I Was ¥1.8 Million In Debt When the Legacy System Chose Me

Author’s Note:

Welcome to I Was ¥1.8 Million in Debt When the Legacy System Chose Me!

Thank you for giving this story a chance. Ren’s journey begins at his lowest point, but this is only the first step toward rebuilding his life, facing the truths he has avoided, and creating a legacy of his own.

I hope you enjoy the business growth, romance, family moments, struggles and victories ahead.

Thank you for reading, and welcome to Ren Kisaragi’s story.

---

At exactly 5:42 a.m. on Monday, 6 February 2023, the alarm on Ren Kisaragi’s phone vibrated against the unvarnished floorboard beside his futon.

Ren didn’t jump up. At twenty-three, his body moved with a heavy, grinding hesitation. The result of four hours of restless sleep and months of night shifts. He rolled onto his side, a sharp twinge shooting through his stiff lower back, and squinted through swollen eyelids at the spiderweb of cracks across his screen.

Three notifications sat stacked over his background:

[SMBC Consumer Finance] Notice of Past-Due Balance: Immediate settlement required.

[Automatic Withdrawal Notice] ¥31,400 scheduled for 08/02/2023. Account status: Insufficient Funds.

[Calendar] Father’s Birthday (53).

Ren stared at the third line until his eyes burned. He didn’t delete it. He hadn’t deleted it last year either. Masato Kisaragi was fifty-three today. Assuming he was still alive somewhere beyond the reach of the creditors he had fled after burning through more than ¥60 million in family capital.

Swallowing against a dry, sour throat, Ren pushed himself up.

On the low folding table in the center of his six-mat Kawaguchi room lay the physical evidence of the wreckage. A stack of overdue utility bills sat weighted down by an old, cracked university identification card. The plastic card showed a younger Ren from before his second year collapsed under hospital bills, rent arrears, the loss of his tuition fund, and the forced sale of the family home.

His own personal debt stood at roughly ¥1.8 million now. It had accumulated drop by drop. Covering rent deposits and arrears, his mother’s medical follow-ups after her workplace back injury, and Mei’s education costs.

The phone buzzed in his hand with an incoming call.

’Mother.’

Ren cleared his throat before answering. "Good morning, Mom."

"Ren? Did I wake you?" Emiko’s voice came through warm and practical, though beneath it lay the careful cadence of a woman who measured her words to avoid burdening her children. In the background, plastic pieces clicked softly as nineteen-year-old Mei worked on an urban-planning model.

"No, I was already up," Ren said, standing to stretch his back until it popped. "Just getting ready."

"Are you eating properly? You sounded tired when we spoke on Friday."

"They’ve added more night hours," Ren said. "The pay should stay steady."

"That’s good... but don’t take on too much," Emiko murmured. "Mei wants to buy you a coat with what she’s saved, but I told her to keep it for school."

"Tell her to keep the money. I’m fine," Ren said. "How’s your back today?"

"Much better. The doctor said I only need therapy once every two weeks now."

Ren knew the doctor had actually recommended twice a week, but Emiko had cut the visits to save on co-pays. Neither called the other out on the omission. It was the language they spoke. A precise economy of half-truths meant to keep the household from buckling under the ghost of Masato’s failure.

"Keep the appointment on Thursday," Ren said. "I’ll call you after my next shift."

He hung up before she could press further, setting the phone down next to his thin, worn wallet.

The bitter chill of Nishi-Kawaguchi at 11:15 p.m. bit through Ren’s jacket as he stood beside the outdoor vending machine behind QuickMart. He fed a ¥100 coin and four ¥10 coins into the slot, then pressed the button for black coffee.

The machine clinked, dropping the red can into the chute. Ren picked it up, pressing the warm metal against his numb fingers.

’¥140.’ Two years ago, he wouldn’t have noticed a ¥140 purchase. Now, he calculated how many grams of rice that single coin could buy.

He popped the tab, took a swallow, and pulled open the back door of QuickMart Nishi-Kawaguchi.

Inside, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzed with a low hum. Takashi Endo, the thirty-eight-year-old day manager, was waiting by the register counter with his tie pulled loose. Endo bent over backward for corporate auditors, but he was harsh with part-timers and controlling whenever his authority felt safe.

"You’re early, Kisaragi," Endo grunted, tapping a clipboard against the counter. "Good. Sign this shortage report before you clock in."

Ren set his coffee down and looked at the paper pushed toward him. It was a formal report asserting that a ¥45,000 inventory deficit in tobacco stock had occurred during the previous week’s graveyard shifts.

"I wasn’t here on either shift," Ren said quietly, his gaze flattening. "If I sign this, it says I had the keys. I didn’t."

"It’s how the report groups the shifts," Endo said, leaning forward to project an authority he clearly felt slipping. "I just need a night-shift signature. Night staff are easy to replace, Kisaragi. Don’t make this difficult."

"I wasn’t here," Ren repeated, his voice dropping into a dry, steady rhythm. "Check the key log before you put my name on this."

