Dogra Magra
Volume 2

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

Appendix on Psychological Heredity:
Various Case Studies

The First Incident

The First Reference

The Second Reference

The Third Reference

The Second Incident

The Second Reference

The Third Reference

The Fourth Reference

Volume 2

Appendix on Psychological Heredity:
Various Case Studies

The Case of Ichiro Kure's Seizure
—Based on the Notes of Mr. W— 

The First Incident

The First Reference

Ichiro Kure’s Testimony

Date of Testimony: April 2, 1924 (Taisho 13), approximately 12:30 PM. This occurred shortly after the memorial service marking the seventh day since the death of Chiyoko (age 36), the proprietor of a girls' academy and Ichiro’s mother, who was the victim.

Location of Testimony: The second floor of Tsukushi Girls' Academy, Room 20-2, Hiyoshi District, Nogata Town, Kurate County, Fukuoka Prefecture. This room also served as Ichiro Kure’s study and bedroom.

Present at the Testimony:

Ichiro Kure (18), the son of the deceased, Chiyoko,
His aunt Yayoko (37), a resident of Mei-no-Hama Town, Sawara County, Fukuoka Prefecture, where she is engaged in agriculture 

Myself (Mr. W) — Total of three individuals —

—Thank you very much. Until you asked me, ‘What kind of dream did you have?’, I hadn’t recalled that dream at all. Thanks to you, sir, I was spared from becoming a patricide.

—As long as people understand that it wasn’t me who killed my mother, I am satisfied. I have nothing more to say. But if anything I know might be of use in helping find the true culprit, please feel free to ask. I only know what I remember from when I was older; my mother didn’t tell me much about the earlier years, and she passed without sharing it. But there’s nothing I would consider too private to discuss.

—I was apparently born at the end of 1907, in Komazawa Village near Tokyo. I know nothing about my father. (Note: There is some doubt regarding the accuracy of Ichiro Kure’s stated birthplace. However, as it does not impact the research, this statement remains uncorrected here.)

—My mother, from what I understand, lived in Mei-no-Hama with her sister from her birth. When she turned seventeen, she left to study painting and embroidery, and from there, she searched for my father, traveling to Tokyo. After an exhaustive search, I was born. My mother often said, ‘The greater the man, the more he lies,’ which I believe was a reflection of her resentment toward my father. (Ichiro blushes.) Asking about him would often bring tears to her eyes, so as I grew older, I stopped asking.

—But I could tell she was relentless in trying to trace his whereabouts. I must have been about four or five when she took me on a journey; we boarded a train from a large station somewhere in Tokyo and traveled for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, we switched to a horse-drawn carriage, riding down long, wide roads between fields and mountains. I still remember falling asleep, only to wake up and find we were still in that carriage. At dusk, we arrived at a small inn in a town shrouded in darkness. My mother carried me on her back as she visited house after house every day. I remember the frustration of only seeing mountains around us, crying every day to go home, and being scolded for it. After some days, we traveled back by carriage and train to Tokyo. I also remember that soon afterward, she bought me a little horn that made the same sound as the one the carriage driver had played in the mountains.

—It was only much later that I realized my mother must have been searching for my father’s family. I once asked her, ‘Which station did we board the train from that time?’ She started to cry again and replied, ‘It’s useless to ask about that. I’d gone there three times by then, but I’ve now given up entirely. Just give it up yourself. If I’m still around when you graduate from university, I’ll tell you everything about your father.’ And so I never asked her again.

—Today, my memory of the mountains and that town is blurred, leaving only the sound of the horn ringing in my ears. I later bought maps to try and figure it out, using the travel time by train and carriage. I’m convinced it must have been somewhere in the mountains of Chiba or Tochigi Prefecture. I didn’t notice any sea close to the railway line, but perhaps that was because I was only looking out the window on the opposite side. In truth, I can’t be certain.

—The places we lived in Tokyo? Well, we moved around a lot. From what I remember, we started in Komazawa, then moved to places like Kanasugi, Kōme, and Sambongi, and finally we were in Kōgai-chō in Azabu before coming here. It was always some rented space, whether on a second floor, in an old storehouse, or a separate little room. My mother would work on various embroidery crafts, and once she’d finished a few pieces, she’d carry me on her back and take them to a place called Ōmiya in Tenma-chō, near Nihonbashi. There, the madam of the house, always elegantly dressed, would give me sweets. I still remember both the house and the face of that lady.

—What kind of things did my mother make? Well, I can’t say exactly, but I remember her sewing all sorts of items—altar curtains, collar embroidery, fukusa cloths, kimono hems, crests for haori jackets. I was too young to understand how she sewed them or what she earned, but there’s one piece I remember very clearly. It was a small fukusa cloth she gave to the lady at Ōmiya when we left Tokyo for Nogata. It was an incredibly delicate piece, made from a thin silk that was almost transparent, embroidered with chrysanthemums of various colors and shapes. She worked on it bit by bit, day by day, only finishing a little each day. When it was done, I handed it to the lady, and she was so astonished that she called out to everyone in the house. They all gathered around, looking on in amazement. Later, I heard it was a style called ‘full-coverage embroidery,’ a true classic technique, one that hardly anyone knows how to do anymore. The lady’s husband tried to pay my mother, but she bowed and refused, only accepting sweets for me. It was awkward for me, with my mother and the lady standing in the doorway, crying as we said our goodbyes.

—The reason we left Tokyo? My mother had a fortune told. She often said, ‘The master in Mami-ana is always accurate,’ so I guess he was the one who advised her. According to him, ‘As long as you two stay in Tokyo, you’ll be plagued by misfortune, as if cursed. To shake this off, return to your hometown. This year’s travel omens favor the west, according to the reading. You are a Three-Wood Star, the same alignment as Sugawara no Michizane and Ichikawa Sadanji, which means that ages thirty-four to forty will be filled with challenges and risks. The person you’re searching for is a Seven-Metal Star. Since the Three-Wood and Seven-Metal stars clash, continuing the search will only lead to harm. Your star signs are among the most dangerous clashes, such that even physical belongings can wound one another if kept too close. Do not keep any relics of that person nearby. After forty, your fortune will become stable, and by forty-five, you’ll enjoy extraordinary luck.’

—So, when I was eight, we moved here. My mother would often laugh as she told her students, ‘It’s true; I have the same star alignment as Tenjin-sama, so I suppose it’s natural for me to love literature and art.’ She repeated it so many times that I memorized her words by heart. But she only ever mentioned the Seven-Metal Star to me, swearing me to secrecy.

—Not long after we arrived in Nogata, my mother rented this house and opened a school. She had about twenty students, whom she divided into day and night classes held in the eight-mat room downstairs. She was delighted that young ladies from such respectable families were coming to study. But my mother was quick-tempered and often scolded her students. Roughnecks and delinquents also sometimes came by to harass the students or to extort money from my mother by threatening her, but she would always drive them off by herself.

—Since moving here, the only men who entered the house were the elderly landlord, Mr. Kamachi—my teacher from junior high—and an electrician who came to fix the lights. Aside from them, we had no male visitors. My mother never even received letters, nor did she send any. She didn’t keep in touch with the madam from Ōmiya, despite their close relationship, and seemed deeply afraid of anyone knowing where she was. Though she never explained this to me, I imagine she may have taken the fortune-teller’s warning too seriously, fearing someone might be out to get her. She wasn’t a superstitious person, but she seemed to believe firmly in that fortune-teller from Mami-ana.

—To be honest, though, I never liked Nogata. I was terribly carsick on the train ride here, maybe because I wasn’t feeling well, and I came to hate the smell of coal smoke. And here, the town was surrounded by coal mines, so that smell filled the air from morning to night. But since my mother was pleased with the place and thought it was ideal, I endured it for her sake. Over time, I got used to it and stopped getting carsick, but I could never get over how foul the air was with coal smoke.

—When I started school, I struggled with the local dialects and the rough language. There were children from all over the country, and understanding them was a challenge. Also, since we had moved around so much when I was young, I never had many friends. Even here, I made only a few friends at school. When I reached my fourth year of junior high, I was determined to get into the high school in Ropponmatsu, Fukuoka. The fresh air and the beautiful view there thrilled me to no end.

—Yes… I took the entrance exams early, partly because I disliked Nogata. But the truth is, I wanted to finish university as soon as possible. I couldn’t wait to hear about my father, as my mother had promised once I graduated. I never told her that was part of my motivation, though… In fact, I felt the same way when I entered junior high. I don’t know why exactly… And now, just as I’m beginning my second year in the Liberal Arts program… (He blushes, silent tears welling up.)

—Yet, oddly enough, my mother never seemed particularly happy about my academic achievements. She never minded me studying or doing well, but she appeared to genuinely dislike it whenever my grades were posted, or my name appeared in the papers or magazines. I didn’t care for it either, so when I had to submit my grades for the school’s public postings, she would sometimes accompany me to the teacher, asking, ‘Could you please display his results in a corner where they won’t attract attention?’ My teachers found her requests rather modest and praised her as ‘a person of refined taste,’ but my mother was truly serious in her dislike of such attention. Even when I entered high school, she seemed very worried about my name appearing in the Fukuoka newspapers. I once suggested, ‘How about I take the exams for a distant private technical school, maybe up north? We could move there together, and perhaps that would keep my name out of the Fukuoka papers.’ After considering it for a while, she finally decided, ‘No, I must make sure you go to university, and I can’t abandon my students here.’ And so, we agreed on Fukuoka High School.

—Still, she cautioned me constantly, saying things like, ‘There are many bad boys and girls in Fukuoka, so don’t go wandering out of the dormitory too much,’ and, ‘If a stranger talks to you, don’t reply carelessly.’ Looking back now, I think she took that fortune-teller’s warnings to heart and feared someone was out to get us, which is why she was so anxious to keep our whereabouts hidden.

—During the school term, I stayed in the dormitory, but every Saturday night, without fail, I would return to Nogata and stay through Sunday. During vacation periods, I’d stay home continuously, helping my mother in the mornings by getting up a little early, though I’d go to bed around nine or ten at night. My mother was a strong-willed woman; though Nogata was a lonely place, she would sleep alone in this room when I wasn’t home. She would tell me, ‘Students start coming around 8:30, and I’m busy with lessons until eleven at night, so I never feel lonely. Don’t worry about hurrying home if you’re busy with studies.’

—Nothing unusual happened recently, at least not until last summer. My mother brought me a piece of American newspaper that had been used as wrapping for her embroidery supplies and asked, ‘Who is this person?’ I looked over the article and recognized it as an actor named Lon Chaney in a clown role, a Pierrot. When I told her this, she looked rather uninterested and simply said, ‘Oh, I see,’ before heading downstairs. Seeing that photograph, I thought, ‘So, that must be what my father looks like, living somewhere overseas.’ I remember every detail of that face well—it looked almost like a giant silkworm’s. I was curious, so I quietly went downstairs to my mother’s vanity mirror in the six-mat room and studied my own face. But there was no resemblance at all. (He blushes.)

—That night, too, was no different than usual. I went to bed around nine, as I always did, though I don’t know exactly what time my mother retired. Most likely it was around eleven, as was her habit.

—And there’s one more thing I didn’t mention to the police… That night, I woke up in the middle of the night. It’s rare for me to wake up like that, so I hesitated to share it, thinking it might only raise suspicions unnecessarily. I don’t know what exactly caused it, but I thought I heard a loud ‘thud’ sound, which startled me awake. The room was pitch dark, so I reached for the small light I kept by my bedside, turned it on, and checked my wristwatch, which was under the book I’d been reading—it was five minutes past one.

—I thought I might as well use the restroom, and as I got up, I looked over at my mother, who was sleeping peacefully facing my direction. Her mouth was slightly open, her cheeks a deep red, and her forehead seemed porcelain-white and translucent, making her look surprisingly young. She could have been the same age as some of her older students. After that, I went downstairs to use the bathroom, turning on the lights in both the six-mat and eight-mat rooms, but nothing seemed out of place. I thought about that ‘thud’ sound I’d heard and wondered if it might have just been my imagination. When I came back upstairs, my mother had turned over in her sleep, with only her hair wrapped in its comb visible above the covers. I turned off the light and went back to sleep, and I didn’t see her face again after that.

—After that, just like I told you at the police station, I started having strange dreams. I rarely dream at all, but that night was truly eerie. No, I didn’t dream of killing anyone, but the dreams were frightening. In one, a train came off the tracks, groaning and rattling as it chased me down; in another, a huge black bull with a long, purple tongue glared at me with rolling eyes. I saw the sun in a deep blue sky, belching thick black smoke as it spun around, and then Mount Fuji split in two, releasing a flood of bright red blood that surged toward me like giant waves. It was so terrifying, but my legs wouldn’t move, and no matter how I tried to run, I couldn’t escape. I thought I heard the rooster crow two or three times from the landlord’s henhouse, yet the terrifying images kept coming, each one as vivid as the last, and I just couldn’t wake up.

—Finally, as I struggled desperately, I managed to force my eyes open.

—By then, the latticework on the window was already faintly lit by morning light, and I felt a sense of relief. But as I tried to sit up, a sudden, sharp pain throbbed in my head, and my mouth tasted strange, like something foul, and my stomach started to turn. I thought I must be getting sick, so I lay back down, intending to rest just a bit longer, but I fell into a deep, sweat-soaked sleep, without any dreams this time.

—At some point, I felt someone suddenly pulling me upright. I was still half-asleep and thought I might be dreaming again. Someone held down my right hand firmly, trying to take me somewhere. As I tried to shake them off, another person grabbed my left hand, dragging me toward the ladder stairs. That’s when I finally came to and looked back—I saw a man in a suit and a police officer with a saber crouched by my mother’s pillow, as if they were examining something.

—Seeing that, I felt certain that my mother must have fallen ill with cholera or something like it, and that I had caught it too, which was why I felt so strange. Half-dazed, I let the two men pull me along, but I’ll never forget the dreadful weakness I felt. My whole body was limp, as if my bones were melting, and with each step down the stairs, my vision blurred, my head swayed painfully as if filled with water. When I tried to pause and steady myself, one of the men gave a sharp tug from below, and I nearly tumbled down the steps.

—As I stumbled forward, I happened to glance up. There, hanging in a loop from the railing at the top of the staircase, I saw my mother’s faded silk sash.

—But at that moment, I didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder why the sash was hanging there like that. The officer escorting me gave me a hard shove, which made me dizzy, and so I stumbled forward to the back entrance. There, I put on my mother’s red strap geta, the pair she always wore, and stepped into the alley. It suddenly struck me—could my mother already be dead? I stopped in my tracks and looked around. The men holding my arms were a detective and a policeman from the Nogata station, whose faces I recognized. They glared at me, their grip tightening as they dragged me forward, so I didn’t dare ask them anything.

—The street was glaringly bright in the sunlight, and there was a crowd of people gathered in front of our house. The moment I stepped outside, every single face turned toward me. The people closest to me backed away, looking at me with faces that seemed to glow yellow in the harsh light. The sight of them made my head spin, and I felt as if I might collapse. A sharp pain pulsed through my head, and I became nauseous. I tried to press my hand to my forehead, but with both hands restrained, I couldn’t do anything. That’s when it dawned on me—my mother wasn’t sick; she had been murdered, or something terrible had happened, and now I was a suspect. Realizing this, I let them pull me along without resistance.

—I must have been in shock, as I felt neither sadness nor fear. My body was drenched in sweat, and the thin, white cotton yukata I had slept in was soaked and clinging to my back and waist, leaving me shivering with chills. The sun’s glare from above was oddly pungent and suffocating, making me feel faint and queasy, and my mouth tasted faintly of blood. With each step, I looked down at the glittering ground, spitting occasionally as I walked.

—Finally, I realized we weren’t heading to a doctor’s office, but to the police station. My heart began to pound, but as we climbed the steps to the entrance, I felt oddly calm again. It was as if I were reading a detective novel about someone else, or dreaming. I stared at the dirty floorboards, feeling detached, until a loud voice suddenly boomed from behind me, startling me. I turned around to see the detective who had brought me, shouting at the crowd to stay back as they tried to press into the police station. I thought I recognized a few faces among them, but I can’t remember exactly who they were.

—After that, I was taken to a narrow room at the back, where I was told to sit on a wooden bench, and the police sergeant and a detective questioned me about all sorts of things. My head was throbbing so intensely that I can hardly remember what I said in response. The only thing I do remember is being told over and over, ‘You’re lying, you’re lying,’ and stubbornly replying, ‘I’m not lying, I’m not lying.’

—Soon after, Inspector Tani entered. He’s infamous in Nogata—people call him ‘The Crocodile’—and without warning, he said, ‘Your mother was murdered.’ At that, my chest filled with emotion, and I was overcome by a terrible urge to cry out loud, though I tried desperately to hold back my tears. I was still wiping them away when, after a long silence, Inspector Tani said, ‘There’s no way you didn’t know,’ and tossed something onto the dirty wooden desk in front of me. It was the sash my mother always kept at her bedside, a purple silk cord with an iron netsuke in the shape of an eggplant. It was very old, something she’d worn since leaving her hometown. But I couldn’t understand why it mattered, and I lowered my head. Then, in a voice like thunder, Inspector Tani shouted, ‘You used this to strangle your mother, didn’t you?’

—The accusation was so cruel that I became furious. Without thinking, I stood up and glared at him, but the sudden movement made my head pound, and I felt sick. I had to brace myself against the desk, my body trembling as I struggled to hold back the nausea. But I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my face.

—Inspector Tani continued to accuse me, saying all kinds of things. They say he’s feared by the criminals at the local coal mines, who call him ‘The Demon’ or ‘The Crocodile,’ but his words didn’t intimidate me. I just listened quietly as he explained what happened that morning. Around 8:30, a few of the students arrived for their lesson, but they noticed the front and back doors were shut tight, which was unusual. They notified the landlord, who tried calling out through the crack in the back door, but there was no response. Then, as the landlord peered through the opening, he saw a pair of bare white feet hanging at the top of the stairs, dimly illuminated in the early light. Terrified, he ran to the police station.

—When the officers arrived, the first thing they noticed was that the door latch had fallen off at the back entrance. They went upstairs and found my mother hanging from the railing by her thin sash, dressed only in her nightclothes, with her arms and legs dangling. They said I was lying there on the floor, half out of bed, sprawled out and sleeping soundly, as if unaware of any of it. But when they examined her body, the marks on her neck didn’t match the thin sash, and the bedding was disheveled, suggesting someone had strangled her first, then tried to make it look like a hanging. Nothing in the house appeared to have been stolen, and there was no sign of anyone entering from outside, which made me the prime suspect.

—Then there was more. They told me that my mother seemed to have struggled greatly when she was strangled in bed, with multiple deep marks on her neck, layered two or three times. They said there was no way I could have been lying next to her and not woken up. And why, they asked, had I slept in far later than usual by over three hours that morning? Was it because I’d fallen asleep trying to cover up the crime and accidentally overslept? They kept pressing me, asking if I had a girlfriend, or if I’d fallen for one of my mother’s students and argued with her over it, or if I’d demanded money from her. They even asked how much allowance I received, whether she was really my mother, or if perhaps she was just posing as my mother. ‘Confess everything,’ they said, accusing me of every unthinkable crime.

—Listening to all of this made my head go numb, and I even began to wonder if a person could really end up killing someone without being aware of it. Could it be that I had somehow murdered her in a dream and forgotten it? I sat there, dazed, thinking vaguely along those lines, when they said, ‘Then you can stay here and think about it,’ and locked me up in the holding cell.

—I spent the rest of that day and night drifting in and out of sleep, without eating. The next morning, my head still hurt, so I skipped breakfast too. But by lunchtime, I was so hungry that I decided to eat, and I was surprised by how delicious the food was—the headache vanished entirely. Toward evening, a woman who looked just like my mother came to visit. I was shocked, but then realized it was my aunt, whom I was meeting for the first time. She asked me the same thing as you did, sir (Mr. W), ‘Did you have any dreams?’ But I couldn’t remember anything at that time and said I didn’t know… I had no idea anything like an anesthetic might have been involved.

—The next day, you came to see me, and so did my junior high homeroom teacher, Mr. Kamachi. The day after that, someone from the courthouse visited me, kindly asking questions in a way that made me feel hopeful that I might be cleared soon. I wanted so badly to see my mother, but when I finally returned home two days ago, her body had already been cremated, which left me devastated. There isn’t a single photograph of her in the house, so I’ll never see her face again. But tomorrow, my aunt has promised to take me back to her home in Mei-no-Hama. She says I have a cousin named Moyoko there too, so I probably won’t feel too lonely.

—I love languages more than anything, especially reading foreign novels. Poe, Stevenson, and Hawthorne are my favorites, even if people say they’re old-fashioned… I’m even considering studying mental illnesses when I get to university. My real goal was to enter the humanities, learn as many languages as I could, and one day search for my father with my mother. But now she’s gone, having told me almost nothing about him, and I’m terribly disappointed. Other than that, I don’t have any particular aspirations. I like Japanese literature and classical Chinese, but I didn’t feel the need to study them further after graduating junior high. I also enjoy history and natural science, though geography, physics, and math seemed dull to me. The one subject I’m worst at is singing, but I love listening to music. When I listen to a good Western record, it feels as though I’m looking at a fine painting. I also enjoy folk songs; when my mother was in a good mood, she would often sing them with her students, and I loved listening to that. (He blushes.)

—I’ve never been sick a day in my life, and I don’t think my mother ever had to take to bed either.

—Now, I’m off to thank Mr. Kamachi, who kindly visited me at the police station.

The Second Reference

Testimony of Ichiro Kure’s Aunt, Yayoko

Location of Testimony: Same place, same time, shortly after Ichiro Kure had left.

—Truly, all of this feels like a dream. Ichiro is undoubtedly my sister’s son—he has her exact features, and even his voice sounds remarkably like our father’s.

—I don’t know much about the distant past, but our family has been farming in Mei-no-Hama for generations. My sister and I lost our mother early, and then our father passed away in January of the year I turned nineteen. After that, it was just me and my younger sister, Chiyoko (she glances at Chiyoko’s memorial tablet), carrying on the family line. Later that year, I married my late husband, Genkichi, and soon after, my sister left a note saying, ‘I’m going to Tokyo to study painting and embroidery. I’ll remain single for life, so don’t worry about me,’ and left home. That was around New Year’s of 1907. There were rumors that she was seen in Fukuoka afterward, but I never confirmed anything for sure. Like Ichiro said, she was a spirited young woman, unusually driven—she graduated top of her class from the prefectural girls’ school at seventeen. She would lose herself entirely in whatever she took up, often reading novels or painting through the night without sleep. Embroidery, in particular, had been her passion since elementary school; she would sit on the veranda until dusk, sewing images of temple screens onto muslin scraps. I suspect that after seeing me marry, she focused entirely on her crafts and left to pursue her interests. In hindsight, that parting was our farewell in this life.

—Later, we only received one update about my sister: a notice from a village office near Tokyo around the end of 1907, stating that a baby boy named Ichiro had been born in Komazawa. We immediately sought police help to try and locate her, but it turned out that the house at the reported address had been a rental for some time. I even sent a letter, which came back unopened, and I lost hope. I never learned how she registered Ichiro for school or managed any other official paperwork. After that, I had no further word from her until, at twenty-three, I lost my husband and had my only daughter, Moyoko. We’ve been just the two of us ever since.

—When I saw this incident in the newspaper, I was in a daze as I hurried here. The authorities asked me several questions, and I responded as I have here.

—Meeting Ichiro for the first time brought me to tears. I asked him about dreams because I remembered something I’d read about somnambulism in a novel that a young relative had left around the house. It was a foreign tale, and I didn’t understand all of it, but the story said that actions performed in a sleepwalking state weren’t punishable. The young people laughed and joked that ‘maybe we should pretend to be sleepwalkers if we want to get away with mischief,’ but it came back to me, and I asked Ichiro just in case. I feared I might be intruding by asking, but my only thought was to help him.

—Thanks to everyone’s diligence, not only is Ichiro cleared of all suspicion, but it’s been proven that my sister led a good life. After they examined her remains, I could feel some peace. So I intend to conduct a proper memorial service here and to thank everyone who has helped.

—Yesterday, I received a letter along with an incense offering from the master of Ōmiya in Tokyo. He wrote that he’d been looking for my sister because an official from the Imperial Household Ministry had requested her skilled hand in repairing ceremonial garments, but he hadn’t known of her passing until the police arrived. It seems that the madam, to whom my sister had once confided her story, has also passed away. Had my sister lived a little longer, she might have found a good turn in her fortunes… Whoever committed this horrible crime, I would tear them to pieces if I could. (She weeps.)

—I have no close family left apart from distant relatives, and now only Moyoko and I are left as immediate family. I will treat Ichiro as my own child and raise him to the best of my ability… but thinking of a life guided only by memorial tablets… (She chokes back her tears.)

The Third Reference

Statement by Ms. Matsuko Matsumura

(Owner of Suishi Women’s Academy, Mizujaya, outskirts of Fukuoka City)

Date: April 4 of the same year

Source: Reprinted from the morning edition of the Genyō Shinpō newspaper

—That young lady skilled in embroidery attended the Suishi Women’s Academy nearly two decades ago, during the time of the Russo-Japanese War. I was in my thirties then, so I don’t recall the details clearly. Yes, she certainly was a student there. She must have been about seventeen or eighteen years old. She didn’t stand out much, but she was a petite, sharp-featured beauty named Nijino Migiwa. Yes, I’m sure of it. Such a unique name is hard to forget. And as for that exquisite “satin stitch” embroidery you mentioned, I’ve never seen anyone but Nijino accomplish it so flawlessly.

—None of Nijino’s works remain in my possession. Back then, I didn’t fully appreciate the value of such luxurious artistry. It was a regrettable oversight. I remember one time, she spent two whole months crafting a small fukusa, about five inches square, which we displayed at the academy’s exhibition. It was priced at twenty yen, but no one bought it. If it existed now, it would be priceless. I wish I had learned from her myself. Not only was she skilled in embroidery, but she could also write far more beautifully than even Ono Gadō’s exemplary calligraphy. I often asked her to write characters for my other students’ embroidery patterns. She was also quite talented at drawing; many of the finest sketches in my collection were copied by her. Yet, after attending for about six months, she suddenly disappeared without a trace.

—Pregnant, you ask? Oh no, such a petite figure would have shown signs quickly, and there were none. That man abandoned her and fled, you say? Good heavens! Is that so? My, my…

—The house where she lived back then? I’m afraid I don’t know. The other students from those days are all nearing forty now, old enough to be grandmothers. Ha, ha, ha. So, they say that man may have killed Nijino? How dreadful! What a tragic loss for someone so beautiful. Now that you mention it, there is something that comes to mind. Please don’t tell anyone I said this, but Nijino had quite the reputation as a seductress. Rumor had it she broke the hearts of two or three university students. Of course, that’s only hearsay.

—She was elusive, always coming from one direction and leaving from another. No one ever knew her true address. At my academy, I had a strict policy against admitting people with questionable character, but there was never any concrete reason to suspect her of misconduct. She seemed dependable and was exceptionally skilled at her work. No, I don’t have any photographs. But such old grievances... they seem far too ancient to matter now. Ho, ho...

—What? That was Kure, from that famous unsolved case? My goodness, what should I say? How was it discovered that Nijino was Kure? Oh, I see—she confided her story to the proprietress of a handbag shop in Tokyo, leaving out only the man’s name. Is that so? Well, please, do keep this matter confidential. And so on.

▲Postscript: As the key points of the incident report concerning Ichiro Kure’s First Incident are comprehensively included within the three fragments presented above, detailed recounting has been omitted. However, the “Fragment of Miss Matsumura,” the third reference, is entirely irrelevant as a source for what I term “Ichiro Kure’s First Incident.” Nonetheless, it is included here in deference to Mr. W’s insistence in compiling this record, as well as to demonstrate that both the investigative approach taken by judicial authorities and contemporary newspaper reports were tacitly influenced by Mr. W’s perspective.

◆ Summary of Mr. W’s Views on the Above

The investigation revealed the following details regarding the incident in the Nogata region, historically situated at the center of the Chikuho coalfield and notorious for its violent crimes. Due to the rudimentary and haphazard investigative methods employed by the local police, the crime scene was thoroughly disturbed and evidence irretrievably compromised the day after the incident occurred. Despite this, analysis of the scene, witness accounts, police recollections, and local rumors allowed for the identification of several key points:

(A): At the women’s academy, the crime scene, there was no evidence such as fingerprints or footprints apart from a bamboo prop, approximately one inch in diameter and four feet in length, which had mysteriously fallen to the ground from its position securing the back door. Whether this was intentional remains unclear. The bamboo prop, designed to brace the door from the inside, could be dislodged by pushing the door strongly enough to insert a finger and remove it. The door’s frame had been reinforced with a zinc plate to prevent wear and ensure the prop’s stability; ironically, this reinforcement made it easier for the prop to be dislodged with minimal force.

(B): The victim, Chiyoko, was strangled from behind with a silk cord between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. She struggled fiercely, scattering her bedding and leaving signs of intense agony on the tatami. After death, her body was moved to the staircase and hung from the railing with a narrow sash, arranged to appear as a suicide. However, the ligature marks on her neck showed two or three distinct layers, which were evident even at the time of the investigation. This detail indicates the hanging was staged as part of an elaborate attempt to mislead. While the superficial nature of the staging might suggest amateurish efforts at concealment, the thorough eradication of other evidence, such as fingerprints, implies a calculated ploy to create confusion and misdirect suspicion.

No items were found on the victim, leading to speculation that she may have been lightly anesthetized prior to the attack. The silk cord, identified as the murder weapon, passed through the hands of several officers afterward, rendering it useless as evidence.

(C): Ichiro Kure, who was present, exhibited symptoms consistent with being under the influence of anesthesia, as suggested by his post-incident behavior and reported symptoms.

(D): An autopsy performed approximately 40 hours after death, under the supervision of Dr. Funaki and conducted by myself (W), confirmed no recent signs of sexual activity. The uterus showed evidence of a prior pregnancy but no other relevant findings.

From the above facts, determining the perpetrator’s identity and motive proves exceedingly difficult. Nevertheless, certain characteristics of the criminal can be inferred: they likely possessed significant knowledge, familiarity with anesthetics, careful planning, and moderate physical strength. Furthermore, their actions suggest an intent to avoid implicating Ichiro Kure.

The initial investigative direction, based on these assumptions, led to Kure's release. However, the authorities eventually abandoned this approach and shifted to speculative searches, leading to no significant breakthroughs. Consequently, the case remains unresolved and classified as one of the so-called "mysteries of the labyrinth. (Excerpt ends).

▼Psychological Observations Regarding the Above

As I, the author (Masaki), did not personally investigate this case, there are certain limitations to providing a rigorous scientific and psychological analysis. However, by examining the diverse characteristics recorded by Mr. W from his unique perspective in forensic science, it becomes apparent that the true nature of this incident lies within what modern scientific knowledge and common sense cannot yet fathom: an "attack of psychological inheritance." There can be no doubt about this. It stands as a prime example of what I term a "crime without a criminal," where all signs point unequivocally to the correctness of Mr. W’s initial intuition.

Mr. W’s meticulous preparation in recording such valuable conversations on the matter, without wavering in his suspicion even after the incident, commands the utmost respect from the outset.

Therefore, based on Mr. W’s observations and the three accounts provided, I have outlined the essential points of observation necessary to probe the truth of this case, as follows:

1. Ichiro Kure’s Character and Sexual Life

Ichiro Kure was a boy of sixteen years and four months at the time, raised in a family environment suffused with maternal love. As a refined, intelligent youth of full physical development who had frequent opportunities to interact with young women, he had likely reached sexual maturity prior to the incident. However, his refined nature—guided by his mother’s pure affection and his own sharp intellect—appears to have prevented any manifestation of these impulses in a physical or improper manner. It is thus recognized that he retained his innocence and chastity.

His confession of listening to female singers with a blush reflects the characteristic sensibilities of a young man of his nature and age. Furthermore, the charming sincerity evident throughout his statements, as well as his calm acknowledgment of being viewed as a suspect without any trace of fear, attest to the unblemished purity of his life up to that point. The assumption concerning his age and sexual life forms the critical foundation upon which all subsequent psychological observations in this case rely. This foundational assertion is placed prominently here to underscore its importance.

2. The Suggestion that Induced a Somnambulistic State

Ichiro Kure’s confession that, upon awakening around 1:00 a.m. on the night of the incident, he found his mother’s sleeping face to possess an unusual beauty, corroborates the validity of the previous observations. This confession also clarifies the nature of the suggestion that triggered his psychological hereditary episode that night, manifesting in a somnambulistic state. His midnight awakening, in direct relation to an intense surge of sexual impulse, reveals that Ichiro’s mental state was then nearing a profound emotional crisis, as his confession confirms. It appears, however, that this crisis was substantially alleviated after he went downstairs to relieve himself and then returned to the second floor. Further, it is reasonable to surmise that upon seeing his mother’s figure turned away from him, any sense of allure dissipated, returning him to his usual rational state, allowing him to resume sleep.

Yet, this temporarily suppressed impulse may have later, as Ichiro fell into deep sleep, aroused a latent psychological heredity within his unconscious, triggering a somnambulistic episode (see details under the “Second Incident” section). As will be explained further in the following points, this psychological reactivation ultimately drove him to commit the terrible act.

3. The Relationship Between Ichiro Kure’s Initial Awakening and His Somnambulistic State

Ichiro testified that, unusually, he awoke in the middle of the night—an experience he had rarely encountered before. This detail might serve as an indication of the subsequent somnambulistic state that developed during his sleep. However, before elaborating on this rationale, we must first consider the incident that likely caused his initial awakening: the sound of the kitchen door’s latch falling. Ichiro himself seemed convinced that this noise had awakened him, yet such an interpretation—treating sensory perceptions during sleep as if they were perceptions during wakefulness—is likely a misjudgment, and indeed a hasty one.

Many examples exist where people believe that a sound they heard during sleep awakened them immediately, only to realize upon waking that several minutes—or even one to two hours—had elapsed. A common example is the experience of a late sleeper who responds to repeated calls but falls back asleep, later waking up and claiming they responded to only a single call. This illustrates a common error in perceiving the time between a sound heard during sleep and the ensuing moment of awakening.

This misinterpretation makes it risky to infer a causal relationship between the sound of the latch and Ichiro’s awakening. It would be more accurate to consider the two phenomena—Ichiro’s awakening and the falling latch sound—as unrelated events. The conjecture that an intruder might have entered after applying a sedative to him, resulting in this terrible act, can thus be seen as both speculative and logically flawed.

While I possess relevant research materials concerning the nature of “sounds perceived in dreams,” detailed explanations and a broad array of examples would be required to present it fully here. Instead, I will simply cite a few cases in which dreamers experience sounds that, while unreal, are vivid enough to break their sleep:

(a) When a progressing dream image abruptly reaches an impasse—for instance, the instant of visualizing a sudden explosion, scattering, or fall as an intense emotion (such as joy, anger, or sadness) peaks.

(b) When a dream unexpectedly plunges into a profound emptiness—such as stepping off the edge of the world or plunging into a dark abyss.

(c) When two mental phenomena collide within the dream—such as secretly performing an act in fear of being discovered, only for that feared figure to appear; or a ship or car on a collision course suddenly veering straight towards the dreamer.

(d) When the dream scenario abruptly transforms into its complete psychological opposite—such as realizing a close friend is actually a villain, or an amiable companion suddenly becoming threatening; or, in a pleasant room or garden, objects morphing into figures of one’s deepest fears.

Upon examining the incident from this perspective, it becomes clear that the supposed sound Ichiro perceived within his dream was, in fact, nothing more than a psychological effect. This illusionary sound likely stemmed from an abrupt shift in his mental state—perhaps shock, fear, or sudden joy—occurring within the dream and mirroring the jarring impact of an unexpected loud noise in waking life. The similarity between these internal shifts and a real auditory experience likely led to his sense of hearing a distinct sound.

When applied to this case, it suggests that Ichiro’s initial awakening was the result of an unsettling collision within his dream. Just before waking, his mind, brimming with sexual impulse, may have produced a conflicting image, a kind of symbol for his repressed conscience, which triggered a fear response strong enough to create an auditory illusion. This interpretation supports the natural psychological flow that led Ichiro, upon awakening, to perceive his mother’s sleeping face with extraordinary beauty. This reaction would align with the secretive, inward experiences typical of a chaste young man during springtime—a sincere, untainted confession of such a moment. Consequently, the possibility of Ichiro entering a somnambulistic state, where the same impulse drove him to act unconsciously, becomes even more plausible.

Furthermore, the fact that the kitchen door latch was displaced raises the question of whether it might have been part of an unconscious attempt to conceal the crime, as many sleepwalkers performing wrongful acts often engage in crude attempts at concealment. Such simplistic measures, like those in this case, are often unintentionally humorous in their naivety. Alternatively, it could be speculated that someone from outside may have entered, accidentally dropping the latch, only to flee upon seeing Ichiro descend.

However, due to a lack of thorough investigation into these points, we must momentarily reserve judgment on these unresolved questions.

4. The Initial Actions of the Somnambulistic Episode: Strangulation

The motive underlying the violent act central to this case remains vague, seemingly beyond the reach of conventional reasoning. Combined with Mr. W’s investigative findings—confirming that, within Tsukushi Women’s Academy, only Ichiro Kure, his mother, and female students had any involvement—it becomes clear that this incident can be most aptly and simply attributed to Ichiro’s somnambulistic episode directed at his mother. This attribution explains away any assumptions of an outside perpetrator as mere misinterpretations, arising from the attempt to imagine a third-party culprit.

In this case, Ichiro, harboring a latent sexual impulse within his subconscious, fell into a deep sleep, during which his psychological inheritance triggered a somnambulistic state. Guided by a vision or desire within this unconscious state, he picked up a nearby sash and, in the throes of his hallucination, enacted violence upon the first woman he encountered—his mother. After this act, he proceeded to perform other bizarre behaviors, as will be discussed later, marking this episode as a rare and peculiar case of sleepwalking from a scientific perspective, before returning to bed.

This violent act, directed solely by Ichiro’s unconscious nervous system, bypassed his conscious mind. His brain’s cognitive functions, suspended by deep sleep, were replaced by reflexive interactions across his entire body (primarily involving the sympathetic and vagus nerves, aided by the organs, muscles, connective tissues, and blood), resulting in profound physical exhaustion afterwards (refer to my work Psychopathology for further details). Consequently, upon waking, Ichiro’s conscious mind held virtually no memory of these actions. The failure to recognize this distinction—believing mistakenly that all deliberate actions must originate solely from conscious awareness—led to the mistaken notion of a fictitious perpetrator, a misunderstanding that is unsurprising given the current limitations of scientific knowledge.

Additionally, among the key elements for analysis in Ichiro’s somnambulistic state, the act of strangulation represents the central manifestation of the psychogenic inheritance responsible for the crime. Any subsequent sleepwalking episodes seem, by contrast, to deviate from this initial compulsion. However, these later deviations in his sleepwalking, while digressions, offer rare insights with significant academic value. Thus, although they may appear tangential, these episodes are documented here to further illuminate that the incident was, in fact, driven entirely by Ichiro’s somnambulistic episodes, providing a thorough understanding of the case.

5. The Second Phase of Somnambulistic Activity Following Strangulation: The Manipulation of the Corpse

Despite clear evidence of the victim’s struggle and visible signs of strangulation, the attempt to make it appear as a case of hanging seems at first a superficial attempt to conceal the crime. However, it is more plausible to interpret this as evidence of strange behaviors characteristic of somnambulistic states that transpired at the scene that night. This aligns with the phenomenon described by the author as “corpse manipulation,” an act that, in this context, feels neither unnatural nor contrived. On the contrary, it offers a straightforward and convincing explanation for the observed events.

Historically, precise records documenting the phenomenon of corpse manipulation in somnambulistic states are rare. What exists mostly comprises legends and folklore, particularly among the Latin peoples and superstitious cultures of the East. These records are typically not first-hand accounts but rather writings by monks or physicians who recorded accounts they had heard from others. Unfortunately, most such reports involve superstitions, often confused with tales of exploiting corpses for terrifying others, animating dead bodies, or even disturbing accounts involving desecration and theft.

Nevertheless, the notion that corpse manipulation has existed as a phenomenon throughout history is credible. Reviewing the narratives around supernatural beings associated with the dead in China, India, and Japan—such as shishin, shiki, and kasha—suggests that corpse manipulation may indeed be the basis of these tales, misinterpreted through the lens of local lore and spiritual beliefs. Plans for a forthcoming research piece, On Specters, will delve into such phenomena in greater depth. Preliminary findings suggest that these legends about corpse manipulation likely originated from ancestral impulses in humans, manifesting through dream-based re-enactments of victories over prey or enemies. This behavior is especially observable in children, who instinctively toy with dolls or figures as if reenacting scenes of domination, much like how hunters or predators treat their quarry.

More relevant, perhaps, is the fact that, under the psychological influence of a somnambulistic state, individuals may carry out actions involving corpses without retaining any conscious memory of them. The person might believe they are witnessing the corpse’s movements rather than directing them, mistaking their own actions for those of the corpse. Upon awakening to find a corpse displaced or disturbed, such an individual would naturally be horrified, interpreting it as the result of supernatural forces—a misinterpretation that would, over time, give rise to the legends surrounding this phenomenon.

Practical measures, such as the tradition of group vigils around the deceased or placing a blade near the head of the dead, may have originated as safeguards against somnambulistic behavior near corpses. The blade’s gleaming presence, capable of disturbing the dreamer's illusions, might prevent such behavior, a practice confirmed by centuries of collective experience.

When we examine Ichiro’s actions in this case, his somnambulistic episode following the strangulation appears remarkably similar. However, a distinguishing aspect of his behavior is the influence of an inherent, abnormal sexual drive within his familial lineage—a “psychogenic heredity” of perverse tendencies. In Ichiro’s case, this manifested as a multi-staged dream enactment. He first experienced a psychological satisfaction in his mind by strangling his imagined object of desire, only to then proceed, under the lingering suggestion of the corpse, to engage in corpse manipulation. This somnambulistic manipulation suggests a heightened, even obsessive drive, as evidenced by the various positions and postures imposed upon the corpse.

These acts reveal a pathological escalation to the highest level of abnormality within the sphere of sexual deviation.

6. The Third Phase of Somnambulistic Activity Following Corpse Manipulation: Hallucinations of Self-Murder and the Vision of One’s Own Corpse

The hallucination of self-murder and the vision of one’s own corpse represent extreme forms of deviant psychology, which are rare even outside somnambulistic episodes. This level of deviation is difficult to fully unpack, yet for contextual purposes, a brief summary is warranted. Fundamentally, sexual desire or romantic love generally involves attraction to another person. However, when traced to its source, even the most selfless expressions of love or desire ultimately spring from a primal, self-preserving instinct—a fundamental, self-centered need to cherish one’s own existence. When this desire reaches obsessive heights, it may fail to find satisfaction through conventional means, eventually leading to the reversal of desire back upon oneself, culminating in a narcissistic fixation.

