Pathway to Japanese Literature

The author could not help feeling some hesitation in publishing this work.
This was because the main narrative was not spun from imagination, but rather something conveyed to him by his dear deceased friend M after death.
As you continue reading this story, you will gradually come to understand what manner of person this departed friend was and how he met his end.
Yet while the notion of being told something posthumously may sound preposterous, I must explain that this confession came through Ms. N—the renowned medium at that Psychical Research Society you've likely heard about—as she channeled my departed friend.
Given that Ms. N boasted a ninety percent accuracy rate in spiritual communications, this account of an extraordinary international incident must be considered nearly factual—so grave in nature that publication might be imprudent, perhaps better left suppressed.
However, since some scholars maintain that Ms. N's spirit channeling amounted merely to mind-reading, one cannot dismiss the possibility that these revelations simply mirrored delusions lurking within my own psyche as I sat before her.
Be that as it may, I shall entrust such judgments to you and commence this strange tale—a quasi-true account whose sparse descriptions I beg you tolerate in favor of its remarkable plot.

1

There was a gentleman carrying an old-fashioned large briefcase under his arm, walking with slightly bowed head and quiet footsteps. Beneath a brown soft hat were thick nearsighted glasses, their heavy lenses framing small eyes that glinted within—eyes that seemed fixed on the pavement yet clearly saw nothing of it, as evidenced by how carelessly he stepped on the banana peel lying there. Those who step on banana peels usually slip smoothly, and this gentleman was no exception—yet without performing the undignified act of falling on his backside, he slid his portly body forward as if skating, appearing not only to disregard the banana peel entirely but to remain utterly oblivious that he had stepped on it. Thereupon, the gentleman abruptly turned leftward in his path and passed through a large stone gate. When the guard saluted, the gentleman returned the salute with precision without even turning toward him, yet his gaze never left the pavement below. When he lightly removed his hat, one could see considerable thinning at his frontal hairline. He appeared to be around fifty-four or fifty-five years old.

The gentleman walked quietly through the premises. It was a compound where five-story white reinforced-concrete buildings stood square and cold at regular intervals like tombstones in a cemetery. After passing beneath seven or eight such structures, he pushed open the door of a brick building that seemed anachronistic by comparison. There he immediately took the nameplate reading "Director Onimura Masahiko" in red characters—the leftmost plate on the top row among many lining the left wall—flipped it over, and snapped it back into place. The red letters now showed black, yet still spelled "Director Onimura Masahiko." Throughout this procedure, the elderly director never shifted his gaze. Having flipped the plate, he opened a door in the dim corner beneath the stairs and vanished into the innermost room after walking soundlessly down a long corridor. Every action unfolded with machine-like precision in this thoroughly familiar environment, requiring no great expenditure of energy.

The author may appear to have spread before you, dear readers, a rather tedious snapshot of Dr. Onimura without apparent meaning—yet this very snapshot contains profound significance that will become clear as you progress through these pages.
In any case, Dr. Onimura’s demeanor as captured in this snapshot may well be said to encapsulate his entire character.
Dr. Onimura not only maintained distinction as Director of the Far East Science Corporation Chemical Research Institute, but stood as a preeminent scientist acclaimed worldwide as “Japan’s Newton.” He bore the presidency of the Japan Science Association while serving as Honorary Chairman of Britain’s Royal Society, Honorary Advisor to America’s Smithsonian Institution, and Honorary Researcher at Germany’s Technische Reichsanstalt. Furthermore, it had been decided he would assume the Vice-Presidency at the World Industrial Conference scheduled for Tokyo in 1940.
“Japan’s industrial nationhood shall be perfected through Dr. Onimura,” it was said.

There was no waste in Dr. Onimura’s actions.
His brilliant mind provided various splendid research problems to academic societies, aiming to revolutionize not just Japan’s but the entire world’s scientific community.
Dr. Onimura himself oversaw a subsection at this research institute, never straying from test tubes and retorts throughout the day.
The research topic was titled “The Artificial Creation of Life Through Chemistry.”
Where other scholars would have taken fifty years, Dr. Onimura achieved results in ten.

“Open sesame!” shouted a small-statured young scholar in a white lab coat who came running down the hall and stood before the doctor’s door.

“Who is there?” inquired the robot guarding Dr. Onimura’s door from within in a gentle woman’s voice.

“I am Researcher Matsugaya.”

