Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

"Angers, you bastard," Master Yue finally spoke, his voice filled with helpless anger.

He walked to the cutting board, put his apron back on, and made a loud noise as he moved, causing the bottles and jars to clang.

What kind of noodles?

"Anything you're good at is fine."

"Tsk, I've become your personal ramen chef." Chef Yue angrily threw the noodles into the soup pot, stirring the bamboo basket in the boiling water and creating a cloud of steam. "After more than sixty years, can't you be a little more polite?"

Angers poured another cup of wine, but this time he didn't rush to drink it. Instead, he held it in his hand and twirled it, watching the wine leave fine watermarks on the cup.

“Oh dear, who is the rude one?” he said. “Ahe is just a family head, but he specially sent people to pick me up at the airport. Dozens of bodyguards, a whole fleet of Mercedes-Benzes, and the immigration hall was sealed off. The hospitality was extremely luxurious.”

He paused, looked up at Master Yue, and smiled slightly.

"You, the supreme ruler of the underworld, only offer me a bowl of noodles. This hospitality is far too meager!"

Master Yue paused for a moment in his bamboo basket, then continued stirring. The noodles in the pot tumbled and rolled, the white noodles stretching out in the boiling water.

"I used to be a yakuza boss, now I'm a ramen chef," he said, his voice lower than before. "What's the point of comparing a yakuza boss and a ramen chef?"

He paused, then added, "I don't have any women here, but I do have some AVs. Want to watch?"

He gestured with his chin towards the 14-inch color TV above the soup pot, then towards the old CDs on the shelf. On the CDs, a woman in a bathrobe pulled down to her waist crossed her arms, revealing her cleavage, and wore an exaggeratedly seductive expression.

Angers glanced at it and raised an eyebrow.

"Maria Ozawa? She's been washed up for ages."

"I'm a washed-up guy too," Master Yue sighed, lifting the bamboo basket out of the pot to drain the water before pouring the noodles into a bowl.

He ladled soup, added ingredients, put in char siu, sprinkled chopped green onions, and finally used a spoon to scoop a little of the secret sauce and draw an arc along the edge of the bowl.

A bowl of noodles was placed in front of Angers.

Steam rises, carrying the rich aroma unique to pork bone broth. Thick slices of char siu, slightly browned at the edges, are soaked in the milky white broth. The scallions are bright green, the seaweed is dark black, and the noodles are faintly visible at the bottom of the bowl, each strand glistening with the broth.

Angers looked down at the bowl of noodles and remained silent for a moment.

Then he picked up his chopsticks and, instead of drinking the soup first like those discerning diners, directly picked up a large mouthful of noodles, blew on it, and put it in his mouth.

He chewed, swallowed, and then picked up a second bite.

Master Yue stood behind the cutting board, watching him eat. Only the sound of rain and Angers eating noodles filled the shed. The lone lamp cast their shadows on the ground, long and short, overlapping and intertwining.

“Nothing’s changed here,” Angers said, his chopsticks resting on the edge of his bowl. He lifted the curtain of the shed and looked out at the small street.

The rain continued to fall, shrouding everything in a layer of mist. The old-fashioned Japanese houses on both sides of the street stood silently, water dripping from the eaves and moss growing at the base of the walls. The branches and leaves of the sycamore and cherry trees drooped in the rain, and occasionally a drop of water would slide from the tip of a leaf and hit the ground with a soft patter.

"The Seven Serpent Clans will never know that you were just loitering around on this street sixty years ago, and you're still here sixty years later, only your identity has changed."

He lowered the curtain and turned to look at Master Yue. The dim light made the wrinkles on his face particularly clear; those lines were like a map etched by time, each one leading to some distant past.

“I can’t keep up with the times, I deserve to be abandoned,” Master Yue said, leaning against the chopping board with his arms crossed. “Unlike you, so dashing and debonair.”

Angers chuckled and lowered his head to continue eating his noodles. He ate slowly, chewing each bite for a long time, as if savoring something precious. The soup in the bowl gradually decreased, and he picked up the char siu, bit into it, and revealed its pinkish marbling.

Master Yue watched him eat, a complex emotion in his eyes. Was it a memory? A wariness? Or some deeper feeling?

“Actually, there are still people who know you’re still alive,” Angers paused with his chopsticks in mid-air, “like Ahe.”

Master Yue did not answer.

“He sent me to find you. It took me a lot of effort.” Angers picked up a piece of seaweed, dipped it in the soup, and put it in his mouth. “I found a real estate agency and spent several days finding the land title for this street. The land title has not changed for more than 60 years. The landowner is Uesugi Koshi, who has been in arrears on land taxes for decades.”

He scooped up a spoonful of soup, blew on it, and drank it.

"It wasn't taken away by the Japanese government, but only because Aga secretly paid the back taxes for you. Otherwise, you wouldn't even be qualified to run a ramen shop."

Master Yue frowned.

