Chapter 2: The Manuscript of Truth
The dim glow of the evening sun filtered through the paper shutters of Daichi's room, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. His father's study, usually a place of paperwork and administrative duties, now felt oddly quiet, almost reverent. Daichi sat in the corner, the small manuscript in his hands, his fingers tracing the edges of the worn paper as if it were something sacred.
He had been caught off guard when he first found the manuscript. It was just lying there, almost abandoned, but something about it had pulled him in. Perhaps it was the subtle weight of the paper or the strange, unreadable title—No Longer Human—but Daichi couldn't resist. He'd heard of the book before, though he never imagined he would hold a copy in his hands.
At first, he had only planned to skim through a few pages before heading out for his mission. He had a meeting with his team, but now, as the minutes turned into hours, the world outside seemed to fade into nothingness. His mind was consumed by the words on the pages, every sentence deeper than the last.
---
"I suppose that I have always been different from others. But I could never understand why I never felt the way they did. What is it about the world that makes people feel connected? What is it about humanity that makes them so sure they belong?"
---
Daichi paused, the words hitting him harder than he expected. He had never considered what it was like to feel detached from everyone around him. As a shinobi, he had always been part of a team, always with others, always surrounded by comrades. But now, this strange feeling of loneliness began to creep over him, not unlike what the protagonist was experiencing.
"I suppose this is a personal kind of story," Daichi thought to himself. "It's not just about the shinobi world, but about something far deeper."
---
Akari's words, written under his pen name Dazai, held an unmistakable weight. The protagonist of the story was a man named Yozo Oba, a young man who never understood the people around him. He struggled with the reality of his existence and sought to find his place in a world that felt alien to him. This was a world he could relate to; it spoke to the very core of his being.
The novel didn't hold back. The first pages spoke of Yozo's experiences as a child, growing up feeling disconnected from everyone around him, unable to understand the smiles and laughter that others seemed to take for granted. The story described how he had tried, over and over again, to fit in, to act like everyone else, but each time, something was missing.
---
"I didn't care about anyone. I didn't care to understand them, and I couldn't fathom why anyone would care to understand me. They all seemed so whole, so certain of their place in the world, while I—while I felt like a ghost, an empty vessel drifting through the lives of others."
---
Daichi found himself nodding unconsciously, caught up in the internal conflict of the protagonist. He could understand it. In the shinobi world, people wore masks, pretending to be strong, pretending to be something they were not. They wore their successes like armor, concealing their fears and insecurities. But the protagonist of No Longer Human—he wasn't pretending. He was brutally honest about his alienation.
Daichi had never thought about it this way. But as he read, he realized just how much of this was about truth—the raw truth that no one spoke about.
The more Daichi read, the more he felt like an intruder in Yozo's world. The young man's spiraling descent into depression, his attempts at connecting with others, and his eventual disillusionment with life were all too familiar, yet painfully different. Daichi wondered how such deep and personal emotions could be written so perfectly.
---
"The worst thing about life, I think, is that no one really asks you to live it. You're simply expected to keep going, to play your part, to smile, and laugh, and pretend. They don't care that you can't see the point in any of it. You're alone in this world, and no one will ever truly understand you."
---
Daichi's chest tightened. He couldn't shake the weight of those words. He felt as though the novel was speaking directly to him, that this was not just a character's story, but an exploration of the very human condition. He had always felt like a soldier—trained to fight, to obey, to never show weakness. But this? This was different. This was an unraveling of the very soul, a confession of existential despair.
Hours passed, and Daichi's eyes burned with fatigue, but he couldn't stop. He read until the last page of the first part. By the time he finished, the room was bathed in the golden glow of the evening sunset. His mission—his duty—seemed so distant, so insignificant in comparison to the raw emotions written on the pages before him.
---
"I don't know what I am anymore. Am I even human? Or am I just a shadow pretending to be something more, something real? I am lost, and I fear I will never be found."
