Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

Genjiro lost his last bit of patience. He stopped looking at Koyama Ryuzo, turned and walked to the window, leaving only a cold command: "Dispose of it."

"Yes, young master!" Yaksha and Crow replied in unison, their voices filled with excitement.

The two immediately sprang into action. Yaksha walked to the corner, where several prepared cement bags and a large plastic bucket were placed. He roughly tore open the cement bags, poured the gray powder into the bucket, and then picked up a bucket of water next to him and poured in water. Crow found a stick and began to stir vigorously, the cement dust spreading out and emitting a pungent smell.

“Come, come, doctor, let’s get you a new home.” Yaksha grinned maliciously, and together with Crow, they untied the limp Koyama Ryuzo from the chair and dragged him toward the cement bucket that was being stirred. They roughly pushed him to the ground, making him face the bucket of gray mud that was gradually becoming viscous and exuding the aura of death.

"No, no," Koyama Ryuzo struggled in vain, staring at the bucket of cement as if he were seeing his own grave. A chilling fear completely engulfed him.

The crow grabbed a handful of cement and smeared it on his face. The coarse particles choked him, carrying the taste of despair. The yaksha had already begun pressing him into the bucket.

Between life and death, Ryuzo Koyama saw a revolving lantern.

In a gray life filled with the smell of disinfectant and sighs of despair, his classmate Asami was the only bright spot that Ryuzo Koyama had ever seen.

Back then, he was still living in a cramped, unassuming underground clinic in Ikebukuro, its sign dusty and its patients mostly shady characters. Asami was different. She wore a clean cotton dress, her eyes like those of a startled fawn, possessing a beauty incongruous with the filthy environment. She timidly called him Koyama, her voice soft and gentle. Koyama Ryuzo's cold, numb heart was stirred. He greedily collected everything about her.

He awkwardly tried to get closer, offering her small, inexpensive gifts, but was met with Mami's aloofness. Later, he learned that Mami's heart belonged to Fujima, the young master of the electronics store at the street corner. Fujima was handsome, witty, and drove a flashy sports car; he was the dream of every girl on the street. Behind the dimly lit shop window of the clinic, Koyama Ryuzo had seen countless times Fujima walk past, his arm around Mami's waist, their laughter boisterous. The way Mami looked up at him was filled with a fascination and a humble love that Koyama Ryuzo had never experienced before.

A sense of shame and resentment quietly fermented in his heart.

Until that day, Mami arrived at the clinic alone, her face pale. She was pregnant; it was Fujima. The dashing young master had simply tossed down a wad of cash and vanished without a trace. Mami's tears fell like broken beads, landing on the cold clinic floor, and also on Koyama Ryuzo's twisted heart. She needed an abortion; she had nowhere else to go but to trust Koyama Ryuzo.

On the operating table, the cold, piercing light of the operating lamp cast a long shadow. Watching Mami's face gradually lose consciousness under the anesthesia—the face he had once dreamed of, now completely defenseless—Koyama Ryuzo felt an eerie calm. Fujima had possessed her, yet discarded her like trash. And he, Koyama Ryuzo, this ant trampled underfoot by the likes of Fujima, now held complete control over this woman who had once looked down on him.

The urge to suppress his desires for so long clung to his heart like a poisonous vine. He trembled as he reached out his hand.

When Asami awoke after the surgery, she was left only with physical pain and an empty gaze. She was oblivious to everything that had happened, only weakly offering her thanks. Watching her staggering figure as she left, Koyama Ryuzo felt no guilt, but rather a morbid sense of satisfaction. He had defiled the mark left by Fujima, completing his despicable revenge in a way the other would never know.

From that day on, Ryuzo Koyama, who had once harbored dreams in the University of Tokyo laboratory, was truly dead. He became obsessed with the power hidden behind white masks and anesthetics. In unconscious women, he found a twisted pleasure in controlling their lives and trampling on their dignity, which became the only stimulant in his decadent life.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" With the sticky cement about to engulf his chest, Takazo Koyama let out a heart-wrenching scream. All his persistence and lingering hope vanished before the stark reality of death. "It was Akira Sakurai! His name is Akira Sakurai! I sold the medicine to him!"

Yuan Zhisheng paused slightly as his back was turned to him.

