June 30, 1988.
Tokyo was jolted awake at dawn — not by weather, but by the Asahi Shimbun's front page. The headline was printed like an obituary, its black lead characters naming four heavyweights:
Watanabe Michio. Kato Mutsuki. Kato Koichi. Emoto Saburo.
Four pillars of the Liberal Democratic Party — including key figures from former Prime Minister Nakasone Yasuhiro's faction. The report laid out, in damning detail, how their secretaries or relatives had bought unlisted shares of a Recruit subsidiary through proxies.
The fire had finally reached the roof.
---
Akasaka, ryotei 'Tsuruya'.
This was the private room reserved for Iwasaki, supreme advisor to the Mitsubishi Group. In the courtyard, a shishi-odoshi clacked, its hollow knock breaking the dead silence inside.
"Mr. Iwasaki, the tea's gone cold."
Shuichi lifted the iron kettle and refreshed the cup of the old man who held Japan's heavy industry in his palm.
Iwasaki's fingers drummed lightly on the Asahi Shimbun. His brow was furrowed deep.
"Mr. Saionji," Iwasaki's voice was raspy. "Did you invite me here today as 'President of S.A. Group,' as a 'Member of the House of Peers,' or as master of 'The Club'?"
"None of the above."
Shuichi set down the kettle. His tone was gentle, sincere.
"I'm here as a junior who's just as concerned for this country's future."
He tapped the newspaper.
"You understand the situation better than I do. For the past week, the gates of the Ministry of Finance, MITI, and the major banks have been swarmed by furious citizens and reporters. Because of the consumption tax debate, the public is already a live wire."
"And now this list drops. If the financial world keeps backing the Takeshita Cabinet without reservation — if we hand out summer 'political donations' like it's business as usual…"
Shuichi paused, meeting Iwasaki's eyes.
"I'm afraid the public's anger will burn straight through Marunouchi. Radical groups might start putting bricks through the Mitsubishi Building's windows. And you know how it goes — mobs aren't rational. When that happens, Recruit won't be the only textbook case of 'government-business collusion.'"
Iwasaki said nothing.
As a Keidanren core member, he knew exactly how volatile public opinion was. The consumption tax was already picking everyone's pockets. Add a pay-to-play scandal, and you had tinder waiting for a spark.
"So what do you want me to do?" Iwasaki eyed Shuichi warily. "Back that boy Osawa? Impossible. No foundation in the party. Too radical. The financial world doesn't gamble."
"No, you misunderstand."
Shuichi gave a slight smile and raised a hand.
"The Saionji Family would never presume to tell Mitsubishi what to do. I'm merely offering a suggestion."
"What suggestion?"
"Wait and see."
Three words.
"Instead of throwing money into a bonfire, keep your wallet closed for now. Suspend 'discretionary funding' to the Takeshita Faction's core members. The excuse is ready-made: cooperate with the Special Investigation Department's probe. The company must run an 'internal compliance review.'"
"You don't have to side with Takeshita Noboru. You don't have to endorse Osawa. Just… step back. Let the bullets fly for a while."
Iwasaki's eyes flickered.
It was the prudent play. Avoid PR blowback without burning bridges to the ruling faction.
He looked up, reassessing the man across from him.
Iwasaki had always pegged Saionji Shuichi as a ceremonial relic of the House of Peers — a pretty statue under the chrysanthemum crest, there to stamp bills and preserve Old Kazoku dignity.
Today, he smelled blood.
"Mr. Saionji."
Iwasaki picked up his teacup, tone pointed.
"I used to think you Peers only knew etiquette and tradition. I didn't realize your fangs were sharper than the House of Representatives."
"The world's harsh," Shuichi bowed modestly, deflecting. "Without teeth, you can't even protect your family's estate."
"Fine." Iwasaki set the cup down. "Mitsubishi's affiliated firms will suspend disbursement of 'confidential funds' next month. We'll tell the public we're awaiting the Tokusōbu's findings."
Shuichi bowed again, smile impeccable.
"A wise decision."
---
After Iwasaki left, the room fell silent again.
Shuichi kept his posture perfect, but the smile slid from his face. He stared at the cooling tea, and Satsuki's image surfaced — his sister in the study earlier, idly toying with a letter opener.
'Osawa Ichiro is a good blade. But before the bubble bursts, we need someone to push the consumption tax through. Someone to take all the blame.'
Shuichi picked up a glass, thumb against the cold rim.
To the world, he was a lifeline in a crisis. On the Saionji Family's board, Osawa was… an expendable piece. A battering ram to smash the old order's gates.
"Mr. Osawa…"
He murmured to the empty air, voice indifferent. A tool marked for disposal didn't merit sentiment.
"Enjoy your time in the spotlight. The people don't need a hero. They need a scapegoat for the day of reckoning."
He drained the tea in one go.
On this Noah's Ark, there'd never been a seat saved for Osawa Ichiro.
---
That same night. Kioicho, ANA Hotel.
Inside a 36th-floor executive suite, crystal chandelier light was trapped by heavy velvet drapes.
Osawa Ichiro sank deep into a leather sofa, a nearly-spent cigar between his fingers. Ash hung long from the tip. He made no move to flick it, just squinted at the blue smoke curling upward.