Then the door opened.
The young scholar Matsugaya Gakushi slid into the director’s office as if leaping in, his entire body charged with excitement.

“Professor, have you seen this morning’s newspaper?”

“I’m about to look at it now,” Director Onimura replied.
Dr. Onimura was quietly pacing about the room in the same posture he had maintained earlier as a pedestrian.
Without removing his hat or overcoat,
“Was there something unusual?”

"Last night at Marunouchi Hall, the Pharmaceutical Society's executive members were killed."
"Dr. Matsuse, along with Tsuchiura, Sonoda, Kinoshita, Dr. Kotama, and four or five young scholars—they all reportedly passed away early this morning."

“Hmm, so Dr. Matsuse was killed too,” the doctor said, falling silent for a moment as if pondering something, yet he did not slacken his pace in his indoor stroll.
“How unfortunate indeed.”
Dr. Onimura’s voice remained as calm and steady as water.

“Professor, last night’s group was apparently killed by poison gas.”
“Judging from the symptoms, it appears to be carbon monoxide poisoning—a truly pitiful situation,” Bachelor Matsugaya said, looking down.

“For pharmacologists to be killed by poison gas—that’s a rather odd story, isn’t it?”
Dr. Onimura remarked calmly and fluently, without any trace of sarcasm.

“But Professor, this makes the fourth time now.”
“Within less than half a year—first, a bomb was thrown into the Electrical Society’s board meeting, resulting in all executives meeting gruesome ends.”
“Next came S University’s engineering professors’ office group all dying from malignant enteric typhoid; thirdly last month, when Railway Ministry technical officers took an Oshima trip, most drowned after their steamship was bombed and sank—this marks the fourth instance.”
“I’ve come to believe this transcends ordinary matters entirely...”

“No ordinary matter—you say.”
Dr. Onimura intoned in his customary manner.

“You’re suggesting these aren’t mere coincidences?”

“Indeed, I am convinced a conspiracy is underway.”
“How about issuing a warning to academia in your name, Professor?”
“If this continues unchecked, our nation’s scientists may face complete extinction before long.”

“Extinction—hmph—that might prove interesting. Very well, let us circulate a warning.”
“But assuming this is a conspiracy—from which quarter do you suspect it originates?”

“This is what I think,” said Scholar Matsugaya，his eyes shining.
“I believe this is likely the work of a chemist with perverse tendencies.”
“Excepting the Railway Ministry incident，bombs，bacteria，and poison gas—all methods tied to chemists—are being employed as murder weapons.”
“Moreover，the perpetrator demonstrates thorough familiarity with academic circles，specifically targeting meetings attended by leadership.”
“Professor，I implore you to abstain entirely from attending any future gatherings.”

“Do you have any leads on the culprit?”

“It’s not that I don’t have any, but I won’t say.”

“Are you saying you can’t tell me?”

“It would be better to refrain from speaking. And since I haven’t obtained clear evidence yet…”

“You’re not referring to Engineer Mukushima, are you?”
Dr. Onimura stopped for the first time and began removing his hat and overcoat as he added:

“......”
Bachelor Matsugaya visualized Engineer Mukushima’s pale complexion, tall stature, and perpetually immaculate center-parted hair.

“If it’s Mr. Mukushima, I’ll vouch for him. He may be a somewhat peculiar man, but he isn’t someone capable of such daring work. All he’s good for is looking after my daughter Mayumiko.”

Bachelor Matsugaya silently endured conflicting emotions.

2

At that very hour, Engineer Mukushima was at the Army Minister’s official residence, facing Army Minister Kenzan while conducting a hushed secret discussion.
Engineer Mukushima—his normally pallid complexion growing ashen as he trembled minutely from tension—hung on every word uttered by the Minister.

“The situation is more dire than imagined,” the Minister said, opening his bloodshot eyes that appeared sleep-deprived wide.
“We have absolutely no idea how deeply they—this International Murder Organization faction—have infiltrated our nation’s political, economic, and scientific spheres. But their organizational structure employs an ingenious method—each member reportedly knows only three people: the one who brings them orders and the two they must relay commands to.”
“In any case, there remains not the slightest doubt that these four recent cases of scientist massacres are clearly the work of this International Murder Organization beginning its activities.”
“Just thinking about how far this disaster will spread from here on out is terrifying enough.”
“They possess an ingenious organization, abundant information, vast funds, and moreover, absolutely superior intellect and knowledge—this cannot be easily defeated.”
“This is a war without declaration.”
“The enemy’s battle lines lie undeniably within the imperial capital at this very moment.”

