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Yukio Mishima delves deep into the realms of nationalism and reverence for the emperor, intertwining heroic sentiments with the enduring echoes of Japan’s glorious past.

This story was translated from the Japanese by Chōkōdō Shujin. It was originally published here.


One evening in early spring, I attended the spiritual meeting of Kimura Sensei, and was impressed in a way that I will never forget. There are many aspects of what happened that night that I am not at liberty to write down, but I believe it is my duty to convey the record as faithfully as possible.

The method of returning to the gods, called the method of yusai, differs from the kensai method, in which Shintō prayers are offered at ordinary shrines and the deity is worshiped. The name is derived from the fact that it is a method for the spirit, by the spirit. The return of a deity to this is what is usually called a kami kari, whereby the person is possessed by a deity, which is clearly seen not only by the person himself, but also by those around him.

There is also a distinction between self-sense and other-sense, and the former is to be in tune with one’s own divine spirit, while the latter is to be in tune with the spirit of the other.

The meeting I attended was, needless to say, based on this manifested homage to the gods.

In the other-sense method, there is a seishin, a medium, and a koto player, who plays the koto to ask for the coming of the divine spirit. However, Kimura’s strict father, Iwabue Tenkai, was abolished as a koto master, and so he himself, a judge, began a method of blowing a stone flute.

The stone flute, like the repose ball, was originally given to him miraculously from the realm of the gods, but it is possible to find a suitable one and use it. Usually, a natural stone the size of a fist or an egg with a natural hole in it is used, but ancient relics generally have a hole through them. The treasured stone flute passed down to Sensei from Tenkai was a slightly bluish-black, divine and strange gem, with a hole diagonally through the stone of about the size of two fists. It is said that if it is played seriously, one can hear the sound of eight chimes, and this is why Tenkai was bestowed with this from the realm of the gods.

As usual, Shigeo Kawasaki served as the Shintō priest, and this twenty-three-year-old blind young man fulfilled his duty in the most obedient and pure way, according to Kimura Sensei’s judgement. Those who follow the Shirakawa Shintō tradition claim that Tenjin is possessed mainly by women, and earthquakes are possessed mainly by men. This is a misrepresentation.

If there are any who think that when he casts spirits, they behave in a boisterous manner, shouting or chanting, they should come and see Kimura Sensei.

It was a solemn and dignified event, in keeping with the true spirit of the occasion, and without a trace of noise.

That night, a warm southerly wind, not befitting the spring in early March, was blowing with a hint of rain, and the closed shutters were rattling and the rain often came pounding on the windows.

The meeting of the returning deities was never as ostentatious and frightening as it might seem in the popular imagination. Even after a divine spirit has possessed the medium, if it is a new spirit, it will never speak in the ancient words of the Kojiki and Nihonshoki. Modern words are spoken freely, and sometimes modern language is used that might seem incongruous.

The attendees were not only in awe, but were also in a state of mind to face the spirits intimately with their own hearts, so they were rather pleased to hear the priest speak about our current concerns in familiar terms. But, of course, there was an inexpressible spirit there.

Because of this, the inviolable divinity was preserved. That night, without knowing what was about to happen, I washed myself and my clothes and, as usual, was delighted to be in a place with a refreshing divine atmosphere, but in hindsight, I could not help but have some inkling of what was to come. I could not help but have a slight feeling of foreboding, not only because of the gusty wind beating against the shutters, but also because that night I saw something somewhat unusual in the face of the Shintō priest Kawasaki.

Unfortunately, at the age of eighteen, Mr Kawasaki lost sight in both eyes in an accident, but since then his spiritual eyes have been opened, and through the guidance of Kimura, he was able to open his eyes to a spiritual image, so to speak.

Mr Kawasaki had a white face that could be called handsome, with thin eyebrows, a nervous and gentle nose, and thin lips like a woman’s. The day of the return, however, he was even paler than usual and did not exchange a single word with the attendees.

When Kimura Sensei finally blew the first note of the stone flute, his face became increasingly bloodless.

The shoulders of his white coat were faintly trembling. The sound of the stone flute was heard by the audience. It had a divine reverberation that shook the heart and mind, although people who have never heard it could not understand it. At the bottom, there was a warm, opaque sediment. It seemed to pierce through the lungs, but at the same time it was filled with a warm and balmy spring breeze. It was as if I could look into the depths of an ancient lake, see the colours of the algae, and see through them the shapes of fish and plants. Or it was as if one heard a reverberating echo returning from the sparkling water in the depths of the well of a thousand lengths. Whenever this flute began to play, I always felt as if my soul, which had been asleep, was awakened.

The influence of the stone flute on the Shintō priest Kawasaki must have been enormous. Sometimes, I felt as if he were being guided by Kimura Sensei.

Sometimes the sensei would continue to play the flute for more than an hour, but that night, as soon as the sensei started to play, there was a noticeable change in Kawasaki’s appearance.

His cheeks were often flushed when he was possessed by the gods, but beads of sweat began to form on his pale forehead. A glimmer of sweat could also be seen on his white chest, which peeked out at the seam of his collar.

The sound of the wind beating at the shutters distracted me, while Kawasaki’s upper body began to sway slightly from side to side, and a faint smile appeared on his exhausted cheeks.

Now, though the waves of the four seas are not necessarily calm, the Yamato country of Japan is. ……

When I heard the beginning of this song, I was horrified and involuntarily exchanged looks with Mr N, who was sitting next to me. Normally, Kawasaki’s voice was hoarse and weak, reminiscent of pneumonia. I was no longer astonished by the change in his voice on the occasion of his return to the shrine, but the voice he had just begun to sing was clearly a different voice.

It was not a human voice, but the sound of a multitude of people chanting in unison, seemingly from afar.

It was clearly a young, manly voice that radiated from his throat, and of course it did not bear any resemblance to Kawasaki’s natural voice. I couldn’t help but doubt my ears when I heard such a large chorus coming from the throat of a single person, resonating and symphonying like a song in a vast cavern. Rather than the solemn voice of the gods, it sounded like a crowd of young men singing together in anger and derision.

When I looked at Kimura Sensei, he was quietly meditating and playing his stone flute. His expression was not the slightest bit disturbed. The chorus, sewn into the sound of the flute, continued, rising and falling like a distant tidal wave.

Now, though the waves of the four seas are not always calm,

But in the land of Yamato,

Where the sun rises,

The winds are quelled, and pleasure is a devotion.

Under his benevolence,

Peace was the way of the world,

The people exchanged gentle smiles of peace,

Interests became entangled,

Enemies and friends united,

And the world became a place of peace and tranquillity.

Foreign lucre pushes men onward,

He who no longer desires war,

Loves vile cowardice, and

Only wicked wars thrive in the shadows.

Husbands, wives, and friends cannot be trusted,

Duplicitous democracy is the food of affluence,

The harmonies of hypocrisy cover the world.

Power is disgraced, flesh is despised,

The young are strangled at the throat,

In idleness, drugs, and struggle.

And to the path of hopeless ambition,

Like sheep, they align their steps towards banal desires.

Pleasure has lost its fruit, faith has lost its power,

Their souls are all corroded.

