Chapter Text
The blood, sweat, and tears that I’ve invested into my establishment is worth it. I have such understanding customers that do not make my work difficult, my pub is popular across the whole avenue, and my employees are patient just like me. Hehehe…
My bar is located at Roppongi Hills, Minato City. At first, I was afraid to begin my business but thanks to the investment of my sponsors and a little encouragement from my family, I took the first steps into being a sole proprietor of the place that I call “Royal Jester”. I chuckled at the name’s reference to one of my favorite fictional characters.
“Gentlemen, the Umeshu you ordered,” I announced suavely as I slid the aforementioned beverages across the counter towards the pair of seniors sitting at the far left. The contents of the glasses trembled as they came to a halt, the gentlemen that I served catching the drinks after I slid it to them. They nodded at me, flashes of gratitude appearing in their eyes.
“Ah! Thank you, Yuni-sama! Not even a few seconds have passed and you already have our drinks ready,” the kind senior’s voice was boisterous and infectious, his compliment flustering me. I meekly retorted but I cannot help the warmth rushing to my face.
“I’m not that great, uncle. I’m sure that other people can do something like this better than me…” The other kind gentleman responded to that with a scoff, his lips curving upward into a smile as he took a sip from his drink.
“Don’t sell yourself short, kid. Just take this dumbo’s compliments, he means it… half the time.” His friend frowned at the comment, glaring at him as he yelled;
“Hey! What do you mean ‘half the time’? You sayin’ I ain’t sincere?!” The kind seniors began to argue back and forth, neither one settling to compromise due to their pride. Or maybe there’s something more to it? The sound of their voices drowned out the jazz music that was playing in the background, their drinks quaking under the heated argument. I have to stop this before it escalates…
I coughed into my hand, which seemed to successfully catch their attention, but I did not expect for the two of them to glare at me, and a harsh, “What?!” escaping their lips. I lifted my arms, sweat forming at my brows and smiled. “Please, uncles. Would you kindly put away your differences and simply enjoy the afternoon? I do not want conflict in the pub, please think of the other patrons!”
Also, I did not wanna imagine the damage that’d be dealt to my precious establishment if a fight were to break out here. While rare, and has never happened to my pub before, the possibility of a brawl breaking out is not impossible. Thankfully, it seems that the two kind seniors have been convinced as they bowed their heads apologetically to me while apologizing.
“Thank you for your understanding, gentlemen,” I released the breath that I did not even realize I was holding in. I clean away the sweat dripping down my face with my kerchief. I was going to look away, but I noticed that at the corner of my eyes, the two seniors were glaring daggers into each other. If looks could kill, then they’ve already murdered each other tenfold…
“Yeah, sorry, kid”, and the kind senior’s apology was mirrored by his friend, “Yuni-sama, forgive us for our insolence… Allow us to compensate you with a tip for your incredible services!”
“Y-you don’t have to go so far, your apology was more than enough…” And why is he apologizing like that? It makes me feel weird. It’s like they’re talking to the shogun or a king…
“Mhm. I agree with him. And it’d be a shame to what’d happen to this homey place if we threw hands right here. This place is too good to be ruined because of two idiots fighting.” I couldn’t stop the smile that was appearing on my face. I turn to look at the large space before us. The warm, amber-hued lights that hang in gentle clusters from the ceiling casts a cozy glow across the entire space, making it feel like home. The lighting highlights the healthy, pristine darkwood that most of the interior is made from, adding to the warmth and comforting feel this place gave. The high-ceiling is framed by dark wood beams, subtle greenery decorated the place, giving it a sense of life. Hanging by the walls are the vintage photos I framed, depictions of scenes mythological and history. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of adventure at the sight of them.