“Moreover, the enemy’s presence remains skillfully camouflaged—we cannot pinpoint their observation posts.”
“As I previously stated, we must humbly request your esteemed cooperation.”
“For the nation’s sake, I dare ask that you offer your very life.”

“But Your Excellency, isn’t what you’re saying too far-fetched?” said Engineer Mukushima with an involuntary bitter smile.
“However corrupt our people may have become, those so-called high-ranking officials in positions of power or authorities in their fields wouldn’t just meekly obey an enemy nation’s orders, would they?”

“I have no intention of debating such matters with you now.”
“That is credible intelligence our Army has detected.”
“But just consider.”
“X Country has had our nation in its crosshairs as an imagined enemy for over thirty years.”
“Among all the schemes that have been implemented against our nation, the most insidious is the true entity known as the JPC Secret Society—the core of this International Murder Organization.”
“For thirty years, X Country has combed every field to identify promising academic talents—individuals who were impoverished, orphaned, or otherwise disadvantaged. They provided these persons with vast funds, vigorously promoted their rise to prominence, and ultimately supported them until today, when they hold actual power in key positions across every sector of our nation.”
“Once an order is issued by X Country’s General Staff Headquarters, their X spies must carry it out whether willing or not.”
“If he refuses to comply, they can freely choose to either send him to the gallows as a state criminal or dispatch a murder squad to assassinate him in absolute secrecy.”
“When they first become aware of the agonizing dilemma, the only path left for them is suicide.”
“The suicides of a certain doctor, a certain ambassador, a certain lieutenant colonel—these unexplained deaths all originate there.”
“Having said this much, you must have come to understand how inevitable—how desperate—the International Murder Organization’s operations truly are.”

“I fully comprehend.”
“I shall refrain from further inquiries.”
“Though I might wish to refuse this request, knowing my life would be instantly forfeit makes declaring acceptance undoubtedly prudent.”
“But supposing Your Excellency entrusts me with this crucial mission—what measures would you take should I myself prove part of that organization?”

“You certainly know how to strike precisely where it hurts.”
“But please rest assured.”
“There is no need for such concern on your part.”
“We have prepared ample means to handle any situation.”

With this scene having taken place, Engineer Mukushima was appointed as a spy directly under Army Minister Kenzan to investigate the International Murder Organization. For this purpose, he was sternly instructed in meticulous detail: that he must strive to devote his very life to this objective under any circumstances; that he must absolutely never reveal his role as a spy to others—indeed, even upon discovering fellow operatives, he must not disclose their circumstances to one another; and that while serving as a spy, he could use assistants provided no information was disclosed.

“I swear, for the sake of the motherland!”
Engineer Mukushima turned his blazing eyes toward the Minister, stood up, shouted thus, and thrust out his right hand.

“I pray for divine protection for you, Mr. Mukushima.”
The Minister’s broad, sturdy palm firmly gripped Engineer Mukushima’s hand in return.

3

Engineer Mukushima threw himself into the deep-canopied automobile the Minister had arranged and formed his first refreshing smile.
He pressed the inside of his pocket gently with his right hand—likely conscious of the enormous bundle of banknotes just handed to him by the Minister.

Now, the actions Engineer Mukushima began from that point onward were precisely what could be called bizarre in the extreme.

He had the automobile arranged by the Minister directed toward the Ginza district.
Turning left at the corner of Owari-cho and driving along the main street for some time, they entered a certain side street to the right, then turned again into a narrow lane to the left, before finally having the car stopped in front of a café.
It was Bar Lorelei—a café in the seedy Ginza backstreets notorious even among such establishments for its widely rumored erotic services.
Engineer Mukushima carelessly opened the bar's door at ten in the morning, strode purposefully through to the back, kicked off his shoes beneath the narrow, steep ladder leading to the second floor, and slithered up with practiced ease.
The second floor was pitch dark.
A musky young woman's body odor assailed the nostrils.

“Kimi-chan, are you there?”
He called out in the darkness.

“Ah, Mr. Moo! Over there in the second spot—Kimi-chan’s still asleep,” called out the head waitress O-tomi in a shrill voice from somewhere near his knees.

