Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Edogawa Ranpo

I

Even among those living in M Prefecture, many may have remained unaware. At the southern tip of S District where I Bay meets the Pacific Ocean floated a small island—isolated from neighboring isles, resembling an overturned green steamed bun with a diameter barely under two ri. Now nearly uninhabited, it saw only occasional capricious landings by local fishermen, scarcely warranting anyone’s attention. Moreover, isolated in tempestuous seas off a desolate cape’s edge, approaching in small fishing boats proved perilous except in exceptional calm—hardly a destination worth such risk. Though locals dubbed it “Offshore Island,” the entire landmass had at some point fallen under ownership of T City’s Komoda family—M Prefecture’s wealthiest clan. Previously, eccentric fishermen under their employ had built huts for dwelling or used it as net-drying grounds and storage. But several years prior, all such structures were cleared away, and abruptly, mysterious construction commenced on the island. Dozens of laborers, earthworkers, and gardeners boarded specially fitted motorboats to converge there daily. Massive rocks of uncanny shapes, trees, steel frames, lumber, and countless cement barrels—procured from unknown sources—were ferried incessantly to its shores. Thus began upon that desolate sea far from human habitation an unfathomable endeavor—neither civil engineering nor garden cultivation but some grotesque hybrid of both.

In the district to which Offshore Island belonged, there were no government railways—let alone private light railways—and even buses had yet to reach the area at that time. Particularly along the coast facing the island, fewer than a hundred impoverished fishing households dotted the shoreline here and there, interspersed with cliffs so sheer that no paths traversed them. It was a place utterly divorced from civilization—a veritable backwater. Thus, even when such an eccentric large-scale project commenced, its rumors merely passed from village to village, transforming into something akin to folktales as they traveled farther afield. Even when whispers reached nearby cities, they amounted to little more than filler for a regional newspaper’s third page. Yet had this occurred near the capital, it would undoubtedly have sparked an extraordinary sensation. To such an extent was the undertaking a bizarre one.

Even the nearby fishermen could not help but grow suspicious. What necessity or purpose could there be for sparing no expense to dig earth, plant trees, build walls, and erect houses on that remote islet where even people seldom ventured? Surely the Komoda family couldn’t be eccentric enough to actually inhabit that inconvenient little island—yet constructing an amusement park in such a place seemed equally absurd. Perhaps the Komoda family head had gone mad—such were the whispers exchanged among them. This suspicion arose for good reason: the Komoda family head at the time had suffered from chronic epilepsy, which had grown so severe that some time prior, his death had been reported—a funeral so grand it became the talk of the region. Yet he had miraculously revived, only for his entire disposition to alter thereafter. Rumors of his increasingly irrational, madness-tinged actions had spread even among the local fishermen, leading them to suspect this current project must likewise have stemmed from his 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 unfathomable project steadily progressed under the direct command of the Komoda family head. As March gave way to April, a bizarre earthen wall—resembling China’s Great Wall—took shape around the entire island. Within its bounds emerged ponds, rivers, hills, valleys, and at its center rose a massive reinforced concrete structure of strange design. As for how utterly bizarre and yet magnificently splendid that spectacle was, I believe there will be an opportunity to recount it in full much later, so I shall omit it here. But had it been brought to perfect completion, what a wondrous thing it would have become. If an observant person were to see it—the present, half-ruined scenery of Offshore Island—they could readily infer what it would have been. However, unfortunately, just as this grand project was on the verge of completion, it came to an abrupt halt due to an unforeseen event.

As for what exactly that reason was, only a very few people clearly understood it. For some reason, the matter had been shrouded in secrecy. The purpose of the project, its nature, and even the reason for its abrupt halt—everything was buried in ambiguity. The only thing known externally was this: around the time of the project’s collapse, both the head of the Komoda family and his wife had passed away, and since—unfortunately—they had left no offspring, relatives now inherited their estate. As for their cause of death too, there had been no shortage of various rumors—yet they remained mere rumors, all lacking any substance, and consequently never rose to the level of attracting official attention. The island remained, as ever, indisputably Komoda family property; the project lay abandoned in ruins, untended and unvisited. The artificial forests, groves, and gardens had nearly lost their original forms, surrendered to rampant weeds, while reinforced concrete’s bizarre great pillars—exposed to wind and rain—had long since ceased retaining their shapes. The trees, stones, and other materials transported there had incurred exorbitant costs, yet given that transporting them to the capital for sale would have resulted in losses exceeding freight expenses, not a single tree or stone—though left to decay—had been moved from its original place. Therefore, even now, should you dear readers endure the inconveniences of travel to visit M Prefecture’s southern extremity, brave the treacherous seas, and land upon Offshore Island, you would assuredly discover there the remnants of an artificial landscape of utterly fantastical design. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a grandiose garden, yet some cannot help but sense within it something colossal—a plan or artistic vision of staggering scale. At the same time, that person would find themselves overwhelmed by a kind of dread—whether from the resentment suffusing the area or its eerie aura—unable to resist the shudder that seizes them.

There lay, in truth, an almost unbelievable single extraordinary tale. There existed a tale so extraordinary—parts of which had become open secrets among those close to the Komoda family, while its other crucial elements remained known only to two or three individuals. If you, dear readers, would be so kind as to trust my account and hear this seemingly preposterous tale to its end, then let us now commence this secret chronicle.

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, and within its most dreary room resided a peculiar man named Hitomi Hiroshi—a figure who could be called neither a proper student nor a ruffian, yet whose age seemed well past thirty. He had graduated from a private university five or six years before the massive earthworks on Offshore Island began, and from then on, he neither sought proper employment nor secured any reliable means of income, continuing what one might call a life of being a bane to boarding houses and friends—until finally washing up at this Yūaikan, where he resided until about a year before his great earthworks commenced.

He claimed to have graduated from the philosophy department, yet he had never attended philosophy lectures. At one time he became obsessed with literature, devouring books on the subject; at another, he ventured into entirely unrelated fields like architecture, zealously auditing classes. Then he would plunge into sociology or economics, only to later purchase oil painting supplies and dabble in art. Fickle yet oddly quick to lose interest, he mastered no true discipline—a fact that made his uneventful graduation seem almost 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 a heretical course—bizarrely skewed toward one direction. That is precisely why, even after five or six years had passed since graduating from university, he still couldn’t secure proper employment and continued to drift aimlessly.

To be sure, Hitomi Hiroshi himself harbored no serious intention of taking up some occupation and leading a conventional life. To tell the truth, he had grown weary of this world before even experiencing it. One reason may have been his congenital frailty. Or perhaps it was due to the neurasthenia that had plagued him since adolescence. He simply could not muster the will to do anything. All matters of life were already sufficiently fulfilled merely by imagining them in his head. He found that “nothing really mattered.” And so, year after year, he lay sprawled in that squalid boarding house room, dreaming dreams no practical soul had ever conceived—dreams entirely his own. In other words, to put it simply, he was none other than an extreme dreamer.

So, having cast aside all worldly affairs, what exactly was he dreaming of? It was the meticulous design of his own utopia—Nowhere. From his school days, he had voraciously devoured dozens of utopian tales, from Plato onward. And imagining how these authors had found some small solace in consigning their unrealizable dreams to the written word—projecting them into the world—he felt a certain resonance, through which he himself could find fleeting comfort. Among those works, he remained almost entirely indifferent to utopias conceived in political or economic terms. What captured his heart was the utopia—a paradise on earth, a land of beauty and dreams. Therefore, rather than Cabet’s *Voyage to Icaria*, it was Morris’s *News from Nowhere* that drew him more; and even more than Morris, it was Edgar Allan Poe’s *The Domain of Arnheim* that captivated him.

His sole dream was to create a single colossal work of art—just as musicians craft diverse arts through instruments, painters through canvases and pigments, and poets through words—by using nature itself as his medium: mountains, rivers, plants, and trees; every stone, every tree, every flower; even the birds flitting about, the beasts, and the insects—all living things that pulsed with life each hour, each second, as they grew and thrived. Not content with this nature created by God, he sought to freely transform and beautify it through his own individuality, thereby expressing his unique artistic ideal. In other words—to rephrase—it was to become a god himself and remake this nature.

According to his thinking, art—from a certain perspective—was none other than an expression of man’s rebellion against nature: a refusal to accept things as they were, and a desire to imprint each individual’s uniqueness upon them. For this reason, musicians—dissatisfied with the raw voices of wind, waves, and beasts—labored to forge their own sounds; painters’ work lay not in merely reproducing models but in reshaping and refining them through their individuality; poets, needless to say, were no mere chroniclers of fact. Yet why did these so-called artists settle for such indirect, feeble tools—instruments, paints, words—as if shackled by them? Why did they not fix their gaze upon nature itself? Why not wield earth and sky as their instruments, pigments, verses? Was it truly impossible when even landscape gardeners and architects already bent nature to their will—taming and adorning it? Could this not be done with greater artistry, on a grander scale? Thus doubted Hitomi Hiroshi.

Consequently, he found himself drawn many times more to the splendid achievements of ancient emperors—primarily tyrants—whose works, some of which seemed to have realized his own ideals to a certain degree in their more practical forms, than to the numerous utopian tales mentioned earlier or those fanciful literary diversions. For example—the Pyramids and Sphinx of Egypt; Greece and Rome’s fortress-like or religious great cities; China’s Great Wall and Epang Palace; Japan’s grand Buddhist structures since the Asuka period onward, Kinkaku-ji and Ginkaku-ji—when imagining not merely those constructions themselves but also the utopian aspirations of the heroes who created them, Hitomi Hiroshi’s heart would leap with excitement.

“If only I were granted vast riches...” This was the title of a work employed by a certain Utopian author, but Hitomi Hiroshi too would always voice this same lamentation.

“Ah, if only I could get my hands on so much money that I couldn’t possibly spend it all...” “First, I would purchase a vast tract of land—but where should I locate it?” “If only I could employ hundreds, thousands of people to build the earthly paradise I’ve been envisioning—a land of beauty, a realm of dreams—and show it to the world.”

Once he began fantasizing about how to do this and that, it would continue endlessly; he could never rest until he had completely constructed his utopia in his mind. Yet when he came to his senses, what he had been so engrossed in creating proved to be nothing more than a daydream—a castle in the air—while in reality, he remained but a pitiful, impoverished student, struggling even for his daily bread. And given his capabilities, even if he were to throw away his entire life and work himself to the bone with all his might, he could never amass even a mere tens of thousands of yen.

In the end, he was but a “dreaming man.” Throughout his entire life—intoxicated by ecstatic beauty in his dreams—what a wretched contrast he presented in the real world. Sprawled in the squalid four-and-a-half-mat room of his boarding house, he had to pass each monotonous day. Such men often throw themselves into art, finding in it some semblance of respite, but by some twist of fate, even had he possessed artistic inclinations, no art—save for what might now be called his most realistic of dreams—could have held power to interest him, nor had he been blessed with talent for any.

If his dream could have been realized, it would truly have been an unparalleled grand enterprise—a great work of art without equal in all the world. Thus, for him who had once wandered through this realm of fantasy, it was only natural that any worldly enterprise, any amusement, or even any form of art should appear utterly devoid of value—mere trifles beneath consideration. However, even he—who had lost interest in all things—still could not avoid doing some work to survive. To that end, ever since graduating from school, he had been writing hack translation subcontracts, fairy tales, and occasionally even mature novels, taking them around to various magazine publishers and barely scraping by each day. At first, he still retained some interest in what might be called art and found no small solace in publishing his dreams in story form, much as ancient Utopian authors had done, so he continued this work with some zeal. Yet his writings—translations aside—were strangely ill-received by magazine publishers. The reason was simple: his works amounted to nothing more than minutely detailed descriptions of his so-called Nowhere in various forms—self-indulgent, excruciatingly tedious creations—so one could hardly blame them for their poor reception.

For such reasons, it was not once or twice that the works he had painstakingly written were squelched by magazine editors, and so, given that his nature was far too rapacious to be satisfied with mere wordplay, his novels made no headway whatsoever. That said, were he to abandon even that, he would immediately struggle to make ends meet, so reluctantly, he had no choice but to continue living as a low-tier penny-a-line writer indefinitely.

While writing manuscripts at fifty sen per page, he would—in his spare moments—sketch rough diagrams of his utopia or architectural blueprints for structures to be built there, only to tear them up time and again. All the while, he envisioned with boundless envy the deeds of ancient emperors who had realized their own dreams as they pleased.

III

Now, this tale begins when an extraordinary fortune befell Hitomi Hiroshi—who had been passing his days devoid of purpose in such a state—on a certain day about a year before the massive earthworks on that aforementioned remote island were set to commence. It was an occurrence so utterly bizarre—so far beyond what could be contained by a mere word like “fortune,” so dreadful in its essence—yet accompanied by a fable-like allure. Upon encountering this “good news” (?), he soon hit upon a certain idea and tasted an exhilaration perhaps no one had ever experienced before—and then, in the very next instant, at the sheer horror of his own thought, felt a shudder so profound his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

The bearer of this news was a newspaper reporter who had been his classmate during university days. One day, this man visited Hiroshi’s boarding house after a long absence and, in the course of some conversation—without any particular thought on his part—happened to bring up the matter. “By the way, you probably don’t know yet, but your brother died just two or three days ago.” “What did you say?”

At that moment, Hitomi Hiroshi couldn’t help but fire back a question at the other man’s bizarre words. “Hey—have you forgotten already? Your famous other half—the twin! Komoda Genzaburō.” “Ah—Komoda? That wealthy Komoda? Well that’s a shock. So what illness killed him?”

“A correspondent sent in a manuscript. According to it, Mr. Komoda was struck down by his chronic epilepsy.” “The seizure occurred and never subsided, I gather.” “He hadn’t even turned forty yet—what a tragic thing to happen.”

After that, the newspaper reporter added the following.

“I have to say, even now I’m astounded. How remarkably alike you are.” “You and that man.” “I included Komoda’s recent photo with the manuscript—looking at it now, even though five or six years have passed, you’ve grown even more alike than in your student days. Cover the mustache in that photo with a finger and imagine your glasses there, you’d look exactly identical.”

As this conversation suggests—and as you, dear readers, have likely already surmised—the impoverished student Hitomi Hiroshi and Komoda Genzaburō, M Prefecture’s wealthiest magnate, had been classmates during their university years. Strangely enough, their resemblance was so uncanny—from facial features to build, even down to their voices—that other students had dubbed them “the twins.” Due to the age difference between them, their classmates had dubbed Komoda Genzaburō the older twin and Hitomi Hiroshi the younger twin, seizing every opportunity to tease the pair. Even as they were teased, they could not help but acknowledge to each other that the nickname held undeniable truth. While such phenomena were often called commonplace, for them—who were not twins—to resemble each other so closely as to be mistaken for twins remained rather extraordinary. When one considers how this resemblance later birthed a bizarre incident so astonishing it could shock the world, the terror of karmic fate makes one shudder uncontrollably.

The fact that both of them rarely showed their faces in the classroom, combined with Hitomi Hiroshi’s mild nearsightedness and constant use of glasses, meant that opportunities for the two to meet were scarce. Even when they did meet, the presence of glasses on one made them sufficiently distinguishable from a distance, so no particularly notable incidents occurred. Nevertheless, during their long student years, there were not once or twice amusing episodes that became fodder for jokes. They were that much alike.

Given that one half of these so-called twins had died, Hitomi Hiroshi felt a somewhat stronger shock than when receiving news of other alumni’s deaths—though this was only natural, for he had long harbored disgust toward Komoda, who had been like his shadow, precisely because their resemblance was too uncanny. That said, there was something in this event that struck Hitomi Hiroshi in an indefinable manner. It was less sorrow than shock, and less shock than something like an eerie, inscrutable premonition.

Yet whatever this was, he remained utterly unaware of it even as the newspaper reporter continued his idle chatter for a long while before finally departing. Only when left alone did it happen—while pondering Komoda’s death, which lingered strangely in his mind, a monstrous fantasy began surging up within his head with the speed and eeriness of storm clouds spreading before a summer downpour. He turned deathly pale, clenched his teeth, and then began trembling violently, yet remained seated motionless in one spot, staring fixedly at the thought that gradually revealed its true nature. At times, overwhelmed by terror, he would strive to suppress the ingenious schemes that surged forth one after another—yet far from ceasing, the more he tried to restrain them, the more each scene of those nefarious plots was conjured up with kaleidoscopic vividness.

IV One critical motive that led him to conceive such an unprecedented evil scheme lay in the fact that in Komoda’s region of M Prefecture, cremation was not practiced in general, and particularly among upper-class families like the Komoda household, who regarded it with even greater abhorrence and strictly adhered to earth burial. He had heard this directly from Komoda himself during their school days and knew it well. The other was that Komoda’s cause of death had been an epileptic seizure. This, again, could not help but evoke a certain memory of his.

Hitomi Hiroshi had, whether fortunately or unfortunately, once immersed himself in books on death by authors such as Hartmann, Busch, and Kempner, and thus possessed considerable knowledge regarding burials in cases of suspended animation. Consequently, he was well aware of how uncertain deaths caused by epilepsy could be and the accompanying danger of live interment. Many of you dear readers have likely read Poe’s short story “The Premature Burial.” And you are well aware of the terror of burial in suspended animation.

"To be buried alive is undoubtedly the most dreadful among these extreme misfortunes that have ever befallen human fate—the St. Bartholomew’s Massacre and other such historically harrowing events." And that this occurs frequently, all too frequently in this world is something no person of discernment can deny. The boundary separating life and death is but a vague 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 come to a complete halt. Moreover, in such cases, this state of suspension is nothing more than a cessation. It is nothing more than a temporary halt of an incomprehensible mechanism. Therefore, after some time passes—whether that be several hours, several days, or even several dozen days—an invisible, mysterious force comes into play, and the small cogwheels and large cogwheels begin moving again as if by magic.

And that epilepsy was one such disease stood beyond all doubt, as evidenced by numerous documented cases in various medical texts. For example, he clearly remembered—for some reason—that epilepsy had been explicitly listed among several diseases prone to inducing suspended animation in a pamphlet published by the American "Society for the Prevention of Premature Burial." When he read of the countless instances of premature burial, what a strange sensation must have struck him. As for that indescribable kind of sensation he felt, words like terror or dread seemed far too commonplace—utterly ordinary by comparison. For instance, the tale of a pregnant woman who encountered premature burial, revived in the graveyard, and not only revived but gave birth in that darkness—clutching her wailing infant as she perished in agony (she had likely pressed her dry breast into the blood-smeared baby’s mouth)—had seared itself into his memory, remaining there endlessly.

However, why he remembered so clearly that epilepsy carried such dangers was something Hitomi Hiroshi himself never noticed. Yet one could not deny that within the terrifying depths of the human psyche—when he had read those medical texts—he had been subconsciously aware that Komoda, his exact living replica called his twin counterpart, that wealthy Komoda was likewise an epileptic. As previously stated, Hitomi Hiroshi—a natural-born dreamer given to endlessly twisting thoughts—even if not consciously recognizing it, could not have failed to perceive this truth.

If that were the case, it was not impossible to consider that a seed sown within him deep in his heart years ago had now, upon encountering Komoda’s death, taken clear form for the first time. But setting that aside, his extraordinarily rare evil scheme—as he sat upright all through that night, feeling cold sweat oozing relentlessly from every pore of his body—began as a notion as fantastical as a fairy tale or dream. Little by little, it took on hues of reality, until at last it came to seem the most ordinary of matters: a thing certain to succeed if only he would act.

“Ridiculous! No matter how much I resemble that man, this is too absurd…utterly absurd. Has there ever been a single soul since humanity’s dawn who conceived such idiocy? I’ve read detective tales where twins swap roles—but even those fantasies scarcely occur in reality. What I’m contemplating now is pure madness! Don’t waste thoughts on trifles. You ought to keep dreaming of that utopia you’ll never realize—it befits your station.”

