Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

I am not yet thirty, yet every single strand of my thick hair has turned snow-white. Could there possibly exist another human being as bizarre as this? A snow-white crown no less magnificent than that of the man once called the White-Haired Prime Minister rests upon my young head. Those unaware of my circumstances inevitably fix their doubtful gazes upon my head when first we meet. Bold individuals begin questioning me about my white hair before their greetings have properly concluded. This inquiry vexes me regardless of the asker's gender; yet there exists another question—one posed only by those ladies most intimate with my wife. Though impertinent, it concerns the terrifyingly large scar marring the upper part of her left thigh near the hip. There lies an irregular circular scar—a gruesome crimson mark resembling the aftermath of major surgery.

These two bizarre matters were not exactly our secrets, nor did I particularly refuse to discuss their causes. However, making others comprehend my story proved exceedingly troublesome. Regarding that matter, there truly existed an exceedingly lengthy tale; moreover, even if one endured the tedium of hearing me attempt to recount it—though my poor storytelling may partly have been to blame—listeners would never readily believe my account. Most people dismissed it outright with a "That couldn't possibly be true!" They spoke of me as though I were some braggart spinning tall tales. Despite the irrefutable evidence of my white hair and my wife’s scar, people refused to believe me. So extraordinary were the events we had experienced.

I once read a novel titled The White-Haired Demon. It described how a certain nobleman, having encountered premature burial and endured death's agony within an inescapable tomb, found his jet-black hair transformed completely white overnight. I have also heard the story of a man who climbed into an iron barrel and plunged over Niagara Falls. Though fortunate enough to escape serious injury while descending the waterfall, they say his hair turned completely white in that very instant. Generally speaking, events capable of turning human hair snow-white—as seen in these examples—are accompanied by either unprecedented terror or excruciating pain. Would not this white hair of mine—not yet thirty—serve as proof that I experienced an incident so abnormal people can scarcely credit it? The same could be said of my wife's scar. Were I to show that scar to a surgeon, he would undoubtedly struggle to determine its origin. There's no possibility it resulted from some enormous abscess, and even considering internal muscular disease, no quack doctor anywhere would leave such a massive incision. If it were a burn, the healing pattern would differ; nor is it any birthmark. It was precisely the sort of wound that gives one the grotesque impression of another limb having sprouted there and been severed off—the kind of scar one might reasonably expect from such an amputation. This too could never arise from any commonplace occurrence.

For these reasons, not only did I find it vexing to be questioned about this matter by everyone I met, but there was also the frustration that even when I painstakingly recounted my personal history, my listeners refused to believe me; and moreover, truth be told, I harbored a desire to clearly proclaim to people that grotesque incident beyond what the world had ever imagined—that inhuman realm we experienced—to declare that such terrifying facts existed in this world. So when bombarded with that inevitable question, I would say, "All the details are written in my book. Please read this and dispel your doubts," resolving to compile my experiences into a volume I could place before such questioners.

But no matter what I say, I lack literary talent. Though being an avid reader who'd devoured countless novels, ever since learning composition in my first year of vocational school, I'd never written anything beyond business correspondence. Well, looking at modern novels where one could simply ramble on about whatever came to mind, I thought even someone like me should manage that much. Moreover, since my story wasn't fiction but something I'd experienced firsthand, I dismissively assumed it would be easier still—yet when I actually began writing, I gradually realized it wasn't so simple after all. Contrary to my initial expectations, precisely because these were real events, the task proved excruciatingly difficult. Being unskilled with prose, I found myself not commanding words but being commanded by them—constantly veering into superfluous details while missing essential points, until my precious facts became more fantastical than any trivial novel. It was as though I'd belatedly come to understand how profoundly challenging it was to render truth truthfully.

Even just for the story's beginning alone, I wrote and tore up my drafts as many as twenty times over. And in the end, I came to think that beginning with the love story between Kizaki Hatsuyo and myself would be most appropriate. Truth be told, exposing my own romantic history in written form for public scrutiny fills me—no novelist—with peculiar shame and even anguish; yet however I consider it, without writing this I would lose the narrative thread, so not only must I endure the shame of revealing my relationship with Hatsuyo, but also other similar facts—indeed, even a homosexual incident that developed between myself and another individual—or so I find myself compelled to disclose.

To begin with its most striking incidents, this story begins with two mysterious deaths—murders—that occurred approximately two months apart. While resembling conventional detective tales or horror fiction in form, its true peculiarity emerges through how events progress: before reaching the main narrative thread, Kizaki Hatsuyo—my lover and what might be called either protagonist or deuteragonist—is killed, followed swiftly by the murder of Miyamaki Koukichi, the amateur detective I deeply respected and had entrusted with solving Hatsuyo's unexplained death. Moreover, the strange tale I intend to recount uses these two individuals' mysterious deaths merely as its starting point—the true narrative concerns my own experience with evil of such vast scale it demands astonishment and dread, with sins so profound that no one has ever imagined their like.

Given the plight of an amateur who does nothing but craft grandiose prefaces yet fails to engage the reader (though you will later come to realize this preface contains no exaggeration), I shall put an end to these preliminaries here and now begin my clumsy tale.

A Night of Remembrance

At that time I was a twenty-five-year-old youth employed as a clerk at S・K Trading Company, a partnership firm with offices in a Marunouchi building. In truth, my meager salary amounted to little more than personal spending money; yet my family lacked the means to send me—a graduate of W Vocational School—to any higher institution. Having begun work at twenty-one, I had by that spring completed four full years of service. My duties involved maintaining a section of the accounting ledgers—from morning till evening I needed only to click-clack abacus beads. But though I'd attended vocational school, I who prided myself on understanding art through my fervent love of novels, paintings, plays and moving pictures truly detested this mechanical labor far more than my fellow clerks did. Most colleagues were flamboyant, bold practical sorts—those who nightly toured cafés or dance halls, or when idle spoke of nothing but sports. For a shy daydreamer like myself, it could honestly be said I'd made no true friends despite four years there. This rendered my office drudgery all the more desolate.

However, from about six months prior, I had ceased to find my morning commute to work quite so detestable as before. This was because Kizaki Hatsuyo, then eighteen years old, had just joined S・K商会 as a trainee typist. Kizaki Hatsuyo was the very image of the woman I had carried in my heart since birth. Her complexion held a melancholic whiteness, yet not unhealthily so; her body supple as whalebone yet rich in resilience, though not robust like an Arabian steed. For a woman, her high pale forehead bore uneven brows radiating uncanny allure, while long-lidded monolid eyes harbored subtle mysteries. A nose neither too tall nor lips too thin were carved upon cheeks taut over a small chin—the space between nose and upper lip narrower than most, that upper lip slightly upturned. To delineate these features so minutely would fail to capture Hatsuyo’s essence; yet she existed precisely thus—a woman deviating from conventional beauty standards while exerting incomparable fascination upon me alone.

Being timid, I somehow missed my chance; for six long months, I neither exchanged words with her nor even shared a nod when our morning glances met. (In this office with its many employees, it was customary not to exchange morning greetings except with those sharing common work duties or particularly close acquaintances.) Yet by what demonic influence(?), one day I suddenly found myself speaking to her. When I later reflected on it, this matter—no, even the fact that she had joined the office where I worked—was truly a strange twist of fate. I am not speaking of the love that developed between her and me. Rather, I speak of the fate that, merely because I spoke to her at that time, later led me into the horrific events recorded in this tale.

At that moment, Kizaki Hatsuyo—her hair styled in a self-done approximation of an all-back coiffure—bent over her typewriter, the mauve cellophane of her work clothes stretching slightly across her hunched back as she fervently tapped at the keys.

HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI …… When I looked, the typing paper was densely covered with what appeared to be someone’s surname—Higuchi, I presumed—arranged like a decorative pattern. I had meant to say something like, “Miss Kizaki, how diligent you are.” But true to my timid nature, I grew flustered and foolishly cried out in an absurdly shrill voice, “Ms. Higuchi!” I blurted. At the sound, Kizaki Hatsuyo turned toward me,

“What’s that?”

she replied with utmost composure, yet in a tone as innocent as a grade schooler’s. She showed not the slightest doubt at being called Higuchi. I became flustered once again. Could it be that Kizaki was my own preposterous misunderstanding? Was she merely typing her own surname, I wonder? This doubt momentarily made me forget my shame, and I found myself spouting a lengthy explanation.

“You’re called Higuchi-san? I had only thought you were Miss Kizaki.” Then she too seemed startled, the rims of her eyes tinged faintly red as she spoke. “Oh! I was so careless... I’m Kizaki.” “Then what does ‘Higuchi’ mean?” “Your love—” He started to say—then stopped short, startled.

"It's nothing…" And Kizaki Hatsuyo hurriedly removed the letter paper from the typewriter and crumpled it with one hand.

The reason I have recorded such a trivial conversation is that there lies significance in it. It was not merely that this conversation served as the catalyst for greater intimacy between us. For in the fact that she had been typing the surname "Higuchi," and in the fact that she had responded without hesitation when called by that name, lay profound significance pertaining to this story's very foundation.

This book does not primarily aim to tell a love story, nor is there leisure enough to dwell on such matters amidst the multitude of events demanding narration. Therefore, I shall confine myself to a most abbreviated account of how my relationship with Kizaki Hatsuyo progressed from that point onward. Yet following that chance exchange of words, without either of us arranging meetings, we began frequently departing work together. And thus, the brief intervals—in the elevator, from the building to the tram stop, and from boarding the tram until reaching our transfer point where she would head toward Sugamo and I toward Waseda—became our most cherished moments of each day. Before long, we gradually grew bolder. We would delay our return home slightly, stop by Hibiya Park near the office, and steal moments for brief conversation on a bench in some corner. At times, we would get off at Ogawamachi Station—our transfer point—and enter one of the shabby cafés in the area to order a cup of tea each. Yet naive as we were, it took nearly half a year for us to muster the extraordinary courage required to venture into a certain rundown hotel on the outskirts.

Just as I had been feeling lonely, Kizaki Hatsuyo too had been feeling lonely. We were not brave modern people. Just as her appearance matched what I had carried in my heart since birth, so too—joyously—had my appearance been the object of her affection from the moment she entered this world. It may sound strange to say this, but regarding my appearance, I had long maintained a certain degree of confidence. Moroto Michio was indeed another pivotal figure in this narrative—a man who had graduated from medical school and now engaged in peculiar experiments at its research laboratory. Yet this Moroto Michio, from the time when he was a medical student and I a vocational school pupil, appeared to harbor quite serious homosexual affection toward me.

Within the bounds of my knowledge, he was a beautiful youth radiating noble bearing both physically and mentally; though for my part I certainly maintained no peculiar attachment to him, whenever I reflected on having met his exacting discernment's standards, I could at least feel some measure of confidence regarding my own outward appearance. But concerning my relationship with Moroto, there will be frequent occasion to speak of it hereafter.

Be that as it may, that first night with Kizaki Hatsuyo at the rundown hotel on the outskirts remains something I still cannot forget. It was at some café where we had fallen into a strangely tearful, reckless mood like elopers; I downed three glasses of unfamiliar whiskey while Hatsuyo drank about two sweet cocktails, until both of us turned crimson and somewhat lost our sobriety—and thus, without feeling much shame at all, we found ourselves standing before that hotel's counter. We were shown to an unpleasantly gloomy room equipped with a wide bed, its wallpaper stained as if by age. When the boy placed the door key and bitter tea on a corner table and silently left, we suddenly exchanged looks of great surprise. Despite her fragile appearance, Hatsuyo was a girl of considerable inner strength, yet even so, her face turned ashen like fading intoxication, lips trembling uncontrollably as all color drained from them.

“Are you scared?” I whispered this to distract from my own fear. She remained silent, as if closing her eyes, and shook her head imperceptibly. But needless to say, she too was frightened. It was truly a bizarre, awkward situation. Neither of us had ever expected things would turn out this way. We had believed we could enjoy our first night more casually, like the adults of the world. Yet at that moment, even the courage to lie down upon the bed was beyond us. The thought of taking off our kimonos and baring our skin never even crossed our minds. To put it plainly, we sat perched side by side on the bed for nearly an hour in silence—feeling intense anxiety yet not even exchanging the kisses we had shared many times before, let alone doing anything else—awkwardly swinging our legs to conceal our discomfort.

“Say, let’s talk.” “I somehow want to talk about when I was little.” When she said this in a low, clear voice, I had already moved beyond intense physical anxiety and instead felt strangely refreshed. “Ah, that sounds good.” I answered, meaning that she had hit upon an excellent idea.

“Please tell me. Your life story.”

She settled into a comfortable position and began recounting her mysterious childhood memories in a clear, pure voice that seemed to slice through the air. I listened motionless, utterly absorbed for what felt like ages. Her voice held something of a lullaby's quality, bringing my ears peculiar delight. I had heard fragments of her life story before and would hear them again later, but never did they move me as profoundly as during that telling. To this day, each word she spoke then remains vividly etched in my memory. Yet for this narrative's purposes, there's no need to transcribe her entire account in full. From those recollections, it suffices that I briefly record only those portions bearing relevance to what follows.

“As I told you before, I don’t know where I was born or who my parents are.” “My current Mother—you haven’t met her yet, but I live alone with her and work like this for her sake—that Mother of mine said,” “Hatsuyo, you’re the child we—when we were a young couple—picked up at Osaka’s Kawaguchi wharf and raised with all our devotion.” “You were in the dim corner of the steamship waiting room, holding a small cloth-wrapped bundle in your hands, sniffling and crying.” “Later, when they opened the cloth-wrapped bundle, inside they found what was likely your ancestors’ genealogical record and a written note. From that note, they learned your name was Hatsuyo and that you were exactly three years old at the time.” “But you see, since we had no children of our own, we came to regard you as a true daughter bestowed by God. We completed all the proper police procedures, formally adopted you, and devoted ourselves wholeheartedly.” “So you see, don’t go having any standoffish notions—with Father gone and me being all alone—just think of me as your real mother, won’t you?’ she said. “But even when I heard that, it somehow felt like listening to a fairy tale—like a dream—and though I truly didn’t feel sad at all, that was precisely what felt so strange.” “The tears just kept flowing uncontrollably.”

During her foster father’s lifetime, he had thoroughly investigated that genealogical record and went to great lengths to track down her real parents. However, there were torn sections in the genealogical record, merely listing ancestors' names, pseudonyms, and posthumous titles. While the preservation of such records showed they undoubtedly belonged to a samurai family of considerable standing, the complete absence of any notations regarding which domain they served or where they resided rendered the investigation fruitless.

“Even at three years old, how foolish of me. “I don’t remember my parents’ faces at all. “To think I was abandoned in a crowded place... “But... “There are just two things I still remember so vividly—when I close my eyes like this, they appear clear as day in the darkness. “One is me playing with a sweet baby on what seemed like grassy shores by some beach, warmed by sunlight. “Such a darling baby—I might’ve been acting the big sister, watching over them. “Below us stretched deep blue sea, and far beyond that, land shaped like a resting ox lay veiled in purple haze. “Sometimes I wonder... “Maybe this baby was my real sibling—not abandoned like me—still living happily with our parents somewhere now. “When I think that, this bittersweet ache tightens my chest—dear yet sorrowful all at once.”

She gazed into the distance, speaking as if to herself. And as for another of her childhood memories—

“A hill that seemed made entirely of rocks, and the view from its midslope.” “A bit further away stood someone’s grand estate—earthen walls as imposing as the Great Wall of China, a magnificent roof that looked like a large bird spreading its wings over the main house, and a big white storehouse at its side, all sharply visible under the sun’s glare.” “And beyond that, not a single house-like structure stood outside—beyond the estate stretched that same lush blue sea again, while further still across the water lay that same stretch of land shaped like a reclining ox, hazy in the mist.” “It must mean something.” “The place where I played with the baby shares the same landscape as that land.” “How many times have I seen that same place in my dreams?” “In my dreams, when I think, ‘Ah, I’m going there again,’ and start walking, I always end up at that rocky hill without fail.” “If I were to walk through every last corner of Japan without missing a single spot, I’m certain there must be a place that perfectly matches the scenery from my dreams.” “And that land is none other than my dear birthplace.”

“Wait, wait.” It was then that I stopped Hatsuyo’s story and spoke. “This might be presumptuous of me, but that scenery appearing in your dreams there seems rather paintable. Shall I attempt to draw it?” “Very well—shall I describe it in greater detail?”

Thereupon, I took out the hotel stationery that was in the basket atop the desk and, with the attached pen, drew the coastal scenery she had described seeing from the rocky hill. Since that drawing happened to remain in my possession, I’ve reproduced it here as a print—though needless to say, at that time I never imagined this spur-of-the-moment sketch would later play such a crucial role for me.

“Oh my, how mysterious!” “That’s exactly right.” “That’s exactly right.”

Hatsuyo looked at my completed drawing and exclaimed with delight.

“May I keep this?”

I said while folding the paper small with the tenderness one reserves for a lover’s dream and tucking it into my jacket’s inner pocket.

Hatsuyo then went on to speak endlessly about her memories—the various sorrows and joys she had experienced since first becoming aware of the world around her. But there was no need to record that here. In any case, we thus spent our first night like a beautiful dream. Naturally, we didn't stay at a hotel and returned to our respective homes late at night.

An Uncanny Romance

The relationship between me and Kizaki Hatsuyo deepened with each passing day. After about a month had passed, from when we spent our second night at that same hotel, our relationship ceased to be purely beautiful like some boy's dream. I visited Hatsuyo's home and spoke with her kind foster mother. And before long, both Hatsuyo and I had even reached the point of confiding our feelings to each of our respective mothers. The mothers didn't seem to have any particular active objections either. But we were far too young. Matters like marriage lay veiled in mist on a distant, far-off shore.

We young ones used to exchange childish gifts, mimicking children making pinky promises. I spent a month’s salary to purchase a tourmaline-set ring corresponding to Hatsuyo’s birth month and presented it to her. One day, on a bench in Hibiya Park, I slipped it onto her finger with the practiced gesture I had learned from motion pictures. Then, Hatsuyo childishly delighted in it (her impoverished fingers had never even borne a single ring before) and pondered for a while, but—

“Ah, I’ve thought of something!” She said while opening the clasp of the handbag she always carried.

“Do you understand? I’ve been worrying about what I should give you in return.” “I couldn’t possibly afford a ring.” “But there is something good.” “Look—that genealogical record I told you about before, the sole memento of the father and mother I never knew.” “I treasure it so much that when I go out, to stay close to my ancestors, I always carry it in this handbag.” “But when I think this single thing connects me to my mother somewhere far away, I can’t bear to part with it no matter what—yet since I’ve nothing else to give you, I’ll entrust you with this, the second most precious thing after my life itself. You’ll take care of it, won’t you?” “It may look like worthless scrap paper, but promise you’ll treasure it too.”

And then, she took out a thin genealogical record with an old-fashioned woven cover from her handbag and passed it to me. I received it and flipped through the pages, but there were only old-fashioned, martial-sounding names lined up in vermilion. “It says Higuchi there, right?” “You see, since I think Higuchi is more my real name than Kizaki—that name you discovered once when I was messing around on the typewriter, right?—when you called me Higuchi that time, I ended up answering before I knew it.”

She said such things. "This may look like worthless scrap, but you know, once there was someone who came offering quite a high price for it." "It was a secondhand bookstore in the neighborhood." "They must have overheard Mother’s slip of the tongue from someone." "But no matter how much money they offered, I told them I simply couldn’t part with this." “So you see, it isn’t entirely without value, you know.”

She also said such childlike things. So to speak, those were our mutual engagement gifts.

But before long, a somewhat troublesome incident occurred for us. It was that a suitor—far superior to me whether in status, wealth, or scholarly accomplishments—had suddenly appeared before Hatsuyo. Through an influential matchmaker, he launched a fierce courtship campaign targeting Hatsuyo’s mother. Hatsuyo learned of this from her mother exactly one day after we had exchanged those gifts; however, according to what her mother disclosed when pressed, intermediaries pursuing the marriage proposal had already begun visiting through family connections a full month prior. Needless to say, I was shocked when I heard this. Yet what shocked me was not that the suitor was a man far superior to me in every regard, nor that Hatsuyo's mother seemed inclined toward him—it was that this suitor pursuing Hatsuyo turned out to be none other than Moroto Michio himself, who shared that peculiar relationship with me. The severity of this shock was such that it overshadowed all other shocks and heartaches.

As for why I was so shocked—to explain that, I must make a somewhat embarrassing disclosure, though... As I briefly mentioned earlier, the scientist Moroto Michio had harbored a certain inexplicable romantic feeling toward me for several long years. As for myself, while I naturally couldn't comprehend such affections, I never felt any discomfort toward his scholarly erudition, his genius-like speech and actions, or even his appearance with its peculiar charm. Therefore, as long as his conduct didn't exceed certain bounds, I wasn't reluctant to accept his goodwill—that of a mere friend.

When I was a fourth-year student at a vocational school—partly due to family circumstances but mostly driven by childish curiosity—I stayed at a boarding house called Hatsuneyama in Kanda, despite having a home in Tokyo. It was there that Moroto and I first became acquainted as fellow lodgers. There was a six-year age difference between us—I was seventeen at the time, Moroto twenty-three—but since he was a university student already reputed as a top scholar, I interacted with him gladly, with feelings closer to respect than anything else.

It was about two months after our first meeting that I became aware of his feelings, though this realization came not from him directly but through rumors circulating among Moroto’s friends. "There were those who spread rumors like 'Moroto and Minoura are strange.'" From then on, when I paid closer attention, I noticed that Moroto would display a faint expression of shame around his pale cheeks only when interacting with me. I was still a child back then, and at my school too, similar things happened in a manner akin to playfulness, so there were times when I would imagine Moroto’s feelings and find myself blushing alone. It wasn’t such an intensely unpleasant feeling.

I recall how he often invited me to the public bathhouse. There, we would wash each other's backs without fail, but he would lather my body with soap foam and scrub me as meticulously as a mother bathing her infant. At first, I took this as mere kindness, but later I became aware of his feelings while letting him continue. That degree of contact did not particularly wound my pride after all.

During our walks, we would hold hands and link arms like that. That too I did consciously. At times, his fingertips would grip my fingers with intense passion, but I would feign nonchalance—though with a slightly fluttering heart—surrendering myself to his whims. Yet having said this, I never once returned the pressure of his hand. Moreover, needless to say, his kindness toward me was not limited to such physical matters. He gave me various gifts. He took me to plays, moving pictures, athletic competitions, and such. He tutored me in languages. Before my exams and such, he would go out of his way and worry as if they were his own affairs. Regarding such spiritual protection, even now I find it difficult to forget his kindness.

Yet there was no possibility that our relationship could remain forever confined to such superficial bounds. After a certain period had passed, for a time, he would fall into melancholy just from seeing my face, sighing in silence—a phase that persisted until nearly half a year had passed since we first met, when a certain crisis finally descended upon us. That night, complaining about the boarding house's terrible food, we went to a nearby restaurant together. But he—for some reason—sank into reckless abandon, gulping down sake with abandon and obstinately insisting I drink too. Of course I couldn’t handle alcohol, but letting myself be persuaded, I took two or three sips—and suddenly my face flushed hot, a sensation like a swing swaying in my head taking hold as I began to feel something reckless encroaching upon my heart.

With our arms around each other's shoulders, stumbling along, we sang First Higher School dormitory songs as we made our way back to the boarding house.

“Let’s go to your room.” “Let’s go to your room.” Moroto said this and dragged me into my room, where my permanently laid-out futon lay spread out. Whether he had pushed me down or I had tripped over something, I suddenly found myself sprawled across that permanently laid-out futon. Moroto stood rigidly by my side, staring intently down at my face, then abruptly—

“You are beautiful,” he said. In that instant—though it may sound exceedingly strange—the bizarre notion that I had transformed into a woman, and that this handsome youth standing there—flushed from intoxication yet all the more captivating for it—was my husband, fleetingly passed through my mind.

Moroto knelt there, grabbed my carelessly thrown right hand, and said. "Your hand is hot." At the same moment, I felt his palm's fiery heat.

At the same moment, I felt the fiery heat of his palm. When I turned deathly pale and shrank into the corner of the room, an expression of regret—as though he had done something irreparable—rose to Moroto’s brow in an instant. And in a choked voice,

“It was a joke—it was all a lie just now. I wouldn’t do such a thing,” he said. For a time afterward, we sat turned away from each other in silence, until suddenly there came a clunk as Moroto collapsed facedown onto my desk. He crossed his arms beneath his face and lay motionless. Watching him, I thought he might be crying. “Do not despise me, I beg of you. You must find this shameful,” he pleaded. “I belong to a different race—an alien breed in every sense. Yet I cannot explain its meaning. Sometimes when alone, I grow so terrified that I tremble violently.”

Eventually, he lifted his face and said the following. However, what he was so afraid of, I could not fully comprehend—not until much later when I encountered a certain scene.

Just as I had imagined, Moroto’s face looked as though it had been washed with tears. “You understand, don’t you?” “As long as you understand, that’s enough.” “Because expecting anything more might be beyond me.” “But please—I beg you—don’t run from me.” “Be my confidant, I implore you.” “And please—if nothing else—accept my friendship.” “These thoughts I’ve borne alone.” “Won’t you at least grant me that much freedom?” “Minoura-kun... won’t you grant me that much...?”

I stubbornly remained silent. But as I watched the tears streaming down Moroto's cheeks while he pleaded desperately, I too found myself unable to contain the hot surge welling up between my eyelids.

My capricious boarding house life came to an end with this incident as its turning point. It wasn't that I felt disgust toward Moroto, but rather that strange awkwardness which had developed between us and my own timid sense of shame made it impossible for me to remain in that boarding house.

Even so, what remained difficult to comprehend was Moroto Michio’s state of mind. Not only did he not abandon his peculiar affection after that, but as time passed, it seemed to grow ever more intense, ever more profound. And whenever opportunities arose for us to meet, he would subtly weave into our conversations—and more often than not, through love letters unmatched in the world—his anguished feelings, pleading desperately. Moreover, that this had persisted even until I was twenty-five—was this not an utterly incomprehensible state of mind on his part? Even if the youthful boyishness in my smooth cheeks had not faded, even if my muscles had not developed like those of grown men in the world but remained alluring like a woman's...

That he would suddenly propose marriage—of all people—to my lover was an immense shock to me. Before I could feel hostility toward him as a rival in love, I found myself unable to resist a sense of something akin to disappointment. "Could it be... Could it be that he, knowing of my love with Hatsuyo, sought to prevent me from being given to another—to keep me alone within his heart forever—by becoming a suitor himself and scheming to obstruct our love?"

My vainly self-important suspicious mind even imagined such an outlandish possibility.

Mysterious Old Man

This was an exceedingly bizarre occurrence. One man loves another man so deeply that he attempts to steal away that man's lover. It was a matter beyond the imagination of ordinary people. When I harbored the suspicion that Moroto's aforementioned courtship campaign might perhaps be an attempt to steal Hatsuyo away from me, I nearly laughed at my own paranoia. But this suspicion that had once taken root now held me in its strange grip and would not let go. I remembered. Moroto had once confided in me in relatively great detail about his peculiar state of mind on an occasion when he opened up, saying, "I cannot feel any attraction toward women. Rather than attraction, I feel hatred—they even strike me as filthy. Do you understand? This wasn't merely a feeling of shame. It's terrifying." I remembered how he had once confided, "There are times when I become so terrified I can neither sit still nor remain standing."

That Moroto Michio—innately a woman-hater—should suddenly resolve to marry and moreover initiate such an intense courtship campaign—was this not truly strange? I had just employed the word "sudden," but in truth, until shortly before that period, I had been continually receiving Moroto's peculiar yet profoundly earnest love letters, and barely one month prior, I had even been invited by Moroto himself to attend the Imperial Theater together. Needless to say, the motivation behind Moroto's theater invitation undeniably stemmed from that affection he harbored toward me. This was evident beyond doubt from his demeanor during that occasion. Yet within scarcely a month—or thereabouts—he had so drastically transformed, casting me aside (to phrase it thus might imply some improper relationship had existed between us, though nothing of the sort had occurred) and commenced his courtship efforts toward Kizaki Hatsuyo, rendering this shift utterly deserving of being termed "sudden." Moreover, that his chosen target happened by apparent design to be my lover Kizaki Hatsuyo—did this not feel slightly too peculiar to dismiss as mere coincidence?

In this manner, as I gradually laid out my explanations, it became clear that my suspicions were not entirely groundless conjectures after all. However, Moroto Michio's strange actions and psychology might prove somewhat difficult for ordinary people to comprehend. And they might condemn me for expounding at length on my trivial, baseless suspicions. To those who hadn't directly witnessed Moroto's bizarre words and actions as I had, this must have seemed perfectly justified. In that case, perhaps I should reverse the order somewhat and disclose here to readers what I came to understand later. In other words, this suspicion of mine was by no means a baseless conjecture. Moroto Michio had, just as I had imagined, launched that uproarious courtship campaign with the aim of driving a wedge between Hatsuyo and me.

To convey just how uproarious his courtship campaign was— “It’s so relentless!” “The go-between comes to persuade Mother nearly every day.” “And he knows everything about you—your family’s wealth, even your company salary—telling Mother you’re not fit to become Miss Hatsuyo’s husband and support her.” “Can you believe he’d go that far?” “What infuriates me most is how Mother pores over his photograph, asks about his education and means, until she’s utterly smitten!” “Mother’s kind at heart, but this time, I’ve truly grown to despise her.” “Outrageous!” “Lately, Mother and I might as well be sworn enemies.” “Every conversation turns to this—we end up quarreling without fail!”

Hatsuyo would plead in such a manner. From her account, I could perceive just how intense Moroto’s campaign was.

“Because of that person, things between Mother and me have become so strained—I couldn’t have imagined such a state just one month ago.” “For instance, Mother has apparently been constantly inspecting my desk and writing box while I’m out lately.” “She’s been searching for your letters, trying to determine how far our relationship has progressed.” “Since I’m naturally fastidious, I always keep both my drawers and writing box perfectly organized—yet they’re frequently found in disarray.” “I find it truly contemptible.”

Such things had occurred. Though Hatsuyo was gentle and filial by nature, she never once yielded in this battle against her mother. She obstinately held her ground without ever considering how her defiance might displease her parent.

But this unexpected obstacle made our relationship all the more complex and intense. How grateful I must have been for Hatsuyo’s sincere heart—devotedly yearning for me—while not even glancing toward that great romantic rival I had once feared. It was late spring then, and because Hatsuyo wanted to avoid returning home to face her mother, we would spend long hours after work walking shoulder-to-shoulder down beautifully lit boulevards and through parks suffused with the choking fragrance of young leaves. On holidays, we would meet at suburban train stations and often stroll through the green Musashino fields. When I close my eyes like this, the stream comes into view. The earthen bridge comes into view. What you might call a shrine grove—the towering old trees standing tall and the stone walls—comes into view. Amidst those landscapes, I—a twenty-five-year-old with childlike innocence—walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Hatsuyo, who wore a vibrant Meisen silk kimono and an obi tied high in the color of mineral pigments I so loved. Please don’t laugh at me for being childish. This remains my most joyful memory of first love. Though our relationship lasted a mere eight or nine months, we had already become inseparable. I forgot about both my work at the company and my family matters, simply drifting in a daze amidst peach-colored clouds. I no longer feared Moroto’s proposal in the slightest. There was not the slightest reason to worry about Hatsuyo's fickleness. Hatsuyo too no longer cared even about her own mother’s reprimands. For she had not the slightest intention of accepting any proposal other than mine.

I still cannot forget the dreamlike joy of those days. But that joy was truly fleeting. Exactly nine months had passed since we first began speaking—I remember it clearly—it was June 25, Taisho 14 (1925). From that day onward, our relationship was severed completely. Moroto Michio’s courtship campaign had not succeeded. Because Kizaki Hatsuyo herself had died. And not through ordinary means at that—because she had been cruelly taken from this world as the victim of a murder case most mysterious.

But before entering into the mysterious death incident of Kizaki Hatsuyo, there is something I wish to draw the reader’s attention to. This concerns the strange fact that Hatsuyo had related to me a few days before her death. This is something that will prove relevant later on, so I must ask you, dear readers, to tuck it away in some corner of your memory.

One day—throughout her shift at the company that day, Hatsuyo had appeared pale and somehow frightened—after we finished work and were walking side by side along Marunouchi Boulevard, when I questioned her about it, Hatsuyo kept glancing back over her shoulder as she pressed close to my side and related the following matter. “It’s already the third time last night.” “It always happens when I go to the bathhouse late. You know how lonely our town is—at night it’s already pitch black.” “When I absentmindedly opened the lattice door and stepped outside, there was a strange old man standing right by my house’s lattice window.” “All three times were exactly the same.” “When I open the lattice door, he—as if startled—changes his posture and passes by pretending nonchalance, but until that very moment, he seemed to have been standing there peering through the window into the house.” “Until the second time, I thought it might have been my imagination, but last night was surely that again.” “He’s absolutely not some random passerby by chance. Yet I’ve never seen such an old man in our neighborhood before, and I can’t help feeling it’s some sort of omen of misfortune—I feel so creeped out I can’t stand it.”

When she saw me nearly begin to smile, she fervently continued.

“That’s no ordinary old man! I’ve never seen such a creepy one before. He didn’t look fifty or sixty—no matter how you see it, he must be over eighty! His back was bent double at the waist as if folded in two, leaning on a cane and craning his neck forward like a twisted key when he walked. From afar, he looked half as tall as a normal adult—like some disgusting insect crawling along. And his face! All wrinkled and faded now, but even in his youth, I bet it wasn’t normal either. I was too scared to look properly in the dark, but under our porch light I caught a glimpse of his mouth—his upper lip split like a rabbit’s, grinning awkwardly when our eyes met. Just remembering that smile gives me chills! A monster-like old man who looks over eighty, standing outside my house three times late at night... Doesn’t it feel like an omen of something terrible?”

I saw Hatsuyo's lips lose their color and tremble faintly. She must have been utterly terrified. At that time, I forced a laugh and dismissed it as her overactive imagination, but even if what Hatsuyo had witnessed were true, I couldn't fathom what it might signify, nor could I believe an eighty-year-old hunched man might harbor dangerous designs. I brushed it off as a girl's foolish fears, scarcely giving it another thought. But later, I would come to understand how terrifyingly accurate Hatsuyo's intuition had been.

A Room Without an Entrance

Now I had come to that juncture where I must recount June 25 of Taisho 14 - that dreadful incident.

The day before—no, even until around seven that very evening—I had been talking with Hatsuyo.

I remember that late spring night in Ginza. I rarely walked around places like Ginza back then, but that evening Hatsuyo had suggested we go see it. She wore a dark unlined kimono with tasteful patterns from wholesale tailoring. Her obi too was black fabric interwoven with faint silver threads. The crimson-thonged zōri sandals had just been taken off the shelf. My well-polished shoes and her zōri kept pace, swishing rhythmically along the pavement. At that moment, we tentatively tried imitating the fashionable ways of this new era's youth. It being payday, we treated ourselves to dinner at a fowl restaurant in Shinbashi. We drank modest amounts of sake until about seven while talking cheerfully. As intoxication set in, I began making brash declarations—"Just wait until Moroto sees what I—" implying grand ambitions. I recall forcing an exaggerated laugh while saying Moroto must be sneezing about now. Ah, what a fool I was.

The following morning, recalling the smile I couldn't get enough of that Hatsuyo had left me when we parted the previous night along with certain cherished words, I opened S・K Trading Company's door with a heart as radiant as spring. And as I always did, I first looked toward Hatsuyo's seat. After all, even something like which of us would arrive at work first each morning had become one of our delightful topics. But though slightly past starting time, there was no sign of Hatsuyo there, and the typewriter cover remained undisturbed. Thinking this strange and moving toward my seat, I was suddenly called out to from the side in an agitated voice.

“Minoura-kun! Something terrible has happened!” “Don’t be startled.” “I hear Miss Kizaki’s been murdered.”

It was Mr. K, the personnel manager who handled human resources. "I just received word from the police. I’m going to go see her now—will you come along?" Mr. K said this partly sympathetically, partly teasingly. Since our relationship was widely known throughout the company. “Yes, pray let us go together.”

I couldn't think of anything and answered mechanically. I briefly informed my colleagues (S・K Trading Company had very flexible policies) and rode in the automobile with Mr. K. "Where was she killed? And by whom?" After the automobile began moving, I finally asked that question through parched lips in a hoarse voice. "At her home. You’ve been there before, right? They say they haven’t the faintest idea who did it. What an awful thing you've been through."

The good-natured Mr. K answered as though it were none of his concern. When pain becomes too intense, people do not immediately burst into tears but instead put on a strange smile; in the case of grief as well, when it grows too severe, one forgets to weep and even loses the capacity to feel sorrow. And only after one has managed that—after a considerable number of days had passed—did the true nature of sorrow come to be understood. In my case, it was exactly so—I remember behaving as if it were someone else’s affair, dazedly like any ordinary visitor paying respects, even in the automobile, even upon arriving at the scene, even when I saw Hatsuyo’s corpse.

Hatsuyo's house stood on a narrow street in Sugamo Miyanaka—neither quite main thoroughfare nor back alley—where houses that had once been small merchant shops stood side by side. Only her house and the neighboring antique shop were single-story structures with low roofs, making them visible landmarks even from afar. Hatsuyo had lived in that small three- or four-room house with none but her foster mother.

When we arrived, the examination of the body had already been completed, and police officers were questioning nearby residents. Before Hatsuyo's lattice door stood a uniformed officer blocking the way like a gatekeeper, but Mr. K and I presented our S・K Trading Company business cards and entered.

In the back six-tatami room, Hatsuyo lay as the deceased. Her entire body was covered with white cloth, before which stood a desk similarly draped in white, small candles and incense sticks arranged upright. Her petite mother—whom I had met once before—lay prostrate in tears at the deceased's bedside. Beside her sat a man introduced as her late husband's younger brother, his expression sullen. Following Mr. K's lead, I offered condolences to the mother, bowed before the desk, then approached to gently lift the white cloth and look upon Hatsuyo's face. Though her heart had been cleanly gouged out, her face showed no trace of anguish, wearing instead a serenity so profound it might have been mistaken for a smile. That countenance which had always been pale in life now resembled white wax, eyes closed fast against the world. Around her chest wound lay thick bandages wrapped precisely as she had once tied her obi in life. Gazing at this, I recalled Hatsuyo as she'd been just thirteen or fourteen hours prior—sitting across from me at that Shinbashi fowl restaurant, laughing brightly over shared drinks. Then came such a violent constriction in my chest's depths that I feared some internal malady. In that moment, tears fell one after another with soft plopping sounds upon the tatami where the deceased lay, each drop striking like an accusation against time's cruelty.

No, it seems I have indulged too deeply in irretrievable memories. Listing such lamentations was not the purpose of this book. Dear reader, please forgive my complaints.

Mr. K and I were interrogated extensively about Hatsuyo's daily life—both at the scene and even later summoned to government offices—but through synthesizing the knowledge thereby gained with what we learned from Hatsuyo's mother and neighborhood residents, the course of this lamentable murder case was generally as follows.

Hatsuyo’s mother had gone out the previous night to consult with her deceased husband’s younger brother in Shinagawa about her daughter’s marriage prospects once again, but due to an incident in the distant area, she did not return home until after one o’clock. She locked up, spoke for a while with her daughter who had gotten up, then lay down in the four-and-a-half-mat room that served as both entrance and her designated bedroom. Here, let me briefly explain the layout of this house: beyond the aforementioned four-and-a-half-mat entrance was a six-mat tea room—a horizontally elongated six-mat space—from which one could access both the six-mat back room and the three-mat kitchen. The six-tatami back room served both as a guest parlor and Hatsuyo’s living quarters, and since Hatsuyo worked outside to support the household, she had been allotted this finest room as its primary occupant. The four-and-a-half-mat entrance faced south and, being bright and pleasant—with good sunlight in winter and cool in summer—was what the mother used as her living space, where she would do sewing work. The central tea room, though spacious, had only a single paper screen separating it from the kitchen; with little light entering, it felt gloomy and damp. This was why the mother had chosen the entrance area as her bedroom instead.

The reason I have explained the floor plan in such meticulous detail is that the layout of these rooms actually formed one contributing factor that made Hatsuyo’s mysterious death case so complicated. At this juncture, I must mention another circumstance that complicated the case: Hatsuyo’s mother was somewhat hard of hearing. Moreover, having stayed up late that night and experienced a somewhat agitating incident, though she had difficulty falling asleep at first, she instead fell into a deep sleep for a brief period, remaining unaware of anything until waking around six in the morning and being insensible to minor noises.

When the mother woke at six, as was her custom before opening the doors, she went to the kitchen and lit the kindling in the hearth she had prepared earlier. Then, sensing something amiss, she slid open the fusuma to the tea room and peered into Hatsuyo's bedroom—by the light filtering through gaps in the storm shutters and the desk lamp still burning on the table, she understood the situation at a glance. The futon had been thrown back, revealing Hatsuyo lying supine with her chest stained crimson, a small dagger in its white sheath still protruding from the wound. There were no signs of struggle nor any marked expression of agony; Hatsuyo had died peacefully in a posture suggesting she had simply pushed aside her futon, perhaps feeling too warm. The assailant's practiced hand had pierced her heart with a single thrust, leaving her scarcely any time to cry out in pain.

Overcome with shock, the mother remained rooted to the spot where she sat, repeatedly crying out, "Someone, please come!" Because she was hard of hearing and normally spoke loudly, her scream at full volume instantly startled the neighbors through the single wall. Then a great commotion erupted, and within moments five or six neighbors had gathered, but with all doors remaining locked despite their attempts to enter, they couldn’t get inside the house. People shouted "Granny, open up here!" while pounding on the entrance door; some circled impatiently to the rear only to find it securely locked too. However after some time passed, the mother—apologizing for her panicked state—unlocked it, allowing people to finally enter and discover that a terrible murder had occurred. This triggered further uproar—notifying police, dispatching messengers to her deceased husband’s brother—until the whole neighborhood turned out en masse, the antique shop’s front taking on what its elderly proprietor called "the look of a funeral parlor’s waiting area." In that cramped district where two or three people emerged from every doorway, the commotion appeared all the more intense.

It was later determined through examination by the police physician that the heinous act had occurred around 3:00 a.m., but matters that should be considered as reasons for the act remained somewhat ambiguous. Hatsuyo’s living room showed no significant signs of disturbance, and the chest of drawers and such exhibited no abnormalities, but as they gradually inspected the area, Hatsuyo’s mother noticed two items were missing. One was the handbag Hatsuyo always carried, which contained the monthly salary she had just received. Due to some commotion that had occurred the previous night, Hatsuyo hadn’t had a chance to take it out of the bag and must have left it on her desk—or so her mother stated.

Judging from these facts alone, one could reconstruct that this incident—though likely perpetrated by some nocturnal burglar—had unfolded thus: when an intruder infiltrated Hatsuyo’s quarters to steal the salary-filled handbag they had premeditatedly targeted, Hatsuyo must have awoken and uttered some sound, prompting the panicked thief to stab her with their carried dagger before absconding with the handbag. That Hatsuyo’s foster mother failed to notice the disturbance seemed peculiar at first consideration, yet when accounting for what had already been established—the physical separation between Hatsuyo’s bedroom and her foster mother’s sleeping area, compounded by the latter’s hearing impairment and that night’s exceptional fatigue leading to deep slumber—it ceased appearing implausible. One might further posit that this occurred because the thief had pierced her vital point instantaneously, allowing no opportunity for Hatsuyo to raise an alarm.

Dear readers, you must surely wonder why I go into such minute detail about this ordinary tale of a thief who stole her salary. Indeed, the facts presented thus far are perfectly mundane. Yet the case in its entirety was anything but ordinary. To confess the truth, I have yet to share with you readers even one iota of its extraordinary nature. For there is an order to all things.

Now, to explain what makes this case extraordinary—first and foremost is why the payroll thief stole the chocolate tin as well. One of the two missing items the mother discovered was that chocolate tin. Upon hearing "chocolate," I remembered. The previous night when we were strolling through Ginza—knowing Hatsuyo liked chocolate—I took her into a confectionery and bought her a tin decorated with jewel-like patterns that gleamed in a glass case. It was a round, flat little tin about palm-sized, so beautifully decorated I chose it more for the container than its contents. Given the silver wrappers scattered by Hatsuyo's pillow, she must have eaten several pieces while lying in bed last night. What possible reason—or perverse whim—could drive a murderer in such dire circumstances to take such trivial sweets worth less than one yen? We checked whether her mother had misunderstood or stored it elsewhere, but that exquisite tin never surfaced. Yet whether the chocolate tin vanished mattered little. The true enigma of this murder lay far beyond such trifles.

Just how had this thief broken in, and from where had he made his escape? First, this house had three ordinary points of entry and exit for people. First was the front lattice door; second was the rear kitchen entrance with double-layered paper screens; third was the veranda of Hatsuyo’s room. The rest consisted of walls and securely fixed lattice windows. All three entry points had been securely locked the previous night. Each veranda door also had latches attached to every panel, making it impossible to remove them midway. In other words, it was absolutely impossible for the thief to have entered through any ordinary entrance. This was not only attested by the mother's testimony but also fully acknowledged by five or six neighbors who first heard the screams and rushed to the scene—because when they tried to enter Hatsuyo's house that morning by knocking on the doors, both the front and back entrances, as the reader already knows, had been locked from the inside with bolts, making it utterly impossible to open them. Moreover, when two or three people entered Hatsuyo’s room and knocked on the veranda’s storm shutters to let in light, those shutters too had been securely locked. If that is the case, one can only conclude that the thief must have infiltrated and escaped from outside these three entrances and exits—but where could such a point have existed?

The first thing one notices is the space beneath the veranda, but even when speaking of 'beneath the veranda,' in this house there were only two such sections visible from outside. The entrance’s shoe removal area and the part of Hatsuyo’s room’s veranda facing the inner garden. However, the entrance was completely boarded up with thick planks, and the veranda had been entirely covered with wire mesh to prevent intrusions by dogs and cats. And on none of them were there any signs suggesting they had been recently removed.

This may be an unpleasant topic to discuss, but regarding the toilet's cleaning port—the toilet was located precisely by the veranda of Hatsuyo's room—its cleaning port was not the old-fashioned large type but rather a small one, about five sun square (approximately 6 inches), that the cautious landlord had reportedly replaced recently. There could be no doubt about this either. Furthermore, there was nothing unusual about the skylight on the kitchen roof. The thin cord used to fasten it remained properly tied to the bent nail. Furthermore, on the damp ground of the inner garden outside the veranda, no footprints or similar traces were found; a detective climbed up through a removable ceiling panel section to investigate, but on the thickly accumulated dust above, no traces whatsoever could be discovered. In that case, the thief had absolutely no method other than breaking through the walls or removing the lattice from the front window to enter and exit. Needless to say, the walls were intact, and the lattice had been securely nailed in place.

Furthermore, not only had this thief left no trace of his entry or exit, but he had also failed to leave behind any evidence within the house. The white-sheathed dagger used as the murder weapon was akin to a child’s toy—the sort found at any hardware store—and on its sheath, on Hatsuyo’s desk, or anywhere else they examined, not a single fingerprint remained. Naturally, there were no left-behind items. To put it strangely, this was a thief who never entered yet killed a person and stole belongings. There was murder and theft aplenty, yet the murderer and thief had neither shadow nor form.

In Poe’s "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and Leroux’s "The Mystery of the Yellow Room," I had read of cases similar to this one. Both were murder cases occurring in rooms sealed from the inside. But I had believed such things could only occur in Western-style buildings. I had believed such incidents could never occur in Japanese-style buildings constructed of delicate wood and paper. But now, I had come to realize that such an assertion could not be made so definitively. Even if they were delicate boards, if one were to break or remove them, traces would remain. Therefore, from a detective's standpoint, there is no difference between a quarter-inch board and a one-shaku concrete wall.

