Back to the Grind

Before leaving, Hatz made sure to cover his right hand with the waste-handling glove.

He opened the dungeon door, and the midday sun hit him hard. He slung a magic waste bag over his shoulder and dropped it onto his old handcart. Then went back for the other bag, and finally his tools.

Once everything was ready, he took one last look at the dungeon and shut the massive door.

He knew that if anyone entered again, the layout would change entirely.

Level B1 would remain empty until the next respawn, but B2 would no longer hold that cherry blossom tree.

It was the first time he left a dungeon with a smile.

Though he couldn't deny his body was wrecked: his back felt split in two, and he was probably sporting a few new bruises. Even so, he pushed his cart through the forest, heading away from the Mohga dungeon.

A long road back to Zeytharion, the capital, awaited him.

Anyone else would've used a travel scroll to skip the trek. But Hatz wasn't just anyone…

He couldn't afford such luxuries. A single scroll cost more than he could make in three full days of nonstop work.

Like so many other unlucky souls, he had to travel on foot—and early, if he wanted to be on time for his assignments.

This time, however, the return felt different.

Almost involuntarily, he kept glancing at the rune on the back of his right hand, hidden beneath the glove.

He felt a strange unease:

What did it mean?

What could it imply for him?

And what was that voice that had echoed in his mind?

Supposedly, he had gained experience. Him. A mere cleaner with no magic. No official license to be an adventurer.

Should he tell one of the administrators? Or an adventurer?

The answer came instantly:

"NO."

He couldn't reveal that he'd found an Unusual Space, or that he'd gotten a drop from it.

That would only bring trouble… or rob him of the only chance that might change his life.

He'd have to figure it out on his own.

Uncover for himself what that sphere was, and what the rune now engraved on his hand meant.

The whole way back, those questions swirled nonstop in his mind.

He replayed his narrow escape from death again and again, trying to make sense of it all.

So lost in thought was he, he didn't even realize when he'd left the forest and started seeing the distant towers of the capital.

Judging by the sun's position, he'd walked for about two hours—faster than usual.

When he finally reached the main road to Zeytharion, anxiety surged.

Without thinking, he picked up the pace, pushing the cart with renewed strength.

In less than twenty minutes, he stood before the gates of the "City of Nine Cores," as Zeytharion was commonly called—famed for being the nexus of magical and energetic centers.

The city shimmered faintly, bathed in the glow of its Nine Cores: towering crystalline spires laid out symmetrically, each pulsing with a constant current of energy.

Each Core represented a fundamental aspect of the world: fire, water, air, earth, light, shadow, metal, spirit, and corruption—though the last was never spoken aloud.

The outer walls were black as obsidian.

Despite their massive size, the gates stood open as usual, guarded by administrative golems and soldiers of the Order of Pronouncers.

Entry was fluid.

Zeytharion never closed its gates: it was far too powerful to fear anything from the outside.

Hatz paused a moment beneath the main arch, panting.

The welcome sign hung crooked, reading in glowing letters:

"Welcome to Zeytharion – Where the essential becomes irrelevant before magic."

He sighed.

It always struck him as distasteful… but too accurate to argue with.

He stepped inside.

The first sector upon entry was the Ingress District, a grey-stone zone where merchants, apprentices, and dungeon cleaners like him bustled about.

And above, towering on a series of levitating platforms, were the High Rings—the city's crown jewels: areas suspended by magical gravity, home to major guilds, academies, and central administrative towers.

But Hatz had no time to admire the architecture.

The smell from his bucket was starting to seep through, and he still had to reach Zone 3—home to the Dungeon Cleaning Administration (or DUCA, as it was officially known): a low, grey building with a half-collapsed look.

He picked up the pace.

Zeytharion was impressive, sure… but to someone like him, it was just the place where he slept too little and worked too much.

When he reached the building, he circled to the back, where a large parking area for battered carts held the vehicles of other collectors.

Behind the structure, a rune furnace roared nonstop, devouring the waste brought from dungeons.

The magic bags were tossed directly into its gaping mouth, one after another, and the heat it gave off was enough to make the ground quake slightly with each combustion.

That furnace didn't just burn monster remains—it also powered rune energy, the core of all magical technology in Zeytharion.