The old have vulgar self-affirmation and preservation.

In the name of morality, they spread themselves throughout the world.

Truth is concealed, the heart is diseased.

The feet of the wayfarer never fail to leap with hope,

The laughter of dementia pervades everything,

Every forehead bears the mark,

Of the death of the soul.

Joy and sorrow have passed away in the depths of the heart.

Purity is traded,

Even debauchery fades away.

But if you only think of money, money, money,

A man’s worth is lower than gold.

Even those who rebel against the world will live in peace,

Those who are fascinated by the world are self-satisfied,

The world’s time-honoured ones flare their pierced nostrils in self-satisfaction.

Decadent beauty, once again on the wane, dominates the world.

Only the perverse is called truth.

Cars multiply, foolish speed cuts to pieces the soul,

Great buildings are erected, but the cause collapses,

Its windows shine with the fluorescent light of impotent desires.

The rising sun is dim with smog,

Emotions are dulled,

Sharp angles are polished.

The fierce and valiant souls abandon the earth,

The blood is tainted at every turn and stagnates in peace,

The pure blood that gushes out has ceased.

Those who soar have their wings broken,

Termites sneer at its timeless glory.

How could the emperor become a man on such a day?

The nearer they got to the end, the more vigorously they clapped their hands and their voices boomed, the more sonorous the sound of a stone flute, but they sang with an ineffable anger and burning. For a while, only the sound of his breath and the sound of the stone flute intertwined in a shattering silence. It was as if Kawasaki’s windpipe was gasping to imitate the crack of his teacher’s stone flute, but unable to do so and unable to reach the sound of the music.

The sound of the stone flute eventually ceased. Kimura Sensei removed the flute from his mouth and quietly wiped the holes with a white cloth.


I asked him what kind of god had just descended. Because he sang so vividly about the current state of society, I speculated that he might have been channeling a recent deity.

Kimura Sensei suddenly opened his mouth and said, “No, I don’t necessarily think so.”

According to Dr Sawa’s words, he said, there are many deities, though none can be identified, and although this one seemed to be a young deity, there was no doubt of his high divinity, as well as the fact that he was mentioned in the previously mentioned biographies of the deities.

1. One should ask about the past, present, and future.

2. Whether a god is a true god or a false god, one must not be blind to the truth.

3. One must not fail to know the dignity of God’s upper, middle, and lower ranks.

4. One must not be ignorant of God’s merits and deeds.

5. One must not be unaware of the spirit of the gods, the spirit of harmony, the spirit of good fortune, and the spirit of strangeness: Kusi Mitama, Saki Mitama, Nigi Mitama, and Ara Mitama.

6. One must not be unaware of the existence of public and private possession of the deities.

And so on, but I secretly thought that these gods were not only true gods, but also belonged to the class, and their deeds were those of great wrathful spirits, and it was speculated that they were possessed here tonight as official possession. It all became clear to me. After this night had passed, I discovered that his initial guesses had all come true, which renewed my respect for him, but I was also inspired by the fact that this record was also a public possession.

Kimura reiterated, “When he speaks of the present world, he does not necessarily refer to the new gods. They see through everything, and this is why they call the present world unclean. What I find strange is that while listening to this chorus, I could constantly smell the scent of the sea and see the moon shining on the distant sea, but now I will ask what kind of gods they are and where they gather.”

I therefore listened attentively to Sensei, who once again picked up the stone flute and played a resplendent note.

Like a white dog who hears the call of his master, Kawasaki raised his head. I noticed that his face had changed, and it had a dignified, gallantly determined expression, different from his usual soft and fragile aura. His eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes were narrowed, and even his gentle lips were tightly knit, giving him the look of a young soldier on the verge of battle. Kimura Sensei took the stone flute from his mouth.

He said in a firm tone of voice: “What kind of god are you? Please answer me.”

Kawasaki’s voice in response to this was also a thick, masculine voice that came from his throat.

We are the spirits of the betrayed, his voice said clearly.

We were horrified.

Kimura Sensei did not move an inch, and in the same calm tone of voice, he asked again: “Who betrayed you?”

I hesitate to tell you now, but after you have heard our story, it will become clear to you.

“Where are the gods gathered now?”

I cannot tell you the name of the place, only that it is on the sea of the moon.

Many like-minded spirits are gathered.

The spring storm that is now beating against the roofs of your houses and thrashing against your doors is a quickening of our breath rushing in to lull you to sleep.

The sea here, however, is far from land, the moonlight is full, and the tide, with its black swell, softens without showing the crests of the waves.

This is our resting place. But even now our hearts are torn by resentment, resentment and unbearable burning. For we are spirits betrayed.

“Why have you been betrayed?”

Hear what he has to say.

Look at him. He is dressed in khaki, his golden buttons gleam in the moonlight, and on his shoulders are shining epaulettes. And the breast of his uniform is torn and wet with blood.

It advances like a sail carrying the wind above.

His chest was not torn by a bullet. It was torn by endless resentment. The blood is still flowing.

It is still bleeding.

At this point, I realised that the return of the gods tonight had brought about an extraordinary situation.

Kimura Sensei did not change his external composure, but I could see the sweat on his forehead, and I could see the fire of his spiritual anger.

I could sense that he was tempted to recoil.

However, once the divine spirit has been summoned, no matter how rough the spirit may be, it is a source of future misfortune to wish for it to ascend to the heavens on our own initiative, and this is a firm warning from the Shinto tradition of our predecessors. I knew that he had already made up his mind to welcome this kami.

Meanwhile, Kawasaki’s face gradually became flushed, and his words came out of his mouth one after another with such divine dignity that it seemed as if there was no way to stop them.

Sensei asked him, “What is the spirit of the divine games on the sea?”

Divine games?

The spirit’s words had a mocking or, depending on the listener’s point of view, self-deprecating tone to them.

We have escaped from the land’s everlasting Okutsu-jo castle, and on moonlit nights we gather on the roaring sea to talk about the present world and the world that has passed.

It is not only our comrades who gather together. Sometimes hundreds and thousands, even thousands of thousands of spirits meet and join their voices in a joyous song that denounces the filth of the world.

But we know that even their voices no longer reach the ears of the people.

Blood still flows in the sea around Japan. The blood shed by countless young men in the past forms the core of the ocean tide. Have you seen it? We see it in the moonlit sea. The blood spilt by the idle turns the black tide to the colour of blood, and the red tide roars and roars like a raging beast, howling mournfully as it wanders around this small island nation. To watch it is our divine play. It is our game to watch it, to join our hands and just watch. Away in mainland Japan, some of the endless groups of lights are floating on the sea and the flames of the furnaces are licking the night sky. There, a hundred million people are sleeping, or drenched in a cold, satiated pleasure that we have never known.

Can you see them?

Japan without a national identity, which we tried to manifest in its true form, has been trampled underfoot.

Japan without a national polity is, however, floating like a buoy.

Can you see it?

Now is the time to reveal our true identity. Thirty years ago, we raised a righteous army and were killed under the stigma of rebellion.

You have not forgotten us.

I only then realised that this was the spirit of a young officer who had once been executed at Yoyogi.

