, ever-thoughtful Shūko deduced his concerns and pleaded: *"If my presence forever bars Miss Urahara from this house, it would seem I fearfully obstruct her—a most grievous thought. Please grant her pardon at once."* From this alone, Shūko could not be Oto—were she the maid, she would have avoided Jō entirely rather than advocate for her reinstatement. Until now, I had clung to this conviction. Yet witnessing Shūko’s abrupt flight moments ago stirred unease—could she fear not Jō’s scrutiny, but Chōzō’s inescapable recognition? Then perhaps she really was Oto after all?

Though I found it contradictory, I couldn't help regretting that Uncle had ever permitted your return—though it was too late now. You, however, seemed utterly assured of victory, composed unlike your former violent self—calm as a true noblewoman, your words and demeanor inscrutably measured. Turning to me with deliberate clarity, you explained: "This Mr. Takanawada was adopted by Wata Okon, so until recently he went by Wata Chōzō. But since inheriting his biological family's estate required combining surnames, he changed it to Takanawada—blending 'Taka' from his birth name with 'Wata' from his adoptive one." "Tonight I should be able to introduce you to most people I know." Her words seemed laced with implications about introducing Shūko too, but I could muster nothing beyond a curt "Is that so?" I exclaimed in disbelief, "Ah—the Konshi couple rented the neighboring house?" "I see." "The one who saw me through the window earlier and abruptly hid was you, Miss Urahara," I stated with exaggerated formality. Though she artfully devised pretexts, her true aim was undoubtedly to catch Shūko unaware and expose her. Even now, you scanned the room restlessly—searching for Shūko's whereabouts yet finding no trace. At last, unable to endure: "Tonight I must offer Miss Shūko my congratulations too! Ah—Michisan, no—Mr. Marube—I bear her no resentment whatsoever! True, I was once this household's ward before being cast out, and now she fills my vacant place—the world might assume I seethe with envy, but such suspicions are baseless. As you well know, Uncle didn't expel me; I left of my own will, unable to endure his tyranny—" "Since he is my husband, I'm delighted to have an adopted daughter come after me—yes, utterly delighted!" To hear you proclaim this so brazenly left me aghast. Here stood a woman who'd left spite-drenched farewell letters yet now feigned forgetting them—I could only marvel at your audacity. As a child you'd been willful but never this mendacious. No—this was the same woman who'd once deceived others into entering tiger-filled rooms before locking the doors behind them. For one such as you, what wonder lay in telling lies?

Oura pressed again with feigned nonchalance: “Oh, Mr. Marube—where *is* the heroine of the evening? Miss Matsutani Shūko?” I had no choice but to reply: “She’s probably dancing with someone in the ballroom.” As if suddenly recalling something, Oura said, “Well then, I shall dance too! Come, Mr. Takanawada,” and steered him toward the ballroom. At that moment, the clock atop the tower emitted an uncanny chime and began striking the hour. For reasons unknown, Takanawada trembled violently at this sound, halting mid-step. “Ah—is it twelve?” he muttered involuntarily, counting strikes on his fingers. Though unclear why midnight should terrify him so, his face paled as if confronting a specter. When the clock ceased after eleven strikes, he exhaled: “Ah—eleven?” Then, noticing his odd behavior, he added: “This clock holds winding secrets—my foster mother Okon never let others touch it.” “The sound agitates my nerves with memories,” he explained weakly. This failed to justify his dread of twelve o’clock specifically. Oura ignored his distress. “Dancing will steady your nerves! Come along,” she insisted, propelling him into the ballroom. Resolved to check on Shūko, I waited until Oura disappeared before slipping into the bonsai room where she likely hid—only to face another disquieting scene there.

**Part Twenty-Two: In the Bonsai's Shadow**

The Bonsai Room, with its various partitions, made an ideal space for confidential talks. As dancing intensified in the ballroom, increasing numbers sought respite here—gentlemen might initiate marriage proposals, ladies exchange whispers with lovers. Yet when I entered seeking Shūko, the dancing had only just commenced, leaving the room empty. Though I scoured every corner, even Shūko—whose arrival here I’d felt certain of—proved absent. Had she remained entangled in the ballroom? Could Jō have seized her? Returning to verify, I found Shūko still missing—only Jō stood before my uncle, urgently presenting Takanawada while pressing some demand, likely insisting he disclose Shūko’s whereabouts. At least Shūko’s invisibility offered temporary relief. She must have retreated to her room to evade Jō—sparing me any obligation to seek her. Withdrawing again to the Bonsai Room, I resolved to clear my mind with potted greenery’s fragrance and contemplate her situation thoroughly. On such a night—ripe for unforeseen crises—I needed crystalline clarity to act decisively when moments demanded.

Having resolved thus, I reentered the bonsai room, settled myself where the plants grew most densely, and reclined at ease. Suddenly, from the large window to my right came the rustle of silk garments, followed by the muffled footsteps of a gentleman entering stealthily. They had undoubtedly exited the ballroom into the garden before circling back here. Who were this woman and man? Though the room was well-lit, partitions obstructed my view of them—just as they could not see me from their position. Though disinclined to eavesdrop on private conversations, I considered slipping away quietly—but it was too late. The pair had already seated themselves barely a room’s length from me. “Truly, Mr. Gonda—what am I to do? I believe my luck has run out,” declared none other than Shūko. Blood rushed to my head. Indeed, Shūko had come here accompanied by that lawyer Gonda Tokisuke to discuss her circumstances. Gonda—the very man she had explicitly told me held authority over her affairs! For his sake, she had refrained from making dance commitments with anyone else. Now I had no choice but to overhear—even had I tried not to listen, their words would have reached me regardless.

“There’s no such thing as your luck running out,” came the unmistakable voice of Gonda Tokisuke, speaking in a tone of forced comfort. “Hasn’t everything progressed far more smoothly than anticipated?” Though I hadn’t heard his voice in years, I recognized it instantly. He pressed on: “I’d say fortune itself favors you.” “If fortune favored me,” Shūko countered bitterly, “why would I find myself in such torment?” “Precisely what makes your circumstances so endlessly fascinating.” “There cannot be another soul in this world with a history as peculiar as mine. I’ve exhausted every resource.” “Then let me help you—as your husband.” “But you—” “No ‘buts.’ I’ve aided you without compensation until now. Isn’t it time I claimed my due?” “Haven’t I given sufficient reward? You yourself refused monetary payment! Since then I’ve followed every instruction—” “Ahaha! Are you saying you’ve granted me complete authority over your person?” “What else could that constitute? I’ve stood ready to obey your commands in any circumstance—even tonight—” “You mean you waited without choosing dance partners? For that I should be grateful—and am—but why refuse this one vital request after honoring my every wish? It’s simple: promise to become my wife in due course. Do this, and I’ll protect you through any trial.” “No situation exists where I cannot devise an escape—you know this well enough. Why won’t you vow to be mine?” Shūko sighed with resentful despair. “Must men always demand love or marriage? Can they not aid women as brothers aid sisters—without bonds of affection?” “Perhaps others might,” Gonda retorted, “but not with you. No man of flesh could remain content with friendship before such beauty. Blame not men’s weakness, but your own face that intoxicates them.” A sob tore through her words: “This face... this cursed face!” “There’s no cursing a natural gift. But consider: if you spurn me and make me your enemy...” His voice hardened. “You already have foes enough to declare your luck spent.” “Your hatred would destroy me utterly—as you well know.” “There—you see? Why refuse my lifelong protection? Without marriage vows, no path exists for enduring mutual aid.” “You threaten a woman in distress!” Shūko’s voice sharpened. “Is this a gentleman’s conduct? Having acted so basely, how dare you demand love? I cannot accept a heartless pretender as my lord.”

“Whether I’m a gentleman or not, I don’t know—but when I’ve exhausted every means, I’ll use threats. I’ll use physical force.”

The dispute grew increasingly violent until Gonda finally made to grab Shūko's hand. She rose as if to flee, rushing straight toward where I lay hidden. Though it pained me that she might think my concealed position ungentlemanly, I could no longer remain seated. Driven solely by the desire to protect her—nearly forgetting all else—I stood up before Shūko. Gonda too came chasing after her to this spot. Beneath bonsai trees casting indigo shadows in the gas lamp's light, the three of us locked eyes.

**Part Twenty-Three: A Fleeting Interval**

Among the three who exchanged glances, Shūko showed the least surprise. Though momentarily startled, she quickly regained her composure and drew near to me as if seeking protection—a demeanor of unshakable calmness remarkably rare for a woman, indeed rare even among men. Gonda Tokisuke stood shocked beyond comparison. For a moment he stared silently at my face. Then, whether recognizing me or not, he stammered out, "Ah—ah! Marube Michikurou!" before adding, "Of all people—to find you here! How... careless of me." Though affecting regret at being overheard, true to his nature as a man of consequence, he withdrew to the garden without further complaint.

No matter how I reasoned, I could not fathom the relationship between Gonda and Shūko. There was certainly no marital promise between them—not even mutual affection. While Gonda harbored earnest feelings, Shūko remained utterly indifferent. Yet why would she grant him complete authority over herself? Though Gonda’s pressure bordered on coercion, it lacked the desperation of a down-and-out man blackmailing a noble with stolen secrets. Their interactions instead resembled siblings’ intimacy—speaking with such familiarity, as though privy to every aspect of each other’s lives. Truly perplexing. Were I to grasp the nuances of their bond, I might unravel the nature of Shūko’s so-called “sacred mission” and hidden identity. Yet the means to comprehend their connection eluded me utterly—my imagination could not even brush its edges.

Perhaps ashamed of having drawn close to me, Shūko withdrew as Gonda departed, attempting to head toward the ballroom—her demeanor utterly dejected. I stepped before her: “Miss Shūko, I did not come here to eavesdrop. You and Mr. Gonda approached where I was seated, leaving me no opportunity to withdraw.” Shūko replied simply, “I do not believe you came here to eavesdrop.” “But Miss Shūko—though you lament that men cannot aid women without reward—know that this Marube Michikurou alone wishes to help you with a heart as pure as a brother’s for his sister. What are these enemies or exhausted fortunes you speak of? Confide in me so I may assist you.” “No, you cannot help me. There is no one but Mr. Gonda who can help me.” “But Gonda demands impossible compensation you cannot accept. If it were me, I would help you as a brother would a sister—though I may not remain satisfied with merely being a brother forever.” Shūko, with an eerie smile emerging from her dejection, laughed: “Ohohoho! If the day comes when being ‘just a sister’ no longer satisfies you, Mr. Gonda would be no different. I’ve resigned myself—there isn’t a man in this world who won’t eventually speak of lifelong love.” With these words, she cast me aside.

However, I still followed after her, but Shūko finally stepped into the ballroom. And sure enough, the first to approach Shūko was Oura. My greatest adversary—as I assessed—Takanawada Chōzō stood among them, accompanied by my uncle. Had Shūko come here resolved to face Takanawada? Or had she let her guard down, never imagining she might encounter him? Or perhaps, driven to despair at the prospect of exposure, she had steeled herself to endure whatever came? My anxiety grew unbearable—if Shūko were truly Furuyama Oto, and Takanawada unmasked her here as a shape-shifting deceiver, she would deserve no more pity than any common female impostor. Yet even so, I could not quell my dread. Should even one disrespectful word escape Takanawada’s lips, I resolved to strike him dead before he finished speaking—with such ferocity did I cling to Shūko’s side, refusing to retreat a single step.

“First,” Uncle addressed Shūko, “this Oura here insisted she absolutely must meet Natsuko to personally apologize for her prior rudeness. She entreated me to find where Natsuko was staying—and though I refused, her usual impatient temperament wouldn’t take no for an answer. So here we are, searching together for Natsuko’s whereabouts.” As Uncle spoke, Shūko’s eyes seemed to briefly meet Takanawada’s gaze without apparent intent. For a moment, she appeared startled—though this was likely a trick of my unsettled mind—but when I looked again, her face remained composed, betraying neither fear nor joy. With dignified calm, she replied: “Is that so? However, there is nothing requiring an apology from Miss Urahara.” Miss Urahara stepped forward with an air of seizing her moment. “Miss Shūko—when you put it so graciously, I find this far more bitter than any resentment you might harbor. At Baron Asakura’s magic soirée, I called you a maid—an outrageous claim! Reflecting now, I deserve whatever hatred you bear me—no, I cannot endure this regret.” In an exceedingly soft voice, Shūko replied, “No, I took it as nothing but your jest. I paid it no mind and have already forgotten it.” Her tone remained magnanimous enough, though she clearly hadn’t forgotten matters to the point of true indifference—this was merely the standard rhetoric for such occasions. “In recompense for today’s apology,” Oura said with a laugh that mimicked flattery, “I’ve brought along an old friend of yours! You simply *must* thank me for this, Ohohoho!” Yet her laughter was wholly triumphant—a gleeful chortle rising from her gut, disguised as pleasantry. Such duplicity was a feminine forte, and Oura’s specialty above all. Hearing that laugh, I shuddered in despair—all seemed lost. Yet Shūko, appearing oblivious, tilted her head in puzzlement: “An old friend of mine?” At her words, Takanawada stepped forward. Oura made the introduction with practiced ease: “Here stands Mr. Takanawada, whom you surely recall from days past! Mr. Takanawada—this young lady is now our family’s adopted daughter.” As their voices overlapped, Shūko and Takanawada’s gazes met. The pounding of my heart grew so loud I could hear it in my ears—this must be what they call a life-or-death moment. I watched Shūko’s demeanor with rapt attention as though it were my own fate at stake. Calm—utterly calm. Not a muscle twitched in her face to betray fear or surprise. The composed young lady remained as unshakable as I remembered. When I first met her, I had wondered if she wore some mask—a suspicion quickly dispelled. Yet now, faced with her preternatural serenity, that same doubt flickered again—if only for an instant.

**Part Twenty-Four: Like an X-ray** In retrospect, suspecting someone's vivid face might be a mask seems utterly absurd—of course it wasn't a mask, but a natural face of flesh, blood, sinew, and skin naturally grown. I myself hadn't truly doubted it to that extent; I'd merely thought her beauty so flawless it seemed almost artificial. This was never the calculated suspicion of a detective interrogating a criminal—absolutely not—a distinction the reader must fully grasp.

Though not a mask, Shūko’s face at this moment appeared almost superhuman—possessing an aspect so terrifying it bordered on the sublime. Yet this was no deliberate affectation; though her gaze held faint suspicion toward Takanawada, her composure otherwise remained unshakably serene. It was precisely this preternatural calm that exuded an eerie potency, rendering the scene uncanny. I then observed Takanawada’s countenance—he too must have been scrutinizing her face with equal intensity. His face, as previously noted, possessed a smoothness rare among men—a disposition not prone to turbulence. Yet when he first beheld Shūko’s countenance, an unmistakable malice floated across his features. Having been primed by Oura’s insistence that this Shūko was none other than Furuyama Oto, he had arrived single-mindedly fixated on confronting the maid, eager to strip away her facade. No other motive could explain such venomous intent. Yet upon seeing her, he recoiled sharply—the malice dissolving into something akin to dread, as if realizing a grievous error in identification. Still, his tenacious nature reasserted itself; wavering momentarily before steeling his resolve, he redoubled the intensity of his gaze upon her face. At that moment, his eyes burned with acute focus—had their light possessed X-ray penetration, it would have pierced through Shūko’s abdomen to exit her back. Nevertheless, he showed no sign of satisfaction.

Though I was anxious, Oura verged on desperation—her eyes blazing with an intensity surpassing even Takanawada’s. Such radiance defied human capacity, yet had it been possible, hers would surely have outshone his. My uncle wore a puzzled expression, seemingly unsettled by the confrontation’s strangeness. Only Shūko remained utterly composed. When Takanawada had scrutinized her face to his fill, she quietly inquired with childlike innocence: “I confess I remain quite perplexed. You implied we were once acquainted, yet no matter how I reflect, I cannot recall. Perhaps I have forgotten? Pray forgive my rudeness—where might we have met?” Takanawada appeared at a loss for words: “Indeed… I… That is… I cannot seem to recollect either.” Shūko: “As for that—even the surname you mention, ‘Takanawada,’ strikes me as something I’m hearing for the first time.”

I finally exhaled in relief—Shūko had passed this terrifying trial unscathed. Terrifying not to her, perhaps, but profoundly so to my own mind. She had cleared this great examination effortlessly—proving herself neither the maid Oura suspected, nor Furuyama Oto, nor some shape-shifting female impostor. Here stood Matsutani Shūko in full authenticity—a woman even Takanawada Chōzō, the Ghost Tower’s former owner, had never laid eyes upon; a woman whose tenure as an American politician’s secretary and authorship of reputable books stood confirmed; an undoubted maiden of good family. Oura’s suspicions now seemed baseless—and I, who had feared Shūko might fail this test even momentarily, realized how gravely I had wronged her with such distrust.

Though this recounts old matters, according to hearsay, Takanawada Chōzō was a man raised alongside a woman named Natsuko—later known as "Natsuko the Okon Killer"—by the old woman Okon from childhood. Okon had intended for Natsuko and Chōzō to marry. Yet for reasons unknown, Natsuko developed an aversion to Chōzō upon reaching maturity, refusing outright to wed him. The old woman went to great lengths to appease Natsuko, ultimately designating her as the sole heir through a will that bequeathed all assets to her. Though Natsuko expressed profound gratitude and dutifully cared for Okon, her disdain for Chōzō remained unaltered. Enraged at being disinherited, Chōzō abandoned himself to debauchery before fleeing home for London, never to return.

This constituted the entirety of what I knew regarding Chōzō’s history—though such matters were neither here nor there. Let us return to the main thread of our story. Though Oura’s disappointment at Takanawada and Shūko being complete strangers made for a spectacle, true to her nature, she deftly maneuvered through the awkwardness. Addressing Shūko with diplomatic flair, she said: “Why, how unexpected! But since Mr. Takanawada here was the tower’s former owner and knows its secrets intimately, you two are bound to find common ground! Come now—Mr. Takanawada, Miss Shūko—let us begin anew as old acquaintances! Shake hands and pledge your cordiality! Hmm, Miss Shūko? Uncle? You *must* oblige, lest I appear utterly graceless!” Takanawada extended his hand as prompted. Though visibly reluctant, Shūko reached out—but the moment their hands touched, she shuddered as though brushing against a venomous creature. Her serene beauty twisted into ineffable revulsion before she swiftly withdrew her hand. Clinging to her uncle’s shoulder as if collapsing, she murmured: “Father… I haven’t the strength to stand any longer.” She buried her face against Uncle’s chest, her stifled sobs unmistakable. Though unclear why she wept—perhaps overwrought by the night’s anxieties—Uncle, visibly pained, began leading her away. Takanawada suddenly cried out in a tone that seemed to shout heavenward: “O God!” His eyes again fixed upon Shūko’s left glove—adorned with *his* pearls—like X-rays piercing through fabric.

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Is This a Ghost?** Though I was glad Shūko's confrontation with Takanawada had concluded in her victory, an inexplicable unease lingered within me—a gnawing sense that some seed of calamity might still remain hidden. I couldn't dispel the foreboding that another unpleasant incident might yet occur. This apprehension mirrored the disquiet one feels when a fleeting breeze presages a tempest: what if this calm heralded greater turbulence to come?

This apprehension had proven true—true beyond measure, true to an almost excessive degree. Readers who reach later passages will surely marvel at how direly accurate it was—but that revelation would come much later. The night concluded without incident, and the guests began departing around two o’clock after exchanging courtesies—declaring it “a most splendid gathering” and claiming they had “partaken fully of the festivities.” I too soon retired to bed. As for my bedchamber—it lay on the fourth floor of the tower where Okon had been murdered, directly below the clockroom. Though I would not have chosen it myself, Shūko had urged me to claim this room, and through her efforts, its furnishings had been replaced to resemble a gentleman’s quarters as best as possible. It was no longer the gloomy, eerie chamber I had first encountered; had I retired with a tranquil mind, I might have slept soundly. But this night, tranquility eluded me. Drifting between dream and wakefulness for what felt like thirty minutes, I awoke at a faint noise—not loud, but distinct. The candle at my bedside had long since extinguished, leaving me clueless as to the sound’s origin. Yet when I fixed my eyes in the darkness, a shadow-like figure seemed to glide along the wall. Ah—could this be the tower’s ghost? For an instant, my blood ran cold.

Being a man educated to disbelieve in ghosts, I attributed it to my eyes playing tricks—yet still groped for the phosphorescent lighter as precaution. Striking its flame revealed nothing substantial, though in the dying light I fancied a hand-like shape emerging between wall panels. Of course, in dimness stumps resemble heads and discarded robes corpses—matters surely trivial by dawn’s inspection. Thus resolved, I lay back down only to hear new sounds before ten minutes passed—unmistakable this time—the rustling scrape of something moving against walls.

Let me briefly describe this room's layout. Situated midway up the tower, all four sides of this chamber were bordered by corridors—a design preventing passersby from entering, unique to this structure. However, one side had long been converted into storage for miscellaneous tools used here. Given this configuration, I couldn't determine whether the noise originated inside or beyond the walls. I struck my phosphorescent lighter again and lit a fresh candle. At that moment came—or perhaps I imagined—a loathsome sound resembling a human sigh. How repulsive! In such circumstances, sighs unsettle more than wails. Could it be Okon's ghost lamenting her usurped chamber? Preposterous.

I took up the candle and thoroughly inspected all three partitioned areas—the bedchamber, study, and parlor—but found nothing amiss within the rooms. I knocked on the wall panels too, which showed age but no abnormalities. Concluding the disturbance must originate outside—somewhere in the corridors—I saw no need for further investigation and returned to bed. Placing the hand candle on the bedside stand, I shuddered despite myself: two or three drops of blood stained my pristine white pillow. This blood must have fallen within the mere five minutes since I awoke. Closer inspection revealed similar droplets on the bedding—like rain splatter—yet no matter how I doubted my eyes, these were unmistakably bloodstains. Where had they fallen from? The ceiling? The wall panels? The closet? The space between this room and the clock chamber above was large enough for a person to crawl through—perhaps someone had entered there. Yet from below, I saw no bloodstains on the ceiling. They might have spurted from between the wall panels, I reasoned, but even so, I couldn't bring myself to sleep on bloodstained bedding. Could Torai Fujin's lemur have caught a mouse somewhere in the walls? Yet lemurs sighing was something I’d rarely heard of.

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Deepening Enigma** I wiped away the blood droplets scattered like rain with my handkerchief, yet couldn’t muster the courage to return to that bed. Chiding myself for such cowardice proved futile—even if I forced myself to lie down, sleep would never come. In the end, I remained upright. Stepping into the corridor and opening a window revealed dawn already breaking. Whose blood was this? Had Okon’s ghost truly manifested? Though I longed to investigate thoroughly, probing such matters with unsettled nerves would only deceive my own mind. Premature as it was, I resolved to go outside for vigorous exercise first. Descending the stairs quietly, I wandered from the garden to the moat’s edge where a boathouse stood, housing an unused new skiff. Finding whimsy in staging an impromptu launch ceremony, I hauled it down alone—*heave-ho!*—and rowed about the moat despite the morning chill biting my hands. After perhaps over an hour, my skin slick with sweat and spirits refreshed enough to forget ghosts entirely, I moored the boat and climbed the embankment. There it loomed—the grave of that murderess Natsuko. And before it knelt another visitor.

There was no need to wonder who it was—her graceful figure and shadow-toned kimono made her identity clear. Unquestionably Shūko. Why she visited this grave had long been one of my mysteries, but her coming here before anyone else awoke suggested she wished to keep these devotions secret. I resolved to pretend ignorance and began withdrawing—when abruptly a man emerged from behind the tombstone: Takanawada Chōzō himself, who had failed to expose Shūko last night. Shūko started up in surprise. Chōzō removed his hat and bowed. As she tried to retreat toward the house, he blocked her path. The situation grew volatile—I nearly rushed to her defense but held back: *Not yet.* Chōzō extended his hand as if for a handshake. Shūko crossed both arms behind her back in refusal. Undeterred, he pressed forward. She thrust out her right hand to push him away. Regaining his footing, he persisted—still intent on seizing her left hand concealed behind her. Any ordinary woman would have screamed for help, yet Shūko merely struggled silently to escape. No longer could I observe passively. I lunged and shoved Chōzō sideways with such force that even I marveled at my strength—he staggered as though near collapse.

I waited for him to regain his footing and crushed his hand in mine. Shūko looked at me with genuine gratitude and said, “Though he only met me last night, to treat an unescorted woman with such discourtesy is truly unpardonable.” Chōzō turned to me and protested, “I meant no disrespect—there were simply matters I found perplexing and wished to verify.” “That constitutes rudeness itself,” I declared. “Apologize to this young lady before me.” “I’ll apologize to you,” he countered, “but as for her—not until I’ve confirmed—” “Apologize,” I interrupted, tightening my grip until his bones creaked, “or you’ll answer to me.” Though he feigned indignation, this weakling stood no match for my strength—any man of true mettle would have refused outright. Yet he proved craven: “Very well! If you insist—I’ll apologize!” Swiveling toward Shūko with awkward formality, he muttered, “I sincerely regret my conduct. Let this matter end here,” before executing a stiff bow.

I took Shūko’s hand and tried to lead her home with repeated words of comfort. Had it been Uncle instead of me, she would have surely clung to me as she did last night, weeping and hiding her face against my chest—her expression truly on the verge of tears. Yet being myself, she could not bring herself to seek refuge in me. She merely hung her head as I guided her by the hand. The sight wrenched my heart—pity welled up uncontrollably within me. Almost unconsciously, I stroked her back with one hand: “Miss Shūko—you cannot face such adversaries alone. Let me protect you. Though I know nothing of your deeper circumstances, I foresee only loneliness ahead if you remain solitary. Grant me at least the right to shield you—” Before I could finish, Shūko recoiled from me as though scalded: “You too speak like Mr. Gonda! While I appreciate your offer of protection, I cannot make such promises.” “Truly,” I thought, “I found myself wanting to say the very things Gonda had said—though I’d mocked him in my heart, here I stood replacing him after a single night! No wonder she could not accept it.” Aloud I added: “But no—I won’t speak of such matters now. Do you at least feel grateful I came to your aid?” “I do,” she replied. “Had you not come, my life might well have ended here and now.” “If that suffices,” I vowed, “I shall become your shadow henceforth—protecting you without demanding any pledge.” Shūko shook her head, eyes shut tight against gathering tears. “But I cannot ask this of you myself. I must fulfill my sacred mission alone—yes, even if I should fail and meet some unspeakable end… My heart has sworn an oath, leaving me no choice.” What this “sacred mission” entailed grew ever more inscrutable to me—had Wata Natsuko entrusted her with some final request before dying? Was this why she visited the grave so often? Regardless, I could no longer refrain from intervening.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Invisible Danger**

Were one to judge impartially, there must indeed be many suspicious aspects about Shūko—her unexplained "sacred mission," her visits to Natsuko’s grave, the peculiar scrutiny from Takanawada Chōzō—all remained inscrutable. Yet I harbored no doubts. Above all else, Shūko’s beautiful countenance had etched itself deeply into my eyes. She was not a woman with a dark heart that would invite suspicion from others. Indeed, as she herself said, she likely carried some secret purpose—but it was assuredly not some malicious intent meant to harm others. Secondly, I deeply trusted Shūko’s words from before: "When the time comes for understanding, it will come naturally." There was no need to impatiently doubt the arrival of that natural moment of clarity.

Thinking this, I could only pity her—for a woman to devote herself to some secret mission, resolved even to face an unknown fate that might claim her life, was heartrending. Were there someone who could save her, I would gladly do so—yet knowing nothing of her circumstances, and with no claim to her as kin or spouse, I could not intervene deeply. If visible dangers arose, as today’s had, I might aid her; but judging from her bearing, unseen perils surely outnumbered those plain to the eye.

While entertaining these thoughts, I escorted Shūko into the house. After breakfast and a round of exercise, I ascended to the tower’s fourth floor intending to investigate the ghostly traces from last night—or rather, this morning. Yet Shūko had arrived before me, pacing the corridor with a pensive air. “Is something troubling you?” I inquired. Without answering, she signaled with her eyes and led me into my room. After a measured pause, she altered her tone: “When you made this room your parlor—it was in accordance with my suggestion, was it not—” “Indeed it was.” “Have you handled the other matters exactly as I instructed?” “The other matters being...?” “Did you not discover the Marube family’s incantations and blueprints in this room?” “Yes, I found them,” I replied, proceeding to recount the circumstances of their discovery. “And have you committed the incantation to memory?” “I haven’t memorized it verbatim, but as the phrases aren’t lengthy, I’ve retained most of them. It goes something like: ‘A hundred *hu* of luminous pearls; the sovereign grants auspicious fortune; a profane monk pilfers and plunders; nocturnal water dragons lament...’” “Ah, it’s sufficient that you’ve retained that much—but have you grasped its meaning?” “I can’t make sense of it at all. The latter phrases seem meaningless—one might think the ancestor who composed that incantation was somewhat unhinged!” “You are mistaken to think so,” she said earnestly. “I implore you to consider this carefully. Though I study the incantation and blueprint daily, my own efforts alone cannot unravel them fully. With your erudition—” “I may pride myself on physical strength, but erudition eludes me. Yet why this urgency?” “Something dire has occurred.” Her voice lowered. “Yesterday afternoon I returned to cross-reference the tower’s structure with those documents. I recorded my findings in a notebook and hid it within a secret cavity in the corridor wall. When I came to verify details just now—it was gone. Should villains decipher that incantation using my notes... You or I *must* solve it first—otherwise, irreparable harm will befall you, Father... and myself.” “Was it stolen by villains?” “I cannot say who—but only villains would steal another’s notes! Particularly those seeking to exploit the incantation.” “Even if stolen, they could never interpret it—not when even your daily scrutiny yields no answers.” “True—without viewing both incantation and blueprint’s original forms, no villain could fully comprehend them,” she conceded. “Yet my notes reveal the depth of my efforts—proof enough that this pursuit holds great worth.”

I simply couldn't fully grasp what Shūko was saying. I didn't believe that incantation contained any concrete meaning worth interpreting, and even if someone were to interpret it, it would hardly benefit this household. Consequently, I thought that even if others deciphered it, it couldn't possibly cause any real harm. Shūko said, "I truly don't know who stole it. Did anything unusual happen last night—?" "No, nothing—" I began, then abruptly recalled. "There was something significant!" After I recounted the ghost's entire sequence of events, Shūko immediately grasped the situation: "That 'ghost' was a thief. The sighs and wall-touching were meant to intimidate you into abandoning this room for sleep, so they could return at their leisure. The blood must have come from that thief injuring themselves somehow."

“Indeed, that must be it—there’s no room for doubt. ‘Oh, I must commend your perceptiveness.’” “No, it’s not perceptiveness—it’s earnestness. Someone earnestly concerned will naturally arrive at such conclusions. But Mr. Marube—if you vacate this room, the ghost will surely climb this tower nightly to study it against my notebook. You must not leave this room unoccupied.” “However, would it not be a strategy to feign fear, lure them in, and then capture them?” Shūko: “No—that would be extremely dangerous. If we let that ghost climb this tower even one more night, there’s no telling what might happen,” she said, pausing thoughtfully. “If you find this arrangement disagreeable, you may sleep in a lower room. For the time being, I shall take your place here.” Her enthusiasm and courage were truly admirable. I resolutely replied, “There is no need for such concern. From tonight onward, I shall sleep here without missing a single night—and during daylight hours too, I will ensure no one ascends this tower.” Yet later, upon calm reflection, it struck me that this old tower likely held no value worth a thief’s attention.

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: What Lies Within**

It was not entirely unheard of for thieves to impersonate ghosts—I had heard tales of such things, but this marked my first actual encounter. But who could this thief be? Though many guests had stayed overnight—all ostensibly gentlemen and noble ladies—some might lack virtue, yet none would stoop to outright theft. Had the intruder come from outside? Yet there was no trace of forced entry. The mystery confounded me utterly. I pressed Shūko once more: “Do you truly have no leads?” Her demeanor suggested she privately suspected someone—yet she voiced nothing, repeating only: “I have no leads whatsoever.”

After this, true to my promise to Shūko, I resolved to let no one ascend the tower and endeavored to remain in this room as its guardian whenever possible. Consequently, no ghostly figures manifested again.

Yet there existed many things more loathsome—still more terrifying—than ghosts appearing. Let me proceed to recount them in order. That evening, I saw an unfamiliar gentleman enter the house—when I asked an attendant, they informed me he was a local doctor. Indeed, though we later became somewhat acquainted, he proved to be nothing more than a physician. Upon inquiring why he had been summoned, I learned Madam Torai—Shūko’s attendant—had fallen ill. This explained her absence from the luncheon gathering. By dinnertime, Madam Torai had appeared, though her complexion seemed pallid. I approached her side and asked, “I heard you were unwell—how are you now?” She looked at me suspiciously and said, “Who spoke of illness?” “But didn’t a doctor from this village come earlier?” “Since you’ve discovered it,” she replied with visible discomfort, “I suppose I must confess—though I wished to keep this hidden from all. It’s not illness but an injury. That lemur clawed my hand quite viciously.” “To be wounded by one’s own pet—how careless of me at my age.” “Yet when your opponent lacks reason,” I countered, “there’s no shame in such mishaps. But was the injury truly severe?” “Nothing grave,” she said, “though the pain remains sharp.” Indeed, her right hand lay swathed in bandages.

For several days thereafter, Torai Fujin remained confined to her room—rumored to be suffering worsening symptoms from a lemur’s poisoned claws. As a guest under this roof, I could not feign ignorance indefinitely. One day, I visited her chamber. Though visibly pleased, she lacked strength to rise. Extending her uninjured hand from beneath the bedding in an imploring gesture, she said: “How kind of you to come! I have an urgent request—as a plea from one gravely ill, might you grant it?” The nature of her request—being addressed in this manner without preamble—took me aback. Moreover, ever since uncovering her role in those forged telegrams, I had harbored profound distaste for this woman. Yet I could not heartlessly refuse a plea from a bedridden invalid. “Very well—I shall hear your request.” “Then I shall explain: On that wall over there hangs my kimono. Inside its sleeve pouch lies an item of great importance. I beg you—without peering inside—to grip the pouch from behind and tear it free.” What an extraordinary request—to either take the item from the pouch or tear off the entire pouch itself. I’d never heard of such a thing before.

Though I found the task distasteful, having given my word as a man, I couldn’t back down. Rising, I retrieved the kimono hanging on the wall, gripped the pocket from behind as instructed, tore it free, and brought it to Madam’s bedside. Then she pointed to the writing case by her pillow and said: “Inside you’ll find a small box. Place the pocket within it, seal it, address it as I direct, and please have it sent by parcel post.” Though she was making an increasingly troublesome request, I reluctantly complied. “The address?” “Very well,” said Madam Torai, dictating to me an address to inscribe: “To Master Anakawa Jinzō of Yōchūen Insect Farm, residing in Payton City, Hunt County.” Thinking it might prove useful later, I committed the name to memory—though “Insect Farm” struck me as an unusual designation for an establishment presumably breeding insects. Madam Torai added, “Please dispatch this discreetly and speak of it to no one.” Though I found participating in this lady’s secret utterly repugnant, I reluctantly followed her instructions and even personally entrusted the item to the post. But what could be inside that pocket? Try as I might to dismiss my suspicions, something felt deeply amiss.

After mailing the parcel and returning home, I encountered that doctor again in the corridor. I bowed and said, “Doctor, lemur venom truly is fearsome stuff.” The doctor wore an uncomprehending expression. “Eh? A lemur?” “You’re the one treating Madam Torai’s injury.” “Ah, that? It was caused by an old nail scratching her. Wounds from rusty metal objects can often leave severe complications.” I merely humored him with a noncommittal “Is that so?” before parting ways, yet my mind churned deeply. If Madam Torai’s injury truly came from a rusty nail, why would she claim a lemur had scratched her? Could she have been the one who dripped blood on my bedding that night? Reaching through the paneling would make contact with old nails highly plausible. Ah—if so, might the item in that pocket have been Shūko’s stolen notebook? To doubt now felt too late—yet no, not entirely. If necessary, I could still visit Anakawa of Yōchūen—the Insect Farm—to investigate.

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Sword from Within the Wall** Had a terrifying incident not occurred the following day, I would have gone to the Insect Farm to ascertain what manner of man this Anakawa Jinzō was. Then, had there been even the slightest cause for suspicion, my first course would have been to inform Shūko and determine whether the parcel Madam Torai had sent to this Jinzō was indeed her stolen notebook. However, before venturing to the Insect Farm, I wished to verify one critical point: whether the lemur’s claws actually contained poison. If they did—and if a scratch from them could inflict harm equivalent to that of an old nail—then my suspicions toward Madam Torai would have greatly diminished.

My study lacked the reference materials needed to investigate such matters, but the Marube family’s study surely contained them. Admittedly, due to the hasty relocation, the study remained disorganized—yet the room itself had been designated, with bookcases already haphazardly deposited inside. This chamber had originally been built by a past master of the house for his private quarters, and rumors persisted of its many secret structural features. Were it not for these very rumors, my uncle would have claimed it as his own bedroom; however, he rejected rooms tinged with mystery and ultimately assigned it as a study instead. Though its interior was partitioned into three sections—ill-suited for a study—the construction remained quite splendid.

When I attempted to enter the room, voices echoed from within. Upon opening the door, the words “You need not doubt my intentions—I am no threat” reached my ears just as I glimpsed a figure fleeing through a window into the garden. Suspicious, I stepped inside to find Oura leaning against the windowsill. I exclaimed, “Oh! Miss Urahara, what brings you here?” She replied, “I wished to see you. I assumed you might be perusing books in this room.” “But how did you enter a room with its door closed?” “I came from Torisu-an through the garden and entered through this window.” “Indeed, entering through the window isn’t impossible.” I asked, “Who were you speaking with here just now?” “No one was talking to me at all. Oh, I see—you must have heard me talking to myself.” “Yes, I believe I caught a glimpse of someone fleeing.” Oura avoided answering directly and instead deflected, saying, “You know I’ve muttered to myself when thinking things through since I was little, don’t you?” Since it wasn’t worth pressing further, I chose not to press the matter.

“However—regarding this matter you came to meet me about—” “I’ve come to sincerely apologize. Please—don’t make such a frightening face—just hear me out of pity,” she said with an air of utter dejection, leading me to a corner and seating me there before taking her own place. Immediately grasping both my hands, she continued, “I’m sorry, Michisan—please reconsider our former promise.” “Huh? What ‘old promise’?” “Didn’t you and I grow up bound by a promise that we would become husband and wife?” As I startled and attempted to refuse outright in a single word, she stopped me: “Please—do not say ‘no’ yet. Listen.” “Though I declared I couldn’t love you at all and revoked that promise—then left for abroad—it was only because I thought you’d grown attached to Matsutani Shūko, whose origins remain unknown. Jealousy drove those words. But while abroad, I longed for you more each day, and now I’m consumed by regret. When I was this household’s foster daughter, wherever I went, people made such a fuss over me—yet now, no one pays me any mind. It’s truly unbearable. I know I’ve been selfish and displeasing until now, but from this moment, I’ll change my heart—think only of you. Please—rescind the annulment of our promise. Won’t you, Michisan?” “I can give you an answer, but not the one you hope for.” Oura resentfully said, “Am I such a detestable woman that you would loathe me to this extent? That Mr. Takanawada, for instance, insists there’s no woman but me and pesters me with marriage proposals.” “That may be so, but you are a splendid beauty. Anyone whose heart isn’t inclined elsewhere would surely be drawn to you.” Oura flared up in anger and stood abruptly. “I see! Had your heart not strayed elsewhere, you might have agreed—but *you* declare you love Matsutani Shūko now, so my words mean nothing! Is that it?” “It’s not exactly as you say—though I suppose there’s no harm in your interpretation.” Oura shouted at the top of her voice, “How infuriating! That bewitching beauty has stolen my rightful husband!” Tearing at herself as if in frenzy, she writhed her way to the window, leapt out into the garden, and fled far across the grounds toward the moat—doubtless feigning suicidal intent to lure me into chasing after her. But having been thoroughly duped by Oura’s theatrics before, I refused to bite this time. With the satisfaction of having rid myself of a nuisance, I entered the next room. Threading through disarrayed bookcases, I began examining them starting from those against the wall. But as I crouched beside one particular case—

Chapter Thirty: Such a... Such a...

Why—and by whom—had I been stabbed in such a manner? This was no trivial question. Yet stranger still was how disproportionately intense the pain from my small wound had become, and how that very pain had left my entire body paralyzed. I had never imagined a human body could become so utterly numb. Not only was I unable to speak, but even my eyelids had gone numb—lacking the strength to open them no matter how I tried. When I forced them open, they would immediately slacken and droop shut, leaving me only the barest slit as thin as a thread through which to perceive the faintest light from outside.

I once read in a book that tribespeople inhabiting an Indian village would press sap from a peculiar plant’s leaves to produce a paralyzing poison. If coated on a blade and used to stab someone, the wound would burn like fire while their entire body went numb. Should even half a gram be mixed into water and ingested, death would follow with scarcely any trace left behind. Until recent years, even doctors examining corpses killed thus could not identify it as poisoning. These tribespeople were said to call this plant “Devil’s Tongue”—an unnerving name indeed. Could this very sap have been applied to the weapon that stabbed me? Without it, the burning pain at my wound and this full-body paralysis defied all explanation. Whoever wielded such venom in these parts could not be overlooked.

Yet my ears could hear, and my mind remained fully lucid. As I lay there praying fervently for someone to come and save me, two figures entered the adjacent room from the garden—recognizable at once by their voices as Miss Urahara and Shūko. What had brought them here? Their conversation soon made it clear. Shūko said, “Miss Urahara, you claimed Mr. Michikurou would be present here—yet he is nowhere to be seen.” “He was indeed here, but where has he gone?” said Miss Urahara. Shūko said, “You claimed to have matters to discuss with me before Mr. Michikurou, but if he isn’t here, such a discussion seems impossible,” and made to leave. Oura interjected, “No—wait. Let us settle this even without him present.” “I don’t know what this concerns, but I ask that you keep your words as brief as possible.”

Both parties radiated an unspoken menace. Oura said, “Very well—I’ll be brief. You’re aware that Michisan and I were meant to marry?” Shūko replied, “By ‘Michisan,’ do you mean Mr. Michikurou? If you’re referring to marital matters, yes—I’ve heard of this.” “You meddling in that bond was truly—” “You make unfounded accusations.” “Yes—you leading Michisan astray by coveting the role of his wife yourself amounts to the same as severing our ties!” “I have never harbored any intention of becoming Mr. Michikurou’s wife. To suspect me of beguiling him is an excessively cruel suspicion.”

“If that’s the case, will you stand before Mr. Michi and declare outright: ‘Mr. Marube, I could never become your wife’?” “I will declare it outright. But for *me* to state such a thing when *Mr. Marube* has not said a single word about taking me as his wife—is that not utterly absurd?” “This may sound absurd, but if you accompany me to Mr. Michi’s presence—and then I ask him: ‘Do you intend to make this woman your wife someday?’—regardless of his reply, you need only refuse him outright there.” “The manner of your request treats me as though I were a criminal. Under ordinary circumstances, I would never consent, but I find your baseless jealousy and groundless suspicions so pitiable that I shall comply.” “Then you must face Mr. Michi and, while supporting *my* position, advise him: ‘You absolutely must return to your original marital promise with *me*.’” Shūko answered with a faint smile: “Very well.” Oura pressed further: “That alone isn’t enough. You know I was once this household’s foster daughter.” “Yes, I have heard about that as well.” “Yet after *I* was expelled, *you* took my place as the foster daughter—so you must renounce this status too.” Shūko: “Ah…” “That I cannot do. No matter what you say, I cannot do it.” Oura sternly declared: “Even if you refuse, you lack the respectable background to be this household’s foster daughter. Keeping you here would defile this house.” Shūko: “Whether this house is defiled or not is something Father is well aware of. It is not for you to pass judgment.” “No—*Uncle* cannot render this judgment. *I* alone hold that authority. He is utterly blinded, claiming you resemble the wife he lost long ago.” Shūko: “Whether I resemble her or not, you have no grounds to object, and—”

“Yes, there *is*—your face matters not! It’s your lineage that—” Shūko retorted: “You presume my lineage unknown yet still accuse me of being Furuyama Oto—a former servant here? Then let Mr. Takanawada and his associates scrutinize me thoroughly!” Oura sneered: “Mr. Takanawada dwelled here alongside that maid Oto and foster-daughter Natsuko until Okon’s murder, yet failed to expose you! But he nurses darker suspicions—swears stripping that grotesque glove from your left hand will reveal all! Since he falters, *I* shall unmask you!” With this—as I perceived through numbed senses—she lunged for Shūko’s left hand, seizing her wrist to tear off the glove. “This is outrageous!” Shūko protested. “Outrage? Hardly!” Oura spat. Their struggle sent floorboards creaking underfoot. How I loathed Oura then! Were my limbs but functional, I’d have risen to throttle her—yet paralysis held me fast. The scuffle proved brief; surprise favored Oura’s assault. Triumphant, she cried: “Ah! Torn free! Your secret lies bare in this hand!”—doubtless meaning Shūko’s exposed left. What horror it bore I knew not, but Oura’s gasp betrayed shock: “Ghastly! Such—such a—” Words failed her then.

Chapter Thirty-One: Eyes That Never Return, Even in Regret

What lay hidden beneath Shūko’s left glove? What secret had Oura witnessed? I could scarcely endure the strangeness of it all. After a moment, Oura spoke in a tone of total triumph: "Now that I’ve witnessed this secret, Miss Shūko, you’re as good as a corpse. You can’t resist me—no, you can’t even remain in this house as its foster daughter! Soon enough, I’ll leisurely reveal this secret to Uncle and Mr. Michikurou and watch their shock!" she spat venomously. In a desperate voice, Shūko retorted, "Very well—I’ll ensure you *can’t* speak of it!" She then began darting frantically about the room. To what end? To barricade every exit and prevent Oura from leaving. The sounds of locks clicking and bolts sliding echoed as she secured each door. Soon Shūko declared, "There—now you cannot escape even if you try!" "It’s simply a matter of leaving together when you depart."

“I won’t let you leave together.” “Since you’ve seen this secret, you must swear never to reveal it.” “How could I possibly take such an oath? I can’t stay silent!” In a voice of terrifying fervor, Shūko declared: “Even if *you* don’t speak of this, once *I* fulfill my hidden purpose, *I* myself shall reveal it to all. Until then, *I* will silence your tongue by any means. Now—*I* shall dictate the oath—swear it word for word! Refuse to pledge now, and no force shall break it later. Break it, and terrible misfortune will haunt *you* lifelong!” Though unclear what Shūko did next, Oura sounded faintly fearful as she pleaded, “Open the door! Let me out!” “I’ll release you only after you swear. Will you pledge or not? If you refuse now, no matter how eternally you regret it, I’ll ensure you suffer consequences beyond redemption.”

"What manner of irreversible consequence did she intend with this 'eyes that never return even through eternal regret'? It carried the ominous ring of murderous intent. If only my body were free—I mentally stamped my feet in impotent fury yet remained helpless. We were separated by a mere sheet of paper, yet that barrier felt utterly unbreakable. Pathetic. Oura shouted, 'Hand over that key!' and lunged at Shūko. The sounds of renewed grappling echoed through the room. Though the victor remained unclear, both fought with desperate intensity. Soon one slipped—'Ah!'—and collapsed onto the floorboards. That cry unmistakably belonged to Oura."

At this moment, I writhed in agony and managed to half-rise, attempting to step forward—but my legs held no strength. I collapsed immediately with a thud. As I fell, a groan—"Ugh..."—escaped my lips for the first time, and then everything went dark. For the briefest moment, I felt myself drifting far from the world—as though my soul had left my body in death. Yet at my groan, Shūko must have rushed over, for I faintly heard her startled voice: “Mr. Marube! Mr. Marube! Oh—you’ve been stabbed in the side! This blood—how dreadful! Who could have done this to you?”

Whether the numbness in my body had slightly abated or not, this voice allowed me to open my eyes—and even produce a faint sound of my own. "Oh—Miss Shūko?" I uttered, all while feigning not to scrutinize what secret her left hand might hold. Yet Shūko skillfully concealed her fingertips with a handkerchief, rendering them illegible. Given how vigilantly she guarded herself even in this vulnerable moment, her desperation when Miss Urako had seen it became understandable. The next words from my mouth were a question: "What happened to Miss Urako?" Shūko appeared to realize something as she responded, "Oh—Miss Urako should naturally be the one attending to you," then turned toward the room where they had quarreled earlier. "Miss Urako! Miss Urako! Can't you hear Mr. Marube's voice? This is urgent—please come here quickly! Miss Urako—Mr. Marube is calling you!" Yet Oura gave no reply—not even a rustle of movement. Suspicion colored Shūko's voice as she added, "Oh—do you dislike approaching me? This is no time for such reservations." Still, there was no response from Oura. Shūko called out, "The quarrel earlier was my fault—please, Miss Urako, come here! I cannot manage alone. As for my secret, do with it as you will! Miss Urako—Miss Urako! If you refuse to approach me even now, I'll give you this key! Use it to unlock the door and summon help!" With this, she threw the key into the adjacent room. Yet Oura remained silent. Frustration tinged Shūko's voice as she added, "This is truly impossible! Leaving Mr. Marube here risks worsening his bleeding—we must move him to a bed and properly treat him. But I lack the strength to carry you alone." At a loss, she surveyed her surroundings and said, "Then I shall go summon someone," before taking an animal pelt draped over a nearby stand, wrapping it, and adjusting it as a pillow to stabilize my body. Then she rose and departed—her deft arrangement no less adept than a professional nurse's.

From my propped-up position, I could see the next room’s exit in a straight line. Watching Shūko’s movements, I saw her pick up the thrown key, survey the chamber, and dismissively remark, “Really now, Miss Urako—this childish behavior is unbecoming! Hiding somewhere in such circumstances!” She then unlocked the door with that key and departed. Though I had no desire for Oura’s assistance afterward, I kept watching the adjacent room, half-expecting her to come tend to me—yet she never appeared. Nor did she attempt to leave through the exit Shūko had left open. As I wondered whether Shūko’s usual twisted logic had hatched some new scheme, she returned with two servants. Kneeling beside me, she said, “Oh dear—has Miss Urako still not come to your side even after I left?” Before letting the servants touch me, I ordered them to search the next room and retrieve Oura. They scoured every corner—probing every shadow large enough to conceal a person—but found nothing. Oura had vanished as though evaporated into thin air. *This* was what it meant to disappear without a trace—had Shūko made good on her threat to make Oura suffer “eyes that never return even through regret”? Perhaps she’d obliterated Oura’s body through some unknown means—though I couldn’t fathom when she’d found the time.

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Professional Assassin I was immediately carried out of this room by two servants. Upon hearing of my injury, my uncle and a crowd of others soon rushed over. Though my uncle proposed laying me down in the nearest bedroom first, I stubbornly insisted on being taken to my own quarters on the tower’s fourth floor. For an injured man, the fourth floor was inconvenient indeed—yet I had previously promised Shūko I would sleep there without fail, and I intended to keep that vow. If I remained on the fourth floor, something strange—or rather, intriguing—might yet occur.

Before long, I was carried up to the tower’s fourth floor, yet what lingered on my mind was the matter of Oura’s disappearance. However much I reasoned, she could not have left that room—she must have vanished within it. But a person cannot be extinguished like a lamp’s flame, so perhaps she had somehow slipped out and returned to Torisu-an. Thinking it prudent to send someone to check Torisu-an, I requested this of Uncle. He initially said, “There’s no need for Oura to come here,” but then seemed to reconsider—

“Very well—I’ll instruct the messenger sent to fetch the doctor to stop by Torisu-an on their return,” he said, descending the stairs. About thirty minutes later, the messenger returned with news that Oura had still not come back to Torisu-an either. I pondered deeply—it was truly strange. I couldn’t begin to imagine how she had vanished. Still, she might reappear by tomorrow—not that I cared if she didn’t. In fact, it might be a blessing if that insolent woman never showed her face again from now on. But *if* she were to reappear, I would finally understand how she had erased herself from that room. I had no desire to see her—only to learn *how* it had happened.

However, upon closer reflection, my injury proved even more perplexing than Oura's disappearance. At that time, there had been no one else in the room besides myself. Now that I considered it, I might have heard a faint sound behind me just before being stabbed—yet even after the attack, I had seen no sign of anyone fleeing. It was as though a sword had materialized from the wall itself. Had a blade truly sprung from the wall, there should have been a hole large enough for its passage—yet no such aperture existed. If that were the case, then was my assailant some invisible specter? Though tales of the strange abound, I had never heard of anyone being stabbed by an unseen entity. Given these inexplicable circumstances, perhaps Oura's vanishing body warranted less astonishment after all.

Before long, Uncle returned upstairs with the physician. According to the physician’s diagnosis, my wound had been inflicted by an exceptionally sharp double-edged weapon thinner than a razor. When I asked where such a blade might be found, he explained that female assassins in places like Italy had occasionally used such tools—their extreme sharpness allowed penetration with minimal force, though the resulting wound would be so precise and bloodless that, provided vital organs were avoided, healing could occur surprisingly quickly. He assured me that with proper care, I might leave my sickbed within a week. Thus, it appeared my injury was not as grave as it seemed.

Though not a grave injury, my wound burned as if aflame, and my entire body’s systems had ceased functioning—what manner of poison was this? The physician’s theory aligned with my own suspicions: the blade had undoubtedly been coated with a toxin brewed from the juices of an Indian plant called *Curare* and another named *Granil*. He continued, “This is the work of a professional assassin.” “While there’s no such thing as a ‘professional assassin,’ someone must have mastered stabbing techniques to this degree. Thin blades often fail to penetrate properly—but coating them with this poison ensures even a botched strike paralyzes the target. Cowardly assassins use this secret method when fearing failure. With killers who know such tricks prowling these rooms, we cannot rest easy. Mr. Marube—you must have detectives from that field investigate.” The final remark carried an advisory tone directed at Uncle.

Following those words, Uncle immediately ordered a detective from London via telegram the next day. The detective who arrived two days later in response was Mori Mondo—the same man who had previously been dispatched to this house when Okon was murdered and had apprehended the culprit, Natsuko. Given his thorough familiarity with the Ghost Tower’s grounds and floorplan, his selection was most fitting. Yet even after his arrival, Oura still failed to appear. Having vanished for two full days and nights, the situation had grown increasingly dire. Thus, Mori Mondo commenced investigating both my would-be assassin and the circumstances of Oura’s disappearance. In his mind, he likely suspected some connection between these two incidents.

Chapter Thirty-Three: The ¥1,000 Bounty Detective Mori, being a renowned expert in his field, would undoubtedly investigate both my stabbing and Miss Urako’s disappearance without omission. He had come to my bedroom only after thoroughly questioning Shūko downstairs. I knew I had to answer every inquiry truthfully—yet feared full honesty might cast suspicion upon her. How would that incident of Shūko declaring she’d make Miss Urako suffer “eyes that never return even through regret” resonate with the detective? Of course, I knew Shūko hadn’t caused the disappearance—the moment Miss Urako collapsed, Shūko had rushed to my side. Afterward, when Miss Urako vanished, Shūko’s subsequent behavior showed she still believed her hidden somewhere. Thus, Shūko’s innocence in this matter matched my own—yet the detective would never see it so.

