The gates crashed open with a loud bang, and the chatter died fast. The crowd split down the middle like someone sliced it, all eyes on the boy walking through...he was tall as hell, pushing six feet and still growing, a cocky grin plastered across his face. His black kimono hung loose, flapping open to show off a chest and arms stacked with muscle, crisscrossed with scars...knife slashes, bullet holes, burns that looked brutal. His jet-black hair fell messy to his shoulders, and his eyes...black with glowing blue dots in the middle..shone like he was begging someone to start something.
Two guys trailed him, looking around, one bald with fancy glasses, the other with a blind eye . Toji didn't even glance back as he marched straight to the head of the hall, sandals stomping loud on the wood floor. His two guys stopped at the door, blocking it, while the big shots of the yamazaki syndicate stayed inside with him. The rest got stuck outside, more like stopped by the other two guys.
Toji flopped into the leader's seat...the Yamazaki president's spot...like it was his damn throne, slouching with one leg kicked out, arm slung over the back. The doors slammed shut behind him, and the room went dead quiet, all eyes on him, measuring him up. He smirked, scratching his nose like he didn't give a shit about them or this meeting, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Well, ain't this a party," he said, voice loud and smug. "You all look like you're waiting for a funeral. Lighten up!"
"Where's Gun?" a guy on the right side snapped, some middle-aged thug with a scar across his cheek. His tone was sharp, like he was already done with this.
Toji snorted, leaning back again, pushing his leg forward out of the silky cushion "Not dead, if that's what you're crying about and I Don't care where he is, though. Korea, probably. Why's it matter to you?"
Hearing this others become silent again. Gun went out away like that? Then why did he come back? Why did he kill Shintaro?.
"Why's an outsider sitting in the president's seat?" an old man on the left growled, his voice creaky but pissed. He had a long gray beard and a tiger tattoo peeking out of his kimono, glaring at Toji like he was trash.
Toji grinned wider, showing teeth, and stood up slowly, stretching his arms like he was bored. "Cause I'm your new leader, dumbass." He replied like the one asking was some idiot.
The Old man pressed further, "Only the heir... the next president of the Yamzaki lineage can claim that position thats the tradition...so on what ground did you dare to claim that seat Kuro Oni?... Did you kill Gun?"
"Who said I'm not a yamazak?" he continued. " I am Toji Yamazaki...son of Shingen Yamazaki and Hana Nohara." He let that sink in, crossing his arms in front of him, his blue-dotted eyes glowing bright. "The Demon who burned the Nohara to Ashes"
The room went still, like someone hit pause. Kuro Oni, Shingen's kid? That explained the eyes...those creepy glowing dots, just like Shingen's and a Boon or more like curse inherited by strongest of Yamazaki Blood.
Everyone sat up straighter now, backs stiff, but you could still feel it...they didn't respect him yet. They weren't arguing; no one was dumb enough to say he couldn't sit there. after all it's the tradition, but their looks said it: he was still just a thug to them, blood or not. Toji didn't care. He clapped his hands loudly, making a few jump. "Alright, loyal Yamazaki dogs, introduce yourselves to your new boss," he barked, pointing at them.
"These loyal subordinates of Yamazaki greet the president!" they shouted in unison their intensity shaking the building, voices booming off the walls, scaring the predators in the Jungle outside. Toji nodded, smirking like a king, then waved a hand.
One by one, they stood up, rattling off their names and territories
House Tanaka, East Docks; House Mori, Red District; House Sato, North Slums—like a roll call. Toji slouched back in his seat, half-listening, picking at his nails like he was bored out of his mind. When they finished, a younger guy on the right piped up, "President!" Everyone's eyes flicked to him...by now, most had swallowed the idea of Toji leading. Kuro Oni wasn't just some nobody; he'd done dirty jobs for half the room, and they knew he was tough as hell. But not everyone was happy.
"Why are these traitors here?" the guy asked, pointing to five guys sitting in the back. Their heads were down, hands in their laps, looking nervous. "These are the blood of traitors, the ones who turned on us...why're they breathing air instead of getting chopped up?"
Toji glanced over where he pointed, squinting at the five like they were bugs. "Their dads were traitors, yeah," he said, voice lazy. "These punks were still shitting diapers back then, and they hey've got potential, and they ain't dumb enough to pull the same crap, right?" He stared hard at them, blue eyes glowing, daring them to say otherwise.