---
Daichi closed the manuscript with a soft thud, his mind spinning. The words lingered in the air, haunting him. The protagonist's struggle, his emotional turmoil, and his search for meaning were laid bare. It wasn't a happy story. It wasn't a hopeful one. But it was real. It felt real.
"This is not just a story. This is something... more," Daichi thought, his heart still racing. "Whoever wrote this... they knew something. They understood something about the world, about people, that most shinobi—and most people—could never grasp."
He glanced at the clock on the wall and blinked in shock. It was already evening. The time had slipped away from him. He'd missed his meeting with his team, a critical moment in his duty as a chunin.
But as the weight of his absence settled on him, Daichi didn't feel regret. Instead, he felt a strange sense of clarity. The novel had given him something he hadn't expected: perspective.
---
He stood up quickly, grabbing the manuscript, and walked out of his room. His father, the publisher, was still working downstairs. Daichi moved through the house, his heart pounding in his chest.
When he found his father, the older man was hunched over a stack of papers, his glasses low on his nose as he scribbled something in a ledger.
"Dad," Daichi said, his voice unusually urgent. "I need to talk to you about something."
The publisher looked up, his expression one of mild annoyance. "Daichi, what is it? Shouldn't you be with your team?"
"I—" Daichi hesitated, gripping the manuscript tightly. "I think you have something special here. This manuscript... No Longer Human... it has the potential to be a hit. A real hit. It's different from anything I've ever read. It's... it's not like anything else in this world."
The publisher raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You're talking about a book you found on my desk?"
"Yes, Dad," Daichi said, his voice firm. "You need to read it. Please. I think this story has something that people need to hear. It's more than just words on paper."
The older man sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure," Daichi said, nodding. "I know it."
With that, he handed the manuscript over to his father, who gave him a half-hearted nod before turning back to his work.
----
The house was quiet, save for the faint rustling of paper and the occasional creak of the wooden beams as the wind picked up outside. Daichi sat in the corner of the room, his legs crossed, trying to keep his breathing steady. The manuscript lay in front of his father, the publisher, who had reluctantly agreed to read it. His father's expression was unreadable as he adjusted his glasses and flipped open the first page.
Daichi watched him closely, his heart beating faster with every moment. He had insisted. He had pushed. He had felt something deeper in the novel, a rawness that couldn't be ignored, but now, as his father's hand moved over the paper, he couldn't help but question whether his feelings were misguided. Was he just caught up in the words, or was there truly something about this manuscript that could change everything?
The publisher didn't look up at his son, instead continuing to read with a detached air, his expression impassive. He had seen many manuscripts come through his office over the years—some good, some bad, and most of them forgettable. This book, with its grim title and heavy themes, didn't promise much. But Daichi had insisted. "Read it, Dad. Just read it." His words echoed in his father's mind, but the older man, with his years of experience in the publishing world, couldn't quite shake his skepticism.
---
The first few pages were slow, almost tedious. The protagonist's internal struggles were profound, but the pacing was deliberate, and the themes, though heavy, felt distant, as if the writer had buried the heart of the story beneath layers of abstract thoughts. The publisher's brow furrowed as he read, not sure where this story was heading.
Daichi sat on the edge of his seat, waiting for any sign of reaction. His eyes darted between his father's stoic face and the manuscript, hoping for some glimmer of recognition, some sign that the story had touched something within the older man.
Then came the moment.
The words on the page shifted, the protagonist's voice becoming sharper, more desperate. The protagonist's alienation, his increasing detachment from the world around him, began to seep into the narrative in a way that was difficult to ignore.
---
"I learned that people don't really care about anyone but themselves. They speak of friendship, of love, of loyalty, but none of it is true. They are all just actors, playing parts in a drama they don't understand. And I... I am no different. I play my part, but only to avoid being cast out. I am invisible, but that is the only way I can survive."