Repeatedly he would consider things in this way and attempt to shake off the too-terrifying delusions—but immediately after, once again,

But when you thought about it—a plan this simple with no real danger involved—such things rarely existed in this world. No matter how much effort it took—no matter what dangers you braved—if by chance you succeeded, could you not secure the funds for that utopia you had so fervently craved, that vision you had dreamed of through endless years? What joy—what rapture—would await you then! After all—this world had grown so weary. After all—it was a life going nowhere. Even if you were to lose your life for it—what would there be to regret? Yet in reality—far from losing your life—without killing a single person or committing any evil that poisoned society—all you needed was to handily erase this existence called “me” and simply take on Komoda Genzaburō’s role. And what would you be doing? Transforming nature itself—creating landscapes—forging a single colossal work of art unlike anything attempted since antiquity. Establishing paradise. Crafting heaven on earth. Where was there any guilt on your part? Moreover—if Komoda’s bereaved family were to have their master return alive—they would rejoice rather than resent it! You persisted in viewing this as some great crime—but see for yourself! If one examined each outcome—far from being evil—wasn’t this rather a righteous act?

Laying out the logic this way, he saw that it was indeed flawlessly coherent—no weaknesses in execution, and scarcely a point for conscience to reproach.

What proved most convenient for executing this plan was that regarding Komoda Genzaburō’s family—his parents had long passed away, leaving only his young wife and a few servants. To be sure, he had a sister who had married into a noble family in Tokyo, and in his home province—given that he belonged to such an eminent household—there must have been numerous relatives. Yet none of these people could have known of a man named Hitomi Hiroshi who was the spitting image of the deceased Genzaburō; even if by some chance they had heard rumors of such a person, they would never have imagined the resemblance could be so striking. Moreover, that this man would appear as Genzaburō’s double was something beyond their wildest dreams. Moreover, he was a man born with an uncanny talent for performance. The only one to fear was his wife—she undoubtedly knew Genzaburō’s mannerisms down to the finest detail—but even she would likely notice nothing as long as he remained cautious—particularly if he avoided intimate conjugal conversations. Moreover, since someone who had once died had come back to life—even if their appearance or disposition had changed somewhat—one would likely attribute such alterations to those extraordinary circumstances and therefore find little cause for astonishment.

Thus his thoughts gradually delved into finer details, and as he weighed these minute circumstances against each other, his grand plan appeared to gain plausibility and feasibility step by step. The remaining challenge—undoubtedly the greatest obstacle to his scheme—lay in three critical points: how to erase his own existence, how to convincingly stage Komoda’s resurrection, and how to dispose of Komoda’s actual corpse in the process.

Given that he was capable of plotting such a great evil (no matter how he might justify himself), it must be said he was born with what one might call wicked cunning. And so, as he twisted and turned his thoughts with implacable persistence, even those most difficult points were resolved effortlessly. And once he was satisfied with this, he once again meticulously re-examined every minute detail of what he had already considered. When he finally concluded there remained not a single flaw, the moment arrived when he had to make the ultimate decision: whether to carry it out or not.

V With a sensation as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his head—to the point where he even forgot how terrifying this plan truly was—he spent nearly a full day and night pondering and refining it, until at last he resolved to carry it out. In later recollection, the state of mind he had been in at the time was akin to a somnambulist’s trance. Even as he set about executing his plan, a strangely hollow sensation lingered—as though this momentous undertaking were no more consequential than a leisurely sightseeing excursion. Yet coiled in some recess of his consciousness persisted an uncanny emotion: the awareness that all this was but a dream, and that beyond its borders awaited another, truer world.

As previously stated, his plan was divided into two crucial parts. The first was to erase himself—that is, the man named Hitomi Hiroshi—from this world. However, before embarking on this, he needed to make an urgent trip to T City, where Komoda’s estate was located, to verify several critical points: whether Komoda had indeed been given an earth burial; whether he could successfully infiltrate the gravesite; what sort of person Komoda’s young wife was; and the general temperament of the servants. If, as a result of this reconnaissance, he perceived any risk that might jeopardize the plan’s success, then and only then would it not be too late to abandon its execution—for there remained ample opportunity to retreat.

However, he had to refrain from appearing in T City in his current form. Whether recognized as Hitomi Hiroshi or mistaken for Komoda Genzaburō, either outcome would deal a fatal blow to his plan. Thus he devised his own distinctive disguise and resolved to embark on this first journey to T City. His method of disguise proved remarkably simple: discarding his usual glasses for oversized yet inconspicuous tinted spectacles; applying a thick folded gauze patch over one eye from brow to cheek; inserting cotton padding to reshape his jawline; affixing a subtle false mustache; and cropping his hair to five millimeters. Though amounting to just this, the effect proved astonishing—even when encountering a friend on the train during departure, they noticed nothing. The eyes constitute the most conspicuous feature of the human face—the element most expressive of individual character. As evidence: covering from the nose upward with one’s palm yields an entirely different effect than covering from the nose downward. In the former case, one might fail to recognize the person; in the latter, identification becomes immediate. Therefore he first employed tinted glasses to conceal both eyes. Yet tinted glasses, while nearly perfect for masking ocular expressiveness, inevitably lend their wearer an air of suspicion. To offset this impression, he applied gauze to one eye, feigning ocular affliction. This served the dual purpose of concealing portions of his eyebrows and cheeks. Moreover, by drastically altering his hairstyle and carefully selecting attire, he achieved roughly seventy percent of his disguise’s objective. Still he took further precautions—reshaping his jawline with cotton padding and obscuring his mouth’s distinctive features with a false mustache. Had he also modified his gait, ninety-nine percent of Hitomi Hiroshi would have been erased. He long held firm convictions regarding disguise: wigs and pigments were not only cumbersome but risked attracting undue attention—rendering them impractical—whereas through such simple methods, he believed even a Japanese man need not be wholly incapable of transformation.

The following day, having certain reasons in mind, he went to the boarding house’s front desk to announce he would temporarily vacate his lodgings and embark on a journey—a so-called wandering journey with no fixed destination, though he initially intended to head toward the southern part of the Izu Peninsula—and departed carrying a single small suitcase. Then, along the way, he purchased necessary items, completed the aforementioned disguise at a deserted roadside, rushed straight to Tokyo Station, checked his suitcase into temporary storage, bought a ticket to a station two or three stops beyond T City, and burrowed into the crowd of the third-class car.

Upon arriving in T City, he then spent nearly two days—to be precise, a full twenty-four hours—investigating with remarkable agility through his own unique methods, ultimately accomplishing his objective. The details would grow too trivial, so I shall omit them here; but in any case, the results of his investigation had clearly shown that his plan was by no means an impossibility. And so, he returned to Tokyo Station on the third day after hearing that newspaper reporter’s account—on the sixth day following Komoda Genzaburō’s funeral—at nearly eight o’clock in the evening. According to his calculations, he intended to resurrect Komoda no later than ten days after his death—leaving a mere four days remaining—which meant he faced an extraordinarily hectic schedule. First, he retrieved his temporarily stored suitcase, entered the station restroom to remove his disguise and revert to his original appearance as Hitomi Hiroshi, then immediately hastened to the steamship terminal at Reigan Island. The ship bound for Izu was scheduled to depart at 9:00 PM, and come what may, his planned course of action was to board it and head south toward the Izu Peninsula.

When he rushed to the waiting area, the boarding signal bell was already clanging resoundingly on the ship. The ticket was second class; destination Shimoda Port. Hoisting his luggage, he dashed across the dim pier, crossed the precarious plank walkway, and as he was about to step through the hatch—the departure whistle blared hollowly.

VI

What proved advantageous for his purpose was that in the second-class cabin at the stern—about ten tatami mats in size—there were only two prior passengers. Moreover, both appeared to be country folk dressed in serge kimonos with serge haori overgarments, their faces weathered like seasoned sailors, while their minds seemed utterly sluggish—middle-aged men of precisely that sort. Hitomi Hiroshi silently entered the cabin, took a seat far from the other passengers in a corner, and lay down on the provided blanket, pretending to settle in for a nap. However, he wasn’t truly sleeping. Remaining turned away, he kept perfectly still, intently observing the two men. Clank-clatter-clunk, clank-clatter-clunk—the nerve-jangling engine vibrations permeated his entire being. Encased in an iron cage, the dim electric light cast his recumbent shadow in an elongated streak across the blanket. Behind him, the men—apparently acquainted—remained seated, murmuring quietly. Their voices blended with the engine’s clamor into a strangely drowsy, languid rhythm. Moreover, the sea lay tranquil, its waves hushed, the vessel’s swaying scarcely perceptible. As he remained motionless in his reclined position, the agitation of recent days gradually subsided—and into that void swirled an indescribable unease, rising like mist from unfathomable depths.

"It's not too late now. You should abandon this quickly." "Before it becomes irreversible, you should abandon this quickly." "Are you seriously trying to carry out this madman's delusion of yours?" "Was it truly not a jest?" "Is your mental state actually sound?" "Could there be some fundamental flaw in you after all?"

As time passed, his anxiety grew. Yet how could he cast aside this immense allure? To his anxious heart, his other heart began its persuasion. Where was there cause for anxiety? Where lay any oversight? Could he abandon now what he had planned so long? And in his mind emerged each scheme—every minute detail surfacing one after another. Moreover, there could be no conceivable reason for even the slightest flaw in any of them.

When he suddenly became aware, the two passengers’ conversation had ceased without his notice, replaced instead by two distinct rhythms of snoring echoing from across the room. Turning over and peering through narrowed eyes, he saw the men lay sprawled in大字 formation, their features slackened in deep slumber. He felt that something was urgently pressing him to act. The thought that the opportunity had arrived instantly swept away his distractions. As if commanded by some imperative beyond himself, he opened the suitcase beside his pillow without a moment’s hesitation and retrieved a scrap of kimono fabric from its depths. It was an old ikat-patterned cotton cloth torn into a peculiar shape, roughly five or six sun in length. When he grabbed it, he closed the suitcase’s lid as before and stealthily slipped out onto the deck.

It was already past eleven o’clock. Earlier in the evening, stewards and crew members had occasionally appeared in the cabin, but now—having perhaps retired to their respective quarters—not a soul remained nearby. On the elevated foredeck ahead, the helmsman was likely maintaining his all-night vigil, though from where Hitomi Hiroshi stood, even that lay beyond sight. Along the gunwale swelled great waves spraying foam; at the stern stretched noctiluca’s phosphorescent glow like a luminous sash. Raising his eyes, he faced the colossal black shadow of Miura Peninsula looming oppressively overhead while fishing village lights flickered intermittently. Above, countless dust-like motes of stardust continued their sluggish rotation through the sky, keeping pace with the ship’s advance. The only sounds were the engine’s heavy throb and waves shattering against the gunwale.

Under these circumstances, there was no immediate risk of his plan being discovered. Fortunately, it was late spring; the sea lay as quiet as if asleep. Due to the course of the shipping route, the shoreline gradually drew closer to the vessel. Now all that remained was merely to wait for the designated spot where land and ship would come nearest. (He had often sailed this route and knew precisely where it approached closest to shore.) All that remained was to swim across just a few hundred meters of open sea undetected.

First, in the darkness, he groped along the gunwale until finding a nail protruding from the outer side of the railing. To this nail he securely fastened the torn kasuri fragment from earlier to prevent it from blowing away in the wind, then concealed himself in the shadow of the canvas. Removing the worn lined kimono—bearing the same pattern as the scrap and worn directly against his skin as his sole garment—he wrapped it around his wallet and disguise tools from his sleeve to prevent them from falling out, and tightly bound the bundle to his back with his heko obi.

“Alright, this will do.” “I just need to endure the cold for a little while.”

He crawled out from the shadow of the canvas, scanned the area once more, and upon confirming that no one was watching, crawled across the deck toward the gunwale in the manner of a giant gecko before smoothly scaling the railing. Clinging to something and leaping in without a sound; taking care not to be dragged into the propeller—these two points were things he had already considered countless times. For this, the most opportune moment was when the ship reduced speed to change course while passing through the waterway. Moreover, that moment was also when they were closest to land. And so, clinging to some rope along the gunwale while preparing to leap into the water at any moment, he waited intently for that opportune instant to change course—any moment now.

Strangely enough, despite this intensely emotional situation, his mind had settled into utter calmness. To be sure, he knew that leaping from a moving ship into the sea and swimming to the opposite shore was not particularly criminal—that the distance was short, his swimming ability confident, and no great danger involved—yet given this was a preliminary act in his grand conspiracy, it stood to reason a man of his disposition could not help but feel uneasy. Despite all this, that he could act so calmly and composedly had to be called nothing short of miraculous. Later, when he looked back on his own state of mind—how it had grown bolder and more audacious with each passing day since first embarking on his plan—he experienced profound astonishment at this drastic transformation. Yet perhaps that very state of mind as he clung to the gunwale had been its incipient spark.

Before long, the ship approached its target location. With a clattering of chains from the helm, it began to change direction, and simultaneously, its speed started to slow.

“Now!” Even as he released the rope, his heart still leapt with a dull thud. The instant he let go, he kicked off the gunwale with all his strength—flattening his body and adopting a method to slide soundlessly into the water as far out as possible, poised to ride the surface.

A gulp-like splash. A numbing cold that seized his body. The seawater’s force pressing from all sides—up, down, left, right. The frustration of thrashing endlessly yet failing to breach the surface. Amidst this, he nevertheless flailed and kicked with desperate fury, never forgetting to put even an inch or a foot between himself and the propeller.

How had he managed to swim through that churning wake? And then, even if the sea had been calm, how had he endured swimming hundreds of meters through that numbing cold water? Even afterward, when he reflected on it, he could not comprehend that mysterious strength he himself had summoned.

Thus, having flawlessly completed the first step of his plan through good fortune, he flung his exhausted body onto the darkened beach of an unnamed fishing village. There he waited for dawn to break, donned his still-damp garments, put on his disguise, and before the villagers awoke, set off walking in what he took to be the direction of Yokosuka.

VII

The man who had been Hitomi Hiroshi until last night spent the next day at a cheap inn near Ōfuna Station, then chose a train arriving in T City just as evening fell the following day, becoming a third-class passenger still in disguise. Dear readers, you have doubtlessly already discerned that he idly squandered this precious day in order to await the newspaper’s publication—to confirm whether his suicide charade had successfully achieved its purpose. And given that he was finally making his way into T City, it goes without saying that the newspaper article had fallen perfectly into place, reporting his suicide.

Under headings like “The Suicide of a Novelist” (for it was only in death that others deigned to call him a novelist), every newspaper carried articles about his suicide—small though they were. The newspapers that reported in relative detail noted that a notebook had been found in the abandoned suitcase—bearing both the signature "Hitomi Hiroshi" and despairing final words lamenting the world—and that a scrap of kasuri fabric, presumed to be from his clothing and likely snagged on a ship’s nail when he jumped, had been left behind. Through these discoveries, it was recorded that both the deceased’s identity and the motivation for his suicide had become clear. In other words, his plan had succeeded flawlessly and completely.

Fortunately for him, he had no relatives who would weep over this feigned suicide. Of course, in his hometown, there was his elder brother’s house (from whom he had received tuition during his student days, though in recent years it had become clear that his brother had abandoned him) and a few other relatives. If those people were to learn of his untimely death, they might feel some measure of regret or even mourn for him. Yet such minor repercussions had been anticipated from the start, and for him, they were hardly cause for any particular anguish.

Rather than that, he found himself consumed by an indescribable sensation—this strange fascination that followed his self-erasure. He was now a stranger with no place in the nation’s family registry, no kin or companions in the vast world, not even a name to claim as his own. When that realization took hold, even the passengers surrounding him—the scenery along the tracks visible through the window, every tree and house—all seemed to belong to an entirely separate reality. It carried at once an exhilarating freshness, like being reborn, yet simultaneously an ineffable loneliness—the knowledge that this solitary man must now shoulder an undertaking far beyond his capacity; a desolation so profound it bordered on anguish, against which he stood utterly defenseless.

The train, however, continued running from station to station, indifferent to his sentiments, and eventually arrived at its destination, T City, as night fell.

The former Hitomi Hiroshi exited the station and immediately hurried to the Komoda family temple. Fortunately, the temple stood in open fields on the city’s outskirts—at that hour, already past nine o’clock—so there were no passersby, and provided he remained cautious even around the temple staff, there was no risk of his work being discovered. Moreover, the area was dotted with old-fashioned farmhouses left unsecured as was customary, making it convenient to steal a hoe from one of their barns.

When he slipped through the sparse hedge along a path between rice fields, there lay the graveyard in question. It was a moonless night, but with the stars shining with exceptional clarity and having previously scouted the location, he found Komoda Genzaburō’s new grave without difficulty. From there, he moved through the stone monuments toward the main hall and peered through a gap in the closed shutters, but all lay hushed and silent; in that remote location, coupled with the temple staff’s early bedtime, they appeared to have already retired for the night.

Having confirmed that this would suffice, he retraced his steps along the ridge path, combed through nearby farmhouses to effortlessly procure a hoe, and returned to Genzaburō’s gravesite. However, since all this required moving with feline stealth and concealing himself in the darkness, the process proved exceedingly time-consuming, and by the time he arrived back, 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 began wielding his hoe to commence the most dreadful grave-digging task imaginable. Being a new grave, it was not difficult to dig up, but when he imagined what lay hidden beneath, even he—who had grown somewhat accustomed to such scenes over recent days and was driven to madness by greed—could not help but shudder with an inexplicable dread. But he had no time to dwell on such thoughts. No sooner had he swung the hoe ten times than the coffin lid came into view.

There was no time for hesitation now. Summoning every ounce of courage, he cleared away the soil from the faintly visible pale wooden planks in the darkness, wedged the hoe’s tip between the boards, and with one mighty heave—*creak…*—a sound that resonated to the marrow of his bones—the lid opened without resistance. In that moment, even the way the surrounding soil crumbled and trickled down into the coffin with a sandy whisper felt like the work of some living thing, and he felt his very life contract in terror. The moment he opened the lid, an indescribable stench assailed his nostrils. Given that seven or eight days had passed since his death, Genzaburō’s corpse must have already begun to decay. He had already been forced to recoil first from its putrid stench before even laying eyes on the corpse.

He, who had never particularly feared 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 Komoda’s corpse—a man who might as well have been another version of himself—for the first time, an unfathomable shadow-like presence seemed to rise from the depths of his soul. With a gasp, he was assaulted by terror so acute it nearly drove him to flee outright. It was by no means the fear of ghosts or anything of that sort, but something far more bizarre—something more grounded in reality, though impossible to fully articulate. It resembled the terror one might feel when alone in a pitch-black great hall, illuminating one’s own face in a mirror with candlelight—only multiplied manyfold.

Under the silent starry sky stood stone monuments that vaguely resembled countless human figures; at their center gaped a pitch-black hole like an open mouth. It resembled an eerie hellscape scroll—the sensation that he himself had become a figure within that painted nightmare. And there in the pit’s depths, shrouded in darkness too profound to penetrate with a mere glance, lay a corpse that was none other than his own. The impossibility of discerning its face amplified his terror. At the bottom glimmered the dim white of a burial shroud, from which emerged a neck dissolving into shadow—precisely this obscurity allowing his mind to conjure unimaginable horrors. Perhaps his scheme had unwittingly prophesied truth—Komoda might not have been truly dead after all, now reviving solely because he’d desecrated this grave. Such ludicrous delusions now assailed him.

He suppressed the trembling rising from within and, with a heart now nearly hollow, lay prone at the edge of the hole. Stretching both hands toward its depths, he resolutely groped for the corpse's body. The first thing he touched appeared to be the shaved head, its entire surface rough with fine stubble. When he pressed the skin, it felt unnaturally spongy—apply slightly more force, and it would slip through and tear. Startled by its eeriness, he jerked his hand back. After waiting for his pounding heart to subside, he reached out again. This time, what he touched resembled the corpse's mouth—a rigid row of teeth with what was likely cotton clamped between them; though soft, it differed entirely from the putrefying skin. Growing bolder, he continued probing around the mouth when he realized Komoda's jaw had fallen open to ten times its size in life. Horizontally split wide enough to fully expose the molars like a demon mask, vertically gaping open enough to reveal the gums. This was no illusion born of darkness.

That sight sent a tremor surging up from the very marrow of his being. It was nothing like the fear that the dead man might bite his hand. Even after the corpse’s lungs had ceased their motion, its surrounding muscles—straining desperately to breathe through the mouth alone—contracted violently, wrenching the lips apart into a gaping maw far beyond what any living human could achieve. This ghastly vision of death throes flickered before his eyes. The former Hitomi Hiroshi felt as though both his spirit and strength had been utterly drained by this much experience alone. Moreover, when he thought that on top of this he still had to extract that slimy, decaying corpse from the hole—not merely extract it, but accomplish an even more dreadful task of disposing it—he could not help but keenly feel, now more than ever, that his plan had been utterly reckless.

