The silhouette of Mount Yotei stood sharp and cold against a leaden sky.
This volcano — "Ezo Fuji," they called it — watched the vast wilderness below in silence. Wind poured down from the summit, tearing through the fir forest like waves on rock.
This was Niseko.
A dozen hours ago, Satsuki and Amy had been at diesel-and-fish Tomakomai Port, watching a steel ship swallow trucks. Now they stood knee-deep in powder snow, with nothing to hear but wind. No engines. No machines.
The world's palette had flipped from industrial black and gray to a blinding, dizzying white.
Crunch.
Black leather boots broke the surface crust and sank into soft powder.
Satsuki pulled her white fur coat tighter. It was an S-Collection sample — prototype or not, it cost as much as a Toyota Crown. In the falling snow she nearly vanished, except for her black hair and the slash of pink lips under her sunglasses.
"Is this… the land you bought, Satsuki-chan?"
Amy fought to pull her legs free, trudging behind. She clutched a thick folder of deeds and survey maps.
"Technically, from this rock under our feet, to the edge of that fir forest there, then over that low hill—"
Satsuki lifted a leather-gloved hand and drew a wide circle in the air.
"—this 150 hectares of slope and forest belongs to the Saionji family now."
Up ahead, a middle-aged man in a black trench coat crouched in the snow. No hat. Salt-and-pepper hair whipped by the wind. A long scarf, very artiste, around his neck.
Kisho Kurokawa.
The world-famous architect, known for his "Symbiosis Theory," was drawing in the snow with a twig. Face intense, almost fanatical — as if this empty snowfield was the canvas of his life.
Satsuki walked up behind him. Said nothing.
Kurokawa was sketching lines so simple they barely existed. They followed the mountain's contour, slipped between trees — not imposing, not loud. Like veins the forest already had.
"Miss Saionji."
After a long time, he tossed the twig aside and stood, brushing snow from his hands. He turned.
"This land… it's exceptional."
He pointed at the virgin fir forest behind him.
"I've studied the meteorological data, the topography. The snow here is top-tier powder. Wind direction is stable. If we build a resort, my recommendation is: Seclusion."
Kurokawa pulled a dog-eared sketchbook from his coat and offered a page.
Minimalist architecture.
Low profiles. Roofs pitched parallel to the mountain behind. Buildings scattered in the forest, linked by winding boardwalks.
"This is 'Kure-no-sato' — The Hidden Village."
Kurokawa's voice went a little distant in the cold.
"Thirty rooms total. Each one tucked into trees, into folds of terrain. Exteriors: shou sugi ban and local volcanic rock. With time, the buildings weather. They fade into the forest."
"No TVs. No phones. No obvious lighting. Or rather, all modern systems hidden under nature. Only fireplaces. Books. Floor-to-ceiling glass facing Mount Yotei."
He looked at Satsuki, eyes alight.
"This is true 'Symbiosis.' For old kazoku like the Saionji family, or for anyone who truly understands luxury, this undisturbed silence — the privilege of talking with nature — that is the ultimate extravagance."
"We shouldn't scar this land with concrete. We should cling to it like moss."
Amy listened, rapt. She stared at the sketch and could already see it: night, snow, fireplace, a book in her lap. Beautiful. Intoxicating.
"Wonderful design."
Satsuki closed the sketchbook and handed it back.
Her tone was even. Neither praise nor rejection.
"This philosophy of 'Zen' and 'seclusion' — it's absolutely your standard, Mr. Kurokawa. Thirty rooms. Price them high enough — say, 200,000 yen a night — and it could sustain itself."
A satisfied smile touched Kurokawa's face. He thought he'd won.
"However."
Satsuki turned, back to the deep forest now, facing the wide, gentle slope that ran down to the road.
"Mr. Kurokawa, if we build only thirty rooms, where am I supposed to put the rest of the tens of billions in my budget?"
Kurokawa's smile froze.
"Tens of… billions?"
"Yes."
Satsuki removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were clear.
"Frankly, the Saionji family has too much money. Letting it sit in banks is wasteful. We need to spend it. Fast."
She sounded like a spoiled heiress. But coming from her, it didn't feel flippant. It felt like fact.
"Father said if I don't spend it, he'll punish me." She smiled. "Not really."
