Part One

Prologue

The Japanese, having transitioned from centuries of isolationism, now exhibit a remarkable capacity for assimilation, at least on the surface, as they present themselves as a modern, Western-oriented society. This transformation is most evident in their dominance across various manufacturing and technological sectors, a testament to the substantial investments and unwavering work ethic of the Japanese people. Japan’s rich tapestry of culture and tradition, honed over centuries, remains a fundamental underpinning of its society.

This aspect of the country has often been misinterpreted by Western cultures, initially through ignorance and later through arrogance, throughout Japan’s history. To this day, many people continue to misread Japanese actions as mere appeasement or acceptance, failing to grasp the nuances of their complex society. A misinterpretation that overlooks the astute strategic thinking inherent in Japanese culture and the subtle sleight of hand that is always taking place. While everyone smiled at the fluffy rabbit on display, the bowler hat that it sprang from was being measured, quantified and analysed, before being copied, improved and marketed. The Japanese have always firmly understood that true power can manifest itself in many forms.

At the end of the Second World War, one of Japan’s fundamental challenges that had contributed to its entry into the conflict – the scarcity of natural resources – remained as pressing as ever, if not more so.

From the 1930s onwards, Japan’s deficiencies in natural resources created a critical need that was skilfully exploited by both its political and military leaders. They adeptly linked the country’s demand for essential materials, vital for a modern, expanding nation, with Japan’s martial heritage. This strategy led to catastrophic consequences for those nations that possessed the resources Japan sought.

This self-perpetuating cycle of insatiable expansion, which began in Korea, extended to China, and then spread across Asia and into the Pacific, created an escalating spiral of need. This expansion formed a fragile bubble that grew increasingly tenuous as it encroached upon territories controlled by more powerful adversaries. Ultimately, this led to its inevitable and catastrophic collapse.

Post-1945, following the disintegration of its hegemonic ambitions, Japan embarked on a quest for a new approach to satisfy its energy needs. Intriguingly, the answer lay in the very element that had precipitated its ultimate capitulation.

For the Land of the Rising Sun, its aggressive wartime actions inadvertently set the perfect stage for the very force that led to its swift surrender: the advent of the atomic age. This new era, marked by the devastating impact of nuclear power, further compounded the suffering of its people, already deeply scarred by the brutalities of war, etching a new, formidable chapter into their daily lives.

The devastating introduction of this new, unparalleled power into the human realm brought the Japanese people not only profound sorrow but also critical lessons. One key lesson was their ability to transcend the immeasurable suffering they had endured and envision a future for their nation and its people, beyond the shadows of their traumatic past.

Japan’s destiny would not be marked by disintegration or isolation, responses that might have been expected under such circumstances. Instead, by enduring the seemingly unendurable and shouldering an even greater burden of hardship, Japan discovered a path of resilience. This path revealed the potential advantages of the very power that had once caused their downfall.

The birth of the nuclear age would not only drive Japan to develop a globally dominant economy but also to become one of the leading users of nuclear energy in the world. It would remain one until March 2011…

The sea beguiles one like no other, it is like the passion of a volatile lover. Violent storms once rode out can always be abated by the gentle balms, that bring consoling forgetfulness. A light breeze over a soothing swell, anaesthetises, re-charming the passion-raged soul, along with its powerful amnesia, creating a mollifying oblivion.

It is the ultimate selfish desire, which only heals the distress within those who are coveted, just enough for them to endure the next frenzied emotional typhoon, thus allowing the cravings of their wanting attraction to return again and again.

Always will it be so, that the potent sea and the passionate lover be confident in the eternal consumption of their addiction. Forever drawing each to the fate, that is perpetually written for them.

