Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Ran Ikujirou

I

Seaside city, K――.

That place was known for possessing the most vibrant, most colorful "summer" in all the land. Indeed, when those towering cumulus clouds—the very symbol of K―― Town’s refreshing “summer”—rose in the sky, the streets erupted into a frenzied buzz like poking a beehive. Awakening from their long hibernation, young and old alike found their faces uniformly aglow with an indefinable “anticipation.” Indeed, the people of this town conducted an entire year’s business within the mere two months of "summer."

July! The wisteria blossoms had already scattered, the oppressive gloom of the rainy season had lifted, and beneath the trellis hung with wisteria pods, burly bumblebees crisscrossed through the air on drowsy wings…

A refreshingly sweet July wind— Resounding distant waves, the scent of the shore—.

"Now, summer is here—" The venerable sunshades shook off their dust, the café with flaking paint busied itself with cosmetics—while young men puffed out their barrel chests for the villa girls soon to arrive. Along the shore, reed-screened Samma Houses sprang up like sudden whims—game stalls and changing rooms too—Western-lettered signs swinging above them as shower sounds came rushing through. Boom. Boom.

The coastal festival’s fireworks drifted across the sea, blooming one after another in vividly clear azure skies, each leaving behind dreamlike clumps of smoke.

What a splendid coast this is!

It was as if a multicolored curtain had fallen, transporting one to another world. Against the deep blue sea, the shore was strewn with beach parasols and tents in violent hues, scattered about in profusion like a garden of poisonous mushrooms. There, a group of vivacious beauties—like spirits born from that garden—now exposed without reservation their precious limbs that hadn't seen sunlight for a full year; clad in boldly colored swimsuits of their own choosing, they danced wildly upon the scorching sand.

What unrestrained bodies these were!

That was a bustling scene brimming with allure for youthful days.

II

Shirafuji Rotarou, afflicted with a lung condition, resided in Room 48 of the S Sanatorium tucked away in a corner of K―― Town.

Despite being no more than fifteen blocks from that vibrant Y Coast brimming with energy, this sanatorium—nestled precisely within a cliff depression and removed from the shopping district—remained as quiet as if forgotten by the world throughout the year.

However, even to this sanatorium, the summer wind arrived with brisk freshness. Shirafuji Rotarou, drawn by the fireworks that had been sounding since earlier, gazed out from the second-floor recreation room at the sea visible through pine branches. Pon—when a crisp report sounded, even from here one could catch glimpses of those fireworks' smoke. Today must be the coastal festival opening...

Rotarou had received sufficient treatment from an early stage and recovered to the point where he could be discharged at any time. However, between his reluctance to abandon this rare K—— summer only to rush back to Tokyo unnecessarily, and the peace of mind from knowing this sanatorium was managed by his classmate’s father, he ultimately resolved to spend this summer continuing his convalescence here—as if residing in a doctor-supervised apartment. (Maybe I should go take a look.)

Having been told by the director—his friend’s father—that his body was now fully recovered, he could go out for walks whenever he pleased. He put on an extra-wide wood-shaving hat, slipped on his yukata and geta, passed through the sanatorium gate, and walked slowly along the hedge-lined path—rich with shade—toward the coast. Soon, when the hedges ended, he crossed a stone bridge about six feet long bearing a grandly carved name—from there, turning right would make Y Coast suddenly spread out below his eyes.

Rotarou stood atop that low hill, gazing in astonishment at the dramatically transformed appearance of the coastline.

Under the azure sky, the coastal scenery spread out before him—what a brilliantly multicolored spectacle it must have been. It was like a flower garden in riotous bloom, like a paint-smeared toy box upended—as beautiful and arresting as the dreams of youth itself. It was an astonishing transformation, as if a remote Tohoku village had been transplanted to Ginza Avenue within mere days. The weeds along that once-deserted coast, which had rustled silently in solitude, now trembled joyfully as if intoxicated by the festive air. No wonder—for today was the coastal festival opening when this seaside city would be cast into a crucible of vivacious energy, the day when its very essence surged forth——.

Out at sea, a barge rigged for rapid-fire launches swayed lazily upon the glittering waves, while the heads of summer-craving water sprites surfaced intermittently as they swam toward the vessel. They looked exactly like sesame seeds scattered across a blue tatami mat. Rotarou parted the weeds and took a shortcut down to the coast.

The sand had been scorched by the blazing sun to such a degree that going barefoot was unthinkable. And the air was stiflingly hot from its radiation. And then, with a roaring wave, the fervent, pulsating limbs of young men and women came flooding into his entire field of vision. Having lived a sanatorium life that had felt nearly forgotten until now, he—perhaps momentarily intoxicated by that intense atmosphere—felt such a dizzying vertigo that his vision nearly swam. The limbs of the girls—liberated at last from the cumbersome kimonos they’d worn so long—displayed such robust, uninhibited vitality that this sight seized Rotarou’s gaze with fresh intensity.

What splendid limbs these were! Skin still untouched by the sun—a cream-white like white silk—or already tanned to a golden brown; their complexions contained resilient health within them, stretching supplely and leaping with antelope-like vitality. And from swimsuits that clung snugly to their bodies, lines of seething allure cascaded down……. As they dashed past Shirafuji Rotarou—who stood transfixed—some laughing and chattering, others holding up small hands against the glare, there arose from this flock of beauties not the briny scent of shore, but a sweet, faint, maidenly fragrance that pierced his nostrils——.

He stood there utterly intoxicated by the crackling energy around him when—finally noticing how pathetically out of place his yukata and wood-shavings hat appeared in this kingdom of bare skin—he hunched his shoulders, wove through the village of parasols, and slipped into one of the seaside shops set up further back: "Saffron." He leaned back in the deck chair, the straw of his fizzing soda water clamped between his lips, his eyes captured by the dazzling coast.

――In moments like these, a young man’s eyes inevitably fixate on a single focal point. True to form, Rotarou's eyes had become captivated by one particular beautiful girl. Of course, she was a girl he had never seen before, but even amidst these dazzling surroundings, her beauty stood out so strikingly that one would notice immediately. The group consisted solely of three girls who had a tent with stripes of crimson and vivid yellow.

The trio of girls that had captured Rotarou’s gaze consisted of two sisters and the older sister’s friend—Rumiko was the older sister’s name. He had become completely captivated by Rumiko. Truly, how indeed should one describe her? The crimson swimsuit clung to her pale, supple limbs with almost vexing precision—from the proud swell of her breasts curving around her waist to the sleek lines tracing down her effortlessly extended legs—its contours drawn as smoothly and vividly as a master artist’s brushstrokes, achieving a brilliance of symmetrical perfection.

And the waved cropped hair that fluttered down lightly onto her pale, bare forehead looked as vividly beautiful as seaweed.

She was laughing cheerfully, without a care in the world. And every time she laughed, her perfectly aligned, gleaming white teeth shone brightly in the summer sun through her vividly moistened lips. “Well then—aren’t we going for a swim?”

“Yes, let’s go――”

The three modern girls, having brushed off the sand and stood up, cheerfully linked arms and ran off across the beach. Her bobbed head bounced buoyantly—then with a sudden splash, she plunged into the teeming sea like a young ayu. "Haa..." Shirafuji Rotarou let out a meaningless sigh and cast his eyes around without really looking, when—

“Ah—” He involuntarily released his mouth from the straw he’d been holding.

