Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Even among those living in M Prefecture, many might not have noticed. At the southern tip of S County where I Bay meets the Pacific Ocean floated a small island with a diameter of just under two ri—isolated from other islands like an overturned green steamed bun. Now it stood practically uninhabited, with only the occasional whimsical visit from nearby fishermen who came ashore to look around—hardly anyone paid it any attention. In particular, it remained isolated in the rough seas off the tip of a certain cape, and unless there was an exceptionally calm sea, approaching it in small fishing boats would have been dangerous to begin with, nor was it a place worth risking danger to approach. Locals colloquially called it "Offshore Island," but at some point the entire island had come under ownership of the Komoda family—T City's wealthiest household in M Prefecture—and while eccentric types among their affiliated fishermen had previously built huts to live in or used it for net-drying grounds and storage, several years prior all that had been completely cleared away, when suddenly mysterious construction work began upon that island. Dozens of earthworkers, gardeners, and other laborers boarded specially outfitted motorboats and gathered on the island day after day. From where they were procured, huge rocks of various shapes, trees, steel frames, lumber, and countless cement barrels were transported to the island one after another. And thus, on the desolate rough seas far from human habitation, a work began that could neither be called a civil engineering project of unknown purpose nor gardening.

In the county containing Offshore Island, there were no government railways—let alone private light railways—and not even buses operated there at the time. Particularly along the coast facing the island, only meager fishing villages with fewer than a hundred households lay scattered here and there, interspersed with uninhabited cliffs rising steeply where no paths ran—a place utterly divorced from civilization, one might say, as remote as could be. Thus even when such an eccentric large-scale project began, its rumors merely passed from village to village, gradually transforming into something akin to a fairy tale the farther they spread. Even when word reached nearby cities, it amounted to nothing more than fodder for page three of local newspapers. Yet had this occurred near the capital, it would undoubtedly have caused a tremendous sensation. To that extent, the work was indeed a bizarre undertaking.

Even the nearby fishermen could not help growing suspicious. What necessity could there be—for what purpose—would they spare no expense on that remote island where people seldom visited, digging earth, planting trees, building walls, and erecting houses? It was inconceivable that the Komoda family would be eccentric enough to live on that inconvenient little island, yet building an amusement park there seemed equally absurd. Perhaps the Komoda family head had gone mad—such were the rumors they exchanged. The reason lay in circumstances surrounding the Komoda family's head at the time: he had suffered chronic epilepsy that grew so severe his death had once been reported—even necessitating a funeral grand enough to become local gossip—yet he had miraculously revived. Ever since that resurrection, rumors had spread among those fishermen that his personality had completely changed, leading him to occasionally commit irrational, madness-tinged acts. Thus they came to suspect this latest endeavor must also stem from that same derangement.

Be that as it may, amidst people’s suspicions—though not to the extent of becoming a major scandal that reached the capital—this inscrutable project advanced steadily under the direct command of the Komoda family head. As March and April progressed, an uncanny earthen wall resembling China's Great Wall came to encircle the entire island, while within emerged ponds, rivers, hills, valleys—and at its center, a massive reinforced concrete building of sinister proportions. I shall reserve for later telling how utterly bizarre and yet magnificently splendid that sight was, but had it been fully completed, what an extraordinary thing it would have become. Had a person of discernment seen it, they surely could have inferred enough from the current, half-ruined state of Offshore Island. However, unfortunately, this grand undertaking came to an abrupt halt due to an unforeseen event just as it was nearing completion.

As for what had caused this, only a select few knew with any clarity. Somehow, the affair had been conducted in secrecy. The purpose and nature of the enterprise, along with the reasons for its abrupt halt, were all consigned to obscurity. The only thing known to outsiders was that around the time the project collapsed, both the head of the Komoda family and his wife had passed away—and as they unfortunately left no heirs, relatives had now inherited the estate. As for their cause of death too, various rumors had circulated, yet they remained baseless speculations—nothing concrete enough to draw official scrutiny. The island remained indisputably Komoda property thereafter, yet the project lay abandoned—its artificial forests and gardens nearly stripped of original form by rampant weeds, while reinforced concrete pillars stood exposed to elements until their shapes dissolved. The transported trees and stones had cost exorbitant sums—yet moving them to cities for sale would have proven more costly than their worth—so not a single piece left its appointed place. Therefore even now, should you brave travel hardships to M Prefecture’s southern edge and conquer treacherous seas to land on Offshore Island, you would undoubtedly discover traces of an artificial landscape defying mortal comprehension. At first glance it might seem merely an immense garden—yet some cannot help sensing within it something colossal: a plan or artistic vision beyond reason. Simultaneously, those same observers find themselves gripped by dread—be it called lingering resentment or spectral miasma—an inescapable tremor coursing through that accursed ground.

For there truly existed an almost unbelievable tale within it. There existed a tale so strange—part of it an open secret among those close to the Komoda family, its crucial remainder known only to a mere two or three individuals—that it defied mortal understanding. If you, dear readers, would grant credence to my account and consent to hear this seemingly preposterous tale to its conclusion—then shall we now commence this chronicle of secrets?

II

The story begins here, in Tokyo—far removed from M Prefecture.

In a student district of Tokyo’s Yamanote area stood the predictably drab boarding house known as Yūaikan. Within its bleakest room resided a mysterious man named Hitomi Hiroshi—neither quite a scholar nor a ruffian, yet seemingly well past thirty. He had graduated from a private university five or six years before the large-scale earthworks on Panorama Island began, and since then had neither sought proper employment nor secured any reliable income—what one might call a life that made boarding houses weep and friends despair. After drifting from place to place, he finally washed up at this Yūaikan, where he lived until about a year before his great earthworks commenced.

He claimed to have graduated from the philosophy department—though in truth, he had never attended philosophy lectures—at times becoming obsessed with literature and devouring books on the subject, only to suddenly venture into entirely unrelated architecture department classrooms and zealously audit lectures; then again, he would plunge headlong into sociology and economics, later purchasing oil painting supplies to dabble in art. Foolishly mercurial yet oddly fickle, he mastered no proper discipline whatsoever, making his uneventful graduation from university seem nothing short of miraculous. And if he had learned anything at all, it was assuredly not through any orthodox academic path, but rather through what might be called an unorthodox and strangely one-sided approach. That was precisely why, even five or six years after graduating from school, he still could not find employment and continued to wander aimlessly.

Admittedly, Hitomi Hiroshi himself harbored no earnest thoughts of securing employment to lead a conventional life. To lay bare the truth, he had grown utterly weary of this world even before experiencing it. One cause may have stemmed from congenital frailty. Or perhaps it derived from the neurasthenia that had afflicted him since youth. He found himself incapable of mustering motivation for any endeavor. All matters of human existence became sufficiently fulfilled through mere mental imaginings. Everything amounted to "nothing of consequence." Thus he lay sprawled year-round in a squalid rented room, persisting in dreams no practical soul had ever conceived. In essence, he existed as none other than an extremist among dreamers.

Now then—what exactly had he been dreaming of while abandoning all worldly affairs? It concerned the meticulous designs for his own utopia, his Nowhere. Since his school days, he had voraciously devoured dozens of utopian tales: every vision of an ideal realm from Plato onward. And imagining how these authors, by entrusting their unrealizable dreams to words and presenting them to the world, had found some solace in doing so—he felt a certain resonance with their sentiments, and through this, he himself could find a modicum of consolation. Among those works, he showed almost no interest in utopias concerning political or economic systems. What captivated his heart was a utopia—an earthly paradise, a land of beauty and dreams. Therefore, Morris’s "News from Nowhere" captivated him more than Cabet’s "The Story of Ikaria," and even more than Morris’s work did, Poe’s "The Domain of Arnheim" held an even stronger allure for him.

His sole dream was to create—just as a musician through instruments, a painter through canvas and pigments, a poet through words, each crafting diverse arts—a single colossal work of art using as his materials the very stones and trees and flowers of nature’s wilderness, even the birds flitting about, the beasts, the insects—all living things growing by the hour, by the second—as his medium. It was to take this great nature created by God—dissatisfied with it as it was—and through his own individuality, freely transform and beautify it, thereby expressing his unique grand artistic ideal. In other words, it was he himself becoming a god to remake this nature.

According to his view，art—from a certain perspective—was none other than a manifestation of humanity’s desire to rebel against nature：refusing to be satisfied with things as they are，and seeking to impose each individual’s unique character upon it．Therefore，for example：musicians，dissatisfied with the natural voices of wind，waves，and animal cries as they are，strive to create their own sounds；the painter’s task lies not in merely reproducing models as they exist，but in transforming and beautifying them through their own individuality；and the poet is，needless to say，no mere reporter or recorder of facts．However，why is it that these so-called artists are satisfied with indirect，ineffective，and cumbersome means such as instruments，paint，or words alone？Why do they not focus on nature itself？And why do they not wield nature itself directly as their instrument，as their paint，as their script？Is not the very proof that this is not at all an impossible feat found in how landscape gardening and architecture are already harnessing，altering，and beautifying nature itself to some extent？Is it not possible to execute this in a more artistic manner，on an even grander scale？Hitomi Hiroshi harbored such doubts．

Thus he found himself drawn immeasurably more to the resplendent monumental achievements of ancient emperors—primarily tyrants—some of which appeared to have partially realized his own ideals, than to those utopian tales or their fanciful literary exercises mentioned earlier. When envisioning not merely the constructions themselves—the Egyptian pyramids, the Sphinx, Greece and Rome’s fortified or religious metropolises, China’s Great Wall and Epang Palace, Japan’s grand Buddhist edifices since the Asuka period like Kinkaku-ji and Ginkaku-ji—but rather the utopian yearnings of the heroes who created them, Hitomi Hiroshi’s heart raced.

“If I Were Granted Vast Riches” This was the title of a book employed by a certain utopian author, but Hitomi Hiroshi too perpetually uttered the same sigh. "If only I could obtain a fortune so vast I couldn’t possibly exhaust it… Ah." "First I’d purchase an expansive plot of land—but where to situate it?" "I’d command hundreds or thousands of workers to materialize the earthly paradise—this realm of beauty and dreams I’ve been envisioning—Ah."

Once he began fantasizing about it—this way and that—there was no end to his imaginings; he couldn't rest until he'd fully built up his utopia within his mind. Yet when he came to his senses, what he'd been so feverishly constructing proved nothing but a daydream—castles in the air—while reality left him a pitiful, impoverished scholar scrambling even for that day's bread. And given his meager talents, even were he to squander his entire life laboring to exhaustion, he could never amass even tens of thousands of yen.

After all, he was “the dreaming man.” Throughout his life, intoxicated by sublime beauty in his dreams, yet in reality—what a wretched contrast he presented. He had to lie in the grimy four-and-a-half-mat room of his boarding house and endure each dreary day as it came. Men of such ilk often lose themselves in art, finding there some meager respite—but by some twist of fate, even had he possessed artistic inclinations, no art beyond what might be called his most concrete fantasy—the one now spoken of—could have held power to stir his interest, nor was he endowed with talent for any such pursuit.

If his dream could have been realized, it would indeed have been an unparalleled great enterprise and grand artistic work in the world. Thus, for him who had once wandered through this realm of dreams, it was truly only natural that any worldly enterprise, any amusement, indeed even any art whatsoever appeared utterly worthless and insignificant. However, even he—having lost interest in all things—still had no choice but to do some work to survive. To this end, since graduating from school he had written hack translation subcontracts, children's tales, and occasionally even adult novels, taking them around to various magazine publishers to barely scrape together his daily livelihood. At first, he still retained some interest in art and found solace in publishing his dreams through stories like ancient utopian authors did, continuing such work with relative earnestness. Yet his writings—translations aside—were strangely unpopular with magazine publishers. The reason was simple: his works amounted to nothing more than exhaustive descriptions in various forms of his so-called Nowhere—self-indulgent and utterly tedious creations—so their poor reception was inevitable.

For this reason, the manuscripts he had painstakingly polished were crushed by magazine editors not once or twice, and compounding this, his nature was far too greedy to be satisfied with mere wordplay—thus his novels never gained any traction. That said, were he to abandon even that, he would immediately face difficulties in making ends meet each day; so reluctantly, he had no choice but to continue living indefinitely as a bottom-rung penny-a-line writer.

He wrote manuscripts at fifty sen per page, and in his spare moments, he would draw rough sketches of his utopia and architectural blueprints for structures to be built there—drew and discarded, drew and discarded—all while envisioning with boundless envy the achievements of ancient emperors who had been able to realize their grandest dreams as they pleased.

III

Now, our story truly begins when—as Hitomi Hiroshi was passing each purposeless day in such a state—there one day descended upon him a most extraordinary turn of events, occurring about a year prior to the commencement of those aforementioned large-scale earthworks on the remote island. It was a matter so utterly bizarre—so dreadful, rather—that it defied encapsulation by mere words like “fortune,” yet one accompanied by a bewitchment akin to some perverse fairy tale. Upon encountering this so-called good news, he soon hit upon a certain realization and tasted a strange joy unlike anything anyone had ever experienced—only to be struck, in the very next instant, by teeth-chattering terror at the sheer dreadfulness of his own thoughts.

The bearer of this news was a newspaper reporter who had been Hiroshi’s classmate during their university days. One day, this man visited Hiroshi’s boarding house after a long absence and, in the course of some conversation—utterly unaware of any significance—casually broached the matter. “By the way, you probably don’t know yet, but your ‘brother’ died just a couple of days ago.” “What?!”

At that moment, Hitomi Hiroshi found himself unable to refrain from retorting in this manner to the other’s bizarre statement. “Look, have you already forgotten? “It’s your famous counterpart—the twin counterpart.” “Komoda Genzaburou.” “Ah, Komoda? “That wealthy Komoda, is it? “That’s shocking! “What illness did he die of in the end?” “The correspondent sent over the article. According to it, it seems Mr. Komoda was done in by his chronic epilepsy.” “He had a seizure and never recovered.” “He hadn’t even reached the age of forty yet—what a tragedy.”

After that, the newspaper reporter added the following.

“Even so, I find myself astonished all over again. The resemblance is truly uncanny.” “You and that man.” “I included Komoda’s recent photo with the manuscript, and when I looked at it—though five or six years have passed since then—you two have come to resemble each other even more than in your student days. If you cover the mustache in that photo and put your glasses on him, it becomes a perfect match.” As readers have already surmised from this conversation, the impoverished scholar Hitomi Hiroshi and M Prefecture’s wealthiest man Komoda Genzaburou had been classmates during their university days—and, remarkably enough, were such exact doubles in features, build, and even voice that other students had bestowed upon them the nickname “the twins.” Due to their age difference, their classmates dubbed Komoda Genzaburou the “elder twin brother” and Hitomi Hiroshi the “younger twin brother,” seizing every opportunity to tease the pair. While being teased, they themselves could not help but mutually acknowledge that this nickname was by no means unfounded. Though such resemblances are often called commonplace, for them—who were not twins—to resemble each other so closely as to be mistaken for twins was rather a rare occurrence. When one considers how this resemblance later gave rise to an incident so bizarre it would shock the world, one cannot help but shudder at the inexorability of fate.

Since both of them rarely showed their faces in classrooms—combined with Hitomi Hiroshi’s mild nearsightedness, which kept him constantly wearing glasses—the two had few opportunities to meet, and even when they did, the presence of glasses on one made them easily distinguishable from afar. Thus, no notable incidents arose, though even so, during their long student years, laughable episodes occurred more than once or twice. They were that much alike.

The news that this so-called twin counterpart had died naturally struck Hitomi Hiroshi with greater surprise than obituaries of other alumni might have—yet from the very beginning, he had felt such aversion toward Komoda, who resembled him like a shadow, precisely because their likeness was too uncanny, that he certainly did not experience anything resembling grief. That said, there was an indescribable something about this event that struck him. It was less sadness than shock, and less shock than something uncannily eerie—an indescribable premonition.

However, what that was—the newspaper reporter continued making small talk for a long time thereafter, and until he finally left, he had remained completely unaware of it. But once alone, as he dwelled on Komoda’s death lingering strangely in his mind, an outlandish fantasy began seething within his head with the speed and eeriness of storm clouds spreading. He turned deathly pale, gritting his teeth, then began trembling violently—yet remained motionless in one spot, staring fixedly at the thought gradually revealing its true nature. At times, overwhelmed by terror, he would strive to suppress the ingenious schemes welling up one after another—yet far from ceasing, the more he tried to restrain them, the more vividly each scene of those wicked machinations would materialize with kaleidoscopic clarity.

IV One crucial motive that led him to conceive such an unprecedented wicked scheme lay in this fact: in the Komoda region of M Prefecture, cremation was not practiced at all, and among the upper classes—particularly households like the Komoda family—it was instead vehemently shunned, with burials conducted without exception. He had heard that fact directly from Komoda himself during their school days and knew it well. And another was that Komoda’s cause of death had been an epileptic seizure. This, too, could not help but evoke a certain memory of his.

Hitomi Hiroshi—whether fortunately or unfortunately—had once voraciously studied books on death by Hartmann, Bush, Kempner, and others, and having acquired considerable knowledge about burial in cases of suspended animation, was well aware of how uncertain deaths from epilepsy could be, fraught with the peril of live interment. Many of you readers have probably read Poe’s short story “The Premature Burial.” And you are doubtless well acquainted with the horror of premature burial.

"Being buried alive is undoubtedly the most dreadful among these extreme misfortunes that have ever befallen human fate—the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre and other historically horrifying events. And that this phenomenon occurs frequently—indeed all too frequently—in this world is undeniable to any person of discernment. The boundary dividing life and death is but a hazy shadow. Where does life end and death begin? Who could possibly determine such a thing? In certain diseases, all the external organs of life may cease to function. Moreover, in this case, such states of suspension amount to nothing more than cessations. It is nothing more than the temporary cessation of an enigmatic mechanism. Therefore, after some time passes—whether a few hours, a few days, or even tens of days—an invisible, mysterious force works its magic, and the small gears and large gears begin moving once more."

And that epilepsy was one such disease stood beyond doubt, given the numerous examples presented in various books. For instance, he clearly remembered how epilepsy had been explicitly listed among several diseases prone to suspended animation in a pamphlet once published by the American "Society for the Prevention of Premature Burial"—though why this particular detail clung to him so stubbornly, he could not say. When he read those countless accounts of premature burial, what a bizarre sensation must have seized him. Against that indescribable feeling, words like "terror" or "dread" seemed pitifully trite—utterly commonplace by comparison. Take the tale of the pregnant woman who encountered premature burial: reviving in her grave, not merely reviving but giving birth in that darkness, then perishing in agony while clutching her wailing infant (she had likely pressed her dry breast into that blood-smeared mouth)—it seared into his memory like a brand, lingering there endlessly, endlessly.

Yet why he remembered so clearly that epilepsy was indeed a disease fraught with such peril—Hitomi Hiroshi himself noticed none of this. But given the terrifying nature of the human mind, it was impossible to claim that when he read those books, he had not been unconsciously aware of this fact: that Komoda—the man said to be his mirror image, his twin counterpart—Komoda the millionaire was also an epileptic. As previously stated, Hitomi Hiroshi—a natural-born dreamer and a man given to twisting and turning his thoughts—even if he was not clearly conscious of it, could not have failed to notice this.

If that were indeed the case, then one could not deny that the seed sown within me years ago had now, upon Komoda’s death, first taken clear form. But be that as it may, his extraordinarily rare wicked scheme—as he sat upright through the night without once lying down, feeling cold sweat oozing relentlessly from every pore—began as a notion as fantastical as a fairy tale or dream, then little by little took on hues of reality, until at last it came to seem an utterly mundane inevitability: something that would surely succeed if only he dared to act.

"How absurd." "No matter how much I resemble that guy—such an outrageous... no, utterly preposterous notion." "Since humanity's dawn, has there ever been a soul who conceived such idiotic thoughts?" "I've read detective tales where twins impersonate each other to play dual roles—but even those fantasies scarcely exist outside fiction." "And this scheme I now contemplate—isn't it pure lunacy?" "Stop wasting thought. Dream your proper station's dream—that Utopia you'll never build."

