Ninety Four

Shinjuku, Tokyo – Midnight.

Neon lights flickered over the dark alleyways, casting eerie glows on the damp pavement. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and blood—a silent witness to the underbelly of the city. Inside a small, hidden club buried in the depths of a narrow backstreet, a man sat in the corner, his body marked with fresh wounds, his face shadowed beneath the brim of his cap.

Renjiro Takahashi. Once, he had been the most ruthless enforcer of Japan’s largest Yakuza clan. His name alone had been enough to send shivers through the criminal underworld. But tonight, he was a fugitive. Cast out after a brutal coup that had stripped him of everything. An old man, short and wrinkled, took a seat across from him, sliding a small cup of sake across the table.

"I heard you almost died," the old man murmured. Renjiro lifted his gaze, his eyes cold and unreadable. He grabbed the cup, downing it in one gulp.

"But I’m still alive." The old man smirked.

"And now? What’s your plan? Your own clan wants your head on a spike." Renjiro leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

"I have no clan. No name. Nothing left but rage." The old man took a slow sip of his sake.

"Rage can kill you. Or it can make you stronger. The only difference is how you use it." Renjiro’s eyes snapped open, sharp and dangerous.

"I’m going to build something. Something bigger than my old clan. No fake honor. No bullshit loyalty. Just power." The old man chuckled.

"Sounds like the beginning of something interesting." Renjiro smirked.

"I need guns. And I need men who are willing to fight without question." The old man leaned in.

"I can get you the weapons. But the men? That’s on you." Renjiro nodded.

"I’ll find them." Months Later – Somewhere in Southeast Asia Renjiro stood before an old warehouse, its perimeter guarded by massive men covered in tattoos.

This wasn’t just some ordinary storage facility. It was one of the largest illegal arms depots in the region. A thin man with long hair approached, eyeing Renjiro carefully.

"You’re Japanese, aren’t you?" he asked in the local language. Renjiro didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled out a wad of cash and slid it into the man’s palm.

"I’m here to talk to the owner." The man studied him for a moment before nodding.

"Follow me." Inside the warehouse, rows upon rows of wooden crates were stacked high, each one loaded with lethal merchandise—AK-47s, M16s, even traditional katanas smuggled straight from Japan. At the far end of the room, a man in a black suit sat, smoking a thick cigar. Without looking up, he muttered,

"Who the fuck are you?" Renjiro stepped forward, his expression calm, his posture unwavering.

"I want to buy weapons." The man let out a dry chuckle.

"Everyone wants to buy weapons. Not everyone can afford them." Renjiro pulled out a fat stack of cash, tossing it onto the table.

"I’m not just here to buy. I want to distribute." The man finally looked up. This time, there was interest in his gaze.

"Weapons distribution isn’t for fucking amateurs. You need connections. Protection. What the hell do you bring to the table?" Renjiro’s eyes darkened.

"I bring death to anyone who stands in my way." A thick silence filled the air. Then, the man let out a loud, amused laugh.

"I like a man who knows his worth." Renjiro didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

"What’s your plan?" the man finally asked. A slow, calculated smirk spread across Renjiro’s lips.

"I’m going to build an empire. Not like the Yakuza. Not like the Triads." His voice was smooth. Deadly.

"No oaths. No fake honor. Just money and power. And I need weapons to start it." The man took a slow drag from his cigar, then gave a firm nod.

"We can do business." And just like that, in a small, unremarkable warehouse, The Crimson Lotus was born. A criminal empire with no boundaries—a syndicate that bowed to neither law nor honor. From high-end drug trafficking to the underground arms trade, Renjiro built his kingdom through blood and fire.

Bangkok – Midnight.

Neon lights painted the city in electric colors, drowning out the shadows of the thriving underworld beneath. But in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, there was no illusion of glamour. A small, trembling man sat bound to a chair, his sweat-drenched face frozen in fear. In front of him, Renjiro Takahashi stared with a calm, unreadable expression.

"Mr. Supachai," Renjiro’s voice was smooth—too soft for the situation.

"You stole from me." The man shook violently, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room.

"I—I never—please, this is a misunderstanding!" His voice cracked with desperation.

