"Here for the interview? Name?"
"Li Ang... Leon Lane."
"Lane?"
The red-haired interviewer behind the desk perked up at the familiar surname, her bored expression shifting to mild surprise as she appraised the sallow-faced young man. "The Lionheart Ducal House Lane?"
"No," the job-seeker shook his head with practiced ease, "Though homophonic, my family's Lane comes from Lancashire commoners, while theirs derives from the golden lion 'lyon' on their crest."
"Ah... thought as much." The woman snorted in self-mockery, crimson locks shimmering. That insufferable clan obsessed with their golden bloodline wouldn't produce black-haired descendants - let alone ones desperate enough to apply here.
Her emerald eyes trailed over Leon's threadbare coat, its carefully-starched collar fraying at the seams. Losing interest, she resumed scribbling with her quill. "Marked as commoner then. Next: education level, religious affiliation, cybernetic augmentations, subcutaneous differential engine implants..." Her feather paused ominously, "...and details of your capital offense."
"Pardon? Did you mean criminal record?"
Thunk!
The woman's knuckles struck oak. "Listen here, boy! This is the Sanitation Bureau, not some magistrate's court! Only neck-stretching felons apply here! Out with your crimes before I lose patience!"
Leon's jaw dropped. Since when did street sweeping require execution-worthy sins?
"Let me clarify," the interviewer leaned forward, voice dripping frost, "We don't prosecute - we expunge warrants. Your name gets scrubbed from wanted lists. Now. Your. Crime."
"Warrants? Wait..." Realization dawned. "Is this the First Municipal Sanitation Department?"
A beat of silence.
"God's teeth," the redhead muttered, massaging her temples. "You're at the Sixth Bureau of Extraordinary Sanitation - Special Ops under the Royal Constabulary." She gestured to the opposite building where a snaking queue waited. "Your precious street-sweeper job's across the square."
Leon exhaled sharply. Bloody hell! No wonder they'd mentioned gallows.
Yet his gaze lingered on the distant crowd. "...If you're hiring too..."
"Not a chance."
At his crestfallen look, she relented slightly. "Our salary triples municipal pay... but carries 0.8% monthly mortality."
Leon's eyes lit up. 1% annual risk? In this steam-belching hellscape where factory workers faced 2% yearly deaths from machinery and mana-radiation? This was-
"Monthly," she emphasized. "Nearly 10% yearly attrition."
Leon's calculations choked in his throat.
"Now scram," she waved dismissively. "We only recruit death-row convicts or anomaly-bearers. You'd last a week."
As Leon turned to leave, agony lanced through his skull - accompanied by system chimes:
[20th Job Rejection: Iron-tier Badge "Unemployed Youth" Activated]
Effect: Parents gain [Evasive] status in social conversations
Evolution: After 2 months unemployed + cohabitation → Bronze Badge "Dependent"
Hidden Trait: 80% reduced matchmaking success when family assets <200 Gold Crowns
...
Leon stormed out of the Sixth Bureau, joining the serpentine queue outside the Municipal Sanitation Department. The new badge shimmering on his HUD drew a bitter chuckle.
Silver lining: Still have my balls and cheat codes.
Downside: Said cheat codes come with freaking debuffs...
The obsidian [Unemployed Youth] badge's "-80% Romance Success" tag mocked him as he inched forward. His gaze drifted to the two active badges in his three-slot interface.
The central slot glowed with faded teal warmth:
[Trustworthy Elder Brother (Bronze)]
Description: Became primary caregiver after parents' demise. Earned siblings' unwavering respect through steadfast devotion.
Effect: +50% Trust from minors. Triggers [Heart-to-Heart] during emotional crises (Confession chance increased)
Evolution: Locked
Passive Trait: Dormant
Beside it blazed a crimson sigil brighter than molten steel:
[Materialist's Soul (Unique/Unbound)]
Description: Believes consciousness emerges from matter. Mysteries are merely undiscovered physics.
Effect A (Comprehension): Accelerated mastery of understood concepts. Effectiveness scales with understanding.
Effect B (Exposure): Partial information revelation when encountering unknowns. Resistance scales inversely with comprehension.
Evolution: MAX Tier Achieved
Passive Trait: Dormant
The system's grandeur mocked reality. Beyond helping him learn this world's tongue in three days, the crimson badge remained inert. Still... if these "anomalies" could get him into that Bureau...
Leon glanced back at the ominous building before scoffing. 10% annual fatality rate? Forty-three years until retirement meant 97.3% cumulative death probability. Even his transmigrated life wasn't that expendable.
Not with two knee-high siblings and a consumptive sister back home. If he died, the fragile ecosystem sustaining four lives would collapse like dominoes.
"Damnation!" He spat on the ornate cobblestones, throat burning with bile. "What a godsforsaken world!"
...
The dying sun filtered through alchemical smog, painting Capital's grime in sickly amber. Leon's shadow stretched monstrously across refuse-strewn alleys as he trudged homeward.
Three hours of queuing yielded nothing. Not even when he'd groveled before the porcine recruiter who'd shoved him aside to brand a malnourished applicant's chest like livestock.
Three years in this steam-powered dystopia, yet the visceral disgust never faded. His previous life's worst trauma - a manager's tirade - felt like heaven compared to daily survival here.
