Dogra Magra
Volume 1

Kyusaku Yumeno

Translated by Yuko Yamashita

O fetus,

O fetus,

Why do you dance?

Do you sense your mother’s mind,

And does it terrify you?

Table of Contents

Volume 1

Hellish Sermons of the Madman’s Inferno

The World as a Grand Asylum for the Insane

The Absolute Detective Novel
The Brain Is Not Where Thoughts Are Formed

The Dream of the Fetus

A Testament Unparalleled in History

Volume 1

…Buzzzzzzzzz…

As I slowly regained consciousness, that deep, resonant hum—resembling the drone of a bee—lingered distinctly in my ears, reverberating with a curiously elastic echo.

Listening intently, I intuitively sensed that it was the dead of night. Somewhere nearby, I could almost imagine the rhythmic ticking of a large clock. But, drifting again toward a drowsy haze, the buzzing echo gradually faded away, leaving an absolute stillness pressing down all around me.

I opened my eyes abruptly.

Above me, from a high, whitewashed ceiling, a single bare bulb hung, cloaked in a fine layer of grayish dust. Its glass sphere glowed with a dull, reddish-yellow light, and on its side, a large fly rested, perfectly motionless as if dead. Beneath it, I lay stretched out in a spread-eagle position on the cold, hard artificial stone floor.

…Strange…

I remained frozen in that position, my eyes opened wide, staring unblinking at the ceiling. Only my eyes moved, circling slowly to take in my surroundings.

I was in a small, roughly eight-foot-square room, encased by blue-gray concrete walls.

Each of three walls had a single tall, frosted glass window, all tightly secured with double layers of iron bars and metal mesh. The room was constructed with a grim sense of fortified security.

Against the wall with no windows, a single iron cot stood, its head pointed toward the door. The bedding on it was meticulously arranged, untouched and pristinely white—a stark indication that no one had yet lain there.

…Something’s wrong…

I lifted my head slightly, glancing down at my body.

I was dressed in two layers of stiff, white cotton robes, rough and new, with a short gauze sash tied high across my chest. My four limbs, thick and protruding, were darkened, stained with layers of grime… their filth unmistakable.

…This can’t be right…

Hesitantly, I raised my right hand and felt my face.

…A sharp nose… sunken eyes… tangled hair… a scraggly beard spilling down my chin…

I jolted upright.

I touched my face again, sweeping my hands over it. I looked around, eyes darting from corner to corner.

…Who… who is this? I don’t recognize this person…

My heart began to race, beating wildly, like the pounding of a frantic bell. My breathing grew faster, ragged, until it was nearly choking me. Then, as abruptly as it had come, the frenzy subsided, leaving silence in its wake.

…Can something this strange truly be possible?

…Have I… forgotten who I am?

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recall a single thing about myself, or what had brought me here. The only memory that lingered was the droning of the clock—a faint, buzzing hum. …And that was it…

…Yet somehow my mind felt clear, my senses sharp. I could distinctly feel an endless, profound darkness pressing against the room, stretching out far beyond what my eyes could see…

…This isn’t a dream… it’s certainly not…

I sprang up.

…Rushing to the window, I peered into the frosted glass, straining to summon some fragment of memory from my reflection. But it was useless. All I saw in the cloudy surface was a shadow—a monstrous image, wild-haired and demonic, staring back at me.

I turned sharply and ran to the door by the head of the bed, pressing my face to the small brass keyhole. But the brass held no reflection of my face, only cast back a dim, yellowish light.

I searched around the base of the bed, overturned the bedding, even untied the sash of my robe to examine its lining—but nowhere could I find my name. Not even an initial or mark of any kind.

I was stunned. I remained a stranger in an unfamiliar world, an unknown self to even my own senses.

As this realization dawned on me, a strange sensation swept over me. Still clutching the sash, I felt as if I were plummeting—falling straight down through boundless, endless space. My insides clenched with a visceral dread, and I let out a scream, raw and piercing, as if scraped from the depths of my being.

It was a shrill, metallic sound—startlingly high-pitched. But before that cry could lead me back to any memory, it was swallowed up by the concrete walls and vanished completely.

I screamed again. But once more, it was useless. My voice reverberated violently for a moment, spiraling through the room, only to be swallowed up, leaving the four walls, three windows, and single door shrouded in even deeper, solemn silence.

I tried to scream again, but before the sound could even form, it retreated back into the depths of my throat. With every attempted scream, the terror of the thickening silence grew… gnawing at me.

My teeth began to chatter, my knees shook uncontrollably, and still, I could not remember who I was… the suffocating pressure of it all.

I found myself gasping, standing rigid in the middle of the room, trapped in terror. I couldn’t call out, I couldn’t escape. I was stranded there, breathing heavily, each breath echoing against the walls like the wailing of a winter wind in the dead of night.

…Is this a prison? …Or an asylum?

The thought only heightened my panic, my breath now a frantic sound that resounded in the stillness like a gale.

I began to feel faint. My vision narrowed into darkness, and I could feel sweat pouring from my rigid body as I started to fall backward, helplessly giving in to oblivion. My eyes closed, resigning to whatever was to come… But then—abruptly—I snapped back, feet planted firmly, eyes wide open, staring intensely at the concrete wall across from the bed.

I had heard a strange voice from beyond that wall.

…It sounded like the voice of a young woman. But it was hoarse, so broken that it hardly seemed human—just a raw, haunting tone, filled with sorrow and pain, seeping through the concrete.

“...Brother. Brother. Brother, brother, brother, brother, brother... Let me hear... your voice again... one more time…”

I froze in shock, shrinking back instinctively. I whipped around, even though I knew perfectly well that I was alone in this room. Then, helplessly drawn, I turned back to the spot on the concrete wall where her voice was seeping through, staring at it with such intensity I thought it might bore a hole.

“...Brother... Brother... Brother, who is in the room next to mine… it’s me. It’s me. I was your fiancée... I was to be your wife... It’s me, it’s me. Please... please, let me hear your voice once more... just once more... let me hear it... let me hear it... Brother, brother, brother, brother... Brother...!”

My eyes opened wide until my eyelids ached, my mouth falling open in shock. Mesmerized by her voice, I took two, three faltering steps toward the wall, clutching my stomach tightly with both hands. My gaze remained fixed on the concrete, my eyes almost unseeing.

The voice was a piercing, pure cry that seemed to wrench the heart from the listener’s chest and suspend it in empty space. It was an unbearable, desperate plea that froze me to the core. A voice of unending, profound longing and resentment—how long she had been calling, I could not know… and for how many thousands or tens of thousands of years she would continue calling, I could not imagine.

And there, beyond the wall in the dead of night, that voice continued, calling for... me?

“...Brother... Brother, brother, brother... Why… why won’t you answer me? It’s me, it’s me, it’s me. Have you forgotten me? It’s me—your fiancée. Your fiancée, who was supposed to be your wife… Have you truly forgotten me? …The night before we were to be wed, the night before our wedding, I… died at your hands. And now… I have returned to life. I’ve come back from the grave to be here. I am not a ghost, not a phantom… Brother, brother, brother… Why won’t you answer? Have you forgotten what happened that night?”

I staggered backward, almost losing my balance. My eyes widened in horror as I stared at the spot on the wall where her voice seemed to seep through.

What in the world was this nightmare?

The woman beyond the wall claimed to know me, claimed to be my fiancée. And worse yet, she was saying that I had killed her the night before our wedding… that she had somehow come back from the dead, and was now trapped in the room beyond, calling for me day and night, relentlessly crying out to bring back memories of my forgotten past. Straining desperately, as if she might tear through the wall with the sheer force of her voice.

…Was she mad?

…Or could this be true?

No, no… she must be insane. This is impossible… it’s absurd… ha, ha, ha…

I tried to laugh, but the sound froze on my face, my expression stiffening painfully. For then her voice broke through once more, more sorrowful, more urgent than before, cutting through the concrete barrier. There was no room for laughter. There was a terrible sincerity in her voice, a chilling certainty—a profound, haunting intensity that made her sound as if she knew me… as if she knew me beyond any doubt.

"…Brother, brother, brother. Why… won’t you answer? Can’t you see how much I suffer…? Just a single word… just a single word… please, just one reply…”

“...”

“...Just one word, that’s all I need. If you would only say something, then… then the doctors here would see that I’m not insane… and… they’d understand that you, too, can hear me now. Then, we could leave this place… together… Brother, brother, brother… why… why won’t you answer me?”

“...”

“...Don’t you understand my suffering? Night after night, day after day… calling out like this… can’t you hear my voice reaching you…? Brother, brother, brother, brother… it’s too much… it’s too cruel… oh… my voice… my voice can’t…”

As she spoke, a new sound began to accompany her words from beyond the wall. It was the dull thud of a hand—perhaps open, perhaps clenched—weakly beating against the concrete. It was a desperate, insistent sound, as if her fragile hand, flesh and bone, would keep striking until it tore apart. I pictured the marks, the blood smearing and clinging to the wall on the other side, as I stood there, staring with wide eyes, my teeth clenched tightly.

“...Brother, brother, brother, brother… I am the one who died at your hands, the one who’s come back to life. I’m the one you left behind, your poor, lonely sister with no one else in the world to turn to. Alone here… Have you truly forgotten me, Brother?”

“You’re just like me. We’re the only two in this whole world. And yet, they think we’re mad. They’ve locked us away in this hospital, shut up in separate rooms, keeping us apart…”

“...”

“If you would just answer me… if you would remember me, then it would prove that I’m telling the truth. If you remembered… if you called out my name—Moyoko—then they’d understand… then they’d know that neither of us is mad… Brother, brother, brother… ah… my voice… my eyes… my eyes are going dark…”

Without thinking, I jumped onto the bed, clinging to the cold, blue-gray concrete wall where her voice seemed to be coming from. I felt an overwhelming urge to call out to her—to relieve her suffering, to discover once and for all who I really was. But then, swallowing hard, I stopped myself.

I slipped carefully back down from the bed, edging slowly backward, gaze locked on that single spot on the wall, until I was as far away as possible, pressing myself against the window on the opposite side.

… I couldn’t answer. No, I shouldn’t answer her.

How could I know if she was truly my wife, as she claimed? I couldn’t even remember her face, despite the painful purity in her cries. My memory, limited to a single, incomprehensible echo—“buzzz… buzzzz”—from the clock, left me no clearer than a child or a fool. How could I possibly respond to her as if I were her husband? Even if answering might somehow grant me freedom, how could I be sure that my true identity, my real name, would be revealed?

I didn’t even know if she was sane or simply another patient confined to this place, like myself. And what if, by some chance, she was indeed a true patient, and her desperate appeals were nothing more than vivid hallucinations? If I recklessly responded, it might feed her delusion, leading to unforeseen consequences.

And what if the person she called out for really existed somewhere, but was someone else entirely? If I mistakenly responded, I might be intruding on someone else’s relationship, violating the bond she shared with another. Anxieties crowded my mind, one after another, and I clenched my fists tightly, swallowing repeatedly to calm myself.

But despite my silence, her pleading voice continued to pierce through the wall, unrelenting, crashing into me from across the room.

“Brother, brother, brother… It’s too much… too cruel… too cruel… too cruel…”

That frail, heartbreaking cry, ghostly and saturated with endless sorrow…

I grasped my hair with both hands, digging my fingers into my scalp until the tips of my nails scraped so deeply they almost drew blood.

“...Brother, brother… I am yours. I am yours. Please… please, come hold me…”

I rubbed my face vigorously with my palms.

…No, no… that’s not right. You’re mistaken. I don’t know you…

I was on the verge of shouting back, of denying it all. But again, I clamped my mouth shut, frozen by the terrifying uncertainty. How could I, who remembered nothing of my past, reject her words with any certainty? I had no memories, no shred of my former life—no family, no home, not even a sense of whether I’d been a man or beast until this very moment.

I clenched my fists and tapped the bone behind my ear, as if trying to shake loose a memory, any memory at all. But nothing surfaced from that black void.

And still, her voice did not relent. Her breath grew labored, her pleas breaking into raw, nearly inaudible fragments, swelling with such agonizing sorrow it was almost unbearable to hear.

“...Brother… brother… please… please help me… help me… ah…”

Driven by her voice, I cast my gaze frantically around the room once more, taking in each wall, each window, the door. I half-lurched forward to flee, then stopped in my tracks.

…I wanted to escape… to run somewhere I couldn’t hear her anymore…

A chill rippled through me, goosebumps rising over every inch of my skin.

I ran to the door, throwing myself against its steel-hard, blue-painted surface with all my might. I peered into the dark keyhole… The relentless sounds of that desperate voice on the other side left me paralyzed with fear. I gripped the bars of the window, shaking them with all my strength. I managed to bend the lower corner slightly, but there was no way a human could tear them out.

Defeated, I stumbled back to the center of the room, trembling violently, and glanced around the corners once more.

Am I even in the world of the living? Or have I somehow crossed into the realm of the dead, punished with some form of endless torment?

As soon as my senses returned to me, I was swept into an abyss of self-forgetfulness—an endless hell where there was no sound, only the ceaseless ticking of a clock. Before I could even comprehend this silence, the anguished cries of a woman I couldn’t place had begun to batter my mind, dragging me down into a living hell—an unearthly suffering and sorrow I could neither end nor escape. The hopeless agony of a love that seemed doomed beyond salvation, forcing itself upon me with no way to retreat…

I stomped on the floor with all my strength, even as my heels began to ache. I slumped down… lay flat on my back… then shot back up, glancing frantically around the room, desperate to tear my attention away from the weakening noises next door, from the faint sobs drifting toward me. All I wanted was to escape her cries, to retrieve any fragment of my memory that could help me reclaim myself from this nightmare, to give her a clear answer, to somehow end it.

I have no idea how many minutes—perhaps even hours—I spent pacing, stumbling wildly around the room. My mind remained a blank void. Not a single memory surfaced about her, nor about myself. An empty, hollow self drifting within a blank mind, desperately fleeing from a woman’s unending cries, stumbling blindly in the dark.

Gradually, her voice grew faint. Her cries turned shrill, thinning to a thread, until only the sound of her breathless weeping remained, before fading back into the heavy, silent stillness of midnight, which closed in once more on the four walls.

And with her silence, I too felt exhausted. I was tired from my frantic racing, my endless grasping for answers. From somewhere beyond the door, a large clock ticked in steady rhythm. I felt myself slipping back into the same numbness as before, sinking slowly into unconsciousness, unsure if I was standing, sitting, or falling into some dark, formless void…

…Thud…

I became aware that I was slumped in the far corner of the room, my back pressed against the wall opposite the door. My limbs sprawled in front of me, my head drooping heavily to my chest, my gaze fixed blankly on a single spot on the artificial stone floor.

The floor, the windows, and the walls had, at some point, begun to glow faintly with a pale blue light.

…Chirp chirp… chirp… chirp chirp chirp…

The soft song of sparrows… the distant rumble of a passing train… and above, the lightbulb in the ceiling had gone dark.

…Morning has come…

I thought dimly, rubbing my eyes hard with both hands. Perhaps I had slept deeply, for the strange and terrifying events of the early morning had entirely slipped from my mind. My body felt oddly stiff and sore all over. Stretching myself with an effort, I began to let out a big, satisfying yawn—only to freeze halfway, cutting it short.

By the door, near the floor, a small hatch had opened, and a tray of some sort, bearing white dishes and a silver plate on a plain wooden stand, was sliding in.

The moment I saw it, something jolted awake within me. All the questions from the morning, half-forgotten, began to surge through my mind once more. Without thinking, I sprang to my feet, darting toward the hatch. There, reaching through to deliver the tray, was a plump, red arm. Without hesitation, I grabbed hold of it.

With a clatter, the tray, toast, salad, and milk bottle tumbled to the floor, scattering in all directions.

I forced out a hoarse, trembling plea.

"Please… please, tell me… What is my name?"

There was no answer. The woman’s arm, thick as a radish and pale under her rolled-up sleeve, began turning purple where my hands gripped it tightly.

"My name… what is it? I’m not… I’m not insane… I’m not…”

“Ahhh—!” came a sharp cry from outside the hatch. The arm I held started to writhe, weakly struggling to pull free.

“Someone… someone help! Patient in Room Seven is—oh! Somebody, help—!”

“Shh! Quiet, please… Just tell me who I am. Where… where is this place? What time… what day… just tell me, and I’ll let go…”

A wailing cry broke out, and in that moment, my grip must have loosened, because her arm slipped free through the hatch. Then, all at once, the crying stopped, replaced by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway.

The woman’s arm wrenched free from my grasp, and the force of it sent me tumbling backward, landing hard on the unforgiving stone floor. I barely managed to catch myself with both hands, glancing around in a daze, as if to gather my scattered thoughts.

Then… something strange happened.

The tension that had gripped me so tightly seemed to drain away the moment I hit the floor, replaced by an inexplicable, swelling amusement rising from the pit of my stomach. It was a wild, overwhelming hilarity—a bizarre sort of funny that made each hair on my head prickle. This laughter surged up from deep within me, shaking my whole body. It was so powerful that it felt like I had to laugh or I’d burst into pieces.

“Ahahaha! How ridiculous! What’s the big deal about a name? What does it matter if I’ve forgotten it? I’m still me, aren’t I? Ahaha…!”

With that realization, the laughter became uncontrollable. I flopped onto the floor, clutching my head, pounding my chest, kicking my legs. I laughed and laughed, swallowing tears only to start choking, twisting, and thrashing in a fit of laughter so strong it left me rolling on the floor.

“Ahahaha! Could anything be this absurd?”

“Dropped from the sky or sprung from the earth, here I am—someone even I don’t know! Ahahaha…”

“What kind of person was I before? And what am I supposed to do now? I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m just now meeting myself for the first time! Ahahaha…”

“What a strange… what a completely ridiculous thing! Ah… ha… ha… so funny… so funny… Ahahaha…”

I rolled around on the hard stone floor, laughing without end, until finally, as if I’d run out of the very fuel of laughter, I felt the amusement drain from me, leaving me still. I pushed myself upright, rubbing my eyes. As I looked around, I noticed, right by my feet, the remnants of the commotion: three pieces of bread, a plate of vegetables, a fork, and an unopened bottle of milk, all scattered around the floor.

Seeing the scattered food on the floor, I felt myself blush, though there was no one else in the room. At that same moment, a gnawing hunger struck me. Quickly, I tied my sash, reached out, grabbed the lukewarm bottle of milk, and with my other hand, took the buttered toast, devouring it ravenously. Then I speared a forkful of salad, savoring its freshness as I stuffed it into my mouth, chewing messily, gulping it all down with the milk. Once I was thoroughly satisfied, I clambered up onto the bed, flopped onto the fresh sheets, stretched out luxuriously, and closed my eyes.

For the next fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, I drifted in a pleasant, half-awake haze. With my stomach full, I felt the warmth spread to my palms and the soles of my feet, as if all the strength had gently seeped from my body. My mind grew dim, hollow, as morning sounds faded in and out in the distance—a soft, lazy symphony.

…The hum of the street. The hurried click of shoes. The slow shuffle of someone dragging wooden geta. A bicycle bell… somewhere far off, the sound of a carpet being beaten…

…The distant cawing of a crow… the clinking of glasses in what sounded like a nearby kitchen… then, suddenly, a high-pitched woman’s voice just outside the window:

“...Yeesh! That really gave me a scare… well, just look at that mess… Ha-ha-ha-ha…”

Soon after, a low, delighted rumbling in my stomach seemed to join in chorus. All these sounds blended together, each slowly drifting away to some distant world, leaving me floating in a gentle dreaminess, that warm, blissful sensation overtaking me entirely.

Just then, from far off, a strange, sharp sound began to reach my ears. It was unmistakably the blare of a siren—a piercing, insistent tone like a great whistle—going pyoo… pyoo… pyoo-pyoo-pyoo-pyoo… It seemed to be heading straight for me, cutting through the quiet morning sounds with an urgent, almost menacing, approach. I imagined it speeding through the city, weaving through intersections, bending around corners, coming closer and closer to where I lay until, just as it felt ready to crash into my very head, it veered away sharply, making a wide loop. The sound faded briefly, then began again, angling back toward me with a high-pitched, wailing shriek before finally coming to an abrupt stop. Silence fell, deep and complete, pulling me further into a drowsy, heavy sleep.

But then, just as I was beginning to sink deeper, I heard a sudden click at the keyhole by my bedside. The door creaked open with a slow, heavy groan, followed by a soft rustling sound as someone—or something—entered. I shot upright, twisting around reflexively. I stared, and what I saw froze me in place.

Before me, at the center of the closed door, a small wicker chair had been placed on the floor. Standing beside it, towering over me, was an extraordinary, imposing figure that seemed to loom like a massive stormcloud.

He was a giant of a man, surely over six feet tall. His face was long and narrow, almost horse-like, and his skin was an unnaturally pale porcelain. Beneath thin, stretched brows, small, dull eyes like a whale’s peered out, their pale blue irises lifeless, like those of a very old man or perhaps someone on the edge of death. His nose jutted out with foreign prominence, shining with a strange, almost metallic gleam. Below it, a broad, bloodless mouth stretched tightly across his face, blending in color with his ghostly skin, as though he were afflicted by some strange illness. But most unsettling was the vast expanse of his forehead, sloping like the roof of a temple, and a chin that protruded like the prow of a warship—a face so bizarre, it seemed almost otherworldly.

He wore his slick, black hair parted down the middle, and he was draped in a luxurious, dark fur coat. Through the folds of the coat, a gleaming platinum watch chain swung at his chest. His long, pale, hairy fingers rubbed together slowly, the gesture oddly delicate against the fragile wicker chair. His appearance was like some European specter, a creature summoned from the depths of a nightmare.

I stared up at the figure before me, too nervous to move. Like a creature just hatched, I sat there, barely breathing, blinking as my tongue fumbled uncertainly inside my mouth. But as I watched him, it struck me—this must be the man who had arrived in the car I’d heard earlier. With that thought, I instinctively turned myself around to face him more directly.

Moments later, a chill, commanding glint emerged in the depths of his dull, murky eyes. His gaze moved down, surveying me with a slow, deliberate scrutiny that made me feel like I was shrinking, wilting under his stare.

Yet he seemed entirely undisturbed by my reaction. Calmly, methodically, he inspected me from head to toe, then shifted his gaze to survey the room itself, his pale, cloudy eyes scanning from corner to corner. With every sweep of his gaze, an irrational feeling gripped me, as though he could see right through me, seeing every shameful act I’d performed since I’d awoken this morning. The knot of unease in my chest tightened, and I hunched down further, wondering desperately why this strange, unsettling figure had come to see me.

Then, suddenly, he startled, as if something had alarmed him. He bent forward, hastily thrusting a hand into his coat pocket, pulling out a white handkerchief, which he brought to his face in a hurry. Turning his back to me, he convulsed with a series of weak, timid coughs, entirely out of character for his imposing frame. After a few moments, his breathing steadied, and he turned back to face me, bowing slightly.

“Forgive me… my health is somewhat poor, so I’ll keep my coat on, if you don’t mind…”

His voice, unexpectedly soft and almost feminine, offered me a curious sense of reassurance. He suddenly seemed kinder, gentler than his intimidating appearance suggested. Relieved, I exhaled slowly, and as I lifted my head, he extended a business card toward me, bowing slightly and stifling another cough.

“…My name is Ko—cough, cough… pardon me…”

I took the card in both hands, bowing slightly in return.

Kyushu Imperial University - Professor of Forensic Medicine 

Dr. Kyotaro Wakabayashi

Dean, Medical Faculty

I read over the business card two or three times, each time with a growing sense of bewilderment. I looked up once more at the towering figure of the gentleman in front of me, who stood suppressing a cough, and I couldn’t help but stare at him, up and down. Then, almost muttering to myself, I said,

“...This is… Kyushu University…”

My gaze wandered, restlessly darting from side to side, taking in the room around me.

At that moment, the muscles beneath Dr. Wakabayashi’s left eye began to twitch faintly, as if his face had formed a peculiar, almost unsettling smile unique to him alone. Slowly, his pale lips parted, and he began to speak.

“...Yes, precisely. This is Room Seven of the Psychiatry Department at Kyushu University. I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, especially during your rest, but there was a reason I came to see you on such short notice. It appears that just a short while ago, you asked the nurse on meal duty for your own name. The attending doctor on night shift informed me immediately, and so here I am. Now, tell me... have you, by chance, remembered your name? Have you regained all of your memories concerning your past?”

I couldn’t respond. I merely stood there, mouth agape, staring blankly like an idiot, my eyes wide as I looked up at the massive jaw before me—or so it must have appeared.

How could I not be astounded? Since this morning, it felt as if I’d been haunted by the ghost of my own name.

It had been, at most, an hour since I’d asked the nurse for my name. And yet, here was this man, apparently rushing over despite his own illness, dressed with such care, to question me about whether or not I’d recalled my name—an eerie eagerness, unsettling in both its urgency and mystery.

What was it about my ability to remember my own name, this one simple fact, that made it so crucial to this doctor?

I was utterly bewildered, glancing back and forth between the business card in my hand and Dr. Wakabayashi’s face.

Strangely, he simply looked down at me in return, unblinking. His lips pressed tightly together, he stared at me as if my face alone held some answer of immense importance. The tension in his expression unmistakably conveyed that he was anticipating my reply with a gravity that went beyond mere curiosity; he seemed profoundly invested in whether or not I could recall my name and my past. This realization only made me more tense, as it became clear that there was some deep, unfathomable connection between Dr. Wakabayashi and my forgotten identity.

For a moment, we were locked in a silent stare, studying one another. Then, sensing that I was unable to respond, he slowly closed his eyes with a look of disappointment. When he opened them again, his face softened, a deeper, almost knowing smile forming at the corner of his lips and his left cheek. Nodding slightly, he seemed to have misread my silence as a different kind of confusion and began to move his lips, as if to speak again.

"…It’s entirely understandable. There is every reason for you to find this strange. Normally, as someone bound to the field of forensic medicine, I have no business interfering in the affairs of the psychiatry department. However, in this case, there are extenuating circumstances… deep, unavoidable reasons…"

Dr. Wakabayashi’s words trailed off, and he seemed about to cough, though this time he managed to compose himself. Blinking behind his handkerchief, he continued, breathing as if it took effort to speak.

"…The reason, you see, is none other than this: until quite recently, this psychiatry department was headed by an esteemed man named Dr. Keishi Masaki."

"…Masaki… Keishi…" I echoed.

"Yes, precisely… Dr. Keishi Masaki was a scholar of such renown that he held sway not only in our country but throughout the global academic community. He established a groundbreaking new theory in the field of 'mental sciences,' a theory meant to revolutionize the stalled study of mental illness at its roots. But, of course, this was by no means related to unscientific fields such as spiritualism or séances that one might think of—no, this was a true, scientifically grounded breakthrough. And he proved the validity of his theory in this very department by establishing a unique treatment facility for mental illness, one without parallel in the world. It’s easy to recognize the validity of his theory when one sees the steady results achieved in this facility."

"And, as you know, you were one of the patients treated under this new approach…"

"I… was treated… for a mental illness?"

"Precisely… which is why, as someone whose field is forensic medicine, it is undoubtedly inappropriate for me to be inquiring into your condition—an understandable concern on your part, and I fully acknowledge your rightful suspicions. However… I must tell you of something deeply unfortunate. Dr. Masaki, who was responsible for your treatment, entrusted me with his duties and then, a month ago, suddenly passed away. As of now, no successor has been appointed, and, without an appropriate assistant professor, I have been assigned by the university president to oversee this department in the interim."

He paused, his gaze steady.

"Among all of Dr. Masaki's patients, he specifically entrusted your care to me, requesting I devote myself fully to your recovery. In other words, the reputation of this department of psychiatry—indeed, the honor of the entire Kyushu University Medical Faculty—now rests upon one thing: whether or not you recover your lost memories… whether or not you recall your own name. There is a good reason for this, I assure you."

As Dr. Wakabayashi finished speaking, I felt as if everything around me had suddenly become blindingly bright, and I blinked rapidly. It was as if the ghost of my own name was about to materialize from somewhere nearby, radiating with a halo of light…

…But in the very next moment, an overwhelming wave of shame washed over me, making it impossible to even lift my head. Unconsciously, I let it fall, overcome by a profound sense of defeat.

…Yes, this was undoubtedly a room in the psychiatric ward of Kyushu Imperial University. And I was undoubtedly a patient here, confined to this Room Seven.

…The strange sense that something was off, that had plagued my mind since I woke up this morning—it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that I had suffered from some form of mental illness… No, that I was still afflicted by it. …Yes, that was it. I was mad.

…Ah, how wretched it was to realize—I was nothing more than a miserable lunatic.

All the unbearable shame I felt had only now, for the first time, been brought sharply into focus by Dr. Wakabayashi's overly meticulous explanation. My heart began to pound so intensely that it almost hurt. Was it shame, fear, or sorrow? Even I couldn’t quite tell. A prickling sensation spread over me, my ears and neck suddenly flushed with heat. My eyes began to sting, filling with an urge to collapse onto the bed, overwhelmed. Fighting the impulse, I raised both hands to my face, pressing my palms gently against my eyes.

Dr. Wakabayashi looked down at me as I did this, and I thought I heard him gulp softly, swallowing twice. Then, as if addressing someone of the utmost importance, he clasped his hands before him and, with a warmth even kinder than before—almost a cooing tone—he began to offer me words of comfort.

"Quite understandable. Entirely understandable," Dr. Wakabayashi said. "Anyone who finds themselves here in this ward experiences a nearly despairing shock… But please, there is no need to worry. You are here for reasons entirely different from the other patients in this ward."

"I… I'm… different from the other patients…?" I managed to stammer.

"Yes, indeed… As I mentioned, you are here as part of an unprecedented study established by Dr. Masaki—a study he called the ‘Treatment of Liberating the Insane.’ You have offered yourself as the most valuable subject for this revolutionary psychiatric treatment."

"I… I am… an experimental subject… for this liberation treatment… a treatment to release the insane…"

Dr. Wakabayashi leaned slightly forward, nodding as if to pay homage to the very name "Treatment of Liberating the Insane."

"Yes, exactly. Just so," Dr. Wakabayashi affirmed. "The theory and the remarkable personality of Dr. Masaki, who pioneered this 'Treatment of Liberating the Insane,' are epoch-making, as you will soon come to understand. In fact… you yourself, through the precise functions of your own brain, have brought this revolutionary mental science experiment of Dr. Masaki’s to a remarkably successful conclusion, bringing the name of our university to the forefront of the global academic world."

"Furthermore, as a result of that experiment, you were subjected to an intense psychological shock, which caused you to lose your awareness entirely. Yet now, at this very moment, you are on the verge of recovering it, quite vividly. In other words, not only were you the central figure in an astonishing experiment conducted within the treatment facility, but you also stand as the guardian of our university’s honor."

"But… how could I… be at the center of such a terrifying experiment…?"

I found myself blurting out, anxiously shifting to the edge of the bed. The more I was pulled into the heart of this bizarre tale, the more terrifying it all seemed. Watching me intently, Dr. Wakabayashi nodded, his demeanor even calmer than before.

"Your suspicions are more than understandable... However, regrettably, I cannot fully explain the matter to you just yet. You will, in time, remember the events yourself," Dr. Wakabayashi replied, his calm voice unwavering.

"Remember… them myself? But… how am I supposed to remember…?" I stammered, my agitation rising. His words reminded me again of the helplessness that comes with being a patient of the mind.

But Dr. Wakabayashi did not lose his composure. Raising his hand calmly, he signaled me to pause.

"Please… please, allow me to explain. The circumstances under which you entered this facility are, in truth, profoundly intricate, riddled with inexplicable connections and buried under layers of fate. The nature of this tale is so fantastical and deeply mysterious that if I were to attempt to tell it myself, it would risk coming across as pure fiction. Ultimately, this story can only be accepted as the truth when recalled directly by you—the one who lived it, the one with a direct connection to those events. Your past memories contain such remarkable, eerie experiences that only you can verify them as real."

He paused, then continued in a reassuring tone. "However, to put you somewhat at ease, I can explain this much. The 'Treatment of Liberating the Insane' was initiated by Dr. Masaki shortly after he joined our university this February. He began designing the facility, which was completed in July. Over the brief span of four months, Dr. Masaki conducted experiments there, the core of which focused on helping you recover your lost memories. And though the facility was shut down the day he passed away—exactly one month ago, on October 20th—during that short period, Dr. Masaki explicitly predicted that you, with your history of having been in a peculiar mental state for quite some time, would soon regain your present level of awareness. That prediction, he assured us, would inevitably come true."

"…Dr. Masaki, now deceased… predicted all of this about me?"

"Precisely, precisely. He was certain that, as long as we cared for you here as the university’s most treasured patient, you would surely return to your former state of mental clarity. Dr. Masaki asserted, with absolute confidence, that you would personally confirm the principles of his groundbreaking theory through the very effects of this experimental treatment. Moreover, if—no, when—you recover all of your past memories as he predicted, you will inevitably recall the truth behind a certain case in which you were once involved… a case of unprecedented horror and tragedy. I, too, have never doubted that this would happen, and even now, I believe it firmly."

"A case of unprecedented… a case of horrific crime… that I was involved in…?"

"Yes. I say 'unprecedented,' though some might consider it so unusual as to be unparalleled forever," he replied.

"What… what kind of case was it?"

I leaned forward breathlessly, unable to contain my curiosity.

But Dr. Wakabayashi remained perfectly composed, standing with calm dignity as he continued to speak fluently, his pale eyes quietly gazing down at me.

"The case I am referring to is none other than this: as I mentioned, I, too, have long been under Dr. Masaki's guidance regarding his work in mental science. Even now, I am continuing research into what we call 'crimes of applied mental science.'"

"…Crimes of applied… mental science?"

"Indeed… although merely hearing the term may leave you wondering about its meaning. Allow me to clarify. My motivation to delve into such a field began when I realized the terrifying principles underlying Dr. Masaki's ‘mental science.’ Take, for instance, a particular branch of his studies—‘psychopathology’—in which there exists a phenomenon by which, through a type of suggestion, a person’s mental state can be drastically altered, even transformed, as if they had become someone else entirely. In fact, one’s current state of mind can be instantly erased, replaced by the personality of an ancestor from generations past, deeply buried in the psyche. The theories and documented cases demonstrating this phenomenon are nothing short of chilling. Despite being scientifically precise and deeply profound, these theories—especially when it comes to their applications and effects—are deceptively simple to describe. So simple, in fact, that they could be grasped with ease, even in a playful manner, by anyone, young or old. From that perspective, there may be no research or experimentation more dangerous than this. …Of course, you will soon see these matters clearly unfold before you, so there is no need for me to go into further detail now."

"What… such terrifying research… to appear before my very eyes?" I stammered, hardly able to believe it.

Dr. Wakabayashi nodded solemnly. "Exactly so. You, who have proven the truth of this theory with your own being, possess not only a unique immunity to the terror and dread evoked by these principles but also, upon regaining your memories, the inherent right and qualification to participate in further research on this new theory. However, if these studies were to leak to the general public, the consequences could be catastrophic beyond imagination.

"For instance, consider this: if one were to uncover a hidden, dangerous psychological trait embedded deep in a person’s inherited psyche, and apply a suggestive trigger precisely attuned to it, they could drive that person to madness in an instant. What’s more, they could simultaneously erase all memory in the victim of the one who drove them mad. Now, imagine if a time came when this ability became feasible—it would unleash a devastation far greater than Nobel’s invention of nitroglycerin, which merely accelerated the brutality of warfare.

"From my position as a forensic specialist, I fear what would happen if these theories in mental science were to become as commonly known and accessible as those of material sciences today. It is only natural to expect that just as crimes exploiting material sciences now run rampant, we would see a similar wave of crimes rooted in applied mental sciences. Yet, once unleashed, such crimes would be beyond anyone’s power to control. Crimes enabled by this field would be virtually impossible to investigate or prosecute, presenting an unprecedented global threat. For this reason, Dr. Masaki’s new theory must remain absolutely undisclosed to the outside world.

"At the same time," he continued, "anticipating the potential spread of these dangers, I have long believed it vital to study every possible method of preventing and detecting such crimes. With Dr. Masaki’s guidance, I began a rigorous and confidential investigation under the theme of ‘Crimes of Applied Mental Science and Their Forensic Evidence.’ This has, in essence, been a joint endeavor between Dr. Masaki and myself.

“Yet somehow… despite all our caution… there must have been a lapse, an oversight between Dr. Masaki and myself. Though we took every possible precaution, one of the most potent, disturbing theories within mental science—one which we both studied—was stolen, and then… applied with eerie precision in a shocking crime, one that occurred not far from this very university.

"This crime involved a wealthy family, and unfolded in a gruesome manner. Members of this family, both men and women, were driven to kill or drive one another mad without any apparent motive, resulting in a cold-blooded tragedy of unspeakable cruelty. It became clear to us that the methods used in this crime were closely linked to our own studies in mental science. The first indication of this connection emerged in the behavior of a young man, the last remaining heir of this tragic family. This young man, gentle and brilliant, was to marry his beautiful cousin in an effort to preserve the family line. Yet, on the night before the wedding, he was seized by an uncontrollable compulsion. In a trance, he strangled his fiancée and, with her body lying before him, calmly sketched her image as though in a dream. This revelation sparked a public uproar… and yet, neither the motive nor the identity of the mastermind behind the crime has ever come to light. It remains an impenetrable mystery, baffling both us and the judicial authorities of Fukuoka Prefecture, who have thus far been powerless to make any headway in this case. I myself, despite all my research efforts, find myself utterly lost, as if wandering in a dense fog."

Dr. Wakabayashi continued, his voice grave. "As things stand, there remains only one possible method of unraveling the mystery. That is… when you, the sole remaining witness of these events, regain your lost memories, you may be able to discern the truth behind this crime—its purpose, its mastermind. Only then can this elusive perpetrator, this inhuman shadow, be brought to light. Do you see now why I cannot provide any further details about this case? It is simply because I myself do not know them.

"This, then, is why I, despite my field being forensic medicine, have taken on the task of overseeing your care here—to prevent any hint of this dangerous secret from slipping out. And should your memory return, I must be present to hear the truth, to understand this criminal’s true identity before anyone else. If your memory does indeed return and reveals the truth, the world would bear witness to an unprecedented discovery, one that would send shockwaves not only through the scientific community but also throughout society itself. Dr. Masaki’s so-called ‘Liberation Treatment for the Insane’ would then be proven as the final, conclusive link in a profound experiment capable of transforming modern material culture into a higher spiritual culture with a single stroke.

"Furthermore, such a revelation would complete my own ongoing research paper on ‘Crimes of Applied Mental Science and Their Forensic Evidence,’ making it an invaluable contribution to both scientific and societal progress. Thus, your recollection of your name and past, and the resolution of this case, hold tremendous significance—not only for this university, or the judicial authorities of Fukuoka, but for society at large.”

Dr. Wakabayashi, having rushed through his explanation, gave me a strange, pale glance—then quickly turned to the side, pressing a handkerchief to his face as a fit of coughing overtook him.

Watching his convulsing, wrinkled profile, I felt a bewildered numbness settle over me, as if enveloped in a dense fog. Since this morning, every event swirling around me had brought only new layers of confusion, anxiety, and astonishment—nothing offered the slightest reassurance. And yet, with each explanation Dr. Wakabayashi provided, the story seemed to grow more exaggerated, almost supernatural in scope, making it harder and harder to believe it could be real. Though he claimed each revelation was somehow related to me, it all felt increasingly like a distant, surreal tale—a fantasy with no true connection to my own life.

After composing himself from his coughing fit, Dr. Wakabayashi cast another pale, intense glance in my direction.

"Forgive me. I’m rather fatigued," he murmured, then slowly turned and lowered himself carefully onto a delicate rattan chair behind him. Observing him, I couldn’t help but look away, unsettled.

When I’d first noticed the flimsy chair behind him, I’d assumed it was meant for someone else, perhaps a small woman—it seemed so fragile that a larger person would surely crush it. Yet here he was, settling his tall frame effortlessly between its narrow armrests. Folding himself up, his chest and abdomen doubled over, he lowered his head to almost knee height, leaving only his eyes visible above the handkerchief in his hand. He appeared almost as if to say, I am the very specter lurking behind that sinister crime, shrinking down until he seemed half his original size. No matter how thin he might be, or how worn his fur coat appeared, this level of compression was unnatural.

And yet, from within that curled-up figure, his voice resonated just as before—no, in fact, even more calmly and assuredly, as if to say, I know everything.

"…Forgive me for my forwardness… Yet upon observing you today, it is clear—even to someone outside the field—that Dr. Masaki’s predictions are coming true with almost divine precision. Right now, you are struggling to recover your memories of the past but are unable to recall a single thing. This difficulty is merely a phase in your journey back to the state of mental clarity you had prior to this experiment.

"According to Dr. Masaki's research, within the regions of your brain where memories are stored and communicated, there exists a specific point of extraordinary sensitivity—a genetic vulnerability, if you will—within the deepest layers of your subconscious, where your oldest memories are held. It seems that someone—an enigmatic figure aware of this very vulnerability—used an intensely powerful form of suggestion, targeting this exact point in your psyche. The result was that memories from deep within your subconscious, those ancient recollections of a thousand-year-old ancestor of yours, surfaced entirely, thrusting you into a profound state of somnambulistic wandering.

"Now that this unconscious state has fully manifested and runs its course, you are beginning to emerge from that dreamlike state. However, the regions of your subconscious mind, particularly those connected to long-term memories, are severely fatigued from this extended strain and remain unresponsive. Thus, the older the memory, the less accessible it is to you.

"This leaves only the most recent memories—the least affected by exhaustion—tentatively resurfacing since this morning, driving you to recover more, yet leaving you with nothing to grasp. Dr. Masaki termed this peculiar state 'self-loss amnesia,' as a temporary condition of your mental state."

“...‘Self-loss amnesia,’” I murmured.

“Precisely. Due to the influence of the mental-science techniques employed by the criminal behind that bizarre case, you spent several months in a deep somnambulistic state, entirely unlike the person you are now. This profound somnambulism—or, one might say, an extreme form of dual personality—differs vastly from the mild, everyday phenomena that we refer to as ‘sleep-talking’ or ‘sleep-drunkenness.’ It is exceedingly rare, yet historical records provide clear examples. For instance, we find accounts of ‘the old man who remembered his hometown after fifty years,’ or ‘the gentleman who only realized he was a murderer when shown undeniable evidence,’ and even tales like ‘the elderly spinster who met a child she had no memory of bearing,’ or ‘the impoverished young man who awoke to find himself a wealthy magnate.’ There are countless strange cases that blur the line between dream and reality, leaving people uncertain whether to believe them. Yet, under Dr. Masaki’s groundbreaking theories, these phenomena become not only possible but scientifically demonstrable.

"He showed that these altered states, these somnambulistic episodes, truly exist and can return an individual to their original consciousness only after passing through a certain length of ‘self-loss amnesia.’ This, too, is both theoretically and practically verified. In the strictest sense, even in our daily lives, our minds are constantly shifting as they respond to what we see, hear, and feel. That solitary moment of anger, of sadness, of joy—it is, in fact, a sort of transient somnambulism. With every fleeting psychological change, there is a microcosm of ‘self-loss’ and ‘self-awakening’ occurring—so rapidly that we remain unaware of it. Dr. Masaki’s research revealed this, too.

"And so, it was no surprise to Dr. Masaki that, after progressing through this course, you would eventually regain your current mental clarity. He was certain of it, predicting it precisely—leaving only the matter of time before his prediction would be fulfilled.”

As I cried out, a sudden, heart-stopping fear gripped me. Could it be… that I myself was the true perpetrator of that horrific crime? Dr. Wakabayashi’s intense focus on my name seemed almost to confirm it. The thought struck me with a flash of terror.

But Dr. Wakabayashi replied in a calm, unaffected manner.

"…Yes. Once you recall your name, all your other memories will resurface along with it. You will remember the principles of mental science that guided that case and how truly terrifying they are. You will understand the motives and reasons behind that monstrous crime, and the true identity of the dark figure at its center. That is why it is my foremost responsibility, as entrusted to me by Dr. Masaki, to help you remember."

A chill ran through me once more, a nameless dread tightening around my chest. I shifted in my seat, blurting out in an unsteady voice, "Tell me… what is my name?"

At that instant, Dr. Wakabayashi fell silent, as though some internal mechanism had abruptly shut him down. He stared at me, his dull, gleaming eyes boring into mine as if searching for something hidden deep within—or as if he were silently hinting at something far more ominous.

Looking back, I’m certain I had fallen prey to Dr. Wakabayashi’s intricate scheme. The meticulous, scientific yet intensely provocative narrative he had woven was not without purpose. Every word had been designed to focus my attention, sharpening it to a razor’s edge on a single point—my name. It was a calculated mental stimulus meant to push me to the very brink, to make it impossible for me not to remember.

When, in my frenzy, I finally asked my name, he had clamped his mouth shut, attempting through silence to drive my desperation to its peak, to provoke the dormant memories frozen within my mind into resurfacing through sheer force of my own frustration.

But at that moment, I was oblivious to his subtle tactics. I had convinced myself that he would reveal my name immediately. Transfixed, I stared at his pale lips, waiting breathlessly for the answer.

Watching my reaction, Dr. Wakabayashi seemed to grow disappointed once more. He closed his eyes silently, shook his head slowly from side to side, and let out a soft sigh. When he opened his eyes again, his voice was colder, fainter, yet sharper than before.

"…It’s no use… If I simply tell you your name, it will mean nothing. Should you claim it doesn’t ring true, then that will be the end of it. No, you must recall it yourself, naturally and of your own accord."

I felt a curious mix of relief and apprehension at his words.

"…Do you think I’ll be able to remember it?"

Dr. Wakabayashi answered decisively, "You will. I am certain of it. And when that time comes, you will not only realize that all I have told you is indeed real, but you will also be ready to leave this hospital fully recovered. You’ll regain your legal and moral rights—to the fine home and the happiness that belongs to you. The arrangements to restore these to you have long been prepared, and it is my second responsibility, entrusted to me by Dr. Masaki, to see that you receive everything without fail."

With these words, Dr. Wakabayashi fixed me with his unwavering, cold gaze, his confidence piercing. I felt compelled to lower my head, feeling strangely exhausted, as if everything he said was tangled in a complicated web that didn’t fully belong to me. I couldn’t make sense of it all, and a weariness crept over me.

But Dr. Wakabayashi paid no mind to my evident unease. Clearing his throat, he shifted his tone slightly.

“…Well then… if you don’t mind, I’d like to begin an experiment to help you recall your name. We—Dr. Masaki included—are convinced that certain items with a strong connection to your past may succeed in drawing out your memories. I plan to show these to you in succession and observe whether they can awaken anything from within. What do you say?”

With that, he gripped the arms of his rattan chair and straightened up expectantly.

I looked at him, giving a slight nod as if to say, By all means, proceed as you wish. Yet inside, I couldn’t suppress a sense of hesitation—no, it was closer to a feeling of absurdity.

…Couldn’t it be that both the girl in Room Six this morning and Dr. Wakabayashi here are simply mistaking me for someone else?

…Might they be fervently calling out to me, pressing me for answers, thinking I am someone I’m not—and that is why I still cannot recall a single thing, no matter how much I am urged?

And perhaps the “mementos” they plan to show me will turn out to be nothing more than artifacts of some other person’s life—objects connected not to me, but to a total stranger, remnants of a mysterious, cold-hearted patient lurking in the shadows, responsible for a horrific crime beyond comprehension. I imagined being shown one disturbing item after another, each relic of some unimaginable crime, while they demanded I remember things that had nothing to do with me.

Caught in this unnerving spiral of thoughts, I felt myself instinctively shrink back, unconsciously drawing my head down into my shoulders.

At that moment, Dr. Wakabayashi, maintaining his scholarly poise and modest demeanor, rose from his chair and gave me a polite bow. He moved unhurriedly to the door behind him, opened it, and, as if on cue, a small man strode briskly into the room.

This man had a close-cropped buzz cut, sharp black mustache styled into an "H" shape, and wore an unusual outfit—a white, high-collared jacket paired with black trousers and a pair of slippers made from worn, old shoes. In one hand, he held a square black leather bag, and in the other, a worn, straw-seated folding chair. A nurse followed him, carrying a steaming bowl, which she placed in the center of the room. The small man then energetically unfolded the chair beside the bowl, set down his leather bag, and, flipping it open, pulled out an assortment of barber's scissors and brushes haphazardly stuffed inside. Glancing at me, he gave a quick bow, gesturing with a silent "Please, go ahead." Dr. Wakabayashi, too, pulled his rattan chair closer to the head of my bed, his expression indicating, "Go ahead, please."

So, I’m to have my hair cut here, I thought, and climbed down barefoot from the bed onto the straw-seated chair. Almost immediately, the man with the mustache draped a white cloth around me with a quick, practiced motion, then turned back to Dr. Wakabayashi, pressing a hot towel wrapped tightly around my head.

"Shall I trim it the same way as last time?" the barber asked.

At this, Dr. Wakabayashi seemed momentarily startled, casting a brief glance at my face before responding in a casual tone. 

"Oh… did I have you do it last time as well? Do you remember how you cut it then?" 

"Yes, sir. Exactly one month ago. It was a special request, so I remember it well. You wanted the top kept higher to give a soft, oval look to the face, with the sides very short—in the Tokyo student style." 

"Exactly. Let’s do the same this time." 

"Understood," the barber replied, and with that, the scissors began to snip above my head. Meanwhile, Dr. Wakabayashi settled back into his rattan chair beside my bed, pulling a red-covered foreign book from the pocket of his coat, as though intending to pass the time with a bit of reading.

Closing my eyes, I tried to piece together what little I had learned. My past, vague as it was, had started to take a faint shape. Setting aside Dr. Wakabayashi’s bizarre stories, I could gather a few tentative facts: since the year 1926 (whenever that might be), I had been a patient here at Kyushu Imperial University’s psychiatric department, likely spending my days in a dream-wandering state, a kind of fog. At some point, perhaps a month ago, I had apparently worn my hair in this modern student style, and now I was being returned to that appearance…

But as I thought this over, it struck me just how pathetically scant these scraps of memory were for a person’s life. Even these fragments came only from the words of a doctor and a barber—mere secondhand stories. The only memories I could truly claim as my own were from this morning, starting from the moment I first heard that… buzzzz of the clock. Beyond that sound, my mind was a complete void. It was as if I had no idea whether I had been alive or dead before that moment.