But here, some readers may raise a question. "In Poe and Leroux’s novels, only the victim was inside the sealed room." "Therefore, it was truly mysterious indeed." "But in your case, aren’t you alone making such a grand fuss about this incident?" "Even supposing the house was sealed as you claim, wasn’t there not just the victim but another person properly inside?" Indeed, that is precisely so. At that time, the court and police officials had also thought exactly that.

If there were absolutely no traces of the thief’s entry or exit, then the only person who could have approached Hatsuyo was her mother. The two stolen items might possibly have been her fabrication. Disposing of two small items discreetly wouldn’t be particularly troublesome.

First and foremost, what was strange was this point: even allowing that there was a separation of one ken (~6 feet) and that her hearing was somewhat distant, the supposedly sharp-eared old woman had failed to notice the commotion of a person being murdered. The prosecutor in charge of this case must have thought along those very lines.

Moreover, the prosecutor knew various facts. That they were not biological mother and daughter, and that recently, over marriage issues, there had been constant conflict.

On the very night of the murder, the mother had visited her deceased husband’s younger brother to enlist his help, and it had been revealed through the testimony of the elderly owner of the neighboring antique shop that a violent quarrel had apparently broken out between them after she returned. The fact that I had testified about the mother secretly examining her desk and stationery box while Hatsuyo was out also seemed to have created a rather unfavorable impression.

Poor Hatsuyo’s mother finally received a summons from the authorities the day after Hatsuyo’s funeral.

Lover's Ashes

For two or three days afterward, I took time off work and shut myself in a single room—so completely that I worried my mother and elder brother's household. Beyond attending Hatsuyo's funeral once, I never left the house. As days passed, I came to grasp sorrow's true depth. Though our relationship lasted mere nine months, love's intensity cannot be measured by time's span. In thirty years of life I'd known many griefs, yet never one as profound as losing Hatsuyo. At nineteen I lost my father; my only sister the next year—though fragile by nature, I'd grieved deeply then too—but none compared to this. Love is a strange thing. While granting incomparable joy, it may bring humanity's greatest sorrow. By fortune or misfortune, I've never known heartbreak's pain—yet any such rejection must still prove endurable. In heartbreak, the beloved remains separate. But we had loved mutually and fiercely, overcoming every obstacle—yes, as I often described it—wrapped in peach-hued clouds of some celestial nowhere, until body and soul melted into perfect unity. To such degree that blood relations might never achieve such oneness—Hatsuyo was my other half, met but once in a lifetime. That Hatsuyo was gone. Had illness taken her, I might have nursed her—yet barely ten hours after parting in good spirits, she lay before me as a silent waxen effigy. Brutally murdered by some unknown wretch who'd cruelly gouged out that lovely heart.

I would read through her many letters and weep, open the genealogical record of her true ancestors that she had given me and weep, gaze at the carefully preserved beach scenery from her dreams—the view she had once sketched at a hotel—and weep. I wanted to speak to no one. I wanted to see no one. I simply wished to shut myself away in my cramped study, close my eyes, and meet only with Hatsuyo—she who no longer existed in this world. In my heart, I wanted to converse with her alone.

The morning after her funeral, I suddenly thought of something and prepared to go out. My sister-in-law asked, “Are you going to the office?” but I left without answering. It was not, of course, for going to the office. Nor was it to pay a condolence visit to Hatsuyo’s mother. I knew that on that very morning, the bone-picking ceremony for the late Hatsuyo would take place. Ah, I had come to that accursed place to behold the sorrowful ashes of my former lover.

I arrived just in time and came upon Hatsuyo’s mother and relatives performing the bone-picking ceremony with long chopsticks in hand. I expressed condolences to the mother that were inappropriate for the occasion and stood blankly before the furnace. In such circumstances, no one reproached my rudeness. I watched as the undertaker roughly shattered clumps of ash with metal fire tongs. And then, as if he were a metallurgist searching for some metal within the dross of a crucible, he carelessly picked out the dead woman’s teeth and placed them into a separate small container. I watched as my lover was treated in such a manner—almost feeling physical pain myself—as if she were a mere "thing". But I did not think anything like "I shouldn't have come." After all, I had harbored a certain naive purpose from the very beginning.

Seizing an opportunity, I slipped past people's eyes and stole from that iron plate a handful of ashes—a part of my lover who had been so cruelly transformed. (Ah, I had written down something too shameful)—then fleeing to a vast nearby field, like a madman I screamed every word of love while putting it, those ashes, my lover, into the pit of my stomach.

I collapsed onto the grass and writhed in torment, overwhelmed by abnormal excitement. "I want to die, I want to die!" I wailed, rolling around. For a long, long time, I lay there like that. But I, though it shames me, was not strong enough to die. I could not bring myself to feel that old-fashioned sentiment of dying to become one with my lover. Instead, I made a resolution—strong next to death, old-fashioned next to death.

I hated the bastard who had stolen my precious lover from me. I resented them not for Hatsuyo's peaceful repose but for my own sake. From the very pit of my being, I cursed that bastard's existence. No matter how much the prosecutor suspected her or what conclusions the police drew, I simply couldn't believe Hatsuyo's mother was the killer. Yet since Hatsuyo had been murdered, even without traces of an intruder's comings and goings, there had to be a culprit present there. The frustration of not knowing their identity stoked my hatred hotter still. I lay sprawled in that field, staring at the sun blazing in the clear sky until my vision swam white, and there I made my vow.

"I will find the culprit, no matter what it takes." "And I’ll make sure our grudge gets its vengeance."

That I was a gloomy and timid man, as the reader well knows—how could that same I have made such a resolute decision, or acquired that uncharacteristic courage to rush headlong into every subsequent danger? Looking back now, I find it utterly mystifying—yet it must all have been the doing of that perished love. Love is indeed a strange thing. It lifts one to the pinnacle of joy at times, plunges one into the depths of sorrow at others, and even grants one incomparable strength on occasion.

Eventually having emerged from my frenzy, I—still lying in the same spot—began considering with some calmness what I must do next. And then, as I turned over various thoughts, I suddenly recalled a certain individual. The name was one readers already knew: Miyamaki Koukichi, whom I had dubbed the amateur detective. Let the police do as they will—I could not accept matters unless I myself found the culprit. Though I detested the word “detective,” I resolved to resign myself to becoming one. When it came to that matter, there was no more suitable person to consult than my eccentric friend Miyamaki Koukichi. I stood up and immediately hurried to the nearby national railway electric train station. It was to visit the house of Miyamaki, who lived near Kamakura’s coast.

Dear readers, I was young. I lost myself in the resentment of having my love stolen. I hadn't the slightest inkling of how much difficulty and danger lay ahead, nor of the living hell beyond this world that awaited me. Had I been able to foresee even one of these—had I foreseen that this reckless resolve of mine would ultimately claim even the life of my esteemed friend Miyamaki Koukichi—I might perhaps never have sworn that dreadful oath of vengeance. But at that time, free from any such considerations—success or failure aside—the fact that I had managed to fix upon a single objective seemed to somewhat refresh my spirits; with vigorous strides, I hastened through the early summer suburbs toward the train station.

Eccentric Friend

I was an introvert; instead of having close friends among my flamboyant peers, I was blessed with older friends who were somewhat eccentric. Moroto Michio was undoubtedly one such friend, and Miyamaki Koukichi—whom I shall now introduce to the readers—was among them an especially eccentric companion. And though it may have been due to my own nature, nearly all my older friends—Miyamaki Koukichi being no exception—seemed to take a certain interest in my appearance, to a greater or lesser extent. Even if not in any disagreeable sense, there seemed to be some inherent power within me that drew them in. Had that not been the case, those older men—each gifted with singular talents—would never have paid any heed to a callow youth like myself.

Be that as it may, Miyamaki Koukichi was someone I had come to know through an introduction from an older friend at my workplace. Though he was well past forty at the time, he had neither wife nor child nor—to my knowledge—any other blood relatives whatsoever, making him a true solitary soul. Though a solitary soul, this didn't mean he disliked women like Moroto—apparently he had formed quasi-marital relationships with numerous women over the years. Even during my acquaintance with him, he had changed such companions two or three times, though none ever lasted long. When I would visit after some interval, the woman would invariably have vanished without trace—such was the pattern. "I practice momentary monogamy," he would say—meaning he was extremely prone to infatuation and equally quick to lose interest. Everyone may feel or say such things, but few would carry them out as brazenly as he did. Here too his distinctive nature manifested itself.

He was a polymath of sorts; no question could stump him. He seemed to have no regular source of income, yet appeared to possess some savings; without engaging in gainful employment, between bouts of reading books, he amused himself by sniffing out various secrets hidden in society's every corner. Among these, crime cases were his particular favorite; there was no famous criminal case into which he did not thrust his head, and indeed, he sometimes even provided beneficial advice to specialists in that field.

Being a bachelor with such proclivities, he would often leave his house unattended for three or four days at a time to who knows where, so successfully timing my visit for when he happened to be home proved rather difficult. That day too, as I walked along worrying I might find him out again, fortunately I could tell he was home even from half a block before reaching his house. This was because, mingled with the adorable voices of children, Miyamaki Koukichi’s unmistakable booming voice was singing a popular song of the time in a peculiar tone.

As I approached, the shabby blue-painted wooden Western-style house stood with its entrance wide open; four or five mischievous urchins sat on its stone steps while Miyamaki Koukichi sat cross-legged on the higher door threshold, all of them swinging their heads from side to side in unison, mouths agape, “Where in the world did I come from, when in the world will I return?” they sang. Perhaps because he himself had no children, he was extraordinarily fond of them and would often gather neighborhood kids to play as their boisterous leader. The strange thing was that the children too, contrary to their parents, had become attached to this ostracized eccentric old man in the neighborhood.

“Ah, we have a guest. A beautiful guest has arrived. You kids, let’s play again sometime, alright?” When he saw my face, Miyamaki seemed to keenly read my expression; without suggesting we play together as he usually did, he sent the children home and led me to his parlor. Though called a Western-style house, it appeared to be a secondhand atelier or something of the sort—beyond the hall were only a small entrance and what looked like a kitchen, with that very hall serving as his study, living room, bedroom, and dining area all in one. There, books were piled up like a used bookstore in the midst of relocating, amidst which an old wooden bed, a dining table, assorted dishes, canned goods, and soba shop’s stacked boxes lay scattered in complete disarray.

“The chair’s broken—there’s only one left.” “Well, take a seat there.”

With that, he himself plopped down cross-legged on the bed’s slightly soiled sheets.

“You’ve come on business. You’ve brought some business with you, haven’t you?” He raked his fingers through disheveled long hair, wearing that faintly embarrassed expression he always assumed whenever we met—without fail, at least once during our encounters. “Yes, I thought I might draw upon your wisdom.” I spoke these words while taking in his beggarly Western attire—the collarless shirt, absent necktie, wrinkled suit that hung about him like a castoff from some European vagrant.

“Love, isn’t it? That’s right—you have the eyes of someone in love. And you’ve been completely neglecting to contact me lately.”

“Love… yes, well… that person’s dead.” “She was killed.” I said in a coaxing voice. The moment I spoke, tears began spilling forth without end. I pressed my arm against my eyes and truly wept. Miyamaki climbed down from the bed, stood beside me, and while patting my back as one would comfort a child, murmured something. Amidst the sorrow lingered a strangely sweet sensation. In some corner of my heart, I remained dimly aware that this behavior of mine was stirring excitement in him.

Miyamaki Koukichi was truly a skilled listener. I hadn’t needed to organize my account coherently. All I’d had to do was answer each of his questions one by one as he posed them. In the end, I told him everything—from when Kizaki Hatsuyo and I first began speaking to every detail surrounding her unnatural death. Since Miyamaki had asked to see them, I took out and showed him both the rough sketch of the coastal scenery from Hatsuyo’s recurring dreams and even the genealogical record she’d entrusted to me—items I’d concealed inside my coat. He appeared to examine them at length, but as I’d turned away to hide my tears, I never noticed his expression during that time.

Once I had said all I had to say, I fell silent. Miyamaki too remained unusually silent. I had been hanging my head, but when the other remained silent for so long, I suddenly looked up at him to find his face strangely pale as he stared fixedly into empty space.

“You would understand my feelings.” “I am seriously considering revenge.” “At the very least, if I don’t find the culprit with my own hands, I simply can’t bear it.”

Even when I pressed him in such a manner, he remained silent without altering his expression. There was something strange. That he—in his usual swashbuckling Eastern hero manner with careless demeanor—would display such profound emotion struck me as utterly unexpected. "If my imagination isn't mistaken, this might be a far more exaggerated, terrifying case than what you're thinking—than how it appears on the surface." After a moment, Miyamaki deliberated, then spoke in a solemn tone.

“More than murder?” I couldn’t comprehend why he had blurted such a thing and absentmindedly asked in return. “It’s about the type of murderer.” Miyamaki still deliberated at length before answering in an uncharacteristically somber tone. “Even though the handbag is gone, you must understand this isn’t merely a burglar’s work.” “But then again, if it were merely a crime of passion, it’s too meticulously planned.” “Behind this case lurks an extremely cunning, practiced, and ruthlessly cruel fiend.” “This isn’t ordinary handiwork.”

He said that and paused his words for a moment, but for some reason, his slightly faded lips were quivering with excitement.

This was the first time I had seen him make such an expression. His terror transmitted itself to me, and I too began to feel strangely compelled to glance behind me. But foolish as I was, I remained completely unaware of what he had realized beyond my understanding at that moment, or what had excited him so intensely. "You mentioned she was killed with a single stab through the heart's center," he said. "If this were a burglar's work after being discovered, it's far too skillfully executed. Killing a human with one thrust might seem simple, but it requires considerable expertise. And then—the complete absence of entry/exit traces, no fingerprints left behind—what magnificent craftsmanship!" He spoke admiringly. "But more terrifying than that is the disappearance of the chocolate tin. Even I can't clearly determine why such a thing went missing, but I sense this is no ordinary matter. There's something profoundly chilling about it. And then there's the feeble old man Hatsuyo apparently saw for three nights straight..."

He trailed off his words and fell silent. We were each absorbed in our own thoughts, staring intently at one another. Outside the window, sunlight that had just passed noon glittered brightly, but inside the room, there was an unnervingly chilly feeling. "Do you also think there's nothing suspicious about Hatsuyo's mother?"

I wanted to briefly clarify Miyamaki’s thoughts, so I posed the question. “It’s not even worth a chuckle.” “No matter how many disagreements there might’ve been, what sensible elder would kill their only dependent child?” “And judging from how you describe her, that mother doesn’t seem the type capable of such horror.” “Even if she could secretly hide the handbag—if she were the culprit—why spin such an odd lie about a missing chocolate tin?”

Miyamaki stood up after saying that, but when he briefly glanced at his wristwatch,

“There’s still time—we should arrive while it’s still light out. Anyway, why don’t we go take a look at Miss Hatsuyo’s house?”

He slipped behind the curtain in a corner of the room and began rustling around with something, then soon emerged wearing slightly more presentable attire. “Let’s go.”

He remarked offhandedly, grabbed his hat and cane, and was already rushing outside. I immediately chased after him.

I had nothing but deep sorrow, an uncanny dread, and thoughts of revenge. I didn’t even know where Miyamaki had put away that genealogy book and my sketches. Now that Hatsuyo was dead, I had no need for such things and hadn’t given them a single thought.

For over two hours on the steam train and electric train, we remained almost completely silent. On my end, I tried to strike up conversation several times, but Miyamaki remained lost in thought and wouldn’t engage. But I do remember him saying one strange thing. Since this was a crucial matter that would prove significant later on, I shall set it down here: “The more cleverly a crime is executed, the more it resembles an expert magic trick.” “A magician, you know, has mastered the technique of retrieving objects from a sealed box without opening its lid.” “You see?” “But there’s a trick to it.” “To the audience, what seems utterly impossible poses no trouble at all for him.” “This case is exactly like a sealed magician’s box.” “Though you can’t know without seeing it for yourself, the police are undoubtedly missing the magician’s crucial secret.” “Even if that secret were laid bare before their eyes, once their line of thinking becomes fixed, they would utterly fail to notice it.” “The secret of a magic trick is usually exposed right before the audience’s eyes.” “Probably, it’s a spot that doesn’t feel like an entrance or exit at all.” “Yet if you shift your perspective, it becomes an enormous entrance and exit.” “It’s just like leaving it wide open.” “If there's no lock, there's no need to pull out nails or break anything.” “Such places are left wide open, yet no one ever bothers to close them.” “Ha ha ha ha ha! The things I’m imagining are truly absurd.” “It's absurd.”

“But you can’t definitively conclude it’s completely off the mark.” “The secret behind magic tricks is always something absurd, you know.”

Even now, I still sometimes wonder why detectives must adopt such suggestive airs and indulge in such childish theatrics. And then, I grow infuriated. If Miyamaki Koukichi had disclosed everything he knew to me before his unnatural death, we could have avoided such complications. But whether this was an unavoidable ostentatious mannerism of great detectives—as seen in Sherlock Holmes or Dupin—or whether he too made it his practice never to reveal even a shadow of his deductions to bystanders beyond capricious hints until a case he had once immersed himself in was fully resolved, remains unclear.

When I heard that, I thought he had already grasped some secret of the case, so I pleaded with him to explain more clearly, but out of that stubborn detective’s vanity, he sealed his lips and refused to say another word.

Cloisonné vase Kizaki’s house now stood silent and still, as if nothing had ever happened—the mourning notices had been taken down, the patrol officer who had been standing guard was gone. It was later discovered that on that very day, shortly after returning from collecting the bones, Hatsuyo’s mother had been summoned by the prosecutor’s office and taken away by a police officer. For this reason, a man who was said to be her deceased husband’s younger brother had called over a maid from his own house to keep a somber watch over the place.

As we tried to open the lattice door and enter, an unexpected person emerged from inside right as we met. The man and I, overwhelmed by an intense awkwardness, found ourselves unable to look away from each other's gaze, silently glaring for a while. Despite having been a suitor, Moroto Michio, who had never once visited the Kizaki residence during Hatsuyo's lifetime, had for some reason chosen that day to come offer his condolences. He stood frozen in a well-tailored morning coat, his face having grown somewhat haggard since I last saw him, visibly unsure where to look—until at last, with evident effort, he addressed me.

“Ah, Minoura-kun, long time no see. Are you here to pay your respects?” I didn’t know how to respond, so I forced a brief smile with parched lips. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. I’ll wait outside—would you mind joining me over there once you’ve finished your business?”

Whether he actually had business there or was merely hiding his embarrassment, Moroto said this while glancing at Miyamaki. "This is Mr. Moroto Michio." "This is Mr. Miyamaki." What came over me? Flustered, I ended up introducing the two of them. Since both parties had already heard rumors about each other through me, merely stating their names seemed to convey more than just identities, and the two men exchanged meaningful greetings.

“You’ll go on ahead without me.” “Just introduce me to this house and that’ll do.” “Since I’ll be lurking around here anyway—off you go.” Miyamaki tossed out these words carelessly while nudging me forward. I went inside, quietly explained our business to the caretakers we recognized from before, left Miyamaki introduced to them, and—since going far afield was impossible with Moroto waiting outside—ended up entering a shabby little café nearby.

For Moroto, seeing my face likely placed him in a position where he felt compelled to explain his bizarre courtship campaign. As for me—though outwardly dismissing such foolishness—deep in my heart, I harbored a dreadful suspicion toward him. Even if not consciously resolved to subtly probe his intentions, I felt I mustn’t let this opportunity slip away. Moreover, Miyamaki’s tone when urging me to go seemed laden with unspoken significance. Thus, despite the strangeness binding us together, we ended up entering that café after all.

As for what we discussed there, beyond the overwhelming sense of awkwardness that lingers in my memory, I can no longer recall anything clearly. In all likelihood, we scarcely exchanged anything resembling proper conversation. Moreover, Miyamaki had finished his business, located the café, and entered far too quickly. We sat with our drinks before us, our heads bowed for a long time. I was filled with the urge to blame him and the desire to probe his true intentions, but I couldn't bring myself to voice a single word. Moroto too was acting strangely fidgety. It felt as though whoever spoke first would lose. It was a bizarre game of mutual probing. But I remember Moroto saying something like this.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve done something truly inexcusable. “You must be furious with me.” “I don’t know how to apologize.”

He kept muttering such things hesitantly, repeating them at length under his breath. And before it became clear what exactly he was apologizing for, Miyamaki flung aside the curtain and stomped into the room.

“Am I interrupting?” He said bluntly, thudded down into a seat, and began staring intently at Moroto. When Moroto saw Miyamaki arrive—though it was unclear what he had been doing—he suddenly bid farewell without accomplishing his objective and left as if fleeing.

“He’s a strange man, isn’t he? Awfully fidgety. Did he say something?” “No, I... I don’t quite understand.”

“Hmm, strange. “When I asked the people at the Kizaki house.” "Apparently that Moroto-kun has come around three times since Miss Hatsuyo’s death." "And apparently he’s been strangely asking all sorts of questions and inspecting the house." "There's something here." "But he's quite the handsome, intellectual-looking man, isn't he?"

Miyamaki said that and looked at me meaningfully. Even in that moment, I couldn’t keep my face from reddening. “That was quick, wasn’t it? Did you find anything?” I asked, trying to mask my embarrassment.

“Various things,” he said in a lowered voice, his expression turning serious. The excitement he had carried since departing Kamakura appeared not to have subsided—if anything, it had grown more intense. He seemed to be hiding something—various things unknown to me—deep within his heart, weighing them alone. “I feel I’ve come up against something major—the first real case in ages.” “But with just my own strength, it might be a bit beyond me.” “In any case, I mean to throw myself completely into this investigation starting today.”

He continued, as if talking to himself, doodling on the damp earthen floor with the tip of his stick. “I’ve got a rough idea of the overall framework, but there’s one point I just can’t settle.” “There is a way to interpret it—and I must admit it does seem quite plausible—but if that’s truly the case, then it’s something truly terrifying.” “It’s an unprecedented act of heinous villainy.” “Just thinking about it turns my stomach.” “An enemy of humanity.” He continued muttering incomprehensibly while half-consciously moving his stick, but when he suddenly noticed, a peculiar shape had been drawn on the ground there. It had a shape resembling an enlarged sake-warming decanter and was thought to depict a vase. He scribbled “cloisonné” inside it in an ambiguous script. When I saw that, I was seized by curiosity and inadvertently asked.

“Isn’t this about the cloisonné vase? Does that cloisonné vase have some connection to this case?”

He looked up with a start, but upon noticing the drawn pattern on the ground, he hurriedly erased it with his stick. “Don’t speak so loudly. The cloisonné vase—yes, that’s it. You’re quite sharp yourself. This is it—what I can’t figure out. I’ve been struggling with interpreting that cloisonné vase.”

But no matter how much I pressed him beyond that point, he kept his mouth tightly shut and refused to speak further.

Before long, we left the café and returned to Sugamo Station. Since we were heading in opposite directions, we parted ways at the platform there. As we said our goodbyes, Miyamaki Koukichi declared, “Wait about four days. It absolutely can’t be done in less than that. By the fifth day, I might be able to bring some good news,” he said. Though I found his affected manner disagreeable, I had no choice but to rely wholeheartedly on his efforts.

The Antique Shop Customer

As my family was worried, I decided—albeit reluctantly—to resume attending S・K Trading Company starting the following day. Having entrusted the detective work to Miyamaki and with no way to take action myself, I spent hollow days clinging to his verbal promise of a week.

When work ended, driven by the loneliness of no longer seeing the person I used to walk shoulder to shoulder with, my feet would carry me of their own accord to Hatsuyo's cemetery. I made it my daily ritual to prepare bouquets as if for a lover, bring them each day, and weep before her new grave marker. And each time I did so, my desire for revenge seemed to grow stronger. Day by day, I seemed to be acquiring a strange strength.

By the second day, I could no longer endure it. I took the night train and went to visit Miyamaki’s house in Kamakura, but he was not home. When I asked the neighbors, they said, “He left two days ago and hasn’t returned.” Since we parted ways in Sugamo that day, it appeared he had gone somewhere directly. I thought that at this rate, visiting him before the promised fifth day arrived would only be a wasted effort.

But on the third day, I made a discovery. What it meant remained entirely unclear, but it was nevertheless a discovery. After three days of delay, I had finally managed to grasp even a fragment of Miyamaki's imaginative process. That enigmatic phrase "cloisonné vase" never left my mind for a single day. That day too, while working at the company and sliding abacus beads, I could think of nothing but the cloisonné vase. Strangely enough, ever since seeing Miyamaki's doodle at the Sugamo café, the phrase "cloisonné vase" hadn't felt entirely unfamiliar to me. There existed such a cloisonné vase somewhere. I'd felt certain I'd seen it before. Moreover, it lingered in some corner of my mind through its association with the deceased Hatsuyo. That day, through some peculiar connection with numbers I'd been calculating on the abacus, it abruptly surfaced in my memory.

I realized. I had seen it at the antique shop next to Hatsuyo’s house. As I exclaimed inwardly, it had already passed three o'clock, so I left work early and rushed to the antique shop. And then, abruptly entering the shopfront, I grabbed the elderly shop owner. “There were certainly two large cloisonné vases displayed here, right? Were those sold?” I pretended to be a passing customer and inquired in such a manner.

“Oh yes, we did have them,” “But they've gone and been sold, I'm afraid.” “What a shame I missed out.” “I really wanted one. When were they sold?” “Were both bought by the same person?” “They were originally a matching pair, you see.” “Different buyers took them.” “Fine pieces from an estate collection—too grand for a humble shop like ours.” “Quite expensive they were too.”

“When were they sold?” "Ah, what a shame about that one. "It was last night. "A gentleman from out of town came and bought it. "The other one—now let me see—that would've been the 25th of last month. "Exactly the day of that dreadful business next door—yes, I remember it well." The garrulous old man then launched into an exhaustive account of his neighbors' troubles, but what I ultimately pieced together was this: The first buyer—a man with the air of a merchant—had made arrangements and paid upfront the previous evening, then sent a servant around noon the next day to collect the vase bundled in a furoshiki cloth. The second buyer had been a young Western-suited gentleman who summoned a rickshaw on the spot to carry his purchase home. Both were complete strangers—no way of knowing their names or origins.

Needless to say, the fact that the day the first buyer came to collect the vase coincided exactly with the day the murder was discovered caught my attention. But what that meant, I did not have the slightest idea. There was no doubt that Miyamaki had also been thinking about this vase—the old man clearly remembered someone resembling him coming to inquire about the same vase three days prior—but why had he placed such importance on it? There must be some reason for it.

“It definitely had a swallowtail butterfly pattern, didn’t it?” “Uh, y-yes, that’s right. It had a yellow background with many swallowtail butterflies arranged in a scattered pattern.”

I remembered it clearly—a rather large vase standing about three feet tall, its dull yellow surface swarming with dark butterflies outlined in silver filigree, their wings frozen mid-chaotic flutter. "Where did these come from originally?" I asked. "Oh, we acquired them through a dealer," the shopkeeper's wife chimed in. "They said it was from some bankrupt tycoon's estate sale." Those twin vases had graced Hatsuyo's home since my first visits there. Years they'd watched over our meetings. Yet both vanished within days of her violent death—could this timing be mere chance? Some hidden significance must lurk here. Though clueless about the first purchaser, I'd noted peculiar details about the second buyer. Steeling myself, I posed the crucial question.

“Wasn’t the customer who came afterward to make the purchase about thirty years old, fair-skinned, beardless, with a slightly noticeable mole on his right cheek?” “That’s right, he was exactly as you described.” “He was a kind and refined gentleman.” It was exactly as I thought. It was undoubtedly Moroto Michio. If it was him, he should have come to the Kizaki house next door two or three times, but when I asked if they had noticed him, the old man’s wife, who had just emerged there, chimed in to answer.

"Now that you mention it, that's the gentleman, Grandpa." Fortunately, she too was no less talkative than the elderly shopkeeper. "A couple of days ago—you remember—that fine gentleman in a black frock coat who came to the neighbor's house." "That was him, Grandpa." She had mistaken a morning coat for a frock coat, but there remained no room for doubt. To be thorough, I inquired at the rickshaw stand he had hired from and discovered the destination had indeed been Ikebukuro, where Moroto resided.

That may have been too far-fetched an assumption. But someone like Moroto—a deviant, if you will—could not be measured by ordinary standards. Was he not a man constitutionally incapable of loving women? Might there not even be grounds to suspect he schemed to steal that lover through homosexual desire? How violent that sudden romantic offensive had been. How deranged his advances toward me had become. When I considered this together, could anyone truly claim that he—having failed to win Hatsuyo—would shrink from committing some elaborately plotted murder to wrest her from me, a crime engineered to evade all detection? He possessed an abnormally acute intellect. Was his research not precisely this—cruelly manipulating small animals with his scalpel? Here was a man unafraid of bloodshed. A man who coolly employed living creatures as mere experimental fodder.

I could not help but recall the uncanny scene from when I visited him shortly after he had established his residence in Ikebukuro.

His new residence was a gloomy Western-style wooden building standing in isolation in a desolate location a full half-ri from Ikebukuro Station, with a separate laboratory building attached. An iron fence surrounded it. The household consisted of him—a bachelor—along with a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old student lodger and an elderly cook servant; apart from the animals' cries, it was a desolate dwelling where no trace of human presence could be sensed. He was engrossed in his abnormal research both there and at the university laboratory. His research topic did not appear to be of the kind that directly treated patients, but rather seemed to concern some creative discovery in surgery.

It happened at night. As I approached the iron gate, I heard the unbearable shrieks of pitiful experimental animals—they were mostly dogs. The howls of the dogs—each with its own distinct character—pierced my chest with the maddening imagery of death throes, shrill and unrelenting. The thought that right now, in that laboratory, that abominable vivisection might be underway sent an involuntary shudder through me.

When I passed through the gate, the intense odor of disinfectant assaulted my nostrils. I remembered a hospital operating room. I imagined a prison execution chamber. I wanted to cover my ears against the helpless screams of terror from animals staring death in the face. All the more, I even considered abandoning my visit and turning back. Before night had fully fallen, every window of the main house stood completely dark. Only a faint light was visible deep within the laboratory. As if moving through a terrifying dream, I reached the entrance and pressed the bell. After a moment, a light came on at the side laboratory entrance, and there stood Moroto. Clad in a rubberized surgical gown soaked through, he thrust forward both hands stained crimson with congealed blood. Under the electric light, that red hue had shone with an uncanny glow—I remember it vividly.

My heart was shut tight with terrible suspicions, yet with no means to confirm them, I trudged through the suburban town as dusk closed in.

By Noon Tomorrow The "fifth day" I had agreed upon with Miyamaki Koukichi fell on the first Sunday of July. It was a brilliantly sunny, intensely hot day. Around nine in the morning, as I was changing clothes to go to Kamakura, a telegram arrived from Miyamaki. He wanted to meet. The train was quite crowded with that summer's first wave of vacationers. Though still early for swimming season, between the heat and it being the first Sunday, overeager crowds were already surging toward Shonan's beaches.

The thoroughfare in front of Miyamaki’s house was so crowded with people heading to the coast that the flow never ceased. In the vacant lot, ice cream stalls and the like set up new flags and began doing business.

But in stark contrast to these vibrant, glittering scenes, Miyamaki sat amidst his usual mountain of books with an utterly gloomy expression, deep in thought.

“Where had you been? I did come to visit you once though,” Miyamaki said as I entered. Without rising, he pointed at the grimy table beside him. “Look at this.” There lay a letter and torn envelope. The message was scrawled in crude pencil strokes: You can no longer be allowed to live. Consider your life forfeit by clear noon tomorrow. However, if you return that item to its rightful owner (you know where) and swear eternal secrecy, I’ll spare you. But you must personally take it to the post office as registered mail by noon—otherwise it’s too late. Choose wisely. Telling the police won’t help. I don’t make blunders that leave evidence.

“What kind of silly joke is this? Did it come by mail?”

I asked casually.

“No, someone threw it through the window last night.” “This might not be a joke.” Miyamaki spoke in an unexpectedly earnest tone. He appeared genuinely terrified, his face deathly pale. “But this childish prank is absurd. And setting a noon deadline to take someone’s life—it’s like something from the silver screen, don’t you think?” “No, you don’t understand. I... I saw something dreadful. My hunches were completely right. I managed to locate their hideout, but in return I witnessed something unnatural. That was my undoing. I showed no backbone—just fled. You remain utterly clueless.”

“No, I’ve actually come to understand a few things myself. The cloisonné vase, right? I don’t know what it means, but Moroto Michio was the one who bought that.” “Moroto? That’s strange.”

Miyamaki, however, showed no enthusiasm for it whatsoever. "What on earth is the meaning of the cloisonné vase?" "If my imagination isn't mistaken—though I haven't confirmed it yet—it's truly a terrifying thing." "It's an unprecedented crime." "But you see, the terrifying thing isn't just the cloisonné vase—there's something far more astonishing." "It's something like a demon's curse." "It's unimaginable evil." "On earth, do you already know who killed Hatsuyo?"

“I believe I’ve at least managed to locate their den. Just wait a little longer. But I might get killed.”

Miyamaki had perhaps fallen under what he called a demon’s curse, for he had grown terribly timid.

"That's strange. But if there's even the slightest chance of such a worry, why not tell the police? If your own strength isn't enough, why not seek help from the police?" "If we tell the police, we'll only let the enemy get away. Moreover, even if we know who they are, we haven't grasped the solid evidence needed to catch them. If the police get involved now, they'll only get in the way."

“Do you understand what this 'item' mentioned in the letter refers to? What on earth is it?” “I know, I know—that’s why I’m scared.” “Can’t we just send this to them as they demanded?” “As for me, instead of sending that back to the enemy—” He glanced around cautiously and said in an extremely low voice, “I sent it addressed to you by registered parcel. When you return home today, there should be something strange delivered. Please take good care to store it so as not to damage or break it. It’s dangerous if it remains in my possession. Since it’s you, it’s somewhat safe—it’s a very important thing, so don’t let anything happen to it, you see. And make sure no one realizes it’s something important.”

I found Miyamaki’s excessively secretive, unapproachable attitude rather insulting, and it left me feeling deeply uncomfortable. “Can’t you tell me everything you know? After all, since I was the one who asked you to investigate this case, shouldn’t I be considered the principal party here?”

“But there are circumstances where that may no longer hold true.” “However, I’ll tell you.” “Of course I intend to tell you—let’s discuss it over dinner tonight.” He appeared deeply unsettled and checked his wristwatch. “It’s eleven o’clock.” “Shall we go to the beach?” “We mustn’t succumb to gloominess.” “Perhaps I’ll take a swim—it’s been ages.” Though reluctant, I followed his determined strides until we reached a nearby shore. The beach teemed with garish swimsuits glaring enough to make one’s eyes ache.

Miyamaki ran to the water’s edge, suddenly stripped down to just a loincloth, shouted something at the top of his lungs, and plunged into the sea. I sat down on a small sand dune and watched with a strange feeling as he forced himself to frolic about.

I tried not to look, yet couldn't help seeing the clock. Though I told myself such foolishness couldn't possibly occur, that dreadful phrase from the threatening letter—"deadline at noon"—persisted in nagging at my mind. Time advanced mercilessly—eleven-thirty, eleven-forty—and with each minute drawing closer to noon, an itching anxiety rose within me. Then, at that very moment, something happened to deepen my unease. I say this because I truly felt—felt with certainty—that it was exactly as expected. There among the beach crowd, Moroto Michio's figure flickered into view in the far distance. Could his appearance on this shore at precisely this hour be mere coincidence?

When I looked for Miyamaki, he—ever fond of children—had somehow become surrounded by kids in swimsuits and was running about the area playing tag or some such game, shrieking with laughter. The sky stretched clear in a fathomless indigo, and the sea lay as still as a tatami mat. From the diving platform, accompanied by cheerful shouts, one after another, beautiful lithe bodies were tracing arcs through the air. The sandy beach glared dazzlingly, and the multitudes frolicking on land and sea, bathed in the clear early summer sun, appeared to shine brightly and splendidly. There was nothing there but happiness—people sang like birds, played like mermaids, and frolicked like puppies. In this wide-open paradise, one couldn’t imagine that anything like the evils of the underworld could be lurking, concealed in any corner. And to imagine that a bloody murder could occur right in the midst of it was utterly impossible.

But, dear readers, the demon did not break his promise in the slightest. He had first killed in a sealed house, and now, on a completely open beach visible as far as the eye could see—moreover, right in the middle of hundreds of people—he had executed the murder brilliantly without even a single person among them noticing, leaving not a single clue behind. Though a demon, what an inconceivable skill he possessed!

Reason Beyond Reason

When reading novels, I would often grow impatient and irritated seeing protagonists act naively virtuous while bungling everything—thinking I’d never behave so foolishly myself. Now, those reading my account must surely feel the same frustration, watching me—the protagonist—claim to play detective while remaining utterly lost in a fog, accomplishing nothing detectivelike, being led around by Miyamaki Koukichi’s irritatingly suggestive manner as if it were some grand endeavor. Truthfully, proceeding to record matters this plainly feels akin to broadcasting my own foolishness—something I’m quite reluctant to do—but given that I was indeed a spoiled young master at the time, there was simply no help for it. As for the aspects that may frustrate readers—if this were a factual account, one can only beg your lenience in overlooking them.

Now, continuing from the previous chapter, I must recount the details of Miyamaki Koukichi’s tragic unnatural death. At that moment, Miyamaki wore nothing but a loincloth as he ran about the sandy beach with children in swimsuits, squealing with laughter. That he loved children and delighted in becoming the ringleader of mischievous brats to play innocently was something I had already described repeatedly, but his frantic frolicking at that moment stemmed from a cause far deeper than mere fondness for youngsters. He was frightened. He trembled before the "deadline at noon" phrase in that crudely penned threatening letter. That he—a highly intelligent man of forty—would take such a childish threat seriously seemed somewhat comical to me, yet there must have been sufficient reason for even someone like him to feel genuine terror toward such a thing.

He had disclosed almost nothing to me about what he had learned regarding this case, so while I could not even imagine the horror of the concealed facts that had frightened an open-hearted man like him to such an extent, seeing him genuinely terrified drew me in against my will, and I found I could not shake this strange feeling welling up within me, even amid the hundreds of people at the bustling beach. I found myself recalling someone’s words: "Truly clever murderers choose not some lonely place, but rather the very heart of a great crowd."

With a protective intent toward Miyamaki, I descended the sand dune and approached where he was frolicking. They seemed to have grown tired of playing tag, and this time dug a large hole near the water’s edge where three or four innocent children around ten years old buried Miyamaki inside and diligently piled sand over him from above. “Come on, pile more sand! You’ve got to bury my legs and arms completely.” “Hey now! Don’t cover my face!” “Just spare my face!”

Miyamaki played the role of a kindly uncle and kept shouting incessantly.

“Uncle! If you keep squirming like that, it’s cheating!” “Alright then, we’ll dump a whole mountain of sand on you!” The children kept scooping up sand with both hands and heaping it on, but Miyamaki’s large frame stubbornly refused to disappear beneath their efforts. About six feet away, two proper housewives—neatly dressed in kimono with parasols open against the sun—rested on spread-out newspapers while keeping watch over their children in the sea. They occasionally glanced toward Miyamaki’s group and burst into shrill laughter. These two women were positioned closest to where Miyamaki lay buried. On the opposite side, farther removed, a striking young woman in a garish swimsuit sat cross-legged, laughing and joking with a sprawl of young men lounging about her in various indolent poses. Beyond these groups, no one else appeared to be settled in any fixed spot nearby.

People passed ceaselessly by Miyamaki’s side, but aside from the occasional person who paused briefly to laugh before moving on, no one came near him. As I watched this—how could anyone commit murder here?—Miyamaki’s terror began to strike me as utterly absurd. “Minoura-kun, what time is it?” When I approached, Miyamaki—still seemingly preoccupied with it—asked. “11:52.” “Eight minutes left.” “Hahaha…”

“As long as we stay like this, we’re safe, right? You—with all these people around you keeping watch, and right here, four young sentries standing guard.” “Plus, there’s this sand barricade.” “No demon could get near us like this.” “Heh heh.”

He appeared to have somewhat regained his spirits. While pacing back and forth in that area, concerned about having glimpsed Moroto earlier, I searched all over the wide sandy beach, but his figure was nowhere to be seen. Then, I stood two or three ken away from Miyamaki and vacantly watched the young men’s skillful dives from the platform for a while. But when I turned toward him after some time had passed, he had already been completely buried by the children’s earnest efforts. The sight of only his head protruding from the sand, eyes wide open and glaring at the sky, reminded me of the Indian ascetics I had heard about.

“Uncle! Wake up! Come on!” “Too heavy?” “Uncle, you’re making such a funny face. “Can’t you get up?” “Want me to help you out?” The children kept teasing Miyamaki incessantly. But no matter how many times they called “Uncle! Uncle!” he remained spitefully glaring at the sky, making no move to respond. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was already two minutes past twelve. “Mr. Miyamaki.” “It’s past twelve.” “So the demon didn’t come after all, did he?” “Mr. Miyamaki... Miyama…”

Startled, I looked closer and saw that something was wrong with Miyamaki. His face was gradually paling, and his wide-open eyes had not blinked once for some time. Moreover, on the sand around his chest, a livid stain had surfaced and appeared to be creeping outward bit by bit. The children too must have sensed something amiss, for they made strange faces and fell silent. I suddenly grabbed Miyamaki’s neck with both hands and tried shaking it, but it merely flopped loosely like a doll’s head. When I hurriedly parted the sand at the site of the livid stain, from beneath the thick layer emerged the white scabbard of a small dagger. The sand around it was thick with congealed blood, but when I scooped more away, the dagger was buried up to the hilt, directly through his heart.

The commotion that followed was so routine that I will spare the details, but given that this occurred on a Sunday at a beach resort, Miyamaki's bizarre death became embarrassingly public. I endured intense humiliation under the curious stares of hundreds of young men and women—answering police questions beside the straw-mat-covered corpse, then accompanying the body to Miyamaki's house after the prosecutor's team completed their on-site investigation. Yet even then, among the sea of overlapping faces in the crowd, I suddenly spotted Moroto Michio's slightly pale countenance, leaving me with a profoundly unsettling impression. He stood behind a mountain of gawkers, staring fixedly at Miyamaki's corpse. Even while transporting the body, I constantly sensed his spectral presence behind me. Though Moroto clearly hadn't been near the murder scene, giving no rational reason for suspicion—what could this grotesque behavior possibly signify?

There is one more thing I must record—though not particularly surprising—that when we transported Miyamaki and entered his house, I discovered his already disorderly living room had been utterly ransacked as though a storm had passed through. Needless to say, there was no doubt that the culprit had broken into his vacant house in search of that "item."

Of course I underwent the prosecutor's detailed interrogation. At that time, I honestly explained all circumstances—except that, whether through some sixth sense warning me (the significance of this will later become clear to the reader), I deliberately kept silent about Miyamaki having sent me the "item" mentioned in the threatening letter. Even when questioned about the "item," I simply answered that I knew nothing. Once the interrogation concluded, I enlisted the help of neighbors to notify the deceased’s close friends and make funeral arrangements. The various tasks proved time-consuming, so after entrusting the remaining duties to the wife from the neighboring house, I finally boarded the train around eight o’clock in the evening. Naturally, I had no idea when Moroto had returned or what he had been doing during that time.

The investigation concluded without identifying the perpetrator. The children who had been playing with the deceased (three being middle-class children residing near the coast, and one a Tokyo visitor brought by his sister for swimming that day) all declared that nobody had approached Miyamaki's vicinity while he lay buried in sand. Though merely children around ten years old, they could not possibly have failed to witness a stabbing occurring before them. Furthermore, his two wives—seated about one *ken* away—occupied positions where they must have noticed anyone approaching Miyamaki's immediate surroundings, yet they adamantly maintained having seen no suspicious individual. Moreover, not a single person among those near him had observed anyone resembling the assailant.

I too saw no suspicious figures. Though I stood two or three ken away from him and had become momentarily absorbed in watching the young men diving, had anyone approached to stab him, I should have caught at least a glimpse in my peripheral vision. It must be called a murder as mysterious and unfathomable as a dream. The victim had been under the scrutiny of the crowd. Yet not one person had glimpsed even the shadow of the perpetrator. Could plunging that dagger deep into Miyamaki's chest have been the work of a specter invisible to human eyes? I suddenly wondered if someone might have thrown the blade from afar. But all circumstances at that time rendered even such imagining impossible.

What should be noted is that Miyamaki's chest wound—specifically its distinctive gouging pattern—was later discovered through subsequent investigations to bear a striking resemblance to Hatsuyo's previous chest injury. Not only that, but it was also revealed that the white-sheathed daggers used as murder weapons in both cases were the same type of cheap item. In other words, it was deduced that the perpetrator of Miyamaki's murder was likely the same individual who had killed Hatsuyo. Even so, what kind of magic could this perpetrator have possibly mastered? Once they had slipped like the wind into a completely sealed house with no exits; another time, they had vanished like a phantom assailant through a bustling crowd under hundreds of watchful eyes. Though I abhorred superstitious notions, faced with these two irrational occurrences, I couldn't help but feel a terror reminiscent of ghost stories.

The Chipped-Nose General Nogi

My revenge and detective work now lost their crucial guide. Regrettably, he had not disclosed any of the facts he had uncovered or the deductions he had made during his lifetime, so I was left utterly adrift upon his death. To be sure, he had let slip a few suggestive remarks, but my dull mind lacked the power to interpret those hints.

At the same time, my mission of vengeance had grown more urgent still. Now I stood compelled not only to requite my lover's grudge but to strike down Miyamaki's foe - he who had been both friend and mentor to me. Though that unseen phantom killer had dealt Miyamaki's mortal blow, none could deny it was I who steered him into peril's path. Had I never sought his aid in this affair, he would yet draw breath. If only to discharge my debt to Miyamaki, I resolved to hunt this criminal through whatever means required.

Miyamaki had said that shortly before being killed, he sent me via registered package the "item" written in the threatening letter that would cause his death, and when I returned home that day, sure enough, the postal parcel had arrived. But what emerged from the heavily wrapped package was, unexpectedly, a single plaster statue. It was a bust of General Nogi—painted over plaster to resemble bronze, the kind commonly found in any portrait shop. It appeared quite old, with paint peeling off in places to reveal the white base material, while the nose had chipped off in such a comical manner that it felt disrespectful to this war deity. It was General Nogi with a chipped nose. Recalling that Rodin had a sculpture with a similar name, I felt a strange sensation.

Of course, I couldn't even begin to imagine what this "item" signified or why it was important enough to cause murder. "Miyamaki said, ‘Keep it safe without damaging it.’" He also said, “Don’t let others realize it’s an important item.” No matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t discern the meaning of this bust. In any case, following the deceased’s instructions, I quietly stored it inside a closet chest filled with junk, making sure no one would notice. Since the police knew nothing about this item, there had been no need to rush to deliver it.

For about a week after that, though my mind remained restless, I did nothing but spend one day attending Miyamaki’s funeral and continued my unpleasant company job. When work ended, I never failed to visit Hatsuyo’s grave. There, I would report the details of the successive mysterious murder cases to my departed lover, but since returning home immediately would leave me unable to sleep, after finishing my grave visit, I would wander from town to town to pass the time.

During that time, there were no particular incidents, but there were two occurrences—though rather trivial-seeming—that I must inform the reader of. The first of these was that on two occasions, someone had entered my room while I was away and disturbed the items in my desk drawers and bookcase. Though I wasn't of such a meticulous nature that I could state anything definitively, somehow the positions of items in my room—the arrangement of books on the shelves of my bookcase, for instance—seemed different from how I remembered them when leaving my room. When I asked my family members, they all claimed no memory of tampering with my belongings, but since my room was on the second floor—its windows overlooking neighboring rooftops—it wouldn’t have been impossible for someone to sneak in along the roofs. Even if I tried to dismiss it as nerves, I couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling, so I checked the closet’s storage chest just in case—but each time, the chipped-nose General Nogi statue remained undisturbed in its usual place.

