Chapter 43: The Double Black
Through death, Dazai Osamu once again departed from the previous world.
Filled with a sense of anticipation for death, he drove his sports car, pushing the odometer to its limit, onto a deliberately chosen rugged mountain road. The roar of the engine was clearly audible in the quiet night. The foreseeable future in his mind did not change his expression in the slightest; he remained as calm as ever. He calculated the angle, slammed on the accelerator, crashed through the surrounding fence, and plunged off the cliff.
The feeling of weightlessness arrived as expected.
The car tumbled through the air, almost breaking free from gravity, like a black bird with broken wings, resolutely plunging into the embrace of the earth. The wind howled in my ears, or perhaps it was the whisper of death.
At the moment of his death, Dazai Osamu even slightly raised the corners of his mouth, feeling the slight pulling sensation of his body under inertia. In such an extreme impact, his consciousness, like a kite with a broken string, lightly detached from the shell of this world.
He longed to fall into the abyss of eternal sleep, but when consciousness returned once more, the familiar heavy weariness returning to his body before his soul did not seem strange anymore. Instead, he felt a sense of "I knew it," as if he had been forced to watch a boring movie with a known ending repeatedly, and even the disappointment itself had become numb.
How tragic! Even death has lost its meaning; what else has meaning?
He opened his eyes again.
His vision was initially blurry, then filled with the slightly glaring light. It took him a moment to adjust his eyes to the surrounding brightness. The first thing he saw was a glass of amber-colored whiskey beside him, ice crystals melting into fine droplets on the glass. In front of him was an old wooden bar, and overhead was a warm, dim light. The air was filled with the rich aroma of whiskey, a faint smell of tobacco, and the slightly musty scent of the aged wooden furnishings.
Behind the bar, a somewhat familiar bartender was silently wiping the glasses—all of this indicated one fact: this was Lupin Bar.
The bar was a bit noisy at the moment. Several groups of unfamiliar faces sat in the booths not far away, their laughter and clinking glasses creating a background noise. He sat there alone, with no familiar friends around.
Loneliness at this moment became as suffocating as the air itself.
Dazai Osamu sat up straight, staring blankly at the glass in front of him for a few seconds. The liquid in the glass reflected his blurry yet excessively youthful image. He raised his arms, slowly stretched, and yawned, the movements as natural as if he had truly just woken from a nap. Only he knew what a weary soul was awakening in this body.
What time is it now? And what world have we arrived in?
He asked himself silently.
He pulled his phone from his trench coat pocket—the familiar black trench coat was still on him—and the screen lit up, the date causing his pupils to contract almost imperceptibly. He quickly calculated in his mind and came to a conclusion: at this time, perhaps… he was sixteen.
Sixteen years old—it feels like ages ago. My soul has long since passed the age of twenty-two, and with the constant shifts in the world, the scale of time has become blurred; the accumulated years may far exceed what appears on the surface. After inexplicably gaining four years or even more of life experience, I've suddenly been thrown back to this naive age.
How absurd. Time, for him, has become a meaningless concept.
However, it didn't matter. This young body was so unfamiliar that it made him slightly nauseous. He loathed this uncontrollable regression, and even more so, he loathed the possible existence of a counterpart's consciousness. He silently assessed his physical condition, finding no other abnormalities for the time being, and no new, intrusive voice appeared in his mind.
I continued scrolling through the messages on my phone, my fingertips swiping across the cold screen. Most of the names in my contacts were familiar, and as my eyes scanned them, related memories would automatically surface in my mind.
Then, his finger stopped on a name—Oda Sakunosuke.
...
What a pity, has he already met Odasaku?
Dazai Osamu sighed softly to himself, a hint of barely perceptible regret in his voice.
Countless times, during the gaps between his travels between different worlds, he had imagined a perfect Plan A: if he had never brought Oda Sakunosuke into the Port Mafia but instead chose to settle him elsewhere, would his friend have avoided a devastating end and instead had the opportunity to write his novels in the sunlight and live a peaceful life?
Unfortunately, reality clearly told him that Oda Sakunosuke in this world had already passed that crucial juncture in his life and already possessed his own identity and position within the [unclear context]. That seemingly optimal option had already failed before it even began.
He had no choice but to quietly cross out Plan A in his mind, marking it with a bright red X with an invisible pen.
My finger paused for a moment, but then continued to slide down.
Then, he saw another name—Nakahara Chuuya. It was both expected and unexpected.
