Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yumeno Kyūsaku

I

“Ha ha ha ha ha.”
“Oh… my apologies.”
“You must have been quite shocked, no doubt.”
“Hah ah.”
“You must have thought me a beggar… Ah ha ha ha!”
“No—a grand jest!”

“You hadn’t the slightest inkling that I am that madcap gentleman—the vagabond lunatic who’s been making such a stir in Vladivostok these days—had you?”
“Hah ah.”
“Quite so.”
“Then it’s only natural you’d think this way.”
“A man clad in an outdated frock coat languishing in the thieves’ market seizes a distinguished Japanese officer like yourself right on Svetlanskaya—Vladivostok’s Ginza—drags him into this restaurant, and with unmitigated audacity—”

“Please decide my fate.”

“Well now—making such a request, you see.”
“It can’t be helped if you take me for a madman.”
“Ha ha ha ha… But surely you understand I’m neither beggar nor madman.”
“Do you not?”
“You must understand.”
“That I’m not drunk either… indeed…”

“I beg you not to laugh—for though appearances suggest otherwise, I’m a true Muscovite born and bred, one who inherits the noble blood of old Russia.”
“And now… now my fate lies bound to this most uncanny phenomenon called ‘Posthumous Love’ concerning the Romanovs’ demise—tormented so I scarce find sleep at night… In truth, I wish to have you hear this tale now and entreat your august judgment… Though needless to say, this concerns matters of utmost gravity—both personal and historical in significance…”

“……Ah…… You understand…… Thank you… thank you.”
“I truly thank you… Now then—how about vodka? Whiskey? Cognac? You dislike them all? Why do Japanese soldiers drink so little? Then tea.”
“Dry sweets.”
“Vegetables… Ah!”
“This restaurant boasts excellent sausages.”
“Will you partake?... Splendid…”

“Hey there, beautiful.”
“Come here for a moment.”
“I’ve an order to place… I’ll take the liberty of having a drink myself.”
“Ah no… Truly, even such extravagance as this is only possible thanks to your Japanese Army maintaining order here.”
“The room being small makes the stove quite effective… Sa… Please remove your hat.”
“Do make yourself comfortable.”

“To speak plainly, I’ve wished to converse properly with you at least once ever since glimpsing you a week past before that Japanese military depot.”
“Each time I observed your esteemed figure emerging from the depot’s gate to shop along this Svetlanskaya, I intuited you must be a person of standing in Japan who became an officer…”
“No no, I assure you this isn’t empty flattery… Moreover—though fearing impertinence—through subsequent careful observation, I discerned your Russian speech to be of such mastery as to seem inconceivable for a foreigner, coupled with particular kindness toward Russians… And since this clearly stems from your possessing an especially profound and thorough understanding of our compatriots’ sensibilities, I resolved that by all means you must hear this tale.”
“Nay—I became convinced none exists but you who could comprehend this story and determine my fate.”

“Indeed… If you would but listen, that would suffice.”
“And then all I ask is that you deign to acknowledge the actual possibility of this terrifying ‘Posthumous Love’ I am about to relate.”
“In that case, as a token of gratitude—though I fear it impertinent—I would have the honor of offering up my entire fortune.”
“It is worth an amount that would dazzle most nobles—a treasure I would not exchange for my own life—yet I do not consider it excessive as gratitude for your acknowledging this tale’s truth and determining my fate.”
“I do not consider it wasted at all.”
“The fate of this ‘Posthumous Love’ that dominates me reaches the zenith of sublimity, profundity, and bizarreness.”

"My preamble may grow somewhat lengthy, but would you kindly endure it while the order arrives?... Splendid…"

"The number of people to whom I had related this tale had reached a considerable multitude."

“Not only my fellow Russians, but Czechs, Jews, Chinese, Americans... yet not a single one of them believed me.”

“Not only that, but through my excessive enthusiasm in telling this story to anyone who would listen, my notoriety had steadily increased.”

"In the end, I was recognized as a type of psychiatric patient spawned by the war and driven out from the White Army ranks."

And so at last, I became Vladivostok’s infamous figure.
“Whenever I try to tell this story, everyone roars with laughter and flees.”
“Even on those rare occasions when someone does listen, they rage accusing me of mockery… or sneer while waving their hands in dismissal… or declare themselves nauseated and spit at my feet… That is what brings me mortal sorrow.”
“It’s just… so lonely and wretched and unbearable.”

