Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 440: Night of Wind and Tides (20)

Dragon Raja 3

Ruri, like Chisei, was an extreme demon, with royal blood flowing through his veins, but Ruri’s bloodline was far superior. In this world, there was no such thing as the strongest hybrid, just as history never had an undefeated king. A king’s fate is always to be overthrown by the next king.

In the fraction of a second that followed, Chisei recalled something Tachibana had once told him: the last sound a samurai hears is always the wind. That was the sound of his own blood spraying from his neck, as lonely as the wind.

The wind came as expected, carrying the scent of fresh blood. The cold blade pierced his chest, and moments later, the blade felt as hot as a burning brand. His dragonbone state, which could withstand close-range gunfire, had been breached with a single strike. All his strength drained away with the blood that flowed from his body. He had never felt such helplessness, like a bird struck by a hunter’s arrow, no matter how hard it flapped its wings, unable to change its fate.

A strike that could have pierced his heart ended up only puncturing his diaphragm, because the cadres of the Execution Bureau threw themselves in front of him, arms outstretched. One after another, they were pierced through, but no one retreated. The one at the front even tried to strangle Ruri’s neck, ignoring the blood spurting from his own chest. They hoped that in doing so, they could buy Chisei a little time. They had followed him since he became the director of the Execution Bureau, and now that he had become the Patriarch, no one trusted Chisei more than they did. Even at the last moment, they believed that if they bought just a little time, Chisei would strike back powerfully.

Ruri buried his face in the chest of the cadre at the front, listening to the sound of blood flowing like the wind, and hearing the heart pierced by the blade cease beating, his expression one of deep satisfaction.

He laughed maniacally as he withdrew the longsword, spraying blood across the walls and screens. His laughter echoed throughout the corridor—no laughter in the world could match the intensity of this moment, a laughter that resonated with the heavens and the earth. After so many years, he had finally trampled the dignity of the King beneath his feet. He was the number one among hybrids—king of the world!

Chisei could not muster any counterattack. The Execution Bureau cadres had sacrificed themselves to save his life, but his invincible dragonbone state had been forcibly undone. In his current state, how could he hope to harm the lofty Ruri?

The gap between him and Ruri was absolute, like that between an ordinary person and a hybrid—there was no way to struggle. How could he, in this state, carry out the justice he believed in? What right did he have to let people follow him, to die for him?

Perhaps the Yamata no Orochi had been making the same mistake for generations. It was the demon that the White Empress had expected as her successor. The so-called Emperor, the stable hybrids, were merely weaklings. Yet the weak had maintained their tyrannical rule over the strong for so many years.

“Protect the Patriarch! Stop that madman!” Fūma Kōtarō shouted, and the remaining cadres rushed at Ruri, forming a human wall that seemed solid but was fragile in reality, in an attempt to shield Chisei.

Fūma Kōtarō grabbed Chisei, while Sakurai Nanami covered the rear, desperately retreating to the other side of the corridor. The path to the fire escape was blocked by Ruri, so they could only flee through the main stairwell. Escaping via the stairs would take more time, but Fūma Kōtarō ran like a lion with its mane flying, hoping there was still enough time. Every second they bought was paid for in human lives. Ruri did not rush to chase them. He walked leisurely down the corridor, swinging his longsword as if cutting grass, turning the brave cadres into corpses. In the darkness, his long, pure white hair swayed, and his golden eyes drew ever closer, like a demon from the night, devouring everything in its path.

“Let go of me! You’re just wasting lives!” Chisei weakly ordered. The wound in his diaphragm wasn’t fatal, but he had already lost more than half of his blood. After Ruri pierced his chest, he had twisted the blade, turning a wedge-shaped wound into a gaping, bloody hole.

“Is it really a waste, no matter how many die!?” Fūma Kōtarō coldly replied. “As long as you’re alive, the Yamata no Orochi’s banner hasn’t fallen, and there’s still hope. If the banner falls, even if the samurai survive, they’ll be nothing more than the walking dead!”

Luckily, from the moment Ruri appeared, the Death Servitors had been gripped by overwhelming terror, crouching on the ground, trembling. They passed through the stairwell without any resistance. Fūma Kōtarō kicked open the door to the rooftop, where the helicopter awaited. Cadres who had come to assist were concentrating their fire on the remaining Death Servitors on the rooftop, trying to clear a path for Fūma Kōtarō. At this point, there were no longer any screams coming from below. The cadres who had stayed behind to buy time had all died, and Ruri was now climbing the stairs, his heavy footsteps symbolizing the approach of death.

Fūma Kōtarō turned around and locked the metal door, but it was just an ordinary iron door. To stop Ruri, they would need something like the vault door used to imprison Uesugi Erii.