Time and again, he would think in such a manner and attempt to shake off these too-terrifying delusions—yet immediately afterward, once more, "But when you think about it," he reasoned inwardly, "a plan this simple—one that entails little to no risk—isn’t something that comes along often. However great the hardship, however grave the risk—should this succeed, would you not smoothly obtain the funds for that dreamland you so fervently desired, that vision you alone had dreamed of through years on end? Ah, what joy—what rapture—would then be yours! After all, I’m sick to death of this world. After all, it’s a life going nowhere. Even if I were to lose my life for it, what would be so regrettable? But in reality, far from losing my life, I wouldn’t be killing a single person or committing any evil that poisons the world. All I need to do is skillfully erase my own existence and take on the role of Komoda Genzaburou’s replacement. And what would I do? Transform nature as none have dared since ancient times, create landscapes—in other words, craft a single colossally grand work of art. Wouldn’t that be creating paradise? Establishing heaven on earth? As for me, where is there any guilty conscience? Moreover, as for Komoda’s bereaved family—if the master they thought dead were to return to life, they would rejoice rather than bear any resentment. You’re convinced this is some heinous crime," he challenged himself, "but look—if we examine each outcome one by one like this, isn’t this not a crime at all, but rather a virtuous act?"

When he laid it out logically like this, indeed, it was perfectly logical—flawless in execution and—it had to be said—scarcely any qualms of conscience to speak of.

In executing this plan, what proved most convenient was that Komoda Genzaburou's family—his parents having long passed away—now consisted solely of his young wife, with only a few servants remaining beyond her. Admittedly, he had one sister who had married into a certain noble family in Tokyo, and in his home province, given that he belonged to such a prominent household, there must have been numerous relatives; but those people would have had no way of knowing about the existence of a man named Hitomi Hiroshi who was the spitting image of the deceased Genzaburou. Even if they had somehow heard rumors, they could never have imagined such an uncanny resemblance, let alone dreamed that this man would appear as Genzaburou's body double. Moreover, he was by nature a man strangely skilled at acting. The only one to fear was Komoda's wife, who undoubtedly knew Genzaburou's habits down to the smallest detail—but even she would likely notice nothing as long as he remained cautious, particularly if he avoided intimate marital conversations. Moreover, since someone who had once died had now returned to life, even if their appearance or nature had changed somewhat, one could reasonably attribute such alterations to the extraordinary circumstances—and thus find little cause for astonishment.

Thus, his thoughts gradually delved into minute details, and as he pieced together these intricate circumstances one by one, his grand scheme appeared to gain reality and feasibility step by step. What remained was undoubtedly the greatest obstacle to his plan: how to erase his own existence; how to convincingly stage Komoda’s resuscitation; and crucially, how to dispose of the genuine Komoda’s corpse.

Given that he was capable of devising such grandiose wickedness (however he might justify it himself), he must have been naturally endowed with what is called cunning. And so, as he twisted and turned over his thoughts with tenacious persistence, even the most formidable obstacles resolved themselves effortlessly. Then, once he deemed this sufficient, he meticulously re-examined every minute detail of his plans anew. When he finally concluded there remained not a single flaw, the moment arrived for him to make the ultimate decision—whether to execute this scheme or not.

5 All the blood in his body seemed to rush to his head, and once that happened, he even forgot how terrifying the plan he now contemplated truly was. After nearly twenty-four hours of pondering and refining every detail, he ultimately resolved to carry it out. When he later recalled it, his state of mind at the time had been like sleepwalking—even as he set about executing his plan, he felt strangely hollow, as though this grave undertaking were nothing more than a leisurely sightseeing excursion. Yet coiled in some corner of his mind persisted an uncanny sensation: the awareness that what he now did was in truth a dream, and that beyond this dream awaited another, truer world.

As previously stated, his plan was divided into two important parts. The first was to eliminate himself—that is, the man named Hitomi Hiroshi—from this world. But before embarking on this, he needed to make one urgent trip to T City where Komoda’s residence stood, to preliminarily verify several points: whether Komoda had indeed been given an earthen burial; whether he could successfully infiltrate the gravesite; what sort of person Komoda’s young wife was; and what dispositions the servants might have. Consequently, should any danger emerge that might cause this plan to collapse, it would not yet be too late to abandon its execution at that stage—there still remained ample opportunity for retreat.

However, he had to refrain from appearing in T City in his current form. Whether recognized as Hitomi Hiroshi or mistaken for Komoda Genzaburou, either outcome would prove fatal to his plan. Thus he employed his unique method of disguise and resolved to embark on this first journey to T City. His disguise technique was remarkably simple: discarding his old glasses for oversized yet inconspicuous tinted ones; applying a large folded gauze patch over one eye from brow to cheek; stuffing cotton padding in his mouth; affixing an unobtrusive mustache; and cropping his hair short. This alone produced astonishing results—so effective that even when encountering an acquaintance on the train during departure, he went entirely unnoticed. In the human face, the eyes constitute both the most conspicuous feature and the primary vehicle of individual distinction. The proof lay in how covering the upper face versus the lower face produced radically different effects. Mistaken identity might occur when concealing nose-upward features, but nose-downward concealment permitted immediate recognition. Hence he first concealed both eyes with tinted glasses. Yet while tinted glasses obscured ocular expression completely, they lent wearers an air of dubiousness. To neutralize this impression, he applied gauze to one eye, feigning ocular affliction. This simultaneously hid portions of his eyebrows and cheeks—a doubly effective measure. By radically altering his hairstyle and ingeniously modifying his attire, he achieved seventy percent of his disguise's purpose; still he took extra precautions—reshaping his jawline with cotton padding and masking his mouth's distinctive features with a false mustache. Had he altered his gait as well, ninety-nine percent of Hitomi Hiroshi would have been erased. He long held that wigs and pigments—cumbersome and attention-grabbing—proved impractical for actual use, yet believed even Japanese men could achieve effective transformation through such simple methods.

The following day, he went to the boarding house’s front desk and announced that—for reasons of his own—he would be vacating his room temporarily to embark on a journey. Though his destination remained undecided—a vagabond’s journey, so to speak—he declared his initial aim to be the southern reaches of the Izu Peninsula. With a single small suitcase in hand, he departed. Along the way, he purchased necessary items, completed the aforementioned disguise on a deserted roadside, hurried straight to Tokyo Station, checked his suitcase temporarily, purchased a ticket to a station two or three stops beyond T City, and burrowed into the crowded third-class car.

Upon arriving in T City, he then spent a span of two days—or more precisely, a full twenty-four hours—walking about and inquiring with remarkable agility through his own unique methods, ultimately achieving his objective. As going into excessive detail would prove too trivial, such particulars shall be omitted here; in any case, the results of his investigation had made clear that his plan was by no means impossible. And so, it was on the third day after hearing that newspaper reporter’s account—the sixth night following Komoda Genzaburou’s funeral—around eight o’clock, that he once again stood before Tokyo Station. In his plan, he intended to resuscitate him within ten days of Genzaburou’s death at the latest, leaving a mere four days remaining—truly a most hectic period. After first retrieving his temporarily stored small suitcase, he entered the station restroom to remove his usual disguise and revert to his original self as Hitomi Hiroshi, then immediately hurried to Reiganjima’s steamship terminal. The ship bound for Izu was scheduled to depart at 9:00 PM; boarding it and heading south along the Izu Peninsula was his planned course of action.

When he rushed to the waiting area, the boarding signal bell was already clanging loudly on the ship. The ticket was second-class, the destination Shimoda Port; carrying his luggage, he dashed across the dim pier, crossed the rickety plank walkway, and no sooner had he entered the hatch than the departure whistle boomed hollowly.

6 To his advantage, the second-class cabin at the stern—about ten tatami mats in size—contained only two fellow passengers. Both appeared rustic in serge kimonos and haori coats, their faces sunburned like weathered sailors yet bearing expressions of unmistakable dullness befitting middle-aged men of sluggish intellect. Hitomi Hiroshi silently entered the cabin, took a seat far removed from the other passengers in a corner, and lay down on the provided blanket in a posture suggesting he would sleep. Yet he of course did not sleep; remaining turned away, he kept intently observing the men's movements. Grinding and throbbing—the nerve-jarring din of the engine reverberated through his entire being. The dim electric light behind iron bars cast his reclining shadow in an elongated streak across the blanket. Behind him, the men—apparently acquaintances—remained seated, murmuring to each other. Their voices blended with the engine's noise into a strangely drowsy rhythm that induced lethargy. Moreover, the sea lay calm, its waves hushed, the vessel's rocking nearly imperceptible—and as he lay motionless, the excitement of recent days gradually subsided, leaving in its wake a swirling surge of nameless dread rising from the void.

“It’s not too late even now. Abandon this madness at once.” “Before it becomes irreparable, abandon this madness at once.” “Are you earnestly trying to execute that mad delusion of yours?” “Was it truly not a jest?” “Can your mental state truly be considered sound?” “Is there perhaps something wrong somewhere?” As time passed, his anxiety continued to grow. However, how could he possibly abandon this great allure? Against his anxious heart, another part of his mind began its persuasion. “Where was there any anxiety?” “Where was there any oversight?” “Could he possibly abandon the work he had planned thus far at this late stage?” And within his mind, each of his schemes—down to their minutest details—began surfacing one after another. Moreover, in not a single one of them could there be even the slightest oversight.

When he suddenly noticed, the two guests’ voices had ceased without warning, replaced instead by two distinct rhythms of snoring resounding from across the room. Turning over and peering through narrowed eyes, he saw the men lying spread-eagled in robust health, their features slackened in deep slumber. He felt something urgently pressing him to act. The realization that his opportunity had arrived swept away all lingering doubts in an instant. As if compelled by an unseen force, he opened the suitcase beside his pillow without hesitation and retrieved a torn scrap of fabric from its depths—an aged cotton kasuri cloth roughly five or six sun long, rent into an unnatural shape. Clutching it, he closed the suitcase and slipped silently out onto the deck.

It was already past eleven o'clock. The stewards and crew members who had occasionally appeared in the cabin earlier that evening had likely retired to their respective quarters, for no human figures remained in the vicinity. On the higher forward deck, the helmsman was likely keeping watch through the night, but from where Hitomi Hiroshi now stood, even that was invisible. Over the gunwale surged great waves sending up spray, while at the stern stretched a sash of phosphorescence from noctilucent plankton; looking upward, the colossal black shadow of the Miura Peninsula loomed oppressively close above, its fishing village lights twinkling intermittently. Across the sky, countless dust-like stars continued their dull rotation with the ship’s progression. The only sounds were the heavy throb of the engine and the crash of waves against the hull.

Given these circumstances, there was no immediate concern that his plan would be discovered. Fortunately, it was the end of spring; the sea lay quiet as if asleep. Due to the shipping route’s configuration, the shadow of land gradually drew closer to the ship. All that remained now was to wait for the prearranged location where land and vessel would nearest approach. (He had frequently traveled this shipping route and knew precisely where this point lay.) Now he needed only to swim across a mere few hundred meters of sea undetected.

First groping through the darkness along the gunwale until finding a protruding nail on the railing's outer side, he securely fastened the scrap of kasuri fabric from earlier to this nail to prevent wind dispersal. Then hiding beneath sailcloth shadows, he removed the old lined kimono—patterned identically to the scrap—that clung as his sole layer against bare skin. Gathering the wallet and disguise tools from its sleeve to prevent loss, he tightly bound the bundle to his back using his *heko obi* sash.

“Alright, this should do it.” “All I need endure is a bit of chill for a short while.” He crawled out from under the sailcloth, surveyed the area once more, and upon confirming that no one was watching, moved in gecko-like fashion across the deck toward the gunwale, sliding smoothly over the railing. To leap into the water while clinging to something to avoid noise; to take care not to be caught in the propeller—these two points were things he had already considered countless times. For this purpose, the most opportune moment came when the ship reduced speed to change course while passing through the strait. And at that moment, they would also be closest to land. Clutching a rope on the gunwale, poised to leap at any instant, he waited with bated breath for that decisive course change.

Paradoxically, despite the intensity of the situation, his mind had settled into utter calmness. Admittedly, jumping from a moving ship into the sea and swimming to shore was not inherently criminal—the distance was short, his swimming skills assured, and he understood there to be little real danger. Yet given that this act still constituted a preparatory step in his grand conspiracy, it was unthinkable for someone of his disposition to remain free of unease. And yet, that he could act with such calm composure was nothing short of miraculous. Later, when he reflected on his own state of mind—how it had grown increasingly audacious with each passing day since he first embarked on his plan—he was astonished by the drastic transformation. Yet perhaps that very composure he felt while clinging to the gunwale had marked the beginning.

Before long, the ship approached its target location. With a clanking of rudder chains, it began to change course, its speed simultaneously slackening.

“Now!” Even so, when he released the rope, his heart thudded and lurched upward. At the very moment he released his grip, he kicked off the gunwale with all his strength, flattened his body toward the farthest point possible, and—in a posture that caught the water cleanly—slid into the sea without a sound.

A glug of water, a seizing cold that pierced his flesh, the clamping force of seawater from all directions—no matter how he thrashed and thrashed, he could not breach the surface, could not escape that suffocating frustration. Yet even then, he flailed and kicked at the water with desperate abandon, never forgetting to put even an inch or a foot between himself and the churning propeller. How he had managed to swim through that whirlpool by the ship’s hull, and then—even in a calm sea—how he had endured the numbing cold water for several hundred meters; even when he later reflected on it, he could not comprehend that strange strength of his own.

And so, having flawlessly accomplished the first step of his plan through sheer luck, he threw his exhausted body onto the darkened shoreline of some nameless fishing village, waited there for night to break, donned still-damp garments, applied his disguise, and—before the villagers could rise—set off in what he presumed to be the direction of Yokosuka.

Seven The man who had been Hitomi Hiroshi until the previous night spent the next day at a cheap inn near Ofuna Station, then selected a train arriving in T City just after nightfall the following afternoon, becoming a third-class passenger, still in disguise. You may have already discerned this, but he spent this precious day idly to await the newspaper reporting his suicide act and confirm whether it had achieved its intended purpose. And since he had now irrevocably boarded the train to T City, it need hardly be said that the newspaper article had fallen perfectly into place, reporting his suicide.

Under headlines such as “The Suicide of a Novelist”—(now that he was dead, he could finally be called a novelist by others)—every newspaper had carried an article about his suicide, albeit in small print. The more detailed newspapers reported how both factors—the notebook found in his abandoned suitcase bearing Hitomi Hiroshi’s signature and containing verses of world-weary farewell, alongside a scrap of kasuri-patterned fabric believed to be from his clothing caught on a ship’s nail (likely during his plunge)—had conclusively established both the deceased’s identity and motives for suicide. In other words, his plan had succeeded splendidly and without a hitch.

Fortunately, he had no relatives who would weep over this feigned suicide. To be sure, in his hometown there remained his elder brother’s household—(during his student days, he had received tuition from this brother, though in recent years the brother had effectively abandoned him)—along with a few other relatives. Were these people to learn of his untimely death, they might well express some measure of regret or lamentation. Yet such complications had been anticipated from the outset, and for him, they held no particular weight of conscience.

Rather than that, he was consumed by an indescribable, strange sensation that followed the erasure of his own self. He was now a stranger without a place in the nation's family registry, without a single relative or friend in the entire world, and bereft even of a name. Now, the passengers seated around him, the scenery visible through the windows along the tracks, every tree and every house—all felt as though they belonged to an entirely different world from anything he had known before. On one hand, it was an exhilarating sensation akin to being reborn; but on the other, he found himself overwhelmed by an indescribable loneliness—the loneliness of a man utterly alone in this world who must now accomplish a monumental task beyond his capacity—until he could do nothing but stand on the verge of tears.

The train, however, paid no heed to his feelings, continuing its journey from station to station until nightfall brought it at last to its destination: T City. The former Hitomi Hiroshi, upon exiting the station, immediately headed straight for the Komoda family's ancestral temple. Fortunately, as the temple stood in the wilderness beyond the city outskirts and it was already past nine—an hour when no one passed by—there was no fear of his task being discovered, provided he took care even around the temple staff. Moreover, the area was dotted with traditional, unsecured farmhouses, making it convenient to steal a hoe from one of their barns.

When he climbed over the sparse hedge along the path between rice fields, there lay the graveyard in question. Though it was a moonless night, between the clarity of the stars and his prior reconnaissance, locating Komoda Genzaburou’s fresh grave proved no trouble at all. He made his way through the stone monuments toward the main hall and peered through a crevice in the closed wooden shutters, but all lay utterly silent—in this remote place, the temple staff, early risers by nature, appeared to have already retired for the night.

Having confirmed this would suffice, he retraced his steps along the path between rice fields, combed through nearby farmhouses to effortlessly procure a single hoe, and by the time he returned to Komoda Genzaburou’s grave—all while moving as silently as a cat and concealing himself in the darkness—the task had taken so much time that it was nearly eleven o’clock. For his plan, this was precisely the opportune time.

And so, in the terrifying darkness of the graveyard, he swung his hoe and began the most dreadful task of grave-digging. Since it was a new grave, digging it up posed little difficulty, but when he imagined what lay hidden beneath—even he, who had grown somewhat accustomed to such scenes over the past few days and was maddened by greed—could not help but shudder with an indescribable dread. But he had no time to think. No sooner had he swung the hoe ten times than the coffin lid came into view.

It was no longer the time for hesitation. He summoned every ounce of courage, swept away the dirt from the faintly visible unpainted boards in the darkness, wedged the hoe's tip between planks, and with one mighty heave—accompanied by a bone-chilling creak—forced open the lid without resistance. The cascade of crumbling earth into the coffin's depths now felt like some living creature's doing, a terror that seemed to shorten his very lifespan. The instant the lid opened, an unspeakable stench assaulted his nostrils. With seven or eight days having passed since death, Komoda Genzaburou's corpse must have already begun decomposing. Even before seeing the actual remains, he found himself recoiling from this putrid assault.

He, who had never been particularly afraid of graveyards, had managed to continue his work with unexpected composure until then. But when he removed the coffin lid and came face to face with what might as well have been another version of himself—Komoda’s corpse—something like an indescribable shadow began seeping up from the depths of his soul with a creeping intensity. Before he knew it, he was assaulted by such terror that he nearly cried out and bolted away. This was by no means the fear of ghosts, but something far more bizarre—a terror more akin to reality, though even that description fell utterly short—like finding oneself alone in a darkened hall, illuminating one’s own face in a mirror by candlelight—a sensation many times more dreadful than even that.

Under a silent starry sky loomed stone monuments faintly resembling a crowd of standing figures; at their center yawned a pitch-black hole. It recalled an eerie hellscape scroll—he himself had become a figure within that painted nightmare. There in the hole’s depths, in darkness indistinguishable at first glance, lay a corpse that was none other than himself. The terror grew precisely because the corpse’s face remained unseeable. At the pit’s bottom, the burial shroud glowed faintly white, its protruding neck dissolving into shadow—yet this very obscurity let imagination conjure boundless horror. Perhaps by some perverse providence, his scheme had fulfilled an omen: Komoda might not truly be dead, and through this grave-robbing act now be reviving. Even such ludicrous delusions besieged him.

Suppressing the shudder rising from within, now with an almost hollowed mind, he lay prone at the edge of the pit, stretched out both hands toward its depths, and resolutely probed the corpse's body. The first thing he touched was what seemed to be a shaved head, its surface covered in coarse stubble. When he pressed on the skin and examined it, it felt strangely spongy, and if he pressed a bit harder, the skin would slip through and tear. Startled by the eeriness, he jerked his hand back, waited for his pounding heart to subside, then reached out again. This time what he touched seemed to be the corpse's mouth—he could feel the hard alignment of teeth, and between those teeth was clenched what was likely cotton, soft yet distinct from the decaying skin surrounding it. Growing slightly bolder as he continued probing around the mouth area, he discovered—strangely enough—that Komoda's mouth had opened to ten times its size during life. To either side, it was split wide enough to fully expose the molars like a Hannya mask, while vertically it gaped open enough to reveal the gums. It was by no means an illusion caused by the darkness.

That, too, made him shudder to the very marrow of his being. It was not a fear that the dead man might bite his hand. Even after the dead man’s lungs had ceased their movement, the muscles around his mouth had contracted so violently in a final attempt to breathe—forcing his lips apart into a gaping maw of impossible size for any living human—that this vision of a death throe too horrific for this world flickered before his eyes.

