Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 269: A Friend of Justice (5)

Dragon Raja 3

Caesar rubbed his forehead, wondering if he had a fever and was hearing things, then burst into laughter in disbelief.

It was a feeling of being utterly defeated on a spiritual level. Before this, only Lu Mingfei and Finger had managed to give Caesar this sensation. They did it because they were shameless—ready to abandon ideals, emotions, faith, and dignity at any time, wagging their tails like dogs, which clashed painfully with Caesar’s elite upbringing. But Chisei’s weapon of choice was “shamelessness.” Caesar couldn’t believe there was someone so shameless, who spoke of his own evil so matter-of-factly, without the slightest shame, as if it were perfectly natural.

Caesar scratched his head for a long time before turning to Chu Zihang. “Did I ever tell you? The Japanese don’t have words for good and evil in their dictionary… and it seems they’ve also thrown out loyalty, filial piety, and righteousness. You Chinese spent all those years trying to teach them for nothing!”

Chu Zihang shook his head. He knew Caesar was just looking for someone to vent to, but he didn’t have much to say. He simply reloaded his Uzi with a clip of tungsten kinetic energy rounds and waited for Caesar’s decision. Caesar was the team leader.

Caesar slammed Chisei’s head against the doorframe, his temples throbbing with anger. “Bastard! A man who can’t even believe in his own justice has no reason to live! Do you believe I won’t blow your brains out?”

He couldn’t stand it. Chisei’s words made his blood run cold. A person who had abandoned their sense of justice was like a soulless shell who had sold their soul to the devil. The entire Gattuso family was devoutly Catholic, and from a religious point of view, such a person wasn’t even worthy of being called human.

“I’ve already said my three things,” Chisei said calmly.

His gaze was clear, and his face, with its delicate, almost feminine beauty, seemed to express an attitude of “though ten thousand stand against me, I shall go.” He looked like one of the great samurai of the Sengoku period. Even as the enemy’s army appeared on the horizon, he would calmly pluck his lute, accepting his fate as a warrior who would inevitably die on the battlefield. They awaited death as one awaits a fated lover. Chu Zihang had no reason to trust Chisei, yet he believed Chisei was sincere when he said he wanted to go to France to buy sunscreen.

Chu Zihang loaded his Uzi: “Gentlemen, our time is running out.”

“I don’t trust you,” Caesar said, staring into Chisei’s eyes, “but I’ll give you a chance because the people who believe in you are innocent.”

Caesar swung his Dictator upward, cutting the ropes that bound Chisei. Without uttering a word of thanks, Chisei grabbed the Kumogiri from Caesar’s hand.

“Shit!” Caesar cursed under his breath.

If there were any other option, he would never have worked with Chisei. He didn’t trust him—Japanese people were shameless in his eyes. In the Sengoku period, daimyos would sacrifice their allies in the name of righteousness, crying while saying, “Heaven forced my hand, and I wish I could take your place,” while secretly aiming a rifle at their brother’s back. Chisei wouldn’t even bother with the crocodile tears; he’d just shoot you on the spot. Yet, it wasn’t just about being “shameless.” There was a profound sadness hidden beneath Chisei’s calm demeanor, like a demon burdened with mountainous sins, desperately seeking help. His soul had long been crushed under the weight of guilt, yet he was still struggling to carry it. What belief made him so weary and yet so determined? Caesar had no idea.

He decided to take a risk and give Chisei a chance, because most of the people in this building were innocent.

“We should prioritize blocking them in the elevator shaft, but with our ammo, we won’t be able to take down that many Death Servitors. Caesar, how many mercury-core rounds do you have left?” Chu Zihang asked.

“Only two magazines left—14 rounds in total,” Caesar replied, loading a fresh magazine into his gun. “Even if every shot hits, I can take down five Death Servitors at most. These guys may lack intelligence, but their bodies seem as strong as dragons.”

“The tungsten-alloy rounds in my Uzi are almost useless unless I had unlimited ammo,” Chu Zihang said, glancing at Chisei. “In close combat, even with your body as an emperor, could you handle an onslaught of Death Servitors?”

Chisei stood in front of the Ashura wood carving that led to the roof, turning the Tachibana family crest hidden within it. The wooden panel shifted, moving the entire wall aside to reveal a hidden armory, casting a faint blue glow over them.

“Welcome to Yamata no Orochi’s treasure vault. Today, the weapons are unlimited,” Chisei said, gesturing for Caesar and Chu Zihang to enter.

“Wow!” Caesar exclaimed in awe.

Weapons stretched out as far as the eye could see. From Japanese swords and cross-guns to pistols, shotguns, rifles, and submachine guns… even a legendary Gatling gun stood in the corner. Brightly polished armor hung on the walls, from 17th-century Florentine steel armor to Japan’s distinctive Nanban dōgusoku. Many of the weapons could easily be featured in high-end auctions, with some being unique in the world. Even the Gattuso family’s weapon museum would look humble compared to this collection. Caesar picked up a Japanese sword and tested the blade, which easily sliced through his shirt sleeve. Despite being over a thousand years old, the blade was as sharp as the day it was forged.

“Is this Yamata no Orochi’s armory?” Caesar slid the sword back into its sheath.

“The real ancient swords aren’t here; they’re in my father’s personal sword museum,” Chisei said, smashing a display case with the hilt of his sword and pulling out several weapons.

Chu Zihang picked up a British Sten submachine gun from World War II and inspected it. Although an old model, it was well-maintained, with every part carefully de-rusted and oiled, still a reliable weapon.

“Most of these are old guns. Pick what you like, but for safety, take a few extra—just in case they jam or misfire.” Chisei tossed a gold-inlaid Colt revolver to Caesar.

This was the Colt “Western Watchman,” a commemorative piece from the American Westward Expansion, using custom-made rounds with an enormous caliber. Back in the day, cowboys could blow a charging bison’s skull apart with one shot from this gun. Its only downside was the heavy recoil—enough to knock an inexperienced shooter off their feet with the first shot. Caesar whistled in approval; this revolver would be a fine substitute for his Desert Eagle.

“Mercury explosive rounds.” Chisei tossed a box of ammunition to Caesar. “They’re not as penetrative as the academy’s mercury-core, gold-piercing rounds, but they create a cloud of mercury vapor upon explosion, which is effective against both dragons and Death Servitors.”

Caesar found a Spanish flintlock musket in the cabinet. A noble’s hunting rifle, its stock inlaid with ivory and enamel, with a caliber large enough to fit two-centimeter lead balls. These old hunting rifles packed terrifying firepower, capable of bringing down lions and rhinos. Caesar put a cigar in his mouth, filled the rifle with powder, and lit the cigar with a loud bang as the lead shot ricocheted off the ceiling and landed on the floor. The structural integrity of this floor was insane—the bullet didn’t even penetrate the walls.

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