Kanjuro's death notice of \"wash your neck and wait for me\" hung over Matsumoto Kiyochika's head like the Sword of Damocles. Fear, like a cold tide, eroded his sanity and courage at every moment. He abandoned his office at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and locked himself and his daughter (or rather, the daughter's body that had been \"processed\" by Kanjuro and was in a strange near-death state) in a relatively secluded private Annex in the suburbs.
Inside and outside the Annex, the atmosphere was as heavy as a grave. Matsumoto Kiyochika mobilized all the connections and resources he could, bringing in a large number of heavily armed private guards and trusted subordinates. They looked nervous, guarding every entrance and window as if facing a formidable enemy. The heavy footsteps of the patrolling teams and the searchlight beams crisscrossing the night sky didn't miss a single movement. It was less of a protection and more of a futile struggle before a total collapse.
In the deepest part of the Annex, in a dim room arranged as a temporary funeral hall, the atmosphere was so oppressive it was suffocating.
In the center of the room stood an expensive open coffin lined with velvet. Inside the coffin, Matsumoto Sayuri lay quietly. She was still wearing that holy wedding dress, which had been carefully cleaned after being stained with blood, yet still bore dark red stains. It made her face look even paler, presenting a strange and fragile beauty, as if she had simply fallen into a deep sleep. Her features had been meticulously arranged, still showing her gentle and moving appearance from when she was alive. Her long eyelashes cast faint shadows on her eyelids, as if she might wake up at any moment.
But it was only an illusion. She had almost no breath or pulse, only a faint trace of life force, like a candle in the wind, maintaining her eerie state between life and death. This beautiful \"corpse\" was both Kanjuro's cruel \"masterpiece\" and the heaviest boulder and sharpest thorn hanging over Matsumoto Kiyochika's heart.
Matsumoto Kiyochika sat slumped in an armchair by the coffin, looking twenty years older overnight. The once shrewd, capable, and imposing Management Official of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department had vanished, replaced by a haggard old man completely crushed by fear and grief. His bloodshot eyes stared fixedly at his daughter in the coffin, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He didn't dare close his eyes; as soon as he did, he seemed to see Kanjuro's youthful face with that wicked smile and those cold eyes when he casually said, \"I'll come to kill you tomorrow.\" Every tiny sound outside—the guards' footsteps, the static of the walkie-talkies, even the rustling of wind through the leaves—made him jump like a startled bird, cold sweat instantly soaking his back.
\"He... he's coming... he'll definitely come...\" Matsumoto Kiyochika muttered neurotically to himself, his voice hoarse and full of despair. He regretted it—regretted why he had so strongly opposed his daughter's association with Kanjuro back then. If... if he hadn't done that, would today's disaster have been avoided? But even more so, he felt an extreme fear of Kanjuro's incomprehensible and irresistible power.
He couldn't even send his daughter to the hospital. He feared that once they left this heavily guarded Annex, Kanjuro's revenge would descend in an even more direct and cruel way. He could only stay by this coffin, guarding his daughter who was between life and death, waiting for the devil to arrive, waiting for the final moment, whether it be liberation or the end.
Time passed second by second, each one like an ordeal on the edge of a blade. The guards continued their patrols dutifully, but their faces were also written with unease and confusion, unable to understand what kind of terrifying enemy could make Superintendent Matsumoto lose his composure so completely, as if facing the end of the world.
Inside the Annex, the lights were dim, and Matsumoto Kiyochika's hunched figure cast a distorted, trembling shadow on the wall. In the coffin, Matsumoto Sayuri, in her blood-stained wedding dress, was as quiet as a sacrificial offering. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant, flowers, and a heavy atmosphere called \"despair.\"
This ordeal of waiting for death was even more cruel than death itself. Matsumoto Kiyochika was being consumed and destroyed bit by bit in this endless fear, waiting for Kanjuro to arrive as scheduled, like the God of Death. The night was as thick as ink, the moonlight obscured by dark clouds, with only the searchlights outside the Matsumoto Annex futilely cutting through the darkness. Suddenly, all the lights seemed to be choked by an invisible hand, flickering violently a few times before going out completely! The entire Annex was instantly plunged into a deathly silent darkness and chaos.
\"What's going on?!\"
\"The power's been cut!\"
\"Alert! Maximum alert!\"
The guards' cries and the static of the walkie-talkies rang out in the darkness, full of panic. However, their commotion had only just begun before it came to an abrupt halt.