“Okay.
“I want to get a little shut-eye until about two. I’ll treat you real good later, so cut me some slack, ’kay?”
“And Miss O-tomi—sorry about this—when that time comes, I’ll need the cook Tomekichi for something, so make sure he stays put.”
“I won’t say a word until two, so don’t even try talking to me.”

After saying what he wanted to say, he took off his overcoat, loosened his belt, and suddenly crawled into Okimi’s bed.
For a while, they seemed to exchange hushed whispers in low voices, but soon Okimi slipped out of the bed, leaving Mukushima alone behind—perhaps agonizing over something—as he tossed restlessly.
Thus, after the clock had made several full rotations, the sleepy bong, bong sounds announcing 2 PM finally came drifting up from downstairs.
As if triggered by this, Okimi came upstairs.

It was about an hour later that Mukushima, Okimi, and Tomekichi the cook—having prepared to go out—emerged toward the shop.

“My, my, are you off to a masquerade ball or something?”

“Mr. Moo, what a brave getup!”

The waitresses jeered in unison with such remarks.
It was indeed a strange combination.
Tomekichi was posing as a gentleman in a smart suit with a black bow tie; Okimi wore what appeared to be a borrowed short-hemmed serge dress like those worn by Mitsukoshi cafeteria girls, making her look three or four years younger; and Mukushima himself seemed to have taken Tomekichi’s clothes—wearing corduroy trousers with a sweater pulled over his head in the guise of an unemployed man.

The three rushed out onto the dazzling pavement.
As they lined up and began walking in straight formation, a young woman who had suddenly darted from a side alley nearly collided into Tomekichi with a thud.

“Pardon me,” said the woman, her plump white cheeks flushing faint pink as she glanced briefly at the group,

She let out a small gasp.
This woman was undoubtedly Dr. Onimura's only daughter, Mayumiko.
Of course she had been first to recognize Mukushima's figure.
But what must she have thought staring at his bizarre attire? Even if camouflaged by the short skirt, she couldn't have missed the coquettish Okimi clinging to him.
To this Mukushima never uttered a word - rather turned his face away.
Yet something seeming to trouble him, he glanced back at Mayumiko's retreating form.
He saw Mayumiko turn toward him and hastily straightened his posture.

4

At six o'clock that night, in Room 10 on the third floor of the Electric Association Building, the presidents of various academic societies in our nation's scientific fields were arrayed in a row around a round table. The number of people must have been around seventeen. There was the white-haired head of Dr. Kawayama—Dean of Tokyo Imperial University's Engineering Department and President of the Electrical Society; the unusually suit-clad, fair-skinned tall figure of Admiral Minoura—Director of the Navy Technical Headquarters; the round, boyish face of Dr. Tosa—Chair Professor of Engineering at W University, famous for television research; and so on—one could count all the highest authorities in our nation's scientific community without omission. Of course, Dr. Onimura’s slightly thinned large head could be seen in the chairman’s seat.

The gathering was a monthly planning meeting for the Science Association, but once the agenda had been concluded, Dr. Onimura deliberately rose from his seat, his stocky frame standing upright.

“Everyone, our monthly proceedings have now concluded, but next I must humbly request your esteemed wisdom on a pressing matter.”
“As you are doubtlessly aware, there has been—for reasons beyond my comprehension—no small number of our fellow scientists meeting unforeseen disasters of late. Indeed, it would be more accurate to say their frequency has become alarmingly high.”
“Concerning this phenomenon, various unfounded theories now circulate—some attributing it to a shared curse upon our profession, others proclaiming the work of a homicidal maniac, while certain voices insist these are mere coincidences lacking any unifying cause.”
“For my part, I believe we face the machinations of a deranged intellect—though lacking detective’s training, I cannot identify this individual. Yet I’m certain we deal with no ordinary criminal, but rather one possessing considerable education.”
“Therefore I propose we implement utmost vigilance.”
“Particularly when considering how past tragedies all targeted our assemblies, I suggest we henceforth either curtail such gatherings or convene them in strictly confidential locations under police protection. Now regarding this warning—as you may hold differing views—I earnestly request counterarguments and any precautionary insights you might offer.”
“Indeed, tonight’s assembly presents an ideal target for wholesale slaughter—yet since no incident has occurred thus far, perhaps we’ll be spared. Or perhaps bombs will rain down momentarily.”
“Ah, but I jest! In truth, this venue stands ringed by the Metropolitan Police’s finest—rest assured through this old woman’s excessive worrying.” Dr. Onimura sat with cheeks dimpled in amusement, transforming the room’s initial pallor into relieved laughter.
Having reseated himself, he produced a gold pocket watch from his coat and scanned the assembly. “Your opinions, please...”
Then abruptly rising, he whispered “A restroom visit...” into Dr. Kawayama’s ear before departing.
Upon opening the entrance door and stepping outside,

“Professor, there’s nothing unusual to report,” whispered Researcher Matsugaya, who had voluntarily stationed himself on tonight’s security front line, when he unexpectedly encountered the doctor.

