At the end of September in Tokyo, the rain fell without pause.
It was not a violent downpour, but a cold, clinging autumn drizzle. Water dripped steadily from the eaves, forming small puddles on the bluestone paths that mirrored the leaden sky.
Inside the study of the Saionji main family residence, however, the air remained dry and warm. Fine oak logs crackled in the fireplace, their orange flames dancing against the copper fireguard.
Shuichi sat at his desk, a cup of steaming black tea beside him. He did not touch it. His entire attention was fixed on the ledger spread open before him. The figures, written in neat, forceful black ink, told a staggering story.
Total net asset value: increased by 180 percent.
Liquid assets: 7.6 billion yen (excluding offshore USD holdings).
In the space of a single week, ever since the signing ceremony at the Plaza Hotel, the U.S. dollar had plummeted like a kite with its string cut—240, 235, 230, 225. That very morning, when the Tokyo foreign-exchange market opened, the rate had broken through the 220 level and settled at 219.50.
Across Japan, exporters were in despair. The Ministry of International Trade and Industry's telephones rang incessantly, and newspaper headlines screamed of an impending "yen appreciation recession."
Yet within this quiet study, the same events amounted to a silent, triumphant carnival.
Shuichi picked up his fountain pen and drew a heavy circle around one particular figure—the amount of cash he had already realized after closing only half of his short positions. That single sum had not only repaid every bank loan and mortgage but left enough surplus to purchase half a city block in Ginza.
"This is insane," he muttered.
He set the pen down, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled deeply. His gaze drifted to the exquisite crystal chandelier overhead. Only half a month earlier he had lain awake worrying how to keep that very lamp. Now it seemed almost too modest for the Saionji family's newfound stature.
The dizzying sensation of rising from hell to heaven in a single bound left him light-headed.
"Father."
The soft rustle of pages came from the sofa in the corner.
Satsuki sat cross-legged there, absorbed in a picture book. She wore a simple milky-white cotton dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders, giving her an appearance of perfect innocence.
"You have circled that number five times already," she remarked without looking up. "The paper is about to tear."
Shuichi snapped back to himself and closed the ledger with a touch of embarrassment.
"Ahem… I was merely confirming the figures," he said, lifting the teacup to hide his discomfort. "After all, it is a rather substantial sum."
"It is substantial," Satsuki agreed, turning another page, her tone matter-of-fact. "But it is only the beginning."
She raised her eyes to meet his.
"Father, money is merely ammunition. If you do not fire it, the bullets will simply rust in storage."
Shuichi nodded. After the recent battle, his faith in his daughter's judgment had become absolute.
"Do not worry. I have already instructed the finance department to establish an Asset Management Section within Saionji Industries. Next, we shall follow the plan and begin 'picking up trash.'"
When he uttered the words "picking up trash," his eyes turned cold. In the coming winter, the Saionji family would play the role of vulture—feasting on bankrupt factories, land parcels auctioned by desperate banks, and fallen aristocratic families stripped of everything.
A loud crash suddenly echoed from downstairs, followed by chaotic shouting. Even through the thick oak door and heavy carpet, a voice could be heard screaming hysterically.
Shuichi frowned and set down his teacup.
"What is happening?"
Before he could summon the butler, the study door burst open.
"Big Brother! Big Brother, save me!"
A drenched figure stumbled inside.
It was Saionji Kenjirou.
Yet the man before them bore little resemblance to the confident executive who had once presided over the Osaka groundbreaking ceremony. His silver-gray suit—once crisp and gleaming—was now smeared with mud and deeply wrinkled. His tie hung askew like a noose. Rain-soaked hair clung to his scalp, and his face was streaked with tears, rain, and grime. The stench of cheap alcohol rolled off him in waves, the sour breath of a man who had drowned sleepless nights in liquor and then poured more down his throat.
"Master! Forgive me—we could not stop him…"
Old butler Fujita rushed in with two young footmen, looking flustered. The servants moved at once to drag Kenjirou away.
Shuichi raised a hand, halting them.
He remained seated, gazing down coldly at his younger brother sprawled on the carpet. The fine Persian rug—an heirloom from their grandfather—was now marred by a large muddy stain.
"Leave us," Shuichi ordered the servants. "Close the door."
Fujita glanced at the sorry figure on the floor, sighed, and ushered the others out, shutting the door softly behind them.
Silence descended once more, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.
"Big Brother…"
Kenjirou crawled forward on his hands and knees and clutched the hem of Shuichi's trousers. His fingers trembled violently with raw terror.
"Save me… It's truly over this time… really over…"
His voice cracked with sobs. "That American, Smith—he's a devil! He sent a lawyer's letter demanding triple liquidated damages! And the banks—Mitsui and Sumitomo—froze the branch accounts this morning! I cannot even pay the workers' wages!"
He looked up, bloodshot eyes desperate, clutching at his elder brother like a drowning man seizing the last floating plank.
"The exchange rate has broken 220! I am losing money by the second! I have already mortgaged the Osaka house and car, but it is not enough! Big Brother, the main family has money now—I heard you made a fortune in Tokyo! Help me! Just five hundred million… no, a billion! If I can silence Smith, I can still survive!"
Shuichi looked down at the filthy hand gripping his trouser leg. Only two months earlier, that same hand had gestured imperiously across the Osaka construction site. Now it begged for scraps.
He said nothing, merely shifting his leg slightly in an attempt to free the fabric.
Kenjirou clung tighter.
"Let go," Shuichi said softly.
"I won't! I won't let go!" Kenjirou shook his head wildly. "I am your own brother! I was the only relative at Sister-in-law's funeral! If you refuse to save me, I will die right here on the Saionji doorstep! I will make all of Tokyo see what a cold-blooded monster my brother Shuichi truly is!"