Round tables are scattered on the hardwood floors of the room, paired with wooden chairs, each slightly worn from years of use, but I like to think it compliments the aesthetic of Royal Jester. There’s quite a few patrons here in the afternoon, but it doesn’t compare to the number of customers I receive in the night. The laughter and discussions of the people inside wind over the gentle wail of a saxophone’s mellow note. The jazzy music resonates with an invitation of longing that embraces my being like a thick, warm blanket. Floating through the ambience is the unmistakable scent of roasting beef and chicken, likely one of my chefs working on delivering one of our many meals to our customers. Ahh, the scent of smoked paprika is an inviting aroma that makes me want to eat the food myself—
“Kid, this place is amazing,” the friendly voice of the gentleman sitting at my counter snapped me out of my thoughts. I smiled awkwardly, picking up an empty wine glass and began to clean it with a paper towel. I turned away from the sight of Royal Jester’s interior, trying to hide the growing blush on my face as I humbly refuted. “It isn’t anything special, kind uncle…”
I say that, but truth be told I’m quite proud of what I made here. Royal Jester’s interior emanates a classic old-world charm, and that was exactly what I was going for. It’s like a timeless song that’s been playing forever, a soundtrack to countless gatherings, warm and soothing, inviting you to sit back, breathe deeply, and let time drift by. Initially, I wanted it to be more of a nightlife bar, but scratched that idea considering competition is going to be massive if I did. So I settled for this European aesthetic that you don’t normally see in Japan.
“Bah! Learn to take a compliment, kid! I swear, you don’t know how to take one at all. Come on, enjoy the praise! You deserve it for all of the hard work you’ve done so far.” I closed my eyes, humming to myself and trying to ignore the kind uncle’s words. Yet there’s this strange, warm feeling at my core that I can’t describe…
“Friend, do you recall the rumor I told you the other day?” The gentlemen who I had the pleasure of speaking with seemed to switch topics upon. Best if I don’t interrupt them—
“You mean the one about how the Okami family is running a protection to hassle business owners? What about it?” I froze on my spot, the fingers that grasped the cool glass in my hands trembled as I listened attentively to the conversation.
“That one, exactly. I heard from an old friend’s wife that the other day, the Okami family paid him a visit and harassed him for money in exchange for their protection. But when he refused, they trashed his home for not paying the racket!”
“Tch, what a bunch of bastards,” his friend snarled at the information, followed by the sound of him drinking his beverage. The brief moment of silence is swallowed by the glass slamming against the counter. My body jumped on the spot. That nearly gave me a heart attack! I hope he didn’t break the glass…
“They talk as if they know right, but they can’t help themselves and take what they want!” His friend made a hum of agreement, “Indeed. They claim that they are self-righteous, chivalrous criminals, but they are no better than petty delinquents.”
“Did your pal call the cops after that?” The bass hums from the jukebox, thrumming in a rhythm like the soft palpitations of a heartbeat. But it felt louder to me, like an ominous wind blowing from the top of a mountain. And then, the gentleman disclosed, “Not at all. Unfortunately, he was threatened again that if he were to call the cops on them, they’d abduct his wife…”
The yakuza… Terrifying criminals that control the organized crime of Japan. They deal in various illegal activities such as human trafficking, drug trafficking, financial fraud… and so on. They make a living out of the things they do. And seeing as what the gentlemen are saying is true, maybe they might target my bar next… They are certainly dangerous but their numbers have dwindled since the 1960s, and their numbers are still plummeting to this day. Sure, they still operate but it's highly unlikely that they’ll go for my establishment. Still…
I hope nothing bad happens.
Chime. The sound of the door creaking open made my heart jump out of my chest in surprise. It felt like it was a wake-up call from college when the instructor would catch you doing something that you’re not supposed to do. My hands fumbled, nearly dropping the glass but I caught it, much to my relief. I looked towards the entrance to see that one of my employees was welcoming another customer. They seemed to observe the Royal Jester before approaching the counter and taking a seat. Now that I get a closer look at him…
His black hair is long, flowy, and with a soft, wavy texture. It’s styled into a half-ponytail that cascades down his shoulders, almost like a coat. Speaking of coats, he’s dressed in a dark, traditional-looking outfit that resembles a robe or a kimono. The darker colors compliments his black-colored hair, it makes him look like an overworked, underpaid salary worker… Definitely not a compliment, I’m sorry! In contrast to his dark hair and attire, his skin is pale, almost unhealthily so... And his brown eyes are narrow, appearing with a hint of detachment that makes him look enigmatic. There’s this melancholic gaze in his eyes that somehow reminds me of someone, but I can’t tell who…
I shake my head of those thoughts, snapping myself back to reality. The music playing in the background gradually pulled me back into it as I put the clean glass below the counter before approaching the mysterious patron.
