Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

"And then what? Once you're in the organization, how will you explain that you look exactly like Yoko?"

“No explanation is needed,” Frilian said. “Yoko is dead, everyone knows that. I’m just a newcomer who looks like her. It’s just a coincidence.”

Scorpion stared at her for a long time. Then he stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the empty fighting cage outside.

“Do you know how I’ve spent these past three years?” he said to her with his back to her, his voice low. “I dream about you every night. I dream that you’re dead in the snow, covered in blood. I wake up, then go to the training ground and train until I pass out, so that I can continue to dream about you.”

Frillie didn't say anything.

“I hate you,” Scorpion said. “I hate that you left without saying anything, I hate that you made me think you were dead, I hate that you suddenly reappeared and disrupted my hard-won peace of life.”

He turned around, his eyes red. "But I hate myself even more. I wasn't strong enough back then, I couldn't protect you, and I couldn't protect Miho-senpai either."

Frillie stood up and walked over to him.

She reached out and gently touched the scar on his face.

"How did you get this wound?"

“Last month’s mission was in Sapporo,” Scorpion said, grabbing her hand. “The opponent had an A-rank, and his Word of Power was ‘Eye of the Wind King.’ I almost died.”

"Does it hurt?"

"I'm used to it."

Frilian withdrew her hand and took a small bottle out of her backpack.

"This is a medicine I made myself. It will speed up healing and prevent scarring," she said, handing it to him. "Just like before."

The scorpion looked at the bottle and suddenly laughed, a bitter laugh.

"You even remember this?" He took the bottle. "Yoko used to say that I didn't cherish my body enough, and she would always get me medicine whenever I got injured."

He opened the bottle and smelled it. "The formula has changed?"

“It’s been improved,” Frilian said. “Dragon’s blood crystals have been added, making it even more effective.”

The scorpion put away the bottle and took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'll help you. But you have to promise me one thing."

"what?"

"Don't die." Scorpion looked at her, his eyes terrifyingly serious. "If you die in front of me again this time, I will go crazy. I really will."

Frillie nodded: "I promise you."

“Well then,” Scorpion said, walking toward the door, “I will submit an application to the higher-ups tomorrow, recommending you for the field medical team. But before that, you need to pass a test.”

"What test?"

Scorpion opened the door to the observation room and pointed to the fighting cage.

"Fight there. Let everyone see your strength. In the Ghost Clan, brains alone are not enough; you also need fists. Especially for medical personnel, if you can't even protect yourself, you'll be a burden on the battlefield."

Frilian looked at the fighting cage, an empty octagon with a stark white light.

"Where is the opponent?"

“Me,” Scorpion said, taking off his vest to reveal his muscular upper body and more scars. “If you can last three minutes against me, I’ll acknowledge that you’re qualified to return.”

He stepped into the cage and looked back at her. "What, scared?"

Frillie paused for a few seconds, then began to take off her white coat.

"rule?"

“There are no rules.” Scorpion cracked his knuckles, his dragon-transformed right hand gleaming a dark red under the light. “You can use any means necessary, including your incantations, if you have them. But remember, there is no antidote for my poison.”

Frillie stepped into the cage, the iron door closing and locking behind her.

Outside the cage, the guards reappeared, watching the battle through the barbed wire. Their eyes were filled with curiosity: how long could this woman who had suddenly appeared and looked like Yoko last against Boss Scorpion?

The scorpion assumed a fighting stance, lowering its center of gravity, right hand forward, left hand protecting its chest. This was the starting stance for actual combat, devoid of any fancy moves, solely for killing.

"Before we begin, let me ask you one last time. You can still back out now. Once my poison enters your bloodstream, even a god can't save you."

Frillie didn't answer; she simply raised her hands and struck a strange pose.

Chapter 500 Caesar's Wanderings

Night fell like a deep blue velvet curtain, slowly covering the Tokyo metropolitan area. Caesar Gattuso finally arrived at the small town of Chizuru. He parked his SUZUKI RM250 off-road motorcycle, which had roared and bounced so much that his bones felt like they were about to fall apart, on the quiet side of the street, turned off the engine, and the world instantly fell silent.

Caesar removed his dust-covered helmet, shook his deformed blond hair, took a deep breath, and then looked around.

