Chapter 27: Uproar (Part I)

Kenichi Fujiyama had always been a man who knew when to hold and when to fold. Though he did not know how the other party had discovered he was awake, since he had been seen through, there was no point in continuing the charade.

He slowly opened his eyes. Before him remained that pair of eyes—black as gems and radiating a strange, brilliant light. They were so striking that one could easily overlook the rest of his features.

The young man sat three meters away, idly toying with a light-gray object resembling a mobile phone. He watched Fujiyama with a calm gaze, devoid of grief, joy, anger, or hatred, like a clear sky or a deep, tranquil sea.

Fujiyama straightened up and sat opposite the young man. His face was grim, and he remained silent. His eyes darted around, carefully assessing the situation and desperately searching for a way out of this predicament.

The young man seemed to know exactly what was on Fujiyama’s mind and suddenly smiled faintly.

"Mr. Fujiyama, there is no need to think about calling for help. Do you really think I wouldn't be prepared?" The young man spoke in fluent Japanese, without a trace of a foreign accent. His voice was clear, and his tone was serene. "Look, in order to welcome your awakening, I killed all the guards in this manor and all your loyal subordinates two hours ago. The only people left alive here are you and me. You could scream until your throat bleeds, and no one would come to save you."

Fujiyama’s heart sank.

He could tell that this calm young man, who exuded not a shred of murderous intent, was not bluffing. But what kind of ruthlessness did it take to slaughter dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people at once and then sit here discussing it with such detachment, as if it were a matter of no consequence?

"And don't bother thinking about alerting the outside world. Wireless communications here have been completely jammed, and the landlines have been cut," the young man said, spreading his hands. "Of course, if you want to try, I’ll give you the chance. Your phone is still on you. I imagine you know how to operate it."

Fujiyama remained silent. He knew that since the man had said this, he must have made foolproof preparations. Whether he tried or not, the result would be the same, and he had always disdained futile efforts. Yet, why would the man go to such elaborate lengths—even deploying signal-jamming technology—just to get something from him?

Suddenly, it dawned on Fujiyama. His eyes widened in disbelief as he looked up and said in a low voice, "Communication jamming? Military? The Chana military?"

The young man’s expression darkened. "Mr. Fujiyama, you are a smart man. But if you are as smart as you think and wish to avoid further suffering, I suggest you refrain from using such insulting terms as 'Chana people.' Otherwise, I wouldn’t mind leaving a few permanent marks on your body."

Fujiyama’s face flickered with uncertainty. He spat out, "So it really was Chana—" He stopped abruptly, realizing his mistake, and gave a cough. "So it was you people. What exactly do you want?"

Seeing him correct himself, a glint of faint mockery appeared in the young man's eyes. "What we want—let’s not rush that. We have plenty of time. For now, let’s see what your Prime Minister has to say." He picked up the remote control and turned up the volume on the television.

Fujiyama suddenly realized that from the moment he woke up until now, his consciousness had been so captivated by the young man's calm demeanor that he hadn't even noticed the large LCD screen in front of him. The current Prime Minister of Japan, Nobuzo Kishi, was standing at a podium, facing a crowd of boisterous reporters and delivering his latest remarks.

Fifty-one-year-old Nobuzo Kishi was the youngest Japanese Prime Minister in decades. He had a broad, square face, a dark complexion, and a pair of triangular eyes that burned with a sinister, fierce intensity.

"The large-scale military operations of the Republic of Chana demonstrate that this rising ancient power of the East, this Red Republic, has finally torn off the mask of peace it has worn for decades and revealed its true, hideous face to the world!" Kishi said, his face solemn. "For the past decade, I have been warning the citizens and the Diet that the Red Republic has become the greatest threat to world peace. The speed of its military growth and the magnitude of its ambition make it the most formidable enemy to our democratic camp! Especially for our Empire of Japan! The citizens must have a clear understanding of this!"

Fujiyama’s breathing grew heavy. His small eyes stared at the screen, glowing with a beastly hunger.

On screen, Kishi changed his tone, reverting to his old rhetoric—the same speech he had delivered at every opportunity since taking office three years ago, like a resentful concubine: "We must take precautions and act before it is too late to resist the threat from our powerful neighbor to the west!"

Kishi waved his fists excitedly, his face twisted. "It has been over 80 years since the last world war. We are economically powerful, technologically advanced, and our citizens are prosperous. But we are not a 'normal country.' This is a disgrace to our nation, a disgrace to our citizens, and even more so, a disgrace to our people! We must go all out to make our nation 'normal' and completely lift the ban on the Self-Defense Forces exercising military force!"

Kishi was indeed a charismatic politician and orator. His language, expressions, and gestures were highly inflammatory. Even though they were used to his antics, most of the dozens of reporters in the room broke into applause, and some, overcome with emotion, waved their fists in fervent support.

*Click.*

The young man pressed the remote, turning off the TV and snapping Fujiyama out of the flushed state induced by Kishi’s performance.

"Mr. Fujiyama, what is your take on your Prime Minister’s words?" the young man asked gently, his eyes glinting with an inscrutable light.

Fujiyama startled, unsure of the man's true intent. He opened his mouth several times, hesitating for a long moment before saying, "I have no opinion. I am just a businessman..."

As soon as the words left his lips, he saw the deep mockery in the young man’s eyes. He paused, then added, "Of course, I am also the head of a designated organization. We believe in the philosophy of peace and profit and never involve ourselves in politics."

"A businessman? A head of an organization? Never involve yourself in politics?" The young man sneered. "The Eighth Generation leader of the Jiao Long Society, the most powerful figure in the Japanese underworld, and the biggest financial backer behind Prime Minister Nobuzo Kishi’s rise to power. Mr. Fujiyama, do you take me for a naive three-year-old who would believe such things?"