It was yet another restless dawn in Mardon, punctuated by the furious rioters and the distant dry click of spent rifle chambers. The clocks were striking five when the dissidents resumed their violent protests. They stapled posters against the woodwork as they went—posters bearing the stark, block-printed declaration: LUCIFER DOES NOT REPRESENT US. It was the very phrase they chanted, loud and discordant, as they broke through the armed curfews and set the administrative stations on fire, roaring, "Down with the Administration! Down with Imperialism! Down with their Policies!"
Just down the cobbled avenue stood a three-storey hospital, which was choked with the wounded. Even the vestibules exhaled a foul and suffocating odour of blood and faeces. Within the main ward, numerous smallpox patients lay strewn across collapsing cots and the bare floorboards. A solitary young blonde nurse had been left to manage this theatre entirely on her own; not a single colleague had returned to duty since the enactment of the Imperial Government's new administrative decree.
At the farthest edge of the room, huddled beneath a window, was a young boy. His flesh was swollen with a disfiguring rash which had eventually crusted over into deep, horrible scars. However, the boy's gaze remained fixed on the chaos outside as his lips parted in a desperate murmur. The young nurse leaned her ear close to his dry lips to catch the faint, ragged breath of his words.
"Hypocrites," he rasped, the syllables thick with spite. "Hypocrites. A bunch of hypocrites. It was Lucifer who fought for our liberation. It was Lucifer who could've made this all possible! And now you turn upon his name, grovelling at the heels of the Imperial Government. Hypocrites... nothing but a vanguard of hypocrites."
Twenty-five Years Later—Present Day
From a very young age, Manabu Satoshi frequently experienced sudden prickling sensations across his body during his slumber, which used to make him scream and tremble violently. His eyes would roll up and he would start choking. Even as his body slowly went numb, his late grandmother would grow anxious. Later, he even claimed to experience nightmares, though the nature of these dreams remained mysterious to him; it was as though his mind had become a cemetery upon reaching adulthood, gradually burying the memories of his youth. Yet today, Manabu woke gladly.
He pulled himself from the bed, walked down the hallway, and collected the morning newspaper lying on the floortiles, bound tightly with twine. Gripping it, he headed into the kitchen and set a kettle on the stove to brew his garlic tea. While the water boiled, he settled onto a nearby chair and began flipping past the first few pages of The National News Section; his eyes caught an article chronicling the gruesome events of the 'Santa Claus' killer.
'Myth or reality, he has always been a children's fairytale,' the opening lines read. 'Yet at midnight, three burglars invaded a wealthy farmhouse, only to be gutted by an entity now widely recognised as Mister Santa—otherwise known as the Christmas Killer. The bodies of the burglars were crucified to a conical tree, and at its roots sat a decorated gift box wrapped in elegant paper. No one ever thought a crime scene could be this ceremonious.'
While his eyes remained anchored to the paragraphs, he rose to serve himself a cup of hot garlic tea and a piece of sourdough. But as he tried chewing on the dough, his teeth slid off its crust, barely breaking the surface. Nor did he dare dip it into his tea, for he loved the fragrance of fresh, flavourful garlic just as it was. Once he finished breakfast—just tea and a fistful of almonds, and he left the dough untouched. He then put the teacup upside down on the table and went back to his bedroom. He rifled through his bag's pockets, hoping to find some money, but his recent medication had bled him of every last Das of his savings. Worse still, he owed a considerable sum to Taiju Hiroshi, and just as much to Sayuri Naomi.
He readied himself for college—just a coat over his shirt and a pair of shoes, ragged at the soles and reeking of stale dry sweat. He made sure the stove was off, and the gas wasn't leaking. Just as the clock struck eight, he left his flat.
He walked down the streets, but unfortunately, the sole of his right shoe tore. He began fidgeting, biting his thumbnail, wondering, "What am I going to do now? How am I supposed to fix this?" He dragged his legs to a nearby stationery shop run by a foul, bald, old man. Manabu was trembling as he entered the shop, fully knowing what awaited him. Just as he set foot on the floorboards, the bald man's gaze settled on him. "What are you doing here?! What do you need now?!" he yelled. Manabu lowered his gaze and struggled to ask a favour, stuck in this unenviable position. "I really need a glue can. I promise, I'll pay the dues this m-month, I pr-promise."
But the man bad-mouthed him and refused to let him touch a single product in the shop until he'd cleared his debt for the month. Manabu looked into his eyes and pleaded, "I am working in a sweetshop now. I will be able to pay at the end of this month. Just spare me for today—I really need to fix my shoe." But the fuming man grabbed him by the collar and shoved him away. Manabu did not utter a word and made his way to the college, dragging his right foot the whole way.
