Page 127 of The Dragon 1
My father—the man they still called The Fox—hadn’t named me heir. He never bred me for this empire. That burden belonged to my brother,Okami-no-Ken.
Jobon.
The Wolf.
The sword who never hesitated.
The man who could smile in battle and still make you believe peace was possible.
It had always been meant for my older brother, Jobon.
He was the chosen one.
The firstborn.
Our father molded him for it. Spent exorbitant hours with him in strategy sessions and lessons on discipline, history, and power.
While they trained, plotted, and crushed underworld rivals, I stayed close to my mother.
She was soft-spoken, artistic. She smelled of jasmine tea and silk powder. She taught me how to hold my breath and listen to the wind. How to speak gently, even in a world full of blades. How to taste lines of poetry with my mind, instead of simply reading them.
My father hated it.
When Jobon began managing sections of Tokyo—his own slice of the empire carved by blood—my father yanked me from my mother’s peace. Made me stand by his side. Shadow his movements. Watch executions. Learn betrayal like it was mathematics.
He claimed it was toprepare me.
But I wasn’t naïve.
He missed Jobon being at his side, and I was a poor imitation.
He once told me, coldly,“Your mother softened you too much. I will harden you back into something useful.”
Still, I wasn’t meant to wear the crown.
So, I poured everything intosakka.Americans called the game soccer.The rest of the world saidfootball.
And I was damned good. Speed. Precision. Control. I thrived in stadiums lit by glory, not gunfire. I earned a spot in the pros. Made it to the fucking Olympics.
My mother and brothers were there for every game, cheering, crying, and lifting signs in the stands with my number painted in gold.
They brought me homemade meals, gifts wrapped in lucky charms.
And my father?
He never came. Too busy conquering new districts, swallowing Tokyo whole, shoving his name into spaces it was never invited.
I stopped expecting him.
Stopped hoping.
My Rolls-Royce passed the massive white arc of Ajinomoto Stadium. Its lights still glowed.
That place would always be sacred to me. Not because I’d played there during my pro years, but because of Jobon.
He’d rented out the entire damned stadium for my twenty-seventh birthday. The whole thing. The field, the luxury boxes, even the Jumbotron. It wasn’t just a party. It was a coronation—one I hadn’t earned yet he gave it to me anyway.
All my friends were there. Old teammates from the Olympics. Childhood schoolmates. My coaches. Their families. Even Hiro showed up with his friends that would one day be my Claws. His whole quiet, deadly squad lurked near the sidelines in tailored suits and sunglasses, holding bento boxes and sake like they hadn’t broken bones that morning.