The Ogress Adachigahara

Chapter One

11 March 2011, 13.35 Coast of Fukushima

The fishing boat’s hull gently slapped against the light swell of the Pacific waters. Stood, brace-legged on the very point of the boat’s prow, Kurosawa Hikaru gently swayed in harmony with the short lapping movements of the small vessel. His breathing naturally cycling within him, his knees gently flexed to absorb the water’s soothing rhythms, harmonising with the movements as he allowed his spirit to attune to the powerful age-old forces of the deep ocean currents, held in abeyance beneath him.

He turned his face to the rays of the sun filtering through the midday light haze, controlling his breath, seeking inner calm amidst the clamour of the bustling fishermen behind him. By focusing on his breathing, he gained a few more moments of tranquillity. He brought his mind back to the immediate task of ladling the last of the bait fish over the guardrail of the craft’s bow. The oily, puce patterns of the small, bloodied fish hitting the water evoked a childhood memory of the autumn cherry blossoms of Fukushima Prefecture.

As the final bait vanished into the Pacific, its fish blood mingling with the vast ocean, his fleeting memory of the blossom faded, yielding to the relentless uproar of activity that surged behind him. Ending his brief meditation, he turned to look along the full length of the open deck. The Michi Maru was a tuna fishing boat, long and narrow, constructed in the traditional Japanese style; a craft built to cut through the sea at speed when called upon. The sleek bow gave it the ability to chase the fast and agile tuna shoals once they were located by the boat’s powerful ‘Fish Finder’ sonar. Moreover, and most importantly, this feature enabled the Michi Maru to swiftly head for shore upon the emergence of unyielding, turbulent weather on the horizon. However, this requirement for swiftness was a trade-off. For, in lumpy waters, at slow speeds or worse, at rest, when the tidal swells were strong, its slender draft made it wallow like an overweight sow drunk on fermented chestnuts. This movement of the craft could induce seasickness, even in some of the most seasoned of sailors, but it was a price worth paying for the promise of a quick catch and a safe return to shore.

The Michi Maru could hold about twenty-three crew but had only eighteen souls on board that day. The ones topside now split either side of Kurosawa, were running from the bow backwards to almost the stern. Fifteen men in all, each with a fishing pole, skilfully whipping Blue Fin Tuna out of the bloody waters over their heads and onto the decks behind them.

The fishing poles bore a resemblance to the Tenkara variety used in river fishing, but these demanded individual skills for hooking and efficiently despatching the fish, embodying an industrial essence in their design and use.

An array of jets which ran around the hull of the vessel just below the deck, sprayed outwards with constant streams of water agitating the sea around the craft, masking its outline to the fish below.

In conjunction with the water spray was the live bait Kurosawa had been scooping over the side, these two elements acting as a dynamic lure continually drawing the fish in. Behind him fish were being repetitively arced out of the frothing sea by the fishermen. Skill and ingenuity combined became a deadly attraction for the remarkable creatures that did not have the capacity to resist. Fish after fish were being efficiently whipped out of the water, each one ending up on the sloping deck behind them, landing with a violent slap as their solid, muscular bodies hit the steel catchment chute. The surface of the deck was drenched with a mixture of sea water and fish blood, from where the barbless hooks of high-tempered, carbon-rich steel, had been ripped out of their mouths by the recoiling power of their carbon fibre poles. It created a slimy mess that contributed to the slippery fate awaiting the hapless victims, as they were funnelled along chutes across the sloping decks into the hold below.

The fisherman remained focused on recasting their lures, economic in the rhythmic consistency of their motion, creating a kind of perpetual kinetic energy that they continually imparted into the pendulum action of the Tenkara rods. The Pole Men steadily took one fish after another, in a deadly dance of strike, whip and rip. The tuna, unable to resist the ship’s allure, would only end when the shoal had ceased to exist, or the hold was full.