The angry spirit then told the divine narrative as follows.


In death, we know all. Now in death, there is no power to forbid our words. We are entitled to say everything. For we have shed the blood of our sincerity. Once again, on the way to the prison, the words of a first lieutenant come back to me: “If we all die, you will go to the Emperor with your blood on your hands. And even if you die, you will serve the sovereign. Long live the Emperor. Long live the Empire of Japan.”

And did we who died go to the Emperor? That is what we are going to talk about. Now that we know and understand all, that is what we want to talk about. But first we will speak of love. We will speak of the ferocity of that love, and of the purity of that love.

I am the commander-in-chief of your soldiers. Then I shall be at your service, and you look up to me as your head.

The Imperial Family should be especially deeply concerned. Whether or not I am able to protect the nation and repay the favour of the ancestors in accordance with the blessings of the heavens above, it depends on whether you military personnel fulfil your duty or not.

The image of His Majesty the Great General astride his white horse in the yellow dust of the great battle, beneath the fluttering of the Emperor’s banner, is a small, distant, human figure, seared in our hearts as the form of the living God for whom we are to die.

God is distant, small, beautiful, and shining purely, like the star on the insignia of the military cap we were given.

He is the embodiment of the Divine spirit of the Emperor’s ancestors and the Imperial Sovereignty, who leads the armies without enemy, and who is more abundant than the rain of mercy for the blue sea.

Our hearts are burning with love and we are afraid to look up to him, but the young, glowing eyes of Tadayoshi’s soldiers all bear the image of the Supreme Being. Our Great General and our hero, our warrior, our compassionate Mother, brave and merciful.

Even during the intense training, we felt as if the Great Spirit of the Sumeragi was communicating with us, and a ray of light of the Great Spirit was always shining into our hearts as we fought, even from beyond the fields where the smoke of the Sentinel was drifting. And we dreamt. Oh, what a distance there is between us and that beautiful, pure, distant star! What a distance, though, between our filthy robes of war and that heavenly, fragrant robe of holiness!

The distance between us and them is vast. Can our voices be heard? The sound of the Emperor echoes in our bodies day and night through the imperial edict, but will the cry of our blood, the cry of Banzai, which we must unleash on the verge of death, reach his ears? God, who has a thousand ears and a thousand eyes to see and hear. But then ・・・・・・

We dreamed. Distance always makes us dream. No matter how remote, no matter how far away from home we die in the North Sea, we will always die in front of His Majesty. But if the time comes when the hopeless distance is reduced and that distant star appears before our eyes, our eyes will be blinded by its glow, we will bow down, prostrate, our words will be hushed, and we will know nothing of what we can do, but how great will be our bliss! How will our love at the risk of death be fulfilled? How intense will be our joy in death and how full of joy will our hearts be if, at that moment, a voice of great purity comes down to us and says only: “Die.”

We dreamed of that moment, which would never come in our lifetime. We are young and strong, loyal, brave and faithful, our hearts are aflame and our souls are pure. Injustice shall not touch us, but youthful strength and blood shall flow through us. Thus we dream of the stars of the slumber.

We have dreamt about it and have nurtured its image in our hearts with longing. The embodiment of peerless valour and unrivaled benevolence. He, the incarnation of spiritual compassion.

If we go out to the One, the distance that was so far from here will be vanquished, and the fear of being here in front of the One, with whom we are so close, so dear, so dear to father and son, will not be unwarranted. We are young, unadorned by culture and elegance, and though we are stalwart, we are sure that the Emperor will have accepted our clumsy love, our blood and death-cries, and our clumsy fidelity.

Thus, at last, we have arrived at a definite dream. In that dream, the raw silk of the court, woven with the elegance of a thousand years, was blowing gracefully in the breeze.

“There is no such thing as a one-sided love for His Majesty.” We were convinced by the dream that there is no such thing as unrequited love. If there were such a thing, if there were to be unrequited love, then the military edict would become a curse and the military spirit would die out.

We should fall in love, fall madly in love. No matter how one-sided the love, if there is no flaw in its purity and its fervour, His Majesty will surely be pleased. For His Majesty is so compassionate, so kind and so gentle. That is the heart of the Sorrowful God.

We have believed this. Thus we have told the divine story of the beginning of this love.

When he had reached this point, there was a wan colour on Kawasaki’s face, the tension relaxed, even his eyebrows relaxed, and I could sense the delicate sadness in his normally thin eyebrows and the faint, barely perceptible movements of his eyeballs. The voices of the spirits suddenly ceased.

We were speechless. Kimura Sensei soon realised how we were feeling and said, “Tonight you have done something unexpected. I am not sure that either Kawasaki or I will be able to bear the weight of such a divine spirit tonight. But we must respond to the will of the gods who have chosen us with all our strength and sincerity. There may be many frightening and frank things that will be said tonight through the mouths of the gods, but I hope that you will not neglect to listen to the voice of the Spirit and will grasp the true meaning of the true yusai. This is the first such evening in my half-life, and it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for all of you. For the sake of this evening’s rituals, I would not be at all disappointed if I were to lose my breath and die. I think Kawasaki probably feels the same way.”

I was struck by the spirit of Sensei, but at the same time I was concerned about Kawasaki’s body, which was not strong to begin with and was blind.

He picked up the stone flute and put it quietly to his lips. The storm showed no sign of abating, and outside the shutters there was an agonised rustling of the trees while the rain was pouring down on the land beyond.

The sound of the rain was constantly heard as it tore and flew, striking at an angle. The sound of the flute was at first controlled by the rain, but gradually the writhing sound became more and more like the sound of a thin mountain stream, and then it overpowered the sound of the rain outside the house. As I listened to this, without realizing it, I was lured out into the open fields by the sound of the flute. I felt like I was gathering in the midst of a sacred tree.

The first time I heard the Heroic Spirit speak through the mouth of Mr Kawasaki, I was so moved by his words that I could hardly believe it.


At that time, His Majesty was thirty-five years old.

His Majesty was surrounded by the reason of many old vassals and the subtle cunning of many wise men. Never before had he witnessed the vivid blood of young men flowing in defence of the sacred and pure body.


The poverty of the people and the suffering of the people were kept away from the face of the Dragon, and His Majesty was surrounded by a multitude of people, namely, wicked vassals, or those who only devoted themselves to self-preservation, those who took action without an unwavering determination, those who were cowards and led the way to disaster without knowing it, or cold-blooded, cruel plotters, ambitious people. Ambitious men surrounded him. And His Majesty never failed to see the sincerity, the sighs of the young and nameless men breathing in the shadows of the frosty barracks.

Our national polity is the link between heart and blood, the dramatic joy of a forfeit of an impossible one-sided love. In our eyes, therefore, His Majesty the Emperor is a prisoner, imprisoned by hideous monsters, a prisoner of loneliness and purity.

The monsters vomit, eat human flesh, and roam about with stupendous snarls. Their scales are covered with golden moss, and they smell of a foul copper odour. All the grass withered under their feet as they crawled about.

We earnestly longed to rescue His Majesty through these monstrous beasts. Only then will the people be saved from the agony of their suffering, and the soldiers will be able to go valiantly to the defence of the country without fear.

