Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

“Lead the way,” she said.

Chapter 738 It's My Turn Again (Bonus Chapter, Thanks to all the friends who have been with me along the way)

Su Enxi walked out of the office, wearing pink cotton slippers with rabbit heads on them, one of the rabbit ears on her left foot broken off. Her loose-fitting T-shirt bore the words "All Japan Lazy People Association" printed on the front, and she wore faded beach shorts, the legs rolled up unevenly, revealing ankles that were almost translucent from prolonged lack of sun exposure. Her hair, which looked like it hadn't been combed for three days, was a tangled mess, resembling a crown made of dandelions, large enough to hide several magpies, perhaps even with a nest already built inside.

The humpback whale followed behind her. He had been in Shinjuku for thirty years and had seen all sorts of bosses—there were second-generation chaebol heirs who wore custom-made suits, Patek Philippe watches, and were always followed by two bodyguards; there were yakuza bosses with full-back tattoos and a missing little finger; there were Ginza madams who wore bright red lipstick, 15-centimeter high heels, and had eyes that could kill.

But he had never seen a boss wearing rabbit slippers with broken ears, sporting a messy hairstyle, and covered in potato chip crumbs stride towards a head-on confrontation with the wife of a Shinjuku ward councilor.

Moreover, the boss's aura was so eerie that it left people speechless.

Su Enxi walked slowly. The male escorts in the corridor instinctively parted to the sides and stood close to the wall as she passed, even though they didn't recognize her at all. One newcomer, who had only been in the business for three months, even bowed subconsciously. After bowing, he looked at his senior with a puzzled expression. The senior shook his head, indicating that he didn't know who she was either.

The door was open in the summer month, and the fat woman's cursing came from inside, amplified by the echo in the corridor.

Su Enxi paused at the door for two seconds, listened intently, her expression like she was listening to the weather forecast—not interested, but just to confirm whether she needed to bring an umbrella tomorrow.

Then she went inside.

The scene inside the private room was even more devastating than when the humpback whale left.

While waiting, the fat woman threw another tantrum, completely overturning the coffee table, which lay upside down like a dead beetle. Half of the velvet curtains were torn down, the other half still lingering on the track. Champagne glass shards littered the floor, glittering under the light like a miniature diamond storm.

The three best friends huddled in a corner, their faces showing despair, as if they had just come to drink and wondered, "Why did this happen?"

Basara King wasn't by the window; he sat on the sofa, playing a game on his phone. The screen light reflected on his ridiculously handsome face, making him appear utterly indifferent. In front of Ukyo, a neat row of paper cranes, about seven or eight in total, each with its wings folded perfectly.

The fat woman stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, her chest heaving violently, like a rhinoceros that had just overturned a jeep and was panting and gathering strength for the next charge.

The moment she saw Su Enxi walk in, a hint of confusion flashed in her eyes. Who was this woman wearing rabbit slippers with broken ears? Was she the cleaning lady?

But she quickly noticed the humpback whale behind Su Enxi, its head bowed low. The fat woman had a good eye for people. The person who could have the actual owner of this shop following her like a servant couldn't possibly be the cleaning lady.

"You're the owner?" The fat woman looked Su Enxi up and down. "I thought a woman who could run a shop like this would at least have some taste."

Su Enxi did not answer. She walked around the broken glass on the ground, went to the only remaining single sofa, and sat down.

She nestled into the sofa, leaning back firmly, and propped her legs up on the footstool, her bunny slippers crossed, the broken ear of her left slipper resting on the top of her right, making it look like two bunnies kissing. Then she crossed her arms over her stomach, looked up at the fat woman, and said with an expression that seemed to say, "Okay, you can begin now."

I'm sitting comfortably, I'm not in a hurry, you can say whatever you want, anyway, if I'm not the one who wins in the end, then I lose.

The fat woman was enraged by this gesture. Her anger, which had cooled slightly due to the long wait, was reignited by Su Enxi's nonchalance, and burned even more fiercely. She took a step forward, her heel shattering a piece of glass with a piercing crunch.

"Do you know who I am?" the fat woman said in a low voice, but it was this low voice that was more dangerous than her previous roar, because it meant that the speaker thought she no longer needed to intimidate the other person with her volume. This was the tone of someone who was truly enraged.

