The Dungeon Delver's Debt

Aetheria's Bureaucracy

The last thing Ethan remembered was the searing, electric burn of a life-ending mistake. Then, the floor dropped out.

The transition wasn't some majestic light show; it was a stomach-lurching, non-Euclidean freefall through a neon blender. Ethan’s equilibrium shattered.

He felt his breakfast try to climb out of his throat as he tumbled through a void that smelled like ozone and burnt hair.

Thud.

He hit the floor hard. The air punched out of his lungs, replaced by the cold, unforgiving sensation of smooth stone against his cheek.

Ethan gasped, dragging in a lungful of air that tasted like old frankincense and the metallic tang of dried blood. He didn't move for a second, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

His limbs felt like they were made of lead, heavy and uncooperative.

"Move it, Earth-trash! Get up!"

A harsh voice cut through the ringing in his ears. Ethan pushed himself up, his palms sliding on the polished floor.

He was in a chamber that looked like a cathedral designed by a committee of masons on steroids. Towering arches reached into a vaulted ceiling lost in a haze of magical gold light.

Ancient runes pulsed on the walls with a rhythmic, low-frequency hum that Ethan could feel in his teeth.

This was the Nexus Center. The DMV of the afterlife.

Around him, dozens of others were staggering to their feet. It was a pathetic sight.

A sea of mismatched Earth clothes—suits, hoodies, gym shorts, and yoga pants—all wrinkled and stained with the grime of their previous lives. The air was thick with the sound of hyperventilating and muffled sobbing.

"Where am I?" someone wailed nearby. "I have a meeting at nine!"

"Shut up," Ethan muttered, mostly to himself.

Before the collective hysteria could peak, the massive bronze doors at the end of the hall slid open with a chime that vibrated through Ethan’s marrow. A squad of figures marched in.

They weren't the winged warriors depicted on the doors; they were bureaucrats in sapphire robes and breastplates that looked more decorative than functional.

"Silence!"

A woman in a gold-plated chestpiece stepped forward. She didn’t need a microphone; her voice had a weight to it that physically pressed down on the room.

"You have been brought to the Nexus Center. You are safe. You are Transmigrators. You will be processed."

Processed. The word felt like a slap. Ethan reached for his wrist out of habit.

The debt notice was gone—along with his old life—but his mother’s antique wristwatch was still there, the tarnished metal cold against his skin. It was the only thing he owned that wasn't a memory.

"The Mana Assessment determines your worth," a dry-voiced mage announced, stepping toward the first line. "Your affinity dictates your training, your status, and your survival. Step forward when your sector is called."

The guards began corralling them like cattle. They didn’t use violence, but the way they looked at the newcomers—with a mix of boredom and practiced contempt—made it clear that to them, the "heroes" from Earth were just a daily chore.

Ethan shuffled forward in line. The familiar, cold knot of anxiety tightened in his gut.

Back on Earth, he’d been a master of the "L." Failed exams, failed business, and a mountain of debt that wasn't even his.

He’d hoped that a new world meant a new set of rules, but the bureaucratic efficiency of this place suggested otherwise.

His sector was called. Ethan stepped onto a circular stone pedestal. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The mage in front of him looked like a piece of driftwood shaped like a man. He held a fist-sized crystal—a Nexus Stone—and hovered it over Ethan’s chest.

"Deep breath," the mage droned, not looking Ethan in the eye.

The hall went quiet. In the lines next to him, Ethan saw flashes of color.

A girl two rows over set off a brilliant gold light, earning a respectful nod from her examiner. A guy in a football jersey triggered a dull red glow.

The mage pressed the stone against Ethan’s sternum.

Nothing.

The crystal remained as opaque as a river rock. The mage frowned, muttering an incantation that sounded like gravel grinding together.

He pressed harder, the edge of the stone digging into Ethan’s bone.

"Come on," Ethan whispered. "Anything."

The stone gave a pathetic, sickly flicker. It wasn't the vibrant red of fire or the deep blue of water.

It was a watery, stagnant green—the color of a swamp where things went to die.

The mage recoiled, his lip curling in visible disgust. He looked at the crystal as if it had just leaked oil on his robes.

He signaled a colleague, who checked a floating parchment and shook his head.

"E-minus," the mage announced. His voice boomed, carrying the news to every corner of the silent hall.

"Subject Rylan. Mana Affinity: E-minus. Virtually non-existent."

A ripple of mocking laughter broke out from the lines behind him.

"Less than even a common Goblin’s latent Mana," the mage added, his voice dripping with condescension. "Talentless. A waste of a summoning slot."

He didn't even wait for Ethan to step down. He gestured to a guard.

"Assign him to the Dungeon Cleanup Ranks. Bottom rung. He’s a sweeper. Get him out of my sight."

The guard, a guy with a neck thicker than Ethan’s thigh, grabbed his arm and yanked him off the pedestal.

"Move it, floor-scrubber," the guard grunted.

As Ethan was hauled toward a side exit, he saw the "winners." A group of A and S-ranked transmigrators were being ushered toward a plush lounge, treated like royalty.

And right in the center of them was Marcus Thorne.

Marcus looked like he’d been born for this. He was already wearing a set of custom silver light-armor, his chest puffed out.

When he saw Ethan being dragged toward the service door, his face split into a grin of pure, predatory victory.

He stepped out of his group, intercepting Ethan’s path. The guard stopped, recognizing Marcus’s high-rank badge.

"Still following me, Debt-Boy?" Marcus leaned in, his voice low enough for only Ethan to hear. "I thought maybe the universe would balance things out, but look at you. Even in another dimension, you’re just the help."

Marcus adjusted a fine leather glove, his eyes gleaming. "I’m headed to the Royal Academy. You? You’re going to be scraping my boot-prints off the dungeon floors. Don't die too quickly; I want to see you again when I need my armor polished."

Ethan’s fist clenched, his knuckles turning white. The familiar, impotent rage burned in his chest—the same rage he felt every time a debt collector had called his mother.

"Screw you, Marcus," Ethan spat.

Marcus just laughed and walked back to his inner circle of elites. The guard shoved Ethan through a heavy iron door, cutting off the light and the luxury of the main hall.

The air here was different. It was damp, smelling of rot and industrial cleaning fluids.

They were in a staging area filled with rusted crates and broken weapons. A man with a face like a topographical map of a war zone sat behind a scarred wooden desk.

"Another one?" the man growled, looking at Ethan’s intake form. "E-minus? Are they even trying anymore?"

The guard chuckled. "He’s all yours, Jax. Try not to let the slimes eat him on his first shift."

The guard left, the heavy door slamming shut with a finality that felt like a tombstone.

Jax looked Ethan up and down. "You know what a Scavenger does, kid? We go in after the 'Heroes' like your friend out there have had their fun. We clean the guts off the walls, we haul out the loot they didn't want, and we try not to get killed by the monsters they missed."

He tossed a heavy, rusted iron shovel at Ethan’s feet.

"Pick it up," Jax commanded. "We’ve got a Tier 1 cave that needs clearing, and the 'A-ranks' left a mess of a Hydra in there. If you don't move fast, the rot-fumes will melt your lungs before the shift is over."

Ethan looked at the shovel, then at the dark tunnel behind Jax. He reached down and gripped the cold, splintered wooden handle.

He was at the bottom again. But the bottom was a place he knew how to survive.

"When do we start?" Ethan asked, his voice flat.

Jax grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "That’s the spirit. Let’s see if you’re as useless as your mana says you are."