THE ENIGMA OF THE FOURTH CENTURY: PREQUEL
The Story of Those Who Sent Them
Book Two of the Trilogy
Foreword
This is the other side of the blue ring.
Book One was about seven people who crossed four thousand years to live in fourth-century Japan. This book is about seven people who stayed in 4444, who watched them leave, and who waited.
Why could the time machine only go one-way? Why did we keep sending people, knowing they would never return? And why did we stop at seven?
Prologue: The Institute
June 17, 4444. Monday.
Tokyo Bay was twenty-seven meters higher than four hundred years before. Old Shinagawa was underwater, with an artificial floating island drifting quietly above it. On the north end of the island stood a plain white five-story building. No sign.
Officially: Temporal Engineering Institute, Division 7. Called "Nanabunjo"—Division Seven.
Forty-six staff. On the first floor, a transfer room that smelled of hinoki cypress. In its center, a vertical metal ring two meters across. Not gray, not silver, but a kind of blue. Clear fluid ran slowly through thin tubes around it.
When you passed through this ring, you went to the past.
No one came back.
What follows is the record of seven technicians and the people around them. They sent seven people—biochemist, kendoka, former SDF, linguist, chef, journalist, film director—one by one through the aqua-blue ring.
And then they kept living.
This is the record of why they could only make it one-way, and why they kept sending.
Chapter 1: Haruka Sakaki, Director
Haruka Sakaki, 63, fourth director of Division 7.
She joined as an assistant at 28. Husband none. Children none. Lovers—staff thought none. In fact, she had a lover when young. He volunteered for early time machine test. He was the first sent. To the Late Cretaceous. No news since. She never told anyone.
One April morning, vice-director Yuji Maki entered with papers: selection plan for Subject No. 8.
Sakaki read first line, quietly closed it.
"Maki. We're stopping this."
"Stopping?"
"No No. 8. We end at seven."
Reason: Last night, she dreamed.
In the dream, her lover stood in a Cretaceous swamp, still thirty. He smiled. "Haruka. It's enough. Stop sending. It's not so bad here. I'm happy. You be happy over there."
She woke. Decided: freeze the project. At noon June 17, she would tell all staff.
Chapter 2: Satoru Tsuruoka, Chief Theorist
Satoru Tsuruoka, 51, highest authority on time physics.
His official answer to why you can go to past but not future, and why you can't return: "We don't know yet." He said it sixty-seven times.
On June 16, Sunday, he reread a paper he'd written for seven years, unpublished:
"The Origin of Non-Reversibility in Temporal Leap: The Double-Wall Hypothesis"
It said:
Temporal leap is reversible in principle. You could bring them back. But our ring-liquid acceleration method—the blue ring—intentionally destroys reversibility.
Why? Reversible method creates quantum entanglement between sender and sent. The moment the sent person performs a decisive conscious action in the past, it backflows to sender. Simulation showed sender-side apparatus and technicians spatiotemporally vanish.
Therefore we abandoned reversible.
We intentionally chose one-way.
Not failure. A choice to protect senders.
Cost: sent person becomes permanently embedded in past spacetime. Their consciousness embedded where they lived and died. Not metaphor.
And—when they leave writing, it affects us via two routes:
Normal archaeological route—physically survives four thousand years.
Quantum direct route—via weak residual entanglement, writing can appear directly at specific coordinates in our time, if:
(1) content contains explicit call to senders
(2) medium survives four millennia unbroken
(3) burial spot lies on short-circuit path to sending coordinates
He had hidden paper seven years. Fear of expectation. Fear of answer: what to say if call comes? "Welcome to 4444" or "Forgive us for sending you one-way"?
On June 16 evening, he took the thick paper bundle to Sakaki.
"I'm going to publish this."
Sakaki read title, didn't move.
"Why now?"
"Last night, I dreamed."
She smiled a little. "Coincidence. Me too."
Their dreams—told at end.
That night, Tsuruoka told Sakaki: redesign quantum antenna to receive writings, discuss what to answer if call arrives.
At 11pm he left institute, crossed bridge, looked at dark water.
"We sent them. If something arrives, we must receive it."
Chapter 3: Chinatsu Misawa, Transfer Operator
Chinatsu Misawa, 29, chief operator. Her job: move blue ring.
