Wang Yong now stood on a winter street in Hokkaido. The afternoon air was utterly still—not a whisper of wind.
Dirty snowdrifts rose high along the sides of the road, stiff and gray like forgotten sculptures. The air felt taut, like a string drawn too tight. Men and women moved carefully, eyes on the ground, each step swift and deliberate.
High school girls passed by, their cheeks flushed pink, exhaling white clouds into the crisp air—clouds so thick, it felt like you could write words in them.
Wang Yong strolled leisurely down the street. Even here, in this quieter corner of Japan, Hokkaido thrummed with activity. The streets bustled. The energy was unmistakable.
It was the height of Japan's economic bubble. At this moment in time, Japan's per capita GDP had even overtaken that of the United States. Almost everyone wore the same look—confident, cheerful, as if the world itself were affirming their sense of place.
Wang Yong observed it all with curiosity, a quiet sense of wonder rising within him at how drastically the world could shift.
He stepped into a café to rest and ordered a cup of coffee—hot and strong. As he drank, he listened and watched.
Around him were the usual city scenes: couples whispering sweet nothings to each other, two office workers from a trading firm bent over spreadsheets, discussing numbers, and a group of college students chatting about ski trips and the latest record from the Police.
It was the kind of urban scene you'd find in any developed country in the 1980s. This café, transported as-is to Yokohama or Fukuoka, wouldn't have seemed out of place in the slightest.
Wang Yong found it all quietly fascinating. The words spoken around him floated into his mind with ease, as though he were hearing his native tongue. He felt a surprising sense of satisfaction. Even with nothing to his name, his fluency in two foreign languages would be more than enough to ensure a comfortable life.
He leaned back in his chair, casually gazing around the café. For the first time in a while, he felt completely at ease.
After a short while, he got up and made his way to the Dolphin Hotel.
The Dolphin Hotel stood in a prime location in Sapporo. In the 1980s, it had been the epitome of trendy sophistication—and even in Wang Yong's original era, it would have held up.
The facade gleamed—polished glass and stainless steel in bold display. A perfectly aligned row of flagpoles flanked the entrance canopy, each pole topped with a fluttering flag from a different country. A taxi dispatcher in a crisp uniform gestured smartly to approaching cars. A glass elevator ran straight to the top floor, gliding upward like a silver arrow.
A marble column beside the entrance bore a dolphin relief, beneath which the name shone in English:
DOLPHIN HOTEL
Wang Yong nodded slightly to himself—then noticed someone standing beside him, staring at the building with wide eyes.
The man wore a hunting jacket, a fur hat, and thick cargo pants with pockets everywhere. An "orz" pin was affixed to his chest. He had the look of someone carrying a private joke the rest of the world hadn't caught up to yet.
With a subtle flick of his right wrist, Wang Yong marked him with a tracking sigil—light, precise.
He had no intention of striking up a conversation.
Wang Yong stepped onto the sloping ramp beneath the rain awning and slipped through the revolving door, which gleamed from meticulous polishing.
The lobby was immense—grand enough to rival a sports arena. The ceiling stretched toward the clouds, a glass facade rising in flawless, uninterrupted panels. Sunlight poured in like a waterfall of gold.
Wide, plush sofas—clearly expensive—lined the room in neat symmetry, each one accented by lush ornamental plants.
At the far end stood a lavish café. Here, if you ordered a sandwich, you'd receive four tiny ham sandwiches—no larger than business cards—neatly arranged on an oversized silver platter. Crispy potato chips and delicate Western pickles decorated the plate with artistic flair. Order a coffee, and its price could easily cover lunch for a family of four at a mid-range restaurant.
A massive oil painting—three tatami mats in size—hung on the wall, depicting a stretch of Hokkaido marshland. Though not particularly impressive in terms of technique, the painting's scale and bold placement left no room for doubt: it was here to impress.
There was some kind of gathering going on. The space felt crowded.
A group of well-dressed middle-aged men leaned against the sofas, nodding frequently or laughing heartily. They wore identical expressions—chins raised, legs crossed in precisely the same angle. Professors, perhaps. Or doctors.
Nearby stood a group of elegantly dressed women—half in kimono, half in Western dresses. Several foreigners mingled among them. A few company men in somber-toned suits stood off to one side, briefcases in hand, waiting for someone.
Wang Yong approached the front desk and gave his name.
His current identity was that of a Japanese-born Chinese national.
All the front desk girls wore sky-blue vests over white shirts, with matching hair accessories. As soon as he spoke, they smiled in unison and greeted him with professional warmth.
Though Wang Yong had visited five-star hotels in China before, he had never received such treatment. He couldn't help feeling a bit pleasantly surprised.
There were three attendants at the desk, but only one stepped forward—wearing glasses, head tilted up just slightly. She had a calm and elegant presence.
Among the staff, she was clearly the most striking—like a hotel sprite conjured from every ideal image of luxury hospitality. One could almost imagine her waving a tiny golden wand and summoning a key from the air, just like in a Disney film.
Wang Yong felt a quiet sense of triumph.
Because the protagonist—let's call him Jun Watanabe for now—had been assigned to a different clerk entirely.
This girl, without a doubt, was Yumiki.
She deftly entered his name and credit card number into the system, offered him a gentle smile, and handed over a keycard embossed with the number:
1523
Wang Yong hesitated. Should he ask about the old Dolphin Hotel?
In the end, he decided against it. That wasn't his concern. He would just follow the protagonist's lead when the time came.
He gave Yumiki a polite smile and stepped away from the counter, heading toward the elevators.
Room 1523 was considered extremely posh for the 1980s—a kind of retro elegance.
The bed and bathtub were spacious. The mini-fridge was well-stocked. On the desk sat stationery and envelopes. Even the writing desk exuded tasteful refinement.
The hotel brochure listed a shopping mall in the basement, an indoor tennis court, five restaurants, and three bars. There was even a helipad on the rooftop.
The latest in luxury, eighties-style.
Naturally, there was no computer.
This was Wang Yong's first time staying in a true five-star hotel. He resolved to enjoy it to the fullest.
He dined in the hotel restaurant, then stepped out into the night, strolling leisurely through Sapporo's winter streets.
In some ways, this era of Japan reminded him of the China he had left behind.
Several shops were already closed, wooden signs reading "Scheduled for Demolition" hung over their doors. Large-scale construction sites dotted the landscape.
Of course, once the bubble burst, even parts of Tokyo—not to mention Hokkaido—would be filled with vacant hotels, struggling office towers, and abandoned developments.
He ducked into a casual restaurant for a bowl of udon and a small cup of sake.
Sleepiness crept over him at once.
Can't sleep yet, he reminded himself.
Back at the hotel, he followed signs in the lobby to the swimming pool.
Good facilities made all the difference, he thought. Maybe he should start living more comfortably in his own world too.
After all, this trip to the world of Dance Dance Dance was meant to help him face his inner fears—not a mission of combat. In truth, it was almost like a publicly funded vacation.