Consider this, for instance, from an active perspective: when insatiable desire for intimacy escalates to the point of cruelty, it may evolve from seeking gratification through mere interaction to finding pleasure in acts of violence or even death (known as sadism or necrophilia). This can further transform into fixations on voyeurism, fetishism, and other behaviors that gradually shift the locus of pleasure from external engagement to an obsessive, almost vicarious self-gratification. Conversely, when the longing for being loved becomes extreme, it may manifest as a masochistic craving for humiliation or disgust, eventually reaching the same self-centered fixation. This self-absorption, or narcissismus, is ultimately the intersection of active and passive deviant tendencies converging on the self.

Within the extreme form of narcissism lies a synthesis of contradictory impulses: the desire to both elevate and debase oneself. This can escalate into a form of self-torment or revulsion, including the vision of one’s own corpse. Historical examples of suicide involving elaborate self-image rituals, as well as unfulfilled love suicides, often reveal hints of this psychology. Such people seek satisfaction in a form of deviant longing, expressing itself in both minor and intense ways—from subtle destruction of mirrors and objects associated with their own identity to volunteering for symbolic roles of injury or death.

Applying this to Ichiro’s case, one can infer that he may have recognized a resemblance between his own features and those of the victim, both before and after the initial strangulation episode. Overcome by a powerful but unfulfilled sexual impulse that could not be released through the act alone, Ichiro might have repeatedly recognized his own likeness in the corpse during the prolonged manipulation, leading him to interpret it as a hallucination of self-murder. In such a state, he would have unconsciously reenacted the strangulation multiple times on the body, mistaking it for his own.

Finally, this delusion would have culminated in an intense vision of his own corpse, with Ichiro suspending the victim’s body over the railing and stepping back to view it from the stairs, fully engrossed in the macabre illusion. Viewed from this perspective, the act of double or triple strangulation and the corpse’s suspension as a staged hanging become logical extensions of this somnambulistic state, naturally explaining the key features of this case.

It appears that the investigation overlooked these unique behaviors characteristic of somnambulism, treating the case as an ordinary crime and thus failing to preserve potential evidence, such as fingerprints and footprints, that might have verified the bizarre actions unique to Ichiro’s condition. Consequently, certain details of these extraordinary actions remain beyond conjecture, a regrettable but unavoidable loss.

Finally, one may surmise that the intense sexual impulse underlying Ichiro’s somnambulistic state reached its peak with this vision of his own corpse. Following this culmination, Ichiro likely entered a phase of residual somnambulism—a state of disoriented wandering, which the author refers to as a “staggering condition.” This staggering phase, though lacking conscious intent, may account for certain residual aspects of the crime that later presented as unresolved peculiarities. This final phase of the event warrants further examination under a separate heading.

7. The Characteristics of Ichiro’s Somnambulism as Reflected in His Nightmares, Bad Breath, and Other Symptoms

The report of Ichiro experiencing nightmares, as well as subsequent symptoms of headache, dizziness, chills, foul breath, and nausea, initially led investigators to suspect the use of anesthesia. However, from a psychological perspective, this is likely a misinterpretation stemming from insufficient understanding of dreams and somnambulistic phenomena. Upon examining these symptoms with the following considerations, it becomes apparent that these occurrences are more accurately recognized as prominent symptoms associated with sleepwalking, rather than the effects of an anesthetic.

(a) Bad Breath and the Legend of the Rokurokubi: Symptoms such as Ichiro’s headache, nausea, and fatigue are typical secondary effects often observed after sleepwalking episodes. Most notably, however, is his report of a foul taste or odor in his mouth, a symptom warranting particular attention. While a more detailed discussion on this topic will appear in a separate study on supernatural folklore, it is worth noting that there are many accounts of sleepwalkers who, while unaware of fatigue during an episode, later experience extreme exhaustion and intense thirst following the episode’s peak, a physiological consequence of prolonged exertion. Here, an interesting parallel arises with the Japanese folklore of the Rokurokubi, or “detached neck spirit,” known for the supposed ability to extend its neck at night, sometimes to drink impure liquids like oil or stagnant water. While this legend may seem fantastical, it can be understood as a symbolic representation of sleepwalking behavior. The belief that the Rokurokubi drinks from oil lamps or wells and wakes with a foul taste mirrors the experience of a sleepwalker who, driven by extreme thirst after intense physical exertion, consumes whatever liquid they find nearby—sometimes unaware of the liquid’s source. Such behaviors, if observed during an episode, may result in sleepwalkers consuming any available liquid, whether it be something benign like water, or something unintended such as oil or cleaning agents, only to later experience unpleasant symptoms like bad breath or nausea upon waking. It is reasonable to believe that Ichiro’s symptoms could similarly be explained by his consumption of a non-water liquid during his somnambulistic episode, rather than by anesthetic effects as initially suspected. This interpretation aligns more naturally with the physiological aftereffects of sleepwalking, suggesting that the odor Ichiro experienced was due to some liquid intake during his episode rather than a lingering effect of anesthetic gasses or drugs.

(b) Nightmares: Ichiro’s nightmare—a vivid and distressing dream he recalled experiencing shortly before 1:05 a.m., followed by continued sleep—was likely just an ordinary nightmare and should not be mistaken for a direct component of his somnambulistic episode. It appears instead to have been a fragmented memory from the brief period before his second awakening. The sensations and effects he experienced upon waking, such as bad breath and nausea, are thus more likely tied to whatever he ingested during his sleepwalking, rather than the nightmare itself, providing further support for the interpretation that his symptoms stemmed from the physiological peculiarities of sleepwalking.

8. Timing and Additional Observations on the Somnambulistic Episode

Based on the preceding analysis, it can be inferred that Ichiro’s somnambulistic episode likely took place between his first and second awakenings. If the estimated time of death for the victim is between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m., this suggests that Ichiro, after falling asleep for the second time, entered the deepest stage of sleep around 30 minutes to an hour later, a period conducive to the onset of sleepwalking. His eventual dawn awakening, consistent with his habitual waking patterns, marks the point at which he began to emerge from the residual effects of the episode. Indicators such as perspiration suggest he had finally entered restorative sleep, free from the disturbances of the nightmare and the stimuli related to the substances he ingested during the episode.

9. Post-Episode Awareness and Reflections on Dual Personality

When questioned by the police and faced with suspicion of matricide, Ichiro admitted, albeit vaguely, “Could it be that I killed her and forgot about it?” At first glance, this appears to suggest a fragmentary memory of his sleepwalking. As noted in Section 4, Ichiro’s actions during the night likely left no conscious memory. However, some residual, unconscious memory of his extreme fatigue or other sensations from the episode might have surfaced due to the suggestive power of the interrogation.

Alternatively, Ichiro’s statement may simply reflect the tendencies of a sensitive and imaginative mind. His pure-hearted nature, coupled with an affinity for literature, may have led him to an intuitive but mistaken assumption about his role in the crime. Thus, while intriguing, this admission does not conclusively establish his awareness of the sleepwalking episode but can be seen as a supplemental reference.

Furthermore, this case provides insight into the longstanding perception of sleepwalkers as possessing a form of dual personality. A person’s psyche can be viewed as a composite of inherited ancestral memories, characteristics from various lineages, and individual traits. Under certain conditions, aspects of this psyche may temporarily split off, manifesting as dual personality when awake and as somnambulism during sleep. Given the hereditary nature of somnambulistic tendencies, the legal responsibility for crimes committed in such a state may more fittingly rest not on the individual sleepwalker but on their ancestors and the society of their era. This perspective offers a crucial consideration for the legal interpretation of such cases.

10. The Enigma of the Kure Family Lineage

The accounts in the initial four statements reveal subtle yet recurring hints of a hereditary predisposition within Ichiro’s psychology that might incline him towards somnambulistic episodes. This genetic mystery manifests in various ways:

In Ichiro’s Statements: Ichiro’s mother, Chiyoko, was described as possessing an unusually clear mind and strong will, uncommon for women of her time. Despite her apparent rejection of superstition, she held a persistent belief in a fatalistic, almost superstitious view regarding her and her son’s destiny. This paradox suggests an underlying, inescapable anxiety within her psyche. The fortune teller, known as the Master of Tanuki Hole, declared, “You two are cursed.” It seems probable that this was inferred from something Chiyoko revealed, as if the fortune teller detected an underlying truth within her words.

In Yayoko’s Statements: When visiting Ichiro in detention, Yayoko, despite her limited education, asked him if he had experienced a dream that night. While her explanation was that she had heard of sleepwalking, this level of awareness regarding a complex psychological phenomenon seems unusually perceptive for someone of her background. This question implies that Yayoko may have already entertained suspicions about a sleepwalking episode, suggesting she harbored a lingering, personal awareness of such events—perhaps due to some past experience or knowledge within the family. Yayoko also mentioned the lack of close relatives around their ancestral home, which, while not uncommon among wealthier rural families, can indicate a family history marked by isolation. Such isolation often stems from undesirable traits or hereditary issues that others avoid associating with, raising suspicions that the Kure family may carry some form of genetic or psychological legacy that alienated them from the local community. Yayoko’s explanation of Chiyoko’s departure—that she left to pursue embroidery and painting—also implies another potential motive. It seems plausible that Chiyoko may have sensed the improbability of marriage within the confines of her family’s reputation. Her departure might have been a tacit agreement with her sister, meant to ensure the Kure bloodline’s survival elsewhere, with Yayoko’s apparent lack of urgency in finding her suggesting an understanding between the sisters.

In Matsuko Matsumura’s Statements: Matsuko commented on Chiyoko’s reputation as a “man-eater,” which, combined with the previous observations, offers a glimpse into Chiyoko’s motivations after leaving her family home. This detail suggests that she may have intentionally distanced herself from the family’s legacy.

All these statements suggest the presence of a long-standing, deeply feared element within the Kure family’s history—something well understood by both Yayoko and Chiyoko. The pervasive anxiety surrounding the family lineage, coupled with this awareness, provides a contextual foundation for understanding the pressures and latent fears Ichiro might have unconsciously absorbed, ultimately manifesting in his tragic episode.

11. The Nature of Psychological Heredity Underlying Ichiro’s Somnambulistic Episode in This Incident

The question that remains is: What specific form of psychological heredity triggered Ichiro’s somnambulistic episode in this case, and to what extent was it expressed?

In this first episode, the catalyst for his somnambulism was merely the sight of "a beautiful sleeping face”—a simple visual stimulus. Given that the source of this allure was his mother, whose appeal as a member of the opposite sex was minimal for him, the psychological suggestion acting upon Ichiro’s hereditary tendencies was accordingly weak. Consequently, the content of his sleepwalking episode reflected only a single element that resonated with the peculiar psychological heredity of the Kure family—namely, the act of strangulation. Beyond this, his actions appeared to deviate, influenced more by the sight of the corpse and its resemblance to himself, rather than by any deeper manifestations of the inherited family traits.

However, a fuller understanding of the hereditary factors in Ichiro’s case emerged with the Second Indicent, which took place approximately two years after this initial incident. The details of this subsequent episode provide critical insight, shedding definitive light on the true extent and nature of the psychological inheritance within the Kure lineage, as observed in this case.

The Second Incident

First Reference

Testimony of Sengorō Tokura

▼Hearing Date: April 26, 1926 (on the day of the so-called “Bride Murder Incident” in Mei-no-Hama), around 1 p.m. 

▼Hearing Location: At Tokura Sengorō’s residence, 2427, Mei-no-Hama Town, Sawara District, Fukuoka Prefecture. 

▼Present: Tokura Sengorō (a long-term farmhand employed by the Kure family, age 55 at the time), his wife, several of his children, and myself (Mr. W).

Note: Due to the heavy use of dialect, the testimony has been transcribed into a form closer to standard.

――Ah, yes, it was truly a terrifying ordeal. When I fell from the very top of the ladder, I landed on my lower back, and the pain was so severe that I could hardly even crawl to relieve myself. I narrowly escaped with my life, I tell you. However, just this morning, I drank some sake mixed with burnt eggplant and applied a poultice made from crushed crucian carp, and as you can see, it worked wonders. The pain has eased considerably, all thanks to those remedies.

――The Kure family is well-known around here as one of the wealthiest farming households, with over a thousand koku of rice to their name. On top of that, they manage everything from sericulture to poultry farming, and now the widow, Mrs. Yayoko, oversees it all by herself, deftly working the abacus. Their fortune only continues to grow—so much so that no one knows whether it’s in the tens of millions or hundreds of millions. It’s truly astonishing. They even built their own school, and their ancestors constructed the local temple. With such a prosperous legacy, their heir, young master Ichiro Kure, should have been the happiest man alive. But, as fate would have it, something unexpected has happened...

――The young master was a quiet, gentle soul, a man of few words. Ever since he came here from Nogata, he spent most of his time studying in the inner parlor. He never lorded his position over the servants or the locals, earning him an excellent reputation. Until recently, the Kure household was rather gloomy, with only the widow Yayoko and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Moyoko, living there. But ever since the young master arrived in the spring two years ago, the atmosphere somehow brightened. Even we, the staff, felt a newfound sense of purpose in our work.

――Then, this spring, came the truly joyous news. Young master Ichiro graduated at the top of his class from Fukuoka High School and entered Fukuoka University, again as the top student. To celebrate, there was talk of holding a dual celebration: his academic success and his marriage to Miss Moyoko. The Kure household was practically brimming with excitement... yes, absolutely buzzing with joy.

――Well, just yesterday (April 25th), there was an English speech contest held by the high school students at a large Western-style building called the Memorial Hall in Fukuoka’s Inaba Town. Young master Ichiro had the honor of representing the graduates as the first speaker. He planned to attend in his high school uniform, but Mrs. Yayoko insisted he wear his new university attire instead. Although he tried to refuse with a wry smile, saying it was too soon, she wouldn’t hear of it. She dressed him in the new outfit herself, then stood watching him leave, wiping her tears with a look of joy. Thinking back now, that must have been the last time he wore that university uniform.

――As for today, it was meant to be a joyous occasion—the wedding of young master Ichiro and Miss Moyoko. We had all been staying at the estate since the day before yesterday to help with preparations. Moyoko, with her hair styled in a traditional takashimada and wearing a grass-green furisode with a red sash, was bustling about. She was as radiant as always, said to surpass even the famed portrait of Lady Mutsumi, their ancestor. Her beauty and gentle nature earned her much admiration, and even the nursemaids sang: “A thousand ryo for her beauty, a thousand for her demeanor, and another thousand depends on her husband.” Meanwhile, the young master, at just twenty years old, was so poised and refined in both manner and appearance that even those nearing thirty couldn’t compare. His handsome features were said to rival those of court nobles, and people whispered there wasn’t a couple in all of Hakata who could match them.

――The preparations spared no expense. To mark Ichiro’s move into the Kure household as a groom, they demolished a field to build a splendid detached house. His wedding attire came from Fukuoka’s finest kimono shop, Kyoya, and the banquet was catered by Fish Kichi, the best purveyor in town. Mrs. Yayoko spared no effort, and the excitement was palpable.

――However, despite his brief role at the speech contest yesterday, young master Ichiro had assured us he would return by no later than two o’clock. Yet as three came and went, there was still no sign of him. It was entirely unlike him to be so tardy. I shared my concern with the others, but they brushed it off, suggesting the event might have started late. Still, I couldn’t shake my unease. By the time the skies clouded over and the spring day abruptly darkened as if it were evening, my worry only deepened.

――Noticing the same, Mrs. Yayoko discreetly pulled me aside, wiping her wet hands, and said, “He’s already twenty; surely there’s no mistake. But he still hasn’t returned, so could you check on him?” I was thinking the same thing. After finishing a repair on a bamboo steamer, I took a puff of my pipe, slipped on my straw sandals, and set off. It must have been around four o’clock.

――Taking the light railway to Nishijin Town, I stopped by my brother’s food stall near the end of the tram line by Imagawa Bridge. When I asked, “Have you seen our young master?” he replied, “Oh, him? He passed by here about two hours ago. He didn’t board the tram but walked westward instead. It was the first time we saw him in his university attire, so my wife and I stepped outside to watch him for a while. What a fine groom he is!”

――The young master had always disliked the smell of the railway’s smoke. Even during his high school days, he often said it was good exercise, choosing to walk every day from Mei-no-Hama through the rice fields. Still, from Imagawa Bridge to Mei-no-Hama is just a short distance—barely a league—so it shouldn’t have taken him two hours. Worried, I turned back toward home, which must have been around four-thirty. Following the railway along the national road, I eventually reached a stone quarry near the coastline, not far from Mei-no-Hama.

――The quarry, known for its soft black Mei-no-Hama stone, is a landmark one must pass when traveling between Fukuoka and this area. The jagged stones stand like folding screens, and the western sun paints them a vivid red in the evening. It was here, in the dim recesses of the quarry, that I thought I glimpsed the figure of a man wearing a square academic cap and Western attire moving slightly in the shadows.

――Although my eyesight isn’t the best, I approached, thinking it must be him. Sure enough, it was young master Ichiro. He was sitting on a rock in the shadow of a tall cliff, intently examining what appeared to be a scroll. I climbed over the piled stones nearby until I was directly above him. Quietly, I craned my neck to peer down at what he was holding.

――The scroll, as far as I could see, seemed to be blank. Its long stretch of white paper bore no visible markings or writing. Yet the young master appeared utterly absorbed, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle of the blank expanse.

――I had heard rumors of a cursed scroll said to haunt the Kure household. But those were tales from long ago, surely irrelevant in the modern age. Even if such a thing existed, it could only be a story. I would never have imagined that this scroll could be the one from the rumors. I told myself it must simply be my poor eyesight. Determined to make sense of it, I drew as close as I dared without alerting him, but no matter how much I squinted or rubbed my eyes, the paper remained blank. There was no trace of writing to be seen.

――As I stood there, utterly baffled by what the young master could possibly be looking at, I decided to approach and ask him directly. Descending the rocky ledge in haste, I made a deliberate detour to appear in front of him as if by chance. When I finally came face to face with him, he didn’t even seem to notice my presence at first. He held the partially unrolled scroll in both hands, gazing absently at the fiery red western sky as though lost in thought.

――Clearing my throat to announce myself, I called out, “Excuse me, young master.” He startled slightly and turned to look at me, scrutinizing my face for a moment before smiling faintly. “Oh, Sengorō, is that you? How did you come to be here?” he asked, his voice light with surprise. He then rolled up the scroll carefully, tying it securely with its string, and tucked it under his arm.

――I had the sense that he had been deeply preoccupied with something, but I remained unaware of the significance. I told him about Mrs. Yayoko’s concern and asked, pointing at the scroll he held, “If I may, what kind of scroll is that?” His expression shifted momentarily, as if something weighed on his mind. He glanced back toward Mount Seburi, seemingly lost in thought again. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a curious mix of seriousness and hesitancy.

――“This?” he said, looking down at the scroll. “It’s something I must complete. When it’s finished, I am to present it to the Emperor himself. It’s an important item, and I can’t show it to anyone.” As he said this, he carefully tucked the scroll into the pocket of his coat.

――His response only deepened my confusion. I pressed further, asking, “But what’s written on it? What does it say?” At this, the young master flushed slightly, chuckling wryly. “You’ll understand soon enough,” he replied. “It contains a fascinating story and terrifying illustrations. Someone told me it was essential that I see it before our wedding. I must see it. Soon, you’ll understand... soon.”

――There was a peculiar tone to his words, one that made me feel both enlightened and mystified. Yet, it was also clear that his demeanor differed greatly from his usual composed self. Something about him seemed restless, distracted, and out of character. To be certain, I asked again, “If I may, who gave this to you?”

――His face grew solemn as he stared at me, his gaze almost piercing. After a few moments, his expression softened, and he seemed to snap back to reality. With a faint trace of tears in his eyes and his voice trembling, he said, “The person who gave this to me... was an acquaintance of my late mother. They had kept it safe as a secret entrusted to them by her and returned it to me. That person told me they would meet me again soon and reveal their name at that time. Then they vanished. But I already know who they are. Still... I can’t say anything about it yet. And you, Sengorō, must promise not to speak of this to anyone. Do you understand? Now, let’s go.”

――Abruptly, he grew agitated, darting from stone to stone and heading back toward the main road. His strides were unnaturally swift, as if possessed, and his usual measured pace was nowhere to be seen. Reflecting on it now, I realize that something odd had already begun to stir within him.

――When we reached the house, the young master immediately greeted Mrs. Yayoko, saying, “I’m back... sorry for being late.” She asked, “Did you meet Sengorō?” He replied, “Yes, I saw him at the quarry. He’s just returned as well,” gesturing toward me as I followed him inside. Without pausing, he made his way to the detached house.

――Mrs. Yayoko seemed reassured by this and didn’t question me further. She simply said, “Thank you for your trouble.” Meanwhile, Moyoko, who had been wiping lacquered bowls on the wooden veranda, caught her mother’s subtle glance. Blushing under the watchful eyes of the gathered household, she stood and, with a shy demeanor, picked up an iron kettle and followed the young master toward the detached house.

――From this point on, there was one more peculiar incident—something I only understood in hindsight. It occurred shortly before nightfall.

――I had set up a straw mat behind the house, in the shade of the gardenia bushes, to finish repairing the bamboo steamer I’d been working on earlier. Smoking my pipe as I worked, I noticed that through the branches of the gardenia, I could see directly into the detached house. Though I wasn’t intentionally spying, my gaze naturally wandered to the scene inside.

――The young master was seated at a desk in the tatami room, changing out of his kimono. Moyoko had brought him tea and was listening to him speak. I couldn’t hear their voices through the glass sliding doors, but his face was unusually pale, and his eyebrows twitched now and then, as though he were reprimanding her. Yet, upon closer observation, that didn’t seem to be the case. Moyoko, standing nearby folding a piece of Western-style clothing, kept blushing and shaking her head with a nervous laugh, saying "no, no" while turning her face away.

――At this, the young master’s face grew even paler, and he leaned closer to her. He gestured toward the row of three storehouses visible from the room, placing a hand on her shoulder as he spoke. He gave her a slight shake two or three times. Moyoko, whose face had been glowing red like a flame and who had been shrinking back with embarrassment, finally raised her head. Together, they looked in the direction of the storehouses. Her expression was hard to decipher—neither clearly happy nor sad. She gave the faintest nod, tilting her beautifully arranged hair slightly forward, and then, as her entire neck turned crimson, she bowed her head deeply, trembling.

――The scene resembled something out of a melodramatic play. Watching from the shadows, I felt as though I’d stumbled into something I shouldn’t have.

――The young master continued to stare at her intently, his hand still resting on her shoulder. Then, he crouched slightly, scanning the area through the glass sliding doors as if to ensure no one was watching. Afterward, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dusky evening sky. His expression suddenly shifted, and he broke into a broad, unsettling smile, revealing his white teeth. To my horror, he then stuck out his tongue and licked his lips repeatedly in a strangely deliberate manner.

――That smile—so pale and eerie—sent a shiver down my spine. I froze in place, unable to shake the uncanny feeling it left behind. But even then, I couldn’t possibly have imagined that this was a harbinger of what was to come. I simply chalked it up to the peculiar behavior of someone deeply immersed in academics—people like him, I thought, often acted in inexplicable ways. I shrugged it off amid the busyness of the evening, never suspecting the gravity of what was brewing.

――By last night, it must have been around two in the morning when everyone in the household had finally fallen into a deep sleep. The bride, Moyoko, and her mother, Mrs. Yayoko, were resting in the innermost room of the main house, while the groom, the young master, and I, as his appointed guardian for the night, had taken our places in the detached house.

――Since I had stayed up late, bathing past midnight and securing the doors of the detached house afterward, I was the last to retire. I laid my bedding in the sitting room next to the young master’s bedroom and drifted off. But, as is common with us older folk, I woke early, just before dawn. Feeling the need to use the toilet, I stepped quietly along the veranda, guided by the dim light filtering through the glass shutters. When I reached the young master’s room, I noticed that one of the new shoji screens was slid open, and beyond it, a glass door was also ajar.

――Peeking inside the room, I saw that the young master’s bedding was empty. Alarmed, I felt a slight pang of unease in my chest. Yet, because it was raining lightly outside, I assumed he might have gone to the main house. Retrieving my geta sandals from the kitchen entrance, I walked across the stepping stones to the main house. There, I found that one of the outer sliding doors of the inner parlor was open, and faint footprints, slightly muddied, were visible in the pale light.

――I hesitated for a moment before deciding to investigate further. Removing my sandals, I tiptoed down the hallway to the inner room and peered through the glass shoji doors. Beneath the dim electric light, Mrs. Yayoko lay with one arm extended, fast asleep. However, Moyoko’s bedding next to hers was empty, the blankets neatly folded at the foot of the futon, and her crimson high pillow sat alone in the center of the matting.

――It was then that the memory of the strange scene I had witnessed at dusk came flooding back to me. Ah, so that’s what it was… nothing to be concerned about after all, I thought, breathing a sigh of relief. But almost immediately, a creeping sense of unease returned. While it might explain certain things, something about the young master’s behavior still felt off—too unusual to dismiss. Perhaps it was intuition, but I felt compelled to act. Not wanting to let anything slip by, I decided to wake Mrs. Yayoko.

――Pointing to Moyoko’s empty bedding, I said, “Look here…” Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and, with an abrupt seriousness, asked, “Did you happen to see Ichiro holding a scroll of some kind recently?” Her sudden question struck me as odd, but I answered truthfully, “Yes, just yesterday, when I met him at the stone quarry. He seemed to be reading a long scroll, though it looked blank to me.”

――At this, Mrs. Yayoko’s face transformed, her blood draining visibly as her lips pressed into a thin line. She muttered in a hoarse voice, “It’s returned again—!” and bit her lip so hard I thought it might bleed. Her hands clenched tightly, trembling, as her eyes flared wide in an expression that bordered on madness. I was so startled that I fell back onto the floor, unsure what to make of the scene.

――After a moment, she seemed to collect herself, tears streaming down her face as she wiped them away with her sleeve. Forcing a strained smile, she said, “No, no… it must be a mistake—my mistake or yours. Either way, we must find them. Please, help me search.” She stood quickly, her movements composed once more, and led the way out onto the veranda. Yet, despite her calm exterior, I could tell she was deeply unsettled.

――By then, the light rain had stopped. Following her lead, we walked to the area in front of the detached house, where we saw the copper-clad door of the third storehouse standing ajar. I stopped in my tracks, pointing it out to Mrs. Yayoko. While it wasn’t uncommon for the younger servants to leave the doors or windows open by mistake—especially with how often that storehouse was used during the harvest season—something about it felt off, given the circumstances. My heart raced as we approached.

――Mrs. Yayoko nodded in acknowledgment and circled to the door, but it wouldn’t budge—it had been bolted from the inside. Without a word, she retrieved a long ladder from where it hung against the wall of the main house. Placing it carefully against the side of the storehouse beneath a small window, she gestured for me to climb up. The look on her face was anything but ordinary, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes wide with both urgency and fear.

――As I glanced up at the window, I noticed a faint flicker of light emanating from within, like the glow of a small flame or a lantern. My throat tightened as a chill ran down my spine. Whatever awaited us inside, I knew it was far from ordinary.

――What I saw through that window is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life, no matter how much I try to forget. I climbed the ladder with great reluctance—being a notorious coward, as you know—unable to refuse Mrs. Yayoko’s stern and commanding expression. Bracing myself, I hooked my hands over the window’s frame and peered inside. The moment my eyes took in the scene, the strength drained from my legs, and I couldn’t climb back down. Worse, the power left my arms as well, and I slipped, falling heavily to the ground. My back struck hard against the earth, and I couldn’t move or even crawl away.

――What I saw in that storehouse window haunts me to this day.

――Inside, on the second floor of the storehouse, in a corner where empty burlap sacks were stacked, someone had arranged a square platform, like a crude makeshift bed, in the middle of the wooden floor. Draped across it were Moyoko’s brightly colored nightclothes and a red sash, spread out and covering something. On top of it all lay Moyoko herself—her lifeless body arranged on the platform, her hair styled in an elegant, glistening takashimada, her pale, naked form sprawled on her back.

――Before this grim tableau stood an old kyōzukue altar table, which I recognized from the main house’s parlor. To its left was a brass candlestick, holding a large wax candle that burned with a steady flame. To its right were what appeared to be art supplies—paints and brushes, I think, though my memory of the finer details is hazy. What struck me most was the long scroll laid out ceremoniously before the young master, who knelt straight-backed at the center of it all. It was undoubtedly the same scroll I’d seen at the quarry the day before, with its gold brocade ends and vividly colored central axis. The paper was as blank as I had seen it then—pure white, unmarred by any text or illustration.

――The young master himself sat motionless before the scroll, dressed impeccably in a white kasuri sleeping robe. As I gazed in frozen terror, he turned toward me, as if sensing my presence. His expression was calm, eerily serene, as he looked directly at me and smiled faintly. Then, he raised both hands, gesturing with a slow and deliberate motion as if to say, “You must not look.” That small, quiet smile chilled me more than anything else in that dreadful scene.

――I cannot recall what I did in that moment. It felt as though I’d been struck by lightning, my body locked in place, my mind too stunned to form coherent thoughts. Whether I screamed or whimpered, I do not know. Everything became a blur.

――Mrs. Yayoko must have asked me something as she helped me up—her voice was frantic, though I couldn’t comprehend her words. I think I pointed to the window and tried to explain, but my tongue wouldn’t work, and all I managed was some incoherent mumbling. She seemed to understand, though, for she nodded sharply, set the ladder upright again, and began climbing it herself. I tried to stop her, but my legs wouldn’t carry me, and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. All I could do was sit there in the cold dirt, helpless, watching as she ascended.

――With swift, determined movements, she reached the window, her skirts tucked up to keep them out of the way. She grabbed the frame, leaning forward to peer inside just as I had. Even from below, I could see her resolve—she didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment.

――Her courage in that instant still makes my skin crawl when I think of it.

――Mrs. Yayoko peered into the storehouse through the window, her gaze steady as she surveyed the scene inside. Then, in a composed voice that belied the gravity of the situation, she called out, “What are you doing in there?”

――From within, the young master replied in his usual calm tone, “Mother… please wait a moment. It will start to decay soon.” His voice was steady, and the quiet of the early morning made every word clear.

――Mrs. Yayoko paused briefly, as if weighing her response, before saying, “It won’t start to decay so easily. But the night has already passed; it’s morning now. Come down and eat your breakfast.”

――A moment later, the young master’s voice replied, “Yes,” and the silhouette of a flickering light dimmed as he appeared to rise from his seat.

――Can these truly be the words of a mother standing before her daughter’s lifeless body? The thought chilled me even then. Mrs. Yayoko quickly descended the ladder and turned to me, her expression resolute as she said, “Fetch a doctor.” She then rushed to the storehouse door.

――Shamefully, I was of no use. Even if I had understood her command, my legs were still paralyzed with fear, and I couldn’t move. The terror coursing through me left me trembling uncontrollably, unable to rise or even speak.

――When the storehouse door creaked open, the young master emerged, holding a key in one hand and wearing a pair of wooden garden sandals. He smiled at us—a faint, familiar smile—but the look in his eyes was entirely different from anything I’d seen before. It was as though he were no longer the same person.

――Mrs. Yayoko approached him carefully, gently taking the key from his hand as though she were coaxing a child. Whispering softly into his ear, she said something I couldn’t hear. Then, with a firm yet tender grip, she took his hand and led him back to the detached house. From my vantage point, I could see her usher him inside and coax him to lie down.

――Afterward, Mrs. Yayoko returned to the storehouse and ascended to the second floor. She seemed to be moving quickly, rustling and working at something. Left alone in the garden, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. The silence pressed in around me, suffocating, and I could scarcely breathe. Crawling on all fours, I made my way to the back gate, clinging to the trunk of a large jagataran orange tree for support. Slowly, I managed to straighten my legs and stand, though my knees still felt weak.

――Just then, I heard the metallic clang of the storehouse window’s copper-paneled shutter closing above me. Startled, I spun around to see Mrs. Yayoko at the storehouse door. She locked it with a decisive clatter, and moments later, she emerged holding the scroll tightly in one hand. Her hair was disheveled, her feet bare, and her expression grim as she sprinted toward the detached house.

――I watched as she climbed onto the veranda, her mud-streaked feet leaving smudges behind her. She burst into the young master’s room and roused him from the futon, thrusting the scroll toward him. Through the now brightened glass doors, I could see her face, twisted with anger and desperation, as she questioned him in harsh, accusatory tones.

――Her words were muffled, but her intensity was unmistakable. The morning light made the scene all the more vivid, and the sight of her fury—and his calm demeanor—remains etched in my memory.

――The young master, as I observed through the glass, gestured toward the direction of the quarry with animated motions, shaking his head and combining odd hand gestures with fervent speech. He seemed utterly absorbed in explaining something to Mrs. Yayoko. Though his words were hard to follow and often included complicated phrases beyond my understanding, I clearly heard him repeatedly mention "the Emperor" and "the people." These words recurred over and over, like a refrain.

――Mrs. Yayoko listened intently, her eyes wide with a mix of confusion and urgency. But then, as the young master suddenly fell silent, he fixed his gaze on the scroll that she had been holding. In a swift, unexpected motion, he snatched it from her hands and stuffed it deep into his robe. Mrs. Yayoko, startled but resolute, immediately wrenched it back from him with a force that seemed almost desperate.

――In hindsight, this act of taking the scroll may have been the trigger for what followed. The young master froze for a moment, his mouth hanging open as he stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes. The change in his expression was so disturbing that even Mrs. Yayoko, fearless as she had seemed moments earlier, began to back away. Slowly, she rose to her feet, trying to retreat, but he moved swiftly, grabbing her sleeve and yanking her back down onto the tatami.

――Still clutching her arm, he gazed at her with an intense, unsettling glee. His eyes narrowed, and a sinister smile spread across his face as he began to chuckle softly. It was the kind of laugh that chilled me to the bone. Watching from outside, I felt as though ice water had been poured over my head.

――Mrs. Yayoko, clearly shaken, struggled to free herself, but the young master rose to his full height and followed her as she tried to escape toward the veranda. Just as she stepped onto the edge, he seized her by the nape of her neck, pulling her backward with astonishing strength. She fell onto her back, and he dragged her down the steps and into the garden.

――What happened next is almost too horrifying to recount. Smiling eerily all the while, he grabbed a pair of geta sandals lying nearby and began striking her over the head repeatedly, as if it gave him some twisted satisfaction. Blood streamed from her head, matting her hair and running down her face, until she collapsed onto the ground, writhing and letting out faint, agonized cries. The sight was too much for me—I felt as though my soul had left my body. My legs buckled, and I staggered back to my own house, trembling and shouting incoherently for a doctor.

――My wife was startled by my panicked state, but somehow, I managed to convey the urgency of the situation. When Dr. Munetaka finally arrived, I hastily directed him to the Kure household, though I couldn’t bring myself to return with him.

――From what I heard later, the scene that followed was even more chaotic. Hearing Mrs. Yayoko’s cries, several of the younger household members rushed to the garden and managed to subdue the young master. But his strength was inhuman; it took several of them, and even then, the ropes they used to tie him broke twice under the strain. They finally managed to bind him tightly and secure him to the base of a pillar in the detached house. Exhausted, the young master reportedly fell into a deep sleep immediately afterward.

――When he awoke, however, he was no longer the same. Witnesses said his demeanor had changed entirely. He appeared disoriented and unresponsive, his eyes darting around without focus, as if he couldn’t comprehend his surroundings. Even when the police questioned him, he gave no answers—only vacant stares.

――It was later revealed that he had suffered from a similar episode during his time in Nogata. At that time, a university professor had diagnosed him as being under the influence of a powerful narcotic, and the matter had been quietly resolved. Mrs. Yayoko had believed the condition to be behind him, but this latest incident was far worse. Given the circumstances, and the ominous history of that accursed scroll, it seems undeniable that it played a role in this tragedy.

――Bloodlines carry heavy burdens, and the curse of that scroll is surely one of them.

――It is said that the curse of that scroll has not manifested for many years, so much so that even we, who have lived here all our lives, knew little of its specifics. However, from what I’ve gathered, that scroll was once enshrined within the belly of the statue of the temple’s deity at the nearby Nyogetsu Temple, whose roof you can see from here. The curse supposedly affects any male born into the Kure bloodline. If such a man comes into possession of the scroll, he will lose his sanity, becoming compelled to kill women—be they family, strangers, or even his closest loved ones.

――The origin of this curse is said to be recorded in some text housed at that temple. How the young master came to possess the scroll remains a profound mystery.

――As for Nyogetsu Temple, its current abbot, Master Hōrin, is a venerable monk of great renown, considered on par with the learned priests of Shōfukuji in Hakata. Though advanced in years, with a frame as thin as a crane’s and long white eyebrows and beard flowing like snow, he is said to be wise and approachable. I believe he would understand such supernatural matters far better than anyone else. If you wish, I can ask my wife to guide you there to speak with him.

――As for Mrs. Yayoko, she is now bedridden, half-mad from the ordeal. Though the doctor assures us her head wound is not serious, her mind is another matter. She alternates between raving incoherently and saying things that make some sense. At times, she curses the young master bitterly, while at others, she pleads in a broken voice, “Pull yourself together—you’re my only support.” It’s as though she is caught between dreams and reality. I’ve been unable to visit her, as I am still too shaken and unable to walk properly.

――There are whispers that I should have run to fetch Dr. Munetaka sooner and that my delay allowed things to spiral out of control. But that is simply not fair. Dr. Munetaka himself stated, when examining my back this morning, that Moyoko’s death likely occurred between three and four in the morning, based on the state of her body and the remaining candle. By that time, the tragedy was already inevitable.

――That is all I know of the matter, as I have recounted in full. If Mrs. Yayoko were in a state to speak clearly, perhaps all the details could be unraveled. But as I mentioned, her current condition renders her unreliable.

――The police have yet to visit me directly, likely because the first to discover the incident were the young servants who were staying overnight. They responded to Mrs. Yayoko’s screams and subdued the young master. The police arrived later to take statements from them and investigate the scene.

――Fearing I might fall under suspicion, I asked Dr. Munetaka to keep my involvement quiet. By some stroke of luck, in the chaos, no one seems to have traced the summoning of the doctor back to me. I was taken completely off guard when you, sir, sought me out. I swear I have nothing to hide. I have spoken truthfully about all I witnessed.

――If you could, I beg of you—please use your influence to ensure I am not summoned to the police. I am not in the condition to endure such questioning. My knees tremble at the very thought of it.

The Second Reference

The Historical Record of Seitai Mountain, Nyogetsu Temple

(As documented by the temple’s founder, Shōnin Ichigyō)

Note: The temple is located at 24 Mei-no-Hama Town, established by Mr. Kotei, ancestor of the Goke family in its forty-ninth generation.

The morning’s sunlit snow, adorned with shimmering golden threads, transforms by dusk into murky torrents that vanish into rivers and seas. The splendor of tonight’s blazing silver candles will by dawn become dust and debris, surrendering to the earth’s embrace. The three worlds are like ripples upon the water; a single life, like a fleeting rainbow in the void. How much more wretched, then, to be ensnared by a moment’s ill karma, unable to unravel it across countless thoughts and lives. Living, one is cast into the shifting torments of hell, manifesting the forms of howling demons and beasts. Dying, one leaves behind evil fruit for descendants to bear, perpetuating an endless cycle of karmic retribution. What terror, what anguish could compare to this unrelenting torment?

Reflecting on these truths of cause and effect, one individual penetrated the profound essence of such principles, seeking to sever their roots and transform them into the aspiration for enlightenment. To this end, they constructed a temple, adorning it with the wisdom of the Buddha and creating a pure sanctuary where humans and gods alike might pay homage. The origin of this endeavor traces back to the Keian era, within the bustling quarters of Kyoto’s Gion district, near a venerable temple. Here, nestled among the mingling throngs of noble and common folk, stood a teahouse named Midoriya, long established in this lively locale. Each year, it selected the finest Uji tea to present to the imperial court, bestowing upon it the name “Gyokuro,” its fragrance renowned across the land.

The teahouse was run by one Tsuboemon, who had three daughters and a single son named Tsubotaro, whom he adored above all else. Yet Tsubotaro, from a tender age, showed no interest in the family trade, instead seeking the company of monks from the Obaku sect at Uji, studying under the Zen master Ingen and surpassing others in intellectual prowess. Alongside this, he mastered Yagyu swordsmanship, studied painting in the Tosa school, and cultivated a unique poetic style rooted in Basho’s traditions. Adopting the name Kūhei, he grew ever more drawn to nature’s beauty, with no desire to inherit the family business.

Despite this, as years passed, the absence of another male heir prompted repeated efforts to press him into marriage. Each time, he firmly refused, citing his incomplete studies. Yet, the ongoing disputes left him little peace. Finally, at his father Tsuboemon’s request, he sought guidance from Master Ingen. This encounter sparked a profound shift within him. Leaving his family, he embraced the monastic life, marking his departure with the poem:

"Until today, at twenty-five, I had not heard the cuckoo’s call."

Thus, he took up the pilgrim’s garb and embarked on a journey, staff and hat in hand, wandering through historic sites and scenic landscapes, heading westward for nearly a year. By the end of April in the spring of Enpō 2 (1674), at the age of twenty-six, Kūhei reached Hizen Karatsu via the Nagasaki road.

Captivated by the area’s natural beauty, he roamed the famed sights, adopting the name Kōtei in homage to the Rainbow Pine Grove. He chose eight scenic views to sketch and compose, intending to carve them into woodblocks and distribute them widely. Remaining in the region for over half a year, one evening in late autumn, drawn by the full moon’s radiance, he ventured from his inn to the pine grove. The ancient pines, lined against the silver sands and waves, shone in the moonlight, their forms evoking the sublime artistry of nature itself. Walking for a mile, he passed the fishing village of Hamasaki, his fascination undimmed. Continuing for half a mile more, he reached Ebisu Point. There, leaning against the rugged cliffs, he gazed out over the bay’s tranquil beauty, counting the silhouettes of geese as the night deepened.

At that moment, a lone woman appeared. She seemed no older than sixteen or seventeen, her vibrant sleeves fluttering in the breeze as she picked her way delicately across the jagged rock formations along the shore. Her small, pale feet faltered painfully as she approached Kūtei’s side. Oblivious to any observer, she turned westward, clasped her hands in prayer, and seemed to concentrate deeply for some time. Then, brushing away tears, she drew her sleeves around her as if to embrace herself and gave every sign of preparing to cast her body into the sea.

Startled, Kūtei rushed to her side, catching her and drawing her away from the brink. He led her to a nearby stretch of clean, soft sand beneath the pines and gently inquired about her circumstances. The young woman, at first overcome with sobs, eventually began to speak through her tears.

“I am called Mutsu Mijo,” she said at last, “the sole surviving daughter of the Kure family of Hamasaki, a once-prominent household that held sway over this area for generations. But ours is a world where fullness inevitably gives way to emptiness, as they say. So, too, has my family’s prosperity crumbled, but the true curse lies deeper. Ours is a lineage tainted by the madness of a dark inheritance.”

She paused, wiping her eyes, and continued. “It began long ago with a scroll, an heirloom passed down through generations of the Kure family. Upon it was depicted the nude form of a beautiful woman. As the story goes, one of my ancestors, stricken with grief at the death of his beloved wife, resolved to capture her likeness on paper, hoping to preserve her image against the fleeting nature of this transient world. He labored tirelessly, yet for reasons unknown, her corpse began to decay rapidly before his eyes. Before he could complete even half the portrait, she was reduced to nothing more than a pile of white bones.

