The witching hour had passed. Now came the time of the Parade of a Hundred Demons.
Nishiyama Heita was one such "demon" prowling beneath the neon-lit, pleasure-soaked nights of Tokyo. Just a few days ago, he'd had a massive demon mask tattooed across his back.
Of course, he'd earned the nickname "Oni Heita" first—then gone to get the tattoo to match.
Tonight, he wore his beloved floral-patterned suit, paired with a blazing red shirt underneath. The look was flamboyant, but the tailoring was just like that of the so-called "winners of life" from top universities.
Pinned to the collar of his suit was the mokko crest of his group—a mark of honor that had taken Nishiyama years of hard work to earn.
From the moment he was allowed to wear that crest, he became the boss of the Kanto Union's Nishiyama-gumi.
He was no longer that pathetic stray dog, Heita.
The Nishiyama-gumi's office was a two-story building. The first floor was a restaurant—a perfect gathering spot when manpower was needed.
The second floor was the real office. Against the north wall stood Nishiyama Heita's desk. In front of it were two cheap sofas arranged in an L-shape. On the equally cheap coffee table sat a statue of a guardian deity and an ashtray.
Behind Nishiyama's chair, hanging on the wall, was a calligraphy scroll he had commissioned from Master Kūkai, the abbot of Taishakuten Temple. It bore a single character: Victory.
Most yakuza bosses would hang scrolls reading "Benevolence and Righteousness" or "Chivalry," but Nishiyama Heita cared only for victory. The rest was meaningless to him.
Only winners counted as men. Losers were just dogs.
No amount of moral posturing could change that simple truth.
That was the biggest lesson Nishiyama had learned over the years.
Originally, he'd wanted a scroll reading Shura—to declare that he would become an asura if that's what it took to achieve his goals.
But Master Kūkai had stared at him for a long time, then refused his request. Instead, he had written "Victory."
"You do not have the path of a Shura in you," the master had pronounced.
Nishiyama wasn't a Buddhist believer, so he didn't care much about the judgment. He hung the scroll anyway—mainly because the calligraphy was excellent, and the meaning happened to match his life philosophy.
Now, seated beneath the bold "Victory," Nishiyama looked at the subordinate who had just returned with news.
"So. That dojo's 'young master'—he gave Tsuda-gumi a good beating?"
"Yes, boss! It's absolutely true—I checked with several eyewitnesses!" The lackey nodded emphatically.
"Eyewitnesses?!"
The bald thug who'd hung the dead chicken at Kazuma's dojo that morning slammed the coffee table with a fist. "You sound like a damn cop!"
"Bandō. Shut it." Nishiyama's voice was icy.
"S-sorry!"
Bandō, as the wakagashira of the Nishiyama-gumi, was technically responsible for keeping discipline among the men. A bit of shouting was part of his job.
But Nishiyama didn't like the over-the-top, snarling yakuza style.
Still, the reason such antics remained popular was simple—they worked.
Unlike American mobsters who rose to power during Prohibition, Japan's yakuza had thrived during real estate booms. Their bread and butter was forcing property owners to sell—by any means necessary—so land could be packaged and resold to developers.
Large yakuza syndicates would first acquire titles to properties slated for development, drive the residents out, and then sell the now-vacant blocks to real estate companies.
That was why most yakuza groups outwardly operated under the guise of "real estate companies."
The Nishiyama-gumi was no exception.
They even paid taxes like a legitimate business.
And that was why a fearsome front—menacing enforcers, ruthless tactics—remained essential to the trade.
A tough-looking wakagashira set the tone for the whole crew, giving them an example to emulate.
"But in the end," Nishiyama asked the messenger, "that dagashi shop still got cleared out?"
"Yes!" This time, the lackey answered loudly, following Bandō's example—earning a satisfied nod from the wakagashira.
"So, the credit ends up going to Tsuda-gumi after all. Hmph. But that Tsuda bastard won't let this slide. Those siblings at the dojo are in trouble now—looks like Tsuda-gumi's going to cross the line."
Bandō looked surprised. "Didn't the territory division for this job get settled at the last Kanto Union council meeting?"
"That's Tsuda we're talking about. The man's a mad dog—he doesn't care about rules. We need to move fast and settle the dojo matter before Tsuda-gumi beats us to the punch."
Nishiyama tilted his chin, exhaled a lazy smoke ring, and glanced at the ceiling. "Accelerate the plan. We'll strike tomorrow. If Tsuda manages to force a fait accompli, it'll be a mess to deal with. And while we're at it—let's give the other stubborn neighbors a taste of what happens when you refuse a polite offer."
"Tomorrow?" Bandō confirmed. "You really want to go through with it?"
"Of course. Kidnap Kiryu Chiyoko. Force Kiryu Kazuma to sign the contract. That's the plan!"
At that, Bandō led the entire office crew in a loud, enthusiastic response: "Yes, boss!"—like warlords of the Sengoku era rallying for battle.
**
Meanwhile, elsewhere—
Smack!
Tsuda Masaaki slapped his underling Shima Sanpei hard across the face.
"Aren't you supposed to know judo?! And you got your ass kicked by a damn high schooler?!"
Bruised and battered, Shima stammered, "They had bamboo swords…"
"And you had a bat, didn't you?!" Another slap. Tsuda waved to the men behind him. "Bring me a bat."
A bat was immediately handed over.
Tsuda swung it and smashed it over Shima's head.
"This is how you use a bat! Got it?!"
Shima nodded frantically, practically groveling.
"You failed your job. Cut a finger to apologize."
Shima froze. "A finger?"
"Yeah! Haven't you seen yakuza movies? Cut your damn finger!"
Shima was on the verge of tears. "P-please, boss, give me another chance…"
Tsuda sneered. "Look at this spineless loser. Got beaten by a high school kid—disgraced the whole group. Now crying over a finger. You don't belong in the yakuza—you should be back on your family's dairy farm, milking cows!"
"My dad already lost the farm… I have to make it here in Tokyo…"
"Who gives a shit!" Whack! Another slap to Shima's head.
At that moment, Tsuda-gumi's wakagashira, Tani Naoto, stepped forward. "Boss—how about I take some of the boys tomorrow and raid that dojo?"
"Are you stupid? That area was assigned at the council meeting—direct orders from the higher-ups, straight from the top guys smoking Cuban cigars. We're just a small fry crew on the fringes. We can't move in unless Nishiyama-gumi fails first."
Tsuda's words were nearly drowned out by Shima's agonized screams as his finger was cut.
Tsuda scowled in annoyance and rolled his eyes.
Tani quickly ordered, "Get him out of here! Bandage him up. No hospitals—take him to a clinic!"
As the men hurried to drag the still-bleeding Shima away, Tani turned back to Tsuda. "So we just wait? Nishiyama Heita isn't the type to fail easily…"
"Isn't that better?" Tsuda retorted. "If Nishiyama pulls it off, those siblings will be forced to move out of their house—meaning they'll be out of Nishiyama's territory. And then… heh. Won't they be ours to deal with however we like?"
As he spoke, Tsuda's lips curled into a malicious grin.
(End of Chapter)