HPDBC Chapter 197 The Guardian of Bliss
Chapter 197 The Guardian of Bliss
October 15, 1989.
Nikkei Average: 30,120 points
Two o'clock in the afternoon.
Richard, a senior correspondent for The Wall Street Journal based in Tokyo, is walking along a boardwalk made of treated teak wood through the humid, artificial rainforest.
The broad leaves of the broad-leaved plants rustled against each other in the artificial breeze. The air was filled with the salty smell of filtered seawater and the coconut scent of sunscreen.
"The Japanese are absolutely insane."
A fine layer of sweat appeared on Richard's forehead, and he had to unbutton his tweed suit to relieve the oppressive heat of the season.
As the Nikkei index continues to climb, the wealth of the Japanese people is expanding. These Japanese people, who are spending money all over the world, are no longer satisfied with just buying things everywhere. They have started to create wonders.
Richard reached the end of the walkway and looked at the truly towering, hourglass-shaped main building—"Paradise Keep." From this perspective, the building seemed to be supporting the entire world. Its immense size magnified infinitely in his field of vision, bringing a suffocating sense of physical oppression.
"However, it is indeed quite shocking..."
He murmured to himself as he stepped toward the entrance to the lower level.
At the entrance on the ground floor, the ostentatious neon signs typical of entertainment venues are absent. Two heavy, soundproof doors, each four meters high, are tightly closed, their surfaces covered in dark black Italian calfskin.
Richard had just approached.
From the shadows on either side of the gate, two waiters in dark red tailcoats silently emerged. Wearing pristine white cotton gloves, they stood ramrod straight, their movements perfectly synchronized as they gripped the thick brass handles of the large door. With a barely audible hiss of the hydraulic dampers, the leather doors, weighing hundreds of kilograms, were smoothly pulled open, creating a wide passage for the guests.
Richard nodded slightly and stepped across the threshold.
The heavy leather door slammed shut behind him. The instant the door closed, the sound of the artificial waves and the daily commotion and playful noise of tourists on the beach were completely cut off.
A five-centimeter-thick Persian handmade wool carpet lay beneath his feet, its intricate, deep red pattern stretching to the far end of the hall. Richard, wearing leather shoes, stepped on it; the hard leather soles pressed against the soft wool fibers, absorbing every sound of his footsteps perfectly from the expensive carpet.
The humid tropical heat of the outside world vanished completely. In its place came an extremely dry, cool breeze. The fine sweat on Richard's forehead dried in seconds, and the drowsiness he had felt in the artificial rainforest due to the stuffiness disappeared instantly.
He stood still and took a deep breath.
There was a very faint scent in the air, a mixture of citrus and a fresh aroma similar to that after a thunderstorm. Hidden inside the dome, a fresh air system was constantly replacing the air in the hall with a gentle, silent breeze.
Less than half a minute later, Richard noticed something was amiss.
He hadn't drunk coffee or alcohol, but his heart was beating faster than usual. A slight surge of exhilaration, like the feeling after a jog, washed over his cerebral cortex. His mind became unusually focused, and he didn't even feel the fatigue that had accumulated from days of rushing to meet deadlines.
"Too alert..."
Richard muttered to himself. This unusual clarity of mind, contrary to his biological clock, alerted his journalistic instincts.
He looked around.
In the vast first-floor lobby, the walls were completely sealed with dark wainscoting, and there wasn't a single window that allowed any sunlight to see in. As far as the eye could see, whether at the opulent bar or on the dealers' tables, there were no clocks or displays of time.
The panoramic sound system was playing slow, cool jazz music on a loop at a very low volume. The saxophone's languid and lingering sound perfectly filled the background noise gaps in the space.
Richard walked over to a roulette table covered with green velvet and pulled out a high chair to sit down.
"Sir, what would you like to order?" The bartender, wearing a black vest, stepped forward, smiling as he handed over the drink menu, his voice low.
"A soda on the rocks, please." Richard rubbed his throbbing temples and turned to the bartender. "Also, what time is it? My watch seems to have stopped."
The bartender picked up a long-handled stainless steel spoon and placed a flawless, transparent, spherical ice cube into a crystal glass, then poured in soda water. Dense carbon dioxide bubbles burst at the edge of the ice cube, making a soft, hissing sound.
He pushed the water glass in front of Richard, his smile flawless, not even the curve of his lips changing.