“Devastated, he fell into madness. Despite the tireless care of the deceased wife’s younger sister, Kuregashi, her efforts were in vain. He soon followed his wife into death. Tragically, Kuregashi herself was carrying his child, and though she was near her time, she despaired at the fate of her kin and resolved to end her life as well. Somehow, she was persuaded to endure and brought her child into the world, but the shadows of that tragedy lingered.”

Mutsu Mijo’s voice trembled as she spoke. “It was around that time that a wandering monk, Shōkū, came to this region. He had traveled from the capital to oversee the restoration of the great statue of Kannon at Dazaifu’s Kanzeon-ji. Hearing of our family’s plight, he took pity on us and stayed at our home. Upon examining the scroll, he solemnly declared it a source of great misfortune. To break the karmic chain, he performed an elaborate ritual before the family altar.

“Then, taking a large sandalwood tree that grew in our garden, he carved a statue of Miroku Bodhisattva with his own hands and placed the scroll within its hollowed-out torso. He enshrined this image as the central figure of our family’s altar and decreed that from that day forward, only the women of the house should tend to it. He strictly forbade any man from approaching the altar or viewing the scroll. Having completed his task, he left our household, and so began the strange and sorrowful history of my family.”

Afterward, the offspring of the mad ancestor—a son as beautiful as a polished gem—was born into this world without incident. He grew to adulthood, married, and carried on the family name. Yet, in adherence to Shōkū’s admonitions, no one was allowed near the family altar. Offerings of water and incense were entrusted solely to his wife, who prayed fervently for peace in this life and a favorable rebirth in the next.

However, perhaps due to the tainted bloodline, this man, despite reaching a vigorous age and fathering several children, eventually succumbed to madness when his wife died prematurely. His life ended in tragic disorder. In subsequent generations, men of the family were periodically afflicted by madness, one or two in each era. Their symptoms were far from ordinary. Some would attempt to kill women; others would desecrate fresh graves, digging at them with shovels and hoes. Such unrest knew no bounds. When others tried to restrain them, they would turn violent, attacking not only those who sought to stop them but even themselves—biting their tongues or hanging themselves to death. This pattern, unbroken through generations, became a source of profound terror.

Given such horrors, how could anyone avoid fearing or shunning the family? People whispered that the curse stemmed from a man glimpsing the forbidden scroll or from impure women defiling the sacred statue. Rumors spread far and wide. Families dreaded forming ties with ours, fearing to contaminate their bloodlines. On numerous occasions, our lineage faced the brink of extinction. In such instances, we resorted to using wealth to secure heirs or sought distant connections to continue the family line.

Yet, in recent years, the stigma grew so severe that even beggars and outcasts recoiled at the mention of our family name. Those with any relation to us trembled and shuddered. Now, all direct blood relatives are dead, leaving me as the sole survivor. My elder brothers, in particular, succumbed one after another to madness.

The eldest desecrated a nearby graveyard, while the second tried to strike me with a stone. Their terrifying actions culminated in their early deaths. As the rumors reached a fever pitch, nearly all of our household’s servants sought dismissal, even those who had served faithfully for years. Now, seeing me alone, those few who remain merely heave sighs of pity. None dare speak a kind or hopeful word. I am left utterly abandoned, bereft of comfort or solace.”

Around that time, the senior retainer of the Karatsu domain, a certain Lord Kumoi, heard of our situation and issued a decree. His third son, Kisaburō, was to be wed to me and inherit our family name and estate. The remaining servants, men and women alike, erupted in jubilant commotion, declaring that such a fortunate resolution was beyond all expectation. Their chatter and laughter filled the household, starkly contrasting with the years of despair. Yet, amidst the celebrations, my old nursemaid, who had raised and cared for me, sat apart with a somber expression, her face heavy with unease.

When I pressed her to explain her discontent, she sighed deeply and began to speak. “This,” she said, “is no cause for joy. On the contrary, it is a matter of grave concern. According to whispers from one of the household retainers who once served at the Kumoi estate, Lord Kumoi’s third son, Kisaburō, though reputedly a master swordsman and the finest blade in the domain, is the child of a concubine. From his youth, his behavior has been far from commendable. While accompanying the retinue to Nagasaki during his tenure as a guard, he became infatuated with the women of Maruyama’s pleasure quarters. There, he fell in with disreputable company, forming ties with rogues. Together, they wreaked havoc across various dojo, extorted money from teahouses and inns, and engaged in all manner of disorderly conduct until he became a disgrace without a place to turn.

“Recently, he returned secretly to the domain, though his arrival was kept quiet. No one within the Kumoi household dares to suggest him as a bridegroom, nor would any family willingly consider him for such. He is shunned and feared like a snake or a hairy caterpillar. Thus, when they learned of your family’s plight, they seized upon this opportunity. The true intention behind this match, I’ve heard, is to leverage the Kumoi family’s influence after the marriage to seize the Kure estate and all its holdings.

“Such is fate, I suppose. And though I understand there is no recourse, I cannot help but weep at the thought of your future. It pains me so much I can scarcely keep my sight or breath.”

Her tears streamed as she spoke. Overwhelmed by her words, I too was plunged into confusion and despair. What could I do, powerless as I was? Though I struggled to find solace, the weight of her warning consumed me.

Then, this very evening, as the autumn harvest concluded and a measure of calm settled over the household, something unexpected occurred. Kisaburō himself appeared at our home unannounced. He came alone, without attendants, and dressed not in formal haori and hakama but in plain clothes, a far cry from what I had imagined for such a meeting.

In response to the sudden and chaotic visit from Kisaburō, the household had hurriedly prepared what little they could, inviting him into the inner parlor. I, too, hastily redid my appearance and joined the gathering. When I finally beheld him, my blood froze. Half of his face was grotesquely scarred, the flesh burned and mottled like clay. The other half was no less shocking—his brow was torn, his eyelid pale and warped, and his lips twisted cruelly to one side. His visage resembled that of a demon.

Worse still, he reeked of alcohol, a smell so potent it seemed to envelop the room. His demeanor exuded a menace that made my very being tremble. Despite this, I composed myself and dutifully performed the task of pouring his drinks. Yet, after only a few cups, he suddenly seized my hand in his. Instinctively, I pulled away, spilling the contents of his cup onto his lap.

At that moment, his drunken demeanor erupted into a violent rage. He struck down my nursemaid, who had stepped in to restrain him, with a force so swift it left no time to react. Amid the commotion, I managed to flee, eventually arriving here at the shoreline. I had resolved that death was the only escape from such relentless misfortune—both my family’s curse and my own ill fate. But then, you stopped me.

Now, I have no idea who you are or where you have come from, but if you have any mercy, please show me the way forward. Should I become a nun? A wandering pilgrim? I will accept any guidance you offer.” With this, she collapsed onto the sand, her voice muffled by sobs.

Kūtei, having heard her tragic tale, pondered in silence for a time. At length, he raised her gently and spoke. “Fear not. There is a way forward. First, we must examine the cursed scroll to understand the karmic entanglements that bind you.”

He took Mutsu Mijo’s hand, intending to lead her back to her home. But just as they turned to leave, from the shadows of the pines emerged the demon-faced Kisaburō, his sword gleaming in the moonlight. Without a word, he lunged at Kūtei.

Kūtei, trained in the arts of Zen and swordsmanship, evaded the blow with a deft pivot, letting the blade slice through empty air. With a resounding shout, he struck Kisaburō’s spirit as much as his body, sending the man reeling. Kisaburō stumbled several steps, his momentum carrying him past the edge of a cliff. He fell into the moonlit sea below, vanishing in a spray of water and mist.

With the immediate danger gone, Kūtei escorted Mutsu Mijo back to her home. There, he assisted the remaining household members in tending to the body of the nursemaid, ensuring she was laid to rest with proper rites. Kūtei personally conducted the funeral prayers, sternly warning all present to keep the events of the night secret.

Later, Kūtei entered the family altar room alone, ensuring no one else was nearby. He carefully removed the scroll from within the statue of Miroku Bodhisattva. After bowing in reverence and steadying his mind, he unrolled it. What he saw chilled him to the bone—an image of a woman’s body grotesquely decomposing, the painting corrupted with oozing decay. It was a sight so horrifying that it caused his hair to stand on end.

He seated himself before the altar, calming his spirit and entering a deep meditative state. For over ten days, he remained immersed in prayer and contemplation. Then, at the break of dawn on the final day of the eleventh month of Enpō 2, he suddenly opened his eyes and declared:

“To dispel the delusions of ordinary beings, nothing surpasses the power of the Nembutsu. 

Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu.”

Chanting the sacred phrase three times, he placed the scroll into the nearby hearth. The cursed relic burned to ash, rising as a single wisp of smoke before vanishing entirely.

Kūtei calmly emerged from his meditation, summoned the remaining members of the Kure household, and addressed them with quiet conviction:

"Through the power of the Dharma, I have severed the karmic entanglements that have long plagued the Kure family. I shall now place these ashes within the Miroku statue and dedicate them to the spirits of all three realms. As for myself, I resolve to abandon the monastic life, marry into this family, and ensure that its legacy endures for generations to come. If any among you have concerns or objections, speak freely."

But not one voice rose to challenge him. The household members were united in their fear of retribution from the Kumoi family’s authority, their hesitation clear. Understanding their unease, Kūtei thanked them for their loyalty and dismissed them that very day. He sealed the Kure estate and its storerooms, affixing a wooden placard inscribed with large characters reading, "To Be Returned to the Domain—Kure Tsubota."

Taking only a small collection of gold, silver, and artworks, loaded onto four sturdy packhorses, Kūtei entrusted their transport to reliable young men. Carrying the Miroku statue on his back and keeping the family genealogy close to his heart, he set out before dawn, leading Mutsu Mijo and her attendants eastward from Hamasaki. It was the first day of the twelfth month of Enpō 2, and snow fell heavily, blanketing the undulating coastline in glistening white. As the six women followed him, the scene mirrored their names—six beauties against a resplendent winter canvas, as though the land itself had transformed into a long silver screen.

About a mile into their journey, just as the eastern sky began to flush with the faint light of dawn, they heard the sound of many footsteps rapidly approaching from behind. Kūtei turned to see a group of twenty or thirty armed men closing in, their weapons glinting against the snow. Among them, to his astonishment, was Kumoi Kisaburō, who had miraculously survived his fall into the sea. He was now dressed in the full regalia of a samurai—white headband, light armor, and a battle surcoat, with a long sword slung across his back.

Kisaburō bellowed in a thunderous voice, “Villainous monk! Halt where you stand! Previously, I mistook you for a secret envoy of the shogunate and restrained my blade out of caution. But now, by order of the domain, I have uncovered your true nature. You are no monk but a charlatan, posing as an artist to survey the layout of our lands, deceiving noble families to steal their treasures, and abducting their daughters to hide their whereabouts. Your crimes are as plain as day. There is no escape for you, Kūtei, whether you take to the skies or burrow into the earth!

“Men, seize this brigand who dares to steal from our domain and abduct its women! Spare him no mercy!”

With that, he roared his command, and his men, kicking up the snow as they charged, surged forward.

The path ahead was perilous—sheer cliffs loomed above, while below lay a steep drop into the sea. Behind him stood the frightened women and the laden horses, leaving no path of retreat. Escape seemed impossible. Yet Kūtei remained composed. He calmly handed the Miroku statue to one of the horsemen and instructed the women to carry his straw hat dusted with snow. Grasping his familiar bamboo staff, he adjusted his robes and thumbed his prayer beads as he stepped forward.

With measured steps, he approached the advancing group, his demeanor serene and unshaken. His poise and calm radiated such a commanding presence that even the seasoned enforcers hesitated, momentarily stunned by the sight of this solitary figure walking resolutely toward them.

At that moment, Kūtei faced the approaching crowd, bowed courteously, and began to speak, his voice calm yet resonant:

“Truly, it is an arduous journey you have made, and I commend your dedication. To pursue a scoundrel such as myself with so many men shows the clarity and diligence of your domain’s governance, which is most admirable. If I may, however, suggest one thing: why not continue your honorable escort a little farther, across the border into Chikuzen’s lands? In doing so, you would complete your mission without resorting to unnecessary bloodshed, thus preserving the dignity of your domain. What say you to this proposal?”

His words, spoken with a disarming smile, left the group momentarily dumbfounded. The men hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances, while Kumoi Kisaburō’s face flushed a deep red.

“Curse your insolent tongue, monk!” Kisaburō roared. “I may have been drunk and careless before, but I will not allow my blade to rust today. Men, charge! The monk is but one, and the women need not be spared if they resist!”

At his command, the armed men surged forward, their weapons flashing in the snow-dappled light. Kūtei, seeing no recourse, took his bamboo staff in his left hand, leaving his right free, and stepped into the fray. The first attacker, his blade poised to strike, was swiftly disarmed as Kūtei seized the sword, casting it aside before striking down several more with a combination of precise blows and agile movements. Weapons clattered to the ground, and attackers fell left and right—some rendered unconscious, others sprawling in the snow or tumbling into the sea below. Within moments, more than ten men were incapacitated.

The remaining attackers faltered, unnerved by the unexpected skill of the lone monk. Even Kisaburō hesitated, though his anger quickly reignited. “You arrogant priest!” he snarled. “Let me show you the strength of my blade!”

Drawing his long sword, Kisaburō assumed a precise stance, his movements calculated and deliberate. He advanced steadily, his blade gleaming as it sought its mark. Kūtei, unperturbed, discarded the sword he had taken and adjusted his grip on his bamboo staff, holding it lightly in one hand. As Kisaburō closed in, Kūtei met him head-on, his movements as fluid as water and as unyielding as ice.

The two clashed in a display of pure skill. Kūtei’s staff deftly countered Kisaburō’s blade, each movement precise and deliberate, neither yielding an inch. Despite his reputation as an unrivaled swordsman, Kisaburō found himself unable to break through. His attacks were neutralized with an effortlessness that left him visibly frustrated.

Seeing Kisaburō falter, Kūtei smiled faintly. “Kisaburō,” he said, his voice firm yet compassionate, “have you not yet understood? This bamboo staff embodies the sword of Amida’s compassion. Its purpose is not to harm but to guide. Even the finest blade, tempered through countless trials, cannot surpass the simple truth of the Dharma. Lay down your sword and cast aside your malice. Enter the path of enlightenment and free yourself from doubt and delusion. If you refuse, then I have no choice but to fulfill the principle of ‘one life to save many.’ Choose now—between life and death.”

Kisaburō, though shaken, was not yet subdued. Summoning his remaining strength, he raised his sword high and charged with all his might. His blade descended like a flash of lightning, but Kūtei evaded it with a deft sidestep. With a swift, precise strike, he brought the tip of his staff down upon Kisaburō’s forehead. The blow sent the swordsman reeling, his vision spinning as he staggered back.

Kūtei seized the moment, stepping forward to grip the hilt of Kisaburō’s dagger. “If this is your wish, so be it,” he declared. Before Kisaburō could react, he stumbled backward, his footing lost. As he raised his sword once more, his strength failed him. His body arched as he collapsed, blood pouring from a grievous wound in his shoulder. The crimson stain spread across the snow as he lay motionless, his life extinguished.

The battlefield fell silent, the remaining men too stunned to move. Snow continued to fall, covering the crimson-splashed ground as Kūtei stood resolute, his staff still in hand, his expression calm and serene.

Thus subdued by the ferocity of Kūtei’s skill and presence, the remaining pursuers fled, scattering into the distance. None dared to follow. Kūtei, now at ease, returned the dagger to Kisaburō’s lifeless body, clasped his palms together, and softly chanted the Nembutsu three times. He brushed the snow from his black robes, lifted the Miroku statue once more onto his back, and turned to comfort the six women, who remained frozen in shock.

Adjusting his hat, Kūtei urged the group onward. They pressed forward, entering the lands of Chikuzen before nightfall. Stopping at a place called Fukae, they rested for the night. The next day, in the faint light of dawn, with snow still blanketing the ground, they resumed their journey. Five miles later, they arrived at Mei-no-Hama, where Kūtei decided to pause.

Standing amidst the serene landscape, Kūtei surveyed the surroundings. To the north, Mount Atago rose majestically into the heavens, while to the south, the peaks of Sefuri, Raizan, and Ukidake stretched across the horizon, their misty forms blending with the clouds. Fertile fields spread out in all directions, offering the promise of bountiful harvests to nourish future generations. The Muromi River flowed clear and pure, perfect for both sustenance and spiritual reflection. Nearby lay famous sites such as Akome Beach, the ruins of Odo Castle, Keya, and the scenic pine groves of Iki. Furthermore, the proximity to the castle town of the Kuroda clan made this place ideal—a harmonious union of mountain and sea.

Seeing the potential of this land, Kūtei resolved to settle here. He retained the loyal horsemen as stewards and began laying the foundations for a home, complete with storerooms and fields. He sent word to his former home in Kyoto, signaling the start of a new legacy. At the same time, he undertook an ambitious project: the construction of a grand temple. Gathering timber from the great trees of Raizan and Sefuri, Kūtei personally oversaw the measurements and planning. The temple’s main hall would enshrine the Miroku Bodhisattva statue as its central icon, serving as a sacred site for the family’s enlightenment and a place of prayer for all eternity.

The temple, with its lofty gates welcoming the moon of ultimate truth, and its tiled roofs gleaming in the golden light of dawn, stood as a beacon of the Dharma. Its deep forests and crystal-clear streams became a haven for birdsong and the splashes of leaping fish, where devotees chanted the Nembutsu in harmony. It was, without doubt, a miraculous creation and a rare sanctuary of purity in this age of degeneration.

By the tenth month of Enpō 5, in the reign of the 111th Emperor Reigen, the temple was completed. Kūtei invited senior monks from Kyoto to consecrate the temple and appoint its abbot. Though Kūtei initially declined the honor, citing his limited knowledge and humility, he was ultimately moved by their insistence and the extraordinary circumstances. Accepting the position, he named the temple Seitaizan Nyogetsu-ji.

On the twenty-first day of the second month of Enpō 6, Kūtei inaugurated the temple with a grand memorial service. For seven days, he expounded the teachings of the Pure Land Sutras and performed rituals for the hungry spirits. On the final day, Kūtei ascended the dais to recount the karmic entanglements that had led to this moment. With heartfelt remorse, he offered his confession to the assembly and composed two waka:

Chant

"No longer shall I wander the six realms; the six characters guide me. 

The bamboo staff of the Buddha’s world." 

—Tsubotaro

Response

"Layer upon layer, the bamboo endures, leading to the Buddha’s light; 

Soon shall we return to the path of emptiness." 

—The Six Beauties

The assembly listened with reverence, and the temple’s founding was etched into history as a beacon of salvation and peace.

Seated once more before the assembled gathering, Kūtei expounded in detail on the karmic origins of the events that had unfolded. He illuminated the principles of the six realms of existence, the cycle of birth and death, and the ultimate truth of liberation through the power of Amida’s name. He proclaimed that a single heartfelt invocation of the Nembutsu could extinguish immeasurable sins and obstacles, and concluded his teaching with the following verse:

"One mindful invocation of Amida’s name,  Spreads virtue across countless generations. 

The bell of Seitaizan temple rings,  Welcoming the moon of ultimate truth."

The six women, now eighteen years of age, had, over time, transcribed the six-character name of Amida—Namu Amida Butsu—on more than thirty thousand slips of paper. These were distributed to the attendees of the inaugural ceremony, and within three days, they were all taken, demonstrating the fervent faith and dedication of those present.

This tale, a manifestation of the six realms within the mundane world of Saṃsāra, vividly illustrated the workings of karmic retribution. It revealed to all how suffering and delusion could be transformed into enlightenment, and how the six sense objects could become a pure land. Through the salvation of the Kure ancestors and the vow to achieve perfect enlightenment for future generations, the karmic ties of the family had been definitively turned toward liberation.

To the descendants of the Kure family, born in times to come, this event stands as a profound blessing. If they wish to repay this great debt of gratitude, they must always keep this truth in their hearts, diligently performing memorial services and reciting the Nembutsu without neglect. They are to share this account with no one beyond those explicitly entrusted with its knowledge. Should it be revealed to outsiders, it could invite resentment or retaliation from neighboring domains.

Thus, the record was to be preserved solely by the residing abbot of Nyogetsu-ji and the heads of the Kure family.

Dated: The seventh day of the seventh month, Enpō 7. 

Written by Ichigyō.

The Third Reference

Conversation with Hōrin Nomiyama

▼Interview Date: The same day, approximately 3 p.m.

▼Interview Location: The abbot's quarters at Kisagatsu Temple

▼Attendees: Hōrin Nomiyama (aged seventy-seven, abbot of the temple, passed away in August of the same year), Myself (Mr. W) = only the two of us present

—Your question is, indeed, a most reasonable one. As it is written in the origins of this tale, over a century ago, Lord Kōtei, regarded as the restorer of the Kure family, burned the entire scroll to ashes and sealed it away, entrusting it to be hidden until the era of Maitreya. Yet, how it has reappeared in its original form in this world, coming into the possession of Lord Ichirō Kure and thus triggering this tragic madness… Well, this very question is one I wished to discuss with you, esteemed sir, even before you asked.

—By tradition, this account is shown to the head of the Kure family and their spouse in private on their first visit to their ancestral grave. Everything related to the Kure lineage remains concealed from outsiders, save for the most ordinary occurrences. Since the time of our temple’s founder, Saint Ikko, it has been the sacred duty of every abbot to uphold this secrecy. However, since you have asked—an exceptional guest in such matters—and, especially since understanding whether Lord Ichirō’s madness is genuine or feigned determines his fate as an accused man, I find there is no reason to withhold the truth…

—It is not widely known, but the original scroll, supposedly reduced to ashes and hidden within the temple’s statue of the Buddha, has in fact remained intact. A certain individual, long aware of this, went further: they removed the scroll from the Buddha’s statue and unleashed the affliction upon Lord Ichirō Kure. I am quite familiar with the one I believe responsible. Though some may find it hard to believe, this person is none other than Lord Ichirō’s own mother, the late Lady Chiyoko, who met a mysterious death in Nogata several years ago.

—Indeed, it is almost unthinkable that a mother would deliberately place such a dangerous item into the hands of her own child. Nevertheless, I believe there is a deeper reason behind her actions. And so, if you would permit me to recount the story, I believe it will shed light on this whole matter.

—If I recall… yes, it must have been some thirty years ago—ancient history now, really. Perhaps you know, perhaps you don’t, but Lady Chiyoko was, from a very young age, quite clever and inventive, adept at all sorts of delicate tasks. She was particularly gifted at drawing and embroidery. Even as a little girl, dressed in her first patterned kimono, she would sit, all alone, in a corner of the main hall here at the temple. I often saw her there, quietly copying the seasonal floral patterns from the sliding doors or the celestial beings carved on the transoms. Even at that age, she was already strikingly lovely, with features delicate as those of a doll...

—It was around the time Lady Chiyoko turned fourteen or fifteen, if I recall correctly. She must have been returning from school, dressed in a maroon hakama, and carrying a small bundle wrapped in a furoshiki. She entered the abbot’s quarters where I was sitting alone, having tea, and she approached me directly. “Reverend,” she said, “I hear there is a beautiful picture scroll hidden inside the dark statue of the Buddha in the temple hall. Could you secretly show it to me?”

—The story of this scroll was well known in these parts, dating back to the grand ceremony marking the founding of our temple, so there were certainly villagers who might have shared the tale with her. I chuckled and replied, “That scroll was turned to ashes ages ago, so even if I wished to show it to you, I couldn’t.” Yet she persisted, saying, “Just now, when I shook that statue, I heard something rattling inside. Surely there’s something in there.” Surprised, I scolded her gently, saying, “Such things shouldn’t be done; you risk incurring the Buddha’s wrath.” She left soon after, but once I was alone, I found myself growing uneasy. I couldn’t shake the feeling, so I quietly went to the temple hall and, feeling slightly guilty, shook the statue of Maitreya myself. To my astonishment, I heard a faint rattling sound, as if something shaped like a scroll might indeed be nestled inside.

—I was struck with disbelief, my heart pounding in amazement. According to the official record, only the ashes of the burned scroll were supposed to rest inside the Buddha’s hollow. I then considered another possibility—what if Lord Kōtei had, in fact, only pretended to burn the scroll, and instead preserved it in its original form, hidden within the statue? Perhaps the surrounding packing material had dried and loosened over time, allowing it to shift and make noise. It struck me as plausible that Lord Kōtei, an avid art lover, could have devised such a plan, keeping the scroll as a kind of long-term offering, hoping that its curse might fade over the years. I wondered if it would be better to retrieve it and burn it properly. Yet, haunted by doubts and the unsettling implications, I decided it best to leave things undisturbed.

—Time flew by, as it does, and it was already last autumn. On the evening before the equinox, Lady Yashiro, Lord Ichirō, and OMoyoko came to clean the graves together. Lady Yashiro, finishing her own task in the family mausoleum, dropped by the abbot’s quarters alone for some tea. During our conversation, she mentioned, “It may be a little early, but once Ichirō graduates from Rokumatsu School in the spring, I’m thinking of holding a wedding ceremony for him and Omoyo. What do you think?” As was her custom, she sought my opinion on any family matters before announcing them publicly. I assured her that it was a splendid idea.

—As we stepped out onto the temple’s veranda, we could see Lord Ichirō in his school uniform and OMoyoko in a red sash, standing close together in front of the family graves, hands joined in prayer. Watching them, Lady Yashiro suddenly pressed her hand to her chest, as though overwhelmed, and hurried off towards the mausoleum. Left alone, I found myself admiring the two of them, marveling at how fitting a pair they seemed to be. My mind wandered to the future of the Kure family, and then, unexpectedly, I remembered Lady Chiyoko’s story from two decades prior, which sent a chill through me. Though I dismissed it as the needless worry of an old man, the memory lingered, keeping me awake that night.

—So I quietly rose, made my way to the temple hall under the moonlight streaming in through the windows, guided only by the dim light of the altar candle. Once there, I hesitantly placed my hands on the statue and gently shook it. To my astonishment, the sound I had once heard was gone. Not only that, but I felt as though the interior was now completely empty.

—At that moment, perhaps driven by an eerie premonition, I felt an inexplicable dread. But I steeled myself, carefully removed the statue from its shrine, and brought it here to the abbot's quarters. I put on my glasses and examined it closely. Though initially obscured by a thick layer of dust, I soon noticed that the statue's head was attached by a seam at the neck, designed to come off with enough force. When I twisted it firmly, the head detached as expected. My heart pounded as I quietly carried the statue to the entryway and dusted it off so as not to disturb the silence. Once I was back here under the electric light, I spread a thick cloth, placed the statue down, and removed the head from the neck joint. Inside, carved out just like a sutra holder, I found a package of ash wrapped in aged tōshi paper.

—What startled me was the indentation in the center of the ash bundle, clearly shaped like the rod of a scroll. This made it apparent that, while Lord Kōtei had claimed to have burned the scroll, he must have had another purpose altogether. Indeed, he had left the scroll intact, sealing it away in the statue’s hollow. Someone had since discovered and stolen it—that much was now beyond doubt. Apart from the remnants of old cotton used to pack it, there wasn’t even a single scrap of paper left behind. Please, come with me. I will show you the statue of the Buddha.

—As you can see, this is… I don’t know if I should call it my own negligence or something else, but, ah, I cannot help but feel that some misfortune might soon befall us. I am deeply troubled. Yet I wonder, if it was indeed Lady Chiyoko who took the scroll, for what reason could she have done so? And after her untimely death in Nogata, who could have kept it hidden all this time? If Lady Yashiro, who sorted through her belongings, had found it, she would surely have told me. Pondering these questions alone has brought me to the brink of despair, and now, with recent events, I am left only to call it an unsolvable mystery.

—I understand that the scroll vanished after Lord Ichirō’s descent into madness, adding yet another layer to this enigma. Some in the village even claim to have seen the scroll undulating through the air like a serpent both before and after Lord Ichirō’s affliction. But what truth lies in that, I cannot say. All I know is that my own failure to act has brought unspeakable sorrow upon the late Lady OMoyoko and poor, mad Lord Ichirō. If only I could exchange what little life I have left to spare them this suffering, but all I can do is weep in bitter regret…

The Fourth Reference

Statement by Yasuyo Kure

▼Time of Interview: Approximately 5 p.m. on the same day.

▼Location: In the inner room of her residence.

▼Present: Yasuyo Kure, myself (Mr. W) — two people in total.

—Ah, sensei... thank you for coming. How I’ve waited for you… no, no, my injuries don’t matter. My life doesn’t matter. Please, I beg you—please take this scroll—(taking it out from a carefully hidden place within their robe and handing it over)—steal it away from the temple, and give it to Ichirō at the stone quarry where he was ambushed. Find the one who planned to use this to kill everyone in this house. You must, you must uncover them. And when you do, please ask them just one thing—only one thing—why? Why did they commit such a cruel act? (sobbing) That’s all I ask. Please ask them. It breaks my heart that I couldn’t find out who it was while Ichirō was still in his right mind. It tortures me to think I couldn’t confront them… even if I were to grind my bones to dust, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy my anger. (sobbing) No, no, when the workers pulled up from Nogata, there was nothing suspicious among Ichirō’s belongings—I checked everything myself. What do the police know? Nothing. They allowed Ichirō to endure such injustice… when they questioned me, I wouldn’t even answer them. I’ve given up hope. Whether Ichirō regains his sanity or not, whether my daughter comes back to life or not, whether I live or die, I don’t care anymore. But my sister Chiyo, Ichirō, and my daughter all share the same enemy. Whoever it was that knew the meaning behind this scroll and showed it to Ichirō—that person… (voice rising with agitation, then breaking into incoherence. Overwhelmed with emotion and unable to continue speaking coherently, the individual falls into a state of confusion. Over the following week, they gradually return to a calmer state, though they show signs of slipping into a dissociated, vacant condition.)

◆Notes

(1) At 10:30 a.m. on the day of the incident, during an inspection of the Kure family storehouse (known as the “Third Storehouse”), on the old newspaper laid at the entrance to the ground-floor boarding area, there were distinct impressions of Ichiro Kure’s wooden clogs and Moyo’s red cork sandals lined up beside each other. Nearby, candle wax drippings were found trailing up the narrow staircase.

Upstairs, neither the condition of the room nor the victim’s body displayed signs of struggle, resistance, or agony. On the neck of the deceased, however, there were ligature marks and signs of congestion from strangulation, yet no damage was detected to the external throat or carotid artery. Additionally, a faintly fragrant new Western-style towel was found beneath the desk in front of the body, believed to be the attacker’s and suspected to have been used in the murder.

On the desk, a dozen or so pieces of folded tissue, seemingly women’s handkerchiefs, were laid out in layers and emitted a faint feminine scent. To the left side of these lay a brass candlestick, part of the family’s Buddhist altar furnishings, with a candle that had been lit and was later determined to have burned for two hours and forty minutes before being extinguished.

Furthermore, three other new hundred-monme candles were found under the desk alongside a matchbox. Only the fingerprints of the victim, Moyo, were detected on both the candles and the matchbox, with no prints from the attacker, Ichiro Kure. The presence of Moyo’s fingerprints exclusively on all four candles and the matchbox suggests she personally carried and lit one of the candles, placing it on the left side of the desk.

(2) That evening at 9 p.m., the victim’s body arrived at the Forensic Medical Laboratory of Kyushu Imperial University, where I (Mr. W) performed the autopsy with Dr. Funaki as witness. By 11 p.m., it was concluded that the cause of death was strangulation by pressure on the neck, and that the victim had been hanged after losing consciousness for some unknown reason. No abnormalities were found in the hymen.

◆Further Notes

(A) Investigation of the central Miroku Bodhisattva statue at Kisaragi Temple revealed an abnormally large head on a small body with an unusual, fierce expression. It lacked a halo, and instead of the traditional robe, wore a single loop of cloth resembling a simple monk’s garb. The carving was simplistic yet powerful, with jagged, wave-like chisel marks throughout. In the center of its base, in austere and refined script, were the characters “Shoku”—an inch square carved into the wood.

(B) A cylindrical hollow inside the statue, ten inches deep and three and a half inches wide, filled with cotton and ashes, matched the scroll’s size. Glue marks were found on the square portion of the neck, suggesting it once served as a lid.

(C) Analysis of the cotton and ashes revealed ancient materials, approximately matching the era suggested in historical records. Microscopic examination of the ashes identified remnants of burned Japanese paper and silk cloth, with no signs of gold thread, wooden fittings, or any other trace materials.

◆Further Notes

(1) An inspection of the stone quarry near the entrance to Mei-no-Hama, on the coastal side of the national highway, identified a particular rough-cut stone said to be the one Ichiro Kure sat upon while viewing the scroll. It was situated in a shadowed location unlikely to attract attention from those passing by on the highway.

(2) The quarry contained countless stones and remnants of the stone-cutting work, as well as straw, paper, sandals, pieces of horseshoes, and other debris, but no noteworthy artifacts. The recent rain seemed to have washed away any footprints, as no traces from Ichiro or any other individuals could be found.

(3) Gunpei Wakino, a stonemason residing at 75-1 Mei-no-Hama, who had been ill with stomach issues along with his wife Mitsu and foster child Kakuichi, was under quarantine due to concerns of a contagious disease. Upon recovery, when questioned, he confirmed that no suspicious individuals had visited the quarry recently. The illness remained unexplained, and the fish they consumed were always fresh, ruling out food poisoning.

Note:

- Insert a photograph of the illustrated scroll. 

- Record the origins of the illustrated scroll on the right. 

- Document observations and research notes pertaining to the Second Incident in its entirety on the above. 

Hahaha…

…Well, gentlemen, what do you think? Surprised? I imagine by now you've forgotten entirely that this is meant to be a key portion of my last will and testament. We've had tragedy, comedy, swashbuckling battles, and larger-than-life incidents, all mixed with a good dose of sensationalism—a truly strange and remarkable record, wouldn’t you agree? Especially with its eccentric expressions of psychological inheritance, it’s truly unparalleled, baffling even the finest volumes of modern knowledge or scientific logic. Even the great forensic expert, Dr. Kyotaro Wakabayashi, seems to have found this case somewhat of a puzzle, as one can see from his notes, where he states:

"I am inclined to refer to the culprit of this case as an imaginary perpetrator. The reason is that this individual appears to possess a character so terrifyingly supernatural and incomprehensible that they transcend all modern knowledge, as well as every tenet of morality, custom, and empathy. In just two years, this perpetrator has, through murder or madness, eliminated three women and a young man, obliterating an entire family line with ruthless precision. The method of these crimes, however, suggests either random events or some hypernatural phenomenon that defies rational deduction. Not only is the identity of the culprit itself in question, but even the existence of such a purpose-driven perpetrator remains suspect…"

…Well, I assume those of you following along closely with the records might have noticed by now. From the very onset of this case, there has been a clear divergence between Wakabayashi’s conclusions as a forensic scientist and my own as a psychiatrist. From his forensic standpoint, Wakabayashi insists that there must be a concealed culprit somewhere, one skillfully manipulating events to shroud this case in mystery. In contrast, I believe that the case is, in fact, a "crime without a criminal," a strange eruption of mental illness where both the perpetrator and the victim are ultimately the same person, driven by a shared hallucination. If a culprit must be found, I would argue it lies within the genetic roots of Ichiro Kure's twisted psychology, inherited from his ancestors, who ought to be jailed instead. And here, precisely, lies the crux of the case…

What’s that? You say you’ve already found the real culprit…?

Oh my…! Well, well, you detectives are certainly fast on your feet! At this rate, Wakabayashi and I will be out of a job. But please, don’t rush things. Even if you’ve identified the right person as Wakabayashi’s so-called ‘imaginary demon,’ it remains a hypothesis. And even if you possess undeniable evidence, if in the course of your investigation you uncover a shocking truth that unravels everything, what then? Hahaha…

This is exactly why I caution you: in a case as profound and mysterious as this, it’s dangerous to draw conclusions from a few scraps of evidence or abstract reasoning. Before deciding the existence or non-existence of a culprit, we must thoroughly review how this case gradually slipped into my hands after its initial bizarre incidents, what observations I made, and the grueling steps of my investigation. And as I recount the second episode’s horrendous and dazzling scenes, and how the findings drove me to the brink of suicide…only then might we draw any conclusions.

Now then, let’s dive right into the actual events and how my investigation continued from there. And this time, I’ll skip all the “formalities.” I’m no seasoned narrator of cinema scenarios, so what I’m about to share might sound like amateur dramatics, but we’ve plenty of time till dawn, so I might as well give it a try.

But let me clarify something up front. This isn’t just a mishmash of the case’s outer events leading deeper to its psychological core for the sake of style. Every scene here is arranged precisely as it unfolded within my purview, and the structure itself reveals the essence of the case. So you see, this is, however humbly I may say it, a scientifically sound and honest record, a true account that holds up under the scrutiny of heaven and earth…

[Caption] Psychological Evaluation of Ichiro Kure — May 3rd, 1926, 9:00 a.m., at the Fukuoka District Court Reception Room.

[Scene] Dr. Masaki, dressed in a dignified yet rustic attire of a dark brown formal kimono coat over a plain silk robe, with worn white tabi socks, sat near the window opposite the entrance. He reclined with a cigar in hand, exuding a calm authority. An old-fashioned umbrella lay on the central table, seemingly belonging to Dr. Masaki, alongside a hat that had been tossed aside by Takayama. Nearby, Dr. Wakabayashi, in a frock coat, was introducing a stern-looking inspector in uniform, along with a slender gentleman in an all-cell ensemble, to Dr. Masaki.

“This is Inspector Otsuka… and Judge Suzuki of the preliminary court. They’ve both been involved in this case from the outset…”

Dr. Masaki stood, accepting the business cards with a cheerful bow. "I am Masaki, called upon at your service… though I regret I have no business card on me…”

Inspector Otsuka and Judge Suzuki returned the courtesy with slightly more formal bows. At that moment, Ichiro Kure entered, escorted by two court bailiffs, his wrists bound by a rope. He wore a plain, dark blue patterned kimono over his bare skin, lending him a wild, unkempt appearance. The three gentlemen instinctively stepped aside, allowing Dr. Masaki to stand at Ichiro’s side.

Ichiro, pausing in front of the doctor, gazed slowly around the room with his dark, sullen eyes. Numerous bruises and scrapes marred his pale arms and neck, marking his resistance when subdued, and only accentuating his haunting beauty with a disturbing aura. Behind him, the bailiffs raised their hands in respectful salutes.

Dr. Masaki nodded in acknowledgment before drawing deeply on his cigar, then casually took hold of Ichiro’s shackled wrists, drawing them close. The doctor leaned in, positioning his face mere inches from Ichiro’s, fixing him with an unwavering gaze as if attempting to convey some silent command, or to push back the light in Ichiro’s eyes with his own, penetrating deep into his pupils. The two remained locked in this intense stare for several moments.

As the seconds ticked by, Dr. Masaki’s expression subtly tensed, and those observing him grew more and more on edge. Only Dr. Wakabayashi stood impassive, watching Masaki’s profile with his pale, cool eyes as if searching for something hidden in the doctor’s countenance.

Ichiro, however, seemed entirely unfazed. With the serene, glassy gaze of a man lost to his own mind, he broke eye contact without any hint of discomfort and shifted his gaze to Dr. Wakabayashi, studying the length of the man’s tall frame with a dreamlike curiosity.

Dr. Masaki’s expression softened as he smiled, taking another pull from his fading cigar before speaking in a relaxed tone. "Do you know that gentleman, my boy?”

Ichiro, still gazing up at Dr. Wakabayashi’s pale, elongated face, gave a slight nod, his eyes assuming a trance-like quality. Noticing this, Dr. Masaki’s smile deepened. Then, Ichiro’s lips began to tremble slightly.

“…Yes. That man… he’s my father.”

…But before Ichiro could finish, Dr. Wakabayashi’s face underwent a shocking transformation. His already pale face lost all color, becoming almost chalky, while two blue veins bulged sharply across his ashen forehead. His expression—a blend of fury and disbelief—was as indescribable as it was terrifying. His temples twitched as he turned to Dr. Masaki, eyes blazing with such intensity it seemed he might lunge at him any moment.

Dr. Masaki, seeming oblivious to the intensity in the room, let out a loud, uninhibited laugh.

"Ha ha ha ha! Well, you’ve got a fine father there… Now, do you know who this gentleman is?” he asked, pointing to himself.

Ichiro continued to stare at him with that same unblinking gaze before his lips started to twitch. “…My father… yes…”

"Ah ha ha ha ha ha!” Dr. Masaki’s laughter grew even heartier as he let go of Ichiro’s hands, struggling to contain himself. "Well, that’s a surprise! So, that means you have two fathers, doesn’t it?”

Ichiro seemed to hesitate, as if pondering this, then simply nodded. Dr. Masaki doubled over, clutching his sides with laughter. "Ha ha ha ha! This is extraordinary! A one-of-a-kind case. Now, tell me, can you remember the names of these two fathers?”

Masaki’s remark, though spoken with a touch of humor, suddenly sharpened the tension in the room. The onlookers stiffened, all eyes now on Ichiro.

At the question, Ichiro’s face clouded over. He cast his gaze out the window, taking in the bright blue May sky, as if lost in the peaceful expanse beyond. Slowly, his eyes filled with tears. Watching him, Dr. Masaki gently took Ichiro’s hand again and exhaled a long puff of cigar smoke.

“No need, no need. Don’t strain yourself trying to remember the names of both fathers. After all, that might make one of them feel quite unfairly treated, wouldn’t it?” He chuckled.

The spectators, previously tense, began to laugh as well. Even Dr. Wakabayashi, whose face had been so rigid, managed a strained, almost tearful smile.

Ichiro, however, cast a disappointed look around at each of their laughing faces. Then, his gaze lowered, and he released a quiet sigh as tears trickled from his eyes, falling onto the dusty floor beneath his shackled hands.

Dr. Masaki, still holding Ichiro’s hand, looked around the room. "In any case, I would like to take custody of this patient for observation. I believe he retains certain memories that could be vital to uncovering the truth behind this case. The fact that he sees every face as that of a ‘father’ could very well indicate some profound psychological clue tied to this case’s hidden reality. With your permission, I would like to help this young man recover those memories and, if possible, bring clarity to what happened here.”

[Caption] Ichiro Kure’s first day at the Treatment Center (photographed July 7, 1926).

[Scene] Beneath the midsummer sun, five or six paulownia trees in the center of the treatment yard shimmered in bright green. Eight patients filed in through the eastern gate, some looking around curiously, while others quickly fell into a variety of strange behaviors. Ichiro was the last to enter, with a sorrowful expression, gazing absently at the brick walls and sand around him.

Suddenly, he spotted something in the sand and his eyes lit up. He stooped, picked it up, and, holding it between his hands, examined it in the bright sunlight—a small, blue marble, dazzling in its clarity.

Ichiro smiled as he held it up to the sun before tucking it carefully into his black sash. Eagerly, he rolled up his sleeves and began digging through the hot sand with his hands, feverishly searching for more.

Watching this from the gate, Dr. Masaki called a caretaker to bring a shovel, which he handed to Ichiro. Ichiro accepted it with a delighted bow and began digging even more fervently, turning up glistening sand that dried white under the blazing sun. Observing him with keen interest, Dr. Masaki smirked, nodded approvingly, and walked briskly back toward the entrance.