“So anyone will do… Just one person in this vast world—if there were someone who would affirm this most uncanny tale of ‘Posthumous Love’ that now governs me… and if there were someone who would determine my fate… then I resolved to relinquish to that person my entire fortune—the relics of this ‘Posthumous Love’ exactly as they are—and drink and drink until I drink myself to death.”
“And so, I finally managed to find you.”
“You are without doubt the one destined to decide my fate entwined with ‘Posthumous Love’—this I came to believe.”

“Ah... The food has arrived.”
“Allow me to toast to your esteemed health and happiness.”
“You are the first Japanese gentleman to whom I’ve told this story... and likely the last, I imagine...”

II

“By the way, how old do you take me to be, eh?”
“Don’t know?... Ha ha ha ha!”
“Yet I’m still twenty-four.”
“My name is Vasily Kornikov.”
“Indeed—Kornikov is my true family name... A wet-behind-the-ears youth who entered Moscow University, majored in psychology, and only just graduated the year before last.”
“I must look forty to you.”
“You see—my hair and beard streak with gray.”
“Ha ha ha ha!”
“Yet until three months ago, I undeniably appeared in my twenties.”
“Not a single white hair existed then—a plump, swarthy face utterly unlike this present visage, clad in a White Army private’s uniform...”

“However, I became such an old man in just one night.”

To elaborate in detail—this concerned the period from 9 PM on August 28 of this year (1918) to 5 AM the following day... In terms of distance, it spanned from a certain forest amidst plains near Dousugoi to a Japanese military outpost merely twelve versts (~3 ri) southward—the interval during which I staggered along the railway tracks.

“During that time, this... uncanny ‘Posthumous Love’s’ mysterious power tormented me to my soul’s darkest depths and reduced me to such an old man...”

“...What say you?”

“Would you believe such facts?”

“...Khorosho... So you consider it plausible... is what you imply.”

“Ochen’ khorosho... Splendid... My deepest gratitude.”

“Now, as I mentioned earlier, I am the only son of Moscow-born nobility who lost both parents during the Revolution—until coming to Vladivostok, I had deliberately concealed my true name—though I cannot boast much, being by nature averse to violence and rather detesting war to the point of shuddering at the mere thought.”

“But when the Petrograd Revolution I just mentioned stripped me of family and fortune in an instant and plunged me into extreme poverty, my mind underwent a strange transformation. From that suicidal despair mixed with reckless abandon—this ‘what does anything matter’ mentality—I became a soldier despite my detestation of military life. Then afterward—whether fortunately or not—without ever encountering proper warfare while shifting between various units, I came under General Semyonov’s command. While pursuing Red Army forces—as you may well know—we relocated to a village called Karasuzuri located about three hundred versts from here. This occurred precisely in early August of this year.”

“And then when the unit was reorganized there, a private named Lyatnikov—who becomes the protagonist of this tale—was assigned to the same squad as me.”

Lyatnikov had stated he was Moscow-born like myself—a seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy soldier whose every movement radiated reckless innocence and vitality, appearing almost manic at first glance, yet somehow imbued with an indefinable nobility. Though sunburned nearly black, the purity of his delicate features made clear he carried noble blood in his veins.

After he came to this village and was assigned to the same squad as me, we soon became close friends, showing each other kindness like brothers.
That said, we never formed any improper relationship whatsoever.
Such acts are those of dementia patients misapprehending the contradiction between bestiality and humanity... And yet... Lyatnikov and I found ourselves inexplicably drawn to each other, seizing every opportunity to discuss religion, politics, and art. As we gradually realized we both cherished pure dynastic culture with undiluted fervor, our conversations aligned so perfectly that tears would well up.
My joy and emotion at finding such a conversational companion amidst the dreariness of military encampment… though it is likely Lyatnikov felt the same… but as for how profound that pleasure was, I leave to your discernment.

However, such enjoyments of ours did not last very long.
Not long afterward, Semyonov's forces resolved to dispatch a scouting party from our squad—one NCO and eleven privates—accompanied by two officers and another NCO, to notify the Japanese military in Nikolsk regarding the White Army's relocation to this village.
"Indeed... A liaison scouting party, you understand."
The truth was that until then I had been regarded as a coward—invariably relegated to rear positions during such missions—and thus had once again been conveniently assigned to headquarters duty, which I privately considered most fortunate. Yet through some unforeseen karmic entanglement, I found myself volunteering to go... and this is how it transpired.