I was still deliberating how to frame the altercation between Oura and Shūko when the detective swiftly arrived at my bedside. Fortunately, he did not inquire about Shūko—focusing solely on my stabbing incident. I answered truthfully, stating it had felt as though a sword had sprung from the wall itself, and faithfully recounted the physician’s theory about the blade and poison. Contrary to his profession’s typical reticence, he proved disarmingly forthright: “I already visited the physician’s residence en route and heard about the toxins. But if you insist it seemed like a blade materialized from the wall, that offers no tangible leads. We must instead pursue the investigation through more promising avenues.” “You mean the promising avenue?” “It’s Urahara Jō’s disappearance.” “Is there any clue regarding Miss Oura’s disappearance?” “Well, it may not amount to a concrete lead, but there is someone who quarreled with Miss Oura and even threatened to make her suffer ‘eyes that never return, even through eternal regret.’” “Wh-wh-who told you that?” “I heard it from the person in question—Miss Matsutani Shūko.” “Did Shūko say such a thing?” “Oh, judging by how ardently you defend her, you and Miss Shūko are hardly mere acquaintances. Given that Urahara Jō was your former fiancée, jealousy between the two women would naturally arise.” I glared from my sickbed. “Shūko is nothing to me—a complete stranger! While Miss Oura may have harbored jealousy, if you proceed under the assumption that Shūko possessed any such envious feelings, you will undoubtedly fall into grave error!”

The detective chuckled slightly and said, "Ah—I'd forgotten! The doctor had strictly forbidden me from saying anything that might agitate you now," skillfully extricating himself from the situation before departing. Later, I pondered thoroughly—it seemed Shūko had already disclosed the full details of that altercation through her own words. Why would she reveal it without realizing suspicion might fall upon herself? Though I found this regrettable, upon reflection, it stemmed from her pure heart's compulsion to confess—firmly believing in her own innocence, wholly assured that even if doubted, no danger would arise. No—fundamentally, hers was an utterly honest nature that would never tell lies under any circumstances.

After a short while, Shūko ascended this time. Wondering what had become of that left hand, I observed without staring—the peculiar glove seemed to have been taken by Miss Urako and vanished along with her. Instead, she now wore a new glove, this one differing from ordinary ones by extending fully up her arm. Feigning obliviousness to such details, I remarked, “Miss Shūko—you appear to have told Detective Mori about your altercation with Miss Urako.” “Yes, I was asked if I had any leads regarding Miss Urako’s disappearance, but since I knew nothing beyond that argument, I told them about it.” “Did you also tell them about your own hidden purpose?” “No, my hidden purpose has no connection whatsoever to Miss Urako, and as it is not something to be disclosed to detectives or the like, I have not told them.” I felt somewhat relieved—mentioning terms like “hidden purpose,” regardless of its nature, would inevitably draw detectives’ suspicions. That she hadn’t spoken of it was crucial.

My uncle arrived next, followed by the Konshi couple—who had long shown particular favor toward Miss Urako and were staying at his Torisu-an. Regarding this incident, my room had become the epicenter of all developments. Soon even Takanawada Chōzō—whom I detested—appeared. While the Konshis offered their condolences, Takanawada addressed Uncle: “Mr. Marube—though presumptuous—I must make a request concerning Miss Urako’s disappearance...” “If it’s your request, I grant it without hearing details.” Takanawada continued with tearful affectation: “I must confess—when I first encountered Miss Urako and Mrs. Konshi during my travels abroad, I became enamored. I proposed marriage repeatedly until three days ago, when she finally consented. Yet no sooner had I rejoiced than she vanished—I implore you to comprehend my grief.” This revelation stunned me. That Miss Urako had entreated me to honor our old pledge while accepting Takanawada’s suit—what duplicity! Yet such caprice aligned perfectly with her nature. She had indeed mentioned his proposals to me previously. Clearly, she’d been balancing us on twin scales—myself and Takanawada. What a wretched woman.

Konshi Fujin looked mildly startled. “Oh, Mr. Takanawada—did you propose to Miss Urako again that morning? After I’d so strongly cautioned you it was too soon and urged patience!” “But it wasn’t too soon,” he countered. “The young lady’s consent stands as irrefutable proof.” “Her disappearance after consenting proves it *was* premature,” she retorted. “Having regretted agreeing, might she not have fled with a husband?” These words revealed this lady too harbored deep animosity toward Takanawada. Reddening, he nevertheless turned to Uncle and pressed on: “Given these circumstances, I must locate Miss Urako without delay. To that end, I wish to offer a ¥1,000 reward through Detective Mori—with your approval.”

“If that is the case, *I* would be the one to make such a request—there can be no objection from me.” “In that case, I shall remain in this area until the detective’s work is concluded.” Konshi Fujin interjected sharply, “Even if you remain in this area, *we* will soon vacate Torisu-an. We only rented that house at Miss Urako’s insistence, and with her whereabouts unknown, staying there has become disagreeable. We intend to return to London. *In that case*, where will *you* be lodging?” Confronted from her entrenched position, Takanawada faltered, stammering only, “In that case—yes, in that case—” Unable to bear this, Uncle intervened: “No—when that time comes, you may stay at *this* house.” Takanawada rejoiced with the look of a man who’d found a ferry just when needing to cross a river—“Nothing could bring me greater fortune than having this wish granted”—but I privately furrowed my brow at the thought of what misfortunes might arise from lodging this man in our household. Shūko undoubtedly shared the sentiment.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Where Is the Clothing Bundle? Takanawada Chōzō appeared utterly infatuated with Oura, having finally placed a ¥1,000 bounty with the detective. Like a man with bloodshot eyes, he now shadowed the investigator’s every move, rarely returning to Torisu-an and spending most days at this house. However, the Konshi couple—still residing at Torisu-an as its masters—occasionally visited to inquire after my health. My uncle Tomoo did everything in his power to accommodate both the detective and Takanawada. The detective seemed to redouble his efforts for the ¥1,000 bounty—yet uncovered not a single clue. Who stabbed me? For what purpose did Oura disappear? These questions remained shrouded in impenetrable darkness. If forced to name a clue worth pursuing, there was only one—the patch of grass along the moat’s embankment that had been trampled into disarray. Takanawada discovered this; his theory posited that Oura might have suffered violence at that spot. My uncle tentatively agreed with this assessment, but Detective Mori did not. In my view, since Oura had vanished from a tightly sealed room within moments, no ordinary investigation could ever explain it. Detective Mori seemed to think so, but tragically—because she had been in the same room at the time—he cast suspicion upon Shūko, employing a tone that stopped just short of declaring she must be interrogated even in my presence—likely to provoke a reaction from me. Yet I, conversely, could not believe Shūko capable of making a person vanish into thin air, so each time this occurred, I defended her.

Under these circumstances, the detective made no progress—yet with no other investigative avenues available, everyone simply gathered in my room to repeat how strange it all was. A week passed in this manner, but per the doctor’s instructions, I regained enough mobility to leave my sickbed. Though I felt fully restored to my usual self—capable of any exertion—the doctor forbade strenuous activity, so I cautiously refrained from venturing outdoors. Still, I moved freely about the stairs without concern.

Now that matters stood thus, I had my own work to attend to—Oura’s disappearance could wait. I wanted to conclude the investigation I’d initiated before sustaining my injury regarding whether wounds from the lemur’s scratches could resemble those from old nails—readers may recall how I’d gone to the library for this inquiry and encountered the sword emerging from the wall during my research. Though such a minor matter seemed hardly worth pursuing now that Oura’s grand disappearance had occurred, with no leads for the larger mystery, even trivial inquiries proved better than inaction. Thus resolved, I first visited Madam Torai’s chambers. There lay the pitiable woman—emaciated to a degree that made her survival beyond today or tomorrow uncertain. Doctors remained stationed full-time, Shūko kept constant vigil, and even the lemur—no, due to Shūko’s caution, the creature now sat tethered near a chest of drawers, rendered incapable of scratching anyone again. According to the physicians, had Madam Torai’s fever not broken today, she would surely have departed this world—but with its subsidence this morning, recovery now seemed assured. At this news, even Shūko’s furrowed brow relaxed slightly.

As I left the room, Shūko followed me into the hallway, stopped me, and whispered in a small voice: “Forgive my strange question—but might you have surreptitiously taken Madam Torai’s clothing bundle from beneath her bedding at her request the other day?” “Ah, so that *did* happen,” I said. “I had intended to keep it secret, but now it’s unavoidable—how do you know such a thing?” “Yes—the other day,” Shūko replied, “when I left this room briefly to attend to Father, Madam Torai’s clothing bundle beneath her bedding disappeared. Of course, she lacked the strength to rise and reach it herself, so someone must have been enlisted to do so. Upon investigating, I discovered that during my absence, *you* had visited her chamber to inquire after her health.” “That’s correct.” “Did you look inside the clothing bundle?” “No.” “There’s no doubt my stolen notebook is inside that clothing bundle.” Though this aligned perfectly with my own suspicions, I pressed on: “Then you resorted to ghostly theatrics to startle me—” “Yes,” Shūko countered firmly, “the thief is Madam Torai. I suspected her from the start, but seeing the clothing bundle disappear confirmed it. I believe her claim of being scratched by the lemur was actually from an old nail at that time. I’ve checked books in the library about lemurs—none mention their claws being poisonous.” Though this was not the first time, I found myself impressed by Shūko’s thoroughness in all matters. “Oh! Have you already investigated that? To be honest, I had also been wanting to look into it.” Shūko pressed with resolute determination: “What did you do with that clothing bundle? Since my item is unquestionably inside it, I believe I have every right to inspect it—even if it concerns Madam Torai’s secrets.” She leaned closer. “Where is that bundle now?” “That clothing bundle is no longer in this house.” “Eh—it’s not in this house—” “Yes,” I admitted flatly, “I complied with Madam’s request and immediately sent it out via parcel post.” Shūko, who until now had shown not the slightest change in complexion, now paled visibly. “You’ve done something terrible! And the place you sent it to—it wasn’t the spider house, was it?” Since “spider house” was a name I’d never heard before, I exclaimed, “Eh? Spider house?” “In Peyton City—” “That’s correct—” “I addressed it to the Insect Farm in Peyton City.” “That Insect Farm is what they call the spider house.” Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “You’ve done something terrible—if that notebook falls into their hands—” “Nonsense!” I interjected. “If it’s that dire, I’ll go to that spider house myself—after all, I remember writing the owner’s name as Anakawa Jinzō on the parcel.” My jaw tightened with resolve. “I’ll meet this Anakawa and retrieve it.”

“What a preposterous notion! Should you enter that house, you’ll be devoured by venomous spiders—entangled in their threads until movement becomes impossible, never to return alive.” In this civilized era, could there truly exist those who cultivated poisonous arachnids straight from antiquated ghost stories—creatures that slaughtered humans by ensnaring them in silken bonds? As she spoke these words, Shūko shuddered violently, as if the mere memory chilled her to the marrow.

Chapter Thirty-Five: What a Horror! Was this Insect Farm truly a place that bred spiders? A "spider house" sounded like no trade I had ever heard of—would they truly feed people to giant spiders and let them be wrapped in silk? Seeing Shūko shudder fearfully made my entire body turn cold involuntarily. This was the same Shūko who had remained composed even when confronting a ferocious tiger and escaping peril. If even speaking of it made her tremble, the place must be truly terrifying. Yet this was no archaic ghost story—how could man-eating spiders exist in our modern age? Such horrors might infest barbaric lands teeming with beasts and venomous serpents, but in civilized Britain at the height of modernity? Though I quickly dismissed the notion, I still yearned to visit that Insect Farm. Setting aside whether I could retrieve Shūko’s notebook, I wanted to witness firsthand the gruesome spectacle she described—of humans immobilized by venomous silk and devoured alive. But in my current state, it was impossible. Once the doctor pronounced me fully recovered, I resolved to go without fail.

However, what puzzled me more immediately was the relationship between Madam Torai and Shūko. Judging this the moment to ask, I said, “But Miss Shūko—isn’t it utterly outrageous for Madam Torai, your caretaker, to steal your notebook?” “Yes, she *is* my caretaker,” Shūko replied, “but someone I can’t trust in the slightest. When she was in better health, she schemed all manner of things—we might well have quarreled countless times.” Of course I knew there had been clashes between Shūko and Madam Torai—I had heard them arguing fiercely that first night at the local inn, as previously recorded. Thus, Shūko’s words held no falsehood. Yet if that were so, why had she not dismissed her? I pressed: “If she’s so untrustworthy, why keep her employed?” “It isn’t that I choose to keep her—she refuses to leave. Ours isn’t a relationship formed yesterday or today, so I’ve had no choice but to endure it.” I still harbored deep suspicion, uttering only, “Heeh—is that so?” Shūko added by way of explanation: “Because she is my wet nurse.” Ah—now it made sense. A wet nurse would naturally assume a supervisory air toward her charge. Even if formally dismissed, such a woman might persist in following unperturbed—all the more so since she’d known Shūko’s personal secrets since childhood, making her impossible to cast off.

The day concluded thus, but the next day it was decided to drag nets through the moat’s depths to investigate Oura’s disappearance—though I found it unthinkable she might lie there as a corpse. True, I knew Oura had once feigned throwing herself into the moat after pressing me to renew our promise, then immediately lured Shūko back—hardly a woman prone to suicide. That someone might have thrown her in seemed equally baseless; her vanishing occurred in a sealed room wholly unrelated to the moat. Hearing of this search, I at once asked Uncle: “Why fixate on the moat?” He replied with slight unease: “It’s no fixation—with no leads, Detective Mori and Mr. Takanawada grew frantic. Unable to ignore their distress, I suggested to Takanawada, ‘Since we’ve exhausted all avenues, shall we search the moat as a precaution?’ Whereupon he eagerly agreed: ‘I too wished to propose this! With your approval, let us begin at once!’” He took the lead in persuading the detective, who responded hesitantly—“To dredge a moat merely because it exists, without a single clue to justify it, would be a professional disgrace”—but given that this came from someone who had even offered a ¥1,000 bounty, his words could not be outright dismissed. Then Mr. Takanawada interjected: “We aren’t dredging without grounds—didn’t we find trampled grass on the embankment? With such evidence, we have no choice but to investigate.” Since he himself had raised this point, those present voiced their agreement. Thus even the detective finally relented. Preparations had already begun—boats launched from the boathouse, local constables dispatched to oversee operations—and they were likely about to commence. Of course I raised no objection; though privately considering it futile, precautionary measures were only reasonable. I merely replied, “Ah, I see,” but what horrific result this dredging would yield—not even readers with godlike insight could foresee. Reflecting now, such an unexpectedly terrifying outcome could never recur—what a horror—it truly made my hair stand on end.

Chapter Thirty-Six: A Startling Revelation

Since they’d already begun searching the moat’s depths to see what might surface, I would have gone to observe—had I not still been awaiting the doctor’s permission to venture outdoors. Instead, I resolved to watch from the tower. Not that walking to the moat’s edge would have worsened my condition, but now was a time for utmost caution. Battles unknown might await—perhaps a journey to that spider house teeming with poisonous spiders, perhaps exertions for Shūko’s sake. Prudence demanded I heal this body back to its usual iron-like vigor with all haste.

I climbed to my room on the tower’s fourth floor, but the limited vantage point proved insufficient. Ascending another level to the clock chamber—a place I rarely visited—I found the view here at least tolerable. The entire stretch from the moat to the Ninth Ward embankment lay within view. Three small boats floated in the water—one carrying the detective giving instructions, the other two manned by local constables dragging nets. No matter how thoroughly they searched, the vanished Urahara Jō could not possibly lie submerged as a corpse in those depths. Though I told myself they might at best catch catfish here, I found myself compelled to watch until the end. This must be what they call human nature.

While I was watching, a sound like that of a large bird flapping its wings occurred above my head—this was the tower’s clock, famed for its secret mechanisms, emitting noise just before announcing the hour. Up close, it sounded truly dreadful. Though I had heeded Shūko’s warnings until now, I had never deeply studied this clock’s inner workings; wondering if something unusual occurred when it struck the hour, I stood to examine it. The clock’s diameter measured approximately one *jō* (~3 meters), appearing three times larger than when viewed from below. Affixed to a corner behind its face was a circular iron plate roughly three *shaku* (~1 meter) in diameter, inexplicably painted green. What purpose could this plate serve? It seemed unrelated to the clock’s machinery. Testing whether it might be removable, I strained to shift it but found it immovable. Tapping it revealed considerable thickness—the resonant *clang* resembled knocking on an iron door.

Given its utterly unique mechanism, I became so engrossed in examining the iron plate that I momentarily forgot about the moat investigation. At the plate’s center was a hole barely large enough for a hand—though its interior lay pitch-black. When I attempted to insert my own rugged hand, it proved impossible to enter—a woman’s or child’s hand might manage, but not mine. Moreover, the hole’s rusted edges had grown rough and jagged; even a woman would inevitably sustain scratches upon reaching inside. This realization struck me like lightning: Madam Torai’s injured hand resulted from her ascending this tower under ghostly pretense and inserting her hand into this very hole. Yes—yes! And since Shūko knew of this aperture’s existence, she had swiftly discerned the truth and grown suspicious of that woman.

Even so, as I found myself wondering anew why Madam Torai would do something as bizarre as climbing this tower late at night to insert her hand into the iron plate’s hole, the clock began striking the hour—four o’clock in the afternoon. Strangely, with each toll of the bell, that iron plate shifted slightly, rotating naturally to the right. Were the clock to strike twelve, the plate would undoubtedly complete a full rotation. Moreover, each time it turned, light from outside leaked through the central hole. "How peculiar," I thought. Each time light seeped through, I pressed my eye to the aperture and peered in, finding the illumination angled downward from above—clearly celestial light. In pitch darkness, no such radiance could penetrate. Yet one couldn’t glimpse the sky directly through it—the hole offered only a forward view, its depths concealing whatever lay beyond. After tolling four times, the clock fell silent, halting the plate’s movement. Though the hole reverted to utter darkness, I had made a monumental discovery.

Of course—among the Marube family’s incantations had existed phrases that seemed utterly nonsensical, but those very phrases pointed precisely to this clock’s iron plate and aperture! Readers would recall: the ninth verse had read “Bells toll, green sways,” while the tenth declared “A pinprick of light flickers.” Yes—yes! “Bells toll” referred to the clock striking the hour; “green sways” denoted the movement of this green-painted iron plate; and “a pinprick of light” described how illumination flashed through the hole. Ah! I hadn’t realized—hadn’t realized! This proved those incantations were never a madman’s ravings—they contained genuine riddles! No wonder successive Marube heads had been made to memorize them through generations. This must be why Shūko had so earnestly urged me to study the incantations and diagrams. Even lines like “A hundred bushels of pearls, royal blessings bestowed” surely held concrete meanings! From now on, I resolved to seriously investigate these verses. Phrases like “Mysteries dwell here—silently unroll the diagrams” suddenly took on profound solemnity. Madam Torai’s hand injury from reaching into this plate’s hole? Doubtless part of her covert attempts to decipher these incantations. Her theft of Shūko’s notebook? All tied to this pursuit. And Shūko’s acute anxiety over that notebook? Precisely the same cause.

Indeed, judging by Shūko’s evident anxiety, that notebook must have contained extraordinarily detailed records—and rightly so. For even I, having only recently ascended here, could make such discoveries; how much more must Shūko—who had researched daily for so long—have already unraveled all secrets entirely? Investigating the tower’s heights would yield far better results than dredging the moat, I concluded silently. Just then, people’s unusual cries rose from the moat. Though I couldn’t discern their meaning, I hurried to the corridor and saw something large caught in a net being hauled into a boat. Rushing down to fetch my binoculars and returning to adjust the focus, I stared in genuine astonishment. What could this netted object be? Readers may find guessing diverting—all will be revealed next time.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Masterful Incision

What had been caught in the net and hauled up appeared through my binoculars to be a large, clumsily wrapped furoshiki-like bundle. Though certainly muddied to some degree, this moat—connected at both ends to flowing rivers—maintained a relatively clean bed despite its broken sluice gate, its waters perpetually circulating. Unlike common stagnant moats filled with putrid sludge harmful to public health, the retrieved object’s coating of mud did not render its true form unrecognizable. It was indeed a furoshiki-wrapped bundle—not an old one at that. Now, what could be inside? When they pulled up to the police boat, the detective’s vessel also swiftly rowed up to the spot, with the detective issuing some instructions.

After much effort, they finally extricated the object from the net and brought it into the boat. Good heavens—something long protruded from one end of that clumsily wrapped bundle. What could it be? What could it be? I wiped my binocular lenses and looked again. It resembled a human leg—patches of mud clinging between stretches of pallid flesh that unmistakably suggested a woman’s limb. Had Uncle and Takanawada’s suspicions proven correct? Could this truly be Oura’s corpse, sunk to the moat’s depths?

I felt truly sickened, yet couldn't tear the binoculars from my eyes. The detective and constables appeared equally startled. Soon the boat was rowed to the embankment's base. A crowd rushed toward the spot. The furoshiki-wrapped bundle was hauled onto the bank. My uncle seemed unable to bear the sight, turning his face aside. Takanawada fervently addressed something to the detective. The detective in turn faced my uncle. A discussion seemed to begin between my uncle and the detective.

I later learned this discussion had been a deliberation over whether to open the furoshiki-wrapped bundle immediately at the scene or transport it indoors for inspection. Police regulations required all such items to be examined without removal from the discovery site, so the constables adamantly opposed moving it into the house. However, Marube Tomoo—my uncle—insisted that given circumstances potentially affecting the family’s reputation, they must inspect it away from public view. After his earnest entreaties to the detective, this request was granted reluctantly.

After a while, several policemen carried the furoshiki bundle toward the house. Remaining in the tower served no purpose now; I stowed my binoculars in my satchel and descended. The bundle was placed in the earthen-floored area adjacent to the billiard room, where it would be opened. What first struck me about the bundle was its cloth—no ordinary wrapping fabric, but an exquisite Eastern textile. This was none other than the tablecloth that had adorned Oura’s desk on the day of her disappearance. Though confirmed intact until her vanishing—and reported missing alongside her during my convalescence—here it lay. Indeed, Uncle had once questioned me: “The precious tablecloth has gone missing—you haven’t moved it elsewhere, have you?” This was that very cloth.

The detective first took charge as the central figure and began unwrapping the bundle. The protruding foot was unmistakably a woman's. He worked upward from the foot, methodically loosening the wrappings until the edge of a kimono appeared - one I recognized as the garment Oura had worn during her disappearance. With a knowing look, the detective declared, "This isn't a drowning victim - no water in the lungs. The corpse was dumped postmortem." Next emerged a large stone fastened around the waist area - an obvious precaution against buoyancy. My uncle nearly turned away but appeared to summon desperate courage to keep watching. When reaching the hands, only the detective remained composed, scrutinizing both meticulously. Each bore two rings. "Do you recognize these?" he asked Uncle. Of course he did.

I had grown tired over the years of seeing these four rings glittering on both Oura’s hands. My uncle—unlike his former self as the prosecutor I had previously described—now answered with nerves grown exceedingly fragile, barely managing to utter, “I bought them,” unable even to voice Oura’s name. When the detective pressed relentlessly—“For whom did you buy them?”—I spoke up: “For Urahara Jō.” The sight was simply too gruesome—even I, let alone Uncle, could no longer bear to look. The thought of Oura’s face—submerged in water, swallowed by resentment—filled me with such anguish that I bowed my head and closed my eyes for a time. Then the detective cried out—a man of such composure shouting like that could only mean something extraordinary had occurred. Several constables echoed his alarm with cries of “This is too much!” When I finally looked up, what I saw made me shudder uncontrollably: Oura had no face. Her head was cleanly severed at the neck, gone entirely. The cut was masterfully precise—done with an exceedingly sharp blade. What manner of cruelty could drive someone to such an act? To kill someone, sever just their head and conceal it somewhere, then sink the headless corpse into a moat—this was no human deed; it was the work of demons.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Headless Corpse The reader had likely never seen a headless corpse before; while its terrifying appearance went without saying, what struck one most was how shockingly truncated and misshapen the form became. Oura had been a tall woman of elegant proportions, yet now she appeared robbed of all grace—with the head, that primary counterbalance of the body gone, the collapse of her entire figure seemed grimly inevitable. The horrific sight left everyone momentarily speechless, unable to meet each other's eyes—a living embodiment of Milton's adage about fearing to read one's own dread mirrored in others' countenances. Detective Mori Mondo first broke the silence, muttering as if to himself: "If this truly proves to be Urahara Jō's corpse, what a disappointment." Disappointment—why? He continued: "Every hypothesis I'd constructed thus far would collapse into error." These words revealed he had until now believed Oura still lived.

Hearing the detective’s words, Takanawada—who had been holding his breath until now—leapt up as if propelled by a spring and cried in a wretched voice, “How can this *not* be Miss Urahara’s corpse? Had she been safe, she would have been my wife by now!” Tears streamed down his face as he pressed closer to Oura’s remains. “Who did this to you? Miss Urako—Miss Urako! I swear Takanawada Chōzō will strike down your enemy!” he vowed, though the headless figure offered no reply.

My uncle, unable to endure this sight any longer, had vanished unnoticed. The detective continued his soliloquy: “Yet when such unexpected developments arise, our work becomes far simpler. Without a single lead, there’s nothing to ponder—but with a corpse, and a headless one at that, we’ve now got clues plain as day. True, it may strip some intrigue from detection, but our chances of success multiply. Mr. Takanawada—that ¥1,000 bounty will soon be mine.” Takanawada seemed entranced. “Even two thousand yen instead of one thousand—I’ll pay it! Just find the culprit quickly—quickly!” he pleaded in a tearful voice. The detective grew ever calmer. “In that case,” he declared in a tone too loud for a soliloquy, “solving this will happen faster in London than searching locally.”

“The idea of investigating this local crime in London seemed too far-fetched,” I remarked. “Do you suspect some connection to Britain’s capital?” “No concrete leads yet,” replied the detective. “But through experience—petty crimes stay local, while extraordinary ones like this demand London’s investigators.” “Then you’ll cross the Channel?” “Indeed—though my final judgment awaits the coroner’s report on this corpse.”

After saying this, he continued meticulously examining every part of the corpse. Soon, he exclaimed, “Oh my—what’s this?” and retrieved a faded object from the corpse’s kimono sleeve. Upon closer inspection, it was none other than the peculiar glove Matsutani Shūko had worn on her left hand. Takanawada Chōzō’s eyes widened. “D-Detective Mori—” “I do believe I recognize this item.” “Ah! If you indeed recognize it,” the detective replied, “that itself becomes our strongest lead.” Takanawada’s voice trembled: “Even if I recognize it, I cannot speak carelessly. I will never forget this glove for the rest of my life.” I too shall never forget this glove for the rest of my life. That it lay in Oura’s sleeve offered no cause for suspicion—she had forcibly snatched it from Shūko before vanishing—yet for Shūko herself, this might become the very source of grave suspicion.

I could no longer remain there and withdrew after informing the detective, but everyone in the household wore pale faces, speaking only in whispers as if fearing even the slightest noise might bring calamity, treading as lightly as cats padding across floors. Unspoken terror had filled the house—yet within that fear hung heaviest suspicion toward Shūko. Though none voiced it aloud, all seemed to privately believe Shūko bore responsibility for Oura’s death; dread permeated the air as thoroughly as suspicion. As dusk fell amid this atmosphere, I was summoned by the detective and returned to the corpse chamber to find the body already shrouded in white cloth. “Given this corpse has lain submerged over a week,” said the detective, “we cannot leave it thus and have urgently requested an inquest. However, as night has fallen, formal examination must await tomorrow morning. We’ve taken thorough preservative measures in the interim.” “Who should keep watch tonight?” “Officers will take shifts through the night. I only wished to inform you about tomorrow’s proceedings.” “I shall attend without fail.” The detective added—with deliberate weight on Shūko’s name—“For tomorrow’s inquest, only your uncle, yourself, Takanawada Chōzō, the Konshis, and Matsutani Shūko will be summoned. Prepare accordingly.” His emphasis carried an unspoken verdict—that Shūko’s guilt now seemed inescapable. I merely replied “Understood” before departing, though I wondered what further horrors this corpse might unveil. At dawn’s inquest, a revelation far graver than a missing head would come to light.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Key Point of the Case I knew not what tomorrow's autopsy might reveal, yet I could find no peace of mind. That night I lay nearly sleepless, turning thoughts over endlessly, but arrived at no conclusions. Who could have killed Jō? If Shūko had done it, all fell too neatly into place. She had indeed been driven to a corner where Jō's elimination became unavoidable—her secret laid bare, leaving murder as the sole means to enforce silence. She had even openly threatened to kill her, her resolve manifesting with terrible clarity. Then came their violent clash—Shūko hurling Jō to the floor. What transpired afterward remained shrouded, but from that moment Jō vanished... only to resurface today from the moat's depths.

Considering this alone, I could not help concluding it must have been Shūko’s doing. Yet what remained difficult to reconcile was how she could have killed Oura unnoticed, hidden the corpse in that room, severed its head, and sunk it into the moat—all without detection. Of course, I had not been monitoring Shūko’s every move; having been bedridden for a week afterward, she might have accomplished anything during that time. Perhaps when she threw Oura down, she had actually removed a floorboard—what I had heard as a body hitting the floor might have been her dumping it beneath the floorboards. Then under cover of night, she could have retrieved it, wrapped it in the tablecloth, and carried it to the moat.

Yet I could not believe Shūko to be a woman capable of such deeds—no, at least not yet at this point. Were one with that beautiful countenance to commit such acts, the very beauty that ought to be humanity's foremost virtue would lose all worth. To be sure, women whose terrifying hearts belie their fair faces do exist—yet facial beauty remains seventy percent of love's measure. Most affection arises from exchanging glances or discerning emotions manifested in visages. If a face as exquisite as Shūko's were not an index to an equally beautiful soul, would not humanity's entire standard for love and reverence be seventy percent demolished?

Even so, I couldn't imagine anyone but Shūko killing Oura. If not her, then who? Suicide? Could Oura have severed her own head, hidden it somewhere, tied a stone to her waist, wrapped herself in the tablecloth, and thrown herself into the moat? Impossible—a headless body couldn't perform such feats. Then who did kill her? Yet no plausible suspect remained.

Through such varied ruminations until dawn, I finally conceived a single doubt: what became of Oura’s head? And why render her corpse headless? Deeming it negligent that the detective hadn’t suspected this angle, I resolved to confront him first thing next morning. Yet unable to locate him, I paced corridors until he emerged from Madam Torai’s chamber. “Good heavens,” I muttered, approaching him. “What were you doing in Madam Torai’s room?” “I wished to inquire in detail about Miss Shūko’s background.” “But given Madam Torai’s illness, she likely wasn’t in a state to answer properly.” “No—since her fever broke yesterday, her condition had greatly improved, and we were able to converse without issue. She insisted she’s too anxious to sleep and will likely rise by dawn.” “And did you inquire in detail about Shūko’s background?” “No, Madam Torai stated that she was merely hired as an attendant and does not know the details.” It appeared Madam Torai had concealed that she had been Shūko’s wet nurse, presenting herself as a recent acquaintance. I said, “You seem to harbor considerable suspicion toward Shūko.” “No—a detective who suspects people errs. I suspect no one, merely investigating evidence impartially. However, Miss Shūko currently occupies a position where she is naturally suspected by all—the fact that she had a violent quarrel with Miss Urako is known to many.” “But Mr. Mori, what could be the reason Oura’s corpse has no head?”

For some reason, Detective Mori flinched as if struck in a vital spot at this question, falling silent despite his usual eloquence. I pressed: “What happened to the head?” Detective Mori finally replied, “That is precisely the key point of this case. If you’ve noticed that particular detail, you’re remarkably astute.” Though he praised me, I could not grasp why this constituted the case’s crux. Observing my flustered state, the detective seemed to interpret it as baseless fixation on the mere absence of a head. Adopting a faintly derisive tone, he continued: “Likely the killer remained unsatisfied with mere murder—cutting off the head for vengeful emphasis. You know how people say separating head from torso prevents the soul from finding peace.” “It’s almost always women who do such things. Countless cases exist where jealousy drives them to kill those with beautiful faces they resent, then slice the features to ribbons.” Though he spoke plausibly, it was clear Mori’s emphasis on the missing head as this case’s crux could never stem from such shallow reasoning. I burned to know the true cause, yet even when I racked my brains, no answer came. “Where is the head? Hmm—where has it been hidden?” The detective declared with genuine fervor, “Ah, there it is—precisely what I must investigate in London to uncover the truth.” Though my confusion only deepened, I couldn’t press him further and remained silent. Soon after, the appointed hour for the inquest arrived.

Chapter Forty: About Thirty

At last, the inquest into Urahara Jō's corpse began. I wished to briefly explain to readers the nature of such proceedings. A corpse inquest functions akin to a judicial trial—besides the coroner, a police physician naturally attends, along with twelve jurors. These jurors assess various matters; it extends beyond mere physical examination. First: Whose corpse is this? Second: Was the death self-inflicted or caused by another? Third: If murdered, was it premeditated or accidental? Fourth: Who committed the act? Fifth: What was the killer's motive? Sixth: Should this individual face formal trial? These six points form the core of deliberation. Through standard procedure, suspects become identified and the case's viability for court determined. Should jurors' suspicions fix upon Matsutani Shūko, catastrophe would follow—she would inevitably face trial. I desperately wanted to save her. When questioned as a witness before this coroner, I hoped to present facts favoring Shūko and sway jurors toward declaring no identifiable suspect regarding this corpse. Yet tragically, no exonerating circumstances existed. Had I recounted all I knew, Shūko would stand condemned beyond salvation. Even declaring my conviction—"This woman isn't capable of such evil"—would prove utterly futile.

Every member of the household—one might say without exception—suspected Shūko, so naturally the jurors would likely suspect her as well; Takanawada Chōzō in particular would not rest until she was apprehended. I thought this way and feared the inquest with all my being, but my fear proved futile—the proceedings began precisely at the appointed hour in the great hall adjacent to the billiard room, where Oura’s corpse lay.

The first to be summoned as a witness was my uncle. As the initiator who had proposed dredging the moat, he was questioned about his reasons for focusing attention there. Next came Takanawada, followed by Konshi Fujin, then Shūko, with myself last in the sequence. Though I could not directly observe how these individuals responded to the coroner’s inquiries, I later learned that when asked, “Whom do you identify this corpse as?” my uncle had answered, “I recognize it as our former foster daughter Oura.” Takanawada had replied with pedantic logic: “One cannot definitively identify a headless corpse,” but when pressed—“Do you recognize any clothing or belongings on this corpse?”—he stated, “Every item matches what Oura wore on the day she vanished,” earning praise for his clarity. Both Konshi Fujin and Shūko likewise affirmed the corpse as Oura’s and acknowledged familiarity with the belongings. However, the coroner fixated on Shūko, interrogating her about the peculiar glove. Without concealment, she explained it was hers—forcibly taken by Oura during her disappearance—and recounted their physical altercation in the study. Yet when pressed about the quarrel’s cause, she merely replied, “I leave that to your discernment,” prompting the coroner to attribute it to jealousy. This cemented Shūko’s status as a prime suspect, with jurors reportedly whispering that further inquiry seemed unnecessary.

As Shūko withdrew, I was summoned in her stead. With no prepared testimony, my chest heaved like turbulent waves. Walking toward the examination chamber, I doubted whether a sheep led to slaughter felt thus. At the chamber’s entrance, I encountered Detective Mori and the police doctor whispering as they exited. Brushing past them, I caught fragments of the doctor’s words—“about thirty”—though what “thirty” signified eluded me. This trivial phrase would later prove momentous. I stood before the coroner and took the oath in due form—kissing the Bible and swearing “I shall not lie”—but when first asked whom I believed this corpse to be, though initially inclined to echo previous witnesses’ answer of “Urahara Jō,” I suddenly recalled that phrase “about thirty.” Hesitating slightly, I gave an evasive reply: “I cannot answer definitively without thorough examination.” While scrutinizing the corpse head-to-toe would prove futile—the outcome being certain—declaring it Jō’s body felt tantamount to confessing “Shūko killed her” in the coroner’s ears, a prospect too agonizing to bear. Seeking any delay, I requested full inspection rights—granted without objection—and examined every inch of Jō’s remains. Readers—I discovered something truly bizarre that plunged this shadowy affair into deeper mystery! You may doubt my forthcoming words stem from genuine conviction—yet I swear every syllable holds truth! When I finally faced the coroner again, my first declaration rang clear: “This corpse cannot be identified at all!” The coroner eyed me skeptically: “Previous witnesses all recognized it as your former fiancée Urahara Jō’s remains—do you dissent?” “Their identifications are mistaken! I declare unequivocally—this corpse is absolutely not Urahara Jō’s!”

Chapter Forty-One: As If Even I Were Lying

That this corpse was not Oura’s seemed even to me like a lie—clad in Oura’s garments, wearing Oura’s ring, swathed in this house’s prized tablecloth—for such a thing to not be Oura defied all reason. Yet it was not Oura; I had indeed discovered irrefutable proof it could not be her. The coroner was astonished; the jurors too—one might say not a soul in that chamber remained unshaken. After a weighted pause, the coroner turned to me and demanded, “Why do you claim this is not Oura?” I laid out my evidence meticulously. When I was twelve or thirteen, my uncle had taken Oura and me to a place called Shisekku for summer respite. There, Oura had waded into a local mountain stream with me—barefoot, of course—and suffered a grievous injury to her foot’s sole. At that time, workers had been quarrying stone from an upstream cliff, leaving sharp fragments strewn across the riverbed. Oura had stepped on one such shard and slipped, gashing nearly an inch into her flesh. Not only had that wound persisted through her growth, but as her foot developed, so too had the scar—stretching to nearly two inches by adulthood. This she herself had confided during our recent reminiscence of childhood days. Yet upon this corpse’s sole lay no trace—not even the faintest line—of such a scar.

An even more definitive piece of evidence dated to when Oura was sixteen or seventeen. I had learned the art of tattooing from a sailor acquaintance and inked an anchor design on my own arm. Oura, envious, begged me to tattoo hers as well. Complying with her wish, I traced floral patterns along the inner curve of her wrist where it disappears into the armpit—though I only outlined the design without coloring it, as she found the pain unbearable. Still, I filled the lines with ink. Just last summer, I distinctly saw those floral outlines when Oura wore evening robes. Others among her acquaintances must have glimpsed it too—Madam Konshi certainly did. Yet this corpse’s wrist bore no trace of such tattooing.

When I asserted these two points, the coroner was astonished and immediately summoned my uncle for questioning—my uncle did indeed recall the severe injury on [the victim’s] sole. Next, Madam Konshi was summoned and questioned; she too now testified that she had indeed observed a tattoo on Oura’s wrist visible when she wore evening robes. Ultimately, my thorough examination of this corpse arose solely from having overheard the doctor whisper “about thirty” to the detective at the entrance. Since everyone was wholly preoccupied with the corpse, I assumed “about thirty” must refer to it—but what aspect of a corpse could be “about thirty”? Could it be age? If so, might this not be Oura after all? Such doubts flickered through my mind. Had I not overheard those words, I would have unquestioningly accepted it as Oura’s body and likely never recalled those two critical points.

I don't know what readers might think, but if this corpse wasn't Oura's, it would mean a truly grave situation. First, all previous detective work regarding Oura's disappearance had been rendered utterly futile - her whereabouts and whether she lived or died remained unknown. Second, suspicions arose: who was this corpse, and why had they met such a gruesome fate? Third, doubts took root: why would this woman be dressed in Oura's clothes and wearing Oura's ring?

The third doubt was truly grave: to dress this corpse in Oura’s clothes, either someone must have captured Oura and stripped her of her garments and rings, or else Oura herself must have removed her own clothes and rings to dress this person. Had they dressed her before killing her, or after? Whichever the case, it remained a mystery among mysteries. But setting aside such matters for now—why would anyone go to such lengths? There had to be purpose behind dressing another woman in Oura’s clothes and sinking her into the moat; undoubtedly, the aim was to make this corpse appear as Oura’s and deceive others. If so, why would they wish to deceive? The first possibility: to make it seem Oura herself had died, allowing her to flee far away or undertake some covert mission. The second: perhaps to make Oura appear dead and cast murder suspicion upon someone else—an ulterior motive. If that motive held true, it must be the work of someone who despised Shūko, for circumstances naturally converged to implicate her.

If someone were trying to cast suspicion on Shūko, it would have to be Oura’s own doing—after all, wasn’t Oura the very woman who had plotted to trap Shūko in a tiger’s den and kill her? Yet I found it hard to believe that even the boldest of women could execute such a brutal scheme—though perhaps this was precisely the kind of desperate act a woman might commit when cornered.

In any case, for me and Shūko—no, for the entire Marube family—matters grew darker and darker; given these circumstances, who knew what might come of this in the end? Yet amid all this, the single point I grasped with certainty was the matter of the corpse’s missing head. Had the head remained attached, it would have immediately revealed this was not Oura—no amount of dressing it in her clothes or forcing her rings onto its fingers could have concealed that truth. The decapitation stemmed from the very same intent as clothing and accessorizing the corpse: to obscure identity. Ah, yes—now I understood Detective Mori’s words. When I first asked why the corpse lacked a head, he had reacted with peculiar astonishment and praised my sharp observation. That man must have suspected from the very beginning that this was not Oura’s body, believing the absent head itself constituted proof. No wonder he had muttered upon first seeing the corpse, “If this were truly Urako’s body, it would ruin everything,” lamenting how his prior deductions now crumbled. Worthy of his reputation! Clearly, he had from the start formed conclusions about this case as substantial as my own—indeed, he must have discerned something definitive. How I wished to know what precisely he perceived! Yet he’d never volunteer such insights. I could only await the case’s unfolding—though this waiting grew intolerably tedious.

Chapter Forty-Two: The Recompense of a Word

Though numerous suspicions remained, one fact was now incontrovertible—this corpse was not Oura’s. My testimony could not be refuted. Thus, within the hour, the jurors rendered the following verdict. “Upon an unidentified woman, a murder committed by one or more unidentified individuals.” The verdict declaring both killer and victim unidentified must have frustrated the coroner, but there was no recourse—the corpse was promptly removed from the estate for burial in the communal cemetery, and the jurors disbanded. Detective Mori Mondo declared he must return to London to pursue further leads, then departed. The Konshi couple, claiming they could no longer endure such a dreadful place, withdrew from Torisu-an and returned to their London residence. Takanawada Chōzō initially felt relief that the corpse wasn’t Urahara Jō’s, yet now appeared deeply troubled about her true whereabouts—though per his agreement with my uncle, he would temporarily remain at this house (for as long as needed to investigate Jō’s disappearance). I found this arrangement vaguely displeasing; Shūko surely felt the same. Still, given the estate’s vastness, avoiding his face outside mealtimes would prove simple enough.

In any case, with the coroner’s verdict of “the corpse of an unidentified person, murdered by an unidentified perpetrator,” the dreadful suspicions against Shūko had vanished. I wanted to inform Shūko immediately to bring her joy and was heading straight to her room when I encountered Madam Torai in the hallway. She hastily stopped me and said, “I heard you insisted it wasn’t Miss Urako’s corpse—did your argument prevail? What was the verdict?” “The verdict has concluded it was an unidentified woman.” “Oh, that’s a relief! Miss Matsutani must be overjoyed as well! How bitterly she must have been lamenting under such suspicions until now!” “Even so, you are in a sickly state.” “No—my fever has broken, so I’m no longer ill. Frail as I may appear, I couldn’t ignore Miss Matsutani’s distress. Since earlier, I’ve been eavesdropping on the inquest proceedings and relaying details to her.” Even a villain—after all, she was her wet nurse. To think she’d care so deeply about the young lady… I couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity. I said, “Then go inform her of the verdict yourself—immediately.” “No—I’ve exhausted what little strength remained after finally finding relief. I must return to my room to rest, so please inform the young lady yourself.” With this abrupt declaration, she retreated toward her chamber, shambling as though every ounce of vitality had drained from her body.

I immediately went to Shūko’s room. Her face was deathly pale, utterly consumed by anxiety; she lacked even the strength to rise when she saw me. Stroking her back gently, I said, “You should rejoice, Miss Shūko—the verdict has concluded that the corpse isn’t Oura’s, with both perpetrator and victim remaining unidentified.” Shūko rose with sudden vigor, as though transformed. “Ah… I’m truly grateful,” she said. “You saved my life once—and now you’ve saved what matters more than life itself.” “This hardly merits such gratitude.” “No—you say that because you don’t understand everything. Had suspicion fallen on me—no matter how innocent I was—I couldn’t have gone on living. Yes, it’s true. That’s why I summoned Attorney Gonda beforehand, intending to entrust him with matters after my death.” The thought that she would turn to that lawyer Gonda in her darkest hour rather than me filled me with inexplicable displeasure. “Has Gonda arrived yet?” “Yes—he should be here any moment.” “I wish I were in Gonda’s place—if only you’d trust me as you do him, I’d serve you a hundred times more faithfully than he ever could.” “Ah—that talk of trust… You have no idea how much I rely on you.” “Yet even as you rely on me, won’t you grant me a single word of love in return?” Is this what they call jealousy? I hadn’t meant to say it—the words slipped out unbidden. Shūko replied: “What use is gaining love from someone like me—a woman who can never be anyone’s wife?” “I don’t care about marriage—as long as I can believe you love me—” “Then believe it if you wish,” said Shūko—but as though regretting her words, she pressed her forehead against my chest.

“Miss Shūko,” I said in dreamlike rapture, “hearing those words from you, I would cast aside my life—no! Whatever circumstances prevent you from becoming someone’s wife, I shall overcome them! No hardship shall deter me!” Shūko recoiled as if scalded. “It cannot be, Mr. Marube—I had forgotten something dreadful. Though your efforts saved me this time, I am assailed by terrors far worse—matters that offer no path to salvation. I can neither become your wife nor long remain in this world.” Though Shūko’s words remained veiled in secrecy—their full meaning beyond my grasp—they carried the weight of unshakable truth. “How could anything render one unfit for this world?” I demanded. “As strangers, I refrained from pressing you—but having heard ‘love,’ I claim this trial as my own! What manner of matter is this? Tell me—what afflicts you?” Shūko bowed her head in silent contemplation, offering neither gaze nor reply. I pressed onward: “If you cannot speak of it now, let us set it aside—but first answer this: why must you refuse marriage? If you love me, why deny becoming mine? Does another stand between us? If so—who?”

“Attorney Gonda,” came the voice of an attendant announcing the next visitor at that moment, followed immediately by Gonda Tokisuke entering the room.

Chapter Forty-Three: A Hollow Promise Gonda Tokisuke’s arrival had interrupted a pivotal moment—had he come just half an hour later, I would have persuaded Shūko and secured a marriage vow. A bitter loss. I longed to stay and hear what Tokisuke might say to her—what she might ask of him—but could not linger. Knowing she had summoned him deliberately, I forced myself to leave. When I glared at him resentfully, he returned my gaze with jealous suspicion, as though intuiting our earlier intimacy. “No, Mr. Gonda—” “No, Mr. Marube,” he replied. We traded courteous words like flames licking at kindling—a clash of fires beneath hollow pleasantries.

With no other choice, I withdrew from the room and wandered the garden to calm my mind—yet calm remained impossible. My preoccupation with Shūko only intensified. Why would she summon someone like Gonda? Had she confided in me, I would have done anything for her. Without doubt, Gonda had long been entangled in the secrets of her identity—this suspicion wasn’t new—but what *was* this secret? She had declared she couldn’t remain alive in this world, meaning her crisis must be dire. If only she would confide in me even once, I would grind my bones to dust to save her—yet she revealed it to Gonda while hiding it from me. What secret could this be? I couldn’t fathom it. Without understanding, I couldn’t help her—yet neither could I abandon her with indifference. Damn it all—truly damnable! Merely questioning her yielded nothing no matter how many times I asked. Perhaps my only path now was to disregard secrets entirely—make her promise to become my wife, then as her betrothed, show her every kindness to gradually earn her trust until she confessed. But “gradually” implied patience ill-suited to this urgency. Still, with no alternative, I had no choice.

I returned to Shūko’s room with these thoughts, but inside was eerily quiet—perhaps they were still talking? Such stillness suggested a stifling conversation. Of course, barging in was improper, but in such critical circumstances, I couldn’t let Gonda have his way undisturbed. Half-mad with resolve—or so it strikes me now—I pushed open the door and entered. But wait—wait—Gonda was gone. Shūko sat alone, weeping. Relief mingled with bewilderment as I blurted: “What happened to Attorney Gonda?” Shūko hid her tearful face. “He finished talking and left long ago.” Though he hadn’t even been here thirty minutes, the fact that she said “the conversation had already concluded” suggested they’d reached an understanding in merely five or ten minutes—proof of their deeply aligned minds. This realization made Gonda’s abrupt departure all the more galling. I asked, “Then did Gonda go to Madam Torai’s room?” “No, he has left this house.” “Without even meeting Uncle?” “Yes, without meeting anyone.”

His hasty departure could only mean the secret had reached a critical juncture—my efforts too must accelerate without delay. In that instant, I resolved to lay bare my heart to Shūko. At first she snapped, “This is no time for such talk,” her anger flaring as though to order me from the room. Yet my loyalty and kindness until now must have seeped into her very bones; even hereafter, she seemed to deem my devotion worthy of some grudging acceptance. Her fury lasted but a breath before she relented and lent ear to my words. When pressed to the brink, she retreated to her refrain: “I am not fit to be anyone’s wife.” Very well—if that was her answer, I countered: “Then if such a time ever comes when you can wed, will you become my wife?” To which she replied: “That time will never come.” “If we were to suppose that the one who refuses to come might indeed come—” “At that time, I’ll become your wife—or anyone else’s.” “You can’t just become anyone’s wife—promise you’ll become mine.” “A promise that will never be fulfilled is meaningless, even if made.” “Even if it’s futile, I don’t care—just promise me!” “Does such an empty promise benefit you in any way?” “It does! Even if it’s hollow—even if this is the closest promise you can make—it brings me no satisfaction, yet I feel as joyous as if I’ve gained the whole world.” Shūko laughed unnaturally through eyes still wet with unshed tears. “Ohohoho! How absurd you are!” I pressed: “Absurd or not—promise me.” “Very well—if it’s such an empty promise, I’ll make any number of them.”

Though it might be called empty, it was not truly so—now that this promise existed, Shūko faced only two paths: to live her entire life without a husband or to become my wife. She could not wed another without first becoming mine, nor would my uncle permit her to remain unmarried forever. For he prayed ceaselessly for this house to produce a suitable heir and ensure the prosperity of its lineage. This hollow promise revealed Shūko’s heart to me—had she truly despised me, she would never have consented, however empty the vow. No doubt her true self remained resigned to never knowing marital comfort, yet should such a time ever come, she must intend to wed me. How then could I—as myself—fail to grind my bones to dust dispelling her tribulations? I leapt joyfully from the room to inform Uncle: though no wedding date had been set, we had exchanged spousal vows. Overjoyed, he immediately ordered the will rewritten to name Shūko and me as equal heirs—a task completed within three days.

However, Shūko’s calamity was more imminent than I had imagined—a terrifying secretive matter that in reality defied my power to dispel.

Chapter Forty-Four: Star-like Radiance Though I had many things I wished to ask and say to Shūko, I found no opportunity this day or the next. The reason was this: news of the headless corpse incident seemed to have spread far and wide, bringing a great many visitors offering condolences. Some appeared relieved upon hearing the corpse was not Oura’s, while others grew suspicious. In any case, whenever Shūko was free to receive these guests, I found myself occupied—and when I had time, Shūko was invariably engaged. Reflecting now, a truly terrifying secretive matter loomed over her, yet remarkably, she maintained composure in attending to guests amid such anxieties—though subtle signs of worry certainly surfaced during her conversations with them. Others might not have noticed, but to my eyes, it was implicitly clear; thus, I had been thinking that if only there were an opportunity, I would comfort her and ask her questions. On this day as well, after night had fallen and it was already past twelve o'clock at night, Shūko, having ascertained that the guests were engrossed in idle talk, stealthily slipped out of the parlor.

No—she hadn't slipped out stealthily but exited normally, yet to my eyes it appeared furtive. Wondering if this might relate to secrets or some hidden purpose, I followed her out—but Shūko was already gone from the corridor. She wasn't in the parlor either. Thinking she might have gone to Madam Torai's quarters, I searched there too, only to find even Madam Torai absent. For a woman who claimed recovery yet still avoided appearing before guests to leave her room past midnight—this was anything but ordinary. Suspecting something amiss, I stepped into the garden. Moonless darkness rendered the shadows beneath trees impenetrable; I could discern nothing concrete. Yet as I groped forward, voices murmuring conspiratorially reached me from behind a thicket—the clear one was Shūko's voice, and the hoarse one was Madam Torai's.

The two came within two or three ken of where I stood and halted—not because they suspected my presence, but because their conversation had reached such intensity that they forgot to keep moving. “However bold they may be,” said Shūko’s voice, “they would never dare come here directly.” “They will come,” countered Madam Torai’s voice. “This house is open ground—no one would notice even if they slipped into the garden.” “You told them to come precisely because there’s no risk of being caught, didn’t you?” “Why would I ever do such a thing?” “If that’s true, they wouldn’t come at all—not with their own misdeeds mounting by the day.” “Proof over words—they’re already here. They’ve been waiting under that enoki tree since before you came out.”

Though I didn't know who they were, they were surely villains intent on harming Shūko. I thought of rushing to the enoki tree's shadow to apprehend them—but no, I couldn't. Acting without her consent might earn either her gratitude or resentment; it was impossible to tell which. Better to watch quietly until Shūko showed clear distress or they resorted to violence. Reconsidering thus, I tested my strength in the darkness—my wound had healed completely, my vigor seemingly fully restored. With this confidence, overpowering one or two villains would be effortless.

Shūko started at Madam Torai’s words. “They’re here tonight?” she cried. “There’s no stopping this,” said Madam Torai. “Resign yourself—there’s no escape now.” _So even this woman has turned against her,_ I thought, though her past treachery—stealing Shūko’s notebook for that spider farm—was no secret. Still, the fresh betrayal stung. After a pause, Shūko demanded, “How can I resign myself?” “Simply whisper the secret to him,” urged Madam Torai. “No harm to you, great gain for him. Your future secured—” “I cannot! Not one word!” “If you anger him further—and he’s already furious—what do you think will become of you?” “Hasn’t mercy already fled?” “Let them skulk through night gardens! Let them demand meetings! I care nothing.” “I’ve made my peace,” Shūko declared. “Let him do his worst. Should I cower, yield to extortion, betray my sacred mission—the purpose that gives me life? Better death than comfort bought with silence! Obstacles multiply daily—I’ve accepted my mission may fail. Threats hold no terror now. I’ll die faithful to my cause alongside it.” Her voice hardened. “Gold I’ve lavished on you both—take more if you will! My banked funds remain untouched; I begrudge no coin. But beyond gold? Death before compliance! Tell him this: I’ll not meet that wretch.” “Your loathing matters little,” Madam Torai retorted. “See—they tired of waiting and came themselves.”