“I’m going to the restroom. Handle things here.”
Dr.Onimura uttered this in his characteristic groaning manner before shuffling off toward the lavatory.

In the meeting room, Admiral Minoura stood,

“Regarding the recent strange incidents that our Association President has just explained, I—” Just as he advanced his speech to this point, the bulb inside the glass globe suddenly flared up to twice its normal brightness—then vanished with a faint hiss.

That was all.

There was no smell of gunpowder suggesting imminent explosives detonation, nor any foul odor of yperite gas detectable.

Someone among those seated,

“I’ll summon an attendant immediately,” someone said, preventing childlike panic among the group though none could mask their inner disquiet.
The speaker crept toward the door with measured steps.
Upon brushing against its surface, they splayed both hands across it—upward, downward, sideward—searching blindly for the handle’s location.
Their fingers found purchase.
He clutched the handle and wrenched it clockwise before shoving outward—yet inexplicably, the door refused to yield.
Convinced this defied reason, he strained against it with renewed desperation—only for numbness to seep through his arms as strength abandoned him.
Soon his skull throbbed with splitting pain while his chest constricted like wrung cloth—each breath growing more agonized than the last.

“Oh no, they got me! The door—it won’t open!” he screamed while violently pounding on the door. In the pitch-dark room, beast-like screams of despair erupted here and there, and groans grew increasingly louder. Outside, Researcher Matsugaya was now throwing his body against the door. Detectives and police officers came running and gathering before it. The door opened with a bang. Researcher Matsugaya rushed in at the forefront.

“Lights! Lights!”

A police officer shouted.
Researcher Matsugaya—who had just entered—staggered toward the entrance and collapsed where he stood.
From the crowd gathered before the tragedy-stricken room emerged a masked tall man who rushed forward,

“Poison gas! Don’t go in!” he cried.
He crouched down, hoisted Researcher Matsugaya’s fallen form over his shoulder, and pounded down the staircase.
At that moment Dr. Onimura returned from the restroom. Startled by the commotion, he displayed an uncharacteristic panic and tried to charge into the room—only to be restrained after a struggle by two police officers who threw their arms around him.

With the exception of Dr. Onimura, all sixteen society presidents lay side by side and met their gruesome ends.
The fact that Dr. Onimura had fortuitously been the sole survivor was hailed by all newspapers in editorials of tragic bravado as a silver lining in the tragedy.
However, regarding who had installed that night's mysterious poison gas light bulb or who had locked the entrance door, the newspapers did not carry a single line of reporting.
Researcher Matsugaya, who had gone missing from the scene, had come under considerable suspicion, but no one knew whether he was alive or dead.

5

The tragedy instilled terror throughout the entire capital while igniting vociferous criticism against the authorities.
"Protect the scientists! Arrest the culprit immediately!" roared the court of public opinion with storm-like ferocity.

The day after the tragedy, twenty-three executives of the Japan Chemical Society secretly convened in a room at Gakushikaikan.
Not only the venue itself but every corner of the entire building—from light bulbs and electric heaters to every single object within—underwent rigorous inspection. Following this, a network of plainclothes police officers was deployed both inside and out, establishing security so stringent that not even an ant could slip through.

The meeting was finally convened at 7 PM.
Of course at this meeting, Dr. Onimura—who had miraculously survived last night's tragedy—took the chairman's seat, exchanged views about "the poison gas perpetrator," and voiced his desire that concrete countermeasures be devised.
The assembly consisted entirely of scholars acknowledged as the crown jewels of Japan's chemical world.
Unless they formulated sufficiently effective concrete measures at this meeting, no further gatherings of this nature could be safely held for the foreseeable future.
Though acutely aware of their grave responsibility in the matter, the assembly remained paralyzed by terror from yesterday's calamity and showed no signs of reaching unified proposals.
Among their ranks were men so neurotically fixated on Dr. Onimura's narrow escape that they believed should the doctor rise from his seat, they must immediately follow him out to safety—their attention riveted solely on the chairman's every movement.