A figure appeared silently in the center of the Annex courtyard, as if blending into the night itself. It was Kanjuro. He was still wearing his casual clothes, with that chilling smile on his face, as if he were just passing by on a nighttime stroll.
\"Fire! Fire!\" the guard captain hissed the order after a brief moment of horror.
Bullets poured toward Kanjuro like a torrential rain! However, the next scene made all the witnessing guards lose their souls—
Kanjuro didn't even move an inch. In front of him, in the void, countless thick, slimy Dark Tentacles shimmering with an ominous light emerged out of thin air! They were like living creatures, dancing wildly, forming an impenetrable barrier. All the bullets fired at Kanjuro hit the tentacles like mud into the sea, failing to stir even a single ripple before being swallowed and crushed!
Then, those tentacles, like monsters from the abyss, suddenly spread and pierced in all directions!
\"Agh—!\"
\"Mon... Monster!\"
\"No... don't come over here!\"
Screams rose one after another, only to be cut short in an instant. The tentacles easily pierced through the guards' body armor and wrapped around their necks and limbs. Terrifying force instantly snapped bones and crushed internal organs! Blood sprayed in the darkness like fountains, turning the courtyard into an asura field. In just a few breaths, all the outer guards, along with their weapons and shouts, were completely swallowed and destroyed by the dancing Dark Tentacles, turning into a mess of severed limbs and broken bodies.
The Annex door was blown open by an invisible force!
Inside the room, Matsumoto Kiyochika, slumped by the coffin, heard the brief gunfire and the screams that stopped abruptly. Immense fear froze him, leaving him without even the strength to stand up. When he saw that demon-like figure stepping over the blood and corpses, walking in as if taking a stroll, his final psychological defense completely collapsed.
\"Ah... ah...\" Matsumoto Kiyochika made hoarse, tuneless sounds of fear in his throat. His body slid uncontrollably from the chair, and he crawled backward using both hands and feet, his pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks from extreme horror. He looked at Kanjuro, at those eyes that seemed to burn with dark flames in the darkness, and at the terrifying tentacles still slowly writhing around him, dripping with slime. His mind went blank, leaving only the most primitive fear.
A tentacle extended silently like a venomous snake, easily coiling around Matsumoto Kiyochika's neck and lifting him off the ground! The cold, slimy, and powerful sensation almost suffocated him, his feet kicking helplessly in the air.
Kanjuro walked up to him, his gaze indifferent, as if looking at an insignificant bug.
\"I told you to wash your neck and wait.\" His voice was calm, yet more despairing than any roar.
With that, the tentacle swung casually—Matsumoto Kiyochika was slammed heavily against the nearby wall like a broken sack. There was a dull thud, and with several bones likely broken, he slumped to the ground, left with only painful groans and extreme fear.
Kanjuro stopped looking at him and instead turned his gaze to the center of the room, to the coffin where Matsumoto Sayuri lay in her blood-stained wedding dress, looking as if she were asleep.
The terrifying tentacles around him receded like a tide and vanished without a trace. He walked to the side of the coffin, leaned down, and with exceptionally gentle movements, picked up Sayuri's cold \"corpse\" from the coffin. The white wedding dress hem draped down, the dark red blood stains on it appearing particularly striking in the dim light.
He held her as if holding a long-lost treasure, his gaze even showing a kind of almost tender focus. But this tenderness, in contrast to the massacre he had just committed and the body between life and death in his arms, formed the most eerie and hair-raising contrast.
Just then, Kanjuro turned his head to look at Matsumoto Kiyochika, who was slumped in the corner like a pile of mud. From his eyes, a deep, cold, eerie light that seemed to pierce straight into the soul suddenly burst forth!
That light instantly sank into Matsumoto Kiyochika's eyes!
Matsumoto Kiyochika's body suddenly stiffened, and all his painful groans and fearful expressions instantly froze and vanished. His eyes became hollow and numb, as if he had lost all self-awareness and emotion, leaving only absolute obedience.
Carrying Sayuri, Kanjuro turned and walked calmly out of the Annex.
Behind him, Matsumoto Kiyochika, with his twisted limbs and severe injuries, actually struggled and stiffly stood up like a puppet on strings. Step by step, numbly yet unswervingly, he followed Kanjuro's footsteps. He no longer felt fear or pain; there was only a command etched into his soul—follow behind the master to the place he designated.
