Blood and Vows.

Chapter 4 — The Game of Honor

The restaurant was not marked on any map.

No neon lights, no signs, no curious tourists stumbling in by mistake. From the outside, it looked like a narrow wooden townhouse tucked between taller concrete buildings in the heart of Tokyo. But behind the paper doors and carved beams, the air was thick with power.

Sebastian stepped inside, his black suit sharp against the polished wood, the faint smell of sandalwood wrapping around him. Leila walked one step behind, her stance alert, her black eyes scanning every corner. The low murmur of conversation stilled as the guests turned their heads. Silence fell like a blade.

The Yakuza had been expecting him.

Men in dark suits and traditional tattoos bowed slightly, but their eyes gleamed with curiosity and calculation. At the head of the tatami-lined hall sat Oyabun Takeda, the patriarch of this family, his years etched in the deep lines of his face, his hair silver but his posture iron-straight.

“Cortez-san,” Takeda said in a voice as smooth as aged sake. “You honor us with your presence.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “Respect is mutual, Takeda-sama.”

They exchanged no smiles. Smiles in this room meant nothing.

Dinner was served—small dishes placed in silence by women in silk kimono, eyes lowered. No one ate. The food was not for hunger but for tradition. The real feast was the negotiation.

Takeda gestured to a low table where a wooden board waited, lined with black and white stones.

“Go,” Takeda said. “A game of strategy. As your father once proved his worth to mine, let us see if the son carries the same fire.”

Sebastian sat opposite, his movements precise, deliberate. Leila remained standing near the wall, arms crossed, her gaze sharp as a blade.

The game began.

Stones clicked against wood, a rhythm steady and merciless. Black against white, order against chaos. Sebastian’s expression didn’t change as he placed each stone, his mind already three steps ahead. He was not just playing Takeda—he was playing every man in the room, every glance, every breath, every unspoken threat.

Takeda tested him, striking boldly, then retreating, watching Sebastian’s reaction. Sebastian met every move with a calm counter, his patience a weapon sharper than steel.

Minutes stretched. A pattern emerged: Takeda pressed, Sebastian absorbed. When the oyabun believed he had cornered him, Sebastian dropped a single stone in silence. The board shifted. Territory collapsed.

A ripple passed through the room. The oyabun’s eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he smiled.

“You play not to win every stone,” Takeda said. “You play to win the war.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “Battles are noise. Strategy is silence.”

Murmurs of approval circled. Respect was being carved, stone by stone.

But respect never lasted long.

One of the younger lieutenants leaned forward, his tattoos curling up his neck like serpents. His gaze slid to Leila, his grin crude.

“Impressive,” he said in broken English. “But hiding behind a woman’s shadow… is this the strength of Cortez blood? Tell me, Sebastian, is she only your guard, or does she keep your bed warm too?”

The room went still. Even the oyabun’s hand froze over his cup.

Leila’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She had been insulted before, by better men than this. But before she could move, Sebastian was already on his feet.

The knife appeared in his hand as if conjured by shadow. He slammed it down through the lieutenant’s hand, pinning flesh to wood. The man screamed, the sound raw and animal, shattering the silence.

Sebastian leaned close, his voice calm, quiet, deadly.

“Leila is my shield,” he said. “She has earned her place beside me through fire and blood. You, on the other hand, can’t even hold your tongue. Next time you speak, make sure it’s worth the pain.”

Blood spread across the wood, soaking into the grain. The man writhed, but Sebastian did not release the knife. He held it there, eyes locked with Takeda’s.

The oyabun’s face remained carved from stone. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.

“Discipline,” Takeda murmured. “Swift. Precise. Perhaps too precise. But honor defended is honor respected.”

Sebastian pulled the knife free. The lieutenant collapsed, clutching his ruined hand, his curses muffled by his own sobs. No one helped him.

Sebastian cleaned the blade with a silk napkin, then placed it calmly on the table.

The game continued, though the atmosphere had shifted. Every man in the room now measured him differently. No longer as a foreigner, no longer as a rumor, but as a force that commanded respect the only way this world understood: through dominance.

Takeda studied the board again, then laid down his stones. “Enough. The point has been made. You are your father’s son. And yet, you are not him. You are… more ruthless.”

Sebastian’s lips curved, not into a smile, but something colder. “Ruthlessness is survival.”

The oyabun nodded once. “Then survival you will have. Our support is yours—for now.”

The unspoken words lingered: support could shift as easily as stones on a board.

Sebastian rose, bowing slightly, his eyes never leaving Takeda’s. “For now is all anyone ever truly has.”

Outside, the rain had begun to fall. Neon lights blurred against wet glass, the city breathing like a beast in the dark.

Leila walked beside him, her face unreadable. Finally, she spoke. “You didn’t have to defend me.”

He glanced at her, his tone flat. “Yes, I did. Not for you. For me. They needed to remember who they were talking to.”

Leila’s lips twitched, the closest she came to a smile. “Then I suppose he should be grateful you didn’t take his tongue instead of his hand.”

Sebastian didn’t answer. His gaze was on the night sky, the storm brewing beyond the skyscrapers. In the reflection of the car window, his own face stared back—calm, beautiful, merciless.

The game had been played. The stones had been set.

And the shadow of war moved closer.