Ethan snapped back to the present.

  His hands were still gripping the corpse's wrist, but now his fingers were trembling. He stared at the scout's face, the face of a child who had chosen to die so that another team could survive. A team that never even knew who had warned them.

  The blue screen at the corner of his eye flickered.

  [Residual Regret Detected]

  Source: Scout, Tier 2(Name Unreadable)

  Last Words: "I hope they hear it... I hope they make it..."

  Skill Obtained: [Quick Step] (Tier 2)

  Status: StableCompatibility: 94%```

  [Quick Step (Tier 2)]

  Effect: Increases running speed by 300% for 5 seconds.

  Usage: 3x before 24-hour cooldown.

  Source: A scout who chose to die so that his team could survive.

  Note: Compatibility very high. This skill "wants" to be used to protect others.

  Ethan read the notification with a feeling that was difficult to identify. Not triumph. Not joy. But something deeper, a heavy sense of tribute. This scout, a young person whom no one had ever known, had given everything so that others could live. And now, his ability, [Quick Step] that he should have used to escape, belonged to Ethan.

  Slowly, Ethan straightened the scout's robe. Aligned his stiffened legs. Placed his hands on his chest, like a corpse resting in peace.

  "Your team made it," he whispered softly. "Because of your warning."

  No reply. No notification. But for a moment, Ethan felt that the scout was smiling.

  "Vance!"

  Ronald's voice broke the reverie. Ethan turned. The old man was standing at the end of the corridor, staring at him with furrowed brows. "You're daydreaming? Hurry up, we still have ten more corpses!"

  Ethan nodded, stood, and returned to work. But this time, as he collected the belongings of the dead adventurers, cheap swords, torn robes, broken potions, he did so with a new awareness. Every corpse he touched might have a story. Perhaps not all were worth harvesting, but all were worth remembering.

  His team worked fast. Within twenty minutes, the battle area was relatively clean. The corpses gathered in folding carts, equipment bagged in plastic, slime residue neutralized with acid sprayers. Only a few bloodstains on the floor remained that needed manual cleaning.

  Ronald monitored the process with an expression growing darker. His eyes kept drifting toward the lift entrance, the place where the surviving adventurers should have already been evacuated.

  "Beginner team," he muttered, more to himself. "Sent without a chaperone. Without adequate equipment. Without anything."

  The lift chimed. The doors opened, and three young adventurers stepped out. A man with a bandaged arm, two women with pale faces and empty eyes. They were the survivors. Behind them, a middle-aged man in a blue robe, a dungeon director from Aether Corps, walked in with a leisurely air, noting something on a data board.

  Ronald saw that, and something in his face shifted.

  He stepped forward, his footsteps heavy, his iron prosthetic arm swinging at his side. "Hey! You!"

  The director turned, his eyebrow raised. "What is it?"

  "This is a beginner team." Ronald's voice was low, but there was a tremor in it, like a small earthquake beginning in his chest. "They were sent here without a chaperone. Without preparation. And eight kids died because of that."

  "Because they were incompetent." The director cut in with a flat tone. "That is not our responsibility. They signed the declaration. Risk borne personally."

  "LISTEN HERE YOU COLLARED DEVIL!" Ronald stepped forward, his hand raised, and for a moment Ethan thought the old man was going to strike him. "Those kids were only Tier 2! They hadn't even seen a real goblin! And you sent them to floor seven alone?!"

  The director did not flinch. His eyes narrowed. "You are a cleaner. Your job is cleaning, not regulating team strategy. Return to your duties before I report you for obstructing operations."

  "Report me!" Ronald was almost shouting. "Report me! Let everyone know that Aether Corps deliberately sends young kids as monster bait just to—"

  Ethan's hand gripped Ronald's arm.

  The grip was not strong. He was not the type of person who could physically restrain a former Tier 4 tank. But the touch was enough to make Ronald stop, turn, and stare at him with glistening eyes. Not sad, but angry. Anger that had been suppressed for years.

