Pathway to Japanese Literature

That evening, Nakahira from the apple orchard descended to Hokuro Hot Spring at about twenty minutes before eight o'clock.
It was because he passed through growling the Noh chant "Hachi no Ki" that the villagers could tell it was him.
His house stood at the highest point in the village.
Hokuro Hot Spring was located at the lowest point.
In between stood nine other houses, making that the complete count of households in Hokuro Village.

Hokuro Hot Spring was now unknown to anyone but was said to have once been a rather renowned spa.
The development of transportation had a way of making people forget what it had cast aside; back when traveling anywhere was equally inconvenient for everyone, people would flock to this spa—though nowadays only locals occasionally came to stay.
Ordinarily, it served as the village’s communal bath.
Being Wakashi Yu meant fuel was required.
This burden fell to the hot spring manager, but since he dealt in sake, tobacco, sweets, canned goods, and all other daily necessities for the other ten households, the evening bath was provided as a complimentary service.

Though Nakahira owned little farmland, after starting his apple orchard, he became the wealthiest man in the village.
Thus, after learning "Hachi no Ki," he would sing it continuously all the way until removing his geta at Hokuro Hot Spring, causing his relationship with Miyoshi of Hokuro Hot Spring to deteriorate.
Nakahira had traveled to Tokyo to learn "Hachi no Ki," but as it was a three-night trip, there was hardly enough time for a country person to memorize a Noh chant for the first time.
Therefore, his “Hachi no Ki” had few similarities to standard Noh chants, but when listened to with careful attention, parts of it seemed somewhat closer to Noh than to Gidayu ballad chanting—and even somewhat closer to Noh than to Naniwa-bushi narrative singing.
Miyoshi could no longer endure and said.

“When we hear that voice, our people get sick, so I want you to stop.”

“That’s unfortunate, but until I remove my geta, this is a public thoroughfare—I don’t have to hold back for anyone.”

He continued singing until he had finished removing his geta and stepped into Hokuro Hot Spring.
From then on, whenever Nakahira arrived, Miyoshi would retreat to the back and not show himself until he had left.
That night was no different.

That evening, Rokutarō was waiting for his arrival at Hokuro Hot Spring.
This was because he had been losing every game of shogi lately.
It was their agreement to play two games every night.
That night, Rokutarō won both games.
Nakahira had an ill-tempered disposition when he lost.
He couldn’t stand to remain there.
Because he couldn’t see the figure of the granddaughter he had brought along,

“Okiku’s in the bath, huh.”
“I’ll have myself a soak too.”

With that, he hurriedly dashed into the bath chamber. The bath chamber was spacious. At its center stood a stone water tank measuring one and a half by three ken where the therapeutic spring gushed forth—though with a temperature of nineteen degrees, even in summer there were hardly any users. In one corner was a bath only about twice the size of an ordinary household bathtub—this was the Wakashi Yu.

In the Wakashi Yu, only one old woman was soaking. On the edge of the water tank sat Okiku with both legs submerged in the water. From both her right and left sides, the young man and boy were sketching her. Of course, everyone was naked.

This young man was the Madman.
The old woman and the boy were his companions—the only guests who had been staying at Hokuro Hot Spring for four or five days.
Though Hokuro Hot Spring was said to cure all ailments, there had been an ancient belief that it worked especially well on madness.
This Madman had developed a habit of scooping bathwater and splashing it onto Nakahira’s face with a grin whenever they bathed together.
Nakahira stood five shaku eight sun five bu tall—roughly five foot nine.
When driven from the bathhouse, he left behind peace for the Madman’s family to enjoy their soak.
Nakahira had been cursing this Madman like some hellspawn,

“Hey! You unscrupulous scoundrels, stripping my granddaughter naked to draw her!”

“Does this person plan to make her enter the bath wearing a kimono?”

It was the child who looked up at him and posed this calm question.
This child was seven years old by the traditional count.
The Madman scooped up cold water to splash as a greeting, so Nakahira fled while—

“I’ll have you thrown into the stone prison.”
“In these mountains, there’s a stone prison built by ogres over a thousand years ago.”
“Even if you cry, your cries won’t be heard anywhere.”