I’ve been the owner of this fine establishment for seven years, I’ve encountered hundreds—no, thousands of faces. They come and go like the waves of the ocean, washing ashore and returning to whence they came. But this one is quite… I wonder why he looks so edgy… No, banish those thoughts. It’d be quite rude of me to judge my patron. So, I put on a kind smile as I approach the customer, but to be honest, I’ve never felt such unease before. It’s like I’m looking at the tutorial boss of a video game. And there’s also this inexplicable feeling of nostalgia that’s nagging at me from the recesses of my mind.
Why does he look so familiar to me?
XXX
The homely atmosphere of the room embraced my being, filling my body with a sense of warmth even as the cold air of the air conditions tickled my skin. The western inspired design of the interior made it all the more appealing, it was as if I was transported into a whole different world. My eyes narrowed at the lights as I entered Royal Jester, ugh, but it's too bright…
In contrast to the irritating lights, there’s this nice jazzy melody playing in the background. What instrument was the track playing? It sounds similar to a piano, with its lifting rhythm rising and falling like the pitter-pattering of rain, putting me at ease. Going out to relax in a nice little pub after a day full of work certainly helps me vent out necessary stress. A way to cope with the shitty lifestyle I’m leading. But it’ll be worth it.
My feet moved my body forward until I reached the counter—the back of the pub, a nice little bar is placed here. Tall shelves that are packed with an abundant amount of spirits lined up before me, analyzing the different names on the bottles. Royal Jester is certainly well-stocked with a large variety of wine that seems endless. “The pub owner has very good tastes,” I whispered as I observed the bottles, recognizing a lot of the beverages here; Yamazaki 12 Year Old Single Malt Japanese Whiskey, Nikka Coffey Grain Whiskey, Umeshu, Sake, Chuhai… They aren't short in number, it's like they are capable of serving every sort of customer. There are even bottles of spirits that come from different countries. Very nice. This place ain’t so bad at all.
But I kinda wish it wasn’t so bright, my personal preference.
After planting my ass down on the stool, I rest my right arm on the counter, the cool dark-wood material tickling my fingers. The scent of something sweet fills my nose as I gazed at the shelves. “What should I get…?”, I pondered.
I silently hope that they also serve non-alcoholic drinks here other than water…
“Good evening, dear patron,” I snapped out of my thoughts at the welcoming tone. The voice was soft but loud enough for me to hear, it was controlled, professional. I shifted my gaze to the person standing behind the counter.
He’s dressed in a formal black-colored blouse, buttoned up and with a smooth polished look that fits their lean build. The shirt is tucked into equally dark-colored pants and a slim gray tie is worn around the collar, giving him a professional appearance. Although his slightly tousled black hair and soft amber-colored eyes makes him look younger than what his actual age suggests, he still looks older than me. So this guy is that old loan shark’s nephew…
“My name is Yuni Tokisaki,” he introduced himself. “I’m the pub master and bartender of this lovely establishment. How shall I address you?”
“Good evening, boss,” I responded. “Just call me Miya-chan.” I glanced at his eyes, noticing the subtle way his brows knitted, as if he was estranged by the nickname I made from my actual name of Miyamoto. My hand held my side as I suppressed the urge to laugh at his expression.
The pub owner nodded with a smile on his face, and then he urged me, “Then, Miya-chan. How may I be of service? We have a number of drinks and snacks that we can whip up for you! Sweet, sour, bitter? No matter your taste, we shall have it made just for you!”
Hm. I wonder what kind of snacks they have? I quietly asked for a menu, to which the boss swiftly fetched one from underneath the counter and slid it to me. I took it into my hands and read through the entries, but the smooth tone of boss's voice brought my attention back to him.
“Sip, Savor, and Socialize: where every moment is tailored for you,” he quipped. “Please take your time, dear patron, for we shall serve and deliver.”
