December 20, 1988.
Akasaka, Tokyo.
Deep inside Kouetsu ryotei, in the most secluded private room, "Matsukaze," the air was stifling. Charcoal in the brazier crackled softly, but it did nothing to dispel the storm-heavy pressure looming over the room.
Takeshita Noboru sat in the lower seat.
Japan's current Prime Minister hunched his back, hands folded neatly on his knees. He looked less like the nation's leader and more like a schoolboy awaiting a scolding. An exquisite kaiseki meal sat untouched before him.
In the seat of honor was the true helmsman of the Liberal Democratic Party's Keiseikai — Takeshita Faction — former Deputy Prime Minister Kanemaru Shin.
Kanemaru Shin held a thick cigar. Through the swirling smoke, his wrinkled face was unreadable.
"Noboru."
Kanemaru Shin's voice was raspy. He dropped the honorifics, using only the given name.
"You should understand the situation by now."
He tapped a stubby finger against the ashtray, knocking off a long cylinder of ash.
"The dogs from the Special Investigation Department are still biting. Aoki may be gone, and the fire's been damped for now, but the public's anger hasn't subsided."
Kanemaru exhaled a smoke ring.
"The consumption tax bill has been stalled in the Japanese Parliament for two months. The opposition is threatening 'cow-walk' tactics or even physical obstruction. The younger members in our party are slipping from our control, and Osawa's faction is starting to move."
He leaned forward. The pressure bore down on Takeshita Noboru like a physical weight.
"For the future of the party. For the survival of the Keiseikai."
"Give it up."
Takeshita Noboru's body gave a slight tremor.
"Mr. Kanemaru, you mean..."
"Scrap the consumption tax bill and announce your retirement," Kanemaru Shin said, his tone final. "If you step down now and take all the blame — Recruit, the public backlash over the tax — we can package you as a politician who 'resigned to take responsibility.'"
"That way, the Keiseikai survives. The next Prime Minister will still be one of ours."
It was the most rational way to cut their losses.
Takeshita Noboru lowered his head, staring at the fine weave of the tatami.
His vision blurred.
To Kanemaru Shin, this was politics. Addition and subtraction of seats. A balance sheet for the faction's survival. As long as the "house" of the Keiseikai stood, losing one Prime Minister was just changing the sign on the door.
But Takeshita Noboru heard more than Aoki Ihei's deathbed plea.
He heard Ohira Masayoshi gasping as he collapsed on the podium. He heard the groaning of a nation's overburdened finances.
Today's Japan is a giant ship gilded on the outside, but leaking belowdecks.
Takeshita Noboru's heart went cold.
Outside, the world looked peaceful and prosperous. Land and stock prices soared. But as the helmsman, he knew the state of the lower decks better than anyone. The era of propping up prosperity with deficit bonds was over. A rapidly aging society was coming. Without a stable revenue source to fund social security, the country would collapse into the ruins of a burst bubble within ten years.
The consumption tax was the only cement that could plug the hole.
Ohira Masayoshi had tried and worked himself to death. Nakasone Yasuhiro had tried and compromised for votes.
This was the "Gate of Death," but it was also the only path for Japan to become a modern nation.
If I retreat now...
Takeshita Noboru's fingers curled.
If he obeyed Kanemaru Shin, scrapped the bill, and resigned for the faction, he could escape unscathed. He could retire as an elder and live out his years in comfort.
But the bomb that would blow up Japan's finances would just pass to the next man, and the next. The Palace was restless. A period of political instability was inevitable. Perhaps no one would ever again hold the power and timing he had now to force this bill through.
Then I really would be nothing but a mediocre bureaucrat who traded money for power.
Even if I'm cursed for eternity, even if they call me the 'Demon of Tax Hikes,' this cornerstone must be laid by my generation.
Aoki Ihei's death wasn't a reason to retreat. It was a sacrifice that cut off his path of retreat.
Since my political life is doomed to end in scandal, let this remnant burn for one last purpose. Use my "death" to trade for the tax system's "life."
This was called keisei saimin — governing the world and succoring the people.
"I..." Takeshita Noboru's voice was dry.
He buried that tragic, heroic resolve deep beneath his usual hunched, submissive frame.
"I understand."
He looked up, wearing the same lukewarm, humble smile as always. The smile was a mask, glued to his face, perfectly concealing the cold, resolute light in his eyes.
"I'll consider it. Please give me some time to draft my resignation speech."
Kanemaru Shin nodded, satisfied.
"That's right. Noboru, you're a smart man. Where there's life, there's hope."
He raised his glass.
"Drink this, then head home."
Takeshita Noboru lifted his glass respectfully and drained it in one go.
On the car ride back.
The black Toyota Century wove through Tokyo's year-end traffic. Neon flickered outside. Christmas decorations glittered on every street.
Takeshita Noboru leaned against the leather seat, eyes closed.
The car was silent except for the tires on asphalt.
"To the Official Residence," Takeshita Noboru said suddenly.
The driver hesitated. "Prime Minister, aren't we going to your private residence? Your wife is waiting..."
"To the Official Residence," Takeshita repeated. His voice was not loud, but it carried a chilling edge. "Go straight to the war room."
Twenty minutes later.
Prime Minister's Official Residence, Underground War Room.
This room was normally reserved for natural disasters or national crises. Now, several core aides and the Chairman of the Diet Affairs Committee had been summoned urgently. They exchanged uneasy glances.
Takeshita Noboru walked in.
He took off his bulky overcoat, leaving only a white shirt. He didn't sit. He stood at the head of the long table, hands braced on the surface.
His usual vague, lukewarm demeanor was gone.
In its place was the desperate ferocity of a cornered beast.
