Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“I hear Shōdoshima Montadō has been captured.” “It seems his divine fortune has finally run out.” “So the descendants of the Hachiman ships will finally be wiped out.” “Though I can’t help feeling it’s a bit of a waste.”

“They say he’ll be beheaded at Sumiyoshi Beach.” “This’ll be a tale for generations—we’ve simply got to go see it!” “A pirate leader of such renown will surely meet a splendid end!” In the town of Osaka in Settsu Province, rumors spread wherever people gathered.

When the day arrived, Montadō was made to ride a lame horse and paraded through the entire city before being led along the Sumiyoshi Highway—lined with pine trees—until they reached the beach.

Pushed into the enclosure and positioned at the execution site, the official in charge promptly stepped forward. “Now then, Montadō—do you have any final words?” He inquired according to protocol.

“Yes,” said Montadō, thrusting his rugged bearded face upward. “I am a pirate. “It is at sea that I wish to meet my end.”

“That won’t do,” the official rebuked. “What was it you stated previously?” “Did you not state previously that I wished to die gazing upon the sea? One who ought to have been executed a thousand days prior at Senjū-ichi Execution Ground—yet out of exceptional benevolence from above, my name ‘Montadō,’ renowned even overseas, was deemed worthy of admiration, and my request was specially granted to have my head struck off here at Sumiyoshi’s shore.” “What are you going on about now?” “No—” Montadō replied with a faint smile,

“When I said I wished to die at sea, I did not mean it in the sense of entering the water and drowning—that was not my intent.” “Hmm… Then what did you mean?” “So that I might gaze freely upon the sea, I ask that you remove only the palisade facing its waters.”

“So you wish to gaze freely upon the sea?” “Yes, precisely. “I am bound hand and foot—even should you remove the palisade, I could not possibly escape.” “There are many guards present.” “You may try to flee, but we won’t let you escape.” “…I shall grant your final request.” “I am deeply grateful for this kindness.”

Thereupon, the palisade was removed, and the expanse of Naniwa’s sea and Sumiyoshi Inlet came into view. It was the afternoon of the 20th day of the last lunar month. In this warm province, sunlight fell gently as white sands and verdant pines mirrored one another, creating a scene of utmost serenity. The sword-bearing samurai held a gleaming blade aloft and quietly approached from behind. “Proceeding.” With that declaration, he observed Montadō’s condition.

Montadō fixed his eyes unwaveringly, glaring as if to devour the distant horizon where sea met sky—but “Now then—do it cleanly, if you please.” In that instant, the sword flashed in the sunlight, and with a dull thud, Montadō’s head fell to the ground. With a swish—blood gushed from his severed wound! In the blink of an eye, the severed head rolled around and around on the ground—then sprang into the air. At the same time, Montadō’s body—which had been lying face-down—rose up.

The head connected to the body.

“Ha ha ha ha!”

Montadō’s large eyes snapped open as he surveyed the officials,

“I beg your pardon!”

With a shout, he dashed toward the sea and hurled himself into the waves. A sudden spray of water erupted. The figure vanished without a trace.

Shōdoshima Montadō’s ship entered the deep inlet of Fūnoshima Island in the Seto Inland Sea on that very same evening. The vessel lay silent, devoid of voices. It was a large ship with two masts—a hybrid design blending elements of Southern Seas vessels and traditional Japanese craft.

When a sharp crescent moon appeared and hung over one of the masts—that is, as night approached dawn—Vice-Captain Kijima Jūheita emerged from the hold onto the deck with two or three subordinates. “Ah, tonight I feel dreadful.” “Even the moon’s turned a pale blue—like a ghost staring back at us.”

Muttering to himself, Jūheita looked up at the eastern sky. “By now, the corpse must be on display. Ah, I can never meet the Leader again.” “What a disaster this has become,” a subordinate chimed in agreement. “That great Leader being killed so easily—truly, it feels like a dream.” “I tried to stop him back then…” Jūheita continued. “The Osaka Castle governor and town magistrate were lying in wait to capture all our kin in one fell swoop—it was perilous, so I advised against landing in Osaka. However, the Leader would not listen. Recently, there was a rumor that a geography book from a certain country in the Southern Seas had been presented to the castle governor. ‘I absolutely must seize that geography book and see what’s written inside—this Montadō’s heart could not rest otherwise.’ Saying this, he forced his way ashore, only to be deceived by the town magistrate’s men, captured, and met a wretched execution.”

II

At that moment, a subordinate came rushing from the hold—his face nearly deathly pale, and not solely from the moonlight. “What happened?” Jūheita asked suspiciously.

“Something terrible has happened!” While pounding his chest with a fist: “In the Leader’s room—the Leader…” “What?” Jūheita stepped forward. “Enough! Calm yourself and speak clearly!” “Yes—the Leader is here! Yes—the Leader is here! He’s in his usual quarters!” “You fool!” With his salt-weathered pirate’s voice, Jūheita snapped— “How could the beheaded Leader possibly be aboard? Mr. Kashanki—you’ve lost your wits!”

The man called Kashanki, even when spoken to thus, stubbornly continued to shout that the Leader was present. “I am not deluded. I saw it with these very eyes.” “So…” Finally, even Jūheita began to tilt his head slightly in suspicion. Having perceived this, the subordinates all shuddered at once. As was typical for superstitious pirates, they had associated it with a ghost. Jūheita crossed his arms and sank into thought for a while, but then unfolded them and started walking.

“Very well, I’ll go verify it myself.” The Leader’s room in the hold was decorated with rare artifacts from various countries. An Indian ebony table. A Persian-woven flower-patterned carpet. A silk window hanging from Afghanistan. A Saxon clock. A Chinese inkstone. Golden broadswords and armor passed down from the Inca Empire. Korean ginseng was placed in bags, several of which hung on pillars.

Then, the front door opened, and Jūheita entered. Then, from the Gobelin-woven bed in the corner of the room, a hoarse voice was heard—

“Oh, Jūheita! You’ve come at a good time.” “Come here and give me a hand.” There was no mistaking the voice of Leader Shōdoshima Montadō. Jūheita gasped in surprise but, true to form, did not flee. Calling out “Leader!”, he charged toward the bed. There lay Montadō on the bed. He lay sprawled out wearing a Guangdong brocade tube-sleeved robe, a Shu red brocade war surcoat over it, hexagonal-patterned field trousers, and a small sword at his waist—but what differed from the usual Leader was the white cloth wrapped in layers upon layers around his neck.

While pressing his neck with both hands, Montadō laboriously stood up. “Don’t touch my neck.”

While saying this in a hoarse voice, he went to the ebony table and dropped into a chair.

“Leader.” Jūheita stood watching Montadō’s state and said, “When did you return? And what of your neck?”

“That doesn’t matter.” “Give me a hand with this.” “Get the books out from the hidden compartment,” Montadō said, still sounding as if he were struggling to breathe.

And Jūheita took out the book. It was a thick, small-sized volume bound in black animal hide. “This is it—the geography book!” “Ah, this is it!”

Happily，Montadō began to laugh． “Aha...haha...huffhuffhuff...Aha-ha-ha-ha! He-he-he-he-he!”

It was a laughter that had sound but no resonance—an utterly unnerving laugh. As he listened, Jūheita felt his hair stand on end.

This was just like a ghost. And why on earth was that white cloth wrapped around his neck like that?

Muttering under his breath, Jūheita stared intently. “Ah, that’s right. This is the geography book. …When I landed, I went straight to the magistrate’s residence,” he said. “It was quite heavily guarded, but when it comes to stealth, I’m rather skilled. Slipped right out without a hitch, I tell you.” “But Leader,” said Jūheita as he sat in a chair, “weren’t you supposed to have been captured by the magistrate’s men?”

“Yeah.”

Montadō nodded and said, “Indeed, I was captured and beheaded at Sumiyoshi’s seashore. But as you can see, I am here. And here I am talking with you. Hahahaha! This works just fine, doesn’t it? But don’t touch the neck. If it were to fall off, that’d be a problem.”

He took up the book, flipped through the pages, and stared intently at one spot, then abruptly changed his tone and said:

“Listen, Jūheita! “Listen well! “They say the treasure lies southeast across the sea.” “What manner of treasure might that be?” “A hidden fortune of immense wealth!”

Montadō said cheerfully.

3

“A hidden fortune of immense wealth?” Jūheita parroted back, “In which area might that location be?” “In a land called Mexico, far, far across the sea from you—so they say.” “Mexico? Mexico? I haven’t heard that name.” “Mexico?” “That’s a name I haven’t heard.”

Jūheita muttered. “There is a bay there.”

“Might that be a large bay?” “They say it’s larger than Japan’s Kyushu.” “The bay’s name is California.” “Would that be California Bay?” “There’s said to be an island there.” “They call it Chiburon Island.” “The treasure’s hidden there—so they say.” “All recorded in the geography book.” “What manner of treasure might that be?” “Gold dust, gemstones, foreign koban coins.” “Might that be an uninhabited island?”

“Brutal and cruel savages are said to live there in countless numbers.” “Leader.”

Jūheita stood up. “Shall we not subdue the indigenous people and seize the treasure?”

“The voyage there and back will take two years, I tell you.”

“Two years?” Jūheita’s eyes went wide.

“Does it frighten you?” Montadō laughed.

“What nonsense!” Jūheita roared with laughter.

“The great pirate of the Seto Inland Sea—Shōdoshima Montadō’s underlings should have no cowards among them!” “Ah, exactly as you say! Then we’re finally off to California!”

“It goes without saying.” “Preparations will take half a year at least!”

“I am fully aware.” “We must also prepare matchlock guns and cannons.” “That, too, I am well aware of.” “We must gather all our friendly ships that are scattered far and wide.” “I will dispatch a fast ship immediately.” “Alright.” Montadō clenched his fist and struck the ebony table with a thud. The moment he did so, his head slumped heavily. “Whoa, careful!” As he said this, he supported his neck firmly with both hands. “Not yet… My head isn’t ready to be handed over, hahahaha!”

Montadō laughed with tremendous force.

It was truly eerie laughter.

It was in the summer of Tenpō’s final years that ten Japanese warships—their bows thrusting high the great banners of Hachiman Daibosatsu like Ashikaga-era Hachiman vessels—plowed through Pacific waves with unimaginable daring toward Mexico in South America. After weathering countless storms and torrential rains, surviving pirate attacks and tasting every hardship, they reached California in summer one year after leaving Japan—by then their fleet had dwindled to five warships.

There, the story undergoes a complete transformation.

The stage now had to shift to Dome Coast in Sonora State, Mexico - a shore overgrown with tropical plants.

Chiburon Island and the Dome area faced each other almost directly across the strait known as Little Hell. The distance being a mere ri meant they could practically make out each other’s faces.

In the deep forests of that Dome, dozens upon dozens of tents had been set up. It was the party of British explorer Mr. George Hawkins that had also organized an expedition aiming to locate Chiburon’s great treasure and had been secretly encamped there, keeping watch on the situation since exactly one month prior.

The beauty of a tropical dusk hung thickly over everything—crimson-gold and deep purple beneath a sinking sun whose light made cloud peaks shimmer iridescent over distant seas while their afterglow dyed forest trees and tent cloths blood-red with its unsettling hue. From every quarter came ceaseless clamor—birds shrieking monkeys howling leopards roaring wild dogs baying—all sounding like nature’s fury at this expedition’s brazen trespass.

Then, a Mexican peacock, its tail like a rainbow glittering in the evening sun, flew in from deep within the forest and alighted quietly on a low tree beside the tents, letting out a single cry.

“Oh, a peacock!” “How pretty!”

No sooner had this voice been heard than a boy darted nimbly out from the tent entrance—this was John, Mr. Hawkins’ twelve-year-old son, an exquisitely handsome youth. “Alright, I’ll catch this damn bird!”

He stealthily approached, muffling his footsteps and gently extending one hand—whereupon the peacock nimbly leaped to another bush. “Oh my, you crafty thing!” John muttered complaints under his breath as he approached once more. Once again, the peacock moved to another tree.

“Darn it, darn it!” While muttering, John went after it.

IV

John’s figure had vanished, hidden among the shadows of trees before anyone noticed. The evening glow faded, the moon rose, and the primeval forest became fully night—yet for some reason John did not return. Smoke from cooking seeped from the tents as firelight cast a crimson glow, rendering the forest an indescribably mysterious spectacle—but there was no sign of the boy John. Then from that very tent where John had emerged moments earlier— “What’s happened to John? I can’t see him anywhere!”

No sooner had this voice been heard than a tall, portly gentleman appeared outdoors, holding a gun in one hand.

“John! John!” “John! Where are you?!”

He called out and listened intently, but no reply came from anywhere. This gentleman was none other than Mr. George Hawkins himself, the leader of the party, but he seemed to grow increasingly uneasy, going from tent to tent and asking, “Is John not here?”

When news of young John’s disappearance spread throughout the entire team, everyone was stunned. Vying to outpace one another, they rushed from the tents and swarmed around their leader. Four search teams materialized in an instant. Wielding pine torches and lanterns aloft, the four squads launched toward the cardinal directions—east, west, south, and north.

Mr. Hawkins, having lost his beloved son, led his own team and raced southward along the coast as though flying. No matter how far they pressed onward, there was only dense jungle. The birds and beasts, startled awake, let out shrill cries as if enraged beyond endurance and lunged at the group from time to time. Something rustled repeatedly through the thick overgrowth before crossing directly into the party’s path—undoubtedly a giant snake.

After running for over an hour, the group emerged into a small clearing.

And Mr. Hawkins came to a halt.

“Damn it!” With a whispered exclamation, he ran to a spot in the clearing, bent down, stretched out his hand, and picked something up from the ground. When he held it up to the light of the pine torch, “So it was true after all! “It’s hopeless.”

With this, he lowered his eyes mournfully. What he had picked up was a small hat—undoubtedly John’s. If one looked at the bloodstains on the hat, the hastily constructed stone hearth, and the Seri Indian poisoned arrow that had fallen beside them, young John’s fate became clear. The indigenous people of Chiburon Island had secretly landed there, built a hearth, lit a fire, and were covertly observing the expedition team’s movements when young John arrived. And so he was killed and eaten.

Mr. George Hawkins’ sorrowful demeanor made all his subordinates weep. Even a great adventurer who would not flinch at a lion or tiger appeared unable to withstand familial affection, his face still lowered as he choked back sobs.

At that moment, the sound of cannons could be heard from far to the north.

The entire group, startled, strained their ears.

Then another shot could be heard.

Suddenly, Mr. Hawkins rallied. “To the Dome!”