Kurosawa had used the day’s labour to lose himself in the repetition of his mechanical task, employing it as a temporary balm for his ever-troubled thoughts. To him these trips were a kind of aquatic basket weaving, a type of occupational therapy of the sea. But now the bait had long gone, along with the hours of his waking meditation. He got up from his seat next to the tank that had held the little fish and started to cross from his station to the bridge to tell the captain that the bait had been consumed. He was about to open the door to the wheelhouse, when it flew open, almost hitting him. The captain suddenly stuck his head out of the doorway, directly into Kurosawa’s face. He began frantically shouting and wildly waving his arms in the air, as he pushed past Kurosawa and came out onto the deck.

‘Stop! Stop, the hold is full, stow the poles and start cleaning up top-side – and make sure the catch is well iced when you have stowed it all below.’

He had said little to the captain during the trip out into the Pacific, other than during the initial brief introduction. An exchange facilitated for him by Kengo, an acquaintance who was one of the regular crew members and that had been a minimum of the social perfunctory requirements to secure him the job on board. The captain had not offered his name to Kurosawa, he had been preoccupied with getting the boat ready to disembark, so it had been a brusque, cursory meeting. To the captain he was just another dayworker, which suited Kurosawa fine.

The nameless Captain, known for his minimalist communication, treated Kurosawa with the same concise orders he gave to the rest of the crew, a dynamic Kurosawa preferred. Yet, in a fleeting moment of unexpected face-to-face encounter, the captain glimpsed a peculiar expression on Kurosawa’s face before he quickly diverted his eyes to the deck. That brief, unsettling expression left the captain feeling uneasy, a rare occurrence in their otherwise straightforward transactions.

Some of the crew were still hooking in a few more fish before they were told to withdraw their poles. With no further room in the hold, these tuna were ripped off the flashing lures with a flick of the wrist, the pole and line snapping like bullwhips as they struck the fish off their hooks and back into the sea. With mouths torn and gashed by the hooks, the tuna made bloody trails through the water as they frantically swam away from the boat to freedom.

Kurosawa waited until all the poles were out of the water before removing his safety hat and visor and moving aft. He had been hit by a rogue tuna before, some of which could weigh as much as thirty kilograms; even the lighter ones could pack a significant punch after being launched off the line. Also, being caught on one of the vicious looking fishing hooks was not a pleasant experience. Several of the crew sported scars from the pitiless barbs. He soon realised that many of the crew were keen to show off their battle scars from this particular occupational hazard. Several of the scars Kurosawa had been reluctantly exposed to on the journey were located in rather unconventional places, making him grateful that the trip out had been a brief one.

The crew started to clean up as the captain pulled the boat about. They were about fifty kilometres off their home Port of Namie as the Michi Maru headed in. Its bow rose out of the waters as the captain applied more power and its sleek hull started to pick up momentum. It quickly reached its cruising speed of fifteen knots on the flat, calm sea. This was the optimum speed for good stability to allow the crew to stow the gear, sort the fish and still get to Namie by early afternoon.

Kurosawa busied himself helping the crew, he definitely was not a fisherman by trade, but liked to go out with one of the boats four or five times a year. He was no stranger to graft – indeed as with most Japanese, he found honourable labours carried out diligently brought with it spiritual solace. Namie was a small town, and he knew many of the fisherman there; fishing boat skippers were ever willing to take on unpaid deck crew or Kōhanshu. They were often short on crew, so an extra pair of hands, particularly one they didn’t have to share the haul profit with, was always welcome. As most fishing villages around the shores of Japan, Namie struggled to compete with other industries in the area, possibly because they did not involve being out in all weathers for low pay, being smacked by a fish, caught on a hook or possibly falling overboard and drowning. Consequently, getting a place on board was usually not an issue.

The problem was he had already made the decision to go on board that particular day…

* * *

At around 14.00 the port started to materialise on the horizon; a misty haze of pastel colours as if someone had painted a vivid watercolour where the grey sea met the duskier land. Though it had been overcast for most of their trip into the Pacific, the weather had held for the main part, the waters calm.