The crow and the yaksha stopped what they were doing and looked at their young master.

Yuan Zhisheng didn't turn around, but simply raised his hand and waved gently.

Yaksha and Crow released their grip, leaving Koyama Ryuzo, covered in cement slurry and looking utterly disheveled, slumped in the cement.

“Sakurai Akira,” Genji repeated the name in a low voice.

Chapter 328 Crows and Yakshas

Looking at Koyama Ryuzo, who was slumped on the ground, covered in mud and panting like a fish out of water, Yasha felt no pity. Instead, he felt a sense of unsatisfaction. He smacked his lips and poked Koyama Ryuzo's limp stomach with the stirring stick in his hand, causing the other man to convulse violently again.

“Tsk, Crow, look, the cement is already halfway buried,” Yaksha turned his head. “We’ve done all the preparations and wasted the materials. Why don’t we just go all the way and turn him into a human pillar and throw him under Tokyo Bay? I heard that this newly reclaimed land is in need of a few wind-controlling structures.”

He then began humming a song he'd heard somewhere, the lyrics of which were indistinct: "Sinking to the bottom of the water, a cement coffin. Fish keep you company, in the bay of eternal sleep."

Crow toyed with the cleaned knife, frowned upon hearing this, and glanced at Yaksha: "What are you thinking about all day? He's already confessed, Sakurai Akira, we have his name. Isn't doing this unnecessary thing a waste of time? The young master is waiting for the next step."

“How can this be considered superfluous?” Yaksha retorted righteously, gesturing with his stick. “You have to finish what you start! Look, we’ve found the bucket, mixed the cement, and even placed the person here. All that’s left is to fill it with water and sink it into the sea. What else is this if not giving up halfway? It’s a sense of ritual! Do you understand? To deal with this kind of scum, you have to use the most thorough method so that he’ll remember the lesson for the rest of his life!”

Crow watched Yaksha meticulously attending to the ritual and sighed helplessly. He had partnered with Yaksha for too long and knew that the guy had an almost obsessive insistence on certain things, especially when it came to dealing with garbage. He waved his hand, too lazy to argue anymore: "Fine, fine, whatever. Just hurry up and get it over with. Don't dawdle. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can report the next step to the young master."

"Understood!" Yasha smiled with satisfaction, bent down with great enthusiasm, and prepared to drag the half-full cement bucket to pour the remaining, not-yet-fully-hardened gray slurry onto Koyama Ryuzo's body, completing his artwork.

As Koyama Ryuzo lay sprawled on the ground, listening to the two men's conversation, which sounded like they were discussing how to dispose of a bag of garbage, especially the eerie song sung by the Yaksha with its cheerful melody, his last shred of hope and common sense crumbled completely.

He had initially thought they were just a group of ruthless gangsters after intelligence or money. He had even tried to reason with them using yakuza logic, attempting to negotiate. But now, he realized he was completely wrong. These people were not ordinary thugs. Thugs, at least, are driven by self-interest and fear.

The two men in front of him, especially the big guy humming a song and preparing to bury him alive in cement, exuded a pure love for violence and destruction itself, a joy that transcended utilitarian purposes and was almost like a child playing in the mud.

They are perverts, they are mentally ill!

No wonder their eyes gleamed with an unusual light from the moment they started mixing the cement; their movements were swift, and their singing was filled with heartfelt happiness and satisfaction. Being in the hands of such a group meant that any confession offered no guarantee of safety; on the contrary, they might simply be disposed of with even greater pleasure once they had lost their usefulness.

"That's enough." With his back to them and looking out the window, Genji turned around, walked a few steps to the black Hummer parked next to him, opened the car door smoothly, got into the driver's seat, and the engine roared.

“You guys are a bit perverted,” Genji said through the lowered car window to Yasha, who was still fiddling with the cement bucket, and Crow, who was wiping his knife. “Someone will take care of him later. Get in the car.”

Upon hearing this, Crow immediately sheathed his knife, nonchalantly dusting off his hands as if he hadn't just been discussing burying people alive. As he walked towards the back door of the Hummer, he said, "Young Master, you don't understand. Only a psychopath can cure a psychopath. Just hearing about what this guy did makes me utterly disgusted. Using some extreme measures is a way of doing justice and purifying the environment." He then opened the car door and nimbly climbed inside.