Where was I born, and how did I grow into this? How did I come to possess the ability to judge one thing from another, to know what this is or that is? How did I gain the knowledge to understand Dr. Wakabayashi's words with such fearful clarity? How could so many endless memories vanish so utterly from my mind…?

As I pondered these questions with my eyes closed, it felt as if my very soul began to shrink, shrinking smaller and smaller, until it seemed like a minuscule atom, drifting aimlessly through an endless void. A sense of loneliness, of futility, of sorrow welled up within me, and my eyes began to sting, filling with a strange, warm ache.

A sudden chill touched the nape of my neck. The barber had, without my noticing, finished cutting my hair and was applying a lather of soap to my neck in preparation for shaving. I slumped forward in my seat.

But then I remembered: this wasn’t the first time my appearance had been “restored” at Dr. Wakabayashi's command. Just a month ago, he must have done this very same thing. Could it be that I had experienced the same terrifying confusion back then as I had this morning? And judging by the doctor’s words, perhaps it wasn’t just this barber carrying out orders—it could be that I had gone through this process countless times before. I could be nothing more than a miserable sleepwalker, doomed to repeat these motions over and over.

Was Dr. Wakabayashi a cold and unfeeling scientist, endlessly subjecting me to these tests? Or worse, could everything that had happened since this morning be nothing more than the hallucinations of a sleepwalking mind? Could it be that my true body wasn’t even here, in this room, getting a stylish haircut and having my eyebrows trimmed? Perhaps I was somewhere entirely different, wandering aimlessly in a strange, unending dream…

Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly jolted upright in my chair, seized by an impulse to leap up and run straight out of the room, white cloth still wrapped around my neck. But just as I moved, a loud commotion erupted above my head, blinding and disorienting me. Instinctively, I sank back into the chair, tensing my neck and shoulders, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness as the noise continued to crash over me.

Two rounded brushes whirled frenetically across my head, darting this way and that with dizzying speed, making it impossible to catch my breath. But… oh, the sheer pleasure of it! For a brief moment, I no longer knew if I was mad or sane, or even if madness was a thing that existed at all. Every feeling—joy, sorrow, fear, resentment—and all that made up the past, the present, the universe itself, dissolved away, leaving me slumped in the chair, blissfully detached from everything. I surrendered entirely to that deep, boundless, tantalizing itch that seemed to stir every pore, reaching down into my very bones. At that moment, nothing mattered. I resolved to surrender to Dr. Wakabayashi’s commands, come what may. The future could unravel as it wished.

“Please, come this way,” came a young woman’s voice, close to my ear. Startled, I opened my eyes to find two nurses on either side of me, each holding one of my arms firmly, as if I were some criminal. The barber had removed the white cloth from around my neck and was vigorously shaking it outside the door.

Dr. Wakabayashi, who had been absorbed in his red-covered foreign book, snapped it shut and stood, coughing a few times as he gestured toward the door. “Right this way, if you please,” he said, motioning me forward with both hands.

Squinting through the haze of hair and dust covering my face, I allowed the nurses to guide me, my bare feet feeling the cool stones of the floor. For the first time—or was it the first?—I stepped out of the room. Dr. Wakabayashi accompanied us as far as the door, but at some point along the way, he disappeared without a word.

Outside the door was a wide, artificial-stone hallway, lined with doors identical in color and design to mine, five on each side, facing one another. At the far end of the corridor, embedded in the dim recess of the wall, was a tall clock encased in heavy iron bars and mesh—much like the window in my room. This must be the clock that had woken me in the dead of night with that deep, resonant buzzzz. Its ornate, antique hands, with elaborate curling designs, pointed solemnly to 6:04 as its enormous brass pendulum swung with a rhythmic ka-chunk, ka-chunk, giving it the look of someone condemned to an endless, laborious task.

The door to my room was on the left side of this clock, and next to it was a small white sign painted with Gothic black letters, reading: Psychiatric, East, Ward 1, with Room Seven written larger beneath. There was no nameplate for the patient.

As the nurses led me forward, I turned my back to the clock and walked with them down the corridor. Soon we reached a brighter passageway, and in front of me rose a two-story Western-style building painted a striking blue. Lining both sides of the path were white sandbeds filled with red-blooded chrysanthemums, ethereal white cosmos, and strange red and yellow cockscombs shaped like organs. Beyond these, dense pine groves stretched out on both sides, and morning light gently illuminated the wisps of clouds overhead. Somewhere far off, the faint sound of waves drifted softly in, lending an air of serene quiet.

"Ah… it’s autumn now," I thought, breathing in the cool, crisp air, filling my lungs with its freshness. But before I could pause to take in the view, the nurses pulled me forward, guiding me briskly into the dark hallway of the blue Western building. They led me to a door on the right, where a third nurse was waiting. She opened the door, and together, we all entered the room.

The room was a spacious, bright bathhouse. Steam rose from the stone tub near the far windows, misting over the glass panes until water droplets glistened and trickled down. With synchronized precision, the three rosy-cheeked nurses lifted their round, red arms and legs, then, without warning, seized me and swiftly stripped me bare, steering me straight into the tub. Once I was thoroughly warmed, they hauled me out and onto a wooden wash slab, pressing cold, soapy sponges against my skin and scrubbing me vigorously from every angle.

Suddenly, a hand gripped my head, and a bar of soap scraped across my scalp, working up a mountain of foam. Rougher than any woman I could imagine, they scrubbed relentlessly, then, without a word, poured scalding water over me, leaving me unable to open my eyes or mouth. Before I could catch my breath, they grabbed my arms, pulling me upright.

"This way, now!" one of them shrieked, and without further ado, they shoved me back into the tub. Their rough handling was so extreme that I half-wondered if one of them was the nurse from that morning, taking her revenge. But as I observed them, I realized that these were professionals, accustomed to managing patients like me, with a routine that was evidently well-rehearsed. I felt a pang of helpless resignation.

Yet, as the bath drew to a close, they clipped my overgrown nails, brushed my teeth with a bamboo-handled brush and salt, and, after a final soak, dried me with a fresh towel. They combed my hair vigorously with a new yellow comb, leaving me feeling unexpectedly rejuvenated. Clean and refreshed, I marveled at how good I felt and wondered, How is it that I can’t remember anything about my past, even when I feel this alive?

“Here, put these on,” one of the nurses said. Turning, I saw that my worn patient’s clothes had vanished, replaced by a neatly bundled, pale-yellow furoshiki. I untied it to find a university student’s uniform packed inside a white box—complete with cap, gray overcoat, knit shirt, trousers, brown socks, and laced shoes wrapped in newspaper. On top lay a small leather case, which, when opened, revealed a gleaming silver wristwatch.

Without questioning, I accepted each item from the nurses and put them on. I noticed, as I dressed, that none of these items bore initials or markings that might identify them as my own. Yet, despite this, each piece felt as though it had been tailored precisely for me, fitting comfortably, almost familiarly. The only slight discomfort was the stiff new collar pressing against my neck, but the fresh cap, the gleaming laced shoes, even the black ribbon on the watch showing 6:23—all fit as if they’d always been mine. Curious, I slipped my hands into the jacket pockets; in the right, I found a crisp, four-folded handkerchief and some tissues, and in the left, a small, soft, slightly bulging leather coin pouch.

I felt like I’d been tricked by some sly fox. Searching the room for a mirror, I glanced around, only to find nothing reflective, not even a shard of glass. The three nurses, catching my restless gaze, exchanged glances with faintly amused expressions, then left the room, closing the door behind them.

As they departed, Dr. Wakabayashi entered, stooping slightly to clear the doorframe. He looked me over from head to toe, inspecting my attire, and then, without a word, led me to the corner of the room. There, he pulled aside a plain, well-worn yukata hanging on the wall, revealing something entirely unexpected—a full-length mirror.

The sight startled me, and I stumbled back a step. The reflection in the mirror—my own face—was shockingly young. In the dimness of Room Seven, I had assumed myself to be a rugged, hardened man in his thirties, likely with a rough face and a beard to match. But here, looking back at me, was a figure barely twenty, with a round forehead, soft jawline, and wide, almost startled eyes. Without the uniform, I could have been mistaken for a junior high school student.

This fresh-faced youth staring back at me was… me. In an instant, every expectation, every assumption I’d clung to since waking that morning seemed to slip away, leaving me with an unplaceable feeling—a strange mixture of relief, unease, sadness, and even a vague thrill.

Just then, Dr. Wakabayashi spoke from behind, prompting me, "…Well? Have you remembered your name?"

Flustered, I quickly removed my cap and swallowed hard, turning to face him. At that moment, I finally understood the purpose behind all his strange maneuvers. Dr. Wakabayashi had promised to show me relics of my past, and this was his first step: presenting me with my own reflection, precisely restored to how I must have looked before my hospitalization. He must have remembered every detail of my appearance from back then, down to the exact cut of my uniform and the style of my hair. His intention, clearly, was to jolt me into recalling my former self.

Yes, this reflection—if anything—was undoubtedly a remnant of my past. Even if everything else turned out to be a misunderstanding, this mirror image was unmistakably my own memory, a link to myself.

Yet despite the effort he had gone to, I remembered nothing. Seeing my own reflection for the first time did surprise me, but it stirred no memories. In fact, realizing that I looked so young, almost like a mere boy, only left me feeling more deflated, as if I were being mocked. A strange, hollow fear took hold of me as I hung my head, wiping the sweat that had started to bead on my forehead.

Dr. Wakabayashi observed me intently, his gaze shifting between my face and my reflection, as though assessing something critically. After a moment, he gave a thoughtful nod.

"Quite understandable. Your complexion is considerably healthier now, and you seem to have gained a bit of weight since your admission, so perhaps you don’t look exactly as you did before… Come along, then. Let us try the next approach. This time, I’m certain you will remember."

I stiffened my ankles and knees in my new, unfamiliar boots and followed Dr. Wakabayashi down the corridor lined with blooming cockscombs. Expecting him to lead me back to Room Seven, I was surprised when he stopped outside Room Six, tapping the door gently. As he turned the brass handle, the door opened halfway, and a woman around fifty, likely a caretaker, stepped out, wearing a light yellow apron. Bowing respectfully, she looked up at Dr. Wakabayashi and reported in a soft voice, "She is resting peacefully at the moment."

With that, the woman nodded politely and made her way toward the Western-style building we had come from.

Dr. Wakabayashi leaned forward cautiously, guiding me into the room while carefully closing the door behind us. Holding my hand for a moment, he then released it and silently gestured toward the figure lying on the iron-framed bed against the wall. I squinted, clutching the brim of my cap tightly, blinking several times in disbelief.

Before me lay a breathtakingly beautiful young girl, sound asleep. Her lustrous, thick hair—gathered in an unusual, large petal-like bun—spilled out messily across a white towel-covered pillow. She wore a white cotton patient’s gown identical to the one I had worn until just recently, and her hands, wrapped neatly in fresh bandages, rested gently atop a white blanket covering her chest. I felt certain that this was the very girl who had haunted me from the other side of the wall this morning, calling out to me, pounding against the barrier.

Yet, nothing on the walls bore any trace of the horrific, blood-stained image I’d imagined earlier. And as I watched her serene, innocent sleeping face—her delicate crescent-shaped eyebrows, long, dark lashes, finely sculpted nose, faintly blushing cheeks, and small, clover-shaped lips—I found it impossible to believe that this was the same person who had wept and screamed with such overwhelming despair. She seemed more like a crafted doll, her delicate features frozen in a pure, almost ethereal slumber. I was transfixed, utterly absorbed, and nearly forgot myself as I gazed at her.

Then, something strange and indescribably mysterious began to unfold before my eyes.

As if touched by some unseen sorrow, her peaceful expression gradually transformed, her features remaining perfectly still while a faint sadness crept into her face. Her innocent, rosy cheeks shifted subtly to a melancholy shade of rose, and with that simple change, her face took on a dignified, almost noble sorrow, making her appear not like a young girl, but a woman of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, enveloped in an air of maturity and profound grief.

In astonishment, I watched as crystalline tears began to pool between her long, closed lashes, swelling into large, glistening drops that finally broke free and slid down her cheeks. And then, as if in a faint whisper, her small lips began to tremble, releasing soft, dreamlike words in a halting, fragile voice.

"…Sister… Sister… I’m sorry… so sorry… I truly loved him, loved him deeply… even knowing he was yours, precious to you… I’ve loved him… for so long… which is why things have come to this… Ah… forgive me, forgive me… please, Sister… please… forgive me…”

Her voice was so faint and unsteady that I could barely discern the words. Yet tears continued to well up, spilling over her pale temples and vanishing into her soft, blue-tinged hairline. Mesmerized, I remained silent, barely breathing, as though her sorrow was unfurling within my own chest.

But soon, her tears ceased. The melancholy rose tint faded from her cheeks, returning to a soft, innocent blush, as if dawn were breaking within her face. Her expression, still as unchanging as a doll’s, shifted gently back to that of a healthy, youthful girl of seventeen or eighteen. And then, as if stirred by a faint dream, a soft smile appeared at the corner of her lips.

A long sigh escaped from deep within me, releasing tension I hadn’t realized I was holding. Still feeling as if I were in a dream, I slowly turned to look behind me.

Dr. Wakabayashi stood there, hands clasped behind his back, watching me intently with an expressionless gaze. Yet something in his fixed, tense face suggested that he was suppressing deep emotion. As our eyes met, he licked his pale lips and spoke in a quiet, hollow voice, entirely devoid of warmth.

"…Do you know this person’s name?"

I glanced back at the girl’s sleeping face and, shaking my head slowly, silently conveyed my answer: No… not at all…

Dr. Wakabayashi leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper, as if trying to coax an answer from the recesses of my memory.

"…Then, do you at least recognize her face?"

I looked up at him, blinking a few times, and silently expressed my confusion. How could I possibly recognize anyone, when I didn’t even know my own face until this morning…?

The moment I conveyed this, a subtle yet unmistakable look of disappointment flashed across Dr. Wakabayashi’s face. He stared at me with empty, almost desolate eyes, before he slowly returned to his usual composed demeanor. After a brief pause, he nodded a few times, then turned toward the girl with a solemn air. He stepped forward, hands clasped before him in a reverent posture, as though preparing to make a vow before some sacred altar. His voice became soft, deliberate.

"…In that case… I will tell you. This young woman is your one and only cousin… and she is also your fiancée."

"…What?" I gasped, my voice catching in my throat. Stumbling backward, I clutched my forehead, reeling as if struck by a wave of dizziness, doubting both my eyes and ears.

"…S-something like this… Such a beautiful…" I stammered, struggling to accept what I’d heard.

"Indeed, an exceptionally beautiful young lady," Dr. Wakabayashi replied calmly. "But I assure you, there is no mistake. As of April 26th of this year, 1926—exactly six months ago—you and she were on the verge of marriage. She is your only cousin. However, on the eve of that occasion, a most inexplicable event occurred, leading to her unfortunate condition here today."

"…"

"Thus," he continued with solemn authority, "it has been my final and utmost responsibility, as entrusted to me by Dr. Masaki, to see both of you through to recovery and, ultimately, to ensure your return to a happy life together."

His words, slow and deliberate, seemed to carry a weight that pressed down on me. I, however, could only stand there, bewildered, staring at the sleeping figure on the bed. To suddenly be told that this beautiful, ethereal girl—a stranger to me—was mine… the absurdity, the strangeness, and an almost disturbing sense of disbelief washed over me.

"…My… only cousin? But… just now, she mentioned a sister…"

"That was part of her dream," he explained. "As I mentioned, this young lady is an only child, without any siblings. However, records tell us that a woman from her family lineage, roughly a thousand years ago, did have an elder sister. It seems that she has come to regard this distant ancestor as her own sister in her dream."

"…How… how can you know that?" I asked, my voice trembling. I found myself involuntarily backing away from Dr. Wakabayashi, his calm certainty suddenly unsettling. The ability to know the contents of someone’s dream, to read the secrets of a person’s mind as though seeing through glass, struck me as nothing short of sorcery. And to speak with such confidence about events from a thousand years ago, things beyond reason or imagination… Was Dr. Wakabayashi even a normal human being? A chilling thought crossed my mind: what if he, too, was a patient here, just another unique resident of this asylum, like me?

But Dr. Wakabayashi showed no hint of surprise. He maintained his calm, clinical tone, his voice unhurried, precise, almost devoid of emotion.

"You see," he continued, "this young lady often acts and speaks in this manner while she’s awake as well. Notice her hair. This unique style—a married woman’s hairstyle from her ancestral period a thousand years ago—is one she sometimes recreates herself. When she ties her hair like this, it suggests that her entire mental state is reverting to that of her ancestor—a married woman. Her habits, memories, and even personality seem to return to those of this distant forebear, and in those moments, her demeanor loses any trace of a young girl’s innocence. She appears as a poised, mature woman, almost unrecognizably different in age and demeanor. Of course," he added, "when she has no recollection of such dreams, she allows the caretaker to tie her hair in a more typical patient’s style."

I could only gape, stunned, as I looked from the elaborate hairstyle to Dr. Wakabayashi’s grave expression.

"Then… when she said ‘brother’…?"

"That, too, refers to an ancestor of yours from a thousand years ago," he explained. "Your ancestor, who was married to her ancestor’s elder sister, was, in a sense, her ‘brother-in-law’—the very man she dreams of now."

"Such a… shameful… forbidden…," I began, horrified, but Dr. Wakabayashi raised a pale hand, gesturing for silence.

"Shh… quietly now… if you’re close to recalling your own name, then soon everything will become clear—"

But he stopped mid-sentence, and we both turned toward the girl in the bed. Our voices must have reached her ears. Her soft, red lips twitched slightly, and her eyes opened, blinking in my direction, large and dark. For a brief moment, they shone with surprise, then with something like fear. The color drained from her cheeks, making her delicate face seem even more ethereal. Her beautiful eyes grew wider, more intense, as if illuminated from within, and then, suddenly, a flush of deep red bloomed across her cheeks, reaching to her ears.

"…Brother! How… how are you here?" she cried in shock, rising abruptly from the bed. Barefoot, she leapt down, her gown fluttering around her ankles as she tried to throw herself toward me.

Startled, I instinctively pulled back, pushing her away. Without thinking, I took several steps backward, staring at her, utterly flustered and at a complete loss.

At that moment, the girl froze, her outstretched hands suspended in the air as if struck by a bolt of lightning. Her face turned pale, the color draining even from her lips. Her wide eyes fixed intently on my face, she staggered back, eventually bracing herself against the edge of the bed. Her lips quivered, yet she couldn’t look away, her gaze locked on me as though seeking some impossible answer.

Slowly, she glanced around the room, her eyes filled with a growing dread as she looked first at Dr. Wakabayashi and then around the unfamiliar surroundings. Tears welled up in her eyes, glistening like trapped light, before she collapsed, sitting on the cold stone floor. She raised a sleeve of her white gown to her face, covering it, and finally broke down, sobbing into the bed.

Utterly bewildered, I wiped the sweat that had begun to bead across my forehead. I glanced helplessly between the girl’s shuddering form and Dr. Wakabayashi, feeling lost in the strange intensity of the scene.

But Dr. Wakabayashi remained entirely composed, his expression unchanged. Coolly meeting my confused gaze, he slowly approached the girl and knelt beside her. Leaning close, he murmured in her ear, his voice soft yet deliberate.

"Have you remembered?" he asked, his tone coaxing. "Do you remember her name… and your own?"

Hearing this exchange, I was startled even more than the girl herself. Could it be that, like me, she too was trapped in this state of self-oblivion, waking from a kind of wandering dream only to find herself a stranger to her own identity? Was Dr. Wakabayashi experimenting on her just as he was on me? My body grew tense with anticipation, the silence around me amplifying, as I waited for her reply.

But she said nothing. She only stifled her sobs briefly, burying her face even deeper into the bed, shaking her head from side to side.

“…So, at least, you remember that this man was your fiancé… the one you used to call your brother?” Dr. Wakabayashi’s voice pressed gently.

The girl nodded, then burst into a fresh, fiercer wave of tears, her cries reaching a wrenching pitch.

Even as an observer, one could sense the anguish in her voice—a despair so deep it twisted at the heart. Unable to recall the name of her beloved, she was left stranded in a distant, isolated world, confined to the life of a mental patient. Now, even when fate had brought her close enough to cling to him, she was met with an unknowable barrier, her hopes shattered. Her heart-wrenching wails, like those of someone helplessly aware of the abyss between herself and the person she needed most, filled the room with palpable sorrow.

Though I was a man, I shared her affliction, steeped in the same amnesia and suffering, and her hoarse, ravaged sobs tugged me deeply, bringing a gnawing ache to my own chest. This pain, this unbearable awareness of having found but simultaneously lost someone dear… it was as if I’d been drawn into her torment a hundred times more intensely than when I had first heard her calling me in the early hours of the morning. And though I couldn’t recall her face or name, something about her crying, her desperate form slumped over the bed in uncontrollable grief, stirred a profound urgency within me, a feeling that I had to remember, to do something to save her.

But that same realization crushed me. I could do nothing, and it felt as if all responsibility for her agony weighed on me alone. Pressing my hands to my face, I felt a cold sweat break out across my skin, the room spinning around me as I nearly lost my footing, about to collapse under the weight of it all.

But Dr. Wakabayashi, seemingly unaware of my turmoil, continued leaning toward the girl, gently patting her shoulder in reassurance.

“There, there… calm yourself now… you will remember soon. This gentleman—your brother—has also forgotten your face for the time being. But he, too, will recall it soon, and when he does, he’ll surely tell you. Then, together, you’ll be able to leave this place. Now, just try to rest. The time will come, and it’s not far off…”

As he spoke, Dr. Wakabayashi straightened up and took my hand, guiding me from the room. He shut the heavy door firmly, without a hint of hesitation, and beckoned the elderly nurse down the hallway, who had been tending to the celosia flowers. With a gentle push, he urged me back toward my room, guiding me once again to Room Seven.

Listening carefully, I could hear the girl’s sobs gradually quieting, punctuated by soft murmurs from the nurse, soothing her with calm words.

Standing in the center of the room’s stone floor, I took a long, deep breath, trying to steady myself. I looked up, waiting for Dr. Wakabayashi’s explanation.

…That vision of a girl, a beauty beyond anything I could have imagined, and certainly like nothing I had expected to find, had been in the very next room—a girl isolated there as a pitiable patient, with only a wall separating us.

…Not only was she an extraordinary beauty, she was, according to Dr. Wakabayashi, my own cousin and fiancée, and she seemed to believe, absurdly, that she had shared a life with me a thousand years ago, a dream in which I had been her fiancé from a previous existence.

…And now, awoken from this strange dream, she had seen me, recognized me, and tried to embrace me, crying out, “Brother!” Only to be pushed away, collapsing in despair, and overwhelmed with anguish…

It was an incomprehensibly strange, complicated set of circumstances, and I waited with a pounding heart to hear what kind of explanation Dr. Wakabayashi might offer.

But then, to my surprise, Dr. Wakabayashi fell suddenly silent, almost as if he’d gone mute. He gave me a brief, cold glance with his pale blue eyes, then lowered his gaze, saying nothing. Calmly, he reached into his vest pocket, producing a large silver pocket watch, which he placed in the palm of his hand. Then, pressing his right fingertips against the wrist of his left hand, he began to check his pulse, his eyes fixed on the dial, which read exactly 7:30.

Perhaps this was Dr. Wakabayashi’s morning routine—a habit, something he did at this time every day to monitor his health. But the sudden shift in his demeanor was jarring. Only moments before, his air had been filled with urgency and intensity; now he looked at me with the detached indifference one might show a stranger passing by on the street. His small eyes were cast downward, his thin, pale lips pressed into a firm line as he concentrated on the steady pressure of his middle finger on his pulse, adjusting and releasing it. He looked as if he were purposefully quelling the heightened emotions that the strange scene next door had stirred within me.

It was as though he wished to suppress my confusion, the feverish bewilderment that had overwhelmed me. He was avoiding any explanation, even after exposing me to such a surreal reality—a young girl entangled in layers of inexplicable love across the past, present, and future; a girl so pure, yet hauntingly unattainable, someone who seemed both virgin and wife, both sane and insane. And she was introduced as “your cousin and fiancée”—a statement that defied all logic. He had even allowed me to see her with my own eyes, evidence of this bizarre truth, yet now he seemed to intentionally evade any questions I might have.

So, feeling a profound sense of frustration with no outlet, I had no choice but to stand there awkwardly, looking down and fiddling with my hat, unsure what else I could possibly do.

…Yet… at that moment, with my head lowered, I felt a strange sense that Dr. Wakabayashi was somehow making a fool of me.

I couldn’t quite explain why, but a suspicion crept in—what if Dr. Wakabayashi, taking advantage of my uncertain mind, was feeding me an elaborate tale, hoping I’d believe some absurd fiction? Could it be that he was using me for some academic experiment, trying to make me accept things that were pure fabrication? As this thought flashed through my mind, it rapidly took hold, growing more convincing until I felt certain it must be true.

After all, why else would he dress me up like a university student, introduce a beautiful girl as my fiancée, and go to such lengths to create this elaborate scene? Perhaps this outfit, this hat—maybe they’d tailored them to fit me while I was drifting in and out of awareness. And that girl—what if she was just another patient in the hospital, a delusional case with some form of erotomania who acted this way with everyone she saw? It was possible that this hospital wasn’t even associated with Kyushu Imperial University. Maybe Dr. Wakabayashi himself was just some elusive figure, trying to use me, a man with a dissipated mind, to test out some grand illusion for reasons unknown.

Otherwise, how could I meet a woman so breathtaking, supposedly my own fiancée, and feel nothing? Not a single memory, not the faintest hint of longing or joy—nothing.

Yes, it was clear—I was being played.

As this realization settled over me, all the doubts, confusions, and astonishments that had been clouding my mind quickly began to dissolve, like steam evaporating into thin air. Soon, my mind returned to a blank, indifferent state, empty and unconcerned. Free of any responsibility, devoid of any worry…

But as that calm indifference settled in, an uncomfortable sensation crept up—an empty, solitary feeling, a faint sadness at the realization that I was completely alone. I heaved another sigh and looked up. Dr. Wakabayashi had just finished taking his pulse, returning his watch to his pocket with the same polite demeanor he’d shown when we’d first met that morning.

“Well, how are you feeling? Not too fatigued, I hope?”

Once again, his nonchalant attitude caught me slightly off guard, making me feel all the more as though he were toying with me. Still, I forced a casual nod.

“No… not at all.”

“Ah, good,” he replied smoothly. “Then, if you’re up for it, we can continue with our effort to help you recall your past.”

Again, I gave a nod, indifferent to whatever might come next. Seeing my response, Dr. Wakabayashi nodded in turn, his expression carefully composed.

“In that case, allow me to escort you to the professor’s office in the main building here at Kyushu University’s Psychiatric Department. This was the very room in which Professor Keishi Masaki resided up until the day of his passing. Within it, you’ll find various mementos connected to your past. As you examine these items, I believe you’ll begin to unravel the peculiar mysteries surrounding your identity. Eventually, I am confident, you’ll recover all your memories, and in so doing, reveal the truth behind your entangled fate with the young lady. Everything will become clear, I assure you.”

There was a steely certainty in Dr. Wakabayashi’s words, a confidence that seemed to carry a deeper meaning, hinting at something beyond what he was saying outright.

But I remained detached, nodding once more. Take me wherever you please; what will be, will be, I thought, a strange mix of resignation and faint curiosity simmering in my chest, half-wondering what strange artifact he would unveil next.

Dr. Wakabayashi nodded with satisfaction.

“Very well… this way, please.”

Kyushu Imperial University’s Psychiatric Department main building was a two-story Western-style wooden structure, painted in blue. Its central hall stretched straight down, connecting to an open-air corridor that ran alongside a flower garden. Retracing our steps along this path, we eventually arrived at a heavy, iron-reinforced door that looked more fitting for a prison entrance than a university. Just as I took this in, the door began to rumble open, likely operated by an unseen attendant watching us. Stepping through, we found ourselves in a dim, spacious entrance hall, silent and still.

The main door was firmly shut, likely because of the early hour. Through a small window above, a faint, blue-tinted light seeped in, casting a subdued glow on everything within. Ascending the left of two steep staircases and turning to the right, we emerged into a bright, south-facing corridor. Along the walls to the right, doors labeled “Laboratory” and “Library” hung with small wooden plaques. At the end of the corridor, a dark brown door loomed, marked with a thickly brushed sign reading, “NO ENTRY—Dean of Medicine.”

Dr. Wakabayashi took a large key from his inner pocket, one fitted with a wooden tag, and unlocked the door. Turning to usher me inside, he removed his overcoat with a formal air, hanging it on a hat rack just inside. Following his lead, I hung up my gray overcoat and cap. Dust coated the room lightly, visible in the footprint traces we left on the floor.

The room was spacious and bathed in light. Twelve windows lined the northern, western, and southern walls—four per side. The northern and western windows were thickly shaded by dense green pine branches, while the four southern windows were unobstructed, allowing the bright blue morning light to flood in, mingling with the nearby sound of ocean waves that poured through the room like a dazzling cascade. Dr. Wakabayashi’s lean figure in his long morning coat and my uniformed form beside him made a strange, contrasting pair, giving the scene an otherworldly quality, as though we had wandered far from the reality I’d known.

Dr. Wakabayashi raised his long, thin right hand, gesturing slowly around the room. His frail voice, issuing from somewhere high above, seemed to linger in every corner, casting a gentle echo.

"This room was originally both the library and specimen room for the Psychiatry Department," Dr. Wakabayashi explained, his voice echoing softly in the spacious room. "The collection you see here consists of research materials and documents gathered painstakingly by Professor Juhachi Saito, who served as the department’s head before my time. These items, whether texts for psychiatric study or artifacts tied to former patients, include some contributions to the global field of psychiatry that are nothing short of remarkable.

"When Professor Saito passed away, Professor Masaki took over this February. Finding this room better suited for his needs, he moved the entire library collection—which had previously filled the east side of this room—into his old office, and remodeled this half into his personal quarters, installing that fine stove you see. However, he did this without seeking permission from the university president or filing any formal request. This led to quite a bit of consternation in administration, and Tsukae, the senior administrative officer, hurriedly went to plead with Professor Masaki, asking him to submit the paperwork and formalize everything. Professor Masaki, though, remained unruffled and simply responded with this:

"'Now, now, no need for all this worry. Just tell the president that all I've done is rearrange a few specimens. Here's my reasoning; hear me out. As strange as it may sound, I am quite aware that I, myself, am suited to be one of the very research subjects our department would study. In fact, I believe I'm something of an obsessive researcher—perhaps even delusional in my own way. By my own diagnosis, I am qualified to be included as a subject in this very collection. However, since I can't very well admit myself to my own psychiatric ward, I've taken the liberty of displaying my brain here as a living specimen among the department’s collection of cases and studies.

"'Other departments—medicine or surgery, say—might not find this kind of exhibit necessary, but in psychiatry, the head professor’s mind ought to be considered a critical piece of research material. As such, it must be studied as thoroughly as any other specimen. No doubt Professor Saito himself would raise both hands in agreement from the other side, now that I have repurposed this space.'"

With that, he had burst out laughing, leaving the experienced Officer Tsukae flustered and with no choice but to retreat.

Dr. Wakabayashi finished the tale with a faint smile, the irony lingering in the air.

Dr. Wakabayashi’s explanation was delivered in an even, almost effortless tone, yet it was enough to leave me stunned. Until now, I had only heard vague descriptions of Dr. Masaki’s brilliance, but suddenly, here it was, gleaming through this nonchalant joke. For a brief moment, a shiver ran down my spine as I realized the extent of his mind—a man so far removed from ordinary notions of common sense or decorum. With a hint of dry humor, he saw himself as little more than a specimen in his own department’s collection, mocking not just his own role but the very institution, perhaps even the entire academic world. The transparency of his intellect, his sharp irony and profound insight were almost overwhelming; I found myself gaping, speechless.

But Dr. Wakabayashi, seemingly oblivious to my reaction, continued.

“Now, as I mentioned earlier downstairs in Room Seven, my purpose in bringing you here is straightforward. I would like to see which of the many specimens and mementos in this room draws your attention most. This exercise aims to probe your subconscious—those memories lying deeply buried, beyond ordinary recollection. Numerous studies confirm that the subconscious mind exerts a powerful, often unrecognized influence on us, guiding us toward things connected to our past. I believe that within your subconscious, there lies a memory—a link to one of the objects in this room that will help awaken your recollections of the past.

“Professor Masaki, while traveling in the Balkans, encountered a local ritual specialist known as an Ismera, or female diviner, who taught him this method. He achieved repeated success with it in his experiments. However, if by chance you are not connected to the young lady next door—if you are indeed a stranger to her—then, naturally, this experiment will not succeed, as no memento tied to your past would exist here.”

He gestured around the room. “So, feel free to examine any item that catches your eye. Approach this room as though conducting a study in psychiatry yourself, with an open and inquisitive mind. Before long, you may sense an almost electric connection to something here—that will be the first hint toward recalling your past. From there, I believe, memories will flood back to you, leading you swiftly to a complete recovery of your history.”

Dr. Wakabayashi’s words flowed with the same effortless calm, as if he were speaking kindly and simply to a child. But as he spoke, I felt a new, deep tremor—a chill rising from somewhere in the depths of my soul, one I hadn’t yet felt that morning.

All my earlier doubts, the feeling that this was some elaborate ruse, dissolved. Dr. Wakabayashi, a renowned forensic scholar, seemed genuinely convinced of my connection to the young woman and was not trying to force me into any role. Instead, he was methodically, almost scientifically, surrounding me with reason, gently compelling me, through careful evidence and undeniable logic, to acknowledge my relationship to her for myself. His unshakeable confidence, his deliberate planning, and his calm, exacting approach shook me profoundly.

Could it be, then, that the events I’d witnessed—the strange encounters, the eerie recognition—were true fragments of my own life? Was that girl truly my cousin and fiancée?

If so, I had a responsibility—like it or not—to seek out whatever memento of my past lay hidden in this room and to recover my lost memories. By doing so, I might be able to pull her from her descent into madness. Here I stood, bound by some uncanny fate, compelled to search the depths of a psychiatric specimen room for traces of my own past. I was to find proof that this mesmerizing stranger—a girl whose face seemed like that of a stranger to me—was, in fact, my fiancée.

The absurdity, the shame, the uncanny dread of it all—the thought of unearthing "my past" within the “specimens of a psychiatric hospital”—sent waves of confusion through me. I could feel cold sweat beginning to seep from my brow. I wiped it away with a fresh handkerchief from my pocket, then cast a fearful glance around the room once more.

What unimaginable relic of my life might be lurking here, just waiting to reveal itself? Trembling inwardly, I cautiously scanned the room again, as if some hidden piece of myself might be peering back at me from just beyond my reach.

The room’s western side was lined with glass cabinets, filled with what appeared to be an assortment of specimens and reference materials. In stark contrast, the eastern side’s floor was covered with a linoleum sheet, blanketed in a thin layer of dust. In the center of this area sat a large table, about four or five feet wide and extending over two ken in length, flanked by two swiveling armchairs. The green felt covering the tabletop, also dust-laden, reflected the morning light streaming through the southern windows, adding an air of solemnity to the room.

At the center of the table sat a few thick binders of documents bound in canvas, along with a neat blue cloth bundle, wrapped with care. Both were coated with the same light-gray dust, as if they hadn’t been touched for some time. In front of them sat a small, red ceramic figure of a Daruma doll—a seemingly mundane object, yet something about it struck me. The Daruma, arms crossed atop its head and mouth open as if caught mid-yawn, seemed to stand guard over the documents, placed there purposefully as if to observe or even mock the solemn proceedings.

Directly across from the Daruma, the east wall gleamed in a fresh coat of pale yellow, likely applied only recently. In the center of this wall, a large black stove was installed, with a square metal cover over its opening. Above it hung an oversized round clock, its diameter spanning nearly two feet. The clock read 7:42, its silence suggesting it might be powered by electricity. To the right of the clock, a grand oil painting in a gilded frame was displayed, while on the left hung a large, framed black-and-white portrait and a calendar. Nearby, a door led to the adjoining room.

In the clear morning light, every object—whether bold or subtle—stood out with almost reverential clarity, enhancing the room’s solemn, scholarly air. As I took it all in, I felt an involuntary urge to straighten my collar.

At that moment, a kind of sacred awe seemed to settle over me. The casual detachment and curiosity I’d felt before faded away, replaced by a solemn acceptance, a sense of yielding to fate. Slowly, as if guided by some mystical hand, I adjusted the stiff collar of my uniform. I took a cautious step forward, feeling like a pilgrim drawn by an invisible force, and entered the rows of display cabinets, the collected artifacts awaiting my discovery.

I first approached the cabinet closest to the bright southern window. Inside, various peculiar documents and scrolls were displayed, each with a brief note explaining its origin. According to Dr. Wakabayashi, these were all items patients had submitted to the department head, essentially saying, “I believe I am now well enough to be discharged.” Each piece reflected the unique mental states of those who had crafted them.

—A hanging scroll of Hina dolls painted in blood from the gums (Created by a women’s university graduate) 

—A proposal to conquer Mars (Submitted by an elementary school teacher) 

—A calligraphic rendition of the Tang poem "Bamboo Lodge" in clerical script (Drawn by an illiterate farmer who, after falling ill, somehow tapped into his ancestor’s consciousness, a traditional Chinese medicine doctor) 

—Several dozen pages of Western paper filled with a precise handwritten copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (Submitted by a university student who failed his civil service exams) 

—Dozens of notebooks filled entirely with repeated phrases of “Farewell, dear Katyusha” (A “creation” by a former actor who considered himself a great artist) 

—A sundial made from paper (Created by an elderly barber) 

—A Madonna carved into red brick using bamboo slivers (Made by a Catholic elementary school principal) 

—A Kannon statue made from hardened nasal mucus, displayed in a glass box (Crafted by a Soto Zen missionary)

With each entry I read, the items became more sorrowful, each more poignant and pitiful than the last. Unable to continue, I turned away. But just as I was about to move past the display, something caught my eye—a strange object tucked away at the very end of the cabinet, behind a shattered glass panel, partially hidden from view.

It was a small stack of manuscript papers, about five inches high, bound together. Judging by the wear and tear, it seemed to have been handled by many readers, with the top few pages frayed and stained. Carefully, I reached through the broken glass, avoiding any sharp edges, and inspected it closely. There were five separate volumes, each labeled with large red Arabic numerals on the first page: I, II, III, IV, and V. I gently opened the half-torn first page of the topmost volume, revealing what seemed to be a poem—written in a mix of katakana and kanji, in horizontal lines, with red ink running across the page like a strange, fragmented song.

O fetus,

O fetus,

Why do you dance?

Do you sense your mother’s mind,

And does it terrify you?

The next page bore the title “Dogra Magra” in bold black gothic font, but no author’s name was listed. The first line began with an unsettling series of katakana, Buuu—nnnn… nnnnn…, and the last line ended with the same drone-like refrain. It seemed to be an extended narrative, possibly a novel, with an eerie, almost mocking tone—something unhinged, perhaps even mad.

“What is this, Doctor?” I asked. “This… Dogra Magra?”

Dr. Wakabayashi, standing behind me, nodded, appearing unusually at ease. “Ah, yes. This is another unusual and fascinating work, capturing the inexplicable nature of a disordered mind. Shortly after Professor Masaki passed away, a young university student who had been admitted to this hospital wrote this manuscript in one sitting and submitted it to me.”

“A young university student?” I echoed.

“Yes,” he replied.

“…I see… So he wrote it to prove his sanity, to show he was fit for release?”

“Actually, no. That’s the difficult part; we still haven’t fully understood his intentions. This work seems to be a kind of… unconventional scientific story, if you will, with Professor Masaki and myself as its models.”

“A scientific story… beyond conventional reason… with you and Professor Masaki as the models?”

“Precisely.”

“It’s not… a scientific paper, then?”

"Indeed," Dr. Wakabayashi replied, "and that’s precisely why this manuscript is so difficult to classify. Generally, writings by those with mental disorders are highly rationalized, full of convoluted reasoning. Yet this work is unique—at times, it reads like a scientific thesis, while at others, it resembles a detective novel of unprecedented style and complexity. It could even be interpreted as a nonsensical piece meant solely to mock and ridicule Professor Masaki and myself. The work brims with themes of scientific obsession, mystery, eroticism, nonsensical humor, and mysticism, layered and entwined throughout in a manner that, upon closer reading, emits an unsettling atmosphere only a mind in the throes of madness could conceive."

"Unlike the outlandish 'Proposal to Conquer Mars,' this manuscript is recognized as possessing significant value for psychiatric study, which is why it’s stored here. Frankly, I consider it one of the most peculiar reference pieces, not only in this room but perhaps in psychiatric study worldwide."

Dr. Wakabayashi’s enthusiasm was evident as he explained, his passion bordering on the unusual, enough to make me blink in surprise.

"How remarkable," I murmured. "How could such a young madman devise such a complex, twisted narrative?"

"The answer lies in the young man’s background," Dr. Wakabayashi replied, voice steady. "From elementary school through high school, he excelled as a top student and was admitted to this university with high honors. However, he was also deeply fascinated with detective fiction. He came to believe that the future of detective literature lay in psychology, psychoanalysis, and psychiatric science. This obsession gradually consumed him, leading to an eventual psychotic break and, ultimately, to his confinement here. It seems he then began crafting a terrifying story with himself as the protagonist—a twisted narrative of being imprisoned in this psychiatric ward under the control of Professor Masaki and myself, subject to unthinkable psychological experiments."

"And, Doctor," I asked, "is there any truth to his portrayal of events?"

A faint smirk appeared beneath Dr. Wakabayashi’s eyes, deepening into lines of irony and sadness. The backlighting from the window highlighted this expression, giving it a pale, flickering glow.

"Certainly not," Dr. Wakabayashi replied firmly. "None of what’s written in that manuscript actually happened."

"So it’s all pure fabrication, then?" I asked.

"And yet, when you look at the details… it’s difficult to dismiss it all as mere fantasy. Every account in there is grounded in such realistic descriptions that it’s hard to believe it’s all imagined."

"How strange," I murmured. "Is something like that even possible?"

"Well… it’s precisely this ambiguity that makes it so perplexing. If you were to read it yourself, you’d understand…" He paused, then added, "But even without reading it, the content has an undeniable pull, especially for professionals in our field. 'Interesting' hardly captures it; it’s unsettlingly profound. The manuscript’s fascination goes beyond mere curiosity for those interested in mental illness, the brain, or the mysteries of consciousness. In fact, several experts here at the university have found themselves reading it over and over, sometimes twice, even three times. And when they finally grasp the structure of the whole narrative, they often realize that their own minds feel at the brink of madness.

"In fact," he continued, "one researcher, after reading it, abandoned psychiatry altogether and transferred to my department, forensic medicine. Another, unfortunately, took it much harder. He confided in me that he’d lost all trust in his own mind, and shortly thereafter, he took his own life by throwing himself in front of a train."

"How terrifying," I whispered. "It sounds like it could drive a sane person mad. The contents must be truly deranged."

"That’s the curious part," Dr. Wakabayashi replied, his tone serious. "The writing is remarkably composed, meticulous, and logically structured—more so, even, than typical research papers or novels. The manuscript reveals the extraordinary memory often seen in those with mental disorders, far surpassing that of our 'encyclopedia memorizer.' And, as I mentioned, the overall design of the narrative is so perplexing that it defies conventional notions of logic or imagination. As you read, you find yourself drifting into a peculiar state, as if being drawn into a vortex of hallucinations and delusions. That may well explain why the manuscript bears such an enigmatic title."

"So… this title, Dogra Magra—was it chosen by the author himself?"

"Indeed, a truly peculiar title," Dr. Wakabayashi began, "but one designed, it seems, with the sole purpose of confounding the reader. I was so intrigued by its oddity that I wondered if the title itself might contain a hidden key, some answer to the manuscript's unsettling mysteries. Could Dogra Magra be a code of sorts?"

"However," he continued, "the young patient who authored this manuscript poured himself into writing it, working obsessively day and night over the span of a single week. As soon as he finished, he fell into an exhausted, near-continuous sleep, rendering it impossible to question him on the title’s meaning. Furthermore, none of our dictionaries offered any clues, and the origin of the phrase was completely obscure. I was at a dead end until, by chance, I stumbled upon something curious.

"This region, Kyushu, has retained a number of old European-influenced dialect words from the days of the missionaries—terms like geren, haraiso, banko, dontaku, terenparen, and others. So I had the term investigated by a local dialect researcher, and at last, we found a lead. It turns out that Dogra Magra was, until around the Meiji Restoration, a dialect term in Nagasaki, used by early Christians to describe a kind of magical illusion or trick—what they called 'phantasmagoria.' Today, it’s a rare word, used only to mean 'illusion' or 'trickery,' but this origin seemed a plausible link.

"While its exact lineage remains unclear, it seems reasonable to interpret Dogra Magra as something akin to 'phantasmagoria' or 'labyrinthine illusion,' encompassing all these meanings. It’s a fitting label, as this manuscript leads one through a grotesque, erotic, and grotesquely nonsensical detective-story maze—a 'hell of the brain,' if you will, or a psychological labyrinthine game. The title captures the manuscript’s essence precisely."

"…'Hell of the Brain'… Dogra Magra… I’m still not quite sure I understand. What exactly is this story about?"

Dr. Wakabayashi considered this, then replied, "Allow me to share some of the details described within the manuscript—it might help clarify. The story is filled with subjects that at first seem clear, engaging, even commonsensical, yet upon deeper reflection are rooted in profound, almost surreal truths—what you might call 'science beyond science,' or 'supersensory logic.' For example:

- Verses from an Ahodara Sutra expounding, in raw, blunt terms, on how 'the psychiatric hospital is the living hell on earth';

- Transcripts of a psychiatrist’s discourse proving 'every human on earth is, to some degree, mentally ill';

- An academic thesis written as if in a nightmare, in which a fetus is the protagonist, journeying through the torment of universal evolution;

- A psychiatric patient’s speech claiming 'the brain is nothing more than a telephone switchboard';

- A seemingly frivolous last will and testament;

- An ancient, decayed image of a beauty painted by a Tang Dynasty master, depicting the posthumous decay of a woman’s face;

- And a case file detailing a modern-day young woman, whose beauty uncannily mirrors the ancient decayed portrait, and the mysterious young man obsessed with her, leading to unspeakable acts of cruelty, betrayal, even murder…

"Each of these stories spins into the larger narrative, seemingly unrelated, but by the end, you realize they all interlock. The narrative revolves around the haunting Dogra Magra spell, beginning with the sound of a lone clock striking at midnight. As the tale progresses, it circles back to that same midnight chime, over and over, dragging you through an unending, nightmarish panorama of the damned, a hell from which there is no escape. Each moment of horror, every unsettling vision, is replayed, always in the same order, trapping the reader in an endless loop with no visible exit.

"Ultimately," he went on, "you learn that all these events are nothing more than a fleeting dream—a vision in the mind of a psychiatric patient, triggered by the sound of that clock striking at midnight. And yet, the patient perceives this 'moment' as lasting over twenty hours, a paradox that, in psychiatric terms, is explained through the theory that the two chimes, which begin and end the story, are, in fact, the very same sound—an illusion of time created within the mind.

"This revelation—that time, memory, and self may be nothing more than the fragments of a single, endless echo—constitutes the essence of Dogra Magra, a truth so intricate, so profoundly disturbing, that you must experience it to fully grasp its meaning."

Just then, Dr. Wakabayashi moved forward to pick up the topmost volume, but I hurriedly stopped him.

“No, that’s quite enough,” I said, shaking both hands vigorously. Listening to his description alone made me feel as though my mind might already be slipping into that tangled web called Dogra Magra... Besides, if it was ultimately a madman’s work, how meaningful could it truly be? Likely, it was just a chaotic jumble, like “Katyusha,” the Encyclopaedia transcription, and the “Mars Conquest” all mashed together. I already had enough madness of my own to contend with. The last thing I needed was someone else’s madness creeping into my thoughts, warping them further. It would be best to simply forget this conversation entirely.

With that thought, I stuffed my hands into my pockets and shook my head firmly, walking toward the windows at the far end of the display cases. Glancing over the various photos and charts pasted to the walls, I asked Dr. Wakabayashi to continue his explanations. The displays were strange indeed:

—Photographic comparisons of patients’ facial expressions before and after onset of mental illness 

—Analysis charts comparing the diets and waste of patients, pre- and post-illness 

These, along with a host of other exhibits, all fell within a rare and disturbing realm of research:

—Drawings produced under hallucination and delusion 

—Various photographs of convulsing hysteric women, capturing their grotesque poses mid-attack 

—Portraits of patients in costumes and disguises, organized by type of mental disorder 

The room, plastered from wall to wall with such images and overflowing with glass cabinets filled with yet stranger objects, resembled a grotesque exhibition. Inside the cabinets, layer upon layer of items stood on display:

—Comparison of brains: one abnormally large, another unusually small, and a third of normal size (the largest, twice the volume of a standard brain; the smallest, a third of the volume—all preserved in formalin) 

—Brains of various patients diagnosed with conditions like satyriasis, homicidal mania, palsy, and even dwarfism, each showing distinct characteristics—some swollen, some atrophied, some with areas of hemorrhage or syphilitic decay 

—A ghostly painting by Ōkyo that had been a treasured family heirloom, supposedly from a family driven to ruin by madness 

—A Muramasa dagger that, according to legend, would drive its owner insane if sharpened 

These items, spread throughout the cases, painted a surreal picture of scientific obsession with a tinge of horror.

In the dimly lit room, bizarre artifacts lay strewn within the glass cases—grisly remnants of disturbed minds:

—Fractured pieces of whale bone that a patient insisted were mermaid bones, sold on the streets 

—A black cat’s head, with one eye golden, simmered by another patient who planned to poison his family 

—Five severed fingers from a left hand, discarded by their owner alongside the straw-cutting knife he had used 

—A shattered skull from a patient who had leapt headfirst from his bed in a final act 

—A pillow and blanket molded into a doll, affectionately caressed by a patient as if it were his wife 

—A brass smoking pipe, claimed to be used in magic tricks, found lodged in a patient's throat 

—A piece of tin roofing that had been torn apart by bare hands 

—Iron bars bent by a woman patient in a frenzied fit of hysteria 

Amidst the horrifying objects—the severed hands, battered skulls, bizarre concoctions, and twisted artifacts of broken minds—delicate embroideries, intricate lacework, and lifelike artificial flowers, all crafted by these same patients, stood quietly, their elegance contrasting starkly against the grotesque.

