He Tore Through The Holy Grail War, And You Still Call Him A Dragon?

Listening to Kitajima Shino's confession, Yuan Zhisheng's brows furrowed tighter and tighter. This sense of déjà vu was too strong.

It was clearly identical to Erii's "Judgment." Once Judgment activated, all life within its domain would be unconditionally harvested and erased. No matter the causal factors, logic was ignored, and the only result was that life perished.

But according to Kitajima Shino's case, Judgment, when wielded by "God," seemed to become even more unpredictable and irregular. This was a very troubling change, making tracking and prevention nearly impossible.

And indeed, "God" had begun to act on a massive scale, swift as thunder. Kitajima Shino's case was not isolated—there were already multiple suspected incidents.

Ever since Yuan Zhisheng mobilized the family's resources to investigate, with the aid of the optimized super-AI "Kaguya-hime" adjusted by Miyamoto Shio, the Sheqi Bajia had dispatched their teams in full force. Then, upon Shirou's reminder, Yuan Zhisheng had further added search directives for "unnatural deaths," quickly locking on several suspicious cases hidden among the chaotic underworld files.

Since the Sheqi Bajia had long managed the order of the nation's yakuza, huge amounts of underworld information naturally converged in the family's archives. With Kaguya-hime's assistance, this process was greatly accelerated.

Perhaps by heaven's grace, Kitajima Shino, this human-trafficking scum, happened to escape death in God's Judgment. That "luck" earned him the "honor" of being the first captured and interrogated by the Sheqi Bajia.

But Yuan Zhisheng had good reason to believe Kitajima was merely one case among many. He was not unique; more like him would appear.

According to the cases under investigation, God's Judgment seemed "thunderous in voice, but with little rain." His targets on a large scale were nothing more than the illegal human-trafficking rings in society's shadows. He had not yet done something as blatant as killing pedestrians in broad daylight—like the "Shinjuku Incident"—which would attract immense public attention.

But what about after? Yuan Zhisheng did not believe God's actions would "end here."

"Kitajima Shino, there's another matter you may not realize."

Yuan Zhisheng stood under a pitch-black umbrella, taking a drag on a Mild Seven. He flicked the ash; the faintly glowing ember crumbled into nothing in the dense downpour.

"The Matsuba-kai you joined was Hokkaido's biggest yakuza syndicate. Yet you, a mere fisherman, managed to cut ties cleanly, slipping away without retaliation. Did you truly think Lady Luck was protecting you all this time?"

"W-what…?" The trafficker opened his mouth weakly, his hair gripped tightly by Crow, forcing his head back in agony to look at Yuan Zhisheng. His broken teeth made his words slur.

"You never intended this at the start. But your greed for money pushed you past every bottom line. Before you left Matsuba-kai, a new cross-border contact approached you. He was the one who told you about the massive profits in human trafficking—that's why you betrayed Matsuba-kai."

"You thought you'd escaped a whirlpool to make your own way. But in truth, you just leapt from one vortex into another, even larger one."

"!?" Terror exploded in Kitajima's heart. The horrifying thought of having been manipulated his whole life spread like wildfire within him.

"And that foreign contact—he gave you the name 'Porco Nio,' didn't he?" Yuan Zhisheng stared straight into Kitajima's panicked eyes.

"Tell me: Porco Nio gave you the trafficking orders, but to whom did he have you deliver those people? I need a name. The Mōkizon? The Ōshō? Or…"

"It—it was Aoiya… Taihō," Kitajima stammered, blood foaming from his mouth as he finally gave a name.

"…" A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Yuan Zhisheng's face. "Dispose of him. Yasha, you handle it."

"Roger! Hey, Crow, give me a hand—we'll be done in half an hour tops!" Yasha clapped gleefully.

Kitajima's face twisted in absolute terror. As a former gangster, he immediately understood his fate: he'd be encased alive in quick-mixed cement, hardened into a human pillar, and driven into the seabed by a pile driver—erased forever.

"No! You can't do this to me! Spare me, I told you everything! I really don't know anything else!"

His pleas were met only by Crow and Yasha humming tunes as they worked.

"It really was Aoiya Taihō! It's true, please, brothers, have mercy! I'm not lying!" Kitajima screamed desperately before the cement buried him. He strained his neck, howling into the slurry, but no one responded—only more cement poured down his throat.

"This trafficker's a moron," Yasha muttered, tearing open a lime sack. "Whether he lied or not has jack to do with whether we turn him into a pillar."

"Quit yapping and hurry it up," Crow urged. "He confessed already—stop wasting time."

Yuan Zhisheng was already walking back to the Hummer, reflecting on the name "Aoiya Taihō." This person had surfaced in their last investigation into Aoiya but had conveniently handed over management to others—obviously a scapegoat on paper.

After the Shinjuku Incident, the family tracked Taihō's movements, only to find he'd mysteriously vanished.

But now, Kitajima had once again given that name. This could only mean Taihō wasn't dead. Some greater power was involved—its shadow even darker than the Sheqi Bajia or the Mōkizon, its reach spanning domestic and foreign networks, easily hiding and reshaping identities.

But who? Yuan Zhisheng sat in the driver's seat, gazing through the rain-smeared window. He recalled how, before the Holy Grail War, the Secret Party had been distracted by some unknown internal conflict.

Could it be the Secret Party?