[Caption] Ichiro Kure at the treatment center, approximately two months later (photographed on September 10 of the same year).

[Scene] The once-vibrant paulownia leaves in the center of the yard now showed patches of dryness. Scattered around were numerous dark, deep holes resembling burial pits, each dug into the sandy soil.

In the midst of this desolate scene, Ichiro Kure stood, using his shovel as a crutch to catch his breath. His face, deeply tanned by the autumn sun, had grown gaunt from the relentless labor of recent weeks, leaving only his eyes to flash with a wild, intense gleam. Sweat poured down his face, his breath rasping as if it were aflame. The edge of his shovel, worn thin and shining like silver from constant digging, bore evidence of his feverish obsession with unearthing the sandy ground—a sight reminiscent of a tortured soul trapped in a fiery purgatory.

Then, as if driven by some unseen force, Ichiro gripped his shovel once more with his blackened arms and began digging into a fresh patch of sand, striking down with renewed vigor. Suddenly, he unearthed a large fish vertebra, which seemed to spur him on, and he resumed his frenzied digging with twice the intensity.

Behind him, a young female patient lost her balance and fell into one of the larger pits, her legs flailing in the air as she screamed, much to the applause of the other patients. But Ichiro remained oblivious, wholly engrossed in his work, until he seemed to uncover something unseen, rubbing it between his fingers before snatching up his shovel once more. His eyes blazed, and he bit down on his lip with fierce determination, hacking at the ground beneath him with a desperate, almost savage energy.

At this point, Dr. Masaki entered the yard, his pince-nez glinting in the sunlight. He watched Ichiro for a while, then walked over, lightly tapping Ichiro’s shoulder as he raised his shovel.

Startled, Ichiro paused, staring back at Dr. Masaki in a daze, wiping the streaming sweat from his face. Taking advantage of the moment, Dr. Masaki swiftly slipped his hand into Ichiro’s coat, extracting a bundle wrapped in a grimy handkerchief along with the vertebra Ichiro had just unearthed, and concealed them behind his back. Yet Ichiro, still unaware, continued to wipe his sweat and blink in confusion, looking up from within the pit. Dr. Masaki looked down at him with a smile.

“What did you just dig up there?” he asked.

Ichiro’s face flushed, and, somewhat embarrassed, he extended his left index finger toward Dr. Masaki’s nose. Dr. Masaki leaned closer, and saw that a single strand of a woman’s hair was coiled tightly around the tip of Ichiro’s finger.

Recognizing its significance, Dr. Masaki nodded seriously, then unwrapped the soiled handkerchief to reveal its contents in his palm. Inside were the blue marble Ichiro had found two months prior, the fish bone he had just uncovered, a fragment of a red comb, and a broken piece of glass tubing, roughly the length of a pinky finger.

"These are things you dug up from the earth, aren’t they?"

Ichiro nodded, panting, his gaze darting between the objects and Dr. Masaki’s face.

"Hmm… Now tell me, what use do you think these have?" Dr. Masaki asked, his tone probing.

Ichiro answered without hesitation, as if it were obvious, "That’s the crystal ball from a sacred relic, the quartz vial, a human bone, and a coral comb.”

He took the items back, wrapped them carefully, and tucked the bundle deep within his coat as though it were a priceless treasure.

“Hmm… And tell me, why are you working so desperately to dig all of this up?”

Ichiro leaned on his shovel with one hand and pointed to the ground with the other. "There’s a woman’s body buried here."

"Hmm… I see…" Dr. Masaki murmured, studying Ichiro’s eyes intently through his glasses. Then, in a slow, steady voice, as if driving each word into Ichiro’s consciousness, he asked, “But when was this woman’s body buried beneath the ground?”

Ichiro froze, gripping his shovel as he looked up at Dr. Masaki, visibly shaken. The color drained from his cheeks, and his lips began to twitch.

“W-When… When… when was it buried…?” he stammered in a voice tinged with fear. He glanced around the yard, bewildered, his expression shifting to one of profound loneliness and despair. Eventually, he let the shovel fall from his hands, lowered his gaze, and, his shoulders slumped, slowly climbed out of the pit, shuffling back toward the entrance in defeat.

Dr. Masaki, watching him walk away, crossed his arms and let out a quiet, triumphant smile.

"Remarkable… the psychological patterns are manifesting with perfect accuracy. But we must press on a little further. The real spectacle is yet to come…”

[Caption] Inside the treatment center, once again, on October 19 of the same year (about a month after the previous scene).

[Scene] As in the first scene, the yard is a flat, sandy expanse enclosed by a brick wall. In the foreground, the elderly man Gisaku, with his head wrapped in a white towel, works steadily, using a hoe to till the soil. Since his last appearance, he has expanded his patch by an extra row. Beside him, a thin girl plants dried branches and fragments of tiles in half of the newly turned soil, methodically placing each piece.

Ichiro Kure stands nearby, hands clasped behind his back, smiling faintly as he observes the rise and fall of the old man’s hoe with intense focus. In the intervening month, his complexion has become noticeably paler and his face rounder—a result of having suspended his digging labor and remaining isolated in his room, number seven.

From behind, Dr. Masaki approaches with a warm smile, gently placing a hand on Ichiro’s shoulder. Ichiro starts slightly and glances back at him.

“Well… you’re out again after quite a while. You’re looking much fairer now… and even a bit plumper.”

“Yes…” Ichiro replies, smiling as before and turning his attention back to the movements of the hoe.

“What are you doing here?” Dr. Masaki asks, leaning in to look into Ichiro’s face. Without shifting his gaze from the hoe, Ichiro replies calmly, “I’m watching that man tend his field.”

“Hmm. Your awareness has sharpened considerably,” Dr. Masaki mutters to himself, studying Ichiro’s profile closely. Then, with a subtle emphasis, he continues, “But that’s not quite it, is it? You really want that hoe, don’t you?”

At these words, Ichiro’s face pales instantly. He turns wide-eyed toward Dr. Masaki, but then quickly looks back to the hoe, murmuring softly as if to himself, “Yes… that’s my hoe.”

“I understand,” Dr. Masaki nods with a knowing expression. “That hoe is yours. But for now, why not wait just a little longer? The old man is working hard, and at noon, as soon as the bell chimes, he’ll put the hoe down and go to eat. And he won’t come back until evening.”

"Are you certain?" Ichiro’s eyes flash with a flicker of anxiety as he looks back at Dr. Masaki. Dr. Masaki nods deeply, reassuring him.

“Absolutely. And I’ll make sure you get a brand-new hoe soon.”

Ichiro, however, continues to stare at the old man’s hoe with a hint of apprehension, muttering under his breath as though to himself, “I want it now…”

“Hmm. Why is that…?” Dr. Masaki asks, but Ichiro doesn’t reply. He shuts his mouth tightly, his gaze once again fixed on the rhythmic motion of the hoe.

Dr. Masaki watches Ichiro’s profile intently, as though searching for something in his expression.

Suddenly, the shadow of a large kite glides silently over the sandy ground in front of them, passing between the two.

…And thus, what we’ve seen so far reveals that Ichiro Kure’s peculiar psychological state seems somehow connected to the esteemed women of antiquity who wore objects like the Seirokan jade stone, quartz vials, and coral combs. It appears that Ichiro’s relentless search for a woman’s remains is driven by his desire to complete an illustrated scroll inspired by such a noblewoman.

But why, then, did Ichiro fall into a trance when Dr. Masaki asked him when the body was buried, leaving him in a state of deep thought once he returned to his room? And why, a month later—today, October 19, 1926—does he haunt the treatment center, anxiously watching the old man’s hoe, waiting for him to set it down?

… Meanwhile, the crisis at this asylum looms ever nearer, but from what source? And in what manner will it come? Only Dr. Wakabayashi and I, his confidant, can shed light on this matter… or perhaps it is Dr. Masaki on the screen… no, no, that’s not quite right… ah, whatever, let’s say it’s me. While we’re at it, let’s stop this film entirely. And if we’re going all in, let’s say it’s Dr. Masaki—the “mad doctor” himself—writing this testament in his office at Kyushu University’s psychiatric department, alone in the dead of night.

Perhaps I’m rambling, but why not? This is just a testament written to pass the time before I die. What’s a little whiskey-induced fog in my mind when I’ll be gone soon? Let the world turn to dust for all I care… another smoke, shall we?

Ah, how satisfying. To pen my final words, mocking all creation on the night before my death. When I tire of writing, I sit back in my revolving chair, knees drawn to my chest, and let blue and gamboge clouds of smoke drift up. The smoke, curling gently like morning mist or evening fog, rises higher and higher toward the ceiling. Reaching a certain height, it spreads out like oil on water, undulating slowly, forming and dissolving, sketching eerie shapes of joy and sorrow, fading as if spirited away. And there I sit, like some skeletal wizard out of the Arabian Nights, gazing up from my great armchair… ah, sleepiness creeps in. The whiskey must be taking hold. Mumble, mumble… stars are everywhere outside the window… what was I saying? Ah, yes… “A single star marks the doctor’s end”… ha, not much of an epitaph… mumble… mumble…

Volume 2

"Well... have you read it?" 

The voice came suddenly, right next to my ear—or so I thought—before it echoed through the room with a long, drawn-out aaahn and vanished. 

In that moment, I thought it might have been Dr. Wakabayashi's voice. But almost immediately, I noticed something completely different about its tone: it was clear, vibrant, and carried an air of youthful exuberance. Startled, I turned around to look behind me. 

But the room was utterly empty, silent to its farthest corners—not even a mouse in sight. 

Strange…

The bright morning sunlight poured in through the windows, flooding the shelves of glass specimens, varnished wood, and the linoleum floor with blinding reflections.

Outside, the cheerful chirping of birds flitted through the pines.

How odd… I thought, laying down the testament I’d finished reading. Then, as my gaze drifted absentmindedly, I nearly jumped to my feet.

Right in front of me, close enough to touch, sat an unusual figure—a small man where I had assumed Dr. Wakabayashi would be, seated in the armchair across the table. But there was no trace of Dr. Wakabayashi. Instead, a diminutive, skeletal man in a white lab coat was sitting opposite me.

He was middle-aged, or perhaps younger than he appeared, his skin darkly tanned, head shaved, and brows completely shaven off. He wore large, rimless spectacles perched atop a prominent nose, and clamped a freshly lit cigar between his thin, grinning lips. Arms folded high across his chest, he leaned back with an air of defiance. As he met my gaze, he leisurely took the cigar in his right hand, flashed a toothy smile, and let out a hearty laugh, exposing his brilliant white teeth.

I jumped up, exclaiming, "Dr. Masaki…!"

“Ah ha ha ha ha! Surprised, were you? Ha ha ha ha! Excellent! It’s impressive that you remembered my name so well, and I’m even more pleased you didn’t bolt out of here thinking I was a ghost. Ha ha ha ha!” His laughter echoed through the room, filling it with an unsettling energy that seemed to numb my entire body. The will I had been gripping tightly slipped from my hand and dropped onto the table. It was as though Dr. Masaki’s sudden appearance had invalidated everything that had happened since morning. My strength drained, and I collapsed back into the swivel chair, swallowing hard over and over.

Seeing my reaction only seemed to amuse Dr. Masaki further as he reclined in his chair, chuckling deeply. “Ha ha ha ha! Look how shocked you are! There’s no need to be so taken aback. You’re simply caught up in a bizarre delusion.”

“A… bizarre delusion…?”

“Still don’t get it, do you? Let me help you think back. This morning… just before eight, if I’m not mistaken… you were led here by Wakabayashi, weren’t you? And he filled your head with tales about me—something about it being the one-month anniversary of my death. Yes, yes… and some nonsense about today’s date on the calendar… Ha ha ha ha! Surprised? I know everything, you see! And by the time you started reading all that—‘The Hell of Madness,’ ‘Dreams of the Fetus,’ newspaper articles, the will itself—you were already thoroughly convinced that I’d been dead for a month, weren’t you?”

“…”

“Ha ha ha ha! But it was all Wakabayashi’s nonsense. You’ve fallen for his tricks hook, line, and sinker. Look—just flip to the very last part of that will. It’s lying open right there… Do you see? The ink still has that fresh smell, doesn’t it? Ha ha ha ha! Now, wills don’t have to magically appear after someone dies, you know! There’s no reason I couldn’t have written it while I’m still alive. Ha ha ha ha!”

I was speechless. Why would Dr. Masaki and Dr. Wakabayashi stage such a strange, elaborate prank? It all seemed too absurd and surreal… All the documents I’d seen that morning, the bizarre events—they couldn’t all be mere fabrications, could they? Or was it some grand performance, an elaborate deception meant to bewilder me? As my mind circled these questions, the wave of excitement, curiosity, and amazement that had filled me began to crumble, dissolving into confusion. I felt as if I were vanishing into thin air along with it.

I braced myself against the edge of the table, gripping it tightly as I gazed at Dr. Masaki’s smirking face, almost as if I were in a dream.

"Uff… uff… uff…” Dr. Masaki snickered, barely suppressing his laughter. The cigar smoke choked him, and he pressed his pince-nez firmly in place as he let out a fit of mingled laughter and coughing. “Ha ha ha… Oh, you have quite the expression there… Ha ha ha! So, is it that inconvenient for you if I’m still alive? Ha ha ha! Take it easy. Listen, this morning… I’d say around one o’clock, you were lying in the middle of room seven, arms and legs spread out. When you awoke, you were so shocked at forgetting your own name that you started running around in a panic.”

“Wha… how could you possibly know that…?”

“Know? You were yelling loud enough for anyone to hear. The others may have been asleep, but I was right here, working on the will. I saw you in room seven, frantically trying to remember your own name. I figured you were finally snapping out of your dream state, so I rushed back upstairs to finish the will. Eventually, dawn broke, and I dozed off in my chair for a bit. Then Wakabayashi arrived in that fancy new siren-equipped car of his. I watched, amused, as he went to fetch you, probably after someone reported that you were starting to regain your senses. Swift work, that, but what would he do next? I watched him shave your head, bathe you, and dress you up like a proper university student, then introduced you to a beautiful young lady in room six, your neighboring room. He told you she was your fiancée—left you completely baffled, didn’t he?”

“Wha… then that girl… she’s a patient as well?”

“Yes, indeed. A fascinating case of psychological abnormality, fit to intrigue the academic world. You see, right before her wedding, her groom exhibited a peculiar form of hereditary psychological delusion—a rare case of parasomnia. Unconsciously affected by his behavior, she had her own parasomnia attack, mirroring his psychological affliction, and fell into a near-death trance. Wakabayashi revived her, but now she occasionally babbles about Emperor Xuanzong and Yang Guifei from a thousand years ago, apologizes to an imaginary sister, or cradles a nonexistent infant, saying, ‘You’ll be Japanese, my child.’ Of course, she’s much more lucid these days…”

“…S-So then… that girl’s name… what was it?”

“Come now, you must know. The famous ‘Belle of Mei-no-Hama’… Moyoko Kure.”

“Wha… that means… I’m Ichiro Kure…”

Just as the words left my mouth, Dr. Masaki clamped his lips shut, his large, downturned mouth held firmly closed as he glared at me with piercing black eyes, frowning slightly through the smoke from his cigar.

I felt as if all the blood in my body was racing toward my heart, disappearing into it, leaving me hollow. Cold sweat dripped from my forehead, my lips quivered, and I nearly collapsed again. My hands gripped the large table, feeling as though my body was disintegrating into the air around me, leaving only my eyes, staring fixedly at Dr. Masaki. My soul, caught in this strange sensation, seemed to hurtle through boundless time and space at a terrifying speed, terrified I might recall something of my past as Ichiro Kure… Listening to the thunderous beat of my heart and lungs as if from a distant place, I trembled uncontrollably.

Yet, no matter how my heart and lungs throbbed, I could not summon any memory of my past as Ichiro Kure. No familiarity, no sense of attachment, stirred at the name "Ichiro." Again and again, I tried, but my memory extended back only to the faint "buzzing" sound I’d heard this morning before dawn. Beyond that point, my mind hit a blank. No matter what anyone might say, or what proof they showed, I could not recognize myself as Ichiro Kure.

I exhaled deeply, and gradually, my awareness returned to my surroundings. My heartbeat and breathing slowed. When I finally sat heavily onto the chair, cold sweat trickled from my armpits.

Just then, Dr. Masaki, who had been watching me coolly, exhaled a puff of purple smoke near my nose.

“Well? Did anything come back to you?” he asked.

I shook my head silently, taking a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my damp face. I felt myself regaining composure. Yet the situation remained overwhelmingly mysterious, paralyzing me with fear as I shrank deeper into my chair. But then, Dr. Masaki cleared his throat, jolting me again.

“Ahem… If you don’t remember, I’ll repeat it for you. Listen carefully. You’re caught in a deception—a trick, as it were. My esteemed colleague, Dr. Kyotaro Wakabayashi, has manipulated you into believing, beyond a doubt, that you are Ichiro Kure so that he could bring you to me. His goal is to point to me as the only vile, depraved man in existence.”

“What? He’s… framing you?”

“Yes, indeed. Now listen. If you calmly review everything that has happened since this morning, you’ll see it all very clearly.” Dr. Masaki spoke steadily now, and as he leaned back in his chair, thick smoke unfurled upward. He glanced deliberately at the large calendar by the fireplace.

“Let me remind you again—today is October 20, Taisho 15 (1926). Look closely. Yesterday was the 19th, the day Ichiro reappeared here, supposedly after a month away, to watch old Gisaku Hachimaki work the fields. See the calendar says ‘OCTOBER 19.’ I was so busy yesterday, I forgot to tear it off, and this confirms I’ve been here since yesterday, uninterrupted. Understand?” He nodded toward the electric clock above. “Now, it’s exactly 10:13. This clock here matches mine, which means that only five hours have passed since I finished writing this will and first dozed off. See, the ink at the end of the will is still blue. These facts, combined, should be enough to prevent you from getting confused again later on.”

“But… Dr. Wakabayashi just said…”

“No.” Dr. Masaki’s voice boomed as he raised a fist, sweeping away my lingering doubts. His words brimmed with an energy that obliterated all other thoughts.

“No. Trust me, not Wakabayashi. He’s made a singular, critical error from the very start. He undoubtedly smelled the burnt pages of my manuscript in the fireplace and immediately crafted a trick around this will, which he found on this table, to mislead you.”

“But he said… today is November 20, a month after you…”

“Ridiculous! The only reason he spouted that nonsense is to soothe you. He knew if you discovered that only a few hours had passed since I wrote this, you’d fear I might have gone off to kill myself. And if that happened, as your friend and department head, he’d have to drop everything to find and stop me. Yet that would mean losing his one and only chance to unlock your past memory of being Ichiro Kure—a matter of utmost importance to him. Today presented the perfect opportunity.”

“…But…”

“Wakabayashi calculated that if he could revive your memories as Ichiro Kure, then he could easily turn you against me, painting me as your mortal enemy, the destroyer of your family. And he’s right; as a scientist, I have the tools. I could have hypnotized you, had you kill your loved ones, then brought you here as my test subject. With my reputation, I am the prime suspect. You see?”

“…”

“Moreover, if, somehow, you failed to recall your past after reading the will, he’d use his final ploy—hide out of sight until I arrived, then put us face-to-face and wait to see if my presence triggered your memories. If that worked, he could claim victory by proving my influence on your lost memory. It’s a plan as sharp as it is sinister. You see, Wakabayashi’s notorious interrogation methods are so effective that even the guilty become bewildered and desperate, convinced to confess to things they hadn’t even done. This, my friend, is his ‘unmatched mastery’ in interrogation, the very tactics that earned him his reputation as a ‘breaker of labyrinths.’”

“…”

“But this time… things aren’t going his way. His experiments since this morning have all failed. His tricks, which normally flow so smoothly, are faltering. The most renowned forensic scientist is uncharacteristically rattled.” Dr. Masaki laughed. “Perhaps this will be his ‘unprecedented failure.’”

“But… but…”

“Still have more ‘buts’? Go on.”

“…Shouldn’t it be you performing these experiments?”

“Of course. And Wakabayashi knew it. But he wanted to rob me of that role. He wanted me gone, one way or another.”

“No… that can’t be…”

“He’s done his best, hasn’t he? The fact that I’m here, alive and talking to you, is all the proof you need.”

With that, Dr. Masaki leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as a bitter, cynical smile twisted his lips. His cigar smoke curled upward, as if he expected Wakabayashi himself to hear him. My heart shriveled under a new, paralyzing terror. What a fierce, unrelenting battle of intellects this was. What cunning, what dark manipulation had ensnared me, caught in the middle of their deadly struggle.

For the first time, I realized the torment and dread that had haunted me, all brought on by these doctors’ twisted battle of wits. I felt the urge to scream, to flee, half-rising from my seat—yet I could not move.

Instead, drenched in sweat, I sank back into my chair, transfixed by the strange allure of this chilling, all-consuming experiment. My heart pounded with an inexplicable curiosity as Dr. Masaki’s dark, disturbing lips began to move again, and I sat, entranced, awaiting every word as if my very life depended on it.

"Hahaha… Well then, have you figured it out yet? The cause of your confusion? Yes? Good… though perhaps a few things remain unclear to you, am I right? Indeed, the first question is about you yourself—who you are, where you came from, and why you’ve been pulled into this incident in the first place. But don’t worry. Listen to what I’m about to tell you, and every doubt will be swept away, like tangled hair passing through a fine comb. This story may repeat some details from my will, but it will reveal the secrets between Wakabayashi and me regarding this experiment and eventually delve into the psychology behind Ichiro’s inheritance, all leading to the ultimate revelation of who you truly are. Now, if along the way you should happen to realize something about yourself, so be it. But let’s take it one step at a time—enjoy the mystery, won’t you?”

With that, Dr. Masaki lit the end of his fading cigar, puffing with evident satisfaction before settling back into his seat, shrouded in thick smoke.

“Now then… you may already know this, as it could be in today’s papers or even last night’s edition, but a major incident erupted yesterday at the asylum for the insane. It marked the climax of my experiment on psychological inheritance, a fitting conclusion triggered precisely at noon on October 19, Taisho 15 (1926). At the sound of the midday gun, my carefully laid psychological time bomb finally went off within that crowd of the mentally afflicted—a bomb I’d designed to explode without a single spark or visible flame, and which no ordinary person could possibly detect.

"Truthfully, the outcome was far beyond what I expected, resulting in a tragic scene so intense that even I was briefly caught off guard. I immediately offered my resignation to the head office, as the responsibility was, ultimately, mine to bear. But then I realized it might be time to conclude this experiment. Wakabayashi will handle any publications related to my research, so I decided I might as well resign from humanity altogether.” He chuckled to himself. “I returned to my lodgings, wrapped up my affairs, and indulged in a little drink at Higashinakasu to settle my nerves. But when I returned here, I saw something astonishing. The light in Room 6, which had been empty until my departure, was now blazing brightly. Curious, I asked a passing attendant, and he told me that Dr. Wakabayashi had arrived with a young lady whom he had just admitted. And not just any young lady, mind you—a strikingly beautiful one, unlike any I had ever seen.”

At that, Dr. Masaki laughed bitterly. “I’ll admit, even I had to stifle a gasp of admiration. I knew Wakabayashi wasn’t one to be underestimated, but it was clear from this that he’s no simple physician. He’s something far darker. He has skillfully kept his true nature hidden, yet he is a devious mind who fully understands human vulnerabilities. And to what purpose, you might wonder? Well, since the beginning of this case, he has cunningly held that girl within his control, awaiting the right moment to use her to force your hand. He intended to arrange a reunion between you two, and by appealing to your desires, he would manipulate you into identifying as Ichiro Kure, to drive you into seeing me as your sworn enemy. Then he’d expose the truth of this case to the public in his own twisted light and claim it as the cornerstone of his life’s work on ‘psychological crimes and their evidence.’

“So, seeing his game for what it was, I devised a response. Since Wakabayashi’s research on psychological crimes is based on the foundational theories of my work, I realized I could easily disrupt him. So, I burned every paper I’d prepared for publication, leaving only this will. Now Wakabayashi will have no choice but to incorporate it into his own work if he wishes to present anything coherent. It will be fascinating to see how he tries to publish my will—if he can at all. This document may very well be a final parting gift, a bitter legacy impossible to escape from.”

Dr. Masaki gave a wry grin. “So I hurried back to this room, burned the documents, and began writing my will. Morning came, and just as I expected, Wakabayashi rushed to bring you here. He even tried to make you meet that girl, hoping to spark some recognition in you. But alas, it didn’t work out so smoothly. You coldly rejected her, giving her the proverbial elbow to the ribs, refusing to see her as your cousin or your betrothed. Foiled, Wakabayashi then brought you here to continue his plot.

“I’ll admit, I was taken aback at this point. Wakabayashi had seen right through me; he knew I would eventually conclude this dangerous experiment and disappear. So, with lightning speed, he moved to corner me before I could make my escape. He knew I’d been here all night, so he brought you here not only to manipulate you but to corner me with some kind of scheme. So I decided to throw him a curveball—I hid myself in this room without leaving any trace. I neither exited through the window nor through the door. I simply vanished, undetected, and awaited my chance. The method?” He gestured toward the fireplace. “This large fireplace serves as a final measure to destroy any experimental notes if my research ever faced a threat. I designed it from the start with a gas and electric ignition system. Take a look… the inside is spacious, with an electric heat grid that can turn anything placed here into ash within an hour. It’s essentially a massive Bunsen burner. Last night, I hid here with my whiskey, ready to disappear into a puff of smoke if necessary, calmly puffing my cigar and listening to your arrival.”

“But Wakabayashi is no ordinary man. He didn’t panic in my absence. Instead, he seized the opportunity to lead you into the illusion. His mind, as sharp as Prince Shotoku’s, works in multiple layers. As he spoke to you about me and Dr. Saito, he must have examined my will in haste, ensuring that it wouldn’t reveal too much. Then, he cleverly handed it to you, knowing it would plant the idea of your identity as Ichiro Kure more deeply than any explanation he could give himself. While you were engrossed in reading it, he slipped away, leaving me to respond in turn.

“So here we are,” he laughed, taking a seat opposite me. “Right now, you and I sit in opposition under Wakabayashi’s plan, each representing a different outcome. If you awaken as Ichiro Kure and accuse me of being a heartless sorcerer lurking behind this case, I lose. But if you cannot reclaim your memories as Ichiro, then I win, and you become a nameless young man pulled into this case by Wakabayashi’s manipulations. It would ruin his plan, rendering his scheme useless. Isn’t it fascinating? The supreme forensic scientist and the unparalleled psychological scientist, locked in a battle of wits. And whether or not you are Ichiro Kure is still yet to be decided. This contest remains at a standstill.”

Dr. Masaki’s laughter reverberated through the room, echoing in my ears, stirring up my mind in a frenzy. His words merged with those of Dr. Wakabayashi, each doctor’s version of reality tangling and gnawing at my thoughts until all sense dissolved into silence.

But Dr. Masaki seemed entirely unconcerned with my inner turmoil. He squinted one eye tightly, savoring a drag from his cigar, then placed his hands firmly on the armrests of his revolving chair and slowly stood up.

"Well now… let's get on with it. It’s time for the real trial. I must restore your memory of the past myself and let you see who you truly are. Otherwise, I'd be conceding too much to Wakabayashi, and that would be shameful. Come here, now. This time, I’ll personally conduct the first experiment to revive your memory."

In a half-dazed, dreamlike state, I rose from my chair, floating as if sleepwalking. An eerie sensation crept over me, as though Wakabayashi’s cold, piercing eyes were spying on me from somewhere nearby. But I followed Masaki’s lead, moving toward the south window… until I caught a glimpse of the view over Dr. Masaki’s white-coated shoulder, and abruptly stopped in my tracks.

Below us, the asylum grounds spread out in a sweeping view. And there, unmistakably, was Ichiro Kure, standing rigid, facing away from us, observing the old man tending his field. The young man’s disheveled black kimono hung loosely on his pale frame, his tangled hair crowning his ruddy-cheeked face with a mess of wild strands. Seeing him so clearly, so vividly in that moment, I closed my eyes and instinctively pressed both hands against my face, unable to bear the sight of him.

Ichiro Kure was right there. That was undoubtedly the very figure described in the will. And if that was indeed Ichiro Kure… then who on earth was I, standing here?

It felt as if, in that brief moment of looking out the window, I had somehow slipped out of myself and transformed into the figure now standing there, as though my spirit, left behind, was watching from a distance. A dark and dreadful feeling washed over me—a sensation so oppressive that I could hardly breathe.

Had I imagined it? Was it some waking hallucination?

These thoughts flashed through my mind like lightning, and with a mix of dread and peculiar excitement, I slowly opened my eyes again.

The view of the asylum grounds was no dream. The blue sky overhead, the red brick walls, the white, dazzling sand, and the dark silhouettes of patients wandering aimlessly across the grounds… all of it was there, tangible, unmistakable.

Masaki, who had been standing beside me, deep in thought, suddenly turned and casually pointed outside.

"Well? Do you know where we are?" he asked.

I couldn’t reply. I merely nodded faintly, transfixed by the uncanny scene below. The dark figures of the patients meandering over the bright sand were performing the very same actions described in the will, as if each person’s movement served as a live demonstration of Masaki’s theories on psychological inheritance. The old man continued swinging his hoe, creating a fresh mound in the sand, while young Ichiro, his back to us, watched the old man’s hands with singular focus. A middle-aged woman, oblivious to the paper crown she’d dropped, strutted about, while the bearded giant who had been bowing to her was now face down, asleep in the sand. The diminutive orator pressed his fist against the brick wall, praying, while a sickly, dark-skinned girl seemed to search for something to plant in the furrow the old man had made, darting her gaze around the grounds. Each patient mirrored the roles and actions described in the will precisely. Only the girl, who had been singing and dancing, was now crouched in the sand just below our window, her hands shoulder-deep in a hole, constructing a pitfall with a discarded paper crown and a branch of dried pine. That was the only deviation from the script.

Yet, as I looked out at this orderly, silent scene, I saw no sign of the so-called "great disaster" Masaki had just spoken of. The grounds were quiet and still, as though all life had faded into shadows. Strangely enough, counting the figures, I confirmed there were ten patients—just as the will described, no more, no less. But the sight of them, all performing these bizarre tasks in perfect silence, chilled me to the core.

And then, it hit me: something strange and momentous was about to occur. The catastrophe Masaki claimed happened yesterday was not something of the past. No—there was a profound, cold, and relentless certainty pressing down on me, whispering that this catastrophic explosion of psychic energy, the very reason for Masaki's resignation, was about to unfold before my eyes at any moment. A suffocating weight of inevitability seemed to press down from above, as though the brick smokestacks rising from the distant roofs, now belching thick, black smoke, and even the blazing sun were all inching closer to some unfathomable climax controlled by the laws of an obscure and incomprehensible science.

The longer I stared, the more this conviction crept over me. And the more I tried to shake off the feeling, the more intense it grew, tightening around my chest, choking me with an air of dark mysticism and dread. Still, I forced myself to gaze down, gripping the image of Ichiro Kure’s back as he watched the old man’s rhythmic, ceaseless labor.

Then, suddenly, I heard a voice near my ear—a low, murmuring whisper:

“What are you looking at…?”

The tone of that voice was entirely different from Dr. Masaki’s usual one, and I turned around with a start. Dr. Masaki stood close by, holding a thinly smoking cigar. His familiar smile had vanished entirely, and he stared at me with pitch-black eyes fixed intently beneath his pince-nez, as though they might bore a hole through me.

I let out a deep sigh, attempting to calm myself as I answered. 

"I’m… looking at the asylum."

"Hmm…" Dr. Masaki grunted, his gaze unwavering, seeming to probe me for something. 

"And what is it you see there… in the asylum?"

Something about the way he asked struck me as odd, but I looked him in the eyes and replied steadily. 

"Yes… I see ten patients."

"Ten patients…?" he repeated, startled. He gazed at me intently, as though deeply shaken.

Feeling the weight of his stare on my cheek, I turned back toward the view of the asylum, my eyes drawn once more to Ichiro Kure’s back. Any second, it seemed, he might turn to face me, and with that turn, something monumental might happen. The anticipation made my whole body tense, as if bracing itself.

"Hmm…" Dr. Masaki hummed, his voice strangely clear and unsettling. 

"And you can clearly see the patients moving about in there, yes?"

Without speaking, I nodded. The question was bizarre, but I answered with as little thought as possible.

"And there are ten of them… no more, no less?"

Once again, I nodded.

"Yes. Exactly ten."

Dr. Masaki let out another thoughtful grunt, his eyes darkening, as if something had receded into their depths. 

"Fascinating… this is truly a remarkable phenomenon," he murmured to himself, slowly shifting his gaze away from me to look out the window. His face took on a slightly pale, contemplative expression. But after a few moments, his color returned, and he flashed a bright smile, showing his teeth.

"Let me ask you one more thing," he said in a booming, upbeat tone, gesturing out the window. 

"There’s a young man standing in the field, watching the old man work. Do you see him?"

"Yes, I see him."

"Hmm… I thought so. Now tell me, which way is he facing?"

The question struck me as increasingly strange, but I answered nonetheless. 

"He’s standing with his back toward us, so I can’t see his face."

"Ah, yes… I thought so." Dr. Masaki nodded slowly. "But keep watching. He might turn this way. When he does, I want you to look closely at his face…"

Just as he said this, I felt a chill jolt through me, and my entire body stiffened. It felt as if my heart and breath had both suddenly stopped.

The young man Dr. Masaki was pointing at—Ichiro Kure—seemed to react to some unseen command. He slowly turned to face us, his gaze aligning perfectly with mine through the glass window. In that instant, the faint smile that had been on his face disappeared, replaced by an expression of surprise—a look that was identical to the one I had seen on my own face in the bathhouse mirror that very morning. A round face, large eyes, and a slender jaw. And then, just as quickly, he turned back to observe the old man’s labor, resuming his position.

Without realizing it, I had covered my face with my hands.

"Ichiro Kure… that’s me… I am…"

I stumbled back, feeling as if I might collapse. Dr. Masaki caught me, and I vaguely remember the sensation of a burning liquid pouring down my throat, its fiery sting nearly overwhelming.

Through the haze, only fragments of Dr. Masaki’s voice remained in my memory, the words echoing close to my ear. 

"Stay calm. Stay calm! Now look again, at that young man’s face… Don’t tremble like that. Don’t be so shocked. There’s nothing unnatural about this. Yes, that young man looking so much like you is completely normal, a matter of scientific principle. Just relax… stay calm…"

At that moment, I was amazed I didn’t simply pass out. Perhaps my mind had already been numbed by everything that had happened thus far, yet I clung desperately to the fragmenting pieces of my consciousness, bit by bit reassembling myself, standing firm before the glass window. I lost count of how many times I closed my eyes, wiped my face with my handkerchief, and took deep breaths, each one filled with the searing scent of whiskey still lingering on my tongue.

And yet, even after all of that, I couldn’t summon the courage to look out the window again. My head drooped, my gaze fixed on the linoleum floor as I let out trembling sigh after trembling sigh, breathing out the sharp fragrance that filled my mouth.

Dr. Masaki slipped the flat whiskey flask he had been holding into the pocket of his lab coat and cleared his throat, seemingly calming himself.

“Well, it’s understandable that you’d be surprised. That young man was born the same year, month, day, and even the same hour as you—from the same mother.”

“Wha…?” I gasped, staring at Dr. Masaki’s face. As if a veil had started to lift, I felt a flash of understanding, and finally gathered the courage to glance back out the window at Ichiro Kure.

“...So… that means Ichiro Kure and I are twins?”

“No, not quite.” Dr. Masaki shook his head solemnly. “Your bond is even closer than that. And this isn’t just some chance resemblance.”

“...No way…”

Before I could finish speaking, my mind seemed to dissolve into confusion again. I stared into Dr. Masaki’s intense, dark eyes beneath his pince-nez, unsure if he was mocking me or dead serious.

Dr. Masaki’s expression softened into a pitying smile. He took several puffs from his cigar, nodding repeatedly, lost in thought.

“Yes, yes. It’s natural to be bewildered... You, my friend, suffer from a condition called ‘doppelganger syndrome’—a famous phenomenon described in various texts.”

“D-doppelganger syndrome?”

“Yes, the manifestation of an identical self. It’s appeared in countless strange tales, and although it’s rare, as a specialist in the science of the mind, I can assure you it’s plausible. But seeing it in the flesh, right in front of you? That’s something else entirely.”

I rubbed my eyes again and peered nervously out the window. The young man still stood in the exact same place, facing slightly to the side this time.

“That’s… me… Ichiro Kure… but… which of us is Ichiro Kure?”

Dr. Masaki laughed heartily. “You don’t seem to recall yet. It’s like you haven’t fully awakened from a dream.”

“Dream… I’m in a dream?” I turned back to Dr. Masaki, bewildered, staring up and down at his smug posture.

“Yes. You’re dreaming. And proof of that? From my point of view, the liberation treatment facility outside is completely deserted. There’s nothing there but five or six old trees, with a few dry leaves hanging on. The facility’s been on strict lockdown since yesterday’s incident.”

“…”

“Let me explain in a more scientific way. Right now, the conscious part of your mind is primarily focused on processing the present—seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling—all of that. Only the part of your brain connected to memory, the part that recalls the past, is half-awake. So, when you look through this window and see what’s outside, your mind reawakens that image from your memory—exactly as it was yesterday—and you see that memory in vivid clarity, layered onto your present consciousness. What you’re seeing is your past self, an objective memory given life by your mind, while the you looking through the glass represents your subjective present. You’re witnessing both a dream and reality… at once.”

I rubbed my eyes vigorously and glared at Dr. Masaki’s strange smile.

“Then… I’m… really Ichiro Kure…”

“Precisely. In theory and in reality, you can’t avoid being that young man called Ichiro Kure. It’s natural to be skeptical, but… if you were to fully recover your past memories, making them as clear as your present experience, this experiment might just turn into a huge victory for Wakabayashi—and a total defeat for me. Though it’s hard to say. Ha ha.”

“…”

“Bizarre, isn’t it? But explained scientifically, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. People often have these experiences when they’re tired or under stress—moments of vivid daydreams in which memories from the past suddenly become as real as the present. A woman, for example, might see herself in a mirror as she looked on her wedding day, or a person might pass an old school and be overwhelmed by memories of their youth.”

I remained silent, listening to Dr. Masaki’s words as though hypnotized by their layers of meaning. I clenched my feet to the floor, afraid that the world would disappear if I dared open my eyes, gently moving my tongue in my mouth as if to anchor myself.

And then it happened. My hand, which had unconsciously risen to my forehead, felt a sudden sharp pain that seemed to pierce to my spine.

I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut even tighter and gritting my teeth. I gently rubbed the spot; it felt a bit swollen, but it wasn’t a bruise—no, it felt like the aftermath of a sharp impact.

I couldn’t recall ever hurting my head recently, yet this pain...

Was this what they meant by being lost in a dream within a dream? Keeping my eyes tightly closed, I tried to shake it off by vigorously nodding my head, before I opened my eyes, bracing myself. But when I looked around… nothing had changed. Only the shadow of a large hawk passed over the sandy ground outside the window, gliding swiftly by.

In that moment, I could no longer deny that everything I was experiencing was reality. No matter how bizarre or terrifying the phenomenon, I was fully aware that it was all real. There could be no doubt. I stared intently at Ichiro Kure, standing outside the window, feeling no fear this time. Then, turning back to Dr. Masaki, I saw him grinning, his teeth flashing.

“Heh, heh. Even after all this, you still don’t recognize yourself as Ichiro Kure?”

I nodded silently.

“Ha! Well, to tell the truth… everything I just said was a lie.”

“What…?”

I let my hand fall from my forehead, my fingers hanging loosely at my sides, staring wide-eyed and dumbstruck at Dr. Masaki.

And at that moment, Dr. Masaki burst out laughing, clutching his sides, his small frame shaking with each guffaw. He laughed so hard that his voice filled the entire room, his cigar smoke swirling in the air.

“Oh, how amusing! Your honesty is refreshing. Ha ha ha! Don’t be mad, my boy. It was all a golden lie, nothing more! I was merely testing your head a bit, using the resemblance between you and that young man.”

“You… tested me?”

“Yes. You see, I’m about to tell you the true nature of Ichiro Kure’s psychological inheritance, a tale that defies belief. And if you can’t keep your mind steady, you might find yourself terribly mistaken. I needed to prepare you with a little mental inoculation, so to speak. Ha ha ha!”

I felt a sense of relief wash over me, as though I’d awakened from a long dream, and instinctively touched the spot on my forehead where it still throbbed.

“But… what about this pain? Why does my forehead hurt all of a sudden…”

Before I could finish, Dr. Masaki’s face became serious.

“That pain? It’s been there since before you awoke this morning. You only just noticed it now.”

“But… but…” I stammered, holding up one trembling finger after another. “I went to the barber this morning… and the nurse came by once… and I touched that spot at least a dozen times… and I felt nothing then…”

“It wouldn’t matter if you touched it a hundred times. So long as you believed yourself unrelated to Ichiro Kure, you wouldn’t have noticed that pain. But once you recognized his resemblance to yourself, the pain became real. This is one of the mysteries of mental science—the way in which the mind shapes reality. The universe itself is a construct of consciousness.”

I glanced out the window again, fixating on the figure of Ichiro Kure smiling at me from the treatment center grounds, and at once, the pain in my head pulsed with new intensity, almost as though it were alive.

Dr. Masaki blew another thick plume of smoke. “Well? Think you can solve this mystery yourself?”

“No,” I replied, feeling as helpless as I had when I awoke this morning, clutching my head.

“Then, you’ll remain a wanderer, forever lost,” he said, his words piercing with the sadness of a child separated from its parent in an unfamiliar place.

I clasped my hands, pleading. “Please, Dr. Masaki… tell me. I can’t take any more mysteries.”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “I’ll tell you everything… but you’ll need to make a promise first.”

“Anything,” I replied.

“Promise you’ll hold on to your certainty that you are not Ichiro Kure, no matter what I say.”

“I will… I swear.”

A trace of Dr. Masaki’s cold, ironic smile returned.

“Very well. This will be a disturbing story, but you must stay until the end, no matter how frightening or unbelievable it becomes.”

“I will,” I replied.

“Good. And once you’ve heard everything, your duty will be to write it down and share it with the world, along with my final testament. Can you promise to do that?”

“I swear,” I said, my voice steady.

Dr. Masaki led me to a large table, seating himself across from me. He pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket, lighting it with practiced ease.

With the window out of sight, I felt a strange calm, yet in the depths of my mind, I knew that an even greater maze of mysteries awaited me ahead.

"Ah, I fear I've let this conversation become a bit too stiff," Dr. Masaki said, repeating himself with exaggerated casualness. Then, with a more relaxed demeanor, he propped his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands, and, holding his long cigar horizontally in his mouth, peered at me with a wry smile.

"So, putting aside the question of your true identity for the moment, what did you think of that girl you saw this morning?"

Confused, I blinked rapidly. "What… do I think of her?"

"Did you find her beautiful?"

