Page 112 of Brutal Union
In their place are rows of carefully maintained cherry blossoms. Pruned. Uniform. Pink petals curled like they’re too delicate for the ground they grow from.
More traditional, I suppose.
I should feel something. Grief, maybe. Anger. But I don’t. Just a cold press in the center of my chest. A hollow ache that’s been there so long I barely notice it anymore.
Before I can linger, Hiragi kicks me forward hard, the toe of his boot slamming into the back of my knee. I stumble, catch myself, and snap my head around.
“Keep walking,” he says, lips curling in amusement. “We don’t have time for nostalgia,Sho-chan. Daddy wants to see his fallen son.”
The wooden floorboards of the genkan creak beneath our feet as he drags me over the threshold into the main house.
And across the room, I see her.
She’s already kneeling in perfect seiza at the center of the tatami mat floor, the traditional Japanese way of formal sitting. Her back straight, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. Her crimsonfurisoderobe has been exchanged for a simpler garment—dark indigo silk, plain but elegant, the kind worn by shrine maidens or obedient daughters. Her hair is pulled tightly back from her face, not in a bun or braid, but wrapped into a knot at the nape of her neck, exposing the graceful line of her jaw and the healing red line beneath her left eye.
The room is a perfect square lined with paper walls, lacquered beams, and cold stares. The sliding doors are drawn open to reveal an inner garden beyond the house—raked gravel, bamboo fencing, and a still pond that reflects nothing but shadow.
My father sits cross-legged at the head of the room on an elevated platform, his robes a rich, matte black, untouched by dust or time. He watches Nadia with the expression of a man admiring an antique—valuable, elegant, but ultimately disposable.
“Sho,” he booms. “Thank you for joining us. It’s been too long since all the families were together.”
Haragi bows, but I stay up straight, only falling to my knees when an idle guard kicks me in my hip.
“Show your father respect,” someone snarls. I meet the cold gaze of Ryuunosuke Kato—towering, tattooed, and infamous for making his children fight to the death. I spit at his feet. “Yes.”
Haragi yanks my hair back. “I’ll kill you.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” my father snaps. “Killing a man with his hands tied is dishonorable.”
Kenshiro Mori, master archer and stickler for tradition, nods. “Most dishonorable.”
Haragi throws me to the floor. As I steady myself, I scan the room—every family is here.
Tanabe, burn-scarred and deceptively jolly. Suda, skeletal poison master. Hanamura, dressed in silk and dripping madness. Nakagawa, the youngest, all black gloves and Western steel.
And at the center, my father—the emperor among sick fucks and killers.
All six stare at Nadia with different versions of the same hunger—curiosity, malice, and doubt twisted together behind barely concealed smiles. They don’t see her as human. Not yet. They see her as spectacle, as leverage, as bait in whatever game my father is staging.
My father made a fatal mistake, bringing me to a room full of my enemies all at once. Sure, the first time I killed the heads of all the six families I did so slowly. It took me two years, but right now, everyone besides my beloved queen is going to meet their maker. It's just not fair that I won’t be able to savor this moment.
“Teki-darake no heya ni watashi o ireru nante, daitandesu ne,”How bold of you to put me in a room full of enemies.I hum, clicking my tongue at the irony of this moment. “You think I won’t kill you all now.”
Kenshiro Miro laughs boisterously. “The boy thinks because Bhon trained him that he can fight like him! Nencho-sha o sonkei suru!”Respect your elders!
“Watashi no jidai no shonen-tachi wa, sono yona tsumiwookasu to shita o kira rerudarou!”Boys from my era would have their tongues cut out for committing such a sin!Tanabe screams red in the face.
“Come on this isn’t fair, father,” I say, dragging myself into an upright position on my knees. “You are going to put me against all these old fucks, and Haragi? Don’t I deserve a better challenge?”
“You deserve death,” he hisses, the lines on his face are etched with disappointment, as he moves to fix the collar of his traditional dress. “But my future wife would never forgive me. Right Nadia?”
Nadia doesn’t lift her head.
She stays bowed, composed, not a single muscle twitching beneath that elegant, lethal frame of hers. Her voice slices clean through the room, soft but firm—each word wrapped in silk and blade.
“Yes, Takeda-sama,” she says, still looking at the floor. “ I am honored by your mercy on my account.”
I stare at her. Nothing. Not even a glance.
