Reborn in Tokyo: From Heiress to Global Tycoon

Chapter 70 The Barbarians from Hiroshima

February 12, 1988.

Chiba Port, SA Logistics Center Warehouse No. 1.

The sea breeze, carrying dust reeking of rust and engine oil, relentlessly battered the massive corrugated iron walls. Inside the warehouse, dozens of high-pressure sodium lamps hummed with electricity, illuminating the vast space in a dim, oppressive twilight.

"That's too slow. At this rate, are we going to be selling them until the 21st century?"

Yanai stood on the second-floor inspection corridor, holding a stopwatch in his hand, his brows furrowed into a deep frown.

He had just arrived from Hiroshima, still wearing that slightly oversized gray suit. His sharp eyes were fixed on the work area below.

There was none of the laziness he had seen elsewhere. On the contrary, the workers were working with utmost seriousness.

You could even say... they were taking it too seriously.

On the assembly line, dozens of female workers in neat uniforms are processing a batch of T-shirts shipped back from Shanghai.

A female worker picked up a garment, laid it flat on the inspection table, and measured the shoulder width and length with a soft measuring tape, confirming that the error was within 2 millimeters. Then, she picked up a small pair of scissors and carefully trimmed off a nearly invisible loose thread at the cuff.

Next, the clothes are moved to the next process. Another female worker carefully irons out every wrinkle with a steam iron, even the neck label must be ironed flat.

Finally, the clothes were folded into a perfect square according to "department store standards," with even the creases on the edges being as straight as if they had been cut with a knife.

The entire process was smooth, elegant, rigorous, and full of a sense of order.

"One minute and forty seconds."

Tadashi Yanai stopped the stopwatch, his voice as cold as ice.

"It takes a minute and forty seconds to process a T-shirt that costs a few dozen yen?"

He strode down the stairs, the iron steps clanging under his feet.

"Stop! Everyone, stop for a moment!"

Yanai rushed to the assembly line and waved, interrupting the female worker who was ironing clothes.

The female workers were startled and stopped what they were doing, looking helplessly at the warehouse supervisor standing at the end of the assembly line.

The supervisor was an elderly man named Takayuki Shiraishi who had worked for the Saionji family for thirty years. He wore a crisp work uniform, and even in the dusty warehouse, the cuffs remained snow-white.

"Mr. Yanai."

Shiraishi walked over, his face bearing the kind of polite, neither servile nor arrogant manner characteristic of an old-fashioned retainer.

"Is there a problem? Our quality control standards are strictly implemented according to the S-Collection's secondary production line process, and the pass rate is over 99%."

"That's the biggest problem!"

Tadashi Yanai grabbed a freshly ironed T-shirt, the fabric still carrying the warm smell of steam.

"Mr. Shiraishi, what is the estimated price of this outfit?"

"According to the previous meeting, it's 1900 yen," Shiraishi replied quickly.

"Yes, 1900 yen. Not 19000 yen."

Yanai threw the clothes back onto the table.

"Look at what you're doing! Taking measurements? Trimming loose threads? Steam ironing? Are you serving royal tributes?"

"There are 1.2 million pieces in stock! At your embroidery-like pace, you can only ship 2,000 pieces a day. By the time you've stocked up, summer will be over!"

Tadashi Yanai pointed to the mountain of cardboard boxes and spoke very quickly.

"Cancel the measurements! As long as the difference in size isn't visible to the naked eye, just let it pass! Cancel ironing! Cotton clothes will naturally have creases during transport, that's normal! Cancel that damn fine folding! Just fold it twice and put it in the bag!"

"What I need is speed! A throughput of 20,000 items per day!"

The female workers around looked at each other in bewilderment.

Shiraishi's face darkened. He straightened his back and looked directly into Yanai Tadashi's eyes.

"Mr. Yanai, I regret that I cannot comply."

"What did you say?" Yanai Tadashi was taken aback.

"This is a property owned by the Saionji family."

Bai Shi's voice wasn't loud, but every word he uttered was resounding.

"One of the Saionji family's family mottoes is 'Everything that passes through my hands must be of the highest quality.' Even if it's a cheap product sold to the common people, since it bears our label, it must have at least some basic dignity."

Shiraishi picked up the T-shirt that Yanai had thrown down and gently patted out the wrinkles.

"To hand a customer a wrinkled, loosely woven garment is not only disrespectful but also an insult to the Saionji family name."

"We're not setting up a street stall, Mr. Yanai."

Yanai Masashi laughed in exasperation.

Looking at the stubborn old man before him, he felt a deep sense of powerlessness.

This is not a question of who is right and who is wrong.

In Bai Shi's eyes, business is service, reputation, and the aristocratic reserve.

In Tadashi Yanai's view, business is about numbers, efficiency, and a life-or-death struggle.

"Decent?"

Tadashi Yanai pushed up his glasses, and a cold glint flashed behind the lenses.

"Mr. Shiraishi, when your inventory is piling up, your cash flow is broken, and you can't even pay your workers' wages, then 'decency' is worthless."

"What we need to do is not to treat clothes like offerings, but to let them flow out like tap water!"

