Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was August 15th of the second year after the war’s end when the Miura Anjin Festival was held in Ito Onsen of Izu, and on that day alone, Ito City lifted all prohibitions; inns and restaurants could serve alcohol freely, sell sushi, rice bowls, or anything else—or so the district commander’s proclamation declared.

A sculptor named Q, who had been evacuated to Ito since the war, sent an express letter stating that, given the aforementioned circumstances, the entire hot spring city now stood poised with bowstrings drawn awaiting the day, already so brimming with vitality even then that one could well envision the grand spectacle it would become.
"You must come visit," the invitation urged.

Speaking of August of the second year after the war’s end, there had been no instance of such despondency since Japan’s defeat. This was because in July of that year, a Restaurant and Eatery Prohibition Order had been issued, and all food and drink businesses abruptly ceased entirely. Prohibitions inevitably spawn loopholes; backdoor dealings flourish, proving more profitable than front-door business—such was the natural order in times of chaos. It became the chapter of Al Capone and Hachisuka Koroku’s great success. While this is common knowledge today, those first struck by prohibition in that historic moment were complete novices; they could only look around helplessly in confusion, and even future Al Capones had no choice but to shutter their shops, cross their arms, and gaze up at the sky. The midsummer sun blazed down with a wanton, scorching glare, and Japan—every corner and bay seized by such intensity—became a desolate land devoid of sound.

At a time like this, they were lifting the prohibitions even for just a single day, so merely hearing about it made my heart leap.

It goes without saying that I accepted the invitation with great emotion, but the friend who greeted me wore a sullen face.

“That’s a rumor.”
“I thought the story sounded too good.”
“If such a thing were possible, everyone must be sharing the same dream.”
“It seems someone’s reckless idea swept through the entire city.”

In Onsen Town, if they won’t let you serve alcohol or even eat meals—given how everything there depends on hot spring tourists—it’s only natural for the whole city to take on a deathly appearance.

Before the station stood an arch promoting the Anjin Festival’s vigor, but the only traveler-like figure spat out from the train was myself alone; what little brushing of shoulders occurred happened solely in the six-foot-wide black market alleys, while the main thoroughfare held nothing to disrupt its play of light and shadow save for a sultry, lingering breeze.
The entertainment district, which usually monopolized all liveliness, had every house shuttered, its employees long since packed up and left—it was a town of death.

“However, to comfort your travel weariness, a separate Atsurai seat has been prepared—so please don’t be disheartened.”
“Apparently, your walking feet have lost their vitality considerably, it seems.”

And with that, he comforted me,

"You came here so eagerly, yet our dream day vanished like smoke. It pains me to ask this now, but there's something I want you to put your effort into for me."

“What is it?”

“I want you to compose a poem.”

I burst out laughing instead of replying. Since birth, I had written a poem once or twice—it wasn’t that I hadn’t—but for someone like me, accustomed to prose, the compressed subtleties of language were now alien; if I became ensnared by words, I lost the essence itself. The essence of prose lies in adhering to the object itself; one must inherently avoid focusing on words.

Seeing that I had burst out laughing, my friend seemed to take offense.

“Well, never mind.”
“You’ll understand, soon enough.”

He uttered unsettling words, like a forest witch reciting an incantation,

“I have something I want to show you.”

He guided me to the studio.
In the middle of the studio, an extraordinarily large stone had been polished to a glossy sheen.

“What I want you to see is this stone statue.”

“A stone statue?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you making it with this stone?”

“This is the completed stone statue.”

And with that, he fixed his pitying eyes on me.

To take poetic vengeance through stone was utterly unpardonable.
Surrealism had been my family’s art in my youth—granted, that’s stretching it—but if you’d heard of translated works by André Breton, Philippe Soupault, Louis Aragon, Paul Éluard et cetera, you’d know no mere oddity of rock could dazzle these eyes.
As for matters of Stone Gods—read “Shaguji”—and Dōsojin, I possessed years of erudition; regarding Taishakuten-sama’s divine body and such, I knew these things exhaustively—my scholarship extended to et cetera.

“So you’ve gone avant-garde since the defeat.”

I teased him, but he grew sullen and refused to engage.

“What kind of stone statue is this?”

“Liver!”

“Liver?”

“Verily!”

“Kesuku Sura Shinihi?”
(What on earth does that signify?)

“Sura Shinihi Motsu!”
(That means offal.)

“Offal?”

“Offal! Setajir (Snawachi) Liver!”

“Ah!”
“Yakitori!”
“Liver!”

“Sessa!”
(“Verily!”)

It couldn’t be helped that even my Surrealism erudition fell short.
Though I had written detective novels, I had never observed an autopsy and, embarrassingly enough, did not know the shape of a liver.
But a man who would make a stone liver six feet in diameter was a madman.

“Is a liver really shaped like this?”

“I don’t know!”

“Huh? This isn’t a liver, is it?”

“I looked at stomachs and intestines and hearts and made this.”
“The books I saw had no liver illustrations.”

“Hmm.”
“You’re a genius beyond all I’ve heard.”
“A yakitori skewer ornament, perhaps?”
For a signboard, it blocked the entrance; maybe it was a garden stone.
“However, yakitori shops are compact places—after all, they’re establishments where they grill and serve right before your eyes—so they shouldn’t have gardens.”

“Shh!”

He restrained me.
He was indeed a madman.
I wanted to say he was sitting formally, but since he was on a chair, he neatly aligned both knees and stared solemnly at me—then suddenly looked down as a single drop fell.
I was shocked—utterly shocked.

“O my friend.”

He brushed away his tears and solemnly pointed to the stone liver.

“This liver is a monument to my revered friend, my teacher, Dr. Akagi Fūu, Bachelor of Medicine.”
“We devotees shall gather to commemorate our teacher’s noble virtue and place this in an inconspicuous street corner, so that strolling souls may be graced by a pure, gentle breeze.”
“You must write your poem upon this liver monument’s inscription.”

Because my tear ducts were firmly intact, I simply couldn’t humor a madman.

“Poetry was something that existed in an age when people had a prolonged awareness of time,” I said. “As for someone like me, stuck fast to the reality of instant annihilation like pikadon, I can’t possibly perform such feats as strolling about to savor a gentle breeze.”

“Ah, fine then.”
“You’ll understand soon enough.”

He recited an incantation once more.

“No matter how much you put on airs of decadence, once you hear of Dr. Akagi Fūu’s life—so filled with hardship and glory—you can’t help but grow sentimental.”
“Once the screw in your tear ducts loosens.”

He sneered,

“I will now take you to Ikatora-san’s residence—and Ikatora-san has prepared food and drink to welcome you.”
Ito City is an onsen town, but half of it is a fishing town.
Ikatora-san may be a nameless fisherman of the South Seas, but in his profound admiration of Dr. Akagi Fūu’s noble virtue, he is a first-rate human being.
During the war, when Dr. Akagi’s hospital was short-staffed, he went to help and stayed through to witness patients’ final moments—he was the closest person.
Since he should let you stay for three or four days, you’ll get to eat fresh fish to your heart’s content and listen well to the story of Dr. Akagi Fūu.
“Your thinking will change completely.”