Until they reached the harbour and had to start unloading their lucrative catch, the work for the time being was done. The crew sat around the deck in small groups of contentment, smoking and chatting amongst themselves, some were passing a flask around, each accepting a sip of sake before passing on to the next man, taking satisfaction from an honest day’s labour.

Kurosawa was leaning against the bridge, feeling the tendrils of a light breeze on his face and tasting the sea salt in the air. They were about half an hour out, this was the moment in the trip that he usually felt calm, cleansed and energised, and was the reason he took these little voyages in the first place; today though, something was amiss. He started to experience a deep sense of anxious foreboding, a sensation he was well-acquainted with, though typically perceiving it in others rather than himself. This feeling, unfamiliar in its internal origin, intensified his unease. As he let his mind start to internally examine the emotion, he was interrupted by the wheelhouse door swinging open again. The captain had locked the helm in place and stepped out of the bridge to stand next to him. He arched his neck and surveyed the sky and then the horizon.

‘No shite Hawks,’ he said simply.

Kurosawa followed his gaze. The captain was right, the fishing boats were normally mobbed by gulls on the return journey, looking for scraps from the boats. But today he could not see a single bird in the sky. He looked at the captain.

‘That is very odd,’ said the captain, pulling on tendrils of his wispy beard. ‘Very, very strange.’

Kurosawa saw a look of perplexing apprehension on the man’s face. Seeing such a look on such an experienced sailor was troubling and he was about to ask what he thought was going on when they both felt it.

The boat suddenly seemed to momentarily slow and pull backwards. A low moan of alarm went around the crew in the stern of the Michi Maru as they also felt the sea beneath them create the contrary swell. It was not just the boat that had slowed, the surrounding sea did so as well. Although the vessel continued to motor forwards, the very sea it was moving on was regressing, turning their small piece of the ocean into a kind of alarming watery treadmill for a few seconds. The uniquely odd sensation not only unbalanced everyone, it also caused a strange sickening feeling in the pit of their stomachs. The hull gave a little shudder, slowed slightly for a moment and then chugged on.

‘What the fuck was that!’ shouted one of the now totally spooked crew.

The captain began to bark orders at his crew to put on lifejackets and secure everything that had not been stored below. The underlying fear that he was struggling to control portrayed by the tremor resonating in his voice.

Although the situation was disconcerting even to him, Kurosawa stood on the deck calmly observing the panic starting to erupt all around him, for the moment untouched by its effect. It was not that he had the great emotional control the Japanese where famous for, it was that any danger perceived or real he came into contact with did not elicit the response from him that generally affected other humans. He had come into this world a rare freak of nature and those lacking an emotional attachment to dangerous events tended to have a short life span. His reactions were always clinically dispassionate, accompanied by reflexes that were swift and often deadly. Although Kurosawa harboured a distinct personal response to fear, he was adept at detecting it in others. This skill was not only due to the palpable veil of fear currently enveloping those around him, but also stemmed from his innate, profound ability to assess and understand others.

The captain stared at Kurosawa, who, he suddenly became aware, had not reacted to his commands.

‘You too,’ he barked, trying to camouflage his fear with anger at Kurosawa’s perceived disobedience.

‘What?’ Kurosawa said.

‘Put on your lifejacket, you fucking idiot,’ shouted the captain into Kurosawa’s face, pushing a life vest against his chest.

Kurosawa looked at his leathery, weather-beaten, whiskered face with eyes like hard, black stones. Thirty years at sea, spending endless hours enduring ravaging storms and scouring sunlight, had carved features constructed of deep lines and pock-marked crags upon his face. His skin looked as thick and as tough as overcooked pork rind. The man was using anger to create a mask for his own growing anxiety. This façade was effective for most people, it projected the desired qualities of leadership and control needed to take command in difficult situations and seemed to be working on the crew.