The former Hitomi Hiroshi felt as though both his vigor and spirit had been utterly depleted from this experience alone. When he thought that on top of this, he still had to extract that slimy, decomposed corpse from the hole—and not just extract it, but accomplish an even more dreadful, monumental task to dispose of it—he could not help but keenly feel, now more than ever, that his plan had been utterly reckless.

VIII

The former Hitomi Hiroshi—though one might say his eyes had been dazzled by vast wealth—had likely been able to endure those numerous violent emotions because he too, like all criminals, was a type of mentally ill person: there must have been some defect in his brain, his nerves having become paralyzed regarding certain situations and matters. When the terror of crime surpassed a certain threshold—much like plugging one's ears until all sound hollowed into silence—his conscience went deaf, so to speak. In its place, his rational mind concerning evil sharpened to a razor's edge, becoming abnormally acute. He could now act with water-calm composure, missing no detail however minute, as though guided not by human hands but by some precision instrument.

At the very moment he touched Komoda Genzaburou’s half-rotted corpse—as that terror reached its peak—this numb state opportunely assailed him. He proceeded to execute his plan one after another like a mechanical doll—insensitively, with flawless precision—no longer hesitating in the slightest. He, lifting again and again only for Komoda’s corpse to ooze through his five fingers in sludgy decay, finally managed—with the meticulous care of an old penny-candy shopkeeper extracting gelatinous strands from water—to carry it out of the grave without damaging the body. But by the time he finished this task, the corpse’s thin skin clung to both his palms like gloves made of jellyfish—no matter how much he shook his hands, it refused to come off easily. Had this been the usual Hiroshi, that terror alone would have been more than enough to make him abandon everything and flee. But he, without showing much surprise, set about the next task.

Next, he had to obliterate Komoda’s corpse. While erasing Hiroshi himself from this world had been relatively easy, disposing of this single human corpse in a way that would absolutely escape notice proved an exceedingly difficult task. Even if he sank it in water or buried it in soil, there was no guarantee it would not resurface or be unearthed. Should even a single bone of Genzaburou meet human eyes, not only would the entire plan collapse—he would also be branded with a terrible crime. Therefore, regarding this matter, he had been racking his brain from the very first night, exhaustively pondering whether to choose this method or that.

And ultimately, the ingenious scheme he devised was this—the solution to this conundrum always lay closest at hand: excavate the neighboring graveyard where the Komoda family's ancestral bones likely rested and place Komoda's corpse among them. By doing so, the Komoda clan would presumably never spawn unfilial descendants who might desecrate their ancestral graves. Even should something like grave relocation occur, by that time Hiroshi would have realized his dream and departed this world in supreme satisfaction; failing that, should scattered bones from two individuals emerge from a single tomb, they would be those of ancestors buried eras past whom none could recognize. How could this possibly be linked to Hiroshi's wicked plot? Thus he convinced himself.

Digging up the neighboring grave proved somewhat laborious due to the hardened soil, but as he worked up a sweat and toiled away, he eventually managed to unearth what appeared to be bones. The coffin had naturally rotted away without a trace, leaving only scattered white bones clumped together in small clusters, faintly visible under the starlight. By that point, there was no longer any stench, and they had completely lost the semblance of living bones, appearing instead like some pure, white mineral-like substance.

Before the two desecrated graves and a mass of rotting human flesh, he remained motionless in the dark for some time. He unified his spirit and strove to make his mind's workings more meticulous. He couldn't afford any carelessness. There must be no slightest oversight. With his head like a ball of fire, he gazed around at the indistinct shapes in the darkness. After a while, he stripped the white burial shroud from Genzaburou's corpse without emotion and tore three rings from both hands' fingers. Wrapping the rings in the shroud and stuffing them into his pocket, he used his hands and feet—as if handling a bothersome task—to shove the naked flesh mass at his feet into the newly dug grave pit. Then he dropped to all fours and crawled about, sweeping his palms across every inch of ground to confirm no evidence remained. Seizing the hoe, he refilled the grave exactly as before, erected the marker, and meticulously arranged the pre-saved grass and moss over the fresh soil without gaps.

This should do. Poor Komoda Genzaburou has become my substitute and vanished from this world forever. And here I am—now at last able to truly become Komoda Genzaburou. Hitomi Hiroshi was nowhere to be found—no matter where one searched. The former Hitomi Hiroshi defiantly looked up at the starry sky. To him, the dark dome above and the silvery stardust seemed like toys—charmingly small, as if whispering faint blessings upon his future.

A grave was desecrated, and the corpse within had vanished. People would be thrown into utter confusion by this fact alone. Moreover, who would ever imagine that someone had desecrated yet another grave right beside it and employed such a simple, bold trick? What’s more, into this very turmoil Komoda Genzaburou—clad in his burial shroud—would make his appearance. Then people’s attention would immediately shift from the graveyard to focus entirely on his own mysterious resuscitation. After that, everything would depend on how skillfully he performed. And regarding that performance—he had every confidence in its success.

Gradually, the sky began taking on a bluish tint, the stardust gradually faded its glow, and rooster crows started sounding here and there. In that twilight, he worked swiftly to arrange Komoda’s grave as though a corpse had revived—bursting through its coffin from within and crawling out—while taking care to leave no footprints, then slipped through the original hedgerow’s gap onto the ridge path beyond, disposed of the hoe, and hastened back toward town in his initial disguise.

IX About an hour later, he—the man resurrected from the graveyard—lay sprawled in the shadow of a thicket in a certain forest, his figure clad in a soiled burial shroud, feigning collapse by the roadside after staggering along the path toward his home and growing short of breath before walking even a third of the way. Having worked through the entire night without food or drink, his face bore just the right degree of haggardness, making his performance all the more convincing. In the initial plan, after disposing of the corpse, he was to immediately change into the burial shroud, reach the temple’s storehouse, and repeatedly knock on its shutters. However, upon seeing the corpse—which, evidently due to this region’s customs and that antiquated tonsure ritual, had both its head and beard cleanly shaven—he found it necessary to similarly shave his own head bare. And so, he searched out a hardware store among the rural merchant houses on the outskirts of town, purchased a single razor, hid in the forest, and with great effort, had to shave his own head. It was before he had removed his clever disguise—even had he entered a barber shop at this stage, he would not have been easily suspected. But since it was early morning and barber shops—which opened late—had not yet raised their shutters, and out of precaution against unforeseen risks, he decided to purchase a razor instead.

By the time he had fully shaved his head, changed into the burial shroud, slipped onto his fingers the rings removed from the corpse's hands, burned his discarded clothing and other items in a hollow deep within the forest, and disposed of the ashes, the sun had already risen high; scattered passersby now moved ceaselessly along the road outside the woods, forcing him to lie—feigning unconsciousness—in the shadow of a thicket that was difficult to discover yet not far from the road, unable to emerge from his hiding place or return to the temple.

Along the road ran a small stream, its surface brushed by the dipping branches of dense thickets of narrow-leaved shrubs clustered there. Beyond these stretched a forest where tall pines and cedars stood sparsely. He lay pressed against the far side of the bushes—taking care not to be seen from the road—holding his breath. Through gaps in the shrubs, as he watched only the feet of peasants passing along the roadway and his nerves settled, an odd sensation began to well up within him.

"This means everything has gone exactly as planned. All that remains is for someone to find me. But with merely this much—swimming across the sea, digging a grave, shaving my head—would that vast fortune worth tens of millions of yen truly become mine? The whole scheme seems far too naive. Could it be that I'm playing the role of some absurd clown? I wonder if those people out there know everything and are just pretending not to notice—putting on an act for their own amusement."

Thus, the nerves of an ordinary person—which in moments of intense emotion would become utterly paralyzed—gradually returned to him. And that anxiety grew even more intense when peasant children discovered his madman-like figure clad in a burial shroud and raised an uproar.

“Hey, look! There’s somethin’ sleepin’ here!”

As they were about to enter the forest—their usual playground—one child from the group of four or five suddenly spotted his white figure. Startled, he took a step back and whispered to the others outside. “What’s that there?” “Ain’t that a madman?” “A corpse! A corpse!” “Let’s go closer an’ take a look.” “I told ya, told ya!” A band of mischievous boys around ten years old—their country-striped clothes so grimy the stripes were indistinguishable, the fabric now threadbare and tattered with a grimy sheen—whispered among themselves as they timidly drew closer to him.

When those sniveling, peasant-faced brats peered at him as though he were some rare spectacle, imagining that utterly ridiculous scene made him grow all the more anxious and irritated. "I’ve truly become a clown now." He had never imagined peasant brats would be his first discoverers. "So after being turned into their plaything and forced to perform this preposterous disgrace—is this how it ends?" He could not help but feel nearly overwhelmed by despair.

However, he couldn’t possibly stand up and scold the children, and no matter who approached him, he still had no choice but to keep feigning unconsciousness. And so he had to lie still and endure as the children grew bolder by degrees, until finally they even began touching his body. The sheer absurdity of it all made him want to throw everything into chaos—to suddenly leap up and burst into raucous laughter.

“Hey, go tell Pa!”

Before long, one of the children whispered breathlessly. And so, the children outside also, “Let’s do it, let’s do it!” They muttered, then clattered off somewhere. They went to report to their respective parents about the mysterious collapsed person. Before long, clamorous voices could be heard from the direction of the road as several peasants came running up. Shouting all manner of arbitrary things, they lifted him and began tending to him. Hearing the rumors, people gradually gathered, surrounding him like a swarming mass, and the commotion grew increasingly larger.

“Ah, isn’t this Mr. Komoda?” Soon, from among them came a loud shout—someone appeared to have recognized Genzaburou. “Yeah, yeah,” A few voices chimed in agreement. Then, as some in the crowd had already heard about the incident at the Komoda family cemetery, murmurs of “Mr. Komoda has returned from the grave” spread through the country folk like wildfire, passed from mouth to mouth as a miraculous event.

When speaking of the Komoda family, in the vicinity of T City—or rather across all of M Prefecture—they were such a point of pride that they stood as the prefecture’s foremost wealthy family. Given that their household head had been buried only to break free from his coffin and return alive after ten days had passed, this was undoubtedly an earth-shattering event for them. Some rushed to inform the Komoda family in T City, some ran to the temple, some hurried to fetch doctors—leaving fields and everything else unattended—until nearly the entire village turned out in a commotion.

Hitomi Hiroshi was finally able to see the response to his scheme. Given how things were progressing, it seemed his plan would not entirely end in fantasy. At last, the time had come for him to perform his well-practiced act. In front of the watching crowd, he first snapped his eyes wide open with an air of having just regained consciousness. And with a look of utter bewilderment, he gazed blankly at the faces around him.

“Ah—you’ve come to!” “Sir, have you come to?”

Seeing this, the man holding him brought his mouth close to his ear and shouted loudly. At the same moment, a wall of countless faces came crashing down upon him, and the peasants' foul breath assailed his nostrils in a pungent wave. And within those countless eyes shining there—each and every one overflowing with simple sincerity—not a single soul doubted his true identity. However, Hiroshi, regardless of who approached him, did not attempt to alter the premeditated sequence of his act. He remained silent, making no movements beyond gazing at the people’s faces and uttering not a single word. And so, until he had fully assessed everything, he feigned unconsciousness to avoid the danger of speaking.

I shall omit the tedious details of how he was carried into the inner chambers of the Komoda residence. From town came automobiles bearing the family’s chief steward along with servants and doctors; from the family temple arrived monks and temple workers; from the police station came the chief accompanied by two or three officers; while Komoda relatives and acquaintances who had heard the urgent news descended upon this forest at the town’s edge one after another as if attending a fire. The surrounding area seethed with wartime-like commotion—a spectacle that laid bare the Komoda family’s immense prestige and influence for all to see.

He was escorted by those people to what was now his own home—the Komoda residence—and even after lying down in the splendid bedding, unlike any he had ever seen, within the master’s room there, he strictly adhered to his initial plan. Like a mute, he kept his mouth shut and ultimately did not attempt to utter a single word.

Ten His silent performance persisted obstinately for approximately a week thereafter. During that time, from within his sickbed, he pricked up his ears and kept his eyes sharp—striving to comprehend every custom of the Komoda household, the people’s dispositions, and the mansion’s atmosphere as he worked to assimilate himself into it all. Outwardly lying motionless as a half-conscious, half-dead patient while inwardly—strange as it may sound—his mind alone spun with the agility, speed, and precision of a race car driver hurtling at fifty miles per hour, sparks flying in its wake.

The doctor’s diagnosis was generally what he had anticipated. He was said to be one of T City’s most prominent physicians attending to the Komoda family, yet he attempted to explain this miraculous resuscitation through the ambiguous technical term “catalepsy.” He explained through various examples how difficult it was to conclusively determine death, defending that his diagnosis of death had by no means been negligent.

Peering through his glasses at the relatives lined up around Hiroshi’s bedside, he proceeded to tediously explain—using abstruse medical terminology—the relationship between epilepsy and catalepsy, and how these conditions related to suspended animation. The relatives, upon hearing this, seemed satisfied in their own way without fully understanding it. Since the man himself had returned to life, there was no particular reason for them to complain, even if the explanation was insufficient. The doctor examined Hiroshi’s body with meticulous care, his expression a blend of unease and curiosity. And so, putting on a face as though he comprehended everything, he had in reality neatly fallen into Hiroshi’s trap. In this situation, the doctor was so consumed by his own misdiagnosis and solely preoccupied with justifying it that even if he noticed some changes in the patient’s body, he had no capacity to consider them deeply. Even if he had been able to suspect Hiroshi, how could such an outlandish notion—that this was Genzaburou’s body double—ever have crossed his mind? Since such an extraordinary event as someone dead being resuscitated had occurred, even if some changes were observed in the resuscitated person’s body, there was no particular reason to find it strange. Even for an expert, thinking in such a way was by no means unreasonable.

Since the cause of death was an epileptic seizure (though the doctor had labeled it catalepsy), there were no particular issues with his internal organs, his weakness was manageable, and as for meals, all that was needed was to ensure proper nutrition. Consequently, Hiroshi’s feigned illness—apart from maintaining an appearance of mental haziness and keeping his mouth shut—caused him no pain whatsoever and proved extremely easy to sustain. Nevertheless, the family’s nursing care was truly meticulous and attentive: the doctor came to visit twice daily; two nurses and a maid remained constantly at his bedside; and Sumida, the elderly chief steward, along with relatives, came incessantly to check on his condition. To Hiroshi, the way all those people kept their voices hushed, stole their footsteps, and acted so full of concern struck him as utterly absurd and comical beyond endurance. He could not help but keenly feel that the world he had until now regarded with such solemn gravity was in fact akin to a trivial, childish game of make-believe. He alone appeared immensely grand, while the other members of the Komoda family seemed as trivial and insignificant as insects. “Hmph… So this is all there is?” It was a feeling closer to disappointment, if anything. Through this experience, he felt he could now imagine the haughty state of mind possessed by heroes of old and great criminals.

However, even among them, there was a single person—somewhat eerie, or perhaps best described as discomfiting—who vaguely unsettled him. It was none other than his own wife—or more accurately, the widow of the late Komoda Genzaburou. Her name was Chiyoko, and though she was still only twenty-two years old—what one might call a mere girl—he found himself unable not to fear her for various reasons. He had known even before coming to T City that Komoda’s wife was still young and beautiful, but as he saw her every day, she appeared to belong to that type of woman said to grow more compelling at close quarters, her allure steadily increasing. Naturally, she was his most devoted nurse, but from her nursing that anticipated every need at the slightest itch, one could fully infer how profound a bond of affection had existed between her and the late Genzaburou. All the more so, Hiroshi could not help but feel a peculiar unease. I must not let my guard down around this woman. No doubt about it—this woman is the greatest threat to my enterprise. He had to admonish himself—at times clenching his teeth—to maintain this resolve.

Hiroshi could not forget—for a long time afterward—the scene of his first meeting with her as Genzaburou. When the automobile carrying him in his burial shroud arrived before the Komoda estate’s gate, Chiyoko—perhaps restrained by someone—remained just inside rather than stepping out. Overwhelmed by the extraordinary event to the point of disorientation, her teeth chattering as she trembled with agitation, she paced restlessly along the long flagstone path within the grounds alongside maids who had likewise turned pale. Yet the moment she caught sight of Hiroshi atop the automobile, she momentarily flashed an expression of shock (how his blood must have chilled at that sight!), then adopted a childlike tearful face. Clinging clumsily to the car door as though dragged along, she ran after it until the vehicle reached the entrance.

Without waiting for his body to be carried down to the entrance, she clung to it and remained motionless, weeping until the relatives, unable to bear watching any longer, pulled her away from his body. All the while, he had to maintain a vacant expression and watch unblinkingly—her face so close he could count each individual eyelash; her lashes swollen with tears; her cheeks, pale as unripe peaches and glistening with white downy hair, over which tears streamed chaotically; her smooth pale-pink lips twisted into something like a smile. But that was not all. Her bare forearm came to rest upon his shoulder; the undulating hills of her pulsating chest warmed his own; even her distinctive faint fragrance teased his nostrils. He could never forget that moment's utterly bizarre sensation.

Eleven Hiroshi's indescribable terror toward Chiyoko—a nameless dread—deepened with each passing day. Even during that single week confined to bed, terrifying crises assailed him repeatedly. One midnight—as Hiroshi started awake from a tormenting nightmare—there lay its architect: she who had been sleeping in the adjacent room now pressed disheveled night hair against his chest, modest sobs continuing unceasingly.

“Chiyoko, Chiyoko, there’s no need to worry so much.” “As you see here, I remain Genzaburou through and through—sound in both body and spirit.” “Come now, come now—cease your tears and show me that dear smile of yours.”

He clamped down with immense effort on the urge to inadvertently blurt out such things and—maintaining an air of innocence—had to play possum. This strange predicament was something even Hiroshi had never anticipated. Be that as it may, he began to speak little by little from around the fourth or fifth day onward through an exceedingly masterful performance, following the planned script—all while portraying with utter naturalness how nerves temporarily paralyzed by the ordeal gradually awakened. The method was to remain in bed for several days, feigning a belated recollection of only what he had seen, heard, or could infer from those observations, while deliberately avoiding the many other points he had yet to ascertain; when others broached those topics, he would furrow his brow and affect an air of being unable to recall them. To make this act seem natural, he had endured days of painful silence in advance—and when this stratagem succeeded, even if he feigned forgetfulness of obvious matters or his responses became nonsensical, people harbored not the slightest suspicion. Instead, they pitied his unfortunate mental state.

In this manner, while feigning a false convalescence, he managed—through memorizing each failure—to become thoroughly familiar with the Komoda family’s myriad internal and external relations in no time. Thus, with the doctor’s certification that all was now secure, precisely on the fifteenth day after his entry into the Komoda household, a grand recovery celebration was already set to be held. Even at that celebratory banquet, he was able to glean an immense amount of knowledge from the relaxed chatter of the assembled relatives, executives of the Komoda family's various enterprises, senior employees starting with chief steward Sumida, and others. Then, from the day after that celebration onward, he finally resolved to take his first step toward realizing his grand vision.

“Well now, it seems I have finally managed to regain my former self.” “Therefore, as I have certain considerations in mind, I wish to take this occasion to tour all enterprises under my command—my rice fields, fisheries, and such—in their entirety.” “Then I shall sharpen my clouded recollections, and upon that foundation, intend to devise a more structured financial plan for the Komoda estate.” “Pray make the necessary arrangements.”

From early morning, he summoned Sumida, the chief steward, and conveyed his intentions. That very day, accompanied by Sumida and two or three servants, he departed for his territories scattered across the prefecture. Sumida, the elderly steward, stared in astonishment at his master's proactive approach—so unlike the man's previously reserved disposition. Though he initially admonished Hiroshi about avoiding physical exertion, a sharp rebuke from his master made him stiffen instantly, leaving him no choice but to obey the command without question.

Though conducted in haste, his inspection tour still required a full month. Over those thirty days, he surveyed properties under his ownership—endless fields, untrodden jungles, vast fisheries, sawmills, bonito processing plants, various canneries, and other enterprises in which the Komoda family held substantial investments—compelling him to marvel anew at the sheer scale of his wealth. The particulars of what he observed and felt during this journey lie beyond my present capacity to recount. Suffice it to say, he confirmed conclusively that his owned assets were as robust—indeed, even more substantial—than the valuations recorded in the ledgers Sumida had shown him.

