Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 427: Night of Wind and Tides (7)

Dragon Raja 3

“Then hurry up and wrap up your lifelong commitment, change your clothes, and get moving. Takamagahara is packed tonight—at this rate, you won’t even get a seat.”

“Damn it, save me a seat!”

Her father slid a black-and-white photo toward her.

“He’s the eldest son of the Mori family. A Stanford PhD, a great guy. Been too focused on his studies to date anyone. He’s also your fan—fell for you at first sight and said if you got engaged, he’d fully support your music career. You know the Mori family’s standing in Japanese politics. This is an invaluable alliance for the Aoki family. If you two marry, your future child could be Japan’s Prime Minister!”

“Alright, alright, he sounds decent. He’s the one, then. But I need to head out now.” Chika Aoki stood up.

“Chika, where are you going? The Mori family’s matriarch, Mori Ryuko, is bringing her son over tonight for a visit—to help you two develop some chemistry!” her father called after her.

“I’m going to a friend’s party. You elders can handle the engagement details.”

“What friend? Stop hanging around those musicians. A politician’s fiancée needs to be respectable.”

“Not from the music industry,” she said—no way she’d admit it was a host.

Five minutes later, she was en route to Takamagahara.

Caesar’s greatest advantage in winning over Chika was that she couldn’t win against him.

Chika Aoki always had the upper hand. Once, a TV station arranged for her to have a discussion with a young pianist who secretly admired her but looked down on pop music. He had even voiced his disdain to the media before.

On the day of the live broadcast, Chika Aoki walked onto the set in a snow-white gown, extending her hand for a kiss. Her beauty peaked in that moment. The pianist struggled for a few seconds, then bent down to kiss the back of her hand. He never dared to speak out of line again for the rest of the program.

But when Chika tried the same move on Caesar, she failed completely.

Caesar kissed her hand without hesitation, even sniffed it slightly, then looked up and smiled. After that, he wrapped an arm around her waist and invited her inside for a drink—like an emperor welcoming a noble to his lavish palace.

After years of always being the conqueror, Chika had finally met someone she couldn’t defeat.

One time, drunk, she suddenly grabbed Caesar’s arm and shouted, “Would you marry a woman like me? If you dare, I’ll make your life a living hell!”

Caesar replied, “Unfortunately, I’m already engaged. But even if I weren’t, with the level of craziness you’re at, you wouldn’t even come close to my fiancée.”

Chika Aoki was drawn to men like this—tender yet ruthless. If they said no, they meant no. Not even a sliver of a chance.

Meanwhile, her father was on the phone, speaking cautiously.

“I’m Chika’s father, an old friend of your mother. I originally planned to invite your whole family for dinner tonight… but I must apologize. Chika just received an urgent call from a friend about an important gathering. Our scheduled meeting will have to be postponed. However, I’ve conveyed your intentions, and Chika has expressed that she is indeed ready for engagement.”

The call didn’t reach Mori Ryuko, the Mori family matriarch, but instead her son—the very fiancé-to-be.

The Mori family’s political rise was entirely due to their formidable matriarch. The Aoki family regarded her with awe—Mori Ryuko could either elevate them or erase them from the political scene entirely.

“Ah, I was just about to call you,” the Mori heir responded warmly. “It’s actually us who should apologize. My mother suddenly left after receiving a text… Apparently, tonight is her godson’s birthday celebration.”

“Godson? I wasn’t aware she had one.” Chika’s father was surprised.

“Yes, well… a young German man named Heracles. They only recently met, but she finds him insightful and enjoys discussing international affairs with him,” he quickly covered his slip-up. “Anyway, I look forward to meeting Chika soon.”

The sun dipped below the horizon, and a procession of black cars sped through the evening glow.

In a Rolls-Royce, Fūma Kōtarō sat upright. His neatly combed white hair contrasted against the thick woolen shawl draped over his kimono. Beside him sat Sakurai Nanami.