With a single command, he dashed back the way they had come, taking the lead and breaking into a run.

When they arrived at the Dome campsite, there was nothing particularly unusual. The tents were still standing as they were. The search teams had also returned. Only the team that had headed north had not yet returned.

About half an hour later, that team also returned.

And then they said.

“Five strange warships calmly proceeded up the bay in formation.”

“What about the cannon fire?” Mr. Hawkins asked. “They were indeed fired from those strange warships.” “Where were they firing?” “They fired toward the island.”

“Toward Chiburon Island?”

“Yes, that is correct.” “Hmm.”

And Mr. Hawkins pondered deeply. It was only natural not to understand. That a pirate named Montadō from Japan, an Eastern country, would lead a fleet across the vast sea and come to such a place—no one could have ever dreamed of it. Now, even so—was young John truly eaten by the indigenous people?

Five Near the coast of Chiburon Island stood an indigenous village. The broad plaza, densely surrounded by palm, plantain, and jujube trees, had been their meeting place, but now Chief Onkokko stood atop a raised rock, delivering an eloquent oration.

“...Our country is sacred.” “Our land remains undefiled.” “Never once has foreign aggression stained our soil... Our nation overflows with riches.” “Gold! Pearls! Shining bitumen! Mountains of coins large and small lie hidden!” “We Seri Indians are God’s blessed children!” “This land of ours forms His divine garden!” “Yet now come insolent ones seeking to conquer us—to seize this sacred country!” “Pale-skinned red-haired devils they call Europeans!” “They camp beyond the strait in the mainland forests!” “Fear them not!” “But slacken not your vigilance!” “Hone arrowheads! Grind blades! Mend shields! String every bow!”

How profoundly this valiant oration moved the indigenous people—they all roared in unison. Then, adhering to their custom, they commenced a spirited dance while circling round and round the plaza.

A red thrush flew away. The enemy bastards appeared from over there! Shoot arrows! Hurl spears! We must protect our lovely women! For the village! For the island! Shall we not die for our families? A red thrush flew away.

The enemies appeared from over there.

Their singing battle song echoed through forests and groves. It was a valiant and cheerful reverberation.

The day ended and night came. The indigenous people lit a bonfire. Illuminated by flames the color of blood, the unsheathed weapons glittered, and the indigenous people’s faces turned bright red, exuding a ghastly air.

However, that night passed without incident, and soon dawn broke with the sun shining brilliantly.

At this moment, a major incident occurred. To Byzantine Bay in the north of the island came an indigenous man named Go—who had been sent out on reconnaissance—running breathlessly,

“Five large ships have entered Byzantine Bay in formation,” he reported. “Describe what kind of ships they are!” Chief Onkokko, seated calmly on a camp stool, first said. “They are strange sailing ships.” “Strange ships unlike anything I’ve ever seen!”

“What kind of people were aboard them?” “That’s what’s so strange.” “They closely resemble us.” “What about their skin color—is it white?”

“No, it’s copper-colored.” “I see. And their hair?” “It too is jet-black in color, just like ours.” “I see—they’re just like us.” Onkokko closed his eyes and pondered deeply, as if things didn’t add up, but suddenly leapt up and shouted. “Gather round, gather round, everyone gather here! The legendary Easterners have come!”

There, the grand assembly was once again held in the usual plaza. And so Onkokko stood atop the rock and began to deliver another oration. “Our ancestors were good ancestors. They left us a splendid country. But on the other hand, they also left us an ill omen. One day, at some hour, Easterners will come to this land aboard five ships. And then they will solve the riddle. And then they will untie the knot. If that comes to pass, we must give all the nation’s wealth to the Easterners… That is the prophecy they left us. Now, it seems those people have come aboard the ships.”

No sooner had they heard the Chief’s words than the indigenous people suddenly began to stir. Debates erupted here and there. The wide open space grew as tumultuous as a tidal wave with the voices of the indigenous people.

“Drive out the Easterners! There’s no way we’ll hand over the treasure!” “Even if those Easterners are clever, they won’t solve that riddle.” “Even should they solve the riddle, they’ll never untie that knot.” “Let us take full precautions. We’ll watch how things unfold awhile.” The final argument prevailed. It was decided to observe developments for a time.

Three days soon passed. The Easterners did not come. Yet the five warships made no move to leave the bay for the open sea. They maintained the status quo.

Then an incident occurred. The indigenous man Go, who had been on reconnaissance, was captured by the Easterners.

VI Onkokko was indignant, but since the opponents were the legendary Easterners from the prophecy, he could do nothing.

Thus, several more days passed.

At that moment, a messenger came from the ships. That messenger was none other than Kijima Jūheita himself, and his guide was Go.

Chief Onkokko, after careful deliberation, decided to meet with that Jūheita. The role of interpreter fell to Go.

“We are soldiers from the Eastern Land of Gentlemen—the nation called Japan.” First, Jūheita declared thus.

“Do you have any proof of that?” Onkokko was not about to yield ground. “Though I possess no tangible evidence, we are undoubtedly Easterners.” Jūheita proclaimed with dignity. “Be that as it may—what purpose brings you to our land?” Onkokko pressed further. “To cultivate amity between nations, engage in commerce, and exchange mutual advantages.” “If you are truly Easterners,” “you must first unravel the ancestral riddles and undo the mysteriously knotted cord above all else.” “Diplomacy and trade shall follow thereafter.”

“Ah, if that’s how it is, very well.” “I shall return to the ships for now, report to our commander, and come again in proper form.”

Having said that, Jūheita returned toward the bay. Go also accompanied him. It seemed Go had come to prefer the Easterners over the indigenous people.

The next day, dozens of Easterners came to the indigenous village. Shōdoshima Montadō and Jūheita came with their subordinates. Then, Chief Onkokko also proceeded to the aforementioned open space, accompanied by indigenous people from throughout the village.

“I am Shōdoshima Montadō, leader of the Easterners.” “I am Onkokko, chief of Chiburon Island.”

Thus did the leaders of both forces ceremoniously declare to one another. “As there are said to be riddles, I shall certainly solve them.” Confidently, Montadō declared.

“Then come this way, if you please.”

Having said this, Onkokko started walking. As Kijima Jūheita and subordinates tried to follow behind Montadō, Onkokko stopped them with a hand gesture. And so just the two of them ventured into the forest. However only the interpreter Go had to accompany them.

The three of them proceeded steadily onward. The forest interior was dimly lit and had almost no path. However, the valiant Montadō proceeded without flinching. A giant rock stood in the path. Several lines of text were carved into it. “This is it.” As he spoke, Onkokko came to a halt and pointed at the carved text with his finger.

Upon this earth there exists one thing. It is four-legged, two-legged, and three-legged.

And there is only one voice. When he walks using four legs, his gait is slowest. Such meanings were carved there.

“What could that one thing be?” “If you can solve this riddle, legend says the great boulder will split open naturally to both sides.” “What could that one thing be?”

Chief Onkokko declared triumphantly. "What? Such trivial nonsense?" "Very well—I shall solve it for you this instant." Montadō let out a derisive cackle. "Hear me well—now mark my words! All humans possess four legs in infancy." "For they use their hands as limbs." "When reaching manhood, two legs suffice as nature demands." "In old age, leaning on a staff grants them three." "During that crawling stage with four limbs working, humans move slowest—and all share but one voice." "The answer to your riddle is mankind itself!"

The moment he shouted this, the characters carved into the rock vanished. And then the rock split into two, opening left and right to create a path. On the other side of the path stood a shrine—a small, weathered shrine.

“One riddle has been solved.” “Now comes the second one!”

Chief Onkokko was terrified, but saying this, he dashed toward the shrine. From the shrine’s ridge hung a thick rope trailing down to the ground—a cord fashioned from exceedingly thin strands of women’s hair tied into countless layers, a tangle no human patience or years of effort could ever hope to unravel.

“Go on and untangle this rope—take apart each thin strand of hair one by one.”

Onkokko bellowed.

“Hmm, this is it?” Montadō muttered as he gripped the rope. “Am I to untangle each strand one by one? So I simply need to unravel it all apart, then?”

“Untangle each strand one by one into pieces. If that aligns with divine will, a bell should ring from the shrine’s depths.”

“Understood,” he said—and in that instant, he tucked the rope under his arm.

Seven With that, he abruptly drew the sword at his waist without a battle cry and swiftly slashed down. The braided hair cord was severed from its center, and its tangled strands instantly unraveled into disarray. At that very moment, a bell clattered repeatedly from the shrine’s depths. “The bell rings! The bell rings! “It appears the god has deigned to accept it.” Onkokko recoiled in shock, instinctively raising both hands skyward before suddenly shouting something and wrenching open the shrine’s lattice door. There on the plank floor of the inner sanctum lay an old indigenous man sleeping alone. Beside him was a boy. Yet this was no indigenous child. White skin, blue eyes, golden hair—unmistakably European—none other than young John. And John was shaking the bell’s cord with both hands. Each time he did so, the bell clattered.

“Who the hell is this?!” Onkokko bellowed while glaring at John, then strode toward the elderly indigenous man’s side. “Wake up! Wake up, Batachikan!” He shook the man’s shoulders roughly. The old tribesman called Batachikan jolted upright, blinking awake. “Ah! The Honorable Chief!” “Who’s this brat?” Onkokko jabbed a finger at John. “Ah... this child...” “They say he’s a European boy.”

“Then isn’t he our enemy?” Onkokko scowled, “Where exactly did you capture him from?” “Near Dome Forest, I hear.” “Who on earth captured him?” “It was our companions who went scouting.” “Why did you hide our enemy’s child in a sacred shrine?” “Because I found it too pitiable.” “What’s this ‘pitiable’ nonsense? What’s so pitiable?!” “The companions who captured this child declared him a sacrificial offering to pray for victory in battle and tried to burn him alive before the god’s hall of worship. Unable to bear the sight, I humbly pleaded for his life.” “I humbly am a priest.” “This humble one understands the divine will better than anyone else.” “The god commanded us to help him.”

Priest Batachikan tried to pull the boy John closer as he spoke these words.

Chief Onkokko drew a long, crescent-moon-shaped greatsword, but with his left arm seized the boy John and pulled him closer. The boy John trembled and wept. Batachikan knelt and began muttering something—likely offering a prayer to the gods. Onkokko strained with force and attempted to thrust the crescent-moon sword toward the boy John’s chest. The hand suddenly went numb. “Wait!” came a composed voice.

Montadō was standing behind him. Onkokko’s arm was firmly gripped in Montadō’s hand. “Women and children bear no guilt. Women and children are non-combatants. You would do well to spare him.” Montadō said quietly. “Very well—if you command me to spare him, I shall not refuse. But this demands recompense.” Onkokko said resentfully. “I shall take his place and make amends.”

“If you journey west through this deep, deep forest for three *ri* and more, there lies a great rock cavern.” “Within that cavern lies a sword.”

“Ah! So you’re saying I must bring that sword here?”

“Indeed,” Onkokko nodded. “That’s exceedingly simple.” “I’ll go at once.”

With these words, Montadō descended from the shrine and entered the forest.

He pressed forward steadily. “Ah! This must be it.”

While muttering this, he came to a halt before a massive boulder after three hours passed—the long, long southern day had now ended, giving way to night. Before his eyes loomed a massive boulder—or rather, a rocky mountain—towering majestically at a height of tens of meters and a breadth of several hundred meters. At its front was an opening, seemingly leading inside. The interior must be dark. Need to make a pine torch. Having thought this, Montadō set about gathering dead branches. Soon, the pine torch was completed. He struck flint to make fire. The pine torch blazed up fiercely.

And so, Montadō entered the cavern’s interior with vigor yet ample caution. A single path extended. He walked resolutely along that path.

Eventually he came to a crossroads. The path split into two. Montadō thought for a moment and then proceeded leftward. The way was perfectly level with a high ceiling. Yet its width proved narrow enough that spreading one’s arms would bring fingertips to touch both rock walls.

Eight

Montadō resolutely pressed forward.

Then he emerged at another crossroads; the path split into four. And, taking the left path in the same manner, he proceeded without hesitation. As he advanced, crossroads appeared one after another, almost endlessly. What proved truly mystifying was how the branching paths multiplied in a pattern of two, four, eight, sixteen. When he finally stood before the tenth crossroads, he found himself utterly perplexed. One thousand twenty-four branching paths now split off!

“Hmm… So this is a labyrinth,” he realized. For the first time, he had become aware of it. “I can’t proceed carelessly.” “I should turn back now while I still can.” Even he began to feel uneasy and tried to retrace his steps along the path he had come. However, at that moment, he found himself even more perplexed. Every path looked exactly alike. He could not distinguish at all which path he had just come from. …… He stopped in silence. For the first time, fear welled up within him.

Among these countless branching paths, if one were to speak of a way leading outside, there seemed none other than the path I had come through moments before. The rest must form a labyrinth. Hmm... This posed a dire predicament. I had utterly lost track of the vital exit route. To inspect each path individually would require ten days—no, twenty. No provisions remained. Not a drop of water lingered. I would perish here—starved helplessly before achieving my purpose. "You—Chief Onkokko! This was your scheme all along!"

Montadō gnashed his teeth but could do nothing.

Before long, the flame of the pine torch also went out. The surroundings were plunged into true, impenetrable darkness. And then, there was not a single sound.

Montadō had been completely buried alive within the earth.

Thus, several hours seemed to have passed. At that moment, from the depths of one branching path, a point of red firelight appeared.

It was only natural that a cry of joy—“Ah!”—flew from Montadō’s mouth before he could stop himself. It was, so to speak, a Buddha in hell. He summoned his courage and ran toward the firelight. As he drew closer and looked carefully, there was a moderately spacious room where a woman tended a fire. At first glance she appeared to be an indigenous girl, yet there was something different about her. Montadō moved closer. He then began communicating through hand gestures.

“Who on earth are you?” “What are you doing here?!” Then the girl also responded with clumsy hand gestures,

“This unworthy one is a shrine maiden.” “Here lies the dwelling of this unworthy one.” Thus she finally answered.

“I am a man of the Eastern lands, but I have unwittingly wandered into these caverns and lost my way back.” “If through your kindness I might exit this cave, I would count it a most fortunate blessing.”

"That would be quite impossible." This was the shrine maiden's reply. "And why might that be?" "The reason being that this unworthy one also does not know the exit."

“Oh, you don’t know either?” “Yes, this unworthy one does not know either.” “From the time I first became aware of things, this unworthy one has been living within this cave.” “With no food and no water, how do you manage to stay alive?” “No, no. There is someone who kindly brings water and food.” “Who might that be?”

