Tokyo: Proving one's position from behind the scenes

Shiba 3-chome, Minato-ku, 10:00 AM.

The six-story building with its gray-white tiled exterior gleamed with a cold luster under the winter sun. Two black cloth banners hung from the flagpole on the roof, with the Buddhist name of the Wakatoshimura of the Niō-gumi written in white on them.

The memorial service was just a gimmick; the funeral hall was set up in the lobby on the first floor, with Katsumura's portrait hanging in the center. The man in the black and white photo was in his early forties, with prominent cheekbones and a slightly downturned mouth, exuding a natural, unpretentious fierceness.

Several bald men in black suits stood in the mourning hall, their expressions solemn and their posture ramrod straight.

There were very few mourners in the mourning hall. A few second-tier organizations that had business dealings with the Niou Group sent their leaders to show up, put their hands together in front of Katsumura's portrait, offer incense, and then leave in a hurry.

The sixth floor.

At the end of the corridor, a steel security door was closed. The door panel was more than twice as thick as the security doors of ordinary residences, and the door frame was inlaid with sealing strips.

Inside the door was a classic Japanese-style room with tatami mats on the floor and a huge picture of a fierce tiger hanging on the wall. The tiger was pouncing from the right side of the painting to the left, its claws and teeth bared.

There were a dozen or so people sitting in the room. At the head of the table sat the leader of the Niou Group, a man in his sixties with short-shaved hair that revealed several old scars of varying depths on his scalp. He was missing a little finger on his right hand, the skin at the stump shrunken into a dark brown scar. He was currently holding a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke slowly spreading above the low table, mixing with the smoke rising from between the other people's fingers, and forming a layer of grayish-white cloud below the ceiling.

The remaining people came from various organizations in Tokyo and the surrounding area. Each of them had a handwritten nameplate in front of them, with equally messy handwriting, as if it had been hastily made.

The leader of the Niou Group stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the embers hissing softly on the porcelain surface. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the faces of everyone present.

"Thank you all for coming from afar to attend Katsumura's memorial service." His voice was not loud, but everyone in the room could hear him clearly. "Katsumura has been with me for twenty years, ever since I was just a junior abbot."

No one responded, so he continued.

"But the reason I invited you all here today is not because of Katsumura. Katsumura died in the car, shot in the back of the head. It wasn't murder, it was suicide. He was in debt, betting on horse races, and owed more than 300 million yen, which he couldn't pay back."

His tone was flat, as if he were talking about something that had nothing to do with him.

"I have invited you all here today because of what is happening in Tokyo."

The leader of the Nioh Group picked up the teacup on the low table in front of him and took a sip.

"In the past three months, more than 20 organizations, large and small, have been 'eliminated' in the 23 wards of Tokyo."

He took a folded piece of paper from his suit pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table. It was covered with names and dates written on it.

"The Remnant Wolf Gang, Arakawa Ward, seventeen members, all wiped out. The Ayase family, Adachi Ward, attacked twice, thirty-seven people the first time, seven people the second time, all wiped out. Nishi-Arai Kōgyō, Adachi Ward, eleven people, all wiped out..."

He read them out one by one, pausing after each name, as if giving those present time to recall the organization's existence.

When he finished reading the list, he folded the paper back up and put it back in his inner bag.

"Twenty-three organizations were all wiped out. The method was consistent; they were all killed by high-temperature weapons. The burn marks at the scene were unlike anything we had ever seen before."

"It wasn't done by our rivals, it wasn't done by the Metropolitan Police Department or any violent organization, it might not even have been done by a human."

The room remained silent for a long time.

"We've contacted everyone we could," a representative of the yakuza organization said, his voice sounding like it was being squeezed from the depths of his chest. "The district council, the metropolitan council, the Metropolitan Police Department, the Ministry of Justice—we've contacted everyone we could, everyone who has received or might receive our bribes."

He took his hands off the table and crossed them over his chest.

"The district council said they couldn't handle it and told us to go to the Metropolitan Council. The Metropolitan Council said it was under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police Department. The Metropolitan Police Department answered the phone, heard what we said, and hung up immediately. The Ministry of Justice was even more blunt, saying they had never heard of such a thing."

His gaze shifted from the leader of the Niou Group to representatives of other Yakuza organizations.

"We asked them what was killing our people, whether it was a ghost or a monster, a government official or an American. No one answered. They probably knew, but they were just afraid to say."

The leader of the Niou Group stubbed out his cigarette, leaving one more cigarette butt in the ashtray.

"In other words, we don't even know who our enemy is."

"We don't know who the enemy is, where they came from, or who they will target next. Our people are dying every day, our organizations are disappearing one after another, and we sit here doing nothing but asking each other, 'Have you heard?'"

No one answered. The only sounds in the room were the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional hiss of a cigarette butt being stubbed out in the ashtray from the low table.

No one noticed the footsteps coming down the corridor.

The two yakuza guarding the door were positioned as follows: one leaned against the corridor wall, looking down at his phone, while the other stood directly opposite the security door with his hands behind his back, his posture so perfect it looked like he was being inspected. Both of them had knives tucked under their suits, the hilts slightly pushing up the fabric from under their ribs.

Footsteps came from the direction of the stairs, walking on the corridor at a moderate pace, with each step spaced almost exactly the same.

The fire door at the end of the corridor was pushed open, and a figure wearing a dark gray hooded sweatshirt stood there. The figure was short, and the hood was on his head, with the shadow covering most of his face, only the outline of his jaw and the line of his lips could be seen.

She dragged a heavy sword in her right hand; the length of the sword was almost the same as her height, and the tip of the sword drew a thin, burning line of fire.

The small figure rushed from the end of the corridor, moving so fast that it left only a dark red trail in sight.

The sword, wielding the Demon Slayer, slashed upwards, its dark red sheen arcing through the two gatekeepers. The blade didn't touch their bodies, but the dark red flames emanating from the sword had already pierced their torsos.

Nobuko Yoshida stood in front of the security door, the tip of her demon-slaying sword pressed against the ground, its dark red light flickering under the incandescent lights of the corridor.

Her left hand pressed against the steel plate of the security door, and flames surged from her palm, spreading outwards along the surface of the plate. The steel plate began to turn red in the dark red flames, changing from its original silver-gray to dark red, from dark red to bright red, and from bright red to a dazzling orange-yellow.

The flames burned a jagged hole in the steel plate, the opening growing from the size of a palm to the size of a head, then to the size of a shoulder, and finally to a size large enough for a person to pass through.

The twelve people inside the door stood up at the same time. The leader of the Nioh Group reached into the drawer under the low table, pulled out a pistol, and pointed it at the people outside the door.

Molten iron was still dripping from the edge of the steel plate, and the dripping iron burned black holes in the tatami mat. The small figure wearing a dark gray hooded sweatshirt walked in through the gap burned by the flames.

The tip of the sword that slays demons rises, and flames instantly fill the room.

Her lips moved slightly, and she spoke very softly, as if she were talking to herself, but no one in the room heard her because they had stopped breathing.