Su Enxi tilted her head, pondering the question seriously. After three seconds, she spoke:

"You are the wife of Representative Nakamura, Ms. Mariko Nakamura. Your husband, Ryuji Nakamura, is a member of the Tokyo Metropolitan Assembly, belonging to the Liberal Democratic Party's Tokyo Metropolitan Assembly. He has been elected for three terms and is currently the Vice Chairman of the General Affairs Committee of the Metropolitan Assembly. You own seventeen shops in Ginza, twelve of which are on Ginza Chuo-dori and five in Yurakucho, mainly dealing in high-end clothing and jewelry. You also own two villas in Karuizawa, one in Minami-Karuizawa and the other in Kyu-Karuizawa, the latter being a registered tangible cultural property built in Showa 12 (1943)."

"Your son, Shota Nakamura, graduated from the Faculty of Commerce at Keio University last year and is now a secretary in your husband's support group. He was detained by the Minato Ward Police Station in February for drunk driving, and your husband used his personal connections to cover it up. Your daughter, Mayuko Nakamura, is a second-year high school student at Sacred Heart Girls' Academy. Last month, she ranked 123rd in her grade in a mock exam, a drop of 41 places from the previous one. Last Friday, you had dinner with a young man at the French restaurant in the Imperial Hotel. That man is not your husband; he is the manager of the jewelry store you own in Ginza. He is 29 years old and his surname is Sato."

The private room was so quiet it was as if a vacuum had been drawn out.

The fat woman—Mariko Nakamura's expression underwent a spectacular change as Su Enxi spoke.

From initial disdain, to a slight frown upon hearing her husband's position, to pupils contracting upon hearing the villa's address, to draining all color upon hearing about her son's drunk driving incident, to lips trembling upon hearing about her daughter's grades, and finally, upon hearing about Manager Sato, her face turned a color never before seen on any human face by a humpback whale—a bleak white somewhere between a lime wall and spoiled egg white.

The humpback whale stood behind Su Enxi, feeling its blood running cold.

He'd run a shop for half his life, and collecting customer information was a basic skill for him. He knew which customer liked which wine, which customer had their birthday, and which customer's company was currently facing financial difficulties. But compared to what Su Enxi had just demonstrated, his information-gathering ability was like the difference between using a fishing net to catch fish and using satellite positioning to hunt whales.

That information couldn't have been found on the spur of the moment, nor could it have been retrieved through a phone search in the three minutes it took her to walk from her office to Xia Yue. The information revealed a systematic, comprehensive, and almost terrifying intelligence control capability, meaning that no one could keep a secret from this woman.

The way she said these words was as relaxed as if she were saying, "The weather is nice today."

Mariko Nakamura took a step back. This was the first time she had stepped back all night. Her heel shattered another piece of glass, but she seemed oblivious. Her lips moved, as if she wanted to say something, but Su Enxi didn't give her a chance to speak.

"The first task your husband is in charge of on the General Affairs Committee," Su Enxi held up a finger, "is the review of operating licenses for entertainment venues. The Metropolitan Assembly submits a list of key monitoring areas to the Metropolitan Police Department every quarter, and the list for Kabukicho is drafted by the General Affairs Committee."

She held up her second finger.

“Over the past three years, your husband, Representative Nakamura, has held shares in seven nightclubs in Kabukicho through third-party entities. These nightclubs have been sending him approximately 24 million yen in political donations annually, all of which have gone unreported.”

She held up her third finger.

“You just said that your husband can get the Metropolitan Police Department to check the store’s business license with just one phone call. That’s true, he definitely has that ability.”

She lowered three fingers, clasped her hands back on her stomach, tilted her head to look at Mariko Nakamura, and gently wiggled her rabbit slippers on her feet.

"But do you know why he only dares to investigate stores that haven't given him money?"

The air in the private room seemed to have solidified into amber, sealing everyone inside and rendering them unable to move.

Mariko Nakamura's three best friends have been completely turned into statues, not even daring to breathe loudly.

Basara King's game sound effects were exceptionally clear in the deathly silence; he was fighting a boss, and the sound effects of his skills crackled and popped. Ukyo folded another paper crane, making nine on the table now.

Su Enxi smiled slightly. The smile was out of place in the opulent private room, out of place with the shattered glass scattered on the floor, and out of place with the overwhelming intimidation unfolding before her. The smile was too ordinary, too relaxed, like the smile of someone who has just woken up and sees the bright sunshine outside the window.

“Because of political donations,” Su Enxi said in a tone as if sharing a life hack.