However, Kurosawa’s perception went beyond surface appearances; he saw the inner truths people radiated, the core of their being that no external disguise could conceal. When close to others, he perceived these truths as distinct auras. It was a talent he had held since a child, only in later years did he realise that this was a rare gift. He had honed this ability into a practical tool, enabling him to interpret individual auras against a spectrum of emotional states. This skill allowed him to decipher an array of unconscious feelings emanating from those around him. Presently, the aura of the captain was emitting waves of extreme terror.

Kurosawa found this disconcerting; his capacity for self-preservation now tuned to maximum. Still ignoring the captain’s command to put on a lifejacket, Kurosawa regarded the man before picking the right tone to ask,

‘What is it captain? What is wrong here?’

The manner in which the question was posed prompted the captain to view the unassuming man, who had spent the day quietly on his ship, in a completely new light. The person he had originally been introduced to earlier that morning before they left the harbour had seemed very different to the one in front of him now. That man had been slightly stooped, with rounded shoulders and an almost constantly bowed head. He had spoken in a most effeminate of voices, not very manly at all. He had pigeonholed him straight away as a ‘city guy,’ possibly even gay. Not that he cared about that, he could put his dick wherever he liked, as long as he didn’t bother him personally and it did not become an issue with the crew. The captain saw himself as modern and inclusive in that way. In his many years’ experience of being at sea, he found ‘mariners’ to be much less intolerant of a man’s sexuality than one would have thought possible in the perceived macho world of seafarers. There was a saying he heard often during his time as Petty Officer in Japan’s Maritime Self-Defence Force – This years ‘givers’ were next years ‘takers’ – it could be a lonely life being at sea after all…

However, that person had seemingly vanished into thin air and the person in front of him now was not the same weedy, shy, little runt, who had come on board that morning. Stood before him was a tall, perfectly proportioned individual with one of those wiry, muscular frames, in the same way a dancer’s physique was set out, powerful, yet balanced. His voice had also changed, very different to the weak, reedy tone he had heard throughout the day, he now projected such an air of menace, that for a moment it unnerved him almost to the point where it superseded his original terror. This was no mean feat considering the captain’s current disposition – he had just been wondering if he had any spare underwear on board.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, feeling compelled to respond to the stranger’s question.

‘And what exactly is it you are not sure about, captain?’ There was that compelling voice again, well spoken with perfect modulation like a judge or a general giving one no option but to comply or respond.

‘I think we are about to get into some serious trouble.’

Kurosawa held his gaze firmly and said, ‘We are only twenty minutes from port, why not dump the fish and put the engine to full speed and head in?’

The captain looked out of the cabin window at their home Port of Namie, now only a few kilometres away.

‘Dump the catch, yes, but if we were to head into the port, I think it will get us killed. We must turn about and head back out to sea… if it is not too late.’

Kurosawa, although not quite certain what was going on, realised he must depend on the captain’s experience and accept his concerning intuition.

He nodded in agreement saying, ‘Yes, I agree this is what we must do, captain.’

‘What! Dump the tuna after eight hours of backbreaking fishing. Are you out of your fucking mind, skipper?’ said one of the crew who had appeared unnoticed behind them. ‘And you, Kawaii boy! What the fuck has this got to do with you, keep your trap shut or I will put you in that stinking bait box you have been sitting on all day!’

The captain now understood there was nothing cute or feminine about Kurosawa, as the crewman had implied by calling him a Kawaii boy. He stared at the sinewy limbed man who now stood behind Kurosawa, along with the rest of the crew who had now gathered around the outside of the bridge. The man was known as Jōji and was one of the permanent members of the crew. A hard-working hand, but prone to being a loudmouth and who also had an excessive taste for sake, a straw-covered flask of which he now pushed in the direction of a crew mate to his left. As he did so his undone life yellow life vest opened up and he heaved out his rib cage to throw some extra emphasis to his point, it made him look like a puffed-up Yellow Bunting.

