Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 468: Dark Day (7)

Dragon Raja 3

Hilbert Ron Anjou had never surrendered—not since his encounter with Manecke Cassell on the lawns of Cambridge University all those years ago. As the last survivor of the first-generation Lionheart Society, the only one who had witnessed both the old and new eras of the Secret Party, and as the president of Cassell College, he simply couldn’t give up. His surrender would mean the Lionheart Society had surrendered, Cassell College had surrendered, and the Secret Party had surrendered. Some men carry everything on their shoulders, moving forward until they can no longer walk. A life without surrender was exhausting. Now, at last, he could surrender because he was about to die.

“Liberavi animam meam,” he whispered into the sea wind.

It was a Latin proverb, meaning “I have freed my soul.” His body felt light as a bird, as though his soul were slipping away, and strangely, it felt like a relief.

“Mors ultima ratio!” came a booming voice in the darkness.

A hand caught the falling Wrath—a mottled hand, veins bulging. A shadow leapt from the platform, the coat flaring like a flag in the wind. As the figure gripped Wrath, molten gold patterns surged once more along the blade, shattering the rain with a deep, resonant roar. This dangerous weapon, which until now had only been wielded by Anjou and Lu Mingze, was effortlessly mastered by this newcomer. He descended with a twist, driving Wrath into the dragon’s skull, shattering its cranium. Then, with his left hand, he plunged another sword into the dragon’s brainstem. The dragon’s brain shriveled at a speed visible to the naked eye. The sword in his left hand was Greed, which Anjou had abandoned on the platform. This “devouring sword” had the innate ability to siphon life from its victims. As it drained the dragon’s spinal fluid, a fountain of silver sprayed from the sword hilt.

In the final moment, Anjou grabbed hold of a scale on the dragon’s tail, while the shadowed figure stood atop the dragon’s head, looking down at him.

“For you, it’s not time yet,” the figure said with a smile.

He responded to Anjou’s Latin with another phrase: “Death is the ultimate law.” Both men had earned their degrees from European universities, and in their time, Latin was still a compulsory subject.

Koeru, the ramen chef, had arrived in the final moment, exuding the majesty of a black-market king. He had shed his ramen chef uniform and ridiculous headband, now clad in a black coat as dark as the night, with a travel bag full of Japanese swords on his back. He wasn’t particularly large, but at that moment, he seemed like an emperor, sitting high above, surveying his kneeling subjects. His gaze was calm as water, though the water hid deep thunderous storms. For a moment, even Anjou was awed by his presence. After all, Anjou was merely the leader of the Secret Party, while Koeru had once been Japan’s shadow emperor. Such imperial bearing, once ingrained, is never forgotten, no matter how many years are spent as a ramen chef.

“Weren’t you supposed to have left Tokyo?” Anjou shouted.

Koeru, snapping back to the reason he had come, realized he wasn’t there to show off his imperial presence. He bellowed back, “If you’re not dead yet, hurry up and tell me! Who are my sons?”

Twenty-five minutes earlier, in Narita Airport’s waiting hall…

The crowd, which had been trying to follow the rules, completely lost control. After witnessing Shokichi Koganehira’s meltdown on the big screen, their last hopes collapsed. It became clear that the Tokyo government had no disaster relief plan; the top officials had already evacuated. The city and its people had been abandoned, and their only chance of escape was to get on a plane.

Some tried to force their way through the security checkpoint, shouting, “We want to get on the plane!” The security guards formed a human wall to block them. Various suitcases were thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by countless people. Those in the back row lifted their children high, trying to pass them over the heads of others to reach relatives in the front. Cries, shouts, and screams filled the air, each face etched with fear and the desperation to survive. Koeru stood in front of the VIP passage, silently observing the chaotic crowd, a swirling sea of anger, sadness, and fear.

“Mr. Uesugi! Hurry up and go through the VIP passage! It won’t hold much longer!” Kazunori Ayakōji, helping the security guards block the rushing passengers, turned and shouted anxiously.

Her once beautiful hair was disheveled, and her eyes were filled with sorrow. Like the others, she was scared and wanted to run. But she still subconsciously fulfilled her duties. Why? She didn’t know herself—perhaps it was just habit.

A little girl holding her cat was being tossed around in the crowd, with no family beside her to support her. She was on the verge of falling, about to be trampled by the frantic masses. She cried out loudly, but still clung tightly to her cat, Dudu, as if the warm, soft creature were her entire life.

