That Asou Akiya had earned the favor of the Port Mafia's upper echelon was no longer news within the organization.
His scope of work was no longer limited to simple translation tasks; he had begun to take part in unfamiliar intelligence analysis assignments and was required to submit his own written impressions afterward. It was not difficult to imagine that, in the eyes of the Port Mafia's leader, he had already established the image of an "elite with a broad, strategic perspective." Whether he could maintain that image, however, would depend entirely on his actual capabilities in the time to come.
"Which fields will be the most suitable for the Port Mafia's development over the next year?" Asou Akiya looked at the new topic assigned by the boss. If he had not read the original Bungou Stray Dogs and did not carry with him decades' worth of world development history from his previous life, he would probably have been completely lost, submitting a dry, unimaginative answer about economic development.
In times of war, the most profitable business was arms dealing, but the Port Mafia lacked the necessary conditions. They had no military-industrial factories of their own and no foundation for direct participation in warfare. Since reckless expansion was not an option, it would be wiser to take the opposite approach—prioritize stability, lay down a solid foundation for the grueling postwar era, and avoid becoming an object to be torn apart by various nations.
In the original story, what role did the Port Mafia ultimately fulfill?
Answer: Replacing the military police in protecting the city.
After half an hour of contemplation, Asou Akiya wrote down content that was simple and blunt.
"First: establish security teams and collect protection fees."
This was, in fact, the kind of business the mafia was best at. The difference was that, with his "spoiler cheat" enabled, the scope and scale of these protection fees could be significantly expanded.
The Port Mafia needed to form a security force in advance to maintain public order and protect companies, enterprises, and certain wealthy individuals operating under the organization's banner. By next year, when the shadow of defeat loomed over the nation and foreign warlords and criminals descended upon it, the wealthier people were, the more they feared death—so much so that they would be desperate to pay for round-the-clock protection.
"Second: create more employment opportunities and provide reemployment chances for the unemployed." There would be an enormous number of unemployed people next year, and no matter how dangerous the work was, plenty would be willing to take it simply to survive.
"Third: invest in foreign restaurants." Eating was essential, after all, and foreigners always missed the flavors of their homeland.
"Fourth: expand the scale of the Port Mafia hospital." A hospital that would forever be overcrowded in the future.
"Fifth: if there are no conflicts of faith, assist Western missionaries in building churches in Yokohama, placing them near the Port Mafia's legitimate, 'white' industries. No one would dare attack a church lightly."
"Sixth: maintain good relations with the government, pay taxes reasonably, and operate in both the underworld and the legitimate sphere." Polite words for the occasion—something that had to be said.
"Seventh: if funds permit, take on the construction of a second Yokohama Settlement." There were foreigners arriving every year, and they all needed somewhere to live.
"Eighth: strive to secure near-shore maritime rights for Yokohama…"
"Ninth: recruit high-quality talent…"
All of the above was to be carried out strictly with wartime conditions in mind.
It was a long list, written in sweeping strokes, though not much of it would actually be usable. There was no need for the proposals to exceed the bounds of Asou Akiya's own life experience; as long as the much-valued "big-picture perspective" was present, that was enough. He could already imagine how the boss would scoff upon reading the page and deliver a verdict along the lines of: "A green kid—sees far, but understands little."
After Asou Akiya passed several rounds of the boss's "small tests" and handed in answers that earned a passing grade, courses that were unnecessary for ordinary clerical staff in the mid- to lower ranks—hand-to-hand combat training and firearms training—were once again added to his schedule.
This was a clear sign that the Port Mafia intended to cultivate him as a key asset.
True Port Mafia executives did not necessarily need to be ability users, but they absolutely could not be laughably weak.
Asou Akiya's timetable became completely packed, with an extra hour of overtime added automatically each day. During the day, he had to complete all kinds of training, leaving his limbs aching; at night, he would collapse into bed the moment he got home, utterly unable to engage in any intimate moments with Randou. Randou understood his difficulties, reached out to touch the muscle that training had carved into his lover's arm, and said with a smile, "Train hard."
Asou Akiya held the considerate French beauty in his arms as they slept beneath the covers. The air conditioner was set to twenty-eight degrees—two degrees lower than when they had first started living together—and Randou's sensitivity to the cold had eased somewhat.
Half-asleep, he made a promise, "At most two weeks… I'll get used to it."
Randou did not mind at all, his cheek pressed against this living heater, soft curls spilling loosely across Akiya's chest.
"Seeing you work so hard, Akiya, it makes me want to start exercising too."
"…Mm…"
Asou Akiya soon fell fast asleep.
One morning not long afterward, Asou Akiya fulfilled a wish Randou had made offhandedly. He ordered a batch of fitness equipment to be delivered straight to their home. The second floor happened to have an open space, making it possible to work out easily without ever stepping outside.
Randou, who had grown just a little lazy after switching careers to become a poet, could only stare in silence. "…."
All right.
For the sake of his abdominal muscles, which were on the verge of disappearing.
"We'll work out together, and we'll take care of our health together," Asou Akiya said before leaving for work, having finished setting up the gym on the second floor. He looked at Randou with earnest eyes as he continued, "And then we'll live to a hundred." In this world, the most moving confession was nothing more than holding hands and growing old together, and that, too, was Asou Akiya's wish.