Wondering what they were pointing at in the darkness and whether someone had been sent there, I scanned my surroundings. About thirty ken away in the distance, there was a star-like point of light that seemed to be drawing nearer. I realized—someone was smoking a cigar. The glowing tip was tobacco ember. To sneak into someone’s estate smoking like this marked them as a truly brazen fool. Soon after, the foul stench of cheap tobacco reached even where I stood.

Chapter Forty-Five: Brawn and Brains With the stench of cheap tobacco, the starlike light drew gradually closer. What manner of man could this be? What exchange would unfold between him and Shūko? How would this confrontation ultimately resolve? Holding my breath, I felt every muscle in my body quiver as if poised to leap. Shūko turned to Madam Torai again. “I refuse.” She rebuked her sharply: “Had I known someone like *that* was coming from the start, I would never have stepped out here! To deceive and lure me out—how utterly cruel!” “Please tell him from me,” Shūko continued, “that I will never yield to any extortion beyond monetary demands.” “If you say that,” countered Madam Torai, “it’s no different than sending him a formal challenge—he’ll resolve to show no mercy whatsoever.” “It matters not,” Shūko replied. “As I’ve said—since all hope of fulfilling my sacred mission has perished, I am fully prepared for this final reckoning. Tell him from me: let him rebuke me as harshly as he pleases.” With those final words, Shūko shook off Madam Torai and retreated toward the house. What remarkable courage! Indeed, without such resolve—as a woman alone, unaware of what form her sacred mission might take—she could never have steeled herself to devote her very being to that clandestine purpose.

Madam Torai muttered, “There’s nothing to be done,” but her convalescent state made chasing after or detaining Shūko impossible. Muttering repeatedly, she vanished toward the starlike glow. Now—what should I do? Follow Madam’s path to seize the man? No—capturing him would prove futile. Better to wait for his departure, trail him, and ascertain his identity. A villain of his ilk surely harbored countless past misdeeds; exposing even one would prevent him from harming Shūko—nay, might even enable me to crush him utterly. Thus resolved, I soon perceived Madam Torai and the man meeting some eighteen meters away. Though their forms remained obscured, urgent whispers carried through the dark. The cigar’s glow shifted from mouth to hand, dimming near chest-level before their conversation ceased—Madam retreated indoors while the man departed outward. I nearly gave chase at once, yet concern for Shūko gripped me. First, I needed to confirm her actions upon returning to the house.

First returning home and peering into the parlor, I saw Shūko—completely composed—entertaining three or four night-owl gentlemen who lingered awake, laughing and jesting. Truly one could not fathom the depth of her composure. Concluding she required no immediate concern, I rushed straight to the front gate. Though aware the man had retreated from the garden to the rear grounds, I knew he could not escape that way—he would inevitably emerge onto the main road toward the station. Even if his form remained unseen, this late hour past one o'clock left no risk of mistaken identity in the deserted night. Just then, the reek of that cheap tobacco wafted over from somewhere—Ah! This was it! Like a hound tracking prey by scent alone, I followed the odor's trail and steadily made my way to the station.

Upon looking, I saw that the man with cheap tobacco had already purchased a ticket, crossed the bridge to the other side of the tracks, and was waiting for an inbound train. According to the timetable, after midnight, only the 2:05 train passed through here. There remained about half an hour’s wait. Realizing I needed extreme caution when tailing such a sly fox, I steadied my nerves and surveyed my surroundings—the greatest inconvenience being my attire. I had come directly from the parlor still wearing my formal evening attire—a sure cause for suspicion—but returning home was impossible. Reluctantly, I approached the station attendant, showed him two five-pound coins, and asked if he’d sell me spare clothes against the night chill. To my surprise, he readily agreed, dashing off somewhere before returning with a cloth-wrapped bundle. Opening it revealed slightly worn but serviceable garments: a navy overcoat and wide-legged trousers. Declining the trousers, I took only the coat—its fit proved reasonably adequate.

I first purchased a ticket to London, but wondering how far ahead the man had bought his, I casually inquired with the station attendant—he’d bought one to Royston Station. Evidently, he wasn’t bound for London after all. Royston appeared to be a junction for transfers elsewhere. When I asked the attendant about this—still buoyed by his recent sale—he obligingly listed the stations where connecting trains passed through, counting them off on his fingers as he recited. The other names didn’t register, but the fifth one counted—this Peyton City—somehow felt like a place I’d recently heard mentioned. Yes—that was it! The insect farm in Peyton City was what Madam Torai had written on the envelope of her letter. Now, could that man have come from that so-called spider farm? To that very insect farm where Shūko had shuddered at the mention of poisonous spiders spinning their lethal webs—was I about to follow this villain into its depths? As this thought struck me, my right hand instinctively moved toward the pistol at my waist… only to find, to my dismay, I wasn’t carrying it. Damn—what now? In a true crisis, I’d have to rely on these fists and quick thinking.

Chapter Forty-Six: Speaking of Wonders When the time came for the 2:05 inbound train to arrive, I crossed the bridge, went to the other side of the tracks, and soon boarded the same train as him. Whether by fortune or misfortune, there were no other passengers—inside the compartment were only him and me.

In the light of the train compartment’s electric lamp, I finally saw him clearly—a man around fifty years old, short in stature and rotundly obese. His face flushed crimson as if painted with rouge—likely alcohol-induced, a hue common among heavy drinkers. Though one might expect fearsome features, his countenance held unexpected gentleness, grinning amiably enough to disarm even a child. I recalled reading that those with overtly wicked visages invite suspicion and thus cannot be true villains; genuine evil hides behind disarming charm. Might this man exemplify such deception? Yet upon closer inspection, his eyes harbored a fearsome glint—the telltale gaze of those who frequent gambling dens. No ordinary man by any measure.

Not wishing to scrutinize him too conspicuously, I positioned myself on the opposite seat after a cursory glance and feigned drowsiness by leaning back. Let me inform the reader here: you may recall reading in newspapers about last autumn’s train derailment near Royston due to track failure—this very train was that train, and I too had boarded it as a passenger, though being mortal, I naturally remained unaware of the impending disaster until arriving at the scene. Now, as I reclined sleepily during this interval, he—still chewing his cheap tobacco—collapsed sideways onto the seat. Despite being a villain, he seemed remarkably carefree, immediately erupting into thunderous snores of genuine sleep. Though between two and three o’clock at night, an hour when anyone might grow drowsy.

The man’s snores and the train’s clamor vied cacophonously, grating maddeningly on my contemplative ears, yet I too had unwittingly fallen asleep. Though unaware in that moment how much time had passed, I later realized I’d slept over two hours when I awoke abruptly around five o’clock as night began to wane. Looking over, I saw him—the cheap-tobacco smoker—already risen before me, staring fixedly at my sleeping face. Surely this held no malice; idly observing a fellow passenger during such vacant hours was commonplace. Seizing this chance to engage him despite knowing he’d said nothing, I feigned grogginess and asked, “Oh—did you just speak to me?” He replied evenly, “No, I said nothing,” his words carrying a distinct French accent—likely a man who’d fled his ruined homeland for these shores. I pressed, “But what time is it now?...” Opening with “Night trains are lonely things,” I tried to kindle conversation, but he—perhaps still rankled by his failed extortion attempt that evening—remained incongruously sullen beneath his gentle facade, refusing to be drawn in.

But after a while, he relit a fresh cheap cigarette, took several deliberate puffs, and finally asked me, “You boarded from Tower Village Station, yes?” *Got him—this wretch treats Ghost Tower as his hunting ground or battlefield,* I thought, *so he’s probing about the area.* Judging that brevity would best allay suspicion, I merely replied, “Yes.” True to form, he leaned forward: “Do you live there?” “Yes, I’ve been living at the edge of that village since last year.” “You’ve seen inside the famous Ghost Tower, haven’t you?” “Who would go see a place with such dreadful rumors?” He pressed, “So you know nothing about the tower?” “Recently, wealthy people from the capital have moved in and carried out splendid renovations, but I have yet to be invited.” He said, “That’s Marube Tomoo—a retired bureaucrat. There’s a woman who was recently taken in as a foster daughter there—” “The villagers do praise her as quite the beauty.” He sneered, “Hmph—renowned for beauty? I tell you, she’s more renowned for being the *worst* than any beauty.” “Oh! You know so much about her...” Widening my eyes in feigned admiration and gazing up at his face with exaggerated naivety, I watched as the agent—with uncharacteristic pride for a villain—declared, “There’s no one in this world who knows that woman better than I! Truth is, she owes me an old debt. I went to collect it last night, but now that she’s become someone of high standing, she’s grown arrogant and refuses to deal with me—I tell you!”

Though this villain talked rather too much for a criminal, what struck me as more peculiar was Shūko’s origins. No doubt he knew some secret of hers—yet even so, I remained utterly convinced she was no lowborn wretch but a young lady of noble birth from infancy. Still, through his words, her lineage somehow sounded... tainted. “Such words as ‘thinking she’s become someone of high standing’ could only mean one thing.” He continued venomously, “She’s done well to hide behind that mask—but I say tear it off! No, even without tearing it off, just remove the glove from her left hand. Let’s see what secrets crawl out—then she’d never pass as Marube’s foster daughter!” “‘Even any adoptive father would reel in shock!’” he now muttered outright, his tone thick with irritation.

The mention of a "mask" was of course metaphorical—it meant she concealed her true nature. Shūko would never literally wear a mask. Yet hearing this, I recalled when I first met her in dim light: struck by her unearthly beauty, I had fleetingly wondered if it were a mask. Naturally, having since grown accustomed to her face, I thought nothing of it beyond revering her as a peerless beauty. Still, the coincidence of this man using the word "mask" now struck me as peculiar—if one could call it coincidence.

However, such coincidences were commonplace—it was merely my unsettled nerves overthinking matters. Be that as it may, hearing this man speak so ill of Shūko proved utterly unbearable to me in my capacity as her betrothed-in-all-but-name. I had initially deemed him a villain of profound cunning—yet here he was, spilling secrets in a fit of pique! A shockingly shallow fool, easily manipulated! I nearly resolved to rebuke him outright when realization struck—no, no! Far from shallow—this was a brazen scoundrel of unfathomable depths! To have judged him shallow revealed *my* own lack of perception.

This wretch, having failed to intimidate Shūko last night, now intended to first spread rumors of her hidden secrets throughout the neighborhood—keeping her alarmed—before striking again. Believing me a local, they thought feeding me this morsel would let it spread haphazardly through the village from my own lips until Shūko’s hour of unease arrived. To think they’d use me as their pawn so effortlessly—! In my gut, I mocked them: *You think I’ll endure being your tool?* Just as I turned to deliver a fitting retort, the train collided with something—emitting a roar like a hundred thunderclaps striking at once—and before I could even cry “What—?!” we had derailed and shattered. I wondered whether all the passengers had been reduced to fragments.

Chapter Forty-Seven: Ankawa Jinzō

Train derailments are, regrettably, quite common occurrences, so without needlessly elaborating, the reader must already be well aware of their nature. This particular derailment occurred because the train proceeded without noticing that a small bridge spanning a stream of merely one ken had collapsed. There were fourteen or fifteen injured, but fortunately no fatalities. Among the injured, the most severely affected was that Ankawa fellow who had been riding in the same car as I, while I emerged as the least harmed among those unscathed.

Of course, I too was sent tumbling head over heels by the train’s violent motion, colliding with something in the chaos—for a short while, I could scarcely comprehend what had happened. But when I realized the train had derailed, I found myself already standing amid splintered timbers. The pitiable one was Ankawa: though villains in such situations need not suffer nature’s peculiar spite more harshly than others, he lay pinned beneath the overturned compartment’s floorboards. His already ruddy face had turned crimson where it protruded from beneath the plank, the veins on his forehead swollen from pain—a thoroughly wretched sight as he lay unconscious.

Whether this wretch had died or not, I felt a grim satisfaction—at least in this state, he’d be unable to torment Shūko for some time. Yet I couldn’t abandon him. Stirred by self-serving mercy—the thought that obliging him now might later aid in his downfall—I heaved the floorboard aside. Lighter than expected? No—even my prideful strength strained under its weight. Had it crushed him to pieces? Not quite: his body remained intact, though battered. Propping him up revealed shoulders and hips with shattered bones, utterly numb to sensation. Thinking water might revive him, I scanned the area and found a spilled leather travel bag—someone’s—with liquor inside. Snatching it up, I detected brandy’s aroma. Pouring it into his mouth revived him like a dead frog jerking back to life.

In the midst of the commotion, there was little more I could do alone. Fortunately, people from the nearby village had rushed over, so I entrusted one of them to keep watch and hurried off to Royston Town—not far at all—to summon my carriage and a doctor. In any case, there was no choice but to transport this man by carriage to the nearest station. According to the doctor’s assessment, his injuries were severe enough to require immediate delivery to his home for thorough treatment—but where was his home? I had already surmised it was likely the spider farm in Peyton City. Searching his belongings on the chance of finding a notebook inscribed with his name, I discovered both a notebook and a business card. Upon reading the card’s face, my resolve solidified. Even I couldn’t help but feel my heart race. Centered on the card was “Dr. Ankawa Jinzō,” with “Peyton City Insect Farm” at the edge. This was none other than Ankawa Jinzō—the master of that insect farm, the very man whose name I had once written as the addressee on a letter for Madam Torai.

Soon, I put him into a carriage and took him to the station. Having first confirmed with the doctor there would be no complications, I checked my wallet—transporting him would surely incur expenses, and I might need to wire for funds via telegraphic transfer. To my relief, it was thickly stuffed with five-yen notes. This would suffice. I would deliver Ankawa to his insect farm and see this nest of man-eating poisonous spiders for myself—even if it took a day or two. At home, Uncle Tomoo and Shūko were surely worried, likely presuming my disappearance akin to Urahara Jō’s prior vanishing. First drafting a telegram addressed to my uncle—*“Going to London on urgent business; will return once resolved. Do not worry.”*—I sent it off, then boarded a first-class train to Royston Station with Ankawa in tow.

Ankawa could barely manage speech, letting out occasional “Thank yous” through his pain. “Hardships are mutual,” I replied, then gently admonished him: “Best not speak—stay silent if you can.” He too seemed to prefer silence, soon closing his eyes completely. I kept vigil near his head like a nurse, observing him while pondering various matters. Despite his recent wicked activities, his clothes and belongings faintly suggested “financial hardship.” If truly French as I surmised, he should’ve smoked finer tobacco—the wretched cheap brand he used became definitive proof. And why the “Doctor” title? No need to dwell—he’d simply adopted the fraudulent honorific since none knew his origins. Villains with half a brain often use such fool-impressing titles. The train reached Peyton Station past noon. With no alternative but another carriage to Ankawa’s house, I settled him in the waiting room and went to hire one. When I told the coachman our destination was the local insect farm, he pulled a face and hesitantly echoed, “Eh—the insect farm?” His manner seemed to ask, “To such a terrifying place?”

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Old Woman's Face

The fact that even the coachman grimaced upon hearing “insect farm” made it clear this was no reputable household. Through my inquiries, I learned that its current master, Ankawa Jinzō, had arrived in this area six or seven years prior—yet no one knew his origins, and given its desolate location far from town, people had left him wholly disregarded.

However, the carriage ended up going because I had promised sufficient fare. The coachman muttered, “In such a desolate place, there won’t be any passengers for the return trip. I’ll need extra pay to make it worth my while.” I purchased various provisions to consume in the carriage, had the coachman assist in carefully loading Jinzō into the vehicle, and gradually advanced toward the insect farm while ensuring the carriage remained steady. It was indeed a desolate place—leaving the town behind, crossing fields, and venturing into a gloomy forest until, after traveling what must have been about five *ri* (twelve miles), I reached the Insect Farm. Looking around, I saw massive ancient stone foundations remaining amidst wildly overgrown grass—undoubtedly one of those crumbling historic sites that had surely been a grand mansion originally. Part of the structure appeared to have survived a fire long ago, apparently repaired and converted into a residence as it was. Along the building’s flank stood tall brick walls in varying states—some sections low and collapsed, others still looming high—though my eyes determined the fire must have occurred fifty or seventy years prior.

The current residence alone was quite spacious—mountains rose behind it, forests stretched to the left, and charred ruins connected to more woods on the right. Isolated from human settlements, it seemed a den fit for bandits. A gate-like structure formed by haphazardly stacked old burnt bricks stood locked; though no intruders would likely approach such a place, padlocks secured its doors. It later became clear these locks aimed not to bar outsiders but to hinder those within from escaping. Beyond the gate sprawled a crude fence of sparse logs—passable for dogs or cats but near-impenetrable for humans.

When I pushed the gate but it wouldn't budge, I knocked lightly. From the carriage where he had remained silent until now, Jinzō spoke up. "What is it?" I asked in return. "You can't open it without this key." He handed over a large iron key. Though his shoulders and hips were shattered, his right hand alone remained functional enough to retrieve items like this key from his travel bag. Whenever the master left, he would lock the gate and take the key with him—a house utterly devoid of guards. *Whether the interior stood completely empty,* I mused while attempting to enter, when Jinzō groaned from the carriage again and called out to me: "Return that key once the gate opens." A man clinging to life yet unyielding in his strictness—no doubt this meticulous caution stemmed from secrets hidden within. I resolved not to leave this house until I uncovered them.

After returning the key and passing through the gate, he found an entrance bell hung in the vestibule with a small mallet placed beside it. He took the mallet and rang the bell, but there was no response from within—only the sound of a dog barking somewhere. No matter how many times he struck it, the result remained unchanged. When he returned to the carriage and questioned Ankawa, the man—perhaps relieved to have retrieved his key—lay limp with pain, barely managing to whisper “The back… go around back” while feebly gesturing with his chin. Following this instruction, Michikurou circled to the rear entrance only to find it likewise shut. Peering through the windowpane into the dim interior, he beheld an old woman’s face so grotesque it defied description. At first glance resembling a beast more than a human, he scrutinized her suspiciously—but of course a dog would appear beastlike. Such creatures were rare in this country, though occasionally found in France: a lineage called the Bordeaux breed, unusually large-bodied with disproportionately massive heads, said to be the most intelligent among large dogs. Yet however clever, leaving a single dog to guard the house seemed peculiar. Peering deeper into the kitchen window, he saw not a dog but an entirely human figure—a white-haired crone likely over seventy. Her face was truly fearsome; even the dog he’d seen earlier seemed far more merciful by comparison. Yet something about her features felt familiar—resembling someone he knew. Who? Madam Torai. Could this hag be her mother? Upon reflection: might Ankawa Jinzō also be this woman’s child, sibling to Madam Torai? Ankawa’s face held charm, but when contorted by pain, it mirrored hers. If Ankawa inherited his father’s looks and Madam Torai her mother’s, little wonder. Take two parts Madam Torai’s face, two parts Ankawa’s pained grimace, two parts that dog’s visage—then add three parts spiteful heart, and you’d have this crone’s countenance complete.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Walls, Pillars, Ceilings While knocking on the windowpane, I shouted at the old woman, “Ankawa Jinzō is injured—open this door and let us in!” But she merely lifted her face slightly without replying, stood up, and turned toward where the dog was. Then, intercepting the approaching dog, she opened what appeared to be an entrance to another room and retreated inside with feigned ignorance—no matter how long I waited, she did not return. Infuriated by this insolent treatment, I stormed back to the gate. Bringing the carriage carrying Ankawa with me, I returned to the kitchen entrance. With the coachman’s assistance, I explained our plan to break down the door together. At that moment, Ankawa opened his eyes and rasped, “Lift the windowpane to enter—the key lies on the table in the next room.” Following his instructions, I pried open the window—only for his dog to burst out as if it had been waiting impatiently. Bracing myself to strike if it attacked, I instead watched it ignore me completely and bolt straight toward its master’s carriage. Climbing through the window into the dim kitchen, I entered the adjoining room. Though shadows veiled details, what first seized my vision was a bizarrely undulating mass—walls and pillars writhing as though alive.

I had never witnessed such a sight—the surfaces of the walls and pillars all undulating restlessly, seemingly calm yet anything but. The beams beneath the ceiling particularly resembled the sinuous scales of a colossal serpent. Wondering if dizziness distorted my vision, I steadied myself against a table. Then something crept onto my hand. Brushing it off, I saw a spider the size of a two-sen copper coin. Drawing closer to investigate, I found every wall sheathed in fine copper mesh teeming with countless spiders moving in formation—the architecture itself vanished beneath their seething masses. Though shelves and holes dotted the surfaces, every crevice too swarmed with arachnids. The names “Insect Farm” and “Spider House” had offered some warning, yet nothing prepared me for this scale—nor how repulsively sinister they appeared en masse. Spiders alone disquiet me, but isolated specimens couldn’t conjure this visceral horror: legions blanketing walls, ceilings, every surface. A shudder coursed through me—a woman might have screamed and fainted. As a man, I kept upright though my legs faltered, bracing against the table again. But this too served their domain: glass-lidded boxes displayed specimens—dozens, hundreds of species—compartmentalized yet squirming. A taxonomist’s catalog of nightmares.

Unless I first thoroughly calmed my mind, I could not remain long in that room. Not that spiders were actually breaking through the copper mesh to pursue me, but I fled as if escaping and firmly shut the door behind me, then stood in the kitchen area where the old woman had been earlier. By now my eyes had adjusted to the darkness until it no longer felt dim—though I warily surveyed my surroundings, nothing resembling spiders could be seen here. Instead, what caught my eye was the very key I sought—still inserted in the door’s keyhole. Most likely, the crone had retrieved it from the adjacent room and placed it there herself. Of the old woman herself, there remained no trace.

Were I without deeper purpose, I would never reenter this house—like Shūko, merely recalling this place would make me shudder. Yet return I must, again and again, until I’ve swallowed its secrets whole. This house’s truths would surely unveil Shūko’s own—so I resolved, chanting inwardly like a Buddhist mantra: What fear have I of spiders? Returning to the carriage, I asked Ankawa Jinzō where his bedroom lay. I needed to get him settled indoors without delay.

"The bedroom is the second room on the second floor," he answered, but carrying this injured man upstairs proved impossible. I had no choice but to fetch a bed from downstairs. After informing Jinzō of my plan, I reentered the house and surveyed the area. Beyond the room where the dog had been earlier lay a staircase—narrow like a cramped back stairwell. I climbed while vigilantly scanning for spiders—a precaution that proved fortunate, for anyone ascending without such caution would have met a terrible fate.

Chapter Fifty: Those Who Are Confined I continued climbing while surveying my surroundings, and halfway up the stairs, I noticed something like a concealed door on the side wall. Could this be a hidden passage leading to some secret chamber? Had its color matched the soot-stained wall uniformly while closed, it might have escaped detection—but being left open, it caught my eye.

As I moved to pass by it, someone inside hurled what looked like a black stone fragment at me. Being highly alert, I twisted my body swiftly and avoided injury—though I later realized the danger when I saw it was actually the head of an old hatchet. As I hesitated over who could have done this, the old woman from before emerged from the hidden door clutching only an axe handle. She blocked the staircase, brandishing the shaft menacingly as if to strike anyone who approached, and shouted “You mustn’t enter here!” while casting a sidelong glance at another concealed door nearby. Though no one had tried to enter, I now grasped her deranged state—likely conditioned daily by Jinzō to guard this passage. It followed that the house’s secrets lay beyond that door, but investigation would have to wait. Resolving first to subdue her, I advanced boldly, ready to endure several blows—yet she retreated nimbly into the hidden door like a boy melting into shadows.

I passed through there and entered the second floor. When I went to what was supposed to be Jinzō’s bedroom, it too was in disarray—aside from two old bedsteads, five or six items like futons, blankets, and nightclothes lay scattered about. Selecting two decent blankets from among them, I placed them on a bedstead and lifted it. Despite my considerable strength, it proved quite heavy, though not impossible to carry downstairs. As I bent forward to move it, someone struck my head sharply from behind. Turning around, I saw the old woman already raising her axe handle to strike a second time. I swiftly seized her withered, emaciated hand and rebuked her sharply: “What are you doing? Do you take me for an enemy?” Staring intently at her face as I spoke, she retorted in an uncharacteristically childlike voice: “Oh—so you’re not Jinzō’s enemy?” She was clearly deranged. I pressed: “If I were your enemy, why would I have gone to the trouble of bringing your gravely injured son here by carriage?” Startled, the old woman cried, “Eh—Jinzō’s injured? Is he lying in that carriage?” She shook free from my grip and hurried downstairs—even a madwoman retained maternal bonds, confirming she was Jinzō’s mother. Afterward, I dragged the bedstead down, sliding it diagonally along the stairs. Glancing at the concealed door, I found it already shut, blending indistinguishably into the wall—a madwoman’s prudence to marvel at. “I’ll inspect that passage soon enough,” I muttered, descending to search the corridor until locating a suitable room to settle Jinzō. Here, mercifully, none of my despised spiders dwelled. I returned to the carriage once more, pushed aside the dog and old woman, and had the coachman assist me in carefully carrying Ankawa Jinzō by his head and feet into the house. My meticulousness seemed to convince the old woman and dog thoroughly, for both followed us inside—the two wagging their tails gratefully (or in the old woman’s case, her hands—). After laying Jinzō on the bedstead, I paid the coachman an above-standard fare and instructed him to urgently summon a doctor from Peyton City before sending him off. Then, deciding it best to assert authority over the old woman and dog, I took a seat at Jinzō’s bedside with the air of a master. Jinzō, relieved to be home, fell into a deep sleep; the old woman merely stared vacantly at his resting face. The dog, contrary to its fierce nature, nuzzled its head against my knee.

“Ah! You’re not Jinzō’s enemy—if you were, this dog wouldn’t act so familiar,” the old woman observed. I retorted lightly, “Who would bear enmity toward Jinzō?” “But Jinzō says everyone who comes here is an enemy!” she pressed on. “We only let in those we’ve confined—no others.” “Confined?” I mused aloud. “You mean the spiders?” “What? The ones above,” she answered, tilting her head toward the ceiling in a gesture that clarified nothing. Her words continued disjointedly: “The confined ones don’t come by daylight like you. They arrive at midnight—Jinzō or the Medical Scholar brings them in covered carriages.” Medical Scholar? It seemed Jinzō styled himself “Doctor” while keeping this “Medical Scholar” as accomplice. “Those brought here—were they men? Women?” “No women since that beautiful young one came.” Her milky eyes grew distant. “Such a noble face—I thought her a lady of quality. But when they carried her down from the carriage, she looked corpse-pale.” Madness explained nothing, yet even delirium holds fragments of truth. Could this “beautiful woman” be Shūko? Had she been transported here years ago under night’s cover? Or was this vanished Oura’s fate? Humans mold mysteries to fit known shapes—was I doing the same? “But men kept coming afterward?” “Oh yes—last year, the year before, this year too.” Her fingers plucked at empty air. “Whenever carriage wheels sound, it’s always boys.” The timeline blurred—events years old yet bleeding into present crimes. What purpose drove these midnight transports? Children mentioned alongside confinement twisted understanding further.

Chapter Fifty-One: The Sound Above the Ceiling There was no need to transcribe every word of the madwoman’s ramblings here, but among them had been two or three mentions of the “Medical Scholar” and talk of Jinzō digging holes beneath a garden tree at midnight to bury something. When I pressed her about what exactly had been buried, her vague answers suggested they might have been murder victims—and this seemed to have happened not once, but two or three times. If I could fully grasp even one of these secrets, controlling his fate would be as good as having it in my hands—yet it frustrated me that I still didn’t understand how to ensure he’d never resurface hereafter. This left no choice but to open that hidden door from earlier and inspect its interior. There had to be either the secret itself or evidence to expose it—documents, reference materials, something definitive. I needed to find a way inside.

Though I thought this way and tried to draw out more of the old woman’s story, she was not entirely mad. She hovered between madness and sanity, sometimes experiencing moments of clarity scarcely different from a normal person’s. According to what I later heard, she had fallen from the second floor years prior, striking her head and becoming utterly deranged for a time, but recently her condition had somewhat alleviated, with occasional periods of lucidity. Yet such matters were trivial—all that mattered was obtaining a secret capable of seizing Jinzō by the throat.

During this lull in conversation, a faint, shuffling sound—like soft footsteps—reached my ears from above. Had someone crept stealthily across the ceiling? If so, the need to infiltrate that hidden passage grew ever more urgent. By entering its depths, I might naturally gain access to whatever lay above this very room. I scarcely had time to deliberate before tilting my head back to stare at the ceiling. “What was that noise just now?” The moment I uttered this, it seemed to ignite a spark in the old woman’s darkened mind. Her demeanor shifted abruptly as she pressed forward resentfully: “You don’t recognize that sound? Then you’re Jinzō’s enemy! Enemies! You know nothing of this house—you ask without knowing! Jinzō said anyone ignorant of this house’s secrets is an enemy! Never let them inside! Pretending kindness to lower our guard—!” To this I retorted, “How could an enemy exist for one who commits no evil?” The old woman snapped back, “No—*you* think Jinzō might be up to some wickedness, prying into everything! But Jinzō does no evil. He earns his living honestly, like anyone else. His business is raising spiders—what for? To sell to buyers, of course! It’s a niche trade with little competition. He thrives without wrongdoing.”

Her rapid-fire explanation hovered between coherence and madness. As for how spider cultivation constituted commerce—this too I later understood. Sake brewers would release various spiders into their storage cellars to artificially age wine bottles. Once liberated, the arachnids would indiscriminately spin webs across every vessel; within a year, they took on the appearance of century-old relics. Buyers readily accepted them as decades-matured vintages or cellars boasting centuries of history. Beyond this, there was significant demand for spiders in storage vaults preserving other commodities. Furthermore, methods for spinning spider silk had recently been invented, with numerous parties now experimenting with these techniques—spider merchants had even emerged in France and America, facilitating substantial exports. Thus did spider-breeding become a viable trade. Yet Ankawa’s purpose extended beyond profit: by cultivating insects others reviled, he primarily sought to repel visitors from his household.

The old woman continued expounding—partly in self-defense, partly attacking me—but soon her weak mind grew fatigued. Gradually, her words lost coherence until finally she muttered, "Oh my—what was I saying?" and fell silent, reverting completely to her mad state. Witnessing this, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity. Questioning the old woman again would yield no favorable outcome. I remained silent, stationed at Jinzō's bedside, but he—perhaps feverish from his wounds—now lay awake yet muttering deliriously. The doctor from Peyton City, whom I had earlier sent the coachman to fetch, should have arrived by now, but still he did not come. Meanwhile, dusk had fallen; my stomach had begun to grow hollow. I needed to devise a plan—yet there was nothing to devise. I would just have to go to Peyton City myself and return. There was no guarantee whether the doctor had even received the message, given I'd only relied on the coachman to deliver it. Fine—I'll make the dash myself. Resolving to go, I gave the old woman instructions for Jinzō's care as one would explain to a lucid person, then stepped outside. Autumn weather proved fickle—rain spat intermittently, and a wind had risen.

Though the darkness was profound, the path wasn’t so tangled that one could lose their way. I pressed on urgently for about one *ri* when a low hill emerged, extending from the woods—small enough to hardly merit being called a hill, having crossed it by carriage earlier. As I began ascending from this side, someone approached from the opposite direction, reaching the summit just as I did. Peering up from below through the gloom, they seemed to be carrying something resembling a bag. His bearing unmistakably marked him as a doctor—who else would venture here after nightfall? A plan crystallized in my mind with lightning urgency. Waiting until he drew near, I called out, “Are you the Medical Scholar approaching there?” I tested whether the Medical Scholar mentioned by the old woman and this doctor might be one and the same. He responded to my call, asking, “Oh—who calls for me?”

Chapter Fifty-Two: Beneath the Tree, a Hole If this man were indeed the Medical Scholar—partner to the esteemed Dr. Ankawa Jinzō—then I needed to investigate his background and patterns for future advantage. For now, I had to keep him unsuspecting. In that instant, I settled on this plan. I gave a spur-of-the-moment false name and explained how I'd coincidentally shared a carriage with Ankawa, rescued him from injury, escorted him home, and sent for a doctor—but since the physician's arrival was delayed, I intended to visit the doctor's residence myself before departing. After hearing this, he retorted, "But why did you address me as 'Medical Scholar'?" How peculiar—had this man been publicly known by that title, he wouldn't have questioned being addressed as such. Yet since "Medical Scholar" seemed merely a codename used within Ankawa's circle, my usage made him uneasy. I deftly countered: "An odd old woman at his house mentioned someone called Medical Scholar might come. That's why I asked if you were him." He nodded in understanding. "Ah, I see." "I was simply addressed as 'Medical Scholar' by a stranger," he continued, "though I don't exactly wear a sign declaring it. But will you return to his house with me?" "I must indeed return," I said with feigned perplexity, "but truthfully, I've urgent matters to attend. As a layman, I'd be no help at the injured man's bedside." He paused briefly. "You've left no belongings there?" Though I'd brought nothing from the start—"No, all my luggage remains at the station. Some items might spoil if delayed further." "Quite reasonable. Then I'll take charge of the patient," he said with a perfunctory bow before continuing onward.

I immediately thought of stealthily following him back, but since I had some preparations to make elsewhere, I instead headed straight to Peyton City: first to have a meal, second to purchase crepe-hair shoes that wouldn’t make a sound when infiltrating homes, and third to procure a small knife equipped with various tools for contingencies. It struck me that I might be quite capable of becoming either a thief or a detective, and I found myself oddly amused by this thought. However, this was no time for idle musings, so I immediately returned to the Insect Farm—my first objective was undoubtedly within that concealed door.

I arrived back at the Insect Farm around midnight. Had I known beforehand how terrifying that concealed passage truly was, I might never have found the courage to return like this—they say ignorance makes men bold as blind snakes. When I finally arrived and surveyed the scene, the light rain from evening had ceased, leaving only wind sounds in the silent woods. The Medical Scholar might have already left—regardless, I circled to the rear entrance I now knew well. Peering inside, I found the kitchen door through which we’d carried Jinzō still ajar. Though I’d intended to enter through the window as before, it proved unnecessary; donning crepe-soled shoes, I slipped through the doorway instead. No one was visible within my sightline, yet voices leaked from those dreadful spider rooms, and lamplight seeped through a keyhole. Pressing my ear close, I heard the Medical Scholar remained—having finished tending the injured man, he now spoke with the old woman in this chamber: “A nasty wound indeed! Had we not treated him promptly, we’d be digging another hole beneath the pine tree by now—Ahahaha!” His laughter rang coldly. From these words, it seemed digging holes beneath the garden trees to bury corpses aligned exactly with my suspicions—and I too might end up being buried there if things went awry. The very thought chilled me to the bone.

Chapter Fifty-Three: I Forgot I could hear their voices but naturally couldn’t see them. What could the Medical Scholar and the old woman be doing together? Perhaps drinking plum wine while talking? If possible, I wanted to quietly open the door and peek inside—but getting caught would spell disaster. If they discovered me and came out holding a kerosene lamp, there’s no telling what horrors I might face. The Medical Scholar continued speaking: “What wretched timing for an injury! From what I gather, Jinzō went to meet some beauty, and on his return, his train overturned. Did he extract her secrets? With his skills as a Doctor, he’d hardly return empty-handed—but if he *did* learn something, I’d like to hear it myself. Yet all he does is ramble incoherently—questioning him is futile. Tell me, old woman—did he say anything to *you* about that beauty?” The “beauty” was undoubtedly Shūko—that her enemies would be in such a place, scheming various deceptions, was truly beyond belief. But it was precisely because I had come to this unexpected place through unexpected circumstances that I could uncover such secrets. Like one who had struck a vein of ore, I resolved to follow this thread wherever it led and excavate every last nugget.

In her signature hollow voice, the old woman asked, “Who’s this ‘beauty’? Has my son taken a mistress?” The Medical Scholar clicked his tongue irritably. “Ah, you’ve grown senile beyond help! Before your head injury, you were ten times sharper than any young girl—now you haven’t one-tenth the wit of Torai Fujin.” At last it became clear that Torai Fujin was also this old woman’s daughter and either Jinzō’s sister or elder sister. Though their ages appeared similar, Torai Fujin was likely the elder sister—for even at eighty, women still strive to maintain youthful appearances through such affectations, meaning if a woman and man seem of comparable age, the woman must assuredly be older. The old woman pressed insistently, “But you’re the one who said Jinzō went to meet a beauty, aren’t you?” “What beauty? Where the hell is this beauty from?” “I’m truly at my wit’s end with you! Let me jog your memory—there was that night long ago when a carriage arrived at this house amid heavy rain and fierce winds, wasn’t there?” “Hmm… A carriage?” The Medical Scholar said, “First, the coachman came out from inside—but when he removed his fur collar and showed his face, he wasn’t just any coachman.” “Oh! Ah! It wasn’t the coachman—it was you!” “You *do* remember, don’t you? I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for this operation—even played the coachman! If we don’t steer this smoothly now after coming this far, we’ll be in real trouble. So—who else emerged from that carriage afterward?” “I remember now, I remember! She was a beauty! *You* were the one who told someone about this earlier, but you’ve already forgotten!” The Medical Scholar: “What? You told someone about *him*? Such a major secret—this is inexcusable! That’s why I always told Jinzō not to leave you unattended! Who knows where you went or who you blabbered to! You senile old hag—did you go out while Jinzō was away?” “I didn’t go out at all—Jinzō locked the gate door as usual.” “Then who did you tell?” “I forgot.” “You can’t have forgotten. Wait—you aren’t the coachman who brought Jinzō here in that carriage, are you?” “Ah! Yes, yes! I remember now—I told that handsome young man who brought Jinzō here!” The Medical Scholar: “Ah—that man who called out to me earlier… Wait—could that bastard actually be a detective? An ordinary merchant would simply let such questions slide, but this guy—old woman—didn’t he make you spill all sorts of details?” “I forgot.”

That she forgot was fortunate for me. If she had remembered and told everything exactly as it happened, this Medical Scholar—so shrewd in matters of evil—would never have mistaken me for an ordinary young man.

“Fine, fine—you’re so clearly a madwoman to all who see you that whatever you say will be dismissed as nonsense,” he said with forced reassurance. After a deliberate pause, he pressed on: “Now, old woman—returning to our original topic—who carried that beauty out from the carriage?” The realization that this concerned Shūko’s past turned my body to stone. My heart hammered violently against my ribs, dreading what truths might follow. “Who was it again? I forgot,” croaked the old woman. “Wasn’t it Madam Torai?” “You! It was you! She was a girl—oh, now I remember everything! You insisted we had to mask them first!” “Ah—when you do recall things, you dredge up unnecessary details. Best let those matters stay forgotten.” “And when I saw that beauty’s left hand—Medical Scholar—didn’t everyone praise my cleverness back then? That left hand—surely you haven’t forgotten?” As I stood frozen, poised to hear Shūko’s secret from these villains’ lips, I shifted unconsciously—though unaware of making any sound. The dog within barked an unnatural warning cry. “How odd for it to bark now,” said the Medical Scholar sharply. “Old woman—did you hear anything?” “No.” “No one’s listening outside,” he muttered, already rising.

Chapter Fifty-Four: Human or Beast? I truly messed up. If the Medical Scholar stood up to investigate, I’d have no choice but to hide in the shadows—but if they brought a kerosene lamp, that would be the end. After struggling this far only to risk exposure at the crucial moment—the regret pierced me to the marrow—but there was nothing to be done. Then came the old woman’s voice from within. “Who’d be there? When Jinzō’s away, this dog sometimes barks like that. Must’ve heard that thing moving upstairs.” Whatever “that thing” was, I couldn’t suppress my suspicions even now. The Medical Scholar grumbled, “That one again—making noises. We’d better tighten the iron chains properly.” With this, he seemed to abandon his approach—thank heavens—I was truly saved. Before another mishap occurred, I had to slip into the hidden door without delay.

Even as I thought this, the Medical Scholar’s words—“that one again” and “tighten the iron chains”—lingered in my ears. It was an eerie phrase, but believing its meaning would become clear in time, I tiptoed away from the spot and headed toward the staircase I’d noted earlier—though the surroundings lay in utter darkness. While I didn’t expect obstacles underfoot, I had no choice but to grope forward. Perhaps because daylight had made it seem less expansive, I hadn’t realized how vast this space was—yet feeling my way through, though the staircase seemed endlessly distant, I somehow reached it safely.

I climbed the staircase groping and tiptoeing, then felt along the wall where I thought it should be. The hidden door existed alright, but was shut tight—immovable as bedrock. There remained no choice but to strike a match and inspect it. Yet doing so here was perilous—if by chance the dog, the old woman, or even the Medical Scholar were to emerge into the hallway, it would mean ruin. My heart pounded violently. Reflecting on this, I realized thievery suited me not at all—only for my beloved Shūko’s sake did I commit such acts. Had it been for base avarice, I’d have sooner chosen starvation over enduring this torment.

I cautiously struck a match and examined the hidden door—there was a keyhole, but no key inserted. Though I had bought a small knife equipped with various tools intending to pick the lock if necessary, I couldn’t muster the courage to attempt opening this door in such a perilous place. In any case, I first had to conceal myself in some safe corner of the hallway where no one would easily spot me even if they emerged. Then I needed to go up to the second floor and enter what had been Jinzō’s bedroom.

Having steeled my resolve, I climbed to the second floor and entered Jinzō’s vacant bedroom. In the pitch darkness, I first placed a hand on my chest to steady my nerves—but as I turned things over in my mind, I realized opening that hidden door was utterly impossible. He must have removed the lock from the inside. If it was indeed secured from within, there had to be another entrance on the exterior. Very well—I would abandon the front approach and search for that back door instead.

From there, I emerged into the second-floor corridor—continuing to grope my way forward on tiptoe, deeper and deeper into the darkness. Here and there I struck matches, revealing a truly bizarre architectural layout—the kind of structure only some long-ago noble with sensibilities far removed from the ordinary could have built. Under a single roof, the building split into second and third floors divided by the corridor itself. At the corridor’s far end, turning left led to a low-ceilinged stairway ascending to the third floor. If I ascended here, it seemed to lead directly toward the hidden door. Depending on how things were arranged, I might emerge one floor above where the secret lay. But without testing it, there was no way to know—so I climbed to the third floor. Here too, several rooms with closed doors lined both sides of the corridor. When I tried turning each door handle, they were all locked—save for one that was not. I opened this door and peered inside, only for a spiderweb to cling thickly to my face.

"Ah, this too appears to be another detestable spider room," I thought, hurriedly closing the door and proceeding further down the corridor until reaching a dead end where a door stood shut—fortunately, with a key inserted in its lock. Taking it and opening the door revealed a downward path; descending confirmed this was indeed a mezzanine level. However I considered it, this had to correspond to the interior of that hidden door.

This is it, this is it—the secret must be close now. I struck another match and saw only wide wooden flooring stretching ahead, with what looked like a room visible in the distance. Its entrance door stood out as conspicuously new. This must be the place, I thought, standing before it and pressing my ear against the wood. After some time, faint yet unmistakably strange noises began drifting from within. Whether human or beast remained unclear, but it was a prolonged, drawn-out moan—so terrifying it defied all description. I could only shudder.

Chapter Fifty-Five: A Presence in the Dark

My greatest oversight was failing to procure and bring candles. In times like these, nothing proved less reliable than matchlight—it illuminated a small area briefly, only to burn out and leave everything feeling darker than before. If only there had been a single candle concealed in my travel bag—how much it might have aided me! What disheartened me most was that my remaining matches had dwindled dreadfully; a count revealed merely twelve survived. With twelve matches, could I possibly unveil the great secret of this pitch-black spider-ridden house?

Yet there was one stroke of luck: the key remained inserted in the door’s lock. If I hesitated any longer, my fear would only grow and paralyze me completely. So without overthinking, I resolved to close my eyes and charge forward—I immediately opened that door and slipped inside. The door was remarkably heavy—its interior, which might well have belonged to a prison cell, appeared at first glance to form a corridor. But the passage proved extraordinarily narrow, so narrow that two people couldn’t possibly walk side by side. I walked about three ken through this cramped space, pressed in on both sides, and abruptly emerged into a wider area. This must be the room. The voice that had sounded—whether from beast or human—must have been the doing of whatever inhabited this room.

This room must now be directly above where the Medical Scholar was speaking with the old woman. "The noise of 'That thing is moving' must also have come from this room." The true nature of that thing would likely become clear here as well. I peered out from the narrow space with half my body exposed, but though the room was filled with a filth-laden stench, there was no sound whatsoever. "This must be it!" I struck a match, but before its flame could catch properly, a black shape suddenly leaped from the darkness to my right, grazing past me before darting into the shadows to the left. My match had been extinguished. Not only that, but through that thing's forceful contact with my hand, the crucial container of matches had been knocked from my grasp to some unknown corner.

In the darkness, with my matches—as vital as life itself—knocked away along with their container, there was nothing I could do. I was truly at a loss, could only crouch down and grope across the floor—for unless I found that container of matches, not an inch of movement would be possible. What my fingertips felt slowly groping through—something clinging stickily—was the dust on the floor, which to put it grandly might have accumulated five or six bu in depth. In such a place as this—whether human or beast—it was a wonder they had managed to keep themselves alive. The matchbox might have become buried in the dust, or perhaps it had scattered somewhere—it was nowhere within my reach. Even as I did so, someone seemed to be observing my movements from within the darkness—not only could I hear their breathing as clearly as if holding it in my hand, but I even suspected the warm gust of their breath might be grazing my cheek.

I finally located the matchbox, but found it completely empty—the matches had scattered everywhere. This filled me with utter despair. In dust thick enough to bury even the box itself, how could I possibly find a single matchstick? Yet I kept searching like a madman, crawling forward and groping left and right until my hands struck that mysterious creature again. It appeared to be crawling on all fours—not an animal, but something humanoid. Though the season wasn't cold enough for such shivering, its whole body trembled violently. Clearly, it was terrified of me.

Thinking this, I felt somewhat emboldened. If he feared me, then there was no need for me to fear him—rather, I should speak to reassure him. In a low voice, I said, "You needn't fear me—I'm not your enemy but an ally. I've come to help." Yet there was no sign of comprehension. Upon closer consideration—perhaps this wasn't human after all—I groped around his form once more and confirmed he wore a tattered garment, with a large, hard lump resembling a tumor protruding from his back. Wondering if this might be some sort of hunchback, I probed the lump again—when suddenly he knocked me backward.

In my surprise, I instinctively thrust my hand behind me—but there, fortunately beneath my palm, lay a single match. Immediately taking it up and rubbing it against my garment, as the light flared, what appeared before my eyes were two gleaming orbs. Next, I could see a large mouth from which white teeth were bared and glinting—human it was, yes, but a human of the most grotesque sort. If only I had one more match—just as I thought this, rough footsteps echoed from behind, and someone came stomping in. Realizing that being caught would spell disaster, I immediately blew out the still-burning match and whirled around—only to see the Medical Scholar, holding a handheld candle, enter through the narrow entrance with the old woman trailing behind him.

Chapter Fifty-Six: The ABCs of Strategy

The Medical Scholar had already traversed the narrow corridor and now revealed his full form at the entrance to this room. From under his arm, the old woman peered out; in his left hand he held a candle, in his right a drawn long sword that gleamed—perhaps they intended to kill me. Yet he appeared startled at the sight of me—likely never expecting another soul in this room. He must have heard some noise, assumed it was merely the usual occupant causing a disturbance, and come brandishing his long sword to intimidate them into submission. By his look of surprise and suspicion, I confirmed it was indeed so.

After gazing at my form for a while—perhaps intimidated by my imposing frame—he retreated and slipped back into the narrow entrance path. At the slightest provocation, he seemed ready to bolt. Now that I thought about it, it made perfect sense. A Medical Scholar—no matter how villainous—lacked the inclination to grapple directly with others using brute force; when his own safety was at stake, he would invariably hesitate. Especially having seen me infiltrate this room alone, he must have struggled to fathom what manner of reckless fool I was—ultimately appearing more afraid of me than I was of him.

When the occupant of the room saw the Medical Scholar, they cowered completely and shrunk back behind me. Even in that moment, by the light of the handheld candle the Medical Scholar carried, I managed to discern a few things: the occupant was undeniably human—not a beast—and appeared to have been chained, with a chain lying on one side. However, this chain was severed. Now I understood the meaning behind the Medical Scholar’s earlier remark about needing to tighten the chain.

Before long, the Medical Scholar turned to the old woman, his face still tinged with suspicion, and said, “Oh my, Granny—there’s a gentleman here.” “Gentleman” was an excessively polite term—flattering even—but given his profession, it seemed he addressed everyone as “gentleman” out of habit. The old woman behind the Medical Scholar interjected, “No, no! Wait! I’ll fetch Grimm to bite him dead!” and made as if to hurry off. Grimm was evidently that dog’s name—and the prospect of being forced into a life-or-death struggle against a dog, particularly the fiercest of his Bordeaux breeds, struck me as profoundly unappealing. The Medical Scholar stopped her and said, “Now, Granny—do you know this gentleman?”

“Ah! This is the person who brought my son here by carriage earlier!” The Medical Scholar said, “Is that so?” “Then was it you who earlier addressed me as ‘Medical Scholar’?” he asked pointedly. I replied with utmost courtesy, “Yes, it was I.” “Ha ha ha! You claimed you needed to retrieve luggage from the station, but this is no station. My, what an important errand you’re running here!” He spoke not mockingly but in a congenial tone, as if sharing an amusing anecdote. This was doubtlessly a mannerism honed through his professional dealings.

“Yes, to speak frankly, I deceived you in order to sneak into this house.” He suddenly turned serious. “Ah, so you made me let my guard down—that’s the ABCs of strategy. But why did you want to sneak into this house? Are you a detective?” “No,” I said. “Ah, so you’re not a detective—your manner of speech makes that clear. Then you’re just an ordinary gentleman? What would an ordinary gentleman be doing breaking into someone else’s home—are you a thief?” “You may think that for now.” “In any case, since I’ve already sneaked in and seen some things, I’ve achieved part of my objective.” “Now that I’m leaving here with this room’s occupant, step aside and let us pass.”

I was fully resolved to leave taking the occupant with me—though I had no notion who they were or why they were here, the chains binding them proved they were being held against their will. To take them away would be no different from saving them. The Medical Scholar replied pensively, “Of course we’ve no right to hinder your departure—you may leave freely. But I’m not the master here, merely an acquaintance. As you know, the master lies insensible from grave injuries. When he recovers his wits and demands why I let an intruder go unchallenged, I must at least offer some reply.” “What should that reply be? I must hear it from you beforehand.” “In that case”—I maintained ceremonial dignity—“I shall leave my business card. You may tell him to inquire directly at my residence.” “Then I’ll leave this candle here,” he said, placing it on the floor. “But pray depart before too long elapses.” “You may collect my card downstairs—I’ve another matter to discuss then.”

Having said this, he leisurely departed through the narrow exit. The old woman fretted, “You! Why are you letting someone like that leave?” “You may be fine with this, but later I might suffer some treatment from Jinzō!” Her voice could be heard complaining incessantly. But to no avail, she was led out by the Medical Scholar. Just as I thought this, from outside came the creaking sound of the entrance door being shut. Oh no—this was bad! I had been completely deceived by the Medical Scholar.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: What Follows Is True Darkness Hearing the sound of the door closing, I was startled—could it be that I had been thoroughly deceived by the Medical Scholar? Thinking this, I rushed down the narrow corridor to the doorway, but alas—it was already too late. From outside, the door had already been barred with a crossbar. Looking back now, I had been truly foolish. When the Medical Scholar had uttered in an unexpectedly subdued tone that he would not hinder my departure in the slightest, I should have discerned that he harbored ulterior motives. It was not that I had been entirely unsuspicious, but I had failed to recognize a deception of this sophistication—especially in my relief that he had left the handheld candle behind. I had thought to examine the room by its light, but there had scarcely been time to even consider looking; in my cursory glance around, I had already met with such a fate.

Since it seemed the Medical Scholar and the old woman were still outside the door, I pounded on it and shouted, “Hello! Why are you shutting this door?” The Medical Scholar pressed his mouth near the keyhole and sneered, “Why, you seem so enamored with that room’s occupant—I thought I’d let you live together with them awhile!” He laughed mockingly. In a voice sharp enough to make one’s hair stand on end, I retorted, “You’re truly insolent—locking someone in a room like this!” “Precisely,” he shot back. “Sneaking into someone’s house at night warrants similar treatment. It’s not as if I’m the sole offender here.” “That’s too cowardly of you!” I said. “If my actions warrant censure, reprimand me openly and properly.” “I don’t flee or hide. Whether it’s a court summons or a duel challenge—yes, I’ll answer to anything.” The Medical Scholar chuckled darkly. “Ah, you do seem formidable in duels. As I stand now, I couldn’t possibly match you. But let four or five days pass—then I’ll gladly oblige.” “First, spend those days in that room and see! However strong you are, hunger will break you. Once weakened enough, you’ll lose all appetite for duels. Then—yes—I’ll come at my leisure to hear your thoughts.”

Could there be another act as insolent, cunning, and infuriating as this? To starve and weaken me, only then to confront me—I said, “So you intend to confine me in this room for four or five days?” “Yes, we have no choice but to accommodate you until your resistance wanes.” “The deeds you people commit are utterly inhuman—utterly despicable, utterly cowardly! You deceived me into letting my guard down by claiming you wouldn’t hinder my departure in the slightest, only to suddenly lock me in this room!” “Yes, that’s the ABCs of strategy you taught me.” “Ah yes—*you* were the one who claimed to be going to the station to retrieve luggage, lulling me into complacency, and then sneaked into this house, weren’t you? A pity I didn’t take your business card then—but had I lingered to receive it, I might have been discovered. How my heart raced at the thought!” “No matter—even if I don’t take your card now, once you’ve lost your strength, we’ll find it by searching your pockets.” “After all, this ‘ABCs of strategy’ you’re so fond of—when put to use, it’s quite effective, isn’t it?” I stamped my foot in frustration. “Enough! I will not hear such insolent words. Spare your breath and answer me plainly in one word.” “Will you open this door, or won’t you?” The Medical Scholar declared with venomous force in his voice, “Yes, I’ll say it in one word: I won’t open it.” I retorted, “If you won’t open it, I’ll break it down from the inside!” “By all means, I’d like you to try.” Resolved to break down the door even if my body were shattered to pieces, I threw my full weight against it—but it was like slamming into a stone wall. Though it made a noise, it didn’t budge an inch. From outside, the Medical Scholar jeered, “My, what strength! Keep at it—the door’s sure to break soon!”

