Yesterday I was told my best friend was dead... I couldn't shed a single tear.
The grave. Grass had already begun to sprout through the fresh earth, but it was still black and damp. Rain had been falling since morning—fine, cold, piercing. It drummed against the black umbrella Genzo held over his head, and rolled down his shoulders, leaving wet trails on his jacket.
He stood alone.
Only him and this mound of earth beneath which lay the one he had failed to protect. Genzo looked at the gravestone. The name was carved in neat letters, but they seemed foreign to him, as if they belonged not to the person he had known.
He didn't cry. He couldn't. Guilt gave him no peace; Genzo couldn't find words to describe what he felt.
Behind him, a few steps away, stood Raiden. He didn't come closer. He simply waited. Further off, by the old tree, Aya was sobbing. She had covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. She murmured something unintelligible. Genzo heard her sobs but didn't turn around.
They killed him, he thought. And I never even managed to tell him what he meant to me. All of it, an illusion and self-deception. I couldn't give you what people call happiness.
Genzo gripped the umbrella's handle until his knuckles turned white. The rain grew heavier. Drops drummed against the black dome of the umbrella like thousands of tiny hammers against an eardrum. The wind stirred his wet hair, plastered to his forehead. He stood motionless, staring at the burial mound, which had already begun to settle under the weight of rain and time. The name on the stone: Renji Asakawa. He said it to himself, and it burned his tongue like a hot coal.
"Forgive me, please, for abandoning you. Your grandfather... it all started with him, didn't it?"
Genzo clenched his fists. He thought about how they'd met. How Renji had smiled at him for the first time. How he'd talked about books, about mandarins, about wanting to become a musician. Genzo hadn't paid it any mind back then. He'd been too consumed with himself. His fights. His pain. He'd thought he'd have time. That there would always be time. But there hadn't been. Now Renji lay in the ground, and Genzo couldn't even ask his forgiveness.
"You told me once: 'Genzo, you're the only one who understands me.' And I didn't even listen," he whispered. "Your words about your grandfather raping women, they affected me too. My emotions were just an illusion. All because of those fucking fights, and because I decided to dance to their tune. To hell with their principles."
A rustle sounded behind him. Raiden took a step, then stopped. The wind picked up, and the rain struck the umbrella with renewed force. Genzo felt water seeping through his jacket, but it didn't matter.
"They'll kill someone else," he said quietly, but firmly. "And people will look away. It's easier that way. And I'll become just another piece of rot who couldn't save his own friend. I wanted to change people, but instead I got changed. Tomorrow they'll leave someone else without someone close to them, doesn't matter who, they'll keep doing it, for the sake of their philosophy."
He raised his head, staring at the wet stone. Where Renji's name was carved, raindrops gathered into little streams, trickling down the dark granite into the damp earth. Genzo looked at his own hands, pale as death.
"I'll find them," he said. "I'll kill them. And I won't let them forget who they killed. Let them stop believing there's a future for them, in their will, which no longer belongs to them, rotten filth."
Genzo turned and walked away. Raiden watched him go but said nothing. Aya wept by the tree, her sobs drowned out by the wind. Genzo didn't look back.
He arrived home. The door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the rain. The entryway was dark, only a dim light spilling from the kitchen. He took off his wet jacket, hung it on the hook, and walked into the room.
His mother sat on a chair, peeling potatoes. She didn't look up when he came in. Her hands moved rhythmically, the blade sliding easily along the skin, cutting strip after thin strip.
Genzo sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. He stared at one point, unblinking. The silence stretched on. He could hear her breathing, hear a clock ticking somewhere in the next room.
He smelled the raw potatoes and the scent of home, a smell that had always felt cozy to him, but now felt foreign. That smell no longer soothed him. Along with it came the thought that he could never go back to who he'd been before. Too much had changed.
His mother set down the knife and turned to him. Her eyes were as dark as his. She'd always had a way of looking at him as if she knew everything he felt.