At last we have raised a righteous army. Remember: on that snowy day, the power of restoration hidden in the depths of our history prepared a rare dialogue between the sovereign and the people, between God and man, between the ten good men and the loyal youth.

Think! At that time, the land of Tamaho and Mizuho had become a wasteland, the people wept with hunger, women and children were sold, and the earth was filled with the death of the Great Prince. The gods conspired against the purest well of our history.

They drew up the purest and most beautiful water from the wells of our history, poured it over our heads, and replaced it with the people who lay prostrate in the wasteland and wept.

The Arahitogami secretly prepared for a dialogue with the present living god. At that time, the divine kingdom would be manifested, the narrow walls would be blown away, our national body would be as clear as crystal, and the country would be filled with bliss.

The purest of history then, overthrowing omnipresent corruption, decay and deceit, wished to confront His Majesty only with purity and fervour, only with youth, with youth, alone. The cries of blood and the faces of death, long buried in these fields, these fields, these forests, as long as he has commanded, now borrowing the faces of young and fierce soldiers, they have been ready to meet, to overflow, to meet face to face. The simplest and deepest souls of Japan, in the depths of the underworld, wished to make this their destination and their way to the light, to speak to the source of light.

We were its commanders.

And we were the soldiers of God who acted according to divine design. One picture was drawn as follows, full of light.

There is a hill. On a clear snowy morning, the snow-covered hill glistens with silver, the trees are shedding their delightful drops, the mighty bamboos have risen from beneath the snow, and we are standing at the head of our troops, carrying the bloody swords with which we have slaughtered the thieves. The blood of our swords drips on the snow, our cheeks burn, and our snow-washed caps are a jet-black blue, reflecting the sky.

The soldiers are all solemn and excited, waiting for the approaching moment of glory. It is also the time of redemption for the sorrowful parents and grieving sisters of our homeland.

We look up at the snowy sky.

The blueness that permeates the eyes continues to the tops of the shining white snow on the mountains in the distance, without a shred of cloud blocking them. And the snow that falls from the canopy of the giant trees scatters and falls again into shimmering powder, falling softly on our caps.

And then… Only then does a man on a white horse slowly advance from the foot of the hill. It is not a man. It is a god. He is our head of state, His Majesty the Great General, who is both brave and merciful.

We call out to the soldiers.


What could be more appropriate for our young and heroic order than a glorious, clear and snowy blue sky?

His Majesty has halted his horse, and his shadow on the horse is now unfortunately leaking onto our snow.

The shadow of His Majesty on horseback reaches the foot of our boots. We greet you with the uniforms we so proudly wear and with the salute of the sword.

Before our eyes we see the glint of sparkling silver, of the sword’s blade, the blood trickling back from the sword’s apex.

“Respectfully, Your Majesty, we have cut down the wickedness of your side, and now solemnly await Your Majesty’s decree. We ask that you save the people through your parental rule.”

“Good. I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you and your families. From now on, I will take charge of the government and ensure the safety of the country. Until now I have not known. The army needs men of integrity. From now on, they will change their faults and take their place in the majesty of the Emperor’s army.”

The sound of the ball is as if the clear, snowy blue sky were uttering a fresh voice. His Majesty continued.

“Rely on me. We must revive the fierceness.”

“No, Your Majesty, please leave it as it is. If you advance the rank even by a single grade, the spirit of the Meiji Restoration, for which we risked our lives, will be tarnished. The only way to reward us is for you to bring about the fruits of your administration, and to make the soldiers feel no fear of retribution. Now the soldiers can be proud to fulfil their duty as soldiers and lay down their lives to protect the Empire.”

“Really. They are the true soldiers of the Imperial army.” His Majesty descended the snowy hill without losing his wisdom, guarded by soldiers of the Red Company.

We are the Divine Soldiers who follow in the footsteps of the white horse.

Consider. Here is another picture. It is not a shining picture, but it is no less fortunate and glorious than the first one. It was this second picture that was drawn more vividly in our minds. The same hills. But the sky is not clear, the snow has stopped, but the grey clouds hang low. From there, as if a piece of white snow had suddenly taken wing and flown over, a person on a white horse, or rather a god, comes galloping.

The white horse neighs with its head erect, its snort is white and frozen, it kicks up the snow and gallops up the hill. It stops before us, stamping its erratic footsteps. We greet it with the salute of a sword. We look up at the god’s face and see the extraordinary determination that fills it, and we know that our aspirations have at last been moved to the heart of the Great Spirit.

“I understand their aspirations. I appreciate their sincerity.”

“From this day onwards, I will use my parental authority to reassure the people, and I will surely keep their fiery hearts alive.”

“I am glad of their sincerity.”

“Die in peace. They must die immediately.”

We did not hesitate to relax our military uniforms and shouted, “Long live the Emperor!”, and thrust the daggers in our hands deep into our own bellies. Thus, the blood of our hot tempered vassals will be mixed with our pure blood and purified before His Majesty’s horse as the blood of the same Emperor’s child.

There will be no pain for us. It is a death of joy and bliss. But we hear the sobbing of the soldiers behind us as we move our blades in the tight embrace of flesh. We hear the cries of the enemies of our beloved soldiers, who ate and slept with us, swore allegiance to us, and entrusted their deaths on the battlefield to our hands. Then comes a moment of bliss, the most divine bliss in the world. His Majesty the Great Marshal dismounts from his white horse and descends onto the snow stained with our young blood. At his feet, our now mortal bodies are broken. His Majesty sends us off to our death with a raised hand.

We straighten our heads and look up at the face of the Tennō with all our strength in the consciousness that we are moving away from it. The low-hanging clouds parted and a ray of light shone brightly on the Sumeragi’s face. And we shall see a miracle at the edge of death.


On the cheeks of the god are tears of mourning for our deaths!

“The light that pierces through the clouds, the tears of the moon! The tears that God feels for our sincerity! Such death comes in the form of righteous bliss. ………”

I could see the flushed cheeks of Kawasaki’s face suddenly fade and gradually turn the colour of an angry pallor. The voice no longer had an ecstatic sound, but a wild, desolate, unbroken, and dark agitation, as if were intertwined with the storm outside, with an inexplicable tone of sadness running through it, tearing at the heart of the listener.

It was only a dream, only a picture, only a vision. If the Sumeragi were God, it was certain that He would have chosen one of the two pictures, for there was no way that such a passion for love could not have reached the ears of God. And if the Sumeragi were a god, he could not have let such a supreme moment of dialogue between gods and humans, in which the gods conspired against each other, pass unfulfilled. The final opportunity for the salvation of the country, which the gods had so clearly arranged, could not have been missed.

At that time, His Majesty wandered about the dark palace, listening to the introspection of his retinue. The uneasiness of the people, carried by the hands of the people like a disease, was already leaking, transformed into the uneasiness of the courtly style. His Majesty immediately said:

“Japan has become like Russia.”

How indignant our comrades in prison were when they heard these words, how they listened, how they wept tears of blood!

On that day, 26 February, His Majesty had already said in audience with the Minister of War: “Regardless of the spirit of this incident, it is with great reluctance that I acknowledge that it has damaged the very essence of our national identity.”

