Reborn in Tokyo: From Heiress to Global Tycoon

Chapter 142 Samurai of the Showa Era

December 20, 1988.

Akasaka, Tokyo.

Deep within the ryotei "Kuchietsu," in the most secluded private room "Shokaze," the air was stiflingly heavy. Charcoal burned in the brazier, occasionally emitting a slight crackling sound, but it could not dispel the oppressive atmosphere of an impending storm in the room.

Takeshita Noboru knelt down at the lower end.

The current Prime Minister, hunched over with his hands neatly placed on his knees, looked just like a schoolboy being scolded. An exquisite kaiseki meal lay before him, but he hadn't touched his chopsticks.

Seated in the main seat is the true leader of the Liberal Democratic Party's Keiseikai (Takeshita faction), former Deputy Prime Minister Shin Kanemaru.

Shin Kanemaru held a large cigar between his fingers, and his wrinkled face remained expressionless amidst the swirling smoke.

"Deng."

Shin Kanemaru's voice was hoarse, and he did not use honorifics, but addressed him by his first name.

You should be very clear about the current situation.

He stretched out his short, stubby fingers and tapped the edge of the ashtray, shaking off a long piece of ash.

"The Special Investigation Department's dogs are still relentlessly attacking. Although Aoki... has left, which has temporarily quelled the fire, the public's anger has not subsided."

Kanemaru Nobu blew out a smoke ring.

"The consumption tax bill has been stuck in Parliament for two months. The opposition is threatening to take a slow, inefficient approach and even physically obstruct it. The young people within the party are almost out of control, and Osawa is also making moves."

He leaned forward, and the oppressive feeling instantly approached Takeshita Noboru.

"For the future of the Party, for the survival of the Jing Shi Hui."

"Give up."

Takeshita Noboru's body trembled slightly.

"Mr. Kanemaru, you mean...?"

"The bill to abolish the consumption tax has been passed, and he has announced his retirement."

Shin Kanemaru spoke with absolute certainty.

"If you step down now and take all the blame—the Licourt scandal, the public resentment over the forced taxation—we can package you as a politician who 'resigned to take responsibility.'"

"In this way, the vitality of the Jing Shi Hui can be preserved. The next prime minister will still be one of ours."

This is the most rational stop-loss strategy.

Takeshita Noboru lowered his head, looking at the fine patterns on the tatami mat.

His vision was somewhat blurry.

In Shin Kanemaru's eyes, this was politics. It was about adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing seats; it was about the balance sheet of factional survival. As long as the Keiseikai (Keiseikai government) remained their "family," the death of a prime minister was merely a matter of changing the signboard.

But what echoed in Takeshita Noboru's ears was not just Aoki Ihei's dying words.

There was also the panting of Masayoshi Ohira collapsing onto the podium, and the groans of the nation's finances, burdened by unbearable strain.

"Modern Japan is like a giant ship covered in gold leaf on the outside, but leaking inside."

Takeshita Noboru's heart was ice-cold.

Although the outside world seemed prosperous and land and stock prices were skyrocketing, he, as the helmsman, knew the state of the company better than anyone. The days of relying on issuing deficit bonds to maintain prosperity were over. A rapidly aging society was imminent, and without a stable source of revenue to support the social security system, the country would collapse completely on the ruins of a bursting bubble in ten years.

The consumption tax is the only cement that can fill this hole.

Masayoshi Ohira wanted to do it, but he worked himself to death. Yasuhiro Nakasone wanted to do it, but he compromised for the sake of votes.

This is the "Gate of Hell" that leads to certain death, and it is also the only path Japan can take to become a modern nation.

If I quit now...

Takeshita Noboru's fingers curled slightly.

If Kanemaru Shin had followed his wishes and resigned to preserve his faction, he could have indeed retired unscathed and even continued to serve as an elder behind the scenes, enjoying his later years.

However, that bomb that would cripple Japan's finances will be passed on to the next administration, and the one after that. Now, bad rumors are circulating in the palace, and the coming years will inevitably be a time of political turmoil. Perhaps no one will ever have the power and opportunity he has to force through this bill again.

"Then I'll truly become a mediocre official who only knows how to engage in money-power transactions."