From the tent of those three girls, about twenty ken away on the opposite side—though clad only in swim trunks and further obscured by sunglasses—he discovered *that* face: Yamaka Jūsuke’s sarcastically twisted visage. Yamaka Jūsuke—regarding this man, Rotarou harbored bitter experience. For though Yamaka was a man in his thirties with a slightly acerbic edge, he possessed formidable skills and lived extravagantly. Fresh out of school, Rotarou had been deceived by him—persuaded through smooth talk into purchasing villa land that turned out to be an utter sham—thereby squandering about half of his substantial paternal inheritance. For this, his uncle severely reprimanded him, and though it was his own money, Rotarou found himself placed under his uncle’s management, stripped of financial autonomy.

It was frustrating, but against Yamaka—who had outmaneuvered him at every turn—there was nothing he could do legally. In the end, Rotarou had essentially paid exorbitant tuition for a lesson in sociology. Now then—since Yamaka fortunately didn’t seem to have noticed him yet—he considered whether to slip away during this moment or perhaps throw out some snide remark… but there was no way he could match that unscrupulous man. Or rather— (Don’t get involved with him again—)

Just as he recalled his uncle’s admonition and began to stand— The trio centered around Rumiko came running back up, laughing cheerfully just as they had when they’d gone. Drenched by the water, the swimsuit still clung snugly to her body, clearly outlining every contour and briefly drawing his gaze. “It’s so cold…” “You’re right—the water’s still freezing.” “Oh dear, Miss Rumiko… Your lips look pale…”

“Yes… I just feel so cold…” “Oh dear, that won’t do—you need to get some sun…”

“Yes...” Hunching her shoulders as if chilled, she threw herself onto the scorching sand behind the tent and lay face-down, stretched out luxuriously.

Drop by drop, seawater trickled from the tips of her waved bobbed hair, leaving black stains on the scorching white sand before vanishing. A beautiful girl in a swimsuit pale as bleached wax lay stretched out sleekly against the sandy ground—her exposed thighs, those plush curves never before touched by sunlight, neither fully dry nor wet, glistening with an intense, alluring sheen. Shirafuji Rotarou walked away slowly, stealing glances as he pulled his wood-shavings hat low over his eyes.

The girl lay face-down on the scorching sand, trembling both hands violently as she disturbed it. Her movements were far too clumsy for mere sand play. For she was raking the sand with her beautiful nails upturned, heedless of the grains flying into her face— If Shirafuji Rotarou—no, if the many people around him—had understood what it meant, how astonished they would have been—.

The beautiful girl who had captured Rotarou’s gaze—evidently now becoming the center of everyone’s attention—was flanked by a group of four or five students, a family with two children in tow, and about three youth group members seated on a beached fishing boat along the shore; Rotarou had known for some time that they were occasionally exchanging furtive glances.

The spot where she now lay had until recently been the students' triple jump grounds; now she sprawled alone in that vacant space like an outcast. She seemed to repeat the meaningless sand play two or three more times, but perhaps having grown weary even of that, she made no effort to brush away the sand clinging to her face and lay stretched out limply like a dried fish. Though, for a dried fish, she was far too radiantly beautiful—

It was just as Shirafuji Rotarou was passing right beside her. From inside the tent, a girl who appeared to be her younger sister came hopping across the scorching sand like a grasshopper, “Sis—are you still cold?”

“...” “Hey, getting exposed to the sun too suddenly can be toxic—” “...” Even so, she didn’t respond. “Oh, Sis…”

Having said that, it was when she tried to lift her up.

“Ah!”

she let out a recoiling cry of surprise— “Yo-chan! Yo-chan! Come quick—something’s wrong—something’s wrong with Sis—” she shouted to her friend who had remained in the tent. Shirafuji Rotarou instinctively turned toward the girl who had come over at the abrupt shout,

“Oh...” He muttered under his breath. Just moments ago, her face—that of a vibrant, rosy-cheeked beauty—had now turned as dull and ashen as the sand clinging to it; her half-lidded eyes gleamed eerily white, while her cheeks showed through translucent pale, utterly bloodless. (What’s happening...—) As he stood frozen, the girl called Yo-chan and some nearby students—

“Is something wrong—”

they came over.

“Ah! No pulse—she’s dead—”

A student who had grabbed her hand let out a shrill cry.

“Huh?!” The younger sister and Yo-chan’s faces changed in an instant. “What’s goin’ on? What’s goin’ on?”

The nosy beach crowd swarmed over like ants. Shirafuji Rotarou too, as if drawn in, peered from within the throng of people when Yamaka Jūsuke—who seemed to have rushed over already—alongside the student who had checked her pulse, was lifting her up with practiced ease.

“Ah! This is—” Yamaka Jūsuke too let out a startled cry. “Oh—”

Already, the crowd in swimsuits that had formed a circle seemed to recoil a step back in unison.

Beneath the swell of the beautiful girl’s left breast—when had it been stabbed?—a single dagger with white residue was thrust menacingly, its sinister blade buried deep. And perhaps from having been lifted up, the gushing blood from the wound now dripped down—plop, plop—as if the crimson swimsuit itself were dissolving into seawater. The surroundings were filled with glaring midsummer light so bright it made one's eyes swim. Perhaps because of this, the contrast between her alabaster limbs and crimson swimsuit—now streaked with gushing blood—seared itself into the retina with unbearable intensity.

Shirafuji Rotarou staggered through the ring of people and gazed out to sea with a sigh. At its vividly gruesome reality, his eyes stung.

“Mr. Shirafuji... isn’t it?”

“Huh?”

When he turned around, Yamaka was smirking behind his glare-cutting sunglasses. “Well—” He too greeted him with an air of resignation, his hand touching the brim of his hat.

“It’s been so long since we last met—and I heard you’d been unwell…”

“No, I’m fine now.” “I see—that’s a relief.”

Yamaka spoke with feigned concern, “I must say, this is quite shocking—a murder in broad daylight during this bustling coastal festival opening, of all things...”

He began speaking with presumptuous familiarity. "Oh? So she was killed, I wonder." "That's obvious. "If she'd wanted to kill herself—and besides, she's a young girl—would she really stab herself with a dagger in this crowded place? If you're going to die anyway, you'd do it more romantically. Honestly—"

“Hmm, but I’ve been watching since earlier—no one went near her…” “You’ve been watching me since earlier, haven’t you—” Yamaka twisted his mouth into a slightly sarcastic smile and laughed. This was this man’s habit. “Oh no, that’s…”

Rotarou— (Damn)— While thinking this, he felt his earlobes flush red,

“But even so… Indeed, she wasn’t holding anything until she lay down there… Could the dagger have been lying around?” “You must be joking! Are you suggesting someone planted an unsheathed dagger upright in the sand on this packed beach? Ha ha ha—and that she threw herself down hard enough to pierce her heart? Utterly preposterous.” “Well… now that you mention it, students over there have been doing triple jumps and tumbling around… So then, I can’t make sense of it…”

“I must say, I completely agree it’s baffling. According to your account, that girl wasn’t holding a dagger, and even after she lay down, no one went near her—yet she was stabbed and killed with a dagger…” “Wait a second.” “It’s not like I was the only one watching her.” “Because she was such a beautiful person, there might’ve been someone who never took their eyes off her since long before me.” “Ah, I see. In fact, I too was paying my own respects through observation, so to speak. Ha ha ha…”

Yamaka bared his yellow gums in a mocking laugh, “Further ahead lies my small villa—I would very much like to have the honor of your visit one day, Mr. Shirafuji.”

“I see. Well, perhaps one of these days…” (No doubt he didn’t build it with clean money.) As he thought this, suddenly,

“Ah, Mr. Yamaka—could that girl have had the dagger thrown at her? From somewhere, swiftly…” “Hmph.”

