Arasaka Family Compound, New Year's Eve Banquet.
After greeting each member seated around her, the youngest of the third-generation Arasakas-by-name, Vela, quietly took her place at the end of the table, her eyes calm as she observed this family—united in form, divided in heart.
Demure, proper, and composed sat Hanako—the silent flower of Arasaka, the 'pheasant' who could no longer fly—sincere and devout as she prayed for the family's unity and future.
Lowering his gaze toward the steaming teacup before him was Yorinobu—the iron dragon, the grounded 'hawk'—kneeling wordlessly in place, his eyes tired, full of endurance, pain, resentment, sorrow, and barely suppressed rage.
Unaccustomed to kneeling, feeling little sincerity toward this so-called family dinner and viewing it as a formality rather than a gathering, Michiko—granddaughter of the late crown prince, holder of both Japanese and American citizenship, opportunist, flawed gem, the 'white dove' who always sided with the victor—watched the household altar in quiet contemplation.
Behind them stood Shintaro Takayama—the head of Arasaka's cyber-ninjas, loyal retainer, and elder of Saburo's inner household. Though his hair was grayed and carefully combed back, his posture was sharp and disciplined, his aura so composed that others unconsciously straightened their backs. For him, this was a moment of quiet fulfillment—his master's health, Arasaka's prosperity, and the success of the younger generation brought genuine satisfaction.
And then, there was Saburo.
Wrinkles appropriate for his age marked his eyes, and a faint curve touched his lips.
Relief. Joy. Pain. Indifference. His emotions were complex.
Vela could not yet discern what exactly ran through Saburo's mind, but one thing was certain—no matter his motives, at this moment, there was a trace of genuine joy in his heart. For this fleeting reunion, perhaps some remnant of familial affection still lingered.
Was it because his rebellious son had finally bowed his head? Because his granddaughter, born and raised in a foreign land, had returned home? To comfort the spirit of his beloved third wife? Or was he simply pleased by Arasaka's current balance—a state of competition without destruction, proof of successors fit to inherit his empire? Or perhaps… because the ideal vessel for his soul had finally presented itself, bringing his twin eternal-life plans within reach?
Vela thought—it was likely all of the above.
Outside, the winter wind howled, scattering soft flakes of snow.
After Vela and Michiko, the two third-generation heirs, took their seats, attendants served freshly brewed tea and trays of delicate confections.
Vela accepted them without reservation. By now, she had come here often enough—too much formality would only create distance. To be blunt, she'd dined and lodged at the Arasaka Compound more times than Michiko herself, who actually bore the family name.
Sipping her hot tea, nibbling on sweets while glancing at the news—she found it rather pleasant.
She was indeed a little hungry.
After the preliminary regency meeting, Saburo had flown straight back to the family compound, while Vela stayed behind to sign the minutes, escort board members, faction representatives, and senior executives who had attended the session in Tokyo, exchanging pleasantries, strengthening connections, and showcasing her intellect, charm, and leadership.
Michiko could have returned with Saburo earlier, of course.
But—let's just say sisterly affection played a role. In truth, between spending time with Saburo, Yorinobu, and Hanako—or staying with Vela, who, though conservative, was more open-minded and closer in generation—Michiko preferred the latter.
"Vela."
Saburo's low, commanding voice pulled her from her thoughts.
She looked up.
Saburo was gazing toward the household altar, his expression aged yet solemn. "It's time," he said. "Fifty-three years ago, on August 20th, 2023, I lost Kei. Now—go. Pay your respects to his spirit. Tell him what you've accomplished this year. Soon, we will avenge him."
Tokyo Time: 2076-12-31, 8:20 PM.
Vela nodded, her face grave. Rising to her feet, she walked toward the household altar at the far side of the tatami room.
"Michiko," Saburo's voice followed, "you go too."
"Yes, Grandfather."
Michiko stood and followed.
Beyond the shoji doors, the Arasaka family's resident priest—responsible for ceremonies, blessings, and spiritual purification—approached reverently with a tray bearing three sticks of incense. Vela accepted them with practiced ease, lighting each stick in turn, and offered them before the memorial incense burner with precise, ritualistic motions.
A faint nod from her—barely perceptible.
After six or seven years of effort, had she finally secured Arasaka's legal right of inheritance?
