In the serene confines of a Japanese estate, fireflies danced gracefully, occasionally alighting on blooms for respite. Crystal-clear springs flowed tranquilly, filling bamboo tubes that rhythmically struck polished stones. Under the moonlight, verdant lawns acquired a subtle silver sheen. All exuded profound tranquility. A wooden veranda faced this vista, where an elderly man in traditional kimono sat before a chessboard, black and white pieces nearly covering its expanse. Close inspection revealed a stalemate: white pieces encircled black, yet black harbored an absolute counterstrike. Until the end, no one could determine the victor...
Perhaps fatigued from contemplation, the elder lifted his gaze to admire his meticulously designed garden, his eyes tender as if beholding his own child. The aroma from adjacent tea wafted with the breeze, while the wind stirred overhead glass wind chimes, their crisp tones enhancing rather than disrupting the rare serenity, animating the night with a soothing melody that could lull all to slumber.
Gazing at the wind chimes above, Ryuichi's face brightened with a contented smile; they were a gift he bought for Shuumei at a festival when the latter was five. Perhaps due to his own negligence in care, Shuumei had long resented him; even at festivals, Shuumei wore an unyielding mask, never smiling at him and accepting gifts as if compelled. The following day, Ryuichi embarked on another journey, abandoning young Shuumei...
He had assumed Shuumei discarded that modest trinket long ago, yet during Shuumei's recent absence, Ryuichi inadvertently discovered it in his room. Nestled in a small wooden box, its transparent, smooth surface bore no dust, suggesting Shuumei's diligent preservation. Since then, each evening, Ryuichi's ritual was to sit beneath it, listening to that gentle tune...
"Master..." The aged servant approached Ryuichi with measured steps.
"What is it?" Ryuichi did not turn, his quiet words fearing to interrupt the melody.
"A call from Korea has arrived."
He rose swiftly, two fingers halting the swaying striker. It seemed today's song ended prematurely.
"Go!" He carefully stowed the wind chimes in his pocket, unwilling to expose the fragile item to the air for long.
Answering Miyamoto's call, Ryuichi uttered no words, his expressions shifting profoundly. The servant, without awaiting orders, understood and arranged the vehicle, as such occurrences were routine—whenever important events arose, Ryuichi displayed distinctive demeanor.
"I understand..." Ryuichi calmly hung up.
"Master, the car is prepared..." The servant bowed respectfully.
"Hmm..." Ryuichi retrieved his signature paper fan from his sleeve, gripping it firmly.
With resolute gaze, he exited the door.
Boarding his decades-old vehicle, Ryuichi closed his eyes to rest.
The driver asked calmly, "Where to, Master?"
"The Diet Building." A terrifying plan brewed in Ryuichi's mind.
"Yes!" The old car started smoothly, quietly departing Ryuichi's residence.
Tokyo's vibrancy was globally acclaimed. Vast department stores and commercial streets were women's favored pastimes, while Japanese men, especially middle-aged ones, indulged in enriched nocturnal pursuits—a national hallmark with myriad nightclubs and establishments enticing endless patronage. The proliferation of the adult industry, to some extent, propelled Japan's economy. Undeniably, Japanese men's diligence in wealth accumulation seemed innate. Their greed for money was unparalleled, largely due to national and societal pressures. Consider an average Japanese man: post-marriage, he rarely permitted his wife to work, thus singly sustaining the household—including housing loans, auto loans, routine family vacations, various taxes, and the arrival of a second child—all his burden. Failure to earn could lead to familial ruin, explaining the suicides following corporate bankruptcies, not just owners but employees too. Securing a job in Japan that supports a man's everything is exceedingly arduous...
With pressure comes the need for release. Occasionally seeking solace outside marriage was an unspoken secret among Japanese spouses. Historically inherited submissiveness in Japanese women further fueled men's indiscretions.
As the elite—Japanese Diet members—they endured greater pressures, necessitating more sophisticated outlets, such as gay bars or SM clubs, tailored for them.
That night, Tokyo's nightlife thrived as usual. The tardy Diet member previously interviewed appeared in an SM club's cramped room, the chilly ambiance exacerbating chronic rheumatism. An array of peculiar instruments evoked a dungeon. A woman exposing her abdomen and pale thighs wore the current SM leather attire. Her slender high heels seemed on the verge of sinking into the floor.
"Crack!" The whip in her hand sliced the air with a sharp sound.
The Diet member lay bound by chains, clad only in leather briefs, excitement nearly overwhelming him. He stared obsessively at the alluring woman, saliva dripping.
"Shut your dog eyes!" She whipped his back mercilessly, raising a vivid welt.
"So exhilarating!" He screamed genuinely, "My queen, again!"
"What a contemptible wretch!" She scorned, stomping his thigh with her heel.
"Boom!" The door burst open as soldiers forced entry.
"Who dares?!" Seeing his pleasure interrupted, he regained his authoritative demeanor.
"My apologies, sir, the Prime Minister has called an emergency Diet session; all members must attend..." The soldiers appeared polite.
"What nonsense emergency session? In all my years, I've never seen one urgent enough to deny rest. When did Shintai gain such authority? Tell him I'm ill; tomorrow..." His words rang true, glancing at his back—days of recovery loomed.
Yet the soldiers lingered.
"Leave now, or my bodyguards won't be kind!" First encountering disobedience, he fumed.
"They said the same; hence, they're 'resting.' If you refuse, we'll have to act." Without heeding complaints, two robust soldiers lifted and carried him away.
"You insolent lot! Japan's a free nation. I'll sue!" His porcine squeals echoed the corridor.
The escort vehicle sped toward the Diet Building...
Simultaneously, across Tokyo's venues, similar "invitations" proceeded...
They tossed the unchained Diet member into his seat, soldiers completing their task and departing, kindly providing a blanket.
The irate member plotted revenge; upon seeing Shintai, he'd curse his lineage!
Fuming yet surveying colleagues, his mood evened. Ahead, one in cartoon briefs cursed, his ample buttocks distorting Doraemon's face twofold.
The left one seemed inclined to cross-dressing, in women's lingerie, black stockings compressing leg fat like Jinhua ham sausages. The right one's tastes left even colleagues speechless—neat, albeit in pristine sailor outfits...
"..."
After moments, the noisy hall quieted. The SM member eyed the door; Shintai appeared, words ready, but all hesitated. Spotting Ryuichi behind, and the armed soldiers, silence ensued.
They watched the pair ascend the podium, session commencing.
Glancing at his colleagues, Shintai sighed deeply.
"Unexpected that Japan's fate would turn..."