While receiving extravagant hospitality at every destination, he devoted considerable mental effort to such matters as: how to most advantageously dispose of and liquidate these real estate holdings and profit-making enterprises; what order of disposal would least attract public attention; which factory managers seemed formidable; which mountain forest caretakers appeared somewhat dim-witted; consequently deciding to sell this forest before that factory; whether there were any forestry operators nearby who might be waiting to purchase such properties. At the same time, taking advantage of the travel companions' casual camaraderie, he devoted his full efforts to befriending Sumida, the elderly steward, ultimately succeeding in winning him over as a confidant for disposing of the assets.

As the journey continued, Hiroshi gradually—without conscious effort—became fully transformed into Komoda Genzaburou, a born millionaire. His enterprise managers prostrated themselves before him without hesitation, showing not a wisp of suspicion; local acquaintances and inns welcomed him with the fuss made for a feudal lord, not a single soul daring to stare impertinently at his face; and when geishas acquainted with the late Komoda Genzaburou occasionally tapped his shoulder with remarks like "My, it's been ages," he grew bolder still—the bolder he became, the more polished his performance became, until now he appeared to have nearly forgotten his fear of exposure. The fact that he had once been a penniless scholar named Hitomi Hiroshi now seemed itself more like a fabrication than reality.

Needless to say, this astonishing change in circumstances filled him with supreme joy, but the sensation was less one of happiness than of sheer absurdity; less absurdity than a peculiar hollowness in his chest—as if riding clouds in flight, as if caught in a dream—where boundless agitation coexisted with utter composure—an indescribable state of mind.

Thus, his plans advanced steadily, but the devil—not appearing from the direction he had anticipated and guarded against—gradually revealed its hazy form in an unexpected quarter, one that even he had not considered, relentlessly gnawing into his heart.

Twelve Amidst all the hospitality, even as he continued his contented journey, Hiroshi found himself envisioning—with a mingling of fear and yearning—the figure of Chiyoko left behind at the estate. The allure of those tear-dampened downy hairs tormentingly seized his heart, while the faint sensation of her upper arms—secretly committed to memory—transmuted into nightly dreams that assailed his very soul. Since Chiyoko was Genzaburou’s wife, loving her now fell naturally to Hiroshi—who had become Genzaburou—and she herself undoubtedly desired it as well. Yet precisely because it was a wish so easily granted, Hiroshi found himself tormented all the more intensely, to the point of harboring reckless notions: that even should some dreadful collapse follow a single night, he might cast everything before her—his body, his soul, even his lifelong dream—and simply die then and there.

Yet according to his original plan, he had never imagined that Chiyoko’s allure would tormentingly take root in his heart to this extent; thus, anticipating even the slightest risk, he had resolved to keep her merely as a wife in name and distance her from his person as much as possible. For even if his face, form, and voice were perfect replicas of Genzaburou’s—even if he could thereby completely deceive those intimate with Genzaburou—to expose his naked self before the late Genzaburou’s wife in the private chamber where stage costumes were discarded and disguises removed remained, upon any reconsideration, far too reckless an act. Chiyoko must surely know every minute mannerism of Genzaburou’s, every last physical particularity—as intimately as the lines on her palm. Therefore, if even the slightest part of Hiroshi’s body differed from Genzaburou’s, his mask would immediately be stripped away, and through that cause, his entire conspiracy would not fail to be thoroughly exposed.

"Can you truly abandon the grand ideal you've cherished for years—for the sake of Chiyoko alone, however extraordinary a woman she may be? If that ideal could be realized, would there not await you a world of intoxication so intense and fierce that it could not compare to the allure of a single woman? Come now, consider this. Just try to recall even a single fragment of the utopia you’ve been fantasizing about in your daydreams. Compared to that, isn't a romance between two mere humans too petty, too insignificant a desire? Do not let fleeting distractions drive you to reduce all your arduous efforts to mere bubbles. Wasn’t your desire supposed to be far, far greater?"

And so he stood at the boundary between reality and dream—unable to abandon the dream, of course—yet reality's temptations proved too powerful, plunging him into a twofold, threefold dilemma that forced him to endure secret torments unknown to others. In the end, however, the allure of his half-life dream and the terror of his crime’s discovery would not permit him to abandon Chiyoko. And to distract himself from that sorrow—to erase from his mind Chiyoko’s lonely, desolate face—he devoted himself single-mindedly to his enterprise, as though this had been his true purpose all along.

Upon returning from his inspection tour, he first discreetly disposed of the most inconspicuous stock certificates and similar assets, and with those proceeds, commenced preparations for constructing the Ideal Realm. The newly hired painters, sculptors, architects, civil engineers, landscape architects, and others crowded into his residence day after day, and under his direction, the work of designing otherworldly structures began. At the same time, vast quantities of order forms—for trees, flowers, stone materials, glass panels, cement, iron materials, and more—along with order-bearing messengers were dispatched as far as the South Seas; multitudes of laborers, carpenters, gardeners, and others streamed in from various regions to be assembled. Among them were also mixed a few electricians, divers, shipwrights, and others.

The strange thing was that from around this time, young women—neither quite maidservants nor housemaids—were newly hired each day at his residence, and before long, their numbers swelled until even their rooms could scarcely contain them. After countless revisions to the plans, the location for constructing the Ideal Realm was ultimately decided to be Offshore Island, isolated at the southern edge of S District. Simultaneously, the design office relocated to makeshift barracks erected on the island, and all personnel—from technicians and craftsmen to laborers, along with women of uncertain purpose—were successively transferred islandward. As the various ordered materials arrived one after another, a truly bizarre large-scale construction project finally commenced on the island.

The Komoda relatives and the leaders of various enterprises could not possibly remain silent upon witnessing this reckless act. As the project advanced, Hiroshi’s reception room became crowded not only with engineers engaged in design work but also with these protestors who would pack in daily, raise their voices, condemn his recklessness, and demand the cessation of the unfathomable civil engineering project. But this was precisely what Hiroshi had anticipated when first conceiving the plan. For this purpose alone, he had steeled himself to sacrifice half the Komoda family’s entire fortune. Though called relatives, they were all subordinate to the Komoda house in both status and wealth—thus when necessary, by lavishing enormous sums without hesitation, he could effortlessly seal their mouths.

And thus, in every sense, a year of battle had passed. As for what hardships Hiroshi had endured during that time, how many times he had nearly abandoned his enterprise only to barely restrain himself, how irredeemably his relationship with wife Chiyoko had deteriorated—all these points shall be left to the readers’ imagination to expedite the narrative. In short, what rescued them from every crisis was the inexhaustible wealth amassed by the Komoda family. I shall content myself with stating that before money’s power, the word ‘impossible’ held no meaning.

Thirteen

However, the Komoda family’s immense wealth—which had overcome every obstacle and silenced all dissent—held no power whatsoever before Chiyoko’s love alone. Even if her family had been appeased through Hiroshi’s usual methods, her own directionless sorrow remained utterly beyond consolation. She could do nothing but silently endure the mysterious change in her husband’s temperament since his resurrection, this enigma-like fact she had no means to unravel, and the sorrow she could share with no one.

Though she was naturally concerned about how her husband’s reckless actions had brought the Komoda family’s finances to the brink of collapse, for Chiyoko, such material matters paled before the overwhelming question of how she might regain the marital affection that had slipped away from her—for why was it that since that incident, her husband’s once-fervent love had suddenly cooled as if he had become a different person altogether? And so she continued to dwell on that alone, day and night.

"In his gaze upon me, I detected a chilling light." "But those eyes held no hatred whatsoever." "Rather, within them I perceived a pure love—like first love’s bloom—unseen before." "Yet this starkly contradicted his coldness toward me—what madness explained it?" "That dreadful event might alter temperament or form—this I understood—but now when he glimpsed my face he recoiled as from some monstrous vision fleeing desperately... How could this not confound me?" "If you loathe me so, divorce me outright! Yet you abstain—no harsh word escapes you—and though you hide yourself away... Ah! Those eyes still cling to me with uncanny hunger... What am I to do?"

While Hiroshi’s position was one thing, her own situation too had to be called truly peculiar. Moreover, while Hiroshi had the great solace of his enterprise into which he could immerse himself for hours each day, Chiyoko possessed no such refuge—rather, her own family ceaselessly reproached her for her powerlessness as a wife regarding her husband’s conduct, which alone would have been wearying enough. Beyond this, she found no comfort save from the elderly maidservant who had accompanied her from home, for neither her husband’s grand undertaking nor the man himself maintained any true connection to her. Her loneliness and helplessness defied all comparison.

Needless to say, Hiroshi understood Chiyoko’s sorrow all too well. Mostly he stayed overnight at the office on Offshore Island, but even on rare returns to the estate maintained an odd distance—never engaging in open conversation—deliberately sleeping in separate rooms at night. Then on most nights, stifled sobs would drift from the adjacent room where Chiyoko lay; yet with no words to offer comfort, he too would feel tears welling up—this being how matters invariably concluded.

Even if it stemmed from fear of the conspiracy being exposed, one must truly call it strange that such an unnatural state persisted for nearly a year. But this one year marked their utmost limit. And then, from a trivial trigger, the day of unfortunate collapse arrived between them.

On that day, as construction on Offshore Island had nearly reached completion with the civil engineering and landscaping work concluding its first phase, key figures gathered at the Komoda residence to hold a small banquet. Hiroshi, elated that the day of fulfilling his long-cherished ambition was finally approaching, reveled in rapturous excitement, while the young engineers matched his fervor and made merry. Consequently, the gathering did not adjourn until well past midnight. A number of town geisha and apprentice geisha had attended the gathering, but they too had each withdrawn. Some guests stayed overnight at the Komoda residence while others slipped away to unknown destinations. The banquet room lay like a shoreline after low tide amidst scattered cups and dishes—and there, collapsed alone in drunken stupor, was Hiroshi. The one who tended to him was his wife, Chiyoko.

The following morning—unexpectedly early, around seven o'clock—Hiroshi rose, his heart pounding with both sweet recollection and indescribable remorse. After hesitating several times, he stole into Chiyoko's sitting room with footsteps meant to go unheard. There he discovered Chiyoko—pale and motionless, seated with bitten lips staring fixedly at the sky—her appearance so altered she might have been a different person altogether. “Chiyo, what’s wrong?”

While inwardly gripped by near-despair, he spoke these words with feigned composure. However, just as he had half-expected, she continued staring at the sky as before, making no attempt to reply.

“Chiyo…” He tried to call out again but suddenly fell silent—for he had met Chiyoko’s piercing gaze. He comprehended everything upon seeing those eyes. Indeed, his body bore a distinguishing feature absent in the late Genzaburou. This was what Chiyoko had discovered the previous night.

At a certain moment, he dimly remembered how she had abruptly pulled away from him, stiffened her body, and become as still as death. At that moment, she had realized something. And since this morning as well, she remained pale like that, gradually becoming clearly aware of that terrible suspicion. From the very beginning, how wary he had been of her! Hadn’t I endured those long months and years, stifling burning emotions—hadn’t it all been solely to avoid such a collapse? That from a single night's carelessness, I had finally committed an irreparable blunder— It’s over. Her suspicion would only deepen from this point onward, never to be resolved. If she were to keep that secret locked within her own breast, it might not be so dreadful—but how could she simply overlook the embezzler of the Komoda family, the enemy of her true husband? Eventually, this matter would reach the ears of the authorities. And once skilled detectives extended their investigations from one lead to another, it became utterly inevitable that the truth would eventually be exposed.

"Even drunk as I was—what an unforgivable blunder you've committed." "What will you do to remedy this?"

Hiroshi regretted and regretted, yet his remorse remained insufficient. And so, the husband and wife remained facing each other in Chiyoko’s room, neither uttering a single word as they glared at one another for a long time—until finally Chiyoko, as though unable to endure the terror any longer,

“Forgive me, but I feel terribly unwell.” “Please, leave me be as I am.”

After finally saying just this much, she suddenly threw herself face down on the spot.

Fourteen

It was on precisely the fourth day after that incident that Hiroshi resolved to kill Chiyoko. Chiyoko had once harbored such intense hostility toward him, but upon careful reconsideration—even if she had seen some conclusive evidence—if that person were not Genzaburou, could there truly exist in all the world a human being who resembled him so perfectly? While it’s not impossible that somewhere across Japan one might find someone with exactly the same features, even if such a perfect double existed, it seemed inconceivable that they could simply emerge from Genzaburou’s grave—as though performing some magic trick or sorcery. When she thought, “Could this perhaps be my shameful misunderstanding?”, having displayed such unseemly behavior began to feel inexcusable toward her husband.

However, on the other hand, when she considered together the drastic change in her husband's temperament since his revival, the incomprehensible large-scale construction on Offshore Island, his strange emotional distance toward her, and that irrefutable solid evidence, it still seemed somehow suspicious—perhaps instead of brooding alone like this, wouldn't it be better to fully confide in someone and seek advice?—such thoughts occurred to her. Since that night, Hiroshi—overwhelmed by anxiety—had secluded himself in the estate under the pretext of illness, refrained from visiting the island construction site, and discreetly monitored Chiyoko's every movement, thereby managing to discern the general state of her mind. Though he felt temporary relief at this state of affairs, observing how she thereafter entrusted all his personal affairs to maidservants without once approaching him or properly speaking a word made him realize he still couldn't lower his guard. If through some mishap that secret were to leak externally—no—even if it didn't reach outsiders, he thought, the household servants might have already become aware of it during this time. Growing increasingly anxious, after four days of repeated hesitation upon hesitation, he finally resolved to murder her.

Now then, that afternoon, he summoned Chiyoko to his room and, while feigning complete nonchalance, began to broach the matter in this manner.

“Since my physical condition seems to have improved, I think I’ll head back to the island now—this time, I don’t expect to return until the construction is completely finished.” “So during that time, I’d like you to come over there too and live together on the island for a while—how about going out for a change of scenery?” “Moreover, since my mysterious work is nearly complete, I want to show it to you at least once.” Yet Chiyoko—still maintaining her suspicious demeanor—did nothing but devise one excuse after another to reject his proposal. He coaxed and threatened her by turns, straining every effort for nearly thirty minutes as he pleaded until his mouth ran dry—until finally, with half-threatening insistence, he compelled her consent. This was because, while she doubted and feared Hiroshi, another part of her heart still felt attached to him—even if he were not Genzaburou. Now, even after deciding to go, there ensued a brief debate over whether to bring the elderly maid along or not, but in the end, they settled on traveling without her—just him and Chiyoko alone—boarding the afternoon train that very day. Of course, even without bringing anyone along, once they reached the island, there would be plenty of women there already—so no particular inconvenience would arise.

After being shaken by the train along the coast for an hour, they reached Terminal T Station; boarding the prepared motorboat there and plowing through the rough waves for another hour brought them at last to their destination—Offshore Island.

Chiyoko felt an indescribable terror yet also a strange delight during this long-awaited journey alone with her husband—all while praying that somehow that night’s incident would turn out to be my misunderstanding. To her relief, her husband acted uncharacteristically gentle throughout the train and boat journeys—speaking volubly, attending to her every need, pointing beyond windows to praise passing vistas—all with an eerily sweet nostalgia that reminded her of their honeymoon travels. Consequently, that terrible suspicion faded from her mind as though forgotten without her even realizing it, and she found herself wishing only to prolong this fleeting joy—even if tomorrow might bring catastrophe.

As the ship approached Offshore Island, there floated a massive buoy-like object some twenty ken from the island's shore, and the vessel was moored alongside it. The buoy’s surface was covered with iron plates measuring two ken by four ken, with a small hole resembling a ship’s hatch at its center. The two walked across from the ship and stepped down onto the buoy. “From here, take another careful look at the island.” “Those towering high like rocky mountains are all walls made of concrete.” “From the outside, it may seem like just another part of the island, but within that interior lies something truly magnificent.” “Then, there is a high scaffolding peering above the rocky mountain.” “That part alone remains unfinished and is currently under construction, but over there will be what’s called a monstrously large Hanging Garden—in other words, a celestial flower garden will take shape.” “Well then, let us now tour my dreamland.” “There’s nothing to fear at all.” “When you descend through this entranceway and pass beneath the seafloor, you'll soon emerge onto the island.” “Come now, I’ll take your hand—follow behind me.”

Hiroshi spoke gently and took Chiyoko's hand. He too found it somehow pleasant that they were crossing the seafloor hand in hand, just like Chiyoko. Even while knowing he must eventually kill her, this very awareness made the sensation of her soft skin feel all the more precious and nostalgic. After entering the hatch and descending five or six ken down a dark vertical shaft, a tunnel-like path opened horizontally—about as wide as an ordinary building's corridor. When Chiyoko stepped down into it, she couldn't suppress an involuntary gasp before taking even one step. It was truly a glass-walled tunnel offering unobstructed views of the seabed in every direction—above, below, left and right.

Thick plate glass was tightly fitted into concrete frames, with powerful electric lights installed on their outer surfaces. Above their heads, beneath their feet, and to both sides within a radius of two or three ken, a mysterious underwater scenery could be viewed as if within arm's reach. Slimy black rocks; seaweed of various kinds swaying violently like the manes of gigantic beasts; schools of fish species unimaginable on land; a massive octopus spreading its eight legs wheel-like, its sinister suckers bulging as it clung fully against the glass panel; shrimp writhing across rock surfaces like aquatic spiders—all illuminated by intense electric lights yet blurred by the water’s depth, the distant areas appearing blue-black like forests where formless monsters seemed to swarm in teeming masses. This nightmarish spectacle felt utterly inconceivable to terrestrial senses.

“Aren’t you amazed? But this is still just the entrance. If we go further ahead, you’ll see even more fascinating things, you know.” Hiroshi comforted Chiyoko, who had turned pale from the overwhelmingly eerie surroundings, while explaining with evident pride.

Fifteen

The honeymoon journey of Hitomi Hiroshi—once impersonating Komoda Genzaburou—and Chiyoko, his wife yet not his wife—a journey of uncanny strangeness defying mortal comprehension—stood as a perverse twist of fate that saw them wandering through his so-called dreamland paradise on earth.

The two of them, while feeling limitless affection for one another on one hand, found themselves locked in a paradoxical dance—Hiroshi plotting Chiyoko's elimination, Chiyoko harboring terrible suspicions toward Hiroshi—each probing the other's intentions, yet this very act never stirring hostility but instead evoking an uncannily sweet nostalgia. Hiroshi would sometimes find himself wavering—even considering abandoning his once-resolved murderous intent to surrender body and soul to this bizarre love with Chiyoko.

“Chiyo, aren’t you lonely? Walking along the seafloor like this with just me. …Aren’t you scared?” He suddenly tested her with these words. “Oh no, I’m not scared at all. Though that undersea scenery beyond the glass looks quite eerie, knowing you’re here beside me makes me feel not the slightest fear.” She answered thus while drawing closer to him with a coquettish air. Had she already forgotten that dreadful suspicion without realizing it? Could she now be simply intoxicated by this momentary delight?

The glass tunnel, tracing mysterious curves, stretched endlessly like a serpent. Even illuminated by hundreds of candlepower lamps, the murky darkness of the seabed remained unconquerable. Oppressive chill in the air; earth-shaking roar of waves crashing far overhead; creatures squirming in the blue-dark world beyond the glass—it was truly a landscape from beyond this realm. As Chiyoko advanced, her initial blind terror gradually transformed into wonder; then, as familiarity grew, she began feeling an inexplicable intoxication with the seabed path’s dreamlike, phantom-like allure.

In the distant reaches where the electric lights could not reach, fish passed each other horizontally and vertically—only their eyeballs trailing comet-like tails as they emitted an eerie phosphorescence like fireflies flitting across a summer night’s river surface. When drawn to the lamplight and approaching the glass panels—crossing the boundary between darkness and light to gradually expose their myriad forms and multicolored hues beneath the lights—what analogy could possibly capture this bizarre spectacle? With its enormous maw facing directly forward, neither tail nor fins moving, it glided through the water like a submarine—this vague form in the fog swelling rapidly before one’s eyes until at last it loomed so near it seemed about to crash against one’s face like a train from a silent film.