Only a few minutes ago, Koeru had been indifferent to it all. His heart had been numb for decades, like a temple’s wooden fish that hadn’t been struck for a long time, gathering dust. Other people’s joys and sorrows had nothing to do with him. He was a man who shouldn’t have been born, who had lived a life full of mistakes, wasting the lives of the people who mattered most to him. Although he was still clinging to life, he knew the world had nothing to do with him anymore. He hadn’t experienced love or family like a normal person; he had “subjects,” not “friends.” Friendship and family were foreign concepts to him. The only attachment he had ever known was to his mother, who had long been buried in an unmarked grave outside Nanjing, unable to hear his regrets.

He had abandoned the world, and the world had abandoned him. That’s why he wanted to escape.

But when Anjou told him he had two sons, it was as if a heavy hammer struck his long-dormant heart, shaking off the dust. His heart rang out like a wooden fish hit by a mallet.

Suddenly, it felt like the lifeblood of the world flowed through him again. He became acutely aware of the world’s joys and sorrows—the crying of the children pierced his heart, and the beauty and strength of Kazunori Ayakōji left him dazed. A mix of sorrow and joy overwhelmed him as he stood there, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. He had thought the world had abandoned him, but his blood still flowed in it—he had sons, two of them. Suddenly, he no longer felt like a lonely ghost, but rather filled with a warm, unnamable sensation.

He understood why the governor had roared like a lion—this was the desperate response of a father pushed to the brink. It was the same overwhelming protective instinct that now drove the people in the airport terminal to lift their children and pass them forward, hoping to save them.

That’s why the little girl refused to let go of her cat.

People are indeed selfish creatures, but for a select few, they can sacrifice everything. This inexplicable feeling was love, the evidence of one’s existence. Koeru had participated in countless masses, hearing the priest speak of love each time, but it wasn’t until this moment that he truly understood.

Suddenly, he grabbed Kazunori Ayakōji, pulling her into a fierce hug, kissing her cheeks and lips. While she stood there, dazed, this suddenly passionate old ramen chef charged into the crowd and rescued the little girl and her cat. No one could believe that the old man was so strong, momentarily halting the advancing crowd.

“There’s a private plane on Runway Three, it can seat twelve. You can bring your Dudu on board,” Koeru said, patting the little girl on the cheek and placing her in Ayakōji’s arms. “And you too! Thank you! I love you both!”

Kazunori Ayakōji stood in shock, watching the suddenly rejuvenated old man grab his suitcase and rush out of the terminal, back towards the helicopter that had brought him there, which was still waiting outside.

Thinking back, Ayakōji realized that the old ramen chef had a rather handsome face. If he had been younger, he probably would’ve been a striking man. She touched her lips where he had kissed her and pondered the moment for a few seconds. The kiss had a slight taste of char siu pork.

Meanwhile, the dragon-shaped corpse had finally perished, its once-bulging muscles rapidly withering, reverting to a dried-up skeleton. Anjou had barely climbed back onto the platform when the massive remains crashed into the sea, sending up a fifteen-meter-high wave.

“Stop gasping for air! Tell me now! Tell me everything about my sons!” Koeru jabbed Anjou repeatedly with the hilt of his sword.

“You were determined to sever the royal bloodline. Aren’t you supposed to be disappointed to find out you have sons?” Anjou glared at the old man irritably.

“Quit talking nonsense! Just tell me already!” Koeru wasn’t in the mood for banter. He turned and decapitated an approaching Death Servitor with a swift strike, kicking its body away.

“It’s just as you suspected—the impostor, the current Osho of the Yamata no Orochi clan. He’s a test-tube baby. You provided genetic samples to the Germans back then,” Anjou paused, “And his younger brother.”

There was much more that couldn’t be said yet, like how the younger brother was actually the Dragon King among the Oni Clan, or that only one of the brothers was destined to survive. Their battle in that deep well must have already begun.

Anjou never expected that Koeru, this old madman, would abandon everything and rush back. When he called Uesugi earlier, it was only because he doubted he would leave Sea Fire Island alive and didn’t want this secret to disappear with him. Having a son is a big deal, and Uesugi deserved to know. However, Anjou couldn’t predict how this old bachelor would react to suddenly finding out he had sons. After all, Anjou himself didn’t have any children, so he couldn’t understand fatherly feelings.

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