Taken aback by the unexpected direction of his question, I felt myself blush. The countless questions that had been swirling through my mind dissipated, and instead, I found myself recalling her dark, glistening eyes, her small, red lips, the soft blue arc of her long eyebrows, and her ears, delicately veiled by fine hair. A warm sensation crept up the back of my neck as if, like the whiskey earlier, her image was somehow intoxicating me.

Dr. Masaki nodded with a knowing smile. "I see, I see. Any young man who can look at her and not feel a spark is either a rogue hardened by too many romantic conquests or a character out of a tale like The Eight Dog Chronicles or Water Margin—a man entirely void of desire. But tell me, did she really leave you unmoved beyond that?"

To be honest, I didn’t want to admit what I felt. Yet, I couldn’t deny the truth. Dr. Masaki’s question made me realize that my feelings toward her hadn’t evolved since that first encounter; I was struck by her delicate beauty and innocence, moved by a deep sympathy, and overcome by a desire to see her restored to health and reunited with the one she yearned for. I hadn’t had time to consider if this was a form of “love,” nor did I want to. Any further dissection of my feelings seemed like a violation of her purity. Dr. Masaki’s probing felt too close to the mark, and, embarrassed, I responded stiffly.

“I… felt sorry for her.”

Dr. Masaki nodded with apparent satisfaction, repeating the gesture as if to solidify his conclusion. His expression suggested that he was now entirely convinced I was in love with the girl, though I had no chance to correct him before he continued, nodding still.

"Exactly, exactly. If you thought she was beautiful, then you've fallen for her. And to deny that would be hypocritical."

"Th—that's too much, Dr. Masaki… it's a misunderstanding," I protested, raising the hand that still held my handkerchief.

"Ah, there’s no need to justify yourself. Perhaps the idea of being in love with her bothers you, but leave it to fate. Whether you believe yourself to be in love with her or not, fate has already set you both on a collision course," he said, with a confident nod. "The pain in your head and your connection with her are tied together in ways you’ll soon understand. As we uncover the truth, you’ll realize that your lives have always been on an inevitable path toward each other, and upon leaving this hospital, there will be only one answer: marriage.”

With each of Dr. Masaki’s strange assertions, I felt an increasing weight bear down on me, yet not out of embarrassment. Beneath the mysterious circumstances he described, I sensed an underlying truth that seemed vital to my identity. I closed my eyes and bit my lip, forcing myself to retrace each event from that morning, sifting through every word, every action, trying to make sense of it all.

Masaki and Wakabayashi… outwardly, they seemed to be inseparable friends, yet, in reality, they harbored a deep and dangerous rivalry, enemies under a mask of camaraderie.

…Their rift seemed to have started with their mutual research in mental science, where they’d taken Ichiro Kure and me as their subjects. Their rivalry had reached a point that the battles were now being fought openly, even here in this laboratory.

…Despite their differences, both doctors strangely agreed that I must marry that girl in Room Six.

…If, somehow, I was indeed the same person as Ichiro Kure, or perhaps another young man of the same name, year, and face, and if that girl was in fact the girl, Moyoko Kure—then an unspeakable scheme must be at play. It would mean that the doctors themselves had deliberately placed us in this bizarre predicament, using arcane psychological techniques to set us both on this twisted path.

…Such a betrayal felt impossible, too monstrous even to contemplate.

The more I probed, the more entangled my thoughts became. Finally, exhausted, I could only picture myself as some rigid statue, frozen, eyelids pressed shut, in mute defiance of this labyrinthine reality.

Just then, a faint knocking broke my silence.

Startled, I opened my eyes and glanced at the door, wondering if it might be Dr. Wakabayashi. But Dr. Masaki, without even looking, bellowed loudly enough for the sound to echo across the room.

"Come in!"

The doorknob rattled, and a small figure slipped inside, opening the door just halfway. It was a hunched, bald man in a navy uniform from Kyushu Imperial University—a servant, judging by his humble demeanor. Bent over with age, he held a tray with a blackened teapot and two mismatched cups in one hand and a platter piled high with castella cake in the other. He shuffled over to the table, set everything down carefully before Dr. Masaki, and then, bowing deeply, mumbled an apology in a raspy voice.

“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! So Wakabayashi sent you, eh?” Dr. Masaki laughed. “Good, good. Did he bring this himself?”

“No, sir, he called earlier, asking if you were still here, and when I said yes, he ordered me to bring this over to you. He said to enjoy it with your guest.”

“I see, I see. Well, thank you for the trouble. You can leave the door unlocked when you go.”

The old servant poured our tea and bowed repeatedly, his shiny head bobbing, and exited, leaving Dr. Masaki watching him with a chuckle. Without hesitation, Dr. Masaki seized a piece of castella and stuffed it into his mouth, gulping down hot tea and gesturing for me to do the same.

But I didn’t move, captivated by this silent but intense struggle between the two doctors, each vying for dominance with every detail, even with this unexpected gift of cake.

“Oh, come now!” Dr. Masaki exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so paranoid. That castella is perfectly safe, probably bought outside the hospital.”

Laughing, he took several more bites and followed them with sips of tea.

"Now then," he said, wiping his mouth, "before we go any further, is there anything you still don’t understand about Ichiro Kure’s episodes?"

“Yes,” I answered promptly. The sound of my own voice startled me with its clarity, and I shifted, feeling a strange confidence I hadn’t felt before. Perhaps it was the tea, the whiskey, or just the relief of speaking plainly, but I felt a surge of warmth spread through me, emboldening me. Savoring another sip of tea, I found myself marveling at its rich, comforting taste as it warmed my throat, relaxing every joint and soothing my mind. I couldn’t help but laugh softly, feeling, for the first time, a calm detachment.

No matter what logic or science they might throw at me, nothing could make me believe I am Ichiro Kure.

A thrilling new lightness filled me, as if I were seeing the events of the day through the playful lens of a kaleidoscope, each moment tinted with unexpected colors. The two doctors, who had loomed as menacing figures just moments ago, now struck me as oddly amusing, like characters in a farce.

Surely, these doctors were caught in some ridiculous misunderstanding.

… Perhaps the truth was nothing more than a wild, absurd comedy.

“A young man and his double, both suffering from some bizarre mental affliction, become entangled, and two rival doctors, each trying to claim a victory, attempt to settle the matter by arranging for one of them to marry a girl of questionable identity... Perhaps that’s the real story,” I thought, entertained by the idea. And if I could only unravel it all and rescue that girl from this twisted world… what a triumph that would be!

The warmth of the room, the blue pine trees visible through the window, and the soothing silence of midday felt incredibly comforting, and I let myself sink into the moment.

In the space of mere seconds, my thoughts shifted, and when I regained awareness, I found Dr. Masaki regarding me with a sly smile, reclining back with his hands clasped behind his head, as if awaiting a question.

A little overwhelmed by the flood of new inquiries in my mind, I hesitated. Randomly, I reached for the will and leafed through it, pausing at a section near the end and pointing to it for Dr. Masaki.

“It says here that a scroll and an accompanying record are included. Where are the originals?”

“Ah, those…” Dr. Masaki muttered, lowering his hands and slamming the table with a sudden smack. “I nearly forgot! Ha! I’ve been so wrapped up in jogging your memory that I forgot the main event. Without that scroll, you’ll never truly understand Ichiro Kure’s psychological inheritance. Here, take a look!”

He opened a dusty furoshiki bundle and removed a long rectangular package wrapped in newspaper along with a thick ledger. Holding them up to the light by the window, he smiled.

“This ledger is Dr. Wakabayashi’s research on the Nijinohama case—the original source of the excerpt you read. Detailed with painstaking care by that man’s feverish precision. It’s not for light reading, but you’re welcome to read it later. For now, I’ll have you start with the record, and then you’ll see the scroll. Here we are.”

With the last of the newspaper wrap gone, he held out a bound folio and placed it in front of me.

"This is a copy of the record that accompanies the scroll—a tale of the founding of Nyogetsu Temple. It recounts the beginnings of Ichiro Kure’s inheritance over a thousand years ago. If reading it stirs any memories—if you even faintly recognize it—then, my boy, we’ll know without a doubt: you are Ichiro Kure."

Though I was fully aware of the incredible significance of the document before me—aware, too, of the gravity of Dr. Masaki's experimental methods—oddly enough, I couldn’t feel any of the tension or urgency one might expect. Perhaps the whiskey I'd downed earlier had taken effect, because I found myself casually lifting the thick document, turning to its first page without much thought. It was densely covered in classical Chinese characters, every inch filled, leaving no space unmarked.

“Wow… this is in Chinese, and it’s not annotated either. There’s no way I can read this.”

“Hmm, is that so? Well, then, I’ll summarize the contents for you, as best I recall.”

“Please do.”

With that, Dr. Masaki leaned back, letting out a faint belch as he arranged his thoughts, lazily shifting his gaze to the light outside the window. The whiskey was lulling me too, making me feel a kind of heavy, languid calm, and I rested my chin on my hands.

“Well, then…” he started, his voice slightly drowsy, “to begin with, we go back about eleven hundred years, to the time of the Tang Dynasty. Toward the end of Emperor Xuanzong's reign, in the 14th year of Tianbao, a rebel named An Lushan led an uprising. By January of the following year, An Lushan had declared himself emperor, captured the imperial city in June, and forced Xuanzong to flee. Xuanzong’s chief advisor, Yang Guozhong, and his beloved concubine, Yang Guifei, met their end at Mawei…”

“I’m impressed, Dr. Masaki; you’ve got quite a memory for history!”

“It’s best to memorize the dull parts,” he replied dryly. “So, Xuanzong, as you know, died in the 15th year of Tianbao. Seven years earlier, in the eighth year of Tianbao, a young scholar named Wu Qingxiu—a mere seventeen or eighteen years old—was appointed by Xuanzong to travel the provinces of Shu. He was to document the landscapes along the Jialing River, then journey over the mountains of Wushan and sail up the Yangtze to collect images of famous scenic sites. He returned after five years, bringing with him a scroll of over a hundred landscapes he had painted. The emperor was so pleased that he gifted Wu Qingxiu with one of his court ladies, Dai. She was a twin, the elder sister of a lady-in-waiting of Yang Guifei, and the pair were known as the ‘Twins of the Flower Palace.’ By then, Wu Qingxiu was twenty-five, and Lady Dai, seventeen.”

“What an incredible memory, Dr. Masaki! That’s all from historical records?”

“Not entirely,” he replied. “Until that point, the story is found in an old novel, The Secret History of the Peony Pavilion, which describes Emperor Xuanzong and Yang Guifei’s romantic life. Though much of it is a typical confection of Chinese historical fiction, this part about Wu Qingxiu is word-for-word identical to the content in the record here.”

“Even so, it’s all a bit hard to follow. I think I’d understand it better if I could read the characters directly.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll make it easier on you.”

“Thank you,” I replied, feeling genuinely relieved.

“Ha! So, to put it plainly, Emperor Xuanzong, who was hopelessly besotted with Yang Guifei, not only raised her useless brother to a high-ranking position but also surrounded himself with corrupt officials and extravagance. Eventually, he built an enormous palace at Lishan, complete with a lavish bathhouse, where he and Guifei bathed together, singing ‘Where you go, I’ll follow’ as they drifted in hot springs surrounded by silver and jade.”

“Sounds almost a little too romanticized.”

“But it’s true,” Dr. Masaki said, his face serious. “So enamored with Guifei was Xuanzong that he even ordered young Wu Qingxiu to journey across the empire and paint its greatest vistas. It was, no doubt, at the lady’s suggestion.”

“So, he must have been a remarkable painter then?”

“Oh, certainly. At only eighteen or nineteen, he produced works of art on par with the poetry of the famous Li Bai. But after Wu Qingxiu returned and the emperor gifted him his beloved Lady Dai, he became immersed in a secluded, blissful life with her. For a time, he lived as if in a dream. But gradually, as he settled into this life, Wu became aware of the growing turmoil throughout the empire. Rebellion, signs of doom, and supernatural omens appeared everywhere, while Xuanzong and his inner circle remained oblivious.”

“Is that when Wu decided to try to awaken the emperor to reality?”

“Yes. He resolved to shock Xuanzong out of his complacency, hoping to save the empire. Wu confided in Lady Dai, asking her to sacrifice her life for this purpose. ‘It is for you, my beloved,’ she said, smiling in complete devotion. Classic Chinese loyalty!”

“And she really agreed to die for him?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t so simple. Wu Qingxiu had a secret studio constructed deep in the mountains. He built it to resemble an impenetrable fortress, complete with supplies to last them through winter. He and Lady Dai moved in secretly, preparing to immortalize her in a way that would reveal the truth of mortality to the emperor. They made their final vows to meet again in the afterlife, and then, in a ceremony filled with ritual and reverence, Lady Dai lay upon a pristine white cloth, and Wu strangled her.”

“That’s horrifying…”

“Indeed. Wu then began a series of paintings, recording each stage of Lady Dai’s decay as her corpse lay on the platform. His aim was to produce a work so vivid, so horrific, that the emperor would confront the impermanence of all things.”

Dr. Masaki continued, explaining that Wu had painted nearly twenty scenes of Lady Dai’s body. But without modern preservatives, her body decayed rapidly, and soon he was left with only a skeleton and strands of hair. His plans were ruined, and, devastated, he resorted to even more desperate measures. He roamed the countryside, searching for women to kill and replace Lady Dai as his model.

“That’s… unspeakably grotesque.”

“Ah, but Wu Qingxiu’s devotion was undeterred. In time, he became infamous, known as ‘the Demonic Immortal.’ He began robbing graves, exhuming corpses to use as models, and struggling to transport them back to his mountain retreat. Eventually, though, he was discovered. Farmers and local officials, who had heard rumors of his horrific deeds, trapped him, setting his hideout ablaze to drive him out. With no choice, Wu fled, taking only the incomplete scrolls and Lady Dai’s mementos.”

As Dr. Masaki continued, he described Wu’s despair as he returned to his old residence a year later, his life and soul shattered. In his grief, Wu prepared to take his own life, but just as he was about to hang himself, a woman emerged from the shadows—a figure unmistakably familiar, looking exactly as Lady Dai had in her youth. Dr. Masaki leaned closer, his voice a low whisper.

“Before his very eyes was Lady Dai, untouched, radiant in her youthful beauty. She embraced him, and as Wu sank into her arms, he felt all the agonies of his nightmare slowly drain away. It was as if she had returned to him in spirit, full of life, dressed in her old palace finery…”

I shivered, completely absorbed in the story.

“But this,” Dr. Masaki continued, “is where the legend becomes more than just a tale. To this day, that final scroll remains, revealing Wu Qingxiu’s unearthly masterpiece, hidden and kept from the public’s eye. They say the scroll harbors an ancient curse that draws in the viewer’s soul, just as it did Wu’s.”

Staring at the thick manuscript before me, I wondered if perhaps, in turning these pages, I might see the world as Wu had…

"...How strange. Is such a thing even possible?"

"Yes, it seems Kure Seishuu felt the same way. He was nearly floored once more, but after somehow regaining his composure, he lifted the girl in his arms and inspected her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. To his utter astonishment, she turned out to be none other than the younger sister of Lady Mayuzumi—Miss Funko, her twin."

"Oh, I see. I thought as much. Quite the twist, isn’t it? Almost like a play."

"Yes, steeped in that uniquely Chinese style. Kure Seishuu, now beginning to understand the situation, stood there stunned, mouth agape. Funko placed her hands on her knees, her cheeks flushed, and explained, 'I’m terribly sorry for the shock I must have given you. I won’t conceal anything from you—I've been living here all alone, wearing the clothes my sister left behind, and doing my best to impersonate her each day, waiting for you both to return. To anyone who asked, I would say that my master, Kure Seishuu, was shut in his room painting a grand work, and I would buy enough food for two, even picking up paints and brushes to keep up the pretense. The neighbors marveled, wondering how, in the midst of such turmoil, someone could be so calm as to dedicate himself to painting. And so, bit by bit, I guarded this house alone, awaiting your return. Just today, when I came back from an errand, I heard sounds from this room—and when I peeked in, I found you weeping, clearly preparing to end your life. I was so startled that I threw my arms around you without thinking. As I tended to you in your faint, a bundle, tightly wrapped and sealed, along with my sister’s cherished jewels and hair ornaments, fell from your loosened pocket. You murmured in a trance, 'Mayuzumi, forgive me. I’ll spare you alone.' It was then I realized: My sister had fallen at your hand, and you were mistaking me for her ghost. So, to dispel your delusion, I changed into my own clothes. But, please tell me, why did you kill my sister? And what have you been doing all this year, away from here?' Funko then clutched his arm, her eyes brimming with tears."

“Ha... but why, I wonder... why did she go to such odd lengths, dressing in her sister’s clothing and imitating her to serve her sister’s husband?”

"Yes, an excellent question. Kure Seishuu must have wondered the same. But there he stood, still speechless, gazing down at Funko, who continued through her tears. 'You must be wondering why I did all this, serving as a stand-in for my sister. Allow me to explain. It was nearly a year ago now. Ever since my sister left the palace, I’ve felt utterly adrift, with no one to turn to. Then, around this time last year, I heard the tragic news that both you and my sister had disappeared without warning, leaving no word even for me. I spent that night sleepless, wracked by grief and confusion. The next morning, with permission to leave the palace for a short while, I came here, determined to search for you both. After sending away the two eunuchs who accompanied me and dismissing the caretaker, I searched every corner of the house. What I found was that my sister had left as if to face her own death—she had left her precious wedding comb, snapped in two, tucked away at her vanity. But, strangely, there was no sign of you. In fact, it looked as though you had taken all your painting supplies with you. Though I couldn’t understand it fully, I decided to settle here alone, as though I were waiting here with my sister, for your return. To deceive anyone who might visit, I took on my sister’s likeness, living as though we were here together. Fortunately, I knew that you were often secluded while painting, rarely accepting visitors and sometimes even forgetting to eat. Thus, it wasn’t difficult to keep up appearances for neighbors or guests.' Funko smiled ruefully, then added, 'I thought that by staying here, I’d eventually find out where you two had gone. You were both so well-known that, should anyone see you elsewhere, they would be likely to question me about it, and then I could finally track you down. Searching aimlessly in a foreign land alone would yield nothing, after all.’"

"Ah, what a detective she turned out to be."

"Indeed. This younger sister seems to have a bit of spirit about her. Still wiping her tears, she continued, 'However, things did not go as I had hoped. Not long after I settled in, the world erupted into chaos; soldiers flooded the streets, and I was unable to venture outside. Moreover, money grew scarce, and the house began to fall into ruin. I had no choice but to sell whatever I could—your belongings, my sister’s clothes, even my own possessions. All that I kept were one red dress my sister had worn shortly after their wedding and the dress I’d worn as a palace lady-in-waiting. I saved these to maintain my disguise when I went out. The red dress was to present myself as my sister, while my palace dress held memories I could never part with, though I soon had to wear it to bed. And so, in these small ways, I endured this long year, hoping every day for your return. But tell me, what drove you to kill my sister? Why have you come back here now, looking like this? If you killed her, you may as well kill me too!' she sobbed, overwhelmed, before burying her face in her hands."

"...How strange. Is such a thing even possible?"

"Yes, it seems Kure Seishuu felt the same way. He was nearly floored once more, but after somehow regaining his composure, he lifted the girl in his arms and inspected her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. To his utter astonishment, she turned out to be none other than the younger sister of Lady Mayuzumi—Miss Funko, her twin."

"Oh, I see. I thought as much. Quite the twist, isn’t it? Almost like a play."

"Yes, steeped in that uniquely Chinese style. Kure Seishuu, now beginning to understand the situation, stood there stunned, mouth agape. Funko placed her hands on her knees, her cheeks flushed, and explained, 'I’m terribly sorry for the shock I must have given you. I won’t conceal anything from you—I've been living here all alone, wearing the clothes my sister left behind, and doing my best to impersonate her each day, waiting for you both to return. To anyone who asked, I would say that my master, Kure Seishuu, was shut in his room painting a grand work, and I would buy enough food for two, even picking up paints and brushes to keep up the pretense. The neighbors marveled, wondering how, in the midst of such turmoil, someone could be so calm as to dedicate himself to painting. And so, bit by bit, I guarded this house alone, awaiting your return. Just today, when I came back from an errand, I heard sounds from this room—and when I peeked in, I found you weeping, clearly preparing to end your life. I was so startled that I threw my arms around you without thinking. As I tended to you in your faint, a bundle, tightly wrapped and sealed, along with my sister’s cherished jewels and hair ornaments, fell from your loosened pocket. You murmured in a trance, 'Mayuzumi, forgive me. I’ll spare you alone.' It was then I realized: My sister had fallen at your hand, and you were mistaking me for her ghost. So, to dispel your delusion, I changed into my own clothes. But, please tell me, why did you kill my sister? And what have you been doing all this year, away from here?' Funko then clutched his arm, her eyes brimming with tears."

“Ha... but why, I wonder... why did she go to such odd lengths, dressing in her sister’s clothing and imitating her to serve her sister’s husband?”

"Yes, an excellent question. Kure Seishuu must have wondered the same. But there he stood, still speechless, gazing down at Funko, who continued through her tears. 'You must be wondering why I did all this, serving as a stand-in for my sister. Allow me to explain. It was nearly a year ago now. Ever since my sister left the palace, I’ve felt utterly adrift, with no one to turn to. Then, around this time last year, I heard the tragic news that both you and my sister had disappeared without warning, leaving no word even for me. I spent that night sleepless, wracked by grief and confusion. The next morning, with permission to leave the palace for a short while, I came here, determined to search for you both. After sending away the two eunuchs who accompanied me and dismissing the caretaker, I searched every corner of the house. What I found was that my sister had left as if to face her own death—she had left her precious wedding comb, snapped in two, tucked away at her vanity. But, strangely, there was no sign of you. In fact, it looked as though you had taken all your painting supplies with you. Though I couldn’t understand it fully, I decided to settle here alone, as though I were waiting here with my sister, for your return. To deceive anyone who might visit, I took on my sister’s likeness, living as though we were here together. Fortunately, I knew that you were often secluded while painting, rarely accepting visitors and sometimes even forgetting to eat. Thus, it wasn’t difficult to keep up appearances for neighbors or guests.' Funko smiled ruefully, then added, 'I thought that by staying here, I’d eventually find out where you two had gone. You were both so well-known that, should anyone see you elsewhere, they would be likely to question me about it, and then I could finally track you down. Searching aimlessly in a foreign land alone would yield nothing, after all.’"

"Ah, what a detective she turned out to be."

"Indeed. This younger sister seems to have a bit of spirit about her. Still wiping her tears, she continued, 'However, things did not go as I had hoped. Not long after I settled in, the world erupted into chaos; soldiers flooded the streets, and I was unable to venture outside. Moreover, money grew scarce, and the house began to fall into ruin. I had no choice but to sell whatever I could—your belongings, my sister’s clothes, even my own possessions. All that I kept were one red dress my sister had worn shortly after their wedding and the dress I’d worn as a palace lady-in-waiting. I saved these to maintain my disguise when I went out. The red dress was to present myself as my sister, while my palace dress held memories I could never part with, though I soon had to wear it to bed. And so, in these small ways, I endured this long year, hoping every day for your return. But tell me, what drove you to kill my sister? Why have you come back here now, looking like this? If you killed her, you may as well kill me too!' she sobbed, overwhelmed, before burying her face in her hands."

"She is certainly a devoted sister."

"Not really. She had been making advances toward Kure Seishuu for quite some time."

"...Oh? How can you tell?"

"How can I tell? Her behavior is the first thing that’s suspicious. For a supposedly innocent young woman, to impersonate her married sister and live alone in a desolate, crumbling house for nearly a year—she must have had some hidden hope or pleasure in doing so. And then, to wear her sister's crimson wedding gown and walk around... that’s nothing short of an intense and strange passion, something distinctly Chinese in its boldness. Perhaps she was influenced by all those concubines from the Emperor Xuanzong's time, left in their empty chambers to pine away."

"But she herself doesn’t realize it, does she?"

"Of course not. She’s far too young to have that kind of self-awareness. And as a woman, she could weave the most delicate reasoning to craft an enchanting self-deception. It’s difficult to recognize the deviant psychology of a person who is intelligent and pure-hearted. Yet, once you learn to see it, you can find shades of it in anyone, even innocent babies or figures like the Buddha, Confucius, and Christ."

"That’s surprising... is that really the case?"

"There’s much more hidden in the depths of this story, but I’ll save those details for later. For now, I’ll summarize. Funko pressed Kure Seishuu, demanding he explain everything that had happened. Eventually, she saw proof in the form of a scroll on which he had drawn her sister’s corpse, a detailed portrait of her death. Funko was devastated—she was in shock for some time. But finally, overcome by emotion for her sister’s bravery and loyalty, she wept bitterly, exclaiming, ‘Oh, Heaven! How could it be so cruel? You may not know, but the very month you began painting my sister’s body last year, An Lushan’s rebellion broke out, the Tianbao era ended, and the era of An Lushan’s Zhìdé began. This past June, both the Emperor and Lady Yang perished at Mawei. All loyalty has turned to dust. Let’s escape this place together...’ she pleaded, in the most dangerous kind of persuasion."

"What a reckless woman. She’s practically inviting her own death."

"No, this time she’s in the clear. You see, it was only after Funko’s explanation that Kure Seishuu realized the truth: all of his work, his sacrifices, had been meaningless. Like Columbus losing America, he slumped to the ground, overwhelmed, unable to speak ever again, sunk in an unbreakable stupor—a condition caused by a sudden shift in psychology, an affliction from within. Seeing him in that state, Funko grew deeply sympathetic, gazing skyward in hatred for An Lushan’s evil deeds. Then, she confessed that she was determined to care for this loyal man, to pray for the souls of Emperor Xuanzong and Lady Yang for the rest of her life. Though she insisted it was a selfless vow, it was really just a grand excuse for her affection."

"...Really...?"

"Yes, without a doubt. Later, she took the treasured jewels that Seishuu had been carrying, leaving only her sister's portrait with him, and they wandered aimlessly for a while. Toward the end of the year, they boarded a boat, traveling down the river and out to sea. But then a great storm came, and they were lost at sea for ten days, until one dawn, they saw a grand ship to the east, shimmering in the sunlight, bearing down on them. They were rescued and nursed back to health aboard that ship, which, as it turned out, was from Bohai, on its way to Japan, and the officers, hearing her story, took pity on Funko’s plight."

"It sounds almost like a fairytale."

"Yes, with a dreamlike quality, very Chinese in that sense. Funko recounted her story to those aboard, and they, filled with sympathy, promised to escort her and Kure to Japan. However, one night, as the ship sailed under a cold moon, Seishuu disappeared—whether he fell into the sea or ascended to the heavens, no one knows. Funko, who was with child and near her due date, was restrained by the crew, and shortly afterward, she gave birth to a boy."

"Finally, a happy ending."

"Indeed, the birth was a cause for great celebration on board. One of the Bohai emissaries even named the child Kure Chuuyu, holding a grand naming ceremony and blessing his future before they arrived in Japan. Funko settled in the port of Karatsu and recorded her story on the scroll to pass down to her descendants... and that, as they say, was the end."

"So Lady Funko was the one who wrote that beautiful script?"

"No, not quite. The calligraphy is in a woman's hand, but the refined style suggests it was composed by her naming benefactor from Bohai, possibly to pass the time on board. Wakabayashi believes it was written by a monk named Shoukuu, who then placed it in a Maitreya statue. But writing and carving differ greatly, so it’s hard to say."

"I imagine the people at the port were greatly moved by Funko’s story."

"Naturally, a tale of loyalty and bravery always stirs admiration among the Japanese."

"One thing just came to mind. That monk, Shoukuu, after placing the scroll in the statue, prohibited men from approaching it. Why would he do that?"

"Ah, that’s the crux of the matter—the very key to this whole story. It even touches on the recent Mei-no-Hama incident. In short, Shoukuu, a thousand years ago, recognized the concept of psychological inheritance."

"What? Such a thing existed that long ago?"

"More than you think. Even now, people are often bound by these inherited psychological forces, which Shoukuu hoped to overcome. To declare this goal openly was what Christ did, though he did so directly, while Confucius wrapped his teachings in humility and Siddhartha Buddha encased his in sweet parables. I, of course, aim to modernize and profit from this knowledge, selling it to the masses... Ha, ha, ha!"

The professor laughed heartily, pulling a wooden box from under the table and sliding it toward me with a grin.

My nerves sharpened, spurred by his mocking laughter. As I looked at his inscrutable smile, he seemed to morph before my eyes into a kind of sorcerer, a figure at once terrifying and surreal.

...Why be afraid? Surely this is just an old scroll, after all... no drawing could really drive a man insane... or could it?

Driven by curiosity, I reached for the box, forcing myself to remain calm. Opening the lid, I saw the scroll within, wrapped in deep indigo cloth, its surface embedded with exquisite embroidery of lions in golden threads, incredibly detailed and well-preserved, despite its ancient origins.

"This is the embroidery known as 'mille-fleurs,'" the professor said carelessly, as he turned away and lit a cigar.

I slowly unwrapped the scroll, carefully undoing the dark silk cord. Then, with an odd sense of unease growing within me, I began to unroll it.

The first image on the scroll was of rippling water, painted in delicate gold on black paper. The brushwork was so graceful, almost hypnotic, that I continued to unfurl it without realizing it. Then, suddenly, a white section appeared. Without thinking, I gasped, the sound escaping before I could stifle it.

On the scroll lay the face of a woman in death, so eerily lifelike. Her fine brows, her delicate nose, her closed eyes with long lashes—all exactly like the face of the girl from Room Six.

A strange premonition seized me—a feeling that this woman might open her eyes and call out, "Brother!" and embrace me. My heart pounded, my mind frozen.

"Ah-ha! Fascinating, isn’t it? Kure Seishuu’s art... truly powerful," the professor's voice chimed from the other side.

I tore my gaze from the scroll and managed to speak in a strangled whisper, "This face... it looks like... Moyoko Kure..."

The professor’s expression softened, his lips curling into a smile that was a mix of pride and irony.

"Yes, quite alike, isn’t it? Psychological inheritance is just as powerful as physical inheritance. To think that a simple farmer’s daughter from Mei-no-Hama could bear such a resemblance to a famous Tang Dynasty beauty... incredible, isn’t it?"

"..."

"As they say, history repeats itself. It seems that Moyoko Kure is unconsciously reliving Lady Funko’s experience, repeating even the intense feelings Lady Mayuzumi must have had for her husband, who killed her. This scroll captures the peak of their marital devotion, as you can see... Go on, keep unrolling it. You’ll understand the depths of Ichiro Kure’s inherited psychology."

I continued unrolling the scroll, the scenes gradually revealing a corpse, decayed in stages: first in serene beauty, then darkened with a subtle purplish hue, then swollen and discolored. The putrefaction advanced through six images, each more grotesque than the last, until only a bleached skeleton remained. By the end, I could barely breathe, my mind reeling from the ghastly beauty of it.

I glanced at the professor, who was grinning with a look that was neither sympathy nor amusement, his teeth flashing in a hauntingly strange way.

"She seems like quite a devoted younger sister."

"Not really. She’s been interested in Wu Qingxiu for quite some time."

"Oh? And how do you know that?"

"How do I know? Her behavior’s suspicious, for starters. Think about it. For a young maiden, settling down in that eerie old ruin for nearly a year, pretending she’s some lady with a husband—that’s not something you do out of pure obligation or simple curiosity. No, there has to be some hidden hope, some secret enjoyment in it… And then there’s the fact that she parades around in her sister’s bridal red clothes from her early married days—if that’s not a touch of classic, extreme Chinese eccentricity, I don’t know what is. Maybe it’s a strange longing inherited from those palace maidens weeping over empty chambers back in the time of Emperor Xuanzong."

"But… she doesn’t think of it that way, does she?"

"Of course not. She’s hardly mature enough for that kind of self-awareness. Especially as a woman—she can weave the most delicate justifications and dive straight into her own self-created enchantment. You see, the twisted desires of a pure-hearted, intelligent person are nearly impossible to detect… But once you get the right eye for it, you can find strange inclinations even in the innocent eyes of infants, or in sages like Buddha, Confucius, or Christ."

"Good heavens… is that really how it is?"

"There’s more that would surprise you—plenty of details hidden beneath the surface of this story. But let me get to those later. To summarize briefly, after confronting Wu Qingxiu and digging up all the details, Fenzi was shown a scroll depicting the exact image of her sister in death, as tangible proof of what had happened. And what a shock it was—it wrenched her heart, left her trembling with horror. Yet, in the end, she was deeply moved by the brave devotion of her sister and brother-in-law. She burst into tears and cried, ‘Heavens, heavens, how could you be so cruel? You may not know it, but the month last year when you began painting my sister’s body was the very month An Lushan rebelled. The Tianbao era ended then, and now we’re in the first year of Zhide under An Lushan’s rule. Both the Emperor and Lady Yang were slain at Mawei in June. All your loyalty has been for naught. Rather than stay here, why not escape somewhere with me…’ And with those daring words, she tried to sway him."

"A reckless woman, that one. She was practically asking to be killed."

"Not this time. This time, Wu Qingxiu was entirely broken. He realized that all his efforts had been in vain thanks to Fenzi’s explanation. Like Columbus losing his America, he collapsed into silence, plunged into a state of absolute despair, unable to speak a single word for the rest of his days. They call it a psychogenic blockade—a breakdown from a sudden shock to the psyche. Seeing him like this, Fenzi became even more sympathetic, cursed An Lushan’s treachery to the heavens, and swore to protect this devoted man. She pledged herself to end her days praying for the peace of Xuanzong and Lady Yang, a resolution as pure and clear as crystal… though in truth, it was just a grand gesture of infatuation."

"Surely not…?"

"Oh, it certainly was. But more on that later. Now, with Wu Qingxiu clutching the heirloom jewels and the painted scroll of her sister’s likeness, Fenzi took him by the hand and led him on a wandering journey. By the end of that year, they found themselves aboard a ship floating down the river, setting out to sea. After several days of violent storms, they were the only survivors, drifting on the waves for more than ten days. Then, in the stillness before dawn, they spotted a magnificent ship on the distant eastern horizon, its masts gleaming in the morning sun. Nearly lifeless, they signaled for help, and were rescued by this beautiful vessel—bound for the port of Naniwa, via Karatsu, carrying envoys from Balhae. The Kingdom of Balhae, an independent state around present-day Jilin in Manchuria, is recorded in official histories as having made similar journeys to Japan from time to time."

"This is beginning to sound like a fairy tale."

"Indeed, there’s a dreamlike quality to it that feels very Chinese. The people on board, moved by Fenzi’s tearful story, offered heartfelt sympathy. Seeing Wu’s hopeless condition, they pitied him deeply and, sympathizing with Fenzi, treated them both with great kindness, taking them along to Japan. But on one particular night, under a moon so bright it seemed to cut through the ice, Wu Qingxiu vanished from the ship. Whether he fell into the sea or ascended to heaven, no one knows. He disappeared at the age of twenty-eight. Fenzi, then nineteen, was nearly driven mad with grief and tried to follow him, but she was in the final month of pregnancy. The crew restrained her, and not long after, she gave birth to a boy, as beautiful as a pearl, right there on the ship."

"So it finally turned out happily, didn’t it?"

"Yes, and the crew celebrated heartily, no longer burdened by the death on board. Everyone offered gifts to mark the child’s birth, and a scholar among the Balhae envoys took it upon himself to name the child Wu Zhongxiong, with a grand naming ceremony to bless his future. They disembarked at Karatsu, where Fenzi entrusted the child’s upbringing to a powerful local family, the Matsuras. She wrote the family’s history in that illustrated scroll, intending it to be passed down to future generations—an ending, you might say, that leaves us with a sense of fulfillment."

"So Fenzi was the one who wrote that exquisite narrative?"

"Not quite. Though the handwriting is clearly feminine, the writing is so refined it’s hard to believe it came from a woman. There are well-placed rhymes, an unusual use of sophisticated characters—traits that set it apart from Japanese writing. It’s more likely that the Balhae scholar who was so moved by Fenzi’s story composed the text on board, and Fenzi merely transcribed it. Wakabayashi claims the script resembles the inscriptions on the base of a Maitreya statue and that a monk named Shokuu wrote it after comparing the story he heard with some ancient documents. But handwritten scripts often look quite different from carved inscriptions, so we can’t rely too much on that theory."

"Whatever the case, the story of Lady Fen must have caused quite a stir when they arrived at the port in Karatsu."

"Naturally. I imagine it inspired a great deal of public sympathy, especially given that it’s just the kind of tale of loyalty and bravery that the Japanese hold dear."

"Indeed… And that reminds me, the monk Shōkū supposedly sealed the illustrated scroll inside the Maitreya statue and decreed that no man should ever approach it. What reason did he have for such a restriction?"

"Ah, that… Now that’s precisely where the heart of the story lies, and ultimately, it touches on the very core of the Mei-no-Hama incident in our own Taisho era. To put it plainly, the monk Shōkū somehow knew, nearly a thousand years ago, of what we now call ‘psychological inheritance.’"

"Wow… so the study of psychological inheritance dates that far back?"

"It didn’t just exist—it was practically everywhere! The essence of it is that all beings, whether plants, animals, or humans, have evolved by struggling against the chains of their inherited psychology. The more tightly bound one is by this inherited psyche, the lower one ranks in terms of freedom. So Shōkū’s message was, in essence: break free of these inherited constraints entirely, strive to become truly liberated beings. Christ declared this idea boldly to the masses; Confucius, more delicately, as if wrapped in paper; and Buddha, packaged sweetly, adorned with bells and drums, used it as a sort of gentle antidote. And me, well, here I am, borrowing from all of them to peddle my own brand of ‘psychological inheritance’ as if it’s some modern innovation, pocketing a handsome profit on the side… Ha! But leaving that aside, as a monk of the Tendai sect, Shōkū probably gleaned this philosophy from the Lotus Sutra or some such text.

"When he looked at the scroll, he must have seen, in one glance, the chain of causality connecting past, present, and future. He must have known that as soon as Wu Qingxiu’s descendants laid eyes on it, they’d be stirred by inherited impulses, bound to repeat their ancestor’s mistakes. He must have felt such pity. So, he had a statue of Maitreya—the bodhisattva said to appear at the end of time—carved and sealed the scroll within it, forbidding any man from ever looking upon it. But, of course, the moment you forbid someone from seeing something, it only makes them want to see it all the more. Human nature, you know, since the days of Adachigahara. Eventually, one of Wu Qingxiu’s descendants snuck in, removed Maitreya’s head, and took out the scroll. Everyone who laid eyes on it went mad, one after the other. That’s when Midoriya Tsubotarō, the Wu descendant also known as Kōtei, stepped in. With his knowledge of Zen or some other discipline, he must have realized the impact of this inherited psychology and decided to destroy the scroll entirely. Or at least, he might have tried… Only, he probably found it too precious to burn, so he only pretended to, then restored it to its hiding place and held an elaborate ceremony to ‘put the scroll to rest.’ Yet here it is again, making a grand reappearance in our modern age of materialism and setting off another tragic sequence of events… that’s the gist of it."

"I think I’m finally starting to understand… but why would only men go mad from seeing the scroll?"

"Ah… excellent question, that’s an extraordinary question! You’re really onto something…"

Dr. Masaki slapped the table with his hand, startling me into sitting up straight. My heart thudded, unsure of what to expect next. But Dr. Masaki, completely unbothered, continued.

"Brilliant, simply brilliant! That is precisely the climactic question of this whole incident. You’re practically a master of psychological inheritance studies now."

"But… why is that?"

"No, no ‘why.’ Just open the scroll. Your question will answer itself in an instant. In fact, if you are truly Ichiro Kure, as one of Wu Qingxiu’s descendants, you may find yourself unknowingly succumbing to the very inherited impulses of your forebears… Or perhaps, as you examine it, you might recover a flood of memories—who you are, where you come from, and why you’re involved in all of this… Or maybe you’ll even have a vivid flash of seeing this scroll before, remembering when, where, and from whom… And as you ponder all this, you’ll find out whether Wakabayashi and I will emerge as the victors… and ultimately, whether you are bound, by fate or otherwise, to make a life with that beautiful young lady. So you see, all these excruciating questions could be resolved in one instant… Ha, ha, ha!"

Dr. Masaki finished his monologue with a wide grin, exposing a row of shining white dentures. He pulled a newspaper-wrapped bundle closer, unwrapping it carelessly until a small rectangular box of plain white wood emerged. With uncharacteristic care, he opened the lid and drew out a deep indigo cloth bundle, about three inches wide and six inches long. Setting one end on the box’s edge, he slowly replaced the lid and slid the bundle toward me.

All of my nerves, which had been somewhat relaxed up until now, began to tense up under the reverberations of Dr. Masaki’s booming laughter.

Was he mocking me? Intimidating me? Or was he perhaps suggesting something through his words? Or was he just joking, trying to put me at ease? As I looked at his expression, completely unreadable, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was some kind of fearsome sorcerer. But at the same time…

…What nonsense! There was no way one man could be driven to madness by something as trivial as a single illustrated scroll. No matter how terrifying the image, it’s just color and lines. I’ve steeled myself for this; there’s nothing to fear… Yes, exactly…

I couldn’t suppress the rebellious surge rising within me. I reached for the box as calmly as I could. When I lifted the wooden lid and unfolded the deep indigo cloth, I felt a faint shiver of tension run through me again, which I tried to push down. I examined the exterior of the scroll first.

Its spindle was polished into an octagon from a striking green stone, its beauty irresistible—I found my hand reaching out to caress it. The outer cloth seemed like woven silk, but on closer inspection, I could see that it was embroidered with the finest silk and golden threads, depicting small lions in vibrant colors, each about an inch in size, skillfully embroidered in clusters. The whole surface shimmered as if it were brand new despite its reputed thousand-year age, perhaps due to careful preservation. In one corner, there was a small, blank gold leaf.

“That’s the famed embroidery, a technique called ‘thread-shut,’” Dr. Masaki remarked offhandedly, turning to light a cigar. His comment didn’t surprise me—I had already thought of the same connection myself—so I simply nodded.

I untied the dark brown cord with its ivory finial and unrolled the scroll slightly. On dark purple paper, a delicate pattern of water, painted in gold, flowed from upper right to lower left. It was an elegant, almost dreamlike swirl, like smoke wafting gently across the surface. Drawn in by the beauty of the subtle gold lines, I began to unfurl the scroll from right to left… until a blank white section, about five inches wide, suddenly appeared.

“Ah…” The sound escaped before I knew it, but my voice caught in my throat before it could fully form. I had frozen, the scroll still held between my hands, my heart pounding painfully in my chest.

There, lying across the scroll, was the face of a woman—a lifelike, slumbering beauty. Her delicate brows, long lashes, refined nose, small crimson lips, and gentle chin… It was a perfect likeness of that beautiful madwoman from Room Six. Her hair, styled in voluminous black waves shaped like flower petals, cascaded around her head, its layers cloud-like and intricate, identical down to the frayed strands along her temples. It was as though I were gazing at a sketch of that very woman’s sleeping face.

Yet, at that moment, I had no room for questions like “Why?” Beneath that serene expression, almost as if in slumber, was an ethereal beauty—lines and colors working together to reveal the subtlety chilling allure of death. The vision pulled me in, a strange premonition surging through my nerves, making me imagine those eyes might suddenly flutter open and she would call out, “Oh, my dear brother!” and leap out from the scroll toward me…

Unable even to blink or swallow, I kept staring, my gaze fixed on her slightly flushed cheeks and faintly gleaming coral-colored lips.

