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On Tuesday, Emperor Akihito of Japan will step down in the first abdication of the Chrysanthemum Throne in 200 years. In the first four episodes of this series, the world’s oldest monarchy survived defeat in war, a firebomb, a precarious courtship and the failure of Akihito’s son Naruhito to produce an heir. The family’s story continues here.

The last time the paparazzi got a good look at Kei Komuro, he was arriving at law school in New York a year ago for the start of the fall semester, swinging a soft briefcase and looking stylish in an off-white blazer, khakis and brown brogues.

Then, a few weeks ago, a magazine published a photo of Mr. Komuro off campus in an untucked shirt in need of ironing and a pair of Crocs. His hair had grown shaggy, and he was ordering an afternoon snack at a falafel cart.

The pundits on television in Tokyo wondered: Had he been so busy studying that he didn’t have time for a haircut? Was he having a late lunch to save money?

The question actually on their minds — on most everyone’s in Japan, really — was more pointed: Is this guy good enough for Princess Mako, the eldest granddaughter of Emperor Akihito?

The imperial family has never suffered from lack of drama. In recent decades, though, it has escaped the kind of scandals that have damaged monarchies elsewhere. There have been no extramarital affairs, no divorces, no influence-peddling or gambling outrages.

On the contrary, the Japanese royals have come across as studious, empathetic and almost unnaturally well behaved. But how will the Chrysanthemum Throne weather the era of TMZ and Instagram?

Two years ago, Princess Mako introduced Mr. Komuro, 27, to reporters in Tokyo as the man she intended to marry.

They had been dating since college. She said his smile was as bright as the sun. He said she watched over him as quietly as the moon. They added that Akihito himself had given them his blessing, and the public swooned.

The tabloids, though, put him under a magnifying glass. Less than a year later, they reported that Mr. Komuro’s mother, a widow, had borrowed 4 million yen, or about $36,000, from an ex-boyfriend and never paid it back.

The story had nothing to do with her son, who was then working as a paralegal, but in a society where family background carries great weight, it fueled suspicion that he was courting the princess for status and money.

Public opinion turned against him. Weeks later, the palace announced it was putting off a formal ceremony to mark the engagement. “I wish to think about marriage more deeply and concretely,” Princess Mako, 27, said.

Mr. Komuro then decamped to Fordham Law School, prompting speculation that the palace had pressured him to leave or that he had manipulated the situation to gain admission to the school, on scholarship no less.

Mako’s father, the emperor’s younger son, Prince Akishino, told reporters he could not bless the relationship until his potential son-in-law “solved the problems that have surfaced.” (Never mind that once upon a time, Akishino himself had defied the palace to marry before his older brother.)

Mr. Komuro explained that the $36,000 had been a gift and apologized for “causing anxiety.” His lawyer — yes, he has retained counsel — said in a recent interview that his client’s feelings for the princess had not changed. Yet he declined to say whether the two were still talking.

“Normally, any engaged couples will communicate,” he said. “It would be strange if they didn’t.”

A generation earlier, the tabloids had obsessed over whether Crown Prince Naruhito — the next emperor — would find his Cinderella. Now, they were close to toppling a prospective royal suitor. Both stories were reminders of the monarchy’s fragile existence: If Naruhito did not marry, he would not produce an heir. Even if Princess Mako married, she would not be allowed to.

In fact, she would have to surrender her title and leave the imperial family. That is a requirement of all royal daughters under the law that excludes women from the line of succession. Princess Nori, the emperor’s daughter, for example, became plain Sayako Kuroda when she married 14 years ago.

This means the royal family has several phantom branches, all cut off from the throne. One leads to Akifumi Kikuchi, 34, who writes advertising copy by day and performs spoken-word poetry by night. He is the son of one of Emperor Akihito’s cousins, a princess who lost her title when she married the scion of a great teahouse.

Mr. Kikuchi says it doesn’t much bother him to be left out of the line of succession, though he allowed that in another country, “I would be in the top 100.” As for Princess Mako, whom he has met only briefly at weddings and funerals, he said he hoped she would be able to “pursue what she wants.”

That is also the position of Emperor Akihito, now 85, and his wife, Empress Michiko. They issued a statement last year saying they would not express a direct opinion of the engagement but believed everyone should “wait for Princess Mako to make her own decisions.”

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Epilogue

One week in July 2016, the emperor hosted teas for the ambassadors of Bulgaria, the Netherlands, South Africa and Thailand.

He was briefed on a campaign for athletes with disabilities. He attended the opening of a museum exhibit and several concerts, including a fund-raiser to support children with cancer.

A survivor of prostate cancer himself, as well as heart surgery, Akihito also had two medical exams. Then he and Empress Michiko repaired to a vacation villa on the coast.

While they were out of town, Japan’s public broadcaster, NHK, interrupted its programming one evening with a bulletin. Citing anonymous sources, it said the emperor wanted to abdicate and retire.

This was stunning news. No emperor had abdicated in more than 200 years, a move that would require action by Parliament.

A month later, Akihito addressed the nation on television.

“When I consider that my fitness level is gradually declining,” he said, “I am worried that it may become difficult for me to carry out my duties as the symbol of the state with my whole being as I have done until now.”

Over the decades, Akihito had quietly remade the monarchy into a bulwark against the return of militarism in Japan. In doing so, he acknowledged truths that some Japanese politicians would rather deny or forget.

Now, perhaps for the last time, gingerly and with public opinion on his side, as usual, Akihito was pushing the politicians again.

The conservatives in power hesitated. They worried about opening the door to another push to let women ascend to the throne. So it took nearly three years to get to this point:

On Tuesday afternoon, the 125th emperor of Japan — whose father brought the nation to the brink of destruction yet refused to abdicate — will himself voluntarily surrender the Chrysanthemum Throne.

Then, the man whose English teacher once called him Jimmy will accept an unusual new title: Emperor Emeritus.

Hisako Ueno and Makiko Inoue contributed reporting.

Motoko Rich is the Tokyo bureau chief. She has been a reporter with The Times since 2003, and has covered real estate, publishing, economics and education. She previously worked at The Financial Times in London and The Wall Street Journal. @motokorich • Facebook

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