Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 495: Epilogue (1)

Dragon Raja 3

“Hurry up, hurry up! The opening act is over, and the audience is waiting!” Caesar rushed onto the stage in a few strides, sat at the piano, and snuffed out his cigar on the sole of his shoe.

Chu Zihang and Lu Mingfei lagged behind, tying their bowties as they walked. For Chu Zihang, this wasn’t difficult, but no matter how hard Lu Mingfei tried, his bowtie always ended up looking like a school scarf. He thought it would be as easy as tying a regular tie but found the small silk cloth to be annoyingly tricky. Even when he reached the stage, he was still struggling with it.

“Hey,” Chu Zihang called, motioning him over.

Lu Mingfei obediently walked over. Chu Zihang undid his messy attempt and neatly tied a full, silver-blue butterfly bow for him. “Don’t be nervous. Once you finish this song, your time as a host will be over. Consider it a memento.”

“I know, I know,” Lu Mingfei nodded vigorously.

“Remember the lyrics?” Chu Zihang asked, picking up his saxophone.

“I’ve practiced them enough times. I’ve got this,” Lu Mingfei replied, grabbing the microphone and standing in front of the large, black and gold curtain.

The curtain slowly parted as Caesar hit the keys, and Chu Zihang played a long note on his saxophone. Applause and sobs intertwined, rolling toward them like a tidal wave. Countless glow sticks waved in the air, banners displaying messages like “Love XXXXX” (in Japanese), “BasaraKing forever,” and “Ukyo forever.”

Just as Lu Mingfei had mustered a bit of confidence, it crumbled under the overwhelming scene before him. His legs trembled inside his pants as if he were strumming a guitar, though fortunately, he wasn’t wearing tight, slim-fit trousers tonight but a formal black suit, so the shaking wasn’t too obvious.

Tonight was his debut and their farewell performance. Officially, the theme was “XXXX” (in Japanese), “First Team of Handsome Boys.” Takamagahara Women’s Stress Relief Club regretfully announced on TV that their foreign stars—Basara King, Ukyo, and Sakura—would be returning to the U.S. after their contracts expired. Tonight was their last show. Moreover, they were either temporarily or permanently leaving the industry, making this a true farewell.

All the tickets had sold out in advance, even VIPs couldn’t get any. Every seat had been removed to accommodate more guests, and the dance floor was packed with young girls and elegant older women alike, all dressed in their finest—from shimmering, sexy dresses to dignified, traditional black kimonos. Rumor had it that even more people were turned away at the door, unable to get tickets. To ensure safety, the police had temporarily initiated traffic control, and everyone had to walk into Kabukicho. TV commentators expressed astonishment, comparing the hosts’ farewell performance to the retirement of movie stars, speculating if this semi-underground industry was gradually becoming more mainstream.

While Caesar and Chu Zihang had their fair share of fans, it wouldn’t have been this crowded without the help of superstar singer Aoki Chinatsu. On TV, she had vividly recounted the bravery of the hosts fighting armed thugs during the recent tsunami disaster. Tokyo’s governor, Shozo Kogane, also remarked on how resilient Tokyo’s citizens were in the face of catastrophe, praising even the staff of Kabukicho for standing up to protect the public. This spirit had brought Tokyo back from the brink. As a result, Caesar, Chu Zihang, and Lu Mingfei skyrocketed to fame, their faces plastered across glamorous, high-end advertisements.

In reality, this was a distorted memory induced by Norma. Those who had witnessed the death servitors in Takamagahara that night were sent to psychiatric facilities for rehabilitation. During those weeks, Cassell College’s psychology department worked with Norma to erase their memories of the servitors, replacing them with the story of Caesar, Chu Zihang, and Lu Mingfei bravely battling armed gangsters. Cassell College had done this kind of cleanup hundreds of times before, and the psychology department was highly proficient at it. Given Aoki Chinatsu’s infatuation with Caesar, she easily believed the story and explained it to the public, diverting attention from the strange events.

On this special night, it was easy for the audience to recall the harrowing disaster from three months ago. At the time, many thought Tokyo would sink into the sea, so emotions ran high. Aoki Chinatsu, who had performed the opening act, was moved to tears, further intensifying the crowd’s feelings. As the curtain rose, emotions that had been pent up for so long finally erupted. The sobs reverberating throughout the hall felt more like a funeral.

Chu Zihang played his saxophone, seemingly testing the sound, and as he passed by Lu Mingfei, he gave him a quick poke in the back and whispered, “Don’t overthink it. Tonight, we’re just actors.”

Lu Mingfei froze for a moment. Right, tonight, they were just actors. As the heroes of the Tokyo crisis, their farewell performance would be broadcast online throughout Japan, reinforcing the narrative that the crisis, which nearly destroyed Tokyo, was nothing more than a tsunami, an earthquake, and a gang riot—nothing supernatural. This performance wasn’t about them. Soon, this building, this city, and even this country would have nothing to do with them. The audience’s tears weren’t solely for them; they were also mourning the friends and family they had lost in that disaster.

When the tides receded, they washed away so many things. Those people and events left this world like the retreating tide. Tokyo still looked like Tokyo, but it wasn’t the same Tokyo he once knew.

After going through all this, why are you still nervous? After everything, haven’t you grown up even a little?

He chuckled at himself, raising the microphone above his head. Caesar played a flashy intro, but as Chu Zihang’s saxophone joined in, the music turned cold and desolate. The hall fell silent, and a spotlight descended from above, illuminating Lu Mingfei.

“Goodbye,” Lu Mingfei sang softly, starting the song with some awkwardness, but feeling satisfied with himself.

“Goodbye,” in Japanese, means a final farewell—so long that it can imply never seeing someone again, like a permanent departure. It’s often better to say “see you tomorrow” or “see you soon,” so as not to forget to set a time for the next meeting. The absence of that promise can mean drifting apart forever. So if it’s a dear friend, how could you not set a date to meet again?

He lifted the champagne glass that had been resting on the piano lid and drank it in one gulp. It was as if he had been transported back to that stormy night, driving his Lamborghini through the mountains by the Tama River, rushing to a delayed rendezvous, hurrying to save the girl who blindly loved him.

Inside the car, the volume of the stereo was turned up to the max, and in the rain and wind, Koji Tamaki sang this very farewell song—so sorrowful and lonely—that under the power of the speakers, it roared like thunder, like a dragon’s howl, like a cry to the entire world.

Only goodbye, nothing else to say

In your shadow, my tears fall

Fingers, hair, and voice, all growing cold

The life we shared has faded, even our breath is gone

We are now friends

From the heart, we are friends

Even the gaze between us, friends

It becomes sad because we can no longer remember

But dreams are still vivid, even in dreams I can’t forget you.

Tonight was no different. The best sound system in all of Tokyo’s theaters had been moved to Takamagahara. The bass reverberated like a thousand cannons firing, and Caesar’s piano, enhanced by the system, was perfected to its highest form. Each key struck felt like it hit right in the center of the heart. Chu Zihang’s saxophone was also expertly played—Lu Mingfei had never imagined that his cold senior brother had such talent. The music soared higher and higher, and just as it seemed that the hall could no longer contain such a swell of sound, the ceiling opened with a rumble, letting in the moonlight and starlight. After being submerged in seawater, the building’s structure had been severely damaged, and during renovations, they had removed the floors and created a retractable roof. On clear summer nights, when the dance reached its climax, they would open the roof to let in fresh air, and to allow the beauty of the sky to descend upon Takamagahara.

Thunderous applause erupted throughout the hall. This brilliant design had clearly moved the audience, and they screamed, cheered, and wept openly.

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