Murmured grunts of approval for bird brain’s sentiments echoed around the rest of the crew in his support but they were presumptuously short lived. Kurosawa turned around to face Jōji and then instantly hit him squarely in the ribs with the flat of his right hand. The deck hand’s scrawny frame folded like a rice paper kite that had been struck with a baseball bat. He ricocheted backwards into the crew members standing behind him, taking them all into the gunwale, with several of them almost accompanying each other over the starboard side.

Mmmm…not a dancer then, thought the captain, looking at the crew members scrambling to stop themselves going overboard. The surrounding fishermen, taken aback by the sudden transformation, quickly engaged reverse and scrambled away from Kurosawa, releasing a short chorus of surprised cries as they did so. The figure now standing before them bore little resemblance to the unassuming Hikaru they had encountered earlier in the day. This man exuded an intense, almost intimidating aura that left them feeling uncomfortable.

The sudden display of violence disturbed the crew, not because he had struck one of their shipmates, because this was common enough for rough fisherman, it was more the way he had moved to deliver the blow. Most spent their time at sea doing hard physical work in harsh conditions or, if not at sea, in many of the bars around Namie waiting to go to sea, with neither element suffering fools gladly; sudden altercations were common to both domains.

Slowly turning to face them, the twist of his pivoting body was like a spring being wound into compression or a bow being drawn ready to fire. His feet, hips and upper body moving efficiently, totally balanced, coiling up to release an economic strike of fluidity and force that was perfectly weighted for the desired effect – to stun but not permanently damage its victim. They were also troubled by his face; they simply didn’t recognise it. To be fair most had not made eye contact with Kurosawa since he stepped on board. His hair, a rich black, was styled with a floppy fringe that cascaded over his face, often concealing his features. Kurosawa habitually walked with a bowed head and a stooped gait with his shoulders curved inwards. This posture, combined with the veil of his hair, made it challenging for anyone to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of his countenance.

At the time they had not noticed or even cared about this behaviour, lots of young men were a little eccentric in their ways. He had given no offence, politely responding to anyone who had talked to him. He just got on with his tasks and kept to himself, giving the impression of a shy introvert, so they had left him to it.

Because of this most of the crew had not really gained a reasonable look at his face. Now though, they had an extremely good view of his features and they did not like what they saw. Kurosawa’s head was now erect, his stance unnervingly held in a challenging manner, the once loose and untidy shirt which was now buttoned up around his inner T-shirt, extenuating the ‘V’-like ratio between his hips and his shoulders. Both garments were now tucked into slacks that no longer hung baggily under his crotch, but neatly pulled up and belted around his waist. His long fringe was still there but pushing through the jet black hair there appeared to be the snarling face of a demon. ‘Oni,’ cried Kengo with a whispered hiss of astonishment, citing the demon from Japanese mythology and synonymous with a popular video game.

The apparition, which had more in common with an exquisite carving than a human being of flesh and bone, gave them a look that pinned them like a butterfly, sticking them straight through the thorax to the spot with a sharpened look of deep, dark, malicious contempt, radiating from a face of razor-angled symmetry.

If the face had been a sculpture, then it would have been one that would have made even Leonardo proud to have created both DaVinci and DiCaprio, though it had to be said the mouth was a little strange. His upper lip was drawn tightly over a row of white incisor-looking teeth, with a canine breaking past his lower lip on either side of the jaw. There also seemed to be far too many teeth in there for a normal person.

The captain now realised what he had seen in Kurosawa’s face earlier; he had seen that look before but it was not on any human, it was the look of an absolute lack of compassion and empathy to be found in the expression of a Great White Shark. He was aware he needed to take back control, events were unfolding around them faster than an Origami Master could unravel a poor student’s work. And to say that the crew were now more than a little disconcerted would be more of an understatement than a Tomioka Tessai painting. Kurosawa stared down the crew; for some reason they all felt as if his dead-eyed gaze was on each of them alone. It was not a good feeling. Before the captain could say anything, Kurosawa began to speak. The pitch of his voice had changed again, now a deep tone resonating intimidation in every syllable as he said in a low measured drawl, ‘Either you arseholes go over the side or your fish can, what’s it to be?’

