Chapter 714

Kite Tetsu left quickly, and Honda Atsuhito fell silent for a moment before starting the car again, driving toward the address Kite Tetsu had left behind; along the way he did not think of anything else.

He had been away from Japan for thirty years; since the late 1980s he had fled to Brazil, where there are many Japanese descendants, most of whom migrated before World War II or even World War I, numbering over 1.3 million in total, and there he could easily find a place to settle.

Centaur, gold ring, thirty years, Shugizi.

After staying in Brazil for so long, returning to Japan felt like a dream from another world.

The vehicle entered Tokyo, and the white Nissan drove slowly along a quiet side road by the river, finally stopping in front of a detached house that looked ordinary yet occupied an excellent location.

The house featured a modern gray stucco exterior and large floor-to-ceiling windows, backed by a small bamboo grove and facing a winding river, with an open view that ensured privacy.

Honda Atsuhito turned off the engine and sat in the car for a few minutes to acclimate to the surroundings; cold air gradually permeated the cabin. He observed the area — apart from the babbling of water and the rustle of wind through bamboo leaves, there was no other sound.

Finally, he picked up the document bag, got out of the car, and took out the key.

The key slid into the lock, turned lightly, and the heavy solid wood door swung open; warm, dry air mixed with the scent of fresh wood and cleaning agent rushed out, and the motion-sensor light in the genkan switched on automatically.

"You've come."

A voice came from the slightly dim living room.

Honda Atsuhito raised his eyes.

There stood a young man wearing a loose gray sweater and khaki pants. He sported the currently fashionable, somewhat heavy half-face-covering hairstyle, and a pair of delicate rimless glasses sat on his nose bridge; behind the lenses his eyes flickered with a light that mixed excitement and appraisal.

He appeared to be about thirty years old, with fair skin, and his bearing resembled that of a young clerk at some IT company or a freelancer in a creative industry — utterly at odds with the violent history carried by the name "Yamamoto-gumi" of old.

Honda Atsuhito stood in the genkan without removing his shoes, merely scrutinizing the other man with those eyes that had weathered the world and now held only fatigue and scrutiny. Thirty years cut off from his homeland were enough for a generation to turn over; the face before him was completely unfamiliar — when he left Japan, this man was probably just born.

"You are…" Honda Atsuhito's voice was dry, hoarse from the long journey and tension: "A descendant of Yamamoto's side back then? Or… a comrade?"

The young man froze for a moment, then a near-radiant smile bloomed on his face, though the smile did not fully reach the eyes behind the lenses. He shook his head and stepped forward briskly, his movements showing a hint of urgency.

"No, I'm not Yamamoto-gumi." The young man spoke, and surprisingly reached out both hands, gripping Honda Atsuhito's still-unwithdrawn, ice-cold hand.

His palm was warm, even slightly damp: "My name is Takakura!"

He shook Honda Atsuhito's hand vigorously, his tone filled with sincere, almost exaggerated excitement: "Honda Oyabun, we… we're your big fans! Really! The 'Red Goldfinch' era, those heart-shaking operations… especially the planning details and that courage to declare war on the old world! To us, it's simply legendary!"

"Big fans…" Honda Atsuhito murmured the words, as if chewing on something foreign.

He slowly but firmly withdrew his hand, his expression unchanged, only his gaze deepening further, like a cold ancient well. Fanatical fans? Of him and his past? This feeling made him more uncomfortable than being hunted by enemies.

Yes, Honda Atsuhito was precisely the fugitive leader of the far-left organization "Red Goldfinch" mentioned earlier!

As a far-left organization that arose after the war, Red Goldfinch was born after the All-Campus Joint Struggle Committee from a split in the left wing, formed by some of its more radical members; it planned a series of terrorist attacks and murders, and finally in the Peace Bank Bomb Heist seized an astonishing fortune, including a large amount of currency and no small quantity of gold, as well as private belongings stored in the bank's safety deposit boxes.

The so-called "Peace Bank Heist" was Honda Atsuhito's masterpiece, and at the time he was only in his twenties.

