April in Tokyo should have been the season for cherry blossoms to dance in the wind, but this year's late spring chill refused to loosen its grip.
Outside the Aoyama Funeral Home, a long line of sleek black Toyota Centurys and Nissan Presidents stretched along the curb. Dark clouds hung low overhead, like a heavy grey silk scarf draped across the sky.
Satsuki stood quietly in front of the full-length mirror in the waiting room.
The girl staring back wore a perfectly tailored black mourning dress, a dark grey ribbon tied neatly at the collar. Days of wake services had left her skin pale, making her obsidian-black eyes appear even deeper and more striking.
She adjusted her posture slightly, drawing her shoulders inward—a subtle angle that perfectly balanced the refined grace of an aristocratic daughter with an air of helpless vulnerability, as if she desperately needed someone to protect her.
"Asset evaluation: Excellent," she thought, assessing herself not as a person, but as a biological container now named "Saionji Satsuki."
Memories of her past life played like an overly vivid film: the smell of coffee at 4 a.m. inside the Goldman Sachs building, the red and green K-lines dancing across trading screens, the board meeting where she was pushed forward as the scapegoat to cover billions in bad debt, and finally, the terrifying weightlessness as she fell from the heights of Manhattan. All of it had been fully absorbed by this twelve-year-old body.
She raised her hand and gently touched the mirror. Her fingertips felt ice-cold.
"How ironic," she murmured, the corners of her lips curving into the faintest arc as she studied the youthful face reflected before her. "In my last life, I clawed and fought my way into high society, only to be thrown away like garbage. In this life, I didn't have to lift a finger—I woke up already at the finish line."
The Saionji family—old kazoku, ducal rank. Although the postwar constitution had stripped the peerage of many formal privileges, in this island nation that still deeply respected bloodlines and pedigree, those three words remained a golden VIP ticket to the very core of power. Even the GHQ, during the postwar reforms, had kept the House of Peers intact as a safeguard against the Sovietization of Japan.
"Young Lady."
An elderly voice came from behind her.
It was Fujita, the family butler.
The moment Satsuki turned around, the cold, playful sneer on her face vanished without a trace. In its place appeared slightly reddened eyes brimming with tears she stubbornly refused to let fall.
"Grandpa Fujita… is Father still in the main hall?" Her voice carried a soft raspiness, like a delicate lily battered by wind and rain.
Fujita looked at the heartbreaking child before him and bowed deeply, his tone filled with pity. "Yes, the Master is currently receiving guests from MITI and Mitsubishi Bank. The wind is strong outside—you should rest here…"
"No." Satsuki shook her head gently, the movement small yet filled with quiet determination. "Mother is gone. I cannot let Father face those… pleasantries alone."
She smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the waiting room.
Inside the main hall, white chrysanthemums surrounded the coffin. The air was thick with the scent of incense mixed with expensive cologne.
A steady stream of mourners arrived. Men in black suits lowered their voices out of respect for the solemn setting, yet their eyes showed little genuine sorrow. To many, the funeral felt more like a convenient business meeting.
"Representative Saionji, please accept my condolences."
"Of course. Regarding that Minato Ward development project we discussed earlier…"
"Oh, your daughter is truly pitiful, so young…"
Satsuki moved through the crowd like a silent ghost, detached from the grief, her sharp mind capturing every fragment of conversation around her.
1985.
This was the eve of a mad era. Japan was like a golden train hurtling at full speed toward a cliff. Sony's Walkman was conquering the world, Toyota was storming Detroit, and the Rockefeller Center had not yet been jokingly renamed "Japan." Across the ocean, that cowboy president named Ronald Reagan was sharpening his knife, preparing to bleed this fattened Eastern beast at the Plaza Hotel in just a few months.
And the Saionji family stood at a crossroads of life and death.
In one corner of the hall, her father, Saionji Shuichi, was surrounded by several men.
Shuichi was a classic Japanese handsome man. Even in middle age, he carried a refined grace. Yet today his eyes were bloodshot, and though his back remained straight, it betrayed a forced stiffness.
Beside him, besides several bank executives, stood a slightly plump man with shrewd eyes—Satsuki's uncle, Saionji Kenjirou from the branch family.