Even if it means bearing eternal infamy, even if it means being called a "tax-increasing demon," this foundation stone must be laid by my generation.

Aoki Itsuki's death was not a reason for him to back down, but rather a sacrifice to cut off his escape route.

Since my political life is destined to end because of scandal, let this broken body burn with final value. Let my "death" be exchanged for the "life" of the tax system.

This is called "managing the world and benefiting the people".

"I……"

Takeshita opened his mouth, his voice hoarse.

He suppressed that overwhelming sense of tragedy deep beneath his seemingly hunched and submissive body.

"I see."

He raised his head, a gentle and humble smile on his face, as always. That smile was like a mask stuck to his face, perfectly concealing the resolute, cold glint in his eyes.

"I will consider it. Please give me some time to prepare my resignation statement."

Shin Kanemaru nodded in satisfaction.

"That's right. Deng, you're a smart man. As long as the green hills remain, there's always firewood to burn."

He raised his glass.

"Drink this and then go back."

Takeshita Noboru respectfully picked up his wine cup and drank it all in one gulp.

……

On the way back.

A black Toyota Century cruised through the congested streets of Tokyo at the end of the year. Outside the window, neon lights flickered, and Christmas decorations adorned the streets.

Takeshita Noboru leaned back in the leather seat in the back, his eyes closed.

The carriage was quiet, with only the sound of tires rolling over the road.

"Go to the official residence."

Noboru Takeshita suddenly spoke.

The driver paused for a moment, then said, "Prime Minister, aren't we going back to your private residence? Your wife is still waiting for you..."

"Go to the official residence."

Takeshita Noboru repeated it, his voice not loud, but it carried a chilling undertone.

"Go straight to the operations room."

Twenty minutes later.

The Prime Minister's official residence, underground operations room.

This facility is typically only activated during major natural disasters or national crises. At this moment, several key staff members and the chairman of the Congressional Operations Committee were urgently summoned, exchanging bewildered glances with alarmed expressions.

Takeshita Noboru walked in.

He took off his slightly bulky overcoat, leaving him in only a white shirt. He didn't sit down, but instead stood at the top of the long table, his hands resting on the surface.

That usual mild and vague temperament has disappeared.

Instead, it was replaced by a desperate ferocity, the kind that only a wild beast on the verge of death possesses.

"Notify the Speaker of the House."

Takeshita Noboru's voice echoed in the empty room.

"Using the Prime Minister's authority to forcibly extend the parliamentary session."

"Extended by four days. Until December 24th."

"What?!"

The chairman of the National Assembly was so startled that he jumped up, and his chair overturned to the ground.

"Prime Minister! This...this is impossible! Didn't Secretary-General Kanemaru say he wanted to..."

"Shut up."

Takeshita gave him a cold look. His gaze was like a rusty knife, not sharp, but enough to cut through flesh.

"I am the Prime Minister."

"I don't care what Kanemaru thinks. I don't care how the opposition parties make a fuss."

He took a pen out of his pocket.

Those were Aoki Itsuki's belongings. The black celluloid pen barrel gleamed faintly under the light.

Takeshita stroked the brush, as if touching the warmth of an old friend's hand.

"I want to pass the Goods and Services Tax Act on the 24th."

"But... the opposition parties will resort to ineffective tactics, and may even resort to violence..."

"Then let them come."

Takeshita Noboru raised his head, a sinister smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm already dead. Dead people aren't afraid of dying again."

"If they want to fight, then fight. If they want to curse, then curse."

"Even if they tear this building down, even if they drag me off the prime minister's seat..."

He slammed the pen heavily on the table.

"I also want to enshrine this bill into Japanese law."

"Go and carry it out."

……

Bunkyo District, Saionji Headquarters.

In the study, the underfloor heating dispelled the winter chill.

Satsuki was kneeling on the carpet, decorating a two-meter-tall fir Christmas tree with Shuichi. She held a golden glass ball in her hand and was standing on tiptoe, trying to hang it on the treetop.

Shuichi watched from the side, wanting to go forward and pick up Satsuki so she could reach her, but he was afraid that doing so would upset Satsuki, so he hesitated.

"Young Miss".

Fujita walked in quickly, holding a fax he had just received, his footsteps heavier than usual.