“Am I to stay at Ikatora-san’s place, then?”

“Of course.”
“To straighten out your warped disposition, staying there is the only way.”

For this reason, I was allowed to stay for five days on the second floor of Ikatora-san’s house, located up the bluff from the fish market.
I thought that, if possible, I would have wanted to stay even five years.

Fishermen were truly warm and kind people.
They did not use commonplace greetings at all—no “Mornin’,” “Evenin’,” or such.
They were not using any clever substitutes either.
In other words, they did not speak at all.
No matter how close their relationship, they passed each other in silence in the street.
They did not even nod their heads.
They seemed to have assimilated with fish and stopped talking about unnecessary things.
If fish were to greet someone, it would be strange.
There were people as plump as sea bream, and old men as flat-faced as flounders.
There were middle-aged men who looked just like monkfish and girls who resembled sardines.
Just as members of the flounder tribe were all uniformly flounders—neither Taro Flounder nor Hanako Flounder—so too, for them, members of the human tribe were all uniformly humans, and this absolute sense of trust and kinship overflowed throughout the fishing town.

And fishermen were wiser and calmer than fish.
In half of Ito City—the onsen town—I saw local toughs who had drifted in from elsewhere getting into fights, but in the other half—the fishing town—I learned that there were never any fights.
The robust muscles and bones of young fishermen were all devoted to battling wind and waves; the very idea of raising a hand against their own kind was unthinkable.
A peaceful, and warm town.

By three in the morning, the conch shell trumpets already resounded across the dark sea surface.
Over a hundred young people came rushing out from their respective homes.
About ten small boats carrying them were pulled by the mother ship and sped away.
There were no shouts, nor any dramatic gestures.
Even on days when stormy swells crashed wildly high, they simply set out as usual.
They were going to raise the large seine net.

Around the same time—or perhaps an hour earlier—the pole-held dip nets heading out to fish in nearby waters would set out.

Ikatora-san was the foreman of the pole-held dip net group; during the fishing season, he would depart at two in the morning and return at ten at night.
He did not sleep at home.
He would return home silently, take a towel and go to the bathhouse, and after somehow four hours had passed, he would leave again without a word.
One would understand the reason they assimilated with fish.
When they went fishing in the open sea, they would spend a month—or two months if it was tuna—living out on the water.
At most, it was a ship of about forty tons.
In a single room of just four and a half tatami mats, about thirty people would sleep.
Besides water, loading only rice and salt as their own provisions was the absolute limit.
They simply chased fish relentlessly.
All day long, they chased fish.
That was their life.
Their parents, their grandparents, their great-grandparents—all had been that way for generations.
And they knew that rice rinsed in seawater was incomparably more delicious than rice prepared on land, and they found satisfaction in knowing that freshly caught live fish had no fishy odor, their chewy flesh imbued with sweetness, containing all manner of thoughtful care meant to be eaten by others.
They did not yearn for the French cuisine of the Imperial Hotel.
Because they had discovered and confirmed that their daily meals were more abundant in exquisite flavors than that.

In Ito City, it was the Ōkawa River that formed the boundary between Onsen Town and Fishing Town; it was also known by another name, the Otonashigawa River.
In this river, ayu and eel could be caught, as well as Mokuzō crab beloved by connoisseurs. Moreover, where it flowed into the sea, black sea bream weighing three hundred me and four hundred me were commonly caught.

The fishermen’s children spent the entire summer catching river fish and crabs for play, but they did not eat them.
In Fishing Town, river fish were regarded as children’s toys and were never used for food.
They said river fish reeked of the sea.
While *Iso* in standard Japanese would be interpreted to mean “the sea,” their usage was unique: they completely avoided river fish and black sea bream, declaring them to “reek of Iso.”

At the rocky coast near Shiofuki, I could gather ten or twenty sea urchins just by strolling along the shore for thirty minutes.
Abalone and turban shells were abundant.
They sold them as souvenirs to onsen visitors, but they themselves did not eat them.
Their sense of taste was special.
For better or worse, there existed no gourmets as stubbornly inflexible in their tastes as they were.
It was much like whales always chasing only sardines and whale sharks specializing in eating tuna.
To put it in a word, they were, through and through, nothing but clever, gentle, and upright-hearted fish.

Knowing this character of the Fishing Town is deeply related to the story I am about to tell.
Because their hearts are upright, they can associate with people of twisted hearts.
No matter how kind a person may be, no matter how evil a person may be, they can associate with them.

Truly, Ito City was a mysterious town.
Onsen Town and Fishing Town—entities polar opposites in character—joined together and somehow achieved harmony.
In Onsen Town, they made a grand fuss over worldly evaluations like celebrities and the wealthy, guarding them as precious heirlooms, but in Fishing Town, there was simply the human tribe.
In Onsen Town, due to the postwar housing shortage across Japan, a five-room house went for two million yen, or a two-room rental had its price hiked to seven thousand or ten thousand yen, but in Ikatora-san’s second floor and detached rooms, people from other regions—unclear who they were or where they were from—rented rooms entirely for free.
Because there was an empty room, they would let you stay for free.
It was simply that they weren't forcing themselves to lend out nonexistent rooms—hence it was free—and when Ikatora-san’s wife had free time, she would clean the room for you, lay out your bedding, or fold it up.
However, only when she had free time.
It was simply that there was absolutely no waste.

If I were to write such things, it might seem as though I were resorting to excessive exaggeration to extol the Fishing Town’s modest kindness—thereby fabricating fictional do-gooders.
Indeed, even my friends, upon hearing that Ikatora-san lent rooms to drifters free of charge, would only reluctantly admit that there might exist one such extraordinarily peculiar fool somewhere in this vast world—and that was the limit of their acknowledgment.
Even if I claimed that all of Fishing Town shared precisely Ikatora-san’s sentiment, they would not believe me.
But I resolved not to trouble myself with the world’s trivial common sense.

In Fishing Town, worldly celebrities or wealthy individuals were not regarded as an issue; however, if one were to say it was simply composed of a human tribe with no exceptions, that would not have been the case.

In the dialect of this fishing town, what was called "great" was referred to as *Dzunē*.
Ikatora-san was referred to in phrases like "*Dzunē* na a."
As for what kind of person was called *Dzunē*, it was entirely a matter related to fish—it had nothing to do with the politics of the realm or vast fortunes.
And that honorific name was passed down through generations.

For example, Ikatora-san is such a case.
It was not that the current Ikatora-san was *Dzunē*; rather, an ancestor three generations back had caught a squid with legs—about six feet long—that no one had ever seen before.
When he could not haul it up, he finally jumped into the sea, grappled with it, and killed it.

Hiko-san—three generations back, he was called Kamada Hikotarō—came to be recognized as *Dzunē*, and from that time onward, the Kamada family passed down the names Ika-Hiko, Ika-Nobu, Ika-Tatsu, and Ika-Tora. Tora-san’s eldest son, Kamada Kichigorō, was destined to be called Ika-Kichi in due course.