"Yes, President!" the four shouted, chest puffed forward eyes brimming with conviction. Four of them grabbed knives from the table, slammed their small fingers down, and sliced them off fast...blood spurting, dripping onto white cloths beside them.
This was an old yakuza tradition,Yubitsume (指詰め) a Japanese ritual to atone for offenses to another, a way to be punished or to show sincere apology and remorse to another, by means of amputating portions of one's own little finger.
Toji nodded, smirking, but the fifth guy didn't move. Everyone turned, staring at him, and he stood up slow, veins popping on his neck and forehead, face red with rage.
"President," he spat, voice shaking, "I'll kill you. You Yamazaki bastards...you killed my dad, my uncles, right in front of me, in front of my family. Kicked us out of our own home. My mom and sister...they took their own lives 'cause of you, your brother, your whole damn bloodline!" He was fuming, fists clenched, eyes wild red . "I've lived for the moment to kill Shintaro with my own hand like he got my father killed, to kill Gun, now youtoo you son of a bitch!"
Toji looked at him, blank-faced, then laughed—loud, mean, like the guy was a clown. "Family stuff, huh? Don't know, and I don't care. But you were weak as fuck back then..You couldn't stop a thing from happening to your family. And your mom and sister? Too weak to stick around and didnt trusted your weak mind and offed themselves feels like some shitty tragedy novel which I wouldn't read even if they paid me" He kept laughing, and the others stayed quiet, stone-cold. They'd all done worse...killed families, Raped, burned houses, didn't blink. This was normal to them.
"You little-" the guy started, lunging forward, but Toji cut him off, face going dead serious.
"Then come at me," he said, voice low and icy. "Kill me. Get your big revenge. No one's stopping you...grab that knife and shove it in my heart." He stood up, stepping down from the raised platform, meeting the guy in the middle of the hall. They were the same height, eye-to-eye, Toji's glowing blue dots staring into the man's hate-filled glare.
The guy—pushing forty, built like he'd been training his whole life—grabbed the knife off the table, gripping it so hard his knuckles went white. He'd killed for this moment, trained for it, dreaming of sticking a blade in a Yamazaki. He roared, charging at Toji, plunging the knife straight for his chest. The room held its breath—but Toji's hand shot out, catching the guy's wrist mid-swing like it was nothing. "Huh," Toji grunted, smirking, and twisted hard. The guy's arm snapped like a twig, bone cracking loud, but before he could scream, Toji's other hand clamped over his mouth, slamming him to the floor with a thud.
The air in the room thickened with the metallic tang of blood as the crowd stood frozen, their wide-eyed stares locked on the grotesque spectacle unfolding before them. Toji's knee pressed mercilessly into the man's chest, pinning him to the cold, unforgiving floor like a predator immobilizing its prey. The man beneath him writhed in desperation, his body bucking and twisting in a futile attempt to break free. Muffled yells clawed their way out from beneath Toji's iron grip, each sound a jagged plea for mercy that fell on deaf ears. The crowd's collective breath hitched, a silent chorus of horror, as they watched the scene spiral into something unspeakable.
Toji's hands moved with a terrifying swiftness, a blur of calculated brutality that betrayed no hesitation, no shred of humanity. His fingers dug into the man's sides, sinking into the soft flesh just below the ribcage. The man's eyes widened in a split second of realization, a fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated terror before the agony hit. With a savage wrench, Toji tore into him, the sickening crunch of splintering ribs echoing through the room like a gunshot.
The sound was wet and sharp, a visceral snap that reverberated in the skulls of every onlooker. Blood erupted in a violent spray, a crimson geyser that painted the floor in slick, glistening streaks. It splattered across the table, soaking into the pristine white cloths adorned with severed fingers...tokens of loyalty now drowned in the carnage. Droplets flecked the faces of those closest, a warm, sticky baptism in the man's undoing.
The man's scream ripped through the air, a high-pitched, guttural wail that clawed at the edges of sanity. It was the sound of a soul being flayed alive, a primal shriek that carried the weight of every nightmare he'd ever had. His family flashed before his eyes...his mother's gentle hands brushing his hair as a child, his sister's teasing laughter over a shared meal, his brother's quiet strength during their hardest days.
They were so close, so vivid, yet impossibly far, slipping through his grasp as the pain consumed him. He was helpless, utterly powerless, his body no longer his own but a canvas for Toji's savagery. His screams grew louder, more desperate, as Toji's hands plunged deeper, seizing the man's still-beating heart.
