Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

After a long pause, he responded very softly and slowly, "Mm."

Then, he raised a hand and, just like that afternoon at the harbor many years ago, gently touched Inuyama He's blood-stained, cold, gray hair.

Chapter 606 Inuyama He, resurrected!

Dead silence.

Inside Tamamo-no-Mae, only the howling of the night wind through the holes in the roof, the rustling of fine rain on tattered red silk, and the faint, ever-present pulse of Tokyo, the behemoth, could be faintly heard in the distance. The once magnificent dance floor was now a ruin, the crystal floor riddled with spiderweb-like cracks and dense bullet holes, and the tattered red silk, like congealed blood, covered everything.

Miyamoto Shio and Ryoma Genichiro stood frozen in place, their faces deathly pale, their eyes vacant as they stared at the center of the dance floor. Their minds were still unable to process the horrific scene that had just unfolded: the devastating barrage of attacks, the tragic leap that used his body as a shield, and the master and disciple now tightly embracing each other, yet separated by life and death.

The girls huddled in the corner, many still trembling and sobbing softly. They dared not look at the horrific scene in the center, yet they couldn't help but cast their gazes at the silver-haired man sitting cross-legged, cradling the deceased. The death of the head of the household was like a blow to their backbone, leaving them with endless fear and bewilderment.

Angers remained motionless in that position. He held Inuyama He's cold body, his head bowed, his silver hair obscuring most of his expression, only the taut lines of his jaw revealing extreme repression.

Raindrops fell on his shoulders, soaking his shirt and outlining the contours of his well-defined muscles. They also mixed with the dark red blood seeping from Inuyama He's wounds, which had not yet fully congealed, spreading into a small, shocking dark patch beneath him.

Time seemed to freeze at that moment, so heavy it was suffocating.

Until, a faint groan, as if squeezed from the depths of a throat, filled with pain and confusion, broke the deathly silence.

"Uh."

The source of the sound was none other than Angers' arms!

Everyone was jolted, as if struck by lightning, and instantly focused their gazes on it.

Hearing Inuyama, who was being held tightly by Angers, noticed a slight furrow in his brow on his previously deathly pale and lifeless face. Then, his tightly closed eyes began to tremble violently, as if struggling to break free from the heavy constraints.

"Hah, hah," came a clearer, more distinct gasp, accompanied by gasps of cold air.

Inuyama He's chest began to rise and fall noticeably. Though faint, he was definitely breathing.

"This, how is this possible?! The head of the Inuyama family has been resurrected!" Miyamoto Shigeo exclaimed in shock, almost doubting his own eyes! He had personally witnessed Inuyama He being riddled with dozens of bullets, bleeding profusely, and his breath coming to an end.

Such injuries would leave even the strongest hybrids with no chance of survival!

Ryoma Genichiro's eyes widened, his lips trembled, and he couldn't utter a single word.

The girls forgot to cry, staring blankly at this miracle that was beyond their comprehension.

Angers slowly, extremely slowly, raised his head, his eyes beneath his silver hair sharp as knives, scrutinizing him with disbelief as he looked at Inuyama He, who had come back to life in his arms.

Inuyama He's eyes finally opened with difficulty, little by little.

At first, his eyes were unfocused and blank, filled with discomfort and deep confusion about the light. His blurred vision first focused on Angers' face, which was close at hand, stained with a little blood and dust, yet still clearly defined.

"Teacher?" Inuyama He's lips moved, his voice hoarse and dry like an old bellows, full of uncertainty.

The next second, fragments of memory flooded into his newly revived brain like a tidal wave.

The deafening gunshots, the scorching bullet trajectories, the excruciating pain tearing through the body, the resolute lunge towards Angers' back, the suffocating feeling of being struck in the heart, the chilling sensation of life rapidly slipping away...

And finally, in the boundless darkness and nothingness, something warm and resilient seemed to firmly "anchor" his fading consciousness, and then suddenly pulled him back from that coldness!

"I...I'm not dead?" Inuyama He muttered to himself, his voice filled with absurdity and disbelief. He tried to move his fingers and found that although his body felt weak and sore, he did not experience the excruciating pain of being riddled with holes and having his bones shattered as he had expected.

He tried to move his eyes to look at his own body.

What came into view was his familiar black stretch vest, but now it was tattered beyond recognition, riddled with charred bullet holes and tears, practically reduced to shredded strips barely clinging to his body. Through the holes, he could see his own skin underneath—skin?!

The skin is completely intact!

There were no gruesome blood holes, no embedded bullets, no torn flesh. There were only some shallow, faint red marks, as if they had been instantly swept by high temperatures, and some minor abrasions and bruises, as if it had just been accidentally rubbed against a rough surface.

