Golden Spoon Investment Portfolio - Chapter 240

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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240. Just this one time, I promise.

Chuo Ward, Shingawa 1-chome, Tokyo—Yamaichi Securities Headquarters.
With Fukuwa Nobuo, the sixty-five-year-old president, seated in the center, Tanino Sakutaro, the managing director, and Murakami Akira, the finance director, occupied opposite sides of the reception table in the president’s office.
Fukuwa, with his lean frame and gold-rimmed glasses, typically possessed such a gentle temperament that he’d earned the nickname “English Gentleman,” yet for some reason his face had hardened into a rigid mask.
As the heavy silence settled over the room, Fukuwa exhaled a plume of white cigarette smoke and finally spoke.

“How much did we lose this quarter?”

Tanino, seated to the left, hesitated before answering weakly.

“…Seven billion five hundred million yen.”

Before the words had even finished, Fukuwa’s face contorted and he erupted in fury.

“Seven billion five hundred million yen—not a hundred or two hundred million—and you’re actually standing here telling me this!”
“My sincerest apologies…”

Tanino, rendered speechless despite having ten mouths to speak with, bowed his head in shame and contrition.
Though his blood pressure surged to the point of dizziness, Fukuwa recognized that anger alone would solve nothing, so he forced himself to suppress his irritation and continued.

“Is this from the losses in Nikkei futures?”
“Yes. The Japanese stock market rose significantly and we earned considerable profits from overseas investments, but… we lost nine hundred twenty million dollars in Nikkei futures, which resulted in a net loss.”
“Ugh.”

Fukuwa groaned and irritably stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray.
Having lost a staggering nine hundred twenty million dollars in futures trading at once, even Yamaichi—one of Japan’s four largest securities companies—could not escape a deficit.
Reconsidering it only made his blood pressure spike again, but since he himself had approved the Nikkei futures sale, venting his anger now would be nothing but spitting in his own face.
After taking a deep breath through his shoulders, Fukuwa turned toward Murakami, the finance director, and spoke in a subdued voice.

“Murakami.”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need you to handle this as well.”

Murakami, a man of considerable build, wore an expression of deep discomfort.

“Are you asking me to classify the losses as off-balance-sheet liabilities?”
“That’s right.”

Fukuwa Nobuo nodded heavily.
Off-balance-sheet debt referred to liabilities intentionally omitted from accounting records and concealed.
Murakami Akira, the Finance Director, spoke with a troubled expression.

“The losses we’ve already covered through tobashi have exceeded one hundred billion yen. If we add another seventy-five billion yen on top of that, it will become truly unmanageable.”

Tobashi, meaning to shuffle away, was one of the methods of accounting fraud in Japan—literally selling stocks or bonds with valuation losses to affiliated companies with different fiscal year-ends at inflated prices to conceal the parent company’s losses.
Yamaichi Securities had suffered astronomical losses over the past several years, struck directly by the bubble collapse followed immediately by George Hamilton’s yen attack.
Under normal circumstances, the losses should have been reflected and disclosed in the financial results as they were, but Yamaichi Securities had not done so.
Fukuwa Nobuo, whose first term was nearly complete, had chosen to engage in accounting fraud to hide the losses in order to secure his reappointment.
Even knowing the risks were substantial, he had recklessly pursued Nikkei futures trading, driven by anxiety to shed these hidden deficiencies as quickly as possible.
But contrary to expectations, rather than reducing losses, he had accepted the worst possible outcome—they had ballooned even larger.
When Murakami Akira displayed reluctance, Fukuwa Nobuo’s eyebrows twitched and his voice filled with irritation.

“So you’re suggesting we simply expose how massive these losses are!”
“That is….”
“Next year marks our company’s hundredth anniversary. If we announce the worst possible results ahead of such a momentous occasion, what becomes of my reputation and position!”

Fukuwa Nobuo repeatedly emphasized face and dignity, but Murakami Akira, contemplating the astronomical sum of hidden deficiencies, found himself unable to sleep at night.

“Don’t forget—if I step down, you’ll find it difficult to retain your positions as well.”

Fukuwa Nobuo fixed the two men with a sharp gaze.
Then, toward Murakami Akira, whose expression remained dark, he lowered his voice slightly and spoke in a coaxing tone.

“After all, we’ve already engaged in accounting fraud—adding a bit more to it won’t make much difference, will it.”

The casual way he spoke as though it were nothing infuriated Murakami Akira, but he showed no outward sign and simply pressed his lips firmly shut.

“Just this once, I need you to make the effort. If we gradually reduce the deficiencies quarter by quarter, there won’t be any problems at all.”
“As you say, President. If we do that, it will be beneficial for everyone, won’t it.”

When even Tanino Sakutaro stepped forward to persuade him, the weight of pressure bore down on his shoulders.

It wasn’t a mere ten to twenty billion yen—it was nearly two hundred billion yen when combined with the newly incurred losses, an astronomical sum.
No matter how hard he racked his brain, he could find no answer for how to process it without detection, without anyone knowing.
Though he struggled to escape, he felt himself sinking deeper into quicksand, yet Murakami Akira had no other choice.

‘If I had never set foot on this path in the first place, it might be different. But I’ve already come too far to turn back now.’

Though the saying “major financial corporations never collapse” was treated as an unwritten rule in Japan’s financial circles, the revelation of such massive losses would inevitably cause even Yamaichi Securities to stagger.
In the process, not only would President Fukuwa, who had incurred the massive losses, have to resign, but all executives, including myself, would find it difficult to escape responsibility.