Rising and falling, bending left and right, the glass path continued along the island’s coast for dozens of ken. When reaching the highest point, the sea surface and glass ceiling would nearly meet, allowing the surroundings to be viewed as clearly as if held in one’s hand without relying on electric lights; yet when descending fully, even hundreds of candlepower lights could only faintly illuminate a mere one or two shaku of space, beyond which stretched hellish darkness without end.

Though she had grown up near the sea and was accustomed to its sights and sounds, having never before personally journeyed along the seabed like this, it was only natural that Chiyoko felt an indescribable temptation toward this separate world beneath the waves—a realm of mystery, garishness, and repulsiveness, yet one of inhuman beauty so eerily alluring it verged on terror. She witnessed the varieties of seaweed—which had never stirred any emotion in her when seen dried and rigid on land—now breathing, growing, caressing one another, even engaging in struggles and conversing in incomprehensible tongues. The sheer grotesqueness of their flourishing forms left her utterly frozen with dread.

The great brown kelp forest swayed with the seawater's faint motion, like entangled treetops in storm-ravaged woods. Decomposing faces riddled with holes—their repulsive sockets and slimy skins aquiver; misshapen limbs flailing like giant spider legs of Ezo wakame; kelp resembling underwater monarchs; great seaweeds towering like palms; vile vine-growths akin to aunt-roundworms; green laver burning with emerald flames across codium plains—they blanketed the seabed without respite, sparing only scattered rock patches. What forms might their roots take? What dread creatures infested those depths? Only their upper tips remained visible—countless serpent heads tangling, writhing, snapping at one another. She viewed this through layers of blue-black seawater under hazy electric light.

In one area, clusters of amanori seaweed stained the color of dull black blood—so vividly they might have been remnants of some great massacre—alongside usuge nori resembling red-haired women with disheveled locks, toriashi shaped like chicken feet, and mukadenori appearing as giant crimson centipedes. Most unnerving of all was a patch of tosakanori so vividly scarlet it seemed someone had submerged a cockscomb flowerbed into the seabed. The horror of witnessing such crimson hues in pitch-black oceanic depths defied all terrestrial imagination.

Moreover, parting through that viscous thicket—yellow, blue, red—entangled with countless serpent tongues, the myriads of fireflies mentioned earlier flitted about; as they entered the electric lights' domain, each revealed their uncanny forms like images from a magic lantern. Ferocious cat sharks and tiger sharks exposed their pallid mucous-white bellies as they darted across their field of vision like assailants; at times they charged toward the glass walls with eyes blazing in profound hatred and even attempted to bite through them. Their greedy thick lips pressed against the glass panel's far side—exactly like those of ruffians who threaten women, soiled with spit and twisted—provoked such an association that Chiyoko could not help but shudder violently.

If we likened small sharks to the savage beasts of the seabed, then among the fish appearing along that glass path, rays might be compared to fierce water-dwelling birds, while conger eels and morays could be seen as venomous snakes. People on land—those whose sole acquaintance with living fish had been through aquarium glass tanks—might have deemed these metaphors excessively grandiose. But what visage that harmless-looking shrimp—neither poisonous nor medicinal when eaten—might display in the sea, or how the conger eel, kin to sea snakes, performed its eerie undulations as it glided from seaweed to seaweed—these were things no one could have imagined unless they had actually entered the sea and witnessed them firsthand.

If beauty gains a more profound depth when tinged with terror, then surely there is nothing in this world as beautiful as the scenery of the seabed. At the very least, through this first experience, Chiyoko felt as though she had encountered a beauty of a dreamlike world she had never known since birth. When something enormous surged from the distant darkness and two phosphorescent glows dimmed, gradually revealing through the electric light the majestic form of a vividly striped flagtail red snapper, she involuntarily cried out in awe. Overwhelmed by both terror and delight, she turned pale and clung to her husband’s sleeve.

Its ghostly pale glowing, voluptuous diamond-shaped frame bore two vivid black-brown stripes—thick horizontal bands resembling the rays of the Rising Sun flag—that under the electric lights shone nearly golden. Eyes rimmed like a sorceress's kumadori makeup, large and dark-rimmed; protruding lips; and one dorsal fin resembling the decorative crest on a Sengoku-era warlord's helmet, astonishingly elongated. As it undulated its massive body toward the glass panel, changed direction, and began swimming along the glass—nearly grazing it—directly before her eyes, she could not help but release another cry of astonishment. That this was not some painter's contrived pattern on canvas, but an actual living creature, stood as a marvel to her. Given the nature of their surroundings, she observed it against the backdrop of eerie seaweed and blue-black stagnant water under the dim electric light. Her astonishment contained no trace of exaggeration.

However, as they advanced, she no longer had the luxury of marveling at individual fish. Fish after fish swarmed beyond the glass panels to greet her—their sheer multitude, vividness, eeriness, and yet beauty: sparrow sea bream, lozenge sea bream, tengu sea bream, hawk-feather sea bream; some with stripes gleaming in purple-gold, others with patterns as though painted with pigments—if such a description could be permitted, it was indeed none other than the beauty of a nightmare, that very beauty of a shudder-inducing nightmare.

“Still more—what I want to show you lies ahead. This work I began by disregarding all counsel, casting away my entire fortune, and staking my whole life upon. Though the artwork I’ve crafted isn’t yet complete enough to display its full magnificence, I wanted you to see it first before anyone else. And I want to hear your critique. I believe you might come to understand my work’s true worth… Look—peer through here. Seen like this, the sea reveals itself anew.”

Hiroshi whispered with fervent passion. When she looked where he pointed, there at the lower part of the glass panel—about three sun in diameter—was a shape swollen so peculiarly it seemed like an entirely different pane had been embedded. Complying with his urging, Chiyoko bent down and timidly pressed her eye to it. At first her entire field of vision clouded with patchy haze, leaving her utterly bewildered, but as she adjusted the viewing distance, she gradually discerned with dreadful clarity something squirming beyond.

Sixteen There, from ground strewn with rocks large enough to embrace, brown sacs—each resembling a vertically oriented airship’s gasbag—floated upward in multitudes, swaying languidly in the water. As she peered at this strangeness, transfixed, the water behind the great sacs suddenly roiled; parting through them emerged a terrifying beast—colossal, creeping—its form akin to a prehistoric flying dragon from paintings. Startled yet magnetized—unable to retreat yet somewhat steadied by dawning comprehension—she remained motionless, fixed upon the bizarre vision. Then came the monster: a face several times larger than an airship’s gasbag, its maw gaping as though split clean across its width, protrusions swaying along its back like draconian ridges as it advanced on gnarled stumps of legs. The terror when it neared her eyes—viewed head-on, this was a creature comprised almost entirely of face. Above truncated legs yawned its mouth; eyes narrow as an elephant’s met protrusions along its spine. Skin pocked and coarse, blotched with ugly black spots—a mass the size of a small hill loomed vivid before her vision.

“You… you…”

When she finally tore her eyes away, she turned toward her husband as if attacked. "Oh, there's nothing to fear." "It's a powerful magnifying lens." "What you saw just now—look, if you peer through this ordinary section of glass here—is nothing but a tiny fish." "You see, it's called an anglerfish." "A type of monkfish." "That creature can even crawl along the seabed using those fins transformed into legs." "Ah, that sack-like object there?" "That is what we call sackweed—a type of seaweed exactly as you observe." "It takes the form of a sac." "Now, let us proceed further ahead." "I instructed the ship's crew earlier—if timing aligns favorably, something intriguing should become visible just a little farther on."

Even after hearing her husband's explanation, Chiyoko found herself unable to resist the strange temptation of morbid curiosity. Again and again, she had to peer through this half-prank lens contraption of Hiroshi's. However, what startled her most in the end was not those lens contraptions resembling pocketknife carvings, nor the commonplace seaweed and fish, but something many layers more sensually rich, vividly beautiful, and eerily unsettling than any of those.

After walking some time, she sensed something—less a faint noise than a sort of undulation—far above her head. Then a sudden premonition arrested her steps. Thereupon, an immense fish-like creature—trailing countless slender bubble-streams—plunged through the dark water at dreadful speed. Its unnervingly smooth white body flashed momentarily in the electric light before disappearing into a grotesque seaweed thicket, tentacles writhing hungrily.

“You…”

Once again, she could not help but cling to her husband’s arm. "Look there—keep watching that seaweed." Hiroshi whispered encouragingly to her. The amanori seaweed bed, resembling a flaming carpet, had become unnaturally disturbed in one spot as countless bubbles rose like lustrous pearls. When she peered closely at where the bubbles ascended, a pale smooth mass clung to the seabed in the shape of a flounder.

Gradually, black hair that could be mistaken for kelp swayed sluggishly like mist, disheveled, and from beneath it emerged a white forehead, eyes that laughed, and red lips baring teeth—all while lying prone with only her face turned forward—she slowly drew closer to the glass panel.

“There’s no need to be alarmed. That is a woman I hired who excels at diving. She came to welcome us.” Catching Chiyoko as she staggered back, Hiroshi explained. Chiyoko, breathing heavily, let out a childlike cry. “Oh my! What a shock! There’s actually a human being here at the bottom of the sea!” The naked woman from the seabed rose up gently as if floating when she reached the glass panel. With swirling black hair above her head—a smiling face contorted into a grimace, buoyant breasts, and bubbles shimmering across her entire body—she began walking slowly alongside the two inside while supporting herself against the glass wall.

The two of them proceeded, separated by glass, guided by the mermaid. The narrow seabed path twisted increasingly as they advanced, and here and there along it—whether by design or accident—mysterious distortions had formed in the glass. Each time they passed through one of these warped sections, the naked woman’s body would be torn cleanly in two, her torso separating from her head as it went flying through the void, or her face alone would become grotesquely magnified—visions of hell or paradise unfolding one after another like some nightmarish phantasmagoria, otherworldly and incomprehensible beyond mortal ken.

However, before long, the mermaid could no longer endure being underwater. Letting out a sigh as she expelled the air stored in her lungs, she left behind a final smile just as that tremendous cluster of bubbles vanished into the distant sky. Then, moving her limbs like fins, she began fluttering upward as if ascending to heaven. And then, like a petulant child stamping its feet in frustration, her two legs thrashed through empty air until only pale soles swayed high overhead—and at last, the naked woman’s figure vanished from sight.

Seventeen

Through this bizarre undersea journey, Chiyoko’s mind escaped the conventions of the human world and began wandering into an unfathomable phantom realm. T City, the Komoda family estate located there, her relatives—all seemed like distant dreams now. Parent-child bonds, marital ties, master-servant relations—such human connections blurred like mist beyond her consciousness. In their place, only two things occupied her heart with the vividness of fireworks in a moonless sky: the supernatural realm’s bewitching allure that pierced her soul, and a paralyzing longing—whether he was her true husband or not—for this single man before her, body and mind numbed by desire.

“Now we’ll be passing through a rather dark path.” “It’s dangerous—let me take your hand.”

When they reached the point where the glass path ended, Hiroshi said gently and turned toward Chiyoko.

“Yes.” Responding, Chiyoko clung to his hand. Then the path suddenly darkened and bent into a cave-like hollow carved from rock. It was a narrow passage barely wide enough for one person. Chiyoko could no longer tell whether they’d surfaced onto land or still wandered through some undersea grotto. Though terrifying beyond measure if contemplated, what gladdened her more than such fears was the strength of the man’s arm gripping hers so tightly she felt his pulse through her fingertips. Her heart grew so full of this sensation that no room remained to dwell on the terrors of darkness.

Groping her way through that darkness—what felt like miles in Chiyoko’s mind, though only a short distance in reality—her field of vision suddenly opened to reveal a magnificent vista so breathtaking that she let out an involuntary cry of astonishment. As far as vision could reach, an immense gorge sprawled nearly straight ahead. On both banks, cliffs that seemed to strike the sky continued oppressively overhead, while between them lay motionless deep-blue water—stretched as far as the eye could see across a span of about fifty meters. At first glance, it appeared to be a natural grand gorge, but upon closer inspection, she gradually came to realize that all of it was man-made. That said, there remained not the slightest trace of unsightly axe marks there. Not in that sense—rather, when viewed as a natural landscape, it was too perfectly arranged and lacked any impurities. Not a speck of debris floated on the water, not a single blade of weed grew from the cliffs, while the rocks continued uniformly in a dark hue as smooth as sliced confectionery—their darkness reflecting on the water, making it black as lacquer. Thus, when describing earlier that their field of vision had opened, it was by no means a bright, sudden opening as in ordinary circumstances. Though the valley stretched so vast its depths blurred into haze, and the cliffs towered dizzyingly high, they collectively darkened with a seductive gloom like a sorceress’s shadowed eyelids. As for bright spots—there was only the narrow strip of sky sliced between cliff eaves, though not bright as one sees on flat land, but ashen gray even at midday like twilight, where stars twinkled there. What was even more peculiar was that this gorge—or rather, this extremely deep, elongated pond better described as such—had both ends blocked off, with one leading back to the underwater passage from which they had just emerged, and the other terminating at a bizarre staircase hazily visible on the opposite side. This staircase referred to the mysterious stone steps—pure white against their surroundings—that rose straight from the water’s surface where the cliffs on both sides gradually narrowed and converged, soaring upward as if to pierce the clouds. The way it cut a brilliant line through the all-encompassing darkness, cascading down like a waterfall, added an especially sublime beauty from its simple composition.

While Chiyoko stood entranced by this majestic scenery, Hiroshi appeared to give some signal, for when she suddenly became aware of them, two enormous swans—their proud necks arched, creating two or three gentle ripples across their ample chests—approached the shore where they stood, slowly and steadily, though when or from where they had emerged remained unclear. "Oh my, what enormous swans!" Almost simultaneously, Chiyoko let out a cry of astonishment. From the throat area of one swan, a beautiful human woman’s voice seemed to resonate.

“Please do come aboard.” Before Chiyoko could register her astonishment, Hiroshi embraced her, placed her onto the back of the swan floating before them, then mounted another swan himself. “There’s no need for alarm.” “Chiyoko, these too are all my subordinates.” “Now, swans—you shall carry us two to those stone steps over there.” Since the swans could speak human language, they undoubtedly understood their master’s command. Aligning their breasts and trailing pure white shadows across the lacquer-like water, they began gliding quietly. Chiyoko could only stare dumbfounded at this strangeness, but when she finally noticed, she confirmed that what squirmed beneath her thighs was not waterfowl muscle—it was unmistakably human flesh cloaked in feathers. A woman must have been lying prone inside the swan’s guise, paddling through the water with hands and feet. The undulating softness of shoulders and hips in motion, the warmth of skin transmitted through the garment—all these sensations felt unmistakably like those of a young woman.

However, before Chiyoko could fully ascertain the swans' true nature, she was forced to witness yet another spectacle—one even more bizarre, or perhaps alluring. When the swans had advanced about twenty or thirty ken, something suddenly surfaced beside her from the water's depths. No sooner had it surfaced than—swimming alongside the swan while twisting her upper body toward Chiyoko and smiling sweetly—that face proved unmistakably identical to the mermaid woman who had startled her earlier on the seabed.

"Oh my, you're the one from earlier, aren't you?" However, even when addressed, the mermaid merely smiled demurely without uttering a word in response, continuing to swim quietly while offering gentle nods of acknowledgment. What astonished Chiyoko more was how the mermaid proved not to be alone—before their eyes, the number of similar young naked women gradually multiplied until they formed an entire school of mermaids. Some dove beneath the waves while others leapt above them, frolicking together in play; certain ones kept pace with the swans only to overtake them with straight-arm strokes, while others surfaced in the distance to wave invitingly. Against the backdrop of dark cliffs and lacquer-black waters, these unclad alluring figures danced like living brushstrokes—a spectacle reminiscent of masterful paintings illustrating ancient Greek myths.

When the swans reached about halfway along the path, as if responding to the mermaids in the water, figures of several similar naked women appeared high atop the distant cliffs, their silhouettes cutting against the blue sky. And what expert swimmers they must have been—one after another plunged toward the water's surface dozens of feet below. Some tumbled down the black rock wall upside down with disheveled hair, others spun wildly while clutching their knees, still others arched their backs like drawn bows with outstretched arms—each descending with the grace of wind-scattered flower petals before kicking up sprays of water and sinking deep into the depths.

And so, surrounded by a multitude of fleshy masses, the two swans quietly arrived at the base of their destination—the stone steps. Approaching them, the pure white stone steps—hundreds upon hundreds of them—soared skyward with such oppressive height that merely looking up sent a crawling itch through one’s very being.

Eighteen "I simply can't climb up here." When Chiyoko alighted from the swan’s back onto land and first showed fear before speaking. “Oh, it’s not as bad as you think. I’ll take your hand and help you up. Go ahead and climb—it’s absolutely safe.”

“But…”

While Chiyoko hesitated, Hiroshi took her hand without hesitation and began ascending the stone steps. And before they knew it, they had already climbed about twenty steps.

“See? It’s not frightening at all.” “Come on, just a bit more!” And so, step by step they climbed upward, but strangely enough, when they soon reached the summit—what had appeared from below as hundreds upon hundreds of steps stretching endlessly skyward—in reality numbered barely a hundred, proving nowhere near as high as imagined. How could it have appeared so impossibly high? Even if dismissed as a timid mind’s illusion, the discrepancy proved too extreme, and Chiyoko could not endure the strangeness of it. It was only later understood that an illusion akin to mistaking an anglerfish for a prehistoric monster earlier on the seabed seemed to pervade this entire island, which was also thought to make its scenery all the more beautiful. And the discrepancy in the staircase’s height could now be counted among those illusions. However, she had not understood in the slightest what had caused this until she heard Hiroshi’s detailed explanation.

Be that as it may, they now stood on the elevated ground after climbing the stairs and looked out at the path ahead. There was a narrow grassy slope there, and descending it, the path immediately led into a dense, towering forest. When they looked back, the valley shaped like a colossal ship gaped open with its pitch-black maw, while at the base of those gloomy cliffs, the two swans that had carried them floated like scraps of pure white paper—a sight that appeared fragile and forlorn. And ahead lay once again a dank, shadowy forest. The narrow strip of lawn separating these two extraordinary landscapes, bathed in the full blaze of late spring afternoon sun, blazed crimson while white butterflies fluttered low over grass shimmering under the heat haze. Chiyoko could not help but sense a certain unnatural beauty in that strange spectacle.

The great forest of ancient cedars stretched endlessly before them, its form billowing like storm clouds—branches intertwining with branches, leaves layering upon leaves. Where sunlight struck, they shone golden yellow; in shadowed depths, they stagnated dull black like abyssal waters, manifesting a bizarre mottled pattern. And the terrifying grandeur of this forest lay in a certain uncanny emotion that gradually welled up in the viewer’s heart as they stood upon the lawn, silently surveying its entirety. That which stirred such emotions could also be found in the forest's grandeur—a grandeur that loomed over and enveloped the very sky. Or perhaps it lay in that overwhelming animalistic fragrance emanating from the sprouting young leaves. However, beyond that, a careful observer would undoubtedly come to perceive what might be called demonic artifice imposed upon the entire forest. It was that the entire form of this great forest manifested the shape of a certain grotesque demon. Because the traces of artifice had been concealed with such meticulous care, they could only be discerned in the vaguest outline—yet precisely because of their vagueness, the terror they inspired seemed to deepen and grow in magnitude. Perhaps this forest was not a natural one, but rather something to which an extremely elaborate artificiality had been applied?

As Chiyoko beheld these landscapes, she found herself utterly unable to believe that such horrifying proclivities had lain hidden in her husband Genzaburou's heart—even as her suspicions toward the man now standing nonchalantly beside her, who resembled her husband, grew ever deeper. Yet how should this abnormal state of her mind be understood? Alongside the dreadful suspicions that intensified with each passing moment, her burgeoning affection for this enigmatic figure also became increasingly unbearable.

“Chiyo, what are you spacing out for?” “You’re not frightened of this forest again, are you?” “They’re all my creations.” “There is absolutely nothing to fear here.” “Come now, our obedient servants have been waiting eagerly under that tree over there.”

At Hiroshi’s voice, she suddenly looked to see two glossy-coated donkeys tethered at the base of a cedar tree near the forest entrance—left behind by someone, perhaps—busily chewing on grass.

“We must enter this forest.”