“What a frightening man.”
“They’re just innocently drawing pictures, and yet…”

The old woman in the bath said this.

“What innocence! My granddaughter’s a second-year middle school student. In three more years she’ll be old enough to marry—and you think I’ll tolerate having her naked body put on display?!”

At that moment, the seven-year-old child said something astonishing and mocked Nakahira.

“Grandpa, they say you never let go of your wallet except when coming to Hokuro Hot Spring for treatment, huh? I wonder if it hasn’t been stolen by now?”

Nakahira had completely forgotten about the water the Madman had splashed on his face. He stared dumbfounded at the child. In his life, there had never been anything as critical as this. Indeed, he had never let go of his wallet except when coming to Hokuro Hot Spring. Only during those times would he place it in the household shrine. Of course he had savings, but savings alone left him uneasy. He couldn’t feel at ease unless he kept cash on his person at all times. And during the time he came to Hokuro Hot Spring, it had been arranged that Toshi, his daughter-in-law, would stand guard beneath the household shrine. That was all the family he had left. His wife had died. His son had died in battle. His daughter had married away from home. Though Toshi had already become a superfluous presence, since she was quite diligent and also handled shrine guard duty, he inclined toward keeping her idle out of habit. However, he sometimes wavered in this resolve. Okiku was growing up. When she reached the age where she could fully assist in field work and kitchen duties, Toshi would become unnecessary. If Okiku were to take a husband, she would be even more unnecessary.

While there had been past theft incidents involving guests at Hokuro Hot Spring, in recent years no one had heard of burglaries occurring in village homes.
But a thief did exist.
Not a single person in this village could feel secure.
It was no different from Tokyo pickpockets.
He had never been as constantly on guard at every moment as a swordsman.
Yet he had never imagined that seven-year-old child would threaten him.
The stern reality of a dark world lurking behind the child's words struck his mind.

That he hurried back to Hokuro Hot Spring without growling out “Hachi no Ki” was an exceedingly rare occurrence.
But, damn it all!
It was truly a strange prophecy—and an uncanny coincidence.
Toshi was sitting beneath the household shrine—but his wallet was gone.
He choked Toshi.
After that, they searched together but couldn’t find it.
He choked Toshi again.
However, when he came up with an idea and rushed outside, he frantically rang the village’s alarm bell.
After forcibly gathering every villager, he summoned Toshi and the seven-year-old child forward,

“Who’s the thief?”
“Name them!”
“Who stole it?”
“Confess!”

While shouting these words repeatedly, he choked both of their necks.
The two were half-dead, but they did not name the culprit.
Since they had no leads, it was only natural they didn’t speak.

★

The above constituted the beginning of this story, but it would be problematic were one to expect detective novel-style intrigue and resolution. That aspect remained vague and ambiguous, shrouded in a veil of mystery. Given that the stolen cash amounted to over ¥910,000, the police conducted a thorough investigation, but it ended as futile as grasping at clouds.

It was only natural that Toshi, who had been standing guard beneath the household shrine, became the prime suspect—but she had been engaged in an affair during that time. The partner in this affair was Miyoshi of Hokuro Hot Spring. Since Miyoshi had been escorted straight home by Toshi afterward, it only became clear that the thief had slipped in during the affair itself. And because Nakahira’s bathing schedule—thanks to his “Hachi no Ki” chanting—was known to every villager, all residents had ample opportunity to steal during the guard’s absence while the affair unfolded. They tried checking alibis, but it proved useless. The village comprised a mere eleven households, yet to the police, each one stood as an isolated castle. There was no need to seek aid beyond these walls. As long as they remained shut within their castles, they were safe—toward outside matters, there existed that perfect absolute expression: “We don’t know.” They couldn’t possibly know. They were all isolated from one another. And beyond their doors lay no light. The sole thing they knew was that Nakahira had passed by growling “Hachi no Ki.” In the end, having no recourse but to wait until the thief spent the stolen notes, they abandoned the investigation.