Yamaka tilted his head but immediately, “No, no. A thrown dagger can’t possibly burrow through sand and pierce the heart from beneath a prone body…… By the way, weren’t you the one who passed closest to her around that time? That yukata of yours does stand out among all these bare-chested boys——” “Th-that’s not funny! Are you saying I killed that girl I’ve never even met?”

Rotarou became intensely angry at this rude Yamaka. “I’ll take my leave—”

Just as he was about to leave— A youth group member with a faded beach coat hastily draped over his shoulders came rushing over, “Excuse me, but those present here must refrain from moving for the time being.” he was detained. (Tch!)

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he stole a glance at Yamaka’s profile—the man remained smirking faintly while deliberately looking away. (Oh well—he’ll set up an alibi with “Saffron” for me——) Having no other recourse, he turned his gaze seaward again—just as the rapid drumming began— Boom, boom, boom, BANG! The resounding report echoed out as a balloon figure emerged abruptly from the smoke, drifting lazily through the air like something dazed, while beach children erupted in cheers and chased after it in a bustling cluster.

The beach, seemingly unaware of the bizarre murder that had occurred, churned in kaleidoscopic chaos—vigorously bustling for the coastal festival opening, one of its most important annual events.

×

The bizarre murder that suddenly occurred on the beach during that brilliantly bustling "Coastal Festival Opening"—apart from its victim being an exceptionally beautiful girl—completely seized Rotarou's mind precisely because its method was itself extraordinarily mysterious. Even after returning to the sanatorium, he—being an actual witness—was made to recount the entire incident numerous times to curious patients and nurses.

However many times he had been made to repeat the story, it only served to corroborate and emphasize that this was an exceptionally rare and mysterious crime—not a single plausible conjecture toward its solution ever arose. ――She (whom he would learn from the next day’s newspaper was Rumiko, eldest daughter of Tokyo industrialist Mr. Ōi) had been lying sprawled on that beach, clawing at the sand two or three times with both hands in frantic motions—if so, this was no childish play with sand, but perhaps desperate writhing from the agony of the dagger already buried in her chest…….

When he realized this, the eerie movement of her hands—what must have been her death throes—revived vividly behind his eyelids, sending a chill through him.

(Why on earth did such a radiant young woman have to be killed—) That was something he—an "outsider"—could scarcely have imagined. Yet even so, he couldn't help feeling a resentment akin to jealousy toward the "culprit’s" ruthless efficiency in stealing away a beautiful soul before that very crowd.

III

The day of the Coastal Festival Opening had ended—had it been about ten days since then? At precisely this time—when schools were on break and its temporal proximity to Tokyo made it easily accessible—the bustle of K-- Town reached its very peak.

As summer dusk slowly crept in, water vapor rising from the sea surface coalesced into a milky haze that dampened the colorfully lit beachside summer houses; a tropical passion—a youthful passion—carried by the refreshing sea breeze stirred even Rotarou’s chest. In skies where even crimson hues had faded, I Cape dissolved into twilight—and above, mirroring the summer houses’ lights, a clear night stretched with the Milky Way’s faint shoals—.

Rotarou didn't exactly shun the daytime's intense colors, but since he still wasn't permitted to swim, he found himself feeling awkwardly conspicuous visiting that noonday beach—a kingdom of bare skin—in just his yukata, and had come to prefer evening strolls instead.

Surrounded by S Sanatorium and passing through the forest filled with cicadas' symphony, he walked along a path glowing pale in the darkness. The path continued to the neighboring G-- Town.

Shirafuji Rotarou, even as he walked, recalled that beautiful girl’s death. It was, perhaps because it was such a vivid reality, that these past few days it had suddenly been all he could think of—yet this was limited solely to that beautifully gruesome scene itself; as for its cause or resolution, it remained as blank as the newspaper reports that followed. Yet whenever he thought of it, he would also recall Yamaka Jūsuke, whom he had encountered at that very spot.

(Right—maybe I’ll go take a look at that guy’s villa——)

Having thought that, he took a left at the crossroads that had just come into view. He had suffered considerably at the hands of that Yamaka and moreover had been strictly forbidden by his uncle Tamozawa Gensuke from associating with him—yet this only served to fuel his curiosity, Just looking at the house should be fine— While making excuses to himself—and driven by a sense of being, so to speak, the only acquaintance who had been present at that location—he unconsciously quickened his pace, continuing down the night path.

The path lined with densely overgrown hedges was dark as a tunnel without a ceiling, yet the sky brimmed with stars that twinkled peculiarly—like sunlight filtering through an old tin plate riddled with holes—their strange flickering abundant in the night. In the starlight, the drying racks of scattered villas stood tall, their still-uncollected colorful modern swimsuits—flattened into lifeless shapes—dangling upside down, lying sideways, splayed open. Whether due to the surrounding dead silence or in stark contrast to daytime’s vibrancy, they seemed unbearably forlorn.

……Eventually, the hedge-lined path was interrupted by the light of a lone tackle shop, and when he crossed the bridge, there rose a low hill—dark even to night eyes—the pine grove where Yamaka’s villa stood.

Yamaka’s villa became clear immediately. Peering through the thinly planted hedge, he found it to be a two-story Western-style structure—its polished elegance was enough to make Shirafuji Rotarou click his tongue despite himself. Except for a single light on the second floor, it stood utterly still. Yamaka had likely gone out—to Y Coast, the Ginza of the sea. Just as he was about to turn on his heel— The door swung open from within without any light. In Shirafuji Rotarou’s vision—he having instinctively pressed himself against the hedge—there abruptly appeared a man in white shorts and shirt, and another figure: a bob-haired woman wearing white pants striped with bold red lines. Though darkness shrouded the area, the figures’ pale clothing allowed Shirafuji Rotarou to discern their outlines; he confirmed one as Yamaka, but the woman—with whom he had no connection—remained an enigma.

The two, seemingly unaware of Shirafuji Rotarou pressing himself against the hedge to spy on them, began walking side by side. Contrary to his expectation that they were heading for an evening stroll toward Y Coast, they ambled off toward Z Coast instead—a place likely deserted so late. Shirafuji Rotarou hesitated momentarily but quickly reconsidered and stealthily trailed them. There was no particular motive—partly because that direction aligned with his return route, and partly because his idleness drove him.

Yamaka and the modern woman never once looked back, walking so close their shoulders occasionally bumped (though he kept a considerable distance from them—but then, their white outfits stood out starkly in the darkness) as they pressed forward down the pitch-black night path as if deliberately choosing desolation, engrossed in fervent conversation. The path was indeed dark and desolate enough to make one think so. In this summer resort area of K——a place so desolate and deathly quiet that one might wonder how such a spot could exist amidst the season’s revelry… No—perhaps it felt all the more lonesome here precisely because Y Coast’s extraordinary liveliness cast it into stark relief——.

While Rotarou pondered these things, he continued trailing them—pressed against the hedge as if caressing it—until eventually the residential area thinned out completely and he emerged atop a cliff. There, Saigyōji Temple’s back mountain loomed behind as a sheer cliff, forming a path barely six feet wide before immediately giving way to another cliff ahead—a gentle slope overgrown with weeds for about twelve feet—that continued down to the shore below. In other words, that path was a narrow trail carved into the cliff's midsection.

When he stood there, the sea breeze blowing across from the water hit him directly—so unseasonably cold it felt for a midsummer night.