Even though I knew it was futile, being jeered at like this meant I couldn’t simply stop. As I braced myself to ram against it one last time—to startle them—the room suddenly began to grow dark. I had not noticed until this moment, but the short candle in the handheld lamp left by the Medical Scholar had gradually burned down and finally extinguished itself. “Ah, what a regrettable thing I’ve done,” I thought, though even now I could hardly bear the belated remorse—but it was futile. The Medical Scholar, having apparently peered through the keyhole and discerned this state of affairs, dismissively declared, “Well, Granny, let’s go. You see, I left the handheld candle in the room to lull him into complacency. I thought it best to keep toying with him until the candle burned out—but now there’s no need for further games.” With that, he made to leave entirely. He was a villain whose evil cunning knew no bounds. He was not someone whom someone like me could handle; even as I was utterly astonished, I kept shouting, “Wait! Wait!” But he left without paying any heed. What remained was as silent as deep mountains, and then true darkness.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Portrait’s Eyes

I had truly suffered a terrible ordeal—confined to a pitch-black room, and now I could do nothing about it. No matter how much I racked my brain about what to do, no ideas came to mind. Was I to starve to death here like this? Yes—there was no choice but to remain a prisoner in this room until I starved to death. I understood the vile Medical Scholar’s objective: they believed I had uncovered this house’s secrets and discerned their crimes, so their sole aim was to erase me from this world. This wasn’t mere intimidation or empty threats—they were truly intent on taking my life. There was no other way to interpret it.

Is there no one who will help me? No, there couldn’t be. No one knew I was in this house. In the deepest night, I had slipped out of my home without anyone’s knowledge. Though I’d sent Shūko a telegram from Royston Station along the way, I’d written that I was going to London on business. If I didn’t return within days, they would surely search for me in London—but if I wasn’t there, how could they look further? These people made killing their trade—they wouldn’t balk at murdering one more man. I knew from the old woman’s mutterings about digging holes beneath garden trees—they must have killed countless others in this room and buried them on the estate grounds. Even if I met the same fate, who would ever know? I’d simply vanish—a man who disappeared after leaving for London.

How bitter... How wretched... Even if I didn’t fear dying myself, what horrors might await Shūko afterward? There was no protector besides me—my uncle might as well not have existed, utterly useless when disaster struck. For all I knew, Shūko might already be trembling with anxiety at my absence during this critical hour.

If Oura had gone missing with barely days passed, and then I too vanished, how would people speak of the Ghost Tower? Uncle might find it too unbearable to stay and move elsewhere. Yet dwelling on futility was meaningless—I had to escape. While breath remained in me, I must seek a way out—but in this pitch darkness where even the room’s layout eluded me, no path revealed itself. The blackness wouldn’t last forever—five or six hours would bring dawn unaided. But daylight would only worsen my chances of flight. Then again—must I remain here until tomorrow night?

How utterly infuriating—even if I tried sleeping until dawn, I couldn’t possibly lie down in this room where not even an inch of space lay free of dust. If only there were a bed somewhere in this room... Well then, I’d grope around and search. By searching, I might better grasp the room’s layout; even if I found nowhere to rest my body, I had to discover an escape route as quickly as possible. With this thought, I felt my way back to the original room and, paying no heed to its occupant, frantically felt along the walls on all sides. One wall had what appeared to be an old hearth where fires were once lit. There was a window too—thick iron bars stood vertically across it in multiple rows. In the past, this was likely a splendid living quarters, but now it was no different from a prison cell. The sturdiness of the window’s iron bars was such that even a bear could cling to them.

On another wall, different from the entrance, there was what appeared to be an ordinary closed door that might serve as an exit. Ah, this wasn’t just a single room—it must have been a suite of connected chambers forming proper tatami quarters. Perhaps the next rooms—a parlor and bedroom—had once been well-appointed. When I opened the door, I found the lock removed; this was clearly another chamber. Stepping inside and groping around, I noticed this room differed from the last: my hands touched various fixtures—a closet, cupboard, and what seemed like a dressing table. Then on one side—ah!—there was a bed. When I investigated further for another room beyond, I found a doorway but it was firmly locked. Probing further would prove futile. At least there was a bed here—I had no choice but to sleep until dawn.

The bed did not seem as filthy as I’d feared. Though my nose had grown accustomed to the dust’s stench and no longer registered it distinctly, there was another unfamiliar scent lingering—something not entirely unpleasant. Perhaps a woman had stayed here recently, leaving traces of cosmetics behind. It was less an odor than a fragrance, and seeing the dressing table confirmed that a woman had indeed inhabited this space. With this realization, my mind eased somewhat, and I climbed onto the bed. Though faint, the scent exerted a strangely soothing effect on my nerves. This fragrance was unmistakably the same one Shūko always favored—the very scent that refreshes my spirit whenever I enter her room. Could this chamber be where Shūko stayed? Not only did various clues suggest she resided in this house, but the old woman’s repeated mentions of a “beauty” earlier tonight likely referred to her. Upon reflection, this bed might well have been where Shūko slept.

I felt greatly relieved by this alone and soon fell asleep—though it seemed I had only slept twenty or thirty minutes at most, when I awoke, bright morning sunlight was already streaming through the cracks of the old window shutters. To me, it felt like a revival. With lightened spirits, I climbed down from the bed and surveyed the room. Looking at the few small implements remaining in the chamber, it seemed some secrets of Shūko’s circumstances might still linger here. However, what drew my attention more than any of these was a peculiar portrait affixed to the wall near the bed’s pillow—no, it was the eyes of that portrait.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Adjoining Room’s Occupant The portrait was neither very old nor splendid. It was likely painted by an unnamed artist as a side job. Yet its size was extravagantly large for a silk canvas; the figure depicted a woman standing. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it save for the eyes, which emitted a truly lifelike gleam and seemed to gaze down at me. Though the face and features lacked vitality, the eyes alone possessed an uncanny, incongruous liveliness—they seemed unlike any painted eyes.

In my current circumstances, I should not be paying heed to a portrait of some unknown woman—yet for some reason, it was her eyes alone that troubled me. Wondering if I remained half-asleep, I rubbed my own eyes in doubt. When I raised my head to look again—what was this? The portrait’s eyes had entirely lost their vitality. Devoid of meaning or light, they now appeared exactly as one would expect from such an uninspired, clumsily painted work. I could not comprehend it at all—perhaps I had been half-asleep and mistaken what I saw earlier—but there had to be some significance to this portrait’s eyes. I refused to believe it was merely my own misperception.

But I could not afford to investigate that now—what I first wanted to see was last night’s occupant of the adjoining room. Who was he? What did he look like? With these thoughts, I went to check the next room. There, hunched over in a far corner as I had imagined during the night, was a hunchbacked man—no, not quite a man yet, but a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old child. His filth defied description: hair matted with grime, grown wild without a razor’s touch for who knows how long, falling over his face like a wild beast’s mane, his skin a soot-stained gray. It was astonishing that he could remain alive in such unsanitary conditions. I tried various ways to speak to him, but he, appearing to be a complete imbecile, did not utter a single word in reply; his expression nearly matched that of an exotic animal peering out from its cage at a human face with vacant curiosity. Why would they hide someone like this? The answer became clear enough—he had likely been born into a family of considerable means. His parents couldn’t keep such a child at home for fear of societal disgrace, nor risk exposure by sending him to a charitable institution. They must have paid to entrust him to this household. This house fed on people’s secrets—taking in such individuals, keeping them alive as long as they could extort money from their parents, then killing and secretly burying them in holes dug beneath garden trees when payments ceased. This was no unprecedented enterprise—I had occasionally read of such practices in books.

In any case, this state was pitiful—I wanted to rescue him and ensure he received humane treatment. Even if they had hidden him in a secret location, the treatment here was far worse than that of dogs and cats. If I could escape this place, I would surely take this person with me; if not, I resolved to remain alongside him and end his suffering with my own hands—I felt a degree of compassion I had never before experienced. At the very least, I wanted to have him sit where sunlight streamed through the window cracks in this room. Taking his hand to pull him up, I noticed—oh!—he was holding breadcrumbs in that hand. It seemed they had already delivered food this morning. As I thought this—a truly humiliating realization—I had yet to receive any. Checking my watch, though I had believed it still early morning, it was already past nine o’clock. I suddenly felt hungry, but it appeared I was to remain fasting as per the Medical Scholar’s words—left to weaken until my body gave out. Resolving that dwelling on hunger now was futile, I promptly pulled his hand again and saw his leg shackled to a lead weight, likely weighing twenty-six to thirty kilograms, fastened with an absurdly short chain.

Last night he was jumping around, but ah—this morning when they delivered food, they must have reattached his chains. Who would do such a thing? It’s the Medical Scholar. Which means the Medical Scholar came here this morning. What an audacious bastard—he disregarded my presence in this room entirely. No, perhaps he even knew I was asleep. He knew. He *knew*. Otherwise, he would never have dared to enter. But wait—if he knew I was asleep, it meant he had been secretly observing my movements from somewhere. But where could such a vantage point exist? Ah! I’ve got it! The eyes of that portrait—they’re hollowed out, allowing someone to peer through them from outside into this room. What a crude method. Very well—if that’s how it is, I have a trick of my own.

I kept my plan close and resolved first to undo the chain binding the occupant’s leg. From my satchel, I took out my trusty pocketknife, applied its awl and screwdriver to the lock on the chain, and strained my wits to their limit. After roughly thirty minutes, I finally succeeded in removing the lock. Though an idiot, the occupant was overjoyed; he went to one corner of the room, picked something up, clutched it, and presented it to me with a look of gratitude. When I opened his hand, there they were—the seven matches I had scattered last night, which he had gathered. I was so grateful I could have wept. I immediately accepted them and lit a cigar; even this gave me a glimmer of revival—my hunger was no longer such a torment.

Thinking I should return the favor in some way, I went to the next room, removed small boxes and drawer fronts from the dressing table, broke them into pieces, and lit a fire in the hearth for him. After all, every fixture in this room could be turned into firewood without regret; grabbing whatever I could find and tossing it in soon produced a roaring blaze. Though autumn had only just begun, mornings were already chilly enough to warrant such warmth. The idiot clapped his hands and hopped about before the hearth in delight—this was likely the greatest act of merit I had performed since being born.

Chapter Sixty: Three Volumes Later While the hearth burned, I went to inspect the cupboard in the next room. Though nearly empty, two or three medicine bottles lay buried in dust at the shelf's corner. If Shūko had indeed entered this room as I imagined, she might have consumed these medicines—so I took them out, blew off the dust, and examined their labels. One read "Opium Tincture (Poison)," another "Take Immediately Upon Onset of Illness," while the last bore only "Stimulant." To someone medically trained, this might suggest theories—but to me, it offered no real clues. Next I opened the closet and found a bundle resembling clothes crammed into the lower corner. When I pulled them out, their mustiness overwhelmed me—unmistakably women's garments of two or three types. I sorted them into separate piles. One piece was undoubtedly Shūko's—the shadow-gray unpatterned kimono she always wore. Another seemed shorter and wider-cut; its shoddy tailoring suggested cheap ready-made goods. Could Torai Fujin have worn this? Among these clothes lay a white overgarment like those nurses wear. Had Shūko fallen ill here and summoned a nurse? Either she or Torai Fujin must have donned this—I couldn't determine which.

When I examined the last one—a peculiar light yellow garment—I truly began to feel unwell. What could this be? The garment was the uniform worn by female prisoners under British prison authorities. There’s absolutely no way Shūko would have worn something like this. It must be Torai Fujin’s—yes, Torai Fujin’s, Torai Fujin’s. Just to be certain, if I turned the bundle inside out, perhaps some item revealing its owner might emerge. I reached out to do so but couldn’t muster the courage—if even a single piece of evidence pointing to Shūko surfaced, it would be irreparable. No, such a thing was impossible—why would Shūko wear a prisoner’s uniform? Reassuring myself thus, I finally inspected the contents but found nothing inside. In the end, I still couldn’t determine whose they were. Ah, I worried over nothing, I reassured myself about this trivial matter and proceeded to inspect every last garment’s lining. From just one shadow-colored garment that seemed to belong to Shūko, a single business card emerged—that was all there was to it.

The printed text on the business card had been heavily erased with a pencil. However, upon closer inspection, one could make out: “Medical Scholar Ōba Rensai”—could this be his medical scholar? Turning the card over, the same pencil had inscribed in minute characters: “In your current circumstances, the only person who can truly save you is Mr. Paul Lepel of No. 29 Rue Racine, Paris, France. As I have already communicated your situation to him, you must go directly to make your appeal.” I didn’t understand what this meant, but this had to be an important clue. If I died here without escaping this room, that would be the end of it. But if I could leave this place alive, I would seek out this Parisian named Paul Lepel. Since it implied that no one but this man could save Shūko, I couldn’t rest until I uncovered what circumstances she’d been in, how she’d been saved, and whether this “you” written here referred to Shūko herself.

Before long, afternoon had turned to dusk. My hunger was only growing more acute. With nothing left to investigate here, my sole recourse was to find an escape route—yet how could I possibly manage it? There wasn’t the faintest glimmer of hope. Lost in thought, I went to check the next room. The idiot lay collapsed before the hearth—at first glance asleep, but pitifully weakened, evidently deprived of food deliveries due to my wakefulness. He stared up at me with desperate longing. With a pang of guilt, I reassured him, “I’ll get you out of here soon. Just endure a little longer—no matter how hard it gets.” He seemed to comprehend, heaving himself upright with effort. After staring vacantly at his leg and the chain that had bound it, he shuffled toward the adjoining room where I’d previously been confined.

When I looked, the fire in the hearth had already gone out. There was still fuel to burn, so relighting it would have been easy enough—but with matches scarce, I decided to leave it unlit until nightfall deepened the cold. Before darkness fully set in, finding an escape route became imperative. I stood again and inspected every window in the room—each barred with iron rods like a true prison cell. Hoping one might have loosened at its fittings, I shook each rod individually, but all held firm. No amount of force made any difference. Despair became unavoidable. Night arrived at last—if ever there were a moment to speak of “a thousand emotions surging in one’s breast,” this was it. My hunger sharpened relentlessly, and the cold grew more biting by the minute; without sustenance, even enduring the chill seemed beyond me. I could delay no longer—if even I, resilient as I was, had reached this state, that idiot must have been suffering far worse. I relit the hearth and entered the next room, sparing one of my dwindling matches to look around—but he was gone. Had he found an exit? I struck a second match. To my dismay, only three remained.

Chapter Sixty-One: My Substitute Where was the exit through which that idiot had vanished? When I illuminated the room with my second match, I saw he hadn’t vanished—he lay sleeping on the very bed I had occupied. To endure such circumstances without apparent distress, to appear so peacefully and comfortably asleep—it seemed truly enviable, one might say. Had I been born an idiot instead, perhaps I would have been fortunate enough not to perceive pain as pain—but now, this was mere self-pity.

Leaving the soundly sleeping figure undisturbed—for it felt wrong to wake him—I returned to the hearth and watched the flames. But my body must have been utterly exhausted, for I dozed off while leaning against the chair. After some indeterminate time, when I awoke, the hearth had completely gone out, plunging the room into darkness akin to the previous night’s, and the cold felt as if water had been poured down my back. As I was wondering how I would endure until dawn, a scattered beam of light suddenly shone into the darkened room from somewhere. Upon closer inspection, I realized the light was seeping through a gap in the window facing the garden; though uncertain of the hour, I went to investigate who would venture into the garden so late at night and for what purpose. Pressing my face against the iron bar, I peered through the widest gap in the shutter—there, beneath a distant tree, an old woman held a lantern, its glow illuminating the Medical Scholar as he dug a large hole with a shovel.

This was it—this was what they meant by digging a grave to bury a corpse. But who would they inter tonight? The answer required no deliberation. They meant to bury me. The Medical Scholar had said they would wait until hunger weakened me before making their move—I’d assumed this meant four or five days’ reprieve. Yet perhaps circumstances forced their hand sooner, or they’d miscalculated my endurance. No matter—I wasn’t some man they could subdue so easily. “Come then,” I thought, anger sparking sudden resolve as I tensed my body and watched. The pit appeared half-dug already—likely prepared days prior. Once satisfied with its depth, the Medical Scholar straightened up and retreated toward the house with the old woman.

Well, they were finally coming to kill me. I gripped his knife and positioned myself by the entrance door—when suddenly, from the next room came an enormous crash. I couldn’t discern what had caused the sound, but sensing it was anything but ordinary, I slowly moved to the next room. Striking one of the three remaining matches, I let out a sharp “Ah!” at what I saw. What was this? The bed where that idiot had been sleeping had vanished, leaving only a gaping hole in the floor. Indeed, his bed was a trapdoor—the floor had given way, causing whoever lay upon it to plummet below.

I had never imagined such a cruel mechanism could exist, but apparently some noble who once lived here had constructed this secret device to kill his enemies. The Medical Scholar exploited it—how many lives must they have taken with it until now? Those utterly ruthless fiends. And for what purpose had they killed that idiot using this contraption? It seemed like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, and I found it somewhat suspicious—but ah, I realized—they hadn’t expected the idiot to be sleeping on this bed; they had thought it was me all along.

I approached the hole and peered down, but it was pitch black, and I couldn’t discern its depth. Having no choice, I dropped the remaining match in my hand as it was—it seemed about two jo deep (approximately six meters). The match emitted light as it fell, made an odd sound, then went out. From this, I saw water below—something like an old well—and realized the idiot had become my substitute, entering it to drown.

"I've done something truly pitiful," I thought—yet if I stayed here, he would soon realize his mistake. Who knew what that Medical Scholar might do in his shock? Whether possible or not, I had to devise a way out of this room. To wait obediently while he fully prepared to come kill me again? No—I became gripped by desperate frenzy. Of course, there was no visible escape route, but my only lifeline was the portrait near the bed's headboard. Since the bed had been positioned with its foot facing the room where I'd earlier lit the hearth, the portrait's back undoubtedly opened onto a corridor. Noticing how the eyes peering through the portrait's painted gaze matched its own design, I deduced it wasn't pasted to a wall but a wooden panel—one that could be smashed through. First, I tested it with a strike. The sound proved thinner than expected; with my strength, one blow would suffice.

I first tried prying with a small knife, and without much difficulty, its blade pierced through. The board’s thickness was barely four-tenths of an inch—judging this manageable, I drilled holes here and there, then soon gathered all my strength to push and strike against it. Within less than thirty minutes from starting, I had shattered that board. If I had realized this sooner, it would have been better, but there was no use dwelling on it now. In any case, escaping the room was the first step to victory. Wondering what kind of place this was, I struck another of my two remaining matches and found, as expected, a corridor—but this corridor sloped steeply downward like an avalanche. Wondering whether this led to a cellar or perhaps connected to a lower room, I descended further until I reached another door at the dead end. Ah, now I understood—the reason the board near the portrait had been so thin was entirely because even if someone broke through it, this door here would make escape utterly impossible. That wooden door had been installed solely as a partition for concealing oneself and peering inside.

So realizing that breaking through that door had actually served no purpose, I felt somewhat disappointed. First considering my surroundings—a corridor also approached this door from the side, forming what seemed to be a T-shaped intersection here—I concluded that even if I tried the side path, there would undoubtedly be another door at its end regardless. Deciding to test this door first, I began knocking to gauge its thickness when a voice sounded beyond it. “Medical Scholar! No need to pound so violently! That door was left open when Granny went to check earlier—the lock isn’t even fastened!” This voice was unmistakably Ankawa Jinzō. What fortune—the lock wasn’t fastened! With renewed vigor akin to being reborn, I called out “It’s not the Medical Scholar—it’s me!” while opening the door and entering. Sure enough, it was Jinzō’s bedroom.

Chapter Sixty-Two: Poisonous Spider Now that I thought about it, the place where his portrait had been pasted was originally a doorway, but since that door had been removed, they had filled it with a board, pasted that insignificant painting to conceal the mismatched wall color, and conveniently arranged it to spy inside from outside. In other words, it had been the most easily breakable spot within his room. It was fortunate that I had noticed that spot. Moreover, emerging just when Jinzō’s bedroom door stood open was nothing short of heaven-sent aid.

When I entered Jinzō’s room, he—though lying down—immediately grabbed a pistol and aimed it at me, threatening, “If you move, you’re dead.” I said calmly, “Mr. Ankawa—until the moment your carriage returned you to this house, you didn’t even bow in gratitude to me who saved your life. Is this how you show thanks—with a pistol?” Ankawa stared at my face. “Er—it’s you? I never said Dr. Ōba was you,” he excused himself, yet kept the pistol raised. Even amid the chaos, I noted the name “Ōba”—recalling the “Ōba Rensai” business card that had fallen from what I assumed was Shūko’s ash-gray cloak. Certain this was the quack doctor, I asserted, “I’m the one who tended you from the train to this house. I haven’t fled or harmed you. Lower that pistol.” “No,” he refused. “In my state, I’ve no one else to rely on.” “But if you stay honest,” he added, “I won’t shoot.” “Then let me speak plainly,” I countered. “Close the door so we’re not disturbed. Where’s the key?” “Should still be in the lock.” Indeed it remained inserted there. Resolved to confront Ankawa before leaving, I secured the lock against the Medical Scholar’s entry. Surveying the room, I found food-laden dishes by his bedside—likely the Scholar’s intended supper. But hesitation served no purpose. “Mr. Ankawa,” I declared while seating myself at the table, “having starved all day, even your words stumble. First I’ll eat—we’ll talk when I’m sated.” I began devouring the meal without ceremony.

Of course, it was a crude meal, but I had never experienced such deliciousness since I could remember. Ankawa Jinzō looked impressed and muttered to himself, “Ah, what fine nerve. You’d make a splendid villain.” “Well, I’ve no desire to become a villain or anything,” I said, “but wanting to eat when you’re hungry has nothing to do with courage.”

While I was eating, frequent footsteps sounded outside the room. It must have been the Medical Scholar and the old woman. From the noise, they seemed to have gone to inspect the room where I had been confined. Before I could finish anticipating their shocked return, they came clattering down and shouted from outside, “Doctor! Doctor! It’s terrible! That bastard figured things out—he left a decoy behind and escaped!” It was unmistakably the Medical Scholar’s voice. “He isn’t escaping,” Ankawa replied. “Right now, he’s in this room eating the supper you prepared.” “So it’s him? Seems starvation’s made him desperate. In my experience, nothing breaks a man’s spirit faster than an empty stomach.” “Thankfully, I’d already worried you might’ve been strangled by that wretch—” “Even bedridden, this pistol keeps me safe enough. Rest assured.” “But if I tell you to open this door, you can’t even stand! How was the lock undone in the first place?” As he spoke, I heard him frantically rattling the doorknob. “I made him lock it at gunpoint.” “Then order him to open it the same way!” “No—I’ve private matters to discuss with him first. Wait in that room until we’re done.” The Medical Scholar muttered, “What nonsense…” with resigned irritation, when the old woman’s voice cut in: “Jinzō! Jinzō! We dug the hole perfectly this time!” “With practice, even the Medical Scholar’s getting better at grave-digging!” “Enough of your useless prattling,” Ankawa snapped.

At the sound of the rebuking voice, the old woman fell silent. At this moment, I too had just finished my meal, leaving only the dishes behind, but through these circumstances, I keenly grasped the gravity of it all. So this was what Shūko had meant when she spoke of poisonous spiders spinning webs to ensnare people and never let them escape—though her mention of "poisonous spiders" had been entirely metaphorical, the Medical Scholar, the Doctor, and even the Doctor’s mother were in truth venomous arachnids incarnate. Shūko must have been caught in this web once before—no, she remained trapped within it even now. Freeing her from that snare was my purpose. I too had been entangled in the same web but had somehow managed to slip free through sheer fortune. How many others before me, unable to escape, had ended as prey for these spiders? The Medical Scholar’s growing efficiency in digging burial pits—phrased so casually—contained horrors beyond measure when truly contemplated. Yet if I could escape this den of venomous spiders, I would purge it thoroughly without fail—now, at last, I would begin those negotiations in earnest.

Chapter Sixty-Three: Yes or No

I had to hold serious negotiations with Ankawa, but above all else, the pistol in his hand preoccupied me. If only an opportunity arose, I wanted to seize it—if I could just take that away, he would become a jellyfish-like creature devoid of bones or sinew.

I deliberately feigned complete indifference to the pistol and finally began to speak. “Now, Mr. Ankawa—that I rode the train with you, helped you, and came to this house may appear coincidental, but it was no coincidence. In truth, I followed you from the Ghost Tower intending to open negotiations.” With this statement, I first presented my business card. He had already seemed startled at the mention of “Ghost Tower,” but upon seeing my business card, his surprise deepened. With a dumbfounded look, he stammered, “Er, er—you’re Mr. Marube Michikurou?” This marked the end of his luck—in that moment of stunned disbelief, a slight opening emerged, and I swiftly wrested the pistol from his hand. Truly, in the blink of an eye, I gave him no chance to resist; even I had to admit it was deftly done.

Before he could utter a single word of anger, I said, “This thing will only get in the way of our conversation. I’ll hold onto it until we’re done talking.” “That is outrageous!” he protested. “To suddenly snatch it away is unbecoming of a gentleman—” “No,” I countered, “a gentleman’s discussion requires no pistol’s fanfare.” “But without it, I’m injured and can’t move my body.” “Even if your body isn’t working, as long as you can talk, that’s plenty.” “Since I’m already in the palm of your hand,” he conceded bitterly, “I’ll comply with your coercion.” “I dislike coercing people with a pistol—as proof, I’ll store it in my pocket like this.” With that, I promptly slipped the pistol at my waist into my pocket.

With just this, the positions of host and guest had already been reversed. He was still grumbling, but with a single “Be quiet—it’s unbecoming of a man,” I silenced him and declared, “In truth, I came here hoping you would shoot me dead. “I made all preparations not to return alive—that’s why I followed you here.” Ankawa muttered as if to himself, “Ah… So that’s why Shūko was so obstinate—sending that impertinent message saying she’d never meet me no matter what happened.” “Perhaps,” I replied. “In any case, I consulted Uncle Tomoo. Should I fail to return by the third day, he’ll report my murder to the authorities and have constables swarm this insect farm.” “Which means I must return by tomorrow without fail. My escaping that room tonight benefits you more than myself.” Ankawa protested, “But with my pistol taken, I can’t kill you! Even if constables come—” “Whether grounds exist for arrest isn’t ours to debate here,” I cut him off. “First, hear my terms.” “Very well,” he conceded bitterly. “I’ve no choice but to listen.” “You will leave this country within thirty days and emigrate abroad—never to return. In exchange, I’ll provide two hundred pounds for your passage.” “On what grounds?” “Your presence here obstructs Shūko’s happiness.” He fell silent, summoning resolve before retorting, “So I’m both hindrance and help—that depends on my whim alone. What if I refuse?” “Then I’ll simply summon the constables.” “My infiltrating this room aimed solely to gather evidence justifying their dispatch.” “Now that I’ve secured ample proof of your crimes, your choice matters little to me. Accept my offer and flee abroad safely—or refuse and let the law’s executioners relocate you beyond this world.” “Well? Choose freely—yes or no?”

His face was a pitiful sight to behold. Anger, confusion, resolve, and fear battled within him. Soon, in a defensive tone, he said, “What evidence of crime could I possibly have? I’m an honest industrialist supporting my household by breeding spiders—eh, is keeping that idiot upstairs a crime?” “That has nothing to do with me. I merely lent the second-floor space at the request of Ōba Rensai, the Medical Scholar—no, he’s not actually a scholar, but let’s call him that for now—the prison doctor. What Ōba put in that room is none of my concern.” It seemed this Medical Scholar of his had served as a prison doctor. I said, “Of course, Ōba’s crimes will not escape—” “No, Ōba’s crimes are nowhere near as grave as yours. He’s merely doing what any ordinary doctor would do.” “Huh—what any ordinary person would do?” “Well, that might startle a layperson to hear,” said Ankawa, “but from the perspective of a doctor’s work of entering people’s homes, it’s only natural.” “In every household, there are family members who could tarnish the family’s reputation, and in cases where they cannot be sent to public institutions like orphanages or asylums, they rely on doctors.” “When asked, doctors can’t simply kill a person outright, so they have no choice but to seek out the most secret places to hide them away and let them die in confinement.” “Therefore, prosperous doctors usually have such secret places under special arrangement.” “Is that Fake Medical Scholar one of those prosperous doctors?” “I don’t know about prosperity, but precisely because he once served as a prison doctor, he knows more about people’s household secrets than other physicians and naturally gets entrusted with many confidential cases.” “The idiot currently here is one such case. Admittedly, there may have been some negligence in his care, and we cannot escape criticism for poor treatment, but to call that a crime—” “Perhaps I am mistaken,” I said. “But since amateurs like you and I arguing here over whether these constitute criminal evidence will lead nowhere, as I stated earlier, we should leave that judgment to the proper authorities. Whether they consider it standard practice for doctors to have beds that collapse into old wells to trap unsuspecting sleepers, or for the household’s matriarch to dig holes in the garden by lamplight and bury countless corpses without official procedures—or even if deemed standard, whether the family head bears no responsibility—all that will become clear soon enough. That would be the quicker path.” “Well now, Mr. Ankawa—I’ve truly overstayed my welcome,” I said with feigned apology, tucking away a full measure of triumph within my chest as I began to rise from my seat.

Chapter Sixty-Four: New Life

As I was finally about to leave, Ankawa hurriedly and earnestly stopped me. “Wait, wait—Mr. Marube! There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Well, he seems completely at a loss,” I asked curtly. “What is it?” “You still don’t know Shūko’s true circumstances—you’re mistaken if you think driving me away will save her.” “The only person in the entire world who can bring happiness to Shūko exists—and that person isn’t me.” It was a truly bizarre claim—I couldn’t make sense of it—but his tone didn’t seem false. “Huh? What did you say?” “As long as you go to that person and ask—no, as long as *that person* consents—no one can touch Shūko, no matter what they say.” “It makes no difference whether I stay in this country or not.” “And unless you get that person’s approval, all your efforts to make Shūko happy will be worthless. To put it plainly, Shūko’s like a divine messenger—her fate rests entirely on that god’s will.” “What good would others’ meddling do without appealing to that god?” Seeing I still wasn’t convinced, he pressed, “Mr. Marube—have you heard about Shūko’s secret mission?” “If you haven’t heard of it, you won’t understand. But if you have, you’ll grasp everything.” He was saying increasingly strange things, but I couldn’t ignore this mention of her secret mission. “Yes, I’ve heard.” “It’s no ordinary matter—a mission she’d stake her life to fulfill.” “Who gave Shūko this mission?” “The god I mentioned. This god doesn’t just hold part of her fate—he demands her very life, bending her completely to his will.” “Whether Shūko is saved depends on clinging to him or casting him aside. Go meet him yourself if you doubt me. Even if Shūko died, he could give her new life—that’s his power.”

I could not avoid asking in return.

“Who is that person?” “Ah, that’s my secret. I can’t simply tell you—not without first obtaining a firm promise from you.” “What kind of promise?” “The promise that before you report me to the authorities or send me abroad, you will definitely go to that person.” “What good would such a promise do?” “This is a matter of grave importance to me.” “Why?” “If you go to that person and make your request, you’ll realize there’s no need to reprimand or prosecute Ankawa—my existence will become irrelevant.” “If I go to that person and discover your words are lies—” “At that time, sue me or do as you please—of course, in my current state, I can’t flee or hide while you’re visiting them. When you return, whether you arrest me or drag me to court—yes, you can make me suffer any fate you choose.”

Indeed, that was also true—if I were to meet this person and discover that Ankawa had deceived me, I could then repay Ankawa tenfold for his treachery. Even if I risked being deceived, meeting that person seemed a viable strategy. “Then please tell me that person’s address and full name.” “Do you promise to go to Paris and visit that person?” “I will.” “If you claim you’ll go but then sue me instead without following through—*that* is precisely when Shūko won’t be saved.” “Shūko cannot be saved unless she receives a new life from that person.” “Since she has already received a new life once before and has been laboring to repay that debt through her secret mission, this time too she must receive a new life again—she must be reborn into happiness. Otherwise, it’s all futile.”

“His words were so bizarre that I reconsidered multiple times—likely he was trying to make a fool of me—but since I couldn’t know without testing it firsthand, I resolved, *Well, let myself be deceived then,* and said, ‘I promise I will go to that person without fail—now tell me their address and name. Come on—who is it?’” At this critical moment, Ankawa hesitated slightly—whether it was a lie or the truth, his reluctance palpable—before saying, “Very well. Though it brings great loss upon me… I shall tell you.” “It’s Mr. Paul Lepel, residing at 29 Rue Racine in Paris.” Indeed, this was the very person written on the medical scholar’s name card that had emerged from his sun-shadow-colored garment—“In all the wide world, none but this man can save you”—and given how the pieces aligned, it didn’t seem entirely a lie. Even if it were a lie, it seemed certain that this man was at least somewhat connected to Shūko’s secret—so I resolved to meet him regardless. As I deliberated this in my mind, Ankawa muttered with unmistakable regret, “Ah, if this man were to protect Shūko again and grant her a new life, we’d no longer be able to lay a finger on her or do anything at all. It’s like losing a golden vine—a precious asset—but when your back’s against the wall, you’ve no choice.”

“Then I shall go to that person’s place as soon as possible,” I declared aloud and resolved inwardly. After bidding farewell to Ankawa, I immediately opened the window of this room and exited through it. Then, from outside the window, I called out, “Here—I’ll return this properly,” and threw the pistol back inside before swiftly departing this detestable insect farm.

Chapter Sixty-Five: Now Again—Now Again

Having left the insect farm, I wanted so intensely to go to Paris immediately—but first, I wanted to see Shūko’s face. Because I hadn’t seen her for two days, I felt as though I had entered another world—to put it plainly, I missed Shūko’s face.

By this time, it was already dawn, and walking from there to the station, he arrived just as the first train was departing. He immediately boarded it and returned to Ghost Tower around two in the afternoon. As he stepped into the entrance hall, the guard made a peculiar face and said, “Both Miss Shūko and the master were terribly worried, as they had no idea where you had gone.” There was something unusual beyond the literal meaning of his words. Fearing that some dreadful incident might have occurred during my absence—a sense of foreboding I rarely experienced—I merely answered “Is that so?” and without waiting to hear more, rushed into Shūko’s room.

Contrary to her usual meticulous caution，the door to Shūko’s room stood wide open．Inside，I found her reclined in a tilted chair in the corner，gazing at the ceiling with her unbound hair cascading behind the chair and hands clasped atop her head．Her state defied description—neither despair nor anything nameable． She seemed scarcely aware of my arrival．“Miss Shūko，what’s happened？” I asked． Shūko startled upright．“Oh—you’ve returned so soon！” she cried，clutching herself to my chest．This was wholly unlike her—ordinarily，she folded fear，grief，even joy deep within，maintaining an unshakably calm demeanor．That she now clung so desperately signaled catastrophe． “What’s wrong？ Calm yourself and tell me，” I urged，rubbing her back． “It’s fate—inescapable，” she wept．“Why must I alone endure such trials？ First they accused me of killing Miss Urako，and now—now—” Her words dissolved into sobs． “Now what？ Miss Shūko—have new suspicions arisen？” “Yes！ They claim I poisoned Father—” Poisoned Father？ “Ah！” I recoiled without thinking．“Has something befallen Uncle？”

“Yes—they say there was poison in the wine I poured for him. He’s been ill since two days ago.” “What? Since two days ago? And now…?” “As for his current condition… From what I hear through the maids, there’s been slight improvement—but even if I wish to nurse him myself… they won’t let me near his room… They suspect I’d use poison again… If Father passes away as things stand… they’ll say it was Shūko’s poisoning… And if he recovers… they’ll claim keeping me away prevented further attempts… Either way… I—” “But who won’t allow you into Father’s room?” “The attending nurse… I’ve suspected from the start… It must be a detective sent by police… disguised as a nurse.” “Even so—isn’t that suspicion too rash? You’ve no reason to kill Father.” “No—there *is* a reason… That’s why I call it fate’s cruelty…” “Everything—from start to finish—has been meticulously arranged… as though I must kill Father…” “Someone who hates me—no… On second thought… I can’t imagine such a person exists… But unless I assume they do… none of this makes sense…”

I felt as though trapped in a nightmare. "No matter who schemes what, Miss Shūko—no matter how cruelly fortune may turn—as long as I remain here, you needn't fear. I'll never permit such suspicions to settle upon you." "Didn't I shatter those heavy doubts cast over you during the Urako affair through my testimony?" "Leave everything entirely to me without the slightest worry." "If matters could indeed resolve so," Shūko murmured, "I might find some fleeting comfort. Yet this ordeal lies beyond any mortal power to mend."

Even as she spoke, Shūko seemed to grow somewhat calmer as she relied on me. Since I was concerned above all about my uncle’s condition, I repeatedly reassured her—“Please rest completely assured”—before making my way to his sickroom. When I reached the doorway, a man dressed as a nurse emerged from inside. He appeared exhausted from his nursing duties—likely changing shifts—and though I certainly recognized his face, I refrained from naming him yet. I hastily stopped him and asked, “Pardon me—may I enter the sickroom now?” “You can’t,” he replied. “He’s only just fallen asleep.” “Then I’ll wait until he wakes,” I said. “But there’s something I’d like to ask you now.” The nurse eyed me suspiciously. “Who are you?” “Marube Michikurou—the patient’s nephew.” “Then I’ll answer whatever you ask,” he said. I led him to a room suited for private conversation, gestured to a chair, and said, “You can’t talk standing up—sit here. Ah, Mr. Mori Mondo,” addressing him by name.

Chapter Sixty-Six: On What Evidence?

Although his appearance was different, this nurse was indeed Detective Mori Mondo, who had been involved in the previous Urako incident. I perceived this because there was a keen, intelligent glint in the depths of his eyes.

He was greatly surprised to have his name called but did not feign ignorance. “Well, disguising myself isn’t my forte,” he suddenly laughed, “but being seen through by an amateur is a first in twenty years.” “I’m astonished by your perceptiveness,” he said in a praising tone, then immediately shifted his demeanor and casually asked, “Now, what was this matter you wished to discuss with me?” I had requested that he disclose everything without reserve and then asked in detail why such a dreadful suspicion had fallen upon Shūko; upon hearing the particulars, there were indeed plausible elements to it.

According to his account, on the day I left this house pursuing Ankawa Jinzō—before nightfall—my uncle had summoned a legal professional as previously mentioned to draft a will, designating Shūko and me as heirs to the Marube family. Though he had not yet informed me of this, he immediately read the entire document aloud to Shūko on the spot. When the next morning arrived, Takanawada Chōzō handed my uncle a meticulously written document resembling a letter. Inside it were detailed accounts of Shūko’s background and secrets, and Uncle was so shocked that he immediately summoned Shūko and interrogated her: “Do you recall any of these matters?” For a while, Shūko could only show bewilderment and remained unable to respond, but soon—with an air of deep resolve—she confessed frankly.

That resolve, according to the detective's assessment, appeared to be a determination to kill her uncle. By confessing here, she had lulled her uncle into security and complacency, then firmly resolved to secretly poison him later—such was the plan she had settled upon. Her uncle had thought it impossible that Shūko would do such a thing, but when it unexpectedly proved true, he was so shocked that he lost all composure, dismissed her, and shut himself away in a room. Perceiving this situation, he likely regretted the terms of the previous day's will and began deliberating alone on how to revise it, for he could by no means make Shūko his heir. Given how convincingly she had spoken, Shūko probably reasoned that unless she killed her uncle before he amended the will, she would not only lose her inheritance rights to the vast fortune but also be expelled from the household with nowhere to go. Several hours later, she returned to her uncle's room, exchanged a few pleasantries, then—citing his pallid complexion—suggested he drink some wine. She herself took a glass cup from the shelf, poured the wine, and directly handed it to him. When her uncle took it and drank, his body immediately went numb.

Fortunately, Uncle noticed before drinking it all, so at that time he only suffered numbness in his body. He immediately declared that the wine was poisoned, pressed both hands onto the half-drunk glass cup and wine bottle, and had someone summoned to seal them. That alone was all he could manage before the numbness spread throughout his entire body, leaving him in a state where he could do nothing more. However, this too lasted only a brief moment. Whether due to the doctor’s effective treatment or not, after several hours—as though sobering from drunkenness—he awoke; however, Uncle did not suspect Shūko’s involvement in the slightest and even allowed her to continue nursing him. Yet the physician who had examined Uncle deemed the matter grave and, upon coincidentally encountering the police chief on his way back, entreated him to handle it discreetly. Just as the police chief was returning to the station, Detective Mori happened to arrive and heard the account. Since he had already begun investigating the unresolved Urako disappearance case and given that there were many inexplicable matters surrounding Ghost Tower, he requested that they temporarily entrust this case to him. After finally obtaining their consent, he enlisted a local detective as his subordinate and—through the aforementioned doctor—had him take up residence in the house under the guise of a nurse.

First, they had his half-drunk cup and the wine bottle analyzed. While there was nothing unusual about the wine in the bottle, they discovered poison had been mixed into the remaining portion in the cup. Upon examination, they concluded someone must have surreptitiously added poison to the cup while pouring the wine. Strangely, they identified the toxin as sap from an Indian plant called Granil—not found in this country. I recalled “Granil” was the poison coating the blade that had stabbed me earlier. When I told Mori this, he nodded and said, “There you have it. Encountering such a rare poison twice in one household was too peculiar—we thoroughly investigated its source.” “You know of Senkusa-ya—the florist at the village outskirts cultivating exotic plants?” “Indeed,” I replied. “I mentioned their apprentice who informed me about the forged telegram and received a ten-pound reward.” “Yes,” I acknowledged. “The owner—the Wrinkled Old Woman—once lived in India and still grows Granil among her plants.” “What of it?” “Moreover, someone from this house occasionally visits that florist.” “Who?” “Miss Shūko’s attendant—Mrs. Torai.” “But Mrs. Torai is ill.” “Her condition has mostly improved,” Mori countered. “She visited yesterday.” “For what purpose?” “The old woman knows how to raise fox-monkeys and treat their ailments—Mrs. Torai ostensibly goes to consult about that.” “You don’t mean she procured Granil?” “They refuse to sell it—one must steal it.” “So she stole the plant and—”

“No—on the contrary, she likely wouldn’t steal it herself. That Mrs. Torai has been secretly giving pocket money to the apprentice at that house.” “Even so, that does not constitute evidence that Shūko poisoned my uncle.” “Of course, this is not evidence.” “I merely explained the source of the Granil.” “Then on what evidence do you suspect Shūko?” “Unfortunately, the small bottle containing Granil was found in Miss Shūko’s room.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Ex-Convict

The fact that the poison bottle had been hidden in Shūko’s room was truly unexpected; even I could not offer an excuse. However, I grew desperate and said, “But Mr. Mori, there are numerous examples in the world of false charges and detectives’ errors. Have you not heard of cases where evidence deemed irrefutable—even acknowledged by judges—turned out to be entirely mistaken?” “That is correct,” Mori replied. “I am better acquainted with such matters than you.” “Even so,” I pressed, “do you suspect Shūko based solely on a single bottle of poison?” “It’s not merely one bottle—as I’ve stated before, all circumstances point to Miss Shūko.” “But from another perspective,” I countered, “many circumstances suggest it wasn’t her doing.” Mori rephrased bluntly: “You mean there’s substantial counterevidence.” “Correct. They may not constitute definitive counterevidence, but they certainly amount to extenuating circumstances.” “Then,” Mori challenged, “kindly present one or two examples of these circumstances from among your many claims.”

Now that he put it like that, I couldn’t point to a single thing that would serve as opposing circumstances. Floundering, I said, “Well, for example—” Mori pressed: “Yes—for example?” “Wasn’t Shūko also suspected in Urako’s disappearance? If you consider that, there might be someone scheming to cast criminal suspicion upon her.” “There might or might not be—such speculation holds no weight,” Mori dismissed. “Hence—” “Hence,” I continued desperately, “there are many in this house with obscure backgrounds and histories. You can’t claim those people didn’t scheme to frame Shūko for some purpose.” “Who exactly?” Mori demanded. “Assume there are many suspects—just name one.” “Someone like Takanawada Chōzō.”

I spoke out, then—astonished at my own boldness—stopped my words and looked at Detective Mori’s face. The detective also looked at my face. However, he did not seem particularly taken aback; rather, he appeared more deeply moved by my words than I had expected. After a moment of silent contemplation, he soon said, “It is true that since the Konshi couple vacated Torisu-an, Mr. Takanawada’s prolonged stay in this house as a guest has struck me as somewhat inexplicable.” “However, I do not believe he is involved in this case.” I took some heart at these words. “You cannot claim he is unrelated! First of all, did you not state yourself that he sent a secret letter to my uncle? That was the very beginning of this incident!” “However, your uncle has clearly acknowledged that this secret letter was not sent out of hatred for Shūko but rather done out of genuine kindness for her sake.” “What? So they reported Shūko to Uncle in a malicious manner out of kindness toward her?” “No—it’s not that it was done in a malicious manner.” “To be clear, I myself have not seen the secret letter, but according to your uncle’s account, it merely stated facts—matters that should have been conveyed to your uncle from Shūko’s own mouth but since she herself could not speak them, he found it unbearable to remain silent and thus relayed them on her behalf.” “It is truly for Shūko’s sake.”

I didn’t believe such a secret report could exist, but since neither I nor Mori actually knew what the report was about, there was no way for us to argue the point.

Mori continued, “To add to that, Mr. Takanawada fell from the second floor of this house the day before yesterday. I helped him up, but he became nearly unable to move and is now lying in a room. According to the doctor’s assessment, he also has a chronic heart condition, and since that has become quite aggravated, he lacks the capacity to be involved in such matters.”

Mori’s assertions seemed far more compelling than my own arguments. I said, “Even if Mr. Takanawada is uninvolved, this does not constitute evidence that Shūko committed the act.” “However,” Mori countered, “despite being prohibited from entering or leaving your uncle’s room, yesterday morning Shūko again went to his bedside under the guise of visiting him in his illness, poured water into a cup and made him drink it. That water too appears to have been poisoned—your uncle’s body became paralyzed exactly as before.”

I could only be astonished.

Unable to argue further, I let out a voice that seemed on the verge of tears and said with utter desperation, “But Mr. Mori—to suspect someone, you must consider their usual conduct! Do you truly think Shūko is the kind of woman who would poison someone? And consider Takanawada Chōzō’s usual conduct as well!” “Well, precisely because we consider her usual conduct, suspicion falls all the more on Shūko.” “What? What kind of flaws in Shūko’s usual conduct are you referring to?” Mori did not answer directly. “Mr. Takanawada’s usual conduct leaves no room for doubt as a gentleman. He was the former owner of this Ghost Tower, raised by Ms. Okon—though it is true he once indulged in dissipation during his youth, which is hardly uncommon for such recklessness. From that time until now, thorough investigations have been conducted, yet none reveal conduct unbefitting a gentleman’s status. In contrast, Miss Shūko’s circumstances—” “What? Why do you say ‘in contrast’ regarding Shūko’s circumstances?” “I hadn’t intended to tell you this—but no, you wouldn’t know—Shūko is an ex-convict.” “What? What do you mean by ‘ex-convict’?” “No—she is a woman who served hard labor in prison as a convicted prisoner.” To these terrifying words, I could not utter a single word.

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Moreover, the Prison Break

An ex-convict—who would believe that Shūko, so beautiful and gentle she wouldn’t hurt a fly, could be someone who had served hard labor in prison?

Even so, I could not disbelieve it. In a room of the insect farm, I had seen a prison uniform for female inmates alongside a pale gray kimono thought to have been worn by Shūko. At the time, I wondered if Madam Torai might have worn it—but was that Shūko’s? Had Shūko truly been sentenced to hard labor?

No one who serves prison time would wear their prison-issued uniforms outside; those garments are institutional property. Even if someone wanted to keep wearing them, they couldn’t—only escapees fleeing confinement would leave dressed in such clothes. If Shūko had worn that uniform, she must be a prison escapee. Had she slipped out of jail still clad in it? The more I dwelled on it, the more horrifying it became. Wait—among Shūko’s belongings was a name tag belonging to Ōba Rensai, who styled himself a Medical Scholar. Rensai had once worked as a prison doctor, Ankawa had told me. Putting together these fragments of information, I couldn’t outright dismiss Mori Mondo’s accusations. There was no denying Shūko might be an ex-convict—and if she carried the secret of a prison break, that would explain why she’d remained trapped under Jinzō’s thumb until now.

After stewing over various thoughts until my insides were boiling, I turned to Mori and asked, “What will you do now?” “The course is decided—it’s merely a matter of apprehending her with ropes.” “But whether Shūko has a criminal record remains mere conjecture! To arrest someone based on conjecture—” “Whether she has a record is irrelevant. Even if confirmed an ex-convict, having served her sentence would render it moot—I’ve verified this as protocol.” “Regardless! With clear evidence someone attempted to poison your uncle, we cannot let this rest.” “When will you arrest her?” “I must draft a detailed report for London to obtain an arrest warrant—likely day after tomorrow.” “This breaches professional secrecy, but I trust you won’t warn Shūko to flee.” “If she escapes meanwhile, we’ll deem you her accomplice.”

“I firmly believe those suspicions are groundless—why would I advise her to flee? Moreover, Shūko herself trusts in her own innocence.” “Why would she ever flee?” I declared resolutely—though in truth I felt uneasy. I didn’t want to consider whether there might be some way to help her escape—yet the thought came to me unbidden. Yet if she were truly the sort of woman compelled to flee—a hopeless case—there would be no need to help her escape; rather, I myself should be the one to arrest her with ropes. But Shūko could never be such a person. By all means, I had to prove her innocence through my own efforts. How could I achieve this proof? My sole reliance lay with the Parisian Mr. Paul Lepel whom I’d heard about from Jinzō. In any case, there was no choice but to consult this man. If he knew Shūko’s daily conduct deeply and could affirm she was neither an ex-convict nor a woman who would use poison, I would bring him here to testify. Though I didn’t understand his relationship with Shūko, since he was said to grant her a new life, he must bestow that new life here—letting her find vitality amidst death—and rescue her from peril.

I firmly resolved, faced Mori, and earnestly requested that he postpone Shūko’s arrest for three days starting then, asserting I would present evidence to the contrary within that time. Mori replied, “Well, three days from now aligns well enough with my own plans—it’s not as if I’m granting this postponement solely at your request.” “Gather whatever contrary evidence exists,” he continued, “but I’ll permit no extension beyond three days.” “Understood,” I said. Mori pressed further: “You must swear you won’t let Shūko flee.” “I swear—I won’t allow her to escape.” For now, their discussion seemed settled. Though uncertain what Paris might yield, with no alternatives left, I resolved to depart for France immediately.

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Devil’s World

My heart must have been like a bamboo arrow straining at the bowstring—such was my state of mind at that moment. Though I wanted nothing more than to rush to Paris and meet this Mr. Lepel posthaste—to secure some means of saving Shūko without delay—I found myself unable to depart without first laying eyes on my uncle, who teetered on death's brink. I had no choice but to wait until he regained consciousness.

While waiting, I went to Shūko’s room, but I could not bring myself to relay the detective’s words to her exactly as they were said. To ask you here and now whether you are truly an ex-convict would settle the matter, but even if my tongue were to rot, I could never bring myself to pose such a question. Since she is definitely not an ex-convict, there is no need to awkwardly question her; moreover, advising her to flee here and now would be all too simple—but this too is unnecessary. What fool would recommend flight to someone who is unquestionably innocent? Is gathering proof of that innocence not the very purpose of my journey to Paris?

I faced Shūko and told her repeatedly—over and over—that she need not worry in the slightest since I would take full responsibility for everything, that she should feel as secure as if aboard a parent ship. Though Shūko, in her current circumstances where not a soul showed her sympathy, seemed deeply moved by my kindness upon hearing these words, she nevertheless appeared unable to adopt the mindset of one safely aboard such a ship; no matter what, her anxious demeanor did not fade. Before long, my uncle woke up, and the maid came to inform me. I turned to Shūko and assured her—explaining that though I had no choice but to go to Paris, I would return after staying just one night, and that I had sufficiently arranged for nothing to happen during my absence—then immediately headed for my uncle’s bedroom. But in the corridor, I encountered Mori Mondo once more. He stopped me with a purposeful air and said, “Mr. Marube, earlier I stated there was still a three-day grace period before apprehending Shūko, but depending on circumstances, even that much may not be granted.” “What? After you promised so firmly, how can you now speak of ‘depending on circumstances’?” Mori replied: “Ah, there’s one thing I forgot to mention.” “If your uncle were to die as early as tomorrow, the authorities are already aware of the poisoning allegation, so an autopsy will inevitably occur. Should the autopsy results lead to Shūko being apprehended on the spot, I would be powerless to intervene—I must make this clear beforehand.” Indeed, in such a case, Mori’s assistance would be of no use, but these words truly pierced my chest like a sword.

Was Uncle's condition truly so critical that it couldn't last three days? If that were the case, I could not abandon him and depart on my journey. All my efforts to save Shūko would be entirely mistimed; though this was truly unbearable to accept, there was nothing to be done—and in this state of deep discouragement, I entered my uncle's sickroom. My uncle was awake. "Oh, Michikurou? I had just sent a maid to call you—" "Yes, Uncle—how are you feeling?" "Perhaps because I slept awhile, I've improved considerably." "If this continues, I should return to normal within four or five days." Indeed, he did seem much better. Contrary to what the detective had claimed, there appeared little likelihood of an autopsy occurring within three or four days. Summoning some resolve, I said: "If you have no need of me here, Uncle, I must make haste to Paris for an urgent matter." Uncle opened his eyes wide and looked at my face—almost sighing as he said: "Another trip?"—clearly finding my impending absence disquieting. "Yes—I've no desire to go, but it can't be avoided." "If you aren't here, Shūko will surely face difficulties." That he spoke of Shūko this way suggested he hadn't yet given up on her. Seeking to confirm his true feelings, I ventured: "Yes—it seems Shūko is under various suspicions." "What? Do you imagine Shūko would ever poison me? Whatever else might be said of her—she isn't the sort of woman to do such things." That Uncle harbored no suspicion on this count remained my greatest advantage. Yet his qualifying phrase—"whatever else might be said"—implied lingering doubts about other aspects of her character he no longer trusted as before. Somehow, I needed not only to clear Shūko of police suspicion but also restore Uncle's full confidence in her.

Uncle spoke in a tone thick with unspoken emotion: “But Shūko has a pitiable lot in life.” “If I were to die, I wonder what would become of things…” “Uncle, how could such a thing as your passing ever occur? Even if it were to happen, I would protect Shūko myself.” Uncle did not respond at all to whether he disapproved of my protecting Shūko. This was a stark contrast to how he had previously hinted, time and again, at his desire for Shūko and me to marry quickly. Uncle spoke again, as if struck by emotion: “Ah… Nothing in this world goes as one wishes. It’s truly a devil’s world—devils toying with humans. I’ll leave everything to fate now. I won’t revise my will. Even if I did, it would be futile—the devils would interfere again.”

Though I couldn’t grasp the deeper meaning behind his words, it was clear he harbored a profound dissatisfaction with this world. Could it be that my growing thoughts of Shūko were what one might call the devil’s interference? It seemed he wanted to revise the will to leave everything to Shūko, but if he were to revise it, it would affect my own interests—so perhaps that was why he had resigned himself to not revising it. Since I had some property directly inherited from my father, even if the will were revised, I wouldn’t feel particularly pained; however, considering that stating this might offend Uncle instead, I deliberated back and forth but kept any formal reassurances unspoken. Uncle said, “Ah, I’m getting sleepy again. Since the doctor told me to sleep as much as I can, this seems a somewhat good sign. There will be plenty of time to talk later—if you’re going to Paris, go quickly and come back.” Then he lay down on his futon. Though my heart ached at the thought of leaving, this was no time to be swayed by sentiment. Leaving behind the words “Uncle, there’s no need to worry about anything,” I quietly withdrew from the room and, with only the barest preparations, finally departed from the house. Going to Paris—what would come of it? I was nearly in a daze.

