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449 – Is It Time for the Yakuza Heiress Arc to Begin?
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 15:00:19 +0000 UTCBack at home, Kyousuke wasn’t exactly idle—he was busy… eating. A lot.
Before long, Hirata’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, then shuffled forward on his knees, bowing his head slightly.
“Boss, the first batch has arrived.”
Without even turning, Kyousuke waved a hand for Hirata to fetch it.
Collecting the petals might seem like the hard part, but in truth, affixing them to the tree was the real nightmare.
Cherry blossom petals were so fragile that the lightest squeeze could crush them.
It wasn’t as simple as slapping glue on a branch and sticking petals onto it—do that and you wouldn’t get “overnight sakura bloom,” you’d get “alien mutant plant invasion.”
The result had to be beautiful and completely harmless to “Truly Worthy of Me.”
Even an immortal who could carve on the head of a pin might fail at this task.
It might seem ridiculous—but it was deadly serious.
Hirata soon returned, placing two square wooden boxes before Kyousuke.
Made of pale white pine with a smooth, elegant grain, they looked like containers for premium bento or expensive cuts of meat.
When opened, perfectly aligned pink petals lay in neat layers, each separated by a thin sheet of cling wrap.
In such delicate packaging, they seemed like elegant young ladies awaiting the emperor’s call.
The uniform size and spacing made Kyousuke’s mild case of OCD sing with satisfaction.
In terms of presentation—no, ritual—the Japanese still had it mastered.
When he became the Cherry Blossom Immortal, he’d make sure Kisaki was granted the title of Cherry Blossom General.
The petals had been sprayed the instant they were harvested with a special preservative—basically the same stuff they use to keep fruit looking fresh for a hundred years.
Seeing his boss’s satisfied expression, Hirata Toshitaka exhaled in relief and quickly sent a text to the strategist.
Kyousuke picked up the tools he’d prepared earlier and began working his magic—the kind only he could perform.
His gaze sharpened, his hands steady as stone.
Like a master embroiderer, he fixed each petal onto the bare branches with impossible precision, his fingers both delicate and sure.
Even an immortal who could split atoms with a sword would sit down to discuss technique after seeing this.
Hirata didn’t dare breathe too loudly, afraid to disturb him—or maybe it was just that the scene was too beautiful to ruin.
In this moment, any sound from a vulgar mortal like him felt like a crime.
Under the moonlight, the boy in a white shirt stood atop a metal stepladder.
Concentrated, his long, slender fingers held a pale pink blossom; his dark eyes were impossibly gentle, as if returning a fallen petal to the far-off tree from which it came.
“The Handless Devil.”
“Truly Worthy of Me.”
The first, a feared delinquent boss of Tokyo.
The second, a cherry blossom tree with a ridiculous name.
Two entirely unrelated things—yet here, they felt perfectly united.
Hirata had once heard his boss was going to join some “Tokyo Youth Exhibition,” and he’d never understood what was so great about all that weird art.
But now he knew: even a stick-figure idiot like him could win awards if he could capture just 20% of the beauty before his eyes.
If he hadn’t been the one to personally hand Kyousuke the petals, Hirata might have thought his boss was repairing the moon itself.
Only something as miraculous as making every night a full moon could match this level of dedication.
In Hirata’s mind, two Kyousukes appeared:
One with furrowed brows and a deadly aura, moving like an ancient beast whose casual slash could send a man flying four meters—a monster among monsters.
The other gentle-eyed, moving in harmony with nature, as if afraid to disturb the moonlight—so graceful that even a barking dog would calm in his presence.
A refined gentleman, a banished immortal from the heavens.
Could the same hand that could knock him into seeing his life flash before his eyes really do something so delicate?
A man like this should be in flowing robes, reciting poetry and drinking fine wine.
Hirata drank in the sight in silence, feeling he could watch this for a lifetime—like the stone steps before the Monkey King’s temple.
‘Step on me if you want to see my boss? Dream on.’