“This unworthy one does not know in the slightest.” “You don’t know? That’s strange.” “It must surely be the most revered Lord Tsubogami-sama whom this unworthy one serves that brings them.” Montadō immediately challenged. “What? A jar?” “A *god* jar?” Though the British explorer Mr. George Hawkins felt both shock and sorrow over losing his beloved son John, his composed British temperament prevented him from panicking or acting rashly.

He called together his subordinates and discussed future plans.

“Our encampment here has lasted a considerable time. We’ve gained sufficient understanding of the natives’ movements. Peaceful methods appear ineffective. Let us dispatch ships to cross the strait and subjugate them with cannon fire. However, I hear a mysterious warship lies anchored in Byzantium Bay, targeting Chiburon Island just as we are. First, I propose sending an envoy to negotiate with them.” “Agreed!” The subordinates shouted in unison.

Thereupon, twenty subordinates, led by the brave military officer Reserve Major Gordon, set out toward the bay.

The round trip would likely take three days. ...Yet even on the fifth day after their departure under this plan, they had not returned. So, though he felt uneasy, since waiting any longer seemed futile, Mr. Hawkins finally resolved to lead his entire force in an assault on Chiburon Island to engage the indigenous people in battle.

Nine

As soon as the expedition led by Mr. Hawkins landed on Chiburon Island, the indigenous scouts quickly spotted them and blew a piercing whistle. Then that whistle summoned another whistle, and that whistle in turn summoned yet another, each sounding in succession until they seemed to relay a report to the indigenous tribe’s village.

As soon as they landed on the shore, Mr. Hawkins immediately gathered his subordinates in one place.

“Our purpose is not to kill the indigenous people.” “The objective is to intimidate them into surrendering and discover the treasure.” “We absolutely must fire the matchlock guns.” “However, avoid vital points.” “Neutralize their combat strength!” “This is of utmost importance.” “...Then men, let us advance!” “The indigenous people will shoot poison arrows.” “Advance using the grove as your shield.”

Before his words had even finished, a volley of poison arrows rained down.

“Into the woods!” Mr. Hawkins shouted.

The expedition team dashed into the woods in a scattered rush. The woods were dark, covered with date palms, beech trees, palm trees, and other vegetation. “Scatter!” shouted Mr. Hawkins, prompting his densely gathered subordinates to spread out left and right like wings, maintaining a distance of two ken between them. The poison arrows were not flying now. They could not see any sign of the indigenous people either. The entire army advanced solemnly. The deep forest thinned, and sparkling sunlight streamed in. They saw a hill in the far distance. There, the indigenous people were gathered.

“Fire!” Mr. Hawkins issued the command. At the same moment, the match cords were lit, white smoke burst upward, and tree spirits came rushing back from all directions. Three indigenous people collapsed to the ground. The panicked remaining indigenous people picked up their fallen comrades and promptly vanished from the hill. “Left!” Mr. Hawkins commanded. The entire army quickly ran leftward to conceal their position from the enemy. Suddenly at that instant, an eerie cry welled up from behind as poison arrows rained down. The indigenous army—now thoroughly familiar with the terrain—had apparently already circled around to their rear.

“Halt! Take cover!” Mr. Hawkins commanded in a valiant voice. The subordinates thudded to the ground. They peered through the rear. The figures of indigenous people flickered into view. Each one adorned their bodies with tattoos—some wore bird feathers, others hung skulls—and nearly every last one carried quivers filled with poison arrows while gripping half-bows in their hands.

“Fire at will!” After issuing the order to his entire army, Mr. Hawkins himself took aim with his gun. Bang, bang, bang—the reports of matchlock guns resounded from all directions at once. With each shot, the indigenous people collapsed in quick succession, but even as ferocious Seri Indians, they showed no sign of retreating easily. They crouched in the grass, hid among trees, used rocks as shields, and relentlessly loosed poison arrows. At that moment, a roar erupted from the direction of the hill. And then poison arrows came flying.

The indigenous people seemed to be attempting a pincer attack.

The expeditionary force split into groups to confront the enemies both ahead and behind. Several people were struck by poison arrows, but fortunately none were killed. The symptomatic treatment they had researched during their long encampment proved effective at this critical moment. The combat did not escalate. Both enemies and allies remained entrenched, doing nothing but firing arrows and bullets with relentless thuds.

"This won't do," Mr. Hawkins thought as he fired his matchlock gun. "The longer this battle drags on, the more we will lose our own men." "...Let us break through one wing of the enemy and withdraw to secure ground."

He ordered his entire army to wipe out the indigenous forces on the hill and secure it. The expeditionary force rose up and charged toward the hill with a unified war cry. The enemy resisted stubbornly but soon scattered in disarray.

The expeditionary force that had occupied the hill saw an open space behind it, with countless indigenous huts—their circular roofs glinting in the sun—encircling the clearing, and they felt both astonishment and delight. “Seize the village as well!”

Mr. Hawkins gripped his gun and was the first to rush down. Strangely enough, not a single poison arrow came flying from the village. The village was literally empty. It seemed the residents had fled completely, leaving behind a few livestock and some food supplies in the village. However, the huts were intact. So, as long as they stayed inside the huts, they could fend off the indigenous people’s poison arrows.

“Set up sentries at key positions and let the entire army rest inside the huts.”

Mr. Hawkins noticed that.

After ten sentries were deployed in ten directions, the entire army entered the huts.

Strangely enough, the indigenous people did not pursue them. There, the expeditionary force was able to rest freely inside the huts and regain their vigor.

Ten Before long, the sun set and night fell. They increased the number of sentries to twenty to prepare for an attack by the indigenous army, while the rest decided to sleep in the huts. Everyone was exhausted and immediately fell into a deep sleep, but Mr. Hawkins alone could not sleep. The only thing that came to mind was John—though there was no doubt he had been killed by the savage indigenous people, could he possibly still be alive somewhere? He found himself straining to listen, half-expecting to hear a child’s cry from somewhere.

It must have been quite late at night by then. If I didn't get some rest soon，it would interfere with tomorrow’s battle. Sleep—sleep I must.

As he muttered this and closed his eyes to compose himself,

“Father! “Father!”

And unmistakably, John’s voice could be heard. “Oh, John?!”

He jumped up and opened the hut’s window to look out. However, outside, the moonlight flowed pale over the clearing; the woods, forest, and indigenous huts were dimly visible in the darkness, but there was no sign of a boy resembling John. I must have been so preoccupied with John that it made me hear things that way. ...Why would John—already murdered—come to such a place in the dead of night? ……Mr. Hawkins tried to close the window. Then, once again, John’s unmistakable voice rang out from the nearby palm grove: “Father! Father!”

came the voice.

“Oh!” Mr. Hawkins exclaimed in surprise and strained his ears toward the grove，but “That’s unmistakably John’s voice!” Perhaps he was being held captive in that grove over there． ……In any case，he should go to the grove and see． “John! John!”

he called out, gripped his gun as a precaution, and rushed out of the hut into the open. He crossed the clearing, ran through the village, and quickly pushed into the woods—but

“John! It’s me! Where are you, John?!” He called out and strained his ears, but the woods remained utterly silent—only the faint sound of a breeze rustling through the trees reached him, with no trace of John’s voice to be heard. “Then was it just my imagination after all?” When doubt arose within him, “Father! Father! Please come quickly! The indigenous people will kill me! It’s terrifying—Father!” John’s voice, shouting like this, could be heard from deep within the woods.

“Oh, John! I’m coming right away!” “The indigenous people will kill you?! I’ll strike them down!” “Father will come right away!” “I’ll strike down those indigenous people!”

Mr. Hawkins, in a frenzy, parted the thicket, pushed and shoved through the obstructing trees, and began running toward the depths.

“Father!” “Father!” “Please come quickly!” “The indigenous people drew their swords.” “They pressed them against my chest!”

“God, God, please help me! Oh, John! I’m coming right away! Strike down those indigenous people! I’ll kick those indigenous people down! Where are you? Where are you? John! Where are you?!” Muttering repeatedly, he ran off into the depths.

“Father. “I will be killed!” “The indigenous people nocked poisoned arrows.” “They’re tightening a noose around my neck!” John’s voice gradually grew fainter, receding deeper into the distance. “John! John! Don’t lose hope! “Say ‘Father’ again!” “Say ‘Father’ once more!” “I’m coming!” “I’m coming!” “I’m coming right away!” Mr. Hawkins ran like a madman—plunging through thickets and shoving aside trees in reckless abandon—when suddenly something hooked his feet, sending him crashing face-first to the ground.

He startled with a gasp and tried to leap up. At that moment, over twenty Seri Indians burst forth chaotically from the tree shadows like wild beasts, piling onto Mr. Hawkins—still struggling to rise—and pinning him down in a heap. One against twenty was no match; in the blink of an eye, Mr. Hawkins found himself bound up. "Hmm... So this was their trap after all."

Mr. Hawkins, who had just now realized this, was so enraged he gnashed his teeth, but bound as he was now, there was nothing he could do. Those who rejoiced were the indigenous people; singing a victory song in their own tongue, they led their prisoner Mr. Hawkins away.

Wheat, oats, and coconuts Let us offer them to our god. The enemy prisoner caught in the snare Let us offer him as a sacrifice to the god. Flesh is flesh, bone is bone. Let’s tear him apart and eat him! Ah, ah, ah, Kill the prisoner!

Eleven

Dawn broke on Chiburon Island, and the expedition party rose, but their leader, Mr. Hawkins, was nowhere to be seen.

“He must be out for a morning walk. He must have gone into the woods.”

They thought this among themselves and did not worry much, but when noon soon came and evening finally arrived without any sign of Mr. Hawkins, they suddenly began to panic. It was only late into the night that they finally realized—through this chain of events—that the indigenous people must have devised some mysterious trickery, kidnapped their leader Mr. Hawkins during the previous night, and taken him away to their main stronghold somewhere.

“In any case, let’s split up and search.” “Ah, but what a disaster this has turned into!”

Thereupon, they decided to divide the entire force into three squads. They decided to have one squad guard the settlement while the other two would brave the night and advance toward the indigenous people’s stronghold. The commander of the squad heading south was a reserve captain named Chamberlain—a man of exceptional bravery; the commander of the squad heading north was Johnson, a former company employee known for his prudence; and the captain guarding the settlement was Macauley, a natural-born adventurer who served as Mr. Hawkins’ right-hand man.

Each squad consisted of a hundred men, all resolved to risk their lives as they undertook their respective missions.

“Everyone, sing! “Everyone, dance! “We’ve captured the enemy commander!” Seri tribal chief Onkokko stood up abruptly on the shrine’s edge and began speaking boastfully.

“...First we captured the enemy commander Hawkins’ brat!” “So we schemed.” “We’d use this John whelp as bait to draw out their leader... Trussed him tight, dragged him near their camp, whipped him till his cries pierced the trees!” “Right on cue, the brat wailed for his sire.” “So that Hawkins fool came blundering in alone!” “We lured him deeper—bit by bit—into our pre-snared woods and bagged him neat as you please!” “What witless foes!” “What cunning hunters!” “Now raise your voices!” “Sing till the gods hear!”

The over a thousand indigenous people who had abandoned their long-inhabited settlement without hesitation and relocated to this shrine all at once raised a thunderous war cry upon hearing their Chief’s words—men and women of all ages shouting in unison—and began circling around the shrine’s perimeter. The sight of these savage, merciless cannibals—their bodies tattooed, hands gripping weapons, heads and waists adorned with feathers—dancing and singing while circling with bizarre gestures and strange hand movements formed an indescribably grotesque spectacle; yet before long, an even more dreadful scene unfolded.

“Enough waiting—drag them out!” As Onkokko shouted, the shrine doors swung open wide, and first to appear was Mr. Hawkins, followed by the boy John being dragged out—both bound with leather cords. “Tie them to that post!” In the small open space before the shrine stood a single post, and the two of them were tied to it.

“Now then—let’s get started.” “Spill blood! Spill blood!” “Slice off flesh! Slice off flesh!” At Onkokko’s signal, the indigenous people who had been circling the shrine gathered around the post. Then they began circling round and round the two prisoners. Then they began to sing. The massacre was about to begin. They circled around the prisoners while cutting their bodies with spears and swords. And thus they spent nearly an entire day torturing them to death.

Now, one of the barbarians, wielding a double-edged sword in hand, attempted to slice off Mr. Hawkins' arm. And in that instant, an arrow came flying through the trees and struck the barbarian's fist.

“Ah!” he cried out, letting the sword clatter from his hand. At that very moment, a thunderous war cry erupted from deep within the forest, and arrows came raining down toward the shrine gleaming in the morning sun. Not a single shaft went astray—twenty tribesmen collapsed to the ground, alive or dead. “The enemy advances!” “Loose your bows! Cast your spears!” “They’re in yonder woods!” “Stay vigilant! Stay vigilant!”

“Stop dancing and take up your weapons!” “Guard against the prisoners being snatched!” “There! The enemy bastards have appeared! Shoot the poison arrows! Shoot the poison arrows!” The tribesmen were thrown into disarray, scrambling in confusion, but being the brave Seri Indians they were, they confronted the oncoming enemy.

At that moment, another war cry erupted from the forest as arrows came flying through the trees—and suddenly figures appeared. Leading them was Kijima Jūheita, followed by Colonel Gordon; emerging behind them like rolling mist came twenty soldiers under Gordon’s command and two hundred warriors led by Jūheita—two hundred and twenty-two brave fighters of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance in all.

Twelve

Now, as for how these warriors had abruptly appeared here, launched an attack against the indigenous people, and narrowly saved the perilous lives of Mr. Hawkins and his son—there existed the following sequence of events.

Colonel Gordon had departed the Dome encampment under Mr. Hawkins’ orders with a two-day round-trip schedule to discuss an alliance with Japan’s pirate leader Shōdoshima Montadō. However, due to the unfamiliar barbaric terrain, the journey took unexpectedly longer days, and he finally reached his destination—Byzantine Bay—at noon on the fifth day. Meanwhile, on the Japanese side—with their leader Shōdoshima Montadō having gone to the indigenous settlement and not returned even after five days, leaving no word—they were finally preparing to advance toward the tribal settlement under Kijima Jūheita’s command.

Thereupon, the alliance was swiftly formed: from their entire force of five hundred, they selected two hundred men, added twenty British soldiers to their ranks, appointed Jūheita and Gordon as dual commanders, crossed Chiburon Island, and unexpectedly found themselves advancing to this point. The battle between the Anglo-Japanese Alliance forces and the Seri Indians now raged at its fiercest; yet however brave the indigenous warriors might be, they stood no chance against the Japanese swordsmen and were steadily being driven toward defeat. Upon swiftly discerning his allies’ faltering resolve, Chief Onkokko of the indigenous tribe resolved to flee—but perhaps unwilling to let Hawkins and young John be recaptured before his eyes, he gripped his sword, rushed forward, severed their binding ropes the moment he reached them, pressed his blade against their backs, and tried dragging them into the shrine structure.