Memories of the second world then surfaced in my mind. Would it be the same as before? I don't know. There's too little information to tell.
His finger hovered over the familiar yet unfamiliar number belonging to Chuuya Nakahara, hesitant to press it. A complex emotion surged within him—was it a yearning for confirmation or an impulse to test the waters? He didn't want to discern.
In the end, he stopped and put the phone back in his pocket.
What a nuisance! Why did he have to be given another chance to wake up? The weariness in his soul had accumulated to the point that it was almost crushing his consciousness. Although he knew that this wouldn't actually happen, that heavy burden was still really unpleasant.
Despite earnestly seeking the meaning of death each time, reality always tells me it's impossible. I've tried so many times, only to fail each time—it's incredibly frustrating.
Trying to recall the events of the previous world in more detail... it seems I've forgotten some important things.
He frowned, suddenly realizing that some of his memories of the previous world were becoming blurry at an abnormal rate, and his impressions of certain key events were also fading. Although he hadn't completely forgotten them yet, this forgetting itself was full of anomalies.
This situation reminded him of a word: compensation.
Perhaps it was a side effect of forcibly traversing different world lines, or for some other reason, as the price he had to pay to maintain his abnormal state of existence.
He wasn't going to stay there any longer. So he stood up, ignoring the bartender's gaze, and walked straight out through the bar's inconspicuous door.
The wind outside was strong, carrying the salty, fishy scent unique to Yokohama. The night wind was biting, making his dark brown bangs dance wildly across his forehead. The hem of his black trench coat was pulled by the wind, fluttering and rustling like black wings trying to break free of their restraints.
Dazai Osamu, hands in his trench coat pockets, didn't contact any subordinates to pick him up, but instead chose to re-explore this familiar yet unfamiliar street on foot. The body was young, but not his original form, because his timeline had long since ended.
He didn't know if another counterpart named [Dazai Osamu] existed in this world, nor was he sure if his sudden arrival would lead to the annihilation of some kind of consciousness. He utterly loathed this possibility—if his consciousness had passively invaded and occupied the brain of some innocent counterpart, then for him, it would be cleaner and more painless for his consciousness to simply dissipate.
He walked along the empty street, his iris-colored eyes calmly observing his surroundings. Night deepened, and the old streetlights cast a faint, yellowish glow, barely illuminating a small patch of road ahead. The surrounding shops were long closed, with only a few 24-hour convenience stores still casting their pale lights.
He walked along the alleyways he remembered, turning east and west. Yokohama's nights were never truly peaceful, especially at this time. He passed several places where small-scale shootouts were taking place; the whistling of bullets cutting through the air and the suppressed roars and screams formed the background music of the city's dark side.
Dazai Osamu, like a ghost, hid in a shadowy corner, silently walking along the edge of the building. His entire body seemed to blend into the surrounding darkness, his aura perfectly concealed. The chaos and violence brushed past him, yet could not touch him in the slightest.
He walked all the way to the familiar port area. The huge, still cargo ships looked like lurking beasts in the night, and the salty smell of the sea was even stronger in the air. Among a pile of containers that were almost identical in color and size, he accurately found the relatively secluded container where he used to live, which was furnished to a fairly comfortable degree.
The reality was almost identical to his memory, as if this were also his life.
He opened the container door and went inside. Inside, there was still a simple thin mat laid on a hardwood board, and a small lamp on a wooden table at the edge. Dazai Osamu lay down on the mat, his hands resting on his abdomen, assuming an incredibly peaceful posture, as if he had already fallen asleep, preparing to spend his first night in this strange world like this.
He lay there with his eyes open, staring into the darkness of the container's interior, lost in thought. Exhaustion eventually overcame his mental activity, and he drifted off to sleep.
The night passed quickly, and as dawn approached, the faint light of day began to seep in through the cracks in the container doors, carving a narrow streak of light through the dim interior.
Dazai opened his eyes, his gaze clear and bright, without a trace of the grogginess he had experienced upon waking. His adaptability to any environment was astonishing, whether it was the presidential suite of a luxury hotel or this cold metal shipping container. After his body had had ample rest, he stood up briskly, brushed off any dust that might have settled on his trench coat, and went outside.
My feet emerged from the dim shadows inside the container and finally landed on the land bathed in the sunlight of the sunrise. The morning air was crisp and fresh, and in the distance, the silk-like sea shimmered with golden light under the rising sun.