However, various consequences remained. Foremost among them was Nakahira's Frankenstein-like metamorphosis. This triggered panic throughout the village. Miyoshi's domestic affairs deteriorated catastrophically. Toshi sold herself into servitude at Daruma Inn. While these developments might have been inevitable, none could have anticipated Kyūsaku of the Metric System emerging as the tragedy's central figure. Yet the roots lay elsewhere. Though this underlying cause happened to surface through Nakahira's theft incident, we can scarcely comprehend the full tragedy through its visible manifestations alone. Here I feel keenly that we are mere creatures governed by emotion.

Kyūsaku of the Metric System had long been on bad terms with Nakahira.
The cause may have originated from Nakahira succeeding with the apple orchard while Kyūsaku failed in shiitake mushroom cultivation.
For about thirty years, three ambitious figures in this village had vied for supremacy:
Nakahira’s apple orchard, Kyūsaku’s shiitake ventures, and Miyoshi’s Hokuro Medicinal Balm.
While the orchard and balm thrived, Kyūsaku’s shiitake projects collapsed—breeding resentment toward the other two men.

The nickname “Kyūsaku of the Metric System” derived from his long campaign opposing the metric system. Though unbecoming of a progressive figure, he indignantly opposed its encroachment into the village, insisting it only added unnecessary complications to calculations. He vehemently pressed the village office and school—*at least keep it out of the village, at least keep it out of my home*—but could not prevail against the times. His three children, against their father’s will, received an education in the metric system; each became soldiers, were deployed, and all three died in battle. Kyūsaku was now alone—his wife had died, and he had no children or grandchildren.

Kyūsaku himself had never been a soldier, so he hadn’t known until the war began—but guns and cannons firing at ranges of two thousand meters! Upon hearing that they shouted metric-system commands like “Fire at two thousand!”, he became convinced Japan would lose under this measurement scheme and spread this belief far and wide. Though villagers knew of his storied battle against metrification, his ceaseless clamoring about Japan’s impending defeat at every turn soured everyone’s mood. There had been instances where he’d been dragged before reservist associations and pressured into compliance, but these efforts only stoked his resistance to modernization—rendering them utterly futile.

However, after his prophecy came true and his homeland faced defeat, his vigor waned abruptly, contrary to what everyone had expected.
It was because all three of his children had died in battle.
In the third year after the war’s end, he tore out the grave markers for his three children—which the villagers had erected—and burned them to ashes.
Since the remains box he had received contained no ashes, it seemed he had grown disgusted with the meaningless graves.

This village had neither a temple nor a school.
And there was no cemetery.
Outside of small parcels of land passed down to descendants, there existed neither names nor histories of people.
Having lost the descendants meant to inherit his land, he resolved to leave his own name in their stead.
Since ancient times there had been precedents of people performing great deeds to preserve their names.
Emperors built Great Buddhas and temples; monks erected bridges and dug ponds; samurai waged wars; carpenters carved sleeping cats—such examples abounded of those who left their mark on posterity. Yet this village had never known any names or histories from its inception.
Still he secretly resolved that he must leave his name behind.

He had already failed at shiitake mushrooms and other ventures.
He had also been defeated by the Metric System.
All his lifelong endeavors had been defeated, and he had naturally lost any prospect of making a name for himself.
He could not help but attempt one final rebellion against his entire life.

What is a person’s name?
The universe he belonged to was a village of eleven households in total.
Yet that too was the entirety of the universe.
At the very bottom of this universe, Hokuro Hot Spring had a name enduring through its waters, while at the very top, Nakahira might have had a name that would endure through his apple orchard.
His house was situated precisely at the universe’s exact center.

After Nakahira succeeded with his apple orchard and began bellowing *Hachi no Ki*, a dispute arose between Nakahira and Miyoshi over which family’s ancestor had been the emperor of this village.
Nakahira claimed that his own ancestor, who lived in the highest place, had been the emperor, while Miyoshi insisted that his own ancestor from the lowest place had been the emperor.
Since Hokuro Hot Spring was originally the village’s founding site and had developed around its waters, they argued that Nakahira’s ancestors—residing at the highest point, farthest from the spring—were mere latecomers to the village, lowly underlings.