"If you insist on making T-shirts the way you make kimonos, then there's nothing I can do."

Tadashi Yanai grabbed his briefcase, turned around, and left.

"Since this won't work, I'll go to Shibuya. I want to see if the shops there are also planning to become this 'decent' as they claim."

"Mr. Yanai!"

Behind him came Executive Director Endo's anxious shouts, but Tadashi Yanai didn't turn around.

He walked quickly, as if trying to escape this cage filled with the stench of decay.

……

Two o'clock in the afternoon.

Shibuya, Park Street.

This is the heart of Tokyo's trendsetting scene, where the air is filled with the sweet aroma of crepes.

Diagonally opposite Seibu Department Store, inside a three-story building that is currently under construction with fences in place.

This is the future flagship store of the new brand.

As soon as Yanai stepped into the construction site, before he could even speak, he was so angry at the sight before him that he almost had a stroke.

The floor has already been laid out with a warm-toned, high-quality wood floor. The lighting is soft, and the walls are designed with many built-in niches, and there are even several private rest areas furnished with sample sofas.

The entire space looks warm, elegant, and full of sophistication.

"Stop! Stop! What the hell are you all doing?!"

Yanai rushed to the center of the venue and pointed at the complex partition walls.

"Who gave you permission to put up so many partitions? What's with this maze-like layout?"

A designer wearing a beret walked over. He was from Ando Studio, the firm that worked with the Saionji family, and his name was Suzuki.

"Mr. Yanai, you've arrived."

Suzuki held the blueprints in his hand, looking completely at ease.

"This is to create a sense of 'exploration' and 'privacy.' Our target customers are young people, and according to our research, they don't like those cheap stores where you can see the whole thing from one end to the other. This corridor-style design allows them to discover surprises at every turn."

"Furthermore," Suzuki pointed to the rest areas, "we've specifically increased the service space for our sales assistants. Customers can sit here and have their outfits styled one-on-one by our staff..."

"One-on-one?"

Tadashi Yanai felt his blood pressure soaring.

"Mr. Suzuki, have you forgotten what we sell?"

Tadashi Yanai picked up a sample T-shirt from the side and waved it in front of Suzuki.

"This is a 1900 yen dress! Not a 19 yen fur coat!"

"If I offer one-on-one service, how many sales staff would I need to hire? What would the cost per person be? Would the profit margin on these clothes be enough to cover their salaries?"

"And this maze!"

Yanai pointed to the partitions.

"What I want is openness! Transparency! I want guests to walk in and see thousands of garments piled up in front of them like a tsunami!"

"What I want is that 'Wow, so many! So cheap! I want to buy a whole basket!'"

"Your design makes guests feel this place is expensive, and they won't even dare to touch it!"

Suzuki frowned, clearly displeased with Yanai Tadashi's "vulgarity".

"Mr. Yanai, that's how supermarkets operate. This is Shibuya, on Koen-dori Street. If we make our store look like a large department store, it will not only lower S-Style's image, but it might even affect the S-Collection of Seibu Department Store across the street."

"We must maintain the consistent style of the Saionji school: elegant and composed, not..."

Suzuki paused, then uttered a few words with a hint of disdain.

"Instead of looking like a robbery scene."

It's the same old set again.

It's that damn "tone" and "elegance" again.

Yanai Tadashi felt a sense of suffocation.

The wall he banged into in Chiba, he banged into again here.

These people are not fools at all. They are intelligent, tasteful, and even dedicated.

However, their deeply ingrained "premium mindset" is the most deadly poison in this upcoming era of mass consumption.

They wanted to sell Santana for Rolls-Royce service, but ended up losing everything.

"Okay, very good."

Yanai Tadashi took two steps back, panting, and leaned against a pile of wooden planks.

He knew that yelling wouldn't work.

Although he and this group of people speak the same language, they live under two completely different business logics.

"I'm not going to argue with you."

Tadashi Yanai pulled out his brick-like mobile phone from his briefcase and dialed the number with trembling hands.

The phone rang twice.

connected.

"I am Saionji."

That cool, calm voice came from the receiver.

Tadashi Yanai took a deep breath, as if to expel all the pent-up frustration of the day.

"Young lady! It's me, Yanai! I'm in Shibuya!"

"You have to come over right now! Otherwise, your business will be ruined by these 'too-savvy' smart people!"

"They want to turn this place into a teahouse, not a battlefield!"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

"I see."

They did not ask why, nor did they reprimand him for his rudeness.

"Wait for me for twenty minutes."

The phone hangs up.

Yanai Tadashi held the scalding phone, looking at the exquisite yet absurd construction site before him.

He didn't know what that teenage girl could do.

Will they side with the veteran officials to maintain the family's dignity? Or will they listen to the crazy advice of this outsider?

But he knew this was his last chance.

If it's the former, he would resign without hesitation and return to Hiroshima to run his dilapidated little shop.

If it's the latter...

Yanai looked out the window at the bustling crowd, a glint of fervor flashing in his eyes.

Perhaps then, they could truly carve out a path to success in this restless Tokyo.