Genji Heavy Industries' thirtieth floor lay in deathly silence. Only the faint murmur of water drifted over from the direction of Xingshen Temple—
This was no ordinary office space, but the headquarters of the Eight Clans of the Serpent's Strategic Department. Those qualified to have private rooms here were the most highly placed elders of the clan—former underworld leaders, figures who had once ruled their domains.
Their usual duties consisted of sitting here, drinking tea, chatting, and rarely needing to act personally. Their very existence was what kept the Eight Clans of the Serpent as steady as Mount Tai within Japan's underworld.
At this moment, however, the air inside one private room was as heavy as a battlefield filled with flashing blades and clashing swords.
Bang!
Fuma Kotaro slammed his fist onto the low table beside him. The force was so great that even the hard rosewood groaned. He clenched his teeth and forced the words through the gaps between them. "Are we really going to let that American shit on our heads?! The face our family has preserved for a thousand years is about to be trampled into the mud of Tokyo Bay!"
The authority of the "young boss" had transformed into naked fury. Flames of unwillingness burned in his hawk-like eyes.
Tachibana Masamune sat cross-legged in the seat of honor, his back straight, but deep exhaustion and helplessness clouded his brow. Looking at his old friend, known for his unyielding temperament, he spoke quietly. "Fuma, how could I not understand your anger? This humiliation is carved into my bones as well."
He paused, his gaze seeming to pierce through the walls and see somewhere farther away.
"But what can we do? From the day of defeat onward, Japan was no longer a country able to fully control its