Far to the left, across a sea of intricate inlets, lay Y Coast—its lights glittering like a string of crystal rosary beads—now surely as bustling as Ginza. However, in this place where not a soul was visible nor a single light burned, the sea within the darkness had already settled into quiet slumber, casting a dull luster like black satin, while faint waves lapping at the shore—like the planet’s own measured breathing—ebbed and flowed with rhythmic precision.

Yamaka and his companion abruptly stopped when they reached that point. Then they crouched as if searching for something—apparently the cliffside path—and soon the two white-clad figures slipped away into pitch-black weeds. (Hmm... What are they doing—)

Tilting his head, Shirafuji Rotarou— (Hmm—they must be heading down to the coast to return along the shore.) he reassured himself. However—strange to say—even accounting for how briefly they might have taken to disappear, the figures of the two who had descended into the cliff’s weeds had been completely wiped from Shirafuji Rotarou’s field of vision. Though there was no moon, stars fell in chaotic profusion, and by their faint glimmer there should have been no way to miss seeing white-clad figures walking along the coast below from his vantage point atop the cliff.

The figures of what appeared to be lovers had vanished into the weeds of a deserted coastal stretch—a development that might render others’ varied speculations unwelcome meddling. A sarcastic smile of the sort anyone might wear in such circumstances quivered on one of Shirafuji Rotarou’s cheeks—yet he found himself gripped by a restlessness akin to anxiety. Could this be what they call an ominous premonition? Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he stretched his limbs fully. Still muffling his footsteps, he walked carefully forward and searched for the cliff path down which the two had apparently descended.

In the faint light, when he finally found it, the path was a small collapsed section of cliff—a rough, gravelly trail seemingly formed by weeds crushed under natural forces. All around grew nameless grasses reaching from waist to chest height, their leaves rustling and whispering under the dark sea breeze. Shirafuji Rotarou stopped halfway along the crumbling path and listened even more intently, but the surroundings had fallen dead silent—like the end of the world itself—with no sound audible save the rustling of leaves.

(Where have the two of them gone...) When he thought about it, where those two were going should have been none of his business—a meddling matter at best—yet for some reason, he felt an anxiety that made his heart pound in his chest. And that was indeed no mere apprehension of his.

Shirafuji Rotarou had descended the narrow path all the way down into the weeds below and was crouching once more to scrutinize his surroundings when— To his right, about six feet away amidst the weeds, something white occasionally floated dimly into view, catching his eye.

(Oh—)

Pressing a hand to his chest—its pounding like rapid temple bells beyond his control—he parted the dew-laden grasses and approached, only to find...

“Ah…” He jerked to a halt. The vague unease he had been feeling since earlier had indeed been warranted. There lay the young woman who had been pursued from Yamaka’s house, collapsed as though discarded—no, more than that—beneath the soft swell of her left breast, a single dagger was plunged deep. ……The blood flowing from the dagger’s hilt had spread across that white outfit boldly striped with red lines—like peony blossoms scattered in a swift burst.

And there it lay, nestled amidst the overgrown weeds—each time a firefly alighted in the shade of summer grasses and pulsed its light without thought, the corpse would emerge like a hidden image, bathed in a dim, pale glow. Whether due to the fireflies’ light being deathly pale, the face of this beautiful-featured girl—still seventeen or eighteen—appeared translucently white all the more, her smooth forehead glistening with a greasy sheen like sweat, her bobbed hair clinging damply where it had fallen. In stark contrast, the deep crimson of what seemed like freshly applied rouge and the flow of blood seared into the eyes like fire each time they flickered dimly.

Under the sun, that corpse which would surely have been gruesome now displayed—beneath this dimly flickering firefly light—a perverse beauty instead, dreamlike and utterly detached from reality. Shirafuji Rotarou found his heart pierced not so much by terror as by the unearthly beauty of this soulless girl beneath firefly-lit summer grasses—a beauty that seemed to belong to no mortal realm.

4 Before long, Shirafuji Rotarou—having snapped back to his senses—abruptly straightened up as if remembering,

(To the police—)

The moment he realized this, he scrambled back up the cliff in great haste and began racing down the night path toward the police box.

“Mr. Shirafuji… isn’t it?” Just then, from up ahead, a man came sauntering toward him and, as they passed each other, called out his name.

He jerked to a halt when his name was called. “Ah—just as I thought—” “What’s wrong?” “You’re panicking like an utter fool, aren’t you?” “What?”

Rotarou peered into the man's face— (Ah—) He nearly cried out. That man was none other than Yamaka Jūsuke. Yamaka Jūsuke stood wearing a yukata draped over his shoulders and wooden sandals on his feet—what's more, he even carried a fishing rod.

"What on earth is the matter..." The man remained utterly composed, but Shirafuji Rotarou found himself at a loss for words to reply for some time. The very person he had believed until this moment to be Yamaka was now standing right here before him, wearing a look of bewilderment. (Then where has the white-clad Yamaka Jūsuke gone—) The figure had definitely emerged from Yamaka’s villa—but upon reconsidering, he realized it might have been someone else entirely, glimpsed only from behind as a mere silhouette—.

(Even so, where had that man disappeared to—)

There was little doubt the man was the killer—nine chances out of ten—but what Rotarou had taken for Yamaka must have been a trick of the dark after all. “Where to…” “Thought I’d go night fishing— What’s wrong?” “See a ghost or something?” Yamaka wore that trademark sarcastic smirk of his.

“A ghost?—No, it’s far worse. Murder.” “Huh, murder—again?” Yamaka, too, seemed to recall the murder from that day of the coastal festival opening. “That’s right—another beautiful girl this time too.” “That’s terrible! Where is it—?” “Just... in the thicket up ahead...” As he spoke, Rotarou recalled the terrible beauty of that corpse—illuminated by fireflies in the shade of summer grasses.

“Anyway, the police—”

Yamaka turned sharply and began walking briskly back the way he had come, still shouldering his fishing rod alongside Rotarou. The two of them no longer spoke. Though Rotarou had parted ways with Yamaka after their prior awkwardness, resolved never to speak to him again, here in the face of this murder case’s grave urgency—after having unwittingly engaged in conversation—both this time and the last, they abruptly fell silent as if suddenly remembering something, exchanging deliberately cold glances.

× That night, the only thing determined was that the murder weapon—the dagger—was of the same type as the one used in the killing during the bustling coastal festival opening, a common variety found at any cutlery shop across the country. Moreover, though the manner of death was so tranquil that it remained unclear whether suicide or murder, it was finally determined to be "murder" based on Shirafuji Rotarou's testimony that he had indeed been accompanied by two people—and crucially, because the dagger bore not a single fingerprint (had it been suicide, her ungloved hands would have left prints).

But—where had that "white-clad man" disappeared to? Though there was no moon, with a sky full of stars, it wasn't dark enough to lose sight of someone in white. Moreover, Rotarou had been focusing solely on that—yet the fact remained he hadn't seen it.

That man had vanished as though he had melted into the corpse of the woman he killed.

This left even the police at a loss, but in the end,

“That man—while you alone discovered this corpse and came to inform me, he must have been hiding in the darkness of the thicket until then and managed to escape—” Rotarou couldn’t shake a lingering sense of dissatisfaction, but under the circumstances, there was no other remotely plausible solution to hope for. The reason for his lingering doubt was, of course, that the man’s retreating figure bore a striking resemblance to Yamaka Jūsuke, and that the pair had emerged from Yamaka’s villa.

To the police,

“The two people seemed to emerge from around that corner—while I was out walking, when I happened to look ahead, those two were strolling along talking about something—” I had said that, but later on, I couldn’t quite recall why I’d uttered such a thing. But this wasn’t out of any desire to protect Yamaka—rather, it seemed an unconscious reluctance to carelessly reveal information here that might later serve as the casting vote to bring him down when the time came.

