Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Spurred by the postwar boom, Hoshiura Steelworks belched black smoke day and night.
With several casualties each day as grim routine, throughout the factory that housed thousands, murderous roaring noise and eerie silence clashed with terrifying force.

The tennis court behind the boiler room lay drowned beneath steam pipes that clung to the red brick wall like veins—their hissing, wheezing, and puffing left even ordinary umpire’s calls and players’ shouts nearly inaudible.
The tennis crowd had thus dubbed it Tsubo Court, but as the din grew ever fiercer of late, it must have turned unbearable.
Scarcely anyone came to play tennis now.

Yet when cosmos flowers—no one knew who had sown them—bloomed profusely near that lonely umpire’s seat around October 17th, as the Company Founding Festival drew near, workers would sometimes come during their noon break to rehearse plays.

On the tennis court scorching under the autumn sun, the workers in navy-blue work clothes—with cosmos flowers as their backdrop—facing off, grappling, and executing various stage movements made for quite a spectacle.
As workers from nearby factories clamored and crowded around to watch, a worker in a bowler hat, smeared with machine oil, arranged two or three pebbles on a plank and made his entrance, swaying his hips like a lady’s maid—prompting everyone to burst into laughter all at once.
Of course, with no audible lines and the performers still in their work clothes rather than costumes, at first they couldn’t make heads or tails of it. But as the scenes gradually progressed, they began to recognize the play’s title.
Two people alone kicking down an opponent was "Atami Coast".
Firing a gun was "Yamazaki Kaidō".
A crowd carrying poles on their shoulders and lining up was "Inasegawa Seizoroi".
Among them were some avant-garde plays so incomprehensible that no one could make heads or tails of them, but even these began to be recognized—without anyone explicitly saying so—as "Infanticide" or "Night’s Lodging," until finally not a single troupe came to rehearse anymore.

In other words, while the performers acted assuming their play would remain incomprehensible, the spectators strained earnestly to decipher its plot.
Because crowds had begun vying to guess the titles first, each factory’s drama group—wanting to keep their productions secret—appeared to have started rehearsing elsewhere.

II

Around 9:00 a.m. on Wednesday, October 10th.
Three night-shift workers from the Boiler Department, having finished their shift, came through that Tsubo Court.

Walking at the center was Hoshiura Steelworks' foremost possessor of monstrous strength—a veteran stoker named Suekichi Matano, known by the nickname Onchi. With a frame nearing 140 kin in weight and six shaku in height, from the collar, cuffs, and pant hems of his oversized navy-blue work clothes protruded reddish-black, robust muscles—bulging so mightily that he appeared every bit a man of simple, unadorned character. Not only that, but the gleam of his small eyes—always smiling with maiden-like gentleness—made him resemble nothing so much as a giant infant.

To Matano’s right—stomping heavily with his long strides—scurried a small-statured man: Totsuka, a young oil supplier, his nimble eyes framed by iron-rimmed glasses.
A dark-skinned, small-faced man who lived up to his nickname of Squirrel.
Meanwhile, on the left—stomping with wide strides to match Matano’s pace—came a lanky, handsome man: Miyoshi, a repair technician said to be quite scholarly, wearing large tortoiseshell-framed glasses. All three hurried wordlessly through Tsubo Court, circled around iron scrap pieces scattered across the vast area, and reached the broad road passing through the main gate in front of the office building—where Matano finally broke the silence.

“Ah.
“Finally made it to a place where we can talk.”

“Honestly… that steam noise is downright barbaric.
“They’re pipes from when the place was founded—you can try to block ’em, but you’ll never shut ’em up completely.”

Miyoshi turned back and sneered.
“The whole company’s getting cocky like that, you see.”

“Put your back into it.
“The bonus is gonna be huge,” Matano said, giving his massive shoulders a shake.
Miyoshi sneered once more.

“Heh.
“It’s reliable, see.
“Profits and bonuses are destined for executives’ pockets.
“The ones working are all Onchis.”

“You bastard…” Matano raised his fist with a good-natured laugh.
Miyoshi jumped back about six feet to the side.

“Ha ha ha! But then, the Company Founding Festival’s sumo wrestling prize will be yours, Onchi,” Totsuka said in a suck-up tone, looking up at Matano.
Matano laughed with a bitter expression.

“Nah.”
“I ain’t wrestlin’ this year.”

“Huh?!”
Both of them seemed startled and looked up at Matano’s face from either side.
Matano wore a serious—yet lonely—expression.

“Don’t be ridiculous… You’re such an Onchi… Everyone’s counting on you.”
“You’ve got a prize dangling right under your nose, don’t you?”
“Since the company’s setting aside about 5,000 yen for this year’s Company Founding Festival, the prize money’s bound to be huge, see.”
“Why aren’t you taking it… Onchi…”

“U-un...”
“That’s why I ain’t takin’ it.”
“Year after year, goin’ out to grab somethin’ I could easily take—even an Onchi like me’d get his face burnin’ with shame… y’know…”

As this unfolded, Matano blushed deeply and gave a wry smile.
His honest and steadfast character overflowed in that wry smile.

“What a shame. Everyone’s been wanting to see your strength, you know.”
Miyoshi looked up at Matano in a flattering manner.
At that moment, Matano stopped dead in his tracks.

“Ah. Today’s the 10th… payday, right?”

“Ha ha ha! So you’re finally acting like an Onchi now.” “That’s why we’re making our way ’round toward the office side now, ain’t it?”

“I ain’t cut out for all-nighters.
“Sleepy ’n hungry—can’t handle it.
“Head’s goin’ foggy.”

Matano scrubbed his face hard with the hairy back of his hand.
The other two stopped too.

“Ha ha ha! Who’d forget wages?” Miyoshi laughed as he pulled a box of bats from his pocket.

“They start handing out wages at ten, right?” Totsuka also began pulling out a camellia bag.

“Hey… look at that…”

Matano suddenly pointed behind.

Beyond the piled iron scraps, from across the tennis court where cosmos flowers glinted, a man who looked like an office worker was approaching. A man in a pinstripe suit with a high collar and no hat—his face unclear—clutched a black briefcase with both hands as he hurried across the faintly white serve line, head bowed in thought with a preoccupied gait.

From behind him now came another man—a worker in navy-blue work clothes with a hunting cap pulled low over his eyes and a black cloth masking his face—stomping his new rubber-soled tabi shoes firmly into the ground as he followed with a menacing stride. In his work-gloved hands, he gripped a black stick about the length of a walking stick, though his height remained indeterminable since he was bent at the waist.