The crew quickly shot glances at each other and then looked towards the captain for some support against this demon.

‘Look lads,’ he said, his voice steady yet tinged with resignation, ‘It’s clear that something’s amiss, and if my hunch is right, we’re on the brink of a monumental challenge. Whatever it is, it’s imminent and it’s going to hit us hard. We must prepare ourselves.’

They lowered their heads in compliance and subserviently shuffled off to start bringing the tuna up, first picking up their colleague who had been winded by Kurosawa. They quietly grumbled to each other as they went.

The captain watched them go thinking, it really does take a lot to stop a sailor from bitching. He pushed past Kurosawa and, sticking his head out the bridge doorway shouted, ‘And be quick about it, you bunch of sake sodden layabouts,’ adding some further chastisement to try and reassert his dwindling authority as the boat’s skipper. He turned to Kurosawa. ‘And unless you’re fucking a sea devil, I would put this on,’ he said slapping a life vest onto Kurosawa’s chest. ‘Believe me, if I’m right you are going to fucking well need it!’

He took hold of the helm and turned the boat about, setting a course heading back out to sea. Kurosawa put on the lifejacket as he watched the men reluctantly dispose of the catch over the side. They got about half of the catch out before they heard a sound coming over the horizon like several jet turbines powering up in chorus. They all stopped what they were doing to listen to the strange foreboding resonance.

‘Stop gawking like a bunch of Shojo virgins on your wedding night, you dozy cunts. Get yourselves below,’ shouted the captain, his voice now quivering with fear.

The men who were unloading fish off the boat’s aft quickly got themselves into the lower quarters. Five of the crew who were working forward squeezed into the bridge, standing behind Kurosawa and the captain they all focused through the cabin windows over the bow to the horizon beyond.

Strangely, the horizon appeared to be approaching at an alarming rate, far quicker than the boat’s current speed could account for. Moreover, it was rising rapidly in height, creating an increasingly imposing and surreal spectacle.

They all now realised they had been too late in coming about, their dash for the safety of the deep ocean had failed. The wave that ran across the horizon in front of them, imbued an overpowering feeling of menace as it began to soar above them, progressively building ever upwards into a wall of primeval disturbance.

They were witnessing one of nature’s great terra-forming forces in action; part of its armoury of creation that had shaped the planet for eons. Kurosawa could not help but appreciate the beauty of its naturally evolving form. The daylight darkened above them as the very sky itself withdrew from the hellish scene, seemingly giving way to the deep grey mountain of water that continued to ascend, creating a massive watery arch high above them.

To the men on the boat the huge wave seemed to pinch in on itself and momentarily take the shape of a striking cobra as it bore down upon them, the crest breaking into a ridge of iridescent tendrils. The sight froze Kurosawa, again not in fear but in an instant of grudging appreciation for this nemesis of mother nature. He realised from the abrupt anguished screams around him and the strong smell of excrement that was suddenly filling his nose, that many of the crew did not share his immediate feelings of admiration for their mutual circumstances.

The captain spun the wheel and brought the boat fully about, steering directly at the approaching wall of water. He rammed the throttle lever forwards, putting down as much power as he could; the diesel engine roared into life, the craft’s single propeller surging the craft onwards.

As the vessel started to climb up the face of the mountain of water the captain struggled with the helm, trying to keep the small craft square to the oncoming wave. Up they rose, their momentum still pushing them along the surface, with the huge mass of the wave itself continuing to propel them inland. They were making no headway back out to sea; the craft was quite literarily like an insect on flypaper stuck to the front of the monstrous wave.

They continued to climb the wave until the Michi Maru was almost vertical, its rapier-shaped hull cutting through the water on either side. The captain held firmly onto the ship’s wheel, bracing his feet against the bridge’s console to steady himself.