Now, having finally concluded their business with the authorities, the two men set off on their return journey, guided by the well-prepared lantern Yamaka had brought. Yamaka appeared deeply troubled by Rotarou’s statement—“When I came to my senses, there they were ahead of me: the white-clad man and that girl walking together—” though why this should concern him so remained unclear.

“Hey Mr. Shirafuji… where on earth did those two come from around here…?” things like, “What did that man look like—”

he pressed with relentless persistence. Rotarou,

“Well—um, around where was it again… But there were definitely two people.” He answered lightly with an air of annoyance while inwardly thinking: (As I thought… Yamaka’s suspicious after all.) Simultaneously: (Just you wait—I’ll smash that arrogant nose of yours to pieces—) I felt such vengeful superiority it nearly made me cheer aloud. —Since Rotarou refused to engage further, Yamaka eventually fell silent too, and so they walked wordlessly along the night path, guided only by the thin lantern’s flickering light that threatened to die at any moment.

Then, suddenly—

“Ah!” With a startled shriek utterly unlike him, Yamaka sent the lantern clattering to the ground. In the instant Rotarou gasped—as the path plunged into darkness—the lantern rolled across the road with a hollow clatter.

Rotarou reflexively pressed himself tightly against the hedge, holding his stance while holding his breath. —but around them, no sound at all.

“What’s wrong—” he barked,

“M-moth! A moth!”

That voice—despite being midsummer—was a hoarse, bone-chillingly cold sound beyond imagining.

“A moth…?”

Shirafuji Rotarou asked back, dumbfounded. “What’s this—you’re that terrified of moths?” After fumbling in his sleeve and striking a match, he picked up the fallen lantern and transferred the flame.

In that hazy brightened light, Yamaka Jūsuke—his usual arrogance and sarcasm utterly forgotten, face twisted like a wailing infant’s—frantically scrubbed his right hand against his kimono so vigorously it seemed his skin might peel off. A moth, likely drawn to the lantern’s flame, had landed there; he wiped and wiped as if to erase every trace of its touch. For a while, Shirafuji Rotarou stared blankly at Yamaka Jūsuke’s madness-tinged state. Soon Yamaka let out a deep sigh and—still resentfully—held the back of his right hand up to the lantern’s light before beginning to mutter in a parched voice, his self-justifying monologue emerging haltingly.

“You see… Mr. Shirafuji… for me, moths and butterflies—they’re more terrifying than anything in this world… Sure, people fear snakes or spiders or faint at caterpillars… but nothing’s as dreadful or horrifying as moths and butterflies to me… Right? Everyone has something they fear…” “True enough—for me, the scariest thing is folks who don’t even recognize their own wickedness as wicked.”

Yamaka, oddly enough, seemed oblivious to Shirafuji’s sarcastic remark, his chest still heaving with a pounding intensity, “That’s right. “Everyone has at least one thing they fear deep down—but in my case, it’s the likes of moths and butterflies.” “I consider snakes and spiders rather lovable little creatures, but this—this I simply can’t manage. The moment I think ‘moth—moth—’ it becomes utterly unbearable.” “My whole head goes ice-cold like this—shivering violently, like I’ve got malaria—it’s utterly childish, I know, but you can’t imagine how I’ve suffered from this terror. Once I even bought one of those Buriki-craft butterfly toys to desensitize myself… but it didn’t work at all.” “When that Buriki butterfly flaps its gaudy wings—those garish, indescribably unpleasant stripes fluttering noisily, flap after flap—I just can’t bear it anymore.” “I feel like those scales with their garish colors are scattering everywhere around me.” “For me, those scales are more terrifying than any poison.” “When I was a child, I had a bitter experience where those scales got on my hand—it blistered up all over and made me suffer terrible pain.” “Physically, butterflies and moths are contraindicated for me—that seems to be the root of this intense fear… In other words,”

“Huh—do such things really exist? Moths aside, butterflies are quite beautiful and cute, aren’t they? Though if you grab them, those yellow and black stripes stick to your hands just like in those silhouette pictures—”

“Ah, that’s precisely what I can’t stand.” “That torso covered in wild beast-like fur—how should I describe it? And that coiled mouth—that mouth is truly not of this world. That is the devil’s mouth—a maw that drags terrible karma in its wake.” With that—despite it being a sweltering midsummer night sticky with sweat from their wandering—he hunched his shoulders as if chilled and gave a violent shudder. At the fork in the path now before them, he gingerly pinched the lantern handed to him by Rotarou between his fingers, then vanished into the darkness without so much as a goodbye. After parting ways, he noticed—perhaps Yamaka had dropped it during the earlier commotion—that the man’s retreating figure carried no fishing rod.

V

Shirafuji Rotarou entered through the sanatorium’s service entrance and was about to pass through the medical office corridor when—despite the late hour—the electric lights still blazed brightly, and voices could be heard conversing.

I wonder if something happened—

As he thought this and was about to pass by, from behind—

“Shirafuji-kun—”

He was called out to—"Shirafuji-kun—"— When he turned around, there stood Sawamura Haruo—the son of Director Sawamura and his schoolmate—grinning all the while.

“Oh, long time no see. What’s up?” “Don’t ‘what’s wrong?’ me. What’s a patient doing sneaking around on some detour this late at night? You’re being troublesome—” “Ha ha ha! I’m staying here because it suits me—I’m not a patient anymore—” “That’s precisely the problem. If you overindulge in fun thinking you’re cured, it’ll relapse straightaway—especially nocturnal escapades are anything but prudent.” “D-don’t spout nonsense! You’re the one reading into things weirdly—you’re not exactly composed yourself!”

“Ha ha ha, well, come in—I’ve taken some leave myself, so I came to check on you. Tokyo’s practically boiling over with this heat.”

When he entered the medical office, Deputy Director Dr. Kuroyanagi—who had apparently been listening to their conversation in the corridor—was smirking. “Good evening—is something the matter?” “No—Patient Thirty-Three had a hemoptysis episode. When I was summoned here, Mr. Haruo had been waiting for you, you see.” “Oh—has it been resolved already—” “Yeah, it seems to have settled—you shouldn’t push yourself too hard either.” “That’s not it—this is troublesome—my business involves a major incident. In fact, there’s been another murder at that Z Coast.”

“Oh, again—”

Dr. Kuroyanagi, too, seemed to recall the murder from that coastal festival opening day. “That’s right—another beautiful girl just like before, killed with the same murder weapon as that one—” “And since I happened to be there and became the discoverer, I’ve been questioned about all sorts of things up until now.” “But her lifeless face was truly beautiful—the beautiful girl lay collapsed among the coastal weeds as if broken and decaying, a dagger thrust into her chest, yet the poor lighting softened the details, rendering it not the least bit ghastly.” “And those fireflies would softly, intermittently illuminate her delicate, high-bridged profile with their pale light—it felt exactly like gazing upon a beautiful painting.”

“Hō, you’re oddly impressed. Was it as beautiful as your Rībe?” “No way, ha ha ha.”

“Hmm… So do you know who did it—” “No, I don’t know. Even the police can’t figure it out—but any amateur could see it’s connected to the previous case. As I said earlier—the murder weapon’s identical and the methods are strikingly similar. Always stabbing straight through to the heart with a single thrust below the breast.”

“Hmm… You. Won’t you tell me everything from the beginning?”

Haruo made his chair creak as he leaned forward.