The dispute had originated from hierarchical positioning, and since the debaters were none other than the two perpetual adversaries in all matters, Kyūsaku abruptly conceived a thought—perhaps the emperor of this village had been his own household. For among the eleven dwellings, five stood above and five below, with his house positioned precisely at the center. Once this notion took hold, he impulsively joined the debate from its periphery to proclaim his theory, only for his argument—judged the most preposterous of all—to become the village's laughingstock. After all, this was a settlement that had gained modest renown through Hokuro Hot Spring; moreover, as the spring now functioned as both the village's commercial hub and communal gathering place, concluding that the village had emerged from Hokuro Hot Spring required no logical contortions. Thus it appeared Miyoshi's claim had broadly secured the villagers' endorsement.

At that time, Miyoshi had launched and found success with Hokuro Medicinal Balm.
He branded it as a family heirloom medicine and spread word that it had been passed down for over a thousand years, but in truth, everything had originated from Miyoshi’s own ingenuity, conceived from Kusatsu’s hot spring residue.
Hokuro Hot Spring also produced hot spring residue.
When it was water, it didn’t form, but when made into hot water, it accumulated at the drain outlet.
In the village, they did not call it yuhana—hot spring residue—but yushibu—hot spring scum—for this mineral spring bore an astringent hue, carried an astringent taste; in all things, expressions of astringency suited it.
Miyoshi ground this hot spring scum with charcoal, kneaded it with vinegar, and began selling it as a miracle cure for bruises and fractures.
To his surprise, this sold well—hot spring guests purchased it, and orders from nearby areas were plentiful.
The villagers also tried using it, and it gained a reputation for being effective.
Thereupon, Kyūsaku flew into a rage.

“What do you mean by ‘family heirloom’? Wasn’t this something that didn’t exist until your generation?”

“That’s what business strategy means.”

“Unlike Kusatsu’s roaring hot springs, yours is just a puny trickle of water—isn’t it? You only scrape up a handful of scum each day. You’re mixing in shady ingredients.”

“If it works, nothing else matters.”

Miyoshi was a gaunt, undersized man—pallid from chronic indigestion, perpetually hunched, his every word dripping with sullenness. Whatever he said carried an edge of irritation. He would snort and turn away with disdain. After striking gold with his miracle balm, people began likening him to both a research professor and a corporate executive. This only deepened Kyūsaku’s resentment toward him, fueling his own obsession with attaining comparable prestige. Beneath his eye sat a prominent “tear-stain” mole—the sort mocked by guileless village brats—yet one could interpret its presence as symbolic of his imagined status within Hokuro Village’s imperial lineage. Though he gradually convinced himself of this connection, he wisely kept that particular delusion unspoken.

When he uprooted and burned the grave markers of his three children, he had already resolved to undertake his final endeavor.
From the very next day, he began indiscriminately chopping down the mountain grove where he had once failed at shiitake cultivation.

No one could fathom his intentions. It was impossible. It wasn’t something ordinary people could conceive of. It was only Soga no Iruka who had conceived such a thing. Kyūsaku intended to build an emperor-grade mausoleum. Not for his three children—it was for his own. He intended to include his children’s spirits as well, but since they were spirits, they required no space. He also intended to summon the spirits of his ancestors. He intended to leave behind a resolutely definitive tomb and erase all other traces from the earth.