But the good times did not last; precisely because this wave seized an astonishing fortune, the organization fell apart over uneven division of the spoils and infighting among the top brass, relations ruptured, and a sidelined and suppressed cadre in a fit of anger tipped off the authorities, leading to Red Goldfinch being almost entirely rounded up; the previous leader died alone in twenty or thirty years of solitary confinement without ever seeing the death penalty paperwork executed, and the highest-ranking "Young Head" Honda Atsuhito became the leader, but by then he had already fled to Brazil with a sum of money.

He had originally planned to spend the rest of his life in Brazil, never expecting…

Takakura paid his coldness no mind, turned sideways and enthusiastically led the way: "Please come in, Honda Oyabun! It's safe here, everything's arranged." He quickly guided Honda Atsuhito through the simple hallway into the spacious living room combined with an open-plan kitchen; this detached house's design was indeed open, with a huge floor-to-ceiling window opening onto an extended wooden viewing balcony, below which the river flowed quietly, winter daylight and water colors flooding the interior — it should have been refreshing, yet it only made Honda feel empty and alienated.

This is Japan, so stifling, so breathless; he loathed this country, and loathed its environment.

Although beneath the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro there is no shortage of gangsters, gunfights, and crime, in Honda's view that place is many times more comfortable than here.

Not everyone is willing to lock themselves in a cage for the sake of safety.

"Look, daily necessities are all provided." Takakura pointed to the fully equipped kitchen, brand-new refrigerator, comfortable low sofa in the living room, and the bedroom door with sheets and bedding already laid out: "Internet, backup power, even emergency medicine are prepared. You can stay here with peace of mind." Honda Atsuhito did not look at those things; he walked to the center of the living room, back to the balcony and that unsettling view, turned and faced Takakura directly. The bleak winter light outlined his thin, straight silhouette from behind.

"Enough, no more nonsense. I've heard a bit about domestic affairs these past years; I know about Ōsumikawa being caught — he was a good man, his death is truly regrettable, so…" Honda Atsuhito spoke, his voice steady yet carrying a directness that pierced through all pretense: "You went to such lengths to dig me, this old man, out of a corner of the world and specially 'invite' me back to Japan for the purpose…"

He deliberately emphasized the word "invite": "…is to have me help you… make bombs?"

The air seemed to stagnate for an instant, and the sound of the river outside grew clearer.

Winter Tokyo scenery has a special flavor; the bay's blue waves tilt, the river's grace benefits ten thousand people.

The smile on Takakura's face faded somewhat, but that excited gleam did not diminish; instead it transformed into something deeper, more scorching. He pushed up his glasses, the lenses flashing with reflected light.

"Not just making bombs, Honda Oyabun." Takakura's voice lowered, yet carried an undeniable fanaticism: "We need your mind, your experience, your leadership!"

He stepped forward, gesturing with both hands as if sketching a grand blueprint: "This country, this society, has thoroughly rotted, stiffened! We still need an unprecedented shock, a thorough explosion, to force those numb people to open their eyes! We need something meticulous, bold, full of symbolic meaning, just like when you planned the 'Peace Bank Explosion Heist'! This time, our target is bigger." He took a deep breath and said word by word:

"We need a 'Metropolitan Police Department Headquarters Bombing Plan' grand enough to be recorded in history!"

Honda Atsuhito's reaction after hearing this plan was.

No reaction at all.

"Metropolitan Police Department Headquarters Bombing Plan?" It seemed the grand ambitions of the past had long since departed from this "revolutionary fighter"; he repeated it once, and for the first time an obvious emotional fluctuation appeared on his face — a mixture of absurdity, astonishment, and even a faint, barely perceptible cold echo of his former fanaticism.

He gave a short, derisive laugh, as if hearing the stupidest joke in the world: "Let me ask you first — how many of us are left? Or rather, how many of you are left?"

"…Last time we suffered a shameless betrayal, core strength was severely damaged, now the Sigh River Renewal Army is also nearing destruction, we currently have only 4 core members, there are some peripheral people, and besides that some people sympathize with us." Takakura spoke of this with some dejection: "As for funds, no need to worry, supporters have gifted us some virtual currency…"

"So you want to rely on a few core members and some useless virtual currency, plotting to blow up the Metropolitan Police Department Headquarters from this revolutionary base brimming with petty-bourgeois sentiment?" Honda Atsuhito's words were sharp, his tone filled with mockery and fatigue.

