*Warning: This chapter contains violence and gore scene. If you have the courage you can proceed.
A few days hence, Mr. Amou, resolved to commemorate his fifty-fifth wedding anniversary with his cherished wife, Hoshida. Her kindness and unwavering support had long been his bulwark against the tempests, though her rare tempests of anger sent shivers through his stalwart frame. To honour her, he conceived a surprise: a grand evening at the illustrious Fasho Restaurant, nestled in the opulent Sian District, a rare enclave of elegance amidst the city's perdition.
He summoned his loyal retinue—Katoge, Wanaka, Noda, and Harai—with a commanding timbre. "Lads! I want everything safe and secure. Ensure naught goes awry!"
"Yes, sir!" they chorused, their voices ringing with the disciplined cadence of a seasoned battalion, each man standing ramrod straight, eyes gleaming with duty.
At midday, the entourage arrived at Fasho Restaurant. The Sian District, though a bastion of relative civility, bore the scars of Nin-Ran-Gi's decay. The air was thick with the acrid tang of distant industrial fumes, mingling with the faint perfume of engineered flora lining the district's manicured avenues. Towering edifices of glass and steel loomed overhead, their mirrored surfaces reflecting a sky bruised with ochre clouds, a testament to the chaebols' unyielding grip. Street vendors hawked bioluminescent trinkets under flickering holo-signs, while armoured drones patrolled above, their mechanical hum a constant reminder of surveillance. The restaurant itself stood as an anachronism: its façade, adorned with obsidian panels and gilded accents, exuded a baroque grandeur that belied the surrounding desolation. A crimson carpet spooled from its entrance, flanked by liveried attendants whose smiles were as practised as they were hollow.
Inside, the maître d', a wiry man with an oleaginous demeanour, greeted the couple with a florid bow. "Mr. and Mrs. Amou, a pleasure to welcome you. Pray, follow me to the V.I.P. hall." His eyes darted briefly to Katoge and Harai, who trailed their employer with the silent menace of panthers, their tailored suits barely concealing the bulge of concealed weaponry. The maître d' gestured with a gloved hand, leading them through a labyrinth of crystal chandeliers and velvet drapes to a secluded chamber, its walls adorned with holographic murals depicting pastoral scenes—an illusion of tranquillity in a world bereft of it.
Mr. Amou, his weathered face softening as he gazed at Hoshida, squeezed her hand gently. She, resplendent in a silver gown that shimmered like moonlight on a polluted river, offered a radiant smile, though her eyes held a flicker of wariness, attuned to the ever-present dangers of their city. Katoge and Harai took up positions near the entrance of the V.I.P. hall, their postures rigid, eyes scanning the room with predatory vigilance.
Outside, however, discontent brewed. Noda and Wanaka, relegated to the pavement by the restaurant's stringent policy, stood beneath the glaring neon sign of Fasho's entrance. Noda, a wiry man with a perpetually furrowed brow, paced like a caged beast, his fingers twitching around a gleaming pin needle—a favoured tool of his less savoury exploits. His face was a rictus of indignation, eyes bulging as if ready to burst from their sockets.
"Why the bloody hell won't they let us in?" he spat, his voice a coarse growl,
Wanaka, leaning against a lamppost with his arms crossed, exuded a laconic calm that contrasted sharply with Noda's volatility. His angular face, scarred from past skirmishes, remained impassive, though a wry smirk tugged at his lips. "Mate, don't you see what's etched on that glass?" He jerked his chin towards the entrance, where a holographic placard flickered. It displayed grainy images of Noda and Wanaka, their faces unmistakable, beneath which ran an underlined edict: THESE TWO PERSONS ARE BARRED FROM ENTRY.
Noda's eyes widened further, if such a feat were possible, and he jabbed a finger at the sign. "What the devil is this? Hypocritical sods!" His voice rose, drawing the wary glances of passersby. He brandished his pin needle, its tip glinting malevolently in the neon glow. "If I get my hands on the manager, I'll pin their hide to the wall!"
Wanaka's smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with sardonic amusement. "You mean her?"
Noda froze, his needle hovering mid-air. "Her?"
"Aye," Wanaka drawled, unfolding his arms to gesture languidly at the sign. "This place is run by Madam Di-Xian. You've forgotten, haven't you? A few years back, we turned this joint into a right shambles—brawling over… What was it? Some daft squabble I can't even recall."
Noda's face flushed a mottled crimson, his jaw clenching as memory flickered. "That was ages ago! And they're still holding a grudge?" He spun on his heel, glaring at the restaurant's gleaming façade as if it were a personal affront. "Mark my words, Wanaka, I'll have words with this Madam Di-Xian yet."
