"AH!"
Pedestrians who witnessed the scene screamed, a look of terror on their faces, yet they did not distance themselves from the site. The excitement in their eyes revealed their true feelings.
He swiftly and neatly chopped down two men.
Unlike guns, using a blade, especially against the Yakuza, better showcased the aesthetics of violence.
Yakuza vendettas were undoubtedly timeless scenes in the history of cinema.
The onlookers, mostly young people, quickly realized this was a golden opportunity to take photos and tweet, or shoot short videos and upload them to YouTube or TikTok to gain traffic.
Aozawa, hidden within the crowd, silently watched Iwaai Takehiro on the upper floor, a flicker of excitement in his heart.
He was the "Director" of this scene.
Iwaai Takehiro finished off the wailing man with one strike, then bent down to pick up the dropped spring knife with his left hand, ignoring the spring knife embedded below his shoulder.
To be precise, the pain in his body was overshadowed by hatred and murderous intent, leaving him with only one thought: to avenge Kiku!
Hearing the commotion, someone from the second-floor office opened the door and peeked out. "What's all that noise... Someone's here for revenge!"
The person who shouted quickly drew back. The few men in the room stopped playing cards, grabbed nearby weapons, and charged outside.
Iwaai Takehiro reached the office doorway.
His body was mostly stained crimson, a spring knife jutted from his shoulder, and his bloodshot eyes gleamed with the savagery of a dying beast. The machete in his hand dripped blood. He looked like a demon crawling up from Hell, roaring its defiance at the world.
An inexplicable pressure caused the Yakuza members present to hesitate for a moment.
"Don't be afraid, he's just one man! Kill him!" one man shouted, swinging his machete to embolden himself and the others.
The surrounding men snapped to their senses. Right, this isn't a movie; how could one man hope to take down several of us?
The weapons in their hands were no fakes—metal baseball bats, sharpened knives. Aside from firearms, they possessed all the armaments befitting their Yakuza status.
Like other countries in East Asia, Japan has very strict gun control. Not just any Yakuza member could possess a gun, nor were gun-toting Yakuza members permitted to open fire in just any situation.
Firing a gun in a busy street would land even a Yakuza boss behind bars for several years.
Yakuza Organizations typically resorted to attacking with blades.
They charged en masse, but Iwaai Takehiro, fearless, roared and surged forward, only to be met by a metallic baseball bat swinging at his head.
THUD! Iwaai Takehiro's forehead was struck hard, drawing blood.
The man wielding the bat cracked a smug smile. A blow like that would knock a weaker man out cold, and even a stronger one would suffer a concussion.
Yet Iwaai Takehiro seemed unbothered. He retaliated, slicing his machete into the bat-wielder's artery. Blood spurted from the gash between blade and flesh.
Several more blades struck Iwaai's body.
"ARGH!" Iwaai Takehiro roared. He clenched the spring knife in his left hand and plunged it into the kidney of an enemy to his left, then twisted it viciously. "HAHA!"
"My kidney!"
His triumphant laughter, juxtaposed with the Yakuza member's agonized shriek, stunned the other onlookers.
Is this guy even f*cking human?
Even hardened Yakuza wouldn't laugh after being cut; they, more than anyone, knew how agonizing such wounds were.
For this very reason, the scene unfolding before them was incomprehensible.
How could a man riddled with knife wounds still move without the slightest hesitation, even laughing maniacally?
Though they themselves hadn't been struck, an inexplicable fear crept into the hearts of the remaining men.
A primal urge to kill surged through Iwaai Takehiro.
He didn't stop. Machete in one hand, spring knife in the other, he ignored his profusely bleeding wounds and charged.
"Damn it!"
One of the Yakuza underlings couldn't take it anymore. He turned and fled inside, shouting, "Boss, we're in trouble!"
With one man breaking ranks, the others dropped their tough-guy facade and scrambled inside, seeking their boss's protection.
Watching their wailing, fleeing figures, Iwaai Takehiro felt an even greater thrill. These supposedly fearsome Yakuza were nothing special after all. They weren't worth his fear.
Kiku... Iwaai Takehiro felt no weakness in his injured body. Instead, a surge of even greater strength coursed through him, allowing him to sprint and catch up. Sneering, he swung his machete at the back of a fleeing Yakuza underling.
「In the leader's small office.」
Chairman Shino was pouring tea for a stern-faced man, his expression full of respect. "Please rest assured, Fujimura-san, I will definitely stand by your side. That arrogant and unrestrained Ono is not fit to serve as the head of the Misawa group."
"Good," Fujimura Isao replied. "Tomorrow night, I will host a banquet at the Grey Cherry Restaurant in Shinjuku. You must be there on time. It's time to rid the organization of the cancer that is Ono."
As the second-in-command, Fujimura Isao's position in the Misawa group was second only to the boss who had passed away two days prior. He had always upheld the Yakuza creed.
He was loyal enough to die for the boss who had promoted him and even willing to follow the boss's last wish: to let the boss's son, still in high school, take over as head of the group.
But times had changed. The younger members within the group were unwilling to let a high schooler take charge and were even more resistant to the idea of hereditary succession.
Fujimura Isao felt he had no choice but to eliminate the most vocal troublemakers to make them understand the meaning of Yakuza rules.
"Yes, of course! I will definitely be there on time," Shino replied, his face etched with an eager, fawning smile. He hoped to use this opportunity—this "deed of aiding a dragon's ascent"—to elevate his own status within the group.
Just then, a noisy commotion erupted outside the door.
Shino frowned slightly, annoyed. "Hey! I said we have an important guest! What's all that noise about?"
"Boss, save me!"
The words had barely left the man's mouth when blood splattered against the frosted glass of the door.
Shino blanched. "Could it be? Has Ono sent men to kill us?"
Fujimura Isao rose, his hand instinctively going to the katana at his waist. "Don't panic," he said, his face an icy mask. "I'm here."
CREAK. The door slowly opened.
Fujimura Isao's brow furrowed. He had expected a dozen or so men, but only one person stood in the doorway.
DRIP. DRIP. Blood continuously splattered onto the floor.
He couldn't make out the man's face. All he could see was sliced flesh revealing stark white bone, and a section of intestines protruding, exposed to the air.
"Who are you?" Fujimura Isao asked.
Though he prided himself on being battle-hardened, he was shocked by the sight. How could a man with such severe wounds still be standing? Was he some kind of super soldier from a U.S. Army lab?
"Iwaai Takehiro." The voice was hoarse, tinged with exhaustion. His right eye had been destroyed by the metal club, but his left eye remained intact, glaring at the stunned Shino. "I've come to take your worthless life."
"How much did Ono pay you? I'll double it!" Shino screamed, wishing he could shrink into the sofa. He had no recollection of who Iwaai Takehiro was.
To him, Iwaai Takehiro was just one of many clients. If there was anything memorable, it was that the man's wife was quite attractive. But without mentioning Kiku, he simply couldn't place the name Iwaai Takehiro.
"You animal! I'll kill you!" Iwaai Takehiro roared.
Rage once again flooded his weakened body. This man destroyed his home, took his loved ones, and yet he'd forgotten what he'd done. Could it be that his home, his beloved woman, were nothing more than a speck of dust on a table in the eyes of these bastards?
The grief and indignation in his heart transformed into boundless killing intent.