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Chapter 3

It was raining.

I was seated.

Time passed slowly and indefinitely. All sound was sucked into the elusive sound of rain. Because of this, it felt like the entire world had become a ghost.

Raindrops fell diagonally before my eyes, covering the view. Everything looked blue. Fog from the mixture of rainwater and seaspray lingered in the air. A piece of glass separated me from the wet scenery.

This was a teahouse. At that time, I was fourteen years old.

I was reading a book.

It was an old book, its cover and edges tattered, part of it already destroyed. The print was dated, faded words visible everywhere.

I found that book at the site of one of my jobs as a hitman. Replacing the owner who no longer had a need to read it, I brought it back.

I flip the pages of the book.

My fourteen-year-old self was a lot more innocent than the me of today. I am a freelance hitman who has never slipped up on the job. The plutocrat and his family, who originally owned this book, have become nothing but filth on the wall of a murder scene.

I no longer remember why I'd taken that book. It was something, something small that piqued my interest. At that time, I didn't have the habit of reading books, but that book was different.

It was an old novel, a story set in some city with many characters. The characters were all weak and tiny, running to and fro over the smallest of matters. However, the story was oddly fascinating.

After the job ended, sitting at my regular seat at the teahouse I frequented and reading that novel became my daily homework routine. Hence, I had already read that book a fair number of times.

That day, I was reading that book as usual.

"Kid, you're always reading that book. Is it really that interesting?"

Suddenly, someone spoke to me. I raised my head.

A middle aged man stood before me in an upright posture. He was a thin man with a cheeky smile and a cane in hand. There was a short beard at the corners of his mouth. I had met this man before a few times at this shop.

I replied, "It's interesting."

The bearded man stared at me as if he was looking at something fascinating.

"You're such a strange kid. There are so many stories that are much more interesting than that novel in the world."

I looked at the man and didn't reply. Honestly speaking, I cannot express to the other party why I still read this book over and over again.

"Kid, where's the last volume of that book?"

I looked at the books on the table. The first and second volumes* were placed on the table.

There was a very big flaw in the novel, that is, I could only find the first and second volumes of it. Because of this, I do not know the ending of the story. I've searched every possible secondhand bookstore, but I haven't been able to find the last volume.

I replied, "I don't have the last volume."

"I understand now, you're a lucky kid. The last volume of that novel is terrible! After reading it, it'll make you feel like taking your brain out from your skull and washing it with water! For your own good, it's enough to just read the first and second volumes."

I replied, "That won't do."

"Then you write it." The bearded man said. "That is the only way to allow that novel to retain its completeness."