Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chiyonosuke's Tragic Desire

The two were ensconced on the wet veranda beneath the shade of leaves, so engrossed in conversation they forgot the setting sun's descent.

Odagiri Mitsuya's daughter Mayumi and her cousin Arai Chiyonosuke, consumed by their fervent love, gave no thought to social standing, propriety of place, or others' prying eyes.

Chiyonosuke, twenty-one and a dependent relative of the Arai family, possessed remarkable looks but proved utterly inept at martial arts and scholarship - the sort who would sneak off to take lessons in ballad recitation and jōruri behind his parents' back, or play bamboo flute in lowly theater troupes when asked. However matters might have turned, his uncle Odagiri Mitsuya could never have considered such a man worthy to wed his daughter.

Mayumi at eighteen was a beauty like a doll brought to life, childhood friends with Chiyonosuke - though before either realized when, their childhood affection had blossomed into romantic love. Yet her father Mitsuya paid this no mind whatsoever; disliking the inauspicious year, he had already settled arrangements to hold wedding ceremonies this autumn with Hanzawa Ryouhei - a distant relative and young samurai whom the Odagiri family had taken in five or six years prior.

The young pair, however, had no such reservations.
The old morality that declared "men and women shall not share seats past seven years" had crumbled along with the Tokugawa Shogunate's authority. Now taking advantage that none dared openly criticize cousins' intimacy, they lingered on Yoroizuka's wet veranda, whispering together for nearly half a day.

“Lady Mayumi.”

“Yes.”

“Though impertinent of late, might I entreat you to show me that pocket paper?”

“What do you intend?”

Mayumi started in surprise and adjusted the folded chrysanthemum pressed to her lips.

“Lady Mayumi’s lips resemble perfectly ripened berries—their crimson hue appears as though it might stain the small chrysanthemum beneath them. Let me have just one look—”

“Oh, Lord Chiyonosuke, I wear no lipstick.”

“That goes without saying. Where in all creation could lipstick redder than Lady Mayumi’s lips exist?”

As he spoke, Chiyonosuke braced one hand against the veranda boards and gazed up at Mayumi’s dreamlike mouth from below.

His tone carried all the levity of a jest, yet beneath the words swirled an undercurrent of uncanny sincerity—so much so that Mayumi found herself winding her long-sleeved kimono about her right hand to conceal her lips.

“Lady Mayumi.”

“……”

“Lady Mayumi.”

"I can't bear it anymore—Lord Chiyonosuke, you do nothing but tease—"

She sharply pulled back her delicate shoulders and, while tilting her Shimada chignon slightly backward, kneaded both sleeves upon her knees.

“Lady Mayumi, this is neither teasing nor jest—look upon my face here, utterly sincere as it is.”

Chiyonosuke placed a hand on the girl’s knee and turned her toward himself with a slight force,

“I have an earnest lifelong wish.”
“Lady Mayumi, would you listen?” he continued.

“……”

“It’s not unreasonable—you have that splendid fiancé as you well know, Lady Mayumi. No matter how fervently someone like myself might wish it, there’s no possibility we could remain together until the end.”

“Oh, that isn’t—”

“Be silent and listen—at least grant me this: as a memento for when we part, will you press your exquisitely beautiful lips onto paper with lipstick and leave their crimson imprint for me?”

“Oh.”

“Mr. Ryouhei will soon make both Lady Mayumi’s body and heart his own, but I—when the time comes, all that will remain for me is a single imprint of lips.”

Chiyonosuke, with the dispirited bearing of one defeated, slipped his right palm into his breast like a kabuki onnagata might have done.

Though none yet knew of it, the two had already become entangled in such rapturous intimacy.

Ryouhei sustained a grave wound.

“Lord Chiyonosuke, like this?”

Mayumi moistened her lips thoroughly with lipstick, then folded the tissue paper in half over them and pressed down firmly.

Taking care not to be noticed by others, the two had made their way to the front of Mayumi’s room; having retrieved the lipstick dish from among her cosmetic tools, they were engrossed in such trivial mischief.