On the 27th, His Majesty said: “You want me to forgive a young officer who has killed one of my trusted advisers. I order you to call the Martial Law Commander and inform him of my orders, and to bring the situation under control as soon as possible. If you hesitate any longer, I will personally withdraw my Imperial Guard Division to suppress the situation.”

On the same day, those who requested an imperial envoy to send us to commit suicide were told: “If they wish to commit suicide, let them do so on their own. For that reason, I cannot send an imperial messenger.”

His Majesty”s hatred for us knew no bounds. The flattery of the vassals had this hatred behind it and quickly devised a plan to corner us.

The Imperial decree issued on the 28th was suppressed in mid-sentence and was not seen by us, and this innocent defiance immediately led to our being accused of rebellion against the Emperor. His Majesty’s hatred was boundless. Our enemies in the army took advantage of this and immediately prepared a dark trial, and without any reason for our explanation, the capital punishment was swiftly handed down. Thus we were bound to the cross, and the bullets that pierced our foreheads and hearts were stained with the shame of the rebels.

At this time the Imperial Army under the leadership of His Imperial Majesty had already died, and at this time the cause of our Empire crumbled. On the day when loyal hearts turned rebels, the Nazi-crazed warlords of the Han dynasty paved the way for an unobstructed war.

We have no way to condemn His Majesty for hating us so much. But rebels! Rebellion! How can there be so much benevolence in His Imperial Majesty’s heart to call a righteous army, which is trying to clarify the state of the nation, a rebel army and let it die?

The rebellion is not only a divine mind.

As a man, I have hated violence.

The call to God in the blood-curdling cries of the fools,

Who prostrate themselves before the roadside,

Finally fails to reach the heavens,

And His Majesty has forsaken the vast poverty,

And the foolish redemption of the young officers.

From the time of our ancient mythology,

When Susanoo-no-Mikoto,

Who had elaborated the blood-curdling cries of the spirits of the earth,

Threw a horsehide into the sanctuary,

God’s wrath was kindled and the country was destroyed.

As a human being, your majesty turned your face away from this mellow, rough soul.

And so Sumeragi became a human being.

As they sang, one voice joined in, and then another, until, as at the beginning of this meeting, it became a chorus of many voices. And like the swell of the tide, once the chorus filled the ears of the attendees, the voice of God speaking alone was no longer discernible.

Mr Kawasaki’s clapping began in the middle of the song. It wasn’t slammed in the same cadence as it had been in his earlier tropes, but an indescribably dark beat erupted from his thin palms, lingering as the song neared its end.

At that moment, I was startled by a strange sound that suddenly emanated from Kawasaki’s mouth.

It was a cry of intense grief that could only be described as a wail. He fell to his knees, which had never collapsed before, and began to weep, writhing on the tatami.

Never before have I heard such wails filled with sorrowful lamentation. As he lay on the tatami, the back of his white robe wrinkled in agony, and he rubbed his left cheek against the tatami, then his right cheek, and cried and cried, until his tears could be seen dampening the tatami mats.

Kimura Sensei silently crossed his arms and watched the earth-shattering wailing of the god who possessed the young blind priest.

I felt as if it had been going on for a long time. The wailing of sorrow was like a hurricane, wandering out into the open. It was as if the wailing had the same quality as the natural wind and rain, and the demonic cries, mingled with the sound of the wind, reached our ears directly from the southern sea, the source of the wind, without going through Kawasaki’s vocal cords. It reached our ears directly.

When the wailing of Mr Kawasaki had finally subsided, I suddenly felt my entire strength leave me, and I thought that tonight’s ritual would be over, and that this deep impression should be recorded and passed on to future generations.

It seems that Kimura Sensei had the same thought.

“It was a truly memorable night. It is a matter of utter reverence that the Divine Spirit has chosen us to announce such a momentous event. The thing is, I can’t look back. So, do you think that God has already ascended? …Now, let us move on to the meeting, where we can slowly discuss the impressions of this evening.”

He stood up first to lead the way. He was a strong man and looked younger than his age to some people.

As soon as he stood, he staggered around as if he were dizzy, leaning against a pillar and pressing his forehead against it, as if waiting for the lightheadedness to subside. It would have been natural for the attendees to immediately stand up and support the body at such a time, but when I saw that none of them did so, it seemed that I was not the only one who felt as if I was bound tightly as I watched. It was only for about ten seconds. I suddenly felt a sense of being unbound, and when I went to offer him a hug, he had already returned to his original position and was sitting as before without incident. I was told that a divine change and a mysterious thing had just happened, and I was no longer in a position to meet face to face. There was a commotion on the sea, but it was not a ship sailing by or people gathering to rescue a shipwreck. The noise was clearly the voice of something other than a human being.

Sensei spoke.

“When I stood up just now, I suddenly heard a strong scent of the tide, and then the rest was lost. Before I knew it, I realised that I had been carried by a tornado to the moonlit sea. I immediately recognised a group of army officers, their uniforms stained with blood on their chests, and rushed seaward towards them. The surface of the sea was as free to walk on as if I were walking on a long, dark blue carpet. I prostrated myself before him and asked him, which of the two souls is the one who just nobly descended from the gods?”

All of them were young and dignified spirits, but they looked at each other, and one of them, smiling faintly in the moonlight, replied: “Do not ask that question, any one of us will do. We are like-minded people.”

When I was somewhat unsatisfied with this answer, another of them pointed to the sea and said cheerfully: “Oh, our younger brother gods have come.” When I looked out to sea, all I could see was a vast horizon melting in the moonlight, but nothing resembling that.

I asked the mitama, “What kind of spirit is the brother god?”

“Next to us, the spirits of the betrayed. The second is the spirit that has betrayed us,” came the somber reply from one of the pillars.

A group of divine spirits were already standing a dozen yards away, dimly lit halfway through the moonlight. They were all wearing flying suits and carrying Japanese swords, and the white scarves on their chests were stained with blood.

When I felt one of them approach me, I woke up. I remained sitting there as before, but how much time had passed since then?

I immediately said that I thought it had been about ten seconds. Kimura Sensei heard this and was greatly astonished.

“Tonight, it seems that the divine spirits will not let us go no matter what. I am determined to work as long as I can, but I would like you all to be willing to give up going home, as this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Sensei said this, but all the participants had no objections at all, their eyes shining, their knees braced, and they waited for the next miracle to occur.

During this time, Kawasaki had stopped wailing and was lying on the tatami mats, snoring lightly and falling into an unawares sleep. One of the attendants brought him a blanket so that he would not catch a cold.

I asked Sensei whether I should hang it elsewhere, but he gave me a stern warning to leave it as it was, so I refrained from doing so.

Kimura Sensei looked down at his sleeping form with an unusually stern gaze, but then took up the stone flute and began to play it clearly and rationally.

The flute played for about five minutes in vain, and still, Kawasaki did not wake. Knowing how exhausted he was and how he had devoted all his strength and mind, I could not help but feel sympathy for him.

I could not help but feel sorry for him, but the god that possessed him would sooner or later take no account of such circumstances, but would lay on his slender and delicate body like a rock.