Endo’s face flushed red. Before he could speak, nineteen-year-old Yui Morita stepped out from the cold beverage aisle holding a plastic crate. Small-framed, with straight dark hair tied low, Yui maintained a quiet, professional presence in the store.

"I was stocking drinks at 2:10 on Friday," Yui said, her voice flat and even as she set the crate down. "I saw you take the key box, Manager Endo. You left before 2:40, and Ren had already clocked out."

Endo glared at her, his jaw tightening. "Morita, nobody asked you."

"Don’t sign it unless the records match, Kisaragi-san," Yui added quietly, ignoring Endo’s glare completely.

Endo snatched the clipboard off the counter, his skin turning mottled white. "We’ll discuss this tomorrow," he muttered, turning on his heel and retreating into the back office, slamming the door.

Ren let out a slow breath. "Thanks, Morita-san."

"It’s just what happened," Yui said, turning back to the shelves.

By 2:30 a.m. on Tuesday, 7 February, the store was silent. Yui was working down aisle three restocking canned goods, while Ren stood behind register one, replacing a thermal paper roll.

The chime above the entrance door squealed.

A man walked in wearing a heavy black puffer jacket, a dark beanie pulled low, and a gray surgical mask. His movements were sharp, anxious, and twitchy. He walked straight to the main register, pulling a folding utility knife from his pocket. The eight-centimeter blade snapped into place with a metallic click.

"Open the drawer!" the man rasped, his voice trembling frantically. "Big bills, now!"

"Morita-san, stay behind me," Ren said in a low, even tone, stepping sideways to block the path toward aisle three. He raised both hands slowly to chest height. "I’m opening it now."

Ren pressed the cash-drawer release on the touch screen. The till popped open with a loud ding.

"Move!" the robber yelled. He shoved past the side of the register counter, driving his left shoulder hard into Ren’s chest to clear space.

The heavy blow drove Ren sideways. His shoulder and left side slammed against the metal edge of the cigarette display shelving, a sharp, white-hot flash of pain shooting down his ribs. Ren gasped, stumbling, but he kept his hands raised and made no move to strike back or chase the man.

"Just take the cash," Ren said, leaning against the shelf to keep his balance while keeping himself squarely between the robber and Yui, who stood rigid three feet behind him near the end-cap.

The robber lunged his trembling hand into the till, grabbing stacks of ¥1,000 and ¥5,000 notes. In his haste, his forearm hit the manual receipt feed, causing a loose strip of paper to spew out onto the counter. He shoved the money into his coat, turned, and bolted out the glass door into the dark street.

Ren waited until the footsteps faded entirely. Ignoring the throbbing ache in his shoulder and side, he hit the silent emergency alarm button under the counter.

"Are you okay, Kisaragi-san?" Yui asked, stepping forward quickly, her eyes wide as she looked at his braced position against the shelf.

"I’m okay. Don’t touch the counter," Ren said, checking the register clock: 02:34:12. "He hit the receipt button, so leave the strip where it fell."

Thirty minutes later, two patrol cars sat outside with flashing blue lights.

Endo had arrived shortly after being notified by the alarm company. He stood near the entrance talking rapidly to a senior police officer, gesturing toward Ren. Near the door, Yui gave a second officer her account, her hands wrapped around a paper cup from the staff room as she gestured back toward the end-cap where she had stood.

"He was the only one assigned to the front register, Officer," Endo said, his voice carrying over the refrigeration hum. "I need to know why he opened the till."

"The clock read 2:34," Ren said calmly, holding his breath slightly against the pain in his side. "The camera will show the knife. The safety rules say to open the till and not fight."

Endo pushed a fresh incident sheet toward Ren. "Sign this. It confirms you opened the till without a sale."

Ren left the pen untouched on the counter. "Add the knife, Morita-san’s statement, and the fact that you scheduled me alone at the front from one to six. Then I’ll read it. The schedule is on my phone," Ren added to the officer.

The officer took the incident sheet from between them before Endo could argue. "Nobody signs anything yet. We’ll take the footage and till records, then both of you can give formal statements at the station. Until then, don’t compare your accounts."

After the police completed their preliminary walk-through, the responding officer waited while Ren grabbed his coat from the back room. Endo locked the staff exit behind them, refusing to look at Ren, and drove away in his compact car.

At 4:15 a.m., Ren finally stood on the cold, quiet sidewalk. The night air was biting, settling deep in his lungs as he leaned against the brick wall to take the weight off his bruised side. He pulled out his cracked phone to check the time.

The screen flickered.

A clean, translucent interface panel belonging to no application installed on his device expanded across the cracked glass, overriding the system display entirely.

Text rendered line by line, accompanied by a faint hum in his mind:

[LEGACY QUALIFICATION FOUND.]

[Candidate: Ren Kisaragi.]

[Age: 23.]

[Inherited failure is not inherited destiny.]

[Emergency task: preserve evidence, state the truth and refuse the false report.]

[Pending reward: ¥5,000 and one sealed consumable.]

Ren stared at the text on the screen, his thumb hovering above the glass in the freezing Kawaguchi air.

Below the summary, a final question blinked in steady, rhythmic intervals:

[Will you accept an inheritance that may not have come from the dead?]