"Ha! You’ve gone stiff, haven’t you? What do you think? Quite the masterpiece, isn’t it? Wu Qingxiu’s skill with the brush…”

Dr. Masaki’s voice came from across the scroll, but I remained paralyzed, barely able to form words. My voice came out strange and raspy, utterly unlike itself.

“This face… it’s just like… that of Moyoko Kure…”

“An exact likeness,” he replied promptly. I finally managed to pull my gaze away from the scroll and look at Dr. Masaki. A peculiar smile, somewhere between sympathy, pride, and irony, was spread across his face.

“Astonishing, isn’t it? Psychological inheritance may be terrifying, but physical resemblance can be just as eerie. Imagine, Moyoko Kure, a girl from a humble farming family by Mei-no-Hama, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a beauty who captivated the court a thousand years ago in the Tang Dynasty!”

“…”

“As they say, history repeats itself. Human bodies and minds also evolve by repeating patterns over generations. Although, I suppose this is an extraordinary example… Moyoko Kure seems not only to be repeating the emotions of Lady Fen in a dream-like re-enactment, but also, from what I gather, to be re-enacting the self-destructive love of her elder sister, Lady Dai, who willingly let Wu Qingxiu strangle her to death. This could suggest that one of their ancestors had an exceptionally deep masochistic streak that these two women later brought to the surface. Or perhaps, Lady Fen’s passion for Wu Qingxiu ran so high that she envied her sister’s tragic end. Either way, this scroll immortalizes the ultimate depth of love shared by Wu Qingxiu and the two sisters… Now, open it all the way. You’ll see the full extent of Ichiro Kure’s inherited psychology.”

Urged on by his words, I unrolled the scroll to the left, almost unconsciously.

What followed were images rendered in vivid, unexaggerated colors. They depicted a woman, lying in repose, her body gradually decomposing, her haunting beauty preserved with chilling clarity. Six figures in total, each showing the same woman in a similar position, only evolving grotesquely with each panel.

The first image, which had startled me earlier, depicted her with pale skin, her cheeks and ears faintly tinged with a delicate rouge. Her eyes were closed, framed by long lashes, her lips lightly sealed with a faintly blue sheen. As I gazed upon her serene face, it was as if a divine joy, the bliss of dying for love, glowed softly from within her.

The second image, however, showed her skin turning a purplish hue, slightly bloated, with dark rings around her eyes and a slight blackness to her lips. A strange heaviness and unease pervaded her appearance.

In the third image, patches of her face, her forehead, the back of her ears, and her abdomen had begun to rot, her eyes half-open, a glimmer of white teeth visible as her face darkened, and her stomach bloated like a drum.

The fourth was far more horrifying: her entire body had turned a ghastly blue-black, the rotting areas now mottled with dark brown and egg-shell white. Her breasts had collapsed, ribs emerging stark and pale, and her abdomen had torn open, revealing hints of bluish organs within. Her face, with exposed eyes and receded lips, showed a demonic grin as ornaments of jade and jewels spilled out from her hair, now matted and falling away.

By the fifth image, her eyes had shriveled, and her mouth stretched into a skeletal grin that reached her ears, her once-full stomach reduced to scraps of blackened flesh clinging to her ribs, her bones exposed. Only a tuft of hair marked where her pubic bone protruded grotesquely, her body no longer distinguishable as either man or woman.

The sixth and final image showed a hollow, skeletal frame, seaweed-like fragments of blackened flesh clinging to the bones. Her head, indistinct, leaned forward with empty eye sockets and a ghastly smile.

…I cannot record a lie, no matter how embarrassing it may be to admit now, but I found myself rushing through the latter parts. 

At first, when I opened the scroll, I maintained a calm demeanor, even harboring a faint sense of defiance. However, as soon as the image of the dead beauty appeared, that resolve vanished completely. I became acutely aware of my hands unrolling the scroll faster and faster, unable to resist their momentum. Even though I tried desperately not to let Dr. Masaki, sitting before me, notice, holding my breath and examining each section as meticulously as I could, I ultimately lost control. By the sixth illustration, I had barely glanced at it—it was almost as if it had simply passed before my eyes. 

The unfathomable terror emanating from the paintings, combined with the suffocating stench that seemed to seep directly into my nerves, left me gasping for air. When I finally reached the beginning of the explanatory section at the end, I let out an involuntary sigh of relief, regaining my composure for the first time. 

The final passage, stretching out four or five feet in meticulously written classical Chinese, barely registered as I skimmed it: 

In the third year of the Tenpyō-hōji era, in the month of May, at the Matsuragata station in the land of Hi of the western sea, Tang scholar Fang Jiulian and his two daughters recorded this.

I read those lines two or three times, trying to steady myself, then carefully rewound the scroll and set it back into its box. Leaning back into the chair, I pressed my palms against my face and closed my eyes, seeking to calm my rattled nerves. 

“Well? Shocking, isn’t it? Ha ha ha! Can you feel the depth of Wu Qingxiu’s obsession yet?”

“…”

“Normally, a series of six such deathly images would be more than enough to unsettle anyone, let alone an emperor. Many wouldn’t get through half of them without feeling overwhelmed. That Wu Qingxiu went on to seek out more corpses shows just how deeply he’d descended into sickness. He had become cursed, enslaved by the decay he’d painted. Can you understand that twisted psychology?”

As Dr. Masaki’s words echoed in my ears, I pressed my palms harder against my closed eyes. The first image I’d seen reappeared, dimly glowing in the dark red of my inner vision. Then, before I knew it, the second image began to slide across from left to right, followed by the third and fourth, until, stopping at the fifth—the grotesque, grinning face fifty days after death—it froze in my mind’s eye.

A shiver ran down my spine, and I opened my eyes abruptly, only to find Dr. Masaki facing me, his chair swiveled around. He was grinning, his darkened lips parting to reveal a glint of white from his dentures. As he did so, his red, thin earlobes seemed to twitch upward, and I averted my eyes instinctively, shivering again.

“Oh, did that send chills down your spine? Ha ha ha… As it should! I’m certain that Ichiro Kure, the first time he saw this scroll, must have trembled just as you did. Just like a primeval creature lying fossilized deep in the earth, some ancient impulse hidden within Ichiro Kure was set alight by seeing this scroll. That flicker of fear sparked a blaze, erasing all other thoughts, past and future alike, until the brilliance of it all but blinded him. His reality faded, and he became Wu Qingxiu in spirit, his inherited psyche filling every cell, searing itself into his soul. There at the stone quarry in Mei-no-Hama, as he closed up the scroll and gazed westward into the red sunset, Ichiro Kure was no longer the man he’d been. He was, by then, a mere remnant—a collection of memory, logic, and habits—all giving way to the feverish desires of his ancestor Wu Qingxiu.”

Another shudder ran through me as I adjusted myself in my chair.

“To comprehend this bizarre phenomenon,” Dr. Masaki continued, “we must first investigate the steps by which Ichiro Kure’s psyche and Wu Qingxiu’s came to merge. How, indeed, could someone like Ichiro Kure, despite his sharp intellect, have read this lengthy classical text fluently, especially when he hadn’t studied Chinese since middle school? How could he have comprehended it so profoundly as to drive himself mad?”

His eyes were fixed on me, penetrating, and I swallowed against my dry throat, startled that I hadn’t questioned this before.

“…You don’t understand, do you?” he pressed. “No one would, if they thought that Ichiro Kure read this scroll on his own.”

“…So, someone… read it to him…?”

The realization struck me with a jolt, and I felt an icy tremor. Someone… someone had been beside him… someone had spoken those very explanations into his ear… someone…

The fierce pounding in my chest abruptly stilled. And as it did, I noticed Dr. Masaki’s gaze softening, his severe expression melting into a faint, pitying smile. Then, exhaling a puff of smoke, he spoke in a tone almost carelessly dismissive.

“Have you ever heard the senryu: ‘When the fox departs, the possessed return to their usual state of ignorance’?”

The line threw me off completely, as if an invisible slap had struck my cheek. I blinked, trying to comprehend it.

“No… I’ve never heard that one.”

“Hmm… well, without knowing this one, you can’t claim to understand senryu. This is one of the sharpest verses, even among the best of the genre,” Dr. Masaki remarked with a satisfied glint in his eyes as he pulled one knee up onto the chair.

“So… what’s the significance of that?” I stammered.

“Think about it. Until you grasp the principle of psychological inheritance that this senryu conveys, you’ll never solve this mystery—even if you combined the deductive skills of Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin.”

As he spoke, he blew a small smoke ring that swirled upward over my head. I blinked, replaying the verse in my mind.

Fox possession… then… back to ignorance… ignorance...

But no matter how I turned it over in my head, I couldn’t understand.

“Does Professor Wakabayashi understand this reasoning?”

“Only because I explained it to him,” Dr. Masaki replied, smirking. “He was grateful.”

“Oh… well, what’s the reasoning behind it?”

“Listen closely.” Dr. Masaki leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs.

“This senryu perfectly illustrates how fox possession aligns with the phenomenon of psychological inheritance. When someone is possessed by a fox spirit, they behave erratically—sniffing around food containers, crawling under the floor, staring wide-eyed, as if they’ve become an animal. That’s why it’s called fox possession. But it often doesn’t end there; sometimes the possessed also exhibit talents or knowledge passed down from their ancestors, shocking those around them. Suddenly, someone who’s never written a line can start composing poetry, or even perform complex medical treatments. It’s no wonder it was immortalized in senryu.”

“Really? So, psychological inheritance extends to such detailed ancestral memories?”

“That’s why it’s called psychological inheritance. A dirt-poor farmer possessed by a fox can suddenly recite verses, compose poetry, or heal incurable diseases, all due to latent ancestral memory. It seems miraculous, but according to the principles of psychological inheritance, it’s perfectly natural. In Ichiro Kure’s case, he saw the scroll first, and the images triggered an intense psychological response, nearly fully immersing him in Wu Qingxiu’s mindset. Alongside this came ancestral memories of the contents of the scroll’s inscription, a text that his ancestors had likely read deeply enough to have memorized. For Ichiro Kure, it was as if Wu Qingxiu himself was reading his own story again. Even a blank page would have come alive with meaning before his eyes.”

“Incredible… I see what you mean…”

“That was the first trigger. The second, which threw Ichiro Kure into a deeper haze, was the mindset encapsulated in those six images of the decaying beauty.”

“By mindset, you mean… Wu Qingxiu’s, don’t you?”

“Exactly. The root of this psychological inheritance traces back to Wu Qingxiu’s loyalty to his emperor, which ultimately led him to suicide. But that’s just the surface story recorded in the scroll. When you probe deeper, you begin to see the disturbing truth—his steadfast loyalty gradually transforms into nothing more than obsessive perversion, like wood that has broken down into alcohol through fermentation.”

“…”

“To explain this process would take more than a year or two of lectures, but to condense the framework of a theory I’d planned to include as an appendix to my now-burned monograph on psychological inheritance, it goes like this: The original motivation for Wu Qingxiu’s project was ostensibly pure and noble, a patriotic act for the betterment of all. But upon closer examination, we see that Wu Qingxiu’s obsession contained various layers of abnormal psychology, which he himself wasn’t even aware of. Without this understanding, there are countless inexplicable contradictions in the very existence of this scroll.”

“The significance of the scroll’s existence…?”

“Indeed. When you compare the images and the historical record of Wu Qingxiu’s life, questions arise about the very purpose of the scroll. The six portraits of decaying beauty alone were sufficient to admonish the emperor, to convey how ephemeral and ultimately empty the allure of a woman’s beauty is. Just look at how the images unsettled you—proof enough of their power, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes… it was overwhelming…”

“Precisely. After the sixth image, he could have completed the scroll with a simple drawing of a skeleton and added a formal message to the emperor, along with a personal account of his dedication, then ended his life. Such a scroll would surely have shocked the emperor into taking heed, satisfying Wu Qingxiu’s purpose. Yet he didn’t stop there; he continued, searching for fresh corpses, an unnecessary quest. Why?”

“…Indeed…”

“Had he waited for Lady Dai’s remains to naturally decay to bones, he could have finished the scroll with ease. Yet instead, he left it unfinished, leaving it as a cursed legacy for the Wu family, an object that would haunt them for generations. Why would he create such a chain of cause and effect that would eventually make it an object of academic fascination over a thousand years later?”

I sighed, feeling a strange fascination building within me. As Dr. Masaki’s words sank in, the unsettling suspicion lurking in my mind grew stronger.

“It’s mystifying, isn’t it? A small question, yet profoundly significant. The more you ponder it, the harder it is to understand. Ha ha ha! To unravel this mystery, you must return to the initial psychological elements that compelled Wu Qingxiu to begin creating the scroll in the first place. We must dissect Wu Qingxiu’s psyche to uncover the root cause of these contradictions… And this, ultimately, is not such a difficult problem.”

“…”

“At the surface, Wu Qingxiu’s psychology may have been cloaked in ‘loyalty and patriotism,’ but beneath that facade lay an intense thirst for glory. Below that, a scorched longing for artistic creation, and at the very base, a boiling fusion of lust and perversion. These four desires combined to form a single, superheated obsession, and in the end, we find that Wu Qingxiu’s so-called noble patriotism was nothing more than an extraordinary mass of deeply warped, insatiable perversion.”

Instinctively, I rubbed my nose with a handkerchief, feeling as if Dr. Masaki were dissecting my own psyche.

“To put it concretely,” he continued, “consider Wu Qingxiu’s ambition. He must have watched the poet Li Bai, who became a national treasure by currying favor with Emperor Xuanzong, flattering the emperor’s indulgences in opulent verse. So Wu thought, ‘Fine then, I’ll etch my name into history with the exact opposite approach. I’ll create an unprecedented, terrifying masterpiece that will shake the world.’ That was the sort of fierce ambition often found in young, talented artists. Then, basking in the adoration of his newlywed wife, who was utterly infatuated with his genius, Wu experienced every possible thrill of love within just a few months, until his desires reached a fever pitch. He realized that nothing more could satisfy him unless he took things to the extreme by subjecting her to unimaginable cruelty. This is the extraordinary intensity of desire, especially sexual desire, that sometimes overwhelms a gifted artist.”

I began to feel a creeping chill as his words summoned a vision of the decaying beauty from the scroll. Trying to block it out, I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on one of the embroidered lions glimmering on the cloth.

“As he meticulously painted the decay of his wife’s body, he began to feel a twisted thrill. You can see it in each brushstroke, how the detail grows sharper, image by image. The flesh of this once-pure beauty, whose delicate harmony of color and form expressed the pinnacle of nature’s grace, begins to lose its radiance, gradually transforming into something dark and grotesque, until it eventually rots away into a horrid mess. Through this process, he must have felt the macabre satisfaction of witnessing beauty’s ruin. It would have been an awe-inspiring spectacle for him, a ‘symphony of beauty’s demise’ playing out before him. The rush of exhilaration he derived from capturing this process, every facet of it, must have driven him onward. Yet, when that beauty had rotted to the point of nothing more to depict, he was left with a single, intense desire: to experience it all again.”

Dr. Masaki’s voice held a cold solemnity as he paused. I fixed my gaze on the embroidered lion, my vision blurring as the colors bled together from fatigue.

“Wu Qingxiu abandoned all concepts of loyalty, honor, art, love—everything. He was driven purely by an extreme, deranged thrill. Yet, upon returning home after a year, he encountered his younger sister-in-law, Fen, who was equally consumed by her own twisted desires. In the ensuing encounter, she overwhelmed him completely, breaking the intense fixation that had sustained him. He was suddenly cut off from that burning obsession, left in a hollow, catatonic state. And so, carrying within him the twisted passions he’d harbored for so long, he died, leaving his psychological inheritance behind to be passed down to Ichiro Kure. When Ichiro saw those six deathly images, the dormant desires and memories of Wu Qingxiu awoke within him, coalescing with his own consciousness.”

I felt a chill ripple down my spine as Dr. Masaki continued.

“In the face of such a powerful, primal urge, all of Ichiro Kure’s own memories and thoughts faded, becoming nothing more than shadows. His modern reasoning and conscience were entirely replaced by Wu Qingxiu’s intense, unrestrained desires, and with them, an image of the beautiful Moyoko—a living replica of Lady Dai from a thousand years past.”

Dr. Masaki paused, watching me carefully.

“Driven by the resurrected spirit of Wu Qingxiu, Ichiro Kure returned to the house and concocted a plan with Moyoko. I imagine they discussed leaving the main house’s shutters unlatched from the inside, preparing candles and other things. When everyone in the house had fallen asleep, Ichiro slipped back inside and woke Moyoko. Yet Moyoko, unsuspecting of her role in this horrific scheme, went along with him. She must have been deeply embarrassed and hesitant, uncertain about the nature of her husband’s request.”

I took a sharp breath as Dr. Masaki’s words drew a chilling portrait of that night.

“Finally, in the candlelight of the storeroom, Ichiro Kure likely presented Moyoko with the scroll, demanding that she die for the sake of completing its final image. And when Moyoko saw that final illustration, she would have realized, with absolute horror, that it was her own face—perfectly captured and preserved in decay. She would have fainted on the spot, paralyzed by a terror that struck her to her very core, as described in this investigation report, which mentions no signs of struggle.”

I shivered as he went on.

“However strange it may seem, fainting, unconsciousness, even a death-like state often accompany the onset and release of psychological inheritance. Throughout history, such states were called ‘divine possession’ or ‘spiritual ascent,’ leading to accounts of people mistakenly buried alive only to revive underground. This phenomenon is well-known in spiritual science and is no stranger to folklore. In the famous Noh play Utaura, for example, the main character suffers a similar fate.”

I nodded as he explained, his words resonating with an eerie logic.

“More recently, it’s clear that Moyoko’s fainting spell was directly triggered by Ichiro Kure’s sudden transformation during his fit of psychological inheritance, as documented here in Wakabayashi’s report. In this case, as rare as it may be, Moyoko’s unconscious mind appears to have also been stirred, awakening ancestral memories of her own, tied to Lady Dai and Lady Fen. This is why, upon seeing the scroll, she unknowingly reenacted the same impulses.”

I sat, speechless, as Dr. Masaki continued with a chilling conviction.

“Consider this final connection,” he said, his tone sharp and decisive. “Moyoko’s resemblance to Lady Dai meant that Ichiro Kure’s psychological inheritance was ignited to an unprecedented degree. Consequently, Ichiro Kure, entirely absorbed by Wu Qingxiu’s spirit, performed each action precisely as his ancestor did. This was a haunting alignment of ancient and modern fates.”

The full, grim weight of Dr. Masaki’s explanation finally sunk in, leaving me deeply unsettled. Taking a shaky breath, I asked, “But… will Ichiro’s mind recover?”

Dr. Masaki’s expression turned smug as he smirked, an unsettling gleam in his eye. “I’m confident he will recover… and I’d say his recovery will coincide with yours.”

His cryptic answer sent a shiver down my spine, making me feel as if I, too, were somehow bound to Ichiro’s fate. Though I tried to brush off the unease with a quick swipe of my handkerchief, I pressed further.

“But it’s likely to be difficult, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. Once the cause and course of his condition are fully understood, as they are now, the path to treatment is clear. Especially in a case like Ichiro Kure’s, where the root of the disturbance is well-defined. If he doesn’t recover, then all my knowledge of psychological pathology is mere theory.”

“So… what kind of treatment will you use?”

“Yes. The treatment involves administering carefully crafted suggestions as medicine, adapting them to suit each unique situation. But it’s not some unscientific mumbo-jumbo like spells or incantations. As we’ve discussed, Ichiro Kure did not suffer from physical ailments like syphilis or tuberculosis that might drive someone to madness. His was a pure mental affliction, triggered by nothing but suggestion alone. After he viewed that scroll, he lost all sense of time, space, and even his own identity, unable to distinguish between Japan and China, Kure Seishū and himself. He became consumed by a deep, disturbing fascination with perverse Chinese eroticism, trapped in a whirlwind of delusion and hallucination that had nothing to tether him to reality.

And so, his warped desires unfolded in sequence, mimicking Seishū’s from a thousand years past, until his mind boiled down to a singular, primitive urge: he craved only to see the corpse of a woman. He was often found in a state of frantic, directionless wandering, driven by this impulse. Eventually, he came to see the whole world through Seishū’s haunted eyes, as though every inch of earth held the body of a woman hidden beneath it. Seeing bare soil, he’d crave a spade, and once he had one, he’d spend days digging with frantic obsession.

As he toiled in that senseless labor, the relentless stimulus of his desire gradually dulled. The hormonal fuel that drives sexual urges — the same forces we call ‘vitality’ — is drained by the demands of constant, heavy work. Gradually, his body’s stimulus for that deviant lust faded, leaving him weakly digging, haunted by the visions of female corpses that lingered only as residual shadows on his exhausted mind. And slowly, under that waning specter of his desire, something else began to emerge. For the first time, he was struck by vague sensations of confusion and anguish. ‘Why am I doing this? What is the purpose of this endless, grueling labor?’ He began to rest his spade occasionally, gazing about as though remembering something, and then returning again to his work.

Seeing this, I approached him. I looked into the depths of his fatigued gaze, meeting it with my own calm, rational one, and asked him, ‘When was it that the woman’s body was buried here?’ The word ‘when’ flicked some dormant switch in his mind, hinting at the long-forgotten notion of ‘time.’ A bewildered look crossed his face, and he mumbled, ‘Where…where am I?’ As the idea of place stirred within him, he glanced around in wonder. Alongside these concepts of time and space, his sense of self began to surface as well. Slowly, the thoughts crystallized in his mind: ‘What am I doing here? Who am I?’

After this, he hung his head, the despondency written across his face. His grip slackened, and the spade fell from his hands as he retreated to his room. This, in brief, is the process described in Ichiro Kure’s final testament. The so-called liberation treatment involves observing the patient’s natural actions and responses, then carefully administering suggestions at the opportune moment. It’s the only way to lead them back to the sane concepts of time and self.

Of course, it takes a considerable mind to undertake such treatment. You can’t just slap on any old diagnosis and try random therapies. We’re not in the dark ages, where you lock up a patient and toss away the key. No, to truly treat a mental disorder, we must understand the very foundations of psychology and hereditary traits and observe the patient’s every move for signs of their mental transformation. Then, at the critical moment, deliver the right suggestion, guiding them, bit by bit, back to clarity.”

Suddenly, his words paused. I looked up sharply at the sound of a faint click, a needle-like motion as the hands of the clock above him shifted from 10:56 to 10:57.

“How intriguing, isn’t it?” he resumed. “You can see how misguided traditional psychiatric treatments have been. They had it all wrong.”

“Wait a moment,” I interrupted, raising a hand to halt his deluge of words. “Just one question. Is this experiment… is it purely for academic purposes?”

“Of course, of course,” he answered, leaning back in mild frustration. “It’s purely a scientific pursuit. I want to show the world how psychiatric treatment should be done…”

“But hold on. Am I correct that no one else knows this scroll was the catalyst for Ichiro Kure’s madness?”

“No one knows,” he confirmed with a knowing smile. “The police, the courts, they’re all in the dark. They think the whole matter is just superstition or a harmless old relic. Only Wakabayashi and I, who took the scroll from where it was hidden by Ichiro Kure’s aunt, know the truth. So you, my friend, are the only one who’s seen it besides us.”

It was then, with a clarity as sudden and undeniable as a flash of lightning, that a realization struck me. I understood — or thought I understood — what had eluded me before. I was, after all, one of Kure Seishū’s kin, a duplicate in blood and appearance to Ichiro Kure himself. Despite the autopsy showing only one child born to Chiyoko, could this fact be a mere contrivance, a trick to lead me here for this experiment?

Perhaps I was the missing half, the long-lost twin, returning to my ancestral home unknown to others, with all its mysterious threads binding me as they had Ichiro Kure. Had I been ensnared by the same hereditary spell? And perhaps, deep in some corner of myself, I too longed for the same chilling spectacle.

It could be that in seeking the source of Ichiro Kure’s madness, I would find the same curse rooted in myself. A nameless dread tightened in my chest. Could I be the very heart of this dark mystery? Could it be… that I am the enigma at the center of this madness?

As I sat there, haunted and trembling with the torrent of thoughts racing through my mind, Dr. Masaki leaned back in his chair, still watching me with a faint, mocking smile. He waited only until my breathing began to settle before speaking, feigning surprise.

"What’s wrong? Why did you stand up so suddenly?"

I struggled to respond, still short of breath. "What if I was the one... the one who showed that scroll to Ichiro Kure...?"

"Ahahaha! Hahahaha!" Dr. Masaki threw his head back in laughter, barely waiting for me to finish my sentence. "So you think you’re the villain, and Ichiro Kure is the victim? A fine twist for a mystery novel, but what if," he continued with a gleam in his eye, "the truth is precisely the opposite?"

"The opposite...?" I echoed, stunned.

"That’s right. Why should you be so eager to play the villain? After all, you and Ichiro Kure are practically identical. I could just as easily set things up so you’re the victim here — you’d be better off that way in this case, wouldn’t you? Ahahaha!"

I collapsed back into my chair, my head spinning again, unable to discern what was real.

"Come now," he chided. "I warned you from the start, didn’t I? This case demands that you keep a firm hold on your mind, or you’ll risk falling prey to the most outlandish delusions. I swear on Uzu-no-O Gongen, this case is beyond simple explanations — it’s far more profound and deeply unsettling."

"But... deeper than even that? Then what kind of connection could I...?"

"That’s precisely what’s so strange. I’m telling you, the world we inhabit isn’t governed solely by material laws, as you might think. No, it’s equally ruled by what you might call the ‘science of the mind’ — principles that go beyond mere physical science. A strictly objective, materialist view limits our world to three dimensions. But within the realm of mental science, we’re dealing with an added dimension of recognition or even time, giving us a four- or five-dimensional reality.

"The rules of that higher-dimensional mental world operate in ways utterly opposed to the laws of the material one. Surely, from what you’ve already seen and heard, you must sense the strange logic at work here. Somewhere within all of that lies the key to this mystery. In fact, I handed you that very key not long ago — I’m certain of it."

"A key?" I repeated, bewildered. "What key?"

"The Dissociation Syndrome," he replied.

"Dissociation Syndrome... what does that have to do with this?"

"Still not seeing it? All right, tell me: what’s the most baffling aspect of this case? Isn’t it that there seems to be another version of you — a person exactly like you — entangled in this mystery? Your doppelgänger is the very thing that has twisted this case into such a convoluted knot, and that’s precisely because of your Dissociation Syndrome."

"But... but that’s ridiculous... that can’t be possible..."

"Ahaha, you still doubt the syndrome. That’s fair enough; everyone believes their own mind to be reliable. But that uncertainty keeps things interesting, don’t you think? You needn’t rush to any conclusions. Consider this: the one who drove Ichiro Kure to madness could be any human, Ichiro Kure himself, or perhaps even the scroll itself, animated by its own power. Keep these three possibilities in mind, and reflect carefully on your past. That’s the shortest path forward."

"But... such an implausible, supernatural explanation..."

I trailed off, unable to bear the thoughts swirling within me.

"Don’t panic," Dr. Masaki said smoothly. "Soon, none of this will feel strange to you."

"But... when is ‘soon’?" I asked weakly.

"I can’t say. But today isn’t the day. I’ve been conducting a rather intense psychological experiment on you through this conversation, aiming to recover your memories. But since you’ve failed to recall anything concrete, there’s no sense in continuing today."

"But… that wasn’t the agreement..."

"We made an agreement, yes. But there’s no point in further exhausting ourselves. Better for you to rest a bit and try again another time."

"Wait! Then, Doctor, do you know the full truth of this mystery?"

"Of course I do. That’s why I’ve involved you in it."

"Then please, tell me everything you know!"

"No, I cannot."

He answered resolutely, biting down on his cigar as he folded his arms and leaned back, the faintest smirk at the corner of his lips. His gaze lingered on my face as he spoke, watching for my reaction.

"Think about it. To unravel the full truth, we would need to uncover the true culprit behind Ichiro Kure’s madness. And if the name of that culprit turns out to be you, or Ichiro Kure himself, it would only become clear once one of you recalls the past. Even if Dr. Wakabayashi, the forensic expert, has gathered incontrovertible evidence, or I personally witnessed the crime, it all becomes meaningless if one of you regains your memory and denies it. You could simply assert, ‘No, that was not the person who showed me the scroll,’ and the case would fall apart. This is where the mystery differs fundamentally from an ordinary crime.

"So, forgive me, but I’d rather not waste my breath on unverified speculation."

I couldn’t help but let out a long, weary sigh, realizing how deeply I was spiraling into confusion.

"Still don’t understand?" he asked, his tone almost pitying. "Fine. Let me put it in simpler terms. You see, the person most responsible for solving this case, for identifying the strange, elusive culprit, is undoubtedly Wakabayashi. Even if the police have dismissed it as merely a result of Ichiro Kure’s insanity, Wakabayashi, as a forensic scientist, is compelled to pursue the real culprit. He can’t abandon this mystery as though it were a trivial puzzle.

"As for myself, my involvement is not as critical. I’ve merely provided counsel as a private associate. My primary responsibility — as I’ve repeatedly stated — has been aiding in the mental recovery of you and Ichiro Kure. But I have no obligation whatsoever to dredge up the culprit’s name or face. So long as I understand the cause and progression of his madness, the culprit’s identity is irrelevant from a psychiatric perspective. The relationship between Ichiro Kure’s psychosis and that scroll can be thoroughly explained through psychological heredity. My research findings stand solidly on their own, with or without an identified culprit. Wakabayashi is the one who, in his detective fervor, insisted on chasing down the perpetrator, which is why we’re all tangled in this mess now. But as far as I’m concerned, the culprit holds no significance. Ahaha."

Having said this, Dr. Masaki calmly stretched his arms out, still seated in his chair, watching me, astounded and speechless, as he blew a ring of smoke into the air.

"That attitude, Doctor... it’s nothing short of outrageous." I straightened in my seat, cleared my throat, and continued. "Academics or not, you’re being too detached. Cold to the point of heartlessness."

"Heartless, you say?" Masaki murmured, seemingly unbothered. "Even if I were to throw my full support behind Wakabayashi, help track down the culprit — what then? What law could restrain them?”

I felt a heat building behind my eyes, a rush of words I wanted to unleash but couldn’t quite find. "Law or no law, that’s not the point. The fact remains, there are people who need justice, who need to see the one responsible brought to pieces if that’s what it takes for peace. Yashiroko, Moyoko, even Ichiro Kure… And if I'm wrapped up in all of this, then I demand it too. Why should we suffer such cruelty without cause?"

"And…?" Dr. Masaki replied indifferently, his eyes following the path of his smoke as it drifted lazily toward the ceiling.

"Then if I could," I said, pouring out the depths of my resolve, "if my soul could escape this body, I’d possess whoever I needed to, find the one who remembers the name of the culprit, and shout it to the world. I’d follow them to the end of the earth, exacting my revenge every step of the way."

"Hmph. A noble wish, I suppose. But who would you possess, exactly?" he asked with mild curiosity.

"You know who. Ichiro Kure. He saw the culprit’s face with his own eyes, didn’t he?"

"Hahaha. Go ahead then, make yourself at home inside him! But if you do manage such a feat, I’ll need to throw out all my research. You see, my central theory is that such ‘possessions,’ ‘hauntings,’ and ‘reincarnations’ are nothing more than the effects of psychological inheritance."

"I’m aware," I replied, undeterred. "But even if the identity of the culprit holds no value to you, I think Dr. Wakabayashi might feel otherwise. Wasn’t the whole purpose of him entrusting you with these records to extract that last, elusive detail from Ichiro Kure’s memories?"

"True enough, I don’t deny it. That’s precisely why Wakabayashi and I brought you here this morning, to attempt all manner of methods in pursuit of the same goal. But as for me, I’ve no desire to probe further into this mystery. The moment the culprit’s name is revealed, all will be clear."

Once again, Dr. Masaki let a trail of smoke drift into the air, his voice taking on an almost dismissive quality. I clenched my fists, keeping my gaze on his face.

"Then, Doctor, I trust you have no objection if I pursue the culprit myself?"

"Certainly not. That is entirely your prerogative."

"Thank you," I said, rising from my chair and bowing, placing my hands on the edge of the table. "Then I’ll waste no time in asking for my release from this hospital. I’ve got a few places to visit."

But Dr. Masaki remained unbothered, reclining in his chair, not even bothering to return my bow as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

"And just where do you plan to go?"

"I’m not entirely sure yet," I replied. "But I promise that before I return, I’ll have every last piece of this puzzle carved out and laid before you."

He chuckled. "Careful you don’t bite off more than you can chew."

"...What?"

"The mysteries of this scroll… perhaps it’s best for both of us if they stay intact."

"...”

I froze in place, unable to move. There was an overpowering force in Dr. Masaki’s manner, something that bound me and held me utterly still... An undertaking beyond measure... an unmatched adversary... a case beyond all reckoning... Encircled by such daunting forces, and half-determined to take my own life, yet he was making a mockery of it all with ease. Such fearless resolve — so intense it pinned me down — compelled me to slowly sit back down. And then, as if resisting that force, I straightened my posture.

"Very well then... I won’t go anywhere. Until I find the culprit, I’ll stay here. I won’t leave this chair until my mind is clear enough to pierce the mystery of this scroll... Do you hear me, Doctor?"

Dr. Masaki did not respond. Instead, he sank slowly into his chair, his back hunched as he placed his half-burned cigar into a daruma-shaped ashtray. Resting his chin on the table, he shot me a shrewd glance, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his lips firmly pressed together as though concealing some grave secret.

I instinctively leaned forward, overcome by a feverish excitement that seemed to scorch my skin.

"You understand, Doctor... if I do uncover this criminal, I’ll reveal their name wherever and whenever I choose. I’ll avenge Ichiro Kure, Moyo, Yasuyo, and Chiyo. I don’t care what happens to me, or who the culprit is... Do you hear me, Doctor? I cannot bear to live my life bound like this, dragged into this mad hell by some inhuman monster!"

“...Go on then, if you must,” he replied, sounding utterly uninterested. He closed his eyes completely, an odd, faint smirk lingering beside his nose.

I adjusted myself in the chair once more, feeling a heat rise within me, as though faced with my own helplessness.

“All right then, Doctor. Let me think it through. If I am not the criminal, then who is? Surely this scroll did not somehow spring from the statue of Maitreya and end up in Ichiro Kure’s hands, as the villagers might say.”

“Mmm...”

“And my aunt Yasuyo and my mother Chiyo — they adored Ichiro Kure and would never give him such a cursed scroll. And Sengoro, our old servant, would not have done such a thing. Even the temple priest, who has always served our family’s happiness, would have hidden it from him if he knew it existed. So, someone unexpected, as yet unnoticed by anyone, must be involved.”

“Mmm... so it would seem.”

Dr. Masaki muttered with a strange, slow cadence, reluctantly, then cracked an eye at me, though his glance was as pale and merciless as the cold smile still traced beside his nose. In that instant, it struck me as cruel.

I pressed on, impatiently. "In Dr. Wakabayashi’s report, was there any investigation into such a suspect?"

“...It appears not.”

“What? Not even one?”

“...No...”

“Then... everything else was thoroughly investigated?”

“...Yes…”

“But why? Why is that?”

“...Mmm...”

Dr. Masaki, eyes half-shut as if about to drift to sleep, held his faint smile. I stared at him, at a loss.

"Doctor... isn’t that strange? How could he overlook the culprit, only to investigate every other detail? Isn’t that missing the point entirely?"

“………”

“Doctor... isn’t it the most inhumane, cunning crime imaginable, even if it were just a prank? If the criminal goes insane, there would be no blame, but if he remains sane, then morality and law could be twisted to his advantage. Isn’t this the most ruthless, cruel deception ever devised?”

“Mmm…”

"How strange it is that he left out this central issue and passed the documents to you, Doctor."

“Mmm… strange, indeed…”

“Isn’t uncovering the true culprit only possible by restoring Ichiro Kure’s or my mind and forcing the culprit to reveal themselves? With two distinguished experts like you and Dr. Wakabayashi...”

“There is no other way.”

Dr. Masaki answered dismissively, as if refusing a beggar, his eyes still closed in apparent drowsiness. I swallowed hard.

“What, then, could be the true purpose of showing Ichiro Kure this scroll?”

“Mmm…”

“Was it a genuine kindness... or a cruel jest? A grudge? A curse? Or… or…”

I froze. My breath caught painfully, my chest tight as I watched Dr. Masaki’s face.

The smile by his nose faded. Then, his eyes opened wide and fixed on me, his black pupils sharp and focused. Calmly, he turned to the door, then slowly faced me again, adjusting himself on the chair. His gaze, usually so penetrating, had softened with a rare and profound gentleness. A quiet melancholy lay across his shoulders, filling him with a dignity I had never seen before. My breath settled as I looked down, overcome by an urge to bow my head.

"The culprit… is me," he murmured, like an echo from a cavern.

I started, lifting my face to look at him, but his expression was weary, tinged with sadness. I quickly averted my eyes.

The room turned dim and gray before me. My skin prickled, every pore seeming to close in upon itself. I shut my eyes, pressing trembling fingers to my forehead, my heart pounding wildly while a cold dampness spread across my brow. Dr. Masaki’s quiet, forlorn voice reverberated beside my ear.

“If your judgment has returned to such clarity, then I have no choice. I will reveal everything to you.”

“…”

“To be completely honest, I resolved long ago to confront this. All of the information in these investigation documents, from the beginning, points to me as the culprit in this case. I’ve feigned ignorance up to now, but I knew.”

“…”

“These documents state, in no uncertain terms, that I am the one — that no other person could be the criminal. For instance… the first tragedy in Nogata was not some sleepwalking act by Ichiro Kure. No, it was a crime committed with the utmost deliberation, by a meticulous mind with sound judgment, who carefully erased all traces to push the case into a maze and timed it perfectly to coincide with Ichiro Kure’s return, using a cleverly concealed anesthetic...”

Dr. Masaki paused for a composed cough. I flinched, unable to lift my head, overwhelmed by the weight of each word he spoke.

“...The aim of this crime, nothing less, was to sever Ichiro Kure from his mother Chiyoko and bring him closer to Moyoko by arranging for him to come to Mei-no-Hama, through his aunt’s influence. Moyo, a local beauty admired by all, lives in Mei-no-Hama, a place steeped in legends about this scroll that the townspeople know well. And because it’s almost certain Ichiro Kure and Moyoko will marry, this was the ideal place to test the experiment — and obscure its trail.”

“…”

“And so, the second incident in Mei-no-Hama was no mystical event. Just as with the Nogata incident, a certain individual lay in wait near the stone quarry to pass the scroll to Ichiro Kure. These two incidents — Nogata and Mei-no-Hama — were orchestrated by the same mind toward a singular purpose. This person, captivated by the legends surrounding the scroll and possessed of a high understanding, chose to conduct an unprecedented academic experiment, striking at Ichiro Kure in a moment of peak happiness, fully expecting his total mental collapse. Who else but I could be that person?”

“There is someone else!”

In a burst, I sprang from my chair, face flushed hot as fire, every muscle and bone in my body charged with power. I glared at Dr. Masaki, whose pince-nez glasses perched uncertainly on his nose.

“...Wa... Wakabayashi...”

“Idiot!”

A furious shout, echoing and resounding, erupted from Dr. Masaki. His black, sunken eyes locked onto me, filled with a godlike severity and menace, like a wrathful deity looking down on a condemned soul. The fierceness of that glare shook me to my core. I stumbled backward, collapsing back into my chair, my gaze fixed in horror on his terrifying eyes.

“...Fool…”

I felt my ears burning and, unable to bear it, dropped my head in shame.

“...Your thoughtlessness astounds me…”

His voice, heavy as a great stone, bore down on me. The soft tone from before had vanished, replaced with a weighty authority, almost paternal in its firmness and compassion. My chest felt suddenly tight, overcome with emotion, as I watched his rugged hands grip the edge of the desk, each word intensifying his hold.

“To carry out an experiment this dangerous, at such depths — who besides myself and perhaps one other could possibly attempt it? Once that much is clear, how could you allow yourself to speak his name so carelessly? What an unforgivable lapse in judgment.”

“…”

“What’s more, I’ve already confessed to everything.”

“Wh-what…?”

Startled, I looked up. Dr. Masaki, pressing his lips tight with an unyielding air, gripped a document bound in blue cloth. The gesture felt like a prelude to some sacred revelation. The solemnity of his stance overwhelmed me, and I again dropped my head.

“This report,” he continued, “is my confession. The perpetrator examined his own crimes and delivered his findings directly to me.”

A cold chill slithered down my spine.

“You may not yet fully grasp the psychology of concealment, or confession, but listen closely. With human intelligence ever advancing and our society growing ever more complex, this terrifying psychological reality will soon become commonplace. Understand?”

“…”

“This document is a chilling example. The dual psychologies of crime concealment and confession here wield a mesmerism so airtight that they compelled me to take this crime upon myself. Allow me to explain why.”

I felt my muscles freeze over, a chill settling into my limbs, my gaze fixed on the green cloth before me as if trapped by its magnetic pull. Dr. Masaki cleared his throat and began again.

“Even if a person conceals a crime from everyone else, they cannot erase it from the mirror of their own memory. The loathsome image of themselves as a criminal remains etched in that mirror, forever beyond their control. With memory, this is inevitable. We all know it, yet reality tells a different story. What lurks in the mirror is a relentless detective, a co-conspirator haunting every crime, serving as the one unshakable weakness trailing the criminal till their dying breath. Only ‘suicide’ or ‘insanity’ can offer true escape from this.

“All criminals try to conceal their crime, and the cleverer they are, the more they try to hide it. But, in every case, it all leads back to the same final method: creating a hidden chamber in the depths of their heart and locking away their ‘crime’ along with the mirror. Yet the darker they make this room, the more brightly that mirror gleams, each glance an unbearable rebellion, irresistibly tempting them to look. The more they resist, the stronger its pull. Finally, unable to hold back, they glance at the mirror, only to find their ‘crime’ staring back at them, a twisted confrontation that brings them to their knees. And over time, this repetition pushes them to shatter the chamber entirely, exposing their crime before the public. ‘I am the criminal. See this crime!’ And in that exposure, the image fades, allowing them peace, at last, alone.

“Or, they can write down their guilt, leaving a record to be revealed posthumously, to escape the torment. Seeing the image still in the mirror, a small smile of relief forms, mirrored by the crime itself, their only comfort a shared understanding of their bleak fate. This is what I call ‘confession psychology’.

“Or consider a brilliant man, well-respected, seeking an infallible safe haven for his secret. To do so, he might use confession psychology itself: investigate every trace, every clue, until all points to him, inevitably, without him needing to utter a word. Then, he submits his findings to the person best suited to uncover his crime. A flicker of human sentiment, an infinitesimal gap in logic, and his audience is caught in a captivating illusion — an illusion that prevents them from ever viewing him as a criminal. Once this illusion takes hold, the criminal shifts from danger to near absolute safety. The clearer the facts become, the deeper his audience’s misperception grows, heightening his sense of security, a paradox most evident with intelligent opponents.