Eight That the former Hitomi Hiroshi—even if blinded by vast wealth—could endure those torrents of passion was likely because he, like all criminals, belonged to a class of mentally ill persons: there must have been some defect in his brain, a paralysis of nerves toward specific matters under particular circumstances. When the terror of his crime surpassed a certain threshold—as if plugs had been driven into his ears—a hollow silence engulfed all sound, rendering his conscience deaf. In its place, his intellect concerning evil sharpened to an abnormal degree: like a honed razor, so precise it seemed less human endeavor than the workings of some meticulous mechanism, missing no detail however minute. Thus empowered, he could act with aqueous calm and composure, executing his will unimpeded.

At the very moment he touched Komoda Genzaburō’s decaying corpse—as his terror reached its zenith—conveniently enough, this numbness overcame him once more. He no longer harbored any hesitation. Like a mechanical doll—insensitive and with flawless precision—he proceeded to execute his plans one after another. He lifted and lifted again, Komoda’s corpse oozing through the gaps between his five fingers like an old woman from a penny candy shop gingerly extracting agar jelly from water. Taking care not to damage the corpse, he finally managed to haul it out of the grave. But when he finished this task, the corpse’s thin skin clung tightly to both his palms like gloves made of jellyfish; shake them as he might, shake them as he might, they refused to come off easily. Had this been the usual Hiroshi, that much terror alone would have been sufficient for him to abandon everything and flee. But he, showing no particular surprise, now set about proceeding to the next step of his plan.

Next, he had to eliminate Komoda’s corpse. While erasing Hiroshi himself from this world had been relatively straightforward, disposing of a single human corpse in a manner that would absolutely escape notice was an entirely different order of difficulty. Even if he were to sink it in water or bury it in soil, there was no guarantee it would not resurface or be unearthed somehow. If even a single bone of Genzaburō’s were to be seen by human eyes, not only would the entire plan go up in smoke, but he would also have to bear terrible criminal charges. Therefore, regarding this point, he had been racking his brain from the very first night, pondering this or that possibility.

And ultimately, his brilliant stratagem—for the solution to intractable problems always lies nearest at hand—was to excavate the burial plot adjacent to Komoda’s, where the bones of Komoda’s ancestors likely rested, and inter Genzaburō’s corpse among them. By doing so, the Komoda family would presumably never spawn an unfilial descendant who might desecrate their ancestral graves. Even should the gravesite be relocated in some distant future, by that time Hiroshi would have realized his dream and departed this world in consummate fulfillment. And were fragmented bones of two individuals ever discovered in a single tomb, they would be mistaken for long-departed souls interred eras prior—a matter beyond anyone’s knowledge. But how could this be linked to Hiroshi’s vile machinations? Thus did he convince himself.

Digging up the neighboring grave proved laborious as the soil had hardened, but drenched in sweat and working diligently, he eventually managed to unearth something that resembled bones. The coffin had, of course, decayed without a trace, leaving only scattered white bones clumped together in small clusters, faintly visible in the starlight. By that stage, there was no longer any stench at all; they had completely lost any semblance of biological remains and instead seemed more like some pristine white mineral.

Before the two desecrated graves and a mass of rotting human flesh, he remained motionless in the darkness for some time. He unified his spirit—all to render his mind's workings ever more precise. I cannot afford any carelessness. I cannot allow even the slightest oversight. He set his head ablaze like a fireball and surveyed the dim shapes in the darkness. After some time had passed, he stripped the white burial garment from Genzaburō's corpse without a flicker of emotion and wrenched three rings from the fingers of both hands. Then, wrapping the rings in the burial garment and cramming them into his pocket, he used hands and feet to shove the naked flesh mass sprawled at his feet—as though performing some tedious chore—into the newly dug grave pit. Crawling on all fours afterward, he swept his palms meticulously across every inch of surrounding ground until satisfied no trace remained. Seizing the hoe, he refilled the grave precisely to its original state, re-erected the gravestone, and laid out the pre-removed grass and moss over fresh soil without a single gap.

This should do it. Though it was a pity, Komoda Genzaburō had now become my substitute and vanished from this world forever. And now I who stood there had truly become Komoda Genzaburō. Hitomi Hiroshi was nowhere to be found, no matter where one searched.

The former Hitomi Hiroshi looked up proudly at the starry sky. To him, that domed ceiling of darkness and the silver-powdered stardust seemed like charming toys—endearing, as if whispering tiny blessings upon his future.

A grave had been desecrated, and the corpse within it had vanished. People would be thrown into utter turmoil by this fact alone. Moreover, who could possibly imagine that another grave right beside it had been violated, or that someone would dare execute such a crude yet brazen trick? And into this very maelstrom of confusion, Komoda Genzaburō—clad in his burial garment—would emerge. Then, people’s attention would instantly shift from the graveyard to focus entirely on his miraculous resurrection. After that, everything hinged on the quality of his performance. And concerning that performance, he harbored absolute certainty of success.

Gradually, the sky took on a bluish tint, the stardust dimmed its light, and the crowing of roosters began to rise here and there. In that dim light, he worked as swiftly as possible to arrange Komoda’s grave to appear as though a corpse had resurrected and clawed its way out from within the coffin. Taking care to leave no footprints, he slipped out through the original gap in the hedge to the outer ridge path, disposed of the hoe, and hurried toward town in his original disguise.

Nine

Then, after about an hour had passed, he lay concealed in the shadow of a certain forest thicket—his dirt-covered burial garment-clad form feigning a man who had collapsed by the roadside after staggering along the path toward his home, breathless before walking even a third of the way—following his resurrection from the grave. Having worked through the entire night without food or drink, a fitting haggardness had appeared on his face, rendering his performance all the more convincing. In the initial plan, after disposing of the corpse, he was supposed to immediately change into the burial garment, make his way to the temple’s priest quarters, and knock insistently on the storm shutters there; however, upon seeing that both the head and beard of the corpse—apparently due to this region’s customs—had been neatly shaven through that antiquated tonsure ritual, he found it necessary to similarly shave his own head. So he searched through the rustic merchant houses on the outskirts of town to find a hardware store, purchased one razor, hid himself in the forest, and with great difficulty had to shave his own hair. Since this was before he had removed his usual skillful disguise, entering a barbershop should not have aroused much suspicion; but given the early hour—with barbershops that opened late in the morning still being closed—combined with his prudence in considering contingencies, he had resolved to purchase a razor.

Once he had completely shaved his head, changed into the burial garment, put on the rings taken from the corpse’s hands, burned his discarded clothes and other belongings in a hollow deep within the forest, and disposed of the ashes—by that time, the sun had already risen high, and outside the forest, people were passing sporadically along the highway. It was now too late to leave his hiding place and return to the temple, so he had no choice but to lie as if unconscious in the shadow of a thicket—difficult to spot yet not too far from the road.

A small stream ran along the road, its banks densely lined with slender-leaved shrubs that dipped their branches into the water; beyond these stretched a forest where tall pines and cedars grew sparsely. He lay pressed against the other side of the shrubs, holding his breath and taking care not to be seen from the road. While peering through gaps in the foliage at the feet of peasants passing along the thoroughfare, that peculiar sensation began creeping over him again as his nerves settled.

“Now everything had gone exactly according to plan,” he thought. “All that remained was for someone to find me. But with mere trifles like swimming through the sea, digging a grave, and shaving my head—was it truly possible that those tens of millions of yen would become mine? Wasn’t this scheme far too naive? Was I not playing some preposterous clown’s part here? Could it be that those people out there knew everything and were just feigning ignorance for their own amusement?”

Thus, the nerves of an ordinary man—which would have been utterly paralyzed in moments of intense passion—gradually revived within him. And this anxiety grew even more intense when peasant children discovered his madman-like figure clad in a burial garment and set off a commotion.

“Hey, look! There’s something sleeping here!” As one of a group of four or five children—attempting to enter the forest that served as their playground—suddenly noticed his white figure, he stepped back in surprise and whispered to the other children outside.

“What’s that?” “A lunatic?” “Dead body! Dead body!”

“Let’s go closer and check it out!” “Come on, let’s look! Let’s look!” A band of rowdy boys around ten years old—dressed in tattered rural-striped garments so grimy their patterns were indistinguishable, the fabric grime-blackened and glossy—whispered among themselves as they warily edged toward him. When the snot-nosed peasant brats—their faces streaked with sniffling mucus—peered at him like he was some rare sideshow attraction, envisioning that ludicrous spectacle made him seethe with mounting anxiety and indignation. “So now I’m a clown.” He’d never dreamed his first discoverers would be peasant brats. “To become these wretches’ plaything and stage this preposterous humiliation—is this my grand finale?” He could scarcely contain his despair.

But of course he couldn’t possibly stand up and scold the children—no matter how many of them there were, he had no choice but to continue feigning unconsciousness. And as the children grew increasingly bold, eventually even touching his body, he had to endure it motionlessly. The sheer absurdity of it all made him want to wreck everything, suddenly stand up, and burst out laughing raucously.

“Hey, go tell Pa!”

Before long, one child whispered breathlessly. Then, the other children outside also, “Yeah, let’s! Let’s!”

With that mutter, they clattered off somewhere. They went to report the mysterious collapsed person to their respective parents.

Before long, a clamor of voices arose from the direction of the highway as several peasants came running. Shouting whatever came to mind, they lifted him up and began tending to him. Hearing the rumors, people gradually gathered, surrounding him like a seething mass until the commotion grew ever larger. “Ah! Isn’t this Mr. Komoda?”

Before long, there appeared to be someone among them who recognized Genzaburō, and a loud cry was heard.

“That’s it! That’s it!” A few voices responded in agreement. Then, among the crowd were those who had already heard of the incident at the Komoda family’s cemetery. A commotion—“Mr. Komoda has returned from the grave!”—spread like wildfire through the country folk, passed from mouth to mouth as a miraculous event. The Komoda family was—in T City’s vicinity, no, throughout all of M Prefecture—the prefecture’s foremost wealthy household, so illustrious as to be the region’s pride. That their family head—buried once—had broken free from his coffin to return alive after ten full days could only be an earth-shattering marvel to them. Some villagers raced to alert the Komoda estate in T City, others dashed to the temple, still others sprinted to summon a doctor—abandoning fields and all else—until nearly every soul in the village had joined the frenzy.

The former Hitomi Hiroshi was finally able to witness the fruits of his labor. If things continued this way, his plan might not end as mere fantasy after all. At last, the time had come for him to perform his signature act. In full view of the crowd, he first snapped his eyes wide open with an air of having just regained consciousness. And with an utterly bewildered expression, he vacantly looked around at the people’s faces.

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

Seeing this, the man who was 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 pungently assailed his nostrils. And within those countless gleaming eyes before him, each and every one overflowed with simple sincerity—not a single soul harbored even a speck of doubt about his true identity. But Hiroshi, regardless of how the others reacted, did not attempt to alter the premeditated sequence of his act. He remained silent, making no movement other than the gesture of gazing at the people’s faces, and uttered not a single word. And thus, until he could fully ascertain everything, he feigned a dazed consciousness and sought to avoid the peril of speaking.

I shall omit the tedious details of how he was carried into the inner chambers of the Komoda residence. From town came an automobile bearing the Komoda family’s general manager, other servants, and a doctor; from the family temple arrived priests and caretakers; from the police came the chief and two or three officers; and Komoda relatives who had heard the emergency rushed forth one after another toward this outskirt forest as though attending a fire. The surrounding area buzzed with war-like commotion—a sight that made plain the immense prestige and influence of the Komoda family.

He was escorted by those people to what was now his own home—the Komoda residence—and even after lying amid luxurious bedding in the master’s quarters, finer than any he had ever seen, he rigidly adhered to his initial plan. Like a mute, he kept his lips sealed and ultimately did not attempt to utter a single word.

Ten

This wordless conduct of his persisted tenaciously for about a week. During that time, from within his sickbed, he pricked up his ears, kept his eyes sharp, sought to understand every custom of the Komoda household, the dispositions of its people, and the atmosphere within the residence—striving to assimilate himself into it all. Outwardly lying motionless in bed as a half-conscious, half-dead patient, his mind alone—to use an odd analogy—spun with sparks flying, as nimbly, swiftly, and precisely as a race car driver hurtling at fifty miles per hour.

The doctor’s diagnosis was largely what he had anticipated. He was said to be one of T City’s most distinguished physicians attending the Komoda household, yet he sought to resolve this miraculous resurrection through the ambiguous medical term “catalepsy.” He expounded through various examples how conclusively determining death was profoundly difficult, while maintaining his original death diagnosis had not been negligent. Peering through his glasses at relatives clustered around Hiroshi’s bedside, he tediously explained—using abstruse terminology—the relationship between epilepsy and catalepsy, along with their connection to suspended animation. The relatives listened and seemed satisfied through their incomplete understanding. With the man himself restored to life after all, they had no particular cause for complaint even if the explanation proved inadequate.

The physician, with a look mingling unease and curiosity, meticulously examined Hiroshi’s body. And with an expression of having comprehended everything, he had in fact fallen neatly into Hiroshi’s trap. In this situation, the physician was so preoccupied with defending his own misdiagnosis that even when noticing physical changes in the patient’s body, he lacked capacity to consider them deeply. Moreover, even had he doubted Hiroshi, how could such an outlandish notion as this man being Genzaburō’s substitute ever have occurred to him? Once someone pronounced dead had resurrected—such a momentous event—observing physical alterations in the revived individual hardly warranted particular astonishment. And even for a specialist, reasoning thus was by no means unreasonable.

Since the cause of death was an epileptic seizure (though the physician had labeled it catalepsy), there were no particular internal injuries to speak of, and even his weakness proved manageable—all that was needed regarding meals was to ensure proper nutrition. Consequently, Hiroshi’s feigned illness—requiring nothing more than maintaining a pretense of mental haziness and keeping silent—caused him no pain whatsoever and remained an exceedingly easy act to sustain. Despite this, the family’s nursing care was truly exhaustive: the physician came twice daily; two nurses and a maid kept constant vigil at his bedside; and Tsunoda, the elderly general manager, along with relatives, came to check on his condition without cease. To Hiroshi, the sight of all those people lowering their voices, stealing their footsteps, and comporting themselves with such exaggerated concern struck him as utterly absurd and farcical. He could not help but keenly feel that the world he had until now regarded with solemnity was in fact akin to a trivial child’s game of make-believe. Only he himself appeared supremely grand, while the other members of the Komoda household seemed as trifling and insignificant as insects. So that’s it? Is this all there is?

It felt closer to disappointment than anything else. Through this experience, he believed he had gained insight into the arrogant mindsets of history's great heroes and master criminals. Yet among them all stood one figure who unsettled him—someone vaguely ominous, almost intimidating in a way he couldn't define. This was none other than his own wife—or more precisely, the widow of the late Komoda Genzaburō. Her name was Chiyoko: a mere girl of twenty-two by any measure, yet one he found himself compelled to fear for reasons both concrete and nebulous.

He had known since his previous visit to T City that Komoda’s wife was still young and beautiful. Yet as he saw her daily—appearing more like one of those women whose allure intensifies with proximity—her charm gradually became more pronounced. Naturally she proved his most devoted nurse; from her meticulous care attending to every need he could well infer how profound an affection had bound her to Genzaburō. All this only deepened Hiroshi’s peculiar unease. I must not let my guard down around this woman. Undoubtedly she poses the greatest threat to my enterprise. He had to admonish himself through gritted teeth.

Hiroshi could not forget the scene of his first meeting with her as Genzaburō for a long time afterward. When the automobile bearing him in his burial garment reached the Komoda estate’s gate, Chiyoko—perhaps restrained by someone—remained just inside the entrance, so overwhelmed by the extraordinary event that she seemed rather disoriented. Her teeth chattering uncontrollably as she trembled with agitation, she paced restlessly along the long stone-paved path within the grounds alongside the ashen-faced maids. Yet the moment she glimpsed Hiroshi atop the automobile, her expression momentarily froze in shock—(how his gall must have chilled at that sight!)—before dissolving into a childlike tearful visage. Clinging to the car door in an ungainly manner, she then ran as though dragged along until the vehicle reached the main entrance.

And unable to wait for his body to be carried down at the entrance, she clung to it, remaining motionless and weeping for a long time until the relatives, unable to bear watching her, pulled her away from him. All the while, he had to feign a vacant expression and keep staring at her face pressed so close he could count each individual eyelash—at those lashes swollen with tears, at the pale cheeks glistening with white down like an unripe peach, at the chaotic rivers of tears coursing over them, and at the smooth pale-pink lips that twisted as though smiling. But that was not all. Her bare arms came to rest on his shoulders, the heaving hills of her chest warmed his own, and even her distinctive faint fragrance tickled his nostrils. He could never forget the utterly bizarre sensation of that moment.

Eleven

Hiroshi’s indescribable kind of terror toward Chiyoko deepened with each passing day.

Even during the single week he remained confined to bed, terrifying crises assaulted him time and again. For example, there was a certain midnight when Hiroshi, tormented by a harrowing nightmare, suddenly opened his eyes to find that the master of the nightmare—who had been sleeping in the next room—had somehow entered his chamber. With disheveled hair cascading sensuously onto his chest, she continued her demure sobbing. “Chiyoko, Chiyoko, there’s really no need to worry so much.” “As you can see, I am sound in both body and mind—the same Genzaburō as always.” “Come now, stop your crying. Show me that adorable smile of yours, won’t you?”

He had to desperately suppress the urge to suddenly blurt out such things and feign innocent sleep like a cunning raccoon dog. This strange predicament was something even the ever-resourceful Hiroshi had never anticipated. Be that as it may, he began gradually speaking around the fourth or fifth day through an exquisitely crafted performance according to plan, naturally enacting how nerves temporarily paralyzed by the upheaval were gradually awakening. His method involved pretending to have only just recalled what he had observed or inferred during his bedridden days while deliberately avoiding unverified details. When others raised such points, he would furrow his brow and affect an air of irretrievable memory. To render this charade convincing, he had endured days of agonizing silence beforehand—a stratagem that succeeded perfectly. Even when forgetting elementary facts or offering nonsensical replies, none suspected deceit. Instead, they pitied what they perceived as his lamentable mental state.

In this manner, while maintaining his feigned recovery, he was able—through some method of committing them to memory whenever he faltered—to swiftly become thoroughly familiar with the Komoda household’s internal and external relations. With the physician’s stamp of approval now secured—deeming this sufficient assurance—precisely half a month after he had entered the Komoda household, a grand celebration of his recovery was to be held. At that banquet too, he managed to glean an immense amount of knowledge from the carefree banter of the gathered relatives, leaders of various enterprises under the Komoda household, and important employees including the general manager. Then, from the day after that celebration, he finally resolved to take his first step toward realizing his grand vision.

“Well, it seems I’ve finally managed to return to my original body.” “Therefore, as I have certain considerations in mind, I now wish to conduct a comprehensive inspection of the various enterprises under my control—my fields, fisheries, and so forth.” “And clarify my hazy memories, then I intend to try formulating a more systematic plan regarding the Komoda household’s finances.” “Please make those arrangements for me.”

He summoned General Manager Tsunoda early in the morning and conveyed such intentions. And that very day, accompanied by Tsunoda and a few attendants, he departed for his territories scattered throughout the prefecture.

General Manager Tsunoda stared wide-eyed in astonishment at his master’s proactive methods—so unlike the reserved demeanor the man had exhibited until now. And though he initially admonished him, arguing that physical contact was inadvisable, a single barked command from Hiroshi left him frozen in place, with no choice but to obey his master’s orders without question. Though conducted in haste, his inspection tour still took a full month. During that month, he surveyed all that belonged to him—endless fields, untrodden primeval forests, vast fisheries, sawmills, bonito flake factories, various canneries, and other ventures partially funded by the Komoda family—and even now, he could not help but marvel at his own immense fortune.