She traced a line across the open snowfield with a gloved finger.
"Your 'Kure-no-sato' stays."
"Put it deep in that forest. That's the 'Core Zone.' No signs. No walk-ins. Members only. A paradise for people who don't want to be seen."
Satsuki paused. The corner of her mouth lifted.
"But thirty VIPs won't support this mountain. Won't even cover snowplowing."
"We'll use the noise outside to protect the silence inside."
"The noise… outside?" Kurokawa frowned. Dread crept in. "You mean… high-rises? Like Seibu's Prince Hotels?"
"God, no."
Satsuki's face showed open disdain.
"Those concrete matchboxes? That's tour-group architecture. Does the Saionji family look nouveau riche to you?"
She took two steps, heels punching deep into snow.
"I want five hundred villas. Here. On this fifty-hectare slope."
"Five hundred?!"
Amy yelped.
"Satsuki-san, are you doing real estate now? This is a resort. Nobody buys a house here to live full-time!"
"Who said anything about selling?"
Satsuki looked at Amy, eyes glinting.
"Not selling. Not one square meter."
"These villas are 'distributed luxury guest rooms.'"
She turned back to the snowfield. In her eyes, you could already see buildings lit warm against white.
"Amy, Mr. Kurokawa. Understand this:
Next year, Tokyoites will be rich. Stupid rich. Year-end bonuses and stock gains stuffed in their pockets. They'll be desperate for somewhere to prove they're 'high society.'
But they're not rich enough to buy a Hokkaido villa, staff it, and use it two weeks a year.
What they want is an experience. An illusion."
Satsuki spread her arms.
"We rent these five hundred villas by the night. 50,000. 100,000 yen.
For that night, the house is theirs. The private onsen is theirs. The Mount Yotei snow view is theirs. Even the butler shoveling the path — theirs.
We sell 'the illusion of owning Hokkaido.'
This is the poison the middle class wants most."
Kisho Kurokawa stood frozen.
As an architect, he thought in space, light, structure. But this — this commercial vivisection of human weakness — left him physically staggered.
"Five hundred villas…" he murmured. "You'll need massive infrastructure. Restaurants. Shops. Entertainment. Villas alone and they'll die of boredom at night."
"Exactly."
Satsuki snapped her fingers.
"So we need a heart."
She walked to the center of the snowfield and carved a huge circle with her toe.
"Right here."
"Mr. Kurokawa, I want you to design a 'Gokurakukan' here."
"Gokurakukan?"
"A giant complex under a full glass dome."
Satsuki looked up at the gray sky.
"Outside: blizzard, minus twenty. Inside the dome: tropical rainforest, constant twenty-five degrees."
"I want high-end shopping. Michelin restaurants. Jazz bars. And…"
She paused. Madness flickered in her eyes.
"…a giant artificial beach. Waves. Coconut trees."
"Day: they ski the slopes, taste the North's brutal cold. Night: they walk through snow into a glowing dome and drink champagne in swimsuits under palms."
"This is 'out-of-season luxury.'"
"This is 'conquering nature.'"
Satsuki turned to Kurokawa. He was staring, stunned.
"Mr. Kurokawa, doesn't your 'Metabolism' theory say architecture should grow and change like a living thing?
On one side: ultimate 'Zen and Seclusion.' Deep in forest. Symbiosis with nature.
On the other: ultimate 'Vulgarity and Desire.' Center of the snowfield. Human will made manifest.
Still and moving. Elegant and vulgar. Cold and hot.
Isn't that the perfect 'dualistic opposition'? Isn't that contemporary Japan?"
Kurokawa's breathing sped up.
He looked at the white expanse.
In his head, the glass dome already rose — golden, blazing on the snow. Around it, five hundred villas fanned out like pilgrims.
The contrast.
The narrative: building a city from nothing in wilderness.
This was the challenge every architect dreams of.
"Insane…"
Kurokawa's hands shook. He pulled a pencil from his pocket, bit the wood off the tip when he had no sharpener.
"This is… insane…"
He dropped to a crouch and started drawing, frantic.
Not the restrained lines from before.
These were wild. Extravagant. The dome structure. The circulation. The sheer hubris of imposing human desire on nature — all of it flew onto the page.