"What happened?" she asked.
Genzo didn't answer for a long time. Then he said:
"They killed my friend."
"Which friend?"
"Renji. He was... he was my friend. Maybe my only real one."
His mother watched him without looking away. Her face stayed calm.
"How did they kill him? Like a pig?"
"Brutally. They tortured him, then dismembered him. And I don't know what to do."
His mother was silent for a moment. Her hands lay in her lap, peels scattered around her on the table.
"Do you want revenge?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Are you ready to kill?"
"Yes."
"You need vengeance, without principles, without morality? Did I understand that right?"
"Exactly that."
She looked at him for a long time, studying him. Then she nodded and wiped her hands on a towel.
"Follow me," she said.
"Where?" Genzo asked.
"To the garage."
He stood without asking further questions and followed her. The kitchen light stayed behind them, and they stepped into the darkness of the garage. His mother switched on a lamp; a bare bulb with no shade lit up the concrete floor, old tools, dust-covered boxes. She walked to the far wall and tore away a purple cloth covering something hanging there.
Genzo froze.
On the wall hung a portrait of his grandmother. A young woman in military uniform, a rifle in her hands. Her eyes looked out with the same cold resolve he saw in his mother's.
"That's her," his mother said. "My mother. Your grandmother."
Genzo stepped closer. He studied the face in the portrait, trying to find familiar features in it. They were there, in the line of the cheekbones, in the dark eyes, in the thin lips. The same blood. The same darkness.
"Was she... in the war?" Genzo asked.
"Yes. She fought. Just not on that side."
His mother went to the wall and took down a carbine. Long, dark, with a massive suppressor that took up nearly half its length. She held it out to Genzo, and he took the weapon. The metal was cold, the wooden stock smooth with age. The carbine was heavy, almost four kilograms. Genzo ran his fingers along the barrel, the suppressor, the stock. He could feel its history. The weight of what this weapon had done.
"What is it?" he asked.
His mother straightened and looked him directly in the eyes. There was no fear or doubt in her gaze, only cold, steel certainty.
"A De Lisle carbine," she said. "Made in 1942. One of the quietest weapons in history. No one ever heard the shots when it was fired."
"How does it work?"
"See this barrel?" She pointed to the short section in front of the suppressor. "It's made from a Thompson submachine gun. The barrel is very short, only 210 millimeters. Inside it, holes are drilled, ports, that vent some of the propellant gases into the suppressor before the bullet even leaves the barrel. The suppressor takes up more than half the weapon's length and has a complex system of baffles, essentially a maze. The gases expand and cool inside it, so the shot is almost silent."
Genzo looked at the carbine. He turned it over in his hands, examining the suppressor.
"Why almost silent?" he asked.
"Two reasons. The .45 ACP cartridge it uses travels slower than the speed of sound, so the bullet doesn't produce a crack like an ordinary rifle shot does. And the suppressor. Tests showed the report doesn't exceed 85.5 decibels—about as loud as a raised conversation. At fifty yards, no one could hear it at all. People would simply drop, and no one would understand where the shot had come from."
Genzo turned the carbine, examining it from the other side. On the underside of the forestock he could see a small wooden panel, and on the receiver, a sight graduated from 50 to 200 yards.
"And why was she armed with it?"
His mother paused. She walked to the workbench, where a box of cartridges sat. She picked one up, turning it between her fingers.
"Because she served in special units. This weapon was made on order from the British command for high-priority missions, assassinations that couldn't be traced. Your grandmother used it in Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg. They say she killed so many people, no one could count them all."
"She served in a unit?"
His mother's gaze shifted to him. She stepped closer, almost right up against him.
"Yes. Unit 731. Within the Japanese army. She was a machine gunner. Then she was captured by the Americans. And they sent her to Europe. That's where she got hold of this carbine. She saved the life of a German officer in 1944, and he gave her this weapon in gratitude. That's how she fought until the war's end."
Genzo looked at her. His face showed nothing but cold attention.