“Heh heh… They’ve started it.”
“Which factory’s workers are those, I wonder?”

Miyoshi said in a cheerful tone.
The three of them watched in silence.

The office worker-like man, stomping on his own shadow, had just reached around the center of the court when, from behind him, the navy-blue-clad man—who had suddenly quickened his pace—lurched forward and struck the hatless man’s head with a black rod.
The office worker-like man, without a moment’s pause, flung away his black briefcase and collapsed face-down.

“Ah!”
“They killed ’im…”

As Matano tried to turn back and charge forward, Miyoshi and Totsuka threw their arms around his waist and restrained him.

“……Idiot…… Just watch…”

“Wh... what’s... what’s this...”

Matano, who had started to leave, turned pale and looked back.
His teeth were chattering violently.

“Thi... this is murder...”

Miyoshi bared his white teeth in a laugh and blocked Matano’s path.

“Ha ha ha… You fool.”
“Just watch properly… That’s… that’s a play.”
“It’s a play rehearsal.”
“Might be the guys from Third Factory.”

Matano let out a deep sigh.
He stood rigidly and watched.

On the tennis court, the man in navy-blue work clothes threw away the black rod.
It appeared to be a heavy iron rod, but he immediately ran up to where the office worker-like man’s head lay and peered into his face.
Then, unexpectedly, the office worker-like man half-rose up and blindly lunged to grab him, causing the man in navy-blue work clothes to seem flustered.
Brushing off those hands, he picked up the black rod he had discarded earlier and nimbly circled around behind the office worker-like man.
Turning his back to them, he raised the black rod and began striking wildly—hands, head, nothing was spared—until he beat the man flat against the ground.
It was a relentless, almost unnervingly brutal barrage of blows—as persistent and terrifying as beating a snake to death.
He then stood up, pulled out a white, neatly folded handkerchief from his pants pocket, and hastily wiped the sweat from his forehead while tilting his hat back slightly like Amida Buddha’s halo.
Everything was a scene straight out of a silent film.

“See there.”
“That’s a play, isn’t it?”

“But they’re really goin’ at it...”

“I wonder… Maybe a detective drama?”

The masked man in navy-blue work clothes, having hastily wiped away sweat, grabbed the briefcase thrown onto the court and glanced around furtively. Having apparently spotted the three figures in the distance, he raised his white work gloves, adjusted his hat slightly, then dashed straight into the shadow of the wood workshop attached to the Third Factory’s casting department.

The cosmos flowers swayed and shimmered dazzlingly in the wind.

At that moment, the office worker-like man who had been left behind seemed to start moving slightly, but then he stretched his body taut.
In that motion, the white forehead—now stained crimson with blood—came into view.

“Ah… It’s real…”

The three workers rushed to the scene without knowing who had been first.

But everything was too late.
The office worker-type man's skull had been smashed to pieces, his gruesome face in death so horrific one could scarcely bear to look at it directly.
The three workers stood rigidly by the corpse's pillow-side, their faces pallid and expressionless, exchanging only hollow glances.

Matano's eyes pooled with tears as his lips quivered uncontrollably.
Seemingly unable to contain his emotions any longer, he gulped down saliva and pointed forcefully at the blood-soaked face lying mangled at his feet.

“Y-You… see… this… this is a play?!”

Tears streamed down Matano’s cheeks.
He let out a fiery, anguished voice.

“Wh... You... You two... You bastards did the killing...!”

The two men looked up at Matano’s face from either side with resentful eyes.
However, when they saw Matano’s fierce, angry gaze—so intense he seemed ready to pounce—they shrank back and hung their heads, unable to offer any rebuttal.
As if by prior agreement, they stared at their own shadows and meekly removed their hats.

When he saw that, Matano too hurriedly removed the kettle-shaped hat as if suddenly remembering.
While staring directly at the corpse’s face, he leaned his upper body forward like a soldier and saluted.
He closed both eyes as if praying for something, and hot tears pattered onto the court’s red soil.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Four or five workers passing in the distance beyond the pile of iron scraps looked over at them, guffawed, and then went into the office.
They must have thought it was just another play rehearsal after all.

Meanwhile, Totsuka, who had been wiping the blood from the corpse’s face with his own Western-style handkerchief, suddenly let out a loud cry.

“Oh god… It’s Mr. Nishimura…!”

“What?”
“What did you say…?”

And the other two—Matano and Miyoshi—leaned their faces in closer.
They apparently couldn’t hear due to the steam noise.

“It’s Mr. Nishimura from the office.”
“The salary disbursement officer’s…”

“What… What about the salary?”

“You idiot!”
“Look at this face!”
“It’s Mr. Nishimura, the salary disbursement officer!”
“Our wages have been taken!”

Having shouted rapidly, Totsuka swiftly darted into the wood workshop right beside them while the other two stood dumbfounded.
He seemed to have gone after the criminal’s trail.

However, Totsuka did not return as he was.

He passed through the wood workshop, casting field, and beyond that the thin plate factory, went under the deck of the First Factory, then exited through the common gate in front of the purchasing cooperative and emerged onto the street.
From there, he dashed straight to the police station.

Three

The police station was unmanned.
Due to a report of a body washed ashore, all officers had been dispatched except Inspector Tahara, who remained behind to hear Totsuka’s account before summoning Detective Kusumi—freshly returned from outside duties in the ideological crimes unit—to depart for the scene.
Then came another shrill phone call; Inspector Tahara lifted the receiver and learned this one came from Miyoshi, a worker in the steelworks office.

Inspector Tahara clicked his tongue in annoyance.
He immediately called for the office attendant, scribbled a note in pencil on the back of a business card, and sent him running to the coast.

“Detective Kusumi.”
“You—call the police chief and relay this man’s account.”
“He should be watching the martial arts tournament at the steelworks’ assembly hall... Most likely they’ll issue an emergency summons.”
“This is utterly unbearable...”

The commotion grew increasingly intense. The theft of a massive sum of 120,000 yen—combined with Nishimura’s reputation as an exceptionally well-regarded man of good character—likely fueled this escalation. Part of it was also due to the corpse having been moved to the office by two workers, which rendered the crime scene completely unintelligible. This caused the interrogations to expand into an extensive operation, with every worker from Woodworking, Casting, Thin Plate, and the entire First Factory—where the criminal was believed to have fled—being questioned individually.