She sent all seven. She pressed button seven times. Watched seven disappear.
At interview at 24, examiner asked: Can you send people? Those sent never return. Your button is last button of their life. Still press?
She answered: "I can. Condition: after I send seven, send me as eighth."
Recorded, but never clearly accepted. She told no one. She had lover, loved him, but planned to vanish.
Why? "The person who saw their last faces must be in same time and place as them, or they'll be too lonely."
Night she sent seventh, Akira Suwa, she stayed alone.
"Akira, please draw over there. Probably no one in four thousand years will see, but I will remember that you drew."
She remembered each day:
1st Ran Hiiragi, March 12, 4440, cloudy, small nod.
2nd Takeshi Mohri, Sept 3, 4440, sunny, came in keikogi, seven deep breaths.
3rd Osamu Kubota, Feb 8, 4441, snow, checking gear till last second, never looked at her—kindness.
4th Chiaki Yakumo, July 19, 4441, sunny, only one who said Thank you.
5th Gen Mizushima, Jan 26, 4442, sunny, gave her two onigiri he made last night.
6th Shiori Nonomura, Nov 10, 4442, cloudy, stared, asked: Are you planning to come too? Misawa didn't answer. Nonomura smiled: If you come, find small island in Seto. I think I'll be there.
7th Akira Suwa, May 4, 4443, sunny, stared, said: Your face now—I think I'll draw it over there. What's your name? Misawa Chinatsu.
Now June 16, one year one month twelve days since seventh. She planned to volunteer as ninth after eighth.
She didn't know next day at noon, Sakaki would freeze project.
She stood before blue ring. "Everyone, someday I'll go. Find you all. Even one or two. Then say: I sent you. I'm sorry."
Ring was slightly warm to touch.
Chapter 4: Yuko Sakaki, Training Supervisor
Yuko Sakaki, 59, training supervisor. Four years younger sister of Director Haruka.
She trained all seven for one to two years, tested physical, mental, acceptance of no-return. Each spent last week alone with her—officially final adaptation, actually farewell.
Same final question to all seven: Why are you going?
Ran: In 4444 I felt no meaning. Memorizing gut bacteria never saved anyone directly. Over there, maybe one or two.
Takeshi: Wanted to test kendo in real combat when young. Still want to.
Osamu: I'm good at living alone. Lived alone in 4444. A little more meaning over there alone than here alone.
Chiaki: Want to see language disappear. In 4444 languages disappear and I can't record. Over there maybe I can.
Gen: Ingredients in 4444 are poor. Over there rich. And—my customers in 4444 consumed cuisine, didn't need it. People over there probably need it.
Shiori: Because I'm journalist. If there's blank, journalist goes to fill it. Even if can't fill, fact of going makes journalist.
Akira: Somehow. Sorry, only that. Directors move somehow.
Yuko wrote all in old leather notebook, mother's keepsake.
Night after seventh, sisters had monthly dinner at Haruka's small apartment. Yuko cooked.
"Number eight progressing?" Yuko.
"Progressing."
Yuko: "I think we should stop."
Haruka: "Reason?"
"Seven went intending to become people of there, not giving up living in 4444 but feeling they lived in wrong place, wrong time. They thought they'd finally live as themselves over there."
Haruka nodded. "I'm thinking same. Tomorrow, I'll freeze."
Yakumo's words to Yuko before ring: "You trained us to be sent. Did you train yourself not to be sent? We go. You remain. Remaining is probably harder. Going is decided by 'never return.' Remaining requires infinite renewal of 'must keep living.'"
Yuko cried. Yakumo stroked her head. "We remember you. Even over there."
Chapter 5: Nao Dojima, Budget & PR
Nao Dojima, 37, alone handled budget and PR. Not technician but 事務官. Without him institute didn't function. Nine years, lost quarter hair, antacid three times daily. Daughter seven. Wife gave up two years ago—not divorced but ten days a month at parents'.
June 16 Sunday, making Q&A for budget hearing Monday.
Q1: Seven sent, none returned. Failure? A: Return was known premise. Not failure. (Truth: by definition of failure, it is failure)
Q2: Meaning of researching past with this budget? A: Filling blank essential for self-understanding. (Truth: no one here can answer)
Q3: Compensation for families? A: Lifetime salary lump sum per regulation. (Truth: money can't compensate)
He stared at ceiling. "It's over."
