Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

He looked into Caesar's eyes. There was no anger, no defense, no of the most common panic among those accused, who were eager to clear their name.

He simply nodded calmly and slowly.

"Yes."

Caesar was stunned.

“If I have the chance, I will have people surround you and turn you into prisoners,” Genji said, word by word, “regardless of whether you have done any favors for the Snake-Headed Eight Families.”

Caesar opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

He had prepared many counter-arguments. If Genjiro vehemently argued that he would never betray his oath, if he tried to evoke so-called camaraderie by saying "we just fought side-by-side," if he showed even the slightest hint of hypocrisy—

He always has sharper, more sarcastic, and more soul-deeply contemptuous words waiting for him.

But Genji readily admitted it.

He spoke as casually as if he were stating that the weather was nice today, the Tokyo Tower was lit up, and he had ramen for dinner.

Caesar suddenly realized he didn't know what to say.

"I will only say three sentences."

Yuan Zhisheng didn't give him time to process it. His voice was low but steady, as if he were presiding over a funeral attended by only himself.

"The first sentence."

He paused.

“What a man should do has nothing to do with gratitude or righteousness. The reason why a man does something must be greater than such trivial matters as gratitude or righteousness.”

Chu Zihang's eyelashes fluttered slightly.

"The second sentence."

Genjiro remained looking into Caesar's eyes, without looking away.

“I’m a gangster. I’ve done evil. Some of it was far worse than throwing you into the deep sea. I admit, I’m definitely not a good person.”

His tone was flat, as if he were reading someone else's verdict.

"The third sentence."

He paused for an even longer time.

"In this situation, you can't take me away. If you don't want to help me, please leave my knife behind."

His gaze passed over Caesar's shoulder and landed on the blood-stained spider-slicer at Chu Zihang's feet.

"As the family leader, I have an obligation to fight."

Flames roared.

The rustling sound from the bottom of the well grew closer.

Caesar reached up and touched his forehead.

He didn't have a fever. He could hear very clearly, every single word.

Then he laughed in exasperation.

The laughter was short and dry, like sandpaper scraping across the throat.

There was a feeling of being shattered from the depths of one's soul.

This feeling had only ever been given to him by Lu Mingfei and Finger before. Those two were so shameless that they would forget lofty things like ideals, sentiments, beliefs, and dignity at any moment, wagging their tails in a smug way, which had a continuous and devastating impact on the elite education he had received since childhood.

But the weapon Genji used to defeat him was shamelessness.

He had lived for twenty-two years and had seen all sorts of wicked people. Some were greedy, some cruel, some hypocritical, and some insane. But he had never met anyone who could so openly talk about their evil, without the slightest shame, as if it were perfectly natural, as if they were saying that the weather was nice today, that the Tokyo Tower was lit up, and that they had ramen for dinner.

Did I tell you?

Caesar turned to look at Chu Zihang. His expression was twisted, somewhere between anger and bewilderment, like someone who had just discovered they had been swindled out of all their savings.

"The words 'good' and 'evil' do not exist in Japanese dictionaries."

He scratched his head, making his already messy blond hair even messier.

"Now it seems that they may not even have loyalty, filial piety, integrity and righteousness. You Chinese have been indoctrinating them for so many years in vain."

Chu Zihang shook his head.

He didn't reply. He understood that Caesar just wanted someone to vent to, to use a few harsh words to steady his nerves as he faced imminent danger. But he genuinely had nothing to comment on.

He bent down to change the magazine on his Uzi submachine gun. The tungsten alloy kinetic energy rounds could penetrate a ten-centimeter-thick concrete wall with a single shot, but he didn't know how effective they would be against those scale-covered things.

He awaited Caesar's decision.

Caesar is the group leader.

Caesar withdrew his gun.

Then he slammed Genjiro's head hard against the door frame.

With a muffled thud, a small clump of dust fell from the edge of the wooden door frame. Caesar's forearm veins bulged, the blood vessels in his forehead throbbed, and the muzzle of the gun pressed firmly against the skin of his temple, almost sinking in.