Rotarou, (Ah right—Haruo was an avid reader of detective novels—) recalling this, “Well, here’s how it goes. You’ve likely read the basic outline in the papers about the first incident—it occurred on July 10th during the coastal festival opening.” “So there we were at Y Coast—swarming with crowds—when, let me see… Rumiko, I believe she was called… yes, the eldest daughter of a businessman named Oi. She’d been warming her chilled body on the sand when—without anyone noticing—a dagger pierced her chest.” He paused. “The strangeness lies in this: despite her being an extraordinary beauty who drew all eyes—this much is certain—no one stood near her at that moment. And she had neither motive nor cause for suicide.” “In other words, she was murdered—but then how exactly was she killed?”

When her younger sister first went to check and let out a shrill scream upon finding something amiss, a nearby student rushed over—but upon taking her pulse, found it had already stopped. “And when they lifted her prone body before the swarming onlookers, there it was—the dagger I just mentioned—stabbed into her.” “That student—” “He and the sister were thoroughly investigated, but no matter how much they pressed them, not a speck of dust came out. And since that group claimed they’d never seen such a dagger, it ultimately came to nothing.”

“Hmm… So when that first student went to check, she was already dead, and yet they aren’t considering him a suspect—is that right?” “That’s right—” “Hmm… So, what do you think?” “I—I don’t know either, but I did see a strange man there—that Yamaka Jūsuke.”

“Yamaka?” “Ah, right—that time you mentioned having a terrible experience—”

“That’s right—that bastard.” “Was he there by her side?” “No, he was about thirty-six meters away…” “Then that’s no good.”

“Yeah, but somehow I get the feeling that bastard would do it—maybe because I don’t have the best impression of him—but then Yamaka came rushing over and meddlesomely tried to help her up, saying, ‘What’s wrong?’” “I can’t shake this suspicious feeling—this ‘hunch,’ you might call it.” “But you—before Yamaka lifted her up, that student had already said there was no pulse, right?” “Yeah.” “It’s unsettling—a mere ‘hunch’ won’t count as evidence, will it?”

“Of course that’s true—but even you wouldn’t understand.” “No, because I haven’t seen the crime scene.” “That’s a low blow—even if you’d seen the crime scene yourself, would you really know more than that?”

“Hmm… As you say—Yamaka does seem suspicious…”

While instructing the head nurse on patient care and listening in silence, Dr. Kuroyanagi took a gulp of tea and said: “But couldn’t it be that she had already died before Yamaka approached?” Haruo turned toward Dr. Kuroyanagi with evident discontent. “That’s right—when Yamaka went near her, she was already dead.” “Can’t you consider that the girl was poisoned?” “Before the incident occurred, Yamaka had administered poison through some method—whether by applying it to her lipstick, approaching her while she swam and pretending to accidentally spray tainted water, or whatever—in any case, he had given her poison.” “In that case, the girl would feel unwell, lie down on the sand, and never get up again—that’s only natural.”

“Then why would he go through with killing her only to still use a dagger—how exactly did he use it?”

Haruo pressed on with his questioning. “It could be either a crime made to appear impossible at first glance—intended to deceive people’s eyes—or perhaps that man was such a vile fiend he harbored a desire to stab her directly himself. Most likely, both motives converged—” “Being thirty-six meters away—with crowds filling the space between—yet he was the first to rush over, aside from the student who’d been right beside her. This proves he’d been watching that girl intently all along.” “To dash over from thirty-six meters away—before even those beside her realized what had happened—and lift her up while asking ‘What’s wrong?’… Only someone who already knew what occurred could manage that.” “The stabbing method?” “Simple enough—while lifting her and asking ‘What’s wrong?’, he swiftly plunged the dagger into her chest. With careful planning, it’s child’s play.” “Then by feigning surprise with an ‘Ah—!’, the effect becomes flawless.”

“A living person stabbed with a dagger wouldn’t fail to scream—this proves she was already dead by that point. It had to be poisoning.” Rotarou and Haruo stared at this clear solution,

“Ah, so that’s it—” They were left speechless in shock, unable to utter another word. Haruo, as if weighed down,

“Typical of a doctor to come up with poisoning.”

He muttered it almost inaudibly, but beyond that, there was no room left to dispute this clear-cut answer. “As for what method he used and what he administered—the quickest way would be to ask the culprit himself.” Having said this, Dr. Kuroyanagi grinned nonchalantly. Rotarou gazed up at Dr. Kuroyanagi, who had proven his “intuition” correct, while sensing an uncharacteristic brilliance in the man’s thick gold-rimmed glasses.

“Shall we call the police then—” As Rotarou rose to his feet, “Wait—”

Haruo stopped him.

“Wait—first tell me about this latest incident properly. If Yamaka turns out unrelated to tonight’s crime that seems like the same perpetrator’s work, then maybe he wasn’t involved in the previous case either.” “There’s no need to panic and report it yet.”

“No—tonight’s incident must also be Yamaka’s doing. I definitely saw that bastard.” “Hmm… So you hid that from the police, didja?” “It’s not that I hid it, but there’s a somewhat suspicious detail, you see.”

“Look here—what’s this all about?”

“No, when I went to Yamaka’s house, a pair came out from the gate.” “It was dark, so I couldn’t make them out clearly, but from their retreating figures, I thought it was Yamaka and a woman.” “So at Z Coast, they both hid in the grass—then when I went there next, there was no sign of the man who looked like Yamaka, only the woman lay murdered—that’s how it went.” “So Yamaka must’ve been hiding.” “Yeah, the officer said the same thing.” “But even the woman killed in the weeds was found because she wore white clothes—so if another man in white had been hiding there too, he should’ve been spotted immediately.” “Not only did he vanish, but just as I was about to go report it, a man came ambling over from the opposite direction—and that was Yamaka.”

“That’s a strange story—was he wearing white clothes?” “No, he had on a yukata and was carrying a fishing rod—said he was going night fishing.” “Was the man in white from earlier definitely Yamaka?” “Well… I’m certain someone came out of Yamaka’s house, but between the darkness and only seeing their retreating figure…” “Things are getting fishy now.” “But the real mystery lies in how that man who looked like Yamaka—the one in white—managed to vanish completely.”

“Assuming the man in white was Yamaka—is there enough time for him to kill the woman, vanish by some means, return home to change clothes, and come back again?”

“No, there isn’t.” “That time span was a mere two or three minutes.” “It would take at least ten minutes to rush from there to Yamaka’s house—” “Hmm.” Haruo too fell silent, and Dr. Kuroyanagi—apparently not an all-purpose detective—now listened intently only to Rotarou’s account.

Even though it was a summer night, a bitterly cold wind blew in. Dawn already seemed near.

The three exchanged glances, raised their swollen eyelids,

“My mind’s getting foggy… I’ll take a quick nap and think this through properly…”

At Haruo's murmured words, they nodded silently.

VI

The next day—.

The midsummer sun blazed brilliantly, filling the entire sanatorium with dazzling rays. As Rotarou lay sprawled on his bed pondering the previous night’s events, the oppressive drone of cicadas—Jii, jii—rained down from all directions.

Earlier, Haruo had said he was going for a quick swim, but he still hadn’t returned. Haruo too still seemed unable to resolve that doubt. Deputy Director Kuroyanagi was nowhere to be seen. He was likely swamped with examinations in the medical office.

Shirafuji Rotarou, who had thought there was no point in wandering aimlessly under this blazing midday sun, ended up idling away the entire day. However, during that time, though the murder case seemed to have already spread among the nurses—rumors abounding—the bizarre fact remained that not only the identity of the murdered beautiful girl but even her name stayed utterly unknown. Both the morning edition and the already-delivered evening edition—its pages still reeking of fresh ink—reported nothing but "unknown" regarding her identity.