However, at this moment, a traitor appeared unexpectedly. It was none other than the priest Batachikan. Ever since he had pleaded for John’s life and saved him when fellow tribesmen first captured and nearly killed the boy, Batachikan had grown unbearably fond of John. From the moment the boy was tied to the post, he had resolved to rescue him somehow—and now that this opportunity had arrived, he pushed open the shrine door where he had been hiding, bolted out like a fleeing hare, and no sooner had he reached Onkokko’s side than he scooped John into his arms and dashed into the woods.

Onkokko gasped in shock, “Traitor!” “Rebel! Quickly, quickly capture Batachikan!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, but in the midst of battle, no one paid him any heed. Batachikan’s figure was already hidden by the shade of the trees and disappeared from view. “Fine, let the brat run away.” “I’ll catch them soon enough. …Now that it’s come to this, there’s no way I’m letting the old man escape.” “...Come at me!” “Come then!”

Onkokko dragged Mr. Hawkins by the arm into the shrine while shouting. He immediately shut the door with a clatter. Then Onkokko grinned slyly and touched a spot on the pillar. With a terrible sound, a hole suddenly opened beneath Mr. Hawkins’ feet where he stood. The floorboards had given way, and in the blink of an eye, Mr. Hawkins’ body tumbled head over heels into the deep, deep depths of the earth.

“Hey, Hawkins! “Hey, boss! “Take your time resting there. “It’s a bit dark, though. “It’s a bit musty too, though. “Ahahaha! Take a nice long rest! “But I’ll tell you this in advance—you’d best not go wandering around too much. “If you go wandering around carelessly, you’ll end up a lost child now.” Peering into the dark hole, Onkokko uttered insults. After fitting the displaced floorboard into place, he soon opened the door and went outside. Outside, the battle was in full swing.

Mr.Hawkins who had fallen into hole fortunately did not sustain any serious injuries; with impact of fall ropes came undone suddenly leaving him free.

He reached his hand behind him. Smooth and extremely cold. It wasn't stone—it appeared to be an iron wall. "Iron's worse than stone walls. Oh, wait—there's something odd here. ...Ah! This is a gold lock!"

He tried twisting it with all his strength. The gold must have rotted, for it twisted off without any difficulty. The moment the iron door creaked open, a cold wind blew in.

There seemed to be a passage.

Thirteen

In the life of the cave, there was neither day nor night. All around was always darkness. In that pitch-dark cave, Shōdoshima Montadō spent his days warming himself by the bonfire with the indigenous shrine maiden as his conversation partner. Though called a conversation, it was merely hand gestures. Through those uncertain hand gestures, Montadō was finally able to elicit information about Lord Tsubogami. “Deep within this cave—far into its distant reaches spanning dozens of miles—lies the shrine of Lord Tsubogami.” “There dwells a dreadfully fearsome snake-handling crone, they say, leading a great many of her clan members.” “The sacred object of Lord Tsubogami is said to be a sword.” “And not merely any sword—a Living Sword.” “They say it speaks, sings songs, even walks about.” “That dreadful snake-handling crone serves as its priest.”

This was the shrine maiden’s tale. Montadō had already pieced it together.

“Was it this Living Sword that damned indigenous chief Onkokko ordered me to retrieve? If he says to bring it, then I’ll bring it. A Living Sword—how fascinating.”

And then, using hand gestures, he asked the shrine maiden. “How should one reach Lord Tsubogami’s shrine?” “If you follow the path counting odd, even, odd—so they say you may reach it—but going there remains impossible.” “Why can’t it be done?” “They say villains overrun the path.” “Regardless, I shall go.” “Countless people have tried taking that Living Sword—who could number their attempts?” “Yet not one soul among them ever returned.” “A place of terror.” “You must not go!” The shrine maiden fervently tried to deter him.

“I am a samurai of Japan—the Land of the Virtuous in the East.” “I am one who knows not fear.” Montadō barked a dry laugh. “Once I’ve declared I’ll go, I must go through with it at least once.” “This is the warrior’s way.” “Lady Shrine Maiden, I hesitate to impose, but might I trouble you for a day’s provisions and pine torches?” “Are you truly determined to go?” “I shall obtain the Living Sword and return without fail!” Thereupon, receiving pine torches and provisions from the shrine maiden’s hand, Montadō set out energetically.

Before he had gone even ten chō, countless branching paths appeared.

“Odd, even, odd, even—so this is how one must trace it,” “One being odd goes without saying.” “……I’ll take path one.” He marched resolutely down the nearest branch path. Then countless forks appeared again. This time he took the second path from the entrance—the even-numbered one. Odd, even, odd, even—repeating this pattern relentlessly, Montadō forged ahead. Though impenetrable darkness shrouded the way ahead, clutching his pine torch dispelled any fear of straying from the path.

After walking for over half a moment, a rosy light began to shine, staining the distant darkness ahead. “Ah,” he thought. “There seems to be someone here.” “They must be part of the villains’ lot.”

Muttering to himself, Montadō briskly advanced in that direction. Sure enough, a large man stood blocking the narrow tunnel, imposingly warming himself by a bonfire; upon seeing Montadō, he spread his arms and bellowed. Montadō couldn’t comprehend what it meant.

Thereupon, Montadō initiated conversation using his signature hand gestures.

“What business do you have stopping me?” First, he took the offensive.

“You don’t look familiar. What the hell are you?” The large man retorted. “I am a man of the Eastern lands.” “I go to Lord Tsubogami’s shrine.” “Well, if you want to go, go ahead.” “But before that—how do you intend to get past this barrier?” “What’s this barrier?” “What barrier?!”

“In other words, this here is the barrier.” “And I am the barrier guardian.” “Whether it’s a barrier or guardian, I’ll force my way through!” “You can’t muscle through—use your wits!”

“How intriguing! “Ask me anything.” “Montadō will answer right away and show you!” Having said this，he thumped his chest.

“I’ll ask you this.” “Answer!” The large man grinned slyly. “What’s something that grows the more you use it?”

“Hmph! You fool!” “That’s it?” “That’s just human wits!” “Come on, fire away with your questions!” Montadō was triumphant.

“It has no form but has a voice; it runs swiftly yet has no legs. What is this? Take a guess!” “This grows increasingly foolish. That’s what we call wind. Ask whatever you will!” “Something that swells then shrinks, born anew though twice deceased—what might this be?” “Cease these witless queries. That would be the moon in the sky.”

Fourteen

“Now it’s your turn to ask,” the large man finally yielded. “Very well—I’ll ask you now! Answer me well… Big yet small, having form yet formless.” “What is this?” “Now answer!”

Montadō roared.

The large man muttered, “Hmm…,” but could not muster a reply.

“Well?” Montadō sneered. “If you can’t answer, let me through the barrier!” “Can’t be helped. Go on through.”

The large man stepped aside. Targeting that spot, he dashed through. “Big yet small, having form yet formless—I just can’t figure it out.” “What on earth are you?” The large man asked. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know either! “Such a thing doesn’t exist in this world!” “Bwahaha!” he laughed as he dashed past.

“Well, well—what a fool he is.” “He really got me good!”

While murmuring contentedly like this, he illuminated his path with pine torchlight and pressed onward.

Then once again a pale light came into view far ahead. As he drew closer and looked carefully, a corpulent hunchbacked old man sat alone on a rock. A lamp dish had been placed in a hollow carved into the rock wall behind him, but the ghastly light from the burning animal oil illuminating the surroundings created an eerie and sinister atmosphere. Looking closer, there was a deep hole dug at the old man’s feet.

In a voice as faint and sorrowful as one on the verge of vanishing, the old man spoke up. However, Montadō couldn’t understand. He asked back with hand gestures. “Please allow me to wash your feet.” This was what the old man kept saying. “It is my duty to wash the feet of all people.” “For the eradication of your sins, please allow me to wash your feet.” The old man repeated his plea endlessly. “What a peculiar fellow,” Montadō thought. “This is something even a fool wouldn’t believe.” Feeling strange suspicion welling within him, he pondered. “Spring water flows from the rock. Ah—this water must be for washing... And here lies a deep hole. A hole! A hole! This reeks of treachery.”

At that moment, the old man’s treacherous scheme abruptly became clear to him. “Hmm, so that’s it.” “I see now.” “If that’s your scheme, I’ll turn the tables on you.”

Abruptly, Montadō thrust one leg out before the old man. The instant the old man kneeled and grabbed his ankle, he tried to hurl Montadō headfirst into the hole. With a “Hah!”—a voice like tearing silk bursting from Montadō’s mouth—the hunchbacked old man’s small frame was sent somersaulting into a bottomless hole, plummeting dozens upon dozens of fathoms into unfathomable depths.

“If you curse others, dig two graves! Serves you right—take a good look!”

He peered intently into the hole, but from the unfathomably dark depths came only a cold wind—the old man was nowhere to be seen.

“Just as the shrine maiden said, unsettling villains are crawling everywhere,” he thought, steeling his resolve. Swinging his pine torch back and forth, Montadō pressed onward. Odd, even, odd, even! No matter how many branching paths appeared—hundreds or even thousands—he did not show surprise. As long as he proceeded by odd and even numbers, there was no risk of losing his way.

In terms of time, over ten hours; in terms of distance, twelve or thirteen ri—Montadō walked. At that moment, a vast open space suddenly gaped open before him. It was less an open space and more a realm entirely its own. There were hills and woods, there were houses and streams. Was it the glow of fireflies or moonlight? A pale azure glimmer faintly illuminated this otherworldly realm, yet its source remained a mystery.

Voices could be heard from nowhere in particular. Then came the sound of singing. When Montadō heard that singing voice, he gasped in astonishment—it was a Japanese song being sung vividly in his native tongue.

“Oh! There are Japanese people here!” “Where on earth is this place?” The sensation of dreaming within a dream—this must have been Montadō’s state of mind at that moment. The singing voice grew ever clearer, ever more beautiful as it drew nearer. It was unmistakably a Japanese song. “Where on earth is this place?”

Overwhelmed by emotion, Montadō involuntarily repeated them in a murmur. Verily! Where was this place? It was none other than the sacred realm—mysterious and solemn—where Tsubogami-sama had been enshrined!

What manner of being was Tsubogami-sama? Therein lies a tale.

Fifteen

Long, long ago in the ancient past, there was a king called King Gaimasu in the land of Gaimasu in Mexico. They called his prince Tsuhiko, but having lost his mother early, he was raised by his stepmother. Like many stepmothers, this one too hated her stepchild and sought by all means to kill Prince Tsuhiko.

When Prince Tsuhiko was eight years old, strange celestial and terrestrial phenomena occurred one after another, and the country was struck by famine. At that time, the stepmother said to the king.

“It is the wrath of the gods.” “They were angered by something and sent down this famine.” “We must offer a precious treasure to appease Their wrath.” “What shall we offer as sacrifice?” “The most precious treasure.” “What is this ‘most precious treasure’?” “I humbly suggest offering Prince Tsuhiko.”

“Indeed, to me there exists nothing more precious than the prince.” “I suppose I must offer up the prince.” “Unless Your Majesty sacrifices the prince, the gods’ wrath shall not be appeased.” “For the people’s sake and the nation’s—very well, I shall offer Prince Tsuhiko.” Though filled with sorrow, the king—swayed by his stepmother’s honeyed words—resolved to sacrifice Prince Tsuhiko.

An altar was built, firewood was stacked, and the day arrived to burn the sacrifice. When the eight-year-old Prince Tsuhiko, unaware of what was to come, climbed onto the altar with delight, the fire was set to the firewood. However, the god would not tolerate such discourtesy and immediately manifested a miracle. A giant sword suddenly appeared from the clouds, first severed the stepmother’s head, then placed Prince Tsuhiko upon its hilt, and soared away to parts unknown.

The sword carried the prince all the way to Chiburon Island, where it descended to the ground before soaring diagonally through the sky and plunging into a cave. This was the mysterious realm they had reached. The Living Sword nurtured Prince Tsuhiko within the cave, unbeknownst to all. To alleviate the prince’s loneliness, it brought humans from the mortal realm. Those humans gradually multiplied and formed a settlement there. There, Prince Tsuhiko reigned as sovereign over that settlement. The settlement prospered in peace and wealth, and Prince Tsuhiko lived on for hundreds of years. But when his natural lifespan ended and he passed away, the people buried his corpse in the forest, enshrined him as a god, and called him Tsubogami-sama. The sacred object of worship is the Living Sword.

Afterward, the settlement experienced times of prosperity and decline, underwent many changes, yet endured to this day, existing as a mysterious nation.—The above is a legend still recounted by the island’s indigenous people.

Be that as it may, how should one interpret the fact that a Japanese song could be heard from within the settlement?

“What a strange thing this is!” Shōdoshima Montadō stood still and listened intently to the singing voice for a while.

"I must find the owner of this song," Montadō resolved within himself. "Nothing takes higher priority than this." With this determination, he quickened his stride toward the voice’s origin. As he advanced, the singing grew increasingly distinct until he could discern its lyrics clearly. "That’s an ancient verse from the Manyoshu anthology," he realized with rising intensity. "Which means beyond doubt - whoever sings this must be Japanese!"

Having thought this through, Montadō felt his heart strangely leap. He finally broke into a run.

When he entered the woods, he caught sight of an indigenous old woman sitting on a rock, singing absently in the faint light. “Ah—she’s not Japanese!” Montadō shouted. At this, the old woman stopped singing, stared intently at Montadō, and addressed him in fluent Japanese. “Oh—you are Japanese, aren’t you?” “Indeed, I am Japanese.”

“Please help me! Please help me!”

The old woman knelt on the ground and pressed her palms together in prayer in the Japanese style. “I may be willing to help, I may be willing to help—but what exactly am I supposed to help with?”

“My sacred text was stolen.” “What? Sacred text!” “What do you mean by ‘sacred text’?” “Within it lie recorded various precious wisdoms.” “Then who stole it?” “The innkeeper did.” “Where’s that inn?!”

“It lies deep within the forest.” “Then I’ll reclaim it for you.” “I beseech you.” “I implore you.” “Still—this baffles me.” “How come you speak Japanese?” “There exists an explanation.” “All shall be revealed in time.” “Pray recover the sacred tome.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it back for you.”