“Mr. Mukushima doesn’t seem to be here,” someone asked.

“Mr. Mukushima did say he would come, but for some reason he hasn’t appeared yet.”
“Ah, he’ll arrive before long.”

Dr. Onimura replied.

“Mr. Mukushima seems preoccupied with Mr. Onimura’s daughter running away yesterday,” whispered the chemist beside him.

“But isn’t today’s matter a critical issue concerning the nation’s survival?”

“There’s no doubt about that, but when it comes to this particular path... well, you know how these things go.”

The much-discussed Engineer Mukushima had indeed arrived at Gakushikaikan exactly as Dr. Onimura had stated. Yet for some reason, he found himself in the kitchen. Over the peculiar outfit borrowed from Tomekichi the previous day hung a white apron, topped by a white kitchen cap. He had apparently infiltrated this kitchen through Tomekichi’s connections. From every angle, he looked every bit the cook.

Mukushima ignored the cooking entirely, burying his head behind a strange apparatus in the corner. To understand his odd behavior required explaining this device—a reflecting mirror of prisms and lenses whose mechanism snaked upward from the kitchen through a ventilation shaft until it reached precisely where the Japan Chemical Society convened.

Tracing the path of the special telephone line beside him would reveal its terminus behind a folding screen by the third-floor window where the meeting took place. More remarkably still, behind that screen waited a Western-dressed waitress who periodically peered out with an unconcerned expression to watch the meeting room door. Indeed, any observer would have recognized her as none other than Miss Okimi of Bar Lorelei.

Now, what exactly was reflected in Engineer Mukushima's telescope? There projected with perfect clarity was the full figure of Dr.Onimura seated at the head of that meeting room. Engineer Mukushima quietly observed the doctor's movements. Dr.Onimura now moved his mouth as if speaking words before bowing respectfully and resuming his seat. His right hand smoothly extended toward his pocket watch where he appeared intently focused on tracking the second hand's progress. Engineer Mukushima audibly swallowed hard as Dr.Onimura maintained his watch grip while straightening forward rigidly just as Professor Masaki from K University beside him seemed to pose some inquiry toward him yet received no response from the doctor who kept staring fixedly ahead until Professor Masaki began showing visible irritation by pounding the table and leaning forward aggressively though others rose to calm him down while Dr.Onimura remained silent throughout.

But at that very moment.
Sure enough, Professor Masaki's expression began to change.
The person calming Professor Masaki also changed to an unpleasant expression.

“Shi... Damn it!”
The one who shouted was Engineer Mukushima.
He jumped back from the reflecting mirror, grabbed the nearby telephone, and desperately sent a signal.

“Kimi-chan! Hurry up and signal!”
“Hurry up and send the signal!”

No sooner had he said this than Engineer Mukushima seemed to lose his composure and rushed out of the kitchen.

Okimi swiftly opened the side window, crouched beneath it, swung her right arm like a waterwheel, and hurled something black through the window.
A sound resembling an explosion erupted from the street as a blue light flashed with a whoosh.
Gunshots rang out—bang bang—and bullets whizzed past Okimi’s head before pinging against the screen.
At that critical moment, the large glass window of the meeting room began shattering with a thunderous CRASH and CLATTER.
Something massive and pitch-black hurtled toward the windows one after another, demolishing every pane of glass.
Inside the room, shards rained down like a downpour.
The assembly members drenched in glass fragments shrieked bizarrely but showed no inclination to flee.
Evidently, they had already been partially incapacitated by poison gas earlier, lying limp where they sat.
Though some appeared cut by glass, their lack of visible pain suggested narcotic effects from the toxin.
Dr. Onimura alone stood apart.
Only Dr. Onimura remained upright, evading the glass rain in a pillar’s shadow.
Police officers had pried open the entrance door but hesitated to advance, clustering in confusion over their next move.

Just then, a suspicious man came rushing in.
Brushing off the police officers' attempts to restrain him, he bravely leapt into the room and lunged toward Dr.Onimura lurking in the shadow of a pillar.
Dr.Onimura screamed and called for help.
The man pressed the doctor's face against the floor, twisted his large nose, and appeared to extract something white like cotton with his fingertips.
That seemed to be a filter soaked with special chemicals—likely why Dr.Onimura alone had withstood the poison gas.
At that moment, the police officers piled on from above to pull the man away and bound him hand and foot.

