Prologue – The Legend

“These streets are his to roam.”

That was the warning given to those handed the saké cup – one last chance to back out before becoming part of the ‘family’. Family was a pretty word for an organization belonging to the underworld. Those that partook in it had an expectation for what lay ahead. Yet, these very words had to be spoken, not just to one but every family in the organization.

As a result, two kinds of people ended up joining the yakuza.

The first group willingly bowed their heads in recognition of that warning, knowing full well the legend it referred to. Perhaps, they had joined up in hopes of following in his footsteps. To experience the hushed rumors that spread through friend and foe alike. After all, it was rare for a mere name to bring chills upon everyone’s lips, particularly those that had experienced the underworld for quite some time. But these veterans knew best when they saw it.

That left the foolhardy for the second group – plowing ahead upon self-drawn ambition without looking far enough in the distance. Such warnings were lost on them, amid a sparkling future of cheeky grins and paper-thin dreams. Crashing head on would leave a deep and lasting impression.

“The Yama Ryu is here! Get ready!”

The door exploded open, tossing the man who screamed the warning into the adjacent wall before he crumpled to the ground. The bang of metal against solid wall was a fired shot that no one was prepared for.

A tall figure stood in the doorway, a sense of calm maturity making it seem natural for him to waltz right in. He eyed the crowd, half dry-mouthed and half licking their lips. Ignoring the red stains on his cuffs and fists, the casual suit made him look like a sloppy businessman in his early thirties, fresh from hitting the bars. His stance was so casual that nothing imposing set off one’s defense at a glance. But those that knew where to look saw an intense gaze that left no openings to take advantage of. The fact that they burned so brightly as he stood alone before a squad of thirty yakuza spoke volumes. He had no need to openly flaunt his superiority.

Someone dashed forward, a youngster that had barely joined two months ago, still ignorant of who he was up against.

“Wait, don’t-”

The echo of smashed plasterboard shot through the room.

Before his aniki could warn him, the youngster’s head was now embedded in the wall, the rest of his body hanging limp. He had become a hunter’s trophy but with his ass hanging out.

Several others decided to test their enemy with numbers, while a chill ran through the more senior members. Their chance to negotiate had slipped away. The heat of battle would now decide their fates.

But even thirty on one, their chances were slim. A legend didn’t exist only to be chipped away by numbers. In a flash, more dynamic movements betrayed the calm from before as he blew away all who came forward. At some point, it hit home.

They weren’t winning this fight. Not against Yama Ryu. Not against the Tenjou Clan that they butted heads with.

It took merely ten men being taken out in a single sweep for morale to turn into chaos. Even still, arms took up stances, hesitantly so. They had nowhere to run as this wasn’t their turf. They were the invaders here.

“All at once!” cried the commanding officer, hoping to get a lucky shot in, drawing a cheap katana from his desk to lead the charge.

The blade was barely sharpened, only enough to use as a threat to his subordinates. And as predicted, it snapped mid-impact against a chair swung at him. Wood shrapnel exploded as pain shot across his face. Maybe he lost some teeth too, but he couldn’t stay awake long enough to check.

A downed commander made the others easy pickings. Bravado was only as strong as the one leading the way. The tide was now in full control by the one-man-army, sweeping the room in a flurry of smashed desks and chairs. Computers and personal effects littered the ground as the whole room was flipped in the storm. And within minutes, only the legend was left standing. Just like his namesake, it was like a dragon had descended from the mountains and left disaster in its wake.

The Yama Ryu dusted off his clothes and heaved a sigh, pushing back his short, dark hair that had only slightly fallen out of place. The room was blanketed in silence until the creak of the front door swinging disturbed it.

“Aniki, already done? You didn’t save any for us?” a guy in casual punk clothing popped into the room, giving off the feel of a lower-level lackey. His bleached hair and piercings certainly made him look more like those on the ground. The one difference was the emblem that he proudly displayed on his collar – the mark of the Tenjou Clan. He entered with a sigh and gingerly tapped at the downed men, disappointment clear on his brow.

“You guys insisted on using the elevator. How’s a man supposed to get riled up while cramped in some slow-moving box with a bunch of others? I need my space.”

“Yeah, yeah. The famous Yamaoka Ryuji, strutting his stuff to gather his chi or whatnot to get into the mood. You make it sound like there are conditions needed for you to kick ass. Can’t say that I blame you. I need a good sock in the face to get me riled up.”

The latecomer looked around the room before reaching down to pluck a pin from a random man. He eyed it carefully before standing up, showing it to Ryuji, and tossing it to some others that filtered in after them.

“The Azumito Alliance, huh. They have no business messing around our territory, second strongest clan or not. Any idea what shit the ‘Pride of Kansai’ are trying to pull?”

