Chapter Seventy-Five: Hayami Meets His Match

All over Yuanyu Island, men in white suits ran rampant. In the corridors, on the terraces, among the trees, and even… in the infirmary.

With a crash, one of those men in white suits, his arm twisted like a rope, smashed through the infirmary door, sending up clouds of dust.

“Honestly, there are still old men here recovering from their wounds! You bastards!” A burly, shirtless old man, his upper body covered in bandages and medicated pads, emerged.

But as soon as he stepped out of the wrecked doorway, he found himself confronted by a large group of hostile men in white suits, weapons in hand, surrounding the entrance.

“Oh?” Hisaki Takehisa arched his brows with interest. “Seems that convalescence won’t be so boring after all.”

Suddenly, Dr. Yingchu, who had rushed out from behind the old man, extended two blades, sharpened from his own femur, from the palms of his hands, and swiftly took down several of the white suits.

He then turned and spoke to Hisaki Takehisa in a tone of helplessness. “Takehisa-san, I appreciate your trust in my medical skills, but if you worsen your injuries through strenuous activity, even a doctor like me will be displeased!”

Incidentally, all of these operations—whether crafting bone into blades or the blade-ejecting mechanism in his arm—were self-administered, without any outside assistance. Truly, a terrifying doctor.

~~~~~~

In the exclusive VIP suite at the top floor.

The doors opened again, and among those who entered was the man everyone had been waiting for: the president of the Kengan Association, Meto Katagiri.

But just as everyone turned questioning eyes to the gaunt old man, waiting to hear the reason for their summons, Meto Katagiri spoke first.

“Gentlemen, what brings you all to an old man’s room like mine?”

The atmosphere, which had relaxed upon seeing their host, immediately grew tense and strange.

The old man quickly realized something was amiss from their reactions and signaled to the security detail behind him.

Behind him, the towering Masamichi Ohkiba pressed his earpiece, but the exclusive security channel of Katagiri’s guards was nothing but static, causing his expression to change instantly.

Bang! As if in answer to everyone’s confusion, a horde of burly men in white suits stormed through the doors.

And at the head of the group, the very person Shirodo admired and longed for—Masamasa Hayami—approached, a confident smile playing on his lips as his men shielded him.

With half of his face melted and scarred from burns, this Tokyo Electric tycoon radiated an unmistakable boss’s presence as he revealed his plan and the undercover agents he had planted.

Whether by design or not, Meto Katagiri deflected and bantered with him, seemingly stalling for time.

Behind the crowd, Shirodo reflected. This president of Tokyo Electric had lived his entire life in the shadow of Meto Katagiri. This wasn’t even his first attempt at insurrection. Yet, Katagiri, out of old affection and perhaps for the thrill of a game where a single misstep meant ruin, had kept Hayami around.

But when Hayami openly declared his plan—to blow up the Deathmatch Arena and frame the Sirius Faction for it—Shirodo was baffled. Was this man a true schemer or just a fool?

Four of the five major underworld bosses on Blue Star were right beneath their feet in the arena. If anything happened to them here on Yuanyu Island, did Hayami really think that simply declaring, “It was a group of terrorists called the Sirius Faction,” would clear Tokyo Electric of suspicion? Even if he dragged the Kengan Association into it, could they possibly contend with the power those bosses wielded?

This was the kind of blunder that could easily ignite a third world war! Even if he could somehow weather the storm…

Did these elderly Japanese elites truly have no understanding of digital technology whatsoever?

“Lord Hayami,” Shirodo called out, mustering an innocent, collegiate smile as he raised his phone a little awkwardly from behind the crowd. But in his eyes danced the lively gleam of someone who relished chaos.

“Your words have all been recorded! Now, your attempts at framing others are useless, aren’t they?”

Hayami’s smug smile froze abruptly. His one remaining eye stared in shock at Shirodo’s phone, as if only then realizing the trap he’d fallen into. But as a seasoned elite of Japan’s upper crust, he forced himself to remain calm, showing no weakness despite the damning evidence he had just handed over.

“Hmph! All I have to do is, right here, get rid of you all and—”

A soft click—a slender finger pressed the large touchscreen of Shirodo’s phone. A progress bar labeled “Sending” appeared, zipping from 1% to 100% in under two seconds.

“Sent… it’s sent?”

Even Meto Katagiri, who stood at the very front of Shirodo’s side, turned his head, mouth agape, eyes fixed on the audio file—the one that could decide the fate of Tokyo Electric’s president and perhaps even spark worldwide turmoil—sent off in just two seconds.

Silently, Katagiri adjusted the old-fashioned recorder hidden in his sleeve, making sure it was tucked away and out of sight.

As for Hayami, who just a minute earlier had exuded the aura of a dark overlord, terrifying the highest echelons of Japanese business into submission, his face now flushed an angry red. Even the charred flesh on his ruined cheek quivered with rage.

“Kill… get them! Destroy that thing! Destroy it!” He was so furious, so flustered, that he couldn’t even pronounce the word “phone,” nearly indistinguishable from any panicked common man.

The men in white suits surged forward like rabid dogs. At the same time, the glass ceiling shattered.

Dozens of black-eyed, white-pupiled members of the Wu clan rappelled down from helicopters, joining what little remained of Katagiri’s guard in a fierce melee with the white suits.

“Kid, aren’t you going to help?” Erihiko Wu had somehow appeared beside Shirodo, eyes glinting coldly as he regarded the boy who stood watching the chaos unfold, utterly nonchalant.

Shirodo replied in a tone as casual as a student watching a spectacle, “Here, my position is that of a Kengan Association member, not a combatant under its banner.” Turning, he smiled at Katagiri across the room. “I imagine President Katagiri wouldn’t wish for a member like myself to have to intervene in such a situation, would he?”

“Mm—indeed,” the gaunt old man said, entirely at ease amid the carnage, like an emperor in his private palace. “That would make me appear quite incompetent. And the most important thing for any leader is never to appear incompetent before those he leads.”