Takuto Kimura was kneeling on the tatami mat, his hands eagerly accepting the thick red envelope. As the fabric rustled in his hands, his mind went into high gear, calculating its worth based on years of financial experience—his past life, of course.
"Fifty thousand yen!" he screamed internally, almost unable to contain his excitement. "That's more than the year-end bonus I gave the department manager last year! This is it—the perfect moment to make my move in the market!"
But then, his eyes darted to the scene unfolding around him.
His mom was staring at the red envelope with a look of "temporary custody," as if she were considering a multi-year lease agreement on his funds.
His cousin, who was sitting in the corner, was leisurely spinning his limited-edition Lego Death Star on a pedestal like some kind of ridiculously wealthy financier. The Death Star gleamed in the light, a monument to consumerism and bad decisions. Takuto could practically hear the "cha-ching!" of cash registers every time the Lego spaceship turned.
And then there was his little sister, sitting cross-legged on the floor, counting her New Year's money at a speed that rivaled an industrial counting machine. It was almost hypnotic. Takuto's heart skipped a beat as he glanced at her pile of bills, all stacked neatly, some even held together by carefully folded corners.
"This is bad," Takuto thought. "I need to activate my capital operation immediately, or I'll be the one left with nothing but lint in my pockets and a broken Lego set."
Without missing a beat, he quickly excused himself from the living room, under the guise of needing some privacy. Ducking into the bathroom stall, he pulled out the nearest available writing instrument (his mom's eyeliner pencil) and started scribbling furiously on the back of an old shampoo bottle.
Spring Festival Capital Operation White Paper
Strategic Goal: 300% asset appreciation (via highly aggressive, unregulated investment schemes).
Risk Control: Avoid mom's wallet at all costs.
Exit Strategy: Liquidate everything before school starts.
With his plan in place, Takuto felt a rush of confidence. He was on the verge of becoming the next financial magnate—well, at least the kind of magnate who could make his cousin's Lego set his own. All he needed now was to execute the deal.
In the living room, his cousin, as smug as a Wall Street shark with a yacht, was spinning the Lego Death Star on its axis like he was calculating the trajectory of a missile launch. Takuto could barely contain his desire to possess it.
"Want it?" his cousin asked nonchalantly. "Sixty thousand yen."
Takuto's brain did a double take. "Wasn't it fifty thousand yen yesterday?!"
"Inflation," his cousin replied, as if that were the most reasonable answer in the world. He even pointed at the financial news on the TV, where the stock market had just plummeted, the headlines flashing red. "And by the way," he added, "I saw you swallow just now. Your demand is strong. I can smell it."
Takuto tried to remain calm. His negotiation skills, honed over decades of dodging shady boardroom tactics, were about to be put to the test.
"I'll offer you something better than money," Takuto said, leaning in. "I'll help you with your winter vacation homework. You know, I'm a math prodigy. I'll even throw in a free financial analysis of your Lego collection's ROI."
His cousin squinted at him, unimpressed. "What if you back out?" he demanded, arms folded like a banker ready to foreclose on a loan.
Takuto swallowed. He had nothing else to offer. Nothing except his pride. But, like any seasoned businessman, he swallowed that too.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's settle on fifty thousand yen, plus three limited edition bear-shaped biscuits."
His cousin raised an eyebrow. "Deal."
The contract was signed. Well, "signed" might be a strong word—it was more like a verbal agreement involving a combination of mutual glances, handshakes, and a promise not to tell their moms. But when Takuto looked at the back of the "contract," a sudden realization hit him. There, in small print, were the following clauses:
"Note: The buyer assumes the following risks:"
May be confiscated by mom
Key parts may be eaten by Kenta during assembly
May turn out to be a counterfeit product after assembly
Takuto blinked. "Well, at least I'm in for the experience of a lifetime."
Before Takuto could even catch his breath, his little sister, with the tears of a tragicomic character in a soap opera, approached him. She sniffled, holding out her hand dramatically. "Lend me 2,000 yen to buy candy~" she said, her voice almost a pitch-perfect imitation of a sitcom character begging for money to buy an absurdly expensive toy.
Takuto pulled out his financial calculator from his "business attire" (a hoodie with a coffee stain), and typed furiously. "Based on 1% daily compound interest, after a week, you'll owe me…"
He paused, dramatically looking up at her. "One hundred and forty-five thousand yen."
His sister didn't even bat an eye. "Okay," she said, and handed him three crumpled pieces of paper that she had drawn cartoon characters on.
Takuto stared at the "coins" she handed him. "These are… children's coins," he said with a deadpan expression. "You do realize these are worth approximately nothing, right?"
Among the "coins" was one commemorative bill that read: "Mingtong Bank." The largest denomination had the note: "This voucher can be used to skip one homework assignment." Takuto rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
When he went to protest, he found out that his little sister wasn't just a borrower—she was practically running an underground lending business. Her operation was thriving, and she had already expanded to the kids in her class. Her collateral? Erasers, first love letters, and even baby teeth. To collect debts, she would simply tell the other kids' moms. Takuto had to admit, his sister was a financial genius in the making.
But the true masterpiece of Takuto's entrepreneurial spirit was his grand "blockchain" scheme. Inspired by the latest tech buzzwords, he had repackaged Grandpa's balcony potted plants as part of his new "Blockchain Eco Project · Bitcoin Succulent Plants."
Pitch Highlights:
Grows automatically every day (actually Grandpa secretly changes the pot)
Scanning the leaves reveals a crypto address (it's just a QR code)
Fruits in three years (actually plastic decorations)
Takuto's confidence soared as the funds started pouring in. Kenta invested three milk candies, Aichan bought stock in two hairpins, and Ryutaro (God bless him) put up his dinosaur underwear as collateral.
Results? Well, Kenta ate the potted plant as a snack, leaving nothing but soil and broken dreams. Grandpa, who had been unaware of the "investment opportunity," burned the investor list as firewood. Ryutaro, having lost his dinosaur underwear in the deal, showed up the next day wearing Hello Kitty underwear, demanding his rights.
Takuto, now hiding in the closet and counting his remaining assets, found solace in the last 500 yen he had left.
That's when his mom opened the paper door with a smile so sweet it could've been a trapdoor into a black hole of financial doom. "Sweetie~ Let me help you manage your New Year's money~"
Takuto's heart dropped. "This is outright plundering!" he cried, clutching his wallet like it was the last lifeline to his dwindling fortune. "I have the Minor Property Protection Law…"
Mom, ever the cunning asset manager, smiled and said, "Well, let's calculate, then. Diaper fees: 10,000 yen/month. Noise disturbance fees (from crying): 5,000 yen/instance. Lipstick you bit off when you were little: 30,000 yen…"
As his mom calmly used his New Year's money to buy a new handbag, Takuto was left clinging to the last 500 yen coin, which he had now affectionately dubbed his "capital reserve fund."
"This is an asset management fee, you know~" his mom said, casually twirling her new handbag.
Takuto sighed and stared at the ceiling. "Next year, I'm putting my money in bonds. Or maybe just Lego sets. Less risk."