Yasha looked at the bucket of cement with some regret, then at Koyama Ryuzo, who was almost unconscious on the ground, and muttered, "What a pity, my work."

But he was absolutely obedient to Genjiro's orders. He reluctantly threw away the stirring stick in his hand, walked quickly to the car, and squeezed into the back seat of the Hummer.

Genji didn't glance at Koyama Ryuzo again, who looked like a rag doll. This kind of human scum, once he obtained the necessary information, was utterly worthless; whether he lived or died was for those responsible for cleaning up the mess. His thoughts were now entirely focused on the newly appeared name.

The passenger door was gently opened, and Sakura slipped in silently like a ghost, fastening her seatbelt. She had already entered the crucial information obtained during the interrogation into her portable microcomputer.

"Sakura," Genjiro said, skillfully maneuvering the massive Hummer across the uneven ground of the construction site as it sped toward the highway. "We've identified the test subject's name: Sakurai Akira. The target used a so-called evolution drug to forcibly enhance his bloodline, and is currently in an unstable evolutionary process. Based on the drug's properties and past cases, he is expected to exhibit strong aggression and a bloodthirsty impulse, making him extremely dangerous."

He paused, his sharp gaze sweeping across the dark road ahead, the Hummer's powerful engine roaring, tearing through the silence of the night.

"Immediately search the branch's internal archives for all information related to the name Akira Sakurai, with the highest priority. At the same time, from now on, change Akira Sakurai's identifier color to red on the surveillance network and classify him as an extremely dangerous target."

"clear."

"Use all resources to check all entry and exit records and ticket purchase records for airports, railways, highways, and waterways, especially recent ones. Also, focus on investigating hot spring inns, hotels, guesthouses, and private hospitals or clinics in Tokyo and the surrounding areas that may be taking in unidentified injured people." Genji's mind raced, setting up a tight net. "He might be using aliases and fake documents to hide his whereabouts."

The Hummer executed a beautiful drift and sped onto the highway leading to the city. As its speed increased, the scenery outside the window rushed past.

"However, the side effects of the drugs and the berserk nature of his bloodline will make him unable to control his murderous urges. He needs an outlet, he needs to hunt. Sakura, focus your investigation on areas where there has been a recent surge in heinous murders, especially cases where all the victims are women, and where there are signs of sexual assault and the bodies have been severely mutilated. Follow the scent of blood, and you'll find him!"

"Contact Mr. Masamune immediately, report the situation, and request permission to eliminate the target, Sakurai Akira! Reason: He is a berserk A-class hybrid who poses a deadly threat to public safety and there is no possibility of reversal."

"Yes," Sakura replied succinctly, proceeding with the operation via an encrypted connection.

A brief silence followed, broken only by the roar of the engine and the noise of the wind. Yuan Zhisheng spoke again: "Based on the drug's effects and the initial bloodline assessment, what is the target's current bloodline rank?"

Looking at the newly updated data on the screen, Sakura reported: "Based on the overall assessment, the target's current bloodline rank is stable at A-level. Furthermore, the target is an A-level hybrid in a fully berserk state."

“Rank A, Berserk mode,” Genji repeated in a low voice, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

A Class A hybrid who has lost their mind and acts solely on instinct and a bloodlust is incredibly destructive. Every minute of delay could mean the loss of one or more innocent lives.

"Then let's start rolling in the net!" he shouted to the person in the back seat. "Crow! Contact the airport and get the plane ready. I need the fastest one. Make sure we can take off immediately upon arrival!"

"Understood, young master!" Crow immediately took out his phone and started dialing.

The black Hummer sped along the highway leading to Tokyo's Haneda Airport like a beast of the night.

Chapter 329 Sakurai Akira

The old-fashioned train rattled and clattered northward, like a stubborn and aging steel behemoth, panting along the winding monorail. Its massive chimney continuously spewed out cotton-like white smoke, which was torn to shreds by the speeding train and quickly dissipated into the cool, damp air of Hokkaido.

This is an old-fashioned steam locomotive, far slower than the high-speed Shinkansen. Its destination is the far end of Hokkaido, and it stops at almost every obscure little station, with only a few people getting on and off. This journey will take passengers a full twelve hours on the swaying train.