“That should suffice.”
Gently removing the tissue paper from Mayumi’s lips, he found upon it a crimson imprint of her lovely mouth, perfectly captured like two scattered red rose petals.

Chiyonosuke, upon receiving it,

“Thank you, Lady Mayumi.”

He unfolded the tissue paper and stared at the still-damp lip imprint, but then—as if seized by some thought—suddenly pressed the paper to his own lips and inhaled deeply in a dreamlike trance.

“Oh, Lord Chiyonosuke!”

“Oh, enough—this belongs to me now anyway.
“I won’t let anyone object.”

While saying so, Chiyonosuke folded the tissue paper into quarters and, as if reverently pressing it to himself, tucked it deep into the breast of his underrobe’s sleeve with a faintly coquettish motion.

“Lord Chiyonosuke.”

“Lady Mayumi.”

Such a trivial game—who could have known how fiercely it would fan the smoldering affection hidden within both their hearts?
Before they knew it, the two had joined hands and, as was their wont, sought each other's lips in a dreamlike trance.

“You faithless wretch!”

Suddenly, kicking open the shoji, a man who moved like a hurled ball came crashing in.
The wretched figure of Hanzawa Ryouhei—Mayumi’s fiancé, who had reached the very brink of exchanging wedding cups—now stood maddened with jealousy.

“Ah!”

The two narrowly leaped back.
The naked blade sliced through the air and cleaved the tip of Mayumi’s long-sleeved kimono.

“Don’t move, you faithless wretch!”

“What do you mean ‘faithless wretch’?!”

While narrowly evading the ceaselessly slashing naked blade, Chiyonosuke still attempted to quench the flames of the man’s jealousy.

“You—what do you think you’re doing?!”

“Lady Mayumi belongs to me! What does a fiancé matter?”

“What? You think I’ll let that stand?!”

Hanzawa Ryouhei stood among the domain’s foremost practitioners; Arai Chiyonosuke, though as comely as a theater actor, wielded—as noted before—such consummate ineptitude that none in the domain could match his incompetence. Devoid of any resolve to cross blades, he darted through Mayumi’s cramped chamber like a cockroach, scrambling from corner to corner.
Had Mayumi not ducked beneath the sword’s arc to shield Chiyonosuke, he would have been carved like raw fish beneath the second or third strike.

“Get back.
“Lady Mayumi, shielding him will get you hurt.”

“Wait—show mercy!”

Even Hanzawa Ryouhei found himself utterly overwhelmed by the two trembling hands that slipped past his naked blade to cling and entangle with desperate persistence.
It remained unclear how far matters had progressed between her and Chiyonosuke—but this girl bloomed like fragrant cherry blossoms at their peak.
He had not the slightest intention of cutting down Mayumi—who would eventually become his own.

“What—let you escape? Not a chance!”

Ryouhei’s fiercely swung blade—through some error—ended up cutting deeply into the long railing.

Even a bumbling samurai is still a samurai.
When he saw that, without even revealing the motion of drawing his blade, he swiftly aimed for Ryouhei's arm—

“Ah!”

Exploiting the moment of hesitation to deliver the finishing strike—as he aimed to plunge his blade deep into the chest—a single small dagger came flying from nowhere, grazing Chiyonosuke's temple before embedding itself deeply into the rear pillar.

When they came to their senses, Mayumi’s father Odagiri Mitsuya—having already witnessed this commotion—came rushing straight down the corridor.

Though he had managed to inflict a grave wound upon Ryouhei through sheer opportunism, his uncle Mitsuya stood as the domain's foremost swordsman—confronted with such skill, not even half a dozen men of Chiyonosuke's caliber could hope to match him.

Leaving the flustered Mayumi behind, Chiyonosuke fled to the veranda, then the garden, then into the shrubbery like a frightened rabbit.

The Very Depths of Depravity

Hanzawa Ryouhei suffered grave injuries but fortunately survived with no lasting effects—officially deemed an "unfortunate accident." Yet for Odagiri Mitsuya, a man of old-fashioned principles, such an explanation could never suffice.