I listened to Dr. Wakabayashi’s steady explanations, my heart pounding as I scanned each item, dreading the idea that one of these objects might bear some connection to me. What if I, too, was somehow bound to one of these dark relics? Yet, as I moved along, I felt nothing—no faint glimmer of recognition, no eerie sense of belonging. What I felt, instead, was a relentless, crushing sadness, as the sharp emotions woven into each item pressed in upon my mind, conjuring a pain so raw it seemed to reverberate through my very bones.

At last, having examined everything in sight, I moved back to the large table and felt an enormous sense of relief. I dabbed the cold sweat that had pooled at my brow with a handkerchief, then turned on my heel, almost reflexively, to leave the room.

The instant I did so, the entire room seemed to shift with me. Every object, from right to left, seemed to whirl as I turned, and directly before me, across the table, the frame of an oil painting appeared, as though it had been waiting for me all along. The painting stopped, its muted colors glinting in the faint light, and in that moment, I felt as though fate had placed me there, demanding I confront whatever lay within the frame.

Straightening my back, I inhaled deeply, my eyes fixating on the painting’s weathered surface, its faded yellows, browns, and soft, ghostly greens blending in an ancient, hypnotic dance. The colors felt strange, unreal—as if the hues themselves held secrets too twisted for words.

The scene in the painting appeared to depict some kind of Western execution by fire—a tableau of horror and solemnity.

At the center of the canvas, three thick wooden stakes stood tall, each one bound with a human figure. In the middle, an elderly man with a halo of white hair and beard was lashed high on the post, his face noble, his demeanor dignified even amidst the suffering. To his right, a gaunt, pale young man was similarly bound, his body writhing in the smoke and flames. On the left, a woman with disheveled hair crowned with flowers clung to her stake, naked like the others, her face contorted in anguish as flames crackled beneath her.

On the right edge of the painting, a couple of apparent nobility, seated in a golden carriage, observed the gruesome scene with calm detachment, encircled by richly adorned attendants and family members. Their expressions bore a strange mix of fascination and indifference. Opposing them on the far left, in stark contrast, was the figure of a small child, reaching out desperately from the inferno toward the woman on the stake, presumably his mother. His outstretched arms and open mouth conveyed a wild, raw despair, but two men—a robust fatherly figure and an elderly grandfather—held him back, one of them clamping a hand over the child’s mouth, as though fearful of the noble spectators.

In the very center of the scene, standing alone in the wide open space between the victims and the onlookers, was a hunched old woman with a long, hooked nose. Clad in a black cloak and red triangular hood, she leaned on a cudgel-like staff, pointing toward the burning figures as if presenting them to the noble audience. Her sparse, yellowed teeth gleamed in a wicked grin, a gleam that grew increasingly menacing the longer I stared. Her expression was one of cruel satisfaction, of triumph, as if this macabre spectacle was her own creation.

The longer I looked at the painting, the more vividly the grotesque details leapt out, each one casting a chill that crept deeper into my bones.

"This painting—what is it?" I asked, pointing to the horrific scene before turning to face Dr. Wakabayashi. With his hands still calmly tucked in his pockets, he responded in his usual detached tone.

“It depicts a scene from the European Middle Ages, likely in France, judging by the attire. Back then, the mentally ill were often believed to be possessed by evil spirits and were burned alive as a form of ‘cleansing.’ The figure in the red hood and black cloak is a priestess, healer, and fortuneteller of the time—an old mystic who claimed to diagnose and exorcise these so-called afflicted souls. This painting was purchased by Professor Masaki from an antique dealer in Yanagawa, as a reference for how mental illness was once treated with such brutal superstition. Some now say it may be a work by Rembrandt, which would make it quite a rare and valuable piece beyond its historical significance.”

“Ah... burning them alive was considered a treatment?” I muttered, stunned.

“Indeed. Mental illness, being so elusive and misunderstood, was met with... the most definitive cure available,” he replied coldly, a hint of irony in his words.

I felt a sick, conflicted sensation rise within me. Wakabayashi’s icy, blue eyes glinted with a ruthlessness that suggested he might—if duty demanded—subject me to such a fate without hesitation, all in the name of science. Rubbing my face in a feigned gesture of ease, I remarked, “The mad of today are fortunate to live in this era.”

Once again, a faint smirk appeared on Dr. Wakabayashi’s left cheek, flickering briefly before vanishing like a shadow.

"…No… that’s not necessarily the case. Perhaps those who were once burned alive all at once for their madness were, in a way, more fortunate."

Regretting my careless remark, I slumped my shoulders and avoided Dr. Wakabayashi’s unsettling gaze, wiping my face with a handkerchief. Just then, my eyes landed, almost involuntarily, on a large photograph in a dark wooden frame hanging on the wall to the left.

The photograph showed an elderly gentleman, about sixty, with a broad, kind face, a receding hairline, and a long salt-and-pepper beard. Dressed in formal attire, he wore a gentle smile, the kind that belonged to someone naturally warm-hearted. At first glance, I wondered if this might be Dr. Masaki himself, and so I moved closer to look at the picture head-on. But something felt off. I turned back to Dr. Wakabayashi.

“Who is this in the photograph?”

At my question, Dr. Wakabayashi’s expression softened noticeably. For some reason, his face lit up with an unusual satisfaction, and he nodded slowly.

“…Yes… that photograph, indeed. Yes… that is Dr. Juhachi Saito. As I mentioned earlier, he was the one in charge of this psychiatric department before Dr. Masaki. He was our mentor.”

Dr. Wakabayashi sighed gently, a trace of sentiment in his voice. Then, with an expression of profound respect, he leisurely stepped closer to me, his long face filled with a deep sense of reverence.

“…It finally caught your attention, didn’t it?”

“…Excuse me?”

I looked up at Dr. Wakabayashi, surprised, not quite understanding his words. Yet he continued to approach me, unperturbed, his upper body leaning slightly forward as he spoke, carefully comparing my face to the photograph’s, his tone growing even more serious and deliberate.

“This photograph has finally caught your attention,” Dr. Wakabayashi said. “And that is because it is undoubtedly linked to the deepest parts of your own past.”

At that moment, I was jolted into remembering my original purpose in coming to this room, something that had somehow slipped from my mind. A subtle but profound flutter stirred within my chest.

Yet, as I turned my thoughts inward, I realized that nothing had truly come back to me; my mind was still clouded, blank. This absence gave me a mixed sense of relief and disappointment, and I relaxed my shoulders with a quiet sigh, bowing my head slightly as I listened to Dr. Wakabayashi’s words.

“...I believe,” he continued, “that your dormant memories have been subtly awakening since earlier. As you looked upon that illustration from the Dogra Magra manuscript—the scene of the madman burning—you must have stirred something in your subconscious that led you to this very photograph. And why is that? It is because the person who arranged this photograph of Dr. Saito beside the painting of the madman’s immolation was none other than Dr. Masaki himself, your mental guide and experimenter.”

He paused, his tone solemn. “Dr. Masaki was outraged by the brutal, inhumane treatment of the mentally ill, which, as depicted in that painting, is still a secret yet widespread practice even in the twentieth century. This outrage spurred him to dedicate his life to the study of mental illness. With Dr. Saito’s guidance and support, he finally achieved his purpose.”

“Madman burning… even now, the slaughter of the insane is happening?” I muttered to myself, seized once more by an unfathomable dread.

But Dr. Wakabayashi simply nodded, unperturbed.

"…Yes, it continues. The same as in the past, unabated. No—in truth, cruelties beyond even burning to death are conducted openly, in psychiatric hospitals around the world, even as we speak."

“That’s… too much…” I began, then caught myself, swallowing my words, appalled by the severity of his statement. Yet Dr. Wakabayashi remained unmoved, standing shoulder to shoulder with me as he compared the painting of the madman’s immolation with the photograph of Dr. Saito. In a cool, detached tone, he continued.

“No, it is not ‘too much.’ It is a stark reality. You will come to understand this gradually, as Dr. Masaki did. His tireless dedication to saving those poor, tortured souls led him to propose an unprecedented new theory in mental science. As I mentioned, this theory, astonishing yet straightforward, is one that anyone—even children—could grasp with ease. To demonstrate this theory in action, he began experiments on what he called ‘madman liberation.’ And thanks to none other than you, his work reached its fullest completion. Now, only one thing remains—to regain your memories and sign your name on the experiment’s final report.”

Stunned, I looked up at Dr. Wakabayashi, unable to close my gaping mouth. I felt as if some weighty, inexplicable force had drawn me into this room, binding me to an inescapable fate represented by those two framed portraits. Yet, oblivious to the dread that gripped me, Dr. Wakabayashi continued to speak fluidly.

“And so, as I recount the intertwined destinies of Dr. Saito and Dr. Masaki, each detail relates inevitably to your own past. The meticulous preparation Dr. Masaki undertook before coming here to Kyushu University, in order to place you into his experiment in mental science; the extraordinary pains, the relentless, terrifying effort he invested in preparing and researching this project… all this, too, is part of the story.”

“What? Such terrifying preparations… just to experiment on me?”

“Indeed,” Dr. Wakabayashi replied. “Dr. Masaki spent over twenty long years preparing for this experiment.”

“...Twenty years…” My voice, barely formed, slipped back into my throat, turning into a strange groan that lingered deep within. It felt as though Dr. Masaki’s two decades of painstaking effort were wrapping themselves around my neck.

Noticing my reaction, Dr. Wakabayashi nodded slowly once again. “Yes, Dr. Masaki began this work on your behalf even before you were born.”

“...Before I was even born…?”

The scene in the painting appeared to depict some kind of Western execution by fire—a tableau of horror and solemnity.

At the center of the canvas, three thick wooden stakes stood tall, each one bound with a human figure. In the middle, an elderly man with a halo of white hair and beard was lashed high on the post, his face noble, his demeanor dignified even amidst the suffering. To his right, a gaunt, pale young man was similarly bound, his body writhing in the smoke and flames. On the left, a woman with disheveled hair crowned with flowers clung to her stake, naked like the others, her face contorted in anguish as flames crackled beneath her.

On the right edge of the painting, a couple of apparent nobility, seated in a golden carriage, observed the gruesome scene with calm detachment, encircled by richly adorned attendants and family members. Their expressions bore a strange mix of fascination and indifference. Opposing them on the far left, in stark contrast, was the figure of a small child, reaching out desperately from the inferno toward the woman on the stake, presumably his mother. His outstretched arms and open mouth conveyed a wild, raw despair, but two men—a robust fatherly figure and an elderly grandfather—held him back, one of them clamping a hand over the child’s mouth, as though fearful of the noble spectators.

In the very center of the scene, standing alone in the wide open space between the victims and the onlookers, was a hunched old woman with a long, hooked nose. Clad in a black cloak and red triangular hood, she leaned on a cudgel-like staff, pointing toward the burning figures as if presenting them to the noble audience. Her sparse, yellowed teeth gleamed in a wicked grin, a gleam that grew increasingly menacing the longer I stared. Her expression was one of cruel satisfaction, of triumph, as if this macabre spectacle was her own creation.

The longer I looked at the painting, the more vividly the grotesque details leapt out, each one casting a chill that crept deeper into my bones.

"This painting—what is it?" I asked, pointing to the horrific scene before turning to face Dr. Wakabayashi. With his hands still calmly tucked in his pockets, he responded in his usual detached tone.

“It depicts a scene from the European Middle Ages, likely in France, judging by the attire. Back then, the mentally ill were often believed to be possessed by evil spirits and were burned alive as a form of ‘cleansing.’ The figure in the red hood and black cloak is a priestess, healer, and fortuneteller of the time—an old mystic who claimed to diagnose and exorcise these so-called afflicted souls. This painting was purchased by Professor Masaki from an antique dealer in Yanagawa, as a reference for how mental illness was once treated with such brutal superstition. Some now say it may be a work by Rembrandt, which would make it quite a rare and valuable piece beyond its historical significance.”

“Ah... burning them alive was considered a treatment?” I muttered, stunned.

“Indeed. Mental illness, being so elusive and misunderstood, was met with... the most definitive cure available,” he replied coldly, a hint of irony in his words.

I felt a sick, conflicted sensation rise within me. Wakabayashi’s icy, blue eyes glinted with a ruthlessness that suggested he might—if duty demanded—subject me to such a fate without hesitation, all in the name of science. Rubbing my face in a feigned gesture of ease, I remarked, “The mad of today are fortunate to live in this era.”

Once again, a faint smirk appeared on Dr. Wakabayashi’s left cheek, flickering briefly before vanishing like a shadow.

"…No… that’s not necessarily the case. Perhaps those who were once burned alive all at once for their madness were, in a way, more fortunate."

Regretting my careless remark, I slumped my shoulders and avoided Dr. Wakabayashi’s unsettling gaze, wiping my face with a handkerchief. Just then, my eyes landed, almost involuntarily, on a large photograph in a dark wooden frame hanging on the wall to the left.

The photograph showed an elderly gentleman, about sixty, with a broad, kind face, a receding hairline, and a long salt-and-pepper beard. Dressed in formal attire, he wore a gentle smile, the kind that belonged to someone naturally warm-hearted. At first glance, I wondered if this might be Dr. Masaki himself, and so I moved closer to look at the picture head-on. But something felt off. I turned back to Dr. Wakabayashi.

“Who is this in the photograph?”

At my question, Dr. Wakabayashi’s expression softened noticeably. For some reason, his face lit up with an unusual satisfaction, and he nodded slowly.

“…Yes… that photograph, indeed. Yes… that is Dr. Juhachi Saito. As I mentioned earlier, he was the one in charge of this psychiatric department before Dr. Masaki. He was our mentor.”

Dr. Wakabayashi sighed gently, a trace of sentiment in his voice. Then, with an expression of profound respect, he leisurely stepped closer to me, his long face filled with a deep sense of reverence.

“…It finally caught your attention, didn’t it?”

“…Excuse me?”

I looked up at Dr. Wakabayashi, surprised, not quite understanding his words. Yet he continued to approach me, unperturbed, his upper body leaning slightly forward as he spoke, carefully comparing my face to the photograph’s, his tone growing even more serious and deliberate.

“This photograph has finally caught your attention,” Dr. Wakabayashi said. “And that is because it is undoubtedly linked to the deepest parts of your own past.”

At that moment, I was jolted into remembering my original purpose in coming to this room, something that had somehow slipped from my mind. A subtle but profound flutter stirred within my chest.

Yet, as I turned my thoughts inward, I realized that nothing had truly come back to me; my mind was still clouded, blank. This absence gave me a mixed sense of relief and disappointment, and I relaxed my shoulders with a quiet sigh, bowing my head slightly as I listened to Dr. Wakabayashi’s words.

“...I believe,” he continued, “that your dormant memories have been subtly awakening since earlier. As you looked upon that illustration from the Dogra Magra manuscript—the scene of the madman burning—you must have stirred something in your subconscious that led you to this very photograph. And why is that? It is because the person who arranged this photograph of Dr. Saito beside the painting of the madman’s immolation was none other than Dr. Masaki himself, your mental guide and experimenter.”

He paused, his tone solemn. “Dr. Masaki was outraged by the brutal, inhumane treatment of the mentally ill, which, as depicted in that painting, is still a secret yet widespread practice even in the twentieth century. This outrage spurred him to dedicate his life to the study of mental illness. With Dr. Saito’s guidance and support, he finally achieved his purpose.”

“Madman burning… even now, the slaughter of the insane is happening?” I muttered to myself, seized once more by an unfathomable dread.

But Dr. Wakabayashi simply nodded, unperturbed.

"…Yes, it continues. The same as in the past, unabated. No—in truth, cruelties beyond even burning to death are conducted openly, in psychiatric hospitals around the world, even as we speak."

“That’s… too much…” I began, then caught myself, swallowing my words, appalled by the severity of his statement. Yet Dr. Wakabayashi remained unmoved, standing shoulder to shoulder with me as he compared the painting of the madman’s immolation with the photograph of Dr. Saito. In a cool, detached tone, he continued.

“No, it is not ‘too much.’ It is a stark reality. You will come to understand this gradually, as Dr. Masaki did. His tireless dedication to saving those poor, tortured souls led him to propose an unprecedented new theory in mental science. As I mentioned, this theory, astonishing yet straightforward, is one that anyone—even children—could grasp with ease. To demonstrate this theory in action, he began experiments on what he called ‘madman liberation.’ And thanks to none other than you, his work reached its fullest completion. Now, only one thing remains—to regain your memories and sign your name on the experiment’s final report.”

Stunned, I looked up at Dr. Wakabayashi, unable to close my gaping mouth. I felt as if some weighty, inexplicable force had drawn me into this room, binding me to an inescapable fate represented by those two framed portraits. Yet, oblivious to the dread that gripped me, Dr. Wakabayashi continued to speak fluidly.

“And so, as I recount the intertwined destinies of Dr. Saito and Dr. Masaki, each detail relates inevitably to your own past. The meticulous preparation Dr. Masaki undertook before coming here to Kyushu University, in order to place you into his experiment in mental science; the extraordinary pains, the relentless, terrifying effort he invested in preparing and researching this project… all this, too, is part of the story.”

“What? Such terrifying preparations… just to experiment on me?”

“Indeed,” Dr. Wakabayashi replied. “Dr. Masaki spent over twenty long years preparing for this experiment.”

“...Twenty years…” My voice, barely formed, slipped back into my throat, turning into a strange groan that lingered deep within. It felt as though Dr. Masaki’s two decades of painstaking effort were wrapping themselves around my neck.

Noticing my reaction, Dr. Wakabayashi nodded slowly once again. “Yes, Dr. Masaki began this work on your behalf even before you were born.”

“...Before I was even born…?”

“Yes. I know this may sound like an odd or exaggerated way of putting it, but I assure you it’s no exaggeration. Long before you entered this world, Dr. Masaki anticipated your existence. Even if your memory fails to fully return, as it might—if you can only recognize your own name, through the truths I am about to provide, that alone will suffice. If you can align these facts with your own recollections, I am certain you will see that what I tell you is no embellishment. In fact…” he continued, his tone intensifying, “I believe this is the best, perhaps the only way, to help you fully recall your true name and identity.”

With these words, Dr. Wakabayashi returned to the large table, gesturing toward a small swivel chair positioned by the stove. I followed his unspoken command as though I were a patient about to undergo surgery. Approaching the chair hesitantly, I lowered myself into it, but I felt no sense of rest. Pressing my hand against my chest to calm my breath, I swallowed, struggling against the strange dread that seemed to fill the room.

Meanwhile, Dr. Wakabayashi circled around the large table and settled into a grand swivel chair directly across from me. He hunched down in the same peculiar posture I’d seen earlier in Room Seven, only this time without his overcoat. His thin, elongated arms and legs were now exposed in his morning coat, folding sharply beneath his long neck and narrow torso, which seemed to collapse inward, bit by bit. At the center of this twisted frame, his face remained its usual size, giving him an uncanny, monstrous appearance. He looked like a giant pale-faced spider, wearing a morning coat, creeping out from the shadow of the fireplace to make me its prey.

Seeing this, I instinctively straightened in my chair. The spider-like Dr. Wakabayashi extended one long arm with leisurely precision, drawing a bundle of documents from the center of the table towards him. With a light dusting motion, he brushed some invisible speck off the papers beneath his hands and cleared his throat softly, once, then again.

"…Now, as I recount the story surrounding Dr. Masaki’s life-long experiment, I must beg your indulgence as I refer to my own experiences as well. This is because, you see, Dr. Masaki and I share more than a passing connection: we both come from Chiba, and, as first-year students, we sat side by side when Fukuoka Medical College—a precursor to this university—was established by repurposing Fukuoka’s prefectural hospital in 1903 as part of Kyoto Imperial University. In 1907, we graduated together, classmates and equals in every sense of the word. Remarkably, we both remained bachelors, each devoting ourselves wholly to academic research. In many respects, we lived lives that ran in parallel.

"Yet, when it came to Dr. Masaki’s brilliance and his immense resources, I could never hope to compare. For example, our studies at that time required every bit of resourcefulness since foreign texts weren’t as readily available as they are today. Many of us labored, hand-copying the few books we could borrow from the school library day and night. Dr. Masaki, on the other hand, would order foreign books at his own expense and, after a single reading, would generously lend them out to others without a second thought. And as if his studies weren’t enough, he was known to wander in search of fossils as a sort of hobby, or to visit temples and shrines, researching their histories—activities seemingly unrelated to medicine.

“But even then, these interests of his were not as whimsical as they seemed. His fossil collection and historical research had a purpose, connecting significantly to the ‘Madman Liberation’ experiment he would later conduct. Only now, twenty years on, am I beginning to understand the extraordinary depth and foresight of Dr. Masaki’s mind, which never ceases to astonish me.”

“In any case, for these reasons, Dr. Masaki was already an unusual figure, attracting the attention of students and faculty alike. And it is no exaggeration to say that the first to recognize the greatness of his intellect was none other than Dr. Juhachi Saito, whose portrait you see here.”

"...And that, you see, is how things came to be. Dr. Saito, whom I’ve mentioned, was an eminent scholar who had been with this university since its founding. Almost all the specimens in this room were collected solely through his efforts. He was a man of profound dedication and an impassioned orator. In fact, he was such a memorable speaker that certain anecdotes about him have been passed down through the years. At one point, during a ceremony held in the university’s main hall to commemorate the third anniversary of its founding, Dr. Masaki, representing the student body, gave an unforgettable speech. He boldly declared:

‘Recently, rumors in the newspapers have criticized students and professors of this university for frequenting the red-light districts and indulging in gambling. But I believe this is no cause for concern. The gravest sin a scholar can commit is not to indulge in wine, women, or cards, but rather to stop pursuing academic research altogether after becoming a graduate or a professor. This, I believe, is one of the greatest flaws in Japanese academia.’

The faces of the students and professors in the hall changed dramatically at his words. But, among them, there was one person who, alone, rose from his seat in a frenzy of applause, shouting ‘Bravo!’—and that was Dr. Saito. I can still vividly recall the scene. This small incident alone tells volumes about Dr. Saito’s character.

In the early days of his tenure, however, there was no official psychiatric department at Kyushu University, and Dr. Saito, the sole specialist in psychiatry, held only a minor position as an assistant professor with a single modest lecture course. He often appeared visibly frustrated by this. He would catch hold of Dr. Masaki, his favored student, and myself, who was already studying under his guidance, and would decry the materialist dogma of modern science and lament over the future of the nation. I, unsure how to respond, often fell silent, but Dr. Masaki would always respond with some imaginative, unexpected rebuttal, leaving Dr. Saito quite speechless. One such remark has remained etched in my memory to this day.

"...As I was saying, Dr. Saito had been with this university from its very inception. He was a man of remarkable dedication, assembling almost all the specimens you see here in this room on his own. And, if I may add an aside, he was a truly impassioned orator. He was known for a particular anecdote, which has persisted through the years. At a ceremony commemorating the third anniversary of the university’s founding, Dr. Masaki—then a student representative—gave a speech that left a profound impression on everyone in attendance. He said:

‘Recently, newspapers have been filled with rumors about students and professors from this university frequenting red-light districts or engaging in gambling. But I believe this is nothing to worry about. The gravest sin a scholar can commit is not indulging in drink or games, nor trifling with playing cards, but rather ceasing all academic research after obtaining a degree or a title, as though scholarship can be abandoned once a person becomes a graduate or a professor. I see this as one of the major blights of Japanese academia.’

At these words, the expressions of the students and professors in the hall changed dramatically. Yet there was one person among them who rose from his seat, applauding enthusiastically and shouting, ‘Bravo!’ That was Dr. Saito. I still have a vivid image of that moment, and this alone should give you a glimpse of his character.

In those early days, however, there was no official department of psychiatry at Kyushu University, and Dr. Saito was the sole specialist in the field, with only a modest position as an assistant professor and a single, sparse lecture course to oversee. This seemed to be a significant source of dissatisfaction for him. He would often catch hold of Dr. Masaki, his favored pupil, and myself, who had begun to seek his guidance, and he would rail against the materialism dominating modern science or express grave concerns about the future of the nation. In such instances, I never quite knew how to respond, but Dr. Masaki would always counter him with an eccentric, imaginative retort that would leave Dr. Saito at a loss for words. Among those remarks, one in particular has remained vividly in my memory."

“‘Ah—here we go again with the usual lament, straight from Dr. Saito’s repertoire. But really, aren’t we getting a bit tired of hearing it on repeat, like a phonograph stuck on the same old wax cylinder? You’d do well to switch out that recording once in a while. Everyone today is thoroughly enamored with the West and infected to the core with material science. Just a few shots of your complaints won’t cure that addiction, believe me. But why not ease your worry and wait—give it twenty years or so. It’s entirely possible that, in that time, Japan may see the arrival of a truly remarkable psychiatric patient. And when he appears, he’ll document every detail of his illness, the cause of his condition, and the gradual restoration of his mind. He’ll release this record, and it will shake the entire academic world. At that moment, the very foundations of religion, ethics, art, law, and science—all that humanity has painstakingly constructed—along with the ideologies of naturalism, nihilism, anarchism, and every other materialistic philosophy, will be utterly shattered. In their place, this madman will inaugurate a liberating new culture of the spirit, one that strips human nature bare, laying the soul open to its very depths.’

“‘And when that madman’s antics have achieved their glorious success, as I’m certain they will, then, at long last, psychiatry will ascend to its rightful place as the ultimate science. Universities like this one, that treat psychiatry as an afterthought, will lose all their relevance. So, look forward to it, and may you live long enough to see it happen—there’s no retirement age for scholars, after all.’

“As I recall, those were his exact words. Even Dr. Saito was speechless, and I too was more than a little taken aback. I couldn’t tell whether Dr. Masaki was truly serious about this seemingly prophetic statement. Could he already have been planning to shock the academic world by creating such a patient himself? At that time, such an idea would have been unthinkable. And, in truth, it wasn’t unusual for Dr. Masaki to make such wild declarations to startle people, so neither Dr. Saito nor I gave it much thought or asked any further questions.”

"...But soon enough, Dr. Saito’s dissatisfaction, combined with Dr. Masaki’s genius, created an unusual stir within the university. It all began around the time of our graduation, when Dr. Masaki submitted his groundbreaking thesis, titled The Dreams of the Fetus, as his graduation project."

“...The fetus... a fetus has dreams?” I blurted out in a bewildered tone. The words “the dreams of the fetus” struck my ears with an eerie resonance... yet, Dr. Wakabayashi showed no surprise. He nodded, as if my astonishment were only natural. Slowly, he unfolded the documents in his hands, examining each page closely with his pale blue eyes.

"Indeed... you will soon have the chance to examine The Dreams of the Fetus yourself, but even just seeing the title makes it clear that this was no ordinary thesis. To this day, we barely understand the nature of ordinary dreams, so one can only imagine the reaction, twenty years ago, when this unusual subject was chosen as a research topic—long before you were even born.

"Dr. Masaki’s brilliance was already well known, and his thesis title quickly became the talk of the university. There was hardly a person who wasn’t curious about its contents. When the time came, however, for the thesis to be reviewed by the university’s faculty, it caused an uproar. The writing itself defied all conventional norms, leaving the professors stunned. You see, Dr. Masaki had an exceptional gift for languages; he could read complex works in English, German, and French—even difficult literary texts unrelated to his field were no challenge for him. Naturally, everyone expected his thesis to be written in German, which was then the standard for academic writing. But to everyone’s surprise, he wrote it in the emerging colloquial style, using a mix of slang and dialect, which was hardly used in academia at the time.

"Moreover, the thesis's arguments were wildly unconventional, as provocative as its title, almost as if mocking the reader. Even the highly knowledgeable professors of our modern university were utterly taken aback. One professor, known for his rigid, outspoken nature, was so furious that he reportedly declared, ‘Even the president of this university must be in error if he allows us to be subjected to such an absurd thesis. Masaki’s arrogance in presenting this is an insult to our institution. He sullies the sanctity of our first round of thesis evaluations with this nonsense. We should expel him as an example for future students.’

"Such rumors made the rounds among students—and I believe there’s truth in them."

"Indeed... you will soon have the chance to examine The Dreams of the Fetus yourself, but even just seeing the title makes it clear that this was no ordinary thesis. To this day, we barely understand the nature of ordinary dreams, so one can only imagine the reaction, twenty years ago, when this unusual subject was chosen as a research topic—long before you were even born.

"Dr. Masaki’s brilliance was already well known, and his thesis title quickly became the talk of the university. There was hardly a person who wasn’t curious about its contents. When the time came, however, for the thesis to be reviewed by the university’s faculty, it caused an uproar. The writing itself defied all conventional norms, leaving the professors stunned. You see, Dr. Masaki had an exceptional gift for languages; he could read complex works in English, German, and French—even difficult literary texts unrelated to his field were no challenge for him. Naturally, everyone expected his thesis to be written in German, which was then the standard for academic writing. But to everyone’s surprise, he wrote it in the emerging colloquial style, using a mix of slang and dialect, which was hardly used in academia at the time.

"Moreover, the thesis's arguments were wildly unconventional, as provocative as its title, almost as if mocking the reader. Even the highly knowledgeable professors of our modern university were utterly taken aback. One professor, known for his rigid, outspoken nature, was so furious that he reportedly declared, ‘Even the president of this university must be in error if he allows us to be subjected to such an absurd thesis. Masaki’s arrogance in presenting this is an insult to our institution. He sullies the sanctity of our first round of thesis evaluations with this nonsense. We should expel him as an example for future students.’

"Such rumors made the rounds among students—and I believe there’s truth in them.

“...And so, with this background, the faculty meeting convened to assess the thesis. Interest throughout the university was intense, with everyone anticipating the outcome. On the day of the review, as expected, the professors were nearly unanimous: while outright expulsion was perhaps excessive, they were ready to reject this thesis outright. But at that moment, Dr. Saito, then the youngest professor and seated at the far end of the table, unexpectedly rose to deliver an opinion—one that remains famous to this day.

‘...I must ask you to wait a moment. It may be audacious for me, seated at the end of this assembly, to speak, but for the sake of academic integrity, I feel compelled to make my position known. I hold a view on this thesis that is in complete opposition to that of my colleagues here, and I will now explain why.

‘First, the objections raised against this thesis seem to center on its lack of formal structure and nonconformance with established standards. However, this is a trivial argument, hardly worth debate. Academic theses are not petitions for graduation or pleas for honorary degrees, submitted to the authorities in standardized formats. There are no prescribed forms or styles for academic inquiry, and I believe this one point alone should suffice as a rebuttal.

‘Secondly, concerning the thesis content itself, it is categorically not the frivolous work my colleagues seem to believe. The failure to appreciate its value lies in a broader failing among contemporary medical scholars, who are so fixated on the material study of the human body that they lack true knowledge of the scientific study of the human mind—that is, mental science. Those of you unfamiliar with the field may not realize the lengths to which researchers in mental science, worldwide, are striving and struggling to uncover fundamental principles of mind, life, and heredity—concepts central to this thesis. I insist, in honor of my field, that the true value of this work is simply not being recognized.

‘…In essence, this thesis posits that a human fetus experiences an extraordinary, almost incomprehensible dream during its ten months in the womb. This dream unfolds as a grand, continuous motion picture spanning hundreds of millions—if not billions—of years, depicting the entire evolution of existence. The fetus is both the protagonist and the director, bearing witness to scenes as vivid and exact as life itself. It views the bizarre and ancient creatures, now preserved only in fossils, as well as the cosmic disasters and cataclysms that brought about their extinction. And not only this—following these scenes, the fetus also perceives, in painstaking detail, the history of humankind: its primordial ancestors and, through countless generations, the violent survival struggles, the heinous deeds, and the dreadful acts of cruelty perpetuated by its forebears, all committed to deceive or overcome others.

‘This horrific, nightmarish vision, experienced directly by the fetus, is an indelible record of its inherited human psyche, illustrating how each of these ancestral sins, this karma upon karma, has been passed down in unbroken succession, directly shaping the fetus’s own psyche. The thesis argues that such dreams—both terrifying and extraordinary—can be indirectly inferred through the anatomical and psychological study of the human mind and body. Yet, it claims no scientific record, no documented evidence of the fetus’s dream, exists. And therefore, as conjecture, it holds no academic value, and its grade as a graduation thesis is effectively zero. This, it seems, is the consensus.

‘This assessment may indeed seem entirely reasonable at first glance… however, I must respectfully ask one question of you all. When you read your world history textbooks in middle school—books which each of you, I’m certain, studied—what did you think? World history, after all, is simply a record of humanity’s past, and, at the individual level, is much like one’s memory of one’s own personal history. This much, I’m sure, is so self-evident it needs no explanation. No person with even a semblance of a past can deny it.

‘…If we accept this reasoning, then what of those disciplines that strive to understand humanity before the advent of recorded history? How could anthropology, prehistoric archaeology, and other fields that piece together ancient civilizations and their beliefs, arts, and social structures through the study of ruins be anything less than valuable? Surely, these sciences are recognized as legitimate fields of inquiry. And what of geology and paleontology? They reconstruct the Earth’s history and the rise and fall of prehistoric life based solely on remnants in the soil—yet no one witnessed these ancient eras, nor kept a record of them. Could anyone call such disciplines mere products of fantasy? Are their practitioners any less scientists?

‘This thesis, The Dreams of the Fetus, represents an entirely new scholarly endeavor, rooted in the same approach. It seeks to infer the dreams we experienced in the womb—a period for which we retain no conscious record—by studying the traces left in every part of our physical and psychological being. It stands as the boldest, most avant-garde piece of research of its kind, embodying an extraordinary attempt to dissect and understand the structure of human consciousness. Moreover, its exploration of the anatomical foundations of the human psyche offers a unique breakthrough, addressing questions in mental anatomy, physiology, pathology, and genetics—fields that mental scientists worldwide have longed to advance, despite considering such endeavors impossible.

‘If this research on The Dreams of the Fetus progresses further, breaking into these unexplored territories, it may well provoke a revolution in human culture. At the very least, it moves mental science beyond the phenomena that have preoccupied it thus far—such as ghosts, mesmerism, clairvoyance, and mind reading—and charts a path forward with rigorous scientific methodology.

‘I am convinced that The Dreams of the Fetus, though submitted here as a student’s graduation thesis, possesses far greater depth and scientific value than most doctoral dissertations currently in circulation. Without question, it deserves to be recognized as the highest achievement among the first graduating theses of our university. Any scholar who dismisses it as worthless must be unfamiliar with the history of scholarship, ignorant of how groundbreaking discoveries often faced scorn, dismissed as mere fantasy when first introduced.’

"…Such was Dr. Saito’s stance, as he later recounted it to me.

"As you might expect, Dr. Saito’s strong defense of The Dreams of the Fetus earned him the ire of the other professors. He quickly became the target of their fierce criticism, yet he did not back down an inch. With vast and profound knowledge, he countered each objection, dismantling their arguments one by one. The meeting, which had started at three in the afternoon, continued well past sunset. Given that this was a matter concerning the utmost mission and honor of the newly-established medical faculty, the debate was charged with an intensity that must have been riveting to witness. With no other choice, they postponed the evaluation of all other theses until the following day, and, by lamplight, the professors continued their fierce debate. Finally, around nine in the evening, Dr. Saito had reduced his colleagues to complete silence. At that point, the department head, the esteemed Dr. Seizan—later celebrated as the university’s most distinguished president—issued a ruling, officially recognizing The Dreams of the Fetus as a valid academic thesis, thus concluding the day's extraordinary session.

"In the days that followed, all sixteen submitted theses were reviewed over a three-day period, and, as Dr. Saito had advocated, Dr. Masaki’s The Dreams of the Fetus was ultimately awarded first place among them.

"However, on the day of the graduation ceremony, which had stirred so much attention, a surprising discovery was made: Dr. Masaki, the recipient of the honor and the very person due to receive the Emperor’s silver watch, had vanished without a trace, leaving everyone in shock."

“Oh? He disappeared on the day of his graduation… what on earth happened?”

As I impulsively voiced my question, Dr. Wakabayashi fell silent, as if he were on the verge of revealing something of grave importance. His gaze locked onto mine, studying me intently before he resumed speaking, more cautiously than ever.

“No one, I believe, has yet managed to grasp the true reason why Dr. Masaki disappeared at the peak of his academic glory. And though I myself do not fully know the truth, I can’t help but suspect that there is some connection between his disappearance and the thesis The Dreams of the Fetus I mentioned just now. To put it another way, it’s conceivable that Dr. Masaki vanished because he was, in a sense, threatened by the protagonist of his own thesis.”

“The protagonist of The Dreams of the Fetus… threatened by a fetus? I don’t quite understand,” I replied, feeling bewildered.

“No, no,” Dr. Wakabayashi reassured me, raising his right hand as if to calm me. “It’s probably best that you don’t understand fully at this moment.”

He continued, the peculiar twitch under his left eye returning, and that eerie smile faintly pulling at his lips, while his tone remained as measured and grave as ever.

"...It is likely best that you don’t fully understand now. I mean no offense, but once you have completely regained your memories, you will realize for yourself just who the true protagonist of that horror film The Dreams of the Fetus is. With that in mind, I urge you to keep this in mind as you continue your recovery. Now then, when the graduation ceremony for our first class concluded without Dr. Masaki’s presence, a letter arrived the next day in Dr. Seizan’s office. In it, Dr. Masaki expressed the following sentiments:

‘I never imagined that there would be anyone in the modern scientific world capable of understanding my thesis, The Dreams of the Fetus. I was certain that no such person existed and submitted it fully expecting to fail. When I learned, however, that both yourself and Dr. Saito recommended my work, I was astonished. For it to be so easily comprehended suggests my research must still be superficial; otherwise, it would not have been so readily grasped. At this rate, I fear I cannot leave an enduring legacy for the honor of our university.

‘I cannot bear to face you or Dr. Saito, so I will remain out of sight. I ask you to keep the commemorative watch for now; I will surely repay this honor by pursuing a study so monumental that no one will be able to fathom it.’

"It’s said that when Dr. Seizan shared the letter with Dr. Saito, he laughed heartily and remarked, ‘He’s quite a scoundrel, that one.’

"Following this, Dr. Masaki spent eight years traveling through Europe, where he earned honorary degrees in Austria, Germany, and France. Upon his quiet return to Japan in 1915, he began a life of wandering, without a permanent residence. He traveled across the country, visiting psychiatric hospitals and collecting biographical records, legends, and genealogies related to the hereditary lines of the mentally ill. During this time, he also distributed a pamphlet titled The Hellish Sermons of the Madman’s Inferno to the general public."

"…The Hellish Sermons of the Madman’s Inferno… what exactly did it contain?” I asked, almost in disbelief.

“I’ll show you its contents in due time, but like The Dreams of the Fetus, it unveils some deeply disturbing truths, unlike anything previously revealed. To summarize briefly, this pamphlet exposed the grim realities of how the mentally ill are treated in modern society and the sham treatments in psychiatric hospitals, which are more terrifying than any prison. In essence, it was a sort of manifesto—a declaration, if you will—condemning the horrific ‘dark ages’ still endured by the mentally ill, laying bare the chilling underbelly of modern civilization. Dr. Masaki distributed this document not only to government offices and schools but took to the streets himself, chanting these verses to the beat of a wooden fish drum, passing pamphlets to anyone who would take them.”

“He… chanted it himself, beating a drum?” I murmured, struggling to comprehend.

“Yes, yes… it was certainly unorthodox, but to Dr. Masaki, this work was of the utmost seriousness. Moreover, his mentor, Dr. Saito, quietly supported him, willing to risk his own reputation and position for this cause. But sadly, the pamphlet went largely ignored by society. Its contents were deemed too raw, its truths too unsettling, and it was dismissed as lunacy. After all, if the public took its revelations to heart, every psychiatric institution would be condemned, and society might face a flood of untreated mentally ill individuals—a possibility no one wanted to imagine. Yet Dr. Masaki seemed unconcerned with such consequences; he viewed it merely as groundwork for his future endeavor—the Liberation Treatment for the Insane experiment he intended to conduct.”

“So… then, it really was…” I faltered, a cold realization hitting me as I shifted uneasily in my seat. Swallowing hard, I muttered, “So… it really was all preparation… for his experiment on me…”

“Exactly, exactly,” Dr. Wakabayashi confirmed without hesitation, nodding solemnly.

“As I mentioned before, Dr. Masaki’s intellect far surpassed our understanding. However, it’s undeniable that his extreme, sometimes theatrical actions held a purpose—preparations, if you will, for his eventual work in liberation therapy. Every detail of his elusive, enigmatic behavior appears connected to that goal. In other words, it seems that, in the later years of his life, Dr. Masaki’s every movement revolved around you.”

As he spoke, Dr. Wakabayashi’s cold, almost lifeless gaze settled intently on me, until I instinctively straightened, unease creeping over me. Only when he saw that I was speechless, barely able to move, did he shift his tone, taking out a handkerchief, clearing his throat, and continuing in a lighter voice.

“…Then came a remarkable event. On March 26th, 1924, around one in the afternoon, I received an unexpected knock at the door of my office in the university’s forensic medicine department. To my utter astonishment, it was Dr. Masaki. After eighteen years of silence, he had returned. I could scarcely believe it—he seemed almost a specter. Naturally, I expressed my relief at his safety, but I couldn’t help asking why he had reappeared so suddenly. With his usual candor, scratching his head, he explained:

‘Well, it’s rather embarrassing, actually. A few weeks ago at Moji Station, a pickpocket made off with my gold watch, worth a good thousand yen—a custom piece from Movado. Quite a loss! Then I suddenly remembered that silver watch I left with you all those years ago, and I thought I’d come to retrieve it. But then I thought I should bring a little something to surprise everyone, so I holed up in a small inn at Moji and dashed off a rather dry paper. I intended to show it to the new president, but Dr. Saito advised I bring it through you, since you’re the dean now. So, here I am—counting on you to handle it for me, if you wouldn’t mind.’

“Of course, we promptly returned his watch. The paper he submitted, however, was no ordinary work; it was the Treatise on the Brain, a study Dr. Saito predicted would shake the academic world to its core—on par with, if not surpassing, Darwin’s Origin of Species or Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.”

“...A Treatise on the Brain…”

"Indeed. The Treatise on the Brain was an essay of some thirty thousand words, a work entirely opposite in tone to The Dreams of the Fetus. It was solemn and meticulously structured, written in both German and Latin to prevent any misinterpretation. The fact that Dr. Masaki composed this work in only two or three weeks in a modest inn room, without access to any reference materials, speaks volumes about the extraordinary nature of his intellect and vigor.

"Through this treatise, Dr. Masaki clearly elucidated the enigmatic functions of the brain—functions that no one had previously been able to explain, much less prove or replicate experimentally. He also managed, in the simplest and most direct terms, to clarify many strange phenomena that had baffled the field of psychiatry for decades. Naturally, Dr. Saito, as the first to review this treatise due to his area of expertise, was astounded. For nearly a year, he poured over this work, day and night. Finally, in late February of last year, having concluded his study, he visited Dr. Matsubara, the current university president, early the next morning and pleaded, with tears in his eyes:

‘As of today, I wish to resign from my position as professor of psychiatry here at Kyushu University and recommend Dr. Masaki as my successor. If we let another institution claim him, it will be an irreparable disgrace to this university.’

"However, by that time, Dr. Masaki had once again disappeared without leaving word of his whereabouts. Touched deeply by Dr. Saito’s character and respect for Dr. Masaki’s genius, Dr. Matsubara managed to persuade Dr. Saito to remain in his post, and the university ultimately resolved to award Dr. Masaki an honorary degree for his treatise. This decision, though kept private, soon became a celebrated story in academic circles. Rumor has it that the news made it to the press, though I must admit, I never actually saw the article myself..."

As Dr. Wakabayashi concluded, he closed his eyes, seemingly overwhelmed by the memories. Filled with a deep admiration, I gazed up at Dr. Saito’s portrait. In that moment, he appeared almost godlike, a figure of noble strength, and I couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh as I murmured in awe.

"Precisely. Dr. Saito essentially sacrificed himself to make way for Dr. Masaki," I murmured, half in awe.

Hearing my comment, Dr. Wakabayashi seemed profoundly moved, his eyes still closed, and the furrow between his brows deepened. He let out a long, heavy sigh, thick with emotion, then slowly opened his eyes, meeting mine with an intense gaze and speaking with renewed emphasis.

"That’s exactly right. Dr. Saito passed away suddenly, just after Dr. Masaki received his degree. It happened last year… on October 19, 1925. And it was a mysterious death."

"A… mysterious death?" I stammered, my voice hollow with shock. The sudden shift in the story left me stunned. I glanced back and forth between Dr. Wakabayashi’s pale face and Dr. Saito’s serene smile in the portrait, struggling to comprehend why someone of such noble character would meet such an untimely, unnatural end.

Dr. Wakabayashi fixed me with a steady, penetrating gaze, as if to quash any doubts forming in my mind. His tone grew even firmer.

"…That’s right. Dr. Saito died a mysterious death. On October 18th of last year—just the day before he was found—he left here around five in the afternoon, finishing up work as usual. He entrusted a few tasks to the staff and departed, but he never returned to his home in Hakozaki, in Amiyachō. The next morning, his body was discovered floating near the shore behind the Hakozaki Aquarium, having apparently drowned. It was a cleaning woman from the aquarium who found him. The police and I arrived to investigate, and we quickly learned that he had consumed a significant amount of alcohol. We speculated that he must have encountered a close acquaintance on his way home, deviated from his usual route, and, in his drunken state, lost his way and fallen from one of the stone embankments.

“Now, if you visit that area, you’ll understand—it’s the kind of desolate, litter-strewn place you find on the outskirts, a wasteland of weeds and abandoned lots behind the university. It’s hardly a spot one would wander into without being quite drunk. We thoroughly investigated, ruling out robbery—there was nothing missing from his belongings. What’s more, Dr. Saito was known to drink only with a select group of trusted friends who were well-documented; he never drank alone outside of his modest evening sake at home. And on those rare occasions when he drank heavily, someone from the group would always see him safely home. This time, it seemed, was a complete exception.

"Naturally, we explored every possibility, but the area where he was found is part of a long seawall stretching from Chiyomachi, with no footprints or traces to show how he might have walked there, lost his balance, and fallen into the sea. Whether he was alone or accompanied remains a mystery; if it was foul play, we found no leads on a suspect.

"And considering Dr. Saito’s exemplary character, it’s almost inconceivable that he had any enemies. In the end, it was ruled an accident. His only flaw, if one could call it that, was that he rarely drank, and when he did, he’d lose all sense of himself. Truly, it was a tragedy to lose a man of such integrity."

“...And no one knows who shared that last drink with him?” I asked, unable to hide my dismay.

“Indeed... no one has come forward. But it would take a person with an exceptionally delicate conscience to admit it now,” Dr. Wakabayashi replied.

“But... wouldn’t staying silent haunt them for the rest of their life?”

“With today’s mindset,” he said, “many people no longer feel that kind of responsibility weighing on them. Even if they did come forward, Dr. Saito would not return from the grave, and they would only subject themselves to scorn and perhaps legal consequences, with little gain for anyone else. Or, perhaps, they’ve simply forgotten about it by now.”

“...But isn’t that cowardly?” I muttered, feeling a wave of indignation.

“Naturally,” he replied.

“And how could anyone forget... something like that?”

“Ah... well, that’s an interesting question,” he said thoughtfully, “and one that touches on the intriguing relationship between ‘memory and conscience’—a topic the late Dr. Masaki often explored in his research.”

“So then,” I said, sensing a finality in his words, “Dr. Saito’s death... it ends with nothing more than that?”

"Yes, that’s how it ended, in a manner all too abrupt. Yet, in the end, Dr. Saito’s death took on an immense significance. It became the direct cause that brought Dr. Masaki to assume responsibility here in the psychiatric department at Kyushu University, taking the very seat where I now sit. And indirectly, it created the connection between you and the young woman from Room Six, tying both of you to this classroom. Let us, for now, call it 'fate.' But whether this fate was born of human will or was decreed by the heavens, only the recovery of your own memories can reveal."

“Ah… so even that… is contained within my memory?” I stammered.

“Indeed. Within your past memories lies the key to resolving these very questions.”

I felt as though I were being buried under an avalanche of questions, each as cold and unyielding as a block of ice. I closed my eyes, shaking my head side to side, but nothing surfaced—no memory, no answers. In their place, images of the horrid painting of the “madman’s burning,” Dr. Saito’s gentle smile in his portrait, Dr. Wakabayashi’s pale, solemn face, the green-lit table, and the red daruma doll endlessly yawning atop it—all seemed woven into my past, holding some unknown significance. Yet, encircled by these symbols of fate, I was left with an acute sense of emptiness, a hollow sadness as I realized how little I could recall.

For a moment, I stared blankly, feeling at a loss. Then, as if grasping for clarity, I asked, “So, how did Dr. Masaki—after his disappearance—come to return to this university?”

“Ah, that is indeed a story,” Dr. Wakabayashi replied, slipping the watch he had been pulling from his pocket back inside. He cleared his throat weakly, then continued.

"Dr. Masaki arrived at Dr. Saito’s funeral out of nowhere, as if he’d blown in with the wind. Perhaps he saw the announcement in the newspaper. After the ceremony, Dr. Matsubara, the university president, seized the opportunity to appoint him as Dr. Saito’s successor on the spot. An unconventional move, certainly, but given the noble legacy of Dr. Saito and the endorsement by the president himself, no one questioned the decision. In fact, the faculty welcomed it with applause. The newspapers at the time covered every detail of this unusual arrangement.

"Dr. Masaki, however, seemed somewhat dismayed. Wearing a shabby formal robe and hakama, he stood surrounded by applauding professors, holding his head and lamenting, ‘What a predicament. I wanted to conduct my research on my own terms, but now I’m a university professor, which means I can’t beat my drum as I please, nor sing my street ballads. And I suppose my wandering spirit will be stifled here...’

"President Matsubara replied with a wry smile, ‘There’s no turning back now, Dr. Masaki. This is Dr. Saito’s spirit calling you to duty. So, beat your drum as much as you like, but do try to make peace with this calling.’

"Everyone, forgetting the solemn occasion, burst out laughing.