"Okay." Randou's lips curved into a smile.
An Akiya who loved life so deeply and painted the future in such vivid colors—how could he ever grow tired of that?
After winning over a beautiful and powerful partner, earning a promotion and a raise, and leaping in one bound to become the head of the translation group and a half-assigned intelligence operative drafted on a "better-than-nothing" basis, Asou Akiya seemed to have used up all the luck he had accumulated over the years.
He had forgotten one particular rule of the mafia.
The higher the position, the less likely one was to remain untainted; the criminal records left behind would only become more and more shocking to behold.
Before a group of Port Mafia members clad in black suits, Hirotsu Ryuurou—who in his youth had employed ruthlessly iron-fisted methods and in middle age had reined them in somewhat—stood at the forefront, his eyes carrying the mafia's habitual indifference as he ignored the traitor detained off to the side. He spoke to Asou Akiya neither lightly nor harshly: "Leave now, and I will treat this as though you were never here today."
Asou Akiya's face went pale, and he forced a bitter smile. "Mr. Hirotsu, are you joking with me?"
With so many people present to serve as witnesses!
He did not even dare to imagine what the consequences would be if he turned around and left!
"That's good, as long as you understand," Hirotsu Ryuurou said calmly, rolling a lighter back and forth between his fingers. He deliberately avoided the panicked gaze of the younger man before him. "Congratulations on passing your first test."
Hirotsu Ryuurou lifted his eyes again and continued, his tone unhurried yet carrying an invisible weight. "The boss values you. Do you know what you are still lacking?"
Asou Akiya felt as if he had been punched squarely in the chest, the air knocked out of him in an instant. A dull pressure spread through his heart, and all the confidence and vigor he had carried until moments ago vanished without a trace. Against his will, his eyes flicked toward the unfamiliar traitor. The man who had dared betray the Port Mafia was now kneeling on the ground, his face drained of all color, terror written plainly across every trembling feature.
Hirotsu Ryuurou stepped forward a few paces and extended his hand. A subordinate immediately placed a gun into his palm.
But instead of raising it himself, he turned and presented the weapon to Asou Akiya.
The gun rested steadily in his open hand, lifted toward him without the slightest shake.
"Because you entered through senior connections, and because your background is considered reliable," Hirotsu Ryuurou said evenly, "a certain procedure was omitted."
"A pledge of loyalty."
"Akira-kun," he said, calling him by name with unsettling familiarity, "I would like you to deal with this traitor on behalf of the Port Mafia."
Under the watchful eyes of more than ten Port Mafia members, he was being asked to take a human life—cutting off, completely and irrevocably, any chance of remaining an outsider.
In that instant, Asou Akiya felt that the one surrounded was not the traitor kneeling on the floor.
It was himself.
No wonder, he thought dimly, Oda Sakunosuke in the story had refused promotion, preferring to remain at the bottom, running errands and doing menial work. Because once someone became a "promising talent" within the Port Mafia, they would inevitably be forced to do things they never wished to do—things like killing.
Hirotsu Ryuurou's voice sounded again, slow and measured, echoing clearly in the oppressive silence.
"Akira-kun," he said, "do you still remember the procedure for handling a traitor?"
his was something every Port Mafia member was told the moment they joined the organization.
In that instant, two layers of memory were stirred awake within Asou Akiya.
One belonged to the original owner of this body. The other came from rules explained in the anime by Dazai Osamu after his defection. The Port Mafia's method of disposing of traitors was as unmistakable as an identification card—one glance was enough to recognize it. First, make the traitor bite down on the edge of a step. Then kick the back of his head, shatter the jaw, flip the body over, and fire three shots straight into the chest.
What an utterly inhumane method.
This was not the two-dimensional world of animation, not a video playing safely behind a screen. In reality, how many people would truly dare to do something like this?
A chill crawled up Asou Akiya's spine, and before he could stop himself, he took half a step back. The moment he moved, he heard faint, synchronized clicks all around him—the unmistakable sound of guns being cocked. He shuddered violently and turned his head to look at the surrounding Port Mafia members, yet he could not tell who had made the move.
This was bad.
He had read Port Mafia intelligence before. Regardless of whether the information was valuable or trivial, he had already crossed a line.
That line… was beyond his clearance level.
Hirotsu Ryuurou's attitude made one thing unmistakably clear: there was only forward, never backward.
"Does it really have to be this way?" Asou Akiya's lips trembled as he spoke. "I don't want to kill lightly, and I would never betray the Port Mafia. However you choose to deal with traitors, I won't object at all!"
Hirotsu Ryuurou corrected him calmly. "Not 'you,' but 'we.' We are all Port Mafia."
"Hirotsu-san!" Asou Akiya cried out in despair.
Hirotsu Ryuurou fixed him with a heavy, unblinking gaze. There was a trace of regret in his eyes—had this young man, after all, failed to adapt to the world of the Mafia?
Hirotsu Ryuurou turned around and issued the order to his subordinates in a flat, merciless tone.
"Make him bite the curb."