As a meager token of apology, he thought to convince the girl—for whom Ryouhei had staked his life in devoted love—to have them exchange wedding cups as soon as possible. But Mayumi—whether threatened, scolded, coaxed, or pleaded with—would not yield on this matter alone.

“Such unbecoming conduct for a samurai’s daughter—from now on I shall execute you with my own hand and offer apology to Lord Ryouhei.”

Father Mitsuya twisted his sword while declaring this, but Mayumi—having already abandoned her life—showed no fear at such threats. Above all, Ryouhei—who had become utterly devoted to Mayumi’s beauty—could do nothing but clasp his hands in desperate prayer that her life alone be spared, whatever the cost.

When confronted with Ryouhei’s pure-hearted devotion to his daughter, even Mitsuya’s resolve began to falter.
In the end, he confined his daughter Mayumi within the storehouse; taking advantage of Hanzawa Ryouhei having no household to inherit, he meticulously completed all procedures to appoint him as successor, transferred the 250-koku stipend, and cleanly withdrew from public life.

In the meantime, Arai Chiyonosuke plunged headlong into the abyss of depravity.
Initially, with the very feet that had fled the Odagiri household, he might have tumbled into the homes of friends or relatives and waited for the day when matters could be amicably settled or for an opportune time to make amends—but wherever he went, perhaps due to being universally disliked, he instead abruptly took refuge in the home of a kouta instructor he had frequented all along.

Within three days, Chiyonosuke had become involved with his instructor—it went without saying that this caused the disciples’ eyes to widen in shock.

However, even that did not last three months.
Chiyonosuke—beautiful of countenance and ever in fine form—soon began living the basest and most degraded existence, wandering from woman to woman.

Chiyonosuke was truly a handsome man.
With his slender pale face, wide clear eyes, slightly high nose, and well-defined lips—seen on their own—he exuded the allure of a masterful artwork. Yet through some cosmic error, this most splendid visage had been sealed with the basest of souls.
Chiyonosuke—unscrupulous, shameless, heartless, even touched by madness—possessed that uncanny perceptiveness common to libertines like Don Juan and Yonosuke.

In the end, Chiyonosuke sank into joining a troupe of actors.
Though infiltrating that status-obsessed society proved no easy feat, even while disowned, his family’s pedigree still cast its glow—allowing him not only to unexpectedly become a resident of Saruwaka-chō with ease, but after some years, to ascend to a position hailed as promising among the lower-ranking nadai-shita performers.

This occupation—applying white makeup, donning blue and red costumes, performing tales of love daily on stage while subtly pursuing beautiful audience members—must have suited Chiyonosuke perfectly.
Contrary to his usual fickleness, he settled into this endeavor with uncharacteristic resolve, adopting his real name—Sawamura Chiyonosuke—as his stage persona to launch his career.

Even during that time, *the* womanizing did not cease.
After fishing for women of every class, every age, every sort—one after another—over five or seven years, Mayumi, Ryouhei, and all else had forgotten their former lives.

Mayumi's Heart・Ryouhei's Heart

Odagiri Mitsuya died of sudden illness in the second year, and the headship of the Odagiri household was transferred to Ryouhei in both name and substance.

Simultaneously, Mayumi was released from her storehouse prison. Household head Ryouhei cherished her with such tenderness—as both lover and sister—that even outsiders found it pitiful to behold. Yet whether from some lingering dissatisfaction, no matter how relatives, friends, or vassals entreated them, the two would not exchange wedding cups nor become husband and wife.

“My lady, how much longer do you intend to remain thus? Yet Lord Ryouhei—so generous of heart—forgives all and stands ready to welcome you at any hour. What could you be brooding over, my lady?”

The wet nurse, who had taken on even the role of a mother after Mayumi lost hers, raising her as her own child, would occasionally repeat such complaints—but no matter how much time passed, Mayumi would not say she would be with Ryouhei.

“Please, Wet Nurse, don’t say that.
I know full well... but my heart won’t obey.”

“Could it be you still harbor feelings for that villainous Chiyonosuke?”