Dr. Onimura shuddered and rose unsteadily to his feet, but when he saw the face of the restrained mysterious man,

“How unfortunate for you, Mr. Mukushima,” he said, drawing uncomfortably close with an eerie smile.

The next morning’s newspapers all ran enormous headlines in massive special-edition typeface spanning full-page banners: "The Culprit Behind the Unprecedented Scientist Massacre Finally Apprehended."
"The Culprit Is Mukushima Saiichirou, Our Nation’s Authority on Poison Gas Studies"—alongside detailed accounts of last night’s major incident, with photographs of his bizarre behavior at the scene and precision machinery.
The imperial capital seethed like a boiling cauldron, and wave after wave of lynch mobs descended upon Ichigaya Prison—where Mukushima was being held—demanding “Hand Mukushima over to the people!”, creating a bizarre throwback to bygone eras.
To quell this, an unprecedented commotion erupted when the Army Minister ordered the full mobilization of the Azabu Third Regiment.

However, not only did the newspapers fail to report even a single line about Matsugaya Gakushi—who had previously gone missing—or Onimura Mayumiko—who had run away from home—but they also made no mention whatsoever of Okimi’s whereabouts after her actions from the previous night, nor of those who had engaged in breaking the glass windows in response to her signal.

6

Then, approximately one month passed.

With that incident as the final curtain, the scientist massacre incidents ceased entirely thereafter.

Engineer Mukushima’s crimes had become increasingly clear, a death sentence was handed down, and the execution date drew ever nearer—now just days away. Society grew reactively quiet, and Tokyo citizens extolled each coming morning—now markedly warmer—with lingering yawns.

Dr. Onimura wore an expression as though he had forgotten that horrific incident far sooner than any citizen, commuting to the chemical research institute with a stride as unchanging as decades past, shutting himself away in his laboratory.
Just as his gesture of returning the time card at the institute’s entrance remained unchanged, so too was his habit of pacing in circles around the room for hours on end with his hat still on exactly as before.

However, in the eyes of God—who knows all truths minutely—the actions of Dr. Onimura and his cohorts must have been clearly reflected as having grown increasingly conspicuous and increasingly reprehensible thereafter.
Indeed, Dr. Onimura was none other than the leader of the International Murder Organization that Army Minister Kenzan had described when ordering Engineer Mukushima to conduct espionage.
The operatives gathered under him had fallen utterly silent since that incident by Dr. Onimura’s command, and in its place now steadily—urgently—prepared for a new and terrifying second-phase plan.
Dr. Onimura had ascended to the throne of Japan’s scientific community—now bereft of many authorities—and utilized every institution as though they were his own limbs.
At the institute where the doctor served as director—though nothing left its walls—numerous terrifying experiments were repeated in utmost secrecy.
For instance, were one to peer into one such room, they would find about a hundred guinea pigs placed within a large wire cage positioned in the laboratory; after all technicians exited, valves would be opened from outside to flood the chamber with various poison gases, whereupon they observed through thick glass windows the creatures’ agonized states and the varying speeds at which they succumbed.
Thus, while various poison gases were researched, ultimately none proved as potent as the Fordericht Gas that Engineer Mukushima had invented and left behind.
This was an extremely concentrated substance; when subjected to proper refinement methods, just 5 cc of Fordericht Gas proved sufficient to achieve lethal objectives in a room measuring three ken on each side.
Dr. Onimura had recently succeeded in refining this poison gas.

Dr. Onimura had been reviewing the impending conspiracy plans that afternoon.
Just then, his beloved robot announced an unusual visitor.
Dr. Onimura emerged from his secret chamber and opened the hall door.
There stood Matsugaya Gakushi—reported missing for a month with no confirmation of life or death—his eyes brimming with timidity.

“Mr. Matsugaya.” The doctor spoke amiably.
“Where have you been?” he said cheerfully.

“Yes—I intend to explain that in due course.”

With that Mr. Matsugaya fell silent and appeared somewhat hesitant yet seemed to forcibly muster his energy as he—
“Professor... This pains me to say—but I’ve come today as your daughter’s messenger...”

“Oh? A messenger from Mayumi?”
Dr. Onimura coldly declared.
“You should’ve simply brought her here without hesitation.”

