On the night of July 24, 2013, individuals who had endured various tribulations finally glimpsed the silhouette of a city—Seoul, a metropolis suffused with modern ambiance.
The pilot, gripping the control yoke, trembled incessantly. Ahead lay a smooth runway, flanked by flashing signal lights as exquisite as stars, seemingly beckoning him forth.
Tears streaming, the pilot landed the aircraft steadily onto the runway. Before it had fully stabilized, a multitude of military vehicles trailed closely behind, the familiar solar insignia upon them causing his tears to flow uncontrollably.
Yet, the most complex emotions likely belonged to Sun Hui; she remained concerned for 13's safety.
The gangway connected, cabin doors swung wide open, and passengers surged out eagerly, as if unwilling to linger an additional second. The co-pilot and Sun Hui were the last to disembark. Unexpectedly, no paramedics greeted them, but rather uniformed soldiers, uniformly armed.
Led by others, the co-pilot provided Hideaki with a detailed account of the entire incident.
Instructing his subordinates to attend to him, Hideaki approached Sun Hui.
"Greetings, I am Aota Hideaki, Commander of the forces stationed in Korea. You must be the Chinese flight attendant, Sun Hui, correct?" Speaking standard Mandarin, Hideaki courteously extended his right hand.
"Greetings, I am indeed Sun Hui. Excuse me, could you assist me in contacting my country? I wish to return home as expeditiously as possible." Sun Hui reciprocated the handshake politely.
"That is a matter of course, however, there is a more crucial issue that must be addressed." Hideaki lowered his hand. "I understand the aircraft was hijacked by a single individual. From the co-pilot's description, he bore a strong resemblance to your nation's ultimate soldier, 13. May I ask if it was him?"
At the mention of 13, Sun Hui's heart was involuntarily stirred. Lowering her head, she sighed and replied: "It was indeed him, however, he is not a malevolent person."
"That suffices." Hideaki's countenance abruptly darkened. He naturally drew a weapon from the holster of a nearby soldier.
In the instant Sun Hui was still lost in recollection, he pulled the trigger. The bullet traversed her slender frame. Without any forewarning, blood stained her attire crimson. Bewilderment surpassed agony. Gazing up at Hideaki's placid expression, she yearned to ask 'why?', but the blood welling in her mouth rendered speech impossible.
Her vision began to blur; her legs gave way, collapsing her into a kneeling position on the ground.
Hideaki's muzzle was already pressed against her forehead: "For Japan, you must perish."
"Bang!" A crisp report, concluding with the ejection of the shell casing. The smoking muzzle attested to the termination of Sun Hui's life. From Sun Hui's eyes, it was evident she felt neither panic nor fury; if anything, merely a faint sense of regret.
Sun Hui regretted being unable to utter "Sorry" once more.
To the hero she silently admired.
Before the crowd could react, Hideaki discarded the firearm, clapping his hands. Soldiers swiftly began executing all the passengers. As the co-pilot glanced repeatedly towards General Miyamoto beside him, he saw only the hollow void of a gun barrel. With practiced ease, Miyamoto pulled the trigger, ending the co-pilot's life.
The massacre continued. Hideaki lacked the disposition to spectate. Boarding the airliner where 13 had fought, the copious bloodstains captured his attention. Following the sanguine trails on the floor, he proceeded into the luggage compartment.
'Shocking' was the only term adequate to describe the scene: over one hundred corpses piled as high as a small hill. Close inspection revealed each individual had been dispatched with a single, fatal strike—throat and carotid artery neatly severed. In terms of killing methodology, it was excessively brutal. Yet, Hideaki perceived a different sentiment: such a killing style would induce potent visual shock. Ordinary individuals witnessing such a scene would absolutely abandon futile resistance, thereby potentially preserving more lives.
Gazing at the mound of corpses, Hideaki smiled.
"Your Excellency! Per your orders, all one hundred thirty-six individuals have been executed. Please provide further instructions." Miyamoto's voice trembled slightly.
"It seems you still fail to comprehend my methods?" Hideaki addressed the crux of the matter. "If you have inquiries, present them!"
"Affirmative. Since our countrymen have been safely rescued, why was it necessary to execute them?" Miyamoto inquired forthrightly.
"Do you see this?" Hideaki gestured towards the pile of corpses before them. "Do you know what this represents?"
"During the co-pilot's testimony just now, he stated these were our countrymen massacred by 13. His sins warrant damnation!" Miyamoto declared angrily.