The detailed account of what he observed and felt during this journey cannot be recorded here for lack of space, but in any case, he had sufficiently confirmed that his owned properties were indeed as substantial—indeed, even more so—than the book value old man Tsunoda had previously shown him. While receiving lavish hospitality at every destination, he pondered various matters: how to most advantageously dispose of and liquidate these real estate holdings and profit-making ventures; what order of disposal would least attract public attention; which factory managers seemed stubbornly resistant; which forest custodians appeared somewhat dim-witted—and thus whether to sell that mountain tract before this factory; whether any local forestry operators might be waiting to purchase such properties. At the same time, taking advantage of the ease of companionship during their travels, he devoted all his efforts to becoming close friends with old man Tsunoda, ultimately succeeding in softening his heart to the point where he became a confidant in matters of property disposal.

As their journey continued, Hiroshi gradually and imperceptibly—without any conscious effort—became fully transformed into Komoda Genzaburō, the born multimillionaire. The managers of his enterprises prostrated themselves before him without hesitation, showing not a wisp of suspicion; in every region, relatives and innkeepers would stir up a commotion fit for welcoming a feudal lord, with not a single soul daring to stare rudely at his face; and when geishas acquainted with the late Genzaburō occasionally tapped his shoulder with remarks like “My, it’s been ages,” he grew ever bolder—the bolder he became, the more polished his performance grew. Now he had nearly forgotten his fear of exposure; that he had once been a penniless scholar named Hitomi Hiroshi even began to feel like the real lie.

Needless to say, this astonishing change in circumstances filled him with supreme joy—yet the sensation was less one of happiness than of sheer absurdity, less absurdity than a peculiar emptiness in his chest. It felt like soaring through clouds, like being trapped in a dream: on one hand, an endless impatience gnawed at him; on the other, an eerie calm settled over his being—an utterly indescribable state of mind.

Thus, his plans advanced steadily—yet the devil, not appearing from the direction he had anticipated and guarded against, gradually took clearer form in an unexpected quarter where even he, for all his foresight, had not considered. All the while, it crept inexorably into his heart.

Twelve

Amidst all the hospitality, while continuing his journey of perfect contentment, Hiroshi would often find himself picturing in his mind—with a mingled feeling of fear and longing—the figure of Chiyoko, whom he had 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 he had secretly committed to memory transformed into nightly dreams that ravaged his very soul. Given that Chiyoko was Genzaburō’s wife, loving her was only natural for Hiroshi, who had now become Genzaburō—and she herself undoubtedly desired it as well. Yet precisely because this wish was so easily attainable, it tormented Hiroshi all the more excruciatingly, to the point where he found himself entertaining such reckless thoughts as casting everything before her—body and soul, even his lifelong dream—and simply dying then and there, no matter what terrible collapse might follow in the night’s wake.

However, according to his original plan, he had never imagined that Chiyoko’s allure would tormentingly take root in his heart to this extent. Therefore, out of precaution against potential dangers, he had intended to keep Chiyoko merely as a nominal wife and distance her from his side as much as possible. For no matter how perfectly his face, form, and voice might resemble Genzaburō’s, no matter how thoroughly they might deceive even those most intimate with Genzaburō, to expose his naked self before the wife of the deceased Genzaburō—stripped of theatrical costumes and disguises within the bedchamber—was, upon reconsideration, far too reckless an act. Chiyoko must surely know every minute mannerism of Genzaburō’s and every last physical characteristic as intimately as the lines on her palm. Therefore, if even the slightest part of Hiroshi’s body differed from Genzaburō’s, his mask would immediately slip away, and this would inevitably lead to the complete exposure of his conspiracy.

“Can you really discard the grand ideal you’ve cherished for years—all for the sake of one woman, Chiyoko—no matter how remarkable she may be? If you could realize that ideal, wouldn’t a world of intense, rapturous intoxication—one that makes a single woman’s charm pale in comparison—await you there? Just try thinking about it. Just try to recall even a single fragment of the ideal realm you’ve been envisioning day after day. Compared to that, isn’t a mere romance between two people in the human world too trivial a desire—hardly worth pursuing? You mustn’t let fleeting distractions turn all your hard work into nothing. Wasn’t your desire supposed to be much, much bigger?”

Thus, standing at the boundary between reality and dream—though of course he could not abandon his dream—the temptations of reality proved far too powerful, plunging him into layer upon layer of dilemma and forcing him to endure torments unknown to others.

However, in the end, the allure of his lifelong dream and the terror of his crime being discovered could not make Chiyoko abandon her resolve. And so—to distract himself from that sorrow, to erase Chiyoko’s lonely, sorrowful face from his mind—as though that had been his original purpose all along, he devoted himself single-mindedly to his enterprise. Upon returning from his inspection tour, he first discreetly disposed of the most inconspicuous stock certificates and used those funds to commence preparations for constructing his ideal realm. The newly hired painters, sculptors, architects, civil engineers, landscape architects, and others gathered daily at his residence, where under his direction they began work on otherworldly designs. Simultaneously, vast quantities of order forms—for trees, flowering plants, stone materials, glass panels, cement, iron materials—or messengers bearing such orders were dispatched as far as the South Seas, while multitudes of laborers, carpenters, gardeners, and others streamed in from all regions. Among them were also a few electricians, divers, boat carpenters, and the like.

The strange thing was that from around that time, young women who were neither quite maids nor proper housemaids began being hired daily at his residence, their numbers soon swelling until even their quarters grew inadequate. After numerous revisions to the plans, the location for constructing the ideal realm was ultimately fixed as Offshore Island, isolated at S District's southern tip. Concurrently, the design office transferred to hastily built barracks erected on the island, with technicians, craftsmen, laborers, and those enigmatic women all being shipped over one after another. As the ordered materials started arriving in succession, an uncanny large-scale construction finally began on the island.

The Komoda family’s relatives and the leaders of various enterprises would not remain silent in the face of this outrageous undertaking. As the project advanced, Hiroshi’s reception room became crowded with technicians occupied by design work, and daily those people would gather there—voices raised in condemnation of his recklessness, demanding the cessation of this bizarre construction project. Yet this was precisely what Hiroshi had foreseen when first conceiving the plan. He had resolved to sacrifice half the Komoda family’s entire fortune for this purpose. Though termed relatives, they were all subordinate in status to the Komoda household, their wealth incomparably meager. When necessary, he could effortlessly silence them by generously bestowing large shares of his fortune.

And so, in every sense, a year of battle passed by. During this time, what hardships Hiroshi had endured, how many times he had nearly abandoned his enterprise only to barely hold himself back, how irredeemably his relationship with his wife Chiyoko had deteriorated—all these details shall be left to your imagination, dear readers, to quicken our tale’s progression. In short, it was the inexhaustible wealth accumulated by the Komoda family that had rescued them from every crisis. I shall confine myself to stating that before money’s power, the word “impossible” held no meaning.

Thirteen Yet for all its power—the Komoda family’s immense wealth that had overcome every obstacle and silenced all opposition—it held no sway whatsoever before the love of Chiyoko alone. Even if her family had been placated by Hiroshi’s usual tactics, her own directionless sorrow remained utterly beyond consolation. She had no choice but to silently endure the strange alteration in her husband’s temperament since his resurrection, this mysterious fact that she could not unravel, and the sorrow she could share with no one.

Of course she was concerned that her husband’s reckless actions had brought the Komoda family’s finances to the brink of peril, but for her, more than such material matters, it was simply about how she could regain his affection—why had his once-fervent love suddenly cooled as though he’d become a different person since that incident? And so, day and night, she could think of nothing but this.

“In the eyes with which he gazed upon me, I sensed an eerie glint.” Yet those were not eyes that regarded me with hatred. On the contrary, in those eyes I could even detect a pure affection—the likes of which I had never before witnessed—resembling first love. Yet why then this utterly contrary treatment—this aloofness toward me—what in the world could it mean? Given that such a dreadful event had occurred, there was nothing strange about his temperament or constitution having changed from before—and yet, I could not help but find it utterly perplexing how nowadays, at the mere sight of my face, he behaved as though some terrifying being were approaching, desperately trying to flee. “If he detests me so, he should simply divorce me outright—yet he does not. Without uttering a single harsh word, no matter how diligently he conceals it, his eyes alone kept leaping toward me with this strange attachment. Oh, what am I to do?”

Not only was Hiroshi’s position extraordinary, but hers too had to be called truly bizarre. Moreover, while Hiroshi had the great solace of his enterprise into which he could devote much of his time each day, Chiyoko possessed no such refuge. On the contrary, not only was she subjected to incessant criticism from her family regarding her husband’s conduct—reproaches that highlighted her powerlessness as a wife, which alone was enough to exhaust her—but beyond the elderly maid who had accompanied her from her family home, neither her husband’s enterprise—nay, even her husband himself—had absolutely nothing to do with her. Her loneliness and helplessness were beyond compare.

Needless to say, Hiroshi understood Chiyoko’s sorrow all too well. He mostly stayed overnight at the office on Offshore Island, but even on the rare occasions he returned to the estate, he maintained an odd distance—never engaging in open conversation, and going so far as to deliberately sleep in separate rooms at night. Then, on most nights, the sound of Chiyoko’s stifled sobs—as though she might collapse—would drift from the neighboring room. Yet with no words to comfort her, he too would find himself on the verge of tears, and that was always how things ended.

Granted it was out of fear that their conspiracy would be exposed, one must truly say it was strange that such an unnatural state of affairs persisted for nearly a year. But this one year marked the utmost limit for them.

Eventually, from a mere chance incident, the day of calamitous rupture arrived between them. That day, with construction on Offshore Island nearly completed and the civil engineering and landscaping work having reached a milestone, key personnel gathered at the Komoda residence for a modest drinking banquet. Hiroshi—overjoyed that his long-cherished ambitions neared fulfillment—cavorted about in raptures, while young technicians matched his fervor with their own boisterous revelry. By the time the festivities concluded, midnight had long since passed. Several geishas and apprentice geishas from town had graced the gathering, but they too eventually withdrew. Some guests remained overnight at the Komoda residence while others slipped away to unknown destinations. The banquet hall lay like tidelines after ebb tide—amidst scattered cups and dishes, Hiroshi alone sprawled in drunken collapse, with none but his wife Chiyoko to tend him.

The next morning, Hiroshi—who had unexpectedly risen as early as seven o’clock—entered Chiyoko’s sitting room with muffled footsteps, his heart throbbing between a sweet recollection and an indescribable remorse, after hesitating time and again. And there he discovered Chiyoko—pale and motionless, sitting with her lips bitten tight, gazing fixedly at the sky—looking as though she were a different person altogether.

“Chiyo, what’s wrong?”

Inwardly teetering on despair yet outwardly feigning nonchalance, he spoke these words. Yet just as he had half-anticipated, she remained staring emptily at the sky, offering no response.

“Chiyo…” He tried to call out again but suddenly fell silent. He had encountered Chiyoko’s piercing gaze. The moment he saw those eyes, he understood everything. Indeed, there was some distinguishing feature on his body that differed from the late Genzaburō Komoda. It was this that Chiyoko had discovered the previous night.

At a certain moment, he dimly remembered how she had started back from him with a gasp, her body rigid, then lay motionless as though dead. At that moment, she realized something. And since this morning too, she had remained pale like that, gradually becoming more clearly aware of that terrible suspicion. How wary he had been of her from the very beginning! Hadn’t enduring the long months of a year—stifling burning emotions all the while—been solely to avoid such a collapse? And yet, through a single night’s carelessness, he had ended up committing an irreparable blunder. It was over.

Her suspicion would never be resolved, even as it deepened further in the days to come. If she would keep this to herself alone, it wouldn’t be particularly frightening—but how could she possibly let the enemy of her true husband, the thief who had stolen from the Komoda family, go unpunished like this? Eventually, this matter would reach the ears of the authorities. And if skilled detectives were to extend their investigations from one lead to another, it was an absolute certainty that the truth would eventually be exposed.

"No matter how drunk you were," he thought, "what an irreparable thing you've done. How am I supposed to handle this situation?" Hiroshi was filled with regret that no matter how much he lamented, it would never be enough. And so the couple remained facing each other in Chiyoko’s room—neither uttering a single word as they glared at one another for what felt like an eternity—until finally Chiyoko, as though unable to endure the terror any longer...

“I’m sorry, but I feel terribly unwell. Please… just leave me alone as I am.”

After finally saying just this much, she suddenly collapsed forward on the spot.

Fourteen

It was on 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 sort of proof—if he were not Genzaburō, could there truly exist in this world someone who resembled him so perfectly? Even if one were to search all across vast Japan, it’s not impossible that someone with exactly the same face exists—but even if there were such a perfect double, it seems inconceivable that this person could have just happened to rise from Genzaburō’s grave, as though by some trick or magic. When she thought, "Could this perhaps be my own shameful misunderstanding?" even her previous unseemly display began to feel inexcusable toward her husband.

Yet on the other hand, when she considered the drastic change in her husband’s temperament since his resurrection, the inexplicable large-scale construction on Offshore Island, his strange aloofness toward her, and that irrefutable evidence laid out before her—it still seemed somehow suspicious. Perhaps instead of moping alone, she ought to fully disclose this matter to someone and seek counsel—such thoughts began to occur to her.

Since that night, Hiroshi—consumed by anxiety—had remained secluded at the estate under the pretext of illness, never visiting the island's construction site while discreetly monitoring Chiyoko's every movement. Through this surveillance, he had managed to largely grasp the workings of her mind. Though this state of affairs brought him temporary relief, observing how she now entrusted all his personal care to maids—never approaching him nor exchanging proper words—made him realize he could not afford complacency. Should their secret somehow leak out—no, even if it never reached outsiders—it might already be spreading among the estate's servants during this very interval. This thought left him increasingly unsettled until, after four days of torturous hesitation, he finally steeled his resolve to kill her.

Now, that afternoon, he summoned Chiyoko to his room and, feigning complete nonchalance, began to speak in this manner.

“Since my condition has improved, I thought I’d head back to the island now—and this time, I don’t believe I’ll return until the construction is fully completed. So during that period, I wanted you to come stay there with me on the island for a while. How about going for a change of scenery? Besides, my strange work is nearly finished—I’d like to show it to you at least once.” Yet Chiyoko showed no sign of relinquishing her suspicious demeanor, inventing one pretext after another to reject his proposal outright. He employed every tactic—coaxing and threatening by turns—wearing himself out as he pleaded until his mouth went dry for a full thirty minutes, until finally compelling her consent through half-threatening pressure. The reason lay in her conflicted heart: even as she doubted and feared Hiroshi, another part of her still felt attached to him—whether he was Genzaburō or not. Now, even after agreeing to go, there ensued a brief debate about whether to bring the elderly maid along, ultimately settling on traveling without her—just Hiroshi and Chiyoko alone—boarding the afternoon train that very day. Admittedly, there would be plenty of women on the island regardless, so no particular inconvenience was anticipated.

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

Chiyoko felt an indescribable terror yet also a peculiar enjoyment during this long-awaited journey alone with her husband, praying that the events of that night might have been nothing more than her own delusion. To her delight, both on the train and aboard the boat, her husband was uncharacteristically tender and talkative—attending to her every need, pointing out passing scenery beyond the windows—all of which felt unnervingly sweet and nostalgic to her, even reminiscent of their honeymoon travels. And so, with that dreadful suspicion having faded from her mind as if forgotten unconsciously, she found herself wishing only to prolong this transient joy as long as possible—even should tomorrow bring ruin.

As the ship approached Offshore Island, an enormous buoy-like structure floated twenty ken from the shore, against which the vessel moored. The buoy’s surface—a two-ken square of iron plating—bore a small hatch-like opening at its center. The two walked across from the ship and stepped onto the buoy. “Now look carefully at the island from here.” “Those formations towering like rocky mountains are all concrete walls I constructed.” “From outside they appear part of the island, but inside lies something extraordinary.” “See that high scaffolding peeking above the ‘mountains’?” “Only that section remains unfinished—what will become an immense Hanging Garden... a celestial flower garden.” “Let us now tour my dreamland.” “There’s nothing to fear.” “Descend through this entrance, traverse the seafloor, and we’ll soon emerge on the island.” “Come—I’ll take your hand. Follow me.”

Hiroshi said gently and took Chiyoko’s hand. He too, just like Chiyoko, found crossing the sea floor hand in hand strangely pleasant. Even as he knew he would eventually have to kill her, this very thought made the feel of her soft skin seem all the more dear and nostalgic. After passing through the hatch and descending a dark vertical shaft for about five or six ken, a tunnel-like path opened up horizontally—wide enough for a typical building corridor. Chiyoko descended there and, the moment she took a step, couldn’t help but let out an involuntary gasp. It was truly a glass-encased tunnel offering unobstructed views of the seabed in all directions—above, below, left, and right.

Thick plate glass was fitted tightly into a concrete frame, with powerful electric lights installed outside it. Above their heads, beneath their feet, and to both sides—within a radius of two or three ken—the uncanny underwater scenery could be viewed as though within arm’s reach. Slimy black rocks; seaweed of every kind swaying violently like the manes of colossal beasts; schools of fish beyond terrestrial imagination darting about; a giant octopus splayed with eight wheel-like legs, its eerie suckers bulging as it clung to the glass pane; shrimp writhing spider-like across rocky surfaces—all illuminated by harsh electric lights yet blurred by the water’s depth, while farther out, in bluish-black forests of shadow, swarms of indescribable monsters seemed to seethe and swarm. This nightmare spectacle defied all comprehension for those who dwelled on land.

“How about that? Surprised, aren’t you? But this is still just the entrance, you know. As we go further ahead, you’ll see even more fascinating things.” Hiroshi explained with evident pride while comforting Chiyoko, who had turned pale from the overwhelming eeriness.

Fifteen

The bizarre mock-honeymoon journey of Hitomi Hiroshi—formerly impersonating Komoda Genzaburō—and Chiyoko, his wife yet not his wife, proved a cruel twist of fate as they wandered through his self-styled dreamland, this so-called earthly paradise of his creation. Though bound by limitless mutual affection on one plane, they harbored diametrically opposed intentions on another—Hiroshi scheming to erase Chiyoko's existence while she nursed dreadful suspicions toward him—each probing the other's heart through this mutual scrutiny that nevertheless failed to breed hostility, instead evoking a strangely sweet nostalgia.

Hiroshi would sometimes find himself wavering—trying to suppress his once-resolved murderous intent, even considering surrendering body and soul to this bizarre love with Chiyoko.

“Chiyo, are you not lonely? “Walking on the sea floor like this… just the two of us.” “…Are you not afraid?” He suddenly ventured these words. “No, I’m not afraid at all. “Though the seafloor scenery beyond that glass is terribly eerie, when I feel you here beside me, I’m not frightened in the slightest.”

She answered in this manner, drawing somewhat coquettishly close to him. Had she, without realizing it, forgotten that terrible suspicion, and was she now simply intoxicated by the pleasures before her eyes?

The glass tunnel wound in mysterious curves, continuing endlessly like a snake. Even illuminated by hundreds of candlepower electric lights, the stagnant darkness of the seabed could not be dispelled. Oppressive air thick with a clammy chill; the subterranean rumble of waves crashing far overhead; squirming creatures in the bluish gloom beyond the glass—it was a vista wholly alien to this world. As Chiyoko progressed, her initial blind dread gradually transformed into wonder; then, as she grew further accustomed, she began to feel an uncanny intoxication with the charm of the dreamlike, phantasmal undersea pathway.

The fish in the distant reaches beyond the electric lights' reach passed each other by—only their eyeballs like fireflies flitting over a summer night's river surface—trailing comet-like tails as they emitted an eerie phosphorescence horizontally, vertically, in all directions. When they, drawn by the lamplight, approached the glass pane—crossing the boundary between darkness and light—and gradually exposed their various shapes and multicolored hues beneath its glow in such a bizarre spectacle, what could possibly compare? With its colossal maw facing directly forward, neither tail nor fins moving, slicing smoothly through the water like a submarine, the indistinct form within the mist grew visibly larger until—resembling a locomotive in a motion picture—it loomed so near it seemed about to collide with her very face.

Rising and falling, bending left and right, the glass path continued along the island’s coast for dozens of ken. When one ascends to the top, the sea surface and glass ceiling come so close they nearly touch, allowing the surroundings to be viewed as clearly as if within arm’s reach even without electric lights; yet when one descends completely, even hundreds of candlepower lamps can do no more than faintly illuminate a mere foot or two ahead, beyond which stretches an endless expanse of hellish darkness.

