Cleaning Duty Ends Here

The morning sun barely filtered through the window when Hatz was jolted awake by a sharp and unforgiving voice.

"What did you do last night?!" shouted Fiya, one hand on her hip and a bubbling flask in the other.

Hatz tried to sit up, but the world spun like he was trapped inside a magical washing machine. He managed only a pained groan and pulled the blanket over his head.

Fiya didn't flinch. She shoved the flask under his nose.

"Drink this. It's a Hangover Fixer. I invented it last night. It neutralizes alcohol, poison, bruised pride, and poor life choices."

Hatz tried to resist, but she pinched his nose until he opened his mouth. The concoction tasted like soap, rust, and salt.

"Where were you?" Fiya pressed, raising an eyebrow as she pulled out her finance notebook"And why does your jacket smell like cloud juice and cheap perfume?"

"Uh… I was… cleaning. Yeah. In a high-level dungeon. There were… um… alcoholic miasmas. Very dangerous. I had to infiltrate an underground tavern to… collect samples."

Fiya stared at him for a full ten seconds without blinking.

"I'm honestly impressed you can spout such crap with your brain that fried."

Hatz scratched his neck and gave her a sheepish grin.

"I practiced it last night."

✦ ✦ ✦

Later that morning, still groggy and with a blanket draped over his shoulders, Hatz arrived at the Collector's Guild headquarters to retrieve his cart.

He greeted the receptionist like everything was perfectly normal, wearing the face of someone who had just returned from an intense magical-cleaning expedition. One of the foremen gave him a suspicious glare. Lawson. Detestable to the bone.

He was the youngest of the eight foremen at DUCA. With that smug air of someone climbing the ranks without nobility, golden hair and bulging eyes. Always trying to stomp him down. If it were up to him, Hatz would be unemployed… or dead.

"Didn't show up yesterday, and now you're late. What's your excuse, maggot?"

"Me?… I was in a dungeon all day and night."

"Uh-huh, without your cart," the foreman shot back, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with a clear "Gotcha."

"I dropped it off here at dawn," Hatz lied, ignoring his accusing glare. "Check the board. My quota for the month should be almost complete."

Lawson scoffed.

"That'd be a sight to see. Not that I care how much trash a piece of scum like you collected."

Hatz, still with a dry mouth and buzzing head, ignored him and went straight to Maelgrothm's office.

The old man was reviewing reports behind a desk that looked like it groaned with each stroke of his quill.

"What'd you lose now, Hatz?" he grunted without looking up. "Or are you here to request time off for magical hangover recovery?"

"No, no… I'm here to request a new cleaning assignment," Hatz said, standing as straight as he could. "Something light, if possible. Nothing with explosives, acid fog, or creatures with more than two eyes."

Maelgrothm raised an eyebrow.

"Getting picky now, are we?"

"Let's just say I'm becoming a professional."

The old man grunted something that might've been a laugh.

"Well, you're out of luck, Mr. Professional. There's a dungeon with a recent raid. Empty now, almost as if it was waiting for you. Five lovely levels all the way to the first boss chamber. In the Flesh Seecker Swamp."

Hatz sighed.

"And what are my chances of not dying from poisoning?"

"Fifty-fifty. On a good day."

He tossed a blue-sealed folder onto the desk, freshly signed and stamped.

"Go before I change my mind and give it to someone with fewer bags under their eyes."

Hatz stumbled out, but was already starting to feel a flicker of excitement about testing his new "weapons."

"Perfect. Nothing like a good sewer to start the day."

In the rear lot, he pushed his cart out of the building with as much dignity as his headache would allow. He loaded his mop—still wrapped in cloth to conceal its new form—and secured his backpack.

Just as he was about to leave, he ran into Lawson's venomous smile. The foreman leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes glinting with: I know something you don't.

"If you manage to finish before the next cycle, you might meet your quota,"—he said with fake sweetness—"Assuming you make it back in one piece."

Hatz didn't respond. He fished around in his pockets. Lawson smirked confidently—until the young man calmly unrolled a teleportation scroll.

"Where'd you steal that from?!", spat the foreman, stepping forward.

"It's called hard work," Hatz replied with a lopsided grin. "Maybe you're not familiar with the concept."