It was both a threat and the final tantrum of a desperate rogue.
In the corner, Satsuki quietly closed her picture book. She made no sound, merely observing the scene with calm interest. In her previous life—or even a few months earlier—Shuichi might have softened. He had always been an old-fashioned aristocrat who valued "decency" and "family ties." But now, after her careful guidance, he had become a true capitalist. She watched with genuine curiosity to see how he would respond.
Shuichi glanced at the wall clock. Four o'clock in the afternoon.
Only an hour earlier he had signed the order to purchase Swiss franc bonds.
"Kenjirou."
He drew a document from his drawer—the Independent Management Agreement that Kenjirou had proudly signed months earlier during the family meeting to seize control of the new factory.
He tossed the paper onto the floor. It fluttered down and settled neatly over the muddy stain on the carpet.
"Read it yourself," Shuichi said, pointing to the bright red seal at the bottom. "What does it say?"
Kenjirou stared at the familiar stamp he had once affixed with such triumph.
"'The branch office shall maintain independent accounting and bear sole responsibility for its own profits and losses. The main family assumes only limited guarantee for the initial startup capital and bears no joint liability for debts incurred through subsequent operations.'"
Shuichi recited the clause without emotion.
"This is the freedom you demanded. This is the power you insisted upon."
"I gave you a choice once. You simply chose incorrectly."
For a moment Kenjirou sat dazed. Then, like a madman, he tore the document to shreds.
"This is garbage! It was a trap! You knew all along, didn't you?!" He jabbed a finger at Shuichi, voice rising to a hysterical roar. "You knew the yen would appreciate! You knew that contract was poison! You deliberately made me sign it! You want me dead!"
Shuichi regarded his raging brother with neither anger nor pity.
"Harming you?" He rose, walked to the fireplace, and used the tongs to stir the glowing embers. "That day in Osaka, did I not warn you about insufficient production capacity? Did Satsuki not point out the excessive liquidated damages? You were blinded by greed and refused to listen."
"The Saionji family has no need for gamblers—especially those who refuse to honor their debts when they lose."
He turned, his back to the firelight. His shadow fell over Kenjirou like an impassable mountain.
"Go home and await bankruptcy proceedings. For the sake of our blood ties, I will purchase whatever remains of your factory. As for the mountain of debt you have accumulated, you may explain it to your creditors yourself."
"No—!"
Kenjirou let out a howl of pure despair and lunged from the floor, sanity shattered. He wanted to strike, to kill, to drag his exalted brother down into the same mire.
A sharp bang interrupted him.
The study door flew open once more. Fujita and two sturdy footmen rushed in and pinned Kenjirou to the floor before he could reach Shuichi.
"Let me go! I am the executive director! I am a Saionji!"
Kenjirou thrashed like a pig bound for slaughter.
"Remove him," Shuichi ordered, waving a dismissive hand. He did not even glance at his brother again as he resumed his seat and reopened the ledger.
"From this day forward, this person is not permitted to enter the main gate without an appointment."
"Yes, Master."
Fujita bowed. At his signal the footmen hauled Kenjirou upright and dragged him away. The man's feet left two long muddy trails across the carpet as he continued to curse and wail. The sounds gradually faded.
Silence returned to the study.
Shuichi frowned at the stains on the carpet.
"Fujita, replace the carpet."
"Yes, Master."
Satsuki rose from the corner and walked to her father's side. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Father, does your heart ache?"
Shuichi was quiet for a moment, then shook his head.
"No."
He gazed into the dancing flames.
"I only found it… rather noisy."
…
The main staircase of the Saionji residence was a wide, mahogany spiral. Kenjirou was carried down it by the two footmen all the way to the entrance hall. He continued to struggle and howl; one shoe had fallen off, and his wet sock left damp prints on the marble floor.
Just as he was about to be thrown out, he looked up and saw a sight he would never forget.
On the second-floor gallery stood Satsuki.
She had not turned on the lights. The corridor lay in soft shadow, illuminated only by the upward glow of the crystal chandelier in the entrance hall, which outlined her small figure in delicate silhouette. She wore a pure white nightgown trimmed with fine lace, spotless and untouched by the world's grime. In her arms she cradled her brown teddy bear.
She looked down at Kenjirou—mud-stained, pinned, and broken—with absolute composure.
He could discern almost no expression on her face. Her gaze was that of someone observing a frog crushed beneath a carriage wheel or a scrap of paper crumpled and discarded. Calm. Cruelly, utterly calm.
A rattling sound rose in Kenjirou's throat. He wanted to call her name, to beg this seemingly sweetest of nieces to speak a single word in his favor.
Then he saw the corners of her mouth.
They curved upward slowly, sweetly, innocently.
The smile sent ice racing from the base of his spine to the crown of his head.
It seemed to say: "Uncle, is hell cold?"
Satsuki lifted one small hand, grasped the teddy bear's paw, and gave it a gentle wave—as though bidding a final, tender farewell.
"Throw him out!" Fujita commanded.
The heavy teak door swung open. The wind and rain rushed in at once.
Kenjirou was hurled mercilessly into the downpour. He landed on the muddy gravel drive, cold rain instantly soaking him to the bone.
The massive door slammed shut behind him with a dull, final thud—like the fall of a guillotine.
Heaven and hell were now completely, irrevocably separated.
…
On the second-floor gallery, Satsuki withdrew her gaze.
She looked down at the teddy bear in her arms.
"Look, Little Bear," she whispered, her voice soft in the empty corridor. "The trash has been cleared away."
Barefoot on the thick carpet, she turned and walked calmly toward her room.
Outside the window, the autumn rain continued to fall.