Having grown up near the sea and being accustomed to its sights and sounds, Chiyoko had naturally never before experienced an intimate journey across the seabed like this. Thus, it was hardly unreasonable that she suddenly felt an indescribable temptation—a blend of wonder, poisonous garishness, repulsiveness, yet also an eerily alluring beauty of an inhuman realm—toward this terrifyingly vivid alternate world beneath the waves. She witnessed the various seaweed—which had never stirred any emotion in her when seen dried on land—now breathing, growing, caressing one another, even engaging in struggles and conversing in some incomprehensible language; at the sheer grotesquerie of their thriving forms, she felt her very being stiffen with dread.

The great forest of brown kelp swayed gently in the seawater's faint movements, like the tangled treetops of a storm-ravaged forest. Like faces rotten and pockmarked with holes—the loathsome anemones; the Ezowakame kelp resembling giant spiders, their slimy skins quivering as they flailed malformed limbs; the kajime standing like candelabra trees of the seabed; the ōbamoku comparable to palm giants; the turumo algae akin to repulsive roundworm aunties; great plains of aonori seaweed burning with green flames—these had covered every inch of the ocean floor, sparing only scattered patches of bare rock. What forms might their roots assume? What dreadful creatures infested those depths? Only their upper fronds remained visible—countless serpent heads tangling, frolicking, and snarling at one another. All this was viewed through layers of indigo-black seawater, illuminated by hazy electric light.

In one area—looking like the aftermath of some great massacre—lay clusters of amanori seaweed stained dull black as congealed blood; crimson-haired nori resembling women with disheveled locks; chicken-foot algae shaped like fowl claws; centipede-like nori appearing as giant scarlet millipedes. Most unnerving of all was a cluster of cockscomb nori—its bright red hue so vivid one might suspect an underwater flowerbed of celosia blooms had sunk beneath the waves. The terrifying intensity of seeing crimson in that pitch-black seabed defied all terrestrial imagination.

Moreover, through that slimy thicket—yellow, blue, and red—twisted with countless serpent tongues, swarmed the dozens upon dozens of luminous creatures previously mentioned. As they entered the sphere of electric light, each revealed its phantasmal form like images from a magic lantern. Ferocious-faced cat sharks and tiger sharks, exposing their pallid white bellies of bloodless mucous membranes, would dart across their field of vision like random assailants, at times glaring with vengeance-filled eyes to charge the glass walls—even attempting to bite through them. At that moment, their greedy, thick lips pressed against the far side of the glass pane—filthy with spittle and twisted like those of thugs threatening defenseless women—provoked such an association that Chiyoko shuddered involuntarily.

If small sharks could be likened to beasts of the seafloor, then among the fish appearing in that glass passageway, rays might be compared to fierce water-dwelling birds, while conger eels and moray eels could be seen as venomous snakes. Those on land—who at best had only seen live fish in the glass tanks of aquariums—might find this metaphor too exaggerated. Yet what expressions those seemingly harmless shrimp—neither poisonous nor medicinal when eaten—displayed in the sea, or how those conger eels, relatives of sea snakes, performed their eerie undulating movements through the seaweed—these things could not be imagined by anyone who hadn’t actually entered the ocean depths to witness them.

If beauty gains deeper richness when tinged with terror, then there is nothing in the 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 unlike anything she had ever known since birth. From the darkness beyond, something enormous loomed—as two phosphorescent glows faded, gradually revealing within the electric light the majestic form of a vividly striped flagtail snapper. When she beheld it, Chiyoko involuntarily let out a cry of admiration, so overwhelmed by terror and delight that she turned pale and clung to her husband’s sleeve.

Its pale-glowing, plump diamond-shaped body bore two vivid black-brown stripes—thick horizontal bands resembling the rays of the Rising Sun flag—which, illuminated by the electric lights, now shone nearly golden. Enormous eyes made up like a sorceress’s, protruding lips, and one of its dorsal fins—resembling the ornamental crests on a Warring States general’s helmet—stood out strikingly. When it undulated its massive body toward the glass pane, changed direction, and began swimming along the surface—grazing past it—right before her eyes, she could not help but let out another cry of astonishment. That it was not a painter’s design upon a canvas, but an actual living creature, struck her as nothing short of miraculous. Given the nature of the place, with its eerie seaweed and indigo-black stagnant water as the backdrop, she viewed it all under the dim glow of electric lights. Her astonishment was no exaggeration at all.

However, as she progressed, she no longer had the luxury of being astonished by a single fish. One after another, beyond the glass pane swarmed the multitude of fish greeting her—their vividness, eeriness, and beauty: sergeant major fish, diamondfish, long-nosed unicornfish, hawkfish. Some bore stripes gleaming in violet-gold; others displayed patterns as though painted with dyes. If such descriptions could be permitted—this beauty of a nightmare—it was indeed nothing less than the beauty of that very nightmare that should inspire dread.

“There’s still so much more I want to show you ahead.” “This is the work I began by disregarding all counsel, casting aside my entire fortune, and staking my life upon.” “Though my creation remains incomplete, I wished you—before anyone else—to behold how magnificent this artwork of mine truly is.” “And I want to hear your judgment.” “I believe you’ll come to grasp its worth… Look—peek through here. When viewed thus, the sea reveals itself anew.”

Hiroshi whispered with a certain passion.

When she looked at the spot he pointed to, there was a section where the lower part of the glass pane—about three inches in diameter—had swollen in such a peculiar manner that it appeared exactly as though another piece of glass had been fitted into it. Following his urging, Chiyoko bent down and apprehensively pressed her eye to the spot. At first, her entire field of vision blurred with mottled clouds, leaving her utterly disoriented. But as she adjusted her focus—shifting distances tentatively—the squirming forms of terrifying creatures beyond gradually sharpened into clarity.

Sixteen There, from ground strewn with rocks large enough to fill one’s arms, countless brown sacs—each resembling a vertically oriented airship gas bag—floated upward through the water, swaying gently in its currents. As she peered in wonder at this strangeness, the water behind the great sacs abruptly began churning violently. Parting through the sacs emerged a terrifying, gigantic beast resembling what one might call a prehistoric flying dragon from paintings, crawling forth sluggishly. Startled yet unable to pull away—as if drawn by some magnetic force—she remained motionless, transfixed by the bizarre sight even as gradual comprehension brought a measure of composure. Then the monster—its face alone several times larger than an airship gas bag—approached inch by inch on gnarled, stubby legs: gaping its cavernous maw wide enough to split its visage cleanly in two horizontally, swaying the several protrusions bulging high upon its back like a true flying dragon. And the terror when it drew near before her eyes—when viewed head-on, it was a beast that was nearly all face. Above its short legs gaped a mouth that opened immediately, while eyes as narrow as an elephant’s connected directly to the protrusions on its back. Its skin was deeply pitted and rough, with ugly black spots standing out starkly—all of it, likely the size of a small hill, vividly before her eyes.

“You… you…” Finally tearing her eyes away, she whirled toward her husband as though under attack. “Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” “It’s a high-powered magnifying glass.” “What you just saw—look, if you peer through this ordinary glass here—is nothing but a tiny little fish like that.” “It’s called an anglerfish, you see.” “A type of anglerfish.” “It can crawl along the seabed using those fins transformed into legs.” “Ah, that sac-like thing?” “That’s a type of seaweed called cottonweed.” “Shaped like a sac.” “Come—let’s go further ahead.” “I instructed the boat crew earlier. If timing holds, we should see something interesting soon.”

Even after hearing her husband’s explanation, Chiyoko found herself unable to resist the strange temptation of morbid curiosity, compelled to peer again and again through Hiroshi’s half-mischievous lens device. However, what ultimately astonished her most was not those knife-carved lens devices, nor the commonplace seaweed and fish—it was something several layers more luscious, vividly beautiful, and eerily unsettling than any of those.

As they walked on for some time, she sensed something far overhead—a faint sound, or rather, a kind of undulation. And then, a sudden premonition brought her to a halt. Then, a massive fish-like creature—trailing countless thin bubbles in its wake—plunged through the dark water at terrifying speed. Its unnervingly smooth white body flickered momentarily in the lamplight before vanishing into a thicket of seaweed, where it writhed its tentacles with ravenous intent.

“You…” She could not help clinging to her husband’s arm once again. “Look there—keep watching that patch of seaweed.” Hiroshi whispered encouragingly to her. The amanori seaweed bed—resembling a flaming carpet—was in one spot strangely disturbed, with countless pearl-like lustrous bubbles rising in swarms. If one peered closely near where the bubbles ascended, a pale, smooth creature clung to the seabed in the shape of a flounder.

Before long, black hair that could be mistaken for kelp swayed sluggishly like mist, becoming disordered—from beneath emerged a white forehead, two laughing eyes, and then red lips baring teeth in succession. Crawling on her belly with only her face turned forward, she gradually drew closer to the glass pane. “There’s no need to be alarmed,” he explained. “That is a woman skilled at diving whom I have employed. She came to greet us.”

Holding Chiyoko, who teetered on the verge of collapse, Hiroshi explained. Chiyoko panted breathlessly and cried out like a child.

“Oh, I was so startled! There’s actually a human down here at the bottom of the sea!”

The naked woman from the seabed floated upward gently upon reaching the glass pane and stood up. With swirling black hair above her head—a smile twisted into a pained expression, buoyant breasts rising through water, bubbles glistening across her entire form—she took her place beside the two inside and began walking slowly onward, supporting herself against the glass wall.

The two of them, separated by the glass, proceeded as guided by the mermaid. The narrow undersea path twisted as they advanced, and here and there along it—whether by design or accident—strange distortions had formed in the glass. Each time they passed through these warped sections, the naked woman’s body would be torn cleanly in two, or her torso would vanish, leaving only her head suspended midair; at other moments, her face alone would swell to monstrous proportions, unfolding one after another in nightmarish succession—visions neither of hell nor paradise, but of some inconceivable realm beyond this world.

However, before long, the mermaid could no longer endure being underwater. Letting out a sigh, she exhaled the air she had stored in her lungs. As the tremendous burst of bubbles vanished into the distant sky, she left behind a final smile and—fluttering her limbs like fins—began to ascend. And then, like a boy stamping his feet in frustration, her legs thrashed in midair until soon only the pale soles of her feet swayed high above, and finally the naked woman vanished from sight.

Seventeen

Through this bizarre undersea journey, Chiyoko’s mind had escaped the mundanity of the human world and begun wandering into a dreamlike realm beyond knowing. T City, the Komoda family estate there, even her own relatives—all seemed like distant dreams now. Relationships of the human world—parent and child, husband and wife, master and servant—had blurred like mist at the edges of her consciousness. What occupied her heart instead was the bewitchment of a realm beyond humanity that gnawed at her soul, and a yearning for the single man before her—a love so intense it numbed both body and mind—burning with the vividness of fireworks in a night sky, whether he was truly her husband or not.

“Now then, we’ll be passing through a somewhat dark path ahead. It’s dangerous, so I’ll take your hand.”

At last, when they reached the point where the glass path ended, Hiroshi gently spoke and turned toward Chiyoko. “Yes.”

Answering, Chiyoko clung to his hand.

And then, the path suddenly darkened, bending and twisting into what resembled a cave hollowed through solid rock. It was a narrow passage barely wide enough for a single person to pass through. Whether they had finally surfaced on land or remained within some undersea grotto, Chiyoko could discern nothing of their surroundings—though had she surrendered to fear, it would have overwhelmed her utterly. Yet more potent than any terror was the joyous pressure of the man's arm gripping her fingers so fiercely it nearly arrested her bloodflow, leaving no room in her consciousness to dwell on the darkness' dread.

In that darkness, groping their way forward—though in Chiyoko’s perception they had walked what felt like ten *cho*, the actual distance was mere meters—the view abruptly opened before them to reveal a landscape so grandly magnificent that she could not help but cry out in astonishment. As far as the eye could see, a terrifyingly immense great gorge spread almost straight ahead, its banks lined with cliffs so sheer they seemed to strike at the sky—looming oppressively overhead as they stretched onward—while between them lay water of such profound blue-green stillness that it filled one's vision for what appeared a full half-*cho* in width. At first glance, it appeared to be a natural great gorge, but upon closer observation, one gradually came to realize that all of it was artificial. However, not a single trace of unsightly tool marks remained there. Not in that sense—rather, when viewed as a natural landscape, it was too perfectly ordered, too devoid of extraneous elements. The water held not a single speck of debris; no blade of weed grew upon the cliffs; the rocks stretched on in a dark hue as smooth as sculpted confectionery—and this darkness mirrored in the water turned it black as lacquer. Thus, when referring earlier to the view having opened before them, it was not at all like an ordinary bright expanse suddenly appearing. Though the valley’s depth stretched hazily vast and the cliffs loomed dizzyingly high, their collective form was seductively darkened like an enchantress’s shadowed eyes. As for what passed for brightness—the narrow slivers of sky between cliff overhangs—these were not the clear skies of flatlands but a dusky grey akin to twilight even at midday, where stars twinkled faintly. What’s even more peculiar was that this gorge—or rather, this extremely deep elongated pool it would be more apt to call—had both ends blocked off: one at the undersea passage from which the two of them had just emerged, and the other terminating at a strange staircase faintly visible on the opposite side. This staircase referred to a peculiar stone structure—pure white against its surroundings—that rose vertically from the water’s surface where the cliffs on both sides gradually narrowed and converged, soaring as if to pierce the clouds. Amidst the all-encompassing darkness around it, this singular line cascaded downward like a waterfall, its stark simplicity lending an air of sublime beauty.

While Chiyoko stood entranced by this majestic vista, Hiroshi appeared to give some signal—and before she knew it, two enormous swans had materialized from nowhere. With necks arched proudly and ripples spreading gently across their full breasts, they glided steadily toward the shore where the two stood. "My, what large swans!"

Chiyoko let out a cry of astonishment almost simultaneously. From the vicinity of one swan’s throat, a beautiful human woman’s voice seemed to resonate. “Now then, please do get on.” Before Chiyoko could even react in surprise, Hiroshi lifted her onto the back of a swan floating before them and then mounted another swan himself.

“There’s no need to be alarmed at all.” “Chiyoko, these are all my servants...” “Now then, swans—you are to carry us two to that stone staircase over there.” Since the swans could speak human language, they must have understood their master’s command perfectly. Aligning their chests, they let their pure white forms glide across the lacquer-like water’s surface as they began swimming quietly. Chiyoko could only gape in bewilderment at this strangeness—but when she finally regained her senses, she realized what squirmed beneath her thighs was no waterfowl’s muscle but unmistakably a human body cloaked in feathers. Likely a woman lay prone inside the swan costume, paddling through the water with hands and feet. The squirming motion of soft shoulders and hip flesh, the warmth of skin transmitted through the kimono—all felt unmistakably like those of a human young woman.

However, before Chiyoko could even ascertain the swans' true nature, she was compelled to behold yet another spectacle—one that was either grotesque or alluring. When the swans had advanced some twenty or thirty ken, something abruptly floated up from the water's depths beside her. No sooner had it surfaced than—swimming alongside the swan while twisting its upper body toward her—the grinning face became unmistakably that of the mermaid woman who had startled her earlier on the seabed.

“Oh, you’re the one from before.” Yet even when addressed, the mermaid only smiled demurely without uttering a word, continuing to swim silently while offering gentle nods of acknowledgment. To Chiyoko’s astonishment, this mermaid soon proved far from solitary—one by one, more young nude women of her kind appeared until they swiftly formed a school of mermaids. Some dove beneath the waves, others leapt skyward, still others frolicked together. At times they swam in perfect formation with the swans only to overtake them with swift strokes, surfacing in the distance to beckon playfully. Against the backdrop of shadowed cliffs and lacquer-black waters, their alluring silhouettes—unadorned by even a thread—cavorted in a spectacle worthy of classical Greek myth rendered on canvas.

When the swans had reached roughly halfway along their path, high atop the distant cliff face—as if in response to the mermaids below—several similarly nude women appeared, silhouetted against a fragment of blue sky. And no matter how skilled they were as swimmers, one after another they leapt from heights of several fathoms into the water below. Some tumbled downward with hair disheveled, others whirled frantically while hugging their knees, still others arched their backs like drawn bows—each adopting varied postures as they cascaded down the black rock face like flower petals scattering in the wind, sending up plumes of spray as they plunged deep into the water.

And thus, surrounded by a multitude of fleshy forms, the two swans quietly arrived at the base of their destination—the stone staircase. Drawing closer, they saw that the pure white stone staircase—its hundreds upon hundreds of steps unknowable—towered skyward, its mere sight enough to send a crawling sensation through their very being.

Eighteen “I simply can’t climb up here.” After alighting from the swan’s back onto land, Chiyoko first voiced her fear: “It’s not as bad as you think. I’ll hold your hand and help you up—go ahead and climb. It’s not dangerous at all.” “But…” While Chiyoko hesitated, Hiroshi took her hand and began ascending the stone steps. Before she knew it, they had already climbed about twenty steps.

“See? It’s not frightening at all.” “Now just one last push.” Step by step they climbed—yet strangely, upon soon reaching the summit, what had appeared from below as hundreds upon hundreds of sky-piercing steps proved in reality scarcely a hundred steps tall, nowhere near so lofty. Why had it seemed so immense? Even attributing it to timidity-induced illusion, the disparity stretched too extreme for Chiyoko to comprehend. It later became clear that a hallucination—akin to how she had mistaken an anglerfish for a primeval monster on the seabed earlier—seemed to permeate this entire island, rendering its scenery all the more beautiful. And this discrepancy in the staircase’s height could now be counted among such illusions. She, however, understood nothing of its cause until hearing Hiroshi’s detailed explanation.

Be that as it may, they now stood upon the elevated ground at the summit of the staircase, gazing out at what lay before them.

There was a narrow grassy slope there, and descending it, the path immediately entered a dense primeval forest. When they turned to look, a valley shaped like a colossal boat gaped its jet-black maw, while at the base of those somber cliffs, the two swans that had carried them now floated like pristine paper scraps—a forlorn sight to behold. And yet again, the path ahead was an oppressive shadowy forest. The narrow strip of lawn separating these two uncanny landscapes—bathed in the full blaze of a late spring afternoon sun—blazed crimson, while white butterflies fluttered low over its heat-shimmering grasses. Chiyoko could not help but feel a certain uncanny beauty in those bizarre sights.

The primeval cedar forest stretched endlessly before them—branches intertwining like billowing stormcloud formations, leaves layering upon leaves. Where sunlight pierced through, the foliage glowed yellow; in shadowed recesses, it pooled stagnant and abyssal black, manifesting a strange mottled pattern across the expanse. The terrifying grandeur of this forest was an uncanny emotion that gradually welled up within those who stood on the lawn gazing fixedly at its entirety. That which stirred such emotions was likely the forest's overwhelming majesty—looming over them like a shroud across the sky. Or perhaps it lay in that oppressive bestial musk emanating from the sprouting young leaves. Yet beyond this, any careful observer would ultimately perceive what could only be called diabolical artifice imposed upon the entire forest. It manifested through the great woodland's complete form taking on the appearance of a demonic entity of unparalleled strangeness. Because this fiendish craftsmanship had been concealed with such neurotic precision, its traces could only be discerned in faintest outline—yet precisely through this indistinctness did the terror seem to deepen and expand. Could it be that this forest was no natural growth, but rather an artificial construction of extreme complexity imposed upon the land?

As Chiyoko took in these landscapes, she found herself unable to believe that her husband Genzaburō had harbored such terrifying sensibilities deep within his heart—and yet her suspicion of the man now standing casually beside her, this man who resembled her husband, grew ever deeper. But how should one interpret her abnormal psychology? Even as her terrifying suspicions intensified moment by moment, parallel to them swelled an increasingly unbearable longing for this unfathomable man.

“Chiyo, what are you spacing out for?” “You’re scared of this forest again, aren’t you?” “They’re all things I made.” “There’s absolutely nothing to be scared of at all.” “Now then, under that tree over there, our obedient servant is waiting impatiently.”

At Hiroshi’s voice, she suddenly looked and saw two glossy-coated donkeys tied at the base of a cedar tree near the forest entrance—abandoned by someone, perhaps—chewing grass incessantly.

