"Pfft-"
Those words became the final straw that broke the camel's back.
Ito Makoto tasted blood in his throat, then suddenly spat out a mouthful of it, splattering the white cloth before him like red plum blossoms blooming in the snow.
His eyes rolled back. Overwhelmed by shame and fury, he passed out on the spot.
Laughter erupted throughout the crowd.
No one felt any sympathy for this arrogant, ignorant clown.
Ito Makoto's collapse did not stop the judgment.
He was merely a minor interruption, an insignificant buffoon.
From beginning to end, the true focus had always been Ito Yūgorō, sprawled on the ground.
The laughter in the square gradually subsided, and every gaze returned to the old Japanese bastard who had utterly lost his soul.
The air seemed to freeze once more.
Thud!
Thud!
Thud!
Heavy, oppressive footsteps rang out through the deathly silent square, each one like the tolling of hell's funeral bell.
Carrying the tattered "Tiger Braves" Battle Flag on his shoulder, Yue Qinhu slowly approached Ito Yūgorō, one step at a time.
At some point, a rust-covered bayonet had appeared in his other hand, its blade still gleaming with a chilling light.
It was a trophy he had taken from an Eastern Japan officer all those years ago-the very blade that had blinded Ito Yūgorō's left eye.
The enormous Tiger-Head Battle Flag snapped in the night wind.
Its shadow completely enveloped Ito Yūgorō's insignificant body like the cloak of a death god.
The murderous aura Yue Qinhu had forged amid mountains of corpses and seas of blood had now reached its peak.
This was no vague, intangible presence, but a tangible, terrifying pressure that seemed to thicken the surrounding air and make breathing difficult.
Ito Yūgorō felt as though an invisible hand had clamped tightly around