Small burial mounds existed in the vicinity, but having also seen larger ones elsewhere, he needed to assemble a stone chamber and pile atop it a mound shaped like a circle or perhaps two circles placed side by side.
The work on the entrance had been done thinking its orientation hardly mattered, but by chance, it ended up facing south—aligned with proper form.
During lulls in his fieldwork, he would work on this project, but hauling stones from the nearby mountains remained an immense task.
Since it was a one-man job, he couldn’t use megaliths like those of Iruka, but he carried out the work with thoroughness.
He layered the stone flooring and walls three or fourfold, packed them with cement, and devised appropriate measures to prevent the ceiling stones from falling.
The stonework alone took four years, and from the fifth year he began constructing the mound, but around that time—as U.S.-Soviet relations had deteriorated and the rushed construction of American military bases had become conspicuous across Japan—the villagers concluded he must be building an air-raid shelter against hydrogen bombs.
Even if every last villager—no, every Japanese person—perished, there could be no doubt that Kyūsaku alone would survive; this was surely his design.
While his relentless challenge against the metric system was an admirable endeavor in its own right, there was no denying that Kyūsaku’s figure—building a small mound in this village hemmed in by two-thousand-meter peaks—looked utterly absurd.

“Just how many meters is that mound of yours supposed to be?”

When Nakahira mocked him from his apple orchard’s vantage, Kyūsaku scrambled into the completed stone chamber. When even prolonged waiting yielded no emergence, Nakahira descended to investigate—only to find Kyūsaku maintaining zazen posture. Suppressing laughter, Nakahira remarked:

“Well, you’re still human after all.
“Raccoons and bears just doze off in their holes.”

Kyūsaku sustained his silent endurance without reply.
At this, Nakahira too abandoned his efforts.

“It’s admirable how paupers endure.”

He muttered this and returned to his apple orchard.

Not long after such events, Nakahira’s theft incident occurred.

★

When Nakahira began making door-to-door visits with his double-barreled shotgun loaded with bear slugs slung over his shoulder, the village descended into major panic.
He compelled a thorough house-by-house search.
They could not refuse.
He was a towering man of five shaku eight sun five bu, and of late, his glare and countenance had grown increasingly severe.
They couldn’t risk being greeted by a blast from that gun, so they had no choice but to lift up even their tatami mats to show him.

The house searches began at Hokuro Hot Spring and extended to every household, but a single round wasn’t enough. He declared he would repeat them hundreds of times if necessary until the stolen goods were found. He carried it out exactly as declared. Nakahira was convinced someone in the village was the culprit. Unlike in the city, where stolen money could be spent immediately, they’d likely buried it in a field or mountain forest here. Before they could use it, he intended to reclaim it. Whenever anyone tried descending from the village to the town below, Nakahira would dash down from his apple orchard like wind to conduct body searches. The problem was he’d never fired that double-barreled gun loaded with bear slugs. Village Chief Rokutarō, acting as representative, went to visit him,

“The villagers are having trouble with their work thanks to you, but would you consider stopping the house searches?”

“The emergence of this grand thief is the village’s collective responsibility! Cooperating until we root out the culprit is only natural!”

“But consider this—the culprit might not be among us villagers.”
“Even that seven-year-old child staying at Hokuro Hot Spring knew about your wallet. Last year’s guests, those from the year before—they all must’ve known about it without fail.”
“Couldn’t some scoundrel among them have slipped in unseen and stolen it?”

“That’s deceitful talk.”

“Deceitful talk? What nonsense! The fact that the seven-year-old child staying at Hokuro Hot Spring knew all about it clearly shows you went as far as strangling his neck!”

“That’s even more deceitful talk.”
“But I won’t be fooled.”
“My eyes see clearly that the culprit is one of us villagers.”

“I’d like to see that evidence.”

“The stolen money is somewhere in this village.”
“I can hear it wailing.”

“That is not evidence.”
“You seem to be having a nervous breakdown.”
“Now you’re really trying to deceive me.”

“That’s preposterous. My intention was to explain the reasoning and have you listen properly.”

“If it’s reason you want, I’ll be the one laying it out for you. I’ve dwelled on my stolen money more than any of you lot have. I know full well none but our own village folk could’ve taken it. That this village spawned a master thief makes it your burden to bear—mark that! And remember—try pulling wool over my eyes again, and you’ll answer for it!”