(Seek Flowers) --- Kanjuro walked in front, carrying the \"corpse\" in the wedding dress, followed by the walking-dead-like Matsumoto Kiyochika. They stepped over the blood and wreckage on the ground, walked out of the Annex shrouded in death and fear, and blended into the night outside.
This scene was filled with the ultimate beauty and cruelty, control and destruction, like a scroll from hell. Kanjuro had not only destroyed all of Matsumoto Kiyochika's resistance but had also stripped away his will as a human, turning him into a living puppet that only obeyed orders.
And Matsumoto Sayuri, whether alive or dead, was destined to become one of the most prominent and twisted \"trophies\" in his dark collection.
Carrying Matsumoto Sayuri's body in the blood-stained wedding dress, which was between life and death, with the hollow-eyed, staggering, puppet-like Matsumoto Kiyochika following behind, Kanjuro calmly returned to that cold basement in the Suzuki Mansion.
In the basement, the dim lights flickered, casting a scene reminiscent of some sinister religious ritual. A faint scent of blood and despair permeated the air. Toshihiko Takasugi remained tightly bound to the cross in the center of the room. Covered in blood and grime, his head hung low, and his breathing was weak; only the occasional unconscious twitch from pain proved he was still alive. Prolonged torture had already caused his mind to break, leaving behind only the instinctive reactions of the flesh...
Kanjuro's gaze swept over Toshihiko Takasugi as if looking at a long-finished, no longer novel piece of furniture, without pausing for a second. Holding Sayuri, he walked to the empty wall on the other side of the room. There, another equally crude and cold wooden cross had already been prepared.
He gently placed Sayuri on a stone platform covered with black velvet. Her pure white wedding dress looked increasingly jarring and eerie against the dark background. Then, he turned to Matsumoto Kiyochika, who stood numbly to the side.
Matsumoto Kiyochika's eyes were hollow, showing no intent to resist or even any fear—Kanjuro's Mind Control had completely stripped him of his autonomous emotions and will.
Kanjuro did not act personally, merely nodding slightly toward a dark corner. Two silent guards in black appeared immediately. Expressionless and moving with practiced brutality, they dragged Matsumoto Kiyochika to the vacant cross. Using coarse hemp ropes, they bound his wrists and ankles tightly to the cold wood, forcing him into a spread-eagle position.
Throughout the process, Matsumoto Kiyochika was like a soulless puppet, allowing himself to be manipulated without even letting out a muffled groan.
Soon, the two crosses stood side-by-side in the basement.
On one side was Toshihiko Takasugi—blood-stained, mentally broken, and fallen to such a state despite seeking revenge for love.
On the other side was Matsumoto Kiyochika—newly stripped of his will, a high-ranking official of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department now pinned to a cross like a lamb to the slaughter.
Father and son (father-in-law and son-in-law), in this highly insulting and symbolic manner, together became the most prominent 'decorations' in Kanjuro's basement, silently testifying to the ultimate fate of those who resist or offend him.
Kanjuro stood before the two crosses like a dark pope surveying his sacrifices, a satisfied and cold smile appearing on his face. This sight perfectly satisfied his twisted desire for control and sadism.
Afterward, he didn't spare another glance at these two men destined to die slowly in endless pain and humiliation. He picked up Sayuri's cold 'corpse' from the stone platform again, his movements so gentle it was as if he feared disturbing her slumber, and turned to leave the basement filled with blood and despair.
The heavy iron door slowly closed behind him, locking away Toshihiko Takasugi's silent gasps, Matsumoto Kiyochika's numb breathing, and that thick, inescapable despair within the eternal darkness.
Carrying his most precious and twisted 'trophy,' Kanjuro walked with elegant strides back to the warm, luxurious main house upstairs. He placed Sayuri in a room prepared long ago, designed like a bedchamber, letting her lie on a soft, large bed surrounded by dim scented candles.
He sat by the bed, his fingertips gently brushing over Sayuri's cold yet still beautiful face. A complex and inscrutable emotion flickered in his eyes—it wasn't love, but an extreme sense of possession, an appreciation for a 'belonging,' and a near-godlike pleasure from holding life and death, beauty and cruelty, firmly in his hands.
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