Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 386: Night of the King’s Assassination (2)

Dragon Raja 3

“Why not move a little faster? It’s been more than thirty years since we last met. You’ve aged, and I’ve grown even older. This world doesn’t leave much time for old men,” Osho’s voice was soft. “We should make the most of every minute.”

“How can we not savor the prelude before the grand symphony begins? Do you still listen to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake?” Masamune asked.

“My favorite now is his Sixth Symphony. It was his own swan song,” Osho replied.

Their conversation flowed through the speaker system, as light as a chat between old friends, but laden with deep meaning. As Tachibana climbed higher, nearing the special observation deck, a man wearing a white mask stood by the window. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored military uniform, with a wide belt around his waist and a luxurious purple cravat tied at his neck—he looked exactly like Dr. Herzog. He resembled not so much a Soviet officer as a Prussian nobleman, stepping straight out of a portrait.

Tachibana stepped onto the special observation deck and closed the door behind him with a flick of his wrist.

The special observation deck was a small room, only about ten square meters in size. The white light from the iron stairs illuminated the crystalline glassware on the small table, where ice floated half-submerged in vodka.

“You look somewhat ridiculous now, Major Bondarev,” Osho smiled as he held his glass, just as he had once stood on the frozen ice of an ancient dragon.

“And you, Dr. Herzog, look a bit terrifying,” Tachibana replied, stepping up to the table and picking up the glass of vodka meant for him, then retreating to the other side of the window.

“Do you want to analyze the ingredients before drinking?”

“There’s no need for that—you’re not here to kill me. Poisoning me would be pointless. You wouldn’t be able to gain from my value that way. And poisoning me wouldn’t harm the Yamata no Orochi family either. I’m no longer the head of the family. Under Chisei’s leadership, the family will continue to run smoothly.” Tachibana took a small sip of vodka, savoring the cold flame as it rolled over his tongue. He shook his head. “I’ve been drinking sake for so long that I’m no longer used to the taste of hard liquor.”

“Shouldn’t we have a toast together?” Osho raised his glass from afar.

“A toast to what? To the once glorious Soviet Union?”

“No need to toast to that—it’s dead. Let’s toast to the fact that we survived. Only the strong survive, and the strong should toast one another.”

Both men drained their glasses.

“There’s a full-spectrum radio wave scanner on the table. You can use it to check around and see if there’s any eavesdropping equipment. I’ve already scanned the area—it’s clean,” Osho pointed to the small table. “Here, in this godless, lawless place, only the gods will know what we say.”

“You mean only the ghosts will know.” Tachibana picked up the scanner and walked along the window.

He was familiar with this device. If it came close to any radio wave transmitter, the scanner would emit a buzzing alarm. As Tachibana circled the room, Osho mirrored his movements, both men keeping an equal distance, like two ends of a lever.

After completing the circle, the device didn’t sound any alarms. Tachibana brought it near his wrist, where he wore a global radio-controlled electronic watch. A few seconds later, the scanner emitted a faint buzzing, detecting the small signal from the watch. This confirmed that the scanner was functioning properly. Tachibana removed his watch and tossed it out the window. Seven or eight seconds later, they heard the sound of it hitting the ground. From such a height, both the watch and a person would take about that long to fall, and both would be shattered to pieces.

“Very good,” Osho said.

By discarding the watch, Tachibana signaled that this conversation was to remain between the two of them—no device emitting radio waves, not even a watch, could be present on the special observation deck.

Tachibana threw the scanner to Osho. Osho raised it and scanned himself from head to toe. The device made no sound. Osho rolled up his sleeve to show Tachibana his wristwatch—it was a purely traditional mechanical one.

They both removed their outer garments and tossed them onto the floor, rolling up their sleeves in perfect unison, like reflections of each other.

“What’s this? Do old friends strip down for a hug when they meet?” Finger, monitoring the special observation deck, asked sarcastically.

“No. Besides their outer clothing, the rest of their clothes are quite form-fitting. This means they can’t hide large weapons, like guns, under their clothes. Rolling up their sleeves shows that there are no throwing knives hidden on their wrists. At that distance, a thrown knife can be as deadly as a bullet,” Ruri explained. “This is how spies demonstrate to each other that they’re ‘clean.’”

“True professionals,” Finger muttered, impressed.

Anyone witnessing this meeting would have a similar feeling. This was a confrontation between a top KGB agent and a Nazi genius scientist. Both were as precise as machines, like gears meshing perfectly. They were the most familiar of enemies, able to easily decipher each other’s riddles. Both arrived early, alone, and immediately checked for eavesdropping devices. They were relics of an old era, following the same principles and patterns, not allowing each other even the slightest advantage.

Caesar couldn’t help but feel grateful that they had Finger on their side. Finger had thought of using a laser eavesdropping device—something that wasn’t part of Tachibana and Osho’s outdated knowledge base.

“After all these years, are you still on the path to the world’s throne?” Tachibana asked.

“Yes, but the road is much longer than I expected,” Osho replied.

“How long can pureblood dragons live? Hundreds of years? Thousands? Or can they endlessly repeat the cocooning process, making their lives virtually infinite?”

“Breaking the thousand-year mark shouldn’t be an issue. For dragon kings, the number of times they can cocoon might be unlimited, or it might be limited by the number of times their cells can divide. I haven’t had the opportunity to find out yet.”

“So, if you evolve into a dragon, you could sit on the throne for at least a thousand years?”

“Provided no one throws me off the throne.”

“Killing so many people just to sit on the throne for a thousand years, always prepared to be killed by the next king—don’t you think that price is a bit too high?”

“The price is indeed high, but if I don’t climb higher up the food chain, I lose my purpose. Bloodshed is nobility, it’s beauty, it’s the force of evolution. Only a bloodstained king truly lives. His subjects are all food.”

“A king ascends to the throne amidst cheers, only to be worshiped by his food? That sounds rather absurd,” Tachibana remarked. “Your kingdom sounds like a dining table, with you dining alone.”

“The king is destined to be lonely. The king and the things he rules are of a different species,” Osho said.

“I guess you’ve never had children, have you?” Tachibana asked.

“No, I’ve never felt the need to pass on my genes. If I were to have an unworthy offspring, it would be my disgrace.”

“And you’re not interested in women, are you? In your eyes, women are just food—an inferior and lowly species. How could you possibly be interested in intimacy with something like that?”

The heavy rain was interfering with the eavesdropping, and the headphones were filled with static noise, making it sound like a bad radio broadcast. The two men spoke quietly, their conversation as calm as a still well, yet beneath that calm surface, it felt as though a bloodthirsty dragon lay in wait. Herzog’s native language was German, and Tachibana’s was Russian, but their Japanese was so flawless that it sounded as if they were native-born. Their speech was elegant, almost like singing. It reminded Caesar of the grandeur of The New Kojiki. At this moment, Tachibana and Osho were like actors on opposite ends of a stage, wearing heavy masks, representing either gods or demons. They discussed forbidden topics, the kind of conversation that was never meant to reach human ears.

“They’re truly insane,” Caesar whispered.

Everyone understood what he meant. The conversation between Tachibana and Osho sounded calm and pleasant, but it did not follow human logic. It was the logic of dragons. In the iron-and-blood civilization of the Dragon Clan, only power and authority were eternal. There was no room for affection or love. In the world of dragons, an individual’s value was based solely on their strength. The weak were destined to be devoured, while the strong sat alone on a precarious throne, waiting for the next king to rise up and overthrow them.