“This document represents the pinnacle of both confession psychology and concealment psychology in tandem. I believe it will stand as an unprecedented record in the annals of criminal psychology… Understand? And further…”

Here, Dr. Masaki abruptly fell silent, then suddenly sprang from his chair with unexpected ease. With both hands clasped firmly behind his back, he began pacing the narrow space between the large desk and fireplace, each step filled with palpable intensity.

I shrank back into the swivel chair, staring intently at the green baize before me. Among that vivid green, I suddenly noticed a tiny black scorch mark, no larger than the head of a tack, which gradually took on the form of a small, grinning face, as if it were mocking me with gaping laughter. Fixated, I couldn’t look away.

“And what’s more,” Dr. Masaki continued, “the confession and concealment in this document hold me, irrevocably, without a single flaw or loophole. If these papers were ever made public or fell into the hands of the authorities, even the dullest magistrate would be forced to name me as a suspect... And if, heaven forbid, I were brought to trial, not even the wisdom of Manjushri nor the rhetoric of Purna would save me. This document has been crafted to allow no room for defense. Now, let me explain the terrible mechanics of this trap, the reasons why I had no choice but to confess as the mastermind behind this chilling experiment.”

Dr. Masaki came to a halt at the northern edge of the table, his arms still clasped tightly behind him, and turned toward me with a cold, sardonic grin. In that instant, his pince-nez glinted in the sharp sunlight pouring through the south window, flashing unnervingly along with his exposed white teeth. I averted my gaze instinctively and looked back at the small scorch mark — but the mocking face had vanished, leaving only a strange tingling sensation creeping along my cheeks, neck, and ribs.

Dr. Masaki strode to the north window, took a brief glance outside, and then returned to the front of the table, his manner suddenly more casual, as if the gravity of the situation were an object of amusement to him, his voice smooth and oddly youthful.

“Now then. Imagine yourself as the judge of this case, a case like no other, and try it with all the rigor and impartiality at your command. I will play the roles of both prosecutor and defendant, presenting every detail I know of ‘W’ and ‘M’ and their actions, confessing all. In the end, you will be the judge, the defense, and the prosecutor. You may also assume the role of a brilliant detective well-versed in the principles of psychological science… Understand?”

Dr. Masaki was pacing before me, his footsteps soft on the linoleum as he coughed slightly between sentences.

“Let’s start,” he continued, “with the events surrounding Ichiro Kure’s breakdown after seeing the scroll. On April 25, 1926, the day before his wedding to Moyo, both ‘W’ and ‘M’ were here in Fukuoka. ‘M,’ newly arrived at Kyushu University and unable to secure lodging, was staying at the Horai Inn, a large, bustling inn near Hakata Station, where guests came and went constantly. With discreet comings and goings, it’s an ideal place to maintain an alibi. ‘W,’ meanwhile, was sequestered in the forensic medicine lab at Kyushu University, where he was known to lock himself in, with all inquiries handled by phone. Even the habit of refraining from knocking if the door was locked had become an unspoken rule. This eccentricity was so well-known that it made it easy to establish an alibi.

“Now, as for Ichiro Kure, we knew from the newspaper that he would attend an English oration contest at Fukuoka High School on the day before his wedding. He often walked home alone, so it would be easy to intercept him. Arrangements were made: a quarry worker’s family was fed some nearly undetectable toxin, causing them to fall ill, which allowed a few days’ vacancy to carry out the plan without interruption. Given the village’s association with cholera and dysentery, this was easy to achieve. With the university’s access to bacterial cultures and poisons, it was a foolproof setup.

“And on that day, as Ichiro Kure walked home along the narrow road through the fields and hills beside the quarry, someone dressed in a wide-brimmed hat, dark glasses, scarf, and summer cape could sit quietly, posing as a stranger. When Ichiro Kure approached, they would speak, saying, ‘I knew your late mother well. She entrusted me with a secret promise concerning you, and I’ve waited here today to fulfill it...’ Even a shy young man like Ichiro Kure would be unable to resist. The stranger could then present the scroll, saying, ‘This is a treasure of your family, left with me by your mother to be returned to you when you become head of your own household. It depicts a supreme act of loyalty and love by one of your distant ancestors, a legacy for you to honor. If you doubt me, you may see it now. But if you don’t wish to keep it, I will take it back.’

“And so it happened. Ichiro Kure was lured into curiosity, led to an isolated spot behind the rocks, where he fell completely under the spell of the scroll. The stranger could then slip away easily. Do you understand?”

“…And then,” I interjected, “was Ichiro Kure’s supposed sleepwalking…”

Dr. Masaki shot me a cold smile as he passed.

“It was a lie. A complete fabrication.”

“…”

My mind began to spin, spiraling uncontrollably, and I nearly collapsed, clutching the arm of the chair for support.

“That so-called sleepwalking — such a thing has never occurred. Why else would the story about the bamboo bar at the kitchen entrance be so vague? One might easily deduce that a gloved hand reached in through the door, fumbled, and dropped it. Or perhaps it was removed intentionally and left to appear as though it had fallen on its own. But in any case, the sleepwalking was nothing but a convenient explanation.”

My mind, which had been spinning like a whirlwind, gradually slowed, until all movement ceased. Feeling my scalp prickle, I clenched my jaw tightly and closed my eyes.

“Stay alert, Judge. It’s about to get even more terrifying… Ha!”

“…”

“Next, if you carefully examine the report, two details stand out. First, the investigation relies solely on Ichiro Kure’s recollections to identify the culprit, with no attempt to pursue other leads. Second, there is an unusual emphasis on Ichiro Kure’s date of birth. Understand?”

“…”

“This document includes a clipping from a newspaper, suggesting that Ichiro Kure’s mother, Chiyoko, ran away around 1905 and spent time at a prestigious sewing school in Fukuoka, where she apparently did not give birth. Assuming that’s true, we can deduce that Ichiro Kure was likely born between late 1906 and sometime in 1907. This emphasis on his birth year could suggest he was an illegitimate child, or perhaps the result of a romantic scandal from the time, which a journalist might have stumbled upon. But from my perspective, there’s a far deeper significance.

“You see, the year 1907, when Ichiro Kure was likely born, was also the year of the first graduating class at the Fukuoka Medical School, the forerunner of Kyushu Imperial University — the year my own class graduated. Do you understand?”

“…”

“Now, this might seem like an insignificant suspicion to an outsider, but there was a dubious figure among those students — someone who may have been the real mastermind behind the incident in Nogata. The report hints at this without explicitly stating it. This, you see, is a classic case of what I call ‘confession psychology’ — truth revealed by what is left unsaid. Apart from Chiyoko, only ‘W’ and ‘M’ knew the exact date and location of Ichiro Kure’s birth.”

Involuntarily, I shuddered, though I didn’t fully understand why. Dr. Masaki paused in thought, and the silence stretched like a dark chasm beneath me, weighing heavily on my chest.

“When I realized this,” he continued, “I felt a chill. But there was no room for excuses. And who holds the world’s leading expertise in forensic blood analysis, capable of determining paternity? ‘W,’ of course.”

Dr. Masaki had stopped at the south window, his back turned to me, seemingly swallowing a gulp of saliva as he looked downcast.

I raised my trembling hand to my forehead, gripping my knee tightly as I struggled to suppress the tremors rising within me.

Dr. Masaki let out a deep sigh and then, as if avoiding some ominous sight beyond the window, turned away, crossing back and forth in front of me, his gaze lowered as if to still his own inner turmoil. He paused by the northern window, then began pacing along its edge, his shadow flickering across the table in brief, glancing flashes of light with each pass in front of the bright window.

Clearing his throat carefully, he resumed his tale.

"Over twenty years ago, when the Fukuoka Prefectural Hospital was converted into a medical university and rebuilt here on this campus, two young men entered as part of its first class: ‘W’ and ‘M.’ W was an exemplary figure of diligence, born to a family with a history of tuberculosis, and one of the top students — serious, meticulous, and practical. M, on the other hand, was short, unremarkable, a visionary type given to leaps of intuition, even something of a genius, though worlds apart from W in temperament. Despite these differences, both held an inexplicable, perhaps fated, fascination with the emerging field of psychological science — still scarcely recognized at that time. Perhaps these opposite extremes of personality formed a sort of magnetic pull between them. Under the guidance of Dr. Saito, a scholar of Eastern philosophy, they delved into the supernatural, mesmerism, and suggestive phenomena — interests verging on the fanatical."

Masaki looked off, as if into a distant past, before continuing.

"In particular, both were drawn to a certain haunting legend in this area, and this common obsession transformed their rivalry into an alliance. Abandoning all animosity, they exchanged ideas and formed a plan for a joint study. W focused on 'The Origins of Superstition and Mental Abnormality,' while M tackled an ambitious project, 'The Scientific Study of Reincarnation and Karma as Found in Buddhism, India, and Egypt.' In essence, they planned to study the legend from two interlocking perspectives, tackling it from both sides."

"Their determination was so intense that they abandoned ordinary human attachments, disregarded morality, and were prepared to trample any obstacle for their research. For some in the annals of medicine, such ruthlessness is justified in the name of science. W and M pledged to leave no stone unturned in this experiment — a pact to forsake all else for the sake of knowledge."

He stopped, observing my reaction carefully.

"Just as they began their investigation, circumstances aligned in their favor. Y, the eldest daughter of the Kure family, had come of age but struggled to find a husband due to rumors of madness in her bloodline. Eventually, they arranged her marriage to a man named G, a drifter who had recently opened a dye shop in Fukuoka. Because the family line was nearly extinct, the legends around it had flared up again, making it a ripe subject for study."

"W and M threw themselves into the research with feverish intensity. W, under the guise of historical research, ingratiated himself with the head priest of Nyogetsu Temple, copying sacred documents by hand. Meanwhile, M examined the temple’s holy Maitreya statue with similar devotion, even inspecting the head for hidden secrets. Through this meticulous work, they discovered something astonishing: a scroll, thought to have been burned by the legendary ancestor Kotei Kure, had not been destroyed after all. It had been hidden in the statue and only recently spirited away by an unknown party — most likely, they concluded, Y’s younger sister, T, a beautiful young student."

"The alliance between W and M fractured here. With T in possession of the scroll, their investigation became complex. She was not an inanimate statue but a person, and thus not so easily relieved of the artifact. They agreed to temporarily halt their research. Yet, as soon as they parted ways, each knew — could see it in the other’s eyes — that they both intended to press on in secret, pursuing T with an even fiercer resolve. They couldn’t ignore the added element of T’s beauty, of course, though neither would have admitted it. Still, I have no doubt that, even after all this time, both W and M have remained true to their scientific convictions.”

“…”

"It was the era of ambitious university men. W and M, each enchanted by T, pursued her with markedly different styles. W’s charm, intellect, and gentle manner soon won her favor, forcing M into reluctant withdrawal. Struggling to console himself, M threw himself into his studies, wandering the fields in search of fossils, striving to quiet the ache of his failure.

"W, however, was not satisfied by romantic success alone. Once he’d gained T’s trust, he began to craftily broach the subject of the scroll, coaxing her with the argument that ‘for the sake of our future children,’ they should examine it and sever the ill-fated ties in her lineage. But T refused to give up the scroll, denying any knowledge of its whereabouts. Undeterred, W urged her to accompany him to Fukuoka, convinced she’d bring it with her. Fortunately for him, T was only too eager to escape her lecherous brother-in-law, G, who had begun making inappropriate advances. Soon, she was living with W in secret."

"But despite this advantage, W couldn’t confirm whether she actually had the scroll. At times, abandoning his university duties, he trailed her, examining her belongings with an obsessive intensity. W noticed she occasionally used the alias ‘Migiwa Nijino’ and presented rare Chinese embroidery that hinted at deep knowledge of the Kure legend, all signs pointing to her possession of the scroll."

"Yet T was no fool. She sensed that W’s motives were not purely personal and began to suspect he sought the scroll for his own ends. She played her suspicions close to the chest, never revealing them, yet W could make no further headway. His pursuit came to an abrupt end when T struck a painful blow. Discovering that W had deceived her about his own fragile health and his family’s history of tuberculosis, she broke ties, seeing his intentions as impure.”

"Here’s the twist: it was none other than W’s rival, M, who had revealed his condition to T. Unable to let go of his affection for her and determined to claim the scroll himself, M sent an anonymous letter, warning T of W’s condition. This underhanded act destroyed W’s relationship with T, though M’s motives were transparent, and his attempt to win her favor was equally futile.”

Dr. Masaki paused, his voice taking on a somber tone.

"But M’s deceit haunted him. In pursuing the study of karma, he fell victim to karma itself, a debt that shadowed him through life, so much so that he once resolved to end his own life. It’s a cruel irony, isn’t it? To be destroyed by the very force one sought to understand…”

“…”

“Yet M could not foresee that far. Compelled by the allure of science and T’s beauty, he continued his affair with her, even as T’s pregnancy became unmistakable. This unborn child — the fateful product of their union — would seize and manipulate the destinies of both men, driving them to the brink of ruin. The dark spirit of their reckless ambitions would awaken through this child, whose unspoken question has haunted us ever since: ‘Whose child am I?’

"Neither W nor M, for all their scientific prowess, has dared to answer that question. The mother, T, took the truth to her grave, leaving no testament, not even a name for the father. And so, the official record of the child, Ichiro Kure, lists only, ‘Father unknown.’

“Today, W and M are free to claim or deny their connection to T as they please. Only T’s conscience knew the truth, and it is now beyond reach. In the absence of a confession or undeniable record from T herself, the answer to that question — ‘Whose child am I?’ — is lost to eternity.”

Dr. Masaki let out a deep sigh and turned away from the window, almost as if he feared to gaze outside. He turned towards me, silently, his head lowered as if to settle the turmoil within his heart, then slowly crossed the vast table before us. Reaching the north window, he adjusted his stance and began pacing along the window's edge, his shadow flickering in my direction each time he passed before the bright glass, creating a faint, trembling reflection along the table's border.

With a deliberate cough, he spoke.

"Over twenty years ago, when the Fukuoka Prefectural Hospital was being transformed into a medical university, a young man named W and another named M enrolled in its inaugural class. W pursued forensic science, while M devoted himself to psychiatry—both fields still in their infancy at the time. They were rivals, driven to excel by different passions and talents. W was a strikingly handsome young man, perhaps partly due to his tubercular lineage, and was meticulous and pragmatic. M, on the other hand, was a short, unattractive man with a flair for imagination, perhaps even genius. Despite their contrasting natures, both shared an intense interest in what was then a nascent field—psychological sciences, or what we might now call ‘the science of the soul.’

"As their studies progressed, they grew closer under the mentorship of Dr. Saito, an esteemed authority in the field, who was deeply versed in Eastern philosophy. It was likely under his influence that their passion took a strange and obsessive turn. They began to explore matters like superstition and suggestion—topics scarcely linked to their formal medical studies—with a fervor that verged on fanatical. In the Fukuoka countryside, not far from where they studied, was a region steeped in a dark legend, a tale that gripped them both so completely that they soon found themselves united by it.

"In their pursuit of this legend, W and M devised a research plan that complemented their divergent perspectives: W approached the matter from a grounded, empirical perspective, while M took to exploring bold, elaborate theories like reincarnation in Indian and Egyptian religions. Together, they delved into the roots of local superstitions, one working on ‘The Origin of Superstition and Mental Abnormalities,’ while the other tackled ‘Karma and Rebirth in Buddhism’ through W’s findings. They vowed to carry out their studies without regard for public opinion or moral constraints, their resolve rivaling that of Western scientists who had broken taboos in pursuit of knowledge.

"With this pact in place, they began their investigation, which soon led them to the Kure family—a clan with deep roots in the local legend. Rumor had it that the family had a history of mental illness, which made finding a suitable suitor for the family’s daughter, Y-ko, nearly impossible. They finally secured a marriage to a thirty-year-old man named G, who ran a small dye shop in Fukuoka. This union revived the family’s ancient curse, bringing the old legends back to life in ways that proved invaluable to W and M’s research.

"With methodical determination, they continued. W, under the guise of researching ancient sites, befriended the head priest at Kisaragi Temple, gaining access to historical documents. Meanwhile, M ingratiated himself similarly, going so far as to examine the head of the temple’s Buddha statue, whereupon they made an astonishing discovery. The temple’s records claimed that an ancient scroll, said to hold a powerful curse on the Kure family, had been destroyed by fire. But the truth was that it hadn’t been burned at all. Not only had it survived, but it had been hidden within the Buddha’s torso—until recently, when someone had stolen it.

"For W and M, this revelation was both thrilling and disappointing. Though they hadn’t yet deciphered the legend’s full nature, the loss of the scroll left them frustrated. Nevertheless, their resolve strengthened, and they began a relentless pursuit of its whereabouts. Eventually, they pieced together that the thief was none other than Y-ko’s sister, T-ko, a beautiful young student. As they delved deeper, both men grew obsessed—not only with the scroll but with T-ko herself.

"At first, W’s charm won T-ko’s affections. Handsome, scholarly, and gentlemanly, he was adored by the local girls. But his interest in T-ko was hardly romantic—he was after the scroll. He persuaded her to move to Fukuoka, under the pretense of escaping her lascivious brother-in-law, G, and T-ko readily accepted. Yet, even after they began living together, he found no sign of the scroll. Despite his suspicions, he couldn’t prove that she had it, though his every instinct told him she was hiding it.

"In time, however, W received a letter—a blow that would shatter his aspirations. It revealed not only his own frail health, but the existence of an old family illness, information T-ko hadn’t known. This letter was sent by none other than M, who had grown frustrated and sought to sabotage W’s progress. Driven by jealousy, M exposed W’s health secrets to T-ko, shattering whatever trust remained between them. Realizing she had been used, T-ko finally turned away from W, leaving him in a state of utter defeat.

"Afterward, T-ko turned to M, who continued the research in secrecy. Months passed, and T-ko became pregnant—a development that would bind W, M, and the Kure family together in a tragic fate. And so, on November 22, 1907, a boy was born in a secluded house on the outskirts of Fukuoka. His first cry seemed to announce the dawn of a new curse upon both men, as if the fate of all three had been sealed by some ruthless force.

"In the end, this child, with his inscrutable origins, became the cruel crux of their lives. Even today, neither W nor M can answer a simple question: ‘Whose son is he?’ Neither possesses the courage to learn the truth, and T-ko herself took it to her grave, her lips forever sealed.

"And thus," Dr. Masaki concluded, his eyes narrowing with a glint of dark fascination, "that child became a silent embodiment of the curse they had set out to unravel. This twisted mystery—the question of ‘Who is my father?’—remains unanswerable, drifting like a ghost through the lives of all who sought it."

"……"

"I leave it to the judge’s discretion."

"……"

"At this very moment, in this makeshift courtroom, there is no other way. We must rely on my argument as prosecutor and the defendant M’s testimony to deduce the fate of the scroll."

"……"

"M returned from Hime-no-hama in silence, beaten by the bitter wind. He kept his thoughts to himself as he returned to the secluded Matsuzono retreat, imagining the innocent face of that child, the one who would inevitably inherit the tragic fate hanging over him like a curse. That child, born into the throes of an experiment carried out in the name of science, would eventually bear the weight of the scroll’s malignant power, the curse of six rotting beauties. Yet as M returned, his face showed nothing of what he knew. When he saw T-ko nursing the child, he offered her a string of plausible falsehoods: the priest, he claimed, or perhaps someone else, must have removed the scroll, for it was nowhere to be found within the Buddha statue. And since he had no authority to demand it back, he had reluctantly abandoned the search.

"'Perhaps,' he suggested, 'if I become a university lecturer someday, the institution’s reputation might make it possible to obtain the scroll for scholarly research. But that will have to wait. For now, I need to return to my family estate to sort out some year-end matters, including certain arrangements regarding your family registry. In the meantime, I’ll send word to this address if there are any developments.' And with that convoluted explanation, he managed to convince her.

"A few days later, he left Fukuoka abruptly, missing the university’s first graduation ceremony entirely. But rather than returning home, he arranged to transfer his registration to Tokyo, obtained a travel permit, and sailed overseas. This was the first step in his preparations for the tragedy he knew lay ahead—a declaration of war that only W would understand."

"……"

"W’s response to M’s departure was remarkably composed. He donned his white lab coat and took up residence in his alma mater’s research lab. Even as he perceived everything with unnerving clarity, he gazed into the microscope as if nothing at all had transpired."

"……"

"In time, their paths diverged as their opposing temperaments shaped their actions. M traversed Europe and America, studying psychology, genetics, and the nascent field of psychoanalysis, all the while watching the domestic news for updates on W’s movements. He waited, careful to avoid being tied to the child or T-ko, fearing her relentless intellect. For M understood that if she ever pieced together his disappearance with the stolen scroll, she would arrive, sooner or later, at a terrible suspicion: the true reason why he and W had coveted the scroll. And if, by some chance, her sharp intellect combined with the fierce resolve of a mother’s love allowed her to unearth this truth, he knew she would cross any boundary, even international ones, to seek him out.

"As for W, he remained impassively calm. If he was aware of M’s fear, he showed no sign of it. On the contrary, he freely publicized his whereabouts, publishing one famous study after another—'Criminal Psychology,' 'Dual Personality,' 'Psychological and Physical Evidence.' His reputation reached across the seas, a clever alibi of sorts, should anyone ever question the dreadful experiments he had carried out in the name of mental science. By building a name in these fields, W not only shielded himself from suspicion but created an excuse to involve himself if any incident arose. It was W’s style to work both ends, bold and precise in equal measure, as he demonstrated years later when he would submit a detailed report of their experiment directly to M’s face.

"Thus passed a decade until the sixth year of the Taisho era, when W returned from studying in England, prompting M to follow him home. This timing was no trivial matter for M. After he had abandoned T-ko and the child, they likely left the Matsuzono retreat and vanished. Yet if W dared to leave Japan for England, it could only mean that he had a solid grasp on their whereabouts. For W, of all people, to have left for so long, he must have known with certainty that T-ko and her child were safe and settled, without plans to move anytime soon. This was, after all, the only reason he could go abroad with such confidence. And if he was now returning, it could signify a renewed concern or intention regarding them.

"From his vantage abroad, M continued to keep a close watch on the Japanese press, waiting for any sign of W’s intentions. Still, W did not act as though anything were amiss. He settled back in Fukuoka, only taking minor trips when necessary, teaching regularly at the university until he ascended from assistant professor to full professor. Between lectures, he solved difficult cases, steadily building his renown. And though he suffered occasional bouts of asthma, he remained unperturbed, as if the events of his past were nothing more than a distant memory.

"Meanwhile, M had no trouble reading the situation. From W’s behavior, he inferred that T-ko and the child must be living somewhere within a day’s journey of Fukuoka. The child, now likely around ten or eleven years old, would be attending school under the Kure surname, just as M had anticipated. Following this trail meticulously, M combed through the towns where W had traveled. And then, less than six months after W’s return, he finally found a lead: a student project by a fifth-grader named I, displayed at the Tanabata Festival in Nogata Elementary School. Though he initially doubted it, as I was only eleven and yet had skipped a grade, M was struck by the strange pull of fate when, at that very moment, a young boy happened to glance back and lock eyes with him. In an instant, M found himself fleeing the school gates, cursing his own scientific career as he shielded his eyes in shame.

"For that child’s face—a face that bore neither W’s nor M’s likeness—was strikingly beautiful, his features so sweet and gentle that M couldn’t shake his image from his mind. In that moment, a sense of Buddhist compassion overwhelmed him, and he could not help but mutter the song of a 'madman’s hell,' grieving for the fate that awaited this innocent child. Beating his wooden fish as he chanted for the boy’s salvation, he wandered the streets, ashamed and remorseful. Such was the purity and beauty of the boy, a testament to innocence—untainted by the sins of the adults who had cursed his very existence."

...Through the glass window of the forensic medicine lab at Kyushu Imperial University, W must have been observing M’s actions from afar, a knowing smirk flickering over his pale face. W had long surmised the psychology behind M’s attempt to flee overseas—he was certain M would eventually return to Japan. And M would return to Kyushu, perhaps even before I reached adolescence. W must have been preparing meticulously, completing all necessary research and awaiting M’s return with calculated patience.

After all, M was, to his very core, a slave to academia. His life’s work—the scientific principles underpinning "retributive justice" or "reincarnation," that is, the theory of "psychological inheritance"—demanded that he obtain the results of this experiment. His desire to acquire them matched, if not surpassed, W’s own fervor to document this phenomenon in his celebrated work, Criminal Psychology Applied to Forensics. Both men saw in this ancient scroll a compelling, nearly mystical force that they believed held unprecedented academic value.

And yet… for M, this endeavor was a source of profound inner torment. The act of sacrificing his conscience for the sake of science—knowing he would have to bear witness to a young boy, innocent and unsuspecting, being stripped of his soul, left alive yet hollow—filled him with dread. He would examine the boy, record the findings, and then present them with pride, all while grappling with the near-unbearable moral cost of such decisions. Over those desperate years, M had hurled himself into his work, perhaps as a means of escaping the incessant guilt, as if he could numb himself by focusing solely on the pursuit of his morbid studies. In submitting his thesis to his alma mater, M had chosen to proclaim: “The brain is not the locus of thought.”

“…”

“And in the end,” the doctor continued, “M’s personal anguish was overpowered by his academic zeal. He resolved to defy the ‘Dark Age of Madness’—the world’s reign of insanity—with his theory, and became possessed by a kind of reckless determination. He regained his original fervor, prepared to count down the years of I’s life, and grow colder, more ruthless than W himself.”

“…”

“As for T, her fate is like a candle about to be snuffed out. By that time, she must have realized the true meaning behind the romance that had once entwined her with W and M. The passion they had both felt for her was inextricably linked to their fascination with the scroll and her own allure, nothing more. She no longer harbored any doubts about this. And, knowing that the person who took the scroll could only be M, who had once extracted its location from her, or W, who resented her for choosing another, she grew terrified, clutching her child close, fully aware that neither of them was the kind of man a frail woman like herself could hope to resist.

Thus, if even a remote possibility existed that one of these men was conducting the ominous experiment on I, T would know immediately that there were only two names to consider: W or M. T’s death, therefore, became the first and essential condition for this unprecedented scientific endeavor.”

“Ah… Doctor, please… Please stop, this… this is horrifying…”

Unable to control myself, I let out a scream and collapsed onto the large table before me. My mind felt as if it were boiling, my forehead was ice-cold, and my palms burned as I gasped for air, trying desperately to steady my breath.

“What’s wrong?” Dr. Masaki’s voice, forceful and inescapable, fell over me. “You pressed for answers, and I am simply giving them to you.”

Yet, almost immediately, his tone softened, taking on a note of reproach.

“You mustn’t give in to weakness like this. You swore to hear a life-altering secret, and now, halfway through, you shrink back without reason? Think of my position, facing this matter firsthand, having endured every difficulty along the way. If you can’t handle this, how could you possibly understand what lies ahead?”

“…”

“Understand this… T must have sensed, at least partially, the purpose behind this unfolding tragedy. She told her son, ‘If I’m still safe by the time you graduate, I’ll tell you everything.’ That single statement is proof that she spent every moment considering her child’s safety. Her life had become a high-stakes gamble, shielding I from the curse until he was mature enough to grasp and resist it. In the meantime, she would have quietly searched for M, hoping to confirm whether the scroll still existed. If not, she would try to confront W and M, force them to confess, and, if possible, destroy the scroll herself.

But both of her former lovers were now locked in an unrelenting rivalry. For twenty years they had been each other’s sworn adversaries, both in personal life and in academia, united only in their mutual hatred, with T and her child caught in the middle. And by now, they had both become remorseless fiends, unable to live without the other to despise. Consumed by a blend of ruthless ambition and relentless malice, they each prepared to test the scroll’s power on I, sure to seize the academic fame that would follow while pinning the responsibility for any crime on the other. It no longer mattered whose child the boy was, as long as he carried the lineage of the Kure family. For their research, he would serve the purpose just as well.”

At that, I felt a fresh wave of horror seize me, freezing me in place. I clutched my head and buried it on the green baize of the table. Dr. Masaki’s somber voice, each word like a surgeon’s scalpel, filled my ears with a dreadful precision.

“And the end has come, just as M envisioned it would twenty years ago. He now finds himself back at the starting line, unable to escape the course he’d tried so hard to flee. His thesis, ‘The Dreams of the Unborn,’ has dragged him back to this place, drawn by some invisible force of fate, forcing him to finish what he began.”

I longed to leap from my chair and flee the room. Yet, a strange power seemed to pin me in place, holding me captive to this relentless shiver. My ears, seemingly unable to escape, picked up every word, each one embedding itself deeply.

“In this experiment, the primary obstacle—T’s baby's Life life—has been removed entirely. The sole witness who could have confirmed the past connecting W, M, and I—the only person who could identify I’s father and expose the scientist responsible for this cruel trial—has been silenced and laid to rest in a maze of uncertainty. Now, the only remaining condition required for this experiment is for M to assume his place as the chair of psychiatry at Kyushu Imperial University. This is crucial, both to keep the true perpetrator hidden and to ensure mutual secrecy for their safety—or to pass the blame onto the other at the opportune moment.”

Dr. Masaki had been pacing back and forth across the floor, but the moment he reached his emphatic conclusion, he stopped abruptly. I, crouched in hiding, realized he’d halted right in front of the eastern wall, where Dr. Saito's portrait hung alongside a calendar marked "October 19, Showa 15." The sudden silence and the cessation of Dr. Masaki's voice left the room enveloped in an unexpected quiet, so thick it felt as though he had simply vanished.

For a brief two or three seconds, I listened to that oppressive silence with a sinking dread, understanding all too well the terrible implications it held. And before I had time to grasp it fully, a flood of suspicions from the morning—every one of them—erupted anew in my mind. Gripping my head, I waited, a creeping horror sharpening every nerve, bracing for Dr. Masaki’s next words.

The secret of October 19… the secret of Dr. Saito's death on that very date… the twisted, hidden mechanisms that had led Dr. Masaki to succeed Saito as Professor of Psychiatry… And yesterday, exactly a year later, the unseen hand that had driven Dr. Masaki to consider suicide. Dr. Wakabayashi's eerie certainty that Masaki had already killed himself a month ago… And then, the other, larger mystery lurking beneath these mysteries—one single, ominous secret governing all the others. Was it W? Or M? Would Dr. Masaki’s next word reveal it all, like a bolt of lightning tearing through the darkness?

But then, Dr. Masaki resumed his pacing, his steps light and unhurried. He continued his explanation, sidestepping entirely the revelation I had feared.

"Thus, when M succeeded Dr. Saito and took his post at Kyushu University, he embarked on an unprecedented experiment in academia. The results, as you see, are now laid out before me."

"…"

"That is why both W and M are equally guilty. We have no proof that can absolve either of them."

"…"

"I steeled myself. Using the draft you’ve been reading as a cover, I concealed the truth of the Nogata incident. Through relentless effort and intricate deception, I crafted it as a scholarly report that, if published, might absolve us."

"…"

"I buried these facts as our unbreakable secret, vowing to abandon resentment, jealousy… all in the name of science, for the benefit of humankind."

"…"

"One could call it an act of compassion. Perhaps seeing Ichiro’s madness was what finally broke me."

By now, Dr. Masaki’s voice had grown thick with emotion, moving closer to where I sat with my head bowed against the desk. The sound of him sinking heavily into the revolving chair reached my ears, then the faint clatter of him setting his pince-nez on the table and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his tears.

But in that moment, a strange change came over me. The shivers running down my spine abruptly stopped, replaced by a sickening disgust at his tearful voice. I felt a surge of cold detachment, as if saying, “Go ahead, talk, weep—say whatever you like. It has nothing to do with me.” I remained sprawled over the desk, only vaguely listening, as though Dr. Masaki were a stranger to me. Even now, I cannot fully comprehend how such an astonishing shift occurred within me. But my lack of reaction went unnoticed by him as he continued to speak, oblivious to the change in my heart.

A faint cough escaped him, as though he were clearing his throat, and his voice grew formal, even grand, each word dropping heavily as if pressing down on me.

"There is one—one person here. You."

"…"

"You have been chosen by Wakabayashi and me to succeed in this work. No… I should say, neither Wakabayashi nor I have the right to present our findings to the world. Only you, who have been sent to us as our final successor, possess that honor. You, who know nothing, whose soul remains pure and untainted."

"…"

"To be frank, neither Wakabayashi nor I wish to publish our work in this false form. It is our greatest wish to leave the truth of this matter to someone after our deaths. For the sake of pure scholarship, our conscience demands it. That’s why we’ve put every ounce of our effort into reviving your memory. When you recall the past, you’ll realize that you alone are destined to be our successor."

"…"

"I won’t hide the fact that this may seem absurd to you right now. It might even look as if Wakabayashi and I are using you, your likeness to Ichiro, to publish a fraudulent work. But let me swear to you before the spirit of the heavens, not a single word of our research has been falsified. The experiment itself, the principles proved, remain entirely true. Only the means of presenting them required deception, but I have just laid the truth before you.

"I beg you to believe this above all. You alone bear the responsibility of sharing this truth with the world."

"…"

"Wakabayashi and I—alongside society, if they come to know you—believe that no one else could bear this task. That’s why, the moment I saw your mind recovering, I took comfort in drafting my will.

"…My decision to die, however, was for an entirely different reason. Yesterday’s disaster at the hospital didn’t push me to suicide, nor was it the coincidence of Saito’s death anniversary. Frankly, I have grown disgusted with humanity. If not for the demands of this research, I would have left this shallow, insipid world far sooner."

"…"

"And that is why, while Wakabayashi would fight this to the bitter end, I would prefer to vanish like atoms in a comet’s tail, leaving everything—including my meager estate—as a token of thanks for our work. Just moments ago, I was resolved to let the details of our findings remain as Wakabayashi wished, but… Well, let’s say I grew irritated watching Wakabayashi’s attempts to nudge you toward his ends. My temper got the better of me, and I decided to confront you here myself."

"…Yet again… it seems my mood is shifting. The truth is, I am so wearied by it all that I would like nothing better than to tear everything down. Yes… I have resolved."

"…"

"You and that girl… Moyoko, I will release you both from this hospital today. I’ll burn these papers and see it all destroyed. Let me swear this much—I shall not let Moyoko fall to anyone else. She is meant for you."

"…"

"And from my own perspective, I must make one more declaration… Unless you willingly enter a life with Miss Moyoko, there will be no escaping your dissociative disorder. I have come to realize that this final method, this scientific treatment, is the only one to save you both. I say this not to force you, but because in my professional judgment, this marriage will be the sole, certain cure."

"…"

"The proof will be in the life you will lead with her, which will free your mind and bring to light every hidden memory. You’ll find that none of these strange events link to that young man in the treatment center; they all lead directly to you. In the moment you join her in marriage, your past will unfold in clarity, and all doubts and shadows will vanish. You’ll understand this work as no other and, of your own accord, expose the truth to the world. With that revelation, you will turn the tide of this corrupted culture, ushering in a brighter era of understanding. And I swear this—"

"No!"

I sprang to my feet, consumed by a scorching fury that shook my entire body. Standing over the stunned Dr. Masaki, his mouth agape in speechless shock, I clenched my teeth, feeling the rage tremble through my lips.

"I... I... I refuse. I utterly refuse. Absolutely, I will not comply."

"…"

I could no longer hold back the storm of anger and disgust that had been building within me, bursting forth despite my best efforts to contain it.

"I may be mad. I may even be a fool. But I still have my pride, my conscience. Even if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, I refuse to marry someone for the sake of some treatment, especially when I don’t even know if I recognize her as anyone’s beloved! Even if the law, morality, and scientific rationale all align, my conscience won’t allow it. Even if she loves me with all her heart, it would be an affront to everything I hold sacred. How could I stoop so low, be so shameless? And as for this despicable research… Who would... Who could…?"

"… Wait…" Dr. Masaki, pale, raised both hands in a desperate plea.

"… It’s all for the sake of…"

"No! I won’t do it. Absolutely not."

Hot tears began streaming down my face. Dr. Masaki’s image, the whole room, became a blurred haze through the flood of tears, but I kept shouting, heedless of wiping them away.

"Science? Research? Foreign scientists? I may be mad, but I’m a Japanese. I’m at least aware of the blood that runs through my veins. I would rather die than be involved in such callous, shameless research. If this is what scientific research entails, and if I must be part of it, then I would rather destroy this mind, along with whatever memories you want me to recover. Here and now."

"… Th-this… you… you’re Ichiro’s…"

For the first time, Dr. Masaki faltered. His bold, fearless expression drained of color, his swarthy face turning red, then instantly blanching pale. Half-rising from his chair, he stretched out his hands toward me, a look of horror contorting his face through the blur of my tears. But I didn’t stop to listen.

"I don’t care if I’m Ichiro’s kin, or whoever you claim I am. Evil is evil, no matter who listens."

"…"

"You can go on with your experiments, living and dying as you please… but what happens to the Kure family, who you’ve used as your pawns? They never harmed you, did they? They trusted you, respected you, leaned on you—and you turned them into lunatics, deceived them, forced them into hellish experiments! And the innocent children who were born only to suffer in your hands… how will you atone for the hatred they must feel? The bonds of love you tore apart, the agony you imposed upon them—how will you ever return what you took from them? Can you really just claim it was all in the name of science and let everything else burn?"

"…"

"Even if you didn’t lift your own hand to do it, it makes no difference. Do you think leaving a confession for someone else to publish absolves you? Does the guilt you feel somehow cleanse your sins?"

"…"

"… Isn’t it… too much?"

"…"

"Doctor!"

My head spun with the fury of my outburst. I gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady myself as my tears continued, hot and unrelenting, clouding my vision as I struggled to catch my breath.

"For mercy’s sake… please, take responsibility for what you’ve done… Don’t let the suffering of these people be in vain. Let me… let me carry the weight of this research, with gratitude… and with honor."

"…"

"First, I will bring Dr. Wakabayashi to you so he can confess. Whether it was a lover’s resentment or something darker—he must admit it."

"…"

"And then, you and Dr. Wakabayashi must apologize to those you wronged. Stand before Dr. Saito’s portrait, at Chiyoko’s grave in Nogata, before the madman Ichiro, and Moyoko, and Miss Ohyashiro, and confess, together, that you are sorry, from the bottom of your hearts. Explain that it was all for the sake of research, and mean it."

"…"

"That’s all I’m asking. Please, for mercy’s sake… I’m begging you."

"…"

"If you do that, I’ll give you anything you want—my hands, my feet, even my life. If you tell me to take over this research, I will, even if it takes a lifetime, even if it means bearing the burden of every sin."

I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I buried my face in my hands, and the tears continued to stream through my fingers.

"Such a cold, merciless evil… oh… I can’t take it any more."

I collapsed over the table, struggling to hold back the choked sobs that spilled from my throat.

"Please… let me avenge them… all of them."

"…"

"Make… make this research sacred…"

"…"

Knock… knock… knock… the soft tapping at the door.

Startled, I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief, wiping my tear-stained face before looking up at Dr. Masaki… and my breath caught.

The look on his face was so horrifying it sent a jolt through me, bringing my roiling emotions to an immediate halt. His face, drained of all color like porcelain, was drenched in a sheen of cold sweat. His forehead was furrowed sharply upward, blue veins twisted across his temples, his eyes tightly shut, his dentures clenched. His knuckles gripped the arms of his chair, and his neck, arms, and knees trembled violently, each shaking in a different direction.

The persistent tapping on the door—koto, koto, koto—resounded through the room, relentless as the knell of an impending doom, touching something deep and raw in my very heart. Paralyzed, I glared at the door, struck dumb and helpless as a deaf-mute, while dread coursed through me like ice. It was as though a specter stood beyond the threshold, waiting for me, hidden and inscrutable. I wanted to cry out for help but found myself speechless, unable to voice the terror surging within me.

The knocking continued, sharp and insistent. Dr. Masaki, visibly trembling, struggled to steady himself, but his efforts only intensified his trembling. He attempted to raise himself, his bloodshot eyes weakly opening, his gray lips quivering as he tried to respond. His voice, thick as if caught in his throat, rose and fell in broken attempts, but no sound escaped. At last, he slumped back into his chair, head drooping, a pallor like that of the dead overtaking his face.

Kotsu… kotsu… koto, koto, koto, koto… kotsu… kotsu…

I cannot say I called out then. Some strange, animalistic sound—neither bird nor beast—burst from somewhere, echoing through the room. Simultaneously, a chill coursed through each strand of hair on my head, and before that chill had faded, the door slowly swung open. The brass doorknob rattled as it moved, and there, gleaming from its side, appeared a round, polished, reddish-brown head—the bald head of the elderly janitor who had come earlier with the sponge cake.

"Excuse me, sorry to keep you waiting… Just bringing in fresh tea. It’s cooled a bit, but I’m terribly sorry for the delay. I’m all on my own today…" He placed a steaming teapot on the table, bowing so low that his bent back became an even deeper arc, his cloudy eyes blinking in confusion as he leaned in to peer at Dr. Masaki’s face.

"Yes… I apologize for the delay," he said, his voice creaking. "All the other helpers have taken leave since last night, and so it’s just me on duty today. So terribly sorry…"

Before he had even finished speaking, Dr. Masaki, summoning what seemed his final strength, staggered upright from the chair. He turned to look at me, his eyes lifeless, his lips twitching as though he wanted to say something. He shook his head weakly, then, as if spent, tears spilling down his cheeks, lowered his head in a quiet bow to me. Then, gripping the edge of the door for support, he staggered out of the room, unsteady as though he might collapse any moment. He grasped the post in the hall outside to steady himself, while the door, creaking, swung shut after him. When it finally slammed with a thunderous sound, the room’s glass panes rattled and echoed as if letting out a mocking laughter, reverberating in my ears.

The janitor, who had turned to see Dr. Masaki off, slowly turned back to me, his face filled with a bewildered concern.

"…Is…is the professor unwell, sir?"

Mustering what little strength I had left, I forced a feeble laugh, its hollowness twisting in my throat.

"Ha-ha… no, nothing to worry about. We just had a bit of a… disagreement, that’s all. I made him angry for a moment, but we’ll sort it out soon… don’t worry."

Cold beads of sweat dripped from my armpits, and I was stunned by the intensity of my own lie, barely able to recognize myself in this moment.

"Ah… well, I am relieved to hear that, then. It’s just that I had never seen him look quite like that before," the janitor said, somewhat reassured. "Please, take your time. I know it’s just me here today, and the professor’s been so kind—he can be quite strict, but he’s always been good to us… And with that horrible incident at the treatment center yesterday, things have been in a sorry state here…"

The janitor took the cooled teapot and, with some effort, stretched his bent back as he shuffled out of the room. I watched him go, feeling as though I were watching a demon retreat, one that had come to devour my very soul.

The moment the door clicked shut, I slumped, all strength draining from me once again. I leaned over the table, pressing my elbows against it as I buried my face in my hands, pressing hard against my aching eyes with my fingertips. A strange, indescribable weariness took hold of me, and as I closed my eyes, I saw flashes of surreal images. They emerged, as if out of a fog, behind my closed lids:

… The pale, white sand of the treatment center…

… The lone, withered paulownia tree, its branches heavy with dead leaves…

… Beyond it, the figure of Ichiro Kure, standing like a shadow…

… In the distance, two enormous chimneys atop the brick wall, exhaling black smoke into the vibrant blue sky…

… A girl in a white patient’s gown, collapsed in sobs on a white bed…

… Wakabayashi’s open file, lying forgotten on the green table…

… Purple spirals of cigar smoke…

… Wakabayashi’s strange, mocking smile…

… The glint of Dr. Masaki’s pince-nez…

…?…?…?…?…?…?…?

