Moments later, the door flung open and a young officer came dashing into the ward, his breath ragged, his brow damp with urgency.
“Mr Kaito!” he cried, snapping to attention with a salute. “Sir, Mr Vuradisuta is expected to dock at Osaka Port within the next ten minutes!”
Harunobu's gaze sharpened, a flicker of fire lighting in his eyes.
He gave a single, resolute nod, then turned to the physicians flanking his son’s bedside.
“Dr Takeda. Dr Fujimori,” he said, his voice as grave as the wind before a storm, “I leave Ryu in your care. Guard him as you would your own flesh. With your very lives, if need be.”
Then he approached the bed once more, lowering himself slightly to grasp his son's hand, the warmth of that frail connection anchoring him.
His eyes lingered on the pallid face of the boy who bore his name and legacy. He leaned closer, his words quiet but carved from stone.
“Ryu… hold fast,” he murmured. “I shall bring your friend to you. Not by chance or mercy but by these two hands.”
Several hours prior, the moment Harunobu learned that Felzein was making his way to Osaka, he acted with the swiftness of a man possessed by purpose.
Without ceremony or hesitation, he departed Tokyo aboard a high-speed military vehicle, its engine a howl against the quiet insistence of urgency.
Nothing would bar his path. Not rank, not regulation, not even reason.
He was resolved to be the first to welcome the boy who had once stood at his son’s side, in laughter and in storm.
Upon arrival in Osaka, his orders were absolute.
The entirety of the harbour commercial docks, tourist boulevards, and the winding arteries along Osaka Bay was placed under full lockdown.
Civilian access was revoked. Tourists were turned away without explanation.
For that day alone, the harbour became a zone of silence and steel.
A place consecrated not by ritual, but by grief and hope.
And yet, before setting foot upon the dock, Harunobu turned his steps toward the hidden ward where his son lay.
A father’s instinct drew him there, an instinct older than duty, more sacred than command.
To behold Ryu again, his frame ravaged, his spirit trembling within fragile flesh, was to look upon the cruel arithmetic of war.
In that moment, Harunobu understood with bitter clarity, the sands were falling fast.
He could no longer afford the illusion of time.
With a final glance, a silent vow passed between father and son, he turned away, cloak billowing, heart resolute. The moment of reckoning had come.
He departed the ward with his escort at his heels, slipping from that secret chamber, tucked away in the forgotten folds of Osaka.
It was a place excised from maps, unspoken even in whispers, a void on paper and in memory, preserved only for moments like this.
As Harunobu emerged from the underground complex, he ascended into the waiting armoured military vehicle, its engine already humming with anticipation.
Behind him, an escort of elite guards stood ready, every movement precise, every glance alert.
Without hesitation, the convoy surged forward, sweeping through the vacated streets of Osaka, now a ghost city, sterilised and sealed under martial order.
No civilian dared linger. No tourist remained. For today, the harbour was sacred ground.
Far below the surface of Osaka Bay, cloaked in silence and pressure, the Swift70 glided like a phantom through the deep.
Within its obsidian hull, Felzein and Cherlyn sat bathed in the submarine’s dim cerulean glow.
The interior was sleek, pristine, an exquisite union of science and seduction.
Then came a voice.
It drifted from the intercom with a tone that mirrored Cherlyn’s, though warmer, more indulgent like silk laced with static.
“Darling… we shall arrive at Osaka Harbour in ten minutes. Be ready,” cooed Swift70, her voice brushing against the cabin walls like a whispered secret.
Felzein’s lips curved into the barest trace of a smile. His eyes, sharp as cut obsidian, held steady on the darkness beyond.
“Reduce speed. We are not here to provoke chaos,” he said coolly, his authority woven into every syllable.
“As you wish, my love,” the vessel replied with languid affection.
Instantly, the Swift70 began to decelerate. The hum of its magnetohydrodynamic turbines, once a relentless undercurrent, softened into a gentle thrum.
From a blistering 750 knots, fast enough to outrun sonar itself, the submarine eased into a silent, deliberate glide.
From the confines of the cabin, Felzein and Cherlyn could feel the tempo of the water shift, the once-torrential rush that had surged past the hull now mellowed into a measured cadence, like the heartbeat of a leviathan slowing as it approached sacred ground.
