CHAPTER 93: THE MYTH!!!

Few years ago.

Somewhere between the Ocean full moon night. On a Japanese Yakuza - Yoshinawa Ryota’s yacht Party.

The moon hung heavy over the endless ocean, its pale light turning the waves into sheets of silver. The Yoshinawa yacht cut through the dark waters like a beast of luxury and power, its multiple decks glowing with warm golden light. The polished black hull reflected the moonlight, while silk banners embroidered with dragons fluttered gently in the sea breeze. From the upper deck came the faint strains of traditional shamisen strings weaving in with smooth jazz, creating an intoxicating mix of East and West.

Crystal chandeliers swayed above tables laden with delicacies from across Asia—platters of fresh sashimi laid out on ice, lacquered trays carrying steaming dumplings, bowls of glossy ramen, plates of Peking duck sliced with surgical precision. The scent of truffle oil and grilled wagyu mingled with the briny perfume of the sea. Champagne flutes clinked, laughter rose and fell, and somewhere near the bow, couples swayed together to the music. A small circle had even formed on the dance floor where elegant women in shimmering cheongsams spun under the arms of men in tailored suits.

Near the sleek, curved bar counter, a young man leaned back with a wine glass in hand. His expression was calm but his eyes scanned the room with quiet calculation.

Flora, a poised young woman with an air of understated elegance, stood beside him holding a small porcelain bowl of matcha ice cream, her gaze more on the crowd than her dessert.

Dion took a sip of his wine and spoke just loud enough for her to hear. "Flora, keep your eyes on Ryota."

Her lips curved faintly as she spooned another bite of ice cream. "Negative, Dion. I don’t think he’s going to show up here."

Dion’s eyes didn’t leave the crowd. "The information’s solid. He’s definitely making a deal with the Russians tonight. They’re already here."

She sighed. "What a trouble." Then her gaze shifted, sharp as a hawk’s. "Wait. I see him. On the balcony. Look up."

Dion’s eyes followed hers. There he was—a figure on the upper deck, framed by the moonlit sky. "There he is. We’ll take him down at the right time."

Before either could move, the music halted mid-note. A low, commanding voice came through the speakers, smooth but carrying a weight that demanded silence.

"May I have your attention, my guests. I hope you are enjoying the hospitality. Thank you for coming here."

Heads turned upward toward the balcony. Even before he spoke again, whispers rippled through the crowd.

"That’s him... Ryota."

"He looks so different from his younger days."

"Shh. Don’t speak too loud. His men will hear you."

Yoshinawa Ryota stepped forward into the moonlight. A man in his forties, his presence was as sharp as the steel he was known for. His black hair was slicked back, streaked with the faintest threads of silver. The tailored suit he wore was cut in a way that spoke of both wealth and discipline, and there was something in his eyes—cold and deliberate, like the stillness before a storm.

He rested both hands on the balcony rail and let his voice roll out over the deck. "Can you see the moon? How red it is tonight."

The crowd turned toward the horizon. Indeed, the moon was tinged with a deep crimson hue, as if the ocean itself had bled into the sky.

"When I was a child," Ryota continued, "my grandfather told me a story. In a small village, far from here, there was a young man who returned home after completing his education. He found that everyone in his village was selfish, bound by superstition, clinging to empty myths. The young man understood that without education, they would never grow. So he tried—he tried to reform them, to make them invest together and build a school for their children."

The crowd listened in silence, the only sound the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull.

"But the villagers’ beliefs did not change. Some corrupt rich men used those beliefs to keep their control. They saw the young man as a threat. They plotted against him. They killed his family. And when he begged the others to see reason, no one listened."

Ryota’s voice dropped lower, colder.

"They cast him out. He lost everything. But he did not back down. He forged a sharp katana. He made himself a mask—a demon’s face. On a full moon night like this one, he returned. In front of the entire village, he slaughtered those corrupt men. The moon above was blood red. The masked man stood there like an evil spirit born from the shadows. With the blood of his enemies, he wrote a message to the village."

Ryota stepped back, his eyes narrowing as if he were staring straight into that story’s past.

"’Until the next full moon,’ he wrote, ’if I do not see a school here, the moon will be red again.’"

The silence on deck was absolute. Not even the glasses clinked now.

"The man became a myth," Ryota said, his voice rising once more. "And the myth reformed the people."

From beside him, a black-clad attendant stepped forward and placed something into his hand. Ryota raised it high—an exquisitely crafted katana, the blade catching the moonlight in a sharp, almost blinding glint. The crimson-tinted moon reflected along the steel as if the blade itself had been stained with the blood of the story.