He finally woke up, sat up, and asked for a glass of water. One of the attendants, with the tacit consent of Kimura Sensei, brought him a glass of water. During this time, the sound of his flute continued.

The glass of water that was brought to him, to the people’s gaze, was crystal clear and seemed mysterious. Kawasaki took a sip and gulped it down, but about two thirds of the water remained in the glass.

When he took a second sip of water, it seemed to have gone down his windpipe, causing him to lie down violently, and the water sprayed out in a spray and splashed onto the collar of his white coat.

Kimura waved his hand at the person who tried to wipe it off, and while he saw that Mr Kawasaki was violently restrained, Mr Kawasaki’s face, which had been dreamy until then, was clearly different from the divine spirit from earlier, but the same. His face transformed into a very dignified, angular, and masculine face.

Kimura stopped blowing his flute and asked, “Do you want to stay with the spirit of the younger brother god you worshiped on the sea earlier?”

“Yes. When the war was about to end in defeat, we offered our lives to the monarchy in order to bring about the last kamikaze of Shinshu.”

There was a cheerful reply. I thought of the image of the god in the flying suit and blood-stained scarf that he had seen earlier, and I knew that on this occasion the spirits of the heroes of the special attack force had possessed him.

“Mitama, why have the spirits of the heroes of the Special Attack Force been betrayed?” Sensei asked without fear.

You will know that when you listen to our story.

We were the ones who discovered the enemy’s task force in a bay on Hishima Island, near the Philippines, and the entire formation of five bombers and four cover planes, of which I was the commander, charged into it and sunk an aircraft carrier and a cruiser.

We drew our respective courses of advance on the aeronautical charts and set off. For this morning of death, for the day of honour when we would die before His Majesty’s Horse, we had devoted half a year to special training. During that time, death was always in sight.

We lived in days so different from those of our elder brothers. Japan was in a deep state of defeat and our country was already on the verge of being overwhelmed. The great disc of the sun was sinking, and the most beautiful invisible temple, the great architecture of the spirit that the people of a nation had worked so hard to build, was about to return to the earth, its cypress fragrance waning, its walls torn and its face falling. It was a huge, pure palatial residence that we had inherited, spread, and built from our ancestors, a place where those who lived there were not separated from the gods and humans, and where humans could immediately worship the gods as soon as they recognised themselves and entered the place.

Of course, we have never seen the palace residence with our own eyes. We had never felt that we lived there, much less seen it with our own eyes. But we believed that it existed somewhere in Japan. That is what our brother gods called the Kokutai, the national polity for which they had shed their blood.

We hoped to be the last kamikaze. Who named the divine wind? It is when the structure of the human world has come to a catastrophe, when all hope is lost, when the signs of destruction have already flitted about among men like swallows on the eaves of a house, and overhead, in the most irrational way imaginable, the eyes of the human blue sky are open, just to watch over this approaching doom and destruction. When his Majesty, hearing of the great efforts of the kamikaze special attack forces, gave the following words: “You had to go to such lengths? But well done.”

The captain then continued in a reverential manner. “I am sorry to say that we are deeply saddened and still suffering from a sense of inadequacy in our capital city. We must work harder here and put the Great Divine Will at ease.”

We don’t have the passion of death like our elder brother god. We are born out of despair, death is certain, and that death is none other than “death in front of the horse,” and His Majesty will accept our death with awe and sorrow. It is already decided. We have no hunger for love.

Our ardour, combined with the calm of the engineers, was spent in precise calculations for the validity of our own deaths. We were weighing our own deaths and trying to know with certainty in advance, even its immediate value, to the exclusion of all accidental lives. Oh, sometimes life flew in like a fly to disturb the weighing, under the guise of chance, however accidental it might appear. To remove all accidental life from the future. Even the faintest infiltration of life only served to rob our death of its validity.

The future is not a future, but a future of the future.

For it does not work.

In those days, we, like our brother gods, sometimes think of the distant, small, pure god.

The same is true of the other two. But the tacit agreement with God was so clear that we did not feel the need to hasten to maintain the distance. In any case, we had no time for that. Perhaps we were approaching it moment by moment, and in the end, death rushed in with the acceleration of our beloved aircraft, and death awaited with open arms, welcoming us to the heart of the enemy ship we were aiming for. In an instant we might see that distant, small, pure image of God upon the face of death. Then the distance would be zero and we, that God, and death would become one. Thus, calmly calculated, and adding to this the last of our heroic courage, we would have easily become one with His Majesty the Emperor.

We no longer believe in mystery. To become kamikaze ourselves, to become a mystery ourselves, that is what it means. To make people pray for something in us, to make them believe in something. The embodiment of it is our death.

The realisation of this is our death.

But if we ourselves are mysteries, and we ourselves are the living gods, then we must also be His Divine Majesty. On the very highest rungs of the divine ladder, there must shine His Majesty as God. For there is the root of our immortality, the root of the glory of our death, the only thread that connects us to history. And you must never try to save us from death or hinder our deaths by the passions and tears of men.

For it is by such an irrational death, such a magnificent slaughter of youth, that our genuine tragedy will be fulfilled. Otherwise, our deaths will be nothing more than a foolish sacrifice. We will be swordsmen in the arena, not warriors. We will die the death of slaves, not the death of God.

During our training, we sowed the Hagakure. The following verse was particularly dear to us: “All training is useless unless it is done with great arrogance. If I alone do not move my house, my training will be useless.” When it comes to prowess, I must be the best in Japan. Even Lord Naoshige once said, “You cannot kill one person with dozens of people.”

Bushido is a death-defying madness. The way of the Samurai is to be mad for death. You cannot do great deeds if you are not in the right mind, until you go insane and die. If you are able to discern the difference in Bushido, you will fall behind early. Neither loyalty nor filial piety enters into it, and in the martial arts it is a death-craze. In this, loyalty and filial piety are self-inflicted.

“The middle way is the ultimate in all things, but the martial arts cannot be achieved without a mind that surpasses that of others, even in ordinary life.”

We were proud, deathly mad, and far from the Middle Way.

Now we have set out.

Can we die successfully today?

We could not bear to return home in vain without finding an enemy ship and then find ourselves sortieing again after such a dramatic farewell. We prayed for the best of luck in death.

The formation left the mountains and dense jungles behind and headed east. We saw palm groves on the shore, a beautiful sight we would never see again. The white sand through the pale green of the shallows gave way to the pale red of the atolls, and the purplish-red sea around it changed to yellow, then to green, and finally to the deep azure of the ocean. This beautiful five-coloured sea was always a comfort to the eyes of the pilots in battle. Shall we take a closer look? Let us keep in mind the colours of the sea, like sunset clouds.

The formation climbed several thousand metres to pass over enemy defence fighters. From the oxygen inhaler, cool oxygen flowed into the oral cavity. This was the last pure meal.

I was thrilled by my good fortune when I could clearly see several black spots far out to sea ahead of me. A few spots of our death appeared in the middle of the tropical blue sea. The white clouds that flowed so quickly.

The sunspots, visible and hidden among the clouds, send us flattering glances.

It is as if they are the spirits of heroes.

