Written by @FuzzyChinchilla. Proofread by @.Arkkwolf, @RexLobo, and @Oli.
Art and photos by @FuzzyChinchilla.
The following story and images may be taken IC.
[!] While perusing through the Karakura Public Library, you happen upon a thin book titled “The Diaoyu Tunnel Filcher”.
Art and photos by @FuzzyChinchilla.
The following story and images may be taken IC.
[!] While perusing through the Karakura Public Library, you happen upon a thin book titled “The Diaoyu Tunnel Filcher”.
During 1861, within the tail end of Japan’s Edo Period, and Karakura’s Kyōdaina era, chiseling could be heard from the western Kohaku mountains. After centuries of merchants and travellers being at the mercy of Chiharu’s unquellable tempest, subject to all manner of landslides when trekking through the worn mountain passes and seafaring amidst toppling waves churning against the Kaigan shore, the city of Karakura wished to forge a new path ahead. The Itsbyoshi court gathered miners, stonemasons, and craftsmen from across the island to embark on an ambitious new project: A transportation tunnel carved directly through the indurated stone range. The tunnel hoped to promise not only safe passage, but the scale of its construction brought the need to train additional hands, opening work to those who desperately yearned for such stable wages.
To avoid rockslides endangering those within Karakura City’s valley, excavation began from within the foothills bordering the Kampo forest. The operation capitalised on the strong, rot-resistant hinoki wood from the forest to create supportive scaffolding as the concavity grew. Salted wind whistled through crevices in the stone, carrying the scent of freshly carved timber and sardine oil, which fueled the ceramic oil saucers illuminating the man-made cave. Water seeped through earth and stone, emerging through the veins of the mountain, weeping from the walls and ceiling to pool at the workers’ feet. Dampness permeated the air, tasting of minerals long trapped. Extensive drainage was required, but with the dutiful work of specialised craftsmen, progress continued smoothly for the next ten months.
Fig. 1 - Photo taken during a government authorized land survey of the site, August 1st, 1968.
On April 23rd, 1862, the site manager, Seikichi Morimoto, reported work had begun late due to a fog that rolled in the prior night lingering upon the cold morning, diffusing and dampening the sunrise. As workers wearily trudged to their stations, several oil saucers were noted to be tipped over, not a single lick of oil left inside, nor on the ground, dry wicks frayed upon the bottom. Assuming the scent had attracted wild animals, new regulations were put in place: not only would the remaining oil be stored away at the end of the workday, but the saucers as well. However, the monthly restocks on oil supplies seemed to keep running dry earlier than expected, requiring quantities and expenses to increase. In suspicion of a thief, a night watchman was hired to guard the storeshed and oil use soon returned to near-normal, but costs continued to rise in other areas. At first it was food, a morsel or two missing from meals, a pantry sack left open and emptied, then personal effects, trinkets. A few miners reported losing their chisels and hammers with no recollection of where they could have misplaced them. Distrust brewed subtly between workers, suspicion of whom the light-fingered fellow could be, but as long as the city’s funds lined their pockets, their discontent was kept to themselves.
Losses continued to accumulate over the following year, slowing progress while no culprits could be found. As stone was gradually chipped away, so too did this costly endeavor dig a hole into the city’s funds as large as the tunnel itself. It was as though supplies were being gobbled up by the mountains, a trade for every pebble taken from them. The operation officially came to a halt on June 9th of 1863, when within the depths of the tunnel a creaking echoed as one of the supports splintered beneath a crumbling ceiling, rubble consuming two mining partners beneath it. As workers rushed to reinforce the area, an animalistic yowling emanated, reverberating throughout the stone hall, striking fear into the hearts and minds of everyone present. Only one of the two men could be recovered, Gensaku Isoshima, barely clinging to life before signs of further collapse presented and the area had to be swiftly evacuated. Within his palm he clutched the partially crushed remains of the painted shell of a hamaguri clam; a gift to the miner from his wife which had gone missing along with several other keepsakes five months prior. He claimed that as he struggled beneath the rubble he felt it crack under his fingers, unsure of what it was until he was rescued.
Fig. 2 - One half of the painted hamaguri clamshell, crushed in the collapse (left), and the intact half belonging to Gensaku Isoshima’s wife, Hatsu Isoshima, (right). The design depicts Japanese primrose. Currently held in the Archives of Karakura collection.
Following this incident, superstitions and rumours spread across Izu-Karakura, claiming the unnatural alteration of the mountains had angered the kami. Between the amassed financial burden of the project and mounting fear scattering throughout the populace, the Itsbyoshi court came to a decision to abandon further development. The makeshift structures which once housed the workers, along with the unfinished tunnel itself, surrendered to the devices of nature, rotting away in overgrowth for decades to come.