"It's easy to collect them, but it's hard to get them back. Article 22 of the Political Funds Control Law states that anyone who fails to record or falsely records the source of political donations shall be sentenced to imprisonment for up to five years or fined up to one million yen. Five years imprisonment, Ms. Mariko, do you know what that means? It means that your husband is fifty-seven years old this year, and he will be sixty-two years old when he comes out. And of the seventeen shops you own in Ginza, at least eight were purchased with your husband's political donations, which constitutes unjust enrichment and will be confiscated."

Su Enxi stood up from the sofa, her rabbit slippers making a soft clattering sound as she stepped on the broken glass.

She walked up to Nakamura Mariko, the two standing so close it was against social etiquette. Su Enxi was almost a head shorter than the fat woman, but when she looked up at her, there was no sense of looking up at her.

On the contrary, Mariko Nakamura felt as if she were being looked down upon, by a woman wearing rabbit slippers with broken ears and a messy head of hair from some unknown height.

“So I don’t recommend you make that call.” Su Enxi reached out and patted Nakamura Mariko’s shoulder, just like she had patted the humpback whale earlier, with a light touch. “Now, take your girlfriends and go home. I’ll keep your son’s DUI record for you, I’ll pretend I don’t know about your daughter’s declining grades, and I’m not interested in what you and Manager Sato ate at the Imperial Hotel. But if you come back to this store and break a glass again—”

She brought her face closer, so close that Mariko Nakamura could see the thin, cold layer beneath the sleepy, languid look in her eyes.

“I will keep your husband in the General Affairs Committee until the end of this year.”

Su Enxi took a step back, put her hands back into her pockets, and turned to walk towards the door. She took two steps and then stopped, remembering something, and looked back at the overturned coffee table and broken glass on the floor.

"Oh, by the way, tonight's room fee and damage compensation," she gestured with her chin toward the humpback whale, "can be put on Representative Nakamura's account. Ms. Mariko just needs to sign it."

Then, wearing those bunny slippers with one ear missing, she strolled slowly out of the Summer Moon Pavilion, stepping on the broken glass. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, fading into the distance—pat-pat, pat-pat, a leisurely rhythm.

There was a full thirty seconds of silence in the private room.

Mariko Nakamura stood rooted to the spot, like a tree struck by lightning. Her lips trembled, her fingers trembled, even her meticulously permed eyelashes trembled. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, finally uttering a voice so hoarse that even she couldn't recognize it.

"Check...check out."

The humpback whale handed over the bill faster than it had ever done in its life. When Mariko Nakamura signed, her hand trembled so badly she could barely hold the pen; her name was scrawled and crooked like an electrocardiogram. After signing, she turned and left, her three best friends scrambling after her. The four of them, fleeing into the summer moonlight, looked like a pack of mice caught by a cat.

The humpback whale watched them disappear at the end of the corridor, then looked down at the signed bill in its hand, and then looked up again in the direction Su Enxi had disappeared in the corridor. Several round marks remained on the broken glass where the rabbit slippers had stepped.

He suddenly realized that he might need to reconsider his idea of ​​going to the beach in Okinawa tonight.

When Su Enxi returned to her office, Jiu De Mai came down from the roof and sat cross-legged on the floor flipping through comics. She didn't even look up when she heard the door open.

"Resolved?"

Su Enxi slumped into the sofa, buried her face in the cushions, and let out a muffled "hmm".

"How much did you use?"

"Three minutes, please."

"slow."

"I've been looking for my slippers for ages."

Su Enxi rolled over, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and pressed play. The canned laughter of a variety show filled the room again. She reached into the bag of potato chips, felt for nothing, tossed the empty bag on the floor, and opened a new bag from under the coffee table. Barbecue flavor.

On the television screen, a comedian was performing a skit about the extreme tug-of-war between a convenience store clerk and a customer, making the audience laugh uproariously. Su Enxi munched on potato chips, her eyes glued to the screen, a speck of seasoning powder on the corner of her mouth, one of her bunny slippers resting on the sofa armrest, the other lying on the floor.

Mai Shude turned a page of the comic and yawned.

Chapter 739 Master Kazama Ruri (Part 1) (Bonus Chapter)

A knock sounded on the door, and the humpback whale squatted in the third-floor corridor, wiping the red wine stains on the floor with a rag.

The mess left by last night's incident is harder to clean than I imagined. Broken glass is easy to sweep up, but wine stains are hard to remove, and champagne and red wine have seeped into the carpet fibers.