The second occurrence happened one day after I finished visiting Hatsuyo’s grave and was wandering through the outskirts I often roamed—near Uguisudani Station on the National Railway line. There in a vacant lot stood a tent circus, its old-fashioned brass band and grotesque painted billboards strangely appealing. I had paused there once before, but that evening, as I happened to pass the circus again, I was startled to recognize Moroto Michio hurrying out through the ticket gate. He didn’t notice me, but that figure in the smartly tailored suit was unmistakably my peculiar friend Moroto Michio.

Due to such circumstances—though there was no concrete evidence—my suspicions toward Moroto continued to deepen. Why had he visited the Kizaki residence so frequently after Hatsuyo’s death? What necessity had driven him to purchase the cloisonné vase in question? Moreover, wasn’t it peculiar beyond coincidence that he had appeared at the very scene of Miyamaki’s murder? What of his suspicious behavior during that incident? And whether it was mere fancy or not, didn’t his presence at that circus troupe in Uguisudani—in a direction wholly opposite from his home—carry an uncanny quality?

Not only were there these outwardly visible circumstances, but psychologically too, I had ample reason to suspect Moroto. As distasteful as it was to admit, he appeared to harbor an attachment toward me that ordinary people could scarcely fathom. That this might have driven him to pursue an insincere courtship of Kizaki Hatsuyo seemed hardly surprising. Moreover, having failed in this pursuit—with Hatsuyo standing as his romantic rival—it wasn't beyond imagining that in his impassioned state, he might have secretly eliminated this obstacle. If Moroto truly were Hatsuyo's killer, then Miyamaki Koukichi—who had taken up the investigation and with startling speed identified the culprit—would naturally have become a mortal threat requiring immediate elimination. Thus one might conclude that Moroto had been forced to commit a second murder to conceal the first.

Having lost Miyamaki, I had no choice but to suspect Moroto in this manner; I could formulate no other investigative strategy. After much deliberation, I ultimately resolved there was no alternative but to draw nearer to Moroto and verify my suspicions. Thus, about a week following Miyamaki's unnatural death, I determined on my way home from work to make for Ikebukuro where Moroto dwelled.

Reappearance of the Mysterious Old Man

I had visited Moroto’s house on two consecutive nights. On the first night, with Moroto absent, I could do nothing but turn back from the entrance in disappointment; however, on the second night, I made an unexpected discovery. It was already mid-July, an unusually muggy night. Ikebukuro at the time was not yet bustling as it is now. Emerging behind the Teacher Training School, the houses grew sparse, and the narrow country path was pitch-dark enough to strain one’s eyes while walking. Yet I pressed on through that desolate place—one side flanked by tall hedges, the other an open field—staring fixedly at the road faintly glowing white in the darkness, guided by lamplights scattered here and there in the distance as I walked uneasily onward. Though night had only just fallen, there were scarcely any passersby, and when by chance someone did brush past, their presence felt all the more eerie, as though they were ghostly apparitions.

As previously noted, Moroto’s residence was quite far—half a ri from the station—but just as I had reached the midpoint of that distance, I noticed a strangely shaped figure walking ahead. A figure with a back no taller than half an ordinary person’s height yet broader than an ordinary person’s width trudged forward laboriously, swaying his entire body from side to side. With each sway—now to the right, now to the left—his abnormally low-set head flickered into view like a papier-mâché tiger doll, bobbing erratically as he moved. To say he resembled Issun-bōshi would be apt, but he was not the thumb-sized hero; rather, his upper body bent forward at a forty-five-degree angle from the waist, making him appear so short-statured when viewed from behind. In other words, he was an old man with a severely bent waist.

When I saw that bizarre old man's figure, I naturally recalled the eerie grandfather Hatsuyo had once described seeing. Given both the timing and location—right near the house of Moroto, whom I had been suspecting—I couldn't help but gasp. Moving carefully to avoid detection, I trailed after the mysterious old man as he indeed walked toward Moroto's residence. Turning onto a side path made the road grow narrower still. This branching path led nowhere but Moroto's estate, eliminating any doubt. Ahead, Moroto's Western-style mansion loomed faintly into view, though tonight every window blazed with light unusually.

The old man stopped briefly before the iron gate, seeming to ponder something, then pushed it open and stepped inside. I hurriedly followed him through the gate into the grounds. Between the entrance and gate stood a thicket of somewhat overgrown shrubs—perhaps he had hidden in their shadows—but I lost sight of him. I kept watch for a while, yet the old man never reappeared. By the time I reached the gate, I couldn't tell whether he'd slipped into the entrance hall or still lurked among the shrubs.

Taking care not to be seen from the other side, I searched every corner of the spacious front garden, but the old man’s figure was nowhere to be found, as if he had vanished. He must have already gone inside the house.

So, I resolutely pressed the entrance bell. I had resolved to meet Moroto and get information directly from his own mouth. Before long, the door opened, and the familiar young student lodger appeared. When I said I wished to see Moroto, he withdrew for a moment but immediately returned and showed me to the parlor adjacent to the entrance hall. From the wallpaper to the furnishings, everything harmonized beautifully, speaking volumes about the master’s refined taste. As I sat in the plush armchair, Moroto—perhaps drunk, his face flushed—burst energetically into the room.

“Ah, you’ve come!” “The other day in Sugamo—I was terribly rude.” “At the time, I was in a bit of a state, you see.”

Moroto spoke in a pleasant baritone, with feigned cheerfulness. "We did meet once more after that, didn’t we? You know, at the Kamakura coast—" Once I had resolved myself, I found I could speak with unexpected bluntness. “Huh? Kamakura? Ah, so you noticed me back then? Given all the commotion, I deliberately refrained from calling out to you. That person who was killed—Mr. Miyamaki, was it? You were quite close with that person, weren’t you?”

“Yes, actually, I had him investigate Ms. Kizaki Hatsuyo’s murder case,” Moroto replied. “He was an excellent amateur detective like Holmes. That was just when he was finally closing in on the culprit—then all that commotion happened.” His voice dropped regretfully. “I was truly disappointed.” “I had mostly imagined it was so,” I countered sharply, “but you killed a man of worth.” Letting the accusation hang, I abruptly shifted tone: “By the way, have you eaten?” Moroto deflected smoothly, as if avoiding a blade: “We’ve just opened the dining room—there’s quite an unusual guest here. If you’d like, why don’t you join us for a meal?”

Moroto said, as if avoiding the topic.

“No, I’ve already eaten,” I refused. “I’ll wait here, so please don’t hold back on my account. But this guest you mentioned—could it be that severely hunched old man?” “Huh? An old man?” Moroto feigned surprise. “You’re quite mistaken—it’s merely a small child. Since this guest needs no formalities, won’t you at least join us briefly in the dining room?” “I see,” I pressed. “Yet when I arrived earlier, I distinctly saw such an old man entering this very gate.”

“Huh, that’s strange.” “A hunched old man? I don’t associate with such people, but are you certain someone like that really came in?” Moroto appeared deeply concerned for some reason. He continued urging me to go to the dining room, but when I firmly declined, he relented and summoned the student lodger, issuing these instructions: “See that the guest in the dining room eats their meal. You and the old servant must keep close watch so they don’t grow bored.” “It would be troublesome if they mention leaving.” “Was there perhaps a toy somewhere? Ah, and bring tea for this guest.”

After the student lodger left, he turned back to face me with what seemed a forced smile. In the meantime, I noticed the cloisonné vase in question placed in one corner of the room, and I was somewhat taken aback by his boldness in carelessly leaving it out in such a place. "That’s an impressive vase." "Hmm, I feel like I’ve seen that somewhere before."

I asked while paying close attention to Moroto’s expression. “Ah, that one? You may have seen it—I bought it from the antique shop next to Miss Hatsuyo’s house.” He answered with astonishing composure. When I heard that, I felt I couldn’t contend with him and became somewhat daunted.

Unexpected Amateur Detective "I wanted to see you. "It's been so long since we last spoke openly." Moroto said, his intoxication veiling words that carried an unexpected sweetness. His flushed cheeks glowed beautifully, eyes beneath long lashes appearing seductive. "The other day in Sugamo—though shame kept me silent—I must apologize to you. "I've done things beyond forgiveness—so much that I don't know if you'll pardon me. "But this was a deed compelled by passion—that is, I couldn't endure the thought of you being taken by another. "No, voicing such selfishness will anger you as always—yet surely even you understand my earnest feelings. "I couldn't help myself... You're furious, aren't you? Aren't you?"

“Are you talking about Miss Hatsuyo?”

I retorted bluntly.

“Yes. I was consumed by jealousy over you and her—until then, even if you never truly understood my feelings, at least your heart hadn’t been claimed by another. But ever since this 'Miss Hatsuyo' appeared before you, your entire demeanor changed. Do you remember? It’s been two months now. That night we went to the Imperial Theater together. I couldn’t endure seeing those eyes of yours—eyes that seemed to chase after phantoms. And then you cruelly, so casually, as if it delighted you, even shared rumors about her with me. Do you know what that did to me? It’s shameful. As I’ve always said, I’ve no right to reproach you for any of this. Yet when I saw you like that, I felt all hope drain from this world. The pain was unbearable—not just your tragic love, but my own monstrous feelings that I despised beyond words. After that day, no matter how many letters I sent, you never replied. Before, you’d always answer me, however coldly.”

Unusually, the drunken Moroto was eloquent. His repetitious complaints—which even seemed effeminate—would have no end if left unanswered.

“So, you made an insincere marriage proposal?”

I angrily cut off his torrent of words. "You're still angry." "That’s only natural." "I want to make amends, no matter what it takes." "I wouldn’t mind even if you stomped on my face with your shoes on." "Even something worse would be fine." "It was entirely my fault."

Moroto said sorrowfully. But such things could not soften my anger. "You're only talking about yourself." "You're too selfish." "Miss Hatsuyo was the one woman I met only once in my entire life—the irreplaceable woman for me." "That... that..."

As I spoke, a fresh wave of grief surged through me, and I found myself choking back tears. Then, for some time, I couldn't form words. Moroto stared fixedly at my tear-drenched eyes before abruptly seizing both my hands in his,

“Please forgive me. “Please forgive me.”

he continued to shout. “Is this what you call forgivable?” I brushed off his feverish hands and said. “Hatsuyo is dead.” “There’s no undoing it now.” “I’ve been cast down into the depths of a pitch-dark valley.”

“I understand your feelings all too well,” Moroto continued. “But compared to me, you were still fortunate. Why? Because no matter how fervently I courted her, no matter how much her foster mother urged her, Miss Hatsuyo’s heart never wavered in the slightest. She turned away from every obstacle and kept thinking only of you. Your love had been rewarded beyond measure.” “How can you say such a thing?” My voice had crumbled into sobs. “It’s precisely because Miss Hatsuyo felt that way about me that losing her now makes my sorrow multiply endlessly! What right have you to phrase it like that? You failed in your marriage proposal—wasn’t that enough? On top of that—on top of that—”

But even I hesitated to say the next words.

“Huh? What are you saying?” “Ah, so it was like that after all.” “You suspect me, don’t you?” “That’s right, isn’t it?” “You’re placing terrible suspicion on me.” I suddenly burst into tears and shouted intermittently from beneath them.

"I want to kill you. "I want to kill you! I want to kill you!" "Tell me the truth." "Tell me the truth." "Ah, I've truly done something unforgivable." Moroto took my hands again and gently stroked them as he said, "I never imagined the sorrow of someone who's lost a lover could be this profound. "But Minoura-kun, I never tell lies. "That's a terrible mistake! "No matter what you say, I'm not the sort who could commit murder."

“Then why is that creepy old man coming and going from this house? That’s the old man Miss Hatsuyo saw. Soon after that old man appeared, Miss Hatsuyo was killed. And why were you there on the very day Mr. Miyamaki was murdered? Then you acted in ways that invited suspicion! Why were you visiting that circus troupe in Uguisudani? I’ve never once heard you had an interest in such things! Why did you buy that cloisonné vase? I know full well this vase connects to Miss Hatsuyo’s case! And then... and then...”

I ranted like a madman, holding nothing back. And when my words finally trailed off, I turned deathly pale and began trembling violently, overcome by emotion like one in the throes of an ague. Moroto hurriedly came around to my side, positioned himself on the chair beside me, wrapped both arms tightly around my chest, brought his mouth close to my ear, and began whispering tenderly. “So various circumstances had aligned.” “It seems your suspicions of me are not entirely without reason.” “However, those strange coincidences had an entirely different reason behind them.” “Ah, I should have explained it to you sooner.” “And I should have joined forces with you to address this matter.” “You see, Minoura-kun, I too investigated this case alone, just like you and Mr. Miyamaki did.” “Do you understand why I did such a thing?” “That, you see, was my way of apologizing to you.” “While I had absolutely no involvement in the murder case, I did cause you pain by proposing marriage to Miss Hatsuyo.” “With Miss Hatsuyo having died like that on top of everything else, I thought you were far too pitiful.” “I wanted to at least find the culprit and bring some comfort to your heart.” “That’s not all.” “Miss Hatsuyo’s mother was subjected to false suspicion and dragged off to the prosecutor’s office.” “Wasn’t one of the reasons she came under suspicion that she’d argued with her daughter over the marriage issue?” “In other words, I’m indirectly responsible for making her mother a suspect.” “Therefore, from that point as well, I felt responsible to find the culprit and clear her suspicions.” “However, that is no longer necessary now.”

“As you know, Miss Hatsuyo’s mother was allowed to return home without incident due to insufficient evidence.” “This was based on what her mother told me when she came here yesterday.”

But being suspicious by nature, I couldn't easily bring myself to believe his sincere-sounding, gentle explanations. Though shameful, I behaved like a petulant child in Moroto's arms. Reflecting on this later, I realized it had been both to hide the shame of having wept openly before others and—though I hadn't consciously acknowledged it—perhaps also due to some faint desire to indulge in Moroto's affections, given how deeply he'd cared for me.

“I can’t believe it. “That you would play detective like this…”

“This is absurd. Do you mean to say I cannot play detective?” Moroto, seeming somewhat relieved by my calmer demeanor, said, “With this, I might very well be quite the famous detective. I’ve studied forensic medicine thoroughly, and ah, right—if I tell you this, you’ll have to believe me. Earlier, you said this cloisonné vase was related to the murder case, didn’t you? Truly an astute observation. Did you notice it yourself, or did Mr. Miyamaki teach you that? You still don’t seem to understand what kind of connection that is. The vase in question isn’t here, but rather the other one that was paired with this, you see. You see, that’s the one someone bought from that antique shop on the day of Miss Hatsuyo’s incident. Do you understand? Then, doesn’t the fact that I purchased this vase serve as proof that I’m not the culprit, but rather a detective? In other words, I bought this to determine the true nature of these cloisonné vases.”

When I had heard this far, I found myself beginning to listen to Moroto’s words with a certain degree of attention. For his theory was far too convincing for a lie.

“If that were true, I would apologize, though…” I forced out, suppressing my intense discomfort. “But did you actually go around playing detective like that? And did you find out anything?” “Yes, I found out.” Moroto looked somewhat triumphant. “If my deductions are not mistaken, I know the culprit. I can hand them over to the police at any time. Though unfortunately, it remains entirely unclear why he committed those double murders.”

“Huh? A double murder?” Forgetting my earlier discomfort, I asked again in shock. “Then does that mean Mr. Miyamaki’s killer was the same person too?” “I believe so,” Moroto replied. “If my deductions hold true, this would be an unprecedented monstrosity in human history.” “Something scarcely believable as occurring in our world.”

“Then tell me,” I pressed. “How did they sneak into that sealed house with no exits? How could they kill someone in that crowd without being seen?” “Ah—it’s truly dreadful,” Moroto replied. “That a crime deemed utterly impossible by common sense was committed so effortlessly—this is the most horrifying aspect. How could what appears impossible become possible? Those studying this case should have first focused on precisely this point. That is the starting point for everything.”

Unable to wait for his explanation, I impatiently moved on to the next question.

“Just who is the killer? Is it someone we know?”

“You probably know already. But it’s rather hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

Ah, what on earth was Moroto Michio about to reveal? Now I felt as though I was beginning to dimly grasp its true nature. Who exactly was that mysterious old man of his, and why had he visited Moroto's house? Where could he be hiding now? Why had Moroto appeared at the circus troupe's entrance? In what way was the cloisonné vase connected to this incident? Now that all suspicions toward Moroto had been completely cleared, the more I trusted him, the more I couldn't help but feel a multitude of questions rising like clouds in my mind.

The Mechanism of Blind Spots

The situation abruptly transformed.

Due to the various reasons I had outlined in the previous chapter—having concluded that Moroto Michio must be connected to this criminal case and having specially gone to interrogate him for that purpose—it gradually became clear through our conversation that he was not only innocent of being the culprit, but was in fact another amateur detective like the late Miyamaki Koukichi. Not only that, but Moroto claimed to already know the culprit behind this incident and was even attempting to reveal it to me now. Having been astonished by the late Miyamaki’s keen detective eye, I now found myself struck by yet another astonishment upon discovering here a detective who surpassed even Miyamaki himself. Through our long association, I had known Moroto as a sexual deviant and an eerie anatomist—a profoundly eccentric individual—but I could never have imagined that he possessed such exceptional detective abilities. By this unexpected turn of events, I was left utterly dumbfounded.

Up to this point—as it likely was for you, dear readers—Moroto Michio had been an utter enigma to me at that time. There was something about him that differed from ordinary people. The bizarre nature of his research (the details of which I would later have occasion to explain) and his status as a sexual deviant may have contributed to this impression of him, but I sensed there was more to it than that. He appeared like a good man on the surface, while unfathomable evil lurked beneath. Around him hung an eerie miasma that seemed to shimmer like heat haze—that was the impression one got. Combined with how abruptly he had appeared before me as an amateur detective, I found myself unable to fully believe his words.

However, despite this, his deductive abilities as a detective were truly remarkable—as will be described below—and his fundamental decency as a human being was evident in every nuance of his expression and speech. Though a sliver of doubt still lingered in the depths of my heart, I found myself increasingly believing his words and deferring to his judgment.

“You say it’s someone I know? That’s strange.” “I don’t understand at all.” “Please tell me.”

I asked again.

This is a continuation of the previous chapter. "If I tell you abruptly," Moroto Michio said to Minoura, "you might not fully grasp it." "Well then, though it may be tedious, would you hear me out on my path of analysis?" "In other words, my detective's tale of hardships." "Though strictly speaking, it's not what you'd call a story of daring adventures or frantic pursuits." Moroto answered in a thoroughly composed tone. "Yes, I'll listen," Minoura replied. "Both these murder cases appear utterly impossible at first glance." "The first occurred in a sealed room where the culprit couldn't enter or exit, while the second was committed in broad daylight before a crowd where no one witnessed the perpetrator—both seemingly impossible feats." "But since true impossibilities cannot exist, we must first scrutinize the very nature of this 'impossibility' in both cases." "When you peer behind the veil of impossibility, you'll find surprisingly crude magic tricks concealed there."

Moroto too had used the term “magic trick.” Recalling that Miyamaki had also once employed a similar metaphor, I felt my trust in Moroto’s judgment deepen. “It’s utterly absurd. "—Miyamaki said the same thing—the notion was so ludicrous I couldn’t bring myself to believe it at first. A single instance alone wasn’t convincing. But with Mr. Miyamaki’s murder occurring, it confirmed my hypothesis held true. When I say ‘absurd,’ I mean the deception method resembled a child’s prank. Yet that very approach was extraordinarily audacious. Precisely because of that audacity, this criminal paradoxically operated with impunity. How should I phrase this... This case harbors an ugliness, a cruelty—a bestiality surpassing anything conceivable in human society. While superficially ridiculous, this is precisely the sort of crime born not of human intellect, but demonic cunning.”

Moroto, somewhat excited, had been speaking resentfully, but he suddenly fell silent and stared fixedly into my eyes. At that moment, I sensed that the usual caressing expression in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a look of deep terror. I too must have been drawn in, my gaze assuming the same intensity.

“I came to think of it this way.” “In Miss Hatsuyo’s case, as everyone believed, the culprit had no means of entering or exiting whatsoever.” “Every entrance was locked from the inside.” “Either the culprit remained inside, or there had been an accomplice in the house—those were the only possible explanations.” “That’s precisely why Miss Hatsuyo’s mother became a suspect, but from what I’d heard, there was no reason to consider her either the actual killer or an accomplice.” “No matter what might have happened, there’s no way a parent would kill their only daughter.” “So I concluded there must be some hidden mechanism that people had overlooked behind this seemingly ‘impossible’ circumstance.”

As I listened to Moroto’s impassioned manner of speaking, I couldn’t help suddenly feeling something odd and incongruous. For the first time, I thought—Huh? Why on earth was Moroto Michio going to such lengths over Miss Hatsuyo’s case? Was this out of sympathy for me, who had lost my lover? Or was it simply the natural outcome of his innate passion for detective work? But something felt off—could he really have become so fervent merely for those reasons? Could there not have been some other reason behind it all? It was something I would realize later, but somehow I couldn’t help feeling that way.

“For instance, when solving an algebra problem, you might struggle endlessly without finding the solution. You’d fill sheet after sheet with scribbles through the night, convinced it must be unsolvable. But then—by some shift in perspective—you approach it from an entirely different angle, and suddenly it unravels effortlessly. Being unable to solve it means you’re ensnared by a kind of spell, plagued by a blind spot in your reasoning.” “In Miss Hatsuyo’s case too, we needed this complete shift in perspective. When we say there were no entry points, we mean none from outside. Every door was securely locked, the garden showed no footprints, the ceiling offered no access, and a net had been stretched beneath the veranda to block external entry. In short—no outdoor ingress existed.” “It was this fixation on ‘outside’ that misled us. Our preconception that the culprit must have come from and returned to the exterior was our undoing.”

Moroto, the scholar, adopted a strangely suggestive, academic manner of speaking. I seemed to grasp some part of his meaning, yet remained utterly at a loss, sitting there dumbfounded—but listening with rapt attention. “Then, if not from outside, where do you suppose they got in?” "The only people inside were the victim and her mother." "You might retort: 'If the culprit didn't come in from outside, does that mean the perpetrator was her mother after all?'" "Then you’re still caught in the blind spot." “It’s really nothing at all.” "This, you see, is fundamentally a problem of Japanese architecture." “Look, do you remember?” "Miss Hatsuyo’s house was two units combined into one building with the neighboring house." “Since those two houses are single-story, you’d notice immediately…”

Moroto looked at me with an uncanny smile.

"So you mean the culprit entered from the neighboring house and escaped back through it?" I asked in astonishment. "That's the only possible scenario. Since they form a single structure, as per Japanese architectural convention, the attic and space beneath the veranda are shared between both houses. I've always maintained that all this fuss about locking doors is meaningless with row-house construction. Don't you find it absurd? We obsess over securing front and back entrances while leaving these escape routes through attics and subfloor spaces completely neglected—the Japanese are truly complacent creatures."

“But—” Unable to contain the doubts surging within me, I said. “The neighbors are a kindly old couple who run an antique shop. And you’ve likely heard this already—that morning after Miss Hatsuyo’s body was discovered, they were woken by people from the neighborhood.” “Until then, their house had been properly locked too.” “By the time the old man opened his door, a crowd of onlookers had already gathered, turning that antique shop into something like a rest area. The culprit couldn’t possibly have escaped then—and it’s inconceivable those elderly people would be accomplices hiding the criminal.”

“You’re exactly right,” Moroto conceded. “I also considered that possibility.” “Moreover,” I pressed, “if someone had passed through the attic, there should have been footprints left in the dust there. Yet when the police investigated, they found no traces whatsoever. And regarding the space beneath the veranda—hadn’t it all been secured with wire netting to make it impassable? You can’t seriously think the culprit destroyed the floor joists and lifted up the tatami mats to get in.”

“That’s exactly right. But there exists an even better passage. One might say it practically invites entry—an utterly commonplace passageway that precisely because of its ordinariness remains entirely overlooked.” “Other than the attic and beneath the veranda? Surely you don’t mean through the wall?” “No, you mustn’t fixate on such crude methods. There exists an access point where one may come and go freely—without breaking walls, prying up floor joists, or leaving any trace whatsoever. You’re familiar with Edgar Allan Poe’s story ‘The Purloined Letter,’ yes? A clever man hides a letter by casually placing it in a wall-mounted letter rack—right under everyone’s noses—and the police fail to find it despite searching thoroughly. This illustrates how locations everyone knows become paradoxically invisible during serious investigations. What I call a cognitive blind spot. In Miss Hatsuyo’s case, it’s almost laughable how this simple solution was missed—all because investigators clung to their ‘intruder from outside’ assumption. Had they considered an inside origin even once, they’d have seen it immediately.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, unable to suppress my rising irritation. “Where on earth did they get in and out?”

I felt as though I was being mocked, and it even left me somewhat irritated. “Look, in any house—especially row houses—there’s a section of removable floorboards about three or four shaku wide in the kitchen’s wooden flooring.” “You see, it’s where they store charcoal and firewood.” “Under those removable floorboards, there’s usually no partition—they connect all the way to the space beneath the veranda.” “Since people never imagine a thief would enter from inside, even those cautious enough to install wire nets on exterior areas leave that particular spot completely unsecured.”

“Then, are you saying the man who killed Miss Hatsuyo entered and exited through those removable floorboards?” “I visited that house multiple times to check for removable floorboards in the kitchen and confirmed that beneath them lay no partitions, connecting directly to the entire space beneath the veranda. In other words, we can conclude that the culprit entered through the removable floorboards in the neighboring antique shop’s kitchen, passed through the space beneath the veranda, slipped into Miss Hatsuyo’s house via their removable floorboards, and escaped using the same method.”

By this method, the secret of Hatsuyo’s murder—which had even seemed mystical—was solved with startling ease. I was initially impressed by Moroto’s logically sound reasoning, but upon closer consideration, even if the passage had been resolved, numerous more crucial issues still remained. Why had the antique shop owner failed to notice the culprit? How had the culprit managed to escape right before such a large crowd of onlookers? Just who was the culprit? Moroto had said the culprit was someone I knew. Who could that be? I couldn’t help but feel irritated by Moroto’s excessively roundabout way of speaking.

Magic Jar

“Now, do me the favor of listening carefully,” Moroto began with academic precision. “In truth, I’ve even considered assisting you in avenging Miss Hatsuyo and Mr. Miyamaki by tracking down the culprit. Why don’t I systematically present my theories and hear your thoughts? These deductions aren’t some immutable truth, you understand.”

Moroto, restraining my rapid-fire questions, continued his explanation in an orderly manner, as though delivering an academic lecture in his field of expertise. “I naturally verified that point thoroughly afterward by cross-examining the neighbors.” “The circumstances made it unthinkable that the culprit could’ve slipped past either the antique shop owner or the crowd.” “When they opened the antique shop’s door, neighbors had already gathered in the street.” “Therefore, even if the culprit had passed beneath the veranda and reached either the main room or back entrance through those floorboards, escaping outdoors unnoticed by the owners or onlookers would’ve been utterly impossible.” “How did he overcome this impasse?” My amateur sleuthing had hit an abrupt dead end. There had to be a trick. Some overlooked deception akin to those removable floorboards. “You likely know this already—I repeatedly prowled around Miss Hatsuyo’s neighborhood, collecting local gossip.” “Then it struck me—had anything been removed from that antique shop after the incident?” “Given their trade, they displayed various wares out front.” “I wondered if anything had been taken from among them.” “Upon investigating, I learned that on the crime’s discovery morning—amidst the police interrogation chaos—someone bought and carried off the matching vase from this pair here.” “No other large items were sold.” “I became convinced this vase held secrets.”

“Mr. Miyamaki said the same thing,” I interjected. “But I don’t understand what it means at all.” “Precisely—I didn’t grasp it either at first,” Moroto replied methodically. “Yet I sensed something suspicious about it all the same. Consider this—the cloisonné vase had been purchased by a customer who paid for it the night before the incident. They had it properly wrapped in a cloth bundle and left, then a servant came to retrieve it the following morning. The timing aligns perfectly.” His fingers tapped the armrest rhythmically. “There must be significance in this sequence.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting the culprit was hiding inside this vase?” “But unexpectedly, there’s compelling reason to imagine someone was concealed within it.” “Don’t joke about such things! Its height is at most two shaku four or five sun [73-76 cm], and even the widest diameter barely exceeds one shaku [30 cm]. Look at this opening—my head alone wouldn’t fit through. To think a grown person could’ve been inside... This isn’t some magic urn from a children’s fable!”

I went over to the vase in the corner of the room and measured its diameter to demonstrate, then burst into laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all. “Magic vase.” “Yes, it might indeed be a magic vase.” “For anyone—even I—at first couldn’t imagine a person fitting into such a vase.” “That is an utterly mystifying fact, but there exists a reason to imagine that someone was indeed hidden there.” “I purchased the remaining vase for research purposes, but no matter how much I considered it, I couldn’t understand.” “While I remained perplexed, the second murder occurred.” “On the day Mr. Miyamaki was killed, I happened to go to Kamakura for another matter, but upon catching sight of you along the way, I ended up following you out to the coast.” “And I unexpectedly ended up witnessing the second murder.” “I conducted extensive research into that incident.” “Because I knew Mr. Miyamaki had been investigating Miss Hatsuyo’s case.” “Mr. Miyamaki had been killed—and what’s more, it had been done in the same so-called mystical method as Miss Hatsuyo’s case.” “Therefore, I considered that there might be some connection between these two incidents.” “And then, I constructed a hypothesis.” “It’s a hypothesis.” “Therefore, until we see definitive evidence, it can’t be helped if you dismiss it as mere fantasy. However, if this hypothesis remains the only conceivable one—and if it aligns perfectly with every aspect of these connected incidents—then I believe we may safely place our trust in it.”

Moroto Michio, driven by drunkenness and excitement, fixed his bloodshot gaze intently upon my face, licking his dry lips repeatedly as his tone gradually took on a lecturing cadence, growing ever more eloquent as he continued his discourse. "For now let us temporarily set aside Miss Hatsuyo's case and begin with the second murder—this sequence proves more expedient." "My reasoning developed along those chronological lines." "Mr. Miyamaki was murdered through some inexplicable method—killed before countless witnesses yet leaving no indication of when or by whom." "There were several individuals observing him intently even at close proximity." "You yourself numbered among them." "Moreover,hundreds of people milled about chaotically across that shoreline." "Particularly notable were four children frolicking around Mr.Miyamaki's immediate vicinity." "That not a single one among them witnessed the perpetrator—does this not constitute an utterly unprecedented bizarre incident?" "It defies all comprehension." "A sheer impossibility." "And yet given the irrefutable evidence of a dagger embedded in the victim's chest,a perpetrator must necessarily exist." "How then could this impossibility have been achieved?" "I exhaustively examined every conceivable scenario." "But however vigorously I stretched imagination's bounds,the case remains wholly implausible save for two possibilities." "The first posits Mr.Miyamaki committing covert suicide.The second—though profoundly disturbing—suggests one of those playing children,the innocent-appearing boy not yet ten years old,murdered him amidst their sandcastle game." "Though four children were present,their absorption in gathering sand from all directions to bury Mr.Miyamaki would have allowed one child—unnoticed by others—to feign sprinkling sand while plunging a concealed knife into his chest." "Mr.Miyamaki himself,lulled into complacency by the child's presence,lacked opportunity to cry out once stabbed." "The child assassin then maintained perfect innocence,piling sand repeatedly over blood and weapon alike."

Startled by Moroto’s madman-like fantasy, I involuntarily stared at his face. “Of these two scenarios, the suicide theory regarding Mr. Miyamaki does not hold at all when considered from various angles.” “Therefore, no matter how unnatural it may seem, we have no other way to interpret this except to conclude that the culprit was among those four children.” “Moreover, when we apply this interpretation, every single one of our previous doubts is instantly resolved.” “What once seemed utterly impossible becomes not impossible at all.” “This refers to that case of your so-called ‘magic vase.’” “The idea that someone could hide inside such a small vase seemed impossible unless one had borrowed demonic supernatural powers.” “But the reason we thought that way was ultimately due to our fixed patterns of thinking—ordinary people superstitiously believe murderers must be limited to ferocious middle-aged men like those in criminology textbook illustrations, which is why we paid no attention whatsoever to the existence of young children.” “In this case, the very concept of a child had been completely concealed by our blind spot.” “But once you notice the child, the mystery of the vase is instantly resolved.” “That vase may be small, but a ten-year-old child might be able to hide inside it.” “And if you wrap it in a large wrapping cloth, not only does it conceal what’s inside the vase, but you can also slip in and out through the slack in the cloth’s knot.” “After entering, they can simply adjust the slack from inside to conceal the vase’s opening.” “The magic was not in the vase itself, but in the person who entered it.”

Moroto’s deduction unfolded without a single thread out of place, progressing through meticulous steps with consummate ingenuity. Yet even after hearing this far, I remained somehow unconvinced. Whether my discontent showed on my face, Moroto fixed his gaze upon me and pressed onward with redoubled fervor.

“In Miss Hatsuyo’s case, beyond the mystery of how the culprit entered and exited, there was another crucial question.” “You haven’t forgotten that, have you?” “Why would the criminal take something like a chocolate tin during such a critical moment?” “Yet this too becomes easily explainable if we assume the culprit was a ten-year-old child.” “To a child of that age, a beautiful tin of chocolate holds far greater allure than diamond rings or pearl necklaces.”

“I just don’t understand.” I couldn’t help but interject there. “How could a naive young child who wants chocolate possibly kill two innocent adults—at that?” “Isn’t the contrast between sweets and murder too absurd?” “How could such a small child possibly possess the extreme cruelty, meticulous preparation, remarkable ingenuity, and precise execution of the crime that manifested in this case?” “Isn’t your theory an overly elaborate and baseless conjecture?”

“The reason it seems strange,” Moroto Michio continued, “is because you assume the child themselves conceived this murder plot. Of course, this crime wasn’t devised by the child—another will lurks behind it all. The true demon remains hidden. The child is merely a well-programmed automaton.” His eyes gleamed with perverse satisfaction. “What an outlandish yet chilling notion! No one would suspect a ten-year-old perpetrator, and even if discovered, they’d face no adult punishment. It’s akin to a gang boss using an innocent boy as his tool—this idea pushed to its logical extreme.” “Moreover,” he leaned forward, “precisely because it was a child, they could be concealed within the vase for transport and lull even the vigilant Mr. Miyamaki into complacency.” “You might protest—how could a chocolate-craving innocent commit murder? But child researchers know children harbor surprising cruelty compared to adults.” His voice turned clinical. “Skinning frogs alive, torturing snakes halfway—these are childish amusements adults can’t fathom. And such slaughter needs no motive.” “Evolutionists posit children embody humanity’s primitive era—more barbaric than adults.” Moroto’s lips twisted in admiration. “Isn’t it diabolically clever? To select such children as murder machines?” He studied my reaction. “You likely think training a ten-year-old into such an expert killer impossible.” “Exceedingly difficult,” he conceded before launching into specifics: “The child had to crawl soundlessly beneath floorboards, infiltrate Miss Hatsuyo’s room through loose planks, stab her heart with surgical precision before she could scream, return to the antique shop, then endure a night cramped inside that vase.” “At the beach,” he added relentlessly, “they had to play with three strangers while stabbing Mr. Miyamaki buried in sand—all unnoticed.” Could a ten-year-old truly achieve this? Even if accomplished, could they maintain perfect secrecy? Such doubts felt natural—yet mere common sense.

"That is the objection of someone ignorant of training's formidable power and the strange phenomena beyond common sense that exist in this world. Can't Chinese acrobats teach five- or six-year-olds to bend backward until their heads emerge between their legs? Can't Chiarini performers train children under ten to swing between beams thirty feet high like birds? If an evil mastermind here employed every means imaginable, who could claim a ten-year-old wouldn't learn murder's secrets? The same applies to deception. How skillfully can a beggar's child actor feign hunger while pretending the adult beggar beside them is their parent? Have you witnessed young children's astonishing techniques? Children's training makes them in no way inferior to adults."

Listening to Moroto’s explanation, I had to admit it made logical sense, yet I couldn’t bring myself to readily accept this unconscionable depravity—forcing an innocent child to commit such a blood-drenched murder. I couldn’t help feeling there still seemed room for rebuttal. Like someone struggling to escape a nightmare, I aimlessly scanned the room. When Moroto fell silent, everything abruptly turned deathly still. To me—accustomed to living in relatively bustling areas—the room seemed like some bizarre alternate world; though we had cracked open the windows against the heat, with no wind stirring at all, the outer darkness felt like a pitch-black wall of unfathomable thickness.

I fixed my eyes on the vase in question. When I imagined that the boy murderer had concealed himself inside this same cloisonné vase for an entire night, I was overcome by an indescribably vile, shadowy dread. At the same time, I desperately sought some means to demolish Moroto’s repugnant hypothesis. As I continued staring fixedly at the vase, I suddenly became aware of a crucial detail. I abruptly objected in a voice ringing with conviction.

“When comparing this vase’s size with those children’s heights from the beach—it’s impossible.” “A child over three shaku couldn’t hide inside a two-shaku-four-or-five-sun vase.” “Even squatting inside—the width’s too narrow! And this tiny opening—no matter how skinny—could they squeeze through even an inch? Impossible!”

"I once thought the same thing." "And I actually brought a child of the same age and tested it." "As expected," he continued methodically, "the child couldn’t squeeze in properly—but comparing their body volume to the vase’s capacity revealed they could fit if made of pliant rubber." "The limitation lies in human limbs and torsos resisting such compression." "Then, observing the child’s attempts, I recalled an odd tale." "Long ago, I heard of a jailbreak artist who could contort through any gap wide enough for his head—using secret techniques—to slip his entire body out." "If that were possible," he tapped the vase’s rim, "this opening being larger than a child’s head suggests certain children could hide here." "Which children? Those trained since infancy—acrobats forced to drink vinegar daily until their joints loosen like jellyfish." "Speaking of acrobats—there’s an act eerily matching this case." "A foot juggling routine where they balance a large urn containing a child spun like a top." "You’ve seen it?" "The child inside bends until perfectly spherical—" "—waist folded double, head tucked between knees." "Such a child could easily hide here." "The killer likely devised this trick after finding such an acrobat." "When I realized this," his voice quickened, "I consulted an acrobat enthusiast friend and learned a troupe near Uguisudani performs that very act."

As I listened this far, I realized something. Earlier in our conversation, when Moroto had mentioned a child visitor, it must have been that circus troupe's young acrobat—my having once spotted him in Uguisudani was because he'd gone there to verify the child's identity. "So I went straight to observe that circus troupe," Moroto continued, "and the footwork acrobat appeared to be one of the four children we'd seen at Kamakura's beach." "Though I couldn't state it definitively without clearer memories, I knew I had to investigate this child." "The fact that our target was based in Tokyo matches there having been only one seaside visitor from the capital among those four." "But acting rashly might alert them and let the true culprit escape. So though roundabout, I devised a way to leverage my profession to extract just the child." "As a medical researcher examining the acrobat child's abnormally developed physiology, I requested to borrow him overnight." "This required considerable maneuvering—persuading an entertainment-world fixer, generously compensating the troupe master, promising mountains of his favorite chocolates." Moroto opened a paper package on the windowsill table, revealing three or four ornate chocolate tins and boxes inside. "Tonight I finally succeeded in bringing the acrobat boy here alone." "The guest in the dining room is precisely that child." "But he only just arrived—I haven't questioned him yet." "We still can't confirm he's the same boy from the beach." "How fortuitous." "Why don't we investigate this together now?" "You'd remember that child's face from back then." "And we can actually test whether he fits inside this cloisonné vase."

Having finished speaking, Moroto stood up. This was to take me to the dining room. Moroto’s detective narrative had reached a conclusion so utterly unprecedented in this world—so genuinely bizarre—it seemed inconceivable; yet I, having fully absorbed his lengthy discourse—complex yet meticulously ordered—now found myself entirely drained of vigor to raise objections.

To see the little guest, we left our chairs and went out into the hallway.

Child Acrobat

The moment I saw him, I felt certain he was one of the children who had been at Kamakura's beach. When I signaled this to Moroto, he nodded in satisfaction and settled himself beside the child. I too took a seat across the table. Just then, the boy—having finished his meal—was being shown picture magazines by the student lodger, but upon noticing us, he merely grinned slyly and fixed his gaze on our faces. He wore a soiled Kokura sailor uniform and kept munching on something. At first glance he appeared simple-minded, yet beneath that surface lurked an inexpressibly sinister quality.

“This child’s stage name is Tomonosuke.” “He’s said to be twelve, but due to stunted growth and his small frame, he looks about ten.” “Moreover, he hasn’t received compulsory education.” “His speech is childish, and he can’t read.” “Apart from being exceptionally skilled in acrobatics and possessing squirrel-like agility, he’s a feeble-minded child with dulled intellect.” “However, there’s something strangely secretive about his movements and speech.” “He severely lacks common sense, but in its place may possess a warped sensibility for wrongdoing beyond ordinary people.” “He may belong to what’s called the congenital criminal type of child.” “So far, he only gives vague answers to any question.” “He makes this face like he doesn’t understand what we’re saying.”

Moroto, having given me preparatory knowledge, turned directly toward the child acrobat Tomonosuke.

“You went to Kamakura for the seaside the other day, didn’t you?” “At that time, Uncle was right beside you.” “Didn’t you know?” “Dunno.” “I ain’t never been to no seaside.”

Tomonosuke looked up at Moroto with the whites of his eyes and gave a curt reply. “How could you not know? Look—you were burying that corpulent uncle in the sand before he was killed. There was quite the commotion over it. You remember that, don’t you?” “The hell I do! I’m leavin’ now.” Tomonosuke made an angry face, sprang up abruptly, and actually began moving to leave. “Don’t spout nonsense—you couldn’t possibly return alone from this remote place. You don’t even know the way.”

“I know the way just fine! If I don’t get it, I’ll just ask some grown-up! I’ve walked about thirty miles before!” Moroto smiled wryly and pondered for a moment, but then ordered the student lodger to have that cloisonné vase and the chocolate package brought in.

“Stay a bit longer, and Uncle will give you something nice. What do you like best?”

“Chocolate.”

Tomonosuke remained standing, answering in a still-angry voice yet truthfully. “Chocolate, huh? There’s a whole bunch right here. Don’t you want this? If you don’t want it, go ahead and leave. You won’t get any if you go.” When the child saw the large chocolate package, his expression momentarily brightened with apparent delight. Yet he stubbornly refused to voice his desire. He simply returned to his chair and sat down, silently glaring at Moroto.

“There, you see? You want it, don’t you?” “Then I’ll give it to you, but you’ve got to listen to what Uncle says.” “Take a look at this vase for a moment.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” “You’ve seen a cloisonné vase like this one before, haven’t you?”

“Nuh-uh.” “You say you haven’t seen it? “You’re quite stubborn, aren’t you?” “Well then, let’s put that aside for now.” “By the way, between this cloisonné vase and the jar you always crawl into for your foot tricks, which do you think is bigger?” “This cloisonné vase is smaller.” “Can you squeeze into this?” “No matter how skilled you are at those tricks, you certainly can’t squeeze into this one.” “How about it?”

Even so, since the child remained silent, Moroto continued speaking, “How about it? Why don’t you give it a try?” “I’ll give you a reward.” “If you can squeeze into that, I’ll give you a box of chocolate.” “You can eat it right here.” “But I’m afraid it’s simply impossible for you to squeeze in.” “I can squeeze in! You gonna give me that for sure?” “You’re gonna give me that for sure?”

Tomonosuke, being a child after all, fell right into Moroto’s trap.

He abruptly approached the cloisonné vase, gripped its rim with both hands, and nimbly leaped onto its morning glory-shaped mouth. Then, first inserting one leg, he bent his remaining leg double at the waist and wriggled into the vase from his buttocks with uncanny dexterity. Even after his head had disappeared, his upraised hands flailed in midair for a moment before vanishing too. It was a truly astonishing feat. Peering down from above, we saw the child's black head visible within, plug-like, completely filling the vase's mouth.

“Good, good. “That’s enough now.” “Then I’ll give you your reward, so come on out.” Exiting proved more difficult than entering, taking some time. Though his head and shoulders emerged without trouble, bending his legs and extracting his hips—just as when he’d entered—required the greatest effort. Once free of the vase, Tomonosuke smiled faintly with pride and stepped down, yet still made no demand for his reward. He stood rigidly silent as ever, staring intently at our faces.

“I’ll give you this then. Don’t mind me, go ahead and eat.” When Moroto passed him a paper-boxed portion of chocolate, the child snatched it up, rudely pried open the lid, peeled off a silver wrapper, and tossed it into his mouth. While making loud smacking noises as if savoring the taste, his eyes remained fixed longingly on the most beautiful tin-packed portion still in Moroto’s hand. He felt bitterly dissatisfied at having received only this shoddy paper-boxed serving. From these behaviors too, it became clear he harbored an extraordinary fascination with both the chocolate and its containers.

Moroto made him sit on his lap and, while stroking his head, “Is it good? “You’re a good kid, aren’t you? “But that chocolate isn’t that fancy. “The one in this golden tin here is ten times prettier and tastier. “Look how pretty this tin is! “See how it sparkles like the sun? “I’ll give you this one next time. “But you’ve got to tell me the truth. “If you don’t answer my questions honestly, I can’t give it to you. “Understand?”

Moroto instructed the child, emphasizing each word with deliberate force, just as a hypnotist would when implanting a suggestion. Tomonosuke, with astonishing speed, peeled off one silver wrapper after another, so busily moving the chocolates to his mouth that he made no attempt to escape from Moroto’s lap, nodding frantically in agreement. “This cloisonné vase has the same shape and pattern as the one that was at the Sugamo antique shop that night, doesn’t it?” “You haven’t forgotten, have you?” “That night you hid inside this one, and around midnight, quietly slipped out from there, went beneath the floorboards, and made your way to the neighboring house.” “Now then, what was it you did there?” “You stabbed a dagger into the chest of a soundly sleeping person, didn’t you?” “Come now, have you forgotten?” “Under that person’s pillow, there was also a beautifully decorated tin of chocolate, wasn’t there?” “You brought that tin with you, didn’t you?” “Do you remember what sort of person it was that you stabbed back then?” “Come on, answer me.”

“She was a beautiful older sister.” “They told me I mustn’t forget her face—threatened me.” “Excellent. That’s precisely how you ought to answer.” “Then—though you claimed never having visited Kamakura’s coast—that was false.” “You drove the dagger into that uncle’s chest too, didn’t you? The one buried in sand.”

Tomonosuke was still engrossed in eating and nodded absently at this question too, but suddenly, as if noticing something, he showed an expression of extreme terror. And then, suddenly, he flung away the half-eaten chocolate box and tried to leap off Moroto’s lap. “There’s no need to be scared.” “We’re also comrades of your master, so it’s safe to tell the truth.” Moroto said hurriedly stopping him.

“He ain’t no master; he’s ‘Oto-san’.” “So you’re one of Oto-san’s pals too?” “I just can’t help it—Oto-san’s too damn scary.” “Keep it hush-hush, okay?”

“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.” “Now, just one last thing—answer Uncle’s questions.” “Where is this ‘Oto-san’ right now?” “And what was his name again?” “You haven’t gone and forgotten it, have you?” “Quit talkin’ nonsense!” “Like I’d ever forget Oto-san’s name!” “Then tell me.” “What was it now?” “Uncle’s the one who forgot!” “Out with it.” “Look—do this, and the chocolate tin shining like the sun itself will be yours.”

To this child, the chocolate tin worked like magic. He seemed to forget everything in the face of its allure, just as adults cast aside all danger before vast amounts of gold. He looked on the verge of answering Moroto. At that very moment, an eerie sound rang out—Moroto shouted “Ah!”, shoved the child away, and leaped back.