The Seto family, descended from an expert in sea bream fishing, had been called Tai-shichi and Tai-heira for generations; the ancestors of Maguro Hisa, Kujira Ichi, and Same Roku each left behind glorious battle records against these giant fish beasts.
Aji-bun, Noguchi Bunnosuke—the founding generation who established the Aji family—in a late summer plagued by poor catches, half in desperation while navigating the Ōshima area searching for sardines, discovered an untimely large school of horse mackerel.
He entrusted the young men with pursuing the horse mackerel while he himself plunged headlong into the sea, swam about one *ri*—nearly four kilometers—to Imae Beach, raced through the foothills of Mt. Amagi, and delivered the urgent news to the Ito coast.
The bustling of Ito City with an untimely great catch of horse mackerel was his monumental achievement, and Bun-san became *Dzunē*, giving rise to the name Aji-bun.
Thus his descendants came to be called by the name Aji and would long transmit the achievements of their forefathers.

I found it painful to chronicle this, but the people of Fishing Town had physiques that were somewhat malformed. The primary reason was that they were stubbornly inflexible gourmets—in other words, it stemmed from their selective eating habits. They crossed the equator in small wooden boats (15 to 40 tons)—though this was a story from the past—(postwar fishing zones having been reduced) embarking on one- or two-month deep-sea fishing expeditions with nothing but raw water, rice, and salt aboard; and since Ito was originally mountainous terrain, arable fields were scarce, so even in their daily lives onshore, they could not obtain sufficient vegetables. No—even if there had been enough, they might not have preferred to eat vegetables. Truly, they were gourmets stubbornly inflexible to the extreme.

Furthermore, as for the nature of their labor, they primarily used their upper bodies. Even when hauling up a large seine net, it was work done sitting in small boats, heaving-ho with all their might; generally speaking, all fishery work resembled this. They swam through the sea as lightly as fish; yet one had to acknowledge that their lower limbs had somewhat degenerated compared to their robustly developed upper bodies. Therefore, the fishermen’s physiques could not be said to be sound. From the nature of their labor—working underwater even in the cold—it was both grand and unhealthy; much like soldiers at war, their entire lifestyle tended toward the pathological.

For this reason, even in Fishing Town, medicine was equally as necessary as for those in Onsen Town.
Therefore, it was no wonder that one fisherman—Ikatora-san—came to hold a profound connection with a physician.

Ikatora-san revered Dr. Akagi Fūu.
It was something that transcended the connection between doctor and patient and reached a synthesis of personal admiration; in the case of friend Q, it must have been the same.

“Dr. Akagi had many such patients.”
“In other words, they were devotees.”
“It was entirely due to his personality—among them were devotees who’d say things like ‘His diagnoses were worthless, but I can’t forget his character.’”
“This way, Dr. Akagi can’t rest in peace.”
“Generally speaking, a doctor receiving reverence for personality over medical insight isn’t satisfying for the person themselves.”
“Dr. Akagi especially was this way.”
“As a medical scholar with no ambitions beyond that calling, devotees like me became nothing but an unwelcome burden.”

This was a tragedy that defied laughter.
Yet Dr. Akagi Fūu’s entire life had been such a tragedy.
It was both heartrending and absurd.
Dr. Liver—no, that was what his devotees called him; to the town at large, he was Liver Doctor—such was Dr. Akagi’s epithet.
One could well imagine.

Friend Q had swung his chisel to create a giant liver—and what else could this liver monstrosity, modeled after stomachs and hearts, be but creation incarnate!
To dump it on some street corner while claiming it honored Dr. Liver’s noble virtue might at first seem like tasteless vengeance against all those city villains who’d denounced him as “Liver Quack”—but once you knew Dr. Liver’s life story, you understood why this wasn’t so.
Q hadn’t acted from reckless desperation at all.
In crafting a liver after studying stomachs and hearts, Q might have channeled both profound emotion and that chaotic turmoil artists confront—perhaps even finding resigned clarity through some divine revelation.
I now believe this to be true.

You should be able to see the giant liver Q created somewhere in the streets of Ito City.
It cannot be specified exactly where in Ito City, or which street corner.
It is a nameless corner.
That’s just fine.
And it could just as well be anywhere in the town.
And, shamefacedly, I will confess in a small voice that my poem is engraved on the surface of that liver monument.
Even if the passion for poetry surges, those of the Pikadon crowd cannot write it—for they lack the erudition to shape words into proper verse.

Indeed, and so—what manner of man was Dr. Liver?
The time drew near for me to recount this with honor, but it was not I who would speak—it was Ikatora-san who would tell the tale.
I had merely summarized it in my own style of writing.

From this point onward, "I" appearing in the text refers to Ikatora-san.

★

Unless investigated by the city hall’s registry section, Dr. Akagi’s birthplace remains unknown.
It is certain he was not born in Ito, but this town grows accustomed to travelers—and since fish journey year-round—none concern themselves with origins.

Dr. Akagi had graduated from what they called the Department of Physical Therapy at Tokyo Medical School.
This much everyone knew.
For his fervent wish was to exalt the great mentor who founded that department as though divine—to emulate that mentor’s noble virtue in all things.
Since this great mentor—a university professor yet doctorate-less eccentric—stood peculiar, Dr. Akagi too could not become a Doctor of Medical Science.
As a town doctor, this hardship proved inescapable; but needing to resemble his mentor left no alternative.

When asked, "What art thou?"—at which point people would readily answer "Liver Doctor"—Dr. Akagi would respond, "I am a doctor of the feet."
A town doctor must be legs that walk tirelessly, neither yielding to wind nor rain.
If there was a person suffering in a charcoal hut deep in Amagi Mountain’s valley, he had to wrap his gaiters, part the clouds, and run.
If there was a fisherman spitting blood on a small island, he had to board a small boat, brave vast distances of raging waves without regard, and rush with single-minded urgency.
That was the nature of a town doctor.

A town doctor had to sacrifice no small part of his private life.
Upon hearing news of an emergency patient, he had to kick aside his pillow and rush out in the dead of night; he had to abandon his chopsticks mid-meal and dash off.
Consider the plight of the sick.
Consider the heart of those who care for the sick.
Dr. Akagi’s fervent wish was to live sincerely as a doctor of the feet, and he deemed it sufficient to end his humble life finding joy in the small fact that some people in this town had found peace of mind through his presence.

Then came the war.
This changed Dr. Akagi’s fate completely.

That was a story that began around the end of Shōwa 12 (1937). Dr. Akagi noticed something strange. Almost all of the patients he examined had swollen livers. Shocked by this extremity, whether they were beriberi patients or headache sufferers, he would relentlessly make them bare their chests to examine their livers—and without exception, their livers were swollen. It was undoubtedly a symptom of hepatitis.

Dr. Akagi consulted the literature, but nowhere was it written that all humans had hepatitis.
When he consulted his seniors, they replied it was likely an endemic disease of Ito City.

