The mafia Kings scribe

Chapter 7: Crimson and Clover

The fresh crimson line slicing across Shingen’s left shoulder blade looked like an open tear in a dark silk canvas. The blood was a bright, vivid contrast against the black ink of your previous calligraphy and the orange stripes of the tattooed tiger. It welled up slowly, gathering in a thick droplet before tracing a sluggish path down his muscular back.

He didn't move. He sat as still as a stone Buddha, his breathing deep, heavy, and rhythmic. The sheer magnitude of his physical endurance was terrifying; any normal man would be clutching his shoulder, calling for a doctor, or at least acknowledging the sting of a blade. Shingen merely waited for the brush.

Your hand hovered over the new obsidian inkstone, the freshly ground ink glistening under the single lantern illuminating the study.

"Master," you whispered, your voice catching in your dry throat.

"You are wasting time," he rumbled, his tone flat and unyielding. "The ink will dry on the stone if you let it sit."

"You are bleeding, Master," you said, the words slipping out before your survival instincts could stop them. You braced yourself, half-expecting him to strike you for speaking out of turn or for showing what he might perceive as insolent pity.

Shingen didn't move an inch. He didn't look back. "A scratch. Write over it."

"If the ink mixes with the open wound, it will poison your blood, Master," you pressed on, your chest tightening. It wasn't just fear for your own life anymore; it was a strange, sudden spike of adrenaline. If he died of an infection, the entire estate would collapse into a bloody civil war, and you would be slaughtered along with the rest of the lower staff. "Please. Permit me to clean it first."

A heavy, thick silence fell over the small study. The rain continued to lash against the paper shoji screens, a relentless background hum to the dangerous game you were playing. For a long, agonizing five seconds, Shingen didn't speak. You wondered if you had finally crossed the invisible line, if your mouth had finally signed your death warrant.

"There is a cloth on the side table," Shingen muttered, his voice dropping into a gravelly whisper that sounded entirely hollow with exhaustion. "Be quick about it."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. You scrambled over to the small lacquer table, grabbing a clean, white silk cloth and a small ceramic basin of fresh water meant for diluting the ink. Kneeling back down behind his massive frame, you soaked the corner of the cloth, wringing it out until it was just damp.

Your hands were still trembling, but as you raised the cloth to his back, you forced your fingers to lock into place. You touched the edge of the wound.

Shingen flinched. It was a miniscule, almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulder muscles, but beneath your fingers, you felt the raw, coiled power of his body react to the cold water. The heat radiating from his bare skin was intense, transferring directly into your fingertips. Gently, meticulously, you dabbed away the fresh blood, wiping the crimson path clean from his pale flesh.

Up close, you could see the wound wasn't deep, but it was clean—the mark of a master assassin's blade. As you worked, the white silk cloth stained a deep, ruinous red.

"The Second Wife," you murmured softly, the question burning in your mind before you could stop it. "What will happen to her?"

The air in the room instantly dropped three degrees. Shingen’s head bowed slightly lower.

"In the Yamazaki family, there is only one punishment for treason," Shingen said, his voice entirely devoid of human warmth. It was the tone of a judge delivering a cosmic law, unyielding and absolute. "She chose her allegiance when she opened my gates to the Ryu syndicate. Tomorrow, her name will no longer exist in the records of this house. Her children will be reassigned to the First Wife. She will vanish."

A shudder ran through your spine. Vanish. You knew what that meant. It meant a quiet room, a heavy silken cord, or a quick blade, followed by a total erasure from history. He was going to execute his own wife without a single tear, all while sitting here, letting a nameless servant wipe his back.

"Are you finished?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," you whispered, pulling the stained cloth away. The wound had stopped weeping, leaving a clean, thin red line across his skin.

"Then take the brush," Shingen commanded, his tone returning to that dark, authoritative rumble. "Write the names of the three port warehouses controlled by the Ryu. We seize them before the sun breaks the horizon."

You dropped the bloody cloth into the basin, the water swirling into a pale pink. Dipping the horsehair brush into the black ink, you positioned yourself behind his spine once more. Your hand was steadier now, anchored by the bizarre, life-or-death intimacy that had formed between you over the last hour.

You pressed the wet bristles directly below the fresh scar, tracing the heavy, sharp angles of the kanji characters. As the dark ink flowed onto his skin, you felt the rhythm of his breathing shift. It grew slower, deeper, and heavier.

By the time you reached the third warehouse name, Shingen’s shoulders had dropped entirely. His chin rested near his chest, his eyes closed. The fierce, terrifying mafia boss had finally succumbed to the crushing weight of his physical and mental depletion. He was asleep, sitting upright, entirely vulnerable, with his back turned to a servant holding a brush.

Suddenly, a soft, deliberate tap sounded against the study door. It wasn't Haruto's heavy knock. It was light, rhythmic, and carried an unmistakable aura of dangerous grace.