On the evening before the scheduled departure—though I’ve forgotten the exact date—when I returned from headquarters to bid farewell to Lyatnikov and my squadmates, the room was empty; it seemed the squad members had gone out drinking somewhere. In the dark corner, Lyatnikov sat alone dejectedly tending to his leather gear or some such task, but upon seeing me, he abruptly stood up and pulled me outside while casting meaningful glances about. His demeanor struck me as peculiar, and even his complexion appeared unusual. Then he led me beside an empty stable, ensured no one was around, reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a flat newspaper-wrapped bundle that might have been letters, extracted a worn leather sack from within, and snapped open its golden clasp with a click. When I looked inside, twenty to thirty magnificent jewels of varying sizes came glittering forth.

I felt my vision blur.
My family had the aristocratic quirk of being jewel enthusiasts for generations, and I myself possessed an innate appreciation for gemstones. Thus I immediately felt a burning compulsion to pick up each jewel one by one, scrutinizing them in the pallid evening light. Though their cuts followed old-fashioned styles, every single stone proved flawless—a curated selection of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and topazes containing not one second-rate Ural specimen. Indeed, they appeared so magnificent that one might think they were masterpieces individually gathered from the secret collections of renowned connoisseurs.
Who could have imagined that such things lay hidden in the pocket of a mere young private?

III

I suffered a blow that left my head ringing hollow.
As I stood gaping, my mouth refusing to close while comparing Lyatnikov's face to that glittering hoard of jewels, Lyatnikov—cheeks flushing faint crimson beneath their usual pallor—began offering explanations in a tone that verged on apology.

“This is my parents’ memento—something I’ve never shown to anyone until now.”
“To radicals’ ideology, such things might be mere dirt particles among wheat... They say diamonds and pearls lie discarded in Petrograd’s gutter mud... But to me, these are treasures irreplaceable by life itself...... My parents gave me these three months before the Revolution erupted... on last year’s Christmas Eve... And when they did, they told me this.”

"...In this Russia, a revolution may soon break out that would seal our fates. That's why we decided to entrust these jewels to you—the unexpected choice—and quietly expel you from this household to preserve our bloodline against all contingencies. You may resent our harshness in acting this way, but consider carefully—whether our path ahead or yours holds greater happiness remains unclear. By your lively nature and steadfast spirit, we believe you'll endure every trial and conceal your identity completely. Thus you'll await the day our era returns once more."

"...However, if that era seemed unlikely to arrive, you were to use a portion of those jewels for marriage expenses to ensure the family's bloodline would not perish, and bide your time.
"And should the world return to its former state, use the remaining jewels to prove your status and restore this house……."

...was what she said.

After that, I immediately disguised myself as a poor university student, came to Moscow, rented a small house, and began working as a music teacher.
"I loved music to the point of death."
"My plan had been to wait for an opportunity to go to Berlin or Paris and become a musician at some vaudeville or theater... but that plan ended in utter failure."
"In those days, Moscow was no place for music—from dawn till dusk, it resounded with pistols and bombs improvising their symphony. Not a single soul there concerned themselves with sheet music."
"Moreover, I was soon caught in the Red Army's newly established conscription net and ended up being forced to carry a rifle."

“…It was after that I gave up on music entirely.”
“The reason I gave up was that all the sheet music I’d studied consisted of classical court-style pieces, completely out of step with the vulgar tastes of the masses today.”
“Not only that, but carelessly engaging in such activities within the Red Army risked exposing my identity… So I desperately sought an opening to flee to the White Army—yet even then, not knowing where Red Army spies might lurk, I maintained absolute vigilance, never permitting myself even a whistle or hum. The agony of such restraint defies description.”
“Every time I heard skillful balalaika or kokyu playing, I would cover my ears and groan… And all I could think about was how I wanted to return to my parents as soon as possible… How I longed to play a proper grand piano without restraint…”

…But it was exactly last night.
My squadmates grew uncharacteristically solemn and were whispering among themselves about something. Wondering what was happening, I strained my ears—only to hear the rumor that my parents and compatriots had been executed by radicals…… I was so shocked I nearly cried out.
But thinking this was the crucial point, I deliberately withdrew into a dark corner and strained to listen closely—only to learn how my parents had been killed calmly without uttering a word, and how even my dearest brother had called out my name before the gun barrels, pleading for salvation—details so specific I couldn’t help but believe them true.
“So… I had… lost all hope… Even when I wanted to tell you… you were unfortunately away on duty… and not there…”

Even as he spoke these words, filling both eyes with tears while closing the sack's lid, he hung his head.

I was taken aback—no, utterly dumbfounded. Standing rigid with arms crossed, staring fixedly at the visor of Lyatnikov's cap until my knees began trembling violently from bewilderment. I had long discerned Lyatnikov's noble origins, yet never in my wildest dreams imagined such exalted status.