Strangely, this train still attracts many young people, especially couples, young boys with young girls, or vice versa. They are not there for efficiency, but to consume the long journey itself, treating this shared, semi-isolated journey as a ritual of youth, a slow romance.

The scenery outside the car window gradually transitioned from the edge of the town to vast fields, then to rolling hills and mountains where the snow line began to appear in the distance, like a slowly unfolding scroll painting.

The carriage where Sakurai Akira was located was sparsely populated, mostly with young men and women. The boys and girls excitedly pointed at the scenery outside the window, shared the same pair of headphones, or snuggled together and chatted and laughed quietly.

Akira Sakurai sat quietly by the window, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside, but in reality, all his attention was focused on his nasal cavity. He subtly and continuously twitched his nose, like a sophisticated radar, capturing every subtle scent in the carriage.

Sweat, perfume, the sweet smell of snacks in his backpack, the ink of books, the lingering detergent scent on his clothes. Now his sense of smell was comparable to that of a real beast, even more acute. He could clearly distinguish the moment when the boy beside the girl in the beige wool dress diagonally opposite him leaned down and, with a mixture of probing and intimacy, quickly kissed her earlobe. In that instant, her originally sweet scent was infused with a burning, seductive hormonal aroma. The scent, like a pebble thrown into still water, created distinct ripples in his keen perception.

By monitoring these intangible scents, he established absolute control over the carriage. Each person's emotional fluctuations—tension, pleasure, boredom, and excitement—were as clear as a lighthouse in the night. He calmly sifted through them, like selecting goods on a shelf, searching for suitable prey.

This was his fifteenth day on the run. Fifteen days and nights, fifteen lives he had marked and ended, heading north, leaving behind a hidden trail of fear and death. The swaying of the carriages, the roar of the steam locomotive, all fueled his bloodlust.

Akira Sakurai was twenty-three years old. Until two weeks ago, he was a janitor at a church school deep in the mountains of Kobe, and also a graduate of that school. The place was more like a scenic prison than a school.

The school was surrounded by thick stone walls, with high-voltage wire mesh strung across them. Once, a daring child, somehow obtaining insulating cloth, wrapped it around his hands and feet, successfully grabbed the wire mesh, and scaled the barrier. But his freedom was brief and cruel; he got lost in the primeval forest outside the school, and when the search and rescue team finally found him, he was on the verge of death from severe dehydration. That successful escape, ironically, became a terrifying warning to those who followed.

The school's official name is Care School. Its care targets children of unstable bloodlines who have been rejected by the Snake-Headed Eight Family, such as Sakurai Akira, who has been judged by the Snake-Headed Eight Family to have violent tendencies.

Every night before bedtime, the nuns, dressed in black habit, would line up and kiss each child's forehead in turn. However, as the final goodnight murmur faded, it was followed by the heavy footsteps of the burly guards and the cold, jarring click of the heavy chain lock being fastened to the iron gate.

When Akira Sakurai was a thin child, he would often sit alone on the slightly withered grass in the middle of the playground during playtime, looking up at the sky. But when he looked up, all he could see was a square patch of sky framed by stone walls and wire mesh.

Out of sheer boredom, he named every cloud that drifted across the sky: "Cotton Candy," "Little White Boat," "Running Dog," "Weeping Angel." He thought that naming them would establish some kind of connection. However, the next day, all the clouds he had named drifted away without exception, going to places he couldn't even imagine. He was left alone, day after day, year after year, sitting on the same patch of grass, gazing at the same sky.

Schooling ended at high school, but no university would accept students like them, and society wasn't ready to take them in. So, like many graduates, Akira Sakurai was hired internally as a janitor, responsible for cleaning and organizing library books. He got his own single room, slightly larger than when he was a student, with a real window.

But in essence, he still couldn't leave the prison. Every night, after the bedtime bell rang, the guards would still appear on time and lock the reinforced iron door to his cell from the outside. Year after year, the doctor's assessment report stated: he had violent tendencies, and if he were to wander into society, he would be a potential destabilizing factor and a problem for society.

Sakurai Akira knew deep down that the real reason he was sent to this care school had little to do with any vague diagnosis of violent tendencies. The root cause lay in his lineage.

