Dragon Raja 4; Chapter 52: Patient Zero (2)

Dragon Raja 4

The next moment, an upside-down man appeared before her — dark hair, dark eyes, and covered in ropes.

They were only 20 centimeters apart, staring into each other’s eyes, their breath mingling as the leaves swirled around them.

The intimate gaze lasted for only two seconds before the man sneezed violently, blowing off one of the flamingo girl’s false eyelashes.

“Sorry, sorry, your perfume is a bit too strong,” the man apologized. “Excuse me, is this the Old Palace?”

The flamingo girl slowly raised her head and finally understood why the man had fallen from the sky. He was strapped to a parachute, which had gotten caught in the branches of a yellowwood tree by the roadside.

“Are… are you here for dinner?” the flamingo girl asked, her hand nervously clutching the gun hidden in her tail.

“Yes, yes, I’m here for dinner. Since there was a traffic jam tonight, I thought parachuting down would save me some time,” the man replied as he pulled out a paratrooper knife, cut the cords, and jumped down.

His landing was quite smooth, but unfortunately, the Bavarian girl’s neatly combed hair had been blown into disarray by the wind.

Given his current parachuting skills, this mishap wouldn’t have happened if his phone hadn’t rung midair. It was a call from one of the Student Union’s ministers about the budget. As he held the parachute cord with one hand and chatted with the minister, a crosswind suddenly hit, sending him spiraling headfirst into the yellowwood tree.

He glanced at the Old Palace’s sign, handed his travel bag to the flamingo girl, and unbuttoned his jacket to show that he wasn’t carrying any weapons.

Even in Rio’s winter, it was still quite warm, so he wore only a lightweight suit over a white T-shirt, which had a design of twin dragons guarding a cruciform emblem.

For days, the high-ranking members of the gang had been discussing that emblem, speculating about what kind of organization could make Porquinho so uneasy. Some guessed it was the legendary “Southern Cross” assassin group; others thought it was the extreme religious organization “Black Temple,” known for its violent stance against demons. Some even speculated it was the Dragon Mountain Hermit Society, a financial group with over three centuries of history, notorious for loaning money to organized crime and seizing control of businesses and territories when debts went unpaid.

Now the answer was clear. Surrounding the emblem were half a circle of English and half a circle of Chinese characters, both reading “Cassell College Student Union.”

Upon confirming his identity, the hidden gunmen all disengaged their safeties.

They didn’t dare act rashly. As this man adjusted his clothes, his gaze seemed to sweep over every one of their hiding spots as if by chance.

Following the flamingo girl, the man ascended to the top floor and sat across from Porquinho.

“Porquinho? May I call you that, or would you prefer your real name?” he asked, checking Porquinho’s photo in the dossier.

“Porquinho is fine. And how should I address you?” Porquinho replied politely.

“Just call me Ricardo, president of the Cassell College Student Union. The Execution Bureau sent me.”

Porquinho carefully studied the man claiming to be the Student Union president. He wore brightly colored tropical shorts and sneakers, with a lightweight suit jacket over a plain T-shirt. The outfit might have been considered “tropical chic,” but the man looked casual and lackadaisical, his drooping eyes giving the impression he was just there to sell discount coupons.

“Is this an order from the Student Union or from the Execution Bureau?” Porquinho asked cautiously.

“Technically, you could say you’re my senior, so let’s skip the formalities and get straight to the point,” Ricardo responded.

Porquinho nodded slightly. He didn’t want to revisit this part of his past, but the other party had surely seen his file, so there was no use denying it.

Thirteen years ago, he had also attended that mysterious mountain college and was a member of the Student Union, once determined to protect the world. But later, after breaking school rules, he was expelled and had three years of his memory erased before being sent away, eventually ending up in Rio de Janeiro. Perhaps due to his unique bloodline, over the years he slowly began to recall those forgotten three years. Ashamed of his past, he never spoke of it to anyone. Despite his powerful status in Rio’s underworld, living a life of luxury, deep inside, he still feared that college, and he would never allow anyone with the surnames Anjou or Schneider to appear in his organization.

But the college’s secretive “Heaven’s Eye” eventually located him among the vast population, and its emissaries came knocking at his door.

“I have nothing to do with the college anymore, but if there’s anything the college needs from me,” Porquinho said, “I’d be honored to help.”