Chapter Seventy: The Figure Reflected in the Mirror What manner of man was this Mr. Paul Lepel? I did not even know him. Though I moved in a daze, I clung to the irrational conviction that meeting this man alone could save Shūko—yet with no other path to her salvation, meet him I must.

With this resolve, I left the tower and arrived in London by nightfall, but the last train had already departed. Given that wasting even a single night was unthinkable under these circumstances, I pondered whether there was any work I could do here for Shūko’s sake—and then I remembered that lawyer, Gonda Tokisuke.

It was strange I hadn't thought of him until now. It was well-established that he knew Shūko's secrets and had actively worked for her benefit; in times like these, he would undoubtedly be laboring fervently on her behalf. Moreover, he was more resourceful than I—consulting him before departing for Paris was only proper. True, he was my rival in matters of the heart regarding Shūko—a romantic adversary—and while this fact unsettled me slightly and even repelled me somewhat, since I had now won that contest, I ought to show him leniency rather than resentment. Especially for Shūko's sake, I couldn't indulge such trivial emotions. However disagreeable he might be, I had to ally with him.

Though it was late at night, I visited his lodging resolved to rouse him and lay everything bare. But he was not there. I went to his club as well—he was not there either. I began to suspect that perhaps he, like me, had already gone somewhere for Shūko’s sake and was rushing about on her behalf. Yet there was nothing to be done about someone who simply wasn’t present. At both his lodging and his club, I left word on the back of my business card that I urgently wished to meet him regarding a critical matter.

By the afternoon of the next day, I arrived in Paris and made my way to 29 Rue Racine. The street was an extremely quiet place, and No. 29 in particular stood as a dilapidated house where one couldn't tell from the outside whether humans or foxes inhabited it, its gate showing almost no traces of people coming or going. I thought that perhaps Mr. Paul Lepel had lived here several years ago and might have since moved elsewhere, but slipping through the side entrance, I knocked on the gloomy front door. After a moment, an attendant emerged—a man around sixty years old, his clothes as aged as himself. In this place, even someone called “Mr. Lepel” seemed to be an elderly recluse with little social interaction. How could such a person possibly aid Shūko, who was far away in England? For the first time, I felt doubt stirring within me. Yet now, there was no choice but to proceed. I simply asked, “Is the master at home?” The attendant responded in an amusing manner: “Yes, depending on the guest, he is in residence.” After scrutinizing my appearance as if to bore holes through me, he asked, “May I ask who you are?” I responded: “I come from England with an introduction from an acquaintance of Mr. Paul Lepel.” “If it’s England, that’s hardly far at all—our master receives visitors from Australia and other ends of the earth.” With that, he first hinted at his master’s world-renowned status, then solemnly accepted the business card I presented and withdrew. However, I was shown to the waiting room sooner than expected.

The room's interior stood in stark contrast to its dilapidated exterior, with every fixture meticulously arranged and every corner immaculately clean. Moreover, mirrors of various kinds were strategically placed throughout the space. Somehow their arrangement seemed geometrically precise—mirror reflecting mirror in endless reflections, capturing shadows from distant corners through an unprecedented mechanism. This alone revealed the master was no ordinary man. Yet when I considered how my own pacing figure, marveling at these mirrors, might now be projected into his distant chamber, I realized he could very well be scrutinizing me at this very moment.

Though it felt absurd to suddenly straighten my posture at this thought, I looked around again, reasoning that if my figure was visible from the master’s chamber, then his figure must likewise be reflected here. The ceiling too had mirrors embedded here and there, and along the juncture where the walls met the ceiling—no, precisely at that boundary—ran a gap about one shaku wide, circling all four sides. This gap must surely be the passage through which shadows from this room and beyond traveled back and forth. Yet no human-like figures appeared in any of the mirrors.

I couldn't simply maintain my formal posture and instead wandered about, scrutinizing the countless reflections of shadows upon the mirrors—shadows of every surface and hue. Then within them, a figure suddenly appeared in one reflection: a tall gentleman in traveling clothes clutching under his arm a box-like object about one *shaku* square, hastening away. Unfortunately only his back was visible, rendering his face unrecognizable—yet I felt certain I'd seen this person before. Who could that be? I waited anxiously, willing him to turn this way, but he kept walking without approaching and soon vanished from the mirror's frame. Just as I lamented this missed opportunity, I suddenly noticed—there, reflected in another mirror, was the man's full face. My breath caught—the figure was none other than Gonda Tokisuke himself.

Chapter Seventy-One: Youthful Visage, Silver Crown

Gonda Tokisuke, Gonda Tokisuke—though I had been unable to meet him when leaving England, to now witness him departing from this house was truly an uncanny stroke of luck. Wanting to detain him even momentarily, I rushed out of the room—yet his reflection in the mirror gave no indication of his actual location. The hallway showed no trace of human presence. Descending into the garden, I went as far as the gate, but he appeared to have already vanished. All around lay a desolate stillness.

As for why he had come to this house—needless to say, it must have been for Shūko's sake. But how had he known to turn to Mr. Paul Lepel? Even I had only managed to learn of this after extraordinary trials, yet seeing this confirmed he knew Shūko's true origins more deeply than I did. Undoubtedly he—like Ankawa Jinzō and Dr. Ōba Rensai—must know every particular of Shūko's circumstances. Yet I—yet I—indeed knew nothing of who Shūko truly was. Before she appeared at the Ghost Tower, where had she lived? What had she been? When I considered it, my position was truly that of a man suspended in midair. The plain truth was, I didn't even understand how this Mr. Paul Lepel could possibly save Shūko.

However, convincing myself that meeting the master would clarify everything, I returned alone to the room. After a short while, the same attendant returned and said, “The master is now available,” then led me deep into the building and ushered me into a particular room. This chamber stood in stark contrast to the previous one—exquisitely constructed with utmost refinement, adorned with numerous antique vessels. Seated among them like an immortal sage was an old man who could only be Mr. Paul Lepel. He embodied the phrase “youthful visage, silver crown”: though likely nearing seventy, his face bore a remarkably robust complexion while his hair was pure white. Though I cannot read physiognomy, this master undoubtedly carried Jewish and Spanish blood—he was no pure Frenchman. Upon seeing me, he first wore a smile one might direct at a child and said, “I hear you come recommended by an acquaintance. Who might that be?”

As I hesitated over how to respond, I scrutinized the master's face—a truly peculiar sensation came over me. When I first saw Shūko, her unnatural beauty had made me suspect she might be wearing a mask, and now this same suspicion arose as I studied his countenance. Could this man be Shūko's father? No—that was impossible. Had someone of such influence been her father, how could he have allowed her to endure so many hardships? Various matters had already made it clear that Shūko was someone who had lost both parents.

While thinking this, I reluctantly said, “Yes—I heard it from Ankawa Jinzō.” With an air of utter incomprehension, [Paul Lepel] said, “How strange. The name ‘Ankawa Jinzō’ is as new to my ears as your face is new to my eyes.” “Oh?” The master said, “No, that’s a name I’m hearing for the first time,” and showed a demeanor suggesting he considered me not someone to let his guard down around. I, in this critical situation, amended my words: “Yes, that Ankawa is a close friend of Dr. Ōba Rensai.” “Ah, if it’s Ōba Rensai, I understand now. Though I haven’t heard from him in years, he was a frequent visitor to my door some time ago. If you come by his introduction, I shall speak without reservation. But no—how good of you to come! In such circumstances, there is no one in the wide world but myself who can provide salvation from the root.”

When he mentioned "salvation from the root," I wondered if he already knew my purpose. Somewhat disconcerted, I began in a slightly trembling tone, "In truth, regarding the matter of Matsutani Shūko—which I heard you are acquainted with through Dr. Ōba—" Before I could finish, the master recalled with a start: "Ah, Shūko—that beauty? No, her case was rather my own misstep. The salvation proved somewhat incomplete, leaving lingering misfortunes that trouble me at times. Being inherently beautiful made it particularly troublesome, though I believe she remains secure against most adversities." He broke off, scrutinizing my face intently. "Your own request is equally arduous—nearly identical to Shūko's circumstances, with truly regrettable aspects that limit my full intervention. Yet as with Shūko's case, understand this: fundamental salvation ensures no cause for future remorse." "Shūko may have encountered various circumstances since then, but in any case, she must still regard me as her savior."

“Since it’s precisely because I regard you as my life’s savior that I’ve come all this way to beg your help.” “Then let us first establish terms before proceeding,” he said. “Though results may vary slightly in quality, my methods never fail—not once in ten thousand attempts.” Despite his ironclad assurances, something felt fundamentally unconvincing. That his technique would succeed was one matter—but did this doctor mean to physically intervene with my own body? The thought made my flesh crawl as if shrinking from unseen hands.

Chapter Seventy-Two: Once More into This World

There was something about the master’s words that didn’t sit right with me. I had come here intending to secure help for Shūko, yet an anxious thought arose in my mind—what if this were to result in some outrageous outcome? However, seeing that Gonda Tokisuke arrived before me, it seemed increasingly certain that this doctor could save Shūko—but how on earth had Gonda managed to entreat him? “If only I could hear that,” I was thinking when the master muttered as if to himself: “How curious. Though I hadn’t recalled Matsutani Shūko’s name in quite some time, today—after all this while—I’ve heard it from two separate gentlemen.” “The two gentlemen you mentioned—one must be myself,” I interjected swiftly, “and the other Gonda Tokisuke who just left this house. Though he’s my acquaintance—what did he request regarding Shūko?” The professor’s expression turned grave. “No answer can be given. To guard my clients’ secrets is Paul Lepel’s sacred vocation. Even were your own kin to later ask what you sought here, I would claim ignorance.” I flushed slightly and apologized for my impertinence. Yet my trust in the professor deepened somewhat as I reconsidered—if this man held such principles, perhaps he truly could save Shūko after all.

“Then, Professor—if I were to request your assistance—would you help me with any kind of incident?” The professor maintained his solemn demeanor. “Naturally. However, I cannot consent unless I fully hear the circumstances from my clients beforehand. If there is even the slightest concealment from me, we must part ways.” “I will of course disclose all circumstances.” “To put it plainly, the one who saves and the one being saved must act as if they were a single entity—their interests wholly aligned. Therefore, absolute trust must exist between them. Yet I still do not even know your name.” “Yes, I am Marube Michikurou.”

“From your appearance, you are likely a British noble,” said Dr. Lepel, “but as I make no habit of reading peerage directories, I have not the slightest notion what degree of respect to accord the surname Marube.” “I don’t particularly wish to be respected—” “You… you… What you desire isn’t respect but salvation—I see. Judging by your coming to me for help—have you violated the law in a duel? Or killed someone? You must be in imminent danger of arrest.” “That’s correct—a situation offering no legal escape.” “Then your coming here proves most fortunate indeed—for there exists no salvation beyond what I alone can provide.”

That was truly strange wording. How would he save someone being pursued by the law?

“But Professor—will she truly be saved?” “I shall ensure not a speck of impurity remains—yes, I will have her reborn as though into a world of pristine innocence, free from all sin. For I am bestowing an entirely new life.” The term “new life” matched the words Ankawa had spoken. He had indeed told me there was none but Paul-sensei who could grant Shūko a new life and save her as if reborn.

“However, Professor—the one needing salvation isn’t myself.” “Eh? If not yourself—then who?” “It’s Matsutani Shūko, whom I just mentioned.” The professor looked astonished. “Shūko again? How peculiar—I’ve never saved the same person twice before. Once I save someone, they should require no further salvation throughout their lifetime.” “Then you mean you cannot save her a second time?” “No—not you. I could save her twice or thrice if needed.” “Then please save Shūko once more! She’s fallen into such dire straits that she now stands beyond all hope of salvation.” The professor sighed heavily. “Ah—how pitiable! I’d thought there existed no other soul in this world with circumstances as extraordinary as hers—yet for her to plunge into adversity anew... What wretched fortune the woman bears.” “But there’s no reason she cannot be saved.” “How then? I beg you—reveal the method!”

The professor became slightly more formal. “How? That being my profession, I cannot utter another word on the matter until we first settle the compensation.” “I care not what sum you demand, but will she truly be saved without fail through your power?” “Spare your earnest inquiries. With my capabilities, salvation itself becomes trivial—I shall save her precisely as you desire. However, the fee will prove astonishingly steep.” “However steep—would it require tens of thousands of pounds?” The professor chuckled dryly. “Nothing so excessive—three thousand pounds shall suffice.”

Chapter Seventy-Three: Behind Lies a Dark Chamber

Faced with this moment, I showed no surprise at the exorbitant reward. If Shūko could truly be saved, then wealth was a trifling matter—I would not have hesitated to offer even my life. Such was my resolve. I agreed without a moment’s hesitation. That said, three thousand pounds was no small sum—compared to doctors’ fees or lawyers’ retainers, it amounted to an incomparably vast figure. While giving my consent, a thought stirred deep within me—had the Professor discerned it? “It is indeed a steep fee,” he continued. “In truth, the actual costs could be managed for far less. But extracting someone beyond the law’s reach is perilous work. At the slightest misstep, I myself draw scrutiny from detectives in those circles. There are ample precedents of detectives posing as clients to entrap me.” “That is precisely why I set my fees prohibitively high—beyond what detectives could ever pay. No matter how fervent their efforts, none can produce a sum bearing the name ‘thousand.’ I may have repelled countless detectives through these fees in the past. But you—though no detective—until payment settles, I cannot advance our discussion a single step further.”

As for the transfer of payment—of course, I did not possess such a large sum. But there must be a way. I possess a modest inheritance from my father—assets entirely converted to cash per his final wishes, entrusted to a bank in London for investment growth. The sum now exceeds ten thousand pounds, awaiting my use. Now was precisely the time to employ it. Fortunately, here in Paris exists a bank president well-acquainted with my uncle—a man who once came to Britain at my uncle’s invitation where we dined together, and whom I later entertained in Paris alongside my uncle. If I were to explain matters to him, even sums like three or five thousand pounds could be temporarily arranged.

When I explained this to the professor, it turned out he had long been acquainted with that bank president, but he explicitly ordered me never to disclose to the president or anyone else that the money was meant for him. Naturally, this wasn't something to share with anyone. As I finally prepared to depart from this place, the professor lent me his carriage. The carriage was driven by the elderly retainer I had seen earlier; it appeared this old man was the professor's true trusted confidant. The professor still harbored some suspicion that I might be a detective, and in truth, he likely intended through this arrangement to have his confidant keep watch over my actions.

Before long, I went to the bank and arrived. I observed that I had prevailed in this legal proceeding; everything proceeded smoothly, and within a short time, I obtained the funds. Of course, I intended to repay it with interest. Since this arrangement did not exceed a week, it hardly sufficed to boast of my credibility. When I returned to the professor's residence, he withdrew to an adjoining room for a time—evidently to question the coachman about my conduct—then reappeared before me in less than ten minutes, perhaps satisfied with the results. This time, he seemed more at ease than before, the tension in his face having somewhat relaxed. "Now then, let us begin our work immediately." The professor's first words were an invitation: "This way." Complying with his instruction, I followed him and was led to an inner chamber further within. This room too was equipped with various mirrors. Smiling proudly, he declared, "This is my study. From here, I can observe every detail of visiting guests." He added, "Before meeting you directly, I first examined your reflection in these mirrors and determined you posed no danger." "When you saw Gonda Tokisuke and hurried outside, your behavior seemed thoroughly amateurish—nothing like a detective."

Having anticipated matters would come to this, I was not particularly surprised, but as I still could not grasp what we were to do in this room, I asked, “Professor, shall I present the payment here?” “No—you shall deliver the payment to a more secure location. Even servants or others may enter this room,” said the Professor as he took two hand candles from a shelf and lit them. Though it was still daytime—what could he need hand candles for? Soon came his instruction: “Now take these and come with me,” while pulling out two thick volumes from the bookshelf. He inserted his hand into the gap left by the removed books—whether pressing some hidden mechanism or not—and at once the bookcase swung open on both sides like a door. Behind it lay a darkroom. Truly those engaged in secret work take extraordinary precautions—even as I marveled at this, the Professor entered the darkroom and called to me. I followed him inside. With a click—he must have pressed another mechanism somewhere—the bookcase door closed seamlessly behind us as though never opened.

What connection could saving Shūko possibly have with this darkroom? The Professor and I stood facing each other in the darkroom.

Chapter Seventy-Four: Former Self and Later Self What did he intend to do by bringing me into this darkroom? I could not comprehend it in the slightest.

The Professor, seeing this, explained. "You cannot possibly comprehend how I intend to save Miss Matsutani Shūko. In this darkroom, I shall demonstrate solely the method. Once shown, you will understand everything—how I previously saved the young lady, what state she was in before salvation, and the full measure of Paul Lepel's expertise."

Having heard this, I wanted him to show me the method without delay. Above all, I yearned to know what Shūko had been like before being saved by this professor—and now my heart quickened at the thought that within this darkroom, I might finally uncover every detail of her origins and upbringing. “This is still the entrance.” “Now, proceed much deeper inside.” Complying with his words, I swung the handheld candle to illuminate the area and saw that indeed, this appeared to be the entrance to a cellar. A short distance ahead, stone steps descended downward. Though eerie, I took the lead and descended them. At the bottom stood an iron door, firmly barring passage. The professor took out a key that seemed disproportionately small for the door and opened it. Inside was an empty room about ten tatami mats in size. Upon entering this room, the professor closed the door once more and said, “This is where I conduct my secret affairs. No one besides myself ever comes this far. The safe is also kept here.” His tone carried an unspoken demand for payment, so I took out his three thousand pounds and handed them over.

Strangely enough, this room was equipped with an electric light; the Professor pressed the switch and instantly turned the room bright as day. I moved to extinguish the hand candle, but he urgently interjected, “No—you must not put it out yet. There are no electric lights beyond this point.” “There’s still more beyond this?” I said. “Of course,” said the Professor. When I looked where he pointed, there indeed was a second iron door on one wall—such depth of construction spoke of utmost caution. As he finished counting the reward money and stored it in the corner safe, his smile grew more contented. “Three thousand pounds is no small sum. Truthfully, having reached an age to retire, I’ve saved funds for years—this final payment completes my intended budget. Having saved many souls through perilous endeavors, this shall be my last salvation. Should you return, Paul Lepel likely won’t reside here anymore. To purchase land in the countryside and live peacefully as a retired man, untouched by worldly storms—what tranquility that would bring.”

Having concluded his reminiscence, he opened the second iron door once more and descended into its depths with me. We seemed to have plunged far underground here; the air felt unnervingly damp, and my discomfort grew intense—as though we had crawled into the bottom of a grave. This was nothing short of a human hell. To think Matsutani Shūko’s secret lay entombed in such a place—I yearned to wrench it free and expose it to daylight. Whether due to the oppressive atmosphere, even the candlelight seemed feeble, failing to fully illuminate our surroundings. Yet the space had somehow taken on the form of a corridor, with cabinets lining both sides in perfect rows. Each door bore an affixed label inscribed with something—likely coded symbols—whose meaning utterly eluded me. Soon, the Professor took down a bundle of keys hanging on one wall, selected the sturdiest brass key from among them, and handed it to me. “Now, compare the tag on this key with the labels on the cabinets. Search for the one whose symbol matches, then open it.” I felt as though I were dreaming; without understanding why, I simply followed his instructions, checking each cabinet door on both sides one by one until at last I found the door whose symbol matched. “Now, use that key to open the door.”

What lay within this door? What consequences would opening it bring? Had I possessed the foresight to divine this, I might have plunged my hand into burning flames sooner than inserted this key into its lock. Yet alas—my vision fell short. Though an indefinable dread gripped me, hesitation proved futile. Complying with instructions, I turned the key and opened the door. Inside stretched a space roughly two ken in width and depth. Shelves lined the left wall; shelves lined the right wall; on the right wall stood a small cabinet as well—the arrangement resembled a Buddhist altar. Upon the left shelf rested three plain wooden boxes, each about one shaku square and flattened in form—somewhat larger than an inkstone case. The item Gonda Tokisuke had recently tucked under his arm and departed with—might it not have been a box of this very sort?

There was nothing inherently startling about this situation, yet a chill surged from the marrow of my being, my body trembling beyond control. The Professor spoke in a voice fraying at the edges—"Here lie Shūko's former self and reborn form"—as he himself began opening that altar-like door. Though I prided myself on being a man unshaken by ordinary terrors, an inexplicable timidity now gripped me. This must be the brink where some dreadful secret would unfurl—the threshold between life's darkness and light. The Professor's impending words filled me with dread yet desperate anticipation; my entire body turned to stone from within, breath catching in my throat.

Chapter Seventy-Five: The Corpse's Visage The interior of the door resembling a Buddhist altar was arranged much like the left shelf, with two plain wooden boxes resting inside. I still couldn’t grasp what these boxes contained—only that they unsettled me. The Professor spent a moment comparing the shelves before declaring with resolve, “I shall first show you the *former self*. Once you see it, my skill will become clear, and you’ll understand why I am indeed the one who grants new life.” With these words, he removed the box from the left shelf. “Now, open this box and see for yourself.” I lacked the courage to open it. “Yes,” I said, yet hesitated. Growing impatient, the Professor declared, “Then I shall open it for you.” He selected a key from the bundle in my hand and snapped, “The tag on this key matches the symbol on the box—can’t you see that?” as he opened it. Given how meticulously guarded this box had been, it undoubtedly concealed an extraordinary secret. Whether a demon or serpent might emerge, I peered fearfully inside.

The first thing that caught my eye was white cloth—white cloth wrapping the item inside. The professor reached into the box, removed the cloth, and lifted the object beneath it. The box contained a post—when closed, this post lay flat, but when the lid was opened, it could be raised to lift the item.

The object that had been lifted—what could it be? A woman’s face. For a moment, I suspected it might be a severed head, but no—it was a waxwork mask. Since ancient times, it has been customary to preserve the faces of the dead by casting them into masks, referred to as a “corpse’s visage.” This waxwork was precisely that. Whose visage it was remained unclear, but a visage it undeniably was. At first glance, I thought I recognized it, but upon closer inspection, I did not. Round-cheeked and undeniably beautiful in form, yet there was something lifeless about it—as though convalescent—or rather, one might say emaciated.

The Professor took out a few strands of hair from the box—likely remnants from a corpse—their color tinged greenish-black, a shade common enough in the world. “What do you make of this mask and hair?” “I don’t think anything in particular.” The professor, appearing somewhat dejected, tilted his head slightly and uttered “Hmm,” then said, “Take a good look at the back of the mask,” removing it from the pillar and handing it to me. I looked at the back of the mask as instructed and found a label with some text written on it. Reading those characters would surely shock anyone. It read, “Wata Natsuko,” followed by: “Charged with murder, tried, convicted, and sentenced to life imprisonment.” The next entry stated: “July 25, 1896—Introduced by Mr. Ōba Rensai; brought by Mr. Gonda Tokisuke.” ...bore the inscription: “It is stated that on the eleventh day of the same year and month, [she] departed prison due to certain circumstances.”

Wata Natsuko was the adopted daughter who killed Okon, the former owner of the Ghost Tower; in 1896, she had died of illness in prison and been buried in a corner of the Ghost Tower's garden, where her stone grave remained. Not only had Shūko frequently visited this grave, but Takanawada Chōzō—also adopted by Okon—had been seen loitering near it, as I had previously recounted. The grave's surface bore the date July 11 for her death, yet here they recorded Natsuko as having been released on that same day, with Gonda Tokisuke noted as having brought her here on the 25th of that month—what manner of discrepancy could this be?

I shouted. “Professor! Professor! You’ve been deceived! It’s utterly impossible that the murderess Wata Natsuko was brought here! Her corpse lies buried underground—there’s even a gravestone marking the spot now!” “Of course there’s a gravestone—but that’s merely the surface truth. Dig up that grave yourself—you’ll find nothing but an empty coffin interred there.” “Wh-what are you saying?!” “No—this Natsuko died once, then revived through the new life I bestowed. While her death-mask here shows her deceased form, I shall now show you the visage she wore upon resurrection.” Before I could protest, the Professor retrieved another plain wooden box from within the altar-like structure and repeated his earlier procedure to raise the visage. “Now behold this—the truth becomes clear without words. Well, Mr. Marube—do you comprehend now?”

I looked further at the visage—this was Matsutani Shūko’s face perfectly reproduced in a wax mask.

Chapter Seventy-Six: True Identity Of course, Shūko’s lovely, vivacious beauty could not be fully reproduced in the waxwork visage. When compared to the real Shūko, the difference was as stark as jade against stone. Yet it was undeniably modeled after her face—for if one were to replicate Shūko’s features onto another object by human hands, no greater likeness than this could ever be achieved. Yet why had Shūko’s visage been preserved alongside that of Wata Natsuko—a murderous deceased prisoner—by this professor and brought before my eyes? To claim Natsuko as Shūko’s former self and Shūko as Natsuko’s reborn form—such implications echoed in his words, yet the enormity of it defied comprehension. How could Natsuko, who died in prison, be the same as Shūko, alive as my future wife? How could the vicious Natsuko—who slaughtered her foster mother—be identical to the flawless Shūko, who lacked not a single virtue of womanhood? I urgently questioned the professor.

“What relationship are you claiming exists between Shūko’s visage and Natsuko’s visage?” Unfazed and unsurprised, the professor replied with heightened composure and a prideful expression: “Now you must understand my skill. In matters such as these, I, Paul Lepel, have mastered realms beyond what today’s scholars have yet to fathom. Through electricity, chemistry, and surgical intervention, I alter a person’s face to such an extent that scarcely anyone believes it—not even the government. It is precisely their disbelief that has allowed my profession to thrive unimpeded until now.” “Then are you saying that Shūko and Natsuko are the same woman?” “Of course it’s one person—Shūko is none other than Natsuko.” “After Natsuko left prison, she came to me because she couldn’t show her face in society as it was, and I transformed her into Shūko’s current form—changing not just her name but her very appearance as well.”

I was struck by sheer terror and stumbled two or three steps backward for no reason. Yet upon reflection, it was too preposterous a tale to credit. Soon my fear turned to fury, and I shouted, "To deceive others has its limits! Who would believe such nonsense as Shūko and Natsuko being one and the same?" With a ferocity that nearly drove me to seize and throttle Paul Lepel, I advanced forward again. "Villain! Villain!" The curses spilled unbidden from my lips. The professor stared at me with a look of bewilderment. "Oh? Oh? Do you mean to say you remained ignorant of Shūko's true identity all this time? That you came to me seeking to save Natsuko—no, Shūko—without even knowing they share the same flesh?" "Had I known your ignorance," he continued, "I would never have carelessly revealed this secret. I should have verified matters with Shūko first." "It's a lie! A lie! There isn't a shred of doubt that Natsuko died in prison!"

Even as I declared this vehemently, not the slightest hint of falsehood showed on the Professor's face. Like a man upholding facts with absolute conviction, there shone through the core of his being where his unyielding convictions burned brightest. Presently, the Professor declared in a tone of finality: "Having divulged this much, the secret lies already breached. I must now lay bare how Shūko and Natsuko are one until you grasp it fully. First, return to the vault we traversed earlier—there we shall discourse." With that, he stacked the two facial casts within their boxes and strode briskly back along our path without deigning to glance my way. Compelled to follow, I moved as one unmoored from earth, staggering after him like a drunkard through shadows. When we regained the vault's chill embrace, he reignited the electric lamp with practiced hands. "Examine these casts thoroughly under proper illumination," he commanded, dragging a small table from the corner's gloom. Upon its scarred surface he arranged the visages with ritual care—a surgeon preparing his theater of revelation.

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Variation Within Identity Under the electric light, I scrutinized the two facial casts placed upon the desk—Natsuko’s visage and Shūko’s visage. Which could be deemed superior in beauty? Natsuko was plumper than Shūko, her face round where Shūko’s was oval. The round face bore a dimple at the chin—a poet once claimed chin dimples surpass cheek dimples in charm—yet Shūko’s cheek dimple did not pale in comparison. Natsuko looked youthful and dewy while Shūko’s beauty resembled polished stone, refined and unblemished. Though Natsuko’s hairline held greater elegance, Shūko’s mouth far exceeded hers in grace. Of course, they were entirely different women—yet prolonged observation revealed resemblances. At first glance wholly distinct, the more one looked, the more similarities emerged until they might be mistaken for sisters.

The professor took strands of hair from the box containing Shūko’s facial cast, arranged them on the desk, and said, “Look.” “The hair of both differs as you see here—Natsuko’s has a greenish dominance with deeper pigmentation, while Shūko’s leans yellowish with lighter tones—yet their luster matches perfectly. The strands’ thickness and fineness show no variation whatsoever. Were one to close their eyes and feel them, none would doubt they’re the same hair.” As he spoke, he closed his own eyes and ran his fingers through both sets of strands, comparing them by touch. An indescribable sensation tightened in my chest, bringing me near tears. “But Professor—” I began to protest, but the words lodged in my throat.

The professor settled calmly into his seat. “I shall explain in detail, so listen carefully. It seems my brain’s workings have developed deductively—I swiftly discern correlations among myriad matters, whether one event stems from another’s outcome or marks someone’s aberration. Thus, I’ve long enjoyed formulating personal theories from crime reports, rarely erring in my conclusions. Take this Natsuko’s murder of her foster mother: I first read of it in a British newspaper, formed my own hypothesis, and monitored developments closely. Soon after news arrived of her death in prison, that very Natsuko came to me seeking salvation.”

Having spoken this far—perhaps to organize his thoughts—he closed his eyes briefly before continuing: “As I stated earlier, my work inherently aligns with my clients’ interests. I do not commence any procedure unless the client discloses everything without reserve. In this case, I thoroughly interviewed both the individual herself and the lawyer who brought her here, Mr. Gonda Tokisuke, regarding the full circumstances. Though both initially concealed certain details, I had already discerned most truths and pressed them with critical questions until nothing remained unspoken. If I recount their testimony alongside my subsequent actions, even someone as skeptical as you cannot doubt it—I firmly believe Natsuko and Shūko are one and the same.”

As his arguments unfolded with such systematic precision, I found myself beginning to think it might indeed become impossible to disbelieve him. The Professor, perceiving this subtle shift in my conviction, declared: “Let me first explain my work. When I thoroughly examined Natsuko’s face, I found her beauty so extraordinary that reshaping it seemed almost sacrilege. Reducing her to a withered crone would have been simple—but such an act would have defaced nature’s divine artistry, incurring heaven’s wrath. My challenge lay in preserving this masterpiece of creation while effecting a complete rebirth—to make her appear wholly another person. Ironically, this very struggle obscured my usual finesse. With an ordinary face, I could have rendered her unrecognizable to all. But here I sought not difference within difference, but difference within sameness—to transform peerless beauty while retaining its essence. A task impossible by any measure... yet I accomplished it. Still, undeniable resemblances persist between their faces—the nose, for one, remains utterly unchanged.” “Alter it, and inferiority would inevitably show—the same applies to dental alignment. To rearrange nature’s perfection without marring it is something no sculptor could achieve. Now examine the nasal contours on both casts—where exactly do you see any divergence?”

"There is none," I had no choice but to answer. Indeed, no difference could be seen no matter how one looked. The Professor declared, "There—you see." "The same principle applies here. Though teeth remain hidden behind closed lips, making direct comparison impossible, were it feasible, you would inevitably yield to my assertion. Now given these circumstances, even if one claims complete rebirth through my methods, those who intimately knew Natsuko's face might still harbor suspicions upon seeing Shūko—if not outright recognizing their shared identity. This single point alone has concerned me until now. Yet if you acknowledge this concession, my mastery becomes evident in all other aspects. Suppose you brought another beauty of equal standing and demanded I recreate this visage identically—I doubt I could reproduce such finesse. You may inquire: how does one remake a living face? Through masks? Flesh-carving? Ah—those crude methods belong to amateurs! Herein lies Paul Lepel's secret art, unstudied by academia."

“If today’s scholars devoted themselves to researching what I have, they could remake human faces. But they prioritize fame—dabbling in superficial studies while avoiding the resolve to abandon reputation and research in seclusion, even if it means perishing with their work. Thus, in my specialized craft, they cannot match me. Were I inclined toward glory, I would announce this invention to the world. They’d call it an unprecedented breakthrough, a monumental leap for academia—crowds would prostrate themselves before me; medical journals worldwide would clamor to print my portrait. But I detest such things. Rather than flaunt my name in that jealous academic arena and endure petty rivalries, I prefer quietly reaping the practical benefits of my invention. By keeping this technique secret—known only to myself—those needing concealment inevitably seek me out through whispered referrals. People like you, Gonda Tokisuke, Wata Natsuko... Fifteen or thirty such clients come yearly, granting me twice the income of any renowned doctor or scholar.”

The Professor spoke volubly, his demeanor akin to one who had long awaited an audience to hear his fiery convictions. My mind churned like a whirlwind, thoughts still unanchored, leaving me unable to critique his words. He continued: “Modern scholars form cliques—alumni from the same schools or those sharing narrow aims—forging shadowy factions through backroom alliances. They scorn outsiders relentlessly. Even trivial innovations from their own circles are trumpeted as grand achievements, peddled far and wide through mutual praise. Yet any discovery emerging beyond their cabal? They smother it with condemnation until its credibility crumbles. Were someone like me—a self-taught outsider—to present such an invention to academia, yes, the world’s papers might briefly hail it! But the higher my name rises, the more their distrust festers. First, they’d brand me a charlatan and sabotage my methods’ practicality. Failing that, their cabal would claim their own ‘more perfected’ version predated mine—accusing me of theft! Some would even decry my work as criminal enablement, a threat to society itself—until nothing short of my ruin would satisfy them.”

“Admittedly, some expressions may be exaggerated,” the Professor continued, slightly lowering his tone after this preamble, “but it’s true academia today leans toward such tendencies. If society wants me to disclose these arcane techniques publicly, it must first remake scholarly circles into institutions that cherish truth more earnestly. Under current conditions—even with patent protections—inventions like mine remain too perilous to reveal openly. Thus I cannot disclose my method’s full nature to anyone. For you alone, I’ll explain within layman’s terms: half relies on electricity, half on chemical agents. Any scholar could theoretically eradicate hair via electricity, but none have researched practical applications as thoroughly as I. Through my method, withering all scalp hair and smoothing skin to match facial texture proves simple. Permanently elongating or contracting muscles poses little difficulty either. Observe—Wata Natsuko originally possessed remarkably long eyebrows that nearly met at the center. I shortened both ends to craft Shūko’s brows. Compare the masks if skeptical—their brows differ only in length, not essence. Next examine the hairlines: Natsuko’s descended elegantly at the center—a true mark of beauty—but I regrettably excised this feature, adjusting symmetry for Shūko’s sake. Hers now appears ordinary by classical standards—a minor failing—yet remains superior among conventional hairlines. To compensate, I enhanced her hair’s luster beyond measure.” He gestured emphatically. “Look at Shūko’s hair—precisely like ancient goddesses! Far surpassing Natsuko’s heavy hues. Granted, dark tones suited Natsuko’s round face, but ethereal beauty demands lightness! Now—how does one alter hair color? Women agonize over this lifelong puzzle! Yet for me, Paul Lepel, it’s child’s play—even mere pigment adjustments draw noblewomen daily.”

Chapter Seventy-Nine: A Glimmer of Hope The professor continued: “Typically, one uses dye to alter hair color—but anyone can achieve that through mere dyeing. For someone like myself who positions himself as a scholar, researching such methods would be disgraceful. A technique requiring repeated re-dyeing as hair grows isn’t true craftsmanship—it can’t be called academic. My method involves injecting a certain chemical agent to alter the pigment at the hair’s root—a fundamental approach. Once the pigment transforms, no matter how many times the hair regenerates or how long it grows, its color remains consistent. A single treatment lasts a lifetime without requiring further intervention. One might say it’s nature’s handiwork rather than human artifice. However, there are varying difficulties—lightening dark pigments proves far more challenging than darkening light ones. Miss Shūko’s hair required lightening from a dark shade, which demanded considerable effort, but having received ample compensation, I’ve no complaints.”

“Next, regarding facial structure—first, compare these visages to judge whether my words are false or true. Years ago, I invented a method to slenderize bodies through animal testing. This too relies on pharmaceutical agents—a specific drug ingested with meat at every meal. Though not immediate, over months a plump body becomes lean, a round face turns oval—all without harming health. Thus Natsuko’s round face became Shūko’s oval one through this means. Now observe the mouth. Natsuko’s lips were a veritable fountain of charm—a pity to alter—but necessity compelled me. I slightly tightened the upper lip’s shape, then subtly contracted the muscles at both corners to create crisp definition. Ordinary physicians cannot manipulate muscles thus, but through electrical means, it’s trivial for me. Dimples vanish or emerge at will—contracted muscles form hollows; relaxed ones flatten them. Though I’d transformed everything from Miss Natsuko’s hair color to her hairline, brows, lips, and cheeks, I realized dimple placement risked exposure. Thus I erased the chin dimple and crafted new ones on the cheeks.” This was the surgical crescendo.

“Through my surgery, Wata Natsuko from the first facial cast was reborn as Matsutani Shūko in the second. No one who sees them could possibly deny they’re the same person! Yet compare nature’s craftsmanship in Natsuko’s beauty with my refined version in Shūko—while Natsuko’s loveliness stood peerless in its class, Shūko’s surely matches it. Thus I’ve evaded accusations of defacing nature’s masterpiece. If forced to distinguish them: Natsuko surpasses in charm where Shūko excels in elegance—one an artless natural beauty, the other honed to perfection. Though these differences exist, examine the casts closely and you’ll grasp their fundamental sameness. Well, Mr. Marube—do you still cling to doubts?” “To claim Natsuko and Shūko are entirely separate beings—why, there’s not room for even a sliver of suspicion!”

With triumphant finality, the Professor concluded his lengthy exposition. How wretched I felt! That Matsutani Shūko—whom I had believed peerless in beauty, whom I had resolved to make my future wife—should in truth be Wata Natsuko, stained with matricide and buried within prison walls! What cruel twist of fate was this? However fair the face, the ugliness within now stood revealed. To think she had concealed such vileness—deceiving even me, deluding my uncle! This brazen artifice displayed diabolical genius in beguiling others. Could it truly be? Was Shūko indeed Natsuko transformed?

Though the two facial casts appeared entirely different, upon closer inspection they were fundamentally identical. When aligned with the Professor’s claims and compared side by side, the tragic truth became inescapable—I stared at these visages until tears clouded my vision and indescribable despair welled up in my chest. Yet upon deeper reflection, a single shred of hope remained: while the second cast was undoubtedly a transformation of the first, there was no concrete evidence proving the first truly represented Wata Natsuko. If the second cast depicted Shūko, then perhaps the first had always shown Shūko’s original form—never Wata Natsuko at all.

“But Professor—where’s the proof that Cast Number One is Wata Natsuko? She merely came to you under that name! That alias might’ve coincidentally matched a murderess’s, or she deliberately used a notorious criminal’s name to hide her true identity—that’s something you couldn’t possibly discern!”

Chapter Eighty: The Weight of a Thousand Kan The second facial cast and the first facial cast were indeed identical, exactly as the Professor had stated—no room for dispute remained on that point. Yet there existed not a shred of evidence proving this first cast truly represented the murderess Wata Natsuko. I could not accept that Matsutani Shūko might be that murderess. Whatever evidence might exist, I resolved to contest every accusation and scrutinize every suspicion. Still, when I carefully weighed all that had transpired, the Professor's words bore the crushing weight of a thousand kan, while my own arguments lacked nearly any substantive foundation.

After entering Ghost Tower, I had heard numerous accounts from the villagers about Wata Natsuko's appearance—her round face, long eyebrows, and dimpled chin—all of which perfectly matched the first facial cast. Moreover, it was said that when Natsuko killed Okon, the flesh of her left hand had been bitten down to the bone. A wound of that severity would surely remain even now, and if Shūko were truly Natsuko, such a scar ought to exist on her hand. But did it? Wait—Shūko's left hand was always concealed beneath those unusually long gloves. Oura had repeatedly suspected secrets hidden beneath them, even once snatching a glove away and exclaiming she had finally seen the truth.

I had indeed heard how enraged Shūko became when her secret was exposed—to the point of threatening to kill Oura. Even when she came to me afterward, she deftly concealed her left hand with a handkerchief. If there weren't some horrific scar serving as evidence on that hand, why else would she hide it so obsessively? This alone seemed to extinguish my last flicker of hope. When Takanawada Chōzō first appeared, Torai Fujin had displayed palpable terror while hastily helping Shūko flee—could this have been from fear he might expose her true nature as Wata Natsuko? That Shūko frequently visited Natsuko's grave—was this to maintain the illusion of Natsuko's death? Or perhaps to swear oaths before her own symbolic tomb? Now Chōzō had sent a letter to my uncle laying bare Shūko's background, shocking him profoundly. Though they claimed Shūko confessed without resistance, might this "background" refer to her identity as Natsuko? While these remained conjectures, I myself had witnessed corroborating details.

Why would Matsutani Shūko know how to wind the Ghost Tower's clock? If she were Wata Natsuko, such knowledge would be natural—but without being Natsuko, there was no reason for her to know it. Furthermore, her intimate familiarity with the tower's secrets perfectly matched Natsuko's upbringing as the foster daughter of Okon, the tower's former owner. The recent discovery of Shūko's kimono alongside prison uniforms in a room at the insect farm served as significant corroborating evidence. If Shūko was indeed Natsuko, no suspicion remained unwarranted: only as Natsuko would she endure Ankawa Jinzō's repeated extortion; only as Natsuko would she loathe yet tolerate Torai Fujin—Ankawa's sister (or perhaps sister-in-law)—lingering at her side, unable to dismiss her.

Only the matter of Ankawa Jinzō directing me to this professor’s residence had initially seemed somewhat inexplicable—but no, upon careful consideration, it became clear. Ankawa, thoroughly coerced by me and seeing no escape route except to make me aware of Shūko’s true identity and thereby sever my attachment, reluctantly sent me here. He had discerned that even were I to learn she was a murderess, I would never continue loving Shūko, threatening others or invoking legal power on her behalf. If Shūko were not Natsuko, Ankawa would certainly never have urged me to go to Paris.

Turning these thoughts over in my mind, I realized with bitter self-reproach how dense I had been—the truth that Shūko was Wata Natsuko had manifested everywhere, yet I, blinded by love's delusion, had failed to perceive even this glaring reality. Overwhelmed by resentment beyond mere despair that filled my chest, I felt an urge to claw at my own flesh. Though Professor Paul Lepel appeared to be explaining something at length, none of it reached my ears—I had utterly failed to comprehend his words.

Chapter Eighty-One: Old Newspaper I had completely failed to hear the Professor’s words, so I requested that he repeat them once more; it seemed he had thoroughly explained that Facial Cast No. 1 was indeed Wata Natsuko. The Professor wordlessly went to a corner of the room and brought out something resembling old newspapers, silently placing them before me. I too examined them without speaking—as expected, they were London newspapers from several years prior containing articles about Wata Natsuko’s trial. Within the articles was a portrait inscribed “Latest Photograph of Wata Natsuko, the Old Woman Killer.” Upon close inspection, though the face appeared almost childishly youthful, its identity as matching Facial Cast No. 1 was indisputable.

I stood utterly speechless. Stunned beyond measure, I rose unconsciously from my chair. Not a shred of doubt remained—Shūko was Natsuko transformed. Some stubborn part of my heart still resisted acceptance, yet with such irrefutable evidence before me, refusal proved impossible. This reluctance stemmed from my own foolish sentimentality—what manner of man clings to delusion so pathetically? Steeling myself, I restated inwardly: *You murderous fiend—how skillfully you disguised yourself as a virtuous lady! To have deceived both me and Uncle all this time... Never again shall I fall prey to your schemes.*

“Well? Have your doubts cleared now?” said the Professor in a derisive tone. “Yes—completely cleared. Not a shred remains,” I replied.

“Now I shall recount everything from when Shūko—or rather Natsuko—first came to this house until she departed with her new life as Shūko. First compose yourself and listen,” said the professor, steadying me back into the chair before beginning his meticulous account. “Omitting extraneous details—it was early July 1896 when British lawyer Gonda Tokisuke visited me bearing a letter from Dr. Ōba Rensai. I had long known Mr. Gonda’s name from newspaper accounts, remembering him particularly as the man who vigorously defended the murderess Wata Natsuko.” “His inquiry concerned whether I could completely remake a certain beauty’s face to appear wholly unrecognizable—the cost involved, and whether such secrecy could be maintained perpetually.”

“Of course, I answered all points satisfactorily and stated there have been no cases where those I’ve handled were ever exposed again.” “No, this is by no means self-praise. Since I invented this procedure, countless people who escaped prisons or evaded the law have received new lives from me—their facial casts now fill the cabinets lining both sides of the vault you saw earlier. Among them are individuals from nearly every nation: Britons, French, Russians, Americans, even Australians. Yet all now live safely as entirely different individuals. Take the most extreme case: one who’d received a death sentence escaped during his appeal, accepted my salvation, crafted a suitable personal history within a year, and was promptly hired as a prison doctor at that very same penitentiary.”

This undoubtedly referred implicitly to Ōba Rensai—had he too once received a death sentence? From this perspective, Professor Paul Lepel himself might have been among those who granted himself new life. Such inventions could not first be tested on others' bodies; one had to experiment on oneself, then demonstrate to the criminal underworld how to slip through the legal net thusly. Contemplating this, even attaching the honorific "Professor" to his name felt somehow repulsive.

“You may wonder how my professional secret remains undisclosed despite saving so many,” said the Professor, “but I’ve taken thorough precautions. This is why I refuse service unless clients first confess everything unreservedly. Once I’ve heard their misdeeds and taken casts of their original and altered faces, they become like those whose throats I grip—utterly unable to expose my affairs. To speak out would cost them their lives. Thus, my secrets have been guarded as fiercely as their own survival. Ah—this digresses. Let me now recount Gonda Tokisuke’s subsequent visit.”

Chapter Eighty-Two: Beautiful Boy The Professor continued as follows: “Since I had answered that I could remake a woman’s face in any manner desired, Gonda Tokisuke rejoiced greatly and departed after saying he would soon bring her to me. About two weeks later, a British newspaper reported that the murderess Wata Natsuko had died in prison. Upon seeing this, I naturally recalled Gonda and entertained various speculations. Then, roughly another two weeks later, Gonda returned with a boy in tow.”

“Initially, I was told of a beauty, so I grew suspicious upon seeing a beautiful boy. Yet closer inspection revealed her facial beauty alone proved it—a woman disguised as a man. Imprisonment had left her hair cropped short, rendering her appearance so unsightly they disguised her as male—or so I thought. But there was a deeper reason. At that moment, Gonda turned to me and declared, ‘This boy is Miss Matsutani Shūko, whom I previously requested.’” “I had listened casually,” I began, “but when the time came to finalize the surgical agreement, I turned to Gonda and insisted, ‘I must hear the client’s background without reservation. First, Mr. Gonda—the name Matsutani Shūko will not suffice.’ “‘It must be under her real name—Wata Natsuko,’ I sarcastically drove home, which even startled Gonda.”

“Realizing he could not deceive me, Gonda confessed: ‘Though she is indeed Wata Natsuko, please keep this secret.’ Of course I agreed. After this, Gonda departed, leaving only Natsuko with me. Later, I heard the full details from her: Natsuko had long contemplated escape from prison and had confided this to Gonda Tokisuke, who promised to fully facilitate her objective. However, lacking opportunity, matters had stalled. Then the prison doctor Ōba Rensai—collaborating with Gonda—brought forth an ingenious scheme, summoning an elderly nurse under his command. Since they conveyed the plot’s particulars to Natsuko, she followed their instructions by feigning illness and submitting a medical examination request. As Ōba conducted the examination, he declared it a grave condition—externally invisible but involving critical cardiac risks—and promptly had her admitted to the prison hospital.”

“The plan involved making Natsuko appear dead to smuggle her from the prison hospital. We administered an extremely dangerous drug—a narcotic made from an Indian herb called Granil that causes extraordinary physiological effects. A certain dosage induces instant death, while adjusted quantities create a death-like state where pulse and respiration cease entirely. After forty to fifty hours, revival occurs as naturally as sobering from drunkenness. The margin between revival and true death depends on minute dosage differences—if the recipient had unknown physical vulnerabilities, even the revival dosage could result in permanent death. Though I originally taught Rensai about this drug, he later refined the dosage adjustments through repeated practical applications, surpassing even my expertise.”

“Natsuko proved remarkably courageous—she swallowed that perilous drug without hesitation and fell into a deathlike state. As it was the height of July’s scorching heat, Gonda Tokisuke used the pretext of preventing corpse decay to lobby externally. Through considerable bribes, he ultimately obtained permission to retrieve the ‘body’ from the hospital for burial elsewhere. They staged an interment in the Ghost Tower’s garden, but in truth—whether due to precise dosage calibration or fortune—she revived as anticipated and came to me.”

“Given these circumstances, Natsuko couldn’t appear publicly in her original form. Though her hair had grown considerably long by the time she left the hospital, we had no choice but to disguise her in male guise when bringing her to my residence—hence the cropped hairstyle. During her stay with me, her hair grew long enough to be cut and stored in the first facial cast box, exactly as you see there.”

Chapter Eighty-Three: Lifetime's Guiding Light

The Professor continued speaking. "As I previously stated regarding the regrown hair, its color had been altered through pharmaceutical means, and through my surgical interventions, the entire facial structure had become that of a completely different person." "However, during that period, Gonda Tokisuke visited Shūko twice—each time under my personal supervision during their meetings. His purposes were twofold: to observe my surgical progress and to discuss Shūko’s future conduct." "Naturally, he was astonished by my surgical work—he remarked that Shūko’s face had become utterly unrecognizable. After consultation, it was settled that Shūko would first go to America to establish some measure of status and personal history before returning here. During his next visit, Gonda prepared several letters of introduction addressed to American lawyers and politicians and handed them to Shūko, declaring that no British woman who had previously traveled to America had ever carried credentials of such thoroughness. He further encouraged her by assuring that unlike a solitary journey, an experienced companion would accompany her—this being the elderly nurse from the prison hospital who had assisted Ōba Rensai in Shūko’s escape. Though her real name remained unknown, they had arranged for her to adopt the pseudonym Torai Fujin."

"So it was from that moment Torai Fujin became Shūko’s attendant—thus clarifying their relationship," continued the Professor. "Yet Shūko showed not a trace of unease, answering: ‘America has long been my favored country—it will feel like returning home.’ Gonda added: ‘For one such as yourself, Miss—so accomplished in letters and music—any destination becomes akin to homecoming.’ Shortly thereafter, they departed my premises for America. The beauty of her transformed appearance at that moment astonished even myself—the surgical precision having rendered her utterly unrecognizable from the short-haired boyish figure of Wata Natsuko. Though minor resemblances persisted, she appeared a completely different person—one might say without hesitation that new life had been bestowed."

“Though I believed that having been reborn as a completely different person, she would never again transgress the law, it seems criminals are inherently predisposed to sin—now she must once more violate the law and have me remake her face anew. What a cursed existence! But critiquing such matters is not my profession. I merely fulfill your request to bestow new life upon her. Bring the individual in question here at your earliest convenience.”

The professor’s words ended here, but I found myself at a loss for response—truly, I wished someone might comprehend my feelings in that moment. That woman whom I had revered as the very paragon of womanhood and human virtue, whom I had striven to emulate to purify my own heart, worshipping her as one might pray morning and night—that she should be a murderess, a jail-breaking monstrosity! Could the world contain another shock so utterly unforeseen? It was as though the guiding light of my life had been extinguished in an instant, casting me into abysmal darkness. Until then, no accumulation of evidence could have convinced me of Shūko’s wrongdoing—for her sake, I would have battled the entire world without hesitation. Yet now I stood compelled to denounce her first, to condemn her foremost. Knowing her true nature laid bare her innermost being: only such a villainess would contrive to become Uncle’s adopted daughter through such elaborate machinations. Her purpose admitted no ambiguity—Uncle had advocated for Wata Natsuko’s death penalty in his capacity as prosecutor. Oblivious to her own crimes, she fixated her resentment solely upon him, worming into his affections to exact vengeance. What she termed her “secret mission” amounted to nothing but revenge against Uncle. This explained her pilgrimages to Natsuko’s grave—there she daily reignited the bitter regret of her death sentence, stoking vengeful ardor that never cooled. The more I dwelled upon it, the more her venomous resolve horrified me. With that poisoned heart, she had subtly manipulated me—urging assistance for her covert designs while alternately recounting Natsuko’s story as another’s affair and probing how vehemently Uncle had demanded execution. Countless clues aligned! Now she had achieved her aim through Uncle’s poisoning—all while I, blind fool that I was, had rushed about desperate to save her until my very capacity for delusion withered. Why had I failed to perceive this until now?

Chapter Eighty-Four: The Final Word

Though I had become utterly disgusted with my own foolishness and Shūko's defiled origins, the love rooted deep within my heart would not vanish through such matters so easily. Only regret remained—only pity. Feeling as though I had truly lost a jewel from my grasp, my very existence suddenly grew desolate and vulnerable. Ah, had I not loved someone like her—had I refrained from loving her at all—learning her origins might have shocked me without plunging me into this despair.

Muttering “How regrettable” repeatedly, I teetered on tears’ brink, oblivious to all until the Professor’s voice pierced through. He pushed my shoulder—“Mr. Marube! Mr. Marube! Did you not come to have Miss Shūko’s face remade? If not that purpose—what? Where lies your aim?” I contorted in anguish. “No—that wasn’t... I thought meeting you might prove Shūko’s innocence! Solid evidence to proclaim her purity!” “Ah—tragic miscalculation! Had you sought purity in her origins, you should never have crossed my threshold. This place hoards tainted pedigrees—a menagerie of filth. You’ve blundered into antithesis.” “Yes—now my capacity for delusion lies spent.” “While I commiserate profoundly,” said the Professor, “returning my remuneration remains impossible. Not only have I resolved to discharge every obligation owed for that payment—I’ve divulged secrets unutterable without prior compensation. In essence, you now grip my vital pressure point—the power to end me.”

Of course, I had no thought of demanding the return of the remuneration; it was simply that I felt so bitterly frustrated—so utterly without a place to anchor myself—that I ran about the room aimlessly, devoid of any plan or resolve. Looking back now, I must have appeared completely deranged. Before long, I stood again before the desk, comparing Natsuko's charming facial cast with Shūko's beautiful one. Had these not existed, I might have been spared such anguish—a self-pitying thought unbefitting a man surged within me. "Professor—Professor! Are these two facial casts and the labels on their backsides the only items proving Shūko and Natsuko are the same person?" I may have truly gone mad for a moment—Without these, proving Shūko’s origins would be difficult. “Indeed, without these, proving that Shūko and Natsuko are the same person would not only be difficult—it would be nearly impossible.” Before even fully hearing these words, I seized both facial casts, tore off the labels on their backs, and with all my strength smashed them against the floor.