  "Enough," Ethan said quietly. "He's not worth it."

  Ronald stared at him for a long time. Then, slowly, his shoulders dropped. His prosthetic hand fell to his side.

  "Right," he hissed, more to himself. "Not worth it."

  The director snorted, noted something on the data board with a dismissive gesture, then stepped toward the lift. "Continue the cleanup. The death reports will be processed within three working days."

  The lift doors closed, leaving a heavy silence behind.

  The other cleaners fell silent, not daring to speak. The two surviving young adventurers were still standing in the corner, crying without sound. Ronald stood frozen, staring at the lift doors that had already closed.

  Ethan did not release his hand.

  "Father," Ronald whispered suddenly. His voice was hoarse. "My son once died like this too. Beginner team. Without a chaperone. Without anything." He could not continue.

  Ethan said nothing. He only stood there, letting the old man feel what needed to be felt.

  For the first time, he understood why Ronald was always angry at careless beginner adventurers. Not because they were stupid. But because they reminded him of his own son, a son who died because of the same systemic failure.

  The cleanup was completed thirty minutes later.

  Their team returned to the surface with a cart full of corpses. Eight body bags, twenty-three sacks of equipment, and sixteen bottles of residue samples. The return journey was quiet. No one spoke. Even Ronald sat silently in the corner of the cart, staring at his prosthetic arm with an empty expression.

  Ethan sat leaning against the cart wall, opening his system screen at the corner of his eye.

  [THE DUNGEON CLEANER'S LEDGER — UPDATE]

  New Skill:- [Quick Step] (Tier 2) — 3x usage, 24-hour cooldown

  Current Status:

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  - [Danger Sense] (Tier 2) — Passive

  - [Lesser Regeneration] (Tier 2) — Passive

  - [Iron Skin] (Tier 2) — Active (10 seconds, 1-hour cooldown)

  - [Arcane Explosion (Degraded)] (Tier 4) — Active (1x, 24-hour cooldown)

  - [Quick Step] (Tier 2) — Active (3x, 24-hour cooldown)

  Stench Level: 8/100 (+2 from Danger Sense activation on floor 7)

  Effect: Normal — Monsters do not react specially.

  He read the notification, then closed the screen. Stench had risen two points just because [Danger Sense] activated automatically when he approached the corpses. So even passive skills added to his death smell.

  But for now, it was still safe. The cart entered The Grime. Neon lights flickered, illuminating the dingy buildings with a yellowish haze. Digital advertising boards lit up along the road, offering health potions, adventurer equipment, dungeon cleaning services.

  Dungeon cleaning services.

  Ethan turned, his eyes catching on one giant advertising board at a road junction. The screen, twenty meters wide, displayed the face of a middle-aged man with a broad smile, neatly styled hair, an expensive gleaming robe. Beneath it, glittering text:

  "MAGNUS DREVAR — DUNGEON SANITATION DIVISION"

  "Our cleaning service is the most trusted. Clean, fast, professional."

  The man smiled like a philanthropist who had just donated half his fortune for orphans. His eyes were bright blue, full of confidence. Behind him, cleaners in neat clothing, new jumpsuits, gleaming equipment, clean faces, were working with broad smiles.

  Ethan looked at the advertisement, then glanced down at himself. A worn grey jumpsuit covered in chemical stains. Rubber gloves torn at the fingertips. Gas mask hanging at his neck, its straps already peeling. Beside him, Ronald with his homemade prosthetic arm, tired face, empty eyes.

  Irony.

  Up there, Magnus Drevar smiled from the advertising board, selling an image of clean and professional sanitation. But in the real world, cleaners like them were hauling the corpses of young kids who had died because of the same systemic failure. Advertised as heroes of cleanliness, treated as the lowest caste.

  Ethan stared at that smile, and for the first time, he felt something new in his chest. Not anger. Not hatred. But a cold and crystallized resolve.