Rokutarō returned after being thoroughly scolded in a completely contrary manner.
However, even Nakahira understood that suspecting every villager was ill-advised.
As days passed, suspects gradually filtered through his mental sieve until only two remained.
Though Nakahira’s sieve differed vastly from a judge’s, to him alone it functioned as an uncompromising filter—and he had reasons enough for this.
The final two were Miyoshi of Hokuro Hot Spring and Kyūsaku the metric system rebel—men whose years of enmity with him provided what could be called absolute justification.

Miyoshi of Hokuro Hot Spring was next only to him in wealth; since stealing his treasured possession would make one the wealthiest in the village—this too was an irrefutable motive.
The fact that he had an affair with Toshi, intoxicated her with sweet talk to steal his wallet, and now feigned innocence—for a cunning bastard like him, this was no difficult feat.
A small man with a weak stomach, pale and stooped—exactly the type to be lustful, stubborn, and as sharp as a Tokyo pickpocket.

Kyūsaku of the Metric System had seen his ventures fail year after year when he embarked on building what looked like a hydrogen bomb shelter, plunging him further into becoming the village’s poorest man.
But his growing need for money made this a critical motive.
What grew harder to forget with each passing day was how he had been teased and provoked just days before the theft.
Enraged, Kyūsaku had retreated into his stone chamber like Amaterasu fleeing to the Heavenly Rock Cave—yet against all expectations, he endured silently in meditative zazen.
This was crucial.
Nakahira could well understand a rich man’s patience through his own experience, but a poor man’s forbearance? That reeked of brewing trouble.
Just as with the Forty-Seven Loyalists of Akō plotting vengeance—it was precisely during such schemes that paupers gritted their teeth.
Here was Kyūsaku: a hot-tempered brute more wrathful than Horibe Yasubei himself, a man who’d raged since birth—yet he’d chosen that moment for stoic silence? Nothing short of miraculous.
Even if he’d survived a hydrogen blast unscathed, living as a destitute wretch like him made survival meaningless—so when he began that mountain project, he must’ve simultaneously hatched his plan to steal my wallet—a plot as layered as Ōishi Kuranosuke’s grand design.
Which meant that stone chamber surely held some undetectable hiding place.
The man had always brimmed with bizarre ingenuity.
Maybe he’d spent five years building that mountain just to pilfer and conceal my wallet.

This idea struck him more powerfully than anything.
Nakahira was astonished by Kyūsaku’s treachery.
He had never known until now that Kyūsaku had schemed to such an extent—this oversight stemmed from his own unbroken streak of victories and arrogance.
Kyūsaku, who had been losing continuously, had been aiming for his final revenge.

One night, Nakahira sneaked into Kyūsaku’s stone chamber and inspected its interior by lantern light, but he found nothing particularly suspicious. Already over forty days had passed since the theft. Moreover, since it was a scheme he had been plotting for over five years, there could be no oversight. Given Kyūsaku’s nature—full of meticulous ingenuity in unexpected places—it was certain that the stone chamber itself, with all its bizarre construction, concealed secret mechanisms unnoticed by others. Nakahira concluded that there was no choice but to dismantle the stone chamber itself.

At noon the following day, Nakahira rang the village alarm bell again.
This time, he rang it not in panic but with absolute conviction.
Nakahira looked around at all the gathered villagers,

“I’ve gathered all of you here because there’s something I want you to listen to carefully—it’s about my stolen money. I’ve discovered where it’s hidden.”
“It’s hidden somewhere in that stone chamber Kyūsaku built.”
“So I’d like to consult with all of you and reach a firm decision—I want Kyūsaku to dismantle that mountain and have each stone of the chamber removed one by one.”

“Are you calling me the culprit?”

“No.”
“I do not say that.”
“I’ve only determined it’s embedded within that stone chamber.”

The others besides Kyūsaku found nothing strange in Nakahira’s reasoning.
They subscribed to a philosophy that being cleared of suspicion sufficed—to dwell further was life’s waste.
Above all, the people deemed Nakahira’s argument both plausible and substantial.