The Professor, startled, blocked my hands and shouted, “What are you doing? What are you doing?”—but it was too late. The facial casts, being fragile waxworks, had already shattered into dust on the floor. Still unsatisfied, I shook off the Professor’s grip and crushed the fragments underfoot until they became powder. The Professor stood dumbfounded, staring blankly—then suddenly seized me again: “You go too far—destroying those facial casts, and then planning to report me to the authorities—is that your intention?” “No—that is not the case. Since I purchased this secret with three thousand pounds earlier, I shall eliminate it at my discretion.” “This facial cast is my purchased property.” After comparing my face with the shattered facial cast—or rather, the wax powder—the Professor seemed somewhat relieved. “Well, I suppose you won’t report me to the authorities after all. While it’s regrettable that the facial cast was destroyed, considering it as compensation for the three thousand pounds, there’s nothing to be done. I shall resign myself to it. You likely have no further business here either—now, feel free to leave.” With these words, he opened the iron door of the room and gestured for me to exit. I said, “Of course I won’t linger—I’m leaving.” As I turned to depart without a backward glance, the Professor uttered his final words. “Let me caution you in advance—if you think there’s now nothing left to prove Miss Shūko’s origins and feel assured enough to report me—no, my profession—to the authorities, you’re mistaken. Recently, by Mr. Gonda Tokisuke’s request, I created another identical set of these facial casts.”

Chapter Eighty-Five: Hat Pulled Low Over the Brows

The professor’s final claim—that he had created duplicate facial casts at Gonda Tokisuke’s request—might have been truth, lie, or a stratagem to intimidate me into abandoning any report to the authorities. Yet upon reflection, the item Gonda had earlier tucked under his arm and departed with did indeed appear identical to this facial cast box.

But I lacked the heart to dwell deeply on it. "That's all fine by me," I muttered dismissively as I stepped out of the house. Considerable time must have passed—the night had deepened, and the town's streets lay utterly deserted.

As there was nothing to be done in the dead of night, I sought lodging to pass the hours until dawn, then returned directly to England the following day, arriving in London around nine o’clock that evening. Throughout the voyage and train journey, my thoughts were consumed entirely by Matsutani Shūko—no coherent plan for how to resolve this matter took shape. It was undeniable that Shūko was a murderess who had committed prison escape, just as it was undeniable she had infiltrated the Ghost Tower seeking vengeance and attempted to poison my uncle. From this alone, I ought to report the circumstances to Detective Mori Mondo and have her arrested. Yet from another perspective, it remained fact that a marital promise existed between Shūko and myself—and equally factual that her imminent arrest would bring irreparable disgrace upon my uncle and the entire Marube family.

Even should it bring disgrace, I could not protect a criminal—much less one who plotted against my uncle’s life and concealed deadly poisons. To shield such a person would be to wholly defy human morality—this I had resolved countless times. Yet within my heart remained an attachment I could not extinguish, try as I might. Of course, now that matters had come to this, taking Shūko as my wife was out of the question—yet somehow she still seemed pitiable. As long as this deliberation remained unresolved, I could neither return home to face Uncle nor meet Shūko again. Having arrived in London, I hesitated briefly over what course to take next—until finally resolving with singular determination: at all costs, I must confront Gonda Tokisuke.

First and foremost—why had he visited Professor Paul Lepel before me? If his purpose was indeed to obtain the facial cast, why did he need it? Why have a copy commissioned? Perhaps, resentful that I had taken Shūko from him, he intended to threaten her using that facial cast—it could only be that; no other possibility seemed plausible. If such were his intent, then he and I had to settle the matter concerning Shūko between ourselves. In any case, meeting and speaking with him would clarify everything.

I finally arrived before Gonda Tokisuke’s residence around ten o’clock at night. Though the rain was falling steadily and the town lay quiet, what struck me as peculiar was a figure standing at the entrance of Gonda’s house—holding aloft a sneak lantern of the sort used by detectives or burglars in clandestine professions—reading the nameplate. As my footsteps drew near, the figure immediately extinguished the lantern and slipped furtively into the darkness. Though I could not discern their identity, they unmistakably wore a hat pulled low over their brows and large spectacles—clearly no ordinary person, but one who loathed being recognized. This much was evident.

However, since I bore no guilt upon myself, I felt no fear; I saw no need for deep inquiry—even had there been such need, I truly lacked means to investigate. As I was, I entered and knocked on Gonda's door. Within, some manner of conversation could be heard, but at the knock's sound those voices ceased abruptly, followed by hurried noises of objects being stowed away. From what I discerned, he had made his secret interlocutor withdraw to an adjoining room or elsewhere.

It was Gonda himself who opened the door from within. By the lamplight filtering through the doorway, his face showed unmistakable displeasure—the look of one whose crucial discussion had been interrupted. Deep furrows formed an "八" shape between his brows as he saw me. “Oh, Mr. Marube?” he said, pointedly refraining from adding “Do come in”—his posture rather suggesting “Go home.” Being of similar mettle, I retorted, “As you see, it’s no one else,” brusquely pushing past him into the room. Disregarding his obstruction, I seated myself on the nearest chair with a curt “Let’s proceed.”

Chapter Eighty-Six: The Immediate Problem At my presumptuous behavior of forcing my way into the room and seating myself without permission, Gonda Tokisuke initially showed signs of anger, glaring at me with narrowed eyes. But he soon seemed to reconsider, saying, "Ah, very well—it seems I must speak thoroughly with you. Let us say what must be said here and now, and hear what must be heard." With that, he finally took a seat.

I first stated my purpose: “I’ve come tonight to consult earnestly about Matsutani Shūko’s situation, but my foremost inquiry concerns your conduct these past few days. You brought a facial cast from Professor Lepel in Paris—what have you done with it?” Though the words were brutally blunt, Gonda—contrary to his usual unflappable demeanor—was so startled he nearly leapt from his chair. “Huh?! Professor Lepel in Paris? How do you know such a thing?” I succinctly recounted everything from the events at the insect farm to my journey to Paris, then concluded: “I have determined that you likely commissioned a duplicate facial cast to threaten Miss Shūko. What have you done with that copy?” “As you have surmised, I sent it to Shūko immediately upon returning.” “What?! Already?” “Yes, already.” I said, “And what was the result of that?” “It turned out exactly as I anticipated.”

My concern for Shūko had not faded even now—it was precisely because that concern remained that I had come to visit Gonda. Yet hearing these words only deepened my unease. Though it seemed increasingly certain Shūko had attempted to poison my uncle, I still had no desire to harshly reprimand or punish her. I wanted to resolve this discreetly, without undue severity. I said, “Mr. Gonda, this goes too far. Shūko already bears worries beyond her capacity—to threaten her further shows an insensitive approach.” “No—all of this is your doing,” he retorted. “Because you stole Miss Shūko’s heart, I’ve been forced to resort to these underhanded measures.” “What?! I stole Shūko’s heart?” “Naturally,” Gonda pressed on. “Shūko was meant to be my wife from the start. Since you now know her origins full well, I’ll speak plainly: it was through my power she was brought out of prison; my power that ensures she remains safely in this world. By rights, I could insist she belongs to me—my wife, my possession—but I’ve no desire to wed someone who feels mere gratitude rather than love. I persisted patiently, showing her kindness in hopes affection might bloom… until you appeared from the sidelines and stole her heart! Had I known it would come to this, I’d never have allowed her into your uncle’s household! My mistake was indulging her pleas while failing to foresee you’d snatch her away.” I had nearly forgotten my very purpose in specifically coming here. “If it was your mistake,” I countered, “then shouldn’t you simply abandon it? What manner of approach is this—clinging to lingering attachment and resorting to extreme measures to threaten her?”

“I don’t need such preaching from you now. The immediate problem here is determining whether Shūko belongs to you or to me.” “That may be so, but——” “If that’s settled, there’s no need for further complications.” “I’ll settle it with one question: Now that you know Shūko’s origins, do you still have the courage to make her your wife?” I stiffened. “Well, that—” “None of that matters now. Will you stand before your uncle tomorrow and declare, ‘Shūko is none other than Wata Natsuko—the criminal who murdered Okon, the former owner of Ghost Tower—whom you yourself once demanded be executed’? Or will you instead proclaim with dignity, ‘I love Natsuko more than family honor, and shall marry her at once’? Do you possess even an ounce of the courage required to make Shūko your wife?” “Though I must abandon making her my wife,” I said, trembling, “my love for Shūko falls short of no one’s. Now that I know her origins, my ideals have vanished—life hardly seems worth living. I only wish to secure her peaceful stability hereafter.”

“No—if you cannot make her your wife, say nothing more! You’ve no right to meddle in Shūko’s affairs! Unlike you, *I* will proclaim her my wife to the world tomorrow if she consents! For this, I care not if I lose honor or ruin my standing! My love for Shūko surpasses yours a hundredfold!” “I declare your love to be that of a barbarian!” I shouted. “You care neither for honor nor reason, concerned only with imposing your will! No woman of feeling could ever value such love! How could I possibly entrust Shūko to a savage like you?” As these words left my mouth, a sound came from the adjoining room. Startled, I turned to find Shūko standing at the boundary between chambers, watching our confrontation—though when she had arrived, I could not say. My fervor had so clouded my mind that I’d failed to notice her presence, though she must have been there from the beginning.

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Crescent Mark

I had never imagined Shūko would be here—and to think she had heard every word I said was truly pitiable. Ah—now I see! When I approached the entrance to this room earlier, the voices I heard conversing inside had been Shūko's. Unaware it was me knocking, Tokisuke had hastily hidden her in the adjoining chamber. Upon hearing my voice from there, she must have crept to the partition—but realizing the grave nature of this conversation about herself, she found herself trapped: unable to emerge or retreat, standing frozen as she listened.

Had I known she was listening, I would have spoken far more gently—avoided phrases like "can no longer make you my wife" or "you who escaped prison," words that cut to the quick. To hear only such harshness must have been agonizing for her. No doubt she endured unbearable torment. The noise just now—was it not the sound of her overwhelmed by the extremity, teetering on collapse, her balance lost as she staggered? It could only have been such a sound.

As I thought this, Shūko could no longer support herself, now appearing on the verge of collapse. Her pallid complexion and listless posture were truly pitiful—it seemed a miracle she remained standing without falling. Was Shūko’s gaze fixed on my face or Gonda Tokisuke’s? No—rather, she stared vacantly into the space between us without blinking. Ah—she was already half-unconscious! Her mind grew faint; her very senses seemed to detach from her body.

The moment I perceived this, her body tilted sideways and collapsed onto the floor like a falling tree. Startled, I rushed forward—but Gonda moved faster, throwing out his arms to block me. “No! No! You’ve renounced Shūko with your own words! You’ve no right to touch her now! *I* will tend to her—get back!” Whether from jealousy or madness, Gonda acted frenziedly as he lifted Shūko and propped her against a settee.

Upon looking, I saw Shūko had sustained a minor injury on her left forehead, blood seeping from where she must have struck something during her collapse. I took out my handkerchief to wipe the blood, but Gonda snatched it from me and tended to her himself. As I observed Shūko’s face intently—thinking this man’s love truly resembled that of a barbarian—I felt heartrending sorrow beyond words. Her beauty needed no elaboration, yet beyond mere loveliness lay an untainted purity and nobility. Though countless beauties exist in this world, none could match her serene dignity—a noble bearing that defied imitation. Whether one enhanced or marred her features, this ineffable quality remained immutable: neither removable nor artificially added. It flowed like formless springwater from pure depths within her soul—natural and uncontainable.

There existed a theory that one's countenance emanated from the soul—that accumulated hardships naturally manifested as a haggard visage, while wickedness filling the heart bred malevolence in one's features regardless of beauty or ugliness. Conversely, those who devoted themselves wholly to virtuous deeds, casting aside all selfish desires to seek only conscience's satisfaction, developed a noble bearing possessing such magnificent refinement that neither actor could mimic nor painter nor sculptor reproduce. Could Shūko truly be one endowed with such grandeur and delicacy? Though it seemed incongruous—a woman who murdered and broke prisons pursuing selfless moral fulfillment—her aspect remained undeniably majestic yet exquisite, not a trace of malice discernible.

Had there been even a single trace of malice or wickedness visible in her face, I might have found some measure of peace. But precisely because not a speck of such corruption existed, I felt as though my entire body were being carved apart. How could I ever bring myself to abandon this woman? In all the world, none deserved the word "pure" more than she. Though bearing sin, her face showed no stain of crime; though mired in filth, she remained unsoiled. To think of her as some villainess would be to invite divine retribution—this near-blasphemous realization seized me as I cried out from my very core: "Oh Miss Shūko—forgive me! At this very moment, I recognize my own faithlessness and folly!" When I tried to push Gonda aside and cling to her, he stubbornly blocked me again. "Mr. Marube," he said, "no amount of regret changes matters now. As proof—look at this!" He took Shūko's left hand, removed her long glove, and exposed her wrist for me to see. I had no choice but to look—look and see clearly. This was the lifelong secret Shūko had guarded so fiercely: the old scar marking her wicked past. This must have been what Urako meant when she screamed about discovering a secret—what Takanawada Chōzō had fought to see by Shūko's grave that day. The scar bore witness to none other than Okon's death throes—the bite mark left when the old woman sank her teeth in agony, leaving flesh between the corpse's jaws and this permanent crescent-shaped wound that reached down to the bone, healed in grotesque relief. I couldn't bear to look twice. Seeing my grimace, Gonda declared, "There—this scar is the barrier separating you from Shūko! Yet for me—had this not existed, I might never have made her mine! I revere this mark as my matchmaker!" He fervently kissed the scarred flesh. I couldn't suppress the violent shudder that wracked my body.

Chapter Eighty-Eight: The Escape Plan

After obsessively licking the crescent-shaped scar, Gonda seemed to regain some composure—his earlier maddened demeanor fading as he quietly toyed with Shūko’s injured hand. In a tone of cold explanation, he said, “Mr. Marube, you wonder what I did with that facial cast? I sent it anonymously to Shūko at once. No doubt she was startled—but startling her was my aim. Unless frightened, she would never have come to me.” Having said this much, he looked at my face and confirmed I was listening. “Not at all. Lately, Shūko seems to have thought that as long as *you* protect her, there’s nothing left in this world to fear—and thus her behavior toward me has grown utterly cold.” “She consults me only when necessary—otherwise, she discards me entirely. But I don’t deserve such cold treatment! I am her *lifesaver*, the one who gave her this new existence! That’s why I resolved to summon her here and reason with her properly. After much deliberation, I concluded intimidation through the facial cast was unavoidable. By sending it anonymously, she’d remember her vulnerability—that as long as this secret persists, she cannot escape my protection. Moreover, she’d inevitably rush to me to discuss who sent it and how to respond. Once here, I could negotiate freely. Acting on this plan, she indeed came… only for *you* to arrive mid-conversation! While your interruption was regrettable, it proved fortunate in hindsight. Not only did *I* hear you renounce marrying her—*she* heard it too! As you know, Shūko is a woman of immense pride. Having heard those words, she’ll never become your wife now. No apology from you will undo this.”

I felt as though I had received a death sentence. Would Shūko resent my words so bitterly? Would her heart remain hardened against any apology? This thought filled me with desolation. Seeing her beautiful face before me now—marred by injuries from her collapse—I felt as though I might lose an entire world should she come to loathe me forever. Ah, the regret! As this regret swelled within me, even the crimes Shūko had committed began to seem less condemnable in my mind. Weighing their gravity, I reasoned: She could not have killed Okon with malice. At that willful age when the distinction between good and evil remains half-formed, some overwhelming impulse must have driven her unknowingly to murder. Such a sin deserved forgiveness—especially when she had already endured death sentences, life imprisonment, and years languishing in prison cells. Had she not atoned enough? Moreover, having died and been reborn as another person entirely—must Matsutani Shūko now bear judgment for Wata Natsuko's sins? To condemn her thus would be merciless, contrary to all human compassion. Yet from another quarter arose the moral tenets drilled into me since childhood—through home, school, circumstance, and societal lore—insisting no path existed to revere a criminal. My heart became a battlefield where fire warred against water.

Gradually, Shūko regained consciousness. Slowly opening her eyes, she first saw the lamplight, then surveyed the room, looked at Gonda Tokisuke, and finally met my gaze. Fortunately, Gonda had already rebandaged the old wound on her hand, sparing her from seeing it herself. As she took in her surroundings—perhaps recalling all that had transpired—she spoke in a weak, childlike voice: “I was standing here worrying you two might come to blows... Ah... It seems I fainted.” “I know such frailty is unbecoming,” she added apologetically, “but I’ve faced nothing but trials lately.” Seizing the moment, I said, “You needn’t fear any hardship now, Miss Shūko—I’ll stay by your side,” and pushed Gonda aside to approach her. Though she’d seemed devoid of strength, Shūko rose as if electrified, fixing me with a resentful glare. “Don’t trouble yourself with me again,” she spat bitterly. “I am Wata Natsuko.” True to Gonda’s words, her pride ran deep—my earlier remarks had cut sharply, leaving her resolved to sever ties with me entirely. Desperate, my voice strained with pity at her wretched state, I pleaded: “Miss Shūko—however angered you are—please forget the past—” “Very well—let’s forget we ever grew close,” she interrupted. “I’ve no business here now. Farewell, Mr. Marube.” Turning to Gonda with deliberate contrast: “And you, Mr. Gonda—I’ll see you again.” Having delivered these divergent farewells, she tried to leave while still unsteady on her feet. I urgently pressed: “Wait—before you go, we must devise an escape plan!” I spoke from dread of Mori Mondo arresting her come dawn—we had to find sanctuary somewhere, however temporary. At this, Shūko whirled on me with fresh indignation: “Escape? From what? I’ve done nothing wrong!” “I barely secured a two-day reprieve from Detective Mori’s warrant,” I explained. “I went to Paris seeking proof of your innocence—but returned empty-handed as you heard! Now we three must—” A voice cut through from beyond the door: “*No need—the reprieve expired.* Allow me to announce myself: *Detective Mori Mondo* has arrived.” The man who entered was unmistakably the shadowy figure I’d seen earlier scrutinizing the house plaque by a shaded lantern—that this was Mori himself left me thunderstruck.

Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Breath’s End Why had Detective Mori Mondo come? To arrest Matsutani Shūko. Ah! Had he arrived just half an hour later, I would have completed all necessary arrangements to help her escape. That he appeared now—amidst our still-unsettled discussions—demonstrated a detective’s sharp instincts, though the timing proved most inopportune. Truly, I was stunned—and not alone: Gonda Tokisuke stood equally shocked; Matsutani Shūko herself froze in alarm. For a moment, we three could only stare at one another in silent confrontation. The sole unshaken figure was Mori Mondo. As previously described, he wore large glasses that altered his appearance, yet observed our astonishment with infuriating composure. Slowly removing the spectacles, he chuckled coldly: “Ahahaha! These lenses served admirably. Without them, you’d have recognized me at the gatepost, Mr. Marube.” His gaze shifted meaningfully toward Shūko. “In truth—having noted this lady’s departure from Ghost Tower—I altered my appearance and followed her, suspecting she might flee like wind-scattered leaves. Though no flight occurred, my pursuit bore fruit nonetheless.” He adjusted his cuffs with clinical precision. “Eavesdropping beyond the door resolved every lingering uncertainty—a distasteful practice, yet indispensable in my trade.” His voice sharpened like a scalpel. “Mr. Marube! How faithless you prove! You vowed never to let Matsutani escape—secured a two-day reprieve through that very pledge—then spearheaded schemes to spirit her away! But what else springs from lovesick folly? Were our positions reversed, I might scheme likewise—thus I withhold harsh judgment.” He raised a didactic finger. “Regardless, halting your plot spared you graver consequences! Had I not intervened, you’d have committed the capital crime of abetting a fugitive. In time—when passion cools and reason prevails—you’ll *thank* me for this intervention. Oh yes—that gratitude shall surely come.”

After finishing his soliloquy-like speech, he straightened his posture and turned toward Shūko. Until that moment, I had been utterly dumbfounded and nearly stupefied—but seeing him adjust his demeanor made me fully grasp the peril of Shūko’s situation. As his bearing shifted, he assumed the imposing authority of a stern law enforcer, radiating an unapproachable air. Gonda Tokisuke too—now equally aware of Shūko’s danger for the first time—flashed me a lightning-quick meaningful glance, likely deeming this a critical juncture. I returned an identical glance. Within these exchanged signals lay an implicit understanding: *We cannot surrender Shūko.* This mutual comprehension was absolute.

Mori Mondo addressed Shūko: “Miss Wata Natsuko, alias Matsutani Shūko—though it pains me to make this arrest, I cannot let personal feelings interfere with official duties. On suspicion of attempting to poison your foster father Marube Tomoo, consider yourself now in custody.” Though phrased courteously, its meaning differed no more than a guard snarling “You’re nicked—come quietly!” Ah—Wata Natsuko! The foster-mother killer who escaped death row through prison walls to be reborn as Matsutani Shūko, now arrested anew for foster-father murder. Karmic justice? Cause and effect? False accusation? Or heaven’s retribution striking true?

Michikurou and Gonda exchanged glances once more—for even enemies become brothers when sharing a boat against a common foe. Though rivals in love until now, the cry of Shūko’s arrest instantly united them as kin. Without time to confer, they swiftly divided roles: Gonda darted like a swift bird to the room’s entrance, locked the door firmly, and stood guard himself—his intent clear to prevent the detective from leaving alive. Not a breath behind him, I lunged at Mori Mondo from behind, grappling him and clamping his jaw in a chokehold tight enough to dislocate it—a precaution to silence him. For such tasks, my great strength was most suited. Though Gonda himself was a sturdy man, he could not match my renowned might in rough work. Knowing this, he had wisely assigned himself the role of guarding the door while leaving the brutish labor to me—a decision worthy of praise for its quick-wittedness. The detective writhed in my grip like a doll seized by mischievous children, unable to utter even a grunt. Observing this, Gonda said, “Well done! Do not slacken your hold even slightly. Detectives like him are apt to sound distress signals—if that whistle blows, all is lost. I shall now fetch the tool to stop his breath.” With this, he retreated to the adjoining room.

Chapter Ninety: The Parrot’s Echo Declaring he would stop Detective Mori Mondo’s breath, Gonda Tokisuke—though what kind of tool he intended to bring remained unclear—had entered the next room. I couldn’t truly stop the detective’s breath—I had my own plan.

But perhaps Mori Mondo sensed mortal peril—upon hearing Tokisuke’s dreadful words, he began thrashing violently. I truly pitied him; though my heart held ample compassion, my hands showed no mercy. The more he struggled, the tighter I constricted him. Witnessing this, Matsutani Shūko stepped before me with pallid face and declared: “Is this the detective who surveilled me at Ghost Tower? If so, cease such brutality! It is wickedness to torment another for my sake. Whether arrested or otherwise dealt with—I care not at all.” Though her argument was sound, I merely dismissed it with a “Tch.” Reflecting now, it was truly a cruel and violent act—I felt myself becoming a monstrous villain. Had another man subjected a detective to such treatment for a woman’s sake, what would I call him? Never a gentleman, that’s certain. But all of this… all of it was for Shūko’s sake. There was no other way.

Amidst this, Tokisuke emerged from the adjoining room carrying an extremely long hemp rope—sufficient to restrain four or five men—and a strip of unbleached cotton cloth. His apparent plan to bind then gag the detective aligned perfectly with my own reasoning: we needed only to immobilize the investigator's limbs and silence him until Shūko could escape safely. Turning to me, Tokisuke said, "Mr. Marube—don't slacken your grip an inch. I'll handle binding his legs. Rest assured—I mastered rope techniques from sailors. My knots won't come undone easily." With this declaration, he seized the detective's legs and began tightly coiling the rope around them.

Perhaps having resigned himself that no amount of struggle could overcome my strength, Mori Mondo ceased his thrashing. In its place, an extraordinary fury surfaced in his eyes as he glared fixedly at my face. Had his gaze possessed lethal power, I surely would have perished beneath it then and there. Even resolved as I was, being subjected to such a stare proved profoundly unsettling. I felt compelled to offer some verbal solace. “Mr. Mori—Mr. Mori,” I said, echoing his earlier words like a parrot’s repetition, “bitter though this must feel, endure it for your own sake! Were we not to restrain you now, you’d arrest the innocent Shūko and become a laughingstock for professional incompetence hereafter. Earlier, you claimed to obstruct my crime of aiding a convict out of goodwill—now I return the favor! Through similar benevolence, I prevent your catastrophic blunder! Once Shūko escapes beyond your reach, we’ll release you immediately. By then, no grounds for failure shall remain.” Whether these words softened his resolve remained unclear.

He tried to move his mouth as if to speak, but since my hand gripping his jaw didn’t slacken in the slightest, he couldn’t manage anything beyond emitting a groan like a dog’s growl. Shūko, witnessing this scene and hearing these sounds, said, “Mr. Marube—must you refuse to release him no matter what?” Then turning to Gonda Tokisuke: “Didn’t you declare moments ago that you would never engage in cowardly acts unbefitting a gentleman? How is this not cowardice? How does this not disgrace the title of gentleman? If you truly wish to spare my reputation, I implore you—discard that rope!” Ignoring her plea as well, Gonda swiftly bound Mori Mondo from waist to hands to neck like a rolled mat, finally gagging him. “There, Mr. Marube—this might as well have stopped his breath,” said Gonda. “Let’s carry him to the next room and toss him in the closet for now.” Following his words, I grabbed the detective’s shoulders while Gonda took his legs. Together we hoisted him up, carried him to the adjacent room, and unceremoniously threw him into the storage space like discarded rubble before sliding the door shut.

**Chapter Ninety-One: The True Heroine** Even someone as agile as Detective Mori Mondo could do nothing once his hands, feet, neck, and torso were tightly bound with long ropes. Hoisted up by Gonda and me, he was carried without resistance to the next room and thrown into the closet—a truly wretched sight. As I bore him to the adjoining chamber, I stole a sidelong glance to gauge Shūko’s state. Her pallid face had turned ghastlier still, lips bloodless where she bit them raw. She leaned against the wall like a broken marionette, eyes vacant yet fixed on some unseen point in the room. Profound torment radiated from her—the kind that spurs desperate resolve. Was she contemplating suicide?

The sight filled me with profound pity. While society’s young women her age remained blissfully ignorant of worldly hardships—preoccupied with theaters, soirées, and finery—why must Shūko alone endure imprisonment, death-rebirth cycles, and horrors beyond description? Though one might cite her past crimes or inherent nature as causes, such anguish should have purified any sin long ago. Having already perished completely through suffering’s crucible—her soul now shone purer than those born with unblemished histories.

As I thought this and tried to return to the main room, Gonda stopped me from behind. “Wait,” he said. “There’s a matter we must settle here.” “But if we discuss this here... Mori Mondo might overhear us.” “It’s fine—this isn’t so secretive a matter. Especially since it’s something difficult to say in front of Miss Shūko.” “Very well, I will hear it. What is this discussion about?” Still standing directly before the closet where they had thrown the detective, Gonda declared, “Even if we let Shūko escape now, we cannot simply send her off alone. Either you or I must accompany her—personally protecting her until we can confirm her safety. Which of us will take this duty? You… or me?”

Even if I could never make Shūko my wife, I wanted to remain someone she would remember fondly in the years to come. By taking responsibility for her protection now, I could at least secure her gratitude—other matters aside. Without hesitation, I declared: “Naturally, I’ll handle this duty. You’re a busy lawyer, after all.” “Spare me your empty courtesies,” Gonda retorted. “I’d abandon my profession entirely if needed.” “If that’s your stance, I’m prepared to stake my very life on this.” “Arguing gets us nowhere. Let’s have Shūko decide instead—though entrusting the choice to her feels precarious, we’ve no alternative.” “Agreed,” I said, and we both turned back toward the main room.

Oh no—Shūko had vanished without a trace. Earlier, she had seemed to be biting her lip as if summoning some extraordinary resolve, but now appeared to have fully committed to that decision and departed somewhere. The once-locked entrance door stood open, revealing that Gonda had indeed given her a duplicate key long ago for unrestricted access to his quarters. I muttered, “Oh no—could she have rushed off intending to take her own life?” “She certainly left,” Gonda countered, “but not to kill herself. Had she been the weak-willed sort to commit suicide, she’d have done so long ago. This is a woman who endured prison to uphold her convictions—do you think such a woman would resort to something so trivial?” “I must pursue her immediately.” “Wait.” Gonda’s voice held authority. “While she likely intends to hide now, given her cautious nature, there’s no doubt she’s returned to Ghost Tower to burn any incriminating documents or items that might be discovered later.”

"I'll return to Ghost Tower immediately. At any rate, I'll check the station." As I began to rise, Gonda restrained me once more: "If she went to Ghost Tower, there's no immediate danger of Shūko being arrested—we still have Mori Mondo secured here. We've a day or two of safety. Settle matters through proper discussion with me before leaving." I countered: "True enough—if she indeed went to Ghost Tower, an hour or two won't make a difference. But if she fled directly without going there, it's catastrophic. I must go verify at the station." Gonda acquiesced: "Very well—do so. But should you encounter Shūko there, you mustn't return to Ghost Tower with her. Simply tell her: 'Stay calm and remain at Ghost Tower for two or three more days—we'll soon secure a safe path.' Reassure her with these words, then come straight back to this house."

This was indeed the most reasonable plan. Since Gonda and I had yet to settle any concrete arrangements between us, I needed to return once more. Leaving behind a curt “Understood,” I immediately rushed to Paddington Station—the departure point for trains bound for Tō Village—but missed it by a hair’s breadth. Anxiously watching the train while wondering if Shūko had boarded, I glimpsed her figure through a first-class window. *Ah—she’s returning to Ghost Tower after all.* This alone brought momentary relief. Checking the timetable revealed the next train was the last one at 1:30 AM—still an hour and a half remained to consult with Gonda. Steadying myself, I drafted a telegram here: “Rest assured for a day or two—do not leave Ghost Tower until my return,” and sent it to Shūko. Then, as agreed, I returned to Gonda’s residence—though whatever scheme he intended now mattered little.

Gonda was calmly smoking his tobacco. After I finished recounting the station incident, he declared: “There—you see? Just as I said. I understand Shūko’s actions as if they were my own.” “Spare me the boasts. Get to the point.” “I *will* speak plainly.” Gonda leaned forward. “To state it bluntly—and don’t be shocked—her heart belongs entirely to you, not me.” Though startled by this admission from my rival, I feigned indifference. “What of it?” “Shūko collapsed earlier because you discovered her past crimes and renounced her. But mark this—*you* forfeited all right to her love when you condemned her for those sins. Unlike you, I neither abandon her nor even believe in those so-called crimes!” “You… don’t believe her guilty?” “To be precise—Miss Shūko has committed no murder, nor any crime at all.” “But she stood trial!” “A flawed trial! Circumstantial evidence misled them into punishing an innocent woman. That’s why I pity her.” “No—I *revere* her. Shūko is a true woman of principle.”

**Chapter Ninety-Two: You Are Human** “Shūko is pure—Shūko is innocent!” I cried out involuntarily, leaping to my feet and dashing about the room. If it were true that Shūko had committed no crime whatsoever—that she had been imprisoned solely due to a wrongful trial—then there was no reason whatsoever to despise her. Rather, she deserved pity, love, and reverence! Just as Gonda had said—she was indeed a true heroine, a woman of such rare excellence as scarcely exists in this world.

Yet this strained all credulity! However error-prone trials might be, could there truly exist such an outrageous miscarriage of justice—where one who had committed no crime whatsoever would be branded a murderer, convicted without exonerating evidence, and even executed? To call it excessive made it nearly impossible to accept. Had I heard this tale ignorant of Shūko's character, I would have scornfully dismissed it without hesitation—for who could believe modern courts capable of such injustice? Yet precisely because I knew her nature, I found myself unable to reject it. By every measure, Shūko lacked the disposition for crime; her countenance and demeanor grew more immaculate the longer one observed them, approaching something nearly transcendent. How could such an extraordinary woman stoop to base misdeeds?

When I first heard of Shūko’s crimes from Dr. Paul Lepel, the reader knows how profoundly I had hesitated to believe them. Overwhelmed by the evidence of her altered facial features, I had no choice but to accept them—yet never with wholehearted conviction. Even in that reluctant belief, a root of doubt remained deep within, threatening to overturn my heart entirely. The reason was none other than this: within Shūko herself burned a radiant light that made it impossible to see her as a criminal—a light that could neither be concealed nor extinguished, no matter how one tried.

This astonishment was unexpected, yet unlike the shock I'd felt upon hearing she was a criminal—a shock that had refused to dissolve within me. When I first learned of her crimes, revulsion had surged from my depths like clear water meeting oil, a nausea so visceral it nearly made me retch—utterly incompatible with my being. Now, in stark contrast, a beam of spring sunlight melted warmly into my heart; this astonishment lifted my entire body as if buoyant—an astonishment that fit me perfectly. Let there be more of this! The greater the shock, the better! Even had I tried to disbelieve it, disbelief proved impossible. Before my mind could accept it, my very soul had already tilted toward conviction: *This must be true.*

“Wh—you truly know this?” were the first words I uttered. Gonda replied: “I know indeed. I can now prove the true criminal isn’t Shūko but exists elsewhere—proof I can show you, society, and the law itself. Whether I reveal this proof or not—that is, whether I prove another’s guilt or refrain—depends solely on my will… or rather, Mr. Marube, on *your* will alone.” “Y-you—you’ve held such evidence all this time yet let Shūko suffer without revealing it? Are you even human?” I retorted, eyes bulging.

“Now, now—don’t be so hasty,” said Gonda. “I never withheld proof despite knowing the truth. It’s only recently that I obtained this evidence. Let me remind you—*I* was the one who defended Shūko—no, Wata Natsuko—in court. At the time, I heard her declare countless times, ‘I did not commit this murder,’ and I largely believed her. Precisely because I believed her, I threw myself into her defense with all my might. Yet every circumstance pointed to her guilt, and I could produce no counterevidence. My efforts proved futile—Shūko, that is, Natsuko—was convicted of murder. Still, I told her then: ‘If you truly didn’t kill anyone, the real criminal will emerge sooner or later. Somewhere, evidence must exist. While you’re imprisoned, *I* will search for it.’ But she refused to submit to that farcical trial. She vowed to escape prison by any means necessary, exhaust every resource, and ensure that even *one* person in this world believed Wata Natsuko was no murderer—even if it cost her entire life. She declared this to me with eyes blazing like fire! Her prison escape was the result. She’s no ordinary fugitive fleeing lawful confinement—she broke free from legal *violence* that wrongfully imprisoned her! Since escaping, she’s devoted herself wholly to this cause—until today.”

From this, it seemed what Shūko had called her “secret mission” likely lay in that direction. Though even so, parts still didn’t quite add up—but at any rate, I had grasped the general outline. It felt almost as though I had awoken.

**Chapter Ninety-Three: There Lies the Discussion** I forgot everything else in my joy. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Gonda! That trial was undoubtedly a mistake. Anyone can see Miss Shūko isn’t the kind of woman who would commit such a detestable crime as murder!” Gonda sneered, “Oh? *Everyone* can see it now? How admirable you are! When Dr. Paul Lepel told you she was a murderous criminal, you instantly believed it—and now that *I* say she’s innocent, you nod along without even seeing proof! How remarkably swift you are!” Though flushing crimson, I retorted, “Yes! I believe this without evidence—Miss Shūko’s appearance and conduct outweigh a hundred proofs!”

Having declared this, upon further reflection, I realized this was no time for mere rejoicing. If she truly were such a pure and blameless woman, I must swiftly arrange for that purity to be recognized by the world. I said: “Now, Mr. Gonda—my fickle shifting between believing her guilty and innocent must seem utterly absurd. I’ll endure any ridicule for that. But before all else, shouldn’t we demonstrate to society this evidence of Shūko’s innocence? Let us reveal it publicly and clear her of these false accusations!” Gonda offered no reply. I pressed closer: “Mr. Gonda—should we not proclaim Shūko’s innocence to the world for as long as our voices hold out? Especially now that she faces this second horrific accusation of killing her foster father! For now, let us show Mori Mondo this evidence—make him understand Shūko has no tainted history of crime—and dispel this impending crisis to secure her safety! Now—where is this evidence? Produce it here! Here!”

Gonda replied with grave composure, “Therein lies the discussion—unless a firm agreement is reached between us—” “Don’t be hasty,” Gonda interjected. “First, calmly hear me out. Do you truly assert your wish to save Shūko?” I grew agitated. “Why ask such needless questions? What alternative remains but to save her?” “But saving her demands extraordinary resolve,” he countered. “You must endure excruciating trials.” “I’ll endure any hardship without faltering.” “Very well.” Gonda’s voice hardened. “Having heard that pledge, I’ll speak plainly. To save Shūko, you must return to Ghost Tower and declare to her: ‘As a woman stained by murder, you can never become Marube Michikurou’s wife—nay, your presence defiles this house. Leave at once when preparations allow.’” “Wh-what? Explain yourself!” “It’s nothing—merely the initial step to secure her salvation.”

"What an absurd notion! To declare someone innocent a criminal—this 'preparation to clear false charges' is pure sophistry," I demanded. "How could such a thing be preparation?" Gonda replied with glacial calm: "Unless you say it, Shūko will never fully renounce you. Though she appeared to have abandoned all affection earlier, that wasn't true rejection—merely transient anger. She resented you. Resentment or fury proves she still loves you profoundly—wholly unlike genuine renunciation. Had she truly cast you aside, there'd be neither hatred nor rage—only contempt, treating you as a man beneath notice. If you truly wish to save her, you must engineer circumstances where she discards you utterly."

“Of course not. Unless she casts you beyond consideration for life—unless the man called Marube Michikurou ceases to exist within Shūko’s field of vision—salvation remains impossible.”

“Could such an absurd argument exist in this world?” I exclaimed, dumbfounded. “Mr. Gonda, I don’t understand a word you’re saying. Why must Shūko despise me for the rest of her life to clear her name? Where do such reasons—*such reasons*—exist? Unless you clearly explain them in a way that satisfies my understanding, I must regrettably deem you a madman! Your words lack coherence—they are nothing but the ravings of a lunatic!” Gonda showed no sign of anger. “Precisely. If these were merely the ravings of a madman, I would feel no compunction toward you. But they are not ravings—it is simply that there exists no other path to save Shūko. A regrettable truth.” “Why? Why?”

“To put it plainly,” said Gonda, “unless Miss Shūko completely renounces all affection for you, she will never become my wife. And unless she becomes my wife, I absolutely will not save her.” “I’ll destroy the evidence I hold—this I declare with a man’s unbreakable vow. Do you understand now?” Ah—his words were those of a demon consumed by jealous madness.

**Chapter Ninety-Four: Heartrending Anguish**

When someone sees a person fallen into a well, is there anyone who would not want to rescue them? When someone sees an innocent person suffering under false charges, is there anyone who would not want to clear those false charges? If such a person exists, they are a demon. To think—these false charges involved the gravest crimes of matricide and patricide, yet the accused was the very woman I loved, pitied, and revered! That someone would demand she become his wife as a precondition for rescuing her from such monumental suspicion—could these be words uttered by a human being? I stared at Gonda Tokisuke’s face in stunned silence, utterly unable to speak a word; he too remained mute, as though awaiting my response. “Since remaining silent any longer would lead nowhere,” I finally said, “isn’t what you’re suggesting far too cruel, Mr. Gonda? To claim you can’t save Shūko unless she becomes your wife—” “Indeed, it may seem harsh,” Gonda replied, “but this is not a matter for *you* to pass judgment on—it is for others to assess.” “Why?!” “The extremity of it is no different for you,” Gonda countered. “If you were to thoroughly dissect the depths of your own heart, wouldn’t you too conclude that she must become *your* wife to be saved?” “I—I would never entertain such base motives—” “If you truly lack such base motives,” Gonda pressed, “return at once to Ghost Tower and ensure Shūko utterly renounces all affection for you—exactly as I say. Should you make her reject you completely, she will finally become my wife. Once she is irrevocably *my* wife, her disgrace will vanish within three days.” “But that—” I began. “But isn’t *that* sentiment of yours precisely the same as mine?” Gonda interrupted. “To save Shūko and make her your wife—doesn’t it all boil down to this: that even in saving her, you cannot bear to do so unless she becomes *your* wife? What difference lies between my resolve—to not save her unless she becomes *my* wife—and yours? If you claim there *is* a difference, why don’t you plainly say to me here: ‘I don’t care if Shūko becomes my wife—just clear her disgrace!’”

Now that he put it this way, perhaps there was no significant difference between my heart and Gonda’s after all. Merely saving Shūko without making her my wife left me somehow unsatisfied—ah, had I too become possessed by a demon’s heart unworthy of being called human? Must I now steel myself to sever all ties with Shūko, deliberately engineer her lifelong rejection of me, and thereby open the path to her salvation? To have finally recognized her as a pure and blameless woman worthy of reverence—only to immediately orchestrate her utter disdain for me—was bitterly regrettable. Yet this very regret might draw my heart closer to Gonda’s demonic resolve. Regret—regret! Faced with this incomparably cruel predicament, I felt like tearing at my very flesh, yet there was no alternative. “Mr. Gonda—your logic is truly merciless.” “Your words too...”

I heaved a deep sigh. “Mr. Gonda, Mr. Gonda—if I were to declare here and now that I cannot possibly orchestrate a situation where Shūko renounces all affection for me for life... what would you do?” “If you declare that, there’s nothing I can do. Unlike you, I refuse to wallow in womanly sentimentality clinging to the past. If that’s your choice, proceed with your wedding however you please—I’ll simply offer congratulations and take my leave.” “And with that—you’d be satisfied?” “Perfectly. Even defeated in love, I triumph in revenge—yes, love is but a fleeting loss, while revenge endures as lifelong victory.” “What manner of revenge...?”

“Your wedding to Shūko itself becomes my revenge—think carefully! Should you make her your wife, even if *you* believe her innocent, society will not. Sooner or later, someone will expose that Mrs. Marube is none other than Wata Natsuko—the woman convicted years ago of murdering her foster mother. Even if her altered face remains hidden, detective Mori Mondo will report everything to the authorities. Shūko will have no choice but to flee with you to some remote foreign land severed from this nation and society. Yet even in exile, you’ll never know peace—jumping at every gust of wind or drop of rain, fearing arrest any moment. Within three years, she’ll age decades, withering into a joyless husk. As your wife, she’ll never smile at you—only scream in nightmares, trapped in pitiful terror. Where lies marital bliss then? You’ll know she needn’t fear the world this way yet fail to prove her innocence or ease her pain. Had she become *my* wife instead, she’d be hailed as a heroine—respected and revered! But as *yours*, you’ll drown her in suffering! Your guilt will fester daily while you both rot in gloom—a mirror of your own marriage! This satisfies me—I’ll endure fleeting heartbreak! Now, Mr. Marube—you’re human, not a demon. A path exists for your beloved to live honorably, yet you’d steal her happiness for momentary gratification—burying her under murder charges! Your love is venomous—a killer’s love! A love that ruins women! Once Shūko learns this, she’ll thank me—never resenting you! So go ahead—entomb her in falsehoods with your ‘love’!”

What terrifying words! I knew that with Tokisuke as an enemy, Shūko’s lifetime would hold no happiness whatsoever. Were I to wed Shūko, this man would immediately launch a campaign of vengeance—he would not cease until he cast us both into the depths of misery. Though he had always seemed broad-minded, manly, even chivalrous—how could love warp a human so utterly? Truly, his love was undoubtedly stronger than mine. To make Shūko my wife despite knowing this, only to let her sink into the wretched state he described—that would render my love a poisonous thing. However agonizing, I had no choice but to concede victory to him. Resolute, I declared: “I consent, Mr. Gonda. Make Shūko your wife.” He declared with heartrending anguish.

**Chapter Ninety-Five: What Kind of Evidence?**

I had completely surrendered. “Make Shūko your wife,” I declared to Mr. Gonda—a decision born of heartrending anguish, yet there had been no alternative. Only through this could I clear Shūko’s disgrace and secure her a life of happiness befitting her true self. This—this was genuine love for her. Mr. Gonda showed no trace of joy, speaking in the dispassionate tone of a lawyer settling a consultation fee: “How admirably resolute you are—this *is* what pure love demands. But you must not deviate even a step from your declaration. You must make Shūko believe you still consider her guilty—act as though *you* have renounced all affection for her. If you do this, she will surely come to despise you. She’ll lament having once seen a man as fickle, faithless, and shallow as yourself as her destined partner. Once she avoids your presence entirely, *my* efforts alone will suffice. When the moment arrives, I’ll show her such kindness that she’ll compare your betrayal with my sincerity. Gradually, her heart will turn to me—she’ll begin loving me as fiercely as she once loved you. Understand? You mustn’t display even a hint of appeasement toward her. For every day Shūko delays in renouncing you, her disgrace lingers a day longer. Should we miss our timing amidst delays, all will be irreparable.” I swallowed my tears. “Very well—I understand. But you must begin saving Shūko immediately.” Mr. Gonda replied, “Of course—she *is* my future wife. I’ll begin immediately, even without your urging. After all, saving her and making her feel indebted is my only recourse.”

I could no longer bear my unease. “But Mr. Gonda—there’s not even a one-in-ten-thousand chance you’ll fail to save Shūko, is there?” Gonda said: “Your question is redundant. You seem unable to relinquish your lingering attachment—but consider this rationally. Your association with Shūko is, so to speak, a recent development. For eight years, I have devoted myself to her with sincerity—not merely toiling in her legal defense but enabling her prison escape and enduring untold hardships since. Given these sacrifices, Shūko rightfully ought to be my wife. Reflect on this, and you will see there is no path left for residual attachment.” “I have steeled myself and will harbor no lingering attachments, but I remain anxious about whether she will truly be saved. What exactly is this ‘incontrovertible evidence’ you speak of? I would like to hear it for myself.” Gonda: “It is the most irrefutable piece of evidence among all—specifically, I have tracked down the true culprit who killed Old Woman Okon and can present them to the authorities at any time. Moreover, I have thoroughly investigated everything to ensure they cannot stubbornly deny their guilt. Thus, my objective will be achieved before much time passes. Once that man finally confesses and is convicted, you will see—the whole of society will prostrate themselves before Shūko, apologizing for their past misjudgment. She will be hailed as a pitiable martyr who endured false accusations without guilt, becoming the most renowned woman in the nation and commanding immense respect.” “Now, just when the situation has inverted so completely that the woman you love leaps from the depths of disgrace to the heights of honor, you must find joy in having yielded Shūko to me. Eh—isn’t this something to rejoice in?”

Whether he intended to comfort me or mock me, I still couldn’t discern—but if his words held truth, I was happy. Yes, regrettably happy. “Very well, Mr. Gonda—I gladly entrust this matter to you. The train’s departure time approaches even as we speak, so I must take my leave. But please—begin the arrangements at once.” “Understood,” Gonda replied. “The first procedural step is simply to release Mori Mondo from his restraints and whisper the true culprit’s name into his ear. That will suffice.” As he spoke, Gonda opened the door to the adjacent room—only to startle at the sight of Mori Mondo still tightly bound, inexplicably rolled up just beyond the threshold. Likely, he had eavesdropped—or rather, *overheard while restrained*—on our conversation once more. What thoughts occupied him now, I couldn’t guess, but his face still burned with fury. With no time to address him, I bid Gonda farewell and turned to leave. Watching my retreating back, Gonda called out: “Rest assured, Mr. Marube—I’ll handle this detective’s disposition entirely. Moreover, I’ll follow you to Ghost Tower tomorrow to meet Shūko. Should she show even a flicker of lingering affection for you then, I’ll hold you fully accountable as a faithless oath-breaker.” His voice struck my despairing ears like a tolling alarm bell.

**Chapter Ninety-Six: The Sudden Rustle of the Screen**

I ignored Gonda Tokisuke’s voice and descended the stairs. What kind of exchange later transpired between Gonda and Mori Mondo, I did not know. Driven solely by the desire to return quickly to Ghost Tower, I raced to the station and barely caught the last train.

As I finally calmed myself in the train compartment, I felt profound gratitude at having confirmed Shūko’s purity and blamelessness—this alone seemed worthy of thanking the gods themselves. Yet what a pitiful state of affairs that I must now feign continued suspicion toward this immaculate woman, engineering circumstances where she would despise me for life, renounce all affection, and cast me utterly beyond consideration! Should I weep or laugh? Here lay the crux—I could no longer comprehend myself through my own being.

However, I ended up falling asleep on the train and only awoke upon arriving at Tō-no-Mura Station—already seven in the morning. Though Shūko ought to have reached here before daybreak, I worried whether she had truly come to this place or perhaps disembarked at some station along the way. I hurried back to Ghost Tower and first asked the gatekeeper if Shūko had returned. He replied that while he knew a telegram addressed to her had arrived late last night from London, he had no knowledge of her return. Since that telegram was undoubtedly the one I had sent, I inquired what had become of it and learned it had been handed over to Mrs. Torai. Without even entering my own room, I went directly to hers and found her washing the face of that fox-monkey as usual. Though her demeanor appeared calm, I could tell from the flicker in her eyes when she saw me that something troubled her mind—perhaps she already knew I had visited Ankawa’s insect farm and uncovered her background? Concealing my suspicion, I lightly asked, “Miss Shūko…?” Mrs. Torai finished wiping the fox-monkey’s face and said, “Well… she went out somewhere yesterday and hasn’t returned yet. But since telegrams like the one from London have arrived, I do hope she comes back soon.” Her manner of speaking didn’t seem like her usual lies. From this, it appeared Shūko truly hadn’t returned to the house—perhaps she had arrived at dawn when the gatekeeper was neglectful and hidden herself in her room—or so I wondered.

If she had seen my telegram, she would be calm by now—after all, I had written it to reassure her. But if it still hadn't reached her hands, she must remain in unbearable distress. I longed to meet her and set her mind at ease—no, I couldn't offer reassurance now. Meeting her would only compel me to make her renounce all affection for me. Yet even so, I yearned to see her face; not doing so left an inexplicable void.

From there, I searched Shūko’s room and scoured the entire house again, but her figure remained nowhere to be seen. With no alternative, I resolved to return to the station to inquire if anyone had witnessed her disembarking. However, I could not neglect visiting my uncle—still hovering between life and death—so I first went to his sickroom. The nurse informed me his condition was steadily improving but he currently slept; I would have to wait two hours before seeing him. Deciding to visit the station afterward, I headed to the stables and led out a horse I often rode. Having gone unridden for three or four days, it pranced with such vigor it seemed ready to burst from its skin. No sooner had I saddled it than the horse bolted without needing a whip’s touch, galloping headlong until reaching the station in no time. There, a brief inquiry quickly revealed Shūko had indeed disembarked from the early morning train at this station. A cabman who’d been waiting urged her to ride, but she refused and walked off toward Ghost Tower instead—the very driver still lingered here now. Mystified—had she vanished like Urahara Jō? Or perhaps run errands between station and tower?—I turned my horse back toward the village. Ahead walked an errand boy carrying what appeared to be morning purchases from town—recognizable from behind as the same youth who’d secretly informed me about the forged telegram sender. He worked for Chigusa-ya, the flower-selling crone, and clutched a lady’s handbag unlike anything locals would carry. Though I couldn’t recall if Shūko had carried such a bag last night, I wondered if she’d stopped at the flower shop and entrusted him with something. As I guided my mount closer, the boy started at the hoofbeats and turned—the instant he moved, my high-strung horse spooked and bolted down a side path before I could rein it in. In hindsight, it seemed almost supernaturally guided as it charged into Chigusa-ya’s garden and halted. This alone mightn’t have roused suspicion, but then—in a rear room window—someone inside swiftly opened a screen, likely alarmed by my horse’s sudden approach. Spotting me, they jerked the screen shut and hid, but not before I glimpsed their face with uncanny speed—a sight so shocking I nearly tumbled from the saddle, crying “Wh-what?!” To encounter such a face here strained belief, yet my eyes never deceived me. What secrets of Ghost Tower lay hidden behind those features? Who do you suppose this face belonged to?

**Chapter Ninety-Seven: That Bastard Is Who He Is** The face hidden in the window belonged to a truly unexpected person. I was so shocked that I momentarily forgot about Shūko’s predicament. Immediately tying my horse to a garden tree, I pushed open what could be called the front door and entered. The interior was eerily empty, with no one present. When I attempted to head toward the inner room where I had just seen that face, the partition door was locked. Even if I had to break down the door—after having bound detective Mori Mondo last night, trespassing into a residence was no longer something to fear—I desperately shook it. From a nearby window emerged an old woman nearing sixty, scolding, “What are you doing?” Seeing she held a bundle of keys—likely the mistress of this house—I declared, “I have urgent business with someone in the inner room,” snatched the keys from her grasp, and before her startled protests could stop me, threw open the partition door. This was unmistakably the room where that face had hidden.

After throwing the keys at the old woman’s feet and entering the room, I found the owner of that face huddled in the corner like a mouse cornered by a cat. Perhaps having resigned herself to hopelessness, she stood up and faced me: “You’re too cruel.” “How dare you barge in here without permission!” she rebuked—a perfect image of a trapped rodent snapping at its predator. As for who this desperate creature was, readers have likely guessed: Urahara Oura, who had vanished without a trace.

“How did you disappear? Why have you hidden in this house? Various secrets must be connected to this!” I felt the time had come for everything to be explained. Seizing Urako’s hand like an officer apprehending a criminal, I declared: “Now—cruelly and violently—do you have any right to refuse my intrusion into this room, *Miss Urako*? You’ve conducted yourself in ways unbefitting a woman and inflicted grave harm upon others! The hour has arrived for you to atone for that damage and humbly express contrition!”

“Are you talking about *damages*? About *apologies*? **I’m** the one who’s endured immeasurable harm!” Though her words feigned anger, her voice quivered with fear—a hollow bravado betraying awareness of utter defeat. I countered, “You’re no practitioner of such flimsy falsehoods. You know perfectly well *you* inflicted the harm, while another woman suffered its consequences.” Oura slapped my hand away bitterly, crying out, “Do you despise me *this* profoundly? Love *that woman* so desperately?!” I stated gravely, “Love and hatred are separate matters. I accuse you irrespective of such emotions. You likely presume I speak from love for Matsutani Shūko—but loving her has become a bygone dream. Henceforth, I may never again behold her face.”

Oura stepped forward in surprise. “Ah! Have you finally uncovered Matsutani Shūko’s shameful true nature?” “I did no such thing as ‘seeing through’ anything. I simply came to know that Matsutani Shūko—a woman who has suffered under false accusations for so long, an unfortunate no—rather, a pure and blameless woman—bore no guilt. Though I learned this truth, Shūko is no longer mine. She has become another’s entirely.” Oura: “Ah—‘another’s’ must mean Lawyer Gonda Tokisuke, then.” “Yes—it has been decided. Shūko will become Gonda Tokisuke’s wife.”