Wordlessly, Ryuji walked over to a stack of cardboard boxes that had been left undisturbed. He had noticed how quickly people made distance from them at the start of the fight, a clear sign of their value. Ripping the top off one, he was met with the sight of strange devices. Spinning the object around in his hand, he couldn’t make heads or tails of it, only that it seemed like wearable gear.

“What’s that? Doesn’t look like they’re hawking drugs or booze here. Some kind of high-tech bullshit?” a voice spoke over his shoulder.

“If you can’t tell what the hell this is, Ozaki, how the hell am I to? It’s best to let someone like Shiroyan figure out the details. Our job is to stop the flow of illegal goods.”

“Okaayyy! Shiroyuki-niisan is the brains. We’re the muscle! That much is just right for my pay grade!”

“Oi, careful with that, Ozaki.” Ryuji eyed the others behind them. “It’s one thing coming from you as an officer, but if that sticks with any of your subordinates, Shiroyan will gut them for calling him that.”

Appearances aside, Ozaki Shun was still a captain under Ryuji’s family. He had to set a good example.

“Fine, fine. I’ll have my boys clean up here. Send those Kansai assholes a care package to tell them to cut this shit out. Go have a smoke and call it a day.”

“Heh, don’t mind if I do.”

Ryuji reached into his coat pocket and grabbed a pack of cigs. Tapping one out, he plucked it with his lips. Without missing a beat, his right-hand man pulled out a lighter and readied a flame.

With a deep draw on the cigarette, Ryuji felt his adrenaline slow down. He excused himself and took the elevator that was waiting for him down. The chilly night air hit his face as he stepped out, a perfect change after a brawl. The coolness after getting riled up was a better drug than the scrawny nicotine stick that he sucked on. Still, it gave off the right sense of ambiance, so he took one last draw before flicking it off into some dark corner.

The streets took on a different vibe come nighttime, particularly for the places where he made his rounds. This red-light district was home to shady businesses, scams, and pyramid schemes wherever the government’s control grew lax. Ryuji passed by barkers of soaplands, skimpy-dressed prostitutes, and bright-eyed opportunists looking to make a quick buck.

A typical evening in Kakushicho – the lifeblood of Tokyo’s underworld. It was the bare belly hanging out for the public to see, the grotesque aspect of society that turned away most aside from certain audiences. The police knew to stay away from the collar pins that showed that the Tenjou Clan owned the area.

Here, one was under their terms. Business happened as usual, provided that one paid their dues. As such, any invaders sniffing around and up to no good had to be dealt with personally. It was just another day on the job. A role for keeping the peace in his little corner of the world.

Ryuji climbed the stairs up to his apartment, letting the familiarity of the past decade guide him forward. It was a nice spot at the edge of the entertainment district, close enough to respond to any calls regarding his turf. Hidden enough that no normal person would poke a nose into his affairs. He opened the door and strode in, the walls looking every bit as cheap as the suit he wore.

Vases as utensil holders, statues used as clothes racks – the simple room clashed with the pricy trinkets haphazardly strewn about the room, million-yen objects mixed with everyday goods. They were simply gifts that his patriarch pushed onto him as rewards for his service.

No one said that life within the ‘family’ had to be lavish. Ryuji wasn’t one of those yakuza that flaunted wealth. Much like his accomplishments, he’d rather keep things under wraps, only showing off when the situation needed it. His fair share of battles made him wise to that.

Ryuji slid off his suit jacket and tore off his shirt, turning his back toward the mirror to look at it. An intricate dragon climbing up steep mountains was tattooed there. The clouds that dotted the surroundings made it seem like it was aiming for the heavens. It was the perfect design when his artist suggested it. He was every bit the man struggling to find the peak, endlessly toiling since the start of his career. It was the one thing he took pride in.

He was a lieutenant under the largest clan in Japan, centered on the streets of Tokyo. His name had attained legendary status ever since he led a war against the next largest rival, the Azumito Alliance, thirteen years ago.

But no matter how many opponents he took down, no matter how much acclaim he received, he had yet to see that peak. Honestly, he had no idea what to do if he ever reached it.

Turning around to the front, he eyed the scars and bruises that dotted his chiseled physique. Fingers rubbed across those areas as he let out a sigh of resignation. A livelihood that hinged on constant battle would obviously leave its mark, but sometimes, the ones unseen hurt the most. Before he could grimace, his unblemished back brought back a smile. It spoke volumes as to how he undauntedly faced conflict.

Maybe that was why tattoos were so common there. A yakuza with any measure of worth would never let the symbol of his pride get tarnished. He would willingly defend it, letting harm come elsewhere instead. The mark would sear itself in people’s eyes the moment Ryuji turned away, done with his opponent.

Finally satisfied with his reflection of the day’s events, Ryuji plopped back onto his bed and closed his eyes. Within moments, he fell asleep. There was no telling what would happen with his kind of lifestyle. That was why he wouldn’t hold onto any attachments. The grind of the next day was all that needed to be on his mind.