The white whale, this steel behemoth floating in the Pacific Ocean, was steadily plowing through the deep blue sea with unstoppable majesty, heading towards the West Coast of North America, towards Night City.
On its deck, fighter jets were neatly arranged like resting birds of prey; inside its hull, it was fully loaded with Arasaka's most elite power armor units and most advanced killing machines.
To the outside world, this was a destructive force capable of making small nations tremble and opponents stand ready, the iron fist of the Arasaka Empire displaying its supreme authority, sailing with thunderous momentum towards the battlefield of revenge.
However, the person standing at the nominal highest command position of this powerful fleet harbored intentions diametrically opposed to the will represented by this ship.
Yorinobu Arasaka stood alone in the observation room next to the flagship's bridge; outside the thick bulletproof glass was the boundless ocean, reflecting his deep and complex gaze.
He was dressed in a well-tailored Arasaka senior commander uniform, the insignia on his epaulets, representing family and power, cold and dazzling.
This attire bound him tightly to this ship and to the Arasaka name, yet this was precisely the shackles he had wanted to break free from for nearly half a century.
The automatic door of the observation room slid open silently, and steady footsteps interrupted his gaze.
Takayama Shintaro, Arasaka's Chief of Security and the true mastermind behind this operation, walked to a position slightly behind and to his side.
This old retainer's hair was meticulously combed, his face resolute, and his eyes held scrutiny and a hint of imperceptible worry.
"Lord Yorinobu," Takayama Shintaro's voice was low and steady, carrying the unique tone of respect and admonition that an elder holds for a junior, and a subordinate for his lord, "We are about to enter the designated operational waters. Ahead lies Night City."
Yorinobu did not turn around, merely issuing an almost inaudible "Hmm" from his nose as a response, his gaze still fixed on the faintly emerging coastline in the distance.
Takayama seemed accustomed to his attitude and continued, "Lord Saburo entrusting you with command of this 'Special Retribution Operation' carries significant meaning. I know that in the past, you... have had reservations about some of the family's operational principles."
His phrasing was cautious, clearly referring to Yorinobu's formation of the Steel Dragons to oppose the family in his youth, and the decades of rebellion and estrangement he sometimes displayed afterward.
"But this time, it's different," Takayama Shintaro's tone grew a few shades heavier. "The destruction of the Night City branch and the fall of the Mikoshi is an open provocation to Arasaka's authority; it is war. As Arasaka's heir, the Empire's Prince, you are now at the forefront.
This is your best opportunity—and perhaps your only opportunity—to demonstrate your capabilities and establish your prestige both within and outside the corporation."
He paused slightly, observing Yorinobu's reaction, and seeing that the other remained silent, he pressed further, saying earnestly, "Lord Yorinobu, for the past fifty years, some of your actions... may have seemed somewhat willful and immature to the elders.
What they need to see is a leader capable of inheriting Lord Saburo's will and supporting Arasaka's future, not a young master still immersed in adolescent rebellious emotions.
This operation is your stage to prove yourself. Please be extremely careful with your words and actions, prioritize the greater good, and do not 'fool around' anymore."
The last two words, Takayama Shintaro spoke very softly, yet they carried significant weight.
This was the most direct admonition he could offer as an old retainer who had watched Yorinobu grow up and still harbored a trace of recognition for his status as the legitimate heir.
He genuinely hoped Yorinobu could use this opportunity to turn his image around and truly shoulder the responsibilities of an heir, even though he might never fully comprehend the all-consuming fire in Yorinobu's heart.
Yorinobu finally turned around slowly, his face devoid of any offended anger or impatience from being lectured, only a calm that was almost nihlistic.
"Uncle Takayama," he used the informal address, his voice devoid of emotion, "I know what to do. For Arasaka's 'future,' I will do what I must."
His words were ambiguous; to Takayama, they might have sounded like a promise, but in Yorinobu's own mind, they held a completely different meaning.
For the "future" he desired, one without megacorporations like Arasaka, he would naturally "do what he must"—which was to guide this ship of revenge, along with everything it represented, towards its ultimate destruction.
Takayama Shintaro carefully observed Yorinobu's expression, seemingly trying to find some sincerity or determination within it. Finally, he nodded slightly: "It's good that you understand. I will assist you fully to ensure the success of the operation."
He bowed again, then quietly exited the observation room.
The door closed once more, and Yorinobu again cast his gaze to the distance.
The outline of the coastline seemed a bit clearer; it was not just a battlefield about to ignite, but also the prelude to burying the entire corporate era, a moment he had finally awaited after fifty years of planning.
