Chapter 2: All Thanks to the Inspector's Leadership, Xiuxin's Ambition

The police arrived swiftly.

In less than ten minutes, they were at the scene. As the door to the basement was pushed open, a squad of armed officers filed in one after another, led by none other than Asai Takehiko, the chief of the Shinjuku Police Department.

"Chief!" Aoyama Hidenobu bent deeply in a bow.

Takehiko Asai paid him no mind. He strode forward and grasped Ayaka Asai’s delicate shoulders with both hands, his face taut with concern. “Ayaka, are you all right?”

“Dad, w-wah…” Having been pushed to the brink of collapse by today’s ordeal, and feeling utterly wronged, Ayaka threw herself into her father’s arms and wept uncontrollably.

“It’s all right now, it’s all over,” Takehiko soothed her, relieved to see his daughter unharmed. He gently patted her back, then finally turned his gaze to Aoyama Hidenobu.

Aoyama quickly bowed even lower.

“Detective Aoyama, I’ve heard of you,” Takehiko began, then got straight to business. “Tell me exactly what happened here.”

“Yes, sir!” Aoyama straightened and spoke in a steady voice: “Today, under Inspector Asai’s direct leadership, we located and infiltrated a major Sakura Group drug lab to gather evidence. Unfortunately, during our withdrawal, we were discovered by the cunning Koji Okita.”

“We were outnumbered and overpowered, and both Inspector Asai and I were taken hostage here, marked for death. Pretending to defect, Inspector Asai and I managed to lull Okita into dropping his guard, then seized our chance, took their weapons, and in the ensuing struggle, together we killed Koji Okita and his henchmen.”

As Aoyama finished speaking, the other officers in the basement looked at him and Ayaka Asai with growing awe and admiration.

To disarm armed criminals and turn the tables while at such a disadvantage—that was a feat!

Ayaka, meanwhile, felt her cheeks flush with heat—not because she had contributed much, but because the respectful gazes of her colleagues filled her with a deep sense of satisfaction.

Wasn’t this exactly what she had always wanted?

She remained nestled in her father’s arms, her gaze complex as she looked at Aoyama Hidenobu, her teeth gently pressing her crimson lips.

“Good! Excellent.” Takehiko Asai nodded in satisfaction, smiling. “Aoyama, I’ll make sure you’re commended for this. Those fools at headquarters were out of their minds to demote a talent like you.”

No one knew his daughter better than he did, and it was clear to him that Aoyama was sharing credit with Ayaka. Naturally, he would return the favor down the line.

“I dare not claim credit, sir—this is thanks to the Inspector’s leadership.” Aoyama bowed.

It was only then that he remembered the circumstances of his demotion, as mentioned by Takehiko. He had been a graduate of Tokyo University, passed the top-tier national civil service exam, and started as Assistant Inspector, serving as Deputy Chief of the Robbery Division in the Criminal Investigation Department at headquarters.

But at the start of the year, when a major operation failed, his superiors pinned the blame on him. He became the scapegoat, was demoted two levels from Assistant Inspector to Senior Constable, and reassigned to Shinjuku as an ordinary detective.

There are ten ranks in the Japanese police, from highest to lowest: Chief Commissioner, Superintendent General, Senior Commissioner, Commissioner, Deputy Commissioner, Inspector, Assistant Inspector, Chief Senior Constable, Senior Constable, and Constable.

Without a prestigious university background and having passed the elite exam, it would have taken a regular officer nearly twenty years of service to reach Assistant Inspector.

Though a two-rank demotion might not sound severe, in truth, it had cut off his future prospects—after all, in Japan, a single misstep can doom your entire career.

Takehiko Asai patted Aoyama’s shoulder with appreciation and waved his hand. “Get to work.”

“Yes, sir!” the officers replied in unison.

After collecting evidence at the scene and returning to the station to give statements, Aoyama Hidenobu was sent home.

As for media interviews and the chance to appear on camera—those honors naturally went to Ayaka Asai. She was, after all, the leader, young, and the daughter of the chief, with every advantage on her side.

As he was leaving the station, Aoyama caught sight of Ayaka standing on the steps, surrounded by a throng of reporters, radiant and in the spotlight.

Aoyama smiled faintly. He knew he would never again have to worry about Ayaka Asai reporting him.

He tossed the bloodstained black suit jacket over his shoulder, turned away, lit a cigarette, hailed a cab, and made his way home.

…………………………

Aoyama Hidenobu’s home was in Shoto 1-chome, Shibuya—a standalone villa with its own courtyard.

It was indeed a villa, not a mere detached house.

The Aoyama family belonged to the former kazoku, the Japanese aristocracy before World War II, with ancestors who had held the title of Count.

