Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
They arrived before 4:00 a.m., under cover of low visibility and mist.
No airport lights.
No flight logs.
All crew members were Scales.
No pattern.
No trail.
Each plane carried cargo bays brimming with crates, packed tight with modified assault rifles, titanium-core bullets, smoke grenades, and black-market C4 that could flatten a city block.
Many of the guns bore a grotesque kind of beauty. There were roses carved into the butts, just like the Butcher had said. The rifles were lacquered obsidian, inlaid with cherry blossom filigree. Some even had piano key triggers. A few bombs had diamond-studded musical notes etched along their shells—tiny treble clefs and crescendos. Hand grenades were sculpted like Fabergé eggs.
Only the Butcher would make death so decadent—couture instruments of war.
The plan was already moving beneath the surface.
While I spent time with my Tiger tonight, Hiro would be monitoring our people across the country and planting bombs in every major artillery warehouse my father controlled. Seventeen districts, fourteen teams, and over two hundred men—all following the pulse of my plan.
Locations had been scouted. Guard rotations were observed. Every port, warehouse, and high-rise my father’s people touched was marked. From Shinjuku to Yokohama, we were already inside.
And more than his weapons would explode. I had my scope centered on his four prefectures, shell companies, and hundreds of his secret operative headquarters.
Everything would be burning on schedule.
Plus, all targets had shadow targets.
If one failed, the second would detonate.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
Redundancy was not a precaution.
It was principle.
When time came, the Claws would carry out the strikes, the Fangs would enforce the silence, and the Scales would cover the edges—guarding the brothels, banks, and bureaucrats my father thought he still owned.
My father knew what he did in that hospital. He’d broken Hiro’s heart and enraged me. Therefore, he thought it would be wise to put his people in control of all our weapons. Surely, he wanted to make sure I didn’t take any out and move against him.
But Hiro wasn’t broken in the way my father thought. Since returning to Tokyo, Hiro hadn’t spoken. He had a neutral face, and remained watchful, but I saw it. The pain was there—in his eyes, in the way he held himself tighter than usual.
When I went over the war plan again, Hiro didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, silent, distant, unreachable.
But I noticed the keychain—a chipped anime figurine hung from his belt now. Reo told me it was something Nura had won in the claw machine during their date night in Akihabara.
I doubt she even meant for him to keep it.
She probably laughed when she handed it over, teasing him about luck.
But Hiro had never been good at letting go of the things that made him feel human.
While I had a date with my Tiger, I knew how this night would be for my brother. Hiro would be alone in a locked room, holding that ridiculous little charm like it was sacred. A wound he didn’t want stitched closed just yet.
And then he would go out. Carry out the plan with cold, perfect precision. Because that’s who Hiro was. A silent ache turned into the deadliest blade.
Regardless, when we returned to Tokyo, we caught the rumors in the east that said the Fox had already picked a new heir. Not me. Not Hiro. One of his many bastard sons. Akiro Hanabusa. They called him the Glass Thorn—sharp, pretty, and easy to underestimate. Raised in a ryokan with a stage mother and a blade collection, Akiro was the kind of boy who smiled as he poisoned the tea.
Hiro and I met him once when we were young. I was maybe thirteen, Hiro eleven. He’d been brought to my father’s birthday party and paraded like a novelty. I think he was barely ten.
Hiro ignored him. I tried to speak to him. Akiro said nothing. Just looked at us like we didn’t deserve his attention.
Years passed.
I didn’t see him again until my father quietly moved him into control of the Osaka operations—sliding him into power like a knife between the ribs.
I reached out.
He declined.
If Akiro got in my way with this war, I would kill the brother I never got a chance to love. Not because I hated him. But because we were both our father’s sons.
Right now, I bet the Fox figured he had our empire in his full control.
But when the time came, not only would our explosives wipe out his weapons stockpile, but they would also crush his doubled security forces that had grown too confident behind metal gates.
Of course, Reo didn’t like the plan—he still worried about the insects in the building, vermin and pests we hadn’t yet identified—but I’d overruled him.
My plan would be cleaner than blood in the streets, safer than stray bullets killing innocent people.
Even more, I’d drafted three alternate outcomes. All ending with my father bleeding.