A bizarre, unimaginable thing occurred. In the next instant, Tomonosuke was sprawled on the carpet there. The chest of his white sailor suit was stained crimson, as though red ink had been spilled there. “Minoura-kun, danger!” “A gun!”

Moroto shouted and, as if to shove me aside, forced me into the corner of the room. But the anticipated second shot never came. For a full minute, we remained silent, standing there dazedly.

Someone fired a shot from the darkness outside the open window to silence the boy. Needless to say, this was the work of someone who felt threatened by Tomonosuke’s confession. Perhaps it was Tomonosuke’s so-called “Oto-san.” “Let’s inform the police.”

Moroto noticed this and suddenly rushed out of the room, but soon from his study came the sound of a telephone call to the nearby police station. As I listened, I stood rooted to the spot and abruptly recalled the eerie old man I had glimpsed earlier when arriving—the one who appeared bent at the waist as though folded double.

General Nogi's Secret

Though we didn't know who it was, we understood our assailant possessed a firearm—and that this was no mere threat. Far from pursuing the culprit, we—myself, the student lodger, and the old cook—fled that room pale-faced, ending up gathered in Moroto's study where he was telephoning the police. Yet Moroto alone remained relatively composed. Having finished his call, he ran to the entranceway and bellowed the student lodger's name, ordering him to fetch a lantern. Under these circumstances, I couldn't remain idle either. Helping the student lodger prepare two lanterns, I chased after Moroto who'd already rushed beyond the gate—but in that moonless night's darkness, we couldn't discern which direction the culprit had fled. Then, suspecting the assailant might still lurk within the garden grounds, we conducted a thorough search by lantern light. Yet no trace could be found—not in any thicket's shadow nor building's recess. Undoubtedly, while we'd wasted time making calls and fumbling with lanterns, our quarry had escaped far beyond reach. We could only stand wringing our hands, waiting helplessly for constables to arrive.

After some time, several officers from the local police station came rushing over, but having arrived on foot via country roads, a considerable amount of time had passed, leaving no immediate prospect of pursuing the culprit. Even if they had called the nearby train station to make arrangements, it was already too late. While those who had arrived first were examining Tomonosuke’s corpse and conducting a thorough search of the garden grounds, people from the court and the Metropolitan Police Department eventually came as well, and we were subjected to various questions. Unavoidably, when we explained all the circumstances, we were not only severely reprimanded by the proper authorities for meddling unnecessarily but were also subsequently summoned repeatedly and forced to repeat the same answers to numerous people. Needless to say, through our statements, the incident was reported via the police to the Uguisudani circus troupe, and people came from there to collect the body; however, the circus troupe stated they had no leads whatsoever regarding the perpetrator of this incident.

Moroto found himself compelled to explain his bizarre deduction—that the child acrobat Tomonosuke was the perpetrator of both incidents—to the police. Consequently, they apparently conducted a search of the circus troupe and carried out rigorous interrogations, yet none of its members appeared suspicious. When the troupe soon concluded its Uguisudani performances and departed for provincial tours, suspicions against them similarly died down entirely. Through my testimony, the police had also learned about that mysterious old man who appeared to be around eighty years old, but no matter how extensively they searched, they could not locate such an old man.

The notion that a tender ten-year-old boy had committed murder twice, or that a feeble eighty-year-old man had fired a state-of-the-art Browning to kill that very boy, proved too preposterous and fantastical—or so it seemed—to satisfy the commonsense-bound authorities. This was likely due both to Moroto being an Imperial University graduate who had neither entered government service nor opened a private practice, instead immersing himself in bizarre research, and to myself being what one might call a lovesick literary youth. The police seemed to interpret us as a sort of delusional eccentrics—oddballs obsessed with revenge and crime detection—and though this may be an uncharitable assumption, I perceived that they dismissed even Moroto’s meticulously logical deductions as mere figments of a deranged mind, refusing to take them seriously. (The police had dismissed outright any confession coerced from a child of ten or so with chocolate.) In other words, they seemed to have pursued the perpetrator of this case according to their own interpretations, but ultimately, not even a single credible suspect emerged, and so the days simply continued to pass.

The circus troupe extorted a large condolence payment under the pretext of damages, while the police severely reprimanded him and dismissed him as a detective maniac. Moroto had been subjected to terrible ordeals simply for being involved in this case, yet he showed no sign of losing vigor—if anything, his determination appeared to grow even fiercer. To the same extent that the police did not believe Moroto’s fantastical theory, Moroto himself seemed to disregard the police personnel as being far too practical in their approach to such cases. As evidence of this, I later disclosed to Moroto the matter of the "item" mentioned in the threatening letter Miyamaki Koukichi had received, how Miyamaki had said he would send it to me, and that what had arrived was unexpectedly a chipped plaster statue of General Nogi. Yet during police interrogations, Moroto did not utter a single word about these matters and even cautioned me against speaking of them. In other words, it appeared he was attempting to thoroughly investigate this series of incidents entirely on his own.

As for my state of mind at the time, my desire for revenge against Hatsuyo’s killer had not diminished in the slightest since the beginning. Yet on the other hand, I found myself in a daze, watching helplessly as the case grew increasingly complex and unexpectedly vast in scope. As murder cases piled up one after another, far from the truth becoming clear, it instead grew increasingly incomprehensible—to such an extent that I felt terrified by the sheer unreality of it all.

Moroto Michio's unexpected fervor remained an inexplicable mystery to me. As I had briefly mentioned before, even considering how deeply he loved me or his fascination with detective work, those factors alone couldn't account for such intensity—it made me suspect there must have been some other motive entirely.

Be that as it may, for several days following the child’s brutal murder, our surroundings were in chaos, and our hearts remained agitated by fear of an enemy whose true nature eluded us. Though I visited Moroto frequently during that time, neither of us could achieve a calm enough state of mind to properly discuss countermeasures. It was for this reason that we discussed what measures we should take next several days after Tomonosuke had been killed.

That day too I had taken off work (my job had been largely neglected since the incident) and visited Moroto’s house. As we discussed matters in his study, he laid out an opinion that went roughly as follows: "I don’t know how far the police have progressed in their investigation, but they don’t strike me as particularly reliable." "This case, in my view, transcends conventional police wisdom." "Let the police proceed in their own fashion—we should conduct our own independent investigation." "Just as Tomonosuke was merely a puppet of the true culprit, the scoundrel who shot Tomonosuke might be another such puppet." "The mastermind remains entirely concealed within a distant mist." "So even if we were to haphazardly search for them, it would likely prove futile." "Our shortcut lies rather in uncovering what motive lurks behind these three murders." "We must determine what caused this crime—that’s what needs confirming." "According to your account, before Mr. Miyamaki was killed, the threatening letter he received demanded he 'hand over the item.'" "For the culprit, this 'item' must hold such value that they’d trade any number of lives for it—we should consider these incidents occurred precisely to obtain it." "Miss Hatsuyo’s murder, Mr. Miyamaki’s killing, even that intruder searching your room—all were for this 'item.'" "Tomonosuke’s death was naturally to prevent the mastermind’s name from being revealed." "But fortunately, that 'item' now rests in our hands." "I can’t fathom what value a chipped-nose General Nogi statue might hold, but regardless, their so-called 'item' must undoubtedly be that plaster effigy." "Therefore, our immediate task must be examining this peculiar statue." "Since the police remain ignorant of this 'item,' we stand to achieve no small success here." "But given both our residences are known to the enemy and thus dangerous, we need to establish a covert investigative headquarters elsewhere." "In fact, I’ve already secured a room for this purpose in Kanda." "Tomorrow, wrap that plaster statue in old newspapers to make it appear worthless, hire a car for safety’s sake, and bring it there."

“I’ll go ahead and wait there, so why don’t we take our time examining the plaster statue?”

Needless to say, I agreed with Moroto’s opinion. The following day, at the appointed time, I hired a car and went to the house in Kanda he had directed me to. It was a shabby restaurant located in a winding narrow back alley-like area near Jinbōchō’s student district, where haphazardly clustered eateries lined the eaves, and Moroto had rented its second-floor six-tatami mat room that was available for lease. As I climbed the steep ladder, Moroto sat properly waiting on faded red tatami mats, his back to a wall marked by large water stains from rain leaks, unusually dressed in a kimono.

“What a dirty place.”

As I said this and frowned, "I deliberately chose a place like this. Since there’s a Western restaurant downstairs, people coming and going won’t attract attention, and in this disorderly student district, I figured no one would take notice, you see." Moroto declared with evident pride. I suddenly recalled the detective games I used to play as a grade schooler. This was no ordinary game of cops and robbers—a friend and I would take notebooks and pencils, sneak through nearby towns late at night with all the secrecy we could muster, record every household nameplate we passed, memorize which block and house number corresponded to which resident, and delight in feeling we'd grasped some tremendous secret. The friend who was my partner at that time had been absurdly fond of such clandestine pursuits—even when playing detective games, he would proudly designate his small study as our "detective headquarters." Seeing Moroto now, looking so pleased with himself as he established this so-called "detective headquarters," thirty-year-old Moroto seemed like that eccentric, secrecy-obsessed boy from back then, making our current endeavors feel like nothing more than childish play.

And yet, despite the gravity of the situation, I found myself growing inexplicably cheerful. When I looked at Moroto, his face too showed a bubbling, childlike excitement. In a corner of our young hearts, there indeed existed a sense of delighting in secrets and reveling in adventure. Moreover, the relationship between Moroto and myself was not of a kind that could be expressed by the mere word "friends." Moroto harbored a peculiar romantic affection toward me, and while I couldn't truly comprehend those feelings in my heart, I understood them intellectually. And yet, unlike how it normally would be, it wasn't an intensely unpleasant feeling. When facing him, I detected a cloying sweetness in the air—as though one of us, he or I, were of the opposite sex. Perhaps that very scent made our detective work all the more enjoyable.

Be that as it may, Moroto took that plaster statue from me there and examined it intently for some time, but effortlessly solved the mystery.

“I already knew the plaster statue itself held no real significance.” “The proof being—Miss Hatsuyo didn’t possess such an object, yet she was killed.” “When Miss Hatsuyo was murdered, aside from the chocolate, only her handbag was stolen—and this statue couldn’t possibly fit inside a handbag.” “Therefore, it must be something smaller.” “If it’s small enough to seal inside the plaster statue.” “There’s a Doyle story called ‘The Six Napoleons.’” “It tells of jewels hidden within Napoleon’s plaster busts.” “Mr. Miyamaki must have recalled that tale and applied its principle to conceal the ‘item.’” “Look—Napoleon and General Nogi make a suggestive pair, don’t they?” “Now examine this closely—though grime obscures it, this plaster was clearly split and rejoined.” “Right here—you can see the fresh seam of plaster.”

As he spoke, Moroto moistened his fingertip with saliva and rubbed a section of the plaster statue to demonstrate—indeed, there was a seam beneath. “Let’s break it open.”

No sooner had Moroto spoken than he suddenly smashed the plaster statue against a pillar. General Nogi’s face was mercilessly reduced to fragments.

“Amida’s mercy!”

Now, within the shattered plaster statue was packed a great deal of cotton, but upon removing the cotton, two books emerged. One was the unexpected family register of Kizaki Hatsuyo’s biological family—something she had once entrusted to me, and which, upon reflection, I realized had remained in his possession ever since I first visited Miyamaki and handed it over to him. The other was an old notebook-like thing, with almost every page filled with pencil writing. The sheer strangeness of that record will be revealed in due course.

“Ah, so this is that much-discussed family register.” “Just as I’d imagined.” Moroto took up the family register and exclaimed.

“This family register is the true villain—the ‘treasure’ those thieves risked their lives to obtain.” “You see, this becomes clear when you properly consider everything that’s happened.” “First, Miss Hatsuyo’s handbag was stolen.” “Though the register had already passed to you by then, since she’d always kept it in her bag before that, the thieves thought simply stealing the bag would suffice.” “When that failed, they turned their attention to you—but you’d already given the register to Mr. Miyamaki before they could act.” “Mr. Miyamaki took it on some trip.” “There, he likely grasped a vital clue.” Shortly after that threatening letter arrived and Mr. Miyamaki was killed, the family register had already been sealed inside this plaster statue and returned to you—leaving the thieves to merely ransack his study in vain. Thus you became their target again. Yet since they never realized it was hidden in the statue, though they searched your room repeatedly, they ultimately failed. “The curious thing is how they kept chasing shadows. Given this sequence, what they desperately sought was unquestionably this register.”

“That reminds me of something,” I exclaimed in surprise. “Miss Hatsuyo told me something. “The secondhand bookstore in the neighborhood apparently made repeated requests—they said they’d pay any price for that family register. “Since such a trivial family register couldn’t possibly hold much value... “When you think about it... “If we question them...

“If that’s indeed what happened, then my suspicion would prove correct. However, given how cunning he is, I doubt even the secondhand bookstore managed to learn his true identity. First, he used the bookstore as a pawn to discreetly acquire the family register. When that failed, he attempted to steal it covertly. You mentioned once—around when Miss Hatsuyo saw that suspicious old man—that items in her study had been moved. That’s proof he tried to steal it. But once he realized Miss Hatsuyo always kept the register on her person, next he—”

Moroto had gotten that far in his explanation when he suddenly seemed to notice something and turned deathly pale. And he fell silent, staring fixedly into space with wide-open eyes. "What's wrong?"

Even when I asked, he did not respond and remained silent for a long time, but eventually composed himself and casually brought the story to its conclusion. "Next... they went so far as to kill Miss Hatsuyo."

But it was an evasive way of speaking—as if something were caught between his back teeth. I could never forget the peculiar expression Moroto wore at that moment.

“But there are parts I don’t fully grasp,” I pressed. “Why did they have to kill Hatsuyo or Mr. Miyamaki? They could’ve stolen the family register without resorting to murder.”

“That, at present, even I don’t understand.” “There must have been compelling circumstances that necessitated their killings.” “Therein lies evidence that this case is not a simple matter.” “But enough empty theorizing—let’s examine the actual thing.”

So we examined the two documents. The family register, as I had previously seen and known, proved utterly ordinary—a typical family register without anything unusual. But the other notebook contained truly bizarre entries throughout its pages. Once we began reading it, we found ourselves so captivated by its strangeness that we couldn't stop halfway through—we ended up reading through the entire notebook first. However, for narrative clarity, I'll postpone discussing that and instead begin by recording the family register's secrets.

“If this were the feudal era, I might understand,” Moroto said, “but I can’t imagine a family register being valuable enough to risk one’s life stealing. If that’s so, then perhaps there’s another meaning here beyond its surface appearance as a mere family register.”

Moroto said while meticulously turning the pages one by one. “Ninth generation: Harunobu, childhood name Matajirō. Inherited the family headship in Kyōwa 3 [1803], granted 200 koku. Died March 21, Bunsei 12 [1829].” “The previous entry is torn off here and unreadable.” “The lord’s name was likely written at the beginning, but afterward they abbreviated it to just stipend amounts.” “With a meager 200 koku stipend, even knowing their names wouldn’t help determine which domain they served.” “What possible value could this family tree of some minor retainer hold?” “There’s no need for genealogical records in inheritance cases anyway. And even if there were, stealing one would be absurd.” “If this register served as legal evidence, they could’ve simply demanded it openly.”

“This is strange.” “Look here.” “The cover here looks like it was deliberately peeled off.”

I suddenly noticed it. When I had first received it from Hatsuyo, the cover had indeed been intact, but now—as if painstakingly peeled apart—the antique fabric surface and thick cardboard core had separated. Lifting it to look, even the jet-black characters of some scrap paper lining the fabric backing became visible.

“That’s right.” “It was indeed deliberately peeled off.” “No doubt it was Mr. Miyamaki who did this.” “Then this must hold some significance.” “Since Mr. Miyamaki seemed to have seen through everything, he wouldn’t have peeled it off without purpose.”

I casually read the characters on the scrap paper used for lining. Then, as the wording struck me as peculiar, I showed that part to Moroto.

“What kind of text is this? Could it be a Buddhist hymn?”

“That’s strange,” Moroto remarked. “This isn’t part of any Buddhist hymn, nor could it be revelatory scripture from this age.” He tapped the paper thoughtfully. “These phrases seem pregnant with hidden meaning.”

And the text in question was as follows—truly bizarre indeed:

If gods and Buddhas decreed— Vanquish the demon of the southeast Seek Amida's divine favor

"Do not stray at the crossroads of the six realms." "The phrasing feels awkwardly disjointed, and the calligraphy appears to be a crude imitation of an established school's style." "This was likely written by some uneducated elderly man from ages past." "But this talk of gods convening with Buddhas and vanquishing southeastern demons—it all seems pregnant with meaning yet remains utterly incomprehensible." "Nevertheless, these peculiar verses undoubtedly hold the crucial clue." "Mr. Miyamaki wouldn't have gone through the trouble of peeling this off unless it held significance." "It resembles an incantation."

“Yes, it may seem like a spell, but I think it’s a cipher.” “It’s a cipher worth risking one’s life to obtain.” “If that’s the case, then this strange text must hold immense monetary value.” “When speaking of cipher texts with monetary value, what immediately comes to mind are those that hint at hidden treasure locations—and viewing it through that lens, doesn’t the phrase ‘Seek out the merit of Amida’ somehow seem to mean ‘Search for where the treasure lies’?” “The hidden gold and silver treasures must indeed correspond to the merit of Amida, you see.”

“Ah, now that you mention it, I suppose it could be interpreted that way.”

An obscure figure lurking in the shadows (could it be that mysterious old man who appeared to be over eighty?) was willing to sacrifice anything to obtain this scrap paper used as lining beneath the cover. This was because the text on the discarded paper hinted at the location of hidden treasure. They had somehow detected its significance. If that were true, the case was growing increasingly intriguing. "If we could just solve this antiquated cipher, we might instantly become millionaires, like the protagonist of Poe’s *The Gold-Bug*."

However, though we pondered it at length, while we could imagine "the grace of Amida" hinting at treasure, the remaining three lines of text remained utterly incomprehensible. Unless one was generally familiar with the land or the terrain of the scene, it might be entirely impossible to decipher. In that case, since we knew nothing about that land, this cipher text—even if it were a cipher—would be impossible to decipher forever.

But was this truly a cipher indicating the treasure's location, just as Moroto had imagined? Wasn't that too romantic a notion - too conveniently self-serving a fantasy?

Tidings from the Realm Beyond Humanity

And now I had come to the point where I must relate the contents of the strange notebook. If the secret of the family register was something prosperous and splendid—just as Moroto had imagined—then in stark contrast, the notebook proved a truly mysterious, gloomy, and eerie thing. It was a missive from a realm beyond humanity, defying all our imaginings.

The record still remains at the bottom of my writing case, so I will reproduce the essential portions here—though even referring to them as "portions" might result in something rather lengthy. However, since this mysterious record itself relates a certain critical fact that forms the very core of my story, I must ask my readers to endure reading through it. It was a peculiar confession—written in faint pencil strokes, riddled with kana and phonetic substitutions, its text heavy with rustic dialect—that already conveyed an eerie quality through its very composition. To make it more accessible to readers, I edited the text to convert the dialect into standard Tokyo speech and transcribed it, replacing the kana and substitutions with proper kanji. All parentheses and punctuation marks within the text were also additions of my own making.

I pleaded with our singing teacher to bring me this notebook and pencil in the storeroom. In faraway countries, everyone seems to enjoy writing down their thoughts using characters, so I—the half that’s me—decided to try writing too. Misfortune (a character I only recently learned) is something I’ve come to understand all too well. I think I alone truly deserve to use this character for “misfortune.” They say there’s something called the world and Japan far away where everyone lives, but since being born, I’ve never seen either. This fits the character for “misfortune” perfectly. I’ve come to feel I can’t endure this misfortune any longer. Books often write “God please help me,” but though I’ve never seen any God, I still want to say “God please help me.” When I do that, my chest feels a little lighter.

I want to speak of this sadness in my heart. But there's no one to talk to. The person who comes here is a man much older than me—a Mr. Sukehachi who teaches songs daily and calls himself "old man." He truly is elderly. Then there's Otoshi-san—she can't speak (they say she's mute)—who brings our meals three times a day (she's forty years old). But with only those two around—Otoshi-san being useless for conversation and Mr. Sukehachi hardly speaking at all—whenever I ask him anything, he just blinks tearfully, making it pointless to talk. Beyond them, there's only ourselves. I could talk to myself, but we never agree—this constant arguing only makes me angrier. Why must this other face look different? Why do we have separate thoughts? Nothing brings me deeper sorrow.

Mr. Sukehachi says I am seventeen years old. To be seventeen years old means seventeen years have passed since birth, so I must surely have lived within these square walls for seventeen years. Whenever Mr. Sukehachi comes, he teaches me the days, so I have some sense of a year’s length, but that makes seventeen years. It has been a terribly sad, long time. During that time, remembering over and over, I think I will try to write. If I do that, I must surely be able to write down all my misfortunes.

They say children grow big by drinking their mother's milk, but sadly, I have no memory at all of that time. They say a mother is a kind woman, but I cannot conceive of what a mother might be at all. I know there's something called a father, similar to a mother, but if that person was indeed my father, then I met him two or three times. That person said, "I'm your Oto-san." He was a frightening-looking malformed person.

[Note: The term "physically conjoined person" here does not carry its usual meaning.] [Note: This will become clear as you read further.]

The earliest memory I can recall, looking back now, must have been from when I was four or five years old. Before that, it’s all darkness; I can’t recall anything. From that time, I have been inside these square walls. I have never once stepped outside the door of thick walls. That thick door was always locked from the outside, and wouldn’t budge no matter how I pushed or pounded.

Let me now properly describe the square-walled space where I live. Since I don't know how to measure length clearly, if I base it on my body length, each of the four walls is roughly about four times my body length. The height is about twice my body length. The ceiling is boarded with planks, and when I asked Mr. Sukehachi about it, he said they had laid soil over them and arranged roof tiles on top. The edges of those roof tiles can be seen from the window.

Where I now sit, ten tatami mats are spread out, and beneath them lies a wooden floor. Beneath the boards lies another square space. One descends by ladder. The space there is the same size as above, but there are no tatami mats, and boxes of various shapes lie scattered haphazardly. There is also a chest for my clothes. There is also a washbasin. These two square spaces are called rooms by some and dozou (土蔵) storehouses by others. Mr. Sukehachi sometimes calls it Kura as well.

In Kura, outside the thick-walled door I mentioned earlier, there were two windows above and two below. All were about half the size of my body, with thick iron bars—five each—set into them. Therefore, I could not go outside through the window. In the tatami-covered area, there were futons piled in the corner, a box containing my toys (I’m writing this on its lid now), and a shamisen hanging on a wall nail—nothing else.

I grew up within those walls. I’ve never once seen what they call the world or towns where crowds of people gather and walk. Towns exist for me only as pictures in books. But I know mountains and the sea. They’re visible from the window. Mountains resemble heaped earth, while the sea stretches straight and long, shifting between blue hues and white glimmers. That expanse, I’m told, consists entirely of water. All this knowledge came from Mr. Sukehachi.

When I try to recall being four or five years old, those days seem far happier than now. It must have been because I knew nothing at all then. At that time, there was no Mr. Sukehachi or Otoshi-san—instead there was an old woman called Okumi. They were all malformed individuals. I often wonder if she might have been my mother, but since she produced no milk, I can't quite believe it. She didn't seem kind at all. But having been so very young then, I can't truly say. Her face and body shape remain unknown to me. All I retain is hearing her name spoken later.

That person would sometimes let me play. She gave me sweets and meals too. She taught me how to speak. I remember spending every day walking along the walls, climbing on the futon, playing with toy stones and shells and wood scraps, laughing shrilly all the while. Ah, those times were good. Why have I grown so large? And come to know so many things.

(Omission)

Otoshi-san had just carried down the meal tray with what looked like an angry face. When my stomach is full and Yoshi-chan grows quiet, I'll take this chance to write. Even when I say "Yoshi-chan," it doesn't mean someone else. That's another name for me.

It had been five days since I began writing. I didn't know any characters, and as this was my first attempt at writing something so lengthy, it progressed with great difficulty. There were days when a single page took me twenty-four hours. Today I would write about my first true shock. For years neither I nor those outside understood that humans were living creatures distinct from fish or insects or rats - that we all shared one common form. I had become convinced humanity came shaped in endless variations. This mistaken belief grew from having seen so few people.

I think I was around seven years old at the time. Until then, I had never seen any human beings besides Okumi-san and Oyone-san—who came after Okumi-san—so when Oyone-san struggled to lift my broad body up to the high window with iron bars and showed me the wide field outside, I gasped in surprise upon seeing a single person walking there. Even before that moment, I had often seen the field but had never once witnessed a human pass through it.

Oyone-san must have been what they called a "simpleton" type of malformed person. Since she never taught me anything, until then I hadn’t clearly understood the fixed form of human beings. The person walking in the field had the same form as Oyone-san. But my body was completely different from both that person and Oyone-san. I became frightened. “Why do that person and Oyone-san only have one face?” I asked, to which Oyone-san replied, “Ahahaha, how should I know?”

At the time, I didn't understand anything, but I was terrified beyond measure. When I slept, strangely shaped humans with only one face swarmed in. I did nothing but dream. I learned the word "malformed" after I began taking singing lessons from Mr. Sukehachi. I was around ten years old at the time.

After the "fool" Oyone-san stopped coming and Otoshi-san took her place not long after, I began learning songs and the shamisen. Otoshi-san doesn’t speak, and even when I speak, she doesn’t seem to hear me. Just as I was thinking how strange this was, Mr. Sukehachi taught me that she was what’s called a mute malformed person. He taught me that malformed individuals are those who differ from ordinary people in some way. When I said, “Then Mr. Sukehachi, Oyone-san, and Otoshi-san are all malformed too, aren’t they?” Mr. Sukehachi stared at me with wide, startled eyes and replied, “Ah, Shu-chan and Yoshi-chan are so pitiable… “Did you really know nothing at all?” he said.

Now I had received three books with small print that I read over and over again. Though Mr. Sukehachi rarely spoke to us, over time he still taught me many things - yet these books taught me ten times more than he ever did. While I knew nothing of the outside world, everything written in those books became clear to me. They contained countless pictures of people and other things. So now I understand what normal human forms look like - though back then it all seemed so strange.

When I think about it, even from when I was very small, there were things that struck me as strange. I have two faces of different forms—one is beautiful, and the other is ugly. And the beautiful one did as I wished—when speaking, it said exactly what I thought in my heart—but the ugly one blurted out things I never intended to say whenever I was off guard. Even when I tried to stop it, it never did as I wished.

When I grew frustrated and scratched at it, that face would contort into a frightening expression—snarling or bursting out crying. Though I felt no sadness whatsoever, tears came streaming down. Yet even when I wept from genuine sorrow, the ugly face might laugh raucously. What refused my will wasn't limited to facial expressions—my two arms and two legs did the same. (I have four arms and four legs.) Only the pair on my right side obeyed me; those on the left constantly defied my commands.

Ever since I became able to think, I constantly felt as though shackled by something—this ceaseless sensation of being unable to do as I wish. It was because of this ugly face and the limbs that wouldn’t obey me. As I gradually came to understand language, I found it inexplicably strange that I had two names—that the beautiful face was called Shu-chan and the ugly one Yoshi-chan. The reason for this was explained to me by Mr. Sukehachi, and I finally came to understand. It was not Mr. Sukehachi and the others who were malformed—it was I.

Though I didn't yet know the kanji for misfortune, it was from that moment I truly came to understand its essence. I wept bitterly before Mr. Sukehachi, my sorrow overflowing. "Poor dear, you mustn't cry," he said. "I'm forbidden to teach anything beyond songs, so I can't explain properly... but you two came into this world under truly ill-fated circumstances. They call you twins, you see. Inside your mother's womb, two children became fused as one, born in that state. To separate you would've meant death, so you were raised just as you are."

Mr. Sukehachi said that. I didn’t fully understand what being inside Mother’s womb meant, so I asked, but Mr. Sukehachi just stayed silent with tears in his eyes and wouldn’t say anything. Even now, I still remember those words from inside Mother’s womb perfectly, but since no one ever explains why, I don’t know anything at all.

Malformed people were undoubtedly greatly disliked by others. Aside from Mr. Sukehachi and Otoshi-san, there must have been others beyond them, but no one ever came to my side. And I couldn't go outside either. If I was so hated, I thought it would be better to die. As for what death was, Mr. Sukehachi hadn't taught me about it, but I had read about it in books. If I did something unbearably painful, I thought I would die.

If they over there hated me so much, then I came to think lately that I should hate them back and despise them in return. Therefore, lately, I took to calling ordinary people—those with forms different from mine—malformed in my heart. When I wrote, I wrote it that way too.

Saw and Mirror [Note: Though numerous recollections from my childhood are recorded here, I have omitted them.]

I gradually came to understand that Mr. Sukehachi was a kind old man. But though he was kind, I came to fully realize that someone from outside—perhaps God, or else that terrifying Oto-san—had ordered him not to show us kindness. Though I (both Shu-chan and Yoshi-chan) desperately wanted to talk, whenever Mr. Sukehachi finished teaching songs, he would pretend not to notice my sadness and leave. Given how long it had been, we did sometimes speak, but whenever we began to talk even a little, it was as if some unseen force came to seal our mouths, and we fell silent. "The fool Oyone-san did far more talking." But when it came to what I wanted to hear, only a little was said.

Most of what I learned about characters, names of things, and the workings of the human heart came from Mr. Sukehachi. But since he would say, "I'm not educated enough to do it right," he didn't teach me many characters.

One time, Mr. Sukehachi came up carrying three books and said, “These books were left in my trunk, so you can look at the pictures.” “Since I can’t read them either, you won’t be able to make out the words—but if I talk about various things, I’ll get into terrible trouble. So even if you can’t read these books, they’ll keep you company while you’re looking through them,” he said as he gave me three books. The books were titled *Children’s World*, *The Sun*, and *Recollections*. Since they were written in large characters on the covers, I thought those must be the titles. *Children’s World* was an interesting book with lots of pictures—the one we read most often. *The Sun* had various things written out in it. Even now, about half remains too difficult for me to understand. *Recollections* was also a book of both sorrow and joy. After reading it repeatedly, this became my favorite—though there were still many parts I didn’t understand. Even when we asked Mr. Sukehachi about them, there were things we grasped and things that stayed beyond us.

The pictures and written words were all from some impossibly distant place—so utterly unlike myself—that even what I thought I understood wasn’t truly understood. It all felt like a dream. And I heard that in this faraway world there existed a hundred times more things than I knew—countless objects, ways of thinking, writings—but since I only knew three books and the little Mr. Sukehachi had told me, I imagined there must be endless matters even a child like Taro from *Children’s World* would know that remained entirely beyond me. In that world, they said there were places called schools where they kindly taught even small children so very much.

We received the books about two years after Mr. Sukehachi began visiting, so we were likely around twelve years old at the time. But for two or three years after receiving them, even though we read and read, it was all things we didn’t understand. Even when we asked Mr. Sukehachi to explain, he would only teach us a little, and most of the time he would not respond—much like Otoshi-san’s muteness.

The time when I became able to read a little and the time when I truly came to understand a sorrowful heart were one and the same. What it meant to be malformed—how profoundly sorrowful that was—became clearer and clearer to me with each passing day.

What I am writing down are Shu-chan's thoughts. If Yoshi-chan's heart were considered separate from what I imagine, Shu-chan could not comprehend it. Because it is Shu-chan's hand that writes. Yet I understand Yoshi-chan's heart well enough to hear sounds beyond the wall.

In my heart, Yoshi-chan was far more malformed than Shu-chan. Yoshi-chan couldn't read books like Shu-chan could, and even when talking, she didn't know many of the things Shu-chan knew. Yoshi-chan's strength alone was formidable.

But that being said, Yoshi-chan’s heart also clearly and distinctly knows that I am malformed. Yoshi-chan and Shu-chan do not quarrel while talking about that. They only talk about sad things.

I will write about the saddest thing.

One time, there was an unfamiliar dish served with my meal, so later when I asked Mr. Sukehachi what it was called, he said it was octopus. When I asked what shape an octopus has, he said it was a fish with eight legs and an unpleasant form. Then I thought that I resembled an octopus more than a human. I have eight limbs. I don't know how many heads an octopus has, but I am like an octopus with two heads.

After that, I dreamed of nothing but octopuses. Since I didn't know an octopus's true form, I imagined it resembling my own small shape and dreamed of that figure. I dreamed of countless such forms walking through seawater.

Then, after a little while, I began thinking about cutting my body in two. Upon careful examination, I found that while the right half of my body—my face, hands, legs, and stomach—all moved as Shu-chan willed them, the left half—face, hands, legs—did not respond to Shu-chan's intentions at all. I thought it must be because Yoshi-chan's heart dwelled in the left side. Therefore, I believed that if I were to cut my body in half, a single me could become two separate people. I imagined that if I could become separate Shu-chan and Yoshi-chan like Mr. Sukehachi and Otoshi-san, I would be able to move freely, think freely, and sleep freely as I pleased. I thought how happy I would be if that could come true.

If we regarded Shu-chan and Yoshi-chan as separate people, the left side of Shu-chan's buttocks and the right side of Yoshi-chans had become joined as one. If we cut there, we could become exactly two separate people. One time when Shu-chin told Yoshichan about this idea Yoshichan joyfully agreed. However there was nothing to cut with. We knew of things called saws and kitchen knives but we had never seen them. Then Yoshichan suggested biting into it and trying to cut. Even though Shuchan said such a thing was impossible Yoshichan bit down with tremendous force and I let out a yelp before bursting into loud sobs. Both Shuchans face and Yoshichans face burst into tears together. And so Yoshichan was completely discouraged after just one attempt.

Even after being discouraged once, whenever we remembered our deformity or quarreled and grew sad, we would think of cutting ourselves again. One time when we asked Mr. Sukehachi to bring us a saw, he inquired what we intended to do. When we told him we wanted to split ourselves in two, he became alarmed and said that would kill us. Even when we pleaded through wailing sobs that we didn't care if we died, he absolutely would not comply.

(Omitted)

Around the time I became able to read well, I (Shu-chan) learned the word "makeup." I thought it meant beautifying one's body and clothes like the girls in the *Children’s World* illustrations, so when I asked Mr. Sukehachi about it, he said it meant styling hair and applying a powder called face powder. When I requested that he bring those things, Mr. Sukehachi laughed. And he said, "Ah, poor thing—you really are a girl after all." “But then again,” he added, “if you’ve never taken a proper bath, you can’t very well apply face powder.”

I (Shu-chan) had heard of and knew about baths but had never seen one．About once a month，Otoshi-san—though even that was done in secret—would fill a basin with hot water and bring it down to the wooden floor below，so I could only wash my body with that water．Mr．Sukehachi taught us that makeup required something called a mirror，but since he didn’t own one himself，he couldn’t show it to us．

However, because I pleaded so earnestly, Mr. Sukehachi brought me a piece of glass, saying, “This could serve as a substitute for a mirror.” When I propped it against the wall and peered into it, my face appeared far more distinctly than when reflected in water. Shu-chan’s face was far dirtier than the girls in the *Children’s World* illustrations, but it was much prettier than Yoshi-chan’s, and far more beautiful than those of Mr. Sukehachi, Otoshi-san, or Oyone-san. Therefore, after seeing herself in the glass, Shu-chan became overjoyed. If I washed my face, applied face powder, and tied my hair neatly, I thought I might become as pretty as the girls in the illustrations.

I didn’t have any face powder, but when washing my face with water in the morning, I scrubbed as hard as I could, determined to make it clean. As for my hair, by looking at the glass and thinking for myself, I learned to tie it in the style depicted in the illustrations. At first I was unskilled, but gradually the shape of my hair began to resemble the pictures. When I was styling my hair and the mute Otoshi-san came by, she would help me. That Shu-chan was gradually becoming more beautiful made me so happy I couldn’t contain myself.

Yoshi-chan disliked both looking at the glass and becoming beautiful, so she did nothing but interfere with Shu-chan’s efforts. Still, she would occasionally say, “Shu-chan is so pretty,” and offer praise.

Yet the more beautiful she became，the more Shu-chan grew sad about being malformed than before. No matter how much I made only my half beautiful，Yoshi-chan’s side remained dirty，our body’s width was twice a normal person’s，our kimono stayed filthy，and beautifying just my face only deepened my sorrow. Still，determined to make even Yoshi-chan’s face presentable，when I’d scrub her skin with water and style her hair，she’d erupt in anger. What an impossible creature she was.

(Omitted)

A Terrifying Love

I will write about Shu-chan and Yoshi-chan's hearts and minds.

As I had written before, Shu-chan and Yoshi-chan shared a single body. Our minds were two separate entities. Had we been cut apart, we could have become entirely distinct individuals. As I gradually came to understand various matters, I stopped thinking of both halves as myself as I once did, and began to believe that Shu-chan and Yoshi-chan were truly separate people who merely happened to be joined at the buttocks. Therefore, I decided to mainly write about Shu-chan's mind, but knew that writing those thoughts without concealment would undoubtedly enrage Yoshi-chan. Though Yoshi-chan couldn't read characters like I could - which provided some relief - her growing distrust these days filled me with anxiety. And so, while Yoshi-chan slept, Shu-chan resolved to contort her body and write in secret.

I will begin writing from the very start. When we were little, being malformed meant we couldn't do as we wished, which made us angry, so we acted willfully toward each other and did nothing but fight, but we did not experience mental anguish or sadness. After we came to clearly understand being malformed, even when we fought, we no longer had vicious fights like before. Even so, gradually different kinds of mental anguish began to emerge. Shu-chan thought being malformed was dirty and hateful. That is why I am filthy and hateful. And the very most filthy and hateful of all is Yoshi-chan. Whenever I thought about Yoshi-chan's face and body being always, always firmly attached to my side—how disgusting it was! How hateful!—I felt an indescribable emotion. I think Yoshi-chan must feel the same way. And so, instead of having terrible fights, we were now fighting many times more intensely in our hearts than ever before.

(Omitted) It was about a year ago that I came to clearly realize that each half of my body differed in some way. It was when washing myself in the basin that I understood most clearly. Yoshi-chan's side had a dirty face, with hands and feet that were strong yet rugged. Her skin was also dark. Shu-chan's side was pale, with soft hands and feet, and two round breasts………………………………………………… I had long known from Mr. Sukehachi that Yoshi-chan was "male" and Shu-chan was "female," but it was only about a year ago that I began to grasp what this truly meant. It seemed many parts of the Memoir that had been unclear until now were finally beginning to make sense.

[Note: While examples of conjoined twins surviving are not uncommon, a case such as that of this Memoir’s protagonist presents medically inexplicable peculiarities.] Astute readers would have already deduced the existing secret.]

Since we were malformed beings with two people stuck together, I had to climb down the ladder five or six times a day—twice as often as a normal person—(...) Meanwhile, something different from before began happening to Shu-chan's side. (Omitted) I was so startled, thinking I might die, that I began wailing loudly. Until Mr. Sukehachi came and explained what was happening, I clung desperately to Yoshi-chan's neck in terror.

Yoshi-chan’s side also began to experience far more different things. Not only did Yoshi-chan’s voice deepen to resemble Mr. Sukehachi’s, but her mind underwent a terrible change.

Yoshi-chan’s fingers were strong, but she couldn’t manage delicate tasks. When it came to the shamisen, she couldn’t properly grasp the frets like Shu-chan could, and with singing, her voice was merely loud, the melody strange. The reason for this, I think, must be that Yoshi-chan’s nature was rough and she couldn’t properly grasp delicate matters. That is why, while Shu-chan thought of ten things, Yoshi-chan could only manage about one. Instead, she immediately voiced whatever came to mind or acted on it with her hands.

“Shu-chan,” Yoshi-chan asked one day, “do you still want us to become separate people? Do you want to cut this part away? Yoshi-chan doesn’t want to do that anymore. I’m much happier being stuck together like this,” she said. Then she teared up, her face turning red.

I don’t know why, but at that moment Shu-chan’s face grew hot. And then, I felt a strange, strange feeling unlike anything I had ever known before.

Yoshi-chan had stopped bullying Shu-chan altogether. Even when applying makeup before the mirror, washing her face in the morning, or laying out the futon at night, she never interfered and instead assisted her. Whenever there was something to do, Yoshi-chan would say, "I’ll take care of it all," and made sure Shu-chan could take it as easy as possible. When Shu-chan played the shamisen and sang, Yoshi-chan did not act out or shout as she used to, but stayed still, watching the movements of Shu-chan’s mouth. Even when Shu-chan tied her hair, she did the same. And then, incessantly: “Yoshi-chan likes Shu-chan. I really like you. “You must like me too,” she would always say.

There had been many times before when Kichi-chan's left hand or foot touched Shu-chan's right side, but though it was the same act of touching, the way she touched had changed. It wasn't a rough touch, but she would softly stroke or grasp me as if a bug were crawling over my skin. Even so, that area grew hot, and I could hear the thudding sound of blood. Shu-chan would sometimes wake up startled at night. I felt as if a warm creature were crawling all over my body, and shuddering awake. Since it was pitch dark and I couldn't see anything, when I asked, "Kichi-chan, are you awake?" she remained completely still and didn't answer. The sounds of breath and blood from Kichi-chan sleeping on the left side transmitted through flesh, resonating through Shu-chan's body.

One night while we were sleeping，Kichi-chan did something terrible. After that，Shu-chan came to hate Kichi－hate her so much she couldn’t bear it. She hated her so much she wanted to kill her.

Shu-chan was sleeping when her breathing became obstructed; thinking she might die, she jolted awake. Then Kichi-chan’s face pressed over hers—lips mashing against lips until breath failed. But joined at their waists as they were, they couldn’t press their bodies together. Even overlapping faces proved excruciatingly difficult. Undeterred, Kichi-chan wrenched her torso until bones creaked—desperate to merge their faces. Shu-chan’s ribs screamed under lateral pressure while fused flesh threatened to tear—agony bordering on death. “No! No! I hate you!” Shu-chan shrieked, raking nails across Kichi-chan’s cheeks. Yet Kichi-chan didn’t retaliate as usual—silently withdrawing into darkness instead.

When morning came, Kichi-chan’s face was covered in scratches, yet he did not get angry and spent the whole day with a sorrowful expression. (Omitted)

[Note: As these deformed individuals lack any sense of shame, and given the explicit nature of the subsequent entries, all have been omitted here.] How pleasant it would be if I alone could freely sleep, wake, and think as I pleased—I found myself enviously, enviously envying normal people.

At least when reading books, when writing characters, and when gazing out the window at the sea, I wished Kichi-chan's body would separate from mine. Always, always, the unpleasant sound of Kichi-chan's blood resonated within me, there was Kichi-chan's smell, and every time I moved my body, oh, I recalled that I was a wretched deformed person. Lately, Kichi-chan's glaring eyes had watched Shu-chan from beside my face at all times. The sound of breathing was annoyingly loud, and there was a frightening smell, and I found it utterly unbearable.

One time, Kichi-chan said such things while sobbing. Therefore, I came to feel a little sorry for Kichi-chan. “Kichi-chan loves Shu-chan so much he can’t bear it,but Shu-chan hates Kichi-chan—what should I do, what should I do?” “Even if I’m hated, we can’t separate... and if we don’t separate,I can always see your pretty face and smell your sweet scent,” he said through tears.

In the end, Kichi-chan became frantic and tried to forcefully hug me no matter how much I protested, but because our bodies were attached at the side, she couldn’t manage to do as she wished. So I thought it served her right, but Kichi-chan seemed absolutely furious, her face drenched in sweat as she shrieked at the top of her lungs. Therefore, when I thought about it carefully, both Shu-chan and Kichi-chan felt profoundly, profoundly sad about being deformed persons.

I will write down two of Kichi-chan's most unpleasant habits. Kichi-chan had recently developed a habit of [...] nearly every day. Seeing it made me so nauseous I could retch, so I tried not to look, but Kichi-chan's foul odor and frantic movements still reached me through our connection, making me wish I could die from disgust. Moreover, since Kichi-chan was physically stronger, whenever she wanted, she would forcibly press her face against mine, and even when I tried to cry out, she would cover my mouth to keep me silent. Kichi-chan's glaring eyes pressed against my own until my nose and mouth became unable to breathe, making it so excruciating I felt I might die.

Therefore, Shu-chan does nothing but cry every single day. (Omitted)

Strange Correspondence

Since I can only write one or two pages each day, it has already been about a month since I began writing. Since summer has arrived, the sweat pours relentlessly.

This was the first time I had written something this lengthy since being born, and since I was poor at recalling things or organizing my thoughts, events from long ago and recent times became jumbled together. Next, I will write about how the storehouse where I live resembles what people call a prison. "In the book *Children’s World*, it said that people who do no wrong get put into something called a prison and suffer sadness." I didn't know what prisons were like, but I thought they must resemble this storehouse where I live.

I thought normal children must live with their fathers and mothers in the same place, eating meals together, talking together, and playing together. "In *Children's World*," it said, "there were many pictures like that drawn." Was this something that only existed in a faraway world? If I too had a father and mother, couldn't I have lived happily together with them in the same way? Even when I asked about my father and mother, Sukehachi-san wouldn't give me a clear answer. Even when I begged to meet the frightening "Oto-san," they wouldn't let me.

Before we clearly understood what it meant to be male or female, I often discussed this with Kichi-chan. Because I was such a wretched deformed person, my father and mother must have hated me—they likely shut me inside this storehouse to keep my form hidden from outsiders. Yet books say blind disabled people and mute disabled people live together with their fathers and mothers. They write that parents show extraordinary, extraordinary kindness to disabled children since they're more pitiable than normal ones. Why was I alone denied this mercy? When I asked Sukehachi-san, he grew teary-eyed and said, "You've just had wretched luck." He told me nothing at all about the outside world.

Though both Shu-chan and Kichi-chan shared the same desire to leave the storehouse, it was always Kichi-chan who would pound on the thick, wall-like door until our hands hurt, or thrash about demanding to go out together whenever Sukehachi-san or Otoshi-san exited. When that happened, Sukehachi-san struck Kichi-chan’s cheek harshly and tied me to a pillar. On top of that, whenever we tried to go outside and acted out, we weren’t allowed to eat even a single meal.

So I secretly thought hard about how to get outside without Sukehachi-san and Otoshi-san knowing. I spoke of nothing else but that matter with Kichi-chan.

One time, I thought about removing the iron bars from the window. We dug at the white earth where the bars were embedded and tried to remove an iron bar. Kichi-chan and I took turns digging at the earth for so long that blood oozed from our fingertips. In the end, we managed to pry loose one end of a bar, but Sukehachi-san discovered it immediately, and we weren’t allowed to eat a single meal all day.

(Omitted) When I finally thought that no matter what I did, I could never escape the storehouse, I felt so sad—so terribly sad—that for a time afterward, every single day I would stretch up on my toes and do nothing but stare out the window.

The sea sparkled as always. In the open field, nothing existed but wind stirring the grass. The sea's roar echoed mournfully. When I imagined a world beyond that sea, I wished I could fly there like a bird. Yet thinking what might befall someone like me—a deformed person—venturing into that world filled me with terror.

In the distance beyond the sea, something like a blue mountain was visible. Sukehachi-san had once told us, “That is what’s called a cape, shaped exactly like a sleeping cow.” I’d seen pictures of cows, but I wondered whether they truly took such a form when lying down. I also wondered if that mountain called a cape marked the edge of the world. When I stared too long at that faraway expanse, my eyes grew bleary, and before I knew it, tears were streaming down.

The "misfortune" of having no father or mother, being confined in this prison-like storehouse since birth, and never once setting foot in the wide outside world alone made me so sad, so terribly sad I wanted to die—yet recently, on top of that, Kichi-chan had been doing such loathsome things that I sometimes thought about strangling him to death. If Kichi-chan were to die, Shu-chan would surely die along with him as well.

