The final part of the novel restarts the narrative in ways that underscore its ideas on the cyclical and persistent nature of violence. When Lee returns to the start of his narrative, he comes back with the restoration of the memory he has been repressing all narrative long. The “dark, narrow line” (307) on the kitchen wall acts as a direct sensory link to an identical stain he saw as a child in Cambodia, triggering the buried truth of his mother’s murder. This elucidates the meaning of the stain as a symbol of Lee’s foundational trauma, which has affected his perception of the present situation, including his understanding of his relationship with his father and the misconception surrounding his roommate’s death. Lee understands that his entire identity as a murderer was a delusion constructed to shield him from the more horrifying reality of his father’s violence. This moment reveals The Impact of Trauma on Memory and Perception. His mind created a false narrative to cope with the guilt of inaction and the terror of being raised by his mother’s killer. The recurring phrase that signals the return to the start of the narrative and the exposition of the truth about the death of Lee’s mother, “A man, a murderer, a stain,” (309) is shown to be a transferred memory of Lee’s father. The re-emergence of this memory shatters the fragile peace Lee has maintained through medication and denial, forcing him to reckon with the dark past he has been running away from all his life.

In a parallel act of familial violence, Sen discovers that her father has murdered her mother and brothers, claiming it as a mercy before revealing his true, selfish motive: He needs her to act as his kaishakunin in his death. This scene deconstructs the romanticized samurai ethos of honor in death, exposing the ritual of seppuku as a tool for manipulation and cowardice. Sen’s realization that her father is a man “scared to die” (328) a slow, painful death dismantles the persona he has cultivated. This perversion of tradition showcases The Destructive Myth of Samurai Honor, in which Itaro invokes a rigid code to pass the burden of guilt and violence over to his daughter. In her Author’s Note, Baker explicates that her deconstruction of the noble samurai myth comes from her background as a descendant of people who were colonized by the samurai Itaro represents. For Baker to reframe the samurai code of honor as a method for escaping accountability and justice is her way of seeking justice for her ancestors, who suffered under the tyranny of people who believed they were carving out a legacy for themselves by subjugating others and making them suffer. The parallel violence that Lee and Sen experience with their respective fathers shows how this misguided code of honor and stoicism have survived in the present day, with Jim representing a version of Itaro that upholds the values of the Satsuma samurai without ever bearing the title.

The narrative’s sudden shift to the sea goddess Otohime’s perspective in Chapter 35 reframes the entire plot, revealing the story’s deeper roots in folklore, keeping in line with the J-horror tradition. Otohime discloses that the haunting of Sen and Lee’s house is a byproduct of her magic, a version of the undersea Dragon Palace designed to protect both Sen and Lee from their tragic destinies. Where Lee and Sen live out cycles of violence that are destined to repeat one another, Otohime is actively trying to break these cycles so that all three of them can thrive in each other’s company. This reveal clarifies the function of the sea and turtles motif, linking it directly to Otohime’s divine but fallible power, which fluctuates with the tide. Her sanctuary, built from love and loneliness, becomes an unstable prison where the boundaries of time grow thin; this conceit effectively catalyzes the plot, allowing the two timelines to converge and giving the two protagonists the opportunity to meet each other. The ultimate failure of her plan suggests that even a goddess cannot save humans from the consequences of their own choices and inherited traumas.

The conclusion culminates in the convergence of Lee’s and Sen’s storylines, as both are destroyed by the toxic loyalties they can no longer uphold. Lee’s brutal murder of his father and Sen’s enraged decapitation of hers are mirrored acts of patricide, representing the violent eruption of years of repressed pain. These scenes illustrate how Family Loyalty as a Destructive Bind forces children into impossible positions, culminating in self-annihilation. Lee’s life has been a slow death that allowed him to avoid confronting his father’s evil, while Sen’s has been a life of relentless training in service of a lie. Their final, violent acts are a rejection of the patriarchal control that has defined them. As they die together in the closet, their shared fate highlights the inescapable, cross-generational cycle of violence initiated by their fathers. The portal that connects them is one of both time and shared trauma.

Despite the brutal ends of its protagonists, the novel closes on a note of transcendent connection and cyclical time. Sen’s posthumous letter to Lee transforms her tragic story into one of lasting hope. By bequeathing the house to him and asking him to “find me” (338) again, she re-frames their brief meeting as the start of a story, rather than an end. In signing herself “The Last Samurai” (338), she reclaims the title her father used to manipulate her, defining it through her own capacity for connection and her defiance of a lasting death. Her assertion that “nothing ever truly ends” (337) provides a counterpoint to Otohime’s grief and failure. While the goddess could not save their lives, the bond Lee and Sen forged offers a different kind of permanence, one that exists outside of time. It remains rooted in a shared moment of recognition and empathy that outlasts their physical destruction.