With a grotesque yank, he tore it free, the organ pulsing in his grip, slick with blood and quivering with the last vestiges of life. The man's eyes bulged, his mouth gaping in a silent, choking gasp as Toji shoved the heart toward his face, pressing it against his lips in a mockery of intimacy. The warm, wet muscle smeared across his mouth, the coppery taste flooding his senses in his final, fleeting moments of consciousness.
But Toji wasn't done. His expression remained cold, unyielding, a mask of predatory focus as he shifted his grip to the man's spine. His fingers curled around the vertebrae, and with a single, monstrous pull, he ripped the man apart. The spine snapped like brittle wood, a deafening crack that silenced the room as the crowd recoiled in unison. The man's body split in two, a grotesque eruption of guts spilling forth in a steaming, crimson tide. Intestines uncoiled onto the floor, glistening and twitching in the dim light, while blood pooled beneath, thick and dark, seeping into every crack and crevice.
The man's screams abruptly ceased, replaced by a hollow, gurgling wheeze as his torso convulsed once, twice, then fell still. His eyes, wide and glassy, stared blankly at the ceiling, reflecting the flickering light and the faces of the horrified onlookers. His last thought—a fractured, helpless memory of his mother's voice calling his name—dissolved into the void.
Toji rose to his feet, a towering figure drenched in the wreckage of his own making. His hands dripped with blood, thick rivulets running down his forearms and pooling at his feet. His kimono, once a symbol of tradition, hung heavy with gore, the fabric clinging to his frame in sodden, scarlet patches. His face was a canvas of splattered red, streaks of it cutting across his sharp features like war paint.
He stood there, chest heaving slightly, not from exertion but from the sheer intensity of the act. He could have ended it cleanly, snapped the man's neck with a flick of his wrist, a quick and quiet death. But no. That wasn't the point. Toji wanted the brutality, the theater of it all. He wanted the crowd to feel the weight of his presence, to taste the fear that coated their tongues as they watched him dismantle a man with his bare hands.
In that moment, he was more than Kuro Oni the young assasin...he proved he was the son of their nightmare Shingen Yamazaki, the Tora Oni, the Tiger That Can't Be Killed. The Yamazaki pulsed through his veins, a feral energy that radiated from him like heat from a furnace. His eyes, cold and piercing, swept over the room, daring anyone to meet his gaze. No one did. The crowd stood petrified, their breaths shallow, their bodies trembling as the reality of what they'd witnessed sank in.
They had seen death before...quick kills, clean cuts—but this was different. This was a massacre, a deliberate unraveling of a human being, piece by screaming piece. Toji had turned the man into a warning, a bloody testament to his dominance, his untouchable ferocity a bloody example of what will happen if someone dared to go against him.
He wiped his hands on his kimono, casual as hell, and stomped back to his seat, flopping down with one hand on his knee, the other propping him up. Blood dripped onto the floor, plinking loud in the silence. He looked out at them, grinning like the demon from the picture hung above him, blue eyes glowing brighter. "So," he said with growl, "any more questions?"
No one said a word. The smirks were gone, the lazy looks wiped clean. They didn't object—never had—but now they didn't dare disrespect him either. Toji Yamazaki wasn't just some thug anymore. He was their president, and he'd beat that fact into them with blood and bone.
The meeting was over. The room smelled of blood and fear, but Toji Yamazaki barely noticed. He was the last to step out, hands still wet with crimson, the warmth of the kill fading against the cool air outside. The two men guarding the door didn't flinch—one was lighting a cigarette, the other leaned lazily against the frame, watching him. They had seen worse. They had followed worse.
"I don't think letting those traitors in was a good idea," the smoker muttered, exhaling a stream of smoke into the night air. His tone was neutral, but there was an edge of doubt, maybe even concern.
Toji smirked, eyes gleaming under the dim hallway light. "Look at those old fossils. If a hit comes, it'll be from that side." He wiped his bloodied hands off on the man's shirt, smearing red across crisp fabric. The guard tensed for half a second, but said nothing. What could he do? What would he dare to do? they too heard what happened inside and a man built like toji bathed in blood was not some pleasent site either and Gun had already warned them 'He was not Shingen but worse'
Toji didn't need a pack of loyal wolf's, he didn't need a gang sniffing at his heels like hungry dogs looking for opportunities. He was a tiger....solitary, unchained, untamed. Let the wolves tear at each other. He had his own hunt to do.