To confess truthfully—during my duties at headquarters the previous day—I had already glimpsed similar rumors...that Deposed Emperor Nicholas had been executed by radical forces alongside the Empress, Crown Prince, and Grand Duchesses...that the Romanov bloodline had met its gruesome end...though at the time I remained convinced such an atrocity could never occur. However radical they might be, I sneered inwardly, they'd never dare commit such madness against that guileless, powerless, meek Tsar and his family...

Moreover, White Army headquarters evidently shared my conviction—they had made arrangements to issue directives ordering all units: "We shall verify the facts before announcement. Under no circumstances shall there be wavering." But...

That said... even if that report were false, connecting Lyatnikov's personal account with that rumor made me realize I was indeed confronting a fact of utmost gravity. The fact that I now stood face-to-face with this youth—owner of jewels bearing such profound destiny—meant I was binding my own fate to a truly hair-raising, perilous destiny.

However... there was one questionable fact.
The reason was none other than this.
That Deposed Emperor Nicholas had multiple Grand Duchesses yet possessed no sons apart from Crown Prince Alexei His Imperial Highness, who only turned fifteen this year...... Therefore, if the youth standing before me at this very moment were truly the deposed emperor's son—the last surviving member of the Romanov dynasty to escape radical gunfire—he would correspond in age to being either elder or younger brother to Her Imperial Highness Anastasia, the youngest among the four Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia...... In any case, this would place him closest to that generation...... Now had this been Russia of old or a foreign royal house, one might readily acknowledge such a secret prince quietly remaining among the populace...... Yet within our recent Romanov courtly circles, circumstances absolutely forbade the existence of such secrets.
...In other words, had Deposed Emperor Nicholas actually fathered such a prince, no matter what dire circumstances might have existed, it stood conclusively clear from the political realities of that era that said prince should have been formally acknowledged as royalty.
You likely already know the general political circumstances of that era, and since they hold no essential bearing on this tale's progression, I shall omit them. In essence, the Slavic people of that time—both high and low—were desperately craving the birth of a male imperial heir. This reached such extremes that there were even those around Her Majesty the Empress, daughter of Queen Victoria, who accepted bribes from Germany.
...that there were even absurd rumors circulating—which I remembered hearing from my grandfather—claiming someone was smothering each imperial prince at birth...

...Therefore...inferring from these reasons and considering all factors, the youth now before me—head bowed with jewel case in hand, white handkerchief pressed to his face—must undoubtedly descend from one of those grand dukes most intimate with the deposed emperor... This could be readily proven by the very existence of such jewels substantial enough to prove one’s status, so perhaps this youth speculates that his father’s ducal family shared the deposed emperor’s fatal path... or perhaps he intuitively senses that his family’s massacre has been mistakenly conflated with the emperor’s assassination in popular accounts...
Moreover, if this were indeed the case, being entrusted with such a secret by one of such formidable standing would constitute the utmost honor for a Slavic nobleman—nay, a matter of pride itself—yet when considered from another angle, this very act meant my own fate now verged upon colliding with a terrifying, perilous destiny beyond all prediction...

As I... thus pondered these matters, unbeknownst to myself, I heaved a great sigh.
Crossing my arms once more, I carefully reconsidered everything—and that’s when I noticed something deeply suspicious… a fact so laughably absurd it nearly made me snort.

The reason being... this youth before my eyes—what his true name might be, I still did not know—this youth who called himself Lyatnikov... I found myself utterly baffled as to why he would choose this moment to show me such things and divulge a secret of such grave magnitude.
Perhaps this youth had vaguely discerned my noble lineage... and, trusting me completely as a close friend, had come to unburden his pent-up secret grief and anguish in hopes of finding solace—or so I thought—but...
Yet given that, it seemed far too brazen and rash—conduct I simply couldn't reconcile with that of an intelligent youth bearing such a fate.

If that were the case, then might this youth be some manner of megalomaniacal deviant? Could those innumerable jewels shown to me moments ago not be exquisitely crafted forgeries capable of deceiving even my discerning eye?...... I entertained such doubts... yet no matter how strenuously I reconsidered, these jewels before me were no such counterfeits. My conviction that they constituted an assembly of authentic masterpieces only intensified with each passing moment.

However, even so, to this youth—

"Why did you show me those jewels?"

To ask such questions felt like stepping toward the perilous fate now encroaching upon me.