“Preposterous! I loathe that man—loathe him with every fiber of my being.”

“Then wouldn’t it be acceptable for you to wed Lord Ryouhei?”

The old woman’s mind was simple.
If not right then left, if not hate then love—things reflected only these two paths and no others.

“No, no—when I consider Lord Ryouhei’s noble sentiments, tears spill from my eyes. How could someone as defiled as I ever be together with such a lofty, splendid man?”
“Please don’t say such things anymore—if you press me further, I’ll have no choice but to throw myself into the abyss river and die.”

When spoken to thus, the wet nurse could not continue.

Meanwhile, Ryouhei—now established as household head—doted on Mayumi like a sister while striving not to wound her sentiments,

"Do not speak unnecessary words and torment Lady Mayumi."

He would admonish the wet nurse each time she said such things.

The wretched figure of Chiyonosuke—who had ruined himself—did not escape Ryouhei’s notice.
When he became an actor and brazenly revealed his original name in Saruwaka-chō, those who knew him ground their teeth in outrage—but Ryouhei, his sworn enemy who had lost an arm to his blade, showed no sign of reacting to society’s scorn upon his back.

Once at Asakusa Kannon's gate, he found himself unable to avoid or evade Chiyonosuke in his Shiba-haori cloak, abruptly coming face-to-face with him.

Ryouhei's complexion indeed changed color, but in the next instant—with an air of nonchalance—he passed smoothly by without so much as faltering in his step.

Like a rabbit that had spotted hunting dogs, Chiyonosuke turned on his heel and fled headlong into the spiderweb of branching paths, concealing his absurdly flamboyant figure.

Whether out of wisdom, magnanimity, reluctance to jeopardize his stipend, or deference to Mayumi's intentions—Ryouhei's attitude in this matter remained utterly inscrutable even to those servants who never spoke out of turn.

The Ninety-Ninth

At that time, Chiyonosuke exhibited degradation so utter it defied description—neither devil nor hungry ghost could adequately capture his depravity.

At times he would display strange behavior toward the cleft-lipped errand boy and get reported to the town’s carpenters; other times he would sneak off with the kept woman of a notorious gambler and end up nearly beaten to death.

Chiyonosuke’s debauched lifestyle showed not the slightest sign of reforming despite such incidents.
The disgraceful figure who wandered from lip to lip in pursuit found even the actors—who should have been thoroughly accustomed to such matters—staring wide-eyed and pointing fingers in scorn.

On a sweltering summer day, in the depths of a teahouse at the pond's edge where lotus flowers bloomed above the water, Chiyonosuke indulged in a loveless game with what must have been his umpteenth woman.

“Hey now, you’ve grown tired of me already, haven’t you?”

“How could such a thing be?”

Chiyonosuke, the dashing actor, sported a blue-black kabuki actor’s topknot and appeared lightly powdered; over his unlined hemp summer kimono, he had draped a short gauze haori as if readying to depart.

“Which lips promised you’d stay till dawn to watch the lotus bloom? You detestable creature!”

The woman shifted onto one raised knee with a grin, clutching his haori’s hem. She was Oume—a Yanagibashi geisha slightly past her bloom, yet celebrated as a veteran of formidable artistry.

“I did say that, but come to think of it, today’s the 25th, isn’t it?”

“Enough already! You don’t need to think—today’s the 25th. You’ve known that since buying the almanac at last year’s end, haven’t you?”

“This is troublesome—I knew today was the 25th, but I’d completely forgotten about the stage rehearsal.”
“This time it’s for the Bon festival plays—they’ve actually given even a low-ranking actor like me a proper role. Let this chance slip, and I’ll never surface from the mire.”

“What rot are you spewing? That pretty mug of yours won’t get you anywhere—slaving away in this heat won’t make you rise an inch.”
“Better I pull some strings and set you up proper—take this chance to wash your hands of it all.”

“Your consideration is appreciated, but that would invite divine retribution.”

“Whose retribution do you mean, you fiend? You vile creature!”

She grabbed his upper thigh with vicious force,

“Ah! Ow! Th-that’s cruel!”