Wanaka merely shrugged, his nonchalance a stark foil to Noda's fulminating rage. "Best keep your pins sheathed, mate. We're here for the boss, not to start another war." His tone was cool, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of a concealed blade, a subtle reminder of the violence that simmered beneath their enforced civility.
However, inside The V.I.P. Hall of Fasho Restaurant was a sanctum of opulence, a harmonious blend of Nin-Ran-Gi's futuristic sheen and the venerable traditions of Chinese aesthetics. Lacquered walls, inlaid with mother-of-pearl dragons that shimmered under ambient bioluminescent light, encircled the chamber. Holographic cherry blossoms floated gently in the air, their petals dissolving into motes of light before reforming—an illusion of eternal bloom. Ornate jade screens, etched with calligraphic poetry, partitioned the space, while a low ebony table, polished to a mirror's sheen, bore the weight of porcelain dishes that gleamed like moonlight. Above, a chandelier of crimson lanterns pulsed softly, casting a warm glow that danced across the room's gilded accents. The air carried the faint scent of sandalwood, undercut by the sterile tang of advanced air filtration—a reminder of the dystopian world beyond these walls.
Mr. Amou and Hoshida sat upon cushioned silk divans, their intimacy a rare flicker of warmth in Nin-Ran-Gi's cold heart. As a waiter, clad in a sleek black cheongsam with silver piping, served delicate plates of braised abalone and lotus root drizzled with truffle essence, Mr. Amou's weathered hand found Hoshida's. His eyes, creased with years of vigilance, softened as he gazed at her.
"My dearest Hoshida," he murmured, his voice a mellifluous baritone tinged, "fifty-five years, and yet your radiance outshines every star in this benighted city."
Hoshida, her silver gown catching the lantern light, tilted her head with a coy smile, her fingers brushing his. "Oh, you old charmer," she replied, her tone warm yet playfully chiding. "You've always had a way with words, but it's your heart I've cherished through this period." She lifted a crystal flute of sparkling wine, her movements graceful, through her eyes held a vigilant glint, ever wary of their perilous world.
As the waiter retreated with a deferential bow, a colossal LED screen embedded in the wall flickered to life, broadcasting a news report that seized their attention. The anchor's voice, crisp and urgent, detailed a cataclysmic turn: "Wajidul Hasina, dictator of Glaciergrave Isle, and Jai Atharva, the tyrannical overlord of the Shadowmire Isles, have perished in a helicopter crash, their craft slamming into a hillside and erupting in flames. Hasina's son, Wajidul Joy, known as 'The Puppet Master,' met his end in a fiery convoy explosion en route to the Glaciergrave Congress Meeting. His sister, Wajidul Samiya, fell to an unknown sniper's bullet at the same event. Celebrations have erupted across Glaciergrave Isle, with citizens and students heralding the end of Hasina's oppressive regime. In Shadowmire, the populace begins to unravel Jai's web of deception, awakening from years of manipulation."
Mr. Amou's lips curled into a sardonic smirk, his eyes glinting with grim satisfaction. He raised his glass, the wine catching the light like liquid ruby. "What a serendipitous coincidence, eh? Our anniversary, and the world's rid of two monstrous blighters!" His laugh was a low, resonant chuckle, rich with schadenfreude.
Hoshida sipped her wine, her smile mirroring his. "Quite right, darling," she said, her voice laced with relish. "A fitting toast to our day—and their demise." She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his, their shared mirth a bulwark against the chaos beyond.
Outside the V.I.P. hall, Katoge and Harai stood sentinel, their imposing frames silhouetted against the jade screen's faint glow. Katoge, spectacled and wiry, adjusted his glasses with a theatrical flourish, his lips pursed in mock indignation. "Oi, Harai, reckon we're missing out on the good grub in there? Bet they're scoffing caviar while we're stuck out here like a pair of plonkers."
Harai, broader and more stoic, rolled his eyes, his arms crossed over a chest that seemed hewn from granite. "Quit your whinging, mate," he drawled, his voice a gravelly basso. "We're here to keep the boss safe, not to nick his pudding." His lips twitched, betraying a flicker of amusement as he scanned the corridor with hawkish eyes.
Their banter was interrupted by a waiter approaching with a silver cloche, his steps measured but betraying a faint tremor. Katoge's hand shot out, halting the man with a grip like iron. "Hold it, sunshine," he said, his tone dripping with mock geniality. He lifted the cloche with a flourish, revealing a glistening dessert of lychee sorbet adorned with edible gold leaf. His fingers, nimble as a thief's, patted down the waiter's jacket, searching for concealed threats, while Harai loomed closer, his gaze boring into the man's face. The waiter's smile was strained, his eyes darting like a cornered animal's.
