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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Negotiation, Camp Roberts (3)
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Japanese containment area. The boundary of the "Sumiyoshi-kai" within it. The guards were the same as before. Was it coincidence, or a manpower shortage? Winter decided to keep the latter possibility in mind.
"You're that Korean from before..."
He already seemed to know who Winter was. The Japanese man swallowed the habitual "Chosenjin" slur.
"Yes. We met once before."
"What's your business?"
"I'm here about the drug problem. I'd like to see the Kai-cho."
"The Oyabun?"
He eyed Winter cautiously. More precisely, the weapons the boy carried. As a federal army officer, Winter was free to carry arms within the camp.
That didn't mean he could just take them away. After some deliberation, the man nodded.
"I'll report it. Wait here."
"Alright."
Winter nodded.
It didn't take long. Daisuke, was it? The guy who had taken Kushinada Setsuna away. He was quick on his feet. He hurried back and whispered something to his boss among the sentries. Soon, the boss beckoned Winter over.
"He'll see you. Follow me."
As Winter trailed behind, a crowd soon attached themselves. Ambiguous whether escorts or encirclement. In truth, closer to the latter. They glared to suppress his spirit. Winter merely showed a manufactured smile.
Along the way, the visible scenery laid bare the raw reality of the Japanese zone.
Rat traps made from PET bottles were scattered here and there. One had a rat trapped inside, screeching madly. Someone had snatched it before the owner. A young child fled from the furious owner, biting into the live rat. Guts and blood dripped along the footprints of the running child.
In corners, people high on drugs lay sprawled. Methamphetamine staved off the users' hunger. That was why it had been popular in North Korea before the plague outbreak.
They arrived at a tent via a deliberately winding path.
「神州不滅」
(The Divine Land—Japan—Shall Not Perish.)
Crimson letters caught the eye. The color of dried blood. In the center of the tent hung the writing, and beneath it sat a bare-chested man. His upper body was covered in scars and tattoos. Impressively thick muscles.
"Han. Gyeo. Wol."
He pronounced Winter's name deliberately. Difficult for a Japanese speaker.
"Sit."
A seat was prepared. Bare ground with a single mat laid over it, but Winter didn't decline. Behind him, armed men lined up on either side. Just like the Damul Prosperity Society had done. The intent was the same. They glared intently.
The Yakuza boss stared for a while too. Observing the boy. Then he tossed out a word.
"Booze?"
"I'll pass."
"Bold, yet still a child."
As if pre-arranged, food appeared without special orders. Since he'd declined the booze, only water and meat were served. The well-grilled meat was large. Maybe sewer rat. Winter tilted his head.
"Impressive. What kind of meat is this?"
Swallowing sounds came from all sides. The Sumiyoshi-kai boss answered nonchalantly.
"Pig."
Could be. It was possible. If they'd offered tribute to the US military and received it in return. Still, something felt off. In a world without cold chains, fresh pork was exceedingly precious. Winter didn't touch the utensils. The boss revised his assessment of Winter.
"Not so bold after all."
"It's caution."
The boss let out a smirk.
"Then what brings this cautious one here? Really about the drugs?"
"Yes."
The boss received sake service. A very pretty girl, minus the buck teeth, poured for him. The wide-mouthed cup emptied repeatedly. He let out a long sigh laced with alcohol and asked.
"Are you here to buy drugs, or sell them?"
"Neither."
"Then?"
"I want to know how the Koreans and Chinese selling drugs source their product, and their distribution routes."
"And if I tell you?"
"I'll clean them out."
Up to here, the exchange had been very quiet. The boss set down his cup.
"Tadaatsu Ryohei. Owner of the 'Sumiyoshi-kai.'"
"As you know, Han Gyeowol. I've taken the role of representative for the 'Winter Alliance.'"
"Representative. An ambiguous title."
Ryohei tapped his empty cup with a finger.
"Cleaning out means... killing them?"
"If there's no other way."
"In this world, there's no other way. Kill or be killed. One or the other."
"That's the Yakuza way."
It grew noisy. Action members drawing kitchen knives and knives. They didn't move from their spots but brandished them menacingly. Coarse curses as a bonus. Winter thought to himself, wherever they went, they were all the same. All show, no real fight. The boss quieted them. Silent obedience. Even if superficial, a hundred times better than that Makjiri-spouting lunatic.
Ryohei spoke.
"Information has a price. Can't give it for free."
"How shall I pay?"
"Kill them."
A low growl.
"When the Chinajin oppressed us, you Chosenjin joined in the rampage. The junkies were the worst of them. Still are. Poor, starving Japanese hand over everything they have for drugs. If they have nothing, they offer daughters and wives. In truth, the women do it themselves too."
The Yakuza's eyes blazed.
"Promise me. Promise to kill them. I'll tell you everything I know."
"Not interested in borrowed knife killings."
No guarantee the info was solid anyway. What promise? Winter brushed off his seat. People rose busily. Blocking the exit. By then, Winter already gripped his pistol. The Yakuza trembled but faces twisted viciously. No intent to back down. Guts rare in thugs. Proof they'd endured hardships.
From behind, Ryohei spoke.
"Sit."
Winter replied calmly.
"You can't stop me."
"True, we can't. But you'd have to kill us all to break through."
"Worried you can't?"
"It's a loss for you."
Even with permitted carry, mass killing would bring trouble. At least friction with the camp commander. Winter thought a moment, released the pistol, and sat back.
"Out with it."
Winter snapped.