"Tonight," he declared, "we make our own reform. The deal I am making will make our people stronger. Who will invest in this reform with me?"

For a moment there was only the sound of the sea. Then, like a wave breaking, several millionaires surged forward, their voices eager, almost desperate.

"I am with you, Mr. Yoshinawa!"

"Yes—my money is yours for this cause!"

Ryota’s eyes glittered with satisfaction as the pledges rang out into the night air, mingling with the moonlit ocean breeze.

The moonlight spilled over the deck like molten silver as Flora’s eyes followed Ryota’s retreat from the balcony. Her voice was low but edged with steel.

"He is quite a storyteller."

Dion smirked faintly, swirling the last sip of wine in his glass. "What a cartoon. He doesn’t even look like a yakuza."

Flora’s lips curved, though her gaze stayed cold. "Still, don’t forget his crimes. This will be the last night he sees the full moon."

From the far end of the deck, the music started again—slow, deliberate notes swelling into a fast, pulsing rhythm. The dance floor lit up as couples began to move in perfect sync, their clothes swirling under the soft golden light. Ryota stepped forward, taking the hand of a tall woman in a crimson dress, guiding her into the crowd with surprising grace.

Dion’s eyes narrowed. "Let’s begin. This is what we’ve been waiting for."

He took Flora’s hand, the two of them blending into the moving tide of dancers. The rhythm quickened. Feet moved faster. Bodies spun closer together. The crowd shifted and, with a well-timed step, they drew nearer to Ryota.

Flora’s fingers brushed against the concealed poisoned needle hidden in the folds of her sleeve. With a dancer’s spin, she closed the gap and swung her hand toward Ryota’s neck.

But his grip was faster. His hand shot up, catching her wrist mid-strike.

The music snapped into silence. Gasps broke out as armed men in black suits materialized from the edges of the deck, surrounding them with pistols raised.

Ryota’s eyes glinted with recognition and mockery. "Well, well... isn’t this the poison lady from the graveyard. I have heard much about you."

Flora wrenched her hand free, her face unreadable. Dion’s hand was already on his weapon, the polished barrel of a gun emerging from beneath his jacket.

Ryota’s voice carried like the pull of a tide. "Come now, young man. I have known about you two since you set foot on my yacht."

Flora’s tone was calm as still water. "If that’s true, then you should not have come here tonight."

Dion let out a slow sigh. "What a fool."

His hand dipped into his coat. A moment later, two small canisters rolled across the floor. Smoke erupted in thick, curling plumes, swallowing the lights and turning the deck into a ghostly cloud.

"Protect the boss!" a voice roared.

The night erupted in chaos. Gunfire cracked through the haze. Screams tore across the deck as civilians fled, tripping over chairs, leaping for the lifeboats hanging from the sides. The air reeked of cordite and fear.

Through the swirling smoke, shadows moved and fell. One by one, Ryota’s men dropped to the floor. The mist, now tinged with red from the yacht’s lighting, gave every figure a phantom-like glow.

When the last echoes of gunfire faded, the smoke thinned enough to reveal the aftermath. Bodies lay scattered across the deck, lifeless.

Flora and Dion stood back-to-back, their breathing steady, their weapons lowered but ready.

Ryota’s gaze locked on them, his face twisting, veins pulsing at his temples. "You are not leaving this place alive. I will give you a sea burial tonight."

His pistol came up. A sharp crack split the night. Dion and Flora dropped behind an overturned table as splinters flew from the impact.

Then—silence.

Ryota’s eyes swept the deck. He took a single step forward. That was when the faintest sound came from behind him—a whisper of movement. He spun around.

Flora was there. Close enough for the cold glint of a knife’s edge to kiss his throat.

A second blade flashed. Pain seared through his wrist as the weapon clattered from his hand to the deck.

"Don’t move, old man," Flora’s voice cut through the silence.

Dion rose from cover, walking toward them. But his eyes flicked upward—and froze.

"Flora, get down!"

She barely had time to turn before Dion’s body was already moving, shoving her toward cover. A shot rang out. Heat tore through his arm, the bullet grazing deep enough to send a spray of blood across the floor.

They slid behind the thick steel railing, Dion clutching his arm but keeping his voice steady.

Ryota turned sharply, confusion flashing across his face. His eyes found the source of the shot—figures on the upper balcony.

The man in the center stepped forward under the moonlight, flanked by gunmen in dark coats.

Before Ryota could react, the balcony erupted in a storm of gunfire. Bullets shredded the railings, tore through the furniture, and ripped across the deck. Ryota staggered, the force of the impacts tearing him down in a mess of crimson and shattered bone.