---
The publisher's hand stilled. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he read the lines again. Something in the words felt different now—more genuine, more unsettling. He flipped back, rereading those lines carefully, as if searching for the truth that lay beneath them.
---
Daichi couldn't help himself. He leaned forward slightly, his voice almost a whisper. "What do you think, Dad? What do you see?"
The publisher didn't answer immediately. He simply continued reading, his lips moving silently as he absorbed the words. The silence stretched between them, a heavy weight, until at last, he turned the page, his gaze deepening, his brows furrowing further.
The tension in the room felt unbearable to Daichi. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and he resisted the urge to grab the manuscript and demand his father's thoughts.
---
The protagonist's disillusionment only deepened as the novel progressed. Yozo's inability to relate to others, his dark thoughts about the human condition, and his eventual retreat into himself became more pronounced. The story wasn't just about a boy or a man—it was about the alienation felt by anyone who had ever truly looked at the world and seen it for what it was: broken, corrupt, and indifferent.
-----
"I don't want to be seen. I don't want anyone to look at me, to ask me what I'm doing, what I've become. But when I look at others, I see the same emptiness in their eyes. It's the same for all of us. We are all alone, wandering in the dark, pretending to be something we're not."
---
Daichi saw his father's hand twitch again. His father's fingers gripped the edge of the manuscript for a moment, as if testing its weight, before he continued reading. There was something in the way his father's gaze lingered on the words—something deeper than just a cursory reading.
---
Time passed. Daichi's body had long since gone stiff from sitting in the same position, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He was too afraid of disturbing the fragile balance in the room. The publisher had now read through a good portion of the novel, and Daichi could feel the shift in the atmosphere. His father's gaze was no longer as dismissive as it had been. His mind seemed absorbed in the story, his frown deepening with every page.
At last, the publisher closed the manuscript. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, as though he had just emerged from a long dive into a vast, dark ocean.
"Daichi…" The publisher's voice was low, his tone almost incredulous. "This... This is not what I expected."
Daichi's heart leaped. "What do you mean?"
The publisher was silent for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. He was thinking, processing. "This book, it's not just about a man's inner turmoil, his struggle to connect. It's… it's a critique of everything. Of life itself. Of society. Of the way people deceive themselves into thinking they belong to this world."
Daichi leaned forward. "Do you think it has potential? To be a success, I mean?"
The publisher paused again, staring out the window, lost in thought. He wasn't sure if he believed in the book, or if he was simply reacting to the emotional weight it carried. But one thing was clear—the story was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It didn't pull punches. It didn't offer easy solutions or clear answers. It was raw, difficult, and painful, yet there was a beauty in its honesty.
"I don't know if this is going to be a commercial hit," the publisher said slowly, his voice measured. "But I can't deny its impact. It's… haunting. It's disturbing, but it feels true. People might not understand it at first. It's not the kind of book the average reader will pick up, but…"
He looked up at his son, his gaze steady. "But it has something. Something powerful. Something people will talk about. Whether they love it or hate it, they won't be able to forget it."
Daichi couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at his lips. "So… you think it's worth publishing?"
The publisher gave a slow nod, a faint smile tugging at his own lips. "Yes, Daichi. I think it's worth publishing. It has the potential to challenge people. To make them think."
Daichi's heart swelled with a mixture of pride and relief. He had known, deep down, that No Longer Human had the potential to break through the walls of conventional thought. It wasn't just a story—it was a mirror, reflecting the deepest fears and insecurities of those who read it.
"Then let's do it," Daichi said, standing up, the fire of determination lighting his eyes. "Let's get this book out there."
The publisher watched his son with a mixture of admiration and a touch of amusement. "Very well, Daichi. Let's see where this goes."
---
As Daichi walked out of the study, his mind racing with possibilities, the weight of the manuscript in his father's hands felt heavier than ever. No Longer Human was no longer just a story. It was a message—a message that would, in time, reach more people than they could ever have imagined.
And it all started with a single, quiet decision.
---