"And you?" he asked. "Did you fight too?"
She nodded. Her hand touched the carbine, and there was something almost maternal in the gesture.
"I sat in prison. Ten years. I was locked up in 2012. For killing ten people," she said. "I learned it from my mother. Your grandmother. She used to say: 'People are incorrigible. They can apologize, but inside they'll remain what the universe made them.' And she was right."
Genzo gripped the carbine tighter, feeling its shape as an extension of his own hand. The cold metal settled into his palm as if they'd been made for each other. The barrel was short, only eight and a quarter inches, but because of the massive suppressor the weapon seemed longer than it actually was. The bolt moved smoothly, without hesitation, and Genzo already knew this mechanism would function even in mud, even in darkness. He could feel his fingers memorizing the shape of the stock, his muscles growing used to the weight. This weapon spoke to him in a language he was beginning to understand.
Genzo raised his head and looked his mother directly in the eyes. His gaze had hardened, and there was no more doubt in it.
"I want retribution," he said. "This was unjust."
"Retribution doesn't bring justice," she answered. "It only brings silence. But sometimes silence is the only answer they're capable of understanding."
"What should I do?"
His mother looked at the portrait of Hirohito on the wall. Then she turned back to him.
"They'll come for you," she said. "They know who you are. They killed your friend because they knew you existed. They want you to suffer. To be afraid. To know what they're capable of. They want to watch the world collapse from senseless violence, and their ideology is nothing but a catalyst for it. All these killers, rapists, sadists, they're chaos. Their thirst for murder shows that the police are exhausted, that corruption and bureaucracy surround them, and that in this cesspool, they are absolute in everything. This is their vacuum."
"They won't get that."
"Then you need to be ready. You have a year."
"A year? Couldn't it be two months?"
"Morally, you're ready. Physically too. Even for sexual violence, you're ready" she said it without a tremor, as a plain fact. "Only one thing remains: mastering the weapon. You'll be using firearms, but blades too. Work out a clear plan. Without one, you're nothing. I consider one year logical and reasonable. Don't you agree, son?"
Genzo looked at the carbine. Heavy, dark, with its massive suppressor and short barrel. He could feel its history, the weight of the shots no one had ever heard, and the silence they left behind.
"I'll learn," he said.
His mother took the carbine from his hands and raised it, aiming at the portrait on the wall.
"Now listen," she said. "I'll tell you how this weapon ended up where she found it. And how she survived."
She lowered the carbine and began to speak. Her voice dropped slightly, as if she were returning to the past.
"May tenth, 1940," she said. "The start of the invasion of Belgium. The German army was advancing, but the main obstacle was the Albert Canal, wide, deep, and heavily fortified. Three bridges crossed it: at Kanne, Veldwezelt, and Vroenhoven. Each was guarded by Belgian garrisons, ready to blow them at the first sign of danger. Also standing in the path of the German forces was the impregnable fortress of Eben-Emael, one of the most powerful forts in Europe. The Belgians considered it invulnerable. Hitler wanted to take it and the bridges as the keys to Belgium's heart. But that required something new. Something unprecedented. And that something appeared."
His mother walked to the table where a history book lay, and opened it to a photograph of a German glider.
"They used DFS 230 gliders, silent machines that couldn't be heard on approach. No engines, no noise. Each glider carried eight to twelve paratroopers. Their mission was simple: land directly on the fort's roof and on the bridges, take up positions, and hold them until the main forces arrived. They flew out from Cologne and glided silently over enemy territory, dropping troops at the most unexpected points."
Genzo looked at the photograph. The glider seemed fragile, almost unreal, but he knew these machines had become the decisive factor.
"They used shaped charges," his mother continued. "It was secret technology, capable of burning through concrete and armor. With it, they destroyed the fort's guns and neutralized its defenses. And the bridges at Veldwezelt and Vroenhoven were captured intact. Only the bridge at Kanne was successfully blown by the Belgians."