He pulled out a game console from somewhere and was now playing with it. It was the most popular model at the time, but to him, it was an outdated relic. He had already played through every version of this game (including the final version of the final series) long ago.
He turned on the game, and the familiar startup music began. Pixelated characters jumped around on the screen, and he controlled them, navigating level after level he knew by heart. His fingers moved so fast they almost left afterimages; the fixed gameplay was etched into his very being, becoming muscle memory.
The moment I gripped the button, my mind had already subconsciously simulated the entire process and listed the optimal solution among countless ways to pass the level.
It was neither challenging nor original.
How boring, he sighed silently.
[Ding ding ding—]
The sudden, urgent ringing of the telephone shattered the morning tranquility of the harbor. Dazai Osamu pulled an old-fashioned cell phone from his pocket; the screen displayed the caller ID as Mori Ōgai.
He pressed the answer button, his tone instantly switching to the slightly frivolous and aloof tone that belonged to [Sixteen-year-old Dazai Osamu]: "Moshi moshi—this is Dazai Osamu, Mr. Mori."
On the other end of the phone, Mori Ougai's voice came through the receiver, his steady tone carrying an undeniable authority as he gave instructions on important matters. The slightly relaxed expression that Dazai Osamu had initially cultivated gradually faded as the call continued, eventually settling into silence. He replied briefly, "Okay, I'll be right there."
After hanging up the call, he did not hesitate at all and immediately dialed another number, calling one of his direct subordinates and giving them a concise order to drive over and pick him up to return to the Gang Black Building.
The black sedan pulled up silently and swiftly, picked him up, and merged into the increasingly busy city traffic. Dazai Osamu leaned back in the comfortable leather seat, tilting his head to look at the street scenes rushing past the window, his eyes deep and unfathomable, no one able to discern his true thoughts at that moment.
Stepping into the towering Port Mafia building, a symbol of the dark side of Yokohama's power, a mix of familiarity and strangeness washed over him once more. The interior decor and the number of patrol personnel were almost identical to what he remembered, yet the shift in time cast a subtle sense of unease over it.
He followed the specific route that he knew so well from memory and arrived at the leader's office on the top floor without any hindrance.
The heavy double doors slowly opened in front of him, then silently closed behind him, shutting him out of the outside world. The light inside the office seemed dim compared to the morning light outside.
Upon entering, the first thing that caught the eye was Mori Ougai squatting on the ground, holding an exquisite dress in his hand, trying to persuade the pouting Alice to change into it. Even after hearing the sound of someone opening the door, the two of them (or rather, one person and one superpowered being) showed no sign of restraint.
Dazai Osamu remained silent, neither speaking nor stepping forward. He simply stood quietly in the shadows near the door, watching the hypocritical and heartwarming drama unfold before him—a spectacle he had seen countless times before. His face was expressionless, showing neither disgust nor boredom; he seemed lost in thought, his mind wandering far away.
It wasn't until Mori Ougai seemed to have finally "convinced" Alice, or perhaps he simply felt the drama should come to an end, that the two returned to their respective places—Alice ran to the drawing board in the corner and began to doodle, while Mori Ougai got up, straightened his slightly wrinkled black coat, and sat back down behind the large desk that symbolized supreme power.
Dazai Osamu then slowly stepped out of the shadows, stood at an appropriate distance from the desk, and asked in a calm and even voice, "Mr. Mori, what is it about Chuuya that you want to tell me?" He cut straight to the point, skipping all the meaningless pleasantries and probing.
The relaxed smile on Mori Ōgai's face had vanished, replaced by a deep and scrutinizing expression. He rested his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced, the backs of his hands supporting his chin, and his two dark red eyes were filled with some kind of unfathomable and complex emotion.
Without any preamble, he went straight to the point: "Hasn't Chuuya-kun told you yet? About him coming from the 'future'."
Under such an intensely oppressive gaze, most people, even if they didn't panic, would inevitably reveal some flaws. But Dazai Osamu didn't. His expression remained calm, even subtly revealing a thoughtful look, before he replied in a slightly exaggerated, complaining tone:
“No, Mr. Mori. I’ve been focusing on researching the survival rate of people who drive off a cliff these past few days, but the results aren’t very good, it’s quite disheartening. You know, even in accidents like this, the survival rate is only 5%! It’s terrifying.” He skillfully avoided answering directly, while steer the conversation elsewhere.