Satsuki did not approach immediately. Instead, she hid behind a massive marble pillar, clutching an embroidered handkerchief tightly in her small hand.
"Brother, I know it's inappropriate to say this now," Kenjirou's voice was low but hurried, laced with impatience. "But Senior Managing Director Sato from Sumitomo Bank is right here. We need a commitment today on that five-billion-yen loan for the factory expansion. Once we sign, the new production line can break ground next month—just in time for the Christmas orders from America!"
Shuichi rubbed his brow, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Kenjirou, today is Yuriko's funeral. Don't you think it's disrespectful to discuss business that reeks of money right in front of her altar?"
"Brother!" Kenjirou stepped closer, ignoring social boundaries. "It's precisely because Sister-in-law is gone that the family is in panic! The stock price has already dropped two points. We must release positive news now to stabilize everything! Besides, these are export orders to America—U.S. dollars! Hard currency!"
The bank director beside them chimed in smoothly, wearing a professional fake smile. "Mr. Saionji, your younger brother makes a valid point. The export climate is excellent right now, and MITI is encouraging heavy industry to expand overseas. This credit line was specially approved out of respect for the Saionji name. Once this opportunity passes, it won't come again."
A flicker of hesitation crossed Shuichi's face.
He didn't grasp deep macroeconomics, but he knew the family's textile and mechanical parts factories had been highly profitable lately. Five billion yen was an enormous sum—enough to require mortgaging nearly half the ancestral land in Osaka. But if his brother was right and they could secure those American orders…
"Can it… really work?" Shuichi's voice wavered.
Behind the pillar, a cold light flashed in Satsuki's eyes.
This was no life-saving straw. It was arsenic coated in sugar.
In five months, on September 22nd, the Plaza Accord would be signed. The yen would skyrocket in value almost overnight. Export-oriented businesses relying on cheap labor and favorable exchange rates would be utterly destroyed. Pouring five billion yen into new factories would be like feeding cash into a blazing furnace—leaving nothing but a mountain of unpayable debt and forcing the Saionji family to sell their ancestral properties and tumble into second-rate status.
In her previous life, that was exactly how it had played out.
But in this life, the screenwriter had changed.
Satsuki took a deep breath and steadied her rhythm. She reached down and pinched the inside of her thigh hard. Physiological tears instantly welled up in her eyes.
The performance was about to begin.
"Father…"
A timid, tearful voice suddenly cut through the conversation thick with calculated interests.
Shuichi turned sharply and saw his daughter standing just a few steps away. Her small frame, wrapped in black mourning clothes, looked heartbreakingly frail. She held a steaming cup of tea, her hands trembling slightly from "nervousness."
"Satsuki?" Shuichi immediately left the bankers and hurried over. "Why did you come out? Didn't I tell you to rest?"
"I saw Father talking for so long… and your voice sounded hoarse, so…" Satsuki lowered her head, staring at the glossy patent leather shoes on her feet. Her voice was as soft as a mosquito's hum.
Shuichi's heart melted instantly. He took the teacup, his eyes growing warm. His daughter was so thoughtful—even after losing her mother, she was still thinking of taking care of him.
"Oh, it's Satsuki," Kenjirou said, rubbing his hands awkwardly and trying to sound like a kind elder. "What a sensible girl. But Uncle is discussing very important matters with Papa. Why don't you go back to your room for now?"
Satsuki looked up. Her watery, wide eyes gazed at Kenjirou with such pure clarity that not a single impurity could be seen.
"Is Uncle talking about that… big factory project?"
Kenjirou was momentarily stunned, then smiled. "Yes, it's to make the Saionji family even wealthier, so Satsuki can live an even better life in the future."
"But…"
Satsuki furrowed her delicate brows, as if facing an extremely difficult math problem. She raised her voice just enough for the nearby politicians to catch fragments of her words.
"But when I went to deliver the return gift to Uncle William at the American Embassy earlier, I heard him losing his temper."
Her words landed like a pebble thrown into a still pond.
The ears of everyone nearby immediately perked up. The phrase "American Embassy" carried special magic in this era.
Kenjirou's expression shifted. "Mr. William? Why was he angry?"