"Notify the Speaker of the House of Representatives," Takeshita Noboru's voice echoed in the empty room. "Invoke the Prime Minister's authority to forcibly extend the Parliament session."
"Extend it by four days. Until December 24th."
"What?!" The Chairman of the Diet Affairs Committee leapt up, knocking his chair to the floor. "Prime Minister! That's impossible! Secretary-General Kanemaru said we were going to—"
"Shut up."
Takeshita Noboru's look cut him off. His gaze was like a rusted blade — not sharp, but enough to draw blood.
"I am the Prime Minister."
"I don't care what Kanemaru thinks. I don't care how much the opposition protests."
He pulled a fountain pen from his pocket.
Aoki Ihei's memento. The black celluloid barrel gleamed under the lights.
Takeshita Noboru ran his thumb over the pen, as if feeling an old friend's warmth.
"I want the consumption tax bill passed on the 24th."
"But... the opposition will use 'cow-walks,' maybe even violence..."
"Then let them," Takeshita Noboru said, a feral smile touching his lips. "I'm already a dead man. A dead man isn't afraid of dying twice."
"If they want to fight, let them fight. If they want to curse, let them curse."
"Even if they tear this building down. Even if they drag me from the Prime Minister's seat..."
He slammed the fountain pen onto the table.
"I will nail this bill into the laws of Japan."
"Go. Execute it."
Bunkyo Ward, Saionji Main Family Residence.
In the study, floor heating kept the winter chill at bay.
Satsuki was on the carpet, decorating a two-meter fir Christmas tree with Shuichi. She held a gold glass ornament, on her tiptoes, trying to reach a high branch.
Shuichi watched, wanting to lift her up but hesitating, afraid of upsetting her.
"My lady."
Fujita Tsuyoshi strode in, a fresh fax in his hand. His footsteps were heavier than usual.
"Something's happened."
"What is it?" Satsuki finally hung the ornament and brushed gold glitter from her hands. "Did Takeshita resign?"
"No." Fujita glanced at the fax, his expression grim. "The Prime Minister's Official Residence just issued a statement. They've refused to dissolve Parliament and have forcibly extended the extraordinary session until the 24th."
"Furthermore, Prime Minister Takeshita declared that a final vote on the consumption tax bill will be held on Christmas Eve."
"What?"
Shuichi's hand froze mid-air, tinsel dangling from his fingers. Shock washed over his face.
"Is he insane? The Takeshita Faction is at the end of its rope. Funding's cut, members are scattering. Forcing a vote now means the bill will fail and he'll lose the last shred of his dignity."
Satsuki went still for a moment.
She turned and took the fax from Fujita.
Black ink on white paper, stamped with the Prime Minister's official seal.
She stared at it, her brow slowly knitting.
"Something's wrong," Satsuki murmured.
"This doesn't align with game theory."
"In the current situation, this is a 'certain death' scenario for Takeshita Noboru. As a rational political animal, the optimal solution is to cut losses — resign in exchange for the Special Investigation Department halting its probe, preserving the faction for a comeback."
She walked to the window and looked out at the pitch-black night.
"But he chose gyokusai. A suicidal charge, with no chance of winning and a negative payoff."
Satsuki tapped the windowsill lightly with her fingers.
"Father, if you were a businessman, would you risk your life to complete a deal guaranteed to bankrupt you?"
Shuichi shook his head. "Absolutely not. Only a madman would."
"Takeshita Noboru isn't a madman. He's the strategist who brought down Tanaka Kakuei," Satsuki said, her gaze deepening. The swaying shadows of trees were reflected in her eyes.
"Since it's not for profit, there's only one possibility left."
She turned. Her eyes fell on an old newspaper on the coffee table about Aoki Ihei's suicide.
"He's repaying a debt."
"Repaying a debt to the dead, and to that so-called 'future of the nation.'"
Shuichi blinked. "You mean... that deceased secretary?"
"And... conviction," Satsuki said. For once, her tone held a rare solemnity.
"I miscalculated a variable."
"I used the 'logic of capital' to deduce the 'logic of politics.' I assumed everyone acts to seek gain and avoid harm."
"But I forgot he's still an old man of the Showa era."
"In their value system, there's something called seppuku. For a greater cause or a promise, they will defy biological instinct and embrace death."
She picked up another ornament — this one blood-red.
"This is going to be troublesome," Satsuki said softly, looking at the red glass in her hand.
"A greedy politician is easy to handle because you can buy him. A rational politician is easy to handle because you can threaten him."
"But a politician with a death wish, seeking martyrdom..."
She hung the red ball on the lowest branch. It looked like a drop of falling blood.
"He has no weaknesses."
"Father." Satsuki looked up. For the first time, a crack showed in her composed mask.
"Notify Osawa Ichiro. Tell him to wipe that look of contempt off his face."
"Tell him to prepare the strongest shield he has."
"On Christmas Eve, he won't be facing an underdog."
"But a demon prepared to tear out everyone's throats just to leave the 'consumption tax' as his sole legacy to Japan."
Shuichi felt a chill as he looked at his daughter's grave expression.
"I understand. I'll make sure he gives it everything."
Satsuki gave a slight nod.
Then she rose and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside, winter rain fell like a curtain, blurring the distant, deep silhouette of the Imperial Palace.
"It's still the Showa era, after all," Satsuki's voice was very soft, almost to herself. She traced a slender finger across the cold glass, Tokyo's dim nightscape reflected beneath her fingertip.
"The backbone of the Japanese people hasn't snapped yet."
"This might be the final legacy the Showa era leaves for Japan."
Outside, the wind suddenly rose.
Dead branches tapped against the glass — tap, tap — like an urgent countdown.
Four days remained until that insane night.