Once, I actually strangled Kichi-chan's neck until he nearly died, so I will write about that. One night as we slept, Kichi-chan thrashed about wildly like a centipede torn in half. He struggled so violently I thought he might be ill. He kept saying he loved Shu-chan beyond endurance, then proceeded to strangle her neck and chest, twist her legs, press his face against hers, and writhe about madly. And...I was overcome with such a filthy, repulsive feeling it made me shudder. Then Kichi-chan became so hateful, unbearably hateful. So with true murderous intent, I burst into tears and squeezed his neck with both hands, tightening my grip with all my strength.

Kichi-chan suffered and thrashed about more violently than before. I pushed off the futon and rolled around on the tatami mats from one end to the other. We thrashed our four hands and four legs wildly about while wailing and rolling around. Sukehachi-san came and pinned me down so I couldn’t move, and that’s how we remained until then. From the following day onward, Kichi-chan calmed down a little. (Omitted)

I just want to die. I want to die. O God, please save me. O God, please kill me. (Omitted)

Today, when I heard a sound outside the window and looked out, there was a person standing beyond the wall right below the window, gazing up at it. A large, corpulent man. He wore a strange kimono like those seen in Children’s World illustrations, so I thought he might be someone from a distant world.

I shouted in a loud voice, "Who are you?" but the man said nothing and kept staring intently at me. He appeared to be a kind-looking person. I wanted to talk about so many things, but Kichi-chan was making a scary face and interfering, and if I spoke too loudly Sukehachi-san might hear and cause trouble, so all I could do was look at the man's face and smile. When I did so, that person also looked at my face and laughed.

When that person left, I suddenly became sad. And I prayed to God, asking that he please come again. Then, I remembered a good idea. If that person were to come again, even though I cannot speak, since the book said that people from distant worlds write letters, I thought I would write characters and show them to that person. However, since writing a letter would take a long time, I thought it would be better to throw this notebook to that person’s side. Since that person can surely read, if he picks up this notebook and learns of my terrible, terrible circumstances, he might save me like a god.

Please let that person come again.

The diary entries ended abruptly there.

For reader comprehension’s sake, we had revised irregular kana usage and phonetic substitutions—along with heavy rural dialects whose origins were unclear—into standard Tokyo dialect throughout our transcription of these entries. This editorial intervention might mean we failed to preserve intact that uncanny tone permeating their original scrawl. Readers must envision a grimy pencil-scrawled notebook—each line riddled with substitute characters and kana errors—its glyphs barely maintaining form as though some missive from humanity’s alien kin.

When we finished reading this diary—Moroto Michio and I—we sat wordlessly for a time, exchanging glances. I was not unaware of the story of those strange twins commonly referred to as the Siamese brothers. The so-called Siamese brothers were deformed conjoined twins named Chang and Eng—both male, medically classified as xiphopagus twins joined at the xiphoid cartilage. Though such infants are typically stillborn or perish shortly after birth, Chang and Eng astonishingly lived to sixty-three years of age with their extraordinary bodies, each marrying separate women and fathering twenty-two healthy children between them.

However, such cases being exceedingly rare even worldwide, we had never imagined that such an eerie two-bodied being could exist in our own country. Moreover, that one was male and the other female—the male harboring an obsessive attachment toward the female, while she detested him to the point of death—this inconceivable state constituted a hell not even witnessed in nightmares. “Shu-chan is truly intelligent,” Moroto remarked. “No matter how thoroughly she studied them, to have written such a lengthy account with knowledge gleaned from just three books—character errors and kana mistakes aside—it’s remarkable. This girl possesses poetic sensibilities too. But even so—could such things truly be possible? This isn’t some deeply sinful forgery, is it?”

I could not help but heed the medical scholar Moroto’s opinion.

“A prank? “No, I don’t believe that’s likely. “Seeing that Mr. Miyamaki cherished this so much, there must be deep meaning in it. “I suddenly thought—the person mentioned near the end here who came beneath the window, described as well-built and wearing Western clothes—could that be Mr. Miyamaki?”

“Ah, I also had somewhat of that thought.”

"If that's the case, then where Mr. Miyamaki traveled before being killed must undoubtedly have been the region containing the storehouse where these twins are confined." "And Mr. Miyamaki appeared beneath that storehouse window more than once." "Because if he hadn't gone beneath the window a second time, the twins wouldn't have thrown this notebook from it." "Now that you mention it, Mr. Miyamaki did say he'd seen something horrifying when he returned from his trip. That must have been these twins."

“Ah, he’d said that? Then it’s settled,” Moroto replied. “Mr. Miyamaki must have held information unknown to us. Otherwise, he’d have had no reason to venture there.” “Yet why didn’t he attempt to rescue these pitiful cripples when he saw them?” “Unclear,” Moroto mused. “Perhaps he judged the adversary too formidable for direct confrontation. He likely meant to return after preparing properly.”

“That refers to the bastard who’s confining these twins, doesn’t it?” At that moment, something suddenly occurred to me, and I exclaimed in surprise. “Ah, there’s a strange coincidence! That dead acrobat boy Tomonosuke mentioned being scolded by ‘Oto-san,’ didn’t he? This diary also contains the term ‘Oto-san.’ And since both seem to be bad actors, might it not be that this ‘Oto-san’ is the mastermind? When you think about it that way, the connection between these twins and the recent murder case starts to come together.”

“That’s right. You noticed that too. But that isn’t all. If you examine this diary closely, it relates various facts. It’s truly terrifying.” Moroto said this with an expression of genuine terror from the depths of his being. “If my conjecture is correct, then compared to this totality of evil, Miss Hatsuyo’s murder almost pales into insignificance as a minor incident. You don’t seem to have realized yet, but within these twins themselves lies a secret so terrifying that no one in the world could have imagined it.”

Though I couldn't clearly grasp what Moroto was thinking, the sheer strangeness of these facts emerging one after another made me feel something eerie and unfathomable lurking in the depths. Moroto sat pale-faced, deep in thought. The sight gave the impression of him peering deep into the recesses of his own mind. I too remained silent, toying with the diary as I sank into contemplation. But as I did so, a startling association struck me, and I snapped back to awareness with a gasp.

“Mr. Moroto.” “There’s something very strange about this.” “I’ve thought of another peculiar coincidence.” “You see,” “I don’t know if I ever mentioned this to you, but Miss Hatsuyo once told me a dream-like memory from when she was two or three years old—before she became a foundling.” “It was of a desolate, lonely seaside with a strange old mansion like a castle, where she remembered playing with a newborn baby on a cliffside coast.” “She said she retained that scenery like a half-remembered dream.” “At the time, I imagined that view and drew it for her. When she said it matched perfectly, I treasured that painting—until one day I showed it to Mr. Miyamaki and left it behind.” “But I remember it clearly enough to redraw even now.” “Now about that coincidence—in Miss Hatsuyo’s account, she could see land shaped like a sleeping cow far across that sea. And this diary also mentions seeing a cape resembling a sleeping cow from the storehouse window.” “While such capes might exist anywhere by chance, every detail matches—the desolate coastline, how they described the sea—it’s identical to Miss Hatsuyo’s story.” “Miss Hatsuyo possessed a family register concealing cipher text.” “The thief who tried stealing it likely has some connection to these twins.” “And both Miss Hatsuyo and the twins describe seeing cow-shaped landforms.” “Doesn’t that make it seem like... they’re describing the same place?”

Midway through my account, Moroto began showing an expression of uncanny terror as if he’d encountered a ghost, but when I stopped speaking, he said in a violently choked voice that I should draw the coastal scenery there for him. And then, when I took out a pencil and notebook and roughly sketched the imagined diagram, he snatched it away as if to seize it and stared at the drawing for a long time. Eventually, he stood up unsteadily and spoke while preparing to leave.

"My mind is in complete chaos today—I cannot organize my thoughts. I'm leaving. Tomorrow, please come to my house. There are things I can't speak of here and now... I'm too frightened."

With those final words, he seemed to have forgotten my very existence. Without so much as a farewell, he staggered unsteadily down the stairs.

Detective Kitagawa and Issunbōshi

Unable to comprehend Moroto's bizarre behavior, I remained alone, dazed for some time. But since Moroto had said, "Come tomorrow, and I'll tell you everything then," I had no choice but to return home for now and await the next day. Yet even bringing General Nogi's statue to this Kanda house had required wrapping it in old newspapers and layering precaution upon precaution. To carry home these two vital items concealed within would therefore undoubtedly be perilous in the extreme. Though I myself didn't feel it so acutely, both the late Miyamaki and Moroto insisted these villains had committed murder solely to obtain these objects. Despite this, Moroto's departure in such distraught condition without even advising how to dispose of them must have stemmed from extraordinary circumstances. After much deliberation, I concluded our foes likely hadn't traced us to the restaurant's second floor. I thrust both notebooks deep into a tear in the mounting of an old framed picture hanging from the decorative rail—concealing them beyond casual detection—then returned home wearing my most guileless expression. (Yet this improvised hiding place—of which I'd been secretly rather proud—proved far from secure, as would later become clear.)

From then until around noon the next day when I visited Moroto, there was nothing particularly worth mentioning. Using this interval, I will adopt a slightly different narrative style here to insert an account of hardships endured by Detective Constable Kitagawa—something I hadn't witnessed directly, but later learned firsthand from the man himself. Chronologically, these events occurred precisely at this juncture, which is why I include them here.

Detective Kitagawa was an officer from Ikebukuro Station involved in the recent Tomonosuke murder case. Being a man whose thinking diverged somewhat from other police officials, he had taken even Moroto’s opinions about this incident at face value. After obtaining the station chief’s permission, he tenaciously continued his arduous investigation—persisting even after Metropolitan Police personnel had withdrawn—by doggedly pursuing the Ozaki Circus Troupe (the very troupe Tomonosuke had performed with in Uguisudani).

At that time, the Ozaki Circus Troupe had left Uguisudani as if fleeing and was performing in a distant town in Shizuoka Prefecture. Detective Kitagawa had been dispatched to that location almost alongside the troupe; disguising himself as a shabby laborer, he had already been conducting his investigation for about a week. Although it was called a week, since moving and constructing the tents took four or five days, they had only begun inviting customers just two or three days prior; but Detective Kitagawa, having become a temporary laborer and even assisting with the tent construction to ingratiate himself with the troupe members, should have uncovered any secrets among them long ago if they existed—yet strangely, he couldn’t grasp a single lead. “Did Tomonosuke go to Kamakura on July 5th?” “Who took him there at that time?” He went around asking each person in turn about things like, “Was there a hunched old man around eighty years old behind Tomonosuke?” in a roundabout way, but everyone simply answered that they didn’t know. Moreover, their demeanor didn’t seem the least bit deceptive.

Among the troupe's clowns was a single dwarf. Despite being thirty years old, he had the stature of a seven- or eight-year-old boy, with only his face appearing far older than his actual years—an uncanny cripple who was exactly the sort of man one would expect to be a low-functioning individual. Initially, Detective Kitagawa had treated this man as entirely separate, neither attempting to befriend him nor ask him questions, but as days passed, he came to realize that although the dwarf was indeed low-functioning, he harbored deep suspicions, was prone to jealousy, and at times committed pranks beyond what ordinary people could conceive. It began to seem that he might be deliberately feigning low-functioning behavior, using it as a form of camouflage or mimicry, so Detective Kitagawa came to think that questioning such a man might unexpectedly yield some clue. So it was that Detective Kitagawa patiently won over this dwarf until he finally felt secure enough, and one day engaged in the following exchange—the reason I wish to insert and record it here is precisely because of this bizarre dialogue.

It was a clear night abundant with stars. After the performance had concluded and cleanup was finished, the dwarf—having no one to converse with—stepped outside the tent to cool off alone. Detective Kitagawa seized this opportunity without delay, approaching him and initiating idle chatter beneath the dark open sky. Their trivial banter gradually shifted toward the events of that fateful day when Mr. Miyamaki had been murdered. Pretending to have attended the circus troupe's show in Uguisudani that day as an audience member, Detective Kitagawa fabricated rambling impressions about the performance before steering the conversation toward critical matters in this fashion.

“On that day when there was a foot performance—Tomonosuke, you know, that child who was killed in Ikebukuro—I saw him being spun around and around inside a jar. That poor child really had it rough, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, Tomonosuke, huh? That poor child—they finally got him.” “Brrrr...” “But hey, Big bro, there wasn’t no foot act by Tomonosuke that day—you’re misrememberin’, I tell ya.” “I might look like this, but my memory’s sharp as a tack.” “That day, see, Tomonosuke wasn’t in the tent at all.” The dwarf spoke with unplaceable regional inflections yet remarkably articulate. “I’d wager a ryō on it.” “Saw it clear as day with my own eyes.”

"No no, Big bro—that's the wrong day, I tell ya." "July 5th—there's particular reasons I remember that date clear as day." "The day ain't wrong!" "Wasn't it the first Sunday in July?" "You're the one messin' up the dates!" "No no."

In the darkness, Issunbōshi appeared to be making a comical face. “So, was Tomonosuke sick then?” “That guy get sick? Don’t make me laugh. The boss’s friend came by and took him off somewhere.” “So the boss is Oto-san, huh? That’s right,” Detective Kitagawa probed further, clearly remembering Tomonosuke’s so-called “Oto-san.” “What did you say?!” Issunbōshi suddenly showed great terror. “How come you know ‘Oto-san’?”

"I don't know him. Some frail old man around eighty with a hunched back, right? That's your boss you're talking about." "No no! The boss ain't no old man like that! His back ain't hunched at all! You've never laid eyes on him, have ya? Though he don't show his mug much at the hut, the boss is... well... a young fella around thirty with a real bad hunchback, I tell ya."

Detective Kitagawa thought that perhaps he had been a hunchback, which might be why he appeared elderly.

“Is that Oto-san?” “No, no! Oto-san comin’ round here? He’s way far off! The boss and Oto-san are separate people, I tell ya.” “Separate people, you say? Then what in the world is Oto-san? What exactly is Oto-san to you people?” “Dunno why, but Oto-san’s Oto-san. He’s got the same face as the boss, and since he’s also a hunchback, they might be father and son. But I’m stoppin’ here. I ain’t supposed to talk ’bout Oto-san. I think you’ll be okay, but if Oto-san finds out, I’ll be in big trouble. And they’ll put me back in that box again.”

Upon hearing "the box," Detective Kitagawa imagined a modern torture device-like container, but this was his misconception—it later became clear that Issunbōshi's so-called "box" was something far more terrifying than any such interrogation tool. Be that as it may, Detective Kitagawa found his interlocutor unexpectedly compliant, and thrilled by how the conversation was steadily approaching its climax, he pressed forward with his questions, heart pounding.

“So, what you’re saying is... On July 5th, it wasn’t Oto-san who took Tomonosuke, but an acquaintance of the boss’s, right? Where did they go? Didn’t you hear anything about it?” “Tomo was tight with me, so he whispered it just to me. Said they went to some real pretty beach—played in the sand, went swimmin’ and all.” “Kamakura, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right—he did say something about Kamakura, didn’t he? “Because Tomonosuke was the boss’s prized favorite, see.” “He got special treats every now and then, I tell ya.” Having heard this much, Detective Kitagawa could no longer deny that Moroto’s outlandish deduction—that Tomonosuke had been the direct perpetrator in both Hatsuyo’s murder and Mr. Miyamaki’s killing—was unexpectedly accurate. But he had to consider that acting rashly might be ill-advised. Arresting the boss and making him confess might be one approach, but doing so could very well result in letting the mastermind slip away. Before that, he needed to study the figure called “Oto-san” behind him more thoroughly. The mastermind might very well be that “Oto-san.” Moreover, this case might not merely be a murder charge but could well be a far more complex and horrifying criminal case. Because Detective Kitagawa was an ambitious man, he intended not to report even to the police chief until he had thoroughly investigated everything himself.

“You mentioned earlier that you’d be put in a box.” “What exactly is this ‘box’ you mentioned?” “Is it really that terrifying?” “Brr-brr-brr-brr—it’s a hell you people don’t know.” “You ever seen a human bein’ stuffed into a box?” “My hands ’n’ legs go all numb—cripples like me’re all made in that box.” “Ahaha…” Issunbōshi said something cryptic and laughed eerily. But fool though he was, he seemed to retain some shred of sanity—no matter how much one pressed him, he’d turn everything beyond that point into a joke and refuse to give a straight answer.

“So you’re scared of Oto-san.” “You coward.” “But where is this Oto-san of yours?” “‘A far-off place,’ you said?”

“A far-off place, I tell ya.” “I’ve forgotten where exactly.” “Across the sea, a place way far off, I tell ya.” “It’s hell, I tell ya.” “It’s Demon Island, I tell ya.” “Just rememberin’ it makes me shudder, I tell ya.” “Brr-brr-brr-brr.”

And so, though no matter how hard he tried that night he couldn’t make any further progress, Detective Kitagawa was thoroughly satisfied to have confirmed that his assumptions weren’t mistaken. Detective Kitagawa then spent several days patiently winning Issunbōshi over, waiting for him to let his guard down and share more detailed information. As this continued, Detective Kitagawa began to gradually comprehend the inexplicable terror of this figure called “Oto-san”—the reason why Issunbōshi and Tomonosuke had trembled in such fear. Due to Issunbōshi’s unclear manner of speaking, he couldn’t grasp a definitive form, but at times, it felt less like a human and more like some uncanny beast. It even seemed that the legendary demons of folklore had been referring to precisely such creatures. Issunbōshi’s words and expressions vaguely conveyed that very impression.

Moreover, the meaning of this "box" was also beginning to take vague shape in his mind. It was mere speculation, but when confronted with that speculation, even the stalwart Detective Kitagawa couldn’t help but shudder violently at its sheer horror.

"I've been inside a box ever since I was born, I tell ya." "I couldn’t move or do nothin’ about it, I tell ya." "They’d only let me stick my head out through a hole in the box to eat my meals, I tell ya." "And then, I was packed into a box, put on a ship, and brought to Osaka, I tell ya." "I was let outta the box in Osaka, I tell ya." "When they took me out into some wide-open place for the first time ever born, I got so scared I ended up shrivelin’ up like this, I tell ya." Issunbōshi would say this sometimes and show us by scrunching his short limbs tight, just like a newborn baby.

“But this here’s a secret, I tell ya.” “Only tellin’ you this, I tell ya.” “So if you don’t keep it quiet too, you’ll catch hell for sure, I tell ya.” “Get yourself boxed up, I tell ya.” “Even if they box ya up, I ain’t knowin’ nothin’ about it, I tell ya.” Issunbōshi added with an utterly petrified look.

It was over ten days later that Detective Kitagawa, without invoking official authority and through entirely discreet methods that alerted no suspicion, uncovered the true identity of "Oto-san" and brought to light unimaginable criminal activities occurring on a certain island. However, as this would naturally become clear to readers as the story progressed, I shall here merely inform them that even the police were advancing their investigation—through the painstaking efforts of one particularly dedicated detective—along the circus troupe angle. With this, I conclude Detective Kitagawa's investigative account and return to continuing the narrative of Moroto's and my subsequent actions.

Moroto Michio's Confession

The day after reading that eerie diary in the second-floor room of a Western-style restaurant in Kanda, I visited Moroto's house in Ikebukuro as promised. Moroto, for his part, seemed to have been waiting for me, and the student lodger promptly showed me into the usual parlor.

Moroto threw open all the windows and doors in the room. "This way, eavesdropping shouldn't be possible," he said as he took his seat. With a pallid face and hushed voice, he began the following bizarre account of his past.

“I’ve never confided my past to anyone. To tell the truth, even I don’t fully understand it myself. I want to explain to you alone why that’s the case. And I need your help in dispelling a certain dreadful suspicion of mine. Because this work also involves seeking out the enemies of Miss Hatsuyo and Mr. Miyamaki.”

“You must have surely harbored doubts about my state of mind until now. For instance—why I’ve become so deeply involved in this case, why I became your rival and proposed marriage to Miss Hatsuyo (it’s true that I admired you and tried to obstruct your romance, but that wasn’t the only reason—there was a deeper reason) why I came to detest women and feel drawn to men, why I pursued medical studies, and what sort of bizarre research I’m conducting in this laboratory. That is, if I just tell you about my past, everything will become clear.”

"I have absolutely no idea where I was born or whose child I am. There was someone who raised me. There was someone who provided my school expenses. But I don't know whether that person was truly my parent or not. At the very least, I cannot believe they ever loved me with parental affection. By the time I became aware of my surroundings, I lived on a remote island in Kii Province—a desolate fishing village with twenty or thirty houses scattered about. Though my home was by far the largest among them, almost castle-like in comparison, it remained a wretched shack in truth. There were people there I called my parents, but no matter how I considered it, I could never believe they were my real parents. They bore no resemblance to me whatsoever—both hideously hunchbacked and deformed individuals who not only showed me no affection but, due to the house's vastness, made it so I hardly ever saw my so-called father's face. Moreover, he maintained terrible strictness—any action of mine inevitably brought scoldings and cruel punishments."

“There was no elementary school on the island, and though regulations required attending a school across the shore over one ri away, nobody actually made that commute. That’s why I never received an elementary education. Instead, there was a kind old manservant at home who taught me the basics of reading and writing through the iroha syllabary. Given such circumstances, I came to find joy in studying—once I could read a little, I devoured every book I could find in the house, and whenever I went into town, I’d buy various books from the bookstore to study.”

At the age of thirteen, I summoned tremendous courage and pleaded with my fearsome father to let me attend school. Because my father recognized that I loved studying and was quite bright, when he heard my earnest plea, he didn't scold me outright but said he would consider it. And after about a month had passed, permission was finally granted. "But it came with a truly bizarre condition." "The first condition was that if I were to attend school at all, I must go to Tokyo and study diligently all the way through university. To that end, I was to stay with an acquaintance in Tokyo to prepare for middle school entrance exams, and if successfully admitted, live exclusively in dormitories and boarding houses thereafter. For me, this was a dream come true of a condition." "They had properly consulted with a man named Matsuyama, an acquaintance in Tokyo, and even received a letter from him agreeing to take me in." "The second condition was that I must not return to my hometown until graduating from university. Though this struck me as somewhat odd, I felt little hardship over it, for I had no lingering attachments to that cold household or my deformed parents." "The third condition was that I must pursue medical studies, though they would specify which field of medicine I should take up when entering university—and if I were to disobey those instructions, they would immediately cease sending tuition funds—a stipulation that, at the time, didn’t strike me as particularly disagreeable."

However, as the years passed, I came to realize that these second and third conditions contained a truly terrifying significance. The second condition—their determination not to let me return home until I graduated university—was undoubtedly because there had been some secret in my household that they didn’t want me, now grown older, to detect. "My house was a building that felt like a dilapidated old castle, with many gloomy rooms that sunlight never reached—it had an atmosphere that somehow seemed suited to eerie tales of karmic fate. Moreover, there were several rooms that were never opened, always secured with heavy locks, so that I had no idea what was inside them." In the garden stood a large storehouse, but this too had never been opened all year round. Even as a child, I had felt strongly enough that some dreadful secret was hidden within this house. "Moreover, that every single one of my family members—aside from the kind old manservant—were physically deformed individuals also made it feel unnervingly eerie." Apart from my hunchbacked parents, there were four or five men and women who might have been servants or dependents, but as if by prior agreement, they were either blind, mute, intellectually disabled children with only two fingers on their hands and feet, or completely boneless individuals who couldn’t even stand upright, like jellyfish. "Combining that with those rooms that were never opened, I was filled with an indescribable, shudder-inducing discomfort." "I think you can understand why I actually welcomed being unable to return to my parents’ side." On my parents’ part as well, they tried to keep me away so that I wouldn’t notice that secret. "I think this was also because I was an unusually sensitive child ill-suited to such a household, which made my parents fearful."

But what was even more terrifying was the third condition. When I successfully entered the university’s medical department, a man named Matsuyama, with whom I had previously lodged, came to my boarding house, saying it was on orders from my father back home. I was taken by that man to a certain restaurant and lectured thoroughly all night long. “Matsuyama had brought a lengthy letter from my father and explained his views based on its contents. To put it simply, I had no need to become a doctor in the ordinary sense to make money, nor was there any necessity for me to gain fame as a scholar.” “Rather, he wanted me to accomplish major research that would contribute to the advancement of surgery.” This was during the immediate aftermath of the Great War in Europe, when astonishing surgical reports were widely circulated—stories of completely restoring mangled soldiers through skin and bone transplants, performing craniotomies for brain operations, even succeeding in partial brain matter replacements. It was at this time that I received orders to conduct research in those very fields. This was because my parents, being unfortunate deformed individuals themselves, felt this necessity all the more acutely—for instance, there was even an amateurish notion mixed in that for those missing hands or legs, instead of prosthetic limbs, transplanting real ones could make them complete human beings.

It wasn’t particularly a bad thing, and since refusing it would have meant my tuition being cut off, I accepted this proposal without a second thought. And so began my cursed research. When I had finished all the basic coursework, I proceeded to animal experiments. I cruelly injured and killed rats, rabbits, dogs, and such. With a sharp scalpel, I mercilessly cut into animals shrieking at the tops of their lungs and writhing in agony. "My research primarily fell under what’s called vivisection." The dissection of living creatures. Through this, I succeeded in creating many deformed animals. A scholar named Hunter transplanted a chicken’s spur onto a bull’s neck, while Algeria’s famous ‘rhinoceros-like rat’ involved grafting a rat’s tail onto its mouth—I conducted various similar experiments. I severed frogs’ legs to graft on others’ limbs, attempted to create two-headed guinea pigs. To perform brain matter replacements—how many rabbits did I needlessly slaughter?

“Research that was supposed to contribute to humanity had conversely become—when viewed from another angle—a means of creating outrageous deformed monstrosities.” “And what terrified me most was how I developed an uncanny fascination with producing these malformed creatures.” “Each successful animal experiment brought another boastful report dispatched to my father.” “Without fail would come his lengthy reply—congratulatory missives spurring me onward.” “After university graduation came Matsuyama again—that same intermediary—bearing funds for this laboratory’s construction along with monthly research stipends.” “Yet through it all he refused even a glimpse of my face.” “Not once did he permit home visits post-graduation; never himself ventured near Tokyo.” “I grew certain this paternal generosity held no trace of affection—only cold calculation.” “‘No,’” “‘It ran deeper.’” “A vision took shape—my father’s grand design—and I trembled.” “‘He fears… no… he dreads being seen by me.’”

There was another reason why I couldn’t regard my parents as parents. It concerned the woman I called my mother—the fact that this grotesquely hunchbacked woman loved me not as her child, but as a man. To speak of this brings not only profound shame but such nauseating revulsion I can scarcely endure it. From just past ten years old, I was ceaselessly tormented by my mother. A ghost-like face would loom over me, licking every inch of my body without restraint. Even now, merely recalling the sensation of those lips makes my hair stand on end. I’d awaken to an itchy discomfort only to find she’d slipped into my futon unnoticed. “Now be a good boy,” she’d whisper while making demands too vile to name here. She forced me to witness every manner of depravity. This unbearable agony persisted for three years. Half my reason for wanting to flee that house lay in this. I’d seen through women’s inherent filth. And with my mother as exemplar, I grew to loathe all women as foul creatures. “I believe what you know of my perverse affections may originate here.”

“And now, you may be surprised to hear this, but my proposal of marriage to Miss Hatsuyo was actually my parents’ orders.” “Before you and Miss Hatsuyo fell in love, I had been ordered to marry the woman called Kizaki Hatsuyo.” “There were letters from my father and, as usual, Matsuyama frequently came like my father’s messenger.” “Even if it’s merely coincidental, it’s a strange fate, isn’t it?” “But as I’ve just explained, while I did despise women, I had absolutely no intention of marrying—so even when threatened with disownment and fund cuts, I managed to evade making any marriage proposals.” “However, before long, I came to understand your relationship with Miss Hatsuyo.” “At that point, I abruptly changed my mind and decided to obey my father’s orders for the purpose of obstructing you.” “I went to Matsuyama’s house, conveyed that decision, and asked him to proceed with the marriage arrangements.” “As for what happened after that, you already know the rest.”

“If I tell you just these facts now, you might be able to draw some terrifying conclusions from them. With only the materials we currently possess, it wouldn’t be impossible to piece together a rough line of reasoning, however indistinct. But until yesterday when I read those twins’ diaries, and until I heard from you about the scenery from Miss Hatsuyo’s childhood memories, even I didn’t have the capacity for such dark conjecture. Ah, it’s a terrifying thing. The desolate coastal scenery you depicted for me yesterday—what a devastating blow it was to me. You, that castle-like house on the coast is undoubtedly the accursed place where I was raised until the age of thirteen.”

“For it to be a misunderstanding or mere coincidence, the scenery seen by three people matches up far too perfectly, don’t you think? Miss Hatsuyo saw a cape shaped like a sleeping cow. She saw an abandoned house like a castle. She saw a large storehouse with peeling walls. The twins also saw the cape shaped like a cow. And they lived in a large storehouse. Both perfectly matched the scenery of the house where I grew up. However, these three share a mysterious connection in another regard. Given that he forced me to marry Miss Hatsuyo, my father must have known her. Considering that Mr. Miyamaki, who investigated Miss Hatsuyo’s murderer, possessed the twins’ diary, there must be some connection—whether direct or indirect—between Miss Hatsuyo’s case and the twins. Moreover, there’s no other conclusion but that those twins were living in my father’s house. In other words, the three of us—though since one of them is twins, strictly speaking it would be four—are nothing but pitiful puppets manipulated by invisible demonic hands. And if I were to make a terrifying conjecture, the owner of those demonic hands might very well be none other than the man I call my father.”

Moroto said this and turned around furtively, his face filled with terror like a child hearing a ghost story. I still couldn't fully comprehend what dreadful matter his so-called conclusion involved, but from Moroto's utterly bizarre personal history and the peculiar expression on his face as he spoke, I sensed an otherworldly malevolence that defied all reason. Though it was a clear summer noon, I shuddered with cold and felt goosebumps rising across my entire body.

The Demon's True Identity

Moroto continued speaking. Between the sweltering day and this unnatural agitation, I was drenched from head to toe in oily sweat.

“You, can you imagine what bizarre state of mind I’m in right now? This father of mine—he might be a murderer. Moreover, he’s a murderer two or three times over. Ha ha ha ha ha! Does such an absurd thing truly exist in this world?”

Moroto laughed like a madman.

"But I still don't fully understand—that might merely be your imagination."

It wasn’t to console him—I simply couldn’t bring myself to believe what Moroto was saying.

“It may be speculation, but there’s no other way to consider it. Why did my father try to make me marry Miss Hatsuyo? It’s because Miss Hatsuyo’s belongings would become mine as her husband. In other words, that family register would become his own child’s possession. But that’s not all. One can make even darker conjectures. Father wasn’t satisfied with merely obtaining the ciphertext on the family register’s inside cover. If that ciphertext indicated the treasure’s location, even having acquired it meant nothing while Miss Hatsuyo—the true owner—still lived. She could always discover its meaning and reclaim it through some means. Therefore, by making Miss Hatsuyo and me marry, that risk would vanish entirely. The treasure and its ownership would become the property of my father’s house. Isn’t that precisely how he must have reasoned? There’s no other way to interpret that fervent marriage campaign except through such logic.”

"But how did he know Miss Hatsuyo possessed such a cipher?" "That remains a gap in our understanding. But considering the coastal scenery from Miss Hatsuyo's memories, there's an undeniable fateful bond between my family and her. It's possible my father knew Miss Hatsuyo in her childhood. Given she was abandoned in Osaka at age three, he likely remained unaware of her whereabouts until recently. With that context, his knowledge of her holding the cipher text wouldn't be unreasonable at all."

“Now listen well. Then he exhausted every means in that marriage campaign. Though he could persuade the mother, getting Miss Hatsuyo herself to consent proved impossible. Because Miss Hatsuyo had devoted both body and soul to you. Once that became clear, she was soon killed. At the same time, her handbag was stolen. Why? Was there something else important in that handbag? Who would commit murder through such elaborate means just to steal a month’s wages? The true objective lay in the family register. It lay in the cipher text hidden inside. And since the marriage campaign had failed, this was a deeply calculated crime to eliminate Miss Hatsuyo—who would’ve become a seed of future disaster.”

As I listened, I could no longer help believing Moroto's interpretation. And imagining what it must be like for Moroto to have such a father, I found myself at a loss for how to console him, even afraid to speak.

Moroto continued talking frantically, like a man in the throes of a fever.

“The murder of Mr. Miyamaki was another link in the same chain of evil deeds. Mr. Miyamaki possessed formidable detective talents. Not only had that renowned detective obtained the family register, but he had even come all the way to a solitary island at the very edge of Kishū. He could no longer leave it be. To obstruct the detective’s progress and to obtain the family register, he could not let Mr. Miyamaki live. The criminal (Ah, that’s my old man) must have naturally thought in this way. Therefore, after waiting for Mr. Miyamaki to withdraw to Kamakura, he committed the second murder using exactly the same ingenious method as in Miss Hatsuyo’s case—right in the middle of a crowd in broad daylight. Why wasn’t he killed while on the island? Couldn’t it be considered that it was because my father was in Tokyo? Minoura-kun, my father—he might have been hiding somewhere in Tokyo all this time without telling me a single thing.”

No sooner had Moroto said this than he suddenly seemed to notice something. He stood up and went to the window, surveying the plantings outside as though his father might be crouching in the thicket right before his eyes. Yet in the dimly overcast midsummer garden, not a single leaf stirred—even the usually raucous cicadas lay silent as death. “As for why I think such things—” Moroto continued while returning to his seat, “you told me you encountered a hunched old man on your way here the night Tomonosuke was killed. Moreover, you said that man entered through my house’s gate. Therefore, that old man might be Tomonosuke’s killer. My father is quite advanced in years—his back may well be bent. Even disregarding age, given his severe kyphosis, he might appear eighty when walking, just as you described. If that old man was indeed him, couldn’t we conclude my father had been lurking in Tokyo since loitering near Miss Hatsuyo’s house?”

Moroto’s eyes darted about restlessly, as if seeking salvation, before he suddenly fell silent. I too, though it seemed I had an overwhelming number of things I should say, found myself unable to summon the words to begin and sullenly fell silent. A long silence continued.

“I’ve made my decision.” After steeling himself, Moroto said in a low voice. “I thought it through all last night and reached my conclusion. I intend to return to my homeland once—for the first time in over a decade. My homeland is a desolate little island off the coast about five ri west from a port called K at the southern tip of Wakayama Prefecture—colloquially known as Iwaya Island—where scarcely anyone lives anymore. This is the same isolated island where Miss Hatsuyo once resided and where those mysterious twins are currently confined. (According to legend, that place was once the base of Wako pirates. The reason I suspected the cipher text might indicate a treasure’s hiding place was precisely because of such legends.) Though it is my parents’ home, in truth, I had resolved never to return there again. Just imagining that dim, ruin-like mansion fills me with an indescribable sensation—lonely yet terrifying—no, an utterly repulsive feeling. But I intend to return there.”

Moroto said with a grave expression of resolve.

“In my current state of mind, there’s no path forward but this.” “I can’t stay still for even a single day while carrying this dreadful suspicion.” “I’ve been waiting for Father to return to the island—though he may have long since returned—but I must meet him and stake everything on this confrontation.” But how terrifying to consider—if my imaginings prove true, and Father is that cruel, merciless murderer... Ah, what should I do then? “I was born a murderer’s child, raised by a murderer, educated with a murderer’s money, living in a house built by murder.” Yes—if Father is confirmed as the culprit, I’ll persuade him to surrender himself. No matter what it takes, I’ll defeat him. If that fails, I’ll destroy everything. I’ll eradicate this tainted bloodline. If I must perish together with my hunchbacked father to end this, so be it.

But before that, there was something I had to do—find the rightful owner of the family register. Since three lives had already been lost over its cipher text, it must contain something of immense value. I felt obligated to deliver it to Miss Hatsuyo's blood relatives. If only to atone for Father's sins, I bore responsibility for discovering her true kin and securing their happiness. Once I returned to Iwaya Island, I should be able to find some leads. In any case, I'd resolved to leave Tokyo by tomorrow at the latest. "Minoura-kun, what do you think?" I asked. "Perhaps I'm getting too carried away. Could you evaluate my plan with that calm outsider's perspective of yours?"

Moroto had called me a "calm outsider," but calm was the last thing I could claim to be. With my weak nerves, I was in fact far more agitated than Moroto himself.

As I listened to Moroto's uncanny confession—sympathizing with him even as I did so—the resentment of having the one thing in all the world stolen from me swirled like flames in my breast: the vivid recollection of my lover's pitiful end at the hands of Hatsuyo's enemy, whose true nature was gradually being revealed—an agony I had temporarily lost track of amidst other affairs.

I had not forgotten how, on the day of Hatsuyo's bone-gathering, I had devoured her ashes in the field beside the crematorium, rolled about in anguish, and sworn revenge. If Moroto's deduction proved correct—if his father was indeed the true culprit—I would not rest until I first made that bastard taste every ounce of the world-shattering grief I had endured, then devoured his flesh and gouged out his bones.

Considering it all, Moroto—who had a murderer for a father—was caught in a karmic fate, but realizing that my lover's enemy was the father of a close friend, and moreover that this friend harbored an attachment and affection toward me beyond ordinary friendship—my own position in this matter was truly uncanny.

“Please take me with you. Even if I get fired from the company, I couldn’t care less. I’ll manage the travel expenses somehow, so please take me with you.”

I impulsively cried out. "So you agree my reasoning isn't mistaken," Moroto said. "But for what purpose do you intend to go?" Moroto was too preoccupied with himself to spare even a moment considering my feelings. "For the same reason as you," I answered. "To confirm Miss Hatsuyo's enemy. And to find her relatives and deliver the family register." "So if it turns out Miss Hatsuyo's enemy is my father," Moroto pressed, "what do you plan to do?"

Faced with this question, I was startled and perplexed. But I hate telling lies. Resolutely, I laid bare my true feelings. "If that comes to pass, I must part ways with you." "And then…" “Are you saying you want to carry out some old-fashioned revenge?” "I haven't thought it through clearly, but in my current state of mind, I wouldn't be satisfied even if I devoured that bastard's flesh." When Moroto heard this, he fell silent and stared at me with terrifying intensity, but then his expression suddenly softened as he adopted a cheerful tone and spoke.

“Right, let’s go together. If my conjecture proves correct, I would effectively be the child of your enemy. Even if not, the shame of having you see my family—creatures no different from beasts—would be unbearable. But if you’ll allow it... I feel not a shred of familial love for my father or mother. Rather, I harbor such hatred that when the time comes, I would fight by your side without hesitation. For you and the Miss Hatsuyo you loved, I would spare neither my family nor stake even my own life. Minoura-kun, let us go together. And joining our strength, let us uncover the island’s secrets.”

Moroto said this and blinked rapidly, then grasped my hand in an awkward gesture reminiscent of the old custom of sworn brotherhood, his fingertips pressing down with force as he reddened around the eyes like a child.

And so, in this manner, we were finally to depart for a solitary island at the edge of Kishū, Moroto's homeland—but here I must briefly add something.

Though Moroto did not voice it at the time, when later considered, his hatred for his father held a far deeper meaning. It was a matter more terrifying and abhorrent than any crime. It was the work of demons—not of humans but beasts, unimaginable in this world, only conceivable in hell. Moroto, as might be expected, feared touching on that point. But my feeble mind at that time—utterly exhausted by the bloody matter of this triple homicide alone—had no capacity left to consider further atrocities. Oddly, I failed to notice what should have been obvious when synthesizing all preceding circumstances.

Iwaya Island Once our discussion had concluded, our foremost concern was the family register and the twins’ diary that we had hidden inside the frame on the second floor of the Western-style restaurant in Kanda. “Whether it’s the diary or the family register, it’s extremely dangerous for us to keep them." “As long as we memorize the cipher text, the other items hold no particular value. All the more reason to burn both of them.” Moroto proposed this opinion in the automobile heading to Kanda. I was also naturally in agreement.

But when we went up to the second floor of the Western-style restaurant and reached into the tear in the remembered frame to search inside, somehow it was completely empty, with no resistance meeting my fingers. Even when we asked the people downstairs, no one knew. They answered that not a single person had entered that room since two days prior.

“We’ve been had. That bastard hasn’t taken his eyes off our every move for a single moment. Even though we were so careful…” Moroto remarked in admiration of the thief’s skill. “But if the cipher text falls into enemy hands, we can’t afford to delay even a moment.” “We’ve finally settled on departing tomorrow. Now that things have come to this, there’s no other means left but for us to take the initiative and confront them head-on.”

The very next day—that unforgettable 29th of July, 1925—with our traveling provisions kept light, we set out toward a solitary island in the southern seas, embarking on a most extraordinary journey. Moroto simply left word that he was going on a trip, entrusting his house to his student lodger and old maidservant, while I took leave from my company—having obtained my family’s consent under the pretext of accompanying a friend returning home to the countryside to cure my neurasthenia. It was precisely the end of July, just before summer vacation, so neither my family nor the people at the company found my request particularly suspicious.

"Accompanying a friend returning home" In truth, this was exactly the case. But what a peculiar homecoming this proved to be. Moroto was journeying back to his father's domain. Yet not to behold his father's visage. He went to sit in judgment upon his father's sins and wage war against his sire.

To Toba in Shishū by train; from Toba to Port K in Kii by regular ferry; beyond that, one could only rely on local fishermen to cross, as there were no available ships. Though called a regular ferry service, while splendid 3,000-ton class vessels operate today, those of that time were dilapidated 200- or 300-ton steamers with few passengers. Once we left Toba, there arose an unnameable feeling of being in foreign lands that made one feel terribly forlorn. After being rocked for a full day aboard that decrepit steamship, we finally reached K Port—itself no more than a bleak fishing village—only to then spend nearly half a day traversing five ri along uninhabited cliff-lined shores in a fishermen's boat whose crew we could scarcely communicate with, until at last arriving at Iwaya Island.

Without incident along the way, we landed at the intermediate port K around noon on July 31st. The pier served as the fish market's unloading area, where torpedo-shaped bonito and half-rotten sharks with entrails protruding lay scattered about, the briny scent of the shore and the stench of decaying flesh assaulting our nostrils. At the top of the pier stood a shabby house with a sign advertising inn meals, its storefront conspicuously marked by paper shoji screens. We first entered the place and, using only the freshest ingredients, had a lunch of bonito sashimi while securing the wife's attention to request her help in arranging passage and inquire about conditions on Iwaya Island.

“Iwaya Island, eh? Though it’s nearby, I’ve never been there myself—they say it’s an eerie place. If you exclude the Moroto estate, do you think there’s even six or seven fishermen’s houses there? Nothing to see but rocks—just a lonely little island, I tell you.” The wife spoke these words in her thick dialect. “Have you heard any rumors about the master of the Moroto estate going to Tokyo recently?” “Can’t say I have. If that hunchback from the Moroto estate boarded a steamship from here, they’d notice right quick—hardly ever let anything slip by, I tell you. But seein’ as how the hunchback’s got himself a sailboat there, he could’ve docked wherever he pleased and gone off to Tokyo without us knowin’ a thing. You folks know the Moroto estate’s master?”

“No, that’s not exactly why, but I’d like to go see Iwaya Island.” “I wonder if there’s anyone who could take us by boat over there?” “Well, the weather’s right fine, but ’fraid all the boats’re out fishin’.” However, because we kept insisting, they scoured the area and finally secured an elderly fisherman for us. After haggling over the fare, it took a good hour before everything was ready with a “Come aboard now”—such were the leisurely ways of country life.

The boat was a small fishing vessel called Chōro, just barely large enough for two people. “Is this boat really safe?” I pressed. The old fisherman laughed and said, “No need to fret.” The coastal scenery resembled that of any peninsula—sheer cliffs rising sharply, their upper edges bordered by thick forests, giving the impression that mountains met sea abruptly. Though fortunately the sea lay calm, the cliff bases appeared white with foam across their entire stretch. Strange rocks riddled with womb-like passageways towered here and there.

Since we needed to reach the island before nightfall—for tonight would be moonless—the old fisherman accelerated our boat’s speed, but as we rounded one massively protruding cape, the bizarre form of Iwaya Island materialized before our eyes.

The entire island appeared to be made of rock, with only a scant hint of blue visible; the shores were all sheer cliffs several fathoms high, making one wonder if anyone could possibly live on such an island.

As we drew closer, several houses came into view, scattered here and there atop those cliffs. At one end stood a large roof that somehow evoked a castle keep, and beside it, something gleaming white appeared to be the Moroto estate's storehouse in question. The boat soon reached the island's shore, but to enter a safe landing spot, it had to proceed along the cliff for some time. In the meantime, there was one spot where the base of the cliff—likely eroded by seawater—formed a pitch-black cave of unknowable depth. The boat was advancing about half a chō offshore from the cave when the old fisherman pointed at it and remarked.

“The folks around here call that cave area the Demon’s Abyss, I tell ya. Since olden times, people’ve been gettin’ swallowed there now and again, so they say it’s cursed or some such, and us fishermen keep clear of it outta fear.” “Is there a whirlpool there?” “It ain’t exactly a whirlpool, but there’s somethin’ there, I tell ya. The most recent was about ten years back, I tell ya, when somethin’ like this happened.” Having said that, the old fisherman proceeded to tell the following strange tale.

This was not the old fisherman's own account, but rather an eyewitness story from another fisherman he knew. One day, a shabby-looking man with bulging eyes appeared nonchalantly at Port K and made the crossing to Iwaya Island, exactly as we were doing now. The one who had been asked to ferry him at that time was that fisherman. Four or five days later, as the same fisherman was returning from night fishing during the pale light of dawn, he happened to pass before Iwaya Island’s cave. It was precisely ebb tide, and with each gentle morning wave lapping at the entrance, seaweed and debris trickled outward from within. Mixed among them was some large white object undulating faintly, and when he peered closer thinking it might be a shark’s carcass, to his shock he realized it was a drowned human corpse. The entire body remained inside the hole, its head slowly oozing out with each retreating wave.

The fisherman immediately rowed his boat closer and rescued the gentleman, but to his second shock upon rescuing him, the drowned body was unmistakably that of the traveler whom he had ferried from Port K just days before. It was assumed he had likely jumped from the cliff to commit suicide, and so the matter was left at that, but according to the elders’ tales, this cave had been a cursed spot since ancient times, and in every case, drowned bodies would be found half inside the cave, precisely as if flowing out from its depths. There was nothing so uncanny as this; there was even a legend that some demonic entity likely dwelled within the unfathomable cave depths, craving human sacrifices, and it was said that the name "Demon’s Abyss" probably originated from such tales.

The old fisherman finished his tale,

“That’s why I tell ya, I’m takin’ this roundabout way to keep clear o’ that hole as much as I can. You sirs best take care not to get yourselves snatched by demons now, I tell ya.”

and gave an eerie warning. But we casually dismissed it. At the time, we never could have imagined that there would come a day later when remembering this old fisherman’s tale would startle us so.

While we were talking, the boat entered a small inlet at one corner of the island. Only in that section had the shore lowered to about six feet, where stone steps carved into natural rock formed a nominal landing. Looking closer, inside the inlet was moored a fifty-ton sailing ship resembling a cargo ship captain’s vessel, while outside two or three grimy small boats could be seen—but not a single person was in sight.

After landing, we sent the old fisherman back and proceeded to climb the meandering slope, our hearts pounding with a peculiar sensation. When we reached the top, our field of vision opened up to reveal a vast, rocky path encircling the central mountain of the island, stretching endlessly into the distance where scarcely any grass grew. Beyond, that castle-like Moroto estate loomed in utter ruin. "Indeed, from here, that cape over there appears exactly like a sleeping cow."

When I turned to look in that direction as prompted, the edge of the cape we had just sailed around did indeed appear exactly like the shape of a sleeping cow. Recalling that Miss Hatsuyo had once mentioned she used to babysit and play with a baby around here, I was overcome by a peculiar feeling.

By that time, the entire island was already enveloped in evening dusk, and the white walls of the Moroto estate's storehouse were gradually fading into a grayish hue.

