Minister Takahashi walked out of the luxurious bath and sauna adjoining his expansive bedroom. His face was flushed red from a whole hour spent soaking in the bath, the water kept at a consistently high temperature by computers to sooth his body. He dabbed at his glistening black hair with a towel and considered his face and his naked body in one of the large mirrors in the bedroom. He looked good for his age. His stomach was reasonably flat and if he held it in, a six pack was clearly discernable below a thin layer of fat.

He had spent most of his time in the bath thinking about Hirayama, the consoles and Major-general Wang. The death of this man was the only way to put a stop to all this nonsense. As for Hirayama, he knew what his adviser wanted most of all. That was why he had kept the man close by and not given him the space to think and plot on how to attain what he coveted most of all.

Takahashi was no stranger to ambition. He himself had been endowed with more of it than most people and that had seen him rise from nothing to what he was today – the all-seeing eye of Japanese politics and head of the most powerful Yakuza gang in Japan. He had seen ambition drive men up the ranks of both politics and gang hierarchies and he had watched or been instrumental to their rapid falls from grace. Hirayama, by coveting too much behind that sycophantic servitude, was going to gain nothing.

One of the household staff, the buxom maid who had delivered a stern back scrub, had laid out a clean scented yukata, which he slipped on and walked towards the mini bar. He poured himself a glass of VSOP and walked towards the doors that gave out to his bedroom balcony. Takahashi sipped on his cognac and slid open the balcony doors. It was cold but it was his habit to contemplate the latest configuration of his exquisite rock garden created by the garden robots, which crafted ever-changing patterns with the random but totally harmonious placement of pebbles and ishi, or rocks. The robots would sometimes rake designs into the sanded area that would have Takahashi totally speechless with appreciation at the sumi, the balance, of it all. Takahashi was anticipating another robotic masterpiece when a blob rising between the banisters caught his eye.

It took Takahashi a fraction of a second to realize that it was a face, a face so expressionless that it sent a chill right through his bones. A body quickly followed as the man swung himself neatly over the edge of the balcony and landed just three feet away from Takahashi who had retreated instinctively. He knew straight away that this was the Chinese man from the blown-up photographs he had meticulously studied not so long ago, the same man who had murdered Kenzo Yamamoto.

“What do you want?” Takahashi asked in rough Mandarin with an air of feigned authority. His brandy goblet was shaking ever so slightly and he prayed that the man in front of him would not notice it. But it was clear the man did, his crescent-shaped eyes homing in on the vibrating glass.

“I am here to relieve you of the burden of living,” the assassin replied in perfect Japanese, causing Takahashis glass to shake even more violently. This man was not Japanese yet he spoke Japanese with the authority of a native. A thousand scenarios crossed Takahashi’s mind but they all ended with the same conclusion. He would probably die tonight and the Yamaguchi-gumi would be thrown into disarray. He knew this man was not here to collect the laundry. Despite the man’s diminutive size, something told Takahashi that his assailant was not to be underestimated. He decided to try deception.

“You dont seem to know who I am. My men will ...”

“Shut up! Your men are long gone. I personally made sure of it,” rasped the assassin, his eyes glimmering in the light behind thick epicanthic folds. “Who you are means nothing where you are going. Do you know why I will not feel the slightest amount of guilt after your death?”

“I am sure you are going to tell me,” Takahashi conceded weakly. His face had begun to perspire heavily. The sweat streamed down his face and formed wet patches on his fresh yukata.

“Because men like you never get to where you are now without taking a few lives, without ruining a few families and causing public misery. That can be forgiven. I myself am a taker of lives. Your biggest folly is a lack of understanding of things Chinese, of New China. This is ironic enough when you consider the fact that your ancestors originate from the Middle kingdom. I am going to take your life even though that fate is only a fraction of what you and your kind deserve.”

Takahashi was suddenly filled with rage.

“That is a god damn lie and you know it. Nothing but old Chinese propaganda. We are descended from the sun, a superior race and you know it,” retorted Takahashi, bile rising in him, threatening to choke him. Whatever fear he had felt had quickly retreated, replaced with something approximating his interpretation of bushido, the warrior’s code.

“Then you will die uneducated and misinformed” replied the assassin, angry at the insult. Takahashi was already making his move.

From the periphery of his vision, as if in slow-motion, the assassin saw the glint of the chiseled surfaces of the thick brandy goblet as it came hurtling towards the bridge of his nose. Takahashi had used the assassin’s slight lapse to attack. Even at that moment the assassin was twisting viciously to the left as the glass sailed by into the night. The assassin waited until he heard it crash in the garden below. At the same time as Takahashi was committing himself to an honorable death, the assassin rushed towards him, engulfing the Japanese neck with his thin hands. Takahashi’s arms whipped up to break the deadly stranglehold but the move was futile.

The assassin delivered several sharp jabs to specific parts of the minister’s body. Takahashi’s hands grew heavy and try as he could he was able to raise them no further than his mid-riff. The big Japanese struggled as the much smaller man’s hands tightened the hold on his neck. He struggled violently, writhing like a cornered animal. He clawed angrily at the assassin’s body but his hands were growing heavier. Even though he was suffocating to death he realized that the man’s skin was cold to the touch. Twisting his body angrily, he attempted to use his weight to throw the assassin against the concrete balustrade. The assassin had anticipated that move and countered with a sudden acrobatic maneuver with Takahashi’s thick neck still within his vice-like grip. Takahashi felt nothing as his neck snapped violently backwards and his heavy body slid to the floor.