Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface I am not yet thirty, yet every strand of my thick hair has turned pure white. Could there exist another person as strange as I? Upon my young head rests a snowy crown no less striking than that of the man once called the White-Haired Chancellor. Those unaware of my circumstances fix their suspicious gazes upon my head when first we meet. The blunt among them pose questions about my whitened hair before their greetings even conclude. This interrogation plagues me regardless of gender, but there exists another curiosity—whispered only by women intimate with my wife. Though indelicate to mention, it concerns the monstrous scar marring her left thigh near the hip. There lies an irregular circle of livid flesh—a gruesome mark resembling some surgical atrocity.

However, these two strange matters were not particularly secrets of ours, nor did I particularly refuse to speak about their causes. But making others understand my story proved extremely tedious. For that matter, there was a very long story to tell, and even if I endured the tedium of telling it—though this might also have been due to my poor way of explaining things—the listener would not easily believe my account. Most people dismissed it outright with a "That couldn’t possibly be true." They acted as though I were spinning wild tales or something of the sort. Despite the clear pieces of evidence—my white hair and my wife’s scar—people refused to believe me. So utterly bizarre were the matters we had experienced.

I once read a novel titled *The White-Haired Demon*. It told of a certain nobleman who, having met with premature burial and endured the agony of death within an inescapable grave, found his jet-black hair completely transformed into white strands overnight. I have also heard the story of a man who got into an iron barrel and plunged into Niagara Falls. Fortunately, the man escaped without major injuries and managed to go over the waterfall, but in that very instant, his hair turned completely white. Generally speaking, events capable of turning human hair pure white are accompanied by either unprecedented terror or excruciating pain, as seen here. This white hair of mine—not yet thirty—shouldn’t it serve as proof that I experienced events so abnormal people find them hard to believe? The same could be said of my wife’s scar. Were I to show that scar to a surgeon, he would surely struggle to determine what kind of wound caused it. There’s no way such a massive scar could be from an abscess, and even if it were due to some internal muscle disease, no quack doctor anywhere would leave behind an incision this large. If it were a burn, the healing mark would be different—it’s not a birthmark either. It was precisely the sort of wound that gives such a bizarre impression—as if another leg had once sprouted from that spot, and cutting it off would leave this very scar remaining. This, too, could not have resulted from any ordinary occurrence.

For these reasons, I found it not only bothersome to be asked about this matter by everyone I met, but there was also the frustration of having my earnest account of personal history go unbelieved—and moreover, truth be told, I harbored a burning desire to clearly inform people of those unimaginably bizarre events we had endured in a realm beyond humanity, to declare that such terrifying truths existed in this world. Therefore, when showered with those inevitable questions, I would say, "That is all detailed in my forthcoming book." "...Please read this and dispel your doubts," I resolved to compile my experiences into a single volume—a book I could present before such questioners with these words.

But no matter what I said, I lacked a natural talent for writing. Though I had read quite a number of novels as someone fond of literature, since learning composition in my first year of business school, I’d never written anything beyond the prose of formal letters. Well, looking at current novels of the time, it seemed all I needed to do was ramble on about whatever came to mind—so even someone like me should have been able to manage that much. Moreover, since mine wasn’t some fabricated tale but events I’d lived through, I assumed it would be easier to write. But when I actually began putting pen to paper, I soon realized it wasn’t nearly that simple. Contrary to my initial expectations, precisely because the story was based on actual events, it proved exceedingly difficult to write. Unskilled with prose, I found myself not wielding words but being wielded by them—ending up writing superfluous details while failing to include necessary ones—until my hard-won facts became more akin to fabrication than even the most contrived of mundane novels. Even writing the truth truthfully—I felt anew just how difficult it was.

Even just for the story's beginning alone, I wrote and tore up my drafts twenty times over. And in the end, I came to think that starting with my love story with Kizaki Shiyo would be most appropriate. To tell the truth, publishing my own romantic history for public eyes—for someone like me who isn't a novelist—felt strangely shameful, even painful. Yet however I considered it, leaving this unwritten would derail the narrative's coherence. Not only must I disclose my relationship with Shiyo, but other similar facts as well—most extreme of all, a homosexual entanglement that developed with a certain individual—compelling me to endure the humiliation of exposure.

To begin with its most striking incidents, this story originated from two unnatural deaths—murder cases—that had occurred about two months apart. While resembling detective novels or mystery tales in form, its true peculiarity lay in how the overarching events unfolded: before even reaching the main narrative thread itself lay Kizaki Shiyo—my lover and what might be called either protagonist or deuteragonist—already murdered; followed swiftly by Miyamaki Kokichi’s demise—the amateur detective I deeply respected and had entrusted with solving Shiyo’s mysterious death—killed prematurely. Moreover，the strange tale I intended to recount did not merely begin with these two unnatural deaths—the true narrative concerned my own experiences with an evil so vast it defied belief，a horror so immense it chilled the soul，sins no one had ever imagined.

Owing to the sorrow of being an amateur—crafting only grandiose prefaces that failed to engage the reader—(though rest assured this preface contained not a shred of exaggeration, as would become clear in due course) I concluded my preamble there and commenced my clumsy tale.

A Night of Memories

At that time, I was a twenty-five-year-old young man working as a clerk for S·K Trading Company, a partnership trading firm with an office in a Marunouchi building. In reality, my meager salary became little more than pocket money for myself, yet my family wasn’t wealthy enough to send me—a graduate of W Industrial School—to any higher institution of learning.

I had started working at twenty-one, and by that spring, I had completed exactly four years of service. My assigned work involved managing a portion of the accounting ledgers—all I needed to do was click-clack abacus beads from morning till evening. Yet despite having attended business school, I fancied myself something of an art aficionado, being intensely fond of novels, paintings, plays, and motion pictures. The truth was, I detested this mechanical routine far more than the other clerks did. Most of my colleagues were showy, bold, practical people—those who spent every night making the rounds of cafés or frequenting dance halls, and when not doing so, talked incessantly about sports whenever they had a spare moment. For someone as imaginative and introverted as I was, though I’d been there four years, I could truthfully say I hadn’t made a single real friend. That made my office work all the more dreary.

However, from about six months prior, I had stopped disliking my morning commute as much as before. This was because Kizaki Shiyo, then eighteen years old, had joined S·K Trading Company as a trainee typist. Kizaki Shiyo embodied the woman I had envisioned since birth. Her complexion held a melancholy pallor without appearing sickly; her frame combined whalebone suppleness without equine vigor. Though feminine, her high pale forehead bore mismatched brows of uncanny charm, while elongated monolid eyes held subtle mysteries. A nose neither tall nor lips too thin rose sculpted from firm cheeks above a petite chin—the narrow philtrum and slightly upturned upper lip defying precise description yet creating whole an unconventional beauty whose allure transcended standards to captivate me uniquely.

Being an introverted person, I had somehow missed my chance, and for half a year remained in a relationship where we exchanged not a single word—not even a nod when our eyes met each morning. (In this office with many employees, it was customary not to exchange morning greetings except with those who shared work duties or were particularly close.) Yet one day—what demon (?) possessed me—I suddenly spoke to her. Looking back later, this matter—or rather, even the fact that she had joined the office where I worked—was truly a strange twist of fate. I am not speaking about the love that had brewed between her and me. Rather, I speak of the fate that—merely because I spoke to her then—later guided me into those terrifying events such as those recorded in this tale.

At that moment, Kizaki Shiyo—her head styled in a smart quasi-allback coiffure that she seemed to have arranged herself—bowed over the typewriter, her back in a lilac serge work uniform slightly hunched as she fervently tapped away at the keys. HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI …… When I looked, the letter paper was densely covered with what appeared to be someone’s surname—presumably read as Higuchi—arranged like a pattern. I had intended to say something like, “Ms. Kizaki, you’re quite dedicated,” or similar. As is typical of an introvert, I panicked and—foolishly—in a rather shrill voice,

“Ms. Higuchi”

I called out. Then, as if responding to the sound, Kizaki Shiyo turned toward me, “What is it?”

She answered 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 panicked again. Could it be that "Kizaki" was my own outrageous misunderstanding? Was she merely typing her own surname? This doubt momentarily made me forget my shame, and I inadvertently spoke a lengthy explanation.

“You’re… Ms. Higuchi?” “I’d only thought you were Ms. Kizaki.” Then she too seemed startled, the rims of her eyes flushing faintly red as she spoke. “Oh dear, how careless of me.” “...It’s Kizaki, you know.” “Then what’s this ‘Higuchi’?” Your sweetheart? She began to say, then gasped and pressed her lips together. “It’s nothing at all...” And Kizaki Shiyo hastily removed the letter paper from the machine, crumpling it one-handed.

The reason I have recorded such trivial conversation is that there lies a purpose behind it. This conversation was not merely significant in that it served as the catalyst for creating a deeper relationship between us. For within the surname "Higuchi" that she had been typing, and within the fact that she had responded without hesitation when addressed as Higuchi, lay a profound significance related to the very foundation of this tale.

This book neither aims to chronicle a love story nor has leisure enough for such matters amidst its abundance of required subjects; thus I shall keep my account extremely brief regarding how my romance with Kizaki Shiyo progressed thereafter. Yet following that chance exchange of words—without either arranging it—we began frequently returning home together. And so, in elevator rides, from our office building to the tram stop, and after boarding the tram until reaching the transfer point where she would head toward Sugamo while I went toward Waseda—those brief intervals became our happiest hours each day. Before long, we gradually grew bolder. We would sometimes delay going home to linger in Hibiya Park near our workplace, stealing moments for conversation on a bench in some secluded corner. We also began alighting at Ogawamachi Station to slip into one of the shabby cafés there, ordering cups of tea for ourselves. Yet it took our naive selves nearly half a year to muster the courage required to enter a certain dilapidated hotel on the city's outskirts.

Just as I had been lonely, Kizaki Shiyo had been lonely too. We were not courageous modern people. And just as her appearance matched what I had envisioned since birth—happily—so too did my appearance correspond to what she had loved since her own birth. Though it may sound peculiar to say, regarding physical features I had long maintained a certain quiet confidence. Moroto Michio—who would indeed play a crucial role in this story—was a man who had graduated from medical university and now conducted peculiar experiments in its laboratories. Yet this same Moroto Michio had apparently nurtured quite earnest homosexual affection for me since our student days, when he was a medical scholar and I a technical school pupil.

Within my knowledge, he was both physically and mentally the most noble and handsome youth imaginable; though I myself felt no particular attachment toward him, whenever I considered how I had met his exacting standards, I would at least feel able to maintain some confidence regarding my external appearance. However, I will have many opportunities later to discuss the relationship between Moroto and myself.

Be that as it may, that first night with Kizaki Shiyo at that rundown hotel remained something I still could not forget. It was at some café where we had fallen into a strangely tearful and reckless mood, like runaway lovers. I downed three glasses of unfamiliar whiskey, while Shiyo drank about two sweet cocktails, until both of us turned crimson and half-lucid—which was why we could stand before that hotel counter without feeling much shame. We were shown to a strangely gloomy room containing a wide bed, its wallpaper stained. When the bellboy placed the door key and a pot of stark tea on a corner table and silently left, we suddenly exchanged looks of profound astonishment. Shiyo was a girl who, despite her fragile appearance, possessed inner strength; nevertheless, her face had turned ashen like fading intoxication, her lips trembling and losing their color.

“Are you scared?” I whispered those words to distract myself from my own fear. She remained silent, closed her eyes as if to shut out the world, and shook her head so slightly it was almost imperceptible. But needless to say, she was scared too.

It was an utterly bizarre and painfully awkward situation. Neither of us had ever anticipated things would turn out this way. I had believed we could enjoy our first night more casually, like adults of the world. Yet, at that moment, we didn’t even have the courage to lie down on the bed. Taking off kimonos and exposing skin never even crossed our minds. To put it simply, we sat perched side by side on the bed—feeling intense anxiety yet not even exchanging the kisses we had shared many times before, let alone doing anything else—awkwardly swinging legs to disguise our discomfort, remaining silent for nearly an hour.

“Hey, let’s talk.” “I somehow wanted to try talking 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 oddly refreshed. “Ah, that sounds perfect.” I answered, meaning she had hit upon a good idea.

“Please tell me.” “Your life story.” She settled into a comfortable position and began recounting her mysterious childhood memories in a voice so clear and thin it seemed purified. I listened intently, remaining nearly motionless for a long time as I became absorbed in her words. Her voice—half lullaby—delighted my ears. Though I had heard fragments of her life story before and would hear them again later, never did it move me as profoundly as during that time. Even now, I can vividly resurrect every syllable she uttered then. Yet for this narrative’s sake, there’s no need to transcribe her entire history. From those recollections, I need only briefly record the portions that would later prove relevant to our tale.

“As I mentioned 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 this way for her—that mother of mine says:” “‘Shiyo, you’re the child we picked up at Kawaguchi wharf in Osaka when we were young, raising you with all our devotion.’” “‘You were sniveling in a dim corner of the steamship waiting room, clutching a small cloth bundle.’” “‘When we opened it later, we found what must be your family’s genealogical record and a note that told us your name was Shiyo and that you were exactly three.’” “‘Since we had no children ourselves, we thought you were a true daughter sent by God. After completing all the police formalities properly to adopt you, we poured our hearts into raising you.’” “‘So don’t go having any distant notions—with your father gone and me being alone now—just think of me as your real mother,’ she said.” “But even hearing that felt like listening to some fairy tale—like a dream—and though I wasn’t truly saddened by it, something felt strange.” “The tears just kept flowing uncontrollably.”

During her foster father’s lifetime, he had investigated that genealogical record in various ways and made considerable efforts to track down her real parents. However, there was a gap in the genealogical record—it merely listed ancestors’ names, pseudonyms, and posthumous names. While the preservation of such documents clearly indicated a samurai lineage of considerable standing, with not a single mention of which domains they had belonged to or where they had resided, there was nothing more they could do.

“Even at three years old—I’m such a fool.” “I don’t remember my parents’ faces at all.” “And to think I was abandoned in the middle of a crowd…” “But…” “Just two things—even now, when I close my eyes like this, I remember them so vividly they appear clearly in the darkness.” “One is me playing with a sweet baby on what seemed like a grassy beach, bathed in warm sunlight.” “That was such a dear baby—I might have been acting like an older sister watching over them.” “Below us stretched deep blue sea, and far beyond that, land shaped like a reclining cow lay veiled in purple haze.” “There’s something I often wonder.” “Maybe this Aka-san was my real brother or sister—that they weren’t abandoned like me and are still living happily with our parents somewhere.” “When I think such things, my chest tightens with this nostalgic sadness that feels almost unbearable.”

She gazed into the distance, speaking as if to herself. And as for the other childhood memory she spoke of— “There was a hill made seemingly entirely of rocks, and the view from its mid-slope was what I saw.” “A short distance away stood someone’s grand estate—imposing earthen walls reminiscent of the Great Wall of China, a magnificent main roof that spread like a great bird’s wings, and a large white storehouse at its side, all bathed in sunlight and standing out vividly.” “And beyond that estate, there wasn’t a single house-like structure in sight—the deep blue sea stretched out on one side, while beyond it, land shaped like a reclining cow lay hazily veiled in mist.” “It must be something significant.” “The scenery of that land is the same as where I played with Aka-san, isn’t it?” “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’m bound to arrive at that rocky hill without fail.” “If I were to walk every corner of Japan without exception, I’m certain there exists a place identical in every detail to the scenery from my dreams.” “And that land is indeed my dear birthplace.”

“Wait, wait.” At that moment, I stopped Shiyo’s story and said. “I’m not much of an artist, but that scenery from your dreams there seems rather paintable. Shall I try sketching it?” “In that case, shall I describe it in greater detail?”

At that point, I took out the hotel stationery that had been placed in the basket on the desk and, using the provided pen, drew the coastal scenery she said she had seen from the rocky hill. Since that drawing happened to remain in my possession, I reproduced it as a plate and included it here, though needless to say, I never imagined at the time that this spur-of-the-moment doodle would later serve such an important purpose for me.

“Well, how strange!” “That’s exactly right!” “That’s exactly right!”

Shiyo looked at the completed drawing I made and exclaimed with delight. “May I keep this?” With a lover’s dream in my heart, I folded the paper into a small square and tucked it into my coat’s inner pocket as I spoke.

Shiyo then went on to recount endless memories of the various joys and sorrows she had experienced since gaining awareness of the world. But there was no need to record that here. In any case, we spent our first night like something out of a beautiful dream. Naturally, we did not stay at the hotel, returning instead to our respective homes late at night.

Grotesque Romance

The relationship between Kizaki Shiyo and me deepened day by day. About a month later, when we spent our second night at the same hotel, our relationship ceased to be purely beautiful like that boy’s dream. I visited Shiyo’s house and spoke with her kind foster mother. And before long, both Shiyo and I even came to reveal our intentions to our respective mothers. The mothers didn’t seem to have any particular active objections. But we were too young. Matters like marriage existed beyond a veil of haze, on a distant, distant 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 Shiyo’s birth month and gave it to her. That ring—using the manner I had learned from motion pictures—I slipped onto her finger one day as we sat on a bench in Hibiya Park. Then, Shiyo, childlike in her delight (her impoverished finger had never borne even a single ring before), remained deep in thought for a while, but—

“Ah, I’ve thought of something!” She said while opening 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 I have something good.” “Look—that genealogy scroll I mentioned before, the only memento from my dear father and mother whom I never knew.” “I’ve cherished it so much that whenever I go out, I always carry it in this handbag to stay near my ancestors.” “But when I think this single thing connects me to my mother somewhere far away, I could never part with it no matter what happens. Still, having nothing else worthy of giving you, I’ll entrust this—second only to my life in importance—to your care. You’ll accept it, won’t you?” “It may look like worthless scrap, but please treasure it too.”

And then, she took out from her handbag a thin genealogy register with an old-fashioned fabric-bound cover and handed it to me. I received it and flipped through the pages, but found only old-fashioned, martial-sounding names listed in red ink.

“There’s ‘Higuchi’ written there, right? You remember when I was playing with the typewriter and you found that name? Since I’ve always felt Higuchi suits me better than Kizaki, when you called me Higuchi that time, I just answered without thinking.” She said this. “This may look like worthless scrap, but once someone came offering good money for it. A used bookstore nearby. They must’ve heard when Mother accidentally mentioned it. But I refused—no matter how much they offered, I couldn’t part with this. So you see, it’s not completely worthless after all.”

She also said such childish things. In other words, those became our mutual engagement gifts.

However, before long, a somewhat troublesome incident occurred for us. It was that a suitor—far surpassing me whether in status, wealth, or scholarly accomplishments—had suddenly appeared before Shiyo. Through an influential go-between, he launched an aggressive courtship campaign targeting Shiyo’s mother. Shiyo learned of this from her mother exactly the day after we exchanged those gifts; however, according to what her mother revealed when pressed, intermediaries seeking marriage had already begun visiting her mother’s home through family connections a full month prior. Needless to say, I was shocked to hear this. But what shocked me was not that the suitor was a man far superior to me in every way, nor that Shiyo's mother seemed inclined toward him—it was that this suitor pursuing Shiyo turned out to be none other than Moroto Michio himself, the man who shared this strange relationship with me. This shock was so severe that it eclipsed all other astonishments and heartaches.

As for why I was so shocked—regarding that, I must relate a somewhat embarrassing confession, but... As I briefly mentioned before, the scientist Moroto Michio had harbored a certain inexplicable affection toward me through many long years. As for myself, while I naturally couldn't comprehend such sentiments, I never felt displeasure toward his scholarly erudition, his genius-like mannerisms, or his strangely compelling features. Therefore, provided his conduct remained within certain bounds, I saw no reason to spurn his goodwill—the goodwill of a mere friend.

When I was a fourth-year student at a commercial school—partly due to family circumstances but mostly driven by childish curiosity—I stayed at a boarding house called Hatatsudakan in Kanda, despite having a home in Tokyo. It was there that I first became acquainted with Moroto as a fellow lodger. There was a six-year age difference between us—I being seventeen and Moroto twenty-three at the time—but since he always took the initiative in inviting me out, and considering he was both a university student and reputed as a prodigy, I associated with him gladly, feeling something akin to respect.

I became aware of his feelings about two months after our first meeting, though this came not directly from him but through rumors circulating among Moroto’s friends. There were those who actively spread whispers: “Moroto and Minoura are strange.” From then on, paying closer attention, I noticed Moroto would display a faint expression of shame around his pale cheeks only when interacting with me. I was still a child then, and at my school similar things occurred in a manner akin to playful games—so there were moments when I’d imagine Moroto’s feelings and find myself blushing alone. It wasn’t such an intensely unpleasant sensation.

I remember how he often invited me to the public bath. There, we would scrub each other’s backs without fail, but he would cover my body in soap bubbles and wash me with meticulous care, as if a mother bathing her infant. At first, I interpreted this as simple kindness, but later, while remaining conscious of his feelings, I let him continue. Such things did not particularly wound my self-respect.

There were times when we would hold hands during walks or link arms like that. I did those things consciously as well. At times, his fingertips would clamp down on mine with fierce passion, but I would feign nonchalance—though with a faintly fluttering heart—surrendering myself to his ministrations. Even so, I never once returned his grip. Moreover, it went without saying that he showed me kindness beyond such physical matters. He gave me various gifts. He took me to plays, movies, sports events, and such. He helped me with my language studies. When I had exams approaching, he would go out of his way and worry about them as if they were his own. Regarding such spiritual guardianship, even now I can scarcely forget his kindness.

But there was no way our relationship could remain at that level indefinitely. After a certain period had passed, there came a stretch of time when he would grow despondent at merely seeing my face, doing nothing but sigh in silence. Then, when about six months had elapsed since we first met, a certain crisis finally descended upon us.

That night, complaining about the boarding house's terrible food, we went to a nearby restaurant and dined together, but he somehow grew reckless, downing copious amounts of sake and refusing to listen as he pressed me to drink. Though I couldn't handle alcohol at all, I yielded to his urging and took two or three sips. At once my face burned hot, my head swaying as if on a swing, and I began feeling something licentious taking hold of my heart.

We linked arms and, stumbling along while singing First Higher School dormitory songs, returned to our 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 perpetually unmade bed lay spread out. Whether he had pushed me down or whether I had tripped over something, I suddenly found myself sprawled across that ever-present bedding.

Moroto stood abruptly beside me, staring fixedly down at my face, then said bluntly, “You are beautiful,” he said. In that instant—though it may sound terribly strange—the bizarre notion that this handsome youth standing there as if transformed into a woman, his cheeks flushed from intoxication only enhancing his allure, was my husband flitted through my mind. Moroto knelt there, grabbed my carelessly thrown right hand, and said.

“Your hand is hot.” At the same moment, I felt the other’s palm, hot as fire. When I turned deathly pale and shrank into the room’s corner, an expression of regret—as if he’d done something irreparable—rose instantly to Moroto’s brow. And in a choked voice,

“It was a joke. It was a joke—that was a lie. I wouldn’t do such a thing,” he said. For a while, we each turned away and remained silent, but suddenly, with a clatter, Moroto collapsed face down onto my desk. He crossed his arms, rested his face upon them, and remained motionless. I saw that and thought he might be crying. “Please don’t despise me. You must think this disgraceful. I am of a different race—in every sense, I am a different race—but I cannot explain what that means. I sometimes become terrified when alone and tremble violently.”

Eventually, he lifted his face and said these words. However, what he was so afraid of, I couldn’t well understand—until much later when I encountered a certain scene.

As I had imagined, Moroto’s face looked as though washed by tears. “You do understand, don’t you? As long as you understand, that’s all I need. Because asking for more than that might be beyond my capabilities. But I beg you, please don’t run away from me. Please be my confidant, I implore you. And I implore you to accept at least my friendship.” “I keep these thoughts to myself. Won’t you grant me at least that much freedom?” “Hey, Minoura, at least that much...”

I stubbornly kept silent. But as I watched the tears streaming down Moroto's cheeks while he pleaded fervently, I too found myself unable to stop the hot surge welling up beneath my own eyelids.

My capricious boarding house life came to an end with this incident as its turning point. It wasn’t exactly that I felt disgust toward Moroto, but the peculiar awkwardness that had developed between us and my bashful shame made remaining at those lodgings unbearable for me. What remained incomprehensible was Moroto Michio’s state of mind. Not only did he refuse to relinquish his peculiar affections afterward, but as time passed, they seemed only to intensify and deepen further. Whenever opportunities arose for us to meet, he would discreetly pour out his tormented feelings—often through love letters of a kind unseen in the world—within our conversations. That this had persisted even until my twenty-fifth year—wasn’t his mental state utterly beyond understanding? Even if my smooth cheeks still retained boyish features, even if my muscles hadn’t developed like those of grown men and remained alluring as a woman’s...

That he, of all people, had suddenly proposed to my lover was an immense shock to me. Before I could harbor hostility toward him as a romantic rival, I found myself unable to resist feeling something akin to disappointment. "Could it be... Could it be that he knew of my relationship with Shiyo, and to prevent me from being given to the opposite sex, to keep me preserved alone within his heart forevermore, he made himself a suitor to obstruct our love?"

My conceited suspicious mind even imagined such outlandish things.

Mysterious Old Man

This was an exceedingly strange affair. Because one man loved another man too deeply, he sought to steal away that man’s lover. It was the sort of thing ordinary people couldn’t even imagine. When I speculated whether Moroto’s aforementioned courtship efforts might not be an attempt to steal Shiyo away from me, I myself laughed at my own suspicions. But this single sprouted suspicion somehow took hold of me and would not let go. I remembered. Moroto had once opened up to me in relatively detailed terms about his abnormal feelings and said, “I cannot feel any attraction whatsoever toward women. Rather than attraction, I feel hatred—they even seem filthy to me. Do you understand? This isn’t simply a feeling of embarrassment. It’s terrifying. There are times when I become so terrified I can neither stay nor leave.”

That Moroto Michio, by nature a woman-hater, would suddenly resolve to marry and moreover initiate such an intense courtship campaign—wasn't this truly strange? I had just used the word "suddenly," but truth be told, until shortly before this development, I had been continually receiving those peculiar yet deeply earnest love letters from Moroto, and even about a month prior, I had accepted his invitation to attend the Imperial Theater together. Needless to say, Moroto's motive for this theatrical invitation stemmed from that very affection he harbored toward me. His demeanor during that occasion left no room for doubt on that matter. That he had undergone such a complete reversal within barely a month—discarding me (to phrase it thus might imply some improper relationship between us, though no such thing existed) and commencing his courtship of Kizaki Shiyo—left no question this qualified as truly "sudden." Moreover, that the chosen target happened by apparent design to be none other than my own lover Kizaki Shiyo—didn't this stretch coincidence beyond plausibility?

When I lay it out step by step like this, it becomes clear that my suspicions were not entirely baseless. However, Moroto Michio's peculiar actions and psychology might prove somewhat difficult for ordinary people to grasp. And they may well criticize me for expounding at length on my petty suspicions. To those who haven't directly witnessed Moroto's abnormal conduct as I have, such criticism would seem perfectly reasonable. Perhaps I should reverse the order slightly here and disclose to the reader what later became clear. In other words, this suspicion of mine was no mere groundless conjecture. Moroto Michio had indeed embarked on that tumultuous courtship campaign precisely as I'd imagined - with the express purpose of driving a wedge between Shiyo and me.

To convey just how tumultuous this courtship campaign was:

“That’s so bothersome.” “Mediators come nearly every day to persuade Mother.” “And they know all about you too—telling Mother everything from your family’s assets to your company salary, saying you’re utterly unfit to become my husband and support us.” “How could they say such awful things?!” “What galls me most is how Mother looks at that man’s photographs and asks about his education and living situation—she’s completely taken with him.” “Mother’s a kind person really, but this time I’ve come to truly resent her.” “It’s humiliating!” “Lately Mother and I might as well be sworn enemies.” “The moment we speak, it turns to this matter and we quarrel—every single time.”

Shiyo complained in such a manner. From her account, I could discern just how intense Moroto’s campaign had been. “Because of that person, the relationship between Mother and me has become so strained—I couldn’t have imagined it even a month ago.” “For example, Mother has been rummaging through my desk and stationery box whenever I’m out lately.” “She’s searching for your letters and trying to find out how far our relationship has progressed.” “Since I’m meticulous by nature, I always keep things tidy in both my drawers and stationery box, yet they often end up in disarray.” “I think it’s truly disgraceful.”

Indeed, such things had happened. Though Shiyo was gentle and filial, she had not lost this battle with her mother. She persisted stubbornly in her defiance, never once considering whether she might be upsetting her mother.

But this unexpected obstacle ended up making our relationship even more complex and intense.

I, without so much as a glance at the great adversary of my love whom I had once feared, must have felt such profound gratitude for Shiyo’s sincere heart that continued to seek me out with steadfast devotion.

It was just late spring then, but we—because Shiyo wanted to avoid returning home and facing her mother—would spend long hours after work walking shoulder-to-shoulder down beautifully lit main streets and through parks where the scent of young leaves hung thick in the air. On holidays, we would meet at the suburban train station and often stroll through the verdant Musashino fields. When I close my eyes like this, a stream comes into view. A dirt bridge comes into view. A grove that could be called a shrine forest—with its towering ancient trees and stone walls—comes into view. Through those landscapes walked I—a childlike twenty-five-year-old—shoulder-to-shoulder with Shiyo, who wore a flashy meisen kimono and a woven obi in my favorite shade of mineral pigments, tied high. Please don’t laugh at me for being childish. This is the happiest memory of my first love. Though our relationship had lasted a mere eight or nine months, the two of us had already become inseparable. I had completely forgotten both my duties at work and matters at home, drifting in a daze through peach-colored clouds. I no longer feared Moroto’s proposal in the least. There was not the slightest reason to worry about Shiyo changing her heart. Now, Shiyo no longer cared even about her mother’s scolding. She had not a speck of intention to accept any suitor other than me.

I still cannot forget the dream-like joy of those days. But that truly was a fleeting moment of joy. Exactly nine months after we first began speaking to each other—I remember it clearly—it was June 25, 1925, the fourteenth year of Taisho. From that day onward, our relationship was severed completely. It was not that Moroto Michio’s courtship campaign had succeeded. It was because Kizaki Shiyo herself had died. And not just any death—it was because she had departed this world in brutal fashion as the victim of an extraordinary murder case that defied all reason.

However, before delving into the incident of Kizaki Shiyo’s unnatural death, there is something I must briefly draw the readers’ attention to. It concerns the strange fact that Shiyo had related to me a few days before her death. Since this will bear relevance later on, I must ask readers to keep it lodged in some corner of their memory.

One day, even during work hours at the company, Shiyo had appeared pale and frightened all day long. After we left work and were walking side by side along Marunouchi’s main street, when I inquired about it, she—still glancing over her shoulder—slipped close to my side and pleaded the following.

“This makes last night the third time already. “It always happens when I go to the bath late. As you know, it’s such a deserted neighborhood—at night, it’s pitch black. “When I absentmindedly opened the lattice door and stepped outside, there was a strange old man standing right by my house’s latticed window. “It was the same all three times. “When I open the lattice door, he would startle, change his posture, and pass by with an innocent face—but until that very moment, he had apparently been peering into the house from the window. “Until the second time, I thought it might just be my imagination, but last night it happened again. “He’s absolutely not some random passerby. That said, I’ve never seen an old man like that in the neighborhood before, and I can’t help feeling it’s some sort of bad omen—I feel so creeped out I can’t stand it.”

Whenever I seemed on the verge of laughing, she would grow frantic and continue. “That’s no ordinary old man.” “I’ve never seen such an eerie old man before.” “He doesn’t look fifty or sixty at all.” “He must be over eighty, I tell you.” “His back looked almost folded in two at the spine, bent so severely that he leaned on a cane when walking—hunched over like a rusted key, moving forward with only his neck straining to see ahead.” “From a distance, his height appeared barely half that of a normal adult.” “It felt like watching some loathsome insect crawl about.” “And his face—though so wrinkled it’s become indistinct—even in his youth, that couldn’t have been an ordinary face.” “I was too frightened in the dark to see properly, but under my house’s eaves light, I caught just a glimpse of his mouth.” “His upper lip was split cleanly like a rabbit’s, and that mouth—which twisted into a sly grin when our eyes met, as if hiding embarrassment—still makes my blood run cold whenever I recall it.” “A monstrous-looking old man who seems over eighty—and what’s more, appearing three times late at night before my house—it’s unnatural.” “Don’t you think this must be an omen of something dreadful?”

I saw that Shiyo’s lips had lost their color and were trembling minutely. She must have been utterly terrified. At that time, I had forced myself to laugh and dismiss it as her overactive imagination, but even if what Shiyo had seen were true, I could not comprehend what it might signify, nor could I bring myself to believe that a hunched old man over eighty harbored any dangerous schemes. I dismissed it as the girl’s foolish fear and paid it almost no heed. But later, I came to realize that Shiyo’s intuition had been terrifyingly accurate.

The Room Without an Entrance

Now, the time has come for me to recount that terrifying incident of June 25, 1925, the fourteenth year of Taisho. Until around seven o'clock the previous night—no, even until that evening—I had been talking with Shiyo. I recall a late spring night in Ginza. I rarely walked in places like Ginza, but that night, for some reason, Shiyo suggested we go see Ginza. Shiyo wore a dark unlined garment with a well-chosen pattern from a wholesale tailor. The obi was likewise black fabric interwoven with faint silver threads. The sandals with crimson thongs had been freshly purchased. My well-polished boots and her sandals moved in step, advancing over the pavement with soft, rhythmic steps. At that time, with some hesitation, we had attempted to mimic the fashionable customs of the new era's young men and women. As it happened to be payday, we treated ourselves and went to a poultry restaurant in Shinbashi. And while drinking a little sake until around seven, we talked joyfully together. As I grew drunk, I began to boast defiantly about how I'd show even Moroto a thing or two. And I remember forcing an affected laugh as if to say Moroto must be sneezing right about now. Ah, what a fool I had been.

The next morning, recalling the smile of hers that I adored and a certain nostalgic phrase that Shiyo had left with me when we parted the previous night, I opened the door to S・K Trading Company with a heart as radiant as spring. And, as was my habit, my first act was to look toward Shiyo’s desk. Even something as simple as which of us would arrive at work first each morning had become one of our delightful topics of conversation.

But even though it was slightly past the start of work, there was no sign of Shiyo there, and the typewriter’s cover remained in place. Thinking this odd, I was about to head to my desk when suddenly an agitated voice called out to me from the side.

“Minoura-kun, something terrible has happened!” “Don’t be shocked.” “Ms. Kizaki has been killed, I hear.”

That was Mr. K, the personnel manager who handled personnel affairs. “Just now, there was word from the police.” “I’m planning to go see her now—would you like to come along?”

Mr. K spoke partly kindly and partly teasingly. After all, our relationship was practically common knowledge within the company.

“Yes, I’ll come with you.” I couldn’t think of anything and answered mechanically. I briefly informed my colleagues (S·K Trading Company had a very free system) and accompanied Mr. K as we boarded a car.

“Where was she killed, and by whom?”

After the car began moving, I was finally able to ask that with dry lips and a hoarse voice.

“At her home.” “You’ve been there before, I suppose.” “They say the perpetrator remains utterly unknown.” “What a terrible thing to happen.” The good-natured Mr.K answered in a tone that suggested this was no mere personnel matter. When pain becomes too intense, people do not immediately burst into tears but instead put on a strangely calm smile; but in the case of grief as well, when it grows too severe, they forget to weep and even lose the capacity to feel sorrow. And then, after finally managing it—after a considerable number of days have passed—the true nature of sorrow comes to be understood. In my case, it was exactly like that—I remember behaving as if it were someone else’s affair, vacantly like an ordinary visitor paying respects, even while in the car, even upon arriving at the scene and seeing Shiyo’s corpse.

Shiyo's house stood on a narrow street in Sugamo Miyanaka—indistinguishable as either main thoroughfare or back alley—where small-scale merchant houses and homes converted into shops lined both sides. Only her house and the neighboring antique store were single-story buildings with low roofs, making them serve as landmarks visible even from afar. Shiyo lived alone with just her foster mother in that small three- or four-room house. By the time we arrived, the body examination had been completed, and police officers were questioning nearby residents. Before Shiyo's latticed door stood a uniformed officer blocking entry like a sentry, but Mr.K and I showed our S・K Trading Company cards and went inside.

In the six-tatami back room, Shiyo lay in eternal rest. Her entire body was covered by a white cloth, with a white-draped desk placed before it where small candles and incense sticks stood upright. Her petite mother, whom I had met once before, lay prostrate in tears at the deceased's pillow. Beside her sat a man introduced as her late husband's younger brother, his expression sullen. After Mr. K, I offered condolences to the mother, bowed before the desk, then approached the deceased and gently lifted the white cloth to gaze upon Shiyo's face. Though her heart had been pierced through, her face showed no trace of anguish, wearing an expression so serene it seemed she might smile. Her countenance, always pale in life, now appeared waxen white beneath firmly closed eyelids. Around the chest wound—precisely where she had worn her obi in life—lay thickly wrapped bandages. As I looked upon this, I remembered Shiyo sitting across from me at that Shinbashi poultry restaurant merely thirteen hours prior, laughing brightly over our meal. Then came such a violent constriction in my chest that I feared some internal malady might claim me too. At that instant, tears fell plop-plop in quick succession onto the tatami mat beside the deceased's pillow.

No—it seems I had indulged too deeply in irretrievable memories.

But listing these laments was not the purpose of this book. Oh readers, I beg you to forgive my grumbling.

Mr.K and I were questioned extensively about Shiyo’s daily life—both at the scene and later when summoned to the authorities—but putting together what we learned from these interrogations with information from Shiyo’s mother and neighbors, the course of this tragic murder case was generally as follows. Shiyo's mother had gone to visit her deceased husband's younger brother in Shinagawa the previous night to consult again about her daughter's marriage prospects, and due to unforeseen circumstances in that distant area, had returned home well past one o'clock. After locking up, she spoke for a while with her daughter who had gotten up, then lay down in what served as both her bedroom and the entrance—a four-and-a-half-mat room. Let me briefly explain the layout here: beyond this entryway lay a six-tatami living/dining area—an elongated space—from which one could access both the six-tatami back room and three-tatami kitchen. The back room served as both guest parlor and Shiyo’s living quarters. As she worked to support the household, she had been assigned this finest room in her capacity as head of the house. The four-and-a-half-mat entryway faced south, providing good winter sunlight, summer coolness, and a bright atmosphere. For these reasons, the mother used it as her living space for needlework. The central living area was spacious but separated from the kitchen by only a shoji screen; receiving no light, it felt gloomy and damp. This made the mother dislike using it as a bedroom, choosing instead the entryway. The reason I’ve detailed this layout is that these spatial relationships formed one key factor complicating Shiyo’s mysterious death. At the case’s outset, I must note another complicating circumstance: Shiyo’s mother was somewhat hard of hearing. Moreover, having stayed up late that night and experienced something mildly exciting, she found sleep difficult at first but eventually fell so deeply asleep that until waking around six AM, she remained oblivious to everything—a state where even slight noises went unnoticed by her.

The mother awoke at six o'clock and, as was her custom before opening the doors, went to the kitchen to light the fire in the prepared stove; however, because something felt amiss, she slid open the fusuma to the living area and peered into Shiyo’s bedroom—through the light from gaps in the storm shutters and the desk lamp still left on, she grasped the situation at a glance. The futon was thrown back, and Shiyo’s supine chest was dyed crimson, with a small white-sheathed dagger still thrust into it. There were no signs of a struggle nor any particular expression of agony—Shiyo had died quietly in a posture suggesting she had pushed off the futon due to slight warmth. Because the skilled hand of a villain had pierced her heart with a single thrust, she likely had almost no opportunity to cry out in pain.

The mother, overwhelmed by shock, remained seated on the spot and kept repeating, "Someone, please come!" Being hard of hearing, she normally spoke loudly, but this desperate scream instantly startled the neighboring house through just a single wall. Then a commotion erupted, and within moments five or six neighbors had gathered, but with all doors remaining locked, they couldn't enter the house. People shouted "Old lady, open up here!" while frantically pounding on the entrance; some impatient ones circled to the back only to find those doors firmly secured too. After some time passed, the mother—apologizing that she'd been in a panicked state—unlatched the lock, finally letting people inside where they discovered the horrific murder had occurred. Then began the uproar—notifying police, sending messengers to the mother's deceased husband's brother—until the whole neighborhood turned out, making the antique store's front resemble what its elderly proprietor called "a funeral parlor's waiting area." With two or three people emerging from every doorway in the narrow lanes, the commotion appeared doubly intense.

It was later determined through examination by the police doctor that the crime had occurred around 3:00 a.m., but matters deemed to constitute motives for the violent act remained only vaguely understood. Shiyo’s living room showed no significant signs of disturbance, and even the chest of drawers appeared normal, but as they gradually inspected the area, Shiyo’s mother noticed that two items were missing. One was the handbag that Shiyo always carried, which contained the monthly salary she had just received. The mother stated that due to some commotion the previous night, she hadn’t had time to take it out of the bag and must have left it on Shiyo’s desk.

Based on these facts alone, we could imagine that this incident involved someone—most likely a burglar—who had broken into Shiyo’s living quarters intending to steal the handbag containing her salary, which they had presumably targeted beforehand. When Shiyo awoke and cried out or made some noise, the panicked thief stabbed her with the dagger they carried and fled with the handbag. While it seemed somewhat strange that the mother had not noticed the commotion, when considering—as previously mentioned—that Shiyo’s bedroom and her mother’s bedroom were separated, coupled with the mother’s hearing impairment and her having fallen into an especially deep sleep that night due to exhaustion, it was not unreasonable. It could also be considered that this was because the thief had not given Shiyo any opportunity to cry out loudly, having stabbed her vital spot in an instant.

Readers must surely find it suspicious why I am meticulously detailing such a mundane tale of a salary thief. Indeed, the facts mentioned above are truly ordinary. But the entire case was by no means—by any means—an ordinary one. Truth be told, I have not yet disclosed even a single one of those non-ordinary aspects to my readers. Because there is an order to things.

So, to address what makes this case extraordinary, the first question is why the salary thief stole the chocolate tin along with the other items. Of the two missing items that the mother had discovered, one was that chocolate tin. When I heard "chocolate," I remembered. The previous night, when we were strolling through Ginza, since I knew that Shiyo loved chocolate, I entered a sweets shop with her and bought her one that came in a beautifully decorated tin with jewel-like patterns, which had been gleaming inside a glass case. It was a small, round, and flat tin about the size of a palm, but so beautifully decorated that I chose it more for the container itself than its contents. Given that silver wrappers were scattered by Shiyo’s corpse’s pillow, she must have eaten several pieces while sleeping last night. In a life-or-death situation, what composure could the murderer have had—or what bizarre whim would drive them—to take such a trivial thing as sweets worth less than one yen? They considered whether it might be the mother’s misunderstanding or that she had simply stored it away somewhere, and searched everywhere, but that beautiful tin never turned up anywhere. But whether the chocolate tin was missing or not wasn’t a significant problem. The true mystery of this murder case lay in aspects far beyond that.

Just where had the thief sneaked in from, and where had they escaped to? First, there were three conventional entry/exit points in this house. First was the front lattice door; second was the rear kitchen entrance with its double shoji panels; third was the veranda adjoining Shiyo’s room. Beyond these lay only walls and securely fastened latticed windows. All three access points had been properly locked the previous night. Each veranda door panel bore individual latches that couldn’t be removed mid-section. This made it absolutely impossible for the burglar to have used normal entryways. This conclusion wasn’t merely based on the mother’s account—five or six neighbors who first heard the screams and rushed over had thoroughly verified it when attempting to enter Shiyo’s house that morning by knocking on doors already bolted from within, as readers well know, rendering entry utterly unfeasible. Furthermore, when two or three people entered Shiyo’s room and attempted to open the veranda storm shutters for light, those too remained fully secured. Thus one could only assume the intruder must have infiltrated and fled through some point beyond these three entrances—but where might such an access have existed?

The first thing I noticed was the space beneath the veranda—though when I say 'beneath the veranda,' only two sections of it were externally visible on this house. The area beneath the entryway's shoe-removal step and the section facing the inner garden beneath the veranda of Shiyo's room. However, the entryway was completely boarded up with thick planks, and the veranda was entirely covered with wire mesh to prevent dogs and cats from entering. And neither showed any signs of having been recently tampered with.

This may sound rather unsavory, but regarding the toilet’s cleaning port—the toilet happened to be located near the veranda of Shiyo’s room—the cleaning port was not an old-fashioned large one, but rather a recent replacement installed by a cautious landlord, measuring barely about fifteen centimeters square. This too left no room for doubt. Additionally, there was no abnormality in the light vent attached to the kitchen roof. The cord securing it remained properly tied to a bent nail. Furthermore, no footprints or similar traces were found on the damp ground of the inner garden beyond the veranda. One detective climbed up through a removable section of ceiling panels to investigate, but even atop the thickly accumulated dust, no traces whatsoever could be discovered. In that case, the thief would have had to either break through the walls or remove the lattice from the front window—there was absolutely no other method of entry or exit. Needless to say, the walls were intact, and the lattice was securely nailed in place.

Furthermore, not only did this thief leave no traces of his entry or exit, but he also failed to leave behind any physical evidence within the house. The white-sheathed dagger used as the murder weapon was akin to a child’s toy—the sort of item sold at any hardware store—and not a single fingerprint remained on its sheath, on Shiyo’s desk, or anywhere else they were able to examine. Naturally, there were no left-behind items. To put it strangely, this was a burglar who didn’t enter, yet killed someone and stole things. There existed only murder and theft, 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 cases similar to this one. Both were murder cases in rooms sealed from the inside. But such things would not occur except in foreign-style buildings. I had believed such things would not occur in Japanese-style flimsy board and paper constructions. But now I came to realize that such a thing could not be stated so definitively. Even if they were flimsy boards, breaking or removing them would leave traces. Therefore, from a detective’s perspective, there was no difference between a quarter-inch board and a one-foot-thick concrete wall.

But here, some readers may raise a question. "In Poe and Leroux’s novels, only the victim was inside the sealed room. "That’s precisely why it was so utterly mysterious." "But in your case, aren’t you just the one making a grand spectacle of this incident all by yourself?" "Even if the house was sealed as you claim, wasn’t there actually another person inside besides the victim?" "Indeed, that is precisely the case." At the time, the court and police officials had also come to that same conclusion.

If there were absolutely no traces of the thief’s entry or exit, then the only person who could have approached Shiyo was her mother. The two stolen items might also have been her fabrication. Disposing of two small items without anyone knowing wouldn’t be particularly troublesome. First, what was strange was that despite there being only a one-room distance and his hearing being somewhat impaired, the supposedly sharp old man hadn’t noticed the commotion of someone being murdered. The prosecutor in charge of this case must have thought along those lines.