To the north lies Saitama Prefecture, where the silhouettes of vast factories transform into a continuous, sporadic black outline in the twilight. To the south, the neon lights of Shinjuku's skyscrapers are already lit, outlining the dazzling skyline of the heart of Tokyo.

Chizuru-cho is nestled between industry and bustling city life, like a quiet, slightly weary respite. It's rush hour, and the town's pulse seems to be truly beginning to beat. Streetlights illuminate the crowds heading home.

The still-charming izakaya proprietress, dressed in a proper kimono, stood in front of the door where lanterns swayed, greeting regular customers with a professional, sweet smile; fishmongers and fruit vendors simply pushed their stalls to the side of the street, fresh seafood gleaming silver on crushed ice, and seasonal oranges piled up like small mountains, emitting a sweet aroma.

The air was filled with the enticing aroma of food: the sizzling of takoyaki batter on the hot plate, and the warm scent of oden broth bubbling and bubbling, a blend of radish, kelp, and fish cake.

Caesar opened his nose, greedily inhaling the warm, mixed air brimming with life, his nerves, which had been tense all the way, began to relax slightly. He felt like someone who had surfaced from the cold, deep sea, finally touching the land called human again.

He pulled a crumpled cigarette pack from the greasy pocket of his leather jacket, inside which lay the last cigarette, all alone. He lit it with a windproof lighter, took a deep drag, and the pungent tobacco flavor filled his lungs, bringing a brief dizziness and comfort. Leaning back on the motorcycle, he tilted his head back and exhaled a string of smoke rings, watching them rise and blend into the night of the small town. Then, he casually tossed the empty cigarette pack at his feet.

Throughout the journey, from the seaside of Kanagawa to Chizuru-cho, this box of cheap cigarettes was Caesar's only companion against fatigue and the cold. He smoked them sparingly, only carefully smoking half a cigarette to perk himself up when his eyelids were drooping and his mind was hazy, and then carefully extinguishing and putting away the other half.

For the Gattuso family heir, squatting by the emergency lane on the highway, smoking a cigarette butt that was almost burned down to the filter in the biting cold wind, was an unprecedented and utterly destitute experience. But now, the destination has been reached, and this last treasure can be enjoyed in a luxurious manner, puff after puff.

He puffed out large puffs of smoke, his icy blue eyes, now somewhat brighter, scanning the passersby on the street, especially the young women. To be honest, based on his past experiences and observations, there weren't many beauties worth glancing at; in fact, quite a few of the girls had noticeably bowlegs.

But at this moment, after experiencing the despair of the deep sea abyss, being soaked in icy water, and a whole day of desperate escape covered in dust, any scene belonging to vibrant life and everyday life made him feel the preciousness of surviving a disaster.

To be alive, to stand here, to watch ordinary people living ordinary lives, to smell the aroma of food, and to know that even if the girls on the street aren't stunning beauties, they still possess a captivating charm.

He hadn't taken a few puffs when someone suddenly banged heavily on the front of the car several times. Caesar turned around in surprise and saw an old woman passing by. Her face was serious, and her wrinkled fingers first pointed to the cigarette Caesar was holding, then forcefully pointed to the empty cigarette box on the ground that had been blown around twice by the wind. Her eyes were full of disapproval.

Caesar paused for a moment, then realized what was happening. He immediately took the cigarette from his lips, hurriedly walked over, bent down to pick up the cigarette pack, took a few quick steps, carefully examined the recycling bins on the street, and threw it into the combustible waste bin.

Then, he returned to his motorcycle and forcefully stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette against the metal edge of the seat. Having done this, he habitually gave the still stern-faced old woman an impeccable, apologetic, and understanding smile, and nodded slightly.

This is the code of conduct ingrained in the bones of a nobleman. True aristocratic manners are not just displayed to socialites at balls, but rather an unconscious respect and consideration shown when dealing with women of all classes and ages.

Perhaps one day, as you step out of Monte Carlo's most luxurious hotel, basking in the Mediterranean sun, a ragged old beggar woman extends her hand to you. You must not show the slightest contempt, but should immediately take out enough banknotes and politely place them in her hand, as if you were making an equal gift.

Because you know that today's beggar woman might have once been a stunning socialite in a casino. And today's unremarkable buck-toothed girl on the street corner might one day be a captivating Cleopatra. The noble gentleman respects the potential of beauty, and that potential exists within every woman.

