Eastern Pacific airspace, stratosphere.
Bzzz—!
The wings sliced through the dense, dark veil. Pearlescent clouds drifted below.
Starlight reflected on the iron arc; slipstreams skimmed across the fuselage and tail fin, where the distinctive Arasaka logo flickered intermittently.
Thump, thump.
"Arasaka-sama, we are approaching our destination."
At the center of the escort formation flew Saburo Arasaka's private jet. Starlight slanted through the cabin, coating the cool, modern décor with a faint glaze. Beige Japanese-style curtains hung beside the rounded rectangular windows.
An oak desk sat neatly against the wall, with several lush green potted plants in the corners—their vibrant leaves alive and swaying as shifting cabin light filtered through the windows.
At Goro Takemura's quiet report, Saburo didn't even raise his head. He continued trimming the bonsai on the table with steady precision.
"..."
After a few breaths, Saburo finally turned his head, having snipped off several dead and overgrown branches. "Branches that grow wrong—or rot—should be pruned away. Only then can the tree thrive. Wouldn't you agree, Goro-kun?"
Takemura bowed formally. "From a horticultural perspective, yes, that's correct."
"Ha."
Saburo gave a faint chuckle, setting the shears down before pacing toward the window. He gazed out at the boundless night, his expression distant—his sharp brows like blades, and beneath them, eyes filled with cold, unfathomable resolve.
"Go prepare," he said.
"Yes, sir." Takemura bowed again, head lowered, not daring to question.
As a loyal bodyguard who lived by the principle of "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil," he neither knew nor wanted to know why his master was rushing so urgently to Night City. He only knew one thing:
Saburo-sama was in a foul mood. Before departure, he had erupted in anger and issued strict orders to seal all related information.
Some Arasaka family member had made a grave mistake—an unforgivable one.
Vela? Michiko? Or Yorinobu? Takemura could only guess.
Click. The door closed softly.
Silence returned to the cabin.
For a long moment, only the faint hum of the engines filled the air. Then, as the aircraft AI announced the descent procedure, Saburo turned back toward the desk.
Staring at the bonsai and the pruning shears beside it, he murmured, "Michiko... forgive me."
...
Elsewhere, in Night City.
Outside the Konpeki Plaza, Tower 1—Tavernier Suite. In the reception hall, David Martinez stood guard, patrolling with visible irritation.
No particular reason—he was simply pissed.
[Pending Message Review]
Sender: Anjelica Milioti [Senior VIP Service Representative, Clouds]
Content: "Dear Yorinobu Arasaka, thank you for choosing our services. We hope Clouds will make your stay in Night City more pleasurable..."
Whoring, huh. Typical.
David sneered inwardly.
Everyone had their loyalties, and David's was firmly with Vela. Naturally, that meant he harbored bias against Yorinobu—the rival of his commander.
And the comparison only made it worse. While Vela had been breaking her back at the front lines—managing operations, comforting soldiers, staying in the field seven days and nights straight—what was Yorinobu doing? Visiting "Clouds" under the pretense of an inspection.
Sure, this was the cyber age—drugs and pleasure were common indulgences—but everything changed when you made comparisons.
With his loyalty and prejudice stacked together, David's disdain solidified: Yorinobu didn't look like any CEO he respected.
Trying to snatch credit, huh? Not happening. Arasaka belongs to Vela!
Just then—ding!
The door to Suite 1 opened.
Tap, tap.
A blue-haired woman stepped out, her outfit provocative, heeled boots clicking against the polished floor. Her figure was graceful—her chest modest but her curves elegant.
David's expression hardened; his cybernetic eyes lit up automatically.
Identity scan: "Evelyn Parker, Clouds doll. Doll-chip recognition confirmed—authentic."
Clank—
Seeing the towering, heavily armored cyborg guard with glowing red optics approach, Evelyn shrank back slightly in fear. When David made no further move, she quickly sidestepped and walked away, visibly uneasy.
"Hey, what's with that look?"
A moment later, Suneo—who had just been chatting with one of Konpeki's gold-skinned concierge officers about Oni 4-B Type exosuit emergency response protocols—walked over. Seeing David's gaze linger on the departing blue-haired doll, his grin turned lewd.
"Heh heh, Clouds, huh? Yeah, that's top-tier even by Jig-Jig Street standards."
[Yorinobu's got good taste. You interested? Maybe I can...]
Suneo rubbed his chin, finishing the rest of his sentence over a secure shortwave frequency.
Mocking your superior could only be done in private—doing it openly was suicide, even if the target belonged to the opposing faction.
"I'll think about it." David shrugged.
Before his words even faded, tick-tock, tick-tock—hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Following the sound, they saw several black-suited agents, all grim-faced, carrying briefcases as they strode toward Suite 1.
Their arrogant, nostrils-flared attitude screamed "old Edo imperial flag," and both David and Suneo found them downright infuriating.
"Damn Yorinobu's lapdogs," the two muttered under their breath.
...
"Baka! Vela's hounds actually dare spy on Yorinobu-sama. Insolent dogs—they deserve divine punishment."
As they entered, the agents cursed in low voices while stepping inside.
"How did it go?"
Inside the suite, Yorinobu stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, a cigarette between his lips, not bothering to turn around. On the table beside him lay a messy pile of encrypted disposable phones.
"All went smoothly. The fixer, Rogue Amendiares, has agreed."
"We've successfully made contact with the rock star Kerry Eurodyne, but he insists on further proof."
"The JSDF generals who recently arrived in Night City are willing to support you, sir. They say the great Arasaka-sama has been bewitched by that woman—forgetting the Yamato spirit and the ancient dream of Noble Eightfold Path."
