"I've heard that you're quite close with Hanako." Saburo Arasaka stared at Karl, scrutinizing the young man before him—a youth whose bloodli
"I've heard that you're quite close with Hanako."
Saburo Arasaka stared at Karl, scrutinizing the young man before him—a youth whose bloodline, at least, didn't repulse him like that of most Americans. Tolerable, perhaps, but still someone to be looked down upon.
"Normally, I don't interfere much with the younger generation—especially matters concerning Hanako, which should be left to her mother, Michiko. But in this case, Michiko has clearly disappointed me."
His tone carried the air of a superior elder, as if rebuking his granddaughter was the most natural thing in the world. Saburo continued slowly:
"Hanako, after all, grew up under my watch. Hanako has always been of concern to both myself and to Hanako's sister. Yet it seems that our concern has gone unnoticed by outsiders—to the point that some nameless drifter now dares set his sights on someone from the Arasaka family."
The implications in his words were unmistakable. He was talking about Karl.
Karl furrowed his brows deeply at the remark.
Concern? Attention? Those words—why did they sound so revolting coming from Saburo?
Karl understood Japanese well enough. He hadn't misheard—Saburo had used those words.
But were they truly words that Saburo Arasaka had any right to say?
He hadn't forgotten that because of Hanako's mixed blood, Saburo had subjected her to a so-called "trial"—one that had almost gotten both Hanako and Karl killed. That was "concern"? That was "attention"?
"What a joke," Karl said.
When it came to his friends, he couldn't just stay silent.
"If you really cared about Hanako, maybe it wouldn't have been left to someone like me to 'set my sights on her.'"
"It was a necessary trial. People like you—with a forged identity, no clear origins, no family legacy, no traditional values—wouldn't understand."
Saburo replied coolly, watching Karl's sneer.
"And that's exactly why your kind fell into decline over the past century, and even before then—pitiful nations with no future."
Karl's fist clenched.
"I don't think losers have the right to talk like that."
He stared hard at Saburo. "Especially someone who joined a war, lost his eyes and hands, and scurried back home like a beaten dog with his hands up in surrender."
Saburo's past had long since been exposed to the public. He wasn't surprised Karl knew about it—and he felt no shame or regret over it.
"That's exactly why I stand here today," he said, tone calm and absolute. "No one ever said you couldn't rise again after failure."
He spoke as if it were a matter of common sense:
"Only the weak dwell in their failures. The strong seize the ladder with their own hands and climb. I used these very hands to raise Arasaka to the top of the world—and I'll make it surpass every other megacorp. My ideal nation will rise again, returning to the place it always deserved."
"There's no such thing as a place that's deserved."
Karl's eyes were sharp. "Are you still clinging to those old dreams? Have you ever stopped to consider how much suffering your so-called ideals and dreams have caused others over the years? You never cared, did you?"
"Feeble words."
Saburo scoffed. "Survival of the fittest. All human misfortune stems from individual inadequacy. Tragedy comes from weakness.
People are only valuable if they generate profit. The America that once defeated me is now in ruins. The Japanese government that once tried to stop me has long since knelt at my feet. Only those who stand at the top can have everything. That is nature's first law."
Saburo rarely spoke such teachings aloud.
In fact, only Kei and Senno had ever heard him speak this way.
Kei chose to accept it—and became his most outstanding heir for a time. Senno rejected it—walked away from the Arasaka legacy—and became a "traitor."
Now, Saburo was offering the same doctrine to Karl.
Deep down, it was still a test. A way to judge whether this young man was worthy of his favor.
He recalled what he had learned before coming to Night City—from the mouth of that captured AI—about Karl's unique traits.
If Karl could be brought to heel... Then sacrificing a half-tainted bloodline like Hanako's, binding her like a leash around Karl's neck, might be acceptable.
But if Karl refused to submit...
Then his usefulness would end there.
No matter how special, how unique—if he couldn't be used, he would be discarded.
Saburo looked at Karl, intending to explain that in this world, only the strong at the top had any real existence. Everyone else existed to be consumed.
And he extended a hand—a hand offering to pull Karl up the mountain.
If Karl could understand him, if he showed even a shred of agreement, Saburo would instantly change his demeanor, acknowledge Karl as a promising disciple, give him further trials—then allow him to get closer to Hanako, perhaps even climb to the very top.
Would Karl choose the summit, or be cast aside like Senno?
Saburo didn't think it was a difficult choice.
Pursuing power and fame—that was human nature.
No one, in his experience, had ever willingly given up the chance to move one step closer to their dream just to watch someone else succeed.
Saburo had lived over a century and had never seen such a person.
What a pity.
Karl was someone who came from the one era where such people might have existed.
And Karl understood perfectly what Saburo was trying to teach him.
Everyone knew—being chosen by the God of Corporations was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
He wouldn't even need to lift a finger to stand at the top of the world.
To receive Saburo Arasaka's approval was to stand on the summit of power itself.
But in the end...
"That's just your dream."
Ideals between people could never be reconciled with mere words.
Karl had no interest in debating whether "survival of the fittest" was right or wrong.
He only wanted to say his own truth.
A truth that was pale, weak—maybe even naïve.
"You think you're the only one allowed to have a dream?"
Saburo stood atop the world, speaking his ideals as if they were law—expecting everyone to obey and submit to them.
But—
"Even a pitiful junkie who died of overdose once had dreams—dreams they couldn't pursue, never dared to chase, dreams that the world crushed until they were buried deep in their heart."
And those dreams—
"Those dreams..."
At Karl's hip, there was a gun.
A gun once carried by Allen.
"Someone should know they existed."
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🔥🦾 CYBERPUNK: THE RELENTLESS 🦾🔥
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