83: Chapter 83 Tokyo Unlimited Fighting Tournament

The air in Tokyo seemed to have solidified, so stifling that it was hard to breathe.

The reckless behavior of the American soldiers on the streets was like a spark, igniting the long-repressed anger of the island nation's populace.

At the Shibuya intersection early in the morning, the ground, still damp from the rain the night before, was already packed with tens of thousands of protesters.

They no longer held placards or shouted slogans; they simply stood in silence, their eyes burning with the flames of rage. This silence was more intimidating than any outcry.

On the periphery of the crowd, patrol cars from the Public Security Command Headquarters and the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department sat quietly, while officers stood by their vehicles, watching everything before them with complex expressions.

They had received orders of "non-intervention"—a tacit approval from the higher-ups, or perhaps even condoning the public protest, in an attempt to pressure the American military and force them to restrain themselves.

But they had not expected the public's anger to erupt so violently, nor had they anticipated such an extreme reaction from the American military.

At nine in the morning, a US military Humvee roared in and stopped in the middle of the Shibuya intersection. General White stood on the roof of the vehicle, holding a megaphone, his cold gaze sweeping across the crowd.

He was the commander-in-chief of this Tokyo "security operation," and after receiving orders from Washington for "all-out suppression," this general, known for his hardline stance, immediately decided to solve the problem in the most direct way possible.

"All those gathered, disperse immediately!"

General White's voice boomed through the megaphone with an unquestionable command, "Otherwise, we will take forceful measures!"

The crowd fell into a deathly silence; no one moved.

White sneered, handed the megaphone to his adjutant, and ordered into his communicator: "Action!"

In an instant, dozens of US military trucks arrived from all directions. The doors opened, and fully armed soldiers swarmed out. Without warning or shouting, they pulled out the rubber batons from their waists and charged at the crowd.

"Bang!"

A young girl couldn't dodge in time and was struck on the head by a soldier's baton, falling to the ground with a scream.

The soldier did not stop; he struck her leg with another blow, the girl's cries heart-wrenching.

"Fight back!" Someone shouted, and the angry crowd finally erupted.

Some picked up stones from the ground and threw them at the soldiers; some rushed forward, trying to snatch the batons from the soldiers' hands; others tipped over trash cans by the roadside, using garbage and bricks to build a makeshift defense line.

The entire Shibuya intersection instantly turned into a battlefield.

The dull thuds of batons swinging, the screams of the crowd, the roars of rage, and the sound of breaking glass... all intertwined to play a desperate, mournful song.

White stood on the Humvee, watching it all with indifference. In his eyes, these resisting island nation citizens were no different from "rioters."

"Dare to attack the great American military, and you will pay the price!"

"These are no longer ordinary rioters; we must strike with an iron fist."

His words from the mobilization meeting yesterday were now being hammered into every islander's body through the soldiers' batons.

The soldiers rushed into the crowd like madmen, hitting everyone they saw, regardless of age or gender.

An elderly man with white hair tried to protect his grandson, but was kicked to the ground by a soldier, with batons raining down on his back.

The child cried loudly in terror but was roughly pulled away by another soldier and thrown into a nearby truck.

"Take them all away! Send them to the 'Education Base'!" General White shouted into the communicator.

The so-called "Education Base" was actually a temporary concentration camp used to detain all protesters.

Truck after truck was quickly filled, the crying crowds stuffed inside like livestock. The doors slammed shut with a "bang," and they drove off toward the suburbs.

But more people poured in from all directions, filling the cleared areas, and the fire of resistance burned brighter and brighter.

...

On the campus of Tokyo University, a similar scene of violence was unfolding.

Hundreds of students gathered on the playground, holding banners that read "Oppose US Military Atrocities," staging a sit-in protest.

Suddenly, the school gate was rammed open, and dozens of US soldiers rushed in, immediately beginning to disperse the students without a word.

"Move! Get back to your classrooms!"

A soldier roughly tore down the banner and brought a baton down on the student at the very front.

The students tried to resist, but they were no match for the armed-to-the-teeth soldiers.

Some students had their arms broken by batons, while others were beaten until their heads were bloodied; the playground was soon covered in blood and scattered books.

A female student raised her camera to capture the scene, but was spotted by a soldier. Her camera was smashed violently to the ground, and she herself was dragged out of the playground by her hair, her shrill cries echoing across the campus.

Inside a stronghold where protesters had gathered, dozens of citizens were working overtime to make props for the demonstration. A squad of American soldiers kicked the door open and stormed in. Without a word, the lead soldier grabbed a woman by the hair and, raising his baton, struck her on the head. After five or six minutes of smashing and beating, the American soldiers walked away, leaving behind a group of people lying in pools of blood.

Some American soldiers chased a protester into a library. Five or six soldiers patrolled back and forth inside the library, trying to find the protester.

Whenever they saw someone who looked similar, they would roughly grab them by the hair to identify them. A few male students grumbled in dissatisfaction, only to be brutally beaten by the American soldiers with batons, eventually collapsing on the tables, their fate unknown.

...

In the surveillance room of the Lin Family Manor, a huge screen was divided into dozens of feeds, broadcasting the chaotic scenes from all over Tokyo in real time.

Lin Long stood before the screen, holding a glass of red wine, a faint, ambiguous smile playing on the corners of his lips.

On the screen, the soldiers' batons fell, blood splashed, and trucks were filled with crying people... This bloody and chaotic scene seemed to have transformed into a carefully choreographed play in his eyes.

"Truly spectacular."

