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450 – Do You People Have No Shame?!
🕑 Added 2025-08-15 15:00:19 +0000 UTCIf word ever got out that someone planned to snatch away the flag of the Rampaging Angels—the one passed down from their very first leader.
Kisaki knew every single member would go berserk, like someone had just kicked over their founder’s shrine.
That flag wasn’t just a piece of cloth.
It was their totem, their spirit made tangible.
As long as it still flew, even if they were knocked down a hundred times, they’d claw their way back up and sink their teeth into the enemy’s throat.
They wouldn’t even wait for the other side to make a move.
They’d grab their weapons, cut them down, grind their bones between their teeth with a loud crunch, and make sure they understood the consequences of provoking an organization as united and unyielding as the rising sun.
For the Yamazakura group, that cherry blossom tree was the same kind of symbol.
If someone stripped it bare, they’d be devastated.
Yakuza might not always be willing to die for a totem, but they’d never just stand there and take the humiliation.
Good thing Kisaki was never a “good person.”
Bringing pain to others through his own actions? That was delicious.
The taste of it made him feel like his very soul had ascended.
Truth be told, the Yamazakura group wasn’t all that powerful.
On paper they were a registered violent syndicate, but in reality they were just a small branch under the Higashikawa family.
They had maybe thirty official members.
If it came down to an all-out fight, the Rampaging Angels could scour every corner of Tokyo and erase Yamazakura from existence.
Four hundred full members, none of whom needed a paycheck—that was terrifying.
Forget the peasant skirmishes of the Sengoku era.
If the Angels were registered in Itomori Town, Mayor Miyamizu Toshiki would be buying Hojou Kyousuke drinks every single day, and his head would have to be lower than the table when he poured them unless he wanted to lose his job.
The only thing that gave Kisaki pause was the aftermath.
If a war really broke out, victory was a sure thing—but some of the Angels would almost certainly end up in juvenile detention.
That was the best-case scenario.
Worst case, the Angels would be labeled an official boryokudan a violent crime syndicate.
That was something Kisaki absolutely could not allow.
Once you’re branded yakuza, normal business is over.
And that boss he had placed his bets on from the very start—the one he believed could unite the underworld—wasn’t just a fighter.
With nothing but a pen, Kyousuke could draw in rivers of cash.
His talent in legitimate ventures might even outshine his talent for violence.
In a money-driven world, that was the true superpower.
Fists? Worthless.
Money? Omnipotent.
The greatest writer of the 21st century, the scholar who would unravel the secrets of the universe, the revival sword saint of Hokushin Ittō-ryū, the manga god whose mind bridged worlds…
Titles that ordinary people could only dream about, achievements worthy of human history—Kisaki could see all of them in Kyousuke’s future.
Kisaki himself could never be a great man.
Even if everything went exactly according to his plans, the best he could hope for was a tiny headline:
“Body of violent gang leader Kisaki Tetta found on the banks of the Arakawa River. Police confirm gang-related dispute. Citizens need not be concerned.”
And that would be it.
Maybe a few poor fools whose lives he’d ruined without their knowing would curse his name as they died.
That was his ceiling.
But now—now it was different.
When Kyousuke’s legendary life was written into textbooks, biographies, and history, people would see the name Kisaki Tetta in the margins of his story.
Just thinking about it made Kisaki’s blood boil with excitement.
‘I’m not smart enough to be great,’ he thought.
‘But when you become a legend, I can make myself the perfect supporting act.’
A man like that must not be stopped here.
His future is no longer his alone—he must become famous, earn a quadrillion yen, and rule the world!
Sitting in the car heading toward Yamazakura territory, Kisaki’s eyes were dark and unreadable—like a viper lurking in shadow.
His mind was set. His resolve didn’t need words.
If necessary, the Rampaging Angels could be completely cut off from the boss’s name.
Kisaki would take them underground, into the shadows, where they could serve him in ways the law could never touch.