Though, like most families of their class, their fortunes had faded, the family still owned this villa in Shibuya—a legacy property.

Aoyama’s parents had both passed away in recent years. The current head of the family was his elder brother, Aoyama Munemasa, a county assemblyman in Saitama. The whole family lived together, but in Aoyama’s memory, the relationship between the brothers was strained.

Munemasa was single-minded in his quest to restore the family’s former glory, while Hidenobu was content to live an easygoing life. Munemasa looked down on him for this, and over time, their conflict had only deepened.

Munemasa saw Hidenobu’s demotion and transfer as a disgrace to the family, and had even struck him over it, making their relationship even worse.

Yet Hidenobu had always gotten along well with his sister-in-law.

A vision flashed through his mind: a petite yet stunningly voluptuous young woman, gentle and accommodating, with a delicate beauty. With a sister-in-law like that, who wouldn’t get along?

“Sir, we’ve arrived,” the taxi driver’s voice interrupted Aoyama’s reverie.

He snapped back to himself. “Thank you very much.”

“Of course, sir. Have a good evening.”

The rear door opened automatically. Aoyama stepped out, straightened his white shirt, pushed open the gate, and entered the yard, then fished out his key to unlock the front door.

“I’m home.”

“Hidenobu, is that you?” came a gentle reply. A woman of about twenty-six or seven appeared from the tatami room, her steps light and quick.

Her dark hair was swept up, exposing a slender swan neck. Her petite, fair face was soft and elegant, with a tiny beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. Her lips were delicate and moist, and she wore a pale yellow kimono adorned with cherry blossoms. Though not tall, her figure was perfectly proportioned—her ample curves undulated beneath the fabric with every step.

This was Seiko Aoyama, his sister-in-law. Her maiden name was Seiko Aizawa, but she had taken her husband’s surname after marrying Munemasa.

“Oh! Blood! Hidenobu, are you hurt? Why is there so much blood?” As she drew closer, Seiko saw the bloodstains on his shirt and cried out in alarm, hurrying closer.

Seeing her about to touch him, Aoyama stepped back and quickly explained: “Wait, sis, this is from arresting criminals, not my own blood.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Seiko sighed in relief, patting her chest—setting off a captivating ripple—then knelt down to fetch him a pair of slippers. “Go take a shower and change your clothes first.”

“Thank you, sis.” As Aoyama bowed his head, his gaze inadvertently swept over the fullness revealed at her collar.

Perfectly rounded, inviting to the touch.

He quickly averted his eyes. She was not his wife, after all, but his sister-in-law—he must behave with respect.

A little over ten minutes later, Aoyama emerged from his bath dressed in a loose black kimono with floral patterns.

He turned in front of the mirror.

His features were handsome, his height—over 180 centimeters—rare among Japanese men. He was not particularly burly, and bruises from earlier still marked his skin, but he could feel his physical condition was remarkably robust.

At least, stronger than he’d ever been in his previous life.

He had no idea why this was so.

Nor did he care to know—like ordering chicken at a restaurant, there was no need to ask where it came from. Just lie back and enjoy the service; why bother tracing it to its source?

When he went downstairs, he found Seiko kneeling on the tatami, brewing tea. Her curvy figure rested gracefully on her folded legs, every movement a pleasure to watch.

“Your tea-making skills have improved, sis,” Aoyama said as he knelt across from her, hands resting on his knees, giving her a slight bow.

“You always flatter me,” Seiko replied with a smile, then added with a playful scold, “If only you could be as calm with your brother as you are with me. After all, you’re brothers.”

She had always hoped to mend the rift between them.

“Maybe I’m just jealous that he married such a beautiful woman,” Aoyama replied with a grin.

Seiko blushed, shooting him a bashful glance as she pushed a cup of hot tea toward him. “I’ll go make dinner now. You’ve had a hard day, Hidenobu—you deserve a good reward.”

With that, she rose and walked to the kitchen.

Aoyama lifted the teacup, lost in thought.

That afternoon in the basement, he had truly considered killing Ayaka Asai to silence her. But then he realized that if she died, her father would never rest until he found the truth—which could only bring him more trouble. So he abandoned the idea.

Keeping Ayaka alive, and tying her to himself through the killing of Muto, would benefit his future prospects far more—especially since she was both his superior and a second-generation official.

In his previous life, though he’d made plenty of money, he’d always lived in fear, never at ease.

This time, he would live differently.

No longer would he dwell in the shadows, afraid to show his face.

This time, he would climb higher, step by step—seize power openly and let the world see him.

He would become an official—a great one.

Eyes resolute, Aoyama raised the teacup and drained it in one gulp—only for his face to twist in pain.

God, it was hot!