Necropolis... what else is that?

  The question echoed in his head, continuously, like a mantra. Necropolis of Failures. A place for people who failed? A place of regret? Or perhaps a place where all the skills he had ever harvested came from?

  He stared at the triangular symbol on the floor. The red light within those lines was still pulsing, the same as before. But this time, Ethan felt that something was staring back at him from behind that symbol. Something that was waiting.

  "Vance!"

  Ethan averted his gaze, lifted the stretcher, and followed Ronald out of that room. But in his heart, he had already made a decision. He had to know what Necropolis was. Whatever the risk.

  Outside the dungeon, beneath the gray sky of The Grime, the cleaning team parted ways. Ronald and two other cleaners carried the bodies to the temporary storage room to be identified. Ethan was permitted to go home early, as his shift was already over, and his body needed rest.

  But he didn't go home.

  He sat on an iron bench in front of Sanitation Headquarters, watching people pass by. Evening shift cleaners began arriving, tired faces with weary eyes. Across the road, small children played tag among the black puddles, laughing with cheerful voices that were strangely out of place with the squalid surroundings.

  Ethan drew the grimy map from his pocket. Aria's underground headquarters in Middle Alley. The girl had said she had data about the dungeon. Perhaps she knew something about Necropolis. Perhaps...

  He shook his head, folding the map back. Not yet. Not now. He needed to think this over more carefully. But one thing was certain: his Stench Level was 24. Six more points, and the door to Necropolis would open. Six points could mean one more Tier 3 skill, or two Tier 2 skills. Or...

  "Ethan?"

  That voice, not unfamiliar. Ethan turned.

  Aria stood a few meters to his side, bare feet on the dirty asphalt, the same robe full of pockets, the same bright smile. In her hands, she clutched something wrapped in dirty cloth.

  "I was looking for you," she said, her breath slightly winded. "I..." She stopped, her eyes widening. Her nose moved quickly. "You... you're different."

  Ethan tensed. "What do you mean?"

  Aria approached, sniffing as usual. "Your smell. Yesterday you were truly empty. Today..." She furrowed her brow. "There's something. Very faint. Almost undetectable. But it's there." She looked at Ethan intently. "What did you do today?"

  Ethan was silent.

  Aria waited. When there was no answer, she exhaled and raised the bundle in her hand. "I brought this for you. Snacks. As a token of thanks for being willing to talk to me yesterday."

  She opened the cloth, revealing several pieces of dry bread, not quality bread, but leftover bread she had perhaps gotten from a trash bin or bought at a cheap price. But her eyes sparkled when she offered it.

  Ethan stared at the bread, then stared at Aria.

  This girl, strange, unsettling, but sincere. He took one piece. "Thank you."

  Aria smiled broadly. "You're welcome! I..." She stopped, her eyes shifting to something behind Ethan. Her smile faded slightly. "It seems I have to go. See you next time, Ethan whose smell is starting to appear!"

  She ran off at a small trot, her bare feet stepping on the asphalt without sound, disappearing among the crowd of cleaners passing by. Ethan turned. Ronald stood at the entrance of Sanitation Headquarters, looking toward the direction Aria had disappeared, then toward Ethan. His face was unreadable.

  Ethan stared at the bread in his hand, then tucked it into his pocket. In his chest, [Necropolis Access] was still flickering gray, waiting.

  The next morning, when Ethan stepped through the threshold of the rusty Sanitation Headquarters door that always creaked every time it was opened, he immediately felt something different in the air, not only the smell of chemicals and sweat that had already become familiar filling every corner of the room, but also an unnatural silence.

  The silence that usually only appeared before a storm or before bad news.

  In the main canteen that was always busy with the sound of rough conversation and aluminum cups being slammed onto tables, now there were only soft whispers slipping through the gaps between the sounds of the old ventilator machine creaking at the ceiling.

  The neon light above his head flickered with the same rhythm, two quick flickers, then darkness for one second, then lighting up again, as though indifferent to the change in atmosphere below it. Ethan walked past rows of long tables full of leftover breakfast trays, leaving the tracks of his rubber boots on the always-damp cement floor, heading toward the corner where Ronald usually sat. But today the chair across from it was empty, and there was only a cup of bitter coffee still sending up thin wisps of steam, as though just abandoned.

  Ethan sat in that chair, took his own cup of coffee that he had already ordered from the counter, and listened.

  From the table to his right, two night shift cleaners still wearing worn uniforms with green and blue stains characteristic of cleaning fluid were whispering with their heads almost touching. One of them, a middle-aged man with a thin unkempt beard and sunken eyes from lack of sleep, said in a voice deliberately kept low, "The cleaner ghost, they say it moves fast like a shadow. One second here, the next second there. The thugs didn't have time to react. And they say he used only a used bottle. A used bottle, can you imagine?"