Katoge nodded, satisfied. "Right, off you pop." The waiter offered a grateful nod, his smile faltering, and slipped through the V.I.P. door, which hissed shut behind him.
Harai leaned in, his breath hot against Katoge's ear. "Oi, Katoge, I've got a bad feeling about this one," he whispered, his voice taut with suspicion.
Katoge's spectacles glinted as he turned, his brow furrowing. "What's that, mate?" he hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits.
"That waiter," Harai muttered, his jaw tightening. "Something's off. He's got the look of a bloody Sinner."
Katoge's hand hovered near his concealed blade. "You're having a laugh, aren't you? He's just a ponce with a tray."
Their debate was shattered by a commotion from within the V.I.P. hall—Mr. Amou's bellow and Hoshida's sharp cry. Katoge flung open the door, revealing a nightmarish tableau: the waiter, his façade of servility discarded, brandished a sleek pistol, its barrel trained on Mr. Amou. His lips curled in a diabolical smirk. "Who's gonna save you now, Mr. Amou?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.
"You vile cur!" Katoge roared, his spectacles flashing with reflected light as he and Harai surged forward, knives gleaming in their hands.
A gunshot cracked, splitting the air. Mr. Amou's face contorted in horror as Hoshida, with a cry of defiance, threw herself between him and the bullet. The projectile struck her shoulder, blood blooming like a crimson flower against her silver gown. "Hoshida!" Mr. Amou's voice was a guttural roar, raw with anguish, as he caught her slumping form.
Harai, with a snarl, tackled the waiter to the ground, the pistol skittering across the floor. Katoge snatched it up, pressing the barrel to the waiter's temple. His eyes, cold and unyielding behind his spectacles, burned with lethal intent. "Who are you, you bastard? What do you want with us?" he demanded, his voice a low growl, each word sharp as a blade.
The waiter, pinned beneath Harai's bulk, merely grinned, his eyes glinting with mad defiance. Harai, his face a mask of fury, seized the man's arm and twisted until a sickening crack echoed through the room. "Talk, you filthy git!" he bellowed. "Who sent you?"
"Why should I?" the waiter rasped, his grin unwavering, a macabre rictus in the face of death.
Katoge's finger tightened on the trigger, his expression implacable. "Right then… die." The gunshot was deafening, blood and bone splattering across the polished floor as the waiter's head lolled lifelessly.
Mr. Amou cradled Hoshida, his hands trembling as he pressed a napkin to her wound, his face a maelstrom of rage and fear. "Stay with me, love," he whispered, his voice breaking. Hoshida, pale but resolute, gripped his hand, her eyes fierce despite the pain.
In the sterile glare of a Sian District hospital, Hoshida was whisked away for urgent treatment, her shoulder wound a grim memento of the treachery at Fasho Restaurant. Mr. Amou stood in the corridor, his face a maelstrom of fury, his fists clenched until his knuckles blanched. His eyes, usually warm with devotion, burned with an implacable wrath as he addressed his loyal retinue—Katoge, Wanaka, Noda, and Harai. "Lads," he growled, his voice a low, venomous timbre laced , "I want those who tarnished our anniversary and wounded my Hoshida to pay dearly for their perfidy!"
"Yes, sir, with utmost pleasure!" the four chorused, their voices a unified snarl of loyalty. Katoge's spectacles glinted with lethal intent, Wanaka's hand rested on his katana's hilt, Noda's fingers twitched around his pin needle, and Harai's broad frame tensed like a coiled spring.
A shrill ring pierced the tension. Mr. Amou snatched his sleek communicator, its screen pulsing with encrypted runes. The caller was Madam Di-Xian, her voice tremulous yet measured. "Mr. Amou, I'm profoundly sorry for what befell Hoshida and the desecration of your anniversary," she said, her tone heavy with contrition. "The waiter who dared raise a gun against you was no mere rogue—he was a member of the Kagura Outlaw gang."
Mr. Amou's face contorted, his rage a palpable force that seemed to warp the air around him. "Who?!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap that made the hospital's sterile walls quiver.
"The Kagura Outlaw," Madam Di-Xian repeated, her words clipped. "Their mark is the python tattoo, inked across their backs—a symbol of their venality."
Harai, his brow furrowing, crossed his arms, his voice a gravelly murmur. "I reckoned it was the Sinners behind this debacle, but another outlaw gang? Bloody cheek!"
Wanaka's eyes narrowed, his fingers tracing the hilt of his katana as he spoke in a tone cold as a winter's blade. "Right, let's hunt these Kagura bastards down!" He unsheathed his blade a fraction, the steel glinting with malevolent promise.