"As for the Aldecaldo Nation, things are more complicated. The new Arasaka District construction in North City has attracted many Nomads, but the so-called 'San Diego Sanctuary' you mentioned shows no signs of existence. The Aldecaldos themselves are fragmented, making negotiations slow. Fortunately, with Rogue's endorsement, some clan leaders are willing to lend support depending on the situation."
"Recruiting mercenaries and outlaws in large numbers in such a short time is difficult—and they're hardly trustworthy. However, our moles have already infiltrated parts of Night City's garrison and newly formed private military teams."
"Under the guise of inspection, we've cooperated with agents embedded in the Arasaka Coastal Research Zone for half a year. Together, we've seized control of the Sakuradite constructs being transferred to the port. All thanks to your foresight, Yorinobu-sama—your infiltration of the [Sonnentreppe Project] truly paid off."
"We regret to report, however, that our probes of the Russell residence have failed. It's tightly guarded—not only by personnel from the Arasaka Security Division but also by the Lone Wolf Hundred and Internal Security troops from the Arasaka Family Compound."
...
Each man reported in turn, methodically summarizing their respective teams' results.
A coordinated conspiracy was far more potent—and far more legitimate—than reckless solo scheming.
Everything has two sides. This was the double-edged fortune born of Vela's sudden rise—her entrance into the Arasaka main house under an assumed name.
Yorinobu knew this well. In a sense, he owed her.
Because of his rivalry with Vela, he had grown stronger—tempered by adversity.
Because of Vela's meteoric ascent, the rise of the "Americanized fake Arasaka" within the corporation had provoked Japan's conservative elders to rebel, even to resent Saburo's leadership. That discontent had opened cracks—cracks Yorinobu had exploited to build a foundation beyond the hawkish faction.
And because Saburo's health had miraculously improved, the old man—arrogant, self-proclaimed as the most seasoned leader in history—had loosened his grip, granting Yorinobu real autonomy. It was a chance to prove himself openly against Vela, to see who would become whose whetstone.
At the time, Saburo had only intended to cultivate Vela as a board member capable of independent command—not as a successor.
Now, though... Yorinobu understood perfectly well how things stood.
In this fight—he couldn't win.
He couldn't outmaneuver her.
He couldn't outwork her.
He couldn't outfight her.
With Vela's decisive victory in North America's main theater, even the most obstinate conservatives were wavering. If not surrender, then perhaps... defection?
Victory mends all fractures; triumph smooths all dissent.
But delay breeds change—and hesitation only multiplies doubt.
So Yorinobu knew he had but one path: act fast, strike while he still held authority, and wager everything.
He had never planned to survive.
"Good work, all of you." After listening in silence, Yorinobu took the final drag of his cigarette, crushed it in the ashtray, then stood upright. His tone solemn, he bowed deeply three times to his subordinates.
"For our nation's glory—even in death, we serve. We'll meet again on the Yomi plains."
"Hai!"
Fanatic zeal burned across every face in the room—the feverish light of gekokujō.
"Dismissed. Go make preparations." Yorinobu waved his hand with a calm expression. "My father will arrive in under fifteen minutes. Wait for my signal."
Whoosh! Within seconds, the suite fell silent once more.
Yorinobu's expression remained unreadable as he retrieved the Relic-2.0 container from one of the briefcases left behind by his agents. From its slot, he drew a biochip glowing faint red. Click. He inserted it into the neural port behind his ear.
Beep-beep.
"Goddamn, finally! Thought I'd suffocate in there!"
Johnny Silverhand's wild, gravelly voice burst straight into Yorinobu's mind.
"Whoa, whoa. That bow you gave earlier... was that sincere? Holy shit, are you trying to kill me with laughter? What's that—guilt?" Johnny's phantom appeared within Yorinobu's visual field, pausing for a moment as if processing the memories they now shared.
Yorinobu said nothing. He simply poured himself a glass of port wine and drained it in one go.
"I get it, I get it." Johnny smirked, his tone like that of a late-night hotline operator. "Being a full-blown bastard ain't easy. Trust me, I'd know."
"Dragging a whole crowd down the road to self-destruction... heh, don't let anyone tell you otherwise—you're Japan's own Johnny Silverhand. Wrong name, right spirit." Johnny gave a self-deprecating grin. "Guess fate's got a twisted sense of humor."
"Maybe so." Yorinobu weighed the cylindrical containment unit in his palm, then clenched his fist around it. He stepped onto the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out over the endless dark expanse where sea and sky met.
"You nervous?" Johnny's hologram flickered into view beside him, perching carelessly on the railing, legs swinging. "Scared of failing?"
"So, are you mocking my cowardice?" Yorinobu's eyes stayed fixed on the serpentine trails of light stretching across the darkness—the steady flow of aircraft rising and descending at Night City International Airport.
"Nope. Dead serious. Being nervous ain't shameful—and failure's fine too. What matters is that you do something. Take it from a guy who failed spectacularly. Not advice, exactly... maybe a dying man's chat." Johnny smirked faintly. "If you're set on dying, might as well do it with some style."
"I appreciate that. Your memories, your insights—they've shown me more than I ever expected. Reuniting with an old ghost these past days... I've been reflecting. Thinking of a way to burn this rotten world to ashes. But the old man didn't leave us much time."
"So," Yorinobu exhaled slowly, voice steady, "by your creed—rage, burn, and roar. The world's too far out of reach. Let's start smaller. We'll drag the emperor of this damned city from his throne... and turn him to dust."
At that, Johnny's phantom turned his head toward the eastern horizon—the vast night over the Pacific.
Through Yorinobu's senses, he saw it: a dense swarm of drones, a roar of armored AVs filling the skies. At the center of the formation, surrounded by escort vehicles, a single luxury aircraft was cutting through the clouds—hurtling toward them at full speed.