Monogatari Series - Volume 25 - Chapter 12.05

005 

The epilogue, or maybe, the punch line of this story. 

If I were to follow the routine I’ve now maintained for over ten years, I would start detailing the aftermath of the case that took place, but again, this is an exception—I parted with the three girls normally, and never saw them again, like normal. To begin with, there wasn’t even an incident to talk about. I was kind of aware already, but apparently I didn’t give them a good impression—well, I was silent for most of the latter half of the party, what can I say? 

The other pair seems to have done a better job than me at having fun, however, neither of them seems to have maintained contact with the other community after that. 

Apparently they couldn’t contact them or something. 

I’m almost certain the cause lies in our insular community, but maybe something happened to them—or maybe not. 

Still, not having a punch line or even an epilogue would feel too awkward—so I’ll replace that void with my arbitrary analysis of the myth “Ikkun” told to his troubled friend. 

Even if some things cannot be changed, they can be replaced. That’s the point. 

The first thing that comes to mind when hearing the sculpture changes into a new animal every new year is that someone was sneakily replacing the one present inside the cage. However, the cage’s primary function was to prevent that from happening—in a way, this situation created a sort of locked room. 

Moreover, replacing the sculpture introduces a problem of quality—if the new one isn’t as excellent on the artistic front as the former, nobody would call that a “transformation.” 

Therefore, we can hypothesize that the new ones were from the same sculptor as the original. But it’s natural to assume that “famous monk” wasn’t behind the creation of the cage, so he obviously shouldn’t have the key to open it. 

So replacing it was impossible. The sculpture was literally blocked on all sides—but not quite. 

Things aren’t that simple in reality—they are even more simple. 

It wasn’t blocked in any way, that locked room was full of holes. 

It was a cage after all. 

They wanted to seal an animal’s sculpture, so a cage seemed to be the perfect candidate for that, but cages for sculptures are meaningless—rather, it makes more sense to think of that cage as a theft-prevention security measure the temple set up because the sculpture was so remarkable. 

For the same reason as the Mona Lisa’s glass case—however, the difference between a cage and a glass case is that the former has gaps. 

The sculpture wouldn’t fit through them—but a human’s hand might. 

What can you do if your hand can fit? 

Replacing it is impossible. You cannot get the sculpture out. 

But—isn’t there another process you can carry out through the cage? 

...Speaking as someone fooled by the trick, hearing at the very start that the “rat” had transformed into an “ox” gave me a weird preconception. I unconsciously started thinking “Huh, the sculpture got bigger.” 

I assumed the sculpture had “gone giant”—but we are merely talking about sculptures. 

They don’t have to be faithful to reality in size. 

One could carve a rat’s sculpture as big as a building without qualms, and following that logic, one could carve a minuscule ox with no problems—well, these are extreme examples, but in reality there is no problem whatsoever with having the ox’s sculpture be smaller than the rat’s. 

“I am not carving statues, I only bring out the statue present inside the rock for everyone to see”—that sounds like what an ancient wise man might say, and to borrow these words, the monk carved out the “ox” present inside the “rat”. 

Then the “tiger” present inside the “ox”. 

Then the “bunny” present inside the “tiger”. 

Then he carved out the “dragon” present inside the “bunny;” the “snake” present inside the “dragon;” the “horse” present inside the “snake;” the “goat” present inside the “horse;” the “monkey” present inside the “goat;” the “rooster” present inside the “monkey;” the “dog” present inside the “rooster;” and the “boar” inside the 

“dog.” 

Every passing year. 

On every New Year. 

As he got older—then, we can come up with a logical explanation as to why the zodiac didn’t loop around. It’s elementary: It has become too small to be carved down any further—it couldn’t be carved, and didn’t need to be. 

It could now fit through the gaps in the cage. 

It was small enough to pass through the cage—to be liberated from it. 

In a way, this is the sculpture version of matryoshka dolls, however, this was nothing more than theory—it makes sense as a theory, but not at all in practice. 

Seeing the sculpture lose in size for two or three years and not notice is one thing, but some must have realized around the fifth year—in no way could the secret have been kept until the monkey’s turn on the twelfth year. 

Therefore, this tale is undoubtedly a work of fiction. 

Not an old tale, but a fabricated tale—no, it’s not even a composition. 

It’s not even a story. 

I would call this—nonsense. 

...What could “Ikkun” have wanted to convey? 

What was his message for his friend wanting to change but being unable to? A cycle of zodiacs that, at first glance, seems unrestrained, lacking any integrity, but was actually forced to change by someone’s influence, by someone’s intent—is that what he wanted to say? 

That one doesn’t change, they are only ever forced to. 

It hadn’t lost its integrity. 

Nor had it left the monk’s hand. 

Rather, it was dancing in his palm. 

Even if you feel free, even if you think you escaped from the cage, that it was orchestrated by someone else; freedom is permitted but not free will—was that his message? 

Or maybe this is what he wanted to convey: 

Changing means carving yourself away. 

The more one changes, the more barren they get; the more one changes, the more they lose themselves—ultimately they will become a frantic boar of a derisively smaller size compared to the original giant rat, something easily crushable inside one’s palm. 

Feelings of wanting to change are suicidal. 

Did he want to say that to Mikoko just as he had done with Emoto? No—probably not. 

He probably had nothing to convey or say to her—this was nonsense only one who had his body, mind, and ego eroded until they had completely worn out could mouth; so his existence didn’t matter now. 

Eroding his body despite not being immortal. Gnawing it away. 

The boy who didn’t change, but instead disappeared. 

That Nonsense User must have been born this way—that Nonsense User must have died this way. 

...That reminds me, I hardly ever spoke with “Ikkun,” but thinking back about it, I remember one thing he’d said that stuck to me. My memories of the context leading to it are really vague and faint, but I think he addressed that not just to me, but to our group of three. 

Upon learning we partook in this mingling to try and change our current situation, “Ikkun” didn’t tell us “Feelings of wanting to change are suicidal.” Seeming as if he was simply mouthing what he was thinking—or mouthing what he was not thinking—he hmm-ed at us before whispering his impression, as though a serpent coiling around our necks. 

“You want to change? That’s a change for me.” Though it’s just nonsense.