That was truly a mysterious matter. Despite such a beautiful girl having been killed—her photo even published in the newspapers, and the police presumably conducting desperate investigations—her identity remained utterly unclear. The fact that even the victim’s identity stayed unknown made this case an intractable problem for current investigative methods. That this murder in the opulent K—seaside city—a killing so extraordinary—should involve a beautiful girl with bobbed hair and Western-style clothing (her attire suggested at least middle-class status) whose identity remained as utterly unknowable as if she had sprouted from a tree hollow was truly an absurd tale. Moreover, even after this case had been brought to a close, her identity ultimately remained unknown—.

×

――Before long, the sun set, and lights came on in the S Sanatorium.

Shirafuji Rotarou had never known a day filled with such impatience as this one. While he firmly believed it to be an irrefutable fact that Yamaka Jūsuke—the man who had once deceived even him—was the culprit behind these successive beautiful girl murder cases, due to one final small stumbling block, he found himself unable to declare this conclusion outright.

As he was thinking such thoughts,

“Ah—”

Dr. Kuroyanagi entered. “I have something rather interesting to show you—care to join me?” “What...? I’ll go... but” “This is an experiment—watch me—”

Now that he mentioned it, Dr. Kuroyanagi was dressed differently than usual—wearing a white shirt and white shorts. It was precisely the same outfit as that white-clad man we had seen the previous night.

When we exited the gate, Haruo too was waiting in white shorts. The three hurried toward Z Coast in silence. Before long, they arrived near the scene of last night’s incident, “Rotarou-kun. Wait here, please. Haruo and I will enter the grass like last night’s pair—then I’ll end up disappearing—”

“Wh-what—” While Shirafuji Rotarou stood dumbfounded, Dr. Kuroyanagi had already taken Haruo and advanced into the gradually thickening dusk. It was exactly, precisely like a reenactment of last night’s nightmare.

The two paused for a moment, then took the path toward the grass like that man and woman had—and in the blink of an eye, their figures had already melted into the darkness. And then, as the dumbfounded Rotarou had waited for about ten or twelve minutes—just when he thought he heard footsteps—someone suddenly tapped him on the shoulder from behind. “Ah, Dr. Kuroyanagi…” When he jerked around with a start, there stood Dr. Kuroyanagi—who until moments ago had been wearing a white shirt—now clad in a dark vertical-striped yukata and smiling.

“What do you think, Rotarou-kun? Do you know when I circled around behind you—” “No, I didn’t notice at all.”

Rotarou was still blinking rapidly. “How about that…”

Haruo had climbed up the cliff as well. “Ah—a complete success! Just as I suspected.” “The man in white last night was Yamaka. Here’s how it worked—Yamaka had stashed a yukata and fishing rod in that grass thicket. After committing the crime as planned, he immediately—look, just like this—put the yukata on over his white shirt and pants, then circled around behind you along the rocky shore through that grass.” “You see, with a dark vertical-striped yukata like this, it’s practically camouflaged—under dim light you can’t tell it apart, especially when you’re convinced it’s white clothes.” “Moreover, at night, it’s harder to see downward from above—compared to that, looking upward from below has the relatively brighter sky as a backdrop, making things somewhat more visible. There’s even a saying around here—if you get lost on a night path, crouch down and look—and when Yamaka tried to return in disguise and glanced upward, he must’ve noticed you there unexpectedly. That’s why he grew concerned and came to check on you under the guise of night fishing.” “But since you looked completely unaware, he probably felt relieved—but depending on how you carried yourself, you might’ve ended up just like that woman…”

“You shouldn’t joke about that—”

Even if he thought it was a joke, Shirafuji Rotarou didn't feel particularly good about it.

“How on earth did you figure this out?” “Well, because last night you mentioned that Yamaka had dropped his fishing rod. After that, on our way back to the sanatorium, we kept an eye out and found it—if we’d been any later, Yamaka might have retrieved it himself. But when we picked it up—get this—there was no hook on that rod. Not just missing—no sign there’d ever been one attached! What kind of night fisherman goes out every evening without ever using a hook? He’s no serious angler, that’s for sure.” “So after thinking it through—that’s how we landed on that conclusion—though once you see how it works, it’s practically child’s play—” “Just grass thickets and dark vertical stripes for camouflage, plus how hard it is to see low areas at night—that’s all there was to it. Compared to this, that murder during the coastal festival opening was downright ingenious.”

“Dr. Kuroyanagi, I’ve finally come to understand that a trick’s sophistication doesn’t necessarily correlate directly with the crime’s difficulty—especially in real cases.” Haruo too looked up at the Deputy Director with deep emotion. And then,

“So it’s finally been settled that Yamaka Jūsuke is the culprit. With the three of us here, we should be all right.” “Let’s go see him now—”

Dr. Kuroyanagi tilted his head for a moment, “Very well—”

With that declaration, the three hurried along the night path with high spirits. That Yamaka Jūsuke—the man they’d found suspicious from the very beginning—had now been decisively deemed the culprit. Rotarou walked at the front of the group with a hint of pride—an amateur’s instincts weren’t to be dismissed—as they forged ahead.

But Yamaka’s villa showed not a single sign of human presence. All the lights had been extinguished, and no matter how much they pressed the doorbell, they ultimately couldn’t get a response. “Dr. Kuroyanagi, do you think Yamaka might have escaped?” Rotarou gritted his teeth at the thought that they might have let the culprit slip through their fingers despite finally identifying him. “No, that’s impossible.” Dr. Kuroyanagi muttered with an air of confidence.

“Let’s come tomorrow—”

Seven

The next day too, just as last night's starry sky had foretold, was flawlessly clear.

Shirafuji Rotarou woke at dawn and got the nurses to help him fill a Western confectionery box with every butterfly and moth they could catch. Moths with bodies as thick as thumbs and butterflies of various sizes—about twenty in total—had been gathered. "What are you going to do with those?" To Haruo, who asked quizzically, "It's a gift for Mr. Yamaka..."

Rotarou answered with a sly smirk. Imagining Yamaka trembling violently before him, he exulted inwardly in triumph. Before long, when Dr. Kuroyanagi had finished his work, the three set out together and hurried down the road.

Yamaka, whom they had been worried about, fortunately seemed to be at home; when they pressed the doorbell, an old housekeeper appeared. As previously arranged, they left Rotarou behind while the two hid in the shadows. "This is Shirafuji—" "If Mr. Yamaka is in, please tell him I came by for a visit."

Deliberately making sure to display the Western confectionery box, he carried it back. “Certainly. Please wait a moment.”

Shirafuji Rotarou turned around and gave a signal. At the same moment, the old housekeeper reappeared.

“Please…” At the same moment, paying no heed to the startled housekeeper, the three noisily pushed their way inside. “Well, well—” Yamaka, who had come out, also momentarily made an unpleasant face, but promptly—without showing any intention to leave—

“Please—”

The parlor spanned about eight tatami mats. No sooner had they taken their seats than Dr. Kuroyanagi asked, “Mr. Yamaka, would you show me the basement?” “What?!”

Yamaka’s complexion suddenly changed for some reason. Rotarou was also startled. How could Dr. Kuroyanagi have known there was a basement in this house they were visiting for the first time? And what did Yamaka’s shock mean——.

Yamaka, his complexion still altered, rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Please, this way.”

Muttering to himself, he started walking while supporting himself against the wall. The undulating rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath as he walked away showed how deeply this statement had gouged into his chest.