Furthermore, the prosecutor knew several facts. that they were not biological mother and daughter, and that recently, over marriage issues, they had been constantly quarreling. On the very night of the murder, the mother had visited her late husband’s younger brother to seek his assistance, and it had become clear through the testimony of the elderly owner of the antique shop next door that a fierce quarrel had apparently broken out between them after she returned. My statement that the mother had stealthily searched her desk and stationery box while Shiyo was out also appeared to have given a rather unfavorable impression.

Poor Shiyo's mother finally received an official summons the day after Shiyo's funeral.

Lover’s Ashes

For the next two or three days, I shut myself up in my room, even taking time off work to the extent that I worried mother and elder brother and his wife. Except for attending Shiyo’s funeral just once, I did not step out of the house even once.

As days passed one after another, the true nature of my sorrow became clear to me. Though my relationship with Shiyo had lasted only nine months, love’s depth and intensity cannot be confined by mere spans of time. In my thirty years of life I had tasted many griefs, yet never had I known such profound anguish as when I lost Shiyo. At nineteen I lost my father; the following year claimed my younger sister too—though by nature frail and sensitive, and though I grieved deeply then, those sorrows could not compare to this. Love is a strange thing. While granting matchless joy in this world, it may also bring humanity’s greatest sorrow in return. By fortune or misfortune I never knew heartbreak’s sting—yet whatever form unrequited love might take, it must remain endurable still. For so long as love remains unrequited, the beloved stays a stranger after all. But we—we loved each other fiercely from both sides, overcoming every obstacle—yes, as I often described it—wrapped in peach-hued clouds from some unknowable celestial realm, our bodies and souls melting together until we became utterly one. To think no blood relation could ever unite so completely—Shiyo alone was my other half, encountered just once in this lifetime. And now that Shiyo was gone... Had illness taken her, I might have nursed her—yet barely ten hours after we parted contentedly, she lay before me transformed into a silent waxen effigy of sorrow. Worse still—brutally murdered, her tender heart cruelly gouged out by some unknown fiend from God knows where.

I would read through her numerous letters and weep, open the genealogy ledger of her true ancestors that she had gifted me and weep, gaze at the carefully preserved drawing of the beach from her dream—one she had sketched at a hotel some time ago—and weep. I didn’t want to speak to anyone. I didn’t want to see anyone. All I wanted was to shut myself away in my narrow study, close my eyes, and meet with Shiyo—who was no longer in this world. In my heart, I wanted to talk only with her.

The morning after her funeral, I suddenly thought of something and prepared to go out. My sister-in-law asked, "Are you going to work?" but I left without answering. Of course, it wasn't to go to work. Nor was it to visit Shiyo's mother. I knew that the bone-picking ceremony for the late Shiyo was to take place that very morning. Ah, I had come to that accursed place to behold the sorrowful ashes of my former lover.

I arrived just in time to come upon the scene where Shiyo’s mother and relatives, holding long chopsticks, were performing the bone-picking ceremony. I expressed condolences inappropriate for the occasion to the mother and stood vacantly before the crematory furnace. In such circumstances, no one reproached me for my rudeness. I saw the crematory worker violently break apart the clump of ashes with metal tongs. And then, as if he were a metallurgist searching for some metal within the slag of a crucible, he nonchalantly retrieved the deceased’s teeth and placed them into a separate small container. I watched as my lover was treated like an “object,” even feeling almost physical pain. But I did not think that I should not have come. After all, I had harbored a naive purpose from the very beginning.

At a certain opportunity, I stole a handful of ashes—the cruelly transformed remains of my lover—from that iron plate, slipping past people's notice. (Ah, I've recorded something too shameful)—then fleeing to a vast nearby field, like a madman shrieking every loving word, I put it—those ashes, my lover—into the pit of my stomach.

I collapsed onto the grass and writhed in unnatural frenzy. "I want to die, I want to die," I screamed while thrashing about. For a very, very long time, I lay there like that. But I was not strong enough to die, though I was ashamed of it. Or perhaps I could not muster that old-fashioned sentiment of becoming one with my lover through death. Instead, I made a resolution—strong as death itself, old-fashioned in its intensity—a single unwavering resolve.

I hated the bastard who stole my precious lover from me. I resented—not for the repose of Shiyo’s soul, but for my own sake. From the pit of my stomach, I cursed that bastard’s very existence. No matter how much the prosecutor might suspect her, whatever the police might conclude, I simply could not believe that Shiyo’s mother was the culprit. But given that Shiyo had been murdered, even if there were absolutely no traces of the burglar’s comings and goings, there had to exist a perpetrator there. The frustration of not knowing who it was further fueled my hatred. I lay on my back in that field, staring at the sun blazing in the clear sky until my eyes dazzled, and swore that oath.

“No matter what it takes—I’ll track down the perpetrator.” “And I’ll settle our grudge.”

That I was gloomy and introverted was known to the reader, but how could such a person as myself have made such a firm resolution? How could I, who thereafter charged headlong into every danger, have acquired that uncharacteristic courage? Looking back, I found it so strange that it must all have been the work of doomed love. Love is indeed a strange thing. It sometimes lifts people to joy's pinnacle, sometimes casts them into sorrow's abyss, and at other times even grants them incomparable power.

Eventually having sobered from my frenzy, I remained lying in the same spot and began thinking somewhat calmly about what I needed to do next. As I turned over various thoughts, I suddenly recalled a certain person. That name—already known to the reader—was none other than Miyamaki Kokichi, whom I had dubbed the amateur detective. Let the police do as they would—I couldn't rest unless I found the culprit myself. Though I disliked the term "detective," I resigned myself to becoming one. Regarding that matter, there was no more suitable person to consult than my eccentric friend Miyamaki Kokichi. I stood up and with those very steps hurried to the nearby government railway station. It was to visit the house of Miyamaki, who lived near Kamakura's coast.

Dear readers, I was young. I was beside myself with resentment at having my love stolen. I hadn't the slightest inkling of how much hardship and danger lay ahead, nor of the living hell beyond this world that awaited. Had I been able to foresee even one of them—had I been able to foresee that this reckless resolve of mine would ultimately steal the life of my esteemed friend Miyamaki Kokichi—I might never have sworn that terrible oath of revenge. But at that time, without any such considerations—success or failure aside—the fact that I had been able to establish a single purpose had somewhat refreshed my spirits; with vigorous strides, I hurried through the early summer suburbs toward the train station.

Eccentric Friend

I was an introvert who lacked close friends among my sociable peers but was blessed with older companions of somewhat eccentric nature. Moroto Michio was undoubtedly one of them, and Miyamaki Kokichi—whom I shall now introduce to the readers—stood among the most peculiar of these acquaintances. Though this may have stemmed from self-consciousness, nearly all my elder friends—Miyamaki being no exception—appeared to harbor a particular interest in my appearance. Even if not unpleasantly meant, there seemed some force within me that drew them in. Were this not so, those elders—each endowed with their own talents—would never have deigned to notice a callow youth such as myself.

Be that as it may, Miyamaki Kokichi was someone I had become acquainted with through an introduction from an older friend at my workplace. Though he was already well past forty at the time, he had no wife, no children, and to my knowledge not a single blood relative—a true bachelor through and through. Though a bachelor, he wasn’t a misogynist like Moroto; it seemed he had formed husband-and-wife-like relationships with numerous women over the years. Even during the time I knew him, he had changed partners two or three times, but none ever lasted long—whenever I visited after some interval, the woman would invariably have vanished without a trace. "He would say, 'I practice momentary monogamy,' but in truth, he was extremely quick to fall in love and equally quick to grow bored." While many might feel or say such things, few people would act so brazenly as he did. In this aspect too, his true character was revealed.

He was a sort of polymath; no matter what you asked him, he never claimed not to know. He seemed to have no regular source of income, yet apparently possessed some savings; without working to earn money, he made it his hobby to ferret out various secrets hidden in every corner of society in between reading books. Among these, criminal cases were his particular favorite, and there was no famous criminal case into which he didn’t stick his neck, sometimes even offering useful advice to specialists in the field.

Being a bachelor with such pursuits, he would often leave his house unattended for three or four days at a time—who knew where he went—making it quite difficult to manage catching him at home. As I walked there that day, worrying I might find him out again, I fortunately realized from half a block before his house that he was indeed home. This was because, mingling with the adorable voices of children, Miyamaki Kokichi’s unmistakable booming voice was singing a popular song of the time in an odd tone.

As I approached, the shoddy blue-painted wooden Western-style house stood with its entrance flung wide open. On the stone steps sat four or five mischievous boys, while Miyamaki Kokichi perched cross-legged on the higher door threshold—all swinging their heads side to side with mouths agape. “Where did I come from?” “When and where will I return, I wonder?”

they were doing just that. He, perhaps because he had no children of his own, was extremely fond of them and would often gather the neighborhood kids to play as their brat pack leader. The strange thing was that the children, contrary to their parents, had grown attached to this ostracized eccentric uncle in the neighborhood. “Well, we have a guest. “A beautiful guest has arrived.” “Let’s play again sometime, you all.”

When he saw my face, Miyamaki seemed to sensitively read my expression; without proposing we play together as usual like he always did, he dismissed the children and guided me to his living quarters.

Though called a Western-style house, it appeared to be a repurposed studio or similar structure, having only a small entrance and what passed for a kitchen beyond the main hall. This hall served as his study, living room, bedroom, and dining room combined, where stacks of books rose like a secondhand bookstore's relocation piles. Among them lay scattered an aged wooden bed, a dining table, assorted dishes, canned goods, and a soba restaurant's delivery box in utter disarray. "The chair's broken - only one left." "Well then, take that seat."

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

“You have business， don’t you? “You’ve come with some business， haven’t you?” He brushed back his disheveled long hair with his fingers and made a slightly bashful expression． He would inevitably make this expression at least once whenever he met me． “Yes， I thought I wanted to borrow your wisdom．” I said while looking at his Western-style clothes—resembling those of a Western beggar， collarless and tieless， all crumpled． “It’s love， isn’t it? “You have the eyes of someone in love． “And besides， you haven’t visited me at all lately．”

“Love… Well, you see… She’s dead.” “She was murdered.” I said in a coaxing manner. Once the words came out, tears began spilling endlessly for some reason. 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 soothe a child, kept saying something. Alongside the grief existed a strangely sweet sensation. In some corner of my heart, I remained aware that this behavior of mine was exciting him.

Miyamaki Kokichi was indeed a skillful listener. I didn’t need to organize my account in any particular order. Word by word, I only needed to answer as he questioned me. In the end, I ended up telling him everything—from when I first began speaking with Kizaki Shiyo to every detail surrounding her unnatural death. Since Miyamaki told me to show him, I took out both the sketch of the coastal scenery that appeared in Shiyo’s recurring dream and even the family tree document she had entrusted to me—which I happened to have in my inner pocket—and showed them to him. He seemed to have been looking at them for a long time, but as I was turned away to hide my tears, I didn’t notice his expression at all then.

Once I had said all I needed to say, I fell silent. Miyamaki too remained strangely silent. I had been hanging my head, but as the other man remained silent for so long, I suddenly looked up at him—he had turned oddly pale, staring fixedly into space. “You’ll understand my feelings, won’t you?” “I am seriously considering vengeance.” “Unless I at least find the culprit with my own hands, I simply can’t endure it.”

Even when I urged him insistently, he kept silent without altering his expression. There was something strange. That this man—with his usual carefree demeanor reminiscent of an Eastern hero—would show such profound emotion struck me as utterly unexpected. "If my imagination isn't mistaken, this might prove a far more exaggerated and terrifying case than you've conceived—that is, beyond what surface appearances suggest." After finally composing himself, Miyamaki Kokichi spoke in a solemn tone, deliberating carefully over each word.

“More than murder?”

I had no idea why he had blurted out such a thing and vaguely asked him in return. “It’s the kind of killer.” Miyamaki pondered and pondered, then answered gloomily, unlike his usual self. “Even if we say the handbag is missing, you must understand this isn’t merely the work of a common thief.” “Yet if this were simply a crime of passion, it’s far too calculated.” “Behind this incident hides an extremely clever, skilled, and moreover cruel and merciless fiend.” “It’s no ordinary skill!”

He said this and paused briefly, but for some reason, his slightly faded lips were quivering uncontrollably from excitement. It was the first time I had seen him make such an expression. His fear transmitted itself, and I too began to feel strangely compelled to look over my shoulder. But foolish as I was, I remained completely unaware of what he had grasped beyond my understanding at that moment, or what had so excited him. "You said she was killed with a single stab to the heart, didn’t you?" "If this were the work of a thief caught in the act, it’s far too skillful." "Killing a person with a single stab may seem simple, but it’s not something that can be done without considerable skill." "And then, the complete absence of any signs of entry, the lack of fingerprints—what splendid efficiency!" He said admiringly. "But more than that, what's even more terrifying is that the chocolate tin had disappeared." "Even I still can’t clearly figure out why such a thing went missing, but somehow it feels like there’s something more to it." "There’s something chilling about that." "And that frail old man Shiyo claimed to have seen for three nights…"

He trailed off his words and fell silent. We were each engrossed in our own thoughts, staring fixedly at one another. Outside the window, sunlight that had just passed noon glittered brightly, but inside the room, there was an oddly chilly feeling. “Do you also think there’s nothing suspicious about Shiyo’s mother?” I wanted to briefly confirm Miyamaki’s thoughts, so I decided to ask that.

“It’s not even worth a laugh.” “No matter how much their opinions clashed, would any sensible old person kill their only dependent child?” “Besides, judging from your tone, the mother isn’t the type capable of such horrors.” “Even if she could secretly hide the handbag—if she were the culprit—why invent that strange lie about a missing chocolate tin?”

Miyamaki stood up after saying that and glanced at his wristwatch, but—

“There’s still time.” “We’ll arrive while it’s still light.” “Anyway, let’s go and see Ms. Shiyo’s house.” He slipped behind the curtain in a corner of the room, rustled about briefly, and soon reappeared in slightly more presentable attire. “Let’s go.” With this offhand remark, he snatched up his hat and cane, already darting outside. I hurried after him. Nothing filled me but profound grief, an uncanny dread, and vengeful thoughts. I hadn’t the faintest idea where Miyamaki had disposed of that genealogy ledger or my sketches. Now that Shiyo was dead, such things held no purpose for me—they’d never even crossed my mind.

For over two hours on the train and tram, we remained almost completely silent. On my part, I attempted to strike up conversation about various things, but Miyamaki was deep in thought and wouldn’t engage. But I remembered him saying just one strange thing. This being an important matter that would have relevance later, I reproduce it here: “The more ingenious a crime becomes,” he said, “the more it resembles a skilled magic trick. A magician knows how to retrieve items from a sealed box without opening its lid. You understand? But there’s a trick to it. What seems utterly impossible to spectators presents no difficulty for him. This case is exactly like a sealed magic box. Though you can’t grasp it without seeing firsthand, I’m certain the police are overlooking the magician’s crucial secret. Even if that secret were exposed before their eyes, once their thinking becomes fixed, they’d fail to notice it entirely. The secret of a magic trick usually lies right before the spectators’ eyes. It’s likely a spot that doesn’t feel like an entrance at all. Yet shift your perspective, and it becomes an enormous passageway. Practically left wide open. If there’s no lock, no need to pull nails or break anything. Such spots stay unsecured because nobody bothers to close them properly. Ha ha ha! What I’m pondering is truly ludicrous. Absurd, you see.”

“But you can’t say for certain it’s wrong.” “The trick’s secret is always something ridiculous, you see.”

Even now, I still sometimes wonder why detectives must be so suggestively cryptic and brimming with such childish theatrics. And then I grow irritated. Had Miyamaki Kokichi disclosed everything he knew to me before his mysterious death, matters wouldn’t have become so needlessly convoluted. But was this—like Sherlock Holmes before him, or Dupin—an unavoidable affectation of great detectives? For he too adhered to the practice of never revealing even a shadow of his deductions until a case was fully resolved, cloaked in capricious hints once he’d immersed himself in an investigation.

When I heard that, I thought he had already grasped some secret of the case, so I asked him to explain more clearly, but out of stubborn detective’s vanity, he clammed up and said nothing.

Cloisonné vase

Kizaki’s house now stood silent and still, the mourning notices removed and the stationed police gone, as if nothing had ever happened. It was later discovered that exactly on that day, shortly after returning from collecting Shiyo’s remains, her foster mother had received a summons from the prosecutor’s office and been taken away by a police officer, so her deceased husband’s younger brother had summoned a maid from his own house to keep a gloomy watch over the place. As we tried to open the lattice door and enter, an unexpected person emerged from inside just as we were about to step in. The man and I, feeling acutely self-conscious, could not avert our clashing gazes and remained wordlessly glaring at each other for a while. Despite having been a suitor, Moroto Michio—who had never once visited the Kizaki house during Shiyo’s lifetime—had for some reason come that day to offer his condolences. He stood there in a well-tailored morning coat, his face slightly haggard after some time unseen, appearing unsure where to look, but finally managed to address me.

“Ah, Minoura-kun—it’s been a while.” “Are you here to offer condolences?”

Not knowing how to respond, I forced a brief smile with dry lips. "I have something I'd like to discuss with you. I'll wait outside, so when you're finished here, would you mind accompanying me somewhere nearby?" Whether he genuinely had business there or was merely masking his embarrassment, Moroto said this while glancing briefly at Miyamaki. "This is Mr. Moroto Michio." "This is Mr. Miyamaki."

For some reason, I found myself flustered and ended up introducing the two of them. Since both parties had already heard rumors about each other from me, merely stating their names seemed to convey more than just identities; the two men exchanged meaningful greetings. “You, don’t mind me and go ahead.” “All I need is for you to introduce me here at the house.” “Anyway, I’ll be around here for a bit, so go on ahead.”

Miyamaki said this casually and urged me onward, so I went inside, quietly informed the familiar caretakers of our purpose for coming, introduced Miyamaki to them, and then—since going far away with Moroto, who had been waiting outside, was out of the question—entered a shabby café nearby. For Moroto, seeing my face likely placed him in a position where he felt compelled to explain his bizarre courtship campaign somehow. As for me, while outwardly dismissing such foolishness, deep within my heart I harbored a dreadful suspicion toward him—not clearly defined enough to say I wanted to subtly probe his true intentions, but still gripped by a resolve not to let this opportunity with him slip away. Adding to this was how Miyamaki’s tone when urging me to go had struck me as oddly suggestive. Thus, despite the strangeness of our mutual circumstances, we ended up entering that café together.

As for what we talked about there, I can’t clearly remember now beyond an intensely awkward feeling—in truth, I suspect we likely didn’t exchange anything resembling proper conversation at all. Moreover, Miyamaki had concluded his business, located that café, and entered far too quickly. We sat facing our drinks for a long time with bowed heads. Though filled with the urge to accuse him and probe his true intentions, I couldn’t voice a single word. Moroto for his part fidgeted strangely. It felt like whoever spoke first would lose. A peculiar mutual probing ensued. But I recall Moroto uttering such things.

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

He kept mumbling those words hesitantly, over and over under his breath. And before it became clear what exactly he was apologizing for, Miyamaki yanked back the curtain and stomped into the room. “Am I interrupting?”

He said bluntly, plopped down heavily, and began staring intently at Moroto. Moroto, upon seeing Miyamaki’s arrival—though what exactly had transpired was unclear—abruptly bid farewell without accomplishing his purpose and fled the scene as if escaping. “He’s a strange man.” “He’s acting awfully jittery.” “Did you talk about anything?”

“No, I... I don’t really understand.” “Hmm, strange.” “When I asked the people at the Kizaki house just now,” “They say that’s the third time Mr. Moroto has come visiting since Ms. Kizaki died.” “And apparently he’s been oddly enough asking all sorts of questions and looking around the house.” “There’s something here.” “But he’s quite the intelligent-looking handsome man, isn’t he?”

Miyamaki said that and looked at me meaningfully. Though I was in that situation, I couldn't help but blush. "That was quick. Did you find anything?" I asked a question to hide my embarrassment. "Various things," he said in a lowered voice, his face turning serious. His excitement since leaving Kamakura appeared to have only intensified rather than subsided. He seemed to have hidden deep within his heart various things unknown to me, privately scrutinizing them alone. "For the first time in ages, I feel like I've come up against something major." "But going at it alone, I might be a bit outmatched." "Anyway, I'm devoting myself entirely to this case starting today."

He continued as if talking to himself, doodling on the damp earthen floor with the tip of his cane. "I can grasp the general framework, but there's one point I simply can't resolve." "It's not that there's no way to interpret it—and that interpretation does seem increasingly plausible—but if that's truly the case, it would be utterly horrifying." "An unprecedented atrocity." "Just contemplating it sickens me." "The enemy of all mankind." He kept muttering these incomprehensible words while absently moving his cane, until he suddenly noticed the peculiar shape that had formed on the ground. It resembled an oversized sake warmer in form, what might be considered a vase's outline. Within this shape, he scrawled the characters for "cloisonné" in an indistinct script. Seeing this, compelled by curiosity, I couldn't restrain my questions.

“Isn’t it a cloisonné vase? Does the cloisonné vase have some connection to this case?” He looked up sharply, but upon noticing the pattern drawn on the ground, hastily erased it with his cane.

“You mustn’t speak loudly. The cloisonné vase... yes, that’s right. You’re sharp enough, aren’t you? This is it—the part I can’t grasp... I’ve been agonizing over exactly this interpretation of the cloisonné vase.”

But no matter how much I pressed him further, he kept his mouth shut and would say nothing more.

Before long, we left the café and returned to Sugamo Station. Since our directions were opposite, we parted ways at the platform there, but when we did, Miyamaki Kokichi said, “Wait about four days." "It absolutely requires that much time." “By the fifth day, I might have some good news to report.” Though I was dissatisfied with his evasiveness, I had no choice but to rely wholeheartedly on his efforts.

Antique Shop Customer

Because my family was worried, I decided to return to work at S・K Trading Company starting the next day, though reluctantly. Since I had entrusted the detective work to Miyamaki and could see no way to take action myself, I spent hollow days clinging to his verbal promise of a week. When work ended, in the loneliness of missing the figure I always walked shoulder-to-shoulder with, my feet would instinctively turn toward Shiyo’s grave. Every day, I prepared bouquets as if for a lover, making it my daily ritual to weep before her new sotoba grave marker. And with each visit, my thirst for vengeance seemed to intensify. I felt myself acquiring a strange fortitude day by day.

On the second day, I could no longer stand waiting and took the night train to visit Miyamaki's house in Kamakura, but he was not home. When I inquired in the neighborhood, they said, "He left the day before yesterday and hasn't returned." After we had parted ways at Sugamo that day, it seemed he had gone somewhere right away. Given how things were progressing, I thought visiting again before the promised fifth day would only mean wasting my time.

But on the third day, I made a discovery. Though I had no idea what it meant, it was nonetheless a discovery. Three days later, I finally managed to grasp just a small part of Miyamaki’s imaginative reasoning. The enigmatic phrase “cloisonné vase” did not leave my mind for a single day. That day too, while working at the company and tapping my abacus beads, I could think of nothing but the “cloisonné vase.” Strangely enough, from the moment I saw Miyamaki’s doodle at the café in Sugamo, the phrase “cloisonné vase” never felt entirely new to me. There was such a cloisonné vase somewhere. I had a feeling I’d seen it before. Moreover, through some association that called to mind the deceased Shiyo, it lingered in some corner of my mind. That day, strangely enough, it abruptly surfaced to the forefront of my memory in connection with a certain number I had placed on the abacus.

I’d got it—I’d seen it at the antique shop next to Shiyo’s house. I shouted the realization inwardly. As it was already past three o’clock, I left work early and rushed to the antique shop. Bursting into the storefront, I seized the elderly proprietor. “There were two large cloisonné vases displayed here, weren’t there? Did they sell?”

I pretended to be a passing customer and asked in that manner.

“Oh, there were indeed.” “But they ended up getting sold, I’m afraid.” “What a shame.” “I wanted them—when were they sold?” “Did the same person buy both?” “They were a matching pair, you see.” “The buyers were different.” “It was a fine piece from an estate—too good for such a shabby shop as ours.” “They were quite expensive, though.” “When were they sold?” “It’s a shame about one of them.” “It was last night.” “A distinguished person from afar purchased it.” “The other one—that was indeed last month’s, ah yes, the twenty-fifth.” “It was exactly the day when there was a commotion next door, so I remember it well.”

In this manner, the talkative old man proceeded to speak at length about the so-called commotion next door, but ultimately, from what I had been able to confirm through this, the first buyer was a man who appeared to be a merchant; he had made arrangements the previous night, paid the money and left, then around noon the following day, a servant came and carried off the vase wrapped in a cloth bundle. The second buyer was a young gentleman in Western clothes who then and there called a rickshaw and had it taken away, according to the account. Both were passing customers, and of course, they had no idea who they were or where they came from.

Needless to say, the fact that the day the first buyer came to receive the vase coincided exactly with the day the murder was discovered had caught my attention. But I had no idea what it meant. There was no doubt Miyamaki had also been thinking about these vases—the old man clearly remembered someone resembling Miyamaki coming to inquire about the same vases three days prior—but why had he placed such importance on them? There had to be a reason.

“It certainly had a swallowtail butterfly pattern, didn’t it?” “W-well, yes, that’s exactly right.” “It had a scattered pattern of numerous swallowtail butterflies against a yellow background, you know.”

I remembered. It was a somewhat large vase about three shaku in height, with numerous darkish butterflies—encircled by thin silver lines—fluttering chaotically across a dull yellow background. “Where did it come from?” “Well, we took it from some colleagues, but they said it came from a bankrupt businessman’s disposal items.”

These two vases had been displayed from the very beginning when I started visiting Shiyo’s house. That had been a very long time. After Shiyo’s suspicious death, both were sold within just a few days—could that be mere coincidence? Could there not be some meaning in that? I had absolutely no leads regarding the first buyer, but since there was a detail that had caught my attention about the second buyer, I decided to inquire about it as a final step. “The customer who came to buy after that—wasn’t he around thirty years old, fair-skinned, without a beard, and had a slightly noticeable mole on his right cheek?”

“Yes, yes, he was exactly as you described.” “He was such a kind and refined gentleman.”

Indeed, it was so. It was undoubtedly Moroto Michio. When I asked whether they had noticed if that person—who should have visited the neighboring Kizaki house two or three times—had been there, the old man’s wife stepped forward and answered.

“Now that you mention it, that’s the gentleman, Grandpa.” Fortunately, she was no less of a talkative person than the elderly master. “A few days ago, you know, the distinguished gentleman who came to the neighbor’s house wearing a black frock coat. “That was him.” She had confused a morning coat with a frock coat, but there was no longer any room for doubt. To be thorough, I inquired at the rickshaw stand he was said to have hired from and learned that the destination had indeed been Ikebukuro, where Moroto resided.

That might have been too outlandish a conjecture. But someone like Moroto—a deviant, so to speak—could not be measured by ordinary standards. Was he not a man incapable of loving the opposite sex? Did there not even exist the suspicion that he had schemed to steal that lover for the sake of homosexual love? How intense that sudden courtship campaign had been. How feverish his wooing of me had been. Considering this, could anyone truly claim that he—having failed in his pursuit of Shiyo—did not dare commit a meticulously planned murder, one engineered to escape detection, all to wrest her from me? He possessed an abnormally keen intellect. Was his research not precisely the cruel manipulation of small animals with a scalpel? He was a man who feared no bloodshed. He was a man who coolly employed living creatures' lives as experimental material.

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

His new residence was a dreary Western-style wooden building that stood isolated in a desolate location half a ri from Ikebukuro Station, with a separate laboratory structure attached. An iron fence encircled it. The household consisted of him—a bachelor—a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old live-in student, and an elderly cook; apart from the screams of animals, it was a lonely dwelling where no trace of human activity could be detected. He immersed himself in his aberrant research both there and at his university laboratory. His research focus did not appear to involve direct patient care, but rather seemed oriented toward some form of innovative discovery within surgical science.

It was at night when, as I approached the iron gate, I heard the unbearable screams of pitiful experimental animals—mostly dogs—whose cries pierced my heart. The howls of the pack of dogs—each with its own distinct character—struck my chest piercingly, carrying the maddening association of death throes. The thought that perhaps that abominable vivisection was being conducted in the laboratory at this very moment sent an involuntary shudder through me.

As I passed through the gate, the pungent odor of disinfectant struck my nose. I remembered a hospital operating room. I imagined a prison’s execution chamber. The screams of the animals, staring death in the face with inescapable terror, made me want to cover my ears. I even thought about canceling the visit and going home. Before night had deepened, every window of the main house stood pitch black. A faint light was visible deep within the laboratory. As if in a terrifying dream, I reached the entrance and pressed the bell. After a short while, the light at the entrance to the side laboratory came on, and there stood Moroto. He wore a rubberized wet surgical gown and thrust out both hands stained crimson with blood clots. Under the electric light, I vividly recalled how that crimson color had shone with an eerie glow.

My heart was gripped by a terrible suspicion, yet with no means to confirm it, I trudged through the suburban town as evening fell.

By tomorrow noon precisely The "fifth day" of my promise with Miyamaki Kokichi fell on the first Sunday in July. It was a perfectly clear, intensely hot day. Around nine in the morning, as I was changing clothes to leave for Kamakura, a telegram arrived from Miyamaki. He wanted to meet. The train was quite crowded with the first summer vacationers of that season. Though still early for swimming season, between the heat and it being the first Sunday, overeager crowds were already streaming toward the Shonan coast.

The street in front of Miyamaki’s house was so crowded with people heading to the coast that the stream of passersby never let up. In the vacant lot, ice cream stalls and the like set up shop, raising new flags as they began their business.

But in stark contrast to these splendid, glittering scenes, Miyamaki sat within his usual mountain of books wearing an extremely gloomy expression, deep in thought.

“Where have you been?” “I came looking for you once.” When I entered, he didn’t even rise from his seat, instead pointing at the grimy table beside him,

“Look at this,” he said.

There lay what appeared to be a letter and a torn envelope tossed aside. The letter's message was scrawled in pencil with shockingly crude handwriting as follows: "I won't let you live any longer. Consider your life forfeit by noon tomorrow precisely. However, if you return that item in your possession to its rightful owner (you know where to send it) and swear to keep this secret forevermore, I'll spare you. But mark this—if you don't package it as a registered parcel and take it to the post office yourself before noon, it'll be too late. Choose whichever you prefer. Don't bother telling the police—it's pointless. I don't make blunders that leave evidence."

“Aren’t you making a ridiculous joke? Did it come by mail?” I asked casually. “No—it was thrown in through the window last night. It might not be a joke.” Miyamaki said in a surprisingly serious tone. He seemed to be genuinely terrified. His face was horribly pale. “But something like a child’s prank—it’s absurd. And threatening to take your life precisely at noon—it’s just like a moving picture, isn’t it?”

“No—you don’t understand,” he said. “I… I’ve seen something terrifying. My imagination was not wrong at all. I managed to locate the villains’ den, but then I saw something strange. That was my mistake. I was spineless and ended up fleeing. You have no idea whatsoever.” “No—even I have found out a few things,” I countered. “The cloisonné vase. Though I don’t know what it signifies, Moroto Michio was the one who bought it.”

“Moroto?” “That’s odd.” Miyamaki, however, showed no sign of enthusiasm about that. “What on earth is the meaning behind the cloisonné vase?” “If my imagination isn’t wrong—though I haven’t confirmed it yet—it’s truly a terrifying thing. “This is an unprecedented crime.” “But you see, the terrifying thing isn’t just the vase—there’s something even more astonishing.” “It’s something like a demon’s curse.” “It’s unimaginable evil.”

“So, do you already know who killed Shiyo?” “I’ve at least managed to locate their den.” “Wait a little longer.” “But I might get killed.” Miyamaki had perhaps fallen under what he called a demon’s curse—he’d grown remarkably timid. “That’s strange.” “But if there’s even a chance of that happening, shouldn’t you tell the police?” “If your own strength isn’t enough, shouldn’t you ask them for help?”

“If you tell the police, you’ll only let the enemy escape.” “And even if we know who they are, we haven’t got solid evidence to catch them.” “If the police get involved now, they’ll just be in the way.” “Do you know what this ‘item’ in the letter means?” “What exactly is it?” “I know—that’s why I’m scared.” “Can’t we just send it to them as they demanded?”

“As for me—instead of sending that back to the enemy—” He looked around furtively and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I sent you a registered parcel. When you return home today, a strange item should have arrived. Please take care to store it safely without damaging or breaking it. It’s dangerous to keep it in my possession. Since it’s somewhat safer with you—and since it’s an extremely important thing—make no mistake. And make sure no one realizes how important it is.”

I found Miyamaki’s excessively guarded, secretive attitude unpleasant—it somehow made me feel looked down upon. “Won’t you tell me everything you know? After all, since I was the one who asked you to take on this case, doesn’t that make me the principal party here?” “But circumstances have arisen where that’s no longer necessarily true,” he said. “Still, I’ll tell you. Of course I mean to—let’s discuss it over dinner tonight.”

He seemed restless and checked his wristwatch. “It’s eleven o’clock.” “Why don’t we go out to the coast?” “We shouldn’t let ourselves get bogged down like this.” “Maybe I’ll try soaking in the sea for the first time in a while.”

I wasn’t in the mood, but since he kept forging ahead, I reluctantly followed him to the nearby coast. The beach was crowded with swimsuits in such gaudy colors that they dazzled the eyes. Miyamaki ran to the water’s edge, suddenly stripped down to just his fundoshi, shouted something at the top of his lungs, and plunged into the sea. I sat down on a low sand dune and watched his forced exuberance with an odd sensation.

Even as I tried not to look, I couldn’t help but see the clock. As much as I told myself such an absurd thing couldn’t possibly happen, that terrifying phrase—“by noon precisely”—from the threatening letter somehow kept nagging at me. Time advanced mercilessly—11:30, 11:40—and as noon approached, a creeping unease welled up within me. Moreover, around that time, an incident occurred that made me even more anxious. The reason was—sure enough, I felt that it was indeed so. Moroto Michio was there, mingling with the crowd on the coast, his figure glimpsed briefly in the far distance. Was his appearance on this coast at this precise moment merely a coincidence?

When I looked for Miyamaki, he—ever fond of children—had somehow gotten surrounded by kids in swimsuits and was running around shrieking while playing tag or some such game.

The sky stretched endlessly clear in fathomless ultramarine blue, and the sea lay still as a tatami mat. From the diving platform, accompanied by buoyant shouts, one supple figure after another traced arcs through the air. The sandy beach glistened, and the crowds frolicking on land and sea, bathed in the bright early summer sun, shone with radiant brilliance. There, beyond those who sang like birds, played like mermaids, and tumbled like puppies—in other words, there existed nothing but happiness. In this wide-open paradise, I couldn’t conceive that anything resembling the evils of shadowed realms might lurk in any crevice one might search. Let alone imagine that a blood-soaked murder would unfold at its very heart.

But, dear readers, the devil did not break his promise in the slightest. He had first killed someone inside a sealed house, and now, on a coast as open as could be surveyed—amidst hundreds in the crowd—he flawlessly pulled off a murder without leaving a single clue, not even drawing suspicion from one person among them all. Though he was the devil, what an inconceivable skill he had!

The Unreason Within Reason

When reading novels, I often grow frustrated and impatient upon seeing protagonists act naively and bumble through situations—thinking, “If it were me, I’d never do that!”—and I imagine those reading my account must feel equally exasperated watching me, the protagonist, claim to be playing detective while wandering in a fog, accomplishing nothing detective-like, and instead being led around by the nose by Miyamaki Kokichi’s irritatingly suggestive manner. Truthfully, proceeding to document matters in this way feels like advertising my own foolishness—something I’m quite reluctant to do—but given that I was indeed a sheltered young man at the time, there’s simply no helping it. As for the aspects that may frustrate readers—if this were a factual account, such things are to be expected—there is no choice but to ask for your leniency.

Now then, continuing from the previous chapter, I must recount the details of Miyamaki Kokichi’s unfortunate and unnatural death. At that moment, Miyamaki was wearing nothing but a fundoshi, running about on the sandy beach with children in swimsuits while shrieking excitedly. As I had often mentioned before, he loved children and delighted in playing the boisterous ringleader of mischievous brats during innocent games; yet behind his foolishly exuberant behavior at that time lay a deeper cause beyond mere fondness for youngsters. He was frightened. He was terrified by the "by noon precisely" phrase from that crudely written threatening letter. Though it seemed comical to me that this highly intelligent man in his forties would take such a childish threat seriously, there must have been sufficient reason for even someone like him to feel genuine fear of that message.

He had disclosed almost nothing of what he knew about this case to me, so while I couldn’t begin to imagine the horror behind the hidden facts that could terrify even a man as open-hearted as him to such an extent, seeing him genuinely frightened made me find myself drawn in, and there I was—surrounded by hundreds in the bustling beach crowd—unable to shake off this strange feeling that had come over me. I found myself recalling someone’s words: “A truly cunning murderer would choose the middle of a great crowd rather than a lonely place.”

With a protective feeling toward Miyamaki, I descended the sand dune and approached where he was playing merrily. They seemed to have grown tired of playing tag and had now dug a large hole near the water’s edge, where three or four innocent children around ten years old were burying Miyamaki inside and busily piling sand on top from above. “Come on, pile on more sand—we’ve got to bury my legs and hands completely!” “Hey now, no covering the face!” “Just spare my face!”

Miyamaki played the kindly uncle and kept shouting.

“Uncle! If you keep squirming like that, it’s cheating!” “Then we’ll dump way more sand on you!” The children kept scooping up sand with both hands and heaping it over him, but Miyamaki’s large frame stubbornly resisted concealment. About six feet away, two matronly women in neat kimonos sat on spread-out newspapers beneath parasols, keeping watch over children playing in the sea while occasionally glancing toward Miyamaki’s group and laughing with sharp “Ah ha ha”s. These women were closest to where Miyamaki lay buried. On the opposite side, further removed, a striking young woman in a gaudy swimsuit sat cross-legged, bantering with lanky youths who lounged about her in sprawling postures. Beyond them, no one else sat stationary nearby.

People passed by Miyamaki’s side incessantly, but only occasionally did someone pause briefly to laugh before moving on; no one had approached him closely. As I watched this, I found myself thinking—how could anyone be killed in a place like this?—and Miyamaki’s terror began to strike me as utterly absurd. “Minoura-kun, what’s the time?” When I approached, Miyamaki, still seeming concerned about it, asked.

“11:52.” “There are eight minutes left.” “Ha ha ha…” “As long as we stay like this, we’re safe.” “You’ve got all these people around watching—starting with you—and right here I’ve got this four-boy army guarding me.” “On top of that, there’s this sand bulwark.” “No demon could get near us like this, right?” “Heh heh.”

He appeared to have somewhat regained his vigor. I paced back and forth in that area, concerned about Moroto, whom I had glimpsed earlier, and searched all over the wide sandy beach, but his figure was nowhere to be seen—he had vanished. Then, I stood still a few meters away from Miyamaki and vacantly watched the young men on the diving platform perform their acrobatics for a while. But when I turned to look back at Miyamaki after some time had passed, he had already been completely buried by the children’s handiwork. With only his head protruding from the sand and his eyes glaring fixedly at the sky, he reminded me of the Indian ascetics I had heard about.

“Uncle, try getting up.” “Is it heavy?” “Uncle, you’re making such a ridiculous face.” “Can’t you get up?” “Want us to save you?”

The children were incessantly teasing Miyamaki. But no matter how many times they called “Uncle,” he continued to glare spitefully at the sky and made no move to respond. When I suddenly looked at my watch, it was already two minutes past twelve.

“Mr. Miyamaki.” “It’s past twelve o’clock.” “So the demon didn’t come after all, did he?” “Mr. Miyamaki… Miyamaki…”

Startled, I looked closer and realized Miyamaki’s condition was abnormal. His face seemed to be gradually turning pale, and his wide-open eyes hadn’t blinked once for a long time now. Moreover, on the sand near his chest, a purplish-black stain had surfaced and appeared to be spreading slowly and steadily, bit by bit. Even the children must have sensed something amiss, for they made strange faces and fell completely silent. I lunged at Miyamaki’s neck and tried shaking it with both hands, but it merely flopped loosely like a doll’s head. When I hurriedly brushed aside the area of the stain on the chest, from beneath the thick sand, the white sheath of a small dagger appeared. The sand around there had become sludgy with blood clots, but when I brushed away more, the dagger was thrust deeply into the exact spot of the heart, all the way to the hilt.

As for the commotion that followed—I will spare the detailed account since it unfolded predictably—but given that this occurred at a seaside resort on a Sunday, Miyamaki’s bizarre death became an appallingly public spectacle. Under the curious gazes of hundreds of young men and women, I had to endure intense humiliation—at one moment being interrogated by police officers beside the corpse covered with a mat, at another accompanying the body to Miyamaki’s house after the prosecutors arrived and completed their on-site investigation. But even amidst such circumstances, I suddenly spotted Moroto Michio’s slightly pale face among the jumbled crowd and was struck by some powerful impression. He was staring intently at Miyamaki’s corpse from behind the jumbled crowd that swarmed like a black mountain. Even while transporting the corpse, I continually sensed his presence behind me, spectral and unnerving. Since it was clear that Moroto had not been near the scene when the murder occurred, there was no reason to suspect him; yet even so, what on earth could his bizarre behavior signify?

Another thing I must note—though it wasn’t particularly surprising—was that when we transported Miyamaki into his house, I discovered his already messy living room had been utterly ransacked as if by a storm. Needless to say, the culprit must have broken into his vacant house in search of that “item.” Of course, I underwent a detailed interrogation by the prosecutor, and at that time, I honestly disclosed all circumstances—but whether it was some premonition (the meaning of this will later become clear to the reader), I deliberately kept silent about the fact that Miyamaki had sent me the "item" mentioned in the threatening letter. When questioned about the "item," I simply replied that I knew nothing.

After the interrogation concluded, with help from neighbors, I sent notifications to the deceased’s close friends and made funeral preparations—various tasks that took considerable time—so after entrusting remaining matters to the wife of the neighboring household, 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. As a result of the investigation, the culprit remained completely unknown. The children who had been playing with the deceased—three of whom were from middle-class families living near the coast, and one a Tokyo child brought that day by their sister for seaside leisure—declared that no one had approached Miyamaki’s body buried in the sand. Even though they were children around ten years old, there was no way they could have missed seeing a person being stabbed to death. Moreover, his two wives, who had been sitting about six feet away from him, were in such a position that they could not have failed to notice anyone approaching Miyamaki, yet they asserted that they had never seen any such suspicious person. Additionally, among all the people near him, not a single one had seen anyone who resembled the perpetrator.

Even I saw no suspicious figures. Though I had stood several meters away from him, momentarily entranced by the young men's diving displays, had someone approached to stab him, I should have caught at least a peripheral glimpse. This truly had to be called a dreamlike murder beyond comprehension. The victim had been encircled by spectators. Yet not one person witnessed even a shadow of the perpetrator. Could some specter invisible to mortal eyes have driven that dagger deep into Miyamaki's chest? I briefly wondered if someone might have hurled the blade from afar. But every circumstance of that moment defied such imaginings.

What should be noted is that it was later discovered through investigation that the wound on Miyamaki’s chest—specifically the distinctive manner in which it had been gouged—bore a striking resemblance to the one on Shiyo’s chest from before. Moreover, it was 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 culprit behind Miyamaki’s murder was likely the same individual who had killed Shiyo.

Even so, what manner of sorcery had this killer mastered? Once slipping like wind into a hermetically sealed house with no exits; another time vanishing like some phantom assailant after slipping past hundreds of watchful eyes in that teeming public space. Though I abhorred superstitious notions, confronted with these two violations of natural law, I couldn’t suppress a creeping terror reminiscent of ghost-story horrors.

Noseless General Nogi

My revenge and detective work had now lost my crucial leader. Unfortunately, since he had not disclosed any of the findings or deductions he had made during his lifetime with me, I found myself utterly at a loss when faced with his death. Admittedly, he had let slip a few hint-like words, but my dull-witted self lacked the ability to interpret those hints. At the same time, my revenge project had taken on even greater significance. Now I found myself compelled to avenge my lover’s death while also having to strike down the enemy of my friend and mentor Miyamaki. The one who directly killed Miyamaki was that unseen, mysterious perpetrator, but the one who led him into such danger was undoubtedly I. If I had not requested his involvement in this case, he would not have been killed. If only to make amends to Miyamaki, I now had no choice but to find the culprit by any means necessary.

Miyamaki had said that shortly before being killed, he had sent me the registered parcel containing the “item” mentioned in the threatening letter as the cause of his death, and sure enough, when I returned home that day, the parcel had arrived. But what emerged from the carefully wrapped package was, unexpectedly, a single plaster statue. It was a half-body bust of General Nogi—plaster coated with paint to mimic bronze, the kind of commonplace statue found in any portrait shop. It appeared quite old, with paint peeling in places to reveal the white base material, and the nose was comically missing to a degree that felt disrespectful to this deified general. It was the noseless General Nogi. Remembering that Rodin had a work with a similar name, I felt an eerie sensation.

Of course, I couldn’t begin to imagine what this “item” signified or why it was important enough to cause murder. “Don’t destroy it—keep it safe,” Miyamaki had said. He’d also instructed, “Don’t let anyone realize it’s valuable.” No matter how I racked my brain over the bust’s meaning, I ultimately followed the dead man’s orders, quietly storing it in a junk-filled chest within the closet to avoid suspicion. Since the police remained unaware of this object’s existence, there was no urgency to report it.

For about a week after that, though my mind chafed with irritation, I had nothing to do except spend one day on Miyamaki’s funeral and continued my detestable company job. After work, I never failed to visit Shiyo’s grave. There, I would report the succession of mysterious murders to my deceased lover, but since returning home meant being unable to sleep, after completing my grave visit, I would wander through the streets to pass the time.

During that period, there were no particular incidents, but there were two things alone—though they may seem rather trivial—that I must inform the reader about. The first was that about twice, someone had entered my room during my absence, leaving traces of disturbance in my desk drawers and bookshelves. Since I wasn’t particularly meticulous by nature, I couldn’t state anything definitively, but somehow the positions of items in my room—for example, how books were arranged on the shelves—seemed different from how I remembered them when leaving. When I asked the household members, they all claimed no memory of touching my belongings, but given that my second-floor room connected via window to neighboring roofs, it wasn’t impossible for someone to have sneaked in along the rooftops. Even when dismissing it as nerves, an uneasy feeling persisted, so I checked the closet’s storage chest—each time finding the noseless General Nogi statue undisturbed in its usual place.