Something's happened.

"What?" Satsuki finally finished hanging the ball, dusting off her hands. "Takeshita resigned?"

"No."

Fujita glanced at the fax paper, his expression grave.

"The Prime Minister's Office has just issued a statement refusing to dissolve Parliament and forcibly extending the extraordinary parliamentary session to the 24th."

"Furthermore, Prime Minister Takeshita has stated that he will hold a final vote on the consumption tax bill on Christmas Eve."

"What?"

Shuichi's hand, which was hanging the ribbons, stopped in mid-air, and he looked bewildered.

"Has he gone mad? The Takeshita faction is already at its last gasp. Its funding has been cut off, and its morale has collapsed. Forcing a vote at this point will not only prevent the bill from passing, but he will also lose all his dignity."

Satsuki was also taken aback.

She turned around and took the fax from Fujita's hand.

It was written in black and white, and stamped with the Prime Minister's official seal.

She stared at the paper, her brows furrowing little by little.

"wrong."

Satsuki muttered to herself.

"This does not conform to game theory."

"The current situation is a 'certain death' for Takeshita Noboru. As a rational political animal, the best solution is to 'cut his losses'—resign in exchange for the Special Investigation Department stopping the investigation, preserving the faction's strength, and making a comeback."

She walked to the window and looked out at the pitch-black night.

"But he chose to 'die in glory'."

"Even with no chance of winning and negative returns, we still chose to launch a full-scale attack."

Satsuki's fingers tapped lightly on the windowsill.

"Father, if you were a businessman, would you risk your life for a deal that's destined to bankrupt you?"

Shuichi shook his head: "Absolutely impossible. Only a madman would do that."

"Takeshita Noboru isn't crazy either. He's the strategist who brought down Tanaka Kakuei."

Satsuki's eyes deepened, her pupils reflecting the swaying shadows of the trees outside the window.

"Since it's not for profit, then there's only one possibility left."

She turned around, her gaze falling on the old newspaper on the coffee table about Aoki Itsuki's suicide.

"He's paying off his debts."

"Paying back debts to the dead, paying back debts to that so-called 'future of the nation'."

Shuichi was stunned: "You mean... that dead secretary?"

"And...faith."

When Gaoyue uttered those two words, her tone unusually serious.

"I missed one variable in my calculations."

"I have been using the logic of capital to deduce the logic of politics. I believe that everyone is driven by self-interest and avoids harm."

"But I forgot that he was also an old man from the Showa era."

"In their value system, there is something called 'seppuku' (ritual suicide). For some greater cause, or for some promise, they are willing to defy their biological instincts and embrace death."

She picked up a red decorative ball again; it was the color of blood.

"This is troublesome."

Satsuki looked at the red ball in her hand and said softly.

"A greedy politician is easy to deal with because you can bribe him. A rational politician is also easy to deal with because you can threaten him."

"But a politician who is determined to die and wants to be a martyr..."

She hung the red ball at the very bottom of the branch, like a drop of blood falling.

"He has no weaknesses."

"Father."

Satsuki raised her head, and for the first time, a crack appeared on the mask that had always appeared so composed on her face.

"Inform Ichiro Osawa. Tell him to stop being so arrogant."

"Tell him to prepare the strongest shield."

"On Christmas Eve, he will not be facing a drowning dog."

"Instead, it's a demon that's preparing to bite everyone's throats in order to leave Japan with the only legacy of the 'consumption tax'."

Shuichi felt a chill run down his spine when he saw his daughter's serious expression.

"I understand. I'll make sure he gives it his all."

Satsuki nodded slightly.

Then, she got up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside the window, winter rain fell like a curtain, blurring the deep outline of the distant imperial palace.

"After all, it's still the 'Showa' era."

Satsuki's voice was soft, as if she were talking to herself. She stretched out her slender fingers and gently traced them across the cool glass, the gray night sky of Tokyo reflected beneath her fingertips.

"The backbone of the Japanese people has not been completely broken."

"This may be the last legacy left to Japan by the Showa era."

Outside the window, the wind suddenly picked up.

The withered branches tapped against the glass, making a "patter, patter" sound, like some kind of rapid countdown.

Four days until that crazy night.