"Shortly thereafter, Dr. Masaki formally joined our university and began his 'Liberation Treatment for the Insane,' the very experiment he had once sung about in his Hellish Sermons. His work, as you might expect, caused quite a stir in society. And through this experiment, he established the bond that now links you, himself, and the young lady from Room Six in a recent, fateful relationship. Whether this connection is the work of destiny or mere chance, it is undeniable that it was Dr. Saito’s legacy that made it possible for Dr. Masaki to join the university and pursue his work here.

"Perhaps that is why Dr. Masaki chose to hang this portrait here, a tribute to the man who made it all possible."

Once again, I let out a deep sigh, unable to take my eyes off Dr. Saito’s portrait. I couldn’t help but ponder the strange web of fate that connected such extraordinary figures—Dr. Saito, a man of noble character; Dr. Masaki, a true genius; Dr. Wakabayashi, seated before me; the beautiful young woman from Room Six; and then myself, seemingly little more than an empty shell.

For a moment, a profound silence filled the room, a quiet charged with significance. But that silence was soon broken by an innocent question that escaped my lips.

“…Ah, October 19, 1926… The date on the calendar hanging beneath Dr. Saito’s photograph—it’s exactly one year to the day since he passed away, isn’t it?”

I turned to look at Dr. Wakabayashi, only to catch a sudden and terrifying change in his expression. For a split second, he stared at me with wide, pale blue eyes, his lips clamped shut and his jaw thrust forward. The intensity of his gaze was so shocking that I felt as if I were mirroring his expression, both of us locked in an eerie stare.

But soon, Dr. Wakabayashi’s face relaxed. A strange glow came over his forehead, and he nodded repeatedly, almost as if in admiration.

“Remarkable… that you noticed. Your past memories are awakening, sharper with each moment. You are now on the very edge of total recall.” He paused, then continued, his tone more cautious. “In fact, when you mentioned the calendar, I feared, if only for a moment, that your full memories would flood back instantly… I confess, I was uncertain how best to care for you if that were to happen.”

Dr. Wakabayashi took a deep breath, then nodded solemnly. “To tell you the truth, that calendar shows the date from a month ago. Today is November 20, 1926.”

“Then… why has it been left that way?” I asked.

At this, Dr. Wakabayashi nodded again, with a reverence almost akin to prayer. Straightening his slumped posture, he clasped his hands firmly, as if seeking strength for what he was about to reveal.

“That very question of yours,” Dr. Wakabayashi replied, “is yet another key to unlocking the great mystery of your past. When Dr. Masaki tore the calendar to that date, he abruptly stopped… leaving it as it is.”

“But… why?”

“Because Dr. Masaki died the very next day,” he said quietly. “Exactly one year after Dr. Saito’s drowning, Dr. Masaki took his own life—at the same spot behind the Hakozaki Aquarium, where Dr. Saito’s body was found.”

A bolt from the blue—that was the only way to describe the shock that struck me. I let out an involuntary gasp, feeling a strange and unnameable dread seize me. When I finally regained some composure, I found myself muttering, as if in disbelief, “Dr. Masaki… suicide…”

Hearing my own words, I couldn’t help but doubt my ears. How could someone as brilliant, as accomplished as Dr. Masaki—nearly superhuman in his intellect—have chosen to end his own life?

And not only that: two consecutive heads of this very psychiatric department, each a year apart, each meeting the same mysterious death, at the same spot along the shore. Such a chilling coincidence, if it could even be called that—was it truly possible? Overwhelmed by the fear and bewilderment of it all, I stared at Dr. Wakabayashi’s pale face, searching for an answer.

In return, Dr. Wakabayashi, sitting straighter than I’d ever seen, fixed me with a piercing gaze. His voice took on a reverent, almost prayerful tone as he spoke.

“…I’ll say it again—Dr. Masaki took his own life. After twenty long years of tireless preparation, pouring everything he had into the unprecedented experiment of liberation therapy, he finally came to a point where he felt he had no choice but to end his life. To explain more concretely, Dr. Masaki’s groundbreaking experiment was set to conclude only once you and the young lady from Room Six had each regained your memories, left this hospital, and entered into a happy life together. That outcome was supposed to signify the experiment’s successful completion.

"However, due to an unforeseen and tragic event, his work hit an insurmountable wall. And while no one could say for certain whether this tragic event was caused by Dr. Masaki’s own error, the fact that it occurred exactly on the one-year anniversary of Dr. Saito’s death must have struck him as a fateful sign—a kind of ‘impermanence’ that weighed heavily upon him. Thus, he chose to shoulder all responsibility alone, leaving this world, entrusting the remaining documents, tasks, and, indeed, both you and the young lady from Room Six to my care.”

“...Then… does that mean…” I stammered, feeling a strange chill settle over me. My entire body seemed to pale, gripped by an indescribable agitation, as I forced the words from my lips.

“Does that mean… I somehow cursed Dr. Masaki’s life?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Dr. Wakabayashi’s voice was steady and unwavering, as he shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed firmly on mine. “It was, in fact, the very opposite.”

"It is the opposite," Dr. Wakabayashi continued firmly. "Dr. Masaki undertook this research fully prepared to be cursed by you, resigned to the possibility that his own fate would be entangled in a dark outcome. In fact, he set this plan in motion twenty years ago with complete awareness of where it might lead, meticulously structuring each step. He devised an unbreakable strategy, one that would align his unparalleled discoveries in mental science with your destiny."

A chill ran through me. This revelation filled me with a deeper fear, a dread that seemed to seize my very breath. Pressing my hand to my chest to steady myself, I forced out my question.

"...What... steps did he take?"

"If you examine these documents, you will understand," Dr. Wakabayashi replied, closing the bundle of papers he’d been reading and gently pushing it toward me.

I took the collection with a sense of foreboding, aware that it held something critical. Reverently, I opened the cover and flipped through the pages. The documents consisted of an assortment of items—a pamphlet bound in a red cover, Western-style ledger sheets, newspaper clippings carefully pasted on velvet-textured paper, all sandwiched between thick, canvas-covered boards. The cover bore no title, but the weight of the binder alone told me it contained something substantial.

Feeling the heaviness of it, I closed the cover and set it back down on the table, unable to shake the tension that had seized the room. Dr. Wakabayashi’s pale blue eyes met mine, locking onto my gaze with an intensity that spoke of secrets far beyond what had been revealed.

"...These documents could indeed be called Dr. Masaki’s final writings," Dr. Wakabayashi continued. "They contain the core of his life's work in mental science, encompassing his pioneering studies in mental anatomy, physiology, pathology, and psychological heredity. Tragically, Dr. Masaki destroyed most of his notes, including the entire manuscript of The Treatise on the Brain, just before his death. Only these few items remain, carefully arranged in sequence as he intended, though not in the order they were written. By following this sequence, however, you’ll come to understand the path of his research as he progressed over the years.

"The first item is a pamphlet with a red cover. It’s The Hellish Sermons of the Madman’s Inferno, a piece Dr. Masaki distributed during his travels throughout Japan, where he performed on the streets to raise awareness about the abuses suffered by the mentally ill. This piece is crucial, as it reveals the fundamental motivation behind his dedication to the field.

"Next, you’ll find newspaper clippings preserved by Dr. Masaki himself, including one titled, The World as an Asylum, where he humorously but bitingly lays out his initial stance: that every human being, in one way or another, shows symptoms of mental imbalance. In his view, this was a foundational truth of psychiatry, expressed with wit and clarity to a reporter.

"Following that is another article titled The Brain is Not a Thinking Organ. In this interview, he expounded on the content of The Treatise on the Brain, explaining how the brain’s true functions go far beyond previous scientific understanding, shedding light on paranormal phenomena and psychiatric disorders.

"Then there is a handwritten document in Japanese, which is the original text of The Dreams of the Fetus. This work examines how ancestral memories and psychological traits are passed down through generations, ultimately influencing the mind of the unborn child. It was this thesis that caused a sensation during the first thesis review at the university.

"Finally, you’ll see some hastily scribbled notes on large Western ledger paper, which Dr. Masaki left as a final report on his liberation therapy experiment. This document serves as a kind of testament, summarizing his work’s ultimate findings and his hopes for the future.

"As you read through these documents in this order, you will see the great achievements Dr. Masaki made in mental science—a journey of bold discoveries. At the same time, you will gain insight into the hidden forces shaping your own fate, a dazzling kaleidoscope of knowledge that may bring the mysteries of your past into brilliant clarity before your eyes..."

But I could hardly hear the rest of Dr. Wakabayashi's words. My attention had drifted to the red-covered pamphlet at the top of the pile. Without realizing it, I had opened to the first page and become absorbed in the strange, mesmerizing words that lay before me, compelled to read on with an intensity that seemed to pull me deeper into the text.

Hellish Sermons of the Madman’s Inferno

—Also known as The Dark Ages of the Insane—

Written by Dr. Menkurou Manji,

PhD in Natural Sciences, Austria

PhD in Philosophy, Germany

PhD in Literature, France

▼Ahhh—ahh—ohh, esteemed ladies and gentlemen! Good patrons and their fair ladies, gentlemen and gentlewomen, elders and young ones alike! All who gather here! Yes, it’s been ages since my last word—strange, you might think! But indeed, it’s been silence since the dawn of the world! For here I am, the Mad Monk, standing by the roadside for the very first time... Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko chaka-poko...

▼Step right up! Come closer, gather around! No need for coins; this tale’s on me! Step in, listen closely—it’s but a story to share, and it’ll cost you nothing! Come close, but don’t push. Chaka-poko chaka-poko... Yes, yes, come closer! Be astonished by what you’ll see… Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ahh—aahh... behold, the Mad Monk appears! A figure no taller than five foot one, looking to be around thirty-five or thirty-six years of age. His head shaved clean, eyes sunken, and a mouthful of false teeth. Ribs thin as washboards, and a coat like a scarecrow's rags. His sandals? Stiff as rock, caked in mud. He’s a beggar-monk, a curious creature, one who’s wandered through distant lands, weathered by wind and sun. Today, he spreads his tattered bag out here, to beat his wooden drum, proclaiming tales of karma and fate... Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko chaka-poko...

▼Ahhh… tales of karma, tales that speak through this wooden drum! No family to speak of, no relatives, no wife or mistress. Just me, the wandering fool! No name, no past, just a single tattered bag to my name, tossed about by the carefree winds, drifting from land to land. I’ve wandered through Beijing, Harbin, Petersburg. Red Moscow, square Berlin, the drunken songs of Munich, the dances of Paris, the sleepy streets of London. And across the sea to the ‘Land of Freedom’—America. Where New York boasts its women’s markets, San Francisco its dice and cards, Chicago its drunken streets… For ten years, I’ve wandered, indulging in it all, and the only keepsake I bring back is a tale of a most terrifying hell... Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ahh—aahh… a dreadful tale of hell. A tale of things I saw with my very own sunken eyes. A tale, free of charge, no cost at all! And not only that; I offer this tale in writing, a printed verse of the song I sing now, a gift for any who doubt the sincerity of my words. This is no trick, no scheme to sell you trinkets. This is a passion project, a mission to spread the story of humanity. So, come one, come all—see, hear, witness this... The Chant of the Damned, the Hell of the Insane! Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

I

▼Ah—Ahh. The Chant of Hell for the Insane. And where might this hell lie, you ask? It’s here, in this very world, our wretched mundane realm. Here, where the karma we create awaits us like a blazing cart, turning round and round, ready to engulf us. Down, down it goes, descending past the realms of the ashura, beasts, and hungry ghosts, until it crashes into the very pit of hell. The mountain of needles, the blood pools of Hell, the great frozen hell, the scorching inferno, the sword trees, the crushing rocks, fire pits, boiling waters, the hanging pits—there are eighty thousand tortures in Hell. And there, bound by the karma made in this world, the soul is cut, crushed, roasted, boiled. Agonizing wails, twisting in pain without the release of death. And if you hear those screams, there’s no turning back. They say it’ll split your skull! So spake the monk from his lofty pulpit… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. A sermon from high above—but can it really be trusted? These tales of hell are just talk, only reachable in death. A living monk’s tool for squeezing alms. Lies the Buddha himself wouldn’t recognize! The hell I saw is far different from any of that. No gongs, no chants, no need for the train fare across worlds. This hell is close at hand, right here, a hell you live through while still breathing... chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. A living hell, one you walk through every day. The hell of relentless poverty, the hell of floating debts, of ties bound by duty and grudges. Or perhaps it’s the hell of crime come to roost, a hell where officers seize you, shouting “March, prisoner!” and you’re thrust into a sentence of time served or no release at all. It’s a far cry from those orderly karmic punishments! This is a hell where logic means nothing, where you can barely breathe, where sunlight is a distant memory. Here, Emma, the lord of hell, is a doctor of medicine, and the demons of hell are not ox-heads or horse-faces but learned men. They have no ledger of your sins, no mystic mirrors to reflect your deeds. Sinful or innocent, sane or mad, it doesn’t matter—they drive everyone in, in droves, without reason, like cattle. Just hearing of it is enough to make one’s skin crawl. Hell is right here. It looks, from the outside, like a psychiatric hospital. Don’t believe me? Step inside, and see what unspeakable torments await you. Truly, a terrifying Hell of the Insane... chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. What a terrifying Hell of the Insane it is! A dreadful, wretched asylum. And yet, dear listeners, perhaps you’re still not quite convinced. Patience, and listen a bit longer. As the story unfolds, you’ll come to realize that these truths, hidden until now, have always been right before your eyes. And when understanding dawns, the eighty-four thousand pores on your skin will prickle with horror. This hell is far closer than you think… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, indeed, the beginning of this hell… where might it all have started? The answer is written in the very first letter of karma: ‘I’. It began with the march of progress and enlightenment. Civilization’s advance, they called it! And civilization, they say, was born of science. Most revered among its gifts was the work of doctors—the art of curing the body… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. The doctor’s job, to cure the sick. Among their duties, we have surgery and internal medicine for ailments of the body, and then the care of the mind, the work done in psychiatric hospitals. But just compare the treatment of the body with that of the mind, and you’ll be in for a shock. The progress between them couldn’t be more stark… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. Indeed, the difference is staggering. It’s no wonder—after all, the body is visible. The limbs, the torso, you can touch and examine them. The internal organs—open them up, and there they are. There are diagnostic tools for every need—percussion, auscultation, X-rays, blood tests. Even if a misdiagnosis occurs, an autopsy afterward will show the exact cause. And so, medicine progresses by leaps and bounds. But the mind? Not even the gods can lay eyes on it… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. Not even the gods can see the mind. No matter how skilled the doctor, how can one examine the nerves of the soul, the disorders of the mind? Which pulse should they take, where to look for worry, where to ease anxieties? There’s no lens to see into the heart, no thermometer to measure lovesick fevers. Real or feigned madness, not even X-rays can reveal it. This mind of ours, stranger even than a fart, invisible, soundless, formless—how can they treat it? It was said long ago: “There’s no cure for fools,” and to this day, it holds true. And so, at the end of it all, mental illness remains beyond diagnosis, beyond treatment. Beyond science itself, an enigma. This is how it truly is… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. And once you understand this, you’ll see it plainly. Here lies the core of the matter: if the mind can’t be examined or cured, then why do we have psychiatric hospitals all over the world? These hospitals, or ‘brain clinics,’ flaunt grand signs, entrances built with great care, charging high fees for examination, treatment, and confinement. So what is it, exactly, that the doctors of the mind are doing? Are they swindlers, mere illusionists? You might think so, but hold on—the truth is stranger than fiction. Because mental illness, you see, is beyond diagnosis and treatment, and it’s exactly this impossibility that brings in staggering profits for the doctors! This is the real chant of madness, the Ahodara Sutra... ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

II

▼Ah—Ah—ahh! And so, long, long ago, in ancient times… Back then, when scientific knowledge hadn’t progressed, diseases of the body were as mysterious as diseases of the mind. Diagnosis and treatment were pure guesswork. They’d consult the stars, check the direction of the wind, perform divinations, sprinkle holy water, hand out amulets, and say prayers. And somehow, they got by. But these superstitions couldn’t cure much of anything. Eventually, people discovered medicine, and, lo and behold, it worked! After endless study, they finally understood that illness stemmed from malfunctions within the body. Thus began the science of medicine. Today, we have anatomy, physiology, pathology, chemistry, and bacteriology, with specialists for surgery, internal medicine, dermatology, and even pediatrics. Thanks to an array of treatments and sophisticated devices, science shines brightly, illuminating every corner of bodily illness… ska-raka, chaka-poko chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, the light of science shines brighter each day. But when it comes to mental illness, what progress have we made? Looking back, in ancient times, people thought madness was the work of the gods, something to be revered or feared, something caused by vengeful spirits or curses. They would offer rituals and prayers, treating the afflicted with care. But others believed madness was a sign of demonic possession, and then the monks and shamans—who were both doctors and judges back then—would unleash a brutal ‘treatment’. At their command, officers armed with spears, swords, ropes, and clubs would crush the heads and break the bodies of the so-called mad, burning them or burying their remains under trees. This was the first “treatment” for mental illness, a hellish origin to the treatment of the insane… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. And so began the Hell of the Insane. Because the true cause of madness remained unknown, many took advantage of superstition for personal gain. Crafty villains—full of malice, jealousy, or political spite—used their cunning to get back at rivals, be they opponents in business, politics, or matters of the heart. They’d falsely accuse someone of insanity, bribe a priest or official, and have the person arrested as a lunatic. There was no defense against such accusations, and often it ended in a death sentence. At the very least, they would be thrown into prison… chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, imprisonment was the minimum fate. If you look at world history, you’ll find that people used accusations of madness to dispose of rivals and secure power, rank, wealth, and inheritance. Whether it was about succession, property, or family disputes, time and again, people used these methods to eliminate obstacles. So, if you ask about today, has anything changed? I’d like to say yes, but the truth is that it’s not only the same—it may even be worse... ska-raka, chaka-poko, ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

III

▼Ah—Ahh... Yes, indeed, we’re in the modern age of civilization and enlightenment. This is the era of science, where knowledge reigns supreme. Yet only psychiatry remains trapped in the dark ages, its diagnosis and treatment in complete disarray. Should anyone dare say so out loud, they’d surely be laughed at and called mad themselves. "You’re the crazy one!" some might say, dismissing it as foolishness. But I quite like those folks—they cling firmly to reason, to common sense, to the sanctity of science. Such people, I ask you, take a little time—wander into a psychiatric hospital, a school, or a library. Open the books written by scholars, doctors from every corner of the globe, who’ve dedicated themselves to studying this "madness" we call insanity. Skim through their contents, and you’ll find them packed with names for every kind of affliction, rounded letters and square kanji crowding the pages, hundreds upon hundreds. And yet, unlike the ailments of the body, there’s no true scientific light being shed on these names. No foolproof diagnosis, no evidence-based treatments... only the uninformed are fooled by the fanfare... chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, only the laypeople are in awe. Forgive my rudeness, but think about it: the world’s greatest scientists have examined the human body from head to toe, from heaven to earth, uncovering all the mysteries of the physical realm. Yet, when it comes to the mind, to the brain itself—the very thing curling up in the skull—no one has any clue what’s really going on. If you doubt me, try reading any book written by scholars who study the brain. They’ll say it’s a place for thought and judgment, a storage center for knowledge and memories, yet even today, no one truly knows how it all works. It’s like a Naniwa storytelling performance—just elaborate setups and wild speculation, with no concrete facts in sight... chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Not a single concrete fact. No wonder, for how could anyone truly know? Imagine this: if there were someone here who had peered into the mysteries of the brain, if anyone truly understood the odd and complex functions of the mind, it would be me, right here. But of course, you’d laugh, saying it’s only because my brain has been baked under the sun too long. And maybe you’d be right! Yet that’s my passion, my calling—to astonish scholars around the world with my research, to bring about a shift in human thought itself. Soon, my findings will be published by some university, and then you’ll see it for yourself. All these other scholars don’t know the first thing about studying the mind—they fumble in the dark, cobbling together theories based on pure guesswork. They can explain one thing, yet leave ten others unanswered, like trying to fit a huge sliding door into a small room… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Like trying to fit a giant door into a tiny room! And then there’s the mind itself, spinning round like a lantern of changing colors, morphing with the flickers of emotion, anger, joy, sorrow. No one has truly seen the mind’s shape, let alone understood how it loses its way. How would one even begin to define it? And look at the names they’ve invented for these ailments, arbitrary as they are. These so-called doctors look at the patient’s symptoms, slap a label on it—an obsession here, a mania there, just like naming different types of drunks. This one’s a rage-fueled drunk, that one a sobbing drunk, the next a laughing drunk. No science here, just names that any fool could come up with. And yet they call it "diagnosis." Strange, isn’t it… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, how strange that they call it diagnosis. And then, these doctors, these scholars who take on the care of the insane—how do they actually determine madness? By what measure do they judge sanity from insanity? It’s a mystery to us layfolk, but to them, it’s just business… chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, for them, it’s all business. Anyone declared mad, dragged to the psychiatrist’s door, is already considered beyond hope. Family members, friends, doctors—they’ve all filed the paperwork. There’s no question that the patient is insane. No need to ask for proof, they’ve been legally sanctioned and delivered. The doctors just observe the patient’s behavior, skim through some reference books, and attach the appropriate label. Diagnosis complete. Then they’re thrown into the red-brick building, the gates of hell. Even if there’s an error in diagnosis, it’ll never be discovered. Once you’re labeled "mad," you’re never getting out. Cry "I’m innocent!" all you want—it’s just more proof that you belong there. A tragic fate, then as now. They say "pyromania" and dissect the love-struck O-Sato from the kabuki. They say "kleptomania" and label the great thief Ishikawa Goemon as a delusional maniac. They have no fear of being wrong—after all, these are diseases they don’t even understand. The doctors of madness live quite comfortably, indeed... ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. How carefree these doctors of madness must be. As for the methods of treatment—any concern is mere foolishness from the uninformed. The reality is as dark as blind men groping in the dark. They no longer crush skulls, true, and we can thank civilization for that. But if you want proof that nothing is truly understood, just peek inside any psychiatric hospital. You’ll find iron bars, locked doors, and racks of iron tools. Chains, straitjackets, beds with restraints, and windowless stone cells all lined up. Instruments that could make the worst of criminals tremble… chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, torture devices that make the body shake with fear. And yet, despite all this, you’ll find not a single true remedy for the mind’s afflictions. Sedatives for those who can’t sleep, tranquilizers for the restless, nutrient injections for those who refuse to eat—that’s all. At least in internal medicine or surgery, there’s some form of real treatment. Here, if a patient recovers, it’s credited to the doctors; if they die, it’s dismissed as fate. Laugh it off, shrug it off—it’s all the same. Truly, a terrifying Hell of the Insane… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—Ahh. Yes, a terrifying Hell of the Insane indeed. But this is just the beginning—a small taste, merely the River of the Dead. Just hearing about it is enough to send chills down your spine. If there are eighty thousand hells, then what awaits is even worse. Madness, utter madness, unleashed without restraint! Horrors beyond horrors await in this endless cycle of suffering for the mad... Yes, the journey through Hell’s Insane Asylum has only just begun… ska-raka, chaka-poko, ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

IV

▼Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko… Ah—ahh, now don’t be too shocked, everyone. This isn’t a tale of Japan. No, it’s from distant lands, from China, from India. Across the world, in fine-looking hospitals erected by psychiatrists with hearts of stone, these wards are packed to the brim with poor lost souls. Even if you multiplied the number of beds a thousand times over, it still wouldn’t be enough for all the mad who crop up here and there. Once admitted, few ever come out, whether their stay be long or lifelong, so the hospitals stay filled to capacity. And there the doctors reign, wielding their power over patients as they please. For those who dare to cause trouble or miss a payment, well, the exit’s not far. Sometimes they get to leave upright, back to their homes. Other times, the exit is a coffin. Meanwhile, new patients crowd the entrance, awaiting their turn... chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, a packed entrance. But you may wonder—why would anyone pay money to admit someone to such a place? Only someone who hasn’t had the misfortune of a mad relative would ask that. So listen closely. There are more surprising truths yet… chaka-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko… I don’t know, but the wooden drum does.

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, I don’t know, but the drum knows. There are darker secrets, ones that every psychiatrist, every hospital worker knows by heart. A quiet, unspoken truth. Now, you might doubt my words, but rest assured the drum speaks the truth. For among those who bring loved ones to the hospital—be it parent, sibling, spouse—few truly have the heart to care for their kin. Of all these so-called “loved ones,” only the mother, the true mother of a suffering child, tends to act out of pure compassion. The others, whether family by blood or by marriage, are remarkably cold-hearted. Young wives, for example, might sigh by the bedside for a day or two. But soon enough, back they go to their families. And those are the good ones! Most, after handing the patient to the doctors, vanish, not to be seen again... chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, rarely do they return. After all, once the diagnosis is confirmed, there’s little hope for recovery. Bringing them here was only for appearances. In reality, they’ve come to abandon them. "Please, take care of them," they’ll say, but you can see their true wish—to have their burden lifted. For if their loved one recovers, it could be an even greater inconvenience. This is the line between life and death for the patient, and the doctor’s greatest chance for profit. Oh, don’t glare at me so—this isn’t just talk. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Not here in Japan, but in the West, in far-off places. This tale is silent and unspoken, yet the drum knows… ska-raka, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—ahh. A tale from distant lands, China, India. It doesn’t matter if they’re men or women. Once a person has been declared mad, they’re no longer considered human. They could lash out, assault someone, set fires, or expose their shame to the world. They’re treated as beasts. No punishment, no stone thrown their way is considered a crime. Even if they appear cured, madness could return at any moment. And so people still talk of it, with fingers pointing, labeling them cursed by bloodline or cursed by fate. Imagine then, how the family must feel when madness suddenly strikes one of their own… chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, it’s a disaster, especially for the wealthy. The truly privileged might build a locked room at home to hide the afflicted. "Why send them to a hospital?" some might say, "when they can be locked up here in privacy?" But those who understand the harshness of society know better. Once madness is revealed, it taints the family bloodline, putting marriages and futures at risk. Neighbors and society would sneer, whispering "cursed by wealth" or "a punishment for ill-gotten gains." People would point, insult them behind their backs. It tarnishes the family’s standing. So, they use all means—connections, bribes—to get the patient discreetly admitted to the hospital. If the place is full, they’ll pay even more to secure a spot. This world is ruled by money. Even in the Hell of the Insane, money talks… chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, even with money, this is how it is. For those with status, honor, and position, treatment at home is unthinkable. The family can only rest easy if the patient is confined, unseen by the world. And for the middle class, the situation is even worse. Tied to their fixed salaries, barely scraping by, should one of their own fall into madness, they could be forced out of their rented home. They can’t afford a private cell, nor can they bear the cost of care. If the patient becomes too difficult, what little savings they have vanishes in an instant. And then the family is left in an unbearable situation, facing judgment from neighbors. They turn to the red-brick asylum as their last resort, only to find it full to the brim... chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—ahh. Every hospital is full. For the poor, those barely scraping by on meager wages, it’s unimaginable. No one can afford the cost of care. There’s no hope for treatment, no medicine, no doctor. They’re left with only despair, wishing the afflicted one would pass peacefully. But no—Mad Lord Madness sits there, healthy as ever, with a boundless appetite, refusing to die… chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

▼Ah—ahh. A face with no hope of cure. They appear like wheat blight, like tainted seeds. Unpredictable and inexplicable, emerging here and there with no rhyme or reason, these countless madmen flood the world. Only the universities, with their vast resources, will take them in—for study, for research. Each patient, a convenient specimen for learning. Those not useful are quickly shown the door. And as for private hospitals, it’s all business. They’re packed with wealthy patients, filling every bed… chaka-raka, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, crowded with the wealthy. And so, these countless mad souls, unwanted and unseen, where do they end up? Listen closely now, for this is a tale told by a silent wooden drum. And it’s the beginning of a descent—a descent into a deeper, darker circle of hell. Gather round, all! This tale will cost you nothing. But once heard, it’s sure to shock… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

V

▼Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko… Ah—ah—ahh. So, dear listeners, this is the sad truth. When one goes mad, the family left behind suffers greatly, as if their lives are tied to endless torments. Keeping the mad one at home becomes impossible. But what can they do? No solution is in sight. Soon, they are forced to sell all they have; work becomes impossible, and starvation looms. Oh, the sadness, the misery… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Such sorrow, such anguish—parents who’ve grown old, children whose futures lie ahead, all ruined for the sake of a single mad soul. Would it not be better to end it all? To bind together and die in peace rather than live out this misery? And yet, there the patient sits, staring blankly, their eyes lost in some distant world… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Just those empty, wandering eyes. The body remains, but the spirit is gone, like a hollow shell. Human in form but more troublesome than any beast. They do nothing, but there they sit, day after day, and in despair, the family begins to contemplate terrible sins… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. And thus, forced to desperation, they carry out a grim decision. They feign moving to a faraway place, perhaps pretend to admit the patient to a hospital in a distant town, only to abandon them in the wilderness, never to return. But this is no abandoned child, left in hope that some kind stranger might care for them. No, the patient is chased away from village to village, beaten, starved, and left to perish in the cold, their body destined to feed the roots of trees. And from afar, hidden behind the shade of trees, the family watches and prays, hands clasped together… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, they pray from a distance, as if forgiveness might be found. And yet, it’s an ancient story, as old as Japan’s tales of Semimaru, abandoned by his royal father, left to fend for himself on the road to Ōsaka. From ancient times, such cruel separations have been the only recourse. These decisions, driven by status or necessity, transcend wealth, rank, or reason… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. This is why, for some poor souls abandoned in the wilderness, even those with a shred of sanity left will sometimes find ways to survive. Perhaps they scavenge for scraps or beg, becoming stray beggars, wandering in shame and disgrace. And when enough gather, you’ll find them in the gutters or under bridges, living a life of misery. And among them, you’ll find the forgotten victims of a society that looks the other way. A mere few among countless thousands… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. A few among thousands. Think of it—if it were any other illness, wouldn’t the sick be cared for, brought medicine and nursing, given warm beds and good food? Even animals, birds, and fish are sometimes treated with such care. But the mentally ill? Because no one understands the nature of their illness, they are condemned to the torment of the red-brick walls or the wilderness… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. A hell with no escape. But listen, all of you. The tales I’ve shared of the hospital hell and the wilderness hell are true, gold-embossed, honest truths. This is the common madness, the ordinary hell of the insane. But there’s another, darker story yet to come. It’s the tale of people, perfectly sane men and women, who, while of sound mind, find themselves helplessly dragged into this hell. Yes, hauled in without cause, stripped of voice, robbed of freedom, unable to protest as they’re forced into madness. And where? In those fine, towering buildings in the West, grand psychiatric wards in disguise… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Such fine structures, with polished gold nameplates and glossy advertisements in the papers, all proclaiming “Hospital,” “Sanitarium,” “Healing.” No mention of “hell” written anywhere, of course, yet lawmen and detectives know all too well what goes on within. And once a foot is set inside, it’s over. No matter how they cry, scream, or struggle, no escape from that dark, oppressive world. Unseen, unnoticed, they vanish within these supposed beacons of knowledge and healing. Society marches forward, unaware, proud of its scientific enlightenment, its laws, its civility, while these institutions swallow them whole. And who knows, tomorrow it could be you at the bottom of this hell of madness… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko, chaka-poko...

VI

▼Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko… Ah—ah, yes. I doubt such horrors exist here in Japan. But in the so-called civilized nations, where they’ve perfected their killing tools—pistols, poisons, silken cords—there’s a new, sophisticated way to get rid of someone. I saw it myself in the city of Tamageta in a country they call “The Real Country.” This method leaves no blood, no fingerprints, and no trace. Not even the sharpest prosecutor or detective would suspect a thing. All it takes is some money, and the rewards are immense. In this world, money is both friend and foe… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, in this world, money is your enemy. Imagine a case of inheritance, or perhaps a political secret, or a lucrative opportunity. If there’s someone in the way, a single-minded will and some cash can work wonders. The target strolls alone, maybe to visit a lover, or to a gambling den, or some secluded haunt. Their path is mapped out in advance. The plotters hire a greedy psychiatrist and a few police officers. “He’s a friend of mine,” they say, “but he’s been showing signs of mental instability, wandering the streets aimlessly. We’ve tried to help him, but he becomes violent when confronted. It’s an emergency, and he’s often seen here. Please, would you help us apprehend him?” And so, with some money exchanged, the plan proceeds. The trap is sprung, and the target falls. Once they’re in, they never see daylight again, locked in the hell of the insane… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Yes, an inescapable hell. Now, let’s say the target is a young heir or heiress. There’s an even subtler method at hand. If they’re of a sensitive nature, influenced by modern ideals, it’s almost too easy. A little pressure here, a hint of sarcasm there, and soon enough they’ll be showing signs of nervous breakdown. Pale faces, bright eyes, erratic behavior. Once they’re in the hands of the right doctor, they’re condemned to “rest” indefinitely, never to blossom, lost forever in the bottomless pit of madness… chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. Down they go, into the eternal pit. And it’s the famous Dr. Mattaku, the best-known psychiatrist in the Real Country, who’s made a fortune specializing in such cases. Originally a regular doctor, he found that this line of work paid handsomely, and he soon dedicated himself to it exclusively. In Tamageta City, he established a grand hospital outfitted with every modern device imaginable. But those machines? They’re torture tools, methods of murder disguised as science. The sight alone could chill a man to the bone, even in the hottest summer. Outside, however, the entrance gleams, lined with rows of expensive cars. Dr. Mattaku holds the secrets of the rich and powerful in his hands, collecting money through blackmail. If his threats fail, he can always declare his “patients” cured or release them with a report of “misdiagnosis.” His clients face ruin, while his power only grows. All he needs is a single injection or a potion to eliminate any troublesome patient. In a post-mortem, no one could tell if it was murder or not. This is the sleight of hand of the psychiatrist… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. The secret of the mad doctor’s trade. In the Real Country, the true home of the insane asylum, Dr. Mattaku carries on his dangerous business, unchecked by fellow doctors, police, or even the government. Not one finger is raised against him… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

▼Ah—ahh. And the secret grows deeper still. With government funds flowing quietly into Dr. Mattaku’s pocket, his shoulders grow heavy with medals and honors. These aren’t tokens given to ordinary officials or military heroes, but the highest awards from Germany, France, England, and Russia—though not, it seems, from Japan. One can only wonder what great service he rendered these powers to receive such honors. It’s enough to leave anyone speechless… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko…

VII

▼Ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko chaka-poko… Ahhh, ladies and gentlemen, you must be growing bored by now. But to leave off here would be like crafting a statue without a soul. The tales I've lined up for you—a parade of the strange and unbelievable—are about to crack wide open, revealing the truth of this scientific hell at the deepest depths! Now then, let me give you all an unprecedented glimpse into this grim underworld. Let’s dive deep into the mystifying tales of the wooden fish drum… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko chaka-poko...

▼Ahh—aahh… here’s a tale you’ll never hear again: the Hell of the Insane, chanted through the mute wooden drum of madness. So here we are, ska-raka, chaka-poko. Look at the Free Nation—the world’s proclaimed superpower, the pride of the people! Freedom and justice are their hallmarks, they say, a beacon of democracy and civil rights! But unlike Japan, any citizen can become head of state, as long as they have wealth and influence. Words like "loyalty" are nowhere to be found. Money speaks, from top to bottom. Justice and the law? Up for purchase. Even virtue and chastity are bought and sold. Freedom and rights for all? They’ll bend any rule to keep a firm grip on power. And who holds this power? Why, none other than the millionaire elite who run the show, treating the nation’s interests as their own. Though governments change, these magnates stand unshaken, with politicians, ministers, police officers, even soldiers at their beck and call. It’s no wonder public opinion starts to turn against them… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko chaka-poko...

▼Ahh—aahh… down with the elite! But now the millionaires become desperate. They toss copies of their opposition newspapers across the desks of government officials, cigar in hand, demanding action. This puts the government in a bind, for they must keep the wealthy on their side if they want to secure funds for the next election. Yet what can they do? They can’t very well silence the learned scholars and pastors who oppose the elite; nor can they toss them in jail without public outrage. So, they arrive at a sinister solution—this “Hell of the Insane.” They target only the leaders among the intellectuals and pastors. By dark of night, with the help of police agents, they stalk their prey. When one is alone, they ambush him, drag him to the ground, cuffing him with oversized shackles and pressing a chloroform-soaked cloth over his face. Soon enough, he finds himself bundled into Dr. Mattaku’s hospital van… The rest, well, I needn’t say more… chaka-poko chaka-poko...

▼Ahh—aahh… need I say more? This sinister scheme has spread far and wide, across nations and creeds. It has become the ultimate weapon against anyone whose influence threatens the powerful—be they politicians, scholars, inventors, heirs to vast fortunes, or celebrated actors. If their ambitions or morals get in the way of someone’s secret plans, they’re doomed by fate. There are no trials, no sentences—no prison or electric chair. No, the price of elimination can be paid with ease… Truly, this is the essence of hell… chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahh—aahh… yes, truly, this is hell. Among those damned to this abyss, there are, of course, true madmen and fools. But mixed in with them are great men, geniuses, heroes! They’re taken in hand by the demon-wardens of the asylum—grim-faced doctors in white coats, who lead these captives away while piles of money and medals grow behind them. And overseeing it all, Dr. Mattaku watches with a twisted grin… ska-raka, chaka-poko, ska-raka, chaka-poko chaka-poko chaka-poko…

VIII

▼Cha-cha-raka, chaka-poko chaka-poko chaka-poko… Ahhh, behold, esteemed gentlemen and ladies! All you gathered here! This is my gift from abroad—a tale of hell shadowing modern civilization. It’s a story of a hell on earth, where birds chirp, leaves grow thick, and flowers bloom, yet inside, lost souls wander. Those with no family or ties to save them, wretched beings cast out, burdened by sins they cannot weep away—the miserable beggars of madness. Each night, each day, they’re driven out of villages and towns, pelted with stones, beaten by rain, scorched by sun, left to wither in snow and ice. They live in a hell crafted by this world. Even the round, shining sun turns its face, laughing as if to say, “I see nothing, I know nothing…” chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahhh—aahh… laughing and looking away, this is still but the lighter hell. Beneath the relentless electric lights, the world of material science shines bright, yet all the while, the culture of the spirit dims. Money, lust, rights, and duties—cruel competition, a contest of cunning, a survival struggle against all reason. Trains, cars, airplanes dart and soar, crisscrossing the sky, while human fate teeters at every turn. And what lies ahead? A dark and secret door, through which the young and old alike are led, no longer distinguishing madness from clarity. The fool and the wise, all gathered together, shoved into this pit and sealed tight, with no chance for plea or escape. They descend into a lightless world where neither justice nor human sentiment casts even a shadow. This is hell—a hell of reinforced concrete, the bleak prison of scientific progress. Here are stacked layers upon layers of hell—the Hell of Insanity, atop it the Hell of Kindness, followed by the Hells of Scorn and Ridicule, then the Hells of Abuse and Murder. And at the bottom? An unfathomable hell beyond all reckoning… chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahhh—aahh… beyond the unknowable hell is yet another, still more terrifying: the Hell of Knowing All. In this realm, the anguished cry out, “How could they throw me, who is of sound mind, into this pit?” Biting down, thrashing, stamping in rage—the more they resist, the deeper they descend into the Hell of Kindness. Resist further, and they fall into the Hell of Abuse, and finally, they reach the bone-bleaching Hell of Regret, plunging down to the pit from which no spirit can rise… chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahhh—aahh… into the endless pit, from which no ghost escapes. If such dreadful doors really existed all around us, what then? Those of you here, the government officials, scholars, intellectuals—would any of you, with blood and tears in your veins, turn a blind eye? As an old senryu poem once put it: “Even in the prison of a tatami cell, one takes no medicine without caution.” (Note: A tatami cell, cautious even when taking medicine — Yanagidaru) That was long ago, back in Edo. But now, in the age of advanced science, the mystery of the human mind remains as elusive as ever. The field of psychiatry is stymied, stuck in the past, helpless. Unable to distinguish a true madman from a pretender, they mimic other branches of medicine, with talk of “diagnosis” and “treatment,” building rigid hospitals, lining up instruments, specimens, medicines, and books in stiff, impressive displays. If this is the result, then such a hell is inevitable. The urgent need of our time is to crush these institutions. Find these hospitals, one by one, and destroy them utterly—there is no greater task at hand… ska-raka, chaka-poko, cha-cha-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko chaka-poko chaka-poko chaka-poko…

IX

▼Cha-cha-raka, poko-poko. Ska-raka, poko-poko… Now then, what might prevent such deceptive institutions—these hells for the insane—from sprouting up again? There is but one way, and it’s no small task. I propose building a grand mental hospital on an island of favorable climate and scenic beauty, easily accessible yet isolated, with a budget of ten million yen! With this, I’ll create a psychiatric institute of my own design, a place where patients are admitted free of charge, and where we practice liberation therapy, a concept I developed myself. It’s a true science-based treatment for mental illness, conducted without drugs, surgeries, chains, or confinement in padded cells. All manner of patients would be given complete freedom in spacious surroundings, allowing nature to provide true healing. Picture it as a pasture for the insane—a paradise for those suffering from madness. It would be the world’s first and most unique mental hospital, open to all for observation. Even I don’t know what marvels will unfold once it’s complete. Everything from start to finish would be a new invention… ska-raka, chaka-poko, ska-raka, chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahh—aahh… yes, all of it would be a new invention. One day, I’ll present to the world a discovery unknown to any scholar: the fundamental principle behind the onset of madness itself. And it’s a thrillingly simple and clear theory, so marvelously entertaining in its logic that it would revolutionize the field. Imagine the day when insanity, currently untreatable, is understood at last. How the world would praise us then! Out of all races, we Japanese would stand tall as champions of justice, humanity, and scientific progress in mental health… chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahh—aahh… yes, that’s my hope. But ten million yen is no small sum. Even if I sold all the fields and farmlands left to me by my parents, all my savings, all my old bonds, I could barely cover half. For the rest, I’ll need the help of the government and, above all, your esteemed generosity. I’m not particular; even a single coin or straw would be welcomed by this humble monk. I bow to you, chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahh—aahh… yes, I humbly bow to you. But perhaps you think this begging monk is half-mad himself, standing here in broad daylight, bedraggled as a vagrant, rattling his wooden drum by the roadside. Speaking of millions for civilization, discussing cures for the invisible madness in the hearts of men, listing schemes that seem beyond all reason… why, only a charlatan would come up with such nonsense, right? Yes, yes, you’re right. I bow to you again… ska-raka, chaka-poko, chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Ahh—aahh… again, I bow to you. But truly, if this world has been cruel enough to leave such a “hell for the insane” in its wake, hidden behind the facade of civilization, then I cannot leave it be. Seeing such cruelty has unhinged my own mind to some degree. And yet, I have come up with a way to help them—first and foremost, by building a large hospital to care for patients free of charge. But for that, I need public support, even if it’s just a single coin! If you feel sympathy or curiosity, please accept this printed book of the Hell for the Insane, a gift for you to take home, free of charge. Read it and decide if it rings true. And if you wish to help fund my work, or if you’re intrigued by tales of curses, ancestral hauntings, or spectral grievances, there’s a postcard inside for your convenience. Simply fill in your name and address, affix it here, and send it off.

▼If only you help spread the word of this truth to your friends and neighbors, then these hellish asylums, these hidden shadows of human culture, will be brought to light, forcing corrupt hospitals to be demolished by public outcry… chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼Then the government could no longer ignore it. Forced to face this critical social issue, I’d be able to pool my wealth of over five million yen to create a national hospital, taking in patients free of charge and easing the madness that society has neglected… chaka-poko chaka-poko…

▼No longer would the forgotten and forsaken die in suffering and madness… poko-chaka poko-chaka…

▼Not only that, but with research from this hospital, a true cure for madness would spread far and wide, overturning the world’s hells for the insane. And once the brutality toward mental patients ends, my life’s work would finally find fulfillment… poko-poko chaka-chaka…

▼Ahh—aahh… nothing would bring me greater fulfillment. Imagine if you praised my work, saying, “Indeed, your vision is sound and just! Fight hard and build your hospital, strike down every hell for the insane!” If you granted me such encouragement, my joy would know no bounds… chaka-chaka poko-poko poko-poko chaka-chaka poko-poko…

X

▼Ska-raka, chaka-poko. Cha-cha-raka, chaka-poko… Ahh—aahh. Forgive me, everyone, for holding you here, delaying your errands, your hurried steps, or leisurely walks, with my strange appearance and odd words. I apologize deeply. Yet when I think about it… what is a human life, fifty, seventy, or even a hundred years, in the grand stream of time that flows through the cosmos, spanning millions, billions, perhaps endless trillions of years? In this vast expanse, a lifetime is but the blink of an eye. We meet and part, are born and die, all without fully understanding what it means. Amid the countless souls that pass each other, isn't there some deeper reason for us to cross paths here, now, by the roadside? Please, forgive my intrusion.

Even if we part ways here, let the faint sound of this ska-raka, chaka-poko linger in your mind. And should you one day come across stories of madness in the newspapers, magazines, or novels, or encounter someone suffering in truth from mental illness, perhaps you’ll remember this moment. For though the modern world shines dazzlingly, with bright lights of moon, sun, and stars obscured by the glint of progress and lofty ideals of charity and justice, beneath that brilliance lies a hidden realm—a hell far worse than any you might imagine.

Silently, without a trace, those forsaken souls descend. In the infinite depths of darkness, a murky sea of blood lies below, where faint, wandering flames hover above—spirits who have passed with no redemption or release, leaving their resentment unanswered. It is the lament of these spirits that forms my words here, a chant of sorrow, a Buddhist Aho-Dara Sutra for the forgotten.

With this humble wooden drum, I offer you my final bow. Gedou—sa—a—e—mo—n. Insanity—hell—… 

—Thank you for your kind patience.

Please send postcards to the following address:

To: Dr. Menkurou Manji

c/o Dr. Juhachi Saito, Professor of Psychiatry,

Kyushu Imperial University, Faculty of Medicine

The World as a Grand Asylum for the Insane

—Statement by Dr. Keishi Masaki,

Department of Psychiatry,

Kyushu Imperial University

Since early March, construction has been underway behind the main building of the Department of Psychiatry at Kyushu Imperial University for the "Liberation Treatment Facility for the Insane," which has progressed steadily alongside the expansion of the affiliated hospital. While details of the project had previously been kept confidential, it has now been revealed that Dr. Masaki, the newly appointed professor of the department, personally financed this facility's establishment. Speaking from his office, Dr. Masaki provided the following statement to a visiting reporter.

In society, there seems to be a bit of a stir about this "Liberation Therapy" I recently began at Kyushu University—some are calling it my original concept, even a groundbreaking innovation. But, to be frank, it’s neither original to me nor especially new or revolutionary. In fact, if we look back far enough—so far, in fact, that not a trace of it remains in history or legend—this entire surface of the earth has functioned as one vast liberation treatment center for the insane. The sun serves as its director, the air as its nurse, and the soil as its caretaker.

Now, don’t misunderstand me—I’m not here to indulge in eccentric remarks. I have my reasons for making such a claim, grounded in ample evidence. In truth, the very foundation of my own study of mental illness rests upon this simple fact: that this entire earth’s surface serves as a grand asylum for humanity.

Why, you ask? From the start, every human born to this earth, regardless of rank, age, or gender, is quick to label as “broken” anyone whose body does not fully obey their will, or who appears to have something lacking, or perhaps even something in excess. Likewise, whenever they find someone whose mind is not wholly theirs to command, or whose mental faculties are somehow lacking or excessive, they waste no time branding them as lunatics, or mental patients, marking them with the stigma of madness and subjecting them to special treatment. It’s as if society has tacitly agreed that such people deserve scorn or, at the very least, pity—sometimes even treatment worse than that afforded to beasts and insects.

But consider this: those so-called “normal” people, those who mock and deride the mentally afflicted—are their own minds truly without flaw? Do all human brains respond with perfect precision to the will of their owner, acting as obediently as commanded, in every last corner of their minds?

I say this boldly: from the impartial and exacting perspective of science, I highly doubt it. It’s only because mental flaws cannot be detected with the naked eye, unlike a twisted limb or a missing feature. In reality, I would argue that every single person walking this earth is, in one way or another, mentally incomplete. I would even go so far as to say it is no exaggeration to claim that our world is packed to the brim with such people—twisted, uneven, oversized, undersized, or those with too much intellect or too little passion—an entire mass of so-called “mental defectives,” all pressing up against one another in this grand, crowded asylum.

As they say, everyone has seven quirks without realizing it, and forty-eight once they’re aware. People cling to embarrassing, foolish habits despite being ridiculed by others. Even when these habits obstruct their careers, inconvenience others, or force them to swear vows to gods or even place ads in the newspaper to quit, the habits persist. Doesn’t this clearly demonstrate that their minds are not entirely their own? Isn’t this stubborn inability to correct their own flaws a strong manifestation of a sort of mental compulsion? Or take, for instance, the times when tears well up against one’s will, or when one feels a surge of anger at an inappropriate moment, completely forgetting themselves. These involuntary actions reveal an essential weakness in the mind, exposing how it wavers beyond one’s control.

Furthermore, we see a vast range of eccentricities—obsessions, boredom, mood swings, weather-related moods, forgetfulness, nervousness, particular indulgences, various crazes, addictions, perverse psychologies. And among these traits, whether strangers or acquaintances, there isn’t a single person without at least a faint touch of madness. No one exists without some corner of their mind beyond their conscious grasp. Essentially, there is no one who is not but a few steps from those deemed “insane.”

As proof, try pointing out any of these weaknesses—these lapses in mental control—and you’ll find people either turning red with embarrassment, defensively arguing with veins bulging, or clenching their fists ready to fight. This reaction is comically absurd, resembling the very behavior of a madman insisting he is perfectly sane, yet it’s only human nature. And if we indulge this part of human nature, letting such tendencies go unchecked, this kind of mental instability begins to feel normal. If society then grants such people the deference reserved for refined gentlemen and ladies, these unhealthy traits only become more pronounced, gaining a stronger hold until, at last, they grow uncontrollable and manifest as domestic tragedies or public crimes. In lighter cases, society imposes mild censure; in serious cases, the law intervenes. But those who still can’t reflect on themselves—those whose brakes have long since failed like a rattling, runaway automobile—eventually end up in a mental institution, labeled with some form of mania.