For while he claimed the chamber held the loot, he stopped short of naming Kyūsaku as thief.
That these words—uttered while hefting a double-barreled gun—bore the trappings of a sage ruler’s verdict made further logic superfluous.
Should money surface without a culprit emerging—truly auspicious.
And since none could help but privately applaud Nakahira’s show of resolve, none pitied Kyūsaku’s five-year mountain being torn down.
Rokutarō, the village chief, paid homage to this judgment by

“Well, this settles the commotion—most auspicious.”
“Therefore, I entrust this matter to the honorable gentlemen Nakahira and Kyūsaku—though it pains me to ask, I must request that you dismantle the mountain and produce the funds.”
“Everyone would surely wish to assist, but as you are well aware, it’s presently the busy season for the fields.”

Thus it concluded.

Kyūsaku silently suppressed the urge to scream.
He did not utter a word nor move a muscle.
When the conclusion was reached and people began dispersing, he too started walking in silence.
He crawled into the stone chamber and collapsed onto his side.
Nakahira, who had followed him, sat at the hole's entrance, laid down his double-barreled gun, took out the rice balls dangling from his waist, and began eating.

★

Kyūsaku never emerged.
Even when addressed, he gave no reply.
Nakahira crawled into the hole and shook his shoulder, but he kept up the pretense of sleep and refused to open his eyes.

As night fell, Nakahira returned home.
When he went to check the next day, Kyūsaku was still in the hole.
Even when the next day came, Kyūsaku did not emerge from the hole.

A rumor spread that Kyūsaku intended to fast to death, and increasingly no one but Nakahira approached the hole anymore.

But Kyūsaku was not fasting.
He merely hid in the hole during daytime.
And he was thinking.
Not about anything in particular.
He remained the Kyūsaku of Metric System infamy.
The vigor that had once driven him to storm village offices and schools to battle measurement reform had not vanished.
This was the same Kyūsaku who during the war had puffed up his shoulders and grown more defiant when dragged before the veterans' association to be berated.
Kyūsaku would never starve himself over bitter resentment for false charges he couldn't even recall incurring.

He knew that clearing the shame of false charges and making Nakahira look foolish would be simple. If he dismantled the mountain and took apart the stone chamber, it would become clear. It may have seemed utterly simple, yet he could not bring himself to do it. It was a structure built over five years with every ounce of his strength. It was not something that could be dismantled so easily. That was why he had become lost in thought.

Thinking about it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Because there was no other way to clear himself of the false charges. But he tried to think. He was merely trying to think. Then he grew drowsy. He wasn’t thinking about anything.

The foolishness, the emptiness—they felt dear.
Night fell, sometimes deepening into midnight, when he abruptly came to his senses and rose.
He staggered slightly.
He was hungry.
He returned home, cooked a sho of rice, and devoured it in one go.
Then after standing up to wash his hands and such, he went back to the hole before daybreak.
It was because the hole was more comfortable to live in.
When inside the hole, he could remain at ease.
The reassurance that no one could do anything about this hole.
And as he remained confined in the hole, he gradually forgot about the false charges and came to immerse himself entirely in the reassurance that no one could do anything about this hole.

Five days passed, then a week—yet Kyūsaku, who was supposed to be fasting, began being spotted striding vigorously to relieve himself in the fields or heading out to drink water. The children, who had been warned by their parents not to approach, started gathering around the hole.

The one who was pleased to see this from the apple orchard was Nakahira.
He immediately came to the front of the hole,

“You’re good children, so break down this mound of earth for me.”

When the children began breaking down the earth mound, it was their parents who were startled by this sight; they came running and led the children away. At that moment, one parent scolded their child with these words.

“You’ll get beaten!
“You idiot!”

Kyūsaku in the hole, at this parent’s rebuke, suddenly opened his eyes and sank into thought.

What a splendid phrase.
That the villagers had naturally come to utter these words was his life's wish.
Divine Retribution.
Heavenly Retribution.
Imperial Retribution.
A mere mortal cannot possibly wield retribution.

This village had no shrine either.
Not even a small shrine to Oinari-sama existed.
There had never existed anything in this village that should have feared divine retribution.

"I'm the first one in this village to be feared for divine retribution."