Takayama Shintaro's advice was like an irrelevant breeze, blowing across his heart, which had long turned to stone.
His plan was far grander and far more brutal than merely establishing personal prestige or inheriting the Arasaka Empire.
Yorinobu's thoughts inevitably drifted back to the distant past, to the youthful era that had completely altered the trajectory of his life.
Teacher Hachū Kenjiro, the instructor at the Iron Lotus dojo, was his spiritual guide and the first crack in the high wall of his perception.
In that dojo, filled with the scent of wood and sweat, Teacher Hachū taught not only the art of killing and winning with the sword, but also the "heart-sword"—the ability to cut through confusion and face one's true self.
He never spoke of empty politics or philosophy, but through the rigorous practice of each move, he guided Yorinobu to ponder the essence of power, the boundaries of responsibility, and why a wielder of the sword fights.
Initially, Yorinobu's worldview was a fortress meticulously constructed for him by Arasaka: corporations brought order and prosperity, technology led human progress, and Arasaka's position at the top was an inevitable consequence of ability and destiny.
All the privileges he enjoyed were proof of this system's rationality.
However, Teacher Hachū, inadvertently, allowed him a glimpse of the real world beyond the fortress.
After one class, Teacher Hachū calmly spoke of an old man outside the dojo who had lost everything because he couldn't repay a corporate medical loan; another time, he pointed to a brief news report about an ecological disaster somewhere, commenting that it was an area where a large corporation had dumped industrial waste.
Teacher Hachū offered no fierce accusations, only factual statements and a faint, almost imperceptible sigh.
These fragmented pieces of information, like water dripping on stone, slowly eroded Yorinobu's ingrained perceptions.
He began to observe consciously, using the "heart-sword" Teacher Hachū had given him to dissect everything around him.
He noticed that at family banquets, when executives discussed mergers and acquisitions, the casually mentioned "necessary layoffs" hid thousands of families; he read reports in his father's study about "human resource optimization" and "market cleansing," which concealed bloody competition and annexations.
He realized for the first time that beneath the glossy "progress" of Arasaka's promotional videos were countless "consumables" squeezed dry and discarded; the "order" he took for granted was a precise control built upon systemic exploitation and silent suffering.
This upheaval of perception was painful and violent.
His worldview, built over eighteen years, crumbled, replaced by chaos and guilt.
He began to loathe the delicacies on the dining table, for they might be stained with blood and sweat; he resented the deferential attendants around him, for their deference stemmed from fear and power imbalance.
Arasaka's splendor no longer shone in his eyes; instead, it reflected the blood, tears, and desiccated bones of countless sacrificed individuals.
Teacher Hachū made him understand that he was not only an heir to privilege but also a part of this all-consuming system.
However, the light of enlightenment is always fleeting.
Teacher Hachū's "suicide," with its meticulously arranged yet flawed disguise, was like a basin of ice water that not only extinguished the last vestiges of his illusion of family warmth but also made him realize with chilling clarity the cruel nature of this system.
Any spark that attempted to awaken others or challenge the established order would be mercilessly snuffed out; it didn't even require a clear directive from the family—the system's own defense mechanisms would activate.
It didn't care who it was, only whether the threat was eliminated.
The young man who, under the family's patronage, had carried a touch of innocence and arrogance, died completely at that moment.
In his place emerged a young man who had seen his own predicament and the dark underbelly of the entire world. His heart was no longer confused; only cold despair remained, and a silent flame, quietly ignited in that despair, destined to consume everything.
In 2016, on the night he graduated from the University of Tokyo, Saburo Arasaka held a cold 'coming-of-age ceremony' for Yorinobu in his study.
It wasn't just about presenting business blueprints and financial reports; it was a systematic unveiling of the true nature of power operations within the Arasaka empire.
Yorinobu saw a dark core far beyond imagination: meticulously planned political assassination files, financial ambush schemes capable of toppling the economies of small nations, comprehensive surveillance reports on competitors and even government officials, and thousands of lives marked as 'acceptable losses'.
Power was no longer an abstract concept but had transformed into cold data and blood-stained directives.
At that moment, Yorinobu's last vestiges of affection and fantasy for his family bloodline were utterly crushed, replaced by a cold disgust and an almost physiological revulsion.
He could not bear to stay in this all-consuming system for another second.
He chose the most direct, most primal form of rebellion—running away from home, disappearing into the neon-lit shadows of Tokyo, and forming a biker gang called 'Steel Dragon'.
They defaced Arasaka's GG brand with graffiti, attacked Arasaka's transport convoys with steel pipes, and vented their impotent rage by destroying low-level corporate facilities.
