February 12, 1988.
The air at Chiba Port felt heavy and unpleasant. The wind blowing in from the sea carried a strong smell of rust, mixed with oil from machines that had been running for years. It wasn't a clean or refreshing breeze. Instead, it felt rough against the skin, like something that had been used too many times and never properly cleaned. That wind kept hitting the large metal walls of the warehouse again and again, producing a dull, echoing sound that made the entire place feel cold and lifeless.
Inside Warehouse No. 1 of the S.A. Logistics Center, the environment was not much better. Dozens of industrial lamps hung from the high ceiling, giving off a yellow light that was neither bright nor comforting. It made everything look tired, like late evening even though it was still daytime. The light pressed down on the workers, making the atmosphere feel tight and suffocating, as if even breathing required effort.
On the second-floor inspection platform, a man stood silently, watching everything below him with sharp focus.
That man was Tadashi Yanai.
He held a stopwatch in his hand, gripping it tightly, as if the small device could decide something important. His eyebrows were drawn together into deep lines, showing clear dissatisfaction. He had just arrived from Hiroshima and hadn't even changed his clothes. His gray suit was slightly too large for him, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the expression in his eyes—serious, intense, and filled with impatience.
He stared at the workers below.
What he saw confused him at first.
There was no laziness here.
No one was chatting, slacking off, or moving slowly out of boredom. Every single worker was focused, serious, and careful in their work.
But that was exactly the problem.
They were too serious.
Below him, the assembly line was running smoothly, but in a way that made Yanai feel uncomfortable. Dozens of female workers, all wearing neat uniforms, were handling a batch of T-shirts that had been shipped back from Shanghai. Each worker followed a strict process, and every step was done with extreme attention to detail.
One worker picked up a T-shirt and placed it flat on a table. She didn't just look at it quickly. Instead, she carefully arranged the fabric so that there were no folds or distortions. Then she picked up a measuring tape and checked the width of the shoulders and the length of the shirt. She made sure that every measurement stayed within a very small margin of error—no more than two millimeters.
After confirming the size, she took a small pair of scissors and looked closely at the edges of the fabric. If she saw even a tiny loose thread, she would carefully cut it away. The thread was so small that most customers would never notice it, but she treated it as if it were a serious flaw.
Once she finished, she passed the shirt to the next worker.
The next step was ironing.
Another worker used a steam iron to smooth out every wrinkle on the shirt. She moved slowly and carefully, making sure the surface became completely flat. Even the label at the back of the neck was pressed until it lay perfectly smooth. There was no rushing, no skipping—everything had to look perfect.
Then came the final step.
A third worker folded the shirt.
She didn't just fold it casually. She followed a strict standard used by department stores. The shirt was folded into a precise square shape, with sharp edges that looked almost unnatural for soft fabric. The folds were so straight that they looked like they had been cut with a knife.
The entire process looked smooth and organized. If someone didn't know better, they might even think it was beautiful in its own strict way.
But to Yanai, it was unbearable.
"One minute and forty seconds."
His voice cut through the air like a knife.
He stopped the stopwatch and stared down at the scene, disbelief clear on his face.
"It takes one minute and forty seconds to process a single T-shirt?"
He didn't wait for anyone to answer.
He immediately turned and walked toward the stairs, his steps heavy and loud against the metal structure.
"Stop! Everyone, stop for a moment!"
His sudden shout startled the workers. One by one, they stopped what they were doing. Some froze in place, still holding shirts in their hands. Others looked around nervously, unsure of what was happening.
At the end of the assembly line stood the supervisor.
His name was Takayuki Shiraishi.
He was an older man who had served the Saionji family for thirty years. Even in this dusty warehouse, his uniform remained clean and neat, especially the cuffs, which were still white as if untouched by dirt. His posture was straight, and his expression calm, carrying the quiet confidence of someone who had seen many things and did not panic easily.
He walked toward Yanai with steady steps.
"Mr. Yanai," he said politely.
"Is there a problem? Our inspection process strictly follows the standards set by S-Collection. The pass rate is above ninety-nine percent."
Yanai picked up a T-shirt that had just been ironed. It was still warm, and a faint smell of steam lingered on it.
"That," Yanai said coldly, "is exactly the problem."
He looked directly at Shiraishi.
"What is the planned retail price for this shirt?"
"According to the previous meeting, 1,900 yen," Shiraishi answered without hesitation.
"Exactly. 1,900 yen. Not 19,000 yen."
Yanai threw the shirt back onto the table.
"Look at what you're doing. Measuring every piece, cutting tiny threads, ironing everything flat, folding it like a luxury product. What do you think this is? A gift for the Imperial Family?"
He pointed sharply toward the piles of boxes stacked nearby.
"There are 1.2 million items sitting here! At this speed, you can only process about two thousand per day. By the time you finish, the season will be over!"
His words came faster, carrying clear anger and urgency.
"Cancel the measurements! If it doesn't look obviously wrong, let it pass!"
"Cancel the ironing! Clothes get wrinkles during transport—that's normal!"
"Cancel the perfect folding! Fold it twice and pack it!"
He stepped closer, his voice firm and demanding.
"What we need is speed! I want twenty thousand items processed every day!"
The workers looked at each other, unsure of what to do.
Shiraishi's expression changed slightly. He straightened his back even more and looked directly into Yanai's eyes.
"I'm afraid I cannot agree to that."
