Priest Yoshida was so furious that his chest heaved continuously. His fists clenched and unclenched, then clenched again.
Around his wrist, a woven band set with more than a dozen pentagrams quietly began to glow, each pentagram mark flickering in and out.
The red mark that shot the farthest nearly touched the woman's cheek. Yet she did not move at all, only sneering coldly.
"What, do you still dare hit me? Don't forget, I am now an envoy of a major Western power. If you lay a hand on me, it will cause a diplomatic dispute—"
"Michiko! Don't forget where you came from!"
Priest Yoshida finally could not hold back any longer and roared. Michiko remained unmoved, continuing to sneer.
"Where I came from? What origin? Starting with my grandfather, my entire family has held citizenship in a major Western power. My father fought on the battlefield for that nation and shed his blood for it—
"I stopped being called Michiko long ago. My name is Maria—Maria Davis. That is where I come from. What other origin do you expect me to remember?"
Priest Yoshida stared fixedly at the woman in her neat, professional suit. Clean and efficient in appearance, she did not possess even a trace of the soft femininity of a Yamato woman.
As he watched her casually brush aside his hand, take a slender menthol cigarette from her exquisite handbag, light it, and take a deep drag, flames seemed to burn in his eyes.
Three generations. It had already been three generations. These people had forgotten their families, forgotten their surnames and their honor. Worse still, they had devoted themselves wholeheartedly to learning the language, clothing, and mannerisms of the people of that major Western power, joining all kinds of its organizations, even shedding blood and sacrificing