The Dungeon Delver's Debt

Kaelen's Jurisdiction

The heavy iron door slammed shut with a metallic bang that echoed like a gunshot.

The sound instantly severed the world of the elites—the cheering, the golden light, and Marcus Thorne’s smug face—from the reality Ethan now occupied. On this side of the door, there were no heroes.

There was only the smell of damp stone, unwashed bodies, and the sharp, chemical burn of industrial solvents.

"Keep moving, trash. I don't have all day to watch you mourn your lost potential."

The voice belonged to Commander Kaelen. He didn't look like a legendary warrior; he looked like a man who had survived a meat grinder and come out the other side with a grudge.

He was a mountain of scarred muscle, his skin the color of old parchment. One side of his face was a map of puckered scar tissue, and his eyes held the kind of deep-seated cynicism that only comes from burying a lot of people.

He didn't wear shining silver. He wore heavy, scuffed leather that had been stained dark by years of blood and sewer muck.

"Rylan," Kaelen growled. He didn't read it off a clipboard; he spat the name like he was trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth.

"You're a 'Transmigrator.' Usually, that means you're an arrogant prick who thinks the world owes him a harem and a throne because he died in a tragic truck accident."

Kaelen stepped into Ethan’s personal space, smelling of tobacco and stale ale. "But you're an E-minus. In this world, that means you aren't even a person. You're a biological error. You're the garbage that walked in."

He reached into a pile of gear and snatched a shovel, thrusting it into Ethan’s chest. The impact forced the air out of Ethan’s lungs.

The handle was made of rough, splintered wood that bit into his palms, and the iron head was pitted with rust.

"This is your life now," Kaelen said. "You’re in the Cleanup Corps. You don't fight the monsters. You wait until the 'real' heroes are done playing, and then you go in and haul out the guts."

Kaelen began to pace, his heavy boots clunking rhythmically on the wet stone. "We clear the toxic residue. We scrub the mana-rot off the walls so it doesn't seep into the city streets. We burn the fungal spores. If a stray slime or a half-dead goblin survived the hero's pass, you kill it with that shovel or you let it eat you. I don't care which."

He stopped and leaned in, his scarred face inches from Ethan’s. "You are the mop and bucket of Aetheria. You’ll earn less in a week than your buddy Marcus spends on a single bottle of wine. Understand?"

Ethan’s throat was dry. The powerlessness was a familiar weight, a ghost of the debt collectors who used to sit outside his apartment.

"The Mana Affinity..." Ethan rasped. "If my rank is this low, shouldn't I be doing something... safer? I’m practically a civilian."

Kaelen let out a short, bark-like laugh that held zero humor. "Safe? Kid, everything in Aetheria wants to kill you. But for an E-minus, the air itself is a weapon. Those tunnels breed mana-plague spores. They'll give you a fever that feels like your brain is boiling and cramps that'll snap your own ribs."

He tossed a grimy, sweat-stained map at Ethan’s feet. "First assignment. The Sewer’s Labyrinth. Section Delta-9. There’s a blockage of mana-solidified sludge. It’s backing up the cooling systems for the upper wards."

Kaelen checked a heavy brass pocket watch. "You have thirty minutes to clear it. If you fail, I dock a day's wages. If you complain, you get five lashes with a mana-conductive whip. Now get out of my sight before I decide to start the lashing early."

The threat of physical pain was the final straw. It wasn't just about money anymore; it was about total, humiliating control.

Ethan grabbed the shovel, his knuckles white, and turned toward the dark maw of the tunnel.

The Sewer’s Labyrinth lived up to its name. It was a foul, cramped throat of a tunnel that smelled like a chemical fire in a graveyard.

As Ethan pushed deeper, the air grew thick with a shimmering, green haze—the mana-plague spores.

Almost instantly, the nausea hit. It wasn't a "sour stomach" feeling; it was a violent, skull-pounding vertigo.

His lungs felt like they were being lined with hot lead. His E-minus affinity meant he had zero natural resistance.

He was a sponge for every toxic particle in the air.

He reached Delta-9, his vision already starting to blur at the edges. The "blockage" was a massive, pulsating mound of translucent purple sludge.

It looked like petrified waste, hardened by unstable magic into something as tough as industrial plastic.

Ethan slammed the shovel into the mass. Clang. The vibration rattled his bones, but the sludge didn't even chip.

"Damn it... move!" Ethan screamed, swinging again.

He put every ounce of his desperation into the work. He thought of his mother's medical bills.

He thought of Marcus’s smirk. He thought of the lash waiting for him back at the staging area.

He hacked at the mass, sweat pouring off him, mixing with the foul slime dripping from the ceiling.

His heart was a frantic drum in his ears. The fever was spiking now.

His muscles felt like they were turning into wet noodles, and his breath came in ragged, burning hitches.

He checked the small, rusty timer Kaelen had forced into his hand.

5:00.

Five minutes left. He had barely cleared a quarter of the blockage.

His body was failing him. He swung the shovel one more time, but his grip slipped.

The tool clattered into the filth. Ethan stumbled back, his legs giving out, and slid down the slimy wall until he was sitting in the muck.

"I can't," he wheezed, his vision swimming in shades of grey and sickly green.

He had failed. Again. Just like he’d failed to keep the family business afloat.

Just like he’d failed to save his mother from the slow rot of poverty. He was a zero on Earth, and he was a zero here.

The shame was a physical weight, heavier than the stone ceiling above him.

He closed his eyes, the spore-induced delirium finally taking hold. He waited for the darkness to take him, for the fever to finish the job.

Then, a sound.

It wasn't the dripping of the sewer or the distant chime of the city. It was a cold, sharp, mechanical ping that resonated inside his skull.

[Condition Met: Absolute Despair reached at the Bottom Rung.]

[Hidden Requirement Unlocked: The Great Equalizer.]

[Integrating System... 1%... 15%... 50%...]

Ethan’s eyes snapped open. The green haze of the spores didn't go away, but suddenly, a glowing blue interface began to stitch itself together in the air right in front of his face.