Chapter 1: The Investigator Captured After a Failed Infiltration

“Bastard! Stop it! Ah! Yamete!”

His eyelids felt as heavy as mountains, impossible to open no matter how hard he tried. His mind was groggy, caught between waking and dreaming. Amid the haze, a string of vaguely familiar Japanese words reached Xu Tianze’s ears, making him curse inwardly.

Damn, which uncivilized idiot is blasting porn out loud?

Here I am, with the door closed—disgusting! Shameful!

Wait, why does my head hurt so much?

Before Xu Tianze could ponder the reason, a flood of alien memories surged into his brain. After a brief spell of bewilderment, he finally understood his current predicament.

He… had transmigrated.

Originally, he was a businessman in America, mainly engaged in “talent introduction” projects for the underworld—taking money to send people down below.

Commonly known as a hitman.

As a paragon in his field, he had no feelings, but he had money. Having made enough, he was preparing to retire early and wash his hands of the business. Yet, after a single night’s sleep, his soul awoke in the body of a Japanese man in 1992!

Now, his name was Hidenobu Aoyama, a police officer in the Firearms and Narcotics Division at the Shinjuku Police Station in Tokyo.

As his muddled mind gradually cleared, he noticed something even more troubling.

He seemed to be tied up.

“Baka! Okita, I’ll catch you with my own hands, you bastard! I’ll see you rot in jail!”

“Oh? Is that so? But officer, you can hardly take care of yourself right now.”

A woman’s furious rebuke, a man’s mocking taunt, both clearly audible. After several attempts, Hidenobu Aoyama finally managed to lift his heavy eyelids.

So it wasn’t someone watching porn with the volume up.

Hell, this was a live-action shoot!

The scene before him left him dazed.

It looked like a basement. He was tied to a chair, clearly having been beaten—bloody and battered, in a sorry state.

A woman was tied to a chair beside him.

Oval face, about twenty-five or six, a small mole at the corner of her right eye, dressed in a black office suit. Her shoulder-length hair was a bit disheveled, and the rope across her chest accentuated her alluring curves.

Her left high heel lay discarded nearby. Her nylon-wrapped foot pressed against the cold floor; the stockings clinging to her legs were torn, revealing red, swollen marks from a recent beating.

He recognized her: Aya Asai, his immediate superior, daughter of the Shinjuku Police Chief.

Standing before her was a man in his thirties, dressed in a black suit, holding a mobile phone—a face from Aoyama’s memories: Koji Okita, boss of the Yozakura Society, a yakuza gang.

At the basement entrance stood three heavily tattooed men—most likely his subordinates.

A beautiful policewoman and her male subordinate, kidnapped by the yakuza—he almost wondered if he’d transmigrated into some police drama series.

What on earth had happened?

Aoyama recalled the sequence of events.

Aya Asai, always suspecting her colleagues looked down on her as a privileged daughter, wanted to prove herself by making headlines and cracking a major case.

She set her sights on Okita, suspected of drug trafficking, and brought Aoyama along to investigate. By sheer luck, they stumbled upon what seemed to be a drug lab.

Asai led him on a covert search.

But their retreat was discovered.

And now, here they were.

Aoyama could not help but curse. If you’re a child of privilege, just let your daddy pave the way for you! Why go out of your way to prove yourself? Damn it—now you’ve dragged us both down.

Koji Okita was the first to notice Aoyama was awake. He jabbed Aoyama’s face with his phone, taunting, “Well, the useless punching bag is finally awake. You look angry—want revenge? Too bad you’ll never get the chance.”

“There’s no such thing as a leak-proof wall, Okita. If you dare kill police officers and word gets out, neither the law nor the underworld will spare you.” Aoyama forced down his irritation and stared up at Okita, calm and composed.

“Baka!” Okita’s sneer froze in an instant. His emotions erupted as he stormed forward, grabbing Aoyama’s collar and growling, “Isn’t it you two bastards who forced my hand? Tell me, what else can I do but kill you? What else? Turn myself in, you idiot? Huh? Answer me!”

Okita’s breathing was ragged, his face twitching with rage.

He didn’t want to kill cops, either, it was too risky. But with his factory discovered, he had no choice but to silence them. He was desperate, too.

“I can work with you,” Aoyama said coolly, his gaze flicking to the pistol at Okita’s waist.

Okita was stunned.

So was Aya Asai, who stared at him wide-eyed.

“The Yozakura Society’s turf falls within Shinjuku’s jurisdiction. If you had someone inside the police station, loyal only to you, wouldn’t that make your operations far more convenient?” Aoyama continued, ignoring their shock.

“Baka! Hidenobu Aoyama, what nonsense are you spouting?” Aya Asai glared at him furiously, gritting her teeth. “You’d stoop so low as to join the yakuza just to survive?”

Aoyama paid her no mind, keeping his eyes on Okita.

Okita stared back, his grip loosening.

He had to admit, he was tempted.

After all, killing cops was always a losing proposition.

“You’ve convinced me,” Okita exhaled. “But that’s not enough. I want proof of your sincerity.”

With that, he waved his hand.

Two of his men pinned the third between them, holding him fast.