During that time, material scarcity and constant danger surrounded him, yet Yorinobu felt 'alive' like never before.
He and his companions, who were exploited by corporations and harbored resentment, squeezed into cramped safe houses, sharing meager food and discussing vague but, to him, incredibly noble goals—breaking free from the corporate cage.
It was a naive idealism, yet it was also the first time he had acted according to his own will, full of tragic sincerity.
However, his half-brother, Arasaka Kei, viewed Yorinobu's actions as an unforgivable defilement of family honor.
This 'Crown Prince', fanatically devoted to maintaining Arasaka's purity and absolute authority, swore to personally eliminate this 'stain' and 'traitor' from the family.
Without explicit instruction from his father, but leveraging his position and influence within the conglomerate, Arasaka Kei mobilized the elite security forces directly under headquarters and issued an 'extermination order' against 'Steel Dragon'.
This order was cold and efficient; its purpose was not arrest, but complete physical elimination.
Corporate soldiers, equipped with top-tier weapons and cybernetics, rolled over them like a relentless steel tide, precisely crushing all resistance.
Resistance was futile.
Companions with whom he had once shared drinks and discussed ideals were torn apart like paper in front of professional killing machines, falling in dirty back alleys and beside burning vehicle wreckage.
Their sacrifice was not a glorious martyrdom but stemmed from a cold family purge aimed specifically at him.
This scene became Yorinobu's inescapable nightmare for the next fifty years; every silent night, those young and angry faces would flash before his eyes, and his brother Arasaka Kei's cold face was the footnote to all this tragedy.
This one-sided massacre brought him to full realization.
He understood that confronting a corporate empire that had highly systematized and refined violence with passion and street violence was like trying to smash a rock with an egg.
Individual or small group resistance was meaningless in the face of the institutionalized cruelty represented by Arasaka Kei.
To truly shake this behemoth, he needed greater power, deeper strategies, and… longer endurance.
He left Japan, wandering the globe, seeking the power and methods that could truly shake Arasaka's foundations.
He had encountered various resistance organizations, observed the pros and cons of different systems, and finally, the outbreak of the Fourth Corporate War gave him a crucial revelation.
He saw Arasaka and Militech, these two behemoths, once forced into 'nationalization' under the attrition of war and the intervention of state power; although this was only a temporary facade, it showed him hope—only by making corporations destroy each other could this deformity system be fundamentally dismantled.
If it couldn't be destroyed from the outside, then it would be detonated from within.
He made the most difficult and resolute decision of his life—to return to the family, to his hated father's side, and play the role of a 'prodigal son' heir.
He endured inner torment, lurking for fifty years under Saburo Arasaka's all-seeing yet calculating gaze, and amidst his sister Hanako's complex and inscrutable 'care'.
He knew better than anyone his father's true purpose in accepting his return.
The Relic chip, the 'download' end of the Soulkiller technology, was not only his father's key to digital immortality but also a magnificent coffin prepared for him—Yorinobu Arasaka, the 'rebellious son' with pure Arasaka blood flowing through his veins.
His body would be the best vessel for Saburo Arasaka's consciousness transfer. And his beloved sister Hanako was the most loyal executor and manipulator of this terrifying plan.
This knowledge gnawed at his heart like a poisonous snake, yet it also strengthened his resolve.
Originally, his plan had already entered its final stage.
With Relic technology matured, he was preparing to steal the chip, using it as bait to meticulously plan a conflict capable of igniting the Fifth Corporate War, dragging Arasaka, Militech, and all other mega-corporations coveting this technology into an abyss of no return.
He wanted to rebuild a new world without corporate rule on the ruins of corporations, a world Teacher Hachū had once described to him—fairer and more respectful of life.
Now, the sudden fall of Arasaka Tower in Night City disrupted his pace, but unexpectedly accelerated the process.
Militech and NUSA's active preparations for war, his father's furious decision to dispatch the white whale, european Banks' covert instigation, Kang Tao's internal strife... all factors, as if manipulated by an invisible hand, were rapidly sliding towards his anticipated full-scale conflict.
"The situation is developing faster than expected..." Yorinobu gazed at the surging waves outside the window, calmly analyzing, "Militech wants to unify by taking advantage of the situation, father wants bloody revenge, european Banks wants to profit from the chaos, Kang Tao is unstable internally... Very good, chaos is a ladder, the best catalyst for burying the old order."
His goal was never to help Arasaka win this war; on the contrary, he wanted to ensure this war was sufficiently brutal, so brutal that all combatants would be severely weakened, or even annihilate each other.
