Chapter 100. The Death of the Man No One Hated (13)
The atmosphere in the presidential suite of a five-star hotel right in the heart of Gangnam hung heavy. Song Gyu-tae, who had just taken a call from somewhere, nodded and turned to Genzo.
"As expected, Jo Chan-seong is dead. But now Kang Cheol-gu—that guy's the real problem."
"...So what you're saying, President Song, is that this detective named Kang Cheol-gu has quite the reputation in this country?"
Genzo, seated at the head of the table, recrossed his legs and fixed his gaze on Song Gyu-tae.
"Yes. Even setting aside his background or connections, just looking at his abilities alone makes him plenty threatening. Who would've thought a simple grudge from the old generation would blow up like this.... And on top of that, he personally witnessed us taking out Jo Chan-seong, so he won't just sit idle. A full-scale investigation's coming soon."
"No. Don't worry about that."
Genzo's eyes narrowed, gleaming with a demonic light.
"He's not the type to mobilize the full force of the law. But just in case, do as I said—send the CCTV footage to Gangcheon Station, where he works."
Jo Chan-seong was a guy with that kind of talent who acknowledged him. He's cut from the same cloth as me. A man like that won't stay within the bounds of the law.
Song Gyu-tae watched Genzo's lips curl into a faint smile, unsure what was going through his mind, and cautiously asked, "More importantly, Genzo-san, what are your plans moving forward...?"
"You're asking if I'll head back to Japan now that I've handled the job you asked for? Don't worry. I'll confirm your safety first before returning to Japan. Something's itching at the back of my neck—can't quite tear myself away. Heh."
"Thank you! As expected, you're the only one I can trust, Genzo-san."
There were those who brought up Japan's lost 30 years, claiming its power had waned compared to before, but they were fools fixated only on the yen's value, ignorant of history. A good chunk of professors at top schools like Harvard had benefited from Japanese scholarships during their student days, and those folks still held pro-Japanese stances. If that was the global trend, it went without saying for Korea, under Japanese rule just over 70 years ago. Remnants of Japan lingered in politics and business circles, their networks tighter than family in some ways—a shared fate like dominoes loaded with bombs, where one falling meant they all went down. That was the survival method of the collaborators who made it through, and Genzo's Sanama family was a symbol of that collective destiny.
Since Genzo's the one who killed Jo Chan-seong directly, they can't just pretend not to know either.
Song Gyu-tae gathered his thoughts, bowed low, offered congratulations, and studied Genzo's face.
"More importantly, Genzo-san, congratulations on your promotion to third-class sea captain in the Maritime Self-Defense Force. As far as I know, you're the first family across three generations all guarding Japan's seas in the military. Chief Chun must be over the moon."
"I've wandered far and wide, learning plenty. I've had my fill of youthful rebellion—now it's time to return and offer this body to Great Japan."
If not for his grandfather Sanama Ohai's dying words, that wandering might never have started. Ohai in his military uniform had been young Genzo's pride, Japan incarnate. But in his final moments, that grandfather spoke of Joseon's potential, igniting a fierce blaze in Genzo's chest. To smother those flames, he'd thrashed about. He became leader of a biker gang, attacking Korean students; as a yakuza enforcer, he raided pro-North Korean businesses. When prey grew scarce, he roamed the world's battlefields as a private mercenary.
Maybe I've finally met the one to extinguish that fire.... I'll rip out the roots of every rebel Chonse.
His tongue flicked across his red lips like a snake.
* * *
Chan-seong's funeral was modest. The director of 'Hope's Haven,' who had declared himself chief mourner, was followed by his father and Lee Myeong-ho, the 22nd Police Guard captain who had always had a soft spot for the kid. A few police academy students, including Namgung-min and Moon Kyung-i, stood with grim faces to see him off on his final journey. The base of the pine tree on the hill behind the shelter he frequented became Chan-seong's eternal resting place. The moment dirt covered the urn holding his handful of ashes, sobs erupted from all sides.
"What are your plans now? If you want, I can pull strings from my end to nab not just the killer but Boeun Construction too."
Avoiding his father's gaze, Superintendent Lee Myeong-ho murmured lowly. He'd already investigated through his own channels and knew the full story.
"No. I'll handle it my way."
He didn't even ask how. As if he'd anticipated it, the superintendent swallowed a grunt and looked up at the sky.
"In just a fortnight, all three generations left this world. Men no one hated, gone so pointlessly. I believe you'll avenge them, Cheol-gu."
The sparse pine needles trembled pitifully in the wind.
The day after Chan-seong died, an SD card arrived via courier. It held hotel CCTV footage of Chan-seong infiltrating the Boeun Association the night before the event. It also showed him on a motorcycle on the road the day Song Dong-in died. It was a silent threat: dig into Genzo's murder, and we'll expose Chan-seong's actions to the public. Our interests aligned in a twisted way. I had no intention of judging Genzo by the law this time either.
