Chiyoda Ward.
Inside the Shiraishi Nagiso's villa living room.
Fang Zuo sprawled lazily on the sofa.
The swirling black mist forming the old man's visage also scrutinized Fang Zuo.
"This is Daoist Zhuyou Technique. How did you learn it?" Fang Zuo inquired.
"Sou desu ne, it is indeed the Chinese Daoist Zhuyou Technique," the mist-formed head conceded with surprise. "Who are you, really? How do you know of it?"
Fang Zuo snapped his fingers.
The old man grunted in agony.
The dense black mist thinned noticeably.
"I repeat: I ask, you answer," Fang Zuo stated flatly. "Don't utter one unnecessary word."
"Long ago, a senior arrived here and imparted it to the Takeda clan," the old man answered, panting.
Senior?
Fang Zuo felt certain this was a senior from the Daoist tradition.
But which cave-heaven or blessed paradise? Since the late Ming dynasty, the Dao of Heaven had shifted strangely. Spiritual energy waned. Most cultivators clung to their secluded grottoes and sacred mountains. Who had come here? When? And why leave behind this orthodox Daoist secret art?
"How many years ago? Do you have any proof?" Fang Zuo asked.
"No," the old man answered.
Fang Zuo shook his head and sighed.
"You know, you creatures in this place are so skilled at tacking with the wind." His tone turned cold. "But why, no matter how much you scurry and hide, can you never forge your own true path?"
"Because your vision is too narrow. You always fail to distinguish which wind is the truly powerful one." He paused deliberately. "You never realize which wind your boat simply cannot resist!"
Another hand seal formed.
A beam of golden light pierced the black mist.
The old man's head vibrated violently, dissolving into scattered black clouds before reforming.
"You used this Zhuyou Technique. While your soul binds them, it conversely binds you," Fang Zuo stated sharply. "I discern lies easily. I won't tolerate another. Understood?"
Ignoring the mist's writhing torment, Fang Zuo idly stroked the delicate skin of Shiraishi Nagiso's cheek beside him. Even asleep, Nagiso shuddered in response, a feline reflex beneath her master's touch.
"He… left us… a manuscript," the old man gasped, each word an effort that stirred the mist.
"Bring me the manuscript," Fang Zuo commanded.
"Nani?! Never!" The mist convulsed, distorting the face violently.
Fang Zuo sneered, golden light coiling around his fingers.
Seeing this, the old man's face twisted into a mask of defiance and hatred.
A final, piercing shriek ripped from the mist as it dispersed completely.
"Voluntarily cleaved his own soul?" Fang Zuo paused, then chuckled darkly. "Old bastard has some backbone after all."
It seemed a trip to Kyoto was necessary.
After Oda Nobunaga was burned alive by Akechi Mitsuhide, the Oda clan had collapsed and retreated into the shadows of Kyoto. Evidently, it wasn't just the lone elder Sawada Yui described. This small archipelago held countless secrets.
Fang Zuo carried the sleeping Nagiso and Yui into the bedroom, tucking them under a light blanket.
He glanced at the unconscious chauffeur and black-eyed boy sprawled in the living room.
He shook his head. Even if they awoke, their damaged souls would likely leave them mentally impaired. Nevertheless, they were perpetrators in a crime. The situation needed reporting.
Glancing at the clock – already 1 AM.
He dialed Sakura Momo.
Minutes later, the roar of a powerful engine announced her arrival outside.
Sakura Momo leaned her massive Kawasaki Ninja against the curb.
Clack.
Her crimson stiletto heel kicked the kickstand down with practiced ease. She swung her long, leather-clad leg over the seat and dismounted with a fluid motion.
Sleek black leather clung to her skin like a second layer, emphasizing her already remarkable leg proportions.
She pulled off her helmet, revealing her sharp, striking face. Her thin lips bore the same shade of crimson as her stiletto heels—a deliberate pairing, the twin spots of fierce red contrasting dramatically against the dominating black. It radiated both allure and authority.
"Why are you here?!"
Sakura Momo demanded, her perfect features set in barely contained fury.
The question came through gritted teeth.
Minami Kyouko's apartment occupied the top floor of a gleaming forty-story DI tower rising starkly among the old residential buildings of Tokyo's Adachi Ward – a district where historical charm collided with modern sprawl.
It was the tallest structure in the area.
Minami Kyouko lived in a spacious, opulently modern three-bedroom penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows. Next to the window sat a freestanding soaking tub. In normal times, she'd unwind here at sunset, sipping fine wine, watching the dying light paint the old city streets below with warm, shifting colors.
Tonight, she'd missed the sunset entirely, consumed by simmering fury.
Her first act upon returning home was to violently hurl the man's suit jacket towards the bin. But ingrained propriety and her own deep-seated pride froze her hand.
Throw it away? Admit defeat? Never.
Would Minami Kyouko lose? Ridiculous!
Detective Fujino, was it?
Tokyo was small. They would meet again.
Now submerged in fragrant, steaming bubbles, Kyouko tried to relax, gazing out at the nostalgic neon glow of the old neighborhood beneath her high tower. Her long, sculpted right leg lifted effortlessly, her yoga-honed flexibility letting her rest her ankle high on her own shoulder.
She slowly massaged moisturizer into the smooth skin of her calf and thigh, appreciating the elegant line of her limb. Finally, she arched her foot upwards, studying it critically.
Her feet were, arguably, her most prized feature.
Slender arches, elegant lines.
Toes perfectly proportioned, a pale pink without a trace of roughness, daintily nestled together.
Nails naturally luminous, requiring no polish.
But tonight…
Three delicate toes were noticeably red and swollen.
Throbbing pain radiated.
Immediately, the image of that detestable, offensive man flooded her mind.
Baka!
Kuso!
Heaven knew how many times she'd kicked the wall in her fury.
Thank goodness she hadn't worn heels this afternoon!
And that parting shot of his – telling her not to miss him?!
Her? Miss him?
Laughable.
Utterly shameless.
Slowly, Minami lowered her leg, pressing her thighs tightly together.
The memory resurfaced – his fingers deliberately tugging the sweat-fused fabric away.
Her cheeks flamed anew.
That jolt of unexpected sensation – the clarity of its memory was startling.
The thought ignited a sudden, inexplicable heat spreading low in her belly.
His face, infuriatingly clear, materialized before her mind's eye.
Minutes stretched, lost to this internal tempest. Finally, with a shuddering gasp, she expelled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and sank both legs deeper into the water. Utterly drained, immobile.
She only dragged herself from the now-tepid water after it grew cold, shivering into a plush robe. Weak-kneed, she collapsed onto her soft bed.
Why?! The question screamed silently.
Before she could even catch her breath,
That face surfaced again.
The dizzying, demanding sensation surged back with a vengeance.