When he realized this, his entire body trembled with joy indeed.

“I’ll curse you!”

He roared in a terrifying voice.
Then indeed his chest fluttered with joy.
And it became a feeling of supreme tranquility.
This was the heart of god, the heart of the Emperor, he thought.

It was from this moment that he truly shut himself inside the hole, never taking a single step out again, and thus naturally began fasting.
It was not that fasting had been his purpose.
It was because he could not bear to be separated from this supreme tranquility—from the heart of god—even for an instant.
If he took one step outside, it would be the mundane world.
He would lose this tranquility.
The inside of the hole was heaven.
He himself was a celestial being.
The dark hole became dyed with rainbows as five-colored light filled it.
There were times when he could hear celestial music.

About twenty days had passed since he had completely confined himself within the hole and ceased all movement, so a policeman and a doctor came from the village, carried him out, and took him to the police box.
The following day, under the policeman’s direction, the villagers spent the entire day from early morning breaking down the mound and destroying the stone chamber.

Nakahira’s wallet never turned up anywhere.
They searched Kyūsaku’s house as well, but no bundles of bills turned up anywhere.
As an unexpected find, a single scroll titled "Hokuro Emperor Genealogy"—apparently Kyūsaku’s latest creation—had surfaced.
Beginning with Amaterasu Ōmikami and culminating in an emperor resembling Kyūsaku, the final section stated:

“Beneath this Emperor’s gaze lies Great Hokuro; the Hokuro Emperor’s tomb is interred in the back mountain’s mausoleum.”

With this, it became clear that those mountains and stone chambers were indeed the Hokuro Emperor’s mausoleum.

In a little over ten days, the Hokuro Emperor returned to his former vigorous state.

“We didn’t know that was the Hokuro Emperor’s mausoleum—destroying it was a pity, but in return your life was spared and the false charges were washed away. Show us mercy.”

With those words, he was sent out from the police box.
In front of the police box, all the village household heads except Nakahira had gathered.
They greeted Kyūsaku’s release with deep bows, their postures verging on full prostration—not because they had recognized him as the Hokuro Emperor.

“Now regarding this matter, we truly have no excuse.
Though we acted without knowing it was a false charge and all took part in destroying the mausoleum, this was under police orders and unavoidable—so we humbly ask for your mercy.
If you tell us to do so, the entire village will join forces to rebuild the mausoleum exactly as it was.
Here—exactly as promised.”

Rokutarō’s greeting was one of prostration—bending at the waist and knees so deeply that his hands touched the ground, voice and tears falling together.

In unison, they pleaded: “Please show us mercy.” “Exactly as promised,” everyone followed suit.

Kyūsaku did not respond.
He silently began to walk.
Rokutarō hurriedly moved to grab and hold him,

“You’re in no condition for that.
We’ve prepared a car—please get in.”

They loaded Kyūsaku onto a cart carrying cabbages and potatoes; pulling and pushing together, the group returned to the mountain.
No matter who spoke to him along the way, Kyūsaku did not answer.

When they pushed the cart up through the cedar forest and emerged below Hokuro Hot Spring, the women also gathered around, removing their hoods,

“Thank you for your efforts this time.
Please show us mercy.”

they apologized in unison.
From the apple orchard where he witnessed this, Nakahira hurriedly fled into his house, removed the double-barreled gun from the wall, placed it on his lap, and sat there violently trembling.

When Kyūsaku arrived at his house, he took a saw and went outside.
The villagers watched in stunned silence.
He climbed straight up to the Apple Orchard.
And by evening, he felled every last apple tree in the Apple Orchard.

Nakahira walked out to the veranda with his gun and then came back inside, sitting there shaking uncontrollably, but there was nothing he could do.

Starting the next day, Kyūsaku set to work at the mausoleum, but in a little over ten days, he threw all the stones into the valley, leveled the ground, and transformed the mausoleum into farmland.
There, he sowed turnips.
However, on the evening he finished sowing the turnips, he cut open his stomach with a sickle and died.
From the time he returned to the mountain until that day, he had not spoken a single word to anyone.