Now, don’t misunderstand; I’m not saying this is all terrible. I have no intention of insulting humanity. Yet, these so-called gentlemen and ladies, born and raised this way, look upon mental patients—their own mental equals, truthfully—with an irrational contempt or fear. They fool themselves into thinking their minds are flawless and free of any trace of mental instability, and it tempts me to give them a little prod. It makes me want to speak up in defense of those poor mental patients, wholly undeserving of the cruel prejudice and mistreatment they receive from these supposedly refined members of society.

In short, after observing things this way, it becomes increasingly difficult to distinguish so-called “ordinary people” from the insane, much like the distinction between people inside a prison and those walking free. Put plainly, “ordinary people”—or what society deems respectable ladies and gentlemen—are simply those whose deviance hasn’t been so blatant as to warrant a cell behind red-brick walls.

Of course, this is a rather outrageous thing to say—scandalous, impolite, unspeakably rude, to be sure. Yet facts are facts, and there’s no avoiding them. Without this point of view, true scientific research into mental illness would be as impossible as medicine would be if we refused to acknowledge that humans are, fundamentally, animals. So, if there’s anyone who believes themselves the sole exception—someone who is absolutely free of madness, who claims complete mental perfection—then I invite them, at any time, to come see me. They can join us as a research patient at this university, with all fees covered, as we could use just such a specimen for our studies.

For here on Earth, the sun quietly oversees endless hordes of these mental patients, blanketing the surface with them and continuing its silent, perpetual “liberation therapy.” Gradually, over the ages, humankind—this half-mad race of creatures, hardly above animals and insects—has developed some faint awareness of its own insanity. And so it has devised all these elaborate constructs—religions, morals, laws, red doctrines, blue doctrines—just to remind one another to “stay reasonable” and “act normal.” In humble imitation of the sun, I have set up a small model of my own, attempting a kind of “liberation therapy without medication,” grounded in the observation that “all of humanity is mad.” My goal is to conduct a genuinely scientific study into mental illness, treating it from this standpoint.

What kind of patients, you ask, will be admitted to this liberation treatment center? Well, that remains to be seen. In time, I intend to select patients who will make suitable research subjects for my theory—candidates who can serve as material for this new science of the mind.

As for the theory itself—the core of the mental science I’m proposing—that is no small question. It’s not the sort of thing that can be fully explained in a day or two. But I can say this much: it is a complete overhaul of the methods that have been used to study mental illness up to now. I plan to start by re-examining the function of the human brain from scratch, overturning the superstitious belief that “the brain is where thoughts are processed.” I will revise this notion from its foundations and reveal how the inherited functions of the mind interact with this new understanding of brain activity. From this, I intend to develop a new anatomy, physiology, and pathology of the mind, then select the most illustrative and intriguing specimens of mental illness based on these criteria to test my own methods of treatment, which will employ unique forms of psychological suggestion and stimulation. Just what kinds of samples I’ll gather, and what sort of commotion will ensue, I honestly can’t predict. Ha ha ha…

But let me be clear, just for the record: please don’t mistakenly diagnose me as some placid, unaffected simpleton, simply because I’m the one conducting this experiment.

Once the sun starts blazing, illuminating every inch of this earth—this grand treatment center of lunatics—there is no stopping it; there’s no such thing as “just adding a little soy sauce and calling it a day.” It just keeps on roasting, bright and relentless. In the same way, once I began my research on madness, I couldn’t think of anything else. It’s as if I’ve started relieving myself in the street: whether a lord passes by or a policeman arrives, fines or punishments are all the same to me—I’ll carry on to the end, heedless.

So even if other madmen on this earth might someday be cured, I think my own condition will never recover. That, I can guarantee.

The Absolute Detective Novel
The Brain Is Not Where Thoughts Are Formed

Contents of Dr. Masaki’s Dissertation

A Reporter

What? You’re asking why my dissertation on The Theory of the Brain hasn’t been presented to the academic world yet? Ha! Don’t be ridiculous. Do you really think I’m the type to hold back from publishing something just because it might stir up controversy? The truth is, I’m just holding onto it to add a few final touches, that’s all.

You want to hear what it’s about, do you? Well, I suppose I could tell you… but I know if I do, you’ll go straight to the press with it. Just look at what happened last time—my comments about “the earth as one vast asylum for the insane” landed on the front page of your newspaper, and it caused quite the stir. It was treated as self-promotional nonsense, and I heard it ruffled quite a few feathers.

Not that it bothers me, of course—I couldn’t care less what people say. But whenever I speak a little too boldly, the president, who’s a bit of a stickler for appearances, and the dean, who’s a timid soul, both turn pale with worry. They already think Kyushu University has gained a reputation for attracting eccentric types, what with Mr. Tsurukawa’s “Universal Investment Theory” and Mr. Akai’s “Rejuvenation Surgery.” And now this Theory of the Brain of mine… It’s bound to raise eyebrows even more than the “Liberation Therapy” did.

So, you want me to talk, but you promise not to print it? It’s rare to meet a journalist who can keep their word about something like that, but all right, I’ll tell you. How about a cigar first—a fine Havana? Consider it both the fee for listening to my grandiose speech and a bit of insurance against publishing. Perhaps that’s cheap, but ha ha ha! I happen to have some time today, so don’t be surprised if I get a little… enthusiastic.

Now, tell me, do you read detective novels? No? Well, you really should. Anyone who wants to call themselves “modern” ought to read detective fiction—it’s practically the nerve center of contemporary literature. Oh, you’ve grown tired of them? Ha ha, my apologies, how could I forget your job is as a reporter? I must’ve sounded a bit patronizing. My apologies!

But in that case, how about I share something even better? I have in my possession a rather unusual detective tale. It’s one of the most groundbreaking, eccentric cases I’ve ever heard, and I’ve toyed with the idea of submitting it to a scientific journal. But since you’re here, perhaps I’ll let you hear it first and get your thoughts. The complexity of the plot, the subtlety, the way it’s all resolved with biting irony—I’d wager it’s like nothing you’ve encountered. Naturally, if you find another case like it, you’ll never see me again; this one is, you might say, a truly exclusive, extraordinary tale…

No, no, don’t brush this off. This so-called detective story I mentioned is deeply tied to my Theory of the Brain. Detective fiction, after all, is nothing but a sport of the mind. It’s a duel between the mind of the criminal and the mind of the detective, each using their skills in a game of cat and mouse. The real charm of a detective story is how it ensnares the reader’s mind, weaving illusions, distortions, and twisted perceptions along the way. Isn’t that right?

But my detective story—oh, it’s on an entirely different level. It’s not just another tale. In my story, “the mind itself” is the one chasing “the mind itself”—the ultimate, absolute scientific detective novel. And the grand reveal of this absolute detective story, with its trick that will shock every one of humanity’s two billion minds, is precisely the theme of my Theory of the Brain. Impressive, isn’t it?

What’s that? You don’t understand? Ha ha ha! Of course not; I haven’t told you anything yet.

Yes, yes, take notes if you like. Just promise not to publish anything until I officially release my dissertation. If you want, I’ll even revise it for you later—it might be more fitting to present it as a work of my own creation, rather than simply an interview.

One more thing—I’ll say it in advance: whether or not you’ll understand this story, well, that’s up in the air. This is a detective story of the highest order, where the mind chases itself. The solution is embedded right from the start, yet the reader absolutely cannot grasp it. All they’ll perceive—perhaps—is a chaotic mess of bizarre illusions, wild distortions, and twisted ideas. That, my friend, is the hallmark of this top-tier story of the brain! Ha ha ha ha!

Now then… as with any good detective story, the first step is to hit the reader with a confounding riddle, something that shakes their mind to its core. And the kind of riddle that could truly rattle the human mind—wouldn’t it, by necessity, have to be one about “the brain” itself?

Indeed! Ha ha ha! Let me issue you a bit of a warning. For, you see, this “brain” is none other than the ultimate mystery—perhaps the most savage, twisted enigma in the world of modern science. It’s the one organ in the human body that remains a complete unknown, a towering protein sphinx. This mysterious monster has been ringing inside the skulls of two billion humans from dawn to dusk—a creature unlike any other.

This thing we call the human brain perches at the body’s highest point, ruling all bodily organs like mere servants, while hoarding the finest blood and nutrients for itself. The body does nothing that the brain doesn’t command; the brain’s desires go unfulfilled by nothing. Which is it, then? Do humans exist for the brain, or is the brain there for the sake of humans? No amount of pondering can clarify it. This tyrant among bodily organs, this dictator of human culture—this is none other than the brain itself.

And yet, for all that, here lies something truly strange.

The curious fact is this: despite everything we know, if we subject this brain—this solid mass of protein—to rigorous scientific examination, we ultimately reach the same point: “we don’t know.” We simply cannot determine what purpose the brain actually serves within the body. To put it another way, the monstrous brain has, across the ages and continents, hidden its true function from the very minds of scholars seeking to understand it. Moreover, this brain actively radiates a power so supernatural, so mystifying, that it warps the scientific reasoning of the very scientists who seek to understand it.

To put it bluntly: “the brain is actively trying to keep itself from understanding itself.” Consequently, this brain—this center of modern human culture—gradually renders all things meaningless, desensitizing, corrupting, and deteriorating everything around it, while comfortably nestled in the hollow of the skull, coiled like a demon at rest. In this sense, the brain becomes none other than a devil among devils.

Now don’t get me wrong—this isn’t just some tall tale I’m spinning. I swear on my professional honor that what I’m saying is true.

What’s that? You still think “the brain is where thoughts are formed”?

Of course, that’s what everyone believes. It’s a view so deeply embedded that even the world’s top scientists, along with every rank and class of people across the globe, whether proletarian or bourgeois, go about their lives utterly convinced that they think with their brains. Radio, airplanes, the theory of relativity, jazz, safety razors, revolutionary doctrines, poison gas—everything, they believe, has emerged from that mass of protein weighing somewhere between 1,200 and 1,900 grams.

Indeed, dissecting a human corpse and peering at the brain might seem to confirm this belief without question. There, the cerebrum, cerebellum, medulla, and pineal gland are all complexly intertwined, forming strange cells connected to the body’s thirty trillion cells through a web of fantastical nerve fibers. Study this network, and you’d conclude that the brain is at the very center, the master hub tying together every action of the body. So, it seems natural to believe that the brain houses all human thought and conscious life—in other words, that “the brain is where thoughts are formed.”

Today, this belief has become an unshakable tenet of human understanding—a shared conviction, even common sense. Question the idea that “the brain is where thoughts are formed,” and you’d be hard-pressed to find a single person willing to consider it. Every cultural marvel, down to the last needle or scrap of paper, is seen as the creation of this “thinking brain,” and no one would dream of disputing it in this age of absolute faith in the power of the mind.

And yet… this is where my detective novel veers off course. Enter the protagonist: a young genius detective and unprecedentedly swift doctor of cerebral science, who sets out to smash the global superstition about the brain to its very roots. He reveals the horrifying truth behind this “demon-brain’s” nonsensical functions—an absurdity so extreme it could only be called a pit of infinite idiocy. Under the blazing light of science, he exposes the brain’s monstrous illusions, striking the reader’s mind with a mighty blow—a veritable home run.

So tell me, do you think it will hook readers or not?

What’s that? You’re still unsure… want to hear a little more?

What’s that? You think it sounds like a fantasy novel? How outrageous! I made it clear from the start: this is a scientific detective story based on true events. The moment you add even a drop of fantasy, the entire story’s appeal collapses. I assure you, not a single line is nonsense—rest assured and listen carefully. You’ll soon realize this isn’t just some fanciful tale. Got it?

Now, our young genius detective, who’s also a brilliant scholar of the brain, is a striking young man around twenty whom I’ve taken the liberty of calling Anpontan Pokan. Understand, he’s a real person. A truly gifted young man, unmatched in intellect—though he suffers from dangerous hereditary episodes of mental illness. Not long after entering the university, he was admitted to the hospital affiliated with this department for treatment.

What’s that? I’m telling you, this is no tall tale. You’re an impossibly skeptical reader, aren’t you? If you doubt me, I’ll introduce you to him myself anytime. He’s right here, just across the way in Room Seven. Just call out, “Hey, Mr. Pokan!” and he’ll turn, startled, with that irresistibly charming profile of his.

Now, this young man, Anpontan Pokan, after suffering one of his hereditary episodes and falling into a stupor, eventually regained his senses only to realize that he had completely forgotten everything: his hometown, his parents’ names, even his own name. And so, for the time being, I have bestowed upon him the honorary title of “Dr. Anpontan Pokan.” But being as sharp-minded as he is, Pokan himself is deeply unsettled by this. Day and night, without rest, he paces the synthetic stone floor of his hospital room, seemingly lost in thought about his own brain. He mutters, “I don’t understand, I don’t understand… what has my brain been doing all this time? What has it been thinking?” Or else he says, “Is my brain controlling my body, or is my body controlling my brain? I just don’t know…” And he goes on like this, tugging at his wild, unkempt hair, occasionally thumping himself on the back of his head, pacing the room without a moment’s pause.

But then, as his episodes intensify, Pokan comes to a standstill in the middle of the room, casting curious glances around him. Then, as if he’s seized onto some invisible object from the depths of his hair, he slams it forcefully onto the floor. Pointing at this invisible thing, he begins a speech about the brain, gesturing passionately. Eventually, as he grows more and more enraptured by his own speech, reaching a peak of excitement, he raises one foot and pretends to stomp down with all his might on the unseen object he’d “pulled” from his head. At that exact moment, he lets out a groan, his vision swims, and he collapses to the floor.

He then falls into a state of deep sleep, completely oblivious for thirty or forty hours, only to eventually stir, rubbing his eyes in a dazed, Anpontan-like fashion, before resuming his pacing with a muttered refrain of “I don’t understand, I don’t understand.” And then, just as before, he’ll reach into his head to pull out that invisible something, slam it onto the floor, survey the room, clench his fists, and launch into another speech about the brain. Finally, he stomps down on the unseen object with a groan and collapses again.

This cycle has become Dr. Anpontan Pokan’s daily routine.

Now, the truly fascinating part is Dr. Pokan’s public speeches.

When Dr. Pokan gives a speech, he seems to imagine himself standing at a bustling intersection, perhaps a spot with intense streetcar traffic, lost in the crowd. He strikes a pose like a traffic officer, extending his arms grandly, glaring left and right at the masses. Then, suddenly, with a clenched fist punching the air, he raises his voice to a piercing shout:

Stop!

… Stop!

Streetcars, automobiles, bicycles, motorcycles, buses, trucks, rickshaws—stop, all of you! Gentlemen, ladies, flappers, modern boys, salarymen, working women, proletarians, bourgeoisie, pickpockets, and policemen—none of you are to move!

You are all, at this very moment, facing extreme danger. 

… Right now, at this exact moment, you’re walking around, thinking with your brains. You’re relying on those brains to heed the traffic officer’s signals, to distinguish the green and red of his flag, to critique the latest trends in shop windows, to recognize a new star in a poster, to find today’s top headline on the evening news, to keep an eye out for pickpockets, to dodge creditors, to trace the waft of perfume from the latest “It” girl… all the while boosting your cerebral pride as cultured individuals, each and every step along the way.

And that, I say, is dangerous. I warn you, this is an emergency. A state of crisis in the brain.

Behold! Listen! Be shocked, be astounded!

The two billion humans of this world today are, every last one, fools just like you. They’re the simpletons who go to the post office to ask for their own forwarding address, the scatterbrains who yell their own number down the telephone line. They are infants, deluded into thinking the "brain" is the place where thoughts are formed.

With this ridiculous hallucination perched proudly atop their shoulders, they rely on this single, misguided notion as their one and only guide, convinced that "the brain is their ultimate asset" and that "ours is an age of cerebral speed." And with this twisted idea fueling them, they’ve unleashed endless streetcars, automobiles, and motorcycles, hurtling forward day and night in a manic race that drives human culture straight into a chaotic hell of convulsions.

How can anyone bear to watch this madness unfold?

Behold! Listen! Be shocked, be astounded!

Such is the slogan of Anpontan Pokan.

A condemnation of human culture. 

A dismantling of brain-centered civilization. 

A call to rebuild and renew the materialistic scientific worldview.

Pokan declares:

The "thinking brain" is humanity's greatest enemy. It is the supreme devil among devils in all the cosmos. At the dawn of time, it was that Satanic serpent who tempted Eve with the fruit of knowledge. And to further curse the descendants of Adam and Eve, it slithered into the hollow of the human skull, coiling itself up to lie hidden there. That is the origin of this so-called "thinking brain."

Open your eyes...

Gaze directly upon the horrifying evil of this brain, in all its monstrousness. 

Cast aside every superstition, every delusion you've held about the brain.

The human brain proudly proclaims, 

"The brain is where thought resides." 

"The brain is the creator of scientific civilization." 

"The brain is the omniscient, omnipotent god of the real world."

And so, in claiming for itself the ultimate authority of the universe, the brain sits enthroned at the highest point of the body, wielding the body’s organs as mere servants. It draws the finest blood and the richest nutrients from every part of the body, reveling in its kingly arrogance. As it relentlessly builds up its own authority, it plunges humanity—who place blind faith in this authority—deeper, step by step, into the depths of moral decay.

Behold the monstrous horrors of this "history of the brain's crimes."

I, Anpontan Pokan, after thorough research into the history of the world from every conceivable angle, have come to the following conclusions.

The crimes of the brain can be summed up in five points:

1. It made humanity arrogant enough to think themselves greater than the gods. 

This was the first page in the brain’s history of crimes. 

2. It drove humanity to rebel against the natural world. 

This was the second page.

3. It forced humankind back into the realm of beasts. 

This was the third page.

4. It cast humanity into a nihilistic world governed by nothing but matter and instinct. 

That was the fourth page.

5. It pushed humankind down the slope of self-destruction. 

And thus, the story ends.

Facts speak louder than anything else. 

A glance at the history of medicine will tell you this: the first person to discover the human brain inside a corpse was the great scientist Heponemius, considered the father of modern Western medicine.

However, the brilliant brain of this modern scientific titan, Heponemius, employed a bold and cunning trick to conceal the true function of the dead brain he had discovered, keeping it in complete secrecy. It was as if his own brain, gray and coiled, declared, “You’ll never know my true nature.” And so, as he peered at the “dead brain” within the corpse and then at the “living brain” nestled within his own bushy-haired skull, Heponemius found himself drawn into a profound battle of wits.

“What, I wonder, could this thing possibly be for?” he pondered, tormented for days and nights on end by the unanswerable question. “Why would the god of creation place such a coiled, gray mass, resembling a serpent’s knot, up in the attic of the human skull?

“This mass of protein—could it simply be a factory for tears and mucus? It bears a resemblance to the waste matter of an octopus. Or, since it’s located in the loft of the structure we call ‘human,’ might it be a storage tank for precious nutrients? Then again, given its looping form, similar to that of the small intestine, perhaps it functions as some sort of digestive organ… What could it be? I don’t know, I don’t know…”

Thus, Heponemius twisted himself into endless mental knots, laboring in vain, descending into confusion and exhaustion, until, at last, he was left utterly bewildered. Finally, his own brain, in response to this mental overuse, began to ache from deep within his skull.

And so, the great genius Heponemius fell victim to his brain’s own deception. Leaping up and pounding his desk, he exclaimed, 

“I’ve got it! The brain is where thoughts are formed! I’ve used mine so much, it’s started to ache!”

Facts speak louder than anything else. 

A glance at the history of medicine will tell you this: the first person to discover the human brain inside a corpse was the great scientist Heponemius, considered the father of modern Western medicine.

However, the brilliant brain of this modern scientific titan, Heponemius, employed a bold and cunning trick to conceal the true function of the dead brain he had discovered, keeping it in complete secrecy. It was as if his own brain, gray and coiled, declared, “You’ll never know my true nature.” And so, as he peered at the “dead brain” within the corpse and then at the “living brain” nestled within his own bushy-haired skull, Heponemius found himself drawn into a profound battle of wits.

“What, I wonder, could this thing possibly be for?” he pondered, tormented for days and nights on end by the unanswerable question. “Why would the god of creation place such a coiled, gray mass, resembling a serpent’s knot, up in the attic of the human skull?

“This mass of protein—could it simply be a factory for tears and mucus? It bears a resemblance to the waste matter of an octopus. Or, since it’s located in the loft of the structure we call ‘human,’ might it be a storage tank for precious nutrients? Then again, given its looping form, similar to that of the small intestine, perhaps it functions as some sort of digestive organ… What could it be? I don’t know, I don’t know…”

Thus, Heponemius twisted himself into endless mental knots, laboring in vain, descending into confusion and exhaustion, until, at last, he was left utterly bewildered. Finally, his own brain, in response to this mental overuse, began to ache from deep within his skull.

And so, the great genius Heponemius fell victim to his brain’s own deception. Leaping up and pounding his desk, he exclaimed, 

“I’ve got it! The brain is where thoughts are formed! I’ve used mine so much, it’s started to ache!”

And so, the scientist immediately took up his scalpel and sliced the entire brain he had extracted from the corpse into tissue-thin layers, a mere ten-thousandth of a millimeter each. Examining every last one of the thirty trillion cells forming the human body, he confirmed how each and every cell was intricately bound together by networks of nerve fibers centered on the brain. Then, holding the dead brain in both hands, he dashed into the street, shouting:

“I understand! I’ve figured it all out! I know everything!

This notion of life’s origin as divine providence? Nonsense! God is nothing more than a creation of the human brain.

Behold this brain! The source of life itself resides within this lump of protein weighing twelve hundred to nineteen hundred grams. Our conscious mind, our very sense of self, is nothing more than a chemical stimulus generated by the breakdown of this protein mass.

…Everything, absolutely everything, is determined by the will of the brain.

The brain discovered by science—this, truly, is the omniscient, omnipotent god of the real world!”

The progressive minds of the time, weary of the superstitions of Christianity and the corruption of the clergy, greeted this proclamation with thunderous applause. One by one, they eagerly embraced Heponemius’s misguided theory, swallowing it whole. The illusion that “the brain is where thought resides” quickly became a superstition, now carrying the allure of a premium truth.

“Yes, that’s right! There is no god in this world—everything is nothing but the work of matter. With the chemical reactions in the protein within our skulls, we shall create a new materialist culture!”

Thus, they proclaimed.

Thus, the “thinking brain”—which so splendidly erased the concept of God from human existence—continued its work by inciting humanity to rebel against the natural world and to create a materialist culture for humankind.

First, it devised every manner of weapon, making it easy for humans to kill one another. It advanced all forms of medicine, opposing natural health and increasing the ranks of the sick, granting humanity full control over birth and death.

It filled the world with machines, shrinking the vastness of the earth. It crafted artificial lights, driving out the sun, moon, and stars. It then herded humans, once children of nature, into rational, cold houses of steel and stone, forcing them to breathe in gas and electricity until their arteries hardened. They painted their faces with lead and clay, played with mechanical dolls.

The brain then taught them to use alcohol, nicotine, opium, digestive aids, stimulants, sleeping pills, aphrodisiacs, chastity disinfectants, and poisons, convincing them that the twisted beauty produced by this chaotic concoction was the true culture of humanity. Gradually, it trained humankind to the point where they could no longer survive a single day without these unnatural addictions.

And that’s not all…

The "thinking brain," after banishing “God” from the human world and driving out “Nature,” went on to strip humanity of all natural instincts that fostered growth, evolution, comfort, and happiness. It erased every natural sentiment: parental love, fraternal affection, romantic love, chastity, loyalty, honor, duty, compassion, sincerity, and conscience. Declaring these things “irrational” and “unnatural” from a materialistic, scientific standpoint, it led humanity to reject them, thereby creating a world centered on materialism and animalistic individualism.

Thus, the thinking brain drove human culture into a state of fragmentation, self-corruption, nervous exhaustion, and mental instability, until humanity finally reached a crossroad of spiritual self-destruction—a nihilistic world where only ghosts wandered in search of red and blue lights, haunted by senseless desires.

In this way, the “thinking brain” has, unknowingly, set humanity on a path toward extinction.

Behold the cold-blooded cruelty of this brain-driven culture. Can we truly let this go unchecked? And that’s not all…

The “thinking brain,” in its relentless pursuit of power, has buried each individual in a void of delusion and illusion, all while cunningly manipulating humanity as a whole through a carefully crafted deception, scattering their thoughts to the wind. And at the same time, it has set out to thoroughly dazzle and obscure the investigative gaze of none other than myself—Anpontan Pokan.

Behold!

See how the “trick of the brain” has made a tragic comedy of the brain itself, rolling at your very feet in countless forms. Witness how this “nonsense play of the brain” unfolds with dead seriousness upon the grand stage of the world. 

Observe…

The “thinking brain” sits as master over human civilization, presuming to reach the very mysteries of the universe, claiming nothing is beyond its comprehension, and pushing the limits of scientific culture to their depths. 

But consider this:

How is it that this “all-knowing brain,” capable of unraveling every mystery of the universe, has left the one crucial mystery—its own nature—untouched? While it has piled high the gleaming products of materialist culture, the core question of the brain itself remains cloaked in utter darkness. Despite everything science has achieved, not a single theory or text has emerged that definitively explains the function of the brain. Isn’t this a strange phenomenon?

More than that, isn’t it remarkable that you—and the brains of the world’s scientists, the so-called representatives of your own brains—have, up to this very day, overlooked this contradiction, this glaring mystery? What a staggering oversight!

Behold! The human brain has tirelessly extended its reach into every corner of human anatomy, examining the body through fields like anatomy, physiology, pathology, and genetics with meticulous, exhaustive care. When it comes to treatment, too, every specialty—internal medicine, surgery, ENT, dermatology, ophthalmology, dentistry—has been developed, competing to advance the science.

And yet, how foolishly lopsided it is that in the very midst of these advances, the brain itself—this organ that has enabled all of these studies—has been left untouched, as though groping blindly in the dark. Fields essential to the study of mental illness, like mental anatomy, mental physiology, mental pathology, and mental genetics, have not been developed or divided into disciplines at any university in the world. As a result, physicians across every specialty throw up their hands in frustration when faced with brain and mental illnesses. Isn’t this a tremendous oversight of the brain’s own doing? Questions like, “Where and how does consciousness reside within us?” “How do hallucinations occur?” “What exactly causes early-onset dementia?”—these vital issues about the brain, ones that would puzzle anyone, are buried in vagueness and treated with a colossal yawn by this so-called brilliant brain.

Just as a fortune-teller cannot predict their own fate, the brain’s inability to understand itself has come to be accepted as natural, without sparking any curiosity.

Isn’t this the very essence of the brain’s tragicomedy? Isn’t this the great nonsense play of brains, deceived and bewildered by themselves?

And take, for instance, those painful, close-to-home conditions known as "crying palsy" or "laughing palsy." No matter what emotion a person feels—anger, surprise, anything at all—these patients can only express their feelings through uncontrollable crying or laughing, completely unable to show any other emotion. Yet the brain, maintaining its stubborn authority as the "place where thoughts occur," commands scientists worldwide to explain these conditions accordingly. So scientists, obediently following this decree, say, "In cases of palsy, the entire brain has been numbed by hemorrhage, leaving only the section responsible for 'crying' or 'laughing' active. Thus, every feeling the person experiences can only be expressed through crying or laughing, as these are the sole functioning nerve centers available. Given the assumption that 'the brain is where thoughts happen,' there’s no other possible explanation."

Yet ironically, pathological examinations of such patients often reveal precisely the opposite. The entire brain isn’t affected by hemorrhage; rather, damage is confined to a small, isolated area. How absurd, and even tragic, that this brain-driven comedy of tears and laughter boils down to nothing more than a cruel prank of the brain itself.

An even more ironic case is that of somnambulism, or "sleepwalking." Scientists, staunchly devoted to the supremacy of the brain, find this condition baffling and avoid it as an insoluble mystery. Yet, in the throes of a sleepwalking episode, these patients often accomplish feats of intelligence and skill far beyond the limits of their usual capabilities, performing tasks that seem downright superhuman. And when they awaken, they return to their ordinary selves, with no memory whatsoever of these extraordinary acts.

Thus, this condition leaves the experts, who cling to the belief that "the brain is where thinking, feeling, and remembering happen," utterly dumbfounded, helplessly tangled in a permanent, immovable state of confusion.

When such experts find themselves crying out, "No human brain could possibly achieve this!" doesn’t it become a truly terrifying spectacle of the brain? An unyielding horror show, courtesy of the brain’s own mind-bending tricks.

And yet, scientists—who regard themselves as missionaries of materialism and apostles of scientific omnipotence—still refuse to learn, continuing to sing hymns of absolute praise for the brain.

"The size of the brain reflects its owner’s level of evolution, and the intricacy of its folds indicates their level of culture. Thus, humanity exists for the sake of its large, highly developed brain, which itself exists for the purpose of thinking. Therefore, the brain is the god of culture, the creator of the scientific world, the revered deity of materialism.”

They cherish this misguided theory more fervently than scripture, defending the brain’s authority with every ounce of their being. Yet, under these scientists’ own microscopes, it’s amusing to see lower creatures, headless and brainless, so precisely discerning heat and cold, making astute choices about food, and even displaying a remarkable sensitivity to weather—outperforming any human brain’s predictions. And these “lesser” beings, without saying a word, seem to mock them through their very existence:

“We don’t need brains to think!” 

“Our whole body is a brain.” 

“We’ve simply transformed our entire brain into limbs, torso, or various organs like ears, eyes, mouth, nose, digestive, excretory, and reproductive systems.” 

“You’ve just specialized these functions, assigning each to separate organs.” 

“Even your limbs think for themselves.” 

“Your rear can see and hear.” 

“When you pinch your thigh, only your thigh feels the pain.” 

“When a flea bites, only that spot itches.” 

“But your precious brain feels no pain, no itch—nothing at all.” 

“Still don’t get it?” 

"Ha ha ha ha ha!" 

"Oh ho ho ho ho!" 

"Hee hee hee hee!"

Is this not a biting satire of the brain? Is this not the ultimate trick play of the brain’s own making?

Meanwhile, right in the heart of this materialist culture, ancient mysteries of the spirit and soul resurface, playing out in strange and supernatural dramas that bring their share of eerie amusement. They emerge endlessly, one after another, as if to mock humanity’s “rational” minds.

In the golden age of materialistic capitalism, right in the bustling center of scientifically fortified cities, we hear stories of dead people making phone calls or strangers inexplicably appearing in photos. Even stranger tales persist—jewels that drain the beauty and life of their owners, ghostly crossings where trains are inexplicably threatened, the apparition of a great nobleman stroking the walls of Amerongen Castle, lamenting to the old Kaiser, or the curse of Tutankhamun’s mummy upon an Egyptologist. Even Sherlock Holmes—the genius of scientific deduction, the pioneer of fingerprinting, footprint analysis, and the materialistic detective method—was, by the end of his life, drawn into these bizarre phenomena, absorbed in the study of the supernatural until his final breath. Rumor has it, he even managed to speak to his surviving family from the other side, without the aid of etheric vibrations.

People call these things mysteries, but no one can say for certain whether they are real or not. In the end, any debate on the matter devolves into endless arguments, leaving both sides suspicious of the other’s reasoning and no closer to the truth. After exhausting every theory and speculation, people reach a breaking point, left to wail in frustration, “How can the brain even begin to understand itself?”—ending up in a bizarre back-and-forth as meaningless as a cheap sideshow.

Isn’t it clear, gentlemen, that this is how things stand? The vital questions that ought to be the foundation of psychiatry—the study of the brain’s own pathology, necessary above all else—have been reduced to a bottleneck by the very same “thinking brain.” We see the diagnosis and treatment offered by all psychiatrists and mental hospitals rendered useless, stalled amid ridicule and futility, while countless souls are abandoned to a world of endless scorn and mistreatment, with no hope of rescue. It’s as if the brain has transformed this world into a living hell for those who struggle with it, spreading a lunatic’s inferno across the earth’s surface.

If this is not the grand “prank” of the brain, then what is it? If this is not the ultimate nightmare of nonsense—the “thinking brain” playing a terrifying and meaningless farce upon itself—then what could it possibly be?

Rejoice, my friends! Leap into the air with joy, stand on your heads, somersault with delight! Fox-trot, stomp, and step in celebration! 

Kick aside the traffic officers and safety zones! Sing the victory song of liberation from the tyranny of the brain—this final superstition of humanity, this age-old oppressor.

For I, Anpontan Pokan, have at last pursued this great demon to the very brink and brought it before your eyes. I have exposed, down to its roots, the truth of this monstrous trickster, this cruel and elusive villain. And now, in this triumphant moment, I am honored to slam down before you the true identity of this fiend—my very own brain—and to proclaim at the top of my lungs…

"The brain is not the place where thoughts are formed!"

Ah-ha-ha-ha! Isn’t it exhilarating? Isn’t it lightning-fast? An absolute, resounding “Bravo,” wouldn’t you say? This is the supersonic detective novel capable of bringing two billion brains around the world to a standstill!"

What’s that? You still don’t understand? Ha-ha-ha! That’s because you’re still trapped by the habit of thinking with your brain. You’re still clinging to the materialist superstition of “mind is matter,” lodged somewhere in the corners of your mind.

Listen closely: our young detective, Dr. Anpontan Pokan, has just slammed his mud-splattered brain down onto the ground before you, and now he’s continuing his argument, pointing right at it.

Behold! Listen! Be astonished! Be utterly amazed!

Witness the truth behind this grand trick of the brain—the transgressions of a devil greater than any devil. Since the day humanity first discovered the brain, starting with the scientist Heponemius, we have been at its mercy, endlessly deceived by the ‘thinking brain.’ Morning to night, this brain has made us bow before it, enslaving both our bodies and minds to its service, forcing us into a lifelong illusion. And yes—even my own brain, that of Anpontan Pokan, has been just one more victim within this web of self-deception.

But now, the time has come to shatter this illusion. The moment has arrived to dismantle the illusion Heponemius himself set in motion, to drag the brain through the mud, just as Pokan’s brain now lies muddy at his feet.

Here, at this crossroads, Pokan proudly proclaims his ultimate declaration—the pinnacle of science, the final scientific faith: the Anpontan Pokan Theory of the Brain.

I, Pokan, declare: the brain that thinks cannot understand itself. This truth is as unchangeable as the law of physics that states two objects cannot occupy the same place at the same time. The thinking brain, trying to understand itself, is haunted by its own illusion—a ghost that first haunted Heponemius when he mistook the nature of his own brain. And now, this ghost threatens to overtake humanity entirely.

Thus, I, Anpontan Pokan, boldly challenge this deception:

... The place where thought occurs is not the brain. 

... The place where sensation occurs is not the brain. 

... The brain is nothing more than an insensible, unfeeling lump of protein.

...Outrageous! What’s so funny that you’re all rolling around laughing like that? Why are you tumbling all over the street, crawling into police boxes, clinging to telephone poles, kissing red mailboxes? Has something gone wrong with your minds?

What’s that…? You say, ‘If we don’t think with our brains, then what do we think with?’ 

‘If we don’t feel with our brains, then where do we feel?’ 

‘Where is our consciousness, then? How do we live?’

Oh, I see.

But this is hardly a laughing matter, is it? Neither strange nor outlandish—just a very ordinary question, nothing more.

...Brush the dirt off your trousers. 

...Straighten your hat.

...Adjust your tie, and listen carefully.

Our consciousness—our very sense of life—exists nowhere in particular. Rather, it is present everywhere throughout our entire bodies, just like in lower animals that lack a brain.

Pinch your backside, and it’s your backside that hurts. When your stomach is empty, it’s your stomach that feels the hunger. It’s remarkably simple and straightforward.

But perhaps this explanation is too simple, too clear, so let me break it down further. Every desire, feeling, will, memory, judgment, and belief—all of these that we constantly experience—are equally contained in each of the thirty trillion cells within our bodies, without exception. The brain merely serves as a relay, a mediator, reflecting and exchanging the awareness contained in each and every cell throughout the body.

Think of it like a political party, where each member is a "cell." If we imagine each cell as an individual person, then the entirety of the human body becomes like a large city, with the brain acting as the central telephone exchange. And that’s all the brain is—a switching station, nothing more.

...If you still don’t understand, then come along with me—follow in Pokan’s footsteps. Retrace the path he tirelessly pursued across all time and space, as he uncovered the true nature of the brain. Witness firsthand the painstaking journey he undertook to expose its secrets.

To understand the origins of the brain—its purpose, its very reason for being—join me, Anpontan Pokan, aboard the ultra-speed aircraft, Inference, of the Mind Airways. We’ll soar from the Brain Airport, roaring into infinite space and time, and fly backward through the vast, majestic currents of evolution, traveling six hundred million years into the past.

Look below! In an instant, today’s world of human dominance fades into a dream of the future, and in its place unfolds the “Age of Elephants” a million years ago, where mammoths, elephants, and stegodonts roam in their mighty pride.

As we continue even further back, we pass through the age of dinosaurs, then the age of birds, fish, shellfish, and sponges, journeying at ultra-speed to simpler and simpler forms of life. Finally, we reach the ancient world six hundred million years ago, where volcanic eruptions, massive thunderstorms, tsunamis, and earthquakes rage, filling the air with smoke, mist, and dust. Behold the vigor of the earth in its youth!

Now, let us take a drop of seawater from this ancient ocean, faintly salty and kept at a temperature of around forty degrees Celsius. Peer at it through a microscope, and you will discover countless single-celled organisms floating there—a vast swarm of primordial cells, the common ancestors of all future life. These primordial cells were, in fact, the most complex compounds to emerge as the earth’s surface gradually cooled amidst these natural upheavals. These cells are life’s first and most refined organic beings—a lineage that one might call the firstborn of creation, favored by the gods, the beloved child of Jehovah, the sun deity Horus.

Each of these early cells, in response to its surroundings, had limitless spiritual capabilities—awareness, feeling, judgment—enabling it to sense and adapt. As they absorbed both inorganic and organic matter, growing and dividing, neighboring cells shared sensations and awareness with one another.

Observe, as the primordial cells before your eyes continue to split and grow, evolving rapidly in both form and ability. With their shared awareness, they link together, split, and rejoin, acting as one in vibrant communion, manifesting a collective spiritual power on earth. And then, as their forms grew increasingly complex, some grew complacent, thinking:

“Surely, with our evolution, we’ve reached the pinnacle. Nothing could possibly evolve beyond us!”

Confident in this belief, they passed on their forms through their offspring, preserving the shapes of sponges, shellfish, fish, birds, and beasts through each successive generation. And thus, the endlessly complex, ever-changing world of life has gradually unfolded before your very eyes.

Now, look around you. Among the great diversity of creatures, we see that lower animals, such as jellyfish and even simpler organisms, lack anything like a brain or nerve centers. They operate just as they did in ancient times, their entire awareness and perception spreading equally throughout their bodies as they move, eat, rest, and live, all in perfect unity.

However, as we observe the more complex, higher-evolved animals, we notice that their awareness becomes more intricate, with greater distances between individual cells. For these beings, there comes a point when they might even think, “Are my toes really still part of my body?” This increasing distance between cells, along with the specialization of different body parts, requires a central communication hub—the brain—allowing the trillions of cells to share their sensory inputs and awareness, collectively enabling the feeling of a unified self: I am me; I am living.

In this way, each of the thirty trillion cells throughout our bodies, from circulating red and white blood cells to bones and hair tips, contains and mirrors the same awareness that we experience as our own consciousness. Just as we don’t see only with our eyes or hear only with our ears—each sense depends on the body’s collective awareness—so, too, the brain cannot think or feel on its own. Behind every thought and feeling is the shared awareness of all our body’s cells; otherwise, the brain would be as useless as a movie projector without a screen or audience.

The speed and coordination of this cellular communication are astounding, far surpassing human telegraphs, telephones, or radio. The instant you feel a chill up your spine, your entire body shivers; when you feel a prick, you jump up with an “Ah!”—that’s how marvelously quick and responsive this communication is.

Thus, our cells, each one a specialist, use the brain as a relay to simultaneously see, hear, smell, and taste the world around them. United through the brain’s mediation, they sense, celebrate, fight, sing, dance, cry, and shout as one.

When we feel happy, our appetite grows because the stomach cells, too, are rejoicing. When we eat, we feel energized almost instantly because every cell experiences satisfaction at once. So what we call our life force, our spirit, is nothing more than the subjective and objective experiences of countless cells merging into a single awareness, which we glimpse through the lens of the brain.

This leads us to an unavoidable conclusion: The “greatness” we once attributed solely to the brain is actually the collective intelligence and spirit of all the body’s cells, interacting through the brain. We were simply mistaken, as if we had thought the telephone exchange itself controlled the entire city.

See, my friends... how simple and clear it all is! Isn’t it enough to leave you speechless?

The core questions about life and consciousness that today’s scientists consider the greatest, most perplexing mysteries—when we turn our thinking away from “the brain as the origin of thought”—suddenly dissolve effortlessly. The brain’s role becomes as clear and straightforward as that of our hands or feet.

...And if you still don't understand, come over here once more. Take a look inside this brain—the Anpontan Pokan-style automatic relay station lying beneath Pokan’s feet. Observe the work of the brain’s nerve cells, these tireless, highly skilled operators.

These nerve cells, like the most dedicated switchboard operators, become wires, switches, cables, circuits, antennas, dials, and coils. They have specialized roles—some in charge of laughter, others of tears, sight, hearing, memory, love—and day and night, without a care for the outside world, they relay and exchange the awareness and feelings of each of the body’s thirty trillion cells.

Don’t interrupt them. These nerve cells are experts, meticulously chosen for the task of reflection and communication. Like any skilled operator, they are entirely unaware of what they’re transmitting; they simply switch and relay signals every second, without rest. No matter what happens—a new government, war, earthquakes, fires, summer heat, or winter chill—they cannot pause even for a moment. They are only Anpontan Pokan-style relays, wires, batteries, and transmitters for awareness and judgment across the body.

The less they are distracted by other tasks, the more single-minded they can be in their simple duty of reflection and communication, and the swifter and sharper their functioning becomes. The mind doesn’t tire, clarity increases, and the brain becomes calm and bright... simple, yet utterly clear!

So, here I, Anpontan Pokan, declare: Once you understand this simple and clear relay structure of the brain and achieve this sharp, calm awareness, you will never again be fooled by the brain’s tricks, nor will you rely on the brain alone to think. Instead, you will become a supreme master in the study of the brain, able to demystify every bizarre phenomenon associated with it. You will find yourself tipping your hat to the brilliance of this exploration into the mystery of the brain, which I, Anpontan Pokan, have tirelessly pursued to bring forth.

And yet, some of you may still hesitate to tip your hat. Perhaps you remain puzzled about the peculiar, unexplainable phenomena related to mental illness or the supernatural, feeling there’s more to explain.

...Very well, then. Truly excellent. For those among you still pondering these matters, I say: you are the very people suited to discuss these strange phenomena. You are the type to uncover the ultimate mystery of this world—the brain, the very embodiment of all absurdities, horrors, and illusions. And for such people, I invite you to put your hats back on and return to the main entrance of the Brain Bureau to examine the posted 'Anpontan Pokan Brain Bureau Reflection Protocol.'

Now, look here—only three rules! Just three clauses, far simpler than any phone exchange manual. These three fundamental clauses are followed instinctively by the thirty trillion cells of the human body, as if handed down from our ancestors. And once you understand these three simple clauses, you’ll be ready to claim the title of Doctor of Brainology. You’ll be able to see through all the perplexing, ironic, nonsensical, and terrifying dramas related to the brain as trivial nonsense.

Article 1: Any information transmitted via the Brain Bureau’s reflection exchange system, even if untrue, should be accepted and remembered as fact.

This is why some people, upon dreaming of a burglar, wake the entire household with their shouting—they’re following Article 1 to the letter.

Article 2: Any occurrence not transmitted through the Brain Bureau, even if performed by oneself, must not be regarded as fact, nor should it be retained in memory.

So when someone insists, “I don’t recall taking your blanket last night,” they’re simply following Article 2 in all honesty.

These two articles, simple as they may seem, are responsible for the phenomenon of “sleepwalking,” an enigma in psychiatric research today. And now we come to the slightly more complex Article 3, which reads:

Article 3: If a malfunction occurs within the brain’s reflection exchange function, a particular awareness or sensation caught in that faulty area may sever connection with other awarenesses and activate the ancient reflective responses of each cell throughout the body as they existed in primordial, brainless creatures. These cells, independent of the brain’s reflective function, may then feel, judge, think, or control the body directly, preceding other awarenesses in sensation, decision-making, and physical action.

Additionally, in certain urgent situations or altered states, such as:

- (a) Reflexes like blinking or jumping back in shock, where no time exists for brain processing,

- (b) Under anesthesia, when the brain’s reflection function halts and the body acts on other sensory and memory functions, or

- (c) In deep sleep, where we see phenomena like sleepwalking, talking in one’s sleep, or teeth grinding,  the body’s cellular awareness operates according to Article 3.

Write these down while you remember, especially students. Article 3 is the essence of brain hygiene. In fact, much of what we call “nervous breakdowns” or “neurasthenia” can be traced back to the disorders resulting from these protocols. Indeed, the so-called civilized nations of humankind are largely on the path to psychological collapse, victims of none other than this third clause.

In short, as I’ve already hinted, the brain’s reflection exchange system, the Anpontan Pokan-style relay machine, is an incredibly delicate mechanism, prone to various breakdowns. And due to its intricate design, these malfunctions can’t be quickly resolved, necessitating the emergency measures outlined in Article 3.

Take, for example, the cases I mentioned earlier of ‘pathological laughter’ or ‘pathological weeping.’ Suppose a particular area within the brain, let’s say the ‘laughter relay station,’ becomes impaired due to a minor hemorrhage. This disrupts the reflection relay, leaving the ‘laughter current’ isolated, just as Article 3 prescribes. It loses connection with other sensations and spreads unrestrained through the body, activating the primitive reflection responses that have been passed down since the dawn of life. In this way, laughter overwhelms the entire system, taking precedence over any other emotions—no matter how angry or sad the person might be.

And while we can identify this malfunction through pathological examination, visible breakdowns like these are the exception. Far more often, brain malfunctions occur at levels invisible to the naked eye, triggering bizarre phenomena that defy our understanding. These uncanny episodes infiltrate the very foundation of our so-called scientific culture, creeping into our streets, our institutions, and our minds, manifesting in ways no stethoscope or X-ray could detect. Each peculiar phenomenon is in itself proof of subtle, undetectable brain malfunctions.

What’s most vexing, however, is that modern ‘thinking brain’ enthusiasts have no idea that this Article 3 even exists. They remain blissfully ignorant of the emergency protocols that link the brain with the rest of the body’s cells, blindly overloading their brains with thought and calculation. ‘You can’t wear out your brain,’ they say, clutching their heads, straining their necks, and forcing the brain to think beyond its means, heedless of the fact that the brain is nothing more than a simple relay system.

They imagine the brain to be some official office of thought, endlessly pushing it to consider everything—just as one might burden a telephone exchange with the responsibilities of a city hall. They don’t realize how much strain this places on the brain’s nerve operators, nor the errors in reflection and perception it creates, leading to hallucinations, delusions, and twisted ideas.

The truth is right before our eyes.

When we overuse the brain for thinking, just like a coil that overheats from too much current, the whole structure begins to warm up, weakening its ability to relay signals. And when that happens, the various awarenesses within the body’s cells lose their connection to each other, each cell starting to act out independently. This produces a mild, semi-conscious state of ‘wandering thought’—the cells’ awarenesses running freely across a limitless mental landscape.

For instance, when your mind is exhausted, perhaps from overthinking, you might find yourself drifting into daydreams or even experiencing bizarre, uncontrollable imaginings. As sleep takes over, the connections between awarenesses weaken further, leading to a disjointed dream state—a phenomenon you’ll recognize if you’ve ever started dozing off while reading a book or nodding off in class or on the train.

In the past, people who were afraid of the dark would tire out their minds with fear, experiencing hallucinations or twisted perceptions that turned into tales of ghosts and supernatural encounters. And yet, modern skeptics who mock these fears may be missing something. They likely wouldn’t fit in with the refined ranks of our society’s neurotics and hysteria-prone elites, those who rely on nerve tonics, tranquilizers, and sleep aids to cope.

Even today, people in bustling cities, who constantly strain their brains with sensory overload, experience detached flashes of awareness that lead to a subtle dream-wandering state, even in broad daylight. That’s why, when walking past a tall smokestack, they might quicken their step, feeling as if it’s about to topple. Or why, lying in bed, they may feel an approaching train and instinctively reach to switch on the light. Other uncanny experiences—like the stove sighing, an egg yolk glaring from the plate, or an object mysteriously shifting—are all products of brain fatigue, leading to misfiring reflections or wandering awareness.

I previously mentioned that mild forms of these mental peculiarities are common. Many people, if they’re honest, realize their minds sometimes wander in unusual ways. But if this state deepens, it can spiral into full-blown madness, and that’s when a certain brick building lifestyle, complete with a room and guard, becomes necessary.

Here at Kyushu Imperial University’s Department of Psychiatry, where I’ve been under study, there’s no shortage of such cases. And when the patients are brought in turn to the lecture hall by Dr. Masaki—an expert in madness—to lecture to students, it’s amusing to hear them describe thoughts that mirror my own Anpontan Pokan musings.

"Ahem... The human brain, as I’ve explained, serves as a kind of spherical, compound mirror, meticulously reflecting the contents of awareness from every cell throughout the body, forming one cohesive point of focus. This phenomenon, where the human brain mirrors all the vast impressions flitting through each of the thirty trillion cells, is not unlike the way a dragonfly’s eyes take in an entire world in one glance.

"Now, this mental focus—the individuality or peculiar traits of a person—forms through the accumulation of inherited psychological habits, the countless impressions carried forward from one’s ancestors. Each person’s specific traits come from these inherited patterns, shaped over time by their forebears. In the case where a person, say a woman with a genetic tendency toward fixated thinking, finds herself deeply infatuated, her mind, day and night, becomes increasingly absorbed by thoughts of being close to the object of her affection. Eventually, the area of her brain responsible for reflecting these ‘longing thoughts’ becomes exhausted, causing this feeling to fragment and break away, condensing into obsessive dreams and fantasies.

"When this occurs, this isolated part of the brain operates like a broken record, repeating the image of her beloved endlessly. Her thoughts grow more fixated, muttering his name and envisioning his presence until her brain’s ‘longing center’ completely detaches and spirals into autonomous obsession. This leads her deeper into madness. At this point, she may run into the streets, get restrained, and end up thrashing wildly behind iron bars, becoming known for her frenzied, uncontrollable behavior—a spectacle celebrated as madness in stories, myths, and folklore.