The humpback whale squatted down to wipe the floor himself, not because there were no waiters available, but because he needed to do some repetitive, mechanical tasks to quiet his mind. From last night until now, his mind had been filled with too many things—the rabbit slippers with the broken ear, the barbecue-flavored potato chips, Mariko Nakamura's ashen face, and Su Enxi's calm, unchanging tone when she spoke. These things played repeatedly in his mind, like a broken videotape, stuck on an unsettling scene, unable to move forward.

A slight commotion downstairs. The humpback whale didn't pay much attention. Host clubs were usually closed during the day, but occasionally customers would come in advance to reserve private rooms, or florists would deliver flowers. He continued wiping the floor, the rag making circles on the red wine stains.

Then he heard a name.

"Is that Master Kazama Ruri?"

The sound came from the main entrance on the first floor, passed through the stairwell, through the corridor, through the half-open window and the curtains not fully drawn, and drifted lightly into the humpback whale's ears. The sound was not loud, and even carried a slight, uncertain tremor, as if the person who uttered the name could not believe what they were seeing.

The humpback whale stopped wiping the ground.

Ruri Kazama.

In the entire Japanese host club industry, there is only one person with this name. No, to be precise, only one person is worthy of this name. Just like nicknames such as "Basara King" and "Ukyo," hosts can choose their names at will. Today you can be called "Light Yagami," tomorrow you can be called "Kaede Rukawa." As long as you are handsome enough, have a sweet tongue enough, and customers are willing to pay, no one will care if you call yourself "Ultraman."

But the name Kazama Ruri is different. This name has ranked number one on the host club's leaderboard for six consecutive years, not by sales figures, not by looks, but by "art." "Male-style flower arrangement"—these four words represent an aesthetic system passed down for hundreds of years, from Noh to Kabuki, from tea ceremony to flower arrangement, from waka to haiku. It's a standard that elevates the host club profession to an art form. And the person who has been measured by this standard for six years, consistently standing at the top, is Kazama Ruri.

No one knew which shop he worked at. No one knew his routine. Girls shared their encounters with him on forums as if they were sharing miracles of divine intervention. One person said she saw him on the Philosopher's Path in Kyoto; he was sitting under a cherry blossom tree reading an old, thread-bound book, and he looked up and smiled at her as she passed by. That smile made her stand there for ten minutes, too stunned to move.

Some people say they saw him on the beach in Okinawa. He was walking barefoot on the sand and singing a song she had never heard before to the setting sun. The sound of the ocean waves was his accompaniment. She still remembers every syllable of that song, but she can never find another person who can sing it.

Some people say they saw him on a snowy night in Hokkaido. He offered her a cup of mulled wine he had brewed himself, using a copper pot and portable stove he carried with him. In the heavy snow on the streets of Sapporo, the temperature of that cup of wine warmed her from her throat all the way to her heart.

These stories sound like urban legends, like a dream collectively woven by lonely urban women. But one thing is true—Ruri Kazama's business card.

Of all the girls who claimed to have seen him, only those who could produce a business card were telling the truth. No two business cards were the same; each one was hand-drawn, with a chrysanthemum swaying in the wind on the front and the four characters "Kazama Ruri" in regular script on the back. There was no address, no phone number, no title, no email address—nothing at all. It wasn't a business card; it was a poem that said, "I came, you saw me, that's enough."

Humpback Whale once saw a business card of Kazama Ruri in a competitor's shop. It was something that the competitor considered their prized possession, framed in a crystal and hung on the wall of the VIP room, with a line of small print next to it: "In 1927, Master Kazama Ruri visited our shop and presented this card to us."

The chrysanthemum drawn on the business card was only a few strokes long, with two or three petals scattered by the wind, its floating posture in the air as if frozen in time.

The humpback whale stood in front of that business card for a long time. He had been a male escort for over thirty years and had made countless top performers famous, but he had never seen anyone take the profession to this level. It wasn't business, it wasn't service, it wasn't even art; it was almost a religion.

Ruri Kazama's guests are on a pilgrimage.

And now, that name is being read out in his shop.

The humpback whale tossed the rag on the ground, stood up so quickly that his lumbar spine let out a crisp protest. Ignoring it, he rushed downstairs, nearly bumping into a waiter carrying a laundry basket as he reached the corner of the stairs. White shirts from the basket scattered all over the floor, and the waiter, startled, apologized profusely, but the humpback whale had already swum past him.

When he ran to the lobby on the first floor, he saw a scene that he would never forget.

The gate was open.

Light streamed in from outside the door, and the person standing at the door suppressed all weariness and gloom.