Chapter 35: Debt of 168 billion!

Once, Hoshino Kirara was Duhuang City’s undisputed darling, a star shining bright in the spotlight.

She woke in a sprawling thousand-square-meter mansion, her walk-in closet brimming with top designers’ seasonal haute couture. A private driver and security team stood ready, escorting her between Saint Flower Saint Love Academy and exclusive, invite-only clubs most people had never heard of.

The Hoshino Group, a commercial titan whose mere sneeze could shake Super Asia’s economy, was her unshakable foundation, the source of her innate pride and confidence.

Back then, a casual word from her could revive a failing business or ruin an upstart daring to challenge the Hoshino name overnight.

She was the stage’s sole focus, a meteor blazing so brightly it almost hurt to look at, envied, coveted, and endlessly courted. She thrived in the spotlight, basking in applause and adulation.

But that glittering, dreamlike splendor collapsed in weeks, like a sandcastle swallowed by a merciless tide.

A catastrophic overseas investment, internal fraud by core executives, and a coordinated attack by rivals—negative headlines crashed down like an avalanche, burying the once-invincible empire.

At a press conference swarmed by reporters, her once-vibrant father, now aged decades overnight with half-gray hair, hunched before countless lenses. In a hoarse, barely audible voice, he announced the Hoshino Group’s bankruptcy and a staggering debt: 168 billion.

The cold, emotionless number branded Kirara’s life with searing humiliation and despair.

Her mansion was seized, her sports cars and yachts auctioned, her luxury goods liquidated. Her bank cards became useless plastic, their balances too low for even a bus ticket home.

Those who once fawned over her vanished like receding waves, leaving no trace of loyalty.

Her magical girl glory and duty were also usurped by a shinier star. On TV, Golden Needle Yellow’s heroic, flawless figure dominated every report, silently declaring Kirara’s exit.

The campus festival night haunted her like a nightmare. Her desire-driven disgrace, the gun she raised against her teammate—these images made her feel filthy, unworthy of her yellow crystal.

So, Kirara cut all ties with the magical girls. She ignored dozens of missed calls from Huang Yu Tong, deleted Tao Gong Qi’s cautious, caring texts without reading them, retreating like a wounded animal to lick her festering wounds.

From the clouds to the mud, no prelude needed.

Now, Hoshino Kirara curled in the corner of a dilapidated fifth-floor apartment in East Port. The cheap, poorly ventilated room—barely ten square meters—was cluttered with instant noodle packs, takeout containers, musty secondhand clothes, and a ceiling leak staining the wall with dark streaks.

Barefoot on the floor, she shivered. Her greasy, tangled hair clung to a three-day-old T-shirt from the laundry pile. The thin curtains couldn’t block the barking dogs and drunken shouts below, and the air reeked of noodle broth and moldy wallpaper.

Her once-powerful father now only drank, cursing his past blindness or passing out in a stupor.

Kirara didn’t move, couldn’t move.

She feared that sound.

Knock, knock, knock—

A sudden pounding on the door, heavy as a hammer, shattered the suffocating silence, jolting her fragile nerves.

Kirara flinched like a small animal spooked by a hound, hugging her knees tighter into the moldy corner.

Them again… the debt collectors…

Since the Hoshino Group’s fall, these brutal knocks had become her nightmare.

Thuggish men in black suits came every few days, banging on the door, hurling vile insults, splashing red paint, even stuffing the rusty mailbox with gruesome photos of mutilated bodies as threats.

Kirara knew if she stayed curled up, ears covered, ignoring them, the hyenas would make a racket, find no response, and leave, cursing as usual.

But today’s knocks were different.

Knock—Knock—Knock—

Slow, steady, calm—not the usual frantic rage, as if the knocker knew someone was inside and had the patience to keep going.

Kirara gritted her teeth. A flicker of her old, stubborn pride—laughable yet tragic—flared amid fear-fueled anger.

Trembling, she stood, smoothing the wrinkled, cheap T-shirt’s curled hem. The futile gesture couldn’t hide her disheveled state, but she did it anyway, clinging to a shred of human dignity.

The fallen heiress shuffled to the door, took a deep breath, her dull blue eyes flashing with resolve.

She flung the door open, expecting menacing goons. Instead, a slight boy in a faded school uniform stood under the flickering hallway light, his cap low, half his soft features shadowed.

Behind him, the usual arrogant debt collectors lay sprawled across the floor, silent, their fates unclear.

“Good evening, Miss,” Dongfang Cheng’s voice was flat. “I took care of the punks loitering downstairs and at your door. Mind if we talk?”

Kirara froze.

Tears nearly broke through her restraint, but she turned away, hiding the streaks on her face.

“How… how did you find me?”

“Class Prez told me,” Dongfang Cheng replied calmly. “Took some patience to pry it out of her.” Getting info from Huang Yu Tong wasn’t hard—that’s why he’d been cozying up to her.

Kirara lowered her head, her expression a tangle of emotions.

She remembered the campus festival vividly—how this delinquent boy appeared at her darkest moment, saving her in a completely different form.

Gratitude, shame, confusion, resentment—emotions choked her throat, leaving her speechless.

“Hm? You crying?”

“I’m not!” She jolted, wiping her tears with her hand. “Just… sand in my eyes!”

Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed his sleeve, yanked him inside, and slammed the door shut.

The dim room reeked, cluttered with noodle cups and empty beer cans, the floor stained with yellowed splotches. Dongfang Cheng stood in the chaotic center, his gaze sweeping the ash-covered coffee table and grimy carpet.

He said nothing—no pity, no disgust, no regret. The boy just stood there, watching the disheveled heiress with her tear-streaked face.

She was nothing like the proud, peacock-like Hoshino Kirara. Yet her back stayed straight, trembling but unyielding, clinging to a fragile, almost laughable dignity only she could see.