Flora’s eyes stayed locked on the attackers. "Are you all right, Dion?"

He winced but forced a grin. "I’m fine. Just a scratch. We need to get out of here."

She glanced at the balcony again. "Who are they?"

Dion’s gaze darkened. "The man in the middle... Yujii."

Her expression sharpened. "Ryota’s rival gang?"

"Yes," Dion said. "And this... this was unexpected."

The gunfire continued to rake the yacht, the sound mixing with the crashing of waves and the distant roar of the fleeing boats.

The gunfire from above faded into scattered pops, replaced by the shouts of men regrouping under Yujii’s orders. One of his lieutenants hurried to him, breathing hard.

"Boss, Ryota is dead. What do we do with these two mercenaries?"

Yujii’s gaze flicked toward Dion and Flora, cold and calculating. "Take care of them. One of them is already wounded."

Another man emerged from the shadows, his voice low and urgent. "Boss, the bombs are placed."

Yujii did not hesitate. "Prepare the escape boats. First, deal with those two. I have no time to waste with the graveyard when they find out I have ruined their operation."

The gang scattered like a pack of wolves, moving in from both sides of the deck.

Flora checked the magazine of her pistol, lips pressed tight. "We are out of bullets."

Dion’s eyes tracked the advancing shapes in the dim light. "They’re coming. Let’s move."

But it was too late. Armed men stepped from the smoke, forming a tight ring around them, gun barrels glinting under the moon.

Dion gave a half-smile, as if mocking fate. "Looks like this is the end."

Flora’s laugh was sharp, dangerous. "End? I don’t think so."

A sudden, high-pitched whistle sliced through the air from somewhere behind the attackers. The men turned, confusion flashing across their faces—then the first head fell, cleanly severed. Another followed.

Standing amidst the collapsing bodies was a figure in a demon mask, the moonlight catching on the edge of a blood-wet katana.

Dion’s voice was quiet but certain. "Yeah... I had a feeling the myth would come true."

Flora didn’t waste a second. She kicked one of the nearest men square in the chest, sending him tumbling over the railing and into the dark waters below.

Dion spotted a pistol clattering from a dying man’s hand. He snatched it up and fired in short, precise bursts, each shot finding its mark.

The masked man moved like liquid death, each swing of the katana smooth and deliberate. Flesh parted, bone cracked, and the deck became a vision from a nightmare.

Flora winced, her voice breaking the rhythm of violence. "Eww... this is so cruel."

Dion laughed through the chaos. "Hey, Ghost, when did you learn the katana?"

The masked figure stepped closer, his voice muffled but clear. "You two all right?"

Dion’s grin faltered. "We were almost dead a moment ago. What are you even doing here?"

Ghost’s eyes, hidden behind the mask, locked on Dion. "Command sent me. They found out Yujii is also on this yacht. And they’ve brought a lot of fireworks."

Flora’s brows drew together. "Seriously? What do they plan to do?"

Dion’s voice hardened. "They were planning to destroy the yacht with everyone still on it. But now... we’ve forced them to change their plans."

Ghost’s gaze dropped to Dion’s arm. "You’re bleeding."

Dion tried to brush it off, hiding the wound with a quick shift of his jacket.

Ghost’s tone left no room for argument. "Take him out of here. Get to the boat."

Dion shook his head. "Hold on. What about you?"

Ghost’s voice was final. "I’ll be right behind you. Let me finish this."

"I’m coming with you," Dion said, already trying to push himself up.

Ghost turned to Flora.

Flora held Dion in place. "Leave him to me."

Dion’s glare softened into reluctant trust. "You’d better come back soon."

The roar of the sea rose as Dion and Flora climbed into a small escape boat. The engine growled to life and the vessel cut across the water, leaving the burning yacht behind.

On the deck, Ghost tightened his grip on the katana. "Let’s make the story true then." He stepped forward, every movement deliberate, precise, unrelenting.

The distant sound of screams followed Dion and Flora’s boat into the night.

Flora pressed hard against Dion’s wound, her hands steady despite the blood. "This is giving me déjà vu."

Dion managed a faint smirk. "You’re right. We met him in a place like this... when he was just a kid."

Flora’s tone was dry. "He’s still a kid, you idiot. Not even an adult yet."

From the distance, the yacht bloomed with sudden light.

A split second later, the sea trembled with the thunder of a massive explosion. Fire and shrapnel erupted into the night sky, and the shockwave rolled across the water, chasing them into the dark.