And so... after turning these thoughts over... ultimately... in any case, maintaining the facade of a mere comrade-in-arms would prove safest for us both.
Keeping up that pretense while watching developments would surely be wisest... Once this realization struck—being fundamentally craven—I had steeled my resolve.
After scanning my surroundings, I nodded with aristocratic grace and cleared my throat twice.

“You shouldn’t show such things carelessly to others. Since it’s me, it’s fine—but unless you make absolutely certain others don’t notice, you might face complete ruin. However, regarding your personal circumstances—though my efforts may prove inadequate—I shall lend you my support in the future, so it would be best not to lose heart. Rumors concerning the massacres and executions of people of such status have typically spread two or three times each, you know. For example, names like Alexandrovich, Mikhail, Georg, Vladimir—you know.”

Even as I said this and that while gauging his reaction, Lyatnikov’s expression showed no change whatsoever. Upon hearing those names, he actually seemed relieved. Letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, he raised his face and wiped away tears before nodding with something like delight and tucking the sack of jewels back into the depths of his inner pocket.

But... however...
"I would never fabricate or embellish.
"You may scorn me... but if I were to mix lies into this tale, everything would become muddled—so I’ll confess honestly..."

“To put it succinctly, I—regardless of circumstances—had become unbearably desperate to possess those jewels. The gem-loving desire flowing through my veins from generations past—from the very moment I beheld Lyatnikov’s jewels—flared up like a torch before my eyes, and try as I might, I could no longer extinguish it.” And so, driven by this vague premonition that “Perhaps during this scouting mission, Lyatnikov might end up dying in battle,” I found myself determined to go along at all costs. In my carelessness, I even forgot that my life was in danger...

Moreover, who could have imagined that those very jewels would soon lead me to a hell so horrifying it made one's hair stand on end... or that they would come to tell of Lyatnikov’s posthumous love?

IV

From Uroshiri where we were stationed to Nikolsk would have taken merely half a day by rail, but with Red Army forces occupying every station and village along the route, we were compelled to detour far eastward. For our unit, this became a journey demanding such excruciating effort that each passing moment seemed to shear away fragments of our lives; yet by fortune's grace we evaded detection entirely, until at last around noon on the fourteenth day since departure, we arrived where Dousugoi Temple's spire pierced the horizon.

That place lay approximately eight versts (two ri) south of Kraisky—occupied by the Red Army—where endless wetlands stretched beneath an undulating great grassland, while to the left ran the Uroshiri Railway's main line, gleaming white in a straight trajectory. About one verst ahead loomed a dense, perfectly round broad-leaved forest that stood like Kraisky Town's isolated island, adrift at the grassland's very heart. All forests in this area had mostly been cleared for railway use, making it strange indeed that this particular wood alone remained untouched... Yet there it was: the perfectly rounded, overlapping thicket of branches glittering under midsummer sunlight against the blue-blue sky beyond the grassland, as beautiful as any masterpiece painting.

Having come this far, with Nikolsk practically right under our noses, our unit completely let our guard down.
The officers and soldiers all raised their heads from the waist-high grass, finally straightening their backs as they shouldered the rifles they carried.
Leaping over large weed clumps one after another, we proceeded toward the forest while adopting an irregular skirmish formation—but before long, a cool wind began whistling from behind us, and we found ourselves feeling as if on some leisurely excursion, our spirits growing tranquil.
Lyatnikov—following right behind the leading officer with her cap worn sideways—her red cheeks grinning back at me as she walked onward, her white teeth—these still flicker behind my eyes even now.

That was the moment.
I think it was probably from beyond the railway tracks about one and a half versts away when suddenly a deafening machine gun roar erupted, scattering the blades of bluegrass before and behind our unit into empty air.
And before I could even gasp in surprise, one of the bullets tore through my left thigh.

I jumped up about a foot before collapsing flat on my back into the grass. Yet even as I fell, I realized: 'The wound's in the thigh. No vital damage.' Staying seated in the grass with trembling hands, I drew my sword to cut open my trousers and applied a firm bandage to the wound where flesh had been torn out. All the while, machine gun bullets kept firing—p-p-p-p-p—skimming over my head like a flock of sparrows, forcing me to curl up low while peering through the grass to check on my comrades' fate. To be left alone here terrifies more than death itself, you understand.

However, none of my comrades seemed to notice I had been wounded; all were fleeing toward that perfectly round forest in the distance, rifles in hand, stumbling and scrambling through the grass. Looking back now, they must have been utterly panicked, but then—for some reason—the machine gun fire abruptly ceased, yet my comrades still did not stop fleeing. Before long, their figures gradually shrank as they neared the forest until two officers leading the way, followed by eleven lower-ranking soldiers, all escaped unharmed into the woods. At the very end, I could clearly see Lyatnikov—who had fallen far behind—crawling up toward the forest's edge while glancing back repeatedly in my direction; fearing any careless signal might get her shot, I kept crouched low, enduring my leg's pain as I intently watched the forest and worried how events would unfold.