“Catchy,” I commented, my lips tilting upwards as I closed the menu. The boss smiles, “Why thank you, Miya-chan.”
“I think I’ll have a chocolate milkshake. Thanks boss,” I ordered, sliding the menu back to the pub master. He snatches it up, giving a curt bow before going into the back. I relaxed in my seat, allowing my mind to wander. I wanted to relax here for a bit before proceeding to my current objective… Current objective… Ah, right. I need to collect a debt that another gang owes to my client because they didn’t pay it last month, I’m supposed to retrieve it today from—
For the second time today, my thought process all but crumbles as a tall fluted glass invades my field of view. The shadow of the hands that delivered it at the counter withdrew, revealing the delicacy of which I could only describe as mouthwatering.
…Fuck. I resisted the temptation to simply take this into my hand and to vacuum up the contents of the vessel like no tomorrow. “Wait, didn’t I see the boss enter the back area just now?”, I breathe a question that puzzled me. I glanced at the boss in question, who simply gave me a smile that veneered the answers of how he so quickly created this beverage instantaneously…
“Please enjoy, Miya-chan,” the boss’s attention was brought to another customer at the counter. Before leaving to offer his services to another patron, he gave a courteous bow to me.
Mysterious. Suspicious… Sip. Gulp…
Hm. I have to collect the debt from the Okami yakuza—sip, group. And to return it to our client—sip, and then to report back to the—sip, big man upstairs about—gulp. The details of the task…
Damn this cursed chocolate milkshake.
Stomp! Deliberate, loud stomping followed by a strident voice tore my attention away from the magnificent delicacy that I was just enjoying, “Hey, boss! Cough up all of that cash in your counter right now!”
The boss seemed to be dumbfounded at the outlandish demand, and could only blurt out, “...What?”
I gave a sidelong glance to my left, observing the scene playing out before me. There are four men dressed in matching leather jackets standing in front of the bar counter, unashamedly revealing their hostility towards the boss like a pack of wolves baring their fangs against their prey.
“You heard him,” one of them said, talking like some trashy know-it-all. “Or are you deaf too, ‘boss’?”
The boss rebukes, “...I apologize, but I must ask you dear patrons to leave—”
Slam! The guy at the front threw his fist at the counter, cutting Yuni off and leaving the pub in a quiet atmosphere. Despite that, the background jazz continues to play. But the patrons and waiters didn’t dare to utter another word, their eyes glued to the same scene at the bar.
The leading punk ran his hand through his scarlet mohawk, his lips twisted in the worst possible way to intimidate somebody. But the boss paled at him, raising his trembling hands in the air as he tried to placate his dear “patron” to no avail.
“Listen here, punk! You’ll be coughing up every wad that you’re hiding in your cashier, or we’re gonna thrash this place!” Two of his other friends flanked his sides, both appearing as ridiculous as the guy that they are backing up. With the black bow ties lazily coiled around their collars, it made me think that they are cosplaying the men-in-black, just really terribly.
“You see,” the fourth punk stood behind his three friends, fixing his shitty glasses before addressing the boss. “We’re in need of some cash to pay off a debt, and we’d really appreciate it if you could cooperate with us, boss. So please, surrender all of your cash or I’m afraid we’ll have to demolish this pathetic little pub of yours…”
I blinked, squinting my eyes at the four-eyed punk as I processed his words. They plan on stealing Royal Jester’s funds just so they can repay a debt that they brought upon themselves? The irony. These delinquents think they’re yakuza or some shit? They barely even look the part. But assuming that they are actual members of a yakuza group, then they are in actual trouble. Although this establishment isn't under the control of my family, the ramifications of messing with my client’s nephew has a huge toll to pay.
I would’ve just sat back and watched the thing play out before stepping up, but despite that I was already on my feet. If I were to duke it out here right now, not only would it endanger the lives of the people here, but it would also risk damaging the reputation of my clan, the Orochi family. If word got out of my involvement, then we’re screwed, and it’d probably lead to a war between our gangs, or the worse that could happen to me, expulsion from the family.