She turned the page and showed a photograph of German paratroopers on the bridge.
"After taking the bridges, the paratroopers found themselves surrounded. The Belgians launched counterattacks, and a handful of soldiers, armed with machine guns, held them off until their own tanks arrived. They held out for several hours, and then the Wehrmacht broke through across the canal. The entire campaign lasted no more than two days—Belgium collapsed."
His mother closed the book and looked at Genzo.
"Your grandmother was there. At Fort Eben-Emael."
"Was she Belgian?"
"No. Your grandmother was a Japanese emigrant living in Belgium before the war. In 1940 she found herself in the occupied zone. In 1945, after the liberation, she was arrested by Belgian authorities as a 'Japanese spy', by mistake, and handed over to the Americans. They released her in 1946. She'd fought alongside the Belgian soldiers who saved her, and she joined them. She wasn't an ideologue. She was a soldier trying to survive. She fought on the Belgian side because it was the only way to stay alive. Before that, she'd been a nurse, as I said, in Unit 731. Officially it was called the 'Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department of the Kwantung Army' and was supposedly devoted to water purification and epidemic control. In reality it was a front for developing biological weapons."
Genzo stayed silent. He looked at the carbine his mother held.
"She killed German officers to survive," his mother continued. "This carbine became her instrument. Silent. Invisible. Soundless."
She held the carbine back out to Genzo.
"This weapon was made to kill without noise. Without a trace. It was used during the Second World War by British commandos, special units, the Resistance. Later it turned up in Malaya, Korea, Vietnam, where people were killed unnoticed, quickly, quietly, without further questions."
Genzo took the carbine, holding it in his hands. He felt its cold, its weight, its history. This weapon had been made to kill silently, and it did that better than anything else.
"Grandmother taught me that the world knows no justice," his mother said. "It knows only violence. And the ones who killed your friend won't stop. They'll keep killing, again and again, until someone stops them. They have their own reality, one they've built brick by brick. And you have to tear it down."
Genzo raised his head. There was no longer any doubt in his eyes.
"Then I'll stop them."
His mother looked at him. Her face was unreadable, but in his eyes she saw the same spark that had burned in her own so many years ago.
"They won't apologize. They won't change," she said. "They prove only one thing: that existence is meaningless. Their sadism is nothing but a justification for their ego and their pride. They think that if reality is boring, then killing is their purpose. That's their life experience. These bastards think they're the law of the universe."
"I don't want their apologies," Genzo said. "I want them to understand that their existence is an illusion."
His mother said nothing. She looked at him with the same cold calm as always.
"Then make them lose faith in the future," she said. "Strip them of hope. Bring their world crashing down. And remember one thing: it isn't the world that's cruel—it's we who create these circumstances. People were given everything, nature, resources, and they turned it all into shit. The world simply exists."
Genzo looked at her. They stood facing each other. Both with dark eyes. Both knew they had no soul. No self. No moral or philosophical boundaries. Just two people ready to kill anyone without empathy, without regret. Mother and son, one and indivisible, self-sufficient.
"Just make them realize their existence has no meaning," his mother said. "Their souls are as empty as their beliefs."
His mother straightened and studied him closely. Her voice grew firmer, almost commanding.
"You need to move fast," she said. "They'll start looking for you the moment they realize you're not broken. And when they come, you'll be waiting. You'll be ready."
"And if they don't come?" Genzo asked.
"They'll come. They can't leave you alive, that would be proof of their weakness. They'll kill you, or die themselves. There's no other way."
She left the garage and turned back, already standing in the doorway.
"In a year you'll be ready," she said. "Or you'll be dead. There's no choice."
His mother nodded and walked out. Genzo remained standing alone in the garage. He looked at the carbine, at his grandmother's portrait, at the tools, at the cold concrete floor.
He knew everything around him had changed. Genzo shifted his gaze and noticed a letter of thanks. A gift transferring that very weapon—a 1946 license, owner Matsuri Takeda. My grandmother. She had died long ago.