Of course, by that time, the Hoshiura Police Station and all the town’s youths had surrounded the factory so tightly that not even an ant could crawl through.
For the interrogations, everyone from the police chief down—the inspector, department heads, and detectives—worked frantically to expedite the process, yet they still seemed unable to find any leads. By evening, the three workers who had witnessed the scene were summoned once more and subjected to a thorough re-questioning. However, not only did their answers remain completely unchanged from before—they matched perfectly in every detail—and so they were released without further incident.

Nishimura had gone from the steelworks' back gate to the bank, received a portion of the steelworks' funds and the entire workers' salaries, placed all the bundles of bills into his black canvas briefcase as usual, and ridden a rickshaw from the bank's entrance back to the steelworks' rear gate as he always did. Then, as usual cutting through the tennis court along his regular shortcut, he must have been ambushed on his way back to the office. Of course, Nishimura would not have known that tennis court was such a dangerous place. He would have passed through it believing it to be a perfectly safe passage with unobstructed visibility in all directions. At the same time, it appeared to be the police's assumption that the criminal was undoubtedly one of the workers intimately familiar with the factory's internal operations...

By the time the three exited the police station gate, the surroundings had already turned pitch black.
Matano—having undergone police interrogation for the first time in his life—was likely sapped of all vigor.
As if forgetting both his daytime agitation and rage, reverting to his usual dejected Onchi-like self, he trudged out after Miyoshi and Totsuka; then all three walked in silence along the bustling bright street toward the dormitory.

As the three of them turned together into a dimly lit back alley, they all exchanged looks as though waking from a dream.

“Hey.”

“What is it?”

The three of them stood still together between the black-painted fences.
Miyoshi took off his hat and, scratching his head again and again, said:
“I feel like I forgot t’mention one important thing back at th’police station...”

“What?
“But we told ’em everythin’, didn’t we?” Totsuka blinked rapid-like.

“Yeah... Dunno what—jus’ can’t shake this feelin’ I fergot t’say th’most ’portant thing.”

Matano looked up at the streetlamp light and smiled for the first time.
Totsuka turned to look back at his face uneasily and said.

"There’s nothin’ we forgot, I tell ya. Mr. Nishimura was killed… With a hand in work gloves, I tell ya."

"That’s right. That iron rod was probably confiscated by the police. It was a thin pipe, about a quarter-inch… Hey, Matano…"

"Yeah. I told 'em the criminal was wearin' tabi shoes, but..."

"Yeah. I said it was tabi shoes too..."

"When the criminal went into the wood workshop, the wind blew through the cosmos flowers."

"Idiot. You actually said that?"

"You told me to say what I saw, so I did!"

"Ahahahaha! You think there's some connection between the criminal and cosmos flowers... What an idiot."

“Ah!
“Oh right.”
“I forgot to mention that bastard in the navy-blue work clothes wiped his sweat with a white handkerchief.”

As he spoke, Miyoshi bit his lip and glanced back toward the police station.

“Yeah. Right, right. Now that you mention it, I just recalled. I plumb forgot t’mention. It was folded into a square, I tell ya.”

Matano hunched his shoulders like a child who had done something wrong. Beside him, Totsuka sneered.

“Ah. Wiping sweat’s usually done with a handkerchief, ain’t it.”

“Yeah… guess that’s right too.”

“But they told us to talk as detailed as possible.”

“Yeah. That’s what we said. But somethin’ like a handkerchief ain’t worth fussin’ over,” Totsuka dismissed offhandedly. Miyoshi scratched his head.

“Is that so?”

“You bet it is.”
“Naw.”
“They’ll nab ’em soon enough.”
“Fingerprints’ll do it.”

“Both woodshop and foundry crews were swamped with Kure Arsenal orders—too busy to notice if the killer slipped through.”
“Hey Totsuka… When you cut through there yourself, didn’t you raise hell?”

“Yeah. Was in such a damn hurry I busted a mold—foreman just yelled at me.”

Matano let out a big yawn.

“Ah… I’m so sleepy.”
“Let’s go home, let’s go home.”

Contrary to the expectations of the three workers, the criminal proved frustratingly difficult to apprehend.

The backgrounds of all over two thousand workers had been combed through with a fine-tooth comb, but in the end they only uncovered two or three lurking red ideologues—subversives who shouldn't have been there at all.
The investigation had finally reached the stage where they needed to look beyond the workers, but they seemed utterly at a loss about where to begin.

The newspapers sensationalized it... A murder-robbery as brazen as a demon's work committed in broad daylight within the steelworks compound before countless witnesses... Had the criminal melted into the earth?... An eyewitness account from Mr. Suekichi Matano... An incident bizarre beyond precedent... They especially praised Nishimura, the accounting clerk, for his miraculous tenacity in resisting courageously even as his skull was crushed—commending him through statements from both the steelworks director and a medical doctor.

Nishimura’s funeral was conducted as a company-sponsored service.

The workers’ wages were delayed by just two days before being distributed without issue.

The company founding festival was held rather more grandly than usual.
Matano reluctantly participated in sumo wrestling after being urged by everyone, but since he absolutely refused to enter the prize-awarded five-man elimination match, the reward money fell into the hands of an in-house engineer skilled in judo.

After a month passed, the police finally seemed to abandon the case, and a newspaper article appeared declaring, "The investigation has finally entered the labyrinth."
An advertisement bearing the steelworks' name—"A reward of ten percent will be paid to anyone who locates the 120,000 yen and identifies the criminal"—ran alongside it...
Hoshiura Steelworks, both within and beyond its walls, became wholly consumed by this affair.
People occasionally came to Matano's place seeking fresh details about the incident, but Matano, irritated, refused to speak.
He didn't even mention the other two workers.

Four

“Hey, Matano… That Totsuka bastard said he’d forgotten to mention somethin’ important after we left the police station the other day… in that dark alley…”

“Yeah.”
“He did say that… What’s it to ya?”

“Nah.”
“Ain’t like it’s anythin’ important though…”

Miyoshi and Matano in their navy-blue work clothes were crouching at the tennis court’s referee stand. Behind the two of them, half-withered cosmos flowers still bloomed in profusion. The area behind the boiler room, running at half capacity after a long interval, lay hushed as if forgotten, while the sun blazed down almost too hot from the cloudless blue sky.

The scrawny Miyoshi, appearing neurotic, adjusted his tortoiseshell-framed glasses and spoke.

“That Totsuka bastard—I think he’s a Red.”

Matano, who had been crossing his sturdy arms, stroked his ruddy face with evident displeasure.

“Why’s that?”