However, those who sought Dr. Akagi’s medical examinations were not limited to Ito citizens.
As it was a renowned hot spring destination, tourists gathered from all over Japan.
Those people too came seeking examinations, but when examined, all had swollen livers.
This being so, it was a nationwide phenomenon; it could by no means be an endemic disease unique to Ito City alone.

Dr. Akagi was thrown into confusion by the extremity of it.
For a moment, he doubted his own eyes.

Until then, Dr. Akagi had particularly considered himself a doctor of respiratory diseases.
The onslaught of respiratory diseases was such that in Japan, they took on the appearance of an endemic; promising talents coughed up blood and departed mid-career—truly a tragic state befitting a disease that would bring ruin to the nation.

Fighting this pathogen through his own desperate struggle—in the remote lands of Izu, birthplace of the Soga Monogatari, former site of Kusumi Manor—he would eradicate this disease at its very root!
With such pluck, Dr. Akagi resolved thus and fought thus.

Yet, what could it be?

Dr. Akagi thought as follows.
This will not do.
Perhaps a demon has taken up residence in this land.
They are mocking me as I desperately fight respiratory disease.

No, no.
He must not entertain thoughts of demons.
This must be God’s trial.
Dr. Akagi regained his composure and reconsidered as follows.

However, why would God deign to test someone like Dr. Akagi Fūu—a mere town doctor?
I have no other wish than to fulfill my role as a mere doctor of the feet.
I desire neither fame, nor status, nor wealth.
If the sick were poor, he would continue making house calls for three or five years undeterred by wind and rain and never received a single penny in fees.
Rather, each time he administered medicine, he would secretly add chicken eggs, fresh fruits, or fish and pray solely for their swift recovery.
Would God deign to despise this as hypocrisy?

Once I resolved to fulfill my role as a mere doctor of the feet, what would returning to the laboratory now accomplish?

There, talented individuals gathered and engaged in research day and night without rest.
For one who was a doctor of the feet, there existed the duty of a doctor of the feet: to devote oneself to treating each patient and restore health as swiftly as possible—a small yet noble task it had to be.

Yet what could this mean?
Every last patient had swollen livers!
Had God singled out Akagi Fūu to bestow this burden upon him?

Dr. Akagi’s torment was profound, for he agonized over whether divine will demanded he investigate this hepatitis’s truth and proclaim it to the world.

Yet at last, Dr. Akagi reclaimed his rightful path.
The liver’s enigma required no theoretical unraveling from him.
That duty belonged to laboratory researchers.

Having vowed to fulfill his role as a mere doctor of the feet, he resolved to devote himself solely to clinical duty.
Working himself to the bone treating patients, easing their pain, striving solely for swift recoveries day by day—this alone mattered: becoming hands and feet for hundreds in Izu’s hinterlands.

By viewing things in this way, Dr. Akagi found peace of mind.
No—by viewing things in this way, from that time onward, he burned with an even fiercer fighting spirit and firmly resolved in his heart to alleviate all liver pains of those who sought his examinations.

Thereupon, Dr. Akagi, layering calm upon calm, meticulously observed every last swollen liver without exception and ascertained on one hand a chronic progression and on the other a severe infectivity.
When a family member was afflicted with this hepatitis, he confirmed that within a few years, it would spread to the entire family.

Thus Dr. Akagi concluded about its origins—this was one of war’s youngest mischief-makers.
The Spirochaeta pallida that Columbus brought had invaded the entire world in an instant—this too was war’s doing.
Though Japan—a secluded paradise during its isolation—took longest to be invaded, falling merely sixty years behind Europe’s incursions stripped its people of dignity.

Due to the Japan-China Incident, a massive exchange of personnel and goods occurred between Japan and the continent, and continental hepatitis was introduced.
At first, Dr. Akagi called this the 'continental cold.'
Just as the Spanish cold attacked the heart, the continental cold preferred to attack the liver.
Originally, hepatitis tended to arise accompanying colds, while those with liver disease were also prone to catching colds.

Thus, the continental cold-induced hepatitis was now spreading across all of Japan, wreaking such havoc that every liver of every patient knocking on Dr. Akagi Fūu's examination room door swelled to bursting.

Dr. Akagi named this epidemic hepatitis and explained it to his patients but discovered that presenting it to townspeople as the “Odan cold” proved most comprehensible.

From that time onward, he devoted himself entirely to clinical studies of epidemic hepatitis, forsaking sleep and meals.
He devised several treatments, but as patients rapidly found relief from liver pain through them, word spread—liver disease patients surged to seek him out, while respiratory disease patients abruptly vanished from sight.

However, what concerned Dr. Akagi was not those aware of their own liver disease.
Now, without awareness, the majority of Japanese people had become afflicted with epidemic hepatitis.
How could he make them recognize this and administer proper treatment?
Dr. Akagi grew frantic with urgency.

It was an event that occurred during a New Year’s tea gathering at a certain house in the fourteenth year of Showa.

As part of the entertainment, there was a lottery.
Then, a young woman drew a lottery ticket that read: “Dr. Akagi Fūu.”
It was only natural that Dr. Akagi was surprised, but the assembled people also stared wide-eyed and held their breath wondering what would be drawn next.
The announced answer consisted of four characters.
It read: “Dr. Liver.”

The prize was a can of Japanese-style beef stew.
This had been placed on a four-wheeled cart pulled by an elephant, with a long rope attached to create a pulling mechanism.

The host stood up.

“Now, this prize comes with one condition.”
“First, the person who drew the winning ticket will place the Japanese-style beef stew can on Dr. Akagi’s head.”
“Dr. Akagi must then circle around three times while pulling the elephant without letting the can on his head fall off.”

The girl who won the lottery was beautiful, graceful, and a renowned young lady in the town.
While Dr.Akagi and the young lady were startled by this unexpected development,the entire gathering erupted in cheers of"Hip-hip hooray!Hip-hip hooray!"and thunderous applause.

The young lady had no choice.
Having resolved herself，she placed the can on Dr.Akagi’s head.
Dr.Akagi tried to stand up，but since the can threatened to fall and looked precarious，he lightly pressed it down with his hand and pulled the elephant around quietly three times.
The thunderous applause showed no sign of abating.

It was a day to be commemorated.

Truly an utterly absurd tale.
It was on this day that Dr. Akagi first learned he was called “Liver Doctor” by the townspeople.

Dr. Akagi was overwhelmed with boundless emotion.

The encounter between Dr. Akagi and hepatitis had been fraught from the very beginning with dramatic strangeness and abruptness, bringing torment and confusion that sent him rushing about in disarray.
For this reason, he had scraped his bones and pared his flesh, accumulating days drenched in dripping sweat and blood-tinged tears.
Yet still he lacked strength; patients surged, and epidemic hepatitis was invading all of Japan.
It was a sadness that made one want to wail.

However, on this day, with the unceasing thunderous applause lingering in his ears, Dr. Akagi sat in silent meditation and made a profound resolution in his heart.
This must be the sign God had proclaimed.
Abandon wailing.
Abandon doubt.
Abandon hesitation.
Lament not that thy strength is insufficient.
To be called a liver doctor was indeed an honor.
Devote your remaining life, wring tears of blood, scrape bones and pare flesh—fight liver disease with thy last breath!