It was an indescribable loneliness. "It's like a deserted island." When I said this, "That's right." "It's become even more desolate and dreadful than I remember from my childhood." "It's amazing people could have lived in such a place." Moroto answered. We walked crunching gravel underfoot toward the Moroto estate when after proceeding a short distance we discovered something strange. An ancient decrepit old man sat at the edge of the twilight-cloaked cliffside staring into the distance as motionless as a stone statue.

We involuntarily came to a halt and stared at the bizarre figure. Then, perhaps having noticed our footsteps, the old man—who had been gazing out to sea—slowly, ever so slowly twisted his neck around to look back at us. And when the old man's gaze reached Moroto's face, it stopped there and ceased moving. The old man stared at Moroto endlessly and endlessly, as if to bore a hole through him with his gaze. “Strange. Who could that be? I can’t recall. He must be someone who knows me.”

After coming about a block this way, Moroto turned back toward the old man and said. "He didn't seem to be a hunchback."

I timidly ventured to say that. “Are you talking about my father? No matter how many years pass, I wouldn’t forget my father. Hahahaha.” Moroto laughed low in an ironic tone.

Moroto Estate

As we drew closer, the state of ruin at the Moroto estate appeared even more severe. Crumbling earthen walls, a rotted gate—upon passing through these, there was no boundary to speak of, and the backyard came immediately into view. But to our great astonishment, the garden had been dug up across its entire expanse as if plowed, with what few trees there were either toppled or torn out by their roots and cast aside, creating a scene too appalling to behold. That made the entire estate appear even more desolate than it actually was.

Standing before the entrance that looked like a monster’s pitch-black mouth, we requested guidance, but there was no response for some time; however, after repeatedly calling out, an old woman came shuffling unsteadily from deep within.

It may have been due to the dim twilight, but never in my life had I seen such a grotesque old woman. She was short, so corpulent that her flesh sagged, and moreover a hunchback with a hill-like lump on her back. As for her face—within the wrinkled persimmon-tanned skin, tadpole-shaped bulging eyes protruded, and with her lips appearing misshapen, long yellow jagged teeth were perpetually exposed. Yet she seemed to have not a single upper tooth, and when she closed her mouth, her face would shrink eerily like a paper lantern.

“Who’re you?” The old woman peered at us and asked in an angry-sounding voice. “It’s me. “It’s Michio.” When Moroto thrust his face forward for her to see, the old woman stared intently, but upon recognizing him, she started in surprise and let out a shrill voice. “Oh, Michio? “Well, you’ve actually come back.” “I thought you’d never come back in my lifetime.” “And who’s the person there?” “This is my friend.” “Since I wanted to see how the house was doing after so long, I came all this way with my friend. Where is Mr. Jougouro?”

“Well now, you calling him ‘Mr. Jougouro’...” “It’s Papa, isn’t it?” “You should call him ‘Papa’.”

This grotesque old woman was Moroto's mother. As I listened to their conversation, I found it strange that Moroto had referred to his father as Jougouro, but there was something even more peculiar. What struck me was how she had said "Papa." That tone—whether imagined or not—bore an uncanny resemblance to how the acrobat boy Tomonosuke had cried "Papa" moments before dying. “Papa’s here,” she said. “But mind you—he’s been in a foul mood lately. Best watch yourself.” She waved us forward. “Well now, don’t just stand there gaping. Come inside.”

We were led through a musty, pitch-dark corridor that wound several times before arriving at a certain large room. Though the exterior lay in ruins, the interior had been neatly maintained—yet despite this, it still couldn’t shake off the aura of a ruin. The room faced the garden, and through the dusk I could dimly make out the broad backyard along with a portion of that storehouse’s peeling white walls, but across the garden, the mercilessly excavated patches remained starkly visible.

After a short while, an eerie presence manifested at the room’s entrance, and Moroto’s father—the grotesque old man—suddenly appeared. He moved through the completely darkened room like a shadow, turned his back to the large alcove, and settled down to sit when suddenly— “Michio, why have you come back?” he said reproachfully. After that, the mother entered, took out an andon lamp from the corner of the room, placed it between the old man and us, and lit it. In the reddish-brown light, the figure of the grotesque old man appeared sinister and monstrous like an owl. The hunchbacked stature matched his mother’s exactly, yet his face alone was abnormally large—covered in wrinkles that spread like a nursery web spider’s legs across its surface—and his grotesque upper lip, split down the middle like a rabbit’s, left such a profound impression that one could never forget it after a single glance.

“Because I wanted to see the house once.” Moroto answered as he had told his mother earlier and introduced me beside him. “Hmph. So you’ve torn up our agreement then.” “That’s not the case, but there was something I absolutely needed to ask you.” “Is that so? Truth is, I’ve got things to say to you myself too. Enough—stay here. To tell it plain, I wanted a look at your grown-up face myself.”

Though my abilities fell short of capturing the essence of that moment, this parent-child reunion after over a decade was, in broad strokes, a truly grotesque spectacle. Not only physically but mentally as well, they seemed twisted in some way; their speech, gestures, even what should have passed for parental affection—everything appeared utterly different from ordinary people.

In that grotesque state, this strange parent and child continued talking sporadically for about an hour. Of those, what remains in my memory even now are the following two exchanges. "Have you undertaken a trip somewhere recently?"

Moroto brought up that point at some juncture and said. “Nah… I ain’t been nowhere.” “Hey now—O-Taka.”

The old man turned toward his mother, who was beside him, to seek assistance. Perhaps it was my imagination, but at that moment, the old man’s eyes seemed to glint with a certain intent. “In Tokyo, you know, I saw someone who looked exactly like you. Perhaps you went to Tokyo secretly without informing me.”

“That’s ridiculous! How could I go traipsing off to Tokyo at my age with this useless body?” Yet I couldn’t overlook how the old man’s eyes grew bloodshot as he spoke, his forehead clouding leaden-gray. Moroto refrained from pressing further and shifted topics, but after a pause ventured another crucial question. “The garden’s been dug up—what’s the meaning of this?” The old man froze at this ambush, struck dumb for an interminable span before—

“Oh, this? Well, O-Taka, it’s Rokume’s doing.” “As you well know, we keep these pitiful half-people in the house, and among them there’s this lunatic called Rokume.” “That Rokume went and turned the garden into this state for some reason.” “Since it’s a lunatic’s doing, we can’t exactly scold them, you see,” he answered. To me, that could only be seen as a strained, made-up excuse.

That night, we had bedding arranged in the same room and lay down side by side to sleep. However, both of us found sleep elusive due to our agitation. Yet we couldn't speak carelessly either, so we lay there in tense silence, but as our minds attuned to the quiet night, from somewhere in the vast, slumbering mansion came the faint, eerie sound of human voices—intermittent yet persistent. "Uuuuuu..." It was a thin, high-pitched moan. I wondered if someone was moaning in a nightmare, but it was strange how it kept going on endlessly.

In the dim light of the andon lamp, exchanging glances with Moroto as we strained our ears in silence, I suddenly recalled those pitiful twins said to be confined in the storehouse. And then, I couldn't help but shudder involuntarily, wondering if those voices might be recounting the utterly gruesome struggle of a man and woman sharing a single body.

As dawn approached, dozing off only to suddenly awake and find Moroto not on the futon beside me, I panicked at the thought of having overslept, sprang up, and went out into the corridor to look for the washroom.

As I, unfamiliar with the layout, fumbled through the vast house, O-Taka suddenly darted out from a corridor corner and stood blocking my path. The suspicious crippled old woman seemed to have suspected I might be snooping around the house. But when I asked for the washroom, she finally appeared relieved and said, “Ah, if that’s all…,” leading me through the back entrance to the well. After washing my face, I suddenly recalled last night’s moans and their connection to the twins in the storehouse, feeling compelled to see the window outside the wall that Mr. Miyamaki had once peered into. With any luck, the twins might be at that window.

Under the pretense of a morning stroll, I nonchalantly slipped out of the estate and followed the earthen wall around to the rear. Outside was a rugged path of large stones, giving the impression of a scorched plain with nothing but sparse weeds and no proper trees to speak of. Yet midway between the main gate and the rear of the storehouse, there existed a single spot—like a desert oasis—where trees grew thickly in a circular cluster. Parting the branches and peering through, at its center lay what appeared to be an old well—a moss-covered stone well frame. Though no longer in use, it was an overly splendid well for this lonely isolated island. In the past, there may have been another estate here outside the Moroto residence.

Be that as it may, I soon reached right beneath the storehouse in question. There was naturally an earthen wall, but since the storehouse stood flush against it, one could see it from outside at extremely close range. Just as expected, there was a small window on the second floor of the storehouse facing the rear. Up to where the iron bars were installed, it matched exactly what had been described in that diary. With my heart pounding, I gazed up at that window and stood there with patient determination. On the peeling white wall, the morning sun blazed crimson, while the open sea's scent drifted gently to my nose. Everything felt so bright that I simply couldn't believe this storehouse could harbor the infamous monster.

But I saw. After watching askance for some time, when I suddenly looked back properly, there they were—two torsos from the chest up behind the window bars, their faces aligned side by side, four hands gripping the iron rods. One face belonged to a bluish-black man with protruding cheekbones and ugliness incarnate; the other, though devoid of ruddiness, was that of a young woman with skin of fine-grained alabaster. When the girl's fully widened eyes squarely met my upturned gaze, she displayed an unearthly expression of shame—unlike anything belonging to this world—and drew her head back as if to hide.

But at the same time—what was this? I, too, abruptly flushed and involuntarily averted my eyes. Foolishly, I was struck by the uncanny beauty of the twin girl, and my heart leapt in spite of myself.

Three days. If Moroto's conjecture held true, his father Jogoro was a demon made doubly monstrous by his physical deformity. He stood unparalleled among history's vilest villains. For realizing his wicked ambitions, he could spare no thought for sentimental trifles like familial affection. Moreover—as had been repeatedly stated—Moroto Michio never regarded this man as a father. He sought nothing less than to expose his father's sins. That such an unnatural parent and child had shared a roof made their dreadful rupture not just inevitable, but cosmically just.

The peaceful days lasted a mere three days after we arrived on the island. On the fourth day, Moroto and I had reached a state where we could no longer even speak to each other. And on that very same day, two residents of Iwajima Island fell victim to the curse of a demon, and a tragedy even occurred where they vanished like sea foam in the man-eating cave of the Demon’s Abyss. But even during those three peaceful and uneventful days, it was not that there were no events worth recording.

One of them concerned the twins in the storehouse. As recorded in the previous chapter, on the morning after my first night at the Moroto residence, I glimpsed the twins at the storehouse window and was struck by the beauty of the female one—that is, Shu-chan from the diary. Yet even if this disabled girl's loveliness had been accentuated by such a bizarre environment, there was something extraordinary in how intensely that fleeting glimpse had gripped my heart—a sensation that felt like no ordinary matter.

As the reader knows, I had devoted all my love to the late Kizaki Hatsuyo. I would have even consumed her ashes. And wasn't my very reason for coming to this Iwajima Island with Moroto solely to confirm Hatsuyo's enemy? Yet I - who had only glimpsed her once - found myself struck by the beauty of that ill-fated disabled girl. To say I was struck by her beauty meant I had felt love. It meant I yearned for her. Yes, I confess - I had fallen in love with the disabled girl Shu-chan. Ah, how utterly pathetic. Hadn't I sworn revenge for Hatsuyo as if it were yesterday? Aren't you here on this isolated island right now to fulfill that vow? And yet before even properly arriving, I - of all people - had fallen for a disabled girl beyond human bounds. I hadn't known. At that moment I burned with shame, thinking: Was I truly such a contemptible man?

However shameful it may be, a heart in love is an undeniable truth. Finding any excuse and rationalizing with myself, whenever an opportunity arose, I would quietly slip out of the estate and circle around to the back of that storehouse.

However, when I went there for the second time—which was on the evening of the day I had first glimpsed Shu-chan—an even more troubling matter occurred. This was because I realized that Shu-chan herself had developed an extraordinary fondness for me. What a cruel twist of fate. In the dusky haze, the storehouse window gaped open like a black maw. I stood beneath it, patiently waiting for the girl's face to appear. But even after endless waiting showed no shadow in that dark opening, my frustration made me whistle like some delinquent youth. Then—as if someone lying prone had suddenly leapt up—Shu-chan's faintly pale face peeked out for an instant, only to be yanked back as though pulled by invisible strings. Though it lasted but a heartbeat, I clearly saw her face turn toward me with a sweet smile. And when I imagined Kichi-chan burning with jealousy to keep Shu-chan from looking out, I felt an oddly ticklish embarrassment.

Even after Shu-chan's face had withdrawn, I could not bring myself to leave that spot, lingeringly staring up at the same window—when after a while, a white object came flying out from the window straight toward me. It was a paper pellet. I picked up what had fallen at my feet and, upon opening it, found the following pencil-written letter.

Please tell the person who opened the book about me, and please get me out of here. Since you are beautiful and clever, please help me properly.

Though the handwriting was nearly illegible, I read it over repeatedly until I finally grasped its meaning. The blunt phrase "You are beautiful" startled me. Even considering what we knew from the diary entries, Shu-chan's notion of beauty seemed different from ours—not necessarily improper—yet deciphering those words still made me blush alone. Over the three days before discovering something truly unexpected at that same storehouse window, I visited five or six times (the effort required for those few outings!) to meet Shu-chan in secret. Fearful of alerting the household, we avoided verbal communication but gradually mastered an intricate language of eye signals with each encounter. Soon we could conduct remarkably nuanced conversations through glances alone. Though her penmanship remained crude and her worldly knowledge limited, I came to understand Shu-chan possessed extraordinary innate intelligence.

Through our eye conversations, I came to understand just how terribly Kichi-chan was making Shu-chan suffer. Ever since I began appearing there, he seemed to burn with jealousy and treat her even more cruelly. Shu-chan pleaded with me about it using her eyes and gestures. There were times when Kichi-chan would push Shu-chan aside, and his bluish-black, ugly face would glare at me with terrifying eyes for a long time. I still cannot forget the unpleasant expression on that face—a beast-like, unparalleled ugliness born of resentment, jealousy, ignorance, and filth. It stared at me as if engaged in a glaring contest, unblinking and with relentless intensity.

The fact that one of the twins was a hideous beast deepened my pity for Shu-chan even more. Day by day, I could do nothing about growing fonder of this disabled girl. To me, it somehow felt like a cursed pact from a past life. Every time our eyes met, Shu-chan would plead with me to rescue her quickly. Though I had no real plan, I patted my chest and said, “It’s alright, it’s alright—I’ll save you soon, so please hold on a little longer,” trying to reassure the pitiful Shu-chan.

The Moroto residence had several unopened rooms. Needless to say, the storehouse was one such place, but there were also other rooms here and there with old-fashioned locks on their plank doors. Since Moroto’s mother and male servants were discreetly yet constantly keeping watch over our movements, we could not freely roam about the house; however, on one occasion, I pretended to have taken a wrong corridor and stealthily ventured deeper inside, managing to confirm the existence of unopened rooms. In one room, an eerie groan could be heard. In another room, there was a constant clattering sound as if something were moving. All of those could only be considered as the sounds made by humans imprisoned like animals.

As I loitered in the dimly lit corridor, listening intently, I was assaulted by an indescribably eerie aura. Moroto had said this mansion was crawling with disabled people, but might there not be even more terrifying cripples imprisoned in the unopened rooms—ones surpassing the monster in the storehouse (ah, that monster who has stolen my heart)? Was the Moroto residence a mansion for the disabled? But why would Mr. Jogoro be gathering so many disabled people like that?

During those three days of peace—besides catching glimpses of Shu-chan's face and discovering the unopened rooms—there had been one more change. One day, after Moroto had gone to his father's place and showed no signs of returning, bored by his prolonged absence, I ventured out a little farther and took a walk to the boat dock on the coast.

When I had first come, the evening dusk had prevented me from noticing, but midway along that path at the base of a rocky hill stood a small grove, beyond which came into view a single tiny rundown house. All dwellings on this island stood scattered apart, yet that ramshackle structure felt particularly isolated. Wondering what manner of person might live there, on sudden impulse I strayed from the path and entered into the woods. The building—better called a hut than a house—was so small and dilapidated as to seem wholly unfit for habitation. Perched upon a slight rise, the hut commanded a view encompassing everything: the sea, that familiar cape across the water shaped like a reclining cow, and even the cavern known as Demon’s Abyss. The cliffs of Iwayajima formed complex rugged contours, their most protruding section housing the cave of Demon’s Abyss.

The cave of unknowable depths resembled a monster's black maw, its crashing waves appearing as terrifying fangs. Staring at it, I began imagining eyes and a nose on the cliffs above—features of some demonic creature. To someone like me, born and raised in the capital with no worldly experience, this solitary island in southern waters felt too bizarre, too alien a realm. A remote isle with barely any houses—the Moroto residence like an ancient castle—twins locked in a storehouse—disabled people confined to sealed rooms—the people-devouring Demon's Abyss cavern—to a city-bred child like myself, these could only be elements of some grotesque fairy tale.

Beyond the monotonous sound of waves, the entire island lay in dead silence, with not a soul in sight as far as the eye could see, while the summer sun scorched the whitish pebble path.

At that moment, a cough sounded from extremely close by, shattering my dreamlike reverie. When I turned around, an old man was leaning against the hut window, staring fixedly in my direction.

When I recalled, it was undoubtedly that same mysterious old man—the one who had been crouched on the shore near here on the day we arrived on the island, staring fixedly at Moroto's face.

“You there, are you a guest of the Moroto residence?”

The old man spoke as if he had been waiting for me to turn around. “Yes. I’m a friend of Moroto Michio’s. You know Michio-san, don’t you?”

I wanted to know the old man’s true identity and asked in return. "Of course I know him! Why, I served at the Moroto residence long ago—I even carried Michio-san in my arms and on my back when he was just a little one. You didn’t know that, did you?" "But I’ve grown old myself, you see." "It seems Michio-san has completely forgotten what I look like."

“I see. Then why did you come to the Moroto residence if you’re not going to meet Michio-san? Michio-san would surely be delighted to see you again.” “I want no part of that. No matter how much I want to see Michio-san, I refuse to cross the threshold of that beastly house. You probably aren’t aware,” he continued, “but those Moroto hunchbacks are demons in human skin—downright beasts!” “Is he really such a terrible person? Is he doing something bad?”

“No, no, don’t ask me that. While we’re living on this same island, if anyone speaks carelessly, their life’ll be in danger. When it comes to that hunchbacked one, human lives are naught but dust.” “Just mind your caution now—you’ve a precious body meant for grand things.” “Meddlin’ with some old coot on this lonesome isle... Best keep wary if you want to stay clear o’ harm.” “But Mr. Jogoro and Mr. Michio are father and son, and I being his friend besides—no matter how wicked they say he is, there can’t be any real danger.”

“Nay, ’tisn’t so at all. “Actually, about ten years ago now, there was a similar incident.” “That person too came all the way from the capital to visit the Moroto residence.” “From what I heard, he was said to be Jogoro’s cousin or some such relation—a man with his whole life ahead of him, still young. Pitifully, he was found... floated up as a corpse to that place called Demon’s Abyss beside the cave.” “I won’t say it was Mr. Jogoro’s doing.” “But mind you, he stayed at the Moroto residence. Not a soul ever saw him stepping outside the mansion or boarding a boat.” “Do you understand now?” There was no mistake in what the old man said. “You’d best be careful.”

The old man continued to earnestly expound on the terrors of the Moroto residence, his tone implying without directly stating that we too would meet the same fate as Jogoro’s cousin from over a decade ago—that we must beware. While part of me dismissed such an absurd notion as impossible, another part—knowing all too well about the triple murders in the capital—couldn’t shake a dreadful premonition that this old man’s ominous words might prove prophetic. My vision darkened, and a shudder ran through me.

Now, as for what Moroto Michio had been doing during those three days—though we slept side by side each night, he remained strangely silent. Perhaps the torment in his heart had been too raw to put into words. During daylight hours too, he would separate from me and spend entire days in some room, seemingly locked in a staring contest with his hunchbacked father. Each time he concluded these lengthy discussions and returned to our room, his gaunt emaciation became visible—a pallid face where only the eyes remained bloodshot. Then he would fall utterly silent; no matter what I asked, he never gave a proper reply.

But on the third night, perhaps finally unable to endure it any longer, he blurted out these words while rolling restlessly atop his futon like a petulant child.

“Ah, how terrifying,” Moroto gasped. “What I kept thinking couldn’t be... it’s all true. It’s really over now.” “Then it’s exactly as we’d suspected,” I murmured in response.

I lowered my voice and asked. "That's right," he said. "And there were even more terrible things." Moroto twisted his ashen face and spoke mournfully. I pressed him about these so-called 'even more terrible things,' but he refused to elaborate further. Then: "Tomorrow I'll refuse outright. That will make everything explode. Minoura-kun, I'm your ally. Let's combine our strength to fight the demon. Come on, let's fight."

Having said that, he reached out and gripped my wrist. But in stark contrast to his brave words, how utterly wretched he looked! It’s no wonder—he was calling his own father a demon and preparing to fight him as an enemy. Of course he looked emaciated. Of course he looked pale. I had no words of comfort, barely squeezing his hand back in return—substituting that gesture for a thousand unspoken words.

Body Double

The next day, the terrible ruin finally arrived.

In the afternoon, after finishing my meal alone with service from the mute maid—this being Otoshi-san mentioned in Shu-chan's diary—and since Moroto had not returned from his father's room, leaving me utterly despondent even when lost in thought, I went out for a post-meal stroll that doubled as another visit to the storehouse's rear to exchange glances with Shu-chan. After standing there gazing up at the window for some time without Shu-chan or Kichi-chan appearing, I whistled our usual signal. Then at the black window's iron bars, a face suddenly materialized—but when I saw it, I gasped and questioned my sanity. For the countenance that had appeared there belonged neither to Shu-chan nor Kichi-chan, but rather displayed the twisted visage of Moroto Michio, who I'd assumed was still sequestered in his father's chamber.

No matter how many times I looked again, it wasn't a figment of my imagination. Unmistakably Michio was living together with the twins in their cage. The instant I realized this, I nearly cried out loud, but Moroto swiftly pressed a finger to my mouth to silence me, and I managed to suppress it. Seeing my astonished face, Moroto frantically gestured through the narrow window trying to communicate something, but unlike Shu-chan's subtle eye signals, the matters he conveyed were too complex—I couldn't grasp their meaning at all. Growing frustrated, Moroto signaled for me to wait and withdrew his head, then soon threw a crumpled piece of paper toward me.

When I picked it up and unfolded it, there was a message scrawled in pencil—likely borrowed from Shu-chan—that read as follows. Due to a moment of carelessness, I fell into Jogoro’s trap and have become imprisoned like the twins. Because the surveillance is extremely strict, there is absolutely no prospect of making a sudden escape. But I'm more worried about you than myself. You’re in even greater danger because you’re an outsider. Escape from this island quickly, I implore you. I’ve given up. I’ve given up on everything. Detective work, revenge, my own life—all of it.

I implore you not to blame me for breaking our promise; I implore you not to mock this weak-willed self of mine that so ill matches my initial resolve. I am Jogoro's son. I must bid farewell forever to you, my dear friend. Forget Moroto Michio, I implore you. Forget Iwajima Island, I implore you. And though it may be an unreasonable request—things like avenging Hatsuyo. Even if you make it back to the mainland, please refrain from informing the police. By our long-standing friendship, I beseech you—this is my final request.

When I finished reading and looked up, Moroto was staring down at me with tear-filled eyes. The demon father had finally imprisoned his own child. Rather than blaming Michio for his sudden reversal or resenting Jogoro's brutality, I was struck by an indescribable sorrow that left my chest feeling hollow. How many times had Moroto's heart been thrown into disarray by that reluctant bond between parent and child? When I considered it deeply, even Moroto's journey to this remote Iwajima hadn't been for my sake, nor of course for avenging Hatsuyo - in truth, it might have been a deed compelled by that very parent-child bond. And then, at the final critical moment, he had finally lost. Could it be that this grotesque battle between father and son had thus reached its conclusion?

For a long, long time, I exchanged glances with Moroto through the storehouse window, but when he finally signaled from his side for me to leave, I walked toward the gate of the Moroto residence almost mechanically, without any particular thought. As I was leaving, I noticed Shu-chan’s perplexed face staring intently at me from the dimness behind Moroto’s pallid countenance. That made me feel even more despondent. But of course, I couldn’t bring myself to return. I must save Michio. I must rescue Shu-chan. Even if Michio opposes me however vehemently, I cannot abandon Hatsuyo’s enemy and leave this island. And, if possible, I must discover her treasure for the late Hatsuyo. (Strangely, I was able to think of Hatsuyo and Shu-chan simultaneously without feeling any contradiction.) Even without Moroto’s request, involving the police would be a last resort. I will stand my ground on this island and investigate more deeply. I will encourage the disheartened Moroto and make him an ally of justice. And with his exceptional wisdom, I will fight the demon. By the time I returned to my parlor in the Moroto residence, I had resolutely steeled my resolve in this manner.

After I had been back in my room for a while, the hunchbacked Jogoro appeared in his hideous form for the first time in ages. He entered my room and stood blocking the way,

“You will prepare to leave at once. I cannot keep you in this house—no, on this Iwajima Island—not a moment longer. Now, make ready,” he barked. “I will return if ordered,” I replied, “but where is Mr. Moroto? Only if Mr. Moroto accompanies me.”

“My son—due to circumstances, I cannot allow you to meet him. But he’s well aware of that himself. Now, get ready.”

Since I thought arguing would be futile, I decided to withdraw from the Moroto residence for the time being. Of course, I had no intention of leaving this island. I needed to hide somewhere on this island and devise a means to rescue either Michio or Shu-chan.

But to my dismay, Jogoro had shrewdly assigned a burly manservant to monitor my every move.

The manservant took my luggage and walked ahead. When we came to the hut of the mysterious old man who had spoken to me the other day, he suddenly went inside and called out. “Toku-san. “Are you there?” “It’s Mr. Moroto’s order.” “Get the boat ready.” “Ferry this person to K.” “Is this guest returning alone?” The old man, just as before, leaned halfway out of the window, stared intently at my face, and answered. In the end, the manservant left me in the care of that old man called Toku-san and went back, but the fact that Jogoro had entrusted me to this old man—who was, in a manner of speaking, his own traitor—was both unexpected and unsettling.

Even so, this old man having been chosen proved immensely advantageous for me. I outlined the gist of the matter and entreated his assistance. I stubbornly maintained that I absolutely must remain on this island a while longer.

The old man argued against my reckless plan in the same methodical way as before, but since I stubbornly held to my position, he not only relented and accepted my request but even devised an ingenious scheme to deceive Jogoro. The scheme was this. Given Jogoro's suspicious nature, if I simply remained on the island, he would never allow it—which would ultimately bring resentment upon the old man sheltering me. Therefore, we had no choice but to stage at least one apparent boat crossing to the mainland.

However, if Toku-san were to row the boat alone, it would serve no purpose. Fortunately, Toku's son closely resembled me in both age and build, so we decided to dress him in my Western clothes, make him appear as me from a distance, and send him across to the mainland. The idea was that I should wear his son’s kimono and hide in Toku-san’s hut. “Until your business here is done, I’ll have my son go on an Ise pilgrimage or something, I tell you.”

Toku-san said that and laughed. Come evening, Toku's son put on my Western clothes and, arching his back, boarded Toku's boat. The small craft carrying my body double—with Toku-san manning the oars—advanced along the island's sheer cliffs through the darkening sea, oblivious to what terrible fate awaited ahead.

Murderous Vista

Now I was the protagonist of an adventure novel.

Having sent off the two, I put on the fisherman's smelly, tattered work clothes that Toku's son had been wearing until now. Crouching by the hut window, I peered out from behind the shoji screen with just my eyes visible, watching the small boat's progress. The cape resembling a reclining cow lay hazy in the evening mist; the darkened sea melted into the ashen sky where even a star or two glimmered. The wind was calm and the sea lay still like black oil, but at high tide now, even from afar one could see the notorious Demon’s Abyss churning—seawater swirling into its cavernous maw.

The small boat advanced along the severely rugged cliff; disappearing momentarily only to reappear beyond the bluff, gradually nearing the Demon’s Abyss. The sheer black wall of rock rose dozens of feet high, beneath which the toy-like vessel crept precariously. At intervals came the faint creak of oars across the water’s surface—a sound like crickets chirping in twilight. Both Toku-san and his Western-clad son had dissolved into dusk’s embrace, reduced to bean-sized silhouettes. As they rounded another jutting promontory—reaching precisely where the cave mouth yawned open—I suddenly glimpsed movement atop the cliff directly above them. Startled into sharper focus, I recognized the unmistakable form: a man with hunched shoulders and a grotesque hump rising like a tumor from his back. That hideous silhouette could belong to none other— Jogoro. But what possible reason would bring the master of Moroto Manor to this desolate precipice at such an hour?

The hunchbacked man was holding a pickaxe-like tool, looking down as he intently worked at something. Each time he put force into the pickaxe, something shifted beyond its reach. When I looked closer, I understood it to be a massive boulder teetering perilously on the cliff's edge.

Ah, I realized! Jogoro had timed it perfectly for when Toku-san's boat would pass directly beneath him, intending to push down that massive boulder and capsize the vessel. Dangerous—they needed to steer farther from shore! But even if I shouted from here, Toku-san would never hear me. Though fully aware of Jogoro's horrifying scheme, I found no way to save them. Nothing remained but to pray for divine fortune. The hunchback's shadow lurched violently. The boulder teetered, then hurtled downward at terrifying speed—shattering against the cliff edge into countless fragments that sprayed outward as it plummeted toward the boat.

A large spray of water rose, and after a short while, a clattering sound reached me. The small boat capsized just as Jogoro had schemed. There was no trace of the two passengers. Had they been killed instantly by the rock? Or had they abandoned the boat and were swimming? Unfortunately, from this distance, I couldn’t make out such details. Looking at Jogoro, the tenacious hunchbacked man appeared unsatisfied with merely capsizing the boat; wielding his pickaxe with terrifying force, he pushed down one large rock after another from the area. Then, as if watching a painting of a naval battle, countless plumes of water rose and collapsed across the entire sea surface.

Eventually, he stopped wielding the pickaxe and stared down intently, but perhaps satisfied that he had witnessed the victims’ final moments, he simply walked away. Everything happened in an instant. And because it was so far away, it all seemed like some toy-like play, making this tragedy that had claimed two lives seem not nearly as terrifying as it should have. But this was neither a dream nor an illusion—it was an undeniable fact. Toku-san and his son had likely vanished into the foam of the Demon’s Abyss through the demon Jogoro’s vile scheme.

Now I fully grasped Jogoro's wicked scheme. He had meant to eliminate me from the very start. Since acting within the mansion compound would have carried too many risks, he'd put us on a boat to sever our island ties, lain in wait atop the cliff along the vessel's route, and tried to stage Toku-san's capsized boat as though supernatural forces from the Demon's Abyss - exploiting local superstitions - had caused its destruction. That's why he'd gone through the trouble of dislodging boulders rather than using convenient firearms.

There was a reason he hadn't entrusted the ferry to outside fishermen and had chosen the estranged Toku-san instead. He had attempted to kill two birds with one stone. He plotted to eliminate me—who had caught on to his misdeeds—while simultaneously intending to kill Toku-san, his former servant who had rebelled against him and therefore knew something of his deeds. And his scheme had succeeded perfectly. Jogoro's murders numbered exactly five, as far as I knew. Moreover, when I considered it carefully, the terrifying truth was that in all five cases—though indirectly—it could be said that I myself had created the motives for murder. Hatsuyo-san might have accepted Moroto's proposal if I hadn't existed. If only she had married Moroto, she wouldn't have been killed. Needless to say, Mr. Miyamaki would never have fallen victim to Jogoro's demonic machinations had I not asked him to investigate. The young acrobat was another such case. Whether it be Toku-san or his son—if I hadn't come to this island, if I hadn't requested a body double or such—they would never have met such a miserable end.

The more I thought about it, the more I shuddered with a profound dread. And I felt my hatred for the murderer Jogoro had multiplied many times over compared to yesterday. No longer was this solely for Hatsuyo-san’s sake—for the spirits of four others as well, I would remain on this island to the bitter end, expose the demon’s deeds, and would not rest until I achieved my vengeful wish. My power might have been too feeble. Seeking the police’s assistance might have been the most prudent course of action. But I could not be satisfied with this unprecedented demon being judged solely by national law. It may have been an old-fashioned phrase, but unless I made that bastard taste pain equal in measure to the sins he had committed, this heart of mine would never find peace.

To that end, taking advantage of Jogoro’s conviction that he had eliminated me, it was crucial that I first succeed in skillfully disguising myself as Toku’s son and escape his notice. And then, secretly conspiring with Michio inside the storehouse, I would devise means of revenge. Even Michio, upon hearing of this murder, would not speak in defense of his father now. Even if Michio disagreed, I could not afford to concern myself with that. I was determined to strive resolutely to fulfill my resolve.

Fortunately, even after several days had passed, neither Toku-san's corpse nor his son's was discovered. They had likely been swallowed deep into the Demon's Abyss cave. Therefore, I was able to successfully disguise myself as Toku-san's son. To be sure, there were indeed fishermen who grew suspicious when Toku-san's boat failed to return even after considerable time had passed, coming to visit my hut out of concern. But I claimed to be ill, set up a two-fold folding screen in the dimly lit corner of the room, hid my face behind it, and managed to deceive them.

During the day, I mostly shut myself in the hut to avoid being seen, and when night fell, I would blend into the darkness and roam all over the island. Of course, I visited Michio and Shu-chan at the storehouse window while striving to familiarize myself with the island’s geography so that it might prove useful when needed. Needless to say, I kept watch over the Moroto mansion, but at times, seizing opportunities when no one was around, I would sneak inside the gate, circle around the exterior of the sealed rooms, and even attempt to discern the source of noises inside through gaps in their doors.

Now, dear readers, in this manner did I recklessly turn to confront a murderer unparalleled in this world and take the first step into battle. What manner of living hell awaited me? What inhuman realms stood poised to engulf me? The time draws near when I must recount that great terror mentioned at this record's beginning - the horror that turned my hair as white as snow in a single night.

The Mysterious Old Man on the Rooftop

I had narrowly escaped danger thanks to the body double, but I didn't feel saved in the slightest. Disguised as Toku-san's son, I couldn't risk carelessly showing myself outside the hut, let alone imagine rowing a boat to escape the island. I spent my days hiding motionless inside Toku-san's hut as if I were a criminal myself, and when night fell, I would sneak out to breathe the outside air or crawl out to stretch my cramped limbs.

As long as I could endure its unpalatability, the food was sufficient to sustain me for the time being. Given that it was an inconvenient island, Toku-san’s hut had been amply stocked with rice, wheat, miso, and firewood. For several days after that, I gnawed on unidentifiable dried fish and subsisted on miso.

From my experiences at that time, I came to realize that no adventure or hardship was as bad as imagined—that the act of imagining them was far more terrifying than actually confronting them.

To the me who once clicked an abacus at a company in Tokyo, this situation was as unimaginable as a fabricated tale or a dream-like circumstance. In truth, I was all alone, lying in the corner of Toku-san’s squalid hut, gazing up at the ceilingless attic, listening to the ceaseless sound of waves, and breathing in the briny sea air—I often found myself overcome by the strange sensation that all the recent events were nothing but a dream. And yet, despite being in such a terrifying predicament, my heart continued to beat steadily as always, and my mind showed no signs of madness. Humans, no matter how terrifying the circumstances, when they actually confront them, find them not as bad as imagined and can calmly endure them. Realizing that this must be how soldiers can charge into a hail of bullets, I found myself feeling strangely refreshed despite my gloomy circumstances.

Be that as it may, first and foremost, I had to inform Moroto Michio—confined within the storehouse of the Moroto mansion—of all details and consult him on how to proceed. Though daytime posed dangers, once night fully descended on this island without electric lights, there was nothing to be done. I timed my move for twilight's ambiguous hour when faces blurred at a distance, making my way beneath that familiar storehouse. To my relief, no figures stirred anywhere—as if every island soul had perished. Upon reaching the target storehouse window, I hid behind a rock at the earthen wall's edge, using it as a makeshift shield while scrutinizing my surroundings. I strained to catch any voices leaking from beyond the wall or through the storehouse window.

In the twilight, the storehouse window gaped open like a black maw, silent and still. Beyond the monotonous sound of waves echoing from the distant shoreline, there was no other noise. Everything was so gray, so devoid of sound and color—such a desolate landscape—that I wondered, Am I still dreaming after all?

After a long hesitation, I finally mustered my courage, took aim, and threw the paper ball I had prepared; the white sphere flew cleanly into the window. On that paper, I had written down everything that had happened since the previous day and asked Moroto what we ought to do next. Having thrown it, I hid again behind the rock and waited intently, but Moroto’s reply did not come readily. Just as I began worrying he might be angered by my remaining on the island—when twilight had darkened nearly completely and distinguishing the storehouse window grew difficult—a faint white shape finally materialized at that window and threw a paper ball toward me.

The white shape, upon closer inspection, was not Moroto but the dear twin Shu-chan’s face; yet even in the darkness, I could perceive it somehow seemed despondently downcast. Had Shu-chan already heard all the details from Moroto? When I unfolded the paper ball, written in large pencil characters so it could be read even in the dim light, there was a simple message like this. Needless to say, it was Moroto’s handwriting.

"I cannot think of anything now. Please come again tomorrow." When I read that, I was overcome with despondency. Moroto must have been terribly shocked and grieved upon hearing of his father's inexcusable crimes. Even seeing how he avoided meeting me face-to-face and had Shu-chan throw the paper ball made me understand his state of mind. I nodded at Shu-chan's faintly visible pale face that seemed to be staring intently at me from the storehouse window, then trudged back through the evening gloom to Toku's hut. And without lighting a lamp, I flopped down like a beast and lay there, continuing to think without thinking of anything in particular.

The following evening, when I went beneath the storehouse and signaled, Moroto’s face appeared this time, and he tossed over a scrap of paper inscribed with the following words. "Do not abandon me now that I have become like this. There are no words sufficient to express my gratitude for all the hardships you have endured on my behalf. To tell the truth, I had thought you had left this island, and how terribly disappointed I had been. If I were to be separated from you, I would be so lonely I couldn’t go on living—I’ve come to realize this with painful clarity. Jogoro’s evil deeds have become clear. I will no longer entertain notions of parent and child. My father is nothing but hateful. I do not feel any affection whatsoever. On the contrary, I feel an intense attachment to you, a stranger. With your help, I will escape this storehouse. And I must save these pitiful people. I must also discover Hatsuyo-san's assets. That is to say, it will make you wealthy, you see. Regarding escaping the storehouse, I have a plan. I must wait a little longer for the right time. As for the details of that plan, I will inform you in due course. Please make sure to come beneath the storehouse as often as you can each day, choosing moments when no one is watching. Even during the day, people rarely come here, so it’s safe. However, if Jogoro becomes aware that you are alive, it would be a major problem. Be cautious upon caution."

“And I earnestly pray you don’t fall ill from this unhealthy lifestyle.”

Moroto reversed his once-wavering resolve and severed the bonds of filial duty. But when I considered that behind this lay an improper affection toward me serving as a significant motive, I was overcome by an exceedingly peculiar feeling. Moroto's mysterious ardor was something I could not comprehend in the least. If anything, it even struck me as frightening.

For five days after that, we continued these awkward rendezvous. ("Rendezvous" felt like an odd term, yet Moroto's demeanor during that time somehow suited the word.) If I were to recount in detail my state of mind and actions during those five days, there would indeed be much to write. However, since these matters hold little relevance to the overall narrative, I shall omit all but the essential points.

It was when I casually approached the storehouse in the early morning of the third day to exchange paper balls with Moroto that I discovered that enigmatic incident.

It was before sunrise, still dimly lit, and with the entire island shrouded in morning mist that hindered distant visibility—but above all, because it was such an unexpected location—I had completely failed to notice until I was five or six ken away from the usual rock outside the wall when suddenly I looked up and saw a black human figure squirming restlessly on the storehouse roof. Startled, I immediately retreated and concealed myself at the corner of the earthen wall. When I looked closely, I realized the figure on the roof was none other than the hunchbacked Jogoro. Even without seeing his face, I could immediately recognize him from the outline of his entire body.

When I saw that, I could not help worrying about Moroto Michio's safety. Wherever this deformed monster appeared, violence inevitably followed. The mysterious old man had been spotted before Hatsuyo's murder. On the night Tomonosuke was killed, I had witnessed that grotesque figure from behind. And just recently, no sooner had he been seen swinging a pickaxe atop the cliff than Toku-san and his son vanished into the foaming depths of Demon's Abyss. But surely he wouldn't kill his own son. Wasn't it precisely because he couldn't bring himself to kill him that he'd taken such half-measures as imprisonment in the storehouse?

No no, that wasn't it—even Michio meant to oppose his parent. Why would that monster hesitate to take his own child's life? Having conclusively determined that Michio would remain hostile to the end, he must undoubtedly have been plotting to eliminate him for good.

As I hid in the shadow of the wall, anxiously fretting over such thoughts, the monstrous Jogoro gradually clarified his grotesque form within the dissipating morning mist, straddling one end of the roof's ridgepole while intently engaged in some task.

Ah, I realized. He was trying to remove the demon-faced roof tile.

There were splendid demon-faced roof tiles, befitting the storehouse's size, imposingly set at both ends of the roof. It was an old-fashioned, rare style seldom seen in Tokyo or similar areas. Since the storehouse's second floor likely lacked a ceiling, removing those demon-faced tiles would leave only a single roof plank between them and Moroto Michio's imprisoned room directly below. Danger, danger! Unaware that a terrifying scheme unfolded above him, Moroto might still be sleeping beneath that very spot. Yet I couldn't whistle a warning signal with that monster present, leaving me to seethe with frustration, completely powerless to act.

Before long, Jogoro had completely removed the demon-faced roof tile and tucked it under his arm. The large roof tile was over two feet long, making it barely manageable for a disabled person to carry. Next, after prying up the roof board beneath the demon-faced tile directly above where Michio and the twins were, Jogoro’s hideous face abruptly peered down. Grinning slyly, he finally set about committing his brutal murder.

While I stood frozen there, imagining such horrors with cold sweat streaming down my sides, something unexpected happened—Jogoro descended to the opposite side of the roof still clutching that demon-faced roof tile. He must have taken that cumbersome demon-faced roof tile somewhere to stow it away, planning to return unencumbered to his original spot—but no matter how long I waited, there was no sign of his return. I cautiously moved from the shadow of the wall to the usual rock spot, hid myself there, and continued watching for any movement. But as time passed, the morning mist cleared completely, a large sun peered over the mountaintop, bathing the storehouse walls in crimson light—and still, Jogoro never reappeared.

God and Buddha Since a full thirty minutes had passed by then and thinking it must be safe now, I remained hidden in the shadow of the rock and resolutely blew a small whistle. It was the signal to summon Moroto.

Then, as if he had been waiting, Moroto's face appeared at the storehouse window. I poked my head out from the shadow of the rock and asked with my eyes if it was safe. When Moroto nodded in response, I tore a page from the notebook I had ready, quickly jotted down Jogoro’s strange behavior, wrapped it around a nearby pebble, and hurled it toward the window. After waiting a while, Moroto’s reply came. The wording was generally as follows. "I read your letter and made a remarkable discovery. Rejoice, I pray you. One of our objectives will soon be achieved. Furthermore, rest assured there is currently no immediate danger to me. As I don’t have time to write in detail, I will set down only what I wish you to do. Through this, you should be able to fully infer my intentions."

1. Without taking unnecessary risks, walk around every corner of this island and find anything enshrined—such as an Inari shrine, a Jizō statue, or other objects connected to deities—then report back to me. 2. In the near future, the servants of the Moroto residence are supposed to load some cargo and depart by boat. If you spot this, notify me at once. "Please also verify the number of people present at that time." I received these strange orders and pondered them briefly, though naturally I couldn't grasp Moroto's true intentions. That said, sending another paper missile to seek clarification would only waste time, and there was no telling when Jogoro might enter the storehouse. Placing my trust in Moroto's judgment, I promptly left the spot.

Then, following Moroto’s orders, I spent the entire day walking around the island, lurking about like a thief through places with as few houses and as little foot traffic as possible.

Even if I were to encounter someone, I kept my hat pulled low to maintain the disguise, wore Toku’s son’s old work jacket without fail, and smeared mud on my hands and feet to avoid immediate recognition. Still, walking outdoors in broad daylight meant my anxiety was no ordinary matter. Moreover, though it was the seaside, August’s scorching sun made wandering under the blazing sky thoroughly grueling—yet in such dire circumstances, there was no room to mind the heat. But what became clear through this wandering was just how utterly desolate this island was. Though houses stood here and there, one couldn’t tell if they were inhabited; after hours of walking, I’d only glimpsed two or three distant fishermen—not a single soul did I meet all day. With that, I could finally relax my guard a little.

By evening that day, I had circled the entire island, but ultimately discovered only two objects that seemed connected to deities.

The western side of Iwayajima Island was a coastline separated from the Moroto estate by a central rocky mountain on the opposite side, but it had almost no houses; the cliffs' uneven contours were especially severe, with strange rocks of various shapes towering along the water's edge. Among them stood an especially prominent eboshi-shaped boulder, atop which was erected a small stone torii carved from rock just like Futamigaura's Meoto Iwa. Hundreds of years ago when this island was more bustling - during the era when the Moroto estate's master wielded authority like a castle lord - it must have been built to pray for the coast's tranquility. The granite torii was covered in dusky moss and had aged to the point where it could be mistaken for part of the great rock itself.

The other was a stone Jizō statue, also extremely ancient, standing on a slightly elevated spot facing that Eboshi Rock along the same western coast. In the past, it seemed there had been a complete walking path encircling the island, with traces of it remaining here and there, but the stone Jizō statue stood along that path like a guidepost. Since there were naturally no worshipers visiting it, there were no votive offerings either; it was less a sacred Jizō statue and more a crude human-shaped stone block. Its eyes, nose, and mouth had all been worn away into smooth blankness. When I saw that form perched in the desolate landscape—a faceless lump of stone where no human tread—I froze mid-step, startled despite myself. Since a considerably large stone had been used for its pedestal, it must have remained standing in its original position for many years without toppling over.

It was something I realized later, but this stone Jizō statue must have once stood in various places across the island. In fact, remnants of what appeared to be stone Jizō pedestals still remained in places like the northern coast. They must have gradually disappeared over time due to children’s mischief and such, while only the portion on this western coast—the most inconvenient location—had fortunately remained behind to that day. In all the places I had walked around on the island, when it came to objects connected to deities, there were only those two I mentioned earlier. Beyond that, I could only recall that in the Moroto estate’s spacious garden, there had been a rather splendid small shrine built—though I hadn’t known which deity it was dedicated to. However, needless to say, what Moroto had instructed me to search for was not something inside the Moroto estate.

The torii of Eboshi Rock was "god." The stone Jizō was "Buddha." God and Buddha. Ah—I was starting to grasp Moroto's reasoning. This was undoubtedly connected to that incantation-like coded message. I tried recalling the ciphertext: When god and Buddha meet Break the demon of the southeast Seek Amida's benevolence Do not stray at Six Realms' Crossroads Could this "god" indicate Eboshi Rock's torii? And "Buddha" that stone Jizō statue? Then—ah—it gradually coalesced. This "demon"... Could it match the demon-faced roof tile Jogoro removed from the storehouse this morning? Yes. That tile had been placed at the storehouse's southeastern edge. Southeast aligned with Tatsumi's direction. That roof tile was indeed the "Demon of Tatsumi".

