dkrc Chapter 77 The Strange Old Man in the Fishing Pond
Chapter 77 The Strange Old Man in the Fishing Pond
Chapter 79 The Strange Old Man in the Fishing Pond
A private fishing spot in Chiba Prefecture.
It's an hour and a half drive from downtown Tokyo, the entrance fee is outrageously expensive, and there's a strict membership referral system.
This threshold effectively filters out the noisy paparazzi and enthusiastic fans, leaving only the occasional waterbird skimming across the surface and a few motionless fishing rods.
Kitahara Shin sat in a folding chair, holding the old bamboo fishing rod he had bought for five thousand yen.
The rough texture of the bamboo pole rubbed against my palm, and a strange sense of tranquility spread along my arm.
[Equipment: Showa Taisho's old fishing rod (activated)]
[Special Effects: Jiang Ziya's Magnetic Field (Activating)]
The water surface was as calm as a mirror.
This is why, no matter how busy he is, he still makes sure to take half a day each week to come here.
"Tsk."
A resentful voice came from the side.
Two meters away at the fishing spot sat an old man wearing a fisherman's hat and an old jacket. Ever since Kitahara Shin sat down, the old man hadn't stopped making a sound.
He complained one minute about the wrong bait, the next about how murky the water was, and would jerk the rod at the slightest movement of the float, only to find nothing and scare away all the fish around him.
Kitahara Shin remained staring at his float, motionless.
The old man, exhausted from his efforts, tossed the pole onto the frame and began rummaging through his clothes in frustration. He patted his shirt pocket, then rummaged through his trouser pocket, finally crumpling an empty, flat cigarette pack into a ball and throwing it roughly onto the grass at his feet.
"Damn it—"
The old man muttered to himself, his eyes darting around, clearly suffering from his craving for cigarettes.
A hand reached out.
With slender fingers, she held a "Seven Star" cigarette, which was hard to find in the area, and handed it to the old man along with a lighter.
Kitahara Shin didn't speak, and his gaze never left the water; he simply maintained the gesture of offering a cigarette.
The old man paused for a moment, then without any hesitation, took the cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it with a "snap".
He took a deep breath, exhaled the pungent smoke, and the old man's tightly furrowed brows finally relaxed a little.
"Thanks, kid."
The old man glanced at Kitahara Shin and said, "Not bad self-control. If it were anyone else, they would have been cursing under their breath when I was making so much noise next to them."
"It's common for fish not to bite."
Kitahara Shin moved the fish basket to the side. "Besides, your float is set too shallow. This is a deep pond. A hook that deep can only catch small shrimp passing by."
The old man raised an eyebrow, seemingly unconvinced, muttering, "I've been fishing for decades," but he still honestly followed Kitahara Shin's instructions, pushing the float up and casting the line back into the water.
Sure enough, less than five minutes later, the float suddenly sank.
The old man quickly lifted the rod, and a plump crucian carp broke out of the water.
"Ha! It really exists!"
The old man chuckled, tossed the fish into the net, then turned around and, by the light of his cigarette, squinted to examine Kitahara Shin closely. Upon seeing him, the old man froze.
"Oh, no wonder."
The old man exhaled a puff of smoke, his tone tinged with amusement, "I was wondering who was so idle as to come here to feed the mosquitoes in the middle of the afternoon. Turns out it's that—what's his name again? 'Wanzi'?"
He clearly recognized the face that had recently dominated the covers of every newsstand.
Kitahara Shin didn't try to hide anything, pulled down his mask to let out a breath, and smiled helplessly: "I had no choice, I couldn't stay in Tokyo any longer, so I came out to find some peace and quiet."
"Hmph, these young people nowadays, they get all pampered as soon as they become a little famous." Although the old man accepted the cigarettes and guidance, his words were still sharp. "My old woman watches TV every day and cries her eyes out. I just don't understand, what's so good about those lovey-dovey movies? Besides the pretty faces, the plots are ridiculously fake."
These words were quite impolite, even bordering on a direct slap in the face.
Most young, popular actors would probably be trembling with fear and bowing in apology or awkwardly forcing a smile if they heard such mockery from a veteran actor.
But Kitahara Shin simply stared calmly at the water's surface, changing the bait on the empty hook. "The plot is pretty unrealistic."
He chimed in, echoing the old man's words, his tone as if he were commenting on someone else's film: "There aren't that many pure love stories in real life. Everyone's busy paying off mortgages and fearing layoffs. If a realistic social drama were made at this time, telling everyone that life is a pile of dog shit," who would watch it? Everyone's already having a hard enough time; they just want to see something sweet to comfort themselves.
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The old man's hand holding the cigarette paused.
He glanced at the young man with some surprise.
"Hey, you little rascal."
The old man grinned, a sly glint in his eyes on his wrinkled face. "You acted in your own play, and you say it's all a lie? Aren't you afraid your fans will be heartbroken?"
"That's work."