  Arrogant heroes with broad smiles and expensive cleaning services. Careless adventurers who died because they were too busy trying to look cool. A system that worships strength but ignores lives.

  They were all the same.

  And I?

  He clenched his fist. In his chest, five skills pulsed slowly, lives that had died with regret. The archmage who had failed to release his last spell. The scout who had chosen to die for his team. The healer who could not heal herself. The warrior who had hesitated to deliver the final slash. And now, a young kid who ran faster than death so that others could survive.

  'I will remain in the shadows. Not out of fear. But because that is where true strength lies.'

  Below, behind, in the places the heroes never look.

  That is where I will clean up their mess.

  The cart turned, leaving that advertising board behind. But Magnus Drevar's smile remained lodged in Ethan's memory, the smile of a fraud who sold cleanliness at the price of young lives.

  ...someday, they will know.

  That the cleaner they looked down upon...

  Ethan closed his eyes, feeling the city dust clinging to his skin, the smell of corpses still lingering on his clothes. And in his chest, [Quick Step] pulsed slowly, like a second heartbeat, like a promise to be kept.

  ...sweeps more than just floors.

  "We've got new rats in the warehouse."

  Ethan lifted his head from a cup of instant coffee that tasted more like leftover rice-washing water. Across the canteen table, two morning-shift cleaners were whispering with aluminum cups in hand. One of them, a thin man with a sparse mustache and perpetually watchful eyes, glanced toward him, then looked away too quickly.

  Ronald, sitting beside Ethan, only snorted, sipping his favorite fermented drink without comment. The neon light on the ceiling hummed at the same low pitch as since last night, or perhaps since ten years ago. The air in the Sanitation Headquarters canteen this morning felt heavier, as though something had settled between the machine smoke and the steam of cheap coffee.

  Ethan sipped his coffee. Bitter, sour, and leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. Perfect for starting the day.

  "Rats," he repeated quietly, more to himself.

  Ronald looked at him from behind his cup. "You heard that too?"

  "Heard it. But don't care."

  "You should care." The old man put his cup down with a thud against the table. "Rats here aren't animals. That's the term for local thugs who've started creeping into our territory."

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Thugs? At the cleaners' headquarters?"

  "Wherever there's money, there are thugs." Ronald rubbed his unkempt beard. "Our salary is small, but the equipment we haul, extra-dimensional bags, cleaning cartridges, protective gear, all of it can be resold. The thugs know. They've already started extorting several night-shift cleaning teams."

  "And Sanitation Headquarters just stays quiet?"

  "Commander Helena has reported it to Aether Corps." Ronald's voice was bitter. "You know their answer? 'Not within our area of responsibility. Handle it yourselves.'"

  Ethan did not answer. He sipped his coffee again, letting silence creep between them. In the corner of the canteen, the two cleaners who had been whispering were already gone, leaving dirty cups on the table.

  Ronald looked at him with an expression difficult to read. "You went home alone last night?"

  "Like usual."

  "Be careful." Ronald stood, reaching for his iron prosthetic arm that he had removed during the break. "You live in the east corridor, right? That area is heating up. Last night a Hauler team in the next block was ambushed by three people. Given a 'choice': pay a security fee, or their equipment 'disappears' on the way home."

  Ethan tried to recall. The east corridor. Narrow alleys with minimal lighting, cramped tenement houses, and black puddles of water that never dried. His rented room was at the end of a dead-end alley, a perfect place for an ambush.

  "As long as they don't bother me," he said finally.

  Ronald laughed, a laugh without humor. "You think they care? You look like easy prey, Vance. Young, skinny, alone, and working as a cleaner." He patted Ethan's shoulder with his prosthetic hand, a touch of cold iron that felt heavy. "You are the definition of a perfect target in a thug's eyes."

  Ethan did not answer. But in his chest, [Danger Sense] pulsed slowly. Not a warning, just a presence. Like an unconscious instinct saying: stay alert.