“Oh, precisely.” “There’s nothing to worry about.” “This donkey will safely guide us.”

And so, the two of them mounted the toy-sized donkeys and proceeded into the dark forest of unfathomable depths. Within the forest, though layers upon layers of leaves piled densely to block any view of the sky, it was not utter darkness—a faint twilight glow hung like mist, leaving the path ahead not entirely invisible. The trunks of giant trees stood in rows like the pillars of a great temple; arches of fresh leaves spanned from capital to capital, while beneath their feet, cedar needles lay scattered thickly in place of a carpet. The atmosphere within the forest resembled that of a renowned great cathedral’s sanctuary, yet felt several orders of magnitude more mysterious, profound, and terrifying.

Even so, the harmony and symmetry of this forest path were beyond anything natural creation could achieve. For instance, consider these aspects: how this vast great forest consisted solely of giant cedars without a single other tree species or blade of foreign grass visible; how the trees’ spacing and arrangement revealed meticulous attention, emanating an uncanny beauty; how the narrow path winding beneath them undulated in a manner both wondrous and strange, evoking peculiar emotions in those who traversed it—all these unmistakably proclaimed the creator’s ingenuity surpassing nature itself. In all likelihood, was it not that careful artifice had been applied to both the pleasant symmetry of his arch of leaves and the texture underfoot of the carpet of fallen leaves?

The two donkeys bearing their master followed the shadowy path beneath the trees in utter silence, their hooves making no sound against the deep carpet of fallen leaves. Neither beasts nor birds cried out; a sepulchral silence enveloped the entire forest. But as they ventured deeper into the forest—as if to heighten that very silence—a dull resonance began to reverberate ominously from unseen treetops above, a sound easily mistaken for wind through branches yet resembling a pipe organ’s timbre, its uncanny melody swelling with profound, eerie cadences.

The two petty humans hung their heads atop the donkeys without exchanging a single word. Chiyoko abruptly raised her face and shaped her mouth to speak, then hung her head again without voicing anything. The unthinking donkeys advanced in silence. After traveling awhile longer, they noticed the forest's appearance gradually changing. Within what had until now been uniformly dim woods, a silver light began streaming from some unseen source. Fallen leaves glittered sharply while every giant tree trunk within view had each side half-dazzlingly illuminated. Half glowing silver and half remaining jet-black—great cylindrical pillars stretched endlessly before them—a sight of truly breathtaking splendor.

“Is the forest ending already?” Chiyoko asked in a hoarse voice, as though waking from a dream. “No—there’s a marsh over there.” “We ought to reach it soon.”

And before long, they arrived at the edge of that marsh. The marsh loomed in the shape of a will-o'-the-wisp from paintings, one bank perfectly rounded while the opposite shore curved inward with three flame-like deep indentations, cradling water as heavy as mercury. The motionless water surface harbored shadows of old cedars in its greater part, while reflecting a small patch of blue sky in another. There, the earlier music no longer resounded. All things fell silent, all things grew still, and all things sank into deep slumber.

As if trying not to break the silence, they quietly dismounted the donkeys and wordlessly approached the shore. On the protruding part of the distant shore—the sole exception in this forest—several old camellia trees stood, their dark green bark measuring about three meters in height, dotted with what seemed like oozing blood as they bloomed a multitude of flowers. What was astonishing was that in a dimly lit clearing slightly shaded by those flowers, a beautiful girl lay languidly, her milky-white skin exposed. Using the moss as her bedding, she lay propped on her elbow, peering into the marsh while lying on her stomach.

“Good heavens, in a place like that...” Chiyoko involuntarily raised her voice.

“Quiet.” Hiroshi signaled to stop her voice, as if trying not to startle the girl.

Whether aware of being observed or not, the girl remained in a daze, staring fixedly at the marsh's surface. The forest marsh, shorebound camellias, and prone unselfconscious naked woman—what magnificent effect this stark arrangement produced! Had this been deliberate composition rather than chance, Hiroshi would have to be called a supremely skilled painter. The two stood long upon the shore, captivated by this dreamlike tableau; through that duration the girl only once shifted her ample legs from their folded position, maintaining her languid stare without respite. When Chiyoko—prompted by Hiroshi—finally mounted the donkey to depart, an conspicuously large camellia bloom directly above the girl detached with a liquid-weighted plop, slid down her rounded shoulder, and came to rest upon the marsh's waters. Yet such stillness attended its fall that the water seemed not to notice—no ripple formed, the mirror-like surface preserving its perfect immobility.

Nineteen And so, the two of them rode through the primeval forest’s shadowed depths for a time; yet as they advanced, the forest’s depths seemed without limit. They could discern neither how to escape this place nor any path that might return them to the initial entrance. Thus, entrusting their path to the mindless donkeys’ plodding began to stir no small unease within them.

Yet the wonder of this island’s scenery lay in its sorcery-like designs—paths that appeared to advance only to retreat, ascents that proved descents, subterranean depths transforming into mountain peaks, expansive plains narrowing imperceptibly into slender paths. Here too, when the forest reached its deepest point and ineffable unease began stirring in travelers’ hearts, this very moment paradoxically heralded the forest’s impending end. The trunks of the great trees, which until now had maintained moderate intervals, had gradually narrowed—so imperceptibly—until before they knew it, they had emerged into a place where those trunks formed multiple layered walls, densely packed without gaps. There were no longer any green-leaf arches to be found—only wildly overgrown branches and leaves dangling down to the very ground, the darkness growing ever thicker until it became nearly impossible to discern even an inch ahead.

“Come now, we must abandon the donkeys.” “And follow me.” Hiroshi first dismounted the donkey himself, took Chiyoko’s hand to help her down, then abruptly plunged forward into the darkness ahead. Their bodies pressed between tree trunks, their path blocked by branches and leaves, they advanced like moles while squeezing through paths that were not paths. And as they were jostled and squeezed for some time, their bodies suddenly grew buoyant as if floating upward—then with a start, they realized this was no longer the forest. Before them stretched a landscape bathed in radiant sunlight: an unbroken expanse of green lawn extending as far as the eye could see. Strangest of all, when they looked around in every direction, not a trace or shadow of that forest remained.

“Oh, have I done something...?”

Chiyoko pressed her temples with a troubled expression and looked back at Hiroshi as if seeking salvation.

“No, it’s not your mind’s doing.” “Travelers on this island always step from one world into another in this manner.” “I planned to create several worlds within this small island.” “Do you know what panoramas are?” “In Japan, they became immensely popular spectacles when I was still in elementary school.” “Spectators must first pass through a narrow pitch-dark passageway.” “When they emerge and their view suddenly expands, there lies an entire world.” “A completely separate world—utterly distinct from where they had been living—stretches endlessly before their eyes.” What an astonishing deception it was! Outside the Panorama Hall, trains ran, street vendors’ stalls lined the streets, and merchant houses stood with their eaves in rows. Through there—yesterday, today, and tomorrow alike—townspeople ceaselessly passed one another. In that row of merchant houses, my own home stood visible. “Yet once you enter the Panorama Hall, all those things vanish completely—and there before you stretches the vast Manchurian plain reaching beyond the distant horizon.” “And there, a blood-drenched battle too terrible to behold rages on.”

Hiroshi continued speaking as he walked, disturbing the heat haze shimmering over the grassy plain. Chiyoko followed after her lover in a dreamlike state. “There exists a world outside the building as well. There exists a world inside the building as well. And each of these two worlds possesses its own distinct earth, sky, and horizon. Outside the Panorama Hall, there indeed existed the cityscape we were accustomed to seeing daily. Yet inside the Panorama Hall, no trace of it remained in any direction—only the Manchurian plain stretching endlessly to the distant horizon. In other words, there exist dual worlds—a plain and a cityscape—upon the same ground. At the very least, it creates such an illusion. As you know, the method involves surrounding the viewing area with tall walls painted with scenery, decorating their base with real soil, trees, and figurines to blur the boundary between reality and artifice as thoroughly as possible, while deepening the viewing area's eaves to conceal the ceiling. That’s all there is to it. I once heard a story about the Frenchman who supposedly invented this panorama, and according to it, the original inventor’s intention—at least initially—seems to have been to create an entirely new world through this method. Just as novelists attempt to create a world upon paper, and actors upon the stage, he too—through his own unique scientific method—must have undoubtedly endeavored to craft a vast separate world within that small building.”

And Hiroshi raised his hand and pointed toward the boundary between the green plain and blue sky that shimmered beyond the heat haze and sweltering grass exhalations. "When you look at this vast grassy plain, doesn't it strike you as uncanny?" "As a plain upon that small Offshore Island, don't you find it excessively expansive?" "Behold." "It spans several miles to that horizon." "In truth, shouldn't the sea be visible long before reaching such a horizon?" "Moreover, beyond the forest we traversed and this visible plain, various landscapes—each spanning miles—have been crafted across this island." "Then even if Offshore Island's breadth matched all M Prefecture, would that still suffice?" "Do you grasp my meaning?" "In short, I created multiple independent panoramas upon this island." "Until now, we've journeyed only through dim paths beneath seas, within valleys, and under forest canopies." "That corresponds to a panorama hall's entrance passageway." Now we stood amidst spring sunlight, heat haze, and rising vapors from the grass. Did this not perfectly match that bright awakening felt when emerging from dark corridors? "And now we shall finally enter my Panorama Kingdom." "But my panoramas aren't mere wall paintings like common halls." "Through warped hill curves, meticulous light arrangement, and strategic placement of flora and stones—concealing all artifice—I expanded and contracted nature's distances at will." "Consider that vast forest we passed through." "Even were I to reveal its true scale, you'd never believe it." "So cramped it was."

That path traced cunning curves to avoid detection, doubling back time and again, while the seemingly endless cedar groves flanking it—contrary to your belief of uniform giants—may have been mere sapling thickets in the distance, their tallest reaching no more than six feet. “Arranging the lighting to completely conceal it isn’t particularly difficult work.” “The white stone steps we climbed earlier follow the same principle.” “When viewed from below, they appear as high as a bridge of clouds, but in reality number just over a hundred steps.” “You probably didn’t notice, but those stone steps narrow toward the top like stage backdrops, with each individual step subtly decreasing in height and depth as they ascend.” “Moreover, because the slopes of the rock walls on both sides have been ingeniously designed, that is why they appear so towering when viewed from below.”

However, even after hearing such revelatory explanations, the illusion’s power remained too overwhelming, and the uncanny impression etched into Chiyoko’s heart did not fade in the slightest. And indeed, the boundless plain spreading before her eyes—its end could only be thought to disappear beyond the horizon.

“Then, is this plain actually narrow in such fashion?” She inquired with an expression of half-belief and half-doubt.

“Exactly. With a slope so gradual it goes unnoticed, the surroundings are elevated, hiding various things behind them.” “But even if you call it narrow, it does have a diameter of five or six chō.” “That ordinary plain was merely made to appear boundless to heighten the effect.” “Yet that mere consideration—what a magnificent dream it has created for us.” “To you, even now after hearing this explanation, it must be impossible to believe that this great plain is merely an expanse of five or six chō.” “Even I, the creator, cannot help but feel an indescribable loneliness—as though abandoned in a truly boundless wilderness—and a strangely sweet melancholy when gazing upon this horizon rippling like waves from the heat haze.” As far as the eye could see—nothing obstructing—sky and grass. For us now, that was indeed the entire world. This grassland, so to speak, shrouded the entirety of Offshore Island, stretching from distant I Bay out to the Pacific, its farthest edge meeting that blue sky. If this were a Western masterpiece, here would be depicted multitudes of sheep flocks and shepherds. Or perhaps one could imagine a band of Gypsies forming a serpentine procession near that horizon, walking in silence—their figures half-bathed in the setting sun, their extraordinarily long shadows slowly moving across the grassy plain. But as far as the eye could see, there was not a single person, not a single animal, not even one withered tree. Would this plain—like a green desert—not strike us even more profoundly than such masterpieces? “Will not some eternal entity come pressing upon us with terrifying force?”

Chiyoko had been gazing for some time now at the overwhelmingly vast sky that appeared more gray than blue. And she made no attempt to hide tears that had overflowed from eyelids at some unnoticed moment.

“From this grassy plain, the path splits into two.” “One leads toward the island’s center, the other toward several scenic areas arranged around its perimeter.” “The proper route would first circle the island’s perimeter before finally reaching the center, but today we lack sufficient time—and those scenic areas remain incomplete—so let us proceed directly from here to the central flower garden.” “That should please you most.” “Yet if the garden follows immediately from this plain, you might find it disappointingly abrupt.” “I believe it necessary to outline the other landscapes’ essential features.” “As there remain two or three chō until we reach the flower garden’s path, I shall describe those mysterious landscapes while we walk across this lawn.”

“Do you know what topiary means in landscape gardening? It refers to pruning evergreen trees like boxwood and cypress into sculpted shapes—either geometric forms or likenesses of animals and celestial bodies. In one landscape lie endless arrays of such beautiful topiaries. There, grandiose forms and delicate ones—the interweaving of straight lines and curves—create a mysterious orchestral harmony. Interspersed among them cluster ancient sculptures in fearsome multitudes. And every single one consists of actual human beings—a massive crowd of naked men and women standing silent as fossils. Travelers entering this realm from Panorama Island’s vast wilderness would feel life’s vital energy press upon them like suffocation when confronting these endless rows of sculptures unnaturally blending plants and humans. There they discovered an unnameably grotesque beauty.”

In yet another world clustered densely with lifeless iron machinery. A swarm of monstrous black mechanisms rotated ceaselessly with violent buzzing. Though powered by electricity generated beneath the island, these were no ordinary devices like steam engines or motors—they stood as symbols of some unfathomable mechanical force that might haunt one's dreams. A procession of iron contraptions defying purpose and proportion. Cylinders resembling hillocks; flywheels bellowing like beasts; obsidian-toothed gears locked in combat; oscillating levers akin to monster limbs; speed verniers performing dervish spins; shafts and rods crisscrossing endlessly; cascading belt-flows; bevel gears, worm drives, pulleys, chains—all sweating viscous oil from jet-black carapaces as they spun with maniacal abandon. "You've seen exposition machinery halls before?" "There you'll find engineers and guards confined within buildings housing purposeful devices—but my mechanical realm sprawls limitlessly, every inch choked with senseless contraptions." "And being a kingdom of machines, no trace of humans or nature remains visible." "A plain of autonomous colossi swallowing the horizon—can you fathom what a mere mortal might feel entering there?"

Beyond these, designs had already been completed for a grand cityscape filled with beautiful architecture; gardens teeming with beasts, venomous snakes, and poisonous plants; and a realm of spray and mist showcasing fountains, waterfalls, streams, and every manner of aquatic spectacle. Having imperceptibly witnessed each of these worlds as though in nightly dreams, the traveler finally entered a phantasmagorical realm of swirling auroras, suffocating fragrances, kaleidoscopic flower gardens, resplendent avian species, and frolicking humans. Yet the true essence of my Panorama Island—though invisible from here—lay in the commanding view of the entire island from the flower garden atop the great cylindrical pillar now being constructed at its center. There, the entire island became nothing less than a single panorama. Separate panoramas gathered to form yet another entirely distinct panorama. Upon this small island, several universes overlapped and clashed against one another. But we had already reached this plain's exit. “Now give me your hand. We must traverse a narrow path awhile longer.”

In a certain part of the plain, there was a narrowing that could not be discerned unless viewed up close, where the hidden path required pushing through dimly lit overgrown weeds to advance. After descending into it and proceeding for some time, the weeds grew increasingly dense until they had completely enveloped both of them, and the path once again entered impenetrable darkness.

20 Whether some strange mechanism existed there or whether it was merely Chiyoko's hallucination—emerging from one scene through a brief stretch of darkness into another had a dreamlike quality. It carried that ambiguous sensation of being borne by the wind when shifting from one dream to another—a peculiar feeling as though consciousness had been entirely extinguished in transit. Consequently, each successive scene occupied an entirely distinct plane—as though leaping from a three-dimensional world into a four-dimensional one—and in the blink of an eye, the very ground they had been traversing transformed into something wholly different, from its contours and hues down to its very odor. It truly felt like a dream—or if not, like double-exposed film in a motion picture.

And now, the world that appeared before their eyes—though Hiroshi had called it a flower garden—bore no resemblance to anything one might associate with those words. There was only a milky, stagnant sky and, beneath it, hills whose undulating surfaces resembled some great wave, their entire expanse scorched by spring blossoms in chaotic profusion. But due to its overwhelming scale—from the sky's hue to the hills' curves and blossoms' disarray—all flouting nature through an artificiality beyond description, those entering this world could do nothing but stand in dazed bewilderment for some time.

Within this scenery that appeared monotonous at first glance lurked something—an eerie sensation as though they had departed the human realm and entered, say, the domain of demons.

“What’s wrong with you? “Are you feeling dizzy?”

Startled, Hiroshi supported Chiyoko’s faltering body.

“Yes, what is it... My head hurts...” A choking fragrance—similar yet not unpleasant to the peculiar odor emanating from sweaty human flesh—first numbed the very core of her head. Moreover, the interweaving of countless curves from those mysterious flower-covered mountains—as though she were watching raging whirlpool waves surge toward her from a small boat—made her fear they were closing in with terrifying force. They never moved at all. Yet in those overlapping motionless hills, one could only conclude that some sinister scheme of the designer lay concealed.

“I feel so terribly afraid.” Finally steadying herself, Chiyoko spoke faintly, as if covering her eyes.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Hiroshi asked, a faint smile quivering at the corner of his lips. "I can't quite tell. Surrounded by so many flowers, I feel utterly desolate. It feels as though I've come to a place I shouldn't have, as though I'm seeing what I shouldn't see."

“That must be because this scenery is too beautiful.” Hiroshi answered nonchalantly. “But more than that—look. Because our welcoming party has arrived over there.”

From the shadow of a certain flower-covered hill, as if in a festival procession, a group of women appeared slowly and solemnly. Their entire bodies were likely painted with makeup—nude figures emerging one after another before a backdrop of crimson floral screens, their bluish-white pallor accentuating the contours of flesh through purple shading that intensified the interplay of shadows.

They moved their glossy, oily-sinewy legs as if dancing, let black hair ripple across shoulders, opened crimson lips into crescent moons, approached the two, and in silence formed a mysterious circle. “Chiyoko, this is our vehicle.” Hiroshi took Chiyoko’s hand and lifted her onto the lotus platform formed by several naked women, then took his seat beside her on the flesh seat.

The human flesh petals, still open, enveloped Hiroshi and Chiyoko at their center and began circling through the flower-covered mountains. Chiyoko, bewildered by the strangeness before her eyes and the naked women's utter impassivity, soon forgot all worldly shame. She even took a certain pleasure in the softness of plump undulating abdomens beneath her knees.

In what might be called a valley between the hills, the narrow path wound its way in numerous curves. Where the bare feet of the naked women trod, just as on the hills, myriad flowers bloomed in wild profusion. Upon the supple spring mechanism of flesh, this deep-piled floral carpet rendered their vehicle even smoother and more comfortable. However, the beauty of this world lay not in the mysterious fragrance that ceaselessly assailed their nostrils, nor in the milky, turbid hue of the abnormal sky, nor even in the strange music that—like a spring breeze—had been delighting their ears since who knows when, nor yet in the walls of flowers blooming in a thousand purples and ten thousand reds. Rather, it resided in the indescribably strange curves of those mountains swathed in those very flowers. In this world, people must have realized for the first time the beauty that curves could manifest. Eyes accustomed to the curves of natural mountains, plants, plains, and human bodies beheld there an intersection of curves entirely different from those. No curve of a beauty’s waist, nor any sculptor’s creation, could compare to the curvaceous beauty of this world. It was perhaps not lines that the Creator who depicted nature could draw, but rather lines that only a devil plotting to destroy it could conceive. Some people might have felt an abnormal sexual oppression from the overlapping of those curves. However, it was by no means borne of earthly emotion. It is only in nightmares that we often find ourselves enamored with this kind of curve. Hiroshi had undoubtedly attempted to render that dream world using real soil and flowers. It was less sublime than filthy, less harmonious than chaotic; each individual curve and the arrangement of festering blossoms there even imparted not pleasure but rather boundless discomfort. Yet these artificial intersections imposed upon the curves—transcending ugliness, composed solely of dissonances—were creating a grand orchestral music of bizarre beauty.

