Doraemon, that defective feline-shaped robot, neither holds a job nor possesses an inheritance—so where on earth does he acquire the endless array of fantastical gadgets he flaunts?
—Such was the puzzlement that often surfaced in Wang Qiu's young mind when he read the Doraemon comics as a child.
It wasn't until much later that he finally arrived at a somewhat plausible—if less than perfect—explanation: Doraemon was, astonishingly, a credit card junkie indulging in the perils of advanced consumption!
—Doraemon's original master was Nobita's great-great-grandson, Sewashi Nobi. In a desperate attempt to alter the dire financial straits of the Nobi family in the 22nd century, he entrusted the defective childcare robot, a gift from a friend, to Nobita, hoping it might somehow change the fate of his grandfather—and the entire Nobi lineage.
Thus, Doraemon was initially destitute, his magical pouch filled with little more than discarded and clearance-sale gadgets, scarcely worth a single yen.
As Nobita's fortunes improved—eventually becoming a well-paid, respectable civil servant at the Ministry of the Environment—the future of the Nobi family likewise rose from impoverishment to modest affluence. Sewashi found himself able to spare a sliver of his pocket money to support Doraemon.
Yet even in a wealthy household, a child's allowance remains limited. Sewashi himself had his own expenses in the 22nd century, and so the funds he could provide to Doraemon were meager, inconsistent, and wholly unreliable.
For a gadget-loving cat robot who delighted in online shopping, this pittance was barely a drop in the ocean. Though most of the wondrous items in Doraemon's pocket were outdated and dirt-cheap castoffs from future department stores, he bought them in such quantities that the costs still added up. Occasionally, he even splurged on extravagant luxury goods.
—Just like those housewives who can't restrain their urge to shop, Doraemon found it impossible to resist buying anything that caught his mechanical eye.
So he was forced to find his own ways to procure funds.
At first, he diligently worked part-time jobs in the 22nd century—but soon laziness overcame him. The wages were low, the labor tedious.
Then he turned to loopholes and shortcuts: depositing money in Nobita's timeline, then withdrawing it in the future to reap astronomical interest. But the spacetime banking system quickly detected and penalized this manipulation—after all, even 22nd-century bankers aren't fools.
Besides, in normal circumstances, accrued interest can hardly outpace inflation or currency depreciation.
Next, Doraemon tried using his time machine to collect antiques from the past and sell them in the future. But in a century where time travel was commonplace, antiques had little value. After several attempts, he was warned by the Time-Space Administration.
—While casual time travel was permitted, drastically altering history remained strictly prohibited. The definition of "drastic," of course, was subject to the whims of the Administration's officials—none of whom Doraemon had the connections to influence.
Fortunately, through a few heroic adventures punishing evil and rewarding good, Doraemon managed to earn the occasional bounty or even a modest prize from the Administration. These windfalls offered momentary relief to his wallet—but were never enough to cover his excessive expenses.
Thus, lazy and fond of indulgence, Doraemon eventually spiraled into becoming a slave to credit cards and advanced spending.
—Through juggling balances across hundreds of credit cards, borrowing from tomorrow to pay for today, and dabbling in speculative financial instruments, Doraemon enjoyed a brief, comfortable high. But as the saying goes, "He who sows mischief must reap the whirlwind." The day came when his house of cards collapsed.
After maxing out a staggering three hundred credit cards, one catastrophic financial misstep in the 22nd century left him utterly bankrupt. He could no longer maintain his illusion of control over this frenetic financial circus... and thus, the day of reckoning arrived.
"...Even after pawning everything we could find in the auto-pawn machine, we still don't have enough to repay the debt."
Pointing to a bizarre contraption in the center of the room, Nobita groaned in despair. "Doraemon swiped his cards way too recklessly! According to the bank's black notice, in just three hours, the Time-Space Debt Collection Agency's enforcers will arrive to settle everything. What are we going to do?!"
"...I see. So that's what happened. Doraemon, how much do you actually owe? Perhaps I can contribute a bit to help you."
Seeing Nobita weeping inconsolably, Wang Qiu remembered he had a few U.S. dollars on him and considered offering some timely aid.
Then came the devastating answer that sent him reeling.
"...Well, in terms of 22nd-century currency, it's a little hard to define," Doraemon said, rubbing his cheek sheepishly. "But if we convert it into present-day Japanese yen... it's roughly three hundred billion."
"...Three hundred billion yen?!" Wang Qiu's mind went blank. "What the hell have you been doing? That's not just reckless spending—that's financial annihilation!"
"...Nothing much, really. Just a little online shopping..." Doraemon muttered, eyes shifty.
...
—To think that mere online shopping and credit card debt could saddle Doraemon with a historic, catastrophic debt of three hundred billion yen? On the surface, it seems implausible—but upon deeper reflection, it's oddly reasonable.
For every era has its own values, its own understanding of wealth.
In today's rapidly advancing world of material abundance, even those considered "poor" might hold wealth unimaginable to the elites of the past.