The second matter occurred one day after I had finished visiting Shiyo’s grave and was walking through the outskirts of town as I often did—it was near Uguisudani Station on the government railway line—when I noticed a circus troupe with tents pitched in an empty lot. The old-fashioned band and grotesque painted billboards had caught my interest, and I had once before paused there on a prior occasion. That evening, as I happened to pass by the circus again, I was surprised to recognize Moroto Michio hurriedly exiting through the ticket gate. He seemed not to notice me, but there was no mistaking that well-tailored suit—it was unmistakably my peculiar friend Moroto Michio.

From these circumstances, though there was no concrete evidence, my suspicions toward Moroto grew increasingly deeper. Why had he visited Kizaki's house so frequently after Shiyo's death? What necessity had driven him to purchase the cloisonné vase in question? Moreover, wasn’t it somewhat strange for him to have coincidentally been present at the very scene of Miyamaki’s murder? What about his suspicious behavior at that time? Moreover—though perhaps it was just my imagination—the fact that he had come to see a circus troupe in Uguisudani, in a direction completely opposite from his own home, struck me as somehow uncanny.

Not only were there outwardly apparent matters, but there were also ample psychological reasons to suspect Moroto. Though it pains me greatly to admit, he seemed to harbor an intense attachment toward me that ordinary people could scarcely fathom. Even if this had driven him to make insincere courtship overtures toward Kizaki Shiyo, it would hardly be surprising. Furthermore, given his failed courtship and Shiyo's status as his romantic rival, it wasn't entirely impossible to imagine him secretly murdering that rival in a fit of passion. If he truly were Shiyo's killer, then Miyamaki Kokichi—who had taken up the case and with alarming speed identified the suspect—would have become an enemy he couldn't suffer to live even a day longer. Thus, might we not conclude that Moroto had to commit a second murder to conceal the first?

Having lost Miyamaki, I found myself with no investigative approach other than suspecting Moroto in this manner. After prolonged deliberation, I finally resolved that my only path was to draw nearer to Moroto and verify these suspicions of mine. Thus, about a week following Miyamaki's suspicious death, I set my course for Ikebukuro—where Moroto resided—on my way home from the company.

Mysterious Old Man Again

I had visited Moroto’s house for two consecutive nights. On the first night, since Moroto was absent, I had no choice but to turn back from the entrance in vain. However, on the second night, I obtained an unexpected gain.

It was already mid-July, an unusually muggy night. Ikebukuro at the time was not as bustling as it is now; once past the back of the Normal School, houses grew sparse, and the narrow country path was so pitch-dark that walking became arduous. I walked uneasily through that desolate place—one side bordered by tall hedges, the other an open field—my eyes fixed on the road faintly glowing white in the darkness, guided by sporadic lights twinkling in the distance. Though night had only just fallen, there were scarcely any passersby, and on the rare occasion when someone did pass by, they seemed almost like phantoms, making everything feel eerier still.

As I had previously noted, Moroto’s residence lay quite far—half a ri from the station—but just as I reached roughly the halfway point, I noticed a strangely shaped figure walking ahead of me. A being whose height barely reached half that of an average person yet exceeded normal breadth trudged along laboriously, swaying his entire body from side to side. With each lurch—now rightward, now leftward—he flashed glimpses of his head positioned abnormally low like that of a papier-mâché tiger’s nodding visage. To compare him to a folktale dwarf would seem apt at first glance, but this was no mythical creature—rather, his upper body bent forward at a forty-five-degree angle from the waist, creating that stunted appearance when viewed from behind. In essence, he was an old man with a spine cruelly contorted at the waist.

Upon seeing the bizarre figure of the old man, I naturally recalled the eerie old man Shiyo had once described. Given both the timing and location—near Moroto's house, which I had been suspecting—I couldn't help but gasp involuntarily. Taking care not to be noticed, I stealthily followed him. When I turned onto a side path, the road grew narrower still. Since this path led exclusively to Moroto's residence, all doubt vanished. Ahead, Moroto's Western-style house emerged dimly through the darkness, though tonight every window blazed with light unusually.

The Mysterious Old Man paused briefly before the iron gate, seeming to ponder something, then pushed it open and went inside. I hurriedly chased after him into the gate compound. Between the entrance and gate lay a thicket of overgrown shrubs, and whether he had hidden within their shadows or not, I lost sight of him. I kept watch for some time, but his figure never reappeared. I couldn’t determine whether he had slipped into the entrance during my approach or still lingered among the shrubbery.

I took care not to be seen by the other party as I searched every corner of the wide front garden, but the old man’s figure vanished as if dissolved into air, and I could not discover him anywhere. He must have already gone inside the house. There, I resolutely pressed the entrance bell. I had resolved to meet Moroto and extract something directly from his mouth.

Before long, the door opened, and the familiar young live-in student showed his face. When I said I wanted to meet Moroto, he momentarily withdrew but soon returned and showed me into the parlor next to the entrance. The wallpaper and furnishings were quite harmonious, speaking eloquently of the master’s refined taste. As I sat in the soft armchair, Moroto—perhaps drunk, his face flushed—came barging in energetically. “Well, you came after all!” “I must apologize for my rudeness the other day in Sugamo.” “At that time, I was feeling rather out of sorts, you see.”

Moroto said in a pleasant baritone, sounding quite cheerful. "We met once more after that, didn’t we? You know, on the coast at Kamakura." Once I made up my mind, I found myself able to speak surprisingly bluntly. "Huh? Kamakura?" "Ah, so you had noticed me that time? With all that commotion going on, I deliberately held back from calling out—but that person who was killed... Mr. Miyamaki, wasn’t it? Were you particularly close with him?"

“Well, actually, I had that person investigate Kizaki Shiyo’s murder case.” “That person was an excellent amateur detective like Holmes.” “Just when he was finally beginning to understand the culprit’s identity—that commotion happened.” “I was truly disappointed.” “I had roughly imagined as much, but they killed a valuable person, didn’t they?” “By the way, have you eaten?” “We’ve just opened the dining room—there’s quite an unusual guest here. If you’d like, why not join us for a meal?”

Moroto said, as if avoiding the topic. "No, I've already eaten." "I'll wait here, so please don't hold back." "But about this guest you mentioned—could it be that old man with the severely bent waist?"

“Huh? An old man, you say?” “Not at all—it’s a small child.” “It’s a guest you don’t need to stand on ceremony with, so why not just come along to the dining room for a bit?”

“I see.” “But when I came here, I saw that old man entering this gate.” “Huh? That’s strange.” “A hunched old man? I don’t associate with such people, but are you saying someone like that really came in here?” For some reason, Moroto looked deeply concerned. Then, he continued urging me to go to the dining room, but since I firmly declined, he gave up and summoned the usual live-in student, instructing him as follows.

“For the guest in the dining room—let them eat their meal, and make sure you and the old cook keep them entertained so they don’t get bored.” “Because it would be a problem if they start talking about leaving, you see.” “Was there any toy…? Ah, and then, you must bring tea for this guest.” When the student left, he turned back to me with a smile that seemed forced. In the meantime, I noticed the cloisonné vase in question placed in one corner of the room and was somewhat taken aback by his boldness in tossing it out in such a place.

“That’s a splendid vase.” “Oh, 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 at the antique shop next to Ms. Shiyo’s house.” He answered with astonishing calmness. Hearing that, I felt somewhat unable to contend and became slightly intimidated.

“I wanted to see you,” Moroto said. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper heart-to-heart talk with you.”

Moroto used alcohol as a veil and adopted slightly sweetened speech. His flushed cheeks shone beautifully, while eyes veiled by long lashes took on a seductive cast. "The other day in Sugamo—though I felt too ashamed to say it then—I must apologize to you." "I've done things so unforgivable I don't know if you'll pardon me." "But that was an act compelled by my passion—meaning I couldn't bear to let others take you." "Now if I utter such selfish words, you'll surely rage as always—but even you must grasp my earnest feelings." "I couldn't refrain... You're furious, yes? Come now, admit it."

“Are you talking about Ms. Shiyo?”

I asked bluntly in return. “Yes.” “I couldn’t endure my jealousy over you and that person. Until then, even if you didn’t truly grasp my feelings, at least your heart hadn’t belonged to another.” “But ever since Ms. Shiyo appeared before you, your attitude transformed completely.” “Do you remember? It’s been two months now.” “The night we attended that show at the Imperial Theatre together.” “I couldn’t stomach how your eyes kept chasing phantoms.” “What’s more, you cruelly—so calmly—even shared rumors about Ms. Shiyo with me, as if delighted.” “Do you know what state I was in then?” “It’s shameful.” “As I always say, I’ve no right whatsoever to reproach you for this.” “Yet seeing you like that made me feel all hope had abandoned this world.” “It truly pained me.” “Your love brought sorrow, but more than that—these abnormal feelings of mine tormented me beyond bearing.” “After that day, though I wrote countless letters, you never replied.” “Before, however cold your responses, you’d always answer me at least...”

Moroto was uncharacteristically drunk and eloquent. His effeminate-seeming repetitions threatened to become endless if left unchallenged. "So you made that proposal without meaning a word of it?"

Indignantly, I interrupted his torrent of words. “You’re still angry after all. It’s only natural. I want to make amends for this, no matter what it takes. I wouldn’t mind even if you trampled my face with your shoes on. Even something worse would be fine. Because it was entirely my fault.” Moroto said sadly. But such things did nothing to soften my anger. “You’re only talking about yourself. You’re too self-centered. Ms. Shiyo was the one woman I met just once in my entire life—irreplaceable to me. That… that…”

As I kept speaking, a new sadness welled up inside me, and I found myself tearing up. And for a while, I could not speak. Moroto had been staring fixedly at my tear-dampened eyes when suddenly he seized both my hands with his.

“Please forgive me. “Please forgive me.” he kept shouting over and over. “Are you saying this is something that can be forgiven?” I brushed away his heated hand and said. “Shiyo is dead.” “It’s already beyond recovery.” “I have been cast into the pitch-black depths of the valley.” “I understand your feelings all too well.” “But compared to me, you were still fortunate.” “Why is it that no matter how fervently I campaigned to propose, or how much her foster mother urged her, Ms. Shiyo’s heart never wavered in the slightest?” “Ms. Shiyo did not pay any heed to all obstacles and continued to think of you persistently.” “Your love had been more than sufficiently reciprocated.”

“How can you say such a thing?” My voice was already a sob. “It’s precisely because Ms. Shiyo felt that way about me that now that I’ve lost her, my sorrow has multiplied a hundredfold.” “How can you say such a thing?” “Because your proposal failed—that alone wasn’t enough for you—so on top of that—on top of that—”

But even so, I hesitated to voice the next words.

“Huh? What did you say?” “Ah, so that’s it.” “You suspect me, don’t you?” “That’s right.” “You’re laying dreadful suspicion on me.”

I suddenly burst into tears and shouted through them in broken fragments.

“I want to kill you.” “I want to kill you. I want to kill you.” “Please tell me the truth.” “Please tell me the truth.”

“Ah, I truly did something inexcusable.” Moroto took my hand again and gently stroked it as he said, “I never imagined the sorrow of someone who has lost their lover could be like this. But, Minoura-kun, I never tell lies. That’s a terrible misunderstanding. No matter what you say, I’m not the type who can commit murder.” “Then why is that creepy old man coming and going from this house? That is the old man Ms. Shiyo saw. Shortly after that old man appeared, Ms. Shiyo was killed. And then, why were you at that place on the very day Mr. Miyamaki was killed? And then you acted in a way that invited suspicion! Why did you frequent the circus troupe in Uguisudani? I have never once heard that you have a taste for such things. Why did you buy that cloisonné vase? I know full well that this vase is connected to Ms. Shiyo’s case. And then, and then…”

I ranted like a madman, pouring out everything without restraint. When my words finally broke off, I turned deathly pale and, overwhelmed by violent emotion, began trembling uncontrollably like someone seized by a fit.

Moroto hurriedly came around to my side, perched on the edge of my chair, clutched me tightly to his chest, brought his lips to my ear, and whispered gently. “Various circumstances had aligned, it seems.” “That you suspected me isn’t entirely unreasonable.” “But those strange coincidences had an entirely different reason behind them.” “Ah, I should have disclosed this to you sooner.” “We should have joined forces from the start.” “You see, Minoura-kun—I too have been investigating this case alone, just like you and Mr. Miyamaki.” “Do you know why?” “This is my apology to you.” “Of course I’m wholly unconnected to the murders, but I caused you pain by proposing to Ms. Shiyo.” “With her dead on top of that... I thought you deserved at least this much.” “I wanted to find the killer and ease your heart.” “But there’s more.” “Ms. Shiyo’s foster mother was hauled to the prosecutor’s office under false suspicion.” “One reason for that suspicion was her argument with her daughter about marriage, wasn’t it?” “In effect, I indirectly made her a suspect.” “So I felt obligated to clear her name by finding the real culprit.” “But that’s unnecessary now.” “As you likely know, insufficient evidence allowed her return home without incident.” “She came here yesterday—that’s how I learned this.”

But suspicious as I was, I could not easily bring myself to believe his plausible, gentle-seeming explanation. Though it was shameful, I behaved in Moroto’s arms exactly like a spoiled child. Looking back on this later, it seems my behavior served both to conceal the shame of having cried aloud in front of others and—though I wasn’t consciously aware of it—to faintly indulge in a desire to lean on Moroto, who had loved me so deeply.

“I can’t believe it—the nerve of you playing detective like that...”

“This is absurd.” “Are you saying I can’t play detective?” Moroto, seeming slightly relieved at my calmer state, said, “With this, I might just be quite the great detective.” “I’ve studied forensic medicine to some extent—ah yes, if I mention this, you’ll surely believe me.” “Earlier, you stated this vase relates to the murder case.” “That’s remarkably perceptive.” “Did you discern this yourself, or did Mr. Miyamaki instruct you?” “You still don’t grasp the nature of that connection.” “The vase in question isn’t this one here—it’s the matching piece from this pair.” “There—the one purchased from that antique shop on the day of Ms. Shiyo’s incident.” “Do you follow?” “Therefore, doesn’t my purchasing this vase demonstrate I’m not the killer but rather an investigator?” “To put it plainly—I acquired this to thoroughly examine the essential qualities of these cloisonné vases.”

Hearing him out this far, I found myself somewhat inclined to listen earnestly to what Moroto had been saying. Because his theory was far too plausible to be a lie.

“If that is true, then I will apologize, but...”

I said, suppressing my intense discomfort. “But did you truly do all that detective-like work? And did you find out anything?” “Yes, I found out.” Moroto had a somewhat proud air. “If my supposition isn’t mistaken, I know the culprit. I can turn him over to the police at any time. The only regrettable thing is that it remains entirely unclear why he committed those two murders.”

“Huh? A double murder?” I forgot my discomfort and asked back in shock. “Then does that mean Mr. Miyamaki’s killer was also the same person?”

“I believe so.” “If my reasoning holds true, it would indeed be an unprecedented bizarre occurrence.” “It scarcely feels like something that could happen in this world.”

“Then please tell me.” “How did he manage to sneak into that sealed house with no entrance or exit?” “How could he kill someone in that crowd without anyone noticing him?”

“Ah, it’s truly a horrifying thing.” “That a crime utterly impossible by conventional reasoning could be committed so effortlessly—this stands as the most chilling aspect of the case.” “How could something seemingly impossible at first glance become possible?” “Anyone studying this incident should have first focused their attention here.” “That is precisely where everything begins.”

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

“Who on earth is the culprit?” “Is it someone we know?”

“You probably know.” “But it’s probably a bit hard for you to imagine.” Ah, Moroto Michio was indeed about to reveal something momentous. Now, I felt as though I were dimly beginning to grasp its true nature. That mysterious old man of his—just who had he been to visit Moroto’s house? Where could he be hiding now? Why had Moroto shown himself at the circus troupe’s entrance? In what way did the cloisonné vase connect to this incident? Now that all suspicion toward Moroto had been completely dispelled, the more I trusted him, the more I couldn’t help but feel a multitude of disparate doubts rising like clouds in my mind.

The Function of Blind Spots

The situation had abruptly transformed.

Through various reasons of the sort I had described in the previous chapter, I had been convinced beyond doubt that Moroto Michio was involved in this criminal case and had gone out of my way to confront him for that very purpose. But as he spoke further, it became clear that far from being the culprit, he too—like the late Miyamaki Kokichi—was an amateur detective. Not only that, but Moroto claimed to already know the culprit behind this incident and was even now attempting to reveal it to me. I, who had been astonished by Miyamaki’s sharp detective eye during his lifetime, here discovered a detective even greater than Miyamaki and found myself astonished once again. Through our long association, I had known Moroto as a sexual deviant and an eerie anatomist—a profoundly eccentric individual—but never in my wildest imaginings had I conceived that he might possess such remarkable detective abilities. I was left utterly dumbfounded by this unexpected turn of events.

Up to this point—and likely for you readers as well—Moroto Michio had been a complete mystery to me at that time. There was something about him that differed from ordinary people. The unusual nature of the research he was engaged in (the details of which I will have an opportunity to explain later) and the fact that he was a sexual deviant may have contributed to this impression of him, but somehow, it wasn’t just those things alone. He appeared to be a good man on the surface, yet beneath lurked an unknowable evil. Around him, like a heat haze, an uncanny miasma seemed to shimmer and rise. Moreover, combined with how abruptly he had appeared before me as an amateur detective, I found myself unable to fully believe his words.

Yet despite this, his deductive abilities as a detective—as will be described hereafter—were truly splendid, and his human goodness could be perceived in every nuance of his expression and speech. Though a sliver of doubt still lingered in the depths of my heart, I found myself believing his words and following his counsel all the same.

“Someone I know, you say? That’s strange.” “I don’t understand at all.” “Please tell me.”

I asked that again.

This was a continuation of the previous chapter. “If I were to tell you abruptly, you might not fully grasp it.” “Well, it’s a bit tedious, but would you hear me out on my analytical process?” “So, it’s my detective’s tale of deductive toil, you see.” “Though I should clarify—it’s not what you’d call a tale of adventures or legwork, mind you.” Moroto answered in a completely reassured tone.

“Yes, I’ll listen.” “These two murder cases both appear utterly impossible at first glance.” “One was committed in a sealed room where the perpetrator’s entry and exit were impossible, and the other was carried out in broad daylight before a crowd, yet no one witnessed the culprit—so this too was nearly an impossible feat.” “But since impossible things cannot occur, it becomes most necessary to first scrutinize the very ‘impossibility’ of these two incidents.” “When you peer behind the veil of impossibility, you’ll find it’s hiding a surprisingly trivial secret—the kind used in magic tricks.”

Moroto had also used the term “magic trick.” Recalling how Miyamaki had once employed a similar analogy, I felt my trust in Moroto’s judgment deepen. “It’s utterly absurd.” (Miyamaki had said the same thing.) “The theory was so preposterous I couldn’t bring myself to believe it at first.” “A single clue alone proved insufficient.” “But when Mr. Miyamaki’s murder occurred, it confirmed my hypothesis beyond doubt.” “What makes it ‘absurd’ is how childishly simple the deception method appears.” “Yet its execution demonstrates extraordinary audacity.” “Paradoxically, this very crudeness ensured the criminal’s safety.” “How to phrase it... This case harbors an ugliness—a cruel bestiality—that defies human comprehension.” “Though seemingly ridiculous on surface examination，it’s precisely this quality that marks it as a crime born not of human intellect，but diabolical cunning.”

Moroto, somewhat agitated, had been speaking with palpable resentment when he abruptly fell silent and stared intently into my eyes. At that moment, I sensed the usual affectionate gleam in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a deep terror lingering within them. I too must have been drawn into mirroring that same expression.

“I thought about it like this,” “In Ms. Shiyo’s case—just as everyone believes—the culprit operated under utterly impossible conditions regarding entry and exit.” “Every door had been locked from the inside.” “The circumstances only permitted two conclusions: either the culprit remained inside afterward, or an accomplice had been present within the house.” “That is precisely why the mother became a suspect, but based on what I had heard, I could not conceive of her being either the perpetrator or an accomplice.” “No matter what circumstances might arise, there exists no parent who would murder their only daughter.” “Thus I concluded that behind this seemingly ‘impossible’ situation lay some hidden mechanism unnoticed by others.”

As I listened to Moroto’s impassioned account, I couldn’t help sensing something odd and out of place. For the first time, I thought: Huh? Why on earth was Moroto Michio exerting himself so intensely over Ms. Kizaki’s case? Was it sympathy for me, who’d lost my lover? Or perhaps his natural detective mania at work? But something felt wrong—could mere sympathy or professional interest explain such fervor? Might there not be some other motive lurking beneath? Though I only grasped this later, I found myself unable to shake that vague suspicion even then.

“For example, when solving an algebra problem, no matter how much you try, you can’t solve it.” “Even if you spend all night on it, you just end up with more scribbled-over pages.” “You start thinking this must be an impossible problem, don’t you?” “But by some chance, if you approach it from a completely different angle—suddenly—it solves itself without any fuss.” “When you can’t solve it, it’s like being under a spell.” “As if your very reasoning has fallen victim to a blind spot.” “In Ms. Shiyo’s case too, I realized we needed to completely shift our perspective like that.” “The claim that there were no entrances or exits only meant none from outdoors.” “Every door was securely locked, no footprints in the garden, the ceiling equally impenetrable, and nets stretched beneath the floorboards to block external access.” “In short—no entry points from outside existed.” “This fixation on ‘from outside’ was our fatal error.” “The preconception that culprits must enter from outside and exit back outside—that flawed assumption doomed us from the start.”

The scholar Moroto adopted an oddly suggestive, academic manner of speaking. I seemed to somewhat grasp his meaning, yet also had no inkling at all; sitting there dumbfounded, yet listening with rapt attention. “Then, if not from outside, where do you suppose they entered from?” “Because the only ones inside were the victim and her mother.” “If the culprit didn’t enter from outside, then you would retort that this means the perpetrator was her mother after all, wouldn’t you?” “Then you’re still caught in the blind spot.” “It’s nothing at all.” “This, you see, is fundamentally a problem of Japanese architecture.” “Look, do you remember?” “Ms. Shiyo’s house and the neighboring one are two units in a single building.” “Because those two units are single-story houses, you’d notice right away…”

Moroto flashed a peculiar smile and looked at me.

“So you’re saying the culprit entered from the neighboring house and escaped back through there?”

I asked in surprise. “That is the sole possible scenario. Since they form a single building, as is usual in Japanese architecture, the attic and space beneath the floorboards are shared between the two houses. I’ve always thought that even if people go on and on about locking doors, it’s utterly pointless with row-house construction. It’s strange, isn’t it? They go to great lengths to secure only the front and back doors, while leaving the escape routes through the attic and beneath the floorboards completely neglected. The Japanese are far too carefree.”

“But,” Unable to suppress the doubts welling up inside me, I said, “The neighboring house is home to a kindly old couple who run an antique shop, and you’ve probably heard this as well, but that morning, after Ms. Shiyo’s body was discovered, they were roused by people from the neighborhood.” “Until then, that house had also been properly locked.” “Then, 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 wouldn’t have had time to escape. And you can’t possibly think that old couple were accomplices hiding the culprit, can you?”

“You’re exactly right,” Moroto conceded. “I’d considered that possibility myself.” “Moreover,” I pressed, “if someone had passed through the attic, there should have been footprints or traces left in the dust. Yet when the police examined it, they found no evidence whatsoever. And regarding the space beneath the floorboards—wasn’t it entirely blocked by wire netting? It’s inconceivable that the culprit could’ve broken through the floor joists and lifted the tatami mats to enter.”

“You’re exactly right. But there’s an even better pathway—one so utterly ordinary that people overlook it entirely. A passageway practically shouting ‘Enter here’ through its sheer obviousness.” “Besides the attic and beneath the floorboards? Surely you don’t mean through the wall?” “No—you mustn’t think in such crude terms. There exists a place where one can come and go freely without breaking walls or tampering with floor joists—no tricks, no traces left behind.” “In Edgar Allan Poe’s work, there’s a story called ‘The Purloined Letter.’ Have you read it? It concerns a clever man who hides a letter by not hiding it at all—simply placing it in a wall-mounted letter holder where police never think to look.” “This illustrates how the most glaringly obvious spots become blind spots during criminal investigations—what I call the blind spot phenomenon.” “With Ms. Shiyo’s case, it seems absurd we missed something so simple once explained. That thief we mentioned earlier had us trapped in the ‘from outside’ fallacy.” “Had we considered ‘from inside’ even once, we’d have realized immediately.”

“I don’t understand.” “Where on earth did they enter and exit from?”

I felt as if he were mocking me, and it even struck me as somewhat unpleasant.

“Look, in any house—especially in row houses—there’s a section of about three or four shaku square in the kitchen floor with a removable board.” “You see, it’s a place to store charcoal, firewood, and such.” “Under that removable board, there’s usually no partition—it continues all the way to the space beneath the floorboards, you see.” “Since no one would ever imagine a thief entering from inside, even those cautious enough to install wire netting over exterior areas never bother to lock up that particular spot, you see.” “So, are you saying the man who killed Ms. Shiyo came and went through that removable board?”

“I made multiple visits to that house and confirmed two things: first, that there was a removable board in the kitchen floor, and second, that beneath it lay an unpartitioned space connecting to the entire area under the floorboards.” “In other words, we can conclude that the culprit entered through the removable board in the neighboring antique shop’s kitchen, passed through the space beneath the floorboards, slipped into Ms. Shiyo’s house via its removable board, and made their escape using the same method.”

By this method, the secret of Shiyo’s murder, which had even seemed mystical, could be unraveled with startling ease. I found myself temporarily impressed by Moroto’s logically sound reasoning, but upon closer consideration—even with the pathway matter resolved—various more crucial problems still remained. Why hadn’t the antique shop owner noticed the culprit? How had the culprit managed to escape before such a crowd of onlookers? Who on earth was the culprit? Moroto had said the culprit was someone I knew. Who could that be? I couldn’t help feeling irritated by Moroto’s excessively roundabout manner of speaking.

Magic Vase

“Now, do listen carefully.” “The truth is, I’m even willing to assist you in seeking revenge for Ms. Shiyo or Mr. Miyamaki by helping track down the culprit—so why don’t I lay out my thoughts in full order and hear your opinion?” “It’s not as though my deductions are unshakable conclusions, you know.”

Moroto, suppressing my rapid-fire questions, continued his explanation with truly methodical orderliness, in a tone as if delivering an academic lecture within his specialty. “I naturally made sure to thoroughly verify that point afterward by questioning the neighbors.” “The situation made it unthinkable that the culprit could have slipped past both the antique shop owner’s notice and the gawkers.” “By the time they opened the antique shop’s door, neighbors had already crowded the street.” “Therefore, even if the culprit had passed beneath the floorboards from the antique shop’s kitchen trapdoor to reach either its main room or back exit, it would have been utterly impossible to slip outdoors unnoticed by either the owners or bystanders.” “How did he overcome this barrier?” “My amateur sleuthing hit a dead end there.” “There had to be a trick.” “Some unnoticed deception similar to the kitchen’s removable floorboard.” “As you likely know, I repeatedly prowled around Ms. Shiyo’s neighborhood collecting local gossip.” “Then it struck me—had anything been removed from that antique shop after the incident?” Given their trade, various goods lay displayed at the storefront. The question became whether anything had been taken from among them. Upon investigation, it emerged that during the police interrogation chaos on that fateful morning, someone had purchased one vase from this very pair here—and carried it off. No other large items had been sold besides those. “I became convinced these vases held secrets.”

“Mr. Miyamaki said the same thing.” “But I don’t understand what that means at all.” I involuntarily interjected. “Indeed—I didn’t understand either at first,” Moroto continued methodically. “But something felt suspicious about it all along. You see—that very vase had been purchased by a customer on the night before the incident: they paid upfront and left with instructions for proper wrapping in a cloth bundle. Then early next morning—precisely when police swarmed about—a servant came specifically to collect and carry it away through that chaos.” His finger tapped rhythmically against his teacup’s rim before concluding: “The temporal alignment was too perfect not to signify something.”

“Surely, there’s no way the culprit was hiding inside the vase.” “No—but surprisingly, there *is* reason to imagine that someone was hiding inside it.”

“What? Inside this? Don’t joke about such things.” “Its height is at most two shaku four or five sun, and even at its widest point, the diameter barely exceeds one shaku.” “And first of all, take a look at this opening.” “Not even my head could pass through.” “A full-grown person hiding inside this? This isn’t some enchanted urn from a children’s fable.”

I went to the vase placed in the corner of the room, measured its opening diameter to show him, and ended up laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. “Magic vase…” “Yes, it might be a magic vase.” “For anyone—even I, at first—would never have thought a human could squeeze into such a vase.” “And yet, as truly inconceivable as it may seem, there is a reason to imagine that someone was indeed hiding there.” “I bought the remaining vase for research purposes, but no matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t figure it out.” “While I was still unable to figure it out, the second murder case 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 beach.” “And thus, I unintentionally ended up witnessing the second murder case.” “Regarding that case, I conducted various investigations.” “Because I knew that Mr. Miyamaki had been investigating Ms. Shiyo’s case.” “Mr. Miyamaki was killed—and moreover, it was done in what you might call the same seemingly mystical method as Ms. Shiyo’s case.” “Therefore, I considered that there must be some connection between these two incidents.” “And then, I constructed a hypothesis.” “It’s a hypothesis.” “Therefore, until we see definitive evidence, it’s only natural that people would dismiss it as fantasy. However, if this hypothesis remains the sole conceivable explanation—one that fits perfectly with every aspect of this series of incidents—then I believe we may safely place our trust in it.”

Moroto, driven by drunkenness and excitement, fixed his bloodshot gaze intently upon my face, licked his parched lips repeatedly, and as his tone gradually took on the cadence of a public speech, he continued speaking with ever-increasing eloquence.

“Let’s set aside Ms. Shiyo’s case for now—it would be more efficient to begin with the second murder.” “My reasoning followed that sequence.” “Mr. Miyamaki was killed through some mysterious method that left everyone baffled about when it happened or who did it—all under public scrutiny.” “Even among those standing right beside him, several people kept constant watch.” “You were one of them, weren’t you?” “Beyond that, hundreds swarmed chaotically across the beach.” “Most notably, four children were playing around Mr. Miyamaki.” “That not a single one of them witnessed the killer defies all precedent—a truly bizarre occurrence.” “Utterly inconceivable.” “An outright impossibility.” “Yet given the irrefutable fact of a dagger lodged in the victim’s chest, a killer must exist.” How did they achieve this impossibility? “I examined every conceivable scenario.” “But no matter how wildly I stretched my imagination, only two possibilities emerged—everything else remained unthinkable.” “First: that Mr. Miyamaki committed secret suicide. Second—a terrifying possibility—that one of those playing children, an innocent under ten years old, killed him amid their sand games.” “Though there were four children, their focus on gathering sand from all directions to bury him would’ve made it simple for one to feign sprinkling sand while secretly driving a knife into his chest—unnoticed by the others.” “Mr. Miyamaki himself likely dismissed any threat from a child until the blade struck—and once pierced, he’d have had no chance to cry out.” “The killer child then piled sand over and over with an innocent face—burying both blood and weapon.”

I was startled by Moroto’s delusional fantasy and involuntarily stared at his face. “Of these two scenarios, the theory of Mr. Miyamaki’s suicide cannot hold up under any consideration.” “Therefore, no matter how utterly unnatural it may seem, we have absolutely no means of interpretation except to consider that the culprit was among those four children.” “Moreover, when applying this interpretation, all previous doubts are completely resolved.” “Things that seemed impossible at first glance cease to be impossible at all.” “That refers to the aforementioned case of your so-called ‘magic vase.’” “The notion that someone could hide inside such a small vase seemed impossible unless one had borrowed a demon’s supernatural powers.” But this line of thought arose precisely because our assumptions had become rigid—because we, like most people, superstitiously confined the image of a murderer to the ferocious middle-aged men depicted in criminology textbooks, thereby remaining utterly blind to the presence of young children. “In this case, the very concept of children had been completely obscured by a blind spot.” “But once you realize it’s a child, the mystery of the vase is solved immediately.” “Although that vase is small, a ten-year-old child might be able to hide inside it.” “And if you wrap it in a large cloth, not only does it conceal what’s inside the vase, but they can slip in and out through the slack in the knot.” “After entering, they can adjust the slack from inside to conceal the vase’s opening, you see.” “The magic wasn’t in the vase itself—it was in the person who entered it.”

Moroto’s reasoning proceeded with flawless precision, meticulously ordered and carried out with truly ingenious skill.

But even after listening this far, I still felt somehow unconvinced. Whether my inner thoughts had shown on my face or not, Moroto stared at me and continued speaking with renewed intensity.

“In Ms. Shiyo’s case, beyond the mystery of how the culprit entered and exited, there remained another crucial question—you haven’t forgotten that, have you? Why would a murderer take a chocolate tin of all things during such a critical moment? Yet this too becomes readily explicable if we suppose the culprit was a ten-year-old child. For children of that age, a beautiful tin of chocolate holds greater allure than diamond rings or pearl necklaces.”

“I simply can’t comprehend this.” I couldn’t refrain from interjecting. “How could an innocent child who craved chocolate have murdered not one, but two guiltless adults?” “Isn’t the juxtaposition of confectionery and homicide utterly ludicrous?” “How can we ascribe such extreme cruelty, meticulous planning, remarkable cunning, and surgical precision in execution to a mere infant?” “Isn’t your hypothesis an excessively strained conjecture?”

“That seems strange because you’re assuming the child themself was the mastermind behind this murder,” Moroto continued. “This crime was naturally not conceived by the child—another will lurks behind it. The real demon remains hidden. The children are merely well-trained automatons.” What an ingenious—yet utterly horrifying—conception this was. No one would suspect a ten-year-old child as the culprit, and even if discovered, they wouldn’t face adult punishment. It mirrored how pickpocket bosses used innocent boys as accomplices, but elevated to monstrous extremes. Precisely because they were children, they could be concealed within vases undetected and lull even cautious Mr. Miyamaki into complacency. Though trained, could such an innocent-seeming child obsessed with chocolate truly kill? Yet child researchers knew children harbored surprising cruelty compared to adults—delighting in skinning frogs alive or torturing snakes without reason, a savagery adults couldn’t fathom. Evolutionary theorists claimed children symbolized humanity’s primitive era—more barbaric and cruel than modern adults. The mastermind’s depravity in weaponizing this nature through automated killers was staggering. You might think training a ten-year-old into such a skilled murderer impossible. Indeed, it seemed extraordinarily difficult—the child had to crawl soundlessly beneath floorboards, slip through loose planks into Shiyo’s room, stab her heart with lethal precision before she could scream, return to the antique shop, then endure hours cramped inside that vase. At the beach, they had to play with three strangers while stabbing Miyamaki buried in sand unnoticed. Could a child truly accomplish this? Even if successful, could they maintain absolute secrecy? These were natural doubts—yet mere common sense.

That’s the talk of someone who doesn’t know how formidable a force training can be, nor what strange phenomena beyond common sense exist in this world. Chinese acrobats can teach five- or six-year-old children the technique of bending backward so far that their heads emerge from between their thighs, can’t they? Charline’s acrobats can teach a child under ten to flit from perch to perch like a bird thirty feet in the air, can’t they? If there were a villain here who employed every possible means, how could we possibly assert that even a ten-year-old child couldn’t master the secrets of murder? Moreover, the same applies to lying. To gain the sympathy of passersby, how skillfully can an infant hired by beggars feign hunger and pretend that the adult beggar standing beside them is their parent, as if they were truly related? Have you ever witnessed the astonishing skills of young children? “When properly trained, children are by no means inferior to adults.”

When I heard Moroto’s explanation, I did think it made logical sense—yet I couldn’t bring myself to suddenly believe this unforgivable atrocity: that guileless children had been made to commit such blood-drenched murders. Somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still room for rebuttal. Like someone struggling to escape a nightmare, I aimlessly scanned the entire room. Moroto fell silent, and suddenly everything became still. To me, accustomed to living in relatively bustling areas, that room seemed like an uncanny otherworld; though the windows had been opened little by little due to the heat, with no wind at all, the darkness outside felt like a pitch-black wall of immeasurable thickness.

I fixed my eyes on the vase in question. Imagining that the boy murderer had hidden himself inside this same vase all night long, I was overcome by an indescribably unpleasant, dark feeling. At the same time, I wondered if there wasn’t some way to shatter Moroto’s abhorrent hypothesis. And as I stared fixedly at the vase, I suddenly noticed something. I abruptly objected in a spirited voice.

“When you compare this vase’s size with the heights of those four children we saw at the beach, it’s utterly impossible.” “A child over three shaku [approximately 91 centimeters] couldn’t possibly hide inside a vase measuring two shaku four or five sun [roughly 73–76 centimeters].” “Even if they squatted inside, the width is too narrow—and doesn’t it seem impossible for even a skinny child to crawl through this tiny opening?”

“I once thought the same thing,” Moroto continued. “In fact, I even brought children of that age and tested it.” As expected, the child couldn’t manage to crawl in properly. But comparing the child’s body volume to the vase’s, we confirmed that if children were made of flexible material like rubber, they could have fit inside effortlessly. The problem lay in human limbs and torsos being unable to bend freely like rubber, making complete concealment impossible. Watching the child struggle, I recalled an odd story I’d heard long ago—of a jailbreak expert who could slip through any gap wide enough for his head by contorting his body with some secret technique. If such feats were possible, I reasoned, then given this vase’s mouth being wider than a ten-year-old’s head and its ample interior volume, certain children might indeed hide within it. What kind of child? My mind leapt to acrobats’ children—those forced to drink vinegar daily since infancy until their joints became pliable as jellyfish tentacles. Speaking of acrobats, there’s a particular foot-based trick uncannily relevant here. You know the one—where they balance a large pot on their foot, stuff a child inside, and spin it like a top. The child curls up inside until perfectly spherical, bent double at the waist with head tucked between knees. A child capable of that could surely manage this vase. Perhaps the culprit devised this trick precisely because such a child existed. Having realized this, I consulted an acrobatics-obsessed friend and learned a circus troupe near Uguisudani was performing that very foot trick.”

When I heard that much, everything fell into place. At the start of this conversation, when Moroto had mentioned having a child visitor, it must have referred to that circus troupe’s acrobat boy—and my earlier sighting of Moroto in Uguisudani had been him verifying the child’s identity. “So I went straight to observe that circus troupe,” Moroto continued, “and the foot-acrobatics child appeared likely to be one of the four we saw at Kamakura beach. Though I can’t state definitively due to unclear memory, I concluded we must investigate this child regardless. The fact that our target child was in Tokyo aligns with only one of those four having come from Tokyo for seaside leisure. But acting rashly might alert our true adversary, letting them escape—so though roundabout, I resolved to leverage my profession in extracting the child alone.” He adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching lamplight. “As a medical researcher, I requested temporary custody under pretext of studying the acrobat child’s abnormal physiological development—joint flexibility exceeding standard parameters. This required greasing palms of entertainment-world fixers, lavishing gratitude on troupe masters, and,” he unwrapped a paper parcel on the windowsill table, revealing three ornate chocolate tins, “promising copious amounts of his favorite confectionery.” “Tonight finally bore fruit—the acrobat boy now waits alone in the dining room.” Moroto’s finger tapped a chocolate tin’s floral motif. “But he arrived mere moments ago; no interrogation yet conducted. Whether he matches our beach witness remains unconfirmed.” His lips curved faintly. “How opportune you’ve come. Shall we investigate jointly? Your memory of that child’s face proves invaluable.” A pause laden with unspoken calculations. “Moreover—we might empirically test vase-entry feasibility.”

Having finished speaking, Moroto stood up. This was to take me to the dining room. Moroto’s detective narrative had reached a conclusion so bizarre it seemed unparalleled in this world—a truly grotesque one at that—yet I, having thoroughly savored his long-winded discourse that was intricately complex yet meticulously ordered, now found myself utterly drained of the vigor to raise any objections.

We left our chairs and went out into the hallway to see the little guest.

Child acrobat At first glance, I recognized him as one of the children who had been at Kamakura beach. When I signaled this to Moroto, he nodded with apparent satisfaction and sat down beside the child. I too took a seat across the table. Just then, the child—having finished his meal—was being shown an illustrated magazine by the live-in student, but upon noticing us, he simply smirked slyly and stared at our faces. He wore a slightly soiled navy uniform of ogura cloth and kept munching something in his mouth. Though he appeared simple-minded at first glance, there lurked an indescribable malevolence beneath the surface.

“This child’s stage name is Tomosuke. He’s said to be twelve, but due to stunted growth and his small frame, he looks no older than ten. Moreover, he hasn’t received compulsory education. His speech is childish, and he can’t read. Apart from being exceptionally skilled in his craft and agile as a squirrel, he’s a dull-witted, mentally challenged child of sorts. However, in his movements and speech, there’s something oddly secretive. He severely lacks common sense, but in its place, he may possess an abnormal sensibility for wrongdoing that surpasses ordinary people. He may belong to the so-called congenital criminal type of child. So far, no matter what we ask, he only gives vague answers. He’s making a face like he doesn’t understand a word we’re saying.”

Moroto gave me the preliminary information and then turned toward the child acrobat Tomosuke. “You went to Kamakura seaside the other day, didn’t you?” “Uncle was right beside you at that time.” “You didn’t know?” “Dunno.” “I ain’t never been to no beach.”

Tomosuke looked up at Moroto with a blank stare and gave a curt reply. "There’s no way you don’t know." "Look, you were the ones burying that fat uncle in the sand, and then he was killed, causing a huge commotion—you know about that, don’t you?" "You know about that, don’t you?" "As if I’d know!" "I’m goin’ home now." Tomosuke made an angry face, abruptly stood up, and showed signs of actually leaving. "Don’t be stupid—you can’t possibly go back alone from such a far-off place." "You don’t know the way, do you?"

“Course I know the way!” “If I don’t understand, I just ask some grown-up.” “I’ve walked about thirty miles before!”

Moroto smiled wryly and thought for a moment, then ordered the live-in student to bring that cloisonné vase and the package of chocolates. “Stay a bit longer, and Uncle will give you something nice.” “What do you like most?” “Chocolate.”

Tomosuke, still standing, answered in an angry voice but with honesty. “It’s chocolate, huh?” “There’s lots of chocolate here.” “You don’t want this?” “If you don’t want it, go ahead and leave.” “Because if you leave, you won’t get any of this.” When the child saw the large package of chocolate, for an instant his face lit up with genuine delight, yet he stubbornly refused to say he wanted it. He simply sat back down in his original chair and silently glared at Moroto.

“There, you see? You want it, don’t you?” “Then I’ll give it to you, but you must do what Uncle says.” “Now look at this vase.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” “You’ve seen a vase like this before, haven’t you?” “Nuh-uh.” “You claim not to have seen it.” “How stubborn you are.” “Let’s set that aside for now.” “Between this vase and the acrobatic jar you usually squeeze into—which do you think is larger?” “This vase is smaller, wouldn’t you agree?” “Could you get inside this one?” “However skilled you may be at your craft, surely you couldn’t manage to enter this.” “What do you say?”

Even so, since the child remained silent, Moroto continued speaking further, “How about it? Why don’t you give it a try?” “I’ll give you a reward.” “If you manage to get inside there neatly, I’ll give you a box of chocolates.” “You can eat them right here.” “But I’m afraid you could never manage to squeeze into it.” “I’ll get in!” “You’ll give me that for sure?” In the end, Tomosuke was just a child—he fell right into Moroto’s trap.

He suddenly approached the cloisonné vase, placed both hands on its rim, and nimbly leaped onto the morning-glory-shaped mouth of the vase. Then, first inserting one leg, he bent his remaining leg double at the waist and, with uncanny dexterity, wriggled his way into the vase from his hips. Even after his head disappeared, his raised hands flailed in the air for a moment before they too vanished from sight. It was a truly astonishing feat. Looking down from above, the child’s black head, like a cork from the inside, was visible filling the mouth of the vase.

“Well done, well done! That’s enough now. Then I’ll give you a reward, so come on out.”

Exiting appeared more difficult than entering, and he struggled a bit. His head and shoulders came out easily enough, but bending his legs just as when entering and extracting his hips proved the most trying part. After emerging from the vase, Tomosuke smiled with faint triumph and climbed down, yet without pressing for his reward; he remained silent all the same, standing rigidly while staring fixedly at our faces. “Then I’ll give you this.” “Never mind formalities—go ahead and eat.”

When Moroto handed over the chocolate in its paper box, the child snatched it up, flung open the lid without ceremony, peeled off a silver wrapper, and tossed it into his mouth. And, putting on an exaggerated show of relish with loud smacks, his eyes remained fixed longingly on the most beautiful portion still in Moroto’s hand—the chocolate encased in a tin. He was deeply dissatisfied at having received the plain paper box. Even from these mannerisms alone, it became evident that he felt an extraordinary allure toward 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 such a fine one.” “The one in this golden tin is ten times more beautiful and delicious than that.” “Look here at how beautiful this tin is.” “It’s sparkling and glittering just like the sun, isn’t it?” “This time I’ll give this to you.” “But if you don’t tell the truth, it won’t do.” “If you don’t tell the truth to what I ask, I can’t give it to you.” “Do you understand?”

Moroto instructed the child, putting force into each word as though he were a hypnotist imparting a suggestion. Tomosuke, with astonishing speed, was so busy peeling off silver wrapper after silver wrapper and moving chocolates to his mouth that he made no attempt to escape Moroto’s lap, nodding eagerly all the while.

“This vase has the same shape and pattern as the one at the Sugamo antique shop that night, doesn’t it? You haven’t forgotten how you hid inside it that night—slipped out quietly at midnight, went under the floorboards to the neighboring house? Now then, what did you do there? You stabbed a dagger into the chest of someone sleeping soundly, didn’t you? Come now, you remember—there was a beautiful chocolate tin under that person’s pillow too, wasn’t there? And you took it, didn’t you? Do you remember what sort of person you stabbed back then? Let’s hear your answer.”

“She was a pretty lady.” “I was told I mustn’t forget her face and got threatened.”

“Well done, well done. That’s how you should answer.” “Then, you said earlier you’d never been to Kamakura’s coast—that was a lie, wasn’t it?” “You stabbed the dagger into Uncle’s chest in the sand too, didn’t you?” Tomosuke remained utterly absorbed in eating and nodded absently at this question too, when suddenly, as if realizing something, he showed an expression of extreme terror. Then, abruptly throwing aside the half-eaten chocolate box, he tried to leap off Moroto’s lap.