"He's meddling in other people's business. It doesn't matter if this land isn't mine; I can still sell my noodles from my cart. An old man with a cart, where can't I make a living?"

“This street is worth $12 billion,” Angers put down his spoon, looked up at him, and said, “Stop pretending to be poor.”

Master Yue fell silent.

He turned and took a dry cloth from the shelf, beginning to wipe the cutting board. The board was already spotless, but he kept wiping it, over and over again. His movements were slow and forceful, as if he were trying to wipe something from the world.

“I’m really poor,” he said, his eyes fixed on the cutting board without looking up. “I’ve been making a living selling ramen all these years. A bowl of ramen costs 500 yen. I sell dozens of bowls a day, which is enough to eat, pay the utilities, and occasionally buy a few bottles of alcohol.”

He paused, the cloth in his hand resting on the cutting board.

"The only valuable thing I have is this piece of land. But if I sell it, this place will be developed. The old houses will be demolished, and the old trees will be moved. Then I will have nowhere to live."

Angers didn't reply. He picked up another mouthful of noodles and chewed slowly.

The shed fell silent. The sound of rain became clearer, pattering softly against the plastic sheeting on the roof. In the distance, the sound of a car engine could be heard, quickly swallowed by the rain. Further away, Shibuya was brightly lit, the neon lights casting an ambiguous hue over a corner of the sky.

Master Yue finally put down the cloth and turned around. He watched Angers eat noodles, watched the soup in the bowl dwindle, and watched the hands holding the chopsticks, hands that, like his own, were covered with age spots and blue veins.

"Inuyama He told you I was here, so why didn't he come with you?"

"Ahe is moving to Kassel College with his family members."

Even Uesugi Kotsugi couldn't help but look puzzled.

Take a break and think about the plot of Tachibana Masamune.

Herzog felt he couldn't just leave the field.

Chapter 714 A Sad Ending

Genji Heavy Industries, Mural Hall.

The fire scene has been cleared, but the acrid smell lingers, like an invisible ghost, seeping into every crevice and clinging to every inch of the wall. The family's firefighters came and went; they extinguished the fire with high-pressure water hoses, leaving behind water that hadn't completely dried. The blood scattered on the ground had been dried by the flames, turning into dark brown patches.

Burnt-out skeletons lay scattered across the ground, the remains of Deadpools. They were contorted in various twisted positions in the flames; some lay on their backs, empty eye sockets staring at the ceiling; some were curled up on their sides; others were intertwined, unable to separate even in death. The bronze bones were riddled with cracks, brittle under the intense heat of the flames, crumbling into powder at the slightest touch.

The deceased executives were the same. But they were charred black, not bronze. This was the most fundamental difference between them and Deadpool; even in death, in the flames, the line between hybrids and demons remained clear. Charred skeletons were scattered throughout the mural hall; some lay against the walls, some prostrate on the steps, some remained kneeling, praying in their final moments.

Yuan Zhisheng covered them with white cloths.

Each time a white sheet was placed over the skeleton, he would pause for a moment, head bowed, silently gazing at the figure covered by the sheet. Some bones were too fragmented, so he had to use his hands to gather the scattered bones together before wrapping them in the white sheet. The white sheet was thin, revealing the shape of the skeleton beneath, which from a distance looked like rows of peaceful sleepers.

He counted them; there were twenty-seven in total.

Twenty-seven executive officers, twenty-seven people who had once worked under him, twenty-seven people who would call him "Master." He remembered each and every one of them—their names, their lineage, their spiritual powers, what kind of alcohol they liked to drink, what they feared, whether they charged ahead or followed behind in battle. He remembered drinking together on New Year's Eve, when they laughed loudly, saying, "Master, you're too serious, relax a bit." Before a mission, they stood in the elevator, checking each other's equipment, talking about what to eat together after the mission. Some offered him cigarettes, some lit them for him, and some greeted him in the corridor with slightly nervous smiles.

They are all lying here now, covered with white sheets, in silence.

Yuan Zhisheng knelt down and covered the smallest skeleton with the last piece of white cloth. It belonged to a young female officer, only twenty-three years old, and had joined the Enforcement Bureau less than two years prior. Her father, also an officer in the Enforcement Bureau, had died in the line of duty, and she had carried on his legacy. Yuan Zhisheng remembered that she had two dimples when she smiled, and that her voice was soft, as if she didn't want to disturb others. Her skeleton was charred black, curled up in a ball; she must have been in great pain in the fire, but she hadn't fled.

Yuan Zhisheng reached out and gently touched the white cloth, as if stroking her hair.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

Then he stood up, turned around, and faced the entrance to the mural hall.

The eternal lamp was relit, its solitary glow enveloping the vast space. The wick flickered slightly on the oil, emitting a dim, yellowish light, insufficient to illuminate the entire hall. Beyond the light source lay endless darkness. In the darkness, gods and demons seemed to dance on the walls—fragments of murals, blackened and incomplete. The figures of the gods and demons in the flames were reduced to blurry outlines, yet they appeared and disappeared in the darkness, trembling with the flickering lamplight.

