1988, the last great party of the Showa era.
Selling off all of Tokyo could buy the entire United States.
At Ginza's clubs, the elite washed their feet with Romanée-Conti. In Shinjuku's back alleys, land gangsters drove bulldozers through old homes. Beneath the neon lights of Takeshita Street, countless young people chasing dreams of sudden wealth plunged headfirst into this golden mirage.
The old-school yakuza still talked about honor, while the new breed of economic gangsters had taken up stock certificates.
That year, Asano Ryuichi, a low-ranking nobody in the East Star Society's third-rate branch, came to his senses on the eve of taking the blame for his boss.
When the waters of the Canglang River are clear, I can wash my hat strings in them. When they are muddy, I can wash my feet.
If this is a mad age when even the air reeks of money, why not take the top seat at the table?
"Honor? In Tokyo today, Fukuzawa Yukichi is the greatest honor of all."