At the college gates, he noticed a crowd of fellow students gathering hurriedly around a large billboard. Manabu joined the press of bodies, wondering to himself, What is the commotion? At that moment, the clerk began reading the fresh notice from the college administration, his voice rising loud and clear above the din: "To the pupils of Detens Scholars' College. From tomorrow, the 15th of December 1899, the college shall remain closed until the 5th of January 1900."
Upon hearing the decree, the students erupted into absolute joy, throwing their arms over one another's shoulders and leaping about like wild hares.
Later, during luncheon, Manabu met his inner circle in the vacant auditorium, where they collectively resolved to make the turn of the century memorable. Taiju, Manabu's closest companion, came and sat right beside him. He then forcefully tore a thick chunk from his sourdough, dunked it into the oily curry repeatedly and munched on it ferociously.
The rest of the circle stared at him in utter silence as Taiju swallowed it down, then ripped an even greater chunk from the dough by biting straight into it—consuming it dry this time.
"Are you feeling alright, friend?" Manabu whispered, his brows furrowed as he watched Taiju gouging a hunk of meat from the oily curry, chewing like a wildling. As the last morsel was consumed, Taiju gently settled the empty bowl onto the front bench. His belly stuffed, he rested against the chair. Out of breath, his face slightly flushed, he exclaimed, "I am excite—" and choked.
"You look rather frustrated, with an odd compulsion to choke yourself to death on dry bread," Naomi mumbled, grimacing as she picked at her own meal.
Taiju slammed his fist on the back of the front bench, making the cutlery jerk and clatter violently onto the filthy ground, as he declared, "From tomorrow on, until we've completely run our arses ragged, we are going to enjoy this century."
"Enjoy it, how exactly?" Naomi asked, arching an eyebrow.
"What do you mean, how? Maybe we should go for a picnic, or a proper excursion out past the borders, just go the whole hog!"
"And drop dead slipping onto a pointy rock," Naomi retorted.
"Come what may, 'tis a damn sight better than staying in this prison," Taiju insisted, looking at them. "Are we all in?"
"Yeah," Naomi and Manabu agreed right away.
Mai, however, fidgeted with her cutlery, looking deeply unsure. "I don't know if I can manage to convince my parents. You know how they are... they think I might get mixed up with something scandalous; thus, they won't allow me to go."
"That sounds like quite an insult to the rest of us," Manabu said, leaning closer dramatically. "Your parents think we are into narcotics?"
"No, no... not everyone," Mai's voice pinched lower, dropping to a self-conscious whisper as she reached the end of the sentence. "Just you and Taiju."
Naomi hooted with laughter, pounding her leg on the floortiles as her voice reverberated through the auditorium, while Taiju mumbled something incoherent, continuing to chew dryly on his remaining dough. They quickly assured Mai that they had no grievance about waiting on her family's approval.
Manabu then turned his gaze towards Sayuri Mion, who had been unusually quiet for the past few moments. He wondered what thoughts she was harbouring in her heart. "Do you want to say something, Mion? You're in, right?"
Before Mion could part her lips, Naomi answered for her. "As long as I'm in, she's in."
"Well, that's a relief to hear," Manabu murmured gently, his eyes remaining settled on Mion's fragile visage. Mion offered a timid smile in response.
During the brief interlude, Taiju noticed Manabu had been angling his body, purposefully stashing his soleless shoe in between their baggage. Nothing had to be said. Taiju gestured to Manabu. I have a glue can in my bag's front pocket; help yourself.
Manabu sighed in relief and whispered, "I'll buy you a whole new can as soon as I get my first salary. And I'll return the money you lent me at the pharmacy, too. I promise."
Taiju began laughing at Manabu.
Manabu couldn't help but demand, "Why are you laughing, friend?!" But the next thing Taiju uttered left Manabu vaguely wondering.
"Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies. Remember it."
Soon after that day, word reached them that the town centre would play host to a grand Christmas Eve festival on the twenty-fourth. Mai approached her parents with the news, and since the venue was close to their town, they did not object to her going. Taiju was glad for her. Now only a few days remained, yet the anticipation consumed Manabu.