But who’s going to give a crap if these low-ranking mobs get thrashed?
“You damn thugs! Leave the kid alone!” One of the customers chided, an old man who’s sitting at the counter along with his friend. Both of them glared at the old men, and the punks reciprocating the baleful gestures.
I felt my heart churn at the sight as I muttered to no one but myself, “Don’t do it, old man…”
“Yuni-sama’s kind attitude and hardwork has given him the right to earn money for himself and his family, meanwhile you delinquents will do anything to take that away! Repent on your shameless behavior and apologize to him,” my fears are coming true as his words agitated the punks.
“U-uncles, please! L-let me deal with this—!” The boss got cut off as the punk with the mohawk stepped towards the old man, his jaw clenching as he lifted his arm in the air.
“I’m gonna shut your fucking trap, old man!” My eyes widened, and just as the punk was about to throw his punch—!
Wham! I took the punch to the face after lunging myself in front of the old man, the impact slightly leaned my face to the side, the sharp pain clinging onto my cheek like a slap from a bitch. It hurts alright, but unfortunately, I’m quite intimate with a pain worse than this from a handful of people stronger than me.
And these fuckers are not stronger than me.
“Huh?! What the hell is this guy doin—” Before he could even articulate his last words, my legs propelled my body forward, my fist cocked and aimed at the punk—Boom! My fist connects with the fucker’s solar plexus, the familiar sensation of heat rushing through my arm as my enemy slumps forward. Without even giving him time to recover, I grabbed his ugly-lookin’ mohawk, lifting his head, and then slamming my knee into his temples. His eyes rolled back into his head as I released his hair, letting him drop beneath my feet like a sack of potatoes.
“...”
After delivering justice in the form of a Blazing Fist through that punk’s solar plexus, I turned my gaze to the three other punks standing before me as the Royal Jester erupted into chaos. The cozy music that played became a part of the cacophony as everybody made a run for the doors, only the employees were left but it didn’t look like they’re gonna be doing anything. The boss tried to calm everybody down but I was only focused on the punks standing defiantly before me.
Their eyes blazed with hatred, one of them yelled, “You bastard! Who do you think we are?! The Okami family will have your fucking head!”
The Okami family? Shit, looks like they really are from another gang. Maybe these guys are the ones that I’m supposed to retrieve the debt from? Oh well… not like that’s gonna change anything. The only thing that mattered right now is teaching these guys a lesson for messing with the boss, and for disrespecting their elders.
They couldn’t continue their little speech as the corners of my lips twist into a snarl, a guttural growl escaping my mouth as I glared at them.
“That fucker struck me first, that means I have the right to retaliate. But if his friends are willing to finish what he started…”
I stood firm, bringing my hands together as the satisfying crack of my fingers reverberated in the pub.
“Then shut your traps, and take his place!”
XXX
“Y-you… You bastard!” The Okami family members stuttered with a brittle voice, shocked at the blatant disrespect the black-haired man showed, angered at the pathetic display of their fellow gang member, and intimidated by the threatening aura their enemy emanated.
The fear palpitated inside their hearts, the air thick with tension as Miyamoto looked down on the cohort like a judging war god, as if deciding what sort of punishment he’d deliver to the foolish mortals before them. His fists are clenched, his arms raised as he takes a boxer’s fighting stance. The raven-haired fighter’s eyes burned with pure, unbridled rage.
A shiver lanced up the Okami yakuza members' spines as they stared at him. “What are you two waiting for? Fight!” Commanded the bespectacled man behind them as they stared at one another, before unleashing a harmonious war cry that echoed off of the walls.
Yuni’s gaze is torn between the ensuing battle and his retreating patrons, but nothing will be accomplished if he does nothing. With that thought in mind, the pub owner urged his remaining employees and the two kind uncles who defended him to the back.
“Please try to not let anything break!” Yuni shouted to Miyamoto, the pub owner’s veneer of professionalism is replaced by a barely concealed panic. He thought that his words fell to deaf ears as Miyamoto engaged in combat with the gangsters, so Yuni decided that he’ll come back.
