Emperor of Lust: EPILOGUE 2

I slip through the mansion’s dark halls, the place reeking of dust and neglect. It makes sense: his staff and his guards are long gone.

The power’s out, shadows stretching long and silent across the bare floors. Various thieves have already picked the place over—paintings ripped from the walls, glass shattered, drawers dumped out and looted. But I’m not here to pillage or steal.

I’m here to settle a debt.

It took every ounce of patience I had to wait. To know that each passing day would make Miyamoto dread it more, anticipate it, knowing that his end was coming.

Tonight, the wait is over.

I find him huddled near the fireplace in the empty library in a disheveled old suit, looking lost, beaten. When he hears me, he jerks up, his body tense, like he’s going to bolt.

Pathetic.

I grab a dusty porcelain vase from a nearby shelf and hurl it at him, watching it shatter against his shoulder. He stumbles forward and yelps, crashing to the floor.

I walk toward him, drawing my sword. The sound echoes through the library and he whirls to stare at me with horror, his face turning white.

He begins babbling, a mess of pleas and half-sobbed apologies, desperate for mercy that he knows in his heart I won’t show him. I step closer, blade in hand, perfectly calm. “You knew this was coming, didn’t you?”

He looks up at me, pale as a corpse, barely able to hold my gaze. He’s a shell of the man who tried to play Machiavelli. I don’t bother hiding my disgust.

“Tell me, Katō-san,” I say, voice low. “Are you familiar with the samurai tradition of seppuku? You must be.” I reach into my jacket, pulling out the tantō blade and tossing it at his feet.

Back in the day, when a samurai was defeated in battle, the honorable way out was for him to disembowel himself, proving his bravery and commitment even in defeat.

As if any of those words are applicable here.

“This is your chance,” I spit. “Die with some shred of honor, or I’ll take your head off myself.”

He stares at the blade, eyes wide, then looks back at me. He’s scrambling now, switching tactics. “Please,” he grovels. “I can give you anything—make you a king in Tokyo.”

I laugh.

His face twists and he tries a different approach, spitting out the words like venom. “You think this city will welcome you after this?” he sneers.

I smile coldly. “I think this city will bow to me.” I step closer, the edge of my blade grazing his skin. “Last chance.”

‘I’ve already lit the fires,’ Miyamoto hisses. ‘War is coming for you, and the Ishida-kai will destroy you and your family.’

My jaw tenses. “Ishida-san has no fucking idea what’s coming for him,’ I growl, leaning down to level my gaze with his. “Me.”

I straighten up again, twisting the katana in my hand. “Now, are you going to do it yourself, or am I going to⁠—”

Desperation twists across his face, and he reaches for the tantō, eyes wild with last-ditch effort.

But he’s slow.

I stomp down on his hand, pinning it to the floor. With one swift, almost bored swing, I bring my sword down.

Miyamoto’s body slumps to the ground as his head rolls away behind the couch. I straighten, wiping the blood from my blade on the faded drapes as I turn to gaze through the windows at the city spread out in the distance.

Neon glints like a field of stars.

Somewhere out there, Kolya Ishida is plotting, utterly ignorant of what’s coming for him.

But I know his weakness now.

And I’m coming for her.