Kitahara Shin lifted his rod, but caught nothing. He wasn't in a hurry, though. "Since I've taken the money, I have to make sure the dream is well-crafted and the audience cries their hearts out. But—"
He paused, then turned to look at the old man: "If one day I don't have to worry about just making the audience happy anymore, I'd like to act in something that makes people uncomfortable. Like that kind of thing—tearing away this pretty facade to let people see just how rotten it is inside."
The old man stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out. "Trying to tear me apart? That's much harder than making someone happy; you'll get yelled at for that."
He stood up, dusted himself off, and began packing his fishing gear.
"I had a great day. I smoked, fished, and even ran into a sharp-witted minor celebrity."
Before leaving, the old man took a crumpled business card out of his jacket pocket and casually tossed it next to Kitahara Shin's bait tray.
"Kid, if you ever get tired of acting in those romance dramas and aren't afraid of getting scolded, just give me a call."
The old man walked away with his bag on his back, his steps surprisingly light.
Kitahara Shin picked up the business card.
There were no titles, just a name printed in black on a white background:
【Itami Thirteen】
Kitahara Shin's fingers tightened slightly.
The legendary director who made films like "The Tax Collector" and "The Funeral," known for his biting satire and dark humor, and who was even attacked by gangsters for making "Woman of the Masses"?
He glanced back at the old bamboo pole.
Spending five thousand yen like that is simply outrageous.
He put away the business card and didn't rush to contact them.
For such important figures, a chance encounter is just a starting point; to truly enter their field of vision, more "bait" is needed.
For the next two months, whenever there was no announcement, Kitahara Shin would come here and sit for a day.
Most of the time, he gained nothing.
That old fishing rod of the Showa Taito didn't work like a wish-granting machine, allowing him to encounter powerful figures every time.
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More often than not, he simply finds solace in the breeze, the water, and the restlessness within himself.
Until a cloudy day when the cherry blossoms were almost all gone.
Kitahara Shin sat in that secluded corner as usual.
My neighbor is different today.
He was a middle-aged man wearing a gray cashmere cardigan, his hair neatly combed. Although he was fishing, he sat upright as if he were in a board meeting.
He wasn't as talkative as Itami Juzo; in fact, he was almost excessively quiet.
His only actions were occasionally picking up his thermos to take a sip of tea and flipping through a copy of an all-English book that lay on his lap.
Financial Times.
"It has fallen below 25,000 points."
The man suddenly spoke, his voice not loud, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps to the fish in the pond.
Kitahara Shin glanced at the newspaper on his lap, which was today's Nikkei index chart.
"It's not over yet."
As Kitahara Shin baited the fishing hook with an earthworm, he casually remarked, "The current panic is still the panic of retail investors. The real bottom will be when the big banks start tearing each other apart over bad debts."
The hand that was turning the pages of the newspaper stopped.
The man slowly turned his head and, through the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses, scrutinized Kitahara Shin with a critical gaze.
His gaze was sharp, as if he were assessing the risk level of an asset.
"You're that actor? The one who played—Kanji Nagao?"
The man clearly recognized him, but his tone lacked the fervor of a fanboy; instead, it held a hint of surprise. "A star who acts in romantic dramas, concerned about bank bad debts?"
"Actors need to eat too."
Kitahara Shin cast his fishing line into the water, watching the ripples spread. "Besides, seeing the numbers on my bankbook is more reassuring than the tears in the script. In this day and age, cash is king."
"Cash is king —"
The man chewed on those words, a playful smile appearing on his tense lips. "An interesting assessment. Most young people your age, including my analysts who graduated from prestigious universities, are still shouting every day about buying up real estate at rock-bottom prices, saying it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
He closed the newspaper and looked directly at Kitahara Shin for the first time.
"I am Zosamu. If you really have a lot of cash in your hands but don't know where to put it, perhaps we can talk."
After all, letting money rot in a bank is a crime against capital.
Kitahara Shin looked at the outstretched hand.
His palms were dry and strong, and his nails were trimmed very neatly.
He didn't recognize the man, nor had he seen his face in any entertainment news or social media.
But he could sense that this man had a special aura.
It's a kind of composure that allows one to remain calm and collected even amidst raging storms.
At a time when the whole of Japan is lamenting the stock market crash, someone who can calmly assess the situation and even reach the same conclusion as someone with "future vision" is definitely not an ordinary person.
This old fishing rod, belonging to the Showa era master, looks like it caught something amazing again.
"It would be my great honor."
Kitahara Shin grasped the hand, not showing any disrespect despite the unfamiliarity of the other person, but instead becoming even more solemn, "I am Kitahara Shin. Perfect timing, I was just worried about what to do with the money I have."
Their hands clasped together in the cool air.
At that moment, Kitahara Shin had no idea that he had just grasped the "gatekeeper" of Japan's hidden billionaire circle for the next thirty years.
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This man, named Zosam, is a renowned independent wealth management advisor who specializes in managing the assets of old-money families who survived the bursting of the bubble.
In this crazy era, he was one of the few financial giants who soberly foresaw the "lost thirty years" and made early arrangements to short sell.
Today's chance encounter will provide Kitahara Shin with the thickest layer of armor for the capital winter to come.
The buoy on the water's surface twitched slightly.
The fish has taken the bait.
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