“There’s no particular reason why… but I just kinda feel that way.”
“First off, that bastard just went and got himself hired here recently, didn’t he?”
“And then, even though he came acting all chummy with us like that, right after that incident, he suddenly started keeping us at arm’s length, didn’t he?”
“He goes to work and comes home all by himself, and even when we invite him to the usual spot, he won’t come along.”
“Moreover, ever since that incident, he’s always got this look like he’s schemin’ somethin’, ain’t he?”

“Yeah.”
“Now that ya mention it, there is that part too.”
“After that, I’ve seen him prowlin’ around this tennis court again an’ again.”

“Hey.”
“Right.”
“I saw it too.”
“That’s why I thought it was suspicious.”
“Then lately, instead of showin’ his face around here at all, whenever he gets a chance he goes off to the First Factory to hang out with the deck crew there like they’re best pals. Then he turns around goin’ to dead Mr. Nishimura’s house to help out with all sorts of things, and on top of that, he’s started cozyin’ up to the office folks—seems like he’s stoppin’ by the office every damn day on his way to and from work.”

“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve noticed that too.”
“But that ain’t nothin’ like proof Totsuka’s a Red.”

“Yeah.”
“That ain’t nothin’ like proof either.”

Miyoshi hurriedly adjusted his tortoiseshell-framed glasses.

“It ain’t proof… But if you figure he gave up on us not backin’ him and went off to recruit comrades elsewhere, well, that’s how it could look.”

As he spoke, Miyoshi pulled cigarettes from his navy-blue work clothes pocket, handed one to Matano as well, and lit them both.

The two men plopped down on the grass at the edge of the court.
Both of them gazed up at the two kites soaring peacefully above the factory.
The white clouds drifting above them too...

“You’re one suspicious bastard…”
Matano stroked his face with growing displeasure.
Miyoshi laughed while intently studying that cheek.

“Hahaha.”
“There’s more.”
“How ’bout how quick Totsuka was when he declared that corpse Mr. Nishimura, figured out it was payroll theft right off, and went chasin’ after ’em?”
“Wasn’t natural one bit.”
“That fire in his belly—”

“That man’s sharp as a tack.”
“Quick with damn near everything.”
“Ain’t just this time neither.”

“But I feel there was something different about him then.”
“Like he knew everything from the start.”
“Only now did it finally dawn on me…”

“Hmm.”
“Ya really think he could pull off somethin’ like that?”

“That’s not all there is to it.
“I think that bastard went and intentionally left out crucial details at the police.
“When I called him out on it, he panicked and tried to cover it up, didn’t he?”

“Is this about the handkerchief?”

“Yeah.”
“That handkerchief matter was the most critical part, but I deliberately kept quiet about it even when questioned separately, ’cause I figured that bastard Totsuka might not tell the truth.”
“So I tested the waters.”

“Suspicious bastard… you…”

“There’s still more.”
“The culprit was wearing new tabi shoes back then.”
“Didn’t we both see those clear sun-tabi footprints in the damp part of the court?”
“When we lifted Mr. Nishimura…”

“Yeah… saw it.”

“The moment Totsuka saw the damn thing, he must’ve noticed.”

“What…”

“That the culprit’s an intellectual…”

“Intellectual… what’s that even mean… intellectual…”

“It means he’s an educated man.”
“The educated class… meaning a gentleman, see?”
“Hey.”
“Right?”
“No bastard wearing navy-blue work clothes would carry a snow-white handkerchief folded square like that.”
“He meant to finish it with one blow, but the unexpected resistance made him sweat.”
“Trying to wipe it off, he pulled out that proof of being educated from his pocket without thinking.”
“Those new tabi shoes—must’ve bought ’em quick for disguise.”

“Your head’s way more terrifying than Totsuka’s.”

“Ahahaha.”
“Don’t mock me… A brain’s meant to be used while you’re alive.”
“There’s more.”
“Listen… Mr. Nishimura always withdrew the money from Jūshi Bank on the morning of the tenth, right at nine o’clock sharp.”
“Then he’d take a rickshaw to the back gate, get off there, pass through here on his way to the office… right?… And this place is where they always rehearse plays—so no matter how loud you screamed, the steam noise would drown it out. Even if someone saw it, they’d think it was just part of the act.”
“No one would ever imagine someone daring to pull such a bold stunt in broad daylight.”
“The spectators would all assume it was play practice and watch halfheartedly… So compared to killing someone in some lonely midnight spot, it’s way safer—he must’ve calculated that through over and over beforehand, convinced himself it was foolproof, and planned the whole job out. Which makes him one hell of a sharp-minded bastard.”
“Regular workers couldn’t cook up this sort of cleverness.”
“He’s an intellectual, right?”
“Absolutely…”

“Hmm…”

Matano glared back at Miyoshi with a white-eyed look, the bat still held sideways in his mouth.
He kept his knees drawn up…

“You’re an intellectual too, aren’t you?”

Miyoshi was momentarily flustered under Matano’s glare.

“I ain’t no intellectual… but I’ve been thinking about it every single day since then.”
“That’s how I figured it out.”

“You’ve got a lead on the culprit… and then…”

“I’ve got it.”

“Huh…”

“I’ve got a solid lead on the culprit.”

Matano glared around the area.
With an earnest, tense expression, he flicked the ash from the bat.

“Are you sayin’ Totsuka’s the culprit… you…”

“Pfft… Totsuka? No way he’s the culprit.”
“We were all there watchin’ together with ya, weren’t we?”
“Ain’t possible.”

“Who… then…”

Matano suddenly scratched his head and turned back toward Miyoshi with a serious demeanor.
Two or three grasshoppers, startled, flew up from the grass.

Miyoshi did not answer.
He had been staring intently through his tortoiseshell-framed glasses toward the office; without shifting his gaze, he spoke with an extremely tense, pallid face.

“Don’t tell anyone.”
“We’ll split the reward money evenly…”

“That kinda stuff don’t matter.”
“I’ll take revenge for Mr. Nishimura.”

Miyoshi finally turned around.

“More importantly, if Totsuka turns out to be a red ideologue by some chance, that’d be a real problem.”
“You’re a military reservist, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.
“I’m a military reservist, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s not about ‘what’s that got to do with anything.’”
“If that money falls into his hands, the hundred and twenty thousand yen will end up funding the red underground movement.”

“Yeah.
“That’s right.”

“Don’t offer your help… you…”

“Yeah. If it turns out this ain’t some half-baked story, I got no call to hold back helpin’ out.”

“Then lend me your ear.”

Miyoshi pressed his mouth to Matano’s ear and whispered.

“That culprit is coming here now.”