Over a century and a half later, under the mayorship of Sengoku Suruga, the project found rebirth. Taking advantage of modern industrial advances, and the sizable dent from ages past, the Diaoyu tunnel was born, finally connecting Karakura City by road to western settlements, the most notable of which being Tsubasa. However, to this day superstition still persists. Tales pass amongst open ears, remarking that citizens travelling through Diaoyu tunnel on their way to Karakura airport develop a strange feeling as though they’ve forgotten something, only to find a single article of clothing or token missing from their luggage. Over time, drivers of transport trucks have developed a trend of tying a small trinket to their rearview mirror; an offering in exchange for leaving their cargo untouched. To whom or what these objects land in the possession of remains uncertain, debate chattering amongst children, but many believe somewhere, nestled within the deepest crannies of the mountains, lies a trove of stolen goods, a piece from every person who’s stepped foot on Karakura’s shores.
To avoid rockslides endangering those within Karakura City’s valley, excavation began from within the foothills bordering the Kampo forest. The operation capitalised on the strong, rot-resistant hinoki wood from the forest to create supportive scaffolding as the concavity grew. Salted wind whistled through crevices in the stone, carrying the scent of freshly carved timber and sardine oil, which fueled the ceramic oil saucers illuminating the man-made cave. Water seeped through earth and stone, emerging through the veins of the mountain, weeping from the walls and ceiling to pool at the workers’ feet. Dampness permeated the air, tasting of minerals long trapped. Extensive drainage was required, but with the dutiful work of specialised craftsmen, progress continued smoothly for the next ten months.
Fig. 1 - Photo taken during a government authorized land survey of the site, August 1st, 1968.
On April 23rd, 1862, the site manager, Seikichi Morimoto, reported work had begun late due to a fog that rolled in the prior night lingering upon the cold morning, diffusing and dampening the sunrise. As workers wearily trudged to their stations, several oil saucers were noted to be tipped over, not a single lick of oil left inside, nor on the ground, dry wicks frayed upon the bottom. Assuming the scent had attracted wild animals, new regulations were put in place: not only would the remaining oil be stored away at the end of the workday, but the saucers as well. However, the monthly restocks on oil supplies seemed to keep running dry earlier than expected, requiring quantities and expenses to increase. In suspicion of a thief, a night watchman was hired to guard the storeshed and oil use soon returned to near-normal, but costs continued to rise in other areas. At first it was food, a morsel or two missing from meals, a pantry sack left open and emptied, then personal effects, trinkets. A few miners reported losing their chisels and hammers with no recollection of where they could have misplaced them. Distrust brewed subtly between workers, suspicion of whom the light-fingered fellow could be, but as long as the city’s funds lined their pockets, their discontent was kept to themselves.
Losses continued to accumulate over the following year, slowing progress while no culprits could be found. As stone was gradually chipped away, so too did this costly endeavor dig a hole into the city’s funds as large as the tunnel itself. It was as though supplies were being gobbled up by the mountains, a trade for every pebble taken from them. The operation officially came to a halt on June 9th of 1863, when within the depths of the tunnel a creaking echoed as one of the supports splintered beneath a crumbling ceiling, rubble consuming two mining partners beneath it. As workers rushed to reinforce the area, an animalistic yowling emanated, reverberating throughout the stone hall, striking fear into the hearts and minds of everyone present. Only one of the two men could be recovered, Gensaku Isoshima, barely clinging to life before signs of further collapse presented and the area had to be swiftly evacuated. Within his palm he clutched the partially crushed remains of the painted shell of a hamaguri clam; a gift to the miner from his wife which had gone missing along with several other keepsakes five months prior. He claimed that as he struggled beneath the rubble he felt it crack under his fingers, unsure of what it was until he was rescued.
Fig. 2 - One half of the painted hamaguri clamshell, crushed in the collapse (left), and the intact half belonging to Gensaku Isoshima’s wife, Hatsu Isoshima, (right). The design depicts Japanese primrose. Currently held in the Archives of Karakura collection.
Following this incident, superstitions and rumours spread across Izu-Karakura, claiming the unnatural alteration of the mountains had angered the kami. Between the amassed financial burden of the project and mounting fear scattering throughout the populace, the Itsbyoshi court came to a decision to abandon further development. The makeshift structures which once housed the workers, along with the unfinished tunnel itself, surrendered to the devices of nature, rotting away in overgrowth for decades to come.
Over a century and a half later, under the mayorship of Sengoku Suruga, the project found rebirth. Taking advantage of modern industrial advances, and the sizable dent from ages past, the Diaoyu tunnel was born, finally connecting Karakura City by road to western settlements, the most notable of which being Tsubasa. However, to this day superstition still persists. Tales pass amongst open ears, remarking that citizens travelling through Diaoyu tunnel on their way to Karakura airport develop a strange feeling as though they’ve forgotten something, only to find a single article of clothing or token missing from their luggage. Over time, drivers of transport trucks have developed a trend of tying a small trinket to their rearview mirror; an offering in exchange for leaving their cargo untouched. To whom or what these objects land in the possession of remains uncertain, debate chattering amongst children, but many believe somewhere, nestled within the deepest crannies of the mountains, lies a trove of stolen goods, a piece from every person who’s stepped foot on Karakura’s shores.