Ougai didn’t answer his question, though. He just grinned mildly while staring at Dazai. Only after a few moments went by did he reply.
“Of course, Dazai. It’s urgent, yes?”
“It is.”
“Very well. Whatever it is you wish to do, you have my approval.” Ougai gave a confident smirk. “I trust whatever plan the genius Dazai has. You have always contributed greatly to my and the Port Mafia’s endeavors. I expect you will do the same today as well.”
Taken by surprise, Dazai fell silent. Even he felt as if he were walking on fine blades whenever he talked with Ougai. If he made just one little mistake, he could fall off the path. After pondering to himself for a moment, Dazai said, “I need permission to form a small team of executive-level skill users to attack Mimic headquarters and rescue Odasaku.”
“Fantastic.” Ougai nodded. “At times, revealing your true intentions first can become the greatest tool of negotiation. Very well. You have my permission. However, I would like to know why.”
Dazai stared back at the boss without breaking eye contact for even a moment. Ougai’s narrowed eyes harbored a tinge of cleverness, as if they could see into his heart. It was the same kind of light that was once in Dazai’s eyes when he looked upon his enemies or allies.
“Odasaku is currently scouting the enemy headquarters alone,” Dazai said, keeping his emotions in check. “I sent an emergency response team of Mafia members to the area, but it isn’t nearly enough. At this rate, we are going to lose a valuable skill user.”
“But he’s our lowest-ranking member.” Ougai curiously tilted his head. “Of course, he’s a dear ally of ours, but is he worth sending executive-level men to the front line to save?”
“Yes,” Dazai confidently declared. “Of course he is.”
Ougai fell silent. He looked at Dazai, who looked straight back at him. It was an eloquent silence. The two men understood the other’s state of mind and how they would counter.
“…Dazai.” It was Ougai who put an end to the wordless debate. “Let me ask you this. I understand your plan, but in all likelihood, Oda doesn’t want help. What do you think about that?”
Dazai tried to answer, but he could not find the words to say. Ougai pulled an envelope out of the file cabinet on his office desk, then stared at it while he spoke. “Dazai, do you know what it means to be the boss? It means you are simultaneously at the top of the organization and still a slave to it as a whole. No matter what the cost, you have to get yourself dirty to keep the Port Mafia going. In order to deplete the enemy, maximize your allies’ worth, and keep the organization alive and thriving, you must also willingly perform any logically conceivable atrocity. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He placed the envelope on the desk. It was large and made of high-quality black paper with small gold inlays in the corners. Whatever was inside appeared to be extremely thin. Dazai’s eyes were inadvertently locked on the envelope. Suddenly, he caught his breath.
“This envelope—”
Something began to thrash and flicker in the back of Dazai’s mind. It gradually turned into physical shaking, causing his head to go numb.
“I see.” Dazai managed to squeeze out just those two words, his face deathly pale. “So that’s what this is.”
Then he turned on his heel and put his back to Ougai.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
“Where are you going?” Ougai asked.
“To Odasaku.”
Without turning back, Dazai walked all the way to the door to the hallway. But as he reached for the decorated handle, he heard several noises coming from behind—something that sounded like metal parts locking together. Dazai’s hand suddenly froze. Then, realizing his failure, he closed his eyes. With a soft sigh, he turned around to find four armed Mafia grunts who had noiselessly appeared from the adjoining room. They aimed their guns at Dazai, but he wasn’t surprised. He simply surveyed the room before fixing his gaze on Ougai, who hadn’t budged from his spot mere moments ago. He was still smiling at Dazai.
Just past the door ahead of the battlefield was a vast, high-ceilinged ballroom capable of fitting a hundred couples performing baroque dance. A decayed chandelier hung askew from the three-st
ory-high ceiling. Both sides of the ballroom were dressed in crimson curtains with gold embroideries, which were ripped and coming undone at the seams, creating a gloomy atmosphere that seemed to resent the prosperity of times past. At the front and end of the hall stood two oak doors each. When I walked to the center of the room, I heard a voice coming from behind.
“Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed…”
I immediately drew my pistols and turned around while pointing them in the direction of the voice. He stood before me—the handsome ghost with silver hair and clothes. Pointing my guns at him, I finished his sentence.
“…But if it dies, it produces many seeds.”
The ghost squinted, then smiled.
“John 12:24. You’re surprisingly well-read, Sakunosuke.”
Gide stood alone before the oak doors. There were no traps. His men were gone. He didn’t even draw his gun.