Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

After these words were spoken, the air in the room froze.

Takamichi heard his own heartbeat suddenly grow very loud. The weight of these words had already transcended the realm of polite pleasantries, and could not be summarized by any ordinary commercial terms.

What the Sumitomo Main Family handed over was a noose — with one end tied around their own neck, and the other handed to the girl sitting opposite them, who was dressed in a light purple homongi.

Did it feel humiliating?

Takamichi did not think so. The current Sumitomo Zaibatsu was riddled with holes, and it was all the doing of those people from the Hakusuikai.

They were just a bunch of merchants who used the Sumitomo name but had no sense of shame, driven solely by profit.

The Saionji Family was currently at the height of their influence and, like the Sumitomo family, belonged to the Kazoku. The girl before him possessed terrifyingly formidable capabilities. Truth be told, if the Sumitomo family could become the Saionji Family’s ”dog,” it might actually be a good thing.

Wasn’t Mitsui, who was in a similar position to Sumitomo, also being run ragged by the Nimokukai? If Sumitomo didn’t board the Saionji Family’s ship now, they might end up as brothers in misfortune with Mitsui.

Thinking of this, Takamichi looked at his father’s face again, which seemed to bear an expression of great humiliation — wait, that wasn’t right. If even he could figure this out, how could his father not understand?

Oh, right, of course. If he didn’t put on a painful act at a time like this, how would the other party feel that Sumitomo had paid a heavy price?

He also clenched his teeth with effort, though it looked more like he was suffering from constipation.

Shuichi, sitting opposite, made a move. He reached out to pick up the red envelope and pulled out the document inside.

He read through it clause by clause. When he reached the last page, his gaze lingered on the signature block for three seconds — there were two signature lines there, one for ”Sumitomo Yoshio” and the other for ”Saionji Shuichi.”

Below the signatures was the stamping area, where the Sumitomo family’s square seal had already been stamped.

Having finished reading, he nodded and handed the document to Satsuki.

Satsuki took the document. Her movements were very slow as her fingers pinched the edge of the paper, turning it page by page.

Takamichi noticed that her smile seemed to grow increasingly bright.

Then she closed the document and placed it gently on the coffee table, pressing it down onto the washi paper slip.

”Mr. Sumitomo should be well aware,” Satsuki spoke. ”Once this authorization letter takes effect, the ’blood type’ of the Sumitomo-affiliated manufacturing industries will change — for the first time, the blood of the Saionji Family will flow through their foreign trade settlement channels.”

Yoshio’s back straightened slightly.

”Rather than letting that short-sighted crowd from the Hakusuikai completely drag Sumitomo down to its death, I would rather undergo a blood transfusion.”

Satsuki tilted her head slightly, her gaze falling on Yoshio’s face.

Her posture became a bit more casual as she slightly tilted her head.

”Even if this means,” Satsuki continued, her tempo a beat slower than before, ”that the Sumitomo family’s say in the manufacturing sector will change from ’dominant’ to merely ’suggestive’?”

Yoshio fell silent.

The silence lasted a long time.

It was so long that Takamichi could hear the rustling of the wind through the sacred bamboo in the courtyard, the distant tinkling of wind chimes, and the cawing of a faraway crow as it flew from east to west across the sky, leaving a long, trailing echo.

Then Yoshio spoke. His voice was very deep, as if squeezed from the very bottom of his chest, each word carrying immense weight.

”A four-hundred-year-old family name cannot be ruined at the hands of a bunch of bankers who only know how to balance books. If the Saionji Family can preserve the Sumitomo brand, that is enough.”

He looked into Satsuki’s eyes.

”For the Kazoku, the continuation of the family name must be the absolute priority.”

Once these words were spoken, the tension in the room’s air dissipated.

Takamichi felt it. It was a very subtle change, like a taut string suddenly being loosened by a turn. Although it was still vibrating, there was no longer any danger of it snapping.

He looked at his father — Yoshio’s shoulders had slumped slightly. He then looked opposite — Shuichi’s fingers had stopped tapping on his knee, and Satsuki’s hand had moved away from the rim of her teacup to rest on the document.

Shuichi picked up the conversation.

”The Saionji Family accepts the cooperation. The specific matters will be directly handled between our trading department and the presidents of the Sumitomo-affiliated manufacturing companies.”

He glanced at Takamichi. His gaze lingered for half a second before moving away.

”If Young Master Takamichi ever has any needs in the future, you may also come to Tokyo at any time.”

This was a polite remark, the courtesy of an elder to a junior.

But Takamichi understood the underlying meaning — the words ’have any needs’ implied possibility, while ’at any time’ signified an open door.

The other party made no promise, but it was more useful than one.

This was a thread that, from this day forward, tied him to the Saionji Family.

Satsuki gently added another sentence.