Takakura's complexion stiffened slightly, but immediately a more complex, colder expression replaced the previous fanaticism.

He did not directly answer the question of numbers, as if it were unimportant, or as if the answer would weaken his momentum.

He simply watched Honda Atsuhito quietly, that gaze making Honda Atsuhito's battle-hardened nerves suddenly tighten.

Because it was the same as in his youth — a look that would sacrifice everything for an ideal.

"Honda Oyabun, I respect you greatly." Takakura's voice became extraordinarily calm, terrifyingly calm: "But you've been away too long. Long enough that you may have overlooked some… attachments."

He slowly reached into the inner pocket of his sweater.

Honda Atsuhito's muscles instantly tensed, pupils contracting.

But what Takakura produced was not a weapon, but a color photograph.

He advanced two steps and gently placed the photograph on the wooden coffee table in the living room, pushing it toward Honda Atsuhito.

Honda Atsuhito's gaze fell on the photograph.

In an instant, all the indifference, mockery, and fatigue on his face collapsed with a crash, like ice shattered by a heavy hammer.

Blood drained from his face, replaced by a horrifying pallor. His lips trembled slightly, wanting to say something but unable to produce any sound. He stared fixedly at the photograph, as if trying to burn through it with his eyes.

The photograph showed a young woman, about thirty-one or thirty-two, wearing a proper business suit, walking on a bustling Tokyo street, her profile to the camera, smile gentle and bright.

"Marie!!!" A name so dry it hardly sounded human was forced from Honda Atsuhito's throat — the daughter he had been forced to abandon when he fled to Brazil; he had thought he hid her well, thought time and distance had long since erased all traces.

"How regrettable," Takakura's voice slithered into his ears like a venomous snake, soft yet deadly: "We not only know Miss Marie's name, but also where she works and where she lives."

"Oyabun, you don't want your daughter to run into trouble, do you? She has suffered so much because of you, so very much!" Honda Atsuhito snapped his head up, his eyes flashing with a near-beastly ferocity, yet deep within those eyes that once made enemies tremble lay an undisguisable fear and pleading; his clenched fists whitened at the knuckles, his body trembling slightly from extreme rage and helplessness.

Takakura met his gaze, that respectful yet unyielding smile returning to his face as he gave a slight nod: "We believe that with Oyabun Honda's wisdom and experience, you will surely devise the most perfect 'fireworks' for us. For Miss Marie's continued... peace and happiness." A long, suffocating silence. Only the river outside the window flowed on tirelessly.

Honda Atsuhito's aged yet straight spine, after enduring for so long, finally buckled under the invisible burden; he slumped onto the sofa, gazing at his daughter's photograph. Thirty years have passed—she must be thirty now too?

The Oyabun of the Red Goldfinch remained silent for a long time, then finally, extremely slowly and stiffly, nodded once.

The sound issuing from his throat was hoarse and hollow, as if coming from the depths of a grave:

"... Understood."

"I will blow up the entire Sakuradamon for you, but you are not allowed to touch my daughter, nor disturb her life! Otherwise, none of our dealings count! I will personally fight you to the death!" He warned furiously: "Understand? Don't understand?" "Oyabun Honda... we are not here to challenge you to a duel; we share the same ideals and demands..."

"Understand?? Or don't understand??? You only need to answer me, yes, or, no!!!" The aged oyabun roared.. ………esyes!" Takakura stared, stunned, and could only reply.

"Then let it be so—I am tired, I need to rest, and tomorrow I will begin making bombs for you. As for the blasting plan, allow me some time to devise it; you should understand such things require lengthy planning, right? And the list too?" Honda Atsuhito nodded, the former gang leader's dignity finally reasserting itself.

... Very good, as expected of Oyabun Honda; let us work together and send the Metropolitan Police Department—and indeed all of Nagatacho—up to heaven!