Moreover, the landscape artist’s abnormal attention had extended even to the curves formed by the narrow floral paths in the ravines where the naked women’s lotus platform passed through. There was not the beauty of the curves themselves, but rather what might be called a physical pleasure felt by those moving along them had been planned there. Now gently, now at steep angles, ascending and descending, the path traced beautiful curves in every direction—up, down, left, and right. It might be described as a gentler, more refined version of that pleasurable sensation from curving motion—like what aviators experience mid-flight or what we feel when riding through hairpin mountain passes in automobiles.

Although there were occasional uphill slopes, the path appeared to gradually descend toward a certain central point. And the grotesque fragrance and music resonating as if from the earth's depths intensified layer upon layer, continuing ceaselessly until even their noses and ears grew numb to its beauty. At times, the ravine would open into a vast flower garden, beyond which a mountain of flowers towered like a bridge to the sky—its boundless slopes unfolding a phantasmagoric spectacle that multiplied Yoshino Mountain’s famous cloud of blossoms many times over. And what was even more astonishing were the dozens of nude men and women scattered across that slope and plain, parting rainbow-like blossoms as they played Adam and Eve's game of tag—those in the distance appearing as small as white beans, yet all equally exuberant. Having run down the mountain and crossed the field, a woman with black hair fluttering in the wind came to a spot about six feet away from them and collapsed abruptly. Then, one Adam who had chased after her lifted her up, held her straight against his broad chest, and—both holder and held—walked away into the distance, singing loudly in time with the music that filled this world.

In another place, giant Shironamazu eucalyptus trees arched over a narrow valley path like a vaulted ceiling, their branches sagging with fruits of naked women. They lay across thick boughs or hung by both hands, shaking heads and limbs like wind-rustled leaves while singing in chorus to this world’s music. The lotus platform borne by naked women glided silently beneath those fruits with perfect indifference.

The scenery of flowers along the path—which must have extended a full ri—and the strange emotions Chiyoko experienced during that time could be described by the author only as a dream or as a magnificent nightmare. And finally, they were carried to the bottom of a giant floral mortar. The uncanny quality of that landscape lay in how snow-white masses of flesh rolled down like dumplings from the mountaintops encircling the mortar's rim—sliding along smooth floral slopes in a bead-like chain—before splashing into the bathing pool that lay at its base. And then, they continued to sing that serene chorus as they splashed noisily about through the steam at the bottom of the mortar.

When had their kimonos been removed? In her trance-like state, Chiyoko and the others found themselves mingling with splendid bathers in pleasantly warm water. In this world where wearing unnatural garments had itself become shameful, Chiyoko could remain nearly indifferent to her own nakedness. There at last, the naked women who had carried them truly became living lotus platforms—lying fully extended with only their heads above water, compelled to support their two masters using their submerged bodies.

And then began an indescribable chaos. The cascade of flesh masses increased ever more in number; pathside flowers were trampled and scattered into a blizzard of petals that filled their vision. Within this thickly swirling chaos of petals, steam, and spray, the mass of naked women's flesh rubbed against itself like potatoes tumbling in a barrel—continuing their chorus through ragged breaths—while human tidal waves surged left and right, crashing and recoiling. At the very center of this maelstrom floated the two guests, bereft of all sensation like corpses.

21

And before they knew it, night had come. The milky sky had turned to stormcloud blackness; the hills once riotous with seductive blossoms now loomed as terrifying black monks. The clamorous human tidal wave and chorus had vanished like an ebbing tide, leaving only Hiroshi and Chiyoko behind in faintly white steam rising through the night-dimmed air. The women who had served as their lotus palanquin had vanished without a trace when they came to their senses. Moreover, that grotesquely alluring music which had seemed to symbolize this world had long since ceased to be heard. Together with bottomless darkness, the silence of Yomi had claimed the entire world.

“Good heavens!”

Chiyoko, having finally regained her senses, could not help but repeat the exclamation she had uttered many times before. And when she let out a sigh of relief, the terror she had forgotten until now welled up in her chest like nausea. “Come on, you, let’s go back already.” She peered toward her husband while trembling in the warm water. From the water’s surface, only his head emerged like a black buoy; even upon hearing her words, it neither moved nor offered any response.

“You… the one there is you, isn’t it?”

She let out a scream of terror, approached the black mass, grabbed what seemed to be its neck, and shook it with all her strength.

“Ugh... Let’s go back. But first, there’s just one more thing I must show you. Now don’t be frightened—keep perfectly still.”

Hiroshi, after much deliberation, slowly answered. The manner of his answer made Chiyoko even more afraid. "I truly can't endure this any longer." "I'm scared." "Look at me." "I'm trembling this much, you know." "I can't endure staying on this terrifying island even a moment longer!" "You're really trembling." "But what are you so afraid of?" "What do you mean 'what'? The eerie mechanisms on this island are terrifying." "The one who conceived that—you—are what terrify me."

“Me?”

“Yes, that’s right. But I don’t want you to get angry. For me, there is nothing in this world but you. And yet lately—at some slight trigger—I suddenly find you terrifying. I’ve come to doubt whether you truly love me. In this eerie island’s darkness—the thought that you might declare ‘I don’t actually love you’—it leaves me terrified... frightened...”

“You’ve started saying something strange. You’d do better not to speak of that now. I understand your feelings perfectly well. What are we to do in this darkness?” “But it’s just that I’ve started feeling this way now—perhaps seeing all those things has left me agitated, you see. And somehow I feel I can say what I think more freely than usual. But please don’t be angry with me, all right? All right?” “I know full well that you doubt me.”

Chiyoko, startled by Hiroshi’s tone, suddenly fell silent. Strangely enough, it began to seem to her that she had experienced this exact same scene before—whether in reality or in a dream, she couldn’t tell when. It was somehow an event that seemed to belong to a time before she had even been born into this world. At that time too, they had been in hellish darkness, with only their heads above the water, confronting each other like two diminutive ghosts. And then, the man opposite her had answered again: “I know well that you doubt me.” As for what happened next—what she had said, what attitude the man had shown, or what terrible conclusion had occurred—these subsequent events seemed clear enough in her mind, yet try as she might, she simply couldn’t recall them.

“I know very well.”

Hiroshi repeated insistently now that Chiyoko had fallen silent. "No! No! You mustn't! Please don't say any more!" Chiyoko cried out as she stopped Hiroshi from continuing. "I'm terrified to speak with you." "Rather than that—please don't say anything—just take me back quickly! Quickly!"

At that moment. Just as an earsplitting roar tore through the darkness, suddenly above Chiyoko—who had clung to her husband’s neck—crackling sparks scattered, and a monstrous five-colored luminescence unfurled.

“There’s no need to be alarmed. It’s fireworks. These are my specially crafted fireworks for Panorama Island. Look there. Unlike regular fireworks, ours remain motionless for such a long time, just like a magic lantern projection in the sky. This is it—the thing I told you earlier I had to show you.” When she looked, it was exactly as Hiroshi had said—the sensation of a magic lantern projection upon the clouds—as a single golden-glowing giant spider spread across the entire sky. Moreover, that spider—with the joints of its eight clearly delineated legs writhing unnaturally—gradually descended toward them. Even if it were a picture drawn with fire, the sight of a giant spider covering the pitch-black sky—exposing its most grotesque abdomen while writhing closer overhead—might have been peerless beauty to some. But for Chiyoko, who had loathed spiders since birth, it was so terrifying it stole her breath. Try as she might not to look, whether from that very terror’s uncanny allure or not, her eyes kept turning skyward, each time forcing her to behold the monster drawing nearer than before. And what sent her quaking far more than the spectacle itself was the awareness that even this giant spider firework—all of it, every part—was something she had witnessed before in some past experience, making this utterly the second time.

“I don’t want to see any more fireworks.” “Don’t keep terrifying me like this endlessly—please, let me go back.” “Come on, let’s go back.”

She clenched her teeth and finally managed to speak. However, by that time, the fire spider had already dissolved into the darkness without a trace. “Are you frightened even by fireworks?” “What a tiresome creature you are.” “This time it won’t be that ghastly thing—a beautiful flower should bloom instead.” “You’ll do well to endure a little longer and watch.” “Look—you recall that black tube standing across the pond, don’t you?” “That’s the fireworks mortar.” “Beneath this pond lies our town, where my subordinates launch the fireworks.” “There’s nothing strange or frightening about it whatsoever.”

Before she knew it, Hiroshi's hands clasped Chiyoko's shoulders with iron-vise-like, unnatural force. She was now like a mouse caught in a cat's claws, unable to escape even if she wanted to. "Ah!" When she felt this, she had to let out a scream. "I'm sorry. "I'm sorry." "'I'm sorry'? What exactly do you have to apologize for?" Hiroshi's tone gradually intensified. "Tell me what you're thinking. "Tell me honestly how you really think of me. "Come on."

“Ah, you’ve finally said it.” “But I’m so frightened now—so frightened.”

Chiyoko’s voice came in broken sobs. “But now is the best opportunity. “There’s no one around us now. “No matter what you say, just as you fear, the world won’t hear it. “Between you and me, what need is there for concealment? “Come on, out with it in one go.”

In the pitch-black, cavernous bath nestled within the valley, a bizarre exchange began. Given how abnormal the scene was, it would be no exaggeration to say that a touch of madness had seeped into both their minds. Chiyoko’s voice had already taken on an oddly tremulous tone. “Then I shall state my case:” Chiyoko suddenly began speaking eloquently, as though she had become a different person. “To speak frankly, I wanted—no, needed—to hear from you so desperately that I could hardly bear it.” “Please don’t torment me like this—tell me the truth.” “Could it be… that you are in fact an entirely different person from Komoda Genzaburou?” “Now, please let me hear that.” “Ever since you returned from that graveyard, for a long time I have doubted whether you are truly who you claim to be.” “Genzaburou did not possess even a fraction of your terrifying talent.” “Even before coming to this island, I had already confirmed half of my suspicions—something you have surely noticed yourself.” “Moreover, when I see all these eerie yet strangely captivating sights here, I feel as though even the remaining half of my doubts have been clearly resolved.” “Now, please say it outright.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha, you’ve finally spoken your true mind, haven’t you?” Hiroshi’s voice maintained an unnerving calmness, yet couldn’t fully hide its self-destructive edge. “I’ve made a catastrophic mistake.” “I loved someone I was forbidden to love.” How desperately I had struggled to endure it. But at the final moment—the very brink—my endurance finally shattered. “And just as I feared… you’ve seen through my true identity……”

Then, Hiroshi—he too with the eloquence of one possessed—began to recount the broad strokes of his conspiracy. Meanwhile, the underground fireworks crew, unaware of anything, continued launching prepared fireworks shells one after another in an attempt to please their masters’ eyes. Flames blazed across the dark sky—some shaped like grotesque beasts, others into resplendent floral forms, still others into absurd figures of every kind—all glaring venomously in blues, reds, and yellows. These same flames colored the valley’s watery depths below, projecting with theatrical vividness every minute detail of expression upon two watermelon-like heads that floated there, rendering them uncannily illuminated as if under stage lights.

The face of Hiroshi, who kept speaking with single-minded intensity, at times flushed like a drunkard’s, at others turned ashen like a corpse’s, at others showed the terrifying visage of one afflicted with jaundice, and at still others became merely a voice in utter darkness. These transformations, interwoven with the content of the bizarre tale, terrified Chiyoko to the extreme. Chiyoko, overwhelmed by terror, tried several times to flee the spot, but Hiroshi’s maddening embrace would not release her.

22 “I don’t know to what extent you had perceived my conspiracy.” “Being sensitive, you must have imagined quite deeply.” “But even someone as astute as you probably never imagined that my plans—my ideals—were rooted this deeply, did you?” When he finished his tale, the crimson firework still hung in the sky, its glow undimmed, but with a demon-like visage, Hiroshi fixed Chiyoko with an unblinking stare.

“Let me go, let me go—” Chiyoko had been wailing uncontrollably for some time now, heedless of appearances, repeating only this one plea over and over.

“Listen, Chiyoko.” Hiroshi shouted while muffling her mouth. “Do you think I can simply let you go now that everything’s been laid bare? Don’t you love me anymore? Until yesterday—no, until just moments ago—even while doubting whether I was truly Genzaburou, you still loved me, didn’t you? So now that I’ve confessed everything honestly, do you hate and fear me like a sworn enemy?”

“Please let me go.” “Please let me go.”

“I see. So you do consider me your husband’s enemy after all.” “You consider me the enemy of the Komoda family.” “Chiyoko, listen well.” “I find you beyond measure adorable.” “I want even more intensely to die together with you—so much that it consumes me.” “But I still have lingering attachments.” “To kill Hitomi Hiroshi and revive Komoda Genzaburou—how much hardship I endured!” “And what sacrifices I made to build this Panorama Island.” “When I think of that, I cannot bring myself to abandon this island—now nearing completion within a month—and die.” “So Chiyoko, there remains no other way—I must kill you.”

“Please don’t kill me.” When she heard this, Chiyoko mustered her hoarse voice and screamed. “Please don’t kill me.” “I’ll do absolutely anything you say.” “I can serve you as Genzaburou just as before.” “I won’t tell anyone.” “I won’t speak of it ever again.” “Please don’t kill me.”

“Is that genuine?” Hiroshi’s face—rendered a ghostly blue by the fireworks—had only his eyes blazing violet as he pierced Chiyoko with his glare. “Ha ha ha ha ha! No use, no use.” “I can’t believe anything you say anymore.” “Maybe you still love me a little. What you say might be true.” “But where’s the proof?” “If I let you live, I’ll be destroyed.” “Even if you mean to keep silent, now that you’ve heard my confession—with your womanly skills—there’s no way only my pretense would stay intact.” “Your very manner will unwittingly give it away.” “Either way, I’ve no choice but to kill you.”

“No! No! I have parents! I have siblings! Please help me—I beg you! I’ll become like a wooden puppet, obeying your every command! Let go! Let go!” “There—you see? You cling too desperately to life. You refuse to become my sacrifice. You don’t love me. You only loved Genzaburou. No—even if you could love a man with Genzaburou’s face, you could never love this villain that is me. Now I understand. I have no choice but to kill you.”

And Hiroshi's arms gradually shifted position from Chiyoko's shoulders, moving toward her neck.

“Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa! Help…” Chiyoko had already lost all reason. Her mind contained nothing but the primal urge to escape. The self-preservation instinct inherited from primordial ancestors forced her lips back in a gorilla-like snarl. Then, with pure reflex, her sharp canines sank deep into Hiroshi’s forearm. “You bitch!” Hiroshi’s grip loosened against his will. In that split second, Chiyoko—moving with uncharacteristic swiftness—slithered through his arms and surged through the water like a seal, fleeing toward the ink-black shore in the distance.

“Help...” A splintering scream resounded through the surrounding hills.

“Fool, we’re deep in the mountains. Who do you think would come to help? Those women from daytime must have already returned to their underground chambers and be fast asleep. Besides, you don’t even know the way out.” Hiroshi deliberately feigned composure as he approached her like a cat. That there was no one on the ground was well understood by him, the master of this kingdom. His only slight concern was whether her screams might travel through the firework tubes to the distant underground—but fortunately she had landed on their opposite side, and moreover, right next to the underground firework launch apparatus, a generator engine roared so loudly that any voices from above ground were unlikely to be heard. What was even more reassuring was that just now, around the tenth or so firework had been launched, and the earlier scream had been almost completely drowned out by its noise.

The golden flames, not yet extinguished, vividly illuminated the pitiful figure of Chiyoko as she desperately scrambled about searching for an exit. Hiroshi leapt at her body in a single bound, collapsed upon her, and effortlessly wrapped both hands around her neck. And before she could let out a second scream, her breathing had already become labored. “Please forgive me—I still love you. “But my desires run too deep. “I cannot forsake the numerous pleasures that take place on this island. “I cannot afford to ruin myself for you alone.”

At last, tears streaming down his face, Hiroshi repeated “Forgive me, forgive me” as he tightened his grip ever more firmly. Under his body, flesh pressed against flesh, the naked Chiyoko thrashed like a fish caught in a net. At the valley floor of the Artificial Flower Mountain, within warm, fragrant steam, bathed in the bizarre fireworks’ five-colored rainbow, two naked bodies entwined like beasts gone mad. It was not a terrifying murder, but rather appeared more like an intoxicated man and woman’s naked dance.

Arms pursuing, skin fleeing—at times salty tears mingled between cheeks pressed tightly together, chests synchronizing frenzied palpitations, while torrential sweat from the rapids seemed to dissolve both bodies into slug-like sludge.

It felt less like a struggle and more like a game. "If there were such a thing as a 'game of death,' then this was precisely that." Hiroshi, straddling her abdomen and tightening his grip around her slender neck, and Chiyoko, writhing beneath the man’s rugged muscles—both had forgotten their pain and gradually succumbed to rapturous pleasure, an indescribable ecstasy. At last, Chiyoko’s ghostly pale fingers traced beautiful death throes through the air several times, while thread-like streams of blood oozed thickly from her translucent nostrils. And just then, as if by some prearranged signal, the enormous golden petals of launched fireworks sharply divided the black velvet sky, enclosing the flower gardens, springs, and two entangled masses of flesh below within a shower of golden powder. Chiyoko’s ghostly pale face, over which flowed a single streak of blood—as thin as thread, as lustrous as red lacquer—how serenely beautiful it must have appeared.

Twenty-Three

Hitomi Hiroshi ceased returning to the Komoda residence in T City from that day onward. He became a true resident of Panorama Island—as the monarch of this mad kingdom—and took up permanent residence on Offshore Island. “Chiyoko is Her Majesty Queen of Panorama Island.” “She will never appear in the human world again.” “Have you seen the nation of statues on this island?” “At times, Chiyoko may disguise herself as one of those dizzyingly arrayed nude statues.” “At other times, she may be a mermaid at the sea’s depths, or a snake charmer in the land of venomous serpents, or a flower spirit blooming riotously in the gardens. And when she grows weary even of such diversions, she becomes Her Majesty Queen of Splendor and Glory—ensconced deep within this magnificent palace, shrouded in brocade curtains.” “How could she not prefer life in this paradise?” “She has forgotten both time and home, utterly enraptured by this country’s beauty—just like Urashima Taro from the old tale.” “You all have absolutely no need to worry.” “Your beloved master now stands at happiness’ pinnacle.”

When Chiyoko’s elderly nursemaid, concerned for her mistress’s welfare, came expressly to Offshore Island to retrieve her, Hiroshi sat upon the jeweled throne of the magnificent palace burrowed beneath the island and astonished this aged woman with a solemn ceremony akin to a sovereign emperor granting audience to his subjects. Whether the old woman was reassured by Hiroshi’s beautiful words or overwhelmed by the imposing spectacle before her, she had no choice but to retreat without a word.

Everything continued in this fashion. Through elderly Sumida’s efforts, Chiyoko’s father received repeated enormous ceremonial gifts; other relatives were either subjected to economic pressure or lavished with unstinting presents; and bribes to government officials—all were executed without oversight.

Meanwhile, the islanders were not even permitted to catch a glimpse of Queen Chiyoko’s figure. She remained hidden day and night deep within the underground palace—behind Hiroshi’s living quarters under heavy curtains—and no one was allowed to enter that room. Yet knowing their master’s peculiar tastes, the islanders merely smirked and whispered that beyond those curtains must lie a world of pleasure and dreams reserved solely for the king and queen; not a soul harbored suspicion. Indeed, apart from a few individuals among them, none had clearly recognized Chiyoko’s face—and even those who glimpsed Her Majesty’s figure in passing lacked any means to confirm it was truly her.

In this manner, nearly impossible things were accomplished. Through the Komoda family’s limitless financial power, Hiroshi overcame all difficulties and managed to mend every rupture. Relatives who had been impoverished until now suddenly became instant nouveaux riches; once-miserable circus dancers, actresses, and female kabuki performers were treated like Japan’s foremost actors on this island; and young writers, painters, sculptors, and architects received allowances equivalent to those of executives at small companies. Even if this were a terrifying land of sin, how could those people possibly find the courage to abandon Panorama Island?

And thus, the earthly paradise finally arrived.