Turn the commander’s aircraft towards it. The black dots now clearly show that the enemy task force, with the carrier at its centre, is advancing in the white waves. The slowness of their progress can be seen from here.

The engines are turned on. The sound of the explosions rises. Full speed.

The covering party opens formation for the enemy fighters and deploys to escort them.

Enemy fighters rise in unison, like a swarm of released winged insects.

There is only one goal. The enemy carrier.

Pull the safety pin on the bomb’s fuse and signal the column aircraft to begin their assault. Now there is only one way to go. Just lower the nose and charge towards the target. Without fumbling with your aim. And courage is just that – courage.

To see.

To see.

To see.

Without blinking your eyes for a second.

Wings that cut the wind at a frightening acceleration, making a sound that cuts through the blue sky of glistening steel. The carrier bursts into defensive fire all at once, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, clearly visible until the very last second.

A lone plank of the idyllic upper deck, like an after-school playground, dimly fades. But it never stops spreading. Moment by moment, what was at first the size of a small biscuit, becomes a plate, a tray, a chopping board, and spreads out, almost as if in play. Never quitting, it becomes a tennis court, an after-school playground, and then amidst the smoke, the gunfire blossoms like a yellow peony. Gun smoke fades. The aircraft carrier rightly becomes a carrier entity, nothing more than an aircraft carrier. Never turn your back, just look. We’ll get there soon. My whole body is inverted, my body and the fuselage are one, my ears are deafened, I feel no pain, my consciousness is wrapped in quivering, silver, then white light, and I just want to keep moving away. Stake everything for clarity and see, see, see, see through.

I was born.

To see.

How far away is the carrier? What a curse this acceleration should be to reach there soon. The last hours of my life are filled with fine particles as heavy as gold dust. A bullet pierced my chest and blood splattered back over my shoulder. Only the impact is felt, no pain.

It is not a mirage, nor an illusion. But this feeling of shock is the basis of consciousness and confirmation that what we are seeing is not an illusion.

A figure can be seen on the lift. That is the enemy. The enemy is fleeing. Death, which is supposed to greet you with open arms, is nowhere to be seen. The only thing that is certain is the lift. It exists. It is visible. … And the moment of the hit, the consciousness finally did not know.

Here Kawasaki ran out of words. We, who had been listening enthralled until then, only became aware of Kawasaki’s pale, gasping, and distressed appearance. The spirit must have borrowed the body of this blind young man and devastated his innards. But still, the divine spirit showed no mercy and tried to use him to convey the wrath of the gods.


The voice that came out of Kawasaki’s mouth was nothing like the dignified, youthful voice that had previously come out of his mouth.

I wondered if this time another divine spirit had taken up residence, but this was not the case. At the bottom, the same timbre flowed, only sadness and sweetness added a strange resonance to the voice, as if it were dragging a rusty iron chain.

…… Thus, after our deaths, we watched the defeat of our country from the spirit world. Only now can we deeply feel the lamentations of our elder brothers in our own flesh. The thing that the elder brothers wished so much to unfurl at that time was also a divine wind. At that time, the divine wind that the pure heart wanted to blow did not blow. Why is that? At that time, the divine wind should have blown, the grass and trees should have moved, the blood should have been purified, and the nation should have appeared like a crystal. The divine wind that we tried to bring about in our desperate situation, but it did not blow. Why is this? If a divine wind were to blow in modern Japan, it could only blow at two times: when our brothers rose to their feet, and when we marched forward. There have been two times when the divine wind has indeed blown, and when this country has proven itself to be a divine country. Why is this?

It seems that we are new to living in the realm of the gods, and yet the mystery remains unsolved. Gaze at the moonlit sea…

So, even if I stared at the area where my body was shattered into pieces, I could not understand why such pure human power had not called forth a divine wind at that time.

Just as a corner of the overcast sky breaks slightly and a glimpse of blue sky peeps out, it is true that only twice in the history of this dark human existence has the stern face of God gazed out over the earth. But the divine wind did not blow. And a group of young men were shot while bound to the cross and executed, and a group of young men decorated their tombstones with medals that quickly turned into toys. Why was this?

And yet, in hindsight, the brother gods and we rode through the land on pale horses, like messengers of ominous death and decadence. With their deaths, the brother gods embodied the demise of the Emperor’s army and the death of the military spirit. By our deaths, we embodied the destruction of Japan and the death of the Japanese spirit. They and we signified the end of the one, terrible, vain, shattered vessel of the great empire. Instead of the glory we had hoped for, we were remembered as an apocalypse. We longed for the dawn, we were the dawn, we were the beginning. Why?

Why did we, with our youth, with our strength, with our purity, become the gods of an ominous apocalypse? While longing to be the dawn, we must have been the last afterglow of the setting sun, lying in a yellowish line at the edge of the wilderness.

……Why is that? But gradually it became clear to us. The Emperor System was wavering in the debate amongst the powers, like a white incendiary flower swaying in the wind, with its crown to the dangerous blue sky. In the late autumn of 1945, Prime Minister Shidehara received the following words from His Majesty in audience:

“Once upon a time, an Emperor fell ill. When the Emperor himself asked for a doctor, the people of the court were afraid that a doctor would touch the body of the God of the Heavens. He would have deteriorated and died. Isn’t that outrageous?”

With these words, His Majesty implied that the deification of the Emperor must be corrected in order to be the Emperor of democratic Japan.

Standing before His Majesty was a respectable, loyal, old retainer who had gone through a lot of hardship. He was a pacifist born of deep resentment, a man of wrinkled freedom and reason, a fine English-looking old fox who got goosebumps at the mere mention of the word “army.” Since the beginning of the Shōwa era, he had been one of the most trusted, well-dressed, and polite gentlemen in His Majesty’s service. He was horrified and said: “The people have dedicated themselves to His Majesty. The people have so deified His Majesty that the military have abused it, as they did this time, and have finally destroyed the country by waging such a war. I would like to issue an imperial rescript to that effect in the New Year of 1946.”

His Majesty gave his quiet assent.

Meanwhile, in the middle of December, General Headquarters asked the Imperial Household Ministry: “Wouldn’t the Emperor’s position be improved if he made a statement to the effect that he was not a god?”

Thus, Shidehara once again asked His Majesty’s intentions, and of His Majesty’s own volition, it was issued.

This Shidehara was, as he himself put it, “a man of the world.”

As Shidehara said himself, he was more interested in making an impression on people abroad than in Japan, so he drafted it in English first. A passage in the rescript, based on the English draft, states: “We have, however, no intention of making an impression on the Japanese people. However, I am with you, my fellow countrymen, and wish to share the same interests and to be always at ease with you. The bonds between myself and the people are bound together by mutual trust and respect from the beginning to the end, and do not arise from mere myths and legends. The Emperor shall be the present living deity, and the Japanese people shall be a people superior to all other people.”

The Great Will was not based on the fanciful notion that the world was destined to be ruled by a single, unlimited power. Only a year later, the United States of America. …….

…… Now we tell our tale with a suppressed anger.

We have been watching from the divine world, and it is clear that this Declaration of Humanity contained the Emperor’s own will.

The Emperor himself said,” I am in fact a human being.”