At the critical moment, he would deliver a fatal blow to Arasaka from behind, while also finding ways to intensify conflicts between other corporations, letting the flames of war spread indefinitely.
"Hansen's Wraiths... have they re-pledged allegiance to NUSA?" He recalled the latest intelligence he had just received about the unit dispatched to the outskirts of Wasteland Town, "And that 'Archmagos' who destroyed the Mikoshi... an unknown variable, but perhaps it could also be a sharp tool to break the balance."
His mind raced, thinking about how to utilize these newly emerging forces.
The enemy of an enemy is not necessarily a friend, but definitely a usable asset.
What he had to do was not to ally with anyone, but to ensure that everyone was deeply mired and unable to extricate themselves.
An officer entered the observation room, bowing respectfully: "Lord Yorinobu, Advisor Takayama requests your presence in the operations briefing room; the final landing operation plan is about to be finalized."
Yorinobu turned around, all emotions belonging to a 'revolutionary' instantly receding from his face, replaced by a cold indifference befitting his status, tinged with suppressed anger and resolve.
"Understood," he responded calmly, his voice steady, betraying no ripple of emotion.
He stepped out of the observation room, walking towards the conference room where more slaughter and destruction were being planned.
Each step seemed to tread upon the bones of his former companions, upon his own fifty years of forbearance.
The flame within him had never extinguished; instead, it burned even more fiercely and purely during the long suppression.
This colossal ship of vengeance, named the white whale, carried not only Saburo Arasaka's wrath but also the ultimate ideal of a revolutionary determined to perish with the entire old world.
Yorinobu Arasaka, this betrayer of his surname, would personally light the fuse, watching everything he abhorred, in the flames of the Fifth Corporate War, transform into the cornerstone of his envisioned new world.
He didn't care if he survived the ruins; he only cared that the era where corporations controlled everything and regarded human lives as expendable must end.
The massive hull of the white whale, like a moving mountain of steel, hung silently over the cold sea west of Night City.
Leaden-gray clouds hung low, merging with the polluted haze that permeated the city, adding to the oppressive atmosphere of the scarred metropolis.
Inside the bridge, the light was soft, with only the faint glow from various instruments and equipment, and the shifting light of the holographic star map, illuminating solemn faces.
Yorinobu Arasaka stood before the massive viewport, his gaze piercing the reinforced glass, resting on the familiar yet strange skyline of the city in the distance.
He had countless times wished to destroy the very foundations of its existence, and now, holding the power, he stood on the brink of achieving his goal, yet his heart was filled with a cold, dead silence, devoid of any satisfaction.
"Yorinobu-sama," Takayama Shintaro's steady voice sounded behind him, "The landing forces are ready. The power armor units have completed their final checks and are ready for combat at any moment."
Yorinobu did not turn around, merely giving a faint "Hm."
Takayama stepped forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, also looking towards Night City. "According to feedback from our remaining intelligence network, the target 'Wasteland Town' area is already fortified. NUSA has reactivated Hansen's Wraiths unit and deployed it on the perimeter.
Furthermore, the squad that destroyed Arasaka Tower has also shown signs of activity in that area."
"A ragtag bunch, plus a rebel army, and... a few somewhat special street rats," Yorinobu's tone carried a hint of imperceptible sarcasm, unsure if he was evaluating the enemy or mocking his current identity.
"Do not underestimate them, Yorinobu-sama," Takayama Shintaro reminded him, his tone still respectful but with an elder's admonition. "The fact that they could destroy Arasaka Tower means they have something to rely on.
Directly deploying our main force for a frontal assault, while it would demonstrate Arasaka's thunderous might, could also lead to unnecessary losses, and... it would make the outside world think we are too hasty and lack strategy."
Yorinobu slowly turned around, his face devoid of any expression, as if wearing a meticulously carved mask. "Takayama-ojisan, what do you suggest?"
"We need a probe," Takayama Shintaro's gaze was sharp, "A sufficiently determined probe that can test the enemy's defensive strengths and weaknesses, reaction speed, and fire power configuration. At the same time, this is also an opportunity to... cleanse the interior and boost morale."
"Oh?" Yorinobu seemed to show some interest, gesturing for him to continue.
"The Night City branch has fallen, and the surviving security personnel, especially the mid-to-low-level commanders, are not without blame," Takayama's voice lowered, carrying a cold logic. "According to tradition, they need to prove their loyalty and wash away their shame.
Rather than letting them mix into the main force with their stains and unease, it's better to give them an opportunity, an opportunity to demonstrate their loyalty to Arasaka, and to Saburo-sama."