“We must enter this forest.” “Oh, that’s right. “There’s nothing to worry about. “It’s these donkeys that will safely guide us.” And so, the two of them mounted the toy-like donkeys and proceeded into the unfathomably deep, dark forest. In the forest, layers upon layers of leaves overlapped, blocking any view of the sky—yet it wasn’t complete darkness. A faint twilight glow hung like a haze, thin enough to discern the path ahead. The giant tree trunks stood arrayed like the pillars of a grand temple, their capitals bridged by arches of verdant leaves, while beneath their feet lay a thick carpet of cedar needles in place of woven fabric. The forest’s atmosphere—resembling the chapel of some renowned cathedral—seemed manyfold more mysterious, more profoundly mystical, more terrifyingly grand.

Even so, the harmony and balance of this forest path below were utterly beyond the reach of natural creation. For instance: how this vast primeval forest was composed solely of giant cedar trees—not a single deciduous tree or blade of grass visible beyond them; how meticulous attention to spacing between trees produced an uncanny beauty; how the serpentine undulation of the narrow path beneath them—of unparalleled strangeness—evoked an eerie emotion in those who traversed it. All these spoke unequivocally of a creator’s ingenuity surpassing nature itself. Surely, even in the pleasant symmetry of his leafy arches and the comforting feel of the fallen leaves’ carpet beneath their feet, meticulous artifice had been applied to every detail.

The two donkeys carrying their master followed the path beneath the trees in silence, their hooves making not a sound on the deep layer of fallen leaves. Neither beasts nor birds cried; a death-like stillness enveloped the entire forest. But as they advanced deeper into the forest—as if to further accentuate that silence—from unseen treetops overhead began to reverberate a dull resonance, an uncanny music resembling pipe organ tones, its mystical melody swelling ominously through the air.

The two pitifully small humans sat astride the donkeys, heads bowed without exchanging a single word. Chiyoko abruptly raised her face and moved her mouth as if to speak, then let her head droop without uttering a word. The unthinking donkeys advanced in silence.

After proceeding a while longer, they noticed the forest’s appearance gradually changing. Within the forest that had until now been uniformly dim, a silvery light began streaming in from somewhere. Fallen leaves glinted intermittently, and the trunks of every giant tree in sight were illuminated only on half their surfaces. Half shining silver and half jet-black pillars—the sight of these colossal cylinders stretching endlessly before them was truly magnificent. “Is this the end of the forest?”

Chiyoko asked in a hoarse voice, as though waking from a dream. “No, no—there’s a marsh over there. We should indeed arrive there soon.” And soon, they arrived at the edge of that marsh. The marsh took the shape of will-o'-the-wisps seen in paintings—one shore perfectly rounded, the opposite shore carved into three deep flame-like indentations—holding quicksilver-heavy water within its contours. On the motionless water’s surface lay mostly the shadows of bluish-black ancient cedars, while a small portion reflected fragments of blue sky. There, the music from earlier no longer resonated. All things fell silent, all things stood still—every aspect of creation sank into a deep slumber.

As if loath to shatter the silence, the two dismounted their donkeys quietly and approached the shore without a word. At a projecting section of the distant shore—the sole exception in this forest—several old camellia trees stood, their dark green bark measuring about three meters in girth, each mottled with blood-like spots as they bloomed with countless flowers. And what was astonishing was that in a slightly dim clearing beneath those flowers, a beautiful girl lay listlessly revealed, her skin the color of milk. Using moss as bedding, she rested her cheek on her hand and lay prone to peer into the marsh.

"My, in such a place…" Chiyoko involuntarily raised her voice. "Quiet."

Hiroshi signaled to silence her voice, as if trying not to startle the girl. The girl, whether aware of being watched or not, remained in a trance-like state, gazing intently at the marsh’s surface. The marsh in the forest, the camellias on the shore, the vacant-eyed naked girl lying prone—how magnificent an effect this deceptively simple combination demonstrated! If this were not accidental but an intentionally composed scene, then Hiroshi would have to be called an exceptionally skilled painter.

The two of them stood on the shore for a long time, entranced by this dreamlike scene—and throughout that duration, the girl, having only once readjusted her plump crossed legs, continued her languid gaze without respite. Eventually, as Chiyoko—urged by Hiroshi—mounted the donkey and prepared to leave the spot, a single conspicuously large camellia flower blooming directly above the girl dropped like liquid, slid along her plump shoulder, and floated upon the marsh water. But perhaps because it had fallen so silently, the marsh water took no notice—not a single ripple formed—and the mirror-like surface remained utterly still.

Nineteen And once more, the two rode beneath the primeval forest's canopy for some time—the forest's depth growing ever more unfathomable with each passing moment, offering no sense of how they might escape its confines nor even retrace their path to the initial entrance—until entrusting themselves entirely to the mindless donkeys' plodding advance began to stir no small unease within them.

Yet the uncanny nature of Panorama Island’s scenery lay in its myriad magical designs—appearing to advance only to retreat, seeming to ascend yet descend, where underground abruptly became a mountain summit and expansive plains narrowed imperceptibly into footpaths. Here too, precisely when the forest reached its deepest point and an ineffable unease began to stir within the travelers’ hearts, it instead signaled that even this forest would soon meet its end.

The trunks of the great trees, which until now had maintained a moderate distance between them, had imperceptibly narrowed bit by bit until—before they knew it—they found themselves in a place where those trunks formed layered walls, densely packed without a single gap. There was no longer any canopy of green leaves—branches left to grow wild now hung down to the ground, and the darkness grew even thicker, making it nearly impossible to discern even what lay before them.

“Now we abandon the donkeys.” “Follow me.” Hiroshi first dismounted his donkey, took Chiyoko’s hand to help her down, then abruptly plunged into the darkness ahead. Their bodies pressed between tree trunks, their path blocked by branches and leaves, they burrowed through what could scarcely be called a path—advancing like moles. After being jostled about for some time—their bodies suddenly lightening as if buoyant—they snapped to awareness and found themselves no longer in the forest but beneath radiant sunlight on an endless green lawn. Strangest of all, no trace of that forest remained anywhere they looked.

“Oh, what’s wrong with me?” Chiyoko pressed her temples in a troubled manner and looked back at Hiroshi as though seeking deliverance. “No, it’s not your mind’s doing. Travelers on this island always step from one world into another in this manner. I conceived the plan to create multiple worlds within this small island. Do you know of the Panorama? In Japan, when I was still an elementary school student, it was a spectacle that became immensely popular. Spectators must first pass through a narrow pitch-dark passage. And when they emerge from it and their view suddenly expands, there lies an entire world. A complete world entirely separate from the one the spectators had been living in stretches out as far as the eye can see. What an astonishing deception it was! Outside the Panorama Hall, trains run, street vendor stalls stretch endlessly, and merchant houses stand row upon row. There, yesterday, today, and tomorrow alike, the townspeople ceaselessly pass one another. In the row of merchant houses, my own house is visible. Yet once you enter the Panorama Hall, all those things vanish completely, and a vast Manchurian plain stretches endlessly to the far horizon—doesn’t it? And there, a blood-drenched battle too terrifying to behold is being waged.”

Hiroshi continued speaking as he walked, disturbing the heat haze over the grassy plain. Chiyoko followed her lover in a dreamlike state.

“There is a world outside the building as well. Inside the building, too, there exists a world. And each of these two worlds possesses its own distinct soil, sky, and horizon. Outside the Panorama Hall, there indeed lay the cityscape we saw daily. Yet within the Panorama Hall, not a shadow of it remained in any direction—only the Manchurian plain stretched uninterrupted to the distant horizon. In other words, dual worlds existed upon the same earth—a plain and a cityscape. At the very least, it created such an illusion. The method, as you know, involves encircling the viewing area with high walls painted with scenery, decorating their fronts with real soil, trees, and figurines to blur the boundary between reality and artifice, then deepening the eaves of the viewing platform to conceal the ceiling. That’s all there was to it. I once heard tell of the Frenchman said to have invented this panorama. According to the story, the original inventor’s intention—at least initially—had been to use this method to create an entirely new world. Just as novelists fashion worlds upon paper and actors conjure realms upon the stage, he too—through his own singular scientific methods—must have undoubtedly attempted to craft an expansive alternate universe within that modest structure.”

And then, Hiroshi raised his hand and pointed toward the boundary between the green plain and blue sky—hazy beyond the heat shimmer and rising steam from the grass. “When you look at this vast grassy plain, aren’t you struck by a sense of strangeness?” “Don’t you think it’s excessively vast for a plain on that small offshore island?” “Behold.” “To reach that horizon, there must indeed be a distance of several miles.” “To tell the truth, shouldn’t the sea be visible far before reaching the horizon?” “Moreover, upon this island, beyond the forest we passed through and the plain visible here, various landscapes have been created—each spanning several miles.” “In that case, even if the Offshore Island were as vast as the entirety of M Prefecture, would it not still be insufficient?” “Do you understand what I’m saying?” “In other words, I have created several independent panoramas upon this island.” “We have until now passed only through dimly lit paths—through the sea’s depths, valley floors, and forests.” “That may correspond to the hidden passage at the entrance of the Panorama Hall.”

Now we stood amidst spring sunlight, heat haze, and rising steam from the grass. Wasn’t this perfectly suited to that clear-headed cheerfulness one feels upon emerging from a hidden passage—as if awakening from a dream? And now, we would finally enter my Panorama Land. But the panorama I’d created wasn’t some painting on walls like those ordinary panorama halls. Through hills contorted against nature’s lines, meticulously orchestrated light, and strategic placements of flora and stone, I had artfully erased all traces of artifice—stretching and compressing natural distances at will. “To give an example—that vast forest we just passed through. Even if I told you its true expanse, you’d never believe it. It’s that small. That path traces undetectable curves, doubling back countless times. Those seemingly endless cedar groves flanking you? Contrary to your belief, they’re not uniform giants—those in the distance might be mere sapling clusters barely six feet tall. Through light arrangement alone, rendering this imperceptible becomes child’s play. The same applies to that white stone staircase we climbed earlier. Viewed from below, it appears lofty as a cloud bridge—yet in truth spans barely over a hundred steps. You likely didn’t notice—those steps narrow toward the top like stage scenery, each ascending tread subtly reduced in height and depth. Moreover,” he concluded, “the engineered slopes of flanking rock walls make it appear so towering from below.”

However, even after hearing such an explanation that laid bare the tricks behind it all, the illusion’s power proved too overwhelming—the uncanny impression etched into Chiyoko’s heart did not diminish in the slightest. And indeed, the boundless plain spreading before her eyes could only be thought to vanish at its end into the distant horizon. “Then, is this plain actually narrow like that in reality?” She asked with a half-convinced, half-doubting expression.

“Exactly. With a slope so slight it goes unnoticed, the surrounding land rises higher, concealing all manner of things behind it.” “But even if you call it narrow, it still spans five or six *chō* in diameter.” “I merely made that ordinary plain appear boundless to heighten its effect.” “Yet that mere consideration has created such a magnificent dream!” “To you, even now after hearing this explanation, it must remain utterly impossible to believe that this vast plain is nothing more than a mere five or six *chō* in expanse.” Even I, the creator, couldn’t help feeling an indescribable loneliness—as though abandoned in a truly boundless wilderness—and a strangely sweet melancholy when gazing upon this horizon undulating like waves in the heat haze. As far as the eye could see stretched nothing but sky and grass—unbroken. For us now, this was the entire world. This grassland—so to speak—blanketed the whole Offshore Island, stretching far from I Bay to the Pacific Ocean, its edge merging with that azure sky. Had this been a Western masterpiece, there would have been depicted here a vast flock of sheep and shepherds. Or perhaps one might imagine a band of Gypsies forming a serpentine procession near that horizon—their figures half-lit by the setting sun, their extraordinarily long shadows creeping slowly across the grassy plain. But as far as the eye could see—not a single person, nor any animal—not even one withered tree—was visible. Would this plain—like a green desert—not strike us even more profoundly than such masterpieces? “Might not something eternal come pressing upon us with terrifying force?”

Chiyoko had been gazing at the sky—so vast it seemed more gray than blue—for some time now. And she made no attempt to conceal the tears that had, at some unnoticed moment, welled up in her eyes.

“From this grassy plain, the road splits into two paths.” “One leads toward the island’s center; the other toward several scenic zones encircling its perimeter.” “The proper route would have us first circumnavigate the island before entering the center, but since time is short today and those zones remain incomplete, let us proceed directly from here to the central flower garden.” “That place would be most to your liking.” “Yet if the garden were to follow immediately from this plain, you might find it rather abrupt.” “I think it better I first outline those other landscapes for you.” “With several hundred yards still to the garden, let me describe these strange vistas as we walk across this grassy expanse.”

“Do you know what they call ‘topiary’ in landscape gardening? It refers to sculpting evergreen trees like boxwood and cypress into geometric shapes or forms resembling animals and celestial bodies through meticulous pruning. In one landscape, endless rows of such beautiful topiaries stand arrayed. There, grand forms and delicate forms interweave—every straight line and curve playing a wondrous symphony. And interspersed among them are ancient sculptures clustered in terrifying multitudes. What’s more, every single one is an actual human being—a massive gathering of naked men and women petrified into silence.”

Travelers to Panorama Island would suddenly enter from this desolate wilderness and encounter endless rows of unnatural sculptures blending human and plant forms stretching as far as the eye could see—overwhelmed by a suffocating pressure of vital force. And there they would discover an indescribable beauty both grotesque and wondrous.

In another world, lifeless iron machines were densely packed. It was a swarm of black monstrosities spinning relentlessly without cease. The power driving them came from electricity generated beneath the island, but what lined this place were not mundane machines like steam engines or electric motors—they were symbols of a mysterious mechanical force, the kind that might appear in a dream. An array of iron machines ignored their intended purposes and inverted their sizes. Cylinders like small hills, flywheels roaring like wild beasts, colossal gears clashing jet-black teeth, oscillating levers resembling monstrous arms, speed verniers in a mad dance, shaft rods crisscrossing endlessly, cascading belt flows—bevel gears, worm-and-wheel gears, belt pulleys, chain belts, chain wheels—all oozed greasy sweat from their pitch-black surfaces as they spun blindly and recklessly like lunatics. “Have you seen the Machinery Hall at an exposition?” “There you’ll find engineers, explainers, guards—all confined within a single building—with every machine properly designed for its intended purpose. But my Machine Country is a vast, seemingly boundless world completely blanketed by meaningless machinery.” “And since this is the kingdom of machines, no trace or form of outside humans, animals, or plants can be seen.” “A vast mechanical plain blanketing the horizon, moving of its own accord—what a tiny human entering there might feel—I imagine even you can envision this.”

In addition to these, designs had already been completed for a grand metropolis filled with beautiful architecture; a garden teeming with wild beasts, venomous snakes, and toxic flora; and a realm of spray and mist arrayed with fountains, waterfalls, streams, and all manner of aquatic spectacles. Imperceptibly after viewing each of these worlds as if in nightly dreams, travelers would at last enter a dreamlike realm of swirling auroras, suffocating fragrance, kaleidoscopic flower gardens, resplendent birds, and frolicking humans. However,the focal point of my Panorama Island—though invisible from here—lay in the magnificent vista visible from the flower garden atop the great cylindrical structure then being constructed at the island’s center. There,the entire island became a single panorama. Distinct panoramas gathered to form an entirely separate panorama. On this small island several universes overlapped and intersected as they coexisted. But we had already reached the exit of this plain.

“Now then, let me have your hand. We must pass through another narrow path for a while.”

At a certain spot on the plain—a constriction that couldn’t be discerned unless approached closely—the hidden path wound through dimly lit, overgrown weeds there. After descending into it and proceeding for a while, the weeds grew increasingly dense until they had completely enveloped the two of them, and the path once more plunged into a darkness where nothing could be distinguished.

Twenty What manner of strange mechanism had been installed there, or was it nothing more than Chiyoko’s hallucination? Emerging from one landscape, passing through a brief darkness, and materializing in another felt dreamlike—that ambiguous sensation of shifting between dreams, as though borne on the wind, with consciousness utterly lost in between—a strange state of mind. Consequently, each landscape occupied entirely separate planes—as if leaping from a three-dimensional world into a fourth—so that in an instant, the very ground before them transformed utterly, from shape and color down to scent. It truly felt like a dream—or if not that, like a double-exposed film.

And now, the world that had appeared before their eyes—though Hiroshi referred to it as a flower garden—bore no resemblance to anything one might associate with those words. There was only a milky, turbid sky and, beneath it, hills whose surfaces undulated like great waves, resplendent across their entire expanse with the hundred flowers of spring. However, due to its overwhelming scale—from the color of the sky to the curves of the hills and the chaotic profusion of flowers—all utterly disregarding nature in favor of an indescribable artificiality, those who set foot into this world could only stand transfixed in bewilderment for a time.

At first glance monotonous, this scenery contained within it an uncanny sensation—as though detached from the human realm and stepping into a demon’s world. “You... what’s wrong?” “Are you feeling dizzy?” Startled, Hiroshi supported Chiyoko’s body as she began to collapse. “Oh… What is it… My head hurts…” A suffocating fragrance—akin to the peculiar odor emitted by sweaty human flesh yet not at all unpleasant—first numbed the very core of her head. And what’s more, the intertwining of innumerable curves from those strange floral hills—as though viewing turbulent waves churning back from a small boat—seemed to rush toward her with dreadful force. They never actually moved. But in those overlapping motionless hills, one could only conclude that some sinister scheme of the designer lay concealed.

“I feel terribly afraid.”

Having finally regained her footing, Chiyoko spoke faintly, as if shielding her eyes. “What are you so afraid of?”

Hiroshi asked with a faint smile trembling at the corner of his lips. “I can’t quite grasp it.” “Being enveloped in all these flowers makes me feel utterly desolate.” “It’s as if I’ve come where I shouldn’t be—seen what shouldn’t be seen.” “That’s surely because this vista is too beautiful,” Hiroshi replied offhandedly. “But look yonder—our welcoming party approaches.”

From the shadow of a flower-covered hill, as if part of a sacred festival procession, a group of women emerged with solemn grace. Their entire bodies appeared painted—a bluish-white pallor accentuated by purple shading along their fleshly contours, making their naked forms seem even more shadowed—as they materialized one after another before a backdrop of crimson floral screens. They moved their glistening, oil-slicked legs in dance-like motions, let their ebony hair cascade over shoulders, parted their scarlet lips into crescent moons, approached the pair, and in utter silence formed an uncanny circular formation.

“Chiyoko, this is our vehicle.” Hiroshi took Chiyoko’s hand and guided her onto the lotus platform formed by several naked women, then settled beside her on the flesh-formed seat. The petals of human flesh remained spread open, enveloping Hiroshi and Chiyoko at their center as they began traversing the floral mountains. Bewildered by the world’s strangeness and the naked women’s utter impassivity, Chiyoko had unwittingly abandoned all worldly shame. She even found some pleasure in the soft undulations of the plump abdomen beneath her knees.

In the space between hills—in what could be called a valley—a narrow path wound its way forward, twisting through countless curves. Where the bare feet of those naked women tread, hundreds of flowers bloomed in profusion, just as on the hills. Upon the soft spring-like suppleness of flesh, this lush carpet of flowers made their vehicle glide even more smoothly and comfortably. Yet the beauty of this world lay not in the ceaselessly striking fragrance assailing their nostrils, nor in the uncanny milky-turbid hue of the sky, nor in the strange music—like a spring breeze without discernible origin—delighting their ears, nor even in the walls of flowers ablaze with myriad hues. It resided instead in the indescribable, wondrous curves of the mountains swathed in those very blossoms. In this world, people must have realized for the first time the beauty that curves could manifest. Human eyes accustomed to the curves of natural mountains, vegetation, plains, and the human body beheld here an intertwining of curves entirely different from those. Neither the curve of any beauty’s waist nor any sculptor’s creation could compare to the beauty of the curves in this world. It was perhaps a line that could be drawn not by the Creator who depicted nature, but only by a devil plotting to destroy it. Some people might have felt an intense sexual pressure from the overlapping curves. However, it was never accompanied by realistic emotion. It is only in nightmares that we often find ourselves enamored with this kind of curve. Hiroshi had undoubtedly attempted to depict that dream world using real soil and flowers. Rather than sublime, it was filth; rather than harmonious, it was chaos. Each individual curve and the arrangement of festering flowers there imparted not pleasure but an even more boundless discomfort. And yet, this mysterious artificial interweaving applied to those curves—eschewing ugliness, composed solely of dissonances—performed a grand orchestral music of strangely beautiful aberration.