Then, less than ten seconds after Lyatnikov's figure vanished into the forest... what do you think happened? Within that forest, a suffocatingly intense volley of gunfire suddenly erupted. It was utter indiscriminate firing—as if scrambling my bewildered mind into chaos while I watched aghast—with ricochets screaming horribly as they flew out from the forest in all directions one after another. Yet within less than a minute, it ceased abruptly, and the vast plain returned to its original state: lushly green beneath a clear sky, silent as a painted scene.

I felt as though I were dreaming.
I continued staring intently at the forest, wondering what on earth had happened—but no matter how long I waited, not a single figure emerged from the woods, nor could I spot even a bird crossing the plain that might have been startled by the gunfire.

As I surveyed this scene, the forest began seeming unbearably terrifying to me without any rational cause.
Far surpassing any logical consideration—like determining whether those gunshots had come from friend or foe—an overwhelming terror... a shudder born of my innate cowardice began creeping through my entire body until I found myself utterly powerless against it.
...Beneath a brilliantly shining blue sky stretching endlessly above sat that perfectly round forest glowing green... within it lay countless gunshots that had suddenly erupted then vanished... followed by deathly silence... As I stared at this spectacle, my teeth began clattering at their roots.
The wrists clutching grass clumps began feeling like ice.
When something resembling a gray calico pattern started flickering across the blue sky encircling the forest—which I'd been staring at until my eyes ached—my vision dimmed and I collapsed into the grass.
Perhaps it was because the bleeding from my thigh had been so brutal...

Even so, when I regained my senses after some time, I began crawling through the grass with both rifle and hat discarded.
Each time the grass roots snagged me, I drew closer to the forest while desperately enduring the throbbing pain in my thigh—surging with such intensity it nearly blinded me.

Why I drew near the forest at that moment—I couldn’t comprehend it at all then.
Why I—a born coward—came to feel compelled to crawl toward that sinister wood across enemy territory’s dusk-filled fields, writhing in unbearable pain…

……There was no other explanation but that I had already fallen under the sway of some unseen force at that time. From a commonsense perspective, the safest course would have been to avoid that ominous forest—to wait in the grass for nightfall, reach the railway tracks, and slip toward Nikolsk under cover of darkness. Needless to say, Lyatnikov’s jewels had been utterly forgotten amidst the relentless horrors and searing wound-pain—nor did even a shred of ordinary human sentiment remain, be it curiosity or concern for my comrades’ fates. ……Only…… this conviction that my destination lay solely within that forest…… that upon arriving there, I might soon be slain by some unknown hand—liberated from terror and agony—ascending straight to heaven from that tallest tree’s crown…… such sweetly melancholic supernatural notions alone did I send shuttling through the interstices of unbearable suffering…… choking on the endless quietude of the plain’s grass-choked margins…… all while smearing unbidden tears with mud-caked hands, dragging my left leg with single-minded resolve. ……Yet…… along the way, two faint gunshot-like sounds echoed from the forest’s direction—I instinctively raised my head to peer about fearfully—but still nothing stirred in any quarter—and as I pondered whether they’d truly been shots at all, uncertainty swallowed even that—so once more I buried my head in the grass and began crawling forward.

V

When I crawled up onto the soft turf at the forest entrance, night had fully fallen, and the vast sky was now studded with stars. From my mud-caked sleeves, soaked-through knees, and around my buttocks, a chill seeped through me—snot and tears flowed without cease, while a sneeze threatened to escape at any moment. Enduring this as I lay prone upon the grass, straining eyes and ears to detect movement, I perceived that this forest contained rows of rather large trees deep within, their silhouettes appearing almost translucent against the starlight. Yet no matter how I strained my eyes or listened intently, there came not a sound—no human voice, nor even a bird's wingbeat or rustle of leaves—only absolute silence.

The human heart is such a strange thing.
As I gradually came to realize this forest held neither friend nor foe—that it was utterly vacant—I involuntarily sighed in relief while simultaneously feeling my inherent timidity resurge in full force.
When it struck me—why had I come alone into this eerie wood where phantoms might lurk…—I shuddered uncontrollably and drew my neck inward.
Though possessing a temperament wholly unfit for soldiering, I'd become a military man—trudged all this way to this desolate plain's very heart—and now lay wounded and alone, compelled to bitterly contemplate my own fate. The terror grew unbearable, driving me to flee the forest at once—yet I paused and fixed my gaze into the woodland's darkness.