By the splendid evening of the twenty-first of December, Manabu found himself at Taiju's flat. Earlier in the day, he had tried sending telegrams and had even made a telephone call to the rest of the group. Still, on this particular evening, everyone was occupied except for Taiju. Manabu was resting heavily against Taiju's bed, glancing up at the ceiling, his eyes starting to blur. Meanwhile, Taiju was speaking fondly of Mion. "Her paintings never failed to mesmerise me, and I love how beautifully she expresses her soul through the stroke of a brush." Manabu just nodded his head in tandem, his ears slowly losing track of the words. Suddenly, a lingering thought seemed to seize Taiju, so he began rummaging through a basket of old newspapers tucked beneath his writing desk.
Manabu watched out of the corner of his eye, struggling to focus, as Taiju scanned the dates atop the news articles until he gradually found what he had been seeking. The headline across the paper ran: Mr Santa Claus: A Vigilante, or Just Another Serial Killer?
Taiju remarked that he had been following the case closely of late; furthermore, reading the reports felt akin to unravelling a novel or a poem. "The journalist knows exactly what we'll swallow, hook, line, and sinker," Taiju murmured. Manabu fought off the urge to doze and jolted himself awake, expressing a similar fascination with the elusive mass killer.
Pointing his finger at a specific column, Taiju began to read aloud: "At the end of November, the entity known as Mr Santa Claus was officially acknowledged by local authorities. Eyewitnesses claim he stands remarkably tall and intimidating, his features perpetually cloaked in shadow, which serves as his unwilling alibi. He targets the criminal underworld; hence, the common folk prefer to deem him a vigilante, while the Administration decries him as merely another murderer."
"Such an ambitious killer," Manabu uttered.
"Precisely, his motto is 'As you sow, so shall you reap.' He's clearly screwing with the police."
"What do you think, Taiju? Is he a vigilante?"
"Well, that's the confusing part; he's neither fish nor fowl. He's a rum customer: unpredictable, then suddenly too predictable, which makes him even more unpredictable. But one thing's certain: because of him, criminals are afraid to act up at night."
Amidst this intriguing wordplay, the door clicked open. Mai stepped into Taiju's flat entirely unannounced, catching both of them by surprise. She stood in the middle of the room without uttering a word, and spun twice, giggling. Manabu immediately noticed her hair had been shorn, reaching her neck, and her countenance seemed brighter than ever before. Taiju's face lit up at the sight of her. "Your hair looks exquisite. You are looking gorgeous, Mai. It makes me want to fall in love with you again," he said with a smile.
Mai's cheeks flushed a deep cherry red as she said, "It is good to hear that."
Sensing the shift in their mood, Manabu had no intention of intruding upon their privacy any longer. He quietly resolved to take his leave. But all of a sudden, he felt sad and almost unwilling to leave, though he left anyway, because he knew no one ever wanted him around for too long...
It was precisely seven in the evening as Manabu decided to cut through the alleys to make it home early, for it was snowing. Through the lonely street, he crossed paths with some local men he had never known, probably roughs, he supposed, and walked by minding his business. All of a sudden, one of them yanked his hair, with such force that he crumpled onto the cobblestoned ground, injuring his head badly.
I am good at nothing. I still don't know how to make a tie. I struggle at things which people of my age do almost perfectly... Taiju, my dearest friend, is great at sports—he has almost no competitors. None.
They kicked him in the belly, chest, and shin. Perforce, Manabu covered his head and cowered.
Mion, the girl I like, is a great painter. I watch her paint all day, and still she never gets tired. It amuses me.
Manabu managed to throw a few weak punches at their limbs, but it did not have any effect on them. Instead, one of them seized his right arm and twisted it to an unnatural angle. Manabu wept, "I beg you! It hurts, I'm beggin—" but they booted his throat… Thereupon, the man, who had yanked his hair, bent and pressed a knee into his jaw. Manabu gave up resisting. He felt the cold snow biting against his cheek, making him shiver.
Mai is a great pianist; at a college concert, she played her piano flawlessly. It made me want to stand up and dance on the stage. She is also a great pupil, with the potential to become a great scientist. At last, Naomi—she helped me understand my homework, and since then I never forgot those formulas. A great teacher, she would be.
They ransacked his shirt and trousers pockets, but found nothing except a dirty brown handkerchief. Feeling disgruntled, they threatened him: "Make sure you pay all your debt by the end of the century, scoundrel! It'll not be your blood, but your guts we spill." The roughs fled, leaving Manabu forsaken, weeping until the cruel weather drove him away.
To this day, I slumber lying on my left side. I fear I might choke. But one day... I slept facing the ceiling, and I was disappointed. I hope this winter has something special to offer me. Just one good thing would be enough…