Page 128 of The Dragon 1

And in the center of the stadium, in twenty-foot neon lights, my name lit up the sky.

KENJI SATO — THE DRAGON RISES.

The dragon had always been Jobon’s nickname for me since I carried that damn fantasy book around with me everywhere.

Regardless, I remember standing on the turf that night of my birthday, stunned. A little drunk. My mother was crying beside me with a silk handkerchief clutched to her lips.

Jobon had just grinned and slapped me on the back,“You’ve made the whole country proud, little brother. This is my gift. Now, go enjoy your kingdom.”

Even now, I had no idea how many strings Jobon had to pull to make it happen.

Renting Ajinomoto Stadium wasn’t something one could do with just money. The person needed leverage. Connections. Probably had to twist a few arms. Call in a few debts.

But that was Jobon. He’d move heaven and hell just to put a spotlight on someone he loved.

And that night?

He gave me the stars.

I wonder what it cost him. Not just in yen. But in favors. In reputation. In risk.

But he’d never told me. He just stood there, in the middle of that field, smiling like it was nothing. Like I was everything.

I miss you, Jobon. You’re the one that should be running Japan now. Our empire would be safer.

Of course, my father wasn’t at my birthday party. He was out flying too close to the sun. The next day after my birthday, he started a war in Japan. His ego couldn’t be contained within the borders of what we already controlled. He wanted it all. So, he took more criminal territories: Osaka, Nagoya, Fukuoka. Entire black markets were bent under our family crest.

It pissed off the wrong enemies.

The Kurokiba Clan—once a mythic group that ruled Japan’s underground before us—struck back. My father and Jobon beat them.

It was the clan’s final desperate blow before they fled the country to rot in exile that changed my family and my life forever.

They bombed a restaurant. A family spot. Small. Elegant. One we always loved.

That night, my mother and brother were there. Laughing. Eating grilled river fish and pouring plum wine. My father was there too—holding court, even at a dinner table.

The explosion leveled the entire block.

Civilians.

Staff.

My father’s guards.

Gone.

My mother’s body was found hours later; charred silk still wrapped around her waist. My brother. . .I couldn’t even identify his remains.

But my father?

The piece of shit survived.

Of fucking course, he did.

He lost a lung. Multiple ribs. A collapsed airway. Shrapnel embedded in his spine.

He could have recovered at the estate. We offered to build him a medical wing. His soldiers begged.