“You don’t need to be afraid. Since we’re also comrades of your master, it’s safe to tell the truth.” Moroto hurriedly said while stopping him.

“He ain’t no ‘master,’ it’s ‘Oto-san’!” “So you’re one of Oto-san’s comrades too?” “I ain’t scared of Oto-san at all.” “Keep it hush-hush for me, okay?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.” “Come on, just one more thing—answer Uncle’s questions.” “Where is that ‘Oto-san’ now?” “And, what was the name again?” “You haven’t forgotten, have you?” “Don’t be stupid!” “As if I’d forget Oto-san’s name!” “Then say it.” “What was it again?” “Uncle’s gone and forgotten it all, I tell you.” “Come on, out with it.” “Look, if you do that, this chocolate tin as beautiful as the sun will be yours.”

For this child, the chocolate tin exerted a magical effect. He appeared to cast aside all danger under its charm, just as adults do before vast amounts of gold. He showed signs of being on the verge of answering Moroto. At that very moment—as a strange noise rang out—Moroto cried “Ah!”, pushed the child away, and leaped back. A bizarre and utterly unthinkable event occurred. In the next instant, Tomosuke lay collapsed upon the carpet. The chest of his white sailor suit was stained crimson, as though red ink had been spilled there.

“Minoura-kun! It’s dangerous!” “A pistol!” Moroto shouted and, as if to shove me aside, pushed me into the corner of the room. But the second shot we were braced for never came. A full minute passed as we stood frozen in silence, dazed.

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

Moroto, upon noticing this, suddenly rushed out of the room, and soon the sound of a telephone call summoning the nearby police station could be heard from his study. As I listened to this, I remained rooted to the spot where I had been standing when suddenly I recalled the sinister figure of an old man I had seen earlier on my way here—a man who appeared bent double at the waist.

*General Nogi’s Secret*

Though we didn't know who they were, since the assailant wielded a projectile weapon and we understood this was no mere threat, far from pursuing the culprit, all of us—myself, the student servant, and the old woman—turned pale, fled that room, and unwittingly gathered in Moroto's study where he was phoning the police.

However, Moroto alone remained relatively brave. After finishing the phone call, he ran toward the entranceway, called out the student servant’s name in a loud voice, and ordered him to bring lanterns. Under these circumstances, I couldn’t just stay still either. Helping the student servant, I prepared two lanterns and chased after Moroto, who had already rushed out beyond the gate. But due to the pitch-black night, we couldn’t see a thing, leaving us utterly clueless about which direction the culprit had fled. Then, thinking that perhaps the culprit was still hiding within the garden grounds, we conducted a swift search by lantern light—but we couldn’t find any trace of a person, not in the shadows of any bushes nor in the recesses of the buildings. Naturally, the culprit must have fled far away during the time we were making phone calls, preparing lanterns, and dawdling around. We had no choice but to wait for the police to arrive with our hands tied.

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, and there was no chance of immediately pursuing the culprit. Even if we had called the nearby train station to set up a blockade, it was already far too late.

While the first arrivals were examining Tomosuke’s body and conducting a thorough search of the garden grounds, people from the court and Metropolitan Police Department arrived as well, and we were subjected to various questions. Having no choice but to disclose all circumstances, we were not only severely reprimanded by the authorities for meddling unnecessarily in matters beyond our jurisdiction but also subsequently summoned repeatedly and forced to repeat the same answers to numerous people. Needless to say, through our statements relayed via police channels, the Uguisudani circus troupe was notified of the incident, and someone came from there to retrieve the body; however, the circus troupe stated they had absolutely no leads regarding this crime’s perpetrator.

Moroto found himself compelled to explain his bizarre hypothesis—that child acrobat Tomosuke was the perpetrator behind both incidents—to police officials. The police had conducted searches of the circus troupe and carried out rigorous interrogations, but with not a single suspicious member among their ranks, suspicions toward the troupe appeared to fizzle out entirely once they concluded their Uguisudani performances and departed on regional tours. Through my statements, the police had also learned about the Mysterious Old Man who appeared to be around eighty years old, but no matter how extensively they searched, they were unable to find such an old man.

The notion that a 10-year-old innocent-looking boy had committed murder twice, or that an 80-year-old feeble octogenarian had fired a state-of-the-art Browning pistol to kill said boy, was apparently far too absurd and fantastical to satisfy the level-headed authorities. This was likely due both to Moroto—though an Imperial University graduate—eschewing government service and private practice to immerse himself in bizarre research, and to myself being a man akin to a lovesick literary youth. The police seemed to interpret us as a breed of delusionists—eccentrics obsessed with revenge and criminal investigation—and though this may be conjecture, they appeared to dismiss even Moroto’s rigorously logical deductions as figments of a deranged mind, refusing to take them seriously. (The police had dismissed outright a child’s chocolate-induced confession—what weight could they give to the words of a ten-year-old?) In other words, they seemed to pursue the culprit according to their own interpretations of the case, yet ultimately failed to identify even a single viable suspect, and so days passed one after another with no resolution.

Not only was Moroto extorted for large condolence payments under the pretext of compensatory damages by the circus troupe, but he was also severely reprimanded by the police and branded a detective-obsessed madman; having become involved in this case, he suffered terribly. Yet far from losing his vigor over it, he instead appeared to grow even more fervent. Not only did the police refuse to believe Moroto’s fantastical theory, but Moroto himself seemed to dismiss the police officials—who approached such incidents with excessive practicality—to an equal degree. As evidence of this, I later disclosed to Moroto details about the “item” mentioned in the threatening letter Miyamaki Kokichi had received—how Miyamaki had said he would send it to me, and how what arrived was unexpectedly a single noseless plaster statue of General Nogi. Yet during official inquiries, Moroto did not utter a single word about this matter and even cautioned me against speaking of it. In other words, it appeared he intended to investigate this chain of incidents thoroughly through his own efforts.

As for my state of mind at the time, my desire for revenge against Shiyo’s killer remained as fierce as ever, yet on the other hand, I found myself blankly watching as the incidents multiplied, growing increasingly complex and unexpectedly vast in scale. As murder cases piled up one after another, far from the truth becoming clear, I even felt an eerie dread at how they grew ever more incomprehensible instead.

Moreover, Moroto Michio’s unexpected zeal remained an enigma I struggled to fathom. As I had touched upon earlier, even accounting for his professed affection for me or his fascination with detective work, such fervor seemed disproportionate—so much so that I found myself suspecting some deeper motive must underlie it.

Be that as it may, for several days following the child’s brutal murder, our surroundings remained in disarray, and our hearts stayed agitated by fear of this enemy whose true nature eluded us. Though I had indeed been visiting Moroto frequently during this time, neither of us could muster the composure needed to calmly discuss measures for dealing with the aftermath. It was for these reasons that we finally discussed the next course of action we should take several days after Tomosuke had been killed.

That day, I had taken the day off from work (since the incident, I had been largely neglecting my duties at S・K Trading Company) and visited Moroto’s house. When we were discussing matters in his study, he stated an opinion that went roughly as follows.

“As for the police, I don’t know how far they’ve progressed, but they don’t seem particularly reliable.” “In my view, this case transcends the conventional wisdom of the police.” “Let the police proceed with their methods—we should conduct our own investigation.” “Just as Tomosuke was merely a puppet of the true culprit, the villain who shot him might also be another puppet.” “The mastermind remains entirely shrouded in distant haze.” “Therefore, even if we were to search blindly for them, it would likely prove futile.” “Rather than that, our shortcut lies in uncovering what motive lurks behind these three murders.” “We must determine what lies at the root of these crimes.” “According to your account, the threatening letter Mr. Miyamaki received before his death demanded ‘the item’ be handed over.” “For the culprit, this ‘item’ must be worth any number of lives—we must consider these incidents occurred solely to obtain it.” “Ms. Shiyo’s murder, Mr. Miyamaki’s murder, even the intruder searching your room—all were for this ‘item.’” “They killed Tomosuke to prevent the mastermind’s exposure.” “But fortunately, this ‘item’ has now come into our possession.” “Though I can’t fathom what value a noseless plaster statue of General Nogi holds, their coveted ‘item’ must indeed be this very figure.” “Therefore, we must examine this peculiar statue.” “Since the police know nothing of this ‘item,’ we stand to achieve extraordinary success.” “Given that both our residences are compromised, we require a covert detective headquarters.” “In fact, I’ve already secured a room in Kanda for this purpose.” “Tomorrow, wrap the statue in old newspapers to disguise it, take a car for safety’s sake, and bring it there.” “I’ll arrive first—we’ll examine it thoroughly together.”

Needless to say, I agreed with Moroto’s proposal, and the next day at the appointed time, I hired a car and went to the house in Kanda as instructed. It was a shabby restaurant located in a student district near Jinbocho—a narrow, winding backstreet cluttered with rowdy eateries—where Moroto had rented a six-tatami mat room on the second floor that was available for lodging. As I climbed the steep ladder, there sat Moroto—unusually dressed in a kimono—properly waiting on faded reddish-brown tatami mats, his back against a wall marked by a large water stain.

“This place is filthy.” As I said this and grimaced,

“I deliberately chose a place like this. Since there’s a Western restaurant downstairs, comings and goings won’t draw attention, and in this rowdy student district, I thought no one would notice quickly.”

Moroto declared proudly. I suddenly recalled the detective games we used to play during my elementary school days. It wasn’t an ordinary game of cops and robbers—rather, a friend and I would take notebooks and pencils, sneak around nearby towns late at night as though conducting some clandestine operation, record every household nameplate we encountered, memorize which residents lived in which numbered houses on which blocks, and revel in the conviction that we’d grasped some tremendous secret. My partner in those days was a friend who absurdly adored such clandestine affairs—when we played detective games, he would proudly designate his small study as our "detective headquarters." Now, seeing Moroto create this so-called "detective headquarters" and preen over it, thirty-year-old Moroto struck me as resembling that eccentric secrecy-obsessed boy from my past, making our current efforts feel like childish games.

And yet, despite the gravity of the situation, I found myself growing inexplicably cheerful. When I looked at Moroto, a buoyant, childlike excitement had appeared on his face as well. In a corner of our young hearts, we indeed harbored a delight in secrecy and a relish for adventure. Moreover, the relationship between Moroto and myself was of a kind that could not be expressed merely by the 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 what one might typically expect, it wasn’t an intensely unpleasant feeling. When I faced him, I felt a cloying sweetness in the air—as though one of us were of the opposite sex. Perhaps that scent might have made the two of us enjoy our detective work all the more.

Be that as it may, Moroto took the plaster statue from me there and examined it intently for a while, but with little effort, he solved the mystery.

“I already knew the plaster statue itself held no significance.” “The reason being, Ms. Shiyo didn’t possess such a thing, yet she was killed.” “When Ms. Shiyo was murdered, aside from the chocolate, only her handbag was stolen—but this plaster statue wouldn’t fit inside that handbag.” “Then it must have been something much smaller.” “If it’s small enough, you see, it could be sealed inside the plaster statue.” “In Doyle’s novel there’s one called ‘The Six Napoleons’.” “It tells of jewels hidden within Napoleon’s plaster statues.” “Mr. Miyamaki must have recalled this novel and applied its method to conceal that ‘item’.” “Look—Napoleon and General Nogi—isn’t that a suggestive association?” “Now, upon examining it—though hard to notice beneath the grime—this plaster was indeed once split and rejoined.” “Here you can see this thin line of fresh plaster.”

As he spoke, Moroto moistened his fingertip with saliva and rubbed a section of the plaster statue. Beneath it lay a visible seam. “Let’s break it open.” The moment these words left Moroto’s lips, he suddenly slammed the statue against a pillar. General Nogi’s visage shattered into tragic fragments.

“Amida’s Mercy”

Now, inside the shattered plaster statue was stuffed full of cotton, but upon removing the cotton, two books emerged. One of them was the unexpected family register of Kizaki Shiyo’s birth family—the very one she had once entrusted to me and which, when I thought back, I had left with him when I first visited Miyamaki. The other was an old notebook-like item, nearly every page filled with pencil-written text. How truly astonishing that record was will be explained in due course.

“Ah, this is that family register we’ve heard so much about.” “It’s exactly as I imagined.” Moroto grabbed the family register and exclaimed. “This register itself is the trickster—the ‘item’ the thief risked life and limb to obtain.” “You see, if you carefully consider everything that’s happened, it becomes clear.” “First, Ms. Shiyo had her handbag stolen.” “Though by then the register had already passed into your hands, since she’d previously kept it constantly in her bag without ever letting it leave her side, the thief likely thought simply stealing the bag would suffice.” “When that proved futile, they turned their attention to you—but you coincidentally handed the register to Mr. Miyamaki before they could act.” “Mr. Miyamaki took it on some journey.” “And there he presumably obtained a vital clue.” “Soon after came those threatening letters, leading to his murder—yet again, since the register had already been sealed inside this plaster statue and returned to you, all the thief accomplished was pointlessly ransacking Mr. Miyamaki’s study.” Thus you became their target once more. “But never suspecting the plaster statue’s role, though they searched your room repeatedly, they ultimately failed.” “Curiously, the thief always lagged one step behind. Considering this sequence, what they desperately sought was unquestionably this register.”

“Now that you mention it, something comes to mind,” I exclaimed in surprise. “Ms. Shiyo told me something once—that a nearby antique bookshop owner had repeatedly approached her, saying he’d pay any price for that family register. Since such a trivial register couldn’t possibly hold much value, when you think about it, the shopkeeper must have been acting on the thief’s orders. If we question the antique bookshop, wouldn’t we uncover the thief’s true identity?”

“If that were the case, it would indeed confirm my hypothesis. However, given how cunning that individual is, they surely wouldn’t have let the antique bookshop uncover their true identity.” “First, they used the antique bookshop as their agent and attempted to quietly purchase the family register.” “When they realized that was futile, they next attempted to steal it secretly.” “You mentioned once, didn’t you—around the time Ms. Shiyo saw that mysterious old man, the positions of things in her study had changed.” “That’s evidence they tried to steal it.” “But once they realized Ms. Shiyo always kept the family register on her person at all times, next they…”

Moroto had spoken up to that point when he suddenly seemed to realize something and turned deathly pale. And then, he fell silent and stared fixedly into space with wide-open eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Even when I asked him this, he didn’t respond and remained silent for a long time, but eventually regained his composure and casually brought the conversation to a close. “Next… they ended up killing Ms. Shiyo.”

However, it was an evasive, unclear way of speaking—as if he had something caught between his back teeth. I could never forget Moroto’s strange expression at that time.

“But there are parts I don’t fully understand.” “Why did they have to kill Shiyo or Mr. Miyamaki?” “They could have stolen the family register without resorting to murder.” “I don’t know that yet myself.” “There must have been circumstances that necessitated killing.” “This very point reveals the case’s underlying complexity.” “Enough speculation—let’s inspect the actual evidence.”

Thereupon, we examined the two written volumes. The family register was, as I had previously seen and known, nothing more than an ordinary genealogical record without any peculiarities. However, the contents of the other notebook were filled with truly bizarre entries. Once we began reading it, we were so captivated by its extraordinary nature that we couldn’t stop halfway through, and ended up reading the entire notebook first. However, for the sake of orderly description, I will set that aside for now and first write about the secrets of the family register.

“If this were the feudal era, I could understand—but I can’t imagine a family register being something worth risking one’s life to steal.” “Then perhaps it holds another meaning beyond its surface appearance as a genealogical record.” Moroto said this while meticulously turning each page. “Ninth generation: Harunobu. Childhood name Matajirō. Assumed family headship in Kyōwa 3 [1803], granted 200 koku. Died on the twenty-first day of the third month, Bunsei 12 [1829]. Hmm.” “The preceding section is torn away—unreadable.” “The feudal lord’s name was probably written at the beginning, but later entries abbreviate everything except the stipend amounts.” “With a paltry 200 koku stipend, even knowing their name wouldn’t help identify which domain they served.” “Why would such a minor retainer’s family register hold such value?” “There’s no need for genealogical records in inheritance matters these days—and even if there were, stealing it makes no sense.” “If it could serve as legal evidence, they should’ve simply demanded it openly rather than resorting to theft.”

“That’s strange.” “Look here.” “This part of the cover seems deliberately peeled off.”

I suddenly noticed it. When I had received it from Shiyo earlier, the cover had indeed been fully intact, but now—as if someone had painstakingly peeled it apart—the antique fabric surface and cardboard core lay separated. Lifting the fabric revealed dense black characters on scrap paper used for lining. “You’re right.” “It was deliberately peeled off.” “Of course, Mr. Miyamaki did this.” “Then this must hold significance.” “Since Mr. Miyamaki anticipated everything, he wouldn’t peel this without reason.”

I casually read the characters on the scrap paper used for lining. Then, as the wording somehow felt uncanny, I showed that part to Moroto.

“What could this text be? A Buddhist hymn, perhaps?” “That’s strange, isn’t it? It’s not part of any Buddhist hymn, nor could it be divine revelations from this day and age. These phrases seem to hint at something, don’t they?”

And the phrases were truly bizarre, as follows. If gods and buddhas sang, Defeat the demon of the southeast. Seek the benefits of Amida. Do not lose your way at the crossroads of the six realms.

“Somehow the phrases are awkward and incoherent, and the calligraphy style is a poor imitation of the Oie school.” “It was likely written by some uneducated old man from back in the day.” “But phrases like ‘gods and buddhas coming together’ or ‘defeating the demon of the southeast’—they seem meaningful somehow, yet make no sense at all.” “However, needless to say, these strange phrases are the key.” “Given that Mr. Miyamaki went to the trouble of peeling it off and examining it, you see.”

“It’s like an incantation, isn’t it?”

“True, it does resemble an incantation, but I think it might be a ciphertext.” “It’s a ciphertext worth risking one’s life to obtain.” “If that’s true, then these strange phrases must hold enormous monetary value.” “When speaking of ciphertexts with monetary value, what immediately comes to mind are those hinting at a treasure’s hidden location. If you read these phrases with that in mind, doesn’t ‘Seek Amida’s benevolence’ somehow seem to suggest ‘Search for where the treasure lies’?” “The hidden gold and silver treasure must indeed be Amida’s benevolence.”

“Ah, now that you mention it, that interpretation does hold.” An unfathomable shadowy figure (could that be the Mysterious Old Man who appeared over eighty?) had been willing to make any sacrifice to obtain this scrap paper from inside the cover’s lining. It was because the phrases on this waste paper hinted at a treasure’s hiding place. They had somehow detected it. If that were true, then the case became extremely intriguing. If only we could decipher this antiquated ciphertext, we might instantly become millionaires like the protagonist of Poe’s *The Gold-Bug*.

However, though we pondered it at length there—while we could imagine "Amida's benevolence" hinting at treasure—the remaining three lines remained utterly incomprehensible. It might be that only someone generally familiar with that land or the crime scene's topography could decipher it. If so, since we knew nothing of that land, this ciphertext—even if it were a cipher—would be something we could never unravel. But was this truly a cipher indicating the treasure's location, as Moroto had imagined? Wasn't this too romanticized, too self-serving a fantasy?

Tidings from Beyond Humanity

Now I came to recounting the contents of the strange notebook. If the secret of the genealogy book had been as Moroto imagined—something rather auspicious and splendid—the notebook stood in stark contrast, being truly mysterious, gloomy, and eerie. It was tidings from a realm beyond humanity that defied our very imagination. Since this record remains at the bottom of my writing case even now, I will transcribe its essential portions here—though calling them mere “portions” may understate their considerable length. But readers must endure this account, for this uncanny record lies at the heart of my tale, revealing a critical truth that shapes its very core.

It was a peculiar sort of confession—written in thin pencil strokes, filled with kana characters and phonetic substitutions, and marred by a heavy rural dialect—so that the text itself already exuded an uncanny air. However, to make it easier for readers, I edited the text to convert the dialect into Tokyo speech and replaced the kana and substitutions with proper kanji before transcribing it here. The parentheses and punctuation marks throughout were also entirely my additions.

I begged my singing teacher and had them bring this notebook and pencil in secret. In faraway countries, it seems everyone enjoys writing down their thoughts, so I (the half of me) think I'll try writing too.

Misfortune (this is a character I learned recently) is something I have come to truly understand. I think I'm the only one who can properly use this character for 'misfortune.' I've heard there's something called the world or Japan far away where everyone lives, but since birth, I've never seen that world or Japan. I think this fits the character for misfortune perfectly. I've come to feel I can no longer bear misfortune. In books, the phrase 'Please help me, God' is often written. Though I've never seen this thing called God, I still want to say 'Please help me, God.' When I do that, my chest feels a little lighter.

I want to speak about this sorrowful heart. But there exists no one to speak to. The person who comes here is called Sukehachi-san—far older than I—who visits daily to teach songs; this man refers to himself as "Oji". He is Oji. Then there's Otoshi—she cannot speak (what they call being mute)—who brings meals three times daily, and Sukehachi-san. Just those two. Otoshi being useless for conversation goes without saying, and Sukehachi too speaks scarcely at all. Whenever I ask him anything, he merely blinks his watery eyes while tearing up, rendering conversation futile. Beyond them, there exists only myself. I could converse with myself, but since I find no harmony within myself, it provokes such anger that we end up quarreling. Why must the other face differ from this one? Why must we think as separate beings? Nothing remains but deepening sorrow.

Sukehachi-san says I am seventeen years old. Since being seventeen means seventeen years have passed since birth, I must have lived within these square walls for seventeen years. Every time Sukehachi-san comes, he tells me the date, so I understand a year’s length somewhat—and that makes seventeen years. It has been such a long, sorrowful time. I think I will try to write about those days, recalling them again and again. If I do that, I will surely be able to record all my misfortunes.

It is said that children grow by drinking their mother’s milk, but sadly, I have no memory of that time. It is said that a mother is a kind woman, but I cannot conceive of such a thing as a mother. I know there is something akin to a mother called a father, but as for the father—if that [person] is supposed to be him—I had met him two or three times. That person declared, “I am your father.” He was a scary-faced malformed person.

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

The first thing I remember, when I think back now, must have been from when I was four or five years old. Before that, it was pitch black—I cannot recall. From that time onward, I have been within these square walls. I have never once gone outside the door set within the thick walls. That thick door is always locked from the outside; no matter how much I push or pound on it, it won’t budge.

I should properly describe once and for all the inside of these square walls where I live. Since I don’t truly understand measurements, using my body length as reference, each wall spans about four times my height. The height equals roughly two of me stacked. The ceiling consists of wooden planks—when I asked Sukehachi-san, he explained they’d spread soil over them and laid out roof tiles. The edges of those tiles peek through the window.

Where I am sitting now has ten tatami mats laid out, and beneath them is a wooden floor. Beneath the floorboards lies another square space. I climb down using a ladder. It matches the upper area in size but lacks tatami mats, with boxes of various shapes scattered about. There stands a chest holding my clothes. There is also a hand-washing basin. These two square spaces are called rooms and are also referred to as earthen storehouses. Sukehachi-san sometimes calls it a storehouse as well.

In the storehouse, outside the door in that wall I mentioned earlier, there were two windows above and two below. They were all about half the size of my body, with five thick iron bars each fitted into them. Therefore, I could not get out through the window.

In the tatami-floored area, there were only these things: futons stacked in a corner, a box containing my toys (I was writing this on its lid now), and a shamisen hanging on a wall nail—nothing else.

I grew up within that space. I had never seen this thing called the world, nor a town where crowds of people gathered and walked. As for towns, I had only seen them in pictures from books. But I knew mountains and the sea. They were visible from the window. Mountains were like earth piled high and layered thickly, while the sea was a straight, elongated expanse that turned blue or glowed white. It was entirely water, I had been told. I learned everything from Sukehachi-san.

When I try to recall being four or five years old, those times seem far happier than now. I must have known nothing back then. At that age, there were no Sukehachi-san or Otoshi-san—only an old woman called Okumi. Everyone there was malformed. I often wonder if she might have been my mother, but since she had no milk, I can’t bring myself to believe it. She didn’t seem kind in the slightest. But I was too young to remember clearly. I don’t know her face or body shape either. I only remember the name because I had heard it later.

That person would sometimes let me play. She also let me eat sweets and meals. She also taught me how to speak. I remember that every day, I would walk along the walls, climb on top of the futon, play with toy stones, shells, and pieces of wood, and often laugh gleefully. Ah, those days were good. Why have I grown so much? And I must have ended up learning various things.

(Omission) Otoshi-san wore an angry expression and had just gone downstairs carrying the meal tray. When my stomach is full, Kichi-chan grows calm—I’ll write during this time. Even though they call me Kichi-chan, it isn’t someone else. It’s another one of my names.

It has been five days since I began writing. I don't know how to write characters, and since this is my first time writing something so lengthy, it hasn't been progressing smoothly. There are days when writing a single page takes an entire day.

Today, I will write about the first time I was startled. For a long time, I did not know that people like me and those outside were all humans—living beings separate from fish, insects, or mice—and that we all shared the same form. I had firmly believed humans came in various shapes. That was because I had never seen many people, which led to such mistaken thoughts.

I think it was when I was around seven years old. Until that time, I had never seen any humans besides Okumi-san and Oyone-san, who came after her. So when Oyone-san struggled to lift my wide-bodied form and showed me the vast field outside through the high iron-barred window, and I saw a single person walking there, I gasped in shock. This was because although I had often seen the field before, I had never seen a human passing through.

Oyone-san must have been what they call an “idiot” among malformed people. Since she never taught me anything, until then I hadn’t clearly understood humans had a fixed form. The person walking in the field had the same shape as Oyone-san. Yet my body was entirely different from both that person’s and Oyone-san’s. I grew frightened. When I asked, “Why do that person and you, Oyone-san, only have one face each?” she replied, “Ahahaha! How should I know?”

At that time, I didn’t understand anything at all, but I was so terrified I could hardly bear it. When I slept, swarms of strangely shaped humans with only one face would appear. I kept having these dreams. I first learned the word "malformed" after I began learning songs from Sukehachi-san. I was around ten years old. After Oyone-san, whom they called an "idiot," stopped coming and was soon replaced by Otoshi-san, I began learning songs and the shamisen.

Otoshi-san did not speak, and even when I spoke to her, she seemed unable to hear me. As I kept thinking how strange this was, Sukehachi-san taught me that she was what they called a mute—a malformed person. He explained that malformed people were those who differed from regular humans. So when I said, “Then doesn’t that mean you’re all malformed too—Sukehachi-san, Oyone-san, Otoshi-san?” he stared at me with wide, startled eyes and replied, “Ah… poor Hide-chan and Kichi-chan. Did you truly know nothing at all?”

By now I had received three volumes of books and read those small-print texts over and over again. Though Sukehachi-san spoke little，over time he still taught me many things，and these books taught me tenfold more. Thus I knew nothing of the outside world，but clearly grasped what was written in books. Those books also contained numerous pictures of people and sundry things. So by then I understood humanity’s proper form，but at that time，it struck me only as strange.

When I thought back, there were things I had found strange even from a very young age. I had two faces of different shapes—one was beautiful, and the other was ugly. And the beautiful one behaved as I wished—when speaking, it said exactly what I thought—but the ugly one would blurt out things I never intended to say when I let my guard down. Even if I tried to stop it, it never behaved as I wished.

When I became frustrated and scratched at it, that face would turn frightening, shouting or bursting into tears. Though I wasn’t sad at all, tears would trickle down my cheeks. Yet even when I wept from sorrow, the ugly face sometimes laughed raucously. What refused to obey me wasn’t just my face—it was also my two arms and two legs. (I have four arms and four legs.) Only the two right limbs on each side followed my will, while the left ones constantly defied me.

Ever since I became capable of thought, I had constantly felt as though shackled by something, consumed by this inability to act as I wished. This stemmed from the ugly face and disobedient limbs attached to me. Once I gradually came to understand language, I found it unbearably strange that I bore two names—that the beautiful visage was called Hide-chan while the repulsive one bore Kichi-chan.

The reason became clear when Sukehachi-san explained it to me. It wasn’t Sukehachi-san and the others who were malformed—it was me.

I didn't yet know the character for misfortune, but it was from that moment I truly came to understand its meaning. So overcome with sorrow was I that I wailed openly before Sukehachi-san. "There now, you mustn't cry," he said. "As for me, I've strict orders against teaching anything beyond songs—I can't speak plainly. But you twins were born under an ill-starred sky." "They call it being conjoined, you see." "You came into this world after two babes fused together in your mother's womb." "To separate you would mean death—so you've been raised just as you are."

Sukehachi-san said that. Since I didn’t properly understand what being inside Mother’s womb meant, I asked, but Sukehachi-san just remained silent with tears in his eyes and said nothing. Even now, I clearly remember those words about being inside Mother’s womb, but since no one ever explains why, I know nothing at all. Malformed people must be terribly disliked by others. Beyond Sukehachi-san and Otoshi-san, there must certainly be other people out there, but none of them ever come to my side. And I cannot go outside either. If I’m disliked so much, I think it would be better to die. What it means to die—Sukehachi-san didn’t teach me that—but I read about it in books. If one does something unbearably painful, I think they will die.

If they over there disliked me so much, then I too should dislike them—hate them—such a thought had recently begun forming within me. So lately, I took to calling those regular people—those shaped differently from me—malformed in my heart. And when I wrote, I made sure to write it that way.

Saw and Mirror [Note: Numerous childhood memories are recorded here but omitted.] I gradually came to understand that Sukehachi-san was a kind old man. But even though he was a kind old man, I came to fully realize that someone from outside—perhaps God—had ordered him not to show kindness. If not God, then perhaps that frightening "Oto-san"—I understood he had been commanded thus.

Even though I (both Hide-chan and Kichi-chan) desperately wanted to talk, whenever Sukehachi-san finished teaching us songs, he would pretend not to notice and leave, no matter how sad I became. Because it had been such a long time, we did sometimes speak, but whenever we started talking even a little, something invisible seemed to seal our mouths shut, and we fell silent. “Fool” Oyone-san spoke far more. Yet she told me only a sliver of what I longed to hear.

I learned characters, names of things, and matters of the human heart mostly from Sukehachi-san. However, as Sukehachi-san said, “I lack education, so I cannot teach properly,” he did not teach me many characters.

One time, Sukehachi-san came upstairs 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 read the words, but if I tell you various stories, I’ll end up in terrible trouble. So even if you can’t read these books, they’ll be good companions while you’re looking through them,” he said, giving us three volumes. The books were titled *Children’s World*, *The Sun*, and *A Record of Memories*. Since it’s written in large letters on the cover, I think that must be each book’s title. *Children’s World* was an interesting book with many pictures, and I read it the most. *The Sun* had all sorts of things written in it. About half of it is still too difficult for me to understand. *A Record of Memories* was also a book of both sorrow and joy. The more I read it, the more this book became my favorite. Even so, there are many parts I don’t understand. Even when I ask Sukehachi-san, there are things I understand and things I don’t.

The pictures and written words were all things from a far, faraway place—things utterly different from my own—so even the parts I thought I understood, I didn’t truly comprehend. It all felt like a dream. Furthermore, I heard that in the distant world beyond, there existed a hundred times more things than I knew—various objects, ways of thinking, characters, and more. Yet everything I knew came from three books and the few stories Sukehachi-san had told me. So even matters that a child like Taro, written about in *Children’s World*, would know must have been utterly unknown to me—there must have been an enormous number of such things. In that world, I heard there were places called schools where they taught even small children so very much.

I received the books about two years after Sukehachi-san began visiting us, so I must have been around twelve years old at the time. But even after receiving them, for two or three years, no matter how much I read and read, everything remained incomprehensible. Even when I asked Sukehachi-san for explanations, he would only teach me a little, and most of the time, he wouldn’t respond, much like Otoshi-san’s muteness. The fact that I had come to read a little and the fact that I had come to understand a truly sorrowful heart were one and the same. I came to understand, day by day, just how sorrowful being malformed truly was.

What I write is Hide-chan's heart. If Kichi-chan's heart were separate from mine as I imagine it, Hide-chan could not understand it. Because it is Hide-chan's hand that writes. Yet to the extent I could hear sounds beyond the wall, I understood Kichi-chan's heart too. My heart knew Kichi-chan was far more malformed than Hide-chan. Kichi-chan couldn't read books like Hide-chan could, and even when speaking, knew few of the things Hide-chan knew. Kichi-chan only possessed physical strength.

However, Kichi-chan's heart also knew perfectly well that I was malformed. When Kichi-chan and Hide-chan spoke of this matter, they never fought. They only talked of sad things. I will now write of the saddest thing.

One time, an unfamiliar dish came with the meal, so later when I asked Sukehachi-san what it was called, he said it was octopus. When I asked what shape an octopus had, he told me it was a fish with eight legs and an unpleasant form. At that moment, I thought I looked more like an octopus than a human. I have eight limbs. Though I don't know how many heads an octopus has, I must be like one with two heads.

After that, I saw nothing but octopus dreams. Since I didn’t know the true shape of an octopus, I imagined it as something resembling a smaller version of myself and dreamed of that form. I dreamed of countless things of that shape walking in the seawater.

Then, after a little while, I began to consider cutting my body in two. Upon close examination, I found that while the right half of my body—my face, hands, legs, and stomach—responded as I wished, the left half—my face, hands, and legs—did not obey me in the slightest. I thought it was because Kichi-chan's heart resided in the left side. That is why I thought that if I were to cut my body in half, one of me could become two separate people. I thought that just like Sukehachi-san and Otoshi-san, we could become separate Hide-chan and Kichi-chan, able to move, think, and sleep as we pleased. I thought how happy I would be if that could come true.

If we considered Hide-chan and Kichi-chan as separate people, the left side of Hide-chan's buttocks and the right side of Kichi-chan's buttocks were fused together. If we cut there, we could become two separate people. One time when Hide-chan told Kichi-chan about this idea, Kichi-chan cheerfully agreed to try it. However, we had nothing to cut with. We knew of things called saws and kitchen knives, but had never seen them. Then Kichi-chan suggested biting through to sever it. Though Hide-chan said this was impossible, Kichi-chan bit down with tremendous force, making me let out a sharp cry. Both Hide-chan's face and Kichi-chan's face began weeping together. After that, Kichi-chan became thoroughly disheartened after just one attempt.

Even after being discouraged once more whenever we remembered our malformed state or fought and grew sorrowful again,I would resolve to cut us apart.One time when I asked Sukehachi-san to bring me a saw he inquired my purpose,and upon hearing my intent to cleave myself in two he recoiled declaring this would mean death.Even through desperate wails insisting I cared not for survival he remained unmoved.

(Omission) Around the time I became able to read books well—this being Hide-chan—I learned the word *makeup*. I thought it meant making my body and kimono beautiful like the girl in the *Children’s World* illustrations, so when I asked Sukehachi-san, he said it meant styling one’s hair and applying a powder called *oshiroi*. When I asked him to bring it to me, Sukehachi-san laughed. “Poor dear—you’re still a girl at heart,” he said as though stating the obvious. “But if you’ve never taken a proper bath, you can’t very well wear *oshiroi*.”

I knew of the concept of a proper bath from hearsay, but I had never seen one. About once a month, Otoshi-san (though this was done discreetly) would bring hot water in a basin to the wooden floor below, so I would wash myself using only that water. Sukehachi-san taught me that makeup required a mirror, but since he didn’t own one himself, he couldn’t show me what it looked like.

However, because I pleaded so much, Sukehachi-san brought me something he called a substitute for a mirror—a piece of glass. When I propped it against the wall and peered in, my face appeared much more clearly than when reflected in water. Though Hide-chan’s face was far dirtier than the girl in the Children’s World illustrations, it was much prettier than Kichi-chan’s, and far more beautiful than Sukehachi-san’s, Otoshi-san’s, or Oyone-san’s. Therefore, after seeing the glass, Hide-chan became extremely happy. I thought that if I washed my face, applied oshiroi, and tied my hair neatly, I might become as pretty as the girl in the illustrations.

Although there was no face powder, when I washed my face with water each morning, I scrubbed vigorously, determined to make my skin clean. As for my hair, by studying my reflection in the glass and figuring it out on my own, I learned to style it like the illustrations showed. At first I was clumsy, but gradually my hairstyle began resembling those in the pictures. Whenever the mute Otoshi-san found me styling my hair, she would help me. Watching Hide-chan grow more beautiful each day filled me with such overwhelming joy I could hardly bear it.

Since Kichi-chan disliked both looking at the glass and becoming beautiful, he would only interfere with Hide-chan, but even so, he would occasionally say, “Hide-chan is so pretty,” and praise her. Yet the more beautiful she became, the more Hide-chan grew sorrowful about being a malformed person compared to before. No matter how much I tried to make only Hide-chan beautiful—with Kichi’s half still filthy; our body twice as wide as a normal person’s; our clothes stained—even if only Hide-chan’s face was cleaned up, it only deepened my sadness. Even so, when Hide-chan tried to make at least Kichi-chan’s face presentable by scrubbing it with water and tying his hair, Kichi-chan would flare up in anger. What an impossible creature you are, Kichi-chan.

(Omission)

A Dreadful Love

I will write about Hide-chan and Kichi-chan's hearts and minds. As I wrote before, Hide-chan and Kichi-chan share one body. Our hearts are two. If we were separated, we could become two distinct individuals. As I gradually came to understand various things, I stopped thinking of us both as myself, and began believing that Hide-chan and Kichi-chan are truly separate people, joined solely at the buttocks.

Therefore, I will mainly write about my own mind, but if I were to write without hiding anything, Kichi-chan was certain to get angry. Since Kichi-chan couldn’t read characters like I could, that offered some relief—but even so, he had grown so suspicious lately that it worried me. And so, I decided to gently bend my body and write in secret while Kichi-chan was asleep.

First, I will write from the beginning. When we were small, being malformed meant we couldn’t do as we wished—this angered us into selfish quarrels and constant fighting, yet our hearts knew neither true pain nor sorrow. After clearly understanding our malformation, even when we fought, we no longer had those violent clashes of before. Yet gradually, a different kind of heartache emerged within us. I thought being malformed was filthy and hateful. Therefore, I myself became filthy and hateful. And the very filthiest, most hateful thing of all was Kichi-chan. Whenever I imagined Kichi-chan’s face and body perpetually stuck fast beside mine—disgusting! Disgusting! Hateful! So hateful it made me feel indescribable things! I believe Kichi-chan must feel the same way too. And so instead of violent fights, we waged battles in our hearts many times fiercer than before.

(Omission) It was about a year ago that I came to clearly realize each half of my body differed in some way. When washing the body in the basin, I understood most clearly. As for Kichi-chan, his face was dirty, and his hands and feet were strong and gnarled. His complexion was also dark. As for Hide-chan, her complexion was fair, her hands and feet were soft, and she had two round breasts………………………………………………… I had known from Sukehachi-san’s words long ago that Kichi-chan was “male” and Hide-chan was “female,” but it was only about a year prior that I began to grasp why. The parts of *The Record of Memories* that had eluded me until now seemed to clarify themselves in great number.

[Note: While cases preserving survival of conjoined twins akin to the so-called Siamese brothers are not nonexistent, one such as this account’s protagonist poses considerable medical difficulty in explanation.] [Note: Wise readers have likely already deduced the existing secret.] Since we were conjoined malformations of two people stuck together, I had to climb down the ladder five or six times a day—twice as much as a normal person—(omission). Before long, something different from before had begun to occur on Hide-chan’s side. (omission) I was so startled, thinking I might die, that I began wailing uncontrollably. Until Sukehachi-san came and explained the reason, I was so worried that I clung tightly to Kichi-chan’s neck.

Even more different things had begun to occur on Kichi-chan’s side as well. Not only had Kichi-chan’s voice deepened to resemble Sukehachi-san’s, but his heart and mind had undergone a drastic transformation. Kichi-chan’s fingers were strong, but he couldn’t manage delicate tasks. When it came to the shamisen, he couldn’t grasp the fret positions well like Hide-chan, and with singing, his voice was just loud, making the melody sound strange. I believed the reason for this was that Kichi-chan’s mind was coarse, making him unable to grasp delicate matters well. Therefore, while Hide-chan could think of ten things, Kichi-chan could only manage about one. Instead, he immediately voiced what he thought or acted on it with his hands.

Kichi-chan once said: “Hide-chan… do you still wish for us to become separate people? Do you wish to cut apart this place where we’re joined? Kichian doesn't want that anymore—I am far happier remaining stuck together like this.” And then he teared up and turned red in the face.

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

Kichi-chan no longer bullied Hide-chan at all. When applying makeup in front of the mirror, when washing faces in the morning, or when laying out the futon at night, he never interfered at all and even assisted. Whenever there was something to do, he would say, “Kichi-chan will do it, so it’s fine,” and made sure Hide-chan was as comfortable as possible.

When Hide-chan played the shamisen and sang, Kichi-chan did not act out or shout as he used to, but sat still, gazing at the movement of Hide-chan’s mouth. Even when Hide-chan was tying her hair, it was the same. And then, annoyingly often, he would say, “Kichi-chan likes Hide-chan. I truly love you. You must like me too, Hide-chan,” he would always, always say. Up until now, there had been many times when Kichi-chan’s left-side hands and feet touched Hide-chan’s right-side body—but even among these touches, they began to take on a different manner. It wasn’t a gnarled touch, but like a bug crawling, he would softly stroke or grasp. But even so, that area grew hot, and I could hear the thump-thump of blood.

Hide-chan would sometimes wake up startled at night. Feeling as though a warm creature were crawling all over her body would make her wake up shuddering. Because it was pitch dark at night and she couldn’t see anything when she asked “Kichi-chan were you awake?” he would stay perfectly still and not answer at all. All she could feel were the sounds of Kichi-chan’s breath and blood lying on the left side resonating through their shared flesh into Hide-chan’s body.

One night, while I was asleep, Kichi-chan committed a terrible act. I came to hate Kichi-chan so much that I couldn’t bear it anymore. I came to hate him so much that I wanted to kill him.

Hide-chan had been sleeping when her breath became constricted. Thinking she might die, she woke with a start. There was Kichi-chan’s face pressed over hers, his lips crushing hers until she couldn’t breathe. But since they were conjoined at their waists, their bodies couldn’t overlap. Even aligning their faces proved excruciatingly difficult. To manage it, Kichi-chan had twisted his body until his bones seemed ready to snap, desperately pressing against her. Hide-chan’s chest was crushed sideways while the flesh around their joined waists stretched nearly to tearing—an agony that felt like dying. “No! No! I hate you, Kichi-chan!” Hide-chan screamed, clawing frantically at his face. Yet as always, Kichi-chan didn’t fight back. He silently withdrew and lay still.

When morning came, Kichi-chan’s face was covered in wounds, yet he didn’t get angry and spent the whole day with a sorrowful expression. (Omission)

[Editor’s Note: As this disabled person lacks any sense of shame, all subsequent explicit entries have been omitted.]

If only I alone could freely sleep, wake, and think as I pleased—how pleasant that would feel—I thought, feeling so, so envious of normal people.

I wished that at least when reading books, when writing characters, or when gazing out the window toward the sea, Kichi-chan’s body would separate from mine. Always, always, the unpleasant sound of Kichi-chan’s blood resonates through our flesh, his odor clings to me relentlessly, and every time I move my body—ah—I am reminded what a pitiful disabled person I am. Lately, Kichi-chan’s burning eyes watch me endlessly from beside my face. The rasp of his nasal breathing grates on my ears; his frightening stench fills my nostrils; I cannot endure this loathsome existence any longer.

One time, Kichi-chan said such a thing through choked sobs. So I started feeling slightly sorry for him. “Kichi-chan likes you so much it hurts, but you hate me—what should I do? What should I do?” “Even if you keep hating me, we can’t split apart. And if we stay like this, your pretty face and nice smell are always right here,” he said, crying.

In the end, Kichi-chan became frantic, and no matter how many times I said “No! No!” and protested, he tried to forcefully embrace Hide-chan, but since our bodies were joined at the side, it never went the way he wanted. So I thought it served him right, but Kichi-chan seemed extremely angry—his face drenched in sweat as he was screaming at the top of his lungs. Therefore, when I thought about it carefully, both Hide-chan and Kichi-chan felt so very sad about being disabled persons.

I will write about two of Kichi-chan's most unpleasant things. Kichi-chan had developed a habit of doing something almost daily... It was so nauseating to look that I tried not to see, but Kichi-chan's foul odor and wild movements still reached me, making me wish I were dead from the disgust.

Moreover, because Kichi-chan was strong, he could force his face against Hide-chan’s whenever he wanted, and even when she tried to cry out, he would cover her mouth to silence her. Kichi-chan’s glaring large eyes pressed against Hide-chan’s eyes until her nose and mouth became unable to breathe, making it so agonizing she thought she would die. Therefore, Hide-chan did nothing but cry every single day. (Omission)

Strange Communications Since I could only manage to write one or two pages each day, about a month had already passed since I began. Because summer had come, sweat poured down uncontrollably. This was the first time I had written something so lengthy since being born, and because I was poor at remembering and thinking, things from long ago and recent times ended up jumbled together. Now, I will write about how the storehouse I live in resembles a prison.

"In the book *Child World*, it was written that people who do no wrong are put into prisons and made to feel sorrow." I don't know what prisons are like, but I think they must resemble the storehouse where I live. I thought normal children must live together with their father and mother in the same place, eating meals together, talking together, playing together. "In *Child World*, there were many such pictures drawn." Is this something that exists only in a distant world? If I had a father and mother, couldn't I live happily together with them in the same way?

Even when asked about my father and mother, Mr. Sukehachi would not give me a clear answer. Even if I begged to meet the terrifying Oto-san, he would not let us meet. Before Kichi-chan and I clearly understood about men and women, we often discussed this. Because I am a disgusting disabled person, perhaps my father and mother hated me and put me in this storehouse so that my form would not be seen by outsiders. Even so, it is written in books that blind disabled people and mute disabled people live together with their fathers and mothers. It is written that fathers and mothers are exceedingly, exceedingly kind to disabled children because they are more pitiable than normal children. Why am I the only one they do not treat that way? When I asked Mr. Sukehachi, he teared up and said, “It’s just your bad luck.” He did not tell me anything at all about the outside.

Both Hide-chan and Kichi-chan shared the same desire to leave the storehouse, but the one who would pound on the thick, wall-like door until his hands hurt, or throw tantrums demanding to go out whenever Mr. Sukehachi or Otoshi left, was always Kichi-chan. When that happened, Mr. Sukehachi would slap Kichi-chan’s cheek hard and tie me to a pillar. On top of that, when we acted out trying to go outside, we couldn’t eat even a single meal.

So I secretly thought very hard about going outside without Mr. Sukehachi and Otoshi knowing. I discussed that matter with Kichi-chan constantly.