  The man across from him, younger, with disheveled red hair and arms full of tattoos, snorted skeptically, but his eyes showed interest. "Nonsense, that's just the story of a drunk person. Or maybe the thugs were too embarrassed to be beaten and made something up. But I heard from a reliable source, three thugs in East Alley are badly beaten. One arm torn by bottle shards. And they say that cleaner moved like..." He moved his hand quickly. "Like lightning. Not like an ordinary human."

  Ethan sipped his coffee, his face remaining flat. But inside his chest, [Danger Sense] pulsed slowly, not a danger warning, but a response to something he couldn't explain. Perhaps because he realized that he himself was the subject of that conversation. That the rumor about the "cleaner ghost" was beginning to spread like vapor from a dungeon opening. Without sound, without a sign, but suddenly everywhere.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  From another table, the sound of whispering was heard again, this time about a different topic. A female cleaner with loosely tied hair and a tired face said, "An adventurer team has gone missing again. Ninth floor, four people. They went in two days ago, never came out. And the search team sent by the guild only found scattered equipment. No monsters, no signs of a major battle. Like they were ambushed."

  Ethan tensed.

  The woman continued, her voice growing even softer. "Aether Corps says it was an accident. Monsters suddenly appeared and they were overwhelmed. But the Hauler who helped with the evacuation says otherwise. They say the team's equipment, storage pouches, backup weapons, even robes that were still in good condition, all gone. Like they were robbed. Robbed in a dungeon, can you imagine?"

  "Robbed?" her companion, an old man with a hunched back, whispered. "Who would dare to rob in a dungeon? Monsters?"

  "Monsters don't need storage pouches," the woman answered. "Monsters only need flesh and mana. But this... this is the work of humans."

  Ethan sipped his coffee again, and this time its bitterness tasted more concentrated, deeper, spreading across his tongue like a truth slowly beginning to reveal itself.

  Ronald appeared from behind the kitchen door, carrying a tray holding two aluminum cups, one for himself and one for Ethan, and sat across from him without speaking. He placed the cups with a sound that struck the table, then looked at Ethan with an unusual gaze. Not suspicious, not angry, but something else. Something that might be called understanding or warning.

  He said in a hoarse voice just loud enough for Ethan to hear, "Cleaner ghost. Fast, slippery. Wounding thugs with a used bottle. Do you know anything about that?"

  Ethan looked back at him, his face remaining flat, and answered with a voice just as calm. "I hear those thugs are indeed fond of extorting people. Maybe they met someone harder."

  Ronald looked at him for a long time. A very long time, until the neon light above them flickered once more. Then he exhaled a long breath, rubbed his unkempt beard with his left hand, his only hand still intact, and said, "Maybe. Or maybe there's a cleaner smarter than we think. But be careful, Vance. In The Grime, being the center of attention is dangerous. Better to be a shadow."

  Ethan didn't answer, only sipped his coffee, letting Ronald's words sink into his mind. Mixing with the rumor about the missing adventurers and the pattern beginning to form in his head, ninth floor, adventurer team missing, equipment gone. And two days ago, on the eighth floor, five Tier 3 adventurers dead near the triangular symbol. An Assassin with [Void Step] he hadn't had time to use. Corpses still warm.

  And now, all these pieces of information were beginning to fit together like puzzle pieces falling into place.

  One hour later, after finishing his coffee and hearing more whispers about the "cleaner ghost" and "robbed adventurers," Ethan stood outside Sanitation Headquarters, staring at the gray sky of The Grime that never changed. The yellowish haze from distant neon lights created the illusion of an eternal dusk. On the sidewalk full of cracks and black puddles, small children played tag with cheerful laughter that was strangely out of place with the squalid surroundings.

  Ethan drew a deep breath, feeling the humid air mixed with the smell of garbage and dungeon vapor enter his lungs. When...

  "Ethan!"

  That voice, not unfamiliar, too cheerful for a gray morning, made him turn. There, running in small steps toward him with bare feet on the dirty asphalt that must have been hot or cold depending on the season, Aria Valehart appeared. Her brown robe full of pockets fluttered, her disheveled silver hair flowed loose, her glasses were clouded as usual. On her face was plastered a wide smile that never faded even though her life was perhaps harder than anyone else's in this district.

  "I've been looking for you since this morning!" Her breath was slightly winded when she stopped right in front of Ethan, too close for comfort. Her eyes, green, too green for an ordinary human or elf, widened. Her prominent nose moved quickly as usual, sniffing.