The ground was littered with bones, bronze and charred black, mixed together indistinguishable from one another. The light from the eternal lamp shone on the bones, casting long, distorted shadows. These shadows overlapped with the shadows of gods and demons on the walls.

The atmosphere was truly bizarre.

"Mr. Masamune has arrived," the crow said, quickly walking up behind Genjiro and lowering its voice.

He ran very fast, running all the way in from the main gate. Everyone he met made way for him because he was a crow, one of the patriarch's most trusted people.

"You all go out first," Genji said without turning his head. "I'll talk to Mr. Masamune."

He had his back to the crows and was facing the skeleton covered with a white sheet.

The crow bowed deeply and winked at Sakura and Yasha. The three exchanged glances silently and left the mural hall together.

Only Genjiro remained in the mural hall.

No, soon there will be two people.

An elderly man, weathered by life's storms, walked by.

Yuan Zhisheng didn't turn around. He knew who it was.

Tachibana Masamune stood at the door, dressed completely differently than usual.

On ordinary days, Tachibana Masamune preferred to wear a kimono, with plain clothes underneath, simple and elegant. When the weather was cool, he would wear a black haori, wooden clogs, and carry a cane, looking every bit the gentle and refined elder of Japan. He would greet everyone with a smile, give red envelopes to young people at the New Year's banquet, and stand at the door on rainy days, gazing at the raindrops in a daze, saying, "This rain is so nice."

But now, Tachibana Masamune is dressed in a brown military uniform.

The old-fashioned military uniform was meticulously tailored with sharp lines. He wore the rank of major, his shoulder insignia adorned with two stars in gold. He wore high-top leather boots, polished to a high shine. Stylistically, it was a rather dated uniform, at least several decades old, but it fit Tachibana Masamune perfectly. He stood ramrod straight, like an old pine tree that had stood for many years in the wind and snow; even though time had bent his shoulders, his spine remained strong.

A badge adorns the left arm of the military uniform, composed of a sword, shield, and red star—the sword representing power, the shield representing protection, and the red star representing the vanished red empire. The badge bears a line of small Russian letters: "КГБ".

КГБ.

These three Russian letters represent a once-powerful and terrifying organization, a name that struck fear into the hearts of countless people—the Soviet Committee for State Security. It is better known as the KGB. It was one of the world's largest intelligence agencies, on par with the CIA of the United States, MI6 of the United Kingdom, and Mossad of Israel. Its agents were spread across the globe, its methods were ruthless and merciless, and its very name was a sword hanging over the heads of countless people.

Genjiro looked at the badge and remained silent for a long time.

"Are you from the KGB?"

“Yes, it was a long time ago,” Tachibana Masamune said.

He entered the mural hall, his gaze sweeping over the skeletons and white cloths scattered on the floor. He looked at the charred bones, the bronze remains of the dead servants, and the murals blackened by smoke.

Tachibana Masamune stopped in front of Genjiro, unfolded a white cloth and spread it on the ground. He knelt down, straightened his body, maintained a proper kneeling posture, took out a sword from his bosom, and placed it horizontally in front of him.

Then he threw the long sword he had brought to Genjiro.

Chapter 715 My real name is Bondarev

Genjiro caught the sword. The scabbard was undecorated, except for a small family crest on the guard, simple and dignified.

He got it.

Many people, including some Japanese, believe that seppuku (ritual suicide by disembowelment) should be performed using a wakizashi. This short sword, with a blade about thirty centimeters long, is easy to grip and thrust. However, the true purpose of the wakizashi is to penetrate armor and kill enemies in close combat; it is a practical weapon. Using it for seppuku is merely a matter of not having a more suitable tool at hand. True aristocratic, formal seppuku should be performed using a katana (hand-held sword).

The sword was not born for battle. It is a straight and simple blade, thin and almost devoid of any lethality; it cannot kill, penetrate armor, or even defend itself in combat. It exists for only one purpose: to end its wielder's own life. It was forged for death, and from the day it was born, it had only one mission: to cut a gash in its master's abdomen, allowing the soul to leave the body.

Before the Meiji Restoration, a white cloth, a sword, and a second were all that was needed to complete the entire ritual of seppuku (ritual suicide by seconding a sword). The second was the assistant to the person committing seppuku, standing behind them with a long sword in hand. As the person plunged the sword into their abdomen, the second would simultaneously decapitate them. This seemingly cruel act was actually intended to alleviate the suffering of the person committing seppuku. Because the opening of the abdomen was not immediately fatal, the person would struggle in excruciating pain for a long time. The second's strike was a stroke of compassion, a stroke of liberation.

A skilled second, proficient in swordsmanship, would leave the head connected to the torso by a layer of skin after the execution, with the person committing seppuku kneeling with their head bowed. This was considered the most dignified way to die.