What had earlier appeared as mere streaks of light, distorted by speed and depth, now began to crystallise into solemn forms, great silhouettes of Japanese naval ships rising like sentinels from the depths, standing in symmetrical procession as if carved from iron and ceremony.
They flanked the submarine’s passage, forming a solemn corridor of steel and purpose.
As the Swift70 slid between them, its hull sleek and composed, the vessels on either side did not fire a signal, nor utter a word.
Their radars glowed like amber eyes in the dark.
Their sonars whispered to one another in subaqueous tongues.
And upon their decks, sailors stood motionless, rank upon rank of uniformed precision, offering a silence that thundered louder than applause.
The submarine itself moved with the elegance of a myth reborn, its momentum a studied calm, like a sea dragon returning to ancestral waters.
Light from the escort ships. Hushed, bluish, reverent, played across the waves in rippling veils, casting the sea in a spectral glow befitting a pilgrimage.
And then, as the Swift70 reached the heart of the formation, a sight unfolded that could humble even the proudest of men.
Without signal or spoken cue, every crewman aboard the surrounding warships bowed deeply, fully ninety degrees forward in a synchrony so absolute it seemed as though the ocean itself had bent in deference.
Yet it was not merely the solemn silence that stirred a deep resonance within Felzein’s breast.
Upon every ship they passed, two banners soared proudly side by side atop the tallest mast.
The red and white of Indonesia and the pure white flag emblazoned with the radiant crimson sun of the Hinomaru, Japan’s emblem of pride and heritage.
This spectacle was far more than mere protocol, it was an eloquent testament to a friendship that transcended the scars of history.
Though the annals of the past were marked by the wounds of occupation and conflict, on this day, the two nations stood united not as foes, but as equals, bound by a newfound respect and mutual recognition.
The Indonesian flag flying aloft upon Japanese warships was no perfunctory gesture of diplomacy.
It was a resolute proclamation that honour could indeed flourish from the ruins of bitter memories.
At the heart of this grand homage stood the Supreme Commander himself, Kaito Harunobu, father to Ryu.
It was he who had decreed every painstaking detail of the reception, including the flying of the Indonesian ensign alongside Japan’s own.
To Harunobu, this was far more than a mere welcome.
It was a solemn declaration that genuine friendship transcends all boundaries. National, historical, and cultural alike.
If Ryu, scion of Japan’s highest military command, could forge a bond of profound and sincere camaraderie with Felzein, a young man from Indonesia, then surely their nations might aspire to such unity.
Not solely through politics, but through honour, cooperation, and above all, a shared humanity.
Felzein found himself quietly humbled by the magnitude of the reception, and Cherlyn’s expression mirrored his own mixture of awe and uncertainty.
They exchanged fleeting glances, each pondering inwardly whether such an elaborate display was not perhaps a touch too grand, even for a guest of honour.
Yet Swift70’s serene and measured voice dispelled any lingering doubts.
This was no mere exhibition of military prowess nor a ceremony bound by diplomatic protocol.
It was, in truth, a heartfelt plea, born from the depths of those who held Ryu dear.
Not a demonstration of strength, but an act of profound hope.
For amidst the unforgiving tempest, only one name remained, Felzein.
A solitary beacon in the gathering gloom, the final chance for salvation.
Ryu had long been hailed as a remarkable young doctor and scientist, a beacon of pride for Japan much like Felzein, who himself was a brilliant physician and gifted researcher.
His reputation stretched far beyond the shores of his homeland, earning him reverence on the international stage.
Scholars and physicians from distant lands journeyed to Japan, eager to glean wisdom from his insights or seek guidance on their most critical studies.
Yet Ryu was not one to lavish praise lightly. For him, commendation was a rare jewel, reserved only for those who surpassed him profoundly in intellect, in unwavering dedication, and in the purity of spirit.
The sole individual to have ever earned his unreserved admiration was his closest companion from their days of study in Switzerland, Felzein.
It was this singular esteem that lay at the heart of Harunobu’s steadfast faith in Felzein, the Supreme Commander and Ryu’s father.
For if Ryu himself recognised such exceptional worth in a man, then surely that man was no ordinary soul.