"Now, this process I just described—of someone descending into madness—is what we typically expect in an ‘ordinary’ individual. People with such tendencies in small doses we call ‘normal’; those who possess them abundantly may have a so-called ‘predisposition’ to mental illness. This includes inventors obsessed with invention, researchers single-mindedly absorbed in their research, collectors unable to resist hoarding—all to varying degrees. If detected early, such individuals can sometimes be helped. But if this state progresses into true dream-walking mania, things change significantly.

"Though it remains a type of mental disorder, this condition is strange. The affected person, often remarkably refined and studious—perhaps a bit faint-hearted or excessively moral—appears utterly normal in daily life. But when night falls, they suddenly rise to carry out bizarre antics, sometimes even vicious acts beyond what any ordinary madman might do. And so, we find ourselves witnessing an extraordinary and frightful phenomenon.

"...In short, while this young man appears perfectly normal when awake—his bodily awareness harmoniously coordinated through the brain’s reflection function—things change drastically at night. As evening falls and his brain slips into deep sleep, his state diverges from ordinary slumber. Instead, his sleep grows so profound that he draws near to the threshold of death itself, slipping into a state of such unshakable unconsciousness that no amount of shouting or shaking will wake him. This is the hallmark of sleepwalking syndrome.

"Now, as he plunges into such depths of unconsciousness, it naturally happens that one or two stray cells remain alert, unable to fully enter this death-like slumber. And paradoxically, the deeper his overall sleep, the more intensely these isolated cells awaken, beginning their strange nocturnal activity.

"Suppose, for example, that just before sleep, he intensely fixates on a single desire or emotion—‘I want that diamond,’ or ‘I want to kill that wretch!’—until he drifts off with these agitated thoughts still lingering. When his brain finally descends to the bottomless pit of unconsciousness, this one solitary awareness remains alert, unconnected to reason, morals, or common sense. Freed from its usual restraints, it takes command, driving the entire body by engaging the ancient reflexive capacities within each cell, bypassing the brain. It observes, thinks, judges, and carries out its intended action, stealing the desired diamond or, indeed, throttling his foe.

"But upon waking, he has no memory of these nocturnal deeds. Since the impressions did not pass through the brain, he remains oblivious, returning to his usual Anpontan-Pokan self. Even if confronted with stolen jewels or the evidence of his crime, he is utterly unaware and helpless to confess; his ignorance is complete, as if it had all been a stranger’s doing.

"And afterward, he experiences a peculiar fatigue, as if the effort of both the brain and his bodily cells acting in tandem has drained him. This is similar to the exhaustion following anesthesia, when the brain alone is numbed, yet the body performs unconscious movements. In fact, distinguishing this sleepwalking fatigue from post-anesthesia fatigue presents a fascinating challenge for forensic medicine.

"As a prime example, we need look no further than this young man here, standing in front of you, attentively listening to my lecture. Some of you may even recognize him. I’ll refrain from revealing his name, but this spring, at just twenty years old, he passed this university’s entrance exam with top marks, only to succumb soon after to an inherited sleepwalking illness. The night before his wedding, in a fit of nocturnal madness, he strangled his bride-to-be. And this was not his first tragic incident; at sixteen, he similarly took his mother’s life. Now he’s a unique subject of study in our classroom, gradually regaining lucidity through my liberating treatment.

"Recently, he’s even started muttering as he scratches his head or taps his temple, convinced that ‘something’s amiss up here.’ Occasionally, he even pauses in his room to lecture on the brain, repeating word-for-word what he’s heard here in my class—a truly delightful sight! His memory is phenomenal; because of his severe sleepwalking episodes, he’s disconnected from his past memories, giving him an extraordinary capacity to retain current events with unparalleled precision. Yet in everyday life, as you see, he walks around with an expression of perpetual surprise, like a creature newly hatched. That is why, as a token of respect, we’ve honored him with the title of Doctor Anpontan Pokan."

As Professor Masaki wrapped up his lecture, the entire class turned to look at me, bursting into laughter. And so, I, without a second thought, left the mental hospital behind. Now, here I stand at this crossroads, observing the abnormalities of your brains, and I find myself unable to simply turn away. This is why I issue this warning, why I have chosen to boldly reveal the transcendent, Anpontan-Pokan theory of the brain to you here and now.

...Well, then, are you amazed, my friends? Have you seen? Have you heard? Are you astounded? The moment I, Anpontan Pokan, proclaimed, 'The brain is not the seat of thought,' the trees lost their green, the flowers faded from red to gray. All materialistic culture has been overturned from its very roots, and every theory in psychiatry has crumbled into mere armchair speculation!

...I repeat: Humanity, through this so-called 'thinking brain,' denied God, rebelled against nature, and created a materialistic culture. It dismissed the natural bonds of human sentiment and morality in favor of an individualistic faith in materialism. And so, day by day, it has driven this culture into nihilism, into fragmentation, into animalization, self-indulgence, nervous collapse, madness, and suicide.

This, all of it, has been the mischief of the 'thinking brain,' the curse of the materialist delusion of the 'brain’s ghost.' Yet now, at last, the time has come to abolish this false belief. Humanity, having rejected the superstition of God, is now cornered into rejecting the 'thinking brain.' The time has come to move from the unnatural excesses of material science back to the natural truths of spiritual science.

And so, to launch this slogan into action, I, Anpontan Pokan, have thrown down my own 'thinking brain' here on the ground before you, as you see. And now, I’ll stamp it out completely—take that! And... Urrgh—haa!

...Well, then! Ahahahaha... Are you astonished? Have you seen? Heard? Admired it all? This is what I call an absolute scientific detective tale. Here we have the ultra-analytical young sleuth, Dr. Anpontan Pokan, in relentless pursuit of his own brain, capturing it brilliantly, and hammering it to the ground to deliver its final send-off. This is the world’s highest-caliber scientific romance, the solution to the great equation of ‘Brain Minus Brain.’

If you really understand the trick of this tale, then... remember that paper I lent you? ‘The Dream of the Fetus’? If your mind is sharp enough to grasp the terrifying essence of that concept, you’ll understand the principles governing the dazzling nightmare that fetus lives through within the womb. The underlying principles of this terrible experiment, the liberation therapy at its core, and the shocking truths of Dr. Anpontan Pokan himself will all unfold before you, as clear as if held in your hands.

And for a bonus delight, here’s another twist: take this conclusion we’ve reached that ‘the brain is not the seat of thought,’ and hammer that into the brain’s depths. Eventually, you circle right back to ‘the brain is the seat of thought’ once more—a strange, enigmatic loop unique to my own method in mental science. If you’ve followed along this far, how about a round of applause?

...What? Dizzy, are we? Ahahaha, of course you are! Most folks sway and stagger after hearing me get fired up...

Wait... what’s that? Dizzy from the cigar? Ahahaha, now that’s funny! Wahahaha!

(By the Reporter)

The Dream of the Fetus

—Represent all other embryonic forms of animals and plants through the human fetus. 

—Detailed commentary, references, and annotations on religion, science, art, and other expansive subjects are omitted or kept to an absolute minimum.

During its ten-month stay in the mother’s womb, the human fetus experiences a singular dream—a dream that might aptly be titled "The Real-Time Evolution of the Cosmos." This dream unfolds like a staggeringly long, unbroken film that spans perhaps millions, even billions, of years. The story begins with the fetus itself embodying its most ancient ancestor, a simple, primordial single-celled organism. Gradually, the protagonist—this single cell—evolves through endless, incomprehensible epochs until it finally reaches the form we recognize as human, the form of the fetus itself.

The film depicts, with a visceral intensity, the overwhelming challenges faced along this evolutionary journey: from shattering cosmic upheavals to the merciless forces of natural selection and fierce struggles for survival. These cataclysmic events and harrowing trials are etched directly into the fetal consciousness as if they were personal memories, drawing the fetus into a strange yet profound horror film—an awe-inspiring vision beyond the bounds of ordinary imagination. In this film, long-extinct creatures of prehistory move in vivid detail, as do colossal geological cataclysms that annihilated entire species. But the journey does not end with these ancient epochs.

The dream then brings forth ancestors from the dawn of humanity, battling against each other and their environment. These ancestors grapple with intense desires, suffering through fierce and relentless competition for existence. Their innumerable transgressions and uncountable sins come to life in the fetus’s dream as if they were personal experiences of its own—a great and dreadful nightmare that unfolds with unparalleled terror.

This profound, almost incomprehensible phenomenon has roots in two great mysteries surrounding "Embryology" and "Dreams," the unraveling of which indirectly yet unmistakably confirms the reality of this remarkable dream phenomenon.

To begin with, when a human embryo first takes form within the mother’s womb, it appears as a single, perfectly spherical cell—much like the primordial creature that stands as the common ancestor to all life. Shortly after implantation, this single cell divides into two, aligning itself with its twin in a cohesive whole that functions as a single organism. These two cells then divide again, this time into four, which also cluster closely, forming a unified entity that steadily absorbs nutrients from the mother.

As the cells multiply—four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, and on exponentially—the organism grows in size while recreating the sequence of forms marking each stage of evolution that humanity’s distant ancestors once took. First, the embryo takes on a form resembling a fish, equipped with a primitive spinal column and simple fins. In the next stage, it develops four rudimentary limbs, resembling the amphibious creatures that crawled between land and sea. Following this, the limbs grow stronger, transforming into appendages fit for walking, giving the embryo a form akin to an early mammal. Eventually, the tail recedes, and the forelimbs begin to take the shape of hands. The being then stands upright, taking on a distinctly human form. Finally, when this sequence of evolutionary stages is complete, the child emerges, crying its first breath into the world.

This process—an undisputed fact of embryology—occurs universally, with little to no variation in form or duration from one individual to the next. And yet, a profound question arises: Why must the embryo take this extensive and intricate path of development in the womb? Why does it not simply form as a miniature human and grow from there? Why must the single cell undergo these same transformations, in precisely the same sequence, as if all embryos, without exception, have conspired to follow the same order, down to the smallest detail?

In other words, what compels the embryo to replicate the entire evolutionary journey of life within the span of ten months?

This question remains unanswered. No modern scientific text offers a satisfactory explanation. It is simply acknowledged as a phenomenon beyond comprehension, shrouded in mystery.

During its time in the womb, the human fetus follows the precise sequence of forms taken by each ancestor along the path of evolution, progressing without deviation. Astonishingly, however, this process, which took millions or even hundreds of millions of years in the course of natural evolution, is condensed into mere moments for each stage—sometimes just seconds or minutes in the span of gestation. This compression of time, although remarkable in itself, follows a certain order. The higher the evolutionary stage that a species has reached, the longer its development in the womb appears to take, while simpler organisms like bacteria—remaining at the earliest evolutionary stages—lack a period of gestation entirely, simply dividing to reproduce. What, then, determines this pattern?

It would seem that human embryos, being at the highest level of evolution, require the longest gestational period. However, modern science has yet to explain what compels the fetus to recapitulate this lengthy evolutionary process with such precision.

This phenomenon alone poses an unsolved mystery about embryonic development, but further enigmas reveal themselves upon examining the human body. Superficially, the human body, with its elegance and symmetrical beauty, embodies the peak of nature’s design. Its form exudes a soft dignity, with refined features and a skeletal and muscular structure suggesting an inherent harmony and balance. However, beneath the surface, a different reality unfolds: each internal part—from teeth to skeletal structure, from the arrangement of organs to the neural pathways—bears the unmistakable marks of our lower animal ancestors, with functions and forms inherited from the fish, reptiles, and primates that preceded us. Even the smallest detail in a single hair strand or the structure of a tooth tells the story of untold generations shaped by the fierce trials of survival and natural selection. These details are vivid records, written into each cell of our bodies, of hardships endured by our forebears.

This idea is well-established in the fields of evolution, genetics, and anatomy, and thus requires no lengthy defense here. But it compels the question: What recalls and reenacts this history, carrying the cumulative memory of evolution into each new embryo?

In short: What drives the fetus to do this? Modern science, while documenting the phenomenon, remains silent on the "why" behind it. It is still classified simply as an inexplicable wonder.

But the marvel does not end there. A closer study of the human mind—its nature and its contents—yields even more profound evidence of this mystery.

Human consciousness, on the surface, appears so elevated and refined that it can obscure any comparison to that of other animals. Beneath this veneer of cultured restraint—a "human mask" shaped by constructs like common sense and morality—there exists, unmistakably, the ancient layers of consciousness inherited from countless animal ancestors. These layers reveal themselves if we only peel away this cultivated "human skin" just a bit.

Take, for instance, what lies just beneath this thin surface of "civilization." Traits like empathy, justice, or propriety are only part of the surface. Peel them back, and we find the mind of a primitive human or an ancient savage—a primal psychology still in place. This fact is illustrated in children, who haven’t yet learned to wear the mask of culture. Watch a child pick up a stick and pretend to fight: it is a gesture inherited from early humans who survived by waging battle and defending their groups. When children chase insects without reason, they act out the instincts of our hunter ancestors, following anything that moves. And when they pull off the limbs of a captured insect, playing cruelly, they mimic the brutal treatment of prey by ancient tribes who used their captives for sport and validation of their own survival.

If we go one level deeper, beyond the primal human mind, we see the underlying psyche of an animal—the base instincts of beasts. For example, strangers eye each other with suspicion, sensing weaknesses and even feeling an instinctual urge to sneer or bare teeth, like cats and dogs meeting on a street corner. We catch ourselves longing to dominate those weaker or feeling the urge to snatch something when no one is looking. This layer is the animal psyche at play, and it explains why we still insult others with words like "beast" or "brute."

Cut deeper still, beyond the animal psyche, and the mind of an insect emerges—a primal consciousness that fills every layer of our being.

A person’s consciousness, though it might seem unique to humanity and cloaked in layers of civilized sophistication, ultimately reveals itself to be built upon strata of primordial instincts. These instincts, spanning from the earliest life forms to our closest animal kin, remain deeply embedded within the human psyche, albeit often concealed beneath a superficial “human veneer.”

Strip away this cultured layer—one that we fashion with behaviors like compassion, civility, and reason—and what we encounter is the psyche of ancient ancestors, a structure much like the animal kingdom itself. Just under the “civilized” exterior lies a more primal mind, reflecting the instincts of early humans. For example, children readily act out such ancient behaviors. Picking up sticks to mimic battle gestures or chasing small creatures harks back to instincts formed during the survival-driven existence of our ancestors.

Underneath even this primal layer lies a baser animal psyche, still present and still potent. Traits like envy, self-preservation, or social competition are relics of survival. Observe how strangers regard one another; the subtlest unease reveals itself in sideways glances, gestures mirroring animals circling in wariness. Peel away yet another layer, and we reach the level of “insect psychology.” Here lie the instincts of self-interest, dominance, and deceptive survival strategies. Driven to climb higher by stepping on others, finding secret paths to comfort, or hiding behind shields when confronted—these all stem from the base instincts of creatures like insects.

Lastly, and at the deepest core, we come upon the psychology of microorganisms. This most fundamental layer reveals humanity’s innate attraction to crowds, trends, and movements, echoing the rudderless behavior of bacteria clustering toward light or chemical stimuli. Drawn toward popular trends, movements, or symbols of power without question or insight, humans show a pattern much like that of cells in a Petri dish, moving blindly toward stimuli and sacrificing themselves in waves for ephemeral causes—be it revolutions or cultural frenzies.

This collective human psyche, superficially wrapped in sophistication and ego, ultimately comprises the evolutionary memory within each cell, retaining experiences and survival mechanisms forged across billions of years. Yet, this profound legacy goes largely unexamined, concealed beneath a thin veil of pride and a belief in humanity’s exceptionalism. This denial of our ancient instincts may obscure the truth, but it does not alter it: the psyche of modern humanity remains inseparable from its primitive roots.

The above discussion outlines the mysterious phenomena surrounding fetal development and the traces of universal evolution observed in the physical and mental composition of a fully developed human being. Now, let us turn our focus to another source of mystery within human experience: the phenomena observed in human dreams.

Dreams have long been recognized as representatives of mystery itself. When something unexpected happens, people immediately wonder, “Could this be a dream?” This is because dreams often present panoramas as vivid as real life and then juxtapose them with bewildering, surreal landscapes or objects. At times, the familiar laws of psychology and physics seem to apply within the dream, only to be subverted by extraordinary laws governing transformations unlike anything in myth or legend. Scholars throughout history have puzzled over the nature of dreams and the shifting, sometimes chaotic principles governing events within them.

Here, we will examine three key aspects of dreams—selected for their potential to reveal the essence of dreams and their mysterious workings:

1. Disjointed Transitions and Inconsistencies: Events within a dream often shift in bizarre, illogical ways, creating gaps and breaks in continuity. Such irrational and supernatural sequences are more common than not, suggesting that the very essence of dreams lies in their departure from coherence. Remarkably, while dreaming, the dreamer seldom questions these contradictions, instead responding to the events with seriousness and intensity that often feels as real, if not more intense, than everyday reality.

2. Unfamiliar but Realistic Imagery: Dreams frequently display landscapes, beings, or cosmic phenomena entirely unfamiliar to the dreamer—never seen or heard of in waking life—yet experienced with the full weight of reality. These previously unseen elements appear as if they are perfectly plausible within the context of the dream, evoking a sense of wonder and intensity akin to actual encounters.

3. Condensed Time Perception: Modern science has shown that dreams can encompass long, complex sequences that feel as though they span months or years, yet are experienced in a matter of minutes or even seconds. This striking compression of time within dreams is a critical feature that underscores the unique, non-linear nature of dreaming.

These attributes form the essential, enigmatic characteristics of dreams and provide profound insights into their nature.

The various mysteries related to “the fetus” and “dreams” listed above have become profound scientific enigmas, accepted yet unresolved. But why have such phenomena remained unexplained until now? When considering this question, we come to identify two fundamental reasons.

First, traditional scientific approaches toward the human body’s cells—those that govern fetal development and produce dreams—are fundamentally flawed. Second, the general human conception of “time” is profoundly mistaken.

To put it differently, the contents within each cell that composes the human body are, in truth, far greater than the sum of the person’s consciousness. No—the contents, the functions of a single cell, possess an unimaginable complexity, a grandeur that rivals the vastness of the universe itself. Merely observing a cell’s structure through a microscope, analyzing its chemical makeup, and tracking its proliferation by the shapes and colors of its transformations reveals none of this grandeur. Such an approach, limited to material science alone, fails entirely to unveil the profound, mysterious qualities these cells contain.

This is akin to attempting to comprehend the greatness of a hero solely through examination of their corpse, dismissing their life’s accomplishments and insights.

The same error applies to our understanding of time. The time measured by meteorological observatories, our clocks, or through the earth’s rotation and orbit around the sun, does not capture the reality of time. Instead, it is an artificial construct, created by material science—an illusion, a mere fabrication. Genuine time is not a rigid, quantifiable phenomenon. It is far more fluid, unfathomable, and mysterious.

Accepting this reveals the truth of the “dream of the fetus.” Recognizing the fluid and enigmatic nature of time, we can grasp the very key to unraveling the mysteries of life and the universe.

At its essence, a single cell appears as no more than a microscopic fragment—an infinitesimal portion of the human body, almost invisible even under weaker microscopes. Due to its minuscule size and assumed simplicity, scientists have long held the notion that the complexity and abilities of a single cell must likewise be limited, a mere fraction of what the human organism as a whole is capable of achieving. Such cells, they assumed, were bound to possess an uncomplicated, almost powerless nature.

Yet, as science uncovered the remarkable functions of cells—their mysterious ability to live, reproduce, and pass on traits—each discovery left scientists astonished. Despite this, research has remained firmly confined to what can be seen through a microscope or analyzed in a lab; scientific studies have limited themselves to the explanations that material science can offer. The basic assumption about cells has remained largely unchanged: that their existence and capabilities are mere fragments of the whole, trivial in relation to the larger body.

This cautious perspective, wary of the unknown and dismissive of any theories suggesting cells might possess qualities beyond simple mechanics, has bound the scientific community’s outlook. Researchers feared that exploring anything beyond the boundaries of material science risked undermining it altogether. This fundamental underestimation arose from a superficial estimation of cells, a conjecture influenced by assumptions about their size and form: "Surely, cells are only this complex,” scientists presumed.

This restricted, materialistic worldview has kept the great scientific mysteries unsolved—the enigma of life, the intricacies of consciousness, and the wonders of dreams. What holds us back is not the cells themselves but the limited way in which science has allowed itself to view them—a narrow approach that, ironically, borders on unscientific.

Setting aside such dated biases, if we observe the universe with a fresh, unbound curiosity and consider these questions from a more liberated, pragmatic perspective, we find that each cell holds an astounding grandeur. A single cell embodies complexities on par with the entire cosmos—intricacies and potential that the narrow lens of microscopes or chemical analyses could never reveal.

Our current scientific methods, clinging to materialism, will inevitably encounter limits in trying to deny or ignore this truth.

The first proof of this truth lies in a cell’s ability to create a human being. As I previously discussed, the single cell that enters a mother’s womb transforms according to a precise sequence, forming and growing in tandem with ancestral forms—emerging as fish, reptile, ape, and then human, retracing the paths of its evolutionary lineage. It “remembers” each form, each step, from its ancient origins, evolving seamlessly until it reaches the form of a human being, even adopting and blending the particular characteristics of its parents. It remembers details, even subtleties, creating something that not only resembles but also uniquely reflects both parents, down to the father’s tendency for anger or the mother’s keen memory.

The memory, sympathy, judgment, reason, ambition, even the moral compass that these cells exhibit is staggering. And when these countless cells converge to form a human—a conscious entity capable of understanding the universe, empathizing with it, and collaborating to shape societies and cultures—the magnitude of their power only grows. This vast and profound power can only be traced back to that initial, single cell, from which all is born.

In short, if we consider the breadth and depth of human culture and civilization, we find that even its loftiest achievements merely reflect the inherent capabilities of a single cell—something seemingly insignificant but infinitely rich with possibilities. The marvels of culture are not mere human creations; they are echoes of the profound spiritual powers contained within each individual cell.

◇Note: The grand congregation of cells, each imbued with extraordinary inner qualities, comes together under the mediation of the brain, forming what we call the human being. Theoretically, the intellect, emotions, and willpower expressed by a unified human consciousness should, therefore, exceed the capacity of each individual cell by an immeasurable degree. Yet, the actual situation is quite the opposite: since the dawn of human existence, no philosopher, genius, or hero has matched the profound powers of a single cell. Even the most brilliant human capacities appear dim, like stars fading before the sun, when compared to the latent potential of each cell’s spiritual essence.

This paradoxical phenomenon may be attributed to the fact that the brain—a mechanism of unification for the vast powers of the cells throughout the body—has not yet fully evolved. It functions as a mediator, but an imperfect one. Because of this incomplete state of evolution, the cells’ collective spiritual abilities are hindered from manifesting their full potential. At the same time, it’s conceivable that this limitation reflects the transitional state of human evolution. From the moment the first cell appeared on Earth, it began the journey of unfolding its boundless potential, a progression aimed at giving concrete form to its spiritual powers in the world. Through countless transformations, this primal life force has evolved to reach humanity, which represents a significant but incomplete phase in this journey. Humanity, then, is still a creature in flux, an unfinished being, poised to evolve into a more advanced entity.

This dilemma—that humanity embodies a remarkable yet imperfect unification of cellular potential—points to a fundamental contradiction, a strange inadequacy in our current state. Such matters undoubtedly warrant profound study, as they involve questions beyond the scope of simple explanations. Thus, let this serve as a preliminary observation for further inquiry into these critical mysteries.

Each cell within the human body possesses an awareness equal to, or even surpassing, that of the individual human consciousness. Like a living entity, each cell undergoes work, growth, division, and eventually fatigue, aging, and dissolution. Through these processes, each cell experiences pleasure and suffering, and even generates associations and imaginings that seem as vast and boundless as human creativity. This phenomenon is akin to a civilization that, from its rise to its fall, creates countless works of art and monuments—evidence of its existence.

Dreams offer a clear manifestation of this principle. In essence, a dream is a projection of certain cells' awareness and activities within the brain while the rest of the body is at rest. When specific cells are stimulated and active during sleep, their awareness becomes impressed upon the brain, creating a memory that we recall as a dream.

For example, if a person falls asleep with undigested food in their stomach, the cells in the stomach remain active, laboring intensively. The discomfort these cells feel might translate to a dream where the person sees themselves laboring under harsh conditions, shackled and burdened, perhaps trapped under debris or weighed down by a heavy stone. Then, as digestion eases, a sense of relief arises, and the dream shifts to images of the dreamer gliding down a scenic slope or standing atop a mountain at sunrise, filled with serenity.

Or take another instance: a person, before sleeping, thinks longingly of someone they wish to see. This longing lingers as the cells influenced by that yearning remain active. In the dream, this desire manifests symbolically as a beautiful flower, a bird, or a distant landscape, with obstacles and challenges impeding access. These difficulties evoke deep ancestral memories—the formidable landscapes, wild beasts, and daunting cliffs that early humans and their predecessors faced. The dreamer might then find themselves journeying through arduous terrain, sometimes as a prehistoric human, other times as an animal, overcoming countless hurdles before finally reaching the object of their desire. With this culmination, the dream’s tension fades, and the sleeper awakens.

Dreams, then, can be seen as a unique art form, crafted by the cells themselves—a vivid, impressionistic symphony of imagery, memories, and hallucinations that express the shifting moods and sensations unique to the individual cells. In dreams, each cell, responding to its own feelings and sensations, conjures symbols and images that embody its experience. If no direct memory or familiar scene matches its emotion, the cell improvises—just as the mind might visualize an angel with wings to represent something mysterious and divine.

This explains why dreams seem to follow no logical sequence, and why settings and scenarios can change in abrupt, unpredictable ways. In dreams, feelings shape the scenes, not the other way around. Unlike in waking life, where our mood adapts to surroundings, in dreams, surroundings transform to fit our feelings, morphing and shifting with the flow of our emotions. Thus, no matter how bizarre or surreal a dream may be, it doesn’t feel contradictory or unnatural; it resonates deeply with the sleeper, often feeling more profound and intense than waking experiences.

In this way, dreams are the cell’s own art form, blending symbolic imagery and instinctual memories to represent their shifting internal states, free from logic or constraint.

◇Note: In recent years, modern artistic movements across Western nations have increasingly leaned toward expressing profound, intense moods through seemingly meaningless or fragmented combinations of colors, sounds, and strikingly incongruous objects or scenes. This shift reflects a gradual alignment with the expressive methods of dreams, moving beyond traditional realism or conventional representations. By adopting such unconventional forms, these movements aim to capture emotions and sensations that resonate on a deeper level, much like the direct, often surreal symbolism found in dreams.

The essence of dreams, as it stems from the development, division, and growth of individual cells, reflects their conscious experiences in relation to the brain. Given this, the phenomenon of how time is perceived differently in dreams as opposed to real-time can now be explained. That is to say, as people commonly believe in the clock and the sun as true indicators of time, it becomes clear how significantly such belief shapes the common judgment and leads to disorientation, astonishment, and confusion.

In modern medicine, a minute is defined by an average person’s eighteen breaths or seventy-odd heartbeats. Sixty of these minutes make an hour, twenty-four hours make a day, and three hundred sixty-odd days make a year. This year, in turn, corresponds to the Earth’s orbit around the sun, such that the time shown on a reliable clock will represent the same hour to everyone, universally. But this is ultimately an artificial measure; true time is not constrained by such mechanical measures. A striking example of this discrepancy is revealed when two people observe the passage of time as measured by the same clock, yet experience vastly different sensations of time’s duration.

Consider the perception of an hour, the same on a clock, spent either reading an engrossing novel or waiting idly at a train station. The former hour feels fleeting, while the latter seems to drag on endlessly—time here, unlike the length of a measured object, is subject to individual perception. Even a minute of holding one’s breath underwater feels infinitely longer than a minute spent chatting, illustrating this undeniable truth.

Let us take this thought further: imagine a deceased person who, even after death, could still perceive time. Such a person would feel both a single second and an eon to be indistinguishable in duration. Death thus leads one to experience time not as a measurable progression but as an eternal moment, where a second could encompass an eternity. True time flows beyond any artificial constraints, free from the rigid measurements of earthly or celestial cycles, infinitely adaptable to the myriad individual perceptions within each living being.

To explore this concept further, consider the vast range of life spans among living things, from plants that thrive for hundreds of years, to animals that live over a century, down to microorganisms that are born and die in mere seconds. In general, smaller creatures tend to have shorter life spans. Comparing this to the cells within the human body—each with varied life spans—we see that while the lifetime of an individual cell may be brief relative to that of a human, the subjective experience of this life span remains the same across all beings. Regardless of whether this lifespan is one minute or one century in artificial time, each organism lives through a full subjective lifetime within that span. It is absurd, therefore, to feel sadness over a day-old infant’s passing by comparing it to a short-lived insect, for such comparisons arise from the confusion of finite human-created time with infinitely malleable natural time.

Every aspect of nature claims its own uniquely flexible length of natural time, breathing, growing, reproducing, and eventually dying within it. Likewise, each cell that constructs the human body has access to this infinite, subjective sense of time, regardless of how short its life may appear in artificial time. Thus, when cells use this infinite reserve of time and memory to paint the tapestry of dreams, it is perfectly natural for them to condense fifty or even a hundred years’ worth of events into mere seconds. This notion is as ordinary as the ancient Chinese story of the “Dream of the Handan Pillow” , in which a man named Lu Sheng experiences fifty years within a single breath’s time over a bowl of rice.

From the discussion above, one can grasp the boundless and profound nature of the spirit and capacity within a single cell, especially the remarkable depth and vastness of the "memory of cells." When one fully understands the vast influence of cellular memory—how it constructs both the body and mind of a human being during the process of gestation—then many of the questions surrounding the existence of the "dreams of the fetus" should also begin to resolve themselves. This cellular memory, immense in scope and reach, shapes and drives the progression of human form and consciousness from its earliest stages, and it becomes evident what propels the fetus through its evolution in the womb.

The fetus, nestled within the mother’s womb, remains completely insulated from any sensations of the outside world, existing in a profound state akin to deep sleep. During this time, all of its cells are actively dividing, reproducing, and advancing along the evolutionary path, driven as one towards the ultimate goal of “becoming human.” As these cells multiply, they revisit the memories of ancestral evolution, progressively projecting images of those early life stages into the fetus’s nascent consciousness. In this dream-like state, with no external stimuli and an environment of perfect calm and order, the fetus is wholly focused on this singular progression toward humanity. Unlike the disjointed and erratic nature of an adult’s dreams, the dream of the fetus proceeds smoothly, precisely, and with exquisite detail.

Put another way, it is the fetus’s dream that shapes the fetus itself. And the force that governs this dream is nothing less than the “memory of cells.” This unified cellular memory explains why every fetus undergoes an identical evolutionary journey in the womb, following a set timeline. It is this shared dream, born of common ancestry, that makes each human’s path through gestation fundamentally the same. Furthermore, while the cumulative history that each fetus dreams spans billions of years of evolution, this entire journey is condensed into a mere ten months—an astonishing compression easily comprehended when considering the profound spiritual capacities of each cell. The shorter gestation periods of simpler animals result from a simpler evolutionary history, and the complete absence of a “fetal dream” in primitive microorganisms can be understood as stemming from their lack of evolutionary change, thus reproducing instantly in their original form.

◇Note: The profound nature of cellular memory and its spiritual capacities, its subtle yet far-reaching effects on the cyclic regeneration and reincarnation of all life, have been explored in ancient scriptures, particularly those originating from monotheistic traditions rooted in early Egyptian theology. Many of today’s global religions are in fact ritualized remnants of these ancient teachings, adapted to instruct early civilizations, but diluted into superstition over time. Therefore, the concept of the “fetus’s dream” is by no means a new theory; rather, it echoes wisdom that has resonated through millennia.

If we were to concretely describe the contents of this “fetal dream” that remains absent from our conscious memory, it would likely unfold as follows, a scenario we can infer based on the principles discussed thus far.

In this dream, the fetus relives the immense journey of life’s evolution, from the earliest, primordial stages of existence to the sophisticated being it is destined to become. It begins as a single-celled organism, feeling its way through the ancient waters, recalling the sensations and struggles of those initial forms. It senses itself dividing and growing, embodying the memory of early multicellular organisms, merging into more complex forms.

As it progresses, it would experience the stages of development—moving through a fish-like form, the shift to amphibian life, and the early stirrings of land animals, each phase evoking physical sensations, instincts, and emotions tied to survival. Finally, the fetus would approach the stages closer to humanity, sensing more complex social and survival instincts, and even glimpses of basic emotions tied to the early primates.

Through this dream, the fetus recapitulates the essential experiences, instincts, and collective memory accumulated by its ancestors, all of which guide it unconsciously toward birth as a human. This primal journey, brief yet vast in scope, is the shared “dream” through which the fetus instinctively prepares for its emergence into life.

The dreams of a human fetus, as it replays the evolutionary journey of its countless ancestors, are filled, overwhelmingly, with nightmares. This is not surprising, for as the animal known as humankind gradually evolved to its present state, it did so without the natural defenses possessed by other creatures—no horns like a bull, no claws or fangs like a tiger, no wings, no scales, no poison, no shell. The human body is comparatively weak, harmless, unarmored. Yet, despite this fragility, it endured relentless battles for survival, exposed to every extreme and catastrophe of nature, until, finally, it emerged as the highest form of life. Such a journey demanded immense suffering and danger—a history so filled with hardship that the echoes of these trials remain, reverberating within each generation, stored as the deepest and most painful memories of our ancestors.

In its primal beginnings, the fetal cell appears as a single microbe, clinging to the uterine wall. Here, in the warm depths, it dreams its earliest, oldest memories—floating in tepid waters alongside countless others of its kind, swaying and swirling, basking in the golden beams of the first dawn. In this memory, each cell’s translucent body reflects the fierce, glowing light, radiating a spectrum of colors—a hint of the ancient joy and beauty that marked the dawn of life. But as it drifts, buoyed in the gentle tide, a slight change occurs—a chill, a disturbance in the water—and this world, once radiant, transforms into a realm of unimaginable torment. Waves of suffering press down on it, rendering the cell helpless, as it witnesses others around it dying en masse, unable to move, bound by overwhelming pain. Only as the cell barely survives this anguish does it encounter further threats—a scorching sun, a ghostly cold moon, torrents of rain and wind scattering it through endless voids, plunging it into abyss upon abyss. Overwhelmed, the cell begins to yearn, to desperately wish for a stronger form, a body that could endure such extremes.

Through this intense desire, the cell starts to change, growing into the form of a fish. Now armed with scales and fins, a tail, eyes, and nerves capable of processing stimuli, it becomes the earliest ancestor of humanity to move with new confidence in the ocean. But, even in this new form, danger waits. Before long, it is chased by a gigantic octopus, its monstrous arms stretching across the sea, forcing the fish to seek refuge in underwater forests. Even when it finds shelter, another terrifying predator appears—a massive sea scorpion snapping its claws, followed by a host of strange, dangerous creatures, each one larger and deadlier than the last.

With each encounter, the ancestor longs for a safer, more liberating existence. It envisions life on land, a brighter, airier realm where it can escape from the constant, oppressive dangers of the water. Finally, it emerges onto land in the shape of a small, three-eyed lizard, breathing in the open air for the first time, feeling that perhaps now, at last, it might find peace. But even here, survival remains uncertain, as each step forward brings new trials and dangers to overcome.

The dreams of a human fetus, as it replays the evolutionary journey of its countless ancestors, are filled, overwhelmingly, with nightmares. This is not surprising, for as the animal known as humankind gradually evolved to its present state, it did so without the natural defenses possessed by other creatures—no horns like a bull, no claws or fangs like a tiger, no wings, no scales, no poison, no shell. The human body is comparatively weak, harmless, unarmored. Yet, despite this fragility, it endured relentless battles for survival, exposed to every extreme and catastrophe of nature, until, finally, it emerged as the highest form of life. Such a journey demanded immense suffering and danger—a history so filled with hardship that the echoes of these trials remain, reverberating within each generation, stored as the deepest and most painful memories of our ancestors.

In its primal beginnings, the fetal cell appears as a single microbe, clinging to the uterine wall. Here, in the warm depths, it dreams its earliest, oldest memories—floating in tepid waters alongside countless others of its kind, swaying and swirling, basking in the golden beams of the first dawn. In this memory, each cell’s translucent body reflects the fierce, glowing light, radiating a spectrum of colors—a hint of the ancient joy and beauty that marked the dawn of life. But as it drifts, buoyed in the gentle tide, a slight change occurs—a chill, a disturbance in the water—and this world, once radiant, transforms into a realm of unimaginable torment. Waves of suffering press down on it, rendering the cell helpless, as it witnesses others around it dying en masse, unable to move, bound by overwhelming pain. Only as the cell barely survives this anguish does it encounter further threats—a scorching sun, a ghostly cold moon, torrents of rain and wind scattering it through endless voids, plunging it into abyss upon abyss. Overwhelmed, the cell begins to yearn, to desperately wish for a stronger form, a body that could endure such extremes.

Through this intense desire, the cell starts to change, growing into the form of a fish. Now armed with scales and fins, a tail, eyes, and nerves capable of processing stimuli, it becomes the earliest ancestor of humanity to move with new confidence in the ocean. But, even in this new form, danger waits. Before long, it is chased by a gigantic octopus, its monstrous arms stretching across the sea, forcing the fish to seek refuge in underwater forests. Even when it finds shelter, another terrifying predator appears—a massive sea scorpion snapping its claws, followed by a host of strange, dangerous creatures, each one larger and deadlier than the last.

With each encounter, the ancestor longs for a safer, more liberating existence. It envisions life on land, a brighter, airier realm where it can escape from the constant, oppressive dangers of the water. Finally, it emerges onto land in the shape of a small, three-eyed lizard, breathing in the open air for the first time, feeling that perhaps now, at last, it might find peace. But even here, survival remains uncertain, as each step forward brings new trials and dangers to overcome.

"Oh, what a relief! How wonderful!" the being thought, scampering eagerly in its new form as a small creature, hopping nimbly from branch to branch. But scarcely had it taken pleasure in this newfound freedom when the earth erupted around it—an apocalyptic force of earthquakes, volcanic explosions, and tsunamis surged from every direction. The seas boiled like a cauldron, and the creature, gasping for breath, found itself thrashing frantically across burning sands with nowhere to hide. Just as the agony seemed to abate, it was nearly trampled by a colossal iguanodon, then knocked aside by the wing of a swooping pterosaur, only to nearly be caught in the monstrous beak of an archaeopteryx.

In sheer exhaustion, the creature thought, "Surely there must be a way to survive here, in this hellscape, without hiding behind spiny defenses, cowardly camouflage, shells, or poison!" Desperate to find peace, it concealed itself beneath rocks and prayed, huddling in silence. Soon, one of its three eyes—a single eye positioned atop its head—faded away, leaving it with two. Its form adapted further, now resembling a nimble, two-eyed monkey, able to leap gracefully from tree to tree.

"At last, I’ve found safety and freedom!" it thought, feeling invincible, until a massive serpent lunged silently from behind, ready to devour it. Panicked, the creature fled, only to be driven from above by a hunting eagle’s talons. And, as if these threats weren’t enough, swarms of parasites and leeches latched onto its skin, gnawing incessantly. Days and nights passed in relentless caution, with no refuge. Then, just as the creature began to feel a semblance of ease, a mighty storm unleashed torrents of rain, hurricane winds, and deadly hail, flattening trees and shrubs, forcing it into a mad, frantic frenzy to survive the devastation.

Exhausted and broken, it retreated to the hollow of a tree, where it whispered, "Why must I, who do no harm, endure such endless suffering? If only I could become something greater—stronger, powerful enough to withstand these disasters without fear." As it uttered this fervent wish, its tail slowly began to disappear, transforming its form once again—this time into that of a human.

"Oh, what joy! How marvelous!" the creature rejoiced, hoping that now it might finally enjoy peace. But, just as it began to feel the ease of its new existence, the dream shifted yet again, continuing into the ceaseless cycle of nightmares that seemed bound to its human form.

The ancestors of every human, as far back as primitive beings, endured untold torment, inflicting upon each other cruel survival tactics inherited from a lineage of brutal and cowardly instincts. In its womb-bound existence, the fetus relives these dark memories as vivid, haunting dreams—visions of betrayals and brutalities long past, passed down as part of its inherited consciousness. It sees itself as the mastermind behind horrendous acts: seizing castles through treason, forcing loyal retainers to die as spectacles for its amusement, poisoning noblewomen or heirs to secure a legacy for its own progeny, and suffocating the innocent to pursue twisted desires.

It witnesses the horrors inflicted upon infants—newborns strangled to conceal shame, unwanted children shoved into wells, pure daughters humiliated for others’ amusement, and lovers driven to suicide by unrequited passions. It revisits atrocities of every sort: the callous murder of cherished individuals, the ruthless abuse of beauty, the pleasure derived from torture, and even acts of cannibalism. Blood-stained faces, headless corpses, long strands of hair in wells, daggers hidden in rafters, and bones at the bottom of dark waters—each memory, one by one, rises from the abyss and manifests before the fetus as a nightmarish panorama. These visions wrench the fetus, causing it to flinch and tremble within its mother’s womb, disturbed by the relentless terror.

Once it has witnessed its lineage’s full, unvarnished history and the dreams finally subside, the fetus drifts into a peaceful slumber. Then, labor begins, and as it is pushed out into the world, its lungs flood with air. In that moment, the memories retreat to the deepest recesses of its subconscious, replaced by an immediate, intense awareness of reality. Bewildered, terrified, and overwhelmed, it cries out. Thus, the newborn finds comfort in its parents’ boundless love, learning to dream with serenity for the first time as it adjusts to life’s gentler realities. In time, it becomes an author of its own story, beginning to craft the continuation of its “fetal dreams” within the bounds of conscious reality.

When a baby startles awake, crying or smiling mysteriously in its sleep, it is experiencing remnants of the “fetal dream.” Even congenital deformities or mental abnormalities trace back to a disturbance within that prenatal dream state. Occasionally, relics like hair or teeth alone remain within the womb, appearing as so-called "demon fetuses"—embryonic remnants whose growth halted or morphed drastically in response to trauma that severed their evolutionary progression.

—End—

A Testament Unparalleled in History

—The Night of October 19, 1926 

―Journal of the Mad Doctor

Hear ye, hear ye! Those of you from afar, grab a telescope and fix your gaze; those nearby, come closer and peer through a microscope. I am none other than Keishi Masaki, famed as the “Mad Doctor” of the Psychiatry Department at Kyushu Imperial University. And today, for the singular pleasure of shocking the prudish minds of society, I have decided to end my life. But, as a final gesture, I shall present to the world a last will and testament like no other—a document to decide, once and for all, who is the true fool here: the writer or the reader. So, all you conventional souls who think yourself sane, come forth with skeptical brows and challenge me if you dare…

Or so I thought when I began this preposterous introduction. But alas, it seems the thrill is lacking. And perhaps that’s only natural. Here I am, sitting at my own desk in the upstairs office of the Psychiatry Department at Kyushu University, slouched in my swivel chair with a bottle of whiskey within reach, wielding a fountain pen and glowering at an open stack of oversized foolscap paper. The clock above just struck 10 PM. A half-burnt cigar dangles between my lips, sending purple wisps into the air. Frankly, I look no different from a downtrodden professor toiling late into the night. Hardly the image of a man on the verge of greeting his maker, wouldn't you agree? Ahahahaha!

You see, I have always had a compulsion to exist beyond the constraints of common sense. And indeed, the world at large has long regarded me as a bit of a madman, for which I feel nothing but sympathy for its unenlightened souls. But here we are… though, to be honest, I’m unsure exactly where to begin. This is my first, and will likely be my last, attempt at writing a will. Still, if I were to approach this in the conventional order, I suppose I should start by explaining my motives for this decision to take my own life.

Simply put, my suicide can be directly linked to one delicate young woman… Yes, indeed, she is the very reason. Now, no laughing, please. To do justice to this girl’s beauty, I’d need thirty lines or so, each one devoted to a “very, very, very” until you finally understand. Even if I were to gather every label from the world’s finest handkerchiefs, every cover of women’s magazines, every mannequin from dress shops, every poster from beer halls and department stores, and even if I overturned every film studio from Europe to America, I could scarcely hope to assemble an image so perfectly pure, so achingly radiant, so eerily youthful… Ahahahaha! That’s enough. I wouldn’t want you to think I’ve turned into a jilted old fool, driven to despair over some unreachable beauty. You can rest easy—there’s no danger of that. The truth is, that lovely girl was erased from the register of the living a good six months ago.

Now, I realize some of you might leap to the assumption that I’m taking my life out of some anguished longing for her. But hold your horses—don’t get ahead of yourselves. That girl, currently counted among the dead, is soon to make a most romantic pact with a living young man of truly remarkable beauty, as lovely as a polished gem, who will pledge to be her companion for all eternity. Once that happens, my purpose in this world will be fulfilled. Though I can already picture the armchair psychologists in the crowd shaking their heads, thinking I must have been driven mad by visions of a love scene between this departed beauty and her living paramour. And thus, they conclude, I am ending it all…

Well, well, I’m rather surprised. I never realized how annoyingly tricky it could be to write a last will and testament. Still, since I’m going through with this suicide anyway, it would be a waste not to write something, if only for posterity. I suppose I should finally reveal the truth: through the union of this deceased girl and this vibrant young man, I will bring to completion my life’s work—a groundbreaking study in the field of mental science, what I call “psychological inheritance.” This experiment will reach its triumphant conclusion the moment their lips touch, and their embrace ignites a chain reaction that proves my thesis once and for all.

Well? Is this not a splendidly thrilling experiment, unprecedented in both scale and scope? Ahahaha!

There could be no other like it—after all, I am the sole inventor of this field of study, mental science, which I devised myself. And more uniquely still, my experiment in psychiatric science stands apart from all those dull medical trials that require dead bodies, birds, or beasts. You see, animals and corpses are unsuitable subjects for this study. An animal, by its very nature, lacks the refined complexity needed, and the dead, sadly, lack the essential soul. This study requires living, vibrant humans, with healthy minds capable of experiencing both madness and recovery. Only by meticulously observing and recording every step of this transformation can I achieve my goal. And, naturally, I selected as my subjects two individuals who might conventionally be classified under terms like “hereditary psychosis,” “homicidal mania,” “premature dementia,” or “perverse sexuality.” Complex cases indeed.

My subjects are anything but simple. And yet, from the very beginning, I launched this study as a life-or-death endeavor, fully aware of the danger that I might be swallowed whole by my own experiment. And so, here I sit, writing, fully resigned to the end, sipping amber whiskey and puffing clouds of purple smoke, savoring these last moments.

So take your time, dear readers, and read on. Though this may be a will, it is not the solemn, holy thing you might expect. This is no prayer to Amida Buddha, no murmur of “amen,” no whisper of regret. No, consider this a sort of madman’s farewell, a bit of absurd theater for your amusement. In these pages, you’ll uncover the elaborate mechanics behind my ultimate experiment—an unparalleled study of deviant sexuality, centering on the relationship between an incomparable young man and an exquisite young woman. And as the truth behind this extraordinary experiment gradually unfolds, you may even come to understand how its relentless progress has torn my entire life asunder.

Let us go back a bit in time.

One day earlier this October, a series of my remarks, titled “The Brain Is Not the Seat of Thought,” was published in a Fukuoka newspaper’s science column. I’ll admit, the tidal wave of public outrage that followed left even me somewhat overwhelmed. I’d long suspected that humanity was riddled with vanity and superstition, but to this extreme? I hadn’t anticipated such unabashed idiocy. Every method available—letters, newspapers, magazines, and even face-to-face meetings—was employed by those so-called “sensible folk” to refute my words and denounce my theories. Most astounding of all was how, within my own university, a place supposedly dedicated to the pursuit of free inquiry, even the professors—these refined gentlemen, stroking their chins and twirling their beards—came together and demanded, with pounding fists, that “this deranged, arrogant madman be thrown out!” If that was not possible, then “lock him up in the red-brick madhouse!”

Upon hearing this, even I, seasoned as I am in the rough-and-tumble of academic life, nearly hoisted my sails and made for safe waters. I had thought that the university, at least, would be a sanctuary for scholarly research, yet here it turned out to be a nest of surprises. Fortunately, the university president, a man of bureaucratic sensibilities, managed to handle things with enough tact to keep the wolves at bay, and so I was spared. Still, the whole affair was laughably absurd. One would think that people capable of becoming professors or doctors would themselves be at least slightly mad or obsessive, and yet here they were, unable to stomach an eccentric of a higher order calling them madmen! The absurdity of it all! My old friend, Department Chair Wakabayashi, witnessed my exasperation at the time.

“Honestly,” I said, “with things like this, there’s no way I can present my work on psychoanatomy, or psychopathology, or psycho-heredity. You know, my theories argue that the insane are more rational than ordinary folk. Hahaha…”

“Indeed,” he replied. “Few people realize how deeply insulting science is to humankind.”

“Exactly! The same people who proudly claim ‘Man is descended from apes’ lose all composure when you suggest that they, too, might be mad. They have no idea that if apes evolved into humans, then humans evolved into lunatics! Instead, they imagine evolution proceeding in reverse! Wahahahaha!”

And so we laughed.

That is why I ended up withholding my “Theory of the Brain” manuscript, which I’d planned to release with a few corrections. And now, half a year later, I’ve gone ahead and tossed all of it—every last page—into the fire.

Why? No particular reason. It’s all too trivial.

Human civilization is simply too absurd and infantile to understand my research. And to think, for over twenty years, I failed to recognize this glaring fact, toiled on this outlandish study, raising the very devil's dust! The sheer foolishness of it all dawns on me now with painful clarity. Perhaps my insanity is finally subsiding... Hahaha.

Still, I’ve saved a prime morsel, the rarest cut, from that research. I’ve embedded it here in this testament as a reference for any future mad scientist who might feel inclined to take up where I left off. As for my “Theory of the Brain,” it’s already been exposed by the press, and I have no regrets about its incomplete publication. My subsequent work on psychoanatomy, and even my research on psychopathology, were covered in the thesis I submitted here at Kyushu University twenty years ago, “Dreams of the Fetus.” So, I’ll pass over that material, and in its place, I’ll write a brief note on my two proudest achievements: “The Liberation Treatment of Lunatics” and “Psycho-Heredity.”