Under the shroud of night, the quartet descended upon Kasumikura, the "Mist Vault," a district veiled in the foggy hollows of Fujinami's wisteria hills. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and synthetic sap, the hills draped in cascading wisteria that glowed faintly with bioengineered luminescence. Ancient structures, half-ruined and overtaken by vines, housed plant-DNA libraries and bio-memory sanctuaries—vaults where ancestral knowledge was encoded into sacred trees. Spiritual caretakers, known as Root Whisperers, moved like wraiths among the groves, their robes embroidered with fractal patterns, tending to seed interfaces that pulsed with emotionally linked data. Holographic mists swirled, projecting fragmented memories of a world long lost, while drones hummed overhead, their sensors blind to the district's arcane secrets. Kasumikura was a paradox: a haven of spiritual reverence in a city of perdition, yet a perfect hideout for the lawless.
The Kagura Outlaw gang caroused in a derelict bar, its neon sign flickering "Wisteria's End" in stuttering kanji. Katoge, ever meticulous, activated a handheld SpectraPulse Scanner, its infrared beams piercing the bar's walls to reveal the heat signatures of a dozen figures within, their forms writhing in drunken revelry. Wanaka, his face a mask of cold fury, slammed the door open with a force that rattled the frame, the sound a clarion call of impending doom. He strode inside, his katana half-drawn, and fixed the bartender—a gaunt man with cybernetic eyes—with a stare that could curdle blood. "Out. Now," Wanaka growled, his voice a deadly whisper. The bartender, trembling, fled into the misty night.
The Kagura gang snapped to attention, their hands darting to concealed weapons. Noda, his wiry frame taut with anticipation, clenched his fists, his pin needle gleaming between his knuckles. "Who's gonna save you lot from us now, eh?" he snarled, his voice dripping with venomous glee, his eyes bulging with manic intensity.
From the shadows emerged the Kagura leader, a corpulent figure whose long, drooping moustache framed a sneer. His body was a canvas of serpentine tattoos, pythons coiling across his flesh in inked menace. He swaggered forward, his bulk swaying, a cigarillo clenched between his teeth. "Well, well, if it ain't Amou's lapdogs," he drawled, his voice a guttural rasp. "Come to bark for your master? Or do Ascendancy's curs, you're on my turf now."
Noda's lip curled, his needle twirling in his fingers like a dancer's pirouette. "Big talk for a fat snake," he spat, his tone sharp as his weapon. "You'll be begging for mercy when we're done with you."
Wanaka fully drew his katana, its blade a crescent of lethal intent, while Harai brandished a serrated knife, his stance low and predatory. Katoge, his pistol raised, adjusted his spectacles with a theatrical flick, his eyes cold and calculating. The Kagura gang, ten strong, fanned out, their own blades and firearms gleaming in the bar's dim light. The air crackled with imminent violence.
The fight erupted like a storm. Wanaka moved first, his katana a blur of silver, slicing through the air to sever a Kagura thug's arm, blood spraying like crimson rain. The man's scream was cut short as Wanaka's blade found his throat, felling him in a gurgling heap. Noda, with feral agility, darted forward, his pin needle a darting viper, piercing eyes and jugulars with surgical precision. One outlaw clutched his face, blood seeping through his fingers, as Noda cackled, "Pin's mightier than your sword, mate!"
Harai charged like a juggernaut, his knife slashing through a thug's chest, ribs cracking under the force. Another Kagura lunged with a machete, but Harai caught the blade on his own, twisting it free before driving his knife into the man's gut, his snarl a primal roar. Katoge, calm as death itself, fired his pistol with metronomic accuracy, each shot a head or heart, bodies dropping like marionettes with cut strings. The Kagura leader, bellowing curses, swung a massive cleaver, but Wanaka parried, his katana sparking against the heavier blade. Harai flanked the leader, his knife biting into the man's thigh, eliciting a howl. Noda's needle found the leader's shoulder, pinning muscle to bone, while Katoge's final shot punched through the python tattoo on the leader's chest, his body crumpling like a deflated bellows.
The bar was a charnel house, blood pooling on the floor, the air thick with the reek of iron and cordite. The quartet stood amidst the carnage, their breaths heavy but triumphant, their weapons slick with the cost of vengeance.
In the hospital, Hoshida stirred, her consciousness clawing back from the abyss. She lay in a sterile white bed, monitors beeping softly, their rhythmic pulse a counterpoint to the city's chaos. Mr. Amou sat beside her, his head bowed, his hands clasped as if in supplication. His suit was rumpled, his face etched with guilt and fear, the weight of the night's violence heavy upon him. When Hoshida's voice, faint but resolute, called his name, he lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. A smile broke through his torment, soft as dawn's first light, and he reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed her cheek.
"Thank God, you're safe, my love," he whispered, his voice a tremulous hymn of relief, his touch a vow of devotion unbroken by the world's malevolence.