Oura stared at my face for a moment as though unable to comprehend something—then suddenly burst into tears. “Ahh, deceived! Deceived! That villain—that bastard—said he’d exact revenge and destroy Shūko! He deceived me from the start, and now I can’t even carry out that revenge!” I am woefully weak to women’s tears. Even upon the face of a woman as detestable as Oura, seeing genuine tears flow robbed me of the resolve to rebuke her harshly. Softening my tone slightly, I asked: “Who are you speaking of in such terms? Who is this ‘that bastard’ you refer to?” “That bastard is who he is—a vile man! My dear husband!” “Wh-what? You already have a husband? You’re married?” “Yes—he deceived me into a forced marriage. As you know, though my own faults led you to abandon me, my fury and despair drove me deeper into listening to that villain’s words. He claimed he’d fully avenge you and destroy Shūko—and I ended up going along with it. Yes, I was used as his tool. I’d vaguely sensed it before, but never have I understood his loathsomeness as clearly as now.” “But I still don’t know who this ‘he’ refers to.” “Oh, don’t you understand? That bastard is Takanawada Chōzō.” I had of course surmised it must be Takanawada Chōzō—surmised it thoroughly—yet I had waited to hear Oura declare it voluntarily from her own lips. Now at last, the recent secrets haunting Ghost Tower were undeniably connected to that very Takanawada Chōzō, and they would surely unravel through Oura’s testimony.

**Chapter Ninety-Eight: A Perilous Issue** No matter how malicious Oura might be, her becoming Takanawada Chōzō’s wife struck me as a pitiable descent into degradation. I sighed involuntarily and spoke words I myself couldn’t discern as either consolation or rebuke: “This outcome stems from your fixation on sinful schemes and meddlesome acts.” At these words, Oura collapsed into tears, wailing through her sobs: “Michisan! Michisan!” Then, perhaps ashamed of addressing me so familiarly by my childhood name, she corrected herself: “Mr. Marube… You blame me like this because you know nothing! Listen—I’ll tell you everything!” Of course I had to hear it—how Oura had vanished from Ghost Tower’s study, why the corpse dredged from the moat and claimed as hers hadn’t been her at all. These were mysteries within mysteries, explicable only through Oura’s own account. “Speak plainly,” I said. “It will mitigate your guilt.” Yet Oura seemed incapable of forming coherent speech, her face ashen and body trembling violently. Though the mere act of touching this vile woman repulsed me, leaving her in this state risked further disaster. Resolving to help her onto the sofa, I took her hand—only for her to clamp down on mine like a drowning woman, her full weight collapsing against my arm. I recalled how she had similarly clung to me and murmured entreaties in that study moments before her disappearance. Unsettled, I swiftly deposited this unwieldy burden onto the sofa.

But seeing she still seemed unable to speak, I thought perhaps giving her some wine might help. Scanning the room, I asked, “Miss Urako—would you like something to drink?” Urako groaned as though channeling a lifetime’s worth of bitterness into this single moment. “Yes—if it’s poison, I’ll drink it!” But then she recoiled: “No… no! I’m a coward by nature. However much I wish to die, I can’t bring myself to swallow poison—the agony of death terrifies me! The thought of everything turning pitch black when I die… *that* terrifies me! Michisan—no, *Mr. Marube*—I need nothing else. Just let me hold your hand while I speak. Weren’t we childhood friends?” Half-raising herself, she steadied her voice. “I’ve done nothing but wrong—but all those wrongs sprang from love and jealousy. They were… for *your* sake.”

“No matter their origin—a crime is a crime, wrongdoing is wrongdoing—there can be no forgiveness. Yet love and jealousy are undeniable facts. I know all too well how deeply jealous this woman had been since childhood—especially when told that jealousy was for *my* sake. It made me feel somewhat responsible. As if making excuses, I said: ‘Even if it was for me—I never once noticed you loved me! How could I? Didn’t *you* declare it yourself? That you could never love me—that we should cancel our forced engagement and part ways? That it would bring us both peace?’” “You *said* that,” Oura replied, “but your heart wasn’t in it. All I saw was you growing inexplicably close to Matsutani Shūko—it grated on me unbearably. So I thought… if I pretended to agree and parted ways, perhaps your heart would turn back to me in time. That’s why I went to Italy.” “When I returned and heard *and saw* how you and Shūko were growing ever closer, I thought I’d go mad! Yes—you two were hateful! No—*you* and Shūko—I wanted to kill you both!”

No matter how much it may be for jealousy's sake, once one strays from the path of humanity, they are utterly devoid of proper goodness; for their other desires overpower virtue, making them nothing less than evil—a person who must be cast out. Be that as it may, this was an exceedingly troublesome and dangerous matter for me—one I had no wish to hear about. I said, "No, Miss Urako—let us leave past emotions unspoken and confine ourselves to facts." Whether too coldhearted or not, I declared this unequivocally. I then drew the chair I occupied slightly closer to her and extended only my hand—permitting her to grasp it as she wished. With a semblance of regained composure, she took my hand and said, "Yes—speaking of feelings only worsens one's disposition. Let us forget them. Let us forget them, and I shall relate only the facts." Her manner resembled one clinging to a lifeline.

**Chapter Ninety-Nine: The Great Unanswered Question** Eager to address the lingering points I couldn’t comprehend, I began, “First and foremost—how did you vanish from that study? That remains the greatest unanswered question—” but Oura interjected, “No—let me explain from the very beginning in order.” With that, she finally began her account. “I first met Takanawada Chōzō at an Italian inn together with Mrs. Konshi. At the time, I didn’t know who he was, but when I mentioned Ghost Tower, he immediately declared that he had been its owner until recently and had sold it to Mr. Marube Tomoo. After learning I was Marube’s adopted daughter, he abruptly began currying favor with me. Believing I had encountered someone resolute enough to uncover Matsutani Shūko’s background, I cultivated his acquaintance thoroughly. When I later broached Shūko’s identity—speculating she might be Furuyama Oto, a former maid who went to America and returned disguised as a lady after making money—he questioned me in detail about Shūko’s appearance. ‘No,’ he countered, ‘she doesn’t resemble Oto. Does her left hand bear any distinctive marks?’ When I mentioned her left hand was concealed by peculiar gloves, his complexion changed in alarm. Soon he concluded: ‘This suggests Wata Natsuko—the foster mother killer—might have somehow resurrected and reappeared in altered form.’”

“Over time, he noticed my deep resentment toward Shūko and ultimately declared that if I consented to become his wife, we would combine our efforts to strip away her false identity and subject her to whatever fate we desired. Of course, I had no true intention of becoming his wife—I regarded it merely as a temporary stratagem. While assuming such a role wasn’t entirely inconceivable, I resolved to humor him until I could evaluate your methods. Thus, as you yourself observed, we returned together to this country.”

“He claimed he would immediately recognize Wata Natsuko the moment he laid eyes on Shūko’s face,” she continued, “and with that conviction, he attended the Ghost Tower soirée. Yet when he finally met Shūko, he was so shocked he nearly fainted. Though she seemed unmistakably like Wata Natsuko at first glance, upon closer inspection, she appeared nothing like her. It was utterly perplexing. He declared that the only way to confirm the truth was to seize her left glove and see what lay beneath—only then could he make a definitive judgment.”

“From that moment onward, my only aims were to seize Shūko’s glove and to meet you so I might lay bare my true feelings. As I waited solely for that chance, the day you refer to as my disappearance arrived.” “That day, believing either you or Shūko might visit the study to read, I slipped in alone. Unbeknownst to me, Chōzō had grown suspicious of my affections for you and appeared to be surveilling me with jealous intent. He came to the window and spat bitter words. Fearing that if either you or Shūko spotted him there, all would be ruined, I convinced him of this and hastily drove him off. The moment he departed, you entered through the opposite door.”

“You already know what followed without me spelling it out.” “Disappointed by your words, I left for the garden and encountered Matsutani Shūko. Thinking the quickest way would be to drag her before you and force off that left glove, I claimed to have urgent business and led her back to the study—only to find you absent. Not absent, but—as I later discovered—lying gravely injured behind a bookcase, voiceless yet listening to every word between Shūko and me.”

“Since we’re on the subject, I’ll lay it all bare: your injury was also Chōzō’s doing. After I drove him away from the window, he pretended to leave but doubled back. Knowing the room’s layout better than anyone—including the secret passage between the walls—he slipped into it and watched us. When he saw me telling you those things, he concluded that as long as you lived, he could never make me his wife. Though he claims jealousy blinded him, the truth is this: after I left, you approached the wall and stood with your back to where he hid. Seizing the chance, he quietly opened the secret door and stabbed you.”

That Chōzō would do such a thing came as no surprise to me; yet until now I had been unable to confirm his involvement. Moreover, having no knowledge of secret doors or passages within the walls, I had regarded this as an utterly inscrutable mystery. Now it appeared Oura's testimony might yet unveil further unforeseen developments.

Chapter One Hundred: Seeds of Success Of course Ghost Tower was an architectural oddity full of secret spaces—yet I hadn't known about the human-sized hiding place behind the study's wall, a secret even Detective Mori Mondo had failed to uncover. As Oura continued speaking, I listened intently, sensing this direction might yet yield even more astonishing revelations. "Since neither Shūko nor I knew you lay wounded—no, *stabbed*—behind the bookcase at that moment, we thought ourselves unobserved. We spoke freely and fought recklessly—you must know this already. The struggle ended in my victory when I finally tore off Shūko's left glove. There it was—the crescent-shaped bite mark from Okon glaring up at us. This confirmed she was Wata Natsuko. Deeply shocked and enraged, Natsuko declared she wouldn't let me leave unless I swore never to reveal her secret, advancing on me with terrifying ferocity." "When I realized this was the woman who'd murdered even her foster mother and escaped prison, terror gripped me. Desperate to seize the room key and flee, I renewed our struggle—no longer verbal sparring but physical combat. I lunged for the key; she fought to keep it. As we grappled, my foot slipped on the polished floorboards, sending me crashing down. That's when an agonized cry echoed from the adjoining room's corner."

“It was your voice, but neither of us realized it at first—we were utterly shocked to think someone might have been listening. Yet between us, Shūko was far more startled than I. While I wouldn’t be particularly troubled if overheard, Shūko’s entire identity would crumble if *anyone* heard her secrets. That’s why she rushed toward the sound… and immediately after that, my strange disappearance occurred.”

“Though people made much of my disappearance—‘Urako’s vanished!’ ‘The Urahara girl’s gone!’—there was truly no cause for such suspicion. As I lay fallen on the floor trying to rise, an odd sound—faint yet distinct—reached my ears from the side. When I turned, a door now stood open where none had existed before on one wall, as if a lid had been pried off, and there peered the face of Takanawada Chōzō! In that moment of desperation—racking my brains over how to escape—the sight filled me with relief. Chōzō, having evidently overheard everything, pressed a finger to his lips, silently beckoning: *Come here without a sound*. Obeying, I rose stealthily and approached. He pulled me into the dark space between the walls, shut the door without a noise, and declared: ‘None but I know of this secret passage. Stay hidden here completely, and we’ll corner Shūko utterly.’”

“I was delighted by his words about reprimanding Shūko and replied, ‘Please handle it well.’ Thereupon, Chōzō took my hand, led me down from between the walls to beneath the floor, placed me in a cellar-like space, said, ‘Stay quietly here until I return to fetch you,’ and immediately departed. As I had no knowledge of how to exit from wherever this was, I could only obey Chōzō’s words and wait for him to come back.”

“After night fell, he came to fetch me—I knew because he carried a shaded lantern. In one hand he held the study’s tablecloth, an Indian fabric I recognized from before. When I asked why he’d brought it, he replied without words: *‘Just watch—this will be the seed of success.’* At the time I didn’t understand, but later learned: when they threw a woman’s corpse into the moat, they wrapped it in that very tablecloth.”

As I listened up to this point, I was nearly overcome with dread—was the corpse pulled from the moat also Takanawada Chōzō’s handiwork? However deep his villainy might run, what rose foremost in me was not fear but a single burning suspicion: *Who was that corpse?* The question remained unresolved even now. At the time, Detective Mori Mondo had claimed that the lack of a head made it *easier* to trace clues, adding that inquiries in London would yield answers—but had they truly obtained sufficient leads there? Though I had yet to hear those details, the mystery remained as unsettling as ever. Hoping Oura’s next words might finally clarify this, I pressed urgently: “Then—who exactly *was* that woman’s corpse from back then?”

**Chapter 101: The True Devil** To my question—“Who exactly was that woman’s corpse from back then?”—Oura replied: “He obtained it through Takanawada from London.” If it came from London, Detective Mori Mondo’s earlier words seemed not entirely groundless after all. “From London…!” I exclaimed. “Well, I don’t know the full details,” she continued, “but he bribed an assistant at the Anatomy Institute and procured such a corpse.”

This must be what they mean by being left speechless. To secretly procure a corpse from the anatomy institute—how fiendishly cunning must that man be! “When I saw it, the head was already gone,” Oura said. “He likely had his assistant in London cut off the head and burn it with other corpses. That’s why we don’t know whose corpse it was—probably some woman who died at a pauper’s hospital.” “I’m shocked you agreed to such horrors.” Considering Oura’s past behavior—she who now spoke these words—it was hardly surprising. Had she not once lured Shūko into a tiger’s den and tried to kill her? What hesitation could a woman who contemplated murder possibly have? “I resisted at first,” Oura admitted, “but he insisted this was the only way to repay my grudge against Shūko. I relented—gave him my rings and clothes. Takanawada used them to make the corpse look like me, wrapped it in that Indian fabric, and threw it into the moat.” “To embrace such wickedness out of hatred… You’ve reaped what you sowed. Clearly, only Shūko’s death would satisfy you.” “But doesn’t she forfeit her right to live? Takanawada said killing her would restore divine justice—not mere murder! I believed him then… but now I regret it.” Her voice broke. “That’s why I’m confessing everything.”

This much did not ring false—no one would lay themselves bare like this without being weighed down by deep remorse. I said, “Your regret comes too late.” “It truly was too late,” she replied. “Afterward, I felt as though divine punishment would come crashing down upon me. When that corpse was soon dragged from the moat and your testimony proved it wasn’t mine—when I saw Takanawada’s scheme collapse utterly—I wanted to flee to the ends of the earth. I told him as much, but he insisted there were still other stratagems to pursue, urging me to wait patiently until the final act. All the while, he pressed for marriage. Had this been earlier, I would have refused outright—but after sinking so deep into wickedness alongside him, refusal became impossible. At every turn, he threatened: if I didn’t become his wife, he’d expose my hiding place to the world or claim I’d never resurface unless bound to him. In the end… I yielded and wed him.”

“Oh, you managed to hold a wedding while hiding like this?” “Yes—Takanawada arranged it all. He altered my appearance, took me aboard a night train to the neighboring state, bribed a destitute temple priest to perform the ceremony, then brought us back here two nights later.” “If you’ve gone so far as to hold a proper wedding, you’ve no choice but to depend on his affection for life.”

Oura replied with mounting bitterness: “Him? *Love*? How could that man harbor anything resembling affection? His sole purpose is to reinstate me as Marube’s adopted daughter and seize Uncle’s fortune! He insists he must act before Uncle drafts a will in Shūko’s favor—that’s why he’s entrenched himself in the Marube household for now. He won’t even return to me... Alone in this room, I’ve contemplated his true nature... and grown increasingly terrified. Now I’m utterly adrift, not knowing what course to take.”

Hearing this, I felt as though scales had fallen from my eyes. Until now, I had vaguely suspected Takanawada Chōzō of being shady—but never imagined him such an arch-villain. Now I saw clearly: every mystery surrounding Ghost Tower since its purchase had been his handiwork. My injury—him. Oura’s disappearance—him. The dubious corpse—him. And beyond doubt—he was Uncle’s poisoner. All to ensure that by murdering Uncle and framing Shūko, at least half the Marube fortune would fall to Oura. For this, he had entrenched himself at Ghost Tower; for this, he had rushed Oura into marriage; for this, he surely meant to steal and suppress the will Uncle recently drafted in Shūko’s favor. That I had failed to perceive such grand-scale wickedness until now—I stood revealed as the height of fools.

From this, I saw him as a born villain—a true devil clad in human skin—one who must have lived solely through wicked deeds even before arriving at Ghost Tower. As I unwittingly traced back his past, I realized something monumental: *What if he*—not Shūko, now Natsuko—had been the one who killed Okon? His current act of poisoning Uncle to frame Shūko mirrored his past act of murdering her foster mother to pin the crime on Natsuko—what difference existed? Both sprang from the same mind, executed by the same hands—identical in essence! Yes—precisely! Last night, Gonda Tokisuke himself had declared he could identify the true criminal as "this person." If this "true criminal" wasn’t Takanawada Chōzō, how else could he have pointed to *him*? Ah—I hadn’t known! Hadn’t known!

**Chapter 102: Poison? Hai!** That Takanawada Chōzō had killed Okon lacked concrete evidence—yet I felt this to be true. Though mere intuition held no judicial weight, this conviction arose as naturally as a compass needle seeking north; I could not conceive it mistaken. Why had this awareness not come sooner? Had it struck but a day earlier, I might have saved Shūko myself without Gonda Tokisuke's meddling—or at least spared myself such bitter concessions. Now nothing remained but futility.

The moment this realization struck me, I found myself consumed by sheer vexation and fury. With a demeanor that spared no one’s dignity, I harshly confronted Oura: “Miss Oura—you’ve married a true monster. You don’t even know one-tenth of Takanawada Chōzō’s evils! Throwing a corpse into the moat to harm Shūko was the least of his crimes. For days now, he’s been attempting to poison my uncle—that’s why he’s holed up in Ghost Tower! And eight years ago, he killed Okon too! Unlike ordinary villains, he wields terrifying cunning—orchestrating every wicked act to cast suspicion on others before committing them. When poisoning Uncle, he framed Shūko. When murdering Okon, he did the same—pinning all blame on Wata Natsuko while escaping unscathed himself!” Oura cried out, “What?! He was the one who killed Okon—and even tried to poison Uncle? Is he truly such a villain? And I became that villain’s wife?!”

Though Oura herself was a villain no less than Chōzō, being a woman, she evidently had a weakness of spirit that fell short of a man’s resolve. No sooner had she uttered these words than she collapsed backward onto the chaise longue in a faint. I could not afford to concern myself with Oura no matter what—now that I had realized this much, I needed to find Shūko with even greater urgency. No—wait! Even were I to find Shūko, I remained bound by my pact with Gonda Tokisuke. I could not offer her a single word of solace; I had to persist in feigning belief that she was a loathsome criminal. The truth—that Okon’s killer stood revealed and my uncle’s poisoner identified—could not even be uttered. What torment! Yet I could not abandon the search for Shūko—I had to find her and act.

Fortunately, Oura had regained her senses by then; she would recover on her own from this point. Judging so, I brusquely said, “I’ll send someone to tend to her,” and left the room. I summoned the house mistress, instructed her to care for Oura, and stepped outside—only to find my horse, which I had tied to a garden tree, missing. But this was no time to fret over a horse. As I exited the premises, the errand boy came hurrying from afar, leading my horse with a triumphant air: “Master tied it carelessly, so it broke free! I chased it down and caught it proper!” What nonsense—he’d surely untied it himself for a joyride. Suspecting this was another ploy for rewards, I nonetheless tossed him a small silver coin and took the reins. Peering at my face, he added, “Now that you’ve paid this much, I’ll tell you the big news you’re dying to know—” As I was in a situation where I wanted even the slightest clue about Shūko’s whereabouts, I asked, “What’s this big news?” The errand boy said, “It’s about that beauty you’re searching for—the one wearing the shadow-gray kimono.” “How did you know I was searching for that beauty?” “I rode this horse to the station—no, I chased it all the way there—and heard from a carriage driver.” “And what do you know?” “I do know something worth about two silver coins.” I took out another silver coin and gave it to him. The errand boy said, “Well then, I’ll tell you—that beauty came to this house early this morning.” “She came to this house and then—?” “She met with the old woman and bought a dangerous substance—filled a small bottle with it.” “What kind of dangerous substance?” “It’s something the old woman doesn’t sell to just anyone. She keeps it hidden and sells it discreetly so even the police can’t tell.” “Poison?” “Yes.”

If Shūko had truly purchased poison, she must have intended to ingest it herself this time. Though Gonda had adamantly declared her not the sort of woman to commit suicide, circumstances altered cases—for someone like Shūko, bearing both a grand secret purpose to clear her name and facing new false accusations with no means of escape, suicide became no longer unthinkable. Even placing myself in her position, I could see no path forward but self-destruction. Wherever she had gone with that poison, I needed to find her swiftly and prevent this at all costs—yet noon had already passed. She might have ended it already. I demanded: “And when was this?” “It was right after I woke up this morning—six hours ago now.” “From there—do you know where that beauty went?”

“Of course I know—I followed her all the way to her destination. But this information certainly has the value of three silver coins.”

**Chapter 103: What Mystery?** Under these circumstances, I had no choice but to pay the errand boy his demanded fee and press him about Shūko’s destination. I snatched five or six coins from my purse and thrust them at him. “Now—where did that beauty go?” The errand boy said, “She must’ve thought she couldn’t risk being seen—so she didn’t take the main road but slipped into the back alley right here.” “After entering the back alley—then?” “From there—she went toward the Ghost Tower.” “Toward Ghost Tower?” I said. “Yes.” I pressed further: “And you don’t know what happened after that?” The errand boy said, “No—if she’d taken the main road, I wouldn’t have paid her any mind. But since she turned into the back alley, I decided to see where she was headed. The old woman of this house always tells me: ‘No need to watch those who hide nothing—but *always* watch those who try to hide! It’ll bring profit!’ And it’s true! So I trailed her discreetly. She entered Ghost Tower’s back garden, crouched by Wata Natsuko’s grave at the moat’s edge, and wept for twenty minutes. Then she opened a window facing the moat and slipped inside—probably didn’t want anyone at the main entrance spotting her. Went in through the window on purpose!”

The circumstances grew increasingly suspicious—sneaking into one's own home through a back window was no ordinary matter. Coupled with her possession of poison, it now seemed undeniable that my fears were correct: she intended to commit suicide in secret. There was no time for further questions—I had to rush back to Ghost Tower immediately. Yet given that five or six hours had already passed since her disappearance, she might have ended her life by now. I hastily seized my horse's reins and mounted it—but the errand boy interjected: "This isn't the end of the story! I saw what happened after that!" I handed over another silver coin. "Then tell me everything you know—quickly." The errand boy said, "Right—since I thought something was off, I deliberately circled back toward Ghost Tower after going out earlier and kept watch for a while. Then she poked her head out from a strange window." I said, "From which window?" "The window of the room directly below that large clock." So she's in my room—or perhaps she's committed suicide there? I demanded, "Is that all?" "Right—she stuck her face out for just a moment and immediately pulled it back. I kept watch for a while after that, but she never showed herself again." "And when was that?" "Since it was after you came to this house, it would be about an hour ago now."

If she had been alive an hour ago, she might not have taken her own life yet—or perhaps she was in my room composing a final note. There was no need to inquire further. I immediately leapt onto my horse and returned to Ghost Tower at nearly bullet-like speed. Having a particular matter in mind, I first addressed a servant before ascending to the tower’s chambers: “What of Takanawada Chōzō?” The servant replied, “He has been lying in his own room since the other day, claiming a heart ailment.” “Does he know that I returned to this house this morning?” “No, there’s no way he could know.” “It’s better that he doesn’t know—just make sure he never finds out.”

If he was bedridden with heart disease, he would likely remain in this house for the time being. After all, given that he now stood at the center of all affairs, measures had to be taken to prevent his escape. Since he remained unaware that I had uncovered his crimes, he undoubtedly intended to stay here and continue his wicked deeds. Though there was no immediate fear of him fleeing, it would be best if he remained ignorant of my return. With these calculations in mind, I instructed the servant as before—but that he, unaware of my return, would attempt to stage another horrific tragedy was beyond even my godless imagination.

I immediately ascended to my room at the tower’s summit with those very steps—my hope that Shūko might be here proved futile, for she was nowhere to be seen. Yet the errand boy’s words held truth: her presence here was undeniable. Someone had leaned against my desk to write—the brush tip still bore fresh ink. Nearby lay a silk handkerchief, discernible as Shūko’s by the faint scent of her customary perfume. Lifting it, I found the fabric still damp—with what? The answer required no inquiry: tears. If she wrote something while crying, it seemed more and more like a suicide note—but wherever she might have left it, search as I might, I could not find it. Having searched thoroughly and returned to the desk, I found a large volume lying open at its edge—its cover alone spread apart. Upon inspection, it was the ancestral Bible I had discovered in this room when I first came to this tower with my uncle. Inside its front cover lay the incantation: *“A hundred vessels of luminous pearls; royal blessings bestowed; wicked monks steal by night; water dragons weep.”* The phrases remained exactly as I had memorized them. That this incantation had been left open here—was this some riddle? Could this be Shūko’s way of making me realize something? The more I thought so, the more apprehensive I grew. Had Shūko thrown herself into the depths of Ghost Tower—where even its founder had fallen, never to emerge again, his corpse never found—and left this incantation as her final message?

**Chapter 104: An Eye-Catching Object** Could Matsutani Shūko have cast herself into the depths of this Ghost Tower—the very tower where its founder was said to have fallen into the abyss, his desperate cries of "Save me! Save me!" spilling uselessly into the void as he perished in anguish? The mere imagining of it froze my blood. Though I willed myself to believe the contrary, every circumstance conspired to confirm this dreadful conclusion: she must have thrown herself down.

If she had truly thrown herself down, what state might she be in now at the tower’s deepest depths? Had she swallowed the poison bought at Chigusa-ya, becoming a denizen of the netherworld beyond all pain? Or did she yet live—turning over her misfortunes and the world’s cruelties in her mind, weeping alone to her heart’s content? Either way, how recklessly she had acted! Had she waited but an hour or two—until my arrival—she would have understood that the dreadful false accusation staining her could yet be cleansed, realized death was unnecessary, and found resolution without such sorrow. Ah! Regret and outrage defy description—truly, no woman has been more ill-fated. For years and months, through hardships and trials, she had staked her life on a secret purpose to clear her name, tormenting herself with unyielding resolve until she neared its fulfillment—only to be thwarted by villains and vile circumstances. To abandon hope and cast herself into the irreversible netherworld—what eternal tragedy! Has there ever been such pity? The more I dwell on it, the more her anguish pierces me—I cannot leave her thus. I too shall descend into the tower’s depths. If I cannot emerge, let me die with Shūko—so be it.

In hindsight, this was indeed a reckless resolution—yet at that moment, I did not consider it reckless. Chasing after Shūko and descending into the tower’s depths felt like my only path in this vast world. Whether I would reach her in time mattered little; I plunged forward in a frenzy. Not once did it occur to me that I might arrive too late—finding her corpse beyond revival, myself trapped with no means to die or return alive. Shouting “The depths! The depths!” in my mind, I ascended to the clock chamber above.

I ascended to the clockroom—how could one descend to the tower’s depths? Since antiquity, countless individuals had attempted to plumb the great secret said to lie below, yet none had ever returned save this tower’s founder, who perished trapped within his own creation. In this modern age, only Shūko had succeeded—but my sole clue lay in the incantation’s phrase: “When bells toll and green disks sway.” I had once witnessed the green disk shift at the clock’s chime, a sliver of light piercing through as described in “flickering glimmers.” Though I now bitterly regretted having neglected Shūko’s repeated urgings to study the incantation earlier, surely intense scrutiny would reveal its secrets. The green disk’s movement must mark the starting point—if I slipped through that faintly lit aperture, following “ascents and descents through winding stairs and corridors,” a labyrinthine path surely awaited. There was no need for prolonged waiting; the clock’s appointed hour approached. Checking my watch, I found it precisely five minutes before one o’clock in the afternoon.

With the tolling of one o’clock as my signal—like a racehorse awaiting the starting gun—I stood taut before the green disk, my eyes fixed on it. *Any moment now*, I thought, *the bell will strike one; any moment now, the green disk will shift*. But what abruptly arrested my gaze was a scrap of silk caught at the disk’s edge, its unmistakable shadow-gray hue undeniably from Shūko’s kimono. My heart leapt as if it would burst the moment I saw it—with evidence this plain, there could be no doubt now: Shūko had passed through this green disk to descend into the tower’s depths. As she slipped through, her kimono hem had caught on the disk’s edge, and she had torn it off and pressed onward. No further delay could be tolerated. Clutching the silk scrap in my hand, I needed not wait for the clock’s toll—one o’clock arrived. The bell rang. The green disk shifted. The shadow-gray silk I gripped slipped free with the disk’s motion, returning fully to my grasp.

**Chapter 105: Clockwork Prisoner**

This marked only the second time I’d witnessed the green disk move with the clock’s chime—prior to this, I’d seen it shift but once. How far it would turn or what followed remained entirely unknown to me. Yet I’d convinced myself that slipping through the gap the instant it moved was the only way. The tolling of one o’clock would serve as my signal to dive through. I eagerly gripped the green disk—only for it to halt after opening less than one-tenth of its full span. The disk measured over two shaku in diameter; had it shifted seven or eight parts of ten, creating a gap of one shaku five sun, I might have squeezed through. But a mere two sun? No illusionist’s trick could compress me into such a space. Yet pride in my vaunted strength drove me onward. Like Tajikarao-no-Mikoto wrenching open the Heavenly Rock Door in Eastern myth, I strained against the disk with all my might. But the green disk remained stubbornly rigid; my strength proved utterly futile. Worse still—as the bell’s echoes faded—the disk began reversing its motion, gradually resealing itself. No matter how I strained against it, my efforts achieved nothing; persistence would only crush my hands like Shūko’s torn kimono caught in its gears. Ah, how frustrating—I released my grip without shedding a tear. The green disk closed completely, restored to its former state.

It made no sense—why would the green disk open only this much? When I’d seen it before, it had opened wide enough to crawl through. Had Shūko anticipated I might pursue her and tampered with the mechanism to prevent full opening? Or perhaps even with this slight gap, if I reached inside to undo a hidden lock or halt part of the machinery, the disk might release—who could say?

I exhausted every mental strategy to no avail—the green disk remained an impregnable iron wall. With bitter resignation, I waited for two o'clock. Each moment stretched like a thousand autumns, yet those millennia passed. Two o'clock chimed. The green disk shifted again, but cruelly repeated its earlier motion—opening merely an inch wider than before. Two inches here, two inches there—a four-inch gap in total, double its previous width yet still impossibly narrow for passage. Once more I tasted disappointment identical to that at one o'clock. Again I endured eons waiting for three o'clock; again disappointment at three o'clock forced me to await four. Never before or since have I known such futile torment.

Yet through waiting until three and four o’clock, I had made a small discovery: the green disk moved approximately two sun (about 2.4 inches) with each strike of the clock’s bell. At two o’clock, it had opened two sun wider than at one; at three o’clock, another two sun beyond that; and by four o’clock, it had opened a total of eight sun. By this progression, it would open one foot at five o’clock, one foot two sun at six, and by twelve, finally open entirely. This was not Shūko tampering with the mechanism—it was simply how the machine had been engineered from the start.

With this realization, I had deduced two critical facts. First: Shūko must have slipped through this opening between ten in the morning and noon—shortly before my own arrival here. Before ten o'clock, the green disk's gap would have been too narrow even for her slender frame to pass through. Second: I too could not attempt entry until after ten o'clock tonight, when the disk would open fully to two shaku—a width that might, with effort, allow me to crawl through. The thought of waiting idly until ten was nearly unbearable—yet there remained no choice but to endure. When I imagined what might have become of Shūko in the tower's depths by then, my heart felt pierced by arrows and shields alike. But lamenting what could not be changed proved futile; I resolved at last to endure and wait for ten. Yet once this decision settled, I became acutely aware of my body's exhaustion—hunger gnawing at my stomach, weariness weighing heavy upon my eyes. How strange that I had not noticed these sensations earlier amidst my torment.

At any rate, I had to recover my physical strength—so I left that place and ate a meal. While there, I visited my uncle’s sickbed and confirmed there was no longer cause for concern. Then I entered my own room, firmly set the alarm clock to wake me at nine-thirty, and lay down.

It felt as though barely thirty minutes had passed when the alarm roused me, and I leapt up to find it was already nine-thirty. My head throbbed as if charged with stagnant electricity. Opening the window, I saw an unseasonal winter sky—ink-black as spilled sumi, lightning flickering through cloud fissures, distant thunder rumbling. Though no meteorologist, I thought, *This must be true tempest weather*—later documented in 1898 as an anomalous meteorological event. Those in Britain that night would remember its fury, but I dismissed the storm. My sole concern was preparing to reenter the tower. Drawing from my experience at the insect farm, I meticulously repacked my matchbox and stowed half a dozen stealth candles in my satchel. Resolved to this netherworld expedition, I ascended to the clockroom just as ten o’clock struck. Mercifully, the green disk had opened about two shaku as anticipated. Without heed for what lay beyond, I crawled in snakelike—only for my clothes to snag on rows of nail-like spikes lining the passage. This must have torn Shūko’s hem earlier. Unfazed, I ripped the fabric free. What stunned me was the green disk’s interior—the clock’s guts—crammed with machinery that jabbed me with every movement, leaving no room to stretch. Retreat was impossible; the disk had sealed shut. No path led upward or downward. I’d become a prisoner within the clockwork, trapped in a cramped burrow.

**Chapter 106: Secret of the Tower’s Depths** Being imprisoned within a clock was not a circumstance one often hears about. Let me inform you readers here—from ten until twelve o'clock, for two full hours, I remained trapped in this state. First I lit a candle to survey my surroundings. The vertical space measured roughly four shaku—insufficient to stand or walk properly. The walls on either side felt like thick stone when struck; breaking or shifting them seemed impossible. Though darkness hid how far the space extended backward, this dead end likely faced the clock's dial plate from behind, meaning the depth couldn't exceed two ken. Thus my prison confined me within four shaku vertically and laterally, with less than two ken depth. Iron rods and gear-toothed wheels protruded sporadically from the cramped walls, creating what might be called a miniature mechanical workshop.

Matsutani Shūko must have entered this clockwork prison before me—but where could she have gone from here? With no visible escape routes short of vaporization, I cross-referenced the incantation’s phrases. After “bells toll and green disks sway” came “ascend and descend,” yet I saw neither stairs nor shafts—what manner of “winding corridors” could this mean? Had curiosity alone driven me here, terror would have rooted me in place—I’d have waited trembling for eleven o’clock’s chime to flee through the closing disk. But this was no trivial pursuit. The certainty that Shūko had plunged into the tower’s bowels left no room for retreat. I had to decode the clock’s secrets, press onward until path or life expired—even if it meant mirroring our ancestor’s fate: screaming death in lightless depths. No—not “even if.” Cowardice never surfaced; my consciousness overflowed with Shūko, leaving no vacancy for weaker thoughts.

Swinging the candlelight to inspect for any hidden passage, I noticed something—behind the green disk that had swayed with the clock’s chime lay a large iron chain. My first suspicion arose: What purpose does this chain serve? Though it inevitably moved with the disk, implying it connected to another object that must also shift, gripping and pulling it revealed it would not budge. Yet I understood it ran deep into the chamber’s recesses. Crouching into the cramped space and pressing further, I realized: the chain was fastened to an iron gear. As this gear turned, the chain wound around it, shortening—thus causing the green disk’s sway. But why were the gear’s teeth here? To rotate another gear or be rotated by one? Indeed, beyond this gear lay a much smaller one, from which another chain extended—its end tethered to the stone wall beside me.

This was perplexing—if the stone wall moved, that would explain things, but if it didn't move, this chain wouldn't budge either, meaning neither the small nor large gears—and consequently the green disk—could shift. Puzzled, I scrutinized the stone wall meticulously until—Eureka! The section of wall here formed a hidden door! Ah! This door must open in tandem with the clock's chime! Its movement would set the chain, gears, and green disk into motion. Empowered by this discovery, I examined the mechanism with renewed vigor. Calculating the gear ratios revealed that for every shaku the green disk moved, this stone door would open a mere three sun—a dishearteningly narrow gap. Even if the clock struck twelve and the green disk fully opened, this door would only part seven sun—insufficient to squeeze through and practically useless. Yet since Shūko wasn't in this chamber, she must have escaped through here. Some hidden mechanism beyond my current perception surely existed elsewhere. Understanding would come at eleven o'clock—until then, I resolved to investigate every detail thoroughly.

Resolved to this, I examined everything with renewed fervor but found nothing further of note. The sole discovery was a bell-like device on one side of the door—too large for a doorbell yet smaller than a temple bell. This must be the timekeeping bell, its chime synchronized with the door’s movement, making the incantation’s phrase “When bells toll and green disks sway” increasingly clear. But where was the striker that sounded this bell? Ah—the door’s surface bore twelve protruding points. These bumps sequentially struck against the bell, yet their presence seemed to obstruct the door from retracting into the wall. Unless perhaps when the bell tolled, some part of the wall shifted to accommodate them. Such intricacies would remain unknown until the appointed hour.

Having resigned myself to waiting for the bell's toll, I calmed my nerves and planted the candle on the floor. When I took out my pocket watch to check—though it felt like a full hour had passed since entering this place—barely thirty minutes had elapsed. It was only half past ten. Impatiently thinking the bell wouldn't ring unless more time passed, I waited until lightning suddenly pierced through some crack in the ceiling, followed by an extraordinary peal of thunder. Outside in that direction, wind must have howled and rain poured, yet within this iron-and-stone chamber, no storm sounds reached me—only thunder's tremendous reverberations. I instinctively bowed my head until finally, the candle I'd been using burned out completely, plunging the room into utter darkness. With ample candles prepared however, I felt no alarm. As I calmly reached into my satchel for another, an even greater lightning flash struck—so brilliant it nearly blinded me. Was this divine aid? By that fleeting radiance, secrets of the tower's deepest depths—previously invisible in candlelight—now lay starkly revealed before my eyes.

Chapter 107: A Certain Cry What might yet prove providential—the lightning that pierced through became divine apology to me. By this radiance, the tower's deepest secrets stood revealed. Until that moment, I had never considered what manner of floor sustained my steps. But as I bent forward, light equivalent to millions of candlepower—beyond all human measure—flashed down, laying bare its construction. Square-cut timbers formed a latticework grid, their cruciform joints pierced by mesh-like apertures—perhaps designed against dust accumulation? Through these gaps, the light plunged to the very bottom, fleeting yet sufficient. My eyes caught fragmented glimpses: stone steps far below, likely corresponding to the incantation's promised "winding staircases and corridors."

And there below lay someone—or something—draped in fabric. Could this be Shūko? Before I could look again, the lightning vanished, plunging everything back into darkness. I grasped nothing concrete, yet the vision lingered—perhaps Shūko had already swallowed poison and now lay dead. This thought gripped my heart with such urgency that I burned to descend to the tower's depths without delay. But nothing could be done until eleven o'clock struck. After relighting the candle and preparing to act the moment the clock chimed, eleven o'clock finally began—and just as calculated, with each strike of the bell, the wall door opened six or seven parts at a time, amounting to roughly one-third of the green disk's full motion. Yet even after eleven strikes, it would not open fully to one shaku. Desperate to pry it wider, I pressed my hands against the door, but it refused to yield to my strength, moving only in sync with the bell's toll. Each shift created a gap at the wall's edge, through which the twelve protrusions on the door's surface passed unimpeded, one by one—a marvel of engineering.

Soon eleven protrusions had retracted into the wall, leaving the door seven or eight sun open. Seizing the moment, I threw my weight against it—only to despair as the wall gaps meant for their passage closed up, the final remaining protrusion now blocking any hope of opening it further. Ah! Though the long-awaited eleventh hour had tolled, I could not pass this barrier—no words could exhaust my bitterness and wretchedness. But at last I understood—it had been eleven o'clock, leaving one of twelve protrusions still blocking the door from opening fully. Yet if midnight came, these malicious protrusions would all retract, allowing one to wrench the door open by force. Thinking this, I looked again only to find the door had already swung shut as before. No amount of weeping or anguish would avail—I had no choice but to wait for twelve. To endure this cramped space from ten until midnight would test patience beyond ordinary limits, yet with no exit available, I was forced to bear this unbearable trial.

The details of my anguish during this interval are too trivial to recount, but after what felt like three thousand years, midnight finally arrived—exactly as I had deduced. As the clock finished tolling its twelfth chime, the twelve protrusions retracted entirely. I gripped the door and pulled—it opened with unexpected ease, swinging wide enough to collide against its stop, now gaping wide enough for one or even two people to pass through. I leapt through in exultation, confirming that this checkpoint permitted entry or exit only at the stroke of twelve. Had Shūko passed through here at high noon? If so, I might remain trapped until tomorrow’s midday—who could say?

Beyond the door lay another cramped, low passage where one could not stand upright. Yet since this surely led to the tower’s depths, I sighed in relief—though thunder rumbled faintly, its echoes within the stone walls sounding like the tower’s spirit growling in wrath at my intrusion. After crawling roughly two meters through the tunnel, I emerged into a space tall enough to stand and found myself at the head of a descending staircase. I paused mid-step, recalling the incantation’s phrase: *“Ascend and descend.”* Should there not be an upward path before descending? This direct route felt unnatural. Doubling back, I examined the walls until—there! To the right of the narrow passage gaped an even tighter fork angling upward. Certain this was the way, I squeezed into the tube-like crevice, forced to crawl on hands and knees. Mercifully brief, after advancing a short distance, I reached another standing space. Lingering there, I strained to hear any sound from below—when a violent thunderclap shook the air. From somewhere indeterminable came a piercing shriek—human or beastly? Unknowable. If human, it was a death-cry; no living throat could produce such anguish. If animal, perhaps a creature strangled by a predator. The drawn-out wail reverberated through every nerve, freezing me mid-motion. What manner of cry was this?

**Chapter 108: The Meaning of the Treasure** “Whose scream was that?” A deep dread welled within me, though I had no means to verify its source. Could Shūko have met some danger in the tower’s depths? Twice I called—“Shūko! Shūko!”—but only my own voice echoed back through the void, terrible and unanswered. With no time to spare for such uncertainties, I pressed onward. Beyond lay a solitary staircase ascending through the tower’s core—no branching paths to mislead me. Soon I reached what I took to be the summit: a chamber spanning five or six tatami mats. *There must be windows here,* I thought distractedly, *offering splendid vistas by daylight.* Yet as I circled the room, I discovered another descent steeper than my upward path—the very embodiment of “ascend and descend” from the incantation. Down I climbed until reaching a level floor that proved octagonal upon closer inspection, each corner bearing a hidden door. Seven portals now surrounded me besides my entry point—which to choose? Again I turned to the incantation: “Mysteries reside in silence; consult the diagram.” Had I but studied that cursed scroll alongside the passageways’ secrets! But Torai Fujin had secretly dispatched it to the insect farm—its fate unknown now. *Had I memorized it like the incantation itself,* I lamented, *this confusion might have been spared.* Shūko’s repeated admonitions to examine it haunted me—how bitterly I regretted disregarding them.

In times like these, one must remain calm—haste only breeds further confusion. I quietly retrieved my pocket watch and checked its compass to ascertain direction. Though I discerned my bearings, their significance eluded me. Yet this chamber’s position within the tower—could it align roughly with my quarters directly below the clockroom? The ascent and descent through staircases and corridors likely placed me here. If this assumption held true, then this must lie behind my quarters. As previously described, my room was surrounded on all sides by veranda-like corridors, with one side blocked off as a storage space. Yet I had never deeply considered what lay beyond that storage area—I had simply assumed no chambers existed beyond my own. However, calculating from the tower’s total dimensions revealed this could not be the case; behind that storage space should lie a room more than twice the size of my quarters. Moreover, reflecting on the staircases and passages I had traversed made clear the tower contained numerous chambers.

As I pondered this, I heard that terrifying scream again—this time less piercing, almost resembling an invalid's groan, its duration shorter than before as it ceased after a brief moment. By my reckoning, the cry had undeniably originated from my own quarters—neither the tower's depths nor its heights. *What manner of creature has infiltrated my room?* The urge to turn back and investigate gripped me. Yet since I could not exit this section until tomorrow noon, dwelling on my quarters proved futile. I had no choice but to press onward downward.

Without the diagram, there was no way forward—but my first priority became inspecting all eight doors. One could be disregarded: the passage through which I'd descended earlier. I examined the remaining seven locations meticulously. Some bore traces of rats' nests—had rodents truly grasped this tower's secrets? Muttering that I might as well question them were they capable of speech, I reached the final door. Here, mercifully, lay footprints pressed into dust upon closer scrutiny—small-heeled shoes indisputably worn by a woman. What else could these be but Shūko's? I offered genuine thanks to heaven; her whereabouts were now clear. She must have studied the diagrams exhaustively beforehand, descending straight to the tower's depths without faltering. My task was simple: follow these tracks without losing them. Candle held aloft like a hound sniffing prey, I advanced with painstaking care. Yet beyond this point, the maze mirrored the complexity of the Eight Arrays—paths layered upon paths, veering right then left, abruptly climbing and plunging. Without those prints as guides, navigation would've been impossible. What possible reason could our ancestors have had for engineering such an infuriating tangle? If hiding treasure as legends claimed, its worth must be immeasurable. The incantation's phrase "a hundred bushels of luminous pearls" echoed in my mind—was this the treasure's true nature? My suspicions deepened.

**Chapter 109: The Skeleton Draped in Brocade** Through corridors and staircases as intricately woven as the Eight Arrays—circling down, descending only to circle again—I at last stood upon what seemed the final marble staircase leading downward.

Upon careful consideration, I concluded this area aligned with the tower's ground level outside. What lay below could only be an underground vault dug into the earth. Wondering how deep this subterranean chamber extended, I began descending the stone steps—then realized these were undoubtedly the same stairs I had glimpsed earlier when lightning flashed, their vertiginous depth burned into my vision. Though that earlier glimpse had been fleeting and indistinct, their configuration matched unmistakably. There at the steps' base lay what I had perceived as a figure draped in cloth—could it be Shūko? But the lightning had already faded before confirmation. To descend fully would reveal that prone form clearly—a prospect that left my composure unraveling, an unexplained dread coiling tight in my chest.

Step after step, I finally reached the base of the staircase. There lay what appeared to be a human figure. By candlelight, its garment resembled ancient brocade—utterly unlike Shūko’s clothing. Hmm, I thought, gripping whatever part of its back or torso my hands could find to lift it. The fabric seemed centuries old, disintegrating soundlessly like rotting leaves. By this time, the candle had nearly burned out, the one in my hand almost spent. After lighting a new one, I began examining the figure’s head—only to recoil in shock. What I had taken for a person was in fact a skeleton aged countless years, its bones blackened and hardened without bleaching. Ah! Never had I heard of a skeleton clad in brocade lying at the tower’s base.

But I immediately recalled—this skeleton must have been the ancestor who built this Ghost Tower long ago; one who entered its depths, became trapped, and died crying for help. These remains now lay as legend told—a corpse never retrieved to this day. How bitterly he must have regretted until death! How violently he must have convulsed! Surely his resentment lingered still—pitiful yet dreadful to behold. Still, I could not leave without fully ascertaining what lay before me. As if bound by invisible cords to the corpse’s side, I crouched motionless, examining its face. Eyes that must have glared with bitter hatred were now mere hollow voids; robust cheekbones jutted defiantly—testaments to his final agony.

What astonished me further was how the skeleton's right hand remained tightly clenched, an ancient copper key gripped within its grasp. Though I knew not what lock it might open, if the incantation's words—"a hundred bushels of luminous pearls, royal blessings bestowed"—meant treasures lay hidden in these depths, then this key must unlock them. Ah! To think this ancestor had erected such a bizarre tower to conceal his hoard, perished in its bowels, yet even as bones still clutched the vault's key—sunken eye sockets eternally guarding this threshold—testified to a macabre bond between man and treasure that left me trembling with awe.

At any rate, leaving it exposed like this felt somehow disrespectful to its posthumous peace. I took out my handkerchief, covered the skeleton's face, and silently chanted a requiem in my heart as spiritual offering. Unable to linger longer, I stood and scanned the area—Shūko must surely be nearby—but the candlelight proved too dim to see beyond six feet. When I raised the candle overhead hoping to extend its reach, the flame immediately snuffed against the ceiling—this vault measured barely six shaku vertically. After relighting the wick a third time, I calmly surveyed the chamber. Though its full dimensions eluded me, rows of scarlet serge-upholstered benches lined the walls into darkness. Before them stood large boxes—likely coffins—shrouded under cloth drapes. Their contents concerned me not. My eyes darted about—Shūko, where was Shūko?—until I spotted a figure slumped at the bench's farthest end. Unmistakably her. Shūko! Shūko! Why lay prone? Why so still? Had death already claimed her? I rushed to her side and grasped her hand—only to find it ice-cold.

**Chapter 110: As If Casting Aside a Viper** Though her hand felt ice-cold as death itself, I sensed some lingering vitality within Shūko's body. Had she truly died, I would have been plunged into irrepressible despair—yet inexplicably, I remained hopeful. Some instinct told me life might yet return if I called to her fervently enough. Still clutching her chilled hand, I surveyed our surroundings. A candlestick—likely brought by Shūko—stood on the bench nearby, its wax having burned out long before. I fixed my fresh candle in its holder. There beside her head lay an impossibly small vial—undoubtedly the poison from Sensōya. My initial terror that she'd consumed it dissolved when I found the seal unbroken, its lethal contents undisturbed.

I lifted her corpse-like body with both hands, intending to revive Shūko through my own body heat. Oh! Her limbs weren't cold as her hands had been—there was ordinary warmth in her torso, and something like a faint pulse seemed to beat. "Miss Shūko! Miss Shūko!" When I called gently, Shūko barely opened her eyes and murmured in a threadlike voice that might not have reached even her own ears—utterly self-directed—"Is this... the world after death?" Within me surged a love so drowning it threatened to consume both flesh and spirit. I burned to comfort her with tender words, yet bound by that ironclad pact with Gonda Tokisuke, I could not utter even a dewdrop of heartfelt kindness. The pact's bitter weight pierced me anew like fresh needles, but there was no choice. With only hollow words permitted, I replied, "No—you're not dead. I came to save you, just in time. This is still the living world." She seemed to hear yet still half-murmured to herself, "Still alive—that's... that's terrible. I must die. For everyone's sake."

That she uttered these words even in her sleep revealed the depth of her resolve—particularly the phrase “for everyone’s sake,” which perfectly encapsulated Shūko’s plight at that moment. With dual stigmas clinging to her that could never be cleansed, her arrest would tarnish not only herself and this household’s honor but even my own insignificant name. Her decision to die after weighing every consequence aligned exactly with my deductions. Though I wished to feign indifference, earnestness could not be suppressed: “No, Miss Shūko—there’s no need to die. Your false accusations have been wholly cleared. Yes, we can now prove every suspicion of guilt was groundless. That’s why I’ve come to tell you this.”

Shūko seemed to regain her senses for the first time, looking around suspiciously before apparently recalling her situation. “Ah, I see... So we’re still at the tower’s base? But how did you manage to come here?” Her questioning voice remained faint but had regained some strength. I replied, “Well—I deduced your destination and purpose, so I pursued you. Yes, by doing the same things you did to come here.” “I took eight hours to get here—from noon until past eight at night. There were so many obstacles: unclear paths, rusted locks, doors that wouldn’t budge. Honestly, I’d have been better off dying along the way.” “There’s no need to speak of dying anymore. Since I simply followed your footprints, I didn’t endure half the hardship you did—though even so, it took me from just past noon until now, all because I couldn’t decipher the clock’s secret.” “Yet you’ve finally grasped the clock’s secret, haven’t you?” she said. “For a time, I prayed you might solve it swiftly… but then I wished you *wouldn’t* uncover it. When I came here, I reset all the mechanisms to their original state—ensuring nothing could be done until midnight, when the door opens naturally.” Though aware our exchange stood at a crossroads, I pressed on: “Ah—so there *was* a way to enter and exit without waiting for midnight? Having no knowledge of it, I suffered terribly.” As Shūko regained her composure more fully, she grew increasingly perplexed about her circumstances and cried out sharply, “You—you, Mr. Marube!” I replied, “Yes? What is it?” “If you possess even a shred of your usual mercy,” she pleaded, “I beg you—do not pursue me any further. Let me leave as I am.”

This was no entreaty I could possibly grant from the outset. Yet Shūko's tone revealed her determination to leave this place irrespective of my consent or refusal. Upon reflection, her resolve was hardly unreasonable—knowing she was now seen by me, who had once exchanged marriage vows with her, as a vile woman undeserving of even a word of affection, how could she remain here? For Shūko, whose temperament shone with crystalline purity, this single circumstance alone would compel her to steel her heart irrevocably.

As I dwelled on this—though it might sound like petulance—my resentment toward the pact with Gonda Tokisuke grew ever fiercer. How could I refrain from pleading, "Stay here as my future wife, for my love and reverence remain unchanged," were it not for that accursed vow? Overwhelmed by the thought *Let the pact be damned*, I desperately clutched Shūko's hand once more—yes, seized it again—only to recall: should I break our agreement and incur Gonda's wrath, his resentment would rain upon us both. As his words surfaced verbatim in my mind—*Should she flee to the world's end, Shūko would never know peace, branded forever as the matricide, the would-be patricide, that rare poisoner who dared prison-break*—I realized any tender word now would harm rather than comfort her. To truly love Shūko meant cruelly thrusting her away with cold detachment. Acting instantly on this conviction, I cast aside her hand as one might discard a viper. How contemptible this treatment must have seemed! Had Shūko been fully conscious and noticed me discarding her so venomously, this alone would have made her renounce me utterly—nay, she had already renounced me since last night. Now she might come to loathe me as a lifelong enemy. The agony of my position rivaled hers in every measure.

**Chapter 111: Part of the Secret Purpose**

Shūko, her mind still in turmoil, showed no awareness of how I had cast aside her hand as one might discard a viper—a small mercy. Yet now, seizing upon this release, she readied herself to depart at once. In stern tones, I declared, “Miss Shūko, there is no need whatsoever for you to discard your life or conceal yourself,” while swiftly seizing the poison bottle she had left behind and concealing it in my pocket. Though she noticed this, she made no effort to reclaim it, merely pondering with evident bewilderment before asking, “Why... why didn’t I drink that medicine before you arrived? What state was I in when you came?”

"Truly, even I couldn't comprehend it—why hadn't she drunk the poison before my arrival? Why had someone who hadn't taken poison lain here corpse-like?" Shūko seemed to finally recall. "Ah, I remember now—I took out the bottle, but before leaving this world, I felt compelled to pray and dedicate my future to God. I prayed at length... Then, just as I finally reached for the bottle, a terrible flash of lightning pierced through, making this chamber bright as day." Indeed, this must have coincided with the moment I had glimpsed these very stone stairs far below from within the tower's clock mechanism.

“From that moment onward, I remember nothing of what happened.” She had lost consciousness from the electric shock at that precise moment. Direct exposure to such currents brings instant death, while lesser shocks that merely overwhelm the senses cause fainting—a phenomenon well-documented elsewhere. Nevertheless, this truly defied all comparison to divine aid—to lose consciousness precisely when about to drink poison, remaining collapsed without swallowing it or knowing anything until my arrival. Had that powerful lightning flash not struck then, I would have found only Shūko’s corpse here. Reflecting on this, genuine gratitude toward God welled within me. “Miss Shūko,” I said, “this proves God heard your prayers and extended His saving hand. Those who receive divine grace so abundantly might be called one in a thousand—nay, in truth, not even one in ten thousand. Yet even facing this, you must not entertain notions of dying or hiding yourself.”