"Sir, in Paradise Guardian, time is measured by the number of roulette wheels. Have a good time."
Richard picked up his glass of water, the cool liquid sliding down his throat and relieving the dryness in his vocal cords.
Two meters to the right, a heavy breathing sound came from behind, followed by the dull thud of a glass hitting a wooden bar.
A flushed-faced Japanese real estate upstart sat there. His French-style shirt collar was open, and his once-neat silk tie was now askew. He reeked of a strong mixture of expensive cologne and excessive whiskey.
The newcomer grabbed the mountain of high-denomination standard chips in front of him. Due to his rough and inaccurate movements, several chips, representing millions of yen, slipped through his fingers and fell silently onto the thick wool carpet.
He didn't care at all and shoved the remaining chips heavily onto the red number area on the green table.
"Buy! Add all your bets!"
Richard glanced at the nouveau riche's bloodshot eyes. Judging from the puffiness under his eyes and the bluish stubble on his chin, this man had been sitting there for at least a dozen hours. But his muscles were tense, his movements still frantic, and he showed no sign of wanting to yawn.
The dealer smiled and moved the brass roulette wheel with his slender fingers.
The ivory ball rolled rapidly within the counter-rotating metal track, making a crisp clanging sound.
The ball slows down, passes the obstacle, and falls into the black square.
The red zone chips were ruthlessly collected by the dealer using a transparent acrylic pusher.
The newly rich man froze for a second, then slammed his hand on the table, his palm turning red from the impact. He turned his head and happened to notice Richard's scrutinizing gaze.
Instead of being upset about losing a fortune enough to buy a villa in the Kanto region, he picked up his empty glass and loudly boasted in broken English with a heavy Kansai accent:
"American? What are you looking at! The money I lost just now, I bought a piece of land in Tokyo's Minato Ward, and it's already been recovered in a single day! In Japan these days, you can see gold coins flowing everywhere on the streets!"
Richard looked at the man who had gone mad and was tireless, and then at the flawless ventilation opening above his head.
Casinos typically employ a strategy of artificially controlling a slightly cool temperature to keep people alert, using high-frequency circulating clean air, and adding specially made fragrances to desensitize guests and allow them to stay in one place for as long as possible.
It's an old trick, but it works.
This ground floor lobby doesn't need to rob customers. It's just a patient pump; as long as customers sit here and don't want to leave, it can tirelessly drain the excess blood spilled from Japan's bubble economy.
He's just a gambler, not worth your time.
He kept smiling, pushed aside his high chair, and left.
"What the hell! American, don't go..."
The president behind him was still shouting loudly, but Richard ignored him and prepared to go check the floor above the water pump.
Richard stepped onto the wide Italian Carrara marble staircase.
The stone surface was polished to a mirror shine. As you climb the steps, the special fragrance at the bottom gradually fades, and in its place comes a rich aroma of meat fat that has been grilled at high temperatures.
Arrive at the second floor. Here is a circular, open-air complex of top-tier restaurants.
Directly ahead, a massive display stand, carved from a single block of ice, emanated a chilling white aura. Several chefs in pristine white uniforms were wielding sharp, half-meter-long knives, meticulously butchering a 300-pound bluefin tuna. The blades precisely sliced through the deep red flesh, ice shards scattering under the overhead spotlights.
Richard walked to a teppanyaki bar and sat down.
"One serving of Kobe beef and one serving of sea urchin."
He glanced at the staggering prices on the menu and casually ordered. Anyway, the company would reimburse him for this trip, so why not eat?
A middle-aged man who looked like the president of a company was sitting next to him, picking up a piece of raw beef covered in gold leaf with his chopsticks, putting it in his mouth and chewing it with an exaggerated expression of enjoyment on his face.
"That's absolutely gorgeous."
The president picked up his sake cup and struck up a conversation with Richard, "Hey, foreigner, this is top-grade Wagyu beef, flown in directly from Hokkaido, 10,000 yen a piece! You need to make a reservation a month in advance at a three-star restaurant in Tokyo. Gokurakukan really knows how to do things."
"Yeah yeah……"
Richard offered empty compliments while taking a bite of the sea urchin the chef offered. It was indeed sweet and fresh. His gaze drifted past the bar counter to the half-closed door to the kitchen. There, several wooden crates for storing ingredients were piled up. On the side of each crate was a clear black logo—【S-Farm】.