Inuyama He suddenly raised his arm. His arm moved freely, and although his muscles ached, his bones were intact. Apart from dirt and a few abrasions, his skin had no fatal wounds. He then hurriedly looked down at his chest and abdomen, and found the same thing everywhere he looked.

How... how is this possible?!

He vividly remembered countless bullets, like red-hot nails, hammering into his body. He remembered the teeth-grinding crunch of his bones as they withstood the impact. He remembered the warm, sticky sensation of blood gushing from countless wounds! He remembered the cold, powerless feeling of life slipping away rapidly with his blood.

But now, apart from his clothes being so tattered he looks like a beggar, he only has some minor superficial injuries on his body?!

Inuyama He was completely dumbfounded. He raised his head blankly and looked at Angers again, his swollen eyes filled with huge question marks and astonishment, like a child who had just woken up from an overly realistic nightmare and could not distinguish between reality and illusion.

"Me, my wounds? Those bullets?" he stammered, even beginning to doubt whether the terrifying half-minute he had just experienced was merely a hallucination caused by his severe injuries.

Angers quietly observed his reaction.

He didn't answer Inuyama He's question immediately, but slowly loosened his arms around him, gently straightening him so that he could sit steadily against himself. Then, Angers lowered his head, his gaze falling on the pocket of Inuyama He's tattered vest.

Inuyama He followed his gaze.

All he could see was a corner of something peeking out from the bullet-torn, charred pocket on his chest—a rough, unblemished piece of linen.

He hesitated, then reached into his tattered pocket with trembling hands, groping around until he pulled out the contents.

It's that doll.

The handmade doll that Angers had given him before, which turned into a chibi version of Inuyama He after he swore an oath to it with his blood.

However, the appearance of this doll at this moment made Inuyama He's heart skip a beat.

The doll's originally exquisite "clothes," which imitated a navy blue kimono, were now charred and tattered, covered with countless tiny holes that looked as if they had been burned or torn, and some places even showed strange carbonization marks.

The doll's once lively and adorable chibi face was now dull in color, its features blurred, as if shrouded in a layer of gray shadow, with even a few fine, crack-like lines faintly visible. The faint warmth that had once connected it to Inuyama He's bloodline had also become extremely weak, almost imperceptible, as if it might dissipate completely at any moment.

The doll looked as if it had just experienced a terrible disaster, becoming broken and on the verge of death.

Inuyama He stared blankly at the unrecognizable doll in his hand, then looked down at his own body, which was disheveled but intact. An unbelievable, almost absurd thought exploded in his mind like a thunderclap!

He suddenly looked up at Angers again, his lips trembling, but he couldn't utter a complete sound.

Angers met his utterly shocked gaze and sighed deeply.

The sigh was soft, yet it seemed to carry a thousand words: lingering fear from the near-death experience, complex emotions over the extraordinary power, and perhaps even a hint of pride in the unbelievable abilities of her student, Frilian.

Angers looked at the broken doll in Inuyama He's hand, then at the minor superficial wounds on Inuyama He's body, and finally, in his characteristic, steady yet clear tone, slowly spoke, answering the turbulent question that had been churning in Inuyama He's heart:

"Just now."

"Didn't I give you that substitute doll that Frilian made?"

Angers paused, then looked back at Inuyama He's wide, utterly astonished eyes, and stated in a calm tone a fact that sounded like a fantasy to Inuyama He:

"so."

"Only now can you be completely unharmed."

"Completely unharmed."

These four words, like the final tolling of a bell, resounded in Inuyama He's mind, making his eardrums buzz.

He slowly lowered his head, looking once more at the chibi-style doll in his hand, now broken and charred, which had taken the fall for him. On the doll's blurry little face, there seemed to be a trace of Inuyama He's stubborn expression.

It turns out that the excruciating pain, the icy chill of life slipping away so quickly, and the darkness of impending death were not illusions.

It turns out that the bullets that should have torn him to pieces, the wounds that should have taken his life, really did happen to him.

However, in the instant it happened, or rather, just as the damage was about to take effect, it was transferred, borne, and replaced by this small, inconspicuous doll made by the girl named Frilian.

Therefore, he can still breathe, think, and feel weak and sore. These are just normal reactions after the body has suffered a huge impact, but there is no fatal injury.

A substitute doll.

Inuyama He finally understood the true meaning of this word. It was not a metaphor, not an exaggeration, but an alchemical miracle that he could not comprehend yet had truly occurred.

He clutched the tattered doll tightly, the rough linen and cold, withered texture tugging at his fingertips. The doll's life was slipping away rapidly, the faint connection between them was fading.

Chapter 607 Tachibana Masamune: Hello, Principal Angers

Half an hour later.