A cold understanding flashed deep in Yorinobu's eyes. He knew this logic too well; sacrifices packaged with "honor" and "responsibility" were essentially just cold resource utilization and internal cleansing.
And this was precisely what his plan needed—chaos, attrition, and a prelude big enough to attract attention.
He nodded slightly, taking over Takayama Shintaro's unspoken words, and said in a tone befitting his current identity as the "Avenging Prince," filled with suppressed anger and determination: "Takayama-ojisan is right. Arasaka's prestige must not be desecrated. Every Arasaka employee should have the resolve to sacrifice themselves to uphold that prestige. Especially those... who failed in their duties."
He paused, as if weighing his words, but in reality, he was calmly calculating the chain reactions this step would bring.
"Deliver my order," Yorinobu's voice rang clear in the bridge, carrying an undeniable authority. "Integrate all remaining, organized Arasaka security forces in the Night City area. Tell them, the time for atonement has come.
I need them to organize a suicide squad to launch an all-out assault on the perimeter of Wasteland Town, especially the Wraiths' defensive line."
He looked at Takayama Shintaro, his eyes cold: "This is not a harassment, it's an attack. The goal is to tear open the enemy's defenses, create as much chaos as possible, deplete their forces, and bring us back valuable battlefield data.
Tell them, Arasaka will remember their loyalty, and their families will receive the most generous compensation."
Takayama Shintaro looked deeply at Yorinobu, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes. There was satisfaction that this "Prince" had finally shown the iron-fisted resolve befitting his status, and perhaps also a hint of indifference towards the lives about to be sacrificed.
He bowed his head: "Hai! I understand. This will be a perfect reconnaissance in force, and it will also give those who failed in their duties an opportunity to practice their Bushido. I will arrange it immediately."
The order, like a cold iron hammer, shattered the last shred of hope in the hearts of the survivors.
In the communication channels, the instructions from the white whale were clear and ruthless, devoid of any emotion, yet they triggered silent thunder in every remaining Arasaka stronghold.
After a brief silence, there was a small-scale emotional breakdown.
Someone violently ripped off their headset and slammed it to the ground, fragments scattering; someone else clasped their hands over their head, curled up in a corner, their shoulders trembling uncontrollably; younger team members lost all color in their faces, their eyes filled with an unacceptable terror, muttering, "This is impossible."
The shame of defeat had not yet dissipated when a new, heavier despair descended—not only had they lost the Tower, but now their value as soldiers had been reduced to disposable consumables.
However, this breakdown did not last long.
Years of immersion in corporate culture, like a mental shackles, began to take effect.
The indoctrination rooted in hierarchy and "sacrificing oneself for righteousness" began to suppress individual fear like a conditioned reflex.
The superior commanders, those middle-aged men with equally pale faces but eyes that gradually became hollow, began to deliver pre-battle speeches in hoarse voices.
Their words were filled with terms like "honor," "loyalty," "devotion to Saburo-sama," and "washing away disgrace." These words, which might normally just be slogans on a wall, now became their only lifeline.
"This is an order personally given by Yorinobu-sama..." a squad leader repeated, his voice gradually firming from its initial tremor, as if the phrase itself held magic. "This is our duty, and... our destiny."
A twisted logic began to spread through the crowd.
Rather than bearing the stigma of defeat and lingering in future purges or self-reproach, it was better to offer their remaining lives as a final "blood tax."
At least, this would secure "generous compensation" for their families.
At least, in Arasaka's internal records, their names would be marked with "honorable death" instead of "deserter" or "coward."
Fear did not disappear; instead, it was forcibly twisted and alienated.
It transformed into a nearly pathological exhilaration.
The actions of checking weapons became rough and hurried. They tied bundles of plastic explosives to their bodies or stuffed them into vehicles that would serve as assault transports.
Some began to scrawl phrases like "Seven lives for the nation" in red paint on their tattered uniforms, the strokes uneven but carrying a chilling solemnity.
Their eyes no longer focused on reality but gazed towards some ethereal, promised shore of "loyalty and righteousness," their faces a mix of fresh tear tracks, stiff resolve, and a fanatical glow disconnected from reality.
They were no longer soldiers forced to die, but "righteous warriors" who, through self-persuasion, actively embraced death.
Breakdown and despair were rapidly catalyzed into a twisted, highly efficient desire for attack.
This hastily assembled "suicide squad," in a very short time, completed the transformation from routed soldiers to fanatical sacrifices, like dynamite lit by a fuse, waiting only for the final command to charge towards their target, embarking on a self-destruction with no return.