He came from a secretive and ancient family, the Sakurai family, a family that had inherited mysterious dragon blood since ancient times. When he was five years old, the elders of the family held a serious and ancient bloodline assessment for him. The result was like a cold verdict: Sakurai Akira's bloodline was born with a defect, extremely unstable, and could go out of control and run wild at any time.

He was like a work of art with a fatal flaw, swiftly removed from the gleaming family display room and secretly transferred to this church school deep in the mountains. And the largest, and also anonymous, donor to this school was none other than the Snake-Headed Eight Family.

His parents haven't shown up since they sent him here. Instead, all sorts of men dressed in smart black suits have appeared.

Every year on his birthday, a man dressed in black would visit him as a parent. The lining of their suits was embroidered with dazzling yet ferocious ghost and deity patterns in extremely fine silk thread—symbols of another world hidden beneath the secular world.

Sakurai Akira knew these people were the law enforcement officers everyone talked about in private. In the shadows of this country, every mixed-race person like him was under the surveillance network of the law enforcement officers. The law enforcement officers operated in the dark, maintaining order in mixed-race society.

These law enforcement officers have diverse personalities. Some seem carefree and will casually bring you Kobe-style sweets or small carp streamers, chatting with you in a relaxed tone. Others are rigid and stubborn, making them difficult to approach.

But in Sakurai Akira's eyes, they were essentially no different. Whether kind or stern, when necessary, they would not hesitate to carry out the final plan, ruthlessly executing targets like him who were marked as dangerous. They were prison guards, and also potential executioners.

Chapter 330 Who would willingly end their life like this?

The questions asked by each law enforcement officer were largely the same: "Have you recently experienced sudden, uncontrollable urges to do something?" "Have you developed feelings for a female colleague? Even just a fleeting attraction?" "Have you ever felt a particular urge to kill someone you really dislike?"

Each problem is like a sharp, cold scalpel, dissecting him from mind to body into a transparent slice, examining it closely under a microscope, searching for any possible signs of mutation.

Akira Sakurai never considered rebelling; he was acutely aware of the chasm between them. The bloodlines of the law enforcers were stronger and more stable than his. Therefore, they were the elite who controlled the rules, while he was merely trash to be monitored.

What he inherited from his parents was a bloodline considered flawed and worthless by the family, a bloodline that served no purpose other than increasing the risk of rampages. The law enforcers, on the other hand, inherited an elite bloodline that granted them unparalleled strength, speed, and control.

As law enforcement questioned him, they checked off items on a complex scoring sheet. This sheet, along with his annual medical report, would eventually be encrypted and faxed back to his "head office." If Sakurai Akira's file was ultimately marked with a green or yellow label, he would be considered to have passed his day safely. An orange label would immediately intensify surveillance. A red label...

Akira Sakurai was unaware of the specific consequences and never allowed himself to think about them, for they inevitably meant the end of his life.

Fortunately, in every assessment, Akira Sakurai's color code was the safest green. This proved that, at least on the surface, he was stable and harmless. A law enforcement officer who seemed slightly more amiable once comforted him, saying, "Good, keep it up. If you can maintain this green color until you're forty, you'll have a chance to gain real freedom. At that time, we won't question you through this damn tempered glass anymore; we'll just visit you at home once a year, like visiting an old friend."

Forty years old? Sakurai Akira sneered inwardly. Forty years old! What would be left of his life by then?

He has no skills, has never left the world of learning, is socially inept, and has a past as a freak. What normal woman would want to start a family with him? Forty-year-old Sakurai Akira is nothing more than a middle-aged man who hasn't even had a chance to truly grow up, a lonely person with no family, no past, and no future.

After each law enforcement officer left, Akira Sakurai would stand alone in the public shower room, turn on the coldest water valve, and let the icy water wash over his head. The water was cold, but it couldn't extinguish the increasingly burning flame within him that threatened to consume him.

The resentment is anger, humiliation, and an increasingly irrepressible craving for bloodshed and destruction.

On that night, when he was almost swallowed up by the daily despair, things took an unexpected turn. A complete stranger, whom he had never met before, appeared in his life in a way he couldn't comprehend, bypassing all the precautions.