Chiyonosuke leapt up with exaggerated theatrics, as if seared by a burning fire iron.

“What a pitiful voice! They claim you were once a samurai—how did such a feeble warrior come to exist?”

“Even a samurai feels pain when pinched.”
“Though truth be told, it’s precisely because I lacked strength that I stooped to becoming a theater actor.”
“Had I been skilled in swordsmanship, I wouldn’t let someone like you get anywhere near me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

While exchanging such words, Chiyonosuke's hands tied his haori cords and hurried through departure preparations, while Oume's hands groped upward from the haori hem to his obi sash and chest—clasping the man's narrow face between her palms to repeat an obstinate cheek-rubbing that permitted no return.

“Because you’re wicked through and through—isn’t it said you abandon every single woman like this? I don’t know about others, but I won’t stand for being cast aside.”

“How could such a thing be?”

“No—you’re the only one who doesn’t know Sawamura Chiyonosuke’s reputation! Have you not heard what they say? Once a woman’s had her lip imprint taken, she’ll never lay eyes on you again!”

“That’s preposterous!”

“Since I finally let you take mine last night, it must be my turn to be discarded now. To think I couldn’t refuse even knowing this—what an utter fool I’ve been.”

Oume buried her face in Chiyonosuke’s chest and began to sob—soft, hiccuping whimpers that shook her narrow shoulders.

“Those are all just society’s rumors.”
“The women of society who can’t claim my attention spread whatever nonsense pleases them to soothe their spite.”
“I won’t claim I’ve never had women besides you—but since learning what women are, I’ve yet to meet one like Sister Oume. How could I ever—how could I ever surrender such a treasure to another’s hands—”

“Is that truth you’re selling?”

“Truth or lie—look how my heart races like a temple bell struck in alarm! See how my cheeks blaze so!”

“I’m happy.”
“Never ever forget those words.”

“What?”

They clung fiercely to each other.

Outside one window flowed the pondside crowd; listening intently to hastening footsteps of those racing against dusk, they forgot time’s passage.

The Whereabouts of the Beautiful Nun

Chiyonosuke had stepped out onto the pondside thoroughfare ahead of others and already completely forgotten about Oume.
The persistent love of a fully matured woman did not fail to evoke a certain weariness—but when the evening pond breeze carried lotus blossoms' fragrant aroma against his face—even such fatigue was swept clean away.

“Oh?”

Chiyonosuke abruptly stopped.

The woman he had passed by—and what's more, he was astonished by the beauty of a young nun clad in black priestly robes.

Her head might be shaved blue-smooth and round—the soft curve of eyebrows, black dewdrop eyes, pearl-hued cheeks tinged faintly crimson—no, no, these mattered not at all.
What seized Chiyonosuke’s heart was the nun’s crimson lips—round as cornelian berries and glossy as cornelian berries.

In her ink-black priestly robes, her demeanor was beyond reproach—but those beautiful lips seemed wholly unsuited for reciting sutras.

Chiyonosuke’s feet had, without his realizing it, begun following that nun—walking from the foot of Ueno’s mountain toward Negishi.
In those days when nightingales and owls alike sang in Negishi—a place that grew utterly desolate at dusk—the nun showed no particular haste as she traced the darkening path from grove to thicket, thicket to fields, proceeding deeper and deeper into Negishi's heart.

Suddenly, the nun’s figure vanished from sight.

The road was hidden by thickets and groves, while one side came up against a modest hedge.

“Was it a fox that spirited her away?”

As he thought this, the timid Chiyonosuke shuddered and assumed a fleeing stance—but in the next instant,

“――――”

He stopped in his tracks.

Before his eyes, a mere two or three ken ahead, an unexpected light flickered on—the clang of a bell rang out, soon followed by the quiet murmur of sutra chanting.

Peering through, he saw that beyond the hedge lay a modest hermitage—the light and bell’s chime undoubtedly emanated from there.
When he retreated a few paces, there stood a branch-latched gate. Seeing how it opened easily when pushed, he surmised this must have been where he’d lost sight of the nun earlier.