“To be blunt, you’ve offended someone you shouldn’t have. You have a Japanese client, Tachibana Masamune. That guy buys people from you, all of them hybrids from South America. He pays with drugs and hallucinogens, and that’s how you climbed your way to the top of the South American drug cartel. You should know that this kind of trade violates college rules. Even though you’ve left the college, you still retain some of your memories and should be following the rules.”

Porquinho spread his hands. “Back then, he was the head of the Orochi, practically one of your own, while I was just a businessman taking money for my services.”

“Tachibana sources people and serum from all over the world, but very few understand his network. We believe you’re one of them. If you can fully expose his network, we can spare your life, but you’ll still face consequences—you’ll need to disband your organization. The college will hand your evidence over to the police, and then we’ll step aside.”

“Your ‘mercy’ means letting me die at the hands of the police?” Porquinho sighed.

“Although the death penalty is technically still in Brazil’s laws, the last execution was in 1876, and it’s effectively abolished,” Lu Mingfei shrugged. “A friend of mine once said, ‘You have to pay your debts. If you cut a hand, you’ll lose a hand; if you cut a leg, you’ll lose a leg. If people could get away with doing bad things without being punished, then who would still believe in the glory of God?'”

“Are you threatening me? If you’re trying to threaten me, you’re not qualified! Get Schneider to come here himself!” Porquinho seemed to get angry.

“No, no, just advising you to turn over a new leaf. You’ve been away from the college too long; you don’t know how much it’s changed. We’ve become much more peaceful now. We try to resolve things without violence whenever possible. It’s been years since a major creature has awakened, and even minor creatures are rare. Some divisions have even started cutting back staff. Professor Schneider is about to retire.”

As Porquinho listened to this guy talk on and on, he started to suspect that the person in front of him was a fake.

The Student Union was an elite organization, and its chairs were always representative of elitism—either highly talented or born into powerful families. Even when they looked at you, there was always an air of superiority. Back when Porquinho was at the college, the Student Union chair was the epitome of a sharp-dressed brute, always cold-faced, drinking whiskey, and usually shooting someone in the leg before starting a negotiation. But the man sitting in front of him now was kindly trying to persuade him to be good. How could the Student Union allow someone like this to lead them?

The waiter handed a fine cigar to Lu Mingfei, who took it naturally, savoring a puff. “Partagás 150th Anniversary Limited Edition? The kind of thing you’d find at an auction.”

He had to admit, the man’s taste in cigars was top-notch, which was perhaps the most Student Union chair-like thing about him.

“I was just one of Tachibana’s suppliers. How would he allow a supplier to understand his network?” Porquinho softened his stance again.

“You’re not just an ordinary supplier. You’ve been to Japan at least four times in the past decade. Don’t tell me it’s because you love Japanese culture.”

“I have a woman in Japan, and if this were the Edo period, she’d be considered an oiran,” Porquinho smirked sleazily. “I went to Japan to see her.”

“You’re talking about Aoiya Daiho. Yes, you did stay at her place every time you visited. But Taifeng is nearly 40 years old now. If you broaden your perspective, you could practically call her your godmother,” Lu Mingfei said coolly. “EVA has analyzed your behavior at nightclubs and venues. You always play with young girls and are very generous with tips. You prefer mixed-race girls with tan skin, have no maternal attachment, and your favorite drink is tequila. So, tell me, why would you fly halfway across the world to sip sake with a godmother-level middle-aged Asian woman and listen to her play the shamisen?”

Porquinho fell silent. For the first time in years, he felt the fear of the college’s secretaries, like a crawling sensation in his brain, leaving him utterly exposed.

“When you’ve lived in this world, you leave countless traces. In this age of big data, once those traces are digitized, we can use that data to create a portrait of you,” Lu Mingfei sighed. “I’ve studied your portrait and know many of your little secrets. I have plenty of secrets stored in EVA too, so when she asks me anything, I never lie.”

At that moment, a barbecue chef arrived with a platter, and Porquinho quickly changed the subject. “Why don’t we continue our conversation over food? You’ve come a long way, and I should extend proper hospitality.”

Seeing no objection from Lu Mingfei, Porquinho snapped his fingers, and the long-waiting band began to play Madonna’s famous dance song, “La Isla Bonita.”

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