The first to throw a punch is the thug on Miyamoto’s left, quickly closing the distance between them and wildly swinging their arm towards his opponent. But the latter raised his arm, his muscles absorbing the force of the blow and his kimono sleeves creased. Miyamoto retaliated with a mean right hook, decking his assailant in the face. His opponent hissed at the strike as he staggered back, but his friend took his place and charged at Miyamoto.
“Fuck y—,” without even giving him a chance to finish his sentence, Miyamoto’s fist connects with his nose. The overwhelming pain blinded their senses, the thug’s hands lifting to caress his nose but the amateur street fighter couldn’t foresee the next strike coming. Miyamoto’s shadow loomed over his opponent’s body like a towering beast, the air screamed in protest as the Orochi family’s warrior inhaled, and then—Pow! His fist shot forward like a bullet, crashing into the thug’s nose again, Miyamoto’s entire body weight amplifying the power of the blow. As a result, blood swelled in the Okami member’s nose, crimson ichor slowly drizzled out from their orifices.
The other thug hadn’t forgotten how the long haired man decked him on the face as he lunged at him like a wild beast. He won’t let him get away with it. A guttural roar was released from him, expressing his malevolence at the raven-haired boy, but that would be his downfall. While his opponent was charging at him, Miyamoto quickly seized the necktie of the thug with the bloodied nose, reeling them towards himself. Simultaneously, he evades the angered Okami delinquent’s hook by sidestepping, then tripping his friend over his leg. Gravity embraces the pair of gang thugs, their bodies toppling over each other and falling to the ground like dominoes. They rolled across the ebony-colored floor until they eventually hit the bottom side of the bar counter, the bar stools falling over them, as if the Royal Jester building came to life and insulted the amateur fighters.
“For members of the predatory Okami family, they are disappointingly weak. Now, there’s only one more to go—,” Miyamoto’s hubris and ignorance was paid with a heavy pound to the side of his face, the strike lurched him as he took a step back, trying to gain his bearings. But his bespectacled opponent wouldn’t give him a chance to fight back. Not when his weaker brothers couldn’t even land a successful strike on the prick.
So, he’ll have to get his hands dirty.
The Okami fighter’s arms moved swiftly in a fluid-like manner, Miyamoto was about to retaliate with a heavy punch but he was too slow as a flurry of strikes batters into him. The disparate power behind each strike made it difficult to get a read on his opponent, forcing Miyamoto’s body to take the abuse as he threw his arms up for defense. But when he did, the bespectacled thug switched his attack patterns, targeting vital joints in his enemy’s body. His attacks were like a heavy downpour that came down onto Miyamoto without any sign of stopping. If this is kept up, then he and his gang will go back to the Okami family, swimming in heaps of cash after beating this prick to a pulp—!
Wham! A sickening crack accompanied the discordant noise of muscles breaking, deep-red blood flying from the bespectacled thug and staining the floor with red. What just happened?
“Whoops… I must’ve done it out of habit,” Miyamoto thought to himself, his arm stretched out and had slugged his opponent in the face with a precise and stylish attack. His enemy stumbled momentarily as he reeled back his arm and assumed a different stance than before.
“A martial artist,” Miyamoto pondered, this one is actually trained, but unfortunately for him, the Fists of Heavy Rain is a technique that was derived from the Orochi family’s Arashi-ryu. Dismissing his thoughts, Miyamoto turned the tables on his enemy, like a raging storm appearing without a semblance of a warning. His fists relentlessly pummeled into the Okami fighter, grunting as he channeled his inner ferocity into each strike. The flurry of attacks is specifically targeted at certain joints and vital parts of his enemy’s body; the ribs, the shins, the elbows, the kneecaps—every successive blow that connected with Miyamoto’s target progressively made them weaker and more vulnerable. The Okami fighter’s skin begins to turn red from the abuse he’s taking.
Hurricane Heartbeat—the name of the technique Miyamoto is performing in order to destroy his opponent. After striking the bespectacled punk’s nose, Miyamoto cocks his fist back, releasing his breath at the same time as he slugs his opponent in the throat—Crash! The four-eyed thug’s body hurls across the air, landing at the foot of the dark-wood framed wall, the paintings clinging against the structure trembling at the sudden crash.
