The Saionji family study carried the distinct atmosphere of the early Showa era. A deep crimson Persian carpet swallowed every footstep. A modestly bright chandelier hung from the high ceiling, while walnut bookshelves stretched all the way to the ceiling, lined with rows of books that gave off the old scent of paper, leather, and a faint trace of mildew.
Saionji Shuichi sat behind the wide mahogany desk.
A half-burned Seven Stars cigarette was pinched between his fingers, a long column of ash dangling precariously without being flicked away.
Spread open before him were not ancient rare books, but several densely printed financial statements and the five-billion-yen loan proposal drafted by Sumitomo Bank.
The dim yellow glow of the desk lamp carved deep shadows across Shuichi's face, etching the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes like dried riverbeds.
"Five billion…"
Shuichi murmured to himself.
In the silent late-night hours, the sound of rain hammering against the windows felt especially mournful. Each impact struck his taut nerves like a blow.
As the current head of the Saionji family, Shuichi was far less glamorous than he appeared to the outside world. Only he knew the truth: this once-illustrious ducal house was like a wooden boat with a freshly painted exterior but riddled with termites inside. Though they still held a seat in the House of Peers and maintained a facade of dignity through their ancestors' political legacy, their financial distress was becoming impossible to hide.
To cover the family's enormous expenses, maintain unproductive villas and gardens, and support a large staff of old servants who still clung to outdated pomp, the family's liquid funds had long been stretched to the breaking point.
Currently, the Saionji family relied mainly on the machinery parts factory in Osaka and the textile factory in Nagoya to keep cash flowing. For the past two years, thanks to America's insatiable spending power, the export business had indeed been booming.
"If I just sign…" Shuichi's gaze lingered on the blank signature line.
Kenjirou's words echoed in his ears: "That's U.S. dollars, big brother!"
Expanding production, doubling capacity—profits would double too. At the current exchange rate, simply signing his name could boost the Saionji family's assets by thirty percent next year. That would silence the branch family's complaints and let him hold his head high among his peers in the House of Peers.
But…
His daughter's frightened eyes at the funeral earlier that day, along with her innocent remark about the "dam," had lodged themselves in his heart like an unremovable thorn.
"The Americans are going to get angry."
Shuichi irritably crushed the cigarette butt into the crystal ashtray, grinding it with such force he nearly shattered the glass. He stood up and walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the garden lay pitch black; only occasional flashes of lightning revealed the pine trees thrashing wildly in the wind and rain.
Those pine trees were just like Japan right now—lush and thriving on the surface, but this rain was falling far too hard.
Tap… tap…
An extremely soft knock interrupted Shuichi's thoughts.
He paused and glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly midnight.
"Come in."
The heavy wooden door creaked open a crack, and a small figure squeezed through with effort.
Satsuki wore light pink pure-cotton pajamas, her hair slightly disheveled over her shoulders. She carried a silver tray that looked far too large for her small frame. On it sat a cup of hot milk and a plate of pound cake cut unevenly, with a few crumbs scattered outside the plate.
"Father…" Satsuki's voice was soft and slightly sticky, carrying a sleepy nasal tone. "I saw the study light was still on."
Shuichi's tightly furrowed brows relaxed instantly. He hurried over, took the heavy tray from his daughter's hands, his tone a mix of reproach and deep affection. "Why aren't you asleep yet? You should have let the night maid handle something like this."
"I wanted to make something for Father myself." Satsuki lowered her head, twisting her fingers nervously. "This is the cake Aunt Sato taught me to bake this afternoon. Although… it's not cut very neatly, the taste should be fine."
She looked up, her eyes expectant yet apprehensive. "Mom used to say that when Father worked too late, eating something sweet would make him feel better."
Mentioning his late wife sent a sharp twinge through Shuichi's heart. Looking at the uneven slices of cake, his eyes grew slightly moist.
"Thank you, Satsuki." He placed the tray on the coffee table and gently pulled his daughter onto the leather sofa. "Dad happens to be hungry right now."
He picked up a piece of cake and took a bite. The texture was a little dry and overly sweet, but in that moment, it tasted like the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.
Satsuki sat obediently beside him, holding the cup of hot milk with both hands and offering it to her father as she watched him eat.
At an angle Shuichi couldn't see, Satsuki slightly lowered her eyelids.
Of course she hadn't baked the cake herself. How could she waste precious time standing in front of an oven? She had simply asked the kitchen to prepare it, then deliberately cut it poorly with a knife and sprinkled a bit of flour on top to make it look freshly made.