"Incorrect. These are the seeds he has sown." Hideaki's words remained incomprehensible to Miyamoto. "Seeds called Fear. Just as he perpetrated in Taiwan. His true formidability lies not in SEED, but in the aura accompanying his killings—that expressionless demeanor even after devastating half a city. As if all life were exceptionally insignificant to him. He wields godlike power in this manner, implanting fear within the hearts of ordinary people, compelling profound reverence. And those passengers already harbor his seeds within their hearts. They cannot forget, whether eating or sleeping. Ordinarily, this might be inconsequential. But seeds are propagating entities. With the slightest breeze, other fertile lands will become infected. For the current Japanese military, although unspoken, we are all afraid—afraid of Chinese intervention, afraid of 13's seeds. If news of his arrival in Korea spreads, I cannot predict the army's state."
"Your Excellency means..." Miyamoto understood, merely seeking confirmation.
"We must completely obliterate any news of 13's arrival. Anyone aware must be killed!" Hideaki stated frigidly.
"But Your Excellency, according to the co-pilot's account, 13 should have already landed in Korea," Miyamoto reminded.
"It matters not. He is merely a rodent-like figure, absolutely daring not to brazenly proclaim 'I am 13' while operating. As long as we maintain a strict information blockade until we find and eliminate him, no one will ever know." Hideaki turned to depart.
"However, Your Excellency, he possesses SEED," Miyamoto reluctantly uttered the name.
"Fear not." Hideaki turned back, smiling faintly at Miyamoto. "Our 'Beasts' are not so easily dealt with. If absolutely necessary, Shinta has agreed to loan us 'Orochi'. Just await the spectacle." With that, he continued towards the exit.
Miyamoto's heart calmed. Because Japan was formidable!
"Remember not to overly concern yourself with the search operations. Letting the rodent roam freely is inconsequential. Sooner or later, he will perish at my hands," Hideaki reminded once more before disembarking. His eyes retained their confidence, along with immense excitement.
July 25, 2013. No one in the world ever mentioned the Shanghai hijacking incident again, including Chinese personnel. On Sun Hui's file, only a blood-red deletion stamp remained. Both nations tacitly agreed to completely erase Flight 753. For everyone, it became an untouchable secret.
But even if forgotten, as long as someone remains alive, the story continues.
13 continued the story.
The focus returns to Korea's most prosperous capital—Seoul. Due to the Japanese military's remarkably swift reorganization and Hideaki's assimilation plan, the lives of Seoul's citizens remained largely undisturbed. It was as if the war of aggression were merely a dream; upon awakening, everyone resumed their familiar routines. Patriotism notwithstanding, reality necessitated acceptance. After all, most were merely ordinary people. Since the fact of Korea's fall could not be altered, the only recourse was to attempt acceptance.
Upon acceptance, it surprisingly wasn't as agonizing as imagined. Learning to forget certain things allowed life to persist. Those unable to forget would join clandestine underground organizations, continuing the dream of national restoration.
The majority, when faced with the choice, opted for oblivion.
This clearly demonstrates the considerable success of Japan's assimilation plan, having at least pacified over half of the Korean populace. Humanity is indeed lamentable; as long as personal interests remain unharmed, concepts like nation and ethnicity sometimes lose their paramount importance.
Seoul amply illustrated this point: bustling crowds continued their work, boisterous students pursued their studies, and serene, elegant Western restaurants resumed operations.
Chefs represent one of the world's most honest professions; regardless of the clientele, they strive to prepare the most delectable cuisine. Even if seated in the dining hall were bandits from the invading nation.
Inoue Jun, Commander of the Japanese Army's Sixth Infantry Division, quite favored the ambiance of this establishment. Since its reopening, he frequented it almost daily for a steak. Perhaps due to the recent surge in subversive activities, preferring discretion, he nonetheless brought along a forty-man elite squad for protection. To preserve the restaurant's tranquil and elegant atmosphere as much as possible, only four remained seated beside him, while the rest maintained vigilance outside the premises.
However, bystanders felt no sense of tranquility or elegance, but rather oppressive constraint.
"Ding... ding... ding..." The chef repeatedly struck the service bell. Preparing food for the Japanese still induced some vexation.
"Coming... coming!" A clumsy young man dashed to the service counter.
"Who are you? Haven't seen you before? Where's that kid Cha Hyun?" the chef inquired, observing the unfamiliar waiter.
"Me? I'm new. He just went to the restroom," the young man replied calmly.
"Ah? Never mind then. You deliver it. Table 14, that Japanese piece of shit officer. Tell him to finish eating and get lost quickly." The chef pushed the steak forward. The young man skillfully placed it on the tray and proceeded towards Table 14.
Meanwhile, within a stall in the restroom, a naked man was indulging in a "sweet dream."