Chapter 3: The Arrival of the Worthless One

No. 3, Agihara Trading Company, 5th District, Sagane, Island Country, 10:30 PM.

This was a sprawling estate built in the traditional dry landscape style of the island nation—a vast property that, in the prime real estate of Sagane, just outside the capital, stood as a testament to wealth and power. Bright lights illuminated the entire structure. At the entrance, two men in black suits stood on either side, while a row of identical black Mercedes S600s lined up in front of the bamboo-fenced wall, each vehicle silently proclaiming the status and identity of the building’s owner.

Within, at the rippling sand pattern of the inner courtyard, among several oddly shaped standing stones imbued with Zen symbolism, knelt a woman, her arms and legs tightly bound. Perhaps due to exhaustion, her head drooped low, buried between her knees beneath the pounding rain.

In the center of the main hall, atop a long low table set upon tatami mats, sat sake and delicacies—sashimi, tempura, and more. A bald, muscular middle-aged man in a kimono raised his sake cup, pouring the last of the liquor into a ceramic cup.

Behind him on his right knelt a woman in a light gray suit, her shoulder-length hair neat, eyebrows sharp as blades. Her beauty was tinged with an air of solemnity. She held a native sword point-down, eyes closed, lost in meditation.

On either side of the main hall, rows of low tables seated ten individuals in open kimonos—some quietly drinking, some absorbed in their phones, others embracing kimono-clad beauties. Each bore a distinct demeanor, yet all were clearly core members of Agihara Trading Company.

Outside, beyond the courtyard where rain fell steadily, another row of men in black clothes stood guard. Their eyes roved over the kimonoed maids weaving in and out, never still.

Agihara Trading Company—bearing the name of a trading firm, but in truth, the largest syndicate in Sagane. Its current leader: Ichiro Nakayama.

“That useless wretch still hasn’t arrived?” Ichiro Nakayama smacked his lips after a sip of sake. Slightly portly, he was already sweating in the warmth of the room. As he spoke, he couldn’t help but glance at the woman kneeling on his right.

“Everything’s arranged, but whether he’ll come is still uncertain,” a cadre downed his sake in one gulp. “Boss, why wait for that nobody? As for the woman, I say—” He chuckled darkly.

Nakayama’s movements froze at once. “You think I don’t know? Who’s the boss here, you or me? Is this your place to question me, hmm?”

“No, not at all!” The cadre broke into a sweat, his embrace of the kimono beauty beside him turning stiff.

Nakayama ignored him, turning his gaze to a man in a black suit who entered briskly.

“Boss,” the newcomer bowed deeply, almost ninety degrees. “From the Yokohama region, representatives of the Han-Tang force, people from Ichimaitang, have arrived.” He remained bent, waiting for permission to rise.

“Ichimaitang?” Nakayama’s hand froze mid-air with the sake cup. His gaze grew colder, a hint of mockery in his eyes. “So Ichimaitang really does have close ties with the Xiao family of Han-Tang. Even they’re getting involved.” With that, he tossed the rest of his sake back. “Let them in.”

Amid thunder and lightning, a woman in an estate kimono led the way, followed by three men. At their head was a slightly short, pot-bellied middle-aged man in a black suit—almost comical in appearance. Flanking him were two young men in gray jackets, each carrying a small rectangular case in both hands.

They quickly reached the main hall. The kimonoed woman nodded, bowed, and withdrew. The remaining three knelt, the short man at the center.

“President Nakayama, apologies for the intrusion!” The middle-aged man bowed again, his slicked-back hair thinning on top, gleaming under the lights. “I am Sun Zhongyi, leader of Ichimaitang of Yokohama. I ask for your kind consideration.”

“Mr. Sun,” Nakayama grinned, drawing a cigar and letting a kimonoed attendant light it. He took a slow drag, exhaling leisurely. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Not to instruct, certainly,” Sun Zhongyi bowed again, his perpetual smile making him look less like a gang boss and more like the owner of a Chinese restaurant. “It’s like this: I heard that the eldest daughter and young master of the Xiao family from Han-Tang had a misunderstanding with your group and that you invited the young lady for a visit. My humble request is, out of respect, as the night grows late, might I take the young lady home to rest?”

The hall fell silent, thunder rumbling outside.

“Hahaha!” Nakayama blew a smoke ring, glancing at the woman kneeling in the courtyard. His smile grew deeper. “I see.” He slapped his thigh and exchanged a meaningful look with the woman at his side. “So, Mr. Sun, you mean…”

Sun Zhongyi straightened, smiling faintly. He raised his right hand, index and middle finger together, beckoning forward.

The two young men behind him immediately set their cases on the tatami, opened them, and revealed stacks of crisp bills, pushing them forward in unison.

“We came on short notice. This is one hundred million yen—a small token. I hope President Nakayama will forgive the brevity,” Sun Zhongyi said with a squinting smile.

Nakayama narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t an enormous sum, but relative to the value of what was at stake, it was enough. He smiled, placing his cigar in the ashtray. “Mr. Sun, you are thoughtful indeed.”

“However, this is a matter for Agihara Trading Company. Mr. Sun, you may be from Ichimaitang in Yokohama, but even with your wide reach, Sagane is not your territory.”

Sun Zhongyi’s smile faltered. He hadn’t expected even this offer to fail. Still, considering the Xiao family’s worth, it made sense—Nakayama would know the price was more than fair. So, Sun Zhongyi smiled again. “We are all neighbors, President Nakayama. Surely, you can show a little restraint?”

“And if I say no?” Nakayama took a cold drag on his cigar, the smoke slowly dissipating.

“You—!” Sun Zhongyi couldn’t help but sit up straight. He was not one for causing trouble, but with the Xiao family involved, he had no choice.

In that instant, a cold smile flickered at Nakayama’s lips. Suddenly, the young man on Sun Zhongyi’s left moved—striking Sun hard in the back, then spinning to crush the throat of his companion. Blood spurted as he leaped to Nakayama’s side, bowing respectfully.

Sun Zhongyi spat blood, glaring coldly at the youth. “Zhang Yan, I’ve treated you well. How dare you betray me?”

“Director Sun,” Zhang Yan replied, his face somber. “The Xiao family is finished. You may feel obliged, but don’t drag Ichimaitang’s brothers down with you, alright?”

“Fine, I misjudged you.” Sun Zhongyi wiped blood from his lips. “You’re already a martial adept at the early Yellow Realm. Very well—Ichimaitang has no place for someone like you.”

“A wise bird chooses a good tree, Director Sun,” Zhang Yan replied faintly, bowing to Nakayama. “President Nakayama, everything has gone according to your original plan. I tampered with the car. That useless wretch should be dead by now.”

“Excellent! So promising and loyal!” Nakayama laughed, patting the waist of the beauty beside him. “I’m very satisfied with your devotion.”

“And these people… the woman…” Zhang Yan’s eyes shone. He had plotted against Ichimaitang for a long time and now, finally, his chance had come.

Nakayama waved his hand. “They’re yours to deal with. Sooner or later, you’ll have to shoulder your own responsibilities, won’t you?”

Zhang Yan straightened, about to speak when another man in a black suit hurried in, nearly running as he reached the door. Bowing low, he announced, “President, that… that useless wretch has arrived.”

Thunder crackled, silver serpents dancing across the sky. Silence fell once more; all music, conversation, and laughter vanished in an instant.