With stealthy steps approaching the entrance, there was no need to peer inside—facing the wide-open altar at the front, chanting sutras in a beautiful midrange voice was the young nun he had trailed from the pondside earlier.

Chiyonosuke stood in the entrance's darkness like a thieving cat, waiting for the sutra chanting to conclude.

As the nun rose,

"I humbly beseech you."

Chiyonosuke's approach coincided with her rising.

"Yes."

"As night falls on my journey, I find myself unexpectedly stranded."
"Might I beg shelter beneath your eaves awhile?"

"Yes."

The nun must have been stunned by his theatrical voice—as if he'd wandered into some mountain gorge—
Peering toward the lamplight's glow, she stood frozen where she was.

“I am not worthy of your swift permission—pray excuse me.”

Though no one had granted him entry, Chiyonosuke had already seated himself at the hermitage’s entrance. While she likely deemed him lacking in masculine resolve, Chiyonosuke—with his elegant bearing and reputation as a matchless beauty—had always escaped reproach for such impertinence wherever he wandered.

“…………”
The nun gazed through the murky light in silence, studying Chiyonosuke’s face. When she took in his comely figure—draped in a hemp underrobe with gauze overlay, even lightly powdered—she appeared momentarily startled. Yet judging him no fearsome adversary requiring caution, she merely shifted position as if permitting entry.

"I am honored by your kindness—I shall trouble you no further."

Even as he spoke these words, Chiyonosuke had already entered the hermitage.

Chiyonosuke—who had never been reproached no matter what he did as long as the other party was female—became a truly splendid hero in such moments.

Temptation to Transgression Before the Buddha

“How remarkably quiet it is here...”

“…………”

“Don’t you feel lonely?”

“Oh—no.”

“Your devotion to ascetic practice is commendable, but for someone as young and beautiful as you to live so purely—there must be some profound reason behind it. If it’s not too much trouble—please tell me—”

“No—there’s no need—”

The young nun could only blush and look down.
Supple flesh and beautiful limbs could not be concealed even by the ink-dyed priest’s robe, shining through the hermitage’s poverty in all their radiance.

“Before renouncing the world, you must have had various tales to tell.”
“For instance love... or passion.”

“No no—there’s nothing of that sort.
“It isn’t that I abandoned the world—rather, the world abandoned me.”

“Ah—doesn’t that make you loathe this realm for casting aside such beauty?”

Chiyonosuke gazed up gently at the nun as he slid his knees forward.
Behind her loomed Buddha’s lotus pedestal—with no room to retreat, the young nun could only arch back with hands behind her.

In the uncanny atmosphere, Chiyonosuke’s blasphemous ardor seethed and boiled.
This sharp-nosed hunter of love discerned that despite some fear and doubt in the young nun’s attitude, there was not the slightest hint of aversion toward him.

“As for someone like me—”
Chiyonosuke gulped down his saliva and continued.

“From the pond’s edge, drawn by your beauty, I ended up dazedly coming here.”

“Wh-what?”

“You—someone so young and beautiful—could there truly be a world that would cast you aside?”

“…………”

“Come now, let us return to the world once more.”
“Let your black hair grow long, adorn yourself in a long-sleeved kimono, display your beauty in full—shall we make the world that once scorned you kneel at your feet?”

Chiyonosuke’s hand took hold of the nun’s hand—a beautiful small hand adorned with a crystal rosary—before she knew it.

“Oh? What are you doing?”

“I have seen tens of thousands—thousands of women.”
“Though it may sound strange to say, women of this world make such a commotion—living or dying—at but a single glance from me—and yet even I, who from Saruwaka-cho’s stages each day and every day behold all Edo’s women in their finest adornments—even I have never met one as beautiful as you.”

“…………”

“I may not know what name you go by—but let us step out into the world together once more—you growing out your hair again—to see all the pleasures this life has to offer—”

As Chiyonosuke’s words grew increasingly heated, his hands had somehow come to rest upon the nun’s plump knees.