Fūma Kōtarō shoved Chisei toward Sakurai Nanami. “Aiko! Get the Patriarch onto the helicopter!” For the first time in years, he addressed her as “Aiko,” as if she were still the girl who once adored the old man.

Sakurai Nanami froze. Ever since she became the family head, Fūma Kōtarō had always treated her with respect, as if the past had never happened. But in this moment, Fūma Kōtarō reverted to his old, commanding self, the chauvinistic man he had always been. He could be very affectionate toward a woman, but he was always bossy in front of her.

“I’ll stay behind and hold off that monster. I’ve already seen enough of this world. What’s the point of living any longer? But you’re still young.” Fūma Kōtarō braced the iron door with his shoulder, speaking hurriedly. “You must protect the Patriarch! Tell him Tachibana left something for him in the shrine!”

There was no time for Sakurai Nanami to think. She supported Chisei and made her way toward the helicopter. After taking a few steps, she heard Fūma Kōtarō shout behind her: “Not everything back then was just because my old woman opposed it. You were too young… I’m too old now. I can’t accompany you for many more years. In life, everyone needs someone to walk with them to the end, or it’s too lonely!”

It should have been tender words of affection, but there wasn’t time for him to say them slowly. His words came out like machine-gun fire: “We’re all just ordinary people. Over the years, we’ve loved recklessly, hated recklessly. But what could we do?”

He suddenly turned his head and yelled: “Stop hating me! If you have to hate, hate the fact that when you met me, I wasn’t 25!”

Rain drenched his face, and his weathered features twisted like an enraged dragon, strong like a lion, but the expression in his eyes was as pure as a boy’s.

Suddenly, Sakurai Nanami recalled many years ago when this old man had ridden a motorcycle to see her perform, brimming with the same youthful arrogance. Eighteen-year-old her couldn’t help but laugh at the time, wondering how such a man could be the head of a yakuza family.

“Go! You stupid woman!” Fūma Kōtarō bellowed.

Sakurai Nanami turned and sprinted toward the helicopter amid the hail of gunfire. Behind her, she heard the deafening clang of metal, and she could imagine the iron door was on the verge of collapse. She also pictured Fūma Kōtarō holding the door shut with his body, with Ruri’s sword repeatedly piercing through both the iron door and Fūma Kōtarō’s aged body. Her mind was filled with the image of the old man’s furious expression and rain-soaked face, but she didn’t dare look back. She feared that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to move another step. The wind scattered her hair as she bit down on a lock of it, tasting blood in her mouth.

The crew of the helicopter, risking attack from the Death Servitors, rushed down to help her and Chisei aboard. By that time, the path back to Fūma Kōtarō had been blocked by the Death Servitors.

The helicopter took off immediately. The building was on the verge of collapse, and there was no time to wait. Saving one more person would only add to the risk. The helicopter’s sole purpose was to get the Patriarch to safety. For this mission, they were prepared to push Sakurai Nanami, the family head, off the aircraft if necessary.

Fūma Kōtarō was right: this was the code of conduct for the Yamata no Orochi. Anyone could be sacrificed; no life was too precious, except for the one holding the banner. Fūma Kōtarō had included himself among the “anyone.”

Chisei’s consciousness was fading, but the moment the needle pierced his arm, he regained some clarity. A large dose of adrenaline was injected into his body, ensuring he could survive this most critical moment.

The drug gathered the remnants of his strength. He forced his eyes open and saw the vast sea below, the endless black waves crashing against buildings. In the west of Tokyo, Mount Fuji, once black, had turned red as molten lava flowed down its gentle southern slopes.

On the rooftop below, Fūma Kōtarō, covered in blood, faced off against Ruri for one final strike. As the king of the ninja, his last blow was not with a dagger or a ninja blade but with a gasoline can.

The old man lifted the burning canister and charged at Ruri, tossing a lit lighter into it. But Ruri casually grabbed a metal frame and hurled it at Fūma Kōtarō, knocking him and the gasoline can off the rooftop into the sea below.

A pillar of fire erupted from the water, illuminating the Death Servitors swimming around it like sharks.

In this war, the fifth Patriarch of the Yamata no Orochi, Fūma Kōtarō of the Fūma clan, died in that pillar of fire.

Ruri gazed up at the sky, laughing silently as he spread his arms wide, as if reaching to embrace his brother.

“Chime, is there no way for us to ever go back?” Chisei murmured weakly, his voice a mix of a groan and a dreamlike sigh.

The helicopter quickly departed the scene. Sakurai Nanami never once looked back at the pillar of fire, perhaps because she was too resolute, or perhaps because she feared that if she looked, she would jump off the helicopter herself.