‘Bzzz—'
The buzzing phone startled Momotarou, who had been dozing peacefully.
The little furball shot up, tiny black bean eyes scanning the surroundings with suspicion.
Kyousuke paused mid-motion on the ladder. Hirata’s face darkened—who dared disturb the boss?
He hadn’t even set his own phone to silent?
No, impossible—his phone was right there on the grass, so he could see any messages instantly even when muted.
That left only one possibility—
‘Momotarou! When did you learn to use a phone?!’
The buzzing continued.
Kyousuke, completely unbothered, carefully placed the blossom in his hand onto the branch, studied it twice, and nodded with satisfaction before pulling out his phone.
‘Huh? Why’s she calling me? Can’t she smash her own head with a brick instead?’
Without much thought, he sat casually on the ladder and answered.
“If you’ve got nothing to say, don’t call me.”
“You do have something to say? Then you really shouldn’t call me.”
“I’m rude? You’re the one calling a single man at three-thirty in the morning!”
“Why can’t I call myself single? You think you have to be thirty and unmarried before you can say that with pride?”
“Yukinoshita? Oh, trust me—if it were her, she’d be even sharper than me. No, you couldn’t reach her at this hour—she’d hang up instantly, maybe even call the cops. Compared to that, I’m a saint. Basically the Jesus of the Reiwa era.”
“So you’re that lonely, huh? Calling in the middle of the night just to fall asleep to a beautiful boy’s voice?”
“I’m too narcissistic? And that’s the only part you’re objecting to? Figures, if it wasn’t me, you’d just bother some other innocent guy. Guess I’ve done another good deed—saving some poor boy from disaster.”
“…”
Hirata stared up at his boss, who was chatting away under the moon, unsure if he should cover his ears or bury his head in the dirt.
One glance at Momotarou—watching with rapt attention—made him decide to follow the little retainer’s example and silently enjoy the drama.
“You’ve got business? What, you planning to go to a temple and become a monk?”
“…I see. Got it. Thanks—I’ll send you a gift tomorrow.”
Kyousuke’s expression gradually hardened.
After hanging up the phone, he stepped down from the stepladder.
Hirata Toshitaka immediately straightened, both hands holding a warm white towel, head bowed as he awaited orders.
“I’m heading out,” Kyousuke said quietly, taking the towel and wiping his hands.
“Yes, sir!”
Hirata answered softly, then jogged toward the gate.
Kyousuke hesitated for two seconds, glanced toward the room where the collected petals were stored, and in the end decided to scoop up Momotarou with one hand.
————————————————————————
A short while earlier…
Kisaki sat upright in the back of a black business van.
Around him were several people with thick glasses, their laptop screens reflecting cold blue light across their lenses.
This was the Temporary Command Center of Tokyo’s Last Sakura Collection Unit.
Gathering enough cherry blossom petals after the flowers had already started to fall was no simple task.
Even with nearly four hundred members mobilized, that number was barely a drop in the vast ocean that was Tokyo.
If they wanted to scour the entire city, they needed strategy—thus, this temporary task force was born.
The biker gang’s members had been divided into local search teams based on their home districts.
The command center assigned search zones; if one team found sakura, nearby teams would be immediately dispatched to assist in collection.
This was far from easy.
They had to calculate exactly how many people to send to a given area for maximum efficiency, estimate where the highest probability of finding sakura would be.
To ensure smooth coordination between teams, and even factor in the performance of each member’s motorcycle.
And that wasn’t all—because it was now the dead of night, long after even ordinary delinquents had gone home to sleep, they also had to organize watch teams to prevent overexcited idiots from causing unnecessary trouble.
Four hundred members was already an impressive force, but if things spiraled out of control, Kisaki himself might have to commit seppuku to take responsibility.
Fortunately, the Rampaging Angel weren’t all fists and brute force—alongside legends like the Oni-Baku Duo and the Three Tigers were brilliant tacticians smart enough to ace elite school entrance exams.
With their help, Kisaki’s command center had been set up.