When the bags were fully consumed and the furnace died down, it left behind a precious residue: solid magical essence—tiny glowing violet cubes carefully collected by authorized personnel.

That was the "essential" part of their job.

At least, according to the capataces' endless speech.

"No cleaning, no magic," they always said.

What they didn't say was that the pay was garbage.

Payment depended on the weight of waste delivered, but no regular cleaner could carry more than three bags per shift without collapsing.

The leftover bags were claimed by the capataces, who used their own transport scrolls to whisk them away directly from the field.

At that hour, none of his fellow collectors had returned yet.

So he quickly dumped the bags into the furnace and requested a new assignment.

Inside, Foreman Maelgroth was waiting in the administrative office—a room thick with the smell of burnt coffee and chimney smoke.

He was a tall man, square-jawed, white-bearded, and wore a half-closed tunic stained with who-knows-what.

"Hatz. Just in time," he grunted, not lifting his eyes from the floating paper in front of him.

"I'm here for the next assignment, sir."

Maelgroth raised an eyebrow, checking a mission scroll.

"Let's see… this one's good for you. Not too deep, but a bit unstable. Mid-tier dungeon: Ruins of Grann-Korh. B3 active, the rest unexplored. Watch out for surprises."

"Adventurers in trouble?"

"What do you care? You're there to clean, not play hero."

"Right."

"Oh, and they're requesting removal of 'incendiary viscera' waste. Wear reinforced gloves unless you want magical fungus growing on your arms. Or worse—health court."

Hatz nodded, holding back the urge to say something snarky.

"Name registered, time stamped. You'll meet a group led by someone named Gulka, but you know the drill: you go in last, once everyone's dead."

"My favorite time of day."

"Clean thoroughly. And if you find anything valuable… you know who to report it to," said the foreman with a crooked smile.

Hatz left without replying.

Outside, he carefully put on the new gloves from his backpack, making sure no one was around to see him.

He was quietly relieved to see the rune was still there on his hand.

"Ruins of Grann-Korh..." he murmured. "Another unforgettable dungeon."

Without another word, he grabbed his cart from the lot and started toward the gates.

He would've liked to check in on his little sister before leaving, but his anxiety won out. He needed to know what would happen in this new dungeon. After all, he'd supposedly gained experience just by cleaning... or something like that.

He had to run tests. And there was no better place than an empty dungeon.

The Ruins of Grann-Korh were about three hours away. A trip he usually dragged his feet through.

But today was different.

He was… anxious. Actually, more than that—he was excited.

The first obstacle was a rope bridge that spanned a cliff above a river so treacherous it had already claimed several unfortunate souls.

He crossed it without hesitation, almost recklessly fast.

Then the path took him through open plains and scattered farms.

After two hours, when the ground began to crack and the greenery gave way to reddish dust, he knew he was close.

The afternoon heat didn't bother him. He walked against the wind, passing narrow, jagged rock formations, many of which bore signs of being long-forgotten structures.

Finally, he spotted the entrance: a dark passage between two red rock mountains, as if the earth itself had split open to reveal a gateway to hell.

He left his cart outside and carried his tools down the steps.

The torches lit up automatically as he passed, and at the bottom, he was greeted by a colossal stone serpent head.

Its emerald eyes glowed with an otherworldly gleam, and its open mouth served as an arch for the dungeon's massive metal door.

He let out a long sigh and dropped his bag. He leaned the mop against the wall and set the bucket on the ground.

Now all he had to do was wait.

He was tempted to push the door open and peek inside... but he held back. Instead, he used the time to rest after the long journey.

He removed his right glove and looked at the rune etched into his skin. He gently traced the symbol with a finger, curious.

Then, a faint bluish light flickered beneath his skin… and in that same instant, the dungeon door burst open.

Hatz jumped and instinctively stuffed his hand into his pocket.

From inside, a figure rushed out.

A girl, red-haired and bright-eyed, covering her face with both hands. She was crying.

No one followed her. The door shut behind with a dull echo.

Hatz recognized her immediately by her tight black uniform: an Administrator.

She was beautiful, with that elegant, mysterious charm all of them seemed to carry.

As was custom, her left arm was covered in rune tattoos, and her outfit allowed for agile movement—perfect for combat or support.

