Chapter 713

The underground parking lot of Narita International Airport wasn't very crowded; a middle-aged man in his sixties opened the door of this Nissan Sylphy, his expression calm as he sat down in the seat.

The interior was very clean, with only the typical new-car smell of plastic and leather mixed together; Honda Atsuhito frowned slightly, he didn't immediately start the car, but instead unconsciously glanced around inside.

He soon found what he was looking for.

On the front passenger seat lay a plain kraft paper document envelope.

Of course, this was necessary.

After confirming the presence of this item, he settled into the driver's seat, closed the door, and the world was instantly cut off.

Still, he didn't start the engine right away; instead, he first opened the document envelope. Inside was a complete set of identification: driver's license, health insurance card, resident registry copy, and even a few convenience store points cards and a bank card with little balance.

The name on every single one was without exception "Imaizumi Yukio"; the photo showed him after a slight disguise—wearing rimless glasses, with a slightly different hairstyle. He picked up the driver's license and examined it under the car's dim light; the craftsmanship was flawless, even allowing him to feel the anti-counterfeit raised pattern. He slipped the documents into his coat's inner pocket, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times.

Young people these days finally have a bit of style… too bad.

The engine started with a low rumble, and the headlights cut through the gloom brought by the surrounding concrete walls.

Honda Atsuhito slowly drove out of the parking lot, paid the fee, and merged into the busy traffic flowing toward the Shuto Expressway.

Japan and thirty years ago actually haven't changed all that much… Honda Atsuhito thought to himself.

Outside the window, the scenery of the suburbs of Narita City in Chiba Prefecture sped backward: neat farmland, scattered warehouses, low-rise residences, and then gradually denser commercial facilities.

The sky was the typical gray-white of a Japanese winter day, with low-hanging clouds seeming to press down on the heart.

"Si——" he had only just begun driving when a short, sharp laugh escaped his throat, thick with self-mockery and weariness:

"Eight Trigrams, damn it! Really… I knew it—coming back means this kind of air, this kind of light, even breathing feels heavy." He glanced at his blurred reflection in the rearview mirror; his sunglasses had been removed, revealing those eyes that had endured too much, now holding both fatigue and sharpness in their depths: "Narita Transformation"... as soon as you get off the plane, you have to put on another face, another identity. Really… nothing has changed at all about this country.

As mentioned earlier, Japanese people have long had the "Narita Transformation" meme—the idea that especially repressed, especially conservative Japanese, once they board a plane at Narita to go abroad, immediately become cheerful, enthusiastic, bragging, shooting the breeze, even joining Brazil's carnival to revel wildly, shouting and screaming without honorifics—that's what's called the Narita Transformation. But the moment the same Japanese person steps off the plane at Narita Airport, they revert to that timid, fearful, respectful, polite, repressed mode—this too is called the Narita Transformation.

He habitually criticized the present state of affairs using some past mindset, even though he himself was precisely the most extreme practitioner of this "transformation" culture. The Nissan sedan drove smoothly along the national highway, not yet having entered the expressway.

There weren't too many vehicles on the road, but the order was so perfect it felt suffocating; at first he wasn't quite used to it.

Just then, a sound of police motorcycle engines came from behind, growing from distant to near.

In the rearview mirror, Honda Atsuhito saw a black-and-white painted Honda police motorcycle, with "Metropolitan Police Department" clearly printed on its side, flashing red warning lights, signaling him to pull over.

A thread of alertness, like a cold, thin snake, instantly shot up this person's spine.

But he showed no abnormality, obediently turned on his turn signal, and slowly pulled the white Nissan to the side of the road.

The motorcycle also stopped behind his car.

The officer, wearing standard winter riding gear and a helmet, dismounted and walked to the driver's side window; Honda Atsuhito rolled down the window, his face already wearing the expression appropriate for "Imaizumi Yukio"—a slightly confused and respectful ordinary middle-aged citizen's look.

He knew too well how to pretend to be a timid, slightly ingratiating, slightly fearful person, fully cooperating with police work, his mind filled only with thoughts of I am a law-abiding citizen, I am a law-abiding citizen, I still have an elderly parent and young children to support, just like any Japanese person.

"Hello, temporary inspection, please show your driver's license." The officer's voice came through the helmet face shield, somewhat muffled.

"Yes, officer." Honda Atsuhito replied in a steady tone, producing that brand-new driver's license from his inner pocket and handing it over.

The officer took the license and flipped it open. The helmet tilted slightly downward, as if examining closely. After a few seconds, Honda Atsuhito's left hand resting below the steering wheel, his fingers barely perceptibly curling, his entire musculature in a state of relaxed readiness to explode at any moment. The air inside the car seemed to solidify. Suddenly, the officer let out a clear, cold laugh.

"Hmph… this person, Imaizumi Yukio, is it you?"

"Of course it's me!"

"Is that so?" The officer tapped his car window: "I don't think it's you!"

"You say it's not me? Officer San? Are you joking?"

"Of course, because this document is forged!"

