On the final day of 1986, no snow fell on Tokyo.
Yet the cold still crept in like liquid mercury, seeking every crevice of the ancient mansion in Bunkyo Ward. This year, however, the chill remained firmly outside the heavy window frames, held at bay by a dense, enveloping warmth and the rich aromas of celebration.
In the main family's large kitchen, steam rose in thick clouds.
Three massive iron pots bubbled furiously over roaring flames, their lids dancing with the force of escaping vapor. The air carried the savory depth of bonito broth, the oily fragrance of freshly fried tempura, and the sweet, cloying scent of simmering red beans.
"Hurry! That Ise lobster needs two more minutes of steaming!"
"Are the black beans ready? The Tamba black beans must simmer until their skins shine!"
"Warm the bottle of daiginjo—the Master will take his seat soon!"
Maids in starched white aprons hurried along corridors lined with deep crimson carpets, bearing lacquerware trays. Their faces glowed with the rosy cheer of a prosperous age.
Since the Young Lady's awakening, the Saionji family had flourished. This month's bonus from the Master had equaled three full months' salary.
In the main hall, the floor heating had been turned to its highest setting.
Shuichi sat upright in the place of honor, wearing a deep blue silk house kimono beneath a thick haori.
Before him stretched a massive rosewood table laden with stacked lacquerware boxes—the traditional Japanese New Year's osechi ryori.
The first layer held black beans, symbols of diligence and health, each plump and gleaming like polished black pearls.
The second layer displayed herring roe, emblematic of abundant offspring, the golden eggs translucent beneath the light.
The third layer featured Ise lobster, signifying longevity, its fiery red body intact, whiskers curving majestically to either side.
There was also perfectly grilled sea bream, thinly sliced premium tuna belly, chestnut paste adorned with gold leaf—a dazzling array of luxurious delicacies.
Shuichi gazed at the feast, feeling strangely detached.
He unconsciously touched the cushion beneath him: a fine Kyoto Nishijin-ori piece filled with the softest silk.
"Father, why have you not picked up your chopsticks?"
Satsuki sat across from him.
Today she wore a pink furisode kimono, her hair arranged in a traditional momoware chignon secured with a coral hairpin. She looked exquisitely crafted, like a delicate porcelain doll.
"Ah… I was suddenly reminded of this time last year."
Shuichi lifted his chopsticks but did not reach for the lobster. Instead he took a piece of the simplest kombu roll.
"Family discord… cash flow so tight that even maintaining appearances was difficult…"
"Back then I already wondered whether the Saionji family's century-old foundation would end with me."
He placed the kombu roll in his mouth and chewed slowly.
The savory, salty taste of seaweed spread across his tongue.
"That flavor, I will never forget it in this lifetime."
"Hardship is the best seasoning," Satsuki replied, lifting her glass of juice and swirling it gently. "It is precisely because of last year's difficulties that this year's lobster tastes so exceptionally sweet."
She extended her chopsticks and selected a golden, crispy fried shrimp tail.
"Father, please stop looking backward. Your neck will grow sore."
"We are now seated upon a gold mine."
Shuichi smiled.
The expression no longer carried bitterness—only a composed, almost lazy satisfaction.
"Yes. A gold mine."
He turned toward the old butler who stood attentively nearby.
"Fujita."
"Yes, Master," Fujita answered, remaining rigidly upright, sake flask in hand.
"Do not simply stand there. Tonight is New Year's Eve; there are no outsiders present."
Shuichi indicated an empty seat beside him.
"Sit. Have a drink with me."
"This… this would violate protocol…" Fujita replied, visibly flustered.
"What protocol? There are no outsiders now." Shuichi waved a dismissive hand. "You have worked hard this year—traveling to Akasaka, coordinating with Shanghai. It is a miracle your old bones have not given out."
"Sit down, Grandpa Fujita," Satsuki added with a smile. "Father is in an excellent mood today. If you refuse to drink, you will be showing him disrespect."
Fujita's eyes grew moist.
He set the sake flask down with trembling hands and knelt formally at the corner of the table.
"Then… I beg your pardon for overstepping."
Shuichi personally lifted the flask and poured Fujita a cup of toso sake.
The aroma of medicinal herbs mingled with the rich scent of rice wine.
"Cheers."
The three raised their glasses.
This toast was for a narrow escape, for a triumphant return.
After three rounds of drinks the atmosphere gradually warmed.
A television was brought into the hall. The screen showed NHK's national broadcast of Kōhaku Uta Gassen.
On stage, dazzling lights illuminated singers in extravagant costumes performing with boundless energy. Below them the audience waved glow sticks, their cheers so fervent they could be felt even through the screen.
"By the way, Fujita," Shuichi said casually, picking up a piece of fish cake.
"Any news from Kenjirō's side?"
At the mention of that name, Fujita paused mid-sip.
"Master," he set his cup down, his tone turning cool. "I heard from an acquaintance in Osaka a few days ago that Young Master Kenjirō and his family have moved to Tokyo."
"Oh? To Tokyo?" Shuichi looked surprised. "Does he still have money to rent a place here?"
"They are living in Minami-Senju, Arakawa Ward."
Fujita lowered his voice.
"That is a slum. They rent an old wooden house without its own bathroom, sharing toilets with others. I heard… he owed money to loan sharks in Osaka. They splashed red paint on his door, and he could no longer remain there, so he fled to Tokyo."
"Now he works as a day laborer at a construction site, carrying cement every day."
Shuichi tapped his fingers lightly on the table twice.
Minami-Senju—the lowest corner of Tokyo, filled with homeless men and daily wage workers.
