Vol3 Chapter 9: Takamagahara

Genji Uesugi didn’t say another word. She called me big brother—what else is there to say?

The black sedan glided smoothly through the rain-soaked streets toward the city, the cabin steeped in silence.

Genji, seated in the back, stole occasional glances at Bai Ci, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. When she looked his way, he maintained his cool facade, but the oppressive aura around him had softened.

A sudden ring from his phone shattered the quiet. Genji answered, and a brisk, urgent report came through. His brows furrowed instantly, the softened air around him freezing back into the icy authority of “Amaterasu.” The weight of his presence filled the car.

“…Understood. I’m heading back now.” His voice returned to its usual cold, commanding tone. Hanging up, he glanced at Bai Ci through the rearview mirror, a flicker of apology and regret in his eyes.

Their brief sibling moment was cut short too soon.

“Sorry, Bai Ci,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “The Executive Bureau has an emergency. I have to go handle it.” He paused, turning to Sakura beside him. “Sakura, take care of her. Show her around.”

“Yes, Young Master,” Sakura replied, her voice unwavering.

Genji looked at Bai Ci again, as if wanting to say more, but only pressed his lips together. “When you’re done exploring, Sakura will take you home. If anything comes up, find her.”

“Mm.” Bai Ci responded calmly, her face unreadable. She understood—Genji, as head of Japan’s Executive Bureau, was bound to be busy. This was fine; it gave her space.

The car stopped at an intersection, and another black sedan slid up like a ghost. Genji stepped out, rain and wind whipping his coat. Without looking back, he strode to the waiting car, vanishing into Tokyo’s misty, neon-lit night, once again the ruler of its shadows.

The door closed, shutting out the storm and Genji’s presence. Only Bai Ci, Sakura, and the engine’s low hum remained.

Sakura signaled the driver to head to the safe house. Silence reclaimed the cabin, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the wipers.

Bai Ci leaned against the window, watching Tokyo’s surreal, fleeting streets—towering steel forests, glaring billboards, and hurried crowds in the rain.

“Miss Yabuki,” her voice cut through the quiet, clear and calm, “I’d like to walk alone for a bit.”

Sakura’s ice-blue eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, showing no surprise or objection. “Where to?”

“Don’t know,” Bai Ci answered honestly. “Just around, nearby.”

A brief silence. Sakura assessed the risks—Tokyo nights weren’t entirely safe, especially for someone of Bai Ci’s unique status. But the Young Master’s order was to “watch her,” not restrict her.

“Alright.” Sakura nodded. “Here’s my number. Call me if anything happens. And this is the Young Master’s card—use it for anything you want.” She recited a string of digits and handed over a card.

The car pulled over at the next intersection. Bai Ci opened the door, cold, damp air rushing in. She nodded to Sakura. “Thanks.”

Sakura’s eyes, deep and cool, held hers. “Stay safe, Miss Bai Ci.”

The door closed, and the black sedan melted into traffic, gone.

Bai Ci stood on the bustling Tokyo sidewalk, surrounded by unfamiliar voices, faces, and scents. Rain pattered on her umbrella, a soft, steady sound. She breathed in—rain, exhaust, food aromas, and the indistinct dust of the city. A strange sense of freedom mixed with a touch of aimlessness washed over her.

She had no destination, no desire to shop, just wandered with the crowd.

A building glowed in the dark, catching her eye—a bar, maybe, or some entertainment spot. Perhaps a drink, something new, could clear her mind. She’d heard alcohol helped make sense of things.

If it wasn’t a bar, she’d leave.

Gaudy neon tubes wrapped around weathered stone columns, framing an extravagant sign: “Takamagahara.” Below, a massive LED screen cycled through photos of men—each with heavy, meticulous makeup, hair dyed in loud colors, wearing tight, sequined or glossy suits, striking seductive, melancholic, or wild poses.