For Satsuki, who in her past life had mastered reading opponents' micro-expressions across negotiation tables, Shuichi's current emotional state was an open book.
Anxiety. Fatigue. Touched. Guilt.
This exact mixture was when psychological defenses were at their weakest—the perfect moment to plant an "ideological virus."
"Is Father reading something difficult?" Satsuki pointed at the documents on the desk.
"Yes, adult work," Shuichi replied, taking a sip of milk. The warmth spread through his stomach. "It's about the factories."
"Is it about making lots of things to sell to the Americans?" Satsuki asked, pretending to be curious.
Shuichi sighed. "Yes. Everyone says it's a good opportunity."
Satsuki didn't reply right away. Instead, she pulled a dog-eared magazine from her pajama pocket.
It was the previous issue of *Time*. The cover featured a black-and-white photo of a stern-looking elderly American man—Federal Reserve Chairman Paul Volcker.
"What's this?" Shuichi asked curiously.
"Uncle William gave it to me. He said I should practice my English reading." Satsuki spread the magazine across her lap and turned to a folded page. It was an in-depth analysis of U.S. high-interest-rate policy and trade deficits, packed with obscure economic terms.
To a normal twelve-year-old Japanese girl, it would have looked like hieroglyphics.
But Satsuki's finger stopped precisely on a paragraph about the "overvalued U.S. dollar exchange rate."
"Father, there's a word here I don't understand." She pointed at it and tilted her head. "'Artificial'… what does it mean?"
Shuichi leaned closer. "It means 'man-made' or 'false.'"
"False…" Satsuki nodded thoughtfully. Then, tracing her finger along the line as if reading a fairy tale, she recited in a stumbling voice (actually improvising the translation):
"The article says… the current U.S. dollar is like an… 'artificial dam.' It holds the water very, very high to prevent… um, to prevent the monster of inflation from escaping."
She paused and looked up at her father, eyes sparkling. "But Father, what happens if the water behind the dam gets too full?"
Shuichi was taken aback. He answered instinctively, "Then you have to open the floodgates to release the water, otherwise the dam will collapse."
"Then when the water is released, where does it go?"
Satsuki extended her pale little hand, drawing a parabola in the air before letting it land heavily on the coffee table—pointing directly at the loan contract.
"Splash—" she imitated the sound of rushing water. "All the little houses downstream will be washed away, right?"
Shuichi's pupils contracted sharply.
Dam. Water level. Flood release. Downstream.
The professional English report had remained abstract in his mind, but his daughter's simple metaphor hit like a hammer, shattering his wishful thinking.
The U.S. dollar was a landslide lake hanging overhead.
Japan's export enterprises were the villagers living at the foot of the dam.
To curb inflation, Volcker had pushed U.S. interest rates sky-high, drawing global capital into America and keeping the dollar artificially strong. This made Japanese goods ridiculously cheap, fueling a massive export boom.
But this "good life" rested entirely on the dam not breaking.
If one day the Americans decided they no longer needed to hold back the water—or if the dam could no longer hold—what would happen?
They would open the floodgates.
The dollar would plummet. The yen would soar.
Shuichi suddenly stood up so abruptly that he knocked over the milk cup. Milky white liquid spilled across the red carpet in a shocking stain.
He didn't bother to clean it. Instead, he strode to the huge world map on the wall, his eyes sweeping back and forth across the Pacific Ocean.
"So that's it… So that's it!"
His voice trembled. He had finally connected his daughter's daytime warning—"The Americans are going to get angry"—with this "dam theory."
If the yen appreciated from the current 250 yen per dollar to 200, or even 150…
The Saionji family factories operated on profit margins under ten percent. Once exchange-rate fluctuations exceeded ten percent, exports would run at a loss. If they exceeded thirty percent, the more they sold, the more they would lose.
At that point, burdened with five billion yen in debt and warehouses full of unsellable goods…
Shuichi felt a chill race down his spine. Cold sweat instantly soaked through his shirt.
That fool Kenjirou and those bloodsucking bankers—they were pushing the entire Saionji family straight into a pit of fire!
"Father?" Satsuki sounded frightened by his sudden agitation. She hugged the magazine and shrank into the corner of the sofa like a startled fawn. "Did I… read it wrong?"
Shuichi snapped back to reality. He turned and looked at his daughter, who now appeared so small and vulnerable.
In that moment, a sacred halo seemed to surround this twelve-year-old girl in his eyes.
Was this the protection of his late wife? Or the guidance of the Saionji ancestors?
