October 13, 1988, 11:45 AM.
Tokyo, Shinjuku. Kabukicho Ichibangai Entrance.
Ten days had passed since the contract was signed.
Though autumn had arrived, the midday sun was still fierce, piercing through the gaps between billboards and baking the asphalt until it shimmered with an oily sheen.
This was the most densely populated block in all of Japan — a Shura Field for convenience stores.
Tanaka Kenichi stood behind the counter of the FamilyMart Shinjuku 3-Chome branch. His eyes kept flicking to the wall clock.
Click. Click.
The second hand moved. Each tick hit his eardrums like a drumbeat.
Fifteen minutes left.
Soon, the nearby office buildings would erupt like kicked beehives. Thousands of starving salarymen would flood the streets. They had only forty-five minutes to solve lunch. In this era where time was money, they wielded their thousand-yen bills like bayonets charging a battlefield.
Normally at this time, Tanaka would be shouting into the phone at the distribution center, screaming at the bento truck stuck in traffic, or fretting in the back room over last night's unsold rice balls about to be written off.
But today, the store was eerily quiet.
Just ten minutes ago, a cold-chain truck marked "S.A. Logistics" had pulled up to the back door.
Unload. Stock the shelves. Leave. Not a word of nonsense. The efficiency was terrifying.
"Manager…"
Yoko, a part-time university student restocking, held a stack of freshly shelved rice balls. Her voice carried confusion and excitement.
"Has our parent company been acquired? This kind of display…"
Tanaka leaned out and looked at the fresh-food shelves.
They had an unprecedented presence.
Gone were the tidy but refrigerated, lifeless shelves. In their place was a dazzling, vibrant "food wall."
In the most prominent position hung a massive banner poster printed with an enticing autumn-leaf pattern and bold black text:
****
In this era of chain convenience stores chasing "standardization" and "uniformity," every shop was desperate to sell identical items to cut costs. This move — breaking convention to emphasize "seasonality" and "regional scarcity" — was, for the current retail industry, a dimensional strike.
The first tier held neatly arranged "Hand-rolled Rice Balls." They used the latest individual packaging tech, and the rice was fresh Hokkaido crop harvested just this year.
, , .
Every label was printed with a large "100 Yen."
In an era where 7-Eleven still sold them for 120 to 140 yen, the satisfaction you could buy with one coin was practically cheating.
His gaze dropped.
The bento section.
— 380 Yen. — 400 Yen.
Beside the register, the oden pot steamed. In the past, the broth here was mostly industrial concentrate — stable flavor, but always with a lingering MSG aftertaste.
But now, a rich amber broth bubbled in the pot. The new supplier must have gone mad, actually using high-grade Hokkaido ma-kombu and thick-cut bonito to make a natural dashi simmered for hours. The overpowering aroma had turned a large area around the register into an absolute domain of oden. Even customers who weren't hungry would feel hungry smelling it.
.
Tanaka rubbed his eyes.
He picked up a pumpkin pudding labeled "Autumn Limited." The weight and the condensation on the cup told him it had just left the cold chain.
"Is this… the reform from above?"
Tanaka was bewildered.
Do these things not have costs? Selling at these prices? Or does the top brass intend to start a price war?
Ding-dong—
The automatic doors slid open.
There was no time for Tanaka to think.
Twelve o'clock had arrived.
The first wave of salarymen in gray suits rushed in. They'd originally planned to grab a random piece of bread to make do while complaining about skyrocketing prices.
But when their eyes swept the fresh-food shelves — especially the prominent "Hokkaido Autumn Limited" and "100 Yen" labels — their pace involuntarily slowed.
A middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses stopped hesitantly and reached out to pick up an "Autumn Salmon Rice Ball." He weighed it in his hand, surprised it was so heavy, then leaned in to look at the oily luster of the rice through the transparent packaging, confirming it wasn't one of those "show pieces" with only a thin layer of meat on top.
"At this price… it's not expensive anyway, let's give it a try."
He muttered to himself, tossed the rice ball into his basket, and after a moment's thought, reached for a sujiko one too.
"Hey! Inoue! Forget Matsuya! Come look at this!"
That shout was like a stone thrown into a lake.
"Direct from Hokkaido? For real? It looks pretty good…"
"Autumn limited salmon rice balls for only 100 yen? Give me two to try."
"Hmm? Today's oden smells different?" A salaryman sniffed, looking at the pot by the register in surprise. "It smells almost as rich as the stuff in specialty shops. Hey, old man, let me try a piece of radish and some beef tendon."
Customers with the mindset of "trying something new" and "scoring a bargain" began to gather. The once-spacious aisles gradually became crowded as inquisitive hands reached out toward the shelves.
Outside, passersby saw the bustling scene through the glass and, driven by herd mentality, pushed through the doors in a steady stream. The "ding-dong" of the automatic door was initially one after another, but eventually, because the sensor was blocked by the continuous flow of people, it simply stayed open.
In just a few short minutes, the once quiet convenience store became like a train carriage during morning rush, where even turning around was difficult. Those customers who were still observing, seeing the products on the shelves disappear at a visible speed, no longer hesitated and joined the buying ranks.
The crowd gradually submerged the shelves.
The sense of scarcity from "limited editions" and the desire to try things from "low prices" were rapidly dismantling the psychological defenses of these working-class people.
The beeps of the cash registers merged into one sound, even drowning out the store's background music.
Beep—
Beep—
Beep—
Tanaka stood behind the counter, mechanically repeating the actions of scanning, collecting money, and giving change. His brain was somewhat numb, but the thrill of counting money spread through his entire body via his fingertips.
Suddenly, he realized a problem.