The entrance to that basement had been constructed with unimaginable ingenuity within the wall of his study. As for the basement, the Doctor answered nonchalantly, "From the merchants who frequented the place—he’s been buying provisions that don’t match his household numbers—" With Yamaka at the head, the three entered silently in single file. There, a pitch-dark staircase—chillingly befitting a basement—descended fourteen or fifteen steps before they came up against another door.

When the door was opened,

“Ah—”

Involuntarily, the three of them groaned in unison, their voices low.

Inside felt as bright and warm as springtime, with what might have been their imagination conjuring an aphrodisiac-like sweetness—a rich, perfumed fragrance that hung thick in the air. Moreover, for a villa of its size, the basement stretched disproportionately vast, its ample floorplan appearing to extend endlessly into shadowed depths. The walls stood entirely paneled with mirrors framed in ornate borders, while the ceiling glowed through frosted glass diffusing electric light with daytime softness. Underfoot, an opulent carpet swallowed their shoes in plush luxury.

While the three of them stood dumbfounded, taking in the scene, Yamaka closed the door behind him and turned to face them, his back now against it.

Ah, that face—its usual sarcastic wrinkles deeply etched, twisted like a demon’s. “Heh heh heh… Caught at last, hm? …Finding this basement was quite the achievement—but strolling right in? Like moths to a flame—isn’t that the saying? Well… now that you’ve seen this place, all three of you will never return to the world above… Whatever happens to you here won’t leak out to society at all… Heh heh heh…”

As he spoke in that low voice, a dull-glinting pistol was now gripped in his right hand.

(Ah, damn it!) The three of them gnashed their teeth in unison for an instant.

“Ah, a moth!” Rotarou pointed at Yamaka’s shoulder and shouted. “Huh?” The moment Yamaka’s body crumpled, Rotarou lunged at him like an artillery shell. “Damn you!” With a clatter, the pistol fell. Dr. Kuroyanagi scooped it up as if snatching it from the air. “Yamaka! Don’t you dare pull any tricks!”

In an instant, their positions were completely reversed once more. It was a moment straight out of a Western action drama. “You bastard—” Haruo’s right hand cracked against Yamaka’s cheek. Then, stripping off his clothes, he took out the door key and secured it. Rotarou picked up the “souvenir” box that had been thrown aside in the commotion and, “Yamaka, here’s the ultimate souvenir for you… Look—butterflies and moths swarming all over—”

“Th-that’s…” Yamaka’s entire body turned paper-white and began trembling violently. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging out, and his lips turned grape-purple, twitching spasmodically.

Could there truly exist in this world a hue of terror so intense? Even though its source was none other than those delicate butterflies— The twenty-odd varieties of butterflies and moths freed from the cramped box, drunk on the ambient radiance, suddenly took wing and within moments began fluttering madly throughout the chamber. And whether due to the mirrored walls surrounding them, the room truly seemed overbrimming with moths beyond counting—a vision as beautiful as cherry blossoms cascading in full bloom, like some dreamlike realm of spring.

And around Yamaka’s limp form—overwhelmed by the situation—they too scattered and swarmed as if performing the grand finale of a revue.

×

The three of them watched this spectacle for a while, but since Yamaka was no longer moving and they had taken the key—likely rendering escape impossible—they proceeded to open the door at the back and advance further. The next room—likely another twenty-tsubo space matching the previous one’s design—contained opulent furniture and beds. What truly stole their breath, however, were the twenty or so young girls in the chamber: some barely draped in gauze, others completely naked, their eyes wide with terror at the sudden intruders as they shuffled about.

Soon they realized that what had appeared to be twenty people was once again an illusion created by the surrounding mirrors—only four or five were actually present—but what could this underground kingdom of naked beauties possibly signify? They all had skin polished to a luminous sheen, their faces meticulously made up. But as if kimonos were entirely unknown in this world, no matter where they searched, nothing resembling such garments could be found. Then, noticing an unnatural snoring sound and fixing their gaze, they saw something astonishing: sprawled on a nearby bed lay the filthy, pig-like sleeping form of Tamozawa Gensuke—Rotarou’s uncle, who had strictly forbidden Shirafuji Rotarou from associating with Yamaka and even taken control of his finances.

In an instant, Rotarou was able to take it all in. Uncle Gensuke had been none other than the patron of Yamaka’s secret organization; if that were the case, then Rotarou’s assets—swindled by Yamaka and subsequently managed under that pretext—must have been used up to fund this kingdom of nudes. As he was pondering this, the naked girls, apparently having realized that the three of them meant no harm, boldly began approaching. And they had nowhere to rest their eyes—wherever they turned, the surrounding mirrors imprinted the girls’ naked forms onto their eyelids in vivid detail—for the tale they recounted to him was one of utter strangeness.

To put it bluntly, they were orphans who knew neither parent, or children of the poor sold for coin. Yamaka had bought them like stray pups, made them up like porcelain dolls, and installed himself as ruler of this bizarre kingdom of beauties. Yamaka Jūsuke—how fiendish a demon he was. Even this monster—finding insufficient thrill in his doll collection—had fallen for Ooi Rumiko, been rejected with a single word, and in the end murdered her.

And the allure of "murder" must have provided a fresh, intense stimulus to the jaded ruler of this doll kingdom. And the success of those unsolved cases must have spurred on his impulses, driving that insatiable hunger for stimulation to attempt sacrificing these unfortunate girls one after another.

It was no wonder that the identity of the girl stabbed with a dagger at Z Coast remained unknown. Even she herself, pitifully, seemed not to have known her own real name— These girls—their entire bodies permeated with the fragrance of powder puffs—knew seductive charms and techniques, yet their ignorance was beneath even that of elementary schoolers. What a monstrous educator Yamaka was.

Shirafuji Rotarou’s rage toward Yamaka surged through his entire body like fire, and before he knew it, he rushed over to Yamaka in the adjacent room. “Oh—”

Whether because they had left him stripped of his clothes after taking the key, every part of his body exposed to the moth and butterfly scales had swelled crimson as if showered with sparks, become blistered, and he had already expired. “Yamaka was killed by butterflies—”

Rotarou muttered.

The girls too were looking down with apparent satisfaction at the corpse of Yamaka, who had treated them like cats. “Disgust—what a cruel thing it is. Just a touch of those scales can ulcerate skin or even trigger cardiac arrest, huh?”

When Haruo said this, Dr. Kuroyanagi nodded gravely, "Hmm, something's burning..."

He stared fixedly toward the door. The door was immediately opened.

“Ah, fire!” For some reason, Yamaka’s villa seemed to have caught fire—choking, acrid smoke had already begun swirling all the way to the basement door.

“Ah, that old woman—”

Haruo rushed out.

“Don’t panic—”

Dr. Kuroyanagi shouted, but everyone was already scrambling to be first, rushing out through the exit. Neither Yamaka's corpse nor Tamozawa Gensuke's body—lying in a drunken stupor—could be carried out in time.

As everyone rushed out, the beam crashed down a split second later, golden embers scattering like fireworks. The flames grew increasingly ferocious. Within flames more spectacular than any firework display—terrifying yet magnificent—several completely nude beauties darted frantically about, their movements beautifully accentuated as though they were fire spirits themselves, while an eerie frenzied dance continued atop K Hill in the coastal city. The fiercely blazing flames cast their respective shadows onto the hearts of the three and flickered.

“This is how it should be...”

Dr. Kuroyanagi looked back at Rotarou and said. The voice was hoarse from the smoke, but…