Page 120 of The Dragon 2

Then the drop.

The moment before oblivion.

War was fiery breath—held tight in my chest, heating, until I exhaled and burned the world with my flames.

In this war with my father, I would not be a courageous soldier or mighty colonel.

I would be the dragon above it all.

This morning, I had returned to Japan with three planes full of death. One touched down in Chiba, one at a private airstrip near Saitama, and the last, an abandoned air hangar near the rice fields of Tochigi.

They arrived before 4:00 a.m., under cover of low visibility and mist.

No airport lights.

No flight logs.

All crew members were Scales.

No pattern.

No trail.

Each plane carried cargo bays brimming with crates, packed tight with modified assault rifles, titanium-core bullets, smoke grenades, and black-market C4 that could flatten a city block.

Many of the guns bore a grotesque kind of beauty. There were roses carved into the butts, just like the Butcher had said. The rifles were lacquered obsidian, inlaid with cherry blossom filigree. Some even had piano key triggers. A few bombs had diamond-studded musical notes etched along their shells—tiny treble clefs and crescendos. Hand grenades were sculpted like Fabergé eggs.

Only the Butcher would make death so decadent—couture instruments of war.

The plan was already moving beneath the surface.

While I spent time with my Tiger tonight, Hiro would be monitoring our people across the country and planting bombs in every major artillery warehouse my father controlled. Seventeen districts, fourteen teams, and over two hundred men—all following the pulse of my plan.

Locations had been scouted. Guard rotations were observed. Every port, warehouse, and high-rise my father’s people touched was marked. From Shinjuku to Yokohama, we were already inside.

And more than his weapons would explode. I had my scope centered on his four prefectures, shell companies, and hundreds of his secret operative headquarters.

Everything would be burning on schedule.

Plus, all targets had shadow targets.

If one failed, the second would detonate.

No hesitation.

No mercy.

Redundancy was not a precaution.

It was principle.

When time came, the Claws would carry out the strikes, the Fangs would enforce the silence, and the Scales would cover the edges—guarding the brothels, banks, and bureaucrats my father thought he still owned.

My father knew what he did in that hospital. He’d broken Hiro’s heart and enraged me. Therefore, he thought it would be wise to put his people in control of all our weapons. Surely, he wanted to make sure I didn’t take any out and move against him.

But Hiro wasn’t broken in the way my father thought. Since returning to Tokyo, Hiro hadn’t spoken. He had a neutral face, and remained watchful, but I saw it. The pain was there—in his eyes, in the way he held himself tighter than usual.

When I went over the war plan again, Hiro didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, silent, distant, unreachable.