It was precisely at that moment that I remembered Lyatnikov’s jewels. Lyatnikov was... No, our entire unit might have been killed in this forest... I realized this almost simultaneously.

The Red Army, having discovered our advance early on, had devised a strategy to let none escape and outflanked us at that forest. Thus, if we considered that they suddenly opened machine gun fire from the flank to drive us into that forest, all previous mysteries would be completely resolved. Moreover, if that were the case, our unit would have been annihilated by the Red Army lying in ambush within this forest, and Lyatnikov certainly could not have survived. The Red Army must have withdrawn to the railway tracks while I was unconscious... And as I pondered this, before my eyes in the darkness, that phantom of Lyatnikov's jewels appeared arrayed in a row, glittering beautifully.

“I swear once more, for good measure.”
“I do not speak fabrications.”
By this time, I had already become a complete slave to desire.
For that single wretched hope—that dozens of those magnificent jewels might perhaps become my own—I dragged my pain-wracked body from the grass and began crawling inch by inch into the inkpot-black darkness before my eyes.
...A battlefield thief... Yes.
Even were one to judge my psychological state at that time as identical to those inhuman monsters—battlefield thieves—I could not voice a single word of protest.

Then, when I advanced a little further into the forest's depths, the grassy undergrowth vanished, giving way to flat ground covered only in dead leaves and withered branches.
As this happened, a cold that seeped into every pore and an eerie sensation seemed to intensify further - until even the faintest sounds of leaves and branches crumbling beneath my palms and knees made my nerves shudder with each brittle crack.

As I gradually crawled deeper into the forest—perhaps having grown accustomed to the terror—various things began coming into focus.
...This place seemed to have once contained a fort, a temple, or something of that nature long ago, with large square hewn stones lying scattered here and there.
It appeared people came here occasionally, as evidenced by continuous patches where fallen leaves had been trampled flat.

And given that there were now absolutely no people present—having encountered not a single corpse-like object along the way nor touched any combat remnants like rifle cases or hats—I could surmise that our comrades had perhaps exited this forest unharmed... or so it seemed. ……Then, when the mound of accumulated dead leaves began to feel unnaturally warm against my crawling palm, I realized I had reached a slight depression near the forest's very center. When I looked around from there, through the lower branches of the forest, the surrounding plain appeared dimly visible.

I let out an unfathomably deep sigh—one that seemed both relieved and utterly disappointed—and sat down at the very center of that depression. Summoning my resolve, I let out a big sneeze while throwing my head back to look upward—and through the lofty treetops, two or three faint glimmers of starlight came filtering down. As I gazed up at them, I seemed to grow gradually bolder, until at last I remembered the gasoline matches I always carried in my pocket.

After confirming through repeated crouching that I remained invisible from all directions at the center of that depression, I immediately retrieved the gasoline match case from my right pocket and—keeping my hands low—snapped open the lid of its automatic ignition mechanism. Guided by that light, I raised my head inch by inch and fixed my gaze upon the white object before me—what I had mistaken for a tree trunk—but soon found myself dropping the match case without even a cry.

But the gasoline matches remained where they had fallen to the ground, unextinguished.
As they burned sporadically among the dead leaves, gasoline appeared to leak from the case—the flames rapidly swelled, beginning to blaze with undulating plumes of oily smoke.
Yet I could neither extinguish them nor take any action—remaining seated on the ground, I could only tremble convulsively.

Enormous tree trunks encircling the depression where I lay had completely naked human corpses bound to them—one to each trunk.
Moreover, upon closer inspection—they were all comrades who had been alive until moments before—limbs separately tied with ropes seemingly torn from their own shirts and yanked high behind the trunks in reverse postures. Every last one bore gunshot wounds alongside evidence of having endured every cruel torment and humiliation while restrained thus—eyes gouged out, teeth shattered, ears limply torn away, groins savagely mutilated.
From each wound, thick or slender cords of blood resembling skeins of yarn scattered forth—oozing thickly from tree trunks down to roots—leaving them slumped limply.
Those with mouths rent into imbecilic expressions... those with nostrils split wide as if laughing... all swayed up and down in unison within the light of fiercely blazing dead leaves, appearing poised to come crashing down upon me at any moment.

