Page 27 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter twenty

Memories, the Throne, and Taiyaki

Kenji

My Rolls-Royce hummed low as it sliced through the Tokyo night, neon bleeding across the windows like brushstrokes in motion.

I didn’t speak to Reo who sat across from me.

I couldn’t because the only thing playing over and over in my mind was her.

Nyomi.

That kiss.

The way her mouth had opened for me so slowly, then responded with that hungry, molten fire I hadn’t expected. That kiss had detonated in my veins, scorched my control, rewired my goddamn body chemistry.

And now?

Now, I was heading toward my father’s trap with the taste of her still on my tongue.

My hand rested on the box she’d given me earlier in the evening—wrapped in thick gold paper, tied with an ink-black ribbon that shimmered under the passing lights.

Her second gift.

It sat on my lap like a promise.

Reo glanced at it, then back at me. “Are you going to open your present now?”

“No.” I shifted my gaze to the tinted window and took in my city.

Tokyo moved past in gold and steel. Even in the deepest hours of night, she breathed—restless, shining, watching.

Billboards flashed ads for luxury whiskey and immortality serums.

Designer boutiques glowed.

And in the alleyways between all that shine, I knew blades were being drawn, debts enforced, women stolen, and futures snuffed out before they had a chance to begin.

I watched it in silence.

Even after all these years, I still didn’t feel like this city belonged to me.

Not fully.

Not honestly.

I was never meant for this life.

The throne was never supposed to be mine.

My father—the man they still called The Fox—hadn’t named me heir. He never bred me for this empire. That burden belonged to my brother, ōkami-no-Ken .

Jobon.

The Wolf.

The sword who never hesitated.

The man who could smile in battle and still make you believe peace was possible.

It had always been meant for my older brother, Jobon.

He was the chosen one.

The firstborn.

Our father molded him for it. Spent exorbitant hours with him in strategy sessions and lessons on discipline, history, and power.

While they trained, plotted, and crushed underworld rivals, I stayed close to my mother.

She was soft-spoken, artistic. She smelled of jasmine tea and silk powder. She taught me how to hold my breath and listen to the wind. How to speak gently, even in a world full of blades. How to taste lines of poetry with my mind, instead of simply reading them.

My father hated it.

When Jobon began managing sections of Tokyo—his own slice of the empire carved by blood—my father yanked me from my mother’s peace. Made me stand by his side. Shadow his movements. Watch executions. Learn betrayal like it was mathematics.

He claimed it was to prepare me .

But I wasn’t na?ve.

He missed Jobon being at his side, and I was a poor imitation.

He once told me, coldly, “Your mother softened you too much. I will harden you back into something useful.”

Still, I wasn’t meant to wear the crown.

So, I poured everything into sakkā. Americans called the game soccer. The rest of the world said football.

And I was damned good. Speed. Precision. Control. I thrived in stadiums lit by glory, not gunfire. I earned a spot in the pros. Made it to the fucking Olympics.

My mother and brothers were there for every game, cheering, crying, and lifting signs in the stands with my number painted in gold.

They brought me homemade meals, gifts wrapped in lucky charms.

And my father?

He never came. Too busy conquering new districts, swallowing Tokyo whole, shoving his name into spaces it was never invited.

I stopped expecting him.

Stopped hoping.

My Rolls-Royce passed the massive white arc of Ajinomoto Stadium. Its lights still glowed.

That place would always be sacred to me. Not because I’d played there during my pro years, but because of Jobon.

He’d rented out the entire damned stadium for my twenty-seventh birthday. The whole thing. The field, the luxury boxes, even the Jumbotron. It wasn’t just a party. It was a coronation—one I hadn’t earned yet he gave it to me anyway.

All my friends were there. Old teammates from the Olympics.

Childhood schoolmates. My coaches. Their families.

Even Hiro showed up with his friends that would one day be my Claws.

His whole quiet, deadly squad lurked near the sidelines in tailored suits and sunglasses, holding bento boxes and sake like they hadn’t broken bones that morning.

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.

But he refused.

Now he lived in that hospital. Hooked to machines. A coward in silk.

He claimed , “no one would bomb a hospital full of innocents.”

And maybe he was right.

Most in Japan still held reverence for sanctuaries of the sick.

But it wasn’t just about safety. I believed that he couldn’t bear to walk past the empty rooms of our estate. Couldn’t face the ghost of Jobon’s laughter echoing down the halls or smell my mother’s perfume that still, even after all these years. . .lingered in every room.

And so. . .he put me in place to rule while he gave me his demands from a hospital bed.

Behind glass.

Surrounded by guards and ghosts.

Still giving orders.

Still, expecting obedience.

But never stepping outside.

Reo pulled me out of my thoughts. “Are you sure we should not bring the Fangs with us?”

“Father would only use them against me, as he is doing with Hiro.” I turned to Reo. “By the way, where did they pick up Hiro?”

“In the anime section of Akihabara. He was playing in an arcade with a woman.”

I frowned. “What woman?”

Reo exhaled. “Her name’s Nura. Remember the Somali woman from last night when we were heading to deal with the Lion?”

My mind flickered back to the Candy Room on the underground distribution floor where all drugs were processed, portioned, and prepped for export.

Hiro’s voice sliced through the silence. “Who’s the girl over there?”

I followed his gaze.

Near the back wall, a new face sat quietly at a workstation lined with rows of compressed MDMA tablets. She had dark brown skin and her scalp was shaved close. She was sorting, weighing, sealing—never once touching the product directly.

“She’s sharp,” Reo had said beside me. “Fast. Never slips. Never samples. Keeps her head down.”

“Background?” Hiro’s gaze remained locked on her.

“Somali,” Reo answered. “Refugee camps. Trafficked through Libya. Escaped from a black-market compound in Athens six months ago. We found her hiding in a cargo container bound for Tokyo. She asked to work for us.”

Hiro studied her like he was watching himself from another life. “Interesting.”

Of course, Hiro picked her.

Of course, he saw himself in her—saw the same broken steel welded into something new.

I returned my mind back to the car. “So, Hiro took her out?”

“Yes. He returned to the Candy Room that night after we wrapped things up with the Lion. Our people said he walked her home. Talked to her the whole way. Watched her go inside. Stood out there for a few hours before leaving.”

Under my order, Reo had guards tailing Hiro to make sure no one messed with him.

Reo continued, “tonight Hiro made Nura take the night off. He had one of the Claws cover her shift.”

My brows rose. “Which Claw?”

“Daisuke.”