Kurosawa found himself thrown back into one of the rear corners of the wheelhouse, crashing into several crew members. He locked his body into place there, finding purchase on the bulkhead and deck by spreading his hands and feet wide from his body, pressing his spine almost flat against the corner. A dreadful howl seemed to accompany them as the wave closed around the vessel as they attempted to ascend the face of the great swell of water. He could not tell whether the eerie sound came from the men on board or the wave itself.

The kinetic energy of the valiant fishing boat now began to dwindle, coming to almost a dead stop just as they reached the frothy pinnacle of the wave. For a brief moment the Michi Maru began to fall rearward, dropping backwards, slipping down the moving waterfall. Then, with a great lurch forward, the vessel crashed down the far side of the monstrous swell. The engine let out a piercing wail, its propeller briefly slicing through the air as the ship crested the wave. The vessel’s slender stem arched dramatically towards the sky, pivoting like a dancer caught in a fluid, graceful leap. The captain frantically pulled back on the T-shaped throttle, before the prop, now finding itself free of any water resistance, smashed it and the motor to pieces. The engine, suddenly released of any load, now found itself free to roar into the red zone, with a hammering self-destructive rattle of steel on steel, as the internal mechanical revolutions of its crankshaft and pistons smashed together.

The fleeting relief the men felt from surviving the initial onslaught, was quickly eclipsed by a gripping sense of dread. A second, menacing whitecap loomed ahead. Although this roller was marginally smaller than the first, the Michi Maru had not landed squarely, having slewed to her aft side as it reground its hull into the waters. Her engine was also still recovering from its violent oscillations causing the craft to lose most of its speed and all of its control.

The collective relief of the surviving crew was instantly abashed by this new and immediate precariousness. To the crew it had become personal, there was no doubt now in their minds that the sea was trying to kill them and would show no mercy in its endeavour to do so.

Chapter Two

11 March 1945, Nanjing China

The woman was chained to one corner of the bare cell. Once beautiful, she was now in a pitiful state. Her hitherto sleek, long, black hair was bedraggled and matted, torn out at the roots in places, revealing several raw and festering patches on her scalp. Her face bore the harsh evidence of brutality, with both eye sockets bruised and swollen into prominent, disfiguring lumps, nearly sealing them shut. Her lips were split and weeping and most of the teeth on the left-hand side of her mouth missing or shattered. Her body, frail and emaciated, bore silent testimony to the unspeakable horrors she had endured. She had faced repeated violations that left deep, irreparable scars, both physical and emotional in a way that defied recovery. What was left of her clothing hung in soiled rags from her emaciated body, the remaining pieces of cloth barely covering what was left of her breasts; the once fine, full, pertness of which she had been so proud, now devoured by her body’s need for nourishment. Not much was left of the spirited young daughter of an influential Manchurian Mandarin, her very existence, like the beauty she had once been, now lost for ever.

Despite the repulsive incredulity of the thought, she found herself measuring her situation against the ghastly yardstick of torment endured by others in that place of unspeakable evil. By this grim standard, a disturbing realisation dawned upon her: amidst the sea of suffering that engulfed all its captives, her own condition, as harrowing as it was, had to be seen as comparatively fortunate.

Her name was Ying Yuewu, a name that had weathered storms of unimaginable adversity. Initially taken as a political hostage during the Japanese invasion of Xinjing, the capital of Manchuria, she had witnessed first-hand the shift from a contentious occupation to an outright massacre of her people. Those years under Japanese captivity were marked by unspeakable brutality, a barbaric testament to human cruelty. Yet, it was her subsequent confinement in this house of torment that cast a chilling light on her past sufferings. Here, in these suffocating walls, the depths of her ordeal took on an even more harrowing dimension, redefining her understanding of despair.

Ying stared across the gloomy, stinking cell to where three men were being confined in a set of wooden stocks on the other side of the chamber. The men sat with their backs to