If Kyousuke willed it, not just Yamazakura, but even their parent syndicate—the Higashikawa group, one of Japan’s Big Three yakuza families wouldn’t be safe from the Angels.
The closer the car drew to Yamazakura’s headquarters in Katsushika, the more tangled Kisaki’s thoughts became.
He didn’t even know if he wanted them to hand over the cherry blossom quietly, or if he preferred using Yamazakura as the Angels’ first stepping stone into the underworld.
“Strategist, we’re here.”
The driver’s voice was quiet.
Before them stood a traditional Japanese estate.
A silver-gray wall stretched out from both sides of the gate, the tips of pine trees poking above it.
By the gate, the nameplate read Yamazakura.
The mansion was dark.
Kisaki didn’t step out right away.
He sat in silence, running through Yamazakura intel in his head while his men gathered.
Before long, motorcycles with blazing headlights began arriving, one after another.
Without orders, the riders spread out, surrounding the entire property.
Their discipline was… impressive.
Of course, Yamazakura weren’t idiots.
This much noise was impossible to miss.
Peeking through the gate crack, night watchman Nakamura almost screamed—but his partner Kamimura clamped a hand over his mouth just in time.
Where had all these bikers come from?! Was he seeing things from lack of sleep?
He tried to speak again, but Kamimura gave him the silence gesture.
The two crept away from the gate and didn’t dare run until they thought they were far enough not to be heard.
Then Nakamura scrambled into the house like a man possessed, stumbling through the labyrinth of corridors before sliding open a paper door and collapsing to his knees.
“Boss!!! We’re in trouble! They’ve come for us—we’re surrounded!”
The shrill cry yanked Tsuchimura out of his sleep.
Without even opening his eyes, he rolled to the side—a reflex born of years in the underworld to dodge the slash he might not live to see.
When you’re a boss, sleeping is a high-risk activity.
Everyone knew the most popular way for ambitious underlings to topple their boss was to hack him to death in his sleep.
One slash to slice the bedding, white goose feathers drifting down… mixing with the blood that spurted up to meet them.
It was the simplest coup in the world, and the people best suited to carry it out were the ones who knew the boss’s routines.
Quick, efficient, permanent.
That’s why, long before he became the head of the family, Tsuchimura had trained for this exact moment.
A quick roll to dodge the first strike, seize the attacker’s weapon arm, disarm them, and turn the tables—his perfect life-saving technique.
Years of constant practice had drilled that evasive roll into Tsuchimura’s very bones—if so much as a breeze felt wrong, he’d be tumbling across the floor in an instant.
‘Bang!!’
“Arrrghhh—!”
A sharp cry cut off Nakamura’s report.
He looked up to see his boss, still wrapped tight in his orchid-patterned quilt like a caterpillar, sporting a massive lump on his forehead.
Tsuchimura’s greasy, round face was twisted in pain, his whole body bound by the blanket so completely he couldn’t move—like a fat pig trussed up for slaughter.
If dying in his sleep was ignorant, then dying like this would be downright humiliating—tying yourself up and leaving your neck exposed for the executioner, as if trying to be helpful.
Nakamura froze, unsure whether to pretend he hadn’t seen anything or rush forward to help.
After two seconds of painful indecision, he bowed his head even lower and resumed his dogeza posture, pressing his forehead so close to the floor it looked like he might lick it.
“There were bikes—so many bikes with ridiculously high backrests and white flags, and their headlights were clearly illegal mods—”
“Idiot! Is this the time to analyze motorcycles?! Get me out of here!” Tsuchimura barked.
“O–oh! Right!”
Snapping out of it, Nakamura stepped forward and gave the quilt-wrapped boss a strong shove, sending him rolling across the floor until the “sealed” man was finally freed.
The moment he regained mobility, Tsuchimura had no time to mourn the loss of his pitiful survival technique—dizziness and pain were scrambling his brain.
Uemura stepped in to massage his boss’s head.
Tsuchimura’s furrowed brow slowly eased, and at last he could ask what was going on.