The incantation stated, "Break the Demon of Tatsumi." Could the treasure have been hidden inside that demon-faced roof tile? If so, might Jogoro have already smashed open that roof tile and retrieved the treasure long ago? But Moroto couldn't have overlooked that possibility. I had properly reported Jogoro taking the roof tile, and since Moroto seemed to have realized something upon reading my message, this incantation must hold a different meaning altogether. If merely breaking the roof tile sufficed, the first line about gods and buddhas meeting would become redundant.

But what on earth could this "meeting of God and Buddha" mean? Even if we take "God" to mean the torii of Eboshi Rock and "Buddha" as the stone Jizō statue, how could two such immovable objects possibly meet? Perhaps this "God and Buddha" referred to something entirely different after all? I racked my brain trying various angles but couldn't solve this riddle. What today's events did clarify beyond doubt was that the thief who stole both the coded message and twins' diary from our hiding place in that Kanda Western restaurant's second floor—exactly as we'd suspected—was none other than that mysterious old man Jogoro. Otherwise there'd be no explaining why he removed that demon-faced roof tile. Before obtaining the cipher, he'd been haphazardly ransacking the Moroto estate—digging up gardens and such—but once he acquired it, he must have devoted himself to deciphering its meaning until he discovered how the "Demon of Tatsumi" matched that storehouse's roof tile.

Could it be that Jogoro's interpretation had been correct, and he had already obtained the treasure? Or perhaps his interpretation contained a grave error, and there had been nothing inside the demon-faced roof tile after all. Had Moroto truly deciphered that coded message properly? I found myself unable to stop fretting.

The Disabled Group

That same evening, I went beneath the storehouse and communicated the matters I had discovered to Moroto via the usual paper scraps. On that scrap of paper, I had even drawn a rough sketch indicating the positions of Eboshi Rock and the stone Jizō statue, just to be thorough. After waiting a while, Moroto appeared at the window and threw down a letter like the one below. “Do you have a watch? Is the time accurate?”

It was an abrupt question. But given that danger could strike me at any moment and our means of communication were severely limited, it wasn't unreasonable there was no time to explain the circumstances. I had to deduce his intentions from those terse phrases.

Fortunately, I had a wristwatch hidden deep in my upper arm. Since I had been carefully winding it, there probably wasn't any significant time discrepancy. I rolled up my sleeve to show Moroto at the window and used hand gestures to convey that the time was synchronized. Then Moroto nodded in apparent satisfaction and withdrew his head, but after waiting awhile, he threw down a slightly longer letter this time. "Since this is crucial, I implore you to carry it out without error. You've likely already deduced as much, but we've ascertained the treasure's hiding place. Jogoro has also begun noticing things, but he's making a grave mistake. Let's find it ourselves through our own efforts. There's certainly a good chance. You can't afford to wait until I escape from here."

“If the sky is clear tomorrow, go to Eboshi Rock around four in the afternoon—it’s safer to go earlier—and observe the shadow of the stone torii carefully. That shadow should overlap with the stone Jizō statue. When they do, memorize the exact time and return.” When I received these instructions, I hurried back to Toku’s hut, but that night I could think of nothing but the incantation. At last, I had clarified the meaning of “God and Buddha meet” in the riddle. It wasn’t about them truly meeting—rather, God’s shadow overlapped Buddha’s. The torii’s shadow fell upon the stone Jizō statue. What an ingenious idea! I couldn’t help marveling anew at Moroto Michio’s imagination.

But while I understood up to that point, the meaning of this "Demon of the Southeast" in the phrase "When god and Buddha meet, break the Demon of the Southeast" now became unclear. Since Jogoro was making a grave mistake, it seemed the Demon of the Southeast wasn't the storehouse's demon-faced roof tile after all. But then, where else could there be something named 'demon'?

That night, I eventually fell asleep without resolving my doubts, but the next morning, I was abruptly awakened by an unusual clamor of voices on the island. As I came to, a familiar-sounding voice passed by in front of the hut, heading toward the boat landing. They were undoubtedly servants from the Moroto estate.

Since I had been ordered by Moroto to do so, I hurriedly got up, opened the window a crack to peer out, and saw three figures retreating into the distance. Two men were hauling a large wooden box while another walked alongside them. This was Old Man Sukehachi from the twins' diary, accompanied by two brawny men I had previously seen at the Moroto estate. I realized this must be what Moroto had written about days earlier: "The Moroto estate servants should soon load cargo and set sail." I had been instructed to report their numbers to him.

When I opened the window and stared out, the trio gradually grew smaller until they finally disappeared behind a rock. But before long, a sailboat with its sails lowered came rowing into my field of vision from the direction of the boat landing. Though distant, I could clearly discern that those aboard were the same three from earlier, along with the wooden cargo box. When they had gotten a little ways offshore, the sails were smoothly hoisted, and the boat, driven by the morning wind, swiftly distanced itself from the island.

In accordance with our promise, I had to immediately inform Moroto of this matter. By that point, I had grown accustomed to moving about during the day and assumed there was hardly any foot traffic, so without hesitation, I left the hut directly and went beneath the storehouse. When I conveyed the details via paper scrap, a spirited reply came from Moroto. "They shouldn't return for about a week. I know exactly what they went to do. There are no more formidable men left in the mansion. Now is our moment to escape. I need your help. Hide in that rock's shadow for an hour and await my signal. When I wave from this window, rush to the front gate immediately. Apprehend anyone trying to flee the premises. They're just women and cripples—it'll be simple enough. This means war."

This unexpected development forced us to temporarily suspend our treasure hunt. My heart raced as I kept vigil beneath the window, clutching Moroto's bold letter. If his plan succeeded, we would soon speak face-to-face again after all this time—I might even see Shu-chan up close, hear her voice with my own ears, that girl I'd yearned for since first setting foot on this island. These strange days had stealthily transformed me into someone who craved adventure. At the word "war," my very flesh trembled—a sensation unimaginable to my former self back in Tokyo.

Moroto was trying to fight his parents. This was no ordinary matter. When I imagined what he must be feeling, even I - waiting motionless for that decisive moment to arrive - felt as though my heart had been hollowed out. Even so, did he intend to oppose his parents by physical force?

For a long, long time, I huddled in the shadow of the rock.

It was a hot day. Though shaded by the rock, the sand beneath my feet burned with such intensity I couldn't touch it. The usual cool sea breeze lay utterly still that day, and I heard no sound of waves - so completely silent I began doubting if I'd gone deaf. In that unfathomable stillness, only the sizzling summer sun blazed. Fighting off waves of dizziness, I kept my eyes fixed on the storehouse window - until at last came the signal. Through the iron bars, an arm emerged, fluttering up and down two or three times.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I dashed out, circled around the earthen wall, and entered the Moroto estate through the front gate. I entered the earthen-floored entranceway and peered into the depths, but it was silent and utterly devoid of human presence. Even though his opponent was a disabled man, given that it was Jogoro—cunning, crafty, and ruthlessly cruel—I couldn't help worrying about Moroto's safety. Could it be that he was instead meeting some terrible fate? The mansion's deathly stillness felt unnervingly ominous.

I stepped up into the entryway and slowly proceeded along the long, winding corridor. When I turned one corner, I came upon a long corridor that stretched about eighteen meters. The corridor was over 1.8 meters wide, with old-fashioned reddish-brown tatami mats laid out. Since it was an old-fashioned building with deep eaves and few windows, the corridor was dim as twilight.

The moment I turned nimbly into that corridor, something appeared at the far end simultaneously with me. They came charging toward me with terrifying momentum, entangled together as they ran. Their bizarre appearance made it impossible to recognize them at first, but when they rapidly closed in, collided with me, and let out an eerie shriek, I finally realized they were the twins—Shu-chan and Kichi-chan. They were draped in tattered rags—Shu-chan had simply tied her hair back, while Kichi-chan's head resembled an uncanny hundred-day wig, perhaps from infrequent haircuts. Both danced like children, wildly overjoyed at their release from confinement. Watching them caper madly before me while grinning in my direction gave me the impression of some grotesque hybrid beast.

Before I knew it, I had grabbed Shu-chan's hand. Shu-chan smiled innocently while clasping my hand in return with nostalgic warmth. Despite her circumstances, her neatly trimmed nails made an unexpectedly favorable impression. Such a trivial detail moved me profoundly. Kichi-chan, savage-like, erupted in fury upon seeing our camaraderie. I learned then that uneducated humans in their raw state, like apes, bare their teeth when enraged. Baring fangs like a gorilla, Kichi-chan strained with his whole body to wrench Shu-chan from me.

In the midst of this commotion - perhaps having heard the disturbance - a woman came rushing out from a room behind me. It was Otoshi-san, the mute caretaker. When she realized the twins had escaped from the storehouse, she turned deathly pale and immediately moved to push Shu-chan and the others back toward the interior. I subdued this first adversary effortlessly. With her arm twisted behind her back, she craned her neck to look at me. The instant she recognized who I was, she stiffened in shock before going completely limp. She seemed utterly bewildered by the situation and consequently offered no further resistance.

Then, from the direction where the twins had come running earlier, a bizarre group emerged. At the front stood Moroto Michio, followed by five or six peculiar beings swarming behind him. I had heard there were disabled individuals at the Moroto estate, but since they had all been confined to unopened rooms, I had never once seen them. Moroto had likely now opened those sealed chambers and granted freedom to this cluster of beings. They expressed their joy through individual mannerisms and appeared drawn to Moroto.

There was a disabled woman whose face was half-covered in hair like spilled ink, what people called a "bear girl." Her limbs were ordinary enough, but she appeared malnourished, her emaciated form deathly pale. Though she kept muttering indistinctly to herself, her expression seemed strangely content. A child with frog-like legs—joints bent backward—capered about energetically despite his deformity. He couldn't have been more than ten years old, his cherubic face belying the vigor with which he hopped on those inverted limbs. Three dwarfs trailed behind them. These weren't the robust sideshow performers one might expect, but pitiful creatures with adult-sized heads perched atop infantile bodies—so feeble-limbed they resembled jellyfish stranded on sand. One couldn't stand at all, crawling across the tatami like some three-bodied monstrosity born of nightmare. All three struggled under the weight of their oversized craniums balanced precariously on withered frames.

In the dimly lit corridor, seeing the conjoined twins along with those disabled people swarming together gave me an indescribably strange sensation. At first glance it seemed almost comical, but that very absurdity made it all the more chilling. "Ah, Minoura-kun! I've finally dealt with them!" Moroto approached me and declared with feigned cheerfulness. "Dealt with them? You mean those people?" I wondered if Moroto had killed Jogoro and his wife.

“We locked those two in the storehouse instead of us.” He had deceived his parents by pretending to have matters to discuss, lured them into the storehouse, then swiftly exited with the twins and confined the two bewildered cripples inside. As for why Jogoro had fallen so readily into this trap, there was sufficient reason behind it—something I would come to understand later. “What about these people?” “Cripples.”

"But why do you keep so many cripples here?"

“They’re our own kind—I’ll explain the details later,” Moroto said with forced cheerfulness. “But we must hurry now. We need to leave this island before those three men return. Once they’re gone, they won’t come back for five or six days at least. During that time, we’ll conduct our treasure hunt.” His voice strengthened with resolve. “And we’ll rescue all these people from this cursed place.” “What about them?” I asked, my gaze drifting toward the storehouse. “Jogoro?” Moroto’s shoulders slumped. “I... I don’t know what to do with them.” His fingers tightened around a rusted iron bar he’d picked up somewhere. “It’s cowardly, but I mean to flee—to take their wealth and remove these cripples from their control.” A muscle twitched beneath his eye as he added quietly, “Perhaps without resources or test subjects, their evil deeds will wither naturally.” He turned to face me fully now, his medical student’s hands stained with prison grime. “In any case, I lack the power to formally accuse them or... or end their lives.” The admission came out strangled. “So yes—though it shames me—we’ll abandon them here.” His next words caught like burrs in his throat: “Please—I beg you—let this wretched compromise stand.”

Moroto said dejectedly.

The Vertex of the Triangle Because all the disabled individuals were docile, Moroto entrusted their surveillance to Shu-chan and Kichi-chan. Even wicked-natured Kichi-chan obediently followed Moroto’s instructions—he who had granted them freedom.

To the mute Otoshi-san, they conveyed Moroto's commands through Shu-chan's hand gestures. Otoshi-san's role was to prepare three meals daily for Jogoro and his wife in the storehouse, along with the disabled individuals. They repeatedly instructed that the storehouse door must never be opened and that meals should be delivered through the garden window. She was not loyal to Jogoro and his wife—rather, she feared and hated her violent masters so intensely that when she heard the reason, she offered no resistance at all.

Moroto had handled matters with such efficiency that by afternoon, we'd already settled the aftermath of this commotion. The Moroto estate only kept three male servants on staff, and since they'd all been sent out on errands, we had managed to prevail with surprising ease. From Jogoro's perspective, he must have believed me long gone and never imagined Michio in the storehouse would dare rebel against him—that carelessness led him to send away all his crucial guards. It was precisely this opening that allowed Moroto's bold tactics to prove effective.

Even when I asked what the three men had gone out to do and why they wouldn’t return for five or six days, Moroto never gave me a clear answer. He would only say, “I know for certain reasons that their work will take more than five or six days. You can rest assured—that much is certain.” That afternoon, we went together to the Eboshi-shaped rock. This was to continue our treasure hunt. “I never want to come back to this horrible island again. But fleeing now would be like funding their crimes. If treasure’s hidden here, we must uncover it ourselves. Then Hatsuyo-san’s mother in Tokyo could find happiness—and we’d open a path to help all these cripples. For me... it’s minimal atonement. That’s why I’m rushing this treasure hunt. Truthfully, we should make this public—involve the authorities. But I can’t. That would send my father to the guillotine.”

On the path to the Eboshi-shaped rock, Moroto said such things as if to apologize. “I do understand that. “I also fully understand that there’s no other way.” I truly believed that to be the case. After a while, I steered the conversation toward the immediate treasure hunt.

“I’m far more interested in deciphering the code and finding it than in the treasure itself. “But I still don’t fully understand. “Have you completely solved that cipher?” “We won’t know until we try, but I feel I’ve cracked it. You must grasp most of what I’m thinking.” “Well, yes. “The incantation’s ‘When gods and Buddha meet’ means when the shadow from Eboshi Rock’s torii aligns with the Stone Jizō statue. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“Then you do understand, don’t you?” “But I still can’t figure out how to break the Demon of the Southeast.” “The Demon of the Southeast naturally refers to the demon tile on the storehouse. Wasn’t that what you taught me?” “So if we break that demon tile, does that mean the treasure is hidden inside? Surely, that can’t be right.” “It’s the same approach as with the torii and the Stone Jizō statue. In other words, it’s not the demon tile itself we should consider, but its shadow. Otherwise, the first line would become meaningless, you see. That’s what Jogoro thought—that it was the demon tile itself—so he climbed onto the roof and tried removing it. I saw that person breaking the demon tile from the storehouse window, you know. Of course, nothing came out. However, thanks to that, I was able to find a clue for deciphering the code though.”

When I heard that, I somehow felt like I was being laughed at and involuntarily blushed.

“I’m such a fool.” “I hadn’t noticed that point.” “So when the shadow of the torii exactly aligns with the Stone Jizō Statue，we should look for where the demon tile’s shadow falls—is that right？”

I said, recalling how Moroto had asked about my watch. "I might be wrong, but that's how it seems to me." We walked that long path exchanging such conversation, but otherwise kept mostly silent. Moroto looked so grim that it silenced me. He must have been thinking about the wrongness of confining his own father. Though he avoided using the word "father" and called him Jogoro instead, it was only natural to feel despondent when recognizing him as his parent.

When we arrived at our target coastline, we were slightly too early; the shadow from the torii of the Eboshi-shaped rock still clung to the edge of the cliff face. We wound our watch springs and waited for time to advance. Though we'd settled in shaded spots, the unusually windless day made sweat crawl like ants down our backs and chests. Even seeming motionless, the torii's shadow slithered across the ground at invisible speed, creeping inch by inch toward the hill. But when it drew within several ken of the Stone Jizō statue, I abruptly noticed something and instinctively turned to Moroto. He appeared to have reached the same realization, his face twisting into an odd expression.

“If we continue at this rate, won’t the shadow of the torii end up not reaching the Stone Jizō statue?”

“It’s shifted a couple ken to the side.” Moroto said dejectedly. “Then perhaps my reasoning was flawed?” “When that cipher was created, there might have been other objects connected to deities elsewhere.” “After all, we’ve seen remnants of Stone Jizō statues on different coasts.” “But whatever casts the shadow must be elevated. There are no such tall rocks on other shores, and I see nothing resembling shrine ruins on the island’s central mountains.” “Ultimately, I can’t conceive of ‘god’ referring to anything but this torii...”

Moroto said lingeringly. Meanwhile, the shadow rapidly advanced until it reached nearly the same height as the Stone Jizō statue. When I looked, there was a gap of about three and a half meters between the shadow of the torii cast on the hillside and the Stone Jizō statue. Moroto was staring fixedly at it when, for some reason, he suddenly burst into laughter.

“How absurd. That’s something even a child would know. We must be losing our minds.” With that, he burst into laughter again. “Summer days are long. Winter days are short. What do you think this means? Ha ha ha ha! It’s because the sun’s position relative to the Earth changes. To put it precisely, an object’s shadow doesn’t fall in exactly the same spot even within a single day. When casting onto the same location—excluding the summer and winter solstices—it only happens twice a year. Once when the sun approaches the equator, and once when it moves away. See? It’s perfectly clear.”

“I see, we really were out of our minds, weren’t we? So does that mean the opportunity for treasure hunting only comes twice a year?” “The person who hid it may have thought so. And they may have misunderstood that as a robust method to make the treasure harder to excavate. But if this torii and Stone Jizō statue truly are guideposts for the treasure hunt, there’s no need to wait for their shadows to actually overlap—there are any number of methods available.”

“So the idea is to draw a triangle using the torii’s shadow and the Stone Jizō statue as vertices?” “That’s right. Then, by finding the angle between the torii’s shadow and the Stone Jizō statue, when measuring the demon tile’s shadow, you just need to estimate a location separated by that same angle.” Even at such a small discovery, we were remarkably excited, our purpose being solely treasure hunting. When I checked the time at which the shadow of the torii precisely reached the height of the Stone Jizō statue, my wristwatch showed exactly 5:25 PM, so I recorded it in my notebook.

Afterward, after climbing down cliffs, scaling rocks, and enduring various hardships, we measured the distance between the torii and the Stone Jizō statue precisely checked the gap between its shadow and the statue itself,and recorded a scaled diagram of their triangular formation in our notebook.From this point,tomorrow at 5:25 PM would see us confirming where Moroto estate storehouse’s roof shadow fell measuring any margin of error against today’s angles,and thereby finally discovering treasure’s hiding place.

But, dear readers, we had not yet fully deciphered that cryptic incantation. At the end of the incantation lay an eerie line: "Don't get lost at the Crossroads of Six Realms." What exactly did this "Crossroads of Six Realms" signify? Could it be that some hellish labyrinth of that very nature lay waiting along our path ahead?

The bottom of the ancient well That night, we slept side by side in a room of the Moroto estate, but I found myself repeatedly awakened by Moroto’s voice. He was tormented by nightmares throughout the night. Given the recent anguish of having to confine someone bearing the name of parent, it was no wonder his nerves had lost their calm. In his sleep, he repeatedly spoke my name. When I considered that I myself occupied such a vast space within his subconscious, I felt a hollow dread creeping over me. Even if we were of the same sex, wasn’t continuing to spend time with him like this—pretending not to notice how deeply he dwelled on me—too grave a sin? Lying awake, I found myself earnestly contemplating this.

The next day too, until that appointed 5:25 PM arrived, we remained idle with nothing to occupy us. For Moroto though, this idleness seemed agonizing - he paced endlessly along the shoreline alone. He appeared fearful of even approaching the storehouse vicinity.

Jogoro and his wife in the storehouse were unexpectedly quiet—whether they had given up or were eagerly awaiting the return of the three men remained unclear. Being concerned, I frequently went to the storehouse, listening intently and peering through the window, but they were nowhere to be seen and didn’t even speak. When the mute Otoshi-san delivered meals through the window, the mother would come down the stairs to quietly receive them. The disabled individuals had also gathered together in one room and were behaving quietly. However, since I would occasionally go to talk with Shu-chan, Kichi-chan would get angry and shout incomprehensible things. As we talked, I realized Shu-chan was an even kinder and cleverer girl than I had thought, and we gradually became good friends. Shu-chan, like a child just beginning to gain wisdom, showered me with questions one after another. I kindly answered them. Because Kichi-chan, who was like a beast, had such a hatefully smug face, I deliberately got along with Shu-chan and flaunted it. When Kichi-chan saw that, he would flush crimson with rage, twist his body, and inflict pain on Shu-chan.

Shu-chan had become completely attached to me. Out of her desire to see me, she even dragged Kichi-chan with tremendous effort and came to the room where I was. When I saw that, how delighted I must have been. But when I later reflected on it, Shu-chan’s growing attachment to me became the source of an unforeseen calamity. Among the disabled individuals, the one who had become most attached to me was an adorable child of about ten years old, who hopped around on all fours like a frog. His name was Shige, a cheerful kid who would playfully hop around the corridors by himself. His head seemed unharmed, and he chattered away in broken speech with surprisingly mature remarks.

Setting aside digressions, when evening came at five o'clock, Moroto and I went out to the rock shadow beyond the wall where I always hid, and while looking up at the storehouse roof, waited for the time to arrive. The clouds we had worried about did not appear, and the southeastern ridge of the storehouse roof cast a long shadow beyond the wall. “Since the demon tile is missing, we’ll have to look about two shaku extra, right?” Moroto said while peering at my wristwatch. “That’s right. Five twenty. Five more minutes. But could such a thing really be hidden in this rocky ground? It all feels like a lie, doesn’t it?”

“However, over there—there’s a small grove. By my rough estimate, I can’t help thinking it must be around that area.” “Ah, you mean that one? There’s a large old well in that grove. When I first came here, I passed through that spot and peered into it.”

I recalled the imposing stone well curb. "Hoh, an old well in such an odd place." "Is there water?"

“It seems completely dried up. It’s quite deep.” “I wonder if there was another mansion there before. Or perhaps that area was also part of this estate in the past.”

As we were discussing such matters, the time arrived. My wristwatch showed 5:25.

“Though the shadow’s position may differ somewhat between yesterday and today, it shouldn’t result in any significant error.”

Moroto ran to the shadow's location, marked the ground with a stone, then muttered as if to himself. Then we took out our notebooks, recorded the distance to the storehouse's shadow point, calculated the angles, and measured the third vertex of the triangle—confirming it lay within that grove, exactly as Moroto had predicted. We pushed through the thicket's tangled branches until we reached the old well. Dense foliage enveloped it on all sides, leaving the interior damp and murky. When we leaned against the stone well curb and peered down into its depths, an icy draft rose from the pitch-black abyss to strike our cheeks.

We once again precisely measured the distance and confirmed that the location in question was undoubtedly that old well. "It’s strange for a well to be left wide open like this. “Do you think it’s buried in the soil at the bottom? “Even so, considering they must have cleaned this well when it was in use, hiding something inside would be truly reckless.” I couldn’t quite make sense of it. “That’s it. “If it were simply inside the well, there wouldn’t be enough complexity. “Someone that meticulous would never hide it in such an obvious place. “You remember the incantation’s final line? “Look—‘Don’t lose your way at the Crossroads of Six Realms.’ “There might be a side tunnel at the bottom of this well. “That tunnel could be the so-called Crossroads—winding like a maze.”

“It all feels a bit too much like a story.” “No, that’s not it. On a rocky island like this, such caves are commonplace. Take the Demon’s Abyss cave—rainwater eroding limestone layers underground creates extensive passageways. Don’t you think this well’s bottom might be the entrance to those tunnels?” “So you mean they used that natural maze to hide the treasure? If true, it’s an approach layered with meticulous planning.”

“If they went to such lengths to hide it, then this treasure must be something truly extraordinary.” “But even so, there’s one point in that incantation I still can’t reconcile.” “I see. “Your explanation just now made everything seem clear to me, but...” “It’s a minor detail, really. “Look—the line about ‘breaking through the Demon of the Southeast.’ “This ‘breaking through’ business. “If you were digging through the ground to search, you’d need to break through something. But entering through the well? There’s nothing to break through there. “That’s what puzzles me. “At first glance that incantation seems crude, but it’s actually meticulously crafted. “The author wouldn’t include unnecessary phrases. “They’d never write ‘break through’ where no breaking is required.”

We kept discussing these matters beneath the shadowy trees for some time, but since there was no use in just thinking about it, we resolved to enter the well and check whether there was a side tunnel. Moroto left me behind, hurried back to the mansion, and brought back a sturdy long rope. It had been used as fishing gear.

"I'll go in and check." Since I was smaller and lighter than Moroto, I took on the task of verifying the side tunnel. Moroto securely tied my body with the end of the rope, wrapped the middle of the rope once around the stone well curb, and gripped that end with both hands. As I descended, he let out the rope accordingly. I pocketed the matches Moroto had brought me, firmly gripped the rope, placed my foot on the well's edge, and began descending bit by bit into the pitch-black underground depths.

The inside of the well had uneven stone paving all the way down, entirely overgrown with moss, so when I set my foot on it, I slipped with a slick sound. When I had descended about six feet, I struck a match and peered downward, but by the match's faint light, I couldn't make out the depths below. As I discarded the burnt matchstick, its light vanished about ten feet further down. Some water still remained there. Descending another four or five feet, I struck another match. The moment I tried to peer at the bottom, a strange gust arose and extinguished the flame. Thinking this odd, I struck yet another match, and before it could be blown out, I discovered where the wind was blowing through. There existed a side tunnel.

Upon closer inspection, about two or three feet from the bottom, a roughly two-foot square section of the stone paving had broken away, revealing a pitch-black side tunnel of unknowable depth. The crude-looking hole left no doubt—someone had broken through stone paving that had once properly covered that area. Throughout that section, parts of the stone paving had loosened, appearing as though they had once been removed and reinserted. When I noticed them, three or four wedge-shaped stone blocks protruded from the water at the well's bottom. There could be no mistake—someone had forced their way through the side tunnel's passage.

Moroto’s prediction had been dreadfully accurate. There was a side tunnel after all, and the phrase “break through” in the incantation wasn’t unnecessary. I hurriedly pulled up the rope, climbed back to the surface, and reported everything to Moroto.

“That’s strange,” Moroto said with slight excitement. “So someone got ahead of us and entered the side tunnel? The marks where the stone paving was removed look recent.” “No,” I replied based on what I had observed. “It seems to have been quite some time ago. The moss growth suggests...”

“That’s strange. Someone definitely went in—there’s no reason the person who wrote the incantation would go out of their way to break through the stone paving and enter like that, so it must be someone else. Of course not Jogoro. This might mean there’s someone who solved that incantation before us. And if they discovered even the side tunnel... then hasn’t the treasure already been stolen?” “But on such a small island, wouldn’t something like that have been noticed immediately? There’s only one boat landing—if outsiders came in, surely even the Moroto mansion staff would have noticed.”

“That’s right. A villain of Jogoro’s caliber wouldn’t stoop to committing such risky murders over treasure that doesn’t even exist. He must have known for certain that the treasure was real. Whatever the case, I simply can’t believe it’s been taken out.”

We had no way to make sense of this bizarre fact and, our initial momentum thwarted, remained perplexed for some time. However, had we at that time recalled the story we had once heard from the boatman, and had we connected that with our current situation, there would have been no need whatsoever to worry that the treasure had been taken out. But of course, neither I nor even the astute Moroto had considered that possibility. As for the boatman’s story, the readers will surely recall it. Ten years prior, a foreigner claiming to be Jogoro's cousin came to this island, but before long his corpse surfaced at the entrance to the Demon's Abyss cave—that inexplicable fact.

However, our failure to notice that might have ultimately been for the best. Because had we delved deeply into imagining the cause of that foreigner’s death, we would never have dared to plan our underground treasure hunt.

Yawata's Impenetrable Thicket

In any case, we had no choice but to enter the horizontal tunnel and verify whether the treasure had already been taken out.

We returned once to the Moroto mansion and gathered the necessary items for exploring the horizontal tunnel. These were things like several candles, matches, a large fishing knife, and a long hemp rope (which we had prepared by connecting as many thin hemp ropes used for nets as possible into a coil). “That horizontal tunnel might be deeper than expected. “Given that it’s described as the ‘Crossroads of the Six Realms,’ it might not only be deep but also have branching paths, perhaps becoming something like Yawata’s Impenetrable Thicket. “Look, in *The Improvisatore*, there’s a part where they enter Rome’s catacombs, right? “That’s why I thought to prepare this hemp rope. “It’s an imitation of the painter Federigo.”

Moroto said as if justifying the overly elaborate preparations. Afterwards, when I reread *The Improvisatore*, each time I reached the passage describing those underground tunnels, I would recall that time and could not help shuddering anew.

“In the deep places, there are paths dug into soft soil that cross each other. So numerous are its branches, so alike in appearance, that even those familiar with the main routes would inevitably lose their way. I, with my child’s mind, thought nothing of it. The painter, having prepared himself in advance, accompanied me inside. First he lit one candle, stored another in the fold of his garment, tied one end of a coil of thread to the entrance, then took me by the hand and proceeded inward. ‘Suddenly the ceiling became low, and there was a place where only I could stand and proceed on foot…’”

The painter and the boy had thus ventured into the underground labyrinth, and we were in exactly that state.

We clung to the thick rope and descended one after another to the bottom of the well. The water only reached up to our ankles, but its coldness was like ice. The horizontal tunnel opened at around waist height for us standing there. Moroto imitated Federigo by first lighting a candle and securely tying one end of the hemp rope coil to one of the stone slabs at the entrance of the horizontal tunnel. And so, unraveling the rope coil bit by bit, we proceeded.

Moroto took the lead, brandishing a candle as he crawled forward, and I followed behind holding the coil of rope, like two bears.

“It really does seem deeper than expected.” “The air feels stifling, doesn’t it?” We crawled forward inch by inch, conversing in whispers as we moved.

After moving forward five or six ken, the tunnel widened slightly enough that we could walk bent over, but then before long, we came to a place where another cave mouth had opened on the tunnel's side. "It's a branch path. Just as I thought—it's Yawata's Impenetrable Thicket. But as long as we hold onto the guide rope, we won't lose our way. First, let's proceed along the main path." Moroto said that and, paying no heed to the side tunnel, continued onward, but after going just two ken, another hole gaped open like a pitch-black mouth. When he inserted the candle and peered inside, finding the side tunnel appeared wider, Moroto turned and headed in that direction.

The path twisted and turned like a writhing snake. It twisted not only left and right but also rose and fell—sometimes descending, sometimes ascending. In the low areas, there were places where water collected like shallow marshes. There were more horizontal tunnels and branch paths than we could possibly keep track of. Moreover, unlike man-made tunnels, there were sections so narrow one couldn’t crawl through, parts split vertically like rock fissures, and then suddenly we emerged into an enormous hall-like space. In that hall, no fewer than five or six caves converged from all directions, forming a maze of utmost complexity.

“I’m shocked,” Moroto said. “It’s branching out like spider legs. I never imagined it would be this elaborate. At this rate, this cave might extend from one end of the island to the other.”

Moroto said exasperatedly. “The hemp rope is nearly gone. Do you think we’ll reach a dead end before it runs out?”

“It might be no good. “Since there’s no help for it, when the rope runs out, we’ll have to turn back again and bring a longer one. “But make sure you don’t let go of that rope. “If we lose our precious guidepost, we’ll become lost children in these underground depths.” Moroto’s face shone with a dusky crimson glow. Moreover, because the candle flame was positioned beneath his jaw, the shadows on his face inverted themselves, creating unfamiliar patterns across his cheeks and eyes that made him seem like a different person. Each time he spoke, his mouth—like a black hole—gaped open unnaturally wide.

The candle's feeble light barely illuminated a space of about six square feet, making it impossible to discern the true color of the rocks. The stark white ceiling formed unnervingly jagged contours, with droplets dripping intermittently from its protruding sections. It was a limestone cave.

Before long, the path became a downward slope. The path kept descending endlessly downward with eerie persistence. In front of my eyes, Moroto's pitch-black figure swayed from side to side as it advanced. Each time he swayed left and right, the flame of the candle he held flickered in and out of view. The dimly visible reddish-black, uneven rock surfaces seemed to pass overhead one after another.

After some time, as we advanced, both above and to the sides, the rock surfaces seemed to gradually recede from our field of vision. We had come upon one of the underground halls. When I suddenly noticed it then, the coil of rope in my hand had almost run out. “Ah, there’s no rope left!” The words escaped my lips before I could stop them. I hadn’t raised my voice that loudly, yet it echoed in my ears with a loud crash. And then immediately, from somewhere ahead came a small voice,

“Ah, the rope’s gone!” came the response. It was an echo from the depths of the earth. Moroto, startled by the voice, turned around and thrust his candle toward me, exclaiming, "Huh? What?"

The flame swayed unsteadily, illuminating his entire body. The instant a startled "Ah!" sounded, Moroto's form abruptly vanished from my sight. The candlelight disappeared simultaneously. Then from somewhere distant came Moroto's cries—"Ah! Ah! Ah..."—growing fainter and overlapping repeatedly as they reached my ears.

“Michio! Michio!”

I frantically called Moroto’s name. “Michio! Michio! Michio! Michio!” the echo mocked in reply. Overwhelmed by terror, I groped blindly after Moroto when—in a flash—my foot slipped and I pitched forward. “Ouch.”

Beneath me, Moroto cried out. What was that?

The ground suddenly dropped about two feet there, and we collapsed in a heap, falling over each other. Moroto, in the moment of falling, had severely struck his elbow and suddenly became unable to respond. "We've had quite the ordeal," Moroto said in the dark.

In the pitch-black darkness, Moroto spoke. He appeared to try rising, but then—with a sudden swishing sound—his form materialized from the void. "Are you injured?" "I'm fine." Moroto lit the candle's wick and resumed walking. I followed close behind him. But after advancing twelve ken, I abruptly stopped. My right hand felt disturbingly empty.

“Michio, could you lend me the candle for a moment?” I suppressed my pounding heart and called out to him. “What’s wrong?” Moroto looked doubtful as he thrust the candle toward me. I grabbed it abruptly and began pacing around, sweeping the light across the ground. Then, “It’s nothing. It’s nothing,” I kept repeating. But no matter how desperately I searched, the dim candlelight failed to reveal the slender hemp rope.

I kept searching through the vast cave with desperate persistence, pressing onward endlessly. Moroto must have noticed something wrong, for he suddenly ran up, grabbed my arm, and shouted in an alarmed voice. “Did you lose the rope?” “Yes.”

I answered in a miserable voice. “This is bad. If we lose that, we might have to spend our entire lives endlessly circling these depths!” We grew increasingly panicked as we searched desperately. Since we had tripped on the stepped section of ground, we thought searching there would be best, so we walked while examining the ground with the candle. However, stepped sections were everywhere, and the narrow horizontal tunnels opening into the cave weren’t just one or two. Before long, we could no longer tell which path we’d come from, and even while searching, we found ourselves in such a state that we might lose our way at any moment. The more we searched, the more anxious we grew.

Later, I recalled that the protagonist of *The Improvisatore* had also experienced the same ordeal. Ōgai’s renowned translation vividly depicts the boy’s terror.

“At that moment, we found ourselves surrounded by utter silence—no voices could be heard, only the lonely sound of water droplets between the rocks, now ceasing, now resuming.” ...when I suddenly noticed and looked toward the painter—ah, how strange—he was sighing heavily and dashing about in one spot. ...When I perceived his alarming state, I too stood up and burst into tears. ...I clung to the painter’s hand and pleaded that we must climb now, that I could not bear to stay here any longer. The painter said, “You are a good child. I shall draw for you, I shall give you sweets. Here, there is money too.” As he spoke, he searched the folds of his garment, took out his purse, and gave me all the coins within. When I received this, I noticed the painter’s hand had become cold as ice and trembled violently.... Then he bent down and kissed me many times, murmuring, “You dear child.” “You too must pray to the Holy Mother,” he said. “Have you lost the thread?” I cried out.

The improvisatori soon discovered the end of the thread and were able to safely emerge from the catacombs. But would the same fortune have been granted to us?

The severed end of the hemp rope Unlike the painter Federigo, we did not pray to God. Perhaps because of that, unlike them, we couldn't easily find the end of the thread. For over an hour, despite the underground chill, we searched frantically until sweat drenched our bodies. In my despair and overwhelming guilt toward Moroto, I wanted countless times to hurl myself onto the cold rocks and weep. Had Moroto's fierce will not kept urging me onward, I might have given up the search altogether and sat waiting to starve in that cave.

Countless times, our candlelight was extinguished by the giant bats dwelling in the cave. Those creatures slammed their eerie, shaggy bodies not just against the candles but into our faces. Moroto persevered patiently, lighting candles one after another as he methodically combed through the cave. “Don’t panic. As long as we remain calm, there’s no reason we shouldn’t find what’s undoubtedly here.”

He continued searching with astonishing tenacity. And finally, through Moroto's unshakable composure, the end of the hemp rope was discovered. But what a devastating discovery that proved to be. When we seized it, Moroto and I instinctively leapt up in wild exultation. "Banzai!" we cried out in unison. Overcome with elation, I began vigorously hauling the rope toward myself. I hadn't the slightest moment to question why it kept slithering endlessly onward.

“That’s strange. “There’s no resistance?”

Moroto, who had been watching nearby, suddenly noticed and spoke up. When he said that, it did seem strange. I, not knowing what misfortune this signified, mustered all my strength and gave it a pull. Then the rope writhed like a snake, lunged at me, and I lost my balance, landing hard on my backside. "Don't pull it!"

The moment I landed on my backside was the same instant Moroto cried out. “The rope’s been cut.” “Don’t pull it!” “Leave it as it is. Use the rope as a guide and try to make your way back toward the entrance.” “If it wasn’t cut midway, we should be able to make it near the entrance.” Following Moroto’s advice, we placed the candle on the ground and began retracing our original path while keeping an eye on the rope lying there. But, ah, what a calamity. At the entrance to the second chamber, our guide had been cleanly severed.

Moroto picked up the end of the hemp rope, held it close to the flame and examined it for a while, then extended it toward me. “Look at this cut end,” he said. As I fidgeted, unable to grasp his meaning, he proceeded to explain.

"You likely think the rope snapped midway when you fell earlier because you pulled too hard." "And perhaps you feel remorse toward me." "Set your mind at ease—that isn't what happened." "But for us, this signifies something far more dreadful." "Observe here." "This wasn't rubbed through against a rock edge." "It shows clear marks of being severed with a sharp blade." "First principle—if tension had frayed it, the break should've occurred at the nearest rock protrusion from our position." "Yet this appears to have been cut near the entrance itself."

Upon examining the severed end, I saw that Moroto was exactly right. Furthermore, we rewound the rope into a ball as it originally was, to confirm whether it had been cut near the entrance—that is, near where we had tied it to the stone pavement in the well when we first entered this underground. Then, hadn't it exactly regained its original size? There was no longer any room for doubt. Someone had severed this rope near the entrance.

Though it remained unclear exactly how much rope I had initially pulled in, it had likely been about eight ken—roughly fourteen meters. But if the severing had occurred before our fall, we might have been dragging the untethered end behind us all along, making it nearly impossible to estimate our current distance from the entrance. “There’s no use lingering here,” Moroto declared. “Let’s go as far as we can.”

Moroto said this, replaced the candle with a new one, and took the lead. The spacious cavern had numerous branching paths, but we walked straight from where the rope had ended and entered a hole that opened at the dead end. We thought the entrance was likely in that direction. We frequently encountered branching paths. There were also dead ends. When we turned back there, this time we could no longer recognize the path we had taken before.

We emerged into spacious caverns more than once, but we couldn't even tell whether it was the initial cavern from which we had set out.

Even just circling around a single cavern to discover what should have been an easily found end of the hemp rope required such tremendous effort. Once we had stumbled from branch path to branch path into Yawata’s Impenetrable Thicket, there was nothing left to do. Moroto said, “If only we could find even a sliver of light. If we head toward where it shines, we’ll surely reach the entrance,” but not even a faint bean-sized glimmer could be discovered.

After continuing to wander helter-skelter for about an hour, we became completely unable to tell whether we were heading toward the entrance, advancing deeper into the depths instead, or roaming through some unknown part of the island. Once again, we faced an alarmingly steep descent. When we finally reached the bottom, another subterranean chamber lay before us. From the chamber's midpoint, the path began a slight upward incline. Pressing onward regardless, we came upon a raised step that led to nothing but a solid wall of stone. Utterly defeated, we collapsed onto that stony ledge.

"We might have been circling the same path this whole time," I said, genuinely convinced it was true. "Humans truly are pitiful creatures," I continued. "This island's so small you could walk from end to end in no time. Yet here we are with sunlight blazing right above our heads, houses and people just beyond reach. Whether it's eighteen meters or thirty-six - we can't even muster the strength to break through that miserable distance."

“That’s the true horror of a maze,” Moroto said. “There’s a sideshow attraction called Yawata’s Impenetrable Thicket, you know. It’s just an eighteen-meter square bamboo thicket at most, but even though you can see the exit through the gaps between the bamboo, no matter how much you walk, you can’t get out. We’re under that bastard’s spell right now.” Moroto remained completely composed. “In times like these, panicking won’t help. You need to think it through calmly. Don’t try to escape with your legs—escape with your head. Consider carefully the nature of mazes.”

Having said that, he stepped into the hole, lit a cigarette with the candle for the first time, and declared, "We must conserve candles," blowing it out right away. In the absolute darkness where no texture could be discerned, his cigarette tip glowed like a solitary red ember. As an avid smoker, he had retrieved a box of Westminster cigarettes from his trunk before entering the well and carried it in his pocket. When he finished the first cigarette, he lit a second from its dying ember without wasting another match. We sat wordless in the dark until it had burned halfway down. Though Moroto appeared deep in contemplation, I lacked even the energy to think, collapsing limply against the stone wall behind me.

Lord of the Demon’s Abyss “There’s no other way.” From the darkness, Moroto’s voice suddenly rang out. “How long do you think the total length of all branches in this cave would measure if combined? “One ri or two? It surely can’t be more than that. “If it’s two ri, then we need only walk twice that—four ri. “As long as we walk four ri, we can certainly escape to the outside. “I believe there’s no other way to conquer this monster called a maze.” “But if we’re just circling endlessly through the same passages, no matter how many ri we walk, it would be futile, don’t you think?” I was already nearly overcome with despair.

“But there is a way to prevent that endless circling,” Moroto continued. “This is what I’ve devised. Take a long thread and form it into a loop. Lay it flat on a board, then use your fingers to pinch numerous indentations along its length—transforming the simple circle into an intricate shape resembling maple leaves. Doesn’t this cave mirror that very principle? These walls flanking us equate to the thread’s strands. Imagine if we could stretch out every branching path’s walls like pliable thread—they’d coalesce into one vast circle. You grasp it now? It’s akin to smoothing a crumpled thread back into its original loop.”

“Now, if we—for example—were to walk endlessly while keeping our right hands on the right wall, then should following the right side lead us to a dead end, we would touch the left side with our right hands instead, essentially walking the same path twice, and by continuing to trace along endlessly like this, since the walls form a large circumference, we would inevitably reach the exit.” “If we consider the thread example, that becomes perfectly clear.” “So, if the total length of all branching paths is two ri, then walking twice that distance—four ri—will automatically bring us back to the original exit.” “It may seem roundabout, but there’s no other way.”

Having been told this ingenious plan when I had nearly fallen into despair, I unconsciously straightened my upper body and said eagerly.

“That’s it, that’s it! Then why don’t we try doing that right now?” “Of course we have no choice but to try, but there’s no need to rush. Since we have to walk several ri, it would be better to get plenty of rest before setting out.” Moroto replied while tossing away the shortened cigarette butt with a flourish. The red ember spun like a mouse firework, whirling around and rolling two or three ken ahead before sizzling out with a hiss.

“Oh, there’s a puddle over there?”

Moroto said anxiously.

At the same moment, I detected a strange noise. It was an odd sound—a glugging noise like water pouring from a bottle’s mouth. “There’s a strange noise here.”

“What could it be?” We strained our ears. The sound grew increasingly louder. Moroto hurriedly lit the candle, held it up high, and peered ahead, but soon cried out in surprise.

“Water! Water! This cave connects to the sea somewhere.” “The tide’s coming in!” When I thought about it, we had indeed come down a terribly steep slope earlier. Perhaps this place was below sea level. If this place was indeed below sea level, then when high tide caused seawater to rush in, the water level would keep rising relentlessly until it equalized with the outside sea. The area where we had been sitting was on the highest ledge within that cavern, so we hadn’t noticed until then, but when we looked, the water had already advanced to within one or two ken.

When we descended the steps and began splashing through the water, hurrying to turn back the way we had come, alas, we had already lost our chance. Moroto’s composure instead became a calamity. As the water advanced, it grew deeper, and the hole we had come through was already submerged underwater.

“Let’s look for another hole.” We ran around the cavern’s perimeter, shouting incoherently as we searched for another exit, but strangely enough, not a single hole remained visible above the water’s surface. To our misfortune, we had by chance stumbled into a dead end shaped like the mercury bulb of a thermometer—a sealed pocket with no escape. I imagined seawater must have flowed through winding passages from beyond the hole we’d come through earlier. The terrifying speed at which the water rose filled us with dread—this wasn’t ordinary tidal inflow that gradually creeps higher with the moon’s pull. If this were normal tidal water, it wouldn’t be rising so rapidly. This proved the cave lay entirely below sea level—a submerged trapdoor waiting for high tide’s signal to burst open. The water came roaring through rock fissures that barely peeked above waves during low tide, now gushing in torrents as ocean and cavern equalized their levels.

While I was thinking such thoughts, the water had surged to just below the ledge where we had taken refuge. When I suddenly noticed it, there was something scuttling ominously around us. Holding the candle close to look, we saw five or six enormous crabs scrambling up, driven by the rising water. “Ah! That’s it—that must be it!” “Minoura, we’re beyond saving now.”

As if recalling something, Moroto suddenly cried out sorrowfully. Just hearing that anguished voice made me feel as though my chest had been hollowed out. “The whirlpool from Demon’s Abyss flows in here. The source of this water is that Demon’s Abyss. Now everything makes sense!” Moroto continued in a shrill voice, “Remember when the boatman told us about Jogoro’s cousin who came to the Moroto residence and later surfaced at Demon’s Abyss? That man must have deciphered the incantation, uncovered its secret, and entered this cave like we did. He was the one who broke the well’s stone pavement too. Then he wandered into this cave, got caught in flooding just like us, and died. His body flowed out to Demon’s Abyss with the ebb tide. Didn’t the boatman say it looked exactly like he’d emerged from a cave? The true master of Demon’s Abyss—it’s this very cavern.”

Even as we spoke, the water had already risen to our knees. We had no choice but to stand up, trying to postpone the moment of drowning even by an instant.

Swimming in Darkness

When I was a child, I once killed a rat caught in a wire mousetrap by submerging the entire cage in a tub and pouring water over it from above. Other methods of killing—like thrusting fire tongs into a rat’s mouth—had been too horrifying for me to attempt. But this water torture proved equally cruel. As water filled the tub, the rat scrambled desperately within its narrow cage and climbed upward until trapped against the mesh. Thinking That creature must regret taking that bait now filled me with an indescribably peculiar feeling.

But since I couldn't let the rat live, I poured in water relentlessly. When the water surface grazed the top of the wire mesh, the rat thrust its pale red snout upward as far as possible through the hexagonal mesh gaps, continuing its labored breathing while emitting distressed, frantic cries.

I closed my eyes, scooped a final ladleful, then averted my gaze from the tub and fled into the room. About ten minutes later, when I timidly went to check, the rat floated inside the net, bloated.

We in the cave on Iwajima Island were in exactly the same plight as that rat. I stood up on a slightly elevated part of the cave and, in the darkness, while feeling the water surface gradually creeping up from my feet, suddenly recalled that time with the rat.