Just as Caesar thought the matter was over and was about to turn around to continue his search, his sleeve was grabbed by an old but strong hand. He turned around, and it was the same dark-faced old woman. Caesar maintained his impeccable, sunny smile, but inwardly he wondered: He'd already put out his cigarette and sorted his trash, what more did this stern old woman want?

The old lady took a soft-looking white bread from her simple shopping bag, which was in a transparent plastic bag, and stuffed it into Caesar's hand without saying a word, patting his hand hard.

Her expression was no longer simply reproachful, but a mixture of pity for his misfortune and urging for his lack of ambition. Then, she took out a small carton of yogurt and handed it to Caesar in the same way.

Caesar blinked his eyes, which, even when dusty, remained a deep, clear blue like the sea, and didn't quite react for a moment. He watched the old woman, her back hunched, slowly walk away, her steps faltering, until she disappeared around the street corner. Then, he subconsciously turned his head and glanced at the motorcycle's rearview mirror.

The person in the mirror stunned him. His neck and cheeks were covered with a layer of dark gray grime, mixed with dried salt stains. His once dazzling blond hair was matted together with sweat and dust, sticking dirty to his forehead and temples.

Because of the biting wind that had been blowing against his face the whole way, his nasal passages were irritated, and he was even unconsciously having a runny nose. If it weren't for his signature bright blue eyes, he would hardly have recognized the disheveled, homeless man in the mirror, who looked like he had just escaped from a construction site, as Cesare Gattuso, the young master of the Gattuso family.

A wave of melancholy washed over him. Caesar looked down at the simple bread and yogurt in his hand, gave a self-deprecating twitch, and then without hesitation tore open the packaging and took a big bite out of half the bread.

He was so hungry that his stomach was sticking to his back and his chest was aching.

His memory flashed back to yesterday evening. He regained consciousness amidst a nauseating, pungent smell of fish. Opening his eyes, he found himself crammed into a small cabin with a pile of slippery, cold, shimmering dead fish. Looking out through the small round window of the cabin, he saw the boundless sea and the fiery orange-red sunset in the western sky.

Chapter 501 Caesar the Tramp (Part 1)

The captain could speak a few broken English words. He told Caesar that their deep-sea fishing vessel had accidentally pulled him ashore while trawling in waters quite far from the coastline.

At the time, Caesar was wearing a specially made, self-inflating life jacket from the academy, with his belt securely fastened around his waist, on which his beloved Dick Tudor hunting knife and his gleaming Desert Eagle were prominently displayed. However, he was completely naked.

Caesar quickly imagined himself being pulled up in a fishing net, and suddenly felt an urge to turn around and jump back into the sea. In a flash of inspiration, he fabricated a shipwreck story: claiming to be a security guard on a luxury cruise ship, he said he had engaged in a fierce battle with an international jewel thief while chasing him, and that they had both unfortunately fallen into the water.

The guns and knives were necessary for his job, and as for being naked, it was because he happened to be sleeping naked in his cabin at the time of the incident. To increase credibility, he used his extensive nautical knowledge and understanding of ship structure to fill in the details of the story flawlessly.

Finally, although the captain was still somewhat skeptical, he reluctantly accepted the claim that the man was a shipwrecked sailor. Before leaving the cabin, he added sincerely in broken English, "However, sir, you have really well-developed muscles."

The captain stated that the fishing boat's destination was Nagasaki Port, and after docking, he would take Caesar to the police station to help him contact the luxury cruise ship and its company. The word "police" was like a bucket of ice water poured over Caesar's head, instantly sobering him up.

He suddenly remembered that, due to his illegal entry and the actions of the Snake-Headed Eight Family, he was now likely one of the most wanted criminals in Japan, pursued relentlessly by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department! Going to the police station? That would be tantamount to walking into a trap.

With no other choice, as the fishing boat was about to dock and the crew was busy preparing, Caesar quietly retrieved his weapon, seized a moment when no one was watching, and once again plunged into the icy sea. With superhuman strength and unwavering will, he battled the waves, currents, and freezing temperatures for nearly three hours, finally crawling ashore exhausted on a desolate beach.

However, stepping onto land only meant escaping the danger of drowning; two other fatal realities followed: he couldn't speak any Japanese and was penniless.