The hundredth pair of lips—

“Thank you very much.
When you speak so kindly to me, how could I possibly go against your words?”

“Oh, is that... is that true?”

“What reason would I have to lie? But as you can see, I now serve before the Buddha. There must be no defilement—not even in passing. Once I’ve put this hermitage in order and grown out my hair, I shall come to your lodgings afterward.”

What a turn of events—the beautiful nun seemed unexpectedly quick to abandon her rosary.

“Thank you—this brings me the greatest joy as well.”
“Then I shall keep your words close to my heart and await the coming days.”
“But as proof that you’ve heeded this single request of mine—would you be so kind as to write a pledge?”

Chiyonosuke pressed forward before his resolve wavered.

“Huh? A pledge?”

“But it’s not a pledge written with brush and ink.”
“All I need is for you to press your lipsticked lips onto this paper—”

“With my lips... on paper?”

Even the nun seemed genuinely surprised, but she regained her composure,

“As one who serves the Buddha, I could not possibly possess something like lipstick.”

“…………”

Chiyonosuke also found himself momentarily at a loss.
Seizing this moment, the nun picked up the thick ledger of bound hanshi paper mentioned earlier. Upon examining it, she found only one blank sheet remained at the end—every preceding page bore what first appeared as vividly drawn flower petals, but were unmistakably the shapes of women’s lips stamped with lipstick.

“Ah!”

Chiyonosuke hurriedly tried to snatch it back but was too late.
The nun’s face—after hurriedly scanning countless lip imprints and the eras and dates inscribed beside them—turned deathly pale and trembled uncontrollably, caught between fury and shame.

“Since it’s been seen, hiding it serves no purpose. As you can see, these are imprints of lips from women I’ve pledged myself to—exactly ninety-nine collected so far.”
“If you would press your lips here, it will make exactly a hundred—with this, my ‘Register of a Hundred Lips’ shall be complete.”
“Do not think this despicable—this was what has been called a man’s great aspiration since ancient times.”

Chiyonosuke—now truly shamefaced—bows his head.
Even so, this man’s beauty—though he must be nearing thirty—appeared no older than twenty-one or twenty-two at first glance, still dewy-fresh as if water might drip from him. Despite engaging in such demonic deeds, he possessed an uncanny charm that inspired not an ounce of hatred in others.

“I understand completely.”
“To be counted among such numbers—to have my lips desired as the hundredth fulfillment—this must be what they call a woman’s karmic reward.”
“I shall press it here and now for you.”

“The lipstick—”

“With this.”

The nun’s hand reached into the nearby utility chest, but before she could retrieve whatever she sought, it flashed through the air toward Chiyonosuke’s neck—

“Ah!”

The razor gripped in reverse by the nun sliced through Chiyonosuke’s throat before he could even gasp—its blade thin yet lethal.

“What are you doing?!”

“Wait—it was the rouge I wanted.”

The nun picked up the discarded *Register of a Hundred Lips*, smeared the coursing blood from Chiyonosuke’s wound onto her lips, and there—upon the ledger’s final page—a pair of lips resembling twin sanshō berries were stamped in vivid crimson as the hundredth entry.

Devil’s desire

“Behold—these lips of mine stamped in blood. You must recognize them.”

“What?”

In his overwhelming shock, Chiyonosuke forgot even his wounded hand and peered at the nun’s movements as though trying to staunch the flowing blood. Fortunately, he had managed to seize the razor, but uncertain what this woman might attempt next, he couldn’t recklessly approach her side.

“The ninety-ninth isn’t it either.”
“The ninety-eighth isn’t it either.”
“The ninety-seventh isn’t it either—”

Chiyonosuke could only stare dazedly at the nun’s hands as she compared the sanshō-shaped, petal-shaped—various lip imprints—against the hundredth imprint: the shape of her own blood-stained lips.

The nun flipped through the papers with a rustle and finally cast her eyes upon the very first imprint.

“There’s no mistake—compare this initial lip trace here with the one I’ve now stamped in blood.”
“In size, contour, the pattern of folds—is there a single discrepancy anywhere?”

