Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 238: Sakura and Red Lotus (7)

Dragon Raja 3

For several long seconds, the young man was silent, staring out the window at the busy streets, his face unreadable, devoid of emotion.

“That stupid woman… why didn’t she run?” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Her identity had already been exposed to the Yamata no Orochi. Where could she have escaped to? Their Kaguya is capable of monitoring all airports, highways, and seaports. Once they knew Sakurai Kogure was Ryoma, they would have captured her, squeezing out any information about us. Everyone would have assumed that Ryoma was protecting the identities of Osho and the Dragon King. But now that Ryoma is dead, the trail has gone cold,” Osho said calmly. “The Yamata no Orochi’s offensive has reached its conclusion. Now it’s our turn to make our move.”

“I don’t care about that. I just want to know why she didn’t run.”

“She was always fond of you, didn’t you know?” Osho said lightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Women are foolish creatures. When they harbor hopeless love, only a few are wise enough to give it up. Most choose to burn themselves to show their devotion. At least in that moment, they become the brightest in your eyes,” Osho continued softly. “You, of all people, should understand this, Chime.”

“You knew she would choose to die at Elysium Hall? That’s why you left her there?”

Osho gave a slight nod. “It’s always accurate to predict a woman’s actions based on her feelings.”

Suddenly, the darkness of the car was pierced by a glowing red light. Osho immediately straightened up, for a crimson blade was now hovering under his mask. The young man’s hand, gripping the sheath, had sent the blade shooting out, its edge just a foot away, more than enough to slice Osho’s throat.

Everything had happened in the blink of an eye. The young man continued to stare out the window. “You guessed that she would choose to die there, and that’s why you left her behind. With her death, the trail ends. No one will be able to trace our identities. You trained and elevated her so publicly, ensuring the world knew of this flamboyant Ryoma, while hiding the real identities of Osho and the Dragon King. When the time came, you discarded her, just as you planned. You truly are a ghoul, arranging the demise of everyone around you, one by one, so that only the fattened you remain.”

Osho raised his hands slowly, not daring to move. He knew too well how insane this young man could be. He could patiently pose for pictures with random strangers on the street, but could also, in a sudden fit of rage, chop off an ally’s head. Everything depended on his whims at the moment. Sakurai Kogure never understood that the reason this young man had taken a liking to her had nothing to do with her expert massage skills. One night, after he’d finally mastered the performance of Yang Guifei by Bandō Tamasaburō, he simply wanted a beautiful woman to listen to him sing. And at that moment, Sakurai Kogure was the only woman nearby whom he liked. So, he had taken her hand and led her upstairs. Everyone assumed that something had happened between Ryoma and the “Dragon King” that night. Osho never thought sacrificing Sakurai Kogure was a big deal. To him, she was merely a woman chosen to be an audience member during a quiet night.

But now, Osho could feel the young man’s intense fury. He had casually chosen Sakurai Kogure and had never treated her as anything important. Yet, now that she was dead, he had inexplicably become enraged.

The blade pressed tighter against Osho’s throat. He knew that if he didn’t come up with a flawless explanation in the next few seconds, that blade would undoubtedly slice off his head.

“The one left standing won’t be me—it’ll be you. Only you can ascend to the throne of this world. It’s in your blood. You say I used her as food, but wasn’t it you who devoured her? Didn’t you leave her the vial? Don’t tell me you mistook a Molotov cocktail for perfume and left it for the girl you fancied,” Osho chuckled softly, “She was beautiful. Was she also delicious?”

“Are you provoking me?” The blade had already sliced into Osho’s skin.

“If you kill me now, I’ll lose my usefulness. You’ll be eating me too,” Osho continued to laugh, “I hope I taste good enough to satisfy you.”

The silence stretched for a few more seconds. Then the red light of the sword vanished as the blade slid back into its sheath. “Stop the car!” the young man ordered.

The Maybach rolled away into the night, leaving the street nearly deserted, with only the cold wind wandering through the narrow lanes. The young man, with his hand resting on the hilt of his long sword, stood on the street. A light rain fell, swirling in the breeze, while distant streetlamps cast a hazy glow.

He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small sakura-wood box, opening it to reveal vials of Molotov cocktails, shining with rainbow hues. One by one, he snapped open the vials, pouring the liquid into his mouth. The solvent was alcohol, so drinking it wasn’t impossible. However, the kind of alcohol this cocktail was steeped in was brewed by demons, fermented with loneliness, hatred, and despair soaked in blood, creating a seductive and dangerous liquor.

As he drank each vial, he shattered the glass tubes against the pavement, the bright shards scattering like stars.

Why had he left that box of Molotov cocktails for Sakurai Kogure? Even she hadn’t known, and he wasn’t sure either. At the time, he’d simply seen her—a captivating figure, kneeling gracefully on the tatami, her eyes sparkling with a clear, water-like light as she vowed she’d give everything for him. His heart had stirred for a moment, and so he had left the devil’s gift behind in her room. It was only after she died that he understood what that fleeting feeling had been—it was an inexplicable warmth, like someone embracing you even as you fell into hell.

The truth was, it wasn’t meant for her to use. It was a token. What he really meant by leaving it was: “Would you be willing to die with me?”

He raised the last vial, the deep purple liquid swirling inside it. In his mind, it was as if the girl in her twelve-layered kimono stood before him once more, her delicate fingers holding a crystal cup, sharing the drink with him. Without hesitation, he downed the final, most dangerous vial. A faint intoxication crept in, and the Molotov cocktail, when drunk like this, even had a certain sweetness to it.

Whenever he got drunk, he’d sing and dance. So, he lifted his head to sing:

“Fleeting dream, three lifetimes vast, no trace of destiny,

Though the heart clings, why must we meet again?

Life’s clay, endlessly reborn, who follows the water’s flow,

It drifts eastward, never-ending.”

It was a verse from Yang Guifei, a song by Bandō Tamasaburō. He had practiced it for a long time before perfecting it. The night he took Sakurai Kogure by the hand and led her upstairs, it was only because he wanted to sing those lines to a beautiful girl. At that time, she had just joined the Oni Clan, a young girl who had no idea how to react to such favor and attention. Under the envious and jealous gazes of the other girls, she had curtsied, like a maiden invited to dance in a royal court: “My name is… Sakurai Kogure.”

“I’m the second son of the Gen family, a man who loves opera,” he had replied with a soft laugh, amazed by her innocence.

The song echoed into the empty night, and the rain continued to fall, silent and forlorn. Nothing happened. It seemed as if he had merely drunk a few fine cups of liquor. The dangerous liquid had entered his body, flowing into some deep, hidden black hole.

He suddenly burst into tears.