In my mind’s eye, I saw an endless series of question marks racing, crackling like lightning, cutting through my mind with their relentless pressure. I shook my head, as if trying to brush away an invisible web designed to ensnare me. I moved my hands in a sweeping motion, attempting to dispel the tangled strings of causation that threatened to consume me.

The orchestrators of this insidious web—the minds holding the strings—were two venomous spiders, scholars of great renown in their fields: the legendary psychologist, M, and the peerless forensic scientist, W. And of these two, it was M whose trap had ensnared me most deeply, pushing me to resist with every ounce of strength I could muster. I’d fought against him, feeling my blood surge backward, shedding every last drop of cold sweat and hot tears. I sensed I’d somehow struck a blow against him, enough to drive him back, if only slightly. But I was spent. I had not the strength even to stand from this table, nor the clarity of mind to judge my own actions.

Yet still… behind me lay another threat. W, the cunning one, likely saw all this unfolding, smiling coldly from his unseen vantage. He’d surely woven a net so solid, so watertight, that even Dr. Masaki, wrapped in his own webs, had yet to see it. This unfeeling, relentless force pressed down upon me, waiting to drain every last drop of my blood, my tears, even the marrow of my bones, and sacrifice it all to a “science” steeped in falsehoods and defilement. I could feel his gaze upon me, drawing closer, like the tightening grip of a predator's snare.

If I had known I’d end up in the grasp of that pale, hairy, monstrous hand, I would never have defied Dr. Masaki. For reasons I can’t fully explain, I actually prefer Dr. Masaki over Dr. Wakabayashi. Even though both of them are like venomous spiders in the academic world, intent on consuming me, Dr. Masaki somehow feels nostalgic, almost familiar. Even now, if only he’d come back, say just one thing…

“It was my mistake…”

If he’d only say that, I might forgive everything, might even become his willing disciple. I might publish an exposé of Dr. Wakabayashi’s cowardice and declare my sympathy for Dr. Masaki… all just to avoid having my heart crushed by Wakabayashi’s pale, clammy hands.

But… silence envelops everything around me. Not a sound suggests Dr. Masaki is coming back. All I can do is wait for my fate… powerless to fight it.

What can I do?

My breath catches in my chest again, the pressure almost unbearable. And then, slowly, it subsides, leaving me weak and trembling, as though my entire body is empty… only a faint ringing in my ears.

“…………………………

Black as night, black as pitch, darkest of dark,

I ate Totto’s eyes whole, and what did I see?

White as snow, white as milk, purest of white,

His real eyes burst forth, just to mock me!

Ponchiki-ponchiki-ponchikichi…

Such lovely white eyes, so charming and sweet,

They slipped from my mouth and rolled down to my feet,

Escaping my chopsticks, away they did flee,

Rolling, rolling, till no longer could I see!

La-la-la-la, ponchikichi…

Such lovely eyes, pure and white,

Totto’s dark eyes, oh, a delight!

The true eyes, precious sight,

How sweet, how lovely, what a delight!

La-la-la, ponchikichi…”

The girl’s clear, crystalline voice seeps in through the south-facing glass window. And suddenly… an idea flashes in my mind. It feels as if the countless question marks tangled in my head all lit up and vanished at once. Mechanically, I lower my hands from my face and settle back into the swivel chair, my eyes drawn to the door where Dr. Masaki had left, then to the two frames—one gold, one black—on the wall, and the papers scattered around me. The near-noon autumn light filters through the cigar smoke in the room, casting pale blue shadows and illuminating each object with stark clarity.

“It’s nothing… absolutely nothing. Ha, ha, ha… hahahahahahaha…”

I clutched my sides, laughing uncontrollably, trying to hold back the surge of ridiculous hilarity rising from my gut.

Idiot, idiot, idiot… what an utter fool I’ve been!

And not just me. Wakabayashi, Masaki—they’re idiots too. Bigger idiots than I am. The three of us are hopelessly tangled in the webs of our own misunderstandings. What a ridiculous farce…

Who killed Chiyoko? Who gave Ichiro Kure the scroll? Who is Ichiro Kure’s true parent—W, M, or some hidden third? Not a single one of these mysteries is solved yet. They might all just be the handiwork of some unknown third party…

Or perhaps… there was no culprit from the beginning. This entire case could simply be a series of disconnected events, each happening by chance, viewed together as if they were connected. Chiyoko’s hanging… Dr. Saito’s drowning… Ichiro Kure’s madness… each of them might be the result of their own choices. Otherwise, how could such an inexplicable, unfathomable mystery exist?

And the two doctors misread it all, forcing these pieces together, trying to create a single focal point. They feared each other, tried to guard their precious research from being stolen, putting on tinted glasses and staring each other down, until it all appeared as if the other alone was responsible.

It’s so tragic… each of them carrying their own secrets… no, it’s two unparalleled minds, each unmatched until now, meeting a true rival at last, compelled by instinct to do battle, both caught in a deadlock that neither can break free from.

Ah… how laughable, how utterly absurd and ridiculous this whole fiasco is. Could there be a more senseless and preposterous feud in this world? The entire matter of the two doctors’ rivalry has become far more intense, more serious, and more dreadful than any substance within the case itself. Perhaps all scholars are prone to such absurd conflicts, bickering passionately over trifles…

And yet, it’s hardly surprising, is it? That Ichiro Kure and I bear such an uncanny resemblance, like twins… And then, to discover that Moyoko Kure bears a likeness to the very image of the dead beauty on this scroll, beyond a mere resemblance—practically identical! To come upon such an unlikely double coincidence, bound by blood, no less, in this very region—well, who wouldn’t be taken aback? Naturally, both doctors began studying it with a certain preconception, suspecting it must be bound by some profound cause. Even if they didn’t mean to, their approach colored their research, like a tinted lens placed unknowingly before them. But if we take each occurrence within this case on its own, each seems as though it could have arisen freely and independently, without any assistance from either doctor. The only reason they appear to overlap is because each doctor, suspecting the other, attributes the entire sequence of events to a single cause. Without their meddling, we would be left with nothing more than two strange deaths and one instance of madness, a collection of unrelated incidents.

Yes… yes, that’s it. Nothing more than a random collision of disconnected events. I failed to see it… brooding over it, tormenting myself. Idiots! We’re all idiots, the three of us, each one a greater fool than the next.

Left unchecked, I might even become the culprit in this case myself…

“Hahahahahaha…”

I heard my own laughter echoing through the room, then suddenly stopped, falling silent. Propping my chin in my hands, I realized my gaze was drawn to the green scroll lying right in front of me. …Could this be some form of divine inspiration?

A strange feeling surged through me, something entirely new and almost reverent, as I slowly lifted the scroll. With an unwavering stare, I gazed upon it, a sense of awe filling my mind.

This scroll… is the final key. Everything else may be disproven, but the mysterious power of this scroll cannot be denied, not until the very end…

At first glance, this entire affair may appear nothing more than nonsense—a trivial assortment of small incidents with no greater meaning. It seems that Drs. Masaki and Wakabayashi, ensnared by the allure of the scroll, were attempting to construct some grand, ominous tale around it, creating an atmosphere of intense suspense and significance. But stepping back, if you look from the opposite perspective, it becomes clear that the scroll is the one truly in control. Both doctors have become mere instruments, dedicating all their intellect, courage, scholarship, reputation, and even their lives to its power. Every twist of fate, every loss, pain, or enigma that Dr. Masaki spoke of… in the end, each event appears as if it were born from the influence of this single scroll. Though reality itself might be rendered meaningless, this scroll alone resists that reduction—it remains absolute, unyielding to the nonsensical.

And so… if there truly is a spirit bound within this scroll, it must know everything. Surely it understands its own history better than anyone. It would know exactly how it came into Ichiro Kure’s possession and how it has wreaked havoc upon both doctors, and even upon myself. This scroll, over the years, has driven many to madness, stirred discord, and even incited people to kill each other, all while remaining completely detached. And now, at this very moment, it rests upon my palm as if innocent of it all… but…

Some eleven hundred years ago, the debauchery of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang Dynasty inspired the loyalty of the young nobleman Wu Qingxiu, manifesting the corrupted forms of six beauties upon this scroll. And the spirit of the artist behind those grotesque portraits, upon reaching Japan, entwined itself with the lineage of the Wu family, presenting a horrific fate across generations. Yet now, over a thousand years later, here it lies in the hands of Masaki and Wakabayashi, two men without a drop of blood connection to that line. And despite being illuminated by the vast advances of modern science, it has not only retained its power but increased it tenfold, toying mercilessly with their lives, mocking them. Now, as if it weren’t enough, this scroll, nestled at the heart of Kyushu Imperial University, a bastion of culture and knowledge, has extended its invisible hand toward me, clutching my heart, wringing from me my very blood and sweat. Through some incomprehensible fate, it has entwined itself with my soul, dragging me into a whirlpool of mystery. It fogs the truth with a white mist, casting its allure upon me, stirring me to remember what was forgotten, to conceive the inconceivable, to see the unseen… It urges me to seek memories of a past not my own, to unravel secrets that never were, leading me to confusion, madness, laughter, and despair. I am trapped in a hell beyond madness.

…Oh, what an unspeakable power…

As I stared into the empty space before me, lost in these thoughts, the haunting image of Lady Mayuzumi’s cold smile appeared again within the vast void of my gaze. I stared back at her, unwilling to look away until she vanished.

“…Curse you… just watch…”

With that thought, a surge of inspiration shot through me—a sense that the scroll held a dreadful secret, a key potent enough to break through all mysteries in a single stroke. Something essential, lying overlooked within this scroll, capable of exposing the force tormenting all three of us. Fueled by this premonition, I quickly untied the ribbon around the scroll. A glance at my watch showed it was exactly ten minutes before noon. The electric clock on the wall showed eleven minutes to twelve, with the long hand poised to strike the X at any moment.

I breathed lightly over the green stone that served as the scroll’s handle, revealing what seemed to be overlapping fingerprints. Realizing these were my own from earlier, I chuckled wryly, adjusting my grip on the scroll. Foolish… so careless of me… scolding myself, I continued my examination.

Tiny fibers, like strands of silk, clung to the embroidered cover and the blue paper within. Likely remnants of the fabric once used to wrap this scroll. When I brought it close to my nose, I caught a faint, musty scent mixed with the aroma of camphor… but there was also something else, subtle and refined, almost as if it were a light, exquisite perfume. A scent so faint that it seemed I was the first to notice it, a scent elegant yet elusive, like some lingering memory. …What an unexpected discovery. This mixture of scents—the mold and wood mingled with something much more delicate, a perfume, perhaps an indication of the scroll’s former owner.

Yes… I’m onto something. If I find one more overlooked item—even a single hair or fleck of tobacco—it might serve as a vital clue.

Feeling the thrill of discovery like a true detective, I unrolled the scroll from top to bottom, carefully inspecting every detail, examining the decaying portrait that had unsettled me before. This time, to my surprise, it appeared nothing more than pigment arranged on paper. I observed the features in detail: the stark teeth exposed from Lady Mayuzumi’s decayed lips, the swelling intestines, gleaming as if filled with gas—yet all of it seemed lifeless, stripped of any horror. I was struck by how absurd the mind’s responses could be.

As I looked closer, I noticed that while the paper near the beginning was slightly worn, the end, where the narrative concluded, was smoother, even glossy. This was only natural; Wu Qingxiu, the artist, and each generation of the Wu family must have lingered over the early sections, opening and closing it with care, just as I had done. The edges, faintly coated in a translucent amber liquid, bore indistinct white circles like fingerprints, a rough weave visible beneath the worn surface.

Ultimately, my only notable discovery was the faint scent of that refined perfume. I took a final breath, inhaling that soft, nostalgic fragrance, filling my lungs with it… a scent so pure, so soothing. It stirred something deep, almost familiar, within me—a dream, a memory, or a lost love. Yes, it had the air of a woman… though whether it was an old lover, my mother, or even my sister, I couldn’t say. Standing up, I went to retrieve my cap from the door, inhaling its inner lining to compare, but all I could detect was new wool, enamel leather, and the faintest trace of mildew. There was no connection, no proof I had ever encountered this fragrance before.

As I set my cap aside, sighing lightly, I began to roll up the scroll again, but something made me stop. My gaze drifted into the empty air…

A shockingly vivid insight struck my mind like lightning.

When Ichiro Kure was found at the stone quarry in Mei-no-Hama, he was staring fixedly at nothing but the blank white part of the scroll…

...so, the truth lies here after all...

Up to the final characters of the historical account written within this scroll, it’s clear it’s been unfurled and examined countless times. Within that span of nearly three meters, anything brought here by past owners could well have fallen and remained within its folds. But beyond this, in the endless blank stretch following the account, who would think to open it further? Only a mind truly unlike any other might. Practically no one would do so. And yet, what if—despite all reason—a mind capable of breaking through to such possibilities had done precisely that? What if someone who could pierce the veil of this scroll’s dark allure had unraveled it to the very end?

In doing so, might they not have discovered something... left there, however small, that could bear an immense significance? Some clue pointing directly to the one behind this catastrophe… or perhaps a revelation powerful enough to dispel the scroll’s sinister magic, restoring truth to all that’s been obscured. How could I have overlooked this until now?

Ichiro Kure was found in the stone quarry at Mei-no-Hama, gazing intently at the blank end of this scroll. And though it was said that by then he was half-possessed by Wu Qingxiu’s spirit, I couldn’t be sure whose mind was fixated on that white expanse. But in either case, he must have unfurled it all the way to the end… and surely discovered something within that empty stretch.

Didn’t Ichiro Kure tell old Sengoro that he knew the scroll’s custodian’s true identity?

How could I have missed such an obvious fact until now?

This revelation raced through my mind, and a chill came over me as if I were being pursued. I quickly checked my wristwatch and the wall clock—four minutes to twelve.

Once again, my hands took hold of the scroll, and I began unfurling its blank portion. I started slowly, resolving to remain calm, but as I progressed, I became increasingly aware of the endless emptiness. I felt as though I were alone, lost in a white desert, stretching out endlessly before me. Growing irritated, I became conscious of how absurd I must look, casting myself as a “detective.” I grew weary after only three feet.

Doubt crept in, casting uncertainty on my earlier intuition about Wu Qingxiu’s final brushstroke, perhaps of Lady Mayuzumi’s bones. If Qingshou had indeed entered a state of dementia, it likely struck him the moment his sister-in-law revealed the senseless death he had brought upon his beloved wife. Before then, if he was still lucid, wouldn’t he have explicitly recounted drawing those bones? And surely Lady Fen wouldn’t have overlooked anything in the artifact that someone like me could easily think of centuries later. At this, all my excitement dissipated, replaced with exhaustion.

And yet... even as I felt this tedious obligation to continue, my hands mechanically unrolled the remaining stretch of the scroll, my eyes following as a mere formality. After unwinding nearly six feet, I noticed something that made my heart jump—a faint black stain at the very end.

Upon closer inspection, it was a passage of five lines, written in slender, elegant women’s calligraphy in the Ono Gadō style. It read:

"Oh, shine a light upon the darkened hearts of those who yearn for their child, 

That the wisdom of the world may gently unfold."

November 26, Meiji Year 40, in Fukuoka 

From Chiyoko Masaki, mother of Ichiro Masaki, 

To His Reverence Takeyuki Masaki

My hair stood on end.

Panicked, I tried to roll the scroll back up, but my hands trembled and the scroll slipped from my grasp, as though alive, unfurling itself from the tabletop and spilling to the floor. I watched in horror as it snaked across the linoleum, rolling out of its own accord.

And then I dashed from the room, oblivious to how I opened the door or flew down the corridor, racing down the stairs and bursting out the main entrance.

A thunderous sound shattered the silence across the pine grove of Kyushu University’s campus, reverberating like an explosion in the air around me.

It was the noon cannon.

It seemed nothing short of a miracle… an invisible, powerful force had reached down from the sky and was guiding me, pulling me, as if by a leash. Such was the strangeness of what was happening.

I remember nothing about how I wandered the streets after rushing out the main gates of Kyushu University’s medical school. I had no sense of my destination or how I found my way back to the professor’s office in the psychiatry department.

I recall the blare of a car horn behind me, a tram screeching to a halt in front of me, the bell of a bicycle scattering me out of its path. Shouts, barking dogs, the sun spinning dizzyingly above, winds blowing from every direction, and the dust whipping through the air as if caught in a battle. I saw telephone poles dangling from clouds, blood-red signs dripping beneath eaves, wide plains stretching to glassy mountains beyond the horizon. Lost among endless heaps of red bricks, I glimpsed visions of infants writhing and squirming in the shadows. Above, I watched a yellow plane gleaming as it soared through the bright blue sky, six spectral images of dead women slipping soundlessly along behind it.

White clouds dragged long, flowing tails like hair or hands, forming faces, eyes, noses, and lips against the piercing blue sky—a sky so vivid it stung like a bitter chemical. Amid the sensory onslaught, my hands tore at my hair, my forehead pulsed with sharp pains, and I rubbed at my gritty eyes, stumbling on, oblivious to where I was headed.

…A river… a bridge… a railway track… a red torii gate… and there, on either side, stood Dr. Masaki and Dr. Wakabayashi, faces ghostly pale. I kept walking, suppressing the urge to break into a run.

…It was all true… neither a false scientific pursuit nor a fabrication. From start to finish, this had been Dr. Masaki’s plan, carried out solely by him. Dr. Wakabayashi… he had known nothing. He had been unknowingly used, a pawn in Dr. Masaki’s elaborate research.

Drawn by the mystery, Dr. Wakabayashi had gone from investigating independently to gathering evidence for Masaki’s theories, falling into the trap Masaki had laid. But ultimately, Dr. Wakabayashi uncovered Chiyoko’s handwriting hidden at the scroll’s end, the final piece in the labyrinth of questions, and realized the entire truth—that it was all Dr. Masaki’s doing.

Yet Wakabayashi had taken it upon himself to spare Masaki. In an act of profound loyalty and decency, he decided to obscure the key points of the case, relinquishing the full findings to Dr. Masaki, leaving it to him to destroy or keep as he wished. He even sent gifts, delicacies, to gently convey, “Please, don’t worry; I’ll distance myself so you can speak freely.” And his lie—that Dr. Masaki had taken his own life a month ago—was another gesture, designed to keep the eavesdropping Masaki from stepping in, to protect me from further confusion, and to safeguard Masaki’s dignity… even if the truth would inevitably emerge later.

Such chivalry on Dr. Wakabayashi’s part, while Dr. Masaki sacrificed his very soul and life’s work to this experiment. Driven by an intense fascination with the legend, he had deceived Chiyoko, had a child, and obtained the scroll. But he had no idea Chiyoko would inscribe those lines at the end, leaving behind the date, her son’s name, and his birthplace as an unbreakable marker of her will. Her tragic intellect and maternal love reached that far, though Masaki never suspected. He had pursued his plan with daring, brilliance, and ingenuity, blind to this fatal flaw in his grand design.

He had believed that his actions, however cruel and heartless, served the higher ideals of science and humanity. Yet in the end, haunted by guilt and torn by the unbearable burden of his conscience, he writhed under the weight of the judgment he had brought upon himself. This was Dr. Masaki’s entire life—a tale both fouled and purified, filled with boundless sorrow and desperate valor. Yet, as his accursed research neared its conclusion, the findings Dr. Wakabayashi had returned to him terrified him. He knew that Wakabayashi’s sharp intellect had uncovered him completely, encircling him without the slightest gap. Unable to withstand the pressure of that piercing scrutiny, he attempted a cowardly, crafty counterattack. Confessing his whole plan to me, he sought to execute his scheme through me, a third party, putting forth his findings with my help in a risky disclosure.

But his confession, from beginning to end, was a division of his guilt between himself and another. An astonishing display of cunning—a two-part deception staged to perfection—was woven with uncanny insight into his target’s character and behavior. Yet in its essence, it was childishly naive, and he’d ended up caught in his own snare, entangled in a sad, futile cleverness.

“Watch out!”

“Idiot!”

“Oh no!”

The voices behind me overlapped in a rush, and then—

A cacophony erupted at my feet—crash after crash, glass shattering, bottles breaking in a flood of brown soy sauce across the ground. I turned to find a massive blue cargo truck stopped just behind me, a twisted bicycle and a heap of shattered bottles littering the ground at my feet. A man in a light yellow uniform jumped down from the truck, pulling a trembling young assistant from the shadow of the tires, as onlookers rushed over.

I resumed my walk, deep in thought once more. An immense and terrifying secret—a battle between Wu Qingxiu’s ancient malevolent spirit and Dr. Masaki’s scientific knowledge—raged on, undeterred. And yet, from the very instant he undertook this study, Dr. Masaki’s heart had already been gripped by the spirit of Wu Qingxiu. The tender ties of family love and human compassion had been crushed. Even so, he remained unaware, insisting he alone would not succumb to the curse. He published his findings, poems, and essays, confronting Qingshou’s spirit with unfaltering resolve. Sacrifices piled up—Chiyoko, Ichiro Kure, Moyo, Yashiro—all fallen at the altar of his relentless drive to conquer. He wielded his science like a sword, pressing forward, unwavering in his conviction of victory over the spirit’s power.

But…

But…

Suddenly, I stopped. I looked around at the busy street, the people glancing at me with curious expressions, and up at the high, revolving tower bathed in swirling lights, over which the sunset clouds glowed like fresh flesh.

But…

But…

It occurred to me that despite everything, I still hadn’t recalled a single memory of my past. I remained stranded, a helpless amnesiac, drifting like a solitary particle in the universe—nameless, lost, unchanged from when I awoke this morning in Room 7.

Who am I?

If I could remember, I felt I’d be free of Wu Qingxiu’s curse, free of the scroll’s grip. But I couldn’t. This one last question remained, unanswered and agonizing.

Who am I… who am I? What link exists between my past and this affair?

Pondering these questions, I quickened my pace, then slowed, then quickened again. Bells in the distance, the roar of fire engines, children’s cries, the sounds of looms, and factory whistles drifted around me. I turned right, then left, continuing to wander as if in a trance until, struck by sudden horror, I stopped short.

I had left the scroll behind.

No one should see Chiyoko’s writing at the end… if Dr. Masaki found it, he might lose his mind or even take his own life.

This is terrible…

My heart leapt, and before I knew it, I had turned around, bolting down the dark, rural road back toward the university.

I ran past brightly lit, beautiful streets… through dark, crowded alleyways… across blinding avenues where shamisen and drums blared… all the way to the pier lined with lampposts, only to realize I’d reached a dead end at the water’s edge and retraced my steps.

Everything blurred past me—shops, trams, cars, the throng of people, all slipping by in a dizzying whirl. I wiped the sweat and tears from my eyes, racing back the way I’d come.

…My vision blurred, my breath faltered, and everything seemed to flicker between light and dark. A swarm of gray birds scattered before me, vanishing into the air. I recall stumbling, falling on the street, someone helping me to my feet before I tore myself free and ran again.

I no longer knew why I was running, or in which direction. Faintly, I registered sights and sounds around me, but even those sensations faded as I staggered forward, numb to everything, lost in a haze, as if wandering through a dream that would never end.

How many hours had passed, or even days—I couldn’t tell…

A sudden chill ran through my body, and as I came to my senses, I found myself back in the office of the psychiatry department at Kyushu Imperial University. Somehow, I had returned to the very same swivel chair I’d been sitting in before, slumped over the large table, with my hands sprawled on the green felt surface.

For a moment, I wondered if I was dreaming. Could everything that had happened—the people I’d seen, the things I’d heard, the strange and terrifying incidents—have been nothing more than a dream while I was unconscious here? I looked around, a shiver of unease washing over me.

My clothes and shirt were filthy, coated in dust and sweat. My elbows and knees were tattered and muddy, two buttons had torn off, and my collar dangled from my shoulder. I looked half like a drunken vagabond and half like a beggar. The back of my left hand was dark with dried blood—how had I injured myself? I felt no particular pain or itch, but my eyes stung, my mouth was gritty with sand, and a lingering, unpleasant rasp scratched between my teeth.

Still leaning over the desk, I struggled to piece together what had brought me back here, but I couldn't recall a single thing. I stared hard at my cap, left on the edge of the desk, trying to summon the memory of my purpose. But my powers of association seemed to be failing me in a way that felt strangely unnatural. Hadn’t I come back for something, some critical item or clue I had forgotten? As I slowly lifted my head and scanned the room, I noticed the large incandescent bulb above me glowing brightly.

The door was left slightly ajar.

The documents on the large desk had all been neatly rearranged as if by someone else’s hand. It looked exactly as it had that morning when I entered with Dr. Wakabayashi, down to the very last detail, with not a single trace of disturbance. Beside them, the red daruma ashtray sat in the same position as before, as though frozen in its perpetual yawn.

Only the stack of documents bound in canvas on “The Dark Ages of Madness” and “The Dreams of the Fetus” had been noticeably disturbed, some crossed at odd angles, a loose X-shaped overlap, as if someone had handled them recently. But the blue wrapping cloth bundle that Dr. Masaki had dusted off earlier was covered with a fine layer of gray dust once again, a sure sign it had been untouched for ages. There were no traces of tea or food left on the table either. Out of caution, I peered into the daruma ashtray, and not a single piece of cigar ash was in it; it remained the same as always, glaring up at me with its golden eyes.

Was most of what had happened today really just a dream? I clearly remembered inspecting the contents of that bundle, but there couldn’t possibly have been enough time for so much dust to accumulate…

I pushed myself up, my knees trembling unnervingly as though they might give way. Propping myself up with both hands on the table’s edge, I forced my leaden body upright. My hands shaking, I reached for the blue cloth bundle, drawing it toward me, leaving a clear, dust-free square where it had rested. The dust-striped knot showed no signs of recent disturbance; as I untied it, the white dust stripes scattered, vanishing entirely.

I stood in stunned silence.

Gazing into the air, I played back the events of that morning in my mind. But my memory of Dr. Masaki showing me the contents of this bundle and giving me that dreadful explanation was irreconcilable with the dust-covered knot. These were two conflicting truths—irreversibly opposed.

With my fingers trembling violently, I opened the blue cloth bundle, pulling out the same newspaper-wrapped scroll and Dr. Wakabayashi’s research files, arranged exactly as I had last seen them. Not only that, but the fine dust that had seeped through the canvas was also lightly covering the black cover of the research files. When I removed the newspaper-wrapped scroll, a rectangular dust-free shape was left on the table beneath it.

I stood in stunned silence once more, dumbfounded by the impossibility of it all. Like someone grasping for sanity, I opened the newspaper-wrapped scroll, carefully examining the creases in the paper, the fitting of the box lid, the way the scroll was rolled, and the fastening of the string. It had been stored meticulously, with no creases or wrinkles anywhere. When I unrolled it, fine, glistening powder—likely moth repellent—sprinkled out, scattering onto the table. Dr. Wakabayashi’s research files emitted the same faint, dusty odor. It was undeniable: these documents hadn’t been touched recently.

As a final check, I opened Dr. Masaki’s will, bound in foolscap paper, and re-read the last few pages. Where the ink had appeared fresh and dark that morning, now it had dulled entirely to black, and yellowed patches of mold dotted the spaces between lines. It looked like it had been penned not days, but years ago.

Drawn deeper and deeper into the inexplicable, I lifted the research files from the cloth bundle, just as Dr. Masaki had done earlier. To my astonishment, beneath them was an old, worn newspaper edition, acting as a lining—something that hadn’t been there when Dr. Masaki last opened the bundle.

I glanced around the room, bewildered.

It felt as if some unseen magician lurked here, performing tricks just beyond my sight. Or could it be that my mind had slipped again, leading me into a hallucination? Nervously, I picked up the newspaper extra, and my breath caught when I read the enormous headline printed in bold on the upper-right corner of the folded page. With an involuntary cry of “Ah!” I staggered backward, nearly collapsing as I clung to the swivel chair behind me.

The date was October 20, Taishō 15—the day after Dr. Saitō’s death, as indicated on the wall calendar. It was also the day Dr. Masaki had supposedly taken his life, as Dr. Wakabayashi had told me. Issued by the Nishikai News in Fukuoka City, the left side of the page featured a grainy photograph of Dr. Masaki’s face, five inches across, grinning with gleaming pince-nez and his artificial teeth bared in a disturbingly unguarded smile.

Professor of Psychiatry at Kyushu Imperial University, Dr. Masaki, Dies by Suicide 

Gruesome Murder at the Asylum Exposed Simultaneously

At approximately 5 p.m. yesterday, the body of Dr. Keishi Masaki, Assistant Professor of Psychiatry at Kyushu Imperial University, was found washed ashore near Maedashihama, by the aquarium close to the university’s medical campus. The university is currently in chaos following the discovery. Moreover, this confusion led to the revelation of an unspeakably brutal incident at Dr. Masaki’s unique “Asylum for the Insane,” a facility designed for the rehabilitation and treatment of mentally ill patients. It was uncovered that around noon on the 19th, a male patient had murdered a female patient within the facility and had gone on to inflict fatal or near-fatal injuries on other residents and a supervising attendant who attempted to intervene. Both university officials and law enforcement are scrambling to investigate the matter, but all inquiries are being conducted with extreme secrecy.

Manic Youth Kills Five with a Hoe, Leaving Asylum Soaked in Blood!!!

At noon yesterday, while Dr. Masaki was taking a nap in his office, ten patients were scattered across the rehabilitation yard, each lost in their respective deranged states. Among them, a farmhand named Gisaku Adachi (age 60, alias) had been tilling a plot of ground. When he left to respond to the lunch call, a youth by the name of Ichirō Kure (age 20, alias), who had been watching Adachi closely, seized the hoe that Adachi had left behind. Without warning, he struck the back of a girl named Shino Asada (age 17, alias), who had been planting grass nearby. She was killed instantly, a spray of blood marking her final moments.

A supervising attendant, Tōta Amakasu, a judo expert of considerable strength, rushed in to restrain the assailant. However, as two other patients approached to aid Shino, Ichirō swung the hoe once more, sending one flying to the ground with a gash on his cheek and the other bleeding profusely from a wound to his forehead. Amakasu tried to seize Ichirō from behind, aiming to choke him into submission. But Ichirō resisted with alarming strength, flinging the much larger Amakasu about with violent thrashes. A misstep caused Ichirō to lose his footing in a hole, allowing Amakasu to tackle him. However, Amakasu suffered a broken rib in the process, losing consciousness.

Hearing Amakasu’s shouts, several male attendants, guards, and medical personnel rushed to the scene. But they froze in terror at Ichirō’s blood-soaked face and the savage way he glared around him, screaming, “Don’t interfere with my work!” At that moment, Ichirō’s expression softened into a smile, and he advanced on two female patients, killing one with a blow to her forehead before turning to a woman dressed as an empress. When she sneered and shouted, “Insolent fool! Do you not recognize me?” Ichirō froze, dropped to his knees, and exclaimed, “Ah! You must be Empress Yang Guifei!” He then retreated to his room, leaving everyone else paralyzed with horror, unable to act.

Youth’s Suicide and Dr. Masaki’s Calm Response

Dr. Masaki arrived soon after and, maintaining a calm demeanor, directed the attendants to treat the injured. He retrieved Shino’s body and the hoe from Ichirō, had Ichirō restrained, and locked him back in his room. Masaki personally administered first aid to the other injured patients, though he reported that while two of the male patients were not fatally wounded, the two young women had both suffered skull fractures, making any further treatment futile.

Once the injured were tended to, Dr. Masaki returned alone to check on Ichirō in his room, only to find the young man lifeless, having bashed his head against the wall. He promptly summoned medical staff, who rushed in amidst a renewed uproar. Once things settled and the patients were under control, Dr. Masaki reportedly left the facility at around 2:30 p.m. But when medical assistant Mr. Yamada later tried to locate him, Masaki was nowhere to be found.

A Successful Experiment in Liberation, Masaki Claims!

Later, it was reported that Dr. Masaki had appeared at the university’s main office and spoken at length with the university president, claiming, “The experiment in liberation treatment for the insane has concluded successfully with today’s incident.” He continued, “I’ve ordered the closure of the asylum as of today. The experiment was a success thanks to your support, and I am deeply grateful.” He added that he would submit his resignation the next day, entrusting further matters to Dean Wakabayashi, and exited, laughing loudly. The office staff, overhearing this from the adjacent room, reportedly exchanged nervous glances, suspecting Dr. Masaki himself had gone mad.

Thunderous Snores, then Disappearance

After leaving the president’s office, Dr. Masaki apparently headed home, stopping to drink heavily along the way. Returning to his Fukuoka boarding house, he slept for several hours, snoring thunderously. Around 9 p.m., he left, saying he was going out for dinner, and was never seen again. Rumor has it that he may have returned to his office in the psychiatry department and spent the night sorting documents.

A Macabre Corpse Mimicking a Lunatic

At around 5 p.m. today, two men fishing near the university’s waterfront discovered a strange drowned corpse washed ashore. Upon investigation, authorities confirmed it was Dr. Masaki. He had apparently bound himself in hand and leg restraints commonly used on psychiatric patients, left his hat and a cigar stub atop a stone wall, and drowned himself at high tide. Efforts to revive him were in vain; he had been dead for approximately three hours. Though officials attempted to keep this and the earlier tragedy secret, the story was ultimately uncovered through our paper’s prompt investigation. No suicide note was found, and Dr. Masaki’s room appeared in perfect order.

A Sinister Utterance from the Maniacal Youth

Reflecting on the events, Amakasu, still bandaged and resting at home, described a chilling moment: “When Dr. Masaki arrived at the asylum, Ichirō stopped struggling and smiled. He pointed at Shino’s bloodied body and said to Dr. Masaki, ‘Father, may I borrow that picture scroll from the quarry once more? I’ve found a perfect model for it...’ Dr. Masaki turned pale, his face horrifically strained as he rebuked Ichirō. Then he wrestled him into submission on his own. It was an unsettling sight.”

Devastating Fire at Mei-no-Hama 

Prominent Temple Ablaze and a Woman Dies Tragically

At around 6 p.m. today, a fire broke out in Mei-no-Hama at the residence of Dr. Masaki’s sister-in-law, Yayo Kure, and spread rapidly to the nearby Nyogetsu Temple. The fierce flames consumed her home and several surrounding buildings. Yayo, believed to have set the fire, ran into the temple’s main hall, where she perished. She had reportedly been distraught since her daughter’s death in the spring and was further unhinged by rumors of her nephew Ichirō’s strange demise.

My head felt as though it were pressed down by an unseen force, and I hesitantly looked around, lifting my gaze from the extra edition. Then, I noticed something—a small card that must have been tucked beneath the paper—lying right in the middle of the blue wrapping cloth before me. “Strange... something else still remains?” I murmured, stepping forward to inspect it.

It was a government-issued postcard with a few scribbled lines in that familiar, slanting penmanship:

I am ashamed.

It was I who drank with Dr. S. 

I’ll be reborn and start over. 

I entrust my son’s and his bride’s futures to you. 

October 20th, 1:00 PM, M.

To W Brother

The extra slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the ground, and the entire room seemed to sink below me, dragging me down with it into a bottomless void. Stumbling, I rose and, without thinking, shuffled toward the window to the south.

Beyond the rooftops, the full moon hung bright and hard against the night sky, casting a cold gleam over the abandoned asylum grounds below. This morning, they had looked like a smooth, flat expanse of white sand, but now the landscape seemed rough and uneven, with patches of dry grass here and there and a few bare paulownia trees whose strange, stark branches swayed gently under the stars.

“…It’s all so strange…” I whispered, my hand going instinctively to my head. Even stranger—the persistent, throbbing headache that had been plaguing me since morning was now nowhere to be found, completely and utterly gone, as if wiped away.

I looked around the room, lit only by the dim yellow light and thick shadows. Then my gaze drifted out to the platinum gleam of moonlight through the window…

And at that moment, everything suddenly came into sharp, crystalline clarity.

Nothing was strange at all. Not in the least.

I had been caught in a double hallucination since morning, an episode of “soul-splitting” sickness, exactly as Dr. Masaki had once described. Surely I had experienced an identical fit of sleepwalking a month ago on October 20, with the same vividness, the same intensity, as if today were but a mirror of that morning.

I had awoken back then, just as I had now, sprawled on the floor of Room Seven, my head pounding in confusion as I wandered in search of my own name. Then I must have gone to Dr. Wakabayashi, and, just as he had today, he performed various tests to help me retrieve my lost memories. He had led me here, and together we had pored over the same notes and letters, witnessing each bizarre occurrence in the same order.

After reading the will, I met Dr. Masaki himself—the man who wrote it—and recoiled in horror. He led me to the window on the south side, where I looked out to see the asylum grounds, shuttered and abandoned just the day before, and was plunged into a trance, reliving the exact scene from my recent memories. And there, beyond the glass, I saw myself staring at the fields, just as I had the previous day, watching the old man’s work, until the headache from hitting my head against the wall surged back, jolting me awake.

That was when Dr. Masaki, calmly as he had today, explained to me this “soul-splitting sickness.” He had been telling the truth all along, though at the time, I was too deep in my delusion to believe him. And then I must have argued with him, just as I had today, until I drove him to such despair that he resolved to end his life.

But I had remained here, oblivious to everything, and stumbled upon the final verse inscribed on Chiyo’s scroll. Startled, I had run out of the building, wandering through Fukuoka in a daze, until finally I remembered the scroll I had left unrolled in this room. I had rushed back in a frenzy, just as I did today. Perhaps Dr. Masaki, too, had returned, found Chiyo’s verse on that scroll, and made his final, grim decision…

And now, a full month later, I was back here, unconsciously replaying those same events in exact detail. Or perhaps this morning, from the moment I awoke to the ticking of that clock, my mind had been under some kind of hypnotic influence. I had remembered Wakabayashi’s words, “in a month’s time,” and deep in my subconscious, the memory had awoken me precisely one month later. After all, once Dr. Wakabayashi had slipped away quietly this morning, I had been completely alone in this room. Everything—Dr. Masaki, the janitor with his bald head, the castella, the tea, the cigar smoke, the scroll, the letters—had been nothing but my memory replaying itself in an unbroken loop. I had been wandering alone, repeating a dream within a dream.

My mind circled back on itself, each thought tracing the same path, again and again.

And even if I tried to deny it, how could I? Every piece of evidence stood here in full force, hauntingly vivid. There was no other explanation, no escape from this strange and undeniable truth…

It must have all been a test—a cold, unfeeling experiment by Dr. Wakabayashi. He had recreated the same steps as a month before, leading me to this room, watching me closely from some hidden place, recording my every action, preserving my each and every movement…

Or could it be that even his assurance today—“It’s November 20, Taishō 15”—was a lie? What if I had been wandering in this loop far longer, since the original October 20 of Taishō 15, repeating these same actions countless times, with every step carefully recorded and cataloged?

…Oh…Dr. Wakabayashi is a monster of terrifying genius, a creature of boundless knowledge…an experimenter in psychology and forensic science, at once a vile criminal and a relentless detective… Seizing control of every life in this case, twisting and directing each of us unseen…with that inhuman composure…

A chilling terror swept over me, racing along my skin like a cold storm wind. My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The room itself seemed to widen, transforming into the gaping maw of Dr. Wakabayashi, while I stood at its center, my mind spinning like a turbine…

But then…if that were true…then I must be Ichirō Kure…

…Oh no… I am… that Ichirō Kure…

…Dr. Masaki is my father… 

…Chiyo my mother…

…and that mad, beautiful girl, Moyo… she is…

Oh…Oh no…

I am the mad youth, cursed to bear a fate of hatred, condemned to slay not only my parents and beloved but even unknown strangers.

I am the cruel, heartless madman, dredging up the sins of my father before the public eye…

“Oh…Father…Mother!” I shouted, but the sound did not reach my ears; it only echoed in mocking whispers from the corners of the room.

My jaw clenched tight, I turned back to the flickering lamplight, casting its solemn, eerie glow. I looked around the room, steeped in silence, like the aftermath of a heavy sigh.

With my mind lucid and yet dreamlike, I staggered toward the half-open door, focusing on the floor as it slanted beneath my feet. I paused outside and looked back at the paper that read “Strictly No Entry.”

I must hold onto reason, I told myself, clinging to a fading trace of clarity. Down the hallway bathed in ghostly moonlight, I walked unsteadily, back and forth, past the dark stairwells on either side of the entrance. Left and right, left and right, each step echoing loud and hollow in the silence. I reached the final step, and as my foot touched down, the floor vanished beneath me—I was tumbling, weightless…

And then I was there, in front of the door to Room Seven, somehow standing like a statue, not sure how I had arrived.

I racked my mind, trying to recall the purpose of my journey. And with a sudden impulse, I opened the door and stepped in, mounting the bed still wearing my shoes, sprawling flat on my back. The door swung closed of its own accord, filling the room with a deep, heavy silence.

Then, almost at once, a piercing, high-pitched scream echoed through the concrete walls from Room Six.

“Brother! Brother…please let me see my brother. I heard the door just now—he’s back. Let me see my brother. No, no—I am not mad…I am his sister. Yes, his sister. Brother, brother…answer me…it’s me, it’s me…”

This…is the dream of an unborn child…

I thought, lying on my back with wide, unblinking eyes.

Everything is the dream of an unborn child…her screams, this dark ceiling, even the light through the window…no, no…everything that happened today…all of it…

I am still within my mother’s womb, suffering this hideous “fetal dream.”

Once I am born, I will curse everyone I meet, destroying their lives…

And no one knows—not yet—only my mother feels the monstrous stirrings inside her.

The concrete wall beside me trembled under a soft knock.

“Brother…Brother Ichirō, do you still not remember me? It’s me…it’s Moyo…please answer me…please…”

A few more knocks, then came

the sound of a fragile, broken sob, and the impression of someone collapsing, in utter despair.

Lying motionless on the bed, I held my breath as if I were a corpse, eyes wide open.

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnn…

From the far end of the corridor, the clock’s deep hum echoed.

The sobbing stopped. Then another hum…

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnnnnnnn…

The hum lasted slightly longer, and my eyes opened wider.

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…

The skeletal face of Dr. Masaki emerged before me, beads of sweat trickling as he adjusted his pince-nez and glanced at me briefly with a faint, powerless smile before vanishing.

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…

Then came Chiyo, her tangled hair, her blood-streaked lips, her face twisted in anguish as she stared at me, her eyes wide and furious as if trying to speak, her lips trembling as tears spilled down her cheeks. Her face turned pale, her lips taut and bleeding…

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…

There was Shino Asada, her bloodied head turned downward, dripping black…

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…

Yashiro, his face spattered with blood, his eyes contorted in a frozen gaze…

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…

Faces, shattered, twisted, bloodied—I covered my own face with my hands and leaped from the bed. I ran straight forward.

My forehead struck something hard, and a flash of bright light flared before me, then darkness rushed back in.

And in that instant, a face like mine loomed from the shadows—hair wild, a thick beard, deep-set eyes glittering in the dark, the face of my father. He looked at me, laughed loudly, baring a red, gaping mouth before he vanished.

“Ah…Wu Qingxiu…”

Before I could call his name, he disappeared.

…Bzzzzzznnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…