Satsuki tilted her head, her fingers nervously twisting the corner of her dress, and repeated with childlike innocence: "He was smashing glasses and saying things in English like… 'Trade Deficit' and 'Enough is enough.' He also said those Japanese containers being shipped to America are like… like a flood that's going to drown Detroit, and the Americans are going to build a dam to block the water."
She used the simplest Japanese, sprinkled with a few perfectly pronounced English words.
Shuichi froze.
The guests around them stopped talking. Their gazes drifted over, some openly, some discreetly.
Satsuki seemed unaware of the shifting atmosphere. She shrank into her father's arms as if frightened by the scene she had described. "Father, Uncle wants to build a big factory to sell things to the Americans. But if the Americans really get angry and close the dam… will everything we make become worthless trash that nobody wants? Then how will we repay the bank uncles? Will we end up like the Kobayashi family next door, with everything sealed away…"
By the end, her small body was trembling, as if she could truly see that terrifying future unfolding.
A brief, heavy silence fell over the small circle.
Everyone present was shrewd. They all knew Japan–U.S. trade friction had been heating up lately—U.S. congressmen had even smashed Toshiba radios on the White House lawn. But they had all been gambling: gambling that it was just political theater, gambling that the Reagan administration wouldn't actually strike a heavy blow against its ally.
Yet hearing these words from a twelve-year-old girl who had just lost her mother carried an eerie, soul-piercing weight—like a strange prophecy.
The way her "childish talk" ripped away the polite veil left every adult feeling an inexplicable chill.
Shuichi looked at his daughter in his arms, then at the bank director whose face had turned grim.
He wasn't a fool. Though her words were wrapped in childish innocence, the logic behind them struck like lightning, clearing the fog from his mind.
If America really moved to restrict imports or forced the yen to appreciate… expanding production now would be suicide.
"Nonsense!" Kenjirou panicked, his voice rising sharply. "What does a child know about national affairs? That's diplomacy! That's politics! The Americans can't survive without our products!"
"Kenjirou!"
Shuichi's voice cracked like a whip—not loud, but carrying the full authority of the family head.
He placed a protective hand on Satsuki's shoulder, feeling the tremble of her frail body, and the scales in his heart tipped completely.
"Raising your voice in front of the altar—is this your idea of proper etiquette?" Shuichi stared coldly at his brother.
Kenjirou's face turned the color of pig liver. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. In a society where etiquette reigned supreme, losing one's temper at a grieving niece during his elder brother's wife's funeral was enough to destroy a man's reputation.
Shuichi turned to the bank director and offered a slight, flawless aristocratic bow. "Senior Managing Director Sato, please forgive this unseemly scene. My daughter is overwrought from my wife's passing and is speaking nonsense."
The director laughed awkwardly. "Not at all… Your daughter is remarkably bright, and her English pronunciation is quite authentic."
Shuichi smoothly changed the subject, his tone deliberately vague. "Regarding the loan, it is an enormous sum after all. As my daughter mentioned, the international situation remains somewhat unclear. To be responsible to both the bank and the family, I believe we should wait until after Yuriko's seventh-day memorial before reconsidering the matter from a longer-term perspective."
This was a polite but firm adult rejection.
"Reconsider from a longer-term perspective" almost always meant indefinite postponement.
Kenjirou looked as if he had been struck by lightning. He stared at Shuichi, then at Satsuki, who was still nestled in her father's arms.
From an angle Shuichi couldn't see, the fear had vanished from those tear-filled eyes.
In their place was a pool of bottomless, ice-cold water.
Satsuki slightly raised her chin. Facing her stunned uncle, the corners of her lips curved into a faint, subtle smile—filled with quiet provocation and mockery.
It was the smile of a black lily blooming on a grave: beautiful, yet carrying deadly poison.
Kenjirou felt a chill race from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. He wanted to speak, but his throat had gone dry.
"Then, Father, Uncle… I shall take my leave first."
Satsuki resumed her perfect, well-behaved demeanor, performed an elegant curtsy, and turned to go.
The rain continued falling, showing no sign of stopping.
In the corridor, Satsuki hummed a soft, unknown tune. Her steps were light, the small black leather shoes tapping crisply against the marble floor.
Round one: complete victory.
But this was only the beginning.