Lin Long gently swirled his wine glass, the liquid rotating within, reflecting the coldness deep in his eyes.

A familiar folk song from the peninsula involuntarily echoed in his mind.

It was something he had learned about on the internet in his past life; that person had also held a fighting tournament on the peninsula.

And the organizer of that tournament, the peninsula warlord known as "Chun Doo-hwan," had also used iron-fisted methods to suppress opponents, methods even more ruthless and decisive than the American military before him.

"The old acquaintance is gone, but this scene feels somewhat familiar."

Lin Long chuckled and drained his glass in one gulp.

"BOSS, there's movement from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and the Public Security," Ghost's voice sounded from behind him.

Lin Long turned his head to look at another screen—inside the Public Security Command Headquarters, Kazami Yuya and Amuro Tooru were watching the real-time footage of the suppression, their faces pale.

...

At the Public Security Command Headquarters, Kazami Yuya slammed his fist onto the table, sending files scattering across the floor.

He watched the footage of the US military beating students at Tokyo University on the screen, his eyes bloodshot, his voice trembling with anger: "Are they crazy? Those are students! Defenseless students!"

Amuro Tooru stood to the side, his expression equally grave. He had originally thought that the higher-ups' tacit approval of the public protest was intended to pressure the US military and make them retreat in the face of difficulties.

But he was wrong; he had miscalculated the hardline stance of the American military, and even more so, the cruelty of the madman White.

"They are not suppressing a protest; they are committing violence."

Amuro Tooru's voice was cold, "The Americans want to use this method to completely crush the resistance of the island nation's people."

"Then what do we do?!" Kazami Yuya looked at him with a hint of pleading in his eyes, "If this continues, who knows how many people will be injured, how many will be taken away! We cannot stand idly by anymore!"

Amuro Tooru fell silent. He knew Kazami was right, but acting now would be like throwing an egg against a rock. The power of the Public Security was simply no match for the American military; forced intervention would only trigger a larger conflict, and could even lead to war.

"Notify all Public Security Officers," Amuro Tooru said slowly, his tone tinged with helplessness, "Try to protect the people in secret, especially the elderly and children. If you encounter excessive violence by the US military, record the evidence, but do not engage in direct conflict."

This was the only thing they could do for now—to make every effort to minimize casualties among the people without triggering a larger crisis.

Kazami Yuya gritted his teeth, nodded, and turned to convey the order. He knew this was cowardly and humiliating, but they had no better choice.

...

At the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department headquarters, Chief of Police Hakuba watched the reports coming in from various locations, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

"Shibuya: At least 200 injured, 500 taken away."

"Shinjuku: Conflict occurred, 3 civilians shot, status unknown."

"Tokyo University: Over 100 students beaten, campus locked down."

Every word was like a knife cutting into his heart. He regretted it; he regretted tacitly allowing the public protest, and he regretted not anticipating the madness of the American military.

"Chief, the officers below are asking, are we still going to intervene?" an adjutant asked cautiously.

Chief of Police Hakuba closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, a flash of determination crossed his eyes: "Pass on my order: all Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department officers, get to the streets immediately! Not to confront the US military, but to evacuate the public and rescue the wounded! Tell them, even if it means being fired, they must save the people's lives!"

"Yes!" A flash of excitement crossed the adjutant's eyes, and he immediately turned to convey the order.

Soon, police cars from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department roared toward the various chaotic districts.

At the risk of being accidentally injured by the American military, the officers rushed into the crowd, loaded the injured citizens onto ambulances, and persuaded the remaining people to leave as quickly as possible.

An old officer carried a child who had been beaten unconscious into a police car. Looking at the American soldiers committing violence not far away, tears streamed down his face.

He had been a policeman all his life, and protecting the public was his faith. But today, he could only watch helplessly as outsiders harmed his compatriots on his own land, without even the courage to resist.

...

Night fell, and the streets of Tokyo finally calmed down a little.

But this calm was built on blood and fear.

It was built on the violent suppression of the American soldiers, who were striking six times a second.

The streets were littered with broken placards, blood-stained batons, and the charred remains of cars; the air was filled with the smell of blood and gunpowder.

US military trucks were still continuously transporting "protesters," and the "Education Base" in the suburbs was already overcrowded.

More citizens were hiding at home, looking through their windows at the patrolling US military armored vehicles, their eyes filled with fear and rage.

Inside the Prime Ministers Official Residence, it was deathly silent.

The Prime Minister looked at the latest casualty report, covering his face with his hands, unable to say a word.

He knew that after today's suppression, the rift between the island nation and the United States was irreparable, and the public's trust in the government had completely collapsed. He, as Prime Minister, would likely not last much longer.

In the surveillance room of the Lin Family Manor, Lin Long watched the streets of Tokyo gradually quieting down, the smile on his lips growing wider.

"The island nation's cabinet has lost all face!" he said softly.

The anger of the people had been ignited, the authority of the government had collapsed, and the atrocities of the American military had been recorded.

Next, they only needed to add more fuel to the fire to make this chaos completely uncontrollable.

"Ghost," Lin Long turned around, his eyes flashing with excitement, "Notify 'them' that they can begin the operation."

"Yes, BOSS." Ghost bowed and retreated.

Lin Long looked back at the screen, where a US military truck was driving on the way to the "Education Base," its cargo hold packed with crying people.

At a corner on the truck's path, several dark figures were quietly lurking, holding Molotov cocktails and modified bombs in their hands.

"The good show has only just begun." Lin Long raised his wine glass to the night sky outside the window and said softly.