Chapter 174: Chapter 39
The Kurosaki Family was a na that carried power, the pinnacle existence of what people consider as a "new money"—a lineage that had clawed its way into the upper echelons of society during the ash-strewn aftermath of the Great War.
While the old aristocrats were busy mourning their burnt tapestries and lost titles, the first Kurosaki patriarch had played the volatile markets with a ruthless, almost prophetic efficiency.
And for a few glorious decades, they were the rising sun of the economic world, becoming the role model for many families and companies.
Unfortunately, the sun sets quickly for those without deep roots.
Those declining old lineages, fueled by a toxic mixture of aristocratic pride and genuine fear of being replaced, had spent years orchestrating a quiet, systematic suppression of the Kurosaki na.
Trade routes were choked, social invitations dried up, and banks began to view the Kurosaki portfolio with a sudden, suspicious coldness.
Now, the once-glittering empire stood on the precipice of a humiliating bankruptcy.
The current head, Kurosaki Kirei, was a man drowning in his own desperation, he saw only one life raft left in the stormy seas of high finance: an alliance with the Kageyama Family.
Kirei had spent the last year practically begging for a marriage eting, but all he got was a vague, cold response.
Even when he had flooded the Kageyama estate with photographs and "accidental" reports of his daughter, Kurosaki Erina, being seen in the close company of their heir, Kageyama Seijirou, they still wouldn’t budge.
He had even highlighted their shared school, their social circles, and the way Erina’s beauty complinted their heir’s dominance.
Yet, no matter what he does, the Kageyama family remained a fortress of indifference, their replies were always the sa: polite, vague, and utterly non-committal.
Perhaps in their eyes, no, surely in their eyes, a declining new money isn’t worth the marriage of their heir.
So Kirei can only do his best to keep his family afloat.
And it was during these dark, sleepless nights of staring at red-inked balance sheets that a mysterious figure, calling himself "Mister," first stepped out of the shadows.
He had walked into Kirei’s office unannounced, appearing like a smudge on reality.
He then made an offer, an offer that was as simple as it was monstrous: he would solve the Kurosaki family’s problems, erase their debts, and crush their rivals, and in exchange, he demanded a singular, grotesque price: all females within the Kurosaki bloodline—daughters, wives, and cousins—must belong to him.
They were to be his to use, to serve his every whim without exception.
At the ti, Kirei had dismissed the man as a delusional lunatic and he had him escorted out by security, his pride still intact, and imdiately called Erina, urging her with renewed frantic energy to secure Seijirou’s heart by any ans necessary.
"He is our only hope, Erina! Make him look at you!" he had shouted into the phone.
But the world had other plans.
In the days that followed, another round of sabotage began.
Three of the Kurosaki’s most vital contractors suddenly defaulted on their agreents, claiming "unforeseen legal complications."
Then, two of their largest shipping vessels were seized in foreign ports under flimsy pretenses.
Those back to back events made them fall deeper into the brink of financial collapse.
It was at this mont of total collapse that "Mister" showed himself once again.
But this ti, he didn’t just speak, but showed his power.
In the middle of Kirei’s locked study, the air beca cold, and the shadows on the wall began to writhe.
Mister reached out a hand, and Kirei watched in horrified awe as a solid mahogany table was reduced to a fine grey dust with a re flick of the man’s wrist.
Then, with a casual wave, a stack of the family’s most recent, damning debt notices burst into violet flas, vanishing into nothingness.
Kirei was stunned, his knees buckled, and he almost fell to the floor to worship the man as a living god.
Mister leaned in, his voice a low, oily purr as he once again made the offer; his family, or his family’s won.
Kirei looked at the portraits of his ancestors on the wall—the n who had built this na from the blood and rubble of a war.
He couldn’t help but think that his father had been lucky; he had used the chaos of a global conflict to establish the Kurosaki na.
But Kirei knew he lacked that luck, he lacked that timing, and he lacked that opportunity.