"Don't try to be clever, bastard. You'll report this to the superintendent, you hear me?!", he barked, face red with rage.

"Sorry, I only have time for dead scum. The living will have to wait," Hatz said, resting a hand on his cart. "Flesh Seecker Swamp."

A white light engulfed him. Just before vanishing, he heard Lawson curse—music to his ears. Hatz gave him one last victorious grin.

When the light faded, the landscape had completely changed.

Thick, damp darkness. The swamp trees were tall and twisted, covered in black moss and glowing fungi that shimmered a sickly green.

The air reeked of rot and moisture. Puddles bubbled with unidentifiable substances, and a murky fog crawled along the ground like a living thing.

His stomach twisted a little—he had hated spending that scroll he'd bought in a rush after realizing how late he was. But it had been worth it.

Especially if he could make good money off the materials he'd collect today. In front of him stood a crumbling rune gate, symbols faded by time, flanked by broken statues of creatures he didn't want to identify.

A three-eyed crow watched him from a branch, let out a raspy caw, then flew off.

Hatz straightened his grey work jumpsuit and muttered:

"Excellent. Fresh air, dead landscapes, mutant creatures… paradise."

He parked his cart carefully beside one of the statues.

Took out his gear.

Slipped on his cleaning gloves—now more like rugged gauntlets fit for a seasoned explorer.

He slung the improved mop over his back, still wrapped like a forbidden katana.

And without hesitation, stepped into the dungeon.

"Alright… time to level up."

As soon as he opened the door, it creaked with a metallic groan that echoed through the swamp like a rusty scream.

Inside, he found what looked like the remnants of a tribal ruin. Thick roots tangled across the walls, crawling from ceiling to floor.

The chamber funneled into a dark entrance deeper into the dungeon. As he crossed it, a faint shaft of opaque sunlight filtered down from a ceiling too far above to see.

The smell of blood mingled with swamp rot. It was intense, but he was used to it by now.

He quickly opened his status screen:

[Status]

User: Hatz

Class: NONE

Occupation: Dungeon Waste Collector

Current State: Guilty Hangover

Level: 4

Class Level: 1

Experience: 235 / 400

[Attributes]

• Strength: 8 (+3)

• Agility: 11

• Intelligence: 5

• Dexterity: 7

• Luck: 4

• Runic: 2

Available points: 4

[Assign]

To his surprise, his Strength stat had two additional points. Likely thanks to the new runic gloves.

He glanced at the layout of B1: multiple winding paths covered in slippery vines, bubbling pits of dark mud, and the ever-present scent of rotting damp and stagnant gas.

The monster remains were anything but pleasant: Black Sludge Serpens, translucent-skinned Mandras, and Necrotic Wasps—torn-up entrails, slimy blood, cracked shells—a stomach-turning mess for anyone with a weak constitution.

But Hatz had seen worse. He secured his gear and summoned the Void Dump near a few piles of remains.

He stretched dramatically and crouched like a sprinter ready to launch.

He visualized the layout. Gauged the distance to the blue portal.

"Here we go!" he shouted and bolted forward.

He dashed like a maniac, snatching up grotesque scraps, slimy limbs, and broken bones to hurl them into the portal, which swallowed them with a wet, satisfying slurp.

It was fun. His improved agility let him move smoothly. He leapt higher, dodged roots with ease, and even pulled off a clumsy pirouette or two.

In no time, he cleared the area and moved on. He didn't care if the fluids stained his clothes—he'd be the one to clean them anyway.

He left one final pile untouched. Time to test the mop.

He unwrapped it almost reverently. The handle was darker, lacquered, reinforced with metal joints. The mop head was wider and covered the bluish cloth strands with a sleek, almost intimidating design.

At the grip's end was a carved symbol: a grinning raccoon face with an X-shaped eye.

"Definitely Kurn's signature," he muttered.

He took a combat stance and charged the pile using Residue Pulverization.

When the mop struck, a bright light of purification burst out, and the head hissed like compressed air being released.

He was shocked to see even the surrounding debris—several inches away—was completely disintegrated.

He stared at the weapon in awe.

"AOE upgrade... Kurn, you genius."