How many minutes—no, tens of minutes—I spent surveying that scene, I have absolutely no recollection.
And when staring at the corpse of the sergeant whose chest had been gouged out, I seemed to be clutching my own chest so hard that the buttons might tear off.
When I saw the officer with his throat slit open, I seemed to be clawing at my own Adam’s apple without even noticing the blood flowing out.
When I looked up at that blood-drenched face—its lower jaw torn away into something resembling a laugh—I believe I involuntarily began to let out a gasping laughter myself.

……If the current me is indeed a mental patient as people claim, then my abnormality must have manifested from that very moment.

Then, as I thrashed about in this manner, I became aware of a faint sigh-like presence directly behind me—though whose presence it was, I could not discern.
Whether that sigh belonged to a living person remains unknown—but when I instinctively whirled around with a start, there hung Lyatnikov's corpse upon an especially large tree trunk, swaying within the flamelike glow of russet dead leaves.

Unlike the other corpses, there were no bullet wounds anywhere on her entire body, nor could any traces of massacre be found. They had merely bound her neck with a white cord from a Russian shirt and hung it upon a bayonet thrust high into the tree—yet there Lyatnikov hung, limbs dangling symmetrically on either side, eyes gaping wide as she stared unflinchingly down at my face.

...At that sight, I believe I emitted some incomprehensible shriek.
...No no.
It was not because those eyes held terror.

......Lyatnikov was a woman.
Moreover, those breasts were those of a virgin.

......Ah...... How could one refrain from screaming?
How could one remain conscious?
......The true end of the Romanovs, Holsteins, and Gottorps......

She... I shall temporarily refer to her as such... it appears she was captured alive for having entered the forest slightly later than the others. And it became evident that her body had been violated through "forced marriage"—discernible even from the gag's scarring that shadowed her lips. Not only that—the nuptial jewels numbering over thirty grains, bestowed through her parents' loving care… these had apparently been loaded into blank rounds from the large-bore shotguns commonly carried by Red Army forces, then fired into her lower abdomen. The two gunshots I heard while crawling through the grassland must have been those very sounds... The skin and flesh there had burst open, palm-sized pale viscera dangling limply from within—their surface now clung with countless bloodied diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and topazes glittering coldly.

VI

“…That’s all there is to the story. …‘Posthumous Love’—this is what it refers to.”

She must have been in love with me beyond doubt.
And she must have shown those precious jewels with the intention of marrying me.
……Yet I failed to notice that.
Because from the very instant I saw the jewels, I was gripped by violent greed... Ah... Fool that I was...

But her affection for me never faltered.
And through the single-minded resolve she preserved at death’s threshold, she drew me to that forest.
To grant me these jewels… To bind her soul to mine through these jewels as spiritual medium…

“Look… at these jewels…”
“This black substance is her blood and gunpowder soot.”
“But please look at the rainbow colors characteristic of the diamonds shining within this.”
“Whether sapphires, rubies, or topazes—they must be genuine and of high quality to possess this hardness and brilliance.”
“All of these are what I retrieved from her viscera.”
“My conviction of her love emboldened me and compelled me to undertake such a horrifying task.”

But…

“The people of this town all claim these are counterfeits.”
“They laugh and say, ‘The blood is probably from a pig or dog.’”
“They do not believe my story at all.”
“And then they sneer at her ‘Posthumous Love’.”

“But you would not say such things... Ah... You truly believe me.”
“You believe me... Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now your hand… Please shake hands… The existence of ‘Posthumous Love’—the greatest mystery in all creation—was indeed real.”
“My conviction has been endorsed for the first time by you.”
“Only through this has my beggarly wandering through Vladivostok—enduring people’s sneers all the while—proven worthwhile.”

"My love has now been completely satisfied."

"...Ah... There could be nothing more delightful than this."
"I must apologize, but please allow me to propose one more toast."
"And then please allow me to offer all these jewels to you."
"It is my gratitude for having satisfied my love."
"Love alone is enough for me."
"The mediumistic function of these jewels has now completely fulfilled its mission..."
"Now then, please accept them."

“……Eh… Why…?”
“Why won’t you accept them…?”

“Don’t you understand the feelings with which I offer these jewels?”
“By offering these jewels to you… don’t you find me pitiable—this me who’s so overjoyed, so satisfied, drinking and drinking and drinking myself to death?”

“Eh… Ehh… You’re saying my story doesn’t seem true…”

“…Ah… You too?”

“Ah… What should I do… W-wait… Please wait.”

“Don’t run away… W-wait… There’s still more to tell… W-wait, please wait!”

“Ahh…”

Her Imperial Highness Princess Anastasia...