Honda Atsuhito's heart clenched violently, his pupils instantly contracting.

Adrenaline began to secrete; years of experience and instinct let several contingency plans flash through his mind instantly: retrieve the documents, start the car and drive off, or directly subdue this officer…

However, the officer's next words brought all his actions to an abrupt halt.

"Well done, then," the officer continued in that same muffled voice with a strange smile, tapping the driver's license with his finger: "After all, it's my handiwork."

Honda Atsuhito snapped his head up, his sharp gaze penetrating the windshield, trying to make out the face behind the helmet visor.

All he saw was the officer calmly using his other hand to remove the helmet, revealing the face of a man around forty, ordinary in appearance, the type you'd lose in a crowd, but at that moment the smile on his face was filled with a certain strange enthusiasm and respect. He slightly bent forward, leaned toward the window, and spoke in a deliberately lowered yet perfectly clear voice:

"Welcome back to Japan, great Honda Oyabun! Your loyal comrades! We are deeply honored by your return."

Honda Atsuhito's facial expression didn't change much, but deep in his eyes welled up complex emotions: astonishment, realization, a hint of resentment, and deeper fatigue and disgust.

He stared at that unfamiliar face, said nothing, only tightened the line of his jaw; obviously not someone he directly knew as an old subordinate, but knowing "handiwork" and being able to mobilize such resources… the organization indeed persists in some form, even infiltrating unexpected places. This feeling of being "arranged," of being "monitored," like an invisible net, made his breath catch.

But… the officer had already…

"The organization is currently in an extremely difficult period, Honda Oyabun; we are also utterly desperate, which is why we had to risk your return to the country, please forgive us, after all… Oyabun San, you wouldn't want your daughter to come to harm, would you?" This officer on the motorcycle laughed: "Back then, the daughter of Lawmaker Kurokawa was indeed our great handiwork!"

"This is a necessary sacrifice for the revolution; we also don't want to sacrifice your daughter, so we have only asked you to come back."

Honda Atsuhito's face looked very grim; he merely nodded.

At that moment, a black Lexus sedan smoothly drove past from the adjacent lane.

The rear passenger window was half-open; Uesugi Muneyuki was turned sideways, looking out at the scenery flying backward past the window, while Ishihara Mikoto leaned on his shoulder, seemingly napping. Uesugi Muneyuki's gaze unintentionally swept over the white Nissan parked by the roadside and that conspicuous police motorcycle, as well as the two people talking by the car window. His gaze lingered on the "Metropolitan Police Department" marking on the motorcycle's side for half a second, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

"Huh?" he murmured softly, a voice so quiet only he could hear: "Metropolitan Police Department vehicle? Doing a temporary check here? Not even out of Chiba yet…" Strange.

The Metropolitan Police Department only handles Tokyo matters; Narita International Airport is located in Narita City, Chiba Prefecture, so enforcement here should fall only to the Chiba Prefectural Police, meaning the sign should read "Chiba Prefectural Police Headquarters" instead.

Tokyo Disneyland is located in Chiba Prefecture, and Narita International Airport is also located in Chiba Prefecture.

Uesugi Muneyuki often complained, saying that back then the Japanese just thought too highly of themselves; at that time Japan was in the midst of rapid internationalization and expansion, the whole nation frenziedly bidding up real estate, which became the pillar industry of the people's livelihood, so everyone thought Tokyo would inevitably expand to swallow part of Kanagawa and Chiba Prefectures, even expanding to Sendai being just a matter of time.

"Isn't it just a matter of setting up a 'Sendai New District'?" a National Diet member had said back then.

In the end, everyone saw how it turned out—everything was just a bubble.

However, Narita International Airport was built at that time; considering Tokyo's expansion, they therefore built Narita Airport especially far away, which now makes it very inconvenient for Tokyo residents to go to Narita Airport to fly, most choosing Haneda instead.

So although it's called a Tokyo airport, in reality this place is in Chiba.

A faint trace of doubt flitted across his heart, but was quickly interrupted by the slight breathing sound of Mikoto-nee beside him.

He withdrew his gaze, gently adjusted his posture to let Mikoto rest more comfortably, and did not truly take this little roadside incident to heart.

The Lexus accelerated and drove away, leaving that subtle roadside confrontation scene behind.

"Then please continue driving safely!" Qi Tie said very gently to Honda Atsuhito, and secretly slipped an address into his car before getting on his motorcycle and speeding away.

……" Honda Atsuhito remained speechless, the scene from just moments ago still reverberating in his mind's eye.

When? How is that possible!

Are these people really the descendants of the original organization? Or……what other kind of existence?

He has been away from Japan for too long, so he doesn't know.

And how on earth did they manage to find his daughter? What exactly do they want to do?

But things have already come to this point, and he can only take it one step at a time.

The cold winter air circulated inside the car cabin, while the distant scenery was the bland, unremarkable highway landscape of Chiba Prefecture, and certain undercurrents that had lain dormant for years were now surging anew toward Tokyo.