———

The Secret Party's leader, Angra, walked into the rain beneath a black umbrella. Moisture seeped through his shoes, dampening his trouser cuffs.

On the dim street of Bunkyō, he glanced at his watch. Five-thirty in the afternoon. It should have been bright daylight, yet it felt like twilight had fallen. Heavy rainclouds blotted out the sun, drowning the city in darkness.

"Norma, gather weather data around Tokyo. Determine if there's any abnormal cloud formation."

"Understood." A woman's voice replied crisply from his phone.

Angra sighed, continuing forward. Perhaps he was simply too sensitive. After all, the Secret Party's encounter with the Shen Zhou Odin incident had made him wary of rare weather anomalies.

Meanwhile, in a hospital room, Fingal had woken up.

Angra had worried half the day, only to see his bear-like student revive full of energy after sleeping like a log. The moment he woke, Fingal loudly declared he was starving to death, his stomach growling thunderously like rolling thunder.

This was hardly the look of someone near death.

Angra chuckled helplessly. He didn't even mention the fate of his Maserati, instead letting Fingal use his phone to order takeout. No doubt the man was now devouring bucket after bucket of KFC in his hospital bed.

"My God, old friend, every time I see your outfit, it's a brand new kind of shock."

When Angra found Uesugi Yue, the former film emperor looked even more disheveled than last time. His shoes were blackened and filthy, his clothes scorched, his hair a wild nest.

Uesugi's face darkened at the remark.

It wasn't some eccentric fashion choice—it was the aftereffect of sparring with Shirou in "Niten Ichi-ryū." Reflecting on the morning's fight, he cursed himself. What idiocy made him accept a duel with such a dragon-slayer?

Damn it, the brat had no sense of honor. They had agreed on Niten Ichi-ryū practice, but instead, Shirou had pummeled him with every bizarre, flashy move imaginable. Uesugi had been battered dizzy, his worldview shattered, doubting life itself.

He regretted it deeply.

"Forget it, Angra. It's not your fault. Just mind your role as the world's number-one dragon-slaying boss. Otherwise, if someone unmasks you, the seat and the glory under you will be stripped away in an instant."

Uesugi walked briskly toward the street's end, wearing a black priest's robe as a makeshift cloak to hide his disgrace. "There's a big incident in the neighborhood today. I'm busy moonlighting as community pastor. No time for chatter, headmaster."

"Headmaster? I'm hardly that. There are four elder directors still above me on the board. I'm at best second-in-command. If I truly held the top seat, would I be rushing to the front lines myself?"

Angra followed at ease, sticking to him like stubborn glue. As the man with the Words of Power of Time Zero, if he wanted to follow, Uesugi had no way to shake him off.

"Fine, fine! I'll thank you then, old bastard, for joining the fight in person!"

Uesugi quickened his pace through the rain—only to crash into an old man at the street corner.

Bang! He had intended to pull back, but it was like slamming into a steel wall. Damn it, why were all Church folks built like tanks?

The elder was a tall, gaunt man in priest's robes—Cervantes. Though he looked frail, Uesugi discovered the old priest's body was as solid as stone.

Could he catch bullets barehanded?

Though shaken, Uesugi hid it well. In recent days, he'd seen enough—Heroic Spirits, Holy Grail Wars, legendary sword styles. Even if the Church pulled off some showy bullet-catching stunt, he wouldn't be stunned.

"Lord Uesugi, I finally found you," Cervantes said grimly, skipping all pleasantries. "Something has happened. The survivors and innocent civilians are mentally unstable."

"Survivors?" Angra keenly seized the word.

"Come!" Uesugi didn't waste time. After talks with the Church, they had agreed on limited cooperation to stabilize matters post-Grail War.

Thus, with the Church's help, they could quickly respond to any abnormal incidents in the neighborhood—a supplement to the Sheqi Bajia's underworld intel.

Black smoke still lingered not far away, slowly fading in the rain. A tanker truck had exploded; its wreckage littered the ground. Nearby houses had collapsed under the blast's force. Police lines encircled the scene, with onlookers staring blankly at the ruins that signified mass death.

"This was a tanker explosion. According to witnesses, a bus rear-ended it for unknown reasons. The tanker leaked, and liquefied petroleum gas detonated. The bus, nearby cars, and the block were all destroyed."

A tanker explosion was terrifying. Its blast was like a fuel-air bomb, as strong as a cruise missile. Ordinary rockets paled in comparison.

"How many dead? No ambulances?" Angra asked casually.

"That's the anomaly," Cervantes replied, eyeing him. "Our investigation shows over a hundred confirmed dead. Yet strangely, there are survivors—completely uninjured."

Angra's eyes narrowed. So all survivors were entirely unharmed? They couldn't all have dodged by sheer luck.

They crossed the police line unimpeded; the Church had cleared it in advance. Soon they found the survivors—faces taut, murmuring to themselves.

Priests and nuns tried to console them, with little effect.

Cervantes called over a blonde nun.

"Our persuasion hasn't worked," she said, bowing her head. "They won't listen. Their minds are collapsing. Some said they saw 'Yomi-no-Ōkami Izanami' enraged."

Uesugi's heart trembled. "What did you say!?"

"The survivors claimed they foresaw the accident before it happened, allowing them to flee. They said they saw souls drifting into Yomi's realm, and they believe…"

"This was an oracle."

(End of Chapter)

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