An unprecedented carnival madness began to envelop the entire island. In the gardens bloomed naked women like flowers; in the steaming pools thronged schools of mermaids; ceaseless fireworks; breathing statues; frenzied steel-black monsters dancing wildly; drunken roaring beasts; poisonous snakes performing serpentine dances; through it all paraded lotus palanquins bearing beauties—and atop those palanquins sat Hitomi Hiroshi, King of these lands, his madly laughing face wrapped in brocade robes. The lotus palanquins would sometimes ascend the spiral staircase of the large concrete cylinder at the island’s center—a structure covered in crawling blue ivy, between which wound an iron-vine-like spiral staircase twisting and turning all the way to the top.

From atop that strange mushroom-shaped canopy crowning the summit, one could survey the entire island at a glance, all the way to the distant shoreline—but to what could this fantastical vista be compared? As one ascended the spiral staircase, all scenery of the lower world vanished—flower gardens, ponds, forests, and people transformed into nothing but layer upon layer of massive rock walls. From the summit, those crimson-streaked rock walls appeared overlapping all the way to the distant shoreline, each precisely shaped like the individual petals of a single flower. The travelers of Panorama Island, after encountering various bizarre sights, had to once again be astonished by this unexpected vista. Was it that the entire island was a single rose drifting upon the great sea? Or perhaps a colossal crimson flower born of an opium dream, where just the two of them—the flower and Lord Sun above—engaged in equal communion? How did that unparalleled monotony and immensity conjure such wondrous beauty? A certain traveler might have recalled that mythological world—the one his distant, distant ancestors might have seen—but…

How was the author to recount the ceaseless day-and-night madness and debauchery on those magnificent stages—the carnival realms of frenzied dancing and intoxication, the myriad games of life and death? It may perhaps have borne some resemblance to—among all your nightmares, dear readers—the most fantastical, the most blood-soaked, and the most magnificent.

Twenty-Four

Dear readers, should this fairy tale now come to its auspicious grand finale here? Could Hitomi Hiroshi as Komoda Genzaburou thus continue indulging in the pleasures of this uncanny Panorama Kingdom until his hundredth year? No, no—that was not to be. As is the way with old-fashioned tales, following the climax, that rogue called catastrophe would have been lying in wait.

One day, Hitomi Hiroshi was suddenly seized by an inexplicable unease. It may perhaps have been what the world calls the victor’s sorrow. Perhaps it was a kind of fatigue born of ceaseless revelry; or perhaps the terror lurking in his heart toward past sins had stealthily crept into the dreams of his daytime nap. However, beyond such reasons, might not that mysterious omen—brought to this island by a certain man along with the atmosphere enveloping him—have been the greatest cause of Hiroshi’s unease?

“Hey you—who’s that man standing blankly by the pond?” “Someone I don’t recognize at all...”

He first discovered that man by the garden's hot spring pond. And he posed this question to a poet attending nearby. “Have you forgotten, my lord?” The poet answered, “That is a literary man like us. He is one of those you employed during the second round. It seems he returned to his home country for some time and was not seen, but he likely came back on today’s scheduled ship, I suppose.”

“Ah, I see. And what’s his name?” “He went by the name of Kitami Kogorou.” “Kitami Kogorou... I still can’t recall that name at all.” The fact that this man had not lingered in memory—could this too have been some ill omen? From that moment on, wherever Hiroshi went, he felt the eyes of Kitami Kogorou, the literary scholar, upon him. From amidst the flowers in the garden, through the steam of the hot spring pools, from behind cylinders in the mechanical realm, through gaps between statues in the sculpture garden, from beneath the shade of towering trees in the forest—it seemed he was watching Hiroshi’s every move at all times.

And then one day, in the shadow of the large concrete cylinder at the center of the island, Hiroshi finally apprehended that man. “You’re the one called Kitami Kogorou, correct? I find it somewhat peculiar that wherever I go, you’re always there.” Then, like a gloomy schoolboy leaning vacantly against the cylinder answered respectfully—his pale face flushing slightly. “Yes,” he replied respectfully. “That must surely be a coincidence.” “My lord.”

“Coincidence?” “It’s probably as you say.” “But what were you thinking about just now?” “I was thinking about a novel I read long ago.” “It was a deeply impressive novel.”

“Oh, a novel? “Ah yes, you were a literary man, weren’t you?” “And what’s the title of that novel and who wrote it?” “You probably are not aware, my lord.” “Since it’s by an unknown writer and never made it into print.” “It’s a short story called ‘The Tale of RA’ by a man named Hitomi Hiroshi.” Hiroshi had undergone too much training to be startled by something as simple as being suddenly addressed by his former name. He did not so much as twitch a muscle in his face at the man’s unexpected words—indeed, even felt an odd joy at having unexpectedly discovered a devoted reader of his past works—as he continued speaking with nostalgic warmth.

“Hitomi Hiroshi—I know him. He was a man who wrote fantastical novels, but that fellow—you know—he was my friend from student days.” “Though friends we may have been, we never shared any intimate conversations.” “But I never read this ‘Tale of RA’ of yours.” “How did you obtain that manuscript?” “I see. So he was your friend, my lord?” “How curious life’s connections prove to be.” “‘The Tale of RA’ was written in 19--, but by then you had already returned to T City, had you not?”

"I had returned. Since parting ways with Hitomi about two years prior, I had had no contact with him whatsoever. So even his venture into novel writing was something I only learned of through magazine advertisements." "So you weren't particularly close even during your student days?" "Well, I suppose not. When our paths crossed in lecture halls, we'd exchange greetings at most."

“Before coming here, I was in the editorial department of K Magazine in Tokyo.” “Through that connection I became acquainted with Mr. Hitomi and had read his unpublished manuscripts. While I personally consider this ‘Tale of RA’ to be a true masterpiece, my lord, the editor-in-chief grew concerned about its overly sensual descriptions and ultimately suppressed it.” “Because Mr. Hitomi was still a fledgling, unknown author at the time.”

“That’s regrettable.” “And I wonder what Hitomi Hiroshi might be doing these days.”

Hiroshi barely managed to restrain himself from adding, “I could have invited him to this island.” He was so confident about his own past misdeeds that he had truly become Komoda Genzaburou in every respect. “It appears you remain unaware,” Kitami Kogorou said with profound gravity. “That man committed suicide last year.” “Oh, suicide?” “He drowned in the sea. A suicide note was found, confirming it as self-inflicted.”

“Something happened, didn’t it?” “Probably so. I cannot say for certain... But what truly mystifies me is how you and Mr. Hitomi resemble each other exactly like twins. When I first came here, I was so startled that I thought perhaps Mr. Hitomi might be hiding in such a place. Of course, my lord must have noticed this resemblance yourself.” “I was often teased about that. For God deigns to play such outrageous pranks.”

Hiroshi laughed with apparent openness. Kitami Kogorou also laughed along, as though he found it unbearably amusing.

That day, the sky was entirely blanketed by mouse-gray rain clouds—a calm before the storm that felt unnervingly still, with not so much as a breeze—yet around the island, waves foamed ominously with bestial roars in an eerie weather phenomenon.

The shadowless great cylindrical pillar towered like a demon's staircase toward the low black clouds, and at its massive base—requiring five arm spans to encircle—two small human figures conversed dejectedly. It was strange indeed that Hiroshi—who typically rode upon a lotus palanquin borne by naked women or else arrived accompanied by several servants—had come alone on this particular day, and stranger still that he had engaged in such prolonged discourse with Kitami Kogorou, who after all was merely a single servant.

“Truly, you are the spitting image of each other.” “And speaking of resemblances, there’s still something rather peculiar.” Kitami Kogorou persisted with increasing tenacity. “What do you mean by ‘peculiar’?” Hiroshi found himself strangely unable to end their conversation. “Regarding this current novel ‘The Tale of RA’.” “But my lord—might you have heard something resembling that story’s plot from Mr. Hitomi?”

“No, that’s not the case. As I said earlier, I was merely attending the same school as Hitomi. Since we were nothing more than classroom acquaintances, we never once held any deep conversations.” “Is that truly so?” “You’re a strange man. There’s no reason whatsoever for me to lie.” “But is it truly acceptable for you to dismiss this matter so conclusively? Could there perhaps be something you might come to regret?”

When Hiroshi heard Kitami’s bizarre warning, he couldn’t help but shudder. Though he knew exactly what it was—something so obvious he should have remembered—he found it strange he couldn’t recall it. “What on earth are you…” Hiroshi started to speak but suddenly fell silent. Dimly, something began to dawn on him. His face turned pale, his breathing grew rapid, and a cold sweat broke out under his arms.

“You see? You’re beginning to grasp it bit by bit—the reason why someone like me came to this island.” “I don’t understand—not a single word you’re saying makes sense! Cease this mad talk at once!” Hiroshi laughed again—a laugh as hollow as a ghost’s whisper. “Then allow me to elucidate.” Kitami shed his servant’s deference like a discarded cloak. “The scenes from ‘The Tale of RA’ mirror this island’s vistas down to the last pebble—precisely as your face mirrors Mr. Hitomi’s. If you’ve neither read his novel nor heard its plot, how explain this miraculous correspondence? This goes beyond coincidence—Panorama Island could only be conceived by one sharing both his obsessions and intellect. However alike your features may be, identical minds stretch credulity beyond breaking.” His voice sharpened like a scalpel probing flesh. “I’ve been contemplating that very paradox.”

“And what does that prove?” Hiroshi held his breath and fixed a piercing glare at the man’s face. “Do you still not understand?” “In other words, you are not Komoda Genzaburou but undoubtedly Hitomi Hiroshi.” “Had you read ‘The Tale of RA’ or heard of it, you might have claimed to have imitated it in creating this island’s scenery.” “But have you not now blocked that sole escape route with your own hands?”

Hiroshi realized he had fallen into the man's clever trap. Before embarking on this grand endeavor, he had examined his own novels to confirm they left no potentially compromising material—yet he had failed to notice the existence of the rejected manuscript. He had nearly forgotten he had even written a novel called “The Tale of RA”. As mentioned at the beginning of this story, he was a pitiful writer whose every manuscript had been crushed and destroyed. But if he now recalled through Kitami’s words, he had indeed written such a novel. The creation of artificial landscapes had been his long-cherished dream for many years; that this dream had manifested on one hand as a novel and on the other as a physical reality indistinguishable from that novel was in no way surprising. Even in that plan he had considered and reconsidered so thoroughly, there was still an oversight. To think that of all things, it was the rejected manuscript. He was filled with regret that no matter how much he lamented, it would never be enough.

“It’s hopeless. This bastard might have finally revealed my true identity. But wait—what he’s holding is merely a single novel. It’s still too early to surrender! Even if this island’s scenery resembles someone else’s novel, that alone isn’t criminal evidence.” In the blink of an eye, Hiroshi steadied his mind and recovered his composed demeanor. “Hahaha… You’re quite the man to trouble yourself with such trifles,” he said. “Are you claiming I’m Hitomi Hiroshi? Frankly, I couldn’t care less about Hitomi Hiroshi—but since I am indisputably Komoda Genzaburou, there’s nothing more to discuss.”

“Oh no, you’re gravely mistaken if you think the evidence I possess ends there.” “I know everything.” “Though knowing full well, I chose this circuitous approach to draw a confession from your own lips.” “There was good reason to avoid abrupt police involvement.” “The truth being, I hold genuine admiration for your artistry.” “Even at the Higashikoji Countess’s behest, I cannot bear to see a genius of such caliber subjected to vulgar worldly justice.”

“So you’re Higashikoji’s agent.”

Hiroshi finally grasped the meaning. The Higashikoji Count—the man to whom Genzaburou's sister had been married—stood as the sole exception among his numerous relatives, one impervious to financial manipulation. Kitami Kogorou was unmistakably an operative of that Higashikoji Countess.

“That’s correct. I have come at the request of the Higashikoji Countess. It must come as a surprise even to you that Lady Higashikoji – who ordinarily maintains scarcely any contact with your household – has been observing your activities from afar.”

“No, I’m astonished my sister would harbor such preposterous suspicions about me. It would all become clear if we could just meet and speak face-to-face.” “What purpose does voicing such platitudes serve now? The Tale of RA merely provided the initial impetus for my doubts—the conclusive evidence lies elsewhere.” “Then present this evidence.” “Consider for instance—” “For instance?”

“For example, this single strand of hair clinging to the concrete wall.” Having said this, Kitami Kogorou parted the ivy covering the surface of the large cylindrical pillar beside him, revealing a single long strand of hair growing like an udumbara flower from the exposed white concrete beneath. “You likely understand what this signifies.” “...Ah! That won’t do.” “Before your finger reaches the trigger, look here.” “My bullet will emerge.”

Having said that, Kitami thrust forward the glinting object in his right hand. Hiroshi remained motionless like a fossil, his hand in his pocket, unable to move.

“I have been contemplating this single strand of hair for some time now.” “And now, while talking with you, I was finally able to reach the truth.” “This strand of hair wasn’t merely a single loose one—I confirmed it continues deeper, connected to something within.” “Then let’s test that now.” No sooner had Kitami Kogorou spoken than he abruptly pulled a large jackknife from his pocket and began stabbing violently at the spot beneath the strand of hair, putting all his strength into each blow. Then the concrete crumbled away in pieces, and as the sturdy blade became half-buried, crimson liquid began trickling down its edge—in moments, a vivid peony bloom flowered across the white concrete surface.

“There’s no need to dig it up and check. There is a human corpse hidden within this pillar. Your—no, Mr. Komoda Genzaburou’s wife’s corpse—”

Pale as a ghost and looking ready to collapse right there, Hiroshi was supported by Kitami’s one arm as he continued in an ordinary tone. "Of course, I did not deduce everything from this single strand of hair. Hitomi Hiroshi’s impersonation of Komoda Genzaburou would inevitably make Komoda’s wife the greatest obstacle—it was this point that I realized. And so, while carefully observing your relationship with your wife, an incident occurred where her figure suddenly vanished from our sight. You might have managed to deceive others, but you cannot deceive me. I concluded that you must certainly have murdered your wife. Since you killed her, there must be a place where you hid the corpse. What sort of place might someone like you choose? Now, what worked in my favor—though you may have forgotten this as well—is that the hiding place had been properly hinted at in The Tale of RA. That novel describes how a man named RA, due to his abnormal tastes, when erecting a large concrete cylinder, emulated legends from bridge-building rituals and—though entirely unnecessary—buried a woman alive as a 'human pillar' within the concrete. When I considered this possibility and checked the date the wife had come to the island, I discovered it coincided precisely with when the formwork for this cylinder was completed and they had just begun pouring cement. It’s truly a safe hiding place. All you had to do was wait for when nobody was around, carry the corpse up the scaffolding, drop it into the formwork, and pour two or three bucketfuls of cement over it. However, the fact that just a single strand of the wife’s hair had become tangled outside the concrete—doesn’t this suggest that even in crime, some unforeseen mishap can occur?"

By now, Hiroshi had helplessly collapsed and was leaning against the cylinder precisely where Chiyoko’s blood had seeped. Kitami Kogorou gazed at this pitiful state with apparent sympathy, yet he intended to say everything he had thought out. “To reverse that logic—the fact that you had to murder your wife means, in other words, that you were not Komoda Genzaburou.” “Do you understand?” “This wife’s corpse is one of the pieces of evidence I spoke of earlier.” “Of course, that isn’t the only thing.” “I hold yet another most crucial piece of evidence.” “You’ve probably already realized, but it is none other than in the Komoda family’s temple cemetery.” People saw that the corpse had vanished from Komoda Genzaburou’s cemetery and that a living man identical to Komoda Genzaburou had appeared elsewhere, and they became utterly convinced that Komoda Genzaburou had been resurrected. However, just because the corpse vanished from the coffin does not necessarily mean it was resurrected. Because the corpse might have been transported to another location. As for another location—that is, given that numerous coffins are buried in the most readily accessible place—if someone who has transported a corpse out wishes to hide it somewhere, there could be no more convenient spot than the neighboring coffin. “What an ingenious magic trick this is.” “Next to Komoda Genzaburou’s grave lies the coffin of his grandfather—and now, through your considerate arrangement, grandfather and grandson sleep peacefully together there, their bones entwined in an embrace.”

When Kitami Kogorou had proceeded that far in his explanation, Hitomi Hiroshi—who had collapsed—suddenly jerked upright and began to laugh uncannily.

“Ha ha ha... Well, you’ve investigated thoroughly.” “That’s exactly right.” “Not a single error.” “But truthfully, even without troubling a great detective like yourself, I was already teetering on the edge of downfall.” “It’s merely a question of sooner or later.” “For an instant, I even considered resisting you—but upon reflection, such an act would only extend my current indulgences by half a month, a month at most.” “What would that achieve?” “I’ve created everything I wished to create, done everything I desired to do.” “I’ve left nothing unfinished.” “I shall nobly return to being Hitomi Hiroshi and obey your commands.” “When examined openly, even the Komoda family’s fortune barely retains enough to sustain this lifestyle for another month.” “Yet earlier, you seemed to say you didn’t wish to abandon a man like me to the judgment of this fleeting world’s laws.” “What precisely did you mean by that?”

“Thank you. “Having heard that satisfies my deepest wish.... Ah, you’re asking about the meaning? It means I desire you to perform an honorable execution without resorting to police intervention. “This does not come from the Higashikoji Countess’s orders. “Rather, this is my personal entreaty as one who serves art in a humble capacity.” “Thank you. “Allow me to offer my gratitude in turn. “Now, would you permit me temporary freedom? “A mere thirty minutes would suffice.”

“Very well. Though there are hundreds of your servants on the island, once they learn you are a terrifying criminal, they would have no reason to side with you. And you—even were you to rally supporters—would not be one to break our pact.” “Then where shall I await you?”

“At the hot spring pool in the flower garden.” Hiroshi declared abruptly and disappeared behind the large concrete cylinder.

Twenty-Five

About ten minutes later, Kitami Kogorou was waiting for Hiroshi to arrive with a tranquil heart, half-submerged in the fragrant steam of the hot spring pool while mingling among the many naked women.

The sky was still blanketed in dark clouds; there was no wind; the flower-covered mountains as far as the eye could see lay slumbering in silver-gray; not a ripple stirred the hot spring’s waters; even the group of several dozen naked women bathing there remained utterly silent, as if dead. To Kitami’s eyes, the entire scene appeared like some melancholic natural pressed-flower picture.

And how interminably long those ten or twenty minutes passing must have felt. A motionless sky lingering eternally, flower-covered mountains, the pool, the group of naked women—and enveloping them all, a dreamlike gray.

However, before long, the people—jolted back to their senses by the sound of untimely fireworks launched from a corner of the pool—the next instant looked up at the sky and could not help but let out cries of admiration once more at the overwhelming beauty of the luminous blossoms that had bloomed there. It was about five times the size of ordinary fireworks—so vast it nearly filled the entire sky—not so much a single blossom as one that gathered all flowers into itself, its five-colored petals shifting hues and shapes with kaleidoscopic intensity as they descended. Still they spread wider and wider, unfurling endlessly through the air.

Neither nighttime fireworks nor daylight ones, against a backdrop of dark clouds and silver-gray, the five-colored light became an uncanny matte texture that expanded its domain moment by moment, creaking downward like a suspended ceiling—a sight so overwhelming it threatened to obliterate one’s very soul. At that moment, beneath the dazzling five-colored light, Kitami Kogorou suddenly noticed crimson splatters on the faces and shoulders of several naked women. At first, he dismissed it as fireworks’ colors reflecting on steam droplets, but soon the crimson splatters fell with increasing ferocity. When he felt an unnervingly warm trickle on his own forehead and cheeks—and transferred it to his palm—there could be no mistake: these were vermilion droplets, unmistakably human blood. And on the surface of the water before him floated something gently undulating—when he looked closely, it was a mercilessly torn human wrist that had somehow fallen there.

Amid such a blood-drenched spectacle, Kitami Kogorou—wondering at the strangely unperturbed naked women yet remaining motionless himself—rested his head against the pool’s edge and gazed vacantly at the vivid crimson gash splayed like a grotesque flower where the freshly severed wrist floated near his chest. In this manner, Hitomi Hiroshi’s body shattered into smithereens alongside the fireworks, transforming into a rain of blood and flesh that showered down upon every corner of each scene within his created Panorama Island.