“Wha—…”

“Look… Five people carrying tennis gear are about to come from the office.”
“I think the culprit’s among them.”
“They’re the ones who’re always playing tennis here.”
“The bastard who’s played here time and again—who knows damn well nobody can hear screams from this spot—ain’t he exactly the type to cook up this scheme?”
“Just watch… whether I’m right or wrong…”

“Well…”

Matano’s expression began to loosen from its tension. He seemed about to laugh at Miyoshi’s conjecture being slightly too speculative… but… that half-formed smile soon grew paler and tenser than before. Matano began inching backward from the thicket around the umpire’s seat into the cosmos flowers, while Miyoshi—who had been gripping his shoulder and staring in the same direction—half-rose in a flustered crouch.

“Hey.
“Damn it, damn it.
“Totsuka’s in there, damn it.”

“...Yeah… He’s here.”
“That guy’s also watching the tennis crowd.”
“Strange…”

Matano let out a deep, long sigh.

“Ain’t nothin’ strange about it. Hurry up and hide. It ain’t good if Totsuka sees us together… Get over here.”

Miyoshi and Matano hurriedly stood up from the grass.
Both of them nonchalantly discarded their cigarette butts and returned to the dimly lit boiler room.
From three old pipe holes lined up in the brick wall of the bathhouse—located some distance from the boiler—they pressed their shoulders together and peered at the tennis court.
Before their eyes, the cosmos flowers flickered dazzlingly, becoming a hindrance.

The net was already set up.

Nakano Gakushi, deputy director of the First Steel Mill; Totsuka, a laborer; and three young office workers arrived and began wildly hitting softballs.
Nakano Gakushi and Totsuka both had matching gold-tipped cigarettes clamped between their teeth.

“Hey, Miyoshi. Have Mr. Nakano and that Totsuka bastard been cozy with each other for a while now?”

Miyoshi closed one eye and laughed in the faint white light.

“Totsuka got into the steelworks through Mr. Nakano’s connections. Didn’t you say that yourself?”

“Was that so… I forgot…”

“Totsuka’s sister is working as a live-in maid at Mr. Nakano’s place.”
“That’s the connection.”

“Was that so… I see…”

“Mr. Nakano’s a Kyushu University graduate and prodigy, with judo at third or fourth dan…”

“Yeah. I know that.”
“He’s skinny, but he’s got some strength.”
“Once got thrown with a shoulder toss.”

“Lately, Mr. Nakano’s been set to marry President Hoshiura’s spoiled daughter…”

“I know.”
“That peacock of a *moga*, ain’t she?”

“Yeah. So he’s gotten a large plot of land on Kaigan-dori from the president, but since he has to build a house before the wedding and also buy a car, Mr. Nakano’s started scrambling.” “That’s what Totsuka says—about dabbling in the stock market and borrowing from loan sharks.” “Did Totsuka’s sister blab?”

“Seems like it.”

Beyond the cosmos flowers, Nakano Gakushi—apparently acting as leader to the other four—stood by the central net and began lodging complaints at the four men hitting balls back and forth before and behind him.

“Totsuka… Where’d you say you played tennis before?”

“In middle school. I was a back player.”

“You’re slow off the mark. Self-taught hack. Look here…”

“Yes. These borrowed tabi shoes are pinching my feet…”

“Ha ha… My feet run small, and these tabi are fresh out the box.”

“These are... Taiyō Tabi, aren’t they?”

“Hmm… They claimed they wouldn’t slip, so I tried buying a pair… but tennis shoes are still better. They were tight, heavy, and just as slippery as regular ones—so I tossed them over there.”

“When did you purchase them?”

“……………”

“They look very sturdy, but where did you buy them…”

“……………”

Nakano Gakushi did not answer.
He immediately barked at one of the office workers across from him.

“Idiot... Hitting a topspin from way back there won’t work, won’t work... See? Just like that... Hah hah hah...”

As he roared with laughter, Nakano fired a blazing volley right at the office worker’s feet. While glaring at that smug back, Totsuka flipped up the soles of his tabi shoes slightly. Then, with feigned nonchalance, he braced himself for the incoming ball—but soon a triumphant sneer crept across his entire face.

Miyoshi and Matano withdrew from the hole in the wall and fearfully exchanged glances.
Both of them were too tense to laugh.
Eventually, Matano let out a deep, long sigh.

“Is that so… Could it be him…”

Hurriedly adjusting his glasses, Miyoshi nodded.
Matano was left stunned.

“Is that so… Huh…”

“Are you still doubting? Just now, he practically confessed himself as the culprit, didn’t he?”

“Hmm…”

“Matano…”

“……………”

“Will you come with me tonight?”

“Where to…”

Miyoshi’s glasses glinted as they reflected the factory lights. “Just come with me anywhere,” he said commandingly. “When the six o’clock siren sounds, I’ll come pick you up. It’s work I can’t handle alone, see.”

Matano silently re-crossed his arms and sank into thought.
Miyoshi coldly looked him up and down.

“Had enough?”
“Or did you get scared…?”

“Alright… I’ll go…”

“It’s certain.”

“No mistake.”

“This could turn into a major job.”

“I know already.”

“This might become life-or-death work…”

“Hahaha. I know already, I tell ya…”

5

Hoshiura Steelworks stood as a veritable nightless castle. From its blast furnaces and open-hearth furnaces poured viscous cascades of molten iron and fire. Sparks erupted skyward from Bessemer converters alongside great blazing tongues of high-temperature gas. The fire-mouths of massive steam boilers opened one after another in relentless succession. A colossal white-hot iron mass crept across the foundry floor. The blazing light from great crucibles and their ilk reflected so dazzlingly through yellow and black smoke belching from countless chimneys that they created a spectacle surpassing even famed depictions of Rome's fall in grandeur. At their base, pale arc lights flickered in rows both orderly and chaotic—their wavering glow seeming to symbolize the dispassionate spirit of an ascendant Japan, crafting a sight both awe-inspiring and terrible.

The open-hearth furnaces of the First Steel Mill had just finished pouring out the finest molten steel that had settled at their depths, and now wastefully discarded an impure, ore-laden viscous stream of fiery slag—colloquially called “hi” (slag)—into the pitch-dark courtyard behind the factory.

The countless glowing slag streams from open-hearth furnaces—spreading through the darkness like molten syrup—voraciously burned their way across the courtyard’s surface, consuming scattered debris of paper scraps, straw fragments, sawdust, paint, and grease while relentlessly advancing.
From every edge and corner, red, blue, and brown flames would flare up—each eruption briefly illuminating the surroundings before plunging them into deeper darkness than before—and this terrifying spectacle advanced relentlessly through the star-studded frosty night, accompanied by a clattering cacophony welling up from the sheet metal factory.