Montadō parted the trees and pressed onward, deeper and deeper into the forest.

“This is truly a series of strange occurrences.” “I keep running into all sorts of incidents!” No matter how far he walked, the deep forest showed no sign of ending.

Sixteen

When he arrived before an indigenous inn recognizable by its appearance, an indigenous man emerged from the doorway laughing. He was a strapping young man. The young man said something to Montadō, but his words in the indigenous language conveyed no clear meaning. Through repeated experience—now fully proficient in his usual hand gestures—Montadō addressed the young man. “Is this place an inn?” “Yes, indeed it is.” “How about lodging me?” “Please do stay here.”

“What’ll you feed me?” “We’ll prepare all manner of fine dishes.” “And got any proper rooms?” “We’ll quarter you in the Sacred Texts Chamber.” “Sacred Texts Chamber?” “Hmm.” Montadō gave a curt nod.

“Then put me up.” “Now then, please come this way.”

Following the young man, Montadō entered the house. Upon entering, there was a room, and in the room were countless indigenous people. They were drinking alcohol amid raucous clamor. They were terrifying indigenous brutes with cruel and ruthless expressions. After passing through two or three more large rooms, when he looked at the room he was finally led to, there was nothing particularly unusual about it. The floor and ceiling were made of stone. On the floor was a sturdy bed. Beside the bed was a desk, upon which lay a book. It was a thick book made of parchment, with the Chinese characters for "Akechi Hen" inscribed on the cover.

“Hmm...” Montadō muttered, first sitting down on the bed, then picking up the book. What was written was in classical Chinese. *Fan Di served as magistrate of Jùnyí.* *Two people clutched a bolt of silk at the market and disputed each other.* *The magistrate had this cut in two, made each take half and leave, then dispatched someone afterward to secretly observe them.* *One person rejoiced; the other bore an angry countenance.* *Thereupon, they captured the one who rejoiced.* *“Indeed, he was the thief.”* *“Li Hui of Wei served as Governor of Yongzhou. There was one who carried firewood and one who carried salt.”* *They both loosened their loads and rested in the shade of a tree.* *They were about to depart when they began disputing over a single sheepskin.* *They each claimed it was something they had placed on their back.* *Li Hui stated, “This case is quite easy to judge.”* *He then had the sheepskin placed on the mat and struck it with a staff.* *Salt particles emerged.* *“The one carrying firewood immediately confessed his guilt.”*

“It is said that Zhang Xiaoshe of Weiting excelled at detecting thieves. Once while walking through the marketplace, he saw a man in full ceremonial robes encounter someone carrying grass, pluck several stalks from them, and head toward the privy. Zhang waited for him to emerge and rebuked him from behind. The man trembled in fear. ‘Seize this one—he is the thief.’ “On another occasion during summer’s heat, he wandered into an old temple. Three or four men lay there, sprawled on a mat and snoring loudly. Beside them sat a watermelon, split open but uneaten. Zhang pointed at them and ordered their arrest as thieves— and indeed they were. When someone inquired about his method, Zhang explained: ‘One uses grass when visiting the privy. Only rogues of low character do so. Those fine robes must have been stolen. Men who sleep huddled in temples labor by night and rest by day. A split watermelon drives away flies.’”

“I see,” Montadō muttered. “It appears to be a book compiling anecdotes of wise men from ancient China. People of old were clever. …The sacred text the old woman spoke of is probably this book. If I can just obtain this book, there’s no need to remain here.”

Montadō stood up. Then he briskly headed to the doorway. The door had a lock. It had been locked from the outside. When he looked around, there was one window. He dashed to the window. The window too had been locked. It had been locked from the outside. He had been taken prisoner. He had been completely confined.

He involuntarily groaned, but there was nothing he could do. He sat back down on the bed and tried to calm his mind to think. At that moment, the stone ceiling began to lower gradually.

“Ah!” Montadō cried out. “By the Three Treasures!” “I’ve been tricked!” “So they mean to crush me to death!”

The stone ceiling descended downward ever so quietly. Soon it would complete its descent. He would be crushed. There was no escape route anywhere. He would have to die powerless.

Seventeen

With a gloomy, dull, eerie creaking sound—kiiii—the suspended ceiling descended gradually, moment by moment. The suspended ceiling was impossibly heavy. If crushed beneath it, there would be no surviving. He would be flattened like a halibut. Even the valiant Shōdoshima Montadō could do nothing. *Will my life end here?* he thought. Regrettable though it was, there seemed no path of escape.

The floor was thick stone pavement, and the walls on all four sides were also stone. The door of the sole entrance had its latch lowered from the outside. ……Creak, creak, creak, creak—the ceiling descended halfway down. Montadō gnashed his teeth, but since he couldn’t sit up, he lay flat against the stone pavement. Before long, the ceiling descended to two-thirds of the room’s height. And still it continued to descend. Eventually, Montadō came to feel the ceiling’s weight on his back. Finally, the ceiling descended all the way to his back, intent on killing him.

"This is it," Montadō resignedly closed his eyes tightly. "For a samurai of Great Japan—in this foreign land, this barbaric South American wilderness, within a sunless demon realm of uncanny caverns—to fall for savages’ treachery and be crushed by a suspended ceiling! How vexing, how utterly vexing—regrettable as it is, is this too the will of heaven’s decree? Ah—it’s crushing me! I’m suffocating!" One more push would have reduced Montadō’s body to dust without resistance—so it seemed. Then, at that moment, right beneath the thick stone pavement where he lay came a click-click-click-click sound.

Even in such a perilous situation, Montadō did not lose his sanity. *Hmm?* he wondered, inclining his ear. The click-click-click-click sound grew steadily louder, but the moment a thunderous crash—like collapsing earth—rang out, the stone pavement swayed violently left and right before plummeting downward with a boom. Ah! Before he could even think, Montadō’s body flew through the air and plummeted beneath the floor. “Ah! I’m saved!”

Montadō involuntarily let out a cry of joy and hastily looked around. Illuminated by the faint light streaming through the hole left by the displaced stone pavement, his surroundings were hazily bright. When he looked, there stood a man right beside him. He was neither an indigenous person nor a Japanese. The sort often encountered around Nagasaki—it was a Western man gazing at Montadō’s face with an unmistakably astonished expression. This was none other than Mr. George Hawkins, whose forced confinement beneath the temple floor by Chief Onkokko had already been recounted. Afterward, he had discovered an underground passage beneath that floor and, resolved to find a lifeline in mortal peril, plunged ahead with single-minded determination. Having expended nearly a full day and night, he discovered that the passage ended at this very spot. Thereupon, he abruptly looked up at the ceiling. There lay flat stones arranged in a row. The stones, apparently having endured long years, bore narrow gaps between them from which light leaked; though weakened by hunger, thirst, and fatigue, he frantically dug at the earth, thinking this might finally offer a way aboveground. The flat stones had indeed fallen away to open a hole—that much was expected—but that along with them would come tumbling down such a splendidly gallant man was beyond anything he could have anticipated.

The fact that the man who had fallen down was neither an indigenous person nor his ally, but an Eastern samurai, surprised him even more.

Montadō swiftly advanced. “Though I do not know who you are, for saving me in my peril I scarcely know how to express my thanks—but this humble one is the Japanese warrior Shōdoshima Montadō.” Though he spoke this respectfully and bowed politely, there was no way the British Mr. Hawkins could comprehend it. As a result, Mr. Hawkins stood perplexed and silent. However, human emotions—whether Japanese or British—do not differ greatly. And so, Mr. Hawkins supplemented with hand gestures, mixing in Dutch, Spanish, and every word he knew,

“I am George Hawkins, a British explorer. From what I observe, some dreadful incident appears to have befallen you—pray recount the circumstances.” However, Shōdoshima Montadō had once studied Dutch extensively from Netherlanders in Nagasaki, leaving him no want for conversational ability. At once, the two men could share accounts of their respective calamities. Finding their plights alike through this exchange, they found themselves compelled toward camaraderie.

“Being crushed by a suspended ceiling… Just hearing about it makes my skin crawl.” “What a brutal thing to do! They’re merciless bastards!” Mr. Hawkins also sighed as if utterly astonished and said, “This cannot be left alone. “We must take revenge without fail.” “Indeed, we must take revenge.” Montadō nodded. “Shall the two of us leap through the hole left by the fallen stone pavement onto the roof and cut down the indigenous people? “Or perhaps those bastards will grow anxious about the outcome and eventually descend into the underground passage—shall we wait in ambush there and cut them down? Hmm, which approach is better?”

Eighteen “The enemies are many, our allies are two—if we go out into the plaza, we stand no chance.” “Better to wait in the underground passage and cut them down when they come.” This was Mr. Hawkins’s counsel. “A sound plan.” “To conquer through unorthodox means—this is the essence of Japanese military strategy.” “Our British treatises record similar principles.” “The supreme art of war lies in scientific calculation.”

“Scientific—now that’s an intriguing term,” Montadō remarked. “In other words, you mean logical reasoning.” “Exactly—it’s about logical reasoning,” Hawkins affirmed. “Not only military strategy—all matters of this world must be entirely scientific.” “Science is good, logic is good—but there is something even more important beyond those.” Montadō drew himself up proudly. “It is none other than the Yamato spirit!”

“Yamato spirit? That’s an unusual term.” “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.” “I’d like to hear an explanation of that, perhaps.” Mr. Hawkins asked curiously.

“A simple matter—I’ll explain it to you.” “Loyalty to one’s lord and filial piety—these twin paths form our foundation.” “To forget oneself for righteousness’ sake and sacrifice oneself for compassion!” “This grand sentiment transcends science and logic—this is the Yamato spirit!” “Ah! Now I understand perfectly.” “In British terms—what we call chivalry.” “Chivalry? Chivalry?” “A fine phrase indeed.” “But new to my ears.” “Pray explain this ‘chivalry’.”

“It’s nothing complicated—I’ll explain.” “In our country’s medieval period—what we call the feudal era—daimyo lords held sway over various regions.” “Those daimyo lords were served by young warriors called knights, who embodied both benevolence and righteousness and took pride in their martial skills.” “In principle, those knights had to venture into perilous regions where demons and specters, bandits, and venomous snakes ran rampant—sparing no effort to eradicate these scourges for the sake of the common people.” “The one who slays many demons becomes the most superior knight, and countless knights strive to attain such excellence.” “This is none other than chivalry!”

“I see—your explanation has made it perfectly clear.” “Well now, that is truly splendid.” “Truly, that itself is the Yamato spirit!” “Then you shall confront the indigenous people with the Yamato spirit, and we shall do so with chivalry!” “There will be no enemies to stand against us!” “It’s about time the indigenous people showed up.” “Oh, it’s suddenly bright!”

Even as peril loomed before them, Shōdoshima Montadō and Mr. Hawkins had become utterly absorbed in a discussion boasting of their respective nations’ military strategies—and just then, the dimly lit underground passage suddenly blazed brightly. Startled, they turned to look and saw several pine torches thrust out from the hole created by the fallen stone pavement. The indigenous people were peering in. “Now they’ll finally come down.” “Let’s withdraw a bit further back.” The two in the underground passage whispered to each other as they quietly withdrew deeper inside. Fortunately, two rocks protruding from the left and right walls were sufficient to conceal their bodies—Montadō swiftly hid behind the rock on the left, and Mr. Hawkins behind the one on the right. However, the problem was that Mr. Hawkins had no weapon in hand. When they had been captured by Chief Onkokko, everything had been plundered from them.

“Mr. Shōdoshima, Lord Montadō.” Mr. Hawkins called out.

“What is it? Do you require something?” “I do not possess any weapons.” “No weapons, then? No matter—I’ll cut down those armed savages first. Use their weapons.”

“This is an excellent plan. “I leave it to you.”

And the two fell silent. They kept a close eye on the other side. Then, five or six figures fluttered down from the hole into the underground passage. Then again, five or six of them flapped down like bats. They were armed indigenous people. Immediately, they formed a group and began eagerly searching the ground while shouting something at the top of their lungs. They must have been searching for Montadō’s corpse. Perhaps having confirmed the absence of a corpse, they gathered in apparent bewilderment and conferred, but after a short while, they abruptly parted ways, formed into a single-file column, and came running briskly here.

“Mr. Hawkins, they’re here.” “Is that so? How intriguing.”

The two of them waited for the indigenous people to approach, whispering to each other. The light from the pine torches held by the indigenous people made the underground passage as bright as day, rendering their movements as clear as if held in one’s palm—yet since the two of them hid behind rocks, they remained invisible to the indigenous people’s eyes. Now, the indigenous people tried to rush quickly past the two of them into the depths. This was not a battle between fellow Japanese. Their opponents were uncouth indigenous people. Montadō deliberately refrained from uttering a battle cry and swung down the gleaming blade he had raised overhead in one sharp motion. A dull *thud*! The indigenous person’s head fell to the ground. Piercing through the light of the pine torches, a thick gush of blood spurted over four shaku—a sight both horrifying and spectacular. The indigenous person collapsed with a thud like a withered tree and lay motionless.

Nineteen The moment he struck, Montadō withdrew behind the rock—a truly swift maneuver. Yet no less impressive was Mr. Hawkins’ motion—reaching out from behind the rock to swiftly snatch the human bone short spear from the fallen indigenous person’s hand—and upon gripping the spear, he stabbed it into the chest of the second indigenous person. The indigenous person let out a “Waaah!” and collapsed. The ground had turned to mud from the blood gushing out of the chest. Then, once again, Montadō burst forth from behind the rock and, without assuming a stance, slashed sideways at the third indigenous person’s shoulder. In other words, he struck with a diagonal slash. With a “Kyatt!”, the indigenous person collapsed like a toppled sake barrel, blood gushing out from the wound. In that instant, it was Mr. Hawkins who leaped out and stabbed the fourth indigenous person in the abdomen.

“Hey, let’s take another one!” As he shouted, Montadō hurled the fifth indigenous person with a hip wheel throw.

“That should do it.” “Then, let’s take a break.”

The two called out to each other and swiftly retreated into the hideout. Neither sweat formed nor did their breathing quicken. In that literal instant, five slain indigenous people abandoned their comrades' corpses and fled screaming. They retreated along their original path. As the indigenous figures vanished, the pine torches extinguished, plunging the underground passage into darkness. "Ahahahaha! Pathetic weaklings!" Montadō erupted in booming laughter. "Mr. Hawkins, how many did you cut down?"

“Indeed—I should have killed two.” “I’ve got one more than you.” “I took out three.”