“The thing is... she absolutely insists that you come outside the institute. In truth, there are various complicated circumstances involved... She says she refuses to enter the premises...”

“Very well—I shall go,” Dr. Onimura declared cheerfully as he rose to his feet for reasons unknown.

Mayumiko was waiting in the forest a short distance from the institute.
She sat motionless in the car Matsugaya Gakushi had driven there.
Her face had transformed over this past month as though rapidly progressing through Mori Kamei’s diagram of Ono no Komachi’s Nine Phases of Beauty.
Her forehead stood high; her eye sockets loomed large; her eyes held no light.
Pale cheeks and gray lips—none belonged to a living being.
She had run away after believing herself abandoned by Mukushima and agonizing over it, but during the Electric Association Building incident found herself unexpectedly saved through his actions; when Matsugaya Gakushi—now serving as his assistant after successfully reducing casualties by shattering the Academic Hall’s windows that night—located her the next day, Mukushima’s sincerity was conveyed, though it remained mere goodwill rather than reciprocated love.
Gradually becoming aware of her father Dr. Onimura’s conspiracy and grieving ceaselessly, she had ultimately ruined her health.
Yet hearing Engineer Mukushima’s execution approached, she—despite unrequited feelings—resolved to save him above all else; convinced that favorable testimony from her father about Mukushima’s conduct would achieve this, she had brought this body teetering between life and death here.

Dr. Onimura, who stood by her side, suddenly twisted his face into a bitter grimace at Mayumiko’s pitiful appearance and uttered not a single word of pity.
She pleaded between violent fits of coughing, her rasping, insect-like voice repeating the same desperate entreaty—begging for Mukushima’s life.
Yet her father, the Doctor, remained silent.
Only when Mayumiko—overcome by despair—ceased her sobs and collapsed did Dr. Onimura finally break his silence.

“Mr. Matsugaya—don’t you hear the devil’s stifled laughter?”

Two bullets—silenced, as befitted a suppressor-equipped pistol—flew soundlessly from the doctor’s hand into the sides of Bachelor Matsugaya and Mayumiko.

“What a mess—took you long enough,” Dr. Onimura muttered without glancing back, retreating slowly toward the research institute. Thirty minutes had already passed his usual departure time.

Dr. Onimura passed through the gate, walked along the pavement, slipped into the shadow of corporate buildings, pushed open the institute’s door, and glided inside with a swish. After returning his name tag, he strode briskly into the laboratory.

At that moment, a technician in a white lab coat emerged from another corridor. He surveyed the wall where institute members’ name tags hung.

“The director’s office appears vacant,” he said to the assistant who had emerged behind him, pointing at the red sign indicating “absent”—now displayed because Dr. Onimura had just routinely returned his name tag.
“Send the newly prototyped poison gas to the director’s office immediately.”
“And read the barometer every hour.”

“Understood—sending now.”
“Timing appears optimal.”
“All valves opened—reached seven hundred eighty-five millimeters.”
“O.K.”

＊ ＊＊

Dr. Onimura, who should have possessed a perfect and supremely precise intellect, met an unforeseen end through a mere trivial illusion.
When this urgent report reached the entire International Murder Organization, all members turned pale.
And this reaction was only natural—for Dr. Onimura’s second-phase plan had been scheduled for execution at dawn the very next day.

What was it?

It was an unprecedented plan to scatter Fordericht Gas from the western suburbs of the imperial capital at early dawn the following day, letting the west wind carry it to slaughter all citizens.
They boarded thirteen planes respectively, departed their base at 3 AM, and raided the skies above the imperial capital—now on the verge of awakening from sleep—right on schedule around 4:15 AM.
The thirteen Murder Organization planes flew south in formation, their rear sections spewing billowing clouds of highly toxic Fordericht Gas.
As those thirteen trails swelled and thickened, gradually nearing the ground, two squadrons of high-speed fighter jets suddenly appeared from the northern skies—one squadron rapidly gaining on the Murder Organization planes from behind.
The other squadron furiously dispersed a faintly crimson rainbow-like gas further upwind from the toxic smoke screen that now hung poised to descend over the imperial capital.
This was the Fordericht Antidote Gas that Engineer Mukushima had secretly produced at an undisclosed location through a prearranged scheme with Army Minister Kenzan—fabricated under the pretense of imprisonment to mislead the public.
Of course, aboard the lead aircraft of that squadron was Engineer Mukushima’s radiant smile—even though his execution date should have been imminent.