Richard paused slightly in his grip on his chopsticks. He had investigated the Saionji family's business structure in Tokyo. S-Farm was the Saionji family's core agricultural supply chain in Hokkaido.
These expensive ingredients may not be as pricey as you might imagine.
Richard wiped his mouth, put down his chopsticks, and paid the bill. He walked through the bustling restaurant to the fully transparent observation elevator in the atrium of the tower. He pressed the call button.
"Ding." The elevator doors opened smoothly to both sides. Richard stepped into the glass car and pressed the button for the sixth floor.
Accompanied by the low-frequency sound of the traction cables, the car began to slowly rise.
The special glass on the outside of the elevator car provided him with an excellent perspective for moving observation, and the folded ecosystem of desire inside the giant tower unfolded like a scroll painting.
The elevator passes through the third and fourth floors.
The two levels of space were completely opened up, forming a double-layered circular theater designed in the style of the ancient Roman Colosseum. On the central stage, an invited Broadway troupe was giving a passionate performance under the spotlight. The theater was surrounded by a semi-private ring of deep red velvet boxes.
As the elevator ascended, Richard's line of sight came to rest at the same level as a private room on the fourth floor. He saw the real estate tycoon who had been betting wildly at the roulette table on the ground floor.
The nouveau riche was sitting regally on a velvet sofa, his left arm tightly around a top Ginza hostess dressed in a haute couture evening gown. With his right hand, he grabbed a handful of custom-made chips of an astonishing face value and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed them wildly onto the stage below.
Colorful chips rained down on the wooden stage like a plastic storm. Through the soundproof glass of the elevator, Richard couldn't hear the chips hitting the ground. But he clearly saw the performer below immediately stop singing, bow deeply to the box in gratitude. His female companion covered her red lips, letting out a sweet gasp, practically pressing herself against the newly rich man. The newly rich man tilted his head back and burst into laughter.
The elevator continued its ascent. At the fifth floor, the car made a brief "ding" sound. Through the crack in the open door, a rich aroma of rose essential oil mixed with the scent of animal fur and musk wafted into the nostrils.
Richard stood inside the elevator car, his gaze following the opening elevator doors outwards.
The left side was filled with white steam, and several noblewomen wrapped in bathrobes were lying on a heated jade bed, where technicians were slowly applying thin 24K pure gold leaf all over their bodies.
The right side exudes the ruggedness of Middle Eastern nouveau riche. Several gamblers, their faces flushed with anger after losing money, are sipping Bordeaux wine, their hands clad in heavy leather gloves. They stroke the gyrfalcons on brass stands or tease a young Bengal tiger with a gold chain on the carpet. The cub purrs softly and rubs gently against the guests' trouser legs.
The elevator doors closed again, completely isolating this space that was meant to soothe agitation and provide ultimate relaxation.
Finally, the elevator reached the sixth floor. The doors slid open completely. Richard stepped out of the elevator, his feet once again landing on the thick Persian wool carpet.
This is a long, secluded corridor filled with famous paintings, the air thick with the smell of old paper and preservatives. At the end of the corridor, it connects to a small auction room co-listed by Sotheby's.
Richard stopped outside the half-open double doors made of purple velvet. From inside came the auctioneer's highly inflammatory bidding voice, followed by the crisp echo of the gavel striking its base.
Through the crack in the door, under the spotlight of the auction stage, a vibrant Impressionist painting and several antiques bearing clear traces of medieval Europe were on display. Below, velvet chairs were filled with wealthy men who had just satisfied their physical desires and appetites downstairs. The numbers climbed steadily with each bid. They raised their paddles without batting an eye, throwing money around, eager to use these European classics to wash away any remaining traces of their nouveau riche status.
Richard closed the notebook in his hand.
He didn't write anything more. The operating logic of this hourglass tower had already been fully demonstrated in the upward trajectory of this elevator.
The ground floor exploits greed with gambling chips, the middle floor exploits desire with Wagyu beef and women, and the top floor exploits cultural vanity with European classical art. As soon as guests step into this building, no matter how much wealth overflowing from the bubble is in their pockets, there is always a floor that can precisely make them willingly empty their wallets.
Richard put the pen back into the inside pocket of his suit.
He turned around, his back to the noisy auction, and walked down the corridor on the other side.
Within this fragile yet indestructible physical barrier.
All of humanity's desires are being unleashed without restraint, accompanied by the clinking of gold coins.