At the tip of the bridge-like deck jutting from the factory’s upper structure above the vast sea of molten slag flames spanning hundreds of square meters stood Nakano Gakushi, motionless in his bird-hunting cap and navy-blue work clothes, gazing down intently. Some flammable gas erupting from underground burst through the fiery sea’s center, sending up blooping clusters of dazzling bubbles—he remained transfixed, his stare locked unwaveringly on that very point. The gold-rimmed glasses on his gaunt, narrow face caught reflections from the inferno below, casting small intermittent flashes.

Behind him stood another figure—Totsuka in workman’s clothes—overlapping like a shadowy silhouette.
He wore a bird-hunting cap and glasses identical to Nakano Gakushi’s in every detail.
Peering around from behind Nakano Gakushi, he whispered something in a hushed tone before placing both hands on Nakano’s shoulders and shaking him like a demand for response.

“How about an answer… Mr. Nakano…”

“……………”

“Didn’t you say you’d give your answer here… yes…”

“……………”

“You’re not on-site tonight, right?”
“In the attendance record, you’ve marked the absence column with a stamp, haven’t you?”

Nakano Gakushi nodded slightly.
Then he calmly took out a gold-tipped cigarette and lit it with a lighter.

“So… you… all that talk was just to lure me out… to this place…”

Totsuka looked down in terror at the sea of fire beneath his feet.
Nakano Gakushi turned back to face Totsuka—who had uttered those words—and laughed coldly.
White teeth glimmered faintly.

“Isn’t it hot here…? Feels like we’re being steamed alive.”

“...Hmph... Must be a hundred twenty, thirty degrees... this air... Hmph...”

“Let’s go over there to talk.”
“...somewhere cooler…”

“...No.”
“I am here.”
“I need to think here.”

“What could you be thinking about?”

“The utilization method for this slag.”

“You mean this sea of fire here?”

“Hmm… This slag contains a minimum of about seven percent iron content.”
“Extracting pure iron from this requires an extremely cumbersome process—so we leave it as-is to cool, then break and dump it into the sea. But what a waste to discard something heated to thousands of degrees through such effort.”
“The other engineers are all clamoring about turning this stuff into blocks or roof tiles, but I’m the only one opposing them and holding my ground.”
“So, I always come here after the workers leave and think about a way to easily extract pure iron from this sea of fire, you know.”

“Are you still thinking about it?”

“Hmm... A crucial insight begins flashing through my mind.”
“Kindly maintain silence for a moment.”

Totsuka surveyed the surroundings restlessly and clicked his tongue.

“Tch... Quit jerkin’ me around already.”
“What’s your answer about the hundred twenty thousand yen?”

“A hundred twenty thousand yen... What nonsense are you spouting now?”

“……………”

“Is there some 120,000-yen moneymaking scheme involved?”

Totsuka seemed dumbfounded.
On the narrow deck, he moved slightly away from Nakano Gakushi.

“...Unbelievable...”

“I don’t know anything about that… Are you dreaming or something…”

Totsuka’s eyes glinted sharply beneath his glasses.
He started to roll up the sleeves of his navy-blue work clothes but seemed to reconsider, instead removing his bird-hunting cap and bowing his head.

“...No... Mr. Nakano.”
“I’m not asking for anything unreasonable.”
“A quarter would be fine… y’know.”
“You could at least understand that much.”
“You graduated top of your class from university—an honors student.”
“Your future promotion’s entirely up to your ambition.”
“First off, you’re sharp as a tack, y’know.”
“The skill you showed killing Mr. Nishimura was something else, y’know.”

Nakano Gakushi’s glasses flashed red as if retaliating.

“...Insolent... Don’t speak such insolence.”
“Was it you who killed Nishimura? Or was it one of you two—you or Miyoshi?”

Totsuka laughed coldly.

"Heh heh heh."
"The evidence..."

"At the end of September, there was that time you, Miyoshi, and I played tennis together, wasn't there?"

"There was one, y'know."
"Miyoshi suggested to me that we become your disciples."
"Miyoshi was the worst at it, so since you kept scolding him nonstop, he stopped coming after that..."

“Hmm.”
“At that time, Nishimura from Accounting passed by the side of the court, right?”

“Heh heh.”
“You remember that well, don’t you?”

“It was this incident that made me recall.”
“Back then—the steam was at half capacity too, so there was no noise—but you glared at Nishimura’s face… No… Wait—was it Miyoshi… You said something like—‘Even if you strangled a goose to death here or skinned a monkey alive once the steam’s let in—it’d be fine,’ didn’t you?”

“Then the culprit must be one of the three who heard that—you, Miyoshi, or me.”

“I have no need to do such a thing.”

“Even without need—it’s undoubtedly you.”

“Wh... What did you say…?”

“Heh heh heh… The ones watching your little act from way over by the office back then were me, Miyoshi, and Matano—three of us.”
“You couldn’t see it with your nearsightedness… Did you really think only Matano got called by the cops to talk?”
“They just put Matano’s name forward ’cause he’s the most honest one.”
“Heh heh heh… You went and did something as careless as reading the paper in a way that don’t suit you at all, didn’t you?”

“……………”

“Hey.”
“Right?”
“The mastermind—no matter how you spin it—is you alone.”
“You had a solid reason.”
“That’s why you got the idea from that conversation—tried to plan every detail flawlessly without a single oversight. That’s where you tripped up.”
“In other words, you were too clever for your own good.”

“……………”

“Hey.”
“Right?”
“Those new rubber-soled tabi shoes you’re wearing now.”
“They were your undoing today at the tennis court.”
“Everyone else heard that story too.”
“If I come forward as a witness, there’ll be no shortage of others…”

“Fine! Got it.”
“Enough… I’ll give you half.”

"Huh?"
"Half...!" Totsuka shouted.

"Well now... Half?"

“I won’t say the same thing twice.”
“Under the racket box in that room where the tennis equipment is stored, there’s a spot where the floorboards come loose.”
“Bring the newspaper-wrapped bundle under it here.”

Totsuka stared blankly at the other man’s face.
The other man’s face was grinning.

“You idiot… What are you spacing out for?”
“Bring that newspaper-wrapped bundle here.”
“I’ll split it with you.”
“Here’s the key to the tennis storage room.”
“Here...”