Take silver, for instance. In modern markets, it sells for about four yuan per gram. One tael in the Qing Dynasty weighed roughly 30 grams—meaning a tael of silver was worth around 120 yuan today. A seventh-rank magistrate in the Qing, earning about 100 taels per year (assuming no corruption), would receive the equivalent of 12,000 yuan annually—barely 1,000 yuan per month. Such an income would place him below the poverty line in any coastal city in modern China.
In other comparisons, the disparity is even more striking. A low-class maid might be bought in ancient times for just a few taels—but try buying a human being in today's world for a few hundred yuan? You couldn't even afford a single visit to a prostitute.
Conversely, an urban management intern like Wang Qiu, earning 2,000 yuan per month, makes the equivalent of 500 grams of silver—16 taels per month, around 200 taels per year. In ancient times, such income would rank far above the common laborer.
(Readers curious about this may try calculating their own annual income or tuition fees in silver taels.)
Thus, an apartment in modern Beijing would sell for tens of thousands of taels in Qing Dynasty silver. A single residential building might have covered the cost of the Opium War indemnity.
The Qing court, for all its annual revenue, couldn't afford a suburban Beijing apartment in today's market. The ancients, truly, were poor.
And that's just in relatively affordable modern China. In Japan, where living costs soar even higher, the disparity is even more absurd. Take Hiroshi Nohara, father of Shin-chan: with an annual salary of six million yen, he counts as lower-middle class in Japan. He relies on loans for housing and car.
But convert his income into silver? With four yuan per gram of silver, and sixteen yen per yuan... the math is shocking: Hiroshi earns roughly 3,000 taels of silver per year—equivalent to a Qing Dynasty prince's stipend.
So if a Qing prince were to time-travel to early 21st-century Japan, he would likely live like the Nohara family—cramped quarters, thirty-year mortgage, no servants, and meat dinners only after scrimping for a week. Gone would be the days of servants and indulgence. Mere fantasy!
With the explosive advancement of productivity, modern average wealth far exceeds that of antiquity. And in the wealth-saturated world of the 22nd century, the disparity only grows.
After all, in Doraemon's time, gambling firms offered planets and space battleships as lottery prizes, and schoolchildren could buy apocalyptic nuclear bombs with their pocket change.
—In that world, galactic starships capable of light-speed travel and crossing tens of thousands of light-years were no more than common household vehicles—Doraemon had one tucked in his pocket.
So, a debt of 300 billion yen? From a 22nd-century perspective, it wasn't so unthinkable after all.
Yet like all tragic figures drowning in debt, Doraemon now faced a bleak future—akin to modern victims of loan sharks forced to work off their debts in radioactive zones.
...
"...Hey, Doraemon. If the collectors arrive, what will happen to you? Will you declare bankruptcy?"
Watching Doraemon silently return the scattered bills to the pawn machine, Wang Qiu sighed, feeling helpless.
"...Worse than that! Even Doraemon himself will be seized as collateral—after all, robots are considered property."
Nobita replied with a downcast face, "...Just thinking about Doraemon being auctioned off to strangers breaks my heart..."
Doraemon dealt the final blow: "...As if it were that simple! Nobita, I'm scratched, rusted, and missing an ear. No one in the 22nd century would buy a defective robot like me. If I'm taken for debt recovery, I'll likely fail the auction and end up disassembled in a scrapyard—for parts and precious materials."
—In Wang Qiu's mind, a grotesque image flashed of Doraemon hanging in chains, sliced apart by welding torches. Wait—why did this suddenly feel like some twisted organ-harvesting crime thriller?
"Waaaaah! Nooooo! Doraemon!" Nobita collapsed on the tatami floor, sobbing uncontrollably. "I can't bear to watch you die! Do something! Aren't you always full of ideas?!"
"There's nothing I can do, Nobita. If I had more time, perhaps I could think of something. But now\... we have only three hours—wait, two hours left. There's nothing I can accomplish in so little time. Worse still, the moment the bank's final notice arrived, the Time-Space Administration sealed our dimensional tunnel. I can't escape to another era. Even if I used the Anywhere Door to hide ten light-years away, their agents would find me instantly."
Doraemon spoke calmly, almost resignedly, as he laid out a white cloth, knelt upon it, and solemnly placed two samurai blades beside him. "...I've made up my mind, Nobita. Rather than be dismembered in a factory, I would rather die with honor. Please, be my second."
"...Doraemoooon!!" cried Nobita, clutching him tightly, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Just then, Wang Qiu cleared his throat and finally interjected.
"...Ahem! Nobita, Doraemon... while I don't have the means to pay off a 300 billion yen debt, I do know a place where we might temporarily escape the collectors. It might buy us enough time to come up with a plan. Of course... it's dangerous. But if you're willing to take the risk..."
...
And so, with a few persuasive words from Wang Qiu, the panicked duo agreed to his plan: they would enter the Lord God's World again, rescuing stranded newcomers—and evading the relentless collectors of the Time-Space Debt Agency.
One hour before the enforcers were to arrive at Nobita's doorstep, the trio was ready.
"...Activating the Book of Passage. Entering subordinate realm of the Lord God System: Northern Song Dynasty, Second Defense of Kaifeng!"
As Wang Qiu input the command, he turned to Doraemon and Nobita.
"Let us embark on an adventure—together!"
And in a blaze of white light, the three figures vanished from Nobita's room.