The streets were eerily quiet. Shops had closed early, with signs reading, “Closed for the day. Apologies for the inconvenience.”

By afternoon, major roads in Shinjuku had been placed under traffic control. Police barricades blocked unauthorized vehicles. Only those with special permits could enter.

Tonight was the Genji brothers’ negotiation. It was also a crucial meeting between the Yamata no Orochi patriarchs and the Oni Clan’s “Dragon King”—a summit that could redraw the boundaries of Japan’s underworld.

No outsiders were permitted entry.

The entire ride was silent. In the past, before certain scandals had surfaced, Fūma Kōtarō and Sakurai Nanami had spoken more. Now, those matters were behind them.

Sakurai Nanami was grieving the loss of Ryoma Genichiro.

All Fūma Kōtarō could do was remain silent.

The car slowed to a halt.

Traffic ahead.

Fūma Kōtarō frowned—if the area had been cleared, why was there a jam?

Blocking their way was an extended GMC van, followed by Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, and Lexuses—all luxury cars with special permits stuck to their windows.

Someone was distributing more permits.

It seemed these cars were all heading to Takamagahara.

His phone rang.

A subordinate stationed at Takamagahara reported, “Boss, the plan’s changed! A wave of cars is pouring in—all driven by women. The liquor distributors’ trucks have also arrived, and they’re unloading cases of alcohol. It looks like they’re planning to open for business tonight.”

“In our cleared zone? Who the hell dares?”

Fūma Kōtarō seethed.

“Disperse those women!”

“They’re not afraid of us. Takamagahara is hosting a yakuza party tonight—everyone here looks like a gang member,” the officer said helplessly. “Just now, a woman even pulled me aside for a photo.”

“Are you telling me you were toyed with by a bunch of idiots? I said disperse those women!” Fūma Kōtarō raised his voice again.

“But… Takamagahara is a nightclub that caters to socialites… The women at tonight’s party are all Tokyo’s elite. Their social influence is enormous. If we use force to drive them away, we’ll have a hard time explaining it to the public.”

“Only you could come up with this, Su-san…” Fūma Kōtarō fell silent for a long moment before sighing and hanging up the phone.

He knew exactly whose idea this was. Only the proprietress could have arranged for so many special entry passes. With her financial resources, how could she not have connections in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police? Traffic control required approval from the police, and so did the passes.

A Rolls-Royce glided to a stop in front of Takamagahara. Fūma Kōtarō rolled down the window, and Finger, grinning obsequiously, handed him a parking voucher.

“Fūma-kun, you’re here! We saved you a spot! The place is packed tonight—if the proprietress hadn’t specially arranged it, you’d have had a hard time finding parking!”

That smug face practically begged for a boot print.

“Su-san really does think of everything,” Fūma Kōtarō said, accepting the parking voucher with a nod. There was no helping it now. The yakuza leaders would have to negotiate among a crowd of exuberant women.

Fūma Kōtarō thought back to his first meeting with Su-san—what an intimidating woman she had been. Dressed in a black suit, wearing black-rimmed glasses, she had sat at the far end of a conference table, her piercing gaze commanding the entire room. And now… she had fallen this far? Perhaps she had been infected by that group of lunatics.

The seats reserved for Fūma Kōtarō and Sakurai Nanami were in a VIP box overlooking the venue. Back when this building had been a cathedral, this space had been used for sermons.

The crystal chandelier gleamed brilliantly. Handsome young men wove between the dance floor and seating areas, all dressed in jet-black suits, shirts, and ties, wearing sunglasses, with leather straps wrapped around their wrists and short swords at their waists. A few carried baseball bats.

The walls were plastered with wanted posters. The fugitive was the dangerous serial killer, Dark Night Ruri. In the photo, the sinisterly handsome man held a white rose in his mouth, a bloodstained katana resting across his chest. His gaze was fierce yet held an irresistible allure.