One time, I thought about removing the iron bars from the window. We dug at the white earth where the bars were set and tried to remove them. Kichi-chan and Hide-chan took turns digging until our fingertips bled. Finally we managed to loosen one end of a bar, but Mr. Sukehachi found us immediately and deprived us of meals for a whole day. (Omission) When I realized we could never escape that storehouse no matter how hard we tried, such profound sadness overwhelmed me that for days afterward I did nothing but stand on tiptoe gazing out the window.

The sea glittered as always. The vacant lot lay empty, wind stirring the grass. The ocean's roar sounded mournful. When I imagined a world existing beyond that sea, I wished I could fly there like a bird. Yet thinking about what might await someone like me - a disabled person - out in that world filled me with terror.

Beyond the sea, something like a blue mountain could be seen. Mr. Sukehachi had once said, "That is called a cape, shaped exactly like a cow lying down." I had seen pictures of cows, but I wondered if they truly took such a form when sleeping. I also wondered whether that mountain they called a cape marked the edge of the world. When I stared fixedly at the far, far distance, my eyes would grow hazy, and before I knew it, tears began to flow.

(Omission)

Even just the “misfortune” of having no father or mother, being locked away in this prison-like storehouse since birth without ever once going out into the wide world, makes me so very, very sad that I desperately want to die—but on top of that, lately Kichi-chan has been doing disgusting, truly disgusting things, so sometimes I think about strangling him to death. If Kichi-chan were to die, I would surely die along with him as well.

There was a time when I truly strangled Kichi-chan's neck until he nearly died, so I will write about that.

One night as we lay sleeping, Kichi-chan thrashed about wildly, like a centipede torn in half. Because he thrashed about so violently, I even wondered if he had fallen ill. Kichi-chan would say he loved Hide-chan beyond all reason, then proceed to strangle her neck and chest, twist her legs, press his face against hers, and thrash about wildly. And [...] I was filled with such a dirty, disgusting feeling that it made me shudder. And then, Kichi-chan became so hateful, so utterly hateful that I couldn’t bear it. So, with every intention of killing him, I burst into tears and tightened my two hands around Kichi-chan’s neck with all my strength.

Kichi-chan writhed in pain and thrashed about even more violently than before. I threw off the futon and rolled around on the tatami mat from one end to the other. With four hands and four legs flailing wildly, we rolled around wailing. Mr. Sukehachi came and pinned me down so I couldn't move, and that continued until then. From the next day onward, Kichi-chan became a little calmer.

(Omission)

I want to die. I really, really want to die. I want to die. God, please help me. God, please kill me.

(Omission)

Today, when I heard a sound outside the window and looked out, there was a person standing just below the window outside the wall, gazing up at it. He was a large, corpulent man. Because he was wearing strange clothes like those found in pictures from Child World, I thought he might be someone from a distant world. I called out in a loud voice, "Who are you?" but the person said nothing and continued to stare at me. He somehow seemed like a kind-looking person. I wanted to talk about so many things, but Kichi-chan made a scary face and interfered, and if I spoke loudly enough for Mr. Sukehachi to hear, it would be terrible, so I simply looked at the person’s face and smiled. 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, I wouldn’t be able to speak to them, but since it was written in a book that people from the distant world write things called letters, I thought I would write characters and show them to that person. But 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 must be able to read, if they pick up this notebook and learn of my terrible misfortune, they might help me like God.

Please, may that person come once more.

The journal entries ended abruptly there.

For the sake of reader comprehension, we revised non-standard kana usage, phonetic substitutions, and what seemed to be a heavy rural dialect (though its specific origin was unclear) into standard Tokyo speech; consequently, the original’s eerie tone may not have been fully preserved. Readers should imagine a grimy pencil-written journal filled line by line with phonetic substitutions and non-standard kana usage, its characters barely forming coherent shapes - as though it were a communication from some otherworldly humans.

When we (Moroto Michio and I) finished reading this journal, we wordlessly exchanged glances for some time. I had indeed heard of what are commonly called Siamese brothers - those strange conjoined twins. The so-called Siamese brothers were deformed conjoined twins named Chang and Eng - both males joined at the xiphoid cartilage - but while such malformed infants are usually stillborn or die shortly after birth, Chang and Eng had remarkably lived to sixty-three years with their extraordinary bodies, each marrying separate women and astonishingly fathering twenty-two normal children between them.

But such cases were exceedingly rare even worldwide, so we had never imagined that such an uncanny two-headed creature could exist in our own country. Moreover, that one should be male and the other female—with the male harboring an obsessive attachment toward the female while she utterly detested him to the point of death—created such an inconceivable state of affairs that it had to be called a hell never before witnessed, even in nightmares. "That girl Hide-chan is truly intelligent," Moroto remarked. "To have written such a lengthy essay with knowledge gained from just three books—despite the occasional typos and kana errors—given how thoroughly she must have studied them." "This girl is even a poet." "But even so—could such a thing truly be possible?" "It isn't some deeply sinful prank writing, is it?"

I could not help but listen to medical scholar Moroto’s opinion. “Prank writing? “No—I don’t think that’s likely. Seeing how Mr. Miyamaki cherished this so much, there must be profound meaning in it. I suddenly thought—the person mentioned near the end here who came beneath the window, described as corpulent and wearing Western clothes—might that not be Mr. Miyamaki?” “Ah, I had somewhat the same thought myself.”

“If that’s the case, then where Mr. Miyamaki traveled before being killed must have been the region containing the storehouse where these twins are confined.” “And Mr. Miyamaki didn’t appear beneath that storehouse window just once.” “Because if he hadn’t gone there a second time, the twins wouldn’t have thrown this journal out from the window.” “Now that you mention it, Mr. Miyamaki did say he saw something horrifying when he returned from his trip. That must have been these twins.”

“Ah, did he say something like that?” “Then it really must be true.” “Mr. Miyamaki had hold of facts we didn’t know.” “Otherwise, he would have had no reason to pinpoint such a place and travel there.”

“Even so, why didn’t he try to rescue this pitiful disabled person when he saw them?” “Though that’s unclear, he might have thought the enemy was too formidable to confront immediately. So he might have intended to return once, prepare properly, and then go back.” “That refers to the guy who’s imprisoning these twins.”

At that moment, I suddenly noticed something and exclaimed in surprise. “Ah, there’s a strange coincidence here. “That dead acrobat boy Tomosuke—he said he’d get scolded by ‘Oto-san.’ “This journal also mentions ‘Oto-san.’ “And since both seem like villains, perhaps this ‘Oto-san’ is the mastermind behind it all. “When you consider that, the connection between these conjoined twins and the current murder case becomes clear.”

“That’s right. “You noticed that too, didn’t you? “But that’s not all. “If you examine this journal carefully, it reveals various facts. “It’s truly terrifying.”

Moroto said this with an expression of terror that seemed to well up from the very depths of his being. “If my conjecture holds true, compared to this all-encompassing evil, Shiyo-san’s murder amounts to little more than a trivial incident—scarcely worth mentioning.” “You still don’t grasp it, do you? Within these twins themselves lies a terrifying secret beyond anything conceived by anyone in this world.”

Though I couldn't clearly discern what Moroto was thinking, I couldn't help but sense something eerie and unfathomable in the depths of these bizarre facts that kept surfacing. Moroto sat deep in thought, his face pale. He looked as though he were peering profoundly into the very depths of his own mind. I too sat silently contemplating while fidgeting with the journal. But as I did so, I collided with an astonishing association and snapped back to awareness with a start.

“Mr. Moroto.” “This is really strange.” “I’ve thought of another strange coincidence.” “Well, you see...” “I don’t know if I’ve told you this yet, but Ms. Kizaki once shared a dream-like recollection from when she was two or three years old—before she became a foundling.” “It was a scene of some desolate, lonely seaside where there stood a strange, antiquated mansion resembling a castle, and there on the cliffside coast, Ms. Kizaki was playing with a newborn baby.” “She said she remembered that scenery as if it were a dream.” “At that time, I imagined the scenery there and drew a picture to show Ms. Kizaki, and since she said it was a perfect match, I had been keeping that drawing safe. But then I showed it to Mr. Miyamaki at some point and ended up leaving it behind, completely forgetting about it.” “But I remember it clearly, so I can still draw it now.” “Now, regarding this strange coincidence—according to Ms. Kizaki’s account, across that sea in the far distance, there was land visible in the shape of a sleeping cow. And this journal also states that when looking at the sea from the storehouse window, there’s a cape in the form of a reclining bovine on the opposite shore, doesn’t it?” “A cape shaped like a sleeping cow might exist anywhere, so this could be a mere coincidence, but between the desolate state of the coast and the description of the sea, this passage is exactly like Ms. Kizaki’s story.” “Ms. Kizaki had the genealogy book in which the ciphertext was hidden.” “It seems there’s some connection between the thief who tried to steal it and these twins.” “And both Ms. Kizaki and the twins are said to have seen land shaped like a cow.” “If that's the case, doesn't it somehow seem like the very same place?”

From midway through my account, Moroto began to show an expression of peculiar terror, as if he had encountered a ghost. When I paused my words, he said in a violently coughing tone that I should draw the coastal scenery there for him to see. Then, as I took out a pencil and notebook and quickly sketched the imagined scene, he snatched it away and stared at the drawing for a long time. Eventually, he stood up unsteadily and spoke while preparing to leave.

“My head is in complete disarray today—I can’t collect my thoughts. I’m leaving now. Please come to my house tomorrow. There are things too frightening to discuss here.” Having uttered this brusquely, he descended the stairs as though my presence had slipped his mind entirely—staggering unsteadily without so much as a farewell.

Detective Kitagawa and Issunboushi

I was unable to comprehend Moroto’s bizarre behavior and remained alone, dazed for a while. However, since Moroto had said, "Come tomorrow; I’ll tell you everything then," I had no choice but to return home for the time being and wait until the next day. But considering that even bringing them to this Kanda house required wrapping General Nogi’s statue in old newspapers and taking every possible precaution, taking the two precious items inside back to my home would undoubtedly be extremely dangerous. Though I didn’t feel it so strongly myself—whether regarding what happened to Miyamaki or Moroto—it showed that these villains killed people just to get their hands on these items. Nevertheless, the fact that Moroto had departed in a state of utter despondency without even instructing how to dispose of these items must have been due to extraordinary circumstances. So after considering various things and concluding that the criminals likely hadn’t noticed this restaurant’s second floor, I pushed the two notebooks through a tear in the mounting of an old framed picture hanging on the decorative rail there, making sure they wouldn’t be noticeable at a glance. Then, putting on an innocent face, I returned straight home. (However, it later became clear that this improvised hiding spot of mine—which I had been somewhat proud of in my mind—was by no means safe.)

And then, from around noon the next day until I visited Moroto, there were no particular events to speak of. Taking advantage of this interval, I will adopt a slightly different style of writing and insert here an account of the hardships endured by Detective Kitagawa—something I did not witness directly but later learned from the man’s own mouth. Temporally speaking, these events occurred precisely around this point in time.

Mr. Kitagawa was a detective from Ikebukuro Station involved in the recent Tomosuke murder case. Being a man whose thinking differed somewhat from other police officers, he took Moroto’s opinions on this case so seriously that he requested the superintendent’s permission and doggedly pursued the Ozaki Circus Troupe (the very troupe Tomosuke had performed with in Uguisudani), continuing his arduous investigation even after the Metropolitan Police Department personnel had withdrawn.

At that time, the Ozaki Circus Troupe had fled Uguisudani as if making their escape and was performing in a distant town in Shizuoka Prefecture. Detective Kitagawa had practically accompanied the troupe to the location, disguised himself as a shabby laborer, and had already been engaged in his investigation for about a week. Though it had been a week, since four or five days were spent on relocation and tent construction, they had only begun attracting customers two or three days prior. Yet Detective Kitagawa, having become a temporary laborer who even assisted with erecting tents to ingratiate himself with the troupe members, should have uncovered any secrets among them long ago if such existed—strangely, he had been unable to grasp any leads whatsoever. “Did Tomosuke go to Kamakura on July fifth?” “Who took him along at that time?” He casually asked each person questions like “Was there a hunchbacked old man around eighty years old behind Tomosuke?” but each and every one of them answered that they knew nothing. Moreover, their demeanor did not seem at all like a lie.

Among the troupe's clowns was a dwarf. Though thirty years old, he had the stature of a seven- or eight-year-old boy, his face alone appearing aged beyond his true years—a grotesque figure who naturally struck others as mentally deficient. Detective Kitagawa initially kept this man at arm's length, neither attempting familiarity nor posing questions. Yet as days passed, he came to understand that while this dwarf was indeed simple-minded, he harbored deep suspicions, exhibited jealousy, and at times performed pranks surpassing what ordinary people might conceive. It gradually became clear that perhaps the man was deliberately feigning idiocy, using it as a form of protective coloration or mimicry. Consequently, Kitagawa began to think that questioning such a man might unexpectedly yield some clue. Having patiently won over the dwarf until deeming him sufficiently tractable, Detective Kitagawa one day engaged in the following exchange. What I wish to insert here is precisely this peculiar conversation.

It was a clear night with many stars, but after the performance had ended and everything was cleaned up, the dwarf, having no one to talk to, went outside the tent to cool off alone. Detective Kitagawa seized this golden opportunity, approached him, and began making idle talk in the dark open air. From trivial small talk, their conversation shifted to the events of the fateful day when Mr. Miyamaki had been murdered. Detective Kitagawa, having pretended to be a spectator at the circus troupe in Uguisudani that day and rambled on about his impressions of the time, then began to approach the main point in this manner.

“That day there was a footwork act, and Tomosuke—you know, the kid who was killed in Ikebukuro—I saw him get into a jar and spin round and round. That kid really had it rough.” “Yeah, Tomosuke?” "That poor child, truly was done in in the end." He shuddered violently. "But hey, bro, there ain't no way Tomosuke's footwork act was on that day—that's where you're mistaken, I tell ya." "I might not look it, but I’ve got a good memory, you know." “That day, see, Tomosuke wasn’t in the tent.”

The dwarf spoke in an unrecognizable dialect, yet quite eloquently. “I’d bet a ryo on it. I definitely saw it.” “No, no, bro, that day’s wrong, I tell ya. July fifth’s got a special reason, see? I remember it clear as day.” “What do you mean the date's wrong? Wasn’t it the first Sunday of July? You’re the one who’s got it wrong.” “No, no.”

In the darkness, Issunboushi seemed to make a comical expression.

“So, was Tomosuke sick then?” “That bastard wouldn’t get sick. The boss’s friend came, see, and took him away somewhere, I tell ya.”

“So the boss is Oto-san—isn’t that right?” said Detective Kitagawa, who had clearly remembered Tomosuke’s so-called “Oto-san” and was probing for information.

“Eh? What did you say?” Issunboushi suddenly showed extreme terror. “How do you know Oto-san?” “I don’t know. An eighty-something, bent-backed, feeble old man, right? Your boss is that old man.” “No, no! The boss ain’t some old man like that. The boss ain’t some old man like that! His back ain’t bent or nothin’! You’ve never seen him, have you? Though he don’t show his face much at the tent, the boss is, well, a terrible hunchbacked young man still around thirty.”

Detective Kitagawa thought that perhaps the boss had been a hunchback after all, which might explain why he had appeared elderly.

“So that’s Oto-san?” “No, no! As if Oto-san would come to a place like this! He’s way far away from here, I tell ya. The boss and Oto-san are different people, I tell ya.” “Different people? Then what exactly is Oto-san? What’s his role with you all?” “Dunno why, but Oto-san’s just Oto-san. He’s got the same face as the boss and a hunchback too—maybe they’re father and son or somethin’. But I gotta stop now. Can’t talk ’bout Oto-san, you know. You’ll be fine, but if he finds out I blabbed? I’ll get it bad. They’ll throw me back in the box again.”

Upon hearing “inside the box,” Detective Kitagawa imagined a container resembling a modern torture device, but this proved to be his misunderstanding—it later became clear that what Issunboushi called a “box” was something many times more terrifying than any such instrument of torment. Be that as it may, Detective Kitagawa found his interlocutor unexpectedly cooperative, and as the conversation gradually reached its climax, he pressed forward with his questions, thrilled and heart racing.

“So what you’re saying is—the one who took Tomosuke on July 5th wasn’t Oto-san, but an acquaintance of the boss’s? Where’d they go? Didn’t you ask?” “Tomosuke was tight with me, see? He whispered it just to me. They went to some pretty beach—played in the sand, went swimmin’, he said.” “Kamakura?” “Right, right! Kamakura’s what he mentioned. Tomosuke was the boss’s golden boy. Got treated real nice all the time.”

Having heard this much, Detective Kitagawa could not help but believe that Moroto’s outlandish theory—that Tomosuke had been the direct perpetrator of both Shiyo’s murder and Mr. Miyamaki’s killing—was unexpectedly accurate. However, acting rashly would be ill-advised. Arresting the boss and forcing a confession might seem like a good approach, but doing so could very well result in letting the true mastermind slip away. Before that, he needed to study the figure known as "Oto-san" behind him more thoroughly. After all, the true mastermind might be that "Oto-san" himself. Moreover, this case might not be a simple murder, but an even more complex and terrifying criminal act. Detective Kitagawa was quite the ambitious man, so he intended not to report even to the police chief until he had thoroughly investigated everything himself.

“You said earlier you’d be put into a box, right? What exactly is this ‘box’? Is it really that terrifying?” “Brr-brr-brr-brr, it’s a hell you people don’t know. Have you ever seen human box confinement? Your hands and legs go numb—disabled folks like me are all made through that box confinement. Ahaha...” Issunboushi said something cryptic and laughed eerily. But though he was a fool, some semblance of sanity seemed to remain within him—no matter how much they pressed him, he would turn everything beyond that point into jokes and refuse to give clear answers.

“You’re scared of Oto-san，aren’t you?” “Coward.” “But where is this Oto-san of yours?” “You said ‘far away’...”

“It’s a faraway place. “I done forgot where exactly. “A place way across the sea. “Hell itself. “Demon Island. “Just thinkin’ ’bout it makes me shiver. “Brr-brr-brr-brr”

And so, despite all their efforts that night, they could make no further progress. However, Detective Kitagawa was greatly satisfied, having confirmed that his assumptions were not mistaken.

For several days thereafter, he patiently tamed Issunboushi and waited for him to let down his guard and provide more detailed information. As this continued, Detective Kitagawa gradually began to understand—in fragments—the inexplicable terror of this figure called "Oto-san," and why Issunboushi and Tomosuke had trembled in such fear. Because Issunboushi’s way of speaking was unclear, he couldn’t grasp its exact form, but at times, it felt less like a human and more like some uncanny beast. It was even thought that the ogres spoken of in legend might have been referring to such creatures. Issunboushi’s words and expressions vaguely told of such a feeling.

The meaning of the "box" too had begun to be vaguely grasped. Though it was mere conjecture, when that conjecture struck him, even the stalwart Detective Kitagawa couldn't help shuddering violently at the overwhelming horror of it.

“I’d been in a box since the day I was born,” “Couldn’t move or do nothin’ at all.” “Just stuck my head through a hole in the box to get fed, I tell ya.” “Then they packed me in that box, put me on a ship, and brought me to Osaka.” “Got taken outta the box in Osaka, I tell ya.” “First time since bein’ born they took me out to some wide-open place—got so scared I shrunk up like this!” Issunboushi demonstrated by pulling his stunted limbs tight against his body, mimicking a newborn’s curled posture.

"But this is a secret, I tell ya." "I'm only telling you, I tell ya." "So you'd better keep this secret too, or you'll be in for a world of hurt." "You'll end up box-confined, I tell ya." "Even if you get boxed up, I ain't gonna know nothin' about it, I tell ya." Issunboushi added with a thoroughly terrified expression.

It was ten-odd days later that Detective Kitagawa—without invoking official authority and through entirely discreet methods—uncovered both the true identity of the figure called "Oto-san" and investigated unimaginable criminal incidents occurring on a certain island. However, as these developments will naturally become clear to readers as the story progresses, I shall here merely inform them that the police were advancing their investigation through the circus troupe angle via this particular detective’s extraordinary efforts. With this, we conclude Detective Kitagawa’s investigative account and return to continuing the narrative of Moroto and my subsequent actions.

Moroto Michio's Confession

The day after reading the eerie diary at the Western-style restaurant in Kanda, I visited the Moroto residence in Ikebukuro as promised. It seemed Moroto had been expecting me as well, for the live-in student promptly showed me to the usual reception room.

Moroto threw open every window and door in the room. "This should prevent eavesdropping," he said as he took his seat. With an ashen face and a hushed voice, he began the following strange account of his life.

“I’ve never told anyone about my past.” “To be honest, even I don’t fully understand it myself.” “I want to tell you—only you—why that’s the case.” “And I need your help dispelling a terrible suspicion I harbor.” “This task also involves finding those responsible for what happened to Ms. Shiyo and Mr. Miyamaki.” “You must have doubted my motives all this time.” “Why would I involve myself so deeply in this case? Why become your rival and propose to Ms. Shiyo?—it’s true I admired you and wanted to obstruct your romance, but that wasn’t the whole reason.” “There was something deeper—why I grew to detest women and fixate on men; why I studied medicine; what bizarre research I conduct here.” “All will become clear when I tell you my story.”

"I have no idea where I was born or who my parents are." "There was someone who raised me." "There was someone who provided my school expenses." "But I don’t know whether that person was my parent or what." "At the very least, I don’t believe that person loved me with a parent’s heart." "When I first became aware of my surroundings, I was on a remote island in Kishū." "In a desolate village where twenty or thirty fishermen’s houses stood scattered here and there, my house—which among them was as large as a castle—was actually a wretched shack." "There were people there referred to as my parents, but no matter how I considered it, I couldn’t believe they were my real ones." "They didn’t resemble me at all—both were ugly, hunchbacked cripples who not only showed me no love but even while living in the same large house, I hardly ever saw my so-called father. Moreover, they were terribly strict; if I did anything, I would inevitably be scolded and subjected to cruel punishments."

The island had no elementary school, and by regulation, we were supposed to attend a school in a town four kilometers across the water, but no one actually made that commute. "That is why I never received an elementary education." "Instead, there was a kind old servant at home who taught me the basics of reading and writing." "Given such a household environment, I came to find joy in studying. Once I became able to read a little, I devoured every book I could find at home, and whenever I went to town, I would buy various books from the bookstore there to further my studies."

“At the age of thirteen, I mustered tremendous courage and pleaded with my fearsome father to let me attend school.” “My father, acknowledging that I was studious and quite bright, did not scold me outright when he heard my earnest plea but instead said he would give it some thought.” “After about a month had passed, he finally gave his permission.” “But there was an utterly bizarre condition attached to it.” “The first was that if I were to attend school at all, I must go to Tokyo and study diligently through university—staying with a Tokyo acquaintance named Matsuyama to prepare for middle school entrance exams, then living solely in dormitories and boarding houses thereafter if admitted—terms beyond anything I could have hoped for.” “He had properly consulted this Matsuyama and even received a letter agreeing to take me in.” “The second condition was that I must not return home until graduating from university—strange as this seemed, I felt little pain over it given my lack of attachment to that cold household or my disabled parents.” “The third required me to study medicine, with my specific field to be designated upon university entry; defiance would mean immediate cessation of tuition funds—a condition not particularly disagreeable to me at the time.”

But as years passed, I gradually came to understand these second and third conditions held truly terrifying implications. "The second condition—their attempt to keep me from returning home until university graduation—undoubtedly stemmed from some secret in my household they didn’t want me, now grown older, to discover." My house resembled a ruined castle, filled with sunless gloomy rooms that exuded an eerie atmosphere of ominous legends. Moreover, several permanently locked rooms with heavy padlocks stood throughout—their contents forever unknown to me. A large storehouse in the garden remained perpetually unopened. Even as a child, I’d sensed this house concealed some dreadful secret. What unnerved me further was that every family member except the kind old servant was disabled—my hunchbacked parents accompanied by four or five ambiguous figures: some blind, others mute; a mentally deficient child with only two fingers per limb; someone so boneless they resembled a jellyfish unable to stand. Combining this with the locked rooms filled me with indescribable revulsion. "You must understand why I grew almost grateful to be kept from my parents’ home." My parents likewise distanced me to protect their secret. "I believe my sensitivity—so ill-suited to that household—also frightened them."

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 visit my boarding house, saying it was an order from my father in the country.” I was taken by that man to a certain restaurant and thoroughly lectured all night. “Matsuyama had brought a lengthy letter from my father and presented his views based on its contents, but to put it simply, there was no need for me 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 than that, they wanted me to accomplish great research that would contribute to the advancement of surgical science.” This was during the immediate aftermath of the European War, when astonishing reports in surgical science were being widely circulated—how they made complete human beings out of horribly maimed soldiers through skin and bone transplants, performed craniotomies to operate on brains, even succeeding in replacing parts of the cerebral matter. They commanded me to conduct research in that very field. This arose from my parents being unfortunate disabled individuals, making them feel the necessity all the more acutely—for instance, that instead of artificial limbs for those missing hands or feet, transplanting real limbs could make them complete human beings—a notion that also contained amateurish ideas.

"It wasn’t particularly a bad thing either, and if I refused it, my tuition would be cut off, so I accepted this proposal without any thought." "And so began my cursed research." After completing the basic coursework, I proceeded to animal experiments. I cruelly injured or killed rats, rabbits, dogs, and the like. I tormented them with a sharp scalpel as they shrieked and writhed in agony. My research primarily belonged to the category known as vivisection. It was vivisection—dissecting them while still alive. And so, I succeeded in creating many disabled animals. Hunter transplanted chicken spurs onto an ox’s neck, and what they called the famous Algerian ‘rhinoceros-like rat’ succeeded by transplanting a mouse’s tail onto its mouth—I too conducted various experiments similar to these. I cut off frogs’ legs and tried transplanting them onto other frogs, and experimented with creating two guinea pigs. "For the purpose of replacing brains, how many rabbits did I kill in vain?"

Research that should have contributed to humanity turned out, when viewed from another angle, to involve creating unthinkably deformed monsters. What terrified me was how I gradually came to feel an uncanny fascination with producing these disabled beings. Each time I succeeded in an animal experiment, I proudly reported it to Father. Then would come lengthy letters from him celebrating my successes and offering encouragement. When I graduated university, Father—through that Matsuyama fellow I mentioned earlier—had this laboratory built for me and arranged to send substantial monthly research funds. Yet he refuses to lay eyes on me. Even after graduation, he rigidly maintains those original conditions—forbidding my return home while never venturing to Tokyo himself. I couldn't help sensing that these seemingly benevolent acts contained not a shred of parental affection. But that's not all." My body shuddered as I imagined Father's unspeakably wicked scheme. "He fears even letting me see his face.

There was another reason I couldn't regard my parents as parents. This concerns the woman who called herself my mother—that hunchbacked, utterly repulsive woman loved me not as her child but as a man. To speak of this was not only deeply shameful but so repulsive it churned my stomach with nausea; from the time I was over ten years old, my mother ceaselessly tormented me. A ghostly large face would attack me, licking everywhere without restraint. Just recalling the sensation of those lips made my hair stand on end even now. When I awoke to a prickling discomfort, my mother had somehow slipped into my bed and lay beside me. And while saying "Now, be a good boy," she demanded things that couldn't be spoken of here. She showed me all manner of grotesque things. That unbearable torment lasted three years. Half the reason I wanted to leave home was actually this. I saw through the filth of women. And along with my mother, I came to feel all women as filthy and hate them. I think you're aware that my perverse affection stems from such circumstances.

“And then—you may be surprised—but my proposal of marriage to Ms. Shiyo was actually my parents’ order. Before you and Shiyo fell in love, I had been ordered to marry the woman Kizaki Shiyo. My father’s letters arrived constantly, and Matsuyama came frequently like Father’s messenger. Though we might call it coincidence, it’s a strange karmic bond. But as I said earlier—though I despised women—I had no intention of marrying at all. Even when threatened with disownment and having my funds cut off, I managed to deceive them and avoided making any proposals. However, I soon learned of your relationship with Ms. Shiyo. So I completely changed course—decided to obey Father’s orders precisely to obstruct you. I went to Matsuyama’s house, conveyed this decision, and asked him to expedite the marriage arrangements. You know the rest as well as I do.”

“If I tell you just these facts now, you might be able to draw a terrifying conclusion from them. With only the materials we currently know, it isn’t impossible to vaguely construct a single logical path. But until yesterday—when I read those conjoined twins’ diary and heard from you about the scenery in Ms. Shiyo’s childhood memories—even I couldn’t have speculated that far. Ah... it’s dreadful. The desolate coastal scenery you drew yesterday struck me like a physical blow. That castle-like house on the shore—it’s unmistakably the accursed place where I was raised until age thirteen.”

“For mere misunderstandings or coincidences, the scenery witnessed by three people matches far too closely, don’t you think? Ms. Shiyo saw a cape shaped like a sleeping cow. She saw a castle-like ruined building. She saw a large storehouse with peeling walls. The conjoined twins also saw that cow-shaped cape. And they lived in a large storehouse. Both perfectly match the scenery of the house where I grew up. Yet these three share another strange connection as well. Since my father forced me to marry Ms. Shiyo, he must have known her. Considering Mr. Miyamaki—who investigated Ms. Shiyo’s murderer—possessed the twins’ diary, there must be some direct or indirect link between her case and them. Moreover, we can only conclude those twins lived in my father’s house. In other words, we three—or four if counting the twins properly—are nothing but pitiful puppets manipulated by an invisible demon’s hand. And if I dare voice this terrible suspicion... that demon’s master might be none other than the man called my father.”

Moroto said this and turned around stealthily behind him with a terror-filled expression, exactly like a child listening to a ghost story would do. I still couldn't fully grasp what exactly his so-called conclusion entailed or how dreadful its implications were, but from Moroto's utterly bizarre personal history and the peculiar expression he wore while recounting it, I sensed some unearthly sinister aura beyond ordinary reality. Despite it being a clear summer noon, an icy chill ran through me, and I felt goosebumps rising across my entire body.

The Demon's True Identity

Moroto continued speaking further. I was drenched in oily sweat from both the sweltering day and an abnormal excitement. “Can you imagine what a strange state of mind I’m in right now?” “You see... my own father might be a murderer.” “Not just any murderer—a multiple homicide fiend.” “Hahahahaha! Does such an absurd thing even exist in this world?” Moroto laughed like a madman.

“But I still don’t really understand. That could just be your imagination.”

I said this not out of a desire to console him, but because I found it hard to believe what Moroto was saying.

“It may be imagination, but there’s no other way to think about it. Why did my father try to make me marry Ms. Shiyo? Because Ms. Shiyo’s possessions would become mine as her husband. In other words, that genealogy book would become his grandchild’s property. That’s not all. I can speculate even more maliciously. My father wasn’t satisfied with merely obtaining the ciphertext hidden inside the cover of the genealogy book. If that ciphertext indicated a treasure’s location, even having obtained it alone meant nothing—since Ms. Shiyo, the true owner, was still alive, there was no guarantee she wouldn’t figure it out and reclaim it. Therefore, by making me marry Ms. Shiyo, such concerns would vanish. Both the treasure and its ownership rights would become part of Father’s household. Don’t you think my father must have reasoned this way? There’s simply no other interpretation for that fervent marriage campaign!”

“But how did he know that Ms. Shiyo had such a cipher?” “That remains a part we don’t yet understand. But considering the coastal scenery from Ms. Shiyo’s memories, it’s certain that my family and Ms. Shiyo were connected by some fate. Perhaps my father knew Ms. Shiyo when she was young. Given that Ms. Shiyo was abandoned in Osaka at age three, my father likely didn’t know her whereabouts until recently. If you consider that, it wouldn’t be unreasonable at all if he knew Ms. Shiyo possessed the ciphertext.”

“Now listen well,” Moroto continued. “Then he exhausted every means in his marriage campaign. Though he could win over her mother, making Ms. Shiyo herself consent proved impossible. Because she had devoted both body and soul entirely to you. Once he realized this, Ms. Shiyo was soon killed. Simultaneously, the handbag was stolen. Why? Could there have been something else crucial inside that bag? Who would commit murder through such elaborate methods merely to steal a month’s wages? The true objective lay in the genealogy book. Specifically, in the ciphertext concealed within it. Moreover, since the marriage campaign had failed, this was a crime meticulously devised to eliminate Ms. Shiyo—who would have become a seed of future calamity.”

As I listened on, I found myself unable to disbelieve Moroto’s interpretation. And when I imagined how Moroto must feel having such a father, I found myself at a loss for words to comfort him, even speaking feeling too daunting. Moroto continued talking frantically, like a fever patient possessed. “The killing of Mr. Miyamaki was also part of the same evil scheme. Mr. Miyamaki possessed fearsome detective talents. Not only had that renowned detective obtained the genealogy book, but he had even gone out of his way to come to a solitary island at the edge of Kishū. He could no longer leave him be. To obstruct the detective’s progress and to obtain the genealogy book as well, he couldn’t let Mr. Miyamaki live. The culprit—ah, that’s my old man—must have naturally thought this way. So he waited for Mr. Miyamaki to first withdraw to Kamakura, then committed the second murder using the same truly ingenious method as in Ms. Shiyo’s case—right in broad daylight amidst a crowd. Why wasn’t he killed while on the island? Couldn’t it be considered that it was because my father was in Tokyo? Minoura, my father—he might have been hiding somewhere here in Tokyo all this time without letting me know at all.”

No sooner had Moroto said this than he suddenly seemed to notice something. He stood up and went to the window, surveying the garden plantings outside. As if his father might be crouching right there in the thicket before his eyes. But in the dimly overcast midsummer garden, not a single leaf stirred, and all sound—even the cicadas' ceaseless clamor—lay silent as death. "As for why I think such things," Moroto continued while returning to his seat. "Look—on the night Tomosuke was killed, you said you encountered a hunched, eerie old man on your way here." "You also said that old man entered through my house's gate." "Therefore, it might have been that old man who killed Tomosuke." "My father is quite advanced in years now—his back might be bent." "Even without that, given his severe hunchback, when walking he might appear eighty years old, just as you described." "If that old man was him, wouldn't it mean my father had been in Tokyo all along—ever since he was loitering around Ms. Shiyo's house?"

Moroto, as though pleading for help, made his eyes dart about before suddenly falling silent. I, too, seemed to have an overwhelming number of things I should say, yet couldn't find the words to begin and sullenly fell silent. A long silence continued.

“I’ve made up my mind.” After collecting himself, Moroto said in a low voice. “I spent all last night thinking it through and reached my decision. I intend to return to my homeland for the first time in over a decade. By ‘homeland,’ I mean a desolate speck called Iwaya Island off Wakayama’s southern coast—five ri west from port K along barren shores where scarcely anyone lives now. This was where Ms. Shiyo once dwelled, and where those unsettling conjoined twins remain imprisoned even as we speak. (They say pirates once used it as their base long ago. My suspicion about the ciphertext pointing to hidden treasure stems from those very legends.) Though it’s my parents’ home, I’d sworn never to set foot there again. The mere thought of that shadowy ruin they call a mansion fills me with... something between loneliness and dread—an indescribable revulsion. Yet I mean to go back.”

Moroto said with a grave look of resolve. "In my current state of mind, there's no other path but to do so. I can't stay still for even a single day while harboring this terrifying suspicion. I'm waiting for my father to return to the island—or rather, he may have already returned long ago—but I want to meet him and settle things once and for all." But the very thought terrifies me—if my suspicions prove correct and my father truly is that heinous murderer, ah, what am I to do? I was born a murderer's child, raised by murderers, educated with murderers' money, and live in a house built by murderers. That's right—if Father is confirmed as the culprit, I will urge him to turn himself in. No matter what happens, I will prove that I can defeat Father. If that fails, I will destroy everything. I will eradicate the bloodline of evil deeds. If I die killing my hunchbacked father in mutual destruction, then the matter will be settled.

“But before that, there’s something I must do—find the rightful owner of the genealogy book. Given three lives were lost over its ciphertext, there must be immense value in it. I’m obligated to deliver it to Ms. Shiyo’s blood relatives. Even if only to atone for Father’s sins, I feel responsible for discovering her true kin and ensuring their happiness. Once we return to Iwaya Island, we should find some leads. In any case, I’ve resolved to leave Tokyo tomorrow. What do you think, Minoura? Perhaps I’m getting overexcited. Would you—with your calm outsider’s perspective—judge this plan of mine?”

Moroto had called me a "calm outsider," but I was far from calm. As someone weak-nerved, I was even more worked up than Moroto.

As I listened to Moroto’s uncanny confession—sympathizing with him even as I did so—the enemy who had gradually revealed themselves as Shiyo’s killer resurrected within me the agonizing memory of my lover’s tragic end, a memory I had temporarily forgotten amid other matters. The resentment of having the one irreplaceable thing in this world stolen from me seethed like flames in my heart. I had not yet forgotten how, on the day of Shiyo’s bone-gathering rite, I had devoured her ashes in the crematory’s adjacent field, rolled about in anguish, and sworn revenge. Should Moroto’s deduction prove true—should his father indeed be the true culprit—I would not rest until I had forced that wretch to taste the same soul-rending grief I had endured, until I had devoured his flesh and gouged out his bones.

When I considered it, Moroto’s fate of having a murderer for a father was tragic enough, but realizing that my lover’s killer was the father of a close friend—and that this friend harbored an attachment and affection toward me surpassing mere friendship—placed me in a truly bizarre position.

“Please take me with you! Even if I get fired from the company—I couldn’t care less! I’ll arrange travel expenses by any means necessary—so please take me with you!” On impulse, I shouted out.

“So, you also think my reasoning isn’t mistaken, then? But for what reason do you intend to go?” Moroto was preoccupied with himself and had no time to spare to consider my feelings. “It’s for the same reason as you. It’s to confirm Ms. Shiyo’s enemy. And to search out Ms. Shiyo’s relatives and hand over the genealogy book.” “So, if it turns out that Ms. Shiyo’s enemy is my father, what do you intend to do?” Faced with this question, I was taken aback and bewildered. But I detest telling lies. Resolutely, I laid bare my true feelings.

“If that happens, I will 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, even devouring that bastard’s flesh wouldn’t satisfy me.”

When Moroto heard this, he fell silent and fixed me with a terrifying gaze, but then his expression suddenly softened, and he spoke in a cheerful tone.

“That’s right—let’s go together. “If my suspicions prove correct, I am—so to speak—the child of your enemy. Even if they don’t, the thought of you witnessing my family—beings indistinguishable from beasts—fills me with shame. But if you’ll permit it, know this: I feel not an ounce of familial love for my father or mother. If anything, I harbor hatred toward them. When the time comes, I will stand by your side. “For your sake and that of Ms. Shiyo, whom you loved, I wouldn’t hesitate to stake not only my family but even my own life. “Minoura, let’s go together. “And let’s join forces to uncover the island’s secrets!”

Moroto said this and, no sooner had he blinked rapidly than he awkwardly took my hand in a manner reminiscent of olden-day swearing of brotherhood, tightening his grip as he childishly reddened around the eyes.

And so, we were finally set to depart for a remote island off the coast of Kishū, Moroto’s homeland, but there was something I had to briefly note here.

Moroto’s hatred for his father—though unvoiced at the time—contained far deeper implications that became clear only in later reflection. This was an act more dreadful and loathsome than any ordinary crime. It constituted a fiendish deed—not of humankind but of beasts, unimaginable in our world save through hellish imaginings. Even Moroto had feared to touch upon that matter directly.

But at that time, my weak heart was utterly exhausted by the bloody affair of the triple murder alone, leaving no room to contemplate further evils—or so I wondered. Strangely, I failed to notice what I should have naturally realized when I synthesized all the circumstances up to that point.

Iwaya Island

Once our plans were settled, before anything else, we were concerned about the genealogy book 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 genealogy book, it’s extremely dangerous for us to keep them. As long as we’ve memorized the ciphertext, the rest holds no particular value. All the more reason to burn both of them,” Moroto proposed in the car headed toward Kanda. I was also, of course, in agreement.

But when we went up to the second floor of the Western-style restaurant and reached into the tear in the frame we remembered, for some reason, it was completely empty, with no sign of anything inside. When we asked the staff below, no one knew anything. They answered that no one had entered that room since the day before yesterday. “We’ve been had,” Moroto said. “That bastard is watching our every move without ever taking his eyes off us. Though I was so careful...” Moroto exclaimed in admiration at the thief’s skill.

“But if the ciphertext falls into the enemy’s hands, we can’t afford to delay even a moment.”

“We’ve finally settled on departing tomorrow. Now that things have reached this point, there’s no alternative but for us to take the offensive ourselves.”

The following day, on July 29, 1925—a date I would never forget—we set off with light travel preparations on an utterly mysterious journey toward a solitary island in the southern seas.

Moroto left instructions that he was simply going on a trip, entrusted his house to the live-in student and the old woman servant, while I took leave from my company and 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, and with summer vacation imminent, neither my family nor my coworkers found my request particularly suspicious.

“Accompanying a friend’s return home.” It was indeed factually true. But what a strange homecoming it was. Moroto was returning to his father’s domain. But it was not to see his father’s face. He was returning to pass judgment on his father’s sins and fight against him. To Toba in Shishū by train; from Toba to Port K in Kii by scheduled ship; beyond that, one had no choice but to rely on local fishermen for passage—there were no regular vessels. Though today’s scheduled ships are splendid three-thousand-ton vessels, those of that time were dilapidated two- or three-hundred-ton steamers with few passengers. Once we left Toba, an indescribable sense of foreignness set in, making us terribly forlorn. After being rocked all day on that decrepit steamer, we finally reached K Port—itself no more than a desolate fishing village. From there, we spent nearly half a day on a small fishing boat where even language proved barely comprehensible, traversing five ri across the sea along an uninhabited cliff-bound coast until at last we reached Iwaya Island.

Without incident along the way, we landed at K Port around noon on July 31. The pier served as the fish market's unloading area, where bonito resembling torpedoes and sharks with protruding intestines—already beginning to rot—lay scattered about, the briny scent of the shore and the stench of decaying flesh assailed our noses.

At the top of the pier stood a shabby house with a sign that advertised inn cuisine, its front marked by conspicuous paper sliding doors. We first entered there and, while having lunch with bonito sashimi where at least the ingredients were fresh, cornered the landlady to request arrangements for a ferry and inquire about Iwaya Island. “Hmm, Iwaya Island? “It’s close by, but I’ve never been there myself—folks say it’s a creepy sort of place, y’see. “Excluding the Moroto estate, are there even six or seven fishermen’s houses there? “There’s nothing to see—just rocks everywhere. A lonely little island, y’see.”

The landlady said such things in a thick dialect. “Haven’t you heard any rumors about the master of that Moroto estate going to Tokyo lately?” “Haven’t heard nothin’, y’see. If that hunchbacked gentleman from the Moroto estate boarded a steamship from here, folks’d know right away—they wouldn’t just let that slip by.” “But y’see, that hunchbacked gentleman’s place has a sailboat of their own, so there’s that.” “They could’ve gone and docked that boat anywhere they pleased, maybe even snuck off to Tokyo without us knowin’ a thing.” “You folks know the master of the Moroto estate, y’see?”

“Well, that’s not exactly why, but I’d like to go see Iwaya Island. Is there anyone who could take us over there by boat?” “Hmm, seein’ as the weather’s fine, y'know, ’fraid all the fishermen are out at sea.”

But because we persisted in our requests, she went around making inquiries and ultimately managed to hire an elderly fisherman for us. After negotiating the fare, it took nearly an hour—a testament to the slow-paced ways of the countryside—before everything was ready with a “Well then, aboard you get.” The boat was a small fishing vessel called a choro that could barely hold two people. “Is this boat really safe?” I pressed. The old fisherman laughed and said, “No need to worry.”

The coastal scenery resembled that of any peninsula—sheer cliffs topped by thickly wooded edges where mountains met sea without transition. Though fortunately calm, the water foamed white along the entire base of these bluffs. Grotesque rock formations pierced by womb-like tunnels rose at intervals. As nightfall would bring total darkness, the old fisherman increased their speed. When they rounded one massive protruding cape, Iwaya Island’s uncanny silhouette materialized before them.

The entire island seemed to be made of rock, with only sparse patches of green visible; the shores were all sheer cliffs several meters high, making one wonder how anyone could live on such an island.

As we drew closer, several houses came into view, dotting the top of those sheer cliffs. At one end stood a large roof that somehow evoked a castle keep, and beside it glistened what appeared to be the white storehouse of the Moroto estate in question.

The boat soon reached the island’s shore, but to enter a safe landing place, it had to proceed along the cliff for a while. In the meantime, there was one spot where the base of the cliff—likely formed by seawater erosion—had become a pitch-dark cave of unfathomable depth. The boat was advancing about half a cho offshore from the cave when the old fisherman pointed at it and said: “Folks around here call that cave there the Demon’s Abyss, y’see. Since way back, people get swallowed up now and then, so they say it’s cursed or some such, and the fishermen don’t dare go near it.”

“Is there a whirlpool there?” “It’s not exactly a whirlpool, but there’s something there, y’see.” “The most recent was about ten years back, y’see, when such a thing happened, I tell ya.”

With that, the old fisherman proceeded to tell the following strange story. This was not the old fisherman’s own account but that of another fisherman he knew. One day, a shabby-looking man with bulging eyes appeared nonchalantly at Port K and crossed over to Iwaya Island, just as we were doing now. The fisherman who had been asked at that time was that very man. Four or five days later, as the same fisherman happened to pass before Iwaya Island’s cave on his way back from night fishing in the pale light of dawn—it being low tide at the time—small waves of the morning calm lapped at the entrance with each ebb and flow, gradually washing out seaweed and debris from within. Among these, something large and white stirred, which he initially took for a shark carcass. But upon closer inspection, he realized with shock that it was a drowned human body. The entire body was still inside the cave, with only the head slowly oozing out from it.

The fisherman immediately rowed closer and rescued the traveler, but to his shock a second time, the drowned body was unmistakably that of the man he had ferried from K Port days earlier. It was concluded he had likely jumped from the cliff to kill himself, and the matter was left unresolved, but according to elders' accounts, this cave had long been an accursed site where drowned bodies were always found half inside the cavern, appearing as though they were flowing out from its depths. Nothing could be stranger than this; there was even a legend that demonic beings dwelled within the cave's unfathomable recesses, hungering for human sacrifices, and it was thought this might be how the name "Demon’s Abyss" came to be.

The old fisherman finished speaking, “That’s why I’m takin’ this roundabout way, y’see—to pass by that hole as little as possible.” “You gents best mind yerselves too, y’see, lest demons take hold of ya.” he warned us ominously. But we brushed it off casually. Little did we imagine there’d come a day when we’d recall this old fisherman’s tale and shudder in terror.