“What will the indigenous people do now?” “This won’t end here. They’ll rally in full force and come back eventually.” “That could get a bit troublesome.” Mr. Hawkins sank into thought. “We’ll cut them down as they come.” Montadō was unfazed.

“But those fellows are inexhaustible.” “If we kill a hundred of them, things will take shape.” “It’s like slicing through eggplants and radishes.” Montadō boasted. “But by then, we’ll be exhausted too.” “Nah—if we get tired, we’ll just rest.” “My thinking is a bit different.” After much deliberation, Mr. Hawkins said. “I think I’ll turn back.” “If you turn back, where will you go?” “The underground passage I came through is fortunately not a maze. “It’s a single path without any branching paths.” “And it leads to the shrine.” “…So I think we should follow this path together and first make our way to the shrine.”

“I see,” said Montadō, though his demeanor showed no approval. “That might indeed be a sound plan,” Hawkins offered. “However,” Montadō countered flatly, “I disagree.” “Hmm… Disagree?” Hawkins pressed. “On what grounds?” “I swore an oath to Onkokko.” “A vow to retrieve the sword.” “That blade must be claimed—by any means necessary.” “Take the cursed thing for all I care,” Hawkins conceded. “But not now—the timing’s disastrous.” Leaning closer with urgent intensity, he continued: “This very moment reeks of ill fortune. First we quit these suffocating tunnels—emerge under open sky—rally our forces—then storm back through this rat’s warren at our leisure! Plunder your precious sword then! Pillage their heathen mysteries as souvenirs! But mark me—we must surface now.”

As one would expect of Mr. Hawkins—being British—his reasoning proved sound. "Your counsel holds perfect logic." Montadō gave a nod. "Very well—I shall heed your words." "Let us quit this underworld forthwith."

“Ah! So you agree? Then I’ll be your guide!” No sooner had he spoken than Mr. Hawkins started running toward the depths of the underground passage. They had come about a kilometer when— At that moment—suddenly from ahead along their path—a solid black mass surged toward them: pine torches blazing at its forefront over what appeared to exceed a hundred figures. The pair halted in shock; recognizing this horde revealed none other than Chief Onkokko’s indigenous army.

At that moment, a thunderous war cry erupted from the direction they had just come from. When they looked back, the indigenous people had mustered a fresh contingent and were pursuing them from behind. The two now found themselves quite unexpectedly beset by enemies to both front and rear.

“Lord Montadō—it’s no use.” Mr. Hawkins sighed. “No, no—it’s still far too early to despair.” “In the direst hour, there is the sword.” “A keen-edged Japanese sword!” “They’re mere South American savages—cutting them down requires no explanation.”

The true essence of a Japanese warrior—the moment he saw formidable enemies appear before and behind him, Montadō’s courage swelled all the more. Gripping the hilt of his large sword, he surveyed both directions with unwavering resolve.

Twenty

Here, the story undergoes a complete change.

This is a forest on the surface.

Sunlight streamed in, glittering. The chirping of birds, the buzzing of bees, the whisper of a gentle breeze against twigs—all were indescribably pleasant. Lush green grass grew across the ground, and a riot of red and purple flowers bloomed like a rainbow. How pleasantly beautiful it was compared to the underground world where Mr. George Hawkins and Montadō were attacked by enemies and attacked them in turn, struggling all the while.

Then, from a spot in the forest, a pure singing voice could be heard—a hoarse, divine old man’s voice and a cheerful, innocent boy’s voice earnestly singing in chorus an indigenous hymn praising their god. The singing grew gradually closer. Then, a boy briskly emerged from between the trees—none other than Mr. George Hawkins’s son, the beautiful youth John. “Uncle, come here!” “Uncle, come here!”

When he called out in fluent indigenous language like this, “John! John! You’re so quick—like a two-year-old doe!” The one who emerged while saying this was none other than the indigenous priest Batachikan—the very man who had betrayed Chief Onkokko himself to rescue John from peril.

“If you keep bouncing about too much and step outside the forest, those terrifying fellows will spot you, mark my words.” “Now, now, come here.” “Sit on the green grass.” “I’ll tell you an interesting story.” John calmly went to Priest Batachikan’s side and tried to sit down to listen to the story. Batachikan and John were close friends. For Priest Batachikan in particular, the boy John—who should have been an enemy—was inexplicably endearing.

Thus, ever since saving the boy John from that initial peril, Batachikan had taught him the indigenous language with unwavering focus. The indigenous language was simple, and as John was particularly clever, he had mastered it in a short time, so the two were able to converse in the indigenous language even about quite difficult matters. “John, John! Now listen well. “This is an important story, you know. “And this is a tale known only to those among our people who have served as priests through the generations, you see... Long, long ago in the distant past, there was a crow. “That crow had only one leg, and though its shape was strangely ugly, it was said to be a very clever bird. “One day, that crow said to our people—so it’s told—”

‘There is no treasure on Chiburon Island. The truth is，the treasure lies upon the sea. Come aboard the ship and follow me! I will guide you there. But it’s quite dangerous，I tell you. There are mermaids that sing songs，swaying boulders，and a mountain of other terrifying things. If you accept that，then come follow me. I’ll take you right to the side of the treasure.’ “However，the indigenous people were cowardly and refused to follow along，so the crow finally lost patience and flew off somewhere，and so it goes.”

“So where did the crow go?” The boy John asked. “Well now, where did it go, I wonder.” “I don’t know that either.” “Will the crow never come again?” “Well, I don’t know that either.” “I want to meet the crow…” “Why do you want to meet the crow?” “I want to go to the treasure island!” “If it’s to the treasure island, I’d like to go as well.” “Crow!” “Crow!” “A one-legged crow!” The boy John ran off into the depths of the forest while singing.

It was that very same afternoon when the boy John discovered a crow in the depths of the forest. Unfortunately, the crow was not one-legged; however, it was a magnificent large crow, possessing more than enough value to satisfy the boy’s imagination. “Crow, crow, big crow!”

While singing, the boy John quietly picked up a stone and feigned nonchalance, then suddenly hurled it with a whoosh. In his mind, he threw the stone intending to break one of those two sturdy black legs. The aimed stone struck true against one leg—whether by some miracle or not—and the limb snapped off came tumbling down.

“Ah!” The startled boy John inadvertently let out a cry, but even more startled was the large crow whose leg had been broken; flapping noisily as it left the branch, it wearily beat its wings and flew away into the forest.

“Crow, crow, one-legged crow!” “Crow, crow, one-legged crow!”

John chased after the crow while shouting frantically. “John! John!” Batachikan’s voice called out worriedly from behind, but the boy John did not even respond.

Before he knew it, he left the forest behind. And suddenly, he emerged onto the coast. The tide was coming in toward the shore. There was a small inlet, and there, a single dugout canoe drifted, swaying with the waves. And so the crow soared away slowly, slowly over the sea.

John was a British boy. And Britain was a maritime nation. Though just a child, John was well-versed in maritime knowledge. He could handle rowing a dugout canoe.

He nimbly jumped into the dugout canoe. He attempted to chase the crow.

Twenty-One

Unaware that the boy John had been lured away by the one-legged crow and had run off, Priest Batachikan continued searching through the forest while calling out. “John!” “John!” “John isn’t here?!” “There are enemies outside the forest! Don’t go out there!” “John!” “John! Where are you? Don’t go out there!”

But there was no response from anywhere. Batachikan grew increasingly uneasy. He stood by the base of a palm tree, deep in worried thought. The forest was quiet. There was no danger there. There was nothing but beautiful sunlight, a cool breeze, fragrant plants and flowers, and green trees. There was nothing but delicious fruits and clear springs. However, once outside the forest, terrifying indigenous people would be swarming. “John! John!”

Batachikan called out anxiously again, but John’s reply could not be heard.

“Ah! I’m so worried! So worried! Where on earth has that boy gone?” The anxiety grew increasingly intense. At that moment, the sound of footsteps—as though a large group of people were approaching—suddenly arose. Batachikan gasped in astonishment. “They must be Onkokko’s comrades. If I’m discovered, I’ll surely be killed as a traitor according to their laws. I must flee, I must flee.” He hurriedly ran toward the thicket, muffling his footsteps as he went. However, before he could reach the thicket, he was discovered by enemies. They were not Onkokko’s comrades but the Anglo-Japanese allied forces. They were none other than the allied forces under Kijima Jūheita and Colonel Gordon.

In an instant, Batachikan was bound and dragged before the two commanders.

“Who the devil are you?”

Colonel Gordon was the first to ask. “I am a priest of the indigenous people.” Batachikan said this in English. From John, Batachikan had learned English in a crash course, so he could manage ordinary conversation. “What’s your name?”

“Yes, I am called Batachikan.” “Where have your indigenous comrades gone?” “I have no idea.” “What? You don’t know? Why is that?” “To my comrades, I am a traitor.” “What did you do to betray them?” “Because I helped a child named John.” Upon hearing this, the British abruptly changed their demeanor.

“So it was you, Batachikan, who saved the boy John? Though it was a battlefield chaos, I indeed saw from afar a lone indigenous man rescue John from Chief Onkokko’s poisoned blade—tucking him under an arm and fleeing. Hearing this, I cannot treat you discourteously. We must undo your bonds... Now then—is the boy John still in your keeping?” “He is not here.”

“What? He’s not here?” “Where did you take him?” “It was not I who did so.” “He vanished without a trace.”

Then Batachikan recounted everything that had happened up to now in as much detail as possible, using halting conversation and hand gestures. In both his demeanor and words, there appeared to be no trace of deceit. Gordon and the others had no choice but to believe. “We must search. We must search.” Needless to say, the British agreed, and the Japanese side did likewise, deciding to dispatch a search party.

However, no matter how much they searched, John could not be found. And so, the people despaired and gathered once more in one place.

Where had the boy John gone?

Colonel Gordon captured Batachikan and tried asking him various things.

“In truth, we pursued the indigenous army and raced all over the island when suddenly all those indigenous people vanished at once. It was as if they’d been sucked into the ground… Could there be some sort of escape tunnel leading underground on this island?” “Yes, there is an escape tunnel.” “Oh—there is?! Where?” “Moreover, there are three of them.” “Ah! Tell me.” “One lies beneath the shrine.”

“What? The shrine?” “Where in the shrine?” “Yes, it is under the floor.”

“I hadn’t noticed that at all.” “Another lies within a cave deep in the forest. But reaching the underground world from there proves no simple task. A maze bars the way.” “And where’s the third?”

“Yes, it is in the wilderness on the back coast of this island.” “So it appears they fled in through there.” “That is likely the case.” “What manner of world is this underground world?” “It is a terrifying place. A world of mystery.”

Twenty-Two

The one-legged great crow soared steadily over the sea. The boy John maneuvered the oar and vigorously propelled the small boat forward. The sky was clear, the sea was calm—a supremely tranquil day.

The boat advanced steadily onward.

He kept rowing for a long while. When he looked back, Chiburon Island floated low upon the sea. Countless seabirds flew about. The crow flew onward without end. By now, the boy John had rowed relentlessly for over an hour. Then two massive rocks materialized in the sea ahead. These were the fabled floating stones. Though stone, they rode the water's surface. Clashing together again and again, they churned up terrible froth. Like snowfall, this foam thickened to shroud the surrounding sea and blot out their path ahead. All the while, their collision-roar echoed like thunderclaps.

The crow soared like a bolt of lightning between the two floating rocks.

Then, it looked back and cawed “Caw! Caw!” as if calling to the boy John.

The boy John hesitated. Because navigating through the gap between the rocks seemed difficult. So he stopped trying to pass through and decided to circle around one of the rocks to get ahead. But what if he were to lose track of the crow’s path in the meantime? That would truly be falling between two stools. “Courage, courage, courage is what matters! Adventure, adventure! Adventure’s the only way! Who cares? Just charge through!” The boy John resolved. He put strength into the oar, and as the rocks collided and then parted for a split second, he slipped through smoothly. The instant this happened, two rocks from both sides let out thunderous roars of fury and collided like wild beasts—yet they merely grazed the boat’s stern, leaving both vessel and occupant unharmed.

When he looked, the crow was soaring leisurely through the sky ahead, making its way onward. Relieved, the boy John put even more strength into his oar and rowed onward. About half an hour had passed in this manner when a small island came into view ahead. As he drew closer and looked carefully, a great many children were playing. It was an exceedingly beautiful island where various flowers bloomed as though someone had brought a rainbow down from the sky. Red, white, yellow, purple, indigo, gold! There were sky-blue flowers and peach-colored flowers. Among the flowers, rabbits were leaping. An adorable little green forest! There, squirrels were chattering. A ribbon-like stream flowed out from the forest! The water shone silver. A great many children held hands, formed a circle, and danced. And so they sang.

Welcome, welcome, welcome, Island of Dreams，Island of Paintings，Island of Fairy Tales， Welcome，welcome，welcome，

The boy John stopped rowing for a while and gazed in fascination. "Everyone looks like they're having fun playing." "I want to join them and play too."

Once more, the sound of singing reached him. Welcome, welcome, welcome, We’ll pick flowers for you, Here flows milk, There is sweet honey too. Bees buzz, butterflies flutter, Island of Dreams, Island of Paintings, Island of Fairy Tales, Welcome, welcome, welcome. The children were dancing as they sang. Feet rose up together. Hands extended forward in unison. The circle spiraled round and round. The role of accompaniment was played by small birds.

“Ah, how nice…” The boy John grew envious of the children. “Maybe I should go ashore and play with them?”

He put strength into the oar and attempted to land the small boat on the island. At that moment, he suddenly came to his senses and looked up at the sky ahead. The figure of the great crow guiding him was soaring at the distant edge of the sky, about to vanish from sight. "Oh no!" "I'll lose sight of it!"

The boy John was startled but swiftly turned the boat around in a full circle and rowed away, abandoning the island. Still from behind came the sound of the children’s singing voices full of joy—that was the voice of temptation. But by now the boy John no longer allowed his heart to be shaken. He rowed onward single-mindedly. Having rowed for a considerable length of time, his arms grew quite weary. At that moment land came into view ahead. And so the crow aiming for that land quietly quietly danced onward.

When he finally rowed to shore and looked around, the crow was nowhere to be seen. “Ah, I’ve lost sight of it after all.” Though he was terribly disappointed, he also found himself thinking this way. “In other words, the crow might have guided me all _the_ way to this land. The treasure from _the_story might be somewhere on this land.”

After securely tying the dugout canoe to the trees on the shore with wisteria vines, the boy John went ashore. And so he walked further inland.