When she looked up and saw him standing there, her eyes widened in surprise.

She quickly turned away and wiped her tears with trembling hands.

Hatz felt awkward. Even intrusive. But the least he could do was try to be kind.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, instantly regretting how dumb it sounded. Her wound clearly wasn't physical.

She didn't answer. Instead, she fumbled in her tactical belt and pulled out a travel scroll.

As she did, something fell from her pocket.

"Zeytharion, platform five," she whispered, her voice cracked.

"Wait—!" he called, scrambling to pick up what she'd dropped.

A white light wrapped around her, and in a blink, she was gone.

Hatz sighed, disappointed.

He picked up the item. It was a lovely copper-gold pin shaped like a maple leaf. In its center was a dark green gem. Probably valuable.

Maybe she'd notice and come back for it.

If not… well, he figured he had an excuse to look for her in the city. With a bit of luck, maybe she'd be grateful enough to talk to him.

Though he knew it was stupid to fantasize about something like that.

No girl ever talked to him once they saw his uniform—a worn gray jumpsuit, patched at the knees, and waterproof boots that reeked of stale disinfectant.

Not exactly the type of guy adventurers flocked to. Especially not unattainable Administrators.

He accepted it—at least in theory.

But that didn't stop him, as a young and reasonably healthy man, from feeling frustrated at how people looked at him like some certified cockroach.

He shook off the thought. Now wasn't the time for self-pity.

He stowed the pin in his backpack.

Then he slipped the right glove back on and waited patiently in front of the dungeon door.

Nearly thirty minutes passed.

Finally, voices could be heard from the other side. Loud, arrogant, and getting closer.

The door flung open.

"That stupid bitch!! How dare she steal my moment of glory?!"

The man shouting was massive, like a roided-out golem in human form.

His crimson plate armor gleamed in the torchlight. A giant shield was strapped to his back, along with a sword as long as an overfilled trash bag.

His party followed—an arrogant-looking group of adventurers.

"Just report her to the guild of courtesans—I mean, Administrators," joked a tall woman with braided hair, slanted eyes, and a beautiful golden bow slung across her back.

Her quiver glowed with all sorts of arrows, each adorned with feathers and magical gems.

"Don't worry, Gulka. File a complaint for service interruption. You'll probably get a free upgrade," said a shirtless man with a chiseled torso, metal shoulder guards, and a belt loaded with cartridges. He had two gleaming silver pistols holstered at his sides.

"And if you claim emotional trauma, you might get to pick another Administrator as your escort," added a cold-faced elf without lifting his eyes from his rune-covered grimoire.

He wore a white robe trimmed with emerald, and carried a carved crystal staff.

"I guess you're right…" Gulka grunted, scratching his helmet in irritation. "But if I run into her again, she'd better be ready to put out. Or I'm not gonna feel 'compensated'."

The group burst out in vulgar laughter.

Hatz's stomach turned. A mix of disgust, unease… and fear.

He knew exactly who they were talking about—the Administrator who left crying.

And the worst part? No one would punish them for saying that.

"Hey, you!" Gulka snapped, finally noticing him. He looked Hatz up and down with contempt. "Another damn cleaner?"

"Yeah... I'm here to clean the dungeon," Hatz said, neutral and avoiding eye contact.

"Good luck with that," said the man with the pistols, giving him a hard slap on the shoulder as he passed. "We left abstract art on all three levels. Top tier."

"I puked on two floors," added the archer with a smug smile.

"I smashed a golem so hard into a wall it fused with the bricks!" Gulka laughed. "You'll have to scrape him off like dried cheese."

"Literally three days of work for you, mop slave," the elf said flatly, never lifting his eyes from the book.

Hatz said nothing. Just watched them disappear up the stairs, vanishing one by one with their travel scrolls.

There was no point confronting them. Not in a world where cleaners were invisible—until they stopped doing their job.

Once he was sure they were gone, he picked up his bucket, adjusted his bag over his shoulder, and gripped his mop tightly.

"Three levels, huh?" he muttered to himself, taking a deep breath. "Alright. Let's see what I'm capable of now."

He turned toward the dungeon door, which groaned open slowly, like the dungeon itself was exhaling.

Darkness awaited him…

And maybe, just maybe, some answers.