While we were talking, the boat entered a small inlet at a corner of the island. Only in that part was the shore low enough—about one ken—with stone steps carved into natural rock forming a mere semblance of a boat landing. Looking around, moored in the inlet was a sailboat that looked to be about fifty tons, like a cargo ship captain's vessel, while outside it two or three grubby small boats could be seen—but not a single person was in sight. When we landed, we sent the old fisherman back and, with a peculiar excitement stirring in our chests, began dragging ourselves up the slope.

When they reached the top, their view opened up to reveal a vast, sprawling rocky path—where hardly any grass grew—encircling the central rocky mass of the island, stretching as far as the eye could see. Beyond, the Moroto estate—that castle-like structure—loomed in utter ruin. “Indeed, from here, that cape over there looks exactly like a cow lying down.”

When told this and turning to look in that direction, indeed, the tip of the cape we had rounded by boat now appeared in the shape of a sleeping cow. Remembering how Ms. Shiyo had once spoken of babysitting and playing around here, I was overcome by a strange 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 ashen gray. It was an indescribable desolation. "It looks like an uninhabited island," I said. "That's right," Moroto replied. "It's become even more desolate and dreadful than I remember from my childhood. How on earth could people have lived in a place like this?" We walked toward the Moroto estate, our feet crunching on the gravel, but after proceeding a short distance, we discovered something strange.

A decrepit old man sat at the edge of a steep cliff in the evening dusk, gazing into the distance as motionless as a stone statue.

We involuntarily stopped and stared intently at the peculiar figure.

Then, perhaps having noticed our footsteps, the old man who had been gazing out to sea very slowly twisted his neck around to look back at us. And when the old man’s gaze reached Moroto’s face, it stopped dead there and ceased moving. The old man stared at Moroto on and on, so intently it could bore a hole. “Strange. Who could that be?” “I can’t remember.” “It’s definitely someone who recognizes me.”

After coming this way for 1 chō, Moroto said while looking back at the old man.

“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 own father. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" Moroto gave a low, sarcastic laugh.

Moroto Estate

As we drew closer, the state of ruin at the Moroto estate grew even more severe. A crumbling earthen wall, a rotten gate—upon passing through these, there was no boundary to speak of, and the backyard came immediately into view. But the strangest thing was this: the garden had been dug up across its entire expanse as if plowed, with what few trees remained either toppled or uprooted and tossed aside, creating a scene of chaos too appalling to behold. This gave the entire estate an appearance of being even more desolate than it actually was.

Standing at the entrance that looked like a monster’s pitch-black maw, we requested guidance, but there was no response for some time. After calling out repeatedly, however, an old woman came shuffling out unsteadily from deep within. Though it was due to the dimming twilight, I had never in my life seen such a grotesque crone. She was squat in stature, so corpulent that her flesh sagged beneath its own weight, a hunchback atop that, with a hillock-like lump swelling from her back. As for her face—within wrinkled skin the color of persimmon paper bulged protruding, goggle-like eyes shaped like tadpole heads; her malformed lips failed to cover long yellow teeth that jutted out like broken tombstones. Yet she seemed to lack any upper teeth at all, for when she closed her mouth, her face shrank eerily like a collapsed lantern.

“Who’s there?” The old woman peered at us and asked in an angry-sounding voice. “It’s me. Michio.” When Moroto thrust his face forward to show himself, the old woman stared intently, but upon recognizing him, she started in surprise and let out a frantic cry. “Oh! Michio!” “Well, well, you actually came back.” “I thought you’d never come back in my lifetime.” “And who’s this one here?”

"This is my friend," said Moroto Michio. "Since I wanted to see how the house was doing after so long, I came all this way with my friend. And Mr. Jogoro?" "Oh you!" Otaka retorted. "Calling him 'Mr. Jogoro'? He's Father, isn't he? You call him Father!"

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 by the name Jogoro—but what struck me even more was something else entirely. It lay in how she had uttered “Oto-san.” The intonation bore an uncanny resemblance—whether imagined or not—to how acrobat boy Tomosuke had cried out “Oto-san” moments before dying. “He’s here,” she said. “But mind you—he’s been foul-tempered lately. Best watch yourself. Now quit dawdling at the threshold and come inside.”

We were led through a musty, pitch-dark corridor that wound several times to a certain large room. Despite the dilapidated exterior, the interior had been kept quite clean, but even so, it couldn't escape an air of ruin. Since the room faced the garden, in the dimming twilight, the broad backyard and a portion of the storehouse's peeling white wall were faintly visible, but in the garden, the brutally dug-up traces remained starkly evident.

After a while, an eerie presence manifested at the room’s entrance, and Moroto’s father—the mysterious old man—slinked into view. It—he—moved through the utterly darkened room like a shadow, turned his back to the large alcove, settled down lightly, and suddenly—

“Michio, why have you come back?” he said reproachfully. After that, his mother entered, took out an andon lantern that had been in the corner of the room, placed it between the old man and us, and lit it. But in that reddish-brown light, the figure of the mysterious old man that emerged appeared sinister and grotesque, like an owl. His hunchbacked short stature closely resembled his mother’s, yet paradoxically, his face alone was abnormally large—wrinkles spreading across it like the legs of a female spider, and an ugly upper lip split down the middle like a rabbit’s—creating an impression so profound 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 gone and broken our agreement, have you?”

“That’s not the case, but there was something I absolutely needed to ask you.” “I see. Actually, there’s something I want to talk to you about too. Enough—just stay here. To tell the truth, I too wanted to see what you looked like as an adult.”

My ability falls short of recreating the exact atmosphere of that moment, but the reunion between parent and child after over a decade was, in general terms, an utterly bizarre affair. Not only physically but also mentally, they seemed to have some deformity; their words, gestures, even something as fundamental as parental affection—all appeared to differ entirely from ordinary humans. In that bizarre state, this mysterious parent and child continued talking haltingly for about an hour. Among them, what I still remember to this day are the following two exchanges.

“Have you taken a trip somewhere recently?” At some point, Moroto touched on that point and said.

“Nah, I haven’t gone anywhere. Right, Otaka?” The old man turned toward his mother beside him, seeking her backing. Perhaps it was my imagination, but just then, the old man’s eyes seemed to glint with a certain intensity.

“In Tokyo, I saw someone who looked just like you. I thought perhaps you might have gone to Tokyo secretly without informing me.”

“Nonsense. At my age, with this disabled body—do you think I’d go traipsing off to a place like Tokyo?” But I didn’t overlook how the old man’s eyes had become slightly bloodshot and his forehead had taken on a leaden pallor. Moroto did not press further and changed the subject, but after a while, he posed another important question. “The garden appears to have been dug up. Why did you do such a thing?”

The old man, caught off guard by this sudden attack, seemed at a loss for words and remained silent for a long time, but— “Well, you see, Otaka, this here’s Roku’s doing. "As you know, our household keeps pitiful people who aren’t proper members of society, and among them there’s a madman called Roku." "That Roku went and did this to the garden for some reason." “Since he’s a madman, you see, we can’t very well scold him,” he answered.

To me, that could only be seen as a strained, made-up excuse.

That night, we were given bedding in the same room, and we laid our pillows side by side and went to sleep. However, both of us found sleep elusive due to our heightened nerves. Yet we couldn’t engage in careless conversation either, so we lay there in tense silence. As our minds attuned to the quiet night, from somewhere in the vast, slumbering mansion, the faint, eerie sound of a human voice ebbed and flowed persistently. *Uuuuuu*

It was a thin, high-pitched groan. I thought someone might be tossing in a nightmare, but it was odd how it continued endlessly. In the dim andon light, as Moroto and I exchanged glances and strained our ears in silence, I suddenly recalled those pitiable conjoined twins said to be confined in the storehouse. Then I shuddered involuntarily at the thought that this voice might betray the conjoined pair's cruel struggle—a conflict so unnatural it defied all earthly reason.

Dozing off at dawn, I suddenly awoke to find Moroto absent from the neighboring futon. Fearing I had overslept, I frantically leapt up and headed out into the corridor to search for the washroom.

Unfamiliar with the layout, I was wandering through the spacious house when from around a corridor corner, Otaka, his mother, suddenly sprang out and stood blocking my path. The suspicious, disabled old woman seemed to have suspected I was snooping around the house for some reason. However, when I asked for the washroom, she finally appeared relieved. "Ah, in that case," she said, and guided me from the back entrance to the well. After washing my face, I suddenly recalled last night's groans and their connection to the conjoined twins in the storehouse, feeling a desire to see the window outside the wall that Mr. Miyamaki had once peered into. With any luck, the conjoined twins might be at that window.

Maintaining the pretense of a morning stroll, I casually slipped out of the estate and made my way along the earthen wall toward the rear. Outside was a bumpy path strewn with large stones, giving the impression of scorched earth with nothing but sparse weeds and no proper trees in sight. However, along the route from the main gate to the back of the storehouse, there existed a single spot—like an oasis in a desert—where trees grew in a dense circular cluster. Parting the branches and peering through, I saw what appeared to be an old well at its center—a moss-covered stone well frame. It was no longer in use, but for this desolate island, it was an excessively grand well. In the past, outside the Moroto estate, there might have been another mansion here as well.

Be that as it may, I soon reached the base of the storehouse in question. There was an earthen wall, of course, but because the storehouse stood flush against it, even from outside one could see it at extremely close range. As expected, on the second floor of the storehouse facing rearward, there was a small window. Everything up to where the iron bars were embedded matched that diary's description. With my heart racing, I gazed up at that window and stood waiting patiently. The morning sun blazed crimson against patches of remaining white plaster; an open sea fragrance drifted softly to my nose. Everything felt so bright that I simply couldn't believe this storehouse housed what they called a monster.

But I saw. After looking away momentarily, when I abruptly returned my gaze, there behind the window's iron bars were two torsos visible from the chest up—two faces side by side, four hands gripping the bars. One face belonged to a bluish-black man with protruding cheekbones and ugliness incarnate; the other, though devoid of rosiness, was the flawlessly pale visage of a young woman with skin like finely milled rice. When the girl's fully widened eyes met my upturned gaze directly, she displayed an unearthly expression of shame—something no mortal should witness—and jerked her head back as if to hide.

But at the same time—what in the world? I, too, involuntarily flushed and averted my eyes. Foolishly, I found myself struck by the unearthly beauty of the conjoined girl, and before I knew it, my heart began to race.

Three days.

If Moroto’s conjecture was correct, his father Jogoro was a demon whose monstrous nature surpassed even his physical deformity. He was an unparalleled heinous villain in this world. To achieve his wicked ambitions, he would spare no thought for such trifles as familial affection. Moreover, as had been repeatedly stated, Michio never regarded his father as a true parent. He was even attempting to expose his father’s sins. Given that such an unnatural parent and child shared the same roof, it was only inevitable that such a dreadful rupture would eventually come to pass.

The peaceful days lasted only three days from our arrival on the island. By the fourth day, Moroto and I had reached a state where it had become impossible for us to even speak. And on that very same day, a tragic incident occurred where two residents of Iwaya Island fell victim to the curse of evil demons, vanishing like sea foam into the man-eating cave known as the Abyss of Demons.

But even during those three peaceful days, it was not that there were no events worth recording.

One of these was regarding the conjoined twins in the storehouse. As I described in the previous chapter, the morning after my first night at the Moroto residence, I glimpsed the conjoined twins at the storehouse window and was struck by the beauty of one of them—the female half, that is, Hide from the diary. Yet even if the bizarre environment accentuated this disabled girl’s beauty, the fact that such a fleeting glimpse had seized my heart so powerfully felt like no ordinary matter.

As the reader knows, I had devoted all my love to the late Kizaki Shiyo. I had even drunk her ashes. And hadn't I come to Iwaya Island with Moroto not solely to confirm Shiyo's enemy? And yet I, who had only caught a single glimpse of her, was struck by the beauty of that ill-fated disabled girl. To say I was struck by her beauty is to put it another way—I had felt love. I had come to yearn for her. Yes, I must confess—I had fallen in love with the disabled girl Hide-chan. Ah, how utterly pathetic I am! Wasn't swearing vengeance for Shiyo something as recent as yesterday? As it stands now, didn't you come to this isolated island precisely to carry out that vow? And yet, whether I had even properly arrived or not, to think that I—of all people—would fall for a disabled girl not even fully human... I never could have imagined. At that moment, I felt such shame toward myself, thinking, "Was I truly such a contemptible man?"

However shameful it may be, the heart that loves is an inescapable truth.

I would invent all manner of excuses, rationalizing within my heart, and whenever a gap presented itself, would stealthily slip out of the residence to circle around to the back of that storehouse.

However, when I went there for the second time—which was the evening of the day I first caught a glimpse of Hide-chan—an even more troubling matter occurred for me. That is to say, at that time, I realized that Hide-chan also felt no less affection for me than I did for her. What a cruel twist of fate.

In the twilight haze, the storehouse window gaped open like a black maw. I stood beneath it, waiting patiently for the girl's face to appear. No matter how long I waited, no shadow crossed that black window until finally, in frustration, I whistled like a delinquent boy. Then—as if someone lying down had suddenly leapt up—Hide-chan's faintly pale face peeked out for an instant before being yanked back by something in the blink of an eye. Though it lasted but a moment, I didn't miss how Hide-chan's face smiled sweetly at me. And imagining that Kichi-chan was acting jealous to keep Hide-chan from looking out, I felt an awkwardly ticklish sensation.

Even after Hide-chan's face withdrew, I couldn't bring myself to leave the spot and kept gazing up at the same window with lingering reluctance—until presently, a white object came flying out from the window straight at me. A paper pellet! I picked up what had fallen at my feet, and when I unfolded it to look, there was a penciled letter as follows.

Please investigate my situation and find out who scattered the book. Then please get me out of this place. Because you are beautiful and clever, I earnestly beg you to save me.

The characters were extremely difficult to read, but after countless rereadings, I finally managed to grasp their meaning. I was startled by the blunt expression "You are beautiful." Even considering what I'd imagined from that diary's entries—where Hide-chan's notion of "beautiful" differed slightly from ours, not necessarily carrying vulgar connotations—I still found myself blushing alone when I deciphered those words. Then, during those three days before discovering something truly unexpected at that same storehouse window, I visited five or six times (what struggles I endured for those mere half-dozen outings!) to secretly meet Hide. Fearful of alerting the household, we avoided verbal exchanges, but with each encounter grew more fluent in deciphering each other's ocular language. We developed an intricate lexicon of subtle eye conversations. Though clumsy with letters and unworldly, I came to recognize Hide-chan as innately brilliant—a girl of remarkable natural intellect.

Through our eye conversations, I came to understand how terribly Kichi made Hide-chan suffer. Since my appearance, he seemed to have become jealous and treated her even more harshly. Hide-chan conveyed this to me with her eyes and hand gestures.

There were times when Kichi-chan would push Hide-chan aside, and his bluish-black ugly face would glare at me with terrifying eyes for what felt like an eternity. I still cannot forget that unpleasant expression—a beast-like visage of resentment, jealousy, ignorance, and filth, grotesque beyond compare. It stared fixedly in my direction without blinking, as if engaged in a glaring contest, with relentless intensity. The fact that one half of the conjoined twins was this grotesque beast deepened my pity for Hide-chan twofold. Day by day, I found myself growing fonder of this disabled girl without being able to stop it. To me, it somehow felt like an unfortunate pact made in some previous life. Every time our eyes met, Hide would urgently plead with me to rescue her sooner. Though I had no concrete plan, I patted my chest and said, "It's alright, alright. I'll definitely save you soon, so please endure a little longer," trying to reassure the pitiable Hide.

The Moroto residence had several sealed rooms. The storehouse went without saying, but beyond that, sitting rooms with old-fashioned locks on their plank doors could be seen here and there. Since Moroto's mother and male servants were discreetly yet constantly watching our movements, we couldn't freely roam about the house. However, on one occasion, I pretended to have taken a wrong turn in the corridor and stealthily ventured deeper inside, confirming the existence of the sealed rooms. In one room, I heard a creepy groaning sound. In another room, I sensed something moving incessantly with a thudding noise. All these could only be considered sounds made by humans confined like animals.

As I paced through the dimly lit corridor and listened intently, an indescribable eerie presence assaulted me. Moroto had said that disabled people were swarming in this mansion, but might there not be even more terrifying disabled beings confined in the sealed rooms—monsters like the one in the storehouse (ah, how my heart remains captivated by that monster!)? Was the Moroto residence truly a house of the disabled? But why on earth was Mr. Jogoro gathering so many impaired individuals in this manner?

During those three days of peace—besides seeing Hide's face and discovering the sealed rooms—there occurred one more unusual incident. One day, when Moroto had gone to his father's place and showed no sign of returning, I grew so bored that I ventured out for a stroll to the coastal boat landing. When I had come earlier, I hadn't noticed due to the evening dusk, but halfway along that path at the base of a rocky hill stood a small grove of trees, beyond which could be seen a single dilapidated hut. Though all houses on this island were built scattered apart, that hut felt particularly isolated. Wondering what sort of person might live there, on sudden impulse I left the path and entered the woods.

The building was more appropriately called a hut than a house due to its small size, having fallen into such disrepair that it stood utterly uninhabitable. The hut's elevated position afforded a panoramic view encompassing the sea, the so-called cow-shaped cape on the opposite shore, and even the cave known as the Abyss of Demons. Iwaya Island's cliffs formed rugged undulations, their most protruding point housing the Abyss of Demons' cavern. This cave with its unfathomable depths resembled a demon's gaping black maw, the crashing wave crests before it appearing like jagged fangs. As I stared, the upper cliffs began taking shape in my mind's eye as a demonic visage—glaring eyes and flared nostrils completing the monstrous countenance. To one like myself, born and raised in the capital with no worldly experience, this solitary island in southern waters seemed an impossibly strange alternate reality. A remote isle with scarcely any dwellings, a Moroto residence resembling ancient castles, conjoined twins imprisoned in storehouses, disabled persons confined to sealed rooms, caves that swallowed men whole—to a city-bred soul like mine, these existed only as grotesque fairy tales.

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

At that moment, a cough sounded from right beside me, shattering my dreamlike state. When I turned around, an old man leaned against the hut's window, staring fixedly in my direction. As I recalled, this was unmistakably the same mysterious old man who had been crouching on the shore near here when we first arrived on the island, staring intently at Moroto's face.

“Are you a guest at the Moroto residence?”

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

I wanted to know the old man’s true identity, so I asked in return. “Of course I know him! Why, I served at the Moroto residence long ago—I even carried young Master Michio on my back when he was a child. Don’t you know?” “But I’ve gotten old myself.” “Mr. Michio seems to have clean forgotten what I look like.”

“I see. “Then why do you come to the Moroto residence but not meet Mr. Michio? Mr. Michio would surely feel nostalgic, don’t you think?” “I refuse. No matter how much I’d want to meet Mr. Michio, I refuse to cross the threshold of that beast-in-human-form’s house. You probably don’t know this, but the Moroto hunchback couple are demons in human form—beasts, I tell you!”

“Are they really such terrible people? Are they doing something bad, perhaps?” “No, no, don’t ask me that. While we’re both on this island, careless words could cost me my life. When it comes to that hunchback, human lives mean no more than rubbish to him, I tell you.” “Just keep your wits about you—you’ve got a fine future ahead.” “No good comes from meddling with old folks on remote islands like this. Caution’s your best armor here.” “But Mr. Jogoro and Mr. Michio are father and son, and I’m Mr. Michio’s friend. However wicked they might be, surely there’s no danger for me.”

“Ah, but that’s not how it works at all. In fact, about ten years back now, there was a similar case. A man came all the way from the capital too, visiting the Moroto residence. They said he was Mr. Jogoro’s cousin—young fellow with his whole life ahead of him—but ended up a pitiful sight, his corpse washing up by that cave they call the Abyss of Demons. Not that I’m saying it was Mr. Jogoro’s doing, mind you. But here’s the thing—that man had been staying at the Moroto residence, I tell you. Yet nobody ever saw him step outside that mansion or board a boat. You catch my drift? What this old man’s telling you ain’t wrong. Best keep your wits about you, I tell you.”

The old man continued to earnestly expound on the terrors of the Moroto residence, his tone implicitly warning that we too would share the fate of Jogoro's cousin from ten years prior—urging caution without directly stating it. While part of me dismissed such absurdity, another part—aware of the triple murder methods from the capital—couldn't shake the ominous sense that the old man's ill-omened words might prove prophetic. My vision darkened as an unpleasant shiver ran through me.

Now, as for what Moroto Michio had been doing during those three days—we slept side by side each night, but he remained strangely silent. Perhaps the anguish in his heart was too raw to put into words. During the day 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 returned to our room after concluding lengthy discussions, he appeared gaunt and drained, his pallid face marked only by bloodshot eyes. He would then sink into sullen silence, refusing to properly answer no matter what I asked.

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

“Ah, how terrifying! What I had feared most—what I never dared believe—was actually true. It’s finally over.” “So it really was just as we suspected.”

I lowered my voice and asked.

“That’s right. And there were even worse things.” Moroto contorted his earth-colored face and said sorrowfully. I asked him various questions about his so-called “more terrible things,” but he didn’t say anything further. But— “Tomorrow I’ll firmly refuse.” “If we do that, it’ll finally blow up.” “Minoura, I’m on your side.” “Let’s join forces and fight the demon. Come on, let’s fight!”

Having said that, he reached out and gripped my wrist tightly. But how utterly miserable he looked, in stark contrast to those brave words. It was no wonder—he was calling his own father a demon and preparing to fight him as an enemy. Of course he looked haggard. Of course he was pale. I had no words of comfort and could only return his grip slightly, letting it speak volumes.

Body double

The next day, the dreadful ruin finally came.

In the afternoon, after finishing lunch alone with the service of the mute maid—this being the Otoshi-san mentioned in Hide-chan’s diary—and since Moroto had not returned from his father’s room, I felt utterly despondent even when thinking by myself, so under the pretense of taking a post-meal stroll, I once again went to the back of the storehouse to communicate with Hide-chan through our eye signals. Even after standing there for some time looking up at the window, with neither Hide-chan nor Kichi-chan showing their faces, I blew my usual signal whistle. Then, a face suddenly appeared at the black window’s iron bars. When I saw it, I gasped and doubted whether my mind was playing tricks on me. The reason was that the face that had appeared there was neither Hide’s nor Kichi’s—it was Moroto Michio’s contorted face, though I had been certain he was in his father’s room.

No matter how many times I looked again, it was not my hallucination. Undeniably, Michio was cohabiting in the twins' cage. The moment I realized this, I involuntarily began to let out a loud cry, but Moroto swiftly pressed a finger to my mouth to warn me，managing to stifle it just in time. Seeing my look of surprise，Moroto frantically gestured something from within the narrow window，but unlike Hide-chan’s subtle eyes，what he was trying to convey was too complex，and I couldn’t grasp the meaning at all. Moroto，frustrated，signaled for me to wait a moment and pulled his head back inside，but soon threw a crumpled piece of paper toward me.

When I picked it up and unfolded it to look, written there in pencil—likely borrowed from Hide-chan—was the following hastily scribbled message. Through a moment's carelessness, I fell into Jogoro Moroto's treacherous scheme and have become imprisoned like the conjoined twins. The watch is exceedingly strict, leaving absolutely no hope for sudden escape. But what worries me more is you. You being an outsider makes you all the more imperiled. Escape this island at once, I implore you. I've resigned myself—resigned myself to everything. The detective work, the revenge, even my own life.

I beg you not to blame me for breaking our promise; do not mock this coward I’ve become, so unlike my former resolute self. I am Jogoro’s son. I must bid farewell forever to you, whom I’ve come to cherish. Forget Moroto Michio. Forget Iwajima Island. And though it pains me to ask this—abandon even your vengeance for Ms. Shiyo. Should you reach the mainland, please refrain from informing the police. By our years of friendship, I implore you—let this be 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’s sudden reversal or resenting Jogoro’s brutality, I found myself overwhelmed by an indescribable grief that left my chest feeling utterly empty. How many times had Moroto’s heart been tormented by that fragile parent-child bond? When I truly considered it, my journey to this distant Iwajima Island had never been for my own sake, nor even for Shiyo’s revenge—it might have been an act compelled by that very bond between parent and child. And when faced with the final critical moment, he had ultimately been defeated. Had this grotesque battle between father and son truly reached its end in such fashion?

For a long, long time, I exchanged glances with Moroto through the storehouse window, but when he finally gave the signal to leave from his side, I walked toward the gate of the Moroto residence almost mechanically, without any particular thought in mind. As I was leaving, I noticed Hide-chan’s puzzled face staring intently at me from the dimness behind Moroto’s pale face. That made me feel even more despondent.

But of course, I couldn't bring myself to leave. I had to save Michio. I had to rescue Hide-chan. No matter how Michio might oppose it, I could not abandon Shiyo's enemy and leave this island. And if possible,I had to discover her treasure for the sake of the late Shiyo. (Strangely,I could think of Shiyo and Hide-chan simultaneously without feeling any contradiction.) Even without Moroto's request,I would only resort to seeking police help as a last resort. I would stay on this island and probe deeper. I would encourage the disheartened Moroto and make him an ally of justice. And borrowing his excellent wisdom,I would fight the demon. By the time I returned to my room in the Moroto residence,I had resolutely made up my mind in this manner.

After I had been back in my room for a while, Jogoro Moroto's hunchbacked figure appeared in his hideous form for the first time in ages. He entered my room and stood blocking the way, "You should prepare to leave at once. I won't keep you in this house—no, on this Iwajima Island—a moment longer. Now then, get ready."

he bellowed. “If you order me to leave, I will comply—but where is Michio-san? Unless Michio-san is also—” “Unless Michio-san is also with me.” “Due to circumstances, I cannot allow you to meet my son.” “But he is well aware of that too.” “Now then, get ready.” Having concluded that 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 must hide somewhere on this island and devise a way to rescue either Michio or Hide-chan.

But to my dismay, Jogoro Moroto had also acted shrewdly, assigning one burly servant to confirm my destination. The servant carried 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 Master Moroto’s orders.” “Prepare the boat.” “Take this person to K.” “Is this guest leaving alone?”

The old man, just as before, leaned halfway out of the window and, while staring intently at my face, answered. In the end, the servant left me in the care of the old man called Toku-san and departed, but Jogoro entrusting me to this old man—who was, so to speak, his betrayer—was both unexpected and uncanny. That said, the fact that this old man had been chosen was extremely convenient for me. I roughly explained the details of the matter and asked for the old man’s assistance. I insisted that I absolutely must stay on this island a little while longer.

The old man argued against my plan's recklessness using the same reasoning as before, but since I stubbornly refused to yield my position, he finally relented. Not only did he agree to my request, but he even came up with an ingenious scheme to deceive Jogoro. The scheme was this: Given Jogoro's suspicious nature, if I were to remain on the island as I was, he would never accept it, and ultimately the old man who had taken me in would earn his resentment. Therefore, we had no choice but to at least make a show of crossing by boat to the mainland once.

However, there would be no advantage if Toku-san were to row over alone in the boat. Fortunately, since Toku’s son closely resembled me in both age and build, we decided to dress him in my Western clothes, make him appear as me from a distance, and have him cross over to the mainland. The plan was that I would wear the son’s kimono and hide in Toku-san’s hut. “Until your business is done, I’ll have my son go on an Ise pilgrimage or something.”

Toku-san said that and laughed.

In the evening, Toku-san’s son put on my Western clothes, hunched his back, and boarded Toku-san’s boat. The small boat carrying my body double, with Toku-san as the oarsman, proceeded along the island’s steep cliffs over the dusk-darkened sea, unaware of what terrifying fate lay ahead.

Murderous Vista

Now I was the protagonist of an adventure novel. After seeing the two off and putting on the briny-smelling, tattered cotton-padded kimono that Toku’s son had been wearing until then, I crouched by the hut’s window, peering out from behind the shoji screen with just my eyes visible, and kept watch over where the boat was headed.

The cape shaped like a sleeping cow grew hazy in the evening mist, the blackened sea blending with the leaden-gray sky where even one or two stars could be seen glimmering. The wind had died down, and the sea surface was as calm as black oil, but it was exactly high tide, and even from a distance, the area around the Abyss of Demons was forming a whirlpool, with seawater visibly flowing into the cave. The small boat moved along the jagged cliffs, disappearing from view only to reappear beyond the bluffs, gradually drawing closer to the Abyss of Demons. The sheer cliffs rose like jet-black walls, and beneath them, a toy-like small boat advanced precariously. Occasionally, the sound of oars, like insect chirping, drifted across the sea surface. Both Toku-san and his son in Western clothes were now blurred by the evening gloom, their figures reduced to nothing more than bean-sized outlines.

When we rounded another rocky outcrop and reached the exact corner where the cave of the Abyss of Demons lay, I suddenly noticed something squirming atop the sheer cliff directly above the small boat. When I looked again with a start, I realized it was unmistakably a man—a hunchbacked old man with a back protruding like a tumor. How could I ever mistake that grotesque form? It was Jogoro. But why would the master of the Moroto residence come to the edge of such a cliff at this hour?

The hunchbacked man was holding something like a pickaxe, looking down as he worked intently on something. Each time he put his strength into the pickaxe, something moved beyond its reach. When I looked closely, I realized it was a single large rock perched precariously on the edge of the cliff. Ah, I see now. Jogoro was timing it so that Toku-san’s boat would pass directly beneath, then pushing that boulder off to capsize the small vessel. Danger. They need to get further away from the shore—it’s dangerous. But even if I shout from here, Toku-san has no way of hearing. I know full well Jogoro’s terrifying scheme, yet there’s no way to save the victims. There’s nothing left but to pray for divine fortune.

The hunchbacked figure made one large movement, and as soon as the boulder began to sway unsteadily, in an instant it plummeted toward the small boat at tremendous speed—striking rocky outcrops, scattering into countless fragments as it fell.

A huge plume of water shot up, and after a moment, a rumbling sound reached me. The small boat capsized exactly as Jogoro had planned. The two occupants had vanished without a trace. Had they died instantly upon striking the rocks? Or had they abandoned the boat and were swimming? Unfortunately, from this distance, there was no way to tell. When I looked back at Jogoro, the tenacious hunchbacked man seemed unsatisfied with merely capsizing the boat; wielding his pickaxe with terrifying force, he began dislodging boulder after boulder from the cliffside. Then, as if watching a scene from a naval battle, countless plumes of water rose and collapsed across the entire sea surface.

Eventually, he stopped using the pickaxe and intently observed the situation below. Perhaps having confirmed the victims’ final moments and feeling assured, he then left toward the other side. Everything happened in an instant. And, being so far away, it all looked like some sort of toy puppet show, giving it a charming quality that made this tragedy claiming two lives not seem so terribly frightening. But this was neither dream nor illusion—it was an undeniable fact. Toku-san and his son had likely vanished like seaweed scattered in the Abyss of Demons, victims of the demon’s vile scheme.

Now at last I understood Jogoro’s vile scheme. He had intended from the very beginning to eliminate me. Since carrying it out within the mansion grounds would invite various dangers, he had put us on the boat to sever all connection with the island, lain in ambush atop the cliff along the boat’s route, and sought to make it appear as though Toku-san’s vessel had capsized through supernatural power—exploiting the superstitious beliefs surrounding the Abyss of Demons. That was why he did not use convenient firearms and went through the trouble of pushing down large rocks instead.

There had been a reason for not entrusting the ferry to other fishermen and choosing the estranged Toku-san. He had tried to kill two birds with one stone. He plotted to eliminate me—who had caught on to his misdeeds—while simultaneously killing Toku-san through this scheme; his former servant who had rebelled against him and consequently knew too much about his deeds. And it had succeeded perfectly just as planned. Jogoro’s murders now numbered exactly five, as far as I knew. Moreover, when I considered it carefully, what horrified me was that in all five cases, one could say I had indirectly created the motives for those killings. Had I not existed, Ms. Shiyo might have accepted Moroto’s proposal. If only she had married Moroto, she would never have been killed. Needless to say, Mr. Miyamaki would never have fallen into Jogoro’s clutches had I not asked him to investigate. The young acrobat was another such case. As for Toku-san and his son—had I not come to this island, had I not requested that decoy—they would never have met such a wretched end.

The more I thought about it, the more I shuddered with existential dread. And I felt my hatred for the murderous fiend Jogoro multiply tenfold from what it had been the day before. It was no longer just for Ms. Shiyo’s sake—for the spirits of the four others too, I would remain on this island to the bitter end, expose the demon’s deeds, and not rest until I fulfilled my vengeful wish. My strength might prove far too feeble. Seeking police aid might have been the prudent course. But I could find no satisfaction in seeing this peerless demon judged merely by national law. Antiquated though it sounds—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—unless I made him taste suffering equal in measure to his sins, this gut of mine would never know peace.

To that end, taking advantage of Jogoro’s belief that he had eliminated me, it was crucial to first skillfully disguise myself as Toku’s son and evade his detection. And then, I would secretly conspire with Michio in the storehouse and devise means of revenge. Even Michio, upon hearing of this latest murder, would not side with his parent. Moreover, even if Michio were to disagree, I couldn’t afford to concern myself with such things. I was determined to strive resolutely to fulfill my cherished wish.

Fortunately, even after several days passed, neither Toku-san’s corpse nor his son’s corpse was discovered. They must have been sucked deep into the demonic abyss. That was how I managed to successfully disguise myself as Toku’s son. To be sure, there were fishermen who grew suspicious when Toku’s boat never returned and came calling at the hut, but I claimed to be ill, set up a folding screen in the dim corner to hide my face, and deceived them.

During the day, I usually shut myself in the hut to avoid being seen, and at night, blending into the darkness, I roamed all over the island. Of course, I visited Michio and Hide at the storehouse window, and I strove to familiarize myself with the island’s geography to be of use when needed. It goes without saying that I kept an eye on the Moroto mansion’s movements, but at times, seizing opportunities when no one was around, I would sneak past the gate, circle around the exterior of the sealed room, and even peer through gaps in the tightly shut door to discern the nature of the sounds within.

Now, dear readers, in this manner I had recklessly turned against a murderous fiend unparalleled in this world and taken my first step into battle. What manner of living hell lay ahead of me? What inhuman realm lay in wait? The time to recount that great terror—which I mentioned at this record's outset and which turned my hair snow-white overnight—was not so very distant now.

The Mysterious Old Man on the Roof

Thanks to the decoy, I narrowly escaped danger, but I didn't feel saved in the slightest. Disguised as Toku's son, I couldn't carelessly show myself outside the hut, nor could I even conceive of rowing a boat to escape the island. As if I were the criminal myself, during the day I stayed hidden inside Toku-san's hut, and when night fell, I would crawl out to stealthily breathe the outside air and stretch my cramped limbs.

As long as I could endure the bad taste, there was enough food to get by for the time being. Since it was an inconvenient island, Toku’s hut had been amply stocked with rice, barley, miso, and firewood. I spent the next several days chewing on unidentifiable dried fish and subsisting on miso. From my experiences at that time, I came to realize that no matter the adventure or hardship, when actually faced with it, it wasn’t so bad—what I had imagined was far more terrifying.

To me who once worked the abacus at a company in Tokyo, this situation was utterly unimaginable—like some fictional tale or dream. In truth, I lay alone in the corner of Toku-san's squalid hut, gazing up at the exposed rafters where ceiling boards should have been, listening to the endless sound of waves while breathing in the briny shore air—there were many times when I felt strangely convinced all these recent events must be nothing but a dream. Yet even in such terrifying circumstances, my heart pulsed as steadily as ever, and my mind showed no signs of madness. Humans can calmly endure even the most dreadful things when actually confronted with them—they never prove as terrible as imagined. Realizing this must be why soldiers can charge into gunfire, I found myself feeling oddly invigorated despite my bleak circumstances.

Be that as it may, my first task was to inform Moroto Michio—who was confined in the Moroto mansion's storehouse—of all particulars and consult about subsequent measures. Since he feared daylight, once night fully fell, there was nothing to be done on this island without electric lights. I timed my move for twilight, when faces couldn't be clearly discerned from afar, and went to the base of that familiar storehouse. There proved less cause for worry than I'd feared; not a soul was visible anywhere, as if all islanders had perished. Yet when I reached beneath the target storehouse's window, I hid myself behind a rock at the earthen wall's edge like a small shield and keenly observed my surroundings. I strained my ears for any voices that might leak from within the wall or through the storehouse window.

In the twilight, the storehouse window gaped open like a black mouth, remaining silent. Beyond the monotonous sound of waves echoing from the distant shore, there was no other noise. “Am I still dreaming?” I wondered, for everything was gray, devoid of sound and color—a desolate landscape. After a long hesitation, I finally mustered my courage and threw the prepared paper pellet with careful aim—the white sphere flew neatly into the window. On that paper, I had written down everything that had happened since the previous day, and we had asked Moroto for his opinion on what we should do next.

After throwing 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 angry I hadn't left the island—when darkness had nearly fallen and distinguishing the storehouse window grew difficult—a vague white shape finally appeared at that window and threw a paper pellet toward me. Upon closer inspection, this white form was not Moroto but seemed to be the face of Hide from the dear conjoined twins; even in the darkness, I could perceive her somehow despondent and downcast. Had Hide already learned all particulars from Moroto?

When I unfolded the paper wad and looked, there was a brief message written in large pencil characters so it could be read even in the dim light. Needless to say, it was Moroto's handwriting. "I can't think of anything right now." "Please come again tomorrow."

After reading that, I was dejected. Moroto, having been told of his father’s inexcusable crimes, must have been so shocked and grieved. Seeing that he even avoided meeting me face-to-face and had Hide-chan throw the paper pellet, I could understand his feelings. I nodded in acknowledgment to the vaguely white face of Hide-chan, who seemed to be staring intently in my direction from the storehouse window, then trudged back through the evening gloom to Toku-san’s hut. And without even lighting a lamp, like a beast, I lay sprawled out and continued thinking without any particular thought.

The following evening, when I went beneath the storehouse and signaled, this time Moroto’s face appeared, and he casually tossed over a scrap of paper inscribed with the following message. “You didn’t abandon me even after I became like this, and went through so much trouble—I have no words to express my gratitude.” “To tell the truth, I had thought you left this island and was terribly disappointed.” “I’ve come to realize deeply that I can’t go on living if I’m separated from you.” “Jogoro’s evil deeds have become clear.” “I have decided to no longer consider things like parent-child bonds.” “I feel nothing but hatred for my father.” “I don’t feel a shred of affection.” “Instead, I feel an intense obsession toward you—a stranger.” “Let’s escape this storehouse with your help.” “And we must save the poor people.” “We must also discover Ms. Shiyo’s assets.” “After all, that’s what will make you rich.” “I have a plan for escaping the storehouse.” “We must wait a little longer for the right time.” “I’ll inform you about the plan in due course.” “Every day, choose moments when no one is watching and come to the base of the storehouse as often as possible.” “Even during the daytime, people rarely come here, so it’s safe.” “However, if Jogoro becomes aware that you’re alive, it would be a major crisis.” “Please be doubly cautious.”

“And I pray most earnestly that you don’t become ill from this unhealthy life.”

Moroto had reversed his wavering resolve and severed all familial obligations. But when I realized that behind this lay his illicit affection for me as a primary motive, I was overcome by an intensely peculiar sensation. Moroto's unusual ardor remained utterly incomprehensible to me. If anything, I even came to find it frightening.

For five days after that, we continued these constrained meetings. (The word "rendezvous" felt oddly appropriate given Moroto’s demeanor during that time.) If I were to recount in detail my feelings and actions throughout those five days, there would be much to write, but since these matters hold little relevance to the overall story, I decided to omit them all and present only the essential points:

It was on the early morning of the third day, when I casually approached the storehouse to exchange paper pellets with Moroto, that I discovered that mysterious incident.

The sun had not yet risen, and it was still dim; moreover, the entire island was blanketed in morning mist, making it hard to see far. But more than anything, because it was such an unexpected location, I had completely failed to notice until I was five or six ken away from the rock outside the wall. But when I suddenly looked up, there on the storehouse roof was a black figure squirming and wriggling. Startled, I immediately retreated and hid myself at the corner of the earthen wall. Upon looking closely, I realized the figure on the roof was none other than the hunchbacked Jogoro. Even without seeing his face, I could instantly recognize him by the outline of his entire body.

When I saw that, I couldn't help worrying about Moroto Michio's safety. Wherever this deformed monster appeared, violence inevitably followed. Shiyo had seen that mysterious old man before her murder. On the night Tomonosuke was killed, I myself had witnessed that hideous figure from behind. And just recently, hadn't Toku-san and his son vanished into the Abyss of Demons like sea foam the moment he swung a pickaxe atop the cliff? But surely he wouldn't kill his own son? Wasn't imprisoning him in the storehouse exactly the half-measure of someone who couldn't bring himself to commit filicide?

No, no—that wasn't it. Michio himself was trying to oppose his father. Why would that monster hesitate to take his own child's life? Since it had become clear Michio would remain hostile to the end, he must undoubtedly be plotting to eliminate him. As I hid in the shadow of the wall, anxiously turning these thoughts over in my mind, the monstrous Jogoro—gradually revealing his grotesque form through the thinning morning mist—straddled one end of the roof ridge and busied himself with some task.

Ah, I see. That bastard is trying to remove the demon tile. There, imposing demon tiles, grand enough to match the storehouse’s size, were imposingly installed at both ends of the roof. It was an old-fashioned style rarely seen in places like Tokyo. Since the storehouse’s second floor likely had no ceiling, removing that demon tile would mean only a single roof board separated where Moroto Michio was imprisoned from above. Dangerous, dangerous—unaware that a terrifying scheme was unfolding right over his head, Moroto might still be sleeping down there. That said, I couldn’t whistle a signal with that monster present, leaving me to seethe helplessly with no way to intervene.

Before long，Jogoro had completely removed the demon tile and tucked it under his arm. The large tile，measuring over two feet long，was no easy task for the disabled person to carry.

Next, after removing the roof board beneath the demon tile, Jogoro’s ugly face suddenly peeked down from directly above Michio and the conjoined twins, grinning slyly as he finally began his cruel murder. While imagining such a scene, I stood frozen with cold sweat running down my sides, but to my surprise, Jogoro descended to the opposite side of the roof, still clutching the demon tile. I waited and waited, thinking he must have taken the cumbersome demon tile somewhere to store it and would return to his original spot unencumbered, but no matter how long I waited, there was no sign of that happening.

I cautiously advanced from the shadow of the wall to the familiar rock, hid myself there, and continued watching. But even as the morning mist cleared completely, a large sun peered over the rocky mountain’s peak, casting a crimson glow upon the storehouse walls, Jogoro never showed himself again.

Gods and Buddhas

Since a full thirty minutes had passed since then, thinking it should be safe now, I resolutely tried whistling softly while remaining hidden in the shadow of the rock. This 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 prepared, quickly wrote down Jogoro’s strange behavior, wrapped it around a nearby pebble, and threw it toward the window.

After waiting a while, Moroto’s reply came. The wording was generally as follows: "I saw your letter and made a tremendous discovery." "Rejoice, I pray you." "One of our objectives can soon be achieved." "Furthermore, there is no immediate danger to my person, so I pray you rest assured." "I haven’t time to write in detail, so I’ll only note what I want you to do." "Thereby, you will be able to fully grasp my thoughts." "1) Within safe limits, search every corner of this island and find anything enshrined—such as an Inari shrine or Jizō statue—anything connected to gods or Buddhas, then inform me." "2) Soon, the servants of the Moroto estate will load cargo onto a boat and set sail." "If you spot this, notify me immediately." "Also check how many people are present at that time."

1. "Without taking unnecessary risks, walk through every corner of this island and discover anything enshrined—such as Inari shrines, Jizō statues, or other objects related to gods or Buddhas—then inform me. 2. In the near future, the servants of the Moroto residence are expected to load some cargo and depart by boat. If you find this, notify me immediately. Please also check how many people are present at that time." I received these bizarre orders and considered them carefully, but naturally couldn't grasp Moroto's true intentions. That said, continuing an exchange of paper pellets would only waste time, and there was no telling when Jogoro might enter the storehouse. Trusting in Moroto's judgment, I immediately left the spot.

Then, following Moroto’s orders, I spent the entire day walking around the island, sticking to places with as few houses and as little foot traffic as possible, sneaking about like a thief. Even if someone were to encounter me, to keep my disguise from being exposed, I kept my face deeply covered with a hood. As for my clothing, it was naturally the old cotton kimono that had belonged to Toku’s son, and I had smeared mud on my hands and feet to make myself unrecognizable at a glance. Yet even so, wandering outdoors in broad daylight meant my anxiety was far from ordinary. Moreover, though it was the seaside, since it was already August, walking around under the scorching sun proved grueling; however, in such an extraordinary situation, there was no time to mind the heat. But walking around made me realize—what a desolate place this island was! Even though there were houses, it was unclear whether anyone lived in them; after walking for hours, aside from catching distant glimpses of two or three fishermen, I encountered no one all day. With this, I could feel somewhat relieved, thinking there was no longer any need for caution.

By evening that day, I had circled the entire island but ultimately discovered only two objects that seemed related to gods or Buddhas. The western side of Iwajima Island was a coastline lying opposite the Moroto residence across the central rocky mountain, with almost no houses; the cliffs' uneven contours were especially rugged, and strangely shaped rocks of various forms towered at the water's edge. Among them stood a particularly conspicuous large rock shaped like a tall conical hat, atop which—much like the Wedded Rocks of Futamigaura—rested a small torii gate carved from stone. It had likely been built hundreds of years earlier when this island was more bustling, when the lord of the Moroto residence wielded power like a castle lord to pray for peace along the coast. The granite torii was covered in grayish-black moss and had become so weathered that it could now be mistaken for part of that great rock itself.

The other was a stone Jizō statue, also extremely old, standing on a slightly elevated spot facing that Eboshi Rock along the same western coast. In the past, it seemed a complete walking path had been built around this island, with traces of it remaining here and there; the stone Jizō statues stood along that path like guideposts. Naturally, there were no worshippers visiting it, so with no offerings left, it was less a sacred Jizō statue and more a stone block shaped like a human. Its eyes, nose, and mouth had all worn away, leaving it completely featureless. When I saw that figure standing alone in the desolate landscape, I was so startled that I instinctively froze in my tracks. Because a considerably large stone had been used for its pedestal, it must have stood in its original position for countless years without toppling.