The sharp screech of tires tore through the relatively quiet streets of Shibuya at night. A Rolls-Royce Phantom, all black with lines as sleek as a shark, came to a steady stop in front of the two heavy bronze doors of the Tamamo-no-Mae Club with an almost insane drift and a screeching sound of brakes.

The car's headlights, as bright as small searchlights, illuminated the antique ukiyo-e carvings and bronze door knockers with exquisite detail, and also revealed the shards of glass scattered on the steps in front of the door and a few drops of dark red blood that had long since dried and changed color.

Immediately afterwards, the low growl of engines filled the air. At least ten black Mercedes-Benz sedans, like a swarm of sharks smelling blood, arrived from different directions and quickly and orderly stopped around the Rolls-Royce, forming an impenetrable encirclement.

Almost simultaneously, the car doors opened, and dozens of men dressed in matching black suits, exuding a sharp and capable aura, and with piercing eyes, poured out. They were highly trained, making no unnecessary noise, and quickly formed a human wall around the Rolls-Royce, their backs to the vehicle and their faces towards the outside.

Everyone's hands reached inside their suit jackets, grasping or touching concealed weapons—daggers, pistols, and perhaps something even more deadly. The air seemed to freeze instantly, a palpable sense of impending doom spreading through the atmosphere, even dimming the warm yellow lights emanating from the shops across the street.

The nearby residents and pedestrians returning home at night had already been alarmed by the violent gunfire that had erupted in Tamamo-no-Mae earlier, resembling a small-scale war. Now, seeing this scene, they were even more frightened and hurriedly took cover, watching from a distance, their voices barely audible. In the distance, the sound of sirens grew louder as they approached, and the flashing red and blue lights were faintly visible, indicating that the police were on their way.

Just then—

"Squeak."

Two large, gleaming bronze doors, illuminated by the car headlights, were slowly pushed open from the inside.

A figure, carrying a rather heavy, worn-out old leather suitcase, emerged step by step from the darkness and mess inside the door. The beams of the car headlights, like a white wall of light, completely enveloped him, the dazzling light making him appear as a backlit, sharply defined silhouette, like a character straight out of an old black-and-white film.

He walked steadily, his pace slow. The suitcase was quite heavy, but his arm holding it didn't tremble at all.

The figure walked step by step toward the Rolls-Royce surrounded by a group of people in black.

The bodyguards' nerves instantly tightened to the limit! They gripped the weapons hidden in their clothes, leaned forward slightly, and flexed their muscles, assuming standard, ready-to-attack and defensive postures! Countless cold gazes, like probes, locked onto the approaching figure, assessing the threat level and searching for weaknesses.

The figure walked into the area where the bright light from the Rolls-Royce's headlights intertwined with the ambient streetlights, and its outline and details gradually became clear.

As they got closer, the bodyguards realized that the newcomer was not as blood-soaked and menacing as they had imagined.

He wore a perfectly tailored, classic British-style light grey three-piece checkered suit, paired with a pristine white shirt and a dark purple neckerchief, and a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Judging from his attire, he was undoubtedly an older, sophisticated gentleman, as if he had just emerged from a high-class club or academic salon.

But the gentleman's current state contrasted sharply with his attire. His once meticulously combed silver hair was now slightly disheveled, with a few strands stuck to his forehead by sweat or something else.

His expensive suit was covered in dust, with suspicious dark stains on the shoulders and cuffs, resembling dried blood, and there was even a noticeable tear in the fabric on his left shoulder. His face showed obvious fatigue.

The gentleman stopped about three meters from the front of the Rolls-Royce. He raised his hand, as if to disperse the overly bright headlights, or perhaps to signal the bodyguards, who looked like they were facing a formidable enemy, to get out of the way.

This casual action, however, was like lighting a fuse! Several bodyguards standing at the front could hardly contain themselves; their fingers were on triggers or knife handles, ready to strike—

"Get out of the way," a deep, steady voice came from inside the Rolls-Royce's closed windows.

"What right do you have to block Principal Angers' path?"

Hilbert Jean Angers.

The name was like a silent incantation, instantly freezing all the bodyguards in place! The fierceness and vigilance on their faces were quickly replaced by astonishment, disbelief, and a hint of awe.

Is this the legendary man? The one who single-handedly suppressed the mixed-race society of Japan, founded the Japanese branch of Kassel College, and was praised and even demonized in countless yakuza stories?

No one dared to stop them anymore. The group of people in black parted the Red Sea like Moses parting, quickly and silently retreating to both sides, clearing a path straight to the rear door of the Rolls-Royce. Their movements were well-trained, but the wariness in their eyes had not completely disappeared; they had simply shifted from an offensive posture to a more tense, focused defensive posture.