Lin stood at the edge of the district, his gloved hands stuffed into the pockets of his borrowed jacket. The cleanup crew continued behind him—scraping, neutralizing, dissolving monstrous remains like it was just another Tuesday.
In a way, it was.
(So… this is how this world works.)
He watched a Hunter leap down from a nearby rooftop—a blur of motion, dark armor gleaming under the afternoon sun, a crackle of mana dispersing behind him like smoke. The man barely looked at the cleanup crew. His blade was sheathed across his back, a cloak fluttering at his heels as he walked past like a storm given human form.
(Here, people awaken supernatural powers. Strength, speed, magic—abilities that bend the laws of physics. And with those powers… they become Hunters.)
(And the Dungeons…)
His eyes turned upward toward the sky, where a distant shimmer hovered—a tear in space itself, crackling faintly in the distance like a wound that never healed.
(Gateways to chaos. Realms from somewhere else. Portals that vomit monsters into the world and demand blood in return.)
Hunters went into those gates. Some came back. Others didn't.
(It's not a metaphor. It's not a video game. These people really live this. The power, the threat, the hierarchy.)
(In my world, the System chose us—a handful of humans, turned into players, fighting against some catastrophic anomaly. But that was always superimposed onto our normal reality. We were chosen. Secret. Isolated and I was the only one left standing.)
(But here? This entire society is built on the foundation of supernatural power. Publicly. Casually.)
Every billboard advertised Hunter gear. Schools had recruitment paths for aspiring combatants. Ranking systems were broadcast daily. News cycles debated dungeon breach policies. And cleaners—like him—were just another cog in the machine, necessary only to mop up what the heroes left behind.
(It's like being inside a new kind of game. But this time, I'm not the Player.)
(I'm background support. A janitor.)
He clenched his fist slightly.
(But… I know the System. I know what it means to grind. To fight. To level.)
(I may have lost everything. My strength, my memories, even my name… but I haven't forgotten how to survive.)
A nearby explosion echoed from another district. The sky above pulsed once—faint, but ominous.
Lin didn't flinch.
(If this world runs on power… then I'll climb. One step at a time.)
(I won't stay weak forever.)
"Lin!"
He jolted slightly at the sudden bark of his name.
Foreman Rago stood by the warehouse entrance, arms crossed, frown already forming.
"Stop talking to yourself like a damn ghost. Briefing starts now."
"Yessir," Lin muttered, turning away from the open street and following the older man inside.
The interior of the warehouse was dimly lit, sterile, the kind of cold space that reeked of disinfectant and stress. Industrial fans whirred softly above, pushing stale air in circles. Folding chairs were arranged loosely in a semicircle around a central holo-display.
Eleven people were already there.
Some stood with arms crossed, postures guarded. Others lounged, legs stretched, eyes half-lidded in that tired, familiar haze of manual laborers. None of their faces rang a bell.
He stood quietly at the edge of the group, hands behind his back, scanning.
Three people stood out instantly.
They didn't look like cleaners. Their posture, their eyes, their gear—sleek, custom-fitted, laced with mana lines—marked them unmistakably.
(Hunters.)
The air felt different around them, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Rago stepped forward, face grim.
"You all know who I am," he began, voice sharp and hoarse. "Im Do-Shik. Been running this unit for twelve years, and I've never once walked a crew into a dungeon."
That immediately drew murmurs. One man with a buzzcut leaned forward.
"Wait—in-gate? I thought we were cleaning post-breach sites? You know, after Hunters do their job and clear the monsters out here in the streets."
"We don't do in-gates. That's not protocol."
Do-Shik raised his hand, silencing them.
"I know. And I get it. That's been our job for a decade—clear the aftermath, bag the corpses, disinfect the area. But this time…"
He glanced at the holo-display. A miniature gate projection floated in midair—twisting, breathing light.
"This one's different. It's a Stable Gate. Class C. The Association wants it swept before it destabilizes. Think of it like early surgery before a tumor ruptures."
"So send in the damn Hunters," a woman muttered near the back. "Why drag us in there?"
One of the Hunters stepped forward then—a tall man with a buzzcut and an emotionless face. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.
"Because the Association's after what's inside the gate. Not just the monsters."
Do-Shik nodded. "Exactly. There's a retrieval objective—materials, data, relics, possibly mutated cores. Things a Hunter might overlook in combat."
He looked around at the crew.
"That's where you come in. You're cleaners. You know how to spot contamination, residue, irregular magic signatures. We're not asking you to fight—we've got these three B-Ranks to cover that. Your job is to enter, recover, extract."
There was silence.
Then:
"And if we die?" someone asked.
Do-Shik didn't blink.
"Then you die. That's the risk. Gates are fifty-fifty."
Murmurs spread again—fear, doubt, quiet anger.
(Walking into a dungeon without the strength to defend yourself? That's suicide. That's insanity.)
(But… if this is the direction this world is heading in, if this is how value is measured here—by proximity to risk and power—then maybe… maybe this is the start I needed.)
(Walking toward death to remember how to live.)
Lin stayed silent the entire time.
Not one word.
But his thoughts burned like coals beneath still water.
*****
The briefing ended with a heavy silence. No cheers. No jokes. Just the sound of boots scraping the concrete as the crew dispersed one by one, their thoughts too loud to voice.
Outside, dusk had begun to settle across the district—soft orange bleeding into the slate-gray sky. The air was still, almost respectful, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Lin stood near the edge of the lot, arms folded, gaze distant. He wasn't looking at anything in particular. Just… processing.
Then came the footsteps—familiar, steady, deliberate.
Do-Shik.
The old foreman walked up beside him, not speaking at first. He lit a cheap cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled with a tired sigh.
"You're a quiet one today," he said, his voice low. "Quieter than usual, I mean."
Lin didn't respond.
Do-Shik glanced at him, then looked back out across the lot. "Look, Lin… you don't have to go tomorrow."
That made Lin turn slightly, eyes narrowing.
"You can sit this one out," the older man continued, his tone fatherly—not condescending, but not soft either. "I've seen the way you move. You're not built for this kind of pressure. Not yet. You'll only slow the team down. And in a gate, lagging behind gets people killed."
The words weren't cruel. They weren't even wrong.
That made them worse.
"Your heart's in the right place, kid. Always has been. But this kind of job—it doesn't care about heart. It only cares if you can keep up."
He paused, then added more gently, "Think it over tonight. No shame in knowing your limits."
Lin swallowed, throat dry.
"I'll… think about it."
Do-Shik gave him a pat on the shoulder—firm, almost sympathetic. "You sure do, kid. This is for your own safety."
He turned and walked away, the cigarette trailing smoke behind him like a fading comet.
Lin stood alone.
Wind picked up, brushing his hair back, cold against his skin.
(For my own safety?)
His fists clenched at his sides.
(There's nothing safe about being left behind.)