Gakushuin School

My father's death happened exactly as I knew it would, a fate I could not prevent. Despite knowing so much about the future, some details still escape my memory. Now, the weight of leading the family has fallen upon me, and I inherited the title of Duke, that he left behind. But there was a complication: the laws of the time did not allow me to fully assume control of the family's assets until I reached the age of majority at twenty. For the next nine years, I would remain under the guardianship of a relative.

The one chosen to guide me during this period was Baron Shimazu Tachihiko, one of my uncles. He would not only oversee the management of our properties and assets but also supervise my education. It wasn't something I could contest, no matter how much the idea of being at the mercy of someone else's decisions bothered me. Tachihiko was a man who exuded an aura of seriousness and rigor, perfectly aligned with what was expected of a noble.

Shortly after my father's death, my family and I prepared to leave Kagoshima behind for a while and move to the capital, Tokyo. My mother, my sister Chikako, and I departed under my uncle's supervision, leaving behind the vast Sengan-en estate, which had belonged to our family for generations. The property would be cared for by other members of the clan, and my siblings would continue living there with their mothers. It wasn't a permanent goodbye, but even so, I felt the weight of the departure as I left behind the place that had been the backdrop of my childhood and, in many ways, my safe haven.

Our move to Tokyo was not merely a matter of comfort or preference; it was a strategic decision. I needed to be near the country's elite, to interact with the sons and daughters of the most powerful and influential families. This was a strategy my father had already begun during his life, and now, the plan extended to me. Fortunately, we already owned a property in the capital, acquired and built by my father during his frequent trips to Tokyo for dealings with the imperial government. The Tokyo residence was called Sodegazaki, and as I approached it for the first time, I felt a mixture of admiration and surprise.

Sodegazaki was enormous, a ten-hectare estate, or twenty-four acres, which was unusual in a city that, in the coming years, would become densely populated. The mansion was strategically built on elevated land, offering a privileged view of the surrounding area. Like a castle protecting its domain, the mansion was surrounded by stone walls and accessible through a large gate that led to the path ascending to the main building. Around it, nature still reigned. Dense forests filled the property, and the peace emanating from the place was something that astonished me.

Contemplating the vastness of Sodegazaki, I decided then and there that I would never sell this property. Over time, the city of Tokyo would transform into one of the largest metropolises in the world, and owning such a vast area in its heart would be an invaluable asset. With that decision in mind, I promised myself to protect this legacy, no matter what the future held.

As soon as we settled into Sodegazaki, I was confronted with the reality of what it meant to be an underage heir. Any attempt to understand the management of family assets or involve myself in financial matters was met with frustration. My uncle Uzuhiko, along with other advisors, made it clear that these matters were not within my purview. It was frustrating but understandable; after all, at eleven years old, I was still considered a child, even though my heart carried the experiences of a past life. I understood that the only thing I could do was focus on my education, and that is what I resolved to do.

I was soon transferred to the Gakushuin National School, an exclusive institution for the children of Japanese nobility. Being educated there was like obtaining a direct passport to higher education, but for me, it felt like just another step on the path I was already walking. I did not need a shortcut to academic success; I had always been determined and intelligent. However, the opportunity to study alongside the country's future leaders and influencers was something I could not ignore.

The school, however, had a peculiar environment. It was a place of extreme discipline and order, where laughter and playfulness were rare. The children there seemed like small replicas of their parents, already trained to bear the burden of responsibility and seriousness that their social positions demanded. There was a clear separation between boys and girls, reinforced by the teachers. Everything there was rigid and calculated, as if even a child's time was too precious to be wasted on frivolity.

For me, this was of little concern. I did not see myself as an ordinary child, and perhaps that is why the rigidity of that environment did not affect me as much as it might others my age. In fact, I saw the place as an opportunity to observe, to learn more about the society I was part of, and perhaps even gain some influence among my peers.

During the first weeks, I was a mere spectator, silently observing the other students. Some were clearly the children of influential families, and I noticed that many already had a clear sense of their own status and how to use it to their advantage. However, there were also children who seemed more lost, forced to grow up quickly to fit into that environment. It was sad to see, but at the same time, a reminder that I was not alone in this journey. Each one there, in some way, was dealing with the pressure of living up to the name they carried.