Moreover, the landscape artist’s abnormal attentiveness had even extended to the curves formed by the narrow floral path in the valley through which the lotus platform of naked women passed. There, it was not the beauty of the curves themselves that had been planned, but rather what might be called a physical pleasure felt by those moving along them. Now gently, now steeply, now ascending, now descending, the path traced beautiful curves in every direction—up, down, left, and right. It might be described as a gentler, more beautified version of the kinesthetic pleasure of curved motion—akin to what an aviator experiences midair, or what we feel riding in a car along a serpentine mountain pass.

Though there were occasional uphill slopes, the path appeared to gradually descend toward a central point. And the strange fragrance and music resonating as if from the earth’s depths grew ever more intense, continuing ceaselessly until even their noses and ears were rendered insensible to its beauty. At times, the valley would open into a vast floral garden, beyond which a mountain of flowers towered like a bridge to the sky, its boundless slopes unfolding a phantasmal spectacle that multiplied Yoshino’s famous clouds of blossoms tenfold. And what was even more astonishing: dotting the slopes and plains, parting the rainbow-like flowers, were groups of dozens of naked men and women—those in the distance as small as white beans—joyfully playing a game of tag like Adam and Eve. A woman descended the mountain, crossed the field with her black hair streaming in the wind, came to a spot about six feet away from them, and collapsed abruptly. Then one Adam who had chased after her picked her up, held her horizontally against his broad chest, and both holder and held—singing loudly in tune with the music that filled this world—began calmly retreating into the distance.

In another place, covering the narrow valley path like an arch, a giant Shironamazu eucalyptus tree stretched out its arms, its branches heavy with naked women like ripened fruit. They lay across thick branches or dangled by both hands, swaying their heads and limbs like leaves rustling in the wind while still singing in chorus to this world’s music. The lotus platform of naked women passed quietly beneath those fruits with utter indifference.

The path's total length must have spanned a full ri [approx. 3.9km]—the floral vistas along its course, the peculiar emotions Chiyoko experienced throughout—the author could describe it only as a dream, or rather, a resplendent nightmare. And finally, they were transported to the bottom of a gargantuan mortar-shaped basin brimming with flowers.

The strangeness of that scene lay in how snow-white flesh masses—rolling down like dumplings strung on beads along the smooth floral slopes from the mountaintops encircling the mortar’s rim—sent up splashes as they plunged into the bathing pool contained at its base. And they, splashing noisily through the steam at the mortar’s base, sang that serene song in chorus. When had their kimonos been removed? In something like a dreamlike daze, Chiyoko and the others found themselves mingling with the splendid bathers, soaking in the pleasant water. In this world where wearing unnatural clothes had become rather shameful, even Chiyoko could remain almost entirely unselfconscious of her own naked body. And now, here, the naked women carrying them truly served as lotus pedestals in the literal sense—lying at full length, they had to support their two masters, whose bodies from the neck down were submerged in the water, using their own flesh.

Then began an indescribable chaos of monumental proportions. The cascade of flesh masses swelled ever greater in number; flowers lining the path were trampled and scattered into a blizzard of petals that filled their vision. Amidst this turbid mingling of petals, steam, and spray, masses of naked women's flesh rubbed against one another—chaotically tumbling like potatoes in a barrel—as they continued their chorus with labored breath. Human waves surged left and right, colliding and churning, while at their very epicenter drifted the two guests who had lost all sensation, adrift like corpses.

Twenty-One

And then, before they knew it, night had come. The milky sky had darkened to storm-cloud black; the hills that once bloomed with alluring flowers now loomed like terrifying black demons. The clamorous tide of flesh and chorus had ebbed away, leaving Hiroshi and Chiyoko alone in steam rising faintly white through the darkness. The women who had borne their lotus platform were nowhere to be seen—no trace remained when they regained awareness. Moreover, that uncannily seductive music which had seemed to embody this world had fallen silent long before.

Along with bottomless darkness, the silence of Yomi claimed the entire world.

“Good heavens!”

Finally regaining her senses, Chiyoko found herself unable to stop repeating the same exclamation she had uttered countless times before. And then, when she let out a sigh of relief, the terror she had forgotten until now welled up in her chest like nausea. “Come on, let’s go back now.”

Trembling in the warm water, she peered toward her husband. Only his head protruded above the water’s surface like a black buoy, yet even upon hearing her words, he 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, seized what she took to be its neck, and shook it with all her might.

“Ugh, let’s go back, you.” “But before that, there’s just one more thing I want to show you.” “Oh, don’t be so scared. Just keep still.” Hiroshi answered slowly, thinking all the while. The way he answered frightened Chiyoko even more. “I—truly this time—can’t bear it any longer.” “I’m scared.” “Look here.” “My body’s trembling this much!” “I just can’t—I can’t endure staying on this terrifying island even a moment longer!”

“You really are trembling.” “But what frightens you so?” “What do you mean, ‘what’? It’s this island’s eerie mechanisms that terrify me.” “You—the one who devised them—terrify me.” “Me?” “Yes, precisely. But I’d hate to anger you. There’s nothing in this world for me but you. Yet lately, at the slightest thing, I suddenly find you frightening. I’ve begun doubting whether you truly love me. The thought that in this eerie island’s darkness, you might declare you don’t love me—it terrifies me, it horrifies me so…”

“You’ve started saying strange things.” “You’d do better not to say that now.” “I understand your feelings perfectly.” “What are we supposed to do in this darkness?” “But I just started feeling that way now. Probably seeing all those strange things has me worked up.” “And I feel like I can say what’s on my mind more easily than usual.” “But please don’t be angry with me. Okay?” “I know full well that you doubt me.”

Chiyoko, startled by Hiroshi’s tone, suddenly fell silent. The strange thing was, she had come to think she had experienced this exact scene before—whether in reality or perhaps within a dream. It seemed somehow like an event that had occurred even before her birth into this world. At that time too, they had faced each other like two tiny spirits of the dead in hellish darkness, their heads barely protruding above the water. And still, the man opposite had answered, “I know full well that you doubt me.” Next—what she had said after that, how the man had comported himself, what terrifying conclusion had unfolded—these subsequent events seemed clear enough, yet try as she might, she could not recall them.

“I know full well.”

Hiroshi repeated himself as though pursuing her silence. “No, no, you mustn’t—please don’t say any more!” Chiyoko stopped Hiroshi from continuing and cried out. “I’m frightened to speak with you. Rather than that, please don’t say anything—quickly, quickly take me back!”

It was at that moment. An ear-splitting roar tore through the darkness—and in that instant, as Chiyoko clung to her husband’s neck, crackling sparks erupted above her head, unfurling into a monstrous five-colored blaze.

“There’s no need to be startled. It’s fireworks—my own invention, Panorama Island’s fireworks. Look there. Unlike regular fireworks, ours stay perfectly still for such a long time, exactly like a magic lantern projected across the sky. This is it—what I told you earlier I had something to show you.” When they looked, it was exactly as Hiroshi had said—like a magic lantern cast upon clouds—a single enormous golden spider spreading across the entire sky. Moreover, it twisted the clearly defined joints of its eight legs in an uncanny manner as it gradually descended toward them. Even if it was merely a picture drawn with fire—a giant spider shrouding the pitch-black sky while exposing its most grotesque abdomen and writhing closer overhead—the spectacle might have been one of unparalleled beauty to some. But for Chiyoko, who had always loathed spiders, it was suffocatingly terrifying. Though she tried to avert her eyes, that very terror held a strange fascination, and despite herself, her gaze kept returning skyward—each time forcing her to confront the monstrosity now looming nearer than before. But what made her tremble even more than the spectacle itself was the awareness that this giant spider firework too—all of it, every part—she had seen 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 forever—truly, please let me go back.” “Come now, let us leave.”

She finally managed to say through clenched teeth. However, by that time, the fiery spider had already dissolved into the darkness without a trace. “Are you even scared of fireworks?” “You’re impossible.” “This time, instead of that creepy one, a beautiful flower should bloom.” “You should endure a little longer and watch.” “Look—you remember that black tube standing on the far side of this pond?” “That’s the fireworks tube.” “Under this pond lies our town, and from there my retainers are launching them.” “There’s absolutely nothing strange or scary about it.”

Before she knew it, Hiroshi’s hands were clasping Chiyoko’s shoulders with an uncanny strength, like iron shackles. She was now like a mouse caught in a cat’s claws—unable to escape even if she tried. “Ah!” Upon sensing this, she could no longer suppress her scream. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” “You say ‘I’m sorry,’ but what exactly do you have to apologize for?” Hiroshi’s tone gradually intensified. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me honestly how you regard me. Come on.”

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

Chiyoko’s voice sobbed brokenly, coming in fits and starts. “But now is the best opportunity.” “There’s no one around us.” “No matter what you say—just as you fear—the world won’t hear it.” “What need is there for pretense between you and me?” “Come on, spit it out.”

In the pitch-dark bath of the valley, a bizarre exchange began. Given how abnormal the scene was, it would be untrue to say a touch of madness hadn’t crept into both their hearts. Chiyoko’s voice had taken on a strangely high-pitched quality. “Then I shall speak.”

Chiyoko suddenly began speaking with eloquence, as though she had become a different person. “To speak frankly, I too wanted—longed—to hear it from you so badly I couldn’t stand it.” “Please don’t torment me like this—tell me the truth.” “…Could it be that you are an entirely different person from Komoda Genzaburō?” “Now, please tell me that.” “Ever since you returned from that graveyard, for a long time I have doubted whether you are truly who you claim to be.” “Genzaburō never possessed terrifying talents like yours—not at all.” “Even before coming to this island, I had already half confirmed that suspicion—something you yourself must have noticed.” “Moreover, when I see all these eerie yet strangely captivating sights here, I feel even my remaining doubts have now been clearly resolved.” “Now, please say it.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha, you’ve finally spat out your true feelings.” Hiroshi’s voice was unnervingly composed, yet couldn’t fully mask its self-annihilating edge. “I committed an unimaginable blunder.” “I loved one I was forbidden to love.” “How I restrained myself—again and again!” “But at the final moment—I could endure no longer.” “And just as I feared—you’ve pierced through my true self.…”

And then Hiroshi—he too with the eloquence of one possessed—began to recount the broad outline of his conspiracy. All the while, the oblivious fireworks crew underground kept launching prepared fireworks one after another, striving to delight their masters’ eyes. The flames—some taking the form of bizarre creatures, others splendid floral shapes, still others absurd figures of every description—poisonously vivid in blues, reds, and yellows, rippled across the dark firmament. Their radiance colored the valley’s watery surface below, where their two watermelon-like heads floated starkly visible. Every minute detail of their expressions was rendered with unnatural clarity, as if under theatrical spotlights.

Hiroshi’s face, as he continued speaking with single-minded intensity, at times flushed like a drunkard’s, at others turned ashen as a corpse’s, at others contorted into the terrifying visage of one jaundiced, and at still others became merely a voice in utter darkness. This grotesque metamorphosis—intertwined with the outlandish tale he spun—terrified Chiyoko to her core. Chiyoko, unable to bear the overwhelming terror, attempted several times to flee the spot—but Hiroshi’s deranged embrace would not relinquish her.

XXII

"You have no idea how much of my conspiracy you'd already grasped." "Being as perceptive as you are, you must have imagined quite deeply." "But even someone as sharp as you couldn’t have possibly known how deeply rooted my plans—my ideals—truly were, could you?" When he finished his tale, crimson fireworks still dyed the sky without fading, and with the visage of a red demon, Hiroshi fixed his gaze upon Chiyoko.

“Let me go, let me go—”

For some time now, Chiyoko had forgotten all decorum and could only repeat this one thing through her sobs and screams.

“Listen, Chiyoko.” Hiroshi barked as though stifling her mouth. “Do you think I can just let you go after laying everything bare?” “Don’t you love me anymore?” “Until yesterday—no, until moments ago—you doubted whether I was truly Genzaburō, yet still loved me, didn’t you?” “So now that I’ve confessed honestly, do you loathe and fear me like a sworn enemy?”

“Let me go.” “Please let me go.” “So—you really do think I’m your husband’s murderer, then. “You think I’m the Komoda family’s murderer, then. “Chiyoko, listen well. “I find you utterly lovable. “I feel it so strongly that I want nothing more than to die together with you. “But I still have lingering attachments. “To kill Hitomi Hiroshi and resurrect Komoda Genzaburō—how much pain did I endure? “And what sacrifices did I make to build this Panorama Island? “When I think of that, I can’t bring myself to abandon this island—now just a month from completion—and die. “Therefore, Chiyoko, I have no choice but to kill you.”

“Please don’t kill me.” When she heard that, Chiyoko strained her hoarse voice and screamed. “Please don’t kill me.” “I will do anything you say.” “I will serve you as Genzaburō, just as I have until now.” “I won’t tell anyone.” “I won’t speak of it from now on either.” “Please don’t kill me.”

“Is that genuine?”

Hiroshi’s face, dyed a deep cobalt blue by the fireworks, had only his eyes glinting a vivid purple as they stared piercingly at Chiyoko.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha—No use. No use! I can’t believe a word you say anymore! Maybe you still love me a bit. Maybe you’re telling the truth. But where’s the proof? If I let you live, I perish. Even if you mean to keep silent now that you’ve heard my confession—with your womanly skills—there’s no way only my facade would stay intact. Unwittingly, your very manner will give it away. Either way, I’ve no choice but to kill you, you see.”

“No! No! “I have parents! “I have siblings! “Please help me—I beg of you! “I’ll truly become like a wooden puppet and obey your every word! “Let go! Let go!” “There—you see? “You cling to your life. “You refuse to become my sacrifice. “You don’t love me. “You only loved Genzaburō. “No—even if you could love a man with Genzaburō’s face, you could never love this villainous me. “Now I understand completely. “I must kill you—there’s no other way.”

And Hiroshi’s arms gradually shifted position from Chiyoko’s shoulders, advancing toward her neck.

“Waaah! Waaah! Help…”

Chiyoko was already in a frantic panic. She could think of nothing but escaping. The self-defense instinct inherited from distant ancestors made her bare her teeth like a gorilla. And, almost reflexively, her sharp canine teeth sank deep into Hiroshi’s upper arm. “Damn you!” Hiroshi couldn’t help but involuntarily loosen his grip. Seizing that opening, Chiyoko—with a speed unimaginable from her usual self—slipped through Hiroshi’s arms, then with terrifying force, darted through the water like a seal and fled toward the pitch-black shore beyond.

“Help me…”

A splitting scream reverberated through the surrounding hills. “Fool—this is the middle of the mountains. Who do you think would come to help you? Those daytime women have already returned to their rooms deep underground and are fast asleep. Moreover, you don’t even know the escape route!”

Hiroshi deliberately feigned composure as he approached her like a cat. That there was no one aboveground was well understood by him, the lord of this kingdom. His only slight concern was whether her scream might travel through the fireworks tubes to the distant underground, but fortunately she had landed on their opposite side. Moreover, right beside the underground fireworks launching device, a generator engine roared so violently that voices from aboveground could scarcely be heard. What proved even more reassuring was that around the tenth firework had just been launched, its sound having nearly entirely drowned out her earlier scream.

The golden flames, not yet extinguished, vividly projected the pitiful figure of Chiyoko frantically searching everywhere for an escape. Hiroshi leapt at her body in one bound, and as they collapsed together there, he was able to wrap both hands around her neck without any difficulty. And before she could let out a second scream, her breathing had already become labored. “Please forgive me—I still love you.” “But I am too greedy.” “I cannot abandon the myriad pleasures that take place on this island.” “I cannot afford to destroy myself for you alone.”

Tears streaming down his face, Hiroshi repeated "Forgive me, forgive me" as he tightened his arms ever more firmly. Beneath his body, flesh pressed against flesh, the naked Chiyoko flapped like a fish caught in a net, her movements frantic and desperate.

At the valley floor of the artificial flower mountain, in warm fragrant steam bathed in the bizarre fireworks’ five-colored rainbow, two naked bodies writhed together like a pair of raving beasts. It appeared not as a terrifying murder but rather as an intoxicated man and woman’s naked dance. Arms pursuing, skin fleeing—at times cheeks pressed together mingling briny tears, chests matching frenzied heartbeats—the torrential sweat of their struggle seemed to dissolve their bodies into something like slimy mud.

It felt less like a struggle and more like play. "If such a thing as a 'death game' exists," one might say, "this was precisely it." Both Hiroshi—straddling her abdomen while tightening his grip around her slender neck—and Chiyoko—writhing beneath the man's powerful muscles—had before long forgotten their pain, sinking into an ecstatic trance of indescribable rapture.

Before long, Chiyoko’s pallid fingers traced beautiful curves in her death throes, clawing at the air several times, as thread-like streams of blood oozed thickly from her translucent nostrils. And just then, as if by prior arrangement, the enormous golden petals of launched fireworks sharply outlined themselves against the black velvet sky, enclosing the gardens below, the spring, and the two entangled flesh masses there within a shower of golden powder. Chiyoko’s pallid face, the thread-thin streak of blood flowing across it—glossy as red lacquer—how serenely beautiful it must have appeared.

Twenty-Three

Hitomi Hiroshi stopped returning to the Komoda residence in T City from that day onward. He had now become a true resident of Panorama Island—as the monarch of this frenzied kingdom—taking up permanent residence on the offshore isle. “Chiyoko is queen of Panorama Island.” “She will never show her face in the human world again.” “Have you seen the Nation of Multitudes on this island?” “At times, Chiyoko may be posing as one of those dizzyingly clustered nude statues.” “When she isn’t [posing as a statue], she might be a mermaid at the sea’s depths, a snake charmer in the land of venomous serpents, or a flower spirit blooming riotously in the gardens. And when even such diversions grow tiresome, she becomes Her Majesty the Queen of Splendor—ensconced deep within this resplendent palace, wrapped in brocade curtains.” “How could she possibly dislike life in this paradise?” “She has forgotten time and home, just like Urashima Taro of legend, enraptured by this country’s beauty.” “You all have absolutely nothing to worry about.” “Because your beloved mistress now stands at the very pinnacle of happiness.”

When Chiyoko's elderly wet nurse, concerned about her mistress's well-being, came all the way to the offshore island to retrieve her, Hiroshi—seated on the throne of a magnificent palace hollowed out beneath the island—startled this aged woman with a solemn ceremony akin to an emperor granting audience to a subject. Whether the old woman was reassured by Hiroshi’s honeyed words or overwhelmed by the scene’s oppressive grandeur, she could only retreat without uttering a response.

Everything continued in this vein. To Chiyoko’s father had been sent lavish gifts repeatedly; to other relatives—some subjected to economic pressure, others conversely showered with unstinting presents—and furthermore, payoffs to officials had all been carried out flawlessly by the elderly Tsunoda.

Meanwhile, the islanders were not even permitted to catch a glimpse of Queen Chiyoko's figure. She hid day and night deep within the underground palace—behind Hiroshi's parlor, beneath a heavy curtain—and none were allowed to enter that room. Yet those islanders who knew of their master's peculiar tastes merely exchanged knowing smirks and whispered that beyond that drape must lie a world of revelry and dreams reserved solely for their king and queen; not a single soul harbored suspicion. In truth, save for a few men and women, none among the islanders had ever clearly seen Chiyoko's face, and even if they chanced to glimpse Her Majesty in passing, they lacked any means to discern whether it was truly her.

In this manner, the nearly impossible task was accomplished. Through the Komoda family's inexhaustible financial power, Hiroshi overcame every difficulty and managed to patch up every failure. Relatives who had been destitute until now suddenly became instant nouveaux riches; the once-miserable circus dancers, actresses, and female kabuki performers were treated on this island as if they were Japan's foremost stars; and young writers, painters, sculptors, and architects received allowances equivalent to executives of small firms. Even were it a realm of dreadful sin, how could such people muster the courage to abandon Panorama Island?

And thus, the earthly paradise finally arrived.

A madness of unprecedented carnivalesque proportions began to engulf the entire island. Naked women blooming in flower gardens; a riotous throng of mermaids in steaming pools; fireworks that never faded; statues breathing with life; steel-black monstrosities dancing wildly; intoxicated beasts roaring with drunken laughter; a serpentine dance of venomous snakes; lotus pedestals bearing beauties parading through their midst—and atop those pedestals sat Hitomi Hiroshi—king of these lands, swathed in brocade robes—his face contorted in a madman’s grin. The lotus pedestals would sometimes ascend the spiral staircase—a structure coiling like iron ivy through blue vines that crawled densely over the large concrete cylinder at the island’s center—twisting their way up to the summit.