If this is read alongside my prior newspaper remarks and the “Dreams of the Fetus” thesis, the account of my grand experiment with the beautiful young man and woman will become clear. October 19th, 1926—today, at noon—the results of this unprecedented experiment were announced to the world. It was a resounding success, yet simultaneously a colossal failure, a paradox that embodies the core principles of my mental science. And along with it, society’s most cherished beliefs—its knowledge and its common sense—have been blasted to splinters, leaving nothing behind but an endless litter of hollow skulls.

Now, then... Let me pause here for a moment and relight my cigar. A true pleasure of mine. Even in the poorest of times, I always kept cigars and a bottle of spirits at my side. And now, as I approach the end, it seems I’ve reached my last few. Please, allow me this indulgence. Hahaha...

Thank you for your patience… Now, allow me to continue. It seems that those who have glimpsed my “Asylum of Liberation,” the place that directly led me down the path to paradise, view it as nothing more than a sort of garden where lunatics go for a stroll. Some, after reading newspaper articles, nod wisely, saying, “Ah, I see,” then immediately follow up with remarks like, “Yes, I suppose this would keep the patients calm,” or “Ah, a kind of light therapy, perhaps.” With such airs of expertise, they pass it off with no one the wiser about the true nature of this experiment—which, of course, I find quite amusing. In fact, I never revealed the secret of this study, not even to my assistants or aides who work alongside me. They simply assume it’s some highly elevated research. But, the truth? It’s a delightfully simple—yet profoundly thrilling—experiment. The high-minded title, “Liberation Therapy,” is merely a mask, a convenient cover for my work.

Truthfully, this so-called “liberation therapy” is none other than the real-world testing of ideas from a thesis I wrote when I graduated from the predecessor of this university, Fukuoka Medical College, titled Dreams of the Fetus.

However, the examples of “hereditary psychology” in that paper only addressed the most basic instincts we all share, such as hunger, sleep, playfulness, aggression, and competition. They were rather mundane. But here, my research delves much deeper, focusing on the unique, extreme, and often bizarre inherited psychological traits specific to individuals. This experiment unveils something infinitely more mysterious, outlandish, grotesque, and wickedly fascinating than the current fad for murder mysteries and detective novels could ever approach. Haven’t seen anything like it, you say? Very well, I’ll show you at once…

Come one, come all! Behold the world’s only live exhibit of souls bound by karma—the daytime ghost, the midday monster, the phantasmal spectacle of scientific experimentation, right here! Admission is ten sen for adults, half-price for children, free for the blind… Ah—no pushing, please. You’ll only make fools of yourselves in front of the madmen. Let’s proceed in an orderly manner…

Ahem…

What you are about to witness is the “Natural Color, Relief, and Sound Cinema” presentation of the Asylum of Liberation, an institution founded by Dr. Masaki, professor of psychiatry at Kyushu Imperial University. This state-of-the-art cinematic apparatus was recently developed in collaboration with Dr. Taninishi from Ophthalmology and Professor Kanatsubo from Otolaryngology, for use in medical research. This machine is so exquisite in design that the American “talkies” are no match for it! You’ll see not even the slightest difference between the screen and reality, so do pay close attention.

To begin, the screen will display a panoramic view of Kyushu Imperial University’s Medical Faculty. As you can see, the university grounds and surrounding area are blanketed in a continuous stretch of green pine forest. At the western edge, under the twin smokestacks, stands a shabby two-story Western-style building painted blue. This is the psychiatric department’s main building, the famous lair of the “Mad Doctor” Masaki himself. To the immediate south of it, you’ll notice a roughly 200-tsubo square plot of flat land—this is none other than the “Asylum of Liberation” I’m about to introduce.

Now, our film crew, along with their equipment, has taken to the air and is gradually descending, approaching the southern window of the professor’s office on the top floor of the psychiatric building. Imagine, if you will, a dragonfly, or perhaps a fly landing… It is October 19th, 1926, at precisely nine o’clock in the morning.

The red brick walls enclosing the Asylum of Liberation stand a full fifteen feet high, forming a square space filled entirely with this region’s characteristic bright, quartz sand, giving the area a pristine, immaculate appearance. In the center of this sandy expanse stand five paulownia trees, their branches laden with yellowed leaves. These trees have been here for ages, once adding charm to the psychiatric building’s courtyard. But since the ground around them was leveled to create the asylum, they’ve begun to show signs of significant decline—perhaps an ill omen of some kind. One might even speculate that, trapped in such an unexpected enclosure, the trees themselves have developed a sort of psychological disturbance, though this is a diagnosis we in the department have yet to officially consider… Forgive me if I digress.

There is only one entrance to the asylum, located on the east side near the patient rooms and also serving as the passage to the toilets. By this door is a narrow, horizontal slot, through which a hulking figure—a man in a dark uniform with a military cap and a hardened, unpleasant expression—peers coldly into the yard from morning till night. Observing this scene, you may feel that the asylum resembles an enormous magician’s box placed amidst a sea of greenery.

The quartz sand at the base of this “magic box” glistens under the bright blue sky. Here and there, dark figures stand or sit, moving around the enclosure. One… two… three… four… five… six… altogether, there are ten.

These are the so-called “madmen” governed by the principles of “psychological heredity” that Dr. Masaki derived as a continuation of his “Theory of the Brain” and his thesis, Dreams of the Fetus. And precisely three hours from now—at noon, October 19th, 1926 —when the noon cannon fires from the fort across the bay, a tremendous tragedy of psychological inheritance will erupt among these ten madmen, shocking the world and ultimately driving Dr. Masaki himself to the decision of suicide. But the signs of this impending tragedy are already vividly manifesting here in the Asylum of Liberation, so I ask that you fix your gaze and observe each madman’s actions with utmost attention.

To aid in your observations, I will now zoom in on each of the ten madmen individually.

First, on the western side of the brick wall, we see an elderly man stripped to the waist, working fervently. As you can see, this man, with his gray hair and slender, pale limbs, is wielding a hoe, methodically striking it into a furrowed plot about two and a half rows wide that runs parallel to the wall. Despite his efforts, his arms and legs are thin and almost bloodless, and the telltale deep neck creases of an elderly laborer are conspicuously absent. It’s hard to imagine he’s ever done a day’s farm work in his life. Most pitiful of all are his hands. Although partially obscured by his grip on the hoe, one can spot dark stains in various spots along the handle—the telltale traces of blood seeping from open blisters on his palms.

Yet, the old man swings the hoe relentlessly, unfaltering and unswerving. Watching him toil in this manner, one begins to grasp the chilling, unfeeling nature of Dr. Masaki’s experiment in psychological inheritance.

Next, we have a young man standing nearby, observing the old man’s labor intently. He’s dressed in a dark cotton kimono, cinched with an old white cotton sash, and his unkempt hair gives him a somewhat older appearance. Yet, a closer look reveals that he’s a fresh-faced youth of about twenty. Perhaps because it’s his first time in the sun for a while, his skin is pale as a woman’s, with a soft blush to his cheeks, and he watches the old man’s hoe swings with an odd little smile. At a glance, he might seem like an ordinary person, but please look closer. Note his gaze, the clarity and innocence of his eyes—they have the serene, glassy look of a noblewoman raised behind closed doors. This is a distinctive trait that some mentally afflicted individuals display, either just before an episode or in the brief clarity before recovery. Dr. Masaki has long observed this elusive look, particularly challenging when distinguishing between genuine and feigned insanity.

Now, let us bring the lens over to a young girl crouched some distance behind the old man and the young man. Her face is ghostly pale and sunken, covered in freckles, with reddish-brown hair tied back. She squats at the edge of the old man’s field, planting various objects with her frail, delicate hands. Fallen paulownia leaves, withered pine twigs, bamboo sticks, pieces of broken tiles—even a few green blades of grass she must have found somewhere—all are arranged with care. Since the rows she works in are merely ridges of dry, loose sand, the bamboo sticks look as if they might topple at any moment. But, as you can see, she fusses over each one, carefully propping it up straight. Now, you might think it’d be simpler if she just stuck them firmly into the sand, but that would be a layman’s mistake. This girl believes wholeheartedly that these pieces of tile, bamboo sticks, and other debris are seedlings of real flowers or plants, and so she treats them with the utmost care, carefully piling sand around their “roots.”

However, if the bamboo stick she so lovingly planted happens to fall over two or three times… there! Just as you see, she loses her temper. She’ll rip the offending stick out with alarming strength, tossing it aside as if it were a fragile blade of grass. It’s hard to believe such a frightening strength could come from those frail arms. Yet, in truth, even the most delicate woman possesses this level of strength, though societal conditioning—instilled over generations—suppresses it. Humanity, and women in particular, are expected to be weak and delicate. Yet in moments of madness, or when struck by calamities like earthquakes or fires, this conditioning temporarily shatters, allowing people to access their natural strength. This girl’s actions here demonstrate this exact phenomenon, which, I might add, serves as a reverse proof of Dr. Masaki’s theory of “psychological inheritance.”

Moving along, we now turn to a small man with a bristly, hedgehog-like head, dressed in a tattered morning coat. He stands opposite the group of the old man, young man, and girl, facing the eastern brick wall, and delivering a spirited speech.

“…Dharma sat facing a wall for nine years and became known as the ‘Bear’s Ear of Shaolin.’ Thus, we too must face the wall for nine years to hone our oratory skills, so that we may break down the corrupt barriers of the political world and level all inequalities… so that when the era of universal suffrage arrives… that is… well… we…”

The small man shouts with fervor, raising his right hand as if in a grand gesture, moving it back and forth as if lost in the memory of his own words.

Just then, a peculiar-looking woman crosses behind him. As you can see, she’s a coarse, rather unrefined middle-aged woman with a prominent chin, her face smeared with thick mud, perhaps intended as makeup. Barefoot, her kimono’s hem revealing her dirty feet, she drags a tattered sash on the ground behind her. On her disheveled hair sits a cardboard crown painted with red ink. Every now and then, she tilts her head carefully to keep the crown from falling as she casts fierce glances from side to side, strutting back and forth with a queenly air—a sight both comic and pitiful.

Each time this self-styled “queen” passes by, a towering, bearded man kneels reverently at the base of the paulownia tree, prostrating himself over and over. This man, once the principal of a primary school in Nagasaki, inherited a fervent devotion to Christianity from his family, a fervor that reached such heights that he was eventually brought here. During his early days in the asylum, he would carve crude holy icons out of broken bricks and roof tiles, compelling the other patients in his ward to worship them. Now, however, he believes this “queen” is the second coming of the Virgin Mary herself, and he gazes upon her with tearful, adoring eyes.

And there, spinning circles around the prostrating man is a young girl with her hair pinned up in the traditional sagegami style. She’s a second-year student from a girls’ high school, formerly shy and melancholic by nature. However, while developing an exceptional talent in the arts, she became afflicted with what is commonly referred to as early-onset dementia. Following the onset of her illness, her personality underwent a radical change. When first admitted, and asked her name by Dr. Masaki, she boldly replied, “I am the Dance Fiend… Anna Pavlova!” She has since become a cherished figure in the hospital, known for her charm. As you see, she’s constantly dancing and singing her own little songs, spinning in joy, completely lost in her fantasy.

“When I look up at the blue sky 

The white clouds float high, 

The black clouds drift low, 

Side by side in harmony 

They drift and they drift away, 

  Flutter, flutter, floooo—oat away...

And if I could just walk along too, 

Side by side, fluttering free, 

I’d go drifting, drifting down the path, 

Till I bump into a red, red wall... 

  Flutter, flutter, floooo—oat away... 

  Flutter, flutter, floooo—oat away...”

Over here, we see two men in their forties with a working-class look about them, walking back and forth arm-in-arm, engrossed in their own world. The man on the right imagines himself sightseeing in Tokyo, while the one on the left believes he’s exploring the South Pole. United by this shared spirit of grand adventure, they march in lockstep, entirely absorbed in their imaginary journey, much to the bemusement of anyone watching.

Nearby, sitting by the entrance, is a plump elderly woman. Judging from the elegance of her kimono pattern, one might guess she’s from a respectable family, though her actions suggest otherwise. She behaves as though she lives in a slum, fervently picking at imaginary lice, squishing them one by one, only to flick them away with intense concentration. And look—there she goes again! She suddenly loosens her obi, strips down to bare skin, and begins beating her kimono with loud slaps, as if dusting it clean. Each time she does this, the orator, the two working men, and the schoolgirl halt their antics, stopping mid-outburst to point, stare, and clutch their bellies in laughter.

No doubt, among those who have watched these madmen’s antics on screen, some of you may have found yourselves surprised.

“Well… that’s nothing special. Just ordinary lunatics, really. There’s nothing here unique to the Asylum of Liberation. You could see the same scenes in any psychiatric hospital garden. When they said ‘Asylum of Liberation,’ I imagined a vast open space, a sea of hundreds or thousands of lunatics putting on a grand display of their wildest behaviors. But this… this is hardly exciting at all. And as for psychological heredity, I don’t see anything remotely like that here.”

I’m sure there are some who would feel disappointed, even sneer in contempt. But please, be patient. In fact, these few individuals are all that Dr. Masaki needed for his psychological heredity experiment. Simply by observing the behaviors of two or three of them, one could understand the roots of nearly every kind of mental disorder worldwide. These ten patients, you see, were selected as representatives from countless madmen across the world—champions, so to speak, embodying the principles Dr. Masaki has spent twenty years researching. They stand as living proof, exemplars of psychological heredity.

Now, to introduce the first of our champions: the elderly white-haired man you saw earlier, tirelessly tilling the soil beside the red brick wall. His name is Gisaku Hachimaki. His story dates back five generations, to his great-great-grandfather, a renowned wealthy farmer named Gijū, who lived in Torikai Village, near the castle town of Fukuoka. Gijū was a powerful and industrious man, known for his left-handedness, who built a large fortune with nothing but a hoe. His strength and relentless labor earned him permission from Lord Kuroda to carry a sword and take on the surname “Hachimaki.”

Why such a peculiar surname? Well, it originated as a nickname for him in his youth. To save time during fieldwork, Gijū would tie a cloth tightly around his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes, leaving his hands free to work. His diligence was extraordinary. From dawn until dusk, he rested only once a day—when he heard the noon drum from the tower at Fukuoka’s Maizuru Castle, he would drop his hoe, take his lunch to the shade of a tree or the eaves of a nearby farmhouse, and enjoy a brief rest. He would nap for precisely thirty minutes, and, upon waking, would return to his labor until sunset, working until the light faded from the fields. Truly, his was a life of fierce dedication. It’s likely Gijū possessed a strong obsessive temperament, and to the day of his death, he bore a white horizontal mark on his sun-darkened forehead, the lasting imprint of his headband. Even when he stood before the lord, he kept it on, causing one of the courtiers to scold him, “Take off that headband at once!” The lord, however, found it all quite amusing and bestowed the family name “Hachimaki” upon him.

Thus, his descendants carried this name, marked by that indomitable spirit. And now, five generations later, it lives on in this very place, in the figure of old Gisaku, following his ancestor’s compulsive, relentless labor in a scene eerily similar to those long-gone days.

However, as fate would have it, things changed greatly in the generations that followed. By the time we reach this man, Gisaku, five generations down the line, the Hachimaki family had lost not only its renowned surname and left-handedness but also the vast fortune amassed by his ancestor. Gisaku fell to the humble trade of brush-making in Hakata, known for its fine craftsmanship. In his old age, his eyesight deteriorated, and he could no longer handle the delicate brush fibers, leading to his inevitable dismissal. This hardship weighed heavily on his mind, and, unable to cope, he suffered a breakdown and was brought to our university hospital just a week ago.

What happened next was remarkable. Shortly after Dr. Masaki released him into the Asylum of Liberation for observation, Gisaku happened upon a hoe abandoned in the corner of the yard by a cleaner who had used it to kill a snake. Without a moment’s hesitation, he took it up and began to mimic his ancestor’s relentless labor. While he didn’t tie a headband around his forehead, he also never once wiped the sweat from his brow, just as his ancestor hadn’t. And, curiously, he wields the hoe with his left hand—though he was right-handed before his breakdown. Every day, the moment the noon cannon fires, he throws down the hoe, heads back to his room for a quick meal, then stretches out on his bed, sleeping soundly through the night, even skipping dinner. Perhaps in his dreams, he’s reliving his great-great-grandfather’s success, rebuilding the lost fortune.

This, then, is the first example of psychological heredity. If there are any questions, please feel free to raise your hand.

Next, allow me to introduce the short man in the torn morning coat, whom you may have noticed delivering a passionate speech to the red brick wall. His right hand gestures emphatically in the air, while his left hand holds an imaginary support as if gripping a lectern. The language he uses provides important clues to his condition:

“... This is the great wall blocking the Empire’s future! With shallow ideologies prevailing and corruption rampant, our unity as the Japanese nation will soon crumble, just like a mud wall eroded by foreign winds and rains…”

As you may have noticed, terms like “wall” and related expressions repeatedly feature in his speech. This, you see, stems from his maternal grandfather, a master plasterer employed by the Kuroda domain… No, this is not a joke from a comic play! His grandfather was an exceptionally skilled plasterer who, on one fateful day, tragically fell to his death while working on the main tower of Fukuoka Castle. The old man was known for his agility, often boasting of his lightness of foot. He performed such daring feats on the castle roof that even the lord himself observed his work through a telescope with admiration. Yet, due to his habit of setting up only minimal scaffolding for quick jobs, he often came perilously close to slipping or losing his footing. By some miracle, he survived each time—until that final, fatal fall.

Now, I’m sure you’re curious as to the exact nature of the accident that befell our speech-giver’s unfortunate grandfather. One day, while working high on the roof of Fukuoka Castle’s main tower—completely absorbed in his task and under the gaze of the lord’s telescope—he accidentally turned his back to the lord. From below, an overseer saw this and, rather unnecessarily, shouted, “Take care! His Lordship is watching from the keep!” Startled, the plasterer froze, his body tensed, and in that instant, he slipped, tumbling down the stone wall and shattering to his death. Since that fateful day, the family’s line of plasterers ended, yet a remnant of his ancestor’s fear lives on in this young man, passed down the generations.

In his youth, this man had a strange habit of leaping out of bed in a panic, shouting for help in the dead of night. When asked what had happened, he would answer, “I felt as if I were falling from a great height, plummeting headfirst.” Isn’t that strange? This is a vivid example of psychological heredity in action—the unbroken memory of his ancestor’s moment of terror, re-emerging generations later as a recurring nightmare.

And it isn’t just limited to this man. Haven’t we all, at some point, experienced the sensation of falling from a height and suddenly jolting awake? From this perspective, perhaps it’s not so mysterious after all. That brief yet profound terror—“I’m done for!”—may be an inherited memory, passed down through countless ancestors who each faced their own moments of peril.

Any questions so far?

Now, moving along, let’s turn our attention to the woman with the cardboard crown, who strides back and forth with that peculiar air of elegance. Her story, too, is notable. A former geisha, she was the daughter of a merchant family and was sold into the trade at a young age. She quickly caught the eye of a young banker, who planned to redeem her and make her his wife. However, his traditionalist parents opposed the marriage on grounds of social class and refused to allow her as their son’s lawful spouse. The rejection left her devastated, and at a gathering shortly afterward, when approached by a first-time customer, she burst out, “Who do you think you are, making offers to me?” She flung his cup back at him, snapped her shamisen in a fit of rage, and was promptly escorted here to the hospital.

While it might seem overly sensitive to have been so upset by a mere matter of status—especially in this modern age—the depth of her reaction reveals the dark power of psychological heredity. That phrase, “difference in status,” inflicted more than a wound to her pride; it struck her at a level deeper than personal identity. This explains her current behavior: every gesture, from her refined posture to the elegance in her gaze and step, bears the air of nobility. It turns out that, prior to the Meiji Restoration, her family were impoverished nobility—the Nabeto court family of Kyoto, who ultimately lost their standing. The surname, Kiyokawara, though now associated with commoners, has a distinctly aristocratic ring.

So, before her mental breakdown, she adapted to her surroundings, performing the role expected of a merchant’s daughter. But with her mind now unmoored, she seems to have forgotten all traces of her recent past, reverting entirely to the mannerisms of her noble lineage. This is yet another striking example of psychological heredity, resurfacing in moments of psychological crisis.

…Ah, yes… you have a question? By all means, please go ahead.

…Ah, I see… Indeed, quite understandable… So, you’re asking if this “psychological heredity” amounts to no more than these trivial manifestations we’ve seen so far… and if this is truly what Dr. Masaki has staked his very life upon?

Very well, I anticipated this question might arise, so the editor of this film thoughtfully planned for the next segment to directly address it. We’ll now project an image of Dr. Masaki himself, the very pioneer of psychological heredity, onto the main screen, where he will deliver a lecture in response to your inquiry. When the famous “Mad Doctor of Kyushu University” himself, even more renowned than Einstein or Steiner, appears before you, please welcome him with an overwhelming round of applause. Dr. Masaki is rather fond of applause and made a habit of urging his students to applaud during lectures. What’s that? You say he won’t be able to hear your clapping from within the screen? Ahahaha, yes, a fair point indeed! But curiously enough, he can hear it. It’s quite strange—just try it yourself. And with a keen eye, you may even spot where the trick lies…

Clears throat…

Now presenting: Dr. Keishi Masaki, professor of psychiatry at the esteemed Kyushu Imperial University, famed worldwide. The scene is set in the lecture hall of the psychiatric department, where Dr. Masaki, dressed in his usual white medical coat, stands as he would for his everyday lectures.

As you’ll observe, he stands a modest five feet one inch tall, with a slightly dark complexion. His close-cropped hair, almost shining from its precision cut, frames a face with a sharp nose, large round spectacles gleaming at its sides, and piercing eyes that sink deeply under a broad, tightly set mouth. Altogether, he appears somewhat like a skeletal figure wearing a pair of round spectacles. He surveys his audience with intensity, grinning as he reveals a flash of false teeth—every inch of him radiates vitality, courage, and sheer intelligence…

Please, try not to laugh too much… Ah, another question? Yes, yes, what is it? Ah, so you’d like to know if the person explaining this to you and the figure of Dr. Masaki on the screen are indeed the same person or perhaps different ones…

Ahahaha! I see… perhaps it’s best if I withdraw for the moment and let the image on screen—no, I mean Dr. Masaki himself—address you directly. [Narrator exits.]

[Dr. Masaki, on the screen, adjusts his stance and continues speaking with a grand yet almost conspiratorial air.]

Ahem… Ahem…

I consider it the highest honor of my life, and an unparalleled satisfaction, to meet with you young seekers on this silver screen. You are a rare breed—people who live in the realm of common sense yet yearn for the world beyond it. For you, society’s so-called ‘common sense’—these iron-bound chains of outdated social customs, scientific superstitions, foreign imitations, and lifeless moral conventions found at every corner of the modern world—has grown tiresome. In your hearts, you crave to experience life in its wild, unfettered truth. With eyes brimming with insatiable curiosity, you look upon my lifelong research, my experiment on ‘psychological heredity,’ and you grasp it immediately. You see clearly how so-called madmen act under the forces that rule them and understand without effort.

Yet your curiosity does not stop there. You press forward, asking boldly, ‘Is that really all there is to psychological heredity?’—a question that shows you grasp not just what I’ve spent twenty years researching but, in some ways, even more swiftly than this so-called ‘Mad Doctor’ himself. Thank you… thank you! Oh, but hold the applause! We haven’t reached that point yet. For this, I offer you my deepest respect and gratitude.

The truth is, if my so-called ‘extreme psychological heredity’ only manifested in the mad, there would be no need for surprise or worry. What I’ve explained so far may well be groundbreaking to the rank-and-file tadpole scholars, making their eyes bulge, but to me, the Mad Doctor, it feels no more significant than watching a beggar rise to his feet.

No, what drives me to shout of the dangers of psychological heredity is this: it does not simply reveal itself in the minds of the insane. No, it’s something that appears just as readily in the so-called ‘ordinary’ people—in you and me. This is something I can prove beyond doubt.

What’s that? A question? Ah, let me guess: ‘Then how can one tell the difference between the sane and the mad? Surely such a claim is outrageous…’

From the standpoint of pure science, I’m afraid there’s no choice but to respond that, yes, this seemingly absurd situation ‘does’ exist. And it’s more than a mere similarity. Within all of us—yes, you included—a psychological heredity identical to, or even more extreme than, that of the mentally ill is active every single moment, from morning to night, without even a second’s pause. It invades our dreams, stubbornly steering our minds. As a result, we’re often unable to fully control our own thoughts, which creates no small amount of trouble. After all, isn’t it this very loss of self-mastery that endlessly fuels the social columns of newspapers and magazines?

I’ve shared an example before with a newspaper reporter—a simple one from among the countless manifestations of psychological heredity. Take, for instance, the expression, ‘Everyone has a few quirks.’ This is an everyday example of how, like those suffering from mental disorders, we cannot entirely control our own inclinations. However much others laugh, or however much we feel we must change a habit, we still find ourselves powerless to do so. This, too, is a manifestation of psychological heredity. We might tell ourselves not to cry, but tears slip out nonetheless. We might try to remain calm, but suddenly a fury erupts, making us forget ourselves entirely. This is nothing less than a temporary disturbance of the mind that we’ve inherited from some ancestor, a psychological legacy that is, frankly, beyond our control.

Consider, then, the countless variations—obsessiveness, fickleness, mood swings, nervousness, addictions, pleasures, compulsions, and even eccentricities of character. Who among us is without at least a trace of these tendencies? Each and every one of us is influenced by psychological heredity. And therein lies the problem.

My paper, Dreams of the Fetus, which I wrote long ago, sheds even more light on this idea: that what we call the human mind or soul is, in the end, merely a vast accumulation of ancestral psychologies—the instincts of animals, the feelings of the masses—passed down from generation to generation. These make up the essence of our minds, wrapped up in a thin ‘human’ layer that tells us, ‘If I do this, I’ll be laughed at,’ or, ‘If I’m found out, there will be consequences.’ This layer is then bound by the tapes of ethics, morality, law, and custom, tied up with the bows of social niceties, status, and identity. Finally, it’s glossed over with a layer of polish and oil, adorned with parasols and walking sticks. And thus we strut down the wide avenues in broad daylight, declaring, ‘If you’re a gentleman, then so am I,’ or ‘If you’re a lady, then I’m a fine woman,’ or even, ‘If you’re human, then I am as well.’

That, my friends, is what we call the ‘ordinary person’—or, perhaps more aptly, the ‘civilized person.’

Now, these so-called ‘civilized people,’ wrapped tightly in the guise of decency, are in a constant state of tension, struggling to contain the base, uninhibited impulses of psychological heredity within. They try to relieve that pressure by quietly releasing it, bit by bit, putting on a show of restraint, pretending all is well. But, sometimes, that composure shatters, unable to bear the strain any longer. For individuals, this results in outbursts—tantrums, recklessness, fights, theft, fraud, even violence or adultery. In cases where it cannot be restored, these people are labeled mentally disturbed. On a grand scale, it leads to riots, wars, destructive ideologies, and waves of moral decay. We see these cases of psychological inheritance breaking through daily, paraded across every newspaper until we’re sick of it.

I tell you plainly—we, you and I alike, are living in nearly the same mental state as those called mad. The difference between the so-called ‘sane’ and the mentally ill is no greater than that between a man in prison and one walking free. In other words, this entire planet is nothing less than one vast ‘Asylum of Liberation,’ with the Kyushu Asylum here serving as merely a miniature model. Look at the patients here in our asylum; they are every bit as convinced as you or I that ‘I am no madman,’ yet they still operate fully under the influence of psychological heredity, just as we do.

Hahahaha! Well, how does that sit with you, friends? Feeling a little insulted, perhaps? No? Ah, remarkable, remarkable! You must be true exemplars of modern common sense—a credit to society, representatives of contemporary culture. What’s that? Oh, I see, you didn’t take my words seriously, given that I am the so-called ‘Mad Doctor’? Ah-ha! A fine joke! With common sense as developed as that, I hardly stand a chance against you!

Well, if that’s how it is, I’m prepared to go a step further. Science, after all, is rooted in the audacious, the impolite, and the unreserved. Forgive me, but I intend to prod a little closer to home and make you angry, if I may.

I’m sure each of you has had this experience: when your mind starts to grow foggy, all sorts of strange daydreams and visions begin to surface, one after another…

Now, these whims and fantasies, these flashes of daydreams and hallucinations—what are they, if not ghosts of psychological heredity? Scientifically speaking, they arise when the brain’s reflexive functions become fatigued, when the mind loses its link to reason and common sense. In this state, all manner of inherited psychological impulses, buried deep within, awaken and emerge, running riot through the psyche in wild, unchecked wandering.

Imagine a woman quietly sewing behind a paper door, her hands busy with laundry or some other household task, when her thoughts begin to drift. Without realizing, her mind meanders to scandalous scenarios… She imagines shoplifting a ring from the department store—wondering if she might get away with it. She considers her husband’s early death, imagining the wealth he would leave and the amusing new life she might lead. Perhaps she pictures an enemy meeting a torturous end, or slipping some poison into her mother-in-law’s tea for a bit of peace. Or she’s daydreaming of a romantic escapade with an actor, or even contemplating becoming a vampire just for the thrill of it.

Or take a man, gazing idly out the window of a train, stifling a yawn. He entertains notions like slapping the man next to him, just to see the look on his face. Perhaps he wonders what it would be like to set fire to the town, watching as the flames swallow it whole. Maybe he imagines cutting down the crowds in the street, or tossing dynamite into the ceramics shop, breaking the shin of a passing policeman, dumping the goldfish from the fish shop all over the main road, keeping a young lady as his mistress, or slipping the bank vault into his pocket. In his mind, he pictures these absurd, impossible scenes playing out right before his nose—and then, suddenly, he snaps out of it, realizing his folly and feeling embarrassed.

All of this, you see, is simply our ancestors’ primal, suppressed cravings—their cruelty, their animal instincts, their urges to dominate or deviate—that, after centuries of restraint, arise and reveal themselves in our minds. Anyone who claims never to experience such thoughts is either as dull as a rock or merely too forgetful to remember. This is obvious when you consider that sometimes, these passing fancies—these sleepwalking urges—go too far and escalate into full-blown insanity. Just as one might be absorbed in an intense scene from a novel, imagining the drama so vividly that they start to drool, so, too, in the exhausted mind of a mentally afflicted individual, these inherited urges appear far more vividly, intensely, and profoundly than anything they experience in the real world.

In those moments, all other thoughts fade, and the dream-walking consciousness fully takes over. In that state, the person acts out those inherited impulses, unwittingly embodying the precise feelings and inclinations passed down from their ancestors. Thus, you see, everything they do, every behavior, aligns perfectly with my theory.

Three thousand years past, three thousand miles away from here, under the Bodhi tree at Buddhagaya, the Great Sage Shakyamuni Buddha revealed the law of karma—cause and effect across past, present, and future. It is the very essence of cause and retribution, parents’ deeds rebounding onto their children… You see? Ahahahahaha! But this is no solemn sermon of dry bones, no collection plate, no holy writ. No, this is a lecture on modern science—the latest, sharpest insights of psychological science, directly explaining the uncanny mental experiences you have each day.

But, friends, it’s too early to be astonished. The principles of psychological science reveal truths that are far more terrifying, shocking beyond anything you might imagine.

What I’ve explained so far should give you a sense of it. Generations pass like the coming and going of sleep. After a night’s rest, we may think we’ve forgotten all of yesterday, yet we get up and nearly unconsciously go right back to where we left off. A carpenter returns to his half-built house, a plasterer to the wall he left unfinished. And as they continue their work, fragments of yesterday resurface: ‘Did I drop a ten-sen coin here?’ or ‘Wasn’t there a lovely lady passing by around this time yesterday?’ And so, their minds wander back to the very thoughts they held the day before.

Psychological heredity works the same way. The parent is yesterday’s self, the child tomorrow’s. Night is the dark, unconscious interval, the time of gestation where today’s self emerges from yesterday’s. Thus, humans, whether male or female, encounter scenes, objects, seasons, weather—circumstances that stir in us echoes of our ancestors’ moods and states of mind. Just as the carpenter and plasterer fall back into their previous thoughts, so we slip into inherited mindsets whenever prompted by similar cues from the past.

But remember, these inherited psychological inclinations aren’t just one or two—they are countless. And the objects, circumstances, and events that may trigger these hidden instincts are spread all around us, filling every moment of day and night. Every sight and sound, every fleeting moment, stirs up this inheritance in us without pause. We are unknowingly bound by this cycle, controlled by an unyielding force from every direction, a force the ancients called Konjin—a relentless spirit guiding our fate. I will reveal undeniable proof of this in time…

Ahahaha! But don’t mistake me for some spiritual mystic. This isn’t divine revelation—it’s grounded in the simple facts of daily life. We feel constant shifts in mood, often abrupt and inexplicable. We set out on one errand only to be sidetracked by a street vendor’s stall; we march out the door ready for a journey, only to end up in a library instead. Lovers engaged to be married are suddenly overcome by revulsion; someone who finally finds a job turns it down with a single postcard. These sudden, drastic shifts in mental direction are caused by an endless web of unconscious suggestions, always tugging at us through the mechanism of psychological heredity. We don’t recognize it because these influences are subtle, complex, and instantaneous. Their effect is too fleeting, too deeply ingrained, and too strikingly profound for us to notice.

…Now then, friends, consider this: if we were to study more deeply, more scientifically, the relationship between suggestion and psychological heredity, doesn’t it seem we could pull off some fascinating tricks? Imagine applying our findings to influence another person’s mind, causing precisely the changes we desire, just like conducting a physics or chemistry experiment.

To give a few examples, one’s criminal urges often arise from seemingly insignificant, unrelated suggestions that deliver unexpected psychological jolts. A person may find themselves staring at the red ink on a pen tip and suddenly feel compelled to jab it into the eye of an actress in a nearby photograph. Or, gazing at the blue sky or a blank white wall, they might feel a wave of cruelty wash over them. Seeing fog outside a window might incite them to tinker with a pistol, while the sound of a fierce wind could make them slip a dagger into their coat pocket and head out into the night. Perhaps looking at a sharp razor prompts a smile at the thought of comparing it with their reflection. Even a woman’s playful comment, ‘You can kill me if you want,’ might, in an instant, turn the thought into a serious intention. The chirping of birds in the parlor might set the stage for forbidden feelings between two people who, until that moment, had been entirely proper.

These untraceable shifts in feeling—all of which defy simple logic—are surely manifestations of psychological heredity. And every one of them is, undeniably, the initial budding of criminal thoughts.

Consider, too, the stories of old. Tales of ancestors who forbid their descendants from looking at a certain ghostly scroll, or forbidding them from drawing a family sword, only for the descendant to gaze upon these objects and suddenly behave in strange, foreboding ways. The vast collection of records I have compiled is brimming with such cases, each a powerful example of the force that suggestion can exert through psychological heredity.

Now imagine if we could take such suggestions, study them scientifically, and apply them with precision and confidence. Just think what might happen! The magical illusions of Dogetsu Inuyama, Goemon Ishikawa, Tokubei Tenjiku, or Jiraiya would pale in comparison to the feats that would become possible in our own age.

Now, by skillfully employing these types of suggestions, one could drive someone to madness in an instant. Unlike the crude tools of modern crime—loud, bloody, attention-grabbing—such a method leaves no trace, no sound, no hint of violence. One could walk down a busy street at noon, pass by countless bystanders, and commit a crime so untraceable that even the sharpest detective would find it impossible to pick up the trail. And what if I told you that such crimes might already be happening around us, as we speak?

Oh, come now—no need to sit up so straight. Even as a master of mental science, I haven’t quite figured out how to use a screen to drive an entire audience mad with suggestion… though I admit, it would be amusing, wouldn’t it? Ahahaha!

But, in all seriousness, this method of psychological manipulation has already moved beyond mere fantasy or speculation. It stands right before us, an immediate and pressing concern. Fact often precedes research, after all... though I see some of you might raise an eyebrow at that statement.

Be not too surprised, though. Indeed, my esteemed friend, Kyushu Imperial University’s own Dean of Medicine, Dr. Kyotaro Wakabayashi, touches on precisely this topic in his unpublished manuscript, "Crimes of Psychological Science and Their Evidence." I happened to be entrusted with reviewing his introductory section, and, well, I couldn’t resist taking a peek. Let me read a passage to you…

…According to my research, one may reasonably conclude that such psychological crimes have existed since ancient times. For example, practitioners of esoteric knowledge—such as the followers of mystic Buddhism, practitioners of onmyōdō like Abe no Seimei, or devotees of other religious, magical, or occult practices—were often skilled in the art of suggestion. Passed down orally, these methods were sometimes used to influence the minds of vulnerable individuals—women, children, and the uneducated—altering their mental states to manipulate them for personal gain. Practices such as ‘controlling fox spirits,’ ‘casting secret incantations,’ and ‘afflicting people with curses or divine retribution’ can, from the standpoint of psychological science, be viewed as early forms of mental manipulation rather than outright superstitions.

In more sophisticated forms, this art lives on today in practices like hypnotism, spiritualism, and séance techniques. These techniques often hold a strange and hidden power over the minds of those they touch, potentially shaping crimes whose causes remain inscrutable to modern investigation. Such methods have come to wield considerable influence in the shadows of our society, creating, at times, powerful yet imperceptible criminal activities.

Even in present-day Japan, among the patients in our mental hospitals, in shelters for the homeless, or wandering the streets in madness, it is difficult to claim there are no victims of these crimes. Unfortunately, the elusive nature of such acts makes them nearly impossible to investigate or prosecute by conventional methods. When a crime is committed through such psychological means, it leaves not a single shred of physical evidence—no blood, no noise, not even a wisp of smoke. The victim, too, is often left unable to provide testimony, as their mental state is so thoroughly disturbed that they may require months or even years to recover, if they recover at all. Even then, it remains highly doubtful whether any memory of the incident would remain. This creates significant challenges for those attempting to uncover the truth.

Contemporary culture, rooted in material science, naturally breeds crimes that follow the same materialistic principles. However, as the knowledge of psychological science becomes widespread, it is inevitable that we will see a corresponding rise in crimes that exploit the mind rather than the body, with terrifying potential. The dread inspired by these crimes will be no less than that which the most brutal physical crimes provoke today. And so, we, as forensic scientists, must ask ourselves: How are we to investigate such crimes? What knowledge will allow us to understand the path of such an assault on the psyche, to study its invisible weapons, and to shed light on the methods employed in such a heinous act?...

...So, gentlemen, how does it strike you? Our esteemed forensic scientist, Mr. Kyotaro Wakabayashi, is dedicated to studying "crimes of applied mental science," a phenomenon destined to sweep across the world in the near future. His goal is to prevent this trend before it spreads, and he’s meticulously hunting for case studies with the keen eye of a flea-catcher. Despite the growing number of apparent victims—those driven to madness or suicide—evidence hinting at the methods or clues to these crimes remains elusive, forcing him into a state of endless frustration, unable to publish his findings. Thus, he continues to observe every gesture, expression, look, movement, and word, questioning if they might reveal a crime of applied mental science.

...However...

...I ask you again, gentlemen...

An incredible specimen has fallen into my lap. Granted, it was initially discovered by none other than Mr. Wakabayashi, who saw it as an unprecedented case of "applied mental science crime" and carried out his own investigation. But from another perspective, as material for my own studies on what I term "psychological heredity," its value is beyond measure. And indeed, in pursuing it further, I found myself ensnared—so much so that even I, seasoned as I am, nearly found myself buying a one-way ticket to oblivion, fleeing naked, body and soul. Such was the terrifying nature of this research specimen.

Everything was there—the source of the monstrous suggestive force driving the victim to madness, the extraordinary circumstances surrounding their episodes of compulsive somnambulism under the sway of psychological heredity, and the exact details of the overwhelming sensations, as if one’s very heart were melting and flowing away. This record, this unsparing document, captured it all. In short, it was nothing less than a national, or even a world, treasure—a work of peerless scientific and romantic caliber, containing, in unrestrained abundance, elements of the erotic, the grotesque, and the nonsensical, all in excess of one hundred and twenty percent.

An unprecedented and utterly extraordinary masterpiece—a story of unfathomable scale and gravity, magnificent beyond words...

Ahaha, excuse me, excuse me. Alright, alright… let’s save the applause. I got a bit carried away with all the adjectives, didn’t I? When the alcohol starts running low, my brain’s reflexes seem to slow down. Allow me to indulge in a puff of the “King of Kings,” and perhaps a Havana as well… oh dear, nearly forgot—I’m still here in front of the class, aren’t I? I’ll step off the stage right away and, instead of filling the screen, I’ll take on the role of narrator, projecting the details of this bizarre case before you. I intend to shatter your common sense into tiny fragments with a single blow…

…What’s that? You think it doesn’t make a difference whether I’m on or off the screen? Ha! You got me there—sharper than I expected. The truth is, shortly, a version of myself will appear on the screen, guiding you through the chilling reality of this case of psychological heredity as it undergoes experimental “liberation therapy.” When that time comes, I must absolutely be outside the screen, fulfilling my duties as narrator—unlike those avant-garde plays…

And now, if I may present, with utmost reverence, the ultra-spectacular feature by K.C. Masarkey & Company, titled Liberation Therapy for the Insane. This marks the premiere of an all-natural color, three-dimensional, sound-enhanced film. All actors in the production are none other than the actual individuals involved, performing their own roles. At the heart of this tale are a breathtakingly beautiful young man and an incomparable young woman, who find themselves entangled in a vortex of mysteries upon mysteries, each revelation more horrifying than the last. Amidst this turmoil, more than twenty men and women—blood, flesh, and spirit—intertwine in a frantic, chaotic spiral, ultimately reaching a harrowing, dreadful climax at this “Liberation Therapy Clinic,” teetering on the edge of a conclusion so ghastly it defies the eye.

…Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you, this is an event worthy of your full anticipation… [Fade to black]

[Subtitle] Suspect Ichiro Kure (born November 20, 1907), accused in the strangling of his mother and fiancée. Filmed on October 19, 1926, at Kyushu Imperial University’s Psychiatric Department’s affiliated Liberation Clinic for the Insane.

[Narration] First, allow me to introduce the young protagonist of this case. This is the very youth who, as a prelude, appeared among the ten insane patients we observed earlier, the one who watched the elderly man tilling the field. We now have a close-up of him facing forward. As the subtitle mentioned, his name is Ichiro Kure, a twenty-year-old, and, as you can see, he is such a fresh-faced beauty that even a man might find himself drawn to his allure.

Now, before delving into the details of this case, allow me to explain why we are presenting such an enlarged view of his face. The reason, gentlemen, is none other than the fact that his bone structure bears significant relevance to the underlying psychological heredity that governs this case.

As you know, phrenology—while still not fully acknowledged as a rigorous science—has shown that certain aspects do indeed correlate with reality. For this reason, Dr. Masaki meticulously examines the facial structure of each new psychiatric patient, investigating any racial characteristics interwoven within their bloodline. In other words, the psychological heredity within every person reflects not only the distinct traits of their close ancestors but also the psychological characteristics of ancient, disparate tribes that mingled during the primal, untamed ages of human evolution. Thus, even within the Japanese people, elements of Mongol, Indian, Malay, Jewish, Latin, Ainu, and Slavic heritages are inextricably woven into their appearance and character, creating a unique human identity.

In this sense, a person’s facial structure is a miniature portrait of their ancestral lineage, and likewise, an individual’s character might be viewed as the crystallization of their forebears’ mental lives. Therefore, in studying a person’s outward character, and even uncovering latent aspects of their personality unknown even to themselves, it is essential to align these with any symptoms of insanity. This approach holds tremendous value for research. Just as dog and horse breeders can deduce the pedigree, nature, habits, and hidden quirks of animals by a mere glance at their faces, fur, and bone structure, Dr. Masaki has long maintained that detective work and forensic science must someday extend to these depths to claim true credibility.

Based on Dr. Masaki’s diagnostic notes, let me begin by anatomically detailing the features of this young man’s bone structure, which directly contrast with the peculiar nature of the case that unfolds around him. The first aspect that strikes one is his exceptionally pale complexion—unusually so for a Japanese individual. The faint blush on his cheeks, a telltale sign of his youthful innocence, can be discounted, but the translucent milky hue beneath his skin hints at the presence of Caucasian ancestry within his bloodline. This, in turn, suggests a lineage tracing back over a thousand years, to ancestors who crossed the Tianshan Mountains into China, mingling with the so-called “barbarian” tribes—an ancient heritage that, as records show, reemerges vividly in this boy’s facial features.

Within this youth’s bone structure, the only distinctly Mongolian traits are the smooth black hairline and the interior structure of his nostrils. Unlike a typical Caucasian lineage, which would exhibit a more twisted nasal passage, this young man’s nostrils are surprisingly straight, allowing an unobstructed view deep inside—a trait of serious interest in genetic studies, no matter how amusing it might seem.

Setting aside these Mongolian features, a closer examination reveals a fascinating amalgam of diverse racial characteristics. His face, for example, takes on a generally oval shape with the fullness typical of the Latin type, yet his thick, sweeping eyebrows and long, dark lashes seem almost delicately painted, lending a subtle bluish shadow around his eyes—a feature unmistakably Ainu in nature. His nose, in outward appearance, mirrors the refined elegance of the classic Greek profile, while the gentle curve from his cheeks to his chin and the distinct, wave-like outline of his small, thin lips evoke the ancient Aryan style seen in our oldest Buddhist statues.

Observe closely. There is a shallow indentation in the middle of his chin, a hallmark of Northern European ancestry. While this “chin dimple” or “diamond of the face,” as it’s sometimes called, is a subtle detail and perhaps an unnecessary beauty in a young man, it becomes even more pronounced when he smiles, adding a touch of mystery to his serene, youthful face.

Thus, when examining the bone structure of each individual and comparing it to their personal traits, there is often a remarkable alignment. Most consistently, the alignment is strongest with personality tendencies, followed by interests, and then abilities. In this young man’s case, he embodies the Japanese trait of compliance, the Ainu sense of reverence, and the intellectual sharpness of the Latin races. Yet, as you may observe from his gentle, almost entranced way of blinking, his demeanor is tempered by a subtle Northern European reserve—a refined, contemplative spirit that keeps these qualities from readily surfacing. In other words, this youth, in a nutshell, appears to be a composed, quiet character, mature beyond his years.

However, this surface calm was, in a single moment, shattered by the latent psychological heredity that had laid dormant within him. Once awakened, his deeply buried instincts—bearing the relentless, intense, and at times brutal qualities of the continental races—rose suddenly to the surface, driving him to unpredictable extremes. Thus, the truth behind the bizarre case we are about to introduce could essentially be summarized as the sudden eruption of the Mongolian psychological inheritance that had quietly hidden within him, as one might say, in the depths of his very nostrils.

There is, however, one additional feature of his bone structure that must not be overlooked. His chin, distinctly Latin in form, is thin and symbolizes a mercurial, almost French-like temperament—capable of sudden shifts from laughter to tears, anger to indifference, triggered by the slightest provocation or change in his surroundings. Yet, in his daily life, this trait has been largely restrained, suppressed by his clear intellect and a shy, somewhat antisocial disposition. Still, it is a notable feature, and Dr. Masaki anticipated that, during his time at the liberation clinic, particularly amid the long, drawn-out episodes of psychological inheritance or perhaps during recovery, this sentimental, passionate side of his nature would inevitably emerge.

Thus, with the above discussion, I believe you have gained a clear understanding of the bone structure of this young man, Ichiro Kure. The very thought of how the god of creation managed to combine such varied racial traits with such exquisite harmony—resulting in a visage of rare purity and beauty—leaves one almost uneasy. Even those of us who earn our bread under the banners of scientific authority and human knowledge must, when faced with a living masterpiece such as this, do nothing but hold our breath, fall silent, and bow our heads in awe.

Now, we shall proceed to examine how the events surrounding this case, focused on the boy’s psychological inheritance, unfolded with bizarre, intricate twists within Dr. Masaki’s view—or rather, within the "natural color, three-dimensional, sound-film camera" of Dr. Masaki’s skull, as he calls it, captured by the two lenses of his eyes and the microphones of his earlobes. I will recount for you, in the sequence recorded on the turning film, how each stage of this strange affair imprinted itself onto his senses. … [Fade to black]

[Subtitle] A Strange Occurrence in the Morgue at Kyushu Imperial University’s Forensic Department – Filmed on the Night of April 26, 1926.

[Narration] The film you now see is cloaked in total darkness, an obscurity so complete that it’s nearly impossible to discern what is where, or even what it is we are seeing. The screen is as black as lacquer, a night as deep as velvet or satin, perhaps even a dark raven motif shrouded in shadow. Accordingly, I must confess, there’s little to describe. But please, look closely. In the upper-left corner of the screen, you might just make out a faint, ghostly blue glow—a small cluster of lights, floating like fireflies in an uneven circle.

That phosphorescent glow, so dim it’s barely visible, emanates from the contents of a glass dish. These are remnants from the stomach of a geisha who recently took her life using a rat poison that has become quite popular for suicides.

If you’ve noticed that glow, discerning viewers will already sense that this darkness is no ordinary darkness. Indeed, this shadowed scene captures a corner of the morgue within Kyushu Imperial University’s forensic department, as glimpsed through a narrow slit in the ceiling boards—just over the supply closet adjacent to the stairs. This gap in the ceiling is a spot where inquisitive janitors, captivated by morbid curiosity, or perhaps a reporter driven by sheer intrigue, have long peered in secret at the autopsies below.

This hole, evidently worn from years of use, has been widened into a Y-shape by fingers and pocketknives, allowing anyone who dares to look through it a clear view of the room’s entire lower half. With a small adjustment of one’s gaze, every corner can be scrutinized. Though a tight fit, one can even stretch out atop the storage shelves with more ease than a third-class train ride, making it quite a convenient vantage point.

As for that unholy, glowing dish on the screen, it actually rests on the table in the far corner opposite. However, the overhead filming angle makes it appear near the top of the frame.