He wanted to quit. Thought: blank will never be filled. Can't confirm filled because no return. Claiming filled is fraud. Nine years PR for fraud.
Next morning planned to submit resignation.
In drawer, photo: family of four—him, wife, seven-year-old daughter, and son who died at five. Congenital heart. Even 4444 medicine couldn't fix. Died week after fifth birthday. Two years before Dojima joined institute.
Why did he join? Sometimes thought: Where did five years with son go? Time doesn't disappear. If time remains somewhere, son still exists somewhere in that remaining time.
He wanted to believe that.
He looked at photo, put resignation back. Wrote new paper: Proposal to freeze sending, redirect all budget to receiving writings from seven.
Reason—night he dreamed. Dream told at end.
He put paper in bag, turned off light.
Chapter 6: Sota Fushimi, Maintenance Tech
Sota Fushimi, 42, responsible for blue ring. Knew it more than anyone. Composition of ring liquid (classified), micro-distortion, EM interference, and—sound ring sometimes makes alone.
He treated ring as living. Called it KYOKA. Never decided kanji—just Kyoka.
At night, alone, talked to it. "Kyoka, today we sent Kubota. You felt his tension?"
Flow rate changed slightly before and after each sending. Different per person. Ran: slow regular. Takeshi: steep strong. Kubota: restrained quiet. Chiaki: elegant complex. Gen: warm gentle. Akira: wavering deep. Shiori: sharp precise.
Interpretation: ring remembers subjects.
Tsuruoka listened, said officially can't support, no physical basis. Unofficially, I don't deny. I've observed seven years.
June 16 night, Fushimi sat before ring.
"Kyoka. I decided today. Tomorrow I'll tell director: stop you."
Ring silent, but flow changed slightly.
"You're holding memory of seven. Don't want to erase. But each additional sending increases memory density. I'm scared you'll change. My gut. No physics."
Before Akira vanished, he asked: Maintenance guy, this ring, nice ring. I'll probably draw this ring over there. What color should I draw?
Fushimi answered: Blue. Not just blue, but blue of existence.
Akira smiled: Blue of existence, got it. Will draw so.
Now looking at blue.
Chapter 7: Tadashi Nanao, Archivist
Tadashi Nanao, 24, youngest staff. Job: record everything. Minutes, sending details, final interviews, daily status, casual conversations. Small recorder always in chest pocket. Everyone trusted he wouldn't leak.
Why archivist? His father was second-gen maintenance tech of institute. When Tadashi six, father vanished in accident—caught in predecessor ring while maintaining, sent to 17th century somewhere. Body never found. Mother raised him, died when he nineteen. Alone.
Applied: Not to find father's whereabouts—understand can't. To not increase people like father. Recording deters, makes people careful.
Five years, astonishing amount:
Paper notebooks 427 volumes.
Digital text 60 million characters.
Audio 14k hours.
Photos 120k.
Goal: make record lasting 4000 years.
Asked Tsuruoka: How make 4000-year record? Answer: Carve in stone, but must summarize extremely short.
60 million to how many? Probably 7000 characters.
He started "7000 Character Project"—summary of seven years 4438-4444, 46 staff, seven sent, names, roles, interview summaries 570 characters each.
June 16 night, printed latest draft, envelope wrote: To someone 4000 years later.
Next morning planned to give to Sakaki, ask: Please carve in stone, bury under institute. In 4000 years excavated.
June 17 morning gave. Sakaki read, smiled slightly.
"Instead of stone, better way: wait for quantum reception of seven's writings."
Nanao: Probably won't arrive. Extremely low probability.
Sakaki: Yes. But not zero. If arrives, 7000 not needed. If not, carve your 7000. Either way your five years not wasted.
Nanao nodded: Understood. Then I'll wait.
He waited 49 years. Oldest. White-haired, single, still archivist at 73.
Epilogue: Three Dreams, and Noon June 17
June 16 night, three dreamed.
Haruka Sakaki dreamed of young lover in Late Cretaceous, still 30, in wet forest. He smiled: Haruka. Enough. Stop sending. It's not so bad here. I'm happy. You be happy there.
She woke, decided: No No. 8.
