Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 88: Paradise (12)

Dragon Raja 3

Sakurai Kogure was one of those entranced by the performer. Whenever she watched him, his face powdered white, dancing and singing, she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. To the guests at the casino, Sakurai Kogure was an exceptional beauty, but in front of this man, she felt her beauty was as insubstantial as dust on a leaf. The man’s elegance and grace outshone her own, rendering women superfluous in his presence.

The man let out a soft sigh and sat down cross-legged, slowly closing the white paper fan in his hand. The peach blossom fell from his hair, his long hair cascading like a black waterfall.

Sakurai Kogure remained silent for a long time, so the man knew that whatever was in the folder was urgent beyond measure.

“It truly is a beautiful night. Fine wine, beauty, gold, and debauchery—intoxicating like liquor, I can smell the decadence,” the man said quietly.

The lively voices from downstairs rose like steam from boiling water, flowing in through the open window, mixed with the scent of women and the drunkenness of men—a high tide of indulgence.

Sakurai Kogure kneeled behind the man and massaged his shoulders. “Something happened. The test subject is dead. He died on the train from Tokyo to Hokkaido, eliminated by the Execution Bureau.”

“‘I told Akira that Hokkaido was a good place to bury himself, and he really went there…’ Akira was your half-brother. He’s dead now, yet I don’t see any sorrow on your face,” the man said.

“He made his choice and has to accept the consequences. At least he experienced freedom, he doesn’t need my pity.”

“What a waste of a good test subject. The drug that Ryuzo Koyama developed is still unreliable. There’s no use in keeping that twisted man alive—kill him, and consider it as a tribute to your brother.”

“Understood,” Sakurai Kogure said. “If you need another test subject, considering that Akira and I were half-siblings, our bloodline should have similarities.”

“Don’t be in a hurry to leave me, woman,” the man said softly. “I’m not tired of you yet.”

There was a melodic rhythm to his words, almost like sleep-talking. Sakurai Kogure dared not speak more and continued to massage the man’s shoulders and back with greater care. To please this man, Sakurai Kogure had gone to Thailand to learn massage techniques. Her teacher was an elderly man who understood acupressure well, working at a nightclub in Pattaya, massaging patrons. His tongue was long like a lizard’s, and his gaze toward women was as lecherous as a leopard in heat. But he had hands like those of a god—he would offer a reward of ten thousand Thai baht to any woman who would let him massage her shoulders for just a few minutes. Women who despised him would find themselves feeling weightless in his hands, drifting off as if floating in the clouds, and would fall into a deep, relaxed sleep. Then, the old masseur would kiss their cheeks and necks in front of male patrons, making all sorts of obscene gestures towards the entrapped women. When he rang the bell ten minutes later to wake the women up, they would thank him, claiming they had never slept so well and that all their fatigue was gone.

Sakurai Kogure gambled her own body to learn the old man’s techniques. At first, she would fall asleep whenever the old man demonstrated on her, only to wake up and find purple marks on her skin. Instead of showing fear or complaining, she became more diligent in serving him. When it was her turn to massage the old man, he would laugh uproariously, as if Sakurai Kogure was merely tickling him. Through constant contact and practice, Sakurai Kogure gradually began to mimic those “divine hands.” Finally, one day, as she massaged him, the old man let his guard down and fell into a deep sleep, and she broke his neck. He paid for his lewdness with his life, never understanding who he had offended.

Now, Sakurai Kogure possessed hands capable of hypnotizing anyone, yet she couldn’t quite manage to hypnotize this man. At most, she could make him slightly relaxed, no longer taut like a bow.

The man drank from a glass of strong liquor next to him, then reached back to hold Sakurai Kogure by the neck, kissing her on the lips. Instinctively, she straightened up to meet his kiss, which was fierce, like that of a wild animal. Every one of his kisses came suddenly, like a storm, like a ravenous wolf tearing into prey to suck its blood. Yet amidst these wild kisses, Sakurai Kogure’s body softened, her consciousness becoming hazy as if she were falling through the clouds. He held her small frame tightly, burying his head against her chest in a prolonged silence, then released her. Sakurai Kogure adjusted her clothes and knelt respectfully by his side.

“You’re tired,” the man said softly. “Just like me.”