Naturally, the contents of this room are not limited to that single dish. Yet, with the shutters tightly bolted over the windows and the door firmly chained, the darkness in this room is deepened to an almost impenetrable degree. Aside from the faint phosphorescence of that dish, nothing else is visible. In this deathly quiet—a silence reminiscent of water simmering somewhere far off—the film continues to roll, captured in Dr. Masaki’s “natural color, three-dimensional, sound-motion camera,” flowing black as lacquer, secretive as the passage of time... fifty feet... one hundred feet... two hundred... three hundred feet...

One may wonder what compelled Dr. Masaki to endure the laborious task of hauling this dual-lens, stereophonic camera up into the attic of the morgue. Why did he persist, fixated and unyielding, capturing this seemingly pointless scene of darkness? How could a respected university professor lower himself to such shadowy deeds, skulking like a mouse? Surely, such questions have already arisen in your minds. But all of this will become evident in due course, so I will refrain from explanations at this point.

It is around ten o'clock on the night of April 26, 1926, roughly twenty hours after the onset of the strange events surrounding Ichiro Kure’s psychological inheritance. The film continues, still steeped in inky darkness, slipping along silently... five hundred feet... eight hundred... one thousand... fifteen hundred feet. The screen remains quiet and pitch-black, with only that phosphorescent glow—now slowly growing paler, shifting to a sharp, ghostly blue.

At that precise moment, the muffled tolling of a clock reaches us from the distant janitor’s quarters within the building that houses this classroom. One... two... three... Bong... bong... bong... bong... ...on and on, echoing, reverberating in the silence... bong... bong... bong ...until at last, a long, drawn-out, resounding boooooong.

…As the clock struck eleven, a heavy, solid sound reverberated through the darkness, like a thick wooden box being shut. Almost immediately, a blinding light flooded the room, dazzling the eye with its intense brilliance as it spread across every corner. This sudden illumination came from the central area of the room, where the switches to four 200-candlepower bulbs were being flipped one by one by an unseen hand—a hand that had evidently been waiting in silence within this room. But as we took a closer look...

…Oh, what an ominous scene lay before us in the light of that room!

The first thing that drew the eye was the discolored white of the autopsy table in the center, giving off an eerie, ghastly glow. Originally crafted from pristine white marble, it had gradually absorbed the blood, fat, and grime of countless corpses processed on it over the years, staining the surface to a dull, deathly shade.

Near this slab, lying against the left side of the film’s frame, glinted a tall, cylindrical nickel-plated water heater—shining with a blinding metallic glare. This piece, which appeared to have been custom-ordered, resembled the towering structures of medieval European cathedrals or even the prisons of old. From its many tiny windows, thin threads of steam gently seeped out, giving the surreal impression of a ghostly apparition not of this world.

Then, another object, perhaps not immediately noticeable, began to stand out with a strange peculiarity. It was a large rectangular box lying lengthwise under the right-hand window, pressed against the wall. Covered with a white cloth, it seemed undeniably to be a coffin—a resting place for the dead. In a morgue, the presence of a coffin is, of course, nothing unusual. Yet, something about this coffin drew the eye—perhaps the refined, almost luxurious sheen of the cloth covering it, which appeared to be a high-grade silk. This level of elegance was out of place; coffins brought into forensic labs were typically rough-hewn, often pine boxes hastily scrawled with a chalk number. But here, resting under that soft, expensive fabric, was a coffin so strikingly out of the ordinary that it couldn’t help but catch the viewer’s attention.

The autopsy table, the nickel-plated water heater, and the white-draped coffin each cast their strange reflections amidst the chaotic array of test tubes, retorts, beakers, flasks, and jars of various sizes. All around, instruments of gold, silver, white, and black lie scattered—each a different shape, each poised as though caught in a tense tableau. From the floor to the edge of the desk, up along the shelves, the room brims with an assortment of violet, brown, milky white, and clear glass vessels, along with dark, earthenware jars. Inside these containers lie things almost unthinkable: the gray ash of human flesh, the cobalt of bone fragments, and the sepia of dried blood. Together, all of these elements, with their piercing, slicing, gouging light, create an eerie symphony of cold, glaring reflections in a silence that sinks deeply into one’s bones.

But look now, to the heart of this scene—between the white-shrouded coffin and the marble autopsy table, a figure rises, black as pitch, tall and foreboding. This figure is wrapped head to toe in gray-black rubberized fabric, with heavy double gloves of rubber and silk on his hands and massive rubber boots, like those worn by deep-sea fishermen, encasing his legs. Only his eyes are exposed, framed by a transparent, yellow-edged celluloid mask, giving him the sinister appearance of some diabolical creature feeding on the hearts of the dead, or like the magnified larvae of some dark butterfly lurking deep in the underbrush. His towering height alone, enabling him to reach effortlessly for the high light switches, hints at his formidable presence.

At this point, I believe you have recognized him—this ominous figure is none other than the renowned Kyotaro Wakabayashi, the first in the world to discover the method of blood-based kinship identification. Now he works tirelessly on an unprecedented manuscript, Crimes of Applied Mental Science and Their Evidences, a groundbreaking piece in modern forensic science.

It is clear, then, that this eminent forensic scientist, Kyotaro Wakabayashi, has slipped into the morgue at this late hour—twenty hours after the onset of the extraordinary psychological crime involving the young Ichiro Kure. His preparations suggest he has come for some clandestine purpose, awaiting the stillness of eleven o'clock, when the resident doctor and night staff have finally fallen asleep. And yet, gentlemen, as the lights come on, can you detect it? Another strange fact has emerged in this already bizarre scene—have you noticed it?

The scene before us, as you see, must seem wholly uncanny and unsettling to anyone viewing it for the first time. Every detail is steeped in an atmosphere of eerie tension. Still, from what you’ve observed so far, you may have already surmised that “Dr. Wakabayashi is preparing to begin some procedure on the autopsy table,” or that “the body to be examined is likely resting within that coffin.”

However, if that’s the case, why is there not a single assistant in the room to aid Dr. Wakabayashi? In almost every case involving the dissection of a corpse, it’s customary—indeed, almost a rule—to have one or two individuals in attendance. Yet here, Dr. Wakabayashi stands entirely alone, with no one else present. The fact that he has barred the room and left the keys in both doors suggests that he is intent on conducting a highly confidential, solitary task tonight—a task that goes far beyond the usual examinations and autopsies. This fact alone hints that some extraordinary, secret matter is at hand.

Just then, Dr. Wakabayashi moves to the washbasin in the corner and meticulously washes his gloved hands. Then, bending down, he carefully removes the white silk cover from the coffin. Lifting the thick lid of what appears to be a rare, solid wood casket, he reveals the body of a young girl dressed in full finery.

For those of you who recall the previous explanation, you may already have guessed the identity of this girl. She is none other than Moyoko Kure, the fiancée of our story’s protagonist, Ichiro Kure. On the verge of marriage, this beautiful young woman, aged seventeen, had been ready to walk down the aisle in celebration. Not only was she Ichiro’s promised bride, but she was also set to play a leading role in the extraordinary, mind-bending psychological drama Liberation Therapy for the Insane, an experimental film by K.C. Masarkey Company. As the story’s tragic heroine, she was meant to join Ichiro, the incomparable actor, in conjuring a world of hypnotic allure and chills. Now, however, she lies before you as a corpse in this coffin, making her first, haunting appearance in this tale.

In the fashion of the year, she was dressed in a uchikake embroidered with dazzling spring mists and five-needle pine motifs on a deep indigo ground, known as “new moon color.” Beneath, she wore a layered ensemble of three long-sleeved kimonos, the first in purple silk patterned with a thousand cranes. The garments were pristine, as if freshly made, with the stitches still in place, and were tightly wrapped around her with a newly woven brocade obi of gold and silver patterned paper. This radiant, unsettling beauty, laid to rest in a plain wooden coffin, spoke of the extraordinary nature of this case. One could almost feel the weight of the intentions of those who had prepared her for this final rest, stirring an ache in the chest.

But Dr. Wakabayashi, now embodying the cold precision of scientific pursuit, showed not the slightest trace of sentiment. Without regard for the layers of fabric, he swiftly grasped the uchikake, obi, and the three-layered sleeves and pushed them aside, leaving them carelessly heaped beside the coffin. Beneath the garments emerged her face, serene beneath a veil of white silk, her delicate arms with wrists bound in cotton, and a crimson yuzen underrobe. Her layers included a rich scarlet silk shigoki sash, fiery red silk underskirt, and ankles adorned in white tabi socks. These elements—so graceful, so dignified—stood starkly against the cold, cruel metal instruments and apparatuses of the morgue, lending a disturbing blend of horror and fragile beauty as Dr. Wakabayashi’s black-clad arms lifted her into the full glare of the electric lights.

Yet most haunting of all, and most pitiable, was her face: framed by lush, raven hair and closed in repose, but still bearing traces of heavy makeup and bright red lipstick. And…oh, look closely. There, around her neck, lay the vivid bruises and discolorations from strangulation—the strangulation marks, or “strangulation furrows,” in sickening patches of purple and red.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Wakabayashi placed her body on the marble autopsy table. With cold, methodical precision, he untied the white cotton bindings on her wrists, loosened the crimson shigoki sash, and pulled open her underrobe to inspect her chest. Displaying the skill and attention to detail befitting his reputation, he examined every inch of her unblemished, porcelain-like body. At last, with a sigh of what seemed like relief, he stepped back, folded his arms high across his chest, and stood over her in stillness, his form as immovable as a statue of blackened iron, his gaze fixed upon her lifeless figure.

…In the dead of night, standing utterly alone in this grim setting, facing the body of a beautiful young girl, one wonders what thoughts might be passing through Dr. Wakabayashi’s mind. Is he carefully piecing together the horrific and bizarre details of her death, hoping to sharpen his characteristic, penetrating gaze upon some new insight? Or is he, despite his lifelong dedication to science and solitude, entranced by the tragic beauty of this figure before him, momentarily overcome by an unbidden sense of awe? No—such conjectures stray too far and risk disrespecting his meticulous nature and disciplined mind. We shall go no further in that direction.

Then, abruptly, Dr. Wakabayashi seems to snap out of his reverie, casting a sharp glance around the empty room. Reaching into his right pocket, he searches for something until, almost as if suddenly recalling its location, he turns to the coffin and retrieves a small black horn-shaped device buried beneath the discarded kimono folds. It’s an old-fashioned stethoscope, rarely used by modern doctors, yet superior to rubber-tubed versions when capturing the faintest of sounds from within a body. Dr. Wakabayashi positions the bell end beneath the girl’s left breast and presses the other end, through his mask, firmly to his ear, concentrating intently.

Listening for a heartbeat in a corpse—what a bizarre act. The observer’s heart might well race more wildly than the doctor’s at such an eerie scene.

But look closely. He maintains his position, the stethoscope against her chest, while with his other hand he retrieves a large silver pocket watch from beneath his gown, his gaze fixed upon it. Yes—he can hear a heartbeat. This means that the young girl lying on the autopsy table is, in fact, still alive.

In hindsight, certain details now take on a different light. When Dr. Wakabayashi examined her body earlier, he would have noted the absence of the faint blue patches—postmortem lividity—that always appear after a certain time in a corpse. Nor was there any sign of rigor mortis. All of this now suggests that the girl never actually died, even while lying in that coffin. And yet, despite this unmistakable evidence of life, the strangulation marks, the bruised furrows around her neck, remain unmistakably visible—a haunting trace of the murder that almost was.

…What an unfathomable event this is…

And yet, Dr. Wakabayashi shows no particular sign of surprise. He calmly removes the stethoscope from his ear, slipping it along with his watch back into his vest pocket. With a satisfied nod, he gazes down at the girl’s body with what seems like knowing assurance.

From this, it appears that Dr. Wakabayashi had already deduced, from the very first examination, that this girl had fallen into a state of apparent death, a condition rare in medical history. This conclusion surely came after local doctors and police physicians had examined her extensively. But despite those prior assessments, Dr. Wakabayashi alone recognized her as being in a state of suspended animation. What clues had led him to such a unique insight? Furthermore, by what pretense had he arranged for this "corpse" to be placed in a coffin and transported here, and why was he now, in utmost secrecy, probing her body alone?

Such questions may find no easy answer. Yet, considering the eminent reputation of Dr. Kyotaro Wakabayashi, it is safe to say that he has thoroughly studied historical cases of suspended animation. And he must have recognized that keeping her condition a secret—an absolute secret known only to him—was necessary, even crucial, to resolving this unprecedented case.

There is more to it as well. The black-clad Dr. Wakabayashi, it seems, had quietly opened the coffin’s lid in the darkness before, attempting to revive the girl from her apparent death by applying some unique stimuli, occasionally checking her heartbeat with his stethoscope. This is evident from the faint noise heard just before eleven, just before he turned on the lights; it was likely the sound of him closing the coffin lid after his attempts to wake her. The stethoscope, left behind beneath the layers of her kimono, was also likely forgotten in that moment.

Though a minor detail, this oversight is highly uncharacteristic of Dr. Wakabayashi’s normally meticulous nature. It suggests that tonight he is in an unusual state of mind, one far from his usual calm. It seems clear, then, that Dr. Wakabayashi, engrossed in his efforts to call this girl back to life, was, even within the darkness, completely absorbed in his task. This small slip alone reveals the depth of his concentration and urgency—an extraordinary fervor, far beyond his usual restraint.

However, Dr. Wakabayashi’s skill, as remarkable and formidable as it is, will only continue to unfold, so what you have seen so far is merely the beginning.

Realizing that the girl on the autopsy table is slowly emerging from her state of suspended animation, Dr. Wakabayashi adopts a highly focused, tense demeanor and removes his gloves. Plunging his hands into the deep pockets of his trousers beneath his lab coat, he retrieves several items one by one, arranging them on a nearby wooden table: a bottle of hair dye, a bamboo toothbrush, three or four fresh brushes, a small inkwell, a compact with blush and lipstick, facial lotion, perfume, cream, and various shades of liquid foundation. All these items seem wildly out of place in this room.

Then, from a shelf near the door, he takes out a brown paper package and opens it to reveal a variety of new garments: a plain cotton and flannel kimono with short sleeves, a simple Hakata-woven sash, a plain underskirt, a white nurse’s uniform complete with cap and band, slippers, and a handful of hairpins. Placing each of these on the table as well, it becomes apparent that these items had been prepared earlier in the day. It seems he intends to dress the girl in these clothes, though the purpose remains unclear.

Next, Dr. Wakabayashi retrieves the stethoscope once again and carefully listens to the girl’s heartbeat. Satisfied, he moves to a shelf containing medicines, taking down a small brown bottle. Tipping his face slightly away, he lets a few drops of the clear liquid fall onto a piece of cotton wool, then, holding her pulse with his left hand, brings it slowly toward her nose. This, as you might suspect, is a sedative. It appears that he wishes to keep the girl from waking too soon. Yet, what he intends to do while she remains under anesthesia is, as of now, entirely unclear, making Dr. Wakabayashi’s actions all the more mysterious and increasingly bizarre.

…Having finished administering the sedative, Dr. Wakabayashi rebuttons the girl’s exposed chest, then strides purposefully to the medicine cabinet. From one corner, he pulls out a notebook bound in the Japanese “mino” style. The cover bears the large, bold title “Cadaver Ledger—Kyushu University Medical School.” Opening it, he reveals a ledger listing cadaver numbers, dates of receipt, the name and address of the claimant, and dates of release, each entry marked with Wakabayashi’s personal stamp.

Flipping through the half-filled pages, Dr. Wakabayashi finally stops at an entry near the end: “Body Number 414,” with the container listed as “Number 7.” He marks the entry with his finger, then tosses the ledger onto the nearby table. Reaching up, he extends his long arm and switches off all four of the 200-candlepower lights above.

The room returns to its former state of total darkness.

And yet, this darkness on film transitions seamlessly to the darkness of another room, leaving us to wonder what sort of shadowy fate lies ahead in this narrative… [Fade to black]

…The darkness on the film continues to unfurl before you… ten feet… fifteen… thirty… fifty… until a small, dim, yellowed lightbulb flickers to life, illuminating the core of this shadowed scene. Through what looks like the peephole of a door, a dreary room emerges in view.

Look closely, gentlemen—have you ever seen such a room?

To the right, a dark concrete staircase suggests that this is a basement, and straight ahead stand rows of large white drawers painted in stark white. These drawers, each housing a body, mark this as the morgue’s refrigerated storage chamber, kept under the oversight of Kyushu University’s medical faculty. Even in the height of summer, the temperature here remains chilling, enough to make one’s skin crawl; but in this late hour, the stillness is so eerie that one could almost imagine hearing the breath of the dead.

There, in the midst of this unsettling cold, the black-clad figure of Dr. Wakabayashi, apparently shaken by the chill, is overcome by a fit of coughing that seems to choke the very air from him. At last, composing himself, he draws a key from his pocket and removes the heavy padlock from the drawer labeled “Number 7.” He pulls the sturdy, wheeled container out onto a nearby cart with a low, rumbling sound. Then, without pausing for breath, he leans over and, with a deliberate effort, drags the rigid corpse of a girl—wrapped tightly in bandages like a rod—onto the floor.

This corpse, though dark-skinned and bearing a rough, unattractive face, has the approximate age, height, build, and even the hairline of the girl on the autopsy table, whose state of suspended animation had occupied him just moments before.

It appears that Dr. Wakabayashi had chosen this body beforehand, for he wastes no time in inspection or hesitation. Securing the drawer back in place with the padlock, he hoists the body onto his shoulder as if it were mere lumber. Step by step, he ascends the concrete stairs, pausing only to flip the wall switch and plunge the basement back into darkness as he departs. [Fade to black]

Now, we return to darkness for a moment, but listen closely—do you hear it? The frantic barking of dogs…

The clamor you hear is coming from a pack of wild dogs kept for experimental purposes, caged near the pine grove that stretches behind the morgue and the forensic department. They’ve caught sight of Dr. Wakabayashi as he skulks through the shadows, carrying the corpse on his shoulder. The agitated barking is joined by the frenzied shrieks of caged monkeys, the startled bleats of sheep, and even the panicked crowing of roosters, all roused from sleep by the doctor’s strange silhouette moving stealthily in the night. It’s a cacophony of fear and madness that pierces the silence, though such animal uproar is so frequent that no one pays it any mind. And who, after all, would suspect that the esteemed head of the university’s medical faculty might be sneaking off with a cadaver under his charge? The spring night around Kyushu Imperial University stretches deeper, suffused with the echoing screams and cries of the animals.

As the noise fades into the distance and all falls still, four bright lights abruptly flicker on, illuminating the forensic lab once more.

Back in the room, we see that the corpse labeled Number 414 now lies stretched out on the concrete floor. Dr. Wakabayashi, having securely bolted the door as before, stands panting beside the autopsy table, dabbing the sweat from beneath his black mask as he catches his breath.

Thus, on the night of April 27, 1926, two young bodies now lie side by side in the autopsy room of Kyushu University’s forensic department—one, a beautiful girl in the first signs of resurrection, and the other, a girl stiffened in grotesque rigor mortis. The girl on the autopsy table, draped in the crimson hues of her yuzen kimono, has regained a striking vitality within mere moments. Under the influence of the sedative, she begins to breathe softly, her chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. This vivid image of life is all the more unsettling when contrasted with the corpse on the floor—a disturbing harmony of beauty and decay, of radiant allure shadowed by death.

Dr. Wakabayashi, observing her pulse in tandem with his pocket watch, assesses the effectiveness of the anesthesia, his dark figure tilting slightly as he holds his position, unmoving as a statue. The room fills with a silence so profound it seems to sink, as though deep into an earthen grave, a silence heavy and unyielding.

After releasing the girl’s hand and pocketing his watch, Dr. Wakabayashi gently lifts her body, placing her on the lid of the coffin resting in the corner. He then hoists the stiffened corpse labeled Number 414 onto the autopsy table, positioning an old, concave wooden headrest beneath its neck. Taking a large, silver pair of scissors, he begins to cut through the wrappings, removing them piece by piece.

Look closely now… as he exposes her darkened skin, you can see a web of scars that cover her body from back to chest, from chest to thighs. Bruises, burns, abrasions—all manner of wounds are etched into her skin, forming a chaotic pattern of browns, blacks, and dark purples. Under the bright, unforgiving lights, these scars take on the twisted forms of snakes, lizards, and frogs, as though creatures might emerge from her skin at any moment to crawl across her flesh. The sight is both horrifying and mesmerizing, as her body tells its own silent tale of violence and suffering.

As some of you may know, the bodies delivered to universities and medical schools for research often include cases like this one. In particular, Kyushu University frequently receives corpses of individuals who suffered violent deaths: those abducted and abused in local mines, textile mills, and other factories, or even in dens of vice; along with suicides and victims of disease. Many of these bodies remain unclaimed, and Kyushu University typically dissects such bodies for study, cremating them afterward. Unclaimed remains are interred in a communal grave, where a memorial service is held once a year.

Having finished his swift examination, Dr. Wakabayashi lets out a weary sigh, wiping the sweat from his brow through the fabric of his mask. He moves to a corner sink, gulping water directly from the tap, then gasping and coughing as he tries to steady his breath. After years battling tuberculosis, every exertion takes a heavy toll on his already weakened body. And yet, his work—a job that seems to emerge from shadows and return to them—has only just begun.

Shortly, Dr. Wakabayashi returns to the autopsy table, setting a basin near the corpse’s feet. He connects a hose to the faucet and begins rinsing the body, letting the water flow over her legs and across the table’s surface from foot to back. He fills another basin with warm water, and, using a sponge and soap, scrubs the body meticulously, purging each corner of the grime from her wounds. Once her skin is clean, he carefully dries it with gauze and cotton, then parts her reddish-brown hair down the middle.

Selecting a scalpel from the array of instruments nearby, he swiftly and without hesitation plunges it into the space between her eyebrows, then proceeds to make a single, continuous incision down the scalp, from her forehead to the back of her head.

Those of you with knowledge in this field might find yourselves pausing here. Dr. Wakabayashi’s method diverges from the standard autopsy procedure, where one typically begins with the chest, abdominal cavity, and finally the head, followed by the back. Yet here, Dr. Wakabayashi has chosen to begin with the head—an unusual approach, hinting that something far more unusual awaits within.

One might wonder what purpose Dr. Wakabayashi, the eminent forensic scientist of his time, could have in undertaking such an unusual, even haphazard, approach to dissection. Before such questions could even arise, however, he skillfully peeled back the scalp of Corpse Number 414, turning it inside out like a sock, pulling the hair down to cover her face to just below her eyes. With practiced precision, he then used a saw to slice a ring around the head, removing the skullcap to expose the brain. He extracted it carefully onto a glass dish, handling it with the casual indifference one might show when flipping a steak or omelet. Without conducting any examination, he simply returned the brain to its cavity, replaced the skullcap, and quickly stitched the scalp back into place with rough, efficient stitches.

This was unexpected—almost reckless. Why would Dr. Wakabayashi, a man known for his methodical precision, conduct such an uncharacteristically crude autopsy? Yet before these questions could settle, the body was abruptly flipped face down. With little regard, he made a long incision down the center of her scarred back, slicing through the muscles on either side of the spine with a circular blade. He then inserted a two-pronged saw, cutting away sections of the ribs, and removed the spine itself, splitting it cleanly down the middle. Without a close examination, he simply placed it back, sewing the skin together with heavy, unrefined stitches in a hurried, almost dismissive manner.

The roughness of his actions, so at odds with his reputation, left a lingering sense of mystery—what could he be aiming to achieve with such a rapid, almost careless dissection?

Next, Dr. Wakabayashi turns the body face-up once more, quickly washing away any remaining filth. Testing the thickness of the abdominal skin with a press of his fingers, he then picks up a fresh scalpel, which glints in the harsh light, and thrusts it into the throat. He makes a single incision from the hollow between her breasts down to the abdomen, tracing a semi-circular path to the left of the navel and continuing down to the pubic bone in one clean motion. With swift hands, he separates the cartilage and removes the sternum, slicing downward from the chest to the abdominal wall in one single stroke, peeling back both layers at once. The organs beneath lie untouched, gleaming with a pale, eerie luminescence.

The sight is both terrifying and unsettling—a macabre display of internal anatomy, pristine yet horrific. Blackened patches on the lungs betray her past as a coal miner, while a ruptured liver, bleeding internally, suggests a brutal cause of death, a testament to the abuse or persecution she endured. But Dr. Wakabayashi spares not even a glance for these clues, preoccupied instead with mechanically rotating, prodding, and scattering the organs with the indifference of someone merely going through the motions. At last, he makes cursory incisions in the stomach, intestines, and bladder, imitating the steps of a standard examination. Unlike a typical autopsy, however, he collects no samples, merely closing the cavity with heavy, quick stitches from the lower abdomen up to the throat.

With each thrust of his blade, each pull of his needle, Dr. Wakabayashi’s motions are shockingly brutal, his speed and skill astonishingly precise. There’s a chilling satisfaction to his movements, an almost sadistic pleasure, as though driven by an intense, unsettling desire to fulfill something deep and unspoken—a demeanor more akin to that of a disturbed mind.

By now, surely you, the observers of this grim scene, have realized the truth: Dr. Wakabayashi’s manner has completely transformed. Gone is his customary calm, dignified bearing. In its place is a ruthless, almost savage energy, a kind of feverish excitement that animates his every action, leaving him nearly unrecognizable, as though he has become someone else entirely.

But this transformation in Dr. Wakabayashi’s behavior is not necessarily something to be suspicious of. Throughout history, it has been well documented that masters in various fields—artists, geniuses, craftsmen—when deeply absorbed in their work, often enter an altered state. Driven by exhaustion, extreme concentration, and a heightened, almost supernatural sensitivity, they sometimes perform acts that may seem irrational or disturbingly intense. The strain of their focus can result in behaviors that appear bizarre or unsettling to the casual observer.

Thus, it should come as no surprise that a man of Dr. Wakabayashi’s unique constitution and intellect, engaged in the unprecedented task of reviving a young girl from a state of suspended animation in total darkness, should then, with an almost inhuman focus, turn to the brutal dissection of another corpse. Such an undertaking would push even the strongest nerves to their limits and would likely drive his mind to an altered, heightened state incomprehensible to the average person.

After finishing the rough stitching of the chest and abdomen, Dr. Wakabayashi reaches for a particularly sharp, small scalpel and approaches Corpse Number 414’s face. With an unflinching hand, he plunges the blade into the corner of her right eye, expertly twisting it to gouge both eyes from their sockets, as if performing one of his signature toxicology tests. True to form, he does not examine the eye tissue but rather places them back into their sockets without further inspection.

Next, he carves down the bridge of her nose, slicing deeply until the inner mucous membranes are exposed. Then he cuts the corners of her mouth, extending them toward the ears, before pulling down her jaw to fully expose the throat.

In this way, the corpse’s face is distorted beyond any resemblance to a human being. Methodically, Dr. Wakabayashi sews up each mutilated section, transforming the once identifiable features into a grotesque, unfamiliar visage. Taking a final breath, he meticulously wipes down the battered face with gauze and alcohol, removing any remaining traces of blood and filth. What lies before him now is a corpse so altered, so strange, that it bears no resemblance to its original form.

After taking a brief rest, Dr. The Black-Clad began scrutinizing the two bodies before him—one on the autopsy table, the other lying below—comparing them intently. Then, removing his double gloves, he carefully began mixing a thick white face powder on the table beside him, ensuring not a single drop was wasted. With precise strokes, he applied the makeup across the face, shoulders, arms, and lower body of Corpse Number 414, covering her with a thick, pale layer.

Observe the delicacy of his work—each stroke of his fingers is expertly controlled, ensuring that no powder clings to the rough stitches or hairline. His technique suggests a familiarity with cosmetics that one would hardly expect from a forensic scientist. Could it be that Dr. Wakabayashi has performed similar transformations on himself before? Or perhaps this is an outlet for his hidden, eccentric fascination with morphing appearances, merging his scientific and forensic interests with a fascination for the bizarre? His work here seems reminiscent of ancient “mummy makeup” practices, skillfully concealing the marks of trauma and degradation on the girl’s body.

Gradually, he covers the deep blue-black bruises and scars left by abuse, pressing the powder firmly into each line and fold until her scarred, bruised skin matches the fair tone of the other girl’s body almost flawlessly. Taking up blush, lipstick, eyebrow powder, and setting powder, he precisely recreates the subtle tones of the original model’s skin. He even replicates her birthmarks, ensuring that every mole and blemish mirrors those on the other body. Every hair is tinted to match, styled and slicked down with fragrant oils, the precision surpassing even that of a professional beautician.

Now, opening a drawer, Dr. Wakabayashi retrieves vials of red, blue, purple, and other dyes, used in microscopic staining. Mixing them on a flower-shaped palette, he takes a fine brush and, matching against the original, begins to recreate the strangulation marks around the neck. The delicate, lifelike patterns—raised veins, mottled bruises, and livid blotches resembling lizards or worms—appear one by one, encircling her throat with uncanny accuracy. His skill in replicating these injuries is breathtaking, leaving the imitation nearly indistinguishable from the original.

Yet, it seems the dark-clad figure’s sinister operation is far from complete.

After hastily donning his double gloves, the figure retrieves a bundle of bandages from beneath the table. He begins wrapping the cosmetically altered corpse, winding the bandages tightly from her head down over her face, neck, shoulders, chest, abdomen, and legs, until she resembles a crude mummy or perhaps a child’s teru teru bozu doll. Then, stripping the bright undergarments from the girl resting on the coffin lid, he dresses the mummified corpse in them. Over this, he ties a scarlet silk sash with meticulous care, the result bizarrely humorous and eerie all at once, especially as he gazes down upon his work with an unsettling, gleeful satisfaction.

The corpse’s coarse, gnarled hands remain exposed, jutting out awkwardly from the bandages. But the dark-clad figure quickly addresses this by snapping the elbows inward, folding the arms in a mock prayer pose, and binding them securely with white cotton. He then forces the corpse’s rough, cracked heels into a pair of delicate silk tabi, fastening them tightly to hide the feet.

Satisfied, he lifts the rigidly wrapped corpse, now eerily doll-like in its vibrant costume, and carefully places it in the coffin. He dresses the figure in the layers of kimono and obi, making it nearly indistinguishable from the girl who had been intended for burial. He then thoroughly cleans the autopsy table with sponges, water, soap, and alcohol until every trace of blood and residue is removed.

Finally, he lifts the unconscious, slowly reviving girl and lays her gently on the table. Taking the thick coffin lid, he places it carefully over the mummified body, covering it completely with white silk.

Yet, as strange as this has been, the dark-clad figure’s work is not yet done. What lies ahead is perhaps his most astonishing, the ultimate act in this series of dark maneuvers—one that will showcase his true mastery of the macabre.

The only conceivable concern at this point is the possibility that an official or a supervising doctor might conduct another inspection as a matter of due diligence. Yet, with the elaborate, precise work and the nearly obsessive attention to detail with which this substitution was executed, how could anyone possibly uncover the deception? Given Dr. Wakabayashi’s impeccable reputation and his standing as Kyushu University’s eminent medical director, who would dare to raise any doubt? What potential oversight could even exist? By the time the incident of the missing body from Kyushu University’s morgue is dismissed as unsolved, the body of the murdered girl—who would otherwise remain unaccounted for—will have already been reduced to bones and properly interred, receiving incense and offerings as though her death had unfolded naturally.

Meanwhile, the young girl on the autopsy table, slowly regaining her breath—Moyoko Kure by name—is now, legally speaking, erased from all records. She has become a living ghost under the sway of the tall, spectral Dr. Wakabayashi, breathing only as long as she remains in his grasp. Yet, what purpose does this serve? Why has Dr. Wakabayashi turned her into this living revenant? We might say the answer lies ahead… but in truth, even Dr. Masaki, observing secretly from the attic, could make no sense of the plan thus far. Likely, neither can you, dear readers.

And yet, surely we can imagine the unfathomable genius of Kyotaro Wakabayashi—lauded even in the press as a “labyrinth-breaker”—and the strange case on which he now focuses all his cunning. Indeed, as you may suspect, the mastermind of this heinous scheme, whoever they may be, must possess an intellect equally dark, equally terrifying. Rest assured, this case will deliver an astonishing narrative as its details and phases unfold before your eyes in due order, each twist stranger than the last.

As it stands, the case has indeed fallen into the hands of Dr. Wakabayashi, the “dark-clad figure” presiding over the forensic lab. He is already marshalling every ounce of his knowledge and skill in preparation to confront the enigmatic figure lurking behind this mystery—a battle of minds, about to begin.

Now then… Dr. Wakabayashi, having completed the false entries in the morgue ledger, tossed the book along with a blank examination report carelessly onto the table. Exhausted, he gathered every stray piece of gauze, sponge, and cotton that littered the room and, along with the stationery and cosmetics, wrapped them all tightly in a new piece of bleached cloth, binding the bundle securely with bandages. No doubt he planned to dispose of this evidence discreetly, erasing all traces of his work tonight. His decision to forgo the usual samples from Corpse Number 414 might also have been to aid in maintaining secrecy.

After meticulously inspecting the room one last time, Dr. Wakabayashi approached the autopsy table, picking up the new nurse’s uniform and white cotton kimono he had set aside. He intended to dress the girl, still unconscious from anesthesia. But as he drew near, he stopped abruptly, almost dropping what he held, stumbling back in awe.

For in that moment, he truly saw her—her beauty now fully revived. Gone was the stillness of her near-death state; in its place, a pure radiance seemed to shine from her every breath, a glow of life filling her entire being. Her cheeks and lips, like tender flower petals, had regained the warm blush of blood beneath them, exuding a softness and allure akin to sweet jelly. Her delicate figure, particularly the gentle curves of her chest, rose and fell in soft, rhythmic breaths, a sight both mesmerizing and surreal against the cold, imposing marble slab of the Kyushu University dissection table.

Enchanted by this vision, Dr. Wakabayashi staggered slightly, as if intoxicated by the faint perfume of her breaths. His own chest rose and fell weakly in time with her gentle rhythm, his shoulders trembling as he leaned slowly forward. With a trembling hand, he raised his fingers to his own face and carefully pushed back his dark mask, exposing his brow, drawn closer to her now than he could have ever imagined.

Oh, what a terrifying expression lay on his face…

Under the harsh white light, his elongated face stood in stark contrast to the girl’s radiant beauty. His features, pale and slack like a corpse, glistened with a cold sweat. His eyes, bloodshot and feverish, held an unsettling mix of extreme exhaustion and intense excitement. His lips were tinged with a sickly crimson, cracked and dry. As his dark hair clung to his forehead, his temple throbbed with a twitch, casting a shadow over the hollow face peering down from his black attire.

For a long moment, he stood motionless, as if caught in a trance, lost in some unfathomable thought or impulse. Suddenly, a deep crease formed beneath his right eye, and his face contorted in a spasm. The trembling spread, making his entire face twitch, blurring any distinction between sorrow and joy. His red-rimmed eyes blinked open and shut in uneven rhythms, while his parched lips parted in a grimace resembling a wolf’s sneer, revealing a discolored tongue that hung loosely, mocking and cruel.

It was a face that bore no resemblance to the refined, scholarly Dr. Wakabayashi known to the world. No—this was a different entity altogether, a demonic countenance that emerged only when he was utterly alone.

After a moment, he slowly lifted his head, brushing back the damp strands of hair from his forehead with trembling hands, then looked up at the four blazing bulbs above him. His breathing grew heavier, and a strange flush crept onto his cheeks. He narrowed his eyes, as if conversing with some invisible presence in the room, his voice thick with a dark, guttural tone as he laughed softly, brokenly, from the pit of his stomach.

“...Ah... ah... ah... ah…”

He bit down on his lip, his gaze shifting back to the young girl’s peaceful face. His fingers, trembling with suppressed excitement, reached for the light switches. One… two… three… finally, with a swift flick, the fourth light plunged the room into shadow.

But darkness did not fully return. From the cracks between the closed shutters, the faint glow of dawn seeped in, casting a pale, underwater-blue hue over everything in the room.

As he stood there, dazed, staring into the dim light, he slowly pressed his shaking hands against his face. Staggering backward, he collided with the wall and, unable to steady himself, slid down until he was seated on the floor. There he slumped, legs stretched out, hands limp at his sides, his head bowed, utterly spent.

In that moment, a faint movement passed over the lips of the girl on the autopsy table. Her mouth quivered slightly, releasing a soft, dreamlike murmur:

“...Brother… where are you…” [Fade to Black]

[Subtitle] Meeting Between Dr. Masaki and Dr. Wakabayashi

[Narration] The next scene opens in the main building of the Psychiatry Department at Kyushu Imperial University, specifically in Dr. Masaki’s office on the upper floor. It is the afternoon of May 2, 1926—exactly one week after the scenes of Dr. Wakabayashi’s body-switching operation, as captured on Dr. Masaki’s color sound-film camera.

Sunlight filters in through the large windows, illuminating the lush green of the pine trees outside, whose needles wave gently in the warm breeze. Early summer cicadas have begun to buzz, adding to the lazy warmth in the room. Each of the south-facing windows frames a clear, azure sky, and the bright afternoon wind carries in the sounds of construction from the nearby Liberation Treatment Center, currently under development.

In the middle of the room, slumped in a massive armchair between a grand table and a large fireplace, sits Dr. Masaki, dozing off with a half-burned cigar still wedged between the fingers of his right hand and a newspaper clutched in his left. He wears his nose glasses and looks just like a caricature of a sleepy doctor from some foreign comic. The back page of the paper features a large headline, boldly proclaiming, “Bride Murder Case Now a Deep Mystery.”

At precisely 3:03, the electric clock above the fireplace makes a faint ticking sound. Just then, a middle-aged university servant with neatly parted hair enters, holding a business card, and approaches Dr. Masaki with a respectful bow. The sound of the door closing wakes the doctor, who frowns at the card with clear irritation.

“What is it now? Can’t that blockhead understand after I’ve told him a hundred times? There’s a limit to excessive politeness. Next time, tell him to forget this formality and just walk in silently on his own.”

With that, he tosses the card onto the table and closes his eyes again, sinking back into a half-drowsy state.

Moments later, Dr. Wakabayashi enters, carrying a blue cloth bundle with great care. He moves with silent steps and seats himself across from Dr. Masaki in a small armchair. The contrast between the diminutive Dr. Masaki, almost engulfed by his massive chair, and the tall Dr. Wakabayashi, respectfully perched on the small chair, is a scene fit for a cartoonist’s sketch.

After a brief silence, Dr. Wakabayashi begins to cough, his frail frame wracked by his chronic affliction. Holding a white handkerchief to his mouth, he tries to stifle the painful fit.

Dr. Masaki, startled awake by the noise, lifted his newspaper and cigar into the air, stretching out in a massive yawn that seemed to engulf not only Dr. Wakabayashi, the room, and Kyushu University itself, but perhaps even his very own self. Thus began the first meeting between the two doctors since the onset of the case—a meeting that opened with this grand yawn. While their ensuing conversation appeared cordial on the surface, a keen observer might notice the undercurrent of sharp sarcasm and subtle threats laced within, each doctor trying to gauge the depth and intensity of the other’s intentions. This tension hints at the vast and treacherous currents underlying this case.

“Well, well… So you've finally come. Ha ha ha! I figured it was only a matter of time,” Dr. Masaki said, leaning forward.

“Yes… so I take it you’re already aware of the case’s details?”

“More than aware… Take a look.” He held up the paper, pointing at the bold headline: ‘Bride Murder Mystery Deepens.’ “Granted, the article’s full of nonsense, no doubt…”

“Indeed. But may I ask—how did you know of my involvement?”

“Oh, it wasn’t difficult. I happened to call your office recently, and was told you’d cancelled your afternoon lecture and sped off somewhere. Then, in the evening paper, there was an article about a bride strangled the night before her wedding, plastered across four columns. I thought, well, you must be involved in that affair.”

“I see… Yet, how did you know I’d be coming here today?”

“Well, I didn’t know it would be today exactly—but I knew you’d come sooner or later. From the start, I suspected this was a case of psychological inheritance, so I was waiting for you to finish your investigation and bring it my way. Ha ha ha!”

“Impressive, as always. You’re correct—I've been tied to this case for the past two years, in fact.”

“What? For two years…?”

“Yes, precisely.”

"…Hmm. So, there was a similar case two years ago?"

"Yes, indeed. The same young man strangled his own mother back then."

"Interesting... the same person, the same method... and his own mother, no less. Hmm..."

"At the time, I voluntarily involved myself in the case, convinced the boy was not the true culprit—that there was another party responsible. Yet, despite every effort, the real perpetrator could not be found."

"Even with your sharp eye on the case?"

"I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I had never encountered a mystery as perplexing as this one. How should I explain it? All the evidence pointed to a clear act of murder, yet there was no trace of anyone actually committing it."

"…Fascinating."

"Indeed, and that’s why, after the boy was acquitted in the case of his mother’s murder, I couldn’t rest. I kept hoping to find some lead on the true criminal. I arranged for the victim’s older sister, the boy’s aunt, a woman named Yayoko, and also the police to keep me informed of any unusual behavior in the boy’s life, down to the slightest changes. For two years, I remained vigilant. And now, here we are. The same boy has strangled his bride-to-be, the daughter of Yayoko, just before their wedding. It now seems inevitable that the mother’s murder two years ago was also his doing—driven by some sort of psychotic episode.

"As a result, my initial statement—that someone else killed the boy’s mother—has lost all credibility."

"Ahahaha! Splendid! This is shaping up to be quite the exciting challenge for you."

"I assure you, it’s no mere challenge… But I do indeed consider this an invaluable case for my research in psychological crimes, a field I have pursued under your guidance. I've compiled every conceivable detail from various angles and documented it meticulously. The contents of this bundle here are the result."

"...Good heavens, that’s quite a substantial file. Only a week since the case broke, and you’ve amassed all that…"

"Well, this bundle contains reports from the investigation of the case two years ago as well. And for this latest incident, I’ve documented every new finding immediately, without pause, in case I should suddenly take a turn for the worse. I’ve barely slept, which has aggravated my asthma so severely that I feel my life has become even more precarious than before."

"Hmm… come to think of it, you do seem to have become quite the shadow of your former self lately. You’ll want to be careful; if you end up a psychological phantom yourself, like a mummified relic, we’ll have quite the problem on our hands, won’t we? Ha ha! Well, well, you’ve worked hard, no doubt about it… But what’s that square box sitting on top of your bundle there?"

"Ah, yes. This box contains a scroll, which I had custom-made by a craftsman. It’s one of the key triggers of the psychological inheritance disturbance in this case. My belief is that this scroll was shown to Ichiro Kure, driving him into his current state of mental instability. However, the authorities and I have come to completely different conclusions. They believe Ichiro’s condition was either naturally occurring or a sham altogether, so when I presented this scroll to them as a point of reference, they merely dismissed it out of hand. Yet, thanks to their disregard, I now have it here in my possession."

"Ha ha! Good for you. I can just picture it: you standing before the police and judges, in that getup, unrolling a scroll and declaring it to be ‘a revolutionary example of Dr. Masaki’s groundbreaking theory of psychological inheritance.’ You’d have given them a fit! Lucky they didn’t mistake you for a street vendor! Ha ha ha!"

"Ha ha… Yes, well, I only showed it briefly to fulfill the requirement. I admit I was eager to take it into my own hands for further analysis."

"And naturally… you, of all people, wouldn’t leave out a detail like that."

"Ah… well…"

"So, I take it that bringing me these documents and the case details is your main reason for visiting today?"

"Yes, that’s one reason. But there is also another matter… I’d like you to conduct a psychiatric evaluation on Ichiro Kure, the young man accused of murdering his bride, who is currently held in the Fukuoka Detention Center."

"Hmm… That boy, yes. Judging from the news alone, I think I have a clear picture of his mental state. It seems like a classic case of post-episode amnesia. Under the influence of that scroll, he likely entered a state of dissociative fugue—perhaps even committed the murder in that state—and when forcibly restrained, the interruption of his fugue led to a severe outburst. This type of extreme agitation can exhaust the nerve cells to the point of inducing retrograde amnesia, preventing any recall of events leading up to the episode. So he’s in a ‘backward amnesia’ state. Really, from the reports alone, I have a solid grasp of it. You could probably explain as much to the authorities yourself without needing me."

"Yes, well, the problem is that my credibility has taken a blow with this recent case, so my assessment alone isn’t being taken seriously. The court officials are struggling with it and are even speculating that Ichiro Kure may be some kind of homicidal maniac…”

“Hm, that’s outrageous! I don’t care if they’re laymen; for judicial officers, such ignorance is beyond excuse. The very idea of a ‘homicidal mania’ is ridiculous, as if they actually believe such a condition exists! Just because someone kills doesn’t mean they’re suddenly gripped by some ‘homicidal mania’—it’s an error even worse than mistaking murder for mere manslaughter.”

"Exactly…”

"Indeed… I know you realize this, but few others understand that the behaviors surrounding a mental disturbance are as critical to diagnosis as the context around a suspect’s criminal actions is to law enforcement. People with mental illnesses, no matter how severe, never act in random, chaotic ways. Their responses depend on the specific trigger, the depth of psychological inheritance, and the level of their abnormal state, following patterns as logical and traceable as any ordinary person’s actions, if not more so. Especially in cases of violence, their behaviors before and after the incident hold even more significance than in typical crimes.”

“Quite right… I hadn’t considered it that way before.”

“But these officials don’t know this, so they slap on a label like ‘homicidal mania’ the minute someone kills. If they’ve killed twice, well, they think it’s a sure thing! To them, killing alone defines a homicidal maniac. But imagine if someone labeled as such were simply cracking people’s heads as if they were thermometers! Ha! If there’s a doctor out there who’d still call that ‘homicidal mania,’ I’d like to meet him. A mentally disturbed individual might see everything outside of themselves as mere shadows or animated images. Say they need red paint—smashing another’s head and breaking a red thermometer could seem equally valid means. If we understood that their true goal was to use red liquid to paint a flower, the term ‘homicidal maniac’ wouldn’t even apply.

"So, looking at this boy’s case, I suspect his violence serves some other purpose. In other words, it’s driven by the content of his psychological inheritance.”

"Precisely… I suspected as much myself, and realizing this was well beyond my expertise, I brought the complete set of documents here for your examination. But there’s one last matter that still falls within my responsibility, and for this I hoped to secure your specific assistance today."

"Hmm… Things seem to be getting rather serious. What’s this final matter, then?"

"Yes… Well, it’s the person who used this scroll to implant the suggestion in Ichiro Kure’s mind."

"Ah… Now I see. If such a person exists, they’d be a marvelously innovative kind of criminal, indeed. Yes, that falls under your jurisdiction—to hunt down that person."

"Precisely. However, until I can identify this last missing piece, the entire case remains shrouded in mystery, obscured by layers of uncertainty."

"Of course! Cases driven by psychological inheritance are practically fated to remain hidden behind a veil of mystery. Just think of how many have appeared in the papers over the years."

"However, in this particular case, I believe we may have a way to pierce that veil… And by that, I mean this last question—the person who showed him the scroll—might lie somewhere in the depths of that boy’s memory…"

"Ah, say no more—I get it, I get it! You’re saying that if his mental state were restored, he might recall the person’s face or appearance… So, to recover that memory, you’re asking me to carry out the psychological assessment."

"Exactly… My deepest apologies, but I fear I can’t manage this on my own…”

"Yes, yes, I understand fully. You’ve certainly hit upon something crucial here… Ha ha ha, well done! Yes, consider it done—I’ll take it on."

"Ah, truly, thank you very much."

“Yes, yes, I understand. Now, clear your head of this whole affair, relax, and take your vitamins… Speaking of which, how about we head to Yoshizuka for some eel? It’s been ages since I’ve had a drink—well, I’ll be the only one drinking, but consider it a gesture of thanks for your hard work on this case.”

“Well, thank you… But, when might you conduct the psychological evaluation for the boy? I can inform the court of your availability.”

“Anytime is fine—it’s nothing complicated. A single look at him will be enough to determine he’s neither a murder-crazed maniac nor a fake. And if necessary, I’ll simply suggest hospitalization here for further assessment. As my reputation soars while poor Wakabayashi’s sinks, the arrangement will proceed without a hitch. Ha ha ha!”

“Humbled, as always… And as for these documents, shall I leave them with you?”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I’ll take them. In fact… let’s toss them in this stove here, shut the lid, and there they’ll stay, at least until winter. Even the Buddha himself wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

“Er… And that line was from…?”

“It’s a phrase from the Noh play Kanjinchō. You medical types really should know more about culture! Ah…” [Fade to Black]

Oh dear, oh dear… what’s all this, now? It seems our natural color, three-dimensional, sound-motion picture has become nothing but dialogue. This is hardly better than a poor radio broadcast or a phonograph! Providing live commentary is far from easy, you see. Just having to tack on “if you please” at the end of each sentence is enough to tire a fellow out! It’s tempting to skip the formalities altogether, but look what happens when I do…

Now then, since this has worn me out, I propose to present you with a new kind of film—one that requires no explanation, indeed, a film that requires no screen, no projector, and no film itself. In other words, a “film that requires nothing at all, if you please.” Quite an innovation—no mere German silent film could come close to matching it!

And just what is this marvel, you ask? The trick is really quite simple. You see, Dr. Wakabayashi entrusted me with an investigation file, which I took and tossed, if you please, for safe-keeping, into a stove. All I need to do now is read over the key points I copied out from that file, add my own commentary, and voilà—each page serves as a frame of the “film” I’ll present to you. It may sound elaborate, if you please, but it’s really nothing more than inserting these selected pages into this very manuscript as a sort of “will.” All you, esteemed audience, need to do is read it to grasp the case at hand. This ingenious “film,” I’m proud to say, is my latest invention, and I daresay it may one day be all the rage. If any of you care for the patent rights, they’re available… Just let me know, and I’ll be happy to transfer them to you, if you please.

This extracted record was something I had planned to include in my “Theory of Psychological Heredity.” Although I burned the manuscript for that treatise some time ago, I did keep this particular segment. Now, with the groundwork I’ve laid, you’re practically detectives and mental scientists yourselves. As such, reading through this record should make it perfectly clear how this case developed and what shocking truth lies at its core.

What kind of psychological inheritance led to this outbreak? Was there someone who deliberately triggered it? And if so, where is that person now? Consider, too, what attitudes Dr. Wakabayashi and I exhibit toward this case—what hints we may have left toward its solution. But mind you, don’t approach this lightly—you’ll need to tie up your belt and buckle down to grasp it all, if you please. Meanwhile, I’ll be indulging in my Scotch and Havana at a leisurely pace… Ha-ha!

To be continued in Volume 2…