"Here…" he muttered, sketching. "Double-layer glass curtain wall for condensation and insulation… energy center underground… grand boulevard straight to the dome entrance…"
"Yes. Like that."
Satsuki stood behind him, watching the monster take shape.
Her face wore a perfect, proper smile.
Amy tugged her folder closer and leaned toward Satsuki.
"Satsuki-chan…" Amy whispered. "Is this… okay? How much will this cost? And maintenance… just the heating for that dome…"
"Yes. Astronomical."
Satsuki answered softly, only for Amy.
"A monster that defies nature burns money to live. Every second, it's feeding banknotes into a furnace."
"Then why…"
Amy was lost. She did engineering. Efficiency. Cost control. This was a money pit by design.
Satsuki turned to her.
Snow swirled between them. The girl smiled — the kind of smile you give a friend when you're describing a fairy tale.
"Amy, some things aren't valuable because they make back the electricity bill."
Satsuki's voice was light enough the wind could take it.
"We're not selling rooms. Not selling tickets. We're creating a myth."
She pointed at Kurokawa's back, still sketching furiously, and at the wasteland about to be paved with money.
"When this glass palace lights up on the snow, when all of Tokyo talks about the luxury here, the name 'Saionji' becomes faith."
"We'll be the dream-makers of this country."
Amy looked at Satsuki's profile and nodded, not quite understanding.
What Satsuki didn't say: dream-makers don't dream.
She ran the timeline in her head.
Now: April 1988. Break ground. Build. Hype.
Winter 1989: the first light in the "Gokurakukan" hits the snow. Peak bubble. Peak madness.
That's when Tokyo's nouveau riche will come running, cash in hand.
And that's when you package the myth and sell it.
Yoshiaki Tsutsumi of Seibu — the world's richest man, obsessed with "collecting mountaintops" — won't be able to resist a Hokkaido crown.
These five hundred villas. This money-burning dome. This exclusive "inner circle" — all of it was bait. Honey-coated poison, laid out for Seibu.
We're fattening the pig.
So at the festival's climax, we send it to the altar.
Of course, Satsuki wouldn't tell Amy that.
"Alright, Amy. Too cold. Let's wait in the car."
Satsuki changed topics smoothly, pulling her collar tight.
"It's done!"
Kisho Kurokawa shot to his feet, sketchbook clutched like a relic, eyes feverish.
"Miss Saionji! Look! This is ultimate 'symbiosis'! The symbiosis of desire and nature!"
On the page: the glass dome blazing on snow, villa clusters around it like stars around the moon. And in one corner, deep in the trees, a few low buildings barely visible.
"Perfect."
Satsuki smiled and clapped.
"Mr. Kurokawa, this is exactly what I want."
"Budget is unlimited. I have one requirement: speed."
"I want it lit by this time next year. Saionji Construction and Saionji Industries will give you everything."
"No problem!" Kurokawa hugged the sketchbook to his chest. "I'll mobilize the entire firm! This will be my masterpiece!"
The sun set west.
Orange sunset turned Mount Yotei's snowcap gold-red, like a volcano about to blow.
Wind picked up. Snow stung.
"Let's go."
Satsuki tightened her fur collar and turned toward the SUV at the road.
"The show here is done."
"Where next?" Amy hurried after her, stepping in Satsuki's footprints.
"Shakotan Peninsula."
Satsuki didn't look back. Wind broke her voice.
"I'm taking you to see the real 'Imperial Kitchen.'"
"Imperial Kitchen?"
"Yes."
Satsuki opened the car door. Heater warmth rushed out, chasing the cold.
She looked once more through the window at the snowfield about to be paved with desire and money.
"This is paradise for the masses. They eat industrial fodder — pretty packaging or not, it's still fodder."
"But some things money can't buy."
"Time. Life. Wild strawberries picked from a cliff that haven't touched dust."
The door shut.
Black SUV started. Tires crunched snow.
It rolled away from the silent valley, northwest toward the coast.
Behind them, Kisho Kurokawa still stood there, arms waving at the empty valley.
Snow thickened. Wind blurred him out.
The craziest dream of the bubble era — Japan's inflating desire made concrete — was about to rise from this empty snowfield, powered by capital.