”The technical review by the Hakusuikai is expected to continue for another two to three weeks. During this period, Executive Director Murata of Sumitomo Chemical can conduct a trial order first — using Saionji Trading’s letter of credit to process the first overseas settlement.”

She paused. ”The limit for the first transaction will be capped under five million dollars. The documentation requirements and review process will be directly coordinated between our trading department and Executive Director Murata. If all goes well —” the corners of her mouth curled up by a single millimeter, ”the subsequent limits can be gradually relaxed.”

Yoshio nodded slightly.

Without another word, he reached out to push the red envelope back to the center of the table, and then stood up, his movements slow but steady.

Takamichi stood up after him, and the two bowed once more to Shuichi and Satsuki — this time, the angle of their bow was five degrees shallower than when they had entered.

Shuichi did not stand up. He merely leaned forward slightly and pressed his right hand gently against his knee as a return gesture.

Satsuki did not stand up either. She merely raised her eyes, watching them walk toward the shoji door.

Her gaze did not linger on Yoshio, but fell instead on Takamichi’s retreating figure — staying there for two seconds before shifting away to rest on the red berries of the sacred bamboo outside the window.

Fujita Tsuyoshi was waiting outside. He slid open the shoji door and stepped aside to make way, his posture as respectful as ever.

As they crossed the courtyard, Takamichi’s pace was somewhat slower than when they had arrived.

This time, he was in the mood to appreciate the Saionji Family’s courtyard. His gaze swept once more over the white sand of the karesansui dry landscape. The raked patterns were still neat, but the damp marks on the surface of the floating stone seemed to have deepened — or perhaps the light had changed, casting shadows at a different angle.

When he reached the top of the stone steps, he couldn’t help but look back.

In the end, that matter was never brought up. For some reason, while he felt a sense of relief, he also harbored a slight regret.

The shoji door of the reception room was already closed. The warm yellow light shone through the paper door, casting two blurry silhouettes — one sitting, the other turned slightly sideways, as if they were discussing something.

The silhouettes were very still, frozen behind that thin layer of washi paper.

”Father,” Takamichi turned back and asked in a low voice. There was a hint of trembling in his voice that he himself hadn’t noticed. ”How much... do you think they will believe?”

Yoshio was already walking down the stone steps. The heels of his leather shoes tapped against the stone slabs, one-two, in a very steady rhythm.

Hearing Takamichi’s question, he stopped but did not turn around.

”Yoshio’s resolve is real,” Takamichi heard his father say — no, Yoshio was repeating what Satsuki had just said.

No, that wasn’t right. Yoshio was answering another question, one that Takamichi hadn’t asked aloud.

”But the presidents of the Sumitomo-affiliated manufacturing companies might not all be willing to jump ship with the Main Family.”

Takamichi was stunned. Standing at the top of the stone steps, he watched his father’s figure descend step by step.

The sunlight stretched Yoshio’s shadow very long, casting it onto the stone-paved road with its edges slightly distorted.

”That is why she wants to use Sumitomo Chemical for a trial order first,” Yoshio continued, his voice slightly scattered by the wind but still clear. ”When the first letter of credit is issued, the Hakusuikai will surely be furious. The more furious they are, the clearer it will be to the manufacturing presidents — that they no longer have any way back.”

Takamichi stood in place, unmoving. His gaze pierced through the courtyard, past the closed shoji door, and fell in the direction of the reception room.

He couldn’t see anything. He could only see the warm yellow halo cast by the washi paper lanterns, and at the edge of the halo, the faint, deepening twilight.

”Only, by doing this,” Yoshio’s voice drifted up from below the stone steps, carrying a trace of exhaustion, ”the Sumitomo family will be completely bound to them.”

Takamichi suddenly understood a great deal.

”...”

He took a step forward, walked down the stone steps, and caught up to his father’s side.

One after the other, they walked toward the car parked by the roadside.

The car doors closed. The engine started. The car slowly drove away.

In the rearview mirror, the Saionji Family’s wooden lattice gate gradually shrank, finally turning into a blurry dark brown square embedded in the background of the courtyard as twilight deepened.

The outlines of the stone lanterns were still visible, their mossy patches merging into one in the shadows.

Takamichi turned his gaze back to look at his father sitting beside him. Yoshio had his eyes closed, leaning against the back of the seat, his fingers gently tapping on his knee in a very slow rhythm, as if counting something.

The car merged onto the Shuto Expressway, joining the evening traffic.

Tokyo’s skyline began to emerge in the distance, the glass curtain walls of the high-rises reflecting the residual glow of the setting sun, with golden-red patches of light flowing across the car windows.

Takamichi did not speak again.

He merely stared out the window, watching the play of light and shadow shatter, reform, and shatter again on the glass.

From this day on, the blood type of the Sumitomo family was going to change.