  She said, "Your smell. Getting stronger, getting clearer. Like a dungeon but different. Like remnants of mana that has already died. Like..." She halted her analysis, smiled. "This is interesting. Very interesting. I need a sample."

  Ethan stepped back one step, giving her space. But Aria didn't care. She rummaged through one of the pockets in her robe, the pocket at the waist, the smallest one, which she always used to store important objects, and pulled out something wrapped in a worn white cloth. She opened it carefully, and inside was a strange tool Ethan had never seen before: a small glass tube as long as an index finger with a sharp tip like a pipette. Inside it was a clear liquid that moved on its own even though the tube was tightly sealed.

  "This is a smell sample collection tool," Aria explained, her eyes sparkling with the enthusiasm of a scientist who had found a new toy. "I made it myself. The way it works is simple. You wipe the tip on the object you want to take a sample from, the liquid inside will absorb the smell particles, then..." She saw Ethan's flat expression, and laughed awkwardly. "Sorry, I get too excited. The point is, I need an object that has been exposed to your smell. Clothes, a handkerchief, hair, anything. For research."

  Ethan was silent, thinking.

  He remembered Ronald's words, "dealing with smart people only gives you headaches." But he also remembered Aria's own words, that she could help with dungeon information. And that she was the first person who had "seen" his strangeness, who had noticed that Ethan was different, that he didn't smell. And now his smell was starting to appear, and Aria wanted to research it. Perhaps to prove her theory, perhaps also to help.

  He rummaged through his trouser pocket, pulled out a worn cloth handkerchief he usually used to wipe sweat in the dungeon, not washed for two days, already having absorbed his smell, body odor, chemical smell, and now perhaps the smell of Stench that was slowly beginning to be detected by Aria's sensitive nose, and handed it to Aria.

  "Here."

  Aria received the handkerchief carefully, as though receiving an invaluable treasure. Her eyes sparkled brighter than the neon lights.

  She said, "Thank you! Thank you! I'll analyze this right away. I'll find out what makes you different. What makes you..." She stopped, realizing she was beginning to ramble again. Then she smiled, placed the handkerchief into a special pocket, the pocket at the stomach, the largest, with a movement that was almost ritual, as though storing a sacred relic.

  Then she looked at Ethan, smiled, and said, "In return, I have something for you."

  She rummaged through another pocket, the pocket on the right sleeve, which was always full of notebooks and papers, and pulled out a stack of worn papers, bound with a frail string that was almost broken. The papers were crumpled, yellowing at the edges, full of scrawlings, numbers, and diagrams that only Aria herself could understand. She handed them to Ethan with pride.

  "Adventurer death data," she said. "I collected it over the past year. From Hauler reports, from cleaner conversations, from other sources I can't name. All deaths recorded on floors one through fifteen. Complete with dates, number of victims, guild affiliations, and my own notes."

  Ethan received the stack, feeling its weight, not physical weight, but the weight of the information contained in it. He opened the first sheet carefully, because the paper was thin and brittle, as though it would fall apart if held too firmly.

  Dates, floors, number of victims, guild affiliations. And in a special column, "Aria's Notes," with her characteristic handwriting, messy but detailed, full of scrawlings and question marks.

  Floor 7, 12 March: 3 adventurers dead. Equipment missing. Aether Corps claims monsters, but no monster traces at the scene.

  Floor 9, 19 March: 2 adventurers dead. Unnatural body positions, as though dropped from a height. No aerial monsters on floor 9.

  Floor 8, 25 March: 5 adventurers dead. All from independent guilds. No survivors. Hauler says their storage pouches were empty, robbed before the dungeon digested the corpses.

  Ethan read, and the deeper he read, the colder the feeling in his chest. Not cold from fear, but cold from the realization that what he was reading was not a collection of random accidents. But a clear pattern. A pattern too regular to be ignored. A pattern that repeated with a rhythm that was almost mechanical.

  He turned to the next sheet, then the next. And the pattern became clearer, more striking, like a thick red line drawn across a map: all deaths occurred on the same floors, floors 8, 9, 10, rotating like a wheel, 3-4-2-5-3, with intervals of 5-7 days. All victims were independent adventurers or small teams without major guild affiliation. Those who had no protection from corporations, who had no connections to Aether Corps. All scenes showed signs of robbery: equipment missing, storage pouches gone, backup weapons not found, even robes that were still in good condition had vanished.

  And in every note, one name appeared repeatedly. Like a shadow following every death. Like a red thread connecting one tragedy to another.

  Aether Corps.