  The afternoon shift ended at nine o'clock at night.

  Ethan stepped out of Sanitation Headquarters together with a small group of second-shift cleaners, but one by one they turned in different directions. Food stalls, public cart stops, or more crowded tenement houses. At the exit gate, only he remained.

  The neon lights of The Grime flickered erratically. Along the main road, second-hand equipment shops had already closed, leaving wooden boards over the windows. The last instant noodle stall at the end of the road was still open. Steam from a large pot drifted in the night wind, carrying the aroma of salty cheap broth. Two or three people sat on long benches, hunched over bowls, indifferent to the world around them.

  Ethan stepped into the east corridor.

  This alley, two meters wide, was flanked by brick walls covered in graffiti and faded advertising posters. Street lights were only at every turn, and even then half of them were dead, leaving dark corridors swallowed by shadows. Black puddles of water pooled in the potholes of the asphalt, reflecting the faint glow of neon lights from afar like giant eyes in the darkness.

  His footsteps echoed off the narrow walls. The sound of rubber boots on wet asphalt.

  And behind him—

  Ethan stopped.

  [Danger Sense] (Passive) — Early warning 1 second before physical danger.

  No sound. No shadow. But his instinct, or that skill, said: someone is following you.

  He did not turn around. Did not quicken his pace. He only stood still in the middle of the alley, as though trying to remember something, then continued walking at the same rhythm.

  His ears sharpened.

  Among the hum of ventilation machines from the dingy buildings, among the sound of rats scurrying in the drains, there was something else. Footsteps. Faint, trying to be quiet, but not quiet enough.

  Two people. Maybe three.

  Ethan regulated his breathing. In his chest, five skills pulsed at different rhythms. [Danger Sense] passive, continuously sending alert signals. [Quick Step] ready to use, three chances. [Iron Skin] could be activated at any time. [Lesser Regeneration] would work automatically if he was wounded.

  But [Arcane Explosion] was the last option. Too risky. Too conspicuous. He kept walking, entering a darker corridor. Here, only one neon light survived, and even that flickered like a dying heartbeat, creating the illusion of movement at every corner.

  The footsteps behind grew clearer. They were no longer trying to hide.

  Ethan stopped at a turning. Ahead, a dead end. His rented room was indeed at the far end, but there was one small passage on the left that he could take. He turned left, entering total darkness.

  And there he waited.

  Five seconds. Ten seconds.

  Three shadows appeared at the turning.

  They moved like predators, unhurried, knowing their prey had no way out. Two large men in worn leather jackets, one thin woman with dyed red hair and a smile that never reached her eyes. In their hands, long objects that needed no light to be recognized: iron pipes, clubs, a folding knife.

  "Hey, cleaner," greeted the man at the front. He was bald, with a snake tattoo on his neck. His voice was hoarse, like the voice of someone who had drunk industrial alcohol too many times. "Wanna talk for a sec?"

  Ethan did not answer. He only stood in place, letting them approach.

  The red-haired woman took out a small flashlight, shining it at Ethan's face. The blinding white light made him squint, but he did not raise his hand to shield his eyes.

  "This is him," said the woman, her voice flat. "The one from Ronald's team. Night-shift cleaner. Lives alone in this block."

  "Good." The bald man smiled, a smile that should have been friendly, but on his face became a threat. "Listen, cleaner. We've got a small business in this area. We keep watch, make sure other thugs don't bother you guys. Nobody's asking for anything unreasonable. But our services need to be paid for."

  Ethan was silent. [Danger Sense] offered no additional warning, meaning they had not yet moved to attack. Still in the negotiation phase.

  The bald man continued, "Twenty percent of your weekly salary. Cheap. You pay, we protect. Don't pay..." He raised his club, tapping it against his palm. "Well, we'll protect you anyway. But from ourselves."

  Laughter. The second man also laughed, the typical thug laugh that had been repeated thousands of times in thousands of dingy alleys all over the world.