“U-ugh…” The fallen Okami fighter struggled to make a sound, his voice croaking and hoarse from the attack. But he managed to ask, “W-who are… you?” His arms suddenly slump by his sides as his eyes closed.
“I’m just an honest citizen of Japan,” the Orochi family warrior cordially responded, but his posture betrayed the tone of his voice and the words he spoke.
Miyamoto’s gaze swept across the now empty pub, his only companions, or in this case enemies, are the fallen Okami family members that now lay on the floor. The thug with the ugly mohawk was knocked out at his feet, the two terribly-dressed punks are snoozing at the stools of the bar counter, and the four-eyed delinquent was KO’d onto the wall like a worn-out rug.
All in all, Miyamoto thinks he did a great job. The deed is done, and they were taught a lesson that they’ll never forget…
Probably when they recover from the concussions they received tonight, they’ll remember.
“Let’s see if what you guys were yapping about is true,” Miyamoto strides towards the nearest thug, lifting him up against a wall, and then stripping his shirt. A tattoo was marked on this one’s chest, depicting a gray wolf with its fangs embedded into the flesh of a human. His suspicions are proven true—these bruisers are actual members of the Okami family. Which makes Miyamoto wonder why they are in this part of Minato City when they primarily operate in a different part of the settlement.
“Hm… Strange, it’s as if they’re trying to pick a fight with the Orochi family. I’ll have to report this to the man upstairs. For now though, I have a debt to collect…” He snatches the wallets of each befallen yakuza, acquiring over three-hundred fifty thousand Yen in ten-thousand bills.
“Man, these guys are stacked with cash. This is the exact amount needed to pay off their debt, but why haven’t they done it yet…?” Miyamoto could inquire no one but himself as he stood at the center of the pub. The jazzy tunes provided a semblance of comfort for the young man as he turned around to take a seat at the counter again.
“T-that… That was amazing!” The familiar voice of the boss of Royal Jester stole Miyamoto’s attention away from his thoughts, Yuni’s figure invading the secret gangster’s personal space as he shot out compliments like a minigun releasing fifty bullets per second. “You have such strength! Using such cool moves to defeat those guys! And you even kept the damage to a minimum!”
“Uh,” Miyamoto was about to respond but Yuni continued relentlessly. “Thank you so much for protecting my pub, my savior!”
He really cares a lot for his pub, huh?
This was what Miyamoto thought, his impression of the pub owner changing drastically. He instinctively leans away from the fanatic Yuni who is thanking the raven-haired man again and again for dealing with the thugs. The Orochi family member didn’t know what to do in this situation. Sure, Miyamoto has certainly received his fair share of acknowledgements for his deeds and shows of gratitude, but never on this level.
Yuni is a really interesting pub master.
“How may I repay you, dear savior? Oh! I know, you can have this V.I.P coupon, so the next time you visit, everything will be discounted—,” Miyamoto stops Yuni from rambling any further with but his index finger, flicking at the bartender’s forehead, causing them to reel back. “Ow…”
Miyamoto affirmed in a soft tone, “While I do appreciate your gratitude, I’d really prefer it if you didn’t go so crazy over it. I just did what anyone would do in this situation. And you don’t have to do that.”
Yuni looked at Miyamoto with an uncertain gaze in his eyes, before nodding slowly as an understanding was established between the two.
“M-my apologies,” the pub master stammered. “I did not realize that I made you uncomfortable…”
“It’s all good. Just don’t do it again. Also, call me Miya-chan. Don’t be such a stickler, boss.” Miyamoto reminded Yuni.
A smile graces the pub owner’s lips as he responds, “Certainly, Miya-chan…” Despite that, Yuni can’t help but still feel weirded out by calling Miyamoto that name when the person in question looks like an adult. But the customer is king—Yuni’s professional side convinced him.