“Boss, what are you—what are you doing?” the man stammered, struggling. “Let me go, damn it!”

“Muto, I’ve been good to you, but you’re too greedy. You dared betray us and collude with the Noguchi gang behind my back! Originally, I planned to let you deal with these two cops, then take care of you. But it seems I have another use for you now.”

“Please, boss, have mercy! I’ll never do it again!” Muto paled, realizing what was coming.

Okita sneered, let go of Muto’s ear, then took a short knife from an underling and cut the ropes binding Aoyama, tossing the knife at his feet. “Kill him, and I’ll believe you.”

Aoyama looked at him.

Then bent down and picked up the knife.

“Aoyama, don’t! Don’t! That’s illegal!” Aya Asai shouted, desperate.

Aoyama remained unmoved.

He gripped the knife and walked toward Muto.

“Stay away! Don’t come any closer!” Muto screamed, pleading as tears streamed down his face. “Boss, spare me, please!”

“Aoyama, stop! Hidenobu Aoyama, I order you to stop! You’ll regret this!”

Muto’s cries for mercy and Asai’s increasingly shrill shouts echoed in the basement.

Okita watched with a smile.

Then, suddenly, Aoyama spun as he passed Okita, grabbing his hair and yanking his head down, raising the knife and plunging it slantwise into Okita’s neck. The blade sank in with a wet sound, leaving only the hilt protruding.

Anyone who’s killed knows that it’s not as easy as it looks; a quick, fatal stab requires skill.

Fortunately, Aoyama had been a professional in his past life.

He’d worried this body wouldn’t keep up with his reflexes, but found, to his surprise, that his strength and speed far exceeded the norm—perhaps a side effect of transmigration.

But there was no time to ponder it now.

He pulled out the knife, blood spraying.

Okita instinctively raised a hand to his neck, blood spurting through his fingers. He turned to glare at Aoyama, wanting to speak, but blood bubbled from his throat instead.

The sudden turn of events left everyone stunned.

“Boss!” The two men holding Muto, shocked and enraged, reached for their guns.

But Aoyama was faster. Dropping the knife, he snatched Okita’s pistol, cocked it against his leg, and fired.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Four shots rang out. The two loyal underlings fell dead, their guns clattering to the floor.

Aoyama swung the gun toward the shell-shocked Muto. “Where are we?”

“Chrysanthemum Love Club! This is the basement of the Chrysanthemum Love Club!” Muto blurted, then dropped to his knees, trembling. “Don’t kill me! I surrender, I—”

Bang!

A shot rang out. He dropped, lifeless.

Aya Asai stared in shock, her ample chest heaving as she gasped for breath. Two buttons had popped from her shirt, exposing a glimpse of light-green lace and creamy skin.

“Chief Inspector, I’m sorry you had to endure this.” Aoyama holstered the gun, strode over, and bowed before untying her.

She was slow to recover. Only when the ropes fell away did she find her voice. She pressed her lips together and asked, “Why did you kill him?”

“Hm?” Aoyama was caught off guard.

Asai shoved him away, glaring at Muto’s corpse. “He surrendered! Why did you shoot? That’s against police regulations! That’s murder!”

Aoyama was speechless. He’d just saved her life, and she was accusing him of killing a drug trafficker?

“You saved me, and I’m grateful. But I’ll have to report your intentional homicide…” she murmured as she buttoned her shirt.

Suddenly, her words broke off.

A gun was pressed to her head.

The cold steel made her shudder. She looked up at Aoyama in disbelief and anger. “Are you insane? What are you doing? I order you to put the gun down!”

“Chief Inspector, why didn’t you dare order them just now?” Aoyama’s gaze was icy. He sneered, “Because you knew they’d kill you, but thought I wouldn’t, is that it?”

Asai fell silent, her face turning pale again. She sensed that Aoyama truly would kill her to silence her.

“Pick up the knife and stab Muto’s body,” Aoyama ordered harshly.

She glared at him, refusing.

Aoyama’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Trembling, Asai bent down, picked up the knife, and under the threat of the gun, knelt by Muto’s corpse—yet still hesitated.

“Do it!” Aoyama barked.

With a scream, she shut her eyes, gripped the knife in both hands, and plunged it into Muto’s chest. Then, stumbling backward, she collapsed to the floor, weeping uncontrollably.

Aoyama sneered, squatting to grab her chin. “I thought you were so law-abiding, willing to die for your principles. Turns out you’re just a hypocrite.”

Her face flushed and paled by turns, torn between rage, shame, and humiliation, she wept in silence.

No one knows if they’re truly unafraid of death until the knife is at their throat.

“Your fingerprints are on the knife. If you dare report me, you won’t escape either.” Aoyama leaned in, a wry smile on his lips. “Inspector Asai, you wouldn’t want to bring disgrace to your family, would you?”

“Get away from me, you bastard!” She shoved him, eyes burning with hatred.

“Bitch!” Aoyama spat, yanking her hair to drag her close. “I can use this against you for the rest of your life!”

Ignoring the heartbroken, tear-stained Asai, he released her with a cold laugh, then crossed the room to pick up Okita’s phone and call the police.