For the sake of our divine Emperor, we have turned ourself into bullets and hit enemy ships. Over the years, the feeling of wanting this to be uttered had grown as heavy as falling snow.

After only half a year, after the deaths of his loyal men, when the war had been momentarily quieted by the imperial decree, His Majesty said: “In fact, I was a human being.”

We have gradually come to understand the “why” of this. His Majesty’s sincerity is beyond doubt. Since His Majesty himself claims to have been a human being, there can be no room for doubt in his words. Ever since His Majesty ascended to the throne, he has been human. In that dark world, he had no friends except for a handful of old advisors, and he was only a solitary voice of the Spirit of Heroism.

And while enduring all kinds of hardship, He was a human being. He was a pure, small, shining human being.

That is good. Who can blame His Majesty? But only twice in the history of the Shōwa period should His Majesty have been a God. What can I say, in my duty as a human being, I should have been a God? Only on these two occasions, His Majesty should have been God at the very height of his human duties. On both occasions, His Majesty has failed. He became a human being when he should have been a god.

Once when our brother Gods rose to their feet. Once after our deaths, once after the defeat of our country. It is foolish to say “if” in history. But if His Majesty had been determinedly divine on these two occasions, such vain tragedies would have been prevented, such vain happiness would have been prevented. On these two occasions, His Majesty, being human, once made the heart of the army lose its soul, and on the second occasion made the soul of the country lose its soul. The Imperial Generation was dyed in two colours, the bloody colour ended with the defeat, and the dark colour began from that day onwards. The day when the Sacred Generation was truly covered in blood was the day when the brother Gods forsook their sincerity, and the day when the Holy Dynasty was covered in ashes was the day when the Declaration of Humanity was made.

The day when the world was born. It all began on the day when we called the passing of the world “an imaginary idea.”

“Our immortality of death has been crushed. ………”

His voice trailed off, but what came next was a frightening and gruesome scene of Kawasaki’s body being jostled around. Kimura Sensei, seeing that the situation was not going to be easy, tried to perform the ritual with a stone flute, but the raging divine spirits did not quieten down. Evidently, the brother deities had now joined in, taking it in turns to borrow a word from Kawasaki, but the quality of his voice changed with each word, and it was impossible to trace the cry of any soul. We had no choice but to hide ourselves against the wall and watch in the dark as he stood and twisted on the tatami mats, screaming. His face was pale and dead. The words of the spirits sometimes became angry shouts, sometimes incomprehensible fragments, sometimes songs. All the objects in the room shook, and the hanging scrolls in the tokonoma alcove hit the walls again and again, flipping the wall clay white. Outside, the storm was screaming at its height, as if an invisible giant had risen up, and the shutters and windows were ringing ceaselessly.

Oh, oh, lamentable, wrath!



In the first place, which of these words is “as in word and sweat?”

If you are a God, we die by imperial decree, and if you are a God, you deliver armies by imperial decree.

This power is not the power of the Emperor himself, but that of the Imperial Fathers and the Imperial Sovereignty.

No, it’s the power of the Imperial Ancestor.



If the past is fictitious and the present is real, then why, for the sake of those who have died, Your Majesty?

Only One can protect the fiction of pain and suffering.

When Your Majesty said that you were only human, the spirits who died in the service of the Gods were stripped of their names.

The shrine, there is no shrine to be worshipped.

Even now, the blood still flows from their hollow chests.

Even in the divine world, there is no peace.

Japan has been defeated.

Agricultural land should be reformed.

Socialist reforms must be carried out.

If our country is defeated…

It is good to bear all the burdens of defeat on one’s shoulders.

Our people have endured hardship well.

We have passed through trials and are still strong.

We have tasted humiliation.

We can accept the irresistible demands with grace.

But only one thing, only one thing.

No coercion, no oppression, no threat of death, no matter what.

Any coercion, any oppression, any death threats…

His Majesty should not be said to be human.

Under the scorn of the world and the contempt of men.

Only one person.

Your Majesty alone, please keep yourself as a God.

Do not declare that it is fictitious, that it is false.

I do not believe that this is a lie or a falsehood.

(Even if you think it is true from the depths of your heart…)

Wrapping the body in a vestment, night and day, he is seen dimly.

Deep within the imperial palace.

Whenever we offer sacrifices to the spirits of those who have died for the sake of God, and when we pray, how much more honored should we be?

How can the Sumeragi become a human being?

How can the Sumeragi become a human being?

How can the Sumeragi become a human being?


Kawasaki clapped his hands to follow the growing chorus, but as he could no longer keep up, his clapping became more and more erratic. Finally, his mouth began to repeat the same words in a delirious tone, his strength failing him and his voice running dry, and not a single sound of the fierce voices could be heard. The clapping became faint, and his voice was barely audible, when Kawasaki fell on his back and stopped moving. We learned of the signs of an opening in the sky through the cracks in the shutters, and at last the spirit of the Gods ascended to the heavens.

I was convinced that he had been in a state of shock.

Kimura Sensei tried to shake Kawasaki up, touched his hand, and pulled it away. Sensing something was about to happen, we rushed to surround his body. The blind young man was dead. It was not only the fact that he was dead that frightened us. We were horrified to see that the dead man’s face had been transformed into a face that was not Kawasaki’s, but someone else’s.


This chapter is based on the following books:

Shidehara Peace Foundation (ed.), Kijuro Shidehara.

The Secret Records of the Occupation, by Toshio Hon.

Kamikaze Special Attack Force, by Rikihei Inoguchi and Tadashi Nakajima.

The Ni-Ni-Roku Incident, by Tsukasa Kono

The Emperor and the Rebel Officers, by Tetsuma Hashimoto

Nihon no coup d’etat, by Sutezo Hon

The Mystery of the Ni-Ni-Ni-Roku Incident, by Masei Takahashi

Reigaku sen’ei, by Mr. Tomoakiyo Funshin

The Arktos Restoration Initiative

We have handpicked thirty distinguished titles, previously lost to censorship, befitting any refined bookshelf. These esteemed classics are now offered in limited leather-bound editions, with a mere 100 copies per title. Owning one not only grants you a collector’s item but also supports our mission to restore them in paperback for all.

We will sequentially reveal three titles. After each pre-sale set concludes, we will move to the next trio. As each set is claimed, we will ship these treasures, while also making paperback versions available in our online store.

Your contribution aids the metapolitical battle, ensuring that vital ideas and concepts remain accessible to an ever-expanding audience.

Racial Civil War
The Path of Cinnabar
Yukio Mishima

In the tumultuous landscape of post-war Japan, where old gods and ancient traditions clashed with the encroaching shadow of Westernization, there emerged Yukio Mishima – a warrior-poet of unmatched vigor. With a quill as sharp as a samurai’s blade, he carved tales that spanned the chasm between Japan’s time-honored past and its uncertain future. As passionate about the physical form as he was about the written word, Mishima’s life was a relentless pursuit of beauty, honor, and a nationalism reminiscent of bygone eras. This undying flame of fervor led him to a dramatic and self-chosen end, sealing his legacy as one of Japan’s most enigmatic and formidable literary titans.

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