Fight!
Fight!
Fight epidemic hepatitis!

Fight!
Fight!

Fight!

★

One day, as Dr. Akagi was examining a small fake Wanli-period tea bowl at an antique shop called Kōkodō, men on bicycles came rushing from both sides of the road, collided in front of the store, dismounted, and began talking while standing.

“I heard your daughter’s sick—isn’t that right? Did she get better?”

“Well, it’s just not getting any better...”
“That ain’t good.”
“So, I guess I’ll go see the doctor now.”

“Hmph, hmph.”
“Which doctor?”

“At our place, we always go with Dr. Akagi.”

“What the hell. With that doctor, you’re bound to get told it’s liver disease.”

With that, the man said dismissively, got on his bicycle, and rode off with a "Take care." Dr. Akagi overheard it through the glass door.

On another day, when Dr. Akagi stopped by the medical association’s office, he heard two familiar voices conversing on the second floor.
Both were practicing doctors in this town.

“Seems a French doctor’s shown up in this town too.”

“What’s this about?”
“What do you mean?”

“Ha ha ha.”
“In France, it’s common practice for doctors to call stomach issues liver problems.”

“Hmm.”
“A new patient showed up at my place.”
“‘Have they started calling colds liver disease these days?’ he asks me.”
“Well now—looks like ‘Dr．Akagi-style Hepatitis’ has made its debut.”
“Not just colds—pleurisy and uterine diseases too—all hepatitis now.”
“Better watch out you don’t catch it yourself! Ha ha ha!”

Dr. Akagi showed irritation but composed himself.
Let those who wish to speak do so.
One must not grow angry at others.
It suffices to act rightly upon what you believe.

Because he felt sorry for making the two doctors uncomfortable, Dr. Akagi quietly muffled his footsteps and disappeared from sight.

However, that every patient without exception showed liver inflammation had become an unshakable reality in Dr. Akagi’s examination room.
There were occasions when patients would arrive bearing letters of introduction from his friends and seniors in Tokyo.
Though these were patients with other illnesses, upon examination each one invariably showed hepatitis as well.
This fact perplexed Dr. Akagi until he found himself involuntarily crying out in his heart—Trouble! Trouble!

So Dr. Akagi, helplessly,

“Your liver is also bad.”

Even when he tried to say it casually, he would inevitably fixate on the “also,” causing his words to come out with an odd intensity.
From then on, every time Dr. Akagi examined a patient, he had to fight the single word “also” and battle the pain of self-reproach.
All patients also having hepatitis—why should one feel intimidated by this unshakable fact?
Dr. Akagi agonized even over matters where there was no fault.

At that very moment, an event occurred that bestowed great courage upon Dr. Akagi.

It was December 20, Showa 15.
On this day every year, a gratitude gathering for his esteemed mentor was held by his disciples.
Ito City, where Dr. Akagi resided, was such a remote place that no trains ran there; since establishing his practice in this area, he had neglected the gratitude gathering for twelve years. However, as trains had finally begun operating, he set out to attend.

It was a grand gratitude gathering.

Surrounding their great mentor, three hundred disciples gathered.
From renowned scholars across the land to young researchers in medical departments—a ceremonial occasion assembling the school’s finest elite—the hall brimmed with the school’s imposing dignity.
Dr.
Akagi,
who
styled
himself
a
mere
local
doctor
in
Tokai’s
remote
reaches,
felt
both
elated
and
uneasy,
daunted
by
his
fellow
disciples’
imposing
presence.

When the gathering began, there were speeches by those who had been nominated, but due to his long absence from attending, Dr. Akagi too was nominated and had to give a speech.

“Even in this town—a remote island where Yoritomo was exiled and Nichiren was banished—a hot spring sanatorium has been established since the war, giving it almost the feel of an extension of clinical medicine. Through my kind interactions with the esteemed doctors there, I have immersed myself in an atmosphere reminiscent of my days in the medical department, spending days and nights of heartfelt joy.”

“Having practiced in a place like a remote island, I had always been absent from the gratitude gatherings, but thanks to the doctors at the hot spring sanatorium who reawakened within me the nostalgic atmosphere of the medical department, today I could no longer contain myself and came here. Upon beholding our great mentor’s radiant countenance, witnessing Professor Mikawa’s robust health despite his ceaseless busyness day and night, and meeting the senior doctors and those from the medical department, I felt as though I had grown fifteen or sixteen years younger—and now cannot help but feel like Urashima.”

“From this podium, I express my deepest gratitude.”

Having said this, Dr. Akagi bowed respectfully and then,

“Now, next, I have one request to make: Since the Manchurian Incident of Showa 7 (1932), I began noticing sporadic cases of sub-icteric patients with liver enlargement, but at the time, I merely found it somewhat curious and did not pay it much heed.”

“However, from around the end of Showa 12 (1937), the number of such patients I encountered year after year rapidly and significantly increased—and particularly among cold patients, it became commonplace for nearly all to exhibit liver enlargement with tenderness.”

“So for these past four or five years, I have had no choice but to say, ‘You also have a bad liver,’ ‘You too,’ ‘And you as well.’ Because of this, many people grew exasperated, saying, ‘That doctor’s a liver quack—go to him, and he’ll reduce you all to livers,’ and switched to other physicians. Yet on the other hand, there were also those who traveled great distances seeking lodgings just to beg for a liver examination—times when I was made to feel gladdened.”

“As of late, liver enlargement with tenderness has been palpated in 80–90% or more of influenza patients, pneumonia patients, and gastrointestinal patients. From the end of Showa 12 (1937) to the present, I have handled two thousand cases or more of such patients. Aggregating these findings, I believe this should be named a disease such as ‘epidemic hepatitis’ or ‘influenzal hepatitis.’”

“I believe it may be related to influenza brought from the Shina Continent.”

“In any case, when I address so many patients by saying, ‘You have a liver condition,’ ‘You too,’ ‘And you as well,’ some among the patients deem it fraudulent—even fellow practitioners dismiss it as quackery, spreading rumors that I am a French doctor or that this is ‘Akagi-style Hepatitis.’ I deeply fear this may tarnish the honor of our clinical medicine department, betray the benevolence of our great mentor, and even sully the remarkable achievements of the hot spring sanatorium’s esteemed doctors.”

“Therefore, what I humbly request is that by presenting these facts, I pray they may serve as a reference for the research of you esteemed scholars.”

“Taking advantage of this gratitude gathering, I earnestly request your esteemed attention and research.”

Just as Dr. Akagi finished speaking and was about to take his seat, Professor Kakuo of Nagasaki Medical University rose abruptly to his feet before the words had fully faded.
It is reported that this professor was later killed by an atomic bomb.

“I listened to Dr. Akagi’s speech just now with deep emotion and respect.”
“That he has focused on this reality and practiced medicine in an examination room of a remote area with such a small population stands as abundant testimony to his fervor for research, profound erudition, and conscience as a physician.”
“It is a fact that since the war, particularly in recent years, liver diseases have been increasing rapidly, and now, in our medical practice, just as we examine urine and stool, we must examine the liver of every patient.”
“Since Dr. Akagi has spoken, I would like to offer a few words on this matter for your reference.”