The efficiency was absurd. In under two minutes, the area was spotless. Next: fluid cleanup.

Just like pulverizing, the mop absorbed the goop across a much wider radius, almost like it was draining the corruption itself. Strangely, the more it cleaned, the brighter it glowed.

Hatz ran from puddle to puddle, jumping over roots and vanishing mud pools as he worked.

He'd finished B1 in record time—even cleared out part of the dungeon's own natural swamp gunk.

"A clean swamp… who would've thought?" he said, admiring the view. Still desolate—but respectably desolate.

Feeling motivated, he descended to the next floor.

B2 hit harder. A thicker stench. Fresh horrors.

Pulsating Swamp Livers quivered among roots. Hanging like tragic puppets were the Willow Heralds, and buzzing around the gore were Echo Flies the size of medium dogs.

This time, Hatz relied almost exclusively on the mop. No point hauling monster parts back to DUCA if he could get Arcane Grime directly. He'd fill a few sacks for his coworkers—just enough to cover his quota.

By B4, his stats read:

[Experience: 388 / 400]

[Arcane Grime x45]

[Residual Essence Drop x25]

Cleaning gave a bit less EXP now, but the speed more than made up for it. Efficiency meant profit.

B5 was a different beast.

The walls and floor were solid, dark stone, like the broken statues near the dungeon's entrance. At the end of the path stood a moss-covered green door—the floor boss gate.

Raid parties rarely went beyond that point. Without healers or enough power, it was suicide.

Floor bosses were for massive teams and Gold-class adventurers at minimum.

There were fewer monsters on this level… but they were bigger.

Wailing Slugs, gelatinous creatures with translucent skin and human faces trapped inside, oozed along the corridors in disgusting heaps.

Then came the Flowers of Sorrow and Carnifungus, venomous fungal beasts that released toxic spores even after death.

Hatz pulled out a gas mask. Adventurers would just rely on anti-debuff gear or magical barriers.

He resumed with his mop, mixing up his strikes, throwing in ridiculous poses like he was competing in a showy mop tournament.

He was having a blast.

Mid-cleanup, a golden glow surrounded him.

"Yes!" he shouted, feeling himself lift as the level-up triggered.

He didn't feel much different, but it was a good sign. He was about to check his stats when—

Voices. Footsteps. Laughter.

He tensed. Gripped his mop like a spear.

"No way…"

Lawson.

The bastard had brought backup—three more men, clearly seasoned adventurers.

One wielded a barbed red double-spear, another wore a bloodstained robe and a poisoned dagger, and the last, with arms crossed and a black axe on his back, looked as friendly as a kidney stone.

From the floor's entrance, Lawson raised his voice:

"I gotta admit—you really do belong in the shit, don't you?" he cackled. "Level B5 cleared in under two hours! That deserves a round of applause."

Hatz didn't respond. His mind was racing. He regretted not buying another teleport scroll. Then again, he wouldn't be able to use it inside a dungeon anyway…

Lawson continued, wearing a venomous smile:

"Didn't think you'd be capable of something like this. Have you been stealing from us, you piece of trash?"

Hatz didn't answer.

Lawson descended the stairs slowly, grinning like a wolf.

"I never understood why Maelgrothm didn't kick you out. But now I get it. Let the trash pile up… so you can sweep it away in one go."

One of the adventurers—the one with the twin-bladed spear—snorted.

"This the kid? The one who cleaned five levels on his own?"

"Must've got a couple weird tricks up his sleeve," added the one in the bloodstained robe.

"Or just dumb luck."

The big guy with the axe said nothing. He just spat on the floor and cracked his knuckles.

Hatz took a step back, mop raised, though his stance was more defensive than threatening.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of motivational speech? 'Cause it's not working," he said, trying to keep calm.

Lawson scoffed.

"This is a warning. Stop trying to be clever. Stop stealing gear from the foremen... or we'll smash your face in. Simple as that."

"I haven't stolen anything. What if you just let me work hard and do my part?" Hatz asked, already knowing the answer.

Lawson threw the first punch. Aiming straight for his jaw.

Hatz dodged—almost.

The fist grazed him, knocking his mask off and sending him stumbling. He didn't fall, but he lost his balance.