That younger brother who had once driven sports cars, drunk imported liquor, and carried himself with unbearable arrogance was now hauling cement in the cold wind.
"And that sister-in-law…" Fujita hesitated, then continued. "I heard she works as a cleaner at a pachinko parlor nearby."
Shuichi fell silent.
He looked at the lavish feast before him and pictured Kenjirō in dirty work clothes, laboring in the bitter cold.
That was his own younger brother.
"Master…" Fujita ventured cautiously. "Should we… send some New Year's goods over? After all, it is New Year's Eve…"
Shuichi raised his cup and gazed at the clear sake within.
In its reflection his eyes appeared calm—almost cold.
"There is no need."
He drained the cup in one swallow.
"He chose his own path. I warned him many times. We are all adults; we must bear responsibility for our choices."
"Let him carry cement."
Shuichi set the cup down, his voice steady and without fluctuation.
"That is the best way to sober him. If we gave him money now, he would lose it all at the gambling tables within three days."
"Since the branch is already rotten, once cut off it should not be picked up again."
"Yes," Fujita bowed his head and said no more.
Satsuki listened quietly, a faint smile curving the corner of her mouth.
She was satisfied with her father's response.
Mercy is the privilege of the strong, but excessive mercy is the epitaph of fools. In the battlefield that lay ahead, the Saionji family could afford no unnecessary sentiment.
"Look, it is Akina Nakamori."
Satsuki pointed at the television screen, smoothly changing the subject.
On the screen, the young idol with her bob haircut and melancholic eyes stepped forward.
The music surged.
"Desire—Jōnetsu."
Akina Nakamori wore a modified kimono with exaggerated shoulder pads. She danced with powerful steps, singing in her slightly husky voice:
"Get up, get up, get up—burning love…"
"Fall into the net of love, tonight…"
Her eyes burned with wild, unrestrained desire. It was not the gentle grace of a traditional Japanese woman but a raw, devouring life-force.
"This song will win this year's grand prize," Satsuki said with certainty, taking a bite of strawberry.
"Why?" Shuichi asked, watching the somewhat wild performer without quite understanding. "I think Sachiko Kobayashi's costume is more splendid."
"Because this song captures the spirit of the era."
Satsuki stared at Akina Nakamori's fiery eyes on the screen.
"No matter who you are, you want more. You want love, you want money, you want to burn."
"This hysterical passion is exactly what people today most need to release."
Shuichi nodded. Though he did not fully grasp the lyrics of the young, he understood the underlying logic.
Emptiness.
That was the greatest byproduct of the bubble era. The richer one became, the deeper the void inside. Expensive handbags and an idol's voice were merely commodities to fill that emptiness.
"Ding—dong—"
The hour chimed from the television.
The picture shifted to temples across the country.
The deep, resonant sound of temple bells spread across the archipelago through the screen.
The New Year's Eve bells.
One hundred and eight strokes.
Each stroke meant to dispel one earthly trouble.
"Clang—"
The first bell tolled.
Shuichi rose, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and drew back the heavy curtains.
Outside, the dark night sky suddenly bloomed with countless fireworks.
Not the grand official displays, but small fireworks lit by ordinary families in their gardens and on their balconies.
Red, green, gold.
They rose and fell, bursting briefly in the cold air before merging into a dazzling galaxy of stars.
This was Tokyo.
This was Tokyo at the final moment of 1986.
People were celebrating. People were reveling. People were dreaming that when they woke tomorrow their stocks would have risen again, their houses appreciated once more.
"It is 1987," Shuichi said softly, watching the fireworks light the sky.
"Happy New Year, Father."
Satsuki came to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
"Happy New Year, Satsuki."
Shuichi placed an arm around his daughter's shoulder.
"Ready?"
"Mmm."
Satsuki nodded.
Her pupils reflected the exploding fireworks, as though countless gold coins danced in the air.
One o'clock in the morning.
The mansion returned to tranquility.
The servants had retired. Shuichi, having drunk generously, had also gone to bed early.
On the second floor, in Satsuki's room.
The main lights were off; only a Tiffany-style stained-glass table lamp remained lit. Its warm yellow glow spilled across the desk, illuminating an open diary.
This black leather volume was the one she had begun writing on the very first day after her rebirth.
It contained no girlish heartache, no school gossip.
Instead its pages were densely filled with numbers, charts, and critical time nodes from both past and future.
Plaza Accord.
Black Monday.
Gulf War.
Bubble Burst…
Satsuki sat at the desk, holding a Montblanc pen.
She turned to a fresh page.
The header bore the printed date: January 1, 1987.
She drew a deep breath. The pen tip touched the paper with a soft rustle.
She wrote no New Year's wishes.
Only a single line.
The handwriting was somewhat hurried, the strokes sharp and carrying a chilling murderous aura.
[1987. The wind rises. Hunting season officially begins.]
After finishing the sentence she paused.
Then, beneath it, she drew a simple sketch.
A huge, fat pig was being lifted into the sky by a powerful gust. Its face wore a silly, blissful smile as it clutched a large handful of banknotes.
On the ground, at the center of the storm's eye, stood a crocodile with jaws wide open.
The crocodile's eyes were alert and unblinking.
Satsuki studied the drawing. A childlike yet utterly cruel smile curved her lips.
"Fly," she whispered to the empty air.
"Fly higher."
"The higher you rise… the harder you will fall."
She closed the diary with a soft snap.
Then she switched off the table lamp.
The room plunged into darkness.
Outside the window, the first wind of the new year howled across the roofs of Bunkyo Ward, racing toward the giant colosseum called Tokyo.