Dr. Akagi was so moved his vision blurred and, in a daze, stood up.

“To have unexpectedly received Professor Kakuo’s encouraging words—for a liver doctor like myself, living alone on a remote island gazing at the moon of exile—it feels as though spring sunlight has visited a heart closed off by winter. The words ‘In medical practice, examine the liver just as you would urine and stool tests’ should become a golden rule for us clinicians; I will engrave them in my heart and never forget them for life. Truly, thank you very much.”

When Dr. Akagi said this and took his seat, another person rose smoothly to his feet.
It was Dr. Osumi, director of Asoka Hospital built by Kujo Takeko.

"The remarks just now concern a fact I too have keenly felt of late—it seems we may regard all recent influenza patients as having liver disorders.
Previously, when Spanish influenza was prevalent, there were people with liver enlargement and tenderness who remain today. If you ask such patients, 'You had Spanish influenza, didn’t you?' you will find this presumption holds true without exception."

Dr. Osumi bluntly stated this and took his seat, but as this was something Dr. Akagi had most commonly experienced in his daily practice, he was so moved and grateful—verging on tears—that he could scarcely contain himself. Overcome by emotion, he found no words adequate for gratitude and simply stood up,

“Truly, thank you very much.”

That was Seiichi Pai.

At that moment, his great mentor broke into a broad smile,

“Today’s chair was not me—it was entirely Dr. Akagi Fūu.”

And with gentle eyes, the Great Mentor gazed upon Dr. Akagi.
Dr. Akagi wanted to crawl into a hole out of sheer overwhelm, but having gained the approval and encouragement of Professor Kakuo of Nagasaki Medical University and Director Osumi of Asoka Hospital—both authorities on the liver—he felt as though he had acquired countless allies, while a joy and courage welling from the depths of his heart were beyond compare.

★

In this onsen town too, the social health insurance system came to be implemented.
It was a National Health Insurance Association with all townspeople enrolled.

Dr. Akagi, who had resolved in his heart to serve as this town's physician, was thus foremost in sparing no effort to fully cooperate with this profitless system.
Therefore, most of Dr. Akagi's patients were those receiving scant benefit from the National Health Insurance, and naturally, the National Health Insurance reimbursement claim documents he submitted to the prefecture numbered several times—even dozens of times—more than those of other doctors.

However, the majority of patients recorded in Dr. Akagi’s massive claim documents were, as per usual, cases of hepatitis.
It was no wonder that the insurance section clerk got angry at receiving such nonsensical claims, and so the following official document arrived at Dr. Akagi’s office.

Urgent ○保 No. 992

April 15, Showa 17 (1942)

Shizuoka Prefecture Medical Association Health Insurance Department

Dr. Akagi Fūu

Regarding the March Remuneration Claim Forms for Social Health Insurance Association Members

Regarding the aforementioned claim documents submitted by your esteemed self, while glucose injections as noted above have been administered to the patients listed below, we hereby inquire and request that you provide concrete reasons for the use of said injections in each respective case.

List

┏━━━━━┯━━━━━━┯━━━━━┓

┃Number of Glucose Injections│Diagnosis │Patient Name ┃

┠─────┼──────┼─────┨

┃ 7│Epidemic Hepatitis│Kurobori Yaeko┃

┃ 20│ 〃 │Kurobori Takayoshi ┃

┃ 9│ 〃 │Ochiai Yoshitaro┃

┃ 26│ 〃 │Akagi Rito ┃

┃ 4│ 〃 │Sumiyama Hachigorō┃

┃ 12│ 〃 │Ota Taro ┃

┃ 3│ 〃 │Kisaki Tamataro┃

┗━━━━━┷━━━━━━┷━━━━━┛

Dr. Akagi saw this and was displeased.
Injecting glucose into the liver was a matter of course.
Any doctor would do the same—a National Health Insurance clerk of all people couldn’t possibly be unaware of that.
Yet demanding specific reasons for each use of said injections—it was utterly incomprehensible and excessive.

It was as if this interrogatory document doubted Dr. Akagi’s medical knowledge—or else suspected him of committing fraud.

In other words, just as the townspeople scorned Dr. Akagi as a liver quack, this clerk believed his practice was fraudulent because all his patients had liver disease.
Dr. Akagi noticed this and promptly sent a reply.

In reply: I have read the matter of your inquiry dated April 15, Showa 17 (1942).
Since it is common knowledge among doctors that glucose injections are indispensable in treating liver diseases, I humbly infer that your inquiry arises from doubts regarding the fact that nearly all patients I have reported suffer from epidemic hepatitis. Therefore, I believe it appropriate to address this matter in my response.

For four or five years since I had first noticed subclinical jaundice or moderate jaundice accompanied by liver enlargement and tenderness in influenza patients under my care, such cases had been rapidly increasing in number.
In this locality, it was referred to as Akagi-type hepatitis, Odancold, or epidemic hepatitis.
Truly living up to its name as epidemic hepatitis, it was raging nationwide; however, I feared that not a single health insurance reimbursement form documenting epidemic hepatitis as the diagnosis had been submitted by any physician other than myself.
At a time when epidemic hepatitis raged so fiercely, was it not truly deplorable—for the sake of the patients and the nation—that appropriate treatment for it was not being administered?
This hepatitis had been substantiated to have sporadically invaded the mainland around the time of the Manchurian Incident and, from Showa 13 (1938), rapidly increased and spread until permeating all strata of the citizenry.
I was gravely concerned that, in terms of national defense medicine, this demanded attention equal to or greater than that given to smallpox, cholera, malaria, plague, and other such diseases.
I was certain that you had noticed such facts abundantly in your immediate surroundings, but I earnestly requested that you come to this clinic at least once and see the actual situation for yourself.
I humbly awaited your visit.

He sent this reply, but from the prefecture’s insurance section, no one came, nor did they send any further documents.
And thereafter, in Dr. Akagi’s claim documents, cases of epidemic hepatitis increasingly proliferated, and glucose usage also sharply increased—yet this was no deliberate act, but merely a reflection of how gravely the situation causing his concern was worsening.
The eradication of hepatitis was none other than Dr. Akagi’s life-risking aspiration.
Despite that, the use of glucose only continued to increase day by day.
Ah!
To let out a sigh and release a lament of immeasurable depth—this was none other than Dr. Akagi himself.

From around the time the war began, I went to Dr. Akagi’s hospital to clean, split firewood, and help in the fields.
This was because maids were being conscripted and such, making it difficult for the doctor’s wife to manage everything alone.

Dr. Akagi did not employ nurses.
This was because his conscience was too profoundly committed to his patients.
It was Dr. Akagi who maintained the syringes; it was Dr. Akagi who prepared the medications.
Fearing tasks might be neglected if entrusted to nurses, he could not rest unless handling everything himself.
To call it a small hospital would belie its scale—a structure nearly as large as an apartment building.
Yet Dr. Akagi rarely permitted hospitalization.
Instead, having resolved to be a doctor who reached patients on foot, he made house calls regardless of distance or late hours.