A child who had never been exposed to business had, with nothing but a magazine and pure intuition, seen through a truth that professional bankers—filled with jargon—either couldn't see or deliberately hid.
"No, Satsuki. You didn't read it wrong."
Shuichi walked over and knelt down so his eyes were level with hers. Ignoring the spilled milk on the carpet, he gripped his daughter's thin shoulders with both hands.
"You read it very correctly. In fact… far too correctly."
A light he had never shown before burned in his eyes—relief at a narrow escape, and the pure ecstasy of discovering a hidden treasure.
"Satsuki, your mother always said you had keener intuition than anyone else. I used to think it was just a mother's praise, but now…" Shuichi's voice choked slightly. "You are the last gift heaven left for your father."
Satsuki looked at her father so close to her.
She could feel the real warmth of his palms—the genuine body heat of a living person.
Inside this body, the cold Wall Street soul felt nothing, even finding the scene somewhat ridiculous.
Intuition? That was simply logical judgment forged through countless sleepless nights analyzing macroeconomic data.
But on her face, she bloomed a smile sweet enough to melt ice. She reached out her small hand and gently wiped the cold sweat from her father's forehead.
"Although I don't really understand, as long as I can help Father, Satsuki is very happy."
She paused for a moment, then added softly, as if the thought had just occurred to her, delivering the final blow:
"Then… since the dam is going to open its floodgates, shouldn't we move the things placed downstream to safety? For example… instead of using the money to build factories, change it into something else?"
Shuichi stood up and took a deep breath. His mind was already racing ahead.
If they weren't going to expand production, how should they use that five-billion-yen credit line?
Since they could predict the coming flood (the dollar's depreciation), the strategy shouldn't be manufacturing goods to exchange for dollars, but rather…
"You're right." Shuichi walked back to the desk. This time, his steps were no longer heavy—they carried firm resolve.
He picked up the loan proposal.
"We need to move to higher ground."
He looked at his daughter, his eyes deepening with new intensity. "Satsuki, if the family doesn't build factories, where do you think the money should go? Don't overthink it—just tell Daddy what you feel."
Satsuki jumped down from the sofa, still holding the *Time* magazine, and walked barefoot across the carpet to her father's side.
She didn't answer directly. Instead, she pointed to the Wall Street Bull symbol on the magazine cover, representing American financial hegemony.
"Father, since the American dam is going to release its water, surely someone will be there to catch it when it flows out, right?" She blinked innocently. "Why don't we go over there and wait for the water to turn into gold?"
The hint was extremely vague, but to the now "awakened" Shuichi, it was as clear as the most precise strategic directive.
Short the U.S. dollar. Go long on the yen.
Use financial leverage to ride the coming tsunami.
Shuichi closed his eyes, running the scenario through his mind. This was a massive gamble—betting the Saionji family's century-old foundation.
Yet when he looked into his daughter's bright eyes on this rainy night, the fear in his heart miraculously vanished.
"Okay."
Shuichi opened his eyes and picked up the fountain pen.
He did not sign the factory expansion contract. Instead, he took out a blank sheet of letter paper. The pen scratched across the surface.
"To the President of Sumitomo Bank: Regarding the Saionji Family's Application to Adjust the Purpose of Financing and Establish Offshore Investment Accounts…"
After writing the title, Shuichi set the pen down and let out a long, relieved sigh.
The thunder outside the window seemed to have receded a little.
"Satsuki, it's late. You should go to sleep." Shuichi gently patted his daughter's head. "Tomorrow—no, starting tomorrow—the family is going to become very busy. Some uncles might get very angry. Will you be afraid?"
Satsuki hugged the magazine to her chest and shook her head.
"As long as I'm with Father, Satsuki isn't afraid of anything."
She smiled sweetly and turned toward the door.
As she pushed it open, she paused, her back to her father, and said softly, "By the way, if the cake doesn't taste good, Father doesn't have to force himself to finish it."
With that, she closed the heavy wooden door behind her.
Shuichi paused for a moment, then shook his head with a wry smile.
"This child…"
…
The corridor was pitch black.
The moment the door clicked shut, the sweet smile vanished from Satsuki's face.
She leaned against the door panel, listening to her father's excited voice making phone calls inside—full of commanding energy.
She lowered her head and looked at the magazine in her hands. Volcker on the cover seemed to stare back at her coldly through the paper.
"Old man," she whispered in flawless New York English, her finger tracing the stern face, "you're going to make me rich. Again."
She casually tossed the magazine—now regarded as a "revelation"—into the trash bin at the end of the corridor.