Yanai froze for a moment.
"What did you say?"
"This warehouse belongs to the Saionji family," Shiraishi said calmly.
"One of the family's principles is that anything handled by us must be done properly. Even if the product is cheap, it still carries our name. It must meet a minimum standard."
He picked up the shirt Yanai had thrown and gently smoothed it with his hands.
"If we give customers wrinkled clothes with loose threads, it is disrespectful. It damages our reputation."
He paused briefly before adding,
"We are not running a street stall."
Yanai let out a frustrated laugh.
At that moment, he clearly understood something.
This was not just a disagreement about process.
It was a difference in how they saw the entire world of business.
To Shiraishi, business meant service, dignity, and protecting the family's reputation.
To Yanai, business meant survival, efficiency, and numbers.
"Respect?" Yanai adjusted his glasses, his voice turning colder.
"When your inventory piles up, when your cash flow breaks, when you can't even pay wages… what will that 'respect' be worth then?"
He pointed toward the mountain of goods again.
"These are not artworks to be worshipped. They are products meant to be sold. They need to move quickly, like water flowing out of a tap!"
"If you insist on treating T-shirts the same way you treat traditional clothing, then there's nothing I can do."
He picked up his briefcase.
"I'm going to Shibuya. I want to see if the store there is also planning to follow this kind of 'standard' all the way to failure."
"Mr. Yanai!" someone called from behind.
But he didn't turn back.
He walked quickly, almost like he was trying to escape from the suffocating environment.
By the time he arrived in Shibuya, it was already 2:00 PM.
The atmosphere there was completely different.
The streets were lively, full of young people moving in groups, laughing, talking, and shopping. The air smelled sweet, coming from nearby dessert stands selling crepes. Everything felt energetic and modern, like a place where new trends were born every day.
But Yanai didn't pay attention to any of it.
He went straight to the construction site on Kōen-dōri.
This place was supposed to become the first store of the new brand.
The moment he stepped inside, his expression changed again.
The floor had already been installed, made from high-quality wood with a warm tone. The lighting was soft and comfortable, creating a relaxed atmosphere. The walls had decorative spaces built into them, and there were even plans for lounge areas where customers could sit and rest.
The entire space felt elegant.
Too elegant.
"Stop! Stop right now! What are you all doing?!"
Yanai's voice echoed loudly.
He pointed at the walls and layout.
"Who told you to build so many partitions? Why is it designed like a maze?"
A designer wearing a beret approached him, holding a set of blueprints.
"This design creates a sense of discovery," the designer explained calmly. "Customers will feel curious as they move through the store. Each turn gives them something new to find."
He pointed to the seating areas.
"We also created spaces for staff to assist customers personally. They can sit down and receive one-on-one guidance."
Yanai stared at him, disbelief clearly visible.
"One-on-one?"
He picked up a sample T-shirt and held it up.
"This costs 1,900 yen! Not a luxury product!"
"If we provide one-on-one service, how many employees will we need? Can the profit from these shirts even cover that cost?"
He pointed again at the layout.
"I want openness! I want customers to see everything the moment they walk in!"
He spread his arms wide.
"I want them to feel overwhelmed—in a good way. I want them to think, 'There's so much here, and it's cheap! I want to buy more!'"
He shook his head.
"This design makes the store feel expensive. Customers won't even dare to touch anything!"
The designer frowned slightly.
"This is Shibuya. We cannot make it look like a cheap warehouse. That would damage the brand image."
Yanai felt a deep sense of frustration.
It was the same problem again.
Different people, same thinking.
They were intelligent, skilled, and had good taste.
But they were trapped in an old way of thinking.
They were trying to sell low-cost products using high-cost methods.
And that would destroy everything.
He took a step back, breathing heavily.
At this point, he understood something clearly.
No matter how much he argued, it wouldn't change anything.
They were speaking the same language, but thinking in completely different ways.
"I'm not going to argue anymore," he said quietly.
He took out his large mobile phone from his briefcase and dialed a number. His hands were slightly trembling—not from fear, but from the pressure and frustration he had been holding in all day.
The call connected after a short moment.
"This is Saionji," a calm voice answered.
Yanai took a deep breath.
"Eldest Miss, it's Yanai. I'm in Shibuya."
"You need to come here immediately. If you don't, this business will fail."
He didn't hold back his frustration.
"These people are building something completely wrong. They're not creating a store—they're building something like a quiet lounge!"
There was a brief moment of silence on the other end.
"I understand," the voice replied calmly.
"Wait twenty minutes for me."
The call ended.
Yanai slowly lowered the phone.
He stood there, looking at the beautifully designed store that felt completely wrong to him.
At this moment, his thoughts became clear.
This was the final test.
If Saionji chose to support the traditional approach—maintaining elegance, reputation, and high standards—then there was no place for him here. He would leave immediately, return to Hiroshima, and go back to running his small, ordinary shop.
But if she chose to support his way…
Yanai looked out toward the busy streets of Shibuya, where people moved quickly, full of energy and desire to buy.
If she chose efficiency, speed, and mass appeal…
Then maybe, just maybe…
They could create something completely new.
Something that matched this fast-changing era.
Something that could win.
He tightened his grip on the phone slightly.
For him, this was not just a disagreement about design or process.
This was a battle between two completely different ways of doing business.
And in twenty minutes, he would know which side would win.