Rounding the corner into Veteran's Alley, Leon forced his face into practiced calm. The skill came easier than breathing now.
He navigated light-starved passages with rat-like familiarity, arriving at a corroded door older than himself. Before knuckles met rusted iron, it creaked open revealing a porcelain-faced girl with telltale violet shadows beneath her eyes.
"Brother."
"Didn't I tell you never to open-"
"I recognize your footsteps." The sickly girl smiled, brushing his threadbare coat. "Yours drag... differently."
"That's not the point!" Leon's scolding softened despite himself. "What if-"
"-it's not you?" She finished, hanging his coat with skeletal fingers. "Impossible."
Her certainty pierced him. Of course she'd memorized the cadence of despair dragging his soles. Three years bearing familial Atlas would do that.
Dinner passed in silent communion. She watched him devour watery stew with the intensity of someone memorizing miracles. The twins' absence spoke volumes.
"They waited till sunset," she preempted, wiping chipped bowls. "Fell asleep clutching your empty chair. I carried them to bed."
"You shouldn't-"
"-exert myself?" Her chuckle turned wet. "I'm not glass, Leon."
The argument was older than her chronic cough. He changed tactics. "Today, I..."
"-should rest." She gestured at his mud-caked boots. "You'll need strength tomorrow."
The unspoken "another job hunt" hung between them. Leon's fist clenched. "If only I-"
"Leon."
"Right. No wallowing."
He retired to his pallet, staring at water-stained ceilings until exhaustion claimed him.
Dawn broke to hellish symphony - his sister's tubercular hacking punctuated by terrified shrieks:
"BROTHER! WAKE UP!"
The sickly girl on the bed flinched at Leon's uncharacteristic formality. Though his voice held forced calm, she recognized the storm beneath - the same fury that had once made him punch through a brick wall after their parents' funeral.
"Two months... maybe?" Her whisper dissolved into phlegmy coughs.
Two months.
Leon's grime-caked nails bit bloody crescents into his palms. Two months since his sixteenth nameday. Two months since the military liaison arrived with that cursed "policy update", severing their parents' death benefits six years early.
He remembered the surreal clarity of that afternoon - rare sunlight piercing Capital's perpetual smog, illuminating the officer's sweat-slicked neck as he explained diverting orphans' pensions to fund new airship docks. The moment their fragile stability shattered.
"Godsforsaken vultures," Leon rasped, knuckles bleaching to bone-white. How had he missed the signs? The slightly thinner stews, Anna's medication doses stretched further apart...
"Brother." The consumptive girl turned her face toward cracked plaster walls. "Let me go."
The plea detonated in Leon's chest. "Don't you dare-"
"Please!" A coughing fit bent her skeletal frame. When it passed, she clasped his trembling hand with surprising strength. "Calculated everything. My forged age buys two more years' pension if... if you dump me in the runoff canals. Neighbors will cover-"
Leon recoiled as if scalded. Some traitorous part of his psyche nodded - the part that remembered corporate layoffs from his past life, that understood triage logic. That terrified him most.
He was running before conscious thought, overturning medical carts in his wake. A bloodied scalpel found its way into his hand. Three blocks to Public Works Department. Three blocks to carve justice from bureaucratic fat.
If they hadn't zoned the alchemical plants...
If the inspectors hadn't falsified reports...
If the military hadn't stolen our-
The litany fueled his hell-bent sprint. Tonight, either corrupt officials died, or this gods-damned world would finally kill him.
...
Dying sunlight drenched the ministry square in arterial hues. Leon's ragged breathing syncopated with polished bureaucrats discussing theater tickets and department store sales. Their cologne clashed with his stench of despair.
"Wilde's troupe at Crossroads Theatre next week?"
"My wife prefers handbag sales to operas."
"Poor sod! May your wallet rest in peace."
Leon's blade-hand trembled. Anna's plan made mathematical sense. Let one die so three might live. But mathematics couldn't quantify her teaching the twins to read, or her smile when sharing stolen sugar cubes.
The double doors loomed. Second floor: zoning commissioner. Fourth floor: inspector who certified the "safe" chemical levels. Leon's boot hit the first step when-
Thud. A meaty palm sent him sprawling.
"Watch where you're going, gutter rat."
Leon froze. There stood yesterday's recruitment officer - the porcine evaluator who'd branded applicants like cattle. The man bit into a dripping cheeseburger, grease glistening on triple chins.
Red mist descended. Leon's scalpel rose-
"Daddy!"
A ribbon-haired missile collided with the bureaucrat's girth. The man's sneer melted into radiant warmth as he scooped up his daughter. Behind them, a matronly woman approached, her smile mirroring Anna's when she left extra bread in Leon's lunch pail.
Clang. The scalpel hit marble.
"Damn it all," Leon croaked, fleeing the nauseating scene.
...
The Bureau of Extraordinary Sanitation's obsidian door absorbed what remained of daylight. Leon pressed his forehead against vampiric coldness.
Redhead's words echoed: "10% annual mortality... but triple pension for survivors."
Let mathematics rule then. One death purchasing three lives - but this time, his death. A soldier's death, not a beggar's.
The brass handle turned with funeral solemnity.