"Bastard!"

His voice was like a volcano that had been suppressed for too long, finally bursting forth.

"If a person can't even believe in their own sense of justice, then that person has no value in living! Believe me or not, I'll blow your head off!"

He couldn't stand it.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't contempt, it was something deeper, something indescribable.

Yuan Zhisheng's words sent chills down his spine.

A person who abandons even the justice in their own heart is like a walking corpse who has sold their soul to the devil. The entire Gattuso family is Catholic, and from as far back as he can remember, he has attended Mass with his family every Sunday.

He wasn't a devout believer, but those teachings—about sin and punishment, about redemption and judgment, about the weight of every soul in God's eyes—were already deeply embedded in his value system, like the foundation of the earth.

From a religious perspective, such a person truly doesn't even deserve to be called a human being.

He thought Genjiro would refute him.

They can defend themselves.

They would say, "I haven't given up on justice, I just have my reasons."

But Genjiro didn't say anything.

He simply watched Caesar quietly.

His eyes were clear, almost transparent. There was no anger, no shame, not even the heavy weariness he had felt before.

Her face, with its delicate, feminine beauty, seemed to bear the words: "Though there be thousands, I will go."

Like those famous warriors of the Warring States period. Enemies surged like a tide over the horizon, dark clouds loomed over the city, and the sound of iron hooves shook the heavens. They sat before their ranks, expressionless, playing their pipa, awaiting their destined death.

They accepted their fate.

He accepted his fate as a samurai.

As samurai, they were destined to die on the battlefield. They awaited death as if waiting for a lover they were destined to meet. There was no haste, no fear, only the knowing that it would come eventually, at some point sooner or later.

Chu Zihang looked at Yuan Zhisheng's profile.

He thought that even if he and Caesar turned around and left now, escaping the building through the fire escape, ventilation ducts, or any other means, Genji would be left alone here.

He would pull out the Spider Cutter, stand at the elevator shaft entrance, and wait for those snake-like monsters to climb up.

Then the battle begins.

Then he died.

As he himself said: As the family leader, I have an obligation to fight.

Strangely enough, although there was no reason to trust Genjiro, although just minutes before the other man's blade was at his neck, and although the past—Takamagahara, the trench, the broken cable—each item seemed like irrefutable evidence that this person was not trustworthy…

Chu Zihang still believes that when he said he wanted to open a small shop in France to sell sunscreen, he meant it sincerely.

"Gentlemen."

He cocked the Uzi submachine gun, the sound of the bolt being pulled back crisp and clean.

"We don't have much time left."

Caesar did not turn back.

He stared at Genjiro.

The anger in his eyes was still burning, but it was no longer as sharp.

"I don't believe you."

He spoke slowly and deliberately.

"But I'm giving you a chance."

He paused.

"Because those who believe in you are innocent."

Dick Tudor lifted the object from bottom to top, a flash of light passing by.

The ropes binding Yuan Zhisheng snapped with a snap. The thick, purplish-red rope slipped from his shoulders like a snake shedding its skin.

Yuan Zhisheng did not speak.

He didn't say thank you, didn't say "you'll regret this decision," and didn't even nod. He simply reached out and pulled the spider-cutter from Caesar's makeshift scabbard, as naturally as if he were just borrowing a bag of salt from a neighbor.

Caesar's lips twitched slightly.

"Shit."

He muttered a curse under his breath, and said nothing more.

He didn't want to admit it, but at that moment there was no more effective way to curse.

He still didn't believe Genjiro. The Japanese are shameless. The daimyo of the Sengoku period would sacrifice their comrades in the name of the greater good, weeping and saying, "Brother, this is what God forced me to do. I wish I could stand up and die in your place," while pointing their muskets at their sworn brothers' backs.

When it was Genjiro, he didn't even bother with that tearful act.

He would pull the trigger directly.

But it seems to be more than just shamelessness.