The traitor was forced to the ground, his head wrenched down and held in place. He sobbed uncontrollably as his teeth were jammed against the edge of the stair, saliva, mucus, and tears spilling down his face in a humiliating mess.
Then—suddenly—a sharp, sickening crack of bone split the air.
Hirotsu Ryuurou brought his foot down on the back of the man's head, crushing it against the step with brutal precision. His posture was steady, his expression ruthless, using this method to warn everyone present—betray the Port Mafia, and this traitor's fate will be yours.
It was not only the Port Mafia members who felt fear coil tightly in their hearts; Asou Akiya was the one being warned most directly.
He heard the most primitive screams a human could make, each howl drilling into his ears, etching itself into his mind, threatening to become the nightmare that would haunt him that night. He could not move. His feet felt as though they had been nailed to the ground. Terror flooded his eyes as his understanding of Hirotsu Ryuurou shattered completely—this was no longer a character from the original story, but a ruthless veteran who had survived decades in the Mafia without falling.
Hirotsu Ryuurou knew that from this moment on, Asou Akiya would never trust him as easily again. The naïveté preserved from normal society would be washed away by blood. Either the young man would be reborn through this baptism, or he would be eliminated by the brutal internal competition of the Port Mafia.
He was doing this for the sake of the junior standing before him.
"Akiya-kun," Hirotsu Ryuurou said calmly, "I'll give you one last chance to pick up the gun."
"Come here."
"Don't disappoint the Boss."
No one knew how long the suffocating silence lasted. Above them, the sky was cloudless and bright, sunlight pouring down without restraint. Yet those standing within the Port Mafia felt as if they were submerged in freezing darkness, their eyes unable to reflect even a trace of light.
Several minutes later, three gunshots rang out in succession.
The execution was over.
...
Asou Akiya returned to his work as if everything were normal, maintaining the outward appearance of routine and composure. The colleagues in the translation department had no idea where he had gone, nor what he had been forced to witness, and no one could have guessed what kind of blood-soaked reality now lingered behind his calm exterior.
Inside the office, whispers of envy and hushed gossip flowed without pause. The translators chatted animatedly, switching effortlessly between multiple languages, their voices overlapping in a lively murmur. They did not need to worry about being overheard by other members of the Port Mafia; after all, this was a place set apart, where words from many nations intertwined freely and carelessly.
Asou Akiya worked in a numb daze. The faint smile he once wore so naturally had vanished completely from his face, leaving behind only a hollow stillness.
Takekawa Izumi walked over, set a stack of documents down, and gently patted Asou Akiya's stiff, unresponsive shoulder.
"You'll get used to it," he said quietly.
Those simple words were proof enough that this seasoned senior had also once paid his initiation tribute—the unspoken baptism required to truly belong.
Asou Akiya said nothing.
Takekawa Izumi asked, his tone casual but not unkind, "Do you feel like throwing up? If you're not feeling well, you can go sit in the restroom for a while."
Asou Akiya finally spoke, his voice distant and unsteady, as though it were drifting in from somewhere far away. "Senior Takekawa, I don't feel like vomiting, and I'm not that fragile."
"You're doing better than I did back then," Takekawa Izumi replied, deliberately sounding cheerful, as if trying to lighten the oppressive air.
"I just…" Asou Akiya trailed off as he signed his name on the documents before him. With each signature, he was steadily replacing Takekawa Izumi's role, gradually taking control of the translation department—the unit most closely tied to the Port Mafia's international trade.
"…I've finally understood that killing someone is not a joke."
Killing even a single person carried such unbearable weight. In that moment, he realized that the anime characters he thought he understood had become strangers to him.
Did you truly understand them?
Did you truly understand their pain and their struggle?
Did you truly understand the cold, merciless will that lay beneath their apparent freedom to act as they pleased?
[No. I don't understand.]
Asou Akiya buried himself in his work, trying desperately to drown out his thoughts. His brows knit tightly together, tension carving deep lines between them. No matter what, now that he had stepped into the darkness, there was no turning back. Given the choice, he would rather become a calamity that lingered for a thousand years—a "Dazai Osamu"—than end up shackled by guilt and hesitation like "Oda Sakunosuke" or "Izumi Kyoka," trapped forever by the act of killing itself.
Accept reality. Adjust your mindset.
He believed—no, he insisted—that he was not a fragile person.
His gaze followed Takekawa Izumi as the senior walked away, along with the other colleagues absorbed in their work. Beyond the window stretched an excellent view of Yokohama's scenery, bright and expansive. It could not compare to the boss's office, but it was more than worthy of the Port Mafia headquarters' prime location.
"Besides," Asou Akiya murmured softly, almost to himself, "I never wanted to be some rule-following good person in the first place."
He let out a slow, quiet sigh.
He was a liar.
He was a member of the mafia.
He was a lover of the two-dimensional world.
And more than anything, he was an adult skilled in polite deception and empty courtesies.
His sincerity was reserved only for those he trusted.
As for anyone else—no one should expect him to give more of his heart than necessary.
—To live.
—Is to experience a brilliant, vivid life, and to spend the most wonderful years of one's existence with the best people.