This style… she’d never seen anything like it. The men’s makeup was over-the-top, their fashion bizarre, unappealing. Compared to Caesar, Chu Zihang, or even the goofy Lu Mingfei, they fell short.

Curiosity drew her closer, wanting a better look. This place was nothing like her idea of an “entertainment venue.”

Less than twenty meters away, under a convenience store’s dim awning, Sakura’s figure blended into the shadows, her eyes never leaving Bai Ci.

She paused, staring at the building. It was once a Catholic church, bombed in World War II, its ornate carvings and arches destroyed, leaving only the core structure. Now, it was a gaudy hub.

But… it was a host club!

Sakura’s brow twitched faintly.

The Young Master said to “watch” Miss Bai Ci and let her “have fun,” but this wasn’t what he meant!

Still… what if this was her interest?

What if it upset her?

As Sakura hesitated, a man in a flashy, tight purple suit appeared, like a peacock fanning its tail. His hair streaked with gold, his trained, captivating smile scanned the street, locking onto Bai Ci—unique, with a hint of lost melancholy.

His eyes lit up, as if spotting a rare gem. Not just her looks—many young, beautiful women came to Takamagahara, often with a lonely, brooding air. She fit the mold perfectly. As the manager would say, they lacked care and love, needing the charm of a host to save them.

If it were Xia Mi, he’d have ignored her—her vibrant energy overflowed, her dragon-like pride crushing ordinary souls. A fulfilled girl like that wouldn’t step foot in a host club.

“Wait!”

As he moved to approach, Sakura stepped forward.

She didn’t understand, but she’d respect it.

And… the Young Master seemed fond of his sister, so… it should be fine, right?

She pulled a card from her bag, handing it to the doorman. “This is Miss Uesugi of the main family. She wants to take a look.”

The doorman’s eyes widened at the card, gleaming with excitement and utmost respect. “We’re honored by Miss Uesugi’s visit and regret not preparing a proper welcome. Please forgive us.”

Host clubs, like other nightlife businesses in Japan, dealt with the underworld, so the staff knew of the main family.

Soon, Bai Ci sat in a spacious second-floor private room at Takamagahara, fit for eighteen. Three large coffee tables held rows of unopened champagne bottles.

Sakura stayed outside, guarding the door.

Bai Ci sat on a sofa, surrounded by a dozen hosts—some boyish and gentle, others shirtless, flaunting chiseled muscles that could drive men wild.

Yet she remained unmoved, one hand holding a champagne bottle, the other a flute, drinking mechanically, her eyes dull.

Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?

Why am I surrounded by a dozen half-naked guys?

Her movements were robotic, as if the elegant champagne flute were a cheap plastic cup. She poured, drank, poured again. The golden bubbles burst in her throat, mildly stimulating.

Less bitter than beer, a bit sweet.

The hosts, varied in style, orbited her like stars around a moon—a moon cold and unyielding. The boyish one tried gentle words, the muscular one flexed his strength, the melancholic one crooned love songs, the wild one danced to pulsing music. They pulled out all stops to spark a reaction.

They were trying hard.

But it was useless.

“What’s with her? She’s completely ignoring us…”

“The Uesugi family’s young lady… no ordinary person can handle her…”

Whispers passed among the hosts, their exchanged glances helpless.

Only when a flush crept onto her face did she finally move.

She pulled out her phone, snapped a few photos of the hosts, then stared at the one lit-up profile on her QQ app.

After a moment, she gestured for a host to take her picture, sent it, and sat clutching her phone, waiting. After an eternity, a single word came back: “Oh.”

The phone’s faint glow reflected in her hazy eyes. She stared at the word, confirming it wasn’t a mirage, then swiped aimlessly, finding no follow-up.

The champagne’s sweet fizz seemed to ferment in her empty stomach, a burning heat rising to her cheeks, deepening her flush.

Unwilling to give up, she restarted her phone.

A new message lit her eyes: “You’ve gone into the trade?”

She threw her phone.