Totsuka, for no apparent reason, hurriedly bowed his head once.
Totsuka had taken the key and was about to put it in his pocket when, in that instant, Nakano Gakushi—gripping the deck railing with one hand—executed a brilliant leg sweep.

With an "Ah!", Totsuka went spinning through the air and plunged into the sea of fire.

"Rooooooaaar…"

That was a sound like a cannon fired ten nautical miles offshore.
The pale yellowish water vapor, smoke, and mass of flames that had surged up from the sea of fire’s surface swirled together and vanished into the dark sky, leaving behind a life-sized black stain shaped like a splayed human figure—but even that soon dissolved back into the red-glowing plane of fiery sea, leaving no trace behind.

That was all.

Six

Nakano Gakushi took out a white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face.
Even so, the choking stench of burned corpses struck his nose, and he spat saliva with a pfft pfft.

With that, he grinned and began heading back across the broad plank deck of the open-hearth furnace—but that grin suddenly froze beneath his gold-rimmed glasses.

On the iron bridge—about three feet wide and leading back to the plank deck—a giant man stood facing this direction like a wrathful deity.
Reflected in the light of the sea of fire, that face appeared to burn with rage.
The thickness of his arms, crossed high, appeared about the size of an average person’s thigh.

Nakano Gakushi involuntarily retreated about half a step.
He tensed up and glared daggers at the man.
At that moment, the opened firebox of a boiler in the distant boiler room silhouetted the two opposing figures as if cutting them out of the darkness.

Nakano Gakushi adjusted his stance with tense deliberation while clenching both fists.
"What are you..."

The opposing giant man did not move.

“I’m Matano from the Boiler Department—a stoker.”

“I know.” Nakano Gakushi’s voice rose sharply at the edges. “People outside the workplace are strictly prohibited from coming up to this deck. I’m the supervisor here, damn it!”

Matano’s pupils glittered.

“I know… What’d you just do? What’d you do to my comrade Totsuka?”

“Totsuka slipped and fell on his own.”

“...You’re lyin’…”

“Move when I tell you to move!”

Nakano Gakushi seemed convinced that his opponent was not the sort of violent man who would kill him.
At the same time, he appeared quite confident in his judo rank; suddenly shoving Matano back from directly in front to stand on the deck’s level surface, he immediately aimed a ferocious leg sweep at Matano’s feet as the man straightened up—but… not a budge… In the instant he thought this, Matano’s enormous hands seized Nakano Gakushi by the collar and began to squeeze with a grinding force.

“Ghk-ghk-ghk-ghk-ghk-ghk…”

No sooner had he let out that strange sound than Nakano Gakushi—his back and buttocks firmly gripped by Matano’s hands—was hoisted effortlessly into the air.

Matano, in his fury, seemed intent on hurling Nakano Gakushi into the sea of fire—but… abruptly sensing this intention, Nakano Gakushi began thrashing his limbs wildly without uttering a word, causing Matano to stagger involuntarily and halt at the deck’s edge.

At that moment, a pitch-black shadow of unknown origin suddenly leapt out from behind the open-hearth furnace. The shadow shoved Matano’s waist with full force and fled without looking back.

“Ah!”

Matano lurched forward but, without even a moment to turn back, spun around with a grinding force while still gripping Nakano Gakushi and plunged headfirst downward.

However, Matano did not fall all the way down.

Right between Matano’s legs was a corroded horseshoe-shaped hole in the iron plate.
Because Matano’s left heel had caught there, he was left dangling upside down by one leg while still firmly gripping Nakano Gakushi’s back and buttocks.
At the same time, Nakano Gakushi’s face now directly confronted the sea of fire from just four shaku above—and as that terrifying heat roasted him, Nakano Gakushi let out a hellish scream.

“Gah! Gah!... Help me! Help me!”

The fabric of Nakano Gakushi’s clothes, seized by Herculean strength, began ripping apart with a rending sound.

“Don’t move! Don’t!”
“Mr. Nakano.”
“I’ll save you… I’ll save you… Don’t… move…”

Matano too strained out a tear-choked voice in desperate extremity.

“Hey!
“Someone come!”
“Someone… Someone come here! Heeey!”
“Heeey... Heeey!”
“Don’t struggle.”
“It’s dangerous… dangerous…”

“What’s going on?” echoed a voice from the darkness above the deck, followed by the clattering footsteps of two or three people running over.

However, it seemed not to reach Nakano Gakushi’s ears. The air, searing with heat matching the flames, must have pressed in on him—even if he tried not to move, he couldn’t stay still. He thrashed his limbs in desperate frenzy, straining to turn his back on the sea of fire.

“Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Gyaaah!... Gyagyagyagyaaah!”

He let out a scream no human throat could produce. Matano, still gripping his back, contorted into the visage of a red demon cornered in doom. Amid the torment of his own heel crackling like dry wood, threatening to snap away entirely, he wheezed through ragged breaths.

“Hah hah hah hah… Don’t… struggle… Hah hah hah hah… Don’t… move…”

Due to the clamor from the sheet metal factory that erupted just then, the voice was drowned out.
At that moment, the white handkerchief protruding from Nakano Gakushi’s breast pocket fluttered down onto the sea of flames and burst into a fierce blaze.
Suddenly, Nakano Gakushi exerted strength and let out a cry unimaginable as human.

“Agh—aaah…”

The fabric at Nakano Gakushi’s buttocks tore between Matano’s fingers, and one leg plunged into the sea of flames up to the ankle. Simultaneously, a flame mingled with sulfurous steam and billowing quinine-smelling smoke surged upward and enveloped Matano from his face down to his chest. Yet even so, Matano did not release his grip on Nakano Gakushi’s back. Nakano Gakushi too, still clinging tightly to Matano’s arms, was burning from the knees down.

The approaching footsteps came to a halt there.

“Here! Here!”
“Whoa!”
“What a stench!”

“Agh—”
It was dire.
“A person’s gonna burn to death!”

Seven

The light of dawn and the lingering half-moon quietly illuminated the frost on the ground, as white as snow.

In the gravel-strewn square before Hoshiura Station, Miyoshi came walking briskly under his faint shadow, tortoiseshell glasses framing his eyes. His stylish brown-striped suit—utterly incongruous for a factory worker—stood out against the upturned collar of his black winter coat as he clutched a square newspaper-wrapped bundle beneath his left arm.

He likely meant to catch the first train. Entering the dim waiting room only to find the ticket window still shuttered at this early hour, he clicked his tongue and turned to leave with deliberate calm. But when his gaze swept across the yellow-lit space, he froze as if startled.