Michiko followed shortly after. Taking the incense, she gazed at the three-tiered memorial tablets upon the altar.
The only one she truly felt emotion for was Kei—her father. Michiko, her grandmother and step-grandmother, barely counted; her own name had been inherited from her. The rest, she ignored completely.
"..."
Watching as Vela and Michiko—his nominal nieces—offered incense at his father's command, Yorinobu shut his eyes, restless.
When he opened them again, his gaze lingered on the faint steam rising from his teacup.
That wisp of vapor—it looked so much like his frail, fading inheritance rights.
It didn't matter anymore.
He was simply tired—exhausted to the core.
Because no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't win.
"Brother…"
You must be so tired.
Hanako looked at her elder brother with a mixture of pity and affection.
She was relieved that he had, at last, turned back—returned to the family, ended his cold war with their father, and done his utmost to run Arasaka according to Saburo's will. Since their defeat in the Fourth Corporate War, never had the company seemed so unified.
Even if Hanako knew full well that Yorinobu's obedience wasn't from sincerity but necessity—that external pressure had forced his hand, that he was no longer the sole heir—she chose to believe.
To support the family, maintain stability, and ensure continuity through mutual endurance—these were sacred principles.
Yet she also pitied her brother's unyielding pride and refusal to give up.
Facing the meteoric rise of Kei's adopted daughter, Vela, Yorinobu had thrown himself into the company's management with double his former effort—no more nightclubs, no courtesans, no vices. He had installed neural enhancement chips to accelerate learning, burned the midnight oil, traveled nonstop for conferences and negotiations, and driven himself to the brink of collapse.
He lived on stimulants three times a day, treated sedatives and sleeping pills as candy, and competed with Vela in every possible domain.
Yet, sadly, he still fell short.
Even the most old-fashioned dove faction elders around Hanako admitted in private:
"Lord Yorinobu is admirable—his determination rivals that of the late Prince Kei. His tenacity commands respect. But it's not enough. The difference in stamina is obvious, and in overall capability, Miss Vela is clearly more complete, more capable, and far younger. When Lord Saburo eventually steps down, her prime will last a century."
Hanako had even considered persuading Yorinobu to give up.
If he continued like this, all his efforts would be for nothing, and his health—both mental and physical—would break.
Unfortunately, this was their father's will.
Saburo welcomed this rivalry—competition that drove mutual progress.
A whetstone…
But who was sharpening whom? And who would break first?
Hanako could only stay silent, obediently carrying out her father's orders.
Between her father, her beloved brother, and the powerful new generation, she tread carefully—maintaining a fragile balance within Arasaka's inner circle.
When Vela returned to her seat, the attendants smoothly reacted, pouring fresh hot tea and setting down new confections.
Her healthy appetite was no secret in the Arasaka compound.
While waiting for Saburo to finish his tea, Vela didn't stir up any more trouble—she simply snacked idly, content.
Finally, after Michiko returned to her seat and Yorinobu rose to respectfully offer incense before his mother Michiko's memorial tablet, Saburo drained the last of his tea and set the cup down.
It was like a signal.
The attendants—expert in reading subtle cues—alerted the kitchen staff, and the dishes, all prepared in advance, were promptly brought in. After being portioned, they were served individually.
A fusion of Eastern and Western cuisine—fugu dishes, ehomaki rolls, New Year soba, mochi red bean soup, and miso ozoni soup represented the Japanese tradition. But with Michiko and Vela's American tastes, there were also German, Italian, and even Chinese imperial medicinal dishes—small plates, many varieties, elegant and refined.
Well—except for someone's portion.
"Cough…"
For once, Vela's fair face flushed red.
How embarrassing.
But unbothered, she composed herself, calmly wiping her hands with a sterilized napkin.
"Being able to eat is a blessing," Michiko teased from the side.
Seeing this, Shintaro Takayama's expression softened into a faint smile, and Saburo Arasaka let out a hearty laugh.
Perhaps the company's prosperity truly lightened his mood, or perhaps his rejuvenated body had revived his appetite. "Let us begin the family banquet. A little indulgence in food and drink is no sin," he said cheerfully.
He took a sip of miso soup first, then picked up a thin slice of freshly prepared fugu sashimi, dipped it into a sauce faintly flavored with yuzu, and placed it into his mouth.
Once Saburo moved his chopsticks, Vela followed suit.
