Dawn in District 13 usually arrived two hours later than in the Upper Sector. The thick, heavy industrial smog needed time to let even a sliver of pale, miserable sunlight filter through. But in front of "Baker’s Bakery," John felt the sky was darker than midnight.

  This shop was wedged right next to the district’s filthiest wet market. The sign featured a cartoon baker with a smile so creepy it looked like a melting clown, the paint peeling off in strips like dead skin.

  John tightened his grip on the Yin-Yang iPad in his arms. It was his only lifeline right now. Although Daoist Singularity had given him this cheat code, John still felt hollow inside. After all, just yesterday he was a dropout who couldn't even hold a scalpel steady, and today he was roleplaying as some "Underworld Agent."

  "Welcome! Would you like whole wheat or... Whoa, it’s the Master!"

  The owner, Baker, was a balding, middle-aged fat man, his apron stiff with layers of flour and grease stains. Upon seeing the strange, black stone tablet in John’s hand, he lunged forward like a drowning man grabbing a life raft, snot and tears practically flowing instantly.

  "Master! You’re finally here! Daoist Singularity said you were... what was it... a 'Specialist Consultant'?"

  Baker looked John up and down—taking in the street-stall hoodie and the pale, sickly complexion. A flicker of doubt crossed his eyes. This image was a far cry from the Guild mages he envisioned, who wore black robes, carried skull staffs, and walked with an air of expensive arrogance.

  John flashed the digital holographic badge on the tablet screen with a twinge of guilt, trying to straighten his spine. "I’m the... Agent. Let’s talk about the situation."

  At the mention of business, Baker’s face crumpled into a bitter walnut.

  "Master, look at this bread."

  He grabbed a freshly baked baguette from the rack and handed it to John.

  The bread looked perfectly baked—golden, crispy, and even steaming with inviting heat. But the moment John leaned in, a pungent, incredibly jarring stench assaulted his brain.

  It was a mix of week-old sour dishrags, aged vinegar, and some kind of over-fermented, rotting organic matter.

  John’s stomach churned violently. It was a chain reaction triggered by his hemophobia—he was hypersensitive to any smell related to "biological decay."

  "That’s the smell!" Baker slapped his thigh, looking utterly cursed. "It’s been three days! No matter what flour I use, what yeast I swap, even after scrubbing the fermentation barrels ten times, everything comes out sour! And..."

  Baker lowered his voice, mysteriously pointing a sausage-like finger toward the tightly closed iron door of the back kitchen.

  "Every night around midnight, noises come from inside the oven. Not squeaking rats, but... the sound of kneading dough. Slap, slap... Sometimes I can even hear the sound of someone sniffling snot."

  "I tried contacting a Guild mage, but the moment they heard I’m running a small business, they quoted me a two-thousand credit appearance fee, no warranty included. How the hell can I afford that?"

  John nodded. This was the reality of the bottom rung. The Guild served the rich; the ghosts of the poor had to be dealt with by the poor.

  "Take me to see the oven."

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  Baker shrank back a little but eventually led John into the back kitchen.

  The temperature in here was stifling. The air was thick with that bizarre sour stench, ten times stronger than outside. A massive, old-fashioned gas oven dominated half the wall, its pitch-black mouth looking like a maw waiting to devour someone. Blue flames flickered eerily through the cracks in the oven door.

  Standing in front of the oven, John felt the hairs on his entire body stand up.

  This wasn't a mechanical malfunction. His Necromancer's intuition told him that something... was watching him.

  He pulled out the Yin-Yang iPad, his fingers trembling slightly as he tapped on the app icon labeled [Spirit Vision].

  "System prompt: Scanning for ectoplasmic signatures..."

  The screen lit up, camera aimed at the oven.

  At first, the display was pitch black.

  But as John pressed his thumb on the Bagua icon and injected a tiny thread of mana, the image on the screen began to warp and shift colors.

  The colors of the real world faded into greyscale. And against that monochrome background, a piercing, dark red glow—representing deep resentment—was seeping out from the interior of the oven.

  [WARNING: High Concentration of Emotional Residue Detected.]

  [Attribute: Acidic (Bitter/Resentment).]

  [Analysis: Grief, Exhaustion, Hunger.]

  John took a deep breath and moved the tablet closer to the oven's observation window.

  Through the screen, he saw it.

  Deep inside the dark chamber of the oven, it wasn't empty.

  There was a semi-transparent, curled-up figure.

  It was a young boy, looking even younger than John. He was wearing a tattered white uniform. Even in his spectral form, his hands maintained a mechanical, repetitive kneading motion.

  He was kneading a ball of phantom dough.

  His movements were slow and heavy, as if the dough weighed a thousand pounds.

  Tears fell from his eyes, drop by drop, landing into the dough.

  With every tear that fell, the dough glowed with an eerie green light—that was the source of the sourness.

  "This sour smell..." John muttered, staring at the analysis data on the screen. "It’s the taste of fermented tears."

  He turned his head, looking at Baker with cold eyes.

  Baker was cowering by the door, asking nervously, "Master... did you see anything? Is it... something dirty?"

  John didn't answer directly. He pointed at the oven, his voice dropping an octave.

  "Boss, did someone die in this oven before?"

  Baker’s face went sheet-white instantly. His eyes darted around, and he stammered, denying it vehemently. "N-no! Impossible! I run a legitimate business!"

  John raised the tablet and turned the screen toward Baker.

  Although Baker didn't have Spirit Vision and couldn't see the ghost, he could see the glaring ball of red light on the screen and the line of bright crimson text generated by the system:

  [Cause of Death: Sudden Death from Overwork.]

  [Time of Death: 72 hours ago.]

  "If you don't tell the truth, I'm dropping this job," John said, feigning a move to leave, his tone harsh. "And I'll report you to the Underworld for concealing case details. The ones who come next won't be an agent like me; it’ll be the Black and White Reapers. They aren't as easy to talk to as I am."

  Baker’s legs gave out, and he nearly knelt on the greasy floor. Sweating profusely, he finally cracked.

  "I'll talk! I'll talk!"

  "Six months ago... I had an apprentice. Named Tom. The kid was from out of town, hardworking, just... his health wasn't great."

  "We had a lot of orders back then. The Guild was throwing a huge banquet. I made him... work a little overtime. Maybe... forty-eight hours straight."

  John’s heart sank. Forty-eight hours. Non-stop.

  "Then one morning, I came to open up and found him slumped over the kneading board. Cold. Still holding the dough in his hand."

  Baker wiped his sweat, his voice getting smaller, laced with a sickening cowardice. "I was afraid of trouble, afraid of paying compensation... so I didn't call the cops. I called a black market hauler and took him... well... straight to the crematorium. told everyone he quit and went back to his hometown."

  "To save a few burial fees, you didn't even set up a memorial for him?" John’s voice trembled with suppressed rage. "You burned him and didn't even tell his family?"

  "I... I run a small business... I didn't think he'd turn into a ghost..."

  John looked back at the screen.

  The apprentice was still kneading.

  He was dead. But he didn't know he was dead.

  His obsession was locked in front of this oven, repeating his final task in life.

  He was too tired, his life too bitter, so his tears had turned the bread sour.

  John clenched his fist.

  This was New Babylon.

  People died, turned into ghosts, and were still working for their boss.

  Even death couldn't free them from the grind.

  "Is this the so-called 'blessing'?"

  John looked at the cowering boss, then at the weeping ghost.

  He suddenly realized that the problem of the "Sour Sourdough" couldn't be solved by physical means.

  This wasn't just a ghost.

  This was a debt owed in blood and tears.

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