Seven or eight men sat around him — his core lieutenants from the old Tanaka Faction days.
Click.
The door opened.
His confidant Hirano entered. No bow. Face grim as the weather outside. He went to Osawa's side, leaned down, and spoke low — but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Mr. Osawa, the faction's General Affairs Bureau just called."
Hirano swallowed.
"Senior Watanabe said, given the current 'emergency period' and to avoid Tokusōbu scrutiny, the 'summer mochi-dai' set for tomorrow… is temporarily frozen."
Dead silence.
Then a ripple of suppressed curses.
"Frozen? That's just cutting our lifeline!"
"Takeshita's trying to starve us out. Without that money, we can't even rent buses to get back to our districts next week."
"That old fox timed this perfectly…"
Osawa finally moved.
He lifted a hand and flicked the long ash away.
"Stop panicking."
His voice wasn't loud. It had a cold, metallic edge that cut through the room.
"Takeshita Noboru's got one card left, and he's drowning. He thinks cutting off the money will make us float belly-up like fish out of water."
Osawa stood, crossed to the floor-to-ceiling window, and yanked the curtains back.
Tokyo Tower blinked red in the rainy night.
"But he forgot — fish die in the water. Sharks… hunt by the scent of blood."
Knock, knock.
The door again.
This time Hatano Tsukasa entered.
Stand-up collar suit, shoulders damp from rain. He didn't seem to notice. Behind him, two silent, broad-shouldered men carried two heavy black hardshell cases.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
Hatano adjusted his glasses, fogged from the rain. A thin, excited smile played on his mouth.
"Saionji's legal team took time dodging the Political Funds Control Act."
The two men set the cases on the marble coffee table.
Click.
The latches popped — sharp in the quiet.
Lids up.
Inside: pristine stacks of cashier's checks and thick bundles of admission tickets for the 'Reform Research Society Inaugural Dinner.'
Each ticket was a legal political donation. No disclosure required.
Total: three hundred million yen.
The room went silent except for breathing.
"Mr. Osawa."
Hatano picked up a check issued by an S.A. Group subsidiary.
"Mr. Shuichi's message: this money is 'clean.' Every yen traceable. The Tokusōbu could audit the books until they fall apart and find nothing."
Osawa turned and stared at the 'ammunition.'
The corner of his mouth curled. Something cruel and triumphant flashed in his eyes.
This was confidence.
With this, he wasn't a traitor awaiting purge. He was a warlord with a war chest. He could already see the steps to the Prime Minister's Office.
And his brilliant future.
Anyone could see Japan's economy would keep soaring. This was the trend. The moment. And he, Osawa Ichiro, would ride it into the history books — that wasn't a dream anymore.
"Hirano."
Osawa's voice dropped, heavy with command.
"Take these. Contact those thirty young Diet members still sitting on the fence."
He grabbed a fistful of tickets and pressed them into Hirano's hand.
"Tell them: what Takeshita Noboru won't give, I will."
"Tell them: sign the 'Reform Research Society' roster tonight, and not only will their summer expenses be covered — I'll fund their elections next year too."
Hirano gripped the tickets, eyes alight.
"Yes! Right away!"
It was brazen bribery. It was also surgical political investment.
Those 'poor' members who never got Recruit shares — the outsiders of Nagatacho, the anxious fringe — were now, by virtue of not being dirty, the cleanest assets on the board.
Osawa's job was simple: use Saionji money to sweep every 'clean stream' into his camp.
"Open the windows."
Osawa relit his cigar and inhaled deep.
"This room reeks of mold. Time for new air."
---
Late night. Saionji Main Residence, study.
A wolf-hair brush, thick with ink, hovered over Xuan paper.
Satsuki's wrist dipped. The tip cut like a blade. The final stroke flung down, ink biting through the fiber.
On the paper, one character, stark and black: 'Discard.'
Shuichi pushed the door open, bringing damp night air with him. He loosened his tie, tossed it on the sofa. His voice was loose with post-battle fatigue.
"Iwasaki agreed to wait and see. And the money's delivered."
"Good."
Satsuki didn't look up. She stared at the character.
"Osawa must think he's Heaven's chosen right now."
"Three hundred million in hand, standing on the Takeshita Faction's corpse," Shuichi poured water, a sardonic edge to his smile. "Anyone would think the clouds are in reach."
"Then let him climb."
Satsuki set the brush on its rack.
"If he doesn't climb to the top, the fall won't make a sound."
She turned. Her clear eyes still held a smile.
"When the bubble pops, truth won't matter to the people."
"What they'll want is something to bleed on. A name to nail to a cross."
"Takeshita Noboru is too old. His blood isn't red enough."
Satsuki's voice was light as a sigh.
"Osawa Ichiro is the perfect sacrifice for the new era."
"I think he really will 'make history,' don't you?"
---
Outside, the summer cicadas had finally gone quiet.
And in the ANA Hotel's blazing banquet hall, Osawa Ichiro raised his glass, basking in cheers from young Diet members. Face flushed. Eyes full of longing for the future.
He didn't know the hand holding that glass had already been priced by fate.
And there were no refunds.