“Thanks for the chocolate milkshake by the way, it was really good.” Miyamoto’s compliment earned him a sheepish laugh from Yuni. “By the way, boss, did you call the cops?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I did. After the fighting began, they should arrive soon—”
Without warning, Miyamoto shot out from his seat and walked out the door. Yuni’s voice fell to deaf ears as the black-haired young man exited the establishment.
“Sorry, no hard feelings, boss. But I’d rather not deal with the interrogation of a lifetime…” Not wanting to be questioned by the authorities and possibly having his true occupation as a gangster revealed, Miyamoto took to the road.
While walking through the streets of the city, the vibrating of his phone made Miyamoto stop in his tracks. Reaching into his kimono’s sleeves, his lithe fingers find the smartphone and bring it out of the darkness. The device has a nice violet-colored cover—simplistic in design but appealing to the eyes of any person whose favorite color is violet.
Opening the screen, his notifications revealed to him that he got a message from the Orochi family patriarch. However, at the mere sight of the ID of the messenger, Miyamoto’s eyebrows furrowed and a flicker of anger appeared in his eyes.
He takes deliberate, slow steps as he enters an alleyway isolated from the streets of Minato City. He analyzes his surroundings, and upon ensuring that no one else but himself is here, Miyamoto plays the recorded message.
“Good afternoon, or rather, good evening, Miyamoto Orochi,” the thick voice of the Orochi family’s patriarch statically came through, like an echo from the past coming to haunt the present. As Miyamoto continued to trek forward, he couldn’t help but feel as if each step felt heavier than before.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances, Tokisaki-sama will not be capable of receiving the debt that you’ve collected. However, he will make time for you tomorrow. Therefore, you must deliver the interest owed to him by the Okami family by tomorrow.” The getas begin to creak in protest as Miyamoto’s steps gradually become stomps as he instinctively went further into the alleyway, experiences with navigation and the familiarity of the neighborhood gave the man a route back to his home, as if it were a habit. His grip on his phone tightens ever so slightly.
“There will be no room for excuses. Additionally, you have another task delegated to you. You’ll be working again with my son in order to deal with a thorn in our side. Further details will be provided at an appropriate date…”
Miyamoto tunes out the rest of the pre-recorded message as he exited the alleyway and went through a parking lot. An apartment complex towers before him, the structure appearing withered but clean. He enters the building, moving through the motions before eventually reaching his room and entering into his abode.
“That will be all for tonight. Do not disappoint me. Make your father and the Orochi family proud!” And then, the voice record ended, leaving Miyamoto in the middle of his room in silence. The air thick with tension as the young man looks slowly addressed his room.
Tatami mats cover the floor in a soft, muted pattern of beige and green, their natural texture lending the room an earthy, grounding ambiance. The walls are divided into panels, with soft cream tones on the upper sections and dark wooden frames. And a futon lies neatly unfolded in the center of the room. The futon is simple but cozy, with a soft, dark blue cover that seems to absorb the dim light of the room. The room was simplistic and minimal. An arsenal of knives and blades sat at the nearby tea table, the unsheathed blades gleaming underneath the dimly lit room.
“Yeah… I’ll make my father proud alright,” Miyamoto says with a dead tone, his gaze longingly staring at the weapons. His hands reach out to them, dropping his phone on the table and grasping the hilt of a knife. The melancholic gaze in his eyes suddenly gained a little bit of life, glowing within the shadows of the room as his eyes locked with a picture framed by the wall.
The picture depicted a man in his forties or fifties, with sleek jet-black hair. He’s dressed in a business outfit, his eyes hidden behind the square glasses that he’s wearing. Miyamoto’s hold tightens on his knife, and whispers the name of the patriarch he serves;
“Isamu Mitsuhide…”
Everything that comes out of that man’s lips is a lie, hiding beneath that mask is a cunning fox that will bare its fangs to any who oppose its rule. The throne that he sits upon is one built from the sacrifices of the one before him. In this kingdom of darkness, Miyamoto Orochi is but a grunt, and Isamu is the king.
Releasing a breath, Miyamoto threw his blade towards the picture, hitting it right on the mark as it sliced into Isamu’s head in the frame.
“But this lowly grunt will bring your knees to the ground, burning your kingdom alongside you…”