Dr. Akagi was the most ardent patriot, but an incident arose in which he clashed fiercely with the military establishment due to his medical convictions.

As the war intensified, eight first-class hot spring inns in the town were requisitioned and assigned as lodgings for wounded soldiers and medical staff.
Among these, the largest inn was Shunkaku, where typhoid broke out among the convalescing soldiers.
When military doctors investigated, they identified one of the maids as a carrier, resulting in all staff being ordered into quarantine.

Yet when Shunkaku's master carefully observed her—albeit through untrained eyes—the maid showed no signs of ill health in her complexion, displayed no abnormalities in her movements, and appeared entirely free of typhoid symptoms.

Thereupon, the master took the maid and visited Akagi Hospital.
The master deliberately concealed the typhoid symptoms and requested that she be thoroughly examined, stating that she simply seemed unwell.

Dr. Akagi conducted a full-body examination of Shisai as requested.
And then, having determined that the illness was solely epidemic hepatitis with no other abnormalities present,

“If she continues with injections and medication for a while and takes care with her diet, she will undoubtedly recover.”

Having said this,

“I see.”
“Is it truly only the liver?”

The master of Shunkaku wore an expression not so much of worry as of utmost seriousness.

“It is indeed only the liver.”
“There’s no need to worry.”

“It isn’t typhoid or dysentery, is it?”

“It’s absolutely safe.”

“I was worried it might be typhoid or dysentery.”

“There is no cause for such concern.”

“I see. Thank you very much.”

While letting out a sigh of relief, it seemed his heart still harbored lingering doubts.

“What would happen if she were to get typhoid?”

“No, it’s absolutely safe.
There’s nothing wrong except with the liver.”

Thereupon, the master left, taking the maid with him.

This was the beginning of the incident.

Upon hearing the report from the master and the maid, all employees united and petitioned against the quarantine.
Since Dr. Akagi had performed a full-body examination of Shisai and diagnosed there was no suspicion of typhoid, there existed no grounds to undergo quarantine.
This was the employees' argument.

However, since the military doctors had diagnosed it as typhoid and ordered quarantine, such a petition would not be accepted.
The group had been quarantined, but since Dr. Akagi had examined Shisai and declared it wasn’t typhoid, they refused to stay in the quarantine room—willfully sneaking out every day to go play in town.
The ones who flew into a rage were the military authorities.

The detestable wretches who disobeyed military orders and tarnished our prestige.
The mastermind behind this was none other than that ruinous liver doctor, Akagi Fūu.
They would not let this go unpunished.
Just you wait.

Thereupon, they collected stool samples from all employees and, every single day, undeterred by wind or rain, relentlessly sent them to the Tokyo Military Medical School.
They were determined to extract typhoid bacteria from the employees' stool samples, even staking the military's prestige on it.

Dr. Akagi knew that all employees were being subjected to daily stool examinations, but he failed to realize this stemmed from single-minded retaliation against him.
Believing the military doctors' zealous research drove their actions, he thought that if they were so dedicated, he would gladly join hands with them to uncover hepatitis's true nature.

Thereupon, one day, he visited the military clinic and met with the Military Medical Director,

“I hear you conduct daily stool examinations of all employees. I truly admire your diligent research attitude.”
“If all doctors were like that, how happy patients would be.”
“Moreover, I cannot say how much the healthy development of a nation might be promoted by that.”
“However, according to my diagnosis, it appears that no pathogenic bacteria are detected in the stool.”
“However, it is an indisputable fact that they indeed have an infectious disease, and I have named this epidemic hepatitis.”
“It is a form of hepatitis that accompanies epidemic influenza, presenting with enlargement and tenderness, and while it is contagious, its pathogenic bacteria remain unidentified.”
“Since the end of 1937, I have been aware of this peculiar liver disease, but”

and laid bare his research up to now in detail,

“At the height of the military’s golden age, observing how conscientiously and fervently the military doctors approach their work, I have been moved to the utmost—and should I secure the cooperation of your esteemed colleagues who show such dedication, I believe we could elucidate the true nature of epidemic hepatitis. It is with this conviction that I have eagerly come to make this request.”
“If the Military Medical School were to devote its full capabilities to these examinations, there is no doubt they would achieve results so great that any medical university’s full efforts would pale in comparison.”
“I earnestly beseech you to accept this request and devote yourselves to researching epidemic hepatitis.”

And thus, he laid bare his sincerity and made his proposal.

The Military Medical Director’s response was to glare down imperiously at Dr. Akagi and utter a single word:

“We will conduct the examinations as rigorously as possible.”

He declared it as if slamming it down, and that was all.
They seemed to be anticipating something, as if declaring, “Just wait—we’ll make it so you can’t stay here any more than a midnight fugitive,” with an eerie certainty of victory lurking beneath.

Dr. Akagi was taken aback and had no choice but to withdraw.

Thus, the military doctors lived and breathed stool examinations—stool examinations day and night. The ones kept busy were the sanitary soldiers, pinching their noses to collect the stool samples, gathering them up, and busily transporting them on the daily second train to the Tokyo Military Medical School for testing.
This continued for over fifty days.
Finally, the typhoid bacteria did not appear.
All that had been proven was the mundane fact that even with the military’s prestige, it was impossible to extract typhoid bacteria from a healthy human body.
Thanks to this, Dr. Liver managed to avoid having to flee in the night or being thrown into jail.

However, the ill-fated connection with the military clung to them endlessly.

The aged heroine who was Dr. Akagi’s closest confidant ended her life by suicide, resenting the military.
This heroine was Tsutazuru, the proprietress of a teahouse, who knew Dr. Akagi’s character and treated him with the utmost kindness.

That being scorned as a liver doctor was precisely Dr. Akagi’s glory—this she had known best.
It was the tragedy of a pioneer.
It was also the fate of a prophet.
Those who know the truth must always remain isolated and walk a path of thorns.

They were friends over tea and friends in poetry as well.

She was bold-hearted, so she had many enemies.
There were those who informed on her.
Every time a B-29 passed, they would go out to the clothes-drying area and wave a handkerchief as a signal, it was said.

She was summoned by the military police.
Since she had no recollection of the alleged acts, her suspicion was cleared—but as she furiously reproached them for their insolence, the military police chief sneered and bellowed at her: “You lot making money off your worthless trades are traitors to the nation! Drop dead already!”

How profound was the anguish of the proprietress, who had been one of the most ardent patriots! Leaving behind in her suicide note the numerous insults she had endured, that very night, she threw herself into the beloved sea of her hometown and died.

To Dr. Liver, a suicide note in verse.

A woman's fate—
I die in rage

Dr. Liver must never yield.

Her final work had been accompanied by kerria flowers.
Could it be that the kerria flowers, blooming yet bearing no fruit, were conveying this very sadness?
Clutching them, Dr. Akagi wailed bitterly.

It was just then that the proprietress's funeral was about to begin.
On any ordinary day, this would have been a rare grand funeral for the town, but many who had received her kindness had gone off to battlefields or factories, leaving few to bury the heroine who had died resenting the military.