Satoru Tsuruoka dreamed continuation of paper he hadn't written:
"Condition for quantum reception: when sender explicitly abandons sending, only then writing from sent side may reach sender via quantum route."
He woke, decided: publish paper.
Nao Dojima dreamed of dead son, five years old, in his 4444 living room. Son smiled: Papa, time doesn't disappear. My five years didn't disappear. It's still there. So stop making other people go search. I'm here.
He woke, looked at wife's back (she had returned from parents' that day), decided: not quit, propose freeze.
June 17 Monday noon. 46 gathered in conference room.
Haruka at podium, no manuscript.
"Everyone. Today, we officially freeze sending plan."
Silence.
"Many reasons. Biggest: seven already live enough. We need not inject additional future people into their world."
Continued: "Our job from now is to wait. Wait for writings of seven to arrive. May take decades. Some of us will die before it arrives. I probably will die before. But this institute will survive until it arrives. We will wait."
Deep bow. "Thank you till now. And please stay with waiting. Thank you."
Silence, then applause, long.
That night, Fushimi sat before blue ring. "Kyoka. From now you sleep. Sleep and wait for seven's writings to arrive. I'll wait with you."
Ring silent, flow changed slightly.
After, Division 7 became Waiting Institute.
No more subjects sent. Ring maintained carefully by Fushimi. Blue, quietly humming.
Haruka lived 21 more years, died 84, told successor: Please wait. It will arrive.
Tsuruoka published, caused shock, but didn't join debate much, retired quietly 67.
Chinatsu stopped sending, worked under Fushimi maintaining ring, married lover at 40, bore daughter at 42, named Nanatsu—to not forget seven.
Yuko stopped training subjects, started training of remaining—how to remain—taught technicians and families of missing subjects. Lived till 76.
Dojima didn't quit, kept securing budget for waiting. Lost half hair, died 59 heart attack, wife beside.
Fushimi kept maintaining, talking to ring, retired 63, said at retirement: Kyoka, I can't come anymore. Leave to young. But I won't forget you.
And Tadashi Nanao. Youngest, waited longest.
49 years.
August 17, 4493. Division 7 still there. Twelve full-time staff. Budget kept thin by successors of Dojima's successors. Ring maintained by successors of Fushimi's successors.
Nanao 73, still archivist, white-haired, single.
Morning, 10:32 AM, found unglazed jar on his desk. Old, clearly 4000+ years. Mouth sealed with wax.
Trembling, peeled wax. Inside: tablets, bark paper, and a letter on washi containing the records of all seven.
Letter began: To everyone in 4444,
He couldn't read at first, vision blurred with tears. Sat, took seven deep breaths, then read. Finished at noon. Placed letter politely on desk, stood, walked corridor bright with August sun of 4493.
Knocked director's office. Young new director, 34, Nanatsu Sakaki—daughter of Chinatsu Misawa.
"Director."
"Yes."
"It arrived."
That evening emergency conference convened, lasted three days three nights. Fourth morning conclusion: Artifact authentic. Letter authentic. But not public. Reason written in third point of letter: Blank may be left blank.
That evening, Nanao went to transfer room. Ring still quietly humming.
Sat before ring. Spoke name Fushimi used, first time aloud.
"Kyoka. It arrived. 4133 years later, arrived. Waiting was worth it."
Ring silent, flow changed slightly. He felt it.
That night, returned home, took blank paper, started writing:
"Waited 4133 years. Arrived. Writings of all seven people, centered on one letter as representative. All already dead from our perspective. Only one who remembers them alive is probably me, Tadashi Nanao, in this institute. I too will die in few years. So I write. I leave written—"
What he started then is this Prequel. He retraced 46 people's records, compiled as group drama of seven technicians.
Five years to complete. Entrusted manuscript with his will to Nanatsu Sakaki. She stored in dedicated vault under Division 7.
On vault door carved: We sent them. What arrived, we received.
Tadashi Nanao died five years later, 78, single. On his desk: pencil, blank paper, and small bottle of blue paint called blue of existence. He sometimes opened it, took small blue on fingertip, placed dot on washi.
His washi had countless blue dots.
Each dot, probably trace of 46 memories. And seven of them connected to marsh and king's hall and mountain cave and small island in Seto and some riversides and detached room in Yamashiro.
— End of Prequel —
We sent them.
What arrived, we received.