Near the ticket gate, in a corner to the right, an old woman—head wrapped in a blue flannel cloth and body bundled in a blanket—slept soundly, clutching a basket tightly in her arms.

Near the entrance on the opposite side sat an astonishingly enormous giant monk-like figure, its entire body wrapped in pure white bandages. Its left leg appeared to have something like a plaster cast fitted, swollen to the size of an average human’s torso. Moreover, since it wore no footwear whatsoever, the soles of its feet—wrapped in cotton and bandages like white elephant’s feet—were caked in mud.

Miyoshi stood frozen, seemingly utterly startled by the sight of such an utterly unexpected human figure.
Where on earth would a person like this be going by train on such a frosty morning?
He seemed to suspect this might be some festival doll or perhaps a specimen of sorts... Completely engrossed, he looked it up and down until he noticed piercing, gleaming eyes staring intently at Miyoshi through holes in that pure white, diving-helmet-like massive head.

Miyoshi instinctively flinched.
Having discovered that the white figure contained a living human within… and sensing that the glint in the eyes seemed somehow familiar… yet also feeling drawn by an eerie impression that it was grinning at him… Miyoshi leaned in softly to peer directly into the dark holes of the bandages—but in the instant his entire body stiffened with a gasp, he leaped back about a foot and tried to bolt from the waiting room without looking back… only for something enormous and billowing to cling to him from behind.
Without even needing to look back, he realized it was the white figure from before.

“Agh—!”

Miyoshi thrashed about desperately, but the white figure’s strength proved unexpectedly formidable—as it pinned his shoulders in a winglock grip, his breath grew ragged.
The white figure, still clutching Miyoshi, staggered unsteadily and fell backward onto the bench behind them.

Thrash—scuffle-scuffle-scuffle—Grrraaah…

Station workers and staff who heard Miyoshi’s screams, along with two or three passengers who had arrived later by rickshaw, approached—but confronted by such a bizarre spectacle, they stood frozen at the entrance, staring blankly.

At that moment, the white figure pressed his nostrils against Miyoshi’s ear.
He whispered in a hoarse voice.
“...Do you know... who I am...”

“Agh—! Uwaaah—!”

Miyoshi screamed and thrashed wildly. The moment he heard the man’s voice, his terror seemed to multiply tenfold. The spectacle of this slender young gentleman—clutched by a pure white giant monk and convulsing in near-frenzy... Through this scene emerged the white monk’s superhuman strength and ice-cold fury... The onlookers turned to stone.

“A ghost! Waaah—!”

“It’s not a ghost…”

The white figure spoke in a voice brimming with raw power.

“You tried to burn me to death… but I’m still here—Matano.”
“I came to claim vengeance for three dead souls.”

“Waaah! Help me… I was wrong.”
“I was wrong.”
“I’ll give you 120,000 yen… Here…”

The newspaper-wrapped bundle that Miyoshi flung sailed over the white figure’s shoulder and thudded onto the bench behind him.

“Ha ha ha. 120,000 yen isn’t enough.”

The white figure’s voice grew gradually more clearly and louder.
The surrounding people were all listening.

“I wouldn’t have come this far over something like 120,000 yen.”
“...With my whole body burned, I came to this morning at the steelworks hospital... Then I thought—what if you’d dug up the money last night and didn’t come here? So I dragged myself out before dawn, climbed the wall, and came here—ready to die if I had to.”
“I endured the blinding pain and waited.”
“I’m taking your life…”

As he spoke, the white figure loosened his grip slightly to hear the other's response.

“Agh—! No, no… everyone! Everything this guy says is a lie! He’s insane! Pl…please… help me! He’s here to kill me! He escaped from the insane asylum…”

“Ha ha ha… Say whatever you want… This whole incident—it was all your doing. You put ideas in Totsuka’s head, goaded Nakano Gakushi into killing Nishimura. Then you used me—made me do all those heinous things—didn’t you? I finally figured it out this morning… after noticing things… thinking through it all… You’re the one—the ringleader of those red ideologues who’ve wormed into this steelworks… You won’t escape this…”

“Uwaa—! No, no!”
“Ta... help me, please.”
“Everyone, please help me!”
“…This guy’s insane…”

“Bastard… Still yappin’?!”

The white figure reseated himself on the bench while holding Miyoshi. He began applying force through both arms.

“Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Gyaaah…”

It was a voice neither avian nor bestial. While desperately thrashing his limbs in final resistance, he bit into Matano’s bandage-wrapped arms—but realizing this achieved nothing, he started screaming again.

“Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Giiiih! Giiiih! Giiiih! Giiiiih…!”

People passing by on the street came running and gathering until the waiting room suddenly darkened.

Amidst this, the sound of Miyoshi’s left and right shoulder bones crunching and snapping apart rang out.

“Crack-crack.”
“Crunch-crunch.”
“Gyaaah! Gyaaah! Gyaaah—!”

Miyoshi’s eyes—now like those of a blue demon—turned as crimson as a lantern plant’s calyx… and in that moment, blood began trickling from his nostrils and the corners of his lips.

Overwhelmed by the horror, the spectators stampeded backward in a disorderly rush.
From behind them came the clattering sound of a sabre.

“Where… Where…?”
“Here.”
“Someone’s getting strangled here.”

Two young men who looked like store clerks pointed at them.
A uniformed policeman pushed through the crowd, shoulders squared as he barged in, but when he saw the figure of a man vomiting blood in the clutches of a white giant,

“Gah!”

With that, he froze in place.

On the concrete in front of the policeman’s eyes, Matano dumped Miyoshi’s corpse with a thud.
Thrusting out both blood-stained arms—smooth and bare like a shaven head—he wobbled to his feet.
Bent at the waist, he gave an abrupt bow.

“Mr. Sakata.”
“I am Matano—the one you helped last night at the First Factory.”
“A steelworks laborer who suffered severe burns.”

“What… Matano…”

The policeman seemed relieved.
Then, while looking back over his shoulder, he dispersed the crowd.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!”

From behind the thinned crowd, the newly risen morning sun came glittering in.

The white-shaven Matano narrowed his eyes and gazed up at the light.
He said in a calm, happy voice:

“The 120,000 yen is behind me.”
“It’s that newspaper-wrapped bundle... I strangled the culprit Miyoshi to death.”
“With this, my resentment has finally been healed.”
“...Bind me... Please...”

And then, seeming to have exhausted his strength, he collapsed in the center of the crowd with a thud, his hands still thrust forward.