Sakurai Kogure said nothing. Indeed, she had been working almost without sleep for the sake of Elysium House’s operations, and if not for the dragon blood sustaining her, she would have collapsed long ago. Yet she had no complaints about this—she was glad to be in such a position. Elysium House was part of the organization’s major strategy against Yamata no Orochi, aiming to completely reshuffle the gambling industry controlled by the yakuza. If Elysium House succeeded, her status in “The Oni Clan” would rise significantly, and only then could she stay by this man’s side. To her, this man was everything, but to him, she was nothing. Sakurai Kogure had seen him kiss other women and had been kissed by him herself, but his kisses never seemed to be for love—only for desire and possession.

Even so, after his kiss, joy welled up in Sakurai Kogure’s heart—once again, she had given herself to bring the man a moment of peace.

“You still have one thing you haven’t told me,” the man said.

“The General sent a fax—Cassell College’s ace team arrived in Tokyo tonight and checked into the Peninsula Hotel.” Sakurai Kogure felt a hint of fear, realizing that the man’s kiss had made her forget the most critical piece of news.

The man, who rarely showed any serious expression, grew focused, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “Are they here to explore that place?”

“Yes. Tonight, all key figures of Yamata no Orochi gathered at the shrine for a meeting—an assembly of such magnitude hasn’t happened for decades. Unfortunately, none of our scouts were present, so we still don’t know the topic of their meeting. However, given that Cassell College’s ace team arrived in Tokyo the same night, it’s definitely a major operation and should be related to the God Burial Site.”

“No need for further investigation. I know what Tachibana Masamune is thinking—Yamata no Orochi is preparing for war against us. With Cassell College involved, the apparent peace can’t be maintained. ‘It’s time to use a war to completely wipe out The Oni Clan.’ If I were Tachibana Masamune, I would say something like that to rally the fighting spirit of my subordinates, wouldn’t I?” the man said nonchalantly.

“Here is a photo of that ace team.” Sakurai Kogure handed him a faxed image. “They’re just kids.”

The photo was probably the only one ever taken of Caesar, Chu Zihang, and Lu Mingfei together. It was taken after they escaped from the Nibelungen in Beijing—exhausted, they leaned against a cracked wall in the sunlight. Only under such circumstances would Caesar and Chu Zihang agree to be photographed together. It seemed they had been mistaken for earthquake victims, and each of them had a police-issued blanket draped over their shoulders, along with a complimentary breakfast bun. Since they were foreigners, the police had given croissants to Caesar and Finger. Finger was leaning against the wall with one hand, trying to chat up Nono like a European street thug talking to a pretty girl. Nono was still wearing her bright red wedding dress, her skirt showing off her shapely calves in red patent leather ankle boots. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, with an expression somewhere between anticipation and rejection. Actually, Finger was trying to trade his croissant for one of her buns and got rejected. Caesar, his arm around Nono’s shoulder, was chewing on a croissant, frowning. He wasn’t upset at Finger for flirting with Nono, but rather because eating a croissant without freshly brewed coffee was a hardship for him. Severely injured, Chu Zihang lay on a stretcher, wrapped up like a mummy, waiting for an ambulance. His eyes stared into the sky—blank and unyielding. Lu Mingfei, meanwhile, crouched alone in a corner, devouring his hot bun, watching the others out of the corner of his eye.

The man gently caressed the faces in the photo with his pale fingers, a smile blooming like a flower. “How interesting. I like these people!”

“Indeed, Cassell College even sent the heir of the Gattuso family to Japan. This lineup is truly exciting,” Sakurai Kogure said.

“No, no, I’m not talking about Caesar Gattuso. I mean this boy named Lu Mingfei.” The man stared at the least noticeable boy in the corner of the photo, his gaze unwavering, as if still immersed in the performance of “The Consort Yang” earlier, with an expression as if holding back tears. “Look at his eyes, so endearing—so humble, so sorrowful, yet hiding a lion within.”

He stood up, picked up the long sword with a crimson scabbard from the rack, and slung it over his shoulder. “Woman, I’m heading to Tokyo. I leave the task of guarding the house to you.”

“Hai!” Sakurai Kogure responded firmly.

The man walked toward the patch of moonlight streaming through the window, carrying the long sword on his shoulder. Suddenly, he leaped into the moonlight. In Sakurai Kogure’s clear eyes, the pitch-black helicopter blocked the moonlight, and the man sat inside the cabin, wearing the scarlet kimono embroidered with red spider lilies. A new, alluring woman sat beside him, respectfully serving him liquor on the rocks. Sakurai Kogure lowered her gaze to the small table by the screen, noticing that at some point a wooden box had appeared there, alongside a series of rainbow-colored syringes.