“What?”
After seizing the thrust-aside ledger, Chiyonosuke compared the first lip shape with the hundredth—and turned ashen from a shock transcending his physical injury.

“This can’t be—this absurdity can’t be true!”

“Look closely—though I’ve shorn my head, my face should still bear traces of Mayumi from eight years ago.”

“What—?”

“I—whom you toyed with—and Lord Ryouhei—whom you struck down—came to cherish each other more with each passing year. Yet while you stood between us, that resentment could find no release—so through countless years we remained neither united nor parted, neither dead nor alive, enduring this purgatory of existence.”

“…………”

The young nun—Mayumi—pointed at Chiyonosuke’s face without a trace of fear, hurling words blended of resentment and anger.

"In the agony of that suffering, I shorn my hair and lived with purified conduct—yet what I could never forget was my resentment toward you and my longing for Lord Ryouhei."

“Lies! All lies! You must be Mayumi—even if I were to concede that, for you to forget this Chiyonosuke and yearn for that acorn-faced ugly Ryouhei—Ha! Ha! Such—such absurdity could never be!”

“No, you’re wrong.”
“Wrong.”

“I’m not wrong—my vision remains unclouded. If you truly are the Mayumi of old, then you’ve shaved your head and dwell here solely because you cannot forget this Chiyonosuke. I’ve dallied with a hundred women—a man who understands nothing else—but when it comes to a woman’s heart, I grasp it as clearly as reading the lines on my palm.”

“……”

Chiyonosuke refused to yield to his wounds, staggering yet attempting to embrace the beautiful nun-form Mayumi.

“Come now, Mayumi—I’ve never once looked back at the same woman since being born into this world, but this time—this very time—my heart is mysteriously drawn to you."
"Fortunately the wound is shallow—let us live together and never part, no matter what may befall us—"

Drenched in blood, Chiyonosuke pursued Mayumi with relentless obsession—even the sacred visage of the Buddha became spattered with gory stains—the sheer ghastliness of the scene defied all description.

“Demon—demon—don’t come near me.”
“You cannot possibly fathom how deeply you’ve sinned to gather those hundred lips—such audacity! Neither the gods nor Buddha would ever forgive it! Back—back—you defiled thing!”

“No—the hundred lips have indeed been gathered! *The Register of a Hundred Lips* stands splendidly completed.”
“You who imprinted your lips with blood as the hundredth—you must swear to stay bound to me for life!”

“Ugh! Disgusting! Don’t come near! Don’t come near!”

Although she did not scream, evading the wounded Chiyonosuke as he lunged at her, she grabbed sacred Buddhist implements—throwing them one after another—and continued their vicious struggle within the hermitage for some time.

“Hee-hee-hee-hee! Got you now—I won’t let you escape. Once I’ve embraced you like this in my arms, how no woman could compare to you in beauty, how none could rival your loveliness—this I understand full well. Now I could die content—I could—”

Pinning the half-dead nun-form beneath his knees, a demonic laugh slithered across Chiyonosuke’s lips like a blade through silk.

It was exactly at that moment.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the entrance, and upon assessing the situation inside, swooped in like a bird of prey,

“Scoundrel! What do you think you’re doing?”

Grabbing the shoulder of Chiyonosuke—who had pinned Mayumi down—Ryouhei slashed downward while hurling him into the courtyard.

“Gah!”

The beautiful demon Chiyonosuke was flipped over with spectacular force.

“Lord Ryouhei.”

“Lady Mayumi, were you unharmed?”

The two could only wordlessly cling to each other’s hands.

Mayumi let her hair grow back and soon exchanged wedding cups with Ryouhei.
It goes without saying that Chiyonosuke ended up not being killed after that.

"The Register of a Hundred Lips subsequently passed through the hands of connoisseurs, spawning various tales, but this story that unfolded in Negishi during the Ansei era stemmed from the most authentic lineage."

Chiyonosuke may have been a monomaniac possessed by a kind of madness towards collecting lip imprints.

Among what society called delinquent youths, there tended to lurk such madmen.