"I see." Mori Ougai's tone remained calm, making it impossible to tell whether he believed or not, but he clearly didn't intend to dwell on the topic of suicide. "Dazai-kun, it's best not to do anything that might endanger the government. Your illness that causes you to suddenly fall into a coma from time to time, it's probably not fully cured yet, is it?"
Dazai Osamu's eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. Mori Ōgai's seemingly relevant but actually warning words stirred a storm of emotions within him, but it didn't show on his face.
The other person's words triggered a memory left in his mind by Nakahara Chuuya—the content of the information exchanged during their first meeting in the previous world, about how he would occasionally experience a dazed state as if his consciousness was being withdrawn during sex, and no one except Dazai himself knew that it was actually the moment when he [briefly woke up from a long dream].
This memory resurfaced at this moment, and it was surprisingly clear, without any blurring. He felt as if he could even repeat everything the other person had said back then, which was quite strange.
He subtly observed the most minute changes in Mori Ōgai's expression, while responding in a tone that was slightly innocent and deflective:
"I don't know, Mr. Mori. This disease comes on suddenly, and I can't completely control it yet. Speaking of which, I'm flattered to hear that you've even picked up your old profession again after many years because of my troublesome illness. So, great Dr. Mori, have you made any groundbreaking research findings?"
It was no secret within the upper echelons of the government that Mori Ōgai had resumed his medical research in response to Dazai's strange, unexplained illness. He had been observing and studying Dazai ever since he began exhibiting these symptoms, but after several years, he seemed to have reached no definitive conclusions.
He had suggested more than once that Dazai stay in a well-equipped medical observation room for a period of in-depth examination, but the result was obvious: each time he was rejected by Dazai Osamu without hesitation and in various ways.
"Ah, there hasn't been any decisive progress yet." Mori Ougai casually evaded the topic, clearly not intending to delve into his medical research. "However, let's talk about Chuuya-kun first."
Before Dazai could respond, he began to recount in an uninterrupted manner what Chuuya had previously reported to him—including Dazai's claim that he was a time traveler from a future timeline and what he had seen and heard in another world.
Mori Ōgai spoke in a calm tone, but Dazai Osamu was able to keenly perceive that this information from the future had clearly influenced some of Mori Ōgai's current decisions and plans, becoming an important reference for him when weighing the situation.
Dazai Osamu remained silent, quietly absorbing the information contained in the words. His mind raced, dissecting and analyzing the information. Finally, a conclusion gradually emerged: the Chuuya Nakahara of this world was, with a very high probability (no, almost 100% certain) the same Chuuya who belonged to him at the final farewell in the previous world.
“By the way,” Mori Ougai paused abruptly, his tone shifting subtly, taking on a barely perceptible probing tone, “Chūya-kun also mentioned that the [Dazai Osamu] from the previous world might come to this world like him. Do you know anything about that?”
Dazai Osamu's expression remained unchanged. He answered in a calm voice tinged with just the right amount of doubt, "I don't know, Mori-san. Do you mean, it's possible that I might encounter another 'me' in this world?"
He paused at just the right moment, then his face contorted into an exaggerated expression of disgust and resistance, and his voice rose slightly: "The possibility is absolutely terrifying! Just imagining it makes me feel nauseous. Absolutely not! One person in the world is already tragic enough; another one would be a global catastrophe!"
Both he and Mori Ōgai knew perfectly well what the real conflict was beneath those words. Dazai Osamu perfectly played the role of someone disgusted by the existence of his counterparts. But for now, whether for self-preservation or other more complex considerations, he had no need to reveal his true situation.
"Alright." Mori Ougai seemed to have temporarily accepted his performance, or rather, chose not to press him further. "I thought you might have already been in contact privately."
He deftly glossed over the topic and immediately turned to another, more practical task. "Chūya mentioned that around this year, Paul Verlaine, known as the 'King of Assassinations,' will appear, but the exact timing is unknown. On the table in front of you is all the existing information the intelligence department has compiled about him and related potential threats. Your primary task now is to work with Chūya to find a way to resolve this impending disaster that is about to befall Yokohama."
The exaggerated look of disdain on Dazai Osamu's face vanished instantly. He obediently picked up the not-too-thick stack of documents on the table, glanced through them briefly, and replied in a businesslike tone, "Yes, Mr. Mori."
-----------------------
Author's Note: Currently writing the final chapter... [Good luck!]
I was planning to update yesterday, but I didn't finish revising the chapter content.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