"Oh, I see! Now you're agile too?" Lawson jeered, spinning into a follow-up punch that hit him square in the gut.

Hatz dropped to his knees, a string of spit hanging from his mouth. The pain was sharp, but bearable.

Should I use Residue Pulverization on him...? No. Too obvious. Too risky. There were witnesses. He cursed silently.

The other three closed in.

"C'mon now, we just wanna talk," said the robed one sweetly, raising a foot to kick him.

Maybe… if he used his agility…

The boot came down—

But Hatz rolled to the side, pushed off with one hand, and got to his feet in one smooth motion. His body moved instinctively, as if it already knew how to react.

The robed man lunged with his dagger.

Hatz ducked, spun on one foot, and threw an upward punch that cracked the man right in the chin.

SMACK.

The man collapsed like a sack of moldy potatoes, eyes rolled back.

The other two froze.

"Did… did he drop him?" the one with the spear asked.

"He didn't use magic," Lawson muttered, part shocked, part furious.

Hatz panted, fist still raised, more stunned than proud.

"Maybe… maybe we just leave it here," he said, trying to sound tougher than he was—though a bead of sweat ran down his temple.

The axe-wielding brute took a step forward, but Lawson raised a hand.

"Don't worry. He caught Buco off-guard. Buco's just level ten. He won't be so lucky with me."

And he charged again—this time, with blind rage.

Hatz tensed, bracing himself. His mind raced. Could he risk a skill? Would it be worth the punishment?

Lawson barreled toward him like a raging beast.

Hatz sidestepped, barely avoiding a shoulder slam. He stepped back—once, twice—arms raised. He ducked a spear jab, then jumped back as the axe guy swung low for his legs.

Come on… just a bit more. I just need time. A way out…

"STAY STILL, YOU RAT!" Lawson bellowed.

His fingers crackled with pale blue light. Electricity surged between his palms—and a bolt struck Hatz square in the chest.

The world exploded.

His muscles seized, locking tight. The pain tore through his core, from gut to skull. He dropped, convulsing.

Lightning magic? What a coward.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a choking gasp.

Then the others descended.

A boot slammed into his ribs.

A spear jab to the shoulder.

Lawson crouched and grabbed him by the collar of his gray work suit.

"Wanna be a winner, Hatz? Want to compete with us? Pretend you matter?"

Another punch—this time to the face.

Everything spun. His mouth filled with the taste of copper. He could barely lift his arms to shield himself.

It shouldn't hurt this much… Shouldn't my stats help? Shouldn't I be tougher by now...?

The beating continued. Fist after fist. His blood and sweat stained the stone floor. His mop clattered to the side with a dull metallic clink.

Why does this matter to me so much? What did I expect? Admiration? Respect?

Then came the laughter.

"You know what'd be funny?" Lawson said, panting and grinning. "Let's see if you keep that attitude after a little chat with the floor boss."

The others got it instantly.

"Ooh, that's twisted," the spearman laughed.

"Think he'll survive two minutes?" asked the axe guy.

"I wouldn't bet on thirty seconds," said the robed one, still rubbing his jaw.

Lawson crouched and hoisted Hatz like a sack of manure.

"Goodbye, janitor. It was entertaining while it lasted."

They marched toward the giant green door at the far end.

Hatz tried to squirm, to kick, to speak—but only groaned. His body felt like it had been steamrolled by a golem.

No. I can't. I can't go in there. I'm not ready. No potions, no barriers, no party. I'm alone…

The boss door creaked open with a wet, foul hiss. A rancid, hot breath wafted out, like the dungeon itself was breathing.

"Thanks for your service," Lawson said.

And they threw him in.

He hit the stone floor hard, rolling awkwardly. His mop clattered beside him.

He tried to sit up—just as the door slammed shut with a thunderous BOOM, cutting off the laughter behind him.

Darkness.

Silence.

A single drop of water fell from above, echoing in the chamber like a drumbeat against his heart.

It's not fair… I just wanted… to get better… to move forward. This isn't why I leveled up…

Then a low, monstrous growl rumbled through the room, deep and hollow as a chasm.

The ground trembled faintly.

And Hatz, bloodied, bruised, trembling, gritted his teeth—

and stood up.

"At least… make it quick."