Deeply moved by this counsel, she who had been poised to depart lowered herself back onto the bench once more, closed her eyes while stroking her chest, and as her composure returned offered renewed thanks to God; I too prayed alongside her. When she finished praying, she turned slowly toward me and said: “Mr. Marube—my secret purpose has been partly fulfilled through your coming here.” I responded vaguely without full comprehension: “Yes…” “I had three secret purposes,” she continued quietly. “All seemed destined to perish unfulfilled with me—yet one has now been achieved through divine mercy.” “What do you mean by ‘just one’?” “To reveal this tower’s hidden treasure—my first intent was personal retrieval,” she explained earnestly. “But after meeting you… I believed it right that you should uncover it through deciphering those incantations and diagrams I repeatedly urged you to study.” “So it was you,” I murmured in realization. “I never imagined such depth—I scarcely examined those materials.” “Hence my endless frustration,” she admitted with renewed composure before adding softly: “Yet now that you’ve reached this chamber’s depths—it’s as though you’ve truly solved them.” Her voice wavered momentarily before strengthening: “Though undeserving of forgiveness for tainting your family’s honor… if this treasure beneath our feet emerges through your hands alone—then perhaps… perhaps I’ve atoned even slightly.” A fragile lightness tinged her words.

I understood the words' meaning, but couldn't grasp what this "treasure at the tower's base" referred to. "The treasure at the tower's base?" I echoed back. Shūko stared wide-eyed in disbelief. "You still don't understand?"

**Chapter 112: The Night Water Dragon Weeps** "Could such treasure truly lie beneath this tower?" I remained half-convinced. Shūko, observing my skepticism with visible frustration, pressed: "Do you still doubt? If not to hide treasure, why else erect this tower—impenetrable to all?" I countered: "I believe it conceals some secret. But whether that secret constitutes treasure... that I cannot confirm." "That is precisely why I urged you to study the incantation," she insisted. "Its meaning becomes clear when properly considered." "I simply cannot interpret it so plainly."

“Then I shall explain what I’ve concluded by compiling this household’s records and oral traditions preserved through generations,” said Shūko, beginning her account. “As we’ve no time for lengthy discourse, I’ll give you the gist.”

“You surely know this household’s founding ancestor descended from the royal bloodline of the House of Lancaster. When Henry VI—the last Lancaster king—lay dying and foresaw the Yorkist claim to his throne, he gathered all jewels and precious metals passed down through the imperial court and bestowed them upon our ancestor. Thus even if the crown passed to York, treasures surpassing regal worth would remain with our lineage—hence the incantation’s line: *‘A hundred measures of pearls, royal blessings bestowed.’* True to his fears, civil war erupted under York’s banner, forcing our ancestor to flee court. In those days, a covetous monk who frequented the palace seized the treasure before rebel forces could advance, claiming custodianship while absconding with it on countless horses and carts—the *‘corrupt monk’* named in the verse. Yet even he found such peerless riches—said to outvalue kingship itself—impossible to conceal. Fearing rebels would plunder them for war funds, he sank all into a lake’s depths. Our ancestor died wretchedly in exile, forever fretting over the treasure’s fate yet siring one son in that desolate place. This son inherited only vague knowledge of the hoard, bequeathing its pursuit to his own children—thus generations lived solely to seek it. At last, during the era when this tower’s builder lived, they uncovered the monk’s aquatic theft. *‘The corrupt monk steals away, night water dragons weep’* marks that sinking, while *‘Search lake depths, restore house treasures to their chest’* proves he later retrieved them from waters. Does this not clarify everything?”

Now that I heard it explained this way, the meaning of the incantation became perfectly clear. Those very phrases once dismissed as meaningless scribbles or mocked as the ravings of a madman were in truth born of agonizing labor—each character surely crafted with blood and tears by their creator. Hearing this, I felt as though scales had fallen from my eyes. Reciting the lines internally, I pressed on: “What does ‘Rebellious flames still blaze, deeply store all within the house’ signify?”

Shūko replied matter-of-factly: “That likely refers to the construction of this tower. While records vary and conflicting theories abound—making definitive assertions impossible—my most credible conclusion is that this tower was erected precisely during Cromwell’s Revolution. Though separated by some 260 to 270 years from the earlier civil war when the treasure was stolen, and though the circumstances differ entirely, the line ‘Rebellious flames still blaze’ likely denotes the formidable strength of Cromwell’s faction. As you know, Cromwell’s reforms occurred in the 1640s—roughly 250 years ago—meaning this tower now stands about 350 years old. Though rumors claim it’s millennia-old, that’s clearly untrue. Had it been known the treasure was retrieved from waters then, Cromwell would have confiscated it outright. Thus, they erected this tower to safeguard it discreetly and crafted the incantation to covertly inform their descendants. Doesn’t the phrase ‘deeply store all within the house’ plainly indicate concealing it deep within the tower’s foundations?”

**Chapter 113: The Desert of Life** Having heard this explanation, there remained no room to doubt the meaning of the incantation. Though readers might recall its contents already, we shall now transcribe its full text here: A hundred measures of pearls; royal blessings bestowed; Deep chambers hold their hoard; The founding ancestor of this household had indeed concealed within this tower the vast treasure received from royalty, creating these verses to inform descendants of its existence. Now I understood why successive heads had been compelled to memorize this incantation upon inheriting their title—for here in this chamber at the tower's base where Shūko and I stood lay hidden that very hoard.

“Having concluded my explanation,” said Shūko, “deciphering that incantation and opening the path to retrieve the treasure constitutes part of my secret purpose. That I’ve fulfilled even this portion remains fortune enough—let this serve as partial repayment toward Father and yourself.” She rose without hesitation, clearly resolved to leave this place—nay, this household entirely. I shouted again: “How could you have heard my earlier words—that every false accusation against you has been cleared—and still depart? All past slanders and recent suspicions now stand proven utterly groundless!”

Though the joy of truth’s revelation did not surface on her face, some faint tremor seemed to ripple through her bearing. Shūko asked, “Who will prove this innocence you speak of?” “That will be Gonda Tokisuke—” I replied. Shūko merely looked perplexed and said, “Huh?” I may be conceited, but had I answered “I will prove it,” Shūko would surely have rejoiced—yet when it came to Gonda Tokisuke proving it, she appeared far less pleased, her disappointment unmistakable. Then came her remark: “But Mr. Gonda will attach some condition to his proof—a reward like demanding this or that.” Of course he would. His sole purpose in saving her was to make her his wife—not that he insisted she must become his wife to be saved, nor that he would forcibly claim her as recompense. Rather, he had resolved with infinite patience and gentleness that if he saved her and extended every possible kindness thereafter, Shūko would naturally feel gratitude and grow to love him. Truly, Gonda harbored no greater affection than this toward Shūko—it was entirely unconditional. Yes, toward Shūko it was wholly unconditional; the sole conditions bound me alone. The only stipulation imposed upon me: “Never steal Shūko’s love from the sidelines. Ensure she grows to despise you utterly.” Should I adhere to this, Shūko needed make no promises—she remained bound by no conditions whatsoever. Thus resolving myself, I emphasized the phrase “toward you” as I declared: “No—Gonda imposes no conditions upon you.”

Upon hearing "unconditional," Shūko finally showed signs of relief. “Oh—truly unconditional? That seems somewhat dubious... But you mean I need make no promises myself—is that truly what you say?” Her skepticism was entirely reasonable. I replied: “Of course.” Shūko paused, seeming to gather her thoughts, then asked me hesitantly, quietly: "But you..." Her voice trailed off before repeating: "...but you—" Ah—this brief phrase held immeasurable significance. Shūko, knowing Gonda sought no conditions, had discerned that I was the one who had indeed promised sufficient recompense. Since I had pledged this recompense, she must have thought any conditions would originate from me. Hence her question—“But you—”. Expanded conventionally, these words amounted to: “If Mr. Gonda imposes no conditions like making me his wife... might you not propose such terms yourself?” To ask whether I desired her as my wife was the same. Of course, given that a marital promise had existed until yesterday, her asking this was entirely reasonable. Waves of joy surged through my entire being, yet tragically, I could offer no reply. Even displaying a hint of delight here would violate my pact with Gonda—it would ruin Shūko’s life. *Show her the look of utter disgust befitting a man who could never wed a woman stained by crime*, such was Gonda’s command. Though I could not bring myself to act so contrary, no suitable response came—words clogged my throat like stones. I neither affirmed nor denied, turning my face aside as my eyes darted helplessly.

At such moments, none discern shifts in another’s heart more swiftly than a woman, nor feel displeasure more profoundly. Shūko instantly perceived the change in me. Of course, it was only natural she should resent this: though she had deliberately offered words of forgiveness for my seemingly faithless conduct since yesterday, I neither leapt at her mercy nor turned toward her—instead, I averted my face. To not feel such anger would render her less than Shūko; to display it openly would do the same. She spoke no further, quietly lifting the hand candle. I, feigning no renewed fervor, merely said, “Well then, I shall escort you.” Shūko replied with icy detachment: “No—I will walk alone.” This single phrase became my lifelong writ of disownment. I merely replied with a flavorless “Is that so?”—yet in this moment, I first comprehended the true agony of losing Shūko’s love. Though I had lamented countless times since submitting to Gonda’s conditions that I must lose her, this marked the first instance her affection had truly slipped from my grasp. My heart became utter darkness—as though the sun had been plucked from the solar system—bereft of savor or dew. The life awaiting me now would be existence’s dregs; I had become human refuse still drawing breath. Having traversed fertile plains of breathtaking beauty—cool breezes, clear streams, verdant sprouting grasses, crimson blooming flowers—I now entered a desolate desert. Death itself seemed preferable. Wordlessly I moved to leave the chamber before Shūko could depart, but she addressed me with complete detachment: “Yet Mr. Marube—knowing treasure lies beneath this tower’s foundations, will you depart without ascertaining where precisely it rests, how it’s arranged, or what form it takes?” I replied: “No need for verification. Having lain hidden here for centuries, let it remain so. Should fate permit, another may retrieve it someday.” “Let the wilderness claim what remains—does someone who’s cast off the human world like me need treasure? My heart churned with self-devouring frenzy.”

**Chapter 114: The First Family Treasure**

Even were it a treasure more precious than royal thrones, it held no necessity for me who had become human dregs. I intended to depart leaving the treasure at the tower's base utterly untouched—never laying hands upon it. Observing this, Shūko declared: “No—we cannot leave them unopened. Since I was the one who discovered them, I implore you—please open them and see what treasures lie within. Once that is done, you may depart if you wish.” Her words carried such force they bordered on command. I lacked the resolve to protest further. “Very well—I shall examine them,” I said. “Where are these treasures located?” Shūko: “These coffin-like boxes lined up here all contain the treasure. You’ll understand once you open their lids.” As she spoke, Shūko raised the hand candle slightly higher and surveyed the room.

I had briefly noted earlier how coffin-like chests draped in cloth stood lined at the center of this chamber, though I had not examined them closely. Were these truly treasure chests, they would contain an immense hoard—such wealth that no single eye in any land could behold so much at once, a trove unlikely to exist elsewhere. Shūko counted the chests while still holding up the handheld candle; I too counted them, finding seventeen in total. Though these seventeen varied somewhat in size, the smallest appeared as large as a coffin. I said, “How shall we open these? They must have locks.” “The locks can be opened with the key still clutched by this house’s ancestor—go retrieve it,” said Shūko, glancing toward the stone steps where his ancestor lay collapsed. Though the prospect of taking the key from the corpse’s grasp felt deeply unsettling, Shūko’s words rang with unprecedented resolve—like a general’s command to soldiers. Whether my frayed nerves distorted her tone or her own formidable determination shaped it thus, I could not say, but disobedience proved impossible. Approaching the remains whose face I had earlier covered with my handkerchief, I took the key with trembling fingers. When I returned to the chests, Shūko—perhaps intending to encourage me—said, “There is no cause for hesitation in opening this. To leave it unopened would be the true transgression. Now—begin with this one.”

She pointed to the largest chest in one corner. By the light of Shūko’s raised hand candle, I removed the cloth covering, located the keyhole, and—though opening it proved somewhat challenging—soon managed to lift the lid. The chest itself was plain, unadorned white wood. Upon opening the lid, an indescribably rich fragrance rose luxuriantly—likely from noble spices stored alongside the treasure, a considerate precaution by ancestors to spare future descendants any unpleasantness. The first thing to catch my eye was crimson velvet identical to that upholstering the chamber’s benches, though the seating fabric had faded entirely while the chest’s lining still glowed lantern-bright. Removing this revealed a wooden panel—the inner lid—to which parchment labeled “Master Catalog” adhered. Scanning it, I found entries numbered one through seventeen: beneath each, terms like “gold/silver,” “jewels,” or “tribute from territories.” One entry specified “spoils from victory over [country] in [year/month]”; another noted “artworks.” Yet gold and silver dominated—half the seventeen bore those labels.

The chest I had opened was unmistakably Number One, containing the master catalog of all seventeen chests. Reading the inventory, I muttered under my breath, "Number One holds the family heirlooms." Family heirlooms—these would likely be treasures beyond monetary value, meant to pass through generations of the Marube lineage. Though I'd dismissed such "riches" earlier, my pulse quickened despite myself. When I finally opened the inner lid, smaller nested boxes appeared beneath. From the uppermost container emerged an ancient crown—indisputably crafted of gold.

The crown appeared to have been stored after being pieced together from fragments, shattering into four pieces upon retrieval. Yet it remained unmistakably a family heirloom—proof of this household’s royal lineage. Countless jewels glittered around its circumference, with a central ruby so vivid one might mistake it for living flame, its diameter nearly an inch. The gem’s quality alone represented immeasurable wealth. From within emerged more treasures: bags and nested boxes. One bag contained spices—the source of that indescribably rich fragrance now permeating the air. Alongside the king’s crown lay a queen’s diadem, equally adorned with priceless jewels. Then came necklaces, bracelets, rings, golden clasps, sartorial ornaments, writing implements—all crafted of gold or silver, inlaid with noble gemstones unmatched in the modern age. One might suspect this alone constituted the entirety of the Lancaster court’s treasures.

**Chapter 115: Still Reckless** The myriad treasures within these boxes defied complete description; even appraising their monetary worth would scarcely have reached sixfold. If this single chest alone contained such abundance, what unimaginable wealth might have emerged had all seventeen been opened? Fortunately—no, *unfortunately*—I now stood in a position where neither treasure nor anything else held value for me, leaving me merely astounded by the sheer quantity. But had I remained that man from days past—one whose worldly desires still smoldered—I would surely have collapsed: from joy were it mine; from envy were it another’s. Perhaps even madness might have followed.

Contrary to my earlier belief that even opening the boxes would prove futile, I now found myself wanting to peer into the others—not out of desire for treasure, but rather to indulge my eyes in such opulence. To behold riches of this magnitude was a privilege even royalty might seldom experience. Perhaps sensing my thoughts, Shūko pointed to two adjacent chests—labeled in the catalog as “Second: Gold/Silver” and “Third: Jewels”—and declared, “For thoroughness’ sake, open these as well.”

Gold and silver, jewels—what manner of precious metals could these be? What form might these gems take? Even in my desireless state, I felt my frame trembling. First I opened the Second Box—its outer and inner lids remained identical to the previous one's, differing only in contents. Inside lay nine vertical compartments, each bearing labels like *Heian-period gold coins* with attached slips of paper, every partition brimming with ancient currency. Six compartments held gold coins; the remaining three contained silver. The sheer magnitude made me fear touching them would profane something sacred. Murmuring "Ah, I see," I closed the lid. Though my heart remained unsettled, an inexplicable dread of overstaying compelled me to immediately open the Third Box. This one held no compartments—only countless cloth bags.

Assuming the bag contained jewels, I attempted to lift the topmost manageable one—only to find the sack already decayed, its fibers brittle under the weight within. With a tearing sound, it split open. I gasped, shielding my eyes as I stumbled back—how could I not? From the ruptured bag clattered forth a blinding multitude of glittering objects scattering across the floor. In the dim chamber, reflecting Shūko’s hand-candle flame, they seemed as though all heaven’s stars had crashed here—a radiant, shimmering haze. Their identity required no inquiry: luminescent pearls, some large enough to illuminate twelve carriages.

Shūko stood equally astonished and silent. Knowing it futile to return the spilled jewels to their decayed bag, I closed the lid as they were. “Come, Miss Shūko—let us leave this place regardless,” I said. She remained remarkably composed. “Not yet,” she replied, pausing before continuing: “There appears to be an inscription in the First Box we opened earlier. Read that first—then we shall depart.” Following her words, I turned again to the First Box, retrieved the catalog I had seen earlier, and examined it. Three chests were labeled “Jewels,” seven “Gold/Silver,” and the remaining seven varied in designation. If even a single bag from one box contained such wealth, how vast must the entirety be? No wonder it was deemed “more precious than kings and nobles”—its value rivaled that of Britain itself. With treasures of this magnitude, erecting a tower to safeguard them thus was inevitable. Those who had heard this tower’s legends mocked our ancestor as a madman for his excessive caution, yet having secured such riches while remaining merely “mad” marked him as supremely prudent. Indeed, even his utmost precautions seemed reckless compared to the treasure’s worth—especially considering his era: Cromwell’s Rebellion, when kings were slain, nobles reviled, and luxuries ruthlessly confiscated. Had I been in his place, I too would have taken equal—nay, greater—care, though devising methods beyond his already exhaustive measures would have proven impossible.

While I stood dazed, still clutching the catalog and lost in such thoughts, Shūko spoke from behind: “That isn’t the catalog. Can’t you see another parchment beneath the spice bag? Read what’s written there.” I finally regained my senses and peered beneath the spice bag—there indeed lay a parchment, rolled with ceremonial care like a last testament. Unfurling it, I read— “I, Marube Tomoaki, fourteenth-generation descendant of the Marube lineage, hereby certify with utmost sincerity: All gold, silver, jewels, and treasures stored within this tower are—by legitimate right—the incontestable property of the Marube family.”

The full particulars are clearly recorded in our house's archives; I, having inherited the ambitions of generations past, through years of arduous labor under night's concealment, succeeded in retrieving these treasures from watery depths. "This hoard lay submerged for two hundred fifty years. All precious paintings and silks cataloged by our forebears were lamentably ravaged by the waters, leaving no remnant. Only those materials immune to time's corrosion—gold, silver, jewels—remained preserved intact. These I placed into seventeen chests and secreted within this tower's foundation."

“If my descendants succeed in retrieving this treasure, my blessing shall descend upon them alongside these riches.” “Should any beyond my bloodline dare remove it, know this—the vengeful spirit of Marube Tomoaki shall haunt them with calamity unceasing.” “May generation upon generation of our lineage through this hoard know boundless happiness for all eternity.” Though laconic in phrasing, these words sufficed to confirm the treasure’s rightful ownership by the Marube clan.

**Chapter 116: Voice and Words—None Emerge** Having finished reading this document, Shūko and I quickly agreed it would be most fitting to take both the key from our ancestor’s remains and this parchment to Uncle. Once delivered, he could decide whether to retrieve the treasure or rebury the bones—either way, matters would be settled properly. “Such unimaginable wealth makes staying here unnerving,” I said after carefully resealing the first box. Following Shūko’s candlelit lead through winding passages toward the exit, I stiffened when she suddenly turned back near the tower’s threshold. “That this hoard remained untouched for centuries owes entirely to our ancestors’ vigilance,” she declared. “Countless souls—Okon among them—coveted these treasures through legend alone. She bought this tower intending to plunder them but lacked education to decipher the charm. When she consulted her son Chōzō about it...” Her voice hardened. “He dismissed her obsession outright—that’s why he sold it back to your family.” “Our ancestors’ protection surely played its role,” I conceded quietly. “But without your resolve—your wisdom—these jewels would still lie buried beneath eternal darkness.”

As we conversed, we arrived without losing our way at last before the stone wall outside the clock mechanism room. Considering even the tower's original architect had perished here in anguished confinement, perhaps our safe passage too owed itself to divine protection—yet paradoxically, I found myself wishing such guardianship absent. Had we been trapped, I might have died alongside Shūko, confessed how Gonda Tokisuke's binding pact compelled me to demean her, and sought full absolution to mend her heart—such was the way of this merciless world. But another barrier remained: the stone door's checkpoint. As I doubted even divine intervention could move this obstacle, Shūko explained in her instructive manner: "That green disk cannot be shifted separately—it's weighted by this door's mass. However, move the door itself, and the disk will open naturally." She then examined the wall, adding: "According to the diagrams, there should be a hole here to remove the partition blocking the door's protrusion. From inside, one can only wait until eleven o'clock—but from this side, we may open it anytime. This single detail reveals Lord Tomoaki's meticulous planning." She continued searching the wall for a while, then exclaimed, “Ah! Here it is!” and opened the stone door.

Though disconcerted by how effortlessly it had opened, I could no longer avoid entering the mechanical room. Inside, the green disk indeed lay open. Shūko first directed me to crawl beneath the disk’s position, then appeared to adjust the clockwork mechanisms herself before soon slipping through after me. The moment we emerged, both the stone door and the green disk weighted to it snapped shut. Standing now in the so-called clock chamber—the spacious area directly above my quarters—Shūko and I inadvertently locked eyes. Whether from my own vanity or not, I detected in her gaze something resembling regret that we had escaped unharmed.

Descending to the veranda outside my quarters, I heard—ominously—a scratching sound against this room’s door from within. I recalled that first night I slept here, when a mysterious hand (later revealed as Madam Torai’s) had emerged between the panel gaps, and more recently—just last night—the nerve-shredding scream that had undoubtedly originated from this chamber. Anxiety gripped me: had something abnormal occurred inside? But this was not a matter to involve Shūko with now. Resolving to investigate alone later, I said: “Ah—dawn has nearly broken. Come, Miss Shūko—you must be exhausted. At any rate, you need rest. Shall I escort you to your room?” Shūko smiled faintly. “That’s right. Now that I think of it, I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.” Fatigue had turned her face utterly pale. “Come—allow me to escort you,” I said.

Having become complete strangers, I worried whether she would consent to being escorted by me, but Shūko neither accepted nor refused; she merely tilted her ear toward my quarters and said, "Oh? What's in this room?"—then fell silent. "There's nothing amiss here." Shūko declared resolutely, "Open this door. Open it!" Though perplexed, I could not refuse—especially as the noise grew ever louder—and reluctantly opened the door. But Shūko, still holding the hand candle, stepped through before me. The moment she entered, she froze rigidly in place with a startled look of pain. I followed behind, only to halt just as abruptly at the utterly extraordinary sight before us. For a moment, they could neither speak nor utter a word.

Chapter 117: Heavenly Judgment If I had entered this room before Shūko, I would never have let her inside—never shown her this sight. I would have invented some pretext to make her leave from the threshold. But alas, Shūko entered first and witnessed this scene, rendering any remedy now impossible. Still resolved to make Shūko depart, I placed a hand on her shoulder and tried to pull her back, saying, “Come, Miss Shūko—let us go over there.” At that instant, something shot past my feet like a loosed arrow, leaping onto the veranda. It was Madam Torai’s lemur—undoubtedly the creature that had been scratching at this room’s door from within.

Shūko stood rigidly immobile as a stone pillar; pushing her shoulders proved futile. Her eyes, wide with terror, gazed vacantly into space as though fixated on something far beyond the immediate horror. Ah—startled as one within that chamber might be, she now seemed to associate memories, her mind focused on distant, distant matters. Like one awake yet dreaming, nothing about her shifted. What spectacle within this room could have shocked Shūko so utterly? In the armchair I habitually used, leaning backward with limbs splayed, lay a man whose face bore indescribable agony, eyes wide open in death. Bloodstains dotted his body, particularly around the cheeks where cruel scratches or bites—undoubtedly the lemur’s work—marred the flesh. Closer inspection revealed his fingertips too bore deep toothmarks. But who was this man? Though I struggled to recognize him at first, prolonged observation revealed him as Takanawada Chōzō. While living and dead faces naturally differ, I never imagined such drastic transformation—muscles grotesquely contorted from wounds and pain, features wholly alien to his usual countenance. In life, his face had been handsomely smooth with an unsettling undercurrent, yet never overtly villainous; now death rendered him the very image of consummate evil. Perhaps his lifetime of feigning virtue had suppressed this true visage until mortality stripped all pretense. A terrifying face regardless. In the dimly lit room I had not yet fully illuminated, viewing [the scene] by candlelight struck me as even more terrifying.

Ah, why had he entered my parlor? Why had he died? A lemur couldn't kill a man—it defied reason. Yet now I understood the source of last night's scream: this had been his death cry. He must have died moments after midnight struck. As I pondered the cause of death, Shūko suddenly leaped up shouting, "I understand! I understand!" Though unclear what she'd realized, her agitation—so unlike her usual composure—alarmed me enough to fear she'd gone mad. "What have you understood, Miss Shūko?" I asked.

Whether Shūko heard my question or not, she continued speaking as if in a trance: “I’ve realized it—eight years ago, in this very room, it was this Takanawada Chōzō who killed my foster mother Okon. I alone heard her scream and rushed here, but collided with someone in the pitch darkness. Though I knew they were the culprit, they shoved me aside and fled. As I tried to pursue them—foolish for a woman—Okon’s dying voice cried ‘Culprit!’ from the shadows. She seized my hand and bit my left forearm. Whether from agony or the darkness, she couldn’t recognize me. The pain and terror made me faint—I don’t know whether I meant to flee or chase them. Like a sleepwalker, I stumbled down to the moat’s edge and collapsed. By morning, I awoke in police custody as Okon’s murderer. Though I knew the real killer existed, I couldn’t name them. I protested, but the teeth marks on my arm and flesh in Okon’s mouth became evidence. Coincidental circumstances and mistaken assumptions branded me a ‘born poisoner’ who lied with every word. Finally, they sentenced me—a minor spared execution but condemned to life imprisonment. ‘Be grateful,’ they said.” “Even after pleading all the way to Her Majesty the Queen and receiving no pardon, in the end, an innocent young girl was proclaimed throughout the land as the once-in-an-era poisoner Wata Natsuko.”

Her voice—purging centuries of grudges—pierced the mortal realm with a timbre so profound it seemed to commune with the netherworld. I could not listen unmoved; unwittingly, my very being fused with Shūko’s lament, becoming one with the wronged. She continued in that same cadence: “After escaping prison, one resolve consumed me: to uncover the true culprit and impose upon him a judgment worthy of Heaven, thereby clearing my innocence. Now that culprit lies before us. Heaven’s verdict has descended upon him as he deserved—this man, Takanawada Chōzō. Though I long doubted it might be him, witnessing this divine retribution confirms it beyond question. See here how Heaven’s judgment struck him down!” Truly, had Shūko—through her fervor—perceived even realms beyond mortal sight? Even as she cried out thus, her eyes remained cast beyond humanity, adrift in the cosmos.

Chapter 118: And So, The Third Secret Purpose It stood to reason that one of Shūko’s “secret purposes” had been to uncover the true culprit behind Okon’s murder and clear her own tainted name—an entirely natural course. Ascertaining the tower’s treasure constituted her first purpose; identifying the criminal, her second. *And so*, what might the third be? Her phrasing had indeed suggested three such aims. With the first two now achieved as if ordained by fate, would this third—still shrouded in mystery—likewise come to fruition? Even amid pressing obligations, I found myself unable to suppress such speculations.

Shūko, still in a trance, resumed speaking. “Do you wonder how this divine punishment descended upon him? To my eyes, it’s as vivid as if I witnessed it firsthand. Years ago when he murdered my foster mother Okon, it happened precisely as this tower’s clock struck midnight. I awoke to the chime and turned in bed when her scream echoed from this very room—that’s why I rushed here. Ever since, each time the clock tolled twelve, he’d recall that night, fear staining his face. When Konshi Fujin first brought him to a banquet here, you must have noticed how he halted mid-greeting, unconsciously counting the chimes on his fingers. He only relaxed when they stopped at eleven—realizing midnight remained an hour away. Had he not been Okon’s killer, why dread the twelfth stroke so? Later he frequented this house—villains bond swiftly—and grew intimate with Torai Fujin. Knowing my obsession with the tower’s secrets, she and her brother Ankawa Jinzou threatened me repeatedly for a treasure share. When threats failed, she stole the diagrams and sent them to Ankawa—as you know. But after your clash with Gonda Tokisuke the night before last left Ankawa powerless, Torai Fujin turned to Chōzō instead. She divulged everything to him. Though he’d once scoffed at tales of buried treasure, her words convinced him. I’d seen their furtive whispers these past days. He grew as greedy as her—waiting for the household to sleep before attempting to plunder the tower alone last night, unaware you’d returned. That arrogance brought him here…to receive Heaven’s judgment.”

Her words—logically reasoned yet steeped in raw emotion—unfolded with such impeccable order that no room for contradiction remained, as if her fervor had unknowingly forged this moment of clarity. I listened transfixed, unable to interject even a syllable. Shūko continued: “He came here to rifle through your documents and decode the ancestral charm’s meaning, barricading himself inside—yet somehow Torai Fujin’s lemur slipped in and became trapped with him. Unaware of its presence, he brooded over schemes until the clock above struck midnight, just as it had when he murdered Okon years prior. This surely agitated his nerves. Around then, the lemur must have rustled unnervingly in some corner—you can gauge his terror from this extinguished candle stub here. He tried rising with the hand-candle but dropped it outright. Perhaps Okon’s death-mask visage flashed through his unraveling mind then—in his panic, he likely mistook the lemur for some fiend and lunged at it. The creature fought savagely for its life—scratching his cheeks and sinking teeth into his hands—as these wounds plainly show.”

“Thus, after midnight struck last night, when I heard those ghastly screams twice—undoubtedly a mix of the lemur’s cries and his own shrieks—my suspicions aligned perfectly. ‘If an ordinary person would fear entering a pitch-dark place,’ Shūko continued, ‘how much more terrified must *he* have been, trapped in this very room where he murdered his foster mother? His hand-candle extinguished, the clock’s echoes lingering, that unearthly lemur causing havoc—he must have scrambled to find the door. But the layout he once knew had changed, and in the darkness, he couldn’t open it. Moreover, in some lands, lemurs are called “thunder beasts”—they grow frenzied during storms, sensitive to electricity. It surely rampaged—lunging at his face, clawing his back. Since childhood, his heart had been weak; doctors had recently warned that excessive strain could rupture it. That chaos killed him. In this room where his deeds left my hand mutilated, at the same midnight hour, he met his end—bitten and torn by a lemur. Is this not Heavenly Judgment? Mr. Marube, I longed to expose the true culprit and clear my name through confession… Yet learning this only after his death grieves me. I could never have delivered such justice—Heaven acted in my stead. For this partial fulfillment of my secret purpose, I offer deepest thanks.’” She raised her hands toward heaven in worship once more. I stood utterly transfixed.

**Chapter 119: Farewell to This World** It was exactly as Shūko had said; Takanawada Chōzō had indeed received Heavenly Judgment. I turned to Shūko and said, "Your devotion has reached Heaven, but there's no need to linger here, Miss Shūko. I will handle disposing of the corpse. Come—you must retire to your room and rest. You must be utterly exhausted. Moreover, if it becomes known that we two entered the tower's depths secretly, its secrets risk exposure." At this, Shūko—her earlier tension slackened—appeared wholly drained. "Yes," she replied. "Let us rest awhile. Otherwise...I can no longer steady my thoughts." Indeed, that stood to reason—having gone twenty-four hours without food and endured emotional upheavals beyond what most experience in a lifetime, even the hardiest of women would find it unbearable by now.

Though I too was fatigued, my heart harbored profound discontent. At this moment when Shūko’s long-cherished wish was nearing fulfillment and her circumstances verged on happiness, to think that I myself must engineer her disdain toward me—that I must lose her—left no room for respite. Attempting rest proved futile; alone, I had to solemnly consider how to conduct myself henceforth. While harboring these thoughts, I escorted Shūko down the tower and arrived at the house’s second floor. Though her room remained distant along this connected corridor, she politely declined further escort and departed alone. Had she not grown distant from me earlier, she would hardly have objected to my seeing her to the threshold—ah, but during that brief interval when Takanawada Chōzō’s shocking death had startled her, she had spoken to me with nearly her former openness, all else forgotten. Yet once that shock faded and her mind regained equilibrium, her disdain for me returned instantly; now even conversing seemed distasteful to her. Truly, this pact with Gonda Tokisuke had brought me profound torment.

I watched futilely until Shūko’s figure vanished from sight, all the while contemplating how I must inform someone of Takanawada Chōzō’s death. Slowly, I made my way to the staircase leading downward. Though dawn had brightened the windows and sunrise neared, no one below appeared yet awakened. Seeing little purpose in descending further now, I paused and lingered at the stairway’s upper landing. From below came the sound of footsteps ascending—perhaps a servant roused early? But no—this person climbed with none of a servant’s briskness, pausing after each step as if burdened by weighty thoughts. Who could it be? Waiting silently, I soon saw a head and torso emerge into view: it was Gonda Tokisuke.

He wandered in complete absorption, utterly lost in thought. Startled, I instinctively rushed over and called out abruptly, “Oh! Mr. Gonda!” He jolted with an “Oh!” and as he lifted his face, lost his balance, missed a stair step, and nearly tumbled headfirst downward—though stopping short of a full fall. Had I not caught him, he surely would have plunged. I hastily grabbed him, but Gonda turned as if possessed, looked back at the stairway’s height, and said, “Oh! Had you not caught me, I’d have cracked my skull and bid farewell to this world. You’ve truly saved my life.” He expressed gratitude far beyond his character, then continued: “Ah! Had you let me fall, you could’ve effortlessly eliminated your romantic rival. Eh? Isn’t that so? No one would blame you—I’d have died from my own clumsiness. Even I couldn’t resent you for it. Were I you, I’d never have reached out to save me.”

“Speaking earnestly,” I said, “I feel increasingly indebted to your kindness. So that’s how it was.” “A pity I intervened—but had you perished now, there’d be none left possessing sufficient counterevidence to clear Shūko’s tarnished name.” “That concern has been rendered moot,” Gonda replied. “What?” “I’ve already transferred all counterevidence to competent hands.” “Whose hands?” “Detective Mori Mondo and your uncle Tomoo.” When hearing Gonda’s full account: After I had departed his residence two nights prior, he’d dragged Mori Mondo—still trussed like a scroll—from the adjoining chamber. With lawyerly precision, he’d detailed matters concerning Shūko—no, Wata Natsuko—asserting Takanawada Chōzō’s guilt in Old Woman Okon’s murder. Confronted with irrefutable evidence, Mori Mondo grasped his own error: “How fortunate you restrained me from discharging my duties! Had you not taken such drastic measures, I’d have committed an irredeemable professional blunder—becoming a detective’s laughingstock while my reputation crumbled.” Mori reportedly offered profound thanks. Once unbound, he’d rushed through that night and next day verifying every shred of evidence—even uncovering how Takanawada had bribed a London dissectionist’s assistant to procure a female corpse for framing Shūko. By noon yesterday, Mori formally reported these findings to Gonda, who promptly accompanied him here. That same night, Gonda met my uncle and relayed all facts previously disclosed to Mori—supplemented by a lawyer’s knack for emphasizing crucial points through eloquence.

**Chapter 120: Deliberation and Wisdom**

Gonda Tokisuke continued. “Mori Mondo, who came with me, first went to Takanawada Chōzō’s room to ensure he wouldn’t escape—but as expected of a villain, he’d already sensed danger and fled. Just then, an officer from the local police arrived and reported that Miss Urahara Jō, who’d previously vanished, was hiding at Senkusa-ya in this district. Mori immediately rushed there, assuming Chōzō would head to her place. But neither Chōzō nor Urahara were present, leaving him deeply disappointed. Later, we heard from a doctor that Chōzō’s chronic heart condition had worsened these past few days—any shock could kill him instantly. It seems he may have died while fleeing.” Drawn into the conversation, I said, “Yes—Chōzō had already died last night from heart disease,” and since there was no need to hide this from Gonda, I explained the circumstances in detail. Gonda nodded in understanding and remarked with surprise: “Then that faint, strange scream I thought I heard last night—while dozing in a chair by your uncle Tomoo’s bedside after finishing my account of Miss Shūko’s circumstances—must have been Chōzō’s death cry!”

“So Uncle already knows all about Shūko in detail.” “Yes—Uncle had been deeply distressed after hearing from Takanawada Chōzō’s venomous tongue that Shūko was truly Wata Natsuko. So I explained Wata Natsuko’s complete innocence in full detail. Upon hearing this, Uncle’s joy knew no bounds—he declared his illness cured and insisted on keeping me there. I ended up spending what felt like an entire night at his bedside. But Mr. Marube—crucially, I myself still don’t know what became of Shūko afterward. Where is she now?” “She was extremely tired and retreated to her room, so she’s probably asleep by now.” “But what about *your* promise?” “I fulfilled it strictly,” I replied with slight irritation. “Shūko truly despises me now—a contemptible man who doesn’t even know how to pity a woman plunged into misfortune.”

Hearing this, I expected Gonda to rejoice heartily, but instead he appeared somewhat abashed. "Truly, it was a cruel bargain—I do sympathize," he said, scratching his head in a dejected manner quite unlike his demeanor from two nights prior. Though lingering resentment still festered within me, I couldn't resist adding with biting sarcasm, "You must be delighted." Gonda replied, "No—forgive my bluntness—but I'd misjudged you. To sacrifice yourself so completely in keeping your word... Ah, such integrity is rare in this day and age—truly worthy of respect." After a contemplative pause, he continued, "However, your uncle grows increasingly concerned about your whereabouts. Let us save further discussion for later—we should first go to your uncle's chambers."

I complied and went with him to my uncle’s room. Though still ailing and senile, Uncle appeared somewhat recovered, sitting up on his bed. “Ah, Michikurou! Before all else—I must ask you to find Shūko and apologize on my behalf. I deeply regret having doubted her. Last night, hearing from Mr. Gonda how tirelessly he has devoted himself to her cause—and how pure her character remains—shames me utterly. For days, my heart has sickened since learning she is that Wata Natsuko. Worst of all—*I* was the one who first demanded Natsuko’s execution years ago! If she was innocent, my error is unforgivable. No descendant of mine should ever serve as a judge again! And that vile Takanawada Chōzō—he knew Okon withdrew all her assets from the bank annually to audit them. He sneaked back from London to murder her and steal that fortune! He framed Natsuko, hid the money himself, and gradually siphoned it off over the years. Mr. Gonda traced every withdrawal date and location where he stashed it—we now have irrefutable evidence to execute Chōzō and clear Shūko’s name. But Michikurou—here lies another difficulty: prosecuting Chōzō will force Shūko back into public scrutiny. The world believes Wata Natsuko died in prison—her empty grave still stands on these grounds. To now reveal her survival as Shūko would be cruel… yet trying Chōzō makes this inevitable. I’ve exhausted all deliberation and wisdom—I must rely on *your* counsel here.” He was utterly overwhelmed with regret and confusion. I said, “No, Uncle—you needn’t worry in the slightest. Takanawada Chōzō has already received due judgment, and Miss Shūko has witnessed it with full satisfaction.” Uncle was so shocked that the bed shook. “Wh-what?!”

Chapter 121: Rather Than Lovers, Siblings Uncle’s shock refused to subside. “Wh— Takanawada Chōzō has received due judgment? That can’t be possible!” “No, Uncle—it wasn’t a trial of this world, but Heavenly Judgment. Last night, he died suddenly from heart rupture.” I had initially intended to keep this matter from Uncle’s ears for some time, but now I explained everything in meticulous detail to ease his worries. Uncle stroked his chest in relief and said, “Truly Heavenly Judgment! Nothing could bring greater peace. Now we needn’t drag Shūko back into public scrutiny. Should anyone ever doubt her identity as Wata Natsuko, we need only prove Natsuko’s innocence and expose Takanawada as the true criminal then—Mr. Gonda has already gathered all necessary evidence. With Takanawada dead, he can’t spew venom from the underworld to harm Shūko; none will question her past. Ah—I take no joy in a man’s death, but Takanawada’s end is divine intervention. A blessing indeed.” After a moment of relieved breathing, he slumped again as if remembering. “Even so, I’ve wronged Shūko all the more. I must apologize thoroughly so her heart may find peace,” he said, showing no sign of calming. I comforted him: “No, Uncle—we’ve both wronged each other. Hasn’t Shūko herself deceived you somewhat until now?” Uncle declared resolutely, “No—no! Shūko has deceived no one! When I interrogated her after hearing from Takanawada Chōzō that she and Wata Natsuko were the same person, she answered plainly: ‘Yes—I am indeed the former Wata Natsuko.’ Not a single false word passed her lips—that is Shūko’s nature! If we were deceived on her account, it stems from our own misunderstandings, not her guile. Though she might have neglected to correct our misinterpretations—leaving us mired in confusion—she has never willfully deceived anyone.” He spoke truthfully. While Shūko had indeed left our misconceptions unaddressed, this was no fault of hers but our own ignorance. From our first meeting until now, her words and deeds had been unwavering in sincerity.

While I was lost in these thoughts, Uncle pressed me urgently: “Michikurou—go bring Shūko here at once! Let us both apologize through your lips. Since you will soon become her husband, she’ll heed your words as those of her lord and soften her heart. Go now—bring her immediately!” If I were to declare that Shūko and I were already engaged, how would Gonda Tokisuke react? I couldn’t remain silent about this matter toward him either. “No, Uncle—Shūko and I won’t be husband and wife.” “Eh?” “We’ve canceled that arrangement due to certain circumstances. We’ve resolved to become complete strangers—or rather, like siblings. Since this is settled, please have Mr. Gonda summon her if you wish her brought here.”

Having said this much, my uncle had likely inferred that Gonda would become Shūko’s husband. Even had he not grasped it, I lacked the courage to explain further. “Moreover, I still have urgent matters demanding attention,” I said, quitting the room before he could press further questions. All affairs concerning Shūko now could only be left to Gonda’s care.

He left that place and returned directly to his room, but now that he had utterly surrendered Shūko to Gonda, all joys of this world vanished, leaving scarcely any reason to live. Yet he could not simply die outright either. For now, he resolved to leave this country and travel abroad until his wounded heart healed—his father’s remaining wealth still held enough to sustain him somehow. Brooding gloomily alone, he fell asleep with his arm propped on the desk, overcome by exhaustion from the previous night’s ordeal.

When he awoke some time later to the sound of footsteps, he found Detective Mori Mondo standing beside him. The detective apologized to me as he had done to Mr. Gonda, even expressing gratitude for how thoroughly I had bound him two nights prior, then added, "Your uncle has been urgently requesting you." Though resolved not to return to my uncle's chambers again, I found myself compelled to ask, "Are Mr. Gonda and Shūko in Uncle's room?" Mori replied, "No—when Mr. Gonda went to Miss Matsutani's quarters earlier, she lay in deep slumber. Deeming it cruel to rouse her, he returned to your uncle's bedside and sent for a physician out of caution. The doctor confirmed she suffers no illness—mere exhaustion—and advised letting her rest undisturbed." The prospect of facing Shūko before Uncle pained me most acutely. Since I meant to leave this country regardless, I resolved to depart without another encounter. Yet thinking I ought to bid Uncle farewell from afar if she remained absent, I washed my face and returned to his sickroom. Five hours had passed since my earlier departure—though I believed I had dozed barely thirty minutes leaning against the desk, it seemed I had slept over four. Upon entering Uncle's chamber, there stood Shūko—whom I had thought gone—alongside Gonda at his bedside. My mind raced—had she resolved to become Gonda's wife and was now explaining matters to Uncle? Regretting my presence entirely, I turned to leave when Uncle's voice arrested me: "You there—Michikurou!"

Chapter 122: Still Further Within Having been called back, I couldn't truly escape. Reluctantly entering my uncle's chamber, he said: "Michikurou—you've come at an opportune moment. Now that Miss Shūko has awoken too, I intend to offer the full apology I mentioned earlier. You must add your words as well." Truly, Uncle's words to Shūko contained both parental affection and the sincerity of one prostrating in remorse. When Uncle spoke thus and took Shūko's hand, she said "You mustn't—it is I who should apologize countless times," brushing aside his hand to kneel before the bed. At this moment, Shūko's bearing had completely transformed from when she had cried out about Takanawada's divine punishment earlier—not merely from having rested, but now radiating serene composure as if a celestial maiden descended to fulfill her sacred duty before reverently withdrawing. Her beauty appeared utterly different from usual—radiant yet guarded by unassailable dignity—undoubtedly resolved to disclose matters of grave import.

Shūko’s words began first with the address “Father,” betraying a deeper emotion than her usual addresses to him carried. “Father, it was I who infiltrated this household under false pretenses. Yes, deceiving all of you was part of that same deception. I waited in my heart for the moment when I could at last offer my apologies. Now that it has been revealed that I am Wata Natsuko—and that I committed no such horrific crime as murder—I have become one whose purity needs feel shame before none. Thus I believe this is the time for my apology. Indeed, I long ago vowed in my heart: if my innocence could be proven, well and good; if not, I would fight this world to make it known even unto death. Yes—I resolved to take my true lineage and rightful name to the grave unspoken.”

“Though my true lineage and name are Wata Natsuko,” Shūko’s voice—soft yet growing clearer, now resembling celestial music rather than human speech—continued as these suspicions took shape in her listeners’ minds, “you might wonder if another identity lies deeper still. For this purpose, I never wore the beautiful garments of youth, but instead clothed myself in shadow-gray ink-dyed robes to manifest my resolve to dwell in perpetual shade. Every aspect of this held profound meaning—reasons that naturally led me to deceive you all and conceal my true self. Hear me now: over twenty years past, there lived an unfortunate woman. A trivial misunderstanding arose with her husband. Believing herself unloved, she fled his household clutching their infant daughter, tears streaming down her face as she stole away to America.”

Though these matters seemed utterly unrelated and without cause, the thought that this might reveal Wata Natsuko’s true lineage compelled me to listen so intently I scarcely noticed my knees inching forward. After all, this Shūko—this Wata Natsuko—must have undergone formative experiences even before becoming Old Woman Okon’s foster daughter. She now seemed determined to narrate from that very genesis. Gonda Tokisuke listened with equal absorption, while my uncle had transformed into pure auditory receptivity, his entire being attuned to her words. Shūko continued: “When that woman reached America, still unsettled and spending days at an inn, a great conflagration erupted in that town. The inn burned down, and many travelers perished in the flames. Though counted among those who died with her daughter, she was in truth rescued—injured yet alive—by a certain person.”

“The one who saved them was my foster mother Wata Okon. Though she came from humble origins, she inherited a relative’s estate and became immensely wealthy. She purchased this Ghost Tower and used her remaining funds to travel through various countries for about a year before reaching America. When the fire I mentioned broke out, she happened to be there and immediately took in that injured woman and her daughter from among the victims. People say Okon wasn’t the type to rescue others—she had once served in that woman’s household and received kindness from her, so it was likely an act of repayment. Some claim it wasn’t repayment at all, but rather because she knew of treasures buried beneath the Ghost Tower. To avoid legal disputes when retrieving it, she needed to raise someone of the tower’s rightful bloodline herself. But as her foster daughter, I cannot judge my foster mother so harshly—I truly don’t believe such things.”

Having listened thus far, Uncle could no longer remain silent—or rather, sincere emotions welling from his heart’s depths seemed to burst through his tightly sealed lips. He cried out like a volcanic eruption: “Then that woman belonged to the Marube main family’s bloodline?!” “Yes,” Shūko replied. “And that woman—” “While waiting for the chance to apologize deeply to my lord for resenting him through my own fault,” Shūko continued, “five futile years passed until she died under Okon’s care in this Ghost Tower. There must have been moments when she could have apologized—but Okon always stopped her, insisting his anger remained too fierce and the time wasn’t right. Year after year, she delayed, clinging to patience as vital until death took her. On her deathbed, she earnestly instructed me—her six-year-old daughter—to someday find you, Father, and apologize in her stead. Until that apology was fulfilled, she swore she couldn’t rest in peace. ‘Your father is unyielding,’ she said. ‘Unless you become a respectable woman who meets him naturally through society, he’ll never agree to see you. Grow obediently,’ she urged, ‘and attain noble status.’ With these words, she passed.” “Then that daughter—is she alive even now? Where? Where?” “Yes—that daughter never gained honor. At seventeen, accused of a horrific crime—condemned as her foster mother’s murderer—she received a life sentence. Yet believing she couldn’t fulfill her mother’s wish if left to rot in prison, she escaped through desperate means… and now kneels before you to apologize in her mother’s place.” Uncle slid down from the bed—“Oh! You were my daughter?!”—and lifted her up, hot tears falling like true rain silently down Shūko’s back.

Chapter 123: Grand Finale Not only Uncle but I wept at Shūko's tale—Gonda Tokisuke wept too. Particularly striking was Gonda, a man possessed of that peculiar brand of chivalry who would stake both life and fortune on his convictions. That he had cast aside professional duties for Shūko's sake—though driven by love—spoke to a resolve only found in those habitually steeled in purpose. Thus his emotions now surged doubly fierce: stifled sobs escaped through the handkerchief pressed to his face.

Truly, when I considered Shūko’s circumstances until now—how could I not weep? While striving solely to meet her father and fulfill her mother’s dying wish, she had been arrested under false charges, unheard in her appeals until becoming a prisoner. Even after escaping through life-risking means, she endured hardships unseen in any ordinary lifetime. When I thought of this, my love intensified a hundredfold—yet alas, she now belonged to another. I had to cloak this deepest affection as hatred.

At last, Shūko had endured her hardships to reach this moment—her innocence proven, her mother’s dying wish conveyed to her father. Even setting aside the sorrow, tears flowed purely from joy. Now, all the various matters that had been unclear until this moment made sense. The third secret purpose had indeed been to formally declare her parentage with Father and convey Mother’s words. Moreover, when Uncle first met Shūko and remarked on her resemblance to his long-separated wife, it was only natural that he came to regard her as his own child and went to great lengths to adopt her.

After waiting for Father’s tears to subside and her own heart to settle somewhat, Shūko began speaking again: “Of course Mother refused when Okon proposed adopting me, but Okon argued persuasively—if we continued hiding here under our real names, you might grow furious upon discovering us. She insisted that until the day we could properly return, I must become her child in name, concealed from all recognition. Thus she changed my surname to Wata and my given name from Haruko to Natsuko. I am neither Matsutani Shūko nor Wata Natsuko—I am Marube Haruko, the name I was born with.” Uncle seemed nostalgic even at the name “Haruko,” exclaiming, “Oh Haruko, Haruko—the name I conferred upon you after consulting with my wife!” Shūko maintained her narrative coherence despite his words: “Perhaps Okon made me her foster daughter so that even if the extinct Marube main family’s inheritance resurfaced, no legal disputes would arise. I realized such intentions only later. When I was imprisoned years afterward, I felt grateful to bear the Wata surname. Had I faced such accusations as Marube Haruko, I would have tainted our clan’s unblemished name for the first time since antiquity—an unforgivable betrayal to both our ancestors and you, Father. Yet from that moment in prison, I vowed: I must return to this world without fail. Once free, I would prove my innocence and fulfill Mother’s final wish.”

“Who could have imagined a woman with such profound circumstances?” she continued. “Though I finally escaped prison, I remained uncertain whether I could ever prove my innocence. Time and again I despaired, thinking it would have been better to remain as Wata Natsuko—to end my life still bearing that unjust stigma—than to fail in my quest. Unless I could clear this name—unless I could find the true criminal and declare to all that Wata Natsuko had been wrongfully condemned—I resolved never to reveal my true identity. Even had I met you, Father, I could not have fulfilled Mother’s dying wish without doing so. I would have lived out my days under a false name. It was for this reason I deceived both you and the world, entering this household under pretense until now. For this sin—and for my mother’s—I beg your forgiveness countless times over.”

Uncle repeated “Oh! You were my daughter?” countless times, embracing Shūko—no, Haruko—as one would cradle a child. Haruko too pressed her face against her father’s chest like an affectionate child, overwhelmed by tears. As Uncle regained composure, he turned to me: “Now that this child stands revealed as Marube Haruko, she is undeniably this household’s heir. Listen well, Michikurou—you whom I adopted as successor are naturally meant to wed her. Yet you abruptly treat her as a stranger despite your prior betrothal! No doubt circumstances exist, but—” Before he could finish, Gonda Tokisuke—who had been listening—suddenly stood as if casting himself forward. This was the moment when a villain might renounce wickedness, but he was no villain: a man of intense sentiment and latent chivalry now moved to its zenith by the scene before him. In a voice steeled with resolve, he declared: “The circumstances are my doing! To prove Miss Haruko’s innocence, I forced Mr. Michikurou into a pact—to make her despise him. But now I see they cannot be parted! Considering how painfully he endured and how faithfully he kept his vow, I too must endure equal pain. Come, Mr. Michikurou—no one but you can be her husband. The pact is nullified!” He clasped Haruko’s hand and mine together. I was so elated I scarcely noticed when Gonda departed.

There is no need to speak further of these matters—the tale of the Ghost Tower ends here. Henceforth, I shall merely note the subsequent developments. Madame Torai left the lemur behind at this house without declaring her return, lulling others into complacency before departing never to return; according to Detective Mori Mondo’s investigations, she had fled to her brother Ankawa Jinzou and absconded to Australia with him and his medical scholar Ōba Rensai. In any case, the insect farm stood utterly vacant, occupied only by his countless hundreds of thousands of spiders spinning their webs. The lemur is now kept at Senzōya. Urahara Oura went to America, joined a troupe of actresses, and seems to be touring villages in the West; as she’s naturally skilled in acting, she’s likely become a genuine leading performer. Tokisuke immediately embarked on travels abroad and has yet to return. Between Haruko and me exists a jewel-like son—no, I’ll refrain from elaborating, lest readers grow envious.

As for the treasure at the tower’s depths—by bloodline, it belonged neither to me nor Uncle Tomoo, but wholly to Haruko. The reason lay in Uncle Tomoo’s lineage: he descended from a branch family separated generations ago from the Marube main line. The closest blood relation had been his late wife, after whose death Haruko—born of her womb—became the rightful heir. Even beyond blood ties, Wata Okon, the Ghost Tower’s former owner, had named her foster daughter Wata Natsuko (Haruko’s true identity) as inheritor in her will. Thus, by this measure too, the entire tower rightfully belonged to Natsuko. Though it had naturally passed to Takanawada Chōzō when Natsuko was presumed dead in prison, had she lived, even his claim would have held no legal weight. Therefore, Haruko constructed a vault within the tower grounds, first transferring seventeen boxes of treasure from the tower itself. She designated the primary family heirlooms for her descendants’ inheritance, donated gold and silver to charities across Britain and churches in European colonies throughout Asia and the South Seas, and continued funding global philanthropic causes to this day. Yet Uncle’s lands—and by extension mine—had greatly expanded through these efforts. Schools now stood in every village across these territories, funded entirely by Haruko—some large institutions costing five hundred pounds monthly—though even this scarcely exhausted the wealth. Most gems and jewels remained stored in bank vaults, accruing compound interest. Haruko declared that should Britain ever stake its fate on war for justice’s sake, these reserves would fund military expenses without taxation—a commendable resolution indeed.