Tokyo, 1991: Starting as a bank clerk

Chapter 143 Kiryu-kun, I'm waiting for you! [Fourth update, please vote!]

"I entrusted the case to you because I believe in your abilities."

"Fuji Metals, Shiraishi Refrigeration, Miyazawa Group, Higashi-Osaka Seiko—you did a great job with each of them. How come you can't do it with Wako Electronics?"

After he finished speaking, the office was silent for a few seconds.

The air felt tight; even the most oblivious person could sense the tension in it.

Kiryu Yaya stood there, head down, motionless.

His posture was just like that of a newcomer who had made a mistake and was being reprimanded by his boss—shoulders slightly hunched, hands hanging at his sides, but back straight.

Kiyoshi Ogaki looked at him, tapping his fingers lightly on the table twice, neither too hard nor too soft, but with a steady rhythm.

"Kiryu-kun, do you know why I assigned this case to you?"

Kiryu Yaya didn't look up, but said in a low voice, "You flatter me, Captain."

"You flatter me?"

Kiyomasa Ogaki chuckled softly, a laugh tinged with disappointment.

"I've worked in banking for almost forty years and have seen many young people. Out of a hundred, ninety are mediocre and nine are smart, but being smart doesn't mean being outstanding."

Before you came in this time, I thought you were different; I thought you were the exceptional one.

As Ogaki Kiyomasa spoke, his tone even carried a hint of heartfelt sincerity.

"That's why I assigned this case to you. You're in charge independently, and your reports go directly to me. Even the head of the financing review department doesn't get that kind of treatment."

"I'm not putting pressure on you, I'm giving you an opportunity."

He looked at Kiryu Yaya, his cloudy eyes filled with disappointment.

"But now you're telling me you can't do it?"

Kiyomasa Ogaki shook his head, the disappointment on his face finally turning into deep sorrow.

"Kiryu-kun, you have disappointed me greatly."

In the Japanese workplace, this statement carries the weight of a verdict.

When a department head, Kiyoshi Ogaki, tells a newcomer, "You have disappointed me," that single sentence is enough to make him unable to hold his head high in the bank for the rest of his life.

If this were a formal occasion, and if there were a third person present, Kiryu Yaya's professional career might have come to an end.

It felt like the air had been sucked out.

Kiyoshi Ogaki leaned back in his chair, his hands folded on the table, his gaze fixed on the young man with his head down.

The gentleness in those cloudy eyes was fading away inch by inch, replaced by a condescending scrutiny.

Kiryu Yaya's Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice lowered even further: "The captain is right, it was my oversight."

"Inadequate consideration?"

Kiyomasa Ogaki repeated those four words, his tone tinged with disappointment: "Kiryu-kun, you've only been with the company for less than two months, and the cases you've handled are getting bigger and bigger."

"Fuji Metals, Shiraishi Refrigeration, Miyazawa Group, Higashi-Osaka Seiko — you were always at the forefront, and you did a great job on every single one."

"I thought you were someone who would take responsibility."

He paused, his voice suddenly softening, yet it carried an even stronger sense of pressure: "But now it seems I may have misjudged him."

When those words were spoken, the office was so quiet that you could hear the ticking of the wall clock.

Click, click, click—

One beat after another, like some kind of countdown.

Kiryu Yaya stood there, head down, shoulders slightly tense, looking as if he were trembling a little.

It looked somewhat like fear, but his expression was obscured by his drooping bangs, making it difficult to see clearly.

Kiyoshi Ogaki looked at him, waited a few seconds, and when he didn't react, he spoke again.

This time, his tone was no longer one of disappointment, but rather a cold indifference bordering on pity.

"Kiryu-kun, do you know what my opinion of you means at the bank?"

Kiryu Yaya did not answer.

Kiyomasa Ogaki looked at Yaya Kiryu and said, word by word, "Once I write your negative evaluation into your file, you will never have any chance of promotion in the bank again."

"6

"you""

Are you content to be a low-level office worker for the rest of your life?

Kiryu Yaya's fingers tightened slightly.

Kiyomasa Ogaki watched this scene unfold, a barely perceptible smile curving his lips.

He knew the time was right.

"But one"

His tone suddenly softened: "I'm a sentimental person. You were trained by Section Chief Yamada. Section Chief Yamada has been with me for so many years, and I can't bear to see the newcomer he's worked so hard to cultivate ruined like this."

Kiryu Yaya slowly raised his head and looked at Ogaki Kiyomasa.

Kiyoshi Ogaki leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped on the table, his expression returning to that gentle, elder-like demeanor.

"Here's what we'll do. If you genuinely feel you've done something wrong, then show some remorse. Let me see that you're truly reflecting on your actions."

He paused, his gaze falling on Kiryu Yaya's face, and said casually, "Kiryu-kun, apologize."

I apologize.

In the Japanese workplace, this word has many different expressions.

Writing a self-reflection is a way of apologizing.

Bowing in apology in front of the whole class is also a way of expressing remorse.

However, the "apology" that Kiyomasa Ogaki is referring to at this moment is clearly not one of these two types, but rather an apology known as "dogeza".

Earth seat.

This word carries an almost sacred weight in Japanese workplace culture.

In ancient Japan, the dogeza was the most solemn form of greeting when addressing the emperor, shogun, or daimyo.

The subject kneels, forehead touching the ground, back exposed to the air, like a disassembled object, subject to scrutiny, judgment, trampling, or forgiveness by those in power.

This gesture demonstrates that everything about oneself belongs to the lord, and that everything about oneself is decided by the lord.

This etiquette did not disappear in modern society; instead, it was inherited by workplace culture.

When someone makes an unforgivable mistake at work, kneeling down to apologize in front of the entire department is still the most thorough and resolute way to admit their mistake.

Once you perform the dogeza (a deep bowing gesture), it's equivalent to giving away everything you have.

Promotions, transfers, performance evaluations, and interpersonal relationships will all be in the hands of the person who will receive the dogeza (a deep bow).

There's a saying circulating privately among the elderly people working at the bank:

In the banking industry, the real winner is the one who never has to kneel in prayer.

Because once you've done a dogeza (a deep bowing gesture), it leaves an invisible mark on your heart.

From now on, everyone will remember that you once knelt down, that you once pressed your forehead to the ground, and that you once gave up everything you had.

This memory can never be erased.

Kiyoshi Ogaki leaned back in his chair, his hands folded on the table.

Those cloudy eyes looked at the young man standing in front of the desk, and the faint smile at the corner of his mouth had turned into a kind of compassionate composure.

He made Kiryu Yaya dogeza (a traditional Tibetan Buddhist bow) so that the young man would always remember who the winner of this game was.

If you want to investigate Ogaki Kiyomasa, you'll have to cultivate for another hundred years!

Kiyomasa Ogaki's voice was unhurried: "Kiryu-kun, I'm waiting for you."