If he let the Kurosaki na die here, he would be the greatest failure in his lineage.
Between the interests of the family and the sanctity of won... Kirei finally made the choice.
He chose the family.
He chose the legacy.
He chose the power.
*
*
*
At this mont, Kirei stood paralyzed in his own office, a room that had once felt like a sanctuary of power, but now felt like a slaughterhouse.
Behind the heavy mahogany desk sat Mister. Up close, the man was a physical catastrophe—an incredibly obese figure whose flesh seed to spill over the sides of the high-backed chair.
His features were lumpy and distorted, his skin oily under the fluorescent lights, and his eyes were nearly buried beneath folds of fat.
He sat in the chair of the Kurosaki family head with a sickening level of comfort, as if he had already claid the bloodline as his own.
Spread across the desk, where Kirei used to sign multi-million dollar contracts, was an array of steaming, silver-covered dishes.
The scent was rich and cloying, a mixture of heavy spices and sothing tallic that made Kirei’s stomach churn.
"So, you agreed?" Mister asked, his voice was thick, bubbling with a wet, self-satisfied tone.
Kirei bowed his head, his dignity finally shattering. "Yes, Mister. I’m willing to offer all the won in my family. In exchange... save my family. Restore the Kurosaki na."
Mister let out a disgusting, wet grin that stretched his distorted features into a mask of pure malice. "Then, from this mont on, you are part of my circle. Rejoice, for you are now one of the chosen ones."
He motioned with a bloated, ring-covered hand toward the various dishes cluttering the table. "As a tradition for every new mber... eat your fill. Join
in the feast."
Kirei stared at the at on the plates.
Every instinct in his body scread at him to turn back, to run out of the building and never look at this man again.
A primal alarm was ringing in his mind, telling him that he was crossing a threshold from which there was no return.
But his desperation was a suffocating weight, crushing his morality into the dirt.
He reached out with trembling fingers, picked up a silver knife and fork, and cut a small, tender piece of at from the center plate.
He placed it in his mouth and chewed.
"How is it?" Mister asked, his grin becoming even more repulsive, his eyes fixed on Kirei’s throat as he swallowed.
Kirei blinked, surprised by the texture. "It’s... quite good. Is this pork? It’s unusually tender... and rather sweet."
Mister giggled, a high-pitched, discordant sound that vibrated uncomfortably in the quiet room. "Yes, yes. That is the breast of a useless pig that I decided to slaughter. She had outlived her purpose, so she beca sustenance instead."
"I didn’t know pork could taste this sweet," Kirei muttered, taking another bite, almost hypnotized by the flavor and the heavy, intoxicating spices.
"Hahaha! Do you want to know the secret, Kirei? Do you want to know how to make at taste even better?" Mister leaned forward, his heavy breathing audible in the silence. "Once you have them in a cage for so ti, have them watch other pigs like them get taken out, then once they learned of despair, let them out. Make them feel like they can run away, let them believe they are free. And then, when they see the gates leading to the outside world—when their hearts are filled with the highest peak of hope—that is when you strike. You kill them then. You watch them bleed and watch that hope curdle into pure, black despair. That... that is the secret to a delicious, sweet harvest."
Kirei trembled, the fork clattering against the fine plate as a cold sweat broke out across his brow.
He felt as if Mister was hinting at sothing far more sinister than livestock—a taphor he couldn’t quite grasp but that made his soul shiver.
He looked at the at again, the "sweetness" suddenly feeling like copper on his tongue.
"Co on, finish it," Mister urged, his voice dropping into a demanding growl. "This is our tradition, after all. You wouldn’t want to offend your benefactor, would you?"
Kirei swallowed hard, his throat tight with a fear he could no longer na.
Then, under the watchful, bulging eyes of the monster in his chair, he continued to eat, bite after bite, consuming the "sweetness" of the Mister’s harvest until the plate was clean.
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