"I just hate seeing my people go mad on drugs. Lunatics inevitably clash. So if you know anything, spill it. Whatever happens, you lose nothing. If it comes to blows, just watch. I said it: I'll kill if needed."
"What if we join hands?"
"Not the time. Let the Chinese fight among themselves, crush the crazy Koreans underfoot, then consider. Need to see if you're sane too."
Ryohei burst into laughter.
"Nationality doesn't matter, eh? Good. With your record, I'll trust you."
The record meant rescuing a girl from the ultra-right lunatics.
He called for someone. Moments later, a pair—a man and woman—entered the tent. They didn't fit the scene. Ryohei whispered in their ears. The trembling pair nodded, then pulled clean paper, writing tools, and a few drawings from their bag. They sat and began copying the drawings onto the paper.
"Manga artists. Good with their hands."
Ryohei said.
"Don't know where the others source the drugs. Distribution either. Only know the people, so better to draw than explain at length."
"You prepared this in advance."
"Riots can happen anytime. Had to teach the kobun who to kill first. This was the best way."
Fair enough. Winter grew curious about the bag's contents. Were there Winter Alliance montages? If they sketched everyone they saw and added info, it was possible.
Quiet time passed.
"Looks done."
As the pair glanced nervously, the Yakuza boss nodded. The man of the pair approached Winter, trembling, and handed over the bundle of papers. Winter's vicious rumors, perhaps. Strangers saw the boy as a psychopathic killer, blood-mad butcher. A properly insane kid.
Fear was an asset. Winter thought so as he examined the drawings.
"Not bad."
Some faces he'd glimpsed in passing. Some had info in the margins. Sighting locations, dates, actions. Affiliations and names occasionally.
"Won't touch the food after all?"
"Rude. I eat well."
"Pity."
As Winter prepared to leave, the Yakuza boss said.
"Next time we meet, think of me as an ethnic leader."
Winter's response.
"Depends on what you do."
Winter seemed overly rude, but the Yakuza had been rude first. Despite Winter representing an organization and coming in person, they'd omitted honorifics from start to finish. In the Yakuza world emphasizing giri, it was blatant insult.
'Just a means for self-aggrandizement anyway.'
Yakuza stress giri, black societies stress xie. Crime groups tout virtues. Without it, no discipline in a criminal band.
For Ryohei, perhaps face-saving.
'But Yakuza calling themselves ethnic leaders...'
Before the chaos, Ryohei himself had probably sold drugs to Japanese.
Still, it might work among Japanese. There's a saying Yakuza arrive before Self-Defense Forces in disasters. Means crime groups manage image meticulously, bureaucracy rigid.
Then, approaching footsteps. Many.
"Uh... ex, excuse me. Are you Han Gyeowol?"
An elderly man's voice. Addressing from an awkwardly distant range. Due to the glaring kumii clinging to the departing Winter. A family of three stood enduring anxiety. Winter recognized the daughter among parents and child.
"Yes, that's me. Hello. Long time no see, Setsuna."
Kushinada Setsuna. Didn't seem well, but complexion improved, clothes better. Just a dark expression. She bowed quickly upon eye contact.
The parents, aged beyond their child's years, bowed deeply.
"Forgive us for not coming sooner. You saved our daughter. We thank you sincerely."
As Winter calmly began to reply, an angry voice interrupted.
"Ah, seriously! Dad! Mom! I told you not to do this! Why grovel to a Chosenjin!"
"Hm?"
Turning, a twisted-faced young man. Stocky. He strode over and roughly handled his parents. Forcibly stood them up and glared at Winter.
"You human scum, what makes you worthy of thanks?"
"..."
Winter tilted his head. Who was this guy? Family, but didn't look like same blood. Not genes, then a badly sown field. The mother scolded.
"Son. Isn't this human decency? How grateful to have such a person amid those who forgot it?"
"Such a person? That bastard? Ha, really."
He yelled wildly.
"Mom, ears blocked? Chosenjin! Cho! Sen! Jin! Peninsula bastards all the same, don't you know? Fuck, thief steals stuff, uses it rough, returns junk! We get back ruined crap! Thanks my ass! Embarrassing as hell! Not ashamed in front of people?"
"Hey."
Winter frowned.
"No need to thank me, but don't treat your sister like an object."
"What?"
The young man laughed ferociously.
"That's not my sister. Just a brood sow."
Setsuna made a sad face. Undeterred, the youth stabbed knife-like words at his sister's heart.
"As a Japanese with any pride, she should've suicided when captured! Crawling back with a defiled body! Holding a Chosenjin's hand at that! Japanese live with pride! Brood sow! Yeah, brood sow! A woman who sells her body to enemies and returns is just a brood sow!"
Pride my ass. Winter's gaze chilled. Activated "Intimidation," proportional to hostility, instantly shut the youth's mouth.
Good thing he hadn't forgotten the handkerchief from Paso Robles. He handed it to the crying girl. And.
Thwack!
The youth, punched in the solar plexus, crumpled breathless. Parents' short screams. Winter's quiet voice over him.
"You should mind your son's education. I accept the thanks. Excuse me."
Pride isn't life's essential. Love is. Comfort, embrace, share pain. Even then, a harsh world.
Here or reality.
Winter thought as he walked.
============================ Author's Note ============================
1. In the story, expressions like 'made' a face or tone are sometimes used. This is only applied to Winter.
2. I heard some shocking news today.
Santa Claus... is a fictional character, they say.
My innocence shattered; I may not be able to write novels anymore.
Sincere thanks to all who loved The Little Prince of the Columbarium.
See you in the Human Empire 40,000 years from now. Goodbye.
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