Twenty-Three Before long, he came to a river. A beggar lay sprawled on the riverbank. He was an aged and frail indigenous beggar: his limbs caked in grime, his clothes tattered, and a pungent reek emanating from him. Though he was a thoroughly filthy beggar, he called out to the boy John. “Hey, boy, boy! Wait!” John stopped in surprise. “I’m sick and can’t walk.” “Carry me across the river!” It was an arrogant and insolent manner of speaking.

The boy John flared up in irritation, but upon realizing the other was an elderly sick man, he found himself unable to shout back. Instead, he found himself pitying the beggar. “Are you sick? “That’s really too bad.” “Ah, sure, I’ll carry you.” As he said this, he turned his back. With that, the beggar stood up and leaned his emaciated body against him, but contrary to his appearance, he had considerable weight. “Ugh, dammit, you’re way heavier than you look!” Muttering to himself, the boy John crossed the river to the other side.

Then, while being carried, the beggar began spewing abuse indiscriminately.

“Hey, Scrawny Brat! “You blundering fool! “If you go that way, you’ll drown! “That’s a deep pool over there! “It’s a deep pool! “Hey hey! Where do you think you’re going, brat?! “If you go that way, you’ll trip! “There’s a big rock there! “What an idiot you are! “Go straight! Straight ahead! “That’s right, that’s right! Straight ahead! “Oh, this brat’s turned sideways. “You’re just a brat, yet you won’t listen to a word! “You warped little brat, you rotten good-for-nothing! Aren’t you just the most infuriating little punk there ever was!” he bellowed hatefully.

No matter what was said to him, the boy John refused to engage. What a pitiful beggar—he must have gone mad from all the hardships he had endured. Thinking this way kept his anger at bay. And so he proceeded in silence.

When he had finished crossing the river, the boy John heaved a sigh of relief. There, he put down the beggar from his back, took off his hat, and greeted him. “Goodbye, old man. I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“Now, hold on,” said the beggar. “You’re truly an admirable child. You really held out, didn’t you? I’m truly impressed. You will surely succeed. I can vouch for that myself…… Now, I’ll give you something good as a reward.”

As he said this, he flung open both hands in front of John’s eyes. Two black stone spheres were resting on his palms. "This," the old man explained, "is a weapon rarely seen in this world. As long as you possess these, you can escape most dangers. When a fearsome enemy attacks and your life hangs by a thread, hurl one at them. First throw this one. Then throw another. Then you shall survive. Farewell, and go in good health."

The beggar went off as he was. The boy John stood watching the beggar depart for some time; then, having tucked the two strange black stones into his coat pocket, he set off walking wherever his feet would take him. Then, far ahead along the path, a house appeared. By this time, it was dusk, and the boy John was both exhausted and extremely hungry, so he resolved to go to that house to ask for lodging and food.

The mansion’s structure was bizarre, and it appeared long neglected, with its gate tilting and roof crumbling into a state of dreadful ruin. It was a house design he had never seen before.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” He called out while asking for directions. No one responded. The boy John stood bewildered and vacant-eyed at the ruined gate when “If they scold me I’ll simply apologize—who cares? I’m going in anyway” flashed through his mind.

It was there that the British adventurer boy boldly entered the house. Then there was a large room where a man had been sleeping, but upon seeing the boy John, he slowly and heavily raised his body up. And then he glared at John.

“Who the hell are you?!” the man suddenly shouted in a booming voice. The curious thing was that while he used the indigenous tongue, he himself did not appear to be of indigenous stock. “I’m not a suspicious person,” the boy John said hurriedly.

“I’m just a lost child.” “Nonsense! You’re the thief! Here to steal the sacred text again, aren’t you?!” The mysterious man shouted again. “Aren’t you one of the snake-handler’s gang?!” “I am not such a person.” “I am a British boy.” “I am a child named John Hawkins.” “You lie, you villain!” “But I don’t deal with children.” “Get out of here right now.” “And tell that snake-handling crone to return the sacred text at once!”

“I’ve never met any snake-handling crone or anything like that.”

“Ah, I’m sleepy. I’m going to sleep.” No sooner had he spoken than the man bent his elbow and plopped down to sleep. Immediately, snores began to sound.

Twenty-Four

The boy John stood dumbfounded, watching for a short while. At that moment, a boy briskly entered the room. He appeared to be about John’s age. He, too, did not appear to be indigenous. “Oh, and who might you be?” The boy inquired earnestly. That language was the indigenous language. “I’m a lost child.” “Oh, I see. That’s too bad…” The boy said kindly. He was a kind-looking boy.

“You’re not one of the indigenous people, are you?” The boy John first inquired. “Yes, we are Japanese… You’re not one of the indigenous people either, are you?” “That’s right. I am British.” “British? “Oh, I see. “And what’s your name? “My name is Yamato Hideo.” “My name is John Hawkins.” “What part of the world is Britain?” “It’s far, far away across the sea.” “Did you come here alone from there?” “How could I possibly have come here alone? “I came with my father and companions across the sea, you know.”

“What happened to those people?”

“They are at war with the indigenous people.” “...By the way, where is this place?” “Is it a continent or an island?” “It’s the back coast of Chiburon Island.” “Oh, so it’s Chiburon Island after all?” The boy John was surprised but asked, “What kind of country is Japan?” “Japan is the land of noblemen in the East, you know.” “And its people are clever, you know.” “It abounds in martial spirit.” “Is it close to Chiburon Island?” “No, it’s very far away.”

“When did you come to this island?” “Exactly—about five years ago now.” “What brought you here?”

“To search for the hidden treasure vault, right?” “So you’re here for that too?” John’s eyes widened. “And was the treasure found?” “We came within a hair’s breadth of success before ultimately failing... That is to say, the sacred text was stolen from us.” “What sort of sacred text is it?” “A book written in Classical Chinese.” “When you say Classical Chinese—that’s Chinese writing, right?” “Yes, precisely—Chinese writing. ...That sacred text contains countless beneficial teachings. ...It’s a most important book.”

“Who on earth stole it?” “It was a snake-handling old woman.”

“Where is that old woman?” “She’s in the underground world, I hear.” “Does such a world exist?” “Yes, it does exist.” “Why would she steal someone else’s book?” “Because it had the location of the treasure written in it.” “Is there any connection between the hidden treasure and the old woman?”

“That old woman is the guardian.” “The hidden treasure’s, you know.” “So she thought if she stole the book, the treasure would be safe.” “So she came at night and stole it secretly?” “No, that’s not the case.” “That old woman used to come here every day to visit.” “Then one day, she boldly snatched the sacred text and took it away.” “Chief Onkokko of the indigenous people often came to visit too.” “You see, that old woman and Onkokko are the rulers of Chiburon Island.” “In other words, Onkokko rules the surface, and the old woman rules the underground.” “And so they work together to protect the treasure.”

“So your father had been on good terms with that old woman and Onkokko from the start?” “To put it plainly, Father sought to exploit those two,” “He aimed to verify the treasure’s whereabouts through their own words.” “…All barbarians share a fondness for singing songs, you understand.” “The snake-handling crone particularly adored this—Father set modern tunes to ancient verses from the Manyoshu anthology and taught them to her, along with our language.” “In linguistic matters, those savages display remarkable aptitude.” “They mastered everything swiftly.” “Yet despite this kindness, she repaid us by stealing the sacred text.” “Since that day, Father’s mind became unhinged—he now sees thieves everywhere and rains curses upon all he meets.”

As the two boys talked, they had come to feel a mutual fondness between them. Then, suddenly, John said.

“I have a weapon! I’ll take down that snake-handling old woman! If I can just get to the underground world, I’ll definitely take her down!” “We can go to the underground world!”

Yamato Hideo said energetically. “There’s a path to the underground in the fields around here.”

25 “There’s a path to the underground, you say?” “Tell me about that.” “Then let’s both go down there!”

The boy John said this. “Oh, sure! I’ll show you.”

Yamato Hideo was delighted. Then he took the lead and guided the boy John.

Exiting the mansion, they found themselves in a wasteland. The two of them walked through the wasteland. Eventually, they came upon a dry well. Because it was a dry well, there was no water. And on one side of the well, there was a crudely constructed staircase. “Look, here’s the staircase,” “This is the path to the underground.” Hideo said and pointed.

“Alright then, let’s go down from here.”

“Then I’ll go first.”

With Hideo taking the lead and John following behind, they descended into the dry well. Soon, the two boys reached the bottom. A narrow horizontal passage ran through. They followed it. The path proved unexpectedly flat—no mountains or slopes. Only the darkness posed a drawback. The pair kept running steadily onward. After running for over two hours, they heard voices up ahead. “Looks like we’ve finally reached the underground world.” “The natives are making a commotion.”

“Let’s watch our step.” “Move quietly.” The two boys warned each other to be cautious and stealthily approached, muffling their footsteps. As previously recorded, Shōdoshima Montadō and Mr. Hawkins—having taken on formidable enemies to their front and rear until they found themselves completely cornered—had no other recourse: Montadō confronted Onkokko’s army while Hawkins faced the underground people’s army, each waging desperate struggles.

With shouts, screams, battle cries, and the clang of weapons, the narrow underground passage instantly became a hellish scene of carnage—amidst this chaos, Montadō cut down fifteen enemies and Mr. Hawkins ten, their fates unknown. Even the indigenous armies were daunted by this; with heavy *thud thud thud thud* sounds, they crumbled all at once and withdrew the way they had come—though this was not a complete flight, merely a temporary retreat. The two men let out sighs of relief, but their bodies were utterly exhausted.

“Now, what should we do?” It was Mr. Hawkins who said this.

“They’ll regroup and counterattack soon enough. We’ve no alternative but to fight,” Montadō declared with grim resignation.

“Indeed—we have no choice but to fight,” said Mr. Hawkins gloomily. “The enemy is numerous, and we are but two. We stand no chance of victory here.” “It cannot be dismissed so easily,” Montadō countered deliberately with forced cheer. “There is such a thing as divine favor in this world.” “I do not acknowledge such things.” Mr. Hawkins’ voice turned icy. “That is a pitiable superstition.” “No, no—it is by no means superstition.” Montadō’s tone grew insistent. “In Japan, there are many examples.” “No—it’s superstition.” Each word fell like a hammer blow. “Unscientific. Irrational.”

“That’s a Western interpretation.” “And that is the correct interpretation.”

“But that remains unproven.” “Ah! They’re rallying—here they come!” “We’ve no leisure for debate.” “Aye—they’ve returned.” “To arms, then!”

The two decided there to confront the enemies to their front and rear as they had before.

Onkokko’s army, relying on their numbers, advanced steadily toward Montadō.

Unflinching, Montadō pressed his body tightly against the rock wall and glared at the enemies for a moment; then leaped suddenly into their midst and cut down two men on the spot. And in the next instant, he pressed himself tightly against the rock wall once more. Then he suddenly leaped in again and cut down two men in the same manner—and by the instant they fell, his body was already pressed against the rock wall again.

Six, eight, ten men—the indigenous people were swiftly cut down one after another, but Montadō too had no choice but to sustain one or two wounds on his body. Once again, the indigenous army retreated before this ferocious whirlwind of blades, but at that moment, a thunderous roar suddenly shook the underground passage, and simultaneously, Onkokko’s forces—which had until then gathered like clouds—exhausted their numbers and thudded to the ground.

Thick yellow smoke billowed up, the pungent stench of gunpowder stinging noses—someone must have thrown a bomb. Overwhelmed by sheer surprise, Shōdoshima Montadō stood momentarily transfixed, eyes wide with shock—then suddenly swept through the gunpowder haze to find two boys materializing before him, multiplying his astonishment twofold. These youths could be none other than young John and Hideo.

Twenty-Six

Meanwhile, Mr. George Hawkins, facing those underground people and wielding human bone spears, continued to wage a desperate struggle. When he thrust down five indigenous people, he himself sustained several wounds, but he did not flinch at such a thing. He plunged further into the enemy ranks. At that moment, the sound of a massive explosion pierced through his eardrums.

Mr. Hawkins was astonished by this, but even more so were the indigenous people, who let out a startled cry and fled over eighteen meters away.

And Mr. Hawkins turned to look. Thick, billowing smoke; heaps of corpses strewn about. When he realized one of the two boys who had come running out from within was his own son John, his joy and astonishment defied all description.

“John!” “John!” “That’s John!”

He involuntarily called out in a loud voice. John, who had been called, looked at Mr. Hawkins— “Ah! Father!” “Father!”

With a cry of joy, he flew over like a ball. Mr. Hawkins spread his arms wide and swept him into a tight embrace. It was a reunion of parent and child after so long. The one thought dead was alive. ……For a while, they stood embracing without uttering a word. Tears streamed down cheeks. Then suddenly young John glared at the crowd of underground people—

“Ah, those are indigenous people, right?” “They’re our hateful enemies.” “Then I’ll take care of them!” Before he could finish speaking, he pulled out from his pocket the black stone he had received from that mysterious beggar and hurled it at the indigenous people. Once again, a thunderous explosion reverberated throughout the underground passage, but the tremendous roar that followed was entirely unexpected. Perhaps because the rock formation in that area was weak, the left and right rock walls and ceiling collapsed simultaneously.

The underground people were all buried beneath the rocks, and the underground passage that had been accessible until now was likewise buried at that very spot.

In this way, they had escaped the peril of being assailed from both front and rear but could no longer return to the supremely mysterious underground realm.

However, they could reach the surface. So, with Mr. Hawkins at the lead and young John, Yamato Hideo, and Shōdoshima Montadō taking up the rear, they decided to proceed along the tunnel. After traveling over two and a half miles, they came to a fork in the path. Going left would lead to the shrine; going right would lead to the empty well.

“Well, which way should we go?”—Here, the group hesitated.

At that moment, numerous footsteps echoed from the left-hand tunnel. And human voices as well. “It seems the indigenous army has come again.” The group was more than a little perplexed.

The numerous footsteps continued to draw closer all the while. The voices could now be heard clearly. “Ah, that’s Japanese!” Montadō blurted out. “British speech is mixed in too.” Following that, Mr. Hawkins also said this. With torchlight leading the way, figures soon appeared—not the indigenous army, but the Anglo-Japanese allied forces who had positioned the indigenous priest Batachikan as their guide: namely, Kijima Jūheita, Colonel Gordon, and their two subordinates.

“Well, well! Lord Shōdoshima!” “Ah! You’re Jūheita!”

“Well, well! Captain Hawkins!” “Oh, so you’re Colonel Gordon!”

A joyous conversation burst forth from both sides. After deliberating, they resolved to take temporary refuge at the residence of Yamato Hideo’s father. Choosing the rightward path, the group pressed ahead with vigor.