The most interesting thing of all was noticing that, even in an institution that was supposed to promote equality among the nobility, there was still an implicit hierarchy. The children of more influential families, especially those with direct ties to the imperial government, were treated with even greater respect by the teachers and staff. As a member of the Shimazu family and heir to a Duke title, I also received special treatment, but I was not the only one enjoying such privileges.

The classes were challenging but not impossible. Thanks to the knowledge I had acquired in my previous life, many subjects felt like revisiting something I already knew. Mathematics, sciences, and even history, which now carried a certain irony since I was, in some way, part of Japan's own history, were easy for me. However, this advantage taught me discretion.

As the months passed, I began to adapt to Gakushuin's routine, and gradually, I started building a small network of contacts. Some students approached me, perhaps attracted by my title, while others kept a respectful distance. I, on the other hand, kept a careful eye on everyone, trying to identify who could assist me in the future and who I should avoid.

One afternoon, as I observed the other students from a distance, a slightly older boy approached me unexpectedly. Without preamble, he broke the silence with a casual comment:

"You're Tadashige Shimazu, aren't you? It must be exhausting when they act like every word you say is a divine revelation."

I was taken aback by his informality and boldness, something uncommon in such a strict environment.

"Are you talking about the flattery?" I asked, managing a restrained smile. "I suppose we all bear that burden, but few have the courage to admit it."

He laughed, a light and genuine sound that seemed out of place in such a rigid atmosphere.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Makoto... Makoto Tokugawa."

The name immediately caught my attention, and he noticed.

"Yes, that Tokugawa," he added with a sly grin.

Makoto revealed that, as the son of a concubine, he was far down the line of succession within his family, freeing him from the crushing expectations many others faced. "With so many older brothers ahead of me, I doubt anyone cares much about what I do," he said with a shrug.

Perhaps that explained his openness. While I lived under the watchful eyes of those who expected me to honor the Shimazu legacy, Makoto seemed to occupy a liminal space, on the margins of the rigid traditions that shaped our lives.

"Doesn't that feel liberating, not having to carry your family's weight?" I asked, testing his perspective.

Makoto smiled, though the melancholy in his eyes betrayed his words.

"Liberating? Maybe. But it's lonely too. When no one expects anything from you, it's easy to believe you're nothing."

"Have you thought about the future, Makoto?" I asked, looking beyond the school grounds to the blue sky above. "Japan is changing so quickly. Sometimes it feels like the ground beneath our feet is constantly shifting. In this chaos, I believe that those who adapt and lead can shape the nation's destiny."

Makoto crossed his arms, pondering my words. "You speak as if you already know what to do," he said, a mix of curiosity and skepticism in his voice.

I smiled lightly, not arrogantly, but with confidence. "It's not that I know exactly what to do, but I have ambition. My father always said that tradition must walk hand in hand with modernity, or we'll become irrelevant. I want to take my family beyond the limits of the past, finding a balance between what makes us unique and what we need to thrive in this new era."

Makoto remained silent for a moment, studying me. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a new resolve. "You really believe you can do that? Transform things like that?"

"Not alone," I replied, turning to face him. "No one achieves anything great on their own. But with loyal allies, people who share a vision and are willing to fight for it, I see no limits to what we can accomplish."

Makoto seemed deep in thought, and when he looked up again, there was a spark in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "You have something special, Tadashige," he said at last. "Something I've never seen in anyone here. If you'll allow me, I want to stand by your side. Not as another sycophant, but as a true partner."

"Then it's a deal," I said, extending my hand. "Let's see how far we can go together, Makoto."

He shook my hand firmly, a smile forming on his face, a mix of excitement and challenge. "I have a feeling the world will hear a lot about us."

While I can't deny that the Tokugawa name held weight that could one day be useful, there was something more to Makoto. He wasn't just a symbol of his lineage; he had a spark of his own, a quiet determination that made him promising and perhaps a true friend.

Chikako's destiny was fulfilled when she was wed to Prince Kuniyoshi, a distinguished member of the imperial family. The ceremony, held in the majestic Imperial Palace, was a celebration deeply rooted in Shinto traditions, with solemn rituals that highlighted the essence of Japanese culture, so distinct from Western weddings. Despite the grandeur of the event, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment when I learned that Emperor Meiji himself would not attend, depriving me of the chance to see him with my own eyes.