“Which is higher—the high tide’s water level or this cave’s ceiling?” Groping in the dark, I grabbed Moroto’s arm and shouted.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Moroto answered quietly. “To determine that, we need only consider whether we descended more slopes than we ascended.” “But didn’t we descend far more?” “I feel the same way. Even after accounting for the distance between ground level and sea level, I still believe we descended further overall.” “Then there’s no hope for us now.”

Moroto gave no answer. We stood frozen in the grave-like darkness and silence, utterly stupefied. The water gradually yet steadily rose higher, surpassing our knees and reaching our waists. “Use your wisdom to think of something.” “I can’t bear waiting like this for death any longer.” Shuddering violently from the cold, I screamed. “Wait! It’s too soon to despair. I examined this carefully earlier by candlelight—the ceiling here grows narrower toward the top, forming an irregular conical shape. This very narrowness gives us a slender thread of hope, provided there are no rock fissures up there.”

Moroto said such things after much deliberation. I didn’t fully grasp his meaning, but I lacked the strength to question him further. Now staggering as water lapped up to my stomach, I clung desperately to Moroto’s shoulder. If I let my guard down, my feet would slip, making me feel as though I might float sideways into the water. Moroto wrapped his arm around my waist and held me firmly. In the complete darkness, I couldn’t see his face even though it was mere inches away, but I could hear his steady, strong breathing and feel its warmth against my cheek. Through his waterlogged Western clothes, I could feel his taut muscles warmly embracing me. Moroto’s scent—though not at all unpleasant—hung close around me. All of those things strengthened me within the darkness. Thanks to Moroto, I was able to remain standing. If he hadn’t been there, I might have drowned long ago.

But the rising water showed no sign of stopping. In the blink of an eye, it surged past our stomachs, reached our chests, and rose to our throats. In another minute, our noses and mouths would be submerged, and to keep breathing, we would have no choice but to swim. “It’s hopeless. “Mr. Moroto, we’re going to die!”

I let out a voice that felt like it was tearing at my throat. “Don’t despair. Don’t despair until the very last second!” Moroto also raised his voice unnecessarily loud. “Can you swim?” “I can swim, but I’m done for. I just want to die quickly and be done with it.” “What weak-spirited nonsense are you spouting? It’s nothing. The darkness makes people cowardly. Steel yourself! Live as long as you possibly can!”

And finally, we had to float our bodies in the water and continue breathing while lightly treading water. In time, our limbs would grow tired. Though it was summer, our bodies would grow numb from the underground cold. Even without that, what were we supposed to do if this water filled up to the ceiling? We were not fish that could live on water alone. Foolishly thinking that way, no matter how much I was told not to despair, I couldn't help but despair.

“Minoura-kun! Minoura-kun!”

Pulled forcefully by Moroto, I came to my senses with a start and found myself submerged underwater in a dreamlike state.

"If this keeps repeating, my consciousness will gradually fade until I inevitably die like this." "It's useless." "Dying turns out to be such an unexpectedly carefree and simple thing."

I was thinking such things in a drowsy, half-conscious state, like someone teetering on the edge of sleep.

Afterward—though I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, as it seemed both interminably long and merely an instant—I was jolted awake by Moroto’s frantic scream. “Minoura-kun, we’re saved. “We’re saved!”

But I didn't have the energy to respond. As a sign that I had understood his words, I feebly embraced Moroto’s body. “You! You!” Moroto shook me in the water and said, “Doesn’t the air feel strange? Doesn’t the air feel different than usual?” “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” I responded dazedly. “The water isn’t rising anymore. The water has stopped! It’s stopped rising!” “The tide has gone out.”

With this good news, my head began to clear somewhat. "That might be the case. "But I think there’s another reason. "The air feels strange, you see. “In other words, I think that with nowhere for the air to escape, the water can’t rise any further due to that pressure.” “See? I told you earlier—since the ceiling is low here, if there were no cracks, we’d be saved.” “I’d been thinking that from the start.” “It’s thanks to the air pressure.”

The cave confined us, but in return, by its very nature, it saved us.

To recount in detail everything that happened afterward would be tedious. I’ll make this quick. In the end, we managed to escape the flooding trap and were able to continue our underground journey once more.

There was still some time until the ebb tide, but once we realized we would survive, we regained our energy. Floating in the water during that time was nothing much. Eventually, the ebb tide came. At the same speed as when it had risen, the water swiftly receded. However, it seemed the water's entry point was located higher than the cave (when the tide had reached a certain level, the water had rushed in all at once), but rather than receding from that entrance, numerous barely noticeable fissures covered the cave floor through which it swiftly drained away. If that hadn't been the case, this cave would have been perpetually filled with seawater. Now, several tens of minutes later, we were able to stand on the cave floor where the water had receded. We were saved. But though I'm no storyteller, no sooner was one crisis overcome than another arose. In the midst of the flooding chaos, we ended up soaking our matches. Even if we had candles, we couldn't light them. When we realized this—though the darkness prevented us from seeing—we must have turned deathly pale.

“We’ll have to feel our way through,” Moroto said. “Ah well, even without light, we’ve gotten used to the darkness by now. Feeling our way might actually make us more attuned to directions.” Moroto made this grudging admission in a voice choked with tears.

Despair.

Therefore, following Moroto’s earlier proposal, we decided to try walking while keeping our right hands on the right wall, backtracking to the opposite wall whenever we hit a dead end, never letting go of the wall with our right hands. This was the last remaining, sole method for escaping the maze.

To avoid getting separated, we made our way through the unfathomable darkness in silence, save for the occasional calls to each other.

We were exhausted. We were assaulted by unbearable hunger. And it was a journey with no end in sight. As I walked—though in the darkness, it felt no different from marching in place—I found myself slipping into a dreamlike state.

In a spring field, flowers bloomed wildly like an arranged profusion. White clouds floated in the sky as skylarks sang cheerfully to one another. There, vivid against the horizon, stood the late Hatsuyo picking blossoms. It was Shu-chan, the conjoined twin. Shu-chan no longer bore that detestable Kichi-chan's body fused to hers. She had become an ordinary, beautiful girl.

Are hallucinations a kind of safety valve for those teetering on death's edge? Thanks to these visions interrupting my agony, my frayed nerves somehow kept clinging to life. The murderous despair had been blunted. Yet that I walked while seeing such phantoms spoke plainly of how death's breath grazed my neck in those moments. How much time had elapsed, what distance we'd covered—I remained utterly ignorant. The fingertips of my right hand had been scraped raw from ceaseless contact with stone walls. My legs transformed into automatons; I no longer felt conviction that my own will moved them. I grew doubtful whether these limbs would obey if I tried to halt their mechanical march.

We must have walked for nearly a full day. It might have been two or even three days that we had been walking continuously. Each time I tripped over something and collapsed, I would immediately fall fast asleep, only to be roused by Moroto and forced to continue our grueling ordeal.

But even Moroto finally reached the limits of his strength. Suddenly, he shouted, “Let’s stop,” and sank down right there.

“We can finally die, can’t we?” I asked as if I had been longing for it. “Ah, that’s right.” Moroto answered as though stating the obvious. “When you think about it carefully, no matter how much we walk, we can’t possibly get out. We’ve already walked well over five leagues. No underground tunnel could possibly be this absurdly long. There’s a reason for this. I finally managed to grasp that reason. What an utter fool I’ve been!”

He continued speaking in a pitiful voice like a dying patient's beneath labored breathing. "I'd been focusing my attention on my fingertips for quite some time, trying to memorize the rock walls' contours." "There's no way to know for certain—it might be my mistake—but somehow I keep feeling like I'm touching rock surfaces with exactly the same shape every hour or so." "In other words, I think we've been circling the same path for ages now."

I no longer cared about any of that. I could hear the words, but I wasn’t thinking about their meaning. But Moroto kept speaking like he was delivering a last testament. “To think I believed there were no endless loops—no complete circular paths—in this complex maze… What an utter fool I’ve been. It’s like an isolated island within the labyrinth, if you will. Using the thread loop analogy, imagine a small ring nested inside a larger jagged one. If our starting point happened to be the wall of that smaller ring—though its surface appears irregular—there’d ultimately be no true dead ends. We’ve simply been circling endlessly around this isolated island. You’d think releasing our right hands to feel along the left side might help, but there’s no guarantee we’d find only one such island. If it turned out to be another isolated island’s wall, we’d still be trapped in endless circling.”

When written out like this, it all seems clear enough, but Moroto had been muttering those ideas like sleep-talk as he worked through them, and I had been listening in a dreamlike state without understanding a thing—so looking back now, it strikes me as utterly absurd. “Theoretically, there’s a one in a hundred chance we could get out. All we need is a lucky strike against the outermost large thread loop—that’s all it would take. But we don’t have that kind of endurance left. We can’t take another step. It’s truly hopeless. Let’s just die together.”

“Aah, let’s die.” “That’s the best way, yeah.”

In a state of half-sleep and couldn’t-care-less resignation, I gave a carefree reply.

“Let’s die, let’s die.”

As Moroto kept repeating those same ominous words, his speech gradually became slurred as though a sedative were taking effect, until he finally slumped over motionless.

But our tenacious life force did not let such a thing kill us. We fell asleep. The exhaustion from not having slept a wink since crawling into the hole—now that we recognized it as despair—assailed us all at once.

The Avenging Fiend

How long had I slept? I awoke from a dream of my stomach burning. When I moved, every joint in my body throbbed with a neuralgic ache.

“Are you awake? We’re still in the hole, you know. We’re still alive.”

Moroto, who had awoken first, felt my movement and spoke gently.

In the darkness with no water or food and no hope of ever escaping, I became acutely aware that I was still alive—and such terror struck me that I began to shudder violently. I cursed how sleep had restored my capacity for thought.

“I’m scared. “I’m scared.”

I groped for Moroto’s body and inched closer. “Minoura-kun, we will never return to the surface again. There’s no one watching us. Even we ourselves cannot see each other’s faces. And after we die here, our corpses will likely never be seen by anyone—perhaps for eternity. Here, just as there’s no light, there’s no law, no morality, no customs—nothing at all. Mankind has gone extinct. This is another world. I want to forget all those things—if only for these last moments before death. Now we have no shame, no propriety, no pretense, no suspicion—nothing remains. We are but two newborns brought into this world of darkness.”

Moroto continued speaking these things as if reciting a prose poem, pulled me close, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and held me tightly. Every time he moved his head, our cheeks rubbed against each other.

“I have something I was hiding from you.” “But such things are just human society’s customs—its hypocrisy.” “Here there’s no need for hiding or shame.” “It’s about the old man.” “I’m badmouthing that bastard.” “Even after all this, you wouldn’t look down on me now, would you?” “After all, whatever parents or friends we had—here they’re all like some dream from a past life.”

And then, Moroto began to speak of an unearthly, grotesque, and monstrous grand conspiracy.

“When I was staying at the Moroto residence, you must remember how I argued daily in a separate room with that bastard Jogoro.” “That was when I learned all his secrets.”

Jogoro was born when the previous head of the Moroto family had relations with a monstrous, hunchbacked maid. Though he had a legal wife, his liaison with that creature had been but a morbid whim, and when a disabled child—doubly cursed by fate and his mother’s deformity—was born, Jogoro’s father came to loathe them, mother and son alike, exiling them from the island with a severance payment. Since she was not the legal wife, she bore her parents’ surname. That surname was Moroto. Though Jogoro now heads the Higuchi family, his hatred for ordinary people runs so deep that he detests even the Higuchi name and stubbornly clings to Moroto.

The mother took newborn Jogoro and lived deep in the mountains of the mainland like a beggar, cursing the world and cursing people. Jogoro grew up over countless years with these curses as his lullaby. They feared and hated normal humans as though they were an entirely different breed of beast. Jogoro told me a long story about the numerous hardships and sufferings he endured, along with persecution from people, until he reached adulthood. His mother left him with curses and passed away. When he reached adulthood, he crossed over to Iwaya Island for some reason, and around that time, the Higuchi family heir—Jogoro’s half-brother—had died, leaving behind his beautiful wife and their newborn daughter. Jogoro barged in there and ended up taking up residence.

“Jogoro, by some cruel twist of fate, fell in love with his brother’s wife. He exploited his position as her legal guardian to woo her through every means possible, but she left behind those merciless words—‘I’d sooner die than submit to a cripple’—and secretly fled the island with her child. Jogoro turned ashen, clenched his teeth, and shook uncontrollably as he recounted this. Until then, he had cursed ordinary people out of his cripple’s resentment, but from that moment on, he became a true demon cursing the world.”

He searched everywhere until he found a girl more severely disabled than himself and married her. "It was the first step in his revenge against all humanity." Moreover, whenever he encountered a cripple, he would bring them home and begin providing care. He even prayed that if a child were born, it would be not an ordinary human but a terribly deformed cripple. But what a cruel jest of fate this proved. "It was I who was born to crippled parents." "I bore no resemblance to them—a perfectly ordinary human." "My parents hated even their own child solely for being normal."

As I grew, their hatred of humanity only deepened. "And then, they finally began to plot a conspiracy so horrifying it made your hair stand on end." They pulled strings and went around purchasing newborn babies from impoverished families in distant regions. The more beautiful and adorable the infant was, the more they bared their teeth in delight.

“Minoura-kun, it’s only because we’re in this deadly darkness that I can reveal this—they conceived the idea of manufacturing cripples.” “Have you ever read a Chinese book called Yu Chu Xin Zhi?” “It contains a story about confining babies in boxes to create cripples for selling as spectacles.” “I also recall reading in Hugo’s novels that French doctors of old were described as having engaged in the same sort of business.” “The manufacture of cripples may have been something that existed in every country.”

“Jogoro, of course, knew nothing of such things,” Moroto continued. “He merely devised what humans have devised. But where merchants sought profit, Jogoro’s aim was revenge against normal humanity—making his operations infinitely more persistent and grave.” He described how they confined children in head-sized boxes to stunt growth, creating living dwarves. How they flayed faces to graft beast-like skin onto human flesh. How they severed fingers to leave grotesque tridactyl hands—all merchandise for carnival showmen. “Three days past,” Moroto added, “you saw men loading crates onto that boat? That was his latest shipment of manufactured cripples. They beach at desolate coves beyond harbors, trek over mountains to deal with black marketeers in town. That’s why I knew those lackeys wouldn’t return for days.”

While they were beginning such things, I asked to be enrolled in a school in Tokyo. The old man permitted my request on the condition that I become a surgeon. And taking advantage of my complete unawareness, he told me to research cripple rehabilitation under this noble pretext, while in truth having me study cripple manufacturing instead. When I created frogs with two heads and mice whose tails were attached to their noses, the old man would send letters filled with enthusiastic encouragement.

The reason he didn’t allow me to return home was that he feared I, who had developed discernment, would uncover the conspiracy to manufacture cripples. He thought it was still too early to reveal it. Moreover, the process by which he employed the circus troupe boy Tomonosuke as his accomplice could easily be imagined. He was manufacturing not only cripples but even bloodthirsty human beasts. This time I suddenly returned and accused the old man of being a murderer. “There, for the first time, he laid bare the cursed existence of cripples and, prostrating himself before me with tears streaming down his face, begged me to assist in his lifelong mission of revenge.” “He’s asking me to apply my surgical knowledge.”

“It’s a horrifying delusion.” “The old man plans to eliminate every last sound human across Japan and replace them all with cripples.” “He aims to build a nation of the deformed.” “He declares this must become the Moroto family code observed through generations.” “Like that madman in Joshu carving boulders for his Rock-Carved Hotel, he vows to pursue this vengeance as a multi-generational enterprise.” “A demon’s fantasy.” “An oni’s utopia!”

“It’s true—the old man’s circumstances are pitiable.” “But no matter how pitiable they are, do you think anyone could join such a hellish conspiracy? Boxing up innocent children, flaying their skin, parading them in freak shows—such cruelty!” “And what’s more, this pity I feel is just logical reasoning. Somehow, I can’t muster genuine sympathy for him.” “It’s strange, but I don’t feel they’re my parents.” “The same goes for my mother.” “How could any mother resent her own child?” “That couple—they’re demons from birth.” “Beasts!” “Their hearts twist and warp just like their bodies.”

“Minoura-kun, this is the true nature of my parents.” “I am their child.” “I am a demon’s child whose lifelong ambition has been to commit acts many times crueler than murder.” What am I supposed to do? Should I grieve? But this sorrow was too vast to grieve. Should I rage? But this hatred was too deep to rage.

“To tell you the truth... When I lost the guiding thread in this hole,” Moroto continued, “I felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from some corner of my heart with relief. And when I thought I might never have to emerge from this eternal darkness... I was almost glad.”

Moroto, his hands trembling with violent tremors, embraced my shoulders with all his strength and continued talking frantically. Our cheeks pressed firmly together, his tears poured down copiously.

Overwhelmed by the sheer abnormality of it all, having lost all capacity for judgment, I could do nothing but let Moroto have his way and remain motionless, shrinking into myself.

Living hell.

There was one matter I was itching to ask. However, because I disliked appearing as though I was only thinking of myself, I waited a while for Moroto's agitation to subside.

In the darkness, we remained silent, holding each other.

“What a fool I am. “In this subterranean otherworld, there were supposed to be no parents, no morality, no shame—don’t you think?” “Even if I get worked up about it now, it’s pointless.”

Finally having regained his composure, Moroto said in a low voice.

“Then, those twins Shu-chan and Kichi-chan also...” I seized the opportunity to ask. “So they really were manufactured cripples after all?” “Of course.” Moroto spat out the words. “I’d known that since reading that peculiar diary.” “Through those pages, I’d begun dimly grasping what the old monster was doing.” “Why he’d forced me to study those twisted anatomical texts too.” “But I couldn’t bear telling you.” “Calling them murderers was one thing—but their human metamorphosis experiments...” “Even shaping those words terrified me.”

"The fact that Shu-chan and Kichi-chan aren't natural twins—well, since you're not a doctor you wouldn't know this—but among us medical professionals it's common knowledge." "There's an unshakable principle that conjoined twins must always be of the same sex." "In cases of identical fertilization, male and female twins can't possibly be born from a single egg." "And how could there exist twins with such completely different facial features and physical constitutions?" "When they were infants, both their skins were peeled off, their flesh shaved down, and they were forcibly joined together." "If the conditions are properly controlled, there's no reason it couldn't succeed." "With sufficient luck, even an amateur might accomplish it." "But since they aren't fused from the core as deeply as they themselves believe, separating them would actually be no trouble at all."

"So they were made to be sold to freak shows too, then." "That's right. They made them learn to play the shamisen like that and were waiting for when they could fetch the highest price." "You must be relieved to realize Shu isn't actually crippled." "Happy now?"

“Are you jealous?”

The inhuman environment had made me bold.

As Moroto had said, there was no propriety or shame left. After all, we were going to die soon anyway. I thought nothing I said would matter.

“I’m jealous.” “That’s right.” “Ah, how long have I been consumed by jealousy?” “My competing to marry Hatsuyo-san was partly for that reason.” “Even after she died, seeing your endless grief—how much anguish I felt.” “But now you can never meet Hatsuyo-san again, nor Shu-chan, nor any other woman.” “In this world, you and I are all of humanity.”

“Ah, how happy this makes me! I’m grateful to whatever god locked us two away in this otherworld. From the very beginning, I never once considered surviving. That sense of responsibility—that I had to atone for Father’s sins—was the only thing driving me through all those efforts. How much happier I’d be to die here holding you than live in disgrace as the demon’s spawn! Minoura-kun, cast off the surface world’s customs, abandon its shame—now, at last, accept my desire and take my love!”

Moroto once again fell into a frenzied state. I found myself at a loss for how to respond to the sheer repulsiveness of his plea. Anyone would feel this way, but whenever I considered anything other than a young woman as an object of romantic affection, I was overcome by an indescribable revulsion that made my hair stand on end. Physical contact as friends was nothing out of the ordinary. It could even be pleasant. But once it became romantic love, a same-sex body was the sort of thing that induced nausea. This was another facet of what they call exclusive love. It was self-loathing.

Moroto was reliable as a friend and someone I held in goodwill. But the more that was true, the more unbearable it became to consider him as an object of carnal desire. Even I, who had abandoned all hope in the face of death, could do nothing about this hatred alone.

I pushed away the approaching Moroto and fled.

“Ah, even now, can’t you find it in your heart to love me? Is there no compassion in you to accept my desperate love?”

Moroto, overcome with disappointment, came chasing after me, wailing as he did.

Shameless and beyond caring for appearances, a wretched subterranean scramble began. Ah, what an appalling scene it was.

It was one of his caves where the walls widened on both sides, but I had fled about ten meters from my original position and now crouched in a dark corner, holding my breath. Moroto had also fallen silent. Was he listening intently for any trace of human presence, or was he slithering soundlessly along the walls like a blind snake closing in on its prey? I couldn’t discern his intentions at all. That made it all the more creepy.

I was trembling alone in the darkness and silence, like a human without eyes or ears.

And then,

"If you had time to be doing this sort of thing, wouldn't it be better to make even the slightest effort to escape this hole?" "Could it be that Moroto was trying to sacrifice what slim chance we might have had at survival for the sake of his monstrous desires?" I found myself thinking such thoughts. Yet even so, being utterly alone, I couldn't muster the will to continue journeying through the dark.

When I noticed with a start, the snake had already drawn near to me. How on earth could he see me in this darkness? Or did he possess some sense beyond the ordinary five? My leg, which I had tried to jerk back in shock, had already been seized by his sticky hands.

I lost my balance and fell sideways onto the rock. The snake slimed its way up my body. I wondered whether this unfathomable creature was Moroto. It was no longer human—nothing but a grotesque beast.

I moaned from terror. It was distinct from the fear of death, but even more repulsive than that—an indescribable terror.

The chillingly eerie thing lurking in the depths of the human psyche now manifested before me in the grotesque form of a sea demon. A hellish tableau. A primeval hell of darkness, death, and bestial nature.

I had at some point lost the strength to moan. I was terrified to make a sound. Burning cheeks like flames pressed against my own sweat-dampened ones. Panting breaths like a dog’s; a strange, indescribable body odor; and then a slimy, smooth, hot mucous membrane crawled all over my face like a leech, seeking my lips.

Moroto Michio is no longer among the living. But I fear shaming the deceased too greatly. I shall stop writing at length about such things.

At that exact moment, something extremely strange occurred. Thanks to that, it was such an extraordinary turn of events that I was able to escape calamity.

At the other end of the cave, a strange noise occurred. I was accustomed to bats and crabs, but that noise was not made by such small creatures. It was the sense of a much larger creature squirming about.

Moroto loosened his grip on me, and I ceased my resistance, straining to listen.

Unexpected Figure Moroto let go of me. By animal instinct, we braced ourselves against the enemy.

When I strained my ears, I could hear the breathing of a living creature.

“Shh.” Moroto reprimanded as one would scold a dog.

“Just as I thought. There are humans here. Hey, am I right?” Unexpectedly, that creature spoke in human language. It was an elderly voice. “Who are you? Why did you come to a place like this?” Moroto asked in return. “Who are you? Why are you in a place like this?” The other person repeated the same question. Due to the cave’s reverberations warping the voices, there was something vaguely familiar about it, yet struggling to recall who it belonged to was proving difficult. For a while, both parties remained silent, each probing the other.

The other party's breathing grew increasingly distinct. They seemed to be creeping closer inch by inch. "By any chance, aren't you folks guests from the Moroto residence?" At a distance of about six feet, I heard such a voice. This time, because it was low, I could clearly make out its tone. I suddenly remembered someone. But that person should already be dead. He should have been killed by Jogoro... It was the voice of a dead man. In an instant, I felt the delusion that this cave might be actual hell—that we might have already died.

“Who are you?” “By any chance…”

As I began to speak, the other person cried out with a delighted look. "Ah! That's right!" "You're Mr. Minoura, aren't you?" "And you must be Michio-san." "I'm Toku." "The Toku that Jogoro killed!"

“Ah! It’s Toku-san!” “You… How did you end up here?” We instinctively ran toward the voice and groped each other’s bodies.

Mr. Toku's boat had capsized at Demon's Abyss due to a massive boulder Jogoro dropped. However, Mr. Toku hadn't died. As it happened during high tide, his body was sucked into the cave at Demon's Abyss. When the tide receded, he found himself left alone in the dark maze. From that day until now, he had survived underground. "And your son? The one who acted as my body double?" "I don't know. He was likely eaten by sharks or something."

Mr. Toku spoke with utter resignation. It was only natural. For Mr. Toku himself had no prospect of ever returning to the surface—he was effectively as good as dead.

“For my sake, I ended up putting you all through such an ordeal. You must have resented me terribly.” At any rate, I offered my apologies. But in this deathly cave, such apologies rang hollow somehow. Toku-san did not respond to that. "You all look to be in a terribly weakened state. You must be starving. In that case, I’ve got some leftovers here you should eat. You don’t need to worry about food—this place is swarming with huge crabs.”

We had been unable to fathom how Toku-san had survived, but indeed, he had sustained himself on raw crab meat. We received it from Toku-san and ate it. It was cold and slimy, a salty jelly-like substance, but truly delicious. I have never before or since eaten such delicious food. We begged Toku-san to catch us several more large crabs, bashed them against rocks to split their shells, and devoured them ravenously. Looking back now, it seems both eerie and repulsive, but at the time, crushing those thick legs that still squirmed faintly and slurping out the slimy innards tasted inexplicably delicious.

Once our hunger subsided, we regained some energy and began discussing our circumstances with Toku-san.

“So that means we’ve got no hope of ever getting out of this hole until we die.” Mr. Toku, having heard our tale of hardships, let out a sigh of despair. “I’ve gone and done a terrible thing. “I should’ve risked my life and swum out to sea from that hole instead. “But then I got caught in a whirlpool and thought there was no way I’d survive, so instead of heading out to sea, I ended up swimming into this hole instead. “I never imagined this hole would be more terrifying than the whirlpool—a veritable Yawata’s Impenetrable Thicket. “Later, when I realized and tried to go back, I only ended up getting lost—couldn’t possibly get back to the original hole. “But who’s to say what brings fortune—thanks to my aimless wandering, I was able to meet you all after all.”

“Now that we’ve secured food, there’s no reason for us to despair.” “If there’s even a one-in-a-hundred chance of escaping by some fluke, then let’s walk those ninety-nine futile paths! Whether it takes days—or even months!”

Thanks to our increased numbers and the raw crab meat, I suddenly became full of vigor. “Ah, you must want to feel the outside world’s breeze once more. I envy you all.” Moroto said suddenly and sorrowfully.

“You say such strange things. Don’t you care whether you live or die?” Mr. Toku asked suspiciously. “I am Jogoro’s son. I am a murderer’s child, a cripple-maker’s child, a demon’s child. I fear the sun. I dread going out into the world and having decent people see my face. This pitch-dark underground might truly be the fitting dwelling for a demon’s child.”

Poor Moroto. He was also ashamed of the despicable act he had just committed against me.

“Quite right. You probably don’t know anything about it. When you all came to the island, I had half a mind to tell you about it then. Do you remember that evening when I was crouched on the beach watching you all leave? But I was terrified of Jogoro’s retaliation. Because if you angered Jogoro, you couldn’t remain living on this island even for a moment.”

Mr. Toku started saying something strange. Since he had previously been a servant at the Moroto residence, he must have known Jogoro’s secrets up to a certain point. "What exactly were you going to tell me?"

Moroto shifted and asked in return. “That you aren’t Jogoro’s real child.” “Now that things have come to this, I don’t care what I say.” “You’re a child Jogoro kidnapped from the mainland—someone else’s kid.” “Use your head—how could that filthy deformed couple ever produce a beautiful child like you?” “Their real child is touring around with a freak show.” “He’s a hunchback who’s the spitting image of Jogoro.” The reader knows—once, when Detective Kitagawa tracked the Ozaki Circus Troupe to a town in Shizuoka Prefecture and got close to Issunbōshi to ask about “Oto-san,” Issunbōshi had said, “The troupe’s leader isn’t Oto-san—it’s a different young hunchback.” That troupe leader was Jogoro’s real child.

Toku-san continued his account. "You too—he likely meant to mold you into a cripple from the start—but that hunchbacked mother of his grew fond of you and wound up raising you like any ordinary child." "And then, when he saw how clever you'd turned out, Jogoro relented—decided to make you his own son and have you properly educated."

Why had he made him his own child? To carry out his demonic objectives, he needed the unbreakable bond of true parentage.

Moroto Michio was not the biological son of the demon Jogoro. It was an astonishing fact.

Spiritual Guidance

“Tell me more—every detail!”

Moroto asked in a hoarse voice, coughing. "I was a servant of the Higuchi family from my father’s time—until seven years ago when I could no longer stomach that hunchback’s ways and quit. Seeing as I’m sixty this year, that makes fifty years I’ve witnessed the Higuchi clan’s squabbles." "I’ll lay it out proper-like, step by step. You’d best listen close now."

Thereupon, Mr. Toku painstakingly recalled and recounted the history of the Higuchi family—now the Moroto residence—reaching back fifty years into the past; however, since detailing it all here would prove tedious, a table has been provided below that makes everything clear at a glance. (Keiō era) Manbei, former head of the Higuchi family, impregnated an ugly crippled maid and sired Kaini. This child—a hunchbacked monstrosity surpassing even his mother's deformity—proved more than Manbei could endure to behold, so he banished both mother and child. They hid in the mountains of the mainland and continued living like beasts. The mother cursed both heaven and mankind before perishing in those mountains.

(Meiji 10) Haruo, son of Manbei's legal wife, married Kotohira Umeno, a daughter from the opposite shore.

(Meiji 12) Haruyo was born to Haruo and Umeno. Soon after, Haruo died of illness.

(Meiji 20) Kaini returned to the island under the name Moroto Jogoro, entered the Higuchi household, and took advantage of Umeno's position as mistress to act as he pleased. Moreover, when he pressed an illicit affair upon Umeno, she fled back to her parents' home with Haruyo. (Meiji 23) Jogoro, thwarted in love and cursing the world, sought out and married an ugly hunchbacked woman. (Meiji 25) A child was born to Jogoro and his wife. Both Inga and her child were hunchbacks. Jogoro grinned fiercely in delight. He kidnapped Michio—a child of the same age as his own—from somewhere.

(Meiji 33) Umeno's daughter Haruyo (legitimate child of Haruo and rightful heir of the Higuchi family), having returned to her parents' home, married a young man from the same village.

(Meiji 38) Haruyo gave birth to her eldest daughter Hatsuyo. This was the later Kizaki Hatsuyo. My lover who was killed by Jogoro was Kizaki Hatsuyo.

(Meiji 40) Haruyo gave birth to her second daughter, Midori. In the same year, Haruyo’s husband had died and her parents’ family had perished entirely. With no relatives left to depend on, she crossed over to Iwajima Island relying on her mother’s connections and came to reside at Jogoro’s estate. She had been taken in by Jogoro’s honeyed words. At the beginning of this story, when Hatsuyo spoke of caring for a baby on a desolate coast, that incident referred to her second daughter Midori.

(Meiji 41) Jogoro's ambitions began manifesting blatantly. He sought to satisfy his thwarted love for Umeno through her daughter Haruyo. Haruyo could no longer endure it and fled the island one night with Hatsuyo. At that moment, their second daughter Midori was seized by Jogoro. Haruyo wandered rootlessly until reaching Osaka, but finding herself destitute, she ultimately abandoned Hatsuyo. It was then that the Kizaki couple found her.

The above was a concise history of the Higuchi family, combining Toku-san's firsthand account with my own imagination. This revealed that Hatsuyo-san alone was the legitimate heir of the Higuchi family, while Jogoro had been nothing more than a maid's son. If treasure lay hidden beneath the earth here, it grew ever clearer that it rightfully belonged to Hatsuyo-san.

Unfortunately, it remained entirely unknown who Moroto Michio’s true parents were or where they might be. Only Jogoro knew that.

“Ah, I’m saved! Now that I’ve heard this, no matter what happens, I’ll return to the surface. And I’ll make Jogoro confess where my real father and mother are—I won’t stop until he does!” Michio suddenly grew resolute.

But as for me, my heart was racing with a strange premonition. I had to ask Toku-san about that.

“So Haruyo-san had two daughters: Hatsuyo and Midori.” “When Haruyo-san ran away, her younger sister Midori was taken by Jogoro, you mean?” “Counting the years, she’d be exactly seventeen now.” “What happened to Midori after that?” “Is she still alive?” “Ah—I’d forgotten to mention that,” Mr. Toku replied. “She’s alive.” “But she’s only barely alive—not a proper human being anymore.” “They made her into one half of conjoined twins she was never born as, you see.”

“Oh—could that be Shu-chan?”

“That’s right. That Shu-chan is what Midori-san has been reduced to.”

What a strange twist of fate this was. I had been in love with Hatsuyo-san's biological younger sister. Would Hatsuyo-san beneath the earth resent my feelings? Or was this convergence of fate entirely the guidance of her spirit—had she made me cross to this isolated island, shown me Shu-chan through the storehouse window, and caused me to fall in love at first sight? Ah, I couldn't help feeling that might be the case. If Hatsuyo-san's spirit truly possessed such power, perhaps our treasure hunt would achieve its purpose successfully. And perhaps the time would come when I escaped this underground maze and met Shu-chan again.

“Hatsuyo-san, Hatsuyo-san, please protect us.”

I prayed to the cherished image of her in my heart.

The Mad Demon

And then began again our tormenting journey through hell. Sustaining ourselves on raw crab meat and quenching our thirst with the scant freshwater dripping from the cave ceiling, we pressed on through the endless maze for dozens of hours. Though there were various pains and terrors during that time, those details are omitted here as too trivial.

Although there was neither night nor day underground, when we could no longer endure our fatigue, we would lie down on the rocky floor and sleep. When we awoke from that sleep for the umpteenth time, Toku-san let out a frantic scream.

“There’s a rope. “There’s a rope. “The hemp rope you all lost—could this be it?”

We rejoiced at the unexpected good news and crawled over to Toku-san’s side to investigate—it was indeed a hemp rope. Then, did this mean we were now near the entrance?

“No, this isn’t the hemp rope we used. Minoura-kun, what do you think? Ours wasn’t this thick, right?”

Michio said suspiciously. Upon closer inspection, it indeed did not seem to be the hemp rope we had used. "Then does this mean someone besides us used a guide rope to enter this hole?"

“That’s the only way to think about it. And they came after us. The reason being, when we went in, there wasn’t any hemp rope like this tied to that well’s entrance.”

Who on earth could have followed us into these depths? Friend or foe? But Jogoro and his wife were confined in the storehouse. The rest were all cripples. Ah—could it be that the servants from the Moroto estate who had set sail the other day had returned and noticed the old well's entrance?

“In any case, why don’t we follow along this rope and see how far we can go?” Following Michio’s suggestion, we used the rope as our guide and walked onward without pause. Indeed, someone had infiltrated the underground; after we had walked for nearly an hour, the space ahead began to grow faintly brighter. It was candlelight reflecting off the twisting walls. We gripped the knives in our pockets, mindful of how our footsteps echoed, and crept forward with caution. With each turn we took, the brightness intensified.

They finally reached the last bend. On the other side of the rocky corner, a bare candle flickered. Whether this meant fortune or calamity, I was rooted to the spot, no longer having the strength to advance.

At that moment, a bizarre scream suddenly echoed from beyond the rocks. Upon closer listening, it wasn’t merely a scream. It was a song. The lyrics and melody were utterly chaotic—a ferocious song unlike anything I had ever heard before. That, echoing through the cave, sounded like some strange beast’s cry. Hearing this bizarre song in such an unexpected place sent a chill down my spine, making every hair on my body stand on end.

“It’s Jogoro.”

Michio, who was at the front, quietly peeked around the rocky corner, startled, pulled his head back, and reported to us in a low voice.

How had Jogoro, who should have been confined in the storehouse, come here? Why was he singing such a bizarre song? I couldn't make any sense of it.

The song's pitch grew increasingly higher, growing ever more ferocious. And, like an accompaniment to the song, a clear metallic clinking sound could be heard. Michio once again peered stealthily around the rocky corner, then— “Jogoro has gone mad. “It’s no wonder. “Look at that sight!” Saying this, Moroto strode resolutely toward the other side of the rock. Hearing he was mad, we too followed after him. Ah—I will never forget that most wondrous and bizarre sight which opened before our eyes at that moment.

The ugly hunchbacked old man, half-illuminated by red candlelight, shrieked something between song and scream as he performed a mad dance. Beneath his feet lay a golden carpet like ginkgo leaves. Jogoro grabbed handfuls from jars in the cave's corner, scattering them glitteringly across the ground while dancing wildly. With each drop, the golden rain produced delicate clinking sounds. He had outmaneuvered us to discover the underground treasure first. Unlike our circuitous path, he—still possessing his guide rope—reached the destination with unexpected speed. Yet this proved a bitter fortune. The staggering mountain of gold had finally driven him mad.

We ran up and tapped his shoulders trying to bring him back to his senses，but Jogoro merely stared back at us with vacant eyes，even losing his hostility，and continued singing his incomprehensible song. “Understood，Minoura-kun. It was this old man who cut our guide hemp rope. He did that to make us lose our way，then came here himself using a different guide rope.”

Michio noticed that and said.

“But if Jogoro is here, then the cripples we left at the Moroto estate are a concern.” “I wonder if they’re being subjected to something terrible.” In truth, I was simply worried about the safety of my lover Shu-chan. “With this hemp rope here, getting outside is no trouble at all. “At any rate, let’s go back once to check on things.”

Under Michio's instructions, leaving Mr. Toku behind to watch the mad old man, we followed the guide rope and hurried toward the exit.

A detective arrived.

We managed to climb out of the well unharmed. After enduring the blinding sunlight we hadn't seen in ages—fighting back waves of dizziness while clutching each other's hands—we dashed toward the Moroto estate's main gate only to collide with an unfamiliar man in Western attire coming from the opposite direction. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" The man barked at us in an imperious tone when he noticed our approach.

“Who exactly are you? You don’t seem to be from this island.” Michio retorted.

“I’m with the police,” said the gentleman in Western clothes. “I’ve come to investigate this residence. Do you have some connection to it?” He turned out to be an unexpected police detective—a stroke of luck. We each stated our names. “Do not lie,” he snapped. “I know Moroto and Minoura have come here. But you shouldn’t be old men like this.”

The detective said a strange thing. What on earth could he be mistaking us for, taking us as “old men like you”?

Moroto and I could not contain our bewilderment and involuntarily stared at each other's faces. Then, we gasped in shock.

The figure standing before my eyes was no longer the Moroto Michio of several days prior. His beggar-like tattered clothes, lead-colored grimy skin, disheveled hair, sunken eyes, and skeletal face with protruding cheekbones—it was no wonder the detective had mistaken him for an old man. “Your hair is pure white.” Michio said that and laughed in a peculiar manner. To me, that looked like he was crying. My transformation was more severe than Michio’s. Though the physical emaciation differed little from his, my hair had lost all pigment during those days in the cave, turning as white as an eighty-year-old man’s.

I was not unaware of the mysterious phenomenon where extreme mental anguish could turn a person’s hair white overnight. I had indeed read two or three real-life examples of this. But that such a rare occurrence would befall someone like myself—as I now spoke these words—lay entirely beyond imagination. Yet during those days, I had been menaced countless times by terrors surpassing death itself. That I hadn’t lost my mind seemed miraculous. My hair turning white became the price paid instead of madness. All things considered, this transformation had to be counted a mercy.

While we had experienced the same inhuman circumstances, that Moroto's hair showed no abnormalities was surely because he possessed a stronger mind than I. We told the detective succinctly about all the events that had occurred both before coming to this island and after arriving here. "Why didn't you seek help from the police? Your suffering is of your own making."

The first words uttered by the detective who heard our story were these. But of course, this was said with a smile. "Because I had believed that the villain Jogoro was my father." Michio explained.

The detective was not alone. He had several colleagues with him. He ordered two of them to enter the underground and bring Jogoro and Old Man Toku. "Please leave the guide rope as it is. We need to retrieve the gold coins." Moroto Michio cautioned the two men. The reader has already been informed that Detective Kitagawa of Ikebukuro Station, in order to investigate the Ozaki Circus Troupe to which the young acrobat Tomonosuke had belonged, traveled all the way to Shizuoka Prefecture, painstakingly ingratiated himself with the clown Issunbōshi through repeated efforts, and extracted a certain secret. Detective Kitagawa’s painstaking efforts bore fruit, and from a direction entirely separate from our own, they finally managed to uncover this den on Iwajima Island, which resulted in the investigative team storming the Moroto residence.

When the detectives arrived at the Moroto residence, they found a two-headed monster—male and female—locked in a violent struggle. Needless to say, it was Shu-chan and Kichi-chan, the conjoined twins.

Be that as it may, once they subdued the monster and inquired about the situation, it was Shu-chan who eloquently recounted the details of the matter. After we entered the well, Kichi-chan—who had become jealous of the relationship between me and Shu-chan—informed on us to Jogoro and opened the storehouse door to cause us trouble. Of course, Shu-chan did her utmost to prevent it, but she was no match for Kichi-chan’s brute strength as a male. Now free, Jogoro and his wife brandished a whip and swiftly confined the group of disabled individuals into the storehouse instead. Because Kichi-chan had been the one to contribute, only the conjoined twins were spared from that calamity.

After that, Jogoro must have deduced our whereabouts through Kichi-chan's tattling, descended into the well with his disabled body, cut our hemp rope, and ventured into the maze using another rope. There could be no doubt that Jogoro's hunchbacked wife and the mute Otoshi-san had assisted in this.

Since then, Shu-chan and Kichi-chan had become enemies. Kichi-chan tried to free Shu-chan. Shu-chan cursed Kichi-chan’s betrayal. Their verbal dispute escalated, and a physical struggle between their bodies began. At that moment, the group of detectives arrived on the scene. Through Shu-chan’s explanation, the detectives who had learned of the circumstances immediately bound Jogoro’s wife and Otoshi-san, released the disabled individuals from the storehouse, and were beginning preparations to descend underground to apprehend Jogoro—just as we appeared.

Through the detective's account, the above details became clear.

Grand Finale

Now, the true culprit behind the triple murder case—beginning with Kizaki Hatsuyo (correctly Higuchi Hatsuyo), Miyamaki Koukichi, and the boy Tomonosuke—had been revealed, and there was no need for us to await our revenge, as he had already descended into madness. Moreover, the hiding place of the Higuchi family’s treasure, which had served as the motive for the murders, was also discovered. My long tale should bring down the curtain at this point.

Is there anything I've left unsaid?

Ah, yes—there was the matter of Mr. Miyamaki Koukichi, the amateur detective. How had he managed to see through to the den on Iwajima Island just by looking at that family register? Even for a great detective, this seemed like borderline supernatural insight.

After the incident concluded, I found this matter unbearably strange, so I borrowed the deceased Mr. Miyamaki's diary that had been kept by his friend and searched through it meticulously—there it was, right there. In the Taisho 2 year diary, the name Higuchi Haruyo appeared. Needless to say, she was Hatsuyo's mother. As the reader knows, Mr. Miyamaki was an eccentric who, instead of having a wife and children, had become quite intimate with various women and lived with them as though they were married. Ms. Haruyo was one of them. During his travels, Mr. Miyamaki had taken in Ms. Haruyo when she was in distress. (This was after she had abandoned Hatsuyo as a foundling.)

After cohabiting for about two years, Ms. Haruyo died of illness at Mr. Miyamaki's home. Surely before her death, she must have told Mr. Miyamaki everything—about the abandoned child, the family register, and Iwajima Island. This explained why, in later years, when Mr. Miyamaki saw the Higuchi family register, he immediately rushed to Iwajima Island.

The family register had likely been passed down from Higuchi Haruo (Jogoro's elder brother) to his wife Umeno, from Umeno to her child Haruyo, and from Haruyo to Hatsuyo. Of course, they knew nothing about this family register's true worth. They had merely followed their ancestors' will that dictated the legitimate child should preserve and pass it down.

Then, how did Jogoro come to know that the incantation was hidden within it? According to his wife’s confession, Jogoro had been reading a diary left behind by his ancestors one day when he chanced upon a certain passage. There, it was written that the secret of the family treasure passed down through generations was sealed within the family register. But since that was after Haruyo had run away from home, this hard-won discovery proved futile. From then on, Jogoro ordered his hunchbacked son to devote himself to searching for Haruyo’s whereabouts, but with no leads to follow, he struggled endlessly to achieve his goal. By around Taisho 13 (1924), they finally discovered that Hatsuyo now possessed that family register. Then, as the reader knows, Jogoro went to great lengths to obtain that family register.

The ancestors of the Higuchi family were pirates broadly categorized among what are known as Wokou. They had possessed vast amounts of treasure plundered from the continent's shores. Fearing confiscation by feudal lords, they hid it deep underground and passed down its location through generations. However, Haruo's grandfather converted it into an incantation and bound it within the family register, yet for some reason died without revealing the spell to his son. According to what Toku-san had heard and passed down, it seems that person died suddenly of a stroke.

From that time onward, until Jogoro discovered a passage in an old diary, the Higuchi clan had known nothing about this treasure.

However, there was reason to believe this secret had instead been known by those outside the Higuchi clan. This was because of that strange man who had crossed over from K Port to Iwajima Island about ten years earlier, become a guest at the Moroto residence, and later vanished into the sea foam of the Demon’s Abyss. He had clearly entered underground through the old well. We saw traces of this. Jogoro’s wife recalled that man and stated he was descended from those who had served the Higuchi ancestors. In that case, his ancestor had likely discerned the treasure’s hiding place and left behind some written record.

Having left the past at that, I shall now conclude this tale by briefly adding what became of the characters thereafter.

First and foremost, I must write about my lover Shu-chan. It was determined that she was undoubtedly Midori, Hatsuyo's biological younger sister and the sole legitimate heir of the Higuchi family, so all the underground treasure reverted to her ownership. Estimated at nearly one million yen at current market value, it was a vast fortune.

Shu-chan was a millionaire. Moreover, she was no longer the disfigured conjoined twin she once had been. The barbaric Kichi-chan had been severed by Michio’s scalpel. Since they had never truly been conjoined twins to begin with, naturally both were fully formed as a man and a woman without any defects. When Shu-chan’s wounds had healed, and she appeared before me with her hair properly styled, makeup applied, and wearing a beautiful crepe silk kimono—and when she spoke to me in Tokyo dialect—how great my joy was hardly needs to be expounded upon here.

Needless to say, Shu-chan and I got married. The one million yen is now the shared property of Shu-chan and me.

After discussing it, we built a splendid home for the disabled on the coast of Shonan Katase. As atonement for the Higuchi family having produced a demon like Jogoro, we intended to widely house disabled individuals without self-sufficiency there and let them spend their remaining years happily. The first guests were a group of artificially disabled people brought from the Moroto residence. Jogoro’s wife and the mute Otoshi-san were also among their number.

Adjoining the home for disabled individuals, we built an orthopedic hospital. The goal was to use every available medical technique to remake them into normal human beings.

Jogoro, his hunchbacked son, and the cohorts who had served at the Moroto residence—each received their respective executions. We took in Ms. Hatsuyo’s foster mother, the widow Kizaki, into our home. Shu-chan calls her "Mother, Mother" and treasures her.

Through Jogoro’s wife’s confession, Michio discovered his biological family home. In a village near Kishu Shingu, there existed a wealthy farming family where his father, mother, and siblings were all alive and well. He immediately returned to an unfamiliar hometown and to unknown parents—his first homecoming in thirty years.

I had been waiting for his return to Tokyo, anticipating him becoming director of my surgical hospital, when he fell ill and became a guest of the afterlife less than a month after returning to his hometown. Amidst everything progressing so favorably, there remained only this single regret. The death notice from his father contained the following passage: "Until drawing his final breath, Michio never called out his father's or mother's name, but clung tightly to your honorable letter and continued calling solely your honorable name. I respectfully report this."