Renjiro didn’t react. Instead, he flicked his gaze to one of his men standing in the corner. The silent, hulking enforcer nodded and pulled out his phone. With a quick swipe, the screen displayed a video feed—a dark room, a woman and two young children bound and huddled together. Supachai’s eyes went wide with horror.

"No! Please!" he choked, tears brimming.

"They have nothing to do with this!" Renjiro leaned forward, his gaze steady, unmoved.

"I don’t care who’s guilty and who’s not." His voice was quiet, detached.

"I only care about two things—money and loyalty." Supachai broke into full-blown sobs, his panic spiraling

. "I swear, I can pay it back! I’ll return every cent!" Renjiro exhaled slowly, then rose to his feet.

"Too late." He gave a small wave of his hand. And in seconds— A gun was raised. A single shot rang out through the speaker.

BANG.

The warehouse fell into suffocating silence. Supachai let out a gut-wrenching scream, his body wracked with violent tremors.

"No… no… NO—!" Renjiro crouched in front of him, gently patting his cheek. Almost like a friend offering comfort.

"Don’t take it personally," he murmured.

"I’m not angry with you. I just need to make sure this kind of mistake never happens again." Supachai couldn’t even answer—his breath came in ragged, broken gasps. Renjiro turned to his men.

"Get rid of him." The enforcer grabbed the man's limp, shaking body, dragging him toward the door. Once the room was quiet again, another figure entered—a man in a gray suit, holding a thick folder.

"Boss, the officials we’re targeting are starting to break," he reported, placing the documents on the table.

"They’re considering our offer… but they still need a little push." Renjiro flipped open the folder, skimming through the intel.

"Who’s next?"

"A Finance Minister in Thailand. He’s clean—never taken a bribe." Renjiro smirked.

"No one is truly clean." The man gave a knowing nod.

"We’ve found his weak spot. His daughter is studying abroad. It wouldn’t take much to… ensure her safety." Renjiro raised a brow.

"Good. Handle it carefully. I don’t want another Supachai incident." His subordinate smiled coldly, nodding before exiting the room.

Renjiro closed the folder, his fingers tapping against the desk. He was no longer the man who had been cast out of his old clan. He was a king now. And no one would stand in his way.

Five Years Later – Moscow.

In an exclusive underground club, filled with dim golden lights and cigarette smoke, Renjiro Takahashi sat luxuriously sprawled across a velvet sofa. A gorgeous woman in a deep red dress poured him vodka, her fingers lingering just a little too long on the glass. Across from him, a massive, blue-eyed Russian studied him cautiously, stroking the thin stubble on his jaw.

"So," the man drawled, his thick accent weighing heavily on his words.

"You want to do business with Bratva?" Renjiro set his glass down. His signature, slow smirk appeared.

"I don’t want business, Ivan." His dark eyes gleamed with something far more dangerous.

"I want an alliance." Ivan narrowed his eyes.

"And what exactly do you have to offer that would make us even consider this?" Renjiro pulled out a document and slid it across the table. The Russian took it, skimming through the contents before raising an eyebrow.

"You have access to a weapons shipping route faster than ours," he muttered. Renjiro nodded.

"And I can guarantee that your heroin supply to the United States stays untouched." Ivan let out a low chuckle.

"You’re one ambitious bastard." Renjiro leaned back, completely at ease.

"I want The Crimson Lotus to be the biggest. And to do that, I need powerful allies." Ivan studied him for a long moment before finally smirking.

"Alright. Let’s talk." Renjiro’s lips curled into a knowing grin.

"I knew we could do business."

New York.

The Crimson Lotus had already infiltrated the city. One by one, deals were made—with Italian mafia families, with cartel leaders, with corrupt politicians who preferred blood money over morals. Every move was calculated. Every step brought Renjiro closer to his ultimate goal.

Hong Kong – Rooftop of the Tallest Building Renjiro stood alone,

staring out at the endless sea of neon lights and skyscrapers below. The city glittered beneath him, but his mind was trapped in the past. Betrayal. His old clan. They had cast him out like trash. Left him to die. Hunted him like an animal. His jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists. His thoughts dragged him back to that night—the night they turned on him, the night the very men he once called brothers became his executioners.

"I’m going to burn them all," he murmured, voice deadly soft. He had built The Crimson Lotus from nothing.

Now, it was time to use it. Time to wipe out the ones who had betrayed him. And the world? The world would watch. And it would fucking kneel.