At this point, all that was left was to eat.
During the meal, Saburo had servants open bottles of sake and rice wine.
As a former ace pilot from the old military, his fondness for alcohol was no secret, though his aging body had once forced him to quit.
Now, after over a year of specialized rejuvenation treatments, it was clear that Saburo's body had grown younger. Noting this, Vela discreetly activated her Geass perception, scanning Yorinobu's emotional state.
Melancholy. Frustration. Suppressed rage—and… determination?
Hmm?
Vela's hand paused ever so slightly as she elegantly scooped up a spoonful of Spanish paella, her eyes narrowing. So, Yorinobu was finally running out of patience?
How long had he planned to keep lurking?
As she exchanged polite toasts with Takayama, Michiko, and Hanako—drinking several cups for form's sake—Vela's mind raced.
This power struggle between her and Yorinobu had been tacitly sanctioned by Saburo—a test of capability and endurance. Whoever accomplished more, whoever commanded greater loyalty, would win.
Vela was confident. If not for Yorinobu's half-century of hawkish prestige and his bloodline advantage, she could have swept him aside long ago. Even if it meant injuring herself in the process, she would still outlast him.
And why had Yorinobu not turned this rivalry into open war? Because they were both hawks—both advocating a full-scale confrontation against Militech, the New United States, and their allies. On that front, their goals aligned.
The difference lay in their methods.
Yorinobu sought to destroy the global order dominated by corporations—beginning with a war between Arasaka and Militech, and from there, to provoke chaos among the rest until corporate civilization itself collapsed.
Vela, on the other hand, intended to annihilate Militech and the New United States to ascend Arasaka to the world's pinnacle—establishing it as the supreme global power. A larger unification war could come later, in due time. Arasaka must not perish—at least, not her Arasaka.
Her foundation for seizing full control was already in place.
The question now was how to stage the perfect act of "fatherly love and filial piety" between Saburo and Yorinobu.
Yorinobu had long been plotting to steal the Sonnentreppe Project's Progenitor Virus sample. That much was obvious. With his status as the only male heir of the Arasaka bloodline, his charm, and his appeal to those obsessed with blood purity, infiltrating informants and securing inside help would not be difficult.
So, she would let him.
Let him steal it—intentionally.
Conveniently, in the [Resident Evil] world, a new strain of super-virus capable of drastically enhancing human physiology was nearing completion…
And Anders Hellman's second-generation Relic prototype was finished as well—rumored to contain the engram of none other than Johnny Silverhand, the terrorist responsible for the 2023 Arasaka Tower nuclear incident.
Fitting, really. Johnny Silverhand was the very figure who had inspired Yorinobu's anti-corporate ideals. No wonder he would choose to steal it.
Then again… it was time for Vela to set her own trap in Night City.
The Fifth Corporate War had to be ready—no later than New Year's Day, 2078. Countermeasures against Rosalind Myers' eventual betrayal also needed to be established, along with pre-emptive war plans.
In the [Code Geass] world, development of the F.L.E.I.J.A. annihilation warhead—the so-called "Goddess of Love Freyja" device—needed to accelerate. The 'Sakura Stonebreaker' bomb was a mere appetizer, insufficient for large-scale deterrence.
Integration and mass production of new technologies must progress within six months. She also had to complete the next-stage modular upgrade for the [Warframe] system—not just a safeguard, but a key to future development.
As Vela quietly schemed her next move in Night City, the banquet had relaxed considerably after several rounds of sake. The atmosphere was warmer, less formal, when Michiko's voice broke the soft hum of conversation.
"Vela, about that Jurassic Park project you mentioned for Night City—will they be mechanical dinosaurs or fossils?"
Michiko was genuinely curious—their earlier conversation had been cut off.
"Real dragons, of course."
Setting down her knife and fork, Vela dabbed her lips with a napkin, took a sip of chilled water, and smiled.
"It began as a simple idea—to extract dinosaur DNA from the blood of ancient mosquitoes trapped in amber, and from that genetic code, revive the creatures that vanished from Earth sixty-five million years ago."
"The project to resurrect dinosaurs is already underway. With some marketing and moderate facility modification, a vision has taken shape in my mind."
"Oh?"
Saburo's interest was instantly piqued. "Go on."
"Then listen closely, old man," Vela said, her lips curling into a playful smile.