Once upon a time, the young master of the Gattuso family worried about where to go and what to spend his money on. Entering any city in the world, Caesar only needed to walk straight to the most luxurious hotel, throw out his black card with unlimited credit, and someone would take care of everything for him.

But now, he was so hungry he was dizzy, and his stomach felt like it was being gripped tightly by an invisible hand. For a moment, he even seriously considered whether he should pull out his Desert Eagle, rush into the convenience store by the roadside, and "borrow" a loaf of bread to fill his stomach.

The only thing of any value left on his body was the rose gold deep-sea diving watch on his wrist. When the Trieste broke up in the Arctic Ocean, this watch, despite being claimed to be waterproof to several thousand meters, eventually leaked in and stopped working. But the heavy rose gold case itself is still a valuable asset.

Caesar traded it with a few shifty-eyed, slovenly-looking thugs on the roadside for this dilapidated off-road motorcycle that made noise everywhere except for the horn, the leather jacket he was wearing that smelled of cheap leather, and a pack of cheap, pungent cigarettes.

It took Caesar most of the day to cycle from the coast of Kanagawa Prefecture to Chizuru Town. Unable to read Japanese road signs, he could only rely on his most basic sense of direction and the occasional glimpse of map fragments to orient himself, taking countless wrong turns. The biting cold wind scraped against his face like knives, stirring up dust from the road, turning him into a disheveled and grimy fugitive.

Now, Caesar stands on the streets of Chizuru-cho, searching for hope—an internet cafe. That internet cafe is one of the few safe havens that Kassel College has established within Japan.

The so-called safe havens are not actual ports, but rather nodes and sanctuaries within the Academy's global secret network. The Academy has established hundreds of such locations around the world, paying local ordinary people who know nothing about the Dragonflight world to manage them.

They are sometimes used to transship certain supplies that should not be made public, but more often they remain idle. If an academy's agents are exposed, surrounded, or trapped in dire straits while on missions abroad, they can seek refuge in the nearest safe harbor.

The safe harbor's administrators will provide the agents with temporary shelter and basic supplies, as per the agreement, and buy them valuable time. During this period, the academy's super AI, Norma, will quickly allocate resources and organize a rescue operation.

Before coming to Japan, Norma had prepared a special edition of the "Japan Operations Handbook" for their trio, which detailed the location and identification methods of this safe haven. It was hidden inside a comic book internet cafe. In Caesar's limited understanding, it should be a comprehensive entertainment venue where one could both read comics and use computers.

Turning the corner according to my memory, a pinkish-purple, slightly ambiguous curtain of light suddenly came into view. A huge neon sign, several stories high, seemed to pierce the night sky, the pinkish-purple light outlining the two large, cursive characters "Mambo," constantly flashing and changing.

"So that's how it is. This is an internet cafe." Caesar raised his eyebrows slightly, feeling a sense of wonder as he stepped into the unknown, as if the progress bar of his life experience had quietly increased a little.

Prior to this, he had almost no knowledge of internet cafes. He couldn't understand why a special place was needed for people to access the internet.

In his view, the internet should be ubiquitous and readily accessible. You can surf the internet barefoot on a sunny Florida beach, check your emails via satellite while riding an elephant through the Thai rainforest, or even soak in your own palatial jacuzzi while browsing gossip on the Night Watch forum on your waterproof iPad.

Caesar rarely needs to manually set up a network connection. As a distinguished VIP of a global alliance of top hotels, his device automatically connects to a dedicated high-speed network whenever he enters a partner hotel. When he leaves Wi-Fi coverage, a seamless mobile data network is immediately activated.

Therefore, his world is always online, and the entire global network is open to him, ready to serve him at any time.

In contrast, Lu Mingfei, an S-rank player from China, had a completely different story during his high school years. He always felt guilty about playing games at home, feeling like he was wasting his time.

For Lu Mingfei, the internet cafe was paradise. At least for the two hours he paid for, the seat and computer were entirely his own, and he didn't feel like he was wasting any time. Even though the keyboard gaps were filled with cigarette ash left by the previous customer, and the mouse wheel might not be very responsive.

But when he holds the mouse and watches his army surge across the screen, the sense of control makes him feel like an "emperor holding a scepter."