“Too many to count… bikes and people, all surrounding headquarters!” Nakamura stammered.
“Nonsense!”
Tsuchimura snapped his eyes open and lashed out with a kick, sending Nakamura tumbling back. He turned to his more reliable underling.
“Uemura. You tell me. What’s happening?”
“We’re surrounded by a biker gang. Over thirty of them at the front gate alone. I didn’t dare climb the wall to see more—didn’t want to get spotted. What should we do, Boss?” Uemura asked respectfully.
“Are you out of your mind too, Uemura? Biker gang? You mean those idiots who get excited at the sound of an engine rev?”
Tsuchimura smacked Uemura’s hand away.
“You both know the consequences of lying to your boss, don’t you?”
The two men nodded solemnly—mentally translating that into: If you’re lying, get ready to cut off your pinky.
The boss’s morning temper was no joke. And yet, they weren’t worried about their fingers so much as their lives.
Because, as the big boss always said, bikers were idiots.
Unlike proper yakuza who worked hard for their livelihoods, these were impulsive criminals who committed “passion crimes” the cops couldn’t predict or prevent.
No normal person could understand how they thought.
Who knew what they’d do next?
Yakuza like them could bow their heads and walk away from a stronger opponent.
But bikers? They might just think, You’re so tough?
‘Guess I’ll trade my life for yours.’
Not long after, Tsuchimura—who had marched toward the front gate with bravado—returned to the tatami room and sat cross-legged, his face etched with confusion and unease.
Why were there so many people? Didn’t they know the time of night?
Why were their bike backrests so absurdly high?
Didn’t they know the height was supposed to match your seniority?
Why were they circling the Yamazakura estate? Didn’t they realize this wasn’t a gas station?
And most of all—
Why weren’t they revving their engines?!
It made no sense. Absolutely no sense!
This was the moment to unleash a deafening wall of engine noise, to shatter the defenders’ morale with sonic pressure.
And yet these riders, astride their bizarrely modified machines, simply stared at the house like wolves—silent, unblinking.
It was terrifying. Were they sleepwalking?
“Boss, I noticed something when I looked more closely,” Uemura suddenly said.
“Speak.”
“They might be the Rampaging Angels from Bunkyō. I saw their skull-angel emblem on one of the bikes.”
“Rampaging Angels?” Tsuchimura repeated, frowning.
If it was that gang, their eerie silence made sense.
Yes—lunatics.
Ever since the Rampaging Angels entered their so-called “Handless Demon” era, the underworld had started referring to them simply as those crazy bastards.
Back in the “Crimson Makki” days, they’d been a little unhinged, sure, but they still looked like a normal biker gang.
But under their second-generation leader, something in their heads had clearly snapped.
They didn’t even commit crimes anymore—at least, not the usual kind.
They’d started playing heroes.
They didn’t roar their engines through the city.
They didn’t mug elementary school kids for pocket change.
They read romantic light novels.
They avoided all the usual shady industries and, bizarrely, threw themselves into the ticket scalping market—comic cons, viral pop-up shops, concert seats…
They were a disgrace to delinquents everywhere.
The yakuza world had made it clear from the start: no gang would ever take in a former Rampaging Angel. No one wanted to “pollute” their yakuza bloodline.
The reason for that ban? Because for most delinquents, the number one career path after “graduating” from gang life was joining a real crime syndicate.
Many groups would proudly point out promising recruits to their juniors:
“Hey, idiot—bow your head! You dare look directly at Big Bro XX?
He’s so strong the yakuza already have their eyes on him. Once he graduates, he’ll get an assignment immediately!”
But the Angels? They broke the mold.
They started offering “post-graduation advancement.”
Delinquents who should have gone straight into the gutter were instead entering trade schools, small companies… and in some cases, the Angels’ own corporate offices.
‘Are you even delinquents anymore?! Do you have no shame?!’
“Those crazy bastards”—that was the title Hojou Kyousuke and his rogues carried.
And neither he nor his men minded it one bit.