When they had advanced over two and a half miles, the narrow tunnel came to a dead end. They had come to the bottom of the empty well. There, the group climbed up the empty well one after another. Then, with Hideo leading the way, they trudged through the wilderness. Before long, they arrived at Hideo’s residence. Hideo’s father was astonished by the unexpected large number of guests but also greatly rejoiced. Every last one of them was ravenous. Hideo’s father searched the household and provided all the food available. Then they all gathered in one room and decided to discuss their future plans.

The first to stand up and speak was Yamato Hideo’s father. “I am Yamato Setsusai, a Japanese herbal scholar, humbly at your service.”

When he heard this, Montadō looked surprised. "What? Lord Yamato Setsusai, you say?! "Well now! So it was you all along! "I had indeed heard rumors of your mastery of Japanese, Chinese, and Western scholarship—that you stood foremost among herbal researchers. "But over a dozen years past, word spread you'd vanished near Shanghai in China. To find you here of all places, hale as ever—truly a marvel beyond marvels!"

“Ah, there lies a reason for that.” Setsusai smiled faintly and said, “First, I must beg your indulgence to hear me through.” “This is a most peculiar account.” “And moreover, this account shall prove most beneficial to all present.” “The truth being—this humble scholar obtained a singular tome in Shanghai.”

Twenty-Seven

Yamato Setsusai continued his speech.— “Indeed, I acquired a rare book in Shanghai.” “It is a work documenting the knowledge of sages, wise men, and villains from Confucius’s time to the modern age. Should a person possess this single volume, they could comprehend all events in the world as if pointing at the palm of their hand.” “And so, I have come to refer to this book as the ‘Sacred Text.’” “Now, through the hints in that Sacred Text, I came to vaguely perceive over a dozen years ago that somewhere on this island lies a great treasure vault awaiting excavation. Since that time, I have migrated to this island, interacted with the indigenous people, and lived here until today.” “Recently, having lost the Sacred Text, I temporarily abandoned my research; however, with your arrival in such numbers, I intend to rouse my courage once more and strive to carry through my original purpose.”

There, he gave a single cough, and “Now then, concerning this island, I shall now give an overview of the results from the research I have conducted over a dozen years up to this day.” “...First and foremost, there is a gem storehouse on this island.”

There, he gave another single cough. “Secondly, there exists a golden storehouse upon this island.” “Moreover, every tree on this island is a rare specimen.” “In short, this very island itself constitutes a great treasure vault.” “However, as the indigenous people of this island have been fierce since ancient times, even many renowned adventurers could not so much as approach it, leaving it abandoned until this day.” “Now then, beyond these natural riches lies an artificially amassed great treasure concealed upon this island.” “That is to say, over generations, the indigenous chiefs led their subordinates across seas to invade foreign lands and plunder coins and rare artifacts, which must now lie hidden here in immense quantity.” “As for its location—according to my research to date—it should reside in the underground world.” “And as for where underground—it should be concealed within what this island’s legends call the Living Sword Shrine.” “If I may venture an opinion, the legends concerning the Living Sword appear to me as mere fabrications.” “That is to say, they crafted imposing legends to sanctify the underground world and deter intruders.” “Establishing two secret passages—one being a maze—served as further means to prevent intrusion.”

“Therefore, if we wish to obtain that treasure, we must by all means go to the underground world and discover what is called the Living Sword Shrine. However, to our great regret, one of the two passages has been completely destroyed. Therefore, this path cannot be used. However, even the other maze cannot be used under any circumstances. From what I hear, Lord Montadō, you were instructed by the shrine maiden residing in the maze to follow odd and even numbers alternately in this manner, which ultimately led you to venture into the underground world. Yet how could one possibly return to that shrine maiden’s location again? Indeed, from the shrine maiden’s dwelling, one could proceed in that order. However, from the entrance to the shrine maiden’s chamber, one cannot proceed in that order. If one could proceed in such an order, it would not be a maze. If it is called a maze at all, one could never proceed through it with such a simple order.”

“Therefore, in short, as things stand now, we absolutely cannot reach the underground world.” “Then what should we do?” “For the time being, should we not abandon the treasure of the underground world and devote ourselves to developing this very island itself, which teems with boundless natural bounty? In the meantime, we might repair the damaged underground passages or excavate new ones—there are countless methods available. Once that foundation is laid and we descend below, I believe success shall be within our grasp.”

Setsusai’s long tale finally came to an end there.

As there were no other means, both Montadō and Mr. Hawkins followed this proposal and decided to develop the island. First, houses were built. They all lived pleasantly. The island had natural resources more abundant than expected. Through disciplined labor and equipment that was remarkably advanced for the civilization of this era, they excavated steadily. During this period, several minor clashes occurred with the island’s indigenous people, but they were no match for them. Before long, Chiburon Island came completely under their control.

The island’s political system was republican. Montadō was elected as the first president. Elections were held every year, and Mr. Hawkins became the second-term president. Since Yamato Setsusai was both an elderly man and a scholar, he was appointed as the senior advisor. The ceremonial affairs were presided over by the indigenous priest Batachikan.

As young John and Yamato Hideo were doted on by their companions as the darlings of this republic, needless to say, the two were the closest of friends.

Twenty-Eight

Peaceful days passed by.

It was on one such day—as the sweltering summer sun glittered upon the grass and trees of the peaceful island—that John and Hideo sat perched on coastal rocks, engrossed in cheerful conversation. “...And I find it strange,” John said. “Nah, it’s not strange at all.” Hideo laughed in objection. “In short, that’s just a mirage.”

“A mirage? That’s impossible,” John retorted. “I definitely saw it.” “But you didn’t go ashore, right?” “No, I didn’t land,” he admitted. “I was rushing ahead.” “Then you can’t say for sure there was an island.” “But I saw it clearly!” “Eyes play tricks sometimes,” Hideo dismissed. “And I heard singing—children forming a circle, chanting ‘Come to Dream Island, Picture Island, Fairy Tale Island!’ Clear as day! Is that a mirage too?”

“No—that’s just your imagination.” “Otherwise, it’s a mishearing.” “It must have been the sound of the waves or the wind that you heard like that.” “But I heard it over and over, I tell you.” “The human ear is a surprisingly unreliable thing, you know.” Hideo did not waver from his own theory.

After a moment, John spoke again. “Do you believe in legends?”

“That depends on the nature of the legend.” “Then what about the crow legend?” “The crow legend?” “I haven’t heard of that one.”

“It’s a legend that a one-legged giant crow guides people to the hidden treasure island, you know.” “So who told you that?” “The indigenous priest Batachikan told me.” “No—I don’t believe it... Because you must agree—one-legged crows don’t exist in any country, do they?” “There was such a thing—isn’t that interesting? I saw it with my own eyes.” “I was guided by that crow and was able to go from the front to the back of the island—in other words, all the way to your house.”

“I see,” Hideo said with mock formality, “if you truly saw it, and if I can see that crow exactly as you did—only then will I believe the legend.” Before he had finished speaking, a crow flew from the woods toward them and landed quietly on a rock directly ahead, folding its wings.

“A one-legged crow!” “A one-legged crow!”

John jumped up and shouted. Upon looking, it was clear that the crow indeed had only one leg. “Ah! It really does have one leg!” Hideo also jumped up in surprise. Then, the crow leisurely soared up from the rock, drew one large circle, and flew off quite gently toward the sea.

“John, I believe you!” “The legend you told me about!” “Come on, let’s chase that crow!”

Thereupon, Hideo and young John boarded the moored small boat and rowed far out to sea.

The windless summer sea lay blue and flat, serenely clear, so transparent that even the shadows of fish could be seen beneath its surface. The crow, as though luring the two, occasionally looked back toward them and leisurely flapped its wings. And from time to time, it let out ragged caws. The crow and the boat competed for a long time in the sky and the sea. They competed for over two hours. At that moment, in the boat’s path, the aforementioned floating rocks came into view. “Hideo! Hideo! The floating rocks!” John warned.

“Ah, they really are floating rocks!”

Hideo stopped his oar strokes.

The two floating rocks were colliding with all their might, groaning as if they hated each other. The scattering spray created a mist, over whose surface a rainbow rose, one end of that rainbow hanging upon the cliff of the mainland. That land was located on the southern side of Chiburon Island. The cliff was paved with rocks, densely overgrown with lush verdure and large trees everywhere, presenting such a steep appearance that ascending or descending seemed impossible—yet there was something undeniably artificial about it.

Beneath this artificial cliff, in the deep, deep sea, the floating rocks were colliding with each other.

The one-legged crow that had flown this far suddenly let out ragged caws many times over, then swooped low and descended. Oh! Before they could even process the thought, it descended to the base of the cliff and vanished in a puff.

29 “Oh no! The crow vanished!” John cried out in surprise.

“Wait a moment—I have an idea.”

The boy Hideo crossed his arms and pondered something intently, “Hey, John, here’s what I think—a crow can’t just vanish without a reason.” “There must be a reason for its disappearance.” “In fact, there must be a reason—don’t you think?” “Ah, yes—there must be a reason.” “So, here’s what I think—there must be some secret around the base of that cliff, don’t you think?” “Ah, I see—that might be it.” “There’s probably a cave there, I suppose.”

“Ah, I see—that might be it.” “But it’s no ordinary cave.” “I can’t tell that much.” “No—I can declare with certainty. It’s definitely no ordinary cave. It’s an extremely valuable one.” “How can you say that?” “Because I have a reason.” “I don’t understand at all.” “What do you think about the floating rocks?” Hideo said gravely. “Do you think they’re natural formations? Or man-made?”

“That’s obviously a work of nature, wouldn’t you agree?” “But that thing is man-made.” “How did you deduce that?” The boy John inquired with wonder. “Look—you can see the chain there, can’t you?”

As he said this, the boy Hideo pointed at the blue water caught between two rocks. Indeed, now that he mentioned it, the chain was visible. Completely rusted red and with seaweed clinging to it, at first glance it could be mistaken for a rock, but it was unmistakably a thick chain. “Ah, I see! It’s a thick chain!” The boy John was deeply impressed.

“Since it’s chained up, this floating rock must be man-made.” Hideo further explained. “Creating such an enormous floating rock artificially couldn’t possibly be done out of mere jest or curiosity.” “There must have been a vital need for it.” “That interpretation rings true.”

“So here’s what I think—the artificial floating rocks were created to defend against something.” “Ah, I see—that might be it.” “In other words, it’s because the cave is important. “It’s because the cave has value. “And to prevent thieves from invading that cave, those floating rocks were created.” “Yes, yes! That must be it!” The boy John clapped his hands. “Then let’s go see it right away.”

“Very well.” When he said this, the boy Hideo vigorously put his strength into the oar.

It was quite dangerous. But the two boys, accustomed to adventure, nevertheless finally managed to bring their small boat to the base of the cliff.

As they had imagined, there was indeed the mouth of a cave there. The two boys, now fully energized, steered their boat into the entrance. And before their eyes appeared a narrow waterway. The waterway stretched far into the distance.

The two boys steadily advanced their boat. As the boat advanced, the waterway gradually widened until they emerged into a bay. The bay’s circumference was perhaps five chō, and near what seemed to be its center, a small island had emerged. “Oh! A little island!” “Oh! There’s a crow over there!”

A one-legged great crow was resting on a tree branch at the island's summit with folded wings. The two boys exited their boat and stepped onto the island's shore. The island appeared beautifully charming, its circumference likely not reaching even a hundred meters. "This must be the legendary Treasure Island."

“Yes, that must be it!” “Let’s hurry and spot the treasure!” “Right! Let’s spot it—race you!” There, the two boys dashed about.

The boy Hideo dashed up toward the summit like a rabbit. And there, what he spotted was a gigantic iron box. From the corroded hole, a golden light dazzlingly struck his eyes.

“I found it!” And he filled the entire bay with his voice of jubilation. Indeed, he had found it. That was indeed the "Treasure Vault of Chiburon Island" spoken of in legend.

There, the two boys boarded the boat and hurriedly tried to head out to the open sea. "Oh, there's a staircase over there!"

As he said this, the boy John pointed at the inner wall of the cave that completely encircled the bay.

A staircase had been built diagonally on the upper part of the cave’s inner wall. Its upper levels were shrouded in darkness and could hardly be seen. Two boys with such strong curiosity could not overlook this. The two boys landed the boat on the shore and climbed the stairs together.

30

Eventually, the two boys climbed to the top and emerged onto a strange, mystical plain. A pale light filled everything. There were hills and woods, houses and voices. This was none other than the underground world. Before their eyes was a thickly wooded forest, and a single shrine stood there. It was a shrine dedicated to the Living Sword. Suddenly, pine torch flames came rushing toward them. The indigenous people had spotted the two boys.

“That’s bad! Run! Run!”

The two hurriedly turned back. They descended the stairs, emerged onto the coast, and escaped into the small boat.

“Heave-ho! Heave-ho!” The two boys frantically used the oars. When they heard the two boys’ report, the entire group leapt up in astonished delight. Suddenly, a navy was organized, and the subjugation of Treasure Island commenced. Even so, it took twenty days to subdue the underground people and fully occupy Treasure Island. Inside the treasure vault they had finally secured—just as Yamato Setsusai had insightfully predicted—lay gold coins and valuable implements amounting to over five hundred million yen in modern currency.

The Anglo-Japanese joint colony thus increasingly thrived. Various facilities were implemented, and it truly became a pleasant place to live. Politics were also conducted smoothly.

Then one day, Montadō brought up such a strange thing. “I’ll be retiring soon.” “You’re retiring?” “What do you mean?”

Kijima Jūheita asked quizzically.

However, Montadō did not answer that, “Don’t touch the neck! Don’t touch the neck!”

“Wh—what? I’d never touch your neck!”

“By the way,” Montadō said again. “The thing called human will is indeed stronger than life itself.” “Ah… Is that truly the case?” Jūheita answered quizzically. “Lately, my neck has been hurting quite a bit.” “That is rather troubling.” “Nah, I’m not troubled at all. After all, I’ve achieved my initial objective.” “When you say ‘initial objective’…?” “It’s the discovery of Chiburon Island’s treasure vault!” “In that case, it has indeed been fully achieved.”

“So my neck started hurting.” “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Originally, I was a man who had his neck cut at Sumiyoshi Beach.”

“…………” “Willpower is strong! Stronger than life itself!” He roared with laughter in apparent delight. Not long after that, his head came cleanly off. Yet not a single drop of blood spilled. The severed surface remained perfectly smooth. His face still bore an expression of utmost cheerfulness. All comrades across the island at last forgot to mourn. Thus Montadō died—yet his will endured. “Willpower is strong—stronger than life itself.” Through these words alone did it persist.