A woman, wearing nothing but a tattered shirt soaked with water, came running in.
It was a girl who had rowed a small boat from a faintly visible islet far offshore, seeking Dr. Akagi’s house call.
Her father was ill.
He had already gone several days without food, his entire body tinged yellow and emaciated, said to be at death’s door.

Dr. Akagi sighed deeply.

This lonely funeral.
Even if one person was missing, wasn't it heartrending?
However, how could he possibly remain here, making the girl—who must have rowed all the way from a remote island, straining at the oars—wait, and making the patient suffering from liver disease on that remote island wait for the doctor?

“Why did you get so drenched?”

“Yes, every time enemy planes appeared, I jumped into the sea to hide.”

That day, carrier-based planes were repeatedly conducting bombing runs.
Air raid alerts had been issued without cease.

“Alright. I understand.”
“I’ll go there right away.”

Placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder and offering these gentle words of comfort, Dr. Akagi sat formally before the coffin, closed his eyes in prayer, and pressed his palms together,

“There is a patient waiting on the island. I must go. Only you would rejoice in that, I trust. The Liver Doctor shall not yield!”

After leaving a deep, deep bow, he broke into a frantic dash.
When he rushed to the hospital, took a bag stuffed with medicine, and with me in tow, dashed toward the sea.

The three boarded the small boat.
I gripped the oar.
Out at sea, we heard the air raid siren from distant shores.
It was desolate and terrifying.
Across the expanse of the sea, there was not a single boat.
There was not a single figure standing on the beach.

Wind! Waves!
Carry the boat!
Island!
Draw closer.

In the boat, Dr. Akagi tightly gripped the girl’s palm and examined the color of her hand.
That was Dr. Akagi’s first method for examining whether liver disease was present.

“As I thought, you have it too. Let me see.”

By now, Dr. Akagi was a liver fiend.
The eyes of compassion transformed into eyes of severe inquiry.

Dr. Akagi placed his hand on the liver and pressed firmly to examine it.

“It’s epidemic hepatitis． But rest assured． When we get to your home， I’ll give you medicine that will cure you right away．”

It was just when Dr.Akagi said this.
A roar sounded.
Suddenly，it drew near.
It was coming this way!

The instant I thought "Ah!", I had no means to act, could only freeze and wait.

“Get down! Get down!”

Dr. Akagi shouted.
He glared at me—unable to get down—with anger.
Dr. Akagi did not get down.

The plane dove steeply toward our boat.
Dr. Akagi was staring intently at it.
A deafening roar.
Everything was turned utterly upside down.

When I came to, I was drifting at sea.
Beside me, the small boat was split cleanly in two.
The girl was floating, gritting her teeth.
However, Dr. Akagi’s figure was nowhere to be seen.

And Dr. Akagi’s figure had vanished forever, never to be seen again.
Not even one of his belongings had washed ashore on the beach.

It was a heroic end.
Yet it felt all too wretched.
Why had I survived while Dr. Akagi could not be saved?

When I think back, at a time when not even a single figure moved on land, what a perilous venture it was for a lone small boat to drift upon the sea.
It was only natural for enemy aircraft to mistake this for some military target.

I was dazedly at a loss for what to do, merely drifting at sea while waiting for Dr. Akagi’s figure, but eventually, as evening approached, the air raid alert was lifted, and I was rescued by a rescue boat.
The girl had an injury on her arm, but she was plucky and stuck it out with me until the end.
Even after being rescued by people, the girl kept her head down and did not speak a word, having lost all words to the self-reproach of having caused Dr. Akagi’s death for her own sake.

★

Thus did Dr. Liver return to nothingness in the depths of Sagami Bay.

When I finished hearing about Dr. Akagi’s life’s deeds from Ikatora-san, I was overwhelmed with emotion.
The sorrow of such a benevolent soul, such a knight who worked himself to the bone, being transformed into kelp at the seafloor midway through his work!
Yet what a heroic end it was!

As I looked down at the South Sea’s summer sun glaring off the water, I thought how something of Dr. Akagi—returned to nothingness—lingered there like radioactivity, drifting still, and at that nostalgia I found myself unbearably moved. I could not help but feel tears gushing from the depths of my being. And I, while knowing my powerlessness, was stirred by the honor of inscribing an epitaph for this great doctor, gripped my brush as if it might break, and wrote.

In this town there once dwelt a knight who practiced benevolent medicine.

Striving with all his might to fulfill his modest life as the Doctor of Feet for the townspeople,

if there was a man at a charcoal hut on Amagi Mountain suspending work orders, he would throw down his chopsticks, fasten his gaiters, part the clouds, and run through mountain forests.

If there was a diver spitting blood on a solitary island, he would race straight to the shore, board a small boat, and in his frenzy urge, “Winds, waves—bear this boat! Island—draw near!” hastening ever onward.

If one leg broke, he would run with one.

If both legs break, he will run with his hands.

If hands and legs are broken, then with neck alone he would run—

Run even when exhausted.

Run even when asleep.

I am but a humble doctor of feet, who thought to end my days running and running, yet heaven would not allow it.

If one examines the liver of a person with lung disease, it is swollen.

If one examines the liver of a person with gastrointestinal disease, it is swollen.

If one examines the liver of a person who has caught a cold and is coughing, this too is swollen.

In the end, there was no liver examined that was not swollen.

Epidemic hepatitis!
Epidemic Hepatitis!
The ravages of war had reached their extreme here.
Continental Influenzic Hepatitis had crossed the sea and invaded.
The livers of all Japan were enlarged and about to cry out with tenderness.
When seeing people coming and going on the road, he would agonize—that one must be a liver, this one must be a liver—
When he saw a patient, he would hurriedly grab a glucose syringe.
Prevent the enlargement of the liver!
Cure the liver!
Fight!
Fight!
Epidemic hepatitis!
Shouting thus, through towns and villages, mountains and seas, administering injections, he ran and ran.

Though people called him "Liver Doctor" and cursed him, he never retreated.

Even when wild boars roamed the mountains, he made house calls without hesitation.

Even with sea urchin spines piercing his soles, he would not collapse until delivering the crucial injection.

At last, when a father lay ill with liver disease on a solitary isle, he rowed in desperate strokes, heedless of air raid sirens.

Far out at sea lay the distant horizon.

Enemy planes descended and bombed; in that instant, Dr. Liver’s figure vanished.

Not only as the Doctor of Feet but also fulfilling the chivalry of the Liver, the doctor’s body was scattered and perished.

However, Dr. Liver does not die.

He cries out at the bottom of the sea.

Cure the liver!
Cure the liver!
—

He shouts in beloved Ito City.

That one’s a liver case, this one’s a liver case—

The town where the Knight of the Liver lived—how noble the path he walked!

O wayfarers, lend your ears!
In every age, Dr. Liver’s words of compassion shall never cease upon this path.
Cure the liver!

Fight!
Fight!
Epidemic hepatitis!

Fight!
Fight!

Fight!
—