Their mission: to scour Tokyo inch by inch, with the resolve to sacrifice themselves if necessary.
But reality was cruel.
Even after 150 members had combed Chidorigafuchi from top to bottom, they’d managed to collect barely one hundred petals.
Now, tiny sealed plastic bags lay piled on the table, each containing only three or four petals.
People crouched around the table, staring at them like precious jewels—petals they would have once stepped on without a second thought.
If Kisaki hadn’t already informed the nearby police box of their activities, anyone who saw the scene might think they were running a drug operation.
“Damn it! I’m useless! I should just die beneath a sakura tree and let my blood bring it back to bloom!” wailed Black-Clad No. 1.
“Don’t be stupid. You don’t have that kind of power,” muttered Black-Clad No. 2, just as dejected.
Kisaki stood with arms crossed, glaring at the petals before him, his expression as dark as if he’d just arrived from the far side of the moon.
“I swear with unshakable resolve to bring back every sakura in Tokyo!”
Those bold words still echoed in his mind. Could it be… he’d have to die to atone?
No—not yet! He had to stay alive to complete boss’s mission!
Kisaki’s face shifted, then he suddenly slammed the table with his fist.
Too few resources? Japan’s ancestors had already solved that problem long ago—repackage it! Over and over!
Add ceremony, add sentiment, and a sprinkle of completely random extras.
Meat is sold by the slice; one piece of fish per plate—that was how you express determination!
He called up a subordinate whose family ran a sushi shop and ordered him to bring every single one of their most pretentious high-end bento boxes.
Meanwhile, Kisaki began carefully processing the petals they’d already collected.
Time ticked by.
When Hirata Toshitaka’s message came in, Kisaki finally let out a breath of relief—only for an even harsher reality to tighten around his chest.
A massive map of Tokyo hung inside the van. Centered on Bunkyō ward, it was divided into a fan-shaped grid.
All searched areas were marked with blood-red X’s.
The central six wards—Bunkyō, Shinjuku, Chiyoda, and others—were already crossed out.
Even Arakawa, their great hope, was nearly fully searched.
They’d found nothing. Not even in the cooler temperatures of the nearby mountain forests—every sakura tree had shed its blossoms.
Those two wooden boxes sent earlier? They might be the last batch.
‘Is this still the Land of Sakura, you bastards?!’
Without blossoms blooming year-round, you dare call yourselves that?
Kisaki’s rage boiled over.
Perhaps, he thought, he was beginning to understand the true meaning behind boss’s order.
The glorious Rampaging Angel, rulers of Tokyo’s streets, were like the cherry blossoms—brilliant for a time, but inevitably destined to fade away.
It was the truth of the world:
A flower cannot stay in bloom for a hundred days; a man cannot be at his best for a thousand.
But—!
Kisaki Tetta belongs to boss. And my boss is Hojou Kyousuke.
With a single word, he could make withered cherry blossoms bloom again. He was a creator of miracles—a god among men!
“This is the will of our boss! This is the order of the Rampaging Angel!” Kisaki’s voice was low, his eyes bloodshot, his tone rough with emotion. Whatever it took, he would carry out his boss’s will.
“This is the will of our boss! This is the order of the Rampaging Angel!” he repeated, glaring fiercely at every single person in the van.
The exhausted members felt something surge in their chests—a strange, burning energy.
“Will we disappoint the boss?” Kisaki demanded.
“Never!” the others roared.
“Will we lay all of Tokyo’s sakura at the Commander’s feet?”
“Absolutely!”
“Then—move out.”
Kisaki closed his eyes, exhaling his final words in a calm but resolute voice.
“Target: Yamazakura group.”
The Yamazakura group—true yakuza. Rumor had it the gang was named for the beautiful mountain cherry tree in the courtyard of their headquarters.
And that tree, under meticulous care, had its already long blooming season extended even further.
“Sakura that remain beautiful even through Golden Week.”
That was the Yamazakura group’s greatest pride—and they never missed a chance to brag about it.