‘Especially as the Finance Director, I’ll face the harshest punishment right after President Fukuwa.’

If that happened, it was clear without saying that Finance Director Murakami Akira’s carefully built career would be completely destroyed.
Realizing there was no other way, Finance Director Murakami Akira let out a small, reluctant sigh with a displeased expression.

“This is truly just this one time.”
“Yes. Of course.”

President Fukuwa, who had been waiting for the response, immediately brightened and nodded.
Executive Director Tanino Sakutaro, who was present, also praised him for the wise decision.
Yet even after deciding to conceal an additional 7.5 billion yen in losses by processing them as off-balance-sheet liabilities, Finance Director Murakami Akira could barely manage to relax his stern expression.
In this way, though entirely unintended, Seok-won’s large-scale trading of Nikkei futures created a butterfly effect that only enlarged the time bomb that Yamaichi Securities, one of Japan’s four major securities companies, had been secretly harboring.

* * *

Winter was passing and spring seemed to be approaching; the sky visible through the window was perfectly clear without a single cloud.
Amid this, Seok-won sat at his desk in the president’s office, monitoring the movements of the three stocks he had instructed to be purchased through his computer.

“Just as I expected, they’re rising sharply.”

Today as well, all three stocks displayed upward curves with their indicators glowing red.
Particularly Korean Mobile Telecommunications, which had exceeded 510,000 won per share at the time of purchase and which everyone had considered a peak, was steadily climbing in price, now approaching 600,000 won, defying those concerns.

“The number two position by market cap is now completely secured, and if it rises just another 100,000 won, it could overtake Ogwang Industries for first place.”

Unlike Korean Mobile Telecommunications, which was surging fearlessly on the wave of the information technology stock boom, Sasung Electronics, which had risen to 170,000 won per share as foreign investment poured in until last year, was barely maintaining 100,000 won and had lost nearly half its value.

“With excessive supply and concerns about deteriorating semiconductor conditions overlapping, the stock price has no choice but to weaken.”

Seok-won murmured to himself, watching Sasung Electronics suffer the humiliation of being pushed out of the top ten by market cap due to its listless stock price.

“Looking at this, semiconductors are indeed an industry that follows economic cycles.”

As he recalled how domestic semiconductor companies’ stock prices would fluctuate wildly whenever Morgan Stanley, the American investment bank, would later release reports like the “semiconductor winter thesis,” his expression turned bitter.
Then the vibration alert on his mobile phone, placed on one side of the desk, rang, and Seok-won reached out to answer the call.

“Boss, it’s me.”

At the sound of Landon Shore’s ever-energetic voice, Seok-won’s lips curved into a faint smile.

“What’s the occasion?”
“I’m calling with good news regarding Blizzard, the gaming company you own.”
“Good news? Now I’m curious.”

Seok-won pulled his gaze from the monitor and leaned back in his chair as he spoke.

“The initial 200,000 copies of Diablo that we released last January have already sold out completely.”
“That’s excellent.”

Responding without any particular surprise, as if I’d expected as much, Landon Shore chuckled lightly.

“As expected, you’re not shocked at all.”
“I anticipated it would sell well.”

In truth, Blizzard, unaware that Diablo would become a mega-hit, had originally planned to produce only about 50,000 copies for the initial run.
It was a prudent decision—producing too many copies risked leaving excess inventory unsold.
But Seok-won, knowing that Diablo would rise to become the most popular game of 1997 and achieve million-seller status, pushed hard to manufacture 200,000 copies—four times the original amount—in advance.
Though Blizzard’s executives and developers had expressed serious concerns about overproduction, the results ultimately proved Seok-won’s judgment correct.

“The graphics were excellent, and it was a well-crafted, entertaining game—it was bound to gain popularity.”
“Haha. The developers would be thrilled to hear you say that.”
“Praise isn’t given in words—it’s given in money. Tell the entire development team they’ll each receive a $10,000 bonus, and if sales exceed 500,000 copies, they’ll get an additional $100,000 each.”
“I can already hear the developers cheering from here.”

Seok-won held the phone to his ear, smiling as he asked his next question.

“The additional production has already begun, hasn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“This time, have them produce 400,000 copies generously.”
“That many?”
“That might not even be enough.”
“I see… I’ll convey your instructions.”

Given that what had already sold was success enough, his appetite for even greater numbers seemed somewhat concerning.
Still, Landon Shore accepted the directive without hesitation.

[Ah. And there’s one more thing I should mention.]
“Go ahead.”
[Starting April 1st, the foreign investment limit on the Korean stock market is supposed to increase to 18%. Will you be purchasing additional shares of Donghae Oil while you’re accumulating them?]
“We’ve already secured 14.6% so far.”
[That’s correct.]

Since I’d already thought this through beforehand, I tightened my grip on the phone in my hand and answered immediately.

“Let’s establish another shell company and continue accumulating shares as the limit increases.”
[Understood. I’ll proceed with that.]

After discussing a few more matters, I ended the call and set the phone down, humming contentedly to myself.

“The performance is coming in exactly as expected, so I should push the developers to get that expansion pack out quickly.”

It was assigning new work the moment the previous task was finished, but I figured they wouldn’t complain much since I’d given them generous bonuses.

“Money really is the best motivator. Yeah.”

I was already wearing an expression full of anticipation, eager to be the first to try out the expansion pack.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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