The fresh dirt before the pine gleamed unusually dark. Like tears from the tree.
* * *
Genzo, strolling near Hoehyeon Station like some idle drunk, narrowed his eyes at a massive building below. Shinsae Department Store. The site of the old Mitsukoshi Keijo branch. Black-and-white photos his father, Sanama Kuroda, had shown him on his lap flashed through his mind—endless times. Seoul Central Post Office demolished, replaced by Keijo Post Office. The Bank of Chosen revealing its grand form, now the Korea Bank Money Museum. Recalling a colonial past he'd never seen, a twisted laugh escaped his lips.
Still weirdly quiet, though. Did I misjudge the guy?
Three days since Jo Chan-seong's funeral. To gauge the response, he'd wandered Seoul's corners alone on purpose. Thinking of that snarling Kang Cheol-gu from before, he should've bared his fangs by now.
Then.
His phone blared from his pocket as he tilted his head.
– Genzo-san! Big trouble!
Song Gyu-tae's breathless voice came through the receiver.
"...So you're saying the half-dead guys here are my men?!"
Genzo's mouth finally opened after a long pause.
The entire emergency room at Hanseong Hospital buzzed like it'd been hit by a bomb. Doctors calling for blood, interns on respirators—chaos everywhere. At the center lay Genzo's men from Japan, unconscious.
"Yes. I rushed over as soon as I heard, and they were like this...!"
"Yoroda! Tell me what happened."
Ignoring Song Gyu-tae, who couldn't lift his head like it was his fault, Genzo turned to the one subordinate still conscious.
"As you ordered, boss, we were just hanging out among ourselves... Then, as we headed back to the hotel, a car suddenly came at us."
"A car? Traffic accident?"
"No! A black Jeep hit Masahiro-aniki first, then immediately reversed. It ran over his already fallen leg. Surprised, Chikara and Mitsuhiro rushed in, but...!"
Yoroda, his leg in a cast, trembled as he continued.
Each one was a Kabukicho yakuza aniki, infamous in the pleasure district. Kabukicho anikis weren't just tough fighters—they needed ruthlessness to cut down kin if necessary, and cool heads to read situations in seconds. Yet Yoroda, survivor of that hell, shook like a stray dog.
Genzo's mask-like smile faded. He always smiled. Habits from mercenary hell, to survive, became ingrained. Showing emotion on the battlefield led to death. To shake fear, calm excitement, he smiled constantly—until it froze on his face like taxidermy.
Now that face turned icy, like another man's.
"What kind of bastard?!"
Not asking out of ignorance. To confirm Kang Cheol-gu's combat style and patterns.
"Yes! Black hat pulled low, couldn't see his face, black jacket... More importantly, he said to pass this to you, boss...!"
Yoroda's breath grew ragged mid-sentence. His ghost-pale fingers pointed repeatedly behind Genzo.
"Gah! Boss! The guy's behind you...!"
"Behind?!"
Genzo whipped around. A black hat slipped out the ward door.
* * *
The day Chan-seong's funeral ended, I crushed the SD card underfoot. No need for that kind of gag order.
This time, even I'm not playing by the law.
Three hours staking out the hotel where Genzo's men were. They finally stirred.
"Joseon girls really do taste different, huh! Heh heh heh! Right, Yoroda?"
"Spot on! Masahiro-aniki. Feels like planting the Rising Sun here again! Haha."
Awkward Korean boomed through a Jogyesa entertainment alley. The girls seeing them off had swollen eyes.
A black Jeep, lights off, ghosted silently behind them. One staggered extra, the last to grope a bar girl.
I floored it.
Thud! Crack!
Reversing, bones snapped under the seat. Dull thud—femur or pelvis, probably. Didn't matter. None of them were going back unscathed.
Headlights on. Their startled faces clustered like squid in a fishing light.
"Shit! I'll kill him!"
"Masahiro-aniki! You okay?!"
Anger and terror roared from all sides.
Cops train to subdue suspects, not attack. But tonight, I wasn't a cop.
The iron pipe in my hand tore the darkness. Streetlight flickered out for a moment.
Two down, three left.
Whoosh! A wakizashi aimed at my throat. Yakuza swordplay: relentless pursuit once you retreat, until you yield your neck.
I held my breath, closed the gap. His wild eyes right in front.
Elbow to jaw. Pipe to the back of his skull for the kill shot as he crumpled.
Two left. One turns to find me—
Crash!
A guy Kim Gwang-il's size rips a street sign clean off—1m wide, 2m long. It hides him completely, spear and shield in one.
Bang!
I kicked off with my left foot; the sign slams where I stood. Alley fills with dust.
His head swivels slow, searching. In that dragged-out time, my pipe moves normal speed.
Thud!
Building-shaking crash as he falls. Behind him, a blade rears like a viper.
The last one.