From atop that summit’s bizarre mushroom-shaped canopy, one could take in the entire island at a glance—all the way to the distant surf line—but to what could one possibly compare the uncanny spectacle of that vista? As one ascended the spiral staircase, all scenery of the lower world vanished—gardens, ponds, forests, people—transforming into nothing but overlapping layers of massive rock walls. From the summit, those crimson-hued cliffs appeared to overlap all the way to the distant surf line, each precisely shaped like the petals of a single flower. Travelers of Panorama Island, after encountering various bizarre sights, found themselves startled once more by this unforeseen vista. It was as if the entire island were a single rose adrift upon the vast sea—or perhaps a colossal crimson flower from an opium dream, engaging in equal intercourse with the Sun God himself in the heavens. How did that unparalleled monotony and enormity exude such a wondrous beauty? A certain traveler may have recalled that mythical world which his distant, distant ancestors might have seen, but...

How is the author to narrate the unceasing madness and debauchery upon those magnificent stages day and night, the carnivalesque revelry of frenzied dancing and intoxication, the myriad games of life and death? It may perhaps bear some resemblance to—among all your nightmares, dear readers—the most absurd, the most blood-soaked, and yet the most magnificent.

Twenty-Four

Dear readers, should this fairy tale now reach its happy conclusion here? Could Hitomi Hiroshi's Komoda Genzaburō have continued indulging in this uncanny Panorama Kingdom's revelries until his hundredth year? No, no—such a thing could never be. For as befits old-fashioned tales, catastrophe—that rogue—lay surely in wait just beyond the climax.

One day, Hitomi Hiroshi was suddenly struck by an unease of unknown cause. It might perhaps have been what the world calls a victor’s sorrow. It may have been a kind of fatigue born from ceaseless revelry; or perhaps the deep-seated terror of past sins had stealthily crept into the dream of his unintended slumber. However, beyond such reasons, might it not have been that a certain man—along with the atmosphere enveloping him—stealthily bringing to this island what could be called a strange, ominous portent was the greatest cause of Hiroshi’s unease?

“Oi you—who’s that man standing vacantly by the pond? A man I don’t recognize at all...”

He first spotted that man by the hot spring's pond in the garden. Then he inquired of a poet attending him at his side. “Master, have you forgotten?” The poet replied: “That man is a literary scholar like us.” “He’s one you hired during your second round of recruitment.” “He apparently returned home for some time recently—that’s why you haven’t seen him—but I believe he must have come back on today’s steamer.”

“Ah, so that’s how it was.” “And what’s his name?” “He went by the name of Kitami Kogorō.” “Kitami Kogorō—I still cannot recall him at all.”

Wasn’t the fact that this man had strangely not remained in his memory itself some ill omen? From that moment on, wherever Hiroshi went, he felt the eyes of Kitami Kogorō—the literary scholar—upon him. From amidst the flowers of the garden, from beyond the steam of the hot spring pool, from behind cylinders in the mechanical kingdom, from between groups of statues in the sculpture garden, from beneath the shade of towering trees in the forest—it seemed he was always watching Hiroshi’s every move.

And then one day, in the shadow of the large concrete cylinder at the island’s center, Hiroshi—driven to the limit—finally seized the man. “You said your name was Kitami Kogorō, correct? It strikes me as somewhat odd that wherever I go, you’re always there.” Then, the man who had been leaning vacantly against the cylinder like a melancholy schoolboy answered respectfully, his pallid face flushing faintly. “Yes, that must surely be a coincidence.” “Master.”

“Coincidence? It must probably be as you say. But what were you thinking about just now?”

“I was thinking about a novel I read long ago.” “It was a profoundly moving novel.”

“Oh, a novel? “Ah, so you are a literary scholar.” “And whose novel is that? What’s it called?” “You’re likely unaware of it, Master.” “It was written by an unknown author—never even saw print.” “A short story called *The Tale of RA* by one Hitomi Hiroshi.”

Hiroshi was far too seasoned to be startled by something as simple as being addressed by his former name. He did not so much as twitch a muscle in his face at the other’s unexpected words—nay, even felt an inexplicable joy at having unexpectedly discovered an admirer of his old literary works—and continued speaking with nostalgic warmth. “Hitomi Hiroshi—I know him.” “He was a man who wrote fairy-tale-like stories—but that one, you see, was a friend of mine from my student days.” “Even though we were friends, we never really spoke intimately, though.” “But I didn’t read *The Tale of RA*.” “And how did you come by that manuscript?”

“I see. So he was your friend, Master?” “Strange things do happen, don’t they?” “*The Tale of RA* was written in 19—, but by that time, Master had already returned to T City, I presume.” “I had returned.” “Since we parted ways about two years prior, I had had no contact with Hitomi whatsoever.” “So even the fact that he began writing novels was something I only learned through magazine advertisements.” “So you weren’t particularly close even during your student days?”

“Well, I suppose so.” “If we met in the classroom, we’d exchange greetings—that was the extent of our relationship.” “Until coming here, I was part of the editorial department at K Magazine in Tokyo.” “Through that connection, I became acquainted with Mr. Hitomi and read his unpublished manuscripts. While someone like me considers *The Tale of RA* a true masterpiece, the editor-in-chief took issue with its overly sensual descriptions and ultimately suppressed it.” “The reason being that Mr. Hitomi was still a fledgling, unknown author at the time.”

“That was regrettable indeed.” “And I wonder what Hitomi Hiroshi has been doing lately.” Hiroshi barely managed to suppress his urge to add, “I could invite him to this island.” To such an extent did he have confidence in his own past misdeeds that he had completely become Komoda Genzaburō in truth. “It appears you remain unaware of this fact, Master.”

Kitami Kogorō said with profound emotion. "He committed suicide last year." "Oh, suicide?" "He threw himself into the sea and died. A suicide note was found, so it was ruled a suicide." "There was some reason, then?" "Most likely there was. I couldn't say... Still, what's strange is how you and Mr. Hitomi look exactly like twins. When I first arrived here, I was so startled that I wondered if Mr. Hitomi might be hiding in such a place. Of course, Master must have noticed that as well."

“I was often teased about it.” “It’s all because God played such an outrageous prank.”

Hiroshi put on a carefree laugh. Kitami Kogorō, following suit, laughed as though he found it unbearably funny.

That day, the sky lay blanketed under ash-gray rain clouds—a stillness peculiar to the calm before a storm, not a breath of wind stirring—yet around the island, waves churned ominously with the growls of beasts, foaming as though the very weather itself had turned uncanny.

The large shadowless concrete cylinder towered like a demon’s staircase toward the low black clouds, and at its base—five arm spans in circumference—two small human figures conversed dejectedly. On any other day, Hiroshi would have come here either riding a lotus pedestal borne by naked women or accompanied by several attendants; that he had come alone on this particular day and had begun such a lengthy conversation with Kitami Kogorō—a mere servant—was indeed strange.

“Truly, you two are the spitting image of each other.” “Moreover—speaking of resemblance—there’s still something peculiar.” Kitami Kogorō’s conversation grew increasingly tenacious.

“Peculiar how?” Hiroshi, too, found himself unable to simply walk away. “Regarding this *Tale of RA* novel—by any chance, Master, have you never heard anything resembling its plot from Mr. Hitomi?” “No, that’s not true. As I said earlier, I merely attended the same school as Hitomi. Since we were only classroom acquaintances, we never once held any deep conversations.”

“Is that really true?” “You’re a strange man. Why on earth would I lie about that?” “But is it acceptable for you to dismiss the matter so decisively? You wouldn’t happen to have anything you might come to regret, would you?”

Upon hearing this uncanny warning from Kitami, Hiroshi couldn’t help shuddering. Yet though he knew full well what it was, he had somehow utterly forgotten—strangely, he couldn’t recall it. “What on earth are you…” Hiroshi started to speak, then suddenly fell silent. Dimly, a certain realization had begun to dawn. His face paled, his breathing grew labored, and cold sweat flowed under his arms. “You see—you’re beginning to understand bit by bit, aren’t you? The reason a man like me came to this island—”

“I don’t understand—I don’t understand a single thing you’re saying. Stop this madness-tinged talk, I beg you.”

And then Hiroshi laughed again. But it was as feeble as a ghost’s laughter.

“If you remain uncomprehending, I shall elucidate.” Kitami appeared to be shedding his servant’s decorum by degrees. “The scenes from this novel *The Tale of RA* correspond precisely—in every particular—with Panorama Island’s landscapes.” His voice sharpened like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “An exact replica, much like your own uncanny resemblance to Mr. Hitomi.” A beat of charged silence followed before he pressed: “If you’ve neither read his work nor heard its contents, how explain this convergence? Coincidence proves inadequate for such meticulous alignment.” Leaning closer, he delivered the coup de grâce: “Only one whose mind mirrors the author’s could have conceived this island. However striking your physical likeness to Hitomi—that your very thoughts should match his? Most extraordinary.” His final words hung like a blade: “This paradox occupied my thoughts quite intensely.”

“So what exactly are you claiming?”

Hiroshi held his breath and glared at the man’s face.

“Do you still not understand? In other words, you are not Komoda Genzaburō but undoubtedly Hitomi Hiroshi. If you had read *The Tale of RA* or heard about it, you could have claimed to have imitated it in creating the island’s scenery as a means of defense. Yet now you’ve gone and sealed off that one remaining escape route yourself, haven’t you?” Hiroshi realized he had fallen into the man’s skillfully laid trap. Before embarking on this grand undertaking, he had inspected his own novels as a precautionary measure to confirm none contained particularly incriminating material—yet he had failed to notice the existence of a rejected manuscript. He had nearly forgotten he had even written a novel called *The Tale of RA*. As mentioned at this story’s beginning, he had been a pitiful writer whose manuscripts—every last one he wrote—were mostly rejected. But now, recalling Kitami’s words, he had indeed written such a novel. Since creating artificial landscapes had been his long-cherished dream, it was hardly surprising this dream had manifested both as fiction and as a physical reality indistinguishable from that very novel. Even his meticulously pondered plan had contained an oversight after all—and that oversight, of all things, was the rejected manuscript. He was filled with regret no amount of remorse could ever suffice.

“Ah, it’s over.” In the end, my true identity might have been exposed because of this bastard. But wait. What this bastard has in his grasp is nothing more than a single novel, isn’t it? It’s still too early to collapse yet! “Even if this island’s scenery resembles someone else’s novel, that alone doesn’t constitute evidence of a crime.”

In that instant, Hiroshi steadied his mind and managed to adopt a composed demeanor.

“Ha ha ha… You’re a man who goes through such pointless trouble.” “You’re saying I’m Hitomi Hiroshi?” “Call me Hitomi Hiroshi all you like—I couldn’t care less. But since I am undeniably Komoda Genzaburō, there’s nothing to be done about it.” “No, it would be a grave mistake to think the evidence I hold is limited to that." “I know everything.” "I already knew everything, but I took this roundabout method to make you confess in your own words." “There was a reason I didn’t want to suddenly involve the police or anything like that.” "The reason is that I wholeheartedly admire your art." “Even if it is at the request of Countess Higashikōji, I did not wish to heedlessly subject this great genius to judgment by worldly laws.”

“So, you’re an emissary from Higashikōji.”

Hiroshi finally grasped the meaning. The Count Higashikōji, into whose family Genzaburō’s sister had married, stood as the sole exception among their numerous relatives—the one who remained impervious to monetary influence. Kitami Kogorō was unmistakably an operative of that Countess Higashikōji.

“That’s correct. I have come here at the request of Countess Higashikōji. It must be surprising even to you that Countess Higashikōji—who ordinarily has almost no contact with your household—has been monitoring your actions from afar.” “No, I’m surprised my sister would entertain such outlandish suspicions about me. You’d understand immediately if we met and spoke, though…” “What purpose does voicing such things serve now? *The Tale of RA* was merely the spark that first roused my suspicions; the true evidence lies elsewhere.”

“Then let’s hear it.”

“For example.” “For example?” “For example, this single strand of hair clinging to the concrete wall.” With those words, Kitami Kogorō parted the ivy covering the surface of the large concrete cylinder beside him, exposing a pale expanse from which protruded a single long strand of hair—like an udumbara flower blooming miraculously. “You likely understand what this signifies.” “……Ah! That won’t do.” “Before your finger touches that trigger—look here.” “My bullet will come flying out!”

Having said that, Kitami thrust forward the shining object in his right hand. Hiroshi, with his hand in his pocket, stood frozen as if fossilized, unable to move. “I’ve been thinking about this single strand of hair for some time now.” “And now, while conversing with you, I have finally been able to reach the truth.” “I have ascertained that this strand of hair isn’t merely a single loose one—it continues deeper within, connected to something further inside.” “Then let’s put that to the test.”

No sooner had Kitami Kogorō spoken than he abruptly yanked a large jackknife from his pocket and stabbed repeatedly with all his might into the spot beneath the strand of hair. Then the concrete crumbled away in pieces, and soon the sturdy blade was half-buried; along its edge, crimson liquid began to trickle down, and in an instant, a vivid peony blossomed upon the white concrete surface.

“There’s no need to dig it up. There is a human corpse hidden in this pillar. Your—no, Mr. Komoda Genzaburō’s wife’s corpse.” While supporting Hiroshi—as pale as a ghost and about to collapse there and then—with one arm, Kitami continued in his usual tone. “Of course, I did not deduce everything from this single strand of hair alone. I realized that for Hitomi Hiroshi to impersonate Komoda Genzaburō, Mrs. Komoda’s existence would inevitably pose the greatest obstacle. And so, while I was carefully observing the relationship between you and Mrs. Komoda, an incident occurred where her figure suddenly vanished from our sight. You may have succeeded in deceiving others, but you cannot deceive me. I concluded without a doubt that you had committed the murder of your wife. Since you’ve committed murder, there must be a hiding place for the corpse. What kind of place would a person of your standing choose? Incidentally, what worked in my favor—though you may have forgotten this as well—is that the hiding place was clearly hinted at in *The Tale of RA*. In that novel, there was a passage describing how a man named RA—due to his abnormal proclivities—imitated old bridge-building legends when erecting a large concrete cylinder. Though entirely unnecessary—in fiction, one can kill people with impunity—he buried a woman alive within the concrete as a human pillar. Suspecting this might be the case, I checked the date Mrs. Komoda arrived on this island and discovered it coincided precisely with when the wooden formwork for this cylinder was completed and cement pouring had just begun. What a truly safe hiding place. All you had to do was wait for a moment when no one was around, carry the corpse up to the scaffolding, drop it into the wooden formwork, and pour a few scoops of cement over it. However, the fact that a single strand of Madam’s hair had become entangled and protruded outside the concrete—doesn’t that suggest some sort of unforeseen mishap inevitably occurs in crimes?”

Hiroshi had already collapsed helplessly and was leaning against the cylinder precisely where Chiyoko’s blood had flowed. Kitami Kogorō gazed at his pitiful state with apparent sympathy, yet remained determined to voice every thought he had pieced together. “To invert this logic—the fact that you had to murder Mrs. Komoda means nothing less than that you were not Komoda Genzaburō.” “Do you understand?” “This corpse of Mrs. Komoda is one piece of evidence I mentioned earlier.” “Of course, that isn’t all.” “I hold yet another piece of evidence—the most critical one.” “I believe you’ve likely already realized this, but it lies nowhere else than in the cemetery of the Komoda family’s ancestral temple.” “When people saw the corpse vanish from Mr. Komoda’s grave and a living man identical to him appear elsewhere, they instantly became convinced Mr. Komoda had been resurrected.” “But just because a corpse disappears from its coffin doesn’t necessarily mean it returned to life.” “Because that corpse might have been moved elsewhere.” “As for elsewhere—with so many coffins buried in the most convenient location nearby—if someone transporting a corpse wished to hide it, there could be no more opportune spot than the neighboring coffin.” “What an exquisite sleight of hand this was.” “Next to Komoda Genzaburō’s grave lies the coffin of his grandfather. And now, through your considerate arrangement, grandfather and grandson sleep peacefully there together—bones clasping bones.”

When Kitami Kogorō had advanced his story that far, Hitomi Hiroshi—who had been slumped—suddenly jerked upright and burst into a creepy laugh.

“Ha ha ha… Well, you’ve investigated this thoroughly.” “That’s exactly right.” “Not a single detail is amiss.” “But truth be told, there was no need to involve a great detective like you—I was already teetering on the edge of ruin.” “It’s merely a difference of sooner or later.” “For a moment I even considered resisting you, but upon reflection, such efforts would only extend my current indulgences by half a month at most.” “What does it matter?” “I’ve already built everything I wished to build and done all I desired.” “I have no regrets.” “I’ll honorably return to being Hitomi Hiroshi and obey your instructions.” “If you were to examine the accounts, even the Komoda family’s vast wealth can barely sustain this lifestyle for another month.” “But earlier, you seemed to say you didn’t want to let someone like me be pointlessly judged by worldly laws.” “What exactly did you mean by that?”

“Thank you.” “Hearing this fulfills my deepest desire… As for what I meant—I want you to execute me cleanly without police involvement.” “This isn’t the Higashikōji Countess’s command.” “Rather, as one who serves art, it’s my personal wish.” “Thank you.” “Let me reciprocate your courtesy.” “Then—would you permit me temporary freedom?” “A mere thirty minutes would suffice.”

“Very well. Though there are hundreds of your servants on this island, once they learn you’re a fearsome criminal, they’d hardly side with you. Nor would you be the type to gather allies and break our agreement.” “Then where should I wait?” “At Hanazono Hot Spring Pool.” Hiroshi said curtly and vanished behind the large concrete cylinder.

Twenty-Five

About ten minutes later, Kitami Kogorō was waiting for Hiroshi to arrive in a tranquil mood, half-submerged in the fragrant steam of the hot spring pool amidst a multitude of naked women.

The sky remained shrouded in black clouds; no wind stirred; the flower-covered mountains stretching to the horizon lay slumbering in silver-gray; not a single ripple formed on the hot spring pool; even the dozens of naked women bathing there kept silent as corpses. To Kitami’s eyes, this entire vista appeared like a melancholic embossed picture crafted by nature itself.

And as ten, then twenty minutes passed, how interminably long that span of time felt. An unchanging sky, mountains of flowers, a pond, a crowd of naked women—and enveloping them all, a mouse-gray like a dream. Yet soon, the people—jolted back to their senses by fireworks launched untimely from a corner of the pond—looked up at the sky in the next instant. There, they could not help but cry out in awe at blossoms of light blooming with such overwhelming beauty.

It was about five times the size of ordinary fireworks, and thus spread nearly across the entire sky—not so much a single flower as a composite bloom gathering every kind of flower, its five-colored petals evoking the sensation of a kaleidoscope. As it descended, fluttering and shifting hues and forms, it continued expanding ever wider.

Neither nighttime fireworks nor daylight fireworks—against a backdrop of black clouds and silver-gray, the five-colored light took on an eerie matte texture. Expanding its area moment by moment, it crept downward like a suspended ceiling—a sight so overwhelming it seemed to make one’s very soul vanish. At that moment, beneath the dazzling five-colored light, Kitami Kogorō suddenly noticed crimson droplets on the faces and shoulders of several naked women. At first, he thought steam droplets might merely reflect the fireworks’ colors and let them be, but soon the crimson spray poured down ever more violently. Feeling an unnervingly warm trickle on his own forehead and cheeks, he transferred it to his hand and looked—there could be no doubt—it was unmistakably human blood. And there, upon looking closer at the softly drifting object floating on the water’s surface before his eyes, he saw it was a mercilessly torn human wrist that had somehow descended there unnoticed.

Amid such a bloody scene, Kitami Kogorō wondered at the strangely unperturbed naked women while he too remained motionless, resting his head against the pool's edge as he vacantly stared at the vivid crimson laceration of the fresh wrist—splayed open like a flower—drifting near his chest.

In this manner, Hitomi Hiroshi’s entire body shattered into smithereens alongside the fireworks, becoming a rain of blood and flesh masses that showered down upon every corner of each landscape in his created Panorama Country.