It occurred to me later that these stone Jizō statues had likely once stood throughout the island—indeed, remnants of what seemed to be their pedestals still remained in places like the northern coast. They must have gradually disappeared over time due to children’s mischief and such, leaving only the portion on this western coast—the most inconvenient location—fortunately still left behind to this day. Within the areas I had walked across the entire island, when it came to objects related to gods or Buddhas, there were only those two I mentioned earlier. Beyond those, I could only recall that in the spacious garden of the Moroto residence, there stood what appeared to be a rather grand shrine—though I didn’t know which deity it was dedicated to. However, it goes without saying that what Moroto had told me to search for was not something inside the Moroto residence.

The torii of Eboshi Rock was "god". The stone Jizō was "Buddha". God and Buddha. Ah—I felt I was beginning to grasp Moroto's idea. This was undoubtedly connected to that incantation-like ciphertext. I tried to recall the ciphertext. "If gods and Buddhas met Break down the demon of the southeast Seek Amida's benevolence Do not lose your way at the crossroads of six realms." Could this "god" refer to Eboshi Rock's torii and "Buddha" mean that stone Jizō statue? Then—ah—it gradually became clear. Could this "demon" correspond to the oni-gawara roof tile Jogoro removed from the storehouse this morning? Exactly. That roof tile had been placed on the storehouse's southeastern edge. Southeast aligned with the traditional compass designation. That roof tile was indeed the "demon of the southeast".

The incantation stated, "Break down the demon of the southeast." Could the treasure have been hidden inside that decorative roof tile? If that were true, wouldn't Jogoro have already smashed through it and retrieved the treasure long ago? But there was no way Moroto could have overlooked this. I had properly reported Jogoro taking the roof tile, and since Moroto seemed to have realized something upon reading that report, this incantation must hold a different meaning altogether. If merely breaking the roof tile sufficed, the first line would become redundant.

But even so, what on earth did "God and Buddha meeting" mean? Even if that "God" were the torii of Eboshi Rock and "Buddha" were the stone Jizō statue, how could those two things ever meet? After all, could it be that this "Gods and Buddhas" referred to something entirely different? I considered various possibilities, but try as I might, I couldn’t solve this riddle. What became clear from today’s events was this: the culprit who stole the ciphertext and the twins’ diary—which we had hidden away on the second floor of a Western restaurant in Kanda, Tokyo—was indeed, just as we had suspected at the time, none other than that mysterious old man Jogoro. If that were not the case, he could not have understood the meaning behind removing the decorative roof tile. Prior to that, he had been digging up the garden and recklessly searching the Moroto residence, but upon obtaining the ciphertext, he diligently studied its meaning and undoubtedly discovered that “the demon of the southeast” corresponded to the storehouse’s decorative roof tile.

Could it be that Jogoro’s interpretation was correct and he had already obtained the treasure? Or perhaps his interpretation contained a grave error and there might have been nothing inside the decorative roof tile after all? Was Moroto truly interpreting that ciphertext correctly? I couldn’t help feeling anxious.

The Disabled Collective

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 even added a rough sketch showing 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 as follows.

“Do you have a watch? Is the time accurate?”

It was an abrupt question. However, danger could befall me at any moment, and given our severely restricted means of communication, it was only natural there was no time to explain the circumstances. I had to infer his intentions from those simple phrases. Fortunately, I had hidden a wristwatch deep in my upper arm. Because I had carefully wound it, there probably wasn’t much of a time discrepancy. I rolled up my sleeve to show Moroto at the window and signaled through gestures that the time was accurate.

Then, Moroto nodded in apparent satisfaction and withdrew his head, but after waiting a while, he threw down a slightly longer letter. “Since this is crucial, please carry it out without fail. You’ve likely already surmised as much, but we’ve ascertained the treasure’s hiding place. Jogoro has begun to notice, but he’s making a terrible mistake. Let’s find it with our own hands. There is certainly a good chance. I can’t wait until I break out of here.” “If the sky is clear tomorrow, go to Eboshi Rock around four in the afternoon—it’s safer to go earlier—and pay close attention to the shadow of the stone torii. That shadow should overlap with the stone Jizō statue. When they overlap, commit that exact time to memory and return.”

Upon receiving these instructions, I hurried back to Toku’s hut, but that night I thought of nothing but the incantation. Now at last I had clarified the meaning behind the incantation’s phrase “the god and Buddha meet.” It wasn’t that they were truly meeting; rather, the shadow of god was overlapping with Buddha. The shadow of the torii was casting onto the stone Jizō statue. What a brilliant idea this was! I could not help but belatedly admire Moroto Michio’s imagination.

But while I understood that much, I now found myself unable to grasp what was meant by “the demon of the southeast” in the phrase “When god and Buddha meet, smash the demon of the southeast.” Since Jogoro was making a grave mistake, it seemed unlikely to be the storehouse’s decorative roof tile. But then again, where else could there be something named "demon" besides that? That night, I fell asleep still unable to resolve my doubts, but the next morning, I awoke abruptly to an unusual clamor of voices on the island and heard a familiar voice pass by the front of the hut, heading toward the boat landing. Undoubtedly, they were servants from the Moroto residence.

Since I had been given instructions by Moroto, I hurriedly got up, opened the window a crack to peer out, and saw the retreating figures of three people. Two were carrying a large wooden box between them while one kept pace beside it. That was Old Man Sukehachi from the twins' diary entries, with the other two being the brawny men I'd seen at the Moroto residence. This must be what Moroto had meant when he wrote earlier: "The Moroto servants should soon load cargo onto a boat." I had been tasked with reporting their numbers to him.

Opening the window and watching intently, I saw the trio gradually grow smaller until they finally disappeared behind a rock. But before long, a single-masted sailboat with its sails lowered came into view from the direction of the boat landing, rowing into my field of vision. Though distant, I could clearly discern that those aboard were the three from earlier along with the wooden cargo box. When they had gotten a little ways offshore, the sails were smoothly hoisted, and caught by the morning wind, the boat rapidly receded from the island. In accordance with our agreement, I needed to inform Moroto of this development immediately. By then I had grown accustomed to moving about during daylight hours, having concluded there was scarcely anyone around, so without hesitation I left the hut directly and made for beneath the storehouse.

When I informed him of the details via paper scraps, a spirited reply came from Moroto. “They shouldn’t return for about a week.” “I also know what they went to do.” “There are no longer any formidable opponents inside the mansion.” “Now is the time to escape.” “I need your help.” “Please hide in the shadow of that rock for about an hour and wait for my signal.” “When I wave my hand from this window, rush to the front gate immediately and catch anyone trying to flee from the mansion grounds.” “They’re just women and cripples, so it’ll be fine.” “It’s finally war.”

Due to this unexpected turn of events, our treasure hunt was temporarily suspended. While my heart raced at Moroto’s spirited letter, I waited poised for the signal at the window. If Moroto’s plan succeeded, we would soon be able to converse again after so long. And I would even be able to see Hide’s face up close—the face I had yearned for since coming to this island—and hear her voice. The strange experiences of late had, before I knew it, turned me into someone who thrived on adventure. Hearing "war" made my flesh leap. When I was in Tokyo, this was a feeling I could never have conceived of.

Moroto was trying to fight his parents. This was no ordinary matter.

When I thought about what he must be feeling, even I, waiting motionless for that moment to arrive, felt as though my heart had gone hollow. But even so, did he intend to oppose his parents by physical force?

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

It was a hot day. Though shaded by the rock, the sand beneath my feet burned too hot to touch. The cool sea breeze that usually blew had fallen utterly still that day, and not a sound of waves reached me—so completely that I began to suspect I'd gone deaf. In that bottomless silence, only the blazing summer sun sizzled. Battling waves of dizziness, I kept my eyes locked on the storehouse window—until finally, the signal came. An arm slipped between the iron bars, fluttering up and down two or three times.

I immediately dashed out, rounded the earthen wall, and stepped into the Moroto residence through the front gate.

Entering the earthen-floored entrance, I peered into the depths but found it utterly still and devoid of any human presence. Even if his opponent was a cripple, Jogoro was a cunning and merciless fiend—I couldn't help but worry for Moroto's safety. Could it be that he was meeting with terrible misfortune instead? The mansion being dead silent felt somehow eerie. I stepped up into the entrance and slowly made my way along the long, winding corridor. When I turned a corner, I came upon a long corridor that stretched about eighteen meters. It was over six feet wide, with faded reddish-brown tatami mats laid out in an old-fashioned style. Due to the old-fashioned building's deep eaves and sparse windows, the corridor was dim as twilight.

At the very moment I turned into that corridor, something appeared at the far end simultaneously with me. They came charging toward me with terrifying force, tangled together as they ran. Their appearance was so bizarre that I couldn’t immediately discern who they were, but when those figures rapidly closed in on me, collided with me, and let out a strange cry, I finally realized they were the conjoined twins, Hide and Kichi. They were wrapped in tattered cloth pieces; Hide had simply tied her hair back, while Kichi’s head was grotesque and matted, as if he had never received a haircut. They were wildly rejoicing at having been released from confinement and were dancing like children. As I watched the two of them dancing wildly in front of me, smiling in my direction, I felt as though they were some strange-shaped beast.

I found myself holding Hide's hand without realizing it. Hide smiled innocently and clasped my hand in return with an air of familiarity. Despite such circumstances, Hide's neatly trimmed nails struck me as remarkably refined. Such a trivial thing affected me profoundly. Kichi, who resembled a savage, saw me getting along with Hide and immediately flew into a rage. At that moment, I learned that uncultured humans in their raw state were like monkeys—when angered, they bared their teeth. Kichi bared his teeth like a gorilla and writhed with his whole body's strength to pull Hide away from me.

As this was happening—perhaps having heard the commotion—a woman rushed out from a room behind me. It was the mute Ms. Otoshi. When she learned that the twins had escaped from the storehouse, Ms. Otoshi turned deathly pale and immediately began pushing Hide and the others back toward the rear. I subdued this first enemy without difficulty. While her arm was being twisted, she craned her neck to look at me; the moment she realized who I was, she froze in shock, her strength draining away. She seemed utterly unable to comprehend what was happening and consequently made no attempt to resist to the end.

There, from the direction where the conjoined twins had come running earlier, a bizarre group appeared. At the forefront stood Moroto Michio, followed by five or six strange creatures swarming behind him. I had heard that disabled individuals were kept in the Moroto residence, but since they were all confined in sealed rooms, I had never seen them before. Moroto had likely now opened those sealed rooms and granted this group of creatures their freedom. They expressed joy each in their own way and seemed attached to Moroto.

There was a disabled individual commonly called "Bear Girl," her face half-covered in thick, coal-black hair as if smeared with ink. Her limbs were normal, but she appeared malnourished, thin and pale. She was muttering something under her breath, yet looked happy. There was a frog-like child with leg joints bent in the opposite direction. He was about ten years old with a cute face, yet despite his disabled legs, he bounced about vigorously. There were three dwarfs. Their adult heads atop child-sized bodies marked them as typical dwarf performers, but unlike those seen in circus acts, they appeared extremely feeble; their limbs lacked strength like jellyfish tentacles, making walking seem laborious. One couldn't stand at all and pitifully crawled about on the tatami like triplets. All three could barely support their large heads with their frail bodies.

In the dimly lit corridor, seeing the conjoined twins—two bodies fused as one—along with those disabled individuals swarming together gave me an indescribably strange feeling. In appearance, it was rather comical, but precisely because of its comicalness, there was something chilling about it. “Ah, Minoura! We finally did it!” Moroto approached me and said with a feigned cheerful expression. “You took care of them?” I wondered if Moroto had killed Jogoro and his wife.

“We locked those two in the storehouse instead of ourselves.” He had lured his parents into the storehouse by pretending to have matters to discuss, then swiftly exited with the conjoined twins and confined two panicked disabled individuals inside instead. As for why Jogoro had succumbed so easily to his scheme, there was ample reason. I would later come to understand this. “What about these people—” “They’re disabled folks.”

“But why keep so many disabled people here?” “Because they’re their own kind. I’ll explain the details later. But more importantly, we must hurry. We need to leave this island before those three return. Once they leave, they definitely won’t come back for five or six days. During that time, we’ll conduct that treasure hunt. And we’ll rescue this lot from this horrifying island.”

"What about those people?" "Jogoro, huh? I don't know what to do. It's cowardly, but I plan to run away. Once we take their property and remove these disabled folks, they won't be able to do anything. They might naturally stop their evil deeds. Be that as it may, I don’t have the power to bring charges against them or cut their lives short. It’s cowardly, but we’ll abandon them and escape. Just this much, please overlook it." Moroto said dejectedly.

The vertex of the triangle

Since all the disabled individuals were docile, their guard duty was entrusted to Hide and Kichi. Even ill-tempered Kichi obediently followed Moroto's instructions—the same Moroto who had granted them their freedom. To the mute Ms. Otoshi, they conveyed Moroto's orders through Hide's hand gestures. Ms. Otoshi's task was to prepare three daily meals for Jogoro and his wife in the storehouse, as well as for the disabled individuals. He repeatedly ordered that the storehouse door must never be opened under any circumstances, and that meals were to be delivered solely through the garden window. She held no loyalty to Jogoro and his wife—indeed, she feared and loathed her brutal masters so profoundly that upon hearing the reason, she offered no resistance whatsoever.

Because Moroto handled matters efficiently, by afternoon we had already dealt with the aftermath of this commotion. At the Moroto residence, there were only three male servants, and since they were all out, we had been able to win the battle effortlessly. From Jogoro’s perspective, he must have believed I was already dead, and as for Michio in the storehouse—since he would never have anticipated his son rebelling against him—he had likely let his guard down and sent out all his crucial guards. Taking advantage of that vulnerability, Moroto’s decisive methods had proved brilliantly 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 for some reason. "And as for why their task would take more than five or six days—there's a certain reason why I know that very well." "Since that's certain, you may rest assured," was all he would say.

That afternoon, we all went out to the aforementioned Eboshi Rock. It was to continue the treasure hunt.

“I never want to come back to this awful island again. But if we escape like this now, it would be tantamount to funding those people’s evil deeds. If treasure is hidden here, I want us to unearth it ourselves. That way, Shiyo’s mother in Tokyo could find happiness, and we’d pave a path to better lives for countless disabled individuals. For me, this would be some small atonement. That’s why I’m rushing this treasure hunt. Ideally, we should expose this publicly and involve the authorities—but we can’t. Because that would send my father to the guillotine.”

On the path to Eboshi Rock, Moroto said such things in an apologetic manner.

“I understand that.” “I fully understand there’s no other way.” I truly thought that way.

After a while, I steered the conversation toward the immediate treasure hunt. “I’m far more interested in deciphering the cipher and discovering it than in the treasure itself.” “But I still don’t fully understand.” “Have you completely deciphered that cipher?” “I can’t say for sure without trying, but I somehow feel like I’ve solved it. You must have a general idea of what I’m thinking, right?”

“That’s right. The line in the incantation, ‘If gods and Buddhas sang,’ means the time when the shadow of the torii at Eboshi Rock and the stone Jizo statue become one. That’s about all I understand.”

“Then you do understand, don’t you?” “But I can’t figure out the part about breaking the Demon of the southeast.”

“The Demon of the southeast naturally refers to the storehouse’s demon tile. Didn’t you teach me that yourself?” “So if we break that demon tile, does that mean the treasure’s hidden inside? That can’t possibly be right.” “You should apply the same logic as with the torii and stone Jizo. That is, consider not the demon tile itself but its shadow. Otherwise, the first line of the cipher becomes meaningless. Jogoro mistakenly thought it referred to the physical tile—he climbed up to remove it himself. I watched him break it from the storehouse window. Naturally, nothing came of it. But that failure gave me the clue I needed to crack the cipher.”

When I heard that, I somehow felt like I was being laughed at and involuntarily blushed. “How foolish of me. I didn’t notice that point. So exactly when the shadow of the torii aligns with the stone Jizo statue, we should search for where the demon tile’s shadow falls—is that the idea?” I said, recalling that Moroto had asked about my watch.

"I might be mistaken, but that's how it seems to me." We walked along the long path, exchanging such conversation but mostly lapsing into silence. Moroto had a very unpleasant look that made me fall silent. He must have been thinking about the immoral act of confining his father. Though he refrained from using the word 'father' and addressed him bluntly as Jogoro, it was hardly unreasonable for him to feel dejected when recognizing him as a parent.

When we arrived at the target coast, it was still slightly too early; the shadow of Eboshi Rock's torii remained at the edge of the cliff. We wound our watch springs and waited for time to pass. We had chosen a shady spot to sit down, but it was an unusually windless day, and sweat trickled down our backs and chests with a scorching intensity. Though it seemed motionless, the shadow of the torii crept across the ground at an imperceptible speed, inching closer and closer toward the hill. But when it drew to within a few meters of the stone Jizo statue, I suddenly realized something and instinctively looked at Moroto. Then, it appeared that Moroto had thought the same thing, and he made a strange face.

“If it keeps moving like this, the torii’s shadow doesn’t seem like it will strike the stone Jizo statue, does it?” “It’s off by two or three yards to the side.” Moroto said in a disappointed tone. “Then could it be my mistake?” “At the time when that cipher was written, there might have been other objects associated with gods and Buddhas." "In fact, there are remains of stone Jizo statues on another coast as well, so..." “But the object casting the shadow must be at a high elevation. There are no such tall rocks on the other coasts, nor can we see anything resembling shrine ruins on the mountain at the island’s center.” “Somehow, I can’t help but think that ‘god’ refers to this torii gate, but..."

Moroto said reluctantly. As we waited like this, the shadow surged forward until it reached a height nearly level with the stone Jizo statue's shoulder. When I looked properly, there remained a gap of about twelve feet between the shadow of the torii cast on the hillside and the stone Jizo statue.

Moroto stared intently at it, but then, for some reason, he suddenly burst into laughter.

“How absurd.” “Even a child knows that.” “We’re a bit out of our minds, aren’t we?” With that, he burst into raucous laughter again. “Summer days are long.” “Winter days are short.” “You—what’s this?” “Hahahaha, it’s because the position of the sun relative to the Earth changes.” “In other words, to be precise, the shadows of objects do not strike the same spot even for a single day.” “When it strikes the same spot—aside from the summer and winter solstices—it only occurs twice a year.” “When the sun approaches the equator, and when it moves away from the equator—once each way.” “You see? It’s completely obvious.”

“I see. We really had lost our minds.” “So does that mean the treasure-hunting opportunity only comes twice a year?”

“The person who hid it might have thought that.” “And they might have misunderstood that as a robust method to make excavating the treasure difficult.” “But if this torii and stone Jizo statue truly are markers for finding the treasure, there are countless methods available without waiting for their shadows to actually overlap.” “So we should draw a triangle.” “Using the torii’s shadow and the stone Jizo statue as vertices—”

“Exactly,” Moroto said. “And once you determine the angle between the torii’s shadow and the stone Jizo statue, you can use that same angular deviation to pinpoint a location when measuring the demon tile’s shadow.” We grew quite excited over this minor discovery—our treasure-hunting objective amplifying even trivial progress. Checking my wristwatch when the torii’s shadow aligned perfectly with the Jizo statue’s height, I noted down 5:25 in my notebook. Then came arduous work—scaling cliffs, clambering over rocks—until we finally measured both the distance between torii and statue and the precise gap between shadow and stone. We recorded a scale diagram of this triangular formation in our notebook. Tomorrow at 5:25 PM, once we observed where the storehouse roof’s shadow fell and calculated any margin of error using today’s angles, we would at last uncover the treasure’s hiding place.

But, dear readers, we had not yet fully deciphered that incantation. At the end of the incantation was an eerie line: “Do not stray at the crossroads of the six realms.” What on earth did "the crossroads of the six realms" refer to? Could it be that some hellish labyrinth lay waiting ahead of us?

The bottom of the old well That night, we slept side by side in one of the Moroto residence's rooms, but I found myself repeatedly awakened by Moroto's voice. He was being tormented by nightmares throughout the night. Given the mental strain of having to confine someone addressed as a parent, it was no surprise his nerves had lost their composure. In his sleep, he kept uttering my name. When I considered how the notion of "me" occupied such vast territory in his subconscious, an eerie dread crept over me. Even if it were between people of the same sex, maintaining this pretense of ignorance while keeping company with someone who harbored such persistent feelings for me—surely this constituted a profoundly sinful act. Lying awake, I seriously contemplated this.

The next day as well, until that 5:25 arrived, we had nothing to do. For Moroto, however, this seemed painful, and he was passing time by walking back and forth along the coast alone. He appeared afraid to even approach the storehouse. Moroto Jogoro and his wife Otaka in the storehouse were unexpectedly quiet—whether they had given up or were eagerly awaiting the three men's return remained unclear. Because it weighed on my mind, I frequently went to the storehouse's front, listening intently and peering through the window, but I could neither see them nor hear any voices. When the mute Otoshi pushed meals through the window, the mother would descend the stairs and receive them quietly.

The disabled people had also gathered in one room and were behaving quietly. However, since I occasionally went to talk to Hide, Kichi would get angry and shout incoherent things. When I spoke with Hide, I came to realize she was an even kinder and cleverer girl than I had thought, and we gradually became close friends. Hide, like a child whose intelligence was just beginning to develop, bombarded me with question after question. I kindly answered them. Because Kichi, who was like a beast, looked so detestable at a glance, I deliberately grew friendly with Hide and flaunted our closeness. When Kichi saw that, he would turn crimson with rage, twist his body, and make Hide suffer pain.

Hide had become completely attached to me. In her desire to see me, she even dragged Kichi with tremendous effort to the room where I was. When I saw that, how happy I must have been. But looking back now, Hide's growing attachment to me became the very source of disaster.

Among the disabled persons, the one most attached to me was a lovely child of about ten who hopped around on all fours like a frog. His name was Shige, a lively fellow who would frolic alone, darting through the corridors. His head seemed unharmed, and he chattered in broken speech yet said quite precocious things.

Putting aside digressions, when evening came at five o'clock, Moroto and I went outside the wall to the shadow of the rock where I always hid, and while looking up at the storehouse roof, waited for the time to come. 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 account for an extra two feet.”

Moroto said while peering at my wristwatch. “Yes, that’s right. 5:20. Five more minutes. But really, could something like that be hidden in this rocky ground? It all feels like a lie, doesn’t it?”

“But over there—there’s a small grove, don’t you think? By my rough estimate, I think it must be around there.” “Ah, you mean that one? In that grove, there’s a large old well. I looked into it once before, on the first day I came here.” I recalled the imposing stone well curb. “Hmm, the old well is in a strange place. Is there water in it?” “It seems completely dried up. It’s quite deep.”

“Was there 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.

“The shadow’s position will differ somewhat between yesterday and today, but it shouldn’t lead to any significant errors.”

Moroto ran to the shadow's location, marked the ground with a stone, and muttered as if to himself. Then we took out our notebooks, noted the distance from the storehouse's shadow point, calculated the angles, and measured the third vertex of the triangle. As Moroto had imagined, we found it lay within that grove.

We pushed through the thick branches and reached the old well. The dense foliage enveloped the area on all sides, leaving it damp and dimly lit inside. Leaning against the stone well curb and peering downward, I felt an eerie chill rise from the pitch-black depths to strike my cheeks. We measured the distance once more with precision and confirmed beyond doubt that our target location was indeed this ancient well.

“It’s strange that this well is left wide open like this.” “Is it perhaps buried in the earth at the bottom?” “Even so, since they must have regularly dredged this well when it was in use, the inside of it is a truly dangerous hiding spot, don’t you think?”

I somehow couldn't make sense of it. “Well, there it is. If it’s simply inside the well, there’s far too little winding. That meticulous person wouldn’t have hidden it in such an obvious place. You remember the last line of the incantation, don’t you? Look—‘don’t get lost at the Crossroads of Six Realms.’ There might be a horizontal hole at the bottom of this well. That tunnel could be what’s called the ‘Crossroads of Six Realms,’ winding like a labyrinth.”

“That sounds too much like a story.” “No, not at all. On a rocky island like this, such caves are quite common. In fact, even the Abyss of Demons’ caves work this way—rainwater eroding limestone layers underground creates unexpected passageways. This well’s bottom might be the entrance to those tunnels.” “So they used that natural labyrinth to hide the treasure.” “If that’s true, it’s an approach planned with extreme thoroughness.”

“If they went to such lengths to hide it, then this treasure must be something extraordinarily precious.” "But even so, there's one thing about that incantation I still can't grasp."

“Is that so? I feel like I’ve understood everything from your explanation now, but...” “It’s just one small thing. Look, remember how it said ‘smash the Demon of the southeast’? This ‘smashing’ part. If we were digging through the ground to search, we’d need to break something, but entering through the well doesn’t involve any smashing at all. That’s what’s odd. That incantation might look childish at first glance, but it’s actually quite carefully constructed. The author wouldn’t write unnecessary phrases. They wouldn’t put ‘smash’ where there’s nothing to break.”

We discussed such matters for a while beneath the dimly lit trees, but since there was no use in just thinking about it, we decided to enter the well regardless and check whether a horizontal hole existed. Moroto left me there, returned to the mansion, and retrieved a sturdy long rope. It had been used for fishing gear. “I’ll go in and check.” Since I was smaller and lighter than Moroto, I took on the task of checking the horizontal hole.

Moroto securely bound my body with one end of the rope, wrapped the middle section once around the stone well curb, and gripped that end with both hands. As I descended, he would let out the rope accordingly. I pocketed the matches Moroto had brought me, gripped the rope firmly, set my foot on the well curb, and began descending little by little into the pitch-black depths. The inside of the well had uneven stone pavement running all the way down, completely covered in moss. When I set my foot on it, I slipped unsteadily.

When I descended about six feet, I struck a match and peered downward, but its faint light couldn’t reveal anything of the deep bottom below. When I tossed away the burnt matchstick, its glow vanished about ten feet down. Some water remained. Descending another four or five shaku, I struck another match. Just as I tried to peer at the bottom, an odd gust of wind blew up and snuffed out the flame. Finding this strange, I lit yet another match and—before the wind could extinguish it—spotted where the draft was coming from. A horizontal tunnel existed there.

Upon closer inspection, about two or three shaku from the bottom, a section of stone pavement roughly two shaku square had broken away, revealing a pitch-black horizontal hole leading into unfathomable depths. The hole looked crudely made, but it was clear that someone had broken through what had once been properly laid stone pavement in that spot. In that entire area, the stone pavement was loose, with sections that appeared to have been removed and reinserted. When I came to my senses, three or four wedge-shaped stone blocks protruded from the water at the bottom of the well. There was clearly something that had broken through the horizontal passage.

Moroto’s prediction had been terrifyingly accurate. There was a horizontal hole, and the phrase "smash" in the incantation was by no means unnecessary. I hurriedly pulled up the rope, returned to the surface, and reported everything to Moroto.

“That’s strange,” Moroto said. “So someone’s gotten ahead of us and entered the horizontal hole? The traces where the stone pavement was removed look recent?” He asked with growing excitement.

“No, it seems quite old.” “The condition of the moss and such.”

I answered exactly as I had seen.

“That’s strange. Someone definitely went in there. The person who wrote the incantation wouldn’t bother breaking through the stone pavement to enter—it must be someone else. Certainly not Jogoro. This might mean someone deciphered that incantation before us. And if they found the horizontal hole too, doesn’t that mean the treasure’s already been stolen?” “But on such a small island, people would’ve noticed if that happened. There’s only one pier—if outsiders came in, the people at the Moroto estate would have spotted them.”

“That’s right. A villain like Jogoro wouldn’t go as far as committing such a dangerous murder for a treasure that doesn’t even exist. That person must have clearly known at least that the treasure existed. In any case, I just don’t think the treasure was retrieved.”

We remained utterly perplexed, finding no way to unravel this bizarre reality, our initial momentum completely thwarted. Yet had we then recalled the tale once told by the boatman and connected it to our present circumstances, we need never have worried about the treasure being stolen away. But naturally, even someone as sharp as Moroto failed to consider that possibility.

As for the boatman’s story, readers will likely remember it—that inexplicable fact from over ten years ago when a foreigner claiming to be Jogoro’s cousin came to this island, only for his corpse to surface shortly thereafter at the entrance of the cave in the Abyss of Demons. Yet our failure to make that connection may have been for the best. For had we deeply contemplated the cause behind that foreigner’s death, we would never have dared to undertake the underground treasure hunt.

Yawata no Yabu Shirazu (Uncharted Thicket of Yawata)

In any case, we had no choice but to enter the horizontal tunnel and verify whether the treasure had already been removed. We returned once to the Moroto residence and gathered necessary equipment for exploring the tunnel. These included several candles, matches, a large fishing knife, a lengthy hemp rope (formed by connecting as many thin fishing-net ropes as possible into a coil), and similar items. “That horizontal passage might be deeper than expected. “Given it’s called the ‘Crossroads of Six Realms,’ it may not only be deep but have branching paths like Yawata’s Uncharted Thicket. “You recall that section in *The Improvisatore* where they enter Rome’s catacombs? “That inspired me to prepare this hemp rope. “We’re emulating Federigo the painter.”

Moroto said as if to justify his elaborate preparations. Afterwards, whenever I reread *The Improvisatore* and reached the passage describing underground tunnels, I could not help but recall those times and feel renewed trembling. "In the depths lay paths dug through soft earth that crossed one another." So numerous were their branches, so alike in appearance, that even those familiar with the main routes would surely lose their way. With childlike innocence, I thought nothing of it. The artist, having steeled himself beforehand, guided me inside. First he lit one candle, concealed another within the folds of his garment, tied one end of a thread coil to the entrance, then took my hand and led me onward. "Suddenly the ceiling lowered, revealing a space where only we could stand upright..."

The artist and the boy had thus ventured into the underground labyrinth, and we were exactly the same.

We clung to the thick rope from earlier and descended one after another to the bottom of the well. The water was only just deep enough to cover our ankles, but its coldness was like ice. The horizontal tunnel opened around our waists as we stood there. Moroto imitated Federigo by first lighting a candle and securely tying one end of the hemp rope coil to one of the stone pavements at the entrance of the horizontal tunnel. And then, unraveling the hemp rope coil little by little, we proceeded forward.

Moroto took the lead, brandishing a candle as he crawled forward, while I followed behind holding the coil of rope—like two bears. “As I thought, it seems quite deep.” “It feels suffocating, doesn’t it?” We slowly crawled forward while whispering to each other. After advancing five or six ken—about nine to ten meters—the tunnel widened enough for us to walk hunched over. Soon we reached a spot where another cave mouth gaped open on the tunnel’s flank. “It’s a branch path.” “Just as I thought—Yawata’s Uncharted Thicket.” “But we won’t lose our way if we keep hold of the guide rope.” “Let’s follow the main path first.”

Moroto said this and walked on without paying attention to the horizontal tunnel, but after proceeding just two ken, yet another hole gaped open with a pitch-black mouth. When he inserted a candle and peered inside, seeing that the horizontal tunnel seemed wider, Moroto turned in that direction. The path writhed and twisted like a snake. It didn’t just bend left and right—it also went up and down, sometimes descending, sometimes ascending. In the lower areas, there were places where water pooled like shallow marshes.

There were so many horizontal tunnels and branch paths that it was impossible to keep track of them all. Unlike man-made tunnels, there were sections too narrow to crawl through, others split vertically like rock fissures, and just when you thought you knew what to expect, we suddenly emerged into an enormous hall-like space. In that hall, five or six caves converged from all directions, forming a labyrinth of utmost complexity.

“This is astonishing,” Moroto said. “They’re spreading out like spider legs. I hadn’t imagined it would be this extensive. At this rate, these caves might stretch from one end of the island to the other.” He spoke in an exasperated tone.

"The hemp rope is nearly gone. Do you think we'll reach a dead end before it runs out?" "It might be impossible." "We'll have no choice but to turn back once the rope runs out and bring a longer one." "But make sure you don't let go of that rope." "If we lose this vital guide, we'll become lost in these depths forever." Moroto's face glowed dark red. With the candle flame beneath his chin, the shadows on his face inverted—unfamiliar darkness pooling over his cheeks and eyes—making him appear like a different person altogether. Each time he spoke, his mouth gaped grotesquely wide like a black maw.

The candle's weak light barely illuminated a square area of one ken, making it impossible to discern the rocks' true color. The pure white ceiling was eerily uneven, with what appeared to be water droplets steadily dripping from its protruding parts. It was a limestone cave.

Eventually, the path became a downward slope. They kept descending lower and lower, unnervingly and endlessly. Before my eyes, Moroto's pitch-black figure swayed left and right as it moved forward. Each time he swayed from side to side, the flame of the candle in his hand flickered between visibility and concealment. The dimly visible reddish-black rugged 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 view. We had come upon one of the underground halls. When I suddenly noticed, the coil of rope in my hand had almost completely run out. “Ah! The rope’s gone!” The words escaped my lips before I could stop them. Though I hadn’t shouted that loudly, it reverberated in my ears with a thunderous noise. And then, immediately from somewhere ahead came a small voice—

“Ah! The rope’s gone!” echoed through the darkness.

something answered back. It was an echo from the earth's depths. Startled by the voice, Moroto whirled around and thrust his candle toward me with a gruff "What?!" The flame wavered drunkenly, casting his entire form into sharp relief. The moment I heard a choked cry of "Ah—", Moroto's body abruptly disappeared from view. The candlelight vanished simultaneously. Then from some distant recess came Moroto's fading cries—"Ah... Ah... Ah..."—each iteration growing fainter, overlapping like ripples in a dark pool.

“Michio-san! Michio-san!”

I hurriedly called out Moroto’s name.

“Michio-san, Michio-san, Michio-san, Michio-san,” the echo answered mockingly. I was seized by intense terror and groped after Moroto, but in an instant, my foot slipped, and I pitched forward.

“It hurts.” Under my body, Moroto cried out. What was that? The ground suddenly dropped about two shaku, and we collapsed in a heap. Moroto had fallen and struck his elbow hard, rendering him unable to respond immediately.

“We’ve had a terrible time, haven’t we?”

In the darkness, Moroto spoke. Though he seemed to be trying to rise up, there was soon a shh sound, and his form materialized from the void. "Not hurt?" he asked. "I'm all right," I replied. Moroto relit the candle and resumed walking. I followed close behind him.

But when we advanced one or two *ken*, I suddenly came to a halt. I realized I wasn’t holding anything in my right hand. “Michio-san, could you lend me the candle for a moment?” Enduring the pounding of my heart, I called out to Moroto. “What’s wrong?”

Moroto suspiciously thrust the candle toward me, so I abruptly took it and began walking around, illuminating the ground as I went. And then, “It’s nothing, really. “It’s nothing, really.” I kept repeating. But no matter how much we searched, the dim candlelight couldn’t reveal the thin hemp rope. I continued combing through the vast cave, lingering endlessly in my search.

Had Moroto noticed? He suddenly ran up, grabbed my arm, and shouted urgently.

“Did you lose the rope?” “Yes.” I answered miserably. “This is bad. If we lose that, we might have to spend our entire lives endlessly circling these subterranean depths!” Growing increasingly panicked, we searched frantically. Since we had fallen where the ground was terraced, we thought searching there would be best, and walked while examining the ground with our candle. But terraced sections were scattered everywhere, and numerous narrow horizontal tunnels opened into the cave. Before long, we could no longer tell which path we had come from, and even as we searched for the lost item, we found ourselves in such a state that we might lose our way at any moment. The more we searched, the more our unease grew.

Later, I remembered that the protagonist of *The Improvisatore* had undergone the same ordeal. Ōgai’s celebrated translation lays bare the boy’s terror with striking clarity.

“At that moment, our surroundings were utterly silent; no voices could be heard, only the lonesome sound of drops between rocks—now ceasing, now continuing—reached our ears.” ...When I suddenly became aware and looked toward the painter—ah, strange—the painter was sighing deeply and pacing back and forth in one spot. ...Since his demeanor seemed most unusual, I too stood up and began to weep. ...I clung to the painter’s hand and pleaded that we must climb up now, that I wished to stay here no longer. Quoth the painter, “You are a good child. I shall draw for you, I shall give you sweets. Here I have coins too.” As he spoke, he searched the folds of his garment, took out a purse, and gave me all the coins within. When I received this, I noticed that the painter’s hand had become cold as ice and was trembling violently....Then he bent down and kissed me many times, saying, “Sweet child.” “Thou too must pray to the Holy Mother,” quoth he. “‘Had you lost the thread?’ I cried out.”

The improvisatori soon discovered the end of the thread and were able to safely exit the catacomb. But would the same good fortune be 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 could not easily find the end of the thread.

For over an hour, despite the chilly subterranean depths, we drenched ourselves in sweat as we searched frantically. I was overcome with despair and guilt toward Moroto, and countless times I wanted to throw myself onto the cold rocks and weep. If Moroto’s fierce determination had not encouraged me, I likely would have given up the search, sat down in the cave, and waited to starve to death. Time and again, we had our candles extinguished by the large bats inhabiting the cave. They thrust their creepy, hairy bodies not only at the candles but against our faces.

Moroto patiently lit candle after candle and systematically searched through the cave. “Don’t panic. As long as we stay calm, there’s no reason we shouldn’t find what must undoubtedly be here.”

He continued the search with astonishing tenacity.

And finally, thanks to Moroto’s composure, the end of the hemp rope was discovered. But what a tragic discovery that was. When we grasped it, both Moroto and I, overwhelmed with supreme joy, instinctively leapt for joy. “Banzai!” we even ended up shouting together. Overcome with joy, I pulled the grasped rope hand over hand toward myself. And we had no time to question how it continued to slither endlessly onward.

“That’s strange. There’s no resistance?” Moroto, who had been watching beside me, suddenly remarked. When he mentioned it, I realized how odd it was. Not knowing what misfortune this meant, I pulled with all my strength. Then the rope coiled like a snake and lashed toward me, making me lose my balance and fall hard on my rear. “Don’t pull!” I hit the ground just as Moroto cried out.

“The rope’s been cut.” “Don’t pull!” “Leave it as it is. Use the rope as a marker and try heading back toward the entrance.” “If it wasn’t cut midway, we should be able to get near the entrance.” Following Moroto’s advice, we set the candle on the ground and began retracing our path while keeping our eyes on the rope lying there. But ah—what a disaster. 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 fire to examine 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 probably think the rope snapped midway when you fell earlier because you pulled too hard. And you likely feel guilty toward me. Rest assured—that isn’t what happened. But this means something far worse for us. Look. This wasn’t frayed against a rock edge. It shows clear signs of being sliced by a sharp blade. If it had broken from tension, the split would’ve occurred at the nearest rock protrusion to us. Yet this was severed near the entrance.”

When I examined the cut end, it was indeed just as Moroto had said. To confirm whether the rope had been severed near the entrance—where we had tied it to the stone pavement in the well upon entering this underground—we rewound it into its original coil. There it was, having returned to its exact original size. There could be no doubt now. Someone had cut the rope near the entrance.

Though it’s unclear exactly how much of the rope I initially hauled in, it was probably about eight ken. But if it had been severed before we fell, then we might have been dragging this loose-ended rope without realizing it, making it nearly impossible to estimate how much distance remained between our current position and the entrance. “But there’s no use just staying like this. Let’s go as far as we can.”

Moroto declared this, replaced the candle with a new one, and took the lead in walking. The spacious cavern had numerous branching paths, but we walked straight ahead from where the rope had ended and entered a hole that opened at a dead end. We thought the entrance was likely in that direction. We frequently encountered branching paths. There were places where the holes became dead ends. When we turned back there, 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 they were the same cavern from which we had initially set out.

Even just circling a single cavern to discover what should have been an easily found end of the hemp rope had required such tremendous effort from us. But once we had ventured branch after branch into *Yawata no Yabu Shirazu*, there remained nothing more we could do.

“If only we could find even a sliver of light,” Moroto said. “Heading toward its source would surely lead us back to the entrance.” But not even a faint glimmer no larger than a bean could be found. We stumbled blindly for nearly an hour, now utterly disoriented—unable to tell whether we moved toward escape, deeper into the abyss, or wandered some uncharted region beneath the island. Again came a perilous descent. At its base lay another cavernous hall. From its midpoint, the path developed a slight upward incline. We pressed forward regardless until reaching a raised step that terminated at a solid wall. Utterly defeated, we sank down onto the step.

“We might have been going around the same path this whole time.” I truly felt that way.

“Humans are truly spineless creatures, aren’t we? “It’s such a small island after all. Walking from end to end would take no time. “And right above our heads, the sun shines over houses and people living their lives. “I don’t know if it’s ten ken or twenty—we can’t even muster the strength to break through that short distance.” “That’s precisely the horror of labyrinths. “There’s an attraction called Yawata no Yabu Shirazu. “Just a ten-ken-square bamboo grove at most, but you can see the exit through the gaps—yet no matter how far you walk, you never escape. “We’re caught in its spell now!” Moroto remained perfectly composed. “Panicking won’t help at times like these. Think slowly. “Don’t try to escape with your feet—use your head to escape. “Consider carefully the nature of labyrinths.”

He said this and, upon entering the hole for the first time, placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it from the candle's flame. “We must conserve the candles,” he declared, blowing it out immediately. In the pitch-black darkness, his cigarette's glow formed a solitary red dot. He, being a heavy smoker, had taken out a pack of Westminster cigarettes from the trunk where he’d stored them before entering the well and stashed it in his pocket. After finishing the first one, he used its ember to light the second cigarette without using a match. And until it had burned halfway down, we remained silent in the darkness. Moroto seemed to be thinking about something, but I had no energy left to think and simply slumped against the back wall.

Lord of the Abyss of Demons

“There’s no other way.” From the darkness, Moroto’s voice suddenly sounded. “How long do you think the combined length of all these branch tunnels in the cave totals?” “One ri or two? It can’t possibly be more than that.” “If it’s two ri, then we need only walk twice that—four ri.” “If we just walk four ri, we can definitely get out.” “I believe there’s no other way to conquer this monster called a labyrinth.” “But if we’re just going around in circles, walking however many ri won’t help at all.” I had nearly given up all hope.

"But there is a way to prevent that endless circling," Moroto said. "I considered this approach: Take a long thread and form it into a loop. Place it on a board, then use your fingers to create numerous indentations. That is, shape the thread's loop into a more complex intertwined form resembling maple leaves. Doesn't this cave perfectly match that concept? Essentially, both walls of this cave equate to the thread. Therefore, if we could make these cave walls as pliable as thread and stretch out both sides of every branching path, they would form one large circle. You see? It's identical to restoring a distorted thread to its original loop."

“Now, if we were to walk continuously with our right hands touching the right wall—following it until we hit a dead end, then using that same right hand to feel along the left side, essentially retracing our steps—and keep persistently tracing this way, since the walls form one large circular path, we’d inevitably reach the exit.” “Using the thread analogy makes this clear.” “So if all branch tunnels combined measure two *ri*, walking twice that distance—four *ri*—would naturally bring us back to the original exit.” “It seems circuitous, but there’s no alternative.”

Having nearly fallen into despair, upon hearing this ingenious plan, I involuntarily straightened my posture and eagerly spoke up.

"That's it, that's it! Then let's try doing that right now, shall we?" "Of course we must try it, but there's no need to rush. Since we have to walk a path of several ri, it's better to rest sufficiently first." Moroto said this and vigorously tossed away the shortened cigarette. The red ember spun round and round like a mouse firework, rolling two or three ken ahead before sizzling out with a sharp hiss.

“Oh, was there a puddle over there all along?” Moroto said uneasily. At the same moment, I detected a strange noise. It was a strange, gurgling sound, like water pouring from the mouth of a bottle.

“There’s a strange noise.”

“What could it be?” We listened intently. The sound grew louder. Moroto hurriedly lit the candle, held it aloft, and peered forward before crying out in alarm. “Water! It’s water! This cave connects to the sea somewhere. The tide’s coming in!” When I considered it, we had descended a steep slope earlier. This place might lie below sea level. If so, seawater would keep rising relentlessly during high tide until balancing with the ocean outside.

The area where we were sitting was on the highest ledge in the cave, so we had failed to notice until then, but when we looked, the water had already advanced to within a couple of *ken*. We descended the steps and tried to hurry back the way we had come, splashing through the water, but ah—we had already lost our chance. Moroto’s composure had ironically become our undoing. As the water advanced, growing deeper, the hole through which we had come was already submerged underwater.

“Let’s search for another hole!” We ran around the cave’s perimeter, shouting nonsense as we looked for another exit, but strangely, not a single hole appeared in the sections above water. Unfortunately, we had wandered into a dead end resembling the bulb of a thermometer. I imagined seawater must have wound through twists and turns from beyond our entry hole before flooding in. The water’s rapid rise filled us with unease. If this were normal tidal inflow, it shouldn’t be rising so quickly. This proved the cave lay below sea level. The water came rushing through a rock fissure—barely visible at low tide—the moment high tide arrived.

While we were occupied with such thoughts, the water had surged up right below the ledge where we had taken refuge.

When I suddenly noticed something crawling ominously around us with scuttling noises, we held out the candle to find five or six giant crabs clambering up, driven by the advancing water. “Ah! That’s it! That must be it!” Moroto cried. “Minoura-kun, we’re beyond saving now.” What had he recalled? Moroto suddenly shouted with anguish tearing through his voice. Hearing that desperate cry left me feeling hollow-chested, as if my heart had been scooped out. “The whirlpool from the Abyss of Demons flows here! This water comes from that cursed abyss,” Moroto continued hoarsely. “Now I understand everything—that man who claimed to be Jogoro’s cousin... The boatman told us how he visited the Moroto estate only to surface later in the Abyss of Demons. He must have deciphered the incantation’s secret like we did and entered this cave. He broke the well’s stone pavement too! Wandered lost through these tunnels just as we have... drowned when the tide flooded in... Then washed out to the abyss with the ebb current! Didn’t the boatman say his corpse looked exactly like it had flowed straight from a cave? The Abyss’s true master was never some demon—it’s this very cavern itself!”

Even as we spoke, the water had already risen to our knees. We had no choice but to stand up, trying to delay even by a moment the time when we would drown in the water.

Swimming in Darkness When I was a child, I once killed a rat that had been caught in a wire mesh mousetrap by placing the entire trap into a tub and pouring water over it. Because I couldn’t bring myself to use other methods of killing, like stabbing a rat through the mouth with fire tongs—such things were too terrifying for me to do. But the water punishment was also quite cruel. As the tub filled with water, the rat, overcome with terror, ran wildly in every direction within the narrow net and scrambled upward. When I thought, "He must be regretting so much now having taken the bait in the mousetrap," I was overcome by an indescribably strange feeling.

However, since I couldn't let the rat live, I kept pouring water in relentlessly. When the water surface came grazing against the top of the wire mesh, the rat thrust its pale red snout upward through the hexagonal netting as far as it could go, continuing its pitiful breathing while emitting anguished, frantic cries. I closed my eyes, scooped up one final dipperful, then fled to my room while keeping my gaze averted from the tub. After about ten minutes had passed, when I timidly went to check, the rat floated bloated within the net.

