THE BLOOD OF CHRYSANTHEMUM: THE IRON LOTUS

The rain in Tokyo fell with an ulterior motive; falling without remorse on a night of betrayal. It rained heavily in silver needles that blurred the neon kanji of Shinjuku, washing the dirt of the gutters into the pristine marble foyers of the privileged. The downpour could hardly mute the clanging sound of swords, it could hardly muffle the piercing sound of gunshots and it could hardly stifle the short cries and grunts of pain as bodies fell from the raging battle that was taking place at the estate of the leader of the Shinjuku Yakuza branch. It was total chaos as allies had no means to identify the betrayers, but the enemy knew exactly who they were and because of that many fell to the backstabbing blade of the ones they once trusted to have their backs, while others fell to the point blank shots of the ones they had once called family. For seven-year-old Zora, the atmosphere tasted and smelled like copper and expensive ozone. There was a dark tinge on it that is death but she was still too young to have known what she was experiencing. Little did she know that this particular night was about to be a defining memory for her for a very long time to come. She sat beneath the heavy mahogany desk in her father’s study, her knees pressed against her chest. The wood smelled of cedar and a long history. Outside the door, the world was ending in the polite yet terrifying way that only the Yakuza could manage—no much screaming, not long drawn fights, just the rhythmic thud of bodies hitting tatami mats and the slide of shoji doors being ripped from their tracks. "Zora," Sato, her father, called in a voice that had been a low vibration through the floorboards just minutes before. He knew where she was and he was not calling her to come out. "The crane does not fly because of its light weight. It flies because it has mastered the wind. And when the wind turns into a hurricane, you do not fight the air, You become the eye." “Remember that.” He finished with a weary exhale. Now, she heard the door creak open. The footsteps that followed were heavy and deliberate. Not the frantic pace of a panicked guard or messenger, but the steady stride of a man who already owned the room he was walking into. Through a c***k in the desk’s vanity panel, Zora saw a pair of well polished oxfords, black as a raven’s wing and pattered with very few rain droplets. They stopped opposite from her father’s feet. The room was an island of silence in a house screaming with the sounds of s*******r. Outside the shoji screens, the elite guard of the Crane Branch was being systematically erased, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and the metallic tang of blood already spilled. Sato sat perfectly still, his spine a straight line of weathered oak. He placed a black stone on the Go board with a steady hand. Baston stood over him, the shadows of the room clinging to his expensive suit like a second skin. "Bas," her father said. His voice was still weary and devoid of the panic Zora expected. "You were always too fond of the direct approach. It lacks the calligraphy of true statesmanship." "Statesmanship is for those who intend to be remembered in history books, brother," a second voice replied. This was Baston - Zora’s uncle but she had no recollection of ever even meeting him before and knew not who he was at the time. It was a voice like grinding stones, textured and cold. "I prefer to be the one who decides who gets to write them. You’ve spent twenty years trying to turn a pack of wolves into a council of philosophers. The wolves are hungry, Sato. And I am the one holding the meat." Baston finished heartily. "You think power is a banquet," Sato replied, and Zora heard the soft clack of a Go stone being placed on a board. Even now, with death at the door, her father was playing a game of strategy. "It isn't. Power is a garden. If you pull all the flowers to make a bouquet for yourself today, you will have nothing but dirt tomorrow." "Then I shall enjoy the scent of the bouquet while it lasts," Baston said with a voice rasping with more viciousness to it this time. “You always did play the long game, Sato,” Baston said, his voice still a low, dangerous rasp. “But the board is burning. Why continue the match?” “Because the game is not just about winning, brother,” Sato replied, his eyes never leaving the stones. “It is about the integrity of the position. You look at this clan and you see a machine for harvesting coins. You see a factory. I see a dam. We hold back the chaos of the streets so that the people behind us can sleep. That is where our true power lies - in the security we provide, not the fear we instill.” Baston let out a short, harsh bark of a laugh. He stepped forward, the light of the flickering candles catching the cold edge of the blade in his hand. “Security? You’ve turned us into a charity with sharp teeth. You turn away the h****n trade because it ‘corrupts the soul of the city.’ You refuse the human trafficking rings because it ‘breaks the family unit.’ Every time you say ‘no’ to a lucrative venture, you leave meat on the bone. And the wolves? They don’t want a dam, Sato. They want to feast.” “If you eat the city, Baston, eventually you will starve,” Sato said calmly. “A leader who rules by the iron whim of profit is nothing more than a thief in a suit. If we do not protect the weak, we have no right to the tithes they pay us. We are the shadows that allow the light to exist. That is the mandate of the Yakuza. We are the 'Gokudo'—the extreme path. Not the greedy path.” “The 'Gokudo' is dead,” Baston hissed, leaning over the table, his face inches from his brother’s. “It died the moment the world became global. My Yakuza won’t be a neighborhood watch. It will be a conglomerate. I want the money from the gambling dens, the white powder in the ports, and the flesh in the red-light districts. I want every yen that isn't nailed down. Efficiency, Sato. No money left on the table. No mercy for the slow. That is how you build an empire that lasts.” Sato looked up then, his eyes reflecting a deep, mournful pity that seemed to sting Baston more than a blade ever could. “You speak of an empire,” Sato whispered, “but you are building a pyre. You will rake in the gold, yes. You will have your iron rule. But you will be king of a graveyard, and your own people will be the ones to eventually put the torch to your throne. A man who rules only by the purse has no loyalty he hasn't bought—and anything bought can be outbid.” Baston’s knuckles whitened around the hilt of his tantō. “Then I will simply buy a bigger blade for anyone who tries. The world doesn't belong to the 'soft' anymore, brother. It belongs to the hungry.” “Then eat,” Sato said, closing his eyes and bowing his head in a final, dignified surrender to the inevitable. “But remember: the more you take, the heavier the debt you owe the universe. And one day, someone will come to collect it.” Baston didn't answer with words anymore. He answered with steel, drawing his blade as the philosophy of greed finally moved in to silence the philosophy of honor. In that short moment of finality, Zora, even though a child, could only think of one thing; Revenge. And although she didn’t know how she would do that yet, “I will avenge you father” she swore bitterly underneath her breath while gripping her clothes in her hand s so tightly as she bit into it to stifle her own sounds of sorrow.