The Dungeon Delver's Debt

Cleaning the Silver Spear

The morning after the lashing, Ethan walked with a stiff, mechanical stride that made every joint in his body protest.

The 10% damage reduction from [Iron Skin (Lvl 1)] hadn't worked a miracle; his back was still a lattice of angry, weeping welts that stuck to his cheap linen shirt.

But the skill had done something more subtle—it had muted the sharp, white-hot edges of the agony into a deep, heavy ache. It was the difference between being stabbed and being crushed.

He could function. He could move. And in his line of work, that was all that mattered.

His assignment for the day was a masterpiece of psychological warfare from Commander Kaelen. Instead of the dark anonymity of the sewers, Ethan was sent to the surface.

"The Silver Spear entrance needs a shine," Kaelen had growled that morning, barely looking up from his coffee. "The A-Ranks are complaining about the dust. Try not to bleed on the marble, Rylan. It’s hard to get out."

Kaelen wanted him visible. He wanted the "trash" of the E-minus ranks to be reminded of exactly how low they sat while the gods of Aetheria prepped for glory.

But as Ethan stepped into the light of the Grand Plaza, he didn't feel humiliated. He felt like a hunter entering a high-yield zone.

The Silver Spear staging area was a sickening display of excess. The vast plaza was paved in white marble so polished it reflected the sky.

At its center stood the Silver Arch—a towering monument of enchanted metal that hummed with enough raw mana to power a city.

Heroes in custom-fitted plate armor gathered in clusters, their gear shimmering with enchantments. They looked like statues come to life, laughing and clashing practice swords with an easy, unearned confidence.

The air here was crisp, smelling of ozone and expensive cologne—a far cry from the chemical rot of the Delta-9 sector.

Ethan gripped his broom. To the heroes, he was just part of the plumbing.

A mobile piece of scenery designed to keep their boots clean.

"Look at the E-minus, stirring up dust," a woman in emerald-green robes sneered as she floated past, her feet several inches off the ground. "Keep it down, sweeper. I’m trying to calibrate my focus."

Ethan didn't look up. He just kept sweeping, his eyes fixed on a massive pile of rubble near the main portal entrance.

These were chunks of reinforced granite from a recent tunnel collapse inside the dungeon—dense, heavy, and magically saturated. This was his target.

He spent hours working the perimeter, enduring the casual cruelty of the elite. Every dismissive remark and scornful glance was a deposit.

He was building a reservoir of social failure, waiting for the right person to tip it over the edge.

During a brief break, he pulled his mother’s antique watch from his pocket. The gold was tarnished, the glass scratched, but it was a reminder of why he was here.

Back on Earth, he had been crushed by a system he didn't understand. Here, he was learning the code.

Around mid-morning, the temperature in the plaza seemed to rise. Ethan didn't need to look up to know who it was.

The crowd of sycophants parted, and Marcus Thorne strolled in.

Marcus looked like a propaganda poster. His silver armor was reinforced with gold filigree, and a heavy crimson cape trailed behind him.

He was flanked by two teammates—a hulking tank and a lithe scout—both of whom looked down on the plaza like they already owned it. Marcus had an A-Rank Fire Affinity, but his real power was his name.

He was the son of a high-ranking Bureau official, a man born with a silver spoon that he used to gouge out the eyes of his competitors.

Marcus caught sight of Ethan. His cruel, predatory smirk widened.

Target acquired, Ethan thought. His heart hammered against his ribs.

It was time to play the victim.

Ethan walked over to the pile of reinforced granite. He chose a piece about the size of a small suitcase.

It was easily a hundred pounds of dead weight, reinforced with mana-dense ore. Even a healthy man would struggle with it; for Ethan, with his shredded back and E-rank strength, it was an impossible task.

He bent his knees and gripped the stone. He didn't just try to lift it; he gave it everything he had.

He pulled until the muscles in his neck stood out like cables, until the scabs on his back tore open and he felt the warm prickle of fresh blood soaking his shirt. He made sure the struggle was visible.

He made sure he looked pathetic.

Marcus and his crew sauntered over, their shadows falling over Ethan’s trembling frame.

"Well, well. If it isn't the sewer rat," Marcus’s voice boomed, drawing the attention of a nearby group of guild officers.

"I thought I smelled something foul. Still digging through the dirt, Rylan? I heard Kaelen gave you a little 'encouragement' yesterday."

Ethan didn't look up. He let out a strained, ragged gasp as the stone barely left the ground before slamming back down.

"It’s... policy, Marcus," Ethan panted, wiping sweat and grime from his forehead. "The plaza must be cleared for the afternoon raid. I have a job to do."

"A job?" Marcus laughed, a high, mocking sound that echoed off the marble. "Moving rocks isn't a job, Rylan. It’s what we make the golems do. But then again, a golem actually has a mana signature. You’re just a waste of oxygen."

Marcus stepped forward, his silver-clad boot grinding a smaller piece of debris into the marble right next to Ethan’s hand.

"Tell you what," Marcus said, his voice dripping with faux-generosity. "Since you’re such a hard worker, let me help you speed things up. You're struggling with that little pebble? Why don't you move the big one?"

Marcus gestured to the centerpiece of the rubble—a massive, half-collapsed pillar section. It was six feet long and weighed at least half a ton.

It would have taken a team of three men or a high-strength warrior to shift it.

It was an impossible, humiliating demand. Marcus wanted to see Ethan break in front of the "important" people.

He wanted a public admission that Ethan was too weak to even be a janitor.

"That's... that's too heavy, Marcus," Ethan said, making his voice go small and shaky. "I can't shift that alone."

"Can't?" Marcus leaned in, his eyes flashing with a spark of magical heat. "A-Ranks don't use the word 'can't.' If you're too weak to clear the path for your betters, then you're a hazard to the mission. Now, pick up the pillar, or I’ll tell Kaelen you’re refusing orders."

A few of the passing heroes stopped to watch, some snickering, others looking on with mild, bored curiosity. Ethan looked at the pillar, then back at Marcus.

He could feel the [Kinetic Potential] from yesterday still humming in his marrow, but he pushed it down. He didn't want to fight Marcus.

Not yet. He wanted Marcus to crush him.

He wanted the system to see the absolute, staggering gap between them and recognize the failure.

Ethan stepped toward the pillar. He reached down and wrapped his arms around the cold, jagged stone.

"That's it, Debt-Boy," Marcus taunted, crossing his arms. "Show us that world-class effort. Show us what an E-minus is worth."

Ethan closed his eyes. He thought of every time he’d been told he wasn't enough.

He thought of the shame of his father’s bankruptcy and the clinical coldness of the transmigrator processing. He poured every ounce of his frustration, his hate, and his desperate, futile strength into the lift.

His muscles screamed. His back felt like it was being sliced by saws.

His vision swam as he tried to move a weight that was physically impossible for his body to handle.

He failed. Completely.

He collapsed forward, his chest slamming against the stone, his breath leaving him in a pathetic wheeze. He lay there, pinned against the pillar, the image of absolute, public impotence.

{ANALYZING SOCIAL AND PHYSICAL FAILURE STATE...}

{TARGET: MARCUS THORNE (A-RANK). AREA: PUBLIC STAGING GROUND.}

{SINCERITY OF EFFORT: 100%.}

Ethan felt the digital voice vibrate in the

center of his skull. This was it. The payout.

{HIDDEN CRITERIA MET: "The Humiliation of the Lowborn."}

{FAILURE GRANTS POWER…}