In the caves of Iwajima Island, we were in exactly the same predicament as that rat. I stood up on a slightly elevated part of the cave and, in the darkness, feeling the water level gradually creeping up from my feet, suddenly remembered that rat from before.

“Which is higher—the high tide’s water level or the ceiling of this cave?” I groped around, grabbed Moroto’s arm, and shouted. “I was just thinking the same thing,” Moroto answered quietly. “For that, we just need to consider the difference between how many slopes we descended versus how many we ascended.” “Didn’t we descend far more?” “I feel the same way. Even after accounting for the distance between the ground and sea level, I still feel we descended more.”

“Then there’s no saving us now, is there?”

Moroto gave no answer. We stood frozen in the tomb-like darkness and silence. The water rose steadily higher, past our knees and up to our waists. "Please use your wisdom to find a way." "I can't bear waiting for death like this any longer."

I trembled violently from the cold and let out a scream.

“Wait! It’s too soon to despair.” “I examined it carefully by candlelight earlier. The ceiling here becomes narrower towards the top, forming an irregular conical shape.” “The narrowness of this ceiling—if there were no cracks in it—would be our one slender hope.” Moroto said such things after much deliberation. I didn’t quite grasp his meaning, but lacking the energy to question him further, I staggered as the water now lapped up to my stomach and clung to Moroto’s shoulder. If I let my guard down, my feet would slip, and I felt like I might float sideways in the water.

Moroto wrapped his arm around my abdomen and held me firmly. In the absolute darkness where even a face mere inches away remained invisible, I heard steady, strong breathing and felt warm breath against my cheek. Through waterlogged clothes, I could sense his taut muscles warmly enveloping me. Moroto's body odor—not unpleasant by any means—hung close about me. All of this fortified me in the dark. Thanks to Moroto, I managed to stay upright. Had he not been there, I might well have drowned long before.

But the rising water showed no sign of abating. In an instant, it surpassed our abdomens, reached our chests, and approached 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 over. Mr. Moroto, we’re going to die.”

I let out a throat-tearing scream.

“Don’t despair. “Don’t despair—not until the very last second.” Moroto also raised his voice louder than necessary. “Can you swim?” “I can swim, but I’m done for. I just want to die quickly and be done with it.” “What’s this weak talk? It’s nothing at all. The darkness makes people timid. Stay strong. You must live as long as you possibly can!” Finally, we had to float in the water, treading lightly to keep breathing.

Before long, our limbs would grow weary. Though it was summer, our bodies would grow numb from the subterranean chill. Even so, if this water were to reach the ceiling, what were we to do? We were not fish that could survive on water alone. Foolishly, I thought such thoughts—no matter how much I was told not to despair, I couldn’t help but succumb. “Minoura! Minoura!”

As Moroto pulled my hand forcefully and I came to my senses with a start, I found myself submerged in the water as if in a dream.

While repeating this process, my consciousness gradually grew dimmer, and I would surely die like this. Nnngh... Dying turned out to be such a carefree, easy affair after all. I thought such things drowsily, in a half-asleep state. Then—how much time had passed? It felt like an eternity yet also an instant—but at Moroto's maddened scream, I abruptly awoke. "Mr. Minoura, we're saved. We're saved!"

But I didn't have the energy to respond. In a feeble show of understanding those words, I embraced Moroto's body. "You, you," Moroto said while shaking me in the water. "Doesn't the air feel strange? Doesn't the air feel different than usual?" "Uh-huh, uh-huh." I was dazed and replied. "The water has stopped rising," he said. "The water's stopped."

“The tide’s gone out.”

With this good news, my head began to clear somewhat.

“That might be,” Moroto said. “But I think there’s another reason altogether. The air feels different, you see. With no escape route for the air, its pressure must be preventing the water from rising any further. Look—didn’t I say earlier that if the ceiling was low and there were no cracks, we’d survive? I’d considered that from the beginning. It’s all thanks to air pressure.” The cave had confined us, but through its very nature, it saved us in return.

Detailing every subsequent development would grow tedious. Let me dispose of this quickly. In the end, we escaped the water torture and were able to resume our underground journey.

There was still some time until low tide, but once we realized we would survive, we regained our strength. During that time, merely floating in the water was nothing much. Eventually, the low tide came. At about the same speed as when it had risen, the water rapidly receded. However, it seemed the water's entrance was located higher than the cave (when the tide had risen to a certain level, the water had rushed in all at once), but rather than receding from that entrance, numerous imperceptible cracks covered the cave floor, and the water was rapidly draining out through them. If that had not existed, this cave would have been perpetually filled with seawater. Now, several dozen minutes later, we were able to stand on the drained cave floor. We were saved. But, though I'm no storyteller, it was out of the frying pan and into the fire. We had gotten our matches wet during the recent water commotion. We had candles, but we couldn't light them. When we realized this—though the darkness prevented us from seeing it—we must have turned deathly pale.

“We’ll have to feel our way.” “Ah well, even without light, we’ve already grown used to the darkness.” “Groping might actually make us more sensitive to direction.” Moroto said in a tearful voice, making excuses in defeat.

Despair. Following Moroto's earlier proposed method, we decided to walk while keeping our right hands on the right-hand wall, retracing to the opposite wall whenever we hit dead ends, never releasing contact. This remained the final, sole escape method from the labyrinth.

To avoid getting separated, we proceeded in silence through the endless darkness, occasionally calling out to each other. We were exhausted. We were assaulted by unbearable hunger. And thus began a journey with no end in sight. As I walked (though in the darkness, it felt no different from marching in place), I began slipping into a dreamlike state.

In a spring field, hundreds of flowers bloomed in profusion like a splendid floral arrangement. White clouds drifted lazily in the sky, and skylarks sang cheerfully to one another. There, picking flowers in vivid form as though rising from the horizon, was the deceased Shiyo. It was the conjoined twin Hide. To Hide, that detestable Kichi’s body was no longer attached. She was an ordinary, beautiful girl. Are hallucinations a kind of safety valve for those on the brink of death? Thanks to the hallucinations interrupting the pain, my nerves were finally spared from death. The murderous despair was alleviated. But the fact that I walked while seeing such visions speaks to nothing other than how I was on the very brink of death at that time.

I had no idea how much time had passed or how far we had walked. The fingertips of my right hand had been scraped raw from constantly touching the wall. My legs had become automatic machines; I couldn't believe I was walking under my own power. I began to doubt whether these legs would even stop if I tried to make them. We must have walked for a full day. We might have been walking continuously for two or even three days. Each time we stumbled over something and fell, we would immediately start snoring away, only to be roused by Moroto and forced to continue our grueling journey.

But even Moroto finally reached the limit of his strength. Suddenly he shouted, “Let’s stop!” and crouched down right there.

“So we can finally die, huh?”

I asked, as though I had been longing for it.

“Ah, that’s right.” Moroto answered as though stating an obvious fact. "When you think about it properly, no matter how far we walk, we’ll never escape." “We’ve already walked over five ri.” "No underground tunnel could possibly be this absurdly long." “There’s a reason behind this.” “I’ve finally realized what that reason is.” “What a complete fool I’ve been!”

He continued speaking in a pitiful voice like that of a dying patient, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I’ve been concentrating my attention on my fingertips for quite some time now, trying to memorize the shape of the rock walls.” “There’s no way to clearly know such things, and it might just be my mistake, but somehow, about every hour, I feel like I’m touching rock surfaces of exactly the same shape.” “In other words, I think we’ve been going around and around the same path for quite some time now.”

I no longer cared about any of that. I could hear the words, but I wasn't thinking about their meaning. But Moroto was speaking like he was delivering his last testament. “To think I believed there were no dead ends in this complex labyrinth—that there was no path forming a complete loop—what an utter fool I’ve been. It’s like an isolated island within the labyrinth. To use the thread loop analogy—within a large jagged loop, there’s a smaller loop. So if our starting point was the wall of the smaller loop, that wall may be jagged, but ultimately there are no dead ends. We’re just endlessly circling around the isolated island. Well then, you’d think we could just let go with our right hands and feel our way along the opposite left side instead—but there’s no guarantee there’s only one isolated island. If that turns out to be the wall of another isolated island, we’d still just be endlessly circling around.”

Though this account makes it sound clear-cut, Moroto had been muttering those thoughts like sleep-talk as he pieced them together, while I—for my part—had listened in a daze without understanding a thing; now that I think back on it, the whole situation feels ludicrous. "Theoretically, there’s a one in a hundred chance of escaping." "If we just happen to hit the outermost large thread loop by fluke, that would do it." "But we don’t have the stamina left for that anymore." "We can’t take even one more step." "This is truly hopeless." "Let’s die together."

“Ah, let’s die.” “That’s the best thing.” In a half-asleep state of resignation, I gave a detached reply. “Let’s die. Let’s die.”

As Moroto continued repeating those same ominous words, his speech gradually grew slurred as if under anesthesia until he finally collapsed.

But the tenacious life force did not allow such circumstances to kill us. We slept. The exhaustion from not having slept a wink since entering the hole—now realizing itself as despair—attacked us all at once.

Avenging Demon

How long had we slept? We dreamed of our stomachs burning and awoke. When we moved, every joint in our bodies throbbed as if with nerve pain.

“Are you awake? We’re still in the hole. We’re still alive.”

Moroto, who had awoken first, sensing my movement, spoke gently. When I became fully aware that I was still alive in this darkness—without water or food, with no hope of ever escaping—I was seized by such terror that my body began to shake violently. That my ability to think had returned because I had slept felt detestable.

“I’m scared.” “I’m scared.”

I groped for Moroto’s body and edged closer. “Minoura-kun, we will never return to the surface again.” “No one is 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—not for eternity.” “Here, just as there is no light, there is no law, no morality, no customs—nothing at all.” “The human race has gone extinct.” “It’s a different world.” “I want to forget those things, even if just for the brief time until I die.” “Right now, we have no shame, no propriety, no pretense, no suspicion—none of those things at all.” “We are infants born into this dark world, just the two of us.”

Moroto continued speaking these words as if reciting a prose poem, pulled me close, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and held me firmly. Every time he moved his head, our cheeks rubbed against each other.

“There’s something I’ve been hiding from you. But such things are merely the customs of human society—pretense. Here there’s nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. It’s about the old man. I’m bad-mouthing that bastard. Even after all I’ve said, I don’t suppose you’ll look down on me now, will you? Because whatever parents or friends we had—here, they’re all like dreams from a past life.”

And then, Moroto began to speak of a grand conspiracy—so grotesque, monstrous, and otherworldly it seemed beyond the realm of human conception.

“When we were staying at the Moroto residence, you know I was arguing with Jogoro in a separate room every day.” “Back then, I found out all his secrets, you know.”

Jogoro was born when the previous head of the Moroto family had relations with a monster-like hunchbacked maid. Though he had a legal wife, his involvement with such a creature had been mere morbid curiosity, but when a child doubly cursed by karma and his mother’s deformity was born—a disabled child—Jogoro’s father came to loathe the mother and child, provided them money, and banished them from the island. As the mother 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 despises even the Higuchi name, persisting in using Moroto instead.

His mother took the newborn Jogoro with her and lived like beggars in the remote mountains of the mainland, cursing the world and cursing people. Jogoro grew up over many years with these cursed voices as his lullaby. They feared and hated ordinary humans as if they were confronting beasts of another kind.

Jogoro had been made to listen to a long story about the numerous hardships and persecutions by humans he endured until reaching adulthood. His mother passed away, leaving him with words of curse. When he reached adulthood, through some unknown impetus, he crossed over to this Iwajima Island—but just then, the Higuchi family heir, who was Jogoro’s half-brother, had died, leaving behind his beautiful wife and a newborn baby girl. Jogoro barged into that situation and ultimately took up residence there.

Ironically, Jogoro fell in love with his brother’s wife. Taking advantage of his position as a guardian, he did everything in his power to court her, but she coldly declared, “I would rather die than obey a cripple,” and secretly fled the island with her child. Jogoro turned deathly pale, clenched his teeth, and trembled uncontrollably as he recounted this. Until then, he had cursed normal people out of his resentment as a cripple, but from that moment on, he truly transformed into a demon who cursed the world.

He searched everywhere until he found a girl more severely disabled than himself and married her. This marked his first step toward exacting revenge upon all humanity. Furthermore, whenever he encountered disabled individuals, he would bring them home and begin sustaining them. He even prayed that should a child be born, it would emerge not as an ordinary human but as one grievously, horribly disabled.

“But what a cruel jest of destiny this was. I was the child born to disabled parents. I bore no resemblance to them—I was a perfectly ordinary human. My parents came to hate even their own child simply because he was an ordinary human.” “As I grew, their hatred for humanity deepened increasingly. And then, they came to plot a hair-raising conspiracy. They pulled strings and went around buying newborn children from poor families in distant regions. The more beautiful and adorable the baby was, the more they bared their teeth in delight.”

“Minoura-kun, it’s only because we’re in this deadly darkness that I can speak openly—they conceived the idea of manufacturing disabled people.” “Have you ever read a book called Yu Chu Xin Zhi from Shina?” “In it, there’s a story about creating disabled people by packing infants into boxes to sell to sideshows.” “I also recall reading in Hugo’s novels how French doctors of old engaged in the same sort of trade.” “The manufacturing of disabled people may have existed in any country.”

Jogoro, of course, had no knowledge of such things. He merely came up with what others had already thought of. But since Jogoro’s focus wasn’t profit but revenge against normal humanity, his actions were many times more persistent and severe than those merchants’. He put children into boxes up to their necks to stunt their growth, creating Issunboushi. He skinned faces and grafted new skin to make bear girls. He severed fingers to craft three-fingered hands. Then he sold the finished products to showmen. “Those three men who loaded boxes onto a boat and sailed off the other day—that was part of exporting artificially disabled people.” “They dock that boat at rocky shores instead of proper ports, cross mountains to reach towns, and deal with criminals.” “That’s why I said they wouldn’t return for days.”

Right when they were starting such things, I asked to be enrolled in a school in Tokyo. “The old man granted my request on the condition that I become a surgeon.” “And taking advantage of my complete ignorance, he told me to research treatments for the disabled—a noble-sounding pretext—while in reality forcing me to study how to manufacture them.” “When I created frogs with two heads or mice with tails attached to their noses, the old man would send letters cheering me on with great fervor.”

“The reason he didn’t allow me to return home was that he feared I, having developed discernment, would discover the conspiracy to manufacture disabled people. He thought it was still too early to reveal everything. Moreover, it’s easy to imagine how he employed Tomosuke from the circus troupe as his pawn. That bastard wasn’t just manufacturing disabled people—he was even creating human beasts thirsting for blood.” “This time when I suddenly returned and accused the old man of murder... There, for the first time, he revealed the curse of disability—prostrating himself before me with streaming tears—and pleaded for me to assist in my parents’ lifelong project of revenge. He wants me to apply my surgical knowledge.”

What a terrible delusion. The old man wants to eliminate every healthy person across Japan and fill it with nothing but cripples. He aims to create a nation of defectives. He claims this is the Moroto family precept that must bind generations to come. Just like some old fool in Joshu carving boulders to build his Iwaya Hotel, he says we'll achieve this grand revenge through centuries of family enterprise. A devil’s delusion. A demon’s utopia.

That's right—the old man's circumstances were pitiable. But no matter how pitiable, could I ever take part in such a cruel, hellish conspiracy—packing innocent children into boxes, skinning them alive, and putting them on display in sideshows? Moreover, even while recognizing his circumstances as pitiable on a logical level, I found myself unable to feel genuine sympathy for that bastard. It felt strange—they didn't seem like parents to me. The same went for my mother. What kind of mother would harm her own child? Those two—that couple—were devils from birth. Beasts. Just as their bodies were twisted and contorted, so too were their hearts.

“Minoura-kun, this is my parents’ true nature,” Moroto Michio said. “I’m their child—a demon’s offspring who’s made it my life’s work to commit acts far crueler than murder.” What should I do? Should I grieve? But this sorrow was too vast for grieving. Should I rage? But this hatred ran too deep for rage.

“To tell you the truth,” When I lost the guiding thread in that hole, I felt in some corner of my heart as if a heavy burden had been lifted with relief. “When I thought I might never have to escape this eternal darkness, I felt rather relieved.”

Moroto, his hands trembling violently, clasped my shoulders with all his strength and continued talking frantically. On their firmly pressed cheeks, his tears poured down in torrents. Overwhelmed by the sheer abnormality of it all, I had lost all capacity for judgment and could do nothing but remain motionless, letting Moroto have his way as I huddled in place.

Living Hell

There was one thing I was itching to ask. But not wanting to appear as though I was only thinking of myself, I waited a while for Moroto’s agitation to subside. We remained huddled together in the darkness, silent.

“I’m such a fool.” “In this underground otherworld, there should be no parents, nor morality or shame.” “Getting worked up now won’t change a thing.”

Finally regaining his composure, Moroto said in a low voice.

“Then those twins Hide and Kichi were also…” I seized the opportunity to ask. “So they were manufactured disabled people too?” “Of course,” Moroto spat out. “I’d known that since reading that strange diary.” “At the same time, through that diary, I’d begun dimly suspecting what the old man was up to.” “And why he made me study that peculiar anatomy.” “But I didn’t want to tell you.” “I could call my parents murderers, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak of the body modifications.” “The very act of putting it into words was terrifying.”

"The fact that Hide and Kichi aren't natural twins—well, you wouldn't know since you're not a doctor, but among us it's common knowledge. There's an unshakable principle that conjoined twins must always be of the same sex. In cases of a single fertilized egg, male and female twins can't possibly be born. And how could there exist twins with such different faces and physiques?" "When they were infants, they stripped the skin from both, shaved off the flesh, and forcibly joined them together. If the conditions are right, it can be done. With luck, even an amateur might manage it. But since they're not fused at the core as much as they believe, separating them wouldn't be particularly difficult."

“So those were made to be sold as freak show exhibits too?” “Exactly. They made them learn shamisen like that while waiting for peak selling season.” “You must be thrilled to learn Hide isn’t genuinely disabled.” “Happy now?”

“Are you jealous?”

The inhuman realm had made me bold. As Moroto had said, there existed neither propriety nor shame. I would be dead soon anyway. I kept thinking nothing I said mattered anymore.

“I’m jealous.” “Yes.” “Ah, how long have I been consumed by jealousy?” “My struggle to marry Shiyo-san was also partly for that reason.” “Even after that person died, seeing your endless grief, how much anguish I must have felt.” “But now, you can never meet Shiyo-san, Hide, or any other women ever again.” “In this world, you and I are all of humanity.”

“Ah, I’m happy about that. I’m grateful to the god who confined just the two of us in this other world. I never once thought about trying to live—not from the very beginning. The sense of responsibility that I had to atone for my old man’s sins was the only thing that drove me to make all those efforts. Rather than exposing my shame as the devil’s child any further, how much happier I would be to die here holding you. Minoura-kun, forget the customs of the surface world—cast aside its shame! Now, at last, accept my wish… receive my love.”

Moroto became frenzied once more. I found myself at a loss for how to respond to the sheer loathsomeness of his desire. Anyone might feel similarly, but whenever I considered anything other than young women as objects of romantic affection, I was overcome by an indescribable disgust that made my entire body shudder and hair stand on end. As friends, physical contact meant nothing. It could even be agreeable. But once it entered the realm of romantic love, a same-sex body became something that induced nausea. This was another facet of exclusive romantic love. Hatred of one's own kind.

Moroto was reliable as a friend and someone toward whom I felt goodwill. But precisely because that held true, considering him as an object of carnal desire became unbearable. Even I—who had faced death and become resigned—could do nothing to alter this hatred.

I pushed away the approaching Moroto and fled.

“Ah, even now, can’t you bring yourself to love me?” “Is there no mercy in you to accept this desperate love of mine?” Moroto, overcome with disappointment, came chasing after me while wailing.

A shameless dance devoid of dignity began in the abyssal depths - a grotesque plover's waltz that knew neither shame nor decorum. Ah, what an unspeakably profane spectacle this was.

It was one of his caves where the walls widened on both sides, but I had fled five or six *ken* from my original spot and now crouched in a dark corner, holding my breath. Moroto too had fallen silent. Was he listening intently for any human presence, or slithering soundlessly along the wall like a blind snake approaching its prey? I couldn't discern his movements at all. That very uncertainty made it all the more unsettling.

I trembled alone in the darkness and silence, like a human without eyes or ears.

And then, "Instead of wasting time on this，shouldn’t I be making every effort to escape this hole? Is it possible that Moroto，for the sake of his abnormal carnal desires，is trying to sacrifice our lives that might still have a chance of being saved?"

I was thinking such thoughts. Even so, I couldn't bring myself to continue journeying alone through the dark. When I startled awake, the snake had already drawn near me. Could he truly see my figure in the darkness? Or did he possess senses beyond the five? My leg—startled and trying to flee—had at some point been seized by his birdlime-like hands.

Losing my balance, I fell sideways onto the rock. The snake slimed its way up my body. I wondered whether this indescribable beast was Moroto. It was no longer something that could be called human—it was nothing but a grotesque creature. I groaned in terror.

It was a terror distinct from the fear of death—but even more, even more loathsome than that—an unspeakable horror.

The bone-chillingly grotesque thing hidden in the depths of the human heart now appeared before me in a strange form, like a mythical sea monster. A hellscape. A raw hell of darkness, death, and bestiality. I had lost the power to groan. I was terrified to make a sound. Cheeks flaming like fire overlapped onto my sweat-dampened cheek of terror. A bestial panting like a dog’s breath, a grotesque body odor, and a slimy, slick, hot mucous membrane crawled across my entire face like a leech, searching for my lips.

Moroto Michio is no longer of this world. But I fear shaming the dead too profoundly. I should stop dwelling on this at such length.

Just at that moment, a very bizarre incident occurred. It was such an unexpected turn of events that, thanks to it, I was able to escape calamity.

At the other end of the cave, a strange noise sounded. I had grown accustomed to bats and crabs, but that noise was not made by such small creatures. It was the presence of a much larger creature squirming about. Moroto loosened his grip on me; I stopped resisting and listened intently.

An Unexpected Individual Moroto released me. By animal instinct, we braced ourselves against the enemy.

When we strained our ears, we could hear the breathing of a living creature. “Shh!”

Moroto scolded as one would a dog.

“Just as I thought. “There’s a human here.” “Hey, that’s right, isn’t it?” Surprisingly, the creature spoke in human language. It was an elderly human voice. “Who are you? Why have you come to a place like this?”

Moroto retorted. “Who are you? Why are you in a place like this?” The other party said the same thing.

Whether because the cave’s echo distorted the voice or not, it sounded vaguely familiar, yet I struggled to recall who it belonged to. For a while, both sides remained silent, each probing the other.

The other party’s breathing grew gradually clearer. They were edging closer and closer. “Could it be that you folks are guests from the Moroto residence?” I heard such a voice from about six feet away. This time, because it was a low voice, I could clearly discern its tone.

I suddenly recalled a certain person. But that person was supposed to be already dead. That person was supposed to have been killed for Jogoro's sake... The voice of the dead. For an instant, I felt the illusion that this cave might be the true hell, that we might already be dead. "Who are you? Could it be—" As I began to speak, the other man exclaimed with evident delight. "Ah, yes! You're Mr. Minoura, right? The other one must be Mr. Michio, right? I'm Toku. I'm Toku—the Toku who was killed by Jogoro."

“Ah, it’s Mr. Toku! You... why are you in a place like this?” We instinctively ran toward the voice and felt around each other’s bodies.

Mr. Toku's boat had capsized at the Abyss of Demons due to a large boulder Jogoro dropped. But Mr. Toku hadn't died. As it happened to be high tide then, his body had been sucked into the cave of the Abyss of Demons. When the tide receded, he was left alone in the dark labyrinth. From that day until now, he had survived underground. "And your son? The one who served as my decoy?" "I don't know. He must've been eaten by a shark or something."

Mr. Toku spoke in a completely resigned tone. It was no wonder. Mr. Toku himself had no prospect of returning to the surface, so his situation was no different from that of a dead man.

“Because of me, you all ended up going through such an ordeal. You must have resented me terribly.” At any rate, I offered my apology. But within this deathly cave, such words rang hollow. Mr. Toku gave no response. “You’re all in a wretched state. “Hungry, I expect?” “Here—take what’s left of my meal.” “No need to fret about provisions. This place teems with giant crabs.”

I couldn't help but feel suspicious about how Mr. Toku had survived, but sure enough, he had been staving off his hunger with raw crab meat. We received it from Mr. Toku and ate. It was cold and slimy, like salty gelatin, but truly delicious. I have never before or since eaten anything that tasted so good. We pleaded with Mr. Toku to catch several more giant crabs for us, smashed them against rocks to break their shells, and greedily devoured them. Looking back now, it seems both eerie and repulsive, but at the time, crushing those thick legs that still squirmed faintly and sucking out the oozing substance inside them was indescribably delicious.

When our hunger had been restored, we regained some energy and discussed our respective circumstances with Mr. Toku. “So that means we’ve got no hope of getting out of this hole until we die, huh?” After hearing our tale of hardships, Mr. Toku let out a despairing sigh. “I have done something regrettable. “I should have risked my life and swum out to the sea from the original hole. “Because I got caught in a whirlpool and thought I’d surely die, I ended up not heading out to sea and swam into the hole instead. “Because I never imagined this hole would be Yawata no Yabu Shirazu—more terrifying than a whirlpool. “Later, when I realized my mistake and tried to go back, I only ended up getting lost and couldn’t find my way back to the original hole at all. “But you never know what brings fortune. Thanks to me wandering around like that, I ended up meeting you folks.”

“Now that we’ve secured food like this, we have no reason to despair.” “If there’s even a one-in-a-hundred chance of getting out, then let’s keep walking uselessly ninety-nine times! Even if it takes days—even if it takes months!”

Thanks to the increase in our numbers and the raw crab meat, I suddenly felt invigorated.

“Ah, you must want to feel the winds of the outside world again.” “I envy you all.” Moroto said suddenly in a sad tone.

“That’s a strange thing to say.” “Don’t you value your life at all?”

Mr. Toku asked suspiciously. "I am Jogoro’s son. I am a murderer’s child—a creator of cripples—a demon’s spawn." He was afraid of sunlight. To emerge into society and have his face seen by righteous people terrified him. This pitch-dark underworld might indeed be the fitting abode for a demon’s child.

Poor Moroto. On top of that, he was ashamed of the despicable act he had committed against me.

“That makes sense. You probably don’t know anything about it. When you all came to the island, I was seriously thinking of telling you about it. Do you remember that evening when I was crouching on the beach seeing you off? But I was terrified of Jogoro’s retaliation. If we were to anger Jogoro, we wouldn’t be able to stay 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 inform me about?” Moroto stirred and retorted. “The fact that you’re not Jogoro’s real child.” “Now that things have come to this, I don’t care what I say anymore.” “You’re a child Jogoro kidnapped from the mainland—someone else’s child.” “Just think—how could someone as beautiful as you be born to that filthy disabled couple?” “Their real child tours with a freak show.” “A hunchback who’s Jogoro’s spitting image.” The reader knows this—once before, when Detective Kitagawa pursued the Ozaki Circus Troupe to a town in Shizuoka Prefecture, ingratiated himself with Issunboushi, and inquired about “Oto-san,” Issunboushi had stated: “There’s another young hunchback besides Oto-san who’s the circus leader.” That circus leader was none other than Jogoro’s biological son.

Mr. Toku continued his account.

"You were likely meant to be trained as a disabled person too, but that hunchbacked mother took a liking to you and ended up raising you as a normal child." "Then, since you turned out to be quite clever, Jogoro had no choice but to relent—he decided to make you his own child and have you properly educated." Why did he make him his own child? To accomplish his demonic objectives, he needed the unbreakable bond of a true parent-child relationship.

Moroto Michio was not the biological child of demon Jogoro. It was an astonishing fact.

Spiritual Guidance

“Please tell me more details, more details.”

Moroto asked in a hoarse voice, coughing. “I was a retainer of the Higuchi family, passed down from my father, and until seven years ago when I could no longer bear to witness Mr. Hunchback’s ways and took my leave—since I’m exactly sixty this year, that means I’ve seen fifty years of the Higuchi family’s conflicts and squabbles.” “I’ll try to explain things in order, so you’d best listen carefully.” 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, to write it all out in detail would prove tedious, so I have prepared a table on the left that makes everything clear at a glance.

(Keiō era) Manbei, the previous head of the Higuchi family, laid hands on an ugly disabled maid, and Kaini was born. This child was an even more hunchbacked and ugly version of his mother, so Manbei could not bear to look at them and banished the mother and child. They continued living like beasts in hiding within the mountains of the mainland. The mother cursed the world and cursed people, then died in those mountains. (Meiji 10) Haruo, the legitimate son of Manbei's legal wife, married Kotohira Umeno, a daughter from the opposite shore.

(1879) 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 family, and took advantage of Umeno's position as mistress to act as he pleased. Moreover, when he began making adulterous advances toward Umeno, she fled back to her parents' home with Haruyo.

(Meiji 23) Jogoro, his love shattered and cursing the world, sought out and married an ugly hunchbacked woman.

(Meiji 25) A child was born to Moroto Jogoro and his wife. Inga and her child were also hunchbacked. Jogoro bared his teeth in delight. He kidnapped Michio, who was the same age, from somewhere. (Meiji 33) Umeno’s daughter Haruyo (legitimate heir of the Higuchi family as Haruo’s biological child), who had returned to her parents’ home, married a young man from the same village. (Meiji 38) Haruyo gave birth to her eldest daughter, Shiyo. This was Kizaki Shiyo, who would later become known as such. This was Kizaki Shiyo, my lover who was killed by Jogoro.

(Meiji 40) Haruyo gave birth to her second daughter, Midori. In the same year, Haruyo’s husband died, and her parents’ family perished, leaving her without relatives. Thus, relying on her mother’s connections, she crossed over to Iwajima Island and came to lodge at Jogoro’s residence. She had been deceived by Jogoro’s honeyed words. At the beginning of this story, when Shiyo spoke of guarding a baby on a desolate coast, that event was from this period—the baby being her second daughter, Midori. (Meiji 41) Jogoro’s ambition began to manifest blatantly. He sought to fulfill the love he had lost with Umeno through her daughter Haruyo. Haruyo finally could endure no longer and, one night, fled the island with Shiyo. At that time, the second daughter Midori was taken by Jogoro.

Haruyo drifted aimlessly to Osaka, but finding herself destitute, she ultimately abandoned Shiyo. It was the Kizaki couple who took her in. The above formed a concise history of the Higuchi family, combining Mr. Toku's eyewitness accounts with my own conjectures. Through this, it became evident that Shiyo alone was the legitimate heir of the Higuchi family, while Jogoro remained nothing more than a maid's son. If treasure lay hidden beneath this earth, it had now grown irrefutably clear that it rightfully belonged to the deceased Miss Shiyo.

Unfortunately, it remained completely unknown who Moroto Michio’s real parents were or where they might be. The only one who knew that was Jogoro.

“Ah! I’m saved! Having heard this—no matter what may come—I shall return above ground! And I’ll confront Jogoro—I won’t rest until he confesses where my true father and mother reside!”

Michio suddenly became emboldened.

But as for me, a strange premonition set my heart racing. I had to ask Toku-san about it.

“Haruyo-san had two daughters, didn’t she—Shiyo and Midori.” “As for her younger sister Midori, it’s said that when Haruyo-san ran away from home, she was taken by Jogoro, correct?” “Counting the years, she would be exactly seventeen now.” “What happened to Midori after that?” “Is she still alive?” “Ah, I forgot to mention that.” Mr. Toku answered. “She’s alive.” “But she’s only barely alive—she’s not a proper person anymore.” “She was turned into a freak—conjoined twins who shouldn’t have even been born.”

“Oh! Could that be Miss Hide?” “That’s right.” “That Miss Hide is the tragic remains of Miss Midori.”

What a strange twist of fate this was. I had been in love with Miss Shiyo's true younger sister. Would Miss Shiyo beneath the earth resent my feelings? Or was this convergence entirely guided by her spirit—had she made me cross to this isolated island, shown me Miss Hide at the storehouse window, and caused me to fall in love at first sight? Ah, I couldn't shake this conviction that it must be so. If Miss Shiyo's spirit truly possessed such power, our treasure hunt might successfully achieve its purpose. And perhaps the time would come when we escaped this underground labyrinth and met Miss Hide again.

“Miss Shiyo, Miss Shiyo, please protect us.” I prayed to the cherished memory of her in my heart.

The Mad Demon

And then once again began our torturous journey through hell. Staving off hunger with raw crab meat and quenching our thirst with meager freshwater dripping from cave ceilings, for dozens of hours we continued through endless labyrinths. Though we endured countless pains and terrors during that time, I omit them all as too trivial to recount.

Although there was neither night nor day underground, when we could no longer endure the fatigue, we lay down on the rocky floor and slept. When we awoke from one of our many sleeps, Mr. Toku let out a wild cry.

“There’s a rope! There’s a rope! Isn’t this the hemp rope you lost?”

We rejoiced at this unexpected good news and crawled over to Mr. Toku’s side to check—it was indeed the hemp rope. If that was the case, were we already nearing the entrance?

“No, this isn’t the hemp rope we used.” “Mr. Minoura, what do you think?” “Ours wasn’t this thick, right?”

Michio said with a suspicious look. When we checked as instructed, it indeed didn’t seem to be the hemp rope we had used. “Then, could there be someone besides us who used a guide rope to enter this hole?”

“That’s the only conclusion,” Michio continued. “They must have come after us. When we entered that well initially, there was no hemp rope tied to its entrance.” Who could have pursued us into these depths? Friend or foe? Yet Jogoro and his wife remained locked in the storehouse. That left only the disabled individuals under their control. Could the Moroto estate servants who departed by boat days ago have returned and discovered the old well’s entrance?

“In any case, let’s follow this rope and see how far we can go.”

Following Michio’s suggestion, we used the rope as our guide and walked on as far as possible.

Indeed, someone had entered the underground; after walking for about an hour, the area ahead began to grow dimly lit. It was candlelight reflecting off the winding walls toward us. We gripped the knives in our pockets, mindful of our footsteps' echoes, and moved forward slowly and cautiously. With each turn, the brightness grew. We finally reached the final bend. On the other side of that rocky corner, a naked candle flickered. Whether this meant good or ill, my legs froze—I no longer had strength to advance.

At that moment, a bizarre scream suddenly came from beyond the rock wall. Upon closer listening, it was no mere scream. It was a song. A ferocious song unlike anything I had ever heard—its lyrics and melody utterly deranged. Echoing through the cavern, it sounded like some monstrous beast's howl. Hearing this uncanny melody in such an unexpected place sent shivers through me, every hair on my body standing erect. "It's Jogoro."

Michio, who was taken the lead, quietly peered around the rocky bend and started in surprise before drawing his head back to report to us in a hushed voice. How had Jogoro come to be here when he should have been locked away in the storehouse? Why was he singing such an uncanny song? I couldn't comprehend any of it. The song's pitch grew ever higher, turning increasingly violent. Then came sharp metallic clinks that seemed to accompany the singing like macabre accompaniment.

Michio peered quietly from the rocky bend once more, and before long,

“Jogoro has gone mad. “It’s only natural.” “Look upon that spectacle.” As he spoke these words, Michio strode resolutely toward the other side of the rock formation. Hearing of this madness, we followed after him. Ah—that unimaginably bizarre vision which unfolded before our eyes in that moment—I shall never forget it as long as I live.

The ugly hunchbacked old man, half-illuminated by the light of a red candle, danced a mad dance while howling something that was neither song nor scream. The ground beneath his feet was a vast expanse of golden color, like ginkgo leaves. Jogoro grabbed them from several jars in a corner of the cave with both hands, then danced madly while dropping them in a glittering shower. As he dropped them, the golden rain made a delicate clink-clank sound. Jogoro had gone ahead of us and, by luck, discovered the underground treasure. He who had not lost his guide rope must have reached his destination surprisingly quickly without endlessly circling the same paths as we had. But that was a tragic fortune for him. The astounding mountain of gold had finally driven him mad.

We ran up and struck his shoulders, trying to bring him back to his senses, but Jogoro merely stared back at us with vacant eyes, having even lost his hostility, and continued singing his incomprehensible song. “I’ve got it, Minoura,” said Michio, who had noticed this. “It was this old man who cut our guide hemp rope. He made us lose our way like that, then came here using a different guide rope.” “But if Jogoro has come here,” I said, “I’m worried about the disabled ones we left behind at the Moroto estate. Could it be that they’re being subjected to something terrible?”

In truth, I was simply worried about my lover Hide's safety.

“With this hemp rope here, getting out should be no trouble.” “Anyway, let’s go back once to check on the situation.” Under Michio’s instructions, we left Mr. Toku to guard the mad old man and, following the guide rope, rushed toward the exit. A detective came.

We managed to exit the well safely. Struggling against being dazzled by sunlight after so long, we ran hand in hand toward the Moroto estate's front gate and collided with an unfamiliar gentleman in Western clothes approaching from the opposite direction.

“Hey, who are you people?” When the man saw us, he called out in an arrogant tone to stop us. “Who on earth are you? “You don’t seem to be from this island.”

Michio retorted.

“I’m from the police. I’ve come to investigate this house. Do you have any connection to it?” The Western-clad gentleman turned out to be a detective—an unexpected development. This was fortunate timing. We each stated our names. “You’re lying! I know Moroto and Minoura came here. But they shouldn’t be old men like you.”

The detective said something strange. What on earth could he be misunderstanding to call us "old men like you"? Unable to contain our bewilderment, Michio and I unintentionally found ourselves gazing at each other's faces. And we gasped in shock. The one standing before my eyes was no longer the Moroto Michio of a few days prior. Tattered rags like a beggar’s; grime-caked leaden skin; disheveled, wild hair; sunken eyes; a skeletal face with protruding cheekbones—indeed, it was no wonder the detective had mistaken them for old men.

“Your hair is pure white.” Michio said this and laughed strangely. To me, it looked as though he were weeping. My transformation had been more severe than Michio’s. While our physical emaciation differed little, my hair—during those days in that pit—had lost all pigment, turning snow-white like an octogenarian’s. I knew of that uncanny phenomenon where extreme mental anguish bleached a man’s hair overnight. I had read several such accounts. Yet that this rarity should befall me—the very one now uttering these words—lay utterly beyond imagination.

But during those several days, how many times had I been threatened by the terror of death, or something beyond death? I think it's a wonder I didn't go mad. Instead of losing my mind, my hair had turned white. I had to consider that fortunate by comparison. While we had experienced the same inhuman circumstances, the fact that no abnormality was visible in Moroto’s hair was surely because he possessed a stronger mind than I did.

We gave the detective a concise account of everything that had happened since coming to the island and after arriving here. “Why didn’t you ask the police for help? Your suffering is what you call self-inflicted.” The detective who had heard our story spoke these words first—but of course, he did so with a smile. “Because I had believed that the villainous Jogoro was my father.”

Michio explained.

The detective was not alone. He had several colleagues with him. He instructed two of them to enter the underground and bring Jogoro and Toku-san.

“Please leave the guide rope as it is,” Michio cautioned the two colleagues. “We must retrieve the gold coins.” We had previously informed readers that Detective Kitagawa from Ikebukuro Station traveled to Shizuoka Prefecture to investigate the Ozaki Circus Troupe—to which the young acrobat Tomonosuke had belonged—enduring repeated hardships until he befriended the clown Issunboushi and extracted a certain secret. Detective Kitagawa’s painstaking efforts ultimately bore fruit, leading a separate investigative team to pinpoint this den on Iwajima Island and storm the Moroto mansion for inspection.

When the detectives came and looked, at the Moroto mansion, a two-headed monster with male and female heads was engaged in a fierce struggle. Needless to say, that was Hide-chan and Kichi-chan's conjoined twins.

In any case, once they subdued the monster and inquired about the situation, it was Hide-chan who eloquently recounted all the details of what had transpired. After we entered the well, Kichi-chan—who had grown jealous of my bond with Hide-chan—informed Jogoro to cause us distress and opened the storehouse door. Of course, Hide-chan did her utmost to prevent this, but she was no match for Kichi-chan’s brute strength. Now free, Jogoro and his wife brandished whips and swiftly confined the group of disabled individuals into the storehouse instead. Because Kichi had been of service, only the twins were spared from that calamity.

After that, Jogoro must have deduced our whereabouts through Kichi's tattling, descended into the well himself despite his disabled body, cut our hemp rope, and ventured into the labyrinth via another rope. Jogoro's hunchbacked wife and the mute Otoshi must have assisted him.

Ever since then, Hide-chan and Kichi-chan had been enemies. Kichi-chan tried to free Hide-chan. Hide-chan denounced Kichi-chan's betrayal. The argument escalated, and a physical struggle between their bodies began. It was at that moment that the group of detectives arrived on the scene. Through Hide-chan's explanation, the detectives who had learned of the circumstances immediately began preparing to restrain Jogoro's wife and Otoshi-san, free the disabled people in the storehouse, and descend underground to capture Jogoro—just as we appeared.

Through the detective's account, all these particulars became clear.

Grand Denouement

Now, the true culprit behind the triple murders of Kizaki Shiyo (correctly, Higuchi Shiyo), Miyamaki Kokichi, and the boy Tomonosuke had been revealed, and without even awaiting our vengeance, he had already descended into madness. Furthermore, the hiding place of the Higuchi family’s treasure that had served as the motive for those murders was also discovered. My lengthy tale should come to a close here.

I wondered if I'd left anything unsaid. Oh yes—there was the matter of amateur detective Mr. Miyamaki Kokichi. How had he managed to see through that den on Iwajima Island just by looking at the genealogy book? No matter how great a detective he was, this seemed too supernatural an insight. After the case concluded, I found this matter utterly perplexing. I asked to see the deceased's diary kept by Mr. Miyamaki's friend, and when I searched through it meticulously—there it was, there it was. In the Taisho 2 diary, Higuchi Haruyo's name had been found. Needless to say, this was Shiyo's mother.

As the reader knows, Mr. Miyamaki was an eccentric who, instead of having a wife and children, had become intimately involved with various women and lived with them as if married. Ms. Haruyo was also one of them. Mr. Miyamaki had taken in Ms. Haruyo when he found her in distress during his travels. (This occurred after Shiyo-san had been abandoned as an infant.) After about two years of cohabitation, Haruyo-san died of illness at Mr. Miyamaki's home. She must have told him everything before her death—about the abandoned child, the genealogy book, and Iwajima Island. This explains why Mr. Miyamaki immediately rushed to Iwajima Island when he later saw the Higuchi family's genealogy book.

The genealogy book had likely been passed down from Higuchi Haruo (Jogoro's elder brother) to his wife Umeno, from Umeno to their child Haruyo, and from Haruyo to Shiyo. Of course, they knew nothing of this genealogy book's true value. They had merely upheld their ancestor's dying wish that legitimate heirs preserve it. Then how did Jogoro learn about the incantation hidden within? According to his wife's confession, Jogoro had been reading an ancestral diary one day when he chanced upon a passage. There it stated that the secret of their family treasure lay sealed within the genealogy book. However, this discovery came after Haruyo had already fled home, rendering it useless. From then on, Jogoro ordered his hunchbacked son to search for Haruyo's whereabouts, but lacking concrete leads, they made little progress for years. By around Taisho 13, they finally ascertained that Shiyo now possessed the genealogy book. As readers know, Jogoro subsequently exerted tremendous effort to obtain it.

The ancestors of the Higuchi family were a type of pirate widely known as wakō. They owned vast treasures plundered from continental coastlines. Fearing confiscation by feudal lords, they hid the hoard deep underground and passed down its location through generations—until Haruo's grandfather encoded the secret into an incantation and sealed it within the genealogy book, dying without ever revealing the spell to his heir. According to oral tradition preserved by Toku-san, this ancestor had apparently succumbed to a sudden stroke.

From then on, until Jogoro discovered a passage in an old diary, the Higuchi clan had known nothing about this treasure. However, there was reason to believe that this secret was in fact known to those outside the Higuchi clan. This was because there had been that strange man who crossed from K Port to Iwajima Island about ten years earlier, became a guest at the Moroto residence, and later vanished into the flotsam of the Abyss of Demons. He had clearly entered underground from the old well. We saw those traces. Jogoro’s wife recalled that man and stated he was a descendant of someone who had served the Higuchi family’s ancestors. In that case, that man’s ancestors had likely suspected the treasure’s hiding place and left some written record of it.

Having said enough about the past, I would now conclude this tale by briefly adding what became of its characters.

First and foremost, I must write about my lover Hide. She was undoubtedly Midori, Shiyo’s biological younger sister, and since it became clear she was the Higuchi family’s sole legitimate heir, all the underground treasure was transferred to her ownership. Estimated at current market value, it was a fortune nearing one million yen. Hide was now a millionaire. Moreover, she was no longer an ugly conjoined twin. The barbaric Kichi had been surgically separated by Michio’s scalpel. Since they were not originally true conjoined twins, both became fully capable individuals—a man and a woman each in their own right—without any impairments. When Hide’s wound had healed, and she appeared before me with her hair properly tied, makeup applied, and wearing a beautiful crepe kimono—and when she spoke to me in Tokyo dialect—the magnitude of my joy need not be pompously elaborated upon here.

Needless to say, Hide and I got married. The one million yen is now the shared property of Hide and me.

After discussing it, we built a splendid home for disabled individuals on the coast of Shonan Katase. As atonement for the Higuchi family's sin of having spawned a demon like Jogoro, we intended to widely house those lacking self-sufficiency there and let them enjoy their remaining years. The first residents were a group of artificial cripples brought from the Moroto residence. Jogoro's wife and the mute Otoshi-san were among them. Adjacent to the home for disabled individuals, we built an orthopedic hospital. The purpose was to exhaust every medical means to remake cripples into normal humans.

Jogoro, his hunchback son, and all those who had served at the Moroto residence were each executed. We took in Shiyo-san’s foster mother, the Kizaki widow, into our home. Hide called her “Mother, Mother” and cherished her.

Through the confession of Jogoro’s wife, Michio learned of his biological family. In a village near Shingu in Kishu was a wealthy farming family where his father, mother, and siblings were all alive. He immediately made his first homecoming in thirty years to an unfamiliar hometown and unfamiliar parents. I had been looking forward to his arrival in Tokyo with plans to make him director of my surgical hospital when he returned to his hometown and fell ill within a month, passing away. Amidst everything else proceeding so smoothly, there was only this single matter I found regrettable. The death notice from his father contained the following passage.

“Until the moment Michio drew his last breath, he did not call out his father’s or mother’s names, but only clung to your letters and continued to call your name.”