At this frantic purchasing speed, the "limited" rice balls on the shelves would soon be gone. According to the usual process, he would have to call the distribution center immediately for restocking, but even then, the delivery truck wouldn't arrive until 4:00 PM.
That would mean for the latter half of the lunch rush, he could only stare blankly at empty shelves, watching helplessly as guests attracted by the aroma left in disappointment.
"Manager! Only two rows of autumn salmon rice balls left!" Yoko shouted from the back.
Just as Tanaka was about to reach for the phone—
Zzt—
The newly installed, somewhat bulky black terminal beside the register suddenly spat out a piece of thermal paper.
Tanaka froze for a moment and picked up the slip.
Tanaka looked out the window in disbelief.
A small S.A. Logistics motorcycle was nimbly weaving through the congested traffic, coming to a steady stop in front of the store.
The delivery rider jumped off, not even removing his helmet, and directly carried in two turnover boxes, placed them on the counter, and turned to leave.
The shelves were filled as soon as they were empty.
This seamless flow gave Tanaka an illusion.
It was as if an invisible pair of eyes were hovering at the ceiling, coldly observing every corner of the store. For every rice ball sold, that ghost would, within milliseconds, dispatch new supplies from a micro-warehouse just a few kilometers away in the city.
No need for him to call. No need for him to predict. He didn't even need to think.
He only needed to do one thing: turn the customer flow into a steady stream of cash…
---
Bunkyo Ward, Private Seika Academy High School Division.
The lunch bell had just rung, and the campus was filled with the aroma of bentos and the soft chatter of students.
Deep within the terrace of the "White Rose Pavilion," a wisteria trellis cast a dappled patch of shade.
Satsuki sat alone at a white round table. An exquisite three-tiered lacquerware food box was placed before her. Inside was kaiseki cuisine meticulously prepared by the family chef, the colors arranged like a work of art.
She gently picked up a piece of tamagoyaki and placed it in her mouth. Looking at the distant scenery, she chewed slowly.
From the shadows of the trees behind her came the soft sound of leather shoes stepping on the gravel path.
Fujita Tsuyoshi, wearing a dark driver's uniform and holding a kraft paper envelope, appeared silently at the edge of the terrace. He did not approach too closely, maintaining a distance where he could hear instructions clearly without disturbing the Young Miss's meal.
"Young Miss."
Fujita's voice was kept very low to avoid disturbing the other students in the distance.
"The data from Shinjuku has been transmitted. Mr. Shimomura asked me to hand it to you."
Satsuki did not turn around, only slightly tilting her head.
Fujita took two steps forward, gently placed the envelope on the corner of the table, and then quickly retreated into the shadows.
Satsuki put down her chopsticks, pressed a napkin to the corner of her mouth, and pulled out the report from the envelope.
It was a piece of freshly printed thermal paper, densely packed with midday sales data from twenty pilot stores in Shinjuku Ward.
Her gaze skipped over the complex figures, landing directly on a line of red text at the very bottom.
****
****
The corner of Satsuki's mouth curled into a very faint arc.
"0.6%."
She whispered the number.
"That fellow Shimomura seems to have successfully crammed all those algorithms into the POS machines."
In the retail industry, a battlefield where every penny counts, this 0.6% represented an almost cruel efficiency of harvest. Countless rice balls that should have gone moldy, spoiled, and eventually been thrown into the trash due to prediction errors were distilled back into hard cash by invisible data.
If their supply isn't as cheap as mine, their ingredient quality isn't as high, their delivery speed isn't as fast, their product gimmicks aren't as strong, their prices aren't as affordable, and even their loss rate isn't as low — how can other suppliers compete with me?
She folded the report and casually pressed it under her food box.
"And the other side?"
"Manager Sato of 7-Eleven stood at the entrance for forty minutes," Fujita replied, his tone flat. "According to observations, he smoked three cigarettes and wiped his sweat five times during that period."
"He is afraid."
Satsuki picked up her chopsticks again.
"When customers get used to eating rice balls direct from Hokkaido for 100 yen, used to that steaming oden simmered with real ingredients for its broth, they can no longer tolerate the coldness of industrial assembly-line flavors."
"It is hard to go from luxury to frugality."
She picked up a pickled plum, its bright red color appearing exceptionally striking against the white rice.
"Contact the headquarters in Chiyoda Ward."
Satsuki looked at the plum, her eyes calm.
"Since we've smashed someone's shop, we should go and greet the owner. I imagine Chairman Suzuki Toshifumi would be very interested in hearing a high schooler's 'convenience store philosophy' after school."
---
Shinjuku, Kabukicho Ichibangai.
The afternoon sun became even more fierce, and distorted heat waves rose from the asphalt surface.
Manager Sato stood behind the glass window of 7-Eleven, the rag in his hand already bone dry.
Across the four-lane road, the long queue at the FamilyMart opposite still hadn't dispersed.
The automatic doors there opened and closed tirelessly, and the people coming and going were all carrying plastic bags filled to the brim, their faces glowing with the satisfaction of having bought good goods at a bargain.
Many people even chose to go to the FamilyMart on another street to buy those so-called "limited new arrivals" because the store looked too crowded, rather than coming to the 7-Eleven right in front of them — Japanese people are, after all, prone to following the crowd. With the new products being so popular, if you returned to the office and everyone else had bought them except you, how would you join the conversation?
Sato turned around and looked at his own desolate shelves.
Bentos priced at 500 yen were neatly arranged; because they had been ignored for so long, a layer of fine water droplets had condensed on the plastic lids.
Ding-dong—
The electronic sound of greeting customers came from the FamilyMart opposite once again.
That sound pierced through the noisy traffic and drilled clearly into Sato's ears.
He subconsciously raised his hand and wiped a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.
The chirping of cicadas felt exceptionally noisy at this moment.