Reborn in Tokyo: From Heiress to Global Tycoon

Chapter 52 White Gold

September 1987, Shanghai.

The early autumn tiger (autumn tiger) is still fierce. The humidity along the Huangpu River is evaporated by the scorching sun, turning the entire Putuo Industrial Zone into a giant sauna.

"Da da da da da—"

In Workshop No. 1 of "Gaoqiao Textile," three hundred old-fashioned "Flying Man" brand sewing machines were running at full speed. The dense mechanical clanging sound converged into a huge wave of noise, causing the dust accumulated on the ceiling to fall in a flurry.

The air was thick with the mixed smells of machine oil, cotton wool, and sweat. A massive industrial exhaust fan spun listlessly on the wall, churning up viscous heat.

The female workers, wearing white hats and heads down, pedaled the pedals rapidly. Sweat dripped from their faces onto the workbench, where it was instantly absorbed by the dry fabric.

In this day and age, time is money, and piece-rate wages force everyone to race against the second hand.

But at the far end of the workshop, in the finished product inspection area, the atmosphere was frigid.

Master Matsumoto was wearing a dark Japanese work uniform, with reading glasses perched on his nose, and a red piece of chalk in his hand.

Five hundred T-shirts that had just come off the production line were piled up in front of him.

That was the result of the workers working through three sleepless nights.

Matsumoto picked up a piece of clothing, unfolded it, and squinted as he glanced at the collar.

"Tsk."

He frowned and mercilessly drew a huge "X" on the chest of his shirt with the red chalk in his hand.

Then, with a casual toss, the snow-white T-shirt flew into a bamboo basket labeled "Grade B" on the side.

Next is the second item.

Look at the cuffs, the stitching is off.

"X".

Throw it into the bamboo basket.

The third piece.

Look at the hem; there's a tiny loose thread at the hem where the stitches end.

"X".

Throw it into the bamboo basket.

In just ten minutes, the huge "defective product basket" was almost overflowing, while on the table representing qualified products, there were only three or five lonely items.

"Mr. Matsumoto! What are you doing?!"

Workshop foreman Li Guoqiang finally couldn't hold back anymore. Looking at the basket of clothes that had been relegated to the back of the closet, he stomped his feet in heartache, and his face trembled.

"What's wrong with these clothes? Look at the fabric, it's top-grade Xinjiang cotton! And look at the workmanship, it's a hundred times better than the 'Dacron' sold in department stores!"

Director Li picked up a T-shirt with a red cross marked on it from the basket and pointed to the so-called flaw—it was just a thread that was two millimeters too long.

"Just because of this? It's a defective product? You're nitpicking!"

Director Li was so anxious that he was sweating profusely, and his voice involuntarily became louder.

"This batch of goods is due for a tight deadline! If you do it this way, you won't be able to find fifty acceptable pieces out of five hundred. If we can't deliver on time, who will take responsibility?"

Matsumoto stopped what he was doing, looked up, and looked at Director Li.

"Li Sang".

The old man's Chinese was very broken, with each word coming out in a stilted way.

"In Japan, this dress would sell for 30,000 yen."

"That's equivalent to two years' wages for a worker here."

Matsumoto pointed to the red cross.

"If you spent two years' salary on a piece of clothing, and then found a loose thread on it, what would you think?"

"I would think this is a scam."

Matsumoto picked up another piece of clothing, his expression unchanged.

"The Saionji family crest should not be pasted on garbage."

Even slightly better quality garbage is still garbage.

Director Li choked, his face turning a deep liver color.

"You...you're just being capitalistly fastidious! We've never been this strict with exports before..."

Seeing that the two were about to start arguing, the surrounding female workers also stopped what they were doing, whispering among themselves, their eyes filled with unease and dissatisfaction. In the past, they would have already gone on strike; who would want their hard-earned creations to be treated as scrap?

"Quiet down."

A steady voice came from the stairwell.

Hiroshi Takahashi came down.

He wore a soaked white shirt and held a document in his hand. He had been in Shanghai for half a year and had long since shed the bookishness he had when he first arrived; now, his brows furrowed with the decisiveness of a manager.

"Mr. Takahashi! You be the judge!" Director Li exclaimed as if he'd seen a savior. "Master Matsumoto is too demanding! By his standards, our factory would have to close down!"

Takahashi walked to the inspection table.

He picked up a piece of clothing marked with a red cross and examined the flaw closely. It was indeed very small; an average person wouldn't even notice it without a magnifying glass.

"This garment definitely shouldn't be sold for 30,000 yen."

Takahashi said calmly.

Director Li felt a chill in his heart.

"But," Takahashi changed the subject, "it's not garbage either."

He folded the clothes and put them aside.

"These Grade B items will all be sealed up. They will be used as prizes for redeeming points at SA's Karaoke Boxes, or sold at a low price as regular items."

"The workers will still be paid their hard-earned wages, but there will be no bonus for this batch of goods."

Upon hearing "the bonus is gone," a commotion arose in the crowd.

"Don't panic, everyone."

Takahashi raised his hand to suppress the noise.

He walked to the center of the workshop and pointed to the glass partition room behind him that had just been renovated and was originally intended to be used as a warehouse.

There were two brand-new Mitsubishi air conditioners there, imported from Japan.

"I know that Mr. Matsumoto's standards are difficult. It's unrealistic to pursue both speed and perfection on the existing production line. I understand everyone's difficulties, but that's not a reason for us to lower our quality standards."

Takahashi looked around at the hundreds of tired faces.

"Therefore, starting today, we will split up the teams."

"That glass room will become the 'Class S Special Workshop' in the future."

"There's air conditioning there, and the temperature is a constant 24 degrees Celsius, so you don't have to sweat."

"Their lunch there includes an extra serving of braised pork every day, and there's plenty of rice."

"Most importantly..."

Takahashi held up two fingers.

"Workers inside are paid twice as much per piece as those outside."

"Buzz—"

The workshop was in complete chaos.

Double pay? Air conditioning? Braised pork?

In an era when meat was rationed, this was practically the life of a god!

The female workers' eyes lit up instantly, like hungry wolves spotting meat.

"but!"

Takahashi's voice suddenly turned stern, like a whip lashing through the air.

"There are requirements to get in."

"First, you must pass Mr. Matsumoto's test. Only those with the best skills and the most meticulous attention to detail can enter."

"Secondly, once you're in, don't rush, just focus on stability. Making ten high-quality items a day earns more than making a hundred substandard ones."

"Third, and most importantly."

Takahashi pointed to the red chalk in Matsumoto's hand.

"If, in a special workshop, a red cross is drawn on a garment due to human negligence..."

"First time, warning."

"The second time, all bonuses for that day will be deducted."

"The third time, they'll be kicked out of the special workshop and sent back to the assembly line outside, never to be hired again."

"Did you understand?"

After a brief silence.

"I understand!"

Hundreds of voices rang out simultaneously, making the glass windows vibrate and rattle.

The initial dissatisfaction and complaints instantly transformed into ambition and fighting spirit in the face of enormous profits.

The next hour was a brutal selection process.

Matsumoto sat at the entrance of the glass room, like a gatekeeper, a demon king.

One by one, female workers who considered themselves skilled went up to test their needlework. Some were eliminated because their hands trembled, while others were eliminated because they habitually pursued speed and neglected details.

In the end, only thirty female workers successfully entered that cool "paradise".

The remaining two hundred-plus people could only look enviously into the glass-walled room, then grit their teeth and return to the sweltering assembly line, vowing to hone their skills and try to squeeze in next month.

Inside the glass room.

The air conditioning is on.

Thirty female workers sat at their brand-new workstations.

The rhythm here has changed.

It's no longer that frantic "da da da" sound, but has become a rhythmic, soothing "sha ...

Everyone held their breath, handling the cotton fabric as if it were embroidery. Before each stitch, they repeatedly checked the position. Every loose thread was trimmed cleanly with small scissors.

Because they knew they weren't holding clothes.

That's double the salary, a good life for the whole family, a "golden rice bowl" that absolutely cannot be lost.

In this era, apart from the national guaranteed job, there are no jobs with better benefits than those in foreign companies, not to mention that even among foreign companies, Gaoqiao Textile's benefits are among the best.

Matsumoto walked around the corridor with his hands behind his back.

This time, he didn't raise the red chalk in his hand for a long time.

Looking at those focused eyes and those precise, machine-like stitches, a barely perceptible smile finally appeared on the old man's tense face.

……

It's late at night, 11 p.m.

The glass room remained brightly lit, like a glowing isolated island.

Hiroshi Takahashi stood in front of the inspection table.

In front of him were a hundred T-shirts that had just come off the production line, neatly stacked.

There is no red cross.

Not a single one.

He picked up the top item.

The fabric felt so smooth and comforting to the touch. The neckline was perfectly curved, the cuffs were evenly stitched, and the tiny "S" embroidered on the chest was as exquisite as a badge.

This is a perfect work of industrial art.

It is "white gold" forged with the best cotton in China and the ultimate craftsmanship inspired by high salaries.

"Mr. Matsumoto, thank you for your hard work."

Takahashi carefully placed the clothes into a specially made black box.

"Um."

Matsumoto took off his reading glasses and rubbed his sore eyes.

"This batch of goods is presentable now."

"It's not shameful to put it in Wako Department Store in Ginza."

Having gained the approval of this old Kyoto tailor, Takahashi finally felt relieved.

He returned to his office and dialed Tokyo.

"Beep...beep..."

"I am Saionji."

A girl's cool voice came from the other end of the phone, with the faint sound of jazz music in the background, suggesting it was inside The Club.

"Young lady, I am Takahashi."

Takahashi looked out the window at the sleeping Shanghai.

"The 'special workshop' is now operational. The first batch of one hundred S-grade finished products have all passed inspection."

"In addition, I have contacted Mr. Itakura about the remaining four hundred Grade B items, and we will ship them back as karaoke freebies."

"very good."

Satsuki's voice carried a hint of amusement.

"Takahashi, remember this feeling."

"Divide people into different classes, give the best food to the top, and give even the slightest hope to the bottom."

"This is the most efficient way to control quality."

"Has the shipping date been set?"

"It's settled. We're leaving the day after tomorrow."

"That's good."

Satsuki paused for a moment.

"Tell those female workers that this is just the beginning."

"As long as their hands don't tremble, the Saionji family will give them unimaginable rewards."

"As for Mr. Matsumoto..."

"Give him a bow for me. He is the soul of S-Collection."

"yes!"

The phone hangs up.

Takahashi put down the receiver and looked at the figures still busy in the glass room.

On this sweltering night, in this factory by the Huangpu River, something called "standard" is being meticulously stitched into the Saionji family's business empire by this group of people eager to change their fate.

These T-shirts will soon be shipped overseas.

They will be worn by arrogant young people on the streets of Shibuya, becoming